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"you have a nest. on another entity's level. a tall, powerful entity's level."

you tilt your head back to look up at him better, his borrowed jaw is clenched. his borrowed eyes dark. his clicking has gone silent, which is worse than sound. silent means processing and processing is dangerous.

"it's not a nest," you rebuke smoothly. "it's a bed."

"a bed. with a pillow. and a blanket. in a designated space. that another entity built for you. specifically. in his territory. where you sleep." a pause, and the borrowed jaw pulses rapidly. "that's a nest. that's a mating nest. he built you a mating nest."

"it's a bed. there's a difference."

a growl vibrates in his chest. "there's no difference. a designated sleeping space built by another entity for your specific use in their territory is a nest and you have one and it belongs to a seven-foot faceless entity who collects pink things and I am going to—"

you burst out laughing. you can't help it. his frequency is vibrating with such outsized territorial fury that the blankets are trembling and a pillow is vibrating in your peripheral.

he flips you. your back in the blankets, his weight over you while his hands settle on your shoulders, pinning you flat. his borrowed face close, expression tight and dark with outraged. his hips press you into the nest, his body covering yours completely, and the possessiveness of the position is making his frequency do mine, under me, staying here signals.

"you are not going to other nests."

"it's a bed—"

"you are not going to other beds. you are not resting in other entities' territories." his hand slides from your shoulder to your hip. gripping. pulling you tighter against him. "especially not the territory of a seven-foot entity with a pleasant frequency who builds you furniture."

"they're very nice pillows though."

"I will get you better pillows." his other hand finds your jaw, tilting your face toward him. his borrowed mouth close to yours, his eyes dark and hot. "I will get you the pinkest pillows in the entire backrooms. you are not sleeping in his bed."

"they're pink."

"I will strip every pink surface from every level and build you a pillow fort so aggressively pink it's visible from the deep levels." his thumb pushes into the soft skin under your jaw, his hips grinding against yours with a possessive roll that makes your clicking stutter. "you're sleeping here. under me. in my nest. are we clear?"

you're laughing so hard your borrowed ribs ache. your body squirms under his, wriggling, and every wiggle makes his grip tighten, his hand flat on your hip, pulling you flush against him. his body is hard and jealousy is bleeding into arousal so thoroughly he can't tell which is which anymore.

you nip his chin. his jaw. his nose. quick, playful bites between giggles.

"so jealous," you coo, your borrowed hands finding his face, squishing his borrowed cheeks. "so jealous. my poor old man. so threatened by a pink pillow and a tall man."

"he's not a man he's a—and I am not threatened—"

"the oldest entity in the backrooms." you peck his forehead. "the apex predator." peck to his cheek. "three thousand years of unmatched power." peck to the bridge of his nose. "losing his mind because a seven-foot entity gave me a pillow."

"he's seven feet tall." his hand tightens on your hip, his mouth dropping to your throat. biting the soft skin there, sucking, scent-marking you while he argues, talking against your pulse. "he's tall and powerful and he lives alone and he built you a bed and those are mating behaviours. territory-sharing. nest-building. gift-giving. he's courting you—"

"he's being nice—"

"nobody is that nice without an agenda." he bites your throat again. harder. his borrowed teeth pressing possessive marks into your skin. "especially not a seven-foot entity with his own level."

"but he made me tea once."

silence, then, "how does a seven-foot faceless entity make tea?"

you hum sagely. "he's very dexterous, and the tea was lovely."

a snarl so loud your insides clench.

"i'm going to destroy level 974."

"no you're not."

"i'm going to destroy it and build a new level. level 974-b. with pink pillows, and tea, and no seven-foot faceless entities who build beds for other people's mates."

you stop squirming, look up at him. his borrowed face flushed and furious and so earnest it makes your chest warm.

you reach up, wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him down. he resists for a second (still bristling, still radiating territorial outrage) and then his borrowed body gives and he sinks into you. your legs hooking around his waist. your arms tight around his shoulders. you pull him close and bury your face in his throat and breathe in his scent (old, cold, mineral, home) and hum.

low and warm and sure. your frequency pressing against his, calming the bristle, smoothing the agitation.

"this is home," you murmur against his throat. "this nest. your nest. you."

his clicking stutters, goes quiet, restarts in a different register. lower. softer.

"the bed on 974 is nice. the pillow is nice. the blanket is very soft and very pink and mr kitty is kind and his tea is good." you press a kiss to the scar on his throat. your scar. "but I don't burrow into his blankets when i'm cold. I don't press my face into his side of the nest to smell him, and I don't fall asleep listening to his purr."

his arms come around you. tight. his face dropping into your hair.

"this is home," you say again, quiet but final. your frequency wrapping around his tightly, making him growl, a pleased, deep sound. "you're home."

silence. his chest expands with a breath he doesn't need.

"... i'm still getting you pink pillows," he mumbles into your hair.

"okay."

"and the blanket on 974 is getting confiscated."

"absolutely not."

"fine, negotiable. except the bed. the bed is being destroyed."

"the bed is mr kitty's property—"

"the bed is a hostile territorial claim and I will be addressing it with him directly."

"you are not going to level 974 to fight about a bed."

"watch me."

you bite his ear. he growls. you bite it again and wrap yourself tighter around him and purr into his throat. his growl softens into a rumble and the rumble softens into a purr and both of you lie there in the nest (his nest, your nest, home) wrapped around each other while his borrowed hands grip the back of your shirt and his frequency slowly, grudgingly, settles.

Okay so, there's a dead body in your freezer, a vigilante at your door, and a very real possibility that your future involves forever-turned-on lights, communal toilets, and a prison guard with suspicious interests. School does not prepare you for situations like these.

You don't quite remember much of school, only that you passed enough classes to secure a nine-to-five and afford an apartment with electricity. Electricity keeps the freezer running. The freezer keeps the body cold. Until tonight, that has been enough to prevent situations like this.

The vigilante seems far more concerned about your well-being than whatever crimes might be waiting inside your apartment. He keeps trying to peer past you, tilting his pretty face toward the narrow gap you have left between the door and its rotting frame.

Your fingers blanch on the knob.

“Is anyone else home?” the vigilante asks. His tone is easy, almost careless, but his gaze keeps moving over your face. The way his eyes move makes you uneasy. Does he know? Is he going to take you to prison? Are you going to end up on death row?

“I was expecting somebody else.” He laughs softly, then adds on quickly, “Not that finding you instead is a bad thing. It’s just…” His eyes flick past your shoulder toward the apartment. “Could I come inside for a minute? I need to check something.”

The door is open exactly six inches. Any narrower is rude; any wider, he’ll see the kitchen. Then he might ask about the deep freezer.

You certainly don't care about a man dressed like a bum with a hero suit underneath: joggers, an unzipped jacket, and the dark blue bird stretched across his chest. He does seem familiar.

But everyone does when you lose your memory.

“It’s too late to let strangers in,” you say rather flatly. You wouldn’t want a bum like him in your apartment anyway. Dead body or not.

His brows pinch, disappointment sliding across that perfect face.

Wrong answer.

Adjust.

A practical thought clicks into place: if he sees the freezer, punishment follows. A pre-emptive correction would be simply killing him. But there is no physical room beside the meal prep. Shifting him to the fridge would evict five days of carefully portioned meals, and the power bill is already stripping your bank account. Spoiled food means no food. No food means starving.

You can’t afford to get stupid.

A gentle tap-tap on the doorframe pulls your eyes back up. He smiles, soft and warm, igniting an unwelcome heat in your cheeks. To your surprise, his cheeks are pink as well.

“I’ll just… call her,” he murmurs, fingers drifting toward his pocket.

“She’s on vacation,” you blurt, too loud and way too quick to be considered normal. Another wrong answer, if the brief, puzzled tilt of his brow means anything.

But then he smiles, thinner this time, as though he is masking a bruise of disappointment. Either he is already suspicious and plans to alert the authorities, or he will try again on some quieter night. For the moment, you survive the encounter.

Still, a problem remains: there’s no freezer space for a second corpse, not unless you ditch the meal prep.

You watch him retreat down the dim hallway, one hand lifted in a genial wave before he disappears into the rattling elevator cage at the far end. Only when the doors slide shut do you slam the deadbolt, shove the chain back in place, and glance at the freezer.

Preparations will have to begin tonight.

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The week passes without sirens, arrests, or freezer re-arrangements. You almost believe the vigilante was a fever dream - until a new voice slides through the paper-thin wall.

The building has been hollow for two years; anyone with sense either fled or wrapped themselves in the same caretaker-cocoon that once shielded you. Six months ago that cocoon tore, and routine became sedative: clock-in, clock-out, corpse check, reheated meal prep. The caregiver’s old tablet still pings PAID each month, money shrinking in an account you can’t access. Don’t think about investigations. Investigations ask questions.

The scrape-and-thud of furniture next door means fresh eyes. You crouch on cracked linoleum, snapping dry ramen into crooked shapes beside the chained freezer, and listen to a mid-twenties male voice on speaker: boxes, deliveries, parking permits - ordinary words that grate because ordinary people notice smells and knock on management’s door when your apartment is too loud. You swallow brittle noodles and run tonight’s checklist: finish the last stir-fry, rewrap the feet - frostburn is creeping, drain the drip tray, and smile if the newcomer says hello.

Caregiver’s Rule #12: smiles disarm.

Across the wall, you hear a door close. His front door. Footsteps echo down the hall, unless it’s only your heartbeat. It’s difficult to tell. The sound seems to move through the floorboards instead of over them, each step pressing closer, until the apartment feels too small to hold you, the freezer, and all the terrible inside it.

Is he going to introduce himself now?

You click the lock shut on the freezer. The faint sound of safekeeping does nothing to stop the dread that fills you with every step outside your door. Then comes a light tap against the wood, just like before.

You slowly ease yourself up, trying to seem neither too willing to open the door nor too afraid of what waits behind it.

Afraid people invite questions.

You force a smile onto your face. Do you look normal? Does the body smell, and have you simply gotten used to it?

The math is getting ugly: one freezer, one body, two possible problems.

Play smart.

Unlocking the door proves to be more difficult than it was a week ago. Your hands shake as they slide the lock out of place, and you do your best attempt at a cheerful smile. “You must be the new neighbor,” you force out.

Unease settles low in your stomach as you glance up at him. Same height as the vigilante who came by last week. Less of a bum, however. He wears a cardigan over a white shirt, with nice-looking pants that seem dry-cleaned, which is odd for a resident in this slum of a building. Same blue eyes that pin you in place and the same familiar dimpled smile that reminds you of your nightmares from the other night.

It would be easier if they were the same person. Then you would only have one body to worry about, but the chances of them being the same are awfully slim, and you are not one to take chances. Especially when there’s a cell waiting for you.

“I am,” he says, voice coated in honey. “Thin walls, huh?”

He’s friendlier than the vigilante from last week, though that does nothing to comfort you. His voice is nothing but warm, neighborly, and harmless. Suspicion builds in your stomach. Or maybe you’re just hungry. However, you don’t quite enjoy the caged-animal feeling that licks up your spine when his arm comes to rest against the wall, blocking your view of the hallway and any possible exits.

Nice guys - those are the ones you worry about.

“Dick Grayson,” he offers, extending a hand you refuse. Too risky to exchange DNA when there’s a felony cooling five feet away. “Blüdhaven PD. Anything you need…”

Shit. Sirens begin to scream inside your skull. The freezer rattles awake behind you. Your sins are already mocking you.

You manage that it must be “nice” - wrong adjective.

His smile slices: “Nice isn’t the word.”

You scramble for “safe,” tack on “for you” as if that helps. Since cops get wrist-slaps for killing, your brain mutters - you choke the thought down.

He softens, coaxing: “It’s not always safe.” Bait. Your gaze returns to his hands - broad, sure, the sort that could pry a freezer lid or close over a throat. Your stomach tightens. He keeps the patter light, claims he didn’t want to be rude, asks if you’re always like this.

“Yes,” you say, which somehow amuses him. You don’t really get the social cue behind it all. Then the real kicker, delivered with a wink: “Have a good night - and don’t forget your medication.”

Your smile turns to ice. You never mentioned the pills.

You should really kill him.

First plan: poison - too slow. Second: ceramic vase - probably shatters. Third: push him down the stairs - lobby cameras.

Should’ve checked the cameras.

Sirens howl in your head; even the freezer seems to vibrate with them. He knows you’re unmedicated. Worse - he knows you’re alone.

This is still normal, you insist, bolting the door a second time now. The padlock’s click echoes louder than his footsteps retreating down the hall.

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You’ve been hiding ever since Dick Grayson moved in two weeks ago. Since then, he has learned your schedule like the back of his own hand. He knows when you leave, hears the tardy shuffle in your step, counts the key fumbles when you chase the bus. He even indulges himself by stopping at the same coffee shop every morning, just to say hello before you scamper off to your pitiful nine-to-five. On Fridays, you return late with plastic bags full of discount groceries, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of marked-down items.

You used to leave the apartment more. Not much, but enough. A trip to the mailbox before work. A stop at the corner store after. Sometimes you would linger outside the laundromat with your tote bag pressed to your side, watching people through the glass like you were trying to remember how normal worked. But now that he has moved in beside you, your schedule has changed, and so have the dark circles under your eyes. You avoid him more often than not. You keep your curtains drawn shut, the cheap fabric pulled tight even in the middle of the afternoon. You only access the mailbox when he leaves for work, even if the morning paper you are so insistent on grabbing is already a day behind.

A sigh escapes him as he lies on his bed, shoulder pressed against the shared wall, listening for any sound from your apartment.

Nothing.

That bothers him more than noise would. The breaker tripped a few hours ago. He heard the electricity die through the wall, that low mechanical hum in your apartment cutting out all at once, leaving behind a flat, ugly quiet. It would be easy to climb onto your patio, pick the lock, and flip the switch back on for you. An easier option would be to check whether the caregiver he hired took the money and left you all alone.

His jaw tightens. You shouldn’t be working in your condition.

He groans into the hands resting over his face, dragging his palms down until the heels press against his eyes. Then he turns, burying his face into your old pillow. It barely smells like you anymore, but he still keeps it tucked beneath his head every night like a comfort plush.

How long have you been alone? It has to be at least six months. Maybe seven. You were fine when he left for Gotham. Or fine enough. The accident had left you different, sure. More numb. A little damaged in a way even the best doctors could not fully smooth over. But you had been alive and mostly manageable.

It has been two years now since the accident. Two years since the ring box sat heavy on the car’s center console, black velvet catching the passing streetlights every time the vehicle moved beneath them. He had asked you too soon. He knows that. You knew that. The two of you had been fighting more. He had been getting rougher with you, quicker to grab, to corner, to tell himself it was only because you scared him when you talked about leaving. You had threatened to leave. He had started acting too much like Bruce, all paranoia.

He has always been too hasty. Asking for your hand in marriage was never the mistake. Just the timing of it. You had stared at him with tears in your eyes as you tried to set boundaries, your face losing color as he promised he would keep you safe. No matter how badly you misunderstood him. Your fingers had curled around the seat belt, pressed hard against the buckle.

He had thought you were overwhelmed. Even tried the calming techniques first, using a low voice that typically worked with your outbursts. His hand open. Breathe with me, princess. You’re okay. But you kept shaking your head and reaching for the door, so he had started reaching for the tranquilizer dart in the back seat, just to get you quiet until he could bring you home and keep you safe until the wedding.

You were probably just afraid of happiness. Maybe that’s why you did it.

You were quick to unlock the car door. Quicker than his hand as he lunged across the console. Even faster than the desperate grip of his fingers against your sleeve before you slipped through them and threw yourself out of the vehicle.

Did you have to jump?

The question is as familiar as the guilt that ate him alive when he saw you in the hospital, your head wrapped in white, tubes taped to your skin and down your throat, machines clicking and breathing around you. Severe brain damage, they said. A long recovery. But money fixed enough of it. Bruce’s money. The best doctors the area could offer, even some who flew in. Bruce’s hand clamped heavy on his shoulder as the old man told him, “Don’t let it get to you. There are plenty of fish out there.”

But you were the only one he wanted to catch.

Did you have to throw yourself out of a moving car to get away from him? Was life with him that hellish?

He hates that word. Hellish. It doesn’t belong in his memories with you. Not in the kitchen, where he cooked meals and set bowls in front of you even when you glared at him as if he had poisoned them. Sure, you threw one at his face once. Called him a pervert. A fake hero. But you were simply cranky some days. Overwhelmed. Easy to brush off, the same way you brushed away the blankets he laid over your shoulders when you pretended not to be cold.

It doesn’t belong with the little doodles and notes he left on the fridge either, even if some of them came back shredded into death notes. Or with the scissors he had to pry from your hands while you threatened to slit your throat if he didn’t let you leave.

Of course, there were nights when you slow-danced with him in the living room to old love songs, your cheek resting against his chest as you finally got tired of fighting. Or even the mornings when you woke soft and quiet, blinking up at him like you forgot why you were angry. The afternoons when you asked so prettily for fresh air after he had kept you locked in the bedroom for too long, voice hoarse, fingers curled into his shirt.

Sure, spanking worked when you got too difficult, but so did a good timeout from time to time. You always melted against him after being alone long enough.

You could be sweet when you wanted to be. That was love. It had to be love.

He had loved you enough to try to move on with Barbara back in Gotham. It worked for a couple of weeks. Better than sitting at your bedside, loving you through recovery while you could barely remember who he was, watching your confused, frightened eyes fill with fear when he leaned too close. The times when he needed to remind you with a hand pinching your air tube that he was still the person you were supposed to kiss back.

His hand curls against the bedsheet where you would have slept.

If the Joker had not been loose for six months, Dick would have come back to you sooner. He would have continued his weekly checkups while you were drugged and less observant. Your caregiver was always good at giving you more than you needed to help with the nightmares she claimed were about him.

They’re just dreams. He’s not your monster.

You slept deeply enough then that he could sit beside your bed, brush the hair from your face, adjust your blanket, and pretend the quiet between you was peace instead of punishment. You never flinched in your sleep.

He cut things off with Barbara when he came back here. Watched her cry as he held her, her face tucked against his shoulder, her fingers twisting in the back of his shirt. He felt bad. Of course he felt bad. But her tears didn’t make him want to choke sense into her. They didn’t make him want to kiss her until she stopped making that awful, broken sound.

Yours did, however.

You’re not the same as before. He expected that. Certainly much healthier than you were in the hospital, at least. Your social skills are lacking, but that is expected when a lamb first learns how to walk again. If anything, it works out for the best. You’re more relaxed around him now. You don’t keep the lock in place like you used to when the two of you were first seeing each other. You don’t insult him. You stopped crying. The list could go on and on about how oddly perfect things would be between you two.

Finally, he hears your footsteps down the hall. Should he greet you? No. That would be too eager. He shouldn’t frighten such a delicate creature after work.

Your front door unlocks. He listens to the stumble of your shoes against the floor, the rustle of a plastic bag, the small irritated sound you make when something bumps into the wall. After a handful of minutes, the breaker clicks back on. The apartment gives a faint electric shudder through the wall, and the hum returns. You must have noticed by now that it has been off for a couple of hours. It’s a heatwave, after all. You probably have too many appliances plugged in.

Maybe he could offer to cook for you tonight. Something simple. Pasta, maybe. Open that fresh bottle of wine he got from a buddy. He can show up at your door with a friendly neighbor smile, pretend he hasn’t spent the last few hours listening for proof you are still breathing. You might let him in if he plays his cards right. He can pour you a glass, make you laugh, kiss you before walking you back to your door like the old days.

Then he hears it.

Your door opens again.

Are you leaving?

Dick pushes himself upright, head tilting toward the wall. Your footsteps are quick this time. Frantic. You mutter under your breath, the same word over and over.

Ice.

You must be going to the convenience store. All your food must have spoiled, or at least enough of it to scare you. That refrigerator was never the greatest. It was never his idea to keep you here for two years. You were supposed to move in with him after one, but work got busy. Gotham got loud. People kept needing him, and you had been safe enough. Or he thought you were.

He’s already moving before he finishes the thought, tugging his work uniform back into place, smoothing a hand over his glossy dark hair in the mirror by the door. The uniform helps. A good excuse for running into you at the convenience store down the road.

A friendly neighbor coming home after a long night of police work.

Not a man following you into the night.

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If Dick had known you could make such a horrified expression and still look so painfully cute, he might have pulled a stunt like this sooner. The convenience store is nearly empty at this hour. Outside, the heatwave fogs the beer-ad glass; inside, you stand in front of the ice chest with both arms full, eight plastic bags stacked awkwardly against your chest, as if you’re trying to carry a body instead of save one. He taps your shoulder; you nearly drop everything.

“Throwing a party?” he teases, bright and harmless, as though meeting here were a coincidence either of you should believe. His gaze flicks from the bags to your face - eight is a lot of ice for someone with no friends in any file he’s pulled, no emergency contacts who call more than once, no coworkers who walk you home. You’re usually alone.

That has always made things easier.

Your eyes jump to his uniform, then his badge, before Dick lifts a hand in an open-palm wave.

“Easy,” he says. “Just me.” Your grip only tightens; water runs from a corner of one bag and slides down your wrist. You don’t seem to notice. You're so much stranger and more calculated - so unlike the version of you who once snapped at him for thrills and shoved him away after too many kisses. Different isn’t ruined; it’s just leverage.

Your reply is lost to the freezer hum and the cashier’s squeaking stool.

“What was that?” he prompts. You glance at the bored clerk, then back at him, and repeat too loudly: “It’s for coffee meal prep.” He nearly laughs. Eight bags for morning coffee? Adorable. He props a shoulder against the glass, frost blooming behind him. “You need eight for one cup?” A beat. “Tired of seeing me in the mornings?”

You look away, try to brush past. “It’s melting - I won’t have any to practice with if it melts.”

Practice? Before you can retreat, he lifts six bags off your pile. You jerk for them, a small startled sound, but he’s always been stronger. For an instant he sees the old fury in your eyes, enough to make his heart kick before he reins in the teasing.

“How about I help?” he offers gently.

You huff and push toward the register while meltwater stipples the floor. Dick follows, shifts the bags against his hip, and - before you can fish out your wallet - taps his card: beep. You freeze mid-reach.

“I had it,” you mutter.

“I know,” he smiles. “And now you still have it.”

Tension moves between you, louder than the compressor rattle; the cashier pretends not to listen.

Why eight bags? Maybe the breaker scare sent you spiraling, food spoiling after the caregiver vanished. No reason for you to budget groceries or lug ice through Blüdhaven at night when he’s right here. He’ll audit the caregiver’s spending, see where the money went.

The bell jingles as you step into wet heat. Sidewalk puddles shine under streetlights; a distant siren wails and fades. You walk too fast - shoes slapping pavement in a nervous tempo - bags swinging hard against your legs. Each time you edge toward the curb, Dick glides between you and traffic. “Careful,” he says. You flinch. “I’m careful.” Twice you reach for the ice he’s carrying; twice he shifts it easily away.

“They’ll melt faster if we stop to argue,” he reminds you. That quiets you, though your eyes keep darting: his hands, the street, the apartment looming ahead. Plastic crackles whenever your grip flexes, leaving a thin trail of meltwater. When you veer to the curb again, he blocks you.

“Walking on the outside,” he explains - seat-belt muscle memory, sleeve slipping from his grasp.

“That’s not necessary,” you protest.

“Humor me,” he smiles, and you swallow the argument.

The lobby smells of old mail and cherry-lemon cleaner that never makes the place look clean. But it does take the smell of mold out. Elevator’s Under Construction - crooked sign over the button - so you climb the stairs. Halfway up, you freeze, alarmed to find him behind you.

“Go on. I’m not in a rush.” He motions ahead.

You don’t like his eyes on your back; good to know. He takes the next flight first, listening to your uneven breathing and the ice shifting in your arms.

Hallway air is thicker than outside, trapped under flickering bulbs. Your door waits - paint chipped, peephole cloudy, chain probably dangling because you left in a hurry. His door is beside it, close enough to hear everything. You whirl, blocking your knob.

“I can take them now.” Your smile appears a beat late - the wrong mask worn the wrong way. Dick’s chest warms.

“Should I help you get these inside?” he asks, voice honey-soft. Helping is love; love lets him in.

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You have gotten yourself into a spectacular pickle.

Bargaining at the threshold proves useless: your arms are full of melting ice, his arms are full of melting ice, and technically all of it belongs to you. You assure him - politely, firmly, repeatedly - that he doesn’t need to come inside, the bags aren’t heavy, it’s late, he must be tired, you’d hate to be a bother. Normal words for normal people. Dick Grayson only smiles and hoists the bags higher as they start to sink again.

Nice people are harder to shake; your caregiver warned you about that. They treat no like an invitation to try harder. Eight bags were a mistake. Four would have meant coffee prep or a broken fridge - anything ordinary. Eight screams emergency. Eight screams hidden freezer. Eight screams a smell you’re praying belongs to yesterday’s trash.

Behind the door, the apartment waits. So does the smell.

Sweet, damp, wrong - probably already leaking from the freezer seams after hours without power in a heatwave. Please be trash, please be trash. Maybe it isn’t bad yet. Maybe the chain kept the lid sealed. Maybe the trash under the sink reeks worse. You have never hoped for trash before, but there’s a first time for everything when a corpse is thawing in your kitchen.

Open the door and risk the odor. Refuse and risk the neighbor’s suspicions. Stand here and the ice keeps melting, the body keeps warming, the officer eventually calls someone. The officer is someone.

Slower disaster is better than fast. Keys slip in your wet fingers; metal clinks too loudly. Laugh. Harmless people laugh. You laugh like a woman you’ve seen in movies over misplaced keys, not like a woman calculating whether she can drop a policeman before he draws his gun. Dick doesn’t laugh back - he only watches.

Finally the lock turns. You step in first; he follows, gently shuts the door - then locks it. Fine, be creepy. Warm, stale air greets you, carrying a faint, rotting sweetness. Trash. Just trash. You clutch the ice, march past the chained chest freezer, swear you won’t look - then look anyway. Chain still tight. Good. Bad.

“Should I put these in the freezer?” he asks, kindness itself. For one absurd beat, you almost answer yes, right beside the dead woman. Then you see where he’s staring: not at you, but at the chain around the lid.

“Do you have a key?”

Words jam in your throat. A lock for sleep-eating? A safety latch? All terrible.

Your gaze darts to the ceramic vase by the door- heavy, blue-flowered, dusty. It has held receipts, dead pens, a spare button. It could hold blood. You edge one bag against your hip, freeing a hand. His head is turned. His hands are full. You might have a second. Handle’s chipped - won’t slip. Good.

Aim for his perfect face. If he falls, the entry rug is dark, good for soaking. Ice buys time. Boxes in his apartment for the body parts. One problem at a time.

He starts to turn.

You grip the vase and swing with all your might.

Sorry, officer.

⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘⫘

Dick should have expected it. Your fire never truly burned away - no amount of medication or brain damage could smother that stubborn spark. Of course you fought him: manic smile at the door, polite excuses stacking. Of course you lunged for the vase. You were a frightened animal that didn’t know what was good for you.

He whistles low as he crouches by the chest freezer, one knee sinking into damp flooring, bobby pin clamped between his teeth. Picking the padlock feels crude but easier than ripping off the chain or searching for a key. The apartment smells off - wrong, even by your standards. Beside him, the ice bags sweat into widening puddles. He glances over.

You glare from the floor - cheek pressed to the fake tile, hair pasted to your face, both wrists cuffed to the radiator pipe because you refused to sit, to stop kicking, practically refused every warning he gave you. Pride props your hips at an uncomfortable angle; muffled sobs stutter as you try to swallow them. Stubborn thing. Makes him nostalgic for every time you mistook courage for good odds.

“You’re in trouble!” you shout, yanking the cuff. Metal rattles; skin scrapes raw, a thin red line blooming toward your palm. His smile fades. “Careful,” he murmurs.

You ignore him. “There’s a vigilante around here.”

Bobby pin pauses. He meets your eyes, smiles. “I know, baby. If only he were here.” Fury and panic twist your features - here you are. Not healed, but flickering under fear: sharp mouth, wounded pride, fight that proves you need someone stronger.

Click. Chain slithers to the wet floor like a dropped leash. You go still. Breath hitches in tiny bursts; his palm rests on the lid, not lifting yet, enjoying the desperate set of your face. Beg me not to.

“What’s in here?” he asks, voice low. Your lips tremble. Silence. “Baby, what did you do?” Thumb stroking the lip, he waits.

“A body.” The words leak out - tiny, broken.

He studies your face first: eyes wet, cheek glued to tile, wrist bleeding. Embarrassed, not remorseful - cornered, not guilty. Pulse steadies.

“A body,” he repeats, then lifts the lid. Cold sighs out, followed by sweetness gone sour. Plastic-wrapped limbs, frost-blurred features - the caregiver, tucked in with practical care. His gaze traces corpse, chain, puddled ice, then you: still glaring, still calculating whether biting helps. Optimistic.

“Well,” he breathes. Lid stays open; smell dulls. A cop should radio this in. Nightwing should. Instead he thinks: six months alone, one corpse, no help until now.

“You’re going to need someone, aren’t you, princess?”

“Don’t call me that.” Sharp even now.

He smiles with a fond look in his eyes. “I can make this disappear - body, payments, reports.” You stop struggling to listen. Good. “But you’ll do something for me.” He crouches close. Hard not to kiss your tears away.

“You’ll stop hiding. Take meds when I say. Eat real food.” His thumb grazes your torn wrist, voice softening, while his other hand trails down your spine. “And you’ll quit hurting yourself trying to escape the only man trying to help.”

A strangled sound escapes as his palm settles over your heat, giving you two soft, almost patronizing pats. His smile widens as you look over at him, cheeks warmed and dewy. His fingers find their way between your legs and glide along your slit, earning such pretty sounds from your lips. You probably haven't been touched for months. Years, even. So loyal, aren't you? Willing to do anything to cover up your little mistake, huh?

“If you’re lucky,” he whispers, “maybe I’ll marry a cruel thing like you.” He kisses the tear-damp cheek, tasting salt, watching your lips purse back. Pulling his hand away just to watch the frustration on your face. Maybe he'll save such things for marriage. Shouldn't get too hasty. Especially not after last time.

Odd, how neatly things work out - for everyone.

Nympho!Reader who gets off on the fact that Clark is Superman. You beg him to keep the cape on sometimes while he fucks you, clinging to the red fabric as he fucks you against the wall, super strength keeping you pinned exactly where he wants you.

Free Use!Clark who has bent you over his desk in the barn, in the back of his truck, in the shower, on the stairs, and once — very carefully — in the sky. He indulges every single craving you have without hesitation.

Nympho!Reader who gets dripping wet when Clark does mundane things — chopping wood shirtless, fixing the fence, wearing those gray sweatpants. You’ll walk up behind him, press yourself against his back, and beg him to take you right there in the yard.

Free Use!Clark who never makes you feel embarrassed for how much you need him. If you crawl into his lap during dinner and start grinding on him, he just pushes his plate aside, lifts you onto the table, and eats you out until you’re crying his name.

Nympho!Reader who loves being passed out from exhaustion only to wake up to Clark gently fucking you again because you whispered his name in your sleep and started rubbing against him.

Free Use!Clark who will pick you up, wrap your legs around his waist, and fuck you slow and deep while walking through the house like it’s nothing. He’ll carry you from the living room to the bedroom without ever pulling out, kissing you the whole way.

Nympho!Reader who keeps a butt plug in sometimes just so Clark can pull it out and replace it with his dick whenever he wants — though he usually ends up indulging you instead because you’re so desperate for him.

Free Use!Clark who finds you in the laundry room folding clothes and immediately bends you over the vibrating washing machine. He slides into you from behind while the spin cycle rattles hard against your chest, the intense shaking pressing right against your sensitive nipples as he fucks you deep and steady.

Nympho!Reader who can’t even pretend to focus on the laundry once Clark starts thrusting — moaning loudly as the machine’s vibrations buzz against your tits while his thick length stretches you open, coming harder because of the relentless shaking on your nipples.

Free Use!Clark who looks at his obsessed, insatiable girlfriend with nothing but pure love and lust in his eyes, because nothing makes him happier than knowing you need him this badly.

Kat went missing the night after you. He doesn’t know where either of you are. But you’re together, and that would comfort him if he wasn’t so terrified by the agonising, inhuman screeching he’d heard in the background of your last message. How could you pretend everything was okay when he could hear that it wasn’t? He could still feel your last words echoing through the marrow of the apartment, seeping and staining the last evidence that you’d been here. 

The mugs on the counter, the coffee you never finished drinking, your clothes left scattered on the bathroom floor. It was all here; in this liminal space between where you’d once existed and the absence you’d left behind. 

Bobby gets to his feet; he grabs his keys and walks out the door. He doesn’t have a real plan in place. He’s been walking in a fog ever since the morning he’d realized you were missing. When you failed to come back from your night shift and the hours dragged on too long for you to just be out running errands. 

He’d been forced to wait the full forty-eight hours before he filed the missing persons report. And then he’d had to file one for Kat, too. It wasn’t enough that you were gone; now your best friend was gone with you. 

The police looked at him first. Poked holes in his alibi and watched him with mistrusting eyes. It didn’t take long for the accusations to melt away and turn into something more pitying. They’d asked about your relationship with Kat. How close the two of you were? Had you seemed unhappy before you left?

As if you’d run away with her. Like you couldn’t stand being with him a moment longer in your cramped apartment and listless life, he’d almost believed them, until he got that message. Until he’d heard the fear, the screaming, his name on your tongue. It was soft in the way you used to say it, but that softness was ruined by the jagged edge of your own panic as you rushed out one last message to him. 

Bobby didn’t know what his plan was until he found himself standing in front of Clark’s store. The last place he could honestly say you were. The lights flicker behind the glass doors, so dim they might as well not be on, but it catches his attention. 

He knows the police picked this place apart with a fine-toothed comb. When they couldn’t point the blame to Bobby, they’d turned to Clark instead. And then they couldn’t find him, either. It all circles and drains back to this one shitty, dying furniture store. 

Bobby swipes away the police tape and pushes at the door. It shouldn’t be unlocked, but it falls open nonetheless. The lights brighten as he steps inside and chills break out along his skin. It feels like there are eyes in the corner of the room, watching him as he slowly makes his way through. 

With each step closer to the back of the store, the lights burn brighter, the hum of the fluorescents buzzing incessantly at his back. He struggles to shrug off the feeling. Rather, he chases it, follows it until he’s standing at the top of the basement stairs. 

There are muddy footprints on the stairs, from where the police investigated or from you… He doesn’t know. But he’s going to find out. 

He rushes down the stairs, and it feels like there’s a touch on his back. Something just there, just out of sight, guiding him down the same path you’d taken the night you went missing. It leads him down to where you used to do inventory. 

Sometimes you’d invite him to keep you company. You had that night, but he just… decided not to. He was tired and didn’t want to spend the night at Clark’s stupid fucking furniture store. And now you’re gone. 

He finds himself standing in front of a wall. Just a wall. Nothing special, nothing important, nothing… Except the perfect square outlined in blue tape. The size and relative space a door would take up. Bobby’s head tilts, brows furrowing as he observes it. Something about the way the light of the basement catches it: it almost seems to shimmer, to shift right before his eyes into something that is… definitely not a wall. 

Bobby reaches out, expecting to find nothing but solid cement beneath his hands. And then… he’s falling through. 

“Don’t fucking move,” you hiss, trembling as you take Kat’s hand in your own. You’re tucked into one of the holes in the wall with Kat. It’s one of the few places the thing seems to look over. 

It calls your name again, in his voice. Kat’s wide eyes shoot to you. “Are you sure it’s not–”

“It’s just another trick,” you choke out, tears burning across your cheeks as you peer out into the hallway. You see his back, the cutoff denim shorts, cropped tee, messy blonde hair. But the spine protrudes too much at the neck. The arms are too long. His gait is stilted like he’s still getting used to his body. 

He’d almost gotten you when you’d first gotten here. And then Kat. He doesn’t care which one of you he gets; he just wants someone new. Someone else to consume. 

You’d found his lair a few– days? Has it been days? Or months?

It doesn’t matter. Time has no meaning here. 

The point is, you found his lair. Found the skeletons and shredded clothes of pets he’s taken and devoured. The bodies of wanderers he’s found himself enchanted by and then bored with. Now, he’s taken Bobby from your memories, made a clone of him, and wears the skin suit like that’ll be enough to convince you it's the man you love. 

The fluorescent lights flicker before they burst. Kat lets out a sharp gasp, clapping her hand over her mouth. You shoot her a crazed look, eyes rimmed red from too many nights without sleep. 

“There you are,” you screech as a skeletal hand reaches inside the hole. The skin it wears stretched taut around the arm until you hear it begin to rip. It claps its hand around Kat, dragging her. You scramble forward, reaching desperately for something to grab hold of. 

But she’s screaming, being dragged from safety into the dark. You crawl out after her and find some of the lights beginning to turn back on. Like emergency backups, they barely make anything visible, but you can see enough. 

You can see the face of your lover, crooked and painted on wrong, back bowed, and form largely monstrous as he holds Kat in his hand. His jaw opens inhumanly wide, and there’s nothing you can do but watch as his sharp teeth clamp around her neck. Blood spurts out from his maw as he rips her head clean from her body. 

“Wake up!” Hands wrap too tight around your shoulders, shaking you until your eyes are shooting open and you're surging up with a gasp. Kat kneels beside you, head tilted and hair messy as she regards you warily. 

“Are you okay?” she asks, hands trembling as she hovers over you. Her eyes are bloodshot, head constantly on a swivel, too afraid to take her gaze off the shadows. 

You shake your head, wipe sweat from your brow, and force yourself to forget the nightmare. It’s another warning from it. Another threat of what will happen if you continue to deny it. “I’m fine. We need to get out of here, though.”

Kat frowns as you stand, wiping your sweaty palms off on your jeans. “But the door–”

“I know, Kat!” You hiss, glaring down at her. “Just… trust me, okay? We can’t stay here, right now.” It’s not safe. Not with those hungry eyes watching you from the dark alcoves. 

“Where should we go, then? Nowhere is safe,” she snaps back at you, getting to her feet. It’s hard, maintaining your composure down here. Those fluorescents flicker; there’s a constant, droning buzz that settles in the back of your skull that never lets you completely relax. It’s a never-ending reminder that you don’t belong here. You’re an outlier in a place where everything wants a taste of you. 

 Nerves have been fraying ever since your first encounter with it. Him. That thing that lurks in the liminal space between one breath and the next. For you, he wears Bobby’s face. But for Kat, he had worn your face. Had beckoned her from the basement and down here with you, using your voice. 

It’s hard to rebuild that trust when yours had been the first face she’d seen. And your face had nearly ripped hers off. 

“Party rooms,” you tell her, taking her hand in your own. “It’s risky, but it's the closest place.” Kat shudders, but she follows you without protest. You can’t blame her; you don’t like the party rooms. You don’t like the children’s birthday decorations. Or those fleshy monstrosities that look like hazmats chemically bonded to human skin. Their drawn-on, twisted smiles make your stomach churn. But it’s easy enough to manage if you stay quiet and hidden. 

His presence is weaker there, anyway. He seems more powerful, more potent, on this first level. With its yellow walls, musty smell, and never-ending flickering lights. That is his domain. And he can find you anywhere, but you’re not going to make it easier for him. 

Kat’s grip is tight around yours, fingers lacing together as you walk side-by-side. It had been Clark who had dragged you down here, tricked you into thinking this was something grand. Something miraculous. 

It was miraculous in the most twisted sense of the word. That a different pocket of reality full of eldritch horrors and a labyrinth of never-ending rooms could exist beside a furniture store was miraculous. But he had been crazed, talked to you about staying down here forever. 

He had tried to drag you into this hell with him, and when you’d refused, he’d attacked. Knocked you out and left you stranded without a way back to the door. When you’d found Kat, after she’d come looking for you, you’d both learned how important it was not to let go of one another. How easy it would be for an entity to rip you apart. 

Having an actual human beside you is the only reason you’re still sane; you’re sure of it. 

“This way,” you mutter, leading her down the hall and to the third door on the right. It’s concerning, but you’ve been here long enough to start learning some of the curves to this place. Kat opens the door, but it’s not confetti walls and stiff carpet you’re greeted by. There are no balloons or party decorations. 

This…

This is a poorly reassembled copy of Clark’s store. The store you’ve worked the past year. It’s the display floor, the couches and tables arranged almost exactly how it had been when you’d left. 

“What the fuck?” Kat mutters, stepping into the room, leaving you no choice but to follow. 

“This isn’t right,” you whisper, turning slowly. You haven’t found this room yet. You shouldn’t have found it. This should have been the party rooms. “Is he changing things?”

“Clark?” Kat’s hand rips from your grasp and you whip around. She’s running from you, toward one of the couches. Frowning, you follow behind her. Then you see it, the back of Clark’s head, the collar of the purple shirt he’d been wearing when he’d disappeared and left you for dead. 

Kat rushes toward him, and you try to stop her, but she’s already leaning on the armrest of the chair. “Clark–” she swallows, eyes widening with horror and whatever she sees. She doesn’t have time to scream as two gnarled hands shoot out, wrapping tight around her throat. 

Bobby falls to the floor, nose slamming to musty carpet. He lets out a low groan, slowly crawling to his hands and knees. He looks up and around, eyes widening as he takes in his surroundings. This is all wrong. 

This can’t be real. 

Walls with fraying and stained wallpaper stand freely in the large room he’s in. There’s tape that goes down a few of the hallways. Fluorescents flicker above him. He can’t make out much more beyond that. There’s a shadowed abyss beyond the walls that swallows whatever light tries to breach it. 

He stands on unsteady legs, breath shortening as he tries to take everything in. He looks over his shoulder and sees nothing but a wall. There’s no marker for where he’d fallen through. Frowning, he walks forward and presses his hand to the surface. But it doesn’t sink or give way, not this time. 

The doorway he’d used to get through has sealed. 

With no other choice, he turns back around, trying to tamp down his rising panic. It’s hard, though, when all he can think about is you. He doesn’t even know if you’re here or if he just got himself trapped in some hellish purgatory with no way out. 

Maybe this isn’t even real. 

Maybe he’s at home, on the couch, tripping on something. You’ll walk through and roll your eyes at him, make him take a cold shower while you cook dinner. It’s all just been one bad acid trip. 

There’s a scream somewhere in the distance. Bobby jumps back, heart racing as his back falls against the wall. It’s not human– not right. This is something else. Just like the noise he’d heard in the last message you’d left him. 

Something runs past in the dark, a flash of color that has his heart leaping to his throat. Beneath the buzz of the lights, beneath his blood rushing, he hears what sounds like his name. Whispered in your voice, panic edging your tone as you call out to him. 

Something runs past again, and Bobby surges forward. He calls out your name. “Bobby!” He hears in return: you’re screaming now. Bobby runs forth without a second thought, shouting your name as he follows the figure in the shadows. 

“Bobby, this way!” You scream; something lurks beneath your voice. A low growl that doesn’t sound right. But he doesn’t have time to think about that as he follows after you. 

He finally sees it, a flash of your hair, the tilt of your face over your shoulder as you race ahead of him. Bobby screams your name, trying to catch your attention as you race through the darkness. He’s not paying attention, doesn’t notice as the walls begin to close in. You turn a corner, and he follows… barreling right into a wall. 

His head bounces off it as he drops to the floor. 

There’s low laughter, familiar and distant all at once. A cold touch against his arm and he jerks up, eyes shooting wide. You jerk back, surprise painting your face as you hold up your hands. 

Bobby scrambles to his feet, glancing around with a sick sort of shock. He’s back home. Back at the apartment. You’re still kneeling on the ground, in your favorite pair of pajamas with brows raised. You look relaxed, comfortable, more at peace than he’s seen you in weeks. 

“Hit your head too hard?” You tease, getting to your feet. You brush past him, cold touch lingering on his arm as you turn back toward the food you’d been cooking. Bobby’s still standing there, still just staring. 

Everything looks right. The sun is setting in the background, golden light filtering through the living room. The radio is on, soft music playing that you’re humming along to. This is his apartment. His home. You… you’re just like you always are. Cooking on the weekend because you don’t feel like eating his shitty attempts at cooking right now. 

But this doesn’t make sense. He had just been in that– that–

Where had he been?

His head is fuzzy. You said he’d hit it. Did he? He doesn’t remember. 

He knows that he’d been doing something. But what? What had been so important that he’d been chasing you, calling out your name? Just to end up right back where he started. Did he start here?

“Bobby,” you call, finally giving him your full attention. Your head tilts in concern, but your jaw tips too far, chin slants strangely as you watch him. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

Had he been looking for you?

He looks over at you, and there’s relief, but he doesn’t know why. He reaches for you, and you fall into his arms easily. It should feel good, familiar like it always does. Your softness pressed up against him, head tucked into his neck. But your arms are too tight, the bones press against him in a way that bruises. 

“I don’t–” he can’t finish the thought. It slips through his hands like water, dribbles down to the floor. His eyes drop, lingering on the stove, on the “food” you’re cooking. It’s just a white hunk of something in the pan, melting down like butter. It bubbles and creates the nauseating smell of burnt flesh. 

“No,” he shakes his head and looks down at you again. Your hair is ragged, different than he remembers. You smell not right. “No,” he shoves back, and you stumble. Or the thing wearing your face does. 

Your eyes narrow, the color being swallowed by a void of darkness as you scoff. But it’s not your voice anymore; it’s something darker, older. “Almost,” you mutter, clicking your tongue in annoyance. 

He hears it now… the sound the music was trying to cover. Your voice, your real voice, screaming. But it’s not his name you’re screaming; it’s Kat’s. “Kat! Watch out!” over and over, echoing until it’s all he can hear. 

Beside him, the thing wearing your face begins to let out a long croaking noise. Your mouth drops open inhumanly wide, and he stumbles back a step, watching as your shoulders bow. Your spine snaps in two as you contort in ways no human should. Your form grows taller until the skin begins to rip at the edges. 

Bobby turns, running before it can sink its hungry teeth into him. He runs through the apartment door and finds himself back in the room with the yellow walls and winding paths. It’s welcome compared to what he’d just seen. 

He follows the sound of your voice until he’s worried it was just another trick of this place. Then, he comes upon a hallway filled with doors. Decaying doors with stains, steel doors with rusted locks, all kinds. And behind the one on his right, you’re the loudest. 

He barrels through and finds himself standing on the display floor of Clark’s store. It’s not quite right; something about this place feeds into that off feeling he’s had since he dropped into this hell. 

But there you are, waving around a floor lamp like a weapon as you beat on something that’s crawling over Kat. You let out another scream, cocking the lamp back and hitting it as hard as you can. 

The body goes flying off, and he realizes you’d been beating another failed copy of someone. Clark, he thinks. You drop the lamp and reach for Kat’s hand, tugging her into you. Bobby hesitates at the door. Is this you? Is he dreaming? Is it just another trick?

Kat sees him first; her eyes go wide, lips parting in silent shock. You frown, turning to follow her gaze. He waits for it, the recognition, the relief, the way you say his name when you’re happiest to see him. 

But it doesn’t come. Instead, your stare hardens as you stumble back from him. “I told you not to use that face!”

He shakes his head, holding his hands out hopelessly. “Baby,” he breathes out. “It’s me. I swear it’s me,” he’ll get on his knees and beg if that's what it takes for you to believe him. You stalk forward, ripping your arm from Kat’s grip. He almost smiles, but then you’re reaching out, hands wrapping tight around his throat as you slam him into the wall. 

“Fuck you,” you hiss, tears lining your eyes. “You’re not him, don’t call me that!” Your teeth are bared, like a wild animal lashing out. He wants to stop you, to fight back. But he doesn’t want to risk hurting you. He tries pleading with you again, swearing it’s him, not some entity wearing his face. 

But your thumbs are digging into the hollow of his throat, and his eyes are rolling back as you let him fall to the floor. 

You stand over that thing's body, brows drawing in as you stare down at it. It should have disappeared, sunk through the floor, and started hunting you once more. You shouldn’t have gotten close enough to choke it before it snatched you up. 

Kat comes up behind you and takes your hand tentatively in her own. “He’s not getting up,” she whispers, just as confused as you. 

You glance over at her before kneeling. Reaching out, you press your fingers to the pulse point of its neck. There should be nothing. No pulse, no warmth, nothing to give away life. But it’s there, faint after your attack, a heart beating beneath flesh that’s been warmed by real, pumping blood. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, tears lining your eyes as you stare down at the body of your boyfriend. “I think he’s real.”

Kat frowns, dropping beside you. She reaches out, same as you, and sees for herself. Her hands come up to her mouth, gasping as she looks over at you. “Oh, my god. Did you kill Bobby?”

“No!” you hiss, whipping around to glare at her. “I can feel his damn pulse. I just… knocked him out. Shit.”

This place doesn’t give you time to linger or rest. Not once since you’ve gotten here have you been able to catch your breath. Even now, just behind you, you can hear creaking. A body pulling itself back together. Flesh reknitting from where you’d busted it open with the heavy end of a lamp. 

“We need to get him up, help me.” Kat doesn’t waste time; she throws one of Bobby’s arms over her shoulder while you grab the other. Neither of you spare the entity wearing Clark’s face a second look. You can’t. They only get more horrifying when they come back. You can’t afford to let terror freeze you. 

You drag him back through the door you’d come from and slam it shut behind you. Clark’s copy slams against the door, pounds his fists, and lets out inhuman, croaking noises that make your entire body shudder. 

You’re back within the yellow walls. And nothing about this place is safe. But, at the very least, you’re more comfortable here. Because here, you know what lurks in the shadows; you know what to expect. 

“Over here,” you tell Kat, nodding toward one of the larger holes that have been beaten into the wall. You don’t know who put it there. If it was someone else who got trapped here like you. Or those people who you occasionally see in hazmat suits. But these little alcoves in the wall are one of the few places the entity seems to pass by. 

You crawl in first, grabbing Bobby’s wrist as you help Kat drag him in. You pull him up into your chest, folding his legs so there’s room for her to squeeze in on the other end. “What do we do now?” she asks, voice trembling as she wraps her arms around her legs. 

You shake your head and glance down at your boyfriend. Tears line your eyes as you squeeze him, his arms, his hands. Feel the warmth that you’ve missed for so long. Your head falls forward, tears leaking into his t-shirt as you wrap your arms tighter around him. 

“Please be real,” you whisper, and the lights flicker in response. 

The lights are out now, just a dim humming that it can’t completely extinguish. It’s passed by your wall three times now, calling out your name, wearing Bobby’s face. Bobby stirs in your arms, and Kat’s eyes shoot up in alarm. 

You curl around him tighter and see his lashes flutter as he begins to wake up. Quickly, you clamp your hand around his mouth. He seizes in your grip, panic beginning to take over. “It’s me, it’s me,” you whisper. “Don’t say anything, Bobby, please. It’s right there.”

Kat’s across from him, frantically shaking her head as she keeps her own hands wrapped around her mouth. She can’t trust herself not to make a noise either. The thing outside the wall goes still, and you duck down, watching as it turns on too long legs. 

Bobby goes lax in your grip, head tilting up to get a better look at you. His eyes widen as he takes you in. The sharper angles of your face, the deep circles beneath your eyes that almost make you look corpse-like. 

You’re not perfect, not a flawless uncanny representation of yourself. He turns in your grip, arms thrown around your waist as he buries his face in your neck. You cradle the back of his head, forehead pressed to his shoulder as the thing walks past you once more. 

The lights flicker back on, and its form disappears before you can blink. “Okay,” Kat mutters, motioning outside with her head. You nod, and she begins to crawl out. Her head swivels around, checking your surroundings, before she turns around and waves you forward. 

“Come on,” you nudge Bobby. “We gotta go.” He slinks back, but his grip doesn’t leave you. He holds onto your hand as you both crawl out from the wall. The second you’re standing, he jerks you forward, dragging you into his arms. 

He lets out a shuddering breath against your hair, shoulders shaking as he holds you. Kat cares little for the reunion. Her hand finds yours on instinct, too afraid to let go for so long. 

“I thought– I didn’t think I’d see you again,” he whispers, pulling back. His hands go to your face, cupping your cheeks as he looks you over. “You’re here,” he can’t quite seem to believe it. 

You reach up and take his wrist in your hold. “What the hell were you thinking coming in here?” you scoff with a wet laugh, tears spilling down your cheeks. It’s him, it’s really him. He’s alive and here and warm and…

This fucking idiot never should have followed you. 

He should have been safe, mourned you and Kat, and moved on. But you can’t find it in yourself to scold him. The lights flicker and Kat gasps, hand tightening around your own. You don’t have time for a reunion, either. That thing will be circling back soon. 

“We need to leave,” you tell him, lacing your fingers through his. Bobby trails behind you and Kat, gaze roaming across the vastness of the strange backrooms. 

“Where are we?” 

You suck in a shaky breath, coming to a stop at a dead-end. For however long you’ve been here, you’ve been looking for the door that brought you here. At every turn, you’ve been kept at bay by something you can’t see. 

“I don’t know,” Kat answers.

“Clark brought me here,” you tell him, turning to face them both. “He called it the backrooms. Said he wanted to stay here. I haven’t seen him since he left me.”

Bobby’s face screws up, “Left you?”

The lights begin flickering behind him, popping off in the distance one by one. Something creeps ever closer in the darkness. Not the thing that wears your face. This is something different. Something new that follows behind you with thudding footsteps that shake the floor. 

“We have to move,” you hiss, tugging their arms. “Now!” you shout, dragging them both behind you. 

There’s no time to find a hole to crawl into. No time to do anything but race through the endless darkness and yellow halls, hoping for something new. Another door. Another path. Anything to put space between you and the footsteps following slowly behind you. 

“Watch it!” Kat shouts, tugging you back before you slip into a shadowed abyss. Before you is a sharp dip in the floor. It slides down into nothing but darkness. You haven’t seen this before. Haven’t found it while you explored. 

The footsteps stop suddenly behind you, and you whip around. Bobby tugs on your hand, and you frown. He lets out a yelp as something grabs him in the darkness. His fingers slip through yours as he’s dragged to the floor. 

“Bobby!” He screams your name as his legs descend into the darkness. You throw yourself onto your stomach, desperately grasping at his flailing hands. You manage to grab one of his arms as Kat drops, hands grappling at the collar of his shirt. 

“Come on,” you grunt, glancing over your shoulder and watching as a form splits from the darkness. You tug on Bobby, not giving up until he’s dragged from the darkness and lying beside you. Your eyes drift over him, down to his ankles, and you see angry red welts going up his legs. 

Kat moves to help him to stand just as that touch snatches up your leg. Their eyes widen as they turn toward you. But you don’t even get to scream before you're dragged down.

There are no fluorescents down here. Just the dull buzzing that usually comes along with them. You lay curled up in the shadows, knees tucked to your chest as you weep. You want to be strong. You want to face the monsters in the dark with some form of bravery. But you’re a coward. You always have been. 

It’s easy to pretend, when you have someone to pretend for. When you have Kat or Bobby beside you to take care of. You can live in a world where you have to be the strong one. 

But in this dark hole, with wide eyes staring at you from the shadows, you’re not strong enough for anything except crying. 

You can hear them, above you, screaming your name. Feet beating against the floor as they search for you. 

“They won’t find you,” that voice – his voice – whispers in your ear. The creature that wears Bobby’s skin and wants you trapped here with it. 

“Leave me alone,” you cry. It chuckles, inhuman and unnatural as its form curls around you. Hands, too many hands, grapple at your body, tug on your clothes. Testing your mortal form as it keeps you locked away here in the dark. 

“Why should I? I finally have you right where I want you.” You’re ripped from your spot, forced to your feet as you’re pinned to the wall. There’s a little light– just enough for you to see the twisted visage of your lover’s face on the wrong body. 

Fingers that are too long drag along your skin. Like a snake’s tongue learning the air around it, the environment, through taste and touch, he licks at your skin tentatively. His nose pushes up against your neck, taking in a deep inhale of your scent. 

You can’t help but whimper, eyes clenched shut as his body contorts around your own. His lips trail up your skin, rough tongue scraping at your flesh as he goes. It reminds you of a cat’s, too barbed and too demanding to be human. 

His face hovers over your own, skin warping like a stone that’s just been tossed into a puddle. You can’t stare into those black eyes too long. Did he even know his mask had begun to slip?

“If you stay here,” it’s Bobby’s voice, but something is lurking beneath it. Something very old, something lonely and unused to the company of mortals. “I’ll let them go.”

Your heart races, eyes shooting up to the voids where irises should be. “You’re lying.”

He shakes his head, lips curling into a too-long smirk. “I don’t need to,” he whispers, jagged finger tilting your chin up toward him. 

He doesn’t need to because you’re desperate. Because you’ve been running through the seven layers of hell and now you’re stuck in an endless, looping purgatory faced with all your worst fears. You’ve been here so long that you’re losing parts of yourself, and these rooms are filling in the holes left behind. 

You can’t let that happen to Bobby. 

Slowly, you nod, his face goes slack, as if he hadn’t actually thought you would accept. His eyes narrow, head tilting at an inhuman angle, and you just nod again. “If you swear you’ll let them leave.”

“A deal struck,” he whispers, and that ancient voice reminds you of mythological tales of fairies. Of eldritch horrors that trapped humans in bargains and deals they hadn’t realized the enormity of. 

His head dips, lips slotting hesitantly over your own. He doesn’t understand this mortal shape. He knows that he craves this; the taste and touch of you. But he doesn’t understand how to retrieve it. He’s pilfered through your memories, stolen your favorites and replicated them poorly. 

Now, he can’t even give you this. 

There’s a violent tremble in your hands as you reach up to grasp his shoulder. You almost push him away when the distinct lack of his taste fills your mouth, when his rough tongue scrapes against your own. You have to remind yourself who this is for. 

This face that it wears is the man you’re trying to save. The one you love enough to sacrifice yourself for. 

Your heart races, breath stalling as you feel his tongue begin to explore the wet caverns of your mouth. Two hands settle around your waist, but there’s still a touch pushing up your chin. You can’t open your eyes. If you do, you’ll see too many arms, too many eyes and teeth. 

You clench your eyes tightly shut, chest heaving as that tongue steadily expands. It strokes against your own as he pushes you further up the wall, thigh slotting between your own. Rough barbs tickle the back of your throat before probing deeper. It wants to explore every inch of you, map out the workings of your frail, human body through touch. 

Your stomach seizes with panic; tears slip from your eyes as your nails dig into shoulders that are too broad and bony. Pleasure spikes in your core against your will. Another hand, dragging up and up until it’s wrapping around your throat and feeling your pulse beneath cold flesh. 

Wrong. Wrong. WRONG–

Something inside you– your hindbrain– pieces of yourself from the eons where humans were the prey and these creatures were worshiped– Whatever it is, it screams at you that this is inhumane and heartless.

 It will hurt you. It will split you open and lap your blood up from the floor like a starved mutt. 

In the distance, you hear him, screaming as something thunders just behind him. He’s not screaming for himself, though. It’s you, your name that he’s calling out. 

Through sheer force of will, you make your eyes open. Make yourself look at the twisted visage and poor attempt at humanity. And just beyond its shoulders, you see it, a light. Like a flashlight, desperately searching through the darkness for you. 

Your teeth clamp down around the tongue. Thick, viscous blood pools in your mouth and the thing backs up with a hiss. The tongue slithers from your throat, dragging along the flesh of your mouth until you’re gagging, gasping for breath as you slump to the floor. 

“We had a deal,” it hisses. 

Bobby screams your name in the distance, and you spit out the blood pooling in your mouth. It splatters black against the carpet. “Deal’s off,” you hiss, ducking under its too many arms and running toward his voice. 

“Bobby!” You scream, and you hear it roar behind you. Anger and misery that’s too complicated to formulate into something your human ears can understand echo throughout the entire level. You follow that waving beam of light until you’re crashing into your boyfriend. 

“Bobby,” you gasp out, trying not to sob. There’s no time; that monster is still behind you both. 

His arm wraps around you, his other hand stuck in Kat’s vice grip. And just behind him, the flashlight– it belongs to a group of people in hazmat suits. “This way,” one of them orders. And then they’re all running, barely giving you time to follow. 

You chase after them, hold tight to Bobby, and force yourself not to turn around. Not to face the hunger and lust of something that wants to chew through you until it hits marrow, until it's licking at your soul and consuming you entirely. 

The people in the suits weave through the narrow passageways with ease, following black tape on the floor. Your eyes try to follow the path, but you only feel yourself grow dizzy with panic. “Hurry!” they shout, the booming footsteps growing closer behind you all. 

They come to a stop near what looks like a research post. Cameras, computers, all sorts of technical equipment stacked haphazardly on desks that have been abandoned. Beside it, there’s a shimmer on the wall, the type that Clark had first dragged you through. 

They run through, and Kat doesn’t hesitate to follow, dragging Bobby and you behind her. There’s a loud screech, a sting down your back as you fall through. Bobby trips on Kat and you both hurtle to the floor. 

You land on his chest, the air rushing from you as pain screams down your back. “Ah,” you croak, reaching behind you. Your hands come back bloody. 

“Shit, it got you,” one of the researchers hiss. You look up and realize you’re in what looks like a warehouse. More people in hazmats, more equipment you don’t understand. “I’ll go get a medic,” they tell you before rushing off. 

Bobby still sits below you. His eyes rake over your face before he’s tugging you into his chest, arms wrapping around you, uncaring for the blood that stains them. You wind yourself around him like a serpent, grip damn near choking as you grasp onto these last strands of reality. 

“You found me,” you whisper, too afraid to start crying again. 

“Always,” he swears, burying his face in your neck. 

Something clicks in your head. Something you haven’t had time to think of while you’re running for your life. “Bobby…” you pull back, catching Kat’s eyes over his shoulder. She’s still shaken, still catching her breath. “How did you know how to find me?”

His brows furrow as he shakes his head. “You called me.”

Your heart stops, chills raise along your skin, and you would swear you could feel eyes from the wall behind you. “No, I didn't.”

————————————————————

“Look, I know all of this seems crazy but I promise it's not. Can I come in? Please?”

You probably looked insane standing in front of his apartment, pleading for his help. Fortunately, the hallway was deserted—practically a ghost town, but that was due to change, and you did not need any more people seeing you in the state you were in.

You tilted your head to look up at Clark, an uneasy feeling washing over you. The man in front of you was not your best friend, despite the uncanny resemblance he held to the man. He was nothing but a stranger who wore his face.

You gulped. Maybe this wasn't as good an idea as you thought it would be. You certainly hadn't thought it out properly, only knocked and prayed he would open the door.

Clark stood in the middle of his doorway, his body tipped forward slightly as his hand still gripped the doorknob. From the corner of your eye, you could see his knuckles slowly turning pale.

His gaze made you shiver. You weren't used to him looking at you as if you were a stranger. It felt wrong. Completely and utterly wrong.

“Alright.” Exhaustion seeped through his voice, and guilt immediately bubbled up in your gut like acid as you took in his sleep-disheveled appearance. You must've woken him up.

He stepped back and pressed himself up against the tiny wall of his apartment, giving you just enough space to walk in without being crowded. You brushed past him, and the door closed with a soft ‘click’ behind you.

“Oh, wow, I haven't been here in forever.”

The walls, the decoration, even the welcome mat—all of it was the same, just as you remembered.

“Why is that?” You didn't have to look at him to see his confused expression. His voice said it all.

“You and Lois moved in together a few years ago.” You mindlessly shrugged as you struggled to kick off your shoes, stumbling around until both of them were finally off and kicked to the side.

A wave of emotions danced across his face, and you struggled to remain silent. You could unpack whatever that was later.

You wordlessly trudged down to the living room with Clark's much heavier footsteps following not far behind, making an immediate beeline for the couch.

You collapsed onto the piece of furniture with a breathless groan, snatching the nearest pillow and burying your face into it, letting out the loudest, highest-pitched scream your throat could manage. What a release.

Finally, you could relax.

A few feet away, Clark tilted his head as he fully took you in. He looked pensive. Not exactly lost in thought, but just thinking.

“Are you okay?” he questioned.

No, your life was a dumpster fire, but he didn't need to know that. At least not yet. “I’m a little frazzled. Mainly just exhausted.”

“Who are you?”

You turned your head to the side, your cheek being the unfortunate victim of being smashed against the pillow. “I am the best and worst thing to ever happen to you.” Or at least that's what Martha and Jonathan told everyone when they asked about you.

“That doesn't answer my question…?” He now stood next to the coffee table, so close that every time he shifted his leg would brush against the wood.

You sat up, eyes locking with him and hesitantly answered. “I'm your best friend.” You watched in slight embarrassment as his eyes widened and his mouth fell ajar.

“Okay.” He nodded, unsure. “Is there somebody that you can call?”

“Please, just trust me Clark.”

He nodded warily, seemingly content enough, which you appreciated because speaking felt like a chore.

Experimentally, he stepped forward. One step, then another, until he hovered just a few inches away from your upper half. You were almost half unconscious but completely used to the closeness that came with Clark. It never fazed you. Not anymore.

He studied you intensely as if you were a painting in a museum. It might've been your imagination, but it was almost as if he were admiring you.

“Get some rest,” he whispered softly. “We can talk later.”

————————————————————

Later meant that night on the couch while eating takeout. You explained everything to him: how you got there, your history with Clark, anything you could think of. You told him everything, which was a lot. You rambled for hours. It was just as releasing as that scream.

Somewhere along the line, you'd both changed into comfier clothes. He'd given you a familiar sweatshirt and a pair of shorts that dwarfed you—thank Irene for the existence of drawstrings—while he himself had changed into a simple shirt and sweatpants.

He looked sinfully attractive with his pants drawn low and his shirt stretched across his chest, highlighting his muscles.

While you looked like a raccoon who'd just emerged from a dumpster.

“So, do you think you can help me?” You set aside your empty box that used to hold fried rice. He'd ordered it from your favorite Chinese takeout place, although he hadn't known that when he got the food.

He lounged on the other side of the couch, fully relaxed as he sat back and devoured his own food. “Of course I'll help you.” His voice was muffled as he chewed ‌his food. He always had the bad habit of speaking with food in his mouth. Martha scolded him about it all the time.

“Good. We can start talking about plans of action tomorrow.” You beamed brightly, and he sent you a sad, pitiful excuse of a smile back. You could smell his emotional turmoil from a mile away.

“What about tonight?”

You appreciated the optimism, but, uh, no. Your brain could barely function. You were surprised that you hadn't shut down yet.

You shrugged and turned back to the TV. “We’re watching Star Wars—” Your words left no room for argument. "I want to see if anything changed in this universe.” You leaned back, content to snuggle up in the blanket you had stolen for yourself.

It wasn't up for debate.

He perked up at the mention of the franchise, and if he had a tail, you just knew it would be wagging vigorously. Just like every time someone brought up his special interest. “You like Star Wars?” Your heart panged at the sheer hope in which he spoke.

“Uh, duh.”

You almost wanted to be offended. How dare he question your love for Star Wars. Somebody smite him.

“Favorite character?” The question left him immediately, and your grin widened. It wasn't a challenge or a test, as some might assume, only the curiosity of a fellow fan.

“Ezra Bridger, but if you want a really specific answer, it's Hondo Ohnaka. I also love Ahsoka.”

"Oh, you watched the animated media too?” His entire demeanor brightened, and a smile spread across his face, a genuine smile, not the fake, painful one he had given you earlier. “Gosh, nobody ever knows what I'm talking about when I bring the animated stuff up!”

He leaned forward and grabbed the remote, and in his giddiness he struggled to turn it on, although he eventually successfully pressed the power button.

He turned to you. “So, what do you want to watch?”

“The Siege of Mandalore.”

“A New Hope it is!”

————————————————————

Sleeping in Clark's guest bedroom was nothing new to you—at one point in your life, you practically lived there. Neither was the sight of him barefoot and shirtless in the kitchen making himself breakfast.

You barely even blinked.

“Mornin’.” You grumbled, your voice still thick with exhaustion. You were never a morning person, unlike Clark, who woke up whenever the sun rose.

He jostled at your sudden appearance, which was ridiculous because he literally had super hearing. You snickered as he whipped around to face you, his face completely flushed red.

You brushed past him straight to where he stashed the cereal, and you grabbed yourself a bowl and poured yourself your breakfast. When you turned around, bowl in hand, you were surprised to see him still staring at you as if you'd grown another head.

“Do…do you know where everything is?”

You nodded slowly, eyeing him weirdly as you grabbed ‌a spoon. Can't a girl eat her breakfast in peace?

“Huh” he looked pleasantly surprised, which relieved the ever-loving shit out of you. “That's convenient.”

Breakfast was spent in silence. Not an awkward type of silence. A peaceful silence. The type that existed between two people who were content to simply exist together. He watched you the whole time you were eating. Not like a creepy stalker would, although now that you thought about it, maybe it was weird. Meh. It was too early in the morning for you to care.

The rest of the morning was spent showering and collecting your thoughts. It was the weekend, Saturday to be specific, so luckily he didn't have to work. It gave you plenty of time to come up with a plan to get you home.

The meeting took place during lunch. Clark sat on the couch while you paced back and forth in front of the TV.

“Okay, obviously the first thing we should do is find Lex. He's the one who fucked up the multiverse, so maybe he can unfuck it.”

Clark tensed the moment you mentioned the bald-headed demon, and his expression fell eerily blank. “Lex Luthor is dead.” Completely blank. No emotion whatsoever.

You paused in the middle of your pacing, your eyes growing wide at the information. Lex Luthor dead? Impossible. You hated to admit it, but the man would never go down without a fight, and unless Clark killed him—which you highly doubted—there wasn't much of a threat against him.

The journalistic urges instilled by years of hanging around Lois urged you to pry, but the haunted expression Clark wore forced you to let it go.

“What about the Justice Gang?” Visible relief washed over him, and he leaned back, crossing his arms.

“We can definitely speak to them. I can't exactly promise anything, though.”

“Batman…?”

He nodded his head. Oh, thank Irene. “Absolutely, although last time I spoke to him he seemed busy, so it might be awhile before he responds.”

Yeah, that made sense. In all the times you had met the man, he was always occupied with some sort of weird, over-the-top crime case that involved a highly mentally ill person who obviously needed therapy and some tender love and care.

You put your hands on your hips and fixed him with a determined expression. “So, what do we do today?”

He leveled you with the same look of indecisiveness he wore whenever he was trying to decide which fidget to steal from you.

Thirty minutes later, you found yourself lounging in the Justice Gang's building.

They were all the same as when you met them before, during times of urgency in which you and Lois would force yourselves into whatever dangerous situation to help; it was familiar. Comfortable.

You watched as Mr. Terrific tried to explain the science behind the multiverse theory to a totally confused Guy Gardner. They'd been going at it for at least the past five minutes.

It was as irritating to witness as it was amusing.

“If you would only listen—”

“Yeah, yeah." Guy waved him off with a scoff. “Different universes, multiversal collapse, all that fun, world-ending stuff.”

“Do you guys think you can help or not?” Clark interjected. His jaw ticked every time they ignored him in favor of their conversation, and from the corner of your eye you saw his hands curl into fists at his sides. He’d shed his normal clothes for his suit. A reminder of his parents. With its vibrant colors, you remembered watching Martha sew it together when you were younger. The look on Clark’s face when she gifted it to him had been everything. He wore the suit with pride ever since.

You held back the urge to snort at his obvious annoyance. Clark was a saint, but even he had his limits. Although this Clark seemed much more privy to the emotion. Interesting.

“How much time do you think it will take?” You finally questioned, and for a second, you swore you heard the distant sound of doom approaching. Weird.

“Days, weeks, months. I don't know. It could take years for all we know. Without Luthor—” Clark's expression fell. “—and his technology or notes…” You could practically see the cogs turning in Mr. Terrific's head.

You glanced up at Clark, and he returned the unsure look you gave him. Out of habit, you reached out and grabbed his hand. He tensed. Instantly you panicked, and your hand retreated, but his tightened around yours. He didn't let you go. You turned your cheek, hiding the small smile that threatened to show through.

“So it's a waiting game,” Guy supplied, and you fought the urge to roll your eyes at the frankly obnoxious blond man. His haircut was a crime against humanity.

Kendra, Hawk-girl, rolled her eyes at his comment, and you internally thanked her for doing what you didn't have the guts to do. “Yeah, I think we got that.”

You tuned out their bickering and assumed Clark had done the same.

It was a start, at least. Definitely better than nothing.

Before you left, they'd offered to help you set up a place to stay. The offer was tempting, but you had already agreed to stay with Clark.

Besides, you wouldn't be here for that long, right?

————————————————————

“Are you sure about this? I can always just wear the clothes you gave me.” You stood in front of the Metropolis City mall, shifting your weight from one leg to another as your mind raced. You didn't mind wearing Lois' clothes. They fit you just fine and gave you a sense of comfort. Like she was there, holding you.

“You deserve your own clothes,“ he insisted next to you, and while the sentiment warmed your heart—your anxiety and sensory issues said no.

Clothes were always…difficult for you. Not because you didn't have any fashion sense, but because the fabric could be so uncomfortable. Jeans, shirts, everything. All of it sucked. Especially those annoying tags that always dug into your skin.

“Fine,” you reluctantly conceded with a sigh. “Three hours, and then we leave.”

Triumphant, he walked up to the entrance, and you followed behind. Much to your relief, the mall was mostly deserted, which was expected, given that it was a Monday afternoon. You guessed that was why he insisted you two shopped today.

————————————————————

“How can you even afford all of this?”

Your eyes darted to the array of bags in his arms, where his biceps flexed with each movement. You forced yourself to look away.

The past two hours had been spent running around, going into each store, and trying on any item Clark told you to at least give a chance. You couldn't deny him. Even the alternate version of him had you wrapped around his pinky finger, and it hadn't even been a week yet!

“I have my ways,” he shrugged, and your eyes narrowed. Bruce was definitely involved in whatever that was. You felt it in your nuggets. You were sure they found each other in every universe. Soulmates in every sense of the word.

You rolled your eyes and scoffed as he pulled you toward the next store on his lineup.

“You cannot be serious,” you deadpanned, staring at the dress Clark held up. It looked ridiculous. Too frilly and puffy, and the fabric looked like it would itch.

He pouted, his eyes glinting with puppy-like innocence. “Please…?”

You tried.

You tried so hard not to cave, and yet you still ended up in the dressing room putting on the dress while Clark patiently waited outside.

To your surprise, the dress was comfortable. It was definitely not your type of outfit, but wearing it made you feel pretty, and that's all that mattered. For once, you stared into the mirror and felt like a princess stared back at you.

You walked out, and immediately all of your confidence drained. You felt his gaze rove across your features, and you squirmed in place, not noticing the sparkle in his eyes or the flush of his cheeks.

“We’re getting it.” He declared, leaving no room for you to argue. You flushed at his unjust determination and hurriedly scurried back to your stall. You wiggled out of the dress and back into your own clothes, and when you came back out, Clark immediately snatched the dress from your arms. He marched up to the front register, smiling widely at the lady behind it as he purchased the dress. He didn’t even glance at the price-tag.

You see, this was why you stopped shopping with him in your universe. He loved wasting his money on you and Lois.

“Can we leave now? We've gotten more than enough clothes for me.” You glanced at the nearest clock you could find. Almost three hours. Soon you would be free.

He glanced at the same clock, his brow pinching in thought. “Wanna grab lunch and then head out?”

————————————————————

“Gosh, I missed this place.”

You bit into your burger, not caring that you were being a total hypocrite by speaking while chewing in front of him. You groaned and leaned back, struck by the deliciousness that flooded your taste-buds.

Clark chuckled as he watched you from the opposite side of the booth. “So this place closed down in your universe. Why?"

His confusion said it all. This place, this beautiful, beautiful place, deserved so much more than what it had been given in your universe. You almost cried when you saw it was still open here.

“Apparently they weren't getting enough customers. Which is bullshit because the food is amazing. It's so nice to know that this place is getting the appreciation it deserves here.”

You ate the rest of your meal in peace, sighing happily as you rubbed your now-full stomach.

“So I'd say this was a successful mission.” Clark finally said after finishing his last bite of burger, and you nodded half-heartedly, totally not distracted by the hypnotizing movement of his lips.

You wondered what they felt like—if they would be soft or chapped, how they would feel against your skin.

He said your name.

You snapped out of your trance, and your whole body warmed as fresh embarrassment rolled off you in waves. “Sorry…just got distracted for a sec," you mumbled. Nevermind how it was a lie.

“Can we go home now?”

“Of course, sweetheart.”

Your heart warmed at the familiar nickname, and you wondered how he would feel if he knew your version of him called you the same. Wait, that would be awkward. Definitely not.

You rose from the table and leaned over, stacking all the plates at the edge. You would hate it if the server had to spend extra time cleaning up your mess. You weren't a snob, and it was the polite thing to do.

"Do you always do that?" He asked, and he gestured to the table. You saw the way he eyed your work—all the plates stacked upon each other like a community of little towers. It was neat. Your brain liked it

"Of course! It's polite.”

He breathed out a light puff of laughter. “You really did grow up with me, didn't you?”

Your brow raised, and you shrugged. Weird, but okay. "Of course I did; did you think I was lying to you?"

Panic overwhelmed you at the thought, and as you walked out into the parking lot, your heart twisted painfully in your chest.

As if he could hear your inner turmoil, Clark paused and turned to you. His hands landed on your shoulders, and he turned you to face him with a serious expression, one that radiated comfort.

"I was joking." He gently assured.

"Clark, I'm autistic. I don't get sarcasm."

He paused.

"Yeah, that makes sense."

You gawked at him, and his eyes widened. He backpedaled immediately. "Not that you act a certain way or anything; it's just ma and pa were pretty sure I'm like the Kryptonian version of being on the spectrum—”

"You definitely are."

He stilled and his face fell hilariously blank. Oh, wow. No hesitation. He sighed, and you held back the urge to snort, which earned you a look from him.

“Let’s just go home." His shoulders slumped. He even sounded defeated. The poor baby.

Yeah, maybe you could get used to this universe.

————————————————————

“Why are you on the floor?”

“I'm having floor time.”

Clark stared down at your figure lying flat on your back in the middle of his living room. He wound up to ask but paused before any words could leave his mouth.

“I missed this floor,“ you sighed and stared up at the ceiling. The nostalgia was killing you. So many memories, some sweet and others bitter. It brought out feelings you buried years ago. “I missed this apartment.”

He didn't respond. You couldn't blame him.

A moment passed.

“So what you're saying is that my floor is comfortable?” He sounded awfully proud of himself, like having a comfortable floor was a proud achievement.

“Yes, now join meee” you raised your hands toward the sky and gestured for him to join, even resorting to using grabby hands. He chuckled, and your heart skipped a beat. His laugh was otherworldly, but then again, so was the rest of him. Alien. Duh.

You heard him approaching, and he settled down next to you. A peaceful silence fell between you and every few moments his finger twitched—like he was trying to hold himself back, but from what?

“So, you come here often?” You turned your head to the side, offering him a cheeky smile.

“Only when I'm desperate.” Ah. A man of sensibility. You could work with that.

“Fair. As for me, I need at least five minutes of floor time each day. It's enriching.”

Usually by now people would've judged you, but Clark simply nodded along as if you were the most natural thing in the universe.

“Does he ever join you during floor time?”

The question came as a surprise. Although it really shouldn't have. Of course he would want to know about another version of himself. If you had existed in this universe, you would want to know everything about her too, after all.

“Yes, he does, and usually Lois joins us as well. We all spend floor time together.” You enjoyed floor time. It was a pivotal part of your routine. “It’s enriching.”

“Huh” He turned his attention to the ceiling, staring at it while the cogs in his head worked. “You're close with Lois too?”

“Of course. When you, er, he started dating Lois, I kind of pulled away. I never wanted her to think I was trying to steal you or anything. So I hung out with her instead and me and her just clicked, I guess.”

“That's nice.”

“Yeah. He got jealous, though, so he started joining us, and now we all just hang out together. Like three peas in a pod,” you shrugged.

“You all seem close.” He noted.

That's because you were. You could confidently say Lois and Clark were your best friends. They were your people.

“They're like my stars. They light up my life.”

You looked up at the ceiling, and Clark took the time to look at you. Truly, look at you. Like you were once again a painting in a museum—meant to be admired.

“You know, I like this. I think I'll join you from now on.”

Yes. Another one converted. Soon floor time would be a staple in every household.

————————————————————

Lex Luthor was dead.

No article explained it. None. Absolute zilch. Strange couldn't even describe it.

A man like Lex didn't just keel over and die. The man was a genius, as much as you hated to admit it. He wouldn't have gone down without a fight, and whenever you tried to ask Clark about it, he just shut down. It made no sense.

Then came the other blaring question.

Where were Ma and Pa? No pictures. No phone calls. Like Lois, they seemed to have completely disappeared from Clark's life. And every time you brought them up, he retreated into himself. It gave you a queasy feeling.

‘Small town mourns the passing of a couple.

Jonathan and Martha Kent were a staple to the heart of the Smallville community. Their sudden passing, the cause of death still unknown, truly shook the small community. They live on in their son, Clark Kent, and the town continues to honor them.’

Small, with barely any information. That's all you got. Just a single article that barely even skimmed over their deaths. Irene, it wasn’t even an article! Just a section from the local newspaper.

They were gone.

Martha and Jonathan Kent were gone.

You felt sick to your stomach. Martha and Jonathon, they were your family too. They were the ones who taught you how to tie your shoes and didn't judge when it took you a few years longer to learn. Your childhood was literally spent having dinner at their house and sleeping over.

Jonathan taught you how to drive and was the one to pick you up in the middle of the night after you got drunk for the first time. He taught you the gentleness of love. Showed you the kindness of humanity.

Martha taught you how to do your makeup and milk a cow. She lifted you up and showed you how to be strong. Without her, you would never have learned to appreciate life. To see how beautiful it was in each and every thing.

Clark's door was cracked open—a free invitation. Last time you checked, he’d been cleaning, and he was just about to finish making his bed when you rushed in.

He turned to you, and his expression twisted into one of concern as he threw down his pillow and stepped forward.

“Are you okay?”

“They’re gone.” You felt hollow speaking the words. Like saying it out loud meant finality. That they were really, truly gone.

He tensed.

“Clark…I'm…” you were at a loss for words. How did you comfort someone who lost what you still had? Both of them were alive in your universe. Completely healthy and alive.

You had seen Clark sad before, had witnessed him break down and cry, and endured all the times he lost control and accidentally broke something. You watched him get beaten up and defeated. Seen the devastation he felt whenever a civilian died. But you had never seen this before.

“You found out, huh?” He fought hard to keep his voice from wavering.‌ He turned his cheek, jaw clenching. Tears already pricked the corners of his eyes, turning his vision blurry.

He hadn't been paying much attention, but he still heard your footsteps approach in his haze of sadness. Your arms snaked around his waist, and your chest pressed up against his.

Tears already blurred your vision and streaked down your face, leaving your cheeks puffy as you buried your face into his plaid shirt and squeezed him tight. Sadly, you couldn’t give him the bear hugs he usually gave you.

For a moment his hands stayed frozen at his sides. Like he didn’t know what to do with them or himself. But you never let go, and soon his trembling hands rose and wrapped around you until finally he was hugging you just as tightly as you were, if not more.

He buried his face into the crown of your head. His body trembled and his shoulders shook and a sob finally ripped its way from his throat. It sounded painful, as if he were gasping for air. Still, you never let go.

No words were spoken.

They weren't needed. Not in a moment like this. You would simply be there. Ready and willing to hold him as his emotions bubbled over and he broke down.

It didn’t matter how long you both stood there, just holding each other. It could've been minutes, hours before you both finally calmed down from the tsunami of uncontrollable emotions.

“Thank you.” He eventually whispered, and you pulled away to look up at him, but the moment he felt you step back, his arms tightened around your waist.

“I'm sorry for breaking down on you.”

“Clark, never apologize. Your emotions are valid. Your grief is valid.”

“I know.”

“But do you?” He frowned and looked away.

You tilted his chin back down to face you.

“I know,” he sniffed. He stared down at you, his cheeks also red and puffy from crying, and streaked with dried tears. Slowly, a small, trembling smile grew as he watched you wipe away your tears.

“Can we stay like this?” His voice cracked with unsung emotions, yet it was much lighter than it had been before. “Just for a little bit?”

“Of course.”

His hold on you once again tightened, and you relaxed into his embrace, letting your eyes close as you relished in the familiar warmth of his arms. This was nice. You missed hugging him. You think he missed hugging too. Certainly, with the way he held on to you for dear life. Like if he let go, you would vanish.

“Can we do this more often?” He whispered into the silence.

You nodded silently.

Maybe everything would be okay.

————————————————————

Around you, the park buzzed with all kinds of life. One of the many things you adored about the parks around the city. Not only were they beautiful, but life thrived in them. It was truly a gift to witness.

The sun peered down at you, and the clouds danced across the blue-painted sky. The sun, paired with the light breeze, made for a perfect environment. You always loved picnics, and it was the perfect opportunity to wear the dress you'd gotten, seeing as it was a sundress.

Clark lay on his back next to you, face up and completely content to let the sunshine beat down upon him. No sunglasses either, which was brave.

“So, your version of me is still with Lois?” he sounded hesitant when he asked, like he was afraid to upset you—to upset himself.

Until then he'd been pleased to simply bask in the sun and let you read silently beside him while he photosynthesized. Yeah, that's right; you weren't afraid to call it out for what it was.

“Yeah…”

How the hell were you supposed to talk about this with another version of Clark?

“They..they're…really happy.” You smiled bitterly, an emotion you tried to hide. You weren't a bitter person. Both Clark and Lois deserved all the happiness in the world. Even if it came at the expense of yours.

You bookmarked your page and placed the book down beside you with a sigh.

“Do you want to talk about it?” You tilted your head down to look at him.

You noticed the absence of Lois in his life immediately. It was a stark difference from your universe, and you were still trying to decipher how you felt about it. You missed her mostly.

Clark closed his eyes and exhaled, a sigh that came from deep within his chest. You could almost feel the weight of whatever issue dragged him down. You wished you could help more. “It just didn't work out.” His gaze fell from the sky and fixed itself upon you.

Mindlessly, your fingers threaded through his dark curls. The first time you'd done it, you both panicked. Now the affection came naturally.

“Can we stay like this? Just for a bit?” The words were achingly familiar. He tilted his head toward you, leaning into your touch. You swore he enjoyed your head scratches more than your Clark ever did.

“Of course.”

The sound of birds chirped in the distance. Mindlessly, you played with his hair, watching as people passed by in the distance.

To you, each person told a story, a different life you could imagine. You could read their clothes and analyze the way they walked. Make assumptions about who they spoke to on the phone and where they were going. All of them fascinated you. They were all so special in their own ways.

The feeling of being watched soon swept over you, and you turned to see Clark staring at you.

“You're beautiful,” he sighed, smiling softly to himself.

You froze, and your mind took a second to process what he'd said. When it did, your body flushed, and you turned away, fighting the urge to swat him when he laughed.

The compliment came out of nowhere, no warning whatsoever! What were you supposed to do, not freak out? Your heart couldn't take it. You might as well have keeled over and died.

“S..shut up!” You squawked, and the urge to swat him only grew as his laughter continued. You were pretty sure the passersby were staring.

Your hand stilled in his hair and receded back to your side. A small look of disappointment flashed across his face, but he remained silent.

Poor thing. It pained you to see him so starved of affection.

You would have to change that.

——————————————————

Whoever said Lego's were just for kids was wrong. Lego's were a beautiful piece of art meant for everyone to enjoy. The people who said differently were just a bunch of bums.

“So you and he are just friends,” he reiterated for like the third time in the past fifteen minutes since opening the box of Lego's.

Was it really that unbelievable that you and Clark were just friends? Literally everyone asked. Heck, most people automatically assumed you were together without even asking.

“Yes. Our relationship is purely platonic.” It still left a bitter taste in your mouth, even after years. “And no, me and Lois are not secretly dating.” You added because, yeah, people asked that too.

“You and Lois?”

“In another life, we were married.” It was true. You felt it in your soul and so did she. You had at least two cats and an apartment with a balcony close to the ground so you could both people watch.

He blinked, and fiddled with the Lego piece in his hand. “I think I'm starting to understand why most people assume you're their third.”

Oh, great. Now you had to deal with him too, how wonderful!

“You're doing it wrong.” You pointed at the legos in his hand, small and frankly obnoxious looking compared to the appendage. You couldn’t imagine the frustration that came with dealing with the smaller pieces.

Clark frowned and his brows pinched as he looked over the directions. Oh, yeah, you were right; he was doing it wrong. “Dang it," he muttered as he tried to detach the two pieces from each other. He failed horribly to the point one of the pieces broke because he accidentally gripped it too hard.

You cackled. Your Clark did that all the time back home. It wasn't his fault; he was just too strong. It was why he kept a bucket of spare pieces.

“Dude, you totally just committed Lego murder.”

“It was an accident!”

————————————————————

Some would say sitting in the shower was strange, maybe even unnatural. You believed otherwise.

Sitting in the shower was a gift, an experience to let the water fall on you and completely drench your senses. The pounding droplets against your skin were a constant weight that grounded you. You read somewhere once that people sat in the shower because it replicated the feeling of being held—which was a major call-out.

To you, a shower was a way to cleanse yourself from the day. All your worries and anxieties would wash away, and you could finally relax while letting the warm water ease all your tension.

You could daydream, or you could simply shave and spend the whole time pampering yourself. So many possibilities, but to be honest, most showers were a mix of both.

You still couldn't fully wrap your head around your situation. Every day was spent around Clark, getting to know him and this new, strange world. Apparently, this universe was years ahead of yours. While you and your Clark were both twenty-seven, this Clark was thirty-six. Which made sense now that you thought about it. He looked older and more mature instead of boyish. He didn't slouch to make himself smaller like your Clark did. Instead, he stood confident, like he was no longer afraid to be strong.

You hated to admit how attractive it was. Your feelings and relationship with ‌your Clark were already complicated, not to mention Lois too. Now you had to deal with an older, highly attractive, more mature version of him. It felt weird. So incredibly weird.

His smile gave you butterflies with a side of nausea. And the low timber of his voice…

Irene, everything about this confused you.

It was different—he was different. You just couldn't explain it. He was still the man you knew who could light up the room with a single smile. He still took time to go around and help people. He even risked his life to save animals.

Gosh, maybe you were going crazy. Hyper-fixating on this needed to stop before you spiraled. Irene forbid you had a meltdown. You didn't want him to see you like that.

You stood with a sigh, turning off the shower and immediately reaching for a towel to run from the cold. Weird. You could've sworn you left the door closed, not cracked open. You seriously had memory issues, probably from all the times you hit your head growing up.

You shrugged the coincidence off and waddled back to your room, making sure your towel was tightly hung around your body just in case Clark suddenly decided to stop hibernating in his room like he'd been doing all day.

The poor thing was exhausted beyond comprehension. He spent the past forty-eight hours assisting with some world-ending issue with the Justice Gang. Usually, you would have panicked, but after years of dealing with crazy world-ending issues, you didn't even blink.

Besides, it all happened away from Metropolis, so you were mostly safe. Clark still tried to convince you to hunker down in the fortress to wait it all out. You denied his offer, though, and refused to leave the apartment. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t win against your stubbornness. Not in this universe or yours.

Anyway, you were just happy he was getting the rest he needed, even if it meant you were lonely for a day while he slept.

You would survive.

——————————————————

Your perfume was missing.

Realistically you knew it was useless to turn over the apartment just for a single bottle of perfume; however, you refused to waste the money.

You were close; you felt it in your nuggets and could practically smell its scent. No, seriously, you could smell it or maybe you were just imagining it. Either way, you were on a mission, determined to find what you had lost. You didn't care how long it took. You would find your perfume and then celebrate by making yourself victory cookies.

“Have you seen my perfume? It's gone and I can't find it anywhere.”

From the couch, Clark shook his head, clueless. “You wear perfume?”

Your face scrunched up, and you turned to him. "You literally complimented how it smelled the other day." You pointed out, and for a moment he seemed to falter, caught off guard. You could've sworn he even looked guilty for a second.

"Oh, yeah…”

You rolled your eyes at his faulty memory. You swore he had the best memory around, and yet he was completely useless. Okay, maybe that was a bit harsh, but still, your point stands.

“Useless alien…”

"Hm?" He perked up, turning his ear to you. “What was that?” You could practically feel the smirk curling at the edge of his lips. You both knew full well he heard you. The smug bastard just wanted to mess with you, and well, it was working.

“I said you were a useless alien.” You crossed your arms and stood defiant against him. You would not fall victim to his smug ways.

Dramatically he gasped, and like an arrow, your words shot him straight through the heart; he clutched his chest and fell back against the couch. “It hurts," he gasped in dramatic pain. How dare he take this so non-seriously? Your perfume was very important.

“I hope you fall into a cliff of Kryptonite.”

——————————————————

If there was one thing you missed about growing up in Kansas, it was the fresh produce. Nothing could compare. That is until you visited the farmers’ market in the city.

You never expected you would enjoy it so much. Usually, you loathed crowds. That's why the one in Smallville was perfect because it was so small, while the one in the city took up an entire block. But after years of visiting every weekend, the abundance of people became less of a problem as you found new solutions to ease yourself. Now you adored the city's farmers’ market, usually visiting with Clark and Lois by your side.

“Okay, so we just need strawberries and mango's, and that should be it.” You squinted at the crumpled piece of paper you called your grocery list. You and Clark had found a quiet corner to gather your bearings after shopping for so long. He stood next to you, his body practically pressed against yours as he too squinted down at the grocery list.

“There’s a few stands nearby that sell those,” behind Clark trailed a wagon, a clearly old and paint-chipped wagon filled with groceries. It had definitely seen better days. He gripped its handle tightly, like anyone would actually steal that old thing.

“You think you're ready to face the crowd again?” His eyes darted over to you, and you nodded with a grin.

“Yep!” You grabbed his hand with giddiness and dragged him back to the street, weaving through the crowd as if it were a maze for you to solve. You were determined to get your mangoes. So determined that you didn't notice the man heading straight towards you, but Clark did.

His hand wrapped around your waist and gently tugged you away, your feet lifting from the ground by just a few inches as he moved you to his other side where you would be safe.

You hummed along to the song replaying in your mind, content to let Clark take the lead in guiding as you mindlessly trailed along. “I am their fury; I am their patience. I am a conversation.”

You wondered if he ever got annoyed by your stimming, repeating phrases and making weird noises. It certainly seemed like it would, but then again, he never brought it up. Unless it was one of those situations where he assumed you would pick up on his social cues and automatically know he was annoyed, as if you could suddenly read his mind.

You both paused in front of a familiar stand. In your universe, you knew the owner, a lovely old lady who always gave you a discount on your mangoes. You would have said something, but Clark, like usual, had already taken the initiative and was grabbing what was needed.

There was no small talk, simply a hello and a goodbye, and then you were on your way. He never lingered like your Clark did, which was great for saving time, but you couldn’t help but miss watching him so easily connect with others.

Once again, you wove your way through the crowd with him by your side. Luckily, there were no collisions, and you both made it back to the car unscathed and successful in your mission to get groceries.

He opened the car's trunk, and you reached for one of the grocery bags, and for once Clark actually stood back and let you work.

You loved putting away groceries. It was like a game of Tetris where you had to find the right place for every bag, or else the trunk wouldn't close.

“A little bit to the left.” He chimed in, and, like second nature, you followed his instructions. The bag fit perfectly in the spot, and you stepped back with a small cheer, admiring your wonderful piece of art. He walked up next to you, and you snuck a glance at him, your body heating when you noticed the admiration with which he gazed at your work. Like it actually mattered. “It's perfect.”

You preened at the praise, and he shut the trunk, bringing the wagon with him and placing it in the back seat before making his way to the driver’s door. You walked to the front of the car, swinging open the door and plopping down in the front passenger seat.

“What's next?” You turned to him in your seat, and your foot mindlessly tapped the ground. “Tell me, good sir, what is on the schedule for the rest of today?”

His brow furrowed, and for a moment he seemed to think. “Nap time?” He leaned forward and inserted the key. He maneuvered out of the spot and drove out of the parking lot and turned onto the main road.

“Nap time,” you agreed.

A man after your heart. Nap time sounded exactly like what you needed. All snuggled up in your bed, comfortable as can be. Just the thought of it made you sleepy.

You watched with subtle interest as he drove. His hands looked way too delicious gripping that steering wheel. Lois once said that they would make a great necklace on you. Of course, she’d been joking, but the moment still lingered in the forefront of your mind.

“You know I saw this post on Tweety talking about Superman and I feel you should know that apparently people find you submissive and breed able.”

He choked on air, and you were concerned you'd distracted him too much, but he seemed fine multitasking. “I'm sorry, what?”

“Yeah, apparently it's a big thing.”

“I'm taking your phone away. "

Your eyes widened, and you gasped at the blatant threat to your livelihood. “Don't you dare!” He would have to pry that device from your cold, dead hands.

He only chuckled as if he were amused by your suffering. “I’m just saying the internet is obviously a terrible place.”

Of course, that’s what he would say. Clark was the single most chronically offline person you had ever met. He literally wrote letters for Lois as if he were in an eighteenth-century love story. You even heard from a little birdy that he also had a secret stash of letters addressed to you hidden away in his closet.

Okay, yeah, maybe you were beginning to understand why so many people believed you were their third.

——————————————————

Once, Clark told you he felt uncomfortable in Wayne Manor. That the paintings hung on the walls seemed to follow him and that the silence haunted its endless hallways.

You thought differently. In a way, the silence comforted you; it wrapped around you like a warm blanket, beckoning you to follow it. And while you agreed some paintings were creepy, they held stories you could only imagine.

To say that the main living room was big was an understatement. It was bigger than the apartment, luxurious too, with a couch that seemed to be made from heaven. No, seriously, it was so comfortable you thought you were sitting on a cloud.

“So you're from another universe?” The man seemed unimpressed for someone who had just learned the multiverse was indeed real, but then again, he probably already knew.

“Yep.”

Bruce glanced at Clark, who stood next to you, his arms crossed and his shoulders squared. He grimaced at the pure, unadulterated light radiating from the man.

“And you need my help?”

You nodded wordlessly, and he seemed to retreat into himself, no doubt pondering your words and deciding whether this was worth his time. “How long have you been here?”

“Three months and fifteen days. "Clark piped in, and Bruce frowned. His expression never once changed, although you could see the way his brows pinched in thought and the slight glimmer of uncertainty that flashed in his eyes.

He turned to you, his brow raised. “And why are you just now bringing this to my attention?”

Clark's happy expression faltered for a split second, a small, barely noticeable action that Bruce was just able to catch.

"Clark told me—”

"You never responded to my message." Clark chimed in before you could finish, which earned him a glare from you, and his lips puckered in a dramatic pout that both you and Bruce frowned at.

"I've been busy, and I do not recall receiving—"

"Soooo, can you help us?" Clark hastily interrupted, and while you glanced around the room, the two men shared a silent conversation, a complexity that you couldn't figure out even if you tried.

Bruce grunted, and your attention snapped back to him. "I'll do what I can but it's going to take time."

You smiled, hands flapping. "Thank you!"

To you, this was a massive win. No offense to Mr. Terrific or the Justice Gang, but they weren't the most reliable people around. The most you'd gotten from them so far was a few crude theories that did nothing to help in the long run.

"If I may," Alfred's voice piped in. Wait, when did he get here?

"Dinner is almost ready, and I made more than enough for all of you."

"Alfred…"

"Master Bruce, I recall you pondering whether to invite Mr.Kent for lunch again."

"Alfred!"

Clark lit up. "You were thinking about me?"

Dang, again? He told you they were close, but you didn't expect this. Your Clark was never invited to the manor for lunch, only for missions. Well, that explained why Bruce actually spoke to you with words instead of grunts.

Friendship truly was magic.

——————————————————

“Look, as much as I love lazing around all day reading and writing, it's not fair to you. At least let me get a job to help with groceries,“ you pleaded to the man who stood towering before you, his arms crossed and his expression serious as he shook his head.

“I make more than enough money for both of us,” Clark insisted, as he always did whenever you brought up the idea of getting a job.

“You're a journalist,” you fixed him with a knowing glare that not even he could argue with. His and Lois' salaries combined were more than enough in your universe, but she wasn't here. And you refused to continue leeching off ‌him like you were when Bruce could easily set you up with a fake identity and the paperwork to allow you to work.

He frowned at your callout. “I can make diamonds with my heat vision and pressure, you know that, right?” He raised a brow, and you hated how smug he looked when talking.

And yeah, you already knew that. You were there when he found out about the possibility during science in middle school. You literally watched Pa almost have a heart attack when Clark actually did it and made a diamond. On a random Tuesday, mind you.

It was a distraction, but what for?

It clicked.

“Bruce bought the apartment complex and forced you to no longer pay rent, didn't he?”

Clark paused, and for a moment, he was about to shake his head but didn't in defeat. “Yeah…”

“He also helped me fix up the family farm,” he added weakly. “I'm plannin’ to move there. Renovations are finished. It's truly just a matter of waiting for the lease to end.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, now that I think about it…it is actually coming up. Oh lord, I gotta start packing and I still need to go visit the farm one last time to make sure everything works before the official move-in. Golly, I almost completely forgot.”

“Do you think I could maybe go with you? I can help with any last-minute projects or issues, I swear! Ma and Pa had me luggin’ hay bales right beside you growing up!” Oh Irene, your accent was peeking through.

Clark's grin continued to widen as you continued to ramble.

“And did I ever tell you that Ma taught me to cook? Heck! I learned everythin’ from her.”

He nodded along to the gaggle of new information that tumbled out of your mouth.

“Ah, so that's why your cooking almost made me cry.”

You nodded proudly. You couldn't count how many hours you spent with Martha in the kitchen learning how to cook and make the most delicious pie. Some of your best memories were spent in that kitchen.

“How about next time I go, I'll take you with me?” Your eyes lit up, and you beamed, jumping in excitement while your hands flapped in front of you.

“Besides, you will probably be movin’ in too if we don't find a solution to get you home by then.” He shrugged, and you paused in your celebration.

“Oh, yeah…I guess so.” You hadn’t thought of that until he brought it up.

You turned your back to him for a moment, completely oblivious to the way he adjusted his sweatpants. A flurry of emotions danced across his face, yet in just a few milliseconds, he was completely back to normal.

“I wouldn’t mind living in Kansas again.” You faced him again, and he sent you a completely innocent smile. The one that made your heart skip a beat and your face flush. It made you throb.

Irene, you needed to get home. Your heart couldn't handle this pain.

——————————————————

You'd forgotten how tedious a process moving was. All the packing and running around. The stress was enough to knock you out, but fortunately, you weren't alone.

“Hey, lemme carry that for you.”

You tried to protest as the box you were carrying was lifted out of your arms by Clark. He'd been doing that all day. You could barely lift your finger without him immediately coming over to fuss over you.

You couldn't really complain, though. This barely counted as a workout for him. All you had to do was watch him haul his ass around and make sure he took breaks to drink and eat, or else he'd forget being so hyper-fixated on moving everything.

“So what made you want to renovate the farm?” He paused, and for a moment you panicked, thinking you'd hit a nerve, but to your utter relief he shrugged and continued on with his ministrations.

“I needed a distraction, and I always knew I would end up back in Kansas eventually—” That made sense. Your Clark told you the same thing. “—It just felt right, I guess.”

You nodded, taking in his words with a slight hum. “And what about The Daily Planet and work?”

“It's a five-minute flight away, and they've already approved my request to take on a more remote position."

He lifted another box over his shoulders, and you pattered after him like a duckling following its mother.

“And what's it like being Bruce's sugar baby?”

He groaned. “Look, he got my bank information somehow. I can't control what he does. I tried. He just grunted and told me no. Alfred told me to accept my fate. I listen to Alfred!”

He set the box down beside the others, and both of you made the journey back.

“I'm just saying friends don't send each other thousands of dollars for no reason,” you closed the door behind you, dodging and weaving through the trail of boxes that laid around the apartment.

“Sweetheart, he's a billionaire. He has absolutely no concept of a normal friendship. I'm pretty sure I'm his first actual best friend in years.”

That actually made a lot of sense. You doubted Bruce got out a lot during the day. Not to mention his social awkwardness and obvious unresolved trauma.

Clark collapsed onto the couch, and you followed after him, dramatically flopping right next to him as if you'd just done a whole day's work.

“You both need therapy.”

He let out a heavy sigh. “Trust me, we already know.”

Well, at least he was self-aware.

——————————————————

You recalled the day Clark moved out of his apartment vividly. You, he, and Lois spent the entire day lugging boxes around, although it was truly only Clark who did the work. He insisted he could do it alone while you and Lois hung out.

You looked back on that day fondly. A bittersweet memory of friends and a life you wished you had.

A life with them.

The apartment was so bare you barely recognized it. Without the furniture, it felt soulless, like everything that made it home had been stripped away. It was familiar in a way that made you itch.

“Well, I think that's the rest of it,” his arm effortlessly slipped around your shoulders.

“I'm going to miss this place.” Your eyes darted across the hallway, taking it all in one last time. It felt like ages ago when you first stumbled in, frazzled and confused. It baffled you how many weeks had passed since then.

Clark nodded along, his expression pensive. The way it always was whenever he was pondering something deep. “But you'll love it in Kansas." Well, you obviously couldn't deny that or the deep, almost sinful rumble of his voice.

“You're right.” You sighed. “I will.”

“The flight still sucks, though.” You added with a frown, and you shrugged Clark's arm off your shoulder, an action that made his jaw tick. His eyes grew cold for just a single moment, too quick for you to catch, but you noticed his offended demeanor and snorted. He melted in an instant.

“Do we seriously have to take a plane? Can't you just fly me?” You despised airplanes and, most importantly, airports. The crowds terrified you, and standing in a line to wait was not one of your strong suits.

Clark shook his head, following you out the door one ultimate time. “Nope!” He popped the P. “We can not just rely on my powers for everything.” You hated how correct he was.

You both paused, finality hitting like a brick.

You turned to each other.

“To Kansas?”

You grinned at his barely contained excitement. He was buzzing with it.

"To Kansas!”

——————————————————

Nothing could've prepared you for the mixed feelings that came with living full time at the Kent's house, or well, Clark's house without Martha and Jonathan. There was a feeling of emptiness without their presence. It was still the same house you grew up in, and yet everything felt different. Not exactly in a bad way, just different. You assumed the feeling would dissipate as time went on.

There had been several renovations made to the house. Appliances were all upgraded; everything was repainted to look good as new. The furniture was mostly kept the same, just with some added touches from Clark that made the house more his instead of his parents'. All of it exactly the same as when you visited.

You could definitely tell Bruce funded it all; the new editions were the best of the best, which was kind of jarring because you were used to the guest room's bathroom toilet absolutely sucking, and now it was literally luxurious. Same thing with the shower that had a leaky faucet; all of it was completely fixed.

You didn't miss the chores, though. Although it was Clark who did all the heavy lifting. He refused your offers of help, even after you showed him how far you could throw a hay bale, which was pretty far if you had to say so yourself. Instead, you focused on taking care of the inhabitants of the farm, which you didn't mind. In fact, you always drifted toward the animals. You always had. They were easier to get along with than people.

“Okay, children, one at a time—no, Aph, stop, that's Katelyn's food. Nana stop pecking at my feet.” You shooed the chicken away, scowling right back at her when she fluffed up her feathers and clucked in obvious annoyance. You stuck your tongue out at her and closed the gate behind you.

“Garroth. Lawrence,” you acknowledged the pigs as you passed their pen. Gosh, you'd forgotten how much work it was to keep animals. It kept you busy, offering a distraction from the festering unease inside you.

You found Clark in the barn fussing over Betty, the cow, or as you called her, ‘the princess of the farm’. She ruled her kingdom with an iron fist and a powerful moo. Most of the time she was a grump, and Clark was the only one she allowed to touch her. Apparently his pets were good enough while yours weren't.

You couldn't blame her. His hands were nice, sturdy, yet somehow soft, even after years of farm work. Yeah, Clark Kent had a very nice pair of hands.

“Such a pretty girl.”

A shiver ran down your spine at his rumble, his words twisting your gut. That cow was absolutely spoiled. You were surprised she wasn't overweight, with how gluttonous she was.

“This is why she's a brat. You spoil her too much.” You glared at the cow.

She glared back.

For a moment Clark paused in his petting, and Betty's tail flicked in immediate dissatisfaction. She huffed and trotted away, not even giving him a chance to redeem himself.

Your hands fell to your waist, and you jutted your hip out as you gave him a look that screamed, ‘I told you so.'

“Okay, so maybe I spoil her. She deserves it. She's my baby” He conceded with a shrug and made his way over to you.

“You're ridiculous—”

“—Ridiculously empathetic and caring toward animals," he finished for you. You swatted the hand away that reached for you and moved away, but he followed persistently. “Nuh uh, don't run.” He shook his head and clicked his tongue in faux disappointment. He caught you almost immediately and dragged you back.

“Let me go, you heathen!” You clawed at his arms, desperately writhing around. “I will destroy you!” He threw his head back and laughed when you turned and pushed him. He didn’t even budge an inch.

His arms slackened, and like an animal being hunted, you scrambled away from him toward the entrance of the barn. He followed leisurely behind.

“Sweetheart, watcha doin’?” His head tilted curiously, but you wouldn't fall for his fake innocence. You saw the mischief gleaming in his eyes.

“You are like a needy golden retriever.” You pointed at him accusingly with a harmless growl.

“What?” He had the audacity to look perplexed by your statement. You had given a whole rundown of character dynamics when he asked about the story you were writing. He knew exactly what you were talking about.

“Hey, hey, six feet away! I value my freedom!”

With a smug smirk, he cocked his eyebrow and took a single step forward.

You took it as a declaration of war and bolted back to the house.

——————————————————

You were getting a serious sense of déjà vu tiptoeing through the house in the dead of night, like a single wrong step would wake everyone up. Technically, with Clark’s super-hearing, you weren't far off.

“Don't be suspicious, don't be suspicious," you whispered, singing the mantra to yourself like an annoying kid's toy on repeat.

Your mind wouldn't let you sleep, so instead of tossing and turning in your bed all night, you decided to go to the kitchen and get a snack. At least then you would be tossing and turning all night without your stomach rumbling.

You were just tiptoeing past Clark's room when you heard him whimpering. It sounded as if he were in pain, which you doubt was the case. No, that wasn't a ‘help, I'm in pain’ whimper. It was a 'Help, I'm having a horrible nightmare and about to wake up and probably have a panic attack’ whimper.

Look, you were no stranger to nightmares. Although your nightmares weren't exactly normal. Not if being stuck in a crowded mall in a constant state of meltdown, constantly suffering while everyone you love ignores your pleas for help, was normal.

You were confident enough in your relationship with Clark to know that barging into his room, food in hand, at two in the morning was acceptable.

You knew the layout of his bedroom like the back of your hand. The total darkness that encompassed it never hindered your journey to his bed.

However, you made a pit stop to place your snacks on his dresser nearby.

“Clark?” the whisper barely left your lips. The last thing you wanted to do was bombard his super-hearing. You knew how sensitive all his senses got whenever he had nightmares. He once described it to you after you comforted him one night during your high school years.

You knew what it was like to be overstimulated. What he went through sounded worse.

The moment you got close enough, you reached out to him, and as if he could sense your presence, he shot up.

Clark gasped, and a sharp inhale of air flooded his lungs. He panted as he gulped it all in.

“Hey, Clark.”

His head snapped in your direction, and for a moment in his panic, he looked as if he were about to attack. His eyes snapped down to your outstretched hand that now trembled, frozen in place. He frowned and then he registered it was you.

He whispered your name like a lifeline and immediately slumped over. His head bumped against your shoulder, and you struggled to take on all of his weight as he seemed to bury himself in you. Like that was possible.

“Oof,” you grunted and wrapped your arms around him to steady you ‌both. You carefully maneuvered yourself onto his bed, and the man had no issue scooting over to let you in. In fact, the moment you finally laid down on your side, he attached himself to you like a koala.

His body curled around yours, and hands snuck around your waist, dragging you as close as possible to his chest.

In the dark, you had to squint to see him. Fortunately, from being in his embrace, you could feel his erratic breathing slowly calming. You heard him sniffle, and one of his arms unwrapped around you to swipe away his tears. But in just a few seconds it returned, once again wrapping around you.

You let him cling to you. To the point that you almost fell asleep for a few minutes. I mean, how could you not? This was the most comfortable spot in the world. Okay, yeah, it was a little bit warm, but the sweat was worth it!

Soon enough his breathing evened out, and you frowned as a snore left him. Oh, great.

He trapped you and you were really looking forward to those snacks too…

By the time your mind allowed you to sleep, the sun was already rising. Fortunately, its rays of light were blocked by the massive body curled around your body. You weren't even that short, and yet you felt small when he completely encircled you like this.

The moment you stirred and tried to pull away from the living furnace next to you, his arms locked around your waist and forced you still.

“Clarkkkk.” You pushed at his chest helplessly and groaned when he didn't even move an inch. He was fighting back a smile, the corner of his lips threatening to curl into a grin. He popped open a single eye, peering down at you in sleepy amusement.

“What's the magic word?” This is why you stopped sleeping in the same bed with him. Once he latched on, he never let go. Neither did Lois. Both of their sleepover privileges were revoked.

“Let me go, or else I'll never make you a pie again.”

His other eye shot open. “You wouldn't dare…” He was right. You were bluffing. However, you had the audacity not to care.

“Try me.”

His arms around you finally slackened, and you wiggled out of his grip, just barely dodging his attempt to snatch you back. He frowned like a kicked puppy, but you refused to feel guilty.

You rose from the bed and headed straight to his drawer, where you checked up on your snacks and then waddled back to his bed.

What? Your food was important.

“So, you want to talk about last night?” You crawled back onto the bed and finally let Clark pull you back into his arms.

For the first time, he didn't tense up or shut down. You were used to him retreating whenever you asked.

“It was Lex who did it.”

Oh.

Oh.

“Does that mean…?”

He nodded, and his gaze fell as he fought hard to hold back the tears threatening to fall. “He found out. I was too late. By the time I got there, they were already gone.”

Everything fell into place, finally painting the full picture. The realization hit you like a bucket of ice-cold water, and you went tense in his arms. The somber haze that had seemed to have taken over him seemed to clear because his gaze snapped back to you.

“It was you who killed him, wasn't it?”

He nodded, and you noticed the lack of guilt in his demeanor. You couldn't blame him for what he did. Not at all. Still, the lack of guilt irked you. Not enough for you to truly care, though. Lex Luthor ruined Clark's life. You wouldn't feel bad either.

But this was different. The Clark you knew would have felt guilty even if it was Lex, but then again, your Clark never went through what this Clark did.

“I hate to say it, but…good riddance.”

Oh, you felt so guilty saying it, but it needed to be said! Nobody was going to miss that bald-headed demon. In fact, the world was much safer without him. Clark was safer without him.

“Wait, is that why Metropolis is so much more peaceful in this universe.” It all made sense.

He barked out a sudden laugh, and you were glad that even with the sad subject, he could at least find some joy.

——————————————————

Smallville was different in ways you couldn't explain. Of course, you hadn't actually gone into town yet; just the idea of it made you nervous but the farmers market was today and you were finally ready to venture out.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come with?" He stood in front of the door, his arms crossed and his shoulders squared like he was guarding something—probably you.

You rolled your eyes. Ever since you told Clark your plans to go to the farmers market, he'd been insistent he come with. You weren't exactly against it per-say, it's just you wanted to spend some time alone. Get used to being in town again, but then again, you were a complete stranger to everybody, so maybe Clark coming with wasn't that bad of an idea.

"I'll be okay. It's just the farmers market," you reassured the gentle giant, who seemed more than concerned about the idea of you heading along alone. You had to admit it was slightly annoying, all of his fussing, like you couldn't go more than ten seconds without him. But you would be lying if you said you didn't find it a little cute.

"But what if it's too much? I wouldn't want you to have a meltdown and not be there to help." Wait, how did he even know about those? Did he do research?

Clark sighed at the well-earned glare he received and raised his hands in front of him in defense. "Please just let me come with for my peace of mind." He pleaded.

He really wasn't going to let this go was he?

You sighed, finally conceding, and victory flashed across his expression, a smile quickly growing on his face.

"Fine, you can come with, but only because it'll be easier to carry groceries with you around."

"I'll take it." He beamed and stepped away from the door, opening it for you like the gentleman he was.

"Come on, the truck is already ready."

You raised a brow, fixing him with an unimpressed stare.

"Seriously?"

"What? I wanted to go to the farmers market too!"

The drive to town was only a measly ten-minute affair. The whole time Clark hummed along to the songs you had added to his playlist because you refused to listen to Clark's abhorrent music taste.

Finally getting out of the truck felt damning, like there was no turning back after this, which was true given the stares you immediately received from the familiar faces around you. You were surprised you made it out of the parking lot without being stopped by someone. However you didn't even make it past the first stall before Mrs. Mendelev was scurrying up to the both of you. The woman was a gossip—the town gossiper as some would say. She knew everything and anything about everyone. It was pretty impressive.

"Oh, aren't you just the cutest little thing?" The older woman squeezed you tightly in a hug. "You have no idea how happy we all were when we heard Clark finally brought home a girl!"

Behind you, the man groaned, the tips of his turning red. “After Martha and Jonathan’s passing, God bless their souls, he just was never the same. It’s so nice to see him smile again."

You smiled softly at the kind words. "I wouldn't say I'm the reason for that." You laughed, waving her off, and Clark's brows pinched together as if he were about to speak but held off at the last second.

The woman only waved her hand and shook her head. "Nonsense. He practically glows when he talks about you."

Oh, wow, you had no idea how to respond to that. Fortunately, Clark took the opportunity and muttered an awkward goodbye and dragged you away to the next stall, for which you were eternally grateful.

"Well she hasn't change," you giggled as you leaned over to grab an apple, inspecting it before tossing it into your bag and grabbing a few more.

"Let me guess, she's a gossip in your universe too?"

You nodded. "Yep," you popped the p and moved on to the next stall.

"Why, hello there! You must be the lady Clark won't stop blabbering about!" Your eyes widened as you took in the man before you—Kevin. He was only a few years older than you, but everyone in town knew who he was, at least in your universe. He went down a dark path after his marriage fell apart because of his wife’s issues with fertility. His ending wasn't so happy

"Dad! Amy got into the produce again!" a smaller voice called out from behind the stand, and Kevin sighed, a long arduous groan.

You watched as a little boy stumbled to the front of the stand, a smile growing on your face as you took in the little lad. "You have a child."

No, you were totally not about to cry. That would be pathetic.

"I'm adopted!" A startled, but happy laugh burst from your mouth at the boy’s exclamation and Kevin’s horrified reaction.

“I told you to stop telling people that!”

You let the family be and scurried to the next stall, taking one last glance at the happiness radiating from the man before finally moving your attention away.

"Hey, are you okay?" Clark's fingers brushed over your arm.

"Yeah…I'm just happy. Kevin never really got to be happy in my universe. I'm glad he got it here. He deserves it."

His expression softened. "Well, I'm glad too. He's a good man, and a great father and husband."

The rest of the morning was spent wandering around the market, grabbing what you needed and introducing yourself to every face you encountered. It was nice, tiring, but nice to see everyone again. So much was different, and yet so many things were the same. You didn't know whether you found comfort from it all, and by the time you got back to the farm, you didn't have the energy to care. All you wanted to do was put the groceries away and nap.

"Sweetheart, you looked drained."

He snatched the groceries from your arms; you were a fool to believe he would let you carry them all in. "Get some rest. I'm sure all that socialization was tiring, " he pressed a kiss to your forehead, the action so natural that neither of you blinked at the affection, and he disappeared into the kitchen.

You could kiss him.

You bet he tasted like sunshine and comfort.

Ugh, you seriously needed to get your feeling in check. This wasn't your Clark. You didn't love him, just another version of him. If only your stupid heart would realize that.

——————————————————

You were no stranger to the danger that came with being Superman. You watched Clark get beaten up, thrown into buildings, and smashed with cars. He always survived. It's what he did, but the suit? Oh, the suit was a whole different story.

"This poor fabric." The repetitive motion of sewing was soothing to someone like you, which was why you happily volunteered to fix up Clark's suit because, good lord, it needed some tender love and care.

“In my defense I didn't ask to be stabbed at.”

"And yet it still happened." You pulled the needle through the fabric.

"Hey!" he gawked, offended. "I tried my best to dodge it; it's harder than it looks."

You nodded, pretending that you believed him, but he seemed to recognize your bad acting and scowled.

“Look, I'm sorry” he whined.

“I know you are. I just get concerned.” You frowned and once again threaded the needle through the fabric. You would never get over how satisfying it was to watch as the string tied everything together once again, patching it all up.

“Just be more careful out there. I know you're practically invincible, but I still get worried seeing you get beat up.” Clark sighed, his scowl softening and his body relaxing.

"I know, I know." He didn't exactly wave off your concerns; he would never do that, always too thoughtful, but it still felt like that as he rose from his sitting place on the couch and made his way over to you. He leaned down, placing a light kiss to your forehead.

"I'm sorry."

He leaned back, staring down at you with a soft smile. "Thank you for the suit. I can't remember the last time someone took the time to fix it up."

"Well, someone has to."

"You and I both know that's not true." He chuckled lightly.

You only shrugged, your tongue poking out as you focused on finishing the final stitches. You could feel his eyes on you—a feeling you were all to familiar with. He liked to watch you. You tried to convince yourself it wasn't creepy.

"There." You smiled proudly as you cut off the string and held out the newly patched up suit. "Good as new."

"You never cease to amaze me, sweetheart."

"I know right. I'm amazing."

Peaceful silence fell between you, and you handed him back the suit, the bright symbol almost shining when the light hit it just right.

"Do you ever regret it?"

"Regret what?" He hummed, checking over his newly repaired suit, obviously satisfied with your work.

"Killing Lex."

He froze and you watched as his knuckles paled from how tightly he gripped onto the fabric. His expression fell blank just like it always did whenever you brought up this sort of topic.

Shit.

Had you gone too far? Oh gosh, you knew asking was a bad idea. You should have listened to your brain when it told you to leave the topic alone. It was obvious he didn't like talking about it.

"No, I don't," he finally answered. You slowly nodded, taking in his words. Of course he didn't. Honestly, you wouldn't either in a situation like that, but a small part of you was still surprised. The Clark you knew valued all life, even Lex Luthor's, but then again, this wasn't your Clark, which your brain couldn't seem to register quite yet.

"Would you do it again?"

He looked down at the fabric in his hands, his gaze flickering over the symbol.

"No."

Both of you knew that was a lie.

———————————————————

Martha was the one who taught you how to bake. You remembered the way she would set out everything and go through each step with you, teaching you how to correctly measure and how to roll the dough.

Baking was a process, a process you enjoyed very much.

It was also an escape. It allowed your mind to go numb as you went through the steps, doing the same thing every time. It was as relaxing as it was delicious.

“You know, if you keep on baking these pies, I think I'm gonna die from the sugar overload.” You turned around, scowling at Clark, who stood leaning against the entryway in his usual plaid shirt and jeans. The only difference was the long hair he decided to grow out. It was almost a mullet now, and gosh darn did he look delicious, almost as delicious as your pie.

"Oh hush you love my pies." You turned back to the oven, eyeing the pie that laid inside. Just a few minutes left.

Footsteps approached from behind and his hands landed on your hips.

"Is that my shampoo?" Your nose wrinkled at the familiar scent, and you craned your neck to look at Clark, who smiled at you sheepishly with a guilty expression that said it all.

"It smells nice—like you." He shrugged as if that were a perfectly good reason to steal your freakin' twenty-dollar shampoo.

"You are so lucky that Bruce Wayne funds this household or else I'd kick your butt."

A laugh left him at your obvious threat, and you frowned at the way he didn't take you seriously. You were very scary, just not to him, apparently. "Sweetheart, you couldn't hurt a fly even if you tried." He sounded so sure of it, and you would have been offended if it weren't true.

The oven interrupted any attempt to threaten him more, and you huffed as you turned your attention back to the appliance, tugging it open and groaning when his arms unwrapped around you and sneaked past to take the pie out, his hands completely bare.

"You're a freak of nature," he placed the pie down on the countertop, and you cringed. "You do realize that can ruin it, right?"

"You said it yourself," he shrugged. "Bruce Wayne funds this household."

He turned the oven off, and you stepped back and untied your apron from around your waist. "Touché"

You threw the fabric onto the countertop. "Speaking of which, how is Bruce? Any updates?" You questioned.

He shook his head. "No. Apparently, the multiverse is, uh…complicated."

Even after so many months, the only progress made was a few crude theories, and even those were iffy. But both Bruce and Mr.Terrific knew how to contact you if anything came up.

"I just can't imagine how worried everyone is back home,” you sighed. "I'm sure they're doing everything they can to get me back. "

A small part of you hoped one day a portal would randomly open and out would come your Clark and Lois, most likely rambling about how they missed you and did everything they could to get you back. It was wishful thinking, and maybe foolish, but still, you could hope.

"You know you've been baking a lot; are you okay?”

Aw, dang it, you were hoping he wouldn't notice.

Okay, so maybe you baked more whenever you were stressed; it was a healthy outlet, and in all reality, you weren't fine at all.

It was like a creeping feeling of doom approaching in the distance. You could see the storm, hear its thunder rumble, and watch its clouds invade the sky. Now, you were just waiting for it to hit.

“I'm fine." You turned your back to him, focusing on retrieving a knife to cut the pie with.

He didn't believe you, probably because he could hear your heart beating a million miles per hour.

Something about his gaze felt predatory. The way he watched you flutter around the kitchen like you were some piece of meat ready to be devoured. You noticed that gaze a lot.

Wait, where did your apron go? Oh lord, not again!

——————————————————

You loved when it rained, always have and probably always will.

It was the sound of each droplet hitting the ground, the grounding effect it had on your mind. The way the worms would always come out after, your little army of beloved insects. You adored all of it.

So of course you couldn't miss the chance to revel in it.

"You do realize this is a one-way ticket to getting sick, right?" He leaned against the side of the porch, where he was protected from the rain while you stood a few feet away absolutely soaked and delighted to stomp in each puddle. Your hands flapped in front of you as you danced around, splashing and giggling as you jumped around.

"I didn't realize you were such a party pooper. " You turned, sticking your tongue out at him.

The only thing you didn't enjoy was the way your soaked clothes stuck to you, an uncomfortable feeling that made your skin crawl. But it wasn't enough to ruin your mood. It wasn't often that Kansas had rain, especially during such a dry season like summer.

"Are you going to join me or just watch like a creepy stalker?"

"Oh, no. I'm more than okay staying right here."

You rolled your eyes and turned back around, running and jumping straight in the largest puddle you could find, your hands flapping happily in front of you.

Oh, how you loved puddles. They were always so fun to jump in. You and Clark used to do it all the time growing up while Martha and Jonathan watched from their porch. You couldn't count how many times you got sick from it, unlike Clark, who was never affected, but it was always worth it. Although you swore it wasn't the rain that made you sick, just your immune system fucking you over.

From the porch, Clark watched with his arms crossed over his chest . You were always so excited about the littlest of things. It was cute.

"Sweetheart, you should probably come in soon," he called.

"Only if you promise not to fuss over me."

"I don't fuss over you."

"You absolutely do."

He absolutely did. He couldn't help it. It was just his nature to help, especially for the ones he cared for.

"Fine, I won't fuss but only if you promise to warm up with some towels and Ma's hot chocolate."

You lit up.

"You had me at Ma's hot chocolate."

——————————————————

Ultimately, it was Mr Terrific who revealed Clark’s lies. That's right—lies. In one simple phone call, the small life you'd built with him was torn to shreds.

He'd been lying to you for weeks.

He called off the research.

All of it.

Bruce, the justice gang—he demanded they all stop their research and move on. You didn't know which was worse: that he did it or the fact that they all listened. So blindly loyal to a man who apparently wanted you all to himself, tucked away on a farm in Kansas. But why? You had done nothing but invade his life? Why would he want you to stay so badly that he went out of his way to betray you like this. It didn't make any sense.

"So it's true?"

"Sweetheart—"

Oh Irene, it was. He'd lied to you. For weeks! It made so much sense now that you thought about it. The way he avoided your questions or even just the topic itself. The weird way he'd been acting ever since you both moved to Kansas. The clinginess, the avoidance, red bright flags that you had opted to ignore just because you trusted him—technically not even him but another version of him!

"Clark, why?" You felt one second away from completely breaking, and you hated the way your voice wavered. The weakness that crept in.

"Because I love you, okay!" He suddenly exclaimed. "I love you so much it hurts, and that universe—that Clark—doesn't deserve you."

…what?

In another life, you would've been ecstatic to hear those words. In fact, your heart still skipped a beat, and a familiar warmth spread across your body, but it felt wrong. So terribly wrong.

"Clark, I—" how do you respond to that? For your whole entire life you had thought that Clark Kent would never love you, not in the way you loved him. Yet here he was, another version of him, telling you exactly that.

You watched frozen in place as he took a careful step toward you, like one wrong move and you would just disappear. He looked so fragile, so hopeful. So completely and irrevocably different from the Clark you knew.

"I…I think I want to go home." Yeah. You wanted your apartment, your bed, your safe place. You wanted your noise-canceling headphones and your stuffed animals.

"You are home."

You weren't. This wasn't home. Just a false replica of it.

"No, I want to go home," you repeated, and his face scrunched up.

You didn't know when he managed to get in front of you, but you blinked, and he suddenly towered over you only a few inches away, blocking any escape.

"I need you to calm down." You shrugged off any attempt at touching you, and his expression flashed with hurt.

"You're not leaving. Not me or Kansas." His words felt like a finality you refused to accept, but truly what could you do? He was stronger than you, and if you tried to run, he could easily catch up and just throw you over his shoulder and take you back.

You were stuck.

You were snapped out of your thoughts by his hand taking yours, and you watched in frozen horror as he reached back into his pocket and pulled out a familiar ring—Martha's ring. The same one you would fawn over growing up, wishing that one day it would belong to you.

"I wanted to wait until you were settled down more but Bruce already has the papers forged."

The ring slid onto your finger. It was a weight that felt binding, something you couldn't exactly explain.

"Clark, what do you mean?"

He smiled, soft yet predatory in a way that made you shudder. "It means we're going to be happy," His hand ghosted up your arm, trailing up to cup your cheek with his palm. You would have melted if it weren't for the situation.

"Together."

Once again, in any other scenario, you would've swooned. Unfortunately, this was the one scenario where you, in fact, did not swoon. Instead panic seized you, forcing you to stay frozen in your place.

"Clark, I can't. I have a life. Clark and Lois—"

"—Do not deserve you."

Again with that bullshit. How dare he say that? Your Clark and Lois deserved the world, and you were a part of that world. They most definitely deserved you.

They just didn't want you.

His hands left your body, and you stepped back. Something he obviously did not like with the way he immediately crowded into your space again.

"Stop saying that!"

"But it's true!" He exclaimed. "They don't see you. Never will. Not the way I do, and I can't lose you!" For a moment he went silent before speaking. "Not like I loss them."

Oh, wow. That was a box of emotions you were not willing to open up.

You shook your head, anger guiding you to slide the ring off your finger and throw it to the ground, but before you could even think about doing it, his hand came down onto your wrist, effectively stopping you.

"Don't." He sounded annoyed. It was terrifying. He gave you the ring for a reason, and there was only one reason someone, especially someone like Clark, would give you a ring. His ma's ring, too.

"Clark, what type of papers did you get Bruce to forge?"

The smile he gave you sent chills down your spine, whether it was from the predatory gleam in his eyes or the actual happiness that radiated from him. "I think you already know, sweetheart."

"Welcome home, Mrs.Kent."

Oh.

Oh no.

˖ ˙ — ᰋ MAN ON WILLPOWER by @murdock-slvt

bruce is a hardworking man, and sometimes you feel lonely, even your slutty pajamas aren’t enough to get him to fuck you… so that’s precisely why you sleep on the couch one night… and bruce can’t have that!

˖ ˙ — ᰋ SUITS AND RINGS by @murdock-slvt7

bruce doesn’t like confronting his past, it scares him… and confronting you, his ex-wife after a year and a half since the divorce? his dick speaks first, which is rare for him… but you don’t mind. bruce wayne fucks good anyway

˖ ˙ — ᰋ REACQUAINTED by @pluvoia

but now, many years following your official end of marriage to bruce, there was no reason for you to fight off lethargy. zero obligations, such as a sparkling set of wedding bands accompanied by an engagement ring, to keep you tied to the main event. so you had slipped away, seemingly unnoticed, down a slithering hallway-- the packet of cigarettes within your purse whispering your name.

˖ ˙ — ᰋ SEET HORNY WIFE by @athenalvss

only bruce wayne knows both sides of his charming wife, and he loves both.

˖ ˙ — ᰋ ACCIDENTALLY SEDUCING THE BILLIONAIRE CEO by @starwberry-nugget

bruce Wayne has game. Is it outdated and probably free-trialed by half of Gotham? Absolutely. Is it also stupidly charming and deeply, aggressively old money? Unfortunately, also yes. Are you falling for it? Uhhh, yes!?

˖ ˙ — ᰋ BAREFOOT IN (THE) PARK (ROW) by @sakunai

bruce doesn’t submit to anything, really.

˖ ˙ — ᰋ THE PHOTOGRAPHER by @ode-to-melpomene

bruce finds himself infatuated with the Gotham Post’s new photographer.

˖ ˙ — ᰋ FIVE MORE MINUTES? by @ode-to-melpomene

the gala can wait.

˖ ˙ — ᰋ THE OTHER HALF by @youvebeenlivingfictional

opposites attract

˖ ˙ — ᰋ MI CASA ES SUA CASA by @crookshanks-07

the first time you sleep over at the manor, and the first time Bruce steps foot in your tiny one bed room apartment.

˖ ˙ — ᰋ THAT KIND OF MAN by @srenique

bruce thomas wayne was lucky enough to avoid the salt in his wounds and pepper in his hair when he was pushing forty, didn’t stop people (tabloids, press, the gotham city gazette) from calling him an old man. all that’s white noise when a woman like you knows he’s the kind of man you’d give your time to.

˖ ˙ — ᰋ MY BABY, YOU HAVE EVERYTHING by @moviecritc

Every time you walked through the doors of your office building on Miagani Island, you felt the eyes following you. You caught the occasional whisper, but after nearly ten years of this routine, you’d grown used to it. Eleven years ago, when you agreed to go to dinner with Bruce Wayne, you knew exactly what you were getting into. Everyone wanted to know the low-profile lawyer who had snagged Gotham’s most eligible bachelor. But over time, especially after the wedding, Gotham's public gradually lost interest in dissecting your life.

So, you went back to living discreetly. It didn't mean you never had to deal with curious glances or intrusive paparazzi, but it was manageable. Lately, though, things had been feeling just as intense as they were back when Vicki Vale leaked to all of Gotham that you and Bruce were dating.

You figured Bruce might be seeing someone. The thought was bitter, unfortunately, but it would explain why the Gotham media was suddenly tracking your steps again.

"What a way to start the day," you muttered, staring at your reflection in the elevator mirror.

It was going to be a long day. You had anxious clients breathing down your neck, and starting the morning thinking about your ex-husband moving on was definitely not the motivation you needed. You tried not to think about him, but you always failed. Every time you saw a headline about Batman on the news, your mind immediately drifted. Was he okay?

But those thoughts usually hit at more convenient times—especially during those sleepless nights when seeing the damn Bat-Signal lighting up the Gotham sky was enough to keep you awake. Now, your entire day was going to be haunted by the possibility of Bruce moving on. The mere thought made your stomach turn.

"Good morning!" your intern’s voice chirped loudly before the elevator doors could even finish sliding open.

She had a bright, energetic look that, in your opinion, did not belong on the average Gotham City resident. There had to be a very good reason for her to be this excited so early. If you were lucky, some major case had resolved itself while you were out. Unlikely, but a girl could dream.

"Good morning," you replied, heading toward your office with the overly enthusiastic girl trailing close behind. "Any particular reason for all this energy?"

As you neared your door, a familiar, sweet floral scent hit you. It had been a while since you’d received flowers. Bruce had always been an attentive boyfriend and an incredibly romantic husband; his habit of sending massive vases of flowers to your office was common knowledge among your coworkers. But, for obvious reasons, your receptionist hadn't seen a delivery boy in months. You were still surprised that no one outside of family and close friends knew about the divorce.

When you pushed the door open, there they were. An obscenely large bouquet of stargazing lilies. Your favorite.

Bruce always sent flowers, and you loved every kind. But out of all the arrangements he used to buy, lilies were strictly reserved for special occasions.

"They were delivered first thing this morning. It’s been a minute since the florist visited us," your intern said, smiling, clearly impressed by the grand romantic gesture. You approached your desk, searching for a card as if you didn't already know exactly who sent them. "Looks like he’s trying hard... I was actually starting to believe those rumors going around."

Strange.

"What rumors?" you asked.

"People are saying your marriage is on the rocks."

Little does she know, you thought.

If people were starting to notice your absence by Bruce's side at public events, it explained the sudden increase in lingering stares on the street.

Honestly, you were surprised it had taken people this long to suspect anything. You had been separated for nearly a year. The divorce had been finalized nine months ago, and you had asked only one thing of Bruce: to keep it entirely private. It wasn't the most logical decision, sure, but at the time, you were emotionally wrecked. Asking for a divorce was the hardest thing you’d ever done, and you couldn't handle the tabloids turning your life into a living hell again.

"You can't believe everything you read," you lied smoothly, just as you had for the past several months. It was almost comical how Bruce was still your perfect excuse to avoid social commitments.

“I have dinner with my husband.”

Meanwhile, your wedding ring was tucked away in your underwear drawer, and you hadn't seen your husband's face in months.

Ugh.

Bruce and husband in the same thought.

Your dismissive response sent your intern out of the room with a smile. You knew she was a gossip, so the flower story would circulate through the building and hit a tabloid column by afternoon. If people were already suspicious, a little harmless gossip wouldn't hurt. It was times like this that made you realize people would have to find out eventually, especially if you wanted to move on and leave the Wayne name in the past.

Maybe Bruce wanted to start dating again. He was a single man; nothing was stopping him. But what woman would even try to get close? To the rest of the world, Bruce Wayne was still very much married.

Right now, the lilies on your desk felt like they were mocking you.

You leaned in, inhaling their sweet, rich scent.

Tucked between the blooms was a simple white card. You recognized Bruce’s elegant, cursive handwriting immediately:

“Please call me. We need to talk. – B. Wayne”

On the back, in the same neat script, was his number. As if you didn't have it memorized. As if you could ever forget the moments you shared, no matter how desperately you tried.

When you first read the card two hours ago, you were positive you wouldn't dial his number. But now, your mind was starting to betray you. The flowers staring at you from the corner of the room weren't helping.

What if something had actually happened?

But if it were something serious with Dick or Alfred, he would have called you directly. And if he were physically hurt, Alfred had promised he would let you know.

He was leaving the ball in your court.

The uncertainty was driving you crazy, making it impossible to focus on your work. You had two major hearings for high-profile clients coming up, and yet the only thing occupying your brain was whether or not to call your goddamn ex. For now, you had to push it aside. You had a million things to do.

You spent the entire day completely spaced out. By the time you unlocked the door to your empty apartment, void of any husband with a giant bouquets of lilies, your only real option was to open a bottle of wine.

One thing led to another, and after three glasses, your thoughts were delightfully hazy. You found yourself on your couch with your laptop open, scrolling through the Gotham Gazette's society page.

GOTHAM GAZETTE | SOCIETY & GOSSIP Where Is Mrs. Wayne? Gotham Begins to Question the City's Most Private Marriage

Screw it.

You grabbed your phone and dialed Bruce’s number. He picked up on the second ring.

"Hello?" His voice sounded heavily out of breath. If you were interrupting something, you were going to throw yourself off a bridge.

"Can you hear me?" he asked when you didn't say anything right away.

"Yes, um... yes, I can." You swallowed hard. Why did he have to answer so fast? You barely had time to chicken out. "I got your flowers this morning... Look, I don't want to interrupt. If you can't talk right now, I can—I'll just hang—"

"No! Please don't hang up," Bruce cut in quickly, a brief silence hanging over the line. "I was just training with Dick. I just... I didn't expect you to call." Honestly, Bruce hadn't expected you to call at all.

"I can call back later."

"Absolutely not. Just give me a second." His voice was soft despite his heavy breathing. You heard the faint rustle of his phone being set down, followed by the soft fabric movement of a shirt being pulled on. Your ex-husband was probably sweaty and shirtless. Great things to picture when you're three glasses of wine deep.

"Thank you for calling, darling," the pet name slipped out, sounding so familiar yet so painfully foreign. It had been months since he, or anyone else, had called you that. "Did you like the flowers?"

"Yes, they're beautiful," you said, looking over at them. You’d put them in a proper vase the second you got home, safely out of reach of your curious cat.

"I'm glad. I... honestly, I don't even know how to talk to you right now." You didn't know either. You two used to be so good at this.

Before replying, you took a breath to make sure your voice didn't sound slurred from the wine. "Yeah, it's been a while since we talked. Is everything okay? Did something happen to you or Dick?"

"No, we're fine. Are you okay?"

"Yes," you lied. The line went quiet again, and you immediately regretted making the call.

On the other end, Bruce was starting to feel incredibly anxious and guilty for sending the flowers in the first place. The last thing he wanted was to make you uncomfortable. He would never do anything to hurt you. He desperately needed your help, but he was a coward. Even though Dick and Alfred had urged him to talk to you in person, he hadn't wanted to ambush you at your office, especially not with how fast rumors spread in Gotham. The last time you’d seen each other was on a gloomy afternoon when you came to collect the last of your things from the manor.

So, he sent flowers and left the choice to you. If you called, he’d explain. If you didn't, he wouldn't dare drag you into his mess and would find another way to handle it.

"I need to talk to you. In person, if you're comfortable with it. I don't think it's right to ask this over the phone."

Your mind immediately jumped to the worst-case scenario. Bruce was seeing someone else and wanted to take the divorce public. Great. Definitely not the kind of conversation you have over the phone.

Once again, the thought of Bruce with another woman made you feel sick. And with three glasses of wine in your system and a fourth currently being poured, that sickness was quickly morphing into…

Jealousy?

During your marriage, you had never been the jealous type. Despite what the media claimed, Bruce was never a womanizer, and he’d never given you a single reason to doubt him. It was deeply ironic that you were starting to feel possessive of him only after you’d divorced.

Well, you certainly didn't envy whatever hypothetical woman it was. Imagine being interested in a man whom everyone still believed belonged to someone else.

To you.

It was selfish, but the thought managed to quiet the green-eyed monster clawing at your chest.

"Can I pick you up for lunch tomorrow?" he asked.

You hesitated for a full minute, weighing the pros and cons. But you couldn't deny how much you missed him. A simple lunch wouldn't hurt.

"Okay," you finally whispered. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow, then?"

"Yes. Absolutely."

The next morning dragged on at a snail's pace. Your firm was swamped with cases, and the interns and clients had endless questions. The slight headache from last night's wine combined with your usual work stress was still lingering by lunchtime. You made a mental note to avoid drinking a bottle of wine mid-week in the future. That would be an easy promise to keep if you didn't have to hear about your ex-husband every five minutes, which, in Gotham, was practically impossible.

Speaking of your ex, he was currently leaning against the hood of his incredibly conspicuous sports car, parked illegally in a tow zone right in front of your office building.

Some things never changed. He always waited for you like this. Whenever you had lunch together, he always insisted on driving himself, even though calling his chauffeur would have been much more practical. Lunch had always been your time.

Another thing that hadn't changed was his looks. His jawline was still sharp and perfectly defined, his eyes held that same intense, brooding gaze, and his dark hair was impeccably styled without a single strand out of place. Gotham's gloomy, grey backdrop always did a spectacular job of highlighting his beauty; even just standing there, leaning against his car, he was unfairly handsome. He wore a dark, three-piece suit that hugged his broad shoulders and chest perfectly.

As you approached, Bruce straightened up, a soft, almost shy smile touching his lips. The moment you got close enough, his scent hit you like a wave,that rich, woody cologne. You couldn't even pretend you hadn't smelled it in months, considering you had kept about five of his old shirts to sleep in during your first few months apart. In fact, you’d slept in one last night. But nothing compared to the real thing, emanating from his warm body right in front of you.

There was no way you were getting through this lunch unscathed.

The warm weight of his hand settled on your lower back, guiding you toward the passenger side as he opened the door for you, just like he always did. He walked around the front of the Aston Martin and slipped into the driver's seat. The air inside the car was thick with tension, but Bruce broke the silence gently.

"Can we go to our usual spot?"

"Yes," you replied, your voice a little shaky, already thrown off by how familiar and comfortable this felt.

Bruce started the engine, and you tried your best not to stare at him. But what else were you supposed to look at? Your eyes scanned the dashboard before settling on his hands gripping the steering wheel. That was when you noticed the gold band still resting on his left ring finger.

It threw you completely.

Your own ring was buried deep in your drawer, far out of sight. It had taken you months to finally slide it off. The fact that he was still wearing his did something to you. The jealousy quieted down instantly; if he was still wearing his wedding ring, he probably wasn't seeing anyone. Or maybe he just wore it to avoid questions. Either way, you were still jealous of your own ex-husband.

"Are you okay?" he asked when the silence stretched too long.

You didn't know what to say. Yes, I'm fine. Aside from missing you terribly and realizing I probably wanted to hide our divorce because, deep down, I was still holding onto some selfish hope that we’d fix this. But other than that, great.

You forced a smile. "Yes, I'm fine. I got a cat now."

The traffic light turned green just as Bruce let out a quiet, amused huff. He wasn't much of a cat person, but his soft laugh made your heart flutter. "That's very unlike you."

"I'm trying to change."

"Me too."

Getting better for his next girlfriend.

The restaurant wasn't far from your office, so the drive didn't last much longer. The moment Bruce parked, a valet appeared to take the keys. Once again, his hand settled on the small of your back, guiding you inside. The hostess, who recognized you immediately, led you to the exact same table where you and Bruce had shared years of laughter, romance, and good memories.

"Do you want the usual, sweetheart?" Bruce’s question was so soft it caught you off guard.

"Yes, honey." The old pet name slipped out before you could stop it.

Bruce's eyes flared, and his lips curved into that smug, arrogant grin that could light up an entire room. Bastard.

"Honey, huh?" Bruce teased, leaning in slightly after the waitress took your orders. "I was expecting a bit more resistance."

"Bruce, get to the point."

He rested his elbows on the table, bringing himself closer. Up close, you could see every detail of his face. He hadn't changed, but there was something different in his expression. He still had those faint tired lines around his eyes that suited him so well, but it was a different kind of exhaustion. It wasn't the heavy, dark toll that Batman took on him. He actually looked... lighter.

Gotham’s best detective was watching you with undivided attention, too. Your hair looked a little lighter, and the cut was different. You looked breathtakingly beautiful, and it had been distracting him since the moment you stepped out of your office building.

Keeping his eyes on you, trying to commit every detail of your face to memory, Bruce began to speak in a quiet, low voice. "A few months ago, I asked the board to let me step back in as CEO so Lucius could focus on other projects." You knew exactly what kind of "projects" he meant.

"So I'm back in the office, going to meetings, attending the galas I always should have been attending." How did he even have time for this? Gotham was safer than it had been in years, but how was he balancing this with Batman? No major rogues had caused trouble in months, which usually meant Batman was working overtime.

"But some of the board members think I'm too unstable for the position. They're talking about voting me out if they don't see some stability in my personal life. Especially now, with the construction of the new charity hospital."

"Why do they think you're unstable?"

"Because of you, darling," he said simply. "I will always respect your decision to keep our divorce private until you tell me otherwise. But we haven't been seen together in a long time, and people are starting to suspect a crisis. I really hate to ask you this, but—"

Before he could finish, you cut him off. "Do you want to go public with the divorce?"

"No, that's not what I want," Bruce said quickly, reaching across the table to gently brush his fingers against yours. "I hate asking this of you. You must be so tired of being associated with my name, and I have absolutely no right to ask you for anything. But... would you be willing to pretend to be my wife a little longer?"

You let out a sudden, genuine laugh.

"I know it's ridiculous. Please don't laugh at me." Even though you were mocking him, the sound of your laugh was too good to ignore. A soft, relieved smile broke across his face. "I know it might be time to make it public if that's what you want. I'll make the announcement tomorrow if you say the word." He swallowed hard.

"I don't want to, Bruce," you replied, calming down.

You knew you were being selfish. You had asked for the divorce because you were miserable, but that didn't mean you had stopped loving him. Quite the opposite. You just couldn't stand watching the man you loved slowly kill himself for a city that didn't care. It was destroying you, and Bruce loved you too much to keep you trapped in a life that made you suffer.

Playing along with this little fantasy for a few hours wouldn't cure the heartbreak, but it would be enough to ease the ache of missing him.

"I'll help you."

"Thank you, darling."

You shared a soft, lingering smile.

As the food arrived, Bruce began telling you about the charity gala he was hosting in two weeks to raise funds for the Martha Wayne Memorial Hospital. The project wasn't new, but Bruce had never had the time to truly dedicate himself to it before. He explained the details with an excitement you hadn't seen in him in years.

He told you the gala would be held at a luxury estate hotel just outside the city, and that a custom dress would be sent to your apartment.

In a few days, you would be playing the role of Mrs. Bruce Wayne again.

Those two weeks flew by. You and Bruce spoke on the phone a few times, supposedly to go over the details of the event, but the conversations quickly drifted to other things. During one of those late-night calls, Bruce casually mentioned that he hadn't put on the cowl in months. Dick, Jason, and Barbara were handling the streets now. Bruce was only helping with investigations, tech upgrades, and training.

You didn't know how to process that information. It was bittersweet. It was amazing news because it meant Bruce was finally safe, but at the same time, a painful question lingered: Why couldn't he have made this choice when you were still there?

Bruce was asking himself the same thing. Why did he have to lose the love of his life to finally wake up? He felt like an absolute idiot.

But his months of isolation had actually done him some good. He was taking care of himself, keeping a normal routine, and fully committing to his role as CEO. In his free time, he boxed with Dick, played golf with business partners, and spent actual quality time with Alfred. The only thing missing was you.

He was trying to build a life without Batman. He didn't want to get his hopes up about getting you back, but if he could just have you in his life, even as a friend, he would be content.

You were finally nearing the hotel where the gala was being held. Bruce had insisted on sending his driver to pick you up, even though you’d argued that you could easily drive the hour-long trip yourself. It was so easy to fall back into the routine of being his wife. Even from a distance, he always made sure you were taken care of.

The Bentley pulled up to the magnificent hotel entrance. You walked into the stunning lobby, heading straight to the front desk to retrieve your key.

"Good afternoon, I have a reservation under my name." You smiled at the receptionist.

The girl offered a warm, professional smile the moment she saw the name. "Of course, Mrs. Wayne. We've been expecting you." She handed you a gold keycard.

You thanked her and headed to the elevator. A few moments later, you were walking down a quiet, elegantly decorated hallway. When you unlocked the door to the suite, you had to stop and take a breath. Floor-to-ceiling windows revealed a gorgeous skyline view. There was a massive living room, a private bar, and a spacious bedroom dominated by a king-sized bed.

Wow.

The bathroom featured a massive soaking tub. The temptation of a hot bath with the complimentary bath oils was too good to pass up, so you immediately started running the water. You didn't bother fully exploring the rest of the suite; you just stripped off your clothes and slid into the warm water.

The bath was so relaxing that you didn't hear the main suite door open or the quiet footsteps moving around the bedroom. Assuming you were completely alone, you eventually stood up, wrapped yourself in the plush hotel bathrobe, and opened the door, only to gasp in shock as you ran directly into Bruce, who was wearing nothing but his underwear, clearly preparing to take a shower himself.

"Oh my God!" you gasped, stepping back. "How did you get in here?"

"This is my room too, sweetheart." Right. Of course his team wouldn't book separate rooms for a married couple.

That was when the reality of your mutual lack of clothing set in. A flush immediately rushed to your cheeks. Your eyes involuntarily drifted down his muscular chest, mapping the familiar, heavy lines of his body before you forced yourself to look away. He was watching you with a look of pure, unadulterated longing.

You quickly pulled the lapels of your robe tighter, tying the belt into a secure knot. Bruce let out a low, amused chuckle. It was probably a good idea you tied it tight before he lost his mind and did it for you.

"Um... I was just taking a bath," you stammered, completely flustered.

"Yes, I can see that, darling." He had that smug, teasing look on his face. "I was planning on doing the same."

He took a step toward the bathroom, but you both tried to dodge in the same direction, resulting in you bumping right into his chest. His large hands immediately shot out to catch your waist, steadying you.

You were entirely too close. Bruce’s gaze dropped slowly from your eyes to your lips. You bit your bottom lip, trying to catch your breath. His gaze was intense, heavy, and completely hypnotizing. After months of empty space, his lips were only inches away from yours.

Despite the hot bath, a shiver ran down your spine. Your heart was beating so hard you were certain he could feel it pressing against his chest.

With a monumental effort of self-control, Bruce managed to break the spell. If he stayed this close for another second, he was going to ruin everything and kiss you. He cleared his throat, but his fingers lingered on your waist for a fraction of a second, squeezing gently before letting go.

"Your dress is in the closet. You should find everything you need to get ready in there."

"Thank you, Bruce."

He slipped into the bathroom, and the sound of the shower soon filled the room.

The black dress hanging in the closet was breathtaking. You slipped it on, and it hugged your curves perfectly, the built-in corset cinching your waist. You stared at your reflection, admiring how the fabric draped over your hips before eventually taking it off so you could blow-dry your hair and do your makeup.

Just as you were finishing, the bathroom door clicked open, releasing a thick cloud of warm steam. Bruce stepped out, damp and gorgeous. His dark hair was pushed back, water droplets still tracing the ridges of his chest. The white towel slung low on his hips did absolutely nothing to hide the heavy, impressive ridge of his erection.

Your eyes slowly traveled up to meet his. He held your gaze for a second, a slow, knowing smirk spreading across his lips, before he quietly disappeared into the closet.

It was going to be a very long night.

The grand ballroom was glowing under the light of massive crystal chandeliers. Gotham's elite mingled with glasses of champagne, and Bruce didn't leave your side for a single second. Together, you greeted the board members. You laughed at their jokes, accepted their compliments, and played the part of the doting wife flawlessly. Years of being Mrs. Wayne had trained you well.

To the rest of the world, you were still the perfect, enviable couple.

Bruce's hand remained firmly anchored on your waist, occasionally squeezing your hip just to remind you he was there. During a quiet moment when he thought you might be overwhelmed by all the prying questions, he leaned in and murmured a soft thank-you. To everyone watching, he was the picture of a devoted, hopelessly in love husband.

The champagne was doing its job, and you were feeling delightfully relaxed. Bruce, who had matched you glass for glass, seemed calmer too.

"Would you do me the honor of this dance?"

The sheer formality of his question made you smile. You arched an eyebrow. "You don't have to ask, Bruce. We probably *should* be dancing. They think we're married, remember?"

"I know," he murmured. His eyes searched yours, that familiar little crease appearing between his brows—the one that only showed up when he was genuinely nervous. "But I'm not asking for the board, or for the cameras. I want to dance with you."

The noise of the ballroom seemed to fade into static. In that moment, all you could see was Bruce. This was the man you had fallen in love with, not the vigilante, not the billionaire. Just Bruce. The gentle, romantic man who had spent the entire night trying not to show how nervous he was just to be near you.

"I'd love to," you whispered.

A beautiful smile broke across his face. He took your left hand, raising it to his lips to press a soft kiss against your knuckles. Your heart skipped a beat.

He led you to the dance floor, his hand sliding smoothly to your waist while yours rested on his broad shoulder. Having your fingers laced with his felt so incredibly right.

"Still remember how?" you teased, looking up at him.

Bruce let out a soft laugh. "Of course I do."

Years ago, when you were first dating, you discovered Bruce couldn't dance to save his life. But before the wedding, he had secretly taken private lessons just to surprise you on your big day. Despite the divorce, that memory remained one of the sweetest moments of your life.

"Even with the lessons, you stepped on my feet so many times during our first dance I thought you were doing it on purpose."

"Never on purpose."

"Mm, tell me more."

He held your gaze, his voice dropping to a low, intimate whisper near your ear. "I think I just wanted an excuse to hold you close for a little longer."

You were supposed to be here to convince the board that Bruce was stable and to keep the press at bay. But it felt like you were slipping right back into a relationship that had ended long before the actual divorce. And you were enjoying it far more than you should.

"Careful, Bruce," you murmured, keeping a playful smile on your face. "People might think you're flirting."

"I thought that was the whole point of tonight," he whispered, leaning in so close you could feel the warm, champagne-scented breath against your cheek. His grip on your waist tightened, pulling your bodies together until there wasn't an inch of space between you.

"To show everyone how completely, hopelessly in love with you I still am," he finished.

You let out a soft, breathy laugh, shaking your head to hide how wildly your heart was racing. "You are definitely flirting."

"And you are stunning."

A faint blush crept up your cheeks, and you looked away, pretending to watch the other couples. "You don't look too bad yourself, Wayne."

He smirked, pleased with your answer, his thumb caressing your hip. "Mm, who's flirting now?"

"That wasn't a flirt, Bruce. It was a simple compliment."

"Oh? Please, enlighten me on the difference."

"A flirt has an intention behind it."

"Ah. Well, I definitely have an intention."

"Then you need to be more direct, sweetheart. Lay your cards on the table."

You were definitely flirting now.

"More direct, you say?"

You let out a quiet, teased hum, nodding in agreement. You knew exactly what he wanted, but he was going to have to beg for it.

He chuckled, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "I was wondering if we could take this happy couple act back to our room, darling. I know you remember how good it is. I want to make sure the board really believes our performance."

"Is the board going to be in our room?"

"No," he murmured, his voice sending a delicious shiver straight down to your thighs. "But I'm positive I can make you scream loud enough for them to hear you from here."

Your breath hitched, your panties instantly growing damp at his words.

"That's me being direct, sweetheart."

"I think we should go upstairs, Bruce."

That single sentence shattered whatever was left of Bruce's self-control. He grabbed your wrist, guiding you out of the ballroom with hurried steps toward the lobby and the elevators.

Bruce pressed the elevator button with an almost childish impatience, as if the repetitive motion would force the elevator to descend faster.

The moment the steel doors opened to the empty cabin, he pulled you inside. Before the doors even clicked shut, he was all over you. The kiss was hot, desperate, and filled with a agonizing slowness, the heavy weight of months of built-up longing.

Your hands tangled in his dark hair, pulling him closer. Bruce let out a needy, ruined groan against your lips, pressing you back against the wall.

"God, I missed you so much," he panted, pulling back just enough to breathe, his dark eyes searching yours.

With a heavy, deliberate movement, he ground his hips against yours. A needy sigh escaped your lips as you felt the thick, rock-hard length of his erection pressing against you through his suit. He wanted you to know exactly what you did to him.

The elevator stopped. The hallway was completely deserted. You pushed him back against your room door, your hands sliding over his damp chest, pushing his jacket off his shoulders. Your lips traced his jaw down to the sensitive spot on his neck. Bruce let out a shaky sigh, completely surrendering to your touch.

Your hand slid down his waist, tracing his firm thigh before cupping him through his trousers. Bruce gasped, his entire body locking up under your touch.

"Do you want me to beg for it out here, sweetheart? Do you want me to beg to bury myself inside your wet little cunt, hm?" he whimpered, his voice incredibly thick, his forehead resting against yours as his eyes practically pleaded. "Because I swear to God, I'm already on my knees."

With a quick swipe of the keycard, the door clicked open.

Bruce guided you back until the edge of the mattress hit the back of your knees. You sat down, and he immediately dropped to his knees before you.

There was no rush. He took off your heels, pressing devoued kisses along your calves as he slowly bunched up the fabric of your dress. When your panties were discarded, leaving you bare under the moonlight, Bruce looked up. He didn't move; he just waited, his eyes shining with a quiet, desperate need, begging for your permission. You swallowed hard and nodded.

His first lick was agonizingly slow, tracing up your seam before centering directly on your clit. Bruce touched you like you were holy. You arched off the bed, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling his head closer.

"Do you like this? Do you like having me down here like this?" he mumbled against your wet skin.

"Fuck, Bruce... it's so good," you gasped, your head tossing back.

He alternated between heavy, sucking wet kisses on your clit and sliding two fingers deep inside you. The sensation was overwhelming. Your hips rolled against his face, completely out of your control. Bruce rubbed his hard length against the sheets to ease the ache of his untouched erection, completely dedicated to your pleasure.

Feeling your body tense, he picked up the pace, his tongue working over you while his fingers stretched you out. You hit your climax hard, crying out as you came directly against his mouth, your body shivering.

Bruce pulled back slowly, his face wet with your slick, a dazed, incredibly satisfied smile on his lips.

"I missed eating you out so much, baby," he breathed.

He kept his fingers inside you, feeling the tight, desperate pulses of your aftershocks, enjoying the wet, needy sounds your body was making. His erection looked like it was going to tear through his trousers.

You pulled yourself up to kneel on the bed, bringing yourself to his height. Your fingers began undoing his shirt buttons, one by one, kissing every inch of exposed skin. His broad chest, his sensitive nipples... every touch drew ragged, needy whimpers from his chest. When you finally unzipped his pants and freed his length, Bruce let out a long, broken sigh of relief.

A few seconds later, the rest of your clothes were discarded on the floor. You were both completely bare, vulnerable, and absolutely desperate.

You pushed him down, straddling his thick thighs. Bruce held his breath, his large hands anchoring on your waist, his eyes dark and blown-wide as he stared up at your body. He tilted his head back, giving you total control.

When you slowly slid down his length, burying him inside you, Bruce arched his hips with a long, drawn-out groan.

"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his hands holding your thighs firmly but gently. "Take it all, sweetheart. I'm yours... I'm all yours."

You started to move slowly, setting the pace. Seeing Bruce Wayne completely undone beneath you, whimpering with eyes wet with pleasure, was the most intoxicating thing you had ever experienced.

"Please, faster... don't stop," he pleaded, his chest heaving.

"What do you want, Bruce?" you teased, slowing your pace on purpose.

"You can use me, darling," he gasped, his eyes rolling back slightly. "Please, fuck, I'm yours."

The surrender in his voice lit a fire in you. You slammed down on him, riding him hard, your nails digging into his broad shoulders. Bruce groaned loudly, completely lost to the feeling. His hand came up to squeeze your breast while the other held your hip, helping you drive the pace.

The wet, slapping sound of your bodies and his loud groans filled the quiet room. He met every downward stroke, creating a perfect, heavy friction. Bruce buried his face in your neck, biting and leaving dark, bruising marks on your skin.

"I'm gonna come..." he whimpered against your ear, his voice completely wrecked.

Your climax hit you first, your tight walls clamping down on his length, and Bruce let out a low, primal roar as he came deep inside you, filling you with thick, hot waves. His chest rose and fell rapidly as he lay there, still trembling beneath you, his hands clutching your hips as if you were his lifeline.

"Fuck...", he muttered under his breath, looking down at where your bodies were still joined.

"Oh my God," you panted, slowly sliding off him. The hot slick immediately began to drip down your inner thighs.

Still shaking, Bruce immediately got out of bed and went to the bathroom, returning a few seconds later with a warm, damp cloth. He knelt between your legs, gently and meticulously wiping you clean with an almost shy tenderness.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his blue eyes filled with soft concern.

You let out a weak laugh, still trying to catch your breath. "I just had sex with my ex-husband. What do you think, Wayne?"

"I hope that means yes." Bruce smiled warmly, climbing onto the bed beside you. You immediately rested your head against his bare chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart.

"Since you left... I promised myself I wouldn't ask you to come back. Because that's what you asked of me."

"Bruce..."

"But I'm doing everything I can to be a better man. I was a terrible partner to you in the end. You didn't deserve that. I let Batman consume my entire life, and I only realized how much it was destroying you when you actually walked away. I don't know if I deserve your forgiveness, and I know I have no right to ask you to be mine again. But I miss you so much it physically hurts. I feel like a piece of my chest was ripped out. I'm trying to fill my life with other things, but it's completely empty without you."

Bruce’s voice was low, slightly rushed, his heart hammering against your ear. But his eyes looked lighter, relieved to finally confess the heavy truth.

And you felt the exact same way. You had felt that emptiness long before you actually left, back when Batman had swallowed your husband whole.

"I know how you feel, Bruce," you whispered.

Bruce pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. His hand slid to your chin, gently tilting your face up until your eyes met. He leaned down, and your lips finally found his in a soft, familiar kiss.

"And I still love you so much. I don't think I'll ever stop. But... our last year of marriage really hurt me. And I think I needed space to figure things out too."

"I know it's not right to ask you to be my wife again right now. But I need you in my life. I love you so much it hurts."

"It shouldn't hurt, Bruce."

"I know, but I need you." His voice sounded thick, almost tearful. "I'm so sorry for making you suffer. I never wanted to hurt you, sweetheart."

"It's okay, Bruce. It's in the past. I think... we can start seeing each other again. Slowly."

For a long moment, he just lay there, silently stroking your hair, letting your words sink in. Then, a small, genuine smile broke across his face.

"Slowly?"

You nodded. "No rush. No impossible promises. Just... one step at a time."

Good sex was what you expected from anybody decent enough to make it that far with you. It was the kind people talked about casually with their friends, the kind that came up over drinks after someone asked, “So, was he good?” Good sex happened on Tuesdays after work with the guy from Hinge who insisted on taking you out somewhere too expensive for a second date. You split a basket of fries, drank half a beer because you still had work in the morning, drove home with exhaustion sitting heavy behind your eyes, then let him fuck you well enough to sleep for four uninterrupted hours. 

Good sex was practical and predictable. It convinced your body you were living a normal life.

Great sex was different. Great sex happened after work parties when your mascara was already smudged and your heels were in your hand by midnight. It happened on weekends with nowhere to be the next morning. You never talked about great sex because it sounded exaggerated the second you said it out loud, like you were overselling a man nobody else would understand. Great sex made you cum or at least brought you close enough that your stomach tightened every time you remembered it afterward. You thought about great sex while driving long stretches of empty highway, your hands steady on the wheel while your mind wandered somewhere warmer. 

Great sex stayed in your body for days. You caught yourself replaying parts of it absentmindedly while standing in line for coffee or brushing your teeth before bed.

Then there was getting fucked…

There was no cleaner way to define it. It lived somewhere between fantasy and urban legend, passed around between women in half-serious conversations that always dissolved into laughter. Everybody claimed to know someone who’d experienced it but nobody could explain it properly. Getting fucked was the kind of sex that distracted you in the middle of the day badly enough to make you stop what you were doing and change your underwear. It sat dangerously close to the limits of what sex could actually be before the whole thing collapsed under its own weight. 

If a guy treated you too much like an object, it fell apart immediately. 

If you didn’t orgasm, it didn’t count. 

If you weren’t still thinking about him six months later at red lights and in grocery store aisles and during lonely hotel nights, then it wasn’t that either. 

Getting fucked sat at the very top of the scale, lit up like something obvious and somehow most men still missed it completely.

Being made love to was worse and more dangerous, honestly.

For somebody like you, it could become embarrassing fast. Storm season kept you on the road for months at a time, bouncing between states, sleeping in motels with stiff sheets and weak air conditioning. Off-season meant office buildings, weather models glowing across multiple monitors, long meetings about funding, new equipment and data collection. Your life moved constantly and men liked that at first. A woman who was smart, busy, gone half the year, financially stable and difficult to pin down. 

Men loved the idea of you because it excused the fact they never had to give very much. Most of them thought they were in love but really, they just liked access to somebody they found impressive.

Before all of that, you used to think being made love to meant passion…intimacy. That it was slow sex with somebody who knew your body so well they could pull an orgasm out of you patiently and confidently, like it mattered to them as much as breathing did. You imagined hands lingering at your waist, sleepy conversation afterward, somebody brushing your hair away from your face before kissing you again.

Instead, you ended up underneath men who mistook enthusiasm for intimacy. You stared at ceilings while they grunted above you, listened to them breathe your name like they were performing something instead of feeling it. Sometimes you felt your stomach turn from the boredom alone, your body rocking mechanically with theirs while your mind drifted somewhere else entirely to storm reports, grocery lists and whether you needed to change your oil before the next drive west.

You never let them finish once you realized you hated it, that was the one thing you refused to fake. You pushed them off, sat up and reached for your clothes while they blinked at you in confusion. You told them it wasn’t going to work, sometimes you said it gently and other times you just didn’t bother. Either way, you watched realization settle over them while they sat there flushed and humiliated, their ego bruised worse than their feelings ever were but somehow your harsh words still made them cum…

Needless to say, after a while, you stopped having sex altogether.

You were in your rental house after a long day spent staring at storm data and listening to Javi ramble about whatever breakthrough he thought he’d made this time. It was late, the entire house felt heavy and warm, every light dimmer than usual and lately, you weren’t alone nearly as often as you used to be.

Scott sat at your dining table with your laptop open, shoulders slightly hunched, completely absorbed in columns of numbers and radar models. You’d known him for two years and he’d been your partner for one of them. 

People were right about him. He was direct to the point of rudeness, arrogant enough to make most people defensive within five minutes and mean when he thought someone deserved it but unlike most men in your field, Scott had learned how to admit when he was wrong, far from gracefully or happily but still, he did it.

The two of you were impossibly stubborn in almost identical ways, so sharing space with him sometimes felt like being trapped in a room with a sharper version of yourself. Separately, you were both good at what you did but together, you were nearly impossible to beat.

You couldn’t pinpoint when “coworkers” had turned into Scott walking into your house without knocking, helping himself to your fridge and sitting at your table like he paid rent.

“Best orgasm you’ve had during sex?” His voice came from across the room, casual and flat, like he’d asked you about rainfall percentages. He didn’t even look away from the laptop while he said it.

You’d forgotten he was meeting you there before the two of you drove to the bar together, which was why you were still walking around in sleep shorts and a bra, trying to find something decent enough to wear without looking like you’d spent an hour trying.

You took a sip from the beer he’d already pulled out of your fridge and nearly snorted into the bottle. “You think men do that?” you asked as you disappeared into your bedroom.

“To you?” Scott finally looked up. His eyes tracked your movement automatically while he reached for the beer the two of you were apparently sharing now. “I hope so.”

He took a drink as his eyes followed your movement.

You walked back into view holding two dresses on mismatched hangers. “You’re a fucking idiot,” you said plainly. “And maybe a pervert.”

Scott pointed at you immediately. “You’re changing in front of me. I could probably keep count of your bras at this point and I don’t. That actually makes me less of a pervert.”

You disappeared back into your room. He could hear hangers scraping against the closet rod while you searched through clothes with growing irritation.

“Just because it doesn’t make you hard doesn’t make you not a pervert,” you called back, your voice muffled through the wall.

“How do you know I’m not?” he shot back instantly, sounding almost offended by the assumption.

Silence followed but about a minute later, you walked back out wearing a dress he’d never seen before. It was simple, fitted enough to make his eyes stop for a second before continuing downward automatically. You crossed the room toward him, letting your heels drop onto the hardwood before slipping them on one at a time.

“You’re not attracted to me, Scott,” you said flatly.

He looked up slowly then, his eyes dragging over the length of the dress with enough attention to make most people nervous. On you, it just made you impatient.

“You seem awfully confident about that.”

“I am.” You adjusted the strap on your shoulder before glancing toward his laptop screen. “So don’t say shit that makes me sound stupid.”

Scott looked back at the laptop fast enough to make the movement obvious. He pretended to scroll through data he’d stopped reading the second you started undressing in the next room.

“I’m ready,” you said. “Good to go?”

“Need five minutes,” he muttered.

You walked behind him toward the front door, tapping his shoulder as you passed. “The data will still be there tomorrow. C’mon, Scotty.”

The teasing grin in your voice made something in his jaw tighten. You disappeared outside before he could even think of an answer.

Scott closed the laptop harder than necessary and stood, quietly adjusting himself through his jeans with the irritation of a man betrayed by his own body. He shut off the lights one by one and grabbed your keys from the counter before locking the door behind him.

The porch light was off so you couldn’t see the tent in his jeans. Thank fuck for that.

“Scotty was an eight-year-old with chubby cheeks,” he muttered while locking the deadbolt. He glanced over at you waiting by the passenger side of his truck. “It’s Scott.”

“It’s whatever I decide it is,” you replied easily.

He rolled his eyes and walked down the porch steps, unlocking the truck with a sharp click.

“Come open my door.”

“Since when do you need me to do that?” he complained, already circling the hood anyway.

“Since you got comfortable commenting on my bras.”

Scott stopped in front of you to stare before reaching around your waist to pull the handle open. The movement brought him close enough to smell your perfume underneath detergent and beer.

You smiled to yourself while climbing into the passenger seat because for once, Scott didn’t have anything smart to say.

Talking about sex with your coworkers was probably the least professional habit you could develop but professionalism stopped mattering after twelve-hour drives, shared motel rooms, gas station dinners at midnight and enough close calls together to make normal boundaries feel unnecessary. There were barely any women in the field to begin with, which meant the few of you that existed clung together fast and Scott, despite being deeply irritating most of the time, was easier to talk to than most people. 

Brutally honest people usually were.

At some point, conversations that started as jokes during long drives turned into real discussions about relationships, sex, exes and every disappointing person either of you had ever slept with. It happened slowly enough neither of you noticed the line moving until it was already somewhere far behind you.

HR would’ve had a heart attack.

That night, you learned Scott Miller did not do good sex. If good sex existed to him at all, it involved two people fully clothed and standing on opposite ends of a room.

The bar was more crowded than you expected, packed wall to wall with storm chasers, meteorologists, researchers and people who somehow always smelled faintly like dust and gasoline no matter how clean they looked. Whenever women in the field found each other, there was an unspoken tendency to group together immediately, so you spent most of the night at the bar talking with another researcher from Oklahoma while music pounded so loud you felt it vibrate through the floor beneath your heels.

Eventually Javi appeared beside you carrying drinks you absolutely weren’t going to refuse. He handed one over before leaning closer, lowering his voice.

“What’s wrong with Scott?”

You blinked at him. The question caught you off guard enough to make your brows pull together immediately because nobody ever asked about Scott. People either tolerated him, argued with him or avoided him entirely. Whatever problem Scott had, he usually fixed it himself before anyone could notice it existed.

Your eyes scanned the crowd automatically until you found him near the back corner of the bar with a soda in his hand. Of course he wasn’t drinking, he stood half-shadowed against the wall looking deeply unimpressed by the concept of social interaction…and staring directly at you.

Your eyes narrowed slightly until Scott finally got the message and looked away first.

You turned back to Javi. “Do you mean tonight or in general?” you asked dryly. “Because I’m pretty sure he was dropped as a child, but you’d have to ask his mother for confirmation.”

Javi frowned harder. “I mean tonight. He looks tense and it’s making me uneasy.”

“It’s Scott. He always looks tense.”

“More than usual.” Javi glanced over his shoulder carefully. “Tell him to relax for once…and to make some friends. That’s literally why we came here.”

You pointed at yourself immediately. “Why am I responsible for that?”

Javi shrugged like the answer was obvious. “Because you speak ‘Scott’ fluently. Translate what I just said into something he’ll actually understand.”

Your gaze dropped to the drink in your hand. “You’re bribing me.”

“And that drink cost me twenty-five dollars,” he replied. “So yes. Go.”

You snorted into the rim of your glass. “Pretty sure stress is what’s making you bald, by the way…not Scott’s burning gaze.”

Javi adjusted his baseball cap defensively. “Just go talk to him.”

You shook your head, already grinning despite yourself and pushed through the crowd toward the back of the bar, which Scott noticed immediately. 

The music got louder the closer you got to him, voices bleeding together into useless noise, so instead of trying to shout over it, you reached forward and hooked one finger through the belt loop of his jeans.

“Outside,” you said simply, tugging once as you moved toward the exit.

Scott followed without argument, that alone should’ve concerned you more than it did.

The plan was for him to ask what you wanted once you got outside. Instead, somewhere between the crowded bar and the exit door, he got distracted watching you walk ahead of him. Your dress moved against your hips every few steps, exposing flashes of leg skin under the low bar lights and the muscles in your bare back moved subtly every time you pushed through another cluster of people.

Inevitably, Scott’s eyes dropped lower before he caught himself.

By the time the two of you stepped outside into the cooler night air, he still hadn’t said a word.

You finally let go of his belt loop once the two of you were far enough from the entrance that the music had dulled into muffled bass behind you. You turned to face him properly, folding your arms across your chest as you looked up at him.

“What’s your current issue?” you asked.

“Current?” Scott repeated, brows pulling together.

You nodded once like the question made perfect sense.

“When’s the last time you had sex?”

A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged carelessly, shoving one hand into the pocket of his jeans. “What? Are you the only one allowed to ask those questions?”

You laughed again, this time shaking your head as you pointed at him. “Yes. Obviously.”

Scott snorted.

“And those are long-drive questions,” you continued, motioning vaguely toward his truck behind you before pointing back toward the crowded bar. “Not ‘parking lot outside a packed bar’ questions.”

“You still need to answer.” He shrugged again. “Those are the rules.”

“Have I ever told you how stupid those rules are?”

“First time I’m hearing complaints since you’re the one who made them,” he replied with a grin.

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered under your breath before taking another sip of your drink.

Scott stayed quiet as he just watched you over the rim of his own soda, patient and expectant in a way that immediately irritated you because he clearly thought he was getting an answer eventually.

“Are you seriously gonna make me answer?”

“I can’t make you do anything,” he said calmly. “But I can wait. I still have to drive you home.”

You looked up toward the entrance of the bar. Through the windows you could still see people packed together under neon lights, laughing too loud, talking over each other about work, storm patterns and equipment failures. You’d already reached the point of the night where conversations started blending together into white noise.

“Can we leave now?” you asked.

Scott didn’t answer verbally. He just pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocked the truck with a click, then held his hand out toward your drink.

“Get in and lock the doors,” he said as he took the glass from you and turned back toward the bar to return it.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you called after him while walking directly to the passenger side and doing exactly that.

Honestly, you didn’t mind answering the question. The problem was that once you actually thought about it, you realized you weren’t entirely sure how long it had been. It had been long enough that you had to start considering technicalities and long enough that the answer became embarrassing and unfortunately, thinking about sex while sitting alone in Scott’s truck immediately led your brain somewhere unhelpful…

Scott eventually climbed back into the truck and shut the door behind him. He didn’t start driving right away, he just sat there in the dark, one hand resting on the wheel while the dashboard lights cut sharp shadows across his face…waiting, because the thing about car questions was that silence usually came first.

“A year and a half,” you blurted out finally. “Give or take.”

Scott’s head turned toward you so fast it almost looked painful. “No,” he said immediately. “I don’t believe that.”

You laughed in disbelief and looked toward him. “Believe whatever you want, Scott. I answered the fucking question. That’s the game.”

“A year and a half?” he repeated, staring at you like you’d confessed to murder. “What the hell do you even do on weekends?”

“Currently?” you replied dryly. “Sit in your truck while you annoy me.”

“No,” he said, already turning the key in the ignition. “You’re irritated because you’re sexually frustrated.”

You barked out another incredulous laugh. 

“And you’ve been sexually frustrated since I met you,” he continued as he shifted the truck into reverse. “Which explains why you piss me off every single fucking day.”

“Excuse you?” You turned toward him fully now, half laughing from sheer disbelief. “First the bra comments and now this? What’s next? Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?”

“Put your seatbelt on.” The command came out flat and automatic.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do, Scott. I’m not drunk enough to–”

The words died in your throat the second he reached across you.

His arm slid in front of your chest while the truck reversed smoothly with his other hand still turning the wheel. His forearm brushed against the underside of your breasts accidentally…or maybe not so accidentally and your breath caught hard at the sudden closeness. Scott grabbed the seatbelt beside your shoulder, pulled it across your body in one sharp movement, then clicked it into place at your hip without looking away from the rear window once.

You drove home in complete silence.

No radio or conversation, just the steady sound of tires against asphalt and the occasional flick of the blinker while Scott kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. You’d heard every version of his voice over the last two years, sarcastic, irritated or sharp enough to make grown men defensive in meetings but hearing him tell you to put your seatbelt on while his arm pressed across your breasts had done something deeply unfortunate to your brain.

This was entirely your fault. You were the one who made sex an acceptable topic between the two of you, you were the one who turned it into a game, into background conversation during long drives and late nights. Somewhere along the way home, your definition of good sex had rewritten itself around that precise moment. 

For most people, that probably counted as foreplay, but for you? It counted as a serious fucking problem.

By the time Scott parked outside your house, your thoughts had spiraled so badly that you barely registered the truck stopping. You stayed seated even after he cut the engine, staring forward blankly while the silence settled heavier around you.

Scott got out first without saying anything and walked around the front of the truck toward your side.

The passenger door opened. You looked up just in time to feel him lean in and reach across you again, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric stretched over your waist as he unclipped the seatbelt. The contact lasted maybe a second but that was already too long.

Only then did you finally move. You climbed out quickly, making an effort to keep close to the truck instead of brushing against him, then headed straight for your front door while digging through your purse for your keys even if it was practically empty and somehow that made it worse. You found lip balm…receipts…some loose cash, everything except what you actually needed.

Scott followed behind you quietly.

You still hadn’t found the keys when his arm appeared beside you, reaching around your body with frustrating familiarity. He’d had your keys the entire night, he usually did whenever the two of you went out together because you constantly lost track of them.

The metal clicked softly as he unlocked the door for you.

Your breath stalled as Scott stood so close behind you that you could feel the heat coming off him through the thin fabric of your dress. His chest nearly touched your back, one arm still braced near your shoulder while he turned the lock. It boxed you in completely, your body caught between the door and him and the worst part was that it felt good.

The sharp heat low in your stomach made that painfully obvious.

Good sex, apparently, was standing fully clothed on your own porch while your coworker unlocked your front door…all while standing right behind you.

The lock finally clicked open. You pushed the door open and stepped inside fast to put distance between you before turning back toward him. 

Determination sat stiffly in your chest now…You were staying dressed. Whatever this weird tension was had to be alcohol-fueled, temporary, deeply stupid or preferably all three and gone by morning.

Unfortunately, Scott looked unfairly good standing on your porch under weak yellow light.

At some point he’d taken off his cap, you didn’t know when and hadn’t realized until now. Why did he look dreamy!? His hair was messy from running his hands through it all night and the expression on his face had settled back into that unreadable calm that somehow made things worse.

“Night, Scott,” you said quickly, then shut the door directly in his face…very determined to remain dressed.

“Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?” That sentence replayed in your head later for one humiliating reason: Scott Miller had never been the kind of man to hand off work he could do himself.

You’d been wrong earlier, completely wrong.

Great sex didn’t happen on weekends or after parties or during long-awaited moments with somebody you trusted. Sometimes it happened five minutes after you slammed your front door in a man’s face and tried convincing yourself you still had common sense.

You stayed standing by the door after closing it, palms warm against the wood, waiting to hear his truck start. You expected the familiar sound of the driver’s side door opening, shutting and the low rumble of the engine before he pulled away but nothing happened.

At first you told yourself you were imagining the silence because you were still too aware of him…then a full minute passed…followed by another and then three more.

Five long, miserable minutes where your brain refused to focus on anything except the fact Scott was still outside your house.

You opened the door expecting embarrassment or maybe annoyance, maybe him realizing he forgot something. Instead, he was still standing there in the same position with that same unreadable expression, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans like you hadn’t just shut the door on him…five minutes ago.

You stared at each other for a second too long.

You never figured out what exactly snapped first. Pride, self-control or curiosity…maybe all of it at once again.

One second he was standing on your porch and the next you were grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him forward hard enough to make him stumble into you as your mouth crashed against his.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the fragile determination to stay dressed shattered. You didn't just invite Scott in, you practically hauled him across the threshold, pulling him into a kiss that tasted of alcohol and months of suppressed frustration. It was messy and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongues that left you both breathless.

You stumbled backward, the friction of your bodies fueling a fire that had been simmering for far too long. As you navigated the space, your heels clicked erratically against the floor until you kicked them off with frantic movements, one flying toward the wall and the other sliding away as you backed into the dining area.

You hit the edge of the heavy wooden table and Scott didn't miss a beat. He gripped your waist with bruising force and hoisted you up, the sudden elevation making you gasp into his mouth. He didn't stop kissing you but his path shifted, lips sliding down your jawline to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands were everywhere, frantic and demanding, sliding up the fabric of your dress and bunching it up around your waist until your thighs were bare and shivering against the cool wood.

You felt his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, tugging them down with a sharp, decisive motion until you could kick them off, exposing you to the air. As he lowered himself, his mouth found the swell of your breasts through your dress, biting lightly against the fabric on his way down between your legs.

"You don't need to do that," you managed to moan, your voice trembling as he moved your weight, sliding you toward the edge of the table until you were perched precariously, your legs naturally falling open.

"Shut up," Scott muttered against your skin, his voice a low, arrogant growl that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your clit as he finally settled himself firmly between your thighs, the heat of his body radiating against your wetness. 

Then, he dipped his head. The first touch of his tongue was a shock of heat, it was wet and precise. He dove right in, tongue licking upward from your perineum to your clit in one long, sweeping stroke. You arched your back as a loud moan escaped you since it had been so long since you’d felt anything this raw, this focused. You were starving for it and Scott was feeding off of you with a primal intensity that blurred everything else out.

He used his hands to grip your hips, pulling you closer to the edge so he could bury his face in you as he kneeled. He began to lap at you with a rhythmic, punishing speed, his tongue flattening out to cover as much surface area as possible before narrowing into a sharp point to flick relentlessly against your clit.

The sensation was overwhelming. You began to squirm, hips jerking instinctively against his mouth as your fingernails clawed at the tabletop. You weren't just enjoying it, you were unraveling.

"Fuck…Scott...please," you whimpered, though you didn't know what you were asking for.

He responded by changing your position. He pushed you flat onto your back on the table, the hard wood pressing into your spine and hauled your legs up, draping them over his broad shoulders. The position left you completely exposed, your pussy flared open and glistening in the dark room.

He didn't stop the oral but added more by sliding two fingers deep inside you, stretching you open while his tongue continued to hammer away at your clit. The combination of the internal pressure and the external friction was too much. You were shaking, breath coming in short, jagged gasps as your feet drummed against his back.

He could tell you were close, encouraging him to increase the pressure, fingers curling inside you to hit your G-spot while his tongue sucked your clit into his mouth, creating a vacuum of pleasure that felt like it was pulling your entire soul out through your cunt.

“Holy s-shit!” Your head thrashed from side to side, a loud, unrestrained scream tearing from your throat as the orgasm hit you like a freight train. It was violent and all-consuming, your internal muscles clamping down hard on his fingers as waves of intense pleasure crashed over you, leaving you whimpering and twitching on the table.

As the peak slowly subsided, Scott didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his breath hot against your sensitive skin, slowly lapping the remaining juices from your pussy. He cleaned you thoroughly, his tongue lingering on every inch of your swollen cunt until you were completely spent, lying limp and shivering on the table, finally satisfied.

He straightened slowly from between your legs, chest rising hard with uneven breaths that matched your own. His mouth was swollen and wet when he licked across his lips absentmindedly, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made heat crawl back under your skin even while your body still twitched from the orgasm.

From your place sprawled across the dining table, you stared up at him in stunned silence. Your thighs were still trembling now against his sides and you were almost certain your expression looked ridiculous, wide-eyed and dazed in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to look around another person in years.

Scott held a hand out toward you and you took it automatically.

He helped you sit up first before guiding you carefully off the table, one hand steady on your waist while your legs struggled to cooperate beneath you. The second your feet touched the floor, your knees nearly gave out entirely.

Scott wiped his mouth with his palm. “Goodnight,” he said and the gentleness of it caught you off guard more than anything else that night had.

His hand slipped away from your waist and the two of you just stood there for a second, staring at each other while trying and failing to breathe normally again.

Then Scott turned and walked toward the front door.

You stayed frozen in place while he opened it and left your house without another word. A few seconds later you finally heard the sounds you’d been waiting for earlier, the truck door opening, shutting and the engine starting before he drove off into the night.

You tried walking toward your bedroom afterward and immediately realized your legs barely worked. You ended up half stumbling down the hallway, one hand dragging along the wall for balance because your entire lower body still felt weak and oversensitive.

Great sex…that had been unbelievably, painfully great sex.

You thought about it constantly afterward. In the shower, during calls and meetings, while sitting in traffic or lying awake at night staring at the ceiling with your thighs pressed together. You didn’t mention it to your friends or talked to Scott about it, even during the long stretches of silence that filled the truck during drives. The two of you understood what happened without discussing it directly, you’d crossed a line and both of you seemed aware that talking about it too much would probably drag you over it again.

The following mornings, you waited for him outside on your porch instead of letting him walk into your house like usual. Mostly because you’d spent the entire week masturbating to the memory of him between your legs on your dining table before getting ready for the day and you didn’t trust yourself to survive seeing him inside your kitchen before sunrise.

For one solid week, you slept perfectly. No insomnia or late-night work spirals, no pacing around rooms or answering emails at one in the morning just to keep your brain occupied. Whatever tension usually sat under your skin had disappeared completely and now it sat between you both instead.

Every drive felt heavier, the silence stretched longer and every sharp inhale from him made your stomach tighten unexpectedly until eventually you got sick of pretending neither of you noticed it.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” you interrupted suddenly.

Scott glanced toward you briefly, eyes leaving the road for barely a second before returning forward. “Do you want to?” he asked.

“I don’t,” you admitted. “I feel like you do though.”

“You’re right.”

You snorted quietly and looked back down at the laptop balanced across your knees. 

“I thought you liked being right.” Scott added.

“Fucking love it,” you replied automatically before grimacing. “Usually.”

Silence settled again until you broke it. “Okay,” you sighed eventually. “Maybe one thing.” You turned to him properly this time. “I wasn’t that drunk that night. Actually, I wasn’t drunk at all. I had that one beer before we left my place and the rest were mocktails.”

Scott turned his head enough to study your face for a second. “I wouldn’t have touched you if you were drunk,” he said flatly. “I’m an asshole, not fucking stupid.”

You leaned back against the seat slowly. “Even that’s changed.”

His brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”

“The coffee for starters,” you said. “The lunches, too. You stopped buying disgusting gas station sandwiches and now we actually eat dinner out like normal people.” You gestured vaguely toward him. “You used to hand me coffee with five sugar packets on the side because you couldn’t remember how I took it. Now it’s magically perfect every fucking morning.”

Scott adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.

“I thought eating around other people would make this less weird,” he admitted. “And I got tired of sugar packets all over my truck.”

“Our truck,” you corrected automatically before pointing at him accusingly. “And nothing about this is normal, Scott! You ate me out on my dining table!”

“Stop yelling at me.” His tone stayed frustratingly calm.

“Why?” you shot back. “Is it making you hard?”

Scott shifted in his seat hard enough that you noticed instantly. Both his hands locked tighter around the steering wheel while he stared straight ahead at the road. The tension in his jaw became visible because unfortunately for him, you weren’t wrong.

The last week had changed things. You looked less exhausted and less tightly wound. You hadn’t snapped at him once during work and he hadn’t gotten a single unhinged one a.m. email from you all week because for the first time since he’d met you, you were actually sleeping.

“So when are we doing it again?” he asked finally, against every ounce of common sense he had left.

NEVER…that should’ve been the answer. It was the logical answer, the responsible one, the answer two coworkers with already questionable boundaries should’ve landed on immediately.

It just wasn’t the truth.

You had always maintained that getting fucked couldn’t happen in motel rooms. It didn't matter how good the sex was, the second cheap carpet, bad lighting and a rattling air conditioner got involved, the whole thing dropped several levels automatically. 

Motel sex could be great, sometimes even memorable but it couldn’t be that, so the next time it happened definitely wasn’t in a motel room.

The weather that day had turned bad enough to keep everyone grounded but not dangerous enough to send your team chasing storms through three different counties. There was heavy rain, low visibility and too much lightning for comfort but not enough rotation to justify going out.

At some point, without either of you actually saying it outright, waiting the storm out in Scott’s apartment became the plan instead of sitting cramped inside the truck for hours pretending the tension between you didn’t exist.

You still couldn’t pinpoint who made the first move once the elevator doors closed behind you.

One second you were standing beside him soaked at the edges from the rain, listening to distant thunder through the concrete parking garage and the next, Scott’s hand was inside your pants like it belonged there.

You gasped hard into his mouth as his fingers slid against you immediately, already somewhat familiar with exactly what made your hips jerk forward. The kiss that came after barely counted as one, it was messy and distracted, interrupted constantly by your breathing and the quiet sounds you kept failing to swallow down.

The elevator ride lasted less than a minute but by the time the doors opened onto his floor, your orgasm was already hitting you in sharp waves around his fingers while your forehead pressed against his shoulder to keep yourself standing.

If you weren’t already fucked, you were about to be.

You’d been inside Scott’s apartment before. A handful of times after late nights working or when weather reports needed reviewing somewhere quieter than a crowded diner. You remembered the big windows first, stretching across the living room area with a full view of the skyline in the distance. Tonight they framed heavy gray clouds and rain pouring so hard that it blurred the city lights into smears of white and yellow.

Scott barely gave you time to look around because the second the apartment door shut behind you, his hands were on you again. He walked you toward the living room with rough impatience, pulling your pants down from behind while you stumbled against the edge of an armchair. Your underwear followed immediately after, dragged down together in one quick motion before pooling around your ankles.

The air in Scott’s apartment was heavy, charged with the static of the storm raging outside. The gray light of the overcast sky filtered through the windows but the atmosphere inside was scorching.

"Kneel," he commanded as he pointed toward the armchair, his voice a low, authoritative rumble.

You didn't hesitate. The tension that had been building between you for weeks, the unspoken glances and lingering touches, had finally snapped. You sank to your knees on the plush seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. You leaned forward, gripping the headrest with both hands, body already trembling in anticipation. You were completely exposed to him, your ass tilted back and waiting.

Scott disappeared for a moment, leaving you in a silence broken only by the distant roll of thunder. When he returned, the sound of a foil packet tearing echoed in the room. You heard the metallic click of his belt unbuckling and the slide of a zipper.

The anticipation was agonizing. You heard him roll the condom on, followed by the wet sound of him spitting on the head of his cock to make the entry smoother.

He stepped up behind you, heat radiating against your backside. He lined himself up and then, with one powerful, decisive surge, he thrust deep inside you.

You let out a sharp, strangled whine, your fingers digging into the fabric of the headrest. It had been so long since you’d felt a man inside you and Scott was massive. The initial stretch was borderline painful, a blunt force that filled every millimeter of your tight, starving pussy. You blinked rapidly, tears pricking your eyes as your body struggled to accommodate his size, your breath hitching in your throat.

Scott didn't give you time to adjust. He reached forward, his large hands clamping onto your hips with bruising force and yanked you backward, pulling you deeper onto his cock until there was no space left between you.

"I wanna see you," you moaned, your voice broken and desperate, trying to twist your torso around to look at him.

He didn't let you. Instead, he leaned in and sank his teeth into the skin of your shoulder, a sharp bite that made you moan despite your best efforts. His hand moved from your hip to your jaw, gripping it firmly to keep your head pinned forward.

"Just focus," he rasped calmly against your skin, the contrast of his steady voice and his firm grip sending a shiver of submission down your spine.

He let go of your jaw and began to thrust. He didn't start slowly, he hit you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. The apartment was suddenly filled with the sound of your sudden, loud moans and frantic curses. You collapsed forward, your chest pressed against the headrest, your body jarring with every hit.

As he hammered into you, Scott reached around, his hands finding your breasts. He didn't bother undressing you further, he grabbed your boobs firmly over your clothes, squeezing and kneading them with a rough, possessive grip that matched the violence of his hips.

"I'm gonna fuck you on every surface of this apartment," he growled. "You'll be seeing a lot of me."

The sex quickly became raw and primal and so, so fucking good. The sound of skin slapping against skin, mixed with the wet, rhythmic thud of his pelvis hitting your ass filled the room, competing with the roar of the thunder outside. Every thrust shook your entire frame, quaking your body from your head to your toes. You were whimpering loudly now, the pain of the initial stretch having completely melted into an overwhelming, white-hot pleasure you never thought you could feel.

Your eyes watered, staring out into the distance of the room, the world blurring as the friction built. It was fast, harsh and so perfect that you found yourself wanting to bite the armchair, your teeth sinking into the fabric as your back arched violently. You were unraveling, the long period of abstinence making you hypersensitive to every inch of him.

"I'm right there, keep going! Scott, please! Don’t fuckin’ stop." you whined, voice echoing through the apartment.

He didn't, he instead increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and more frantic, drilling into you with an obsession that felt like he wanted to merge his body with yours. The thunder peaked with a deafening crash that seemed to trigger something inside you.

Suddenly, your internal muscles spasmed. A wave of heat exploded from your core and you felt a sudden, uncontrollable gush of fluid. You were squirting, something that had never happened to you before, the hot spray soaking the armchair and your own thighs. You began to shake uncontrollably, your legs giving out as you sobbed out of pure pleasure into the headrest.

Scott let out a guttural groan, the feeling of you flooding around him driving him over the edge. He loved it, hell, he was obsessed with the way you were falling apart under him. He kept going, ignoring your tremors, continuously driving himself into you as you peaked into a mind-blowing, screaming orgasm that left you completely breathless.

With a final, deep thrust, he groaned loudly, coming hard into the condom.

The momentum stopped abruptly. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you frozen, chests heaving in unison.

Slowly, he withdrew, the wet sound of his exit punctuating the silence with an obscene pop.

You both watch the rain lash against the glass, the gray light illuminating the wreckage of your passion. You took a long, shuddering breath, body still twitching from the aftershocks as your pussy twitched around nothing, back arching further needily, earning a smack from him.

"Holy fuck," you both breathed simultaneously, the weight of the encounter settling over you in the heavy, humid air.

There was no going back after that day, not to abstinence, disappointing hookups or to pretending sex was something casual and forgettable that fit neatly between work schedules and storm reports.

Once Scott got his hands on you, everything else lost appeal embarrassingly fast.

What started as isolated incidents quickly turned into a pattern neither of you seriously attempted to stop. It was a terrible idea professionally, obviously, but somehow the two of you functioned better afterward. Meetings became easier, long drives felt lighter and you argued less viciously because the tension always had somewhere to go now instead of festering under your skin for weeks.

You started going home together most nights under the excuse of saving gas money. Then showering together afterward became another practical decision because apparently water bills mattered too now. Somewhere between shared coffee in the mornings and him keeping spare clothes for you at his apartment, things moved quietly into something neither of you had planned for and the worst part was that it worked.

The sex stayed incredible. Sometimes rough enough to leave hickeys along your skin and fingerprints fading across your thighs and hips by morning, or other times slow enough that you ended up tangled together for hours afterward while thunderstorms rolled outside the windows. Every now and then he fucked you hard enough to leave you shaking afterward, staring blankly at the ceiling while he stood in the kitchen making you food like that was a normal sequence of events but eventually you realized it wasn’t just about that anymore.

You started having actual dates without calling them dates, it was dinner after work that lasted until restaurants closed around you. You went grocery shopping together because both of you were too exhausted to go separately and you began falling asleep on opposite ends of his couch while weather models played quietly on television screens neither of you were really watching.

Off-season made it worse.

Without constant travel, motel rooms and adrenaline keeping you both distracted, there was finally time to explore whatever this thing between you had become. You drifted naturally between your house and his apartment depending on whose place seemed closer to the office that day. Half your belongings somehow ended up at his place and vice versa. You texted each other constantly during meetings despite sitting twenty feet apart, phones hidden beneath desks while coworkers talked around you.

Scott started bringing your coffee to your desk already made exactly how you liked it before you even decided you needed one. You started buying his preferred cereal without asking if he wanted any. He slept better with you in his bed and you stopped grinding your teeth in your sleep when he stayed over.

So naturally, being made love to finally happened exactly the way you once thought it would and it wasn’t some exaggerated version of romance men convinced themselves they were capable of after two drinks and mediocre conversation.

It sort of snuck up on you. It was Scott pulling you into his lap while both of you were exhausted after work, kissing your shoulder absentmindedly while you read through data on his laptop. It was him waking you up slowly on Sunday mornings with his hand sliding under your shirt and nowhere either of you needed to be. It was sex that lasted forever because he knew your body well enough to take his time with it, knew exactly what made you gasp, what made your legs tense and what made you hide your face against his neck when the pleasure became too much.

He paid attention and it made all of the difference. Scott learned your body like he learned storm patterns, thoroughly and obsessively, until touching you became instinct to him and it showed…

The morning light filtered through the curtains of your bedroom in soft, golden slats, painting the sheets in hues of amber and cream. The house was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of your shared breathing and the distant chirp of birds welcoming the dawn. You were tangled together, skin on skin, the warmth of the duvet trapping the heat of your bodies in a private, humid cocoon.

There was no rush, no storm to outrun and no urgency born of desperation. There was only the heavy, sweet weight of Scott pressing you into the mattress. You were both fully naked, your limbs entwined in a lazy, possessive knot.

Scott began slowly, his lips tracing a path of fire across your collarbone. He wasn't just kissing you, he was tasting you, tongue swirling against your skin in slow circles that made you shiver. He moved lower, mouth finding the sensitive curve of your breast as you let out a soft, airy moan. He took your nipple into his mouth, sucking firmly while his thumb and forefinger pinched the other peak, twisting it just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core.

You arched your back, your fingers sliding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. The friction of his chest against your breasts was intoxicating, the rough hair of his torso grazing your sensitive skin.

He shifted, sliding his body up so he could look into your eyes. His gaze was dark, filled with an intensity that felt more overwhelming than any of the rougher encounters you'd had. He didn't move to flip you or push you into a different position, instead, he settled between your thighs in a classic missionary stance and pushed inside. There was no latex barrier this time, no clinical snap of a condom. It was raw, wet and absolute. 

The sensation of his bare skin sliding against yours was a revelation. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt the full, throbbing heat of him filling you completely. It felt different, more intimate and permanent. The lack of a barrier made every ridge of his cock feel amplified, every pulse of his blood echoing against your own internal walls.

He didn't start with the punishing pace of the past. Instead, he began to rock, his movements slow and agonizingly deep. He pressed his palm flat against your stomach, pushing down firmly to tilt your pelvis, ensuring that every thrust hit the deepest part of you.

"Gripping me like a fucking vise…so perfect." he groaned, his voice a gravelly morning rumble that vibrated through your chest.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles to pull him even deeper. You were lost in the rhythm, the slow, sliding friction creating a build-up of tension that felt like a tightening coil in your belly. You ran your hands through his hair, your nails lightly scratching his scalp as you moaned into the first rays of the morning sun.

The intimacy was suffocating in the best way possible. As he continued to rock, his movements grew slightly more urgent, the slow glide turning into a passionate, driving force. He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, tasting the salt and sweetness of your skin while he continued to pinch and tease your nipples, hand roaming your curves with a familiarity that spoke of a deep, obsessive knowledge of your body.

It didn’t take long for your breath to become shallow, chest heaving as the pleasure began to peak. You could feel the walls of your pussy clenching around him, milking him with every deep stroke. Your body tensed, toes curling into the sheets as a wave of heat crashed over you. You cried out, a long, melodic sound of surrender, as your orgasm ripped through you in slow, pulsing waves that left you shaking beneath him.

Scott didn’t slow his pace as his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily. He continued moving, the intimacy of the connection almost too much to bear.

"Want to be done?" he whispered, his voice strained, muscles trembling with the effort of holding back.

You looked up at him, eyes hazy with pleasure and affection. The thought of him pulling away felt wrong because you wanted everything. You wanted the weight, the heat and the mark of him.

You shook your head with an escaped whimper, pulling his face down to yours. "Don’t you dare pull out…’want you to come inside." You breathed.

The request broke the last of his restraint. Scott let out a guttural sound, a mix of a groan and a sob and began to drive into you with a renewed, primal intensity. It was a desperate, loving hunger. He hammered into you, movements strong and deep, each thrust a claim and a promise.

As he reached his limit, his grip on your hip tightened, fingers digging into your skin. He thrust one last time, burying himself as deep as physically possible and you felt the hot, thick bursts of his cum flooding into you. The sensation of him filling you from the inside out was the most intense feeling you had ever experienced, a physical manifestation of the bond that had grown between you.

In the height of his release, as his body shuddered violently against yours, he gasped out the words he had been holding back.

"I love you," he choked out, the confession raw and unplanned.

The world seemed to stop for a heartbeat. You felt a surge of emotion that rivaled the intensity of the orgasm, a warmth that started in your chest and radiated to your fingertips. You tightened your hold on him, pulling him down for a deep, searing kiss.

"I love you too," you whispered against his lips.

He collapsed onto you, heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your own, both of you spent and glowing in the morning light, finally and completely entwined.

A few years ago, you would’ve hated the idea that Scott Miller of all people would end up teaching you everything worth knowing about sex. It would’ve bruised your ego badly, especially considering how seriously you once took those stupid categories and scales in your head before Scott showed up and ruined all of them completely.

Good sex stopped mattering. 

Great sex became expected.

Getting fucked became routine enough that you lost count somewhere along the line, usually around the third orgasm of the day and definitely before he started dragging you into his lap halfway through work calls just because he felt like bothering you…with his hands and dick.

But somehow, even after all the rough sex and ruined schedules, Scott still managed to make love to you exactly the way you once imagined it should feel.

So if somebody offered you the chance to go back and do it all over again, you would without hesitation.

You were an absolute HR nightmare now and what a fucking delight that was!

☆ Here's part 2!

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!

Look at him just chewing the FAWK out of that gum 😭 (wait chew me next)

“I’m not doing the damn scene!” came out of your mouth like a broken record since the director of the film you’ve been dreadingly filming finally told you that you had to smooch your co-star, Jack Castello. You weren’t fond of Jack—actually, you hated the guy. The reason for your disdain was simple: you found him annoying. An annoying kiss-ass—and a little birdy had chirped in your ear and told you he practically slept his way up to the top, using his only natural born talent—being attractive—instead of taking the long road like you did. His acting was run-of-the-mill. A skill level that was heightened with studio-mandated classes because Jack was god-awful at his supposed dream job. 

The first time you met him, he was exorbitantly hyper. 

“Oh gee! Gosh—I just can’t believe it! Are you really Y/n L/n? I-I’m a huge fan. The name’s Jack Castello.”

It was a little cute, but tense with an eagerness to impress and charm every star he came in contact with. You had a very short conversation—you assured that your words were kept to a minimum, considering you have somewhere very important to be. 

But, your opinion on him changed once he dropped the question you loathed most hearing from aspiring actors:  “Can you put a good word in for me?” 

Sure, it wasn't the worst question in the world; it was normal! But not for you—now every sweet statement Jack proclaimed to you was deemed a way to butter you up and better get roles. 

Since it ticked off that easily triggerable anger-bomb inside of you, you told him off. Inert, he was speechless, eyes wide, and those irritatingly pretty lips parted in immobilizing shock. Most people didn’t expect such a “graceful” doll like a world-renowned star, Y/n, would ever spew such obscene words when she was upset.

The key was not pissing you off. ‘Don’t dare say a wrong word to the princess of Ace Studios.’ 

Unfortunately for Jack, he didn’t know how insanely bad your temper was; you would never be able to tell from the interview in the magazines and newspapers, the front covers. Posters of your stunning face, your fan interactions, and your acceptance speech of your very well-deserved award…you seemed like America's sweethearts. Sugar, spice, and everything nice and in little packages wrapped in a big bow, but not only were you a bitch. You were a brat. 

When everything wasn’t up to your standard, you pouted and fussed until your demands were met, shouting when something gave the inexplicably wrong answer, turning up your nose and folding your arms when you didn’t feel like it.’

Multiple producers and other actors have stated that you were nearly impossible to work with, but your talent always kept them coming back. Pleading on their knees for one more go, telling you they’d go anything you want; just one more movie. If everyone was on their best behavior, you were a peach, being the exact image that’s been painted of your sweet side, which you very much had, but you were okay with keeping it hidden when you got away with it for all this time. You’ve had no one to knock you off that high horse, and you expect to stay on. 

The two of you were lucky enough not to be working on the same film, to only see enough maybe once a day, around the set, a mean glance here and there, just to let each other know that what happened was definitely not forgotten. 

The funny thing is, Jack was in the dark about what he did to make you so mad until another actor told him what the problem was because he himself made the same poor mistake. After that, every single heated interaction made sure that your growing hatred was sewn deep.  Then you were told by your manager that Avis herself wanted to sit down with you and go over a new script that she just knew would be absolutely perfect for you and you only. 

It was a starring role, the main character naturally—these days, you hardly ever are handed anything less than a co-starring role, and if it was, you’d never accept it. You told her you’d think about it and wanted more time to look through it some more. The script was well written, had moments that would definitely draw a few laughs from the audience, and a slow burn that had you captivated. However, you were told it wasn’t the full script; just a sample to see if you were interested. Usually, that would bother you. There weren't many times that you were only allowed to see bits and pieces of a script you ultimately regretted by the time you began filming—but this was different. You needed to see this movie come to life. 

After they got the go-ahead to start production, the casting director sought out the male lead, the man you’d have to put up with for months, the man you’d spend hours rehearsing with, the man who you would have to be latched to the hip with. But apparently, they already had the perfect man in mind who was already with Ace Studios. A budding star, an Oscar nominee, gorgeous, tall, dashing—a true gentleman with a charm that had every woman swooning from just his looks alone. 

From this description, you were somewhat excited to be introduced to such a heart-catching man that you’ve never ever heard of—not that gave you a name to refer to, it was quite ominous how they kept everything name-free. 

Until you met him. You couldn’t believe it. Of course, it was Jack Castello. Both of your smiles dropped in sync once you saw each other. They had done this on purpose. The high-ups knew who you didn’t like—you were never one to stay quiet about your displeasure when it came to certain people, usually ones with power or useful to you, Jack being one of them. Avis herself knew that you were fond of him. So you complained,  complained, and complained. “You must be out of your goddamn mind!” and “There’s no way you think I’m going to be doing anything with that, jackass.” or “Which one of you did he fuck to get this role? Because it definitely wasn’t me! He’s not even a good actor, for God's sake.” 

They all begged you to push through just this one time for the script you loved oh so much, they even settled for just a screen test, to see if you were movie magic compatible…and you gave in. You hated giving in. But just this once, would you agree to working with the man that’s been on your shit list since you met? The excitement was at an all-time high because of your awfully rare compliance, but their pompous fists of joy quickly faltered when you announced the catch. No kissing scenes. Absolutely fucking not. 

Although everyone in the room looked shocked at your request, Ellen stepped in and told you there wouldn’t be one just to give you some temporary comfort, but what would a romance movie without a kiss scene? Saying that “If I have to kiss that bastard, I’m gonna make sure there's a problem. A big one.”

Heading to the set in the morning while you were already in a shitty mood made it ten times worse when you met with his 

stupid face and those stupid dimples and that annoying grin that showed off his pearly whites, and his stupid blue eyes—it was stupid. He was so stupid. 

The fact that you weren’t even informed of the supposed scene change until the last minute made you even madder. Everyone knew you and Jack didn’t get along, but you two looked good together—great actually. Perfect for the silver screen, complimenting each other perfectly during a photoshoot—it was a shame that your personalities clashed worse than two cars slamming into each other. 

Did you have to pass the chemistry test with flying colors? If it went horribly, maybe they’d find another person just like him, but tolerable. 

Already, you had made it clear you didn’t want a kiss scene— You were a woman of your word. That’s why you’re locked in your trailer with a few men outside your door begging for you to comply. “C’mon! It’s just one scene! It’ll be over before you know it!” said the director, hitting his fist against the metal next to your window. “I said no! I’ve got a different kissing scene for you. One where you kiss my ass!” you said back to the man. 

If this were any other actress pitching a fit like you were doing now, they’d toss you out on your ass without thinking twice about it. You were allowed to throw tantrums if you didn’t get your way, you didn’t quite often, and you’ve never been fired once. It would be stupid to lose one of the biggest stars of the decade when your demands were usually easy to accommodate, but this was the grand ending of the movie. There needed to be a kiss scene. But here you were in your trailer, still in your changing robe, and you kept your foot down like it was glued to the ground. 

“Shit! She’s gonna ruin the whole film. Why did we ask for her again?” Danny said, dragging a hand down his face in utter frustration. In his years of movie-making, he’s never met an actress with such a bratty attitude. “We didn’t ask. Avis offered her the role because she’s one of the best actresses in Hollywood….” A producer sighed, and sighed ever harder when he checked his watch to see how much time had gone by since they first started trying to lure you out of your locked trailer. Jack tsked, tapping his foot against the concrete. You were even sure why he was there in the first place. Whoever gave him the job of “Calming Y/n down so she can do the damn kissing scene” was an idiot. 

“Why do all the best ones have to be assholes?” the director said, but louder this time, just enough that you could hear him. The corner of your top lip lifted as you rolled your eyes and shouted, “I heard that!” 

“Please, get over yourself and come out!” Jack said back, which had you taken aback, who was he to tell you anything? Nothing he could ever say would have you out of your trailer. Nothing. You winced once you heard his voice—that was always sultry and low during a normal conversation, it was weird. “Oh, Fuck off, Castello,” you scoff, walking over to the only window that blocked anyone from looking inside and drawing the blind up to give Jack a nasty look before dropping it back down and taking a seat on your loveseat—that was exclusively for you and two other actors that were with Ace Studios. 

You crossed your legs and sat back down, wrapping your silky pink—custom-made Chanel robe that was handmade by Coco herself as a gift for winning yet another Oscar—around your partially nude body and took a big gulp of wine from your glass, waiting to hear whatever the men had to say next. “It’s getting late. We’ll continue this tomorrow, and we’re all hoping that you’ll come to your senses!” Danny said, before telling the producer to tell everyone the day was wrapped up. “Well then, you, the producer's name I don’t know, Jack, and everyone else can keep hoping. Good luck with that,” you said back, cupping your hands around your mouth so they could hear you loud and clear. “My name is—“

“I don’t care! Go away!” 

Exhausted and annoyed, they all went their separate way—but before that, Jack leaned in real close and whispered, “I think have a way to fix our problem,” They were going to ask him how he would commit a miracle-esqe action, but all they said was good luck, because there was no way in hell you were going to let up.

Some time has gone by, and you were fully convinced that the bastards outside had finally left and gone home, leaving you all alone as you told them to do numerous times. You let out a heavy sigh out of annoyance, standing up to unlock the door and properly check—but before you twisted the handle, the door was already being opened. “What the—“ 

It was Jack. What, along the lines of “go away,” did he not understand—but there were many things he didn’t understand; that is another reason why you didn’t like him. You didn’t like stupid people. They always made everything harder than necessary, like your situation right now. 

“Castello. Get out. Now!” you demanded, face twisted up in a deep scowl as you wagged your finger at the tall man forced himself inside and shut the door behind him. But he doesn’t listen, he’s dormant, still with his arms wrapped around his chest tightly, the work put in at the gym showing as his bicep popped in that tight shirt—it infuriated you, everything about him did. “No. Not until you agree to do the scene,”  he said, with such certainty in his voice. Like he was sure he could convince you to do it. 

So you narrowed your eyes, tilted your head, and brought every ounce of intimidation you held in your body to play. Most of the time, it worked, and the helpless person who received your death stare would get right to whatever you needed, but Jack looked unfazed, very different from how he looked the first time you told him off. And as a matter of fact, you swear you can see him biting back a smirk. 

“I’d rather smash that wine bottle against the floor and slit my throat than kiss you,” you scowled, sticking out a finger and gesturing to the bottle of very expensive wine that sat on one of the counters. It was dramatic, sure, you wouldn’t actually take your life to get out of kissing him, but with the anger that was twisted and deep-rooted in your choleric voice, it was convincing. But again, he was unmoved, that smug expression still on his face. 

Then stepped closer in one naturally long stride—he’s so tall, all of his steps were twice the size of yours—and said, “You know what? You’re real immature.” Shaking his head and biting the inside of his cheek, he was closer now. So what if he was close? You didn’t care. All you cared about was getting him out of your face and out of your trailer and out of your life. 

You gasp, wrapping your robe tight around your body as if you were offended by his words, but you drop the act. The same finger you were using to point to the wine was now poked into Jack's chest as you said, “I know, and I don’t care. And can act like a fucking toddler and still get paid, my fans will still adore me, and I’ll still be better than you, kid.” 

The tick in his jaw went off the moment your bitter words rolled off your tongue. For a moment, you satisfactorily smile to yourself, thinking you have brought down the self-assured facade, but he gripped your wrist, putting you into his broad chest, and pressing you up against him in one swift move that almost knocked your robe off. “You’re doing the scene, kid,” he whispered, in a tone that you’d expect to make your stomach wrench in anger, but it was something different. 

Very different. 

Internally, you cursed yourself and instantly decided to head down the road of denial. Surely his new dominant demeanor wasn’t turning you on. And the way his body was so incredibly close to yours didn’t make your legs squeeze together subconsciously, and of course, his heaving chest, the slight flare of his nostrils, and his maddening, sharp gaze were not getting you aroused.  

“Let me go, asshole—“ you said meekly, too low to sound domineering, and weak that you planned. 

A crooked grin ghosts over his lips as he notices the shift in your eyes. They were once darkened with anger, but it looked like lust, and he saw his fair share of lustful stares. From many women and men alike. Despite your pitiful protest, he kept his traps around your wrist tightly and pushed his chest even further, feeling two hardened peaks like his through the silk of your robe. How funny was this? Someone so bent on controlling everyone around her was getting her rocks off to someone controlling her. 

“First, you're gonna listen to me,” he started, cranking his neck low to say, "I don't know what your issue is, but you're going to stop holding up production, and you’re gonna do the scene” into your ear. His voice sends chills down your spine. Making goosebumps develop across your skin, but you couldn’t give in just yet. Especially when it was him, making you feel all weird inside—you were disgusted with yourself. After these months of holding up this petty hatred, it was coming down like during a heavy thunderstorm. 

Fast and hard. 

“No….” you mutter, trying your hardest to not break the intense eye contact that was definitely contributing to one of many reasons why your lacy panties were getting damp with your juices. Another one was added when he lifted up his free hand to grip your jaw and squeeze your cheeks. God, was his hand big compared to your face, and so was his face. He looked far more beautiful than you want to put on, you’ve always noticed it—Everyone does. How handsome he was, that is. But it always irked you to say the least. 

Blessed with such a pretty face and cursed with such an annoying attitude, but the way he was touching was annoying. It was awakening something that you didn’t even know was sleeping. 

“You’re doing the scene.” he said once more, his breath fan across your face and make your cunt throb in raging anticipation. 

“Would it really be so bad to kiss me?” he asked, knitting his brows, screwing up his eyes and batting those lashes. It wasn’t a genuine question, it was mocking one. You let a shaky, quiet, “Yea…” not believing your own words that you would’ve sworn by 10 minutes ago. Then he scoffs, dropping your face from his hand and letting it wander down to your chest, tracing a finger over your nipple. It’s made you whine and buck up against him, you didn’t mean to, but it felt so good. 

“You’ve been eyeing me since we started filming,” he accuses, pressing your sensitive bud into your breast like it was a pillow. His cock twitched in his pants as you let out a pained whimper. “Those weren’t looks of lust, wiseass,” you say, eyes fluttering in a sign of dishonesty. What you said wasn’t entirely true. Maybe once you get a good look at him, you’re a human. It was natural to look at a guy and notice his attractiveness on occasion, but it wasn’t like you were proud of yourself afterwards. 

“Oh yeah? Then why’d I catch you staring at my cock?” he said lowly, squeezing you, dragging around whimper from your lips. 

Again, completely natural—what were you supposed to do? Not look when it was just staring at you. That imprint plagued your mind for days, and you were sure he wasn’t even hard at the moment. And another thing that would plague you was how wet his filthy accusatory words were getting you.   

“I wasn't.” You lie, but acting skills weren’t coming out to play right when you needed them. God, not even you were reliable. Your stomach churned as his head angled, his eyes burning lasers through your skull and leaving you a mess. “I may not be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I'm definitely not blind,” he whispered, rolling his hips against yours. You draw in a sharp exhale through the mouth in a mix of shock and horniness. 

“Am I gonna have to make you?”

You know what he means, exactly what he means. You should push him away—even if you probably would have failed since he was very strong—but you just look up at him with big, glossy eyes filled to the brim with lust. But you do in fact bite your lip. 

You’re on the couch, face down in the cushions, gasping and moaning, the most quiet you’ve been—only words-wise. You were loud—and so was he. Muttering filthy words to degrade you and tell you how much you made his blood boil. Jack was behind you; he was heavy and thick. Perfect length and perfect width. Perfect for filling you up and making your words turn into incoherent babbles that were drowning in pleasure. Your thighs tremble, and he digs you out, switching around your guts and fucking you silly. 

“It’s always such a challenge with you. You always have to have your way, dontcha? Why do you have to be so fucking difficult?” he growled, snapping his hips harder with every seething word, but all you did was whine pitifully and rock your ass back on his cock—but your lack of an answer earned you a slap on the ass and earned him a loud yelp.

“Answer me. Tell me why it’s so hard to get you to listen, I’m waitin’ for an answer, babydoll,” he rasped, not letting you crawl your nails into the cushion and taking both of your wrists in one of his hands, bending you back as he pulled you. “I-I dunno…M’sorry—“ you whimpered, choking out any word that was still registered in your lustfully clouded mind. 

“Why do you gotta be such a goddamn brat every day?” He huffed, giving you another spank on the side of your ass cheek. The sweet sting burned where his hand slapped, making you clench around his in desperation. “G-Gosh, you’re s’tight…who knew such a nuisance could feel so good?” he whimpered, taking his bottom lip between his teeth and biting down. 

The mean words and harsh statements were uncharacteristic for Jack; he would never dare speak words of this manner to a lady, especially one who held such beauty and talent like you did, but you also held a mean mouth, mean looks, and a mean attitude; almost evil. You were so mean. That’s why he was treating you this way, using his built-up frustration to fuck you into a state of submission you were not used to. And by the way you crooned his name, how your warm walls fluttered around his cock, the guttural moans that vibrated in your chest, he knew that you were loving being treated this way—being put in your place. Tamed. 

“You're always makin’ a fuss—so loud. Everyone hates you. I hate you, you want me to fuck you like I hate you?” 

Jack had fucked away your sense of pride, but you needed to feel it. You needed to feel that anger that you’ve bestowed upon him by your presence alone. You wanted him to have you seeing stars from the pure force of him using you like you were his personal toy—this was new for you, but all you knew was that you’ve never been in such a state of bliss and acquiescence. You needed more. A whine is drawn from your throat instead of the words you knew he told you to speak. “Say it. Say you want me to fuck you like I hate you,” he panted, smacking your ass again.

“Ah—F-fuck me like you hate me. P-Please, Jack,” you mewl, arching your back into the couch and pressing back against himself, whimpering from how deep he was. His dick was a damn weapon, assaulting your insides, but you were still bouncing back on him. It was greedy, but those tingles were finding their way on every inch of skin, pairing with the sheer layer of sweat on your trembling body. 

“Well, you asked for it,” he whispered, letting go of your wrist and using both of his arms to wrap around your torso, caging you in so you couldn’t escape—the Princess of Ace always got what she wanted, didn’t she? He dropped your wrists and held on to your waist, making sure he had a good grip on your body before he fully ruined it. 

Then he let go, let go of anything that was holding him back from truly releasing his anger. You scream as he pounds you, eyes rolling to the back of your head, and he bruises your fucking cervix over and over again. He was grunting and groaning like a madman, mumbling curses into your ear, dirty insults and profanities were all you heard, and it was getting you closer. And he is so big, almost too big. 

If someone heard the noises coming from your trailer, they’d think both of you were famous for making a different kind of movie. His balls were heavy, slapping your ass as his hands found your tits, giving them a harsh squeeze—he had made sure every touchable area of your body was receiving the same treatment. 

A whine draws from your throat when you feel the loss of his cock, but he flips you over without a hint of difficulty and slips back in. The new position had you trembling. Having him stare into your eyes as he rocked his hips made you feel like you were about to hit your peak.

Jack grabs your neck and pulls you into a fast, messy kiss. It was sloppy, loud, and wet. Teeth clacking together and tongue fighting to dive into the other mouth. It was messy, but you’re kind of messy. It was good. Too good. You hated that it was good. Especially since it’s what you’ve been screaming your head off about not doing. But here you were, deepened said kiss and whimpering into his mouth, and he rolled your puffy nipple in between his fingers and rocked into you at a brutal pace. 

Making you let out pathetic moans each time he retracted, then snapped his hips, burying the fat tip of his cock deep inside you. In and out, in and out. Each thrust gets you closer to your climax. Skin clapping together and obscene pornographic moans—drawn both of you—bouncing off the walls in your small trailer. “L-Look at you—all pathetic and fucked out. Get all dumb because my cock. Finally found a way to shut you up.” 

“I’m—f-fuck…M’close…” you murmur lazily, words soft and slurred as you lose all the presumed ineradicable uproariousness of your voice. It was shaky and frail—like it was something you could shatter. Then he pulls out. Without remorse, but full of cruelty. You gasp from the lack of fullness and say, “W-what..what’re you doing…please—put it back.” Your hands tremble as you make a weak attempt to slip his cock back inside you, and he laughs at you, his chuckle thick with cockiness. His gaze has your heart beat going so fast you could hear it in your ears. 

You had a small feeling that you were going to look back at this moment and wince at your pitiful behavior, but you couldn’t think about your future self at the moment, no. All you were thinking about was how the pool in your stomach was about to drain if he didn’t start fuck you again. He shushes you, shaking his head as he leans down to meet you face to face. “Oh, you can have it back, sugar, but I think somethin’ from you before we do that,” he whispers, nudging that gorgeous nose into your cheek. The way in which he spoke was new. Soft. Dangerously soft. It had you clenching around nothing. 

“F-Fine! I’ll do the damn scene. Just make me cum—please, Jack,” you blurt out, pleading with both your words and your eyes, rolling your hips forward like they had a mind of their own, needing him back inside of you.

Jack knew he could do it. This…now this was a massive ego boost, having one of the most powerful, beautiful, and bitchiest women in Hollywood dropping the painful attitude and begging him to fuck her—and most of all, he got you to do the scene you swore off. But he knew it would work. After taking his cock so well, what would be so wrong with a little smooch? 

“I knew you could do it—who knew all I had to do was fuck you, huh?” he chuckled, and before you could even try to give a snarky comeback, he stuffed you full in one thrust. It was instantaneous how your words flatter, how your head tipped back, and how fast your whimpers came back. Jack drops his hand down to circle your clit, using every available to have you come hard around his cock, giving you a little reward for your new good behavior. 

His thrusts are perfect, precise, and deep and he rutts into at the right pace. It’s not too fast, not too slow, just right—right enough to have cum with a loud cry. You latch on to his neck, leaving crescent shaped marks into his neck skin as you moan his name, it on repeat like one of those autosuggestion books. His grinding does stop, like he’s imprinting the fact that he was the one that made you have the best orgasm in your life into your cunt—leaving you a sweet little reminder. 

You knew your ass would be sore along with everywhere else. You tits, your lips—southern and northern—your insides, your thighs—everywhere. You were sure to be riddled with hickies and red and purple bruises, but for some reason, the thought of you wearing his marks around was almost enough to rile you up again. Damn it. 

You’re still sensitive when he pulls out and spurts hot ropes all over your skin. He whimpers as he comes, eyes threatening to squeeze shut, but you can tell he wants to watch it happen, so he could use the mental image for later. 

Then he swipes his thumb down your stomach and collects some of his release, then rests it above your mouth, and without him saying a single word, you open your mouth, ready for him to pop his finger into your mouth. He rested it on your tongue, feeling his cock twitch as you sucked his thumb clean like a good girl in an act of submission. “You’re already learning, darlin’…” he purred, sliding his thumb from your lips with confidence written all over his face. 

“Now, was that so hard?” 

“She’s doing it,” he muttered to the director as he was getting ready to film one of your scenes that didn’t include Jack, a day after what you did in the trailer, which reeked of dirty sex afterwards. The makeup artist was pissed that they had to do extra work and cover up the reckless marks from your secret love-making machine. 

“What? I don't believe you. You yanking my chain?” he asked, stunned and very confused. How in the world did one of the people you have named as one of your enemies convince you to do a scene you were set on not doing. 

“Listen. I swear on my grandmother's grave.”

“How did you even—what the hell did you do?”

“Let's just say we had ourselves a long, proper conversation.”

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the shiny new rock on your finger shone beautifully under the dazzling lights in the theatre, your cheeks hurting with how much you’d been smiling since jack had popped the question.

while he didn’t win the oscar, he got the real prize when you said yes, your shriek of excitement making him all the more happier as he spun you around in his arms, lovingly kissing you before setting you back down onto the floor.

your heeled feet clacked against the flooring as he rushed you out, giggles making your chest vibrate as you snuck out some back door of the theatre to evade the pushy paparazzi, like two teenagers afraid to be caught.

“we should probably stay ya’know,” you smiled, looking back over your shoulder at the closing swing door, the streetlight above you and jack shining down onto you both, the scene like something out of a movie.

“they’ll be fine without us baby, we can sneak away for a bit no?” he hummed, those dashing dimples of his that first drew you in showing prominently, making your knees buckle, your feet already moving after his before your mind could catch up.

he held the door open for you like the gentleman he was, wiggling his brows in the dorky manner you’ve grown accustomed to, only sparking an even wider smile to grace your features as you slid into the backseat, jack following right after, closing the door behind himself.

“jack…” you finally spoke, batting your lashes as you watched him, your cheeks warming at the manner in which his eyes traced your facial features, the love in his gaze evident, but the raw need he had for you hard to ignore too.

“mhm honey?” he clears his throat, adam’s apple bobbing as he leans his head onto his hand, propped up by his elbow.

“what are we doing here?” you smiled, whispering in response, your pupils moving from side to side, almost as if to check if anyone was around.

“can’t a guy want some alone time with his soon to be wife?” he charmingly says, causing you to roll your eyes, biting back a smile as your hands rest in your lap, the metal of the band of your engagement ring cool against your skin, the chill making you smile to yourself.

“god you’re beautiful baby, how on earth did a fella like me get so lucky?” he mumbles, swiftly reaching forward in the limited space of the backseat, his large hand wrapping around your waist to tug you into his lap, your polka dot adorned designer piece all fluffed out around you as you sat in your dear lover’s lap.

you bit back a giggle at his sugar talking; that damned tongue of his. “just couldn’t keep your hands to yourself now could you?” you hummed, bottom lip wedged between your pearly whites, your manicured hands sliding up his suit adorned shoulders, lazily tugging his suit jacket off, moving your hands right to the nape of his neck, running them through his slick backed hair, that little stubborn curl that always flopped down onto his forehead making you hum in content.

“damn right i couldn’t,” he laughs, sliding his one hand from your waist up to jaw, cupping your chin softly before pressing his lips to yours, your mouths moving languidly against one another’s, his hand that was still settled on your waist tugging you closer, the tent in his slacks pressing all hot and needy against your own centre, his incredible size already reducing your mind to a mess.

the kiss grew desperate quickly, his tongue running across your bottom lip to ask for permission, passionately frenching as soon as you parted your lips, allowing him to claim your hot, wet mouth with his.

“mhm, you think it’s a-a good idea to have sex here baby?” you breathily spoke between kisses, his hand on your waist sliding to the hem of your dress, his calloused hands sliding across the supple skin of your thigh right up to your hip, using his leverage to tug you back and forth across his bulge, your speech broken as your mind got all fuzzy.

he continued to kiss you with a hunger you haven’t quite seen before, whimpering, fucking whimpering into your mouth as you began to roll your hips on your own accord, “you kiddin’? honey it’s a horrible idea but i couldn’t give a rats ass right now with how beautiful you look on top o’ me; most gorgeous woman in the world,” he murmured into your lips, moving his kisses down your jaw, taking your earlobe between his teeth before trailing his lips down the hollow of your throat, pressing sloppy open mouthed kisses to the unmarked skin there.

you smiled softly as you tilted your head up, eye’s fluttering shut as his hand snuck down the front of your underwear, his index and middle finger slowly but steadily moving over your throbbing clit, down to your already gushing entrance, his kisses faltering against your neck as he pulled away, moaning at how wet you were.

“this all f’me pretty?” he smiled, running his two fingers through your wetness, nodding as you whined when he pulled away, his hand trailing from your underwear and out from under your dress, your arousal glistening on the tips of his fingers, his eyes blown black with lust.

“good god,” he muttered under his breath, tentatively slipping his fingers pass the threshold of his lips, tasting your sweet, sweet essence on his tongue, groaning around his digits.

the image was obscene, something straight out of a porno, your lips parting in response; your handsome fiancée, earnestly groaning and trying to savour your addictive taste on his tongue, his eyes closed in pleasure, his dick hard as fuckin rock!

“god baby you taste amazing, y’gotta-“ he paused, his mind a pussy-drunken mess, breathless as he slipped his saliva coated fingers into your awaiting mouth, your kiss bitten lips immediately wrapping around his lengthy fingers, keeping your sultry eyes on him as you began to bob your head, sucking his digits clean of your arousal and his saliva almost as if you were sucking his heavy cock.

“y’re gonna be death of me y’know that?” he smiled, his tone of voice conveying just how much he needed you, the corners of your lips quirking as you smiled around his digits, sliding them out from between your lips, a string of saliva connecting you to his fingertips, revealing the raunchy behaviour you’d just partook in.

“now i’d usually love to be smothered by that pretty pussy o’yours but i gotta be inside you baby, need to feel you wrapped tight around me before i lose it,” he frantically spoke, moving his hand, the one with the digits that had just been between your plump lips, to settle loosely at the base of your throat, his touch sending goosebumps to erupt all over your skin.

he used the leverage he held by your neck to bring you close once more, capturing your lips in another messy kiss as his other hand worked to undo his slacks, your hands moving to rip the front of his shirt open, buttons flying with the sheer force you held, your hunger for each other conveyed through your frantic movements.

you trailed your nails down his chest, jack hissing against your lips at the feeling, all suave as he continued kissing you like your life depended on it, all whilst swiftly bunching your dress at your waist, revealing your soaked pretty pink underwear.

you whispered against his lips, his unoccupied hand moving your sticky underwear to the side, getting ready to slide his dick between your awaiting folds when you stopped him with a hand to his wrist.

he immediately stopped, on high alert now, pulling back with furrowed brows, “you wanna stop baby? did i do somethin’ wrong?” he eagerly asked, an apology on the tip of his tongue in case he did.

you shook your head, quelling his worries instantly, “no no nothin’s wrong, jus wanna put it in by myself, can i?” you asked cheekily, the windows all fogged up, surely giving you away to anyone that would pass by.

he smirked that cocky smile you loved, raising his brows suggestively as he watched you look down all lovingly at his throbbing cock, “course’ you can—y’don’t gotta ask y’know? it’s yours—can do whatever you want with it,” he hums, already showing signs of being pussy drunk.

you giggled at his word choice, mumbling a soft “dork” under your breath before running your thumb over the angry, red tip, pre-cum oozing from the head, using your thumb to spread it over his entire length, almost drooling at the sight of his veiny cock.

“fuckkk,” he hissed, biting down onto his knuckles as you teased him, lifting your hips slightly to run his tip through your sopping folds, brows creasing at the centre whenever it would catch onto your swollen clit, humming constantly as you essentially humped his needy cock.

“honey please-need to be inside you b’fore he gets all antsy,” he grumbles, pausing your movements as you snorted, “he?” you smiled, tilting your head at his silliness, surging forward to press your lips to his before he could talk again, sinking down onto his dick at the same time.

you both gasped into the kiss, feeling him in your tummy as he bottomed out, eagerly moving your hips once you grew accustomed to his size, something you had to do each time you’d make love to one another. he was a girthy fellow.

“god you feel amazing,” he groaned, his lips just pressed to yours, not even kissing anymore just touching, and that was all he needed, he just needed to be close to his girl whilst your pussy sucked the life out of him, riding him like there was no tomorrow.

his hands moved to tug the front of your dress down, your breasts spilling from the fabric, pulling away from your lips to all but make out with your voluptuous tits, moving from sucking to biting at your hardened nipples, paying the same amount of love and attention to the other one as your hips continued rolling down into his, the faint hair above his manhood deliciously rubbing against your clit.

the car smelt of raw sex and desperation, a sheen of sweat coating your once pristine figures, pinup curls all messy now due to the humidity in the car. the sight was absolutely filthy and you loved it.

jack pathetically whimpered again once you began rolling your hips in a particular fashion, spelling his surname out with each roll of your hips, thighs burning at the effort.

“can’t—fuck baby i ain’t gonna last—can’t wait to make you my wife; gosh mrs. castello you’re killin me here,” he breathed heavily, sneaking his right hand down to play with your swollen little pearl, flicking and pinching the bundle of nerves till you were crying, your tits bouncing with each laboured breath you took in, wanting so badly to scream out his name.

you were already on that sweet uphill journey to your climax when he called you mrs. castello, his hand toying with your needy clit only egging you on further, “jack-mhm so close baby, love you so fuckin’ much,” you cried out, blabbering as you moved your one hand from his shoulder to his jaw, his moans bordering on pornographic, getting louder and louder with his roll of your hips; pressing your index and middle fingers to his lips, jack immediately parting them to allow your digits into his hot, wet mouth, shutting him up effectively as he immediately sucked on your digits, groaning around them as you began bouncing on his cock.

“fuck fuck fuck,” you moaned, eyes squeezed shut as you chased your orgasm with vigour, the combination of jacks lips around your fingers, his dick pummelling into you with each hop of your hips, his own hips thrusting up into you, the thrill of fucking in public—god it made your head all fuzzy, the tips of your ears burning, that coil in your belly snapping as he continued messily playing with your clit.

he moaned around your digits, your pussy squeezing the life out of his dick as your thighs spasmed; “oh god,” you cried, cumming around his thick cock, moaning like a bitch in heat as jack continued thrusting up into you, “shit shit shit baby-“ he stammered out wondering you slipped your fingers from his lips, his thrusts growing sloppy at the feel of your cunt squeezing and releasing him, throbbing around his length, the sensation sending his mind reeling as he came inside you, his fingers still slowly messing with your spent bundle of nerves, his cum spurring out in thick ropes as he fucked it up into you.

“oh my god—“ you breathlessly spoke, your hips still lazily rolling into his, forehead moving to rest against his, smiling as you leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to his lips.

“that-that was awesome darlin, god i love you so so much-” he huffed, letting out a “whoo!” which only made you laugh against his lips, shaking your head as he whispered sweet praises to you.

unbeknownst to the both of you, the paps had received a tip from one of the theatre’s staff, the lot of them swarming in the direction of the car in hopes of getting something juicy on the new up and coming star, jack castello.

just as you were coming down from your high, ready to tug your clothes back on, loud voices boomed from outside, flashes going off all around the car. jacks head perked up with an urgency that made him dizzy, the high from his orgasm vanishing in an instant, his eyes going wide, face stark white as he realised what was happening; his first hollywood scandal—being caught having sex with his fiancée in the backseat of his car outside of the oscar’s.

“oh dear,” you huffed, scrunching your face in embarrassment at the predicament you’d caught yourself in, looking over your shoulder at the invasive vultures outside, covering your face as you kept your bare chest facing him, jack’s softening dick still inside.

“god baby i am so screwed,” he groaned, mumbling a “fuck” under his breath as he unconsciously made sure you were covered from prying eyes, blindly reaching for his discarded suit jacket to tug over your shoulders, all the while preparing himself for the scandal that would no doubt be front page news.

come monday, avis would definitely wring his neck out.

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