Four/Eric

You merely groaned, sinking further into the couch cushions where you sat. Your hands went to cover your face, legs tucked up under you.

“Is there something wrong with me?”

Clark raised a single brow, flopping down onto the couch next to you. “Excuse me?”

You groaned, dropping your head on his shoulder. Either something was wrong with you, or literally everyone else. You were certain of it. You’d attempted once again to date someone. Last time, a girl talked about her ex the whole time. Before that, someone else had been very adamant about splitting every bill to the exact cent. Tonight, you’d given a chance to a guy who seemed a little insecure on the dating app you’d found him on. That was your mistake. He appeared normal enough at first. Maybe not totally your type, but you were always willing to give someone a chance if you thought you might at least have a compatible personality and a similar sense of humor. This dude had neither. 

“Once again, I give a chance to some loser on a dating app. Once again, I get fucked,” you huffed out, cheek smushed to Clark’s shoulder. “And not in a fun way.”

His ears went a little red, but they always did when you spoke like that.

He’d found you through Jimmy a couple years ago. You were an old friend from high school who was looking for a reliable roommate, and Clark, at the time, could certainly use someone to help ease the load of his bills. Metropolis wasn’t cheap for an up-and-coming reporter. You were sweet, funny, and according to Jimmy, extremely reliable. Clark found out that you could also be a bit of a mother hen, which he was more than happy to be on the receiving end of. He liked coming home to someone who cared about what happened to him. Especially when that someone made him blueberry pancakes on Sunday mornings and liked to go bowling with him on Tuesday nights.

But, you were never one to be terribly shy. Years later and he was still a little squeamish when you’d swear like a sailor or talk about your sex life. He didn’t want to think about you like that. At least not in front of you.

When he was alone, though, it was a bit of a different story. 

Of course, he felt guilty about it every time it happened. But he could only take so much, and it's not like he was one to date around or get his fix with a girl he doesn’t know all that well. He tried hard not to, but sometimes you’d discuss your latest escapade or walk around in nothing more than your cute little panties and a t-shirt and he would suddenly find any excuse to run to his bathroom. He didn’t always touch himself! No, that would be rude. Sometimes he just took a freezing cold shower, or he’d just stand there and think of his Pa talking about one of the cows giving birth or Steve eating a meatball sandwich. That usually got rid of it fast.

But, every now and then, he just couldn’t help himself. He’d scurry off to his room for a while, and try his best to see how quickly he could make himself finish. His record was two and a half minutes. No more than a casual bathroom break. He would be quite proud of it if it weren't for the overwhelming shame and guilt that followed for jacking off to the thought of his roommate. 

He gulped, resting his cheek against the top of your head. “What happened?”

“I’m never dating a man with zero confidence ever again.” You patted his thigh, pretending you didn’t notice how he tensed from the contact. You thought it was sweet how shy he seemed to be. “Go get dressed and I’ll give you the run-down. You’re gonna dirty up our couch in your little get-up.”

He snorted a laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Don’t you ‘yes, ma'am’ me.”

He just got up, smiling to himself. You watched him go, that giant of a man. Part of you almost wanted to just ask him to bed you. Maybe not date, you weren’t sure you were exactly his type. But god… if it wouldn’t totally fuck up your roommate situation, you’d have tried getting in his pants the first time you’d met him.

You still remembered it. 

When Jimmy had told you that he had a friend from work who was looking for a roommate, you didn’t expect 240 pounds of bumbling gorgeous. He blushed when you said hello, told you he’d cover three quarters of the rent while you got your bearings after your last roommate had put you out to couch surf, and could hardly look you in the eye after you’d made an extremely mild flirtatious comment. You may or may not have casually asked Jimmy if Clark was single after that. Jimmy shoved you and told you to leave the poor guy alone. 

In retrospect, he was looking out for both of you. It probably wouldn’t have ended in a signed lease as much as a single, glorious night. If you even got that far. You were certain that Clark was the boyscout to end all boyscouts. Once he’d told you he was Superman, you knew that your suspicions had been confirmed.

But agreeing not to fuck him didn’t mean you couldn’t look.

You ended up being glad you never did, anyway. He’d become a great friend in the time you’d been living together. He was courteous, kind, and you didn’t have to carry groceries a single time in over two years any time you’d gone shopping with him. He always bent to your will when it came to picking out what to watch for movie nights, and was shockingly funny when he wanted to be. It was a good deal. A great deal. A fantastic deal with a cute butt and stunning dimples.

Clark shrugged out of his suit in the privacy of his room, briefly pressing his nose to the shoulder of his suit where he could still smell your shampoo before he came to his senses. He took a fast shower, rubbing one out for good measure. He figured if he got ahead of the curve, there was less chances of getting hard out of the blue if you touched him literally anywhere. He bit into his lower lip, spilling against the shower wall with a soft sound that sounded suspiciously close to your name. But he’d never admit as much, even to himself.

He found himself on the couch with you that evening, listening intently to you spill your guts about yet another date from hell. He frowned as you recounted the man’s behavior, an arm slung around your shoulders as his face was pressed against your hair.

“Maybe you should take a break from the apps,” he mumbled after you’d finished.

You sighed. “Mm… maybe. But god, what gives? It’s not like I’m specifically seeking out true love right now. Some consistent sex would suffice, but even that is impossible.”

He coughed once, cheeks going red again. “Uh… right. Well…”

“Sorry. I know you get squeamish about that,” you mentioned with a chuckle.

“I’m not squeamish.”

“You get all blushy if I talk about sex.”

He huffed. “It’s… you just… you talk about it like–”

“See? Squeamish.” You chuckled, adjusting to look up at him.

Clark groaned, pushing you away. You laughed harder, pulling the tiniest grin from his lips.

“You’re mean to me. Just cause I don't share all of my… experiences.”

You raised a brow. “To be fair, I didn’t realize you even had experiences.”

He flushed again, hand on the back of his neck. Taking care of himself in the shower evidently didn’t prevent anything. He crossed one of his legs over the other, trying to mask what jumped up in his sweats.

“It’s not like I’m a virgin.”

“Could’a fooled me.”

He glared at you. “Be nice.”

“I’m plenty nice.”

“You make fun of me.”

“Only cause I love you,” you teased, pinching his cheek. “And cause I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about a girl since you dated Lois.”

He sighed, head leaning back onto the couch. “I don’t like doing– doing that unless I really like somebody. I just haven’t found the right person in a while is all.”

You smiled, softer now. You took his hand in yours, squeezing it softly as your head found its way to his arm again.

“That’s very sweet.”

“Don’t make fun–”

“I mean it, Clark.”

He glanced down out of the corner of his eye to where you leaned against him. His thumb brushed over your knuckles gently as you both refocused to the tv that was running in the background. He leaned over, kissing the top of your head.

“You deserve better than those folks you’ve been out with lately, you know?”

“I know.”

“Mm.”

You let out a soft breath. “The last girl I was out with tried telling me she didn’t like how I kissed.”

“Oh.”

“Which is total bullshit, by the way. She said she could ‘help me figure it out’.” You rolled your eyes. “I know for a fact that I don’t need help.”

Clark just nodded once. “R-right.”

“I don’t think anyone has ever told me that before.”

“Hm.”

“Are you going to say anything else to me?” You glanced up at him with a laugh.

“I’m, uh– I’m sure you’re a very good kisser?”

You snorted. “Have you ever had someone tell you that?”

“Tell me…?”

“You can’t kiss. Or need help or whatever.”

He shook his head. “Uh, n-no?”

“You think you’re good at it?”

He flushed again, looking away. “Come on…”

“Alright, you big baby. I’ll quit asking.”

He let out a slow breath. That ended up being a long night for him once he went to his room for the night.

Weeks later, he groaned as he woke up, still a bit dazed from a deep sleep. He woke to the sound of you shuffling around the apartment, but couldn’t yet bring himself to climb out of his cozy bed. It wasn’t until he heard his door creak open that he made an attempt at opening his eyes. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” you whispered, sneaking into his bedroom.

He laid there in his plaid pajama pants, washed in sunlight and tangled in his sheets. He blinked groggily as you walked in, smiling a little at the sight of you in little more than a t-shirt and panties. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to you being so… comfortable.

“You took my shirt again,” he rasped, holding out a hand as you crawled into bed with him.

You made yourself comfortable on his bed, cross-legged and taking his hand as he turned onto his back on the mattress.

“I like this shirt. It’s soft.” You shrugged, tugging lightly on the hem of his old Met U t-shirt. “Besides, if you keep throwing your clothes into my hamper, you can’t be mad when I take them.”

He just hummed once, rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand. “Guess so. I like it on you anyway."

“Flirt.”

“That was not.”

“So you think I’m ugly?”

He scoffed, eyes going wide. “Wha– I didn’t say that!”

You tried to keep it together, but his immediate defense and embarrassment was too much to handle. You chuckled a little, his features softening but still stern as he muttered your name in a scold. 

“You’re so easy to rile up.” You grinned.

“You’re rude.”

“You adore me.”

He sighed, arm around your waist as he pulled you down with him. You squealed, settling yourself with your knees on either side of his hips. He intended merely to bring you a little bit closer, maybe get you to quiet down, but Clark realized too late what a pickle he’d just gotten himself into as he loosened his arm.

“Oh, geez–” he mumbled, feeling himself freeze up.

“If you wanted me on top of you that bad–”

“Quit it.”

“Yes, sir.”

He frowned, stomach dropping as he felt his blood rush south. You chuckled for only a moment before something else caught your attention, something that wasn’t there before suddenly insistently pressing against your bare thigh.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry,” Clark squeaked out, eyes squeezing shut. “Shoot, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“Not your fault.”

“It kind of is.”

“You didn’t get hard on purpose, I’m sure.”

He groaned. “Please don’t talk about it.”

“Too late, it’s touching me.”

He whined. Honest-to-god whined. His hands settled on your hips, trying weakly to push you away. You had two options in front of you, you realized: allow him to push you away and pretend it never happened, or…

You gripped his wrists, stopping him from pushing you away. He looked up at you, alarmed with his ears turning red as fast as his cheeks did. 

“What are you doing?”

You just shrugged, pushing your hips back up from where he’d tried shoving you away. Clark gasped at the small amount of friction it provided to his restricted length. He breathed out your name again, though whether it was meant to be a warning or praise you weren’t quite sure. What you were sure of is that he looked really cute with rosy cheeks and parted lips, and a little dry-humping between friends never killed anyone.

“You can stop me if you really want to,” you spoke, voice barely louder than a whisper, your hips rolling against his with more purpose.

His jaw ticked, his eyes still closed. “I… I know.”

“Are you going to?”

He swallowed, hands gripping the fat of your hips with more strength, helping you along as you rocked against him again. He knew it would be reasonable to stop this. He didn’t do casual, he knew that he couldn’t. He also didn’t ever cross that line with you, despite the thoughts about you that seemed to plague his mind at any given moment. But this technically wasn’t anything, he rationalized with an extremely clouded mind. You both had clothes on, mostly. The most intimate skin contact was his hands on your hips and thighs. It was fine. He decided it was fine, so it would be fine. 

“No,” he finally answered after a moment.

Your hands ran over his wrists, his forearms, his fingers. You watched him carefully as his eyes slowly blinked open, hooded and dark. He watched the way your hips, clad in those soft blue panties, dragged over the evident bulge in his pajama pants. He let out a shaky huff, groaning under his breath.

“Gosh…”

“Yeah,” you breathed out with a short chuckle, hands against his bare stomach. Your fingers traced the little happy trail that snuck from his belly button down into his pants. His stomach jumped at the contact. “This is… nice. Good bonding time.”

“Bonding?” He laughed, breathing heavily. “I, uh–um… this is a heck of a way to bond.”

You just nodded, a small sound of agreement on your lips as he took a firmer hand guiding you over his erection. You felt the flimsy material of your panties clinging to your skin, soaked in your own arousal. You were sure you’d leave a spot against his pants, but you couldn’t bring yourself to feel embarrassed about it. 

Clark’s sounds grew louder, needier. His head was clouded over with want, his cock throbbing with a desire to be freed from the confines of fabric separating him from what he was sure would be a very soft, warm place between your legs. He’d thought about you a million times before, but this was the first time he could remember feeling truly, horribly desperate to be inside of you like this.

“Baby…” he groaned.

Fuck. You whined softly at the petname, your body moving against his with even more intention than you’d had a moment earlier. 

“Don’t stop,” you gasped, feeling a familiar coiling in your stomach.

He smiled, dazed out. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You dragged yourself against the length beneath you, pleased to become so aware that he was just as big as you’d imagined him to be. A new buzz beneath your skin intensified as your clit caught on what felt like the thick head of his cock. You tried the same movement again, garnering the same result. Over and over and over. 

Clark whined underneath you, fingers dug into your thighs. “W-wait. Wait, honey, I’m–”

“No. N-no, please, I’m so close.”

He grunted, frustrated and ready to finish as well. “M-me too.”

“Don’t quit.”

“Okay,” he rasped. “Okay. O-okay.”

“Right there, just like this.”

He sucked in a sharp breath, one arm tugging you down against his chest. His face buried in your hair, a harsh groan coming from the back of his throat as his hips rutted up against you. You moaned against his ear, cumming hard, pussy clenching and pulsing around nothing. Clark could hear your heart speed up as you finished, his own release coming only a few seconds later. He spilled into his pants, one hand on your waist, the other in an iron grip on your thigh. 

You both laid there for a little while, the glow of your shared orgasm settling between you. You felt elated, cheek against his clammy bare shoulder. Clark felt… humiliated? Excited? A scary combination of both, it seemed.

“I’m… I’m really sorry.”

You breathed slow, pushing up on his chest to look down at him. “For what?”

“That was, uh…” He looked away. “I didn’t mean to do that.”

“To cum?”

He mumbled your name. “Gosh. Don’t say it like that. No, I meant doing all of that. I don’t–”

“I liked it, for the record.”

He swallowed. “Me too, but I shouldn’t have.”

“Clark. Come on,” you whispered, tilting his head to look at you again. “If you liked it and I liked it, then there’s nothing wrong. It was fun. You had a good time, right?”

He gave a pouty nod. “Yeah.”

“Quit pouting.”

“I’m not pouting.”

“You totally are. You just came and found a way to feel immediately guilty about it. You’re not Catholic, cut it out.”

“Ma did bring me to church sometimes when I was little…”

“Clark.”

He sighed, a soft smile making its way to his face. “Sorry. I– I did like it. That was nice.”

“We didn’t fuck. I think we can chalk it up to a fun activity between roomies.”

“You have an odd idea of what a roommate activity is.”

You smiled, brushing his dampened hair away from his face. 

If Clark thought he was struggling with how he felt about you before, it was a whole new ballgame now. He knew he had a bit of a crush, as evidenced by the way his dick would jump to life if he thought about you too hard. But it was suddenly leagues worse. 

He didn’t have to wonder what you’d sound like under him, he knew. He didn’t have to guess if you’d be soaked and warm for him, he had evidence in the form of a wet spot on the pants he’d worn that morning. You came rubbing yourself on him. He came in his pants. You got each other off. He wasn’t going to be quick to forget it. 

Going into work that morning didn’t help him out at all. He was certain his cheeks were still a little pink as he stumbled into his desk chair at the Daily Planet. Evidently, he wasn’t making it all up in his head. 

“Dude.”

Clark glanced up to see Jimmy staring at him pointedly. He raised his brows in question. 

“Who’s the girl?” Jimmy asked, his arms crossed. 

Clark sputtered. “Wha– there’s no girl.” 

“Bullshit. You look like you got laid.”

“I did not–” Clark sighed, adjusting his glasses. “Why would you even think that?”

“You just look… satisfied. Too happy to be here at nine in the morning.”

“I like my job.”

“Not that much, man. Come on, Clark,” Jimmy huffed, certain he wasn’t imagining things. “I haven’t seen you like this in… ever.”

Clark bit the inside of his cheek, turning back to his computer, trying to ignore Jimmy commenting on his behavior under his breath. Jimmy didn’t often let him be for very long, though. 

Clark was making an attempt to mind his business on a bench outside, quietly eating the PB&J he’d packed for himself that morning, until Jimmy found him. Clark glanced up, cheeks filled.

“Hi?”

Jimmy sat on the bench next to him, stretching out. He sighed heavily before he looked to his friend.

“You’re really going to do the whole ‘secret girlfriend’ thing again?”

Clark frowned, swallowing. “I’m not.”

“You’re really bad at lying.”

“I’m not lying. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Jimmy snorted a laugh. “So you are hooking up with someone? Of all people?”

Clark sighed, his sandwich dropping down in his limp hand. “I’m not doing that either.”

“I’ll find out eventually, you know that, right?”

Clark just took another bite, ignoring the comment. Jimmy was annoyingly perceptive sometimes. Clark often thought Jimmy should’ve been an investigative journalist when he acted like that. But, he was finally offered some reprieve when Jimmy changed the subject, talking about some plans to go out for drinks that Friday. Clark nodded along politely, not bothering to fully listen until it was too late. 

He realized after Jimmy grinned and told him to bring you along that he’d accidentally nodded to going with them.

Clark showed up at home with a shy wave, and a request on the tip of his tongue.

“So…”

You looked in his direction as he washed the dishes that night, sipping wine while propped up on the kitchen counter. He was still in his button up from work, sleeves rolled just past his elbows, humming to one of your songs playing softly in the room. He looked downright delicious. You wondered if your little tryst that morning would become a welcome addition to your routine as a pair, or if Clark would try to brush it under the rug like it had never happened. You hoped for the former.

“Yeah?” You replied after a second.

He let out a small puff of air. “Uh… Jimmy asked me to go out with him and a few folks from the office on Friday, after work. He said you should come with us.”

“Oh?”

“Uh huh.”

“Is that an invitation?”

He shrugged once. “If… if you’d like to come with, I’d love to have you.”

“You half-had me this morning already,” you quipped with a snorted laugh.

He felt his cheeks warm, your name a soft, almost disapproving sound on his lips. It only made you smile further, causing him to grin back against his better judgement. 

“I, uh… maybe we should talk about that. At some point.”

You raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he affirmed with a nod, drying his hands after putting the last plate in the drying rack. He turned to you, crossing his arms. His breath hitched a tiny bit at the way your eyes dropped to his biceps. “Um… I just… I don’t know. That was different. For us.”

“I’d say so. Not exactly dry humping our brains out on a regular basis.”

“Hun,” he huffed, the pet name slipping out easily. “I’m trying to be serious.”

“Okay, okay,” you conceded, setting your glass down on the counter next to you. “Yeah. It was… unusual for us, for sure.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think that’s a bad thing?”

He blinked, his eyes a bit wider. “W-well, no. Not bad, just… just different.”

“Is it something you’d want to do again?” You got to the point, tilting your head in question.

“I don’t know. Maybe? But it wasn’t–” He paused, taking a breath. He had to look away, suddenly feeling a little embarrassed. “I don’t usually do stuff like that.”

“You seemed pretty damn good at it.”

He flushed, all the way down past his collar. “I-I mean with somebody I’m not dating. I don’t do that unless I’m with somebody. This time was different.”

“If you don’t want to, we don’t have to. But for the record, I had a very good time.”

“Yeah. I did too.” He nodded, meeting your eyes again. “Can I think about it? If I can do it again?”

You agreed softly with a smile. He gave you a warm hug, letting it linger a little longer than he usually would. You graciously ignored the bulge you felt against your leg again.

He acted as normal as he could, still quite obviously thinking about what you’d done together, but trying not to let it show. He couldn’t help it. He’d fantasized for so long that getting a taste felt absolutely surreal.

Friday night came, and so did his lingering gaze on your chest in the tight top you wore to go out with his coworkers. He didn’t mean to look. It was just hard not to when your breasts were pressed up the way they were. 

He sat by your side through the night, sipping on a sprite and getting all of your margarita refills from the bar. He laughed at every joke you made, hardly noticing the looks between Jimmy and Cat at his behavior with you.

The moment he excused himself to go to the “bathroom”, aka he caught wind of a burning building and had to do his Super-thing, they all moved in on you.

“Seriously?” Jimmy started with a laugh.

You looked at your long-time friend, his expression bewildered. “What?”

He merely groaned, leaving it up to Lois to shake her head at you. You glanced at them all, unsure what the gossip was.

“He has that lost-puppy look,” Lois said with a short chuckle into her drink.

“Maybe a dog in heat,” Cat added in, laughing when the comment pulled a few sour looks from the phrasing. “Oh, you know what I mean.”

You sighed. “What are you guys talking about?”

“Clark,” Jimmy replied simply. “He looks like he’s actively holding back from bending you over the table.”

“You’re gross.” You snorted a laugh, sipping your drink. Little did he know.

“And you’re no better,” he quickly added. “Leaning into his side, giggling at his jokes. He is not that funny.”

“But he’s super cute,” Cat sang out with a grin.

“He’s been staring down your shirt literally all night.” Lois looked at you with a raised brow. “He is classically horrible at hiding how he feels. You can’t seriously say you haven’t noticed him falling over himself for you.”

“You guys are all ridiculous.”

Jimmy groaned. “Oh, please. I’ve known you forever, dude. And we all know Clark. Like Lois said, he is classically shit at hiding his feelings. She would know.”

“And dare I say, he’s acting even more desperate than anything I saw from him in the beginning,” she mentioned with a grin.

Cat laughed. “Oh my god. It’s so cute, come on. You two would be so sweet together.”

“She likes a big boy, too,” Jimmy noted.

“James,” you scolded.

“Just saying. You always went for the tall ones in high school. Except that one guy… Emmett?”

“Oh my god.”

“He was an interesting choice.”

“He was nice!”

Jimmy snorted, muttering under his breath, “and a freak.”

“You’re so–”

“What?” He laughed. “Don’t be like that, we’re just having some fun. Like I’m sure Clark would love to have with…”

You all looked at him as he trailed off, like he’d come to an epiphany all of a sudden.

“What?” Cat prodded first.

Jimmy smiled, which was often dangerous. 

“Are you the reason he came into work the other day looking like he got some?”

You were taken off guard. Oh boy. “Pardon me?”

“You so are.”

Cat gaped. “You already climbed that?”

“No–”

“Oh, she so is,” Lois mentioned softly to Jimmy, gossiping like you weren’t sitting right there.

You scoffed, floundering. They were all out to get you, you were certain of it.

“Why don’t you all bully Clark about this instead of me?”

“We bully him every day,” Jimmy explained.

You huffed a breath, melting into your seat as they chattered on. Fortunately, your drink ran out, and you had an excuse to leave in order to grab a new one. You got up, making a beeline for the bar, and placed your order for a hard lemonade. It was time to slow down if you didn’t want to wake up hung over.

You waited for a couple of minutes before the smell of Clark’s cologne clouded your head. He always wore a little extra when you went out, and god, he smelled good as fuck when you were a bit tipsy. You looked up to see him sidling up next to you with a smile.

“Everything go okay?” 

He nodded. “Yeah, of course. Firefighters did a great job, I just grabbed a nice old lady and her cat. Everyone else was already taken care of.”

“Good.”

“Everything okay here?”

“Your friends are horrible.”

He furrowed his brow. “What happened?”

You chuckled. “They’re just… nosey. It’s all Jimmy’s fault.”

“Nosey?”

“Yeah.” You thanked the bartender, tipping her as she handed over your bottle. “They were interrogating me about you.”

“About me?” He crossed his arms.

Your eyes flicked to his shoulders, his arms testing the limits of that baggy t-shirt. “Mhm.”

He gulped. “What’d they say?”

“They’re trying to figure out if we’re fucking,” you stated, meeting his eyes again. “I told them no, but they have officially made up their minds.”

He let out a breath. “Gosh.”

“Yeah. Said you’re like a dog in heat who won’t stop staring at my tits.”

You laughed, but Clark blushed, shifting on his feet. Now it was his turn to let his eyes drop down. Okay, maybe they had a point about him looking at your boobs.

“They do look really nice.”

Oh shit. 

You blinked, not expecting him to be so forthcoming. But, to be fair, you did rub up on him until he made a mess of his pants only a few days before. 

“Huh.”

“S-sorry, I didn’t mean to–”

“Don’t fucking apologize.”

He paused, nearly pouting. “But–”

“It’s okay. Quit worrying so much, Clark,” you said softly, touching his arm. You glanced back at the table, the small group talking amongst themselves. “Come on. We should probably go back.”

He didn’t budge. “Or… maybe we can go home.”

“Oh?”

“Y-yeah.” He shrugged, trying like hell to be nonchalant. “If you want.”

You nodded, your final drink left full on the edge of the bar.

The walk back to your shared apartment was quiet, your hands brushing with every step, though neither of you made the move to do more than those soft touches. It wasn’t until you walked into your building, waiting for the elevator that you realized he was taking you home. Kind of. Did it count if you shared that home? Maybe it didn’t matter.

You both stepped into the elevator, Clark hitting the button for your floor. 

You glanced over first, eyes lingering on his jaw, his hair, his ear, his lips… everything. Clark followed, his eyes flicking over your arms, stomach, chest, face, and landing back on your eyes. It was a blur. Neither of you knew who moved first, only that suddenly you were against one another, your lips locked.

His hands gripped your waist and hips, pulling you into his body. You deepened the kiss, slipping your tongue against his, sucking on it when he tried pulling back. He groaned, his knees feeling weaker in an instant. He whispered your name, kissing down your neck.

You let him pick you up, wrapping your legs around his waist. He shuffled out of the elevator and towards your door, grateful that the hallway was empty. He fumbled with his keys, finally shoving it into the lock and stepping inside. 

“We’re gonna, like, really do this, huh?” you breathed out, giddy as he let you back down to kick off your shoes and jacket.

He grinned, dimples poking into his cheeks. “Yeah. Gosh, yes.”

He was on you again the moment you both were freed of your outerwear, scooping you up with ease. You worked on his t-shirt, pulling it up and over his head. It got flung somewhere in the living room. He pressed you to the wall in the hallway, tugging your top off and undoing the button and zipper of your jeans. His lips hardly left yours.

He walked again, leaving a trail of clothes behind like breadcrumbs. The moment he had you on your back in his bed, spread out on top of his sheets like you belonged there, his excitement turned to utter desperation. You watched as he pulled off the glasses he’d worn for the night and suddenly started pulling his belt loose, clearly trying to rid himself of his clothing as fast as he could. You followed suit with a thrilled fervor, shimmying out of your jeans and panties, ripping your bra off and flinging it somewhere unknown.

He groaned deep in his chest when he looked back to see you bare and waiting.

“I don’t deserve you.”

You chewed your lip. “You’re one to talk.”

He swallowed, your gaze burning his skin as it trailed from his chest, to his stomach, settling on his cock, bobbing and drooling, his tip swollen and aching.

“You’re so hot. Holy shit.”

His chest tightened at the rasp in your voice. He crawled on top of you, hands everywhere he could reach. He gripped your skin, lips and tongue and teeth leaving lasting marks down your neck and chest.

“Clark.”

He whined. “I wanna be in you so bad.”

“Do it.”

“N-no. Gotta get you ready first.”

You sighed in ecstasy, his fingers slipping between your legs. You let him kiss you like he needed it to live, two fingers shoved into your needy heat.

“You’re so wet. How are you so wet?” He heaved a few breaths, kisses all along your cheek.

“I was soaked the second you came out of your room before we left. You looked so fucking hot, and you smell so good, and… fuck, Clark, I wanted to choke on your cock when you put those dorky fucking glasses on before we left.”

He groaned pathetically. “You… Do you like the glasses that much?”

“You look like the hottest loser in the world with them on.”

He huffed a short laugh, though it was weak and wrecked. “Noted.”

“Let me suck it.”

“W-what?”

You pushed his hand away. “I’m ready enough. Back up. Please.”

He whined, reluctantly taking his fingers out of you. He shoved them in his mouth, eyes fluttering as he tasted you. You nearly drooled watching it. He let you push him onto his back, eyes locked on you as you took him in your hand.

“Thought you’d feel heavy,” you muttered, sucking his tip into your mouth. A broken noise escaped his chest. You slapped his dick against your tongue, the heft of him even better than you were hoping. “Fuck. Gorgeous cock.”

His hips jerked, his chest heaving. He thanked the heavens he had an abnormal ability to keep it up because he was certain that if he let himself, he would've cum all over your pretty face before you even took him. 

You sucked him into your warm, waiting mouth, hollowing out your cheeks as you started bobbing your head. He gasped, tiny sounds leaving him at every motion against his desperate length. You felt yourself dripping down your thighs, his cock down your throat further and further every time you went down again.

Your hand stroked what your mouth couldn’t fit, wanting every bit of him to feel cared for. But as good as it felt to suck his pretty cock, the kind of sound that he made when you moved down further caused the slick between your legs to increase even further than you realized your body was capable of.

Your lips closed around one of his heavy balls, your hand still insistently stroking him. His body tensed as he tried not to jerk hard against your face. You sucked on his full sack, alternating each side, unable to fit both in at once (even though you’d made an attempt). He nearly sobbed your name, your hand focusing on the hyper-sensitive head of his length.

You only pulled off when he physically pulled you away.

“Keep it up and I’m going to finish too fast.”

“That’s not bad.”

He huffed, a weak smile on his face. “Trust me, I’d love that any other time. This time, I want to do it right.”

You let him manhandle you, dropping you down against his pillows. He spread your legs apart, one look at how much wetter you’d become and his eyes closed for a few seconds.

“Holy c-crap.”

“What?”

He shook his head, looking back down. “You are just… dripping. Your legs are covered in it.”

“You have a really perfect dick. I got excited.”

He shuddered, rubbing your thigh gently. He knelt between your legs, draping your legs over his. He stroked himself, just staring at you. It was a minute before you made a quiet, impatient noise, finally calling him to action.

Clark pushed his flushed tip through the wetness between your legs. He watched the way your pussy glistened with arousal, his jaw slack and heart pounding. He let his heavy cock rest against your clit, slowly rutting against you just to watch the way your body jolted with the contact. He groaned, his eyes flicking briefly to your face. 

“You’re so beautiful. Pretty girl. Pretty… geez,” he huffed, eyes drawn back to your pussy. 

He gripped the base of his cock, tapping the blunt head against your sloppy clit, committing the sound of the wet slap to memory. He wanted to make sure he never forgot. He felt desperate. Overcome by need and the way you laid out for him, cunt on display just for him to play with. What an honor. 

“Can I put it in?” he mumbled, words slurring from pure want. “Please. Pretty baby, I wanna feel you. You’re so wet. Prettiest p-pussy ever, she’s so cute. Wanna feel you squeezin’ me–”

“Yeah. Yes, Clark, please. Put it in.”

He groaned, his eyes fluttering as he dragged himself down to your opening, chewing his lip as he pressed against you. He gulped, moving forward just enough to let you swallow his head. He gasped, chest heaving. 

“O-oh gosh.”

“Fuck, Clark.”

“Mm…” 

He adjusted his hips, pulling your lower half up onto his thighs. Your back arched, shoulders still pressed to the mattress as he molded your body to his, letting his cock slip in further until he was fully seated in you. He practically winced, holding back with everything in him.

“Feel better than I thought you’d be,” he mumbled under his breath. 

You breathed heavy, hands gripping his wrists where he held your hips as he delivered some shallow thrusts. Your eyes met his. “You’ve thought about it?”

He nodded, any of his usual guilt dissipating. “Yes. Yes, so many times. Knew you’d be perfect.”

“Shit. Here I thought you were a pure little boy scout,” you responded with a short laugh. 

“M’not bad. Just… just like you. You’re so… Geez,” he trailed off, head tilting back as his hips moved against yours. “You’re just really nice and pretty. You’re so sweet to me. Couldn’t help it, I just thought about you sometimes when I… when…”

“You jerked off thinking about me?”

He whimpered. “Don’t say it like that.”

“But you did.”

“Y-yeah. I did,” he admitted, pulling you up onto his lap.

Your arms circled his neck as he held you to his chest, thrusting up into you. You tried your best to assist, weakly bouncing on his thighs, but he was Superman, after all: he could very easily move you how he wanted to. And he did. He moved you along his cock with ease until you were quivering and whining his name. He moaned weakly as he felt your teeth sink into his skin, your pussy clenching and squeezing around him. He could hardly stand it, the sound of your soaked pussy even louder after you’d finished for him. He fucked into you with strong arms locking you in place until you were feeling him pump you full of his cum, breathing into your ear like he’d run a marathon. 

“Baby. Baby, baby, baby…” he whined, hips jerking a few more times as he babbled against your skin. “Oh, gosh. You’re so perfect, so good, honey. So good, you feel perfect.”

“Clark,” you sighed, blissed out.

He just shook in your grasp, body spent and somehow still so needy for you. He kissed up your neck, his lips moving along your skin. He nipped softly just under your ear. He pulled out of you slowly as his lips moved to your cheek, and finally to your mouth to kiss you properly. His tongue slid into your mouth as he laid you back down on the mattress, dancing along your own tongue. You kissed him back slowly, the action messy and full of want and untold affection. His hands touched your cheeks, moving down over your breasts.

“Gorgeous,” he spoke into your mouth, squeezing the soft flesh. His thumbs brushed over your nipples, sighing softly when they pebbled under his touch. “I love these.”

You just smiled, watching him kiss one perky nipple as an act of reverence. His lips moved along your breast, down your stomach, his fingers slipping over your slick pussy, catching on your sensitive little bundle of nerves.

“Wanna taste you,” he whispered against your thigh.

“You just came inside of me, Clarkie.”

He grinned at the name. “I know, baby. We made a mess, I’ll clean it up. Promise.”

His smile widened as your head tilted back, a heavy breath pulled from your lips. He moved his way up, a slow, open-mouthed kiss against your pussy when he finally met her. You moaned, eyes rolling back. He slid one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you up further as he licked his cum out of your fucked-out cunt. One hand gripped your thigh, the other kneading your tit, his mouth working you over. He sucked on your throbbing clit, tongue moving over every part of your soft flesh he could taste. Your hips jerked against his face. He chuckled quietly, his voice reverberated through you.

“Shit. Right there, please.” You gripped his hair, panting.

He obliged, eating you out like a man starved. His tongue scooped inside of you, his hips jerking against the mattress, already hardened again at the mixture of your flavor and his. It didn’t take long for him to have you careening over the edge again, gasping and whining, your grip in his hair tighter. He swallowed down everything you had to give him, gently licking you clean until you were begging him to slow down.

“You like it?” He looked at you with raised brows as he shifted his body to be over yours once more. 

“So much. Did so good, Clark.”

He brightened at the praise, licking the inside of your mouth like he did your cunt. 

“I’m ready again when you are,” he whispered against your lips.

It was a long night. A long weekend, in fact. One that ended in him deciding, while balls deep, that it would probably be a good idea to ask you out at some point.

Clark made it to work that Monday, floating on cloud nine with his head still swirling around little more than you. He smiled to himself as he stepped off the elevator, a pep in his step walking to his desk. He set down his things, scruffing his hand through his hair as he logged into his computer. He hadn’t noticed the suspicious eyes on him.

Jimmy watched him, shaking his head to himself. He let Clark have a moment, clearly elsewhere in his thoughts. But he couldn’t let him stew in love-sick peace forever. 

“Why?” You question slowly. Your eyes briefly fly to Ben who’s scribbling on the coffee table, he looks up curiously when he sees the familiar face.

“Uncle Scott,” he beams in greeting.

Scott matches that expression, the sweetest he’s ever looked, as he comes over and ruffles his hair. “Hey, big man, what’re you working on?”

“Me, mom, and dog.”

“Dog, huh?” he chuckles, “I’m sure we can arrange that.”

Ben brightens, hopeful eyes turning to you. You’re going to strangle this man. “Let’s talk about it after dinner, bud.” Your narrowed eyes switch over to Scott. “A word?”

He confidently strolls back over to you, disregarding your glare as he begins to pull out all sorts of things. Mushrooms, vegetables, packs and packs of meat. USDA Prime. Jesus Christ— “What are you doing?”

“Unpacking groceries.”

You pinch his side. He’s built like a brick wall, he doesn’t even flinch. “Scott.”

He says your name in response. A teasing lilt hanging to each letter.

“Why are you here? What is all this?”

“Groceries.”

“Don’t be an ass. Why did you extend your trip?”

“To spend time with you.” He begins to organize your fridge. Worst part? He knows exactly how you like your fridge arranged so he’s putting all the things in all the right places.

“I’m serious,” you hiss.

“What makes you think I’m not?”

You swallow, gaze flying to Ben again who’s back to drawing out his dream dog. It looks more like a deformed puppy but you get the gist of it. “We can’t—” you take a deep breath, “Listen, Ben is young. He’s going to latch onto you if you keep coming around.”

“Would that be so bad?”

The question infuriates you. You scowl, “Are you fucking kidding me? That would be a nightmare. What happens when you leave? He’s going to be asking around for Uncle Scott who will never come around again. There’s a reason why I don’t bring around just anyone to meet him.”

Scott’s eyes tighten almost imperceptibly, but you know him better than that. “You bring others around to meet him?”

“I— no, that’s not what I meant. Jenna’s really the only person who comes over other than my mom. The staff at the hospital know because he pops by time to time. I don’t— I’m careful about who I expose him to. I don’t want to have to answer questions about where someone went or pick up the pieces of a boy who shouldn’t have his heart broken because people disappear on him.”

He seems to mull over this for a moment. His next question sends a shock through your system.

“Who says I’m leaving again?”

Your heart slams against your ribs. Traitorous little thing is getting excited for nothing. “What’re you talking about?”

“Storm Par is set up and running. We have a good team down in Oklahoma always collecting data. I’ve been managing mostly strategy and investor relations.” He looks a little too pleased when he says, “I need to be closer to potential funders anyway, a lot of them are in the northeast.”

“You’re not—” Your breath hitches in your throat, “you’re not considering moving back, are you?”

A proud look settles on his face. “Just signed for a sublet for the next couple of months while I look for a more permanent apartment. How’s this neighborhood? I don’t remember it being particularly nice, but it seems good. How do you feel about moving?”

“Scott,” you snap. “That’s insane. You can’t just— that’s crazy. You were literally supposed to leave today. Suddenly, you’re deciding to stay here? On a whim? What’s wrong with you?”

“Not a whim, I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve… just decided it’s the right move.”

“In one night?”

“I don’t need more time than that.”

You give him a look. “That’s stupid.”

“It’s efficient decision-making.”

“Scott.”

“What’s for dinner? Does he have any allergies?”

“Scott.”

He takes a deep breath, sapphire eyes dulled out as he looks up at the ceiling, praying for some lord almighty to save him. “We can spend all night arguing about this but it’s a done deal. I like Boston, I’ve decided to come back. Is that so hard to believe?” Before you can say yes, absolutely, Scott continues, “I’ve thought about this for a while. Trust me when I say I am not doing this impulsively and I’m not just going to change my mind.”

The two of you are locked in a stare-down, neither budging. Two stupidly stubborn fools.

Scott’s eyes are jagged when they first land on yours, sharp in a way that could cut. But the longer he looks at you, the more they thaw, like ice melting in the changing of seasons. It’s a soft transition that warms your frozen heart.

However, then his gaze trails to your mouth, the way they’re parted, teeth peeking out in aggravation, tongue pressing against your teeth as your jaw is clenched. His eyes go molten, scorching as they sear into your skin, tracing your bare shoulders, the length of your neck, exposed collarbones.

“Should put more on you,” he mutters.

“What?” You jerk back, confused.

“Nothing. Dinner? I don’t know how to cook.”

“Then get your own damn dinner, I’m not cooking for you.”

He challenges you with a raise of his eyebrow. “But I bought groceries.”

“That I didn’t ask for.”

“I fuckin’ forgot how bull-headed you are sometimes. Arguing for the sake of arguing.” He huffs a laugh through his nose, hip leaning against your counter, eyes sparkling. “If you wanted to fuck, just say so.”

His voice is low, low enough that you know Ben doesn’t catch it over the sound of the television, but it still puts you on high alert. “Can you not say insane things when my son is around?”

“Always picked a fight when you wanted a fuck,” he smirks.

Your lips part, ready to tell him off, but he turns to the sink instead, beginning to wash his hands.

“Now, what do you need help with?”

Scott’s reappearance has thrown your life for a loop, adding this new, uncontrolled variable that you’re not sure how to handle. He drops you off and picks you up from work. The moment he heard that you’ve been taking the train an hour each way to work, he made that call with no room for argument. He refuses to even drop you off a block away from the hospital so you end up with your coworkers’ curious eyes on you when you’re pulling up every morning in Scott’s stupidly shiny car.

“Have a good day at work, honey,” he would call out obnoxiously through the open window.

The furious glare you throw his way does nothing to deter this behavior. Now, you’re bombarded with questions about him every time you have a moment to yourself, which means you no longer have a shred of peace at work.

He comes by nearly every evening; you say nearly because you had to cut him off, tell him that he cannot show up every single day.

“Why not?”

“Scott. You can’t just come here everyday, he’s going to get confused. You are not family.”

“Yet.”

“What?”

“Fine. Every other day, but full weekends.”

It’s a compromise that you tried to negotiate down, but he refuses to budge on.

The worst part is that Scott is terrific with Ben.

He’s smart and answers all of Ben’s questions with tact. The moment your son learns that Scott works with tornadoes, chasing after them and being smack dab in the middle of the action, he’s absolutely enthralled. You have to emphasize to Scott that you will murder him if Ben ever tells him that he wants to be a tornado chaser.

“I’ll protect him, don’t worry,” is all he says.

You still worry.

Beyond that, Ben seems to enjoy his company, has started asking when Uncle Scott would be coming around again so he could show him the progress he’s made on the massive Superman LEGO set that Scott had gotten him.

“You can’t spoil him too much,” you frown when he pops by on his assigned day, a gift box in hand. It’s the fourth in two weeks.

“He’s a kid. He likes toys.”

“You can’t spoil him,” you mutter.

Your worry is partially rooted in the fact that you can’t just give Ben whatever he wants, whenever he wants, but it also stems from your guilt for not being able to provide all this. It’s not as if you’re not making money; you save enough from your salary, but Boston is an expensive city.

Scott seems to understand this. He dials it back, but you know that he’s itching every time Ben mentions something new he’s curious about. He just picks and prioritizes what he gets him.

Otherwise, he’s good. Too good even. That seems to be a pattern when it comes to him.

You tell yourself it’s because he doesn’t know he’s the father. It’s less commitment, less pressure. He plays the role of a cool uncle who showers Ben with gifts and attention.

Scott has pressed again, of course — who’s the father, when did this happen, do I need to have a conversation, you could fight for child support — to which you answer no repeatedly. An easy denial to give him none of the answers he’s looking for. It never stops him from asking again; he thinks he’ll wear you down eventually.

Truth be told, you think that Scott will bore himself soon. He can’t possibly be serious about permanently moving back to Boston. You’re convinced that in the next couple of weeks, he’ll realize that this pretend domesticity isn’t the life he wants, and he’ll pack up his bags again and leave. When that day comes, you won’t be disappointed.

As long as he never finds out Ben is his son, you’ll be fine.

(Maybe if you repeat it enough times, you’ll actually believe your own words.)

However, you seem to have a knack for putting your foot in your mouth and speaking too soon, because your worst nightmare comes to fruition one day when you let your guard down. Usually, you do a pretty good job of keeping track of their conversations, making sure they stay on safe territory that gives away nothing. Ben has zero clue about his father anyway, so there’s nothing really to give away.

Or so you think.

You’re caught up trying to balance sending work emails and batting away your mother’s efforts to inquire more about Scott. She’s been badgering you nonstop to learn more about your history, prodding Scott whenever she’s here to share more, even going as far as to drop the most obvious hints.

“You know, she is very single. Incredibly single.”

“Mother!”

“I’m aware,” Scott smirks. “Refuses to let me change that.”

You don’t appreciate the way he’s looking at you now, how your body is tingling all over from the memories. The press of his fingers on your hip, how his mouth feels mapping out the curve of your breasts, the burn between your legs when he pushes himself in with a hungry groan.

Heat unfurls across your face and you’re quick to turn away, missing how your mother and Scott share knowing looks.

But now that she’s not here, she’s still torturing you with incessant, inane questions about him. The only thing you manage to catch in the midst of your stress is Scott saying, “Your birthday’s in Decem—”

You don’t think much of it. Not for a moment. Until it hits you.

By the time you look up, Scott’s already directing his eyes towards you. Your blood runs cold.

It’s not a question. He knows. He’s not a fool.

Born the December in the year that you graduated college, it’s not difficult to do the math on when Ben was conceived. If you retrace your steps, it’s not difficult to know who had done the conceiving.

The two of you don’t address it, not out loud. Not yet. Your brain is short-circuiting, trying to configure an excuse or a lie that would work in this instance. You’re running on empty, especially when your heart is beating straight out of your chest. Everything feels hot, your body can’t seem to handle this stress very well.

You have maybe an hour left before Ben’s due for bed and you’re half tempted to keep him awake because that means keeping Scott’s anger at bay. You can feel it roll off him in waves, crackling energy that zaps you even from this distance.

The minutes tick down much too quickly and, before you know it, Ben is yawning on cue and you’re getting him ready for bed. You spend a little longer than necessary tucking him in, reading him his story, all the while Scott is standing in the doorway watching the two of you.

He’s being considerate of Ben, maintaining his distance before he probably rips you a new one. You appreciate it, but you press an extra kiss or two onto your son’s face before you exit the room — for good luck.

When the two of you are back in the living room, Ben completely out cold to the world, Scott doesn’t ask. He simply states the irrefutable truth.

“He’s mine.”

You clear your throat. “Technically, he’s mine.”

“Don’t fucking act cute with me right now,” he snarls, jabbing his finger in the direction of the hallway both of you just left. “That’s my kid in there. Are you fucking kidding me?”

Wincing, you take a step away from him. “Can we not do this?”

“Like hell I’m letting this slide. You’ve got to be shittin’ me. That’s my kid. Ben is mine.”

The pulsing in your head only worsens the harder he glares, the more he seethes. “You’re the father. Doesn’t make him yours.”

You hear the sharp intake of breath. The confirmation landing firm in his chest. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me?”

“Why does it matter?” You snap, throwing his irritated look right back at him.

“You’ve got to be on another fucking level of insane to think it doesn’t matter.”

“I was going to,” you begin, “tell you, I mean, but the timing never felt right.”

Scott looks at you, completely aghast. “Timing never felt right? You knew. You knew before I left, before we graduated. All those times you didn’t want to drink, didn’t want to eat sushi, this was why. You had all the fucking time in the world to tell me.”

“Would it have changed anything?”

“It would’ve changed everything!”

Your lungs feel devoid of oxygen as you look at Scott, his frustration palpable. Fury is carved into the lines of his face, eyes blazing with the sort of anger you’ve never seen on him. However, in between the twist of his lips and the fire in his gaze, you see a flicker of something warmer. Softer.

Hurt.

The kind of hurt that comes with a betrayal that you cannot take back.

Scott breathes out. “I would’ve been here for you.”

“I never asked you to.”

“You never asked,” he spits out, “you never let me make that decision for myself. Instead, you let me believe that I had fucked up something between us. You cut me off and I didn’t even know why.”

“It would’ve been selfish,” you argue.

“It would’ve been fair,” he insists. “You should’ve trusted me to make my own judgment call.”

Your fingers wring together in front of you. Is this it then? The point of no return. You can’t seem to find the words to say to remedy the situation.

“I didn’t want you to have to choose,” you murmur. “Between me and your dream.” The unsaid words being I didn’t want to watch you choose your dream over me.

Scott has always been larger than life. He is meant for greater things, to innovate and create. He has gone so far since you first met him. He’s become an even bigger person than you could’ve imagined.

What right did you have to hold him back from all that?

“Again, that’s not for you to decide,” he sighs, “Have you ever considered they’re one and the same?” Your gaze flies up to meet his weary one. “You’re an idiot,” Scott mutters. “So fuckin’ stupid.”

You press your lips together into a thin line. “Thanks a lot, asshole.”

“Does he know?”

With a shake of your head, you lean back. “No, he’s been… pretty good at not asking too many questions about who his dad is. It’s only a matter of time before that curiosity grows though, especially once he starts school and the other kids will undoubtedly ask him.”

“I can help you with all that, you know. I am his father after all.”

Wincing, you swallow thickly. “You don’t have to, Scott. It was my decision to go through with the pregnancy. You don’t have to feel like you have to participate.”

“Why do you keep saying it like that?” He lets out an exasperated sound. You frown in question. “Like I don’t want to be here. For him. For you.”

“I— I just don’t want you to feel pressured to—”

“Sweetheart,” he begins and your heart feels like it’s been dipped in syrup, “I don’t do anything I don’t want to do. I’ve been present, haven’t I? And that was before I even knew he was mine. What makes you think I’m going to change my mind?”

“It’s different! Being here to support me as a friend and being here as— as his dad! As a parent.”

Scott looks up to the ceiling again, inhaling deep through his nostrils. “Tell me how it’s different.”

“A fun uncle is not a co-parent.”

“So I want to co-parent.”

“You don’t know what that means.”

“It means being here for you, for him. It means having equal responsibility and stakes in raising him. It means you’re not doing this alone.”

A lump grows in your throat as you look at him. His determination is evident.

“So I’m going to need you to get it through that thick skull of yours that I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to piss you off, you’re going to piss me off, but we’ll make it work.”

You laugh, tears pricking the corner of your eye. “Maybe if we don’t kill each other first.”

His lips curve into a smirk. “You can’t kill me. I’m your baby daddy after all. Fucked you so hard that your birth control didn’t work.”

You almost choke on your own spit. “You’re such a piece of shit.”

He laughs. “Don’t forget the father of your child.”

Your fingers are itching to make contact with his cheek. He really can be such an asshole sometimes. He knows exactly which buttons to push. Repeating the fact that he’s Ben’s father, reminding you again that he knows your big secret now. The worst part is you know that he’s doing it intentionally; the more irritated he gets you, the better the sex. He likes it when you fight back, when you push him.

He likes it when he can put you in your place.

“Some friend you are,” you grunt.

Scott’s rising to his feet, moving towards you. With every step he takes forward, he backs you up until your lower spine lands against the kitchen counter.

“Let’s get one thing clear,” Scott says low, coming up to press you against the solid surface. With both hands planted on either side of you, he leans towards you. Your breath catches. “We’re not friends. We haven’t been for a while.”

“That’s… mean,” you whimper.

“The things I want to do with you — to you — they’re not things friends do.”

There’s a promise in his gaze that has your heart fluttering, your stomach curling with desire as heat builds between your legs.

It’s hard to breathe when he’s this close. Hard to even think. Your palm flattens against his firm, broad chest, applying pressure in a feeble attempt to put some distance. Except now you can’t help but feel the way his pecs feel underneath your fingers and you can picture yourself on top of him, sinking down on his cock while your hands are planted on his skin.

Heaven have mercy.

“Things are different now,” you gulp.

“You think I still can’t make you cum three times in a night?”

Your lips part. “That’s not—” Heat climbs up your throat. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Scott chuckles. “I hope you know that this only makes me want you even more. You’re stupid if you think I’m ever letting you out of my sight again.”

“Just because you want to be here and be a father does not mean that it changes anything between us.”

His joy quickly morphs into irritation again. “Why not?”

“Because Ben will always come first and we can’t… just keep fucking.”

“Again, why not?”

Because I’m in love with you. Because I’m going to get my heart broken again.

“I want to maintain some boundaries. It’ll be better for us that way.”

Scott is quiet, thoughtful as he regards you, before he straightens. “Okay then. You do that. You maintain your boundaries.”

“Thank you.”

“Doesn’t mean I’ll be helpin’ you do that,” he laughs, bitter as he smiles at you. A threat laced into his expression. “Better prepare yourself, sweetheart. I’m not here to protect your walls. I’m here to break them down.”

“We should go out.”

Your gaze lifts from your laptop, eyes instinctively wandering down the hall to Ben’s room where he’s safe and sound asleep, then back to Scott who’s on his own laptop on the dining table. “Like to get groceries?”

“No, for dinner.”

You look over your shoulder, to the take-out menus stuck to the fridge with a mismatched set of magnets. “There’s a pizza place Ben likes down the street. We could go tomorrow.”

“Finally letting me in two days in a row?” Scott cocks an eyebrow.

A glare is all he gets in return.

“I meant us. Just the two of us.”

Your fingers stop, hovering over the keyboard. “Why?”

“So I can take you out.”

“Why?”

“To spend some time together. You know, outside of parenting.”

Parenting still sounds foreign on his tongue, at least to you. Scott seems to have settled in comfortably with the title, taking on the mantle even without the official acknowledgment. The two of you agreed to ease Ben into it; he seems to have taken a liking towards Scott so at least telling him may be easier than you initially anticipated.

However, considering the situation at hand, you can only ask, “Why?”

“How old are you?” Scott snaps.

“I don’t think we need to do anything together outside of parenting.”

“Why not?”

It’s your turn to give him a look. “We are two people who happen to be raising a child together. Somewhat.”

“But we’re friends first.”

“I think co-parenting supersedes the friend label now, which means I can’t be doing that with you. Not alone.” 

He knows you’re being obstinate for the sake of it, pissing him off just because you can. However, he doesn’t take the bait. 

“You know what, you’re right, sweetheart. Let me rethink this.”

Scott was never one to give up easily. On the contrary, when presented with a challenge, he rises to the occasion. He goes above and beyond.

It starts off innocuous enough, subtle that you nearly think that all of it is accidental. When he’s trying to help around the kitchen and he reaches across you, arm brushing your breasts. Your nipples perk up on instinct, seeking the familiar warmth of his touch like you’ve been trained. He doesn’t say a thing so you brush it off as inconsequential. His hand on your hip when he’s excusing himself behind you. His eyes on you when he licks his thumb clean off the brownie batter you’re making.

It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. These tiny touches, interactions that shouldn’t mean anything. You shouldn’t be reacting this way. You tell yourself it’s because it’s been a while since you got laid last — unfortunately, by none other than the source of your frustrations.

But then the touches become firmer, intentional in a way that you can’t miss. He’s slipping an arm around your waist when he picks you up at the hospital, head ducking to press a kiss to the side of your head, all the while you’re mid-conversation with a coworker who then scurries away under Scott’s glare. In the car, he’s sliding a possessive hand over your thigh, squeezing when he asks you about your day. He has a hand pressed against your lower back at all times, practically manhandling you when you move around different spaces.

And god do you fucking love it. Maybe it’s because you’ve been deprived of physical touch for so long, you haven’t had anyone in your corner reminding you that they’re there. But you also know yourself better than that and the only reason all of this works is because it’s Scott and you were in love with Scott.

You tell yourself it’s all in the past. This is the remnants of your feelings long forgotten from your more youthful self.

But then it all disappears. The touches. The fleeting glances. The flirty smiles. The difference is jarring and you can’t help but notice the extra space he puts between the two of you when you’re walking with Ben, keeping him in between you two. Or how he moves away from the kitchen when you enter it, and again when you move into the living room. Or how his question actually sounds polite when he asks you how work went.

How he doesn’t even blink twice when you tell him a colleague — that same one that he had scared away — had asked you out to dinner.

The frustration builds inside of you, like he’s crafting a wall with the distance brick by brick. You find yourself leaning towards him only for him to shift in his seat and away from you. The inches between you on the couch feel like they stretch for miles, his arm extended on the other side instead of behind your back.

You feel like an addict seeking a fix, constantly chasing after him — subtly, not enough for it to be obvious, but certainly enough for him to notice.

So, by the time he suggests it again, he’s Pavlov’d you to seek his attention. Fucker.

“Do you want to spend the day together?”

You grit your teeth. Somehow, Scott has conspired with your mother that she whisked Ben away early this morning for a trip to the zoo and you end up with this asshole at your front door with a smirk on his face, shoulders squared, chin tilted up like he’s done something good.

“You did this on purpose.”

“What did I do?”

He knows exactly what he did. “All of it.”

“Come on. Get dressed.”

“You haven’t even told me where we’re going,” you snap.

“Nowhere you need anything fancy,” he says before steering you by the elbow out the door.

You allow yourself to be pushed into the car, he even straps your seatbelt in for you, before he’s driving. Destination still unknown. You try to ask and Scott tells you to just relax, tells you that you’re wrung up too tight.

Then he stops and you look quizzically out the window.

“I got you a massage appointment.”

You nearly break your neck at the speed you whip around to look at him. “What? Why?”

“Thought it would be a nice thing to do. You used to gather knots like you were starting a collection and I had to press all of that out for you. Figured, with all the years of build up and I highly doubt you’ve been smoothing those out, a professional could do a better job.”

At a loss, you find yourself only staring at him. He looks cocky, so damn proud that he’s done something right — that he knew exactly what you needed.

“Now get going, they’re not gonna find another timeslot for you.”

With your mind in a blur, you exit the vehicle. The spa is nice, a mix of lavender and eucalyptus in the air that has you relaxing almost instantly. The experience is… divine to say the least. For once, you have not a single thought in your mind and you find yourself melting into the table during your two-hour long session.

By the time you step back outside, after the people inside tell you that it’s been paid for, Scott is waiting out front. In a daze, you slip back into the car.

“Good?” is all he asks.

You nod slowly.

“Good,” he smiles, “now, let’s get you ready for dinner.”

Scott tells you that he’s taking you somewhere casual, but nice. Nice enough that you end up spending a bit of time washing your hair, doing your makeup, even fixing your hair a little bit. When you spritz on perfume, you tell yourself that it’s for your sake.

But you can’t deny that when you see Scott drink you in — how his blue eyes go ten shades darker, how his lips part when he gets a whiff of the florals clinging onto your skin — that it might’ve been for him too.

You would think a man like Scott would take you somewhere nice, somewhere you’re going to be gawking at the prices all night, wondering if you should even be in a place like that. But when he pulls up to a quiet corner in Cambridge, an Italian restaurant that seems all too familiar, you find yourself caught off guard.

“What? You would’ve preferred steak and fries at Del Frisco’s?” He’s chuckling quietly to himself, knowing full well what your answer would be.

Before you can reach for your door, Scott’s rounding the car and pulling it open, even going as far as to offer a hand.

He’s a perfect gentleman the entire night. When you hesitate on ordering because of the prices, Scott — the condescending prick that he is — orders for you, except he orders right. You’ve been eyeing that dish but you couldn’t do the math fast enough to figure out your budget for the month. He orders a bottle of red, your favorite — it’s nothing fancy, but it had been a step up when you felt like splurging in college. The food is delicious, reminiscent of the old days when he would treat you to a meal to make you feel better, right after he fucked you seven ways to Sunday.

You’re warm, body buzzing with your fill of food and wine. For the first time in a while, you feel a little lighter, like the world isn’t weighing down on your shoulders. Scott drives you back home and he stops right in front of your apartment building.

You know what’s coming. A proposition — as always. You’re going to say yes — as always. He’s always been a snake charmer, saying and doing all the right things to get one into bed with him. It worked on you for months. It used to work on all the ladies before he stopped using it on them.

It still works on you, considering you’re feeling that warmth between your legs. That anticipation humming in your veins. You can practically taste his mouth on you, the tartness from the wine mixed with the gelato you ordered for dessert. You take a breath in eager hopefulness.

However, when he walks you to the apartment entrance, he only kisses the back of your hand. “Have a good night, sweetheart.” Then he’s slowly making his way down the steps, leaving you completely gobsmacked.

You find yourself saying, “Wait,” before you can even think twice.

Scott halts, turns, a knowing smile dancing on his lips.

You should have more self-restraint. But when he’s looking at you with those bright blue eyes and an expression that promises you a good time, you’re only human.

“What is it?”

You fidget with the handle of your purse. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” he drawls, tilting his head like he’s waiting to see your next move.

“You’re not gonna stay?”

Scott’s lips quirk up, shfiting into a look too cocky for your liking. “Do you want me to stay?”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“Doesn’t sound like you do,” he makes a face, raising his shoulders in a shrug as he pretends to slowly turn back around.

You should let him go. You hope he has fucking blue balls tonight. However, that also means you’ll be left alone with your thoughts in an empty apartment and your vibrator on a Saturday night, and that sounds a heck of a lot less fun than getting your brains scrambled by the one man who knows exactly how to do that.

“Do you want to come up?”

It’s comical how quickly he whirls around to say, “Don’t mind if I do.”

The ride up the elevator is weighed down by tense silence. Your heartbeat echoes in your ears in time with the numbers that climb, a beep in rhythm to each floor. Scott stands next to you, hands planted on the railing casually, but you hear the impatient tapping of his shoe. When the elevator finally dings, he lets you leave first and you feel the burn of his gaze on your back, trailing the length of you down to the curve of your ass where the silk of your dress rests.

Your fingers are barely functional as you clumsily dig through your purse to open the door. It’s one thing to have someone watching you, it’s another to have Scott staring at you. The hungry look in his eyes, the way you can practically feel the heat radiate off him.

You don’t even get a chance to properly set aside your bag before Scott is pressing you up against the wall. He drinks in your surprised little gasp, your instinct to move away from him only has him backing you up against your kitchen counter. With you half-seated on it, Scott’s hands slide around your neck, cupping your cheeks so he can lick into your mouth. He takes the chance to slip his tongue in between your little gasps, tasting that sugar on your tongue.

“Fuck, sweetheart, been waiting to do that all night,” he groans as his mouth travels towards your neck instead, sucking on the delicate skin until you feel the sting spark every nerve inside your body. He does it over again, like he’s zapping you with electricity every time he leaves a new mark on your body.

You’re no better, your hands immediately crawling up his chest to find his buttons and fumble with them, slipping them out one at a time until you can shove his shirt off his shoulders. God, how is it possible that he seems even broader than before? Your palms explore his biceps, feeling the way they flex beneath your fingertips, muscles tensing into a firm surface for you to hold onto.

“You got… bigger,” you note in a daze. It’s ridiculous how drunk you feel right now and it’s certainly not from the wine. It’s his scent — masculine and clean. Like rain on freshly mowed grass, earthy in a way that grounds you. You can’t help but breathe him in, making a mental note that he still uses the same shampoo.

“A lot of time lugging around equipment out there,” he mutters. As if to prove a point, he lifts you up to the counter and wraps your legs around his waist. “Always getting drenched in the storms.”

Fuck. Terrible visual. You imagine him in a white short-sleeve shirt, the fabric soaking up all that rain and clinging to every inch of his muscles and leaving nothing to the imagination. His dusky nipples poking through the fabric. Curly brunette hair with droplets, that one stray hair on his forehead whenever it gets too humid. You can practically see the light smattering of hair on his chest, a path leading down to his navel.

God forbid that the women in Oklahoma have seen him like that. That’s a visual you’d rather keep to yourself.

Scott distracts you again when he brings his face back to kiss you. He kisses like he’s inhaling you, stealing every hitched breath from your lungs. His mouth is ravenous as it moves against you, teeth grazing your bottom lip lightly in a tantalizing threat. He finally nips and you let out a little whine that he laughs lightly at as he kisses you harder. Firmer. Soft lips, only slightly chapped, as they relearn what it is exactly that makes you moan down his throat.

“Love kissing you,” he mutters, “missed doing this. I want to do this everyday.”

You’re about to tell him why that would be a bad idea but you sigh dreamily instead, tipping your head back when he begins trailing wet kisses along your jawline again.

His hands wander to your back, dragging the zipper down quietly until your dress pools on the floor. His thumb brushes over your nipples peaking through the lace. “Missed these pretty tits too. Couldn’t get enough of them last time.” He ducks his head and tugs one free from your bra, lips closing in around your nipple in a wet heat. His groan reverberates straight through you, tongue laving around your pert nipple like he’s trying to coax it out.

As he does so, his other hand reaches for the clasp of your bra until you hear the little sound before it slides down your shoulders.

“Hands on the counter.”

“Bossy,” you murmur, but do so anyway.

Scott looks mildly surprised at your obedience and you can’t even bring yourself to care. You lean back slightly and spread your legs wider to let him step in between them, his mouth warm and sweet on your tits. He mouths hungrily at your breasts, biting, squeezing, until you’re a moaning mess arching into his touch. One of his hand slides down to your lower spine to yank you closer to him, pressing your core against the thickness in his pants.

“I’ve been hard all night lookin’ at you in that pretty dress,” Scott growls, “knew exactly what you looked like underneath it, couldn’t wait to take it off you.”

You appear to have lost your entire vocabulary when he slips that hand from your back to the space between you, two fingers against the panties that’s quickly gathering moisture. The whine that is pulled from your lips is instinctual. Pure primal need.

“Imagining you stretched out on that massage bed, naked, slicked up in oil. Fuck, I had to drive around and keep myself busy for two hours so I didn’t go back and do the job myself,” he huffs a laugh as he begins rubbing your clit over the material, arousal easing the slick of his fingers even with one layer between the two of you.

A gasp is wrenched from your throat as you stare at him, wide-eyed. “That’s— that’s ridiculous.”

Scott hums, shaking his head, pressing harder, pulling out another needy sound. “Stop bein’ so tense. You’re undoing all of that woman’s hard work.” Your eyes light up briefly. “I wasn’t going to let some other man touch you. I’m not an idiot.”

“You’re such a possessive asshole,” you let out a breathless laugh, “it’s just a massage.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m going to be the only one that gets to touch these pretty tits. Not to mention, this—” he slides his fingers under your panties, gathering up the arousal from you slick folds on his fingertips and listening to the lewd squelch as he dips his fingers in just a tad. “You’re so goddamn wet.”

Instead of clamping your legs shut, embarrassed like you always have been, you can’t help but let your thighs fall apart further, giving him room to give you the pleasure that you so badly needed.

“You’re so much easier when you’re not stressed.”

That snaps you awake. “Oh, fuck you.”

Scott pushes two fingers in, the slide is swift and wet. “Just like that,” he grins as he slowly drags his fingers out only to shove them back in. He’s rough and he’s messy, you can hear how wet you are as he watches you come undone, thumb against your clit like he has something to prove. “Shit, sweetheart, you’re dripping all over the counter. You’re so messy, pretty girl.”

“S-Scott,” you moan, fingers wrapping around his wrist. “I c-can’t, mmm, please.”

“I know, I know, still so tight, aren’t you? I don’t want to hurt you,” he says as he slowly sinks to his knees. You look down to find him with his starry eyes looking right up at you as he sticks his fingers in his mouth. You can see the moment his eyes flutter shut as he tastes you, tongue lecherously poking out to lick his fingers clean. “Better than dessert.”

“You’re so corny—” your words split off into a choked gasp when Scott dives in between your legs. His tongue drags all the way up to your clit until you’re bucking against his mouth. He licks and devours, the roughness of his tongue sliding up your slick folds, lips closing in around your core, your clit, to suck until you’re shuddering against him. “Fuck, Scott, wait, slow down.”

Scott leans away, giving you a brief moment of reprieve — except, when you look down at him, his bottom half is glistening in the moonlight that spills across your floors. His eyes return to your pussy, just beneath your stomach that’s rising and falling with your labored breaths.

His index and middle fingers rest on each of your lips as he slowly pries them apart, your pussy pulses and there’s no doubt that he catches that movement. The slight tensing, squeezing, inside of you. “Look at this pussy spreading so wet and easy for me. She’s droolin’, sweetheart.”

As if he can sense another argument on your lips, Scott leans forward again to press kisses onto your inner thigh, blooming warmth with every spot he touches. He kisses up and up until he’s back with his face between your legs, your thighs closing in around his head until he’s practically suffocating in your cunt.

It’s the way he likes it though. His hands on your ass to drag you forward so he can tongue-fuck you faster, knowing full well you’re enjoying it when you’re grinding against his face with tears leaking from your eyes and his name said in prayer.

That pleasure coils humiliatingly fast in your stomach. You can feel your climax, long abandoned, surfacing quickly. God, it feels so good, his mouth — it’s only gotten better. You hate to think if he fucked anyone else while he was away, because — of course he did, he was a hot young bachelor in bumfuck Oklahoma. He was probably the hottest shit down there.

Scott scowls up at you, “You’re tensing up again, what are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” you blurt out, pressing your lips together.

He rises to his feet, fingers catching your chin. “Tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” you snap irritably. Great, now you’re thinking about some cute girl in a cowboy hat he’s probably fucked the same way he did you.

“You just stiffened up again. Either you tell me, or I won’t fuck you.”

You roll your eyes, “Holding sex hostage? Real mature.” Well, two can play that game. “If you won’t fuck me, I’m sure I’ve got a few people on my dating apps that have been begging to.”

Scott’s eyes flash, your heart palpitates a little too aggressively. “Yeah? You wanna try that again with me?” Your mouth dries. “Sweetheart, you’re cute if you think I’m letting anyone else near this pretty pussy of yours. You think anyone can get you off?”

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip.

“You’re mine,” he breathes out, catching your lips again. You can taste yourself on him, his moan vibrating against your mouth.

But you can’t deny his words. Instead, you let him pick you up and carry you all the way to the bedroom. He doesn’t stop kissing you the entire way, stealing your breath every chance he gets. Your back lands on the mattress, Scott climbing over you and pressing your legs into your chest.

“Love fucking you just like this,” he murmurs, applying just a little more pressure. “Maybe I can put another baby in you.”

“Scott!” You gasp.

“Fuck, I wasn’t even around when you were pregnant. I’d do it right this time. Make sure you’re taken care of — however that may be. Heard the first trimester’s roughest, probably needed a cock to fill you up, hm? Fill you up and get you so stupidly cockdrunk you won’t have the mouth to talk back to me.”

Another protest sits on your tongue but then Scott’s unzipping his pants and his cock, thick and throbbing, is in his hands, tip sitting at your entrance. You can feel your pussy dripping onto him, a trail of slick that slides down the length of him.

“I could fuck you, cum in you as much as I want — not like I didn’t already,” he chuckles, “no more risk of getting you pregnant twice. God, I could do that to you, sweetheart. Want another kid with me?”

“You’re— fuck, you’re insane.”

Scott only grunts as he begins pushing into you. “So fuckin’ tight. I need to teach your pussy how to take me again. You were so sweet and loose for me back then, we fucked so much, your cunt was shaped to my cock. Can’t wait to do that again.”

The ache burns between your legs as Scott stretches you out, your pussy opening up painfully slowly for him. You hold your breath, tensing up as he whispers for you to relax, to just keep your legs open and let him take what he needs. Your eyes roll when he finally buries himself all the way, the head kissing the deepest parts of you.

“S-shit, fuck, that feels so good. You feel like heaven.”

“Please, please just move,” you whine.

“I know, baby, but I can’t fuck you too fast, gonna hurt you. My cock barely fits in this tight pussy of yours,” Scott coos, dragging back his hips and slowly coaxing you open with a push of his cock. “I gotta go easy on her. She’s not used to being filled up, is she?”

You call him an asshole in your head, because you don’t trust your voice not to break in the haze of your pleasure.

“Pretty girl hasn’t had anyone taking care of her in a while.”

“I can take care of myself just fine,” you defend with a snap.

“Yeah? What? Those vibrators I see you hiding? Doesn’t feel the same, does it? You needed someone to fuck you properly.” Scott smirks, “Maybe I should’ve given you a dildo shaped to my cock. That way you could fuck yourself on it whenever you missed me. I’d make you call me when you do that, wanna hear you beg for my cock while you push it inside you. Better yet, I want to see you while you ride it and realize it ain’t the same as the real thing.”

“You’re so fucking gross,” you hiss and, sure enough, it melts into a moan when Scott drives into you again, and again, and again.

“What does it say about you when I can feel you chokin’ out my cock at the thought of it?” He laughs, taunting. “You’re as fucked up as I am, sweetheart. How do you think we made a baby in the first place?”

Oh fuck, Scott feels you open up to him, mold around him. That pain dulls into a throb that only serves to weave desire between your legs. You clench around him, pussy pulsing with his every word, as he fucks deep inside of you. He pushes you back into this mating press, groaning when he feels himself reach deeper inside you.

“Shit, baby, this pussy is fucking unbelievable. I can’t believe I gave this up for years. Missed fucking this gorgeous cunt so bad,” he swallows. That vein on his neck goes taut as he tries to stop himself. “You still on the pill?”

You nod weakly, fingers digging into his biceps as he pounds into you, his hips jerking faster and harder.

Then he laughs and it sounds mean and your stomach twists. “Didn’t do us much good last time though, huh? It’s alright, sweetheart. If you get knocked up again, I’ll be here. I’ll be here to fuck all that stress out of you, give you all the massages that’ll end with my head between your legs. Get you all your cravings so you can show your appreciation with your mouth on my cock.”

It’s disgusting, The thought of returning favors when he’s the one who gets you pregnant, but something about it has you tightening, punched in the stomach with a level of arousal that you can’t seem to contain.

“Don’t need to use this pretty brain of yours, baby. Just gonna have you barefooted waddling around and you can let me take real good care of you,” he pants, sweat beading his forehead as he fucks into you faster, holding himself back harder. “Make sure you and our baby are good. Don’t you worry.”

“F-fuck you,” you stutter as he drives back into you.

The bed creaks under the pressure of his thrusts, you’re getting fucked into the mattress that you can feel your body imprinting onto the bed. “That’s right. Good girl. Gonna make you a mommy again, sweetheart. Gonna put another baby into you. You’re already so cockdrunk, you won’t even know. I’m not letting you out of here until it takes.”

That knocks all the oxygen from your chest. “Shit, Scott— hold on.”

“Can’t do that,” he grunts, “pussy feels too good. Can’t get enough of this hole. I’m going to fill you up, baby. You’re gonna be leakin’ my cum for days. Maybe I’ll send you to get another massage and they’ll see you dripping my cream.”

Scott pounds into you, each word filthier than the next. He’s driving himself and you into a frenzy as his thrusts get sloppier, wetter, squelching bouncing off your four walls.

“I’m gonna print my cock in your pussy so nobody else can touch you.”

“Breed this pussy so good, keep you plugged up with my cum for days.”

“This pussy was meant to be fucked, sweetheart. You don’t need princess treatment, just need to be fucked like you need another baby in you.”

It’s filthy. It’s demeaning. It’s a fucking turn-on.

“‘M gonna— shit, Scott, hnnng, please, gonna cum.”

“Yeah, you wanna cum, pretty girl? You wanna cum around my cock?”

You can only nod in your haze, desperate, eager.

“Cum around me, sweetheart. I wanna feel that cream coating my cock. I wanna feel that stickiness, feel what it’s like to have my girl feel so good because of me.”

Scott pounds into you faster, deeper as he fucks you harder into the mattress. He presses you further in this position, tilting your hips up until you’re climbing and climbing and falling apart around him with a loud whine. Your body trembles with the force of your orgasm, legs quaking around him as he drags out your climax with every thrust until he himself is spilling warmth inside you. You can feel the mess in your insides, feel it slosh around, feel it leak from where you two are joined.

“Fuck,” he groans, “cumming so much, sweetheart. Fillin’ her right up.”

Your heart slams against your chest as you feel exactly that.

Scott’s hips are still jerking with his cum spurting right into you. He refuses to budge, staying there until he’s sure everything’s out. Even then, he nudges his hips a little deeper, like he’s making sure his cum stays in there.

He eases out of you slowly, but he doesn’t let go of the pressure on your legs, keeping your hips up as he watches his cum ooze out of you. His brows pucker in annoyance as he uses two fingers to push it back into you.

You wince, pussy sensitive from the friction earlier. “Gross.”

“You like it.”

You do. It’s stupid but you do. Something about him staking his claim, leaving a part of him inside you, it’s just the kind of thing that has you squeezing around his fingers again.

Scott smirks. “Do you want me to clean you up?”

Your stupid, traitorous, dysfunctional brain says no. For some reason, you really like feeling his cum inside you. But you know that the correct answer is— “Yes.” It’s the only reason Scott asks – because he knows.

His eyes scan you for a moment, as if he’s trying to decide whether you’re telling the truth. Then he sighs and lets your legs down gently as he disappears, coming back only when he has a damp cloth in hand. It’s so strange for him to be so familiar with your place to know where things are.

At the same time — so right.

He wipes you clean, murmuring to himself about how pretty you look with his cum inside you. You try not to let your lips stretch too wide with the heat rolling across your face.

When he’s done, Scott slides himself in next to you, pulling you close.

That’s when you freeze because — what is this? What are you? The panic sinks in fast and you feel fear claw at your chest. You have a son. You can’t be doing — whatever the fuck this is — with his dad, who he doesn’t even know is his dad.

“Scott—”

“Sleep.”

“Go home.”

“No.”

“Are you shitting me?” You hiss, “You can’t be here when Ben comes home tomorrow morning.”

Scott exhales long and hard, like he’s had enough of your shit. “Why not? I get full weekends, don’t I? That includes mornings. Now sleep.”

“Sleep in your own home! You can come back tomorrow.”

Before you know it, you’re back on your back and Scott’s on top of you, pinning you down with a glare. “Sweetheart, it seems like I didn’t fuck you hard enough. If I did, then you wouldn’t be thinkin’ whatever the fuck is going through that big head of yours right now. So, I’m going to fuck you again, and I’m going to keep fucking you until you stop treatin’ me like I’m some shameful one-night stand. I’m the father of your child — our child. So take your pick — do you want me to fuck you again until your head’s too full of cock to argue, or do you want to sleep?”

You open your mouth. Sleep is on the tip of your tongue, but then you feel him and his gaze warm on you and your legs press together on instinct.

He chuckles, dipping his head to press a chaste kiss onto your lips. “Good answer.”

Sure enough, he keeps his promise and you only find yourself falling asleep when he gives you your third orgasm of the night.

There is no monumental shift. Scott acts the same way he always has — at least around Ben.

He tries to maintain some level of distance but you can tell that he’s getting a little antsy about his own son not knowing who he is. Every time he asks you, you have to shoot it down, mainly for Ben’s sake.

But you also know that you raised a good, smart kid, which means it’s not surprising when Ben asks, “Who’s Uncle Scott really?”

“He is—” you pause, “—a friend.”

“Boyfriend?”

Fuck.

“No, he’s just a friend — like the kind you’ll meet in school.”

Ben looks at the television where there’s an interview of Scott playing, the one from a local station talking about his startup. “You love him?”

Your heart slams against your ribs. Warmth creeps up on you and Ben must notice it because he’s smiling softly, patting your hand.

“I like him,” Ben gives his nod of approval before turning back to the LEGOs in front of him.

A four-year-old just reassured you that he likes his dad. His dad that he still doesn’t know about. You know it isn’t fair and you will tell him at some point, you’re just not sure how to have that conversation yet — not when Scott’s time here is uncertain, despite what he says.

Still, while Scott keeps things steady with Ben, he switches tactics with you. His hand is always touching you — your hip, your back, your shoulders. Subtle touches like a reminder that he’s here. It’s oddly comforting and you find yourself seeking his touch more than before.

Around your son, he still maintains some distance, even when you can tell he’s itching to get closer. The two of you are at the grocery store, you’re driving the cart while Ben runs ahead, giggling and pointing at everything he wants — which is really anything with at least twenty grams of added sugar.

Scott has an amused smile on his lips as he watches him.

“Think he could be a runner someday. Has the makings of an athlete. Maybe football,” he says, almost proudly with his chest puffed up.

You roll your eyes, “I’d rather avoid my son getting his head knocked around.”

“Or entrepreneur, he has a way with making you do things, you know. Smart. Manipulative.”

“Where do you think he got that from?”

Scott only smirks.

You’re scanning through your list when you realize, “Shit, I forgot to grab butter and it’s up the aisle.”

“I’ll grab it,” he says, squeezing your hip, “just get what you need here.”

Ben insists on getting chocolate milk, mainly because he’s convinced the chocolate cow on the box is real. You tell him that you could get the smaller version and that you’ll take him to a farm one day and realize that there are no cows that produce chocolate milk.

“With Uncle Scott? In Oka— Okla—” He struggles, frowning when he can’t remember.

Oh. “Oklahoma,” you add, “maybe. I’m sure there are closer farms.”

His mouth opens in a bright grin.

When you finally cave and put both the chocolate milk and the regular milk in the cart, you look back down the aisle to see Scott standing there.

Talking to a woman.

A woman who was very much his type before he met you.

Your chest pinches with an unfamiliar feeling. It’s understandable that Scott has seen and is probably still seeing other women. The two of you don’t have a label on things, nothing you can tape to his forehead that says off limits.

She looks young, sweet, dressed like she has a life. She’s smiling up at him, giggling at something he’s saying in a way where you know it’s not because he’s funny. She reaches up to touch his arm and he takes a step back, a polite smile in place, then he’s saying something and looking at you. And then she’s looking at you too, face souring.

Alright then.

You turn away again, continuing to push the cart as Ben sets his mind on cereal next. He’s been on a Lucky Charms kick and you desperately need to move him off it. It’s all sugar and food coloring.

Scott appears next to you, a hand on your lower back as he puts the butter box in the cart. He peeks at your list. “Cereal next?”

“Um, yeah,” you say, eyes going over your shoulder to catch another glimpse of that woman. “She was cute.”

“Yeah, she was.”

Your lips immediately curl and Scott catches it before you can school your expression. “Didn’t get her number?”

“Told her I’m with my wife and kid,” he smirks.

Wife and kid— you’re not even sure how to respond to that, so you resort to clearing your throat with a deadpan look. “Glad to hear we can be used to avoid women you don’t like.”

“Well, I was only half lying, wasn’t I?” He huffs as the two of you turn the corner, finding Ben already with a box of Lucky Charms in hand. You sigh as Scott mutters under his breath, “Not too late to make it all completely true though.”

You try to convince Ben that cornflakes are much more fun, which is the least convincing argument you can make, until Scott steps in and says that cornflakes make him super strong like the rooster on the cover. So Ben swaps out his pick for a box of Froot Loops and declares that he wants to be strong like this bird instead.

It isn’t until the two of you are unloading groceries into his car that it hits you, and the bag nearly slips from his fingers.

Make it all completely true. Wife and kid.

“Took you long enough,” Scott chuckles smugly. “Give it some thought. Maybe we can stop by the jewelers on the way back.”

Scott is relentless to say the least. He has increased the frequency of touching, has made it all the more obvious in front of everyone. Your coworkers all know him by name, chatting with him when you wrap up work late. Sometimes, he’s the one who picks Ben up from your mom’s and brings him to meet you at the hospital.

Your mom, of course, is over the moon. She can’t stop gushing over him, telling you how he helped her fix her leaky faucet, how he’s always on time to pick up Ben even when he’s still in the middle of work, and “Did you know he was featured in Forbes?”

He finally invites you and Ben over for dinner in his new apartment. It’s much more spacious, a two-bedroom that’s twice the size of yours — one of which he has set up for Ben. So Ben is also over the moon when he sees how massive his bedroom is. He asks if the two of you can stay and you only manage a tight-lipped smile before you redirect your glare towards Scott.

“Your place too,” Scott says casually, handing you an extra set of keys. “In case you ever need some more space.”

Later, he also shows you that he’s left most of the closet empty in the master bedroom. “In case you need to stay over.”

It’s sweet. It’s thoughtful.

It’s too much.

You don’t even know where you stand with him. He takes you out again and then another time; you tell yourself that this is just friends hanging out, but you know it’s different when you end up in his bed at the end of the evening. The first time you slept with him at his and tried to leave after, you realize that your shoes are nowhere to be found.

“Where are my shoes?”

“I knew you were going to pull some stupid shit like this. So I hid them.”

“What the fuck? Are you four?”

“No, but our son is. Now get your ass back into bed.” You cross your arms over your chest, planting your foot down in protest. Scott regards you coolly. “You either come here on your own accord or I’m throwing you over my shoulder.”

He doesn’t make threats lightly, so you stomp all the way back to his bedroom where Scott proceeds to fuck you over again and makes sure that you have no energy left to move.

Things are… good.

For the first time in years, you feel almost at peace. Ben’s a good kid, raised right, adored by all around him. He’ll start school next year with a stronger support system, what with Scott vowing to attend every parent-teacher conference and other events that require his presence. The two of you agree to tell Ben in a month — a month to prepare for the conversation.

You can’t even imagine what it’s like — living four years of your life never seeing your father and then suddenly dropping one in his lap. Well, you suppose it isn’t very sudden considering Scott’s been around more often than not. Part of you hopes that Ben is hopeful about Scott, it’ll make the conversation easier.

That being said, your work schedule has been atrocious which means you haven’t had the chance to really sit down with him and have a conversation on how to broach the topic with your son. The one time you finally manage to get off work early, you decide to swing by Scott’s; he works from home and you figured all three of you could do dinner together at that pizza place.

The key rests between your fingers, pinched tight as you stare at it.

You should just ring the doorbell. Right? It isn’t your home. But Scott gave you a key and what if he’s still in the middle of something? What if he has someone else in there? No, you shouldn’t use the key. Then again, he shouldn’t have given you a key if he would be doing anything he wouldn’t want you to see.

The internal debate persists until you decide fuck it and push the key into the lock. You open the door slowly, quietly, nothing like your own creaky one. Scott’s nowhere to be found in his giant living room with his giant television. You look at that giant screen with envy, thinking about how wonderful movie nights would be with that setup. Scott has already insisted on doing movie nights at his instead, stocking up on popcorn and sugar, and you’re tempted to agree.

Muffled voices carry down the hall. He’s probably in the bedroom so you silently make your way over in case he’s on a call.

“Yeah, I’ll be back next week, alright,” Scott says, sounding agitated. You get a peek through the bedroom door and find him pacing.

An open suitcase in front of him.

Your heart drops. The scene is all too familiar. It’s like you’re twenty-two again, left behind in this town while he goes off to chase his dreams — only this time, he had promised you he would stay. Only this time, it won’t only be your heart he’ll break.

“I know it’s takin’ me a while,” he grunts, scrounging his hand through his hair, “no, I still need to pick up my shit.”

You can’t hear the person on the other end of the line but it’s clear that he doesn’t seem very pleased. A sigh heaves from his chest as he looks out the window, a mournful expression painted onto his face.

“I have to tie up some loose ends.”

Loose ends? You swallow thickly. That’s— is he talking about you? About Ben? He’s supposed to be back in Oklahoma next week. No doubt whoever is on the other side is someone at work. But he had promised you he would stay — right? He had said that he would be sticking around. Why else would he get an apartment? Why would he set the bedroom up for Ben otherwise?

But your mind has spiraled beyond the point of reason. Your survival instincts kick in again; you never want to be the person left behind. Not again. Not after that first time. So you should leave first. It’ll make it easier for the both of you.

Scott won’t have to break the news and you — you can let that hope quietly slip away.

All you can do now is… leave.

So you do. You take one step back then another and another until you’re in his kitchen. You open one of the drawers and tuck the extra set of keys he gave you inside; after all, you won’t be needing those anymore. Then you’re out the door.

You’re functioning numb as you get home. Ben greets you with a big smile and so does your mom. You force yourself to smile too and ask if the two of them want pizza for dinner. Your mom looks at you with a silent question asking where Scott is. You only shake your head.

When Scott calls you as you’re getting ready to leave for the restaurant, you don’t pick up.

Not feeling so hot.

His face appears on your screen as your phone vibrates with the incoming call. You curse yourself for texting so quickly.

“Hey,” you try to rasp.

“What is it? A cold? A fever? I can grab medicine and dinner on the way there. Maybe that wonton noodle soup from—”

“No, don’t,” you blurt out, “I, uh, don’t want to get you sick.”

“I don’t give a shit about that.” You can practically imagine his annoyed scowl. He’s probably shrugging on his jacket, you can hear the jingle of his keys as he heads to the door. “What do you want to eat? You like that wonton soup right? It’s on the way to yours.”

“Scott, please.”

“Sweetheart,” he sighs.

“I’ll be fine,” you insist, “just give me a few days to recover and I’ll text you, okay.”

Silence on the other end means that he’s giving it actual thought. Then you hear the long exhale. “Fine. Call or text me if you need anything. Seriously.” He clears his throat, “You know, your mom could also take Ben for a few days. I’ll come take care of you.”

You bite your tongue, blinking away the tears as you stare up at the ceiling. You can’t get used to this, can’t get used to someone checking in on you, putting you first. This isn’t the kind of thing that lasts.

“No, I promise I’ll be okay.”

You call in sick for work, which shocks your entire team because you’re the type to drag yourself out of your deathbed to make sure you don’t miss a day. You’re not sure you like this reputation.

Jenna calls your bullshit out immediately. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you mutter, picking on the lint on your pajama pants. You’re waiting for Ben to wake up so the two of you can spend the day together. He’s a little confused why you’re at home for a few days, but he certainly isn’t complaining.

“Does it have something to do with hottie Scottie?”

You wince, “That’s a gross nickname. Never say that again.”

“So it does, what did he do?”

It’s not what he did. It’s what he’s about to do. “It’s not a big deal. I just needed a break. Gonna spend some time with Ben.”

“Well, Ben loves her cool Aunt Jenna so I’ll swing by after with fried chicken?”

Your lips twitch. She always knows the right things to say. “Sounds good.”

On the other hand, you spend the rest of the week dodging Scott’s every attempt to come visit. You tell him that your cold has only gotten worse (you’re fresher than a spring chicken), that your mom is taking Ben for a few days (he’s sitting at the dining table), and that you are doing fine otherwise (your heart is splintering in your chest).

He sounds frustrated over the phone and, when he does visit, you pretend that you’re too sick to see him, refusing to let him through the door.

“This is fucking ridiculous. You have a cold. I’ll be fine,” he snaps through the front door. “Will you just let me in?”

Once again, you emphasize that that’s not good practice and colds are highly contagious. You can hear Scott’s feet shuffling outside, his annoyed grunts.

“Can you just let me in?” He breathes out deeply, “Please. I haven’t seen you in days and I really want to. I just want to make sure you’re good.”

Your forehead presses against the cool door. You tell yourself to stay strong. Don’t give in so easily. So again, you deny him entry and he finally leaves.

On Sunday, he calls and you at least pick that up. “I have to fly out to Oklahoma for a few days,” he mutters, “I’ll be back. Call me, text me, fucking email me if you need to — if you need anything at all, alright.”

“I’ll be fine,” you whisper.

You’re tying up those loose ends for him.

Scott goes radio silent for the first half of the week. You think this is finally it. He’s finally cutting you loose and maybe he’s simply going to fade into a distant memory. You’re back at work when he leaves Boston, your coworkers peppering you with questions about your absence. Jenna keeps the wolves at bay, telling all of them to give you some space.

“You need to talk to me at some point,” she gives you a look.

You lick your lips, mouth trembling as you finally say the words you’ve been too afraid to say. Because it’s one thing to think it, it’s another to admit it aloud. “Scott’s gone.”

“What?” She jerks back, “What do you mean he’s gone?”

Pushing around your peas, you sigh. “He’s in Oklahoma.”

“Temporarily right?”

You shrug. “Feel like it might be for good.”

“Did he tell you that?”

No, but you heard his conversation and it’s all about the words that are said behind your back that matter, right?

“Hon, listen to me. I’ve never seen a man more obsessed in my life. That guy’s in love with you.”

To that, you laugh, heart a little lighter for some odd reason. “He’s just being a good friend. He probably felt guilty after — you know — finding out that he knocked me up.”

She gives you a look. “If you seriously believe that, I’m going to have to take you up to neuro to get your head checked.”

On Thursday, you’re finally settling with the possibility that this really is it. You’ll be okay; you survived once without him, you can do it again. Instead, you focus strictly on work, drowning in the mountains of paperwork and unfinished studies. While you’re doing all that, your phone lights up with Scott’s name.

You don’t pick up. The last thing you need while you’re stressed out of your mind is to hear him apologize, hear him tell you that he’s changed in his mind. You can have your heart ripped out of your chest later.

Blissful ignorance is better than blatant rejection, that’s always been your motto.

You’re ready for a night of full decompression, which means you’re going to cuddle up with your baby and maybe fall asleep on the couch after a filling dinner of grease. “I’m home,” you call out.

The sight before you has you freezing. Scott’s on the couch — your couch — with Ben on his lap. They’re reading one of Ben’s favorite books and your son is giggling uncontrollably. Now, he is facing the front which means he can’t see Scott’s expression.

And that is a look that has your entire body stiffening in the doorway. You’re almost tempted to run again, but how could you abandon your son? So you try to ignore your buzzing nerves.

“Mom!”

“Hey, buddy,” you smile weakly, closing the door behind you. “Where’s, uh, my mom?”

“She left earlier, said I should spend some time with Ben and you,” he smiles. It’s sweet. It’s a sickeningly sweet smile, which means you know better than to trust it. “Ben here was just telling me about all the fun you had last week. All week in fact. Said you weren’t going to work so you two could spend all day together. Outside.”

Well.

“We watched a baseball game and then got ice cream!” Ben announces cheerily. Then he begins to list down everything you did last week — everything — and he is completely unaware that he’s digging a deeper grave for his own mother.

“That so?” Scott chuckles, patting his head. “Your mom’s a real miracle worker, isn’t she? Real healthy and spry to be doing all those things.”

The evening is tense, mostly for you. Your back is ramrod straight as Scott insists on cooking dinner and you have to keep a close eye to make sure he doesn’t add anything to your food. There are smarter ways to take you out, none of them ideal for you. Ben seems to sense the thickness of the air, eyes darting between the two of you.

Of course, neither of you show a thing but the anger that rolls off Scott is nothing short of obvious. So Ben then proceeds to declare that he wants to sleep early.

He never sleeps early. He’s just hit you with a second strike.

You busy yourself with getting him ready for bed, staying for as long as you can. You’re glued at the hip while he brushes his teeth, while he picks out his pajamas at an alarmingly fast speed. He doesn’t even want a bedtime story, telling you that he’s knackered from the long day.

And he goes straight to sleep. Traitor.

You were hoping Ben could buy you more time to come up with some sort of explanation for your behavior, or at least figure out a way to turn the conversation back to him because — what’s he doing back here? Isn’t he supposed to be in Oklahoma?

When you finally step out of Ben’s room, Scott looks noticeably ticked off.

His jaw is squared tight, dimples that are usually so endearing appearing more menacing in this light. “You wanna tell me why you lied about bein’ sick?”

You shift back on the heels of your feet. “I just needed some me time.”

“Bullshit,” he spits out, “you know I would’ve given you that if that’s what you wanted. Try again.”

While you’re usually better at thinking on your feet, the glare he’s pinned you with has your brain completely scrambled. You’re coming up with nothing. Zero. Zilch. Nothing even remotely close to being sufficient for your lie.

“Can’t think of anything, can you? Now that I’ve caught you.”

“Scott…”

“What was it?” He grunts, “What fucking spooked you?”

You press your lips together. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ve never been good at commitment, sweetheart. Been runnin’ since the day I met you. So tell me, what fucking scared you?”

A protest sits on the tip of your tongue, ready to fall from your lips. Defensive. But Scott’s looking at you wearily, a five o’clock shadow that’s rarely ever there dusted across his face.

“You were going to leave,” you murmur.

He frowns at that. “When the hell did I say I was gonna do that?”

“You didn’t have to tell me,” you sigh, “I heard you on the phone.”

His eyebrows jump, surprise coloring his expression. If that isn’t confirmation, you don’t know what is. “What’re you talking about?”

It’s your turn to look irritated. How is he going to play dumb when he’s been caught red-handed?

“I heard you — you were going to head back Oklahoma, that you needed to pack your stuff and—” the last part has your throat constricting, you’re blinking back tears as you look at him. “—that you needed to tie up loose ends.”

Scott looks far from appeased from your explanation. “Yeah, and?”

“Are you shitting me?” You hiss, “If you were going to leave again, were you ever going to tell me? Were you just going to disappear? Leave me here alone again.”

“That’s not fucking fair,” he snaps right back, “I reached out to you. Multiple times. I called and texted and you disappeared. So don’t turn this shit around on me like I intentionally left you.”

“How was I ever supposed to tell you, Scott? I’m pregnant, can you stay here with me instead?”

“Yes! Exactly like that,” he snarls, “it’s as simple as that. But instead, you stopped responding to me. You left me.” That shuts you up, your breath catching in your throat. “So don’t be a hypocrite.”

“It would’ve been selfish of me — to tell you,” you gulp, chest tight, “you would’ve stayed because that’s who you are. That stupid sense of responsibility despite you being irresponsible enough to go out there and chase goddamn tornadoes. I couldn’t do that to you.”

“I know, because that’s who you are,” he mutters, “you think you gotta do everything on your own. You think I don’t hear things? Your mom and Jenna told me plenty about how tough things were for you. How do you think that makes me feel? I’m the asshole that left you.”

“You didn’t know,” you breathe in shakily.

“Doesn’t change the circumstances, does it?” He snips. His face softens then, melting slightly as he sees you curling into yourself. “But I really need you to get your head checked. Something ain’t right up there if you think for a second I could really ever leave you again.”

You look up at him and he’s already taken a step towards you. His hand slides up your neck to cup your cheek, his warm blue eyes on you.

“I was wrapping things up in Oklahoma so I can move here for good. I needed to deal with some paperwork and all the transition for the fieldwork. We’re not short-handed but, you know how it is with leadership.” He pauses, searching your face for any reaction. “I couldn’t just leave my team hanging out to dry so I had to finalize everything before I officially moved here.”

Well. Your voice is quiet when you ask, “So you weren’t going back to Oklahoma for good?”

The aggravation returns to his face. “You’re shittin’ me right? Have I not been telling you for weeks that I’m here to stay?”

“I just thought you meant temporarily,” you sputter, “who picks up their entire life on a fucking whim?”

“It’s not a whim! I was planning to move back here, focus more on raising funds with investors. That was, if I managed to find you!” That has you jolting back in surprise. “I came here to look for you. Properly this time. Fuck, and I told myself that, if I found you, I wasn’t gonna get you walk away from me again.”

“You— really?”

He rolls his eyes, lips tugging up. “Yeah, really. Let go the love of my life once, ain’t doin’ that again.”

“Love of your life?” You squeak.

Scott looks up at the ceiling, praying to some almighty up there to lend him some patience. “Thought that was fuckin’ obvious,” he mutters, “for someone so fuckin’ smart, you can be real stupid.”

“That’s so rude,” you frown.

“Apparently, I have to be if I need you to get your head out of your ass.”

You lick your lips, face flushing with heat. “So, uh, love of your life? Can I get some clarity on that?”

“How can I be any clearer?” He snaps, “If you’re gonna ask me since when, you really think I’d keep fucking you back then if I wasn’t in love with you?” Your jaw practically drops. “You’re the idiot that didn’t want anything real.”

“You were fucking everything that moved!”

“Until I met you!” He shakes his head. “Jesus, you really— I don’t know how you got me wrapped around your finger all this time.”

You huff, “Are you gonna keep insulting me all night?”

“Are you not gonna tell me you love me?”

A laugh bubbles up your throat. “What makes you think I love you?”

“I don’t think, I know, sweetheart,” Scott grins, arm stretching to pull you towards him. He tucks you in close, your breasts against his chest as your palms land on his shoulders, fingers scratching the hair at the nape of his neck. He lets out a quiet little moan. “Come on, say it. I know you’ve been dyin’ to for years now.”

With a roll of your eyes, you puff out, “I love you.”

He grunts, leaning down to tease you. “Don’t think I heard you.”

“I love you, Scott Miller. Now will you shut up and kiss me?”

“Never could say no to you, sweetheart.” 

+ sam: thank you so much if you've made it this far!!! you've finally seen the inner workings of my mind when i'm truly hyperfixating. please know that i appreciate every single piece of engagement but i especially love to hear what you think of the story, your fave parts, etc.!!! <3

scott is yearning for (taglist): @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @pinksplace @stanmarvelous @coffinlolz @chloluvsdilfs @athenxt @xreader1989 @theonlyaphrodite @wowitsafemale @yagurlannastasia @lettucel0ver @velvetnightmoonsandbows @tushy4toot @hoodharlow @lichi-dunkera @mansaaay @yagurlannastasia @fruitypebsworld @solynoche @thedarkseidofthemoon @burrowedinmyheart @annabethboleyn @lil-mann @magicwithaknife @kissmekissme5 @moonlightspencie @shoutingcardinal @youotterbekiddingme @potter-solomons @victoriuhmm @effyssky

story taglist: @reepicheeps-blog @coolvoidfire @lmaolmaos @garfieldsladybird

a breathless sob tore out of your throat, so loud it echoed.

you wrapped your arms tightly around yourself, your wet coat soaking through to your skin, but you didn't care.

your chest was heaving so violently you couldn't catch your breath.

It’s just easier....

the words repeated in your head, a cruel mantra that pulsed in time with your frantic heartbeat.

he had lied.. he had left you alone in the dark with cold food and lit candles so he could drink wine in his sweatpants on his ex girlfriend's couch.

by the time the elevator hit the lobby, you scrambled to your feet, wiping furiously at your face.

you didn't just walk out of the building, you broke into a run, rushing past the startled doorman and straight back into the storm, desperate to let the freezing rain wash away the humiliation burning on your skin.

when you finally threw open the door to your own apartment, the silence inside was suffocating.

the candles had burned down to stubs, leaving behind the faint smell of vanilla and melted wax.

the two plates of dinner still sat on the counter, perfectly arranged and cold.

"easier," you choked out, your voice shaking.

you walked over to the table and with a sweep of your arm, knocked both plates off the surface.

they shattered against the hardwood floor, ceramic exploding into a dozen pieces, pasta and sauce splattering across the room.

you didn't stop there.. you lunged toward the dining table, grabbing the vase of flowers you’d bought fresh that morning and hurled it against the wall.

the glass shattered, water and crushed petals raining down onto the floor.

you tore the cushions off the couch, threw the decorative pillows across the room, and grabbed a framed photo of you and Clark from the bookshelf, a photo taken at a park where he was looking at you with what you thought was love and threw it face down onto the floor, the glass cracking down the center.

you trashed the place until your lungs burned and your hands were shaking from the adrenaline.

you stood in the center of the room, panting, looking at the mess you had created.

it was the first time the apartment actually matched how you felt on the inside... completely broken.

you exhaled before moving, you dragged your large suitcase to the bedroom.

you didn't pack everything, just your clothes, your laptop, and the absolute essentials.

your phone buzzed on the counter.

lois: please answer me. i am so, so sorry. it’s not what it looks like, i swear to you. let me come over. let me explain. please don't hate him.

you stared at the screen but didn't reply.

it's not what it looks like... please don't hate him.

you scoffed and instead, you blocked her number and then, you blocked his.

wrapping your now dry coat tighter around yourself, you grabbed your suitcase, stepped over the broken glass, and let the door click shut behind you.

𓂃₊ ⊹

you'd rather be anywhere but here, you've avoided the office for as long as you could but today perry said he needed you here.

a week had passed since you've spoken to either of them.

the silence between you and clark shifted from uncomfortable to deafening.

you kept your eyes glued to your monitor, your fingers flying across the keyboard with a rhythmic click clack.

you could feel clark's eyes on you from across the room, but you didn’t look at him.

not when he drops a file on your desk or when he clears his throat.

every time he builds up the courage to speak, you conveniently pick up your desk phone or rush off to the copy room.

you're making yourself unreachable, and it's driving him out of his mind.

you can hear clark's footsteps before he actually reaches your desk, so you keep your eyes locked onto your computer screen.

he stops right at the edge of your desk and out of the corner of your eye, you can see him shifting his weight from one foot to the other, nervously adjusting his glasses.

he looks entirely drained, the guilt weighing down his broad shoulder, the bags under his eyes are dark.

"hey," he starts, his voice quiet and hesitant. "you've been typing for three hours straight... you uh you need to take a break. let me get you something from the cafeteria? a snack, or... or some tea?"

you don't blink or pause, you just hit the backspace key a few times and keep typing.

clark lets out a small, ragged breath, leaning in slightly closer so his words don't carry across the busy bullpen.

"honey, i know you're furious with me and you have every right to be. what you saw at lois's apartment"

you snapped your head toward him, tilting it slightly as if analyzing a stranger. your eyes narrowed, drilling into his.

clark froze, the words dying in his throat as his eyes locked onto your face taking in every feature like it'd be the last he'd ever see them again before he spoke quietly.

he reached out, lightly brushing your hair from your face before caressing the side of your face. "... i know how it looked... and i know how much i hurt you by lying about where i was. i just want a chance to explain it properly."

he drops his hand, waiting, hanging on the hope that you’ll at least respond but when you turn your head to stare back at the screen.

a look of quiet desperation crosses his face and he swallows hard.

"i'm not going to force you to talk to me here," he says softly. "but please, just give me a chance to make it up to you. let me take you to dinner tonight.. we can just sit down, and i will tell you everything. no secrets. i promise."

you remain still, your expression blank as you scroll down a spreadsheet.

realizing he isn't going to get a verbal answer, he reluctantly pulls a small pad of bright yellow sticky notes toward himself.

he grabs a pen from your desk organizer, his hand trembling just a fraction as he quickly scribbles down the name of a quiet restaurant downtown, along with a time.

he peels the sticky note and gently presses it onto the corner of your desk, right next to your keyboard where you can't possibly miss it.

"eight o'clock," clark whispers, his blue eyes searching your face one last time, practically begging for another glance. "i'll be waiting for you at our favorite table by the window. i really hope you come."

eight o'clock.

by the time 7:30 PM rolls around, the office has emptied out and you sit alone, staring at the note.

every logical instinct tells you to go back to your hotel room and let him sit there.

he lied to you, used his job.. the very thing that constantly tears him away from you as a shield to cover up the fact that he was with his ex girlfriend.

the humiliation in lois’s apartment hadn't faded.. if anything, sitting in the quiet of the office had only made it feel worse.

you feel like an afterthought and yet, your heart betrays your pride.

you want him to fix it, to give you a piece of truth so undeniable that the knot in your chest finally unspools.

so, you grab your coat, pull the sticky note from the desk, and leave.

8:05 PM

the sign of the restaurant shines through the rain streaked window of the cab.

you step out, the door of the restaurant chiming as you walk inside.

the inside is intimate, warm and lit by candles.

you scan the room, bracing yourself to see his broad shoulders slumped over the table, nervously checking his watch.

but the table by the window is completely empty.

a familiar knot forms in your stomach and you pull out your phone... 8:07 PM.

he's seven minutes late.

no, you tell yourself, biting the inside of your cheek as you sit down at the empty table.

he said he’d be waiting and he wouldn’t do this tonight.. not after everything.

you tell yourself he's just caught in traffic or that perry threw a last minute rewrite at him.

you make excuses for him, even now, because what could be the truth hurts too much to face.

9:00 PM

an hour crawls by.

the hostess brings you a glass of water, offering a polite smile that feels entirely pitying.

the bustling dinner crowd begins to thin out, the laughter of happy couples surrounding you sounds like a mockery.

every single time the front door chimes, your head snaps up, your heart doing a pathetic, hopeful leap only to sink lower when it’s a stranger stepping in from the cold.

9:30 PM

half an hour later.

you stare at your phone and there's nothing.. no texts or missed calls and you had unblocked him before you stepped through the door.

the anger thats been in you this past week starts to form into a sickening ache...

is he back at lois’s?

10:00 PM

the restaurant is dead and the staff are quietly sweeping the floors and stacking chairs in the back corner, their hushed voices a subtle hint that you’re overstaying your welcome.

a realization sinks into your chest..

he stood you up.

to explain away a lie, he gave you another promise, and then he broke that one too.

you pull your coat over your shoulders, your body tense with humiliation and exhaustion.

standing up from the table, you slide a generous stack of bills out of your purse, far more than enough to cover the untouched glass of water and the time you took up occupying their best table by the window.

as you walk toward the front entrance, you stop by the hostess stand where a tired looking server is wiping down menus.

"i'm so sorry for keeping you all late," you say, your voice tight as you force a small, apologetic smile. "thank you for letting me stay so long."

the server looks up, her eyes softening with a wave of pure sympathy that almost makes your composure crumble on the spot. "don't worry about it, sweetie. have a safe night, okay? it's really coming down out there."

you nod quickly, unable to speak past the lump in your throat, and push open the heavy glass doors.

you walk blindly, your head ducked against the harsh wind as you begin to walk down the cracked sidewalk of the downtown district.

the towering office buildings shut out what little light the night sky has left

your mind is trapped in a loop of humiliation.

he promised, with his hand trembling, and swore there would be no more secrets.

and you, desperate to believe him, sat in an empty restaurant for two hours like a fool.

a sudden, earth shattering boom rips through the air, vibrating so violently that you stumble.

you freeze, it wasn't thunder and before you can even process it, there's a wave of police cars speeding down the street, one siren echoing after the other.

you shrug it off and keep walking but then the corner of the intersection half a block ahead erupts.

a wave of people come screaming around the brick building, bodies fleeing the main strip.

it starts with a handful of late night commuters, but within seconds, it grows into a desperate flood of dozens of people.

umbrellas are abandoned on the flooded ground, crushed by feet as everyone sprints for their lives.

"he's killing them! he's picking up the cars!" a man screams, his voice hoarse with terror as he sprints past you, his tie flying over his shoulder, his eyes wide.

a woman trips on the slick curb just a few feet away, her heels skidding out from under her.

she hits the wet concrete hard, crying out as the crowd blindly swerves around her, too consumed by panic to stop.

you instinctively step forward to help, but the momentum of the crowd hits you.

a rushing shoulder slams into yours, forcing you forward, your head slamming against the concrete with a sickening crack.

everything goes white, your head is ringing and the noise around you is deafening, slaps of wet shoes, the ragged, breathless screams of children being dragged by their arms, and the blare of police sirens in the distances.

a throbbing ache is at the base of your skull, and when you blink, hot rain washes over your face except it’s too thick and warm.

you reach up with a trembling hand, your fingers brushing your forehead, and they come away stained a dark crimson.. you're bleeding.

you try to push yourself up onto your elbows, but your limbs feel like lead and the stampede of people don't care that you're down.

heavy boots and soaking sneakers splash violently into the puddles just inches from your head.

a heel catches the fabric of your coat, dragging you a few inches, while another foot just slightly misses stomping directly onto your hand.

you are completely invisible to them and if you stay flat on your stomach, you’re going to get trampled to death.

adrenaline forces your body to move despite the dizziness.

you push yourself up trembling hands and knees and the ground sways beneath you, while you gasp for breath, you begin to crawl, dragging your heavy, soaked coat through the water.

you lose your sense of direction entirely.

instead of reaching the shelter of the storefront doorway, you accidentally crawl off the lip of the curb and slide directly into the open, empty street.

the stampede remains confined to the relative safety of the sidewalk but you are completely exposed.

the massive, armored villain stands in the center of the intersection, his eyes fixed on the remaining police line.

with a guttural snarl, he digs his heavy fingers deep into a crumpled, overturned sedan.

he lifts the multi ton vehicle over his head with sickening ease and launches it forward.

but it’s not aimed at the cops, the trajectory is completely off.

it's hurling through the air directly toward you.

time seems to slow as you stare up from the wet street, paralyzed by the sheer horror of what’s coming.

the massive underbelly of the car blocks out the flashing emergency lights, casting a large shadow over you as it tumbles end over end through the heavy rain.

your completely frozen, it feels impossible to move, impossible to run.

you can feel the rush of wind pressing down on you as the falling metal begins its final, crushing descent.

you close your eyes and brace for the impact but the crushing weight of the falling car never comes.

instead,the sound off concrete shattering rips through the air directly infront you, so powerful it blows the rain away in a wide, circular shockwave.

the deafening screech of tearing metal explodes right over your head as the shadow stills.

trembling, you force your eyes open through the blood and rain falling down your face.

standing over you, his feet planted firmly into the now dented concrete, is superman.

"are you okay ma'am?!" his voice clear and steady through the rain.

he's holding the entire crumpled sedan above his head with one hand, his jaw clenched as he effortlessly hurls the massive piece of steel away, sending it crashing into an empty, abandoned building down the block where it can’t hurt anyone.

the savior of metropolis is standing right in front of you.

his red cape snaps in the rough winds, and the streetlights catch the bright 'S' across his chest.

he looks completely invincible.

but as he turns his head to look down at you, the confident aura of superman completely fractures.

he freezes.

through your dizzy, blurred vision, you can see his face perfectly.

superman is staring at you with a look of absolute horror. his chest heaves, his breath catching in his throat so sharply it looks like he’s the one who just took a physical blow.

his eyes track the dark crimson blood dripping down your forehead, your soaked, shivering clothes, and the way you are helplessly sprawled on the wet pavement.

he drops to his knees, sinking straight into the deep puddle without a care for the mud or the freezing water soaking into his suit.

before you can even gasp through the pain, his massive hands are framing your face.

his palms are calloused and warm, completely covering your cheeks, but they are shaking violently against your skin.

he cradles your head with tender care, his thumbs brushing frantically across your cheekbones to wipe away the rain and the dark blood that won’t stop leaking from your hairline.

"hey, hey....look at me, you're okay, hmm," he begs, his voice cracking.

"it's okay.." words tumble out of him in a breathless, frantic rush.

the resonant voice that superman uses when he addresses crowds or speaks on the news is completely gone.

in its place is a soft, broken whisper filled with terror.. a voice that hits your concussed, foggy brain with a wave of familiarity.

It's a voice you know intimately, stripped of all its usual calm.

he leans down so close his face is basically against yours, using his broad shoulders and the heavy fabric of his cape like a makeshift tent to block out the biting wind and the downpour.

his eyes are wide and wild with guilt as they track the injuries on your face again, the way you are shivering uncontrollably, and how close that car actually came to ending everything. a ragged, choked sob catches in his throat.

"i've got you, baby, i've got you. you're okay, i promise you're okay," he murmurs against your wet hair, entirely forgetting the rest of the city, the damage echoing down the avenue, and the fact that he is wearing a symbol meant for millions.

in the middle of the dark street, the hero has completely evaporated.

the mask has slipped without him even realizing it, leaving only a terrified man holding onto his entire world.

he presses his forehead gently against yours, his breath warm and uneven against your lips as he closes his eyes.

"i'm so sorry. oh God, my love, i'm so, so sorry. i shouldn't have been late. i'm right here."

you look past the bright 'S' on his chest, past the heavy red cape, and look straight into his wide, terrified eyes.

through the static of your concussion, the familiar slope of his jaw and the specific, frantic cadence of his breath finally cut through the illusion.

the impossibility of it settles into your chest, an unsure realization.

"clark...?" you breathe out.

it’s barely a whisper, more like a faint, breathless question easily swallowed by the howling wind, but his entire body goes completely rigid at the sound.

his chest stops heaving and his thumbs freeze against your wet cheeks, eyes widening in shock as it hits him that you've seen past the suit.

but you don't have the strength to wait for an answer.

the pulsing concussion has you passed out, your head lolls back against his arm, your eyelids fluttering shut as your body goes completely limp in his embrace.

"no, no, no.. hey! sweetheart, wake up! look at me!"

𓂃₊ ⊹

the first thing that returns to you is the smell.

that sterile scent of rubbing alcohol and heavy bleached linens.

then comes the sound, there's a rhythmic, electronic beep that echoes in the quiet room, a steady, comforting pulse that keeps time with the throbbing ache at the base of your skull.

you force your eyelids open, but the harsh light above makes you wince, a low groan escaping your dry throat.

the ceiling is made of those familiar, white acoustic tiles... a hospital.

"honey?!... hey, take it easy. don't try to sit up just yet."

the voice is soft but cautious, and instantly draws your eyes to the right side of the bed.

clark is sitting in a cramped hospital chair pushed right up against your mattress.

he looks completely exhausted, his flannel shirt is wrinkled, his heavy winter coat draped over the back of the chair, his glasses sitting squarely on his nose, and his blue eyes are bloodshot.

the moment he sees you looking at him, his shoulders drop in a massive, visible wave of relief.

he reaches out, his large, warm hand carefully enveloping yours where it rests on the stiff hospital sheets.

his fingers are trembling slightly, his thumb gently tracing the back of your knuckles.

"the doctor said you have a concussion, and they had to put a few stitches on your forehead and the gash on your cheek," clark says softly, his voice raspy as he leans a bit closer.

he looks down at your hand. "but you're going to be okay. they're just keeping you for observation."

you look at his hand wrapped around yours, and a spike of hurt flares in your chest.

with a tight frown, you pull your hand completely away from his grasp, tucking your fingers beneath the stiff hospital blanket.

the sudden movement makes your head throb but you ignore it, keeping your eyes fixed on him.

clark’s thumb freezes, he looks down at his open palm for a fraction of a second, his expression fracturing with a look of hurt before he slowly lets his arm drop back to his lap.

"where were you?" you ask, your voice raspy, the exhaustion making the words sound heavier than you intended.

you stare at his wrinkled flannel shirt, "i waited for hours, clark. you didn't text. you didn't call. i was sitting there by myself like an idiot, and then the whole city went to hell while i was trying to get home."

clark looks completely devastated.

he flinches slightly at your words, his jaw tightening as he stares at the white blanket between you.

he opens his mouth to say something, to give the usual clumsy excuse about a deadline, a lost phone, or getting caught in transit but the words seem to catch in his throat.

he looks up at you through his thick glasses.

the silence stretches between you, you turn your face away from him, staring fixedly at the blank white wall opposite the bed.

the sight of his slumped shoulders and his guilty, exhausted face is just too much to handle on top of the throbbing ache in your skull.

"just go home, clark," you say quietly.

your voice is flat, stripped of all its anger, leaving only exhausted exhaustion.

beside the bed, Clark goes still. "darling, please... let me stay. just let me make sure you're okay..."

"i am okay," you interrupt, still refusing to look at him.

you pull the rough hospital blanket higher up around your shoulders, physically shielding yourself from him. "the doctors are watching me. i don't need you here. just... go home. go back to the daily planet, or wherever it was that was more important than meeting me."

out of the corner of your eye, you see him open his mouth to plead, to give you some kind of explanation, but he stops himself.

a ragged exhale escapes his lips.

slowly, the vinyl chair groans as he stands up. he towers over the bed, he goes to walk but stops.

he leans down into your space and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead.

"I am so, so sorry," he whispers against your skin, his voice filled with regret.

"i'll... i'll go," he whispers, "but i'm leaving my phone on. if you need anything.. anything at all.. just call me. please."

you don't answer, you just close your eyes.

he pulls back slowly, as if pulling away from you physically pains him, before turning and making a quiet, reluctant exit from the room.

the soft click of the latch signaling that you are finally alone.

your eyes stay closes, your chest aching with something that has nothing to do with your injuries.

you expect to feel a sense of relief now that he’s gone, now that you don't have to look at his guilty face or listen to the excuses you were sure he was going to make.

but instead, the anger and hurt begins to drain away, leaving behind a feeling of loneliness.

you shift slightly on the stiff mattress, and a sudden vivid image flashes behind your closed eyes.

not the empty restaurant table or clark in his wrinkled flannel.

you see a cape blowing in the wind, a blue and red figure kneeling in a flooded street, unbothered by the storm.

you feel the ghost of massive, trembling hands framing your face with terror, and a voice deeper, stronger, but carrying that exact same, frantic cadence whispering sweetheart and my love into your wet hair.

your heart rate spikes, the monitor beside you accelerating slightly.

hands that could crush steel, yet held you as if you were made of glass.

the monitor beeps faster, its frantic rhythm filling the quiet room as your heart begins to hammer against your ribs.

the voice, the breathless, cracked panic of the city's hero as he knelt in the mud, crying over you, calling you darling, calling you my love.

it wasn't the booming voice Superman used on the news, it was a voice you knew personally, a voice that felt like home.

“clark...?”

the breathless question you had whispered right before passing out echoes perfectly as you repeat it out loud.

┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ˚★⋆｡˚ ⋆ ⋆ ˚｡⋆★˚┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ┊ ⋆ ⋆ ┊ ┊ ┊ ★⋆ ⋆★ ┊ ┊ ◦ ◦ ┊ ★⋆ ⋆★

(i tagged people who asked for a pt2 and seemed like they'd be interested in one sorry if you didn't wanna be tagged or i missed you)

You’d been trying to suppress it all week. Truly, you had. It wasn’t your fault that Clark looked stupidly attractive in flannel, with sweat beading at his hairline and slipping beneath the collar of his t-shirt. It wasn’t your fault that his Ma and Pa had raised him right, that he helped with dinner and folded everyone’s laundry when it was finished drying on the clothesline. You couldn’t be held responsible for what happened between your thighs whenever you watched him complete miscellaneous tasks around the house, fixing whatever appliance or squeaky hinge that had been nagging Ma for the past several weeks like the perfect fucking son he was. 

So, really, you weren’t at fault for the way your kisses began lingering a bit longer than what was appropriate for his childhood home. The way your hand regularly found his thigh every night beneath the dinner table, daring to get progressively higher with each passing day. 

It was inevitable. A means to an end. A festering desideratum that was growing increasingly difficult to ignore. 

It was affecting Clark too, you could feel it. His hugs were longer. He hovered around you more than usual. Clark’s touches were always meaningful, so when he began squeezing your hips or shoulders as he slipped by you in the kitchen or living room, you knew there was intent behind it. 

It didn’t help that this was your first time visiting the Kents as his fiance. The knowledge that you were about to be married certainly didn’t help matters. Clark, along with his sweet, endearing, oh-so-oblivious parents had already been teasingly referring to you as “Mrs. Kent”, and it was more than enough to make you insane. 

For his parents’ sake, you sincerely hoped your joint desperation wasn’t as glaringly obvious to them as it was to you. Though, if the sly smiles on Ma’s face whenever she noticed the pathetically longing stares you two exchanged was any indication, you weren’t being as subtle as you thought.

Growing up, Ma had very strict rules about Clark’s girlfriends, as he’d informed you previously. She was the sweetest woman you’d ever met, if not a little old-fashioned by way of social standards (Clark’s gentlemanly charm had to come from somewhere). Which of course meant that every partner of Clark’s who spent the night at the Kent household was required to sleep in a separate bedroom. 

“As long as you’re stayin’ under my roof,” she had teased, waving a wooden spoon in mock threat. “Those are the rules. No bed sharin’ till you’re married.” 

When Clark was in high school and college, that usually meant he took the sofa while his girlfriend took his room. Back then, the spare bedroom in the Kent household had been used predominantly for extra storage, mostly for seasonal decorations and other delicate items Ma and Pa didn’t want stored in the barn. 

Recently, though, the Kents had cleaned out the space. Its “restoration” had become a bit of a passion project for Pa, who was always happiest when he had something to keep his hands busy.

Clark had inquired about it once when you were both in town visiting. He’d spotted the cans of paint in the hallway, to which Ma replied with the coolness of a cucumber and the subtlety of an elephant. 

“Just preparin’ for when we have kiddos in the house again.”

You choked on your sweet tea, and looked over at Clark to find that his blush had climbed all the way to his ears. 

“Ma,” he bemoaned. She only winked. 

One of Ma’s friends owned a ranch on the other side of town, and had introduced her to the wonders of Facebook Marketplace. Such began the spending spree that would result in brand spankin’ new (secondhand) furniture for the newly redone bedroom once Pa had finished spackling and painting. 

Clark fretted endlessly over the fact that his parents were lugging around heavy furniture on their own, and would regularly speed back to Smallville to help them if he had the spare time. When you came to visit this time around, the guest bedroom was the first place Ma had dragged you both off to, eager to show off her finds. 

“Ain’t it beautiful? Couldn’tve cost me more than a hundred-and-fifty some bucks. John’s good friends with Frank down at the hardware store in town, so we got a good deal on the paint, too. What was the shade, hon? Manchester tan, somethin’ or other? Anyway, I think it turned out pretty darn good.” 

“It looks great, Ma,” Clark complimented with a genuine smile. 

“Don’t it? Figured it would be nice not havin’ to make your poor fiance sleep on that rickety ol’ twin bed.”

There it was—the subtle confirmation that you were still expected to sleep in separate rooms. Which you would, because you respected your soon-to-be in-laws, and it wouldn’t be for much longer anyways. 

“It really does look incredible,” you agreed, filling the silence. “The wonders of Marketplace.” 

“Trouble now is gettin’ her to stop,” Pa called from the living room. “We got a crap ton of new patio furniture and nowhere to put it all!” 

“Oh, hush,” Ma scolded, and you both laughed. 

It was on day five that things became borderline unbearable. The Kents had invited some old friends over for a cookout and a bonfire. Some of the older couples’ kids had grown up alongside Clark, many of whom already had spouses and families of their own. Meaning, there were several young children in attendance, which thrilled Clark, who had been honest with you from the start about wanting a family of his own someday. 

It made perfect sense—he was incredible with kids of all ages, something you’d known for a while, having seen it secondhand on TV whenever he donned the cape to visit children’s hospitals or homeless shelters. 

Experiencing it firsthand, though? Your fucking ovaries were about to explode. 

Pa had bought some marshmallows for the kids to make s’mores, and Clark had somehow been designated the role of official stick-gatherer. You watched the kids—ranging from kindergarten to late elementary school age—follow him around like ducklings, giggling and laughing when Clark made a show of climbing all the way up an oak tree to fetch the ‘perfect stick’ for roasting marshmallows. 

One of the children, an adorable brown-haired little boy, shyly offered his first marshmallow—which was burnt to a crisp—to Clark, who accepted it with a broad smile. 

“Thanks, buddy. Is this for me?” 

His head bobbed. “Sorry. It burnt a little.” 

“Oh, that’s alright. It’s still gooey underneath. Here, watch.” 

You watched as Clark slid the charred, ashy part of the marshmallow off to reveal its perfectly melted, warm center. He sucked the mallow into his mouth, having to double down on his sticky digits as the residual bits clung to his fingers. You politely forced yourself to look away. 

The rest of the night, Clark had been seated right next to you as the adults exchanged work stories and life updates while the kids ran around chasing fireflies. Inevitably, there were more than a few prying questions shot in Clark’s direction about his interviews with Superman, which always made you grin, even if only himself and his parents knew the reason behind it. 

At some point, Clark’s arm draped around your shoulder as you rested your legs in his lap. With company around, he’d been forced to put on his hypnoglasses, but you certainly weren’t complaining. The firelight danced across his face and in the lens of his glasses, which you took every opportunity to push up his nose with a soft smile, leaning forward to peck his lips every so often. 

Mercifully, having both older couples and young children in attendance meant the night was called off relatively early, around 8pm. You both assisted with cleanup before settling in the living room to catch up on the news. Ma and Pa turned in shortly thereafter, pressing kisses to both of your foreheads before vanishing down the hallway. 

Feeling particularly greedy, you stole the chance to break the “appropriate distance” the two of you had been sitting on the sofa and cuddled up to Clark’s side with a long sigh. 

“Good day?” you ask casually. 

“Mhm,” he answers, fingertips brushing up and down your shoulder. You idly watch the TV for a few more minutes, toying with Clark’s fingers in your hand, already imagining the ring that would soon match yours. 

The quiet sounds lulled you into a state of blissful exhaustion; his parents doing their nighttime routine, the crickets chirping through the open window, the low conversation from the television, playing a gameshow of some sort. 

After a few moments of silence, you snuck a glance over the sofa, peeking to see if his parents’ door had shut yet. Clark followed your gaze curiously, about to ask what you were looking at, when you pinched his chin between your fingers and brought your mouth to his. 

A pleasant hum rumbled from the back of his throat as he immediately returned the kiss. His hand cradled the side of your neck, fingers brushing against your thumping pulse as you kissed, deep and slow. 

You part for air, and Clark’s mouth trails along your jaw, unhurried and without much finesse, seemingly content just to be touching you. Your eyes once again land on the closed door of his parents’ bedroom, weighing the risk before making your decision and swinging a leg over his lap. 

Clark, clearly a little surprised, laughs nervously as his hands find your hips. “Honey,” he warns. “What are you—” 

“Shh,” you hush him with a smirk and a finger to his lips, before kissing him again and carding your fingers through his soft curls. 

He hums in bliss, grip tightening on your hips before his hands travel up and down your sides. “It feels so good to kiss you,” he whispers into your mouth. 

Your breathing hitches, desire roaring to life deep in your belly, demanding attention. 

“Yeah,” you agree softly. 

You kiss for as long as you dare, tongues slipping into hot mouths and hands staying mostly PG; Clark wisely keeps you planted a safe distance away from his pelvis. 

When you finally part, panting for air, you sit there for several long moments. The chorus of sounds has changed, slightly. Clark’s heavy breathing intermingled with your own; the subtle-soft rustle of his palms against your blouse as he caresses you. The crickets still chirp, reminding you of the hour, and you reluctantly open your eyes. 

“We should probably go to bed,” you say, though you don’t mistake the sadness in your voice for anything other than it is—a thorn in your side for not being able to do anything other than kiss. “Ma said something about the Farmer’s Market tomorrow.” 

Clark’s head tips back against the couch, his blue eyes drowning in a sea of black as he catalogues the look on your face. He licks his lips in consideration, and your traitorous core flips in arousal at the sight. 

“Yeah,” he eventually—reluctantly—agrees. 

You drag yourselves down the hallway, taking turns in the bathroom as you prepare to weather the storm of spending another dreadful night apart. 

The Kent family home is small; a three bedroom, one bathroom ranch that had little room for much more than its Midwestern charm. It was an older house too, built by Pa’s grandfather in the 1920s; it had been refurbished, just enough to keep up with the times, but the bones of the house were old. Creaky floorboards and chipped paint. An extremely temperamental HVAC system. And, of utmost concern to you and Clark, thin walls.

All the bedrooms lined one hallway near the back of the house; the bathroom and his parents’ room on the left, the guest room on the right, and Clark’s bedroom tucked at the end of the hall. Everyone was snug as a bug in a rug, as the saying went.

Lucky you.

The air between you tonight feels inexplicably more charged than usual, and you have a sinking suspicion the make-out session you’d initiated had something to do with it. 

“Goodnight,” you say softly, turning to face Clark from the doorway to the guest bedroom.

Clark blinks at you in consideration, before leaning down to give you one final kiss. It’s soft and almost unbearably slow. His hand cradles your jaw, thumb brushing your skin. Your lips hover, brushing one another before either of you can bring yourselves to pull away. The pad of his thumb tugs gently at your lower lip. 

“Goodnight,” he whispers. 

And then he’s gone, floorboards creaking beneath his feet as he retreats into his bedroom at the end of the hallway. You take a deep breath, needing a moment to collect yourself before shutting your own door and pressing your forehead against it. Get a grip. 

You try to distract yourself by doing some light reading before bed, just enough to make your eyes heavy. Of course, it doesn’t work, and an hour after you’ve put your book down and turned off all the lights, you can’t sleep. 

Your mind is consumed by the memory of Clark twisting open a jar of strawberry jam for Ma earlier today, and the how he’d sucked some of the jam off of his thumb. Then it flashes to the effortless way he’d carried several 400-pound hay bales over his head, across acres of farmland, all so his Pa could save some diesel on the tractor as you watched from the kitchen window. Then you remember how he’d immediately gulped down two full glasses of his Ma’s homemade lemonade, watching the condensation wet his fingers and the way his throat muscles moved as he swallowed. 

It’s too much. Too much temptation packed into a 1,300 square foot ranch, in the shape of 240 pounds of farm-bred Kryptonian muscle. Five unbearable days with only fleeting touches and lingering kisses, until tonight, when you got a taste of something more. You two had gone far longer without sex—you know this logically—but being in such close proximity and watching him around his parents and interacting with children has done irreparable damage. 

Your hand is slipping beneath your pajama shorts without you even making the conscious decision. 

Fuck, the way he’d smelled tonight, like burning wood and smoke, his skin warm and almost glowing as a result of spending all day in the sun. Around the campfire, you couldn’t help but caress his five o’clock shadow at any chance you got, imagining the scruff of his stubble chafing your inner thighs. 

Clark loved to eat pussy. 

Your fingers easily find your aching clit, but the touches are all wrong. Your fingers aren’t rough enough, aren’t large enough, can’t get the right angle. 

After tonight, it was impossible not to imagine him with your own children in a very near future. The thought of him cradling an infant in his massive arms; a toddler climbing all over his back, sitting on his equally massive shoulders. You weren’t even sure it would be possible to conceive with him yet, but fuck were you content to imagine it. 

You’re dripping already; it was second nature. A Pavlovian response. Your fingers are a poor substitution for the real thing, but it would have to do. He’s so close and so fucking far, and it makes your blood hot. 

“Clark,” you fail to bite back the weak moan, your hips shifting around on the bed as you curl your fingers. God, a part of you hopes he’s awake, knowing he could probably hear the way you’re touching yourself, moaning his name, nearly in tears from how much you need him. 

It’s when you’re finally on the precipice of a very underwhelming orgasm that you hear the same creaking floorboards and freeze. Your ears hone in on the sound, trying to brush it off as being Ma or Pa getting up to use the bathroom, which wasn’t uncommon. But the gait is undeniably heavier, and far too careful to be either of his parents. 

Then you hear the doorknob turn. 

You twist in the sheets, hastily pulling your hand out of your pajama shorts. You blink blearily at the door, watching as it creaks open slowly to reveal none other than your 6’4” fiance. 

“Clark? E-everything okay?” you call out in a whisper as he carefully shuts the door, wincing at the way it squeaks. You hear a click, and your stomach swoops with the realization that it’s the lock. 

He turns to you, a looming, impressive shadow in the darkness of the guest room. He’s at the foot of the bed in two large steps, clambering onto the double-size mattress. The sudden shift of weight makes the mattress groan, a deafening sound in the stillness of night, and your eyes widen in surprise. 

“Baby, what are you doing?” 

“I think I should be asking you that,” is all the explanation you get before Clark’s lips are back over yours. The kiss is slow, but it’s filthy. Nothing like the ones you shared earlier on the sofa. All tongue and lips and teeth as he hovers over you. Your legs kick out of the sheets, instinctively locking around his lower back, and you barely bite back a moan as he settles some of his weight onto you. 

“Gosh, you’re unbelievable,” he breathes into you. “Touchin’ yourself like that when I’m barely a wall away. Could’ve just asked me, baby.” 

You shudder, and the arousal is a burn that rips through your body. “Oh god, Clark. We- we really shouldn’t- your parents—” 

“I know, baby. I know, I’m sorry. But I couldn’t take it anymore. You’ve been drivin’ me insane all week, sweetheart.” He slid his hands up your chest, groping your tits over your pajama top. “I…I heard you. Jolted me right awake; thought I was dreamin’ at first. But then I heard your sweet little moan, the little wet sounds of your pussy. Your heartbeat, honey. Like a little jackrabbit.”

You tip your head back against the pillow, breathing hard. “C-Clark, god, you can’t say things like that—” 

“I know how much you want it,” he breathes, hips bearing down between yours, and shit, he’s fully hard. You haven’t felt him like this in over a week, and it’s overwhelming. “I want it too.” 

Dark and quiet as it is, everything feels amplified; despite the very real threat of his parents overhearing, it’s like the two of you are in a vacuum, cut off from the rest of the world. You feel Clark everywhere, and yet it’s not enough to satisfy the insatiable beast that is frothing from between the cage of your thighs, desperate for reprieve. 

Of course, wanting what you realistically can’t—or shouldn’t—have has only made matters worse. 

“Baby,” Clark pants as you run your hands down his back, slipping beneath his soft t-shirt. “I can- oh gosh, I can s-smell how wet you are.” 

“Fucking hell,” you curse, and kiss him again. “I want you so bad, Clark. But this…this fucking bed is probably older than both of us combined, and it’s so loud, I—” 

“I know,” he responds between kisses. “I know, honey.” 

“I- maybe we could- you could just use your fingers? And I could do the same?” you suggest, though it’s weak, even to your own ears. You know Clark won’t object to anything you offer, but it was crystal clear what he really wanted. What you both wanted.

Clark lets out a whine, low in the back of his throat, concealing it in the crook of your neck. “Mmm. If- I mean, that’s- that’s probably the smart thing to do…”

“But not what we really want,” you finish, brushing your nose against his cheek. 

“No,” he agrees, before licking into your mouth. The soft, wet sound of your mouths causes your head to spin, heavy with desire. You can feel the blood rush in your ears, down the length of your neck, flushing the surface of your skin. 

“Baby,” you whisper when you part for breath, voice shaking with a mix of longing and crumbling restraint. Your legs tighten around his waist, pulling his hips flush against yours. Your fingers pull through his hair as your pelvises build a steady grind, slow enough so as not to cause the bed to squeak but enough to drive you insane as his stiff cock ruts against your clothed pussy. “I- I can’t fucking take it anymore. I need you.” 

Clark shudders, mouthing beneath your jaw. “I need you too, honey.” His lips hover over yours, words an urgent, needy whisper. “Wanna give you my cock so much, sweetheart. So, so much.” 

“Oh god, Clark,” your voice shatters around his name. Your pussy flutters at the mere idea of having his cock inside you. You need him so bad you could cry. “Seeing you w-with those kids today…” 

Clark groans instantly, understanding the implication. “Yeah? Imagining they were ours?” 

“Mmm. Yes.” 

“I know, I was too,” he admits, sucking a bruise into your skin that you will definitely regret in the morning. “You’d like that, huh? Makin’ a family with me?” 

“Fuck, I- you know I would, Clark.” 

“Gosh, yes. I’d give it to you in a heartbeat, my love.” 

“Please,” you whine, and you truly can’t remember a time where you’ve been this desperate for sex. “I’ll book the fucking appointment tomorrow. Get my—mm, fuck—get my IUD taken out.” 

The sound that escapes Clark’s throat is a mixture of pity and pain. “Oh gosh. honey, I- you’re not being fair.” 

“I know, I’m sorry,” you whimper. 

“We- maybe we can just go slow?” he suggests. “So slow, I promise. Won’t even put it all the way in. It won’t be loud that way, if we go slow. We can be quiet, if we…if we’re careful.” 

“I don’t want it slow,” you breathe, and that’s the entire problem, isn’t it? Clark lets out another low-pitched whine, and says your name like a curse. 

“You’ve been driving me crazy, too,” you continue, pausing to give him a slow, deep kiss. “I just…I just wanna fuck, Clark.”

Your hand snakes between your flush bodies, slipping beneath the waistband of his sweatpants and bypassing his boxers completely. Clark jerks, burying his face in your shoulder with a sharp exhale. The heat and weight of him makes the burgeoning desire in your gut increase tenfold; he’s hot and thick and fully hard. Your goddamn mouth starts salivating like it’s competing with your sopping pussy for his attention. 

“W-we…we have to be c-careful, honey,” Clark repeats as he pumps slowly into your hands. That simple movement alone makes the mattress groan with the sound of shifting fabric. “I can…fu- baby, gosh- I can listen to make sure they don’t wake up, but I’ll have to focus. And this bed—” 

“Please,” you beg, heart pounding as you listen to his breathing increase the longer you stroke him. Your own restraint is falling apart at the seams; you’re about one Clark-moan away from throwing all caution to the wind. “Forget what I said earlier, I don’t care. I- please, Clark. I need you so bad.” 

“Honey, I- oh—” He’s cut off when your fist focuses furiously on the weeping head of his cock. 

“Do you want to come on my fist, or in my pussy?” you ask. You know you’re playing dirty, but you need him in you. Now. 

“Holy- th-that’s so mean,” he whines. 

You mouth at his jaw. “Clark Joseph Kent, if you don’t put your cock in me right fucking now—” 

“Good gosh, I- okay, okay.” He plants desperate kisses on your lips, firmly yanking your wrist away from his cock, desperate for a break. “Just- are you-” 

“I’m fine, Clark. More than ready. Please just…just fuck me,” you demand, nipping at his earlobe. 

“Okay. I- okay, gosh, hold on-” 

It’s a frantic tangle of limbs and swatting hands as you both try and wiggle free of as minimal clothing as necessary without jolting the bed too much. The comforter is thrown off the bed. You blindly yank Clark’s sweats and boxers down enough to fully free his cock, while he fumbles for the waistband of your sleep shorts, cursing sweetly as he struggles with the tie. It probably doesn’t help that you’ve started jerking him off again, smearing the resulting bead of pre-cum over his sensitive tip. 

“Stupid freaking-” 

“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ,” you mutter, growing impatient. “Just rip it off, Clark.” 

“But you hate when I-” 

“Rip it.” 

He doesn’t need to be told a third time. The fabric snaps the second his fists close around the tiny strings, and even that small display of his strength makes your clit fucking throb. 

His fingers are on you the instant your shorts and panties are gone, rubbing messily over your folds. It’s likely for his own peace of mind, despite your insistence that you were adequately prepared for him. It feels good nonetheless, so you aren’t about to complain. 

“Oh, gosh,” he marvels, thick fingers circling your clit as he glances between you. “You’re soaked, honey. Even wetter than I thought.” 

“I told you,” you shudder. “Now fuck me.” Your hand, still on his cock, guides him to your waiting pussy, slipping the head through your labia and making you both moan softly. 

“Fuck,” Clark curses. 

“Clark Joseph,” you gasp, the profanity deliciously foreign coming from his tongue. “Did you just—”

“This is a serious matter,” Clark insists as he thrusts his hips torturously slowly. The head of his cock catches on your clit and another moan slips out of you. “See? That right there.” Your eyes widen when Clark’s palm moves to cover your mouth. “Gotta focus if we wanna be quiet.” 

His words only make you whimper, the sound mostly smothered against his hand. 

“Quiet,” he scolds again, but then he’s pushing in. The initial stretch burns, as it normally does (you definitely could’ve benefited from some extra lubrication, but desperate times call for desperate measures). However, the flicker of pain is quickly doused with sheer relief, like your body is sighing at the solace of finally getting him inside you. 

Clark’s hand abandons your mouth in favor of supporting his weight as he half-collapses onto his forearm. The first thrust of his hips tests the waters; a little overzealous on Clark’s side, succeeding in making the rickety old bed frame squeal once, loudly. You both hold stock-still, allowing you to acclimate to his size and him to listen intently for any signs of life in his parents’ room.

Clark looks down at you in silence. Nothing. 

You release your bated breath and drag him into a kiss. “Move,” you hiss, sounding like a total brat, but neither of you seem to care. 

Clark obliges, pumping his hips slower this time, the motion more fluid as he disperses his weight across his whole body rather than planting his knees on the mattress. 

It seems to be working, the sound of your joint heavy breathing being the loudest sound in the room. That is of course until you shift positions just slightly, and the fucking Marketplace-monstrosity of a bed frame groans loudly in protest. 

A huff of agitation escapes you. “Oh fuck that’s— it’s loud, Clark. Why is it so fucking loud?” 

“Shit,” he curses desperately. “Maybe- here, pull the sheets up—” 

“That’s not going to do anything!” 

“Well, I don’t know!” Clark exclaims in a whisper-yell. “I’m trying to help! I- oh gosh, honey, I can’t pull out of you now—” 

You lock your legs around him in warning. “Don’t you dare.” 

“I’m not, I’m not.” 

Your head flops back against the pillows in frustration. “Just…they’re still asleep, right?” 

Clark pauses to listen. “For now, yeah.” 

“So…” you can’t believe you’re about to suggest this. Morning-you is going to be so fucking embarrassed. “…just…just keep going, and stop if you hear them wake up.” 

Clark lets out a pained groan. “That’s easier said than done when I’m balls deep inside you, honey. I can’t focus on making you come and listening for the slightest rustle of awareness across the hallway.” 

You wiggle your hips, pulling another wounded sound from Clark’s chest. “Please,” you resort to begging, yet again. “Clark, I- I’m so sexually frustrated and I finally have your dick inside me and you’re just fucking- we’re not even- I can’t—” 

Clark must take pity on you, because he’s soothing you with quick pecks across your face and neck. “Honey, I know, I know. I’m sorry. Oh, my sweet girl. I’m sorry.” He starts moving again, the same slow, fluid movements as before. The bed squeaks beneath you, but it’s not too loud, you think. 

Clark continues, “I wish I could fuck you how you need, baby. But we gotta be quiet. Shhh, shhh. I know. Just try and take what I’m giving you. Want me to rub your little clit? Will that help?” 

You nod, only slightly horrified as you feel tears well in your eyes from the sheer frustration of it all. Clark coos praises and apologies into your ear as his fingers gently circle your swollen clit, but it’s not enough. 

Sure, it feels good, amazing even, but it’s not what you’d been craving. Not the itch you needed scratched. 

“Jus’ a little harder?” you beg, your voice a wet, sultry whisper against his ear as you bury your fingers in his hair. “Please? Please Clark?” 

He buries his groan against your chest, mumbling a slew of frustrated, mostly incoherent words that sound something like “gonna be the death of me” and “can’t handle when you beg me for it”. But then, abruptly, the pace changes yet again. The movement ceases, just for a moment. He shifts his weight above you. His hips snap—once, twice, thrice. Still slow, but firmer. Sharper. Deeper.

“Oh—” 

Anticipating your moan, his free hand flies back to your mouth, effectively cutting off the incriminating sound. He hushes you gently as his eyes bore down into yours. 

The bed is…well, it’s definitely making noise now. The box springs make their presence known, creaking with every forward motion. Unfortunately, you’re too cock-drunk to pay it much attention. 

At the very least, it’s not like the headboard is obnoxiously slamming against the wall. Just…if someone happened to pass by the door, it would probably be fairly obvious what was happening on the other side. Which, horrifically, turns you on even more. 

Of course, you know Clark would never let something like that actually happen—nor would you want it to—but the thought of it, the risk of it, makes your stomach twist around itself in arousal. The notion that he’s fucking you in his childhood home with his sleeping parents a stone’s throw away has you hornier than you thought humanly possible. 

The fingers on your throbbing clit speed up, and your eyes nearly roll back into your skull. 

“C’mon, baby,” he pants. “Gotta come on this cock. Know you want to. Wanting me to make you a wife and a mommy in the same calender year, my greedy girl. All with my parents right down the hall, sound asleep. Gonna look them in the eyes tomorrow morning, honey? Knowin’ I snuck into your room just hours prior? That my cum was dripping down your thighs?” 

From behind his sweaty palm, a muted chorus of “yeah, yeah, yeah” punches out of you on the crest of every sharp thrust.

Clark smothers you; with his body and his words and his kisses, his tongue just beneath your ear, his forearms caging you beneath his broad frame. Your nails dig into his back for dear life, thighs tense around his hips as every ounce of your focus narrows in on the pleasure.

“Shhh, baby,” he whispers, breath hot and voice shaking. “I know it- I know it feels good, but you gotta be quiet. Can’t let you come if you can’t be quiet.” 

You need to come more than you need air to breathe, so you force your shaking body to obey, swallowing your own sounds and digging your nails further into his impenetrable skin.

“Yes, baby,” he praises. “There we go. Nice and quiet. Can I have my hand back, now?” 

You nod shakily, breathing fast and hard, as Clark leans in to kiss you. The fingers swirling over your clit make a ‘v’ as they slip down to stimulate your outer lips of your vulva. Your thighs twitch around his hips, signaling your rapidly-approaching release. 

“F-fuck, Clark,” you whine into his open mouth. “I- I can’t, I—” 

“Yes, baby. Right there. Let it happen. Come on my cock, baby. It’s yours.” 

You shatter with a high-pitched whine, one that Clark suffocates against his still-clothed chest as he quickly presses your face into his breast bone. Your pussy constricts around him, spasming uncontrollably as he works to prolong your high. 

“I know, baby. I know, I- oh, that- that…I c-can feel you around me, so tight…it’s g-gonna make me come, honey—” 

The hand not cradling your head fists into the pillow beside you. His sharp, jagged thrusts—the ones originally intended for your pleasure—change a final time, turning frantic in a way that signals his own impending orgasm. Beneath your writhing bodies, the bed groans and shifts. Surely the headboard rams against the wall at least once, maybe twice. You don’t keep track, solely focused on your hypersensitive cunt as it throbs and clenches around Clark, egging him on. 

“C-come inside me, baby,” you plead into his ear, like that’s even a question.

“Did you m-mean it?” he asks suddenly, catching you a bit off-guard. His voice shakes as his hips falter. 

“Mean what?” you barely get out. 

“What you said about…about starting a family?” 

The tenderness of the question hits you square in the chest, and suddenly the emotion in your eyes has an entirely different meaning. 

“Yes,” you breathe, kissing the side of his face. “I love you so much, Clark. I wanna make a baby with you, m-make a family together.”

He whimpers, shortly before biting down on your shoulder in a desperate attempt to keep quiet. His hips stutter and still, cock pressed as deeply inside your pussy as he can get at this angle. He comes hard, the deliciously bizarre sensation of his cum filling your pussy pulling a final, blissed moan from you. He finally stills above you, struggling to steady his breathing. 

“Golly. Sweetheart,” he exhales, and you both let out disbelieving chuckles. He pulls back to look at you, still catching his breath as you feel his cock soften inside of you. “Did we really just…” 

“Have sex under your parents’ roof with them sleeping just across the hall? Yes we did,” you say, trying not to let the post-orgasm regret pull you under. 

Clark laughs again, kissing you on the nose before nuzzling into your neck. You love it when he tries to tuck his massive frame into your body; it’s adorable. 

“Mm. Worth it.” 

You can’t help but agree. 

You spend a few quiet minutes catching your breath and coming down from your highs. You run your fingers through Clark’s hair, something you know he loves after sex. 

“Need’ta pee,” you protest tiredly when you feel him start to go slack above you. 

“Mmm. Yeah. Yeah, m’kay,” Clark says slowly, like his brain is still catching up. He rolls off of you and you search blindly for your underwear, settling instead on Clark’s boxers which are the first thing you stumble upon. You carefully slip to the bathroom, cringing a little at the feel of his cum sliding down your inner thighs. You clean yourself up and use the toilet, trying not to think too hard about his Ma and Pa, sleeping soundly in the room next door. 

When you return to the guest room, Clark holds up a finger, then presses it swiftly to his lips, eyes closing in focus. 

“What? What’s wrong?” you whisper, feeling more awake all of the sudden. You lock the door—just in case—and tiptoe back to the bed. 

“I think Ma woke up,” he whispers back as you climb into his waiting arms. “Probably heard you in the bathroom.” 

Despite yourself, you feel your cheeks heat. “Well…they get up all the time, right? It’s not uncommon to get up and pee in the middle of the night.” 

“No, it’s not,” he agrees with a yawn. “Just…I should head back to my room soon. Don’t wanna fall asleep and have’ta sneak out in the morning.” 

You giggle, “god, it’s like we’re in high school or something.” 

Clark smiles back. “Yeah.” 

You snuggle into his chest, pleased to find that he’d taken off his t-shirt, finally. You always appreciated the skin-to-skin contact when you slept. So does Clark, so you’re not surprised when his own hands reach for the hem of your pajama top and lift it over your head. 

He makes a satisfied sound and presses a single kiss to your sternum before you settle back on his chest. Clark lifts the sheets back over you both, fingers gliding down your back in soft lines. 

“Love you,” he whispers into your hair. 

“Love you too,” you respond. 

For now, you’re beyond content to lay in his arms, listening to his soft breathing and the strong thump-thump of his heart. 

~

You wake to the sound of the Kent’s rooster, announcing the wee hours of the morning. As you groggily emerge from slumber, a few more things begin to cloud your senses. Chiefly among them, the smell of bacon, wafting in from the kitchen. Mm. Delicious. And the weight of Clark’s arm, comfortably slung across your—

Wait. 

You shoot up in bed, waking Clark up in the process, who startles with a sleepy-eyed huff.

“Clark, oh my god,” you gasp. 

“Wha- what is it?” he asks groggily, rubbing at his eyes. 

“You fell asleep in bed!” you hiss, eyes wide with panic. And from the smell of it, his parents were already awake. Just perfect. 

“Oh my god, this is so embarrassing. Do you think they noticed?!” you ask urgently, rooting around for your clothes on the floor. 

Clark relinquishes a deep sigh, leaning on his elbows as his head thunks back against the headboard in defeat. “Knowing my Ma, definitely.” 

“Oh my god,” you repeat, standing now. “She’s going to know that we- that you—” 

“Sweetheart, we’re engaged,” Clark reassures you. “And…adults, before that. She’s not that ignorant. And she won’t hate you if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s just…a little, well. I guess it is a little, uh, mortifying.” 

Your head falls into your hands, and Clark has the audacity to chuckle. “Maybe she didn’t notice,” you say. “Maybe she hasn’t checked your room yet, and you can still—”

As if by divine intervention, a swift knock sounds at the door. 

“Breakfast’s ready, honey. Taters and eggs, and bacon fresh from the butcher.” 

“Oh, alright! Be out in a few, Ma. Thank you!” you call out, hoping you sound less shaky then you feel. Even if she hadn’t noticed yet, she definitely heard you talking to each other, and there’s no way you could explain that. 

Then, with an air of mischief lining her Midwestern twang, Ma adds, “tell Clark there’s plenty for him, too!"

You’d never been with someone quite like Clark before. 

He was new and exciting and like a breath of fresh air, and that scared you a little because you’d never felt as safe and as comfortable in a relationship like you do in yours and his. 

Clark had become your safe space. And while Superman is everyone else’s safety, Clark is all yours. 

Yeah, he told you his secret pretty early on in the relationship. You and he had only been together for about three weeks before he let it slip to you, and he paired it with saying that he can see a real future with you, and he didn’t want to keep things from you. He wanted to be your partner, and he wanted to be honest and open with you. 

He was all in. 

And so were you. How could you not be? Clark was walking, talking perfection. He’s sweet in every way, kind beyond words, and he loves with his whole heart. He’s also incredibly attentive, sensitive, and unbelievably sexy, but only a handful of people in his life get to experience those first two, and only you get to experience that last one. 

And Clark truly is unbelievably attractive. He’s well over 6 feet tall, probably nearing 6’5 if he’s wearing the right shoes, and he’s just so… big. All over. His biceps are the size of your head, his torso covers your body entirely if he’s standing in front of you, and his shoulders are so wide, you’re surprised he doesn’t need to turn sideways to fit through a doorway. 

But, again, he’s also so sweet and kind and loving, you weren’t sure how someone could be that perfect, but he was definitely the closest thing to it. 

You and he have been dating for eight months now, and things couldn’t be better. Clark walks you to and from work, which was a given since you and he both work at the Daily Planet, and you often spend the nights at either his apartment or yours, and every time you look over your shoulder at him, you always find him already looking at you, and every time his smile only grew whenever you locked eyes. 

Your co-workers and mutual friends tease you both relentlessly, but you and Clark are at that point in your relationship and are totally comfortable that you don’t even care. They could tease all they wanted, you and Clark were all in. The teasing was only light-hearted anyway, since anyone with eyes could see how truly happy you make each other, and there was no reason to try and make either of you feel any differently about that. 

It was one of those rare days where Clark had been hauled into Perry’s office for most of the morning, surely being given another grueling assignment since he did so well on the last one. 

That meant you didn’t have something nice to look at as you worked on your own piece, Clark’s empty desk a few feet away a growing distraction. 

Luckily, Lois decided to do some distracting of her own. 

She rolled her chair over to your desk, a pen in her mouth and a notebook open on her lap. “Hey,” she said, slapping your arm lightly with the notebook as she took the pen out of her mouth. “You have that look on your face again.”

You furrowed your brows, taking your eyes off your laptop and focusing them on her. “What look?”

“That ‘wife from the 20s watching her husband go off to war’ look,” she clarified, and you were instantly heating up. “Clark’s been with Perry for, like, only an hour. Why do you keep looking over at his desk like you’re expecting him to just appear at any second?”

You tucked your bottom lip between your teeth, glancing over your shoulder towards the hallway that led to Perry’s office, knowing Clark was in there and likely too focused on his boss to try and listen out for you, so you felt like you could gossip with your friend about your boyfriend for a few minutes without him finding out. 

Leaning over, you gestured for her to come closer as well. “I’m, like… so in love with him,” you whispered once she leaned in. 

Her eyes widened dramatically, and you could already hear the tease that was about to come your way. “What? No way,” she gasped, placing her hand flat on your desk like you just made some big revelation and she simply couldn’t believe it. She was a terrible actress. “I seriously had no idea.”

You rolled your eyes, sitting back in your chair as she started cracking up next to you. “Rude,”

Lois laughed again, much lighter this time. “Come on. You two are all over each other, even when you’re across the room. It’s actually kind of crazy how thick the tension gets whenever you and he aren’t standing directly next to each other,” she said, and you pursed your lips. 

“Well… we like being next to each other,” you said back, and she shook her head. 

“I can tell,” she said, and there was a genuine smile on her lips. She tilted her head as she leaned back in her chair, her eyes flicking over to the hallway, and her smile only grew. “You know, sometimes I feel like I can predict the future, and for some reason I can see an engagement happening sooner rather than later.”

Your stomach flipped at that, even though you knew it was just another light-hearted jab. The thought of getting engaged, getting married to Clark made you feel giddy and excited and it filled you with a warmth you’d never felt before in your life. “I can actually see it going there, Lois,” you said quietly, like saying it too loudly would ensure that it will never actually happen. 

Lois shot you a much more gentle smile. “I know. I think we all can,” she said in return before going back to her own desk, and you allowed yourself to think about the possibility of marrying Clark for a few more moments. You also allowed yourself to steal one last glance at his empty desk chair before turning your focus back to your article. 

-

The idea of going out to a bar after a long week of work wasn’t something you normally liked to think about, but when Lois brought it up and even got Jimmy and Cat to agree, you found it hard to deny the invitation when you and Clark were both asked if you wanted to tag along. 

If you were being honest, you kind of wanted to spend the whole weekend with your boyfriend, but you also kind of wanted to see Clark out at a bar since it’s not a place he’d typically be. You’d only gone to a handful of bars with him during the time you’ve been together, but they were all bars that were attached to restaurants. The place Lois found was strictly a bar. 

So, you know, fuck it. 

Clark and Jimmy were already there when you, Lois and Cat arrived since they insisted on you getting ready together since you all take significantly longer to pick out your outfits and freshen up your makeup. 

When you walked through the door with Lois on your left and Cat on your right, you looked towards the pool table and almost immediately spotted Clark and Jimmy. You lifted your hand to your mouth, a soft laugh leaving your lips as you took in how out of place he looked next to a very obviously tipsy Jimmy. Though as soon as you laughed, Clark’s head turned in your direction and he spotted you as well, and almost instantly you could see the way his shoulders relaxed a bit. 

Just as you took a step in his direction, Lois pulled on your arm and shook her head. “Nope. You can go see your boyfriend after you get a drink with us. You saw him all day at work, you can wait another five minutes or so before going over to him,” she said, pulling you with her towards the bar. 

You pouted and Cat let out a laugh. “Oh, sweetie, you’re down bad, aren’t you?” 

“That’s an understatement,” Lois answered for you, and you narrowed your eyes at her. 

“Hey-”

“Well, she’s not the only one,” Cat cut you off, and you turned to look at her, finding her looking over at Clark and Jimmy. “Clark can’t seem to keep his eyes off her either.”

You looked past her and found Clark already looking at you, and a heat pooled in your lower body. He looked good, like always. He was still wearing his slacks, but he’d ditched his suit jacket and button up, only a thin, white t-shirt covering his upper half. 

God, you could moan at how good he looks. His hair was slightly messy from working all day, and his glasses reflected the dim lights of the bar. One hand was in his pocket, the other wrapped around almost the entire bottle of beer Jimmy must’ve forced him to drink, unaware of the fact that Clark can’t actually get drunk. 

And then there was the small, barely curved twist of his lips, a subtle smirk reserved for you that looked like a lopsided grin to others, but you knew exactly what it meant. And it made that heat only grow hotter. 

“Oh, please,” Lois scoffed, turning to face you and Cat once she’d ordered you all a drink. “This is getting kind of ridiculous.”

Cat placed her hand on your arm, a big smile on her face. “I think it’s sweet. You guys are young and in love. It’s adorable,”

You were young, yes, and very much in love, also yes, but that look on his face was anything but sweet and adorable. It had you pressing your thighs together and praying for the bartender to hurry up so you could get your drink and go over to Clark. 

Luck was on your side since only a few moments later, three pink colored drinks were placed on the surface of the bar, and you quickly took one when Lois handed it to you, then you were making a beeline towards Clark. His smirk only grew when he saw you coming, and he took his hand out of his pocket, lifting his arm so you could press your side against his own. 

You wrapped your own arm around his middle as his draped over your bare shoulders, his bicep covering the entire length of them, and you had to take a few sips of your drink to cool the blush that was taking over your whole body. 

“Hey, there you guys are,” Jimmy said, his voice already slurred a bit as Cat and Lois made their way over to the three of you. “Took you long enough. Clark and I have been here for over half an hour already.”

Cat shrugged her shoulders, sipping on her drink. “Sorry. It takes time to look this good,” she said, looking over at you and Lois with a wink. 

Clark dipped his head down and kissed your cheek before brushing his lips against your ear. “You always look good,” he murmured for just you to hear. You had to suppress another moan as you pressed yourself closer to him, suddenly feeling way too hot in the decent sized bar despite you wearing a thin, strapless shirt and a skirt that fell to your mid-thighs.

Jimmy said your name, and you quickly looked over at him, grateful for the distraction. You weren’t sure how much longer you could stand next to Clark with him looking that good and not throw yourself at him. “It’s a good thing you got here when you did. Those girls over there looked like they were a few minutes away from offering to take Clark back home. All three of them,” 

You furrowed your brows and looked towards where he nodded, seeing a group of three girls sitting at a booth, all wearing extremely short dresses that left absolutely nothing to the imagination. 

Instead of getting jealous like most people probably would, you just smiled, because just one look at the girls told you they didn’t stand a chance. They were so far from Clark’s type, and he’d never even entertain them had he been here by himself, let alone while he’s here with you. 

He only proved you right. “Yeah, like that would ever happen, Jimmy,” Clark scoffed, and your smile grew as you took another sip of your drink before pulling away from Clark’s side and reaching for his hand instead. 

The way he instantly turned to look at you made you feel unbelievably special as you tugged on his hand. “Come dance with me?” you asked, knowing it never took much for him to agree to anything you ask. 

Clark quickly set his nearly untouched beer down onto the edge of the pool table before following after you. 

“Dude, you’re so whipped,” Jimmy called out after him, but Clark just gave him a knowing grin over his shoulder, because tell him something he doesn’t know already. 

You led him past the booth with the three women that apparently looked like they were trying to bed your boyfriend all at the same time, ignoring the obvious looks of jealousy they shot you as you passed by, and towards the far end of the bar where multiple couples were dancing as well. 

Clark pulled you close once you’d found a comfortable place in between the other couples, his big hands placed on your lower back. He leaned in and nuzzled his nose along your temple as he whispered in your ear, “You look so beautiful,”

You pressed your lips together as you draped one arm around his shoulders, carefully holding onto your drink so you don’t spill it. “Do I?” 

Clark nodded, pulling you even closer as he dropped his lips to your jaw. “You always do,” he said, and it was clear that he was feeling more comfortable and confident since it was so dark in here, no one was really paying any attention to anyone other than the people they came with. 

You hummed, unable to stop the smile that took over your face at his words. “Well, I think you look really, really fucking hot,” you said back, and Clark lifted his head, meeting your gaze instantly. 

“Yeah?” he mumbled, sliding an experimental hand further down your body, but he was still so modest about it, it was almost funny. 

You nodded slowly, sliding your own hand into his hair, your fingers tangling in his curls. “Yeah,” you confirmed, and then you were given the delicious treat of him kissing you, uncaring that you and he were in a room full of people as he kissed you like you and he were completely alone. 

-

You adore your friends, you really do. 

When Lois invited you over to her place for a girl’s night with Cat, you were excited for it. You needed a break from your routine of going to work, sleeping, waking up and then doing it all over again. 

It was a Saturday night, and you were more than ready to unwind and relax with your close friends, maybe drink a little too much wine and gossip about things you can’t talk about at work, and forget about life for a little bit. 

That was the plan, anyway. 

But Clark had texted you as soon as you got there, and even though it was a simple and sweet text, it still took hold of you like everything else does when it comes to him. 

He only wished you to have a good night, to have fun, and told you that he loves you, and that was all it took for him to be at the front of your mind, and to have all your attention shift to him. 

It’d been a few hours since you arrived at her apartment and you’d already had three slices of pizza and watched a really shitty rom-com, and you were two glasses of wine deep when Lois decided that a picture was needed so you could remember this night forever.

You and Cat huddled close on the couch as Lois lifted her phone, taking a photo of the three of you smiling with your glasses lifted, and you couldn’t deny that it was a pretty nice photo. 

A nice photo Clark would most definitely like to see. 

“Hey, send me that,” you said to Lois, and she waved you off.

“Already did,” she responded, putting her phone down and grabbing the wine bottle, already starting to pour more into all three glasses. 

You grabbed your phone and opened your text thread with Lois, seeing the photo there waiting for you, and you quickly saved it to your gallery before clicking on Clark’s contact and sending it to him with nothing else attached. 

Your phone had only been set down for maybe thirty seconds before it went off, and you discreetly grabbed it again as Lois and Cat bickered over what movie to watch next. 

Seeing it was a text from Clark, you clicked the notification with a small grin on your lips. 

Clark 🫶🫶🫶: Pretty. Especially the one on the right. 

You blushed, because of course you were the one on the right, but before you could reply, another text appeared. 

Clark 🫶🫶🫶: Are you having fun?

And then another one. 

Clark 🫶🫶🫶: I miss you. 

You were full on blushing now as you pressed the cool glass of wine against your heated cheek, but you were interrupted as soon as you started to type. 

“Are you serious?” Lois asked, a hint of humor and disbelief in her voice. You looked up and saw both her and Cat looking over at you, with Lois shaking her head and Cat hiding her smirk behind the rim of her glass. “You’re seriously texting Clark right now? You just saw him this morning.”

“No, actually, I didn’t get to see him this morning. He was working on something last night and couldn’t sleep over at my place,” you said quickly, skillfully avoiding spilling his secret. You obviously couldn’t tell them that he’d been out saving the world last night as Superman. “I haven’t seen him since yesterday at work.”

“Oh, boohoo,” Lois scoffed, “That was barely twenty four hours ago. You’re so dick whipped.”

You gasped at that, your face heating up even more, but you couldn’t deny her accusation. It was completely true. 

When you looked away quickly, Cat perked up. “Oh, you so are,” she laughed, shifting on the couch as they both forgot about picking out another movie. “You checked your phone every five minutes during the last movie, and you’re all flustered over there, and I know it’s not from the wine. You are so dick whipped.”

Lois shook her head again. “It can’t really be that good,” she said, giving you a skeptical look. “Can it?”

You avoided their eyes as you curled in on yourself. If you were to start thinking about sex with Clark right now, you were sure you wouldn’t be able to last another hour here with Lois and Cat, and you really wanted to prove that you could spend more than twenty four hours away from him. 

But at the same time, sex with him is really that good. It’s better than good.

“It is,” you couldn’t help but say, then quickly add, “But it’s not just about that. He’s a really good guy, and he’s sweet and funny and-”

“And he’s got skills in the bedroom,” Lois cut you off with an eyeroll. “It’s fine to admit. But I’d rather not talk about yours and Clark’s sex life-”

“It’s so good-”

“Okay,” she cut you off again, shaking her head as she grabbed her glass. “I’m not drunk enough for this.”

Cat cracked up beside you, and you shot her a grin as you grabbed your phone. “You’re right, you’re right,” you said. “I’ll be present from here on out. Just let me send this one last text to him, then we can watch The Notebook.”

“Yes!” Cat cheered, that one having been her option over Lois’ How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days. 

The two of them started bickering as you quickly typed out a message to Clark, then decided to send a few pictures with it as well. You took them last night when you were alone in your bed, missing him while he was off doing Superman stuff, but you never actually sent them to him. 

One was of you blowing a kiss to the camera, the other one was of your lower body with your hand hidden beneath your panties, because Lois is right, you’re dick whipped for him and all you wanted last night was to be fucked by Clark, but he was too busy saving the world. 

So, so selfish. 

I miss you too. And I’m having a blast. Took these last night because I missed you then too. Hold onto them for me, please. Love you. 

You sent the text with a quiet laugh, and almost immediately your phone started to go off, but you were determined to keep your word, so instead of checking to see what the now four new text messages from him said, you focused on your friends, knowing damn well he’d get you back for that little stunt later. 

You were counting on it. 

-

You’d lost count of how many times Clark has made you all apart with his lips, mouth and fingers. 

If you had to guess, you’d been on your back on his bed for the last forty five minutes, and his head had been between your thighs for every single one of those minutes, but as for how many times he’s gotten you off? You had no fucking clue. 

His fingers that weren’t inside of you held onto your hip, effortlessly keeping you still as he worked you through yet another high, your thighs trembling at either side of his head. 

When Clark finally pulled back, his lips were puffy and swollen and glistening with your wetness, as were his fingers when he finally pulled them out of you. A sated, pleased smile was on his wet lips as he brought his hand up to his mouth and sucked his fingers clean, as if he didn’t just spend almost an hour tasting you straight from the source. 

“Did you… finally get your fill?” you asked, breathless beyond words as your chest heaved unevenly. 

Clark shook his head, crawling and kissing his way up your body. He pressed soft kisses to your thighs, your stomach, your ribs, your breasts and your neck before finally stopping when his face was level with yours. 

“No,” he answered, shifting his hips when you reached down and pushed his boxers down his thighs and legs, the only thing he was wearing before you both were completely naked. “You know I could’ve stayed down there for the rest of the night. But I know you wouldn’t have been able to handle much more of it.”

You hummed, letting his big hands guide your legs to wrap around his waist as he settled his hips between your thighs. “How sweet,” you mumbled, kissing him back embarrassingly quickly when he leaned in and pressed his lips to yours. 

A needy, long moan left your mouth and entered his when he reached down and guided himself into you, and the stretch that always came with taking him was something you were sure you’d never get used to. 

He was just so big. 

Your back arched off the bed, your bare chest pressing right up against his as he filled you entirely, your core beyond ready to take him after he thoroughly prepared you. 

“Oh, my God,” you breathed against his lips, tensing up as your hands grabbed onto his biceps. 

Clark broke the kiss, pressing his forehead to your temple as he stilled, bending one leg just slightly to ensure that every inch of him was buried inside of you. “Are you okay?” he asked quietly, one hand splayed along your lower back while the other one tangled in your hair, cradling your head. 

You nodded, even more breathless now than you were before. Your heels dug into his back as you lifted your hips, your way of telling him to continue. “I’m okay,” you whispered, knowing he always like to hear verbal responses even when your body is practically begging for him to fuck you. 

Clark let out a soft hum at that, his hips beginning to rock against yours, working you open even more around him. He dropped his head to your shoulder, peppering kisses along your skin as he set a slow pace at first. He reached deep inside you with every thrust, and every time you felt impossibly full and like he couldn’t physically reach that far, only for him to prove you wrong by the next one. 

Your legs hiked higher around his waist, the increasing pace making them loosen a bit as he let out deep and raspy sounds against the skin of your neck, and each one only further fueled your need for him. 

“You feel so good,” you whimpered, sliding one hand into his hair and tugging on it, your other one grabbing onto his shoulder tightly. 

Clark lifted his head, his nose bumping against yours. “So do you, baby,” he said back, then an achingly pretty smile formed on his face as he pressed his forehead against yours. “I love you.” 

A matching smile took over your own face, and your hand moved from his shoulder to his cheek. “I love you,” you said back, and his smile only grew before he was leaning in and kissing you again. 

Then he did everything he did before, getting you there over and over again, but this time on his cock instead of his fingers, and by the time he came inside of you and filled you up, you were shaking out of your control, and your hands were holding onto him with a death grip. 

Clark slowly eased out of you, and when he tried to pull away, you instantly held on even tighter, pulling him close once again. “Stay,” you mumbled, and he let out a soft laugh. 

“I was just going to-”

“I don’t care,” you cut him off, burying your face against his shoulder. “Just stay here. Don’t move. You might be the only thing keeping me together right now.”

He laughed again, and despite your words, he moved onto his back, ditching whatever he was planning on doing as he pulled you against his side. Your legs immediately tangled with his, your head coming to rest on his chest as you tried to catch your breath. 

“Are you okay?” he asked once again, his hand sliding up and down your back as you nodded, unable to answer him with words. His chest vibrated under you with a silent laugh, and when you lifted your head and looked at him, he shrugged. “That’s what you get for sending me those pictures last night then ignoring me for hours after.”

You scoffed, “You’re cruel,”

He scoffed right back, “You’re cruel,”

But despite your words, both of you were wearing sleepy, sated grins on your faces, and you let the feeling of his hands running up and down your body lull you to sleep at the same time he let the sound of your heartbeat soothe him enough for his eyes to shut as well.

-

Clark's groggy voice carried down the hall, soon to be followed by the heavy shuffles of slipper covered feet.

It wasn't hard for him to find where you were, not even needing to use his heightened sense of hearing as the sounds of yet another video and muffled giggles led him straight into the small dining room, your figure leaning against the kitchen table without a care in the world.

Sensing his presence, you turned your head with a small smile already forming on your lips, "Welcome back to the land of the living, sleepy head."

He crossed his arms with a belated huff before his lips pursed into a small pout, disheveled curly hair and slightly askew black frames only elevating his kicked puppy look.

"So… We're doing sleep alones now?"

Your eyebrows furrowed, thoughts firing off a mile a minute until realization dawned on you:

Your afternoon nap with your cuddly – and entirely too warm for blankets – boyfriend.

A baffled laugh burst past your lips before you could even think about holding it back, which only seemed to deepen Clark's adorably dissatisfied pout tenfold.

"I-I'm sorry, baby," reigning in your bubbling laughter, you turned to face him fully, "but it definitely wasn't a sleep alone, you were asleep!"

"And you left me alone!"

"Because I woke up first, so I decided to get up and let you sleep some more!"

Clark gasped in mock shock, and despite how well he'd kept up his act, it wasn't hard to see the silly little smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah? W-Well, I think you should have… put yourself back to sleep!"

Hiding another laugh within a feigned attempt of clearing your throat, you nodded slowly, "So, you want me to put myself back to sleep, so we can continue sleeping together?"

"Yep, that's exactly what I want, it's basic napping 101." He spoke with a concernedly casual amount of discernment, his early years of debate club truly paying off in this moment. "Oh, and just so you know, we're in a fight right now."

A fight, with your 6'4", 200-odd pound golden retriever boyfriend dressed in plaid pajama pants and a plain white t-shirt, over napping etiquette – oh, how the world could be so cruel.

Sky blue eyes dropped from your face to the table behind you, his previous pout now shifting to one of unadulterated betrayal and despair.

"And you're eating without me?!"

"Wha- It's my snack, Clark!"

His head lolled back dramatically, hands raising to the heavens as if begging to be spared from this torment. "Good grief – It's like I don't exist anymore, you're moving on from me!"

You gripped the table to keep yourself from doubling over in laughter, tears springing to your eyes as you tried your best to keep your composure, eager to see how far he was willing to take this.

"D-Did you have a good nap, at least? You looked so peaceful when I saw you."

"It was a good nap when I was cuddling you and listening to your heartbeat, but now I think it was the worst." His pout was back, but the glee in his eyes was undeniable, "I think my whole life is ruined, actually."

"Aw, my love," You cooed, crossing the short distance and reaching up to cup his cheeks – something you definitely accomplished with ease, and not from him slightly leaning down on instinct. "Do you want me to order takeout and cuddle you on the couch?"

"I'll order the takeout," he corrected softly, his signature Clark Kent grin finding its home on his lips, "and then you can cuddle me on the couch."

"Deal." Leaning up on your toes, you pressed your lips to his in a small kiss, smiling as you felt his arms wind around your waist. "Fight done?"

Clark hummed, amusement dancing in the tone, "Yeah, fight's done – thanks for entertaining me, honey."

"Of course, baby – but if you're gonna be this dramatic, I might just have to start leaving you alone in bed more often." Your teasing lilt and Cheshire grin was met with a gentle pinch to your side, working a bubble of laughter out of you.

"Careful." He chided before planting a kiss to your forehead, "I might just pull out the tears, next."

Scoffing lightheartedly, you stole another kiss from him and slipped out of his grasp to gather your stash of takeout menus, ready to continue your lazy Saturday properly.

You have to wipe the look off your face. I mean, whose voice sounds like that? All kind and dripping with sweetness. You don’t trust Clark Kent as far as you could throw him and God knows you weren’t moving that well-toned body of his, how much did he work out and that bone structure, I mean– “What, Clark?” You know you sound snippy because he looks like a kicked puppy. Well, actually, he always looks like that around you. 

Clark’s glasses sit on the edge of his nose, he pushes them up as he speaks, “Oh, um, sorry to bother you.” His desk chair scoots over from his desk over to yours. A common occurrence. Jimmy and Lois would share a glance over it, you’re sure. “I was just wondering if you’d read over my latest piece. The new one about Superman.” He’s got that look on his face. Is he trying to impress you or shove it in your face? Everyone would kill for an interview with Superman, but of course, Clark Kent is the only one to secure them. 

You roll your eyes. You can’t help it. “Clark, I’m sure it’s great. I’m sure it’ll be on the front page like the last four articles you wrote about him.” You turn your attention back to your computer, not wanting to continue the conversation. 

“Oh, really? You think so?” It typically takes a few more sassy replies from you to get him to retreat back to his desk, but not this time. This was Clark Kent who only ever takes your words at face value. Clark Kent who can’t seem to pick up on the fact you’re annoyed with him, always. Clark Kent who won’t stop till every person at the Daily Planet at least tolerates him. 

“You bet, Clarkie.” Your voice is laced with faux sweetness, but Clark turns away with a smile on his face, his posture straighter than before, desk chair wheels sliding back the way he came from.

Clark would annoy you more if it wasn’t for the little way your heart flipped when he came through the door every morning. But that part of you was never your brain talking, hell, it probably wasn’t even your heart. You swore off the men of Metropolis a long time ago. Relationships were always too complicated and men more so. You have been hurt too many times. They all started off strong. Kind, gentlemen-like, and a little too good to be true. More likely than not, Clark Kent was the same. He wanted one thing and once he got it? No more doors opened before you had a chance to look up. No more take-out containers appearing during the nights when you had to make a deadline. Not to mention you worked together. You couldn’t handle ruining the one place you actually loved. And for what? Clark Kent? Even if it was real, he is too sweet. He probably helps old ladies cross the street and the only thing you ever knew was tumultuous relationships. 

You would throw your hands against the desk if you didn’t want to draw so much attention to yourself. He always had a way of worming himself into your brain. He didn’t even have to try very hard. His smile lit up rooms. He was so tall and broad yet he tried to shrink so as not to take up so much space. You could kill him, you think. 

It was clear to Lois and Jimmy that Clark has a crush on you. It was the most obvious thing on the planet. Clark was nice. The whole act you assumed was for the purpose of getting things out of others was simply how he was. He was a gentleman from Kansas, always taught to do the right thing from Ma and Pa. But it was different with you. He was even more nervous than usual. Clark went out of his way to make sure you were comfortable, that you were seen. If you rubbed at your temples too much, an Advil would appear on your desk. If you yawn a little more than usual, a cup of coffee prepared just the way you like. He never needed the credit for it either. Just did it because he knew it was the right thing to do for someone you admired.

You picked up on it. You weren’t blind. “I mean, he does that for everyone, doesn’t he?” You had asked Lois last week. 

Her eyebrows raised. “I mean, no. If I ask, sure, Clark is happy to get me a cup of coffee from the break room. For you? He’ll go to that place down the street.” She had a knowing look on her face. More often than not, you had been going back to Clark as a topic of conversation. In the past, you brushed him off. 

You sighed, picking at the skin around your fingers. “Well, if anything, he just wants to get in my pants.” You had seen it before. Hell, the last intern the Daily Planet hired had tried it too, but once he realized you weren’t interested, the pleasantries had stopped. That hasn’t happened with Clark, not yet anyway. “Right?” You looked at Lois again. 

“Sure and settle down with you in Kansas somewhere and give you a handful of kids and wait on your hand and foot or whatever floats your boat.” She shrugged. She wasn’t going to waste more of her breath trying to convince you that Clark was one of the good ones. You had to figure that out on your own and your mind was surely set on staying away. And she sure as hell wasn’t gonna go out of her way to vet him for you, at least not for a little while longer. I mean, she had her $50 bucks put on the fact it would take longer than six months for you guys to go on a date. Jimmy on the other hand was convinced it would take less than six months. She was right on the cusp of winning, you just had to hold out a little while longer. Lois can't let Jimmy Olsen win a bet. “But, really, you’re probably right. I mean no man is that perfect.” She emphasized, glancing over at Clark. 

That was a week ago. Now, your restraint seems to be thinning more and more every day that you catch a glimpse of him in that white button down, his glasses hanging close to the tip of his nose. You had managed to finish the day off still mildly annoyed at him, though. I mean, push up your glasses for God's sake.

Clark, on the other hand is making eye contact with Jimmy, shaking his head vehemently as Jimmy gestures over to you, mouthing, “Come on, man. Ask her out!” Clark is nervous. He didn’t want to ruin anything between you, but it was getting harder for him to ignore the ache in his chest. He glances over at your desk, noticing that you're packing your bag for the night. Oh gosh, is he about to do this? 

Jimmy throws a fist up in the air signaling triumph as Clark scrambles out of his chair, stuttering over his words, “Oh, hey, wait, let me grab that for you.” He reaches your desk, scooping your bag over his shoulder as he smiles. “You know, we, uh, walk the same way.” 

You shrug. “Okay.” It was a long day. He was strong and capable. He could carry your bag a few blocks. He’s quick to grab the door before you can, push the elevator button, and follow you to the street. 

“How was your day?” He asks, genuinely curious. He’s only stalling a little on asking you on a date. I mean, would you say yes? Were you set on being friends? Friendly co-workers? He knew he wanted more than that and Ma always said it was better to just take a chance. 

“Honestly? It kind of sucked. Perry was on my ass, sending me email after email when I sent in my draft for Sunday. I just– I worry I’m not always picking up the slack. Like, that I’m not good enough to be here.” You sigh, glancing up at Clark as you walk. Where the hell did that come from? But you knew. Clark was always easy to talk to. He had a way about him that sort of eased the ache in your chest. 

The frown on his face is genuine. “Oh, come on, you know that’s not true.” His brows are furrowed, his grip tightening on your bag. “You’re one of the best writers I know.” He clears his throat, his admiration as clear as day. “Plus, Perry was just in one of his moods. It had nothing to do with you. In fact, it might’ve been my fault.” He’s sheepish when he says it. 

Your mouth drops open. “What? Clark Kent, golden boy? Perry upset with you?” You bump into his side as you walk, teasing him. Conversation flows easy between Clark and you. As much as you hated to admit it at times. 

Your building looms in the distance. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to get a taste of Clark Kent. It had been awhile since you had any romantic prospects. Maybe it didn’t have to be so life or death for you. Maybe it could just be fun. It could even be nice after the day you had. 

Your footsteps slow down as you reach the front door of your building, your body turning to face Clark. His eyes stare down into your own. He swallows. Does he know what you’re about to ask?

“Do you want to come up?” 

“Can I take you out on a date?”

You both stutter over your next sentences. “Oh– Well.” 

“Yes.” You say at the same time, a matching grin on both of your faces. 

—- 

What were you doing? Maybe you didn’t quite think this through, you think as your front door clicks shut. 

“Oh, you can just, uh,” You grab your bag from Clark’s shoulder, dumping it off on your coffee table as you take in the state of your apartment. It wasn’t that bad. After taking a quick inventory, you turn back to Clark, finding him with a goofy smile on his face. As much as you wish it wasn’t, it was contagious. “Stop smiling like that.” You can’t help the way a smile tugs at your own lips looking at him. 

His fingers push the bridge of his glasses up his nose, a chuckle falling from his lips. He’s got a blush dusting his cheeks, has he always been this cute? “I just can’t believe you said yes to a date. I mean, and now I’m in your apartment and it’s just–” 

You close the space you made, stopping his rambling as you stare up at his face. I mean you invited him up for a reason, right? You might as well take the chance while you have him here. You could do this despite your heart wanting to jump out of your chest and into his. You stand on your tip-toes, leaning into him. “Come on, Clark, kiss me.” Here you were, taking the chance. God, that stupid button up and your stupid feelings. 

He really doesn’t have to be told twice. Clark’s hand comes up to cup the side of your face, leaning in and connecting your lips together. Oh, fuck. Your lips move in sync, your eyes closing as you melt into his touch. He is so big, so tall, and all consuming as he deepens the kiss. His nose nudges against your own as he tries to get as close as possible to you. A small groan escapes his lips as he pushes your bodies together, a hand on the small of your back. “I, uh, ‘msorry.” He mumbles against your lips before pulling back and resting his forehead against yours. Clark, ever the gentleman, worrying he’s taken it too far. “I’ve wanted to do that forever, didn’t know if you’d ever ask.” 

A small laugh escapes your lips, already feeling drunk from the feeling of his lips against yours. “Not sure I was ever going to ask.” You peck his lips, sliding your hands across his chest. “But maybe I finally lost my senses.” 

“Oh, yeah?” He can’t wipe the smile off his face as his hands glide over your shoulders to slide down to hold at your waist. “Can I kiss you again?” His hands give your hips a gentle squeeze before he sees your nod and dives back in and this time, it feels even more consuming than the last. Your hands can’t stop exploring the expanse of his chest, his back, the hardness of him, his biceps and the softness too, the way his biceps flex when his arms move to pull you closer. Your hand finds his as you continue to kiss. You pull away from his lips as you begin to tug him towards the couch. 

Clark is quick to sit down and pull you onto him. He isn’t sure how he waited this long to kiss you, to touch you. The world before seems foreign to him now. Have you always been this soft? This beautiful? His hands are moving over your body, squeezing your plush hips in his hands as his lips work down your neck. “I still want to take you out, okay?” He reassures you. His fingers tease at the edge of your shirt, pushing it up an inch just to get a taste of your skin. His fingertips tickle at the bare skin of your tummy; it makes you shiver. You can barely think. “I, uh, I’ve wanted to ask you out for so long.” Every word is punctuated with a kiss as he moves all over your neck, your throat, back to your face: your lips, your cheeks, nuzzling you now that he’s allowed to. “Is this okay?” His fingers are skating at the edge of your shirt, the heat they leave in their wake is enough to make you shiver. You nod. 

Clark shakes his head, fingers desperately gripping at your waist again. “No, I need to hear you say it.” His forehead is pressed against yours, wondering how the hell he ended up here. Maybe he’s dreaming. “Please.” 

You nod again, “Yes, please. Touch me.” Your thighs are straddling his lap as your hips subconsciously grind down against him as you give him your answer. He’s hard underneath you. You swallow. Sure, you knew what you invited him up here for, but you didn’t expect the way heat pooled in your stomach, the way his lips felt against yours. It was electric. You didn’t think you had wanted someone so bad from a kiss before. Didn’t think you’d ever want Clark Kent like this. Clark Kent with his curls disheveled from your hands, his pupils blown out underneath his glasses, the few buttons of his shirt undone, the expanse of his chest peeking out from underneath. You could come from that sight alone.

Clark’s hands tease underneath your shirt, squeezing and touching over all the skin he can reach before he’s pushing a hand underneath your bra and taking your mouth with his again. He can’t help the groan that escapes as he grinds up against you, the feeling of your bare skin making him come undone. “Ah– I,” Clark’s head falls back against the couch as you press down against him, creating a pace against the hard-on in his pants. “I, I don’t do this, usually.” He wants to elaborate, wants to tell you he really does prefer a first date because he wants to earn this, earn you, but he can’t get much else out as he watches you on top of him. 

“Uh-huh.” You're lost in the feeling of dry humping with him, throat tight. Your pussy aches every time his clothed cock rubs just right. You can only imagine how big, how girthy he is if he feels this way through his pants. Your hands are gripping at his shoulders as you rut against him, his hands still kneading your breasts. 

His hands are pulling your top over your head, undoing your bra so he can get at more of your skin with his hands and his mouth. He takes extra care to make sure no piece of your skin goes untouched.

“Come on, Clarkie, please.” You beg, the usual teasing nickname slipping out without a thought, wanting to feel his hands where you really need them. It seems to work as his large hand slips underneath your pants, fingers swiping down to feel your heat through your underwear. He can feel the wetness seeping through your panties. His fingers tease, paying attention to your clit, giving it an experimental rub through the cloth to see your reaction. Your hips buck, losing whatever rhythm they might have had as you cry out. It’s been awhile and you’re so sensitive, you go to explain just as his fingers shove the cloth aside and touch with no barrier. “Ah, oh, fuck.” Your hips stutter again, his fingers slipping toward your entrance. 

“Oh, wow, honey.” He breathes out, mouth kissing at your chest as his fingers tease at your slick entrance. His fingers swipe through your folds before sinking in a single finger. He barely has to push in before you sink down onto it fully without a second thought. You’re so wet, a second finger slides in as easily as the first, he can feel the way your pussy throbs at the intrusion. “Feel good?” He cuts through your foggy mind, his fingers sloppily moving in and out as his mouth returns to claim yours. You give a slight nod, lost in the feeling. “You still gonna let me take you out?” His thumb joins in, lightly rubbing at your clit. 

“Yes, you can take me out on a stupid date.” You push your lips harder against his, moving your hips against his hand, the sound of his fingers fucking into your slick heat fills the room. The feeling in your stomach tightens, close to release. Of course you’ll go out with him especially if his fingers feel this good. Oh gosh, if his fingers feel like this, what will his cock feel like? 

Clark’s fingers keep nudging at your clit, his fingers inside of you feeling over that spongy part, petting, coaxing. He is keeping a steady rhythm as he tunes into the sound of your breathing, the steady thump of your heart. Every time he senses a slight stutter, he keeps the steady rhythm going. His eyes rake over your body, his other hand holding your hips in place the more they want to rut against him. He can’t focus like that. His cock is throbbing in his pants, but he thinks he could cum just watching you like this. With his senses so in tune with yours. “You gonna come, baby?” A kiss presses to your neck, “You gonna come on my fingers?” You choke on your words, your pussy tightening with the feeling in your stomach. It’s about to snap every time he speaks. “Let me see it,” He begs, somehow his voice sounds nearly as wrecked as you feel, “Please.” Clark’s voice cracks, holding you to his chest just as the band in your stomach snaps. You fall forward, gripping at his clothed chest. 

“Ah, ah, ah, fuck, Clark.” You gasp, his fingers slowing down their assault, but working you through your orgasm till your body twitches and your hand shoves at his wrist, “Ha, Clark, quit.” You breathe, hiding your face in his neck. His fingers slowly leave your panties, not too fast. He can tell how sensitive you’re feeling. He wants to laugh, but only from the sense of happiness building in his chest. 

“Good?” His voice is hoarse, deeper than usual. One hand slides to your back, rubbing small circles. 

You nod sleepily. “God. Great, Clark.” Your voice is breathless. Even after your orgasm, you aren’t unaware of his cock still pressing into your clothed core. You aren’t unaware of how big it feels. You aren’t unaware of the ache still in your pussy, needing him to really fill it. You’re still sensitive, but your body is still curious as your core makes another swipe over his lap, testing, teasing.

His hands are quick to grab at your waist, holding you still. “Ah, ah, I–.” He laughs, head dropping back to the couch as he stares up at your face, glasses crooked. A small, knowing grin adorns your face. God, did you get prettier? “I, uh–” He glances at the clock on your wall. He had plans. Superman duties. And he really does want to take you out first. His cock twitches. You can see the inner battle on his face. Was this Kansas boy serious? He really did want to take you out? “I have to go and I really do want to take you out first.” He’s sheepish as he says it, a light blush dusting his cheeks. As if it’s something to be embarrassed about. As if he didn’t make your heart squeeze and give you the best orgasm you’ve had in months. 

“You mean it?” You tease, your lips press a small kiss to the side of his mouth. 

Clark nods, those matching grins adorning your faces again. “I mean it.” 

— 

6:00 PM. Saturday. 

The click of shoes against hard wood. Again. Again. Pacing. A glance at the clock. A glance at the calendar. 

6:30 PM. Saturday. 

A sigh, shoes dropping to the hard wood. You slump on the couch, glancing at the last texts you exchanged with Clark this morning. 

pick you up at 6 pm on the dot :) 

Clark was rarely late and when he was, he made up for it. You try to remember that. 

7:00PM. Saturday. 

You fight the urge to text him. Is he okay? Surely he wouldn’t stand you up. That would be silly.

7:30PM. Saturday.

Would it? 

9:20PM. Saturday.

No, not silly. No text and a no show. You want to text Lois, ask if she wants to go out to the bar. I mean, you got ready and for what? But your heart actually breaks a little. A little told you so to yourself. I mean, he couldn’t even close the deal so what did he really get out of it? You grumble, sinking into the couch. Stupid feelings and stupid chances. How are you supposed to face him on Monday? Maybe that’s on him. Maybe he can deal with the death glares you stare into the back of his head now. Did he do this on purpose? Did he know you really did not want to fall for his stupid little act and somehow got you to anyway? 

“Ugh.” You throw your phone onto the cushion beside you, heading falling back just as a knock startles you in the silence. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” 

You’re quick to rise from your spot on the couch, even quicker to rip the door open. You can’t even speak before Clark is apologizing. “I am so, so, so, sorry.” His eyes meet yours as soon as you open the door, the kicked puppy look is on full blast. “Please, don’t shut the door.” He begs, one hand extending to you, the other holding a bouquet of flowers. 

“Are you serious, Clark?” You want to scream, but your voice is low. Lethal. 

His eyes plead with you. “I got caught up in, in, — I mean, have you seen the news? I was on the other side of the city and there was an attack, I mean it was just like the one from a few months ago, you remember the one, right?” He’s rambling, he knows it. He means it. He wouldn’t have missed your date unless he had good reason. It’s not like he has to tell you his secret, not after one missed date. “There was this huge explosion and all the transit had to stop, and, you don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” He saves himself the embarrassment and stops talking as you pull out your phone and see the news. 

Okay, so you spent 3 hours sulking around the house without checking the news. Is that on you or him? And God, Clark probably stuck around to help cats out of trees and old ladies under rubble. You’re almost sure of it. “Oh.” You say dumbly, looking back up at him before your eyes narrow. “No text? Not even one?”

He shrugs, that sheepish look on his face as he holds up his phone, the screen black. “No battery.” 

You roll your eyes, tugging him into your apartment. “Okay, fine. You’re forgiven.” You point a finger at him, poking at his chest. “For now.” 

— 

So you reschedule for next weekend. This time, there’s even less pressure on it. You had planned a dinner and movie at your place. There were too many deadlines lately at work this week and you hadn’t wanted to go out. Clark agrees with the promise that he’ll take you out somewhere really nice once work isn’t as stressful. Not even a first date down and he’s already planning the other ones. Quite sure of himself, you think, as you finish getting ready. 

You had already ordered the pizza and he was due to be at your apartment in about 15 minutes. 

It’s starting to feel like a repeat of your first plans when 30 minutes go by and the pizza begins to grow cold on the table. You played it safe this time too and let the news play while you waited. Just in case.

You want to cry when another hour goes by. How did you let yourself get your hopes again? You sit on the couch and let it happen. There’s no use pretending that your heart wasn’t feeling the way it was. You liked Clark. Like really liked him. You liked the stupid way he wrote your name on the coffee cups with the stupid smiley faces and you liked the way his eyes searched for you in the morning at work, you liked the way he texted you his stupid thoughts and dumb fun facts. He was genuine and goofy. Like stupidly so. But he was also opinionated and never afraid to stand up for what was right. You liked the way his hands would linger on your back when he held the door open for you, you liked the way he started sneaking kisses on the elevator at work. 

You hope he shows up at the door still. You hate yourself for it, too. There was a reason you didn’t want to get your hopes up about Clark Kent because you would be stupidly in love if you did. 

You fall asleep on the couch crying yourself to sleep. No fist knocking against wood wakes you up. 

The sun rises another day. 

– 

Can we talk?

You want to throw your phone across the room. Can we talk? Really? He wants to stand you up and thinks you can’t take the hint? Now he wants to break it off in person? I mean, what was there to even break off? You’ve only been seeing each other for a week, if you can even call it that. There was no date. Just secret kisses, secret touches in the elevator and the copy room and the stairwell and– you groan, unsure of what to even say. Did you owe it to yourself to see him again? To tell him off? 

ok. u can come over in an hour 

– 

Maybe you’ve shot yourself in the foot. As Clark sits across from you on the couch, you lose all the fight you once had. You’re just sad. Because Clark Kent is perfect in nearly every way except he can’t show up to a date on time to save his life. 

He’s nervous. You have no idea why he’s nervous considering he already did the hard part and stood you up twice. No better way to tell a girl that you’re not really interested. “I, um–” He clears his throat, avoiding eye contact. 

How do you tell the girl you like that you're Superman? Clark wishes he could bring out his phone, bring up the notes app he had jotted ideas down on. The words came easier to him in writing. There was no easy way to get this out. Clark Kent had no excuse for missing his dates with you. Superman did. How does he separate the two? How did he ever believe he could? How selfish could he be? There was a reason he didn’t date. But it was different when it came to you. He felt like he could be himself, as much as himself as he could be without really telling you about Superman. Did this have to be so convoluted? He trusted you. He knew you had integrity. He knew this wouldn’t change a thing, but bring more understanding between the two of you. He knew if he told you, this could really happen. Everything might fall into place. 

The real selfish thing was not allowing Clark Kent to love. He owed it to himself to let love in. What else was there? The most human thing of all. 

“This isn’t easy for me.” He clears his throat finally looking up at you. He wants to reach across the couch, take your hand in his, pour his heart out. But he doesn’t deserve that. Not yet. “I, uh, don’t deserve your forgiveness.”

You roll your eyes. “Just spit it out, Clark.” There’s a venom in your voice that breaks his heart, “I expected this. I mean, really? I should’ve known it was all an act.”

Clark frowns. “That’s really what you think of me?” His emotions seem to be getting the best of him. He knows you don’t mean it. You’re hurt. He’s hurt you.

“I mean, really? How else do you explain this?” You move your hands around the air between the two of you. “You wanted a little secret, office romance or whatever. I don’t know!” You’re exasperated. “You don’t want the, like, real thing.” You frown. “It’s fine. Just stop dragging it out.” You can feel the tears sting at your eyes. 

“That’s not at all what this means to me.” He looks at his hands, wrings them together. “You- I, –” He runs a hand over his face. “You remember when I missed the first date we had?” Clark makes eye contact with you again, watches you nod, watches the first tear drop. “I wasn’t just caught in the middle of all of that, I mean, I was. But not in the way you think.” He swallows, brings his hands up to his face. “I was– I am–” He rips the glasses off his face, watching recognition dawn on your face. 

“Clark.” You are at a loss for words. “I mean, what?” Your hands reach forward to grip his face in yours, thumbs sliding across his cheeks. He’s your Clark, but he’s Superman. The man from work who had driven you up the wall from how perfect he had this act down. The man who was respectful to a fault. The man whose values were worn on his chest and his heart on his sleeve. The man you knew as Clark Kent makes so much sense now like two pieces of a puzzle finally creating the full picture. 

Clark laughs, unsure of himself. Unsure of how to be these two things to you at once. “I’m sorry. I swear, I’m usually on time. Just two really ill timed alien monsters attacking and you know, it’s kinda–” You cut him off with a kiss. 

“Thank you for telling me.” You shake your head still unsure of if you’re seeing things right. “I can’t imagine.” You're still holding his face in your hands, in awe, watching in real time as these two personalities come to meet in the middle, meet in the man before you. How do you blame a guy for missing a couple dates when he’s saving the world? Especially when he makes it up to you in so many other ways. “I can’t imagine what you have to carry on your own.” You frown, hands sliding from his face to his chest. You imagine the suit as your fingers run over his chest, the beacon of hope that those colors carry, the hope he has to carry for the world. 

Clark can’t keep his hands from you anymore as he moves one to cup your cheek. “You’re not mad?” He smiles, “You can still be mad.” He reassures, pushing your hair to tuck behind your ear. “There is nothing in the world that can truly keep me from you, not anymore.” His lips are close to connecting with yours and those words alone have you closing the distance. 

There is so much between you. The sadness you were feeling washes away into something entirely different. Deeper, stronger. Admiration, longing, a trust that settles in your bones. “Don’t make me wait again, Clark.” You tease, “Superman.” Your words are laced with the emotions you’re feeling, dripping with something you can’t quite name.

Clark eases you down onto the couch, his lips still capturing your own as his fingers explore your body. They run along your thighs, your legs, reveling in the fact that you’re still here, that you know him. That you still want him. “I mean it. I’m gonna do my best with you. I promise. As long as you’ll let me.” And his words have a different meaning. You share him with the world, but know him more intimately than the world ever could. 

Your body arches into his touch, his fingers dancing along your skin. He tugs off your shirt, his own following as he gets to know your body, slowly, surely. “I’m not going anywhere, Clark.” Your voice is breathless as his fingers slip in between your bodies, under your pants, a familiar ache in your bones as his fingers gather up your slick and make circles around your clit. You can feel him pressing against your inner thigh. Your own hands explore down his chest till they’re running over the outline of his cock through his pants, your breath hitches as you feel how big he is. At the same time, he’s pushing two fingers into you, slowly easing them in and out, searching for that soft spot deep inside you, the spongy spot that has you cooing. 

He’s quick to draw an orgasm from you once he gets your pants off, peppering kisses over your face, your torso as he works you through it. “I got you, come on, let me have it.” He’s kissing over your neck as you come down, “So pretty.” He praises, his other hand running up and down your side. 

“Clark.” His head is tucked into your neck. “Clark.” You're laughing, his fingers tickling the skin of your thighs. He’s still hard, you can feel him pressing against your naked core, but he makes no effort to address it. “Are you gonna fuck me, Clark?” You whine, pushing back up into him. 

His lips return to yours briefly before he’s looking down at you. “You’re sure?” 

“I think there’s nothing that I want more right now.” You give him a push of your hips to make a point. 

Clark groans into your mouth, nodding. “Okay, okay.” He sits up, slowly unbuckling his pants and pushing them down with his boxers. His cock springs free. 

Oh. 

Oh.

He’s bigger than you could’ve imagined. Longer than you felt. Thicker than you felt. You can’t seem to tear your eyes away from his cock. It’s almost embarrassing. Clark’s hand is rubbing the back of his head, looking at the way you’re ogling him. “I, uh–” You swallow, “Is that even gonna fit?” Your eyes flit up to his own before looking back down. Your pussy clenches at the thought of him working his way into you. “I mean, Clark–” Your laugh is breathless. 

Clark is leaning back over you, his fingers finding your wetness again, pooling even more than before from your orgasm and the sight of his cock. “She’s wet enough to take it.” He mumbles, fingers gathering your wetness before he’s smearing it onto his cock and spreading the pre-cum that has gathered from his leaking, red tip. He pumps his cock a couple times in his fist, his other hand squeezing at your waist. “You trust me, don’t you?” Clark purrs with a few lingering kisses against your neck. You nod, at a loss for words as the tip of his cock pushes through your folds, nudging at your clit. The feeling makes you jolt. Clark’s eyes are locked on the sight of his cock glistening with your juices, rubbing along the length of your slit, teasing, testing, eyes glancing up at your face to gauge your reaction. 

You whine, hips stuttering against his own, needing him to fill the ache between your legs with the length of him. “I told you not to make me wait again.” You hiccup, bottom lip jutting out. 

Clark hisses as his tip nudges at your entrance, your hips seeking where you want him most. His tip catches at the soft ring of flesh, sinking in as your hips continue to tease him. It’s easier than you thought, a soft squelch filling the living room as he gives you the first inch. Your slick lets him in easily as your pussy begins clenching around him. “How’s that feel, sweetheart?” His cock stills in you, not pushing in until you adjust to the thickness of him. You’re nodding, unable to speak from how good it feels. “Use your words.” He urges, voice steady despite how wrecked he feels, his hand sliding down your body, thumb finding your clit. 

“Yeah, yes, Clark.” You choke out.

“Good.” He answers, pushing in the rest of the way as your pussy gives way. It’s snug and your pussy clenches around his cock. He can feel your walls stretch, accommodating his size. When he reaches the hilt, he groans out, “I knew you had it in you.” His thumb is still toying with your clit as he begins to move in and out. He’s slow with it at first, letting you adjust to the feeling of his cock fully sheathed inside you. “You’re taking me so well.” It’s constant praise as he’s shoving his cock in and out, the lewd sounds filling the space; his balls hitting your ass he picks up the pace.

“Clark, I– Oh, fuck.” You’re drunk from the fullness of him. You live and breathe Clark Kent. If you thought his kisses were all consuming, there’s nothing compared to the feeling of his dick splitting you in half, his lips capturing yours in a kiss as his pace picks up. His thumb rubbing small circles at just the right pace, the right pressure. It’s better than you could’ve imagined. Your throat is tight, your entire body clenching from the pleasure of it, just waiting to snap. 

“Come on, baby.” He’s urging you, cock pushing as far as he can, his body snug against your own as he ruts into your pussy, grinding his length deep within you. He’s losing his resolve. He’s not sure how much longer he can hold onto his semblance of sanity here. How long he can keep his strength in check as his fingers squeeze onto your waist. It stings, but only adds to the pleasure.

The only thing you can feel is Clark. His fingers on your waist, squeezing, his thumb toying with your clit, his cock shoving in, his mouth kissing along your throat. “Come with me.” He’s begging, voice cracking, but you can’t tell. Too lost in the feeling of him, your fingers clawing at his back, legs wrapped around his waist, clutching him as close as he can humanely get. You have no idea how badly he needs this, lives for this.

It snaps. “Oh, Clark.” Your thighs tighten around him, the tightness in your body evaporating as you come, body shivering as he works you through it. He’s following behind you, his cock coating the inside of your pussy with his spend. His hips grind into yours, working his cum deeper and deeper into you as you both cling onto each other, his cock kissing your cervix as he comes down. Both breathless, both completely spent. There was no way you were getting Clark Kent out of your bones, out of your head. You’re thinking it’ll only be easier to forgive him if every apology is like this. 

His arms are on either side of your face as he peppers kisses across your skin. “Okay?” Clark is softening inside of you, the rest of him visibly melting at the sight of you, he’s not sure if he can handle seeing you like this, so pliant in his hands, so in love. “I’m gonna move, sweetheart.” A soft sound fills the room as his cock slides from inside you. His body is moving from a top of yours and your hands grip at his biceps, a pleading look in your eyes. 

“Don’t go, Clarkie.” Your voice is small, almost sad. You’re not sure you can ever give him up.

Clark shakes his head, gathering up your body against his. It’s effortless on his part. “Don’t plan on it.” He promises. The rest of the day is for you. The rest of the night is for making up for the mistakes he’s already made. And oh, Clark Kent always makes up for his mistakes. He would make sure he earned every single piece of you, every day. That is the only way he knew how to do it. He only knew how to live by being all in and completely dedicated. 

The pasta had long since stopped steaming. The television droned quietly in the background, though you couldn't have said what was playing. Every few minutes your eyes drifted back toward the digital clock on the oven before reaching automatically for your phone. No missed calls. No messages. You typed out three different texts asking where he was before deleting each one. Clark hated making people worry. If he hadn't reached out, there had to be a reason.

The sound of a key finally scraping against the apartment door pulled you to your feet before you even realized you'd moved.

Relief came first.

Then it disappeared just as quickly.

"Hey," you started, a smile already forming.

It faded the moment Clark stepped inside.

He was still dressed for work. Blue button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, tie hanging loose around his neck, messenger bag slipping carelessly from one shoulder. His hair looked windswept, though not in the usual way it did after flying. It looked as though he'd been running his hands through it for hours.

But none of that was what stopped you.

It was his face.

Every bit of warmth had drained from it. His skin looked almost gray beneath the apartment lights, his jaw tense enough to ache, his eyes unfocused as they wandered across the room without really seeing any of it. He looked like someone who had walked home in a dream and wasn't entirely certain where he'd ended up.

"Clark?"

He looked at you then.

Slowly.

As though he'd forgotten you were supposed to be here.

His expression didn't change. No tired smile. No quiet "Hi, honey." No teasing apology about being late.

He simply stared.

Your heartbeat stumbled.

He closed the apartment door with unusual care, one hand lingering on the handle long after it clicked shut. His fingers loosened around his keys. They slipped from his hand, clattering against the hardwood floor with a sharp metallic echo that filled the silence between you.

Clark didn't even look down.

You crossed the room in seconds.

"Hey." Your voice softened instinctively. "Talk to me."

He blinked as if your words had reached him from somewhere far away. Only then did you notice how bloodshot his eyes were. They weren't red from exhaustion or lack of sleep. They weren't irritated from smoke or dust after some rescue.

He had been crying.

Your stomach dropped so suddenly it almost hurt.

"Baby, what happened?"

For several long seconds he said nothing.

His mouth opened.

Closed again.

His throat worked around words that refused to come, and you watched his chest rise in one uneven breath after another. Clark Kent, who always seemed to know exactly what to say, suddenly looked like language itself had abandoned him.

Then, barely above a whisper, he managed one word.

"...Pa."

Your mind refused to process it.

"What?"

He swallowed so hard you saw it.

"My dad."

His voice cracked around the second word, splintering into something so raw it hardly sounded like him anymore.

"He..."

Another breath.

Another failed attempt.

"He died."

The apartment became impossibly quiet.

Jonathan Kent?

No.

That couldn't be right.

Not Jonathan.

The man who greeted everyone with a smile that reached his eyes. The man who insisted on sending you home with leftovers every time you visited the farm. The man who hugged you like family before you and Clark had even said the word love to each other.

He couldn't be...

Clark gave a tiny shake of his head before you'd spoken a single word, almost as though he knew exactly where your thoughts had gone.

"It was his heart."

His voice sounded hollow.

"They said it happened fast."

He stopped.

His lips trembled.

"They..."

The sentence never finished.

His hand came up to cover his eyes as if hiding from the words would somehow make them less real. His shoulders, broad enough to carry collapsing buildings and crashing airplanes, suddenly folded inward.

It happened so quickly you barely caught him.

One second he was standing.

The next his knees gave way.

You wrapped both arms around him before he reached the floor, feeling the full weight of him sink against you. Clark clung to you with both hands, his forehead pressing into your shoulder so tightly it almost hurt, as though you were the only solid thing left in a world that had suddenly come apart.

"I'm sorry."

The words were barely audible, carried into the fabric of your sweater more than spoken aloud. His forehead remained pressed against your shoulder, his hands clutching the back of your shirt with surprising desperation. You had never felt Clark hold onto anything like this. Usually, whenever life knocked him down, he was careful not to let too much of his weight settle on anyone else. Even exhausted, even bruised, there was always something restrained about the way he leaned on people.

Not now.

Now he seemed to be holding onto you because he wasn't entirely convinced he could stay standing without you.

You slid one hand slowly into his hair, your fingers combing through the dark curls at the nape of his neck. "Clark?"

"I'm sorry."

Your brow furrowed.

The apology sounded genuine. Not polite. Not automatic. It was the kind of apology that came from somewhere deep enough to make your own chest ache.

"What are you apologizing for?"

He didn't answer immediately. Instead, his grip tightened almost painfully around your sweater. You felt him inhale, but the breath caught halfway into his lungs, breaking apart before it ever became steady.

"I should've known."

His voice was hoarse, scraped raw.

"I should've..." He swallowed hard. "I don't know."

The confession seemed to frustrate him as much as the grief itself. He let out a humorless laugh that lasted less than a second before it dissolved into another shaky breath.

"I just..." His fingers flexed against your back. "Something should've felt different."

You stayed quiet.

You'd learned a long time ago that Clark didn't need someone to finish his sentences. He needed someone willing to wait for them.

"I always know they're there."

His words came slowly now, as though he was trying to explain something he'd never had to put into language before.

"Even when I'm here."

He lifted his head just enough to look somewhere over your shoulder instead of at you.

"If I wanted to..." His voice cracked. "I could focus and hear Ma humming while she's making coffee. I know the sound of the porch swing when Pa sits outside after dinner. I know which floorboard creaks in the hallway because he never remembers to step over it."

His lips trembled.

"I never listened because I was checking on them." A sad smile flickered across his face before disappearing again. "I listened because..." He stopped, struggling to find words large enough for the feeling. "Because they were there."

Silence settled between you.

"I always knew they were there."

The last sentence came out almost childlike.

Small. Lost.

His eyes finally found yours, red-rimmed and impossibly tired, and something inside them seemed to give way. "And now..." His breathing faltered. "I keep reaching for him." Almost unconsciously, his hand lifted toward his own chest, as though some instinct still expected to find his father there, before falling uselessly back into his lap. "I keep... trying to listen."

He stopped, swallowing around words that suddenly seemed too heavy to carry.

"And there's nothing."

The word barely rose above a whisper, but it seemed to hollow him out from the inside. You watched the realization settle across his face all over again, not simply that Jonathan was dead, but that the silence wasn't temporary. It wasn't the kind that ended when someone came back from the store or walked in through the front door after finishing chores. There would never again be a heartbeat to find if he reached for it. Never another laugh drifting across the Kansas fields while Clark worked beside him. Never the absent-minded whistle Jonathan always seemed to do while repairing the tractor, or the familiar creak of the porch steps beneath his boots at the end of the day.

That was the grief written across Clark's face.

Not one terrible moment.

A lifetime of ordinary moments that had ended all at once.

"I know that sounds ridiculous," he whispered.

"It doesn't."

"I flew there."

His eyes drifted toward the apartment window as if he could still see the farm from here.

"They'd already..." His jaw tightened so hard you thought it might hurt. "The paramedics were packing up."

His voice grew quieter.

"The house was so loud."

You frowned slightly.

"What do you mean?"

"People."

His gaze remained fixed somewhere beyond the apartment walls, seeing a place hundreds of miles away instead.

"The sheriff," he said quietly. "The neighbors. Someone crying outside. The radio in the ambulance." His throat worked painfully. "So many heartbeats."

He swallowed, and for a moment you thought he was finished.

"But not his."

The words settled heavily between you, too final to push away. He closed his eyes as another tear escaped down his cheek. "I've never..." His voice faltered. "I've never heard the farm without him in it."

Your own vision blurred. Slowly, you reached up and cupped his face, brushing away the tears with your thumbs. His skin felt cold despite the warmth of the apartment, his breathing uneven beneath your hands. When he finally looked at you, there was nothing left of the man who stood in front of cameras or walked into danger without hesitation. There was no certainty in his expression, no quiet confidence that everything would somehow work itself out. There was only a son who had just discovered the world could become unrecognizable in a single afternoon.

"I keep thinking..." His voice was so quiet you had to lean closer to hear it. "If I'd left work earlier... if I'd called him this morning instead of thinking I'd do it tonight... if I'd gone home this weekend instead of next..." He squeezed his eyes shut. "I know it wouldn't change anything." His shoulders sagged beneath the weight of the admission. "I know that." Another tear slipped free. "But my mind won't stop making bargains anyway."

Your heart ached because you understood exactly what he meant. Grief was cruel like that. It didn't care about reason or facts. It took every memory, every decision, every ordinary moment and turned it over in desperate search of one tiny change that might somehow rewrite the ending. It convinced you that if you looked hard enough, there had to be a version of the day where the phone never rang.

You rested your forehead gently against his, your hands never leaving his face. "You know what I think?"

He barely moved, only the smallest shake of his head.

"I think the little boy who used to race through cornfields looking for his dad still believes he can find him if he searches hard enough."

Clark's breath caught sharply.

"You're not trying to solve this because you're Superman," you whispered, your thumb slowly tracing beneath his eye. "You're doing it because you're his son. Sons aren't supposed to know how to lose their fathers. They look for reasons because the alternative is accepting that there wasn't anything they could have done."

The words seemed to stop something inside him. His face crumpled all over again, but this time it wasn't panic. It was recognition. As though you'd finally named the ache he'd been carrying since the phone rang.

"I just..." His voice broke into something heartbreakingly small. "I wasn't ready."

It was the truest thing he'd said all evening.

Not ready for the call from Martha. Not ready to walk into a house that had always felt impossibly alive and realize something essential had been taken from it. Not ready to discover that, for all his strength, all his speed, all the impossible things he could do, there were still moments that reduced him to exactly what Jonathan had always insisted he was before anything else.

Just his boy.

You pulled him back into your arms before he had the chance to retreat into himself again, and this time he came without hesitation. He folded against you completely, burying his face in the curve of your neck, his hands clutching the back of your sweater with the quiet desperation of someone trying to anchor himself to the only thing that still felt steady. His shoulders shook as another sob finally escaped him, softer now, exhausted rather than frantic, the kind that came after fighting against grief for far too long.

You didn't tell him it would get easier. You didn't promise that time healed everything or that Jonathan would always be with him. Those were truths for another day, when the wound wasn't still fresh enough to bleed with every breath.

Tonight, your only job was to carry what little weight you could.

So you held him.

The drive to Smallville passed in almost complete silence.

Clark had insisted on driving.

You hadn't questioned it, even though the trip that normally took hours could have lasted less than a minute if he'd wanted it to. Flying would have been easy. Effortless.

This wasn't about getting there.

It was about postponing the moment he had to arrive.

His hands never left the steering wheel. They stayed locked in the same position for mile after mile, his fingers wrapped so tightly around the leather that the skin across his knuckles had gone pale. Every so often you watched his grip loosen for the briefest second before tightening all over again, as though his body remembered how to relax only to immediately decide it couldn't afford to.

Neither of you reached for the radio.

The only sounds inside the truck were the steady hum of the tires against the road and the occasional click of the turn signal whenever the highway gave way to familiar country roads.

Outside, Kansas stretched endlessly beneath a fading evening sky.

Fields of corn swayed in the breeze exactly as they always had. Weathered fences divided acres of farmland. Windmills turned lazily in the distance. A farmer climbed onto his tractor as though this were any other day.

Everything was exactly the same.

That was the cruelest part.

The world hadn't changed to acknowledge that Jonathan Kent was gone.

The fields he'd worked were still standing.

The roads he had driven every morning were still there.

Life had simply... continued.

Clark's eyes never left the road, but you watched his jaw tighten as familiar landmarks appeared one after another. The old grain elevator. The church where the annual harvest festival was held every autumn. The diner where Jonathan insisted they made the best pie in Kansas despite Clark teasing him every single time.

You wondered if he was seeing what was in front of him.

Or remembering everything that had happened there instead.

When the farmhouse finally appeared over the hill, your chest tightened.

It looked exactly as it always had.

White paint.

Red barn.

The porch swing Jonathan had repaired himself after one particularly bad storm.

A light glowed warmly from the kitchen window, spilling across the front porch.

For one impossible second your mind expected the front door to open and Jonathan to step outside, wiping his hands on an old dish towel with that familiar smile already spreading across his face.

"There they are!"

You could almost hear him.

Instead, the front door opened slowly.

Martha stepped outside.

She had always seemed so steady.

The kind of woman who somehow made every room feel safe simply by standing inside it.

Tonight she looked smaller.

Not physically.

Grief had a way of folding people inward, softening the edges of them beneath a weight no one else could see.

She wrapped her cardigan tighter around herself against an evening that wasn't particularly cold, her eyes searching the truck before it had even come to a complete stop.

Clark shut off the engine.

Neither of you moved.

His hands remained on the steering wheel long after the truck had fallen silent.

He stared at the farmhouse.

At the porch.

At the empty rocking chair beside the front door.

You reached across the center console and rested your hand gently over his.

Only then did he blink.

As though remembering where he was.

He climbed out of the truck.

For a single heartbeat, he and Martha simply looked at one another across the yard.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither of them smiled.

They didn't have to.

Whatever strength Clark had managed to hold together during the drive disappeared the instant he saw her standing there alone.

"My boy."

Her voice was soft.

Tired.

Full of a love that had survived one impossible day already.

Clark crossed the yard in two long strides.

He reached her almost before you'd registered he'd started moving, and the second Martha opened her arms, he folded into them without hesitation. He bent instinctively, burying his face against her shoulder like he had done a hundred times as a child, and for the first time since the phone call, he let himself be somebody's son instead of someone everyone else depended on.

"Ma..."

The word broke apart before he could finish it.

"I'm sorry."

Martha's own eyes filled immediately, but she only held him tighter, one hand cradling the back of his head exactly the way she must have when scraped knees and childhood nightmares had still been the worst things she'd ever had to comfort him through.

"Oh, Clark."

His shoulders shook beneath her hands.

"I'm so sorry."

"No."

"I should've been here."

"No."

"I should've come home sooner."

She pulled back just enough to cup his face between both hands, making him look at her despite the tears running unchecked down both their faces.

"This is not yours to carry."

"It should've been."

"It isn't."

Her expression softened in a way that somehow made your own throat tighten.

"If I'd known..." he whispered.

"I know."

"No, Ma, if I'd just..." His voice cracked. "If I'd come last weekend instead. If I hadn't kept saying next week..."

She shook her head before he could finish.

"Clark."

The way she said his name was gentle, but it carried the same certainty that had guided him since he was a little boy.

"Listen to me."

He did.

"Your Pa spent every single day of his life making sure you understood one thing."

She brushed away a tear with the pad of her thumb.

"He loved you because you were his son."

Not because he could fly.

Not because he could lift tractors or outrun storms or hear heartbeats from miles away.

Just because he was Clark.

"He never looked at you and saw someone responsible for fixing everything."

Her own voice wavered now.

"He saw the little boy who tracked mud through my kitchen, who stayed up too late reading with a flashlight under the covers, who still called every Sunday just to ask if we needed anything from Metropolis."

A watery smile touched her lips for only a moment.

"He never expected miracles from you."

Clark squeezed his eyes shut.

"He just..." Martha's voice finally broke. "He just wanted his son to come through that front door."

She rested her forehead against his.

"And you did."

For a long moment neither of them spoke.

Mother and son simply stood in the middle of the yard, holding onto each other. both grieving the same man in different ways, each trying to be strong enough for the other while quietly falling apart themselves.

You stayed where you were beside the truck.

It didn't feel like your place to step into that moment.

Jonathan had welcomed you into this family without hesitation, had always greeted you with a hug before you'd even crossed the threshold, had somehow managed to make the farmhouse feel like home every time you visited. Even so, this grief belonged to them first. You folded your hands together, giving them the privacy they deserved, your own heart aching as you watched Clark's shoulders shake beneath his mother's embrace.

Martha who noticed you immediately.

She slowly lifted her head from Clark's shoulder, her eyes finding yours across the yard. Even through the exhaustion written into every line of her face, something softened.

"Oh, sweetheart."

Her voice was quiet, but it carried across the evening air.

"What are you doing all the way over there?"

You hesitated, suddenly feeling unsure of where to put your hands, your feet, yourself.

"I just..." You offered a small, uncertain smile that disappeared almost immediately. "I wanted to give you both a moment."

Martha's eyes filled again.

"You never have to stand over there."

The invitation wasn't loud.

It didn't need to be.

It was the same warmth she'd shown you from the first day Clark had nervously brought you home, insisting you call before making the drive because she'd "have something in the oven by then."

You crossed the yard slowly, almost reluctantly, stopping a respectful distance away. Suddenly, you weren't sure what to do with yourself. Jonathan had always been the one to close that distance first, waving you over before you'd even reached the porch, pulling you into one of his warm hugs while insisting you come inside because dinner was nearly ready. Standing there now, with only the wind moving through the fields, the absence of that familiar welcome felt almost tangible.

"I'm so sorry, Martha."

The words felt painfully small the moment they left your mouth.

"So, so sorry."

Martha reached for your hand before you could say anything else, holding it gently between both of hers. Her hands were cooler than you remembered, but the gesture was exactly the same as it had always been, warm in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.

"I know," she said softly, her thumb brushing across your knuckles. "Thank you for coming, sweetheart."

You blinked back the sting behind your eyes.

"I wouldn't have been anywhere else."

Something fragile passed over Martha's face, the corners of her mouth lifting into the faintest, saddest smile.

"Jonathan would've been happy you were here. He couldn’t stop talking about you, and how proud he was of Clark that he chose you as his life partner."

Your throat tightened. Without thinking, your eyes drifted toward the porch, almost expecting the front door to swing open and Jonathan to appear with that familiar grin, asking why everyone was still standing outside when there was coffee getting cold on the kitchen table. Instead, the porch swing rocked gently in the evening breeze, empty except for the memories attached to it.

"I keep expecting him to come out that door," you admitted quietly.

Martha followed your gaze. For a long moment she simply looked at the farmhouse, at the windows glowing warmly against the coming dusk, at the home she'd shared with Jonathan for decades.

"So do I."

She didn't try to hide behind comforting words or quiet strength. She didn't pretend she was coping better than she was.

It was simply the truth.

Clark’s hand searched for yours with quiet instinct, fingers finding yours almost immediately before weaving themselves between them. The gesture was so natural, so unconscious, that it made your chest ache. He didn't look at you. He didn't have to. The small squeeze of his hand said everything he couldn't put into words.

You squeezed back just as gently.

Sometimes love wasn't knowing the right thing to say.

Sometimes it was simply refusing to let someone grieve alone.

For a long while, the three of you remained exactly where you were, standing together beneath the porch light without moving toward the house or away from it. Eventually Martha drew in a slow, unsteady breath and looked toward the front door.

"We should go inside," she murmured, her voice catching almost imperceptibly. "It doesn't feel much like home right now."

Clark finally lifted his eyes to the farmhouse. They lingered on the porch, the empty swing, the kitchen window where the light still burned, before he gently squeezed both your hand and his mother's.

"It still is," he said quietly. "It just... needs us in it."

Martha smiled. It was small and exhausted, but unmistakably real.

"Your Pa would've said exactly the same thing."

Clark lowered his head with a broken smile of his own.

"I know."

The funeral took place three days later beneath a sky so painfully blue it almost felt cruel.

Smallville seemed to empty itself into the little white church on the edge of town. Every pew filled long before the service began, and people continued standing quietly along the back walls and outside beneath the open doors. Farmers arrived in polished boots that still carried traces of dirt from the fields. Elderly couples walked in hand in hand. Teachers who had retired years ago. Mechanics. Cashiers from the grocery store. Children Jonathan had once coached in little league who now had children of their own. Men spoke in hushed voices about the time he'd helped rebuild a barn after a tornado. Women remembered casseroles that had appeared on their porch after difficult winters without anyone ever asking for them. Someone quietly laughed through tears about the old tractor Jonathan had somehow managed to keep running decades longer than it should have.

You realized, listening to the conversations around you, that half the people in this room weren't here because Jonathan had done one extraordinary thing for them.

They were here because he'd spent an entire lifetime doing ordinary things with extraordinary kindness.

One fence repaired.

One meal delivered.

One conversation on a front porch that lasted longer than it needed to because someone looked like they needed company.

One life at a time.

Clark accepted every hug offered to him. He thanked every person who stepped into the receiving line, shook every hand, listened to every story about his father with quiet patience, even when you could tell he barely heard the words. His smile never quite reached his eyes, but he gave it anyway because that's what Jonathan would have done. Watching him was like watching someone move through water. Every gesture looked slightly delayed, as though grief had slowed the world around him by just enough to make everything feel unreal.

When the pastor quietly announced that Jonathan's son would like to say a few words, Clark froze.

You felt his hand tighten around yours.

He hadn't wanted to speak.

The night before, he'd sat awake at the kitchen table long after everyone else had gone to bed, staring at a notebook that remained mostly blank.

"I can't do it," he'd whispered.

"Yes, you can," Martha had answered gently as she rested a hand over his. "You don't have to say everything. Just tell them about your father."

Now, standing in front of the church, Clark unfolded the piece of paper he'd carried in his jacket pocket all morning.

He looked down at it for several long seconds.

Then he smiled to himself.

Small.

Sad.

He folded it back up.

"I wrote something," he admitted, his voice carrying softly through the sanctuary. "I even practiced it." A few quiet smiles appeared around the room. Clark glanced toward the casket, his eyes lingering there. "But..." His smile trembled. "...Pa would've spent the entire service making fun of me if I stood up here reading from a script."

A gentle wave of laughter rippled through the church.

Not because the joke was particularly funny, but because everyone could picture Jonathan doing exactly that.

Clark let the sound settle before speaking again.

"My dad believed every problem had a solution."

He rubbed one thumb nervously against the folded paper still in his hand.

"If your fence broke, you fixed it. If the crops failed, you planted again next season. If your neighbor needed help, you showed up before they had the chance to ask." He smiled faintly. "And if something couldn't be fixed..." His eyes drifted downward. "...he still believed nobody should have to carry it alone."

Silence settled over the room.

"When I was little," Clark continued, "I honestly thought my dad knew everything."

Another soft laugh drifted through the pews.

"He always had an answer." His smile grew just enough to soften his face. "And when he didn't..." He looked toward Martha. "...he had a way of making you think we'd figure it out together."

His voice became quieter.

"I got older."

A slow breath.

"I realized he didn't have every answer," Clark said with a faint, bittersweet smile. "He just never stopped trying to become the kind of man who could help."

He lowered his eyes for a moment, gathering himself before continuing.

"When I found out I was adopted..." His voice tightened almost immediately. "I spent a long time wondering who I was. I wondered if I belonged here. I wondered whether being different meant I'd always be different."

The church became impossibly still.

Clark looked toward Martha, whose eyes never left him.

"My father never wondered."

The words came out rough, his voice catching around them.

"Not once."

A tear slipped free before he continued.

"He found me abandoned in a field, brought me home, and..." He laughed quietly, shaking his head. "That was it."

He looked down at the folded paper in his hands, turning it over between trembling fingers.

"He didn't ask where I came from. He didn't spend his life waiting for me to become somebody else. He never looked at me and saw a burden or a problem that needed solving." His throat tightened. "He looked at me once..." He paused, swallowing hard enough that the microphone picked it up. "...and decided I was his son."

His hand closed around the paper until it crumpled beneath his fingers.

"That was enough for him."

No one moved.

The room had become so quiet that somewhere near the back of the church you could hear someone trying unsuccessfully to hold back tears.

Clark stood in that silence for a moment before drawing a slow, uneven breath.

"I've been called a lot of things."

A small smile touched his face, fragile enough that it looked like it might disappear at any second.

"Reporter."

A few knowing smiles spread through the congregation.

"Boyfriend."

His eyes found yours.

The look that passed between you lasted only a heartbeat, but it said everything Jonathan never needed to say aloud. The way he'd always pulled out an extra chair for you at Sunday dinner. The way he'd hugged you goodbye every single visit. The way he'd quietly welcomed you into the family long before anyone made it official.

Clark looked away before his composure disappeared completely.

"I've been called other things too."

His voice softened.

"But none of those titles ever mattered as much to me as one."

He stopped.

The sentence refused to come.

His mouth opened once.

Then closed again.

He pressed the heel of his hand briefly against his lips, fighting for a breath that wouldn't shake, and the entire church waited with him. No one looked away. No one hurried him. They all seemed to understand that this wasn't a speech anymore.

It was a son trying to imagine introducing himself to the world without his father in it.

When Clark finally managed to speak, his voice was barely above a whisper.

"The title I've always been proudest of..."

His eyes filled completely.

"...was being Jonathan Kent's son."

The words hung in the sanctuary long after he'd finished speaking.

Clark lowered his head, unable to say another word.

He didn't have to.

There wasn't a single dry eye left in the church.

Long after the last car disappeared down the gravel road and the quiet murmur of voices faded into the distance, Clark remained where he was.

The cemetery had emptied hours ago. Fresh flowers rested against polished headstones, their colors softened beneath the golden light of late afternoon. Somewhere beyond the rows of graves, the wind carried the rustle of cornfields and the distant cry of birds settling for the evening. It was peaceful in the way cemeteries often were. Too peaceful.

Jonathan's headstone looked impossibly small.

You stood several steps behind Clark, close enough that he would know you were there if he reached for you, far enough that this moment could still belong to him. He hadn't spoken since everyone left the church. He hadn't cried either. He simply stood staring at the stone carved with his father's name, as though his mind still hadn't accepted that a lifetime could somehow be reduced to a few dates separated by a dash.

Eventually, he lowered himself onto one knee.

His fingertips brushed carefully across the engraved letters, tracing each one with the same quiet concentration someone might use to memorize a face they were terrified of forgetting. His hand lingered there for a long time before he finally spoke.

"I keep listening."

His voice was barely louder than the wind.

"I keep thinking..." He stopped, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. "I keep thinking if I focus hard enough, I'll hear him."

Silence answered him.

Not dramatic silence.

Just the ordinary sounds of Kansas continuing exactly as they always had.

The grass swayed.

Branches shifted overhead.

A pickup truck rumbled somewhere in the distance.

Clark let out a quiet laugh that broke apart almost as soon as it escaped him.

"You know what's stupid?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

"I can still hear Ma back at the house."

His gaze never left the headstone.

"She's making coffee because she doesn't know what else to do with herself." His lips twitched faintly before the expression disappeared. "I can hear the porch swing moving every time the wind catches it." He drew in another slow breath. "There's a freight train about twelve miles east." Another pause. "Lois is probably arguing with Perry about a headline right now."

His voice grew softer with every sentence.

"The whole world is still..." He searched for the word. "There."

Another long silence settled over the cemetery.

"But not him."

The words seemed to leave something hollow behind.

"I spent my whole life knowing that if I wanted to..." He pressed his fingertips more firmly against the cool stone. "I could find him."

His eyes closed.

"I never needed to."

A tear slipped quietly down his cheek.

"I just knew I could."

His shoulders sagged beneath a weight that no amount of strength could lift.

"And now I keep reaching for something that isn't there anymore."

That was the sentence that finally made you move.

You crossed the few steps separating you without saying a word and lowered yourself into the grass beside him. The earth was still warm from the afternoon sun. You sat close enough that your shoulders almost touched, but you didn't reach for him immediately. Grief had a rhythm of its own, and you'd learned over the last few days not to interrupt it.

For several minutes, neither of you spoke.

The silence between you wasn't uncomfortable.

It was simply shared.

Eventually, almost absentmindedly, Clark leaned sideways until the weight of his shoulder rested against yours.

It was such a small movement that anyone else might have missed it.

You didn't.

"So..." he whispered after a while. "This is what people mean."

You turned your head slightly.

"When they say someone's gone."

You nodded.

He stared out across the cemetery, his expression distant.

"I always thought..." He exhaled slowly. "I don't know."

"You can say it."

"I thought there'd still be..." His brow furrowed in frustration. "Something."

He laughed softly at himself.

"That doesn't even make sense."

"It does."

He looked at you for the first time since sitting down.

"There is something left."

He frowned.

"What?"

You reached over, gently taking his hand where it rested against the grass. His fingers were cool despite the warmth of the evening.

"The way you laugh."

He blinked.

"The way you stop to help people even when you're exhausted."

Your thumb brushed slowly across the back of his hand.

"The way you make pancakes every Sunday because that's what he always did."

A tiny, surprised breath escaped him.

"The way you hold doors open. The way you always ask if everyone got home safely. The way you call your mom every week because you know she'll pretend she doesn't worry if you don't."

Another tear rolled down his face.

"You think those things came from nowhere?"

You gave his hand a gentle squeeze.

"Clark... your father isn't only buried here."

You nodded toward his chest.

"He's walking around inside you."

Clark's eyes drifted back to the headstone.

"I don't know how to do this."

There was no shame in the admission anymore.

Only exhaustion.

You leaned your head carefully against his shoulder.

"You don't."

He frowned.

"What?"

"You don't know how."

You looked out across the endless Kansas fields stretching beyond the cemetery.

"Nobody does."

"I feel like..." He searched for the words for a long time. "...like somebody picked up the whole world and put it back down crooked."

"It probably feels that way because they did."

He let out a shaky breath.

"I can't fix this."

You nodded once.

"No."

"I hate that."

"I know."

He was quiet for a long time before speaking again.

"So..." His voice had become very small. "What am I supposed to do now?"

You thought about Jonathan.

About the way he'd always laughed with his whole chest. The way he'd insisted everyone stay for another slice of pie. The way he'd looked at Clark with uncomplicated pride every single time he walked through the farmhouse door.

Then you answered as honestly as you could.

"You miss him."

Clark closed his eyes.

"You let yourself cry when it hurts."

Another silence.

"You tell stories about him until they stop feeling like stories and start feeling like memories you get to keep."

Your fingers remained intertwined with his.

"And you let the people who love you carry you for a while."

He didn't answer.

So you continued.

"One day, somebody will say something that sounds exactly like him, and you'll laugh."

A faint smile appeared despite the tears.

"And then you'll remember why it sounds like him."

His throat tightened.

"And you'll cry."

You smiled gently.

"For a while, yes."

He looked at you.

"And then?"

You looked back toward the stone.

"And then one day you'll laugh first."

Clark considered that for a long time.

"Do you really believe that?"

"I do."

His thumb slowly brushed across your knuckles.

"My dad used to say..." His voice was steadier now, though still fragile. "'Grief is just love that doesn't have anywhere to go.'"

You smiled through your tears.

"That sounds exactly like Jonathan Kent."

A real smile found Clark's face then.

Not a happy one.

Not even an unbroken one.

But unmistakably real.

"It does."

His gaze lifted toward the endless Kansas sky, where the first hints of evening had begun to soften the horizon.

"You know..." he said quietly, "I spent my whole life believing I was sent here to save the world."

His eyes returned to the earth beneath which his father rested.

"But Pa..."

His voice caught for only a moment.

"He spent his whole life showing me why it deserved saving."

The sun slipped lower, washing the cemetery in amber light.

Clark reached for your hand before you reached for his. His fingers threaded through yours with quiet certainty, holding on not because the grief had become any lighter, but because, at last, he had stopped trying to carry it as though it were his alone.

You yelp and jerk upright, immediately slamming the crown of your head into the shelf above you. Shocking pain explodes across your skull as you stumble backward, one hand flying to the throbbing spot on your head. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The unfamiliar voice is still going, apology after apology tumbling over itself as you blink through the stars in your vision. When your eyesight steadies, you turn towards the sound and a man is already pulling out a chair.

“Here,” he says, “Sit down.”

You follow the instructions easily, it's a sharp and startling kind of pain hitting your head, you think you’d do anything you're told until it dulls a little. The apologies don't stop coming as you try to pull yourself together. Seriously, he will not stop apologising.

You press your palm against your head and wait for the ache to dull while he hovers nearby looking increasingly distressed.

Once you’ve gathered yourself a little better, you chance a glance up at him, and immediately avert your eyes back to the floor. He’s staring at you with so much concern your stomach ties itself in knots. 

There's a couple of thoughts to sort through then. The first, how the hell didn't you hear him step into the room? He’s tall and broad and firm. You should've heard his footsteps for sure, maybe he moves like a cat or maybe you were too in your own head, it wouldn't be the first time. The second, that one revolves around how pretty he is. He is with no exaggeration maybe the handsomest man you’ve ever seen. Glasses and curly hair and bright big eyes.

“S’okay,” you find your voice, staring at the floor. “I’m okay, I'm fine.” 

You hear him release a sigh of relief, it makes your face warm.

“Okay, that's good.” He rubs the back of his neck. “I thought you’d hear me come in, but–”

He cuts himself off and you chance another look at him. The sheepish smile on his face somehow makes him even prettier.

“Gosh. Sorry. I’m being rude. I’m Clark.”

You give him a soft smile, which he returns and you murmur your name in reply. 

Clark can't believe it when you tell him, he’s heard from the others how slow and reluctant you've been to warm to anyone at all since you started and now he’s done this. He might've ruined everyone’s chance, not just his own, of getting to know you. He could kick himself. Nice going, Kent. 

“Nice to meet you,” he gestures toward the refrigerator, “what were you looking for?”

His question makes embarrassment flare up in you all over again. Clark watches as you dip your head away from him again, he has to fight the urge to reach out a hand to your shoulder to comfort you. He doesn't think he's met someone quite so shy before. 

“I, uh, just my soda,” you give a helpless little smile while your fingers worry at your cuticles. “It's fine though, it doesn't matter.”

Clark can feel his heart clench as you dismiss it. It's your soda! You should have it!

“Was it cherry?”

“Uh, yeah?” 

“Theres a cherry soda thief, I haven't figured out who it is yet though,” he puts a hand on his hip and points at you with an open hand. “Stay there a sec, okay?”

You watch open mouthed as he rushes out of the room. It's shameful to admit, even to yourself, but you'd probably do whatever Clark told you to despite having only just met him. Something is clearly wrong with you.

When he comes back into the room it's with a bit of a crash and a new can of soda in his hand from the vending machine. How strange. Then he's murmuring a Here you go and holding it out towards you. You can't come up with a cohesive response, your mind goes blank because this is really so strange.

It’s simple to Clark, he’s just making up for scaring you out of your skin. To you there's nothing to make up for, accidents just happen. That's life.

Still you reach out. What you’re sure of then is that as your finger tips brush taking the can from him, the touch fucking burns.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week three

Your easy routine – get up, go to work, go home, maybe go for a walk before settling in for the night, all without really speaking to anyone – has been slightly tweaked.

Every morning, Clark goes out of his way to stop by your desk and talk to you.

At first, you were convinced he was doing it out of pity. (Clark would be devastated to know you thought that.) Then you decided he must just enjoy the sound of his own voice. (He'd be equally horrified to hear that conclusion.) After all, you rarely give him anything more than a one-word response. Neither explanation feels quite right, but you can’t figure out what else it could be.

Little do you know that in Clark's mind his one and only mission currently is to befriend you. He wants to know more, curiosity piqued by the pretty shy thing that lingers around.

Lately, your walks home have been plagued with thoughts of him. How kind he’s been. The slope of his nose. His dark hair and cute glasses.

 As if you’ve summoned him with thoughts alone you hear your name called from somewhere behind you. You turn and sure enough Clark’s impossible to miss.

He’s a head taller than almost everyone around him, weaving apologetically through the crowd with one hand raised so you won’t lose sight of him. As if you could. His bag bounces against his side as he finally catches up. Stopping beside you with an easy smile on his face while you frown at him in confusion.

 “Where’re you heading?” he asks, dipping his head down closer to you.

Clark likes asking odd questions but this one really throws you for a loop.

“Home?” you answer with a tilted head and scrunched brow.

He nods once, like that's exactly what he expected. You wonder if you’re so predictable that having no plans on a Friday night is just a given to other people. He adjusts the strap of the bag on his shoulder and nudges his head towards the sidewalk.

“Can I walk you home?”

What is going on?

“Uhh… sure.” you agree, taking a step in the right direction. “If you want to.”

You start walking and he falls easily into step beside you, matching your pace.

For someone who never seems to run out of things to say at work, Clark is surprisingly comfortable with silence. You half expected him to chatter the entire walk, but you suppose you can scratch likes his own voice off of your list of reasons he might talk to you.

The evening sky has melted into streaks of pink and orange, casting everything in a warm night. As you sneak glances over at Clark he almost doesn't look real.

It all makes your shoulders tense and curl forwards. You don't understand how someone can move through the world the way Clark does, so confident without seeming arrogant, so open, so completely unafraid to ask for what he wants. He talks to everyone like they're already his friend.

And he's walking you home from work. It's weird. He has friends, cool friends but he’s spending his time with you. You're… just you.

What you don't know is that Clark has spent the time between your first meeting and now trying to figure out how to become your friend without scaring you off. He hasn’t figured it out yet. Still, in for a penny, he supposes.

“What, uh…” He clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck before turning his head towards you. Somewhere during the walk he’s drifted closer without noticing, his shoulder almost brushing yours now. “What’re you doing this weekend?”

“Oh…” your mouth opens and closes as you try to come up with a lie that makes you sound less lame, it doesn't work. “Nothing, I guess.”

“Really?”

“Well,” you shrug, “I need to do my laundry, I guess. And clean my apartment.” 

Clark hums, nodding absently, “You’re not hanging out with your friends?” 

He knows it's the wrong thing to ask as soon as it leaves his mouth, he feels like he’s missed the last step as he watches you curl in on yourself again, embarrassed. 

“...I don’t really have any.” you whisper, timid.

Clark's brain seems to misfire and he can’t formulate words because how can sweet lovely, albeit quiet you, not have any friends. His silence stretches too long and you quickly take it for judgement.

“I haven’t had time to make any, okay?” You say quickly, voice sharper than you intend.

It’s maybe the most assertive Clark has ever heard you. Hell, it's probably the most assertive you've heard yourself. But you don't need Clark knowing you're a bigger loser than you probably already are in his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” He blurts, shaking his head, “I didn't mean it in, like, a bad way or anything.” He sighs like he's all disappointed in himself before murmuring under his breath. “I’m such an idiot.”

You're not supposed to hear it, but you do, and it pulls a giggle from your lips before you can stifle it. Clark's head whips towards you at the sound with a great beaming smile on his face delighted by the noise. Reflexively, you smile back, the biggest one he's been on the receiving end of.

You can see your building moving closer in the distance now and it disappoints you. You don't want this walk home to end. The company is too nice.

“It’s not true anyway. You have at least one friend.”

You scrunch your face at that, maybe Clark really does have too much faith in your social skills outside of work or something, but he is dead wrong. When you turn your head to tell him as much, his upper body is angled towards you with a hand raised pointing to his face which is sporting a dopey grin. It takes a second to catch his meaning as you come to a stop outside your building. 

You feel your eyes start to sting, as wetness builds in your lashline. There's no threat of tears falling, it’s just so nice.

“Really?” you ask, sad eyes staring up at Clark. He can practically feel his heart break in his chest. 

“Yeah, I’m your friend.” he nods “if you’ll have me.” 

When you give a small nod, he reaches out a hand to your shoulder and rubs a steady back and forth to console you.

This touch is less of a burn and more of a sharp pinch.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week five

The park is filled with people, it's a warm day with sunlight spilling over the grass in sheets of gold. Groups of friends lounge on the grass with their shoes kicked off, the basketball court is packed out and there's couples meandering along the path holding hands. It's all so nice, yet you find yourself worrying at your bottom lip as you cross the grass..

Is your outfit okay? Do you look nice enough? Is it obvious that you’ve rushed here because you left the apartment too late? 

Clark Kent, from what you can tell, is a genuine guy. Not a deceitful bone in his body, you'd bet. Really you shouldn't have been surprised that he meant it when he said he was your friend, but you were, and now he walks you home from work nearly every day and you can manage to speak more than two words at a time to him. You know, he probably won't care what you look like, but if he does, maybe a smile can win him over instead, proving he hasn’t made a mistake.

You seem to see Clark at the same moment he sees you. He’s already spread out the sweetest little picnic blanket beneath a tree that casts shadows across it. Beside him sit two grocery bags bulging with, if you had to guess, more food than two people could possibly eat at once. He's gone so over the top it hurries you forward. 

“Oh gosh,” your eyes are wide, they don't seem to settle on any one thing. “Am I late?”

“Nope,” he says easily, already getting to his feet. “I’m early. I wanted to get everything set up.”

As soon as you're standing in front of him, Clark reaches for your tote bag without seeming to think twice about it. He slips the strap from your shoulder and places the bag carefully beside the blanket. Thoughtless and sweet.

It's the first time you’ve seen him not in the slightly oversized suit he wears to work and somehow he looks more handsome. It's unfair. 

“You look really nice, honey.” 

That's even more unfair. Heat rushes to your cheeks so quickly you have to look away, hiding your pleased smile by lowering yourself onto the blanket instead.

“So do you, Clark.” you murmur.

Your quiet compliment seems to level the playing field a bit. His own smile turns unexpectedly bashful, the tips of his ears flushing pink beneath the dark curls that fall over them. To distract himself, Clark quickly kneels beside one of the grocery bags.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he admits, beginning to unpack containers one after another. “So… I got a little of everything.”

“This is too much, you shouldn't have,” you giggle, shaking your head, smiling despite yourself. “You’re too nice to me.”

As he lays out the variety of picnic food, you can't help but notice how close your knee is to his. How close they are to bumping together. You wonder if that closeness is intentional or not. 

Clark shrugs, before leaning closer to you. Maybe that answers your question. “Theres no part of me that could be mean to you,” He says, earnestly. His blue eyes meet yours without hesitation. “It’s easy to be nice to you.”

There's no time to digest what that means beyond the way it makes your stomach flip and your head feel lighter before he's offering you a punnet of strawberries, like what he said was simple and easy. When you reach for one you give Clark the sweetest smile you can muster which makes his stomach flip in return.

It's hard to believe how lucky you’ve got. How the hell have you ended up sitting in the sunshine, making a life here, inches away from Clark Kent the kindest man you’ve ever met. Sharing strawberries and sandwiches while he smiles at you like spending time together is the easiest thing ever.

“I’ve never been very good with people,” you start. “And I moved here just for the job, I didn’t really think about… about all the other stuff and it's so tricky to make friends…” 

You trail off, losing steam in your confession. Your fingers find your cuticles automatically, picking absentmindedly at the skin as your nerves creep back in.

“What I’m trying to say, I guess, is thank you, for being patient with me.”

Clark’s expression changes immediately, his brows pulling together. There's something almost heartbroken in the way he looks at you, as though he's genuinely upset you’d ever think gratitude was necessary. “You don't have to thank me,” he says, quietly. “It’s my pleasure, really, honey.”

You try your best to internalise those words as soon as he’s said them, the corners of your lips lifting.

“And…” He pauses, until you look up at him, Clark wants to make sure you’re listening. “I get it, y’know.”

The words shock you so much that you let out an unattractive but entirely authentic snort. It’s so unbelieveable, you think that maybe Clark Kent is a liar after all. 

“Yeah, right.”

“No really,” he turns until he’s fully facing you, one leg tucked beneath him. “I grew up in Kansas, on a farm! All this was so overwhelming but you learn to love it, I promise.” Looking at Clark in the light, you think that, yeah maybe you are learning. 

By the time the sun begins to set, you’ve both packed everything away and Clark is walking you home. He has the picnic blanket rolled beneath one arm and a bag with food neither of you touched in that hand, leaving his other arm free to swing comfortably at his side as you both make the walk back.

It’s so sweet the effort he’s taken to make today nice, the thought of it makes your next words bubble up and out before you can stop them.

“Next time, I’ll bring the food.”

Clark's eyes widen, surprise flashing so openly across his face that your stomach immediately drops and you can't help but scold yourself mentally. Why would you just assume there would be a next time? You don’t notice his thrilled expression at you suggesting a next time until it bleeds into his voice. “Yes!” he says a little too quickly, almost laughing at himself before adding, softer, “Whatever you wanna do.” 

The enthusiasm in his voice catches you off guard. It's so genuine, so earnest. You can't stop yourself from grinning back and you're fairly certain the way you're looking at him now leaves every ounce of your affection written plainly across your face.

The rest of the walk passes quickly. Soon enough, you both come to a stop outside your building. You turn toward him, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands.

“Thank you.” you say quietly.

Clark shakes his head almost immediately.

“No, thank you.” His smile softens. “I had a really great time.”

Before you know it, Clark is pulling you in for a little side hug. Warm and solid and gentle. His arm draped across your shoulders in goodbye.

This feels like less of a pinch and more like pushing on a bruise.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week seven

When did recipes become so hard to follow? How much salt is too much? How much isn't enough? The most important question really is, why would you offer to cook for Clark?

The answer to that, you do know. The number of nice things he’s done for you is innumerable now and somewhere along the way you figured you should return the favour. And maybe impress him a little. You always seem to want that, whether you admit it to yourself or not.

 It's easier now to not be so shy around him. Clark makes things easy. 

With two trays safely put into the oven all you need to do is set a timer and–

There's a steady knock on your door, obviously Clark being as punctual as ever. You stumble quickly through your apartment, nearly catching your foot on the corner of the rug, not wanting to keep him waiting on you now. 

You pull the door open. Clark stands there looking exactly how he always does, broad shouldered and gentle eyed with the light catching in his glasses. In his hands is a bouquet of flowers.

The arrangement is beautiful. Soft pink peonies together with pale lavender sweet peas. Somehow, despite how large the bouquet is, Clark still manages to dwarf it. The sight has you a little shocked, mouth opening and closing as you try to figure out what's going on.

“...For me?”

The corners of Clark’s mouth lift to an easy smile and a tiny furrow appears between his brows as though he's genuinely puzzled you had to ask.

“Of course they are,” he says. “My ma raised a gentleman, I couldn't show up empty handed.”

“You totally could’ve,” you shuffle to the side of the doorway, gesturing him in. “I invited you to treat you for a change, remember. They're beautiful.”

Clark gives a small shrug that suggests he doesn't entirely understand your logic.

“They made me think of you when I saw them.”

Heat rushes to your face but the instinct to duck your head away from him when he says nice things has all but disappeared. Instead you meet him head on now with a bashful but thankful smile.

Your apartment suddenly feels impossibly small as Clark follows you into the kitchen. It’s cramped enough with just one person moving around. With him leaning against the counter, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off of him, it’s tight but nice.

You crouch down, digging beneath the sink to find a vase you're sure you own. You find the slightly dusty glass vase. 

When you stand, head well away from anything you could bump it on, Clark speaks again. 

“What can I help with?” he asks, “Put me to work.”

You laugh softly as you begin trimming the flower stems.

“Nothing,” you point toward the tiny table. “you can sit and relax.”

Clark huffs, discontent with that and it prompts a faint laugh to fall from you once again. You can practically feel the energy coming off of him now. He doesn't do well sitting still, having no purpose while someone else works. He’s always in motion, a quirk of his you've learnt. 

“You’re so strange, Clark.” you drawl, arranging another stem into the vase. It's maybe the first time you’ve teased him properly, and from the wide smile and joy that basically radiates from him, you’d guess he likes it. “You can’t sit still, can you?”

“I can sit still.” he defends, though his tone wobbles, betraying the lie. 

When the flowers are finally arranged, they're even prettier than when they were wrapped in paper. Maybe it's because Clark Kent bought them for you. You place the vase carefully on the counter before leaning beside him.

“I don’t think I've seen you relax the whole time I've known you,” you say, shaking your head fondly, "You're always up to something, helping someone… helping me.”

His blue eyes flick away from you, almost shy. When they return to yours they’re softer, somehow. His face seems to filter through a number of emotions before simply settling on content.

“That is relaxing to me.”

“Yeah?” you snort, “Helping me unjam one of the printers while you had an article due was relaxing?.” 

“It was,” he replies, tone genuine. “Besides those printers are super fiddly, honey.” you roll your eyes, jovially. “I like looking out for the people I care about.”

Now that does make you duck your head away from him, too overwhelmed by him to look at him any more.

“People you care about…” you start, “Including me.” 

“Including you.”

All this vulnerability makes you fidgety where Clark stands tall finding it easy to be so open about all this. He smiles as he watches you fix your hair and brush away imaginary dirt from your clothes. The smile you wear is almost blinding, so pleased to have verbal confirmation that you mean as much to Clark as he does to you. It’s the nicest thing to hear.

The smell of fresh flowers gives way to the crisp scent of burning and both of your heads snap to look at the other alarm growing in both of you. 

“Oh no.”

You spring into action moving towards the oven but you don't get far as the handle before Clark is gently nudging you aside with your oven gloves already in hand. 

The blast of heat that escapes when he opens the oven carries the acrid scent with it. What he pulls out is beyond saving, everything blackened and charred. Your face crumples before you can stop it.

“Oh, no no no.” you groan, stepping forward like getting a better look might change it. “I forgot the timer,” You press a hand to your forehead. “I'm such an idiot, sorry.”

Clark sets the ruined trays aside and turns back to you, both hands raised, palm forward. This is such a disaster, a simple dinner you couldn’t get right. 

“Whoa,” he says gently, closing the distance until only a few inches separate you. “It’s fine, it's fine, sweetheart.” 

“No It’s not,” your voice comes out smaller than intended. “I wanted to do something nice for you.”

“You have!” he exclaims, looking over his shoulder and turning back to you. “It’s just a little… over done.” you swat at his bicep with a roll of your eyes at his teasing. “We could order takeout and pretend you made it.” 

It takes a second to think over that offer, and yes, clarks attitude is right and your evening isn't ruined.

“Okay.”

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you nod, a sheepish smile tugging at your lips.

His face lights up. Without another word, Clark lets out an amused little laugh and closes the remaining distance in one easy step, wrapping both arms around you.

“Jeez,” you mumble, though there's no real complaint behind it.

The weight of his arms around you makes you stiffen. It feels awkward and unfamiliar and what are you supposed to do? Your arms hover awkwardly by your sides. 

One of Clark's big hands sweeps a smooth arc back and forth across your back and that's all you need to relax into his hold. You move to wrap your arms around him in return. Comfort and security in his arms.

It's nothing like pushing on a bruise, all you feel is warmth.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Week ten

Clark’s apartment is nice, it’s maybe the third time you've been here. The big windows are gorgeous, spilling the last of the evening light across the hard wood floors until the whole place sort of glows. You sink into his couch, soft enough that you’d happily stay here forever. You probably would, too, if it meant spending it with Clark.

He’s very quickly become your favourite person ever. His easy touches have become frequent and you've come to love them even if you don't initiate them.

You’ve noticed Clark tends to stomp around when he's tired. Most people wouldn't notice but learning about Clark has become a wonderful thing. There's no surprising you when he appears from his kitchen with a bowl of popcorn in hand.

“Here you go, pretty.” he murmurs as he drops down beside you, placing the bowl in your lap. He’s closer than he needs to be, but that just seems to be how Clark likes it now, you won't complain. 

Another thing that seems to have changed for him is the amount of pet names that fall from his lips. Honey, sweetheart, lovely, pretty and even a babe once or twice. It’s weird because when you think about it now, all signs seem to point to Clark Kent liking you. Like liking you. Romantically. 

You turn your head to look at him while he watches the screen. The movie reflects in his eyes, they're enchanting usually but it's tenfold now. Clark hands out caring touches like it's nothing and you’ve grown to crave them. Despite this, you can’t figure out why he hasn’t tried to kiss you yet.

Clark turns towards you with concern across his face, as he takes in the way you're looking at him.

“Whats wrong?” he asks.

It takes concerningly little deliberation for you to make up your mind. You know that Clark is nice enough that if you’ve got this wrong he’ll let you down gently. But you're pretty sure you haven't got this wrong.

“Why haven’t you kissed me?” there's no hesitation in your voice.

His relaxed slouch disappears as he sits upright, eyes widening behind his glasses.

“I…” He laughs once under his breath, more startled than amused. “I wasn’t sure you'd want me to.” His gaze drops, almost involuntarily, to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes. “I’ve wanted to.”

That's all you need, with a faint fuck it you surge forward to connect your lips. For a second, Clark doesn't move, not an inch, and heat floods your face as panic creeps in. He seems to be knocked out of his shocked reverie when you start to pull away.

Before you can get far, Clark raises his hands to frame your face. Large, impossibly gentle hands cradle your jaw as he draws you back towards him with obvious care. He kisses you, slowly.

There’s no urgency in it, you both have all the time in the world. His thumb brushes softly over your cheek as he smiles into the kiss. It's contagious, you feel your own smile widen until, with all the happiness, it's unclear whether you're still kissing with all the smiling going on.

Your favorite barista at that. With your patience hanging by a frayed thread and the little spark of energy you have left inside of you, you exert all of that to defend this poor girl — and the sanctity of this place.

“Are you always this much of a dick or only to people you think are beneath you?”

The man — tall, brunette, blue eyes, a classic all-American clad in an MIT t-shirt, looking like he bathes in daddy’s money — has the audacity to look taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“I’m asking if you take pleasure in bitching at people who get paid minimum wage to serve douchebags like you overpriced coffee every day.”

Blue Eyes gapes at you. It’s a shame, really. He would’ve been just your type if he weren’t such a dick. That’s the regrettable thing about men — they have mouths.

“I’m not—” he begins, having the decency to get somewhat flustered. His eyes fly around the room to find pairs of curious, judgmental eyes on him. His lips twist in irritation but he manages to grit out, “I just want my actual coffee order.”

“Then ask for it,” you snap, “you don’t need to pull a Shakespearean soliloquy to get a fucking frappuccino.”

“Black coffee,” he corrects.

“Of course it is,” you roll your eyes. “Now, can you ask politely or do I need to start my own monologue about the detrimental effects of men in society?”

He gives you a satisfying wince. “No, you don’t need to do that.” He turns to Evelyn, the barista. “Can I get my correct order?” He only glances at you because you’re searing him with a look, which ends up with him adding, “Please.”

Now, when the two of you tell your separate group of friends that this is the story of how you met, no one would believe you — not with the way the two of you are joined at the hip. You bicker, you argue, you get into hours-long debates at house parties about the ethics of Greek life.

But afterwards, you can also say without a doubt that Scott is a friend.

A friend who you then proceed to drunkenly fuck one night at his frathouse.

A friend who you swear you would never fuck again afterwards.

A friend who you, that same night, decide to fuck. Again. Thrice.

You hate to give credence to his reputation on the MIT campus, especially as an outsider who doesn’t go here, but you understand why there are constantly women throwing themselves at him.

You tell yourself that this is all in good fun; your last couple of youthful years before selling yourself to the American healthcare system for the greater good should be spent doing the worst humanly possible things to yourself.

If that means fucking Scott every chance you get, having him stretch you out over every possible surface, his hand over your mouth to muffle your cries, a packed house be damned, then so be it.

Truth be told, you don’t expect things to go anywhere with Scott. The two of you come from vastly different worlds with vastly different dreams. It’s not a tragedy. You two are simply star-crossed, never meant to be lovers.

Scott complains to you about how his parents are constantly trying to set him up with debutantes — the crème de la crème of society — for him to marry; all the while you’re still tucked to his side, naked limbs tangled between each other.

You don’t acknowledge the ache that pulses in the left side of your chest. It shouldn’t matter at the end of the day because friends don’t stay friends forever, let alone lovers.

And you and Scott are not lovers.

However, you do have to reckon with the consequences of your decisions and the implication of your feelings when you find yourself with your head in the toilet, breakfast swirling down the drain for the third time that week. You have to really reckon with Lady Luck punishing you when you realize that you’re weeks late on your cycle, too caught up with school and Scott to notice.

When the two pink lines appear, your fear has reduced your inevitable shock into ashes.

Your first thought is that you have to tell Scott. There isn’t a doubt who the father is since you haven’t been with anyone else since him. This feels like a decision the two of you have to make together; you’re both adults and you should be able to have a professional, rational conversation.

That’s what you tell yourself all the way to his place, body moving on autopilot tracing back the path to his lush apartment near his campus. You barely acknowledge Jimmy, Scott’s very kind doorman, when you take the elevator to his floor.

Not once in the entirety of your… acquaintanceship have you ever been nervous to see Scott. But now your hands are trembling and you suppose it’s from the fact that you have a fucking unplanned pregnancy.

You don’t have time to fully process what that means when Scott swings open the door, and the first thing you see is the suitcase popped open on the floor with clothes haphazardly thrown into it.

Swallowing the bundle of nerves in your throat, you raise an eyebrow in question. “Going somewhere?”

“Head to my uncle’s in Oklahoma for the long weekend.”

“Oklahoma?” You close the door behind you as he begin to fusses with his clothes again.

“Yeah, he’s a real estate developer buying up a shit ton of land down there. Thinking about connecting it with storm chasing. He’s expanding quickly so figured I’d see what it’s like. ”

Your stomach sinks, dread tightening your chest. “The job or Oklahoma?”

He shrugs, completely unaware of your spiraling mind. “Both.”

“You’d really give up your cushy doorman apartment for tornadoes and motels?”

His lips curl into a smirk and your stupid heart is quick to hammer in your ear. Curse him and those deep dimples. “Sweetheart, you know I was born and raised in the south.”

Oh, you know. There’s a reason why that tinge of an accent goes straight between your legs every time he’s upset. “I don’t think a metropolitan like Dallas is the same thing.”

While Scott busies himself with packing again, you splay out on his bed, eyes on the bare ceiling as you try to calm your thundering pulse. You really shouldn’t be this stressed. There are ways out of this — options that two of you can take regardless of what you decide.

Hey, Scott, I’m pregnant. Yes, your child. Am I sure? Yes, you shithead, I haven’t fucked anyone else in months.

Oh, by the way, I’m also probably in love with you, but that’s a secondary problem to the human growing inside me. Thoughts?

“Did you need something?” His voice rips you out of your head.

Your heart rate hasn’t eased, but you have to do it now. So you turn on your side, propping your head up as your belly twists with apprehension. You open your mouth but then you notice the look in his eyes. You know that look all too well; it’s the trigger to all of your bad decisions, including but not limited to being bent over the bathroom sink with all of your friends on the other side of the door and risking arrest for public indecency on a public beach on spring break last week.

His eyes trail over the exposed sliver of skin where your shirt has ridden up, his hands abruptly dropping a shirt to reach over and drag his calloused palm over your hip. He slides it to your back, onto that little dip on your spine. He doesn’t say it out loud, but he likes the way you automatically arch towards him when he does it — like right now.

He hums and squeezes your waist to prompt you.

“Nothing,” you blurt out, flipping over so you’re facing his window instead. The city looks beautiful this time of day, sunset casting a golden glow across the architecture, painting it in the shades of the sun.

You hear him shuffle behind you before the mattress sinks with his weight. He smooths a hand over the curve of your waist again, fingers spreading out across your stomach. “You’re thinkin’ about something.”

With a deep breath, you test the waters. “Just the future, the usual.”

“What about the future?” His fingers brush your hair to the side as his lips cling to your neck.

“Work, family, friends,” you pause, chest squeezing, “kids.”

“Kids?” He snorts softly, “Where is this coming from? Never heard you talking about them before.”

Stay calm. You roll over to playfully glare at him. “I’m not getting any younger, so I have to think about these things today.”

“Or in a few years once you get your license and settle into the hospital,” Scott cocks an eyebrow. Your lips thin and he relents. “Alright, so kids, what about them?”

This is it. “Have you thought about them? Whether you, um, want them?”

Scott tilts his head deeper into his pillow. “I don’t think so. Not anytime soon at least. Kids are a hassle and I’m too young for that. Still have to go out there, make money, chase dreams and what not. I can barely take care of myself, let alone another human being.”

His chuckle is drowned out by the sudden persistent ringing echoing in your ear. He must sense it, feels your body going taut next to him.

“What about you?” He murmurs.

If he had asked you a few months ago, you would’ve scoffed and called him crazy. You too have your own dreams to pursue, the world to change and all that. But now, when you know that there’s something else growing inside you, you find that you don’t have the answer to that.

You’re not part of the crowd that thinks aborting this baby would mean murder, but you also never thought that you would be carrying something so special so early. While Scott’s answer isn’t surprising, your reaction to it is — your rationale had been simple: if Scott says no, then you wouldn’t go forward with the pregnancy. If he said yes, then you would have to consider it more seriously.

Scott’s answer is loud and clear, yet you don’t feel so settled with your own.

“Hey, you alright? What’s going on with you?” Concern stitched to the furrow of his brows.

You laugh, your throat feeling a little tight. “Probably just pre-period thoughts.”

He relaxes at that, rolling his eyes. “Women—” you pinch him and he yelps, chuckling. “I’m kidding. I can pack later. Let’s go pick up a pint of that strawberry cheesecake ice cream you like.”

The corners of your lips tip up as he pushes himself off the bed and offers you a hand. “Since when are you so nice to me?”

“I’m nice when I want to get laid.”

You don’t bite back the urge to roll your eyes.

So you’re a coward, sue you. While Scott finishes packing for his flight, you fall asleep in his silk sheets. Slipping in between the edges of consciousness, you feel Scott tuck in behind you, a kiss pressed to the back of your head as you finally give in to slumber.

Afterwards, you tell yourself that you have two months to make a decision. Two months until graduation, that’s your deadline.

A big part of you wants to tell him so you can stop lying about how you won’t be drinking tonight because you’re still hungover from some other party that you never went to. You’re exhausted from biting your tongue when he invites you for sushi, your favorite meal.

“I’m paying,” he insists for the third time.

You yawn, feeling the twinges of nausea rearing its head at the thought of it.

“You never turn down sushi.”

However, you also realize that telling him would be selfish. Despite his reputation, the man has a strong sense of responsibility to finish what he starts. In this case, it would be you. You can’t fathom him feeling like he has to stay here, that he has to be with you, that he has to give up his dreams. For you. He would hate you — if not now, then in the future.

Even worse when you imagine him telling you that he would never, ever do this with you — specifically you. After all, he has many bachelorettes lining up at his doorstep who are likely more than happy to wait a few years to start a family with him.

You’re not sure you’re prepared for that.

With every day that passes, the truth is shoved further down your throat, fear overtaking it.

Before you know it, you’re standing at the airport with him. He wrangles you into a Scott-like hug: one-armed, stiff, a click of his tongue like it’s inconvenient for him to show affection.

“You’re gonna be good, right?”

You scowl, “I’m not a dog.”

His mouth curves up, teeth peeking in his smirk. “Not even gonna turn around thrice and bark for me for my last day?”

“Are you trying to get on your flight in a body bag?”

He’s silent then for a moment, looking at you. Everything blurs around the two of you, noise muffled like you’re in a bubble and all you can hear is his long exhale. “This isn’t forever, you know. I’ll come visit when I finally need you to pump my lungs of all the dirt I’ll be inhaling.”

“Gonna cost you.”

“Wouldn’t expect any less.”

The two of you leave it at that. You could say more. I’ll miss you. I love you. Come back. Stay. But you say none of it. Part of you thinks that Scott knows, part of you hopes he doesn’t. This is his big moment. His future. A picture-perfect frame and you’ve been cut out from the canvas. 

“We’ll keep in touch,” Scott shrugs with a promise.

Your hand flies to your stomach on instinct. You can practically feel that silent heartbeat. If you keep this baby, you can’t possibly hide it from him.

If you can’t hide it from him, he may hate you.

And that’s not something you can ever bear.

So you smile and nod — and you let him go.

To say it’s been a long day would be an understatement. Starting your morning with a hundred unread emails followed by a series of difficult patients (one of which sneezed on you for good measure) and then a last-minute, dreaded ping at four from one of the study sponsors looking for data — all on a Friday no less.

What you need is some hot tea, a long massage, and preferably your phone buried six feet under. A place where you won’t be able to hear the constant calling of your name.

“Girl, are you ever going to leave?” Jenna pops her head in. “You need to go and get ready.”

You peer down at your sleeveless blouse and slacks. “Why cna’t I go to dinner in this?”

She gives you a look, a bone-chillingly disapproving one. “Get your ass out of here and I’ll come pick you up. We’re going out out.”

Given that this is a planned outing, you shouldn’t feel so miserable about it. You’ve even planned it all out — your mom takes Ben until Sunday, which neither of them mind because they adore each other — and you finally get one night to yourself to do whatever you wanted and an extra day to recover. It’s the first time in four years you’ve actually had time.

Don’t get you wrong. Your body created the miracle that is your son. Beautiful, bright Ben. Sweet, kind-hearted Ben who inherited none of his parents’ terrible tempers and foul personalities. You couldn’t have asked for a better pregnancy, better birth, or better child.

It’s the first time you’ve been away for him for a personal outing. Usually, it’s some sort of work emergency; what constitutes a work emergency as a research coordinator, you’ll never know but the higher-ups love the dramatics of making everything sound like life or death.

Jenna, your colleague and probably the closest person you consider a friend, swings by your place an hour earlier than promised.

You’re still not fully ready.

“I knew you were going to drag your feet through this,” she sighs and drops an armful of clothes onto your couch.

“I’m not dragging my feet, I just have nothing to wear.”

“And that’s exactly why I’m here.”

Jenna has always had a knack for convincing people to do things they never wanted to do in the first place. For example, this is how you find yourself squirming uncomfortably throughout the night, wiggling to adjust the skirt lower down your thighs. However, when you do so, it ends up hanging too low on your hips, showing more skin than you’d like.

“Will you quit fidgeting?” she huffs as she pulls you through the crowd, “You look hot.”

“I look like I’m attempting a mating call with a freshman with a fifty-dollar fake,” you grunt.

She giggles. “Well, if you want to play cougar, I do see some college kids who have been eye-fucking you since you stepped in.” She nods her head in the direction of a group of boys who are in fact staring at the two of you, expressions a little too salacious for your liking.

“They’re looking at you,” you note pointedly.

Jenna is the the perfectly balanced combination spicy, smart, and sweet. At least two doctors and more than a fistful of residents follow her around like puppies around the hospital. She has them on leashes.

“That’s because my tits look great in this dress,” she grins. “Come on, let’s get some shots.”

In hindsight, ripping three shots back to back when you haven’t drank like since college is a terrible idea. It hits you hard and fast, but it was much needed to avoid crinkling your nose at the pile of sweaty bodies on the floor. You dance with Jenna for the most part, you let a few people buy you drinks, and… you’re having a good time.

Sometimes, you miss this part of you — the one that isn’t a mom. You love being Ben’s mother but at the same time, you have to relearn what it means to be you.

While this may not be you forever, this is a piece of you that feels like coming home. At least, that’s what you think when you feel much looser with the liquor in your veins. Jenna twirls you on the floor and you laugh, barely paying any mind to the pinching of these knee-high boots or the fact that you’re showing more skin than you have these past few years.

She spins you around again — except this time, your balance is already walking a fine line, so you end up stumbling into a wall.

Shit, not a wall. Said wall is moving.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” you blurt out, hand to your chest to prevent your tits from spilling out of this top. The last thing you need on your first night out is to be arrested for flashing a stranger. You’re straightening to look for Jenna when you hear your name.

Not only your name but it’s your name. Your name said in a way that has fireworks exploding in the pit of your stomach. Your name in a way that knocks the breath right out of your lungs.

Because it’s your name coming out of the mouth, with the voice of, the one person you thought you would never see again.

Scott’s eyes are wide when you finally lock gazes.

“You—” he starts then stops. “Holy shit.”

“W-what are you doing here?” You gasp.

“I’m out with, um, the guys,” he says, but his eyes never blink. Neither do yours. You almost want to, hoping this is some sick nightmare and you’re going to wake up in bed with a filthy hangover that takes you out for the day.

On the other hand, it’s Scott — and he looks good. Too good. His hair is a little longer, curling at the base of his neck. His eyes shine fifty different shades of blue with the flashing lights. His strong brows are furrowed into that familiar frown, one that has heat gathering between your legs. He’s got a suit on that seems to stretch for miles over his shoulders, top buttons of his shirt undone to reveal his pretty collarbones and that gleam of a silver chain.

You can’t be here. You can’t do this.

“Right, okay. I’ll leave you to it then.” You’re turning on your heel and you’ve barely made it forty-five degrees before his large hand wraps around your elbow.

“Wait, hold on,” he calls out, tugging you back towards him, your back landing against his front as you stumble backwards. He ducks his head towards your ear to make sure he’s heard but all you can feel is the ghost of his warm breath tickling your skin. “Where are you going?”

You try to extract yourself from him but his grip is firm, now on your hips. “I’m here with a friend. I need to go find her.”

“I’ll go with you.”

You absolutely do not want that. It must show on your face because then he’s scoffing, frown morphing into a disgruntled scowl.

“Is that how you greet a friend you haven’t seen in years?”

Instead of deigning him with a response, giving him the satisfaction of your annoyance, you wordlessly turn and make your way through the crowd. Scott is close behind, you can feel his height looming over you. He’s got a protective arm out to push away anyone who even comes close to touching you, charting a path through this Red Sea.

Jenna is on someone’s lap when you find her. She drags her eyes away from an unfairly attractive man when she spots you. You narrow your eyes at the man before turning back to your friend. “Are you good?”

“Peachy,” she beams. Her attention on you is short-lived when it wanders to Scott who’s hovering around you like a chaperone. “I see you’ve found your entertainment for the night as well,” she winks, eyes practically glittering as she wiggles her brows at you. “I’ll catch you at work Monday?”

Well. That’s your cue to go home. With one final press to make sure she’s okay, Jenna waves you off.

“Your friend’s having much more fun, maybe you should consider doing that for yourself,” Scott whispers in your ear, head ducked to reach your ear. “I could volunteer myself for that position.”

Whirling around, you trap him with a burning glare, which he only grins at.

There’s no way in hell you’re getting into this clusterfuck tonight. Not when you’re still half-convinced that you’re dreaming this up. So you turn back around and start marching towards the exit.

Unfortunately, he continues to follow you. He doesn’t even do anything except stick close to your tail. For some reason, that only pisses you off even more. Maybe if you will him away with your mind, you’ll turn around to find him gone. Because he can’t be here. Why the fuck is he even here?

“Why the fuck are you here?” You snap now that you’re on the quiet sidewalk. The music inside is muffled, leaving you alone with your heart beating in your ears and Scott’s stupid smirk plastered across his face.

He leans back against the railing, arms crossed over his chest. You can see how the cotton of his shirt stretches across his wide chest. Jesus, did he get bigger? How is that even possible? The worst part is the amused look printed onto his face, dimples carved out deep. “I’m doing a talk — at MIT.”

Of course, he is. You shouldn’t be surprised. You’d never admit it to him but you have been keeping up with him in the news. He’s been building a startup with advanced technology focusing on disaster resilience combined with real estate development. While you don’t know the full mechanics, you know he’s successful enough to be nailing government and corporate contracts, landing himself on the Forbes 30 Under 30 list.

You could also lie and say that his face is everywhere, but you really had to look him up to find anything about him.

“So why aren’t you talking? At MIT. Why are you here?”

Scott shrugs, “I reached out to the guys to catch up. I would’ve reached out to you too if I had your number.”

You stiffen, chancing a look at his face to find pure irritation. He has every right to be, but you also had your reasons for doing what you did — he just doesn’t know it.

A gust of wind whips past your bare legs, the chill settling on your shoulders. Boston is unforgiving this time of year so you quickly shrug on your jacket. However, you can still the weight of his gaze rolling over the length of you, slow and warm. His steely blue eyes look almost onyx with the way he drinks you in, dragging across your exposed collarbones down to your bare legs.

“What are you doing here?” He asks coolly.

“Out. With a friend.”

His lips tighten around the corners — slightly, only enough for you to notice. “What, to pick up guys?”

“No,” you scowl, “just for a good time.”

“Are you?”

“What?”

“Having a good time?”

You were — until him. “Fabulous time,” you sarcastically sigh as you pull out your phone, readying yourself to call a car home.

But your movements halt when you feel warmth soak your entire body, your breath hitching in your throat. Scott’s buried his face in your neck, his front against your back, nose tracing the column of your neck, palms splayed over your stomach.. His teeth graze your skin, eliciting a trained shiver out of you.

“How about we have a better time elsewhere?”

“No,” you swallow, “we shouldn’t.”

“Come on, you don’t miss me?” Scott slides his hands higher, enough for his thumb to brush the underside of your breasts. “We used to have fun, didn’t we?”

“Scott, no,” you protest, but you sound frail even in your ears.

“Why not?” He murmurs, lips placing soft, wet kisses against the back of your ear. Your head tilts on instinct, granting him more access as he nibbles down your neck.

“You’re drunk.”

He chuckles, “‘M so fuckin’ sober. I got a shot in when you bumped into me.”

“Then you should go back in there, go have a good time.”

“Found something more fun to do tonight,” he smiles against your skin. “Well, someone.”

His hands drift a little higher, cupping your tits and squeezing. The groan he lets out molds with yours as you resist another whimper crawling up your throat. “We’re outside,” you hiss.

“Never stopped us before.”

The more warm kisses he presses onto your skin, the weaker your resolve becomes. Your body moves on its own accord, leaning back against his chest while your own rises with a stuttered breath.

“Come with me. Promise I’ll make you feel good. Just like old times.”

“Scott…”

He knows — by the way you say his name — that you’ve given in. He doesn’t give you a moment to hesitate, squeezing your hip and keeping you close as he calls a car. His hand stays on you, toying with your nipples until you’re grinding your ass back against the erection under his slacks.

He hasn’t even kissed you, not properly at least. His lips stay on the pulse point on your neck, nipping lightly as his hands settle possessively around your waist. Even in the car, he hoists you over to his side, a thick arm wrapped around your waist to hold you hostage against him. When his other hand travels up to bury in your hair, he yanks on it just enough to have you gasping.

“Always so sensitive,” he whispers with a grin, “so responsive for me.”

“Fuck you,” you mutter weakly.

His breath is warm as he chuckles into your hair.

The car pulls up in front of some posh-looking hotel. You don’t have a moment to guess how much this place costs a night — nor do you want to, the number would likely break your heart. His hand is wrapped around yours, tight, like he’s making sure you don’t try to make a run for it, as he pulls you stumbling through the lobby.

Scott invades every single one of your senses when he corners you in the elevator. He bites down on his moan when he dips his head, nose nuzzling into the curve of your chin as he takes a deep inhale. His exhale quivering.

“You still wear the same perfume,” he notes, sounding almost pleased.

“Creature of habit,” you mutter, hands finding purchase on his biceps in an attempt to stay upright. Your knees feel a little weak with the proximity, with how much heat his body is radiating.

He’s barely swiped through the door and you’ve barely had the chance to close it before Scott is pinning you against the door and slanting his lips over yours. The first kiss knocks you right off your feet and Scott is quick to catch you and hold you up against the door — one hand on the back of your neck and the other on your waist.

He breathes you in as his tongue strokes your bottom lip. He tastes like a mix of vodka, sugar, and a hint of bittersweet nostalgia. The way he moves his mouth is familiar, you’re drawing on muscle memory to remember how you used to kiss. How to move your mouths in sync with the rhythm of your heartbeat.

You swallow his hungry groans as his hands explore you all over, sliding up your curves to push off your jacket before venturing south again to cup your ass from underneath your skirt. “This fucking outfit,” he snarls low, “never seen you wear anything like this before. So fuckin’ tiny, I could see your ass walking behind you.”

“J-Jenna’s,” you clarify breathlessly. “My friend’s.”

“And this goddamn top — I could peek down your chest the entire time we were there. Wanted to rip this off you so I could play with these pretty tits,” he murmurs, kissing his way along your jaw and down your neck. “Then this—” he squeezes your ass, “if I saw one more person try to get a peek, I would’ve bent you over the bar and fucked you then and there to show them that none of them have a shot. Not them. It’s only going to be me.”

Your response dies in your throat when he begins to suck light bruises onto your skin, pain blooming in concentrated spots across your skin. He’s always been territorial, leaving one mark after another to deter anyone else from coming close.

While you usually enjoy the slow build, the persistent ache between your legs demands otherwise.

“Come on, just fuck me already.”

“So goddamn impatient,” he snips but picks you up, legs wrapping around his waist. Your body slips a little lower and you can feel the bulge in his pants poking against your own core. Your panties pressed directly against the thickness, which leaves very little to the imagination. “So fuckin’ hard,” Scott grunts, “started getting a chub the moment I saw you. Then I saw you walking from behind, this gorgeous ass just swaying like you’re teasin’ me. Then you gave me that mean look you’ve got and I’ve never been so fucking hard in my life.”

“You’re such a freak,” you huff in a laugh

“Takes one to know one.” Scott backs you into the hotel room, letting you fall back against the bed as he tucks himself between your legs dangling off the edge. His eyes roam over you, exploring every inch of your exposed skin. You’re fresh meat and Scott is starving.

He leans forward, a single index finger starting at the outer corner of your breast where it’s pushed up by your corset and journeys over the trim of your top. You hold your breath, back arching slightly into his touch. “I can’t believe you were out like this. Dressed like a fuckin’ slut. I don’t even wanna know how many guys out there imagined fucking your tits.”

It’s demeaning, you should tell him off. But this is Scott and he knows exactly what you like and — god, do you like this. A whimper climps past your lips instead, a needy little sound that has him smiling to himself.

“But I’m the only one who gets to do that tonight. Isn’t that right, sweetheart? You don’t spread your legs for anyone else.”

“Do you ever s-shut up?” You snap, voice frayed to betray the desire thumping in your chest. His hands slide underneath you, settling on your lower spine, as your body rises instinctively to his touch. He drags the zipper of your corset down, peeling it off you and casting it aside.

Scott straightens again, tilting his head as he takes you in from his vantage point.

His gaze burns uncomfortably. He doesn’t say a word and, for the first time with Scott, you feel… shy. Hands fly to your stomach as burning embarrassment sears like a branded mark on your skin. He takes a deep breath and his sweet time outlining the shape of you like he’s recreating a sketch of you in his mind.

“You’ve changed.”

Your heart sinks. The two simple words sting more than they should. Pregnancy changed your body. While you know that it’s created a miracle, it’s survived and remained strong, you also know that you aren’t the same. Softer, more lines stretching across your stomach. Your muscles haven’t survived your long hours at the hospital. You just never thought it would hurt this much for him to point it out.

But you know better than to take this kind of disrespect. If he no longer finds you attractive, you know that you could very easily find another man to satisfy you.

You try to wiggle away from him as your face shifts in aggravation. “Well, I have. So, if you don’t like it, I’m going to go because I don’t fucking need this from—”

“Hold on, never said I didn’t like it,” he murmurs, grabbing both your wrists and pinning them above you. He ducks forward again, nose brushing against your jawline. He breathes you in, you can hear him gulp. “Fuck, you look so good, sweetheart. Sexier. Something about you. Even better than I remember — and shit, do I remember you. Thought about you far too much.”

Oh. “Really?”

He pulls away slightly, eyes searching yours as his lips curl into that smirk. “Really. Every night, with my fist wrapped around my cock, imaginin’ it was this tight cunt of yours wrapped around me. I remember how it would squeesze so sweet like you’re trying to choke my dick.”

“You’re so crass,” you roll your eyes.

“You’re tellin’ me that that doesn’t turn you on?” He grins, hand stroking up your inner thighs until he finds your center, fingers nudging the damp gusset of your panties to the side as he dips in between your slick folds. “Knowing that I get off thinking about you. Thinking about this perfect cunt of yours and the way you’d pulse around me, milkin’ me dry every time you cum. It’s like this pussy was made for me.”

On cue, you tighten around him, breath hitching in your throat with his filthy words.

“Yeah, she likes that,” he chuckles, “shit, did you get tighter? I don’t remember you being this stiff. It’s gonna be tough getting me in, baby. Gonna have to stretch you out and it’s gonna fuckin’ hurt.”

You clench again at the thought, a moan bubbling up your throat. Well, seeing as you haven’t slept with anyone in years, it’s not a surprise. But you’d never tell Scott that — you don’t want to think about all the other people he’s fucked since the two of you split.

“We’ll make it fit, we always do,” he coos and you don’t block the roll of your eyes, pulling another amused sound from his lips. “Still got that attitude,” he shakes his head, hands squeezing around your wrists, “Don’t worry. I’ll fuck it out of you soon.”

Scott drags down your underwear, flinging it somewhere around the room. You’re about to scold him but the only thing that comes out of your mouth is a broken whine as he stuffs two fingers into you. The slide in is humiliatingly easy with how wet you are, but his thick fingers still stretch out your taut insides.

“Jesus,” he mutters, “won’t even let me in, huh? Have you been takin’ care of her, sweetheart?”

Heat pools low in your stomach and rises to your face. He pushes in and out of you slowly at first, blue eyes staying on you to watch you squirm, watch your body shift off the bed. He mutters something about still the fuckin’ same as he prods his fingers into you, testing out different angles to see which ones make you tick — like he’s relearning how to please you.

He realizes that it takes no time at all to do so because you still move the way he expects you too, especially when he brushes up against that spongy area inside you that wrestles a noise that mixes a gasp and a moan from your lips. Through the hazy blur of your vision, you spot a proud smile dancing on his lips as he continues to push and push until you’re panting desperately underneath him.

Every drag of his fingers along your cunt feels like the strike of a match that sets your entire body on fire. He sets off flames in different parts of your body, all the while he’s still holding you down with just one hand. His head ducks to take a nipple into his mouth and sets your entire being ablaze. The two actions combined are enough to have you sweating over the risk of cumming too fast, too hard.

You’ll be damned if you finish in under two minutes with him.

Another curl of his fingers has you resetting that bar to at least one minute.

“Scott, please,” you rasp.

“Please what, sweetheart?”

“You know what.”

“Use your big girl words,” he tuts softly, “you can do it. I wnat to hear you ask for it.”

Your brows descend in a vexed glare. “Why are you suck a prick?”

“Because it fucking turns you on,” Scott grins, “and because you like my dick.”

You can’t help it, you poke because that’s what you do with him. “I can find good dick elsewhere.”

His fingers stop moving inside you, his body completely still as he levels you with a stare that sends a shiver slithering up your spine. His jaw clenches, white fury masked by his terrifyingly composed expression. “You wanna run that by me again?”

Your mouth feels like sandpaper now, snippy response scraped away to death on your tongue.

He pushes his fingers in deeper, drawing out a cry from your chest. “Think you can get good dick anywhere, sweetheart? Is that why you’re so fucking tight? Have you been spreading your legs for anyone?”

“Fuck you.”

“I thought you had better taste. Clearly, none of them could stretch you out the way you like. You fuckin’ like it when it hurts, when it burns so good you can taste it on your tongue,” he mocks, hand releasing your wrists to grab your jaw. He applies just enough pressure to have your cheeks aching, but that pain only has you clenching around his fingers, stomach twisting with stupid need. “Look at you,” he chuckles, gripping you harder, “gettin’ so tight around me before I even stick my dick in you. Filthy slut just likes bein’ treated like one. Maybe I should stuff that mouth so you stop running it — don’t need you to talk, just need to hear those desperate little sounds you make when I fuck you good.”

Your chest sings with shame when all you can do is take his words. But you take what he gives because he only gives you what you can take; he knows exactly what to say to rile you up, to tip you over the edge, have you seething and dripping between your legs. Even after years, he still knows your body best.

Except now, he has a touch more of that southern drawl that you’ve always adored but could never get enough of.

“She just squeezed me again, sweetheart.” His eyes twinkle with delight. “Why don’t you put yourself out of your misery and just ask me?”

Your lips pinch and Scott pushes deeper, eyes fluttering when he feels you tighten around him again. He can feel your control slipping away, pride curling deep into your chest to hide.

“Fuck me.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That it?”

“Please.”

He's biting back a laugh, lips curving just a little more. “Attagirl, there’s your manners. Was that so hard? Guess I haven’t been around to teach you how to be polite with me.”

Your chest throbs with a mix of disgrace and need again. He pulls out his fingers, watches them glisten with your juices underneath the room’s warm lights. Then, with his eyes locked on yours, he slides them over his tongue and closes his lips around it. He sucks on it hungrily, moan muffled as he laves at them to savor.

“Tastes a little different too,” he hums, “maybe I just missed you too much. Missed this pretty pussy.”

Maybe if you weren’t so focused on getting him to fuck you, you might’ve noticed a strange something laced into his syllables — something you may mistake as hurt.

But that wouldn’t be possible because Scott Miller doesn’t get hurt. He takes and throws away like it’s nobody’s business, only thinking about what would be beneficial for him until it no longer has a use. He’s untouchable, always has been.

Before you can process even a hint of it, you feel Scott sliding his cock along your pussy lips, wet with juices that can’t seem to stop leaking all over his sheets. “Makin’ such a mess already,” he grunts, tip poised at your entrance.

You nudge your hips lower in an attempt to encourage him to move faster, but his palm presses down on your hips as he gives you a scalding look.

“Behave.”

Your legs press together around his hips. He feels it. But you do as you’re told.

“Good girl,” he sighs as he slowly pushes himself in. The initial burn has your eyes rolling to the back of your head, like fire between your legs as you let out a cry with how much he’s opening you up. His cock parts through you like a spear and your breath catches in your throat as he finally buries himself all the way in. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he hisses, “you’re so goddamn tight. Feels like that first time. Like you’ve never been fucked in your life.”

“B-been a while,” you stutter, the confession slipping out before you can stop it.

Scott’s hands on your hips drag you closer to the edge until your ass is against his hips, he pushes your legs up against your chest, feet thrown over his shoulders. “I can tell. You’re such a good girl for me, baby. Been saving yourself for me? Have you been thinking about me too?”

You’d die before you give him the satisfaction. Because you have, but you’ll never tell him how many times you’ve come undone with the memory of him alone. Filthy words he’d whisper in your ear toiling around your brain until you can practically hear him right next to you. Promises that have you gasping for air before you’re thrown over the edge of desire.

“Perfect pussy, she’s takin’ me so well,” he moans, deep and guttural, as he begins to ease himself in and out of you. He starts off with a slow pace before building a steady rhythm that painstakingly stretches you out around his cock. With every thrust, he stretches you out just a fraction more, each time slightly easier than the last until the burn dissolves into warmth blooming between your legs.

Scott’s still watching you; with every jerk of his hips, he intentionally angles himself to hit all the right spots that have you crying out for more, your fingers tangling in the sheets. It’s as if he’s drawing out a map of you, marking x wherever he finds a winning piece. He knows exactly how fast to fuck you to have you gasping and crying, tears leaking down your face until you can taste the salt on your tongue. He knows exactly how slow to go to have you begging him, desperate sounds falling from your lips until he has no choice but to show you mercy.

He knows that telling you you’ve got a cunt like a virgin would have you squeezing around him. He knows that praising you for being such a good pussy for him would have you arching off the bed with your eyes slammed shut.

He just knows and that thought scares you more than anything.

“Fuck, I missed this pussy. Nothing else could compare, you know. Tried to, trust me. Every time, I can only cum thinking about your leaking cunt, always drooling all over my fat cock, thinking about you sobbing underneath me until I kiss away those pretty tears. I couldn’t stop picturing feeding her my cock, stretching her out until you’re whining like a bitch in heat,” Scott growls as he picks up his thrusts, sliding in easier, faster now that your arousal has paved the path in for him.

You should be offended by his words, the feminist in you wanting to tell him off for such ridiculously degrading words, but all they do is add fuel to the fire. You haven’t felt this good in so long and you don’t think—

“Wait, fuck,” you blurt out, fingers latching onto his bicep. “Scott, condom.”

Scott freezes, like deer in headlights. “Condom? We’ve never fucked with a condom.”

“I know,” you bite out but again say, “condom.”

There’s a vein pulsing on his forehead, the last shred of his self-restraint hanging on by a thread. He looks more inconvenienced than anything. “Did you get off the pill?”

“N-no, but just wanna be careful.”

Scott laughs, nudging his cock deeper. “Why are you worrying? It’s ninety-nine percent effective.”

Well, apparently, you’re part of that one percent of failure.

He sees that you still look conflicted and he lets out a frustrated exhale. “I don’t have condoms. Haven’t carried it around with me in forever.”

“I need to fuck this pussy, sweetheart. I’m not letting that pretty head of yours change your mind. Not gonna go outside just to get condom. I’ll just pull out.”

“That shit does not always work!”

“Neither does a condom!”

Fuck, he makes a good point.

Scott slowly begins fucking you again, chipping away at the walls you’ve slammed up. “Promise I’ll pull out when I cum. Won’t do it inside you. No matter how much I want to cream inside this pussy, just like I used to.”

Your stomach flips with that admission.

“Remember how I used to fill you up? God, I can still see white leakin’ out of this cunt. I loved cumming inside you in the morning, you could never get all the cum out so you’d be dripping with me. Could smell you when I fucked you again after too.”

Shit, he knows your resolve is down to nothing when he pumps faster into you. He doesn’t need you to confirm what he already knows. He returns to fucking you with fervor. His hips are eager as they chase after yours, slamming against you as his cock fucks all rational thought from your mind. He leans forward, pressing you deeper into the mattress until all his weight is squeezing the breath from your lungs. It only intensifies the pleasure, his cock sliding in with a trail of fire as he kisses your calves.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he coaxes, “give it to me. I know you wanna cum. I can feel you tightening around me.”

More moans tumble from your lips as you babble your agreement, words slurring together in an incoherent mess.

“Give it to me. Let her go. I wanna see you fall apart on my cock, want you remember that no one else can make you feel like this. Nobody can — or ever will — fuck you this good. This pussy’s mine and I’m gonna make sure she only remembers me, only takes the shape of my cock.”

You’re struggling for air as your chest constricts, wanton need burning all throughout your body.

“Cum for me, baby. Come on,” Scott grunts, punctuating each word with a thrust.

With a few more pumps of his cock, your stomach tightens, desire coiling tight until it snaps and your pleasure crests. It feels like you’re soaring, body trembling with the force of your orgasm as you clam down around him, legs shaking and pussy sucking him in deeper.

Your cunt continues to pulse as your descent from the high occurs painfully slow. But Scott’s not done. He just uses you at that point, treating you like a little pocket pussy to get himself off as he fucks dirty into you. He spreads your legs so he can see your tits bouncing with how fast he’s going. You can tell he’s close when his drives get sloppier, cock just fucking into you because he can. Then he’s quickly yanking himself out with a gasp, tilting his cock so that ropes of cum spill across your stomach, your tits, decorating the skirt with abstract splatters of white.

His hard cock twitches against his stomach as he holds himself up on the mattress, labored breaths weighing down on his chest.

Even in your weary state, you can’t help but giggle. “It’s been a while, huh, old man? Can’t keep up anymore?”

He tosses a glare your way. “Let’s not forget the last time I overstimulated you until you cried and begged for me to let you cum again. How many times was it? Five?”

Your cheeks warm at the memory. “That was years ago.”

His gaze softens, melts into something that has your heart squeezing. “Yeah, it was.” ith a groan, he pushes himself up and disappears into the bathroom, leaving you in the mess of his orgasm. When he comes back out, he’s got a warm, damp towel in hand that he’s using to clean you of the sticky mess. 

He raises your legs again to check on your pussy. 

“Does it hurt?”

You’re only mildly surprised by his concern, mostly because you haven’t been on the receiving end of it for a while. “No, I’m fine.”

“You sure? I went pretty hard.”

All you can do now is roll your eyes, using your foot to nudge his stomach. “I’m a big girl, Miller. I know what I can take.”

His lips twitch as he shakes his head, muttering something you don’t catch under his breath. He plops down next to you, eyes sliding shut as he lets himself sink into the bed. He drapes an arm over his eyes, stomach dipping as he exhales deeply.

The lines of his chest are still defined. If anything, his muscles are more evident now. Veins running along his biceps to display the progress he’s made while he was away. You didn’t realize how much he’s changed, how much broader he got, how there are more grays on his head than before. Jawline that was soft through the year that you knew him sharpened into a knife that slices straight through your chest.

You turn away from him, eyes glued to the ceiling. The moment Scott stepped back into your life, he rolled out a fog that clouded your judgment. Now that the haze has cleared, you’re lying in the consequences of your actions, you can’t help but let the remorse carve its place into your bones. You’re a fool if you think this time will be any different.

It took you one night — one night — to fall for his charm. One night for your years-long resolve to fall apart.

You thought you would feel differently about him now, that you could let these silly emotions fade into dust in his absence. However, your heart still beats the same way for him — a little faster, skipping a beat or two, but always towards him. The two of you still move in sync, like two pieces of the same puzzle finally slotting together.

But you’ve changed — or, you should’ve changed. You shouldn’t be this easy, not anymore. Not when there’s more at risk than just your heart.

The shame crashes over you in waves, pulling you under, and suddenly, you’re breathless. The air feels thin when you think of Ben — your son who doesn’t even know who his father is, who has been curious enough to ask once but kind enough not to ask twice.

An arm splaying across your thighs sends you crashing back to reality. He rumbles with eyes closed, “Sleep.”

Gently, you remove his arm as you come to your feet. You move swiftly, body functioning the same it always does — opting for flight rather than fight. You collect your panties and quickly tug them on under your skirt. Before you can reach for your top, a hand wraps around your arm.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m gonna go.”

His confusion deepens. “Why?”

With a shrug, you pick up your corset from the floor and zip it back up. Scott steps in your path before you can make it to the entryway — still fully nude, cock half hard.

You force your eyes to stay on his face instead. “We fucked, we’re good, right?”

Annoyance flashes across his eyes. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“What else do you want from me, Scott?” You sigh.

You try to sidestep him but he moves faster. His shoulders stretch out to their full breadth as he straightens. “What if I want to fuck again later?”

“You’ve survived this long with your fist, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say a word. The silence lingers like a ghost between you. He looks conflicted, eyes shifting around the room like he can find the answer somewhere on the walls. “We haven’t seen each other in years and you’re flaking on me?”

It’s your turn to offer no response, mainly because you don’t have one.

“You disappear on me for years. I’m seeing you for the first time since we graduated and you can’t even be bothered to stay?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I just really need to get home. I have to go to work tomorrow to wrap up a few things.”

“I can drive you.”

“I have no clothes.”

“We’ll leave early in the morning.”

“Scott.”

Your mind wanders to Ben, wondering what he’s doing right now, how you should be there with him — instead of here with the dad that he never knew.

“Alright. Let me drive you at least.”

He watches as your eyes get distracted again by his nude form before you, him completely shameless, maybe even smug that you still find yourself cross-eyed with him.

“No, I can find my own ride.”

When you manage to maneuver around him, Scott hooks a finger through one of your belt loops to yank you back, and you’re now facing his broad, bare chest, the light smattering of curls directly in your line of sight.

“Can I see you tomorrow then?”

He ducks his head so his lips brush over yours. You can feel that familiar dizziness tease the edges of your rational mind. He knows exactly what he’s doing, especially when you unconsciously lean towards him, like a moth to flame, Icarus who flew too close to the sun.

“Scott,” you whisper when he pulls back to mock you.

“You ever gonna tell me what happened? Why you left me high and dry. You disappeared from everywhere, couldn’t find you on anything,” Scott begins, “Then you went ahead and changed your number. I had no way to reach you.”

You don’t blame him for the bitterness that stains his voice. Even after you promised to stay in touch, the further along you were in your pregnancy, the more you realized that you couldn’t handle the guilt of lying to him. So you… simply stopped. Stopped responding to his texts. Stopped picking up his calls.

Once he ceased his efforts, you changed your number. You hoped he wouldn’t notice, that it would be a clean slate. Clearly, that isn’t the case.

“Can we talk about this another time? I’m exhausted and I’m sticky—”

“Use my shower. Sleep here. I’ll drive you home then to work in the morning.”

It’s a kind offer. Far too generous for a man whom you distanced yourself from. “You don’t have—”

“I want to,” he insists, “don’t be fucking difficult.”

“Tomorrow, alright. Please,” you plead one last time.

Scott’s blue eyes wash over you, searching for a sign of weakness. He must see the firm stubborn hold in your gaze, because you see him deflate in real time. “Fine. Give me your number.” You open your mouth, ready to extend some bullshit excuse, but he beats you to it.  “So help me god if you try to argue with me again, woman, I’m tying you to my bed.”

You know he’s serious. You can only relent and say that you’ll text him.

“Now.”

“Scott.”

“I’m not fucking around,” he snaps, “I’m not spending the time I have here trying to chase your ass down again.”

Again? You’re too tired to question it further so you pull out your phone, finding his contact — one that you haven’t touched in some time — and shoot him a quick message.

“Happy?”

“Delighted,” he bites back, baring his teeth at you.

You only roll your eyes. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I’m going to go.”

“Call a car.”

“‘Course, I will!”

He snorts. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t have taken the T home.”

You’re about to argue again, but he knows you too well. The T would’ve saved you money, but certainly not time. Instead of replying, you say, “I’m going to go.”

Scott still seems none too pleased but lets you go.

As you cave to the pull of slumber that evening, your phone lights up with a message.

It was good seeing you tonight.

You’re a goddamn coward, that’s what you are. You don’t actually have to come into work the next day but you needed an out. Instead, you wake up that morning with an old friend — that jackhammering in your head commonly known as a hangover. 

Vices hit a little differently when you’re older, especially when you haven’t touched a drop of it in a while.

That goes for the drinks and Scott.

It feels like a fever dream when you wake up alone the next morning, you wanted to pretend like none of it ever happened. Like you didn’t meet your former fuck buddy slash friend slash father of your child at a club and went to his hotel with him as if no time had passed. 

Opening your phone to his text was the first slap of reality.

The second was when you look in the mirror to see the marks all over your neck like you’ve been mauled by a mountain lion.

Possessive fucker. 

Jenna’s message certainly isn’t helping either. Hope you had a great night ;) 

You did. You wish you didn’t but Scott somehow still knows you like the back of his hand and, if you had stayed, there would be no doubt that he would change your great night into a fantastic night.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you quickly reply to her with an appropriately crude emoji. 

Scott — well, you do what you do best. You don’t respond.

You don’t reply when he asks you what time you get off work today.

You don’t reply when he sends a single question mark as a follow-up.

You definitely don’t reply when he says—

You’re going to ghost me again, aren’t you?

Instead of acknowledging the magnitude of your actions, you spend the weekend keeping yourself busy. Every time your mind veers to Scott and the messages left unanswered, you pick a new spot in the house to clean. 

By the time Ben returns on Sunday, the house is spotless.

Your mom looks at you suspiciously. “You cleaned.” 

“Yes,” you say before you turn to pepper wet kisses all over your baby. He giggles and his face scrunches up. “How was weekend with grandma?”

“We ate ice cream!”

It’s your mother’s turn to look guilty when you raise an eyebrow at her. “Is that so? How much ice cream?”

Ben, realizing what he’s just exposed, turns to his grandmother then back to you. He pinches his fingers together. “This much.”

“Mhmm, next time grandma gives you ice cream, I’m gonna remind her how much dental visits cost,” you coo, pinching his nose. 

He runs off to unpack his bags, which leaves you alone with your mother who is much too perceptive for her own good. 

“So, good weekend?”

“Good,” you brush off, glancing at your gleaming kitchen counter.

“Did you bring a man home?”

“Mother!” You gasp, “We are not talking about that.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re an adult, I’m sure the birds and the bees talk is no longer necessary. Not to mention protection, you’ve learned your lesson there.”

“Thanks,” you drawl.

“I’m just saying you look… good. Satisfied.” Your cheeks flame. “You know you’re allowed to have a life outside of all this. You’re still young and there’s still time to find love.”

Love, huh? Scott’s face appears in your mind with that stupidly attractive smirk. You shake your head. “Yes, Mom. I’m aware.” She stares skeptically at you. “I know. It was just a night of fun. I have responsibilities, can’t be reckless anymore.” 

“It was chance,” your mom murmurs, “you were never reckless.”

“The universe has picked her favorites and I’m not one of them,” you laugh, “but I think I milked my luck with Ben, can’t ask for a better kid. Hopefully he behaved?”

“He was an angel.” You nod, humming. “Are you not going to tell me about this man then?”

Groaning, you try to walk away from her but she follows you down the hall. “There’s nothing to tell and I didn’t bring him home.”

“Oh, you stayed at his?”

“No, I… went home.”

She lets out a little surprised noise. “That bad?”

No, that good. “I’m not discussing this with you further.” 

Monday sends you crashing back to earth. While you spent your Sunday recuperating with Ben, a calm day of eating vegetables to balance the treats and touching grass on the playground, being back in this office — this dreary reality reminds you that life really isn’t that swell.

It doesn’t help that Jenna pounces the moment you walk in, an endless stream of questions pouring out of her lips about the hottie you were with and if you got your brains fucked out of your head. You don’t satisfy her with a response, slipping into your office and locking it shut.

An office job coordinating and babysitting adults for the sake of science was never part of the plan, but plans change and you’ve learned to accept it. Now, you’re stretching to work out the crick in your neck as you do a doom scroll of the countless unread emails in your inbox.

You’re trapped in there for most of the day, vision beginning to blur when you have to squint at the screen to decipher the letters. However, the banging close to the end of the day has you jolting awake at your desk, knee slamming up against your table.

A curse slips past your lips as you hop over to open it. Jenna — wide-eyed and dangerously excited — grins like a cat that’s caught a mouse.

“Hottie alert.”

You look at her, unimpressed. “Please don’t involve me in your plans to cross professional boundaries. I don’t want HR to mark me as an accomplice.”

“No, I mean hottie — as in hottie from the club who gave you those hickeys that even your concealer can’t hide.”

Your hands fly to your neck, where the bruises pulse in demand of your attention. Warmth crawls across your face. You’ve spent enough time allowing your mind to wander to memories from that night, you don’t need to do it again at work.

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s outside — looking for you!”

The splat of your heart dropping to the floor echoes in the ensuing silence. You must be hearing things because you could’ve sworn Jenna just told you that Scott is here at your workplace. The place where you work.

“No,” you blurt out.

“Yes,” she hisses, “get your ass out there. Clearly, you made quite the impression. Or did he make an impression with his dick inside your—”

“Finish that sentence and I revoke your rights to see Ben,” you warn and she gasps, biting down her giggles. “Can you just tell him I’m not here? Better yet, tell him there’s no one here by my name.”

She gives you a look. “He’s not an idiot. He saw me and clocked me as the friend who dressed her like that.”

Groaning, you press your forehead against the door.

“Was he that bad?”

Again, that good.

“He looks like a good time. Mind if I take a crack at him?”

The question has you jerking upright, your expression souring. Jenna’s a great friend, but Scott is— what is Scott? He’s nobody. He should be nobody.

“I’m kidding,” she laughs, “jeez, you’re obviously into him. Why are you being difficult?”

Because this will end the same way. Your heart broken. Scott gone again.

“Listen, I don’t think he’s leaving and the others are starting to gossip. They think you’ve got golden pussy that’s bringing a male suitor around this desperately.”

Fuck, the last thing you need is Scott causing problems at work. With a relenting sigh, you follow Jenna out front and find Scott standing there, looking impassively at some of the women — nurses and patients alike — who are shooting flirtatious looks at him. In fact, he’s not looking at them at all — his eyes float around the room until they land on you.

He doesn’t look pissed. No, his lips tug up into a smirk tinged with mirth. He says your name, your heart sinks. It sounds like a greeting and a threat. Your stomach turns.

Scott looks you up and down, a silent assessment that concludes in confusion at your clothes. Instead of addressing it, he hands you one of the cups in his hand.

“Tea,” he answers before you can ask, “with a spoonful of honey.”

Your favorite afternoon remedy.

Unfortunately, you feel your colleagues’ aggressively probing gazes burning to your side. It’s natural they’re curious; you’ve never had visitors aside from your mom and Ben — let alone a man. Let alone a man who looks like Scott.

You’ll never hear the end of this.

“Follow me.” You drag him by the elbow towards the waiting room, far away from the disappointed looks. When you’re finally out of sight, you turn around. “What are you doing here?”

Scott looks far from pleased, but his tone is calm. “Came to see you.” He shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee — probably black with a drop of cream.

“You can’t be doing this to me at work, Scott.”

“You weren’t responding to my texts.”

“I’m at work.”

“I can see that.”

“Don’t be cute.”

“You always think I’m cute.”

You take a deep breath. “Scott, what happened last Friday—” He perks up. “It can’t happen again.” 

“Why not?” He scowls, jaw clicking off to the side. 

“We’re adults now, we can’t be… doing whatever we were doing. It was fun when we were young but come on.”

“What? Too old to have fun?”

“I think I’m at a point where I should be looking for something serious, not a repeat of college.”

There’s a firmness to his eyes that makes you squirm. Something unexpectedly grave that’s foreign to Scott. “Serious,” he echoes, “you want serious?”

“Of course, I do.”

He licks his lips, taking a step towards you. Your heart skips a beat. 

“If that’s the case—”

“Mom!”

Your entire body goes cold, the word both warms and slashes your chest. Your son barrels down the hallway and you barely flinch when you feel his tiny arms wrap around your legs, Ben cheesing up at you with a toothy grin.

You don’t spare Scott a glance when you crouch down to Ben’s height, allowing him to wrangle you in a tight hug. “Hi, bud, what’re you doing here? I was supposed to meet you at home.”

“Missed you.” He pulls away to beam at you and your heart positively melts.

This perfect kid. “Missed you too, buddy,” you smile, “I still need to finish up work. Think you can be patient for me and wait a few more minutes?”

He blinks at you. “Aunt Jenna?”

You shake your head. Jenna is always a crowd favorite. “Aunt Jenna—”

“Is right here!” The familiar voice cheers as she appears next to you. Ben throws himself around her legs next with a giggle. “Come on, we’ve got some new toys in the playroom I can show you. Cool LEGOs.”

Before you know it, she’s already whisking him away, leavingyou, Scott, and your mother — who is staring at him with a little too much curiosity.

On the other hand, you can’t even bring yourself to look at him. The thing that shakes your confidence the most is his silence. Upset Scott goes on long tirades, spitting out vile things until he’s clam enough to take action.

However, a very, truly angry Scott is quiet. The rage simmers on the surface, bubbling in imminent explosion on the inside.

Your mother grins at him with sparkling eyes. “I never knew my daughter had such a handsome friend.”

“Mom!” You immediately scold, embarrassment spreading through you like wildfire.

Scott clears his throat, smile cordial as he turns to your mom. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I’m Scott. A friend.” The last word he seems to add reluctantly.

“Oh yes, she did mention… a friend,” your mom says with a teasing lilt that proves to push that stake of betrayal deeper into your gut. “We’re going to head back for dinner after this. Would you like to join us?”

“He has other things to do,” you say at the same time Scott responds with, “I’d love to.” This time, you do turn to look at him.

His eyes are cool, almost distant, as he regards you. It’s an impassive look that says more than most people expect. A shudder wracks through you as your mouth dries in fear.

“I’ll be there,” he emphasizes, looking pointedly at you.

Your body withers slightly under the intensity of his gaze and you choose to redirect your own displeasure at your mother who simply disregards you. “Wonderful, I’ll wait with Ben. Come find us when you’re done, honey.”

Leave it to your own blood to make the bed and force you to lie in it.

But you’re also your mother’s daughter so you take that as a chance to escape yourself. “I have to wrap up work so I’ll see you later,” you exhale quickly and high-tail out of there before he can even open his mouth.

Procrastinating emotions has always been your strong suit.

By the time you finish work and step back outside, you pray that Scott’s anger would’ve faded. He’s calm when he agrees to follow your family car in his own. You’re constantly peeking at your rearview mirror to see if he changes his mind but his car never disappears from your line of sight.

When you let all of them inside the apartment, Scott gives it a critical once-over. He politely toes off his shoes and steps into the living room. Sweat piles on the back of your neck as you urge Ben to wash up while you and your mom prepare dinner.

“Pasta alright?” You ask, testing the waters.

His answer is respectful and composed. A simple yes, thank you.

It only makes you more nervous.

Dinner passes by without a hitch, despite your bouncing knee the entier time. Your mom asks Scott how he knows you and what he does for work; she’s at least smart enough to tread carefully on the bigger questions of why you’ve never mentioned him and why he feels comfortable enough to show face at your job. The extent of his introduction to Ben is taht he is your son and Scott is your friend.

“Uncle Scott,” Ben confirms, familiarizing himself with Scott’s name on his tongue.

You see the ice in his eyes chip away, albeit slightly, but he nods.

After Ben gets exactly a single scoop of the chocolate chip ice cream in the fridge, you tell him that it’s finally time for bed. He whines about how having a guest means that he should be able to stay up longer. You give him one look and he promptly skulks to the bathroom. 

You take this chance to escape Scott’s attention for a little while; god knows his staring gets unnerving after two hours of it. You take your time preparing Ben for bed, switching him to his comfy pajamas, reading him his favorite book with the voices the way he likes it. When he’s finally out cold, you get up, press a kiss to his temple, and turn to exit. 

Scott’s standing in the doorway, watching you quietly. His expression is thoughtful, but he doesn’t say a word when you lead him back to the kitchen. 

You walk your mom to the door, thanking her for the day.

Her eyes wander to Scott behind you who seems intent on lingering even when it’s late. She smiles at you. “He seems like a good one,” she whispers. “I like him.”

“You’ve known him all of two hours.”

“I can sense it. I like how you are with him.” You raise an eyebrow in question. “Emotional. You get riled up so easily. You’ve spent the last few years playing adult that it’s sweet to see you like this.” 

Your cheeks are hot as you shoo her again. She throws out a final nice to meet you and see you again soon before she finally leaves the two of you alone.

Scott’s eyes chase after you as you fuss with your kettle, preparing caffeine for the conversation you’re about to have. Maybe you should break out that tequila buried deep inside your cabinet instead. He no doubt has questions. You don’t know if he’s connected the dots; you can only hope he hasn’t. Ben looks more like you after all.

There’s a small part of you that hopes Scott would know, call it fatherly intuition, but a bigger part of you wants to avoid addressing that question. He’s only here to visit, he doesn’t need to know that he has a son. If he doesn’t know, then the two of you can return to life as is once he leaves.

You don’t want to admit how much the thought stings.

“Ben,” Scott clears his throat as you set a cup of coffee in front of him. He gratefully accepts it, takes a sip. “Is his dad…”

“Not around.” It’s a safe answer.

“Who is he?”

“No one you know,” you lie smoothly, maybe too quickly.

His eyes narrow a fraction but he doesn’t push. “You never told me you have a son.”

“We weren’t talking, Miller. It would’ve been strange to say hey, hope you’re doing well, by the way, I have a kid!”

“Well, whose fault is that?” He snaps.

The air is strung tight, electricity crackling quietly in the echo of his words. 

“I just—” He takes a deep breath, hands shoved into his hair. “I don’t want to fight,” he says, doing his damndest to try and mean it. You know that he wants to push, to question, to challenge you. Confront you for leaving him in the wind. 

But he doesn’t want to lose you — the same way you don’t want to either. 

“Ben’s a good kid,” you murmur, thumb stroking the rim of your mug. 

“Well, you did raise him,” he notes, lips twitching up. 

You clear your throat. “This is why I can’t do… whatever that was last night again. It was a fluke and a mistake. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a night out like that and apparently I just needed to get laid.” 

Instead of the chuckle you’re expecting, some jab about you being abstinent, there is weight that settles heavy in the atmosphere. Scott looks at you carefully, lips tight. “A mistake? Really?”

“Not—” you stop yourself, biting your tongue, “not like that.” He cocks an eyebrow, looking at you with a mix of irritation and interest. “I just think I shouldn’t have been so irresponsible.”

“Why? You would’ve fucked any man that night?” 

“Of course not!”

“So just me then.”

“Yes!”

The moment the confirmation leaves your mouth, you stop. Scott smiles, smug. “Good to know.”

“Oh, screw you.”

“You already did.”

The urge to hurl your mug at his head grows stronger by the second.

Scott bites down on his smile but you can still see the ghost of amusement on his lips. “But, listen, in all seriousness, if you need anything— I know raising a kid isn’t cheap and, with your hours and obviously childcare and all the necessities—”

You cringe. “Please don’t tell me you’re offering me money right now.” 

“I just want to help.”

“Not your responsibility.”

His jaw clenches. “I know that, but it doesn’t mean I can’t help a friend.” 

His jaw clenches. “I know that, but it doesn’t mean I can’t help a friend.” 

You consider arguing with him again, defending your stance as a perfectly capable, independent, single mother. However, you know he means well. This is how Scott Miller helps, this is how he shows you he cares. 

“Thank you,” you sigh, “I appreciate it, but I promise you I’m fine.”

Scott hesitates for a second. “You’re not a nurse.” It’s not a question. 

“I wanted to do it, but the pregnancy and the tough hours just didn’t seem healthy – or fair to a newborn. I’m doing something safer, more regular hours. It’s not so bad.”

“Wasn’t your dream though.”

“Well, sometimes dreams don’t work out.”

He doesn’t look appeased. “Why not now? He’s a little more grown. How old is he?”

Your heart rushes in your ears. “I have a good routine going. It’s not like I hate what I’m doing now—”

“But you don’t love it.” Once again, not a question.

“It’s… a job, Scott, I’m lucky to be employed in this economy.”

He grunts but doesn’t push further. “I’m not going to give you shit for not telling me—”

“Shocker.” The sarcastic remark slips out on instinct, Scott tosses you a scalding look with no heat behind his eyes. 

“But at least let me try and help you.” He knows you too well, can sense the argument threatening to fall from your lips, so he quickly adds, “I don’t want to hear it. However I can help, I will.”

When he has this voice, you know there’s no point in arguing, so you let it slide. “Sure. Thank you,” you surrender. “How long are you here for?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon.”

Oh. You’re fast to school your expression. “Got it. We should plan to catch up properly at some point then. Maybe tomorrow morning.”

The corners of his lips tug up and you’re already rolling your eyes, ears tingling with the stupid comment to come. “You don’t think we did that already? Or did you want a repeat?”

“Pig.”

“You love it.” 

A laugh bubbles up your throat, light and airy that has Scott’s smile rising a smidgen higher. 

For a moment, you think everything will be okay.

+ sam: im sorry for the woman i've become with him (i'm not) (i love this idiot so dearly). hope you enjoyed this part and look forward for more drama to come in the second!!!

scott is yearning for (taglist): @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @pinksplace @stanmarvelous @coffinlolz @chloluvsdilfs @athenxt

You just had to stick it out for the time being. You wished you could say it was easy, but your brain was slowly being fried along with your body.

“Can I get you anything, honey?” 

You cracked open one eye and almost sighed at the sight in front of you. 

Clark loved the sun. And the sun loved Clark. It was literally how he functioned. So, in times like these he was the chirpiest you’d ever seen him— meanwhile you were sluggish and irritated. But he still tried to fit in to keep up appearances. He’d done it all his life. Even when you told him he didn’t have to do that in front of you, it was just a habit. 

Seeing him strutting around in nothing but a pair of basketball shorts wasn’t doing much to cool you down. His tight white shirt had been discarded somewhere between him vowing he could fix the AC and him giving up. You hadn’t complained, but it was evil. Almost every inch of his Kryptonian skin was on display and it was making you hotter than you already were.

You tried to shake off all your dirty thoughts. Now wasn’t the time. “Working air conditioning.” 

He smiled, strutting over with his god-like body. It was a miracle you didn’t let out a whine when he craned his neck to kiss you sweetly. 

“Already tried that, did more harm than good,” he joked. His large hand brushed some of your damp hair away from your even damper skin. Despite the way your nose scrunched in insecurity, the sweat didn’t seem to bother him one bit. “Anything else?” 

You shook your head. You’d tried everything. Fans, going outside, popsicles (which nearly made Clark lose his mind). Nothing worked. You simply needed to not move an inch so you couldn’t possibly over exert yourself. That was the only way.

Clark felt bad that you were suffering, even though the sight of you in your underwear, with rivulets of sweat running down your body, was a rather appealing sight for him. He would leave you to your own devices until he found a solution.

By the time night fell, the air hadn’t gotten any cooler. Although the sun had long since disappeared, the temperature had remained at a similar level. To say you were over it would be an understatement. You were seconds away from snapping. Which made it all that much worse to be sharing a bed with a human-adjacent heater.

You had been tossing and turning for hours, trying to find any cool spot you possibly could. It wasn’t helping. Nor was the heavy arm thrown over your stomach. 

Normally you loved how Clark loved you. He was touchy, affectionate, and in any other weather you would have welcomed it. Right now though you were considering cutting his arm off just to cool you down. 

You tried to shuffle out from under him a few different times, and a few different ways. Of course your fidgeting was nothing on his otherworldly strength. He didn’t budge. Each time was getting you hotter and hotter. 

You were about ready to cry. 

By some will of God, with a quiet grunt he lifted his arm long enough to allow you your escape. As if even in his sleep he knew what you needed.

The relief didn’t last long. 

He couldn’t stay away from you. If you had known his next move you would have raced away before he trapped you again.

The first sign was his shuffling, followed by the creak of the bed as he shifted. His quiet mumbling, usually endearing, was now like a warning siren.

“No, honey,” you tried to warn, but it was no use. He hadn’t heard you.

His arm found its old place once again, only this time he tucked his head into the crook of your neck. That wasn’t the worst of it. The moment he pressed his front to your back it was as though your skin was sizzling.

There was zero way you could sleep like this. Not for a second. Your only choice was to enforce strict rules about staying on his own side of the bed tonight. 

Either keep your hands to yourself or go home.

It should have been easy. And it would have been. If hurting his feelings wasn’t like kicking a puppy.

You shook him awake, being met with a semi-startled grumble. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Even half asleep, with eyes lidded and awful bedhead, he was still the most devastatingly beautiful man you’d ever seen.

You had to soften the blow. “Clark, handsome,” you cupped his cheeks, stroking your thumb over the slightly heated skin. He gazed at you like you were the only thing that mattered. Not a single piece of his focus was aimed anywhere but at you. “I love you. You’re the light of my life.”

His entire face lit up, cheeks tinting pink as his big, doe eyes filled with adoration for you. It was how he always looked at you, you were just noticing it more right now because you were about to break his heart.

“But if you keep touching me right now I’m going to break up with you.” You would never, ever, but you needed him to understand the level of seriousness you were at. Nothing and no one should mess with your sleep like this.

His face fell.

You felt horribly guilty.

“Okay.” His voice came out quiet, which frankly made you feel even worse.

“It’s not you. Well, it is. Your body is, like, a thousand degrees. Must be some Kryptonian thing. Usually it’s great, but right now… It’s just too hot, you know?” You were over explaining because you felt bad.

He nodded. “Okay.” 

“Okay.” 

The two of you fell back into silence, filled with only the sheets underneath you rustling as you rolled onto your side again, facing away from him. You would cave too quickly if you could see his pouty expression. It was safer this way.

He managed to leave you alone for all of two minutes, a record for him.

He gently moved your hair from the back of your neck, pulling a huff out of you. “Clark, what did I just say?” 

The sudden icy breeze on the back of your neck was heavenly. You gasped, followed by something akin to a pleased moan as the feeling cooled your entire body down for the first time today.

“Oh my God. What is that?” 

“Super-breath. I didn’t tell you?” He knew full well he hadn’t. You could hear the smile in his voice.

Your eyes fluttered shut at the borderline orgasmic chill that ran down your spine. One of your hands reached backwards, landing on the hardened muscle of his torso. Yet another reason on the very long list of why Clark Kent was the greatest man in the world. The more you thought about it, the more sense it made that he was from another planet. No man on Earth could ever quite live up to him. 

“No! I’ve been melting all day— you’re evil. Why wouldn’t you tell me about this?” 

“I’ve got to leave some tricks up my sleeve.” 

He was enjoying this.

With a newfound energy that you hadn’t had all day, you rolled over to face him, finally able to stomach the thought of being near his molten body. You blinked a couple times at the sight of him, looking all smug and handsome in a sleepy way. It truly wasn’t fair that he could get away with being this attractive.

“Do you even love me?” 

That startled a laugh out of him. “Of course I do.” 

You narrowed your eyes, acting like you were unsure. “You promise to keep doing that until I fall asleep?” He hummed, entirely amused with you despite how tired he was. He would walk, or in his case fly, to the ends of the Earth for you— staying up a little longer to make sure you were comfortable wasn’t exactly asking much of him. “Okay. Then I guess I believe you.”

“Close your eyes, honey.” 

When your eyes fell shut you expected the same immediate relief he’d given you moments ago, but instead you were met with his thumb softly brushing underneath your eyes, then down the slope of your nose and over the line of your lips. 

Your heart thumped in your chest. 

The cool sensation of his so-called Super breath came a second later. 

You hummed, a small, content smile creeping onto your face. This was the happiest you’d been all day. “I am so in love with you, Clark Kent.” 

Who needed air conditioning when your boyfriend was basically Elsa?

Maybe you decided too quickly. You didn't realize it until the third day.

The first day without Clark was fine. You tidied up the apartment a little, the baby slept most of the day, and you thought that maybe it was nice having the space all to yourself.

The second day started to feel strange.

The couch was empty.

There was no freshly brewed coffee in the morning.

The kitchen was clean but quiet, without the sound of Clark moving pots around.

The third day was worse.

You missed his presence already.

Not just his help, but his company.

The sound of his breathing from the other room.

The way he held the baby and spoke to her softly, as if she could understand him.

The way he glanced at you when he thought you weren't looking.

You told yourself it was pregnancy sensitivity.

Or postpartum hormones.

That you were emotional, that everything felt bigger than it really was.

But no matter how many times you repeated that to yourself, the sadness wouldn't leave.

It was a small thing, but irritating, like a pebble trapped inside your shoe.

You missed him.

And you didn't know whether it was love or habit, but you missed him.

That night, the baby cried through the early hours of the morning.

It wasn't the kind of soft cry that could be soothed with a lullaby.

It was loud.

Desperate.

The kind of cry that breaks your heart because you don't know what else to do.

You picked her up and rocked her.

You sang to her.

You nursed her.

You changed her diaper.

Nothing worked.

The baby kept crying, and you felt like you were about to cry too.

It was two in the morning.

You hadn't slept at all.

Every time you closed your eyes, she started screaming again.

Moonlight streamed through the window, illuminating your exhausted, desperate face.

You sat on the bed with the baby in your arms, and suddenly, unable to stop yourself, you started crying.

Heavy tears rolled down your cheeks and fell onto the little girl's head.

With a trembling hand, you grabbed your phone from the nightstand.

You unlocked it and searched for Clark's name.

You typed quickly, without thinking:

"Can you come over?"

But before you could send the message, you heard a noise at the window.

You looked up and saw him.

Clark was already there, floating outside your window in the blue-and-red suit he wore when he flew.

He slipped through the frame like a shadow, barely making a sound.

You stared as he stepped inside, concern written all over his face, his eyes immediately searching the baby, then you, then any sign of danger.

"What happened? Are you both okay?" he asked hurriedly, still adjusting his cape.

"The baby's fine," you said, and the moment the words left your mouth, you cried even harder. "She won't stop crying, Clark. I don't know what to do. I barely got her to sleep a little while ago, and now she's awake again. I think I'm not good at this."

Clark smiled.

It wasn't a mocking smile.

It wasn't pity.

It was the kind of gentle smile that says, It's okay. Everything's going to be alright.

He approached slowly so he wouldn't startle you and wrapped his arms around you.

He held you carefully, as if you were a crystal glass that could shatter.

One hand rested against your back while the other gently stroked the baby's head.

"It's part of the process," he said in his calm voice. "Babies cry. They don't know how to talk, they don't know how to point at things. They only know how to cry when something feels wrong. It's not your fault."

"But I don't know what's wrong with her," you sobbed against his chest.

"I'm going to buy everything that might help," Clark said. "A wipe warmer, some drops for colic, one of those pacifiers everyone recommends, a white-noise machine. Don't worry. I'll take care of it."

And while he said that, he was already thinking about everything he had read online during those two weeks, every product parents recommended for babies who cried for no apparent reason.

Clark pulled away just enough to cup your cheeks in his large, gentle hands.

Slowly, with his thumbs, as if he had all the time in the world, he wiped away your tears.

His fingers were warm, and the touch made you feel a little less alone.

"Actually," he said, "I'll leave when she starts sleeping through the night and you're able to get proper rest. Until then, I'm staying."

You looked at him, your eyes still wet.

Meanwhile, the baby had calmed down a little, only whimpering softly against your chest.

You knew Clark was doing a lot for you.

Maybe too much.

And it hurt to say it, but you said it anyway.

"But it's not your responsibility. You're only the donor."

Clark nodded because it was true.

He was only the donor.

But he was also something more.

Something he didn't dare say out loud.

The father.

The man hopelessly in love with you.

"But I'm your friend," he said instead, "and I'd love to help you. Really. Not because I feel obligated. Because I want to."

That word—friend—settled in your chest like a warm coat in winter.

It wasn't what you might have wanted to hear.

But it was exactly what you needed in that moment.

Someone who would stay without asking for anything in return.

You hugged him, squeezing the baby safely between the two of you, and Clark closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

I wish this moment would never end.

I wish I could stay like this forever.

Clark guided you gently back to bed.

First, he made sure the baby was completely asleep and settled her into her bassinet with a small blanket wrapped around her.

Then he returned to you.

"Let me check your incision," he said.

Even though it made you a little embarrassed, you nodded because you knew he only wanted to help.

You lay back against the mattress and lifted your shirt slightly.

Clark knelt beside the bed and, with extreme care, examined the C-section scar with the tips of his fingers.

It was pink.

Healing well.

No signs of infection.

"It's better than last week," he said quietly, almost as if he were speaking to himself.

He took the opportunity to use his special vision, just in case there was something that couldn't be seen with the naked eye.

Everything looked fine.

Clark also started hugging you more.

At first, they were quick hugs, the kind people give when saying hello or goodbye.

But then they became longer.

Tighter.

More necessary.

He knew you were still sensitive from the C-section, that sometimes your back hurt or you felt tired for no reason.

And he had discovered that when he hugged you, you relaxed.

That your body softened against his, as if his arms were the only place where you could finally lower your guard.

So he started hugging you for no reason.

In the kitchen, while you waited for the food to heat up.

In the living room, while the baby napped.

By the entrance, before he went out to buy something.

And you, without thinking too much about it, leaned into his chest.

Closing your eyes and resting your head against his shoulder had become a habit.

And many times, without even realizing it, you fell asleep like that.

Standing.

Wrapped in Clark’s arms.

He would feel you grow heavier against him, hear your breathing become slower and deeper, and then he would carefully carry you to the couch or the bed.

He would lay you down gently, cover you with a blanket, and stay there for a while, watching you sleep.

He used those moments to stroke your hair, running his fingers through your strands as if they were silk.

It was his favorite moment of the day.

When you didn’t have to pretend anything.

When you didn’t have to be strong.

When you were just you, sleeping peacefully, and he could love you without anyone seeing.

That was when Clark realized that maybe Clark Kent could have the life he had always longed for.

The life of a normal man.

A home.

A woman waiting for him.

A daughter who smiled at him when he came back from work.

The kind of life people had in movies, with family dinners and unhurried weekends.

And he could hide it.

He could keep being Superman when the world needed him, and still come home before dawn.

He could have both.

Because seeing you there, with the baby in your arms, was enough to make him want to try everything.

But he was afraid.

That fear wouldn’t leave, no matter how hard he pushed it away.

It was like a shadow following him everywhere.

And it wasn’t a small fear.

It was a large, heavy fear that tightened around his chest when he least expected it.

The little girl was growing.

Every day, she was stronger.

More alert.

More beautiful.

She learned how to smile.

How to crawl.

And as he watched her grow, he thought about all the terrible things that could happen.

A villain discovering he had a daughter.

Someone following them to your apartment.

The little girl inheriting his powers and not knowing how to control them.

Hurting herself.

Or worse, hurting someone else by accident.

Those images haunted him at night, when everything was dark and his mind refused to stop spinning.

One day, without saying anything, Clark made a decision.

He went back to his apartment.

It wasn’t a goodbye.

It wasn’t a fight.

It wasn’t a door slammed shut.

It was an, “I’m going home to sleep, I’ll be back tomorrow,” that turned into, “I stayed behind to take care of a few things, I’ll come by over the weekend.”

And then into an entire week without him crossing your doorway.

You didn’t say anything to him, because what could you say?

It was his home.

He had every right to be there.

But you missed him.

You missed him the way people miss the sun in winter.

The bed felt bigger and colder.

The empty couch seemed to stare back at you accusingly.

The baby turned her head toward the door every time she heard a sound, as if she were waiting to see him walk in.

And so did you.

Even if you refused to admit it.

You knew he had to keep living his life.

You couldn’t keep him locked inside your apartment forever.

It wasn’t fair.

Besides, you started thinking things that hurt.

What if he truly loved someone else?

What if, someday, he met a woman who didn’t have a recent C-section scar and a crying baby at two in the morning?

What if he wasn’t afraid of anything with someone else?

And then forgot about you?

That thought pierced your chest like a thorn.

You tried to pull it out, but it kept coming back again and again.

You shouldn’t be angry if that happens, you told yourself.

He was only a donor.

He wasn’t your boyfriend.

He wasn’t your husband.

He hadn’t promised you anything.

He was just a friend who had been very generous.

And if one day he fell in love with someone else and left, you would have to accept it.

You would have to smile and wish him the best.

Even if your whole world collapsed inside you.

Even if you didn’t want that.

Even if you wanted the exact opposite.

When the little girl turned seven months old, you went back to work.

Not at the Daily Planet.

Not yet.

You worked from home.

Editing articles.

Correcting drafts.

Sending emails to journalists so they would rewrite entire paragraphs.

It was tedious work, invisible work, but someone had to do it.

Perry valued your work because it was still excellent, even if you were doing it from the dining table with the baby crawling between your feet.

He called you once a week to ask how you were, and he always ended up saying, “Whenever you want to come back, your position is here.”

That made you feel good.

It reminded you that you weren’t just a mother.

You were also an editor.

You also had a life.

Clark, for his part, didn’t disappear completely.

He was still present, but in a different way.

On Fridays, after work, he knocked on the door.

He didn’t knock loudly.

He didn’t make noise with the knocker.

Just two gentle taps with his knuckles, as if he didn’t want to disturb you.

You opened the door and he was there, with a tired but sincere smile, his hands full of things.

He picked up the little girl immediately.

He took her into his arms as if it were the most natural thing in the world, lifted her above his head, and the baby let out a contagious laugh.

A laugh that made even the plants in the apartment want to dance.

The little girl knew him very well.

She recognized his scent, his voice, the tickle of his beard when he brought her close to his cheek.

And Clark loved that child with an intensity he could barely contain.

His entire face lit up when she grabbed one of his fingers with her tiny hand.

You hesitated whenever you watched him holding her.

Whenever you saw him laughing with her, spinning her in the air, blowing raspberries against her little belly.

Something moved inside you.

Something you didn’t know how to name.

You wanted him there every night.

Not just on Fridays.

Not just once in a while.

You wanted him every day.

Every hour.

Every minute.

But you knew that wouldn’t happen.

You couldn’t ask that of him.

It wasn’t fair.

And besides, what were you supposed to say?

Stay with me because I can’t bear it when you leave?

It sounded insane.

It sounded like someone in love.

Clark looked at you and smiled.

That quiet smile of his, the one that always disarmed you.

But there was something in his eyes too.

Something you didn’t know how to read.

Something that seemed to say, I miss you too, but in a language neither of you dared to speak.

He never arrived empty-handed.

He brought gifts for the little girl.

A new rattle.

A cardboard book with animals.

A soft stuffed toy the baby sucked on until it was soaked with drool.

And for you, dessert.

Always something different.

Flan.