☆

You had argued somewhere after the dinner rush. He got back from cleaning up his dads dirty work and being scolded for not doing good enough for him. 

Right after being chewed out by his father, he stopped by the little library where you work, as he always does after his shifts.

And he promised. You hadn’t seen him in a few days due to him being ordered to run around doing whatever the hell he did, you didn’t like to think about it. He promised he’d make sure to see you today.

So, of course when he texted you as soon as you got on your lunch break saying he was outside, you rushed your way out, abandoning the rest of your chips and sandwich just to see him. 

You hopped in his truck and immediately crossed over the center console, sitting in his lap and wrapping yourself around him.

He hugged you back, but his arms were tight and tense around you.

“I missed you.” You smiled into his neck, pressing little kisses against his neck to his jaw to his lips. You continued all over his face, his lips were weak and loose when he kissed you back.

“Baby- hold on, hey.” He said as nicely as he could, he turned his face away and held your wrists. “Can you calm down with the touchiness?”

“What?” You mumbled.

“Baby- don’t get me wrong, It’s nice and stuff, but you’re doin’ a lot right now, like goddamn just give me a minute to fuckin breathe.” He muttered, wiping a hand over his face.

Then he saw the way your face fell, that crease form between your eyebrows, the way you gulped and clenched your jaw. You pulled away slowly.

You slid off his lap and back into the passenger seat quietly. It took a few seconds of sitting in silence and staring ahead before he heard the car door open. 

“My lunch break is almost over, I should go back.” You muttered the lie as you hopped out, slamming the door shut before he could get a response out.

Now, the only light outside is the streetlamps, and Gators phone is still void of any texts from you while he decides what to do.

He sighs, both your parents' cars are in the driveway. From what it looks like from the windows, every light is off in the house. 

Except for the small rectangle of warm light on the side of the house, where your room is.

If Gator wasn’t so pissed off right now, he’d feel like a teenager again as he sneaks out to the side of the house, rapping his knuckles lightly on the window.

He can see that your door is closed, the doorknob is locked, you are nowhere to be seen in your room, and there is a small slither of your window left open with no screen on it.

He really should have never taught you how to take the screen off your window.

But now he’s worried, not panicking, he doesn’t panic. He just doesn’t like the idea of you being out this late at night by yourself. You already nearly made him pass out the other week with the spider.

Gator only clenches his fists and stomps as he mutters out curses. He whips out his phone and starts sending even more pathetically apologetic texts to you.

He’s on his second attempt of calling you by the time he’s back in his truck seat. He’s bouncing his leg enough to the point the vehicle is slightly shaking along with the movement. 

Your voice appears but it’s only your voicemail telling the caller to “leave a message and I’ll try to get back to you soon!”. And you sound so fucking sweet in it, it’s killing Gator.

The slicked back style of Gators hair has been long destroyed by now with the amount of times he’s ran his hands through it and his excessive stomping. The next best thing he can do is try and find you himself, he is not waiting. 

The truck pulls off the sidewalk and he keeps his foot on the pedal with enough weight for him to be going at a slow but tolerable pace, he’s impatient. He’s worried, but he doesn’t like to say that. It makes him feel like he’s saying he’s scared, which he is, but it makes him feel weak.

You couldn’t have gone far? It’s a small neighborhood. You’re probably just walking somewhere farther down the sidewalk? Maybe you were walking the other way when he was coming down your street?

He’s nearing the end of the street and he’s on the verge of smacking his horn, but a few more feet and you’ve appeared.

You’re at the playground that got built not too long ago at the end of your neighborhood, you’re sitting on the swingset. You’re in an old hoodie and pajama pants, your using the toe of your sandal to sway yourself back and forth.

Gators headlights practically blind you as you look up. He can see you squint, recognize it’s him, then grimace and look away.

He doesn’t even try to attempt to park nicely in between the freshly painted white lines. His truck is slanted and taking up three parking spaces.

You’re still swaying, you know Gator is walking up but you keep your eyes on the ground. Keeping that pouty look while you let your head lean against the chain on the swing.

Gator sighs and slides his hands into his pockets, he’s doing his own swaying now too.

Goddamn, he feels like a piece of shit.

“Planning a getaway?” He tries to joke. It falls flat.

“‘M not talking to you, Gator.” You mumble.

You didn’t mean to be so sensitive, you were just excited to see him. Gator is still getting used to physical touch being a good thing. Your hands have been the first to feel like his skin isn’t stinging when you touch his.

“Yeah. I kinda..noticed that.” He sighed. For the first time in awhile, Gator has no smart comebacks.

“Thought you wanted space. Thought you wanted to be alone.” Your eyes are burning holes into playground dirt, digging the sole of your old closed toe sandal into the woodchips.

“I wanted to say…that ‘m sorry.” He winces, it sounds pained. He doesn’t apologize much. “Sorry” is a word that’s becoming more common in vocabulary now that he’s met you.

God, you hate him. You’re considering taking your shoe off and throwing it at him.

You’re considering telling him to leave. But you won’t. You don’t want him to.

You’ll torture him a bit more.

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry.” He says clearly. Pitfully, pathetically. 

“I heard you.” You finally look up at him, your pink and slightly puffy eyes feel like a million tiny daggers into his body.

“So…you’ve got nothing to say about that? Nothing to say back?” He sticks his neck out. You roll your eyes and look away. You’re not looking at Gator, it’s making him ache.

“What is there to say? I heard you.” You shrug, pursing your lips together.

Gator sighs again, sliding his hands out of his pockets and pressing them against his back. He lets out a little groan as he stretches, he’s torturing you now.

“I guess you won’t be gettin’ my apology gift then.” He shrugs.

He catches the way your eyes shoot up. You’re a sucker for gift giving. Giving and receiving. Though you don’t get the latter much often from others.

Gator does his best to make up for it.

“Guess I’ll just return it, I got the receipt somewhere in my glovebox.” He shrugged. “It’ll just go back on the shelf and some other sorry boyfriend will buy it.” He sighs, kicking a few rocks. He’s putting on the most dramatic act to win you over.

And it’s working. God, you hate him.

He turns slowly and walks back to his truck, he can feel your eyes on him. He turns on the engine, but he’s not moving anywhere. He’s counting down. 

Waiting for it. 

It takes a little over 30 seconds. And then there’s the light knocking on his passenger window. Your silent way of asking to be let in. You can’t help but be polite.

He reaches over to push the door open, letting you see the surprise sitting on the passenger seat.

It’s a teddy bear with a little bow wrapped around it’s neck, as well as a fake flower that you can slip from its arms. There’s two party sized bags of your favorite candy along with it.

Worst of all, he’s buckled the bear in. The seatbelt is fastened right around its stomach and over its shoulder. 

You almost smile, you have to fight it, really fight it.

Yeah, he’s won you over. But you won’t let him know what yet.

Gator’s got one hand on the steering wheel, clenching and unclenching. His bottom lip is tucked under his teeth. He’s nervous. 

You purse your lips and clench your jaw, tilting your chin up as you inhale. 

You unbuckle the seatbelt and grab the bear from it’s spot, you hold it in your hands and stare at it like you’re analyzing it. You’re pretending to decide how you feel.

The poor teddy's little beady eyes are staring right back at you. You swallow your pride happily.

Gator’s already moving the bags of candy out the way so you can sit. His eyes stay on you while you hop into the seat. You shut the door and keep your eyes on the bear.

Gator tilts his head, he’s trying to look at you, get you to look at him. You rub one of the bear ears between your thumb and pointer finger, the fur is soft and a little silky against your skin.

“I’m still mad at you.” You let him know sternly, you still haven’t smiled yet.

“I know.” He sighs. He lets his hand fall from the steering wheel.

He grabs the bar under his seat and pushes his seat back, all the way back.

“C’mere.” He murmurs, laying slack against the seat. His hands lay flat on his thighs.

You slouch down into your seat and look at the side mirror, pretending to ignore him.

“Don’t make me ask you again.” Yet there’s no demand in his tone. But fuck, he’s worried he’s being mean again.

“You’re not even asking me. You’re just telling me.” You grumble.

But you go and you sit in his lap anyways, leaving the bear back on your seat and crawling over the center console to get to him. Lips jutted and eyes looking down and away from his face. You can see the cocky little smile blooming at the ends of his mouth in your peripheral vision.

“You’re so pouty.” Gator squishes your face between his fingers while his other hand lays against your waist.

The thing that’s changed in your personality now that you’ve gotten more comfortable with Gator. You pout a lot, you’re sensitive, you’re still quite shy. Just pouty too. Gator brought out the mouthy side of you that’s been hidden for years.

And Gator takes any chance he can to tease you for it. Because he’s Gator.

“I’m not pouty.” You grimace.

“Yea? Then what’s all this about?” He squishes your cheeks more and shakes your face lightly in his grasp.

“You.” Now you’re getting annoyed. You shove his hand away and move your head back. Your face seems to be stuck in a scowl.

Gators face slowly drops, he feels like an asshole again.

“Hey.” He says as softly as he knows how to, “Hey, ‘m not mad at ya.” The hand that you shoved away comes up to rub at your upper arm. Your fiddling with his hoodie strings, eyes focused on the way the gray cords of fabric twirl around your fingers.

Gator runs his hand down your arm and stops at your hand. He takes it into his, the rough pad of his thumb skates over your knuckles. He tilts his head down again, trying to get you to look at him. You give in.

Your eyes meet his and you swear you can see his face soften with relief.

“Look, ‘m pretty pissed you snuck off this late in the cold in this lil pair of shorts.” He mumbles as he tugs at the hem of your pajama shorts with his other hand, rubs at the fabric. “But ‘m not mad at you.”

A little sigh leaves you, you’re not sure how to respond. So he takes his chance to keep talking.

“Baby, I love you touchin’ me. I love your hands on me, all over me.” He takes your hands in his and presses them against his chest. You can feel the rump of his heartbeat under your palm when you press. “I love you touchin’ on me, yeah?” He brings up one of your hands to his lips, he presses kisses over your fingers, your palm, your knuckles, your wrist. 

He’s really trying to make it up to you.

“I didn’t mean to make you upset. I just- I had a shit day, I’ve been surrounded by asshole and fuckin idiots and- I was pissed off and I should’ve let myself cool down real quick before I saw you,” He’s rambling, this is new. “I should’ve told you I was pissed off and I could’ve- I should’ve been nicer ‘bout it. Should’ve been nicer to you.” His eyes are wandering all over as he fumbles through his words, looking everywhere but your face.

He takes a breath to swallow his own stubbornness.

“And I’m sorry, baby.” He squeezes his eyes shut and hangs his head a bit.

Good fucking god, he’s embarrassed. He can feel you looking at him and he wishes you weren’t, at least not in this moment. He can’t let you see him like this.

When he opens his eyes, you look away again. You’re biting the inside of your cheek.

“C’mon baby.” He murmurs, cradling his hand against your face, giving it a little push of encouragement to get you to turn your face to his. “I’m sorry.” You still avoid his eyes, he knows you’re waiting for more, you’re making him beg. This is a humiliation ritual for Gator.

He gets an idea and reaches over to the passengers seat where your new bear lays. 

“Gator’s sorry, yeah?” He picks up the bear, brushes the face of it against yours. The fake fur tickles your nose. Your face spreads into a meek smile. “You gonna forgive Gator? Gonna stop torturing him?” He keeps pressing it against your cheek until you can’t hold back and let out a little giggle. 

You grab the bear and he takes his chance to press a kiss against your cheek while you’re occupied. 

“Fine, fine.” You say through another giggle, Gator could faint at hearing your voice again. “I’m done torturing you. For now.” 

“Good.” He smiles. “You can get fussy with me all you want, I deserve that, but don’t go running off ‘cus of it.” He holds your chin gently, tilting your face down to give you a kiss to your forehead, the tip of your nose, then your lips.

You just smile and kiss him back before you wrap your arms around his neck, you smush yourself against him.

“I’m sorry you had a bad day.” You speak into his shoulder.

“You don’t gotta apologize, ‘s nothing. You made it better.” He feels like a cornball saying that outloud, but he can feel you smile against him, so it’s not too bad.

The two of you stay like that for a little while. Gator strokes his hand up and down your back while pressing little kisses to your neck here and there. Your shoulders loosen after some time, your chest rises and falls more slowly against his.

“You falling asleep on me?” He nudges you.

You absolutely are.

“Mm-mm.” You give him a lazy shake of your head. 

Gator pulls you away from him like he’s trying to take tape off a piece of paper without ripping it. Once he gets a look at your lidded eyes and pouty lips, he knows you’re about to knock out.

“Alright, time to go home.” He rubs his thumb against your cheek and you groan.

“Why can’t I just stay with you?” You whine.

Last time you fell asleep in his car, smushed against him, your neck hurt the rest of the following day.

“Next time.” He promises with a kiss to your lips. “Gotta get back to the ranch.” He holds onto your waist as you slip off his lap and onto the passenger seat, he’s pretending to guide you, he really just wants to hold you.

“I thought you were patrolling?” You yawn, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Only to find you.” He kisses the top of your head before turning on the engine. You smile to yourself.

Once he’s parked outside your house again, he walks you to your window and lifts you just a little bit so you can sneak back in through your window.

“Get your little sneaky ass back in there.” He gives you a small swat to your ass and he can hear the little giggle you try to hide.

He passes you the two bags of candy he bought for you, you already carried your bear with you crawling through your window.

Gator finishes off giving you his gifts by leaning in and pressing one last kiss for the night to your lips, he lingers.

You’re just about to say goodnight and close your window when he stops you.

“Uh uh, screen back on the window.” He tells you with that stupid cocky grin. You roll your eyes but you listen anyway, you pick up the window screen from where it’s laying against your wall and shove it back into the windowsill. 

It’s annoying having to look at each other through the thin grid, you feel like some princess locked in a tower.

“I better not see you running around this late again.” He's still got that stupid grin on his face. He shoots a wink at you before walking away from your window.

“Uh huh. Later Gator.” You say with a sweet sweet smile, you know it pisses him off. 

And before he can fully turn around, you’re shutting your window and closing your blinds. You laugh behind your hand, you love torturing him.

Gator drives back to the ranch in silence. He yawns and runs his hand down his face to his neck, rubs at it.

He wishes he crawled through the window with you, wrapped his arms around you and stayed in your bed for the night. Feel your arms tucked around him and legs lay over his under the covers, feel your hands twitch the way they always do and listen to the little breaths you always make when you’re asleep.

His phone vibrates on the dash. 

It’s a text from you.

goodnight 💕

He’s so amused by you.

The next evening, when Clark walked through the door again, you went to greet him, but Leia beat you to it.

She pushed herself up on unsteady legs, toddled across the floor, and with all the seriousness in the world, squeaked, “Hi, honey! Muah!” before planting a slobbery baby kiss on Clark’s shin.

Clark froze, blinking down at her. Then his entire face cracked into the kind of grin that could light up half of Metropolis. He crouched down and scooped her up effortlessly, laughing. “Oh my goodness! Did you just call me honey?”

You were doubled over, clutching your stomach, laughing so hard you could barely breathe. “I think she did!”

Leia clapped her hands, clearly proud of herself, and repeated, “Hi, honey! Muah!” this time smooshing her mouth against Clark’s cheek in what was another slobbery, open-mouthed kiss.

Clark looked at you, eyes shining with joy and disbelief, then turned back to Leia, his voice soft and playful. “Sweetheart, you can call me Daddy. Daddy. Not honey.”

“Hi, honey!” Leia chirped stubbornly, then leaned in and gave him another wet kiss.

You wiped tears from your eyes, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “Face it, Clark. You’ve been upgraded. You’re officially ‘Honey’ now.”

Clark groaned in mock defeat, but the way he held her close, the way his lips lingered against her curls, told you he didn’t mind one bit.

Whenever Leia woke up in the mornings, Clark was always the first to lean over the crib to kiss her a good morning. She would always bat her eyelashes at him, her lips drawn into a bashful smile before greeting her dad with a groggy, “Hi, honey…” for the next few days, which made Clark’s days very bright.

From then on, whenever Clark came home, it wasn’t you but Leia who would toddle to him first, arms outstretched, declaring proudly, “Hi, honey! Muah!”

-

A few nights later, Clark was sprawled on the rug in the living room, long legs crossed, while Leia sat in his lap, gnawing happily on one of her rubber blocks. The scene was cozy, golden, with the warm lamplight spilling across both of them. You couldn’t resist stirring the pot a little.

“Hey, Leia,” you said, grinning as you sat down beside them. “Who’s that?” You pointed at Clark.

Leia’s little head popped up, curls bouncing. Her eyes locked onto Clark’s face, and with all the confidence of a toddler who knows she’s right, she shouted, “Honey!”

Clark choked on his own laugh, startled. He pointed to himself, wide-eyed, looking between you and Leia. “Honey? That’s me? I’m ‘Honey’?”

Leia nodded so firmly her whole body wobbled. “Honey!” She dropped the block, clapped her hands, then threw her arms around his neck with a triumphant little “MUAH!” on his lips.

You were gone, absolutely cackling as Clark stared at you like this was somehow your fault.

“Sweetheart,” he said, voice pitched half-bewildered, half-pleading, “she thinks my name is Honey! She’s not even saying Daddy anymore. She’s just… she’s just calling me what you call me!”

You wiped tears of laughter from your eyes. “I mean… she’s not wrong, technically.”

Clark sighed, rubbing Leia’s back. “Baby girl, listen to me…” He held her up so they were eye-level. “Daddy. Can you say Da…ddy?”

Leia blinked at him, her little nose scrunching up as if she were concentrating very hard. Then she broke into a proud grin and declared, “Honey!”

Clark dropped his forehead against her shoulder with a groan, defeated. “I can’t believe this.”

Leia patted his cheek comfortingly, repeating, “Honey, honey, honey!” as if to reassure him.

You leaned against Clark’s arm, still grinning. “That’s your name now. You’re Honey.”

He shot you a look, but the corners of his mouth betrayed him, curving into a smile. And when Leia gave him another sloppy little kiss and whispered, “Hi, Honey,” Clark melted completely, pulling her close.

“Fine,” he murmured, kissing her curls. “If she wants to call me Honey, then I’ll be Honey. But you,” he added, poking your side, “owe me one.”

-

A couple of months had passed since Leia had christened Clark “Honey.” She still used it around the house, though every now and then she’d surprise you both by trying out new words she picked up. One afternoon, after Clark had come in from mowing the yard, you handed him a glass of water and said absentmindedly, “Thanks, Clark.”

Leia, who had been coloring on the floor, froze like a little detective catching onto a clue. She pointed a chubby finger at her dad, her voice piping up with glee, “Cack!”

You blinked. Clark froze. “…What did she just say?”

Leia clapped her hands. “Cack! CACK!” She was so proud of herself, repeating it like she’d uncovered the deepest truth of the universe.

You bit your lip, already fighting laughter. “She… she thinks your name is Clark. But, uh… her version is a little—”

“Cack!” Leia shouted again, beaming.

Clark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Oh no. Oh no.”

-

The real trouble came when you all went out in public.

At the grocery store, Clark was pushing the cart while Leia rode in the little seat, swinging her legs. Every so often she’d reach for him, chanting happily, “Cack! Cack! Up, Cack!”

A man walking past nearly dropped his basket, his ears going pink. A woman in the produce section shot Clark a scandalized look. Clark’s face turned crimson, and he tried to shush Leia gently, muttering under his breath, “Sweetheart, it’s Daddy. Da-ddy. Not… not that.”

But Leia only giggled, louder, “CACK! HI CACK!”

By the time you reached checkout, Clark’s shoulders were slumped, as if trying to hide himself, his ears flaming red while Leia patted his chest, singing “Cack, Cack, Cack” like a nursery rhyme.

-

Later that night, back at home, Clark dropped onto the couch, utterly defeated. “She embarrassed me three different times in one trip. People looked at me like I was… like I was some kind of pervert!”

You were laughing so hard you could barely breathe. “Clark, it’s just a phase! She’ll grow out of it.”

Leia, toddling into the living room in her pajamas, climbed onto the couch and snuggled against him. She pointed at his chest with a sleepy smile. “…Cack.”

Clark tipped his head back, groaning again, but when he looked down at her soft little grin, his heart melted anyway. He pressed a kiss to her curls and whispered, “Daddy. Please. Just… Daddy.”

Leia yawned, curled into him, and mumbled, “Night night, Cack.”

You covered your mouth to stifle another laugh. Clark shot you a long-suffering look, but he couldn’t hide his smile as he held her close.

Because even if the whole world thought it sounded ridiculous, to Leia it was just another word for the man she loved most.

-

Leia had been toddling around the living room that afternoon, clutching one of her stuffed animals in one hand and humming in that sing-song way only toddlers can. You were sitting on the couch, half watching her, half flipping through a book, when it happened.

She tripped. Just one small misstep on the rug, but it was enough to send her tumbling onto her knees. There was a loud thump, followed by a sharp wail.

“Sweetheart!” you gasped, scooping her into your arms. “Oh, my poor girl. You’ve got a boo-boo.”

She whimpered against your shoulder, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. But then, through the sobs, she reached her tiny arms outward—not for you, but toward the hallway where Clark had just appeared, drawn by the noise.

“Dada!” she wailed, desperate and sure.

You froze, your eyes darting to Clark’s. For weeks now, Leia had been stubbornly calling him “Cack”, no amount of gentle correction had changed her mind. And yet here she was, hurting and scared, calling out the name he’d been waiting for all this time.

Clark’s whole expression shifted—surprise, wonder, and a tenderness so deep it rooted him to the spot for half a second. Then he was on his knees beside you, arms reaching out.

“I’m here, baby girl. Daddy’s here,” he murmured, taking her gently from your arms. She curled into his chest, hiccuping little sobs.

“Baby girl,” you whispered, but you could see it, her little hands were fisted into Clark’s collar, refusing to let go.

“Dada,” she whispered again, quieter this time, like the word itself was comfort.

Clark pressed his lips to her curls, his eyes shining. “That’s right. Daddy’s got you. You’re safe.”

You felt your throat tighten, watching him rock her, rubbing slow circles on her back. Leia’s cries softened, the tension in her tiny body melting under his voice. And when she finally pulled back, her wet lashes fluttering, she whispered once more, almost a sigh, “Dada.”

Clark’s eyes flicked to yours, wide and a little stunned, like he couldn’t believe what had just happened. For weeks, she’d been running around proudly calling him “Cack” in public, to his eternal embarrassment. But now, in her moment of fear and hurt, when she wanted comfort, she had reached for him and called him Dada.

You smiled softly, laying a hand on his arm. “She knows,” you said quietly. “When it really matters, she knows who you are.”

Clark swallowed hard, his throat working as he bent his head against hers. “Dada’s right here, baby. Always.”

Leia’s sobs finally slowed, her little body relaxing against him as he swayed on his feet, holding her close like he never wanted to let go.

Later, you and Clark lingered by her crib, watching her breathe. His voice was barely above a whisper when he turned to you.

“She called me Dada,” he said, as though he still needed to hear it out loud to believe it.

You slipped your arms around his waist, leaning into him. “Yeah. She did.”

-

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From upstairs, a small voice called out, “Mama?”

Leia, now two years old, toddled down the stairs in her pajamas, holding her stuffed bunny by one ear. Her sleepy eyes widened when she saw her father slumped on the couch. “Daddy hurt?” she asked softly, already padding toward him.

You gave her a reassuring smile, though your heart was still hammering. “Daddy’s just a little sick, sweetheart. He’ll be okay. Can you help Mama take care of him?”

Leia nodded solemnly, her tiny curls bobbing. “I help.”

Clark smiled weakly, his voice barely above a whisper. “My best nurse.”

You brought over a damp cloth and pressed it to his forehead. He flinched at first, the fever-like heat radiating from him was unnatural, but he eventually relaxed under your touch. “It’s already fading,” he murmured, trying to sound casual. “I just need rest.”

Leia frowned, unconvinced, and leaned down to kiss his forehead, a small, sloppy kiss that made him chuckle weakly. “There,” she said proudly, “Leia fix Daddy.”

Clark gave you a sleepy grin. “Best healer in the world right here,” he murmured, shifting slightly.

You frowned. “You always say that you need rest, and then you’re back out saving the world in five minutes.”

“Not this time,” he promised faintly. “Scout’s honor.”

Leia climbed onto the couch beside him, crawling carefully into his lap as if afraid to hurt him. She placed her tiny hands on his cheeks and frowned. “Daddy need soup.”

Despite his exhaustion, Clark chuckled softly. “Soup sounds perfect, my little star.”

You went to the kitchen and heated up some broth, all the while hearing Leia whispering nonsense to her dad: stories about her bunny, about the bird outside her window, and something about how she and Bunny would “fight the bad rock” for him.

When you came back, Clark was lying down, Leia tucked against his side. He looked better already, though still pale. You handed him the mug and tucked a blanket around both of them.

Leia looked up, eyes big. “Mama, Daddy cold.”

“I know, baby,” you said softly, brushing Clark’s hair from his forehead. “That’s why we’re going to keep him warm.”

Leia took that very seriously. So seriously, in fact, that she grabbed her own blanket from the playroom and draped it over her father, then snuggled right on top of him, her little body sprawled across his chest like a living heating pad.

Clark’s arm came around her automatically, his eyes fluttering shut. “Best medicine I could ask for,” he murmured.

You sat beside them, stroking his hair while Leia hummed something tuneless under her breath, a song she made up just for him. Every few seconds she pressed a tiny kiss to his cheek, whispering, “All better, Daddy. No more sick.”

-

It was the following morning when you noticed it. It was small, but enough to twist your stomach with worry.

Leia had barely moved since waking up. Usually, mornings meant chaos: a tangle of curls, giggles, and tiny feet padding across the house in search of cereal and her favorite stuffed bunny. But today, she stayed curled up next to Clark on the couch, her head resting on his chest. Her little hand clutched his shirt weakly.

“Sweetheart?” you asked gently, crouching beside her. “You okay?”

She blinked up at you, her eyelids heavy. “Tired, Mama,” she murmured. “My tummy feel funny.”

Clark was doing much better. His strength returned little by little, the faint pallor gone from his skin. He insisted on helping with breakfast, despite your protests, moving carefully around the kitchen.

Clark looked up at you, instantly concerned. “She’s been like this for a while,” he said, his brow creasing. “I thought she was just tired from staying up late last night, but she’s… warm.”

You pressed your hand gently to Leia’s forehead and felt the faint heat radiating through her skin. Your stomach dropped. “She’s got a fever.”

Clark’s expression darkened, an edge of worry tightening his voice. “But she was fine early this morning. She told me she would make me waffles for breakfast.”

You shook your head. “I don’t think it’s a regular fever,” you said softly.

He blinked, confused for a moment, then realization dawned. “The kryptonite,” he whispered. “When I was getting rid of it… it was coming out through my pores, my system purging it.”

Clark looked down at Leia, who was now limp against his chest, breathing softly but weakly. “She must’ve been pressed against me the whole night.”

“She was,” you said, guilt flooding your chest. “We thought it was sweet that she wanted to keep you warm.”

Clark’s arms tightened around Leia. “I should’ve known. Even trace amounts… her body’s more sensitive to it.”

“Clark,” you said quickly, seeing the look of self-blame twist across his face. “You couldn’t have known. Neither of us did.”

He swallowed hard, brushing a trembling hand across Leia’s hair. “Still. She’s sick because of me.” His voice cracked at the end, the words almost breaking apart. “My baby girl…”

You moved to kneel beside them, one hand on Leia, the other cupping Clark’s face. “Then we do what we always do. We take care of her. Together.”

-

You squeezed his shoulder, trying to steady both of you. “It could just be a normal bug. But we need to get her checked, and rule out Kryptonite poisoning.”

Clark nodded, scooping Leia into his arms with all the care in the world. She whimpered softly, curling instinctively against his chest. “It’s okay, baby,” he whispered, pressing his cheek to her hair. “Daddy’s got you. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry…”

Her tiny hand came up, patting weakly at his face. “No sorry,” she murmured, her voice slurred with fatigue. “Daddy okay now.”

That nearly broke him.

You grabbed the emergency bag you always kept ready, being married to Superman had taught you to prepare for anything, and the three of you headed straight for the Fortress. There, under the sterile blue glow of the crystals, Clark paced while Gary scanned Leia. He couldn’t sit still, couldn’t stop wringing his hands, his heart pounding so loudly you could almost hear it.

When the scan finished, Gary’s calm, even tone filled the chamber, “Trace kryptonite radiation detected in subject’s bloodstream. Concentration minimal. Estimated full dissipation within twenty-four to forty-eight Earth hours. No permanent damage.”

You exhaled, shoulders sagging in relief. “So she’ll be okay.”

“Yes,” Gary confirmed. “But she requires rest. Hydration. And distance from the source until residual particles have fully cleared. Superman…we will disinfect you.”

Clark sat heavily on the examination chair, Leia still nestled in his arms. Relief hit him so hard it almost hurt. He looked down at her tiny face, pink and tired but peaceful, and whispered, “I could’ve hurt her. I should’ve known.”

You crouched in front of him, laying a hand on his cheek. “You didn’t know, Clark. You were sick. She just wanted to help her daddy. That’s what Leia does. She loves you too much.”

His blue eyes glistened as he looked at both of you. “She’s so small. I keep forgetting she’s got part of me in her. That the same things that can kill me might hurt her too. I can’t let that happen again.”

You smiled softly, brushing his hair back. “Then we’ll just have to be extra careful next time. No more cuddles until the kryptonite’s out of your system, okay?”

Leia made a sleepy noise, lifting her head slightly. “No cuddles?” she mumbled, her eyes half open.

Clark’s face crumpled into a wet laugh. “Not for a day or two, sweetheart. Doctor’s orders.”

She frowned weakly. “Dat silly.”

You kissed her forehead. “I know, honey. But we want you all better soon.”

-

Back home, Clark set up a makeshift sickbed on the couch, surrounding Leia with pillows, her favorite stuffed bunny, and a ridiculous number of blankets. He hovered constantly, checking her temperature every few minutes, bringing her water, reading her picture books in that soft baritone voice she loved so much.

When she finally drifted off to sleep, you came up behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist. “She’s going to be okay,” you murmured.

He nodded slowly, staring down at her. “Yeah. But I don’t think I will be, not for a while.”

You rested your cheek against his back. “You’re allowed to be scared. That’s what makes you human, Clark.”

Clark nodded but didn’t seem comforted. His thumb traced small circles on Leia’s back, his other hand trembling slightly where it held hers. “She’s just a baby,” he murmured. “She shouldn’t have to deal with any of this. I should’ve—”

“Baby,” you interrupted gently. “Stop. You can’t protect her from everything. She got this from wanting to take care of her dad. You know what that means?”

He looked up at you, eyes glassy.

“It means she’s got your heart,” you said softly, brushing your fingers through Leia’s curls. “Even when you’re weak, she wants to be strong for you. Just like you always are for us.”

He turned, pulling you close, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I don’t deserve either of you.”

“You deserve us because you love us,” you whispered back. “Now let’s love her through this too.”

He smiled and glanced toward the couch, where Leia stirred slightly and murmured in her sleep, “Daddy… love you.”

Clark’s hand tightened around yours. “Yeah,” he whispered. “I love you too, sweetheart.”

He kept a careful distance, afraid that lingering traces of kryptonite might still be on him, but you could tell it was killing him to not hold her properly. Eventually, when Leia whimpered softly in her sleep, he couldn’t resist anymore. He pulled her close, resting his chin atop her head and murmuring, “Daddy’s here, baby. You’re safe.”

-

By morning, Leia’s fever broke. She woke up groggy but smiling, her voice scratchy as she whispered, “Daddy okay?”

Clark let out a shaky laugh and kissed her forehead. “Yeah, little star. Daddy’s okay. And so are you.”

You smiled through tears, leaning to kiss both their cheeks. The sight of them like that, father and daughter, was enough to make your heart ache in the best way.

Leia yawned and cuddled back into Clark’s chest, whispering sleepily, “No more green rock, Daddy.”

Clark chuckled weakly. “No more green rock, I promise.”

-

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You didn’t even get a second to respond before he groaned loudly and face-planted into your chest, voice muffled against your skin. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

You couldn’t help but burst into laughter, threading your fingers through his dark curls. “That’s what we were trying to do.”

He slowly lifted his head, eyes filled with a kind of despair normally reserved for global catastrophes. “That’s the third time this week.”

“Fifth,” you corrected with a smirk, reaching for the robe draped over the arm of the couch. “You were just more patient the other nights.”

Clark dropped back with a dramatic sigh, sprawled across the cushions like a man who’d been personally betrayed by fate. “I swear to Rao… he’s doing this on purpose.”

“He’s six months old,” you said through a chuckle, tying the robe around your waist. “He doesn’t even know how to hold his bottle without punching himself in the face.”

“He doesn’t need to know,” Clark said, voice laced with righteous indignation as he gestured vaguely toward the ceiling. “He’s half Kryptonian. He can hear your heartbeat spike from three rooms away. It’s like setting off a car alarm and the car is me, trying to make love to my wife!”

You doubled over laughing, trying not to startle Jonah further. “He thinks I’m stressed, Clark. He’s not mad at you. He’s just trying to protect his mom.”

Clark flopped back dramatically again, eyes closed, one arm draped across his face. “He could protect you a little more quietly.”

You leaned over, kissed his temple, and whispered, “Poor baby.”

He tilted his head slightly, peeking one eye open. “You mean him or me?”

You smirked. “I’ll let you two fight it out.”

From the baby monitor came that all familiar cry again: “WAAAHHHHHHHHHH!”

Clark groaned again. “He wins.”

Jonah was a chubby little baby with big blue eyes and the reflexes of a cat. A Kryptonian cat.

You’d caught him levitating in his crib once at 3 a.m., spinning in lazy circles like a tiny ceiling fan, burbling to himself without a care in the world. Your soul had briefly left your body.

Clark, of course, had just walked in, looked up at your floating son, and beamed like he’d just won Olympic gold. “That’s my boy.”

Right now, that boy, your sweet-faced little alien spawn, was howling like someone had stolen his pacifier and slapped his dad.

The baby monitor had lit up the second your pulse quickened in the living room. The minute Clark had so much as kissed your collarbone with intent, Jonah went DEFCON 1.

Clark sighed as he trudged down the hall in soft grey sweatpants and bare feet, his hand rubbing his face. His hair was a mess, sexy, tousled, you were going to ride him like a comet kind of mess, and his shirt was still halfway on from when you'd tugged it over his head earlier.

He stopped in the doorway of the nursery, looked down at the tiny flailing ball of red-faced drama in the crib.

“What the hey, dude? I thought we had a deal?"

Jonah paused mid-wail for a second — just a second — as if processing the sound of his father's voice. Then he kicked his chubby legs and shrieked louder, little fists waving like he was delivering a speech to the Kryptonian Senate.

Clark dropped his head back against the doorframe with a soft thunk. “Oh my god,” he muttered, dragging both hands down his face. “You were asleep fifteen minutes ago. You had milk. You had a blanket fort. I tucked you in. I turned on the cloud nightlight. Everything was perfect.”

Jonah let out a high-pitched squeaky hiccup between sobs.

Clark sighed and crossed the room, scooping him up with practiced gentleness. Instantly, the crying shifted into pitiful little gasps and burbles. Jonah grabbed a fistful of Clark’s t-shirt, burying his face into his dad’s chest like he was the one who had been interrupted.

Clark patted his back slowly, rhythmically. His voice dropped into that soft, gravelly dad-tone you loved, the one that always melted you. “Come on, buddy. I was about to have a really good night with your mom. You know how rare that is? Like… eclipse rare. Halley’s Comet rare. You don’t even know how hard it is to get thirty uninterrupted seconds with her these days.”

Jonah made a snuffly baby noise that might have been a yawn. Or maybe smug satisfaction.

Clark rocked him gently, pacing a little as he cradled Jonah close. “I’m not mad,” he said, soothing. “Just… disappointed.”

You leaned against the doorframe behind him, arms crossed, trying to keep a straight face as you watched your two favorite people, one freshly naked and the other freshly diapered, negotiate bedtime like world leaders at a peace summit.

“You talking to him like he’s your college roommate?” you asked, amusement dripping from your voice.

Clark didn’t even turn around. “I’m hoping guilt works on Kryptonian infants.”

You laughed softly, stepping into the room. “You know he’s not crying because he knows what we were doing, right?”

Clark glanced over his shoulder at you, eyebrows raised. “You felt that monitor go off the moment your heart rate hit triple digits. It’s like he’s got a sixth sense for parental foreplay.”

You snorted and walked over to stroke Jonah’s hair. He was already half-asleep on Clark’s chest, soothed not by lullabies or pacifiers, but by his parents' presence.

You pressed a kiss to Clark’s shoulder, whispering, “He just loves me. He’s bonded. When my body gets worked up, he thinks something’s wrong.”

“Well,” Clark said with a small huff, “something is wrong. We were interrupted. Again.” He rocked side to side and added under his breath, “By the world’s tiniest cockblocker.”

Jonah burbled.

Clark narrowed his eyes. “Don’t take that tone with me.”

You covered your mouth to keep from laughing too loudly, then leaned up to kiss your husband’s cheek. “Want me to take him?”

Clark shook his head, already sitting in the rocking chair. “Nah. He needs me to forgive him first.”

You smiled, watching the two of them.

Clark, literal god among men, flying demigod, earth-saving superhero, looking absolutely done in by a six-month-old with chubby fingers and world-class timing.

Jonah nuzzled deeper into his father’s chest.

Clark sighed like he was losing a battle he’d gladly lose every day.

“I love you,” you murmured.

He looked up at you, sleep-deprived but still hopelessly in love. “Love you more.”

“Even though you’re not getting any tonight?”

“I mean… I’m not thrilled,” he muttered, rocking slowly. “But he’s cute. He gets a pass.”

You bent down, kissed Jonah’s soft baby cheek, and whispered, “You win again, little man.”

He sighed. “Yeah. You’re lucky you’re adorable, Jonah.”

Jonah farted in response.

Clark blinked. “Have kids, they said. It will be fun, they said.”

It became a routine.

Clark would so much as brush his fingers along your hip while you were doing dishes, or tug you into his lap during a lazy Saturday morning coffee, and the baby monitor would crackle to life like a warning beacon.

It didn’t even have the decency to ease into it. No build-up. No soft pre-cry grumble. Just:

“WaaaAAAHHHHHH!”

Clark would freeze like he’d just set off a booby trap in a temple, eyes wide, hands mid-squeeze, lips parted in disbelief.

You’d glance toward the monitor and sigh, already peeling yourself out of his arms.

But he just stayed still, staring at it like it had personally betrayed him.

Again.

Eventually, it became a bit of a game. How far could you get before Jonah's Sixth Sense kicked in?

The answer: Not far.

A lingering kiss? Cry. A moan? Cry. An inhale that sounded too much like a moan? Cry.

You tried to comfort Clark when it happened, kissed his cheek, rubbed circles on his back, reminded him Jonah was just a baby. But the look on your husband’s face was always the same: a mix of raw longing and deep emotional betrayal.

“He senses your vibe,” Clark grumbled once, fiddling uselessly with the monitor volume like that would help. “I swear it’s the vibe. He doesn’t even need to hear. He feels it.”

“He senses my heartbeat,” you corrected gently, sliding a hand up his bare chest. “When it spikes, he thinks I’m panicking.”

Clark narrowed his eyes. “You are panicking. Just in a different way.”

You smirked. “A good kind of panic.”

His jaw flexed. “I’m trying to be good.”

“Well,” you said, climbing into his lap, straddling him with slow, deliberate intent, “You could stop trying.”

He blinked. “...This feels like a trap.”

“Only if the baby monitor goes off.”

He looked toward it. It was dark. Silent. For once, Jonah was sleeping like an actual human infant and not a tiny sex-policing siren. Clark leaned in cautiously, lips brushing your jaw.

“You sure?” he whispered.

Your heart was pounding already. “Positive.”

His lips met yours, slow at first, then deeper, hungrier, a week’s worth of near-misses boiling over.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan, and he bit your bottom lip in return, a growl vibrating in his chest.

“Don’t start,” he rasped against your neck, voice rough and wrecked.

You grinned against his mouth. “You started it.”

And then—

“WAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

You both screamed internally.

Clark’s eyes squeezed shut, forehead thunking onto your shoulder as he made a strangled noise that sounded suspiciously like a sob.

He dropped back onto the bed like he’d been shot, rolled over, and shoved his face into a pillow. “I feel like I’m being edged by a six-month-old,” he muttered, voice muffled and utterly defeated.

You tried not to laugh.

Really, you tried.

But the sight of Superman, Man of Steel, protector of Earth, most powerful being in the known universe, getting utterly wrecked by his own baby’s cockblocking instincts?

You couldn’t hold it in.

You collapsed next to him, giggling uncontrollably.

He groaned louder. “Stop laughing. This is my personal hell.”

“Oh, babe,” you gasped, wiping a tear. “I think it’s adorable.”

“Adorable?!” He rolled onto his back, looking at you with wide, scandalized eyes. “I haven’t had sex since March. I’m this close to going full heat vision in the shower.”

You wiggled your eyebrows. “Kinky.”

He glared at you, grabbed a pillow, and smacked it over his own face. “End me.”

You leaned over him and whispered, “Maybe tomorrow.”

“WAHHHHHHHH!”

Clark raised the pillow and screamed into it.

Desperate times called for desperate solutions.

You and Clark had officially entered DEFCON 0 on the intimacy scale. Even the idea of foreplay had become a high-stakes gamble. So you got scientific. Tactical.

You tried soft music, lullabies, classical, even low-frequency binaural beats you found on some crunchy parenting forum.

Jonah slept… until Clark so much as brushed a thumb across your inner thigh.

“WAHHHHHH!”

You tried calming pheromone diffusers that allegedly simulated the smell of maternal safety.

Jonah was calm, sure. Until Clark kissed you like he meant it, and the baby monitor lit up like a Christmas tree.

You even invested in a white noise machine that made the nursery sound like a luxury rainforest spa. Birds chirping. Waterfalls. Gentle wind through bamboo. You’d stood outside the door and listened once, it was legitimately relaxing.

Jonah snored peacefully through it all.

Until you moaned.

“WAAAAHHHHHHHH!”

It was like his superbaby instincts were lasered into your pulse. The minute your blood got a little too excited, he snapped awake like a mini soldier under psychic attack.

At first, Clark tried to be a good sport. Really, he did. But by the second week of failed recon missions, he’d developed a sort of thousand-yard stare, the kind that only came from being so close to sex and being pulled back into platonic purgatory by a screaming baby.

One night, after an especially steamy session of mutual shirt removal and heavy petting (cut tragically short by yet another baby outburst), Clark collapsed back on the bed, arm over his eyes.

You lay beside him, panting, your bra still halfway undone.

There was a long silence.

“I’m starting to understand how Batman feels,” Clark muttered grimly.

You blinked. “Depressed and emotionally constipated?”

He turned his head just slightly to squint at you.

“No,” he said flatly. “Alone.”

You snorted. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I haven’t finished anything in weeks.” He gestured vaguely at himself, like his whole body had become a temple of frustration. “Do you know how many times I’ve had to fly to the Arctic just to take a cold shower inside a glacier?”

You started laughing so hard your bra strap fell off your shoulder completely.

“I’m serious!” he insisted. “At this point I’m worried I’ll sneeze wrong and cause a small earthquake.”

“You poor thing.”

“I am a poor thing,” he said dramatically, flipping onto his side to face you. “I am a man dying in the desert of desire, and my son, my own flesh and blood, is the sandstorm.”

You reached out and smoothed his hair back gently. “You realize how unhinged you sound, right?”

“I’m unhinged with need.”

You leaned in, voice low and teasing. “So do something about it.”

He inhaled sharply.

Then—

“WAHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Clark flopped backward and yelled into the mattress. “OH COME ON.”

You were crying laughing, doubled over beside him, mascara smudging under your eyes.

“I swear,” he said, not lifting his face, “this kid’s going to grow up thinking sex is a threat to national security.”

You patted his back, tears of laughter running down your cheeks. “Maybe it is. He is half-Kryptonian, after all. Arousal is probably considered a planetary emergency.”

Clark rolled over and pointed at the ceiling. “If anyone’s listening up there: I’m still technically a virgin again. Just so we’re clear.”

Eventually, Clark caved.

He sat straight up in bed one Thursday evening after Jonah’s third bedtime cry false alarm, hair wild, jaw clenched, and eyes blazing like a man who’d reached his breaking point.

“I’m booking a hotel.”

You blinked at him from your side of the bed, one eyebrow arching. “Seriously?”

He turned toward you like a man possessed. “Yes. A real hotel. With locks. And walls thicker than paper. And absolutely no baby monitor with advanced sonar capabilities.”

You stared at him for a beat, trying not to laugh. “You think that’s gonna work?”

“He can’t hear you,” he said, holding up one dramatic finger, “if he’s across the city in a soundproof apartment with Grandma Martha.”

You snorted. “Martha’s in Kansas, Clark.”

He didn’t even flinch. “Lois, then.”

“Lois will absolutely tell the entire newsroom that Clark Kent pawned his child off so he could get laid.”

“I don’t care,” he said, rising from the bed with the gravitas of a man on a mission. “Let them know. Put it on the front page. Print it in the Daily Planet. I don’t care anymore.”

You bit back a grin. “You want the headline to read: ‘Superman Grounded By Son’s Super Hearing — Can’t Get Any?’”

He pointed at you. “Six. Straight. Weeks.”

You laughed so hard you had to clutch a pillow.

Clark folded his arms, eyes narrowed. “This is not funny. I’ve been operating at Level 9 Hormonal Distress for a month and a half. I’m about to start leaving thirst traps on the Justice Squad message board just to feel something.”

You threw the pillow at him.

He caught it easily, tossed it back, then stepped closer, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “We need one night. Just one. No crying. No guilt. No onesies. Just you and me and a bed that doesn’t vibrate from Kryptonian baby screams.”

You softened a little, fingers playing with the hem of his t-shirt. “And what exactly are you going to tell Lois to convince her to babysit overnight?”

Clark’s grin turned devilish. “I’ll just say I need to save the world.”

You rolled your eyes. “She’s going to see right through that.”

“Probably,” he shrugged. “But she loves Jonah. And she owes me for that time I babysat her cat and it heat-visioned a hole through my suit pants.”

You blinked. “Wait—what?”

“Not important.”

You laughed again and leaned up to kiss him. “Fine. Book the hotel. But you’re making the call.”

Clark was already reaching for his phone, grinning like a man about to win the lottery. “Done. I’ll pack. You go pick out the lingerie.”

You gave him a look. “Clark. We both know I’m not even going to get the chance to put it on.”

He paused, then looked utterly stricken. “God, you’re right. I forgot how lingerie works.”

You shook your head fondly as he speed-packed a duffel bag in three seconds flat, then hovered in the hallway with that boyish, borderline feral excitement only he could radiate.

“Clark,” you called, laughing. “It’s not a race.”

He zoomed back in and kissed you breathless.

“It’s been six weeks,” he whispered hoarsely. “It is absolutely a race.”

One Lois hand-off, a hastily packed overnight bag, and a thirty-minute flight later, you were standing in the doorway of a sleek, quiet hotel suite.

Blackout curtains. Reinforced windows. Thick walls. No baby monitor. No cries. No interruptions.

Just you, Clark, and the kind of silence that promised only one thing: relief.

Clark set your bag down without even looking. His eyes were already on you, wide, reverent, dark with months of pent-up affection and unspent desire. He looked like a man dying of thirst who’d finally been handed water. Or maybe wine. Or maybe you, dressed in a fitted top and soft, stretchy shorts that had no business looking as good as they did on you.

“Come here,” he said, low, hoarse, reverent.

You took one step and barely made it another before he was on you, mouth crashing against yours like the weight of everything he hadn’t said, hadn’t touched, hadn’t felt in weeks came pouring out through his lips.

There was no hesitancy. No teasing.

Clark kissed you like he needed to memorize you all over again.

Like he was starving, and you were the first real thing he’d tasted in a year.

His hands slid up under your shirt immediately, no preamble, palms warm and sure as they gripped your waist, then your ribs, then up, dragging the fabric over your head in one smooth motion.

Your back hit the wall, and he growled against your mouth.

“Six weeks,” he breathed. “Six. Weeks.”

You gasped as his mouth moved to your neck, the heat of him pressing in everywhere, one hand already lifting your thigh around his waist. “You really kept count?”

“Down to the minute.” His voice was ragged. “I should be nominated for sainthood.”

You couldn’t help it, you laughed, and that only made him kiss you harder, his mouth slanting over yours with a frustrated, needy sort of intensity that said, “You’re mine. Mine. Mine.”

There was no Superman. No cape. No restraint. Just Clark — your Clark — with messy hair, flared nostrils, and hands that moved like they had a mission.

And god, had he missed you.

Every kiss felt like an apology and a celebration. A confession and a promise.

He pulled back for half a second, pupils blown, chest heaving. “Tell me I’m dreaming.”

You cupped his face, breathless. “You’re not.”

His mouth met yours again, softer this time, still desperate, but threaded with awe, like he still couldn’t believe you were here. Alone. No monitor crackling. No wailing.

Just two bodies, finally in sync again.

By the time you both made it to the bed — tangled in sheets, limbs intertwined, breath caught somewhere between gasping and laughing — you were flushed, dizzy, and so in love you didn’t know what to do with yourself.

Clark rolled onto his back beside you, chest rising and falling like he’d just flown across the globe, not just made love to his wife for the first time in a very long time.

You slid a hand over his heart, tracing lazy circles on his chest.

“Worth the wait?” you asked, teasing but soft.

Clark let out a half-laugh, half-groan and pulled you in tighter, kissing your forehead. “Worth the crying.”

You grinned into his skin. “Yours or Jonah’s?”

“Both.”

Then he leaned in close, eyes playful, voice mock serious. “Don’t tell Jonah.”

You chuckled, snuggling in closer. “Are you afraid he’ll cry telepathically?”

Clark paused. “…I’m not ruling it out.”

“Oh, baby, so good,” he grunts, his hips rolling into yours at just the right angle, his cock pressing against your g-spot and making you clench around him tight.

He glances down, watching as he stretches you, your pussy all swollen from the hours he’s been fucking you. He watches his cum trickle down, thick and creamy as it gathers beneath you on the bed.

You whine lowly, whatever energy you had left lost on you. Unlike Clark, you don’t have super stamina. It’s a good thing he lets you be his pillow princess, but it’s also extremely overwhelming. In the best way.

He watches as you lie there, body limp as you just let him fuck you. He almost feels bad about it, about how long he’s had you in bed for, about how many times he’s made you come and how many times he’s already spilled himself into your pussy, but you look so beautiful, and you feel so good, that his remorse is lost on him.

“Just one more, baby,” he begs, that animalistic ache in him needing to make sure he’ll get you pregnant. “One more, yeah?”

You nod, half-conscious, half lost to the pleasure. Your arms are feebly wrapped around his neck, his skin already red from where you’d scratched his back before. He leans down and gives little kisses over your jaw, down to your neck.

“I need you to use your words, honey,” he murmurs against your throat. “I need to hear you say it for me.”

“Yes,” you say breathlessly, nodding again. “One more.”

He nods back, his hips moving a little harder now, his cock slipping deeper into you. He groans, nibbling on your shoulder, feeling your inner walls weakly tighten around him.

You just mewl quietly, your body hot everywhere his skin meets yours. You can feel his cum, warm and sticky, where so much of it has pooled against your cervix. Each thrust of his ensures it stays there, right against your womb, ready to take and give you his baby.

Clark can feel it too, and it drives him insane. The mere thought of you with his child, belly swollen, all round and beautiful…

“Fuck,” he grunts, his hips stuttering. “Oh, fuck. God, can you imagine how pretty you’ll look all full of my baby?”

You shiver, letting out a broken moan. He feels you tighten around him and his cock twitches.

“You want that? Wanna be full of my cum, get that tummy nice and round from my baby?” he asks, thrusting faster, almost desperately now.

You squeak, nodding, not really able to say or do much more. You try to hold onto him with what little strength you’ve got left, your thighs starting to shake as that familiar ache of release builds low in your belly.

Clark leans back, pushing your knees up to your chest, folding you in half and fucking into you harder and faster. “Gonna give you my baby, girl. Gonna put my baby in you and make you a momma.”

You whine, squirming, the change in angle making you feel fuller each time his cock is all the way in you. One of Clark’s hands moves to your cunt, his fingers finding your clit and deftly rubbing messy shapes on it.

Between the overstimulation you were already dealing with, and the pleasure he keeps giving you, you don’t last long.

Your orgasm finds you, crashing over you in a burst of white-hot ecstasy. It spreads from your womb all over your body, making you squeal and moan his name, your cunt clenching around his cock tight.

Clark grunts, giving a few last, frantic thrusts before he comes too. He spills himself into you one last time, his cum thick as it coats your gummy walls. The thick head of his cock brushes against your cervix, keeping his release deep in you as he comes down from his high.

He’s panting heavily, black curls sticking to his sweaty forehead. Carefully, he lowers your legs and lies on the bed, spooning you, adamant on keeping his cock in you to avoid a single drop of his cum of going to waste.

He kisses your nape, lips gentle as he murmurs, “I hope it works. I’d like nothing more than to give you a baby. To have a baby with you…it would make me the happiest man alive.”

𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk <3

@booboobear-12 @savvysavsblog13 @donnadiddadog @akkahelenaa @tysukier @animegamerfox @absolutelybloodyhopeless @teenytinylilcrawdaddies @simpingreader @tezooks @justheretoreadmydear @lovexbunny @jazlinda @dolleciita @tinawantstobeadoll @preciselyshifts @markiplex @kissmxcheek @buckyisveryhot @rayamaya @fae-dreamer-99 @heynanasposts @lahniu @paddockspookie42 @lilychristine01 @chronic-fangirl-222 @sunnyteume @take-it-on-the-run @ninikrumbs @smzyyx @shamlesslipzz @spn-reader @gettingprettyfvckintired @cherryresidence @mollymal @liebgotts-lovergirl @lowrisemiller @mingyuziiiii @opalesquegirl @hrtsforstrkysblog @inside--her--fantasy @kodzuminx @evie2435 @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @diseasedclitoris @for-smut @soggywhore @snowfall--sunrise @sunmooner @elijahhewsonswifelol 

---

Clark Kent masterlist

by this point you're several months pregnant.

visibly pregnant, definitely showing, and unfortunately that means roy knows.

roy doesn't necessarily threaten you outright, but sometimes that's worse.

roy is the king of making people uncomfortable without saying exactly why.

lingering stares, comments that sound innocent until you think about them later, showing up unexpectedly, asking questions he has no business asking.

"baby healthy?"

it sounds normal, except the way he says it makes your skin crawl.

every interaction leaves you more exhausted than the last, and he knows exactly which buttons to push.

"sweet girl like you ain't built for this" "gator's got enough problems" "boy oughta be focused on his future, shame when people get in the way of that"

all said with that awful smile.

all vague enough that nobody else notices, but direct enough that you do.

you try not to tell gator because every time gator and roy fight, it gets ugly, and you know gator already has enough on his plate.

so you smile, lie, and say everything is fine.

every nasty comment, every threat hidden behind a smile, every reminder that roy knows exactly who you are, exactly where you live, exactly how much you love his son, and exactly how scared you are.

because now you're not just protecting yourself anymore, you're protecting your baby too.

that changes everything, and roy knows it.

and eventually, his tactics start working.

because you're tired and pregnant and emotional and scared.

and some days it feels like you're fighting a battle nobody can see.

everything feels impossible, and the worst part is you're convinced you're ruining gator's life.

before you and before the baby, gator only had to worry about himself.

now he has you, now he has a child, and now roy has more leverage than ever.

every time you try to tell gator, you look at his face and stop, because you know exactly what he'll do.

he'll confront roy, and if he confronts roy, things get worse.

so you stay quiet and carry it alone.

until one day, you break.

maybe it's after another encounter with roy, maybe it's hormones, maybe it's the fact you've spent months terrified. probably all three.

so you come up with a plan. a horrible heartbreaking plan, but a plan.

leave.

leave before things get worse. before roy escalates. before gator has to choose.

if you leave, roy can't use you.

if you leave, gator stays safe.

if you leave, maybe everybody wins. except you. but you've already decided that part doesn't matter.

that's the logic anyway.

you're sitting on your bed crying, suitcase open and throwing clothes into it, not even thinking. just moving.

you leave a note, and the note is soaked with tears. apologizing and telling him you love him, telling him the baby loves him, telling him this is for the best.

it’s absolute nonsense, but you're convinced it's true.

meanwhile, gator is having a completely normal day.

until one of your church friends accidentally mentions something.

"thought you'd be helping her move."

…move? move where? what move?

suddenly gator is no longer having a normal day. suddenly he's flying out of the building.

the entire drive he's trying not to panic, because surely they misunderstood.

and before you've even crossed county lines, guess whose truck appears behind you with blue lights flashing?

deputy gator tillman himself.

when he gets out of the truck, he's borderline furious and worried sick.

and now you're standing there beside your car crying with your suitcase in the backseat, and he immediately knows this isn't what you want. if it was, you wouldn't look so devastated.

"what are you doin'?" very quiet, because he's trying so hard not to lose it.

"gator-" "what are you doin'?"

his voice cracks this time, because he's starting to realize this is real and that you actually planned to leave.

without him and with his baby.

eventually everything comes spilling out.

roy. the comments. the pressure. the anxiety. all of it.

and gator just listens. doesn't interrupt. doesn't argue. just listens.

every sentence makes him angrier. 

not at you, never at you, but at roy.

hell, even at himself. at the entire situation, because he had no idea it got this bad.

"i thought it'd be easier if i just left" "easier for who? you? me? the baby?"

he looks heartbroken, genuinely heartbroken, because you were carrying all this alone and he didn't know.

"why didn't you tell me?"

as far as he’s concerned, his job is protecting you and protecting the baby, and you've been hurting this whole time by yourself.

you're trying to explain through tears that you're doing this because you love him and because you don't want roy hurting him and because you don't want him forced to choose.

gator just stares, then he points at your stomach.

"that's my baby" points at you. "that's my girl" points at himself. "and i'm not choosin'"

simple as that.

by the end of the night, the suitcase is unpacked and gator is sitting beside you on the couch.

one arm around your shoulders and the other resting protectively over your stomach, like he's physically making sure neither of you can disappear.

he probably doesn't sleep at all that night.

every few minutes he wakes up and checks that you're still there, quietly thanking whatever higher power that he got to you before you left.

tag list:

@cherriesncupcakes @ophirei @gldenrry @satellitestompers23 @gr3nadecats

@alex-voiddome @raedisconova @maricciardo @solynoche @thewineranout

@t4steb4ck @sarahinhersundaybest @mutual-future-repeat @maddwoman

@idonttpwk2 @dove702 @louisbelongstome28 @stoneyggirl2 @1011008

@lomlcamy @cciessuzi @cassofheartsss @angelssstyles @teacup-thoughts

@ideiamar @idjsdania @kisscopoet @elisabethmeetsworld @moonstoneandmoonlight

@pinkpearledswan @hungrilysymbol @dancingsharks @capucinebct @fallingwillow

rest will be reblogged.

the first time you met gator, you thought he was made entirely out of sharp edges.

he had that hard look to him, the kind that made a room seem quieter the second he stepped into it. his jaw stayed tight, his voice always carried that rough, gruff scrape like he had no patience for nonsense, and his eyes gave away almost nothing at all. he moved like a man who had learned early that softness was a weakness, that if you wanted to survive you kept your hands steady, your expression blank and your heart tucked away where no one could reach it.

at first, you believed him. everyone did, that was the version of him the world got. the cold one. the stern one. the one who barked orders, rolled his shoulders back, and looked like he had never once in his life needed anybody.

but then you got closer.

and the thing about gator was that the closer you got, the more obvious it became that all that hardness was just a shell. a good one, sure. a convincing one. but still a shell. underneath it was a man who was, to your complete and utter amusement, embarrassingly soft.

it didn't happen all at once. it happened in tiny moments, the kind that were easy to miss if you were not paying attention. the way his hand always seemed to find you in a room, fingers brushing your elbow, your wrist, the small of your back. the way he stood near you without realising it, like he needed the quiet gravity of your body beside his. the way his whole face changed when you smiled at him, like something in him loosened before he could stop it.

and then there were the days when he came home looking like he'd been dragged through hell by the ankles, all rough breaths and muttered curses, boots thudding against the floor as he kicked them off by the door.

those were your favourite days.

not because you liked seeing him worn down, but because he always made a beeline for you first. no matter how bad the day had been, no matter what kind of storm he had walked through on the way home, he always found you. you could be in the kitchen, your hands dusted with flour, or out in the backyard, and he would appear beside you with that dark, miserable look on his face like the world had offended him personally.

he would swear under his breath, rub a hand over the back of his neck, and then, without a word, just come right into your space and collapse against you like he'd been holding himself together only out of sheer stubbornness.

you would laugh softly every time, because there was something so absurdly tender about a man like him dropping all that weight the second he got to you.

“bad day?” you'd ask, even though you already knew the answer.

he would grunt, wrap his arms around your waist and bury his face against your shoulder. “horrible day.”

and then, quieter, because he never did anything halfway when it came to you, “need my woman.”

you always rolled your eyes at that, but never enough to hide your smile.

“yeah?” you’d say, rubbing his back. “need your woman, do you?”

he’d make some low sound in his throat, half exhausted, half amused, and tighten his hold on you like he was proving a point. he never asked for affection outright. of course he didn’t. he was gator. he would sooner swallow gravel than come right out and say he wanted to be held. but he wanted it so badly it was almost funny.

he wanted your arms around him the way a thirsty man wanted water.

and once you figured that out, you started to take your time with it, just to watch him unravel.

he would trail after you when you were busy, not saying much, just staying close enough that you could feel him there. if you were making dinner, he’d lean against the counter beside you, pretending to watch the pan but really watching you. one rough hand would settle on your hip, then slide to your waist, then drift to your back again like he was trying to touch you in a dozen small ways without having to say what he wanted.

if you were out, he would stand behind you with his hands in his pockets, pretending not to care about the flowers while his eyes tracked your every move. and every so often, he would just reach out and brush a thumb over your shoulder, or tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, or rest his palm at the back of your neck as if he needed the contact more than he needed air.

you always pretended not to notice for a little while, just long enough, then you'd finally turn to him, take one look at his gruff, expectant face, and open your arms.

and that was all it took.

all that tension in his body would go slack. his forehead would dip to your shoulder, his arms would circle you tight, and he would let out this low, almost relieved breath that made your chest ache a little every time. he held on like he meant it, like he could stay there forever if you let him, and sometimes you did. sometimes you stood in the kitchen with dinner half-finished and let him press himself into you while he tucked his face against your neck.

“there we go,” you’d murmur, one hand rubbing slow circles between his shoulder blades. “there’s my boy.”

he always pretended not to like that, he always failed at pretending.

the first time you called him your baby, he nearly choked on air.

it had been late, one of those warm evenings where the heat clung stubbornly to everything and made the whole house feel soft around the edges. he'd been stretched out against you on the couch, one heavy arm around your middle, his head tipped down against your chest while you traced lazy patterns over his back. he was quiet, almost sleepy, and when you looked down at him with all that affection in your chest, it slipped out before you could think better of it.

“you’re such a baby,” you had whispered, laughing gently. “my baby.”

he went still for one long, stunned second.

then he pulled back just enough to give you a look, all narrowed eyes and irritated dignity, but his ears had gone pink and his mouth had twitched like he was trying very hard not to smile.

“you done talkin’?” he muttered.

you’d laughed into his shoulder, delighted by how flustered he got when you were gentle with him. “oh, i think i can do worse.”

“reckon y'already are.”

but he hadn't moved away, not even a little. if anything, he pulled you closer and tucked your head against his chest with a hand at the back of your neck, like he was making a decision he had no intention of regretting. after that, he started doing it too. not immediately, not in the same syrupy way you did, but enough to make you notice. enough to make your heart do that stupid, helpless little jump every time.

he would murmur things against your hair when he thought you were half asleep. “my girl.” “you’re alright, baby.” “come here, sweetheart.” and every time, it sounded like he was testing the words on his tongue and finding, to his own surprise, that he liked the way they fit.

bedtime was when he really gave himself away.

in daylight he could still pretend. he could still act like he was made of iron and bad moods, like affection was something he tolerated rather than craved. but at night, all of that vanished. the second the lights went low, gator became a different man entirely.

a clingier one. a warmer one. a man who seemed physically incapable of sleeping without some part of him touching you. even on the hottest nights of summer, when the sheets were tangled and the air felt thick enough to breathe through, he would wind himself around you with shameless determination and drag you against his chest like he was afraid you might disappear if he let go.

“gator,” you’d whisper sometimes, laughing softly when he hauled you closer. “it is so hot.”

“mm.”

“you’re sweating.”

“don’t care.”

and that was the end of the discussion, because he truly did not care. he would tuck his face into your hair, one leg thrown over yours, one hand spread possessively over your waist and settle in like he'd been built to hold you. if you tried to shift away even a little, he would make this low, dissatisfied sound in his sleep and pull you back without ever fully waking. it was almost ridiculous how much he needed you there. almost. but not quite. because you needed him too, and the truth was that once you had him all soft and warm and tucked into you, you didn't feel like moving either.

there were nights when he would wake you with his mouth at your temple, giving you those slow, sleepy kisses that made your whole body melt.

there were nights when he would wake up first and just lie there, quietly watching you breathe, his thumb moving in absent circles over your side.

there were nights when he would tuck your head under his chin and hold you so tightly it felt less like being restrained and more like being cherished.

and in the morning, he was always a little embarrassed by it. not enough to stop, never enough to stop, but enough to scowl if you mentioned how affectionate he got when he was tired.

“you’re full of shit” he would say, even while his arm remained locked around you.

“mm,” you’d hum, smiling into his shoulder. “sure, baby.”

that would usually earn you a grumble and a hand at the back of your head, drawing you in even closer as if to prove the point that he could be as gruff as he wanted and still not let you go.

the thing that got you most, though, was how hungry he seemed for attention in the quietest way.

he never demanded it. he never stomped into a room and announced that he needed you, though he absolutely would have if he'd've been a less stubborn man. instead, he would just hover. appear in doorways. linger too long. brush against you when he passed, then pause as if waiting for you to notice.

sometimes he would sit nearby and watch you with the kind of intensity that made it obvious he was hoping, desperately and silently, that you would reach for him first. and every time you did, every time your fingers found his hand or your arms went around his neck or you kissed the frown off his mouth, his whole face would soften in a way he probably never realised anyone else ever saw.

there was one evening in particular that you remembered with fondness.

you had been in the backyard, tending to the flowers you had spent all afternoon planting. he had claimed he was just stepping outside for a minute, but somehow he had ended up following you from bed to kitchen to patio like a shadow with boots on. he stood there for several minutes, pretending to survey the yard, though the look on his face made it clear he would rather have been anywhere else if it meant getting to stop pretending he didn't care that you were in front of him.

you looked back at him over your shoulder and found him watching you with that same quiet, heavy expression he wore when he wanted something but would rather die than say so.

“gator” you said gently.

“what.”

“come here.”

he frowned, like he was suspicious of the tone, but he came anyway.

you set the little trowel down, wiped your hands on your jeans, and held your arms open without another word. his whole expression changed. subtle, but you saw it. the way his shoulders loosened. the way his eyes went soft. the way he looked almost relieved when you gave him what he wanted.

he stepped into you with a sigh that sounded more honest than any speech he had ever made.

“there you go,” you whispered, smiling into his shirt as he wrapped himself around you. “you just needed a hug.”

he huffed, one hand settling at the back of your neck. “did not.”

“sure.”

“just wanted you.”

you laughed quietly, because there it was again, the truth slipping out when he thought he was being too stubborn to give it away. you kissed his jaw, then his cheek, then the corner of his mouth, and he went still in that way he always did when you turned soft on him. not stiff exactly, just undone. like affection from you went somewhere deeper than he knew how to explain.

“my poor baby” you murmured, and he gave you a look that was supposed to be annoyed but came off terribly helpless instead.

“you keep sayin’ that.”

“because it’s true.”

“ain’t no baby.”

you smiled and traced a finger along his jaw. “you are with me.”

that got him. every time.

his eyes dropped to your mouth and then back to your face, and for a moment he looked almost shy, which was such a ridiculous thing for a man like gator that it made your heart ache all over again. then he leaned down, pressed his forehead to yours, and muttered, “reckon i can live with that.”

and later, when the sun went down and the sky turned dark over the yard, he followed you back inside with one arm draped over your shoulders.

it was easy to forget, sometimes, how much love could live inside a man who refused to show it to anyone else. easy to mistake silence for emptiness. easy to take his gruff voice and hard stare at face value and never look deeper.

but you looked deeper.

you looked deeper from the start and what you found there was so much sweeter than anyone would ever guess. a man who liked to be held more than he liked to admit, who craved your touch in quiet, steady ways, who softened like warm bread in your hands, who walked around pretending he needed nothing when all along he needed you.

and the best part was that once he had you, once he had your arms around him and your fingers in his hair and your voice speaking to him like he was something precious, he stopped trying so hard to hide it.

he would still act gruff, of course. still mutter and scowl and pretend your affection embarrassed him. but then he would pull you into his lap without warning, bury his face in your neck, and hold you like he had been waiting all day for the chance.

“you done?” you’d ask him sometimes, smiling when he tightened his grip just to be difficult.

“no.”

“gator.”

“stay.”

and how could you not?

how could you possibly refuse a man who looked at you like that?

so you stayed. you stayed and let him hold you, let him follow you around the house like a man starved for affection, let him press his mouth to your hair and mutter your name like a prayer. you stayed and called him your baby when he got too quiet, and let him call you his girl when he needed to hide his face in your shoulder. you stayed and kept giving him the hugs he would never ask for, because he always needed them most when he acted like he didn't.

and every time he folded into you with that relieved little exhale, every time his arms tightened and his whole body went warm and heavy and trusting, you were reminded of the same thing all over again:

gator might have been a hard man to everyone else but to you, he was all softness.

all need, all love, and all yours.

-

you’ll walk into the living room and find gator sat on the couch with maggie on his lap, the two of them both staring at the weather channel.

“looks like rain tomorrow” “ba” “yeah, that’s what i’m worried about”

when she’s really little, he’ll just carry her around the house having one sided conversations with her all throughout the day.

“need to switch the laundry over” “ba” “yeah, i know, shoulda done it it earlier” “ba” “don’t start” “BA” “yeah, i know your mama is gonna kill me”

he also will have these conversations in public. for example, the grocery store.

“babababa” “you’re right, eggs are too expensive” “BA” “exactly” “ba?” “i dunno, honey, i don’t set the prices”

then maggie discovers pointing, and conversations get a little more confusing. they start requiring some guesswork and clarification.

“what we looking at?” maggie points. “the cow?” maggie points again. “no?” maggie makes an angry baby noise. “the lamp?” more angry baby babbling. “ohhhh, the vacuum cleaner?” “BA” “there it is”

some evenings, they’ll sit on the porch together, gator with his beer and maggie with her teether.

“rough day?” “ba” “yeah” “ba” “that bad?” “BA” “damn”

It hit you in the middle of the day at work. It washed over you like a wave. Not cold like the lake in spring, it was warm like sinking into a bath.

Steve called your work the moment after it struck, did he feel it too?

You felt bad rushing him off the phone but your mind was too frazzled. You didn’t want to say anything to get his hopes up in case you were imagining it.

On your way home you stopped at the drug store, the cashier gave you a knowing look as she checked out your items.

Steve told you he would be home later than usual. His team had a game on and he always took the kids out for pizza after, win or lose.

When you got home you raced up to the bathroom. With the help of a lot of water, you did every test in the pack of three to be sure. Each one said the same thing in black and white, or rather, bright red lines.

You were pregnant.

Waiting for Steve to come home was agony. You had all this excitement and nowhere to put it. You thought about driving over to the game, surprising Steve in front of everyone, but you wanted to wait to keep the moment just between you.

You watched out the kitchen window waiting to see his car turn into the driveway. You checked the clock on the wall, eight o’clock, he should be home soon. As if you had summoned him yourself, his headlights shone into the window.

You ran to the front door, flung it open and sprinted out to meet him. He had just gotten out the car when you crashed into his body, wrapping your arms around his neck tightly and knocking off his coach’s hat in the process.

“Woah!” Steve stumbled back against the car from the impact. “Hey, honey. Miss me?”

You pulled back to look at him, you could barely hold the words in but you wanted to take a moment to admire the image of him seconds before changing his life forever.

Then you broke.

“I’m pregnant!"

“Wha–“

You kissed him before he could even respond, you had been waiting all day to do it. Steve was still a little stiff from the news, he hadn’t had the same time to process as you.

“Wait,” he said between your kisses. “Are you for real?”

You hummed a response against his lips, not quite ready to let him go.

“You’re sure? Like, with a baby?”

“No Steve, with a chicken,” you said sarcastically. “Yes, a baby! And I’ve got three tests to prove it.”

“Oh my Go–“ he couldn’t even finish the sentence before he kissed you again.

All the stiffness from his body dissipated. You both relaxed into each other's hold, moving your lips softly. Your teeth clacked together when you both smiled wide grins and you broke away to share a giggle.

Steve leaned back against the car, his hands fell to your hips as he drew you into him.

“When…?”

“Just a few hours ago, I got the tests on my way home.”

“Man. Us. Parents. Wow.” Steve could apparently only speak in one word sentences.

“Yeah, wow.”

His face suddenly dropped, his eyes darting between yours searching frantically for any uncertainty.

“Are you happy?”

You almost choked on your spit when he said it, like he even had to ask.

“Steve, I’ve never been so happy in my whole life.”

“Me too.”

He tenderly brushed his thumb over your cheek before he pulled your face back into his. His kiss was much firmer than before, so was his grip on your hips. You pressed your body hard against him, needing to feel him close to you. Steve responded by using his large hand on your face to tilt your jaw back and open your mouth to him. He licked into your mouth with a groan. His other hand slid down into a back pocket of your jeans.

“Steve…” you said warningly. “The neighbors will see us.”

“Don’t care.”

“You want the neighbours to think we’re perverts?” You broke away from him just enough to speak properly.

“With how loud you are, they probably already do.”

You pulled back with a bit more force, rolling your eyes at Steve.

“C’mon,” you said walking back towards the house.

Steve lingered against the car for a bit to collect himself. He felt like he was dreaming and was really hoping he wasn’t going to wake up as soon as he walked through the door.

“Look!” You squealed rushing up to him as he crossed the threshold, the three positive tests in your hands.

He was officially not dreaming.

Steve took them in his hand as he kicked the door shut.

“I never thought I’d be so happy to see something you peed on.”

You playfully shoved Steve’s shoulder at his joke. The thought crossed your mind that you hoped your baby would have his sense of humor.

And his eyes.

And his hair.

His smile.

The two of you settled in the warmth of the kitchen, illuminated only by the light above the stove. It was a warm orange glow that made Steve look like he had been dipped in honey, so sweet. Steve had brought you back some pizza which you quickly devoured, blaming your hunger on eating for two but really you’d hardly eaten that day from all the excitement, and maybe a bit of nausea.

You sat at your little dining table. Stave made a remark about how you probbaly wouldn’t fit a high chair around and that you’d need to buy a new one.

“Actually, we’re probbaly gonna need a whole new house,” he thought out loud.

You were resting your legs up on his lap while his hands idly stroked your calves.

“Can we please not talk about the logistics right now,” you groaned.

“These next months are gonna go by fast, we’ve got a lot of plan.”

Steve could be a little neurotic sometimes.

“Can we just enjoy it without any of the worry, just for tonight, please?” You leant forward in your chair to place your hand over his, stilling it on your leg.

Steve let out a huff through his nose. “Okay.”

He shifted his chair out a little. “C’mere,” he beaconed you softly.

You moved from your chair to sit in his lap. You locked your arms around his neck and let your legs dangle over to one side. One of Steve’s hands rubbed at your lower back, tempting under the hem of your shirt every now and then. His other splayed out over your belly.

“Who shall we tell first?” He asked, his lips against your cheek.

“Steve, we have to wait, you’re not supposed to say anything until after the first trimester.”

“Well how do we know how long it’s been?”

“We won’t until we go to the doctor but my last period was six weeks ago.”

“Six weeks…” he repeated.

You could practically see the cogs turning in his brain.

“Oh!” Steve clicked his fingers. “I bet it was that time you were wearing that super sexy red dress…”

You laughed, ”are you trying to figure out which time we had sex was the one that got me pregnant.”

“Uh, yeah.” His eyes bulged out as he spoke, as if what he was saying was obvious. “I wanna know the best technique for next time.”

Next time.

You felt your heart skip when he said it.

“What if it was that time you finished after like two minutes?” You teased.

“Oh c’mon, you said you wouldn’t mention that again,” he complained, giving your hip a pinch.

Steve then nuzzled his face into where your neck meets your jaw, his voice getting lower.

“If I come after two minutes, that’s only because you drive me totally insane.”

You sank into the feeling of his lips on your neck and his hands on your skin. Steve’s palm started moving over your tummy.

Your hands softly ran through his hair, scratching his scalp.

“You might have to get used to finishing fast,” you said.

Steve pulled his lips away to look to you, a confused furrow in his brow.

“When we have the baby, we’re not gonna have as much time for each other.” Your voice was a little quieter as you spoke.

“Hey,” he tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, “I thought you said logistics talk.”

“Sorry, I just– things will be different, you know. I mean, good different, but… different.”

“And we’ll adapt. We’ll make time for each other, I promise you.”

Steve always knew the right thing to say, it was one of his qualities that you knew would make him a great dad.

“I love you Steve, so much.”

“I love you too, baby, to the moon and all the way back again.”

You two talked for hours in the kitchens. The late hours of the night slipped into the early morning. Outside the street was silent, yours the only window illuminating the darkness.

You eventually dragged each other upstairs to get yourselves ready for bed. Both of you stood by the sink in the bathroom brushing your teeth. Steve’s bare chest behind you as he looked over you to the reflection in the mirror. You caught each other’s eyes now and then, smiling foamy grins through the tooth paste.

You spat into the sink and wiped away the residue around your mouth. You stayed where you stood, looking back at Steve’s reflection as he continued brushing.

“If it’s a girl, I want to name her after my grandmother,” you stated.

Steve scrunched up his face. “Nuh uh,” he grunted, his tooth brush still between his lips.

You turned around to look at the real life version of him, your arms crossed over your chest. “Why not?”

Steve removed the brush from his mouth. “Because…”

You moved slightly out the way to make room for him to spit in the sink behind you.

“Your grandmother’s name was Mildred.” His mouth was still covered in foam.

“Not her,” you chuckled. “My other one, Lilly.” You used the towel in your hand to wipe the residue off Steve’s mouth.

“Lilly,” he repeated, testing how it sounded. “I like it.”

“Hm, I don’t know, now you mention it I kind of like Mildred. Oh! Millie for short, how cute.”

“We can save that for the next one.”

Next one. He kept saying that.

“Or maybe it’ll be twins,” Steve spoke again before you could.

You looked at him blackly. “Don’t even joke about that.”

You snuggled into bed, the warm covers drowning you with a little help of Steve’s body. It was late and you both had work in the morning. It seemed you two had mutually agreed to hold off on any celebrations until the weekend.

You lay on your back as Steve leant over you to place a soft kiss to your lips.

“Goodnight baby,” his whispered against them.

“Goodnight,” you replied, still pressed to him.

Steve shuffled down the bed, his head ducking under the covers.

He lifted your shirt and pressed his lips to your tummy, just below your belly button.

“Goodnight other baby.”

You laughed as he came back up to give you another kiss on the cheek.

“Imagine kissing our little baby goodnight,” Steve said, the light in his eyes illuminated his whole face.

“They’ll be so tiny.” You pictured a little baby face in your mind, it looked a lot like Steve in his baby pictures.

“So tiny, like a little nugget.”

“Steve, you promised you weren’t gonna call them that,” you complained.

“C’mom, it’s cute.”

“It’s way too late for me to argue with you right now.”

“So what you’re saying is, I win.”

“For now.”

“I’ll take that.”

With a final kiss to your nose, Steve settled next you. You rolled to your side and pressed your back into his front. Steve wrapped tightly around you, both his arms and legs holding you like the was clinging to a tree branch. Steve hummed contently into the back of your neck.

Steve listened to your breathing slow as you drifted into sleep. It was the only sound in the room. Just you. He could tell you had fallen asleep when he noticed your lips part slightly.

Steve lay wide awake. Any tiredness he felt seemed to disappear the moment he was supposed to close his eyes. There was so much going on in his head. Like he was thinking every thoguht at once. But they weren’t bad, it wasn’t worry about how things would change, or all the things you would need to prepare in the coming months. It was just you. You and the baby. His baby. Your baby that you made together.

The funny thing was, while you had the feeling you were pregnant in the afternoon. Steve felt something from the moment he woke up that morning.

He was up before you, he usually was with the early starts at the school, he looked over to your face pressed softly into the pillow.

She’s glowing, he thought.

Sure, he woke up everyday and thought to himself how beautiful you were next to him, but something was different, more radiant. He stared at you for a little longer than usual. So long in fact that you started to wake up, as if you could feel his intense stare physically on your skin. You looked at him slightly confused as you woke.

“You’re still in bed?” You said, your voice barely in the realm of the living.

“Mm, just wanted to get a good look at you. It’s gotta last me the whole day.”

You smiled, your eyes drifting shut again.

“You’re sweet.”

Steve lent down to press kiss to your cheek. “And you are beautiful.”

When he could finally pull himself away from you, he left for work. It was a tough day for Steve. The image of you in the morning was seared into the back of his eyelids and every time he so much as blinked, he saw you.

He didn’t want to get his hopes up. Didn’t want to let himself think it could be true just for it to turn out not to be.

He called you after lunch. It wasn’t unusual for Steve to call you at work during the day, but it was when he had a game on that afternoon, usually he was too busy herding children.

“Hello?” You said when you picked up, your voice slightly shaky.

“Hey, baby,”

“Steve,” your voice was much steadier after hearing his, “hi. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just wanted to hear your pretty voice.”

He heard the air leave your lungs as you softly chuckled down the phone.

“You’re so sweet to me today, Stevie.”

“I just love you.”

“Well, I love you too. I’m sorry I can’t really talk right now but I’m glad I got to hear your voice. Good luck for the game.”

“Thanks, baby. I should be home around eight, or I can be back earlier if you need–”

“No, that’s okay, I know how much the kids look forward to pizza with Coach Steve.”

“Well maybe Coach will be sweet enough to bring you back some.”

“Hmm, I think he will.”

The Hawkins Cubs lost by the smallest margin, which for the current season was a pretty good result. Steve hoped the loss wasn’t because he was a little distracted the whole game.

He just couldn’t stop thinking about it.

He imagined what it would be like to coach the team with his own kid stepping up to bat, you cheering them both on from the stands. Maybe another little baby on your hip.

Okay he was getting way ahead of himself now. He couldn’t even be sure you were pregnant with your first, let alone a second child. He hadn’t even asked you if you had any signs that you could be pregnant. All he knew was the one he confirmed with his own eyes.

She’s glowing.

Then he came home and you said those words.

“I’m pregnant!”

At first he didn’t believe it, thought he had deluded himself so much throughout the day that he had made up his own reality.

But it was real, you were real, the baby was real.

Now here he was laying in your shared bed, with everything that he ever could have hoped for right there in his arms.

He shifted a little, his crotch pressed firmly against the swell of your ass. Not to try anything but just to feel closer to him. Which turned out to be a big mistake because even in your sleep you responded to his touch, wiggling your hips to get comfy.

Steve took a breath as your movement sent a wave of heat up from his dick to his brain. The slightest touch from you turned his thoughts dirty in seconds. Suddenly all the sweet thoughts he had about you and the baby were replaced with much darker ones.

He thought about what it felt like to be inside you. To feel you squeeze him as he came like you wanted to take every bit of him.

He thought about him cum living inside of you, creating life. Part him, part you, forever bound together in a single entity.

Then he thought about what was to come. You carrying his child. You were going to get bigger with each day and he was drooling at the thought of it. He imagined what it would feel like to stroke your belly, hold it, while he fucked you.

Steve didn’t even realise his hips were moving until a soft groan came out of your lips.

“Stevie,” you whispered, “what’re you doin’?”

Steve wasn’t quite sure if you were even awake or just having some sort of waking dream.

“Shh baby, nothing, go back to sleep.”

His movements slowed but didn’t completely come to a stop.

“You're hard,” you said, too sleepy to make it sound sensual, so it came across more like you were scolding him.

“Sorry.” He stopped. “I couldn’t sleep and I started thinking about stuff, and I– shit, I don’t know.”

You hugged his arms that were holding you a little tighter and wiggled your hips against him, this time deliberately. Steve sucked in a sharp breath.

“What were you thinking about?” You asked so sincerely that Steve felt a little weird about telling you the extent of the thoughts in his mind.

“You really wanna know?”

“Mmm,” you hummed in agreement.

“I was thinking about you…” Steve started moving agaisnt you again.

“Obviously.” You matched his lazy rhythm.

“You and me, and our baby.” His hands slid under your shirt, his palm rubbing your lower belly.

“Yeah…” you sighed into Steve’s comforting touch.

“How we made it–” he kissed the back of your neck, “–together.”

You could feel Steve getting harder through the thin fabric of both your underwear as you ground into each other. Steve’s body burned behind you, his hot breath caressing your skin.

“Go on,” you encouraged. You reached behind you to run your fingers through Steve’s hair.

“Then I started thinking about how good you feel.” Steve’s large hand inched lower each time he stroked you. “When I’m deep inside you.”

Your bodies pressed harder together with each deep breath you took.

“How much I love to to fill up your perfect cunt.”

“Steve…”

Steve’s dirty whispers and gentle touches made you dizzy, a sleepy haze still clouding you.

“And to think it fucking worked. It worked… you let me come inside you–mmm–breed you–fuck–and now you're pregnant with my baby, our baby. You have no idea what that means to me.”

“So show me…”

Steve’s finger pressed into your clit through your underwear, you gasped.

“I’m gonna show you every day for the rest of my life.”

His rough fingers pushed your panties to the side to caress your puffy bundle.

“Holy shit. Baby, are you even more wet than usual?”

“You’re teasing.”

“I’m not. Is this a pregnant thing because, fuck, I could get used to this.”

“It’s just a you thing, Steve.”

“Hmm, you’re all wet just for me, huh?”

“Always for you.”

“I’m the luckiest guy in the whole world to have you like this. All full of me and you want more, don't you.”

“Yes.”

“I want it too baby, so bad. Need to feel inside your sweet pussy now you got a baby in there.”

“Please, do it Stevie.”

Steve fumbled with your panties, pulling them down as you reached behind, tugging at the waistband of his breifs. You were both doing everything purely by feel, your bodies still tucked under the covers. You both kicked down your underwear, your panties still clinging to one of your ankles. Steve was practically vibrating with need as one of his hands gripped your hip, the other around his cock as he lined up to you. As soon as you felt his fat tip ghost over your entrance you pushed back into him, taking the first few inches of his hard cock.

“Fuck,” he moaned out.

You turned your head back as far as you could and Steve leant forward to capture your lips in a wet kiss. You circled your hips, grinding on his cock and you breathed deeply into his mouth.

Steve slowly thrusted his hips as yours moved over his. You two created a perfect rhythm like you’d known nothing but each other’s bodies your whole life. Your movements were still lazy, and being under the covers and surrounded by him had both of you sticky with sweat already.

“Steve…” your breathed out his name, your head lulling back against his shoulder.

“That feel good, baby?”

You hummed a response.

“Yeah, you feel so good, so perfect,” he took the words right out your mouth.

One of Steve’s arms that were wrapped around you, held you tighter against his chest, his hand reaching up under your shirt to massage your breast.

You were both trying to get as close as possible to each other, even with Steve’s cock slowly thrusting deep, it still didn’t feel enough. You reached behind you, your hand in his hair again, not scratching but pulling this time. You pulled his head down into the crook of your neck. His wide open mouth attached to your skin. His tounge tasted the sweat on your skin.

“God, you were made for me baby. We fit so good together,” Steve whispered against your neck.

“So good…” you moaned.

Steve hand slowly trailed from your hip, into the inside of one of your thighs. He picked it and swung it back over his hip, opening you up more to him.

“Oh! Mmm…” The new angle hit you just right, Steve’s cock poking at the spot inside you that made the amount of sweat on your skin double in seconds.

You clenched hard around him and Steve squeezed your thigh harder.

“That’s it baby, squeeze me, show me how much you want me.”

“You know how much I want you Stevie, so much, I’m having your baby.”

“Yeah you are, my pretty, pretty girl is having my baby,” he said it like he still couldn't quite believe it.

The hand on your thigh, crawled its way back up your body. You whined as he skipped over where you really needed him and fanned out his hand wide over your tummy.

He pushed down firmly, forcing you more into his hips. “Right in here.”

Steve’s thrusts intensified. Not in his speed but in his pressure. He was firm, insistent, like he knew exactly what he wanted, you.

“Shit–oh baby, so deep, I’m–ugh–gonna fill up your tummy.”

Your hand that wasn’t tangled in Steve’s hair, reached down your body, brushing past the back of Steve’s hand as he held your tummy. Two of your fingers firmly rubbed at your clit to get yourself to Steve’s level.

“Wanna come with you,” you whined.

“Yeah, come with me baby,” Steve placed his hand over yours as he encouraged your fingers. “Wanna feel you come as I fill you up,”

A particularly devastating thrust of Steve’s hips threw you off your rhythm. Your back arched away from him but he used his arm to hold you tight. His fingers completely took over yours on your clit. Not even the heavy duvet could muffle the wet sounds of Steve’s cock thrusting into your dripping cunt, his fingers rubbing your throbbing clit.

Your breathing was short and fast as you felt your climax building with the same speed. Steve grunting in your ear with each thrust.

“Oh! I’m gonna cum–uugh Steve–please.”

“I’m right there with you–hmmmm–i’m cumming, take it baby.”

“Steve, oh fuck.”

The two of pulsed where your hottest parts connected, slick cum filling the voids around you.

“Fuuuuuck, baby, it’s so wet.” Steve kept thrusting and kept fondling your clit.

“Ga–uuh.” Waves of pleasure kept flooding you as Steve drew your orgasm out like he wanted to savour it.

Savour the way your fluttered around him. Savour the wetness that grew between you. Savour the sweet sounds of your heavy breath and pleasured moans. Savour the way you said his name.

Eventually he couldn’t take it anymore. He was completely milked dry by your needy cunt. He stilled behind you, his tight grasp a little more relaxed. He rolled so he was on his back taking you with him so you were laying on his stomach, your back still to him.

You kicked off the covers, not able to take the way they clinged to your sweaty skin. You rolled off Steve and onto your front next to him, his arm pinned under you.

“Wow,” Steve broke the silence.

You turned your head to face him, reached your hand out over his chest. He immediately covered yours as he took it in his hand and lifted it to his lips.

Your eyes drifted shut, and soft smile on your face, so content. Steve saw you glow again, even in the darkness of the room.

“Tired?” He asked.

You nodded your head softly against the pillow.

“You get your sleep, baby, you’re gonna need it.”

Steve turned his body to you, his hand still holding yours as his other brushed some of your hair out your sweaty face.

“Are you actually going to sleep now?” You asked him.

Steve chuckled, “I’ll try. I just have to not think about how amazingly beautiful you are.”

“It’s a wonder you get any sleep at all,” you teased.

“It’s very hard.” He sounded to you like he was joking but he wasn’t.

You opened your eyes briefly to see Steve’s brown eye gazing back at you.

“Goodnight, Stevie.”

“Goodnight, my love.”

Steve pressed a soft kiss to your flushed cheek as your eyes closed. You quickly fell into the warmth of sleep.

Much like he did this morning, Steve watched you as you slept for a while before he let sleep pull him away from you. The last thing he remembered thinking as dreams took him was the same thing he first thought that morning.

She’s glowing.

A/N: more baby fever in the works… stay tuned…<3

You're awoken by a loud crack of thunder that makes your shoulders jump, followed by a bright flash of lightning nearly illuminating your entire bedroom. For a second, you see the soft pile of sheets and blankets on Gator's side of the bed — an organized mess where his body once was. You blink your puffy eyes as you adjust to the darkness, ignoring the clutter on your floor that you've yet to clean up, and instead swing your legs over the bed to get up.

When you open your bedroom door, you hear quiet musings coming from the dining room. The undeniable voice of a little girl and your boyfriend, deep in a conversation about god knows what. You rub your eye, despite hearing Gator's scolding in your head about it ("gonna hurt yourself if you keep doin' that", he always says), and pad out to see the duo sitting at the table, each with a fairy Barbie in hand.

"Mama!" June exclaims, shuffling onto her knees. Gator quickly darts his arms out, a rough sound escaping his throat.

"On your tush only," he gently chides, and you smile gently at his kind parenting methods.

"What's all this, then?" you ask, leaning your shoulder against the doorframe. "Having some sort of secret Barbie meet-up?"

"No, mama," June pouts as she sits back down in her chair. "Stormin'."

You hum. "I know, baby. Did you get scared?"

June nods bashfully. You peer over at Gator, who's suddenly extremely interested in Barbie's pastel purple fairy wings.

"Did Gator help you with being a tough girl?" you ask, slowly stepping towards your boyfriend. June nods again, this time pushing some messy hair out of her face.

"Uh-huh. Made me chocolate milk."

"Oh, did he?" you smile, wrapping an arm around Gator's shoulders, pulling him close to your stomach. "What else did he do?"

"Bowling!" June yelps, pointing to the ceiling. You raise an eyebrow and Gator sighs, glancing up at you.

"Told 'er what Dot used to tell me when I got scared of thunderstorms," he mutters, taking his hand into yours. "Just the angels bowling."

Your smile morphs into something softer, and you lean down to press a kiss to the top of his head.