Riya/ri | 21 | canadian | movie fanatic | top gun enthusiast | marvel + dc lover | love the pitt, young sherlock, the other bennet sister and abbott elementary | all about lewis pullman but i do dab in other characters!
hii! my name is Riya but i also go by ri! this blog is a side project that i started once i saw how many great writers were on here. writing has always been my passion and seeing these amazing authors pushed me to start my own blog! i hope you enjoy reading my fics as much as i enjoy writing them!
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my second acc - @pullmecloserman
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summary: Clark Kent is helplessly in love, catastrophically awkward about it, and somehow even more charming because of it.
Clark “Superman” Kent
word count: 3k
a/n: this is a little something i made this week while i was waiting for my next class (cause why is there always a 2 hr gap??) I hope you enjoy! (*cough cough* jake seresin next?) side note: have u ever had a teacher who’s been edging u w the perfect grade? cause that’s me in english rn like pls i was so good in hs what is happening now
warnings: dangerously awkward flirting, excessive yearning, Clark Kent being down horrendous, coffee casualties, physical affection, kissing, secondhand embarrassment, umbrella sharing, weaponized eye contact, mild language
Clark Kent looked like the kind of man who should know how to flirt.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Gentle eyes hidden behind glasses that absolutely did not disguise the fact that he was unfairly handsome.
And yet—
“I panicked,” he admitted as coffee spread across the bullpen floor.
You stared at him from beside your desk, blinking slowly while reporters twisted in their chairs to watch the disaster unfold.
“You spilled an entire latte because I touched your arm?”
Clark adjusted his glasses with the expression of a man facing public execution. “In my defense,” he said weakly, “you’re very pretty.”
Somewhere across the newsroom, somebody choked on a laugh.
You looked down at the coffee dripping off the edge of Clark’s desk. Then back up at him. Then at the completely soaked stack of papers in his hands.
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“No, I mean—” You pointed at the papers. “Weren’t those your interview notes?”
Clark glanced down.
The color drained from his face. “Oh no.”
The bullpen erupted.
Jimmy Olsen burst into laughter so hard he physically folded over his desk. Someone else wolf-whistled. Perry White shouted something from his office about professionalism that nobody listened to.
Clark stood frozen in the middle of it all looking deeply, deeply miserable.
And weirdly adorable.
You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. “You’re kind of a disaster, Kent.”
He looked at you over the rim of his glasses, visibly horrified. “You think I’m a disaster?”
“I think,” you said carefully, “that you just sacrificed your notes to avoid having a conversation with me.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He paused. “Mostly.”
Jimmy made a loud fake coughing noise that sounded suspiciously like he likes you.
Clark shot him a betrayed look.
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
And that—that seemed to make Clark’s entire brain shut down.
Because he stared at you for half a second too long, looking startled by the sound, before smiling instinctively.
It hit you like a truck.
Not because he was handsome—you had unfortunately noticed that weeks ago when you’d first started at the Daily Planet—but because his smile changed his whole face.
Clark smiling felt warm. Soft. Like sunlight through open curtains.
Your stomach flipped embarrassingly hard.
Clark seemed to realize he was still staring at you at the exact same moment you realized you were staring back.
He immediately looked away so quickly he knocked another coffee cup over with his elbow.
“Oh my God,” Jimmy wheezed.
-
Working at the Daily Planet meant existing in a constant state of chaos.
Phones rang nonstop. Reporters argued across desks. Perry barked deadlines like military orders while interns sprinted through the bullpen carrying stacks of papers and half-dead laptops.
You’d only been there three months, but somehow it already felt normal.
Mostly because of Clark.
Which was ridiculous.
You barely knew him. Technically.
But Clark Kent had this strange gravitational pull to him. The kind that made people naturally drift toward him without realizing it.
He remembered everyone’s coffee orders. Held doors open. Asked about your day and actually listened to the answer.
He was impossibly kind in a way that should’ve felt fake considering he looked like that, but somehow didn’t.
Honestly, the man looked like he’d been engineered in a lab specifically to make people stare.
Broad chest. Strong hands. Dark curls that always fell messily over his forehead no matter how many times he pushed them back.
And his eyes.
Jesus Christ.
You’d made the mistake of maintaining eye contact with him once during a meeting and forgotten your own name halfway through a sentence.
Which apparently wasn’t a problem exclusive to you.
Because Clark got nervous around you too. Painfully nervous.
At first you thought you imagined it.
Then you noticed patterns.
Clark dropping things whenever you walked too close to him. Clark forgetting what he was saying mid-conversation because you smiled at him. Clark volunteering for stories on the opposite side of Metropolis whenever you wore something nice.
It was honestly kind of endearing.
Today, however, was especially bad.
You walked into the break room around noon and stopped short.
Clark was standing at the counter holding a mug that literally bent in his hand.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Ceramic cracked beneath his fingers.
Clark stared down at it in horror.
You stared at him.
“…Did you just Hulk-smash a coffee mug?”
Clark nearly jumped out of his skin. “What? No.”
You pointed.
The handle fell off the mug and hit the floor.
Clark looked genuinely distressed. “I can explain.”
“I would love to hear this explanation actually.”
He glanced around the empty break room like he was searching for divine intervention.
“It was slippery.”
“The mug exploded.”
“It’s a very slippery mug.”
You laughed again.
Clark visibly melted.
Not metaphorically either. The man genuinely seemed to lose all motor function when you laughed near him.
It was becoming a problem.
“You know,” you said, leaning against the counter, “for a Pulitzer-winning reporter, you’re a terrible liar.”
Clark ducked his head, smiling sheepishly. “That obvious?”
“Clark, you once told Perry your laptop stopped working because of solar flares.”
“They can interfere with technology.”
“Sure.”
“It’s science.”
“You sounded like a conspiracy podcast host.”
Clark huffed out a laugh.
God.
That was dangerous too.
Because Clark didn’t laugh quietly. He laughed fully. Warm and surprised and bright like he couldn’t help it.
You liked making him do it.
Probably more than you should.
“You’re staring,” Clark said softly.
You blinked.
Shit.
“I am not.”
One dark eyebrow lifted.
You folded your arms immediately. “Okay, maybe a little.”
Clark’s ears turned pink.
And for some reason, that made you bold.
“You get flustered really easily for someone who looks like he belongs on a magazine cover.”
Clark made a choking noise. “A magazine—”
“You know exactly what you look like, Kent.”
“I really don’t think I do.”
“That’s actually insane.”
Clark rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well… I think you’re beautiful, so maybe we’re both insane.”
The room went completely silent.
Your heartbeat stuttered.
Clark seemed to realize what he’d said a full three seconds later.
“Oh my God,” he whispered to himself.
Then he physically walked into a cabinet.
You slapped a hand over your mouth.
Clark stood there with his eyes squeezed shut like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
“You okay?” you asked, voice shaking with suppressed laughter.
“Never better.”
“You hit that cabinet really hard.”
“I’m durable.”
You snorted.
Clark looked absolutely devastated by his own existence.
And somehow, impossibly, it made him even cuter.
-
Lois Lane cornered you two days later.
“You like him.”
You nearly inhaled your own coffee. “What?”
Lois sat casually on the edge of your desk like she wasn’t about to ruin your entire life.
“You and Smallville.”
“We are coworkers.”
“You look at him like he personally invented romance.”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Lois smirked.
“Oh my God,” you muttered.
“Yeah, that’s usually the reaction.”
You dropped your head onto your desk dramatically. “Is it that obvious?”
“To me? Absolutely.”
“This is humiliating.”
“Nah.” Lois nudged your shoulder. “It’s cute.”
Cute.
Right.
Except your crush on Clark Kent felt less cute and more actively life-threatening.
Because the problem with Clark wasn’t just that he was attractive.
It was that he was good.
Everywhere you looked, Clark was helping someone.
Carrying absurdly heavy boxes for interns. Staying late to help fact-check stories. Walking little old ladies across busy streets outside the Planet building.
Once, you’d watched him stop in the middle of a conversation because he noticed a little kid crying outside through the bullpen windows.
Clark had excused himself immediately and come back twenty minutes later with melted ice cream on his sleeve and a shy explanation about helping the kid find his dad.
Who does that?
Who is actually like that?
“You’re smiling,” Lois said knowingly.
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
Unfortunately, she was right.
Lois leaned closer. “So what’s the hold up?”
“What?”
“With Clark.”
You stared at her. “There is no ‘with Clark.’”
“Please. That man looks at you like you hung the moon.”
Your stomach flipped violently.
“That’s dramatic.”
“It’s accurate.”
Before you could respond, a familiar voice called your name from across the bullpen.
You looked up instinctively.
Big mistake.
Clark was walking toward you holding a file folder against his chest, glasses slipping down his nose slightly. His tie was crooked. His hair looked windswept like he’d just sprinted back from somewhere.
Which honestly was possible.
The man moved weirdly fast.
Clark smiled the second he saw you.
And there it was again.
That stupid, soft sunlight feeling.
Lois watched your entire expression change and looked unbearably smug about it.
“I’m going to kill you,” you muttered.
“Worth it.”
Clark reached your desk, slightly out of breath. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
For a second, both of you just stood there smiling at each other like idiots.
Lois made a fake gagging noise before hopping off the desk. “I’m leaving before this turns into a Hallmark movie.”
Clark looked alarmed. “What turns into a Hallmark movie?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly.
“Everything,” Lois corrected.
Then she disappeared into the crowd of desks before either of you could stop her.
Clark looked adorably confused.
You looked anywhere except directly at him.
“So,” Clark said after a moment. “I, uh… brought those files you asked for.”
He handed them over carefully.
Your fingers brushed his.
Clark froze.
You felt him freeze.
The entire atmosphere shifted instantly.
It was ridiculous.
A tiny touch shouldn’t feel electric.
And yet.
Clark swallowed hard. “You okay?”
“You’re asking me?”
A nervous laugh escaped him.
“You just—” He stopped himself abruptly.
“What?”
Clark stared at you for one long second like he was debating something internally. “Nothing.”
“Clark.”
“It’s not important.”
“Clark.”
His shoulders slumped in surrender. “You just make me nervous.”
The honesty in his voice hit you straight in the chest.
“You make me nervous too,” you admitted quietly.
Clark blinked.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“But you seem so calm around me.”
You stared at him. “Clark, last week you smiled at me and I walked directly into the women’s restroom instead of the elevator.”
For a beat of silence, Clark just looked at you.
Then he laughed.
Not a polite chuckle.
Not a soft huff.
An actual laugh.
Head tipped back slightly. Eyes crinkling behind his glasses. Warm and bright and helpless.
Your heart basically dissolved on the spot.
“You think I’m funny?” you asked weakly.
Clark looked at you like that was the dumbest question he’d ever heard.
“I think you’re incredible.”
Oh.
Oh, you were in serious trouble.
-
It started raining halfway through your walk home.
Not normal rain either.
The kind of dramatic Metropolis downpour that felt personally targeted.
You groaned as cold water soaked through your jacket within seconds. “Seriously?”
“You forgot your umbrella too?”
You turned.
Clark stood a few feet away under a massive black umbrella, glasses speckled with rain.
Of course he had an umbrella.
Clark looked like the kind of man who reminded other people to bring umbrellas.
“You stalking me, Kent?”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “Coincidence. I was getting groceries.”
He lifted a paper bag slightly.
You frowned. “How are those not soaked already?”
Clark glanced at the perfectly dry bag in confusion before quickly holding the umbrella lower. “Good umbrella?”
You narrowed your eyes.
Clark smiled innocently.
Suspicious.
Still, he stepped closer, angling the umbrella over both of you.
Warmth immediately surrounded you.
Clark smelled ridiculously good. Like clean laundry and coffee and something faintly earthy after the rain.
You tried not to notice.
Failed horribly.
“You can’t walk me home every time it rains, you know.”
Clark looked down at you. “I can try.”
Oh.
Oh, that was dangerous.
The city blurred around you as you walked side by side through the rain.
Cars hissed past on wet streets. Neon signs reflected off puddles. Somewhere nearby, someone played music loud enough to echo between buildings.
Clark kept subtly adjusting the umbrella to make sure you stayed covered.
Meanwhile his own shoulder was getting soaked.
“You’re terrible at sharing umbrellas,” you informed him.
Clark blinked. “I am?”
“You’re getting rained on.”
“That’s okay.”
“No, move over.”
You grabbed his sleeve and tugged him closer underneath the umbrella.
Clark immediately went completely still beside you.
Your arm brushed his.
Heat radiated through the contact even through layers of clothing.
Clark looked down at you slowly.
And there it was again.
That look.
Like you were something precious.
Something worth handling carefully.
It made your chest ache.
“You know,” you said softly, “for someone who panics every time I touch him, you really like standing close to me.”
Clark’s mouth twitched. “Maybe I enjoy the panic.”
“Is that what this is?”
“No,” he admitted quietly. “Not really.”
Rain hammered softly overhead.
Clark’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before snapping back up.
Your breath caught.
He noticed.
You knew he noticed because his own breathing changed instantly.
And suddenly the space between you felt very small.
Very warm.
Very dangerous.
A car horn blared somewhere nearby.
Both of you jumped apart like guilty teenagers.
Clark cleared his throat violently. “Well.”
“Yep.”
“That was—”
“Definitely something.”
Clark laughed nervously.
You smiled despite yourself.
Then, before you could overthink it, you reached for his hand.
Clark went silent.
His fingers instinctively curled around yours.
Warm.
Careful.
Like he was afraid to hold on too tightly.
You looked up at him.
Clark looked completely undone.
“You’re doing that thing again,” you murmured.
“What thing?”
“Looking at me like I personally invented happiness.”
Clark stared at you for one long second.
Then he smiled softly.
“I might argue you did.”
Your heart was never recovering from this man.
Ever.
-
By the time you reached your apartment building, neither of you had let go of the other’s hand.
Clark looked mildly stunned by that fact.
You were trying not to look equally affected.
Rainwater dripped from the edge of the umbrella while the city buzzed around you in blurry lights and distant traffic.
Neither of you moved.
“This is usually the part,” you said carefully, “where people say goodbye.”
Clark nodded immediately. “Right. Yeah. Goodbye.”
Neither of you let go.
A smile tugged at your mouth.
Clark noticed instantly.
“What?”
“You’re still holding my hand.”
Clark looked down like he’d genuinely forgotten.
“Oh.”
But he still didn’t let go.
Instead, his thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles.
The movement was absentminded.
Gentle.
Your heartbeat nearly climbed into your throat.
Clark looked like he realized what he was doing at the exact same moment.
His eyes widened slightly behind his glasses.
“You should probably kiss me now,” you blurted before your brain could stop you.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Clark stared at you.
You stared back in horror as your own words replayed in your head.
“Well,” you said weakly. “That was terrifying.”
Clark still looked frozen.
“Oh my God,” you whispered. “Forget I said that.”
“No.”
Your eyes snapped back to his.
Clark stepped closer slowly, like he was worried you’d disappear if he moved too fast.
“No,” he repeated softly. “I really don’t think I can.”
The rain suddenly felt very far away.
Clark lifted one hand carefully toward your face.
Even now—even with the way he looked at you, with your fingers tangled together, with every charged moment between you hanging in the air—he still hesitated like he wanted permission.
You leaned into his touch before he could ask.
Something in Clark’s expression melted instantly.
Then he kissed you.
And—
Oh.
That was not a first-kiss kind of kiss.
There was nothing uncertain about it.
Clark kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for weeks and was only now allowing himself to do it.
Warm lips. Careful hands. The soft sound he made when you kissed him back harder.
Your fingers curled into the front of his jacket automatically.
Clark’s free hand settled against your waist like he physically couldn’t stop himself.
And somehow, impossibly, he still kissed like Clark.
Sweet.
Tender.
Like he was trying to memorize you.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were visibly breathless.
Clark looked completely wrecked.
His glasses were crooked.
His hair was damp from the rain.
And he was looking at you like you’d personally rewritten his entire universe.
“You kissed me,” he said softly, sounding genuinely awed by it.
You laughed quietly. “Pretty sure you kissed me too, Kent.”
“I know, I just—” He stopped to smile helplessly. “Wow.”
You smiled so hard your face hurt.
Clark looked at you for another long second before blurting suddenly, “I have wanted to do that since the first day you worked at the Planet.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “The first day?”
“You smiled at me in the elevator and I walked into a wall.”
You stared at him.
Then burst into laughter.
Clark groaned immediately. “Please don’t laugh.”
“You walked into a wall?”
“It was a glass wall,” he muttered.
“That is somehow worse.”
Clark covered his face with one hand while you laughed harder.
“I’m trying to be romantic.”
“You are romantic,” you promised, still grinning. “You’re just also deeply awkward.”
Clark peeked at you through his fingers. “You still like me though?”
The fact that he sounded genuinely unsure nearly killed you.
You reached up, adjusting his crooked glasses carefully. “Clark Kent, you spilled coffee on yourself because I touched your arm.”
His ears turned pink again.
“You carried one umbrella specifically big enough for two people.”
Clark looked away innocently.
“You looked at me like your entire life changed because I held your hand.”
A soft smile spread slowly across his face.
Then he leaned down and kissed you again.
Softer this time.
Slow enough that your chest physically ached from it.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours.
“So,” you murmured, “does this mean you’ll stop destroying office supplies every time I flirt with you?”
Clark considered that seriously.
“…Probably not.”
You laughed.
And Clark smiled like it was still the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.
summary: Clark Kent is helplessly in love, catastrophically awkward about it, and somehow even more charming because of it.
Clark “Superman” Kent
word count: 3k
a/n: this is a little something i made this week while i was waiting for my next class (cause why is there always a 2 hr gap??) I hope you enjoy! (*cough cough* jake seresin next?) side note: have u ever had a teacher who’s been edging u w the perfect grade? cause that’s me in english rn like pls i was so good in hs what is happening now
warnings: dangerously awkward flirting, excessive yearning, Clark Kent being down horrendous, coffee casualties, physical affection, kissing, secondhand embarrassment, umbrella sharing, weaponized eye contact, mild language
Clark Kent looked like the kind of man who should know how to flirt.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Gentle eyes hidden behind glasses that absolutely did not disguise the fact that he was unfairly handsome.
And yet—
“I panicked,” he admitted as coffee spread across the bullpen floor.
You stared at him from beside your desk, blinking slowly while reporters twisted in their chairs to watch the disaster unfold.
“You spilled an entire latte because I touched your arm?”
Clark adjusted his glasses with the expression of a man facing public execution. “In my defense,” he said weakly, “you’re very pretty.”
Somewhere across the newsroom, somebody choked on a laugh.
You looked down at the coffee dripping off the edge of Clark’s desk. Then back up at him. Then at the completely soaked stack of papers in his hands.
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“No, I mean—” You pointed at the papers. “Weren’t those your interview notes?”
Clark glanced down.
The color drained from his face. “Oh no.”
The bullpen erupted.
Jimmy Olsen burst into laughter so hard he physically folded over his desk. Someone else wolf-whistled. Perry White shouted something from his office about professionalism that nobody listened to.
Clark stood frozen in the middle of it all looking deeply, deeply miserable.
And weirdly adorable.
You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. “You’re kind of a disaster, Kent.”
He looked at you over the rim of his glasses, visibly horrified. “You think I’m a disaster?”
“I think,” you said carefully, “that you just sacrificed your notes to avoid having a conversation with me.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He paused. “Mostly.”
Jimmy made a loud fake coughing noise that sounded suspiciously like he likes you.
Clark shot him a betrayed look.
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
And that—that seemed to make Clark’s entire brain shut down.
Because he stared at you for half a second too long, looking startled by the sound, before smiling instinctively.
It hit you like a truck.
Not because he was handsome—you had unfortunately noticed that weeks ago when you’d first started at the Daily Planet—but because his smile changed his whole face.
Clark smiling felt warm. Soft. Like sunlight through open curtains.
Your stomach flipped embarrassingly hard.
Clark seemed to realize he was still staring at you at the exact same moment you realized you were staring back.
He immediately looked away so quickly he knocked another coffee cup over with his elbow.
“Oh my God,” Jimmy wheezed.
-
Working at the Daily Planet meant existing in a constant state of chaos.
Phones rang nonstop. Reporters argued across desks. Perry barked deadlines like military orders while interns sprinted through the bullpen carrying stacks of papers and half-dead laptops.
You’d only been there three months, but somehow it already felt normal.
Mostly because of Clark.
Which was ridiculous.
You barely knew him. Technically.
But Clark Kent had this strange gravitational pull to him. The kind that made people naturally drift toward him without realizing it.
He remembered everyone’s coffee orders. Held doors open. Asked about your day and actually listened to the answer.
He was impossibly kind in a way that should’ve felt fake considering he looked like that, but somehow didn’t.
Honestly, the man looked like he’d been engineered in a lab specifically to make people stare.
Broad chest. Strong hands. Dark curls that always fell messily over his forehead no matter how many times he pushed them back.
And his eyes.
Jesus Christ.
You’d made the mistake of maintaining eye contact with him once during a meeting and forgotten your own name halfway through a sentence.
Which apparently wasn’t a problem exclusive to you.
Because Clark got nervous around you too. Painfully nervous.
At first you thought you imagined it.
Then you noticed patterns.
Clark dropping things whenever you walked too close to him. Clark forgetting what he was saying mid-conversation because you smiled at him. Clark volunteering for stories on the opposite side of Metropolis whenever you wore something nice.
It was honestly kind of endearing.
Today, however, was especially bad.
You walked into the break room around noon and stopped short.
Clark was standing at the counter holding a mug that literally bent in his hand.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Ceramic cracked beneath his fingers.
Clark stared down at it in horror.
You stared at him.
“…Did you just Hulk-smash a coffee mug?”
Clark nearly jumped out of his skin. “What? No.”
You pointed.
The handle fell off the mug and hit the floor.
Clark looked genuinely distressed. “I can explain.”
“I would love to hear this explanation actually.”
He glanced around the empty break room like he was searching for divine intervention.
“It was slippery.”
“The mug exploded.”
“It’s a very slippery mug.”
You laughed again.
Clark visibly melted.
Not metaphorically either. The man genuinely seemed to lose all motor function when you laughed near him.
It was becoming a problem.
“You know,” you said, leaning against the counter, “for a Pulitzer-winning reporter, you’re a terrible liar.”
Clark ducked his head, smiling sheepishly. “That obvious?”
“Clark, you once told Perry your laptop stopped working because of solar flares.”
“They can interfere with technology.”
“Sure.”
“It’s science.”
“You sounded like a conspiracy podcast host.”
Clark huffed out a laugh.
God.
That was dangerous too.
Because Clark didn’t laugh quietly. He laughed fully. Warm and surprised and bright like he couldn’t help it.
You liked making him do it.
Probably more than you should.
“You’re staring,” Clark said softly.
You blinked.
Shit.
“I am not.”
One dark eyebrow lifted.
You folded your arms immediately. “Okay, maybe a little.”
Clark’s ears turned pink.
And for some reason, that made you bold.
“You get flustered really easily for someone who looks like he belongs on a magazine cover.”
Clark made a choking noise. “A magazine—”
“You know exactly what you look like, Kent.”
“I really don’t think I do.”
“That’s actually insane.”
Clark rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well… I think you’re beautiful, so maybe we’re both insane.”
The room went completely silent.
Your heartbeat stuttered.
Clark seemed to realize what he’d said a full three seconds later.
“Oh my God,” he whispered to himself.
Then he physically walked into a cabinet.
You slapped a hand over your mouth.
Clark stood there with his eyes squeezed shut like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
“You okay?” you asked, voice shaking with suppressed laughter.
“Never better.”
“You hit that cabinet really hard.”
“I’m durable.”
You snorted.
Clark looked absolutely devastated by his own existence.
And somehow, impossibly, it made him even cuter.
-
Lois Lane cornered you two days later.
“You like him.”
You nearly inhaled your own coffee. “What?”
Lois sat casually on the edge of your desk like she wasn’t about to ruin your entire life.
“You and Smallville.”
“We are coworkers.”
“You look at him like he personally invented romance.”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Lois smirked.
“Oh my God,” you muttered.
“Yeah, that’s usually the reaction.”
You dropped your head onto your desk dramatically. “Is it that obvious?”
“To me? Absolutely.”
“This is humiliating.”
“Nah.” Lois nudged your shoulder. “It’s cute.”
Cute.
Right.
Except your crush on Clark Kent felt less cute and more actively life-threatening.
Because the problem with Clark wasn’t just that he was attractive.
It was that he was good.
Everywhere you looked, Clark was helping someone.
Carrying absurdly heavy boxes for interns. Staying late to help fact-check stories. Walking little old ladies across busy streets outside the Planet building.
Once, you’d watched him stop in the middle of a conversation because he noticed a little kid crying outside through the bullpen windows.
Clark had excused himself immediately and come back twenty minutes later with melted ice cream on his sleeve and a shy explanation about helping the kid find his dad.
Who does that?
Who is actually like that?
“You’re smiling,” Lois said knowingly.
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
Unfortunately, she was right.
Lois leaned closer. “So what’s the hold up?”
“What?”
“With Clark.”
You stared at her. “There is no ‘with Clark.’”
“Please. That man looks at you like you hung the moon.”
Your stomach flipped violently.
“That’s dramatic.”
“It’s accurate.”
Before you could respond, a familiar voice called your name from across the bullpen.
You looked up instinctively.
Big mistake.
Clark was walking toward you holding a file folder against his chest, glasses slipping down his nose slightly. His tie was crooked. His hair looked windswept like he’d just sprinted back from somewhere.
Which honestly was possible.
The man moved weirdly fast.
Clark smiled the second he saw you.
And there it was again.
That stupid, soft sunlight feeling.
Lois watched your entire expression change and looked unbearably smug about it.
“I’m going to kill you,” you muttered.
“Worth it.”
Clark reached your desk, slightly out of breath. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
For a second, both of you just stood there smiling at each other like idiots.
Lois made a fake gagging noise before hopping off the desk. “I’m leaving before this turns into a Hallmark movie.”
Clark looked alarmed. “What turns into a Hallmark movie?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly.
“Everything,” Lois corrected.
Then she disappeared into the crowd of desks before either of you could stop her.
Clark looked adorably confused.
You looked anywhere except directly at him.
“So,” Clark said after a moment. “I, uh… brought those files you asked for.”
He handed them over carefully.
Your fingers brushed his.
Clark froze.
You felt him freeze.
The entire atmosphere shifted instantly.
It was ridiculous.
A tiny touch shouldn’t feel electric.
And yet.
Clark swallowed hard. “You okay?”
“You’re asking me?”
A nervous laugh escaped him.
“You just—” He stopped himself abruptly.
“What?”
Clark stared at you for one long second like he was debating something internally. “Nothing.”
“Clark.”
“It’s not important.”
“Clark.”
His shoulders slumped in surrender. “You just make me nervous.”
The honesty in his voice hit you straight in the chest.
“You make me nervous too,” you admitted quietly.
Clark blinked.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“But you seem so calm around me.”
You stared at him. “Clark, last week you smiled at me and I walked directly into the women’s restroom instead of the elevator.”
For a beat of silence, Clark just looked at you.
Then he laughed.
Not a polite chuckle.
Not a soft huff.
An actual laugh.
Head tipped back slightly. Eyes crinkling behind his glasses. Warm and bright and helpless.
Your heart basically dissolved on the spot.
“You think I’m funny?” you asked weakly.
Clark looked at you like that was the dumbest question he’d ever heard.
“I think you’re incredible.”
Oh.
Oh, you were in serious trouble.
-
It started raining halfway through your walk home.
Not normal rain either.
The kind of dramatic Metropolis downpour that felt personally targeted.
You groaned as cold water soaked through your jacket within seconds. “Seriously?”
“You forgot your umbrella too?”
You turned.
Clark stood a few feet away under a massive black umbrella, glasses speckled with rain.
Of course he had an umbrella.
Clark looked like the kind of man who reminded other people to bring umbrellas.
“You stalking me, Kent?”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “Coincidence. I was getting groceries.”
He lifted a paper bag slightly.
You frowned. “How are those not soaked already?”
Clark glanced at the perfectly dry bag in confusion before quickly holding the umbrella lower. “Good umbrella?”
You narrowed your eyes.
Clark smiled innocently.
Suspicious.
Still, he stepped closer, angling the umbrella over both of you.
Warmth immediately surrounded you.
Clark smelled ridiculously good. Like clean laundry and coffee and something faintly earthy after the rain.
You tried not to notice.
Failed horribly.
“You can’t walk me home every time it rains, you know.”
Clark looked down at you. “I can try.”
Oh.
Oh, that was dangerous.
The city blurred around you as you walked side by side through the rain.
Cars hissed past on wet streets. Neon signs reflected off puddles. Somewhere nearby, someone played music loud enough to echo between buildings.
Clark kept subtly adjusting the umbrella to make sure you stayed covered.
Meanwhile his own shoulder was getting soaked.
“You’re terrible at sharing umbrellas,” you informed him.
Clark blinked. “I am?”
“You’re getting rained on.”
“That’s okay.”
“No, move over.”
You grabbed his sleeve and tugged him closer underneath the umbrella.
Clark immediately went completely still beside you.
Your arm brushed his.
Heat radiated through the contact even through layers of clothing.
Clark looked down at you slowly.
And there it was again.
That look.
Like you were something precious.
Something worth handling carefully.
It made your chest ache.
“You know,” you said softly, “for someone who panics every time I touch him, you really like standing close to me.”
Clark’s mouth twitched. “Maybe I enjoy the panic.”
“Is that what this is?”
“No,” he admitted quietly. “Not really.”
Rain hammered softly overhead.
Clark’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before snapping back up.
Your breath caught.
He noticed.
You knew he noticed because his own breathing changed instantly.
And suddenly the space between you felt very small.
Very warm.
Very dangerous.
A car horn blared somewhere nearby.
Both of you jumped apart like guilty teenagers.
Clark cleared his throat violently. “Well.”
“Yep.”
“That was—”
“Definitely something.”
Clark laughed nervously.
You smiled despite yourself.
Then, before you could overthink it, you reached for his hand.
Clark went silent.
His fingers instinctively curled around yours.
Warm.
Careful.
Like he was afraid to hold on too tightly.
You looked up at him.
Clark looked completely undone.
“You’re doing that thing again,” you murmured.
“What thing?”
“Looking at me like I personally invented happiness.”
Clark stared at you for one long second.
Then he smiled softly.
“I might argue you did.”
Your heart was never recovering from this man.
Ever.
-
By the time you reached your apartment building, neither of you had let go of the other’s hand.
Clark looked mildly stunned by that fact.
You were trying not to look equally affected.
Rainwater dripped from the edge of the umbrella while the city buzzed around you in blurry lights and distant traffic.
Neither of you moved.
“This is usually the part,” you said carefully, “where people say goodbye.”
Clark nodded immediately. “Right. Yeah. Goodbye.”
Neither of you let go.
A smile tugged at your mouth.
Clark noticed instantly.
“What?”
“You’re still holding my hand.”
Clark looked down like he’d genuinely forgotten.
“Oh.”
But he still didn’t let go.
Instead, his thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles.
The movement was absentminded.
Gentle.
Your heartbeat nearly climbed into your throat.
Clark looked like he realized what he was doing at the exact same moment.
His eyes widened slightly behind his glasses.
“You should probably kiss me now,” you blurted before your brain could stop you.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Clark stared at you.
You stared back in horror as your own words replayed in your head.
“Well,” you said weakly. “That was terrifying.”
Clark still looked frozen.
“Oh my God,” you whispered. “Forget I said that.”
“No.”
Your eyes snapped back to his.
Clark stepped closer slowly, like he was worried you’d disappear if he moved too fast.
“No,” he repeated softly. “I really don’t think I can.”
The rain suddenly felt very far away.
Clark lifted one hand carefully toward your face.
Even now—even with the way he looked at you, with your fingers tangled together, with every charged moment between you hanging in the air—he still hesitated like he wanted permission.
You leaned into his touch before he could ask.
Something in Clark’s expression melted instantly.
Then he kissed you.
And—
Oh.
That was not a first-kiss kind of kiss.
There was nothing uncertain about it.
Clark kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for weeks and was only now allowing himself to do it.
Warm lips. Careful hands. The soft sound he made when you kissed him back harder.
Your fingers curled into the front of his jacket automatically.
Clark’s free hand settled against your waist like he physically couldn’t stop himself.
And somehow, impossibly, he still kissed like Clark.
Sweet.
Tender.
Like he was trying to memorize you.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were visibly breathless.
Clark looked completely wrecked.
His glasses were crooked.
His hair was damp from the rain.
And he was looking at you like you’d personally rewritten his entire universe.
“You kissed me,” he said softly, sounding genuinely awed by it.
You laughed quietly. “Pretty sure you kissed me too, Kent.”
“I know, I just—” He stopped to smile helplessly. “Wow.”
You smiled so hard your face hurt.
Clark looked at you for another long second before blurting suddenly, “I have wanted to do that since the first day you worked at the Planet.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “The first day?”
“You smiled at me in the elevator and I walked into a wall.”
You stared at him.
Then burst into laughter.
Clark groaned immediately. “Please don’t laugh.”
“You walked into a wall?”
“It was a glass wall,” he muttered.
“That is somehow worse.”
Clark covered his face with one hand while you laughed harder.
“I’m trying to be romantic.”
“You are romantic,” you promised, still grinning. “You’re just also deeply awkward.”
Clark peeked at you through his fingers. “You still like me though?”
The fact that he sounded genuinely unsure nearly killed you.
You reached up, adjusting his crooked glasses carefully. “Clark Kent, you spilled coffee on yourself because I touched your arm.”
His ears turned pink again.
“You carried one umbrella specifically big enough for two people.”
Clark looked away innocently.
“You looked at me like your entire life changed because I held your hand.”
A soft smile spread slowly across his face.
Then he leaned down and kissed you again.
Softer this time.
Slow enough that your chest physically ached from it.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours.
“So,” you murmured, “does this mean you’ll stop destroying office supplies every time I flirt with you?”
Clark considered that seriously.
“…Probably not.”
You laughed.
And Clark smiled like it was still the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.
okay hello new obsession unlocked; OFF CAMPUS CAUSE HELLO THEYRE ALL SO HOT BELMONT, STEPHEN, ANOTONIO, JALEN PLS COME HERE (if ykyk jalen sexyc in the pitt too)
yes i saw that! for the 40th anniversary i believe (correct me if i’m wrong), I have watched both movies multiple times tho so i will not be going to the movies unfortunately 🫠 (maybe if tgm 3 becomes a thing?)
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Hi everyone! I’m so happy to be back!! I hope you guys are all doing well and taking care of yourselves 🤍
as part of my return i would like to start taking fic requests, I don’t have much ideas for my own yet so i’d like to write what you guys wanna see! please don’t be afraid to drop a req in my inbox, love you guys!
people i write/could write for:
Bob Floyd
Bradley Bradshaw
Jake Seresin
Joaquin Torres
Clark Kent (david corenswet)
Scott from twisters
Rhett Abbott
Major John Egan
Joe Rantz
Any Glen Powell Character (Running man, anyone but you, twisters,etc)
Hiii just woke up and saw that I have 600 followers!!! Thank you guys so much, I love and appreciate each and every one of you. And I truly am very sorry that I’ve been lacking with fics/updates, I promise when I’m free the first thing I will do is publish a new fic but until then please feel free to leave request, whether it’s for new fics or you just want to talk I’m always here! 😊
divider by: @cafekitsune
word count: 3k
synopsis: They pitied you for marrying a monster—never realizing you were a dragon in your own right.
a/n: I figured I’d get one positive-ish Aerion fic out of my system before tonight’s episode which will have me inevitably dislike him. Finn Bennett is just unfairly handsome, and I needed to appreciate that at least once.
warnings: MDNI, Smut, Targcest
They pitied you.
You saw it in the way court ladies lowered their voices when you passed, in the sideways glances heavy with false sympathy. Such a sweet girl, they whispered behind jewelled fans. Too gentle for him. As if the gods themselves had been cruel, binding you to a man the realm knew only as fury given flesh.
Aerion Targaryen was legendary for his fiery temper and violent nature—a feral dragon with no leash, some called him.
And to know you—the darling of the realm, the only daughter of Baelor Targaryen—was to mourn what they believed your fate to be. Married to your brute of a cousin, shackled to a monster. They spoke of you in hushed tones, wondering how long it would take before his temper turned fully upon you.
What they did not realize—what no one seemed to remember—was that you had grown up with him.
You knew Aerion’s temper better than most, if not everyone. You had seen it spark in boyhood, had learned the difference between fury born of pride and fury born of pain. You knew how to soothe him, yes—but more importantly, you knew why he burned.
And what they always forgot, in their eagerness to cast you as the lamb, was that you were a Targaryen as well.
Not a meek Tyrell rose to be crushed beneath dragonfire—but blood of the dragon, raised in its heat, fully capable of wielding it yourself.
Yet you played the part of a delicate flower exceedingly well.
Pious. Gentle. The very image of a proper lady. You chose needlework over steel, afternoons in the gardens over the clangour of the training yard with the giggling ladies who chose to admire the men with their bloodied knuckles and sharpened blades. You were content—so it seemed—to sit beneath the sun with pastries and warm tea, fingers weaving flower crowns as birdsong drifted through the air.
After his training, Aerion would often find you beneath the old Weirwood tree, as you rested against its pale bark carved in the grass, flowers gathered in your lap. Armour discarded, skin still warm with exertion, he would wander over and without prompting, he would lower himself beside you before laying his head against your thighs as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Your fingers never faltered.
You would place the finished crown upon his silver head, blossoms resting against pale hair, before threading your hand through the short strands at his nape. The fury that followed him everywhere else eased beneath your touch. His breathing slowed. His temper, soothed into something quiet and dangerous only in potential.
“One day,” you murmured softly, voice meant for him alone, “you will wear the conqueror’s crown.”
His eyes lazily opened to meet yours, before softening. Calloused fingers reached up, gentler than any would have believed possible, brushing your cheek as though committing the feel of you to memory.
“One day,” he said vowed, “you will be my queen.”
It was in moments such as these—when no eyes were there to watch—that Aerion allowed his guard to fall. All dragons required their treasure and you were his.
There would never be another worthy of you.
Any lord who expressed their desire to marry you were dealt with swiftly and brutally, often leaving a bloodied mess.
All the while you said nothing and offered no protest content to let them believe you were fragile as spun glass. A lamb wed, with no choice, to a beast.
At feasts, you were most often seen seated quietly at his side. You listened more than you spoke, offering soft smiles, polite courtesies, and gentle bows of your head when addressed. Your voice was rarely raised above a murmur.
When you and Aerion spoke, it was in low, private tones, words breathed into one another’s ears. Many mistook it for control—for a husband keeping his timid wife close and carefully managed.
They never saw your fingers intertwined beneath the table.
They never noticed the slow stroke of his thumb against your skin, nor the way he leaned ever so slightly toward you, gazing at his most precious treasure with a look few would have believed him capable of—a look of love.
Aerion Targaryen loved you.
For all his many faults, it was the one truth you would never deny. Those who doubted it simply had never seen what happened behind the doors of your chambers.
Tonight, for instance.
Aerion stormed in long after the sun had sunk beneath the horizon. His temper was apparent even in his silence, you could see it through his body with how tight his jaw was clenched and how tense his shoulders were.
Through the mirror, you watched him.
Your fingers were steady as you removed the last of your jewelry, placing each piece carefully upon the vanity. Behind you, Aerion said nothing at first. He only tore the gloves from his hands and flung them aside with a force that echoed softly against the chamber walls.
You didn’t even flinch and instead calmly rose from your seat, making your way over to him.
“My love,” you said gently.
His jaw was clenched so tightly you feared his teeth might crack.
“Another lord with too much wine and too little sense,” he snarled at last, the words scraped raw from his throat. “They dance on the line of treason and call it wit.”
His pacing was restless, a predator caged in silk. One hand dragged through his pale hair, fingers flexing as though already imagining a throat beneath them. The firelight caught along his profile, sharpening him into something dangerous and divine all at once.
“They forget themselves,” he continued, voice low and coiled. “They forget who I am.”
You reached him before the fire, your hands warm as they slid over his shoulders. “You needn’t concern yourself with them,” you murmured, thumbs pressing slow circles into the knotted muscle there. “Not when you are blood of the dragon. Leave the sheep to their bleating.”
His breath left him in a slow, heated exhale, tension shifting beneath your touch but not yet gone. “They grow bold,” he muttered. “Too bold. A few cups of wine and they think themselves clever enough to test me.”
Aerion’s hands came to rest at your waist. “Lord Wylde thinks my place is behind my brother,” he said, voice rough with restrained fury. “Spoke of rightful lines and order… as though I am meant to bow my head and be grateful for scraps.”
Your fingers moved from his shoulders to his neck, slow and steady, feeling the frantic pulse beneath warm skin.
“And what did you do?” you asked gently.
A humourless smile touched his mouth. “Nothing… yet.”
He would not—not while his father still watched from the high seat, weighing sons and measuring heirs. Aerion knew the value of restraint in public. A prince must wear composure like armour.
But he never forgot a slight.
“Good,” you whispered, brushing your thumb along his jaw until his gaze lowered fully to you. “Let him think the matter rests. Let him believe he is safe… for now.”
Aerion studied you for a long moment, something dark and knowing passing through his eyes. “Tomorrow,” he said quietly.
You nodded once. “Tomorrow,” you agreed. “He will be on his knees, repenting for his words.”
And tomorrow, someone would learn what it meant to mistake a dragon’s patience for mercy.
His breath shuddered, just once. No one ever noticed how quickly his anger softened for you—how your voice, your touch, could pull him back from the edge where others only ever saw him burn.
You guided him to sit and slipped his cloak from his shoulders, the heavy fabric pooling soundlessly at his feet. Your fingers moved through his pale hair with quiet reverence, as if he were something precious rather than feared.
“They provoke you because they envy you,” you whispered. “Because they know you are stronger.”
His shoulders finally eased beneath your hands. His eyes closed, dark lashes stark against pale skin.
“You always know what to say,” he muttered.
You smiled, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. “That is what wives are for.”
Your fingers traced gently down his neck, soothing the last of the tension from him. “Come,” you murmured, voice warm and low. “Let the water wash the day from you. You’ve carried enough of their filth already.”
You called for the servants and had the bath drawn, ensuring the water was hot enough that any ordinary person would have recoiled from it—but for the two of you, it was just right.
Steam curled thick in the air, scented with oils and crushed herbs steeping in the water. Firelight shimmered across the surface, golden ripples dancing against stone as waves of heat rolled outward.
You dipped your fingers in to test it, nodding faintly in approval.
“Leave us,” you said when one of the servants reached for a cloth to begin tending to him. Your tone was gentle, but firm. You would care for your husband yourself tonight.
They bowed at once and withdrew, the heavy door closing with a muted thud that left only the crackle of the hearth and the soft lap of water against the bath’s edge.
A small smile curved Aerion’s mouth as he watched you through hooded lids. It was always a rare indulgence when you chose to tend to him yourself.
You stepped back to him, fingers moving to the clasps of his tunic. He did not speak, but his eyes never left your face, the earlier storm in them now banked to embers.
“Sit,” you murmured.
He obeyed without hesitation, lowering himself to the edge of the bath as you knelt before him, hands steady as you helped him out of the last of his clothing. There was no shame between you two— only familiarity and trust.
When at last you guided him into the water, he exhaled deeply, tension easing from him in a way no words ever could. The heat embraced him, steam curling around his shoulders as the day’s strain began to melt from his frame.
You slipped out of your nightdress, letting the fabric fall in a soft whisper to the ground, and stepped into the bath under his quiet, appreciative gaze. The water embraced you at once as you moved behind him, settling so his back rested against you.
Your hands moved to his shoulders, dipping a cloth into the water before drawing it slowly over his skin.
Aerion’s head tipped back slightly, eyes closing as your fingers worked along the tight lines of muscle at his neck. Your lips brushed a feather-light kiss against damp skin, and he hummed low in his throat.
“Careful, wife,” he murmured, voice roughened by heat and the slow unwinding of tension. “You’re making it difficult to remember why I was angry.”
Your smile ghosted against his skin, unseen but felt. “Then let it be forgotten,” you replied softly.
Your hands continued their unhurried path, tending to him with quiet devotion, washing away the day’s dust and the weight of swallowed fury. Aerion’s hand found your thigh beneath the water, his thumb tracing slow, absent patterns against your skin as he relaxed further into your touch.
For a while, there was only the sound of water shifting gently around you and the steady rhythm of his breathing.
Then his grip tightened.
In one smooth movement, he turned, drawing you with him, guiding you onto his lap. The water stirred, heat rippling between you as his arms came around your waist.
“My sweet wife,” he murmured, voice low and warm, the earlier storm now long faded. “How gently you care for me.”
You leaned down, your lips finding his.
Where your touch had been gentle, his answer was not. The kiss deepened, hungry and demanding and you only submitted to his need. His hands tightened at your hips as he pressed you down against his length.
Your mouth dropped open as a shuddering breath escaped your lips while he slowly filled you. Hs lips left yours, trailing warmth along your jaw and down the curve of your neck before finding your nipple. His hot mouth closed around the nub, gently suckling, and you let out a whine as your hips shifted, chasing the pleasure that was offered but not yet enough.
Your body jerked as he bit down gently before soothing the sting with his tongue. “Patience, my heart.”
With his grip preventing your hips from moving, you had no choice but to accept what he gave you. Your core clenched down around his cock, fluttering in need of more friction, but he refused, taking his time, alternating between your breasts as he lavished them with attention.
“Please, Aerion,” you pleaded.
He smirked, one hand moving from your hip and trailing closer to your core, the slow tease earning another desperate whine from you. His fingers finally found your clit, and your lashes fluttered as he began drawing slow circles.
“Is this what you needed, my love?” he murmured, voice low and warm against your skin.
You nodded, breath unsteady, fingers tightening, nails digging into his shoulder and leaving bright red lines against his pale skin. “More… please.”
You leaned forward, lips meeting his, your teeth sinking into his bottom lip and earning a sharp hiss from him. You smirked as you felt his grip tighten, his restraint fraying. You clenched down on him again, and he snapped—grabbing you and hauling you off his lap, turning you and before you could react to the sudden emptiness. He pushed your upper body against the lip of the tub before driving into you roughly.
One hand gathered your hair into his fist, sharply pulling your head back and forcing your spine to arch as he continued his relentless pace.
“Is this what you needed?” he crooned. “To be treated as if you were my whore?” he grunted, hips snapping sharply with each word.
You could only whine, mouth open as your fingers braced tightly against the bath’s edge. The cooling water sloshed over the sides, spilling onto the floor in wide puddles, but neither of you paid it any mind.
Pleasure and pain were offered to you in equal measure, a heady combination that left your mind foggy and focused only on your husband.
His fingers strummed against your clit faster, and you felt yourself tighten against him. He groaned, his thrusts growing sloppier as his control slipped away. His fingers pinched down, and you finally unraveled with a scream, your body shuddering as waves of pleasure crashed through you.
Aerion followed moments later, a breathless grunt falling from his lips as he spent himself deep inside you. He gave a few more thrusts, prolonging the sensation, before finally stilling, his forehead dropping briefly against your back as the last of his strength gave way to the aftermath.
For a long moment, neither of you moved—only the sound of shared breathing and the soft crackle of the fire filled the chamber.
“One of these days,” he murmured hoarsely, still catching his breath “your belly will swell with my child.”
You answered with nothing more than a quiet, breathless hum, too content to form words.
After a few lingering moments, Aerion shifted, withdrawing carefully. A small whimper slipped from your lips at the sudden emptiness. He rose from the bath first, then slipped his arms around you, lifting you with effortless strength from the now-cooled water.
Cradled against his chest, you let your head rest against his shoulder as he carried you across the chamber. Water droplets clung faintly to your skin as he laid you gently upon the bed, the furs soft beneath you. He joined you moments later, pulling you close as the firelight flickered over tangled sheets and tired limbs.
You stayed with him until the fire burned low and his breathing evened, his head resting against your shoulder like a great, slumbering beast temporarily tamed. When you were certain sleep had claimed him, you eased yourself free with careful patience, pulling the furs up around his broad frame.
Then you rose, calmly slipping on a robe to cover yourself. The sweetness drained from your expression as swiftly as a candle snuffed between fingers.
Moving soundlessly, you crossed to the door and slipped into the corridor beyond, where a guard in your service stood watch. He straightened at once and dipping his head.
“Princess.”
“Find Lord Wylde,” you said quietly. “The one who insulted my husband tonight. And send word to our friends in the city,” you continued. “I want to know who he owes money to, who his heir beds in secret, and which of his bannermen grumble behind his back. Anything and everything about his dirty little secrets.”
The guard bowed his head again. “At once, Princess.”
With that, you slipped back into your chambers and moved to your desk. Sitting down, you unfolded a fresh piece of parchment. Your hand was steady as you wrote. Unlike your husband, you were not one to raise your voice or rage.
Your ruthlessness did not require noise.
By morning, Lord Wylde would be given a choice: comply quietly, publicly repent his insults, or watch his name unravel piece by piece until nothing remained but ashes and shame.
You glanced back toward the bed, where Aerion slept peacefully, untroubled.
They believed you endured his temper.
The truth was far more dangerous.
Aerion burned the world when provoked—
but you were the one who decided who would be reduced to ash.
Aerion Targaryen x Baratheon!Reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms
Summary: Married to Prince Aerion Targaryen and left untouched for a month, you learn that anticipation can be more terrifying than pain. When he finally returns, he proves that cruelty is not the same as care, and that submission does not always look like surrender.
Warnings: SMUT 18+ arranged marriage, canon-typical violence, power imbalance, possessive behaviour, dark romance, dubiously consensual themes, p in v, unprotected sex, loss of virginity, alcohol, manipulation, toxic dynamics
A/N: i get this guy is evil and cruel but if i'm meant to hate him they cant cast someone hot to play him. He might be a lil ooc, but like its ok dw just focus on the facecard <3
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS - WC: 4.9k
You say the words quickly.
You kneel because you are meant to kneel. You answer when prompted because you have practised this since you were old enough to stand straight without swaying. Your voice does not shake.
You learned early that composure is a kind of armour.
Still, the words land strangely.
Husband.
Wife.
They echo, hollow and final, like a door closing somewhere behind you.
You do not look at him when they bind your hands together. You can feel the heat of him without needing to see; too close, too solid, it's like standing near a forge. When you finally do lift your gaze, it is because you are expected to, because this part has been explained to you too.
Prince Aerion Targaryen stands beside you in red and black, hair pale as bone in torchlight, mouth set in something that is not quite a smile. His eyes flick down to where your hands are joined, then back to your face, sharp and assessing.
Not hungry. Not yet. He looks curious.
That unsettles you more than hunger would have.
The ceremony ends without flourish. No songs linger in the air. No laughter swells to carry you forward into whatever comes next. There is no bedding, no drunken crowd to shove you toward a marriage bed while women shout advice and men cheer.
Instead, someone says his name.
Quiet, urgent. Aerion turns at once, hearing what the man has to say.
“I ride within the hour,” he says, already stepping away from you. The words are not meant for you, but you hear them all the same. “Tell my father the banners will hold.”
You blink.
Within the hour?
This was not part of what you were told. You were prepared for pain, for humiliation, for the sharp loss of self that comes with becoming someone’s wife in truth rather than in name. You were prepared for blood on sheets and the heavy, suffocating closeness of a stranger who would own you by dawn.
You were not prepared for this, or the way he pauses, just barely, as if remembering you exist.
Aerion looks back at you then. Really looks. His gaze skims your face, the line of your throat, the dark fabric of your house colours swallowed beneath Targaryen red.
Something unreadable passes through his expression, irritation, perhaps? Or calculation.
“We will speak when I return,” he says.
Not I will come to you.
Not I will send for you.
Then he is gone, swallowed by motion and command, cloak snapping behind him like a banner.
You are left standing where he put you, hands empty now, heart beating far too loud for a room that has gone very still.
That night, you are escorted to chambers that are unmistakably his.
Everything smells like him, smoke and oil and something sharper beneath, metallic and clean. His things are everywhere, armour set carefully on its stand, sword laid out as if he might reach for it at any moment, books half-open and abandoned. Then there is the bed, vast and untouched, its linens smooth and cold beneath your fingertips once you dare brush them.
You sit on the edge, because you do not know what else to do, and tell yourself this is a mercy.
A delay. A gift of time to steady yourself, to remember how to breathe when fear coils too tightly in your chest. You have endured storms that rattled the walls of Storm’s End and laughed through thunder that sent other children running; you can endure this.
But the nights stretch.
One becomes three. Three becomes seven. A week becomes a month, and the bed remains empty beside you.
You learn the rhythms of his absence.
Each evening you prepare as if he might come. You keep your hair brushed, hands clean, spine straight. Each night you lie awake listening for boots that never sound. You do not ask questions.
You do not seek reassurance. You have not been raised to beg for comfort, and besides, comfort is not what waits for you when he returns.
What waits is consummation.
The word sits heavy in your mind, formal and ominous. It is not desire you fear, not truly. It is the uncertainty. You know his reputation, as everyone does. He's supposed to be cruel and volatile, too enamoured with his own blood and birthright. You have heard how he laughs when others flinch, how his temper burns fast and bright.
You imagine his hands, impatient and unyielding. You imagine pain as a thing to be endured quietly, teeth clenched, but pride intact.
You tell yourself this will be a duty.
Still, sometimes in the dark, your fingers curl into the sheets and do not loosen for a long while.
When the summons finally comes, it is unceremonious.
“He has returned,” a servant says, eyes fixed carefully on the floor. “The prince requests your presence at supper.”
Requests.
You almost laugh at that.
You dress slowly, deliberately. Your hands do not shake, but your stomach tightens all the same. When you leave the chambers, you do not look back at the bed. You have learned better than to tempt fate.
The hall where he waits is smaller than you expect. Intimate. The table is set for two.
Aerion stands when you enter.
He looks intact. Unharmed.
Sharper, if anything, as if battle has honed him rather than dulled his edges. His eyes catch on you immediately, tracking your approach with unnerving focus.
“So,” he says, once you are close enough to hear the quiet amusement in his voice. “My wife.”
The word feels different when he says it.
He gestures for you to sit.
Up close you can see the faint marks battle has left behind. The scratches along his knuckles, a small healing cut at his jaw. He notices your gaze and smiles thinly, as if daring you to ask.
You do not.
“Did you sleep well in my absence?” he asks lightly, as servants begin to pour wine.
You hesitate just long enough to be honest without being foolish. “I slept,” you say.
His smile deepens, just a fraction. “Good. You will need your strength.”
Your breath catches despite yourself. Aerion watches this reaction with open interest, fingers tapping once against the table.
“Hmm,” he murmurs softly, almost to himself. “You will.”
The implications of his word send a shiver down your spine, and slowly, the servants start to withdraw from the room.
One moment there is the soft scrape of plates, the low murmur of movement, and the next, the door closes and the silence is absolute.
The candles burn steadily, the light catching on dark wine in your cup.
Aerion does not reach for his food right away.
He watches you instead.
It is not the obvious kind of staring, not the leering, impatient sort you were taught to expect. His gaze drifts, unhurried, as if he has all the time in the world and intends to use every moment of it.
“You are tense,” he says mildly.
You swallow. “Not particularly, my prince.”
He lifts a brow. “It was not a question.”
Your fingers tighten around the stem of your cup. You force them to loosen, one by one. You are not a girl anymore. You are a married woman, seated across from a Targaryen prince with a reputation sharpened to a blade.
“I am not accustomed to being summoned so suddenly,” you say, choosing your words with care.
Aerion hums, amused. “Liar.”
The word lands harshly.
He finally reaches for his wine, swirling it once before taking a measured sip. His eyes never leave your face.
“You have been expecting this since the moment I left,” he continues. “Since the words were said and the door closed behind me. Every night. Every hour.”
Your throat tightens. You do not deny it. There is no point.
“I imagine you have built quite the story in your head,” he says. “Was I cruel?”
You hesitate. That, too, amuses him.
“Go on,” he urges. “I will not punish you for honesty, I asked, didn't I?”
“I… imagined you would not be gentle,” you say at last.
Aerion laughs.
It is a soft sound, almost pleasant, and it made your blood run cold.
“Gentleness,” he repeats, as if tasting the word. “Is that what you value?”
“No,” you say quickly. “But-”
“But you hoped for it anyway,” he finishes. “How very human of you.”
He leans back in his chair, studying you as though you are something newly discovered, something he has not yet decided whether to break apart or keep intact.
“You fear pain,” he says. “That is expected. What surprises me is that you fear humiliation more.”
Your breath stutters. You had not realised how transparent you were.
“I would not shame you,” Aerion says, almost absently. “Not in private.”
That should comfort you.
It doesn’t.
He reaches for his knife then, slicing into the meat on his plate with precise, unhurried movements. The sound is quiet but intimate, the scrape of blade against porcelain loud in the silence between you.
“Eat,” he says. “You've barely touched your food.”
You obey, though you can barely taste it. Each bite feels deliberate, watched. You are acutely aware of your mouth, of the way your lips close around the fork, of how you swallow.
The awareness is maddening.
“You were raised at Storm’s End,” Aerion says after a moment. “Tell me, did the storms frighten you?”
“No,” you answer. This, at least, is easy. “They were constant. You do not fear what you grow up with.”
“Mm.” His gaze sharpens. “And me?”
The question is posed lightly, conversationally, but it is a trap all the same.
You meet his eyes. They are pale, almost bright in the candlelight, and entirely unreadable.
“I am learning,” you say carefully, “what it means to be your wife.”
Aerion’s smile is slow. Dangerous.
“You learn quickly.”
He rises from his seat without warning.
You stiffen at once, every nerve lighting up as he comes around the table. You do not turn to track him; you do not dare. His presence shifts the air behind you, close enough now that you can feel warmth at your back.
He stops just there. Not touching. Not yet.
“You sit as if you expect a blow,” he observes. “Shoulders tight. Breath shallow.”
You hate that he knows.
“Look at me,” he says.
It is not loud. It does not need to be.
You turn.
Up close he is overwhelming, taller than you remembered, broader, his pale hair catching the light like fire turned cold. His expression is thoughtful now, not mocking, not cruel.
“If I wished to frighten you,” Aerion says quietly, “I would have done so already.”
His hand lifts, slow, and his fingers hover near your jaw, not quite touching, as if gauging how much space you need to breathe.
“I am not interested in breaking what is mine,” he continues. “That would be wasteful.”
There it is, that possession you were warned of, stated plainly and without apology.
Your heart hammers. “And if I disappoint you?”
His thumb brushes your chin, just barely, tilting your face up. The touch is controlled, almost careful, and somehow that makes it worse.
“Then I will teach you,” he says. “Disappointment is a correctable flaw.”
He withdraws his hand as suddenly as he offered it, stepping back as though nothing intimate has just passed between you.
“Come,” Aerion says, turning toward the door. “Supper is finished.”
Your pulse roars in your ears as you rise. Your legs feel unsteady, but you force them to move, following him from the room and down the quiet corridor beyond.
Each step feels like a countdown.
When he stops before the doors to his chambers, he turns to face you once more. His gaze flicks over you, your face, your hands, the tension still coiled too tightly in your frame.
Then he pushes the doors open.
The chambers are dim, lit only by the low glow of the hearth and a handful of candles set too far apart to fully chase the shadows from the corners. The bed dominates the room; wide, imposing, draped in pale fabric that looks untouched despite the weeks you’ve spent sleeping alone in it.
Aerion closes the door.
The sound of the latch clicking echoes through the room.
You stand where you are, hands folded too neatly before you, heart thudding hard enough you’re certain he must hear it. He doesn’t rush you. Of course he doesn’t. He takes his time removing his gloves, setting them aside with deliberate care.
“Come here,” he says.
Not unkindly. Not gently either. Simply stated, like a truth.
You cross the room on unsteady legs. He watches the whole way, eyes sharp and intent, tracking every hesitation. When you stop in front of him, close enough now to feel his warmth, he tilts his head slightly.
“You look as though you expect me to tear at you,” he observes. “Does that disappoint you?”
Your breath stutters. “No, my prince.”
A smile flickers across his mouth. “Good. Because I do not rush what is owed to me.”
He cups your face, thumbs pressing lightly beneath your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. There is no heat in his expression, no hunger, no embarrassment, no urgency.
Just possession.
“This is duty,” he says, as if reading your thoughts. “For both of us."
He guides you back toward the bed, one steady step at a time, until the backs of your knees meet the mattress. Only then does he release you.
“Sit.”
You do.
The bed dips beneath your weight. The sheets whisper softly as you brace your hands at your sides, spine straight, chin lifted.
You refuse to cower.
Aerion seems pleased by that.
He steps closer again, standing between your knees, and reaches for the clasp at your collar. His fingers are steady as he undoes it, then the next, and the next after that. He takes his time, watching your face rather than his hands, noting every sharp inhale you fail to hide.
“You have never been with a man,” he says suddenly.
It is not phrased as a question.
“No,” you answer, heat rising to your cheeks despite yourself. “I have not.”
“Of course not,” he murmurs. There is something almost amused in his tone now. “Baratheons guard their daughters well.”
He slides the fabric from your shoulders, letting it fall away slowly. There is no shame in his gaze as he looks at you. You are simply there, and he is looking, as if this is the most natural thing in the world.
“You tremble,” he notes. “But you do not pull away.”
“I was taught not to,” you say quietly.
That earns you a sharp look. “Unlearn that,” he replies. “I will know if you are afraid. I will know if you lie.”
He presses you back onto the bed then, not roughly, but decisively, guiding you down until the pillows cradle your head and the mattress supports your spine. You stare up at him, pulse racing, as he straightens and begins to undress himself with the same unhurried precision.
There is no modesty in him. He does not look away, does not rush, does not pretend this is anything other than what it is meant to be.
When he leans over you again, bracing one arm beside your head, his presence is overwhelming, close and inescapable.
His free hand smooths over your hair.
When he positions himself between your legs, his hands roam your body, tracing the curves of your hips and waist.
His fingers delve lower, parting your folds to circle your entrance with a tantalising pressure. The sensation is overwhelming, a rush of heat and wetness building you cannot control, and then he brushes against your most sensitive spot. A whimper escapes before you can stop it.
In that moment beneath him, the weight of his gaze, you feel the last of your resistance crumbling.
A dark thrill courses through you, corrupted by the whispers of the court that have haunted your every waking moment, the tales of Aerion's cruelty, his unyielding temper, how he crushes anyone he even slightly dislikes without mercy.
His fingers, still circling you, suddenly press harder. Not enough to hurt, but enough to remind you of his power, his breath hot against your neck as he murmurs,
"You'll learn to crave this, wife, just as the dragons crave the sky."
The words slice through you, stirring the ever-existing nervousness that makes your body tense beneath him. You feel his cock nudge your entrance, slick with your own uncontrollable wetness.
You hear the low, predatory growl in his throat, feel the scars on his chest press against your breasts like brands of ownership. He is finally making you his, body and soul, with a possessiveness that borders on ruthlessness, his violet eyes now gleaming with hunger for the first time.
He shifts his weight, muscular thighs pinning yours apart; you will almost certainly bruise.
It's as if he's trying to quell any last flicker of resistance, and you gasp at the raw intrusion as he pushes forward, his hard cock breaching you with a slow, relentless thrust that stretches you to your limits.
The pain is immediate, your walls gripping him desperately, every inch of him filling you until you're certain you can't take any more. But still, he doesn't stop, driving deeper into you in a way that's both careful and harsh, his hands clamping down on your hips to hold you in place.
Your mind races with the rumours of his past conquests, how he's broken others with this same intensity. Tears prick at your eyes, born of fear and the sensation of being utterly claimed. But beneath it all there's a heat building, your body betrays you and arches to meet his movements, your moans escaping unbidden as his cock hits a sensitive spot deep inside.
In the dim torchlight, his face hovers above yours, a mask of arrogant triumph laced with something primal, his silver hair catching the torchlight.
"Mine at last."
He rolls his hips with calculated force, each thrust claiming not just your body, but pushes you towards surrender.
You cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, torn between the dread of his cruelty and the fire he's awakening in you.
His hips drive forward with a relentless rhythm, each thrust sending shockwaves through your core, your pussy clenching tightly around him as if trying to hold him captive.
You arch beneath him again, nails biting deeper into the scarred flesh of his shoulders, a mix of pain and pleasure blurring the lines of your resistance.
Aerion's breath comes in hot, ragged bursts against your neck, his silver hair brushing your skin like silken whips. You can feel the sweat-slicked slide of his body over yours, the hard planes of his muscles flexing with every powerful stroke.
"That's it, little wife," he growls, his voice rough, "give in to me. Feel how perfectly you take me."
His words ignite a fresh wave of heat, your body betraying you once more as your hips rise to meet his, the friction against your clit sending sparks of ecstasy that make your toes curl and your moans spill unchecked into the dim chamber.
He shifts slightly, angling his thrusts to find that sensitive spot deep inside you. His hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs rolling over your hardened nipples with a possessive squeeze, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.
"You're mine now, in every way," he murmurs, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that strips away your defences, his cock plunging deeper as if to seal the claim.
Before you can think it through, your hands slide to his face, fingers tracing the sharp lines of his jaw.
“I thought it would hurt. I didn’t think I’d feel anything good at all.” The words slip out before you can regret them, drawing a wicked smile from his lips.
Aerion's pace quickens, his thrusts growing more urgent, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing off the stone walls, mingling with your gasps and the distant roar of the sea outside.
He leans down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue invading with the same dominance as his body.
You can taste the salt of your own tears.
Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer, deeper, the pressure building in your core until it threatens to shatter you, your pussy throbbing with an ache that demands release.
Aerion's rhythm grows more primal, his thrusts deepening as if he seeks to etch himself into the very core of your being. With a sudden, commanding growl, he pulls back just enough to grasp your hips, his strong fingers digging into your flesh. In one fluid motion, he flips you onto your stomach, the cool silk sheets pressing against your heated skin as he manoeuvres you onto all fours. Your knees sink into the mattress as your back arches instinctively under his hands.
The new position exposes you fully to him, you clench around the emptiness he'd left, slick and aching, while his thick cock nudges against your entrance again, the head teasing your folds with a deliberate grind that makes your breath catch.
Behind you now, Aerion's hands roam your curves, one sliding up to tangle in your hair and tilt your head back, forcing you to meet his intense violet gaze over your shoulder.
"That's it, my love," he murmurs, tone mocking, "I'm going to fill you so completely, plant my seed deep inside you until you're swollen with my child." He groans, and when he speaks again his voice is a husky whisper.
"Imagine it, your belly rounded with a Targaryen heir, your body marked as mine forever."
You can't deny the way his promise ignites something within you, like a forbidden kind of thrill. His cock plunges back into your depths with a forceful thrust that stretches you anew, each stroke hitting newer, deeper angles that send jolts through your limbs.
The air grows thick with the scent of sweat and arousal. You feel the weight of his body covering yours, his chest pressing into your back as his hands grip your waist to hold you steady.
Aerion's hand slips lower, his fingers delving between your slick folds with expert precision. He circles your swollen clit with an unrelenting pressure as he whispers, "Let go for me, hmm? Your first true surrender, a gift only for your husband."
The words wrap around you, fueling the storm building inside, and you feel the tension coil tighter in your core. The friction of his movements ignite sparks that race through your veins, your moans growing frantic and unrestrained, until finally, the barrier is shattered.
Your body convulses around him, a rush of warmth flooding through you as your inner walls clench rhythmically around him, the whole thing overwhelming in its novelty.
Confusion swirls in your mind, this unfamiliar bliss and disorientation taking over your body. You've never known such a feeling. A raw, shattering peak that left you gasping and pliant beneath him, every nerve alight with a pleasure that bordered on pain.
Aerion slows his thrusts, his eyes gleaming with hunger as he eases himself out just enough to flip you onto your back once more, your legs falling open, boneless under him.
He positions himself above you, his frame blocking out the torchlight, thick cock sliding back into your overstimulated pussy with a single, deep thrust that makes you cry out.
The sensitivity heightens every sensation.
"Look at me," he commands, his voice a low rumble, as he begins to move again, his hips driving forward with controlled force. Each stroke is deliberate and deep, allowing him to watch the play of emotions across your face; your wide eyes, flushed cheeks, parted lips.
Your body responds despite the overload, hips bucking to meet his, the slick heat of your arousal once again easing his path.
The overstimulation leaves you trembling, tears slipping down your cheeks from the perfect torment. As his pace quickens his breaths turn to ragged growls.
Suddenly, you feel him swell inside you, his cock pulsing with impending release, and the weight of his gaze pins you in place.
"Take all of me," he whispers against your hair, hands framing your face with surprising tenderness amid the intensity. With a final, powerful thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, hot seed spilling deep into you.
The sensation pushes you towards another edge as you clench around him in aftershocks, leaving you utterly spent and adrift in the haze.
He stays there, sprawled over you for a minute before rolling away from you slowly.
Not far, but enough space to breathe again, even though your lungs feel too small for the air they’re meant to hold. The bed shifts beneath his weight, the sheets warm and tangled.
For a moment, you stare at the ceiling.
Your body feels strange; heavy and pliant, aware of itself in a way it never has been before. There is a dull ache, not sharp enough to frighten you, but present enough to remind you of what has been done. What has been completed.
You do not cry.
That, you think, would disappoint him.
Aerion props himself on one elbow, looking down at you with an expression you cannot name. There is no regret there. No softness born of guilt. But neither is there cruelty. His gaze is steady and satisfied, as if he has crossed something off a list and found the result pleasing.
“Breathe,” he says, calm as ever. “You’re holding your breath.”
You obey before you realise you are doing so. Good, he thinks. You can almost feel the approval settle over you like a weight.
He reaches for a cloth from the table beside the bed, movements unhurried, precise. When he touches you again, it is deliberate, careful in a way that feels almost intimate now that the act itself is over.
Not tender, he'd never be tender. But attentive, maybe?
You flinch once despite yourself.
Aerion pauses immediately. His eyes flick to your face, sharp. “Does it hurt?” he asks.
You hesitate, “A little.”
“Hm.” The corner of his mouth flicks upwards. “Of course it does. It should fade, though. Eventually.”
He finishes what he’s doing, then sets the cloth aside. His hand lingers on your thigh, just resting there.
“You did well,” he says.
Not brave. Not obedient. Well, like this was a task you were meant to complete, and you have done it to standard.
Your chest tightens.
“You were afraid,” Aerion continues, voice low. “And you did not fight me. You did not beg. You did not close yourself off.” His thumb presses once, firm, against your skin.
“That is submission,” he says. “Not weakness.”
He shifts again, settling closer, a constant heat at your side. You are acutely aware of how easily you could curl into him now if you allowed yourself to. How natural it would feel.
He notices that too.
A slow, knowing smile curves his mouth. “Careful,” he mutters. “If you start clinging already, I’ll think you enjoyed it.”
Heat floods your face. You turn your head slightly, mortified, and it earns you a quiet laugh. There it is, the teasing.
“You are my wife now,” Aerion says, sobering just as quickly. “In truth, not just in name.”
His hand slides to your jaw, tilting your face back toward him until you have no choice but to meet his eyes. “No one else will touch you,” he continues. “No one else will claim you."
"What you give,” his gaze drops briefly, then returns, “you give to me.”
Your pulse stutters.
“And what do I receive?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.
He studies you for a long moment.
“Protection,” Aerion says at last. “Position. My name.”
He releases you and leans back, stretching out beside you like a dragon settling atop its hoard. One arm drapes across your middle, heavy and unmistakably possessive, pinning you in place without effort.
You realise that he has positioned you deliberately; turned slightly toward him, caught beneath his arm, your back pressed to his chest.
It is where you belong now.
“Sleep,” he says.
You hesitate. “My prince-”
“Aerion,” he corrects. “In this room.”
You close your eyes.
Your body relaxes before your mind does, surrendering to the warmth, the weight, the certainty of his presence behind you. Whatever you were before this night you feel slipping away, replaced by something quieter and far more dangerous.
You are Aerion Targaryen's wife.
His chin dips to your hair, breath steady. “Good,” he murmurs, feeling you settle. “You learn quickly.”
And for the first time since the words were spoken a month ago, you understand what it means to belong to a dragon and survive it.
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I apologise for any mistakes. I wrote this half-asleep at 2am
Pure filth, featuring a morning wake-up from a certain silver-haired prince's tongue (18+)
Sunlight streamed through the large stained-glass window, like a river of colour washing over your sleeping form. The first thing you felt was the morning sun's rays enveloping your skin like a soft hug.
The Red-Keep was slowly coming alive; the sounds of servants' footsteps and chattering in distant halls filled the air, and the scent of fresh bread, sweet apple-cakes and roasted morning meats wafted into your chambers. A soft sigh escapes your lips, but you don’t open your eyes yet, too content to bask in the gentle morning serenity.
The second thing you felt? Him.
“Good morning.” You whisper, dipping your fingers under the silk sheets to trail through his silver hair. The heat of Aerion’s mouth trailing against the tender skin of your inner thighs was a familiar one; you did not need to open your eyes to know it was your husband.
“Took you long enough.” The vibration of his voice, thick with the remnants of sleep and lust, sent a shiver down your spine. His teeth nip against your skin as his wet kisses trail higher. “Feeling lazy today, are we?”
“Shut up.” Your voice comes out breathy as his fingers tighten around your thighs, spreading them a little wider as he worked his teeth, lips and tongue over the already hickey-painted skin, placing fresh dark marks over the faded ones.
“Feisty this morning, wife.” Aerion’s fingers travel up your thighs, scratching and squeezing as they go before settling on your soft hips. “I’ll make you regret that insolence.”
Before you can even think of a retort, he teasingly ghosts his lips over your already slick-heat, making you gasp. It was only a whisper of a touch, yet it drove you crazy, and the worst, most infuriating part? He knew it.
“Open your eyes,” His silky voice demands as he squeezes your hips. “I want you to look at me.”
Your hips roll instinctively towards the familiar allure of his lips. He would not ask a second time. He never asks a second time. Your eyes flutter open, blinking against the soft morning light…and your breath catches in your throat.
You had seen him like this almost every morning of your marriage, yet the sight never failed to make you squirm. Aerion's usual perfect silver hair was a mess from sleep, his pale cheeks flushed, and his lips were swollen from kisses as he lay between your legs, basking in the golden rays of light. Yet it was his eyes that made your fingers clutch the sheets just a little tighter. They bore into yours; the usual violet was almost completely blackened with want as he stared up at you, challenging you to look away. You never did.
“Good.” It was a simple praise, but from Aerion? It made your chest swell. You watched him gaze up at you for a few more achingly long moments. “You look pretty like this.” He whispers, before finally slipping his tongue against your heat in a slow, teasing drag.
“Fuck.” You gasp, hips jerking foward but his grip tightened, forcing you still.
“...Taste pretty too.” Aerion murmurs, drawing his tongue back into his mouth for a moment to savour your taste with a satisfied groan. It was sinful, the sight alone of him dipping his tongue back against you, licking and sucking as he stared up from between your thighs, could undo you.
It did not take long for Aerion to lose interest in teasing; he was not a patient man after all. Your hips struggled against his firm grip, needy and desperate as his lips planted hot, sloppy kisses against your heat.
“Eyes. On. Me.” He growled, wrapping his lips around that sensitive little bundle of nerves that he just knew drove you crazy. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think; the only thing you could do was bite back a stream of curses that threatened to fall from your lips and try your best to keep your hips still for him.
A familiar ache tightened in your lower stomach, like an ever-burning and desperate heat as he flicked his tongue against you. You whimper, propping yourself on your elbows as you look down at your husband make a mess of you with his lips. Your breath hitches as he dips his silver head lower, teasing your needy entrance with his hot tongue…before slipping inside.
Immediately, your head falls back, and a cascade of gasps escapes your lips as you feel him drag inside you, slipping in and out in the most languid way, forcing your hips to chase him. Aerion's thumb pressed against your bundle of nerves again, rubbing in slow circles, guiding your pleasure closer as he fucked you with his tongue. The tension in your lower stomach tightened further, and you could feel your climax begin to build. When your moans of pleasure hit a new volume, and your hips began stuttering against his tongue, he knew you were close.
Just when you were going to come undone, Aerion abruptly withdrew his lips and tongue, pulling a needy whine from your lips as your hips buck, searching for him. A grin danced on your husband's lips, which now glistened with your wetness, as he watched you writhe and jerk in need of his touch.
“Cruel.” You frustratedly choke out, the ache between your legs making you whimper, desperate to finish.
“That I am, dear wife.” Aerion slowly licks your slick from his lips with a low hum. “But I did warn you, you would regret your insolence.”
--
Apologies for mistakes, or if this is not my best work. I wrote this in 15 minutes at 2am and did not proofread it. Thanks for reading!!
Note: Ty Authors for writing these amazing pieces!
Multi-parts
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Note: the-shedevil-writes is another amazing author who has so many well-written works. These are some of my favorites but there's so many others you should definitely check out!
Baby on Board by @wynnevee: just when you were about to announce your unplanned pregnancy, your boyfriend gets called away on a dangerous mission—and although he comes back safe, things still don’t unfold as planned
A Waiting Game by @dearsnow: coming from a broken family, you often had to wait for next time you would be loved. meeting your new neighbor changed that. (robert “bob” floyd x fem!reader, angst and fluff, SLOW BURN, essentially just scenes of you growing up with our favorite WSO, slight prequel to the events of top gun: maverick, includes random original characters to drive the plot ⚠️ alcoholism is a major theme, some instances of harassment from a bully, and like one sexual innuendo but nothing graphic)
Take the Shot by @pullmecloseman: A retro arcade night turns into something more when you’re paired with Bob Floyd during a squad hangout. You start off teasing, competitive, and toeing the line—but every game, glance, and near-touch pulls you both closer to finally admitting what’s been simmering for months. Sparks fly under neon lights, ending with a private moment that might just change everything.
Worst Way by @geminiwritten: being secretly fake-married to your sweet best friend, bob floyd, is almost perfect... until tensions rise, the secret is out, and you both struggle to keep your feelings (and your hands) to yourself
Bob Floyd x Plus Size Reader
Multi-parts
Oneshots
The Decoy by @skvatnavle: While at the bar with friends, you think Bob is taking one for the team by talking to you.
Veils, Weddings and Best Friends Weddings by @crazyk-imagine:
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Hi guys! As always, requests are always open and as i am heading into the calmer part of my school year i have way more time to write!! Soo if you have any ideas that you would like to come to life and you think i’m the right person for it don’t be afraid to send a msg in my inbox!
Summary: You and Bob Floyd are long-term roommates. Not fake. Not temporary. Actual “we share groceries, know each other’s schedules, and argue about laundry” roommates. It started out practical. It stayed comfortable. It accidentally became everything.
Robert “Bob” Floyd
Word count: 3.5k
A/N: Idk how i feel about this but i wish i had a bob. This was requested by one of my absolute fav blogs on here, they have the best fic reqs! @obsessedromancereader. Side note: i just watched people we meet on vacation and omg it was so good i love emily! Which makes me think, Bob or Rooster au?
It’s easy in the way breathing is easy. In the way muscle memory is easy. In the way you don’t realize how deep you’re in until someone asks a casual question and your mouth opens on autopilot.
You wake up before your alarm most mornings, not because you’re disciplined, but because Bob moves quietly through the apartment like he’s afraid of startling the walls. The soft click of the kettle. The low hum of the vent fan. The barely-there sound of socked feet on tile.
You don’t even open your eyes when he passes your door.
“Morning,” he says anyway. Always does. Even when you’re half-asleep. Even when you don’t answer.
“Mornin’,” you mumble back, voice rough, face buried in your pillow.
He smiles. You know he does. You can hear it.
By the time you drag yourself out of bed, hair a mess and wearing one of his old Navy hoodies (which is not a big deal, because it’s basically communal at this point), the kitchen smells like coffee and something warm and toasted.
Bob stands at the counter, glasses on, sleeves rolled up, methodically buttering toast like it’s a sacred ritual.
“You’re up early,” he says without turning around.
“You woke me up.”
“I was quiet.”
“You exist loudly.”
That gets a huff of a laugh. He glances over his shoulder at you, eyes soft behind the lenses. “Coffee’s ready.”
You grab a mug from the cabinet you both pretend you don’t have memorized. He already put in the creamer the way you like it. You don’t comment on it. He doesn’t either.
This is how it always is.
You lean against the counter, sipping, watching him move around the kitchen with practiced ease. He’s wearing his squadron tee and gym shorts, hair still damp from the shower. There’s a faint scar along his forearm you’ve traced absentmindedly more than once while sitting on opposite ends of the couch.
You shouldn’t think about that.
“Rooster texted,” Bob says casually. “He’s dragging the squad to the Hard Deck tonight.”
You groan. “On a Tuesday?”
“He says morale is low.”
“Morale is low because Hangman exists.”
Bob snorts, unable to help it. “Fair.”
You tilt your head, watching him. “You going?”
He hesitates. Just a fraction of a second too long.
“I mean,” he says carefully, “only if you want to.”
There it is. That thing he does. Like your opinion weighs more than his own.
You shrug. “I’m in if you are.”
Relief flickers across his face so quickly it almost hurts to notice.
“Cool,” he says. “Yeah. Cool.”
You both sip your coffee in silence, the comfortable kind. The kind that feels earned. The kind that would look suspicious to anyone watching too closely.
-
The thing about being roommates with Bob Floyd is that you fall into patterns.
Domestic ones.
Unavoidable ones.
Like movie nights that start with “we can just watch one episode” and end with you asleep halfway across his chest, his arm automatically adjusting around you without waking either of you up.
Like grocery runs that are supposed to be quick and somehow take forty-five minutes because Bob insists on reading labels.
“This one has more protein,” he says, holding up a box.
“It tastes like drywall.”
He frowns. “It’s… lightly sweetened.”
“You are lying with confidence.”
He sighs, puts it back, and grabs your usual without comment. You notice. You always do.
Like laundry nights where your clothes end up mixed together because separating them feels pointless—and because he once folded one of your shirts without realizing it and apologized like he’d committed a crime.
“You don’t have to ask permission to touch my clothes, Bob.”
“I know,” he said. “Still feels like I should.”
Like the way he always knocks before entering your room, even though you’ve told him a hundred times he doesn’t need to—and the way you still appreciate it every time.
It’s not romantic.
That’s what you tell yourself.
It’s just… Bob.
-
The Squad does not believe this for a second.
You find that out later that afternoon, sprawled on the couches in the ready room while Fanboy scrolls through his phone and Payback argues with Coyote about something deeply stupid.
Bob is next to you, shoulder brushing yours, focused on a Rubik’s cube he’s been trying to solve for twenty minutes.
“You know,” Phoenix says, eyes flicking between you and Bob, “you two have weird energy.”
You blink. “Excuse you?”
“Weird,” she repeats. “Not bad. Just… very married.”
Bob drops the cube.
“What?” you both say at the same time.
Hangman swivels in his chair, immediately interested. “Oh my god, thank you. I’ve been saying this.”
Bob’s ears go red. “We’re not—”
“We’re roommates,” you add quickly.
“Yeah,” Fanboy says, not looking up. “So were my parents for six years before they figured it out.”
You sit up. “Figured what out?”
“That they were in love,” Payback says, smirking. “Duh.”
Bob clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “We’re just… friends.”
Hangman grins like a shark that’s smelled blood. “Friends don’t share hoodies, Robert.”
You glance down at the hoodie you’re wearing.
Bob’s hoodie.
“I have my own clothes,” you protest weakly.
“Name one,” Coyote challenges.
You open your mouth.
Pause.
Bob watches you, expression unreadable.
“…Rude,” you mutter.
Phoenix laughs. “Look, we’re just saying. If it walks like a duck and argues about groceries like a married couple—”
“We do not argue about groceries,” Bob says.
“You bought crunchy peanut butter,” you shoot back instantly. “You know I hate that.”
“That was one time.”
“And it was a betrayal.”
The room goes quiet.
Hangman points between the two of you. “See? That. That right there.”
Bob rubs the back of his neck. “We’re fine.”
You nod, too quickly. “We’re fine.”
No one believes you.
-
That night at the Hard Deck is loud and crowded and smells like spilled beer and bad decisions.
Bob sticks close to you, not in a possessive way—just in a Bob way. Like he’s your anchor in the chaos. You lean toward each other to talk, knees brushing under the table.
Hangman watches with an infuriatingly smug expression.
“So,” he says, leaning back. “You seeing anyone?”
You choke on your drink. “What?”
Bob stiffens beside you.
“No,” you say quickly. “Why?”
Hangman shrugs. “Just curious.”
“Since when are you curious about my love life?”
“Since it started affecting squad morale.”
You glare. “It doesn’t.”
Bob clears his throat. “I don’t think—”
Phoenix kicks Hangman under the table. “Drop it.”
But the question lingers.
You feel it like a weight.
Later, when the music’s too loud and Bob goes to grab another round, Hangman leans in again.
“You ever think,” he says quietly, “that you two are playing chicken?”
“With what?” you ask.
“With your feelings.”
You scoff. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He studies you for a moment, unusually serious. “Yeah. I do.”
Bob comes back then, setting a glass in front of you automatically.
You don’t meet his eyes.
-
At home, the apartment is quiet and dim, the familiar comfort settling around you like a blanket.
Bob kicks off his shoes and pauses. “You okay?”
You nod. “Yeah. Just tired.”
He hesitates, then says softly, “If Hangman said something—”
“It’s fine,” you cut in. Too fast. Too sharp.
He flinches, just a little.
“Okay,” he says after a beat. “Night.”
“Night, Bob.”
You both retreat to your rooms, doors clicking shut.
And for the first time since you moved in together, the silence feels… loud.
You lie awake, staring at the ceiling, heart doing something annoying in your chest.
In the next room, Bob stares at his own ceiling, glasses set carefully on the nightstand, replaying every word, every look, every almost.
Neither of you sleeps well.
And neither of you admits why.
-
The problem with pretending nothing’s wrong is that your body doesn’t get the memo.
You notice it the next morning when Bob is already awake—again—and you walk into the kitchen half-asleep, hair a mess, wearing one of his T-shirts this time. You don’t even clock it until he freezes mid-pour, coffee splashing dangerously close to the rim.
“Sorry,” you say automatically. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t,” he lies, setting the mug down too carefully. His ears are red. Again.
You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him from under your lashes. There’s something different in the air. Thicker. Like you’re both aware of the same fragile thing and refusing to name it.
“Sleep okay?” he asks.
You shrug. “You?”
A pause.
“Not really.”
That makes your chest tighten. “Oh.”
Silence stretches. The kettle clicks off with a sharp snap that makes you both flinch.
Bob clears his throat. “I’ve got an early brief. I’ll be late tonight.”
“Oh. Okay.”
You hate how disappointed that sounds.
He hesitates by the door, hand on the knob. For a second, you think he’s going to say something—anything—but then he just nods and leaves.
The door shuts softly.
You stare at it longer than you should.
-
Unfortunately your friends seem to have all the time in the world today
By lunch, you’re cornered in the ready room with Phoenix and Rooster while Bob’s stuck in debrief hell.
“So,” Rooster says, popping open a bag of chips, “how’s domestic bliss?”
You glare. “We’re not married.”
“Yet,” Phoenix adds brightly.
You groan. “You guys are impossible.”
Phoenix leans in, elbows on her knees. “Okay, serious question. When was the last time either of you went on a date that wasn’t accidentally with each other?”
You open your mouth.
Close it.
Rooster grins. “That long, huh?”
“We’re busy,” you say defensively. “Work. Life.”
“Bob Floyd schedules his relaxation,” Phoenix says. “You’re telling me he hasn’t penciled in a girlfriend because—what—he forgot?”
Your heart stutters. “It’s not like that.”
“Then what is it like?” she asks gently.
You don’t have an answer.
-
That night, Bob comes home later than usual. You’re on the couch, pretending to watch something while actually replaying every stupid interaction you’ve had for the past six months.
He stops short when he sees you.
“Oh. Hey,” he says. “Didn’t know you’d be up.”
You shrug. “Couldn’t sleep.”
He sits on the opposite end of the couch, careful. Too careful.
The TV drones on. Neither of you is watching.
After a minute, he exhales. “Listen… about last night.”
Your stomach flips. “Yeah?”
“I don’t want things to be weird,” he says quietly. “If they are.”
“They’re not,” you say immediately.
He looks at you then. Really looks. His gaze is steady, searching, like he’s trying to read something written between the lines.
“…Okay,” he says, but it doesn’t sound convinced.
Another pause. This one heavier.
“Bob,” you start, then stop. Your heart’s pounding too loud.
“Yes?”
You swallow. “Nothing. Sorry.”
He nods, disappointment flickering across his face before he masks it. “Right. Goodnight.”
“Night.”
He disappears down the hall, leaving the couch cold beside you.
You don’t move for a long time.
-
Things get worse before they get better.
There’s a charity event on base the following weekend—volunteer sign-ups, mandatory attendance for optics, the usual. You and Bob end up assigned together because of course you do.
It’s harmless. Easy. Until it isn’t.
You’re sorting supplies when Bob brushes past you in the cramped storage room, his hand landing briefly on your waist to steady himself.
The touch is nothing.
It feels like everything.
You both freeze.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, but his hand doesn’t move right away.
Your breath catches. You can feel the warmth of him, solid and familiar and suddenly too much.
“It’s—fine,” you manage.
His hand drops like he’s been burned.
The rest of the afternoon is tense, quiet, careful. Phoenix watches from across the room with narrowed eyes.
That night, she corners Bob.
“You’re in love with her,” she says bluntly.
Bob blinks. “What?”
“Don’t play dumb. You’re bad at it.”
He rubs his face, exhausted. “It’s complicated.”
“No,” she says. “It’s scary. There’s a difference.”
Across the room, Rooster is saying the same thing to you.
“You like him,” he says gently.
You scoff. “We’re friends.”
“Yeah,” he replies. “And I like my jet. Doesn’t mean I don’t know when I’d crash it for something that matters more.”
You stare at the floor.
-
The breaking point comes quietly.
It’s a Tuesday. Nothing special. You’re both home late, passing each other in the hallway like strangers.
Bob stops. “Hey.”
You turn. “Hey.”
Another pause. You’re sick of pauses.
“Do you ever think,” you ask softly, “that we’re… avoiding something?”
His breath hitches.
“Yes,” he says, just as quietly.
Your heart slams against your ribs. “Why?”
He steps closer. Not touching. Just close enough that you can feel him.
“Because if we’re wrong,” he says, voice steady but eyes anything but, “we lose what we already have.”
“And if we’re right?” you whisper.
His gaze drops to your mouth.
“Then I don’t know how I’ve been living like this,” he admits.
The air between you hums.
You don’t kiss him.
You don’t need to.
Not yet.
But when you go to bed that night, you both know—this isn’t something you can keep pretending away.
-
The night it finally breaks isn’t dramatic.
There’s no argument. No raised voices. No grand, cinematic moment where everything explodes at once.
It’s quiet. Ordinary. Almost cruel in how normal it starts.
You’re both in the kitchen, late again, moving around each other with the kind of familiarity that’s been earned over years—muscle memory and shared space and unspoken rules. Bob is rinsing a mug at the sink. You’re leaning against the counter, arms crossed, watching him like you’ve been doing too often lately.
The air feels… heavy.
Not awkward. Not tense.
Weighted.
Like something is pulling at both of you, insistent and patient, waiting for one of you to stop resisting.
Bob dries his hands slowly. Doesn’t turn around.
“You ever feel like the universe is laughing at us?” he asks.
Your chest tightens. “Define ‘us.’”
He huffs out a soft breath. “That’s fair.”
You straighten. “Bob—”
He turns then, finally, and whatever you were about to say dies in your throat.
He looks tired. Not exhausted—just worn in that quiet way he gets when he’s been carrying something alone for too long. His shoulders are tense, jaw tight, eyes searching your face like he’s bracing for impact.
“I can’t keep doing this,” he says.
Your heart stutters. “Doing what?”
“Pretending I don’t feel it every time you walk into a room,” he answers, voice calm but threaded with something dangerously close to breaking. “Pretending I don’t wake up every morning hoping you’ll already be in the kitchen. Pretending I’m not constantly calculating how close is too close and whether I’m allowed to miss you when you’re literally down the hall.”
You swallow hard. “Bob…”
“I know the risks,” he continues quickly, like if he slows down he’ll lose his nerve. “I know we’re roommates. I know this could screw everything up. I know we could lose what we have.”
He takes a step closer.
“But I also know I’m already losing it,” he says quietly. “Because I’m in love with you, and pretending otherwise is killing me.”
The words land softly.
They devastate you anyway.
You don’t speak right away. You can’t. Your throat is tight, eyes burning, heart pounding so hard it’s almost embarrassing.
Bob notices. Of course he does.
“Hey,” he says gently, instantly worried. “You don’t have to—”
You close the distance between you before he can finish the sentence.
You don’t kiss him yet. You just press your forehead to his chest, breathing him in, hands fisting in the fabric of his T-shirt like you need the anchor.
“I was wondering how long it would take you,” you murmur.
He freezes. “What?”
You laugh softly, the sound shaky but real. “To say it out loud.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you. “You… knew?”
“I’ve been in love with you since somewhere between you fixing my sink at two in the morning and you memorizing how I take my coffee,” you admit. “I just thought… if you wanted it, you’d say something.”
“I thought the same thing,” he says helplessly.
You shake your head. “We’re idiots.”
A breath leaves him—half laugh, half relief.
“Yes,” he agrees. “We really are.”
The silence that follows is different this time. Softer. Safer. Like the ground has finally stopped shifting beneath your feet.
Bob lifts a hand, hesitates—then cups your cheek, thumb brushing gently along your jaw like he’s checking if this is real.
“Can I?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.
You nod.
That’s all the permission he needs.
The kiss is nothing like you imagined—and somehow exactly right.
It’s not rushed. Not desperate. It’s careful and reverent and deeply emotional, like he’s been holding this moment in his chest for years and doesn’t want to break it. His lips are warm, steady, moving against yours with a tenderness that makes your knees go weak.
You melt into him.
When you pull back, you’re both smiling like fools.
“Hi,” he says softly.
“Hi,” you echo.
He rests his forehead against yours again, breathing you in. “So… what does this mean for us?”
You smile, heart full. “It means we’re still roommates.”
He groans. “Tragic.”
“And,” you add, “we’re still best friends.”
He relaxes. “Good.”
“And,” you finish, fingers curling into his shirt, “we’re figuring this out together.”
His smile is slow and sure. “I’d like that.”
-
The Squad finds out within twenty-four hours.
You don’t even tell them. Phoenix does.
She takes one look at the way Bob’s hand rests at your lower back in the ready room and makes a sound of deep, vindicated satisfaction.
“Oh my god,” she says. “Finally.”
Rooster blinks between the two of you. “Wait. You’re—like—official?”
Bob clears his throat. “We’re… yes.”
Hangman squints. “So all that tension was for free?”
You glare at him. “Die mad.”
Coyote grins. “I give it three weeks before they start arguing about thermostat settings.”
Bob doesn’t miss a beat. “We already do.”
Bob doesn’t let go of your hand once.
Later that night, back home, you sit together on the couch—closer than before, but not rushed. Comfortable. Easy. Earned.
Bob kisses your temple.
“You know,” he murmurs, “I don’t regret waiting.”
You tilt your head to look at him. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says, smiling softly. “It made this… right.”
You lean into him, heart steady for the first time in a long while.
And for once, the future doesn’t feel scary.
It feels like home.
-
Six months later, the apartment still looks the same.
Same couch with the crooked cushion. Same coffee table with the wobble you keep forgetting to fix. Same kitchen light that flickers if you don’t smack the switch just right.
The difference is Bob.
And you.
You’re barefoot in the kitchen, standing on a chair because you’re stubborn and refuse to admit the top shelf is too high. Bob is behind you, hands hovering at your waist like he’s waiting for gravity to betray you.
“I can grab it,” he says patiently.
“I’m fine,” you insist, stretching higher.
“You said that last time and I caught you with one arm and a bag of flour with the other.”
“That was one time.”
“That was three days ago.”
You finally snag the box you were reaching for and pump your fist in victory. “See? Independent.”
Bob sighs, but he’s smiling when you climb down and immediately lean back into his chest like you didn’t just prove his point.
“Admit it,” you say. “You like catching me.”
He wraps his arms around you without hesitation. “I like not letting you get hurt.”
You tilt your head back to look at him. “That’s basically the same thing.”
He presses a kiss to your forehead. “Not even close.”
The domesticity of it still hits you sometimes—hard and out of nowhere. How easy this feels. How natural. Like your life quietly rearranged itself while you weren’t looking.
You make dinner together. You argue about seasoning. You steal bites off his plate. He lets you, even though he pretends not to.
Later, you’re curled up on the couch, legs tangled, his arm heavy and warm around your shoulders. The TV is on, but neither of you is paying attention.
Bob’s thumb traces slow, absentminded circles against your arm.
“Can I ask you something?” he says.
You hum. “You always do.”
He hesitates. Just a beat. “Do you ever think about… what would’ve happened if we’d said something sooner?”
You think about it honestly.
“All the time,” you admit. “But I don’t wish we had.”
He looks down at you. “Yeah?”
You nod. “We needed to be us first. The dumb jokes. The shared groceries. The unspoken trust. If we’d rushed it, I think we would’ve been scared.”
Bob exhales, relief softening his shoulders. “I’m really glad it was you.”
