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description: you spend your birthday at the renaissance faire with the hellfire boys. you and eddie are both very obviously into each other, but you're the last two to figure it out. cue dustin and gareth meddling to knock some sense into the both of you.
pairing: eddie x you (fem!reader)
tags: eddie x you, no y/n, best friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff the house down boots, everyone knows but them, cute confession, renaissance faire, pirate captain reader, hellfire club shenanigans, dialogue heavy, group teasing, acts of service! eddie, light angst if you squint, they share one braincell, "fucking finally"
TW: nada.
WC: 5.4k
A/N: requested by @enderbite i hope you love it!! i lowkey adore this concept, and i know for a FACT eddie would get dowwwwn at a ren faire. also these dividers are cute as fuck. reblogs are always appreciated<33 enjoy (some more) fluff! this is my apology for not making the next parts of my series' lolololololol
The first thing Eddie notices is the way you fit here. Not like you belong to the faire, no, that would be too small of a statement. You look like you stepped out of a story someone forgot to finish writing.
Leather boots worn just enough, a loose white blouse tucked into a corset that laces tight at your waist.
Rings on your fingers that glint when you move, and a sash slung low on your hips where a prop dagger rests like it’s been there your whole life.
Your DnD character: exiled princess turned pirate captain. And somehow, standing under the flutter of striped banners and the distant crash of staged cannon fire, you make it look real.
“Jesus Christ,” Eddie mutters beside you.
You glance at him. “What?”
He shakes his head like he’s rebooting. “Nothing. Just, uh. You look…” He gestures vaguely, like words have abandoned him. “Yeah.”
Helpful.
You snort. “You clean up alright yourself, Munson.” And he does. God, he does.
Black poet shirt, sleeves shoved to his elbows. A belt slung low with a fake cutlass. Rings, of course, and a bandana tied around his hair like he belongs on the deck of some cursed ship.
He grins, recovering. “Careful, sweetheart. You keep talking like that, I’ll start thinking you’re into me.”
You roll your eyes, but your smile lingers too long to be casual. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
Behind you, the rest of Hellfire erupts.
“YO—BIRTHDAY GIRL!” Gareth yells, already halfway to some game booth.
Jeff is holding a turkey leg like it’s a weapon. Dustin is arguing with a vendor about historically accurate dragons. Mike looks overwhelmed. Lucas is laughing at all of them.
It’s chaos. Perfect, familiar chaos. And Eddie leans closer to you, voice dropping just enough to be heard only by you. “Your court awaits, Captain.”
You bump your shoulder into his. “Walk with me, then.”
The faire is loud in the best way; music drifting through the air, boots crunching gravel, performers shouting, people laughing, somewhere a fiddle playing too fast.
You spend hours like that.
Sword fighting demonstrations where Eddie loudly critiques everyone’s technique like he’s an expert (he is not), shouting things like “WRIST WORK, MAN, IT’S ALL IN THE WRIST,” while you try, and fail, not to laugh. At one point, he grabs your hand to “demonstrate,” stepping behind you, guiding your wrist with his.
“See? You’d totally win in a duel,” he says, voice low near your ear.
You tilt your head back just enough to glance at him. “Are you saying that because it’s true or because it’s my birthday?”
“Both,” he says easily. “But mostly because I’m trying to stay on your good side in case you overthrow the monarchy again.”
You snort, but you don’t pull your hand away right away.
A fortune teller who tells you something cryptic about “two paths becoming one,” which Eddie absolutely does not let go of.
“Two paths,” he repeats, walking backwards in front of you as you move through the crowd. “Becoming one. Sounds familiar.”
“Oh, my god.”
“I’m just saying, kinda feels like foreshadowing.”
“It feels like you’re being annoying on purpose.”
He grins. “Working?”
You shove his shoulder. He barely stumbles, just laughs, reaching out to steady you instead like you’re the one who needs it.
There's a 100% rigged ring toss that he insists on winning anyway because he refuses to lose on your birthday. You’re standing off to the side, arms crossed, watching him absolutely lock in like this is life or death.
“Eddie,” you call, laughing, “it’s literally plastic rings.”
“Not today,” he shoots back. “Today it’s about honor.”
“You missed the last three!”
“THAT WAS A WARM-UP.”
The vendor looks unimpressed. You’re trying not to double over. Then miraculously, he lands one. And the way he turns to you after, eyes wide, arms thrown up like he just won a championship…You clap dramatically.
“My hero!”
“Damn right,” he says, breathless, already grabbing the prize like it’s something sacred. He hands you the prize, a cheap, gold-painted ring, and slides it onto your finger with exaggerated reverence.
“For the captain,” he says.
You grin. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Only for you, though.”
Because before you can even respond:
“OH, MY GOD.”
Dustin appears out of nowhere like a summoned entity, eyes locked onto your hand.
“Is that a ring?”
Mike’s right behind him. “Did he just—?”
“DID YOU JUST PROPOSE?” Gareth shouts, already halfway doubled over laughing.
Eddie physically recoils. “WHAT, no! Jesus Christ—”
Jeff snorts. “Man really said ‘for the captain’ and got down on one knee.”
“Every great hero needs a quest,” he says, as if this is obvious. “And since you’re—” he gestures at your outfit, “—clearly the main character today—”
“Finally, someone said it,” Eddie mutters.
“—We are assigning one.”
“Oh no,” Mike says. “This is going to be bad.”
“It’s going to be epic,” Dustin corrects. “Objective: acquire the finest treasure in all the land.”
“What does that even mean?” Lucas asks.
Dustin turns, pointing dramatically across the faire. “That.”
You follow his finger. A booth, a very crowded booth. With a massive, ridiculous stuffed dragon hanging overhead as the grand prize.
You laugh immediately. “Absolutely not.”
Eddie cracks his knuckles. “Absolutely yes.”
“You saw the line, right?”
“I also saw my competition,” he says confidently. “And I’m not impressed.”
“You missed three rings ten minutes ago.”
“That was a different sport,” he shoots back. “Different skill set.”
“Uh-huh.”
He leans closer, lowering his voice just for you. “You doubtin’ your champion, Captain?”
You raise a brow. “You haven’t proven yourself yet.”
“Wow,” he breathes, placing a hand over his heart. “Wounded. Devastated, even.”
“Then go win me something,” you say, smiling sweetly. And that’s it, challenge accepted.
What follows is a disaster, for lack of better terms. A loud, chaotic, hilarious disaster. The entire group crowds around the booth, shouting conflicting advice.
“USE MORE FORCE—”
“LESS FORCE—”
“YOU’RE OVERCORRECTING—”
“JUST THROW THE THING—”
Eddie misses. Again. And again. And again.
He turns slowly. “I need new friends.”
“You chose us,” Gareth reminds him.
“Biggest mistake of my life.”
You’re laughing so hard your stomach hurts, leaning into the wooden railing for support. At some point, Eddie looks over at you, and his expression softens.
“Hey,” he calls.
You meet his eyes. “Yeah?”
He nods toward the game. “Watch this.”
“You’ve said that every time.”
“And this time I mean it.”
You grin. “Alright, Munson. Impress me.”
He lines it up, throws, and lands it, clean. The group erupts.
“NO WAY—”
“HE DID IT—”
“OH MY GOD—”
Eddie just stands there for a second, staring at it like he doesn’t believe it either. Then he turns to you. That same stupid, boyish, so proud of himself grin spreading across his face.
“Told you,” he says.
Your smile softens without you meaning it to. “Yeah,” you say. “You did.”
He comes back a few minutes later, slightly out of breath, holding the most obnoxiously large stuffed dragon you’ve ever seen.
“Your treasure, Captain.”
You laugh. “Eddie, it’s huge.”
“Yeah,” he shrugs. “Felt right.”
You take it from him, arms barely wrapping around it.
“Thank you,” you say, quieter now.
“Anything for you,” he replies, just as soft.
And the group immediately starts making gagging noises.
“UGH—”
“DISGUSTING—”
“GET A ROOM—”
Eddie flips them off without looking.
“Alright,” Eddie says suddenly, clapping his hands once like he’s got a mission. “I’m getting a drink before I pass out in medieval agony.”
“Beer?” Gareth perks up immediately.
“Beer,” Eddie confirms.
Gareth’s already moving. “Say less.”
Eddie starts after him, then pauses, glancing back at you like he almost forgot something important.
“You good?” he asks.
You nod, adjusting your grip on the giant stuffed dragon. “Yeah, go.”
He hesitates, eyes flicking between you and the crowd like he’s debating something.
Then he points at Dustin. “Watch her.”
Dustin straightens immediately. “I always do.”
Eddie squints at him. “…That didn’t sound reassuring.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
You laugh. “Go get your beer, Munson.”
He huffs, but he’s smiling, already backing away. “Don’t let her join another crew while I’m gone.”
“No promises,” you call after him.
He points at you like he doesn’t trust that at all, then disappears into the crowd with Gareth.
You and Dustin fall into step together, weaving through people a little slower now. For a minute, he doesn’t say anything, which is suspicious.
You glance at him. “What?”
He looks up at you like he’s been waiting for that. “So.”
You groan immediately. “No.”
“I didn’t even say anything yet!”
“You were about to.”
“I was about to ask a perfectly reasonable question.”
“Dustin.”
“Okay, fine,” he says, not even trying to sound innocent. “What’s going on with you and Eddie?”
You keep walking. Very focused on walking.
“Nothing,” you say.
He snorts. “Right.”
“Nothing,” you repeat, stronger this time.
“Yeah, okay, and I’m the king of England.”
You shoot him a look. “You’re literally fifteen.”
“Sixteen,” he corrects. “And also correct.”
You shake your head, trying not to smile. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you didn’t answer the question.”
“There’s nothing to answer.”
Dustin stops walking.
You take two more steps before realizing, then turn back. “What are you doing?”
He crosses his arms. “I’m not moving until you stop lying to me.”
You stare at him. “I’m not lying.”
He raises a brow.
You sigh. “Dustin—”
“I’ve known Eddie for, like, years,” he says, suddenly more serious. “I’ve never seen him act like that.”
Your chest tightens a little. “Like what?”
“Like you single-handedly molded the Earth and all it’s creation,” he says simply.
You blink. “That’s dramatic.”
“It’s accurate,” he shoots back. “He literally almost fought a guy earlier because he looked at you for too long.”
“What?”
“Okay, not fought,” Dustin amends. “But there was definitely a moment.”
You try to picture it. Eddie, getting weirdly protective. Eddie, hovering. Eddie, looking at you like that.
“…He’s just, Eddie,” you say, a little weaker now.
Dustin softens, just a bit. “Yeah. He is.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s sharing classified information.
“But he doesn’t look at anyone else like that.”
Your fingers tighten slightly around the plush dragon.
“Not even close.”
You look away first. Because that feels like too much, because you don’t trust your face not to give you away. Dustin watches you for a second.
“…You like him,” he says.
It’s not a question. You let out a slow breath. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m right.”
“You’re annoying.”
“Still right.”
You shake your head, but you’re smiling now; small, helpless, a little caught.
“That obvious?” you murmur.
Dustin grins. “Painfully.”
You laugh under your breath, glancing out at the crowd where Eddie disappeared.
“…Yeah,” you admit quietly. “Okay. Maybe a little.”
Dustin lights up like he just won something. “I KNEW IT!”
“Keep your voice down!” you hiss, swatting his arm.
“Sorry, sorry,” he says, absolutely not sorry. “Does he know?”
You hesitate.
“…No.”
Dustin makes a face like that’s criminal.
“Why not?”
“I don’t know,” you admit. “I just…what if I’m wrong? What if I say something and it ruins everything?”
Dustin stares at you like you’ve just said the dumbest thing he’s ever heard.
“You are wrong,” he says.
Your stomach drops. “Wow, okay.”
“You’re wrong because he’s already gone for you,” he interrupts. “Like, gone gone. There’s no ruining it. It’s already ruined.”
You blink. “…That’s not reassuring.”
“It’s supposed to be,” he insists. “I’m saying you can’t mess it up because he’s already…” he gestures wildly, “ …like that.”
You huff a laugh despite yourself. “Like that?”
“Yeah. Like a loser. About you.”
You smile, you can’t help it. “…He is kind of a loser.”
“The biggest,” Dustin agrees. You both laugh.
“…Don’t tell him I said anything,” you add.
Dustin immediately puts a hand over his heart. “My lips are sealed.”
You narrow your eyes. “Dustin.”
“I mean it!” he pauses, then grins, “…Mostly.”
“Dustin.”
“Okay, okay!” he throws his hands up. “I won’t. Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout.”
“Details.”
“Hey!” Eddie’s voice cuts through the crowd as he reappears, Gareth trailing behind him with two drinks already in hand. Eddie’s eyes go straight to you, like they always do.
“There you are,” he says, like he’s been looking.
Dustin glances at you, smug. You elbow him hard before Eddie can see.
“What?” Eddie asks, immediately suspicious.
“Nothing,” you and Dustin say at the exact same time.
Eddie squints. “…I don’t like that.”
He steps closer anyway, holding out one of the cups toward you.
“Peace offering,” he says. “Or, y’know, birthday tribute. Depends how you wanna frame it.”
You take it, your fingers brushing his.
“Wow,” you say, inspecting it like it’s something rare. “My crew finally proves useful.”
He huffs a laugh. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t get used to it.”
You take a sip, then glance at him over the rim. “You didn’t poison it, did you?”
Eddie leans in just a little, voice dropping. “Only a little.”
You raise a brow. “Bold move. Killing your captain on her birthday.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he murmurs. “Kinda need you around.”
Your stomach does that annoying little flip again.
“…Yeah?” you say, quieter.
His eyes flick to your lips for half a second before snapping back up. “Yeah.”
There’s a moment. And then:
“OH MY GOD, CAN YOU TWO NOT.”
Gareth. You both jolt apart like you’ve been caught doing something illegal.
“What?” Eddie snaps, turning on him immediately. “We’re literally just standing here.”
“Yeah,” Gareth says, completely unimpressed. “Standing there like you’re about to recreate a romance novel cover.”
Jeff chokes on his drink. Mike and Dustin are visibly trying not to laugh. Lucas is not trying at all.
You bury your face in your cup. “I hate all of you.”
Eddie gestures wildly. “THANK YOU.”
Gareth points between you two. “You handed her a drink like you were presenting her with the Holy Grail.”
“It’s her birthday!”
“And then you leaned in,” Gareth continues, relentless. “And did the whole low voice thing—”
“I did NOT do a ‘low voice thing’!”
“You absolutely did,” Dustin cuts in. “It was like—” he drops his voice into a terrible impression, “‘Only a little.’”
You let out a strangled laugh, immediately covering it with your hand.
Eddie spins to you. “Don’t encourage them!”
“I’m not!” you insist, failing miserably because you’re smiling.
Gareth folds his arms, grinning like he’s having the time of his life. “So what I’m hearing is…you admit there was a vibe.”
“There was NO VIBE.”
“There was a vibe,” Jeff says helpfully.
“There was NOT—”
You take another sip of your drink, trying to play it off, but Gareth clocks the ring again immediately.
“And the ring,” he adds, like it’s evidence in a trial. “Let’s circle back to the ring.”
“Oh my god,” you mutter.
Eddie throws his hands up. “IT WAS A PRIZE.”
“Uh-huh,” Gareth nods. “And the way you put it on her finger?”
“IT WAS FUNNY.”
“Romantic,” Dustin corrects.
“Shut up.”
“Intimate,” Mike adds.
“SHUT UP.”
“Life-altering,” Lucas finishes.
You laugh into your drink, shoulders shaking.
Eddie looks at you like he’s seconds away from betrayal. “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little,” you admit.
He groans. “Unbelievable. I do one nice thing!”
“Oh, you do one nice thing?” you cut in, smiling. “That’s your story?”
He leans closer again without thinking. “For you? I do plenty.”
The group goes dead silent for half a second. Eddie freezes. You freeze. Gareth’s eyes go wide.
“…Oh, that was good,” he whispers, impressed.
Eddie immediately backtracks. “I meant, like, general nice things, I’m a nice guy, I—”
“Yeah,” you say softly, saving him just a little, though your smile is teasing. “You’re a real gentleman, Munson.”
He exhales, relieved, shooting you a quick look like thank you.
“Finally, some recognition.”
“Don’t push it.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Captain.”
Your fingers brush his again as you adjust your grip on the drink.
“Alright,” Gareth claps, like he’s wrapping up a performance. “I’ve seen enough.”
Eddie narrows his eyes. “Of what?”
“This,” Gareth gestures between you both. “Whatever this is.”
“Nothing,” you and Eddie say at the same time.
Gareth grins. “Sure.”
Dustin nods. “Definitely nothing.”
“Absolutely nothing,” Mike agrees.
Lucas snorts. “Nothing at all.”
Eddie points at all of them. “You’re all dead to me.”
You laugh, leaning slightly into him without thinking.
Gareth watches Eddie’s arm settle at your back, smugly.
“…Nothing,” he repeats under his breath.
Eddie points at him. “Say another word and I’m pushing you into the moat.”
“There is no moat!”
“Don’t test me.”
You laugh, shaking your head, only to feel a sudden tug on your sleeve.
“C’mon,” Dustin says, already pulling you backward.
You stumble a step. “Wait—what—?”
“Emergency,” he insists.
“What kind of emergency involves dragging me away from my drink?”
“The important kind.”
You glance back once, catching Eddie mid-argument with Gareth. His eyes flick to you immediately, and they soften.
“You good?” he calls.
You nod. “Yeah!”
Dustin waves dramatically. “We’re stealing her!”
Eddie frowns. “For what?”
“CLASSIFIED.”
“That’s not reassuring—”
But you’re already being pulled into the crowd, Dustin weaving through people like he’s on a mission.
“Okay,” you say, catching your balance. “Explain.”
Dustin turns, practically vibrating with excitement, and then gestures grandly behind you.
“Behold.”
You turn, and immediately light up.
A storefront packed with DnD merch: dice sets glinting in glass cases, character sheets pinned up like posters, cloaks and accessories hanging from wooden racks, little carved figurines lined up like they’re waiting to be chosen.
“…Oh my god,” you breathe.
“I KNOW,” Dustin says, thrilled with himself.
You step closer without thinking, eyes scanning everything at once.
“This is insane,” you murmur, picking up a set of deep blue dice, turning them in your fingers. “These are gorgeous, look at the detail!”
“So,” he says casually.
You don’t even look up. “If you say ‘Eddie’ right now, I’m leaving.”
“Wow,” he says. “Didn’t even have to try.”
You grin despite yourself, still focused on the display. “You’re predictable.”
“And you’re deflecting.”
“I am browsing.”
“You’re avoiding.”
You glance at him. “I’m doing both.”
He nods like that’s fair. “Okay. Respect.”
You turn back to the table, picking up a small pendant, a compass design, worn-looking, like something a pirate might carry. Your thumb brushes over it absently.
“…It’s just,” Dustin adds, quieter now, “you should know he almost didn’t come today.”
“…What?”
“He said he didn’t want to make it weird,” Dustin shrugs. “Since it’s your birthday. Didn’t want to mess anything up.”
Your chest tightens a little. “He did come,” you say.
“Yeah,” Dustin grins. “Because I told him he’d regret it for the rest of his life if he missed you dressed like that.”
You snort. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m right,” he says, again. “Also, he’s been staring at you like you’re gonna disappear if he blinks.”
You look down at the pendant in your hand.
“…He does that,” you admit quietly.
“Yeah,” Dustin says. “Because he likes you.”
You huff a small laugh. “You’ve made that very clear.”
“And you like him,” he shoots back.
Dustin leans closer. “So what’s the holdup?”
You hesitate, your fingers curling slightly around the pendant.
“…I don’t want to lose him,” you say, softer now.
Dustin’s expression shifts; less teasing, more certain. “You won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he says. “Because he’d rather chew off his own arm than let that happen.”
You laugh under your breath. “That’s a very specific image.”
“I stand by it.”
You shake your head, but your shoulders relax just a little.
“…He called me ‘Captain’ like, five times today,” you say, almost to yourself.
Dustin grins. “Yeah. That’s his thing now.”
“It’s not his thing.”
“It’s definitely his thing.”
You smile, small and helpless again.
“…I don’t hate it.”
“I know you don’t.”
You nudge him with your elbow. “You’re annoying.”
“And you’re in love,” he says sweetly.
You freeze. “…Don’t say that.”
He tilts his head. “Why not?”
“I don’t know,” you admit.
“…Okay,” he says. “Then don’t say it.”
“…But maybe do something about it,” he adds.
You groan. “Dustin.”
“I’m just saying!”
You laugh, shaking your head, then glance back down at the pendant in your hand.
“…You think he’d think this is stupid?” you ask.
Dustin looks at it, then back at you.
“He’d think it’s the coolest thing he’s ever seen,” he says immediately. “And then he’d make some dumb joke about being your first mate.”
Meanwhile…
“…You’re staring again,” Gareth says.
Eddie doesn’t even look at him. “I am not.”
“You are,” Gareth nods. “Like, aggressively.”
Eddie tears his eyes away, scowling. “I was just making sure she didn’t get lost.”
“She was gone for, like, five seconds.”
“It’s a crowded place.”
“Uh-huh.”
Eddie takes a long sip of his drink, like that’ll end the conversation, it does not. Gareth leans closer, dropping his voice like he’s about to share a secret.
“So…you gonna tell her or just keep doing the whole ‘yearning in silence’ thing?”
Eddie chokes. “The what?”
“The yearning,” Gareth repeats. “It’s loud, man.”
“I am not yearning.”
“You just watched her walk away like your entire soul left your body.”
Eddie blinks. “…That’s dramatic.”
“It’s accurate.”
Eddie drags a hand down his face. “There’s nothing going on.”
Gareth just stares at him, then looks in the direction you went. Then back at Eddie.
“…Right.”
“Shut up.”
“You put a ring on her finger.”
“IT WAS A PRIZE.”
“And then you held her hand after.”
Eddie freezes. “…I did not.”
“You did.”
“…Okay, maybe for like, half a second.”
“It was not half a second.”
“I can’t believe you considered not coming today,” Gareth says casually.
Eddie goes still. “Who told you that?”
“You did,” Gareth deadpans. “Yesterday. When you were pacing.”
Eddie groans. “I was not pacing!”
“You were pacing.”
“You said you didn’t want to make it weird,” Gareth continues, ticking it off on his fingers. “That it’s her birthday, and you didn’t want to, oh, what was it? ‘Ruin the vibe.’”
Eddie points at him. “I didn’t say it like that.”
“You absolutely did.”
Eddie exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair.
“…I just don’t want to screw it up.”
“You’re gonna screw it up,” Gareth says.
Eddie glares at him. “You’re so helpful, thank you.”
“I mean, if you don’t say anything,” Gareth adds.
“…I don’t want to lose her.”
Gareth snorts. “You’re acting like telling her would be the thing that ruins it.”
Eddie looks past him, back toward the crowd. “…What if it is?”
Gareth follows his gaze and sees you standing there, smiling softly at something Dustin’s saying.
“…Dude,” he says, almost incredulous. “She’s the only girl I have ever seen out up with your bullshit. If that’s not evidence enough…”
Eddie lets out a quiet, disbelieving laugh. “…That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Yeah,” Gareth says. “It does.”
Eddie shifts his weight, suddenly restless. “…You really think—?”
“Yes,” Gareth says immediately. “I really think.”
Eddie exhales, long and slow. “…Shit.”
Gareth grins. “Yeah. Shit.”
From somewhere in the crowd: “HEY!”
Eddie’s voice cuts through, and you and Dustin both turn. He’s already moving toward you, Gareth right behind him.
“There you are,” Eddie says, a little breathless.
His eyes go straight to you, like always. Dustin looks at you, smug, and you elbow him. Hard.
“What?” Eddie asks, narrowing his eyes.
“Nothing,” you and Dustin say at the same time.
Gareth snorts behind him. “…Yeah,” he says. “Nothing at all.”
Dustin and Gareth glance at each other; it’s quick and silent. But understood.
Dustin straightens. “Actually—”
Gareth cuts in, grabbing his shoulder. “We should, uh, go check out that thing.”
“Since right now,” Gareth says, clapping him on the back. “Don’t screw it up.”
Eddie blinks. “Don’t screw what—?”
But they’re already gone, vanished into the crowd like they were never there.
Eddie exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “They’re acting strange.”
“Yeah,” you say, though your voice is softer now. “They are.”
“…You wanna do a lap?” he asks.
You nod. “Yeah.”
You fall into step beside each other, slower now, drifting away from the thicker crowd. For a moment, neither of you speaks, just walking close enough that your arms brush every now and then.
“I, uh—” you start, then stop.
Eddie glances at you. “What?”
You hold up the pendant, turning it slightly so it catches the light.
“What do you think?” you ask.
He glances between your face and the pendant, a small knowing grin forming.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “That’s…that’s very you.”
You smile a little. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Captain’s gotta have something like that.”
You huff a small laugh, looking down at it again.
“…Dustin said you’d say something like that.”
Eddie groans. “Of course he did.”
You smile, but it fades just slightly. “…He also said something else.”
Eddie’s shoulders tense a fraction. “Oh yeah?”
You nod. “Why did you almost not come today?”
He goes still, like completely still. The noise of the faire fades a little around you.
“…What?” he says, quieter.
You glance at him. “Dustin said you almost didn’t.”
Eddie shoots a quick look out at the crowd, like he’s checking if Dustin’s within range to strangle.
“He talks too much.”
“Eddie.”
He releases a long exhale and runs a hand through his hair.
“…I just didn’t want to make it weird,” he says finally.
“Weird?” you echo.
“Yeah,” he huffs, a little laugh slipping out, nervous. “Like, your birthday, and I didn’t wanna show up and mess it up or something.”
“You wouldn’t mess it up.”
“You don’t know that,” he says, a little too quickly.
You stop walking. He takes a step before realizing, then turns back to you.
“What?”
“…Why would you think that?” you ask.
He shakes his head like he’s already regretting the inside thought, but it becomes an outside thought anyway.
“…Because I like you, okay?” he blurts.
“I always have,” he adds, quieter now, like it’s something he wasn’t supposed to say out loud. “I just…I didn’t want to make things weird or screw it up or have you look at me differently or—”
“Eddie.”
He stops and swallows. “…Yeah?”
“You wouldn’t,” you say softly.
“Wouldn’t what?”
“Mess it up.”
He searches your face like he’s trying to figure out if this is real. “…You sure about that?”
You smile and nod. “Yeah,” you say. “I’m pretty sure.”
His voice drops, barely above a whisper. “…You don’t think I’m ruining this right now?”
You shake your head.
“No,” you say gently. “I think you’re finally catching up.”
He blinks. “Catching up to what?”
You don’t answer right away. Instead, you reach for his hand and slip your fingers into his.
Just like earlier, only this time, it’s not accidental.
“…I like you too,” you say.
Eddie short-circuits.
“…Oh,” he breathes.
You laugh softly. “Yeah. Oh.”
He stares at you for a second like he’s trying to process it. Then a grin breaks across his face, slow and disbelieving and oh-so-Eddie.
“Okay,” he says. “Cool. Cool cool cool.”
You laugh. “You’re such a dork.”
“Yeah,” he nods immediately. “But I’m your dork now, right?”
You tilt your head, teasing. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
He squeezes your hand. “Too late. Already planning our pirate crew dynamic.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah,” he grins. “Captain and her extremely devoted, very attractive, first mate.”
You snort. “Very attractive?”
“Had to throw that in there. Branding.”
You shake your head, smiling, but your grip on his hand tightens anyway.
“Good,” you say.
His expression softens again. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Good.”
Eddie looks down at your joined hands, then back up at you. Still smiling like he can’t quite believe this is real.
“…So,” he says, clearing his throat a little. “We should uh, go back?”
You smile, squeezing his hand once. “Yeah. We should probably let them stop being weird about it.”
He huffs. “Bold of you to assume they’ll ever stop.”
“Fair.”
Your fingers are fully laced together, swinging slightly between you as you move.
And Eddie? Eddie is so aware of it. Every few steps, his thumb brushes over your knuckles like he’s checking you’re still there. You catch him doing it more than once.
“…You okay?” you tease.
He glances at you, a little sheepish. “Yeah. Just making sure you’re not gonna vanish on me.”
You smile, softer now. “Not going anywhere, Munson.”
His grip tightens just slightly. “Good,” he says.
You spot the group before they spot you. Clustered near one of the food stalls, all mid-conversation, and then Dustin looks up and freezes.
His eyes drop immediately to your hands, then snap back to your face. His expression goes nuclear.
“Oh my—”
He slaps Gareth’s arm so hard it echoes.
“WHAT—” Gareth turns, annoyed, then follows Dustin’s line of sight.
“…No way.”
Jeff squints. “What?”
Mike turns. Lucas turns. One by one, they all clock it.
The hand holding, the very obvious hand holding.
“FUCKING FINALLY—”
The group erupts. You flinch, laughing immediately as Dustin sprints toward you like he’s about to tackle you.
“I KNEW IT—I TOLD YOU—I LITERALLY TOLD EVERYONE—”
“Back up!” Eddie laughs, holding out his free hand like he’s fending him off. “Give us a second, man—”
Gareth is howling, doubled over. “Oh my GOD, I thought you were gonna die before you said it—”
“Shut up!” Eddie shoots back, already turning red.
Mike shakes his head, grinning. “That took way too long.”
“Painfully long,” Lucas adds.
Jeff just nods. “Embarrassing, honestly.”
You bury your face in Eddie’s shoulder for a second, laughing. “I hate all of you.”
“NO YOU DON’T,” Dustin says, still buzzing, pointing between you and Eddie. “THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE—”
“It’s her birthday!” Eddie argues.
“SECOND BEST DAY OF MY LIFE,” Dustin corrects immediately.
Gareth straightens, wiping at his eyes. “So what happened? Who said it first? I need details.”
“Absolutely not,” you say.
“Come on—”
“No.”
Eddie nods firmly. “Nope. Classified.”
Dustin gasps. “You used my line against me?”
“Learned from the best,” Eddie shoots back.
Gareth leans in closer, lowering his voice, but clearly not enough.
“So you’re, like…official now?”
Eddie glances at you, and you glance at him. A small smile passes between you.
“…Yeah,” he says.
“Yeah,” you echo.
The group collectively loses their minds again.
“OH MY GOD—”
“DISGUSTING—”
“I’M SO HAPPY—”
“I’M GONNA THROW UP—”
Eddie flips them off, but he’s laughing.
“Alright, alright,” Gareth claps, regaining some composure. “So what’s the plan now, Captain?”
Eddie perks up immediately at that, nudging you. “Yeah, Captain. What’s next?”
You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. You glance at the group, then at Eddie. Then out toward the glowing lanterns and distant docks.
“…I think,” you say, “the crew owes me one more adventure.”
actually yknow what??? mike wheeler is going to listen to good luck babe in 2024 and he is going to wince and look over at will in the passenger seat who is also looking at him going “you better be fucking glad you didn’t fumble me”
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I am going to bed. When I wake up, Byler might be canon. Ilya is at the cottage. I am just a European, trying to survive these North American time zones🫡
You can't say you really want to — because meeting him probably means you're in some kind of trouble. You try your best to keep out of trouble.
But when trouble finds you all on its own, you end up getting your first close-encounter with Metropolis' most beloved hero.
And he's... nice. Really rather friendly.
In fact, so friendly, you're worried you might have to let him know that you do, in fact, already have a boyfriend.
(Or: Clark debates whether to divulge his big, blue secret - until he has no choice.)
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
sequel to the love list & third part in the series :)
[ 17k, established relationship, fem!reader (and she is, as always, intended to be a bit strange :D) nsft as it gets steamy towards the end, so heed this warning! ]
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You’re not sure what it is about Metropolis, but a lot of not very bright people seem to live here.
Plenty of bright people too! You knew your fair share of them, of course, but there appeared to be a disconnect in some people’s brains that you couldn’t quite puzzle out.
You see, some people, when there’s danger — they head towards it, instead of away.
You suppose it’s probably because of Superman.
A lot of people like him. Like, like him a lot. You’ve heard there’s even a Twitter account set up just to post live updates about his whereabouts.
People take photos pretty much constantly - though most just manage to capture a blue blur. They film with their phones during fights, creeping closer to dangerous situations just for a better view. A thousand images that make up a mosaic of Metropolis’ biggest hero.
You certainly aren’t one of those silly people.
You know that danger = run. In the other direction.
You’re fairly certain everyone had that taught to them as a child, but maybe that’s being presumptuous. Not everyone has had the same upbringing as you.
Or, maybe, Superman is the exception to that rule.
Though, you swear you’d read his statement in one of Clark’s articles, asking that people avoid active danger zones. Cited civilian injury rates, the estimated cost to the city, and everything.
Do people not read Clark’s articles? You like to think they’re pretty good. You’re definitely not biased just because Clark is your boyfriend.
(You are, a bit.)
Perhaps, it was just another thing that you couldn’t get. That the sight of Superman was enough to warrant putting yourself in danger for.
Either way, whatever the true reason was, you’ve chalked it up to brightness. Or rather, a lack thereof in Metropolis’ population.
It also means you’re probably one of the only people in the city who hasn’t actually laid eyes on the hero.
Sure, you know what he looks like… you think.
Blue suit, red cape, occasionally with a dog.
(That makes him quite a bit more trustworthy in your opinion —but you need to see him with a cat to know for sure.)
And you’re quite alright with that - with not seeing him. Because, to be honest, if you do see him, it probably means you’re in a bit of trouble.
Like—“Don’t run, don’t scream, and we won’t have any trouble.”
Like now.
You freeze on the staircase leading out of your work, hand still on the railing, a little perturbed. You’re sure you don’t know the woman who was coming up the stairs, opposite you.
Her words take a second longer to process. It’s in part due to tiredness and in part due to the noise-cancelling headphones you’re wearing.
So much so that you actually push back the headphones and say, “Huh?” before you realise what she’s said.
Ah, you’re being mugged.
A glint of the knife in her hand confirms it. Well, wielding a knife at you is a more apt description.
You blink at her, dead-tired, and wonder what the hell you’re supposed to do in this situation.
“Good,” The woman flashes you a smile, faux and worse than some of your own masked smiles. She gestures with her free hand towards your bag. “Your wallet.”
You blink again, finally some instinct kicking in to raise your heartbeat and get fear running through your veins. You grip your bag tighter and blink violently again.
Oh. You don’t want to get stabbed. You imagine it would hurt very, very, very much.
What did Clark say to do again?
Your poor boyfriend, despite his size, seems to be the pick of the litter for mugging. That’s why he comes home with cuts and bruises from time to time.
If someone threatens you, just go along with what they’re asking, okay? He’d told you, blue eyes serious. If you do, they won’t hurt you.
You listen to him because he’s survived enough muggings, so he must know what he’s talking about.
Knowing exactly where it is in your bag, your hand dives in— and stops when the woman threatens the knife again.
“Slowly!” She barks, her wild eyes darting between your hand and your bag frantically.
You eye the knife warily, pulse still skyrocketing. Then you wrinkle your nose, because it’s never nice to be shouted at, especially by someone robbing you.
Besides, she didn’t specify any speeds to begin with.
It’s hardly fair. You’ve never been mugged before.
“Okay,” You say timidly, so she knows you’re listening. “I’m moving slowly.”
Doing as she says, you move at a much, much slower pace. You’re not exactly sure what she thinks you might pull out of the bag that could constitute a weapon.
Your notebook wouldn’t stand much of a chance against a knife. Not that you would sacrifice it. Your water bottle, maybe?
“Not that slow,” The woman growls when it’s been a few seconds and you still haven’t retrieved your wallet. “Are you stupid?”
That one stings a bit, with a tinge of frustration. Have you encountered the most indecisive mugger in all of Metropolis?
You swallow back your fear with a shaky inhale. Then wonder if she’s mugged Clark before.
With a shake of your head to answer her question, you pull your wallet out at a regular pace — then hold it out to her. “There isn’t very much money in it,” you tell her truthfully.
Ignoring you, she gestures flinchingly to the ground with her knife.
You follow the motion, then follow her instructions and open your fingers, letting the wallet drop. It bounces once and lands just a couple of inches from your feet.
“Oh, you are stupid.” She hisses, beginning to advance forward, knife still wielded chest high.
You watch her, wide-eyed, breathing coming heavier as your own feet shuffle back, panic spiking. You’re probably going to get stabbed now.
Every first-aid thought you can recall rushes to the front of your mind, furiously trying to remember the acronym for RED to deal with surface wounds.
If she stabs you, you’ll keep it in, you think bravely.
The woman bends down and snatches your wallet up, her knife trained on you the whole time—
“I don’t think that belongs to you.”
There’s a third person in the stairwell with you.
The mugger stumbles back, whipping around with a ferocity that makes your heart a bit weak. She certainly has no qualms about slicing people up with her knife.
You can’t tell where the other person is, same as your attacker. You watch, eyes still wide, as she looks left, right, but there appears to be no one else with you.
Her gaze slices back around to face you, and the knife follows, raised again, trembling this time. “I don’t know how you’re doing that, but—”
“I said,” the voice repeats, sounding nearer. “I don’t think that belongs to you.”
You’re caught between floors. The library you work in sits within a high-rise building, closer to ground-level. There are several stories above you, a roundabout staircase weaving its way up to each floor, but most everyone uses the elevator.
You’d been the last one out of the library. Unless it’s someone from many stories above…?
You both locate the new voice at the same time.
It’s somewhat satisfying to hear the choked noise your mugger makes as Superman drifts down the spiral in the middle of the stairwell.
Funny how the first thought in your mind is how this opportunity is probably being wasted on you.
Sure, you’re being mugged—but apparently getting a save from Superman is a pretty coveted thing, according to the internet. Looking at him now, you guess you can see the appeal.
He’s pretty. You mean, he’s not as pretty as Clark, but, yeah, on paper, you get it.
He’s tall, he’s strong, he’s come to your rescue.
He lands without flourish, his eyes scanning across the situation with a furrowed brow. Then his eyes land on you and he does a sort of double take.
Whatever it is, he focuses instead on the woman before you, one hand held out placatingly.
He doesn’t appear to blanch in the face of the knife. You wonder if super-bravery is one of his powers.
“Ma’am,” he says calmly. “I understand that it’s hard conditions that tend to drive people to commit these crimes. I also choose to believe that you don’t want to do this.”
There’s a tense moment, then, surprisingly, the woman nods tersely. The knife is still shaking in her hand, slowly lowering.
“Alright,” Superman says, offering a comforting smile now. “What is it you need?”
The knife is completely lowered now; the woman transformed from her angry state just a moment ago. Suddenly, she’s skittish. Embarrassed.
“Money,” she murmurs. Then, louder, with a gesture of your wallet, “I need money.”
Superman nods, no ounce of judgement on his face.
“Alright,” he says again. “You don’t need to take it from others, though. There are resources for when you’re in crisis. People who can help. Tonight, I hope I can be one of them.”
He reaches back, one hand searching beneath his cape. When he pulls his hand forward, there are several crisp bills in his grip.
The woman eyes it widely.
She looks up at him as though she can’t believe he’s serious. You suppose that’s understandable - how many superheroes carry cash?
He offers it out.
You realise at the same moment that the woman does that in order to take the money, she needs a free hand.
She glances down at the knife, then your wallet — then tosses the latter at your feet.
It lands with a loud slam in the empty stairwell, making you twitch violently. Superman’s eyes dart to you, a quick furrow to his brows. It’s wiped away in the next second.
The woman steps out, reaching for the cash - but when she pulls, it doesn’t budge.
You watch closely as her gaze rolls up apprehensively to look up at Superman. There’s a tinge of nervousness to her expression now.
“I give you this—” He’s still calm as ever. He should seriously consider being a hostage negotiator, you think. You’d be much worse in this situation. He bargains, “You give me the knife.”
He tilts his head, nodding to the knife still in her grip, wavering at her side. A strand of hair falls over his forehead, curled and the colour of coal.
Again, a little bit of you gets it. He’s handsome.
Not that you’d choose to be mugged again. Or run into danger to see him.
The woman nods again, still tense.
It’s a quick transaction — she holds the knife up, non-threatening this time, and Superman releases the grip on the cash as she hands it over. He grabs the knife by the blade with seemingly no problem.
Then the interaction is done.
With the likeness of a rodent who’s narrowly escaped a trap, your mugger quickly scurries away, down the stairs and out the door you were supposed to be out of 15 minutes ago.
You watch her go, still tensed up, your heart rate still far too near tachycardia for your liking. You can’t tell if you’ve under- or over-reacted in this situation.
The door slams loudly behind her, and you flinch in surprise. You hate loud noises enough as it is.
The slam echoes up the stairwell, empty now, except for you.
And Superman, of course.
“I believe this,” Superman breaks the silence with ease, shortening the distance between you to retrieve your wallet from the ground. “Belongs to you.”
The knife has been hidden away already, as you can’t see it anywhere. When you look up at his face, he’s smiling at you, a softened and comforting expression.
His hand holds your wallet, a well-worn purple butterfly one that your mother has been begging you to throw out for years. It looks small in his grip.
You take it. Nod and make your best attempt at eye-contact, which is barely a glance up, then down.
You say, “Thank you,” but it comes out much quieter than you’d like.
Are you supposed to say goodbye before you leave?
It would feel impolite not to. There’s a good chance he just saved your life. Or at the very least, keep you from getting stabbed.
Should you give him some money?
He did sort of just pay to keep you stab-free.
But finder’s fee is a thing, right?
But, well, your wallet wasn’t actually lost. In fact, you knew exactly where it was the whole time.
Too many questions. You don’t have any answers. Unknowingly, Superman adds another to the mix.
“Are you okay?” He says, taking another step forward, bringing you closer. “Are you hurt at all?”
Fingers flexing on your wallet, you swallow heavily and force yourself to meet his gaze.
There’s a furrow in his brow that looks like concern. Combined with his closeness, the interaction feels oddly… intimate.
“Yes,” you say in response to his first question.
Alarm flashes over Superman’s face. “You are hurt?” He questions, blue eyes already scanning over your body for the apparent injuries.
“No,” you remedy, with a shake of your head. “You asked if I was okay. I am. She didn’t stab me.”
“Oh,” Superman deflates in relief, enough to drop his shoulders a few inches. You’re not sure if this is his usual memo, but you’re a bit taken aback by how much he seems to care.
A different question niggles at you. You ask it before you can think the better of it.
“You carry cash?”
Something close to surprise ripples across his face before it settles into a smile. You spot the dimples on his cheeks, and it makes you think of Clark.
“Sometimes I get hungry,” Superman says, as if admitting a guilty secret. “Can’t exactly use a card to pay, can I?”
You blink at him for a moment before — ah, yes, secret identity.
A card would have been connected to a name. Would a bank let him open an account as Superman? You haven’t thought about that before.
You nod, a little unenthusiastically, because, with the danger gone, what little energy you have is being sapped from you.
“I’m—” You wave at the door with your wallet—remembering mid-way that you still need to put it away (you don’t want to get mugged again).
You bury it away in your bag before you forget, head ducked, before looking back up at Superman.
“Um.”
Wow, no one mentioned the awkward part at the end of being saved.
The one where Superman lingers closely, an expression you can’t puzzle out on his face, and the journey back home you still have to make.
“Thank you. I have to go now.”
Then, before he can catch you with another question, you turn and head down the stairs, feet pitter-pattering rapidly.
Maybe that’s rude - or maybe he’s used to people asking for a selfie, which you really don’t want to have to explain that you’re okay without if he offers. The cringe at the mere thought of that awkwardness is enough to make your skin crawl.
You’re out onto the street in record time.
The streetlights are a little brighter. You’ve missed your usual train. Frustration irks in the back of your throat.
Shaking it off as best you can, you stride fast towards the subway station. In your back pocket, your phone buzzes with a text.
You’ve set it to only do that for important people, so it pulls you up to a stop. You fish out the device, squinting at the screen.
Clark (Lois’ Co-worker): Hey :) I miss you, can I come see you tonight?
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Clark always knocks with a special pattern, so you know it’s him, before you even open the door.
Tonight, when you hear it, it sounds a lot like relief.
You don’t move from your spot on the couch — where you’ve been since you got home — because Clark has a key to let himself in.
A moment later you hear it, his key jiggling into the lock. It clicks with its unlock. The door opens and your boyfriend follows in.
“y/n?” His voice wraps around the corner to find you in the living room. “Knock-knock.”
He comes round the corner of your front entrance into the living room in a manner of steps. Your apartment has a small front entrance. And a small everything else too.
He spots you, seems to melt a little, and a smile spreads across his face.
“There you are.” He sighs, the sound laced with relief. As if maybe you wouldn’t be here, even though you said you would.
He’s wearing his work clothes still, but one of the buttons of his dress-shirt —the one you sewed back on— has been put in the wrong hole. You wonder if it’s been like that all day. He nudges his glasses up his nose.
“Hi,” you say. You haven’t moved, but you’re already beginning to smile. “Why do you say knock-knock when you’ve already knocked?”
Clark grins wider at your question, rounding the couch and moving to sit next to you.
He pauses when he notices the boots still on your feet, and instead, he kneels beside you.
He’s going to take your shoes off for you, you realise with an ache of love.
“To be polite, I guess,” He answers you, flashing you another smile. He beckons your foot forward, and when you shift it slightly, he begins the task of undoing the laces for you. “Let's you know that it’s me who’s coming in.”
“That’s what the knock is for, isn’t it?”
Finished, he pulls on the boot, and you give your ankle a little wiggle to help him. It slides off.
He starts on the next, giving a little shrug. “Yeah, but still, it’s nice to do. Maybe you didn’t hear the knock.”
He tugs the other one off, and when it comes free, you slump a little further into the couch, happy to have one less thing touching you. Clark notices, as always.
“Rough day, huh?” He says sympathetically, pairing your boots together. “Give me a quick sec.”
He rises to his feet, your shoes in hand, and quickly deposits them at the door. This time, when he’s back, he finds a spot on the couch next to you. Close, but not touching.
“Alright for a kiss?” He asks.
It’s one of the things you and Clark do to make sure he’s not overwhelming you. Particularly after tiring days—much like today.
But a lot of your usual boundaries break down for Clark. Because he waits. Because he asks.
You nod, because yeah, a kiss sounds like something you need right now. “Yes, please.”
Clark smiles again, dimples appearing, and he leans in slowly, his hand finding the curve of your jaw. He waits for the adorable hitch in your breath.
Kisses from Clark are a bit like coffee to your system.
His lips are warm. The feeling it gives you perks you up. You sink into him, letting him sap some of your tiredness.
You don’t even realise how much you’ve let yourself rest on him until he’s pulled back and you’re still leaning into his hand. He doesn’t make a move to pull it back though, so you figure it’s alright to rest here a little longer.
“Rough day?” He asks again, a little quieter this time. His thumb swathes across your cheek dotingly.
You nod with a sigh, and it moves his hand in time with you.
While he’s still close, Clark dots a kiss on your hairline, soft as sunlight. He keeps his tone low as he murmurs, “Want to tell me about it?”
You cast your eyes downward, thinking back to the stairwell. It had been scary, but ultimately you’d been okay.
Really, you’re most miffed about the change in routine.
It’s evidently not safe to take the stairs anymore, but you don’t want to have to start taking the elevator now.
The one at your work was old. It creaked and juddered terribly before it got to any floor. It wasn’t anything like the nice one in Clark’s apartment building.
Pulling back from Clark’s gentle hold, you let yourself slump back against the couch instead. Clark follows suit, matching your position, his head leaned up against the back of your couch. His hair looks particularly tousled tonight, you note.
“I have to start taking the elevator at work.” You say.
Clark blinks, bewilderment passing across his face so fast you almost don’t catch it.
“Oh,” He says, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice. A moment later it’s replaced with his usual compassion. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Did something happen?”
You give a little shrug. “Not really. Like, nothing technically.”
That makes Clark squint just for a moment, thinking hard on your words. He chooses his next carefully.
“Did something… almost happen?”
Which, well, yeah, a lot of things almost happen every day.
It feels like a vague question, but you know Clark isn’t prone to asking those. Even so, you shrug again, unsure how to answer that correctly.
Instead, you tell him, “I met Superman today.”
That makes him sit up a bit straighter.
“What?” He says. “Why? I mean, what happened?”
You shrug again. You’re shrugging a lot tonight, maybe because you’re not quite sure how to put it.
You were almost mugged? You were in the middle of getting mugged when Superman stepped in and said, ‘Hey, mug me instead’?
“A lady at work had a knife,” you say candidly. Then you hear the words and quickly correct yourself, “Not a lady from work. She was just at my work. In the building.”
Clark frowns, thick brows knitting together in the middle. “A knife? Was anyone hurt? What did she want?”
He’s usually better at not asking so many questions in one go, but you forgive him this time. If anyone showed up at his work with a knife, you’d be pretty worried too.
He sounds pretty panicked as well, his voice a little more strained than usual, discomfort obvious on his face.
A bit of your stress must show on your face, because Clark’s suddenly filled with apologies: “Sorry, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to ask so many questions or overwhelm you, honey. I just — I’m surprised you didn’t call or text me about this.”
For the nth time, you shrug again.
“Technically nothing actually happened. She just tried to mug me.”
“She tried to mug you?” Clark repeats, brows raised. His voice is pitched up a bit, which isn’t like him. He breaks eye contact, staring at your coffee table with a strange intensity. “Gosh…”
Tracking your eyes to the coffee table, you check to see if there is something specific that’s caught his eyes. Finding nothing, you nod to answer his question.
“Which, I tried to tell her I don’t have much money, but she didn’t care.” You frown, recalling the interaction. “She was quite mean, too.”
That makes Clark frown too. He nudges his glasses up again.
“So, I have to start taking the elevator now. So, bad day.” You explain, with a put-out pout, already sighing at the thought. “It’s like a superpower that you knew to ask to come over tonight.”
That makes Clark laugh for some reason, a loud barked-out noise that he clamps down immediately after he makes.
“That,” He says, adjusting his glasses once more. “Ha, well, I actually wanna ask that every night. Just got lucky, I guess.”
His eyes widen. “Not that you getting mugged was in any way lucky! Just, y’know, lucky that I… happened to text.”
He’s nodding along so much, you feel you should nod too.
It feels nice to know he wants to spend every night with you - and nicer that he knows you need some nights by yourself. Tonight isn’t one of those.
“What did you think of, uh, Superman?” Clark asks after a moment. He’s stopped fidgeting with his glasses, but his fingers toy with his tie, giving away his nerves.
It’s sweet. Clark has always been a sweetheart. You also know he and Superman are sort of friends. As you’ve learned over the years, that probably means he wants you to like him too.
“He was… nice.” You say, making sure you’re not too honest.
He had been nice. He’d also been… well, a bit too nice for a stranger. Stood a little too close. Was that wrong of you to judge when he’d saved your life?
You decide that if he’s Clark’s friend, you won’t speak ill of him.
“Nice,” Clark echoes, nodding enthusiastically. “That’s good, right? I noticed you, uh, don’t have much to say about him. Not like a lot of Metropolis.”
You’re not sure if that’s a compliment or not.
“He’s… Superman,” you say with another little shrug. “I don’t think he cares too much about what I think of him. He’s busy saving the world.”
Something in your words must be funny because Clark’s grinning again, his fingers no longer fidgeting with his tie. Instead, he reaches for the knot of it, beginning to loosen it.
“I’ve got a feeling he cares,” Clark says, blue eyes bright. “He cares what everyone thinks. But Superman-Schmuperman, enough about him. Have you eaten yet?”
The way he says schmuperman is enough to make you giggle. Clark gets that besotted look in his eyes that you just adore. You shake your head to tell him no, you haven’t eaten yet.
He makes breakfast for dinner for the both of you.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
You do take the elevator when you head back to work the next day.
It creaks and it judders in that terrible way, but it delivers on its intended purpose and gets you to your floor. Does the same on your way home.
It’s a new normal that you’re gritting your teeth to come to terms with.
Except, surprisingly, apparently not.
Because come Friday morning, there’s a sign taped over the doors with a big arrow directing people to the stairs.
And when you enter the stairwell, you’re far from the only one taking the stairs.
“What happened to the elevator?” You ask one of your coworkers, the first words out of your mouth when you get behind the desk.
It’s Sandra, a nicer older lady who wears perfume a bit too strong for your sensitive nose. But she never yells when you wear your headphones on quiet shifts, so you decide you like her.
“Oh, didn’t you hear?” She says, eyes glittering. Sandra also loves gossip - which is a good and bad thing. Today, it’s good.
You shake your head. Sandra’s eyes shine brighter.
“Some big-shot reporter at the Daily Planet published a scathing review on how poorly kept up to code the elevators in Metropolis are. Name-dropped our building. Big advocate for us less-than-able folks.” She taps her leg, the one with the bad knee, and grins.
“Body-corp had to step in. The whole thing is being replaced.”
You feel your eyebrows raise, surprise parting your lips. You have a feeling you already know who wrote that article.
“That’s good news. Do you still have the article up?”
She nods, then waves you closer, behind her cubby at the main front desk. Her monitor has a dozen different tabs open, but like you, Sandra seems to know exactly where everything is.
She clicks her mouse, and the screen reloads.
A Daily Planet-style article fills the pixels, with the familiar globe spinning on its axis in the corner. Your eyes search, and even though you’re half-expecting it, your heart still lurches.
There, the byline.
Written by Clark Kent.
Which—oh. It never stops being unexpected, the ways in which he loves you.
Your knuckles rise to your sternum without thought, pressing in to try to calm yourself.
“That’s really good news.” You say, smile a bit wobbly. The strong dose of affection passes after a moment, and you speak a little clearer, “I hated the old elevator.”
“I know you did,” Sandra hums knowingly. “Don’t you have a boyfriend at the Planet?”
You smile because it’s nice to know other people are paying attention to you as well as those who are supposed to. Even simply co-workers.
“Yeah,” you say, pressing your knuckles harder again, just in case another wave threatens you. “Uh, yeah, I do. That’s him.”
“Oh!” Sandra lights up at that news - and you briefly wonder if it’s a mistake to have told her. But she smiles sweetly, goes to put her hand on your arm and then seems to think the better of it.
“That’s wonderful. He seems like a good egg.”
You’re not quite sure what she means by that, but it sounds like a good thing. Smiling, you give a little nod.
“Yes. He’s… very nice to me,” you say, almost bashfully. “I love him a lot.”
“How sweet,” says Sandra, though she’s already turned her attention back to the screen. You see her mouse move, drifting up to Clark’s name, blue and linked. She left-clicks with a satisfying click!
That feels like your cue to leave. Quietly, you readjust the bag on your shoulder, treading past Sandra and her oogling stare, now zooming in on your boyfriend’s work identification photo. Guess that's what you get for telling her.
You just catch the last of her words as you turn into the backroom.
“Well, he’s nice to look at, but he’s no Superman…”
You smile to yourself, think of your darling Clark, and quietly disagree.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Post-attempted mugging, you like to think you have a pretty uneventful week.
Beyond the elevator replacement, which started kicking in on Friday, nothing much happens that you would warrant calling an ‘event’.
Well, nothing that affects you in particular.
A kaiju finds its way into uptown. Superman and Justice Gang fight it off.
You, as always, don’t join the swathes of foolish people who run towards the dangerous sounds of battle.
It all goes down on a Sunday, the day you always go over to Clark’s to make dinner with him. Thankfully, his apartment isn’t affected, and the battle is all wrapped up by the time you'd planned to head over there.
The elevator makes your stomach swoop, as always, and you nearly knock the fresh chives in your bag loose by accident. You silently hope you picked a good enough cauliflower for tonight’s dish.
At his lime-green door, you rap your special knock — then, after a moment, let yourself in with a key.
This is usually where you’re greeted.
Tonight… You stand in the entranceway of Clark’s apartment, and he doesn’t come to meet you. So you strain your ears. There’s water running.
Wandering further in, you deposit the bag of groceries atop the countertop and pause, head tilted. The kitchen looks clean. Nothing’s been started, not even a chopping board out on the bench.
It’s odd behaviour for Clark.
You follow the sound of running water to the bathroom, walking slowly.
You’ve been here countless times, but without Clark greeting you, it feels wrong to stroll around as if you own the place. You don't call out — though you probably should, as it might help you locate him.
“Honey.”
You jump, even though he’s spoken softly. You turn to where the noise came from. Head poked around the bathroom door, Clark looks… a little worse for wear.
There’s a cut on the bridge of his nose and his left eye has definitely taken a punch, evidenced by the yellowed skin around it. He’s breathing a little heavily.
“Hi,” he says. “I know. Looks worse than it is, promise.”
It does look bad, you agree. But he smiles so brightly that you can’t imagine he’s not telling the truth.
“What happened?” You ask worriedly, especially as Clark cringes at the question. “Did you get mugged again?”
Something relaxes in Clark’s face, and you think it might be understanding. He nods ruefully. The bright smile is back on his face in an instant.
“Did you find a good cauliflower?”
You blink, surprised by the change in topic. Though, he had complimented you in the past on your particular penchant for picking perfect produce.
Maybe he likes this dish you make — cauliflower steaks — a little more than he'd let on. He's impossible to get an opinion out of sometimes; you maintain that anything you make does not qualify as a favourite food.
“I did.” You nod. “It’s in the kitchen.”
Somehow, you can’t leave without offering help. “Do you need any help? I can find the arnica, or—”
A shake of Clark’s head cuts you off, his handsome smile still at full beam. “No, no, I’m almost done. Had, uh, had some arnica already. Just give me a minute in here, and I’ll meet you in the kitchen, okay?”
Six minutes would’ve been a more accurate time estimate.
You try not to hold it against him, especially considering he's obviously had a bad day already.
You manage to mince five cloves of garlic, then wait, because you like cooking with Clark, then begin chopping the chives before he appears in the kitchen.
“All better,” he says, sidling up behind you, hands reaching out to gently rest on your waist.
You put down the knife and turn in his arms, eyeing up the new improvements.
The bridge of his nose is now sporting a light pink bandaid. The bruising on his eye already looks better — which makes you think it was just the lighting of the bathroom making it look as bad as it did.
“Was it a woman?” You ask.
“Wha— what?” Clark trips over the word.
“Your mugger. Were they a woman?”
You want to know if it was the same one who tried to take your wallet. Though, she had a knife, and Clark looks like he got punched. Unlikely to be the same perpetrator.
“Uuuh,” He draws out the sound, thinking it over, even as his hands on your waist pull you in closer. His body presses against yours, warm and firm. “I don’t think so. If I had to guess, I’d say… gender non-conforming?”
His earnest choice of words makes you smile. You reach up, hands carefully finding a resting place cradling his jaw. "Progressive," you say as a joke.
Clark laughs, and you feel his hands around your waist give an affectionate squeeze.
He leans in and kisses you quick, a hello — and you pat yourself on the back for only giving a little bit of a strangled inhale in response.
"Did Superman save you too?"
The second after you ask the question, you feel a bit silly. Superman has been uptown all day, flying around and doing whatever it is he does to fight against kaiju's. He probably couldn't have—
"Uh, yeah." Clark says after a moment, nodding. One of his eyebrows twitches strangely. "Yeah, he did."
He looks a tad apprehensive, mouth pursed, eyes not quite meeting yours.
You deduce that the mugging, as you're now familiar with, is probably not something he wants to talk about. Feeling a tad guilty, you change the subject.
"I'm worried people aren't reading your articles."
You say this as you release his face, and Clark's hands instinctively loosen their hold to let you turn back to the countertop.
Someone has to keep cooking, and you've already been sidetracked once tonight. There's not a schedule or a time limit, but there kind of is to you.
Besides, you know it has to be you keeping dinner on track.
You're pretty sure if it weren't for your insistence, Clark wouldn't mind spending all his evenings wrapping you up in his arms, doling out kisses galore.
The thought makes your face burn. You focus on your grip on the knife; instead of the vibration of Clark's surprised laugh you can feel against your back, resuming your chopping.
"You're…? Sweet girl, why are you worried about that?"
Hearing him call you something as nice as sweet girl makes you feel as though you've swallowed a firework.
It burns all the way down, hot and bright, and finds a home behind your ribs. It takes a long moment to compose yourself, hand-halted, and a bite to the inside of your cheek to do so. After a moment, you start chopping again, a little slower this time.
His surprise has made you second-guess the logic you've followed.
Maybe he'll think you're being daft. (He wouldn't). Maybe he'll entertain your theories just because he loves you. (He would). You um and ah over whether to tell him.
Clark hasn't put his arms back around you, which you're thankful for because it's distracting and it makes it harder to chop.
He's instead stepped to the side, leaning against the bench to stay close.
You finish with the chives, put down the knife and reach out, the counter digging into your stomach slightly as you pull the bag of groceries closer. You decide to tell him.
"Well, the kaiju today," you begin.
You pull out the cauliflower, handling it with two hands. It's hefty, nearly the size of your head — but it wasn't pay by weight, so it's a steal you're proud of. The market usually yields well.
"Good cauliflower," Clark compliments. You brighten up at the words. His gaze softens, his smile a little fonder.
"The kaiju, please continue."
"Right," you nod. "I was on 14th Street when it, like, arrived. So, pretty close. Maybe like four or five blocks? But I've noticed this — and this is why I'm worried that people might not be reading your articles — because you wrote that Superman piece, where you interviewed him and asked about civilian safety?"
The end of your sentence goes up a bit, becoming an unintended question. You glance over at your boyfriend, reassured when he nods to say you're correct.
You make the first slice into the cauliflower, splitting it right down the middle.
"And I remember it because you asked me to proofread that one, though I remember a lot of your articles too, but this one had that really helpful statistic about the likelihood of civilian injury rates increasing or decreasing based on civilian responses."
Carving out the 'steaks' takes a little more focus, so you stick out your tongue and halt talking for a moment. Clark makes himself useful, disappearing from your side to dive into his cabinets.
"Keep talking, I'm listening," he assures you.
"Well," you continue, "you remember the five categories?" You feel yourself over-explaining his own article to him and wince. "Sorry, you wrote the article, you know. Sorry."
Cumin, coriander, salt, and pepper find their way to the bench beside you, little glass jars glinting beneath the lights. "No need to apologise."
"Okay," you say. If Clark says it, it must be true — he's the most truthful person you know. Maybe besides yourself.
"The category, the reckless one? I can't remember the number it turned out to be exactly, but it was high. Do you remember?"
Clark has pulled one of the oven trays out and placed it beside you on the countertop, preparing to place your meticulously sliced 'steaks' on it.
A sunny-coloured oil has been drizzled along the bottom, greasing it up. You hear the whir of the oven somewhere to the side, behind you, beginning to preheat.
"Yeah, yeah," Clark says, back to his spot beside you, prodding his glasses up with a knuckle. You hope they don't hurt the cut on his nose.
"The likelihood of civilian injury increases to 70% if they exhibit reckless behaviour during an active emergency." He rattles off the statistic easily.
"Exactly," you say.
Where did this conversation start again? Your brain jumps around, trying to find it — cauliflower, mugging, Superman.
"Right," you pick up the thought. "But when I was out there today, a lot of people started going towards the kaiju. But I remember in that interview, Superman said he wanted people to do the opposite."
You realise you're still holding the knife, but there's nothing left to chop.
You place it down on the board, twisting and leaning your hip up against the counter.
Clark's tall — tall enough you have to lift your chin to look at him properly. You let your gaze roam over his face attentively.
He's so handsome. He's always handsome, and you love seeing him in his suit and tie, but dressed casually, like he is today, is a treat.
He's in loose jeans, wearing a quarter-zip jumper. You can see his white t-shirt beneath it.
His hair is tousled and loose, barely dried from the shower he must've taken earlier.
He's still smiling at you, now half amusement, half something else. His dimples beg to be kissed. You're barely restraining yourself.
You wonder if the look in his eyes is what novels would describe as starry-eyed. Either way, it undoes you in a quiet, gentle way.
"That's why you're worried?" He questions.
One of his hands snakes forward to find the curve of your neck again, cupping your face gently. It's as though he does it without thought, like his hands have a mind of their own and they're all about touching some part of you.
You feel your heart rate go up at the touch. Then you see Clark's smile widen a little — though the two can't be connected.
"Yes. Why would people go towards danger?"
Clark's thumb begins its familiar swatch across your cheek, one of his favourite motions. He tilts his head a little, giving your question some thought.
"I think some people want to see Superman."
"They'd get in danger for that?"
"Apparently," he shrugs, looking suddenly bashful. "It's good to hear that you wouldn't, honey. And to hear you're concerned about who's reading my articles, but trust me, if people weren't, Perry would've had my… backside some time ago."
That's true. While the logic you followed to assume people might not be reading Clark's work is somewhat sound, the truth of his boss is a far stronger point of reason.
You've met Perry just once. He's very to the point. You weren't fond of the smell of the cigar he carried around with him.
He'd taken a look at you, the one time you'd dropped off lunch to Clark after he'd forgotten it and raised his brows, turned to your boyfriend, and said, "Well done, Kent."
It had taken a minute before you realised he had been referring to you when he said that — which led to you fleeing the scene with haste.
Clark had made up for it with dozens of kisses later that evening.
As Clark begins seasoning the 'steaks', pushing his sleeves back to reveal toned forearms, you ponder over his words.
Ponder the idea that Superman was worth running towards danger for.
You think back to your interaction with the hero and puzzle over it, but it's not something you can seem to make sense of.
You can't think of anyone you'd do that for.
Turning back to face the countertop to help Clark, falling into that Sunday-evening rhythm, you sneak a look at him out of the corner of your eye.
He catches you and pokes out his tongue, nudging you softly with his elbow.
You laugh, such a common sound in his kitchen, and think: yeah, maybe for him.
For Clark, it would be worth running towards the danger.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Your uneventful luck runs out.
It runs out rather quickly too. It hasn't even been a month since the mugging - or mugging attempt, you should say - when something happens on the subway.
Living in Metropolis, there's a sort of intuition one gains for otherworldly interference.
Like knowing when your subway car screeches to a halt as though someone's pulled the emergency brake, it is not for maintenance reasons.
It happens jarringly.
Which, well, there isn't exactly a non-jarring way to pull the emergency brake, but it's the word that springs to mind when it happens.
The lights overhead flicker once, twice.
Then, with a most awful screech that dives under your skin, it is as though the whole subway car slides to the left.
It doesn't.
Actually, you and every other person within the subway car are the ones who move.
The half-car full of people gets shoved suddenly to the right, the force of the abrupt braking enough to knock everyone off balance. Distressed noises go up all around.
You're sitting down, on one of the edge seats, but it doesn't stop you from getting banged around.
The unanticipated halt mobilises you, pushing you harshly into one of the handrails.
You collide forcefully, not prepared enough to stop your head from snapping against the pole.
It's your forehead, right above your left eyebrow, that takes the brunt of it.
Pain radiates. It splinters across your forehead with an agonising throb, causing you to yelp in response. You clutch the pole tightly, just in case the subway car plans to throw you around again.
The lady who's sat next to you has slid over in the commotion too, ending up pressed up against your side.
She wiggles back as soon as she gains her balance, which you're thankful for, but she's focusing on you too closely for comfort.
On your forehead, more specifically.
"Shit, kid," she says worriedly, mouth downturned. "You're bleeding."
After she says it, you can feel that she's right. There's a warmness to the pain on your head that's dipping dangerously close to light-headed.
Your fingers reach up, grazing the wound—and the pain burns hot again, fiercer this time. You wince, regretting touching it.
You bring your hand down. Scarlet paints the tips of your fingers.
The lights flicker again.
Then go out for good.
It's as though you've inhaled a mouthful of smoky panic. You're not the only one, the distressed sounds of the car climbing in volume.
"What's happening!?"
"Someone's pulled the emergency brake!"
Several torches click on, phones held up to cast the subway car into moving, white lights. Shadows jump across the walls, tall and pointed.
"What? Why!?"
"Yeah, why would someone do that?"
"How the hell are we supposed to know that, dipshit!?"
You shrink down in your seat, overwhelm crowding in on you rapidly. The subway car seems suddenly far too cramped.
Is this car smaller than usual? The loud noise is enough to make you tick — having to consider what may have caused the delay in transport begins to pick at your stitching.
You try to take a deep breath, finding it too shallow.
No, it's fine. It's fine. You're travelling home, and you'll be late, but just by a little.
It's fine. You can still be on schedule. Clark won't mind if you're late.
Clark!
You remember your plans with him tonight with a sinking feeling. You fish out your phone, already drafting the text to tell him you're going to be late, but the sight on your screen stops you.
No bars. You're in a dead zone.
Cool. That's fine. No, really, it is, you tell yourself. If it had been Darren, maybe, yeah, a little worrying would be warranted.
But Clark would understand. He's late himself from time to time.
Your fingers clench tightly around your phone as you force yourself to take another deep breath.
There's an unnerving crackle over the PA of the subway, and as your eyes adjust to the dark, you see every face in the subway car tilt upwards, listening.
"Good evening, passengers on the green line." A voice filters through, the words buzzy and distorted. "We apologise for the abrupt stop. A bank on Meridian Avenue is currently undergoing a robbery, in which explosives were used to access the vault."
It's less shouting and more murmurs that ripple through the crowd, passed from one person to another. Anxiety festers, a well opening within your chest.
You exchange a glance with the woman beside you, your eyebrows creased in concern.
You regret it when your head gives another blazing-hot throb of pain in retaliation.
The subway, which had been slowly drifting, finally reaches a standstill with one final shudder.
"As you may or may not know, the green line passes directly beneath Meridian Avenue for several blocks, including beneath the bank in question. Due to the use of explosives, it is highly unsafe for any trains to continue on their route."
Unease seems to evaporate in the subway in an instant, replaced with a grumbling annoyance — as if everyone can predict what's coming next. You cling tighter to the pole for stability.
"The fire department has been contacted for your extraction, and they are on their way. Sit tight folks; we're hoping to have you out by the end of the hour."
A loud, synchronised groan erupts from the passengers. You glance down at your phone, checking the time, and grimace. It's 5.09pm.
"We'll keep you updated if anything changes, and we apologise again for the inconvenience to your day."
Then with a fumbling click, the PA disconnects and goes silent.
The subway car, comparatively, does not. Several voices burst out at the same time.
"Oh my god, so we're stuck here?"
"I can't be here, I have an appointment!"
"Lady, we all have places to be, okay?"
"The fire brigade? Can't they call in Superman?"
"He's probably fighting the robbery, idiot."
You don't much like the continued outburst, nor the idea of being here for the better part of an hour.
The lady beside you, in scrubs, you now realise as your eyes fully adjust to the dark, seems to be in agreement. She's muttering under her breath, annoyance evident in her tone.
She catches your gaze — making you feel guilty for watching her — but, surprisingly, she seems to perk up. You realise after a moment it's because you've provided her with a task.
"Let me get something for your head," she offers, diving into her purse before you can answer. "I always keep a little first-aid kit with me."
The kit she pulls out you wouldn't describe as little.
It's the size of a lunchbox, tin and has a graphic of Superman on the outside, blue, red, and gold.
She pulls it out onto her lap, unclipping the latch and flipping back the lid. Inside boasts several bandages, wipes, and bottles with labels you can't read in the low light.
She pulls out a wipe and holds it up, facing you. You blink, then realise she wants to wipe the blood from your face.
"That alright?" She asks, gesturing with the wipe.
The task is distracting you too, you realise. Feeling a bit awkward, yet thankful she's helping, you nod tentatively.
It stings like all-fire — enough to draw a hiss up your throat. The woman makes a sympathetic tut, but she's good at her job because she doesn't let it deter her.
Sterile alcohol mixes with your blood, slowly clearing it away and bringing a blistering agony to the surface at the same time. You grimace, eyes screwing shut, which only serves to agitate it more.
She makes quick work of it. You try not to look at the concerning shade of pink the white wipe turns, sullen with your blood, and watch her dig around in her kit again.
"Shine that over here, will you?" She says to the person on the other side of her - a young-looking man with a nervous disposition - and he obliges hastily, looking rather relieved to have a task as well.
A rustle of plastic as she digs around. A bandage or two between her dexterous fingers.
"Is it a bad cut?" You ask mousily.
"It's not too bad," she tells you, glancing over with a kind smile. "Just bled a lot because it's on your head. It's a little thing."
Another blister of pain rises to the surface when she presses the first bandage to your forehead, nimble fingers warm and calloused. The bandages are small and white, which you recognise as butterfly stitches.
That makes you panic a little more, but you trust in her words. She is wearing scrubs after all.
(It occurs to you that, technically, anyone can choose to wear scrubs. A glance at her clipped Metropolis Central Medical ID makes you feel better again.)
"There." She gives it one final press, making sure everything's in place. "Just to keep it closed so it doesn't keep bleeding. You got someone to check on it later, hm? I know it can be difficult putting bandages on yourself. Probably a good idea to change them sometime tomorrow."
"Yeah," The knowledge of Clark's worrisome state when he sees the state of you is enough to make you smile, still a bit shaky. "My boyfriend can help me. Thank you."
"Don't worry about it, kid."
She sets about packing her first-aid kit back up, moving slowly and precisely. You suppose she has no real reason to hurry— not with the expected 50-minute wait time.
You lapse into silence, the pain in your forehead dulling down to a quiet throb as you fold your hands up tightly in your lap.
Silence, you notice, has become contagious within the subway car.
Voices that had shouted now became muted, murmured, low and whispery. Like you're all hidden beneath a thick blanket together. One thick, concrete blanket that separates you from the bustling world above.
One minute slips into two, then five, then twenty.
You can only wait.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
There's never a day where Clark doesn't love being Superman.
He's serious. It's never a chore, never feels like a job. Some days the responsibility of doing what he can to help Metropolis, to step up and fight the battles others can't — well, it's hard not to get a little chummy over the immense honour.
Then some days it gets… a little tedious.
Not tedious in a spiteful way! More in a tiresome way.
Like, for his sake and for everyone else's, it would be nice to go more than 48 hours without criminal activity being inflicted on the city.
But there's no rest for the wicked, or so they say.
Which means, if you squint and read the fine print beneath that, no rest for Superman.
Today's villain of the week was a pack of thieves with the very original idea of robbing a bank.
There's no crime that Clark likes, but these cases he dislikes more than most.
He's been around this block enough to know the stories that will unspool in the interrogation room — raised rent, medical bills, one bad accident that dries up years' worth of savings in a single afternoon.
It's tough — one of the tougher injustices that he knows he can't fight with the cape on.
It all adds up, though. Tonight's foiled robbery marks another case in Clark's latest project at the Daily Planet, investigating the wealth disparity and the links to money-motivated crime.
As Superman, Clark's had enough run-ins with this kind of crime that he could probably estimate an accurate percentage in his sleep by now.
Unfortunately, an eyeballed number from a superhero with a secret identity doesn't fly with Perry.
So it's still a work-in-progress kind of project — and it stays shelved until people are out of danger.
For the most part, they are.
It's not imminent, but perhaps the only danger the passengers of the green line subway are potentially subject to at the moment is boredom.
Clark had tuned his ears in to a police scanner as soon as trouble started kicking up, ensuring there weren't any civilians being sent closer to the danger zone without knowing.
He'd advised the officers on the scene to send firefighters in for the people on the subway, but now, staring down at the dark, winding tunnel of the subway tracks, he knows he's beaten them here.
He sighs heartily.
It's not their fault — public funding, job cuts, the works.
Yet, at the same time, he wonders how he might explain to you why he's so late coming over tonight.
Maybe he should send you a text now — but that feels a little selfish with so many people still stuck, waiting for help.
Besides, he's since learned that flying with a phone is a recipe for disaster. His phone is tucked away in his work clothes, hidden on a rooftop somewhere — but he could reach it in a split second.
He peers down the tunnel again, X-ray vision peeling back the darkness. A scattering of human bodies present, just over 200 feet away, caged in by metal.
It's a short flight to find the first carriage.
"Man, this shit sucks," he hears a man inside say, slumped on the ground and leaning up against the seats. "Where's Superman when you need the guy, huh?"
"Did someone say Superman?"
It's as good an entrance as any — and it actually gets a few inhabitants within the subway car to perk up — but Clark can admit it's not his best.
Face forming a sheepish expression, he sucks his teeth.
"Golly, not my best. My apologies, folks." He says it all as he scans over the crowd, flicking in and out of X-ray vision, hunting for serious injury. Coming up with none, he smiles, genuinely relieved. "Now, who'd like to get out of here?"
This inspires a more merry response from the despondent crowd of people — enough that the grimy window between carriages fills up with new faces, eager to know what's causing the ruckus.
It's quick-fire from then on.
Word gets passed down, chatter and shouts of 'It's Superman!' that get the remaining passengers crowding forward into the first carriage.
Clark tries to keep it quick for everyone's sake. A brief introduction ("Hi, I don't believe we've met before; I'm Superman"), then an explanation that he can fly them ("It will be windy, and I will have to hold you - but perfectly safe"), or they can wait for the fire brigade if they would rather not fly ("You can't be on the tracks, ma'am; they're electrified").
So far, everyone's opted in for flying.
It's not slow per se, but it does take time—humans are much more fragile than Kryptonians. He can't exactly fly at his usual top speed.
But bit by bit, the crowd dwindles down until there's no one in the line to be rescued that he recognises from the initial first carriage.
He surveys the length of it, tallying up how long it might take to move them all.
The minutes stack up. The length of time between now and getting home to you is feeling immeasurably too long.
He tries not to worry about how late he is. It's futile.
He pictures his abandoned phone in the pockets of his slacks, buzzing and ringing, going unanswered. Then he pictures you on the other end, your retro landline pressed to your ear, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth in the adorable way you do.
You're good at lots of things. Unfortunately, worrying about Clark is one of them.
He sighs silently to himself. His worry doesn't speed up this darn unfortunate situation that these folks are trapped in. It does lend him some more food for the thought of telling you his big blue secret.
For now though— "Hi there, I'm Superman, in case we haven't—"
"—we have."
The familiar voice finally snaps Clark out of his distracted trance, and he turns with a haste that surely gives him away. His furrowed brows and concerned face are no help either.
Because it's you. Here. On the trapped subway, waiting in line like all these other passengers.
With a bandage on your forehead that you definitely didn't have this morning.
Several thoughts clamber over each other, each vying for Clark's attention. You're here—which means you're not waiting for him, thankfully—but you're hurt—and how do you keep getting into these situations?
He, intelligently, opts for simply staring at you and saying nothing.
"We have met." You clarify, suddenly looking a bit more awkward. "You stopped that mugger for me."
Right! Right. Because you have met Superman before, when he'd had to intervene at your work, just earlier this month.
He opens his mouth, but the strangeness of it all halts his words.
It's just… It's been months since he's seen you look at him this way.
Obviously, given he's a stranger to you as Superman — but it's a reality check like nothing else.
The way your shoulders curl in. The tightness of your mouth. You make yourself smaller, and the eye-contact you do give looks far more painful than usual.
He hadn't realised, not until right now, just how much closer you'd grown—how you usually gravitate towards him.
You glow and grin, you nudge him, touch him, you laugh like it's the easiest thing. It's apparent now, the stark difference when compared to that very first day on the train.
Except, there seems to be an extra frostiness to your character right now. Probably something to do with being stuck in a subway car for an hour or so.
Only when you shuffle on your feet, an awkward motion, does Clark realise he still hasn't said anything.
"Yes," Clark breathes, and immediately he clocks his tone as too relieved — too fond for a stranger. He clears his throat, nodding with purpose. "Yes, yes, I can recall. At the library."
You nod to confirm, expression still tight and your gaze still averted.
The question wrestles out of Clark's mouth before he can stop himself: "Is your head alright?"
There are two little bandaids on it, but there's still a bit of dried blood in your eyebrow. Concern swims up to the surface, pooling in Clark's heart, urged on by his feelings for you.
You're not accident-prone enough for this to be a common sight. The sight of your blood inspires a protectiveness he struggles to curb.
You touch your forehead gingerly, brows pinching together in pain. "Yes. That's what the bandaid is for."
Your bluntness nearly makes him laugh, like it does when you're home together.
He squashes it for a smile, for the sake of not making Superman any stranger to you. If he laughs, you'll probably think he's laughing at you.
"Alright, I'm going to have to pick you up now, if that's alright?"
You nod stiffly. Clark does a motion he's done a thousand times before— one hand around your waist, another behind your knees.
He reminds himself to treat you as a stranger, keeping his hands polite, even as they beg him to pull you in closer.
It's one of the oddest flights of Clark's life. You're stiff as a board in his grip, actively leaning away from his chest in a way that can't be comfortable.
When he reaches the platform, where people are still milling about, waiting for others from the train, he can't help checking in again.
It's with a gentleness he sets you down, the words already out of his mouth, "Are you sure you're alright?"
He expects another brush-off - that's what most civilians do, frazzled from whatever situation he's happened to save them from - but he certainly does not expect— "I have a boyfriend."
Clark blinks down at you, your standoffish posture.
He notices the step back you'd already taken and your clenched hands at your side — the same thing you do when you're working yourself up to tell a waiter your food is wrong.
And—oh.
Your standoffishness is cast into a new light suddenly, which is that you can perceive his fondness — which in itself is a feat, considering how long it took for you to get together in the beginning.
But you can tell — somehow, somewhere under the suit, beneath the hero name, some part of you intrinsically recognises him.
Knows what he sounds like trying to keep the affection from his voice, knows the ways in which Clark Kent loves.
It had been a journey to convince you of it the first time around, and now, you can't unlearn it.
You can see it, even if you don't know why.
Clark smiles, throat a little thicker with the knowledge that he's very, very well loved. "He's a very lucky man," he says, completely genuine.
You nod assertively. "He is. And me, I'm lucky too."
You seem relieved by the change in his tone, that he isn't upset with you for being unavailable. "Thank you for rescuing me. And him — you've done it a couple of times, I think. He's quite muggable, apparently."
You nod, a little jerkily, and Clark can't help but grin this time. He knows he should get back to the subway - especially with other civilians waiting on him.
He can't resist one last word, "You're welcome. Please be nice to your boyfriend if he's home late, okay? It's been a hectic day for everyone today."
You give him a strange look, eyes narrowed like you don't comprehend why he's given you advice.
Maybe you're even piecing it together, connecting the blue dots that lead to his secret. He decides that, after today, he doesn't mind the idea at all.
"Okay," you say hesitantly.
"Okay," Clark echoes, with a professional Superman nod. "I love you."
It's pure instinct that pulls from the words off his tongue - a habit that he's never broken since he first found that list, all those months ago.
Now, he'd been so caught up in his gooey thoughts of your loyalty that he didn't even consider— he hadn't thought—
Uh oh. Your face says it all. Utter surprise and that same awkwardness creeping back in, your hands clenching back up.
Damage control, quick!
"And I love you!" He says, quickly turning and pointing to another person on the subway platform. They look surprised, perking up, pointing one finger to their chest as if to say Who, me?
"And you!" Clark can't stop now; he's probably overdoing it, but your hands are still clenched up.
He gestures a bit too wildly to the rest of the crowd, who have, humiliatingly, all started paying rapt attention. "I love… all citizens of Metropolis!"
He spots the glint of a phone camera in someone's hand.
Oh, cheese and crackers, he thinks to himself in dismay — already imagining how Justice Gang will have a field day with this video.
Gosh, even his damage control needs damage control. With a stilted and awkward nod, Clark remembers he does actually have a job to finish here—taking a few steps back and taking flight back through the subway tunnel.
Wind rushing past his noticeably warmer ears, Clark doesn't doubt it'll be an interesting conversation with you tonight.
Regardless, with one final glance over his shoulder, he can't help but think of it as the final sign he needs.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It takes you until you're at least halfway home, stopping right in the middle of the sidewalk, to remember that you should text Clark.
The love confession from Superman, the subway stopping—either could be responsible for providing a rampant distraction. You're really late now, without any forewarning.
You hope he's at least let himself in and made himself comfy in your space while he waits.
Though, you should text him about what happened on the subway.
It had worried him so much last time, not knowing about the mugging - not that he seemed annoyed with you, thankfully. You pull out your phone and narrowly avoid getting shoulder-checked by a stranger, stepping to the side just in time.
You're still sort of frazzled, so the stranger's rudeness manages to bounce right off you for once.
You're staring at your phone, eyes a bit glazed, when a text slides onto the screen. You blink, focus, and it takes another second to comprehend the words.
Clark (Lois' Co-worker): I got held up at work, sorry! Still coming over :) See you soon! I hope everything's okay with you.
It's a relief. You're not sure when he sent the text, it says delivered just now, but at least he was late too.
Acutely, you realise you'd actually have been quite miffed if there was no update from Clark, given how off schedule you are.
Which, well, that in itself was surprising—Darren had never cared about your lack of updates. Or rather, he seemed quite happy to never bother to give you any.
Obviously, it had taken some time to adapt to Clark's nature - where caring is as easy as breathing.
And now it's not him that surprises you; it's your own expectations.
The want to know there was someone waiting on the other side of the line, prepared to leave the light on for you.
It's… a nice feeling, knowing that you expect it now. Knowing that it's what you deserve.
You send off a text, short and to the point, and find yourself rushing a little faster back to your apartment.
Lights on, shoes off, coat off, lamps on, big-lights off. You go through the motions of getting yourself comfortable in your home, and it soothes your hackles the way only routine can.
You just get around to taking a peek into the fridge, though your appetite is missing, when there's a familiar knocking pattern on your door.
You know he has a key — you meet him at the door anyway.
"Hi honey," He's talking before he's even in the door, all rushing and flustered in a way he often isn't. "I'm real sorry I'm late—"
"Clark," you interrupt. In an uncharacteristic move, you're reaching out first, your hands resting on his arms, pulling him in so you can be nearer. "It's okay. I just got home too. We're both late today."
The door snicks shut behind him, and Clark matches your touchiness with ardour.
His hands slide along your arms to sit on your lower back. They're so warm. You tilt your chin up and think of how lucky you really are that he keeps coming around to see you.
"I'm still sorry, I—" He's talking as he slips his shoes off, til he notices the bandage on your forehead, eyebrows creasing. "What happened to your head?"
"I hit it," you explain. "On the subway. It stopped a bit fast."
Clark looks relieved at that. His shoulders fall, but his hands on your back tighten, tugging you in a little closer. You scuff your foot and step on his accidentally. He doesn't appear to mind.
"Didn't you get my text?" You ask.
He shakes his head. "My phone died, and I had to stay late at work but, all day, I had a bad feeling that you were in trouble."
He's not smiling like he usually is when he looks at you. His concern is still there, pulling down the edges of his mouth, changing his handsome face.
"I'm okay," you assure him, hands shifting up, sliding up to loop around his neck.
One of his hands shifts up, delicately drifting over the bandages, but not quite touching.
"You are?"
He's frowning at the wound as though he can heal it through sheer sympathy.
"I am," you say.
"You're sure?"
You can't help but smile, because usually you're the one double-checking everything. Your smile seems to settle something in Clark because it's what gets him to relax, a relieved but tired-sounding sigh escaping him.
His eyes soften on you, lashes kissing together at the ends, a sheepish smile pulling on his pink lips.
"I'm sorry to fuss. I get it from my Pa." He leans in and kisses just beside the split skin of your forehead, a quick peck.
You shrug in his hold, suddenly feeling a bit shy. "I like the fussing, I think. When it's you."
"Yeah?" Clark says, eyes brighter. "Good. Great. I love fussing over you. Did you eat?"
You shake your head. "No, but a lady on the subway gave me a muesli bar, so I'm not too hungry."
"I can make you something later, if you like." He says, easy as pie. "What about the subway? Want to tell me about what happened?"
You don't, you've decided. Now that he's here, in your arms, a part of you that doesn't arise all that often has awoken.
You shake your head, still smiling, and push up on your toes. "I just want you to kiss me."
This time, it's Clark who takes a little inhale before your lips reach his. His surprise gets muffled against your lips, but there's no part of you that can doubt his enthusiasm when he kisses back, arms tightening around your back, pulling you ever closer.
"Kiss you?" He murmurs against your lips, his smile melting into a grin. "Absolutely, ma'am."
It's like a floodgate opens. Clark's hands shift down, gifting a squeeze to your hips before— there's sudden motion, and you squeak against his lips as you're abruptly hoisted up into his arms without warning.
He carries you like you weigh nothing, strong hands gripping your thighs, bracketing you against him. The show of strength - the display of desire - sends something white-hot down your spine. You're on the same wavelength tonight, you can tell.
And he does it all without breaking the kiss.
Clark is devastatingly good at kissing you.
He kisses, kisses, kisses your mouth, like it's all that he wants, like he's envious of everything else your lips have touched.
It feels a bit unfair, you decide, that he just seems to know how to flip every switch to turn you on. Something warmer is definitely pumping through your blood, feeding itself on Clark's insatiable kisses.
But his adeptness, paired with how fervently he kisses you, strikes a sudden, uncomfortable thought in you.
The thought that he may have been holding back—for your sake.
You know couples tend to have sex a little earlier on. Some people even have sex with people they barely know. You're not one of those people.
Clark is also pretty good at not assuming. What you do or don't want— you like that he just asks.
But, still, there's some beaten-in worry from past experience. Where people get to know you and all your finicky ways, they start assuming what you want, without ever just asking.
It starts as care. It always ends as overshadowing.
Pulling back from the kiss, you ask outright, "Does it bother you that we haven't had sex yet?"
Because it's true. In the eyes of the law, if you had to pick a standard, you and Clark have fooled around but done nothing more.
In medieval times, you'd likely have brought shame on your family for not consummating the marriage.
(Not that you and Clark are married at all, in any way - though the thought brings a hot flush to your face. He'd be a very good husband.)
Clark comes to a stop, still holding you up effortlessly. His cheeks splotch a jammy colour, his expression coloured with surprise. "Wha— we've- I mean, we've had sex." He seems unsure, as if your question has perplexed him. "Haven't we?"
"I mean penetrative sex." You clarify.
Clark blinks, still holding you halfway through the doorway. His glasses are slipping down his nose and you slip your hand up to press them back up. You leave it there, cupped on his cheek.
"No," he says easily, his eyes searching yours. His brows pinch together. "No, it doesn't bother me. Does it bother you?"
You shrug.
He asks, "Do you want to?"
You find it a peculiar question.
"Do I want it to bother me?"
"No," Clark laughs - not at you, never at you - back to that ever-endeared smile you think might be reserved only for you. "Do you want to, uh, well…"
It's somewhat amusing to see Clark fumble for the right words, the pinkness of his cheeks reaching up to his ears.
"Is that something you'd want?" He says finally, cheeks still the colour of strawberries, but something more set in his expression. "I don't mean to be forward, especially if this isn't something you're interested in, but I… I would like to."
You feel like you don't think about sex as much as the average person. Well, there's thinking about it, and then there's having it.
It had been one of the points of strife in your last relationship. You've been trying hard not to measure yourself against other standards — trying especially hard not to compare it to the one and only other person you've slept with, Darren.
Clark is different. He's proven that a thousand times. You'd quite like to know what that kind of sex is like with him.
Given everything else you've tried, each and every lusty feeling Clark's managed to draw out from you with just his fingers, you can't imagine it will be anything other than maddeningly good.
"I think so, yes." You say decisively.
After a moment, with Clark still unmoving, you realise you've forgotten your manners. "Please." You tack on.
He's still as pink as ever in the face, but your politeness seems to knock him out of his train of thought.
There's a moment where his gaze roams your face with ardent affection — then he's leaning in again, mouth finding yours, a kiss that sets your stomach stirring.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "I can - we can, of course, honey. No need to say please."
His feet finally begin to wander, this time towards your bedroom.
You let yourself fall into his kisses, let him carry you to bed, let him kneel upon it and lay you back like you're a princess in a fairy-tale. You feel like one, being carried around in his burly arms.
He begins to kiss your neck. It tickles, so you giggle.
You might not quite fit as a princess in your mind, but Clark is definitely a righteous knight.
"What?" Clark asks, pulling back from your neck, eyes shining brightly.
"You're like a knight." you tell him, reaching up to bury your fingers into his hair. "I bet you'd look really good with a sword."
Clark laughs, the sound like spun-gold, and catches one of your hands trailing through his hair. He plants a kiss on the palm of your hand. "Sweetheart, you sound delirious." Another kiss, this time to your knuckles. "I love it. I love you. I'll be your knight."
You really like that idea. He's already so good at being devoted to you that you're not really sure what would change.
"I love you too. Please keep kissing me." You say, a little breathier than before.
Clark obliges, more than willingly.
Together, you fall into the familiar dance, heated and close, lips chafing as the kisses come easily.
All the while, you can feel it—the drizzle of something hotter pooling low in your gut. The buzz under your skin. The rabidness that rears up in response to being kissed so readily, so hungrily.
It's a kiss-fest.
And your neck must be a feast— is what you would be thinking if there was any comprehensible thought in your mind, with Clark's mouth on your pulse point.
He’s so good at what he does — so good at knowing just what you like.
He kisses messily, licks gently, and nibbles teasingly, and you give up a myriad of gaspy-sounding noises in response.
His hands move in small motions.
One hand stays planted on your waist, his fingers caressing in small, baby circles. Stable. Reliant.
His other hand is more exploratory. His thumb dips beneath the fabric of your shirt, drawing a slow, skirting line across the skin of your stomach. It feels like molten lava. The blood beneath his touch sings gloriously.
You shudder and clutch his back — enough to make him pause.
"Okay?" His voice is lower, his breath a bit more ragged. It never takes much for him to get like this, you've found. "Need a breather?"
You shake your head, because the last thing you want him to do is stop. There's a heat gathering between your thighs you desperately would like some relief for.
"No," you say, but it's a bit shaky.
He takes your word for it - which is still so nice. He trusts you to know yourself, even when you're unsure yourself.
But this part isn't new to either of you. Clark leaves your neck riddled with lovebites until he coaxes your shirt off you, after asking ever-so politely in a rasp that only adds to your growing lust.
He doesn't near the clip of your bra — you've told him you feel a bit sexier when it stays on — but still drags his fingers across the seam of the cups, his eyes darker, with a hum, "You're so pretty, honey."
The sheets are soft against the bare skin of your back. The sounds in the room are sweet, heavy.
Your low-light lamp paints the ceiling golden. Clark's hands are focused on the edges of your pants, fingers curling in only slightly.
It's a rhythm you know well. This lead-up, this push and pull, where you and Clark reduce each other to kiss-flustered messes in your bed.
The fact that this desire is a well-known feeling now makes you feel so damn sweet on Clark, so in love, you want to bury your face in your pillow. It's the same firework feeling as when he called you sweet girl.
You feel your hands on his back begin to tremble, so you tip your head to the side and press your face firmly into the comforter.
You don't want Clark to take it the wrong way, even if you've done this before.
You don't want this to be the time it's too much for him - not when you'd asked him. You try to swallow down the big emotion as subtly as you can.
Clark notices — because he always notices.
His mouth is pressed to the hollow of your throat, and you feel it pause, then feel him shift up, face to face with you. "Honey?"
"M'okay," you tell him honestly. You squeeze your eyes shut tight to try to control that buzzing rabidness that's running rampant beneath your skin.
You can't tell if it's making you uncomfortable, just that it's a lot - but you still know that you really don't want Clark to stop.
Especially when you move, shifting one leg up to press against his hip and feel the hard shape of him against you. A heady warmth throbs between your thighs. God, he's so hot and nice, and he's all yours.
"Just-" It comes out jittery, the word barely beating your sharp inhale.
Your eyes are still closed to keep the sensations at a minimum. Clark, lovingly, stays as still as he can for you.
"Just, it's like, being wound up. It's good. You make me feel good, just it's," A jagged exhale now. "A lot. I haven't felt it - like, it hasn't always been this way for me. I'm worried."
You finally open your eyes, and Clark's above you, his dark hair messier than usual. He's still pink in the face, dimples showing, blue eyes fixed on you.
"You're worried?" He asks sincerely.
"Yes."
A beat, his smile a little less now. "About what?"
You try to consolidate it all down into one sentence. A car whirs by outside, a kiss of wind brushing past your window.
Your hands slip forward, one holding his neck, to feel for his pulse. The drum of it grounds you.
"That it's not going to be good," you eventually say. Then, the more truthful answer. "That I'm not going to be good at it. With you."
Clark studies you for a moment, his maddening dimples disappearing as he thinks it over seriously.
There are no rushed assurances. You're thankful for that — people don't tend to mean those as much.
"Do you trust me?" He asks. "To be honest with you?"
He swallows thickly as he says it but holds his attention on you strong. You're so used to feeling unnerved by eye-contact, but Clark's gaze is like the buttery warmth of the sun. You glow beneath it.
"I do." You say. "You don't lie to me."
You watch Clark's throat as it bobs with another swallow. "Right. Well, then you know I mean it when I say there isn't anything you can do wrong."
Another car engine drones by on the street. His words take another second to sink in.
There isn't anything you can do wrong.
It's such a sentiment, such a wholly encompassing love he offers you, that you struggle to comprehend it. Surely, he can't mean…?
You're so used to it being a problem somewhere. Your different ways, your particular needs — it's always a thing.
You didn't realise you've still been waiting for it to crop up between you and Clark.
There has to be something he can't handle. Something you do wrong — because you always do something wrong.
You have to double-check. "Nothing?"
Clark shakes his head with vehemence, curls flying. He grins, dimples back on display, and gives another squeeze of your middle. "Honey, everything you do is right."
He says it like an oath. Now that's a goddamn sentiment.
One that feels less like a firework and more like a shooting star to your system. Bright, burning hot, right into your sternum. You choke on your next inhale, hoping you aren't making some ugly emotional face.
You can't really put into words what it means to hear it. You try your best.
"That's," you bite your lip, hard. "That's really nice." Despite how you try, you still sound a bit teary.
"Oh, sweet girl," Clark crowds in close, peppering kisses across your face.
He doesn't kiss you on the lips, like he can sense you need the oxygen. One dots your forehead, then your temple. His care only feeds your craving for him.
It takes a second to compose yourself enough to ask him, the words still a bit shaky when you ask, "Can we keep having sex even though I almost cried, please?"
Clark pulls back, expression earnest. "Absolutely."
He kisses you now, like he's sealing the promise.
You hum into his mouth, letting him taste the gasp in your throat when his fingers find your waistline again, deftly working open the button of your jeans.
You don't want him to stop kissing you, but it's impossible to wrangle your jeans off without it.
He works them off your ankles and then looks back up at you, warm hands resting on your calves. "Do you want to keep your socks on?"
"Yes, please."
"Okay, honey." He grins again, like every word out your mouth is endearing.
He begins working on the buttons of his work shirt, getting them off much faster than you have in the past. You get too excited to focus on such little motions.
He sheds the button-up and it makes a pale pool on your bedroom floor. He's wearing a white undershirt beneath it - that's quickly removed too.
His arms shift up, reaching behind his neck to pull it over his head. His biceps bulge. The sight of Clark's chest, tan as the rest of him, broad, and made up of pillowy muscles you know are good for sleeping on, inspires a feverish heat in you.
God, you're the luckiest girl in all of Metropolis.
You watch him, feeling like the whole world is soaked in honey, everything sweet and golden and good.
There's more kissing. Clark is so very attuned to you; it's like he can sense the tides of your desire as it washes in and out.
Too much time spent on removing clothing, however necessary, and you get finicky and worried. Kisses soothe it all away.
You're holding his shoulders, toned and strong. The cords of his muscles shift under your palms. You have the delirious urge to bite him — or give him a hickey right between the pecs, where the trail of hair begins.
He's so handsome. You love his arms, his chest, his stomach. You give thought to calling off the sex so you can spend the evening kissing every inch of him instead.
Clark discards that thought for you with a touch of his fingers.
He eases you into sex gently, deft fingers drawing a warm line up the inside of your thigh. When he reaches the apex, his fingers give a soft rub through your underwear, just the right pressure.
You burn hotly, lust brushing at the fringes of your nerves, and try not to squirm too much.
"Clark," you murmur his name — it's half a sigh of relief, half a plea for more.
"I got you, honey," he says easily, increasing the pressure, his thumb angled more precisely. His breath fans across your stomach. "M'just going slow, making sure it's gonna be good, yeah?"
The cotton between your legs grows stickier, and you can't resist shifting around. You're still not used to this - to it being this good.
He makes you feel unwound. You're not used to being so unstitched around anyone else. But it's Clark, so you trust him.
"Okay," you say breathily. "I love you."
Clark smiles— not that you can see it with your eyes closed — but you feel it against the skin of your stomach. He kisses your navel. "I love you too."
He works you open with his fingers, slow and gentle, with that coo in his voice that keeps you tethered to reality.
You can feel the sweat on your lower back, the tightness in your chest, but it's all overshadowed by the drool of pleasure that's aching through your core.
The air is heavy, swirling with the scent of lovers, imbued with the little noises that escape you.
Clark knows they'll haunt his dreams; the hiccupy gasps, the breathy groans. The sound of his name in your mouth, soaked with pleasure, makes him a little light-headed with how fast his blood rushes south.
At some point, Clark loses his pants, though if you tilt your head, you can spot them at the edge of the bed. He's wearing plaid boxers. There's a trail of hair on his stomach, leading down into them.
The quavering feeling returns, the tremble to your body that isn't so much to do with pleasure.
Clark checks in, blue eyes focused on your face, both hands stilled where they hold your hips. His fingers are still slick, and they feel cool against your blazing skin.
"You're doing good," he tells you, low and gentle. "Take your time, sweetheart."
You take a deep, staggering breath and nod to let him know you hear him. Your hair scrunches against the sheets.
It helps too. You can feel every tingle upon the surface of your skin, but you're trying to think that isn't a bad thing.
He's told you that you're doing good — he told you that everything you do is right.
The overwhelm you feel, the breathers you take — it doesn't have to be good or bad; it just is.
He loves you all the same.
It's a different sensation when he eases himself in to you, fire zinging up your spine. An ache like no other settles between your hips.
But there's something new in Clark too, a furrow in his brow, his bottom lip trapped behind his teeth. His chest heaves, and desire-drenched sounds drag from his lips, a beautiful low moan.
This is different. It's not him taking care of you. It's you together, taking care of each other.
Your back arches off the bed, chest pushed out, as he buries himself in you at a slow, sensual pace.
The shooting star feeling remains in your chest, driving your hands to wander fervently — you cup his face, stroke his neck, coax him down and finally give in to the urge to bite his shoulder.
Clark groans, a deep sultry sound that begs you to widen your legs. You whisper to eachother, admissions of love, pleases, and thank-you's too.
When it's over, the room smells like sex. It's humid in a way it wasn't before.
There's a satisfaction that's bone-deep, a happiness that wriggles through your veins and comes out in the form of a very content sigh.
Clark is much the same, his face half pressed into your pillow, back still rising and falling with his breaths. He's smiling, but he looks a bit tired.
You comb your fingers through his hair because you can't stand to not be touching him right now.
People talk of soulmates, and you think that, given the probability of that being true, combined with the statistics on finding them with all the billions of people on Earth, it's probably a bit of hogwash.
Well, you did think that. Whether or not they exist, found or made, there's some part of Clark you think might be made just right for you.
Fate, as he first proposed to you. It feels like the only explanation for this — for Clark. For the easiness in which everything comes with him.
Your nightstand clock tells you it's late, evidenced by the darkness outside too.
It's been a long day. You stroke through Clark's curls, his eyes resting closed, and the orgasm loosens your tongue. You feel compelled to tell him what happened earlier today. You don't like to keep secrets.
"Clark," you say, smiling when he makes a little mhm? in response, peeking open an eye. "Superman said 'I love you' to me today."
That gets his attention. Both eyes open, blinking at you across the bed. He pushes up, resting his head in his hand, then clears his throat.
"Oh," he says. "Well, actually, about that." He looks as though he's steeling himself, and a tinge of worry feathers through you.
But then Clark says, "The thing is… Superman didn't say I love you; I did."
You blink at him. The words don't comprehend. You know what you heard today.
"What?" You ask, genuinely confused.
He seems to realise a mistake he's made. "Crumbs. Sorry, I'm not trying to be elusive. I'm trying to tell you that I'm, uh, …I'm Superman."
You still can't understand.
You can hear the words, can understand what they mean individually, but you don't get what he's trying to tell you.
"I don't understand," you say, pressing yourself up to sitting. This feels serious.
"I'm Superman," Clark repeats gently, not rushing or annoyed. It's you instead who is getting frustrated, because saying it the same exact way isn't helping you.
"Clark," you say, voice a bit thin. "I don't understand what you're saying. Please don't just repeat yourself."
He matches your position, sitting up to face you, sheets pooling at his waist. He reaches out, a caring touch on your knee. "Superman, the superhero that flies around, saves the city, blue suit, red cape?"
You nod, following so far.
"It's me. I'm him." He says with an exhaled breath. "I'm not from Earth. I have abilities that humans don't. I spend my spare time trying to help people as best I can — which is why Superman said 'I love you' to you."
The touch on your knee rises, fingertips brushing your cheek delicately. "Because he's me. And I love you."
He chuckles a little bashfully, his eyes dancing away for a moment, his hand dropping. "And sometimes, saying it is too much of a habit to realise you still don't know this about me."
You blink, and this time, the explanation strings together in a way that makes sense.
The revelation sinks its teeth in. Clark, your beautiful, doting boyfriend, is also Superman.
Superman is Clark. Superman is your boyfriend. You're… dating Superman.
Another owlish blink. You can't help but think of all his articles.
"You interviewed him. You interviewed... yourself?"
Clark's expression turns sheepish. "Yes, I have. I- I do."
He knows to let it sit. Let you turn the new information over in your mind, shaping it into new questions and discoveries. He's Superman.
You think back to all the encounters over the last month — the almost mugging, the unexpected closeness, the way he seemed to know that you'd had a bad day. Because he did know.
"It's why you're late." You say, not a question.
For some reason, that makes Clark blush, as though he's embarrassed by his rudeness. "Most of the time, yes."
"How come you don't look like him?"
Clark reaches back to your bedside table, where he's deposited his glasses in the rush of getting undressed.
"These. They have some hypno technology, so my face looks quite different to people when I'm wearing them. Since I don't always wear them when I'm with you, you know what I actually look like but,"
He peers at you through his lashes, a kind smile on his face. "I just don't think you were looking for it."
You're not the suspicious kind, he means. You take things as they are.
Side by side, with the explanation before you, it makes sense. Superman has always looked a little like Clark. Or Clark has always looked a bit like Superman.
"You don't lie to me," you say in explanation.
Somehow, this doesn't feel like a lie either — or like you've been deceived.
You're well acquainted with putting on a new persona when you're at work, a more polished, smiley version of yourself that makes your jaw sore from holding it stiffly all day. It's a mask. This… This feels like the same thing.
Some things can't be done as Clark.
Some things have to be Superman.
And now he wants you to know — to have — both.
You twist your fingers into the sheets of your bed tightly, hoping it'll help you think.
"And I'm sorry that I had to, honey," Clark apologises sincerely, placing the glasses on the blankets between you.
He does appear to be troubled by the thought of keeping this from you. "I didn't like keeping secrets from you. You're so good at keeping out of danger, it was easy to keep this part of my life hidden from you."
You mull over his words, trying hard to analyse the emotions stirring up within your chest.
There's no rulebook or blog-post you can convene with to know how to feel about it. You're not sure you feel much of anything, other than a dim surprise. It just… makes sense.
Truthfully, if you had found out when you met Clark, it might have been too much.
Clark was already such a surprise — that he came around to see you, that he kept coming around. Someone that kind, that handsome, wanting to make the effort for you.
He'd been just Clark then.
If he'd been Superman too, beloved hero of Metropolis, coming around to deliver you freshly-baked goods and kisses, maybe you'd have been scared off. Maybe not. Somehow, you're only glad you don't have to know how to feel about that.
You just have to know what you feel now.
A different question jumps off your tongue.
"What does flying feel like?"
Clark's expression gives away his astonishment, a wide-eyed blink that melts into a genuine smile.
"It's, uh, it's very fun. It's like," His mouth twists as he considers it, before he shakes his head. "It's like nothing else. My parents had to give me strict rules about flying around the house growing up, I love it that much."
His parents. For some reason, you hadn't expected them to know.
Then you feel a bit silly — Superman has always been open about how he came to be here, on Earth. Someone had to have raised him.
You think of the photo Clark keeps on his work desk — or the one in his wallet, next to the photo of you — of Ma and Pa Kent.
The thought of baby Clark whizzing about the farmhouse he described growing up in is a delightful thought.
Untwisting your fingers from the sheets, you glance down and ask, "Why now?"
This is the first question to make him sigh.
You lift your gaze, watching as he rubs a hand across his face wearily, "Because I messed up. I didn't mean to give you such a strange encounter with Superman, but I also don't want to lie to you any more than I already have."
He shifts in the bed, shuffling closer till his knees press against yours.
He reaches for your hands, no longer toying with the sheets but still amongst the covers. He holds them tenderly, cradled in his.
"And I didn't tell you earlier for lots of reasons. It's not safe, for one." His thumbs trace over the backs of your hands, his face open, eyes a shade of blue you feel you haven't seen before. Maybe it's because you're seeing him, seeing all of him, for the first time.
"But the main reason is that I like… I love who I get to be with you.
"I'm just Clark," he says, the words softer than sweetness. "I'm just your boyfriend. I have to make a lot of hard decisions, every day, as Superman. With you, it's… it's just what makes you happy. And that's an easy decision, every time."
At some point, you've clutched his hands back. There's that same stupid sharpness back in your chest, stinging your eyes with the promise of tears.
He just wants to make you happy. Like it's a relief to come home to you, at the end of a hard day saving the world.
Like, you just might be his respite.
You try press the sharp feeling back, but you can tell he knows. He always seems to just know.
He doesn't interfere, just strokes his thumbs along the back of your hands again — and is ready for it when you burst forward into him.
His arms are around you, holding you tight, and your face tucks away into his neck.
"Okay," you say, sniffling through the word - because how else can you respond to something that magnanimous? You're the relief of a man who has the weight of the world on his shoulders. "Okay."
"Okay?" Clark echoes, the word threaded with a slight amusement. "You'll allow it?" He jests.
But you nod in response all the same. He sits back, leaning into your mountain of pillows, and takes you with him, all bundled up in his arms.
You're leaning into his chest, skin to skin, and the contentedness within you hasn't shifted. Hasn't balked at the face of his secret.
"I love you." You whisper - and feel Clark's arms tighten in response. "Thank you for telling me."
"I love you." He mirrors, pressing a long, firm kiss into your hair. He murmurs into it, unwilling to give up any distance between you. "Do you have any questions?"
"Plenty." You say automatically, dead serious — and you jostle on his chest as Clark laughs at that, because, really, he should expect this from you. "So many. I can't believe I'm dating an alien."
"I'm not sure if I should apologise…?" He says, amused.
"No," You press a kiss to his chest, above where his heart is, mumbling against his skin. "That came out bad. I don't mean it in a bad way. Sorry."
"Don't be." He kisses your head again, and sleepiness hangs above you, drawing nearer.
He's so warm. He's like a space heater. You laugh tiredly to yourself because - yeah, he literally is.
He tells you, "I'll answer any question you have."
You're melting into him, cocooned in his arms, tucked away from the world.
Still, you can hear it — another drone of a car engine, the chatter of people on the street, the honk of a faraway driver. Close, but unable to touch this bubble you and Clark exist in.
"Anything?" You ask.
It comes out as a sleepy whisper.
You feel, more than hear, the hum Clark gives in return. He draws a long, soothing stroke over your back, his hand warm.
You think of the question you want answered most.
"Will you stay the night, please?"
You don't really need to ask—he stays most nights now—but it's a habit.
There's a concerning moment where you hear the wobbly inhale Clark takes—but then you can feel his smile pressed into your hairline. You picture his dimples.
You feel him shift, one arm leave you, and the click of your lamp.
The amber saps away, and darkness blankets the both of you, wrapping you up.
"Of course, honey," he murmurs, like there's only one answer he could give. In his arms, you realise you're the safest person on the whole planet.
Huh, you think tiredly, as sleep drapes over you, gentle and warm. Guess you aren't so different from all those other citizens of Metropolis, after all.
They follow Superman into danger.
You suppose, in some ways, so would you.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
if you made it this damn far, kudos!! thank u for reading mammoth of a fic <3 i hope you enjoyed it and if you so felt inspired, i hope you wouldn't mind letting me know what you think! :)
special thanks to my beloved citrine @citrinesparkles for being an open ear, grease for writers block, many ideas contributor and cheerleader extraordinaire
some usual moots as well <3 as always, no pressure friends ! @spideystevie @sanguineterrain @headkiss @djarinova
for the October challenge could you do one about watching horror movies with Eddie. Maybe with friends to lovers? I love that trope! Ty!! 🫶🫶
𝐖𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝-𝐎𝐮𝐭 𝐎𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 ♡
Eddie Munson x reader || Main masterlist || Eddie playlist
summary: You and Eddie have always been teetering on the edge of something unnamed. Best friends who linger a little too close, laugh a little too easily at each other, and share moments that feel a little bigger than they should and horror marathons on nights when neither of you could sleep have become your quiet tradition. Beneath the casual comfort of being together, unspoken feelings hover in the air.
word count: 5.1k
𝐎𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞: 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟐𝟗) 𝐒𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐦𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐧
The opening credits flicker across the tv in washed-out orange, the kind that makes everything else in the room glow dim and gold. The light catches on Eddie’s rings where his hand dangles over the arm of the couch, drumming absently against the fabric. You pretend not to watch.
You always pretend not to watch.
Outside, Hawkins is asleep, the kind of quiet small towns get after midnight, the air feels heavy with it. Inside, the two of you sit shoulder to shoulder, a bowl of popcorn balanced precariously between you. Some B-grade slasher movie hums in the background. Fake screams and cheap theatre blood, but neither of you are really watching it. You never do.
It started as a tradition. Horror marathons on nights when neither of you could sleep. Back when friends felt like a word that fit. Back when you could convince yourself that what you felt, at most, was a harmless crush. That it was normal, and you would get over it. After all, you and Eddie have been friends for so long that loving him a little too much just felt like part of the routine. Like breathing.
Now, every time his knee brushes yours, your pulse betrays you.
You’re halfway through the movie when Eddie leans forward, dark curls falling into his face as he squints at the screen. “Okay, there’s no way she doesn’t see that guy behind her. He’s literally as tall as a fridge, holding a machete. Like, come on.”
You laugh, a real, from-the-gut kind of laugh, and he glances back at you like he wasn’t expecting it. His grin softens.
“You always laugh like that,” he says quietly, as if it’s a fact he’s been sitting on for a while.
The flickering glow from the tv lingers in the room, casting shadows that dance along the walls, but for a moment, everything else seems to fade away.
“Like what?”
He shrugs, eyes darting back to the screen, like maybe he didn’t mean to say anything at all. “Like I’m funny,” he mumbles after a beat.
You huff out a small laugh, but it sounds different this time, caught somewhere between shy and unsure.
You want to ask what he actually means, but he’s already leaning back again, pretending to be absorbed in the movie. You watch him from the corner of your eye, the way the light plays over his profile, soft at the edges, sharp where it counts, and you feel it somewhere low in your stomach.
You and Eddie have always been a little bit like this — teetering on the edge of something unnamed. Always been circling that almost something, without ever really coming close enough to touch it.
Late-night drives with the windows down, his rings clinking against the steering wheel as he tells you stories that make you laugh until you can’t breathe. You share fries at the diner and sometimes you sit too close on the couch, his arm draped casually behind you, not quite around you, but close enough that your shoulder burns where it almost touches his.
It’s all nice, but it’s also killing you, a little bit at a time.
Your feelings for him have become this constant, quiet thing. Not loud enough for you to want to risk ruining what you have, but also impossible to deny.
The best defense you’ve found is suppression. Shove it down deep enough, and it might stop hurting. But it has been a fickle strategy. It works only until it doesn’t, but it’s the best you have.
You toss a piece of popcorn at him. “Trust me, you’re not. I’m just pitying you”
He gasps dramatically, catching it before it hits his chest. “Assaulted by my best friend. Guess I had it coming.”
Best friend.
The words hit harder than they should. You manage a laugh, but it sounds thin. “Yeah, well, you were asking for it.” The movie screams in the background. You barely hear it. He grins, wide and easy, like he doesn’t notice the way your chest tightens around those two words.
Best friend. They should feel safe, they used to feel safe, but now they sting, like pressing on a bruise you’ve been pretending isn’t there.
Eddie tosses the popcorn back at you, misses by a mile. “You’ve got terrible aim, by the way,” you say, trying to sound lighthearted, trying for normal.
“I’m wounded. Truly.” He leans back, stretches, arm falling casually along the back of the couch, that same almost-touch you’ve memorized a hundred times over.
You can feel the heat radiating from him, close enough that it buzzes against your skin. You try to focus on the movie, but the room feels too small, the air too thick.
Minutes pass like that, a slow ache of almost. You can smell the faint hint of his greenapple shampoo.
Eddie shifts, just barely, and his fingers brush your shoulder. A shiver runs through you before you can stop it. A tiny, involuntary reaction, but of course he notices, he always does. It should almost be annoying if it didn’t make your stomach flip every single time. If it didn’t make you feel seen in a way that’s both terrifying and addictive.
“You cold?” he asks, voice low.
You shake your head, eyes fixed on the tv. “No.”
You can feel him looking at you anyway, that familiar weight of his gaze. It’s the same look he gets when he’s trying to figure out if you’re okay, or when he’s about to tease you about something dumb. You don’t dare check which one it is.
Eddie hums, like he doesn’t quite buy your answer, and you know, you just know, that he’s still watching you. The sound of him hum slides down your spine, settling somewhere warm. You swallow, keeping your eyes glued to the screen even though you couldn’t recount a single thing happening on it if your life depended on it.
Another minute passes. Maybe two. Long enough that you think he’s let it go.
Then. “Hey,” he says softly.
You force yourself to look over, if only because ignoring him feels impossible. His face is half-lit by the tv, half-hidden in shadow. But his eyes, those big, brown, stupidly earnest eyes are all on you.
“You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, of course,” you lie, and it comes out too fast, too practiced. “Just… tired.”
He nods once, but not convincingly. His fingers tap against the back of the couch, just inches behind your shoulder. Like he’s thinking about something. Almost like he’s trying to work up the courage to say it.
You’re so focused on his hand that you almost miss the moment when he shifts closer. It’s not much, not even a full inch. But it didn’t feel accidental, not like the arm draped behind you.
This is intentional.
Your heart stutters. A beat passes. Then two. The movie drones on, muffled screams, another predictable chase scene, but the only sound you really register is the soft click of Eddie’s rings as he drums them against the couch again.
You are sure he’s about to pull away, make a joke, break the tension, do what he always does when things get too close to meaning something.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, Eddie’s fingers still against the couch. He clears his throat, barely, like the words fighting their way up are catching on something.
“Y’know,” he starts, voice low and not nearly as casual as he tries to make it, “you don’t have to lie to me.”
Your breath catches, snagged somewhere high in your chest. “I’m not—”
“You are.” He says it gently. Not accusing, just… sure. Because he knows you. Too well, sometimes. “You get this…” his eyes flick to your face, “little crease between your eyebrows when you’re trying to pretend something doesn’t bother you.”
You blink. “I do not.”
“Yeah you do,” he says, a soft laugh leaving him, but it sounds more nervous than confident. Uneven in a way you’ve never heard from him. “I’ve seen it like a thousand times.”
You don’t know what to say to that. And maybe you don’t have to, because Eddie shifts again, this time enough that his knee knocks into yours with real intention. Not a brush. Not an accident. A choice.
“You’re not like… mad at me, or something?”
You blink, startled by his question, but also by how soft his voice has gotten.
“Why would I be mad at you?”
“I dunno.” He gives a tiny shrug, his eyes darting from yours to your mouth and back again so fast you almost think you imagined it. “But you’d tell me, if you were, right?” he says, voice low enough that the question barely makes it over the drone of the tv. “If I did something stupid?”
You almost laugh, because Eddie does stupid things all the time. Stupid things you find so, stupidly charming. But you know he doesn’t mean any of that.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “I’d tell you.”
He nods, but the tension in his jaw doesn’t ease.
“Eddie,” you say before you can talk yourself out of it.
He looks up instantly, like the sound of his name pulled him forward.
Your pulse jumps. He’s too close. Or maybe not close enough. You can’t tell anymore.
You force a little laugh, small and thin. “Now you’re doing that thing, you do.”
He blinks. “What thing?”
“The… worried face thing.” You gesture vaguely at him. Your hand shakes, just barely. “You look like you’re waiting for me to, I don’t know, confess I’m secretly dying or something.”
He tries to smile, but it’s weak at the edges. “Well. You’ve just been acting a little weird lately.”
“I’m always weird,” you say lightly, too lightly, like your voice isn’t your own. “You should be used to that by now.”
“Okay, okay, we can both be weird,” he says lightheartedly, but he lacks his usual ease. He tilts his head, studying you in that way he does when he’s reading deeper than you want him to. “It’s just like you sometimes get so distant all of the sudden…”
“I’m right here,” you say. And it’s true physically, but emotionally? You are halfway off a cliff.
He doesn’t let you dodge it. “You know what I mean.”
You inhale slowly, steadying yourself. “It’s nothing,” you say quickly, waving your hand. “Seriously. It’s just… just me being stupid.”
Eddie’s eyebrows pull together. The crease in his own forehead deepens. “Hey. Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make yourself small,” he says quietly.
It hits you harder than it should. You look away, toward the flickering tv. A girl running through fake fog, screaming into the night. It feels too fitting.
You force a small, humor-tinged scoff. “I’m not making myself small. I’m just not—” You stop, puff out a breath. “It’s not a big deal, really.”
“Something’s bothering you.”
“Not in a bad way,” you rush out, then wince, because who says that? Who admits to being bothered in a good way? “I just— look, it’s embarrassing, okay? But not… dangerous. Or important. Or whatever you think it is.”
“Important to me,” he says, barely above a whisper.
Your heart squeezes. Too much. Too fast.
You try again, voice low. “It’s just… I’ve been having these… feelings.” You gesture in a nonsense circle near your chest, as if that explains anything. “Stupid ones. Silly ones. Stuff you don’t have to worry about.”
Eddie goes still in that way he always does when his brain catches on something sharp. “Silly feelings?”
“Yeah.” You laugh weakly. “The harmless kind. Like... dumb infatuations or whatever.” You cringe at yourself. “God, I sound ridiculous.”
He stares at you like you’ve just started speaking in tongues. “Feelings… about what?”
“Eddie, I swear, it’s just dumb feelings, okay. And I honestly don’t want to talk about it right now. Besides, I wasn’t lying when I said I was tired. Maybe I should just go home…”
For a second he just stares at you, really stares, like he’s replaying your words in his mind, trying to figure out if you meant what he thinks you meant.
His voice drops low, almost rough around the edges.
“Since when can’t he talk about feelings?”
The movie screams again, someone running, someone dying, but the sound feels so far away it might as well be in another universe.
“I don’t care if you think it’s silly,” he says, and there is nothing light or joking in him anymore, “or embarrassing, or… whatever else you’ve told yourself. If there is something that’s bothering you,” he says, softer now, steadier, “I want to know.”
You swallow hard. “Eddie…”
He shakes his head. Not harsh, not frustrated, just determined. Gently so. Like this matters in a way he can’t hide. “You don’t get to decide what I care about,” he continues. “You don’t get to tell me something about you is unimportant, okay. You’re my best friend, for crying out loud!”
Eddie’s voice softens on those last words. My best friend. You almost feel like throwing up
Your stomach lurches so hard it feels like the couch tilts beneath you.
My best friend.
The way he says it isn’t mean. It isn’t dismissive. It isn’t even neutral. It’s warm— softened at the edges with affection so real it nearly glows.
And somehow that only makes it worse, it hits like a punch under the ribs.
Because he doesn’t say it carelessly. He says it like a truth he’d carve into stone.
Your throat tightens, breath snagging somewhere high in your chest, and you’re terrified he can hear the way your heart stumbles. Terrified he can see the panic crawling up your spine.
You don’t understand how the night shifted so fast.
You force out a laugh—thin, brittle, a poor imitation of all the real ones he knows from you. “Yeah,” you manage, voice wobbling before you catch it. “Your best friend. I know.”
His face shifts—barely —but enough. His eyebrows twitch together, that soft crease forming that means he’s noticed something. Means he’s reading you like he always does.
Eddie watches you with those wide, dark eyes that have undone you more times than you can count. “Why’d you say it like that?”
“Like what?” You keep your gaze pinned to the tv, though you couldn’t describe a single thing happening on-screen if someone paid you.
“Like it hurts.”
Something inside you flinches.
“It doesn’t hurt,” you lie, and it’s paper-thin, too quick, too easy to see through.
Eddie doesn’t buy it for a second.
He leans in, slowly, almost like he’s approaching a skittish animal he doesn’t want to scare off. His rings glint in the washed-out light as his hand inched closer, not touching you, not quite, but almost. that almost that sits between you like a live wire. bright and humming and ready to snap..
“Look at me,” he says softly, “please”
And God, you try not to. You really do. Because you know what looking at him does to you, how it unravels you, how it makes every carefully buried thing claw its way back to the surface.
But he’s waiting. And he asked so gently.
So you finally turn your head.
You force a swallow, but it sticks halfway down. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I don’t want you to say anything you don’t want to,” Eddie says, voice low, careful. “I just… I need to know that you are okay. That’s all. And that we are okay”
Your chest feels like it’s tightening around a live coal. You want to retreat. You want to shove the feelings back down where they belong, where they won’t make your heart do summersaults every time he leans in. But you can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like that—like you’re the only thing in the world that matters.
“It’s not like I want to keep secrets from you or anything. I just don’t think it’s a good idea to tell you,” you admit, voice small, brittle, like the words themselves might shatter if you push them too far. You look down at your hands, fidgeting with the edge of the couch cushion, trying to anchor yourself. “Because if I say it out loud, it’ll make it real. And if it’s real, then things can break. And I can’t—” Your voice catches. “I can’t lose you.”
Eddie’s eyes soften so much it feels like the air leaves your lungs.
“Lose me?” he echoes, almost incredulous. He shifts even closer—so close his breath ghosts across your cheek. “Sweetheart, you’re not gonna lose me.”
Sweetheart.
The word lands in your chest like a quiet explosion. It’s not even that he hasn’t called you that before… Sweetheart, doll face, you name it. But it has always been casual before, playful, teasing. Never insincere, but never weighted, never like it carried any deeper meaning than friendly teasing.
Now it lands differently. It’s deliberate. Tender. Protective. It wraps around you in a way that you don’t think you can fully articulate, like it’s settling into the spaces inside you you didn’t even know were empty.
Your chest tightens, the pressure building until it feels like your ribs might crack under it. You blink rapidly, trying to anchor yourself, but it’s no use. The warmth in your throat rises before you can stop it. Your vision blurs slightly at the edges as tears begin to gather in the corner of your eyes.
You swipe at your eyes before a tear can actually fall, but Eddie sees it anyway. You know he does by the sharp inhale he takes, the way his hand finally—finally—closes that last inch of space and settles warm against your shoulder.
“Hey,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the edge of your collarbone before he even seems to realize he’s doing it. “No, no, don’t, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to—”
“I’m not crying,” you say automatically. Stupidly. Your voice fractures down the middle.
His hand slides down, slow and careful, to your upper arm. Not pulling or crowding. Just grounding. “You kinda are.”
You huff something that’s not quite a laugh and not quite a sob. “God, this is so embarrassing.”
“No it’s not.” Eddies expression twists into something both pained and tender. “Listen, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to push you to—”
“Don’t. It’s not—” You shake your head immediately, blinking hard. “You don’t have to apologize, You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Then why’re you crying?” he asks quietly, and God, it’s not an accusation. It’s a plea. A scared one. His thumb sweeps a slow arc just above your elbow, grounding, warm. “Talk to me.”
“I can’t,” you whisper, and it comes out wrecked, small, humiliatingly honest.
Eddie exhales, not frustrated—just heartbroken. “You can. With me, you can. You’re starting to scare me a little.”
You close your eyes because looking at him feels like standing too close to a fire. “It’s just… I feel stupid. And dramatic. And pathetic, and I don’t want you to think—”
“Stop,” he murmurs, hand tightening on your arm, just enough pressure to keep you here, with him. “Stop talking about yourself like that.” His voice is low, frayed at the edges. “Please.”
You swallow shakily. “I just— I don’t want this to get weird.”
“It’s already weird,” he says, smiling like he’s trying to soften the blow, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. Something in them trembles. hope, fear, both, neither, you can’t figure it out. “Weird doesn’t scare me.”
You let out a shaky breath, trying for a laugh, but it breaks right down the middle. “Well, it scares me.”
“I know,” he whispers. “I can tell.”
“Oh, shut up.” you mean for it to sound playful, but it comes out thinner than you wanted it to.
“Look,” he murmurs, voice rough around the edges, “if you’re worried this is gonna mess us up… you should know something.”
He shifts just a little closer. Not dramatically, it’s slow and cautious, but intentional enough that your heart picks up.
“You’re not the only one who’s been… weird,” he admits.
Your pulse skips hard. “What?”
“Yeah.” His laugh is quiet, breathless, and completely humorless. “Real weird... For a while now.”
Your head snaps up to really look at him. He doesn’t look away. Doesn’t fidget or joke or retreat behind a smirk. He just… holds your gaze, like he’s bracing for impact.
“I just didn’t know if it was… wanted. Or if I’d ruin everything by saying it out loud.” His voice dips, softer still. “Guess you know what that feels like.”
Your throat goes tight again, but this time it’s for a completely different reason. “Eddie,” you breathe, barely audible, “what are you trying to say?”
He huffs out a quiet, shaky exhale. “I’m trying to say, if what you’re dealing with is what I’m starting to think it is…then I get it. The feelings. The stupid ones. That ‘don’t make it real or I’ll combust’ thing… that insane fear that you might screw something up with someone you… care about.”
Your whole chest goes molten.
You whisper, “Oh.”
Eddie swallows hard. “Yeah. ‘Oh.’”
The room feels too small again, but not in the suffocating way from before. In the opposite way. Like the air is charged and warm and waiting.
“I’m not like, completely off here, am I?” His eyes search yours, nerves threading through the brown. “‘Cause if you tell me now that you’re deeply in love with, like, the guy who bags your groceries, please warn me, so I can go lie face-down outside for a few hours,” he finishes, voice cracking right down the middle.
The joke lands crooked. half‑hearted and trembling, but it still knocks a startled, wet laugh out of you, real and raw. And Eddie’s whole face softens like the sound steadies him.
“I don’t have a crush on my grocery guy,” you say, voice trembling.
Eddie’s shoulders relax an inch. “Okay. Cool. Cool-cool-cool.” A beat. “But it is those kinds of feelings we are talking about?
You stare at him.
He stares back.
And very, very slowly, you nod.
His breath catches. Just barely. But enough. “And… you’re scared that it would mess things up between us if I knew?”
Another nod. Smaller. Helpless.
He exhales shakily, almost like it hurts. “So I’m not insane for assuming it’s…” He stops himself, shakes his head. Tries again. “…for assuming it’s me?” he finishes.
Your breath snags. “No,” you whisper. “You’re not insane.”
Something in Eddie breaks. Not in a shattering way, but in a soft, unspooling way, like tension giving out after being pulled too tight for too long. His shoulders drop, his eyes go wide, almost disbelieving, and he inhales like someone just opened a window in a room he’d been suffocating in.
And then he laughs under his breath. wet, shaky and stunned. “Okay. Okay, um—okay.” He scrubs a hand over his mouth, curls falling into his face. “Shit. I, Uh… I, fuck, can I—?” he starts, then falters. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip. “Can I say something kinda terrifying?”
Your heart is a roaring thing in your chest, but you’re smiling now. “Yeah,” you breathe.
He takes a slow inhale, like bracing himself, but it’s lighter than before.
“Those stupid feelings you talked about?” His voice dips low, earnest. “I’ve had them too. For you. For a very long time.” He swallows hard. “Like… scary-long.”
Your breath catches on a tiny, broken sound.
Eddie must hear it, because he reaches out. Slowly, giving you every chance to pull away, but you don’t , you lean in. He cups your cheek with trembling fingers. His thumb ghosts just beneath your eye, barely touching. It’s feather-light, like he’s touching something he’s wanted for so long he’s afraid it might vanish under his hand.
You lean into his touch, instinctively, helplessly.
His thumb lingers there, warm and hesitant, like he’s still half‑convinced this might all be a dream or a very elaborate joke you cooked up just to mock him.
“Ed…” you whisper, a plea.
Eddie’s breath stutters.
“Okay,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you. “Okay, yeah, I know… Holy shit.”
A tiny, startled laugh slips out of you, the kind that sounds like it’s been trapped in your chest for months. Maybe years. Eddie smiles. Beams, really. like he just heard his favorite song for the first time again.
You don’t know who moves first. Maybe both of you. Maybe neither. Maybe gravity finally got fed up with waiting.
But suddenly Eddie’s forehead is touching yours, gentle and careful, like he thinks the slightest pressure might scare you off.
“You sure?” he whispers. He’s so close, his words tickle your lips.
You nod. “Yeah, I’m sure.”
His smile softens, goes a little crooked at the edges, a little shaky with relief. “Okay. Then I’m gonna… I’m gonna kiss you now. Unless you suddenly remember you do have a crush on that grocery guy.”
“Oh my god,” you breathe out, laughing because the tension splinters into something bright and weightless.
“What?” he asks innocently. “The man has great bagging skills, I can’t compete—”
You grab the front of his shirt.
And finally, finally, you kiss him.
It’s soft at first. Careful. Like both of you are testing the shape of something you’d only ever dared to imagine. His lips are warm and hesitant, but the second you sigh against his mouth, Eddie makes a sound—low, disbelieving—and cups your face with both hands, pulling you just a breath closer.
The kiss deepens. Eenough to say this is real. Enough to feel his smile against your lip.
When you pull back, you’re both breathless in the quiet, flickering living room. The movie screams somewhere behind you, wildly out of place now.
Eddie laughs softly, forehead dropping to your shoulder. “I cannot believe we just confessed our undying feelings in front of a dude getting chainsawed in half.”
You snort. “Very romantic.”
“Extremely,” he agrees solemnly. “Honestly, I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Nothing says ‘true love’ like gratuitous gore.”
You poke his side. “Shut up.”
He lifts his head, grin lopsided and boyish. “Make me.”
So you kiss him again, because apparently you can do that now, and Eddie melts into it instantly, like you just flipped some secret switch labeled absolute disaster of a lovesick idiot.
When you break apart, he looks at you for a long moment, eyes warm and slightly dazed.
“So,” he says, tapping his ringed fingers against your knee. “We’re not… ruined?”
You shake your head, smiling. “No. Not ruined.”
“Cool,” he says, trying and failing to sound casual. “Because I was prepared to dramatically fling myself out the window if this went badly.”
You glance at the trailer window. “We’re on the ground floor, Eddie.”
“Yeah, but still,” he says with a shrug. “Very dramatic. Lots of flailing. You’d feel bad.”
You laugh, real and full, and his smile softens into something warm and certain.
He nudges your nose with his. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
The words hang in the air, soft but unshakably real. You freeze for a second, your chest tightening in the most delicious way, because it’s not a joke. Not a tease. Not an almost or a maybe. He says it like he means it. Like he’s been carrying it, quietly, secretly, and finally he can’t anymore.
Before you even think, before your brain can catch up, your lips find his.
It’s immediate. Urgent. Warm. Like every moment of hesitation, every stolen glance, every quiet, almost-touch between you has been building to this exact second. His hands find your waist, fingers threading through the fabric of your shirt as if to anchor himself to you.
Eddie melts into it instantly, lips soft and yielding, heart pounding against yours. There’s laughter tangled with disbelief, warmth tangled with relief, and somewhere deep inside, a steady certainty that this, this right here, is exactly where you’re supposed to be.
When you finally pull back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rests against yours, and he’s smiling like he can’t believe you’re real.
“I love you too,” you whisper, your voice trembling just enough to make it real.
He grins, a slow, soft curve that makes your chest ache and your heart stutter in all the right ways.
And somehow, in the small, flickering light of a horror movie that neither of you cares about anymore, it feels like the only thing that has ever truly mattered is right here.
His smile twitches, tips into a grin so bright you feel it all the way down your spine. “God, that felt so good to say,” he murmurs. “I’ve wanted to say that forever.”
You laugh, shaky and breathless, letting your forehead rest against his. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Mhm, ridiculously in love,” he finishes, voice dipping low like the words are too warm in his mouth to say at full volume.
You snort, a small, helpless sound that escapes before you can stop it. “Shut up.”
“Make me,” he teases.
“Okay,” you say with a giggle, it catches in your throat as you lean in. You’re both grinning like idiots, like people who finally stopped running from something they wanted too badly. His fingers slip under your jaw, warm and careful, guiding you closer.
You kiss him slow, unhurried, a grounding sort of kiss. Eddie sighs into it, a soft, breathy sound that hits you low in the stomach, and you feel him smile halfway through like he can’t help it.
When the kiss finally breaks, you’re both breathless, grinning, and a little dazed. Eddie blinks at you like he’s trying to memorize every detail of your face before the universe can change its mind. His hands settle at your waist, warm and a little possessive in a way that makes your stomach flip.
“Just so we’re clear,” he says, voice rough and smile crooked, “this means you’re stuck with me. Like—permanently. I’m gonna be so annoying about this.”
You snort, nudging his chest. “Oh great. My nightmare is coming true.”
“Too late,” he says, leaning in to kiss the corner of your mouth, smug and sweet and completely undone. “You chose this.”
“Yeah,” you whisper, catching his shirt again, tugging him close enough that his breath mingles with yours. “I guess I did.”
He melts into you with a soft laugh, pressing another kiss to your lips, gentler this time, lingering. Outside, the night stays quiet. Inside, everything finally falls into place. The movie finishes in the background, the warmth of his hands, the pieces of both of you settling exactly where they were always supposed to be.
sit next to me (please) [eddie munson x fem!reader]
you've always hated touch, avoided it ardently - until he came along.
warnings: use of she/her pronouns for reader, touch-avoidant reader, lots of yearning, talk of personal boundaries, readers becomes touch-starved for one (1) man, consumption of alcohol and weed, very slow burn.
word count: 11.2k+
a/n: this was originally titled "would that i" and i believe that i wrote it while listening to the hozier song, craving some super soft eddie all those moons ago. sorry that i tried to bury this one in the graveyard, y'all. i self-projected like all hell onto this reader as well lmao
dividers by @saradika-graphics
How one person can be such a walking contradiction, no one knows.
There is a softness to you. It bleeds out of you, endless and endearing to all those around you. The way you’ll converse with friends with shining eyes, the way you close doors with care, the way you treat your favorite novel like a newborn babe. With both all the inanimate and animate objects around you, your touch is ever warm, ever tender. Like the sweep of a thin curtain sheet in a summer's breeze, or plush grass beneath calves in a verdant spring. Your touch is something to experience, and that was where the dichotomy came into play.
Your touch was deeply sought after, and was a rarity all on its own.
You were amongst the softest people in your friend group, and yet, rarely did you find yourself to be particularly physical. Your petal affections were usually restricted to affirmative words and acts of kindness. Your friends knew that if they needed words of encouragement, you should be the first person they ran to. If they needed a hug, however, you were not.
It’s not because you were cruel or against the displays of physicality. You were just awkward with them. You would turn frigid over the brush of another’s skin against your own. You’d tried to change over the years, offering more goodbye hugs, more spontaneous playing with Nancy’s hair or high fives exchanged with Steve when you kicked one of the younger boys’ asses at the arcade. You tried. But it was hard — something had rooted itself in you long ago that continued to choke you and limit just how much you could handle when it came to another’s touch.
When Robin joined the group, she tried to warm you up more to it. Despite warnings from the group, whispers of she doesn’t like that, she’d continued to offer you her friendly physical affections as long as you reassured her it was fine. It worked, to an extent. You would now at least return the hugs received (even if it took you a few moments to do so), and you wouldn’t hold your breath at a friend’s head on your shoulder or lap. It was all baby steps — timid movements in the right direction, an accomplishment of letting your softness flow through your fingertips as you tried to adjust.
Argyle also tried to wear you down. A casual arm around your shoulder in greeting, frequently sitting close enough to you on movie nights that your side would press into his as you both enjoyed the pizza he’d brought. You still froze, still struggled to thaw, but you never shooed him away. You’d only exchange a secret smile with him, a private acknowledgement between you two that you knew what he was trying to do, and it was okay. Maybe it would work. Robin had, after all, made some baby steps. Maybe Argyle could help you take fuller strides. Maybe, just maybe, this could propel you.
The night you drunkenly braided Argyle’s hair had been a memorable success, but it never progressed past that. The roots remained, the timid natured reigned, and so your friend group simply celebrated what little victories they’d earned and moved on.
They’d accepted you may never be a touchy person. And that was fine — all that you lacked in physical touch, you more than made up for in every other avenue in expression of your fondness.
Until Eddie.
The moment he’d joined your circle, Argyle and Robin were already exchanging knowing looks. Eddie was touchy; the boy was practically starved for it. Overexcited hugs as greetings and the way his hand would reach for the nearest shoulder when he was overcome with joy for the small things. He couldn’t sit alone during movie nights, he’d often lounge with his legs stretched out over the nearest laps, he’d jokingly cuddle into people without a second thought.
And even more than that, his touch was wild and burning. Embers never to be contained. He was overwhelming, they all knew this and so did he, and they feared that if he attempted to embark on the same journey that they had that he may scare you away. That all the baby steps in the right direction would become leaps backward, sending you right back to where you started.
They couldn’t have been more wrong.
You’d first noticed that Eddie treated you differently, more restrained, during a movie night. Argyle on one side, a small empty space on the other. You’d witness everyone endure Eddie’s cinematic cuddles on multiple occasions, and amongst your roots had bloomed buds of wistfulness. A strange yearning every time he’d tuck his face into the neck of whichever friend was nearest, jokingly squealing how he needed them to protect him. They saw him as a pest (a lovable one, but still) — and you’d never wanted to be pestered more in your life.
That small space beside you was the last open seat. You thought surely, he’ll sit here. You were optimistic at the likelihood of Eddie sharing your space, of feeling his curls tickle your cheek and neck, at his breath on your shoulder. For the first time in your life, you were painfully giddy at the prospect of someone touching you. When he entered the room with Jonathan, carrying bowls of popcorn and loudly telling everyone to turn on the horror movie chosen for the night, your entire body had buzzed. You would have leapt off that couch and crawled inside his chest right then and there if it wouldn’t have been so startling to not only him, but your entire circle.
He took one look at the empty seat, a pitiful excuse for space, and had paled.
Please sit next to me. Please, please, ple-
“Spread your legs, Harrington,” Eddie had suddenly bursted out, throwing himself on the floor in front of Steve at the opposite end of the couch, “I’m using your knees as collateral from Krueger.”
He chose the floor over sitting at your side. And it ached.
You were unaware of the spiel that Robin and Argyle gave him, the staunch warnings from Nancy, the (sort of) joking threats from Steve and Jonathan. Eddie Munson had been warned off from touching you, was obeying those warnings, and it just left you miserable.
You didn’t get it. You didn’t understand — his choices nor your feelings.
But that night, the burn of Argyle’s arm brushing your shoulder from where it laid along the back of the couch became overwhelming. Until you’d scooted yourself into that space you’d carved out for Eddie, and pouted, like a goddamn child.
Argyle assumed it was just a bad day for touch.
No one realized the yearning blooming within you. You’d never wanted to take a baseball bat to Steve Harrington’s shins more than when you watched Eddie Munson wrap his fingers around them and bury his cheek against them.
The second time, it stung even more.
Months passed and the yearning never faded. You told yourself, over and over, this will pass. This is temporary, and it will pass.
But it didn’t. The more time you spent with Eddie amongst your friend group, the more you craved the same casual touch from him that he extended to everyone else. He wouldn’t even brush past you in enclosed spaces — he treated you like a traumatized dog, bound to snap and bite him if he made the wrong move.
You fucking hated it. You hated that you hated it.
You’d gone years without needing touch, so you cursed that unexpected sting in your chest that night at the bowling alley. When Eddie rolled his first strike (and reported it was his first ever), he’d hugged everyone.
Everyone but you.
When it came to what should have been your turn for a bear hug, your mind was buzzing with adrenaline. This was it. You pictured him wrapping his tattooed arms around your chest, lifting you at least a little bit, swinging you a little due to the force of his affection. You were convinced his high off of the strike was going to make him forget his mission to never touch you. Maybe he’d be embarrassed after. Maybe you could finally offer a small smile that said it’s okay, I’m okay with it.
He only stopped dead in his tracks, arms freezing for a second before they dropped, his lips pressing tightly together before he let them spread back into a smile, and only lifted his brows at you excitedly.
That’s it. That’s all.
Fuck.
“That was pretty metal, Eddie,” you tried to egg him on, bouncing on the soles of your shoes a little, practically begging him with your eyes to just hug you.
He’d been bashful, grinning and hiding his face behind a random curl, nodding, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it was.”
If you’d known of the talks behind your back then that had ruined that moment, you would have wrecked absolute havoc on your friends. The need, the yearning, the want became impossible to handle. You used his strike as an excuse for him to cover your turn, saying he was on a roll right after exclaiming that if you didn’t go to the bathroom right that second, you’d piss yourself.
When you were alone in the stall, you’d silently screamed and tugged at the roots of your hair.
You wanted him to touch you. You wanted him to catch you off guard in larger than life hugs. You wanted to feel every emotion that thrummed beneath his skin and you wanted to breathe in his cologne, to finally know how sturdy his chest felt beneath his shirt and if his rings really were as cold as Nancy always complained.
You’d finally returned to the group, not able to have a full breakdown in the bathroom without worrying your friends with your absence. Subtly, you’d tried to tuck yourself into Robin’s side when you returned, sitting down a bit closer than you normally would have, just to fill the void. It was almost as if you were encouraging her to reach an arm around you, to let you curl up and press a cheek to her collarbone. Try to alleviate the need for human touch clawing its way through you.
“You okay, babe?” she questioned suspiciously when she felt you squished entirely up against her. There was plenty of space on the bench, there was no reason for your proximity.
No, you wanted to scream, I’m not okay. There is an itch beneath my skin right now that can only be scratched by the affectionate touches of the metalhead sitting across from us who’s joking with our friends, completely unaffected and unaware. He won’t even look me in the eye. And so now I’m trying to get you to just touch me, to just put a goddamn arm around me, to do anything to fill the gaping hole inside of me. But you can’t.
It was an unfair situation to every single party and bystander involved.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lied.
You can’t, because the only person who can fill this gaping void inside of me is Eddie.
You were the farthest from fine. You were in flames. And no one would understand it, least of all you, because this wasn’t like you.
You didn’t crave touch. You didn’t need it to survive. So, what the hell was this that you were feeling?
The craving for Eddie’s touch evolved into something more, and that’s when you knew that you were surely in trouble.
Audible denial only worked for so long. Festering, longing, and yearning could only be withheld for so long until suddenly, with your mind on fire and your bones aching to the core, you realized that it was more than wanting Eddie to reach out for you. The want became a two way street. More often than not, you find your hands to be fists at your side, shaking with the effort to not bridge the gap.
After a year of friendship, he had had no choice but to occasionally brush past you. Touches that must have been fleeting to him, but lingered for you. They’d settle into your skin, tender like a fresh bruise, ghosting over you at night when you couldn’t sleep. It was more than just touch, at this point. You wanted everything from Eddie. The denial of his touch had led to you missing out on more than just hugs and movie night cuddles — Eddie didn’t joke with you as much as he did the others, didn’t always turn to you in crowded rooms for comfort, wouldn’t call you up if he was up late and bored like he would Nancy, Steve, Robin, Argyle, fucking everyone in Hawkins except you. The distance was unbearable.
Because you did. You did look for him at every quaint hang out. You did seek him out in every room you entered and you did resist the urge to call him when sleep evaded you. You could imagine his voice over the line, a lullaby over the receiver as he’d ramble about his day. It was like a poison, infecting those roots you’d long since made friends with rather than try to dig up.
You were fucked. Plain and simple. You had a big, fat crush on Eddie, and for once in your life, you’d learned of the panging hunger to be touched.
“Does Eddie have a girlfriend?” you asked as you sat with Robin at a diner, having completely zoned out with the conversation between her and Steve, lost in your daydreams, “Or boyfriend? Just- Is he single?”
Both of your friends went dead silent, staring at you in awe.
Robin cleared her throat, but remained choked up until Steve spoke, “Uh, yeah. He’s single. Why?”
The way your eyes darted down to the table of the booth you three occupy gave it away.
Robin suddenly squealed, “Oh my gosh! You have a crush on him!”
“Do not!”
“Oh, you so do!” she grinned wildly, leaning in close, “Tell us everything — now.”
“Eddie?” Steve’s nose scrunched up, “Really?”
“I don’t have a crush on him!” you uselessly defended yourself, “I just- Look, no, I know that look. You can’t tell him or meddle, Robin.”
“How would I tell him or meddle if you don’t have a crush on him?”
Steve was still confused, and Robin’s eyes glittered with mischief. You would have been better off keeping your mouth shut.
You noticed the way Steve had gone silent, pointedly sipping on his coke rather than looking you in the eyes. As if he had something to say.
“What is it?” you asked him, furrowing your brows, already defensive. A stark contrast to the light-heartedness you usually treat your friends with, “You’ve got something to say. Say it.”
“I just…” Steve sighed, looking off into the distance, “I don’t know. It’s a weird pairing, y’know?”
Your stomach threatened to sink. “What does that mean?”
“You two are just… different,” he continued on, and your stomach really did sink. Right along with your heart, “I mean, he’s really big on physical touch — it’s definitely his love language. And you…”
You don’t like being touched. You actually hate it. Avoid it ardently.
The unspoken ending to that sentence could have shattered your bones that day. You knew. You knew.
You stayed silent, unsure of what else to say. You couldn’t find the words to explain the yearning that invaded your chest all those moons ago, you couldn’t physically bring their hands to your chest and force them to feel the hunger that had begun to eat you alive. You couldn’t scream at your friends, I can change! I can change! I can change!
“I think they’d make a cute couple,” Robin finally broke the tense silence. Steve looked a bit regretful, but you both knew he was right, “Besides, touching is overrated.”
To emphasize her point, she scooted away from Steve until she sat on the very edge of the vinyl seat they shared, a narrow air of separation between them.
You smiled and laughed, and so did Steve, but the fact of the matter still remained.
Your roots have been there since the beginning of time. And maybe, they ran so deeply that you were a fool for thinking you could ever excavate them.
“I need your help.”
Robin looks up at you shocked. You’d never looked quite so determined, so one-track minded as you did in this moment, right in Steve Harrington’s kitchen.
“You need my help?” she nearly yells, fumbling with the empty bowl she was about to fill with chips, “Are you sure you need my-“
“Positive,” you cut her off, “I need your help because you didn’t laugh in my face when I said I liked Eddie.”
Her shock fades, an awful trace of pity in her eyes as she looks at you, “Oh, hon — Steve wasn’t laughing at you. He’s just a dingus, y’know? Doesn’t always think before he speaks, but he has the best of intentions-“
You wave a hand, physically dispersing her words into the air. That conversation at the diner last week didn’t phase you anymore. In fact, it fuels you the more you think about it.
“I know, I know,” you reassure her, walking closer so you can lower your voice, “But he was right. And I’ve been thinking a lot about it.”
“That sounds dangerous. Whatcha’ been thinkin’ about?”
This is it. Now or never. Once you say it outloud, even to just Robin, it was cemented in fact.
“It’s not that I don’t like being touched,” you blurt out, heart racing at the admission, “I just… I don’t know. I’m not used to it. It wasn’t something normal growing up. And… okay, no, this is not meant to be a depressing deep dive into my childhood,” you pause and scowl at the way her face contorts with even more pity, “I’m fine. There’s nothing to be done to change what’s already passed. My point is, I don’t want to stay this way. I don’t want people treating me delicately. I’m tired of you guys not feeling like you can just- fuck, I don’t know, hug me. Like you can throw an arm around me while we joke around like you do Jonathan. Like you can’t take the seat beside me at the booth instead of Steve. Like you can’t be clingy and beg me to play with your hair like you do Argyle when everyone’s smoking.”
Throughout your speech, the pity transforms. With each word, you only grow more passionate, because it dawns on you just how much you miss out on. Your friends love you, you love them — that’s not up for debate. But sometimes, you see those small touches between them, and you feel like an outsider looking in.
“I know I freeze up and I know I get awkward,” your voice finally chokes up, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut to silently curse yourself for finally letting all these larger than life emotions wrap around you, “I know you guys think I’m better off if you leave it be. But I’m not. I’ll never get over it if you guys don’t push me. I’ll never get used to it if no one ever touches me.”
“We know!” Robin starts enthusiastically, reassuredly, “We know that! And me and Gyle really do try, but we just don’t want to make you uncomfortable-“
“Do it,” you stop her in her tracks, eyes not wavering from hers, “Make me uncomfortable. Put your head on my shoulder, even if it makes my breathing stop for a couple seconds. Grab my hand when we cross a street, even if my palm’s clammy. I can’t grow without a little discomfort, Robs.”
There’s a standstill in the air. A realization settles deep in your bones — growth. That’s what you were craving. Eddie had opened up something entirely new for you, cracked open an age old wound in your chest you’d been unaware of. It left behind a hole, and you’d been so preoccupied with yearning to fill it, you hadn’t seen that the solution was the most obvious one: you had to outgrow the hole. Not fill it with others, but with yourself. You couldn’t live forever as nothing more than roots, buried deep beneath soil and always hiding in their solitude. Eventually, you had to bloom.
“Okay,” Robin nods slowly, taking in your words and the deep breaths that are following. It’s obvious how much this means to you, how much it’s been bothering you, “You’re right. But… you’ve just gotta promise us, if we get overbearing, that you tell us-“
“Not just you and Argyle,” your mouth goes dry. Because this is where the road was leading the entire time, this was the end destination in mind for the entire drive of this conversation, “I want… everyone to do it. I know Nance, Jon, and Steve aren’t as big on the whole touchy thing as you and him but…” your voice finally breaks, and you can’t look her in the eyes now as you whisper, “Eddie is.”
There’s a light behind Robin’s eyes that you’ve never seen before, but you can’t even bear witness to it, eyes zeroed in on the shiny packaging of the chips on the counter, “So this really is about Eddie?”
You could keep denying it. Pretend like the boy hadn’t watered the first sprout that caused this entire revelation, like he hadn’t been the first to shine a light on all the things you’d ignored for years. But he was. He had built a fire inside of you without even realizing it, just by tending his own embers.
You take a deep breath, “It’s like it burns him to touch me. Even just shuffling past me. I don’t think he’s ever sat beside me when we all hang out. I don’t… I don’t even know what he really smells like, Rob. Besides the weed and cigarettes when he smokes with you guys. How fucked is that? I’ve known him for a year and I couldn’t even tell you what kind of cologne he wears. Isn’t that… that’s weird, right?”
“You know the things that matter, though, don’t you?”
It hadn’t occurred to you, that perspective on the matter. “I… guess?”
“Tell me about him. Tell me about Eddie.”
The others will be worrying about how long you two are taking in here soon. Eddie will probably be arriving with Argyle soon. But Robin waits patiently until your eyes finally find hers again, and she lifts her brows, encouraging you to tell her about your mutual friend as if she’s never met him.
And so you do.
Once you start rattling off the minute things you noticed, they pour out of you, watering away at that once withered crush. You tell her about his favorite music, an easy thing to know about Eddie when he’s so loud and passionate about it. You tell her the first song he ever learned on guitar, Little Things by Willie Nelson. It had been encouraged by how much his Uncle Wayne enjoyed the singer. And he’d learned it on a worn acoustic guitar from his uncle. He’d never even performed it in front of the man, always either too choked up or too embarrassed for an audience. You tell her how his favorite subject in school was history, because it always gave him ideas for his DnD campaigns. His favorite color is red, deep and pulsing and eye-catching. The same shade of his electric guitar, lovingly nicknamed Sweetheart, but actually named Elvira. He’s a picky eater, probably the pickiest of your group, and yet also will eat just about anything the moment you propose it as a dare. He knows what he should do to take care of his curls, he just doesn’t, probably due to preferring to take his showers at night. He’s complained of falling asleep with wet hair more times than you can count. He had a lisp as a little kid. He buys a new mug for Wayne every Christmas, and the man acts surprised every year, as if he never saw it coming. He likes sour candy best. He hates movies where the dog dies. He loves musicals, and he would sooner die than admit that to the rest of the group.
All devilish details that Eddie had revealed to you at some point or another, over drinks and over quick cigarettes. Over random bursts of trust and rare moments alone.
By the time you’re done with your rant, Robin is just smiling.
“God, you really like him,” she murmurs, looking across your forlorn face, as if each piece of him that you’d handed over willingly had actually been forcibly torn from you. As if it hurt to share him.
You take another deep breath, and you can breathe a little bit easier, but you still feel the wisps of your roots still dug stubbornly into surrounding ground, “Yeah. I really like him.”
A plan is devised. It turns out Robin was the perfect person to approach about this, because she has no shame — she’s willing to seem like a ‘bad friend’ for the sake of helping you reach your goal.
The first step is to guarantee that no matter what, Eddie sits next to you during the movie.
The best way to accomplish this is to not make it a seat only beside you as you had that first time he’d rejected you, but between you and another person. Because then, if Eddie was still adamant on not indulging you, he’d have someone else to cling to. For now.
The second step would be for you to leave for the bathroom right before you all started the movie. Leave the room, leave all your friends to be gathered without you so that Robin could make an executive call with them all. She would bring up the fact that they all should try to push you a bit more with the entire notion of physical touch, that it’d be good for you, that you’d brought it up casually rather than as dramatically as you really had.
During her explaining of this part of the plan, you discovered the conversations already had behind closed doors about this topic and you.
You couldn’t even blame your friends. You were irritated, but it would pass. They couldn’t change it now, but Robin could help undo what those seemingly beneficial conversations had done. The distance it had created between you and Eddie.
“Who should be on the other side of Eddie?” you ask once you two have your plan and full bowls of snacks.
“Me,” Robin declares, “I have a plan there, too. We’ll sit side by side at first, take up enough space on the couch so that Eddie thinks he doesn’t have a seat. Just trust me and play along when the time comes, yeah?”
You nod.
There’s a knock at the door, perfect timing as you and Robin sat down the bowls of snacks on the table, ignoring Steve’s expected complaint of how long you two took. He runs off, going to let Eddie and Argyle in, as Robin takes her seat on the couch.
Nancy and Jonathan are curled up on the loveseat. Steve had been sitting at the end of the couch that normally could easily seat four. Argyle’s favorite recliner was wide open, and you both knew he’d be jumping into it once he came to the basement. Everything was set perfectly.
Robin manspreads, an entertaining sight but one that forces you to try and do the same, lounging across the remaining space of the couch as casually as possible to make it seem as though another person could absolutely not fit.
You pray to God her plan works.
“Hello, brochachos!” Argyle yells as a greeting when he bounds down the stairs, immediately tossing a box of snow caps in Nancy and Jonathan’s directions before doing exactly as you and Robin had predicted, “Oh, fuck yeah! You guys saved my favorite chair for me!”
He specifically winks your way, as if you had been the one to do so. And you had, technically, but you appreciated that small effort to greet you specifically.
You smile at him, shaking your head lightly as he throws himself down roughly. You can only imagine how on board he’ll be with Robin’s suggestion.
Argyle’s energy had you wondering if the boys had even smoked as they usually did before arriving, his eyes hardly pink rimmed and his smile not quite as dopey as usual. It became clear that they had smoked, but one of them had likely babysat their shared joints, when Eddie descends into the doorway behind Steve.
He’s all half-lidded eyes, lazy grin, comfort wrapped up in a worn band shirt and sweats.
Yes, you wanted to break this stubborn boundary of yours with all your friends, but as you earned your first glance from Eddie, you knew that he would be the greatest reward. You don’t even care if the crush aspect of the entire ordeal never comes to fruition; you’d just like to imagine burying your face into his warm chest like you are now, and not feel weird about it. Not worry if he’ll push you away or be uncomfortable, or taken off guard, by it.
“Hey, losers,” he greets in a rough voice, no doubt gravelly from how much he might have smoked.
You share a quick look with Robin, worried. High Eddie was always extra affectionate, but wouldn’t it be wrong to use that against him? Maybe you two should try another night, postpone the plan for another movie nigh-
You hadn’t even noticed that Steve had taken his original seat back and Eddie was glancing around the seating arrangement, seemingly lost, until Robin was suddenly shoving at you, “Babe, I love you, but scooch. C’mere, Eds. I’m in a cuddly mood.”
And oh, that hurt. Which is why you suppose she didn’t tell you what exactly this part of the plan was. That hurt needed to break through your face, even if only for a moment, so that when you left the room, it made sense to discuss.
Argyle catches that micro-expression the moment it graces your features. Even furrows his brows in response. Eddie even opens his mouth to argue, but you move too quickly for anyone else to comment.
You fumble with pulling up your body, scooting over as she requested until there was an Eddie-sized space left between the two of you. When Robin opens her arms wide, Eddie has no room to argue.
“Well, if you insist, Buckley,” he teases, stepping carefully, hesitating for a second as he glances back down at you. Even through pink tinged eyes, you catch a flash of concern. “I’m always down for some cuddles with my favorite girl.”
And that also stings, reverberates like a slap to the face that had landed just a little too harshly.
Robin scoffs, muttering a stern correction of, “Platonic cuddles, dipshit,” just as Nancy also laughs from where she’s tangled with Jonathan.
“Didn’t you say I was your favorite when I bought you a coke last week?”
He probably did. He constantly made those jokes with Robin and Nancy. He never made those jokes with you.
Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t about respecting boundaries for Eddie. Maybe he just didn’t like you-
“You both wound me,” he sighs out as his body lands directly in that space you and Robin had organized, clearly favoring being close to Robin so that his thigh wouldn’t rub against yours, “I’ve officially changed my mind.”
It almost happens in slow motion. Slowly, carefully, he lazily turns his head towards you, lips half lilted as his eyes sparkle in your direction, tongue darting out between his teeth before he drawls, “You’re my favorite, now.”
For the first time in a year, you’re very clearly smelling his cologne, and the look in his eyes is setting you ablaze. The softness you are so used to bargaining out is being returned, an expression so delicate being aimed at you that you don’t know what to do with it. Senses overwhelmed with something woodsy, something musky, and something yearning.
“How charming,” Nancy muses, leveling you with a soft and amused look. Not nearly as gooey as the look Eddie had given you, but still adoring, “Don’t listen to him. Clearly, he says that to everyone.”
“Yeah, but I mean it this time,” he argues.
“Sure, you do,” Steve laughs from his end of the couch, “She’s not gonna go grab you a soda just because you’re kissing ass.”
“Hey, you know what?” Argyle sits up in his chair, leaning towards you and pointing his finger in your direction, “You really are my favorite, and I’m a man of my word.”
“I’m not getting you a soda, either, Gyle,” you flatly joke, narrowing your eyes.
He pours briefly, but shrugs, “Fair enough. I meant it, but fair enough.”
On a limb, you stretch out a hand, and deliver a gentle smack at his hand still hanging limply in the air between you two. Robin is watching on proudly as Argyle looks taken back.
“Shut up,” you giggle, shimmying in your seat to get more comfortable.
Eddie looks wildly around the room, completely stunned, wearing a look of betrayal, “What, you guys don’t believe me? She really is my favorite!”
Lord only knows you were melting into the cushion of that couch. You weren’t used to this amount of attention, certainly not from Eddie, and certainly not so clearly in front of your friends.
If you could hardly handle his words of affection, how would you handle his touches of affection?
“I believe you,” you finally say. Something in your mind screams at you, tells you now is your chance. All you’d have to do is shift your knee, and you could bump it to his in a joking manner. The perfect excuse. The perfect guise. You stare at your two knees for an eternity, though, and before you know it, the moment has passed.
The ache echoes out across the hollow of every bone inside your body as he smiles, satisfied with your response before everyone moves forward with conversation.
You hate yourself. You should have bumped your knee to his.
You don’t hear a single word exchanged amongst your friends. All you can hear is the roar in your ears that scorns you for another missed opportunity.
Now is as good as ever to enact the second phase of the plan.
“I’m gonna head to the bathroom before we start the movie,” you announce, standing a bit suddenly but trying to keep your voice even so it doesn’t seem to Eddie that his words had made you uncomfortable. They didn’t. They’d only fed that hunger, making you suddenly need more. It was your own stupid indecisiveness, what you didn’t do, that was upsetting you.
Robin looks up knowingly, “Sounds good. Don’t miss me too much, babe.”
Babe. Another thing your friends sometimes didn’t include you in — all the pet names, all the terms of endearment. It makes you smile.
If anyone thought you might be rushing out due to the entire conversation that had just taken place, that smile would erase all their fears.
“I always miss you, baby,” you cockily reply, making a joking kissy face in her direction to seal the flirtatious manner of the interaction.
Steve looks pleasantly surprised, Argyle is clearly mentally cheering you on, and Nancy looks plainly proud.
But Eddie is looking up at you, doe eyes almost… sad.
You try not to think of it too hard.
You try to take your time once you reach the top of the stairs, rushing up but slowing as you walk to the bathroom.
You didn’t really need it, obviously, and you highly doubt anyone will be listening in on your footsteps above once Robin proposes the entire debate of it treating you so fragile anymore. In the middle of the hallway, your mind is made up. Instead of continuing on to that bathroom, instead of hiding away and feeding into the panic attack currently brewing despite your full faith in Robin, you retract to the kitchen.
This is what you wanted. You want more than to just offer soft words and soft motivation, you want more than to be seen as the friend with a heart of gold, as the pedestal Argyle constantly puts you up on so eloquently. You want to be felt as it, too.
To give Nancy well-deserved hugs when another one of her publications receive recognition, to give Steve’s hand a firm squeeze when he’s confiding in you about his home situation and the loneliness that follows. You want Robin to hide her face in your shoulder for safety during jumpscares and you want to occupy that recliner with Argyle when you both decide to succumb to snacking while your friends endlessly debate where you should all have dinner, making whispers of commentary jokes before Jonathan would decide to sit on the arm and join you two in the audience as he gave up the battle for Nancy’s sake.
You want Eddie to touch you. You don’t even care how at this point. You want brushing shoulders and knocking knees, you want knuckles bumping into each other on the street and you want him to cling to you when it gets late and he’s tired, but not too tired to keep himself surrounded with his favorite people. You want to truly be his favorite. Favorite person, favorite hug, favorite conversation.
God, you want it so bad that your seams nearly burst. Your composure nearly breaks.
What if he doesn’t want that?
The moment your footsteps on the stairs have vanished, Robin springs into action.
“Okay, group meeting,” she says, clapping to garner everyone’s attention. Eddie jumps slightly at her side, Steve offers her a side-eye, and Nancy shifts her entire body in Jonathan’s arms to look at her fully, “We need to talk about her.”
She doesn’t even have to say your name.
Unfortunately, Argyle takes it the wrong way, nearly leaping out of his chair, “Her? Nah, dude, we need to talk about you. Why would you shove her around like that? I bet if you had just asked politely, she would have cuddled yo-“
“Oh, I know she would have.”
Everyone’s attention is now sharper on Robin.
“Yeah? Then why did you just toss her to the side for Ed-“ Argyle starts up again, and once more, Robin is quick to interject.
“Because she needs the push,” a slight lie, but small enough in the grand scheme of things, “We’ve gotta stop treating her like she’ll shatter if we touch her.”
Nancy finally moves to full sit up, face full of concern, “Robin, I get what you’re saying, but she’s never been the touchy type. And that’s okay. We’ve never minded.”
“What if she minds?” Robin persists. She hasn’t failed to notice Eddie’s silence, and turns to him, focusing her attack and determination, “Have you ever even sat beside her before tonight?”
Eddie’s eyes widen, “You guys told me to take it easy at first! And I did, but I- it would just be weird now to change, wouldn’t it?”
It’s in the way he says it. Not just as if he’s keeping your best interests in mind, but as if it pains him to say it. As if the worst possible thing would be to admit that things should stay the same.
It’s Robin’s in. A falter in his cool guy exterior he only seems to care about maintaining for you.
“She wants it to change,” Robin quietly confesses. Another half-truth, “Me and Argyle never fully got through to it, but we also… we just gave up on it. Like he was saying, if I pushed tonight, she would have said yes. But Eddie has never pushed her.”
“Where are you going with this, Robs?” the one person who could blow this speaks up. Steve, the man who had been there at the diner and heard your practical confession to liking Eddie.
Don’t blow this, Dingus.
“I think we take the leash off of wolf boy, here,” she jabs a thumb in Eddie’s direction, “Lay him on her.”
“I don’t want to make her uncomf-“
“You won’t. And if you do,” Robin remembers your speech from earlier. Those wet eyes and the way your voice cracked at the prospect of growth, “It’ll be good for her.”
He’s not convinced.
So Robin pushes, because she made a promise to you to aid in this self-gardening journey, and damn it she was going to keep her promise, “I’ve seen the way she looks at you. You being the dog in this metaphor might be the wrong choice, considering how she looks like a kicked puppy every time you don’t sit next to her.”
A bit harsh, but the truth. You were always brimming with such hope when Eddie entered the room, only to wilt when he kept up the same exhausting routine of avoiding you.
“She does?” he’s clueless, a goddamn blinded fool, “I- Gyle, does she really?”
Eddie looks to his friend for backup, but Argyle only shrugs from his seat, “If you don’t give the poor dudette a hug tonight, I am. If Birdie here is being honest, and she wants it, then I’m first in line. She’s way gentler on my scalp than all of you.”
“You just want your hair braided by her again,” Jonathan pipes up finally.
“So?” Argyle defends, “That shit stayed. My little skittish friend does not come to play when it has to do with hair.”
They all fall silent, holding their breaths and listening for a moment if you’re heading back down to them.
The house is a ghost town from above.
“I’m just saying,” Robin finally whispers, keeping her tone low and gentle, almost defeated, “We can’t put her in a box. She told me she’d like the change, so I’m changing. She’s a big girl. She can handle it. Besides, she smells really good.”
Robin gives Eddie a pointed look at that, and sees the pink that rushes over the bridge of his nose and up his neck.
You had no idea. No fucking idea. But she did. She’d watched Eddie withhold himself, she’d caught the longing glances, and she’d listened to his endless rambles about you.
“Okay,” is his quiet reply just before your footsteps sound on the stairs.
When you appear in the doorway, you’re holding three cans of coke.
“I bring gifts for taking so long,” you offer, holding up one of the cans as you cradle the other two in the ditch of your arm, extending it to Argyle as you pass by him.
He takes it greedily, appreciation loud and unfiltered, “Thank you dudette! At least someone here loves me.”
You turn your eyes wide as moons, almost comical, fighting back a smile, “Oh? Were they being jerks while I was gone?”
“You have no clue.”
A warning glare comes from Robin.
Even if you were in on the plan, it was dangerous territory.
When you approach the couch, Robin sees the first sign of the plan working when Eddie doesn’t shift out of the comfortable position he’d sunk into. He isn’t jumping to leave an entire cavern for you. He’s leaving just enough space for you, enough that when you sit, you’re closer to him than you were before the bathroom.
Baby steps. Silently, she is screaming at him to keep it up, all while your brain bursts into flames.
He didn’t flinch away. He didn’t shift to be further from me.
Whatever Robin had said was working.
“Movie time?” you ask as you settle into that comfortable space, the unfamiliar yet indulgent warmth of Eddie’s body heat now wrapping around you.
Your roots stretch, apprehensive, but desperate for that sunlight.
It’s one of your group’s usual scary movies. You enjoyed horror, and could handle your own pretty well. If you ever got too scared, you’d usually cling to pillows or blankets that you were left with rather than another person as the rest of the group would. But there were no pillows, no blankets, no security cushions aside from the boy sitting between you and Robin.
When you hand him his coke, his fingers brush yours, and you don’t pull back immediately. Baby steps.
When the first tense moment appears on screen, Eddie mutters a soft “shit” and jumps a little, leaning more into your space rather than Robin’s, lifting some of his curls to curtain his eyes.
You glance at him rather than the screen, narrowing your eyes in the dark, “Does that really work?”
Eddie looks at you quickly at your whisper. Normally, everyone scolded him to be quiet during movies, never entertaining his small comments.
You weren’t the only one taking baby steps tonight.
Tentatively, he drops the curl blocking his vision, before grabbing a thicker one, boyish grin as he offers it to you shyly, “Wanna find out?”
“She’s here!” Argyle shouts as he opens the front door to you, hardly giving you warning before he’s leaping forward and gathering you into his arms, nearly crushing you into a hug.
Warmth. Tender. Softness.
Argyle’s hugs are always bone-crushing, and always welcome. And they always linger as he leaves his arm around your shoulder to guide you into the foyer and shut the door behind you two.
“She is?” another voice shouts as she comes barreling out into the entryway, greeting you with an excited squeal as she rushes forward to pull you out of Argyle’s arm.
Robin.
She’s dressed up for the night — an impressively well put together Robin outfit, complete with yellow spanx and a black mask across her eyes.
“Jesus, Robs,” you laugh as she tightens her arms around you, almost as if she was trying to crush any bones that survived Argyle, “I can’t breathe.”
“Don’t care,” she mumbles into your shoulder before pulling back, “Nice costume.”
A bat onesie. Cheesy, but comfortable, and warm enough to battle against Hawkin’s autumn chill. It’s even complete with a headband that has two small, perky ears attached to it, peeking out between tufts of your hair atop the crown of your head.
“Thanks. Wait till you see the killer fake teeth I packed.”
“Eds will be pissed if your fangs are better than his,” Argyle notes as he starts to walk into the living room. You follow, Robin close behind, to find the rest of your friends all waiting.
A scary movie is already on the TV, a classic slasher revealed by the high pitched scream that rings out into the room from it. There’s a few indoor decorations about — plastic jack-o-laterns and fake webs that will no doubt give Steve hell when he tries to take them back down — and you can see a punch bowl on the counter by where Nancy and Jonathan reside.
And the man of the hour is lounging on the couch, a high mountain of pile already in front of him on the table as he munches on a family pack of candy corn.
“Eddie, isn’t the candy supposed to be for trick or treaters?” you question teasingly as you make a beeline for him. His previous focus on the movie vanishes, full attention now on you.
He’s dressed like a vampire. If the cape didn’t give it away, that small blood line marked from his lower lip in a shade of lipstick you would guess he borrowed from Nancy does.
“I am a trick or treater, sweetheart,” he retorts, popping more candy into his mouth for emphasis, “Besides, Harrington has full-sized candy bars.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He snaps his jaw closed jokingly, the clicking of his teeth making you huff out a laugh as you collapse next to him.
That woodsy cologne is there, one you’re so happily familiar with these days.
Unlike Argyle and Robin, he doesn’t greet you with an overwhelming hug, or palpable excitement. His way of greeting is more subtle. His arm slowly lifts, going to rest on the back of the couch behind you, but quickly falling to your shoulders when you waste no time scooting closer into the space he’s opened up in his side.
You fit kind of perfectly. Like a void always meant to be filled.
“So, Dracula,” you hum, warning your beating heart to slow from its racing when his palm cradles your shoulder farthest from him, “What are we watching?”
Baby steps were a thing of the past for most of the group. They had become great leaps of faith after that fateful movie night. The way Argyle and Robin had crushed you was normal now. Passing touches and flirtatious jokes were regular between you and your friends. They had seen your boundary for what it really was, a roadblock, and bit by bit, they had broken it down.
Eddie’s hesitation isn’t because he can no longer touch you. His hesitation whispered of something more, something different, something still delicate. Just as delicate as the fragile wings of the butterflies in his stomach that fluttered to life every time you entered a room.
They weren’t new. And you still didn’t know they existed — that they had always existed. From the first moment he’d met you.
“One of the Halloween movies,” he tells you, leaning down to keep the conversation more private.
You felt his breath on your ear. A new touch that happened more frequently now. One you sought after almost as vehemently as you had those first few points of contact.
“Oh?” you play along, staying hushed, “How fitting.”
“Very.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t make them put on a vampire movie. You know,” you cut off, and motion to his costume. You bump your knee to his as you do it, “Given your attire.”
“Zee night iz ztill young,” he puts on an obnoxious accent meant to mimic Dracula himself, pronouncing all his ‘s’s as ‘z’s.
You only smile, wide and generous and soft and tender, before you lift a hand to punch at the flared collar of his cape. You don’t even hesitate, not even when your knuckles brush the side of his neck.
“Pretty killer, right?” he jokes, trying to ignore the warmth flooding his cheeks.
“Very,” you hum in approval, hand dropping as you lean back into the heavy warmth of his arm around you. You almost reach the hand up to his bottom lip to trace that makeup there, slightly smeared and edges rugged already from his snacking, but you do withhold yourself at that line, “I like the makeup.”
“Yeah?” he lights up with pride, “You know, I did the eyeliner all by myself.”
You squint pointedly, leaning in just an inch closer to inspect the feathered charcoal on his waterline, “Really? Very impressive, Eds.”
“Stop flirting,” Steve demands as he leaves the kitchen, “You’re going to give him a bigger head than he needs.”
You both break apart slowly, letting space settle between you two and slowly fading back into the real world and out of that little bubble between you two. Eddie’s arm remains — his palm never leaves you, going so far as to give you a playful squeeze as his finger trails down your bicep.
A pathway of spring roses feels as though they bloom along that trail. Vibrant, full of life, open to possibility. When it came to you, Eddie had one Hell of a green thumb.
“Stop ruining the fun, big boy,” Eddie looks up at your friend, poking his tongue out as his nose scrunches. Adorable. Painfully so.
Steve is dressed as Batman. His mask is discarded somewhere on the counter beside the punch bowl.
“We have plenty of time for fun,” Steve waves off the comment, coming to stand in front of the TV with his hands on his hips, “Am I forgetting anything? I have candy for any kids that come knocking, we’ve got punch thanks to Nance, I ordered our pizza-“
“You better have ordered one with pineapple,” Eddie interrupts, tilting his head sideways in your direction, temple brushing against one of your fake ears, signaling how it was your favorite. You burrow yourself deeper into his touch.
Steve subtly ignores him, “-I have the big speakers set up if we wanna listen to any music in the backyard. Am I missing anything?”
Predictably, he wasn’t. Steve always thought of everything.
The last few months had been nice. Finally getting to enjoy Eddie’s touch had been more than you ever planned for, reveling in the way the boy was so gentle with you even as he finally gave in. Once he started, it was as if you both could finally breathe. A weight had lifted from Eddie’s shoulders just from the simple adjustment of now getting to sit beside you at every function, his bouncing knee always pressing into yours. It had become a silly tradition for him to offer to share that wild head of hair during scary movies, demanding if someone else tried to sit beside you during horror movies in particular that you needed him and his curls to protect you.
You had gone from yearning for touches, yearning for that contact, to your friends arguing over who would be indulged that night.
They had taken it slower than you thought you wanted (save for Robin), but in the end, it had all worked out. You didn’t freeze anymore. Your aversion to touch had slowly, slowly, withered away with each hug, with each clasp of their hands on you, with each casual cuddle session they pulled from you. You no longer felt like an anomaly. And it wasn’t that your friends had ever meant to make you feel like an outsider, but it felt like finally being let into a club you’d mourned being left out of for years.
The day that Eddie had grabbed your hand during a casual conversation amongst everyone while out for lunch, letting his thumb trail back and forth over your knuckles in a soothing motion, you’d nearly cried.
Something so delicate yet so telling. A quiet action of affection you’d spent so long telling yourself you couldn’t have. Back rubs during hugs, letting Argyle braid your hair in return, resting your head onto Robin’s shoulder instead of only vice versa. They were all things you’d denied yourself of for so long. You regret it, but you couldn’t change anything in the past, only the now.
And now, you had the boy who had first sprouted such affectionate want within you wrapped up against you, leaning into you for comfort as he started to ignore Steve again.
“Wanna go out back and smoke while he mother hens?”
He doesn’t have to ask you twice.
You both slip away out the back door unnoticed, a new banter sparking up between Robin and Steve being enough distraction to allow it. Eddie wastes no time digging into his jean pockets once he’s outside, throwing the cape out widely before he pulls out his pack of cigarettes.
“Want one?” he offers, flipping it open in your direction.
You just smile, shaking your head, “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”
You’d never really said that before to anyone in your group, only politely declining up until now. A small detail, but Eddie looks pleased to learn it all the same.
“Huh,” he curiously hums, pulling his own cigarette from the carton before tucking it back away, “I never knew that.”
“I’ve never really told anyone,” you shrug.
“It is some big secret?”
“Nope.”
“Hmph.”
This hum is muffled by the tip of the filter in his mouth, his hands now busy patting down his body for his lighter.
“What?”
His lips struggle to stretch around the tip of the cigarette without dropping it, solely from how wide his smile is, “I like learning new things about you.”
For every thing you had once spewed at Robin that night, Eddie had learned of you tenfold.
It was far past learning how your fingers fit between his or the smell of your perfume. He’d wanted it all; to know the inside workings of your mind, to be privy to all of your beautiful thoughts. The softness set in stone inside of you bled far past what could be felt in your fingertips or the care that shook your hand when you’d brush back stray curls out of his eyes. It fed deeper into you, into parts of you that Eddie could spend hours exploring without once growing bored.
“You say that like I’m interesting,” you murmur half-heartedly, suddenly reaching out beneath his cape and tucking into his back pocket he could have sworn he already checked. His breath is the one that catches at your arm brushing against his waist from the reach, his body is the one that freezes up entirely just from proximity. A change of roles that you had never seen coming, but he’d always figured existed. You never understood the effect you had on him, and that was in part his fault.
You produce his lighter like magic.
“You are interesting,” he insists as he plucks the lighter from you, flicking it three times to get a steady flame to burn the tip of his cigarette to life, “Don’t sell yourself so short, batty.”
“Batty?” you snort, not moving away from him, even as he blows a thin and ghostly stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.
He can only shrug, wrinkling his nose, “Yeah, I didn’t like it either. Had to give it a chance, though.”
In the quiet solitude of Eddie nursing his cigarette and you watching the trees rustle with the last remnants of daylight, something sharper invades the soft space you two seem to brew whenever together. Between your innards that are gentle by nature, and Eddie’s silken attitude not only in actions but attitude towards you, the spaces occasionally left between you two were always something dulcet. Calm. Welcoming. You’d come to discover that maybe, that’s why you’d always yearned to burrow yourself so deeply into those spaces. It was a feeling of comfort and a feeling of home that you had always seemed out, but never found that fit quite as right as these moments.
“Hey Eddie?” you ask aloud as he finishes off the cigarette, stomping it out on the ground with his boot.
“What’s up?” he answers, making no move to go back inside.
You always liked these moments alone best. From the very beginning. Even before he felt comfortable enough to step closer to you, shoulder to shoulder with you now. He’s trying to squint and see what you’re finding so interesting in the array of colorful leaves in the distance, slowly being covered in blue shadows rather than golden light, without asking.
You liked that. You liked it a lot; the way he always seemed to seek out your perspective on things. “Can I ask you something?”
“You just did-“
“Fuck off,” your hand flies up, and smacks his shoulder. You never would have done that before. But you do now, relishing that contact even in the briefest of moments. The freedom to reach out and touch.
Once he stops laughing, clearly amused with himself, he turns to face you. Whatever he had been searching for in the trees is long gone, and your focus has moved onto him now, so it’s futile.
“Ask away, sweetheart.”
A deep breath for bravery, and you’re blurting out, “Did you really only avoid touching me when we met because... the others… they told you not to?”
He wasn’t expecting that question. The crease between his brows makes that clear. You almost take your thumb to it, try to smooth out the worry. But you’re not quite there yet. Maybe one day you would be.
It’s not as loaded of a question as he thinks it is. It’s cute to watch him assume it is, though.
“I mean,” he starts his words slowly, carefully, “I guess.”
“You guess?”
“I guess,” he repeats.
Your smile is sending him into a tornado of emotion. He almost curls his hands into fist, just as you used to do.
When you broke down your boundary, it had split a crack through his dam. He knows he can reach out and touch you. He knows you’ll accept his physicality without complaint now. It doesn’t make it any less scary.
For the same reason you don’t press your thumb into his eyebrow crease — having a crush just makes you hesitate like that.
“I’m obviously a touchy guy,” he throws his arms out, aimlessly, and when they return his side, they almost nick yours. You wish they would brush yours, “But… between you and me, I always get nervous around pretty girls.”
The world slows. It doesn’t stop, it can’t stop for two youths who are trying to explore new and giddy feelings — but my God, can it slow to an absolute crawl, if only for the two of you.
“You think I’m pretty?” you tease, swallowing down just how much those words mean. You always have to remind yourself it’s worth it; being just friends is worth it now that you’ve learned the exact brand of cologne he wears and recognize the weight of his arm around you.
“The absolute prettiest,” he breathes out, “I always have. Even if they hadn’t told me to hold back, I would have- Hell, I still do,” the Autumn air makes him honest, makes him brave, “I am- I would be- I just- It’s terrifying, the thought of fucking it up because you turn my brain to… mush.”
Your eyes lift up to his forehead blanketed in his bangs, squinty and entertained, “You’re telling me it’s all just soup in there right now?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
Your friends are inside. There is candy to eat until your stomachs ache, and hugs to partake in until your bones have been crushed and pieced back together by threads of platonic affection.
Right now is anything but platonic. And it is time for something else to break, not your bones and not your boundaries. Something more.
“I’m pretty sure your hand on my shoulder when we first met would have ended my entire world,” he confesses, starting the first crack.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. If you had hugged me every time you saw me, I don’t know if I would have ever found the nerve to leave my house.”
Another crack.
“And if I sat next to you every time we went out for dinner?”
“Wouldn’t have been able to eat a bite, I’m afraid.”
A spiderweb of cracks, all widening.
“And if I had laid my head on your shoulder during movie nights?”
“What the Hell is a movie?” he jokes, chuckling a bit nervously now, “Who knows? Certainly not me, certainly not when my favorite girl is curled up next to me.”
One more crack, and the entire thing will finally shatter. You’re begging it to shatter.
You bite your tongue on any remark about still being his favorite, because since that goddamn night, he’d never said Robin or Nancy were his favorites again. Never. He’d meant it. You were his favorite.
“And if I just…” you pause as you step forward, leaning in slowly, and it takes everything in Eddie not to turn and run as your lips brush over his cheek as you whisper, “Kissed your cheek? Right here, right now?”
He doesn’t respond, your lips press together and then press down.
It shatters with a resounding snap that must be heard across Hawkins. Across Indiana.
One moment, your lips are on his cheek, and the next, they’re on his lips. He turns his head quickly before any doubt or nerves or roots can interrupt the moment.
Endless. Endearing. Warmth. Tenderness. Soft.
His lips are soft. So goddamn soft.
His hands are foreign things for a second, as if he’s in shock that he’d actually done it and kissed you. But they come back to life when your own lift to his neck, wrapping behind his neck and beneath the collar of that cape, pulling him in even closer to you.
He kisses you. And kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. Till you’re both dizzy and it doesn’t matter that the earth won’t stop spinning long enough for you two to live in this moment.
It should be unfamiliar, especially to you, but it isn’t. It’s as if the two of you have done this dance before. In another life, in another world, on another Earth far away from here. Your lips know his in this lifetime, and they will know his in the next — this first meeting only allows for a sigh of relief in the Universe, and in you.
He paused the kisses briefly, palms cradling your face with care and intention, “Do you know,” he places his lips onto yours one more time, as if fearful that spending too much time apart will let you vanish, “how often,” another kiss, deeper this time, “I’ve wanted to do this?”
A final peck. A period to the end of a sentence that the two of you had taken your time writing.
“No,” you laugh earnestly, fingers digging into the soft skin at his nape, reveling in the slip of his curls between your knuckles, “Maybe you should tell me about it.”
“Tell you about all the times?” he’s leaning back in, lips brushing against yours. Just a touch, but it shakes you to your core, “All the times I wanted to touch you, hold you, kiss you?”
You capture his lips in yours, unable to resist anymore. You’ve spent months resisting — his lips and kisses, his touches and brushes, his warmth and sunshine. You’re done resisting.
“Every,” you pull back and catch the glint in his eyes. He’s done, too, the rubble of the shatter, “Single,” you peck one cheek, “Last,” you peck the other, now rosey, “One.”
You finally kiss his lips again. Your fingers tug harshly on his curls, and his mouth falls open at the unexpected sensation. Instead of taking this any further and starting something you’d never want to end, you do the adult thing — you nip at his bottom lip, a bite of adoration that leaves him with a sting to remember.
“Fuck,” he sighs out, chasing after you, but your hands press into his chest to keep him into place, “I- Sorry, was that too much?”
“Too much?” you laugh breathlessly, shaking your head immediately. Once upon a time, it might have been too much. But now, it wasn’t enough. “No such thing, not with you.”
“Careful,” his hands came up to cover your fists balled into the front of his shirt, moving so that his cape brushes against your sides now, “I’m known to be quite a handful, sweetheart.”
You snort and grip his shirt even harder. “God, I sure hope so. You’ve been holding out on me, dracula.”
“Oh, have I?”
His smirk and your smirk are perfect mirror images of each other.
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sit next to me (please) [eddie munson x fem!reader]
you've always hated touch, avoided it ardently - until he came along.
warnings: use of she/her pronouns for reader, touch-avoidant reader, lots of yearning, talk of personal boundaries, readers becomes touch-starved for one (1) man, consumption of alcohol and weed, very slow burn.
word count: 11.2k+
a/n: this was originally titled "would that i" and i believe that i wrote it while listening to the hozier song, craving some super soft eddie all those moons ago. sorry that i tried to bury this one in the graveyard, y'all. i self-projected like all hell onto this reader as well lmao
dividers by @saradika-graphics
How one person can be such a walking contradiction, no one knows.
There is a softness to you. It bleeds out of you, endless and endearing to all those around you. The way you’ll converse with friends with shining eyes, the way you close doors with care, the way you treat your favorite novel like a newborn babe. With both all the inanimate and animate objects around you, your touch is ever warm, ever tender. Like the sweep of a thin curtain sheet in a summer's breeze, or plush grass beneath calves in a verdant spring. Your touch is something to experience, and that was where the dichotomy came into play.
Your touch was deeply sought after, and was a rarity all on its own.
You were amongst the softest people in your friend group, and yet, rarely did you find yourself to be particularly physical. Your petal affections were usually restricted to affirmative words and acts of kindness. Your friends knew that if they needed words of encouragement, you should be the first person they ran to. If they needed a hug, however, you were not.
It’s not because you were cruel or against the displays of physicality. You were just awkward with them. You would turn frigid over the brush of another’s skin against your own. You’d tried to change over the years, offering more goodbye hugs, more spontaneous playing with Nancy’s hair or high fives exchanged with Steve when you kicked one of the younger boys’ asses at the arcade. You tried. But it was hard — something had rooted itself in you long ago that continued to choke you and limit just how much you could handle when it came to another’s touch.
When Robin joined the group, she tried to warm you up more to it. Despite warnings from the group, whispers of she doesn’t like that, she’d continued to offer you her friendly physical affections as long as you reassured her it was fine. It worked, to an extent. You would now at least return the hugs received (even if it took you a few moments to do so), and you wouldn’t hold your breath at a friend’s head on your shoulder or lap. It was all baby steps — timid movements in the right direction, an accomplishment of letting your softness flow through your fingertips as you tried to adjust.
Argyle also tried to wear you down. A casual arm around your shoulder in greeting, frequently sitting close enough to you on movie nights that your side would press into his as you both enjoyed the pizza he’d brought. You still froze, still struggled to thaw, but you never shooed him away. You’d only exchange a secret smile with him, a private acknowledgement between you two that you knew what he was trying to do, and it was okay. Maybe it would work. Robin had, after all, made some baby steps. Maybe Argyle could help you take fuller strides. Maybe, just maybe, this could propel you.
The night you drunkenly braided Argyle’s hair had been a memorable success, but it never progressed past that. The roots remained, the timid natured reigned, and so your friend group simply celebrated what little victories they’d earned and moved on.
They’d accepted you may never be a touchy person. And that was fine — all that you lacked in physical touch, you more than made up for in every other avenue in expression of your fondness.
Until Eddie.
The moment he’d joined your circle, Argyle and Robin were already exchanging knowing looks. Eddie was touchy; the boy was practically starved for it. Overexcited hugs as greetings and the way his hand would reach for the nearest shoulder when he was overcome with joy for the small things. He couldn’t sit alone during movie nights, he’d often lounge with his legs stretched out over the nearest laps, he’d jokingly cuddle into people without a second thought.
And even more than that, his touch was wild and burning. Embers never to be contained. He was overwhelming, they all knew this and so did he, and they feared that if he attempted to embark on the same journey that they had that he may scare you away. That all the baby steps in the right direction would become leaps backward, sending you right back to where you started.
They couldn’t have been more wrong.
You’d first noticed that Eddie treated you differently, more restrained, during a movie night. Argyle on one side, a small empty space on the other. You’d witness everyone endure Eddie’s cinematic cuddles on multiple occasions, and amongst your roots had bloomed buds of wistfulness. A strange yearning every time he’d tuck his face into the neck of whichever friend was nearest, jokingly squealing how he needed them to protect him. They saw him as a pest (a lovable one, but still) — and you’d never wanted to be pestered more in your life.
That small space beside you was the last open seat. You thought surely, he’ll sit here. You were optimistic at the likelihood of Eddie sharing your space, of feeling his curls tickle your cheek and neck, at his breath on your shoulder. For the first time in your life, you were painfully giddy at the prospect of someone touching you. When he entered the room with Jonathan, carrying bowls of popcorn and loudly telling everyone to turn on the horror movie chosen for the night, your entire body had buzzed. You would have leapt off that couch and crawled inside his chest right then and there if it wouldn’t have been so startling to not only him, but your entire circle.
He took one look at the empty seat, a pitiful excuse for space, and had paled.
Please sit next to me. Please, please, ple-
“Spread your legs, Harrington,” Eddie had suddenly bursted out, throwing himself on the floor in front of Steve at the opposite end of the couch, “I’m using your knees as collateral from Krueger.”
He chose the floor over sitting at your side. And it ached.
You were unaware of the spiel that Robin and Argyle gave him, the staunch warnings from Nancy, the (sort of) joking threats from Steve and Jonathan. Eddie Munson had been warned off from touching you, was obeying those warnings, and it just left you miserable.
You didn’t get it. You didn’t understand — his choices nor your feelings.
But that night, the burn of Argyle’s arm brushing your shoulder from where it laid along the back of the couch became overwhelming. Until you’d scooted yourself into that space you’d carved out for Eddie, and pouted, like a goddamn child.
Argyle assumed it was just a bad day for touch.
No one realized the yearning blooming within you. You’d never wanted to take a baseball bat to Steve Harrington’s shins more than when you watched Eddie Munson wrap his fingers around them and bury his cheek against them.
The second time, it stung even more.
Months passed and the yearning never faded. You told yourself, over and over, this will pass. This is temporary, and it will pass.
But it didn’t. The more time you spent with Eddie amongst your friend group, the more you craved the same casual touch from him that he extended to everyone else. He wouldn’t even brush past you in enclosed spaces — he treated you like a traumatized dog, bound to snap and bite him if he made the wrong move.
You fucking hated it. You hated that you hated it.
You’d gone years without needing touch, so you cursed that unexpected sting in your chest that night at the bowling alley. When Eddie rolled his first strike (and reported it was his first ever), he’d hugged everyone.
Everyone but you.
When it came to what should have been your turn for a bear hug, your mind was buzzing with adrenaline. This was it. You pictured him wrapping his tattooed arms around your chest, lifting you at least a little bit, swinging you a little due to the force of his affection. You were convinced his high off of the strike was going to make him forget his mission to never touch you. Maybe he’d be embarrassed after. Maybe you could finally offer a small smile that said it’s okay, I’m okay with it.
He only stopped dead in his tracks, arms freezing for a second before they dropped, his lips pressing tightly together before he let them spread back into a smile, and only lifted his brows at you excitedly.
That’s it. That’s all.
Fuck.
“That was pretty metal, Eddie,” you tried to egg him on, bouncing on the soles of your shoes a little, practically begging him with your eyes to just hug you.
He’d been bashful, grinning and hiding his face behind a random curl, nodding, “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it was.”
If you’d known of the talks behind your back then that had ruined that moment, you would have wrecked absolute havoc on your friends. The need, the yearning, the want became impossible to handle. You used his strike as an excuse for him to cover your turn, saying he was on a roll right after exclaiming that if you didn’t go to the bathroom right that second, you’d piss yourself.
When you were alone in the stall, you’d silently screamed and tugged at the roots of your hair.
You wanted him to touch you. You wanted him to catch you off guard in larger than life hugs. You wanted to feel every emotion that thrummed beneath his skin and you wanted to breathe in his cologne, to finally know how sturdy his chest felt beneath his shirt and if his rings really were as cold as Nancy always complained.
You’d finally returned to the group, not able to have a full breakdown in the bathroom without worrying your friends with your absence. Subtly, you’d tried to tuck yourself into Robin’s side when you returned, sitting down a bit closer than you normally would have, just to fill the void. It was almost as if you were encouraging her to reach an arm around you, to let you curl up and press a cheek to her collarbone. Try to alleviate the need for human touch clawing its way through you.
“You okay, babe?” she questioned suspiciously when she felt you squished entirely up against her. There was plenty of space on the bench, there was no reason for your proximity.
No, you wanted to scream, I’m not okay. There is an itch beneath my skin right now that can only be scratched by the affectionate touches of the metalhead sitting across from us who’s joking with our friends, completely unaffected and unaware. He won’t even look me in the eye. And so now I’m trying to get you to just touch me, to just put a goddamn arm around me, to do anything to fill the gaping hole inside of me. But you can’t.
It was an unfair situation to every single party and bystander involved.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” you lied.
You can’t, because the only person who can fill this gaping void inside of me is Eddie.
You were the farthest from fine. You were in flames. And no one would understand it, least of all you, because this wasn’t like you.
You didn’t crave touch. You didn’t need it to survive. So, what the hell was this that you were feeling?
The craving for Eddie’s touch evolved into something more, and that’s when you knew that you were surely in trouble.
Audible denial only worked for so long. Festering, longing, and yearning could only be withheld for so long until suddenly, with your mind on fire and your bones aching to the core, you realized that it was more than wanting Eddie to reach out for you. The want became a two way street. More often than not, you find your hands to be fists at your side, shaking with the effort to not bridge the gap.
After a year of friendship, he had had no choice but to occasionally brush past you. Touches that must have been fleeting to him, but lingered for you. They’d settle into your skin, tender like a fresh bruise, ghosting over you at night when you couldn’t sleep. It was more than just touch, at this point. You wanted everything from Eddie. The denial of his touch had led to you missing out on more than just hugs and movie night cuddles — Eddie didn’t joke with you as much as he did the others, didn’t always turn to you in crowded rooms for comfort, wouldn’t call you up if he was up late and bored like he would Nancy, Steve, Robin, Argyle, fucking everyone in Hawkins except you. The distance was unbearable.
Because you did. You did look for him at every quaint hang out. You did seek him out in every room you entered and you did resist the urge to call him when sleep evaded you. You could imagine his voice over the line, a lullaby over the receiver as he’d ramble about his day. It was like a poison, infecting those roots you’d long since made friends with rather than try to dig up.
You were fucked. Plain and simple. You had a big, fat crush on Eddie, and for once in your life, you’d learned of the panging hunger to be touched.
“Does Eddie have a girlfriend?” you asked as you sat with Robin at a diner, having completely zoned out with the conversation between her and Steve, lost in your daydreams, “Or boyfriend? Just- Is he single?”
Both of your friends went dead silent, staring at you in awe.
Robin cleared her throat, but remained choked up until Steve spoke, “Uh, yeah. He’s single. Why?”
The way your eyes darted down to the table of the booth you three occupy gave it away.
Robin suddenly squealed, “Oh my gosh! You have a crush on him!”
“Do not!”
“Oh, you so do!” she grinned wildly, leaning in close, “Tell us everything — now.”
“Eddie?” Steve’s nose scrunched up, “Really?”
“I don’t have a crush on him!” you uselessly defended yourself, “I just- Look, no, I know that look. You can’t tell him or meddle, Robin.”
“How would I tell him or meddle if you don’t have a crush on him?”
Steve was still confused, and Robin’s eyes glittered with mischief. You would have been better off keeping your mouth shut.
You noticed the way Steve had gone silent, pointedly sipping on his coke rather than looking you in the eyes. As if he had something to say.
“What is it?” you asked him, furrowing your brows, already defensive. A stark contrast to the light-heartedness you usually treat your friends with, “You’ve got something to say. Say it.”
“I just…” Steve sighed, looking off into the distance, “I don’t know. It’s a weird pairing, y’know?”
Your stomach threatened to sink. “What does that mean?”
“You two are just… different,” he continued on, and your stomach really did sink. Right along with your heart, “I mean, he’s really big on physical touch — it’s definitely his love language. And you…”
You don’t like being touched. You actually hate it. Avoid it ardently.
The unspoken ending to that sentence could have shattered your bones that day. You knew. You knew.
You stayed silent, unsure of what else to say. You couldn’t find the words to explain the yearning that invaded your chest all those moons ago, you couldn’t physically bring their hands to your chest and force them to feel the hunger that had begun to eat you alive. You couldn’t scream at your friends, I can change! I can change! I can change!
“I think they’d make a cute couple,” Robin finally broke the tense silence. Steve looked a bit regretful, but you both knew he was right, “Besides, touching is overrated.”
To emphasize her point, she scooted away from Steve until she sat on the very edge of the vinyl seat they shared, a narrow air of separation between them.
You smiled and laughed, and so did Steve, but the fact of the matter still remained.
Your roots have been there since the beginning of time. And maybe, they ran so deeply that you were a fool for thinking you could ever excavate them.
“I need your help.”
Robin looks up at you shocked. You’d never looked quite so determined, so one-track minded as you did in this moment, right in Steve Harrington’s kitchen.
“You need my help?” she nearly yells, fumbling with the empty bowl she was about to fill with chips, “Are you sure you need my-“
“Positive,” you cut her off, “I need your help because you didn’t laugh in my face when I said I liked Eddie.”
Her shock fades, an awful trace of pity in her eyes as she looks at you, “Oh, hon — Steve wasn’t laughing at you. He’s just a dingus, y’know? Doesn’t always think before he speaks, but he has the best of intentions-“
You wave a hand, physically dispersing her words into the air. That conversation at the diner last week didn’t phase you anymore. In fact, it fuels you the more you think about it.
“I know, I know,” you reassure her, walking closer so you can lower your voice, “But he was right. And I’ve been thinking a lot about it.”
“That sounds dangerous. Whatcha’ been thinkin’ about?”
This is it. Now or never. Once you say it outloud, even to just Robin, it was cemented in fact.
“It’s not that I don’t like being touched,” you blurt out, heart racing at the admission, “I just… I don’t know. I’m not used to it. It wasn’t something normal growing up. And… okay, no, this is not meant to be a depressing deep dive into my childhood,” you pause and scowl at the way her face contorts with even more pity, “I’m fine. There’s nothing to be done to change what’s already passed. My point is, I don’t want to stay this way. I don’t want people treating me delicately. I’m tired of you guys not feeling like you can just- fuck, I don’t know, hug me. Like you can throw an arm around me while we joke around like you do Jonathan. Like you can’t take the seat beside me at the booth instead of Steve. Like you can’t be clingy and beg me to play with your hair like you do Argyle when everyone’s smoking.”
Throughout your speech, the pity transforms. With each word, you only grow more passionate, because it dawns on you just how much you miss out on. Your friends love you, you love them — that’s not up for debate. But sometimes, you see those small touches between them, and you feel like an outsider looking in.
“I know I freeze up and I know I get awkward,” your voice finally chokes up, and you have to squeeze your eyes shut to silently curse yourself for finally letting all these larger than life emotions wrap around you, “I know you guys think I’m better off if you leave it be. But I’m not. I’ll never get over it if you guys don’t push me. I’ll never get used to it if no one ever touches me.”
“We know!” Robin starts enthusiastically, reassuredly, “We know that! And me and Gyle really do try, but we just don’t want to make you uncomfortable-“
“Do it,” you stop her in her tracks, eyes not wavering from hers, “Make me uncomfortable. Put your head on my shoulder, even if it makes my breathing stop for a couple seconds. Grab my hand when we cross a street, even if my palm’s clammy. I can’t grow without a little discomfort, Robs.”
There’s a standstill in the air. A realization settles deep in your bones — growth. That’s what you were craving. Eddie had opened up something entirely new for you, cracked open an age old wound in your chest you’d been unaware of. It left behind a hole, and you’d been so preoccupied with yearning to fill it, you hadn’t seen that the solution was the most obvious one: you had to outgrow the hole. Not fill it with others, but with yourself. You couldn’t live forever as nothing more than roots, buried deep beneath soil and always hiding in their solitude. Eventually, you had to bloom.
“Okay,” Robin nods slowly, taking in your words and the deep breaths that are following. It’s obvious how much this means to you, how much it’s been bothering you, “You’re right. But… you’ve just gotta promise us, if we get overbearing, that you tell us-“
“Not just you and Argyle,” your mouth goes dry. Because this is where the road was leading the entire time, this was the end destination in mind for the entire drive of this conversation, “I want… everyone to do it. I know Nance, Jon, and Steve aren’t as big on the whole touchy thing as you and him but…” your voice finally breaks, and you can’t look her in the eyes now as you whisper, “Eddie is.”
There’s a light behind Robin’s eyes that you’ve never seen before, but you can’t even bear witness to it, eyes zeroed in on the shiny packaging of the chips on the counter, “So this really is about Eddie?”
You could keep denying it. Pretend like the boy hadn’t watered the first sprout that caused this entire revelation, like he hadn’t been the first to shine a light on all the things you’d ignored for years. But he was. He had built a fire inside of you without even realizing it, just by tending his own embers.
You take a deep breath, “It’s like it burns him to touch me. Even just shuffling past me. I don’t think he’s ever sat beside me when we all hang out. I don’t… I don’t even know what he really smells like, Rob. Besides the weed and cigarettes when he smokes with you guys. How fucked is that? I’ve known him for a year and I couldn’t even tell you what kind of cologne he wears. Isn’t that… that’s weird, right?”
“You know the things that matter, though, don’t you?”
It hadn’t occurred to you, that perspective on the matter. “I… guess?”
“Tell me about him. Tell me about Eddie.”
The others will be worrying about how long you two are taking in here soon. Eddie will probably be arriving with Argyle soon. But Robin waits patiently until your eyes finally find hers again, and she lifts her brows, encouraging you to tell her about your mutual friend as if she’s never met him.
And so you do.
Once you start rattling off the minute things you noticed, they pour out of you, watering away at that once withered crush. You tell her about his favorite music, an easy thing to know about Eddie when he’s so loud and passionate about it. You tell her the first song he ever learned on guitar, Little Things by Willie Nelson. It had been encouraged by how much his Uncle Wayne enjoyed the singer. And he’d learned it on a worn acoustic guitar from his uncle. He’d never even performed it in front of the man, always either too choked up or too embarrassed for an audience. You tell her how his favorite subject in school was history, because it always gave him ideas for his DnD campaigns. His favorite color is red, deep and pulsing and eye-catching. The same shade of his electric guitar, lovingly nicknamed Sweetheart, but actually named Elvira. He’s a picky eater, probably the pickiest of your group, and yet also will eat just about anything the moment you propose it as a dare. He knows what he should do to take care of his curls, he just doesn’t, probably due to preferring to take his showers at night. He’s complained of falling asleep with wet hair more times than you can count. He had a lisp as a little kid. He buys a new mug for Wayne every Christmas, and the man acts surprised every year, as if he never saw it coming. He likes sour candy best. He hates movies where the dog dies. He loves musicals, and he would sooner die than admit that to the rest of the group.
All devilish details that Eddie had revealed to you at some point or another, over drinks and over quick cigarettes. Over random bursts of trust and rare moments alone.
By the time you’re done with your rant, Robin is just smiling.
“God, you really like him,” she murmurs, looking across your forlorn face, as if each piece of him that you’d handed over willingly had actually been forcibly torn from you. As if it hurt to share him.
You take another deep breath, and you can breathe a little bit easier, but you still feel the wisps of your roots still dug stubbornly into surrounding ground, “Yeah. I really like him.”
A plan is devised. It turns out Robin was the perfect person to approach about this, because she has no shame — she’s willing to seem like a ‘bad friend’ for the sake of helping you reach your goal.
The first step is to guarantee that no matter what, Eddie sits next to you during the movie.
The best way to accomplish this is to not make it a seat only beside you as you had that first time he’d rejected you, but between you and another person. Because then, if Eddie was still adamant on not indulging you, he’d have someone else to cling to. For now.
The second step would be for you to leave for the bathroom right before you all started the movie. Leave the room, leave all your friends to be gathered without you so that Robin could make an executive call with them all. She would bring up the fact that they all should try to push you a bit more with the entire notion of physical touch, that it’d be good for you, that you’d brought it up casually rather than as dramatically as you really had.
During her explaining of this part of the plan, you discovered the conversations already had behind closed doors about this topic and you.
You couldn’t even blame your friends. You were irritated, but it would pass. They couldn’t change it now, but Robin could help undo what those seemingly beneficial conversations had done. The distance it had created between you and Eddie.
“Who should be on the other side of Eddie?” you ask once you two have your plan and full bowls of snacks.
“Me,” Robin declares, “I have a plan there, too. We’ll sit side by side at first, take up enough space on the couch so that Eddie thinks he doesn’t have a seat. Just trust me and play along when the time comes, yeah?”
You nod.
There’s a knock at the door, perfect timing as you and Robin sat down the bowls of snacks on the table, ignoring Steve’s expected complaint of how long you two took. He runs off, going to let Eddie and Argyle in, as Robin takes her seat on the couch.
Nancy and Jonathan are curled up on the loveseat. Steve had been sitting at the end of the couch that normally could easily seat four. Argyle’s favorite recliner was wide open, and you both knew he’d be jumping into it once he came to the basement. Everything was set perfectly.
Robin manspreads, an entertaining sight but one that forces you to try and do the same, lounging across the remaining space of the couch as casually as possible to make it seem as though another person could absolutely not fit.
You pray to God her plan works.
“Hello, brochachos!” Argyle yells as a greeting when he bounds down the stairs, immediately tossing a box of snow caps in Nancy and Jonathan’s directions before doing exactly as you and Robin had predicted, “Oh, fuck yeah! You guys saved my favorite chair for me!”
He specifically winks your way, as if you had been the one to do so. And you had, technically, but you appreciated that small effort to greet you specifically.
You smile at him, shaking your head lightly as he throws himself down roughly. You can only imagine how on board he’ll be with Robin’s suggestion.
Argyle’s energy had you wondering if the boys had even smoked as they usually did before arriving, his eyes hardly pink rimmed and his smile not quite as dopey as usual. It became clear that they had smoked, but one of them had likely babysat their shared joints, when Eddie descends into the doorway behind Steve.
He’s all half-lidded eyes, lazy grin, comfort wrapped up in a worn band shirt and sweats.
Yes, you wanted to break this stubborn boundary of yours with all your friends, but as you earned your first glance from Eddie, you knew that he would be the greatest reward. You don’t even care if the crush aspect of the entire ordeal never comes to fruition; you’d just like to imagine burying your face into his warm chest like you are now, and not feel weird about it. Not worry if he’ll push you away or be uncomfortable, or taken off guard, by it.
“Hey, losers,” he greets in a rough voice, no doubt gravelly from how much he might have smoked.
You share a quick look with Robin, worried. High Eddie was always extra affectionate, but wouldn’t it be wrong to use that against him? Maybe you two should try another night, postpone the plan for another movie nigh-
You hadn’t even noticed that Steve had taken his original seat back and Eddie was glancing around the seating arrangement, seemingly lost, until Robin was suddenly shoving at you, “Babe, I love you, but scooch. C’mere, Eds. I’m in a cuddly mood.”
And oh, that hurt. Which is why you suppose she didn’t tell you what exactly this part of the plan was. That hurt needed to break through your face, even if only for a moment, so that when you left the room, it made sense to discuss.
Argyle catches that micro-expression the moment it graces your features. Even furrows his brows in response. Eddie even opens his mouth to argue, but you move too quickly for anyone else to comment.
You fumble with pulling up your body, scooting over as she requested until there was an Eddie-sized space left between the two of you. When Robin opens her arms wide, Eddie has no room to argue.
“Well, if you insist, Buckley,” he teases, stepping carefully, hesitating for a second as he glances back down at you. Even through pink tinged eyes, you catch a flash of concern. “I’m always down for some cuddles with my favorite girl.”
And that also stings, reverberates like a slap to the face that had landed just a little too harshly.
Robin scoffs, muttering a stern correction of, “Platonic cuddles, dipshit,” just as Nancy also laughs from where she’s tangled with Jonathan.
“Didn’t you say I was your favorite when I bought you a coke last week?”
He probably did. He constantly made those jokes with Robin and Nancy. He never made those jokes with you.
Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t about respecting boundaries for Eddie. Maybe he just didn’t like you-
“You both wound me,” he sighs out as his body lands directly in that space you and Robin had organized, clearly favoring being close to Robin so that his thigh wouldn’t rub against yours, “I’ve officially changed my mind.”
It almost happens in slow motion. Slowly, carefully, he lazily turns his head towards you, lips half lilted as his eyes sparkle in your direction, tongue darting out between his teeth before he drawls, “You’re my favorite, now.”
For the first time in a year, you’re very clearly smelling his cologne, and the look in his eyes is setting you ablaze. The softness you are so used to bargaining out is being returned, an expression so delicate being aimed at you that you don’t know what to do with it. Senses overwhelmed with something woodsy, something musky, and something yearning.
“How charming,” Nancy muses, leveling you with a soft and amused look. Not nearly as gooey as the look Eddie had given you, but still adoring, “Don’t listen to him. Clearly, he says that to everyone.”
“Yeah, but I mean it this time,” he argues.
“Sure, you do,” Steve laughs from his end of the couch, “She’s not gonna go grab you a soda just because you’re kissing ass.”
“Hey, you know what?” Argyle sits up in his chair, leaning towards you and pointing his finger in your direction, “You really are my favorite, and I’m a man of my word.”
“I’m not getting you a soda, either, Gyle,” you flatly joke, narrowing your eyes.
He pours briefly, but shrugs, “Fair enough. I meant it, but fair enough.”
On a limb, you stretch out a hand, and deliver a gentle smack at his hand still hanging limply in the air between you two. Robin is watching on proudly as Argyle looks taken back.
“Shut up,” you giggle, shimmying in your seat to get more comfortable.
Eddie looks wildly around the room, completely stunned, wearing a look of betrayal, “What, you guys don’t believe me? She really is my favorite!”
Lord only knows you were melting into the cushion of that couch. You weren’t used to this amount of attention, certainly not from Eddie, and certainly not so clearly in front of your friends.
If you could hardly handle his words of affection, how would you handle his touches of affection?
“I believe you,” you finally say. Something in your mind screams at you, tells you now is your chance. All you’d have to do is shift your knee, and you could bump it to his in a joking manner. The perfect excuse. The perfect guise. You stare at your two knees for an eternity, though, and before you know it, the moment has passed.
The ache echoes out across the hollow of every bone inside your body as he smiles, satisfied with your response before everyone moves forward with conversation.
You hate yourself. You should have bumped your knee to his.
You don’t hear a single word exchanged amongst your friends. All you can hear is the roar in your ears that scorns you for another missed opportunity.
Now is as good as ever to enact the second phase of the plan.
“I’m gonna head to the bathroom before we start the movie,” you announce, standing a bit suddenly but trying to keep your voice even so it doesn’t seem to Eddie that his words had made you uncomfortable. They didn’t. They’d only fed that hunger, making you suddenly need more. It was your own stupid indecisiveness, what you didn’t do, that was upsetting you.
Robin looks up knowingly, “Sounds good. Don’t miss me too much, babe.”
Babe. Another thing your friends sometimes didn’t include you in — all the pet names, all the terms of endearment. It makes you smile.
If anyone thought you might be rushing out due to the entire conversation that had just taken place, that smile would erase all their fears.
“I always miss you, baby,” you cockily reply, making a joking kissy face in her direction to seal the flirtatious manner of the interaction.
Steve looks pleasantly surprised, Argyle is clearly mentally cheering you on, and Nancy looks plainly proud.
But Eddie is looking up at you, doe eyes almost… sad.
You try not to think of it too hard.
You try to take your time once you reach the top of the stairs, rushing up but slowing as you walk to the bathroom.
You didn’t really need it, obviously, and you highly doubt anyone will be listening in on your footsteps above once Robin proposes the entire debate of it treating you so fragile anymore. In the middle of the hallway, your mind is made up. Instead of continuing on to that bathroom, instead of hiding away and feeding into the panic attack currently brewing despite your full faith in Robin, you retract to the kitchen.
This is what you wanted. You want more than to just offer soft words and soft motivation, you want more than to be seen as the friend with a heart of gold, as the pedestal Argyle constantly puts you up on so eloquently. You want to be felt as it, too.
To give Nancy well-deserved hugs when another one of her publications receive recognition, to give Steve’s hand a firm squeeze when he’s confiding in you about his home situation and the loneliness that follows. You want Robin to hide her face in your shoulder for safety during jumpscares and you want to occupy that recliner with Argyle when you both decide to succumb to snacking while your friends endlessly debate where you should all have dinner, making whispers of commentary jokes before Jonathan would decide to sit on the arm and join you two in the audience as he gave up the battle for Nancy’s sake.
You want Eddie to touch you. You don’t even care how at this point. You want brushing shoulders and knocking knees, you want knuckles bumping into each other on the street and you want him to cling to you when it gets late and he’s tired, but not too tired to keep himself surrounded with his favorite people. You want to truly be his favorite. Favorite person, favorite hug, favorite conversation.
God, you want it so bad that your seams nearly burst. Your composure nearly breaks.
What if he doesn’t want that?
The moment your footsteps on the stairs have vanished, Robin springs into action.
“Okay, group meeting,” she says, clapping to garner everyone’s attention. Eddie jumps slightly at her side, Steve offers her a side-eye, and Nancy shifts her entire body in Jonathan’s arms to look at her fully, “We need to talk about her.”
She doesn’t even have to say your name.
Unfortunately, Argyle takes it the wrong way, nearly leaping out of his chair, “Her? Nah, dude, we need to talk about you. Why would you shove her around like that? I bet if you had just asked politely, she would have cuddled yo-“
“Oh, I know she would have.”
Everyone’s attention is now sharper on Robin.
“Yeah? Then why did you just toss her to the side for Ed-“ Argyle starts up again, and once more, Robin is quick to interject.
“Because she needs the push,” a slight lie, but small enough in the grand scheme of things, “We’ve gotta stop treating her like she’ll shatter if we touch her.”
Nancy finally moves to full sit up, face full of concern, “Robin, I get what you’re saying, but she’s never been the touchy type. And that’s okay. We’ve never minded.”
“What if she minds?” Robin persists. She hasn’t failed to notice Eddie’s silence, and turns to him, focusing her attack and determination, “Have you ever even sat beside her before tonight?”
Eddie’s eyes widen, “You guys told me to take it easy at first! And I did, but I- it would just be weird now to change, wouldn’t it?”
It’s in the way he says it. Not just as if he’s keeping your best interests in mind, but as if it pains him to say it. As if the worst possible thing would be to admit that things should stay the same.
It’s Robin’s in. A falter in his cool guy exterior he only seems to care about maintaining for you.
“She wants it to change,” Robin quietly confesses. Another half-truth, “Me and Argyle never fully got through to it, but we also… we just gave up on it. Like he was saying, if I pushed tonight, she would have said yes. But Eddie has never pushed her.”
“Where are you going with this, Robs?” the one person who could blow this speaks up. Steve, the man who had been there at the diner and heard your practical confession to liking Eddie.
Don’t blow this, Dingus.
“I think we take the leash off of wolf boy, here,” she jabs a thumb in Eddie’s direction, “Lay him on her.”
“I don’t want to make her uncomf-“
“You won’t. And if you do,” Robin remembers your speech from earlier. Those wet eyes and the way your voice cracked at the prospect of growth, “It’ll be good for her.”
He’s not convinced.
So Robin pushes, because she made a promise to you to aid in this self-gardening journey, and damn it she was going to keep her promise, “I’ve seen the way she looks at you. You being the dog in this metaphor might be the wrong choice, considering how she looks like a kicked puppy every time you don’t sit next to her.”
A bit harsh, but the truth. You were always brimming with such hope when Eddie entered the room, only to wilt when he kept up the same exhausting routine of avoiding you.
“She does?” he’s clueless, a goddamn blinded fool, “I- Gyle, does she really?”
Eddie looks to his friend for backup, but Argyle only shrugs from his seat, “If you don’t give the poor dudette a hug tonight, I am. If Birdie here is being honest, and she wants it, then I’m first in line. She’s way gentler on my scalp than all of you.”
“You just want your hair braided by her again,” Jonathan pipes up finally.
“So?” Argyle defends, “That shit stayed. My little skittish friend does not come to play when it has to do with hair.”
They all fall silent, holding their breaths and listening for a moment if you’re heading back down to them.
The house is a ghost town from above.
“I’m just saying,” Robin finally whispers, keeping her tone low and gentle, almost defeated, “We can’t put her in a box. She told me she’d like the change, so I’m changing. She’s a big girl. She can handle it. Besides, she smells really good.”
Robin gives Eddie a pointed look at that, and sees the pink that rushes over the bridge of his nose and up his neck.
You had no idea. No fucking idea. But she did. She’d watched Eddie withhold himself, she’d caught the longing glances, and she’d listened to his endless rambles about you.
“Okay,” is his quiet reply just before your footsteps sound on the stairs.
When you appear in the doorway, you’re holding three cans of coke.
“I bring gifts for taking so long,” you offer, holding up one of the cans as you cradle the other two in the ditch of your arm, extending it to Argyle as you pass by him.
He takes it greedily, appreciation loud and unfiltered, “Thank you dudette! At least someone here loves me.”
You turn your eyes wide as moons, almost comical, fighting back a smile, “Oh? Were they being jerks while I was gone?”
“You have no clue.”
A warning glare comes from Robin.
Even if you were in on the plan, it was dangerous territory.
When you approach the couch, Robin sees the first sign of the plan working when Eddie doesn’t shift out of the comfortable position he’d sunk into. He isn’t jumping to leave an entire cavern for you. He’s leaving just enough space for you, enough that when you sit, you’re closer to him than you were before the bathroom.
Baby steps. Silently, she is screaming at him to keep it up, all while your brain bursts into flames.
He didn’t flinch away. He didn’t shift to be further from me.
Whatever Robin had said was working.
“Movie time?” you ask as you settle into that comfortable space, the unfamiliar yet indulgent warmth of Eddie’s body heat now wrapping around you.
Your roots stretch, apprehensive, but desperate for that sunlight.
It’s one of your group’s usual scary movies. You enjoyed horror, and could handle your own pretty well. If you ever got too scared, you’d usually cling to pillows or blankets that you were left with rather than another person as the rest of the group would. But there were no pillows, no blankets, no security cushions aside from the boy sitting between you and Robin.
When you hand him his coke, his fingers brush yours, and you don’t pull back immediately. Baby steps.
When the first tense moment appears on screen, Eddie mutters a soft “shit” and jumps a little, leaning more into your space rather than Robin’s, lifting some of his curls to curtain his eyes.
You glance at him rather than the screen, narrowing your eyes in the dark, “Does that really work?”
Eddie looks at you quickly at your whisper. Normally, everyone scolded him to be quiet during movies, never entertaining his small comments.
You weren’t the only one taking baby steps tonight.
Tentatively, he drops the curl blocking his vision, before grabbing a thicker one, boyish grin as he offers it to you shyly, “Wanna find out?”
“She’s here!” Argyle shouts as he opens the front door to you, hardly giving you warning before he’s leaping forward and gathering you into his arms, nearly crushing you into a hug.
Warmth. Tender. Softness.
Argyle’s hugs are always bone-crushing, and always welcome. And they always linger as he leaves his arm around your shoulder to guide you into the foyer and shut the door behind you two.
“She is?” another voice shouts as she comes barreling out into the entryway, greeting you with an excited squeal as she rushes forward to pull you out of Argyle’s arm.
Robin.
She’s dressed up for the night — an impressively well put together Robin outfit, complete with yellow spanx and a black mask across her eyes.
“Jesus, Robs,” you laugh as she tightens her arms around you, almost as if she was trying to crush any bones that survived Argyle, “I can’t breathe.”
“Don’t care,” she mumbles into your shoulder before pulling back, “Nice costume.”
A bat onesie. Cheesy, but comfortable, and warm enough to battle against Hawkin’s autumn chill. It’s even complete with a headband that has two small, perky ears attached to it, peeking out between tufts of your hair atop the crown of your head.
“Thanks. Wait till you see the killer fake teeth I packed.”
“Eds will be pissed if your fangs are better than his,” Argyle notes as he starts to walk into the living room. You follow, Robin close behind, to find the rest of your friends all waiting.
A scary movie is already on the TV, a classic slasher revealed by the high pitched scream that rings out into the room from it. There’s a few indoor decorations about — plastic jack-o-laterns and fake webs that will no doubt give Steve hell when he tries to take them back down — and you can see a punch bowl on the counter by where Nancy and Jonathan reside.
And the man of the hour is lounging on the couch, a high mountain of pile already in front of him on the table as he munches on a family pack of candy corn.
“Eddie, isn’t the candy supposed to be for trick or treaters?” you question teasingly as you make a beeline for him. His previous focus on the movie vanishes, full attention now on you.
He’s dressed like a vampire. If the cape didn’t give it away, that small blood line marked from his lower lip in a shade of lipstick you would guess he borrowed from Nancy does.
“I am a trick or treater, sweetheart,” he retorts, popping more candy into his mouth for emphasis, “Besides, Harrington has full-sized candy bars.”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He snaps his jaw closed jokingly, the clicking of his teeth making you huff out a laugh as you collapse next to him.
That woodsy cologne is there, one you’re so happily familiar with these days.
Unlike Argyle and Robin, he doesn’t greet you with an overwhelming hug, or palpable excitement. His way of greeting is more subtle. His arm slowly lifts, going to rest on the back of the couch behind you, but quickly falling to your shoulders when you waste no time scooting closer into the space he’s opened up in his side.
You fit kind of perfectly. Like a void always meant to be filled.
“So, Dracula,” you hum, warning your beating heart to slow from its racing when his palm cradles your shoulder farthest from him, “What are we watching?”
Baby steps were a thing of the past for most of the group. They had become great leaps of faith after that fateful movie night. The way Argyle and Robin had crushed you was normal now. Passing touches and flirtatious jokes were regular between you and your friends. They had seen your boundary for what it really was, a roadblock, and bit by bit, they had broken it down.
Eddie’s hesitation isn’t because he can no longer touch you. His hesitation whispered of something more, something different, something still delicate. Just as delicate as the fragile wings of the butterflies in his stomach that fluttered to life every time you entered a room.
They weren’t new. And you still didn’t know they existed — that they had always existed. From the first moment he’d met you.
“One of the Halloween movies,” he tells you, leaning down to keep the conversation more private.
You felt his breath on your ear. A new touch that happened more frequently now. One you sought after almost as vehemently as you had those first few points of contact.
“Oh?” you play along, staying hushed, “How fitting.”
“Very.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t make them put on a vampire movie. You know,” you cut off, and motion to his costume. You bump your knee to his as you do it, “Given your attire.”
“Zee night iz ztill young,” he puts on an obnoxious accent meant to mimic Dracula himself, pronouncing all his ‘s’s as ‘z’s.
You only smile, wide and generous and soft and tender, before you lift a hand to punch at the flared collar of his cape. You don’t even hesitate, not even when your knuckles brush the side of his neck.
“Pretty killer, right?” he jokes, trying to ignore the warmth flooding his cheeks.
“Very,” you hum in approval, hand dropping as you lean back into the heavy warmth of his arm around you. You almost reach the hand up to his bottom lip to trace that makeup there, slightly smeared and edges rugged already from his snacking, but you do withhold yourself at that line, “I like the makeup.”
“Yeah?” he lights up with pride, “You know, I did the eyeliner all by myself.”
You squint pointedly, leaning in just an inch closer to inspect the feathered charcoal on his waterline, “Really? Very impressive, Eds.”
“Stop flirting,” Steve demands as he leaves the kitchen, “You’re going to give him a bigger head than he needs.”
You both break apart slowly, letting space settle between you two and slowly fading back into the real world and out of that little bubble between you two. Eddie’s arm remains — his palm never leaves you, going so far as to give you a playful squeeze as his finger trails down your bicep.
A pathway of spring roses feels as though they bloom along that trail. Vibrant, full of life, open to possibility. When it came to you, Eddie had one Hell of a green thumb.
“Stop ruining the fun, big boy,” Eddie looks up at your friend, poking his tongue out as his nose scrunches. Adorable. Painfully so.
Steve is dressed as Batman. His mask is discarded somewhere on the counter beside the punch bowl.
“We have plenty of time for fun,” Steve waves off the comment, coming to stand in front of the TV with his hands on his hips, “Am I forgetting anything? I have candy for any kids that come knocking, we’ve got punch thanks to Nance, I ordered our pizza-“
“You better have ordered one with pineapple,” Eddie interrupts, tilting his head sideways in your direction, temple brushing against one of your fake ears, signaling how it was your favorite. You burrow yourself deeper into his touch.
Steve subtly ignores him, “-I have the big speakers set up if we wanna listen to any music in the backyard. Am I missing anything?”
Predictably, he wasn’t. Steve always thought of everything.
The last few months had been nice. Finally getting to enjoy Eddie’s touch had been more than you ever planned for, reveling in the way the boy was so gentle with you even as he finally gave in. Once he started, it was as if you both could finally breathe. A weight had lifted from Eddie’s shoulders just from the simple adjustment of now getting to sit beside you at every function, his bouncing knee always pressing into yours. It had become a silly tradition for him to offer to share that wild head of hair during scary movies, demanding if someone else tried to sit beside you during horror movies in particular that you needed him and his curls to protect you.
You had gone from yearning for touches, yearning for that contact, to your friends arguing over who would be indulged that night.
They had taken it slower than you thought you wanted (save for Robin), but in the end, it had all worked out. You didn’t freeze anymore. Your aversion to touch had slowly, slowly, withered away with each hug, with each clasp of their hands on you, with each casual cuddle session they pulled from you. You no longer felt like an anomaly. And it wasn’t that your friends had ever meant to make you feel like an outsider, but it felt like finally being let into a club you’d mourned being left out of for years.
The day that Eddie had grabbed your hand during a casual conversation amongst everyone while out for lunch, letting his thumb trail back and forth over your knuckles in a soothing motion, you’d nearly cried.
Something so delicate yet so telling. A quiet action of affection you’d spent so long telling yourself you couldn’t have. Back rubs during hugs, letting Argyle braid your hair in return, resting your head onto Robin’s shoulder instead of only vice versa. They were all things you’d denied yourself of for so long. You regret it, but you couldn’t change anything in the past, only the now.
And now, you had the boy who had first sprouted such affectionate want within you wrapped up against you, leaning into you for comfort as he started to ignore Steve again.
“Wanna go out back and smoke while he mother hens?”
He doesn’t have to ask you twice.
You both slip away out the back door unnoticed, a new banter sparking up between Robin and Steve being enough distraction to allow it. Eddie wastes no time digging into his jean pockets once he’s outside, throwing the cape out widely before he pulls out his pack of cigarettes.
“Want one?” he offers, flipping it open in your direction.
You just smile, shaking your head, “No, thanks. I don’t smoke.”
You’d never really said that before to anyone in your group, only politely declining up until now. A small detail, but Eddie looks pleased to learn it all the same.
“Huh,” he curiously hums, pulling his own cigarette from the carton before tucking it back away, “I never knew that.”
“I’ve never really told anyone,” you shrug.
“It is some big secret?”
“Nope.”
“Hmph.”
This hum is muffled by the tip of the filter in his mouth, his hands now busy patting down his body for his lighter.
“What?”
His lips struggle to stretch around the tip of the cigarette without dropping it, solely from how wide his smile is, “I like learning new things about you.”
For every thing you had once spewed at Robin that night, Eddie had learned of you tenfold.
It was far past learning how your fingers fit between his or the smell of your perfume. He’d wanted it all; to know the inside workings of your mind, to be privy to all of your beautiful thoughts. The softness set in stone inside of you bled far past what could be felt in your fingertips or the care that shook your hand when you’d brush back stray curls out of his eyes. It fed deeper into you, into parts of you that Eddie could spend hours exploring without once growing bored.
“You say that like I’m interesting,” you murmur half-heartedly, suddenly reaching out beneath his cape and tucking into his back pocket he could have sworn he already checked. His breath is the one that catches at your arm brushing against his waist from the reach, his body is the one that freezes up entirely just from proximity. A change of roles that you had never seen coming, but he’d always figured existed. You never understood the effect you had on him, and that was in part his fault.
You produce his lighter like magic.
“You are interesting,” he insists as he plucks the lighter from you, flicking it three times to get a steady flame to burn the tip of his cigarette to life, “Don’t sell yourself so short, batty.”
“Batty?” you snort, not moving away from him, even as he blows a thin and ghostly stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.
He can only shrug, wrinkling his nose, “Yeah, I didn’t like it either. Had to give it a chance, though.”
In the quiet solitude of Eddie nursing his cigarette and you watching the trees rustle with the last remnants of daylight, something sharper invades the soft space you two seem to brew whenever together. Between your innards that are gentle by nature, and Eddie’s silken attitude not only in actions but attitude towards you, the spaces occasionally left between you two were always something dulcet. Calm. Welcoming. You’d come to discover that maybe, that’s why you’d always yearned to burrow yourself so deeply into those spaces. It was a feeling of comfort and a feeling of home that you had always seemed out, but never found that fit quite as right as these moments.
“Hey Eddie?” you ask aloud as he finishes off the cigarette, stomping it out on the ground with his boot.
“What’s up?” he answers, making no move to go back inside.
You always liked these moments alone best. From the very beginning. Even before he felt comfortable enough to step closer to you, shoulder to shoulder with you now. He’s trying to squint and see what you’re finding so interesting in the array of colorful leaves in the distance, slowly being covered in blue shadows rather than golden light, without asking.
You liked that. You liked it a lot; the way he always seemed to seek out your perspective on things. “Can I ask you something?”
“You just did-“
“Fuck off,” your hand flies up, and smacks his shoulder. You never would have done that before. But you do now, relishing that contact even in the briefest of moments. The freedom to reach out and touch.
Once he stops laughing, clearly amused with himself, he turns to face you. Whatever he had been searching for in the trees is long gone, and your focus has moved onto him now, so it’s futile.
“Ask away, sweetheart.”
A deep breath for bravery, and you’re blurting out, “Did you really only avoid touching me when we met because... the others… they told you not to?”
He wasn’t expecting that question. The crease between his brows makes that clear. You almost take your thumb to it, try to smooth out the worry. But you’re not quite there yet. Maybe one day you would be.
It’s not as loaded of a question as he thinks it is. It’s cute to watch him assume it is, though.
“I mean,” he starts his words slowly, carefully, “I guess.”
“You guess?”
“I guess,” he repeats.
Your smile is sending him into a tornado of emotion. He almost curls his hands into fist, just as you used to do.
When you broke down your boundary, it had split a crack through his dam. He knows he can reach out and touch you. He knows you’ll accept his physicality without complaint now. It doesn’t make it any less scary.
For the same reason you don’t press your thumb into his eyebrow crease — having a crush just makes you hesitate like that.
“I’m obviously a touchy guy,” he throws his arms out, aimlessly, and when they return his side, they almost nick yours. You wish they would brush yours, “But… between you and me, I always get nervous around pretty girls.”
The world slows. It doesn’t stop, it can’t stop for two youths who are trying to explore new and giddy feelings — but my God, can it slow to an absolute crawl, if only for the two of you.
“You think I’m pretty?” you tease, swallowing down just how much those words mean. You always have to remind yourself it’s worth it; being just friends is worth it now that you’ve learned the exact brand of cologne he wears and recognize the weight of his arm around you.
“The absolute prettiest,” he breathes out, “I always have. Even if they hadn’t told me to hold back, I would have- Hell, I still do,” the Autumn air makes him honest, makes him brave, “I am- I would be- I just- It’s terrifying, the thought of fucking it up because you turn my brain to… mush.”
Your eyes lift up to his forehead blanketed in his bangs, squinty and entertained, “You’re telling me it’s all just soup in there right now?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you.”
Your friends are inside. There is candy to eat until your stomachs ache, and hugs to partake in until your bones have been crushed and pieced back together by threads of platonic affection.
Right now is anything but platonic. And it is time for something else to break, not your bones and not your boundaries. Something more.
“I’m pretty sure your hand on my shoulder when we first met would have ended my entire world,” he confesses, starting the first crack.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. If you had hugged me every time you saw me, I don’t know if I would have ever found the nerve to leave my house.”
Another crack.
“And if I sat next to you every time we went out for dinner?”
“Wouldn’t have been able to eat a bite, I’m afraid.”
A spiderweb of cracks, all widening.
“And if I had laid my head on your shoulder during movie nights?”
“What the Hell is a movie?” he jokes, chuckling a bit nervously now, “Who knows? Certainly not me, certainly not when my favorite girl is curled up next to me.”
One more crack, and the entire thing will finally shatter. You’re begging it to shatter.
You bite your tongue on any remark about still being his favorite, because since that goddamn night, he’d never said Robin or Nancy were his favorites again. Never. He’d meant it. You were his favorite.
“And if I just…” you pause as you step forward, leaning in slowly, and it takes everything in Eddie not to turn and run as your lips brush over his cheek as you whisper, “Kissed your cheek? Right here, right now?”
He doesn’t respond, your lips press together and then press down.
It shatters with a resounding snap that must be heard across Hawkins. Across Indiana.
One moment, your lips are on his cheek, and the next, they’re on his lips. He turns his head quickly before any doubt or nerves or roots can interrupt the moment.
Endless. Endearing. Warmth. Tenderness. Soft.
His lips are soft. So goddamn soft.
His hands are foreign things for a second, as if he’s in shock that he’d actually done it and kissed you. But they come back to life when your own lift to his neck, wrapping behind his neck and beneath the collar of that cape, pulling him in even closer to you.
He kisses you. And kisses you, and kisses you, and kisses you. Till you’re both dizzy and it doesn’t matter that the earth won’t stop spinning long enough for you two to live in this moment.
It should be unfamiliar, especially to you, but it isn’t. It’s as if the two of you have done this dance before. In another life, in another world, on another Earth far away from here. Your lips know his in this lifetime, and they will know his in the next — this first meeting only allows for a sigh of relief in the Universe, and in you.
He paused the kisses briefly, palms cradling your face with care and intention, “Do you know,” he places his lips onto yours one more time, as if fearful that spending too much time apart will let you vanish, “how often,” another kiss, deeper this time, “I’ve wanted to do this?”
A final peck. A period to the end of a sentence that the two of you had taken your time writing.
“No,” you laugh earnestly, fingers digging into the soft skin at his nape, reveling in the slip of his curls between your knuckles, “Maybe you should tell me about it.”
“Tell you about all the times?” he’s leaning back in, lips brushing against yours. Just a touch, but it shakes you to your core, “All the times I wanted to touch you, hold you, kiss you?”
You capture his lips in yours, unable to resist anymore. You’ve spent months resisting — his lips and kisses, his touches and brushes, his warmth and sunshine. You’re done resisting.
“Every,” you pull back and catch the glint in his eyes. He’s done, too, the rubble of the shatter, “Single,” you peck one cheek, “Last,” you peck the other, now rosey, “One.”
You finally kiss his lips again. Your fingers tug harshly on his curls, and his mouth falls open at the unexpected sensation. Instead of taking this any further and starting something you’d never want to end, you do the adult thing — you nip at his bottom lip, a bite of adoration that leaves him with a sting to remember.
“Fuck,” he sighs out, chasing after you, but your hands press into his chest to keep him into place, “I- Sorry, was that too much?”
“Too much?” you laugh breathlessly, shaking your head immediately. Once upon a time, it might have been too much. But now, it wasn’t enough. “No such thing, not with you.”
“Careful,” his hands came up to cover your fists balled into the front of his shirt, moving so that his cape brushes against your sides now, “I’m known to be quite a handful, sweetheart.”
You snort and grip his shirt even harder. “God, I sure hope so. You’ve been holding out on me, dracula.”
“Oh, have I?”
His smirk and your smirk are perfect mirror images of each other.
if the dad’s best friend trope where he knew reader since they were born and immediately have feelings and attraction the minute reader turns 18 has no haters that means i'm dead
Summary: You pick up Eddie when he's too drunk to drive, and he tells you that he likes you.
Word Count: 0.9k
Warnings: fluff (obviously), drunk!eddie, food mention, established friendship, drunken confessions
The phone startled you awake. You glared at your bedside table where the phone continued to ring, cursing whoever was on the other end. As you wiped the sleep from your eyes, you looked at the clock and released a groan when it read 2:27.
“Who the hell is calling me this late?” you mumbled to yourself as you grabbed the phone off the receiver, “Hello?”
“I have a huge favor to ask,” you heard Steve’s voice on the other end.
“Steve? What the hell do you want at two in the morning?”
“Yeah, I know it’s late, but I need you to come pick-up Eddie.”
“Why?”
“He’s drunk and can’t drive home.”
“And you can’t take him home because…” you trailed off.
“I’ve been drinking too, and before you ask, he can’t stay here because the last time he was this wasted, he walked into the pool and almost drowned, and none of us are really in a state to be babysitting him.”
You pouted, “You don’t sound too wasted.”
“Please? You’re the best at handling him when he’s drunk.” Steve practically begged.
You rolled your eyes and tossed your blankets off of you, “You owe me big time for this, Harrington.”
“Thank you!”
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Okay, bye.”
The line went dead, and you released another groan before pushing yourself off of your bed and making your way to your shoes and your keys and walking out the door.
~
Getting Eddie into your car had been a bit of a challenge. He was a runner when he was drunk, so you ended up having to chase him around for about five minutes, but the prospect of SpaghettiOs and a Yoo-hoo got him to dive right into your car.
By the time you got back to your place, Eddie had started to get sleepy, which was good in the sense that you wouldn’t have to watch him like a hawk, so he wouldn’t hurt himself, but made getting him out of your car and into your apartment quite difficult, but you somehow managed to do it.
“I love your apartment. It’s so warm and cozy.” Eddie slurred out.
“Thanks, Eddie.” You helped him over to the couch and made him sit down.
“I love your couch too, it’s so comfy.”
You chuckled in amusement, as much of a handful he could be when he was drunk, he was also very complimentary. You walked into the kitchen and grabbed the snacks from the fridge, “Here you go, SpaghettiOs and Yoo-hoo, just as I promised.”
Eddie beamed, “You remembered!”
“Yup, now eat up so we can go to bed.”
Eddie looked at you with a raise brow, “We? Are you planning on taking me to bed with you?”
You shook your head in amusement, “You know what I meant, Eddie.”
“I don’t know,” he shoveled a spoonful of SpaghettiOs into his mouth, “sounds like someone likes me.”
“You are sleeping on the couch, mister.”
The offended pout on Eddie’s face made you laugh, “But I don’t want to sleep on the couch.”
“Didn’t you just say you loved the couch because it’s so comfy?” You sat down next to him.
Eddie dramatically, though how in control of his dramatics he was you weren’t sure, threw himself onto your lap, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his head in your stomach, his snacks now forgotten, “It won’t be comfy if you’re not here. You make everything comfy, so, so, comfy and warm.”
Your brows pinched together, trying to decipher his drunken ramblings, “Eddie, what are you talking about?”
“You make everything better,” he looked up at you from your lap, “like the second you walk into a room, it’s gets prettier, because you’re so beautiful.”
Heat bloomed in your cheeks, “Eddie…”
“Hey, how come you weren’t at Harrington’s party? I missed you. I told Steve that I missed you. I told everyone I missed you,” he buried his face in your stomach again, “it’s no fun when you’re not around.”
You couldn’t believe what you were hearing. Eddie had been drunk plenty of times in your presence, but you had never seen him like this. It made your heart skip a beat hearing him talk about you like this, “I’m sorry, Eddie. I had to work late and then a term paper to work on.”
“It sucks you weren’t there, because I promised myself that I was gonna finally tell you tonight.”
“Tell me what?”
Eddie beckoned you closer with his finger and you leaned down, “I was finally gonna tell you that I like you.”
His words were whispered and slurred, but you heard them, clear as day.
“You like me?”
He nodded, “A lot,” he released a sigh that turned into a hiccup, “but you weren’t there, so I guess I can’t tell you now.”
If you weren’t in shock, you would have laughed, “I think you need to get some sleep, and we can discuss this in the morning.”
You went to lift his head so you could head to your room, but his arms latched onto your waist again, “Don’t leave.”
Your heart melted, “Alright.”
“Good,” he grabbed your hand and kissed your palm, “goodnight.”
It was a strange gesture, but it sent a flutter through you, “G-goodnight.”
Eddie smiled, closed his eyes, and fell asleep, his head still on your lap.
You stared down at him in utter disbelief and whispered to yourself, “We will definitely be talking about all of this in the morning.”
pairing: clark kent x reader
summary: everyone at the daily planet knows about your hopeless crush on superman. what nobody expected was for him to save your life, agree to an interview, and maybe even flirt back. least of all clark, who’s had a crush on you for years.
tags: coworkers to lovers, clark has definitely been in love with you the whole time and you didn’t notice, you’re thirsty for superman but nobody blames you
warning(s): gender neutral reader, you get saved from a collapsing train station and think you’re gonna die for a sec, suggestive content (no smut just a lil spicy)
word count: 9k
note: this one lowkey took me so long to write because i struggled with the interview portion so i hope that section is okay 🥹🩵
masterlist
The screen in the bullpen replayed the footage for the fourth time, and you were no closer to pretending you weren’t staring at Superman’s biceps than you had been the first three times.
“That’s precision work,” Lois said from her desk, eyes narrowing as the feed froze on Superman bracing a slab of highway above his head. “See the angle? He shifted just enough weight to keep the pressure from collapsing the other side.”
“Or,” you said, leaning forward on your elbows and squinting at the screen, “he knew exactly what he was doing to my central nervous system.”
Lois’s sigh was audible, Cat gave a delicate snort, and Jimmy didn’t even look up from his notes. They were all used to you by now.
The shot resumed, Superman lowering the cracked concrete as if it were cardboard. His cape flicked in the smoke-heavy wind, the kind of unbothered hero shot film directors would kill to get. Your brain unhelpfully whispered, Imagine those arms around your waist. You blinked it away before the thought could fully settle.
“It’s the third collapse in two weeks,” Jimmy muttered, tapping his pencil against his notepad. “First the bridge, then the construction site for that new government building, now this highway. Someone’s orchestrating it. I just have to—” He cut himself off to scrawl another note. The poor guy hadn’t slept, probably.
“Do you think he smells like smoke after something like that, or is he more of a,” you tapped your chin, “cologne that costs more than my rent kind of guy?”
Lois pinched the bridge of her nose. From the corner of your eye, you caught Clark. He’d just taken a sip of coffee, and now he was very determinedly staring at his computer screen. The tips of his ears were pink.
“Oh, come on, Clark,” you said, sing-song, swivelling slightly in your chair to face him. “Don’t tell me this is weird for you because he’s your bestie.”
His head jerked up, glasses catching the light. “What? No, I—” He stammered, then tried again. “It doesn’t weird me out. And we’re not best friends.”
“Uh-huh,” you said, smug. “You definitely don’t look uncomfortable every time I mention his jawline.”
“That’s not—” Clark rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks now matching his ears. “I just don’t think the, uh, newsroom is the place for…” He trailed off, apparently unable to finish the sentence without combusting.
You grinned. Clark made this too easy. “For what, Clark? For me appreciating a local hero in the way God clearly intended?”
Lois barked a laugh without looking up from her screen. “Careful, Clark. She’ll never let this go.”
“Don’t encourage her,” Clark muttered, but his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile. For a split second, his eyes flicked to yours, warm and amused, before he ducked his head again. You caught the moment and dismissed it, chalking it up to friendly teasing.
Cat finally chimed in, reclining back in her chair. “If you ask me, the man could use a fan club. It’d do wonders for his image. You’re just ahead of the curve.”
“See?” you said, pointing at her in triumph. “Visionary thinking.”
Clark ducked his head further, but you caught the edge of his grin, hidden half behind his mug. Something about it—shy, crooked, almost like it was meant just for you—did a strange thing to your stomach. But you brushed it off, too caught up in the replay of Superman on screen.
You leaned back in your chair and let your gaze drift back to the paused screen. Superman, larger than life, standing amidst wreckage. It was ridiculous, really, how one man could manage to look both divine and approachable at the same time. Like he’d save your life and then ask if you’d eaten lunch.
Your heart did its now-familiar lurch, the one you’d been trying to write off as mere professional admiration for months. Totally normal to want to interview Superman. Totally normal to wonder what his laugh sounded like up close. Totally normal to imagine how those lips would feel brushing your—
Okay, no, dangerous territory. You shook your head, blinking hard. Because the problem wasn’t just his lips. It was how easily your imagination filled in the rest: his hands spanning your hips, your back pressed against some convenient wall, that cape falling heavy around both of you like a curtain. You swallowed, realising your coffee had gone cold in your hand.
Focus. Colleagues. Professional environment. Stop picturing the man of steel doing decidedly un-heroic things to you on top of your desk.
“Okay,” Jimmy said, still scribbling furiously, “if we trace the supply chain for the explosives used in the bridge collapse, we might—”
“Jimmy,” you cut in, “I support your heroic quest, but I do need to ask: how many hours of sleep have you had this week?”
“Uh…” He blinked. “Enough?”
“Four,” Lois corrected without looking up.
You chuckled, but your gaze wandered back to Clark. He was pretending to read his notes, but his pen hadn’t moved in several minutes. When your eyes caught his, he looked away quickly, but you could swear the flush crept a little further down his neck.
And for one moment, you wondered why Clark Kent of all people looked like he had something to hide. When he shifted in his chair and you saw the way his broad shoulders strained against his shirt, your brain did the traitorous thing again: Superman would look like that under a button-down.
You pressed your lips together, willing the thought away, but it was no use. The images kept tumbling in. Superman loosened his tie after a long day, tugging it down with those big hands. Superman leaning over your desk to point at your notes, the heat of him close enough to make you forget how pens worked.
You caught yourself and dug your nails into your palm. Focus. Work. Journalism. Not turning your colleague’s blush and your favourite hero’s shoulders into one disastrous fantasy cocktail.
Lois’s voice cut through your spiral, brisk and sharp. “I don’t care how he does it—I need to call a source and find out where those explosives came from. If someone’s targeting infrastructure, we need a lead before the next one goes down.”
Jimmy perked up, already rifling through his notes. “If you’re calling sources, I’ll start pulling records on construction contracts. Somebody has to be benefiting from these collapses.”
Lois shot him a quick nod. Clark just looked down at his desk, hiding behind his glasses like the world’s most suspicious Boy Scout.
You took another long sip of your cold coffee, trying not to think about how your crush on Superman was starting to feel a little less hypothetical than it should.
The train station was always quieter at night. A few tired commuters in suits, a cluster of teenagers sharing earbuds, a woman in scrubs leaning against a pillar with her eyes half-shut. You had your usual spot, halfway down the platform, where the overhead lights didn’t flicker so badly.
You tugged your coat tighter around you and glanced at the clock. The train was due in two minutes. Just enough time to scroll aimlessly through your phone and pretend you weren’t waiting for a metal box to ferry you back to your little apartment.
Then the floor shuddered.
At first, you thought it was just too much caffeine, not enough sleep—until the tremor rattled the railings and a hollow boom echoed from below, drawing startled murmurs from the crowd.
Your stomach dropped. The lights overhead flickered. One of the teenagers yelped. A crack zigzagged across the tiled wall behind you, spiderwebbing out with a groan of stone under strain. The entire platform trembled.
Someone shouted. A woman clutched her child. You backed away instinctively, heart hammering so hard you thought you might be sick.
The train headlights tore through the tunnel, but instead of the usual rhythmic glide, it burst forward at a terrifying tilt. Wheels screamed against metal. Sparks shot out in jagged bursts. The whole structure groaned, a sickening chorus of strained steel and cracking concrete.
You didn’t have time to process before the world blurred red and blue. Superman shot into view, cape billowing, eyes set on the train. The first car teetered dangerously on its rails, but he braced himself in the centre of the tracks, caught the nose of the train with both hands, and pushed.
The train screamed against the tunnel walls, sparks spitting. Superman slowed it until, impossibly, he lifted the first car clear and set the whole train down on solid ground like a misplaced toy.
And then the platform gave way. The slab beneath your feet buckled with a roar, pitching you off balance as chunks of stone sheared away into the tracks below.
“Go, go, go!” you shouted, snapping into motion before your brain could catch up. You gently pushed the teenager nearest you toward the staircase. “This way! Keep moving!”
People surged toward the exits, panicked but moving. You caught the eye of the woman with the child and gestured sharply. She nodded, clutching her kid and running. Cracks raced faster along the ceiling. The platform lurched, a violent tilt that knocked you off balance.
The floor started splitting beneath your feet. You were going to die. The thought carved itself into your mind in cold, perfect clarity. You gasped, shutting your eyes and bracing for the fall.
Except, suddenly you weren’t falling.
Strong arms locked tight around your waist, solid as steel, lifting you as easily as if you were weightless. The air shifted in a rush as you were carried effortlessly through the haze of dust and chaos. Debris rained down behind you, but all you could register was the fact that there was no ground beneath your feet and you weren’t dying.
Superman caught you mid-collapse, scooped you up as if it were the most natural thing in the world. His grip was secure, unyielding, like nothing on Earth could pry you from him. You clutched at the fabric at his shoulder—instinct, panic, maybe something else—and your fingers found the smooth fabric of his suit.
Superman carried you down in a controlled dive and set you gently on solid ground beside the others. Your knees wobbled, but his grip lingered for a beat, steadying you until you could breathe again. The station you were standing on moments ago had crumbled, but first responders were already on the scene.
All you could focus on was the man in front of you, his eyes sharp and intent, the smell of smoke clinging faintly to him. Your pulse hadn’t caught up yet, and neither had your brain. One minute, you’d been waiting for the train like always. The next, you were pressed against the chest of the man you’d been daydreaming about for weeks, only this time he wasn’t on a screen.
The station was a mess of coughing commuters and scattered debris, but Superman’s voice carried through it with calm authority. “Is anyone hurt?” he called, scanning the crowd.
Around you, people coughed and steadied each other, shaken but safe.
Superman’s shoulders eased. His cape, still settling from the landing, brushed lightly against the ground as he turned back to you. “Are you alright?”
You opened your mouth. Nothing came out.
Superman stepped closer, lowering himself slightly so his gaze met yours directly. His eyes were the clearest blue you’d ever seen, bright even through the haze of dust. “You need to breathe,” he said gently. “Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”
You obeyed. Inhale. Exhale. Your pulse steadied, if only because Superman was watching you so intently, like you were the only person in the station. His voice was low but commanding, the kind of voice that made you want to obey before you even registered the words.
“That’s it,” he said, encouraging, his mouth curving into a small smile. And just like that, the apocalypse backdrop melted into irrelevance. His smile wasn’t dazzling in the flashy, toothpaste-commercial way. It was worse, soft and entirely real.
The sight of it pressed heat down your spine. He smelled faintly of scorched air and something clean, like fresh rain on concrete. Your fingers itched where they hovered near your sides; half a breath away from reaching out, from brushing against the impossible fabric stretched across his chest. God, the suit. The material clung like a second skin, sculpting every inch of broad muscle, and your treacherous brain immediately imagined peeling it back.
What would he feel like under your palms? What would his mouth taste like if you tilted forward just a little?
Internally, your brain was sprinting laps. Superman was right there. Superman was holding you steady. He was looking at you like you weren’t just another face in the crowd. Your body hummed, a giddy mix of adrenaline and something far less noble.
Externally, you cleared your throat and managed, “I’m fine. Thank you.” Your voice was steadier than you expected.
Superman nodded, but didn’t step back. His gaze lingered, checking for any flicker of pain you might be hiding. His proximity made it hard to think straight. Warmth radiated off him in waves, like he carried the sun under his skin. Your heartbeat went wild, thundering in your chest, and you knew he could hear it. Luckily, you could always blame it on what just happened.
When he was finally satisfied, he let out a small breath of relief. Which, of course, made you blurt out the dumbest possible thing.
“I’m a reporter for The Daily Planet?” Smooth. Very casual. Worded like a statement but lilting up at the end like a question.
Superman smiled, raising his brows. “Are you?”
“Yes.” You straightened, trying desperately to salvage dignity. “And, if you ever had the time, I’d love to sit down with you for something in-depth. Not about today specifically, but… more of a profile. Who you are, not just what you do.”
His smile tilted, amused, and Superman was even more devastating up close. A smile like that should come with a warning label. Your knees hummed with the urge to buckle. His jaw was sharper than it had any right to be, shadowed just enough that you wanted to feel it scrape down your neck.
You scrambled to fill the silence, trying for a playful tone. “Unless you already have some kind of exclusive deal with Clark, in which case I completely understand.”
Superman blinked, then laughed. It was a quiet, genuine sound that made your chest flutter. “No,” he said, shaking his head, curl shifting faintly at his forehead. “No exclusive deal with Clark.”
“Good,” you said, aiming for a professional tone. It came out a little too quick, a little too breathless.
Oh my God, he laughed. He has dimples. He has actual dimples. You needed to lie down on the floor immediately. Or kiss him. Or both. Preferably both.
“I’d be delighted,” Superman added, and something in the warmth of the word nearly unmoored you.
“Great,” you exclaimed. “Wonderful. You could, uh, come by the Planet whenever it fits your schedule.”
Superman nodded, thoughtful. “How about a week from today? Next Thursday night?”
Your brain short-circuited. Eventually, you managed a brisk nod, like this was perfectly ordinary business. “Next Thursday night works.”
“Good,” he said, with the kind of certainty that could stop tectonic plates from shifting. Superman’s gaze held yours a beat longer, steady and knowing, like maybe he could tell what was running through your mind.
Which was unfair. Kryptonian x-ray vision was one thing, but thirst-detection was cruel.
You finally tore your gaze away, blinking as if that would shake the image of his smile branded onto the inside of your eyelids. Around you, the chaos of the station hummed back into awareness—sirens in the distance, EMTs rushing down the street, civilians muttering shakily about what had just happened.
But Superman didn’t move. His presence, his eyes, and his impossible steadiness all lingered, anchoring you in place.
For one dizzying moment, you weren’t just the reporter who made too many jokes about his biceps in the office bullpen. You were the person he couldn’t tear his eyes away from.
The newsroom was buzzing the next morning, every desk alive with the sound of clattering keyboards and the smell of burnt coffee. You slipped through the doors with your bag slung over your shoulder, hair still faintly carrying the scent of smoke from last night’s disaster.
“Holy shit,” Lois shot up from her chair the second she saw you. Her pen clattered against her desk. “You’re alive.”
“Barely,” Jimmy added, already halfway across the bullpen. His camera bounced against his chest as he looked you over like you’d been through war. “The police report had you listed as one of the last witnesses on the platform! Do you have any idea how freaked out we were?”
You blinked as Lois and Jimmy converged on you like an overprotective tag team. “Uh… sorry?” you offered weakly. “I meant to text but my phone sort of didn’t survive the whole crumbling-infrastructure thing.”
“You think we care about your phone?” Lois demanded, gripping your shoulders. “We care about you. You could’ve been crushed, you idiot.”
“Love you too, Lois,” you deadpanned, though your chest warmed at the concern.
Jimmy shook his head, relief etched in every line of his face. “So what actually happened? The article said Superman caught the train, stabilised the structure, but—”
“—but left out that he pulled me off a collapsing platform at the last second.” You shrugged, casual, like you weren’t replaying it every three minutes in your head. “It was very dramatic. Definitely gave me a couple new grey hairs. Oh, and…” You cleared your throat, trying not to sound too smug. “I might’ve gotten an exclusive Superman interview out of it.”
That got their attention. Both jaws dropped in unison.
“You what?” Lois demanded.
“He’s coming by next Thursday night,” you said, as nonchalantly as if you were announcing a dentist appointment. “So everyone better clear out by then.”
Lois groaned. “Of course you get a Superman exclusive. I nearly got trampled during an alien invasion last month, and all I got was a sprained ankle.”
Jimmy pressed a hand to his heart. “You’re out here living the dream.”
Before you could respond, Cat breezed by, heels clicking against the tile. She didn’t even pause to lower her voice. “Well, well, look who finally gets to meet her celebrity crush in person.”
Heat shot to your face. “That is not—” You cut yourself off, then laughed, shaking your head. “Fine. Maybe a little bit.”
Everyone laughed, the tension lifting, and eventually the newsroom settled back into its usual rhythm.
Clark appeared at your desk with a fresh cup of coffee. He set it down in front of you carefully. “Thought you could use this,” he said softly.
You glanced up, and your chest squeezed instantly. Clark’s tie was a little crooked, his hair rumpled like he’d rushed into work, and those glasses were sliding down his nose. One curl had slipped loose at his temple, dangerously close to endearing. It shouldn’t have been a look, but somehow it was devastating.
Your pulse tripped over itself. The cup was warm in your palms, but not half as warm as the flush creeping up your neck. “Thanks,” you murmured. “You didn’t have to.”
Clark gave a small smile. “I wanted to. You really scared us when we saw your name on the witness list.” His voice dropped, quiet enough that only you could hear. “I’ve… seen a lot of situations where Superman had to step in. It’s not easy, being right there when it happens.”
Your throat tightened. The way he said it, almost protectively, made your chest ache. “Yeah,” you admitted. “It was a lot. I was the last one on the platform. For a second, I really thought that was it for me.”
Clark’s expression shifted, softening further. His brows drew together in concern, and you had to look away before you got lost in it. “I’m glad you’re still here,” he said, voice low but steady.
Something fluttered low in your stomach. You tried to play it off with humour. “Me too. I’d hate to miss this coffee.”
His mouth twitched, but his gaze stayed steady on yours, searching. “You’re really okay? Not just saying that?”
You took a sip of coffee to buy time. “I’m okay,” you said finally, quieter than you meant to. “A little shaken, maybe. I’m just really grateful Superman was there.”
Clark was standing so close you could see the faint shadow of stubble on his jaw, the way the morning light caught in his hair, almost too ink-black to be real. You were noticing things you shouldn’t—like how broad his shoulders looked even under the modest cut of his suit jacket, or how his fingers brushed lightly against the rim of your desk.
Your pulse wouldn’t settle. Every time Clark’s voice dipped low, something in you seemed to respond instinctively, a shiver at the base of your spine, the kind you’d blame on adrenaline if you were being honest.
“Well, if you ever need a near-death buddy to swap stories with…” You said, aiming for lightness, though your voice was a little thinner than usual.
Clark chuckled, low and soft, and the sound wrapped around you like a blanket. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
As he pushed off your desk, he gave your hand a gentle tap with his finger. It was barely a touch, just enough to make you jolt with awareness. Then Clark smiled again, that shy, crooked thing that somehow undid you just as much as Superman’s blinding perfection.
It turned out that seven days could stretch into eternity if you were waiting for Superman. All week, the newsroom had been merciless.
“Big date Thursday,” Cat crooned whenever she passed your desk.
“It’s an interview,” you corrected, every time.
“Uh-huh,” she said, nodding sagely as though she knew exactly how hard you were trying to keep from grinning.
Lois was subtler, though only barely. “You’ve got one shot,” she told you, smirking over the rim of her coffee mug. “Don’t blow it by asking about his workout routine.”
“I wasn’t going to!” you protested.
“Sure,” she said. “Because the first words out of your mouth when Superman sits across from you are definitely going to be Pulitzer material.”
You were counting down the days. You were rehearsing imaginary questions on your walk home, in the shower, brushing your teeth. You caught yourself doodling little Superman logos in the margins of your notes like you were twelve again, which Lois spotted once and nearly choked on her gum.
But the strangest shift had been Clark.
Since the train incident, you’d had found yourself more at ease with him. He wasn’t different, exactly. Still the same polite, slightly awkward Midwestern farm boy. But you felt different around him.
It was like something in your body had quietly decided you could lean closer, joke softer, trust deeper. Clark lingered at your desk more, offering to help with sources or swapping stories about Perry’s legendary rants.
By the time the day actually arrived, your nerves were a live wire.
The newsroom emptied out slowly, staff peeling away with warm pats on the shoulder or smothered grins. Cat called, “Good luck, darling,” on her way out.
Lois added, “Remember. Profile, not thirst essay,” like she hadn’t already marked up your interview questions in red ink and told you how great they were.
When Perry finally gathered his coat, he paused at your desk. “You’ll do fine, kid,” he said, his gravelly voice gentler than usual. “Just don’t let him charm you into forgetting to take notes.”
Then it was just you.
The bullpen seemed unnaturally large once empty. You’d dressed deliberately in the outfit you felt most confident in, using flattering colours that made you look your best. It was sharp enough to be professional, but fitted enough that you still felt good.
You perched on the edge of your desk, back straight, hands folded over your notebook. For a moment, all you could hear was the thud of your heartbeat in your ears. You reminded yourself that this was work. You were a professional. You had a list of thoughtful questions.
You were absolutely not going to melt into a puddle at the sight of Superman, no matter how gorgeous he was.
A soft rush, like the flap of something vast against the wind. Papers fluttered on the corner of a desk. You turned your head, and there was Superman. He stepped forward from the open window, cape settling around him, posture relaxed.
He was smiling, not the world-saving, photo-op grin you’d seen splashed across front pages, but something smaller, crooked at the corner. A sweet smile, soft-edged, as if he’d just helped a neighbour carry groceries inside.
“Hope I’m not late,” Superman said, voice warm, easy. “Got caught up with a little kid who lost his dog. Turns out he didn’t actually have one yet, he just thought I might help him find a dog who needed him.”
A laugh escaped you, nervous and bright. “No worries. Did you end up finding one for him?”
“Found his parents first, then gave them the address to a nearby shelter.” His grin widened, as if you’d just won him over by expressing your curiosity.
Your heart thumped painfully against your ribs. Up close, Superman was too much to catalogue at once. The sharp line of his jaw dusted, the impossible shade of blue in his eyes, the breadth of his shoulders that made even the high ceiling of the bullpen feel suddenly close.
“Thank you for coming,” you managed, gesturing to the chair across from your desk. “Please, have a seat. Do you mind if I record this?”
“Not at all,” Superman replied, his voice as rich and warm as velvet. He moved toward the chair opposite yours.
You clicked your recorder on, notebook open, pen ready. “Let’s start with some broad questions,” you said, clearing your throat. “What drives you to keep doing this? Day after day, when it would be easier and safer not to.”
Superman leaned back slightly, considering. You noticed the way his eyes flicked briefly upward, as though he was searching the sky beyond you for answers.
“Because I can,” he said finally. “Because I was given abilities most people don’t have. And if I can stop someone from suffering, even for a moment, how could I choose not to?”
The way he said it wasn’t self-righteous. It was gentle, like he believed it was the easiest truth in the world. You scribbled down details about his tone and cadence, even though you knew you’d never forget it.
“That sounds… lonely,” you mused before you could stop yourself.
A flicker of surprise crossed Superman’s features, then something quieter. “It can be. But loneliness isn’t an excuse to do nothing.”
You tapped the pen against your notebook. “If you could teach a stranger one lesson, what would it be?”
“That strength isn’t about what you can do,” he said without hesitation. “It’s about what you choose to do even when things feel impossible.”
“You sound like a philosopher,” you teased, hoping humour would loosen things up a little.
Superman laughed, low and warm and so thoroughly human. “I’m not sure anyone’s ready to put me in that category. I just… spend a lot of time thinking, I suppose.”
“Flying above the city gives you plenty of time to ponder?”
He gave a half-shrug. “There’s a lot of silence up there. A lot of space to reflect.”
You nodded, scribbling notes, though your handwriting was starting to slope dangerously toward the edge of the page. Superman’s voice was steady, but every so often, his gaze lingered on you just a second longer than necessary.
It was silly, but you couldn’t help feeling like he was studying you, too.
“Do you ever wish you could do something else?” you asked.
He tilted his head, considering. “No. But sometimes I wish I could be better at ordinary things. Doing crafts, for instance.”
The idea of Superman trying to knit or crochet made you laugh out loud before you could stop it. His grin widened at the sound, the corners of his mouth tugging higher with pride.
“I can stop a runaway train,” he added wryly, “but ask me to make anything creative and the best I can give you is a stick-figure drawing.”
“Tragic,” you deadpanned, trying to scribble something discreet in your notebook so he wouldn’t notice your smile. “The city may never recover from this revelation.”
You hesitated because the next question felt personal. “Do you ever wish you didn’t have to be Superman?”
Silence stretched long enough that you wondered if you’d crossed a line. But then he said, “No. I wish I could balance it better sometimes. But wishing I wasn’t Superman would be wishing I wasn’t me.”
You weren’t supposed to notice how tense his forearms looked resting on his knees. Or the faint, distracting warmth of him leaning slightly forward. You nodded, throat tight. Yeah, totally calm.
“You’re good at this,” Superman said suddenly, a glint of humour sparking in his eyes.
“At my job?”
He shook his head slightly, a small smile tugging at his lips. “At making someone feel like they can be honest.”
Your stomach flipped. You tried to smile, keep it light. “I’ll take that as a professional compliment.”
“Of course,” Superman said, and his gaze lingered just enough to make your heart speed, a quiet heat settling low in your chest.
You tapped your pen against the notebook again, grinning like a fool. “Alright,” you said, leaning back slightly. “Time for rapid-fire. Quick answers, gut instinct, no overthinking. Deal?”
Superman’s brow quirked, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Deal,” he said, and the word carried a weight that made your chest skip anyway.
“Favourite pizza topping?”
“Pepperoni,” he said instantly.
“Desert island snack?”
“Apples.”
You laughed. “Really?”
“They’re versatile,” Superman said, chuckling lightly. “And nutritious. Hard to get sick of.”
“Alright. What does Superman do on his day off?”
“I watch baseball, read if I can, maybe just walk the city. Sometimes old movies,” Superman grinned, “the really sappy ones.”
You smiled back. “What’s a movie that always makes you cry?”
“Anything with Gene Kelly,” he confessed.
You nodded, trying not to laugh at how sweet the mental image was. “What’s your guilty pleasure?”
Superman hesitated just a fraction, and you caught it. That brief flicker of vulnerability made your chest squeeze. “I… bake pies. Really obsessively, sometimes.”
You blinked, pen hovering mid-air. He smiled faintly, but there was a softness to it, the kind that made you want to lean closer, to hear more.
“My Mom’s pies are the greatest thing in the world. Truly, I was getting spoiled every day growing up. I miss them a lot.” Superman reached out just slightly, brushing an eyelash from your cheek with the pad of his thumb without thinking. Your pulse jumped. “So when I moved out, I had to learn to make them myself.”
His eyes flicked to yours, warm and unguarded. The eye contact was unwavering, intense, and you felt a jolt each time your eyes met.
“That’s kind of amazing,” you said, smiling widely. “I never pictured Superman in an apron.”
He chuckled, low and easy. “Neither did I, initially. But it’s comforting. Makes me feel connected to her and my hometown.” Superman shifted slightly, brushing his knee against yours casually, as if unaware, but you weren’t about to move.
“I like baking too,” you admitted. “But I’ve never made a pie. I usually stick to chocolate cake. I make a mean dark chocolate ganache.”
His eyes lit up. “That sounds perfect,” Superman said quietly. The way his gaze held yours, steady but gentle, made your stomach flutter. He shifted again, almost mirroring you, hands resting just a fraction closer on the chair arms, shoulders angled toward yours.
The conversation slipped easily, naturally, like a door had opened that neither of you realised existed. “So, pies,” you prompted, leaning forward. “What’s your favourite? Apple? Cherry? Something more adventurous?”
“Apple. Classic, reminds me of my apple trees back home,” Superman declared happily. “But I experiment sometimes, even when it’s beyond my skill set. I love pecan pie in the fall. The kitchen gets messy.” His laughter was soft, but the movement behind it made you acutely aware of the curve of his shoulders, the gentle tension in his forearms.
You bit your lip, imagining him in his kitchen. Rolling dough, flour dusting his hair, his sleeves rolled up. Your thoughts skidded forward unbidden, picturing other domestic scenarios that were far less innocent. You shook your head, trying to focus.
“I like things a little messy,” you teased.
Both of your eyes widened at your unintentional innuendo.
Superman blushed. He actually blushed. “That’s good to know,” he said, and without thinking, his hand brushed your forearm. “Do you bake other things too?”
“Occasionally. Strawberry shortcake, sometimes brownies. But never pies, anything beyond cookie dough is too intimidating.” You laughed lightly.
He smiled, and it reached his eyes, softening them. “Maybe I could teach you. Not just the pie, but… how to enjoy the process. Even the mess.”
You felt your pulse jump. The casual offer—the closeness, and the easy intimacy of it—was impossible to ignore. “I’d really like that,” you admitted.
Superman’s eyes lingered, and you caught a subtle tilt of his head, the barest exhale that brushed the air between you. You found yourself leaning slightly closer, almost imperceptibly, drawn by the warmth and steady intensity of his gaze. It made you wonder, suddenly, what he was like when he wasn’t saving the world.
“Do you get homesick a lot?” you asked instead of acknowledging the growing tension between you, recalling how he mentioned his hometown earlier.
“Yes. Every day,” he said quietly, voice carrying a hint of wistfulness. “My parents kept me grounded. They’re amazing; taught me right from wrong, made me… human, I guess. And where I grew up is a huge part of that. Having a community like that made me realise how important it is to nurture relationships.”
Superman reached out, lightly resting a hand near yours on the notebook edge, then pulled back almost immediately, as if startled by his own actions.
“I get that,” you murmured. “I mean, no matter how long you live in the city, nothing ever quite compares to that feeling of being home. It’s not just a comfort, it’s a familiarity that you can’t ever replace.”
For a few minutes, you just talked about childhood memories and the comfort of home. Your forearms brushed as you both leaned forward in sync; he adjusted slightly, shoulders angling toward you, while your eyes held his without wavering.
Each accidental touch was electric. Superman’s gaze lingered just a fraction too long on your mouth, your eyes, your fingers as they flipped pages of your notebook.
By the time you looked up, the Daily Planet interview had completely dissolved. Notes were scribbled, pens tapped idly, and all that remained was the quiet intimacy of shared confessions, laughter, and mutual understanding. Both of you had unconsciously leaned closer, shoulders nearly touching, hands lingering a heartbeat too long near each other.
You lowered your pen, letting your hands rest on the notebook. The words you had written about pies and home felt personal in a way that made your chest tight.
“I don’t have to print all that, about the pie and your parents and hometown,” you said, keeping your voice steady, despite the cartwheels inside your stomach.
Superman’s blue eyes softened, unwavering. “You should leave it in,” he said quietly, leaning slightly toward you, shoulders angled in a subtle invitation. “As long as you’re not too specific. I don’t want anyone figuring out who or where my family is.”
You nodded, pulse jumping. You felt a faint itch in your fingers, a desire to reach for Superman, to touch the solid strength of him even once.
“You know,” he added, lips just curving, “not a lot of reporters would offer to do that. Most would just run the story.”
You tilted your head, feeling heat coil low in your ribs. “I like to think that what we just did was not just a reporter talking to Superman,” you said, your voice catching a little. “It was two people talking. And it’s not fun for me if I share anything too personal with the rest of the world.”
He blinked, then smiled widely, dimples on display. “I think you’re right,” Superman agreed. You felt the faint brush of his fingers against yours, and the contact made something swoop in your belly.
“I promise I’ll be careful with it,” you said, leaning forward slightly. “Not just your words, but your intentions.”
“I know you will,” he murmured, voice calm and warm. His eyes never left yours.
You let your gaze drift to his mouth for a moment too long. The curve of his lips was soft and compelling. Your fingers itched to brush against his jaw, to feel the strong shape beneath your touch.
“I…” you said, and then the words faltered. Your chest rose and fell in quick, uneven bursts, the air warm in your lungs and tight in your ribs.
“You what?” Superman asked patiently.
“I don’t think I’ve ever connected like this with anyone before,” you admitted, exhaling shakily.
You’d spent years admiring Superman from afar, and now, inches apart, this connection felt immediate and tangible. You were suddenly aware of every detail in his body. The breadth of his shoulders, the soft line of his collarbone, the slope of his nose, and the faint exhale he didn’t realise he was holding.
For a few seconds, you just sat watching each other. Superman’s hand moved imperceptibly closer to yours, and you could feel the heat of his breath against your cheek. Neither of you moved away. Every glance, every tilt of the head, every subtle shift of a shoulder felt like a conversation on its own.
Superman shifted slightly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Just double-checking that I’m supposed to ask if something can be off the record before I say it?” he asked, eyes holding yours with an intensity that made your chest thrum.
You swallowed, breath catching. “That’s right,” you said, voice breathless.
He tilted his head, gaze flicking down at your lips and back to your eyes, the movement smooth and deliberate. “Good,” he murmured. “Because I’d really like to kiss you. Preferably off the record.”
Your chest jumped, and a laugh burst from you before you could stop it. “I think it’s better that way,” you agreed.
That was all he needed. Slowly, deliberately, Superman closed the distance. Your breath hitched as his hands found your waist, pulling you closer, and your arms came up around his shoulders almost instinctively. You felt the warmth of him, the broad strength in his chest, and the way he moved with careful precision, as if making sure nothing about you felt unsafe.
Your lips met his, soft and tentative at first, a sweet, careful press. Your pulse was frantic, every nerve firing. He leaned into you a fraction, and the small sigh you let slip mirrored the quickening of his own breath.
Then the kiss deepened, becoming hungry, insistent. Your hands threaded through Superman’s hair, tangling in the soft curls, and you felt the press of his body against yours. His lips parted yours, tongue teasing, and your knees nearly buckled at the sensation. You gasped, and he hummed into the kiss, a low vibration that made your stomach tighten and your chest ache in a delicious, unbearable way.
He pulled back just slightly, lips brushing yours, eyes searching yours. “I want to be careful,” Superman murmured against your mouth. “Don’t want to hurt you.”
Then he gently lifted you. Your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, and your hands fisted lightly in his cape as he set you on your desk. The movement was careful, precise, but you felt the thrill of it, your heart racing in your ears.
You giggled breathlessly.
Superman smiled, leaning in closer, forehead brushing yours. “Why are you giggling?” he asked, a teasing glint in his eyes.
“I’ve had this fantasy before,” you confessed, feeling heat rise in your cheeks. “For a long time.”
He raised an eyebrow, lips curving. “Oh yeah?”
You nodded, heart hammering. “Yeah.”
That was all it took. Superman kissed you again, letting you melt against him.
His hands roamed under your shirt, pulling you by your lower back to adjust your position, and yours explored the firm planes of his shoulders, the curve of his chest, the solid warmth of his muscled abdomen.
Every gasp, every low moan, every teasing bite of Superman’s lips sent heat coiling through you. Your fingers grazed his jaw, tangled in his hair, and you could feel the barely restrained strength beneath his touch. He sighed softly into the kiss, lips and tongue moving with urgent tenderness, each motion deliberate.
You pressed your body closer, rocking lightly, feeling his hands anchor you to him. The desk beneath you shifted slightly, your notebook sliding to the floor with the movement, but neither of you cared. You bit gently at Superman’s bottom lip, eliciting a deep, drawn-out groan from him that sent a shiver straight through your spine.
When Superman finally pulled back, just enough to catch his breath, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling. His hands lingered on your thighs, holding you firmly but with care.
You kissed him harder, frantic now, teeth grazing his bottom lip. Your body arched instinctively, searching, needing, until you could feel the solid, unyielding heat of him pressed against you.
The desk beneath you creaked and shifted, pens clattering to the floor. Superman’s breath hitched, his head falling to the side as you kissed along his pulse, leaving a mark behind his ear.
The sharp smell of ink from the spilt pens, tangled with the faint, clean scent of him, offered you a moment of sudden clarity. The desk. The scattered papers and pens. The silence of the empty newsroom echoed around you.
You stilled first, breath ragged, and felt Superman freeze too, lips lingering against your skin before he lifted his head. His chest heaved as he looked at you, a trace of the earlier fire still smouldering in his gaze alongside something gentler. His hands loosened their grip on your thighs, slipping back to rest at your waist instead.
Your pulse thundered, but a shaky laugh escaped you. “Wow,” you managed, half-breathless, half-disbelieving.
Superman smiled faintly, brushing his forehead against yours. “Yeah,” he agreed softly, like it was all he could say without unravelling again.
You could see it in him. The quick rise and fall of his chest, the way his breath stuttered as if the air between you was too thick. But what you couldn’t see was what it felt like from the inside. Clark could get addicted to it; the taste of your lips, the press of your body against him. He’d kissed you—or, rather, Superman had kissed you—and it had been everything he’d dreamed of for so many years.
But now reality pressed in. The office. The interview. The not-so-small matter of you not knowing that Superman and Clark Kent were the same person. He wanted to tell you, but the words wouldn’t come.
Superman swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady. “I… should apologise,” he said, though the thought of it made his chest ache. “This isn’t exactly what you signed up for when you asked for an interview.”
Your lips curved, and you shook your head. “Don’t you dare apologise. This was better than I hoped for.”
Clark’s heart lurched. Your smile could knock the air from his lungs faster than any blow. He wanted more of it; all of it. So he let as much of the truth slip out as he could.
“I’d really like to see you again,” Superman said, voice low, tentative, but sincere. “Not as Superman in an interview. Just the person you’ve been talking to tonight. Could I maybe walk you home?”
A grin spread across your face, brighter than anything Clark had ever seen before. “I’d love that,” you agreed, voice warm and sure.
The next morning, you tried to walk into the Daily Planet like it was any other day. Coffee in hand, bag slung over your shoulder, head high. Completely normal. Totally casual. Absolutely not the person who spent the previous evening melting against Superman’s chest in your office chair.
It might’ve worked if Cat hadn’t immediately pounced on you.
“There she is,” Cat sing-songed, swivelling dramatically in her chair. “Our very own Clark 2.0. Tell me everything. What did he smell like? Don’t say soap and sunshine unless you want me to scream.”
You nearly choked on your coffee. “Good morning to you too, Cat.”
“Don’t deflect,” she warned, heels clicking against the floor as she crossed the room and leaned against your desk. “There are already whispers on Twitter that he walked you home and stood outside your building for an extra twenty minutes afterwards. Staring at the windows. Probably your windows. So,” she leaned in conspiratorially, “Did he maintain eye contact the whole time? Did he lean in close? Did he keep reaching out to touch you?”
You blinked. “What are you talking about?”
“Body language,” Cat exclaimed with gravitas, as though you’d just admitted to not knowing what gravity was. “It’s what men do when they’re attracted to you. He did it, didn’t he?”
You opened your mouth to deny it, but Superman had done all the things Cat mentioned. He’d kept eye contact like he couldn’t bear to look away, brushed his fingertips across your wrist when you dropped your pen, the way he’d leaned a little too close when he smiled, his gaze lingering on your mouth before—oh God.
Cat smirked. “That’s what I thought.”
Before you could dig yourself out, Lois dropped her bag onto her desk with a thud and said, in the most pointedly disinterested voice imaginable, “If you two are done pretending this is Page Six and not the Planet, maybe we could talk about the actual work part?”
You shot her a look. “You’re not fooling anyone.”
Her lips twitched. Just the tiniest crack in the façade. “Fine. I’m curious. Did he actually give you anything new for the interview, or was it the usual save-the-day PR stuff?”
Grateful for the lifeline, you fished the printed stack of recorder transcripts out of your bag and handed them to Lois. “See for yourself. I printed this last night but haven’t edited it yet.”
Lois took it, flipping through like she was barely interested. She didn’t even skim the first pages; she went straight to the end. And then she snorted loudly.
You frowned. “What?”
She turned the transcript around so you could see: a string of gibberish letters, a line of nonsense that could only have been your recorder desperately trying to process the sounds of Superman kissing you like you were the last person on earth.
Lois raised an eyebrow. “So, when exactly in the interview did it become… off the record?”
Cat let out an unholy shriek of laughter, clutching at her chest like Christmas had come early. “Oh my God, you didn’t!”
You buried your face in your hands. “I hate both of you.”
“Liar,” Lois said smoothly, flipping the transcript back over and skimming with a little smile tugging at her lips. “You love us. Just maybe not as much as you love Superman’s lips.”
For the rest of the morning, you did an excellent job pretending to be normal. Coffee in one hand, your transcript and notes stacked in front of you, and a serious expression plastered on your face as you typed furiously at your keyboard.
Just a totally professional reporter who definitely did not make out with Superman on her desk last night.
Clark walked in an hour after you got there, late as usual. Which meant no one looked twice. He shuffled to his desk with that lopsided gait, muttered a sheepish “mornin’” to Perry, and collapsed into his chair like the commute had been uphill both ways. Classic Clark.
Except then he bumped his knee under the desk and groaned.
Your hands froze on the keyboard.
Not just any groan. The groan. Specifically, the low, rough sound that had escaped Superman’s throat last night when you’d bit his lower lip and he’d pressed you back against your desk like he was starving for you.
Your stomach dropped clean through the floor. You told yourself you were imagining it, because otherwise—well. Otherwise, you’d have to face the fact that your mild-mannered colleague-slash-office buddy was also the man who’d kissed you like the world might end if he stopped.
When Clark leaned down to rub his knee, you saw a smudge of red, half-hidden by a curl behind his ear. A bruise, small but absolutely unmistakable. The kind of bruise one might get if, say, someone had gotten carried away kissing their way across his neck last night.
Your breath caught so loudly that Cat looked up from across the room, eyebrows climbing. You flapped a hand vaguely like you’d forgotten to pay your rent and snapped your attention back to your computer. Except, you couldn’t type a single word because your brain was busy shrieking nope nope nope nope.
But it wasn’t “nope,” exactly, but a horrifically thrilling “yes.”
Clark Kent was Superman. Superman was Clark Kent. You’d made out with Superman, who was also Clark, and left physical evidence behind.
You stood up so quickly your chair squeaked. Before Clark could blink, you were at his desk, yanking him up by the sleeve of his jacket. “Break room, now.”
“Wh—?” His glasses slid down his nose as he looked at you, bewildered.
“No questions,” you hissed, dragging him across the newsroom. Jimmy didn’t even glance up. Cat’s mouth fell open in delighted scandal. Lois, the traitor, smirked into her coffee mug like she’d been waiting for this day her whole life.
You didn’t stop until you’d shoved Clark into the break room, slammed the door shut, and planted him firmly against it with both hands pressed to his chest.
You stared up at him, chest heaving, eyes flicking from his startled expression to the very obvious hickey by his ear. There was no talking yourself out of this anymore.
“Clark,” you breathed, voice caught somewhere between disbelief and awe. “Oh my God.”
He blinked down at you, all wide eyes behind crooked glasses. “Uh. Morning?”
“Don’t you ‘morning’ me.” You jabbed a finger at the hickey by his ear. “What is that?”
He flinched like you’d accused him of grand larceny, reaching up to cover it with a hand. “Oh, uh, must’ve—ran into a door—”
“Ran into a door?” you whisper-yelled. “Clark, that’s not a door bruise! That’s a hickey!”
Clark’s ears went pink. His mouth opened, shut, opened again. “Maybe it’s just—”
“Don’t even finish that sentence. I know what a hickey looks like, Clark. Especially one that I made!” You clutched your own hair, pacing a two-foot circle. “Oh my God, it’s you. Superman kissed me, except Superman is you. You’re him. You’re—” You threw your hands in the air, searching for the right word. “Clark Kent, but with, like, a cape!”
He winced. “I meant to tell you, I just—”
“You meant to tell me?!” Your voice cracked, whisper hitting a glass-shattering pitch. “Clark, we’ve known each other for years. I copy-edit your work when you’re behind on your deadline. You steal my fries every time we order take out, and you owe me twenty dollars from that time you lost a bet and didn’t have any cash on you. And you forgot to mention you’re also Superman?”
“I didn’t exactly forget—”
“Oh my God.” You dropped your hands from your hair and grabbed the front of his shirt, glaring up at him. “Say it. Out loud. I want to hear you say it.”
Clark swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. Then, quietly: “I’m Superman.”
Your knees went weak. Sensing this, Clark reached out and grasped your hips carefully, preventing you from sliding straight onto the floor.
“You kissed me last night,” you whispered. “A lot. There was heavy petting involved, it got kind of obscene towards the end—”
Blushing bright red, Clark cut you off: “I did.” His voice was soft now, steady with a vulnerability you’d never heard before. “Look, I understand if you’re disappointed—”
“Disappointed?!” you whisper-screeched. “Clark, are you kidding me?! The guy I’ve been gushing over for months was in front of me the entire time? He’s one of my closest friends? My celebrity crush just turned out to be the guy who brings me doughnuts on Fridays?!”
Clark’s brows furrowed. “So… that’s a yes? Or a no? I’m sorry, the yelling is kind of confusing me.”
Instead of answering, you surged up on your toes, grabbed him by the collar, and kissed him. The second his hands steadied you, warm and firm at your waist, and he kissed you back with that same starved intensity as last night, you forgot about everything else.
When you finally pulled back, breathless, you both stared at each other for a long, stunned beat.
Then you blurted, “Wow. I’ve waxed poetic about your biceps right in front of you for years without knowing it.”
Clark’s startled laugh against your chest, and before you could spiral again, he bent down and kissed you again.
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your childhood best friend is synonymous with ‘the guy you call when something (inevitably) goes sour.’ clark is dependable, steady, safe. and maybe—well, more than maybe—the grass is greener in his bed.
or: two times your love life needs a little clark kent tlc. third time’s gotta be the charm, you swear.
wc. 18k+
tags. 18+ explicit nsfw, unprotected piv/mating press, size kink, slightly (?) jealous sex, first time cunnilingus, fingering n squirting, multiple orgasms, edging, creampie, light hair tugging, pathetic clark who whimpers, anecdotes and yearning, talk of past toxic relationships, hurt/comfort if u squint (!!!)
— basically what ciderclark could have been if they werent pussies LMAO. title from the cure's just like heaven aka the most romantic song forever ^u^
Clark lives through every day like the ice cream store’s about to close.
In other words, he’s an avid believer in carpe diem, and he is never too busy.
It’s admirable, really. How he’s always bustling in tandem with Metropolis, zipping in and out of the Daily Planet with a Jitters Coffee in hand and two suits on his shoulders. Flying up and down town to open doors for grandmas, kick lost balls back over the fence, zoom past Stryker’s Island to let Lex Luthor get a real good look before he starts another day in prison.
‘Superman doesn’t have time for selfies’ is bullshit.
He always makes time for one more thing. One last squeeze in his itinerary, whether it be volunteering to take pictures for someone else’s article or being the one in the picture himself—posing straight and strong, beaming that friendly grin before he takes off to seize the day!
Which is why he's the first one you text when you finally dump the guy you've been seeing.
It started with that dream. The one that's been recurring for about a week, enough that you remember the details down to where the specks of dust will end up as they float through the air.
The one where you find him sitting at the front of the school bus, saving a seat with that beat-up backpack decorated with Mighty Crabjoys pins and patches. Sun already high up, and it’s balmy inside, the smell of old vinyl upholstery and seat cleaner already soaking your clothes while the driver skips to the next song on his Johnny Cash CD.
Clark is wearing a bright, dorky grin on his face. Says something over the loud rumble of the engine like: ‘Gosh, we have a test—I know, why on Monday—but you will knock it outta the water. Here comes the sun!’
Or, if you’re going by last night: ‘Seize the day!’
And last Friday: ‘Strike while the iron’s hot,’ which might’ve come from one of those Shakespeare playbooks on his shelf. Probably the one with the deepest stress lines on the spine, because that’s just how he is.
Not like you know, though. Shakespeare has always been Clark’s specialty.
Your heart flutters.
You laugh and ruffle your hands in his downy black hair, and he doesn't do anything to fix it (even when you aren't looking) and you get off a stop before school so he can break his lunch sandwich in half.
Then, you spend the last twenty-odd minutes scuffing sneakers against the dusty sidewalks, sun warming your backs, talking about the latest music and baseball games, the who likes who and the I like—
The bed creaks when you prop yourself up on your elbows.
Your head spins, still stirring and cottony with the last of deep sleep, and your phone alarm is trilling incessantly on your nightstand.
It’s weird how these things have been happening more frequently. Especially considering you’re fresh out of a breakup, if being ghosted and then dumping the guy a week later over voicemail could be considered one.
You thought of it as more of a casual fling, really. A talking stage, as some would call it—a date here and there, just getting to know each other.
Been seeing might be a misleading way to put it. That implies a certain threshold of intimacy, one you hadn’t passed.
He’d fallen silent once you started talking about Smallville. About your best friend, who’s six-four and raised on Kansan corn, a gentle giant you followed to the city and kind of planned to keep in your life.
(He ghosted you the next day. But just to one-up him, you think you might’ve started thinking about canceling the next date when he asked just how important Clark was over anybody else.)
Eyes dry and bleary, your lips are chapped because you somehow started drooling at midnight. Air conditioning’s still on—you always forget despite the nightly reminder text Clark sends you—and you’re shivering under your blankets, hair a mess and plastered to your forehead.
Your Queensland Park apartment is dark and blue with the morning haze, save for the tiny sliver of light shining through your bedroom door. It’s from the lamp you leave on in the sitting room. Ma Kent lent it to you—something to have from home, as if you didn't take her overgrown son with you.
The shade is stained glass, like those ones you find at an old library. Simple and cerulean and rimmed with tarnished brass, and the slightly greenish tinge from the glass color superimposing on the warm lightbulb greets you every day without fail.
So does Clark, with his good morning motivational texts—exactly at seven-thirty, even on weekends.
It’s clockwork. Expected. The same exact time those bus doors would open and wash you in a wave of exhaust and vinyl.
Once, it was ‘Sun’s up, guns out!’ with a photo attachment.
It was him on the front page, framed in a way you know for a fact that Jimmy Olsen got the photo credit in the byline.
He was in his suit, all blue like your lampshade and red like the color of the flannels he left in his wardrobe drawers in Smallville, and he was holding a semi-truck over his head. Biceps straining against the seams of his costume, dark hair windswept in the way his Internet fangirls go crazy over.
You snorted at it. Alright, you...giggled, and maybe you had a pep in your usual morning slouch, but that’s all there was to it. Seriously.
It’s just so endearing that in the lifetime you’ve spent with him, Clark has never run out of cheesy things to say.
You reach across your tangled blankets and wrinkled pillows, grasping clumsily for your phone on the nightstand. You swipe up on the screen, shut off your alarm, and immediately pull into the last message he sent you.
Two minutes ago: ‘Hit a home run like Clark.’
He’s added that stupid bobblehead of Chicago's eponymous cub mascot you got him as a gag gift one Christmas, way back in grade school. The one with the left ear chipped off and a poorly painted Meteors logo over the red and blue C.
A small, fond grin blooms on your face, uncontrollable.
You weren’t aware that he kept it. Hell, you didn’t even know that he brought it to Metropolis.
But that’s just how Clark is. Thoughtful at his core. Kind and sentimental. Actions speak louder than words and the whole works.
He’s tucked himself neatly into your breast pocket. The edges of you line up like the stars, and you house every little thing he’s done in the space between your heart and lungs.
And it’s the steadiness of that which grounds you here.
When things inevitably go wrong, you call him first. CLARK KENT, branded in big letters on your phone screen.
He’s down for anything. Picking you up after a bad day at work, killing (sorry, escorting out) the cockroach that mysteriously found itself in your apartment, helping fold your fitted sheets because you can never do it quite like he and his Ma do.
That’s the kind of man your childhood best friend is, in all his messy-curl, soft-sighed glory. Crooked glasses that he didn’t start wearing until high school, suits by the day and flannel pajamas by night. Blushes if you stare at him for too long, earnest in everything he does.
Consistent. Cerulean sea glass patiently shaped by the test of time.
You like his message and swing your legs onto the floor. The hardwood is cold beneath your feet, and you pad over to the thermostat, turning down the AC and wandering into the bathroom while you think up some witty response.
A pun is too cringy to send. You could just prattle off the date of the next Cubs v. Meteors series, but Clark probably already has a season ticket, so there’s no point.
Your phone buzzes, twice.
Daily Planet newsletter | Friday, April 27
REMINDER: 4th date, Matthew
You grimace at the second pop-up banner.
You still haven’t cleared your calendar of pre-planned dates.
In your sleep-smudged state, you had forgotten. You were lucky enough to score a job that lets you leave early on Fridays, so you just set the afternoon as your go-to day for completing your miscellaneous tasks before the weekend.
Chores, laundry, dates.
You worry the inside of your cheek between your molars.
You decide to blame it on the dream, and the fact that you were immediately greeted by Clark’s text.
Over-optimistic, typed out in that cheery voice you know he intended to send it with even though you can’t possibly hear it. You can hear it in your head though—how it squeaks slightly, pitches up in the way it does when he’s excited.
You really haven’t spent much time with Clark recently, you realize. Seeing him doesn't count, because technically, everyone in Metropolis sees him, even if it’s a red blur rocketing around the stone corner of an Art Deco high-rise.
You’ve just...been busy. With work, and your broken electric kettle (right, you have to fix that before you do something rash at work), and your unlucky streak in relationship business.
He’s definitely busy with balancing Superman and his articles too, but...
That’s a silly thing to worry about, isn’t it?
Making time is practically enshrined in his philosophy, his raison d'être. And if not today, then tomorrow, or some other day. You know Clark Kent well and long enough to understand that he’s superb at making up for things.
Maybe you should take a page out of his book.
TO: clark kent
u busy tonight?
we should bring back friday dinner for good lol
but at ur place, mines messy
Delivered with a whoosh.
You put your phone face down onto the bathroom counter and wrench the sink on, cupping your hands beneath the rapid stream. Frigid water splashes onto your face.
Pressing your wet fingers against your eyelids, stars bloom in your vision. Two breaths, in-out. Long inhale, short exhale.
Like this is just an exercise. Like your heart didn’t stammer for several beats after you punched the send button.
He’s probably on his way to work right now. Gets up early like he’s still in the heartland. Like he has cows and crops to tend to instead of interviews and articles.
All things considered though, Mr. Kent wouldn’t be happy if his son was always tardy or MIA to farm work like he is in the city.
A quiet laugh bubbles in your stomach. You wonder how he even gets in and out of the Planet in that ridiculously bright suit.
You swipe your hands on the soft fibers of a hand towel and pick your phone up again.
He’s in the middle of formulating a message, three dots dancing after each other in the text bubble.
You press the first letter of what you want to say on the keyboard. There’s no going back now.
TO: clark kent
my boyfriend said so btw
Nice to let him know, right?
(You hope he remembers the joke.)
Clark’s dots disappear for a moment. You imagine him pondering in the way you know so well: cheek sucked in and caught between his teeth, eyes wandering to zone out at the ceiling.
Then they start again, bopping along in consecutive order.
Three buzzes, muted against the cradle of your palms.
FROM: clark kent
Haha, ok.
I’m not flying tho
and I don't have melon pops.
A snort finds its way out of your nose. You feel warm despite the cold water still beading on your face.
He remembers.
Which is sweet on its own, referencing those two times he’s come to your rescue in times of love-life crisis.
Which goes back to how making time (be there in a jiffy) and giving thoughtful gifts (thought you might like these flowers) and comforting you when you need it most (oh, sunshine, if you wanted someone to dote on you, you could’ve just asked me) practically runs in his blood.
And he’s right. It’s pretty doting—and dare you suggest—boyfriend-like already.
…Oh. You freeze.
It dawns on you then that a sappy, sickly smile that’s strikingly close to a lovesick one has been creeping onto your face.
Oh, no.
—
Your first heartbreak comes during your eighteenth summer in Smallville.
Well, it’s less heartbreak and more embarrassment.
Turned to face the popcorned wall of the general store, you wait for the line to connect. The retro payphone handset is cold in your hand, just like how it’s cool in here, the barest respite from the hell on earth outside.
Of all days to fall for something stupid, you chose Senior Ditch morning. You should have just lazed around at the Kents’ like Clark asked you to.
The fan in the far corner rattles in the way it has since before you were even born, paper streamers dancing on the metal grate. The dial tone finally starts droning—ouurrrrr.
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, index finger tangled in the cord. Please don’t be mad.
He picks up on the first ring—click! Waits in silence for another second before finally addressing the elephant in the cornfield with his usual cheery voice, “So. Nate's a jerk, isn’t he?”
Sighing, you rub your thumb over your eyelid, press the speaker closer against the shell of your ear. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“’S fine.” You can see him in your mind, flattening his mouth into that weirdly reassuring upside-down smile. “We all learn some way, right?”
“Mhm,” you swallow and do a quick check of your surroundings.
Eddie the clerk is wiping down the counter—milkshakes sold out today—and Mr. Stone is getting ready to set up today’s round of rummy in the back.
No sign of that asshole Nate.
No sign of anyone, really. Kind of stupid now that you think about it, setting a ditch day during the peak of a heat wave.
“Just say it.” You lean your shoulder against the wall and look out the windows. The white backside of the painted GENERAL STORE letters glare back at you. You pitch your voice down, “Told you so, sunshine.”
Clicking his tongue, “I don’t sound like that.”
“Your Ma would disagree.”
“Well, I didn’t tell you so, sunshine,” he sighs. You can hear the small smile bleeding into his voice. “I just said that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.”
“Right.” You draw out the word, honey-slow on the ‘i’.
“Right?” Clark laughs, a windchime sound. Your tone has completely passed over his head. “I only meant you might enjoy your day off more if we were polishing off a pint of Neapolitan and binging Star Wars instead of going on a date.”
You stay silent for a heartbeat. Wheels spin in your head—why the hell are you calling him anyways?
Clark should be mad. That you brushed off his advice, that you woke up early to walk to town instead of his house. That you ditched him for some boy who couldn’t even care for you like he does.
But he isn’t. He’s so water-under-the-bridge forgiving and sweet and—
Fuck, if you aren’t sorry for being stupid. It might be the embarrassment or the sting of slapping yourself mentally or even the heat, but you’re half-desperate when you say:
“Please pick me up.” You blurt it so fast that you think the words muddled into one. Silence. Static over the line. “Clark? Hey, you know I’m sorry for—”
You hear a faint jingle over the staticky line, then a far-off yell, “Pa! I’m going out!”
“Drive safe!” Another beat. “Darn boy left the phone hangin’ again. That you, sunny?”
You bring your hand up to your mouth and stifle an amused exhale against the back of it. “Yeah, it’s me, Mr. Kent.”
He clicks his tongue, a mannerism that’s almost identical to the way Clark does it. “Mm, way he was lookin' all concentrated, I knew it had to be you. What’re you doin’ out in this heat anyway?”
You set your mouth into a flat line. “...Things.”
The bell to the store rings, and Eddie choruses a ‘hey, Mr. Morris’ without even looking up from the counter.
Mr. Morris nods to Eddie, waves to you and then tilts his head with a frown. He’s been coming here long enough to know where you take your usual perch with Clark, so it must be strange to see you without the Kents’ awkwardly big son.
You point to the phone, and his frown relaxes with an oh.
“Things, you say,” rumbles Mr. Kent. You could probably see his greying beard fluffing up if you squint hard enough. “Does this have something to do with Clark bein’ all mopey this mornin’?”
“Um,” you stammer, swallowing. You wince. “Maybe. I...well, a guy asked me to meet him.”
“Oh. See, I’d say if a boy doesn’t show up to take you himself, he in’t worth chasing, but I think you heard enough of that from Clark,” Mr. Kent drawls. Your nose furrows, deepening your grimace. “Well, I hope that works out for you someday. If you need to find me—prob’ly in twenty minutes if my boy is abiding the speed limit—I'll be in the barn.”
He lets out a hearty laugh. You echo him, albeit weaker and half-awkward.
“Yeah, Mr. Kent, I—I'll see you ‘round.”
You hang your head and hook the handset back onto the payphone.
Main Street is distorted by heat waves. The cracked asphalt wobbles along with the fading white paint dividing the lanes, and you think about Clark.
Tearing down the roads at a speed of exactly 30 mph, hands tapping at nine and three on the sunwarmed wheel. Skipping to the next Rascal Flatts song on the CD that never leaves the truck, like it’s just another day.
Mr. Kent said that Clark was looking all concentrated on the phone. You know that look like the back of your hand: lashes resting against his cheeks, eyes trained down and glasses sliding to the tip of his nose. Tongue caught in the pocket of his cheek, dimple pressing in as he mulls over whatever is playing out in his head.
And then you wonder when was the last time he cut his hair—it's gotten quite long, enough that when he tugs a cap on, his curls stick out of the back—and if he managed to get the magnitude of his laser vision right this morning because last week, he burned himself shaving.
You lean your head against the pane, graciously cold on your cheek.
The heat must be playing tricks, you think, with a superimposition of Clark swimming on the glass.
(Or it might just be that you kind of, maybe, really miss him and whatever weird thing he’d randomly blurt out if he was here.)
Smallville Giants cap snug over his head, downy hair curling out of the snapback in the way you imagined it to be. The brim is low over his forehead, shadow making the blue of his eyes shine out in that somewhat off-putting way they do in the dark.
He grins in that lopsided, downturned way that reminds you of the Kents’ border collie, Shelby, thumping her tail against the ground. A laugh escapes you in a small exhale through your nose, and you brush your fingertips against the window.
And then he taps the glass.
Real. Solid. Smile widening to show teeth with a double-exposure in the reflection.
Your heart leaps into your throat as you spin around. It really is him, arms firmly crossed over a white-shirted chest and charming dimples shining at full force.
“What—Clark!”
You must look like a fool right now, limbs all frozen up in surprise and eyes wider than the fine china saucers Mrs. Kent likes to display in her dining room. Eddie laughs from behind you, slapping a rag onto the metal counter.
“Hi!” Your best friend’s broad hand is a blur as he waves, voice muted by the glass. “I think you ordered a chauffeur?”
You quickly stride over to the door, pushing it open. The bell rings with a clear, windchime sound; a blast of searing, humid hellfire presses down on you. Sweat begins to bead at your neck.
“Very funny.” Still, you’re helpless to the fond smile that tugs at your face. Clark strides over, freckled cheeks slightly pinkened, thumb pressing into the palm of his other hand.
The left side of his mouth quirks up at the same time he shrugs his shoulders. “I came, you called.”
Letting the door shut, you step out into the Kansan summer and stand under the shade of your abnormally tall friend. You’re earnest, from the bottom of your heart, when you say, “Thank you, Clark.”
A nervous scoff skips out of his mouth, and he palms the back of his neck. “It’s nothing. Come on.”
He urges you to a nearby alley—strange.
You don’t remember hearing the truck, and there’s no sign of it on the street either. Getting from the farm to town in the time between Mr. Kent picking up the phone and you hanging up would be impossible unless he was breaking the sound barrier.
You let him walk ahead of you, lengthening the gap between your and his strides.
“Wait,” you start, steps stalling, “how did you...?”
Clark freezes and slowly pivots to face you, mouth twisted in a way that screams guilty. “Okay, don’t be mad.”
“Dude—”
“—I flew here because I didn’t want you getting heatstroke—”
“—I’ve been waiting for you to fly me since forever.”
He pauses, mouth mid-word and his index finger in the air, like this is a debate rebuttal and not a page out of your wildest dreams.
Clark didn’t take the truck. He’s going to fly you back home.
Like they do in the fucking Titanic, but in the air. Where the birds fly. Where you can look down and see the rippling fields and the cows that look like brown and white clouds in the grass.
Pinching his lips till they turn white, he wipes his hands on his blue-jean thighs and stares at you in that absent, froggish way. “Sure, I guess that works out.”
You bound over to him, stomach bubbling with a schoolgirl-giddiness you only remember feeling when he does something so thoughtful and sweet. Which is every day.
So maybe that’s not normal. You should probably seek medical attention.
You circle around him and reach to grip his shoulders—they're firm beneath your hands, conditioned by years of helping out on the farm (and also a little bit of alien genetics).
Clark obliges, almost mindless, bending his knees by a fraction to let you jump onto his back.
He smells like hay and sunshine and a long day at the lake. Fresh, clean linen, a faint tang of salt next to a braid of sweet corn silk.
Like the same citrus soap he's used since forever, and the old books at the library. Like a thread of oak wood—same as the tree in his backyard and the walls of his bedroom.
It’s more comforting than any cologne or Mrs. Kent’s stew.
You know it now. Clark Kent will always be someone you can run home to.
You dig your chin into the crook of his neck and shoulder, sighing. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”
Clark cranes his head back, trying to get a glimpse because of course he does. He’s always a stickler for eye contact when talking—it's inscribed into his heartland manners.
The tips of your noses brush, two compasses crossing.
“Hmm,” he hums, weak, “I don’t know. Maybe last week, when I let you copy my physics homework.”
“Helped me, you mean.”
“Yeah…”
You flick the tip of his ear, already red and warm like someone tried to tear it off.
“You’re mean.”
“I love you too, by the way,” he quips, pushing off the floor gently.
Then he starts floating, legs unfurling as he drifts up. Your laugh is light as you tighten your arms around his neck, him holding you close to his warm back.
That shouldn’t make you feel the way it does. Like he believes in it, a hundred percent. Like he isn’t just saying it because he loves you like he loves everyone else.
“C’mon.” You tap his collarbone. He hooks his acquiescing arms under your knees. Squeezes your calves once with his broad palm, reassuring.
You push down the odd feeling swelling in your chest as the wind starts to comb its fingers through your clothes.
It’s okay like this.
Comfortable, steady. Held by your best friend. Soaring above the little town that Clark makes feel like the whole world has been singled to this hundred-thousand-acre plot.
“Just this once, okay?” Clark says, though the way he says it with a wobbly face makes you think that he wouldn’t mind a round two. “Because we’re already skipping school.”
“Right,” you nod, grin widening, “and we should totally be back in time to finish up Porter’s final essay.”
He pinches his mouth. “What do you mean you haven’t finished?”
“Okay, I only need my thesis.” You press your ear to his shoulder and look down at the quickly shrinking Smallville. “...And everything else after that.”
The wind, mercifully cooler, whistles around you. Oh, there’s the windmill, and the winding road, and the golden, rippling fields for as far as the eye can see. A soft sigh leaves you.
You’re going to miss the cornfields and the lightning bugs. The way the air smells slightly heavy when a storm’s approaching. How everyone is so well-knit with each other, how things are easy and unthinking.
Automatic, the most natural thing in the world.
“Sunshine, you—” he sputters, breaking you from your spiral. You’ve stopped just beneath the clouds, moisture wetting his curls till they’re pitch dark and plastered to his forehead.
He cranes his head down to rest his chin on your forearm. Sighs, resigned.
“That’s barely the introduction.”
—
By some stroke of luck, you bitterly break up with your first long-term boyfriend at the same time Clark gets his first apartment.
It’s small in here, still bare and honest. Ceiling popcorned and a little warmer than eggshell white like a small-town general store. The carpet is light brown, and you’re sure there’s a strange stain in some dark corner.
And if you had to be honest, you think Clark chose this place specifically because it was ugly. He always puts his highest hopes in even the smallest and most shriveled of things. Even in Lex Luthor, that miserable eggshell of a CEO.
(But it’s all in typical Downtown fashion. At least he isn’t settling in the snazzy, gentrified Upper East Side.
This is temporary, he said, ‘till I can find a place in Midtown. But that’s for when the rent there miraculously dips, which is likely never unless metahumans start shooting lasers out of their eyes in front of the Daily Planet.
Wait...)
The temperature doesn’t work, either.
Well, it does. Kind of.
But it’s confined to just a small unit attached to the wall, so you can’t even feel it if you’re more than five feet away.
His bedframe sits in the corner disassembled, futon rolled out over a full-sized mattress that’s been plopped in the middle of the room. He could’ve fixed that, given his super speed and strength and whatever else he has. Even could’ve done his entire studio in a day, but he didn’t.
Because he was ‘waiting for you’. For two weeks. To come over to help him set up and have a little housewarming party after, just like the movies. Junk food and sodas and all.
You think back to how you got here.
Soaked to the bone. Shivering. Clothes vacuum sealed to your body and umbrella inverted in your clenched hand.
What a day for your boyfriend to be an asshole and give you an ultimatum: break up, or cut your last root from Smallville.
Ergo, you did what any best friend would do.
You chose Clark, because it has always been that way.
Clark doesn’t give ultimatums. Doesn’t get insanely, obsessively overbearing when you talk to other guys and absolve himself of any wrongdoing if you catch him staring at a girl.
He’s forgiving. Concerned, yeah, but not authoritative.
For god’s sake, he exclaimed ‘what in tarnation’ when he cracked open the weathered door and saw you dripping all over the hallway.
“My boyfriend sent me here,” you told him, gaze downturned in guilt, and his face softened from surprise to wordless understanding.
That’s how things have always been between you. Wordless. A language of eyes and gestures you’ve been fluent in since your formative years.
You squelched inside like your feet had cephalopod suction cups on the bottom of them. Clark helped with shucking off your heavy jacket while you mumbled through the long story (not so) short.
The ultimatum.
How you realized in the moment that your now-ex was trying to isolate you from your friends.
How that jerk—you refrained from asshole or motherfucking egotistical dickwad because a certain someone would cough—was so gung-ho about being the guy for you.
The first one you had to call.
As in, expected you to overhaul your pre-established laundry list of speed dials. Like he wanted to be the one you called at midnight to hide a body (Lana and Pete) or the one you relied on if you were, god forbid, stranded in Blüdhaven (Clark).
As if, when you did call him, he actually came to your rescue instead of smacking his lips and saying, ‘Um, sorry babe, I’m a little busy.’
And maybe as you kept going on, it started to dawn that you weren’t really bitter about breaking up.
You were more bitter about being stupid enough to stay with him for so long. For just pushing the little icks to the side, all ‘cause he might’ve been a little pretty and he made you feel okay every three or four days.
Clark had been sifting through a box while you explained. Rain still pattered outside, racing down the window, but it was lighter than the absolute storm that had slammed into you on the way here.
He paused, turned a little pink at the ears, and handed over a haphazardly folded towel like he was consciously controlling his actions.
Which was weird. Because he’s always meticulous about his laundry.
“Wait, sunshine,” he stuttered before you disappeared into the bathroom. “The plumbing’s opposite. Cold is hot and hot is cold.”
“Thanks, Clark.”
And then you unfolded the towel, and there lay a neatly creased pair of your underwear. Clean. Clothesline scented.
You remembered this one.
Late night, big calculus test the next morning. Cramming in his dorm, and you brought an extra change of clothes that you ended up using. You probably dumped your stuff into his hamper by mistake.
You laughed, a little too loud. Clark heard you, and you heard him plead don’t say anything in a low, defeated tone through the thin wall.
You didn’t push. Didn’t pry. Because Clark’s just like that.
Sentimental. Plan A to Z. Keeps your stuff in case you need it ten years down the line.
And besides, you’re here now. That’s better than spiraling into a self-beatdown or throwing darts at a picture of your ex’s face.
You stop at the doorway of the bathroom with your eyes still itching and red-rimmed, a towel wrapped around your body.
The apartment is eerily still, frozen in a moment.
Everything in this 400 square foot place is raw.
Exposed. Naked. White painted brick on the windowed side, stucco boxing the rest in.
Like all of Clark’s life has been dwindled down to a couple boxes and furniture bought off Craigslist. A couple white-painted nails sticking out of the wall and a broken outlet, as if that’s fine.
It is, for a fresh graduate who’s paying rent off savings and an entry-level salary from the Daily Planet.
(Thank god for that full-ride scholarship he managed to snag four years ago.)
Plus, you trust that Clark has his priorities straight, because according to the to-do list endearingly taped to the mirror, the fridge is installed and working, and he’s already deep cleaned every surface.
Dust specks float past you, and there’s a breeze—slightly clammy from the aftermath of a storm—circulating from an open window.
Widening patches of sky peek out from the clearing clouds. The air smells wet, in that good, after the rain way. A tad salty from the bay, too, with a hint of chill.
The rays of a New Troy golden hour paint the room in faint, honeyed gold, and the ceiling fan in the main room is spinning in languid circles, droning on with a rusted noise that’s starting to grate on your nerves.
You can hear the metro rattle by below, the foundation of the complex shivering slightly as it rumbles on the tracks. There’s a tune playing from another door down, jazzy and vague.
You take two steps out of the bathroom, bare feet padding from old tile to worn carpet fibers. You peek around like some cartoon character, searching for a telltale sign of Clark.
Empty. His gingham beige-brown curtains, same as the ones from Smallville, flutter with a gentle breeze.
But laid on top of his futon-mattress combo is one of his old shirts—you stifle a laugh, it’s the Crabjoys one that shrunk in the dryer—and the pair of shorts you left with your underwear.
Small miracles.
You pull the shirt over your head. Smells like Clark, all citrus shampoo and line-dried cotton. Comforting, in the way he’s so familiar that he feels like home.
The tide of self-deprecation in you subsides.
You dig into the freezer next—because ice cream makes everything better, obviously—kitchen tiles warm against your soles as a geyser of cold air billows up. Not frigid. Just cold, like it’s barely working.
There’s a pint of Neapolitan, which has maybe a single, pathetic, half-scoop left in it.
You move on.
The frozen custard that you vividly remember him buying and sending you a picture of two days ago is in the same state as the pint. And—even worse—there's a frustratingly empty box of ice cream sandwiches.
Prodding further, pushing aside frozen food and ready-to-microwaves...
Oh, a box of honeydew cream popsicles!
And there’s one left. It’s semi-melted in your hand, barely holding onto its shape.
You get that he’s all corn-fed and trying to bulk, but how much sugar does Clark need to consume in a day?
A flutter of movement catches your eye just as you’re ripping and crumbling the cold, plastic wrapping into your fist.
Right. Old building like this—there's a fire escape.
You find Clark slumped against the raw brick on the rusted landing, bones loose under the tangerine sky and curls ruffled by the evening breeze. Well, less slumped and more crumpled.
Legs pretzeled at an awkward angle to fit on the escape landing. Shoulders hunched so he can fit. New glasses folded up and tucked into the collar of his pajama shirt—Crabjoys again, this time the right size.
(You don’t want to know how many of those shirts he has.)
An open book is flattened against his stomach, browning page corners dog-eared and well loved.
Tom Sawyer. Of course.
An old bedtime story turned favorite book. Vaguely, you remember that Mrs. Johnson in third grade chastised him for writing multiple book reports on it, even if they were completely different and lent a new perspective each time.
(She eventually gave up. Clark Kent continued to write his weekly reports on The Adventures of Tom Sawyer until his Pa caught on and introduced him to Huckleberry Finn.)
Chipped paint rasps at your bare shins, and your shorts hitch up as you duck out the open window. The grate is hard beneath you when you drop next to him with the iced treat in hand; it's already half-slush, coating your fingers with sticky, melon-flavored cream.
"Didn't get one for me?" he croaks, rolling his head to face you. The shadow of a passing flock of geese dances over his face; a shift in the wind, and his eyes are clear and soaked in golden hour light.
"Last one in the freezer, cowboy," you tell him, offering the popsicle. He presses the flat of his tongue against the syrup rivulets on the back of your hand—you wrinkle your nose. "You're gross."
"And you're the one who's stealing my last melon pop.”
He sinks his teeth into the soft cream, and you bite after him.
“How’d you dry the rain off the grate?” you ask, fingers curling around a rough bar. It’s weirdly warm against your skin.
Doesn’t feel gritty like the fire escape in your apartment does. Your hand comes away without a smudge.
Wow. He really meant it when he crossed off deep clean on that to-do list.
“Heat breath.”
Perks of being superpowered. “Huh.”
You take turns like this, switching bites until only the wooden stick remains. You leave it between your teeth, leeching the last of the cold into your mouth and letting your sticky hand dry in the wind.
Below is a street you don’t remember the name of, jam packed with the post-workday rush. Taxis, trucks, and bikes splash through shallow puddles.
A cat yowls across the street, and the middle-aged guy busking beneath the awning on the corner is ripping a riff on his trumpet.
The traffic song wraps around you, rhythmed in a syncopated hymn that drowns out the rush of blood that comes to your ears.
"I've been reading up on the area," Clark starts. "There's this bodega, right down the block. Oh, and the bakery on 38th and Scott, we could try their brownies if we line up at six."
"Big city plans for a small-town guy," you say, droll, chewing absently on the wooden stick. The back of your head lazes against the auburn rough of the bricks, and a gentle breeze sifts between the buildings.
Clark scoots closer, shoulder to shoulder with you. He's a furnace like always, skin pinkened and glowing in the way it does when he’s in the sun.
He puts his chin on your shoulder, looks at you real closely—eyelids at half-mast, mouth pressed into the shape of mischief. You give him a sidelong stare, holding the blue of his pupils.
In them—cloud swirls, the shadow pattern of the birds above soaring by with a breeze that trails its fingers down your spine.
You feel a little warm under his stare, blood rushing to your head. "What?"
"We're gonna have so much fun here," he finally says, smile breaking out on his face. "Smallville One and Two, reporting for duty!"
You let out a wheezing laugh, looking up at the clouds. There's one shaped like a flying man, puffy marshmallow limbs stretched in a starfish. "And let me guess, you're One, and I'm Two."
"Fine, Smallville Half and Half."
"But which Half comes first?"
"Doesn't matter," Clark grins. Knocks his knee against yours, reassuring in that way you know so well. "They come in pairs. Do not separate."
You shove his shoulder—doesn’t budge. His deltoid is hot beneath your hand, though you aren’t sure if it’s really him or you that’s warmer.
“Cheeseball,” you mutter. Eyes rolling, even with the grin tugging incessantly at your mouth.
He laughs with the odd, boyish charm he’s never really grown out of. It tickles something in your brain, how he starts off with a quick scoff that devolves into full-bodied hiccups.
You want to hear it forever.
You want to stay here forever with your legs cramped together side by side on the hard fire escape. Skyscrapers and stone for as far as the eye can see, cut by the grid of streets that beat with the heart of Metropolis.
“Oh!” Clark straightens like he’s been struck. Reaches into his pocket, draws out his phone. He taps around the screen and then shows you a video. “Look, Pa sent me this.”
It’s home in the Kents’ backyard. Rippling gold fields and heavy panicles of grain, a soft static that used to lull you right to sleep. Old, metal-wood fences and the cry of cicadas.
You squint at the screen.
Cows graze like little brown and white clouds in the sea of green. It might be Linus yonder by the leftmost fence, and Franklin flicking his tail next to Patty. Or is that Shermy and Lucy?
You can’t tell them apart like Clark can.
There’s an irregular shape shadowed by Franklin’s back leg. He zooms in for you without asking and oh—it’s a calf.
Fluttering ears. Big, softhearted eyes. Fluffy brown coat. Reminds you of Clark, in a way. All earnest and new to everything.
The bottom barrier of their fence is still broken, you notice. It’s just a small tear, probably from the time his powers started developing.
He had torpedoed—yes, like a missile—out of the back door and banged his head into the base of the fence before the screen door could rattle back into place.
Guess that crack there serves as a reminder: no flying on the farm.
“Cute,” you say. “We should go back sometime soon.”
He smiles in agreement and reaches back to place his phone on the windowsill. His arm flexes in front of your eyes—hard lines and veins rising beneath tan skin—and you suddenly get why the freezer is so empty.
You clench your jaw and duck your head.
“Anyways” —he cuts himself off, tucking his lips between his teeth as he thinks. “Uh, I got my suit in the mail, too. Been hiding it in the closet, ‘cause I haven’t set up my bedframe yet.”
You keep your eyes trained on your knees but let a smile pull at the corners of your mouth. He was waiting for you. “Can I be the first to see?”
He scoffs in amusement, dimples sinking in easily. It never fails to amaze you, how they’re so ready to just appear even when he’s only talking.
“Don’t be silly, I know you were peeking when Ma was making it.”
“Thank you for the astute observation,” you mumble. Unneeded heat gathers in your cheeks.
“A-S-T-U-T-E.” Clark is unfazed as you stare at him blankly. He shrugs, corners of his mouth pulling down like it’s no big deal. “It was in the crossword this morning.”
Eyes flicking up, you plant your palm on the side of his face and hold him away. “Okay, third place winner of Smallville Middle’s spelling bee.”
“Well—! Most sixth graders would stutter on perspicacious too,” he stammers, words smushed by your hand to his cheek.
You mumble, “Apparently not Loretta and Marcie.”
“I’ll have you know that I could spell the first-place word.” Swatting your hand off with a flippant wave, Clark plucks Tom Sawyer off his chest and sits up properly, letting it flop onto the grate. “Bouillon: B-O-U-I-double L-O-N. Because Ma always uses it in her stew.”
You know. You were there, waiting for him by the steps with a rented movie you don’t remember anymore and chips in case he was hungry. So sure he would win.
And if you still call Marcie ‘Marcie-Farcie’ in your head? Well, Clark doesn’t have to know that.
Reaching around him (and ignoring how solid and furnace-hot his chest is in your arms), you lean into him with a fake-coy smile. “Hey, could you spell loquacious for me right now?”
“Lo...?” Clark’s brows furrow with that faint wrinkle between them. You kind of want to smooth it out with your thumb. “Oh, don’t be mean. And—hey is for horses.”
You blow a short raspberry. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m very fun,” he stammers, voice pitched high. “I wear trunks on the outside. I—I like Neapolitan ‘cause I get to eat all of my favorite flavors.”
“Right,” you say, nodding politely. You press your mouth tight, trying not to laugh as Clark returns the hug and holds you tight. “Right.”
“And I can fit a hundred lollipops in my cape, isn’t that great? Oh—and I can recite all of Romeo and Juliet.”
He clears his throat. Steadies himself, posture straightening. Slips into that tone he's been practicing, dubbed the Superman Voice. “Two households, both alike in dignity. In fair Verona—”
A short laugh leaves you, uncontrollable. Joy sloshes around in your chest. “Alright, alright, you’re fun.”
“I knew it,” Clark says, giving you a pointed look. Eyebrows raised and clear blue eyes shining with something you can’t name.
The breath in your lungs unravels to the quick.
You still haven’t pulled away, arms tight around his chest. He’s warm, alive, grounding.
Safe, in the way he’s always been.
And on a more bitter note, in the way your ex hated. With a capital H.
In that what’s so great about him way. In that maybe you should stop seeing him way.
It never made any sense.
Clark’s nothing but honest. Soft. A sweet, heartland, golden retriever to the core who names his parents’ cows after Peanuts characters.
The thought of liking someone while they were in a relationship wouldn’t cross his mind. Hell, the thought of even liking you, single or not, wouldn’t either.
…Would it?
Clark coughs, untangling himself with a long inhale. “We—should start. Um, on my furniture. Like I said, we’re gonna have so much fun once we settle in.”
“Dude, you make it sound like we’re gonna live together.” You ignore how that idea makes your chest feel odd.
Like your heart’s about to leap out and crack your sternum. Like waking up to the sight of your sleep-soft best friend making breakfast is a perfectly fine thing to think of.
“I mean…” He shrugs, lips pinching and angling downward as if he’s truly considering it. “You honestly slept at my parents’ house more than your own.”
Your throat runs dry, caught. “Your—well, your bed’s just comfier.”
“Yeah, it’s ‘cause Shelby farted on it.”
“Ew.”
—
The thing about lightbulbs is: they aren’t the same as before.
Older lightbulbs take some time to light up. Flip the switch, open the circuit. Gentle buzz, and the filaments catch with a current, every second stretching into the next before the brightness flickers and then peaks.
Those were the bulbs in Smallville and Clark’s old apartment.
Newer lightbulbs are instantaneous. Snap of the finger—flick and light, like a Zippo. And that’s you right now, standing in the shadow of a pent-up tsunami of realizations that’s about to hit you full force.
This is familiar.
Standing in front of the door to Clark’s apartment, bag heavy on your shoulder and shifting on your feet as you wait for him to answer your knocks. 3-D glares back at you on the golden plate, bright against the dark, polished wood.
Familiar, but not the same.
For one, his old apartment was chipped white paint and Downtown charm. This one’s Midtown class, all dark marble and crisp navy blue.
And for another, you’re nervous beyond reason, and you’re seriously considering just finding a hole to wither in.
Your heart is stuttering. Knocking around between your lungs, tapping at the underside of your sternum in a way Clark’s super-hearing is sure to pick up on.
Long inhale, short exhale. This is just dinner, just like the million others you’ve had.
Except, you’re kind of dolled up—as in, a smidge more makeup than you’d usually wear around him (which is close to none, because he’s seen you in middle school with acne and that terrible haircut). As in, you fixed your sweater for glaring wrinkles in the elevator and made sure your jeans didn’t have lint on them.
Except, over the course of the very short workday you spent mulling over your bad decisions, it started to wash over you that blaming everything on that dream would technically be blaming your own subconscious.
“One sec,” you hear, muffled by the door. The latch clicks, and there’s Clark, warm smile on his face, dimples like gentle craters in his cheeks. “Hi.”
Your stomach somersaults and lands with a pathetic hop.
Which is bad. You think you need an icepack, or medical attention, or frankly, anything to peel your mind off the sight of Clark in his white button-up, undershirt visible beneath the fabric. First two buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to reveal the veins nestled in the crook of his elbow, glasses half-buried in his combed-down curls and slacks sinfully tailored to his thighs.
The smell of bagel crumbs floats around him, weirdly. Toasted, fresh, with a hint of…vanilla bean, which isn’t his usual vanilla. Not that you mind; you briefly consider just pulling him in by the lapels of his shirt and—no.
You think of him agonizing over two bottles—extract or bean syrup—in the grocery store before your mind scrubs itself blanks. Whiteboard clean. Nothing rattling around if you shook your head.
Like when the tide pulls all the way back from the beach. Like when you’re staring down at the plain of barren, sandy dunes below your feet, look up, and stare into the face of a hundred-foot-wave question of oh, when did he suddenly become attractive to you?
Sure, you might have realized that what you’ve been missing in other guys has been lurking in your golden retriever of a best friend for eternity. That no other guy would treat you so sweetly like he did.
But that’s different.
That’s pining and idealistic stuff.
This is insane. Mentally. Physically. Hormonally. Gripping the table’s edge-y.
It’s one thing to want someone emotionally, but physicality is a completely different thing. And now, two seconds deep into a miles-long stare, you’re suddenly aware of just how badly you'd want Clark if he wasn’t your best friend.
In the same way he was in that picture of him lifting a semi-truck like a fucking paperweight. Damn Jimmy Olsen for always getting Superman’s best angle, so much that you’ve developed a peeve for when the random people in your feed start gushing paragraphs about taking off their pants or whatever.
(Of course, if someone caught wind of that, they didn’t hear it from you…)
Or the same way he was in the aftermath of that first real heartbreak of yours. When you dripped all over his welcome mat looking like a sad paper-maché of a freshly broken-up and bitter barely-graduate, and then helped him move into his apartment and totally didn’t stare when he did all the grunt work for the heavy furniture.
Or—you dread to think—Smallville.
When he was still sort of skinny and awkward and a fish out of water. Still being fed corn from sunrise to sundown, winning the runner-up to half his contests, and accidentally melting a hole through a lab table in chemistry and giving you that sheepish, smile-wince look of endearing guilty apology.
Oh.
The wave crashes over you. Burning cold. Startling. Dreadful. Heart entering freefall.
You maybe. Might. Probably. Definitely. Have harbored a secret, heavily denied and-or repressed crush on Clark Kent.
Corn-fed and six foot four Clark Kent. Academic whiz and full-ride merit scholarship recipient Clark Kent. Who unironically finds it beautiful to say things like ‘what the hay’ and ‘oh, sakes alive.’
The Clark Kent who waited two weeks for you to help him move in when he could’ve done it himself in two minutes. The same guy who dropped everything to pick you up after you were stupidly pranked.
Your childhood best friend. Whose name is synonymous with ‘no.1 most dependable and would die for you.’ Whose toddler pictures you’ve had a guest-starring role in.
You barely register Clark tilting his head, brows furrowing in mild confusion. “Sunshine?”
“Hi,” you blurt, a little flat. “Clark.”
You’re sure your mouth is at an awkward, slightly sour angle, because he studies you before slowly stepping back to let you in. You’re half-ready to run to his bathroom and bang your head against the mirror.
He just. Looks at you. Lips set in that slight pout of consideration and his right-hand dimple shifting.
You avoid his eyes, feigning interest in his doorframe. Dark wood, solid, and ridiculously small when Clark is filling out the space inside.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, shifting on your feet. “Never better.”
“Okay,” he says. Simple, short. Like he’s not going to think deeper into it—at least you hope he won’t. He flashes a small smile, “I’m making bagels.”
You shove down the urge to snort at how in character that is for him.
Here you are, freaking out over the newfound discovery that you were none the wiser to secretly yearning for Clark since high school. And he’s unconcerned, shifting his mouth to and fro in the expressive way you know so well and making fucking bagels for dinner.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.” Clark lets an easy grin rise on his face, and he reaches to grab the strap of your bag, reeling you into his apartment. You echo him, a light laugh escaping as you kick off your shoes and let him take your things.
He nudges the door shut with his heel and peers into your bag, surprise etching into the line of his brow.
“Woah.” Reaches in, pulls out a bottle of wine by the neck. It’s ridiculous how your stomach starts simmering with want when you see how big his hand is compared to the glass. “So, I’m guessing you bought this to make up for my lack of ice cream?”
You blink, twice. Takes a moment for you to eke out a squeaky, “Uh, sure.”
Too casual to be innocent, you dig your hands into your pockets and stroll into the kitchen with uptight leisure. You exchange stiff pleasantries while you avoid his eyes—how’s work and you won’t believe what the media’s saying about you right now.
Orange-yellow light spills out from inside the oven. Clark’s bagels, slightly more malformed than the ones you’d find at a coffee shop, have just started baking, still pale and lumpy.
His apartment has changed slightly since the last time you saw it; the sitting room is still straight ahead, tall glass and blinking city lights; hallway to the right, the faint outline of doorways visible despite the lights being off.
But there’s frames on the wall now, glass panes glared by the amber light coming from the lamp next to the TV. The couch is different—more sunken in, like it’s seen its fair share of nights crashing onto the cushions in exhaustion.
And there’s stuff pinned to the fridge door. Mismatched magnets from Jitters Coffee and some touristy store in Gotham (though you didn’t know they even existed), and random sticky notes taped to the metal.
CALL MA and Crabjoys reunion ticketing: Apr20 are the ones that really get you. Remind you that some things never change.
You zero in on a photo strip painstakingly centered in a magnetic frame, long sandalwood beams squared around four snapshots of you and Clark.
Together. Pinching each other’s cheeks with one of those dumb filters from the photobooth in Metropolis Uni’s gift shop. You remember this one.
Spring semester of junior year, wide smiles full with the relief of surviving midterms week. The booth had been so small that you had to sit in his lap. He was warm when he wrapped his arms around your waist to keep you steady.
Your core stirs. Unintentionally, of course. But still enough to send a violent wave of rapid-firing neurons into a massive short-circuit.
It doesn't help that Clark is radiating that same heat when he comes up behind you. Sidles up next to your arm, setting his hand on the blue cabinet above and kneading his cheek between his teeth.
“Uh,” he starts, quiet like the subtle hum of the oven’s fan, “are you hungry?”
It’s barely five. You’re still lingering on the photo strip, studying the way Clark’s watching you in that long-ago moment. Eyes soft, smile angled downward in a manner you’d call adoring. Like he’s in love.
Not that love you usually practice. The one where you kid with each other and battle in footsie under the dinner table. The one you’ve been swimming in since childhood, when he slept with a Meteors poster under his pillow to manifest their next win. When you made eyes at other boys and he had to remind you to pay attention in class.
But one where he looks like he wants to take you by the collar of your shirt too. Lean into you, full tilt and without hesitation, like he’s yearning to become one under your skin and carve his name into the underside of your ribs. Like he’s got a spark of desire flickering in his chest.
Or not. You could be delusional.
You remind yourself to inhale. “No, I—I’m good.”
“Okay,” he says, voice rumbling low. Your knee twitches—the barest, involuntary spasm of a muscle in reaction to the sparks setting off behind your ribs. “Because I think we need to talk.”
You go ramrod-stiff so quickly that you swear one of your joints cracks. A thrill runs through your heart—fuck, he definitely caught on. If there’s one thing about his policy of making time, it’s that establishing clear communication is included.
Pitched in a somewhat sheepish tone, “What?”
“I mean,” he ducks his head down, shoulders tight as he gestures between the two of you with a finger. Looks back up at you with earnest eyes, blue so clear you can see yourself in the glassy reflection. “You’re acting weird. Did I do something?”
You shake your head, immediate. Relief courses through you, but it’s quickly replaced with a wave of guilty heartache. Here is a man who only wants to be sweet and care about you, and you’re thinking you might want more. Want him to kiss and touch and say, I’m in—
“No, it’s not you—I’m just…” you fish for an excuse “…a little stressed.”
“Well.” Clark does a short, dorky side-to-side, shoulders more relaxed. “Talk to me.”
Your throat feels full when you swallow. Pulse thundering, you tap the picture with your finger. “You kept it.”
He looks a little stunned, head listing to the side owlishly. “Why not?”
You shrug. Stupidly, “Dunno.”
A smile breaks on his face, tender as a rising sun. Certain, too, like he needs to remind you that duh, “It’s my favorite picture.”
Oh.
You didn’t know that. He keeps the most romantic (arguably) picture of you and him on his fridge, where it’s impossible to not pass by on the daily. That’s fine.
Your stomach clenches in a way that makes you feel stricken and stupidly, ridiculously heartsick.
“You’re kidding.”
“Not,” he huffs, shifting to lean against the fridge. He’s almost the same width—god—and you’re a little too distracted with the solid shape of his bicep tightening under his sleeve and the barest dip of muscle before his elbow. “You still haven’t answered the question.”
Frowning, “What question?”
“What you’re so stressed about,” Clark says.
Pinching his mouth to the side, his dimple winks as he studies you. He’s been doing that a lot—new nervous habit, you suppose. “Does it have something to do with your text this morning?”
Your jaw clenches, caught. “Maybe...”
He knows you too well.
Clark does that thing again—tilts his head, going from one side to another. Like he’s trying to gauge you from every angle. You fiddle with a loose string in your sleeve.
He blurts, “I didn’t like Matthew, by the way.”
Which—okay. Valid. Clark is honest as always, and he’s entitled to his own opinions, which you agree with, because looking back, Matthew was pretty unlikeable.
He insisted on splitting the bill—not that you’re salty about needing to pay, for god’s sake, you have a job and a fair amount of disposable income, but because he was just cheap. Like he needed someone to pick up his slack and excused it with, ‘well, everyone’s all about equality these days, right?’
And he only wore a faint, sneerish smile as if he was embarrassed to appear more than nonchalant. Chewed cinnamon gum like it was his second job, rolled his eyes at the slightest thing.
Never laughed, unless it was in derision when a kid tripped over their own feet, or something. And he was addicted to wired headphones. And pretended to be an avid reader—you know he was acting, because he couldn’t tell you who narrated The Great Gatsby despite it being opened to the last chapter in front of him.
You might’ve overlooked a lot of things about Matthew because he was cute. Baritone and solemn dimples and curly black hair and eyes that curved into crescents at the slightest twitch of his mouth.
And, alright. Just for the sake of adding it to the pile of late revelations that have dawned upon you during this hour:
You probably swiped right on him because he resembled Clark.
Not a little. A lot. In an almost eerie way.
Like he was his evil twin from Park Ridge or something, but skinnier and vampirish, and lacking freckles and that eclectic, heartland music taste.
But enough about that. You never told Clark you were shooting your nth shot with another guy and hoping he’d be the one. He shouldn’t know who Matthew is.
There are probably a hundred thousand Matthews in Delaware, but only one Matthew the Clark Clone.
(How long has he been listening in on you?)
You blink at Clark for a few seconds. His ears start flushing pink the longer you stare, you notice.
“Yeah, I didn’t either,” you mumble through the words, pausing between syllables like it needs some effort to force out.
“I know it’s not my place to say,” he sighs, looking down at the cool tile beneath your socked feet. “But...maybe you haven’t gone the best way around finding love.”
“Why, you jealous?” You mean it as a joke. A flippant, throwaway line to tease.
But Clark looks at you hard. Plucks his glasses off his head and sets them down on the counter, serious.
Faint frown lines surface on his face, eyes suddenly sharp. Then he blinks, and he’s back to normal, pretending the wall is so interesting. “…No.”
You poke his cheek. It’s warm; a current of sparks runs up your arm and into your heart. “Admit it. You already know you could do better than half the guys I’ve cried to you about.”
His eyes flick to the ceiling momentarily before meeting yours again. Stammers over his own breath and squeaks as he asks, “Just half?”
Oh, he’s jealous.
You can see it, clear as day. Clearer than Clark’s pretty eyes. That maybe you aren’t alone in this. That just like always, you’re on the same page as your best friend.
“Okay,” you say, leaning closer to him in challenge. “So, what’s your advice, Mr. Kent?”
He allows himself an inhale—one he doesn’t really need, being superpowered and all—and purses his lips.
He’s blushing in the way you know so well, the way he does when you look at him for too long. Like some shy bastard. Like he isn’t aware of what’s starting to brew between you.
The thing about Clark is that he wears his heart on his sleeve. Sometimes literally, like when a kid slapped a heart sticker onto his supersuit.
But he’s so open about his desires that it’s sometimes hard for him to hide them. Like now—standing with his shoulders bunched up and tense, practically holding his breath as his pretty ocean eyes drift around and eventually land on your lips.
His lashes flutter. Exhales stutters a little, let out slowly.
Says under his breath, “Well, sunshine, I think more organic relationships have better benefits in the long run.”
“Uh-huh.” You’re helpless to the slow, amused grin bubbling onto your face. “Elaborate.”
Clark keeps on rambling, eyebrows shooting up as he explains, “Like, you hardly know anyone on a dating app, right?”
“Right.”
“And—you know, romantic feelings can develop elsewhere.”
“Really?”
“Yes!” he exclaims, gesturing wild nonsense with his hands. “For example, Cat’s really into this whole friends to lovers thing, and honestly, I think she’s got a point.”
You fold your lips inward, holding them between your teeth as you try not to laugh.
“See, she says that people benefit from already knowing their partner,” Clark says, gaze trailing down without a thought. “That ultimately, friends sometimes feel the most fulfilling love. And it’s easy for them, to communicate their desires” —he finally catches himself, eyes wide and blinking quickly— “and stuff.”
You open your mouth, running dry from nerves. Quiet and sheepish, still unsure despite seeing all the signs, “Wanna put that to the test?”
The way his inhale quivers should be illegal. “I—don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean,” you say slowly, surprising yourself with how steady you feel despite the uproar rioting in your chest, “maybe—you know, Cat’s theory. Maybe I do need someone who knows me.”
Clark’s eyelids flicker, and then finally squeeze shut. His voice is tight when he murmurs, “Yeah, yeah.”
You say his name. Soft. Quiet. Like a Friday night in Smallville at the Kents’. Like the aftermath of a dinner get-together, when you used to sit on his bed and cover your face with a comic instead of talking with the neighbors in the living room.
He makes a small noise of response, a gentle hymn that comes with the smallest up-tilt of his head. A couple curls fall loose over his forehead and without thinking, you brush them to the side with a trembling finger.
Some things between you don’t need words. Like when you’re hungry and find an orange already peeled. Or when you glance at each other during a movie and find that the other is also trying not to laugh.
But this needs words. Need the confirmation that yes, Clark Kent can make time, but he can also make a different space in his already big heart for you, too.
“Sunshine?” His whisper is vulnerable, cracked wide in the middle. “I can hear your heartbeat, y’know? It’s the one where you’re planning something.”
Fuck. You can’t take it anymore.
“I like you.” It spills out without a second thought, but you steamroll on, fingers dragging from his hairline and down to cup his cheek.
You sound like a damn teenager professing her undying love when you say it again. “I like you. Since Nate, when your Pa said you dropped everything to get me. And I just—
I realized nobody loved me like you,” you choke out. And it feels so free to say that, as if some vice you didn’t know was clenched around your heart has released itself. “And I took that for granted when I should’ve—”
“Sunshine,” Clark cuts in, breaking your laundry list of guilt. Says it with that heartland twang you’ve been missing from his voice because he changes it slightly to fit in with Metropolis.
He doesn’t say more. Just leans in. Places a peck to the corner of your mouth.
And you stare at each other for seconds. Eyes wide. Something you can’t name shooting through your heart and oh.
Oh, it feels like you’re finally on the right side of heaven to wrinkle his stiff workshirt in your fists and pull him in for a real, dizzying kiss.
One you know you can’t turn back from. One that makes your body feel so viscerally alive, like livewire has been activated under your skin.
You’re going to feel this for days, you think.
Clark moves his lips over yours like he has all the time in the world. Like he’s really going to savor the seven-odd years you spent oblivious to your own feelings.
Your chest is vibrating with anticipation, core growing warmer and warmer until you realize that there’s a hot wetness growing between your legs. And of course Clark decides that now is the perfect fucking time to wrap his arms around you and lift.
You think he was made for this. To hold you like you’re made of foam. To be so strong and tender at the same time, cradling you closer like he’s trying to fuse into your skin.
Wouldn’t mind, a thought smears by in your mind.
He sets you down on the counter, which is cold and hard beneath you. Breaks away for a split-second to angle his head differently, catching you with your mouth still parted. Sweeps his tongue leisurely along your bottom lip, nips and sucks as he plants a large, burning palm on your knee and shifts it to the side with a light but firm push.
You swear a star sparks in your skull and starts bouncing around the cavity of your chest.
He kisses you deeper. Hungrier, like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. Corralling you between the wall and himself, hands coming up to graze from your waist around to your back, thumbs caressing in circles over the bare sliver of skin beneath your sweater, which you didn’t know until now had ridden up.
“Should’ve” —a soft sigh unfurls in you as he peels himself off, only to attach himself to your jaw, taking his time as he blazes a shallow line of kisses to your ear— “done this sooner.”
“Well,” his voice is rough, mouth forming a simper against the underside of your jaw’s hinge—kisses there, and then closer and closer to your throat. You bare your neck to him, easy and unthinking; the ceiling spins above you. “Better late—” sucks at the sensitive, tender spot just beneath your chin, fuck “—than never.”
You register that he’s sliding his hand under the back of your sweater, pressing hot skin along your back. Fingers skating over the divots in your spine, he drags himself back up and waits there with his nose beside yours like he’s asking for permission.
His eyes are closed, the corners of his mouth barely lifted up, a smile about to unfurl. You plant a chaste kiss on his lips, and as you pull away, he lurches forward, as if he’s trying to chase another hit.
“Wait,” he mumbles, some dreamy look surfacing on his relaxed face—brows floating up slightly, seam of his pink and swollen lips parting. “Come back.”
“I’m gonna pass out if you keep kissing me like that,” you say, tone whispered.
Even then, you might be understating yourself. You feel like you’re teetering on the knife’s edge of sanity.
You run your hand down his chest and pinch the fabric just above his belt, untucking it absently and looking down at him through your lashes. You don’t even know why you lament honestly, “And then I can’t take this off. And then we can’t fuck.”
Clark frowns, opening his eyes to look at you in that upturned, tragically kicked-puppy way that makes you ache. In your chest, at the crux of your thighs.
Too fast? You avert your eyes in shame.
“I prefer the term making love.” His lashes flit in a way that would make some of the women at your workplace envious, and he’s holding your eyes in his pretty blue ones. Reminds you of the sky in the countryside, just after the last raincloud has cleared up, the scent of petrichor still heavy in the air.
You nudge yourself forward and brush your mouth over his upper lip. Salt and sugar blooms on your tongue. “Oh, I forgot that you talk like a geriatric. We should stop before your knees crack.”
“Ah, we can’t have that,” he hums, genuine concern blooming on his face, just beneath that stupid, bright tipsy-flush on his cheeks that make you feel something weird.
Slips his hand out from under your shirt, gently takes your chin in his grip and rubs his thumb over your spit-slick bottom lip, all while brushing his mouth over his ministrations. Pouts like he’s the one being subject to the hormonal mutiny that’s making you feel so violently alive.
You want, want, want.
Tugging at his shirt, abandoning your restraint to push your hips forward and against his solid stomach and fuck, a sound escapes you that sound suspiciously like please? and he breaks into a breath-stealing smile like a coy cat that just got the cream.
It’s no surprise that you barely blink before you find yourself lying supine and sinking into his mattress. Smells like that damn vanilla, and sandalwood, and the wind of Smallville. As if he flies back just to dry his laundry on the porch clothesline.
The blankets are peeled back neatly. Fitted sheet soft to the touch—you curl your fingers in the cotton for something to ground yourself with, because apparently Clark isn’t enough.
Pillows plush and considerately placed beneath your head, the mattress dips for the weight of Clark settling on his knees between your legs.
He sort of hangs there for a second as you catch your breath and reel in the uncountable minutes of insanity that have just passed. Scrutinizes you with gentle, earnest eyes, cupping the back of your clothed knees with broad, kind hands.
He presses his thumb into the outside of your knee, right in the faint divot where the cap sits over bone, tendon, and muscle. You swallow, watching him as he traces his eyes up and down your body—collected, steady.
Safe in the way he has always been. Clark squeezes the top of your calf once before letting his hands slide up—a line of flinty sparks follows him—to cup your hips.
“Sunshine,” he rumbles, soft eyes meeting yours. Tilts his head, loose waves of inky hair falling over his forehead. Adam’s apple bobbing, he lets go of your hips and holds your hands instead, all earnest and somewhat guilty. “Do you mean it?”
You blink up at him, confused. “Huh?”
“That you like me.” He turns over your hands so he can press his thumbs into your palms. “That you want this.”
A small, almost disbelieving laugh scuffs out of your mouth. Of course he’s double and triple checking.
“Silly,” you say, curling your right-hand fingers around his thumb. “I can’t lie to you.”
“Can you say it again? Just to be sure.”
“Clark.” You lift his hand toward your face. Kiss the back of it softly, and smile at how comforting the feel of his skin is. You’re all innocuous and doe-eyed when you say, “I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me and make me feel it for days.”
His breath stammers in a way that makes you flush. All barely-held restraint and trembling like you’re doing something to make him weak.
He gives you a tight, downturned smile once he settles himself, the same one that would flash across his face to reassure you.
Except, it’s a little different now. Except, there’s something terrifyingly raw swimming in his—you've just noticed—unnaturally dilated pupils, and you’d be wrong not to call him lovesick or fond.
Maybe he’s always looked at you like that, all benign and wanting, and you didn’t realize until now. The thought of beating yourself up over wasting so, so much time when Clark was right in front of you flickers through your head, but it’s quickly wiped away when he gently lets go of your hands and starts undoing his button-up.
You’re fixated on the way his fingers work the buttons—nimble, with just the right application of pressure to pop it open. You follow them all the way down to the last, where the hem you untucked earlier hangs over the tent rising in his slacks.
He’s big, the crotch of his pants tight. The outline of his cock is visible through the dark fabric. Holy shit.
Your chest tightens for a breath.
Unconsciously, your thighs squeeze tighter in search of friction.
Futile. Clark nudges his knees wider to stop you as he shrugs away his shirt and then strips off his undershirt.
You hope your eyes aren’t bugging out.
He’s sculpted like a goddamn Greek statue—solid muscle, defined pecs and shoulders—yet soft at the same time. A thin layer of fat hugs his abdomen in true farmer fashion, mellows out his broad frame and you suddenly want to wrap your arms and legs around him and maybe just let him fuck you animalistically like that.
“C’mere,” he says, syllables muddled together with his eyes all fluttering and mouth loose like that, like he’s drunk off desire. Like he’s also noting how heavy the air has gotten, hazy with lust. Takes your fingers in his again, draws it toward the center of his bare chest.
His skin is blistering under your palm. A furnace almost; your neck prickles with heat as another wave of arousal tides over you.
And then you feel it. Pounding hard enough to pulse like it’s right under the first layer of impenetrable skin and not buried beneath layers of fat, muscle, and bone. A strange, not-quite-human thrum that kisses your fingertips.
Clark takes a steadying breath, pitches himself down to kiss you all while holding your touch firmly over his heart.
His lips slide over yours—longing, like the short minute that’s passed since he last kissed you was an eternity.
And his heartbeat jumps.
Actually. Speeds up to thunder at what seems like a hundred miles an hour, strong and loud and trying to leap into your palm. Stays like that for the honey-slow seconds that your mouths lazily dance, and for another ten after he ducks his flushed face into the right side of your neck.
He smells like an underlayer of woodsy cologne and flour. Like the faint, diluted scent of corn ripening in the wind. Like home.
“You make me so nervous,” Clark finally says, voice lilting into borderline self-amusement. “God, sweetheart, you have no idea.”
His lips press over your jugular, feeling the pulse there. Eyelashes flutter on your skin as he nips your skin, not hard enough to hurt but enough to know that your blood will darken the surface later.
Somehow, in the smudged haze of craving and teeth, he finds his way to the button of your jeans. Pauses there, forefinger picking at the overlap of denim.
Your breath freezes in the same moment as his.
“Please?” he asks so sweetly. You cant your hips up in response.
His exhale hisses out all at once, almost a gasp. Cheek searing where it lays on your neck, deft touch working the button out of its nest and zipper rasping as he opens it.
The sound of it is so loud in his otherwise still bedroom.
Your breath shudders when he slips your jeans down, over the curve of your ass and down your legs. Cold air hits your clothed cunt, cooling the wetness that’s gathered in your panties.
Your jeans get stuck around your left ankle, to which he giggles boyishly to himself between breaths, and oh, your heart swells so much that you feel too small for the mush of endearing-lovey-sweet churning in your chest.
You tug at your sweater, pulling your arms out of the sleeves and wrestling the lump of fabric over your head. Takes a minute, because you’re a little shaky and practically bursting at the seams with anticipation.
Then you’re laying there and letting Clark take you in, all vulnerable with your undergarments mismatched (gosh, maybe you really should have picked underwear that matched your bra) and clothes discarded out of sight.
And it’s stupid, really. How your inhale hitches. A little stall, if you will, at the dawn of an aching expression on his face, looking at you. Really looking at you.
Like he wouldn’t have this any other way. Like he’s trying to find the best way to get under your skin, just like how he inspects a chessboard to make his next move. Like he already knows what’s going to make you twitch, or clench, or come so hard that you see the pearly gates.
Fast and unprepared and in his own bed, fitted sheet already wrinkled while you try not to squirm because you’re a little embarrassed that your bra is black and your panties are white with navy polka dots.
“Don’t stare,” you whisper, though it comes out as more of a mortified squeak.
“Why not?” Clark just smiles. Easy. The most natural thing in the world, when he grazes his fingertips over the waistband of your panties. “I'm just admiring the most beautiful woman.”
You scoff, crossing your arms over your bare stomach. “Yeah. My eyes’re up here, you know.”
“Really,” he protests. Dips his fingers beneath the elastic of your panties. “Or as Ma would say, I’m happy as a clam.”
Draws the smallest tension and lets the band snap back against your hip, because he just has to be cheeky and tease.
“Oh,” he gasps in revelation, heartland twang starting to bleed back into his low, baritone words, “or that’s a sight.”
Your skin burns, feverish from your soaked cunt to your head.
Then Clark shifts himself down to nuzzle the damp gusset, applying the barest feather of pressure over your clothed clit. He shudders. Wraps his arms around your thighs so he can hold you closer as he starts laving over the thin fabric.
A soft sigh spills out of your mouth, helpless. Nakedly sweet and honest in a way you didn’t expect yourself to be.
Uncontrollable, your fingers thread into his downy hair and tug lightly.
He groans quietly but doesn’t listen, mouth instead moving back up to your stomach.
Clark buries his nose just under your navel. Breathes you in, solid biceps tightening slightly around your thighs. Exhales with a muffled, broken sound that echoes your own and your heart flips.
“Baby, you’re so soft,” he mumbles, head angling down to start blazing a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses back down your stomach, up the delicate inside of your right thigh. Presses himself close to your skin, licks over where your pulse thrums between your legs and sucks.
You inhale sharply, shifting your hips, now aware of just how empty you are.
He hums in response, teasing the same spot on the other side of your cunt. You wriggle a little more, trying to get his mouth where you want it.
Impatience burns behind your ribs. You want it, you want it so fucking bad that the need cuts you open and raw, like barbed wire drawn taut over your sternum.
“Please,” you breathe. Can’t even recognize your own voice now, all breathy and desperate. Looking down at him through your lashes, you dart your tongue over your bottom lip. Tastes like salt, and him. “Clark, please.”
Eyes flicking up to yours, he hums in low question. Tilts his head, so his curls tickle your inner thigh. “Patience is a virtue, y’know.”
You swallow, going still for a fractured moment. You come up blank, like a reel left out so long that all the fish of your thoughts know it’s bait. “I...”
A gentle smile rises to his face. “’S alright,” he says, all saccharine and forgivingly merciful. Water under the bridge, you think to yourself. “I’ll remind you.”
Slips his fingers under the elastic of your waistband again, pulls down your panties as a flare of sudden, sharp need rips through you. Curves his smile a little sharper when the gusset sticks to your cunt for a moment, tacky with your arousal.
The flimsy little piece of fabric lands somewhere out of sight, too, and Clark lets a nearly disbelieving sigh puff out from his mouth as he stares at your naked sex.
You watch, mesmerized and head floating in a near-dream state, as he lowers himself flat onto the mattress—you don’t miss the subtle way he grinds his hips down—and lays his head against your thigh.
“Should—should I tell you now that I’ve never done this before?”
Curse your stupid, big mouth.
Clark stiffens. Stares at you with eyes unblinking and wide. “What?”
Your stomach drops in panicked freefall. “No—fuck. Not like that.”
“I’m gonna need some clarification,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows.
“I’m not a virgin,” you blurt. “If that’s what you think. I just...”
He blinks at you, finally. Questions in that earnest, pleading voice, “No, that’s—sunshine, are we going too fast? We can stop right now.”
A wave of heavy embarrassment crashes down on you.
Your palms slap onto your face, eyes squeezing shut at the mortifying, humiliating fact that— “I’ve never had a guy go down on me!”
“And” —you have to fight yourself to be honest about this— “half the time, I don’t come anyway.”
Clark just sort of twists his mouth, looking at you with those melancholic eyes, dimples shifting as he processes.
Just zones out a bit. As if he isn’t laying stomach-down on the bed, extremely eager to eat you out two seconds ago. Okay, maybe he is still a little eager, just toned down.
But you can see it. In the way he blinks, up at your eyes and down to your navel. In the way his hand is still resting on your thigh, ready.
He wets his bottom lip. Says, in a hoarse, choked voice like he really can’t believe it, “But you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, peeling your fingers off your face, “more than okay. So you better ruin it for everyone else.”
He smiles, dorky and charming, face all ruddy. You lament—oh, you feel like a fucking travesty with the way his dimples make your heart somersault like that.
“So,” he starts, pitching his head down to study your sex. Trailing his fingers from your thigh to your folds, he wets himself with the slick arousal already there. “What even happens after you have sex with other guys? When you aren’t satisfied?”
You try not to worm around as Clark gently strokes the tip of his middle finger up your seam. You shiver, though, when he pauses just below your clit and drags back down.
“Just…I take care of myself after. Obviously,” you mumble, restraining the urge to lift your hips just so and let his thick fingers fill your aching cunt. But patience is a virtue, and you’ll be damned if you don’t find out what Clark’s whole reminder is about. “Lots of sore wrists and stuff.”
An easy grin blooms on his face again. Start pumping the tip of his finger into you, slowly working you open.
“Like this?” he asks, once the second knuckle of his finger has been swallowed by your cunt. Thicker than you thought it would be. Which makes you wonder about and crave the stretch of two.
“Yeah,” you try to keep your voice from squeaking, but it does anyway. You cover your mouth with the back of your left hand and card the right into his silken, messy waves. “I just—god, you’re thick.”
“Easy, honey,” he shushes. Kisses the top of your mound, to which you respond with a soft, open sound. Takes his mouth lower, minuscule centimeter by minuscule centimeter, until he’s pulling out his one finger and stretching you out with two, just as he latches his scorching mouth around your clit and sucks.
You moan. Loud, embarrassing, pitched up at the end.
The feeling of being so full aches in you. Feels like he’s penetrating your entire body. Like he’s going to live in the cavity of your chest forever, and right now you’re more than willing to keep him warm.
He laps at you all while rocking his fingers, getting your parted folds all sticky and slick with saliva and arousal. Detached himself with a tacky string of viscous liquid, eyes rolling up before they shut, forehead nuzzling into your stomach.
“Did you do it like this?” He crooks his fingers, thick and hot in your cunt, presses into a spongy spot that makes you tug at his hair for more. You whine a little. “Or that?”
Slides impossibly deeper into you, bypassing that first spot and nudging his fingers into a place that shoots white-hot pleasure ripping up your spine, and his tongue swipes searing over your clit and you think you fucking gush a little down to his wrist.
“God,” you choke out, and Clark just keeps teasing that spot, moaning softly into your cunt and stroking and rocking his touch until your stomach starts to tighten, all raw and urging. “There, there, shit.”
It’s like a switch has flipped in you.
You’re fucking ruined for life. Hips rutting up to chase the next thrust of his fingers, the next flick or swipe of his tongue as your neurons go into overdrive. Sobbing: “Oh, Clark—baby, fuck, that’s—good, so good, Clark, please—”
He rolls his tongue hard over your sensitive clit, upping the intensity at which his digits are fucking into you—a filthy push-pull that you can hear, lewd noises of your cunt spasming in as he bullies that bundle of nerves inside you.
“C’mon,” he groans, a desperate sound vibrating into you. Kisses your clit again, and you feel another surge of wetness coat your inner thighs when he shoves his fingers in deep to keep stimulating your g-spot. Sounds all wrecked and wanton when he rumbles, open-mouthed over you, “That’s it, honey. Keep doing that. Make you feel better than all those jerks, yeah?”
You keen, high-pitched. Hips rutting up into his face, unabashed, muscles gradually tightening until you’re all wound up.
It’s getting to be too much, like you’re being filled to the brim and then some. Like you’re about to spill out of your own skin, all ‘cause of your best friend’s ministrations. His tongue. The way he stuffs a shallow, wanting moan into the crook of your inner thigh and cunt. How he’s shifting his hips into the mattress, how the bedframe is creaking slightly from the movement.
Your pulse is pounding. Like you’re trying to mimic the way his heart was when he let you feel it, and your head is spinning with it, too.
And then Clark dips the tip of his tongue low, tasting you from the top of the opening of your sex—fucking gasps with a sound that almost cries and drags the flat of his tongue hot up to your clit. Wraps his plush, sweltering lips around it and starts laving with abandon, grinding his fingertips into your g-spot.
It’s not the way he’s lapping at you that makes you break. It’s not even his thick, full fingers stretching you out in a way that burns so sweetly in you.
It’s just Clark.
He reaches for the hand you have buried in his hair.
Wraps his warm, gentle palm around your wrist. Squeezes you once, firm enough to ground you by a thread-thin tether. Kneads his thumb over your pulse point and looks up at you through his lashes, eyes out of focus and so honest.
Starbursts pop in your vision.
You swear you black out for a second as you come, moans shaky against the back of your hand.
Your orgasm hits you hard and soft at the same time. Crests and crashes with a tidal wave of wetness that dribbles out of your cunt, soothes over your head as bliss fills your body. Your ears are ringing, hearing smudged and cottony like you’ve been dunked in the pool and someone’s trying to talk to you from above the surface.
You quiver, helpless as you chase the aftershocks against Clark’s eager mouth.
There’s a trembling sincerity when he slowly pulls his fingers from you, like he’s reluctant. He’s still guiding you down from the last ripples of ecstasy, tongue undulating over the still-twitching seam of your cunt, whispering pleasant nothings between each lick like he’s found an altar between your thighs.
But he doesn’t bring you down. Doesn’t let you stray far from that high-up edge, nose now pressed into your clit as he wraps his thick, solid arms under your legs, then over your stomach to lock you in place.
“Clark,” you sigh, squirming from the stimulation. You can hardly recognize your voice, all tender and soft and pitched. “Clark.”
His lips make a wet, lewd sound when he reluctantly draws himself away from your cunt. Leaves a web-thin, almost star-spun string of slick connecting you to him, panting so feverishly that he pushes your legs closer to your chest.
He hums, looking a little dazed. Eyes unfocused, tongue darting out to taste that string of fluid, which breaks and dribbles down his chin in a way that makes your stomach riot with butterflies.
"Going somewhere?” he rasps, and god, if that doesn’t make your heart leap for the chance to give him another and then some.
“No,” you mumble, heat prickling under your skin.
Clark blinks at you, cheek squished to your inner thigh. Lets his eyes roll closed when you stroke your fingers through his hair, exhale balmy on your bare skin.
“Okay,” he says, quiet.
This time, he’s slow with it. Takes his time, languid and sensual flicks and laves meant to wriggle between your seams and pick you apart from the inside.
Tides you through your refractory period, sighs when you start to tighten your thighs around his head again. Lights that spark in you once more, using his drenched, arousal-shiny fingers only to play with your clit while his tongue slips into your throbbing cunt instead.
You don’t know how much time has passed. You only know this: back arching and hips twitching as Clark guides you toward another orgasm, skillfully fucking you with his tongue like this is his last meal and he needs to savor it.
You feel a telltale tingle in your core again. Coils up tighter, raw, wrings you dry until you’re rocking your hips and pushing at his head to go deeper, faster, harder.
Faintly, you register his bedframe creaking. Clark moans—loud, honest, fervent, broken in a way you’ve never heard—right into your folds and—
Your inhale catches. Stammers as your high starts to crest, and you whine, pliant and helpless, fuck—
Clark stops. Retracts himself, tongue sweeping over his swollen bottom lip to gather your wetness. Swallows, and your eyes follow the motion of his Adam’s apple.
He looks more wrecked than you feel. Looks like he’s the one dangling on the precipice of coming, like he’s the one who’s been licked within an inch of his life.
He sits up, kneeling between your legs and shit, he’s blushing all the way down to his chest. Pink from head to pec, hair plastered to his forehead from what you assume is the humidity between your thighs.
“Gosh,” he pants. Long inhale, short exhale. He closes his eyes like he’s tasting the last of you lingering on his tongue. “Gosh, I’m so sorry, sunshine.”
You prop yourself up on your elbows, panic spiking in your chest. “What’s wrong?”
He groans. Folds himself back down by the waist and buries his burning face into your sternum. Kisses the skin there, and drags his fingers up your spine to dawdle on the clasp of your bra.
“Not you,” comes his muffled murmur, still pressing sincere, reverent kisses on your chest. “Just—you taste too good.”
You pause. Process the fact that Clark had to take a second because he was enjoying himself too much. And a laugh spills out of your mouth.
You comb your hands through his hair, making him shiver when your nails scrape on his scalp. “I was about to come again, you know.”
He groans, mortified, and presses his forehead harder against your sternum.
“Gosh,” he stutters, and you’re pretty sure that’s his word of the day, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t take it.”
“Take what?” You cup your hand to his warm, flushed cheek, tilt his head up to look at him.
He stares back at you, mouth glistening and parted, eyes flicking down to your lips. He swallows.
“I think—well, I almost,” he squeezes his eyes shut, “I didn’t want to come yet. And uh, I don’t have a condom.”
You guess he’s your best friend for a reason.
Here you are, looking each other up and down and realizing that you’ve both unwittingly edged yourselves. Get a load of this fucking comedy.
You huff, amused. Squeeze his cheeks in your palms, and your heart flutters when he smiles, bashful. “You’re funny.”
“Sure, sunshine. I'll make that up to you,” he says, shifting his fingers on your back and undoing your bra. “So just to be sure—”
“Yes, Clark,” you grumble, tangling your fingers in his curls and tugging. Hard. You swear his eyes roll into his skull a little. “We can fuck without a condom.”
“You’re so crass,” he chides, and cool air hits your breasts.
Your bra lands somewhere soft, cushioned, and when you look, you find that he’s thrown it and the rest of your clothes—with terrifying accuracy—into his hamper.
That cracks something wide open in you. It blooms in your chest, unfurls like the first thaw of spring.
He’s so sweet. There isn’t another word for how he makes you feel. It’s just a something, somehow, stitched together with a lifetime of bandaids and inside jokes.
And you mourn. Even though the space between your bodies is so tight that your skin is sticky with humidity, even though his belt is clicking and he’s asking again, because he’s got that devastating habit of being a quintuple-checker:
“Will you let me have you?”
Not can I. Will you.
You snap out of your daze, heart still sighing dreamily as you practically leap to help tear his belt out of the loops.
“Is that a yes?” he wonders out loud, laying his forehead on yours. He squeezes his eyes tight when you unzip his fly and relieve a little more pressure from his hard cock. Chokes out, “For the record—oh, god—I’m a yes. Please.”
Clark kisses you with undisguised desire when you palm him over his underwear. He’s scorching in your palm, weighty when you try to grind the heel of your hand on it.
He whimpers. Honest to god whimpers, a ruined sound that whistles in the miniscule space between your open mouths, and your arm jerks, startled by how sudden and unexpected and hot that is.
Clark does it again, louder this time. Your core throbs.
“Baby,” he groans, furrowing his brows in concentration, “as much as I like that—”
“Yeah,” you breathe, steadier than you expected yourself to be, with your throat running dry and heart pounding in your throat. “Yeah, I want—”
“I know,” he says. Gently nudges your hand off his clothed erection, crowds you up against the headboard. Then he takes you by the knee, hand blistering up your thigh, and delicately guides you to lay on your back.
Your head lolls to the side, nose pressing into one of his pillows. Smells like home in a way you can’t really explain beyond the faint scent of sleep and lemon detergent. Smells like him, in the purest sense possible; all wool-soft and mellow, like the kindest comfort during a winter storm in Smallville.
He shimmies out of his pants. His cock bobs up, all eight inches and girth standing at attention, the head deeply flushed and pearled with pre. It slaps lightly against his navel, leaving behind a thread of slick that breaks quickly, and you burn white-hot and raw with lust.
Clark slides a plush pillow under your hips. Gazes down at you through his lashes, eyes shining with a light that makes your chest ache. Whispers, almost to himself, “You’re so pretty. My pretty girl.”
You don’t remember how you respond to that.
Because Clark is taking his cock in his hand, and that has the audacity to make his size look normal, and he strokes himself slowly as he guides himself toward your soaked cunt. You think you lose your breath.
He breaches you with a single, slow thrust, with an open-mouthed stammer of breath, and there’s so much of him sliding forward that you don’t even try arching your back to let him go deeper. And he just waits there, to the hilt, girthy and heavy and pulsing in time with your dripping, stretched cunt, and you’re so fucking full of him that you think you won’t be able to get up tomorrow.
Good thing it’s Friday, is the last thing that runs through your mind before he bends over and takes you with him, folding your legs against your chest like you’re one of those fucking origami cranes he makes in his free time.
(Yes, you’ve seen the box under his bed. No, not the one with his suit.
The one with a thousand colorful, paper cranes he folds at his desk when anonymous tips are slow and takes the time between work and alien invaders to painstakingly link them all up onto a thread of fishing line. The one he brings to a thrift shop every time he finishes a string, just so a lucky someone passing by could have a little goodness in their day.)
And Clark fucks like this means more than the world to him. Slow, sensual, with purpose. Grinds the searing head of his cock into the spot that made you see starbursts on his tongue earlier, cloistering his chest against your shins like he needs—not wants, but needs, desperately, more than air or sun—to live in your skin.
He moans in time with you, breathes out in a voice that sets you ablaze, “God, you’re so tight—sunshine, you’re perfect.”
He’s everywhere. Whimpering with his mouth over yours. Slipping his thumb expertly over your twitching clit over and over until you’re trying to arch into him, but you can’t, because he’s fucking you with his entire weight behind each world-stopping thrust and oh—
You get why he says ‘making love’ like an old-fashioned loverboy.
Because he is. Because he’s pushing and pulling into your cunt like he’s promising, like he’s revering. Heavy and softhearted and caressing the outside of your hip with a warm, soothing hand, and you understand.
“I love you,” you gasp. Just feels like the right thing to say, head spinning and mouth wet with his and your spit. Tastes like salt, and yourself. “Clark, please.”
“I can hear you,” he chokes out in the middle of an aborted whine. Ducks his nose behind your ear, breathes in the scent of your skin, all flushed with heat and thinly veiled with sweat. “Your heartbeat, it’s—so fast.”
He jerks up into your walls with a calamitous, devastating grind. Makes that same gush of wetness drool out of your spasming cunt, and when he plunges in you again, his pelvis slaps into the fat of your ass with a sound so tacky your ears burn, all shameful and alive.
“You liked that,” Clark gasps, taking your bottom lip in his mouth and sucking. Lets go after a moment when he’s satisfied with how swollen and pliant you are and rolls that bundle of sparking nerves between your thighs. You clench around him, uncontrollable, legs bucking up to no avail. “Holy—I love you, too. Gosh, I love you so much for so long, you’ve no idea—”
You can’t recall when your orgasm started cresting. It had just built slowly like one of those soda bottles that used to explode in Clark’s face randomly, creeping up on you like all this.
The realization that you are deeply, raptly in love with your best friend. That you want with him what all the people in the movies have—being late for your train because you get coffee together in the mornings; finding sweet, handwritten notes on his fridge, right next to your photobooth strip; passing each other in the hallway like two familiar ships, exchanging an earnest kiss before he runs off to fold the laundry and you to take inventory of the groceries.
And you want him forever. Yours to kiss. Yours to curl up to when the night gets too cold for even his thick, pillowy duvet, for him to hold you close and mumble his thoughts against your cheek.
A ruined whine rips through your lungs. You’re so close, teetering on the edge of the precipice.
He starts the hand holding your hip, dragging it up your side, over your ribcage. Traces the space between your bones, splays his hand wide for a moment between your breasts. Pushes down slightly, and you can feel your own heart leaping to try and touch him.
Oh. This is proving to be too much for you.
And then he reaches up to take one of your hands still tugging at his hair, threads his fingers between yours. Holds on tight, grounding.
Clark kisses your cheek. Chaste and sweet compared to the downright filthy way his cock is sparking the live wire under your skin.
Locks your eyes with his unfocused ones, and all you see in your smudged, pleasure-sick vision is the way he’s looking at you with something between disbelieving awe and endearment.
You come with his name already in your mouth and sugar-salt on your tongue.
He works you through the aftermath, rolling his hips with a gentle, powerful grace as you shiver and sigh brokenly against him. Makes love with a trembling, earnest sincerity, until you’re melting and he’s approaching his orgasm.
Clark doesn’t slow when he lowers your legs. Your thighs are a little sore, and you’re still rushing with your own high when he holds you tight in his solid, secure arms until your breasts are flattening against his chest.
It isn’t long until his rhythm is stammering like your poor heart, until he’s following you close over the edge, stuffing a low, warm, quivering moan close to your ear and spilling hot ropes deep into you like this has been his life’s mission all along.
—
You wake with the moon kissing your back and the AC kicking on.
Mouth dry, because it somehow found itself open, and there’s a spot of drool crusting on your cheek. You’re hungry, and it’s late by the analog display blinking from the top of the nightstand.
The clock sits just under a lamp. Familiar, like a second home. Blue-glass shade, tarnished brass.
And then you remember that this isn’t your apartment. You’re waking up in Clark’s bed, soft sheets pooling around your hips, and he’s done the favor of cleaning you up and putting out an old, threadbare shirt and a pair of shorts at the foot of the bed.
Crabjoys and college shorts. Of course.
The door creaks, letting a rectangle of golden-warm light stretch across the floor.
He’s standing there, in pajamas patterned with little brown cows and glasses hanging off the collar of the worn-thin shirt tight on his biceps and chest, and he’s balancing a little plate with a sliced bagel and condiments you can’t see well.
His curls are egregiously messed up. The back of his hair sticks up at an odd angle, presumably from your incessant tugging in the throes of pleasure (your stomach warms at the reminder), and his ears are bright red in the dim light.
Your heart swells for a sigh. There he is. Your best friend.
“Hi,” he breathes, shuffling into the room. He’s wearing tattered bunny slippers that squeak a little. “Good thing I set a timer on the oven. Could’ve burned our breakfast for dinner.”
“You spoil me,” you say, sitting up to reach for the shirt. You pull it over your head and he’s there before you when you emerge from the worn cotton, pressing a grateful kiss to your temple.
“That’s because you're the best thing in the world,” Clark rolls his eyes, smoothing his thumbs over your cheeks.
He’s so gentle. Intimately familiar.
You’ve already loved him for a lifetime.
You wouldn’t mind one more.
— kisses to the lovely wonderful betas dee @kentbot and nini @dancing-inasnowglobe for prereading this crazy fic for me! please let me know if u enjoyed, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated <33
ABYSS KISS ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪࣪|| clark kent x fem!reader || oneshot
other pairings: inexperienced!reader x clark kent
summary: You and Clark Kent had always shared something unspoken — a quiet safety. Long before your relationship, he was the one who listened to your rants about failed dates and your fears around intimacy. You’d told him everything: how romance never quite fit, how sex had become a distant memory. But Clark saw you. He always had. Now, after months of slow, growing affection, you’re finally together — though physical closeness still feels unfamiliar. He knows that. So one quiet night, with trust hanging in the air as you cuddled under a blanket watching a movie, you get a little squirmy from the close contact, and he noticed, offering to help.
word count: 7.6k
warnings: service!top clark, inexperienced!reader, dirty talking, fingering, oral fem!receiving, spit as lube, pussy pronouns, mild language, praise kink, dacryphilia, clark is a bit condescending, size kink, didn't notice I made the reader kinda nonverbal sometimes...,
There was always something about Clark Kent that felt different. Not in the obvious way — not the glasses or the quiet charm, not even the way he seemed to fill up a room without meaning to. It was in the stillness. The way he listened without trying to fix, the way he gave space without making you feel abandoned. Being around him felt like standing in sunlight: gentle, quiet warmth that you didn’t realize you needed until it settled on your skin.
And over time, you found yourself leaning into that warmth. Little by little, you let him see parts of you that had long been tucked away — not because he asked, but because with him, the silence didn’t feel heavy. You told him things. Things you didn’t usually admit out loud. About how love had always felt more complicated than comforting. How dating, for you, was less about connection and more about surviving mismatched expectations.
One night, when you were still just friends and sitting side by side on his couch with takeout boxes between you, you’d launched into one of your trademark rants — the kind where frustration blended with disbelief.
“He actually got mad,” you’d said, gesturing wildly with a half-eaten spring roll. “Like actually mad. Because he paid for dinner and brought me stupid gas station flowers, and thought that meant I owed him something.”
Clark had looked up from his food then, eyebrows lifting. “Wait, first date?”
“First date,” you said, voice dripping with sarcasm. “As in, ‘Hi, nice to meet you, here's a meal and a bouquet, now let’s pretend we’re in a poorly written porno.’”
He had laughed, but it wasn’t mocking. It was low and disbelieving — incredulous on your behalf.
“I just— I don’t get it,” you continued. “Like, why do some men think basic decency is currency for sex? I was polite. I said thank you. I smiled. That doesn’t mean I was ready to jump into bed with him, and somehow I was the bad guy?”
Clark shook his head, frowning now. “You’re not the bad guy for having boundaries. That’s... basic human respect.”
You’d blinked at him, something soft unraveling in your chest. “Yeah. Try explaining that to someone who thinks dinner is a contract.”
There was a pause then. One of those Clark pauses, thoughtful and charged with something unspoken. When he finally spoke, it was quieter.
“If anyone makes you feel like you owe them your body for kindness, they don’t deserve any part of you. Not your time. Not your laughter. Not even your irritation.”
You remember that moment clearly — not just because of the words, but because of how he looked at you when he said them. Like your worth was a given. Like your no would always be enough.
It stayed with you. The way he didn’t flinch at your anger. The way he didn’t make it about him. Just listened, nodded, understood. That conversation, like so many others, built the invisible thread that tugged at you each time you looked at him. Until one day, it wasn’t just a thread — it was a lifeline.
You didn’t fall in love with Clark all at once. It wasn’t a cinematic moment or a lightning strike. It was a slow, steady accumulation. His laugh in the morning. The way he always remembered how you took your coffee. The way he looked at you when you were talking — like nothing else mattered. You started to feel it like warmth in your chest, like gravity pulling you closer to something safe.
And when you finally did get together, it wasn’t sudden. It didn’t need to be. You already knew each other in ways that mattered more than the official labels.
Still, even with all that love, there were parts of you that felt unsure. Not because of him, but because of everything that came before. Intimacy — real intimacy — had become a kind of foreign language you used to speak fluently but had forgotten. It had been years since you’d let someone close, really close. And though you weren’t a stranger to sex, it had been long enough, and fumbled enough, that the idea of rediscovering it felt tangled with nerves and doubt. You’ve had one boyfriend before, but after that, your experience had stayed very limited.
But Clark never rushed you. Never assumed. He kissed you like you were something precious, like he had all the time in the world — and maybe he did. With him, you never felt like you were running out of time. You just felt held.
He never asked when. Never implied if not now, then when. He just was — beside you, consistent and patient. The kind of man who didn’t tally favors or gifts or kind gestures. The kind who simply loved you, and let that be enough.
Still… you thought about it.
You tried not to — not in a desperate, spiraling way — but your mind would drift. To the shape of his hands, the low timbre of his voice when he whispered things only meant for you. To the way he smelled, like warmth and safety and something slightly earthy, like rain on pavement. You’d wanted him, as badly as you hoped he wanted you. Probably just as much.
You tried not to dwell on it, tried not to let your imagination carry you too far, but the past few weeks had made it harder. Your thoughts got tangled in moments that felt almost like permission: the brush of his lips against your throat when he hugged you from behind, the way his hand lingered at your waist just a second too long, the sound he made when you kissed him like you meant it. All of it built up — slow, steady pressure under your skin that made you restless and squirmy and so unbelievably pent-up.
So today, when you and Clark were curled up on the couch watching one of his nerdy sci-fi movies — something about time loops and space-time paradoxes you barely followed — you weren’t feeling your best. Or maybe that wasn’t the right word. You were warm, content, half-focused… and aching in a quiet, constant kind of way that made it hard to sit still. Harder still to pretend it wasn’t happening.
You’d ended up in your usual spot: half under the throw blanket, your head resting against his shoulder, his arm slung around you lazily. The bottom half of both your bodies were hidden beneath the soft fabric, though of course not all of it — Clark’s feet, long and bare, stuck out at the edge of the L-shaped couch. Over 6’5” of muscle and kindness. There wasn’t a blanket in the world long enough for him.
But now, you were suddenly aware of everything.
The way his fingers were idly tracing soft, feather-light circles on your shoulder — so gentle you might have missed it if you weren’t completely tuned into every square inch of your skin. How his other hand, the one that had been resting on his own leg when the movie started, had migrated beneath the blanket… and was now settled on your thigh. Higher than usual. Not improper, not demanding — just there, and warmer than it should’ve been, radiating through the fabric of your sweatpants and directly into your bloodstream.
Your breathing had shifted before you realized it. Slower, deeper. Each inhale filled with the scent of him — something clean and earthy, like cedar and soap, and something else, something him.
You could feel the lines of his torso beneath his shirt, solid and defined. Every breath he took made the muscle beneath you shift — the quiet rise and fall of his chest just under your cheek. And every time he chuckled at some ridiculous sci-fi paradox or whispered a nerdy fun fact into the space between you, you felt it vibrate through his chest and into your bones. It was grounding. It was too much.
And then… there was that.
Your leg, draped so innocently over his lap — a position you’d taken a hundred times without thinking — was suddenly very much something. Because now, you could feel it. The shape of him beneath the blanket, beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants. Not exaggerated. Not something he was pushing or calling attention to. Just present. Solid. Real.
Your thigh had unknowingly settled over the curve of his cock, and now you couldn't un-feel it. The contact wasn’t overt — there was space between you still, air and fabric and hesitation — but your skin was screaming anyway.
He was huge. You weren’t just imagining it. Even through the thin fabric of his sweats and the shared heat between your bodies, the shape of him was unmistakable. Heavy. Firm. Bigger than what you’d expected — not that you hadn’t thought about it before. Of course you had. But knowing and feeling were entirely different things. One was curiosity. The other was a full-body crisis.
You shifted — subtly, guiltily — like maybe adjusting would help you think straight, but it only made it worse. The soft drag of your thigh over him shifted the position of his cock in his sweatpants. Was he wearing no underwear? Your skin prickled, flushed and alive, every inch of you screaming for more friction, more pressure, more.
You tried to focus on the movie. Tried to listen to Clark’s heartbeat under your cheek instead of the storm building low in your belly.
But all you could think about was how hot he felt. How there he was. How easily you could shift again — just a little — and slide your leg closer, press down on it, maybe even roll your hips pretending it was accidental.
Just as your thoughts started to spiral — body taut, blood buzzing, desire thick and almost dizzying — Clark cut through the tension with a low, casual murmur.
“You know,” he said, voice warm with that familiar nerdy amusement, “if this movie followed the actual laws of time dilation, that character would’ve aged about fifty years by now.”
You blinked.
It took a full second to process the words. Your brain, still tangled in heat and friction and the maddening outline of him beneath your leg, scrambled to catch up. The sudden whiplash of him being so Clark in this moment — dorky and oblivious or maybe too unaware — made you let out a laugh. Or something that was supposed to be a laugh.
But it came out too fast. Too high. Too tight.
Clark’s hand stopped its lazy circles on your shoulder. His body stilled, just slightly, like he was tuning in. You didn’t even have time to hide the way your breath caught before he gently turned his head down toward you, his brows knitting in that soft, concerned way he always wore when he sensed something just beneath the surface.
“Hey,” he said, barely above a whisper.
His hand moved — slow and careful — under your chin, coaxing your gaze upward. His fingers were warm and steady as they tipped your face to meet his. And when your eyes finally found his, wide and glassy, you knew he saw everything.
You tried to speak — to joke, to dismiss, to breathe — but the words stuck. Your cheeks burned. Your lips trembled. And it wasn’t from embarrassment. It was too much. You were too full of him — of want, of fear, of need. It sat in your throat like a secret you couldn’t keep anymore.
“Are you okay?” he asked, voice soft but sure, genuinely concerned.
You swallowed, but it didn’t help. His eyes searched yours, and something in you cracked under the pressure — not in a painful way, but in that raw, terrifyingly beautiful way vulnerability always finds its edge.
You tried to laugh it off, forcing a joke as a shield. “I’m fine,” you said quickly, voice a little too high, trying to brush away the tension that suddenly thickened the air between you. “Really, it’s nothing. Just… you know, too much sci-fi for one night.” You smiled, hoping it sounded casual, maybe even funny.
But Clark wasn’t buying it. His eyes held yours, steady and searching, and there was no flicker of doubt in his expression—only care. “Uh uh, there's something wrong I can tell,” he pressed softly, his voice gentle but insistent, as if he could see past your words to the fluttering nerves you were trying so hard to hide.
Embarrassment flushed through you like a wave. You palmed your face, cheeks burning hot against your fingertips. “God, this is so stupid,” you muttered, the words tumbling out in a rush. “For the love of all things, please just let’s keep watching the movie.” You hoped to shut down the conversation, to bury the fluttering ache and the heat pooling low in your belly under the easy distraction of the flickering screen.
But Clark wasn’t letting go. Not tonight.
His hand, the one resting on your thigh, tightened just a fraction—not enough to hurt, but enough to anchor you back into the moment. You blinked up at him, caught between wanting to run and wanting to melt into the warmth that radiated from his body so close to yours.
“I mean,” you stammered, cheeks still burning, “you’re just… so close. And so warm. And your hand there,” you glanced down at where his fingers lay lightly on your thigh, “it’s… dangerous.”
You swallowed hard, heart pounding in your ears. Then, unable to stop yourself, your eyes flicked down further, toward the unmistakable curve beneath the blanket, not even hard, just resting there. “And then there’s that,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper, pointing subtly to where he was pressed beneath your leg.
Clark looked down, blinking innocently as if he hadn’t a clue what you meant — but the flush creeping up his neck when he finally looked down said otherwise. He caught on, of course, he did. And the way his brows furrowed, a little guilty, a little sheepish, made your heart twist.
His hand left your thigh for a moment, as if almost apologizing for the weight it had. His voice dropped to a tender murmur. “I’m so sorry,” he said, sincerity threading through every word. “I didn’t mean to— I never wanted to make you feel uncomfortable. I was clueless, honestly. I didn’t realize… I never wanted to rile you up like this.”
He sounded so genuine, so careful, like he was cradling something fragile and precious—you—in his hands. His thumb brushed gently over your knuckles as if soothing a child, and you felt yourself melt a little under the weight of his concern.
You took a deep breath and shook your head, trying to pull back some of the heat rising in your cheeks. “The problem’s me,” you said, voice a little breathless but steady. “I’ve just been getting way too in my head lately. Like, really pent up.” You gave a small, almost sheepish laugh. “Honestly, it’s ridiculous. I feel… needy. Not in some dramatic, emotional way — just… like I haven’t had a moment to myself that’s not thinking about wanting something I don’t know how to ask for.”
You shrugged, trying to make light of it but the honesty was there. “I catch myself daydreaming about just… being close to you, how you'd feel, fuck— how warm you are. And then I panic because I’m so out of practice I don’t even know where to start. So yeah, I’ve been a little wound up. And it’s been making me feel all kinds of weird.”
Clark’s expression softened instantly, his eyes filling with a kind of heartbreak that made your chest ache. His voice was low, full of regret and tenderness. “My poor baby,” he murmured, brushing his thumb lightly over your knuckles again. “I’m so sorry for making you feel like this. I wasn’t aware — I swear, I didn’t realize how much you were holding in.”
He leaned in a little, careful not to crowd you, but wanting you to know how deeply he cared. “You don’t have to pretend with me,” he said quietly. “I want to understand. And I want to help, in any way you’ll let me.”
You nodded slowly, still taken aback by the tenderness in his words. Your eyes were glassy, brows furrowed as if trying to process the weight of everything he was offering. “Okay,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “Yeah… I think I want that."
Clark’s gaze softened even more, his thumb brushing lightly over your cheek as if to soothe the hesitation lingering there. “Yeah, you sure?” he asked gently, his voice low and steady. “I don’t want to rush you. This is just as important to me as it is to you. I want us to move at your pace, not mine. I never want to do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable or unprepared.”
You blinked up at him, a shy smile tugging at your lips as you whispered, “Pretty please?”
The softness of the words — simple, honest, and a little bit playful — seemed to melt something inside him. His eyes brightened, warm and tender, and he smiled like a puppy who’d just been given a treat he didn’t expect.
Without another word, he leaned in slowly, his hand still cradling your cheek, and pressed his lips gently to yours. The kiss was soft, careful, full of promise — the kind that said, I’m here. We’ll go as far as you want. It was everything and nothing all at once, a beginning that needed no grand announcement.
When he finally pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his grin was shy and wide. “Your wish is my command,” he whispered, the playful glint still shining bright.
You weren’t sure who moved first after that kiss — maybe it was him, maybe it was you — but suddenly his hand was sliding down, slow and deliberate, until it found your thigh again. This time, he didn’t stop. His palm moved over your skin like it had a destination, like it already knew the map. It moved down your shorts and settled on the edge of your panties. He hesitated just long enough for you to breathe out a quiet, "Yes."
His touch shifted then — not quite dropping his hand inside, not yet, but there, right over your cunt. The heat of his hand through the fabric was maddening, careful but firm, his fingers moving in a way that made your legs tense and your breath catch. You bit your lip hard, trying not to make a sound, but it didn’t help. You were already sopping wet, enough to feel embarrassed about it or how much you wanted this. Your hips reacted on their own, a soft, needy roll up into his touch like your body had been waiting for this longer than your mind could admit.
He hummed, low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips as he kissed you again, deeper this time. His hand drew feather-light circles on the sopping fabric right above your clit. And not in a rushed, frantic way. He wanted you like someone starved who knew exactly how to savor.
“You’ve been holding this in, and Ive been such a jerk teasing you like this...” he murmured against your jaw, his fingers still working slow, steady circles over your cunt, making the fabric even damper with want. “All this time... my poor baby.”
You could barely breathe. Everything in you felt tight, electric, so pent-up you didn’t know whether to cry or beg or both. All you could do was nod, grabbing onto his shirt like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.
“Let me take care of it,” he whispered, kissing just beneath your ear. “Let me take care of you.”
His fingers lingered a moment longer, tracing slow, teasing circles over your cunt through the fabric. The touch was deliberate, hungry but controlled—like he was memorizing every curve, every soft inch beneath his palm. You could feel the heat pooling deeper, the dampness growing with every subtle press and glide.
He pulled back just enough to let his lips brush against your jaw again, low and rough this time. His voice was a husky whisper, both sweet and edged with something darker. “Can I take these off, honey? Would you like that? Wanna touch you—Gosh, you´re soaked pretty girl...” he asked, eyes locked on yours, serious but charged with that raw need you hadn’t heard from him before.
He barely gave you time to nod before his fingers curled beneath the waistband of your panties and shorts, tugging slowly and deliberately. The fabric slipped down inch by inch, the movement unhurried as if he was savoring the anticipation rather than rushing toward the reveal. Even before you were half naked, his hand’s motion was both tender and claiming.
His eyes, half-lit by the soft glow of the room and locked onto yours, held something raw — a blend of hunger tempered by care. There was a teasing glint there, a spark that said he knew exactly the effect he had on you and was savoring every second of it. His gaze flicked down briefly towards your cunt. He had meant it to be discreet, but because you were side by side, nestled against him, his view was limited — a teasing mercy that only made your awareness of being exposed all the sharper.
You swallowed hard, suddenly acutely conscious of the cold air against the wetness of your cunt and the way his chest seemed hotter now. So much so that part of your defenses were down. Heat flushed your cheeks and neck as the weight of vulnerability settled in. You shifted instinctively, grabbing the bottom of your shirt and pulling it down to cover yourself, the fabric a small shield between you and his gaze.
He caught the movement and chuckled softly, a low, teasing sound that vibrated through the space between you. He began pressing soft pecks against your neck as he softly caressed your mid-thigh. “Covering up already?” he murmured, voice thick with both amusement and something deeper, more intimate. “That's cute, baby.”
You gave a shaky laugh, eyes darting away for a moment, but he gently lifted your chin with a finger, coaxing you back to meet his gaze.
“Hey,” he said, voice soft but sure. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. I’m just lookin', you look so pretty. We can stop whenever you want, baby."
His thumb brushed tenderly over your cheek, lingering as if searching for permission without pressure. Then, voice dropping to a low murmur, he asked, “Can I touch you? Really touch you?” His eyes darkened with need and care, waiting for your answer — patient, undemanding.
You thought, heart pounding, breath catching in your throat, caught between the desperate want curling inside you and the fragile nerves fluttering beneath the surface. But when you whispered out a shaky "ýes", he smiled — slow, sweet, and promising.
The hand that had been gently cradling your cheek drifted downward with a quiet confidence, fingers brushing over your collarbone, then gliding down the front of your shirt. When it reached the spot where your own hand still clutched the fabric, he paused. His fingers curled gently around your wrist, giving it a soft squeeze — not demanding, just asking.
“Let me,” he murmured, his voice low, coaxing.
You hesitated for a breath, then released your grip. He lifted the hem of your shirt just enough to reveal the soft curve of your stomach and left it there — not pulling it higher. His hand traced along your skin, slow and reverent, before settling lower, cupping your dripping cunt.
A low sound left him — somewhere between a breathless laugh and a groan — as he glanced up at you with a smirk. "You're soaked, sweetie..."
His fingers spread your folds, and with the middle one, he began to tease at your slit, ever so gently, still a goddamn gentleman. Your eyes screwed shut as soon as he touched you; your senses felt heightened. It had been so long, and you never remembered it feeling so overpowering.
His eyes stayed fixed on your face, and not just for one reason. Part of him was carefully scanning for any flicker of hesitation — ready to stop the second he sensed discomfort. But the other part, the more selfish one, was completely enamoured by the pretty little faces he was pulling from you. He wanted to memorize every little reaction, every twitch of your lips, every flutter of your lashes.
You, on the other hand, couldn’t meet his gaze. Your face had twisted into something almost unreadable — a blend of too much sensation and too little control — your eyes shut tight, as if blocking out the weight of his stare might somehow ground you. Your hand clung to the fabric of his shirt like it was the only steady thing left.
His voice dipped lower, rough around the edges as his fingers continued their slow, unrelenting rhythm over your clit, sometimes stopping himself to guide a teasing finger along your slit coaxing, testing. The pad of his finger brushed just a little firmer over that sensitive spot, watching the way your body reacted — the stuttered breath, the soft twitch of your hips.
“You think you can take a finger, hm?” he murmured, tilting his head so his lips brushed the shell of your ear, voice thick with heat and something almost reverent. “You wanna try it out?”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, one brow raised, his eyes flicking between your flushed face and your parted lips. His hand never left you, still teasing slow circles, coaxing you toward a yes without saying it. His other hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek. “I wanna hear you say it. You wanna feel me?”
You hesitated, breath catching, heart pounding loud enough to drown out everything else. But then, with a shaky breath and a nervous smile, you nodded. “Yeah… I want to. I think I can.”
The thing is, you can take a finger, that had never been a problem before. But Clark was huge all over, and his hands and fingers were no exception. So you had every right to doubt your abilities right now. And now that your arm had unknowingly begun to press against the very unmistakable bulge in his sweatpants, the sheer size of his cock had made itself very clear to you. So now you didn’t know what to pray for, if for you, or for your cervix after tonight.
That smile of his — soft, crooked, a little too pleased — stretched across his lips, and he leaned in to kiss your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “Good girl,” he rasped, like the words tasted good coming out.
Then his fingers dipped lower, dragging slow, lazy circles on your hole, clearly teasing you, taking his time. “Gonna be real gentle,” he muttered against your skin, “but you gotta relax for me, yeah? Let me in, gotta relax for me.”
And just as your hips rolled into his hand in response, desperate and involuntary, you heard him chuckle softly. His middle finger slowly pushed inside your cunt, making you hiss. His finger was so deliciously thick, you still werent sure how you'd take a second one.
“You’re already so worked up, pretty thing. You’ve been wanting this all night, haven’t you?”
Clark’s gaze lingered on your face, heavy with warmth and something deeper — a kind of reverence. His finger slowly worked itself in and out of your cunt, drawing wet and sloppy noises from between your legs. You almost sighed in embarrassment, but his eyes locked on the way his finger drove itself inside of you said something else entirely. Then, the way he looked at you made it hard to breathe, like he was seeing something rare, something he wasn’t quite sure he deserved.
“Look at you,” he murmured into your ear, voice husky with awe. “You’re driving me insane.”
His finger moved with slow, deliberate care, making a beckoning motion inside of you that made your breath catch and your body respond without hesitation. The warmth of his touch and how deep his finger was pounding inside you sent shivers through you, teasing and coaxing every nerve awake.
His fingers paused for a moment, resting gently inside you, slick with your own want, as he looked down at you with a slow, knowing smile. His eyes held a mix of mischief and tenderness as he asked, voice low and teasing, “You want me to try another, baby? See if you can take it?”
The quiet tension between you made every nerve alive, every small sound in the room amplified in your ears. You hesitated for a moment, then nodded slightly, the smallest flicker of courage sparking inside you.
His fingers lingered just for a moment before he gave a slow, approving smile that softened into something warm and encouraging. “That’s my girl,” he murmured, voice low and pleased. “You’re doing so damn good.” He pulled his finger out of your hole with a wet squelch and brought his whole hand to this face, licking both the finger that was just inside you and his ring finger, putting them both in his mouth and licking them clean.
He brought his hand down once again to your cunt and played with your folds as he began to speak, both of his fingers gently parting you open. He brushed his thumb gently over your clit, eyes searching yours with quiet pride. “Can you see that? How well you’re doing? Because I do —" Before he finished the sentence, you felt his fingers sliding inside you. Jesus Christ, were they thick. "You're taking my fingers so well... So proud of you, sweetie."
His fingers moved gently, steadily working themselves in and out, each stroke measured and patient, as if memorizing every inch of you. The careful rhythm was both soothing and disgustingly filthy, and you found yourself leaning into the feeling, trusting him completely. You started to realize that Clark had picked up on how your cunt was making those wet, needy sounds whenever his fingers brushed your G-spot — and the bastard had clearly begun doing it on purpose. The grin on his face every time he did so, completely betrayed him.
You felt yourself growing squirmier, his movements growing quicker, pulling you closer to him as the heat between you intensified. Your breaths came faster, shallow and uneven, and you found yourself shifting against his hand almost without thinking — a mix of desperation and need that made your body ache to close the distance. The pressure of his finger practically drilling against your cervix, the slick warmth beneath his touch, was driving you wild, and you couldn’t hide how much you wanted more.
Clark caught every sign — the way your hips pressed forward, the small gasps that escaped your lips, the trembling of your thighs. His eyes darkened with raw desire, flickering with a hunger that made his usual calm seem to crack at the edges.
“Please,” he murmured, voice thick and almost desperate. “Let me taste you. I want to be right there with you.”
You swallowed hard, your cheeks flushing deeper as the raw need in his eyes pulled at something inside you. Your breath hitched, nerves fluttering between hesitation and craving. Finally, with a shaky but determined voice, you whispered, “Yes… please, Clark. I need you.”
He moved down slowly from beside you, eyes never leaving yours — not in hesitation, but in reverence. He gently took his fingers away from your cunt. His knee hit the floor at the foot of the couch with a gentle thud, one hand steadying himself on your leg, the other smoothing over your hip like he was committing every inch of you to memory.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured, not teasing this time, just quietly observant.
You nodded, unable to speak, breath caught somewhere between anticipation and disbelief. The way he was looking at you — like you were something sacred and starved for at the same time — made your stomach twist and flutter.
Clark leaned forward, placing a kiss just above your knee. Then another, higher this time. His fingers slid along the back of your thigh, coaxing you gently apart. His eyes stared right back into yours, and even with the unmistakable tension behind them, they felt warm. His blue eyes dilated and were glassy, just as desperate as you were. His eyes then, for the first time, tore themselves away from your face and landed at your sopping cunt, probably soaking the damn couch. He grabbed your hips with both his hands and scooted you over to the edge of the couch, dangerously close to his face. You were sure you almost felt the cool breeze of his breath on you.
"She's so pretty, baby. I could stare at her all night. Y'think she'd let me?"
His voice was a mix of awe and hunger, low and reverent like he was speaking about something sacred. Before you could answer, his hands were already guiding your hips, drawing you toward the edge of the couch where he now knelt, completely devoted. He went silent for just a second, and you noticed the motions of his tounge under his cheeks, gathering up spit. And just when you had straightened up, you saw him softly spitting on top of your slit, letting it drizzle down. His breath ghosted over your skin, warm and teasing, and then — a kiss to your clit. His tounge poking out for just the sweetest second. He looked like he was making out with it. Slow and deep, full of want. Not rushed, not frantic, but purposeful.
You gasped, your hand instinctively flying to his shoulder, gripping the fabric of his shirt like it was the only thing grounding you. His hands never stopped moving, one firm on your hip, anchoring you, the other gentle and coaxing on your hole, insistent on the come-hither motion inside you. The pressure of his touch, the warmth of his mouth — it all blended into something that made your breath stutter and your knees unsteady.
Clark pulled back just enough to glance up at you, his eyes dark and shining. “She likes that, huh?” he murmured, breathless. “She’s being real sweet to me.”
You nodded, barely able to form words, chest rising and falling with shaky rhythm.
“Good,” he said, kissing your thigh, his voice thick with need and adoration. “I’ll be real sweet to her, too. M'gonna kiss her real nice.” His tongue dips down once again, this time faster, flicking with speed over your folds. He swipes his tounge up and down your slit, latching on to your clit with intent. He gently sucks it into his mouth as his eyes flick over to you. His eyes were teary and glassy, his brows were furrowed, and his cheeks flushed a deep pink. On the other hand, his fingers kept working themselves in and out of you at incredible speeds, pulling out slick and wet nosies from your hole.
You moaned and whimpered as you held onto his curls. You could see the way his nose was nestled right above your mound as he lapped against you. There were moments when he closed his eyes and let his tongue move in slow, deliberate strokes—savoring you like something sacred. And then there were the moments he kept them wide open, gaze locked onto yours with a quiet intensity, just so you’d see exactly what you were doing to him. With his tongue laid flat against your clit, he began to shake his head slowly from side to side, coaxing out new, breathy little sounds from you with every deliberate motion. And he did exactly that, that fucker...
Your expression twisted into something unrecognizable — brows drawn tight, lips parted and trembling, flushed cheeks burning with heat. The sounds slipping from you were raw, utterly human. Your chest rose in short, frantic bursts, heart pounding so violently it felt like it might break free. You were so close now.
“Look at that... that pretty face doesn’t even know what to do with itself,” he jokes.
You huffed, half-laugh, half-whimper. He had to make everything into a joke—even now. That stupid little grin on his stupidly gorgeous face.
But before you could say anything back, another soft cry slipped from your mouth, your fingers tightening in his hair as the waves kept building. His nose was still nestled against you, warm breath ghosting over your sensitive skin, tongue working in slow, relentless circles. When you dared to look down, you found him already staring up—eyes wide open, clear and locked on yours. Not blinking. Not distracted. Just watching you fall apart.
It was all too much.
Somewhere between the pressure, the intimacy, and the fact that this man was on his knees for you like he lived there, the tears came. Quietly at first. One blink, then another. Warm trails down your cheeks that you barely noticed—until he did.
His tongue paused. “Hey—hey,” he said softly, voice suddenly gentle. “Is everything okay?”
You nodded quickly, voice catching as you said, “Yeah, yeah, it’s—God—it’s just so good.”
Clark let out a breath of relief, then that smile came back—just a little crooked this time, playful but still sweet. “Damn. Had me worried for a sec. Thought I broke you.”
You gave a weak laugh, still breathless. “You kinda did.”
He chuckled, pressing a soft kiss to your inner thigh. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”
And just like that, his teasing edge returned, his confidence slipping back into place. “Y’cryin’ and shaking and still askin’ for more… You sure you can handle it, sweetheart?”
You shot him a look, smug despite the tears. “I think I deserve more.”
Clark grinned like you just challenged him to a game he knew he’d win. “That’s what I like to hear.”
As soon as he said that, your head shot back to look at him as he dived down once again, eyes flicking over his sweet face. His nose was nudged against your lips, almost looking like he was making out with your cunt. He didn't blink once as he gazed up at you, his head moving from side to side to help himself, the sound of his tounge flicking against your heat, his ragged breath against you every time you moaned or whimpered... He was enjoying this just as much as you were.
Apparently, seeing him so vulnerable—so willing to give you exactly what you needed, so desperate for your release—was all it took. Your hand clenched tightly at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, pressing him deep against your cunt. The moment you did, a guttural, primal groan escaped him—raw and almost like a soft whimper. You guided his head with steady hands, making sure he knew exactly what you wanted. Through it all, he never once broke eye contact, completely focused on you, completely yours.
"Clarkie... I'm so, soo— Jus' keep going"
Clark smirked, his voice low and amused, replacing his tongue with his voice to speak, his pace still electrifying. “Clarkie knows exactly how ‘so’ you are, baby. Let me give it to you hun, relax." Right after you whispered those words, something inside him shifted — a surge of need that drove him deeper, harder than before. Both of his hands grabbed your knees, pulling them up closer to your shoulders, giving him full, unguarded access. Your fingers clenched tighter into his hair as he shook his head gently from side to side, his tongue tracing feverish, demanding patterns over your clit, like a man who hadn’t tasted anything in days.
His index and middle fingers pressed inside you, moving with a relentless rhythm that made your breath catch. You could feel the pressure building in your lower belly, amplified by his other hand resting firm against your stomach, pressing just enough to send every sensation spiraling higher. He was utterly in control — completely on top of everything.
Clark held your hips steady, steadying you as you rode out the wave. His lips brushed softly against your folds, a quiet, approving “Mhmm?” escaping him, keeping pace with the rhythm of your release, grounding you in that moment of shared intensity. The wave ran through every fiber of your being as you tried to stabilize yourself against anything you could get your hands on. Your ragged breaths began slowing down, and so did Clark's movements.
Clark’s hands never wavered as he slowly lifted his head, eyes dark and shining with something fierce yet tender. “See? Told you there’s nothing to be scared of with me,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction. “You did so damn good, baby. So perfect.”
You let out a shaky breath, cheeks still flushed, heart pounding wildly. “I want more,” you whispered, voice trembling between need and disbelief. “I want you… all of you.”
A slow, amused smile spread across Clark’s face, one brow arching as he shifted his weight. “Easy there, tiger” he said, standing up from the floor, adjusting his pants low around his waist and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His gaze flicked to you, playful but filled with raw hunger. “You almost had trouble with my fingers — how do you expect to take anything else?”
Your eyes involuntarily drifted down to the unmistakable bulge pressing against the fabric of his pants. Jesus Christ. Maybe he was right. How exactly were you supposed to take that? The thought sent a thrill of both fear and excitement spiraling through you.
Clark caught your glance and let out a low, wicked chuckle. “Don’t worry, baby. Clarkie’s got plenty of time to get you ready. He’s gonna make sure you’re so good and soaked, you’ll be begging for every inch.”
His hand slid to your waist, fingers tracing lazy, possessive circles over your skin. “I’m gonna take my time with you — make you mine. Every inch, every sigh, every sweet little sound.”
You shivered, the mix of his confidence and the raw want in his voice washing over you, making you ache for what was to come. The room seemed to shrink around you, the air thick with tension and promise — and in that moment, you knew you were exactly where you were supposed to be.
He took your hand with a gentle yet possessive grip, guiding it deliberately toward the unmistakable bulge straining against the fabric of his pants. His eyes locked onto yours, dark and smoldering with that intoxicating mix of tenderness and raw hunger, making your breath catch before your fingers even brushed his skin.
“Feel that, baby?” he murmured, voice low and teasing, a slow smile curling at the edges of his lips. “That’s all yours to get used to. Every inch.”
His breath hitched as your fingers tentatively traced the outline of his cock beneath the fabric, the heat radiating from him sending a delicious shiver coursing through your body. The hardness was undeniable — full and firm — and you could almost feel the power wrapped up in that tight, confident length.
He held your hand firmly, sliding it up and down, letting you feel the heat and hardness pressing insistently beneath the fabric. His eyes never left yours, searching, challenging — but with a softness that made your heart flutter.
“Now, be honest with me, baby,” he said, voice low and steady, with a teasing edge. “You think you can take that, huh?”
You hesitated, cheeks flushing deeper as you swallowed hard. Your voice was barely a whisper when you finally admitted, “No... I don’t think I can.”
A slow, knowing smile curved Clark’s lips. “That’s what I thought,” he said, his tone gentle but firm. “You don’t have to rush. Nothing worth having ever comes without time.”
He leaned closer, his breath warm against your temple. “Everything has its time, baby. There’s a moment for everything — for learning, for trusting, for letting go. And me? I'm not going anywhere. I’m here to make sure you’re ready, every step of the way.”
His fingers brushed lightly over your skin, soothing and steadying, grounding you in the safety of his presence. “You don’t have to be perfect, and you don’t have to be ready all at once. We’ll take it slow — slow enough for you to feel everything, to want everything.”
His eyes locked with yours, the weight of his words settling between you, wrapping you in a quiet promise. “When the time comes, baby, you’ll know. And I’ll be right here to give it to ya'.”
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