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back in highschool i was a camp counselor, and we had to choose names. i chose the name "snowberry" and all my kids called me "snow" like snow white.
now, to ruin that perfectly innocent memory, my blog name is "snowberriies" ruining for all the smut i repost
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summary: away from the hospital, frank has found success as 'doctor francis,' a creator of erotic audios, with a 'smart mouthed' nurse sometimes mentioned as the inspiration for his enemies to lovers scenarios
pairing: dr frank langdon x fem!reader (briefly)
word count: 1k+
warnings: 18+, minors dni, frank records erotic audios, there's a fem!reader (nurse!reader) mentioned twice but otherwise he's just talking to his listeners, dirty talk, his listeners are called 'baby' once, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, masturbation, breeding kink (mentioned), face fucking (mentioned)
kinktober masterlist / previous post
a/n: a longer take on this little post, doctor francis would definitely get a few listeners on quinn. anyway, as always, likes, comments, reblogs and feedback are always welcome, the more the merrier
His hand is already stroking his cock before he hits record, the most recent script he had just completed - a enemies to lovers/co-workers to lovers scenario, where he and the listener get accidentally stuck in a storeroom - still up on the other screen, his cum still sticky on his lower stomach. His set up wasn't professional, there was nothing to muffle out any background noises, it was just him, a microphone, a few toys, if he so decided to use them, a lot of lube, and his monitors. But it worked.
He's too lost in the feeling of his hand that he forgets for a second that he's recording.
He recovers with a cough, clearing his throat, and follows it up with a short chuckle, the sound deep in his chest.
âHi, everyone, it's Doctor Francis with another quickie.â He starts all his rambles like this. âI hope you're all having a good day, or night, maybe you're even listening to this in your car, on your way to work. I've seen your comments, I know there are a few naughty ones who like to do that.â
Reaching for the nearest bottle of lube, making sure the mic catches him undoing the cap, a large helping of lube hits his palm and he groans, stroking it messily over himself, mixing more lube into the concoction of lube and cum already making his cock shine.
âI just finished recording a new script and, shit, well, clearly my dick has got a mind of its own, because I'm still so fuckinâ hard.â Frank plays it off with a laugh, the heat filling up his cheeks making him thankful that he just recorded the audio for these things. âFuck,â he hisses, âit's so sensitive. Not even sure how long this is gonna be, could be a few minutes, could be tenâŠâ He trails off, moving his large hand up and down, only using slow strokes.
He tips his head back and squeezes his eyes shut, moaning loudly. He was gonna need to edge himself if he wanted to make the audio worthy enough of being posted.
âAre you already touching yourself? Getting yourself off on the sound of me stroking my cock?â
He already feels dizzy, his cock twitching against his palm, thoughts erratic already thinking about the string of comments that are left under all his posts; his loyal fans telling him how much they like to hear him.
You sound so fucking hot when you cum!!! đŠđŠđŠ
TGIF! I'll never skip a Doctor Francis audio!!
đ„”đ„”đ„” My soul left my body!!
I've never been this wet before! #DADDY! đŠđŠ
He almost chuckles but stops himself at the last minute.
âGod, it's so messy,â he groans, whimpering as he teases the tip with his thumb. A fresh pearl of cum drips and he swipes it up and over the slit, his hips jerking as he does. He was most sensitive there after coming, and it was swollen and aching so badly. âBut you love it when it's messy, don't you?â He teases, jerking his hand faster to pick it up on the audio.
âWhat are you using? A toy? Just your fingers?â He smirks, running his fingers through his hair, sweeping back the damp hairs from off his forehead. âMaybe you're imagining me there with you? Would you beg for it? Beg me to fuck you until you can't think straight? Hmmm, have me fuck that pretty brain right out your head?â
His eyes fall shut, picturing you, the nurse not afraid to talk back to him, stroking himself faster imagining you sprawled on your back, using your fingers to get yourself off as you listened. A secret fan, he liked to imagine you as one, even if he had no evidence of it.
âYou're here with me,â he speaks out loud to the listener, âon your knees, mouth open, letting me fuck your face. Iâd love to coat your throat with my cum, baby. Maybe spill it all over your ass instead.â He hums, biting his bottom lip. âOr breed you, fill your pretty pussy up with some much cum, it's just leaking everywhere. Would you like that? Need me to put a baby in you?â
He curses up a storm, rambling under his breath, and slows his hand down, that familiar clench of his stomach and tightening of his aching balls forcing him to stop.
âShit, that was too close,â he exhales a jagged breath, the corners of his mouth curling at the few drops of cum leaking onto his hand. It's a little bit of satisfaction to keep him going for a few more minutes. âShe inspired this new audio - the nurse from work,â he says, sharing with his listeners, the information slipping from him before he can stop it, âa smart mouth just begging to have some respect fucked into her. None of you would talk to me the way she does. Hmmm, not when you're all so greedy to hear how good you are for me.â
He cuts in with a deep groan, fucking his hand faster, hips lifting in a failed attempt to meet each stroke like he was fucking up into someone. Into you.
âFuck, I'm so close-!â He doesn't stop this time, the sounds he's making so beautiful it's poetic, moaning loudly. His balls tighten and his stomach clenches, thighs trembling from the strain. âCome with me, come with me, come with me,â he chants, tossing his head back, a guttural groan ripping through him, âthat's it, here it comesâŠ!â
Cum spurts out in thick ropes, coating his hand and dripping off the tip. He whines as more leaks out, his chest heaving, lungs burning as he forces oxygen into them, his orgasm punching through him harder the second time around. He keeps going until he's completely spent, hoping it all - his whimpers, the messy strokes, the breathlessness - gets picked up in the audio.
Eventually, he finds the strength to bring himself closer to the microphone, his cock now soft and limp. He signs off, like always, with a simple, âGoodbye until the next one.â
When the Kids Are Sick in Bed, Mommy Gets Some Head
Summary: With the kids sick and their fun weekend plans canceled, Frank and Y/n get up to some unexpected fun of their own.
Word Count: 4,383
Warning: Smut, NSFW, 18+
Author's Note: This one kind of got away from me. I initially started writing this for this submission with no intentions of including any smut. But once I started writing, things just took that turn and there was no going back lol Hope you all enjoy it! Let me know your thoughts!
Y/n always woke up at around 6 in the morning. Ever since Theo started preschool, her internal alarm clock always rang at 6. Whether it was the weekend or a weekday. Whether she slept early or late. Her body didnât know the differenceâor maybe it did, and it just didnât care. Either way, today was no different.Â
Blinking away the sleep from her eyes, she checked the time. 6:05 AM. Exactly 25 minutes before their actual alarm would go off.
Glancing beside her, at her husband still fast asleep, Y/n sighed. It was tempting to let her heavy lids close once again and enjoy a few more moments of rest. Unfortunately, as nice as that would be, she couldnât. She shouldnât. Not when there was still a laundry list (laundry included) of things left to do.
Today, Frank and Y/n were taking the family out to the lake for a weekend full of sun, sand and some quality time together. They usually try to make the trip out at least a few weekends throughout the summer. But with a new project at work forcing Y/n to work odd hours, Frank having to pull overtime with the hospital short-staffed (as always), all on top of getting the kids to and from their summer programs, they just havenât been able to make it work.Â
After updating the communal calendar with their schedules for this week, Frank and Y/n turned to each other in shock. The stars finally aligned. For the first time in what felt like forever, they shared the same days off.
They knew exactly what they needed to do. More specifically where they needed to goâLake Eerie. Not only was a long weekend out on the lake well-deserved, it was also well overdue.Â
Back when it was just the two of them, it had always been their favorite way to get some quality time in and unwind after a grueling work week. Wading out in the water all day with a pack of beers. Returning to shore only once the sun began setting, and the clouds above them turned cotton candy pink. Afterwards theyâd usually chill out on the cabin deck, grill up some burgers. Sometimes, when things inevitably got hot and heavy between them and they were too lazy to head back inside, theyâd even end up in each otherâs pants, right there under the stars.Â
Of course, once they had the kids, lake weekends became a lot less practical and therefore a lot harder to come by. Now whenever they did manage to get out there, their itinerary evolved into a sanitized, child-proofed version of it once was. They traded in boozed up bonfires for building sandcastles. Their cooler was now filled with juice boxes rather than beers and seltzers. But the most notable difference was that it was far more work packing, unpacking, then packing everything all back up again, now that it was four of them rather than just two. But hearing the kidsâ soft snores and seeing their content little smiles from the rear view mirror on the drive back home made it all worthwhile.
Frank and Y/n stayed up pretty late the night before getting things ready while the kids were in bed. It was around 11 PM when they finally threw in the towel, deciding to leave the rest for their future-selves to figure out in the morning.Â
Now that it was said morning, Y/n cursed her past-self for making that selfish decision. She moved to get up and get a head start on it all but was held down by the arm draped over her stomach. âToo early,â Frank murmured. His morning stubble scratched her skin as he nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck, urging her to stay in bed.Â
Already set on starting the day, she ignored him. But the harder she tried to pry his arm off her, the tighter he held on.Â
Who could blame him for wanting a couple more minutes cozying up in bed with his wife when the chance to indulge in lazy mornings together were hard to come by as of late. His lips pressed a hot kiss against that spot on her neck he knew would have her folding. And in no time, Y/n relented with a sigh. In part because, yes, he knows just what buttons to press to get what he wants. But also because she wasnât willing to exert any more energy fighting a losing battle with him this early. They had a long day ahead of them.
Turning over her shoulder, she shuffled closer into him. His arms wrapped around her tightly. He hummed in satisfaction as her fingers trailed up to the nape of his neck to rake through his messy head of brown hair. They stayed like this tangled under the covers, basking in the peace and quiet till their alarm finally went off.Â
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Bzzz. Bzzz. Bzzz.
Rolling right on top of Y/n, Frank groaned as he reached over to shut it off. The ringing and buzzing stopped, but he stayed in place, hovering over her, taking her in with his eyes. There was something about being the only one to see the beauty of her totally undone, to be the only one with the privilege of waking up beside her like this every morning, that stirred something within him. His eyes traveled hungrily down the delicate skin of her neck, to the swell of her breasts and the peak of her nipples hidden under one of his old college shirts. Then they went lower, admiring the curve of her hips and waist, stopping at the cheeky pair of striped panties peeking out from under the ratted hem of his shirt. When his eyes traveled back up her body, landing on her face once again, he was met with a disapproving look.Â
âNo,â Y/n said plainly.Â
âWhat? I didnât say anything.âÂ
âYou donât need to.â If his intentions werenât already painfully obvious by the look on his face, his knee nudging her legs apart gave him away for sure. Luckily Y/n slipped out of his grasp before he could press the other buttons he knew would have her in the palm of his hand.
âYou had your chance to get a quickie in earlier, before the alarm went off. You chose to sleep instead,â she said, already halfway to their bathroom. âItâs too late now.â
Their white sheets ruffled under the weight of Frank plopping himself down on them face-first. She was right. But he wasnât ready to give up. Stubborn as always, he rose from the bed quickly to join her in the bathroom. He came up behind her, hands resting low on her hips, pulling them against him as she stood up. She continued with her skin care routine unphased, ignoring both the stiffness pressing right against her ass, and the dull aching between her legs as a result.
âY/n,â he hummed in her ear. His striking blue eyes looking at her through the mirror. A wandering hand slid up her waist, across her stomach, cupping her breast greedily. âCâmon, we both needed the extra sleep, but weâre up nowâ âÂ
âYeah, weâre not the only ones up,â Y/n joked, reaching behind her to palm him quickly, teasingly.
Frank threw his head back, swearing under his breath, trying to get a hold of himself. The pained look on his face almost made her feel bad if it werenât a) so funny how easily riled up he got and b) such a turn on seeing the effect she had on him.Â
âThatâs not very nice,â Frank said, shooting her a sharp. His free hand came down on her ass with a smack.Â
The sound of her laughter cut off abruptly as she yelped in surprise. âThat wasnât very nice either,â she said, peeking over her shoulder to see a red hand print on her left cheek.Â
âYou started it,â he groaned, burying his face against the side of her head. He inhaled deeply, hooked on her scent, as he kneaded her breast in his hand. âCâmon baby. Please.â
âWe donât have time,â she said, closing a jar of moisturizer. âThereâs still a lot left to do.â
âItâll be quick baby, I promise.â His other hand wrapped around the front of her waist now, pulling her impossibly close to him. âYou feel that? How fucking hard I am for you right now? Iâm not lasting long.â
That dull aching between her legs started pulsing harder, and faster. It would be so easy to give in right now and satisfy both their needs. But Y/n stayed firm. His utter desperation for her was its own form of satisfaction that she wasnât done enjoying yet. It gave her just enough willpower to keep him yearning for her a little longer.
âHow about,â she started, offering a compromise, âYou take care of the kids, get them all ready. Iâll get breakfast started and finish the packing. And ifâand this is only ifâyou can get the kids all ready by 8:15, we can get a quickie in before leaving at 8:30.â
That was all Frank needed to hear. 8:15? Heâll make sure theyâre set to go by 8, on the dot, if thatâs the case.Â
â
Frank crossed the hallway to Theoâs bedroom, light on his feet, a spring in his step. His little deal with Y/n, aside, heâs been dying to share their weekend plans with the kids. Theyâd kept it a secret all week long, wanting to surprise them on the day of. To see their faces light up in excitement. To watch them rush to get ready because the sooner they are, the sooner theyâll get there.Â
Like their parents, Theo and Emmie loved going out to the lake. Theyâd splash around all day in the water till their little fingers and toes were wrinkled and pruned. Theyâd scavenge for shells and treasure along the shore. Theyâd usually end the night roasting marshmallows under the moonlight listening to Frank tell them spooky stories around the fire pit.Â
The hinges of Theoâs door creaked lightly as Frank stepped into the dark room. The only source of light came from the color-changing dinosaur lamp sitting on the bedside table. Knowing what a mess the room usually is, he treaded carefully. One wrong step meant tripping on a toy or slipping on a stray shirt laying on the ground. Drawing the curtains open, and seeing the mess heâd just traversed, Frank made a mental note to tell Theo he needed to clean up before they leave today.
The boyâs peaceful expression scrunched in confusion as Frank shook his shoulders gently. Groggy eyes fluttered open adjusting to the light. Little arms stretched out as he woke. Mouth opened wide to let out a yawn. But what came out instead was a scratchy, dry, cough. Quickly followed by another, then another after that, until the poor boy was doubled over in a fit of them.Â
Leaning back instinctively, avoiding the cloud of germs now floating in the air between them, Frank placed the back of his hand against Theoâs forehead. The boy was hot to the touch.Â
âI donât feel very good,â he said in a nasally voice. And taking a closer look at him, Frank saw that he didnât look very good either. Red, puffy eyes and blotchy cheeks to match.
Frank tucked the boy back into bed, telling him to just go back to sleep before quickly crossing the hall to check on Emmie. He had a strong feeling she was probably in the same state as her brother. If one of them got sick, the other was not far behind. And unfortunately, he was right. Emmie was burning up too and a bit lethargic when he tried to wake her.Â
âJust lay back down bug,â Frank assured her, pushing tangled strands of hair away from her face. âIâll be back up to check on you in a little.â
â
Transferring all the bacon onto a platter, Y/n was too preoccupied to notice Frank enter the kitchen.Â
âSo,â he started grabbing her attention. Uh-oh, Y/n thought turning to face him. That tone was was a forbearer of bad news to follow. And when she saw his lips pulled in a tight line, she put the tongs down to brace herself for it.Â
âThe kids are sick,â he said, leaning against the counter, grabbing a hot piece of bacon from the platter. Y/n swatted his hands away but not before his sticky fingers got a of slice.
âFrank,â she scolded. He was no better than Theo and Emmie sometimes. The kids would often come in while she was cooking to ask for a âfree sampleâ (a phrase they learned from their trips to Costco) of dinner before sheâd even turned the stove off. Their impatience was clearly a trait they inherited from their father.Â
âHow bad is it?â Y/n asked.
âPretty bad."
âLike Halloween 2023 bad?â Y/n asked.
The kids gave Frank and Y/n a good scare that Halloween. At the beginning of the week, they had both come down with a flu that hit them so hard by Tuesday, aka Halloween, they were off to see Uncle Robby at the emergency room. Frank knew they needed medical attention beyond what he could give them at home. Emmie with a stubborn fever that refused to go down and Theo with labored breaths that paired with his asthma could be dangerous. Safe to say there was no trick-or-treating for the Langdons that yearâaside from the bowl of candy on Auntie Danaâs desk that she insisted they both take two large handfuls of once they were cleared to go home.Â
âNo,â Frank shook his head in horror at the memory. âDefinitely not that bad. But bad enough to cancel our weekend plans for sure.â
Y/n sighed, already switching gears to make a batch of chicken noodle soup, scouring through the cabinets for the ingredients resignedly. It was just their luck that the one weekend they finally had together as a family was going to be stuck at home. Not to mention it was too late to get their money back for the cabin or the boat they rented. But on the bright side, since they were both off they could at least tag team nursing her poor babies back to health together.Â
âIâll have some soup ready for them in a bit. Can you go find where we stashed the humidifier? I donât remember where we put it afterâŠâ Y/n trailed off as she felt Frank coming up behind her. She froze in place. His hands rested low on her hips, in the same needy, urgent way he had in their bathroom not that long ago. And his voice, still thick with that morning gravel, was low in her ear.Â
âItâs in one of the storage bins in the garage. But before we get to all that, I was thinkingââÂ
âAbout getting your dick wet while our kids are upstairs sick?â Y/n cut him off. âReally, FranK?âÂ
âWell, when you put it like that, I sound terrible. But yeah. We made a deal.â
âThe deal is obviously off.â
âNo. I kept up my end, now youâve gotta hold up yours.â
âOkay, even if the deal was still onâwhich it's notâyou didnât keep up your end,â she pointed out, turning to face him now.Â
âTechincally, yes, I did,â he said. Each word punctuated with a step forward, till he had her pressed up against the counter.Â
âHow so?â she asked. Inhaling a sharp breath, she kept her composure. Though there wasn't much of it left to keep. Not while they stood chest to chest. Their lips separated by a hairâs breadth. His arms, on either side of her, trapping her against the counter, not letting her slip away from him as easily as she had in bed. Ignoring that dull aching starting up again, she reminded him, âThe deal was you get the kids ready. And theyâre not. Theyâre not even out of bed.â
âExactly,â he said, lifting her onto the counter with ease despite her lame protests.
Their counters just happened to be the perfect height for him to settle between her legs. His hips lined up perfectly with hers, and he took full advantage of that, pulling her right to the edge, wrapping her legs around his waist so she could feel all of him. So she could feel how badly he needed this, how badly he needed her.
âI checked their temperatures, and tucked them back in. I got them ready to stay in bed and rest,â he explained.
âYou think you're so clever, huh?âÂ
âI think a dealâs a deal. And that youâre playing hard to get.â
âSo what if I am,â she challenged. Though her voice had no edge. She was losing herself in the sloppy kisses he laid along on her neck, hitting that spot, that button he knew would have her like putty in his hands, again and again.Â
âWe share two kids and a mortgage. Itâs a little late to be playing hard to get. Iâve already got you. That rock on your finger is proof,â he went on, hands roaming over every inch of her he could get his hands on. From her ass, to her hips and waist. But feeling her just wasnât enough. He needed more. âI mean whatâs a man gotta do to get in his own wifeâs pants? Beg?â
It was a joke, but he felt her breath hitch and her muscles tighten at the word. Beg. âIs that it baby? I have to beg?âÂ
Y/n hadnât quite put it together herself till nowâthat begging is what she was after. All she knew was that she loved whenever he got like this. So shamelessly desperate for her, cock literally throbbing for her. The high of knowing that even after all this time together, he still wanted her as badly as the first time made her feel so good. So sexy. So desired. Things she doesnât often feel when sheâs busy in mom-mode or doing chores or stuck behind a desk at work. So, yes. Some begging would be nice.
âCause Iâll do it, yâknow. Iâll get on my knees and beg,â he said, proceeding to do exactly that.Â
Their eyes locked as his lips grazed the inside of her knee, traveling up her thigh one feather light kiss at a time. There was no escaping him now. Not that she wanted to. She wanted all this just as much as he did. In her fight to resist him thus far, her insides had coiled up so tight they were about to snap. And the seams holding her together were on the verge of busting wide open. But she was too deep into this game that she started to back out now. She couldnât give in. Not yet. Not before she had him truly begging.Â
So before Frank could dive any deeper between her legs, Y/n grabbed a handful of his hair pulling his head away. âUh-uh,â she said, looking down at him in disapproval. âI donât hear any beggingâ
Frank let out a dark chuckle. âYou really want me to beg? Want me to tell you how bad I wanna rip these panties off of you, hmm? How I just wanna bury my face between your legs and get a taste? Will you let me, baby? Please? Please, let me eat your pussy out baby. Câmon.â
Heâd inched his way closer to her core, to the damp spot on her panties like an X marking the spot, hoping his words were enough. And they seemed to be as Y/n lifted her hips, allowing him to pull her panties off and place her legs over his shoulders. Spread out bare before him, Frank groaned at how wet and ready she was. Licking his lips, ready to finally receive some form of gratification, Y/n tugged on his hair again.Â
âYouâre killing me,â he complained, throwing his head back. It wasnât much of an exaggeration either. If his blood started pumping any faster he just might burst an artery.
âWhat do you say?â she asked, running her fingers through his hair just the way he liked, as if it would coax the right answer from him. âWhat do we always tell the kids to say when someone gives them something they want?â
âThank you,â he said. The second her hand eased its hold on his head, his tongue was at her entrance, licking a thick strip up and through her folds. He groaned, coating his tongue in her. âThank you so much, baby. Thank you for letting me have this sweet, pretty pussy.â
He continued lapping her up, starting off slow, savoring her intoxicating taste. âGod you taste so fucking good,â he said, speaking his praises right into her.
The vibration of his voice against her. The vice grip on her thighs, keeping her right where she was. The way he gradually increased his pressure and speed bringing her closer to unraveling totally. It was all too much. Y/n had turned into a moaning mess. His fingers spread her folds apart, paying special attention to her swollen clit. A shockwave of pleasure shot through her as he circled and sucked on the sensitive bundle of nerves. Her head fell back against the cabinet with a thud and her hand dug into his hair again, this time pulling him closer rather than pushing him away.Â
âOh fuck,â she moaned. âJust like that.â
In that instant, with those three words, the power dynamic shifted. She was at his mercy now. He pulled back, just far enough to lose contact but still close enough for her to feel his hot and heavy breath.Â
âWhat do you say? Whatâs the magic word baby? â he taunted her, throwing her own words back in her face.Â
âPlease,â she said softly. Eyes shut tight trying to hold onto the fading feeling of his mouth on her. Â
âI didnât hear you,â Frank said. âWhat was that?â
âI said, please.â
Langdon smirked at the bite in her tone. Turns out the little game she started wasnât as fun now that theyâd switched courts. âPlease, what? Tell me what you want?â he said, torturing her the same way she tortured him.Â
âPlease, put your mouth back right where it was,â she said. âIâm so close, baby. Donât stop. Please.â
âLook whoâs begging now,â Frank teased. âAnd why should I give you what you want?â
âBecause I promise to get on my knees next.â
Now those were the magic words Frank liked to hear. Without warning, he dove back between her legs. Like a man starved, he was relentless and insatiable. Y/n had lost all her senses to him. All she could hear were the wet, lewd sounds his lips and tongue were making. All she could see were stars as her eyes rolled back in utter pleasure. All she could feel was him bringing her closer and closer. Until finally the chord inside of her snapped.Â
Her thighs clenched around his head, holding him hostage as she rode through her climax. When she finally opened her eyes, Frank had stood up and they were face to face. Immediately their lips met in a hungry, heated kiss. Still reeling from her own high, she had barely noticed Frank lifted her off the counter till her bare feet touched their hardwood floors.
She knew what he was trying to get at. And she obliged. He deserved it for being a good sport in all this. He played along when he couldâve easily just bent her over the counter and taken her the way he wanted to.Â
Her lips trailed over his stubble and down his neck. Her hands moved further down, running across his chest and down his abdomen appreciating each curve and dip of lean muscle before reaching his sweats. Keeping her hands on the band of them, she got on her knees. She paused, looking up at him through her lashes, enjoying the view of him from that angle. Parts of his chin still glistening with the evidence of her climax. The veins on his neck straining in anticipation. His blue eyes glazed over with lust.
Frank cupped her cheek with one hand, running his thumb across it, then over her soft lips. Y/n took it in her mouth eagerly, her tongue swirling around it, giving him a preview of what was to come. He didnât think he could get any harder until he heard his thumb leave her mouth with a pop.Â
Mouth watering and core slickening thinking about wrapping her lips around him, Y/n started pull down the his sweatpants finally setting free hisâ
âMommy?â a small voice called out from just around the corner.Â
Wide-eyed and frantic, Frank and Y/n scrambled to look presentable. When Emmie walked in just a moment later, Frank was still adjusting his sweatpants into place and Y/n had just kicked her underwear, that had been lying in the middle of their kitchen floor, out of sight.Â
âWhatâs wrong sweetie,â Y/n said, picking the girl up into her arms. Emmie whined and mumbled about not feeling good. Frank rubbed her little back gently. Despite being a doctor, there was nothing in his arsenal of knowledge that could solve the common cold. It just had to run its course.Â
âIâll bring her back to bed,â Y/n said.
âAnd then we can finish what we started, right?â Frank asked, just above a whisper. Y/n looked over her shoulder to see him gesturing suggestively at the on-going issue beneath his sweatpants.Â
Taking a page out of his book, Y/n took the upper hand once again. âWhat do you mean? We are finished?â
âNo. Dealâs a dealââ
âExactly. Dealâs a deal. I said Iâd get on my knees, and I did. Didnât I?âÂ
Frank rolled his eyes, running his hands through his hair in frustration. âReal clever Y/n.â
âLearned from the best,â she winked, disappearing up the stairs.Â
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Frank seeing you wearing HIS scrub top in the morning of your day off. Yea you have your own but he sees you wearing his by the kitchen counter as you prepare breakfast
đđĄđ đđ«đđ§đ€ đđđđđđ â đ. đ„đđ§đ đđšđ§ (đŹđŠđźđ, đđ+) | hopping on the francis train with @ovaryacted! all aboard! he's sooo ugh. thank anon, for sending this in cause i'm thinking about him very hard. warnings for this one include: smut, language, unprotected sex, creampies, bodily fluids (mentioned), sex in the kitchen, undefined relationships, langdon being a fucking menace but also down bad for you, cooking (mentioned), me trying to use religious imagery (?) (@stellamarielu your turn đ«”đŸ) w/c: 1.2k
âFrankie, the eggsââ
âFuck the eggs,â he mumbles, the baritone of his voice a little thicker than usual thanks to the hours of well-earned rest. The man had slept like a rock next to you for most of the night, snoring off the exhaustion from his latest shift and how deep heâd fucked you in his bed afterward. One might think that Frank had satisfied his taste of you yesterday with the way he was babbling away in your ear while plowing into you from behind. This morning proves that fact is anything but the case.
Frankâs got his face buried into the skin of your neck, mouth attached and licking like youâre made of sugar. A groping tug at your sides drags you closer to him, and the cooling pan on yolk to your right is becoming but a distant recollection. He drags the kisses, wetting the skin from the dip of your shoulder to your jaw with thick laps of his tongue, and mewls with a little shudder at the way you tug his hair when his mouth slides back against yours.
When Langdon pulls away, itâs with a gentle grab of your bottom lip between his teeth. He has to smirk a little at how your eyes try to roll, and playfully nips the plush one last time before releasing the flesh.
âFuck those eggs, turn around,â he breathes out, not waiting for you to respond before spinning you himself and pressing you into the nearest counter. Bunching up the fabric of his shirtâhis fucking scrubsâhe yanks it over your hips and pauses to throw his head back with a painful-sounding groan at the thong youâre wearing. Itâs tiny and a shade pretty of aegean and finishes pumping his cock to a full length that bulges through the tight white of his underwear. âChrist, youâre fucking perfect.â
Frankâs compliment seeps out of him like a prayer, and heâs going to fuck you like youâre divinty itself.
Heâs thick and aching as he sinks into you, and you can only whimper and grip the countertop as he clutches you with a crave-drive desperation. Frankâs thrusts start right away, his good friend impatience taking over to have its way with the man. Eyes clenching, he bends into a close hunch with a smushing of his front into you, your name tumbling from his lips in a way comparable to asking for forgiveness.
âShit, FrankieâŠâ
The falling of his name out of you forces Frank to grunt. Strings of his hair bounce in his face as he pumps himself into you, and both of your foreheads are starting to shine with a layer of sweat.
âGonna let me come inside you this time?â Langdon questions, words uneven and mostly breath as his cock rams inside your pussy. Pulling back, he lowers his chin to his chest to watch the way youâre starting to cream around him, and the noise he makes has the audacity to fucking echo thanks to the steel appliances of the room.âCan even think of it as aâmmmâa souvenir, âf you want⊠n-nice little keepsake to remember me by âtil you come back over tonight, and I get toâfuckâfuckâtil youâre seeinâ five of me.â
Soon enough, youâre halfway folded onto the counter, and Frankâs already close.
His shirt. You were wearing his shirt, his goddamn scrubs, plus a thong in a shade of blue most people donât know the name of while making him breakfast even though itâs your day off. And now, youâre letting him fuck you raw on his counter in the garment and drenching his cock in a mess thatâs already running down to his balls.
âOh, my God,â youâre forced to croak out when Frank quickens his pace, and you donât have to see him to know what expression is gracing his face. Youâve seen it more than you thought you would when youâd started your residency at the PTMC; the hazy-eyes and glistening forehead. Browline pinched and jaw dropped like heâs closer to tears than heâll ever admit. âHow am I so fucking wet already? JesusâŠâ
Frank exhales with a laugh, not bothering to move the hair thatâs starting to stick above his eyes. Steady in his pounding, he smirks.
âOh, thatâs just the Frankie Effect, sugar,â the man boasts, using the shirt heâs gripping to rut you back onto his cock, and youâd roll your eyes in annoyance if his tip wasnât thwacking against your spot every two seconds. You can tell he wants to keep joking but a throaty moan interrupts him. Good.
âGonna need an answer to that question soon,â Frank heaves, flushed cheeks puffing with the blow of a quick breath. âVery, very soon, darlinâ.â
It takes you more than one attempt to answer him, as a wail beats your words every time you open your mouth. Core flooding with a pooling heat, you can just barely squeak out your repeated response of yes.
Thatâs all you manage to get out, mouth falling open in a silent scream when Frankâs waist surges with a new sense of drive. His thrusts grow sloppy as he starts to chase it, broken moans streaming from the man while you join him in a wash of unruly cries.
âMmhm?â He checks one last time, his legs starting a shake he knows is only going to get worse. One last nod from you is all it takes for him to grit his teeth, keeping his angle perfect long enough for you to start squelching out your orgasm around his cock.
âThatâs it,â Frank purrs out, squishing you in between himself and the counter, arms wrapping you in a strong embrace as you tremble powerless against him. âMmm, right there⊠fuuuck, just like that.â
When Frank comes, it ruins him. At least, thatâs what it sounds like.
He stiffens and holds you tighter, sobs falling loud upon your ears as he explodes inside you. Youâre flooded with rope after rope of his thick spend, his hands disoriented and unsure which part of you they want to grab. Frank bawls your name, slurring out unintelligible stammers of unashamed curses while his sack pulses with mind-numbing twitches.
âHoly fuâŠ,â Langdon whispers loudly with a few hitches inhales, remaining pressed into you as your hole milks him stupid. âYou cannot be real.â
When you shake with a short but spent giggle, Frank nearly growls at you to not do that until he pulls out or he might faint.
Once his breath finally returns, Frank slides from you slow. His lips almost quirk up at the whimper he hears from you. Peeking down, he sniffs at the way some of his cum spills back out of you, painting his cock with a pretty pearl hue. âYou good?â
âYeah,â you nod, twisting to pull Langdon into a tender peck. He stops you when you pull away, grabbing your chin and kissing you once more, letting it linger until heâs satisfied. âExcept for the fact that now I wanna shower but I donât think my legs will let me make it there without giving out first.â
Face brightening with a grin, Frank loops an arm around you.
âAnother ramification of the Frank Effectââ
You shut Frank up with a finger to his lips and shake your head.
âMm-mm,â you hum out, and he ignores the urge to bite your finger, smiling wider.
âWhat? Itâs a real thing! You just experienced it firsthandââ
Notes: This is technically a prequel to a oneshot that's been in my drafts sooooooooo
Warnings: Voyeurism; roommates to lovers; casual sex; through the wall; masturbation; oral sex (female receiving) ; fingering
Summary: You flop back onto the mattress, burying your face in your hands. First that guy and now your fucking vibrator finishes before you do? Whereâs the fucking justice? Can today get any worse?
Itâs the third guy that youâve brought home in the last month. Youâre 0 for 3 on people that have been able to make you cum, and these days, even though Frank feels pretty damn sorry for himself, he feels a little worse for you.Â
Yeah, heâs separated from his wife, and yes, tensions are more than a little strained at work right now, but how the fuck do you keep finding these absolute losers? He shouldnât listen, he knows that. Itâs an invasion of your privacy, and he owns noise cancelling headphones. But hell, your beds rest against either side of the same wall, and the damn thingâs as thin as paper.Â
Youâre in there with guy number three now. If Frank tips his head back just a little, he can hear your voice trying to gentle parent this guy into eating your pussy properly.Â
âNo, notânot thereâDo you see where Iâm pointing?â
Frank has to press his hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh. Youâre too patientâtoo nice about it. He tips his head back a little as he hears you sigh. He knows that itâs not a satisfied sound.Â
Heâs heard those before, usually when the guys have left and youâre resigned to taking care of yourself. When heâs heard them, theyâve been chased by the buzz of a vibrator, and youâve let out a sound that Frank can practically see. He can always picture itâyour shoulders tensing as you reach down to pleasure yourself, your head tipping back against your pillow, the long line of your throat bared as your thighs splay.Â
This sigh sounds defeated, and small. It makes his stomach twist. He doesnât know you well. The two of you have been ships passing in the night since he moved in, but you seem nice. The fact that youâre still letting this guy fuck you when he couldnât be bothered to go down on you properly is further testament to that fact.Â
Frank reaches for his noise-cancelling headphones, lifting them. He hovers them over his ears for a few moments, gnawing at his lower lip as your bed frame knocks against the wall behind him. He really should stop listeningâOh, god, no way did that guy cum already. But that strangled groan isnât yours, and the bed frame isnât knocking against the wall anymore.Â
Canât go down on a woman and the guy's a two-pump chump? Yikes.Â
Your vibrator is going to be working double-overtime tonight. He hopes you remembered to charge it.
--Â
You would just like to be fucked properly for onceâby someone, rather than by life. But that doesnât seem to be on the cards for you. Hasnât been for some time, and you are really beginning to lose hope that youâre ever going to get dicked-down properly ever again.Â
At this point, itâs looking unlikely, but for the evening, youâll employ the help of your buzzy little friend. You fish into your bedside drawer, ignoring the sight of tied-off condom in your trash bin in favor of reaching for your vibrator.
You slide down in bed, closing your eyes and peering up at the ceiling. God, donât picture that guy over you again, it didnât help when he was actually there with you. Think about something else, someone else, anyone elseâŠMaybe your new roommate? You havenât spent much time togetherâthe most had been when youâd interviewed him. Youâd thought he was cute, sure, but his answers had been a little dodgy.Â
Youâd been able to work it out quickly enoughâthe tan line on his ring finger, the calls youâd caught him on in passing, voice soft and promising, âThere's my guy, how was school?...No, daddy's not coming home today...Look, I know it's confusing, but....Yeah. Iâll see you next week, bud.âÂ
Frank Langdon was getting divorced, or was at the very least, separated. There was more down there, but you hadnât been able to work out just what it was yetânot that it was any of your business.
Still, he was attractiveâhad a sweet smile, gorgeous blue eyes.
Youâve seen his arms in his scrubs. They look good, and he seems like the type that would give full-body hugs that would make you feelâŠCradled.
You flip your toy on, fighting off the feeling of guilt as you imagine it: Frankâs arms wrapped around you as you straddle his lap, those long fingers sweeping across your back. He seems like heâd be able to make you feel special, and safe. You draw in a deep breath, sighing it out as you tip your toy to tease your pussy.
What would he be like? Is he someone that likes to tease? You can imagine he would be, willing to go the extra mile to rattle you, to chuckle as you fall to pieces beneath him. And how would heâ
The buzzing against your clit abruptly stops, and you bolt up. You press the buttons quickly, groaning, then pitching it across the room as you bark, âFuck!âÂ
You flop back onto the mattress, burying your face in your hands. First that guy and now your fucking vibrator finishes before you do? Whereâs the fucking justice? Can today get any worse?
The sound of a knock on your door makes your heart leap out of your chest, and you have to push down another curse. Aw, shit, how long has he been home? What has he heard?Â
âOne sec!â You call back, hurriedly getting out of bed and pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a tank top. You glance down, spotting your nipples poking through your shirt. Shit, you canât find another top, but you donât know why Frank knocked, if something is wrong, and you don't want to keep him waiting. You hurriedly curl an arm around your chest before you open the door, slapping a smile on your face.
âHey there.âÂ
âHi. Ah,â Frankâs eyes dart over your shoulder to your bed, âHeard you yell, just wanted to make sure everything was okay.â
So thatâs a yes. Today can, in fact, get worse.Â
âOh, yeah, sorry,â You wave it off, âThat was just, umâI stubbed my toe.âÂ
Frankâs brows lift as he nods slowly, an answer of, âRight,â Telling you that he doesnât believe you for a second.Â
âAnyway,â You laugh shakily. âDidnât mean to freak you out or disturb you or anything.âÂ
âNo, all good. Figured Iâd check, glad youâre okay.âÂ
âThanks.âÂ
A mutual nod before Frank is turning away, heading back into his room. You close your door, letting yourself sag forward, resting your forehead against the door. Screw getting off for the day, youâre calling it. Time of orgasm death: 8:34pm.Â
--Â
You think youâre hearing things at first. You figure you must be so horny that youâre hallucinating.Â
But if you hold your breathâif you listen really, really closelyâyouâre pretty sure you can hear Frank jacking off.Â
You peer at the time on your phone. Itâs only been about twenty minutes since Frank came to check on you. You still donât know how long heâs been home, if he heard you and your visitor earlier. Itâs certainly possible, butâ
âMm, fuck.âÂ
Holy shit, youâre not imagining it. Frank Langdon is getting off on the other side of the wall. If you can hear this, he could definitely hear you, right?
âLooked so good,â He murmurs, âPretty little nipples poking through the fabric of that shirtâŠKept trying to hide them, but I saw.â
Your mouth falls open, stunned. Heâs not talking about you, he canât be. You had your nipples covered the whole timeâright?Â
âThey sensitive?â He adds, âWanna suck âem and find out.âÂ
Does he know youâre still in your room? Maybe he thinks that you canât hear him. Thatâs gotta be it, it has to be. ButâŠIf heâs breaking up with his partner, wife, whoever, maybe itâs been a while for him, too. Maybe heâs just hyperfixating because youâre one of the first non-related, non-patient woman that heâs seen in a state of somewhat undress in a whileâ
âBet that poor pussy is sensitive.âÂ
You close your eyes, cunt throbbing at the assertion. He sounds so out of breath, sighs half-strangled. You lean back against your pillows, sneaking your fingers back down to your thighs. Youâre not gonna touch-touch, you can just tease a little. Thatâs not weird, right?Â
âSpend so long trying to find someone to fuck you right and none of âem could? I heard all those guys strike out, all those guys fuck up. How could they not go down on you like you deserve, huh? Mm, bet you taste like heaven.âÂ
Your mouth falls open at the assertion, fingers swiping over your tingling clit. Oh, god, he must know you can hear him, he mustâve heard everything. Is he naked in there, or are his pants just pushed down? Shirt on, off? Hair mussed? It looked nice when he came by beforeâshiny, and pullable.Â
âWould you let me taste? Hmm?âÂ
You squirm, toes curling at the question as you tip your hip up into your hand. Fuck, he doesnât mean that, he doesnât.Â
âKnock twice if you want me to come take care of you.âÂ
You freeze, heart pounding in your chest. You couldnât. You canât fuck your roommate, you barely know the guy. Youâve barely been living together a month, if shit goes sideways, youâll have to find someone elseâ
âYou wonât have to do anything to me, just lemmeânng,â He groans, âJust lemme taste it.âÂ
Your hand is lifting and knocking twice before you can stop yourself. You hear his door open, then close, and sit up as yours opens. He stands there for a few seconds, cock bulging in his sweatpants, white t-shirt askew.Â
â...You sure?â He asks, nodding toward you. You nod hurriedly, mumbling, âCâmon, please. Please.âÂ
Heâs across the room in three strides, climbing over you and pushing your thighs wide.Â
âFuck,â He murmurs, thumbing your slit. âFuck yes, there she is. Your pussy is so pretty.âÂ
A stunned moan punches out of you as he leans in, sucking your clit between his lips. Your hand weaves into his hair, grasping at the strands and letting out a shaky laugh as he leans back, spitting against your lips.Â
âHow much did you fucking hear, Langdon?âÂ
âMm, all of it.â He opens his mouth, lapping messily at your lips, pressing his face into your pussy, nose nudging your clit. âThem, you, that fucking vibrator.âÂ
You whimper, hips hitching at the buzz from his lips. Frankâs tongue wriggles back and forth, teasing at your core before he tips his chin up lapping across your clit.Â
âIf I make you cum like this, no more fucking losers,â He murmurs, bright eyes meeting yours. âJust let me take care of you.âÂ
âWhat if youâre not around?âÂ
âI work the day shift, how needy are you,â He laughs.Â
âI donât know if you can keep up with me, Langdon. Itâs a pretty tall order these days.â
âThe perks of working from home, huh?â He lowers his head, sucking your lips before he draws off, leaving you to squirm. âMm, promise me. Promise me and let me make you cum on my tongue.âÂ
And youâre pretty sure he could be asking you to sign the lease over to him, but you donât care. Youâre close, and this is the best youâve felt with someone else in a long, long time.Â
âI promise.âÂ
âYeah?âÂ
âYeah, I promise, just fuckingâMmhm, please, please make me cum, Iâm so fucking close, justâOh, right there, like that, like that, yes!â You gasp as Frankâs mouth lowers to you again, flicking your clit and keeping the pace steady. You gasp, using your grasp on his hair to press against him as the coil in your snaps, your cunt pressing up against his face.Â
You let him work you through it, his kisses and sucks slowly petering out as you settle, your body stone-heavy against your mattress. You shiver as his trails his finger through your juices, then teases a finger inside your still-clenching cunt. Youâre stunned when another finger joins them, his head lowering to kiss your sensitive clit again.Â
âFrank,â You whine, âWhat are you doing?âÂ
âThat was one.âÂ
âOf?âÂ
âYouâve had three shit hookups. Three guys failed to make you cum.â He smiles up, tongue swiping across his cum-slicked ups. âOne down, two to go.âÂ
A/N: This is only about s1-mid s4 because I'm only that far into ER, but I wanted to write this. So my views might change after S4, and I'll have to redo this. Enjoy; hopefully, this is spot on. Don't be afraid of dming me or commenting.
A = Aftercare (what theyâre like after sex)
Carter is really fucked out exhausted after having sex, regardless of what you two do. It takes him a moment to come back to earth before he gets into action to clean you up and fetch you a glass of water. You find it so adorable how his hair is so unruly after fooling around. Which leads you to press soft kisses along his freckled cheeks and nose.
B = Body part (their favorite body part of theirs and also their partnerâs)
His favorite body part on himself would be his eyes, given how much you compliment him on them. Every time you mention his eyes, he blushes deeply and smiles, making the creases around his eyes more pronounced, which you, of course, comment on.
His favorite body part of yours is probably your tits, which he would jokingly answer. However, if heâs being honest, he would say itâs your smile. He adores the way your smile lights up your face, and he loves that he can make you smile with a silly pun or when he clumsily knocks into something, sending it crashing to the ground.
C = Cum (anything to do with cum, basically)
He loves coming inside you; sometimes he can barely hold on before the end, so he has to think of procedures and surgeries to hold off on his orgasm. He doubles his efforts to make you come, playing with your clit, playing with your tits, and sucking on your neck. Anything to get you to come first or at the same time, so he can time it.
D = Dirty secret (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)
Heâs been thinking about pegging, but whenever he wants to bring it up to you,. Heâll just look at you, and his face heats up imagining it, and he loses his confidence.
E = Experience (how experienced are they? do they know what theyâre doing?)
(S1-4!Carter)
Heâs been around the block quite a bit so far, so Iâd say heâs pretty experienced. Now, do I think he knows everything? No. He knows the basics, I would say, but hey, Iâm sure you can teach him new things heâll never forget anytime soon.
F = Favorite position (this goes without saying)
Cowgirl. He goes feral when youâre riding him. Just the feel of you on top of him, heâll grip onto your thighs and waist and toss his head back. Heâs in heaven. He also likes doggystyle; he loves the way your ass jiggles every time his hips slap against it.
G = Goofy (are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous? etc.)
Carter is adorable and such a goober, unless you are right about to come. At the start, heâll keep doing little things to make you laugh, but when your climax is near, heâll talk you through it or just let out a series of punched out sounding moans.
H = Hair (how well groomed are they? does the carpet match the drapes? etc.)
I donât think heâs hairy at all; heâs very smooth. Shaves frequently, keeping it nice and neat.
I = Intimacy (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)
His face is buried in your neck, puffing hot breath against your skin. His arms are wrapped tightly around you or gripping you. Anyway, the more he can touch you, the better he feels.
J = Jack off (masturbation headcanon)
Heâs fine at work; he wouldnât have to jerk off. He can be an adult and wait until heâs home. Now, if you come to visit him while heâs on shift. Oh, you better believe heâs hitting the bathroom and rubbing one out.
K = Kink (one or more of their kinks)
Praise Kink
Loves tights/fishnets
Dirty Talk
Exhibitionist (Slightly; when you two have a quickie in the hospital, HE LOVES SAYING, âOh, you better keep quiet; or do you want them to hear you getting fucked hard?â
Biting
Scratching
L = Location (favorite places to do the do)
At home. So he can lay you out and take his time, and for you and him to be as loud as you guys want.
M = Motivation (what turns them on, gets them going)
Literally anything with him. Heâs like a teenager; anything you do will have him biting his lip, and his cheeks are red. He notices your oral fixation every time youâre writing; you bite the top of the pen, and it has him zoning out.
N = No (something they wouldnât do, turn offs)
No is no. If you are not comfortable with it, then neither is he. You two will have a talk if either wants to try something new to make sure you are both on board.
O = Oral (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)
Heâs pretty 50/50 on this, where he loooooves receiving, but that doesnât mean he thrives in making your thighs shake as heâs eating you out.
P = Pace (are they fast and rough? slow and sensual? etc.)
Heâs a slow starter, but once he gets going, heâs fast and relentless.
Q = Quickie (their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.)
If youâre visiting him at the hospital, it almost always ends with him taking you by the hand and trying to quickly find an empty room so you two can have a quick fuck.
R = Risk (are they game to experiment? do they take risks? etc.)
Carter will act surprised when you suggest something more kinky, but he is always down to try anything at least once. He got low-key into choking, not BIG into it, but feeling your hand around his neck made his heart flutter and his eyes roll back.
S = Stamina (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)
Iâd say he can go about 2 rounds before he has to stop fucking you, but he has a mouth and fingers for a reason, so if you want to keep going, heâs not going to stop just because heâs still recovering.
T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)
You introduce him to toys in the bedroom; I donât think any of his previous girlfriends were into toys. You have a few toys inside your bedside table. One time, you leave it open, and Carter sees it and asks about them. It leads to you teaching Carter about pressing your little vibrator right to your clit and slowly circling it. The result has you arching your back and Carter looking at you with an amazed look in his eyes while his face feels like itâs on fire.
U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)
You are the one who teases and torments him, he would claim. Always saying dirty little things to him right before you leave him after visiting him at the hospital. One time, you told him you were wearing the expensive lingerie set he bought for you for your birthday under your outfit. You kissed him goodbye and left County, leaving Carter stunned, standing there, eyes widening.
V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)
Pathetic whining, moaning, grunting, and broken sentences.
âOh. oh, fuck, yes, y-yes⊠Please, please⊠Oh, you f-feel so good. Youâre so tight. Iâm not gonna last.â
W = Wild card (a random headcanon for the character)
I feel like heâd have a checklist of every room in the hospital you two fucked in. Heâs making it his mission by the time he finishes residency in the ER to have fucked in every room.
X = X-ray (letâs see whatâs going on under those clothes)
He is PACKING. The man has a great dick. Itâs part of the wonderful package that is Carter; heâs smart, funny, clumsy, and has a big dick.
Y = Yearning (how high is their sex drive?)
I think you guys match. There are days he just wants to snuggle, and then there are days he can barely keep his hands off of you. Vice versa.
Z = Zzz (how quickly they fall asleep afterwards)
After he takes care of you and makes sure youâre okay and cleaned up. He gathers you close and has you lie on his chest or spoons you and just nods off.
Summary:
How you wound up going to a broom-closet of a bar with your attending resident in the first place remains a mystery to you - even as he's making a clumsy show of unlocking his apartment door three hours later.
Tags/Warnings:
SMUT 18+, p-n-v, co-workers to lovers, mild age-gap, mutual attraction (and awkwardness), drunken shenanigans, power imbalance, messy, hand k!nk, signed-and-certified-eater John Carter, un-BETA'd
WC:
4k +
A/N:
alright i chewed this all out in aproximately 72 hours so there is a highly likely chance of grammatical/spelling errors throughout this. i bid thee, good reader, to forgive any of my mistakes and simply enjoy the read <3
âOrdered and signed, heâll be up in radiology within the hour.â
You receive an appreciative nod and a gentle clap over your shoulder. A father and his seven-year-old son sporting a likely tibial break. Theyâve been in the limbo of the waiting room for four hours so far and the boyâAndyâhas been antsy since only the second, his fidgeting worsening by the hour. Youâve been worrying about his movement destabilizing his leg, and thus have been attempting to speed up their treatment as best as you can.
âThank you, doctor,â the fatherâJerryâsays, his red cheeks puffed up with the spread of his smile.
âOf course, sir. The quicker I can get Andy here patched up the quicker you both can head home and get some rest.â
You offer Andy a quick pat on the head, a smile to Jerry, and head down the hall. This was your nineteenth patient today, and the least stressful. Aiding in the resuscitation of a twenty-year-old coming out of a 6-car accident with a metal pipe in his side seems to make every other patient seem like they have a case of the common cold.
It's easier now. Eight months in and several MCs later, most of your work feels light by now. It only catches up to you once in a while. Days like today, when itâs not possible to save everyone as easily as you can help a little boy with a broken leg. You can still recall the heavy weight in the air today when the monitorâs long, deafening flatline remained despite best efforts. Hell, you can still recall that same weight the first ever time you lost a patient. It never really leaves youâor anyone for that matter.
After expelling the spiral your thoughts attempt to guide you down, you settle things with the front desk and ready your charts for the attendant taking over for the night-shift. You say your goodbyes. Everyone is in good spirits by now, and you wonder how long it will be before youâre seasoned enough to be ever so slightly less bothered by these things.
It's on your way to the front entranceâcurrently your exit for the nightâyou find yourself trailing behind John Carter. The first time you've seen him in half a day.
Itâs not that youâve been avoiding him since the loss of the patient. Really, itâs not. Youâve been busy trying to stay busy all day, only having really found yourself within ten feet of John when you needed to brief him on an incoming patient. And regardless of that, John is always crammed. At least as long as youâve been an attendant. Itâs rare to catch a moment with him, even on normal days. When you do catch him, heâs usually brief. Stiff, almost. You often wonder why you donât get to have as much of the John Carter you see interacting with the rest of the team.
By no means, is it because you like him. Youâre just curious. Nothing more.
(You donât let yourself spiral down all on your own accord thinking about all of the time youâve spent with him on your mind. All of the thoughts thatâve passed through your head, on and off the clock, about the man. His hair. His eyes. His handsâŠ)
But now, as you shoulder past him to hurry out the doors, you find yourself being followed after by quick footsteps.
âHey,â John exhales your name as he gently guides a hand around your arm to slow you down.
You look up at him. Itâs the first time youâve been this close in weeks. Maybe ever, actually, now that you think about it, since youâve never noticed the way that he hangs over you slightly when heâs at full posture. His hand feels huge around your arm.
The two of you stare at each other. For a long moment, you wonder which one of you is supposed to speak next.
âYes?â
You, it seems, after nearly a fourth of a minute of awkward stillness between you both.
John exhales, heavy and followed by a soft grunt. He looks down briefly, like heâs forgotten what exactly he wanted to sayâif he even knew in the first place. His hand then retreats from your arm hastily.
âI just wanted to tell you that you did great,â he finally says, looking up, rocking himself a bit. His eyes are heavy. The wear on him painted around his eyes, translucent purple and green, make his irises seem darker. In the corner of your view, Johnâs wrist twitches upward before it goes limp at his side once more. âI know you donât really want to hear that givenâwell, given what the result was, but you did. You did great.â
âEveryone did,â you say, mentally contemplating why it is you can never take a compliment single-handedly. âI couldnât have handled it without the extra support.â
Heâs smiling. Or, at least you think itâs a smile. Itâs thin, tight. Doesnât look very âsmile-likeâ. More of a zipper-like line.
âYeah,â he then sighs, nodding to himself. His shoulders are pulled back taught, like heâs trying to take an invisible deep breath.
The air, crisp and cold, nips at your ears in a gust. You look around you, at the mist rising from the roads and the fog forming along the edges of your view.
âThank you, John,â you finally say, a soft, tired smile offered along with it as you focus back on him. Maybe, you think, to try making things less stiff between you.
His chest deflatesâsilentâbefore he looks up at you, chin down, like his neck is chained to the ground. You hadnât even noticed heâd looked away.
Itâs right about now you think about your first day in rotation at County General for some odd reason. The moment you first met John Carter. You think about every time since that day John has looked at you like he is now; like heâs holding something back just behind his teeth. From across desks and rooms, hovering over you as you read a chart to him. You start to re-think every decision youâve made in these eight months to remain a good, policy-abiding student who doesnât think things sheâs not supposed to about residents above her station who look at her like that. The millionth time youâve wondered what might happen if you were to just pretend that you didnât know any better.
âHey ifâ"
âLook I just wantedââ
You both hang the last of your words out silently at the same time, staring at one another. A soft laugh passes between both of you, the shuffling of feet. You wonder if heâs also trying to figure out what to say now.
John sighs through his teeth, shoving his hands into his coat pockets forcefully. âLook, I know youâve had a long day and youâre probably wanting to be a thousand feet away from anything related to work, but, uhmââ
You think, briefly, as John is still your superior, that he seems like a lost puppy sometimes.
âYes?â
He licks his lips briefly, tongue bouncing out past the patch of dark brown hair above his mouth. Shamefully, you donât quite have the willpower not to watch. His feet rock him back and forth for a moment before he shrugs and expels a huff.
âHave you ever been to Melodyâs?â
This is new.
You stare at him for a moment, stunned, maybe, at the unfathomable possibility that John Carter just stealthily asked you out. Is that even what that was?
âNo,â you say, breaking away from your frozen state, a smile slowly forming on your lips. âNo, not lately.â
He smiles back, and this time it actually does look like a smile.
âWould youââ
âYes,â you say when his voice catches on itself.
âIf you want, we can takeââ
âYour car. I took the L.â
John laughs softly, hands already digging through his pockets. A hand reaches out in what you assume is the direction of his car. âItâsâthis way.â
You nod, shuffling your hands into your coat, and start walking in the general direction he offered. He trails behind for a few moments, then speeds up a little and moves past you once he seemingly registers that you donât exactly know which car to stop at.
It quiet as you both get into Johnâs car. You flop into the seat as he presses a few buttons on the dash. A gentle blast of warm air hits your face and legs. You steal a quick glance at him, but he doesnât look at you.
The drive is also quiet, with only the hum of the radio playing songs youâve already heard a thousand times. John keeps his eyes on the road mostly. You only notice him looking at you once or twice in the time it takes to pull into the small parking lot jointed with a small, postage-box-sized building.
Despite the size, you think it looks somewhat appealing, if thatâs even the right word. The warm light of the orange sign out front glows against the wet sidewalk. You can hear chatter from inside. It seems like the sort of place thatâs been there since the beginning of time.
âWellââ John quietly says, coming up beside you ââitâs nicer than it looks on the inside, trust me.â
âI trust you.â You smile, and jut your head toward the door. âCâmon, give me the tour.â
With a downturned smile, John hurries to the door and opens it, leaning his back against it as you head inside, watching you with soft, laser-focused eyes as you try to ignore the tingle forming in your stomach from the look. You accidentally take notice of his hand resting low on the door, the veins strong and prominent, knuckles flush.
Looking around the bar to distract yourself from the thoughts bubbling up in your mind of those hands and what youâre sure they can do, you notice immediately how warm it is. The lights, the air, the crowd; itâs all bathed in a gentle warmth that makes you feel like youâve been missing out on something you didnât even know existed. The chatter is louder inside, but still sits low in volume. Everything feels cozy. You turn to John, who still has his eyes locked onto you, like heâs gauging your reaction.
âCozy,â you voice, and he smiles bright and proud.
âCozy,â he echoes, gesturing towards an empty booth. âYou wanna go get some drinks? Iâll find a booth?â
âWhatâs the order?â
âJust some scotch. On ice.â
Scotch, you think, saying nothing as you nod and turn toward the bar. A couple minutes wait and a quick conversation with the bartender later, you take two full glasses back to the booth John has secured for the two of you.
You sit his glass in front of him first, taking a deep sip from your own drink as you sit down across from him. He watches you closely as you do.
Once again, you find yourselves in silence, no words passing between you for a long while as you both take alternating-sized sips from your respective drinks. Mostly, you both just take turns looking around the bar, back at the other, then back around the bar again. You donât know what to talk about; you have a million questions for John, of course, but you have no idea where you should start.
You decide to start with the most obvious after what seems like an eternity of silence.
âJohn,â you begin, now starting your second glass. You glance to the two glasses in front of John. Hope that both of you have had just enough to drink that the awkwardness between you will fade. âWhy did you bring me here?â
He looks up from his drink briefly. With his eyes locked back down at the table, he clears his throat and sits his glass down. âTruthfully?â
âYeah.â
âI donât really know,â he says with a chuckle. His fingers flutter against the table. âWhy did you say yes?â
Now itâs your turn to chuckle. âDonât really know,â you say.
Both of you share another laugh. The air feels lighter now that youâve somewhat addressed the main question of the night. Maybe, also, because of the empty glasses sitting on the table.
It becomes easier to ask things as the drinks come, and by the third glass, youâve moved next to John in the booth. It all flows freely the longer youâre thereâquestions and answers, all of it coming out in hushed tones between the two of you joined with soft giggles between words.
You pretend not to notice the small touches on your arm. The feeling of your knees grazing each other. The looks John spares at you when his eyes arenât glued to the table.
Itâs in the midst of your haze that you find the tab paid off, your coats collected, and your feet taking you alongside Johnâs uneven steps toward the exit.
You reach his car. John plops against the side of it, sighing, looking down at his feet. âI canât drive,â he says, giggling, cheeks red and shiny.
âProbably not,â you reply. The cold air comes out in white as you speak, but your insides are warm and mushy, so you donât notice.
âI live close.â He turns his head to you. âJust a couple blocks.â
âYour car?â
âThe ownersâll keep it safe,â he shrugs off. âKnow âem well enough.â
You donât have to contemplate, but you pretend to anyway. A moment or two passes before you nod, much too soon to actually seem like it took you time to decide. You understand why you chose to become a doctor rather than an actress. âOkay.â
The decision is made between the two of you, and yet you still somehow canât fathom how it is you wind up standing much too closely to John as he makes a clumsy show of unlocking the door of his apartment.
And yes, maybe itâs because youâve always liked him. Maybe since the first day, even. You canât find it in yourself to think about it any more than that.
His hand circles around the small of your back, fingers tight around you. You feel his beard gently scratch against your cheek as your mouths make a messy attempt at centering a kiss. Itâs softer than youâd have thought. You like it just as much as you figured you would.
Thereâs a bump, and you realize youâve been backed up against a wall. Your head is being cradled by Johnâs other hand, his fingers entangled in your hair, thumb gently padding against the skin behind your ear. His kisses are soft; messy, desperate even, but still so, so soft. A gentle tap of his tongue against your bottom lip has your mouth parting open for it. He takes the opportunity. The slide of your tongues together has you weak in the knees.
âYouâre so beautiful,â he murmurs into your mouth. âFuck, youâre beautiful.â
You gently pull on his neck, shift a knee against him. The hand he has on your back quickly shifts to grab at your ass and lift your weight up onto him, the wall offering support. Automatically, your legs hook over his hips. You think you hear John make a low rumble in his throat as his hands tighten around you.
âBeen waitingââ a kiss ââall night forââ another ââthis.â
You hum. One of your hands drags through Johnâs hair, gently twisting around the ends and tugging. A tease. A play. A test.
This time, the sound that forms in his throat is a quiet, needy whine that makes your stomach flutter. You squeeze your legs around him, feeling his hips buck against you.
âJohn.â His name is drawn out from your lips as he takes a solid hold onto your body and backs away from the wall. Thereâs a sway as he treads through his apartment, uneven steps caused by the movement of your bodies against each other. Before you know it, youâre being laid out onto a plush mattress wrapped in soft sheets.
He's between your legs in a flash. Shoulders propping your legs up. Hands wrapped around the tops of your thighs. You notice, only with the scratch of his beard against the insides of them, that youâre missing your pants. You then recall taking them off just before your back hit the bed, rather efficiently, and decide that it wasnât that important to rememberâso long as theyâre off now.
This, of course, is easy to do this when Johnâs mouth is tracing over your panties. There are much more important things to consider at the moment than the exact mechanics of how you removed your clothes.
Your hands find his hair once more. Tangle and tug at it as his tongue aids in the wetness forming in the thin fabric keeping you contained. His fingers press into your thighs. You stare, fascinated by the flexing of his hands and the way his tendons roll over his knuckles.
âMy girl,â he whispers against you, sending a chill up to your chest. âYouâre my girl.â
His lips press kisses over every ridge of you. Every crease. You feel the tease of his tongue, frequent between them. âLove how you taste.â
You whine, squeezing his head with your thighs, trailing your hand down to his and squeezing his fingers too. âJohn,â you say, seemingly reduced to a single-word vocabulary.
âYes, baby,â he answers. âSo good. Youâre so good for me. Gonna fuck you so nice.â
And itâs thatâthe confirmationâthat spikes your nerves and send a thrill through you. Thereâs heat pouring through every blood vessel in your body. You want it now, now, donât want to wait. John has your legs in a vice with his arms and you canât break free. Canât wiggle your way around the wait.
âI know,â he says. You canât tell if heâs saying it with sympathy or to tease you even further. âI know baby.â
His fingers slide down to the hem of your panties, teasing the elastic band. Youâre hopeful for a moment as he tests a finger under it, sliding along the edge without dipping in too far. You wiggle some more. He doesnât budge. Just keeps playing with your patience.
âSo pretty,â he whispers, and at this point youâve decided he must be patronizing you. The way his hands and his words tease you. Every move and every syllable feels tailored specifically to drive you wild.
Then finally, after what seems like a millennium of taunting you with is ghostly touches, he repositions himself between your thighsâsliding down your panties as he does. You feel a breath of relief escape you, a shudder down your arms and back as he returns, mouth hot, tongue searching. The hair of his beard tickles somehow. Your legs go taut as his lips encircle your clit and then the world might very well start to implode. Your eyes close on their own accord, and they donât open again for a long time. Long enough for John to have drawn out two, maybe three, orgasms from deep inside you thatâve left you loose and warm all over before he finally pulls away, panting.
He trails kisses up your stomach, over your ribs and breasts. His beard is damp. His mouth is rambling your name. You feel his fingers tracing lightly over your sides, inching your wrinkled shirt up your body before tugging it away from you completely. Itâs quickly replaced by his weight on top of you. His bare chest pressing against your own.
Your hands grab at his face and drag his mouth back to your own. Thereâs no hesitation when you dive past his lips with your tongue, and youâre greeted with a low moan pushing past his throat as a reward.
You hear him fiddling with his belt. The recognizable sound of it clinking to the floor. Anticipation builds in your bloodstream as you wait, still pressing messy kisses against his lips and chin.
Then you feel him. The guided weight of his cock pressing against you, just as promising as youâd assumed itâd be. You suck in a breath of preparation. He smiles against your lips.
âYou ready?â
Humming, you nod, tug at his neck, but he doesnât budge.
âAre you ready?â he repeats, firmer. You realize he wants words that are far too distant from you at the moment to come naturally.
 âYes,â youâre able to pant. For good measure, you tug a little on his ear. âHurry up.â
âHey now.â He tsks. âI thought I was supposed to be in charge here.â
It gets you to laugh, relax a little, and right as you do, heâs pressing deep into you, slow. Sinfully slow. You gasp as he fills you to the hilt, as you stretch around him to make room.
âFuck.â His forehead drops to your chest, his breath hot and heavy against your skin. âJesus fucking Christ.â
You smile, petting his hair. His hips buck forward then draw back, driving even deeper moments later, drawing another gasp from your chest.
You donât know how long heâs inside you. How long he bucks back and forth just right (so right, you wonder exactly how closely he paid attention to detail when learning about female anatomy) to send shockwaves through your nerves. Maybe itâs minutes. Maybe hours. You donât care either which way. Both of you are coming undone in each otherâs arms, bodyâs flushed and slick with sweat. His hair is sticking to your chest as he keeps going, well past his own release. You can feel his fatigue growing, but it doesnât bother you at all. You just keep your legs wrapped around his waist, your hands in his hair, and your lips on his forehead. Heâs panting heavier now, muttering sweet, sweet words into your skin, sounding just a little delirious.
âJohn,â you finally say, realizing just how stubborn heâs being. You pet his hair even more gently, then trace the outline of his ear.
âNo, no, I wanna stay.â
âJohn,â you say again. âJohn, youâll have to pull out eventually.â
He makes a strangled sound, like a pouty little whine. You want to laugh at him, but you donât think that will help, so instead you press a kiss to him sweaty temple.
âAtta boy,â you whisper, unable to help yourself. The feeling of his bottom lip jutting out against your skin is unmistakable.
âIâm too old for you to call me that,â he huffs, lifting his head from your chest to shoot a playful glare down at you; heâs never looked more ridiculous.
âYouâre not that old.â
âIâm too old.â
âFor what?â
âFor you,â he answers, lifting a hand to trace around your brow. You eye it, savoring how his fingers feel against your skin.
âShut up.â You crane your neck up a little to peck the tip of his nose. âIâm a big girl.â
Heâs smiling, so you know heâs not being entirely serious. Not entirely, since youâre certain that you both are aware of the professional limitations to your relationship.
Professional limitations youâre not currently concerning yourself with.
âYouâre a big girl,â he echoes. His nose nudges against yours for a moment before he drops his weight back onto you, face pressing down into the crook of your neck.
âŠ
You only realize youâve both fallen asleep when slivers of orange morning light start to shine down onto your face.
Lifting your head, mildly confused, it takes a moment for you to recognize your surroundings as someone elseâs room. Another moment for you to remember that the âsomeone elseâ this room belongs to is John Carter.
You quickly sit up, searching for him, but the room is otherwise empty. Thereâs a chair in the corner of the room you notice has a set of folded clothes on it. Your clothes. A smile forces its way onto your face.
Hurrying to get up and dressed, the sound of metal clinking and food cooking in the other room begins to fill the empty space.
Once youâre decent, you make your way out of the bedroom, peeking your head through the open door.
Heâs right there in the kitchen. As soon as youâve entered the living space, his eyes rise from the stove to center onto you.
âMorning,â he says, quiet, subdued. His hand continues to stir through a pan sizzling in front of him.
âGood morning.â Your ankles cross as you lean against the doorframe.
âYou sleep okay?â he asks.
âYeah, really good.â You point a thumb back towards the bedroom. âYour bedâs really comfy.â
âThank you.â He smiles, looking back down. âIâm glad.â
âYou cook?â
You have no idea why thatâs what you decided to say.
âI try to cook.â
âThis place is still standing. Iâd say thatâs successfully cooking.â
Both of you laugh softly, then go silent simultaneously as the sizzling sounds fill the space.
Once the food is ready and you both begin to eat, the awkwardness builds. Part of you wants to die a little bit more by the minute.
You donât know what to say, and it seems that John doesnât know what to say either. What can you say now? It happened. It was great. You want it to happen again. And again. And again. Youâre not sure how youâre supposed to say that without having to bring up the whole student-doctor-relationship-regulations-thing, so you stay quiet and just eat the breakfast youâve been offered. You also find yourself wondering if this breakfast is some kind of weird apology.
Itâs hard to know what will happen from here. Itâs Sunday. Neither of you work until tomorrow. That leaves twenty-four hours for last nightâs events to truly sink in before you both have to go back to work, probably pretending that nothing happened.
But, then, as you both eat, you notice John stealing brief glances at you. You notice the small, teasing pull at the corner of his mouth when you both glance up from your plates at the same time. It leaves something warm and comforting in your chest. Something that makes the awkward silence less awkward. Maybe something that will build and grow into something more.
dr. robby x jack's adopted sister, f!intern!reader
masterlist
content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, swearing, alcohol, drug mention (fentanyl), reader is roofied (everything is fine she is unharmed), parental death mention, jack widow mention, some (minor) violence between jack/robby, canon medical gore, age gap, angst (resolved by end)
words: 9.5K
synopsis: based on this request, reader is jack's adopted sister doing her surgical residency at PTMC. jack introduces reader to robby in the hopes that he will be a good mentor to her, but their relationship quickly blurs professional lines.
a/n: thank you guys for being so encouraging about this one!! i hope it lives up to expectations. i'm kinda nervous, honestly. the first like 1K of this is verbatim from the blurb so you can scroll through if you've already read that part. ok hehe enjoy pls come yap to me about it later <3 syd
Your legs were bent nearly behind your ears when you heard Jack knocking and calling your name at the door of your apartment.
Robby was so deep inside you, scrambling both nerves and thoughts and any fucking sense you had that it took you too long to register who it was. You lost precious seconds of potential crisis management to the relentless stroke of his cock inside you, your walls clenching tighter and tighter around him as you were being dangled off the steep cliff of bliss untilâ
âFuckâFuck! Stopââ You tried to push against him, but it was no use, the man might as well have been a fucking boulder.
Robby only pushed deeper, making it impossible for you to continue your squirming, âJust donât answer it.â
âHe has a keyââ
Finally, his hips halted and you watched, stricken, as the pleasure in his eyes slowly drained and was replaced with steady horror as you both heard the jangle of keys outside the door.
He cursed under his breath as he nearly leaped off and out of youâthe sudden absence of him leaving you with a feeling of hollowness.
"Get in the closet." You hissed, hopping around as you tried desperately to pull on a pair of pants. You heard the clatter of keys against hardwood and Jack's soft cursing and sent a silent prayer of thanks to the universe for granting you more time.
"You want me to get in the closet?" Robby hissed back as he tried to collect his clothing, strewn haphazardly around the apartment from when you had been frantically making out and ripping each other's clothes off, "Have you seen my shirt?"
"We don't have time for this," You whispered and placed your hands on his chest, pushing him backwards until you were at the closet. You opened the door and unceremoniously shoved him inside it, not waiting for his response before closing the door in his face.
At that same moment, your apartment door opened.
When you started at PTMC as a surgery intern and Jack introduced you to Robby, the infatuation had been almost instant on your end. There was nothing you loved more than a tall, bearded man who could be a little mean. Whenever the ER called down for a surgery resident, you practically jumped at the opportunity, bouncing up and down on your heels as the elevator slowly ticked down, down, down to the Pitt. It had been an effort to finally get him in your bed, more effort than you had probably ever put in for a sexual partner. But it was worth every second.
It was immediately obvious to Robby that you had a chip on your shoulder from being raised in your brotherâs shadow, but he was oblivious to your yearnings for an agonizingly long time.
Because your parents had adopted you when Jack was well into high school, he affectionately referred to you as their mid life crisis. Jack adored you, but he was your brother. And so he pushed and teased and mocked your whole life.
So while it was nice that Robby was your type, it was more thrilling to know just how much it would get under Jack's skin to know that Robby was fucking you. Because regardless of your differences, Jack had always been protective of you and you knew he would lose his fucking mind if he knew. And Robby knew it too.
And so, even though part of you wanted Jack to find out, to grant yourself the satisfaction of knowing you had pissed off the unflappable Jack Abbot, most of you was a little nervous to find out what he would do if he found out.
You were running to the front door when Jack walked in, looking at you with confusion as he took in your appearance. Clothes crooked, hair mussed, mascara smudged under your eyelids, face glowing and sticky with exertion.
Slowly a smile stretched across his face, "Are youâIs someone here?"
"No," You said quickly, too quickly, "Just me. What're you doing here?" You hugged your arms around yourself subconsciously.
Jack continued to eye you curiously and held out the Stanley cup in his hand. Your Stanley. "You left this in the Pitt."
You took it reluctantly, "You could've left it at my locker."
"Yeah, I could've, but I wanted to see you. Feel like I haven't seen you in weeksâ"
"Well, I'm busy, so. You should've called first." You snapped.
Jack was unbothered though, "Who's here?"
"No one you know. Now could you please get out?"
Jack gave a short laugh, "Right. No one I know. You don't have a social life outside the hospital. You want me to believe you're sleeping with someone I don't know?"
Before you could argue, your eyes caught on a black scrub top to your left, poking out from under the console table in your entryway. You remembered now how you had whined desperately with Robby's body pinning you to the wall until he had pulled it up and over his head.
And Jack followed your gaze, smile only growing when he saw it too, "That's a black scrub top." His eyes went back to yours, "Who are you fucking in the Pitt?"
He was moving towards the shirt and you stepped in front of him, "Jackâ"
"Is it Shen?" He was stronger than you, so it wasn't much of a fight for him to push you to the side, "Or⊠It's not the Whitaker kid, is it?" He made a face as he bent to pick up the scrub topâ
When his hand closed around it and he started to straighten to standing, there was a clatter as a badge, forgotten beneath the heap of a shirt, fell back to the floor, face up.
You watched, frozen, as his eyes took in his best friend's smiling face looking up at him from the piece of plastic. You thought from the look on his face, he was probably processing denial for about twenty seconds before he moved to the next stage of grief: anger.
He clenched his jaw as he looked back up to you, Robby's shirt still clutched in his hand. You watched the bob of his Adam's apple as he swallowed and whispered, voice soft as death, "Where is he?"
"Jack," You said softly, "Please don't do this."
He brushed past you, "Robby," He called, "I know you're here, you sick fuck!"
"Jack!" You pulled on his arm to make him face you, greeted with a rage you hadn't seen from him⊠Maybe ever. His nostrils flared and his jaw was clenched so tight, you started to wonder if he had cracked a tooth.
"I'm an adult," You tried to say firmly, but your voice wavered, "I can sleep with whoever I want, you're being ridiculous."
He only shook his head, "Not him." He said and wrenched his arm from your grasp as he started walking down the hallway towards your bedroom.
You trailed after him, dragging your feet, and watched from your doorway as he looked through your room, poked his head in your bathroom, "You're acting literally insane right now." You said mildly, having resigned yourself quickly to this situation.
Jack ignored you, "Don't be a coward, Robby." He turned back to face you, "Where the fuck is he?"
The closet door creaked open before you had a chance to respond and your stomach sank. Robby was flushed red as he slunk out of the closet, hands clutching his clothes in front of his naked body. His eyes were locked on Jack's as he said quietly, "I'm sorry."
It felt like a punch to the gut to hear him apologize. You hadn't done anything wrong, and fuck, the sex had been good. Great, even. But that was regret in his voice⊠and shame. About you.
"Don't apologize to him," You said, aware that you sounded like you were whining, "He's the one who should be apologizing for making such a goddamn scene."
But they both ignored you. Jack flung Robby's shirt at him as if it were a bomb and Robby caught it with a free hand, "I asked you to keep an eye on her as a mentor, I didn't think I needed to specify that you shouldn't fuck her."
"I know," Robby said and looked down. You couldn't believe this.
"She's just a fucking kid."
You want to yell at them both that you're right fucking here. That you're not a kid, despite the fact that you feel your eyes burning with embarrassment. That when Robby again says "I know," you feel the urge to shove him back in the closet or pound your fists against his chest. He didn't think you were such a kid when he was pounding into you just ten minutes ago.
"Jack, I swear. IâI tried really fuckin' hard not toâ"
Jack laughed, "Oh, did you? Did she fucking handcuff you to the bed? Is that it? She forced you?"
Robby sighed and shook his head, "You don't understandâ"
"I don't understand?" Jack was shouting now, "I've had students crush on me before, so the fuck have you. You shut that shit down! I know you know this! And of all fucking people youâyou break your own rules for my sister?"
"I want you both out of here." You said finally, before Robby could say something else that would crush your feelings and your ego. Which they were both doing a spectacular job of at the moment, grinding you like dust beneath their shoes in your own fucking bedroom, "You can both sort out your own fucking issues away from me. And neither one of you better fucking call me."
Finally, Robby seemed to remember you were there and murmured a soft, "Sweetheartâ" Which earned him a scathing glare from Jack.
"No," You said and turned from the room, beginning to walk away from them both, "Put your clothes on and go. If the two of you want to talk about me like I'm a fucking child, you can do it outside of my apartment."
You heard Jack come up beside you, "I want to have a conversation with you about thisâ"
You looked at him and laughed incredulously, "If you wanted to have a conversation with me about it, you should've thought about that before you started running through my apartment like a lunatic on a rampage. Now I want you out." Your voice broke on the last word and you hated yourself when you felt the tears collecting in your eyes.
Jack was looking at you with pleading eyes. He reached for you and you knew he wanted to hug you, but you shoved his arm away.
"Please just go." You said softly, "I want to be alone."
You stood in your living room, arms crossed and faced away from your entryway. You waited until you heard both sets of feet leave your apartment, the door shut quietly behind them.
***
When Jack first introduced you to Robby, his hands affectionately squeezing your shoulders from behind you, you slapping his hands away in annoyance, Robby thought Another Abbot. Cute.
And for a while, it was easy to see you just as cute, adorable in the way your kid sister is. Until he started to notice the effect he had on you.
At first, it was so small, he barely noticed. A slight tremor in your hand if he reached over to guide you through a procedure if your attending wasn't around. Easily attributable to nerves. A low gasp when his body pushed up behind you while working on a trauma, his hands steadying your hips as he moved past.
As a man of empirical data, he felt it was his scientific obligation to test his hypothesis. The null hypothesis being, you didn't have a crush on him and all your reactions could be attributed to anxiety that was professional in origin.
But as the days and weeks passed your reaction to him, to his proximity, to his praise, was constant. And you were starting to reciprocate his touches, his flirting. You even got so bold as to push your ass back into his hips once when he was trying to get by and he was the one who was then flustered, nearly tripping over the tray next to you that Princess had set up.
You had grinned innocently, eyes still glued to the patient and said, "Something startle you, Dr. Robby?"
He had let out an incredulous laugh and came back to your side. He thought it was probably safe to reject his null hypothesis at this point. He was positive you were crushing on him now, and now that he had started feeding into it, you might have assumed he felt the same.
You wouldn't be wrong to assume that. The more he toyed with you, the more he found himself enjoying it. Found himself pushing farther and farther, squeezing your hips lightly as he went by, hand wandering dangerously close to your ass as he moved. Leaning in closer than necessary to murmur instruction, making sure his hot breath caressed the shell of your ear in a way that had goosebumps rising on your neck.
When he wasn't in the ER, almost against his will he found his mind wandering to you when his fist was wrapped around his cock in the shower. The sounds of your gasps, the heat of your body against his, the soothing cadence of your voice when you gave an order and looked to him for approval. More and more often you wormed yourself into all of his fantasies. And later, he'd be sick with guilt, especially if he saw Jack.
Back at your side next to the patient, he watched you closely before he was finally able to tear his gaze away and back down to the patient.
"You do not wanna go down this road, sweetheart." He said darkly, quiet enough that only you could hear him.
"Why's that?" You murmured back.
"I could list a myriad of reasons, chief of which is that your brother would kick my ass."
You hummed, "Probably," Finally, you looked back up at him, mischief glinting in your eyes, "But that's half the fun, don't you think?"
Before he could respond you pushed yourself away from the patient, peeling the gloves from your hands, "Send him up to CT, we'll get an OR prepped in the meantime."
And then you were gone and Robby was stuck feeling like he had lost control of a ship he had thought he was the captain of. But as he blinked his eyes open, it was you at the bow, steering the both of you directly into a storm.
***
Robby closed the door to your apartment quietly behind him, now fully dressed and dripping in shame. It seemed in one afternoon he had likely lost his best friend and also the one other person he had started to feel something for that ran deeper than surface level.
He turned his head to see Jack leaning against the wall, arms crossed and shooting daggers at him.
"Jack, I really am sorâ"
But he didn't get the chance to finish his apology because Jack had pushed himself up off the wall and unceremoniously smashed his fist into Robby's face.
With a groan, Robby fell back against your door, his cheek throbbing as he slid to the ground. Through his dizziness, he watched Jack walk away and down the hall without another word.
When Robby brought a hand up to his cheek, he felt the warm stickiness of blood beneath the pads of his fingers and winced.
Perhaps hearing the scuffle outside, your door opened again and Robby nearly fell over, his weight previously being held by the door.
At the sight of Robby on the ground, face already beginning to swell, you sighed, "Get inside."
Robby's knees protested as he stood back up and shuffled back into your apartment. He heard the sound of your freezer opening and closing and then you reappeared in front of him, a cold compress in your hand and some gauze for the blood.
"Sit down." You said quietly, gesturing to the seat at your kitchen table. He watched you silently as he did, but you were carefully avoiding his gaze. He noted the shine in your eyes, the furrow of your brow. You had both known the risks you were taking with one another, but Robby still blamed himself for whatever hurt you were now bearing.
Gently, you dabbed at the small cut at the top of his cheekbone, pausing whenever he winced, "Anything feel broken to you?"
"No," Robby said softly, "I don't think so." He wished you would look at him. Give him any inclination that you didn't hate him too.
You pressed the cold compress to his cheek and when he grimaced, your eyes finally darted to his, "You're lucky." You said slowly, "I've seen him do much worse. I'd go so far as to say he let you off easy on purpose."
Robby laughed, but it turned quickly to a groan of pain, "Doesn't feel like that."
You swallowed, "He'll come around, he loves you."
Robby's hand came up to the compress, covering your hand with his own, "No, he loves you."
Your jaw clenched, "He treats me like I'm still a child rather than a grown woman with agency who can decide whom she wants to sleep with. And then you turned around and did the same."
He sighed, "I don't think of you like that anymore. I just⊠I understand why he does." When you didn't say anything to that, he continued, "He told me a story once, years ago, when you were still in high school. He said some kid was bullying you and he paid the kid off to leave you alone. But he made sure to tell him that he wasn't above fighting a kid if he didn't follow through on his side of the deal."
You shook your head, "That kid invited me to prom as a joke and stood me up. Jack ended up dislocating his shoulder."
"Kid didn't know what he missed out on. A dislocated shoulder was a kindness, comparatively."
You tilted your head sideways, giving him a skeptical look, "I'm still mad at you." You said softly.
He nodded, "Yeah, it's going around."
You slipped your hand from the compress, stepping back from him to create some space. You didn't trust yourself not to keep touching him, "So are we, um," You cleared your throat, "Are we done now?"
The honest truth was, he didn't know. For himself, he had still been trying to figure out if what he felt for you went beyond the game the two of you had been playing. And he had always suspected you wouldn't find him so appealing once Jack found out. Once the excitement wore off.
He was too old for you, he didn't want to be responsible for hijacking your youth. You deserved someone young and spry who could give you a happy, normal relationship. Not whatever this mess was.
But he was selfish and couldn't close the door completely, "I don't know." He said quietly.
You nodded, your face not betraying any emotion. He hated that about you, that you were so good at concealing what you were feeling. It was only when Jack was here earlier that you had let your guard down enough. He always wished he could get a better read on you.
"You should go," You said finally, "If I know Jack he'll be back here in a couple hours, once he's cooled off."
He nodded and handed the cold compress back to you, but you shook your head, "Keep it. You can give it back another time."
Robby stood and pressed a kiss to your forehead before he left your apartment again.
***
It was months before Robby finally gave in to his desire to feel you. It was the middle of the night on a Saturday and his phone was ringing.
Robby fumbled in the dark for it on nightstand, eyes still closed, before he picked up.
"Robby, it's Jack."
Robby rubbed at his eyes as he sat up in bed, "What's wrong?"
If Jack was calling him from the Pitt in the middle of the night, Robby's mind was already grappling with worst case scenarios: an MCI, a power outage and emergency generator failure, one or multiple staff somehow dead or injuredâ
"Sorry to call so late, you're just the only one I trust with this." And then, he started talking about you, "She got a flat on her way home from a friend's place and she called triple A, but that could be hours. I don't want her waiting on the side of the road that long by herself."
Robby was already out of bed, pulling on a pair of jeans, holding his phone between his ear and shoulder, "You didn't teach her how to change a tire?" He teased.
"Of course I did." Jack said, "I've showed her four or five times. If she's not interested it's like talking to a wall."
Robby smirked, "Tell her to cancel triple A and send me her location."
When he pulled up behind your car, you were leaning against it, phone in your hand. You mindlessly chewed on a nail from your free hand.
Squinting at his headlights, you looked up when he approached. He parked and turned off his lights.
You shook your head as he walked towards you, "I told him not to call you."
"What, you're not happy to see me?"
This pulled a slight smirk from you, "I'm always happy to see my favorite ER attending."
Robby grimaced as he walked to the back of your car, searching for your spare in the trunk, "Don't let Jack hear you say that."
"I won't," You said and bit your lip, "Just like I'd never tell him that I'm your favorite Abbot."
He laughed and shook his head, pulling out your spare tire and the tools he's need to swap it out, "Now what would give you that idea?"
"I don't think you'd roll out of bed in the middle of the night for just anyone, would you?"
"I'm doing this for Jack, not for you." He started to get set up next to the car, "You think you could use the flashlight on your phone to give me some light?"
You obliged him and sat in the dirt next to the car, shining the light towards his hands as they worked, "So you're not happy to see me?" You threw back at him, playfully deepening your voice in an attempt to mock.
He spared you what he wanted to be an annoyed glance, but he thought he probably just ended up looking at you fondly, "I don't sound like that."
You tilted your head to the side, "You didn't answer my question."
He sighed heavily and started cranking the car jack in order to lift the vehicle high enough so he could remove your tire, "Didn't I tell you already that you don't want to go down this road with me?"
You squinted up towards the sky, feigning recollection, "And I thought I told you that that only makes it more fun for me."
He silently loosened the bolts on your wheel, choosing not to humor you. Truthfully, he had jumped at the opportunity to see you outside of the Pitt. But Jack had trusted him with keeping you safe. He wanted to honor that trust, regardless of whatever desires were brewing beneath the surface.
"You don't really want me, kid," Robby said as he pulled the flat from your car, "You just want to piss off your brother."
"Why can't it be both?"
He didn't answer that. Swallowed it down and pushed the spare onto the axle, started screwing the bolts back into place.
"Come on, Robby. I've seen the way you look at me. I'm not blind."
He tightened each bolt with care and then rose to standing, started lowering the car jack. Robby couldn't look at you, felt he was on the verge of crossing lines he absolutely under no circumstances should cross.
And sure enough, when he felt he could trust himself enough to turn back and look at you, he's wrong. He was so very mistaken to trust himself like this. Because you're standing very close to him, a smug look on your face when you notice how nervous you've made him.
"Abbot," He said softly, breath wavering, "Don't push me."
It was a mistake to provoke you like that. You brought your hands up to his chest, placed your palms flat against him, and gently pushed until his back hit your car, "Or what?" You whispered.
Robby's hands were raised by his ears in surrender, but he wasn't going to last very long. He thought you probably already knew how desperate he was by the smug look in your eyes, "If I put my hands on you," He said slowly, "I'm not gonna stop."
"You say that like it's a threat," You fisted the fabric of his t-shirt in your hands and pulled justâYour lips now centimeters apart.
Robby could taste your breath now, and just your proximity alone had his blood pumping between his legs, "It is." He nearly growled.
Your eyes darted down to his mouth and he watched as you licked your lips, then slowly traced a path back up to his eyes, "Are you gonna kiss me, Robinavitch? Or do I have to do everything myself?"
Your words hung in the air, suspended between you, for just a moment. He could walk away. Get back in his car. Go home. Pretend none of it ever happened.
But that was never really an option, was it?
He hesitated for only a split second before catching your mouth with his, his hands lowering to tangle themselves in your hair. You groaned in what sounded like surprise, and he wanted to laugh. You had put on such a good front, but you hadn't really thought he would give in. Clearly, you had no idea the extent to which you had taken root in his brain, in his skin, in his very being.
You had come like a thief in the night, setting traps and stealing his things, and he thought when he followed your clues that he was trying to get you out of his house. The clues had led him straight to you where you had made a home in his attic and instead of kicking you out, he asked you to make room for him.
It seemed that you were just as hungry as he was, pulling him tighter against you, your soft hands wandering underneath his shirt as he sucked your tongue into his mouth. His hands secured to your hips, Robby rolled the two of you until it was your back against the car and he pushed you up, until you sat on the hood.
His lips were frantic as they chased yours, addicted to how soft and pliant they were. He bit down on your lower lip and you moaned into him. He thought he might go insane if he couldn't have you. He felt like at any moment something was going to break the spell and he'd have to take his hands off you and walk away. He wasn't sure he'd be able to, now. His hands impatiently moved up under your shirt, up, up, until he cupped your breasts. His thumbs made slow circles against your nipples and your back arched as you sighed into his mouthâ
Your phone was ringing. Still kissing him, you fished it out of your pocket and cracked an eye open to see who the incoming call was from.
"It's Jackâ" You said breathlessly.
"Answer it."
"What?" You asked incredulously as Robby kissed along your jawline and up to your ear.
"I said," He whispered, "Answer it."
You blinked a couple of times. You weren't sure exactly what sort of spell Robby had put you under, but surely it was fucking witchcraft that had your thumb swiping across the screen to answer, "Hello?"
Robby started kissing down your neck, to your chest, kissing a line down your shirt to your stomach and you realized immediately what he wanted when he started unbuttoning your jeans.
The fucker made a big show of not wanting to touch you because you were Jack's sister, but it was obvious to you now that he also really wanted to fuck you because you were Jack's sister. You were off limits. Unattainable. Forbidden fruit. And now he wanted to taste you while Jack listened, completely oblivious.
"Is Robby there yet?"
"Yeah," You managed, as Robby pulled your pants down to your knees, "He's swapping out the tire now."
"I tried calling him, he didn't answer."
Robby didn't preamble before his tongue was on you, stroking rough and purposefully along your slit. It was all you could do to stifle a whimper and you felt him grinning against you. Oh, he was gonna pay for this later.
"Yeah⊠I⊠I think he left his phone in his car."
You watched as Robby spit on your cunt and then slipped a finger inside you, then a second finger, thrusting so deep inside you, you had to bite down on your fist to stifle the moan that begged to clamber out of your throat.
"You alright?" Jack asked, "You sound weird."
Robby's tongue was swirling around your clit and your eyelids fluttered as the pressure built low in your abdomen.
"Abbot? You still with me?"
"Yeah," You cleared your throat when Robby's tongue flicked over your clit, "All good here. I'll text you when I'm home."
"Maybe I should talk to Robbyâ"
"My phone's about to die so I really gotta go, Jackâ"
"Waitâ"
But you had already hung up the phone and it tumbled from your hand into the dirt. Hands now free, you moved them to Robby's head, tugging lightly at his hair as you ground yourself into his mouth.
He grunted into you, fingers of one hand digging divots into your thigh while the other pumped into your mercilessly.
"Robbyâ" You whined, "âFuckâThink m'gonnaâ"
"Go on, baby," He kept his fingers moving inside you even as he looked up at you. Even in the dark, you could see the slick of your juices running down his mouth and beard, "You got it, wanna feel you cum for me."
He latched his mouth back onto your clit, the pace of his tongue relentless against you. Just as you crested the wave of your orgasm, you saw your phone light up in the dirt with another incoming call from Jack.
Your eyes fluttered closed and you whimpered as Robby worked you through your orgasm. On the come down, he kissed up your leg, whispered praises into your skin. He made his way back up to your mouth, his tongue making languid, lazy strokes against yours.
"You're a fuckin' menace," You breathed against him.
He grinned, pushed his head against yours until his nose was nuzzled against yours almost tenderly and you felt your chest grow warm.
"We probably shouldn't have done that," He said finally, lifting you off the hood of the car and back to the ground.
He went to help you pull your pants back up, but you stopped him, "What, you're not gonna fuck me properly?"
The man had just fully eaten you out on the side of the road, but he still had the audacity to blush, "NoâIâWe shouldn't haveâI shouldn't have done that."
"Oh, so you regret it?"
He sighed and leaned his forehead to yours, "No, sweetheart," He said softly, "I don't."
Your stomach fluttered at his admission and you leaned up on your toes to kiss him again, the taste of you still on his tongue.
He moaned into your mouthâ And then it was his fucking phone ringing in his pocket and he broke the kiss, reached into his phone to see Jack calling. And the shame and the guilt hit him like a train as he picked up the phone.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, man? Don't you answer your phone?"
Robby turned away from you, not sure he could hold a conversation with Jack while looking at you, "I was swapping out your sister's tire like you asked me to."
"So you're with her?"
"Yeah, why?"
There was a pause on the other line, "She was acting strange on the phone. She seems fine to you?"
Robby ran a hand along the back of his neck, "Yeah. She's fine."
"You'll make sure she gets home okay?"
Robby hung his head, "Of course."
"Thanks, man."
When Robby hung up the phone and looked back over at you, you were smirking, "How's Jackie boy?"
Robby ran a hand over his face, still in quiet disbelief about what he had done. He could lose Jack over this. He didn't have many friends to lose to begin with.
"Get in your car, please. I'll follow you home."
"And then⊠You'll come inside?"
He shook his head, "No. No, this is never happening again. Understood?"
You nodded slowly, you had gotten fully dressed again while he was on the phone with Jack, "Sure."
"I mean it." He said firmly.
"I know you think you mean it." You said as you climbed into your driver's side, "But you'll find your way into my bed one way or the other."
Already, he was recalling how soft and warm you felt around his fingers. How your walls fluttered around him when you came. The sounds you made, the way you had whimpered his nameâ
He cleared his throat, and with it, attempted to clear the throbbing that swelled between his legs. He was sure you noticed, though, as he made his way back to his own car. Part of him thought you were likely right, that this was never going to end. That his want, his need to have you would win out in the end. And still, it would probably never be enough.
And so, he followed you back to your house, made sure you got safely inside. His self restraint was strong enough that he made it back to his own home, his own bed.
But you were right. It was less than a week later when he found himself in your bed, cock buried so deep inside you, it made his toes curl to think about it later. Again and again he found himself at your door, begging to be let inside, always saying it would be the last time. You would smirk knowingly as you stepped aside to let him by, because you always knew he didn't mean it.
The days and weeks began to blur, his whole consciousness taken up by you. What were you thinking about, what were you reading, did you eat lunch today, what new restaurants had you tried recently, was your insomnia keeping you up again, did you see that new movie? Did you want to go with him?
They weren't dating, he told himself. It wasn't like that. And you wouldn't want him seriously like that anyway. At least, that's what he told himself when he woke up before you in the mornings. Watched you sleep while the warm amber sun washed over your face. Your lips slightly parted, your light snoring the only sound.
You had somehow wormed your way into becoming one of the most important people in his life, and still, he wouldn't admit it even to himself. Because it was going to implode, one way or the other, and it would hurt a lot less if he convinced himself it didn't mean anything.
He was wrong, though. It was still torture when the glass floor shattered beneath your feet.
***
You had almost fallen asleep on your couch when you heard the tentative knock at your door.
Stretching lazily, you swung your legs over the side of the couch and rose to standing. When you opened the door for Jack, you turned immediately back to the living room without greeting him.
You heard him follow after you and for a few moments, felt him just watch you as you laid back down on the couch and ignored him.
Eventually, he sat down on the couch next to your feet, "I'm sorry⊠For how I handled the situation earlier." He said slowly, "I should have had a conversation with you about it first."
After a moment, you sat up to face him, tugged your legs to your chest, "Was punching him really necessary?"
He ran a hand over his face and looked away from you, "I know you don't think so, but he's taking advantage of youâ"
"Give me a break, Jack, I'm a fully consenting adultâ"
"He's an attendingâ"
"He's not my attending, though! He has no authority over me!"
Jack sighed heavily, "He holds a lot of sway in the hospital. It wouldn't look good for you if this got out."
You laughed incredulously, "Wow. I didn't take you for a slut shaming misogynist."
He made a noise of protestation, "That is not what I meant."
"Oh, okay," You shook your head, "Let me ask you a question then: If Dennis Whitaker slept with the Chief of OBGYN, do you think he'd have to have this conversation or do you think people would just be high fiving him?"
He gave you a skeptical look, "I mean, I don't know in what universe that child with tuberculosis face scores Erinâ"
"Jack!"
"Yeah, okay, okay. Point taken." He was still shaking his head, though, "I justâI mean, isn't he kinda⊠old for you? Why couldn't you just mess around with someone your own age?"
Your laugh rose several pitches, embarrassed to be having this conversation with your brother, "Fuck, I don't know. Why don't we call up my therapist? I'm sure she has many opinions on why I'm seeking out the affections of an older man starting with the fact that my biological father abandoned me and my adoptive one died when I was twenty."
Jack flinched at the mention of your father's death and you immediately regretted it, "Sorry, I⊠That was too far, I'm sorry."
He shrugged and shook his head, "He was your father too. You're allowed to be effected by it."
The both of you were silent for a few moments. Both you and Jack had been in therapy for many years. You, for most of your life dealing with your feelings about adoption and your biological parents. Jack, since he had returned from deployment down a limb. Again when your father died. Again when his wife died.
Despite it, you had never quite learned how to talk about difficult feelings together.
You clutched your hands together in your lap, bracing yourself before you spoke again, "I know⊠You feel like you have to protect me⊠Since he died, but I'm grown, Jack. I know what I'm doing."
Jack huffed a laugh through his nose and stood, "You don't get it. You don't know him. He's a fucking wreck. He's just gonna pull you down with him."
"I thought he was your friend?"
"He is! But right now he's not in any fuckin' position to take care of someone else."
"I'm not asking him to."
He shook his head, "He's just gonna break your heart," He grabbed his jacket from where he'd thrown it over the couch arm and began walking back to your door, "And since you're so grown, I won't be picking up the pieces this time."
When the door closed behind him, you pushed your face into your couch pillow and groaned.
***
It was bad enough now, being on shift with Robby. The whispers about how he had gotten punched, which you ignored. Most people thought he had just gotten too drunk and accidentally ambled into a bar fight. Perlah and Princess, though, had clocked the coldness between him and Jack during shift change.
Nobody had seemed to put it together that you were involved somehow, at least, not yet. But you figured if Perlah and Princess knew enough to sus out that Jack and Robby were fighting, it wasn't that much farther a leap to get to you.
So you tried to avoid the ER as much as possible. Until there was a car pile up on the highway just as the morning shift change was starting to take effect.
"Abbot, I need you downstairs helping them stabilize the patients and evaluating for surgery," Your attending said, "We'll get the ORs prepped in the meantime."
And so you found yourself back in the Pitt, back in trauma one, hands tangled with Jack's in a patient's chest cavity while Robby looked on, frustrated, "Who the fuck decided to do a fucking thoracotomy without consulting me first?"
"Who do you think?" Jack asked, neck tilting slightly as he looked up at you with disdain.
You clenched your jaw, "The patient was hemorrhaging and was about to arrest, he wouldn't have made it to the OR if I didn't open him up."
"You're an intern," Jack said, "You don't do this shit on your own without an attending presentâ"
"Well lucky for me, then, that you're here."
"You had already fucking cracked his chest before I got hereâ"
"Would the two of you shut the fuck up and update me on the status of the patient?" Robby snapped.
You sighed, "We stopped the bleeding for now, transfused him with five units of whole blood, he's stabilized enough to go up to surgery."
"Fantastic," He grumbled and started backing out of the room, "Call me if you need me."
Jack huffed and pulled his hands from the patient, "Unbelievable."
"You got something to say, Jack?"
"Not to you," He mumbled and quickly exited the room. He found Robby at Central talking to Dana, "What the fuck was that?" He said without preamble.
"What was what?" Robby said, sipping his coffee as he looked up at the board.
Jack scoffed, "You're not gonna put Abbot in her place for performing a thoracotomy without an attending present?"
Robby slowly slid his eyes from the board to Jack, then back up again, "You seemed to have it covered."
"So residents just need to fuck you to get you to go a bit soft, is that it?" Jack said roughly.
Robby's eyes snapped to Jack and then back around the hub to see if anyone else had heard. Dana was mercifully pretending to be busy with something else, but she had known what was going on between the three of you for weeks now.
"You know that's not true," Robby said firmly, "And she's not my resident."
Jack shook his head, "Fucking semantics. You know, I thought you were better than this Robby."
"Jack, I'm notâ We're not sleeping together anymore, okay?" Robby said quietly, "We haven't talked since youâSince you found us. It's done."
Jack laughed, "You don't know my sister at all if you think it's done. She doesn't do casual. She thinks she's capable of it, she's not. So whatever you guys have going on means way more to her than whatever she told you. And she's not done, because I see the way she looks at you when she thinks no one's watching." He shook his head, "If you want it to be done, you're gonna have to break her heart. And then I'll have to break your legs."
Jack stormed off after that, finally packing his things and leaving the ER for the day. Robby was left feeling like shit and confused about what the fuck was going on between the two of you, which he thought was nothing.
"Abbot," He called out to you when he saw you passing not twenty minutes later, "Got a sec?"
You nodded and let him lead you into an empty on call room, "You should never have performed a thoracotomy without an attending presentâ" You already opened your mouth to argue and he raised a finger to quiet you, "âAnd you need to remember that you're in the emergency room as a consult. Okay? You don't do procedures without consulting an ER physician first. These are our patients. Not yours, not until they roll into the OR. Understood?"
Begrudgingly, you nodded, "Fine. Whatever. Sorry for saving your patient. Won't happen again."
You reached for the doorknob, but Robby pushed his palm flat against the door, preventing you from opening it, "Maybe Jack was right, maybe you have made me soft."
"What?"
"I am the Chief of Emergency Medicine," He said firmly, "And you are an intern. You don't speak to me like that."
You stared at him for a moment. His arm was raised over your head against the door, his eyes intently focused on your face, and suddenly you felt warm all over. Molten at just the way he was looking at you. Slowly, you dragged your eyes up his chest to his mouth, where they lingered.
"Or what?" You whispered finally.
His jaw clenched and you saw some sort of inner battle going on behind his eyes for a few moments beforeâ
"Fuck it." His hands were on your face, tongue and teeth clashed as he hungrily kissed you, dragging you over to the bed. He was moving so fast, you felt dizzy at the sensations, his hands greedily grabbing at any skin he could, climbing up beneath your scrub top and ripping it up and over your head.
"Is this what you wanted?" He growled against your mouth, "This why you're being such a brat? You miss the way I touch you?"
His hand slipped past the waistband of your pants and without warning, he thrust a finger into you. You moaned into his mouth, kissed him harder, until he added a second finger and you could hardly breathe, your hips grinding against his hand for more, more, more.
But he pulled his hand out of you when he felt you get too close, "Want you to cum around my cock, want to feel how needy for me you are, hm? Can you do that?" He gripped your cheeks between his hand, forced you to look at him, "Can you be a good girl and follow directions?"
His tone was condescending and you felt the warmth build low in your stomach, felt yourself drip into your pants. You nodded, his hand still gripping your face, "That's my girl," He murmured and pressed a long kiss to your mouth before releasing you again, "Turn around for me."
You let him adjust your hips, push and pull you until you were in the perfect position, his cock lined up at your entrance. He slipped just the tip in, sighed when you moaned, and pulled out, "You have to be quiet, baby. Got it?"
You nodded eagerly, pulled a pillow to your face to stifle the sounds you were bound to make. You had never been able to be quiet. He pushed into you fully without further preamble and you moaned into the pillow.
His thrusts were slow and gentle at first, the burning low in your belly intensifying, muscles coiled tight as they readied for release. He started to speed up his movements, and you listened for his sighs, for his stifled moans. You liked to hear how good you made him feel and he was having a hard time being quiet right now.
Eventually, when he felt your walls beginning to pulse around him, he reached around your front, circled your clit expertly with a couple of fingers. It took seconds to push you over the edge and tears ran down your face as his cock continued to pump relentless strokes into you as you rode the high of your orgasm. And then he was cumming as well, pulling out to spill his load on your ass.
The two of you were silent as you cleaned up. You still didn't quite understand what he wanted from you, nor what you wanted from him. Just that not talking to him had been torturous after he had so effortlessly enmeshed himself in your life over the past few months. Just the few days you hadn't seen him, you hadn't been sleeping well. You thought he likely knew from the bruises under your eyes, but he hadn't said anything.
And then you were both back in the Pitt, gone your separate ways. You went back up to the surgery ward as if nothing had happened. Wondered if you had accidentally gotten yourself too deep into something you'd be unable to escape unscathed.
***
You were off work both today and tomorrow and so had decided to hit the bars with a couple of fellow residents. They had been begging you to come out with them for months, but you had fallen so deep into your non-relationship with Robby, you had refused many such invites in favor of sharing your bed with him.
He had taken to completely ignoring you since your last run in, especially around Jack. You tried to ignore the waves of pain that came with that, if only to not give Jack the satisfaction. You still remembered the way he had warned you that Robby would only break your heart and you had stupidly thought you hadn't given him enough of it to break.
But none of that mattered now. You were very drunk and looking for someone decidedly Not Robby to bring home. You were sitting at the bar top. Your friends said they were just gonna be a sec, they're running to the bathroom. A tall, handsome stranger asked if he can buy you a drink, and you smiled and nodded, welcomed the flirting. Tried desperately not to compare him to Robby.
And that was the last thing you remembered before you were waking up in the back of an Uber, your friends talking in panicky voices on either side of you.
"What'ssssss happeninnnn'?" You slurred, your tongue felt heavy.
"Don't you worry, girl." One of your friends squeezed your shoulder, "We're bringing you back to PTMC. You might need Narcan."
Narcan? Why the fuck would you needâ?
"I can't believe it," Your other friend was going on, "We leave her alone for two seconds and bam! Roofied. Insane."
Oh. Well, that explained the time loss. They must've been worried whatever illegal rohypnol you'd been dosed with was laced with fentanyl. You had heard of such a case once or twice before, but it was rare. No real reason to lace a date rape drug with fentanyl, the people they were meant for weren't exactly repeat customers. But, better safe than sorry you supposed.
Jack was gonna lose his shit. And, oh, it was still early, wasn't it? Robby might still be passing off patients, making sure his staff went home for the day. Fuck. You weren't in the mood to see him like this.
"Stay here," Your friend said as the Uber pulled into the ambulance bay, "I'm gonna go grab a wheelchair."
Stay here, you thought as you stared at the car ceiling. As if you had a choice. Everything was spinning.
You heard Jack's voice first, it was him who pulled you from the car, placed you gently into the wheelchair. Then you heard Robby's voice, sounding agitated as he spoke with your friends. Something about why the fuck would they leave you alone like that and what kind of friends were they anyway.
Well, that was probably the last time you were going to be invited out you supposed.
"I don't think you need it," Jack's voice was soft in your ear, "But I'm gonna give you some Narcan just in case, alright?"
You tried to nod, but it just made you dizzy and you closed your eyes instead.
The next time you opened them you thought a decent amount of time must've passed. You felt a bit clearer, a little less fuzzy around the edges. There was an IV in your arm and you were on a gurney.
Robby was sitting by your bed, a tired look on his face as he looked over your chart.
"Robby?" Your voice came out rough and he looked up at you.
"Hey," He said gently, immediately putting your chart down. He took one of your hands in his own and smiled at you, "How're you feeling?"
You swallowed and it felt like cotton going down your throat, "Not so great." You managed, "Still pretty dizzy. Can I have some water?"
"Yeah, of course," He already had a water bottle on standby by your bed, held it to your lips while you took long, swallows.
"Thank you." You said when he took it away, "DidâDid I test positive for fentanyl?"
"No," Robby was playing mindlessly with your fingers, you found it quite soothing, "No, just rohypnol."
Finally, you realized what time it must be and frowned, "Shouldn't you be home by now?"
He shrugged and smiled, "Didn't wanna leave you."
Your face softened marginally and you felt tears burn at the backs of your eyes, "Robby, what are we doing?" You asked quietly.
He brought your hand to his mouth, pressed gentle kisses to your fingers, "I don't know. But I know I don't want it to end."
Jack was watching the two of you from across the way, hesitant to interrupt. He watched the way Robby absently played with your fingers. The way he smiled at you. The gentles kisses pressed to your hand. The way he had told off your friends earlier for leaving you alone, the same way Jack may have if Robby hadn't done it for him. And he was beginning to realize that maybe he had sold his friend short. Maybe Robby all this time had felt just as much for you as you had for him.
Finally, Jack cleared his throat to announce his presence and Robby immediately dropped your hand as if it had burned him.
"Welcome back, kid." He gave you a smirk, which you returned, "You were real out of it for a while there. You can talk again?"
You nodded, "Complete sentences and everything."
"Great. Well, since we didn't find any fentanyl in your system, you're free to go whenever you feel like it. Should feel 100% back to normal in about 24 hours, likely less." He turned his head to his friend, "Robby, a word?"
Robby stood and followed Jack out of earshot of you, "Look, I'm sorry about the hand holding, Iâ"
"What are your intentions with my sister?"
Robby's mouth hung open for moment, having been interrupted mid thought, "IâWhat do you mean?"
"Do you care about her?"
"Of course I care about herâ"
"You're sitting at her bedside, you're holding her hand, you're looking at her like if anything happened to her you'd set this hospital on fire and then yourself."
Robby scoffed, "I think that's an exaggeration."
Jack gave him a lopsided grin, "Look, I know I've been⊠difficult. But it's only because I don't want to see her hurt. But I care about you too," Jack swallowed, "And if you care for her the same way she cares for you, if it's gonna make both of you happy, thenâŠ" He shook his head, "You have my blessing."
Robby stared at Jack blankly for a moment, "You'reâ You're serious?"
Jack nodded, "Yeah. But I meant what I said about breaking your legs if you break her heart, so. Just⊠Weigh your options carefully." Jack smirked and slapped Robby's shoulder affectionately. "Could you drive her home tonight? Make sure she gets back safe?"
A slow smile spread across Robby's face and then he pulled Jack in for a hug, "You got it, brother."
"What was that about?" You asked when Robby had come back to your side, looking giddy as he grinned from ear to ear.
Robby shook his head and picked up your hand again, pressing it to his mouth, "You ready to get out of here?"
You frowned, "With you? In front of Jack?"
He nodded, "Yeah. And I'd like to stay the night, if that's okay with you?"
You tilted your head to the side, "What did he say to you?"
Robby shrugged, "I'll tell you later. Just trust me?"
You frowned, but nodded, "Sure, okay."
And then Robby led you out of the emergency room, your hand in his. He didn't pay any attention to the stares or whispers and when he kissed you while you were still in the parking lot, you let him.
On the drive back to your apartment, you dug out your phone to text Jack: Thank you.
He hearted the message and just sent back: Whatever it looks like, let yourself be happy. It's what dad would've wanted.
You blinked away your tears and looked over at Robby while he drove, the moonlight casting shadows across his face. Yeah, you thought, I think I can do happy.
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summary: the morning after your first night together, carter wakes you up in the best way.
warnings: smut, oral (reader recieving), coming in pants, a little fluffy.
a/n: dipping my toes into the smut writing world... john carter, my beloved... on s10 rn and missing him in the episodes without him :(
The morning light is peeking through a gap in the curtains when you wake up. Youâre disoriented for a second, used to waking up alone in your own bed, until you feel a hand brush against your stomach.
âYou know, blackout curtains only work when you pull them closed properly.â You mumble, turning over to see a sleepy, messy haired John Carter smiling at you.
He scoots closer to you, head coming down to nuzzle into your shoulder, making you giggle at the vibration of his voice on your neck. âI do close them properly, when Iâve just worked a night shift and actually need to block out the sun.â
You grin and turn into him, wrapping your leg up around his waist and bringing your hand up to card through his hair. âAre you always this clingy in the morning?â
âJust with you.â
Shaking your head at him, you close your eyes, drifting back off to sleep in the comfort of Carterâs arms.Â
-
Itâs a little later in the day when you wake up again, the sunlight brighter, the cars outside louder. You and Carter are still wrapped around each other, tangled like youâre in a game of twister, but heâs shifting slightly, and it takes you a second to realise that heâs hard, and rubbing up against you, short, sharp breaths against your skin.
âMhm, John.â
He pulls away from your neck, looking sheepish until he sees the heated look in your eyes. âYeah?â He asks, smile turning smug.
âShut up.â You mutter, capturing his lips with your own. He melts into it immediately, kissing back with fervour, and you tighten your hands in his hair. His head tilts, and when his mouth opens against yours, you lick into it and he lets out an obscene moan. He pulls you even further into him, if thatâs possible, and slides a thigh between your legs so youâre rutting against each other like teenagers, the friction delicious.
Eventually, Carterâs mouth leaves yours, only to start dragging open-mouthed kisses along your jaw and down your neck. His teeth graze against your neck and you buck against him, whining and burying your face in his hair. Heâs so attentive, so good at noticing the spots that have you sighing slightly louder than others and homing in on them. Heâs slowly kissing downwards, and before you know it, heâs pushing up the oversized shirt you wear to sleep and capturing a nipple in his mouth. Your back arches up at the ceiling, hand fisting the sheets, thighs grinding against him.
âOh fuck- John-â You gasp out, and you feel the bite of his teeth as he grins against your skin.
âFeels good?â He asks, and when you look down, his eyes are on yours, that smug look back in them.
âYou know it does.â You whine, and he returns to his task immediately, left hand coming up to pinch at the nipple not in his mouth. Itâs a lot, and combined with the slick grind of your hips against his thigh, you can feel the fire licking through your veins, your face heating up and your breaths coming in shorter pants. Carter mouths his way over to your other nipple, replacing his fingers and lavishing his tongue over the hardened bud, his right hand now coming up to where his mouth just was.
âJohn- I need- I- Ah-â You rut desperately against him, feeling the heat climbing, climbing- and then he pulls away from you, pushing up onto his right elbow, leaving you whining at the loss of stimulation. âWhy did you-â
âTell me what you want.â He murmurs, hand stroking down over your waist, your hip, your thighs.
âHands, mouth, anything. Need you, please John, please-â
His hand creeps inwards towards the apex of your thighs, sparks following in its wake, and when his thumb finally comes up to brush against your heat through your underwear, your whole body jolts with it.
He looks up at you then, pupils blown, just as wrecked as you feel. âFuck, these are-â He swipes his thumb again, âThese are ruined.â
âStop teasing, please, baby-â
His thumb hooks up under the waistband of your underwear, pulling down the sticky fabric, mouth right over yours. âNot teasing. Not.â He mutters. âJust making you feel good. Taking my time.â
âTaking too much time.â You grumble, and he huffs a laugh.
He kisses you on the mouth again, once, sweetly, before retracing his path downwards, going further this time, kissing down past your chest, your stomach, before stopping right where you need him. His breath ghosts over the patch of hair on your mons, and you writhe, about to complain again, say something, anything to get him to move, when his fingers finally breach your lips, sliding against the wetness pooling between your legs, and you end up crying out instead.
âF-fucking finally.â
Carterâs looking at your glistening folds with absolute reverence, pulling back his soaked fingers and marvelling at the wetness glistening in the light. âDo I really get you this wet?â He asks, big brown eyes looking up at you, eyebrows drawn up, a question, like you would actually say no.
âShit-â You thrust upwards again, âYes, God, yes- all the time. Always.â
âAlways?â
âAt work, all the time. Fuck- when you take command, or- or you keep, looking at me, like you can see through my fucking scrubs-â
His arms come up then, wrapping around your thighs suddenly, pushing them apart, pulling you forward, finally into his mouth, and youâre practically yelling, arching so far off the bed you can see the headboard.
âOh my God-â You whine, drawing it out, as his mouth latches onto your clit, no preamble, no more teasing, just sucking, licking, giving you exactly what youâve been waiting for. His attentiveness is perfect, he seems to know exactly which of your moans means what, which gasp means pleasure, and which means his actions are teetering into pain.
And it's not just you making noise. You can hear Carter even over the heartbeat in your ears, and God is it hot. He's moaning wantonly into your wetness, the sound echoing, rivalling your own pleasure. At one point, you thread your hand into his hair and tug, and he actually whines, pressing his face further into you, trying to pull you forward. You look up as he does this, and catch a glimpse of his hips moving against the bed, every other thrust accompanied by a noise.
"Ah- John-" You're trying to ask for something, but your brain can't reach past the haze to produce a coherent sentence. Somehow, Carter still works it out, one hand coming down off of your thighs to allow him to slip his middle finger inside of your slick hole.
"That's- oh- that's it." You cry out, grinding forward into Carter's face. He presses his other hand down at the bottom of your stomach and you gasp, feeling the heat pooling fast now, especially as he slides a second finger in with ease, curling upwards in the exact right way against your walls.
You grind harder as you feel the heat build, legs shaking, breath coming even faster. "Oh- oh- I'm gonna-" you gasp out, and Carter hums, continuing exactly what he's doing, letting you take the reins with your hands and your hips, enjoying being used however you determine.
Finally you go taut all over, feeling the dam burst, thrusting upwards, gripping Carter's hair so hard it must hurt him. As your orgasm washes over you, you babble, an incoherent mix of noises and words falling from your mouth, hips grinding until the feeling of his mouth against you tips over into overstimulation and you're pulling away, having to yank Carter off of you to make him stop.
After he pulls away, sitting back on his heels, you look up at him. He's debauched, hair sticking up at all angles, face drenched from his nose down, cheeks bright red. You giggle a little and he ducks his head, hand haphazardly attempting to smooth down his hair.
"That was- oh-" You sigh out, chest still heaving a little.
"Yeah?" Carter asks, grinning self-satisfied. You nod ardently, and push yourself up, raising to where he sits, kneeling on shaking calves. He looks so cute like this, you can't help pulling him forward by the nape of his neck, kissing him open-mouthed. He responds in kind, sucking on your tongue, making you weak all over again.
"Can I return the favour?" You ask, pulling away and tilting your head. He looks down again, abashed.
"I- uh- I already-" He looks down, blushing, and motions at his lower half. You follow his eyes, see the soaked front of his boxers and giggle.
"That's really hot." You smile, and he looks up, eyebrows drawing upwards and together.
"Really? I usually try anything to stave it off."
"Yeah, it's an ego boost."
He looks relieved, "I mean, I'll be good to go again in about five minutes."
A cheeky smile plays on your lips, and you pull him closer again, breathing against each other's mouths, "Well, whatever should we do for those five minutes?"
part 1 here :p cuz I promise if u don't read it you won't understand a THING
clark kent feels weird, today.
like, really weird.
this morning when he woke up, he felt like he was having a heat stroke. his skin was buzzing and uncharacteristically warm, but he just brushed it off thinking it was his kryptonian body acting up again.
well, he wasn't wrong.
at work, everything felt worse. he felt intensely disoriented, his head buzzing and spinning endlessly. he had trouble controlling his strength, accidentally shattering his coffee mug or even unwilling snapping his keyboard in half.
but everything got worse when he sensed you.
not saw, sensed.
it was unusual, truly. he spotted your body heat among others, could only focus on your voice, and damn, since when does your skirt hug your butt like that? he quickly shook his head to escape those nasty thoughts but, in vain. it was like his entire bodyâthe codex itselfâwas forcing him to focus on you. every thought in his head were of you, you, you.
but that was before you interacted with him, before you even laid your eyes on him.
when you did, everything spiked.
as soon as he saw those pretty eyes bore into his, he felt the heat in his chest spread out throughout his entire body. he shifted uncomfortably because of the raging boner he had and licked his lips in what seemed to be dehydration.
and his mind recognized it, recognized youâthe groove of your walk, the sound your thighs rubbing together with each step, the familiar beating of your heart, and if he listened close enough, he could even hear the sound of your pussy lipsâ
"hey, clark," you waved at him and he stopped breathing, clenching his jaw tightly to conceal the ungodly sound that was currently clawing at his lips, ready to escape.
you noticed something was wrong with your beloved, and set a hand on his chest. his usually rock solid skin felt softer and incredibly warmer. when you moved to the right, you could feel his larger heart beating atleast ten times faster than if usually would.
"what's wron..." you trailed off when he grabbed your handâtightlyâand gave you a crooked smile as his eyebrows bent and pinched together. "p-please, dear, go away b-before iâ" another spark of heat, "j-just go." and with that, he let you go, disappearing into the men's bathroom and leaving you there, confused and concerned.
it was only hours later, in the evening, that you saw clark again.
you were simply getting up to reheat your food before somethingâsomeoneâcrashed through your living room wall, knocking you down with it.
a strong hand wrapped around your head before you could knock it on the ground and before you knew it, a very familiar pair of lips came locking onto yours, kissing you deeply into his palm.
he pulled away to give you a moment to breath as he dipped down into you neck, licking and sucking. "c-clark what has... what has gotten into you?" you barely manage to breath, the dust and smoke of the broken wall was making it hard to inhale (and see clark at all), aswell as the weight of his body on yours.
"i don't- I dunno, I..." he kept licking your skin like a dog, your taste giving him some kind of sexual gratification. "all day I've been... my body felt so... so freakin' warm and justâ I felt like all I needed was you... I couldn't even focus on anything i kept..." he was curiously out of breath, like the effort of simply speaking to you while holding back the urge to fuck your brains out was too much for him.
"...I kept smelling you and- and hearing you... andâ jesus, I just.. want you so bad, darlin'.." he licked his way back up to your lips, nibbling on your bottom one softly. "clark," you finally managed to say, the dust settling. "tell me what you need." your hair ran up his back and into his hair, scratching his scalp which nearly made his eyes roll back.
"you. I need you, c-can I have you? please?" and the way he's just asking makes you want to give him everything he could ever ask for.
so you do.
as soon as you let out a soft "yes," he became a totally different kryptonian.
and that's how you ended up with your back arching away from the dining table, shoulders pressed against the cold surface by clark himself to keep you from slipping away at each mean thrust of his hips.
it's been, what, 4 orgasms? neither of you knew and honestly, neither of you caredâmatter of fact, you both stopped caring when he finished inside for the first time and it happened.
the hooks.
"i- I wanna..." he swallows sharply, "I wanna feel it again, d-dont you, sweet thing? i-it felt so good, right? right." the both of you nodded dumbly at eachother and he smiled, terrifyingly so.
clark kent looked feral. his eyes were as hectic as his hands, moving everywhere. he wanted to see you, to feel you, to give in to you. he was inside you and yet he wanted more. he wanted you to be hisâmore than you already were.
"stuffin' you full so that- oh, god, yesâ so that you can carry my kids... so that everyone will know you'reâ m-mine... mine, mine." he squeezed your breast, his gaze zeroing onto the oddly shaped (thanks to his buds) bulge on your stomach before his hand followed, caressing his cock through your skin and twitching every time the buds were stimulated.
it felt perfect, truly. he felt like you were made for him. the gummy texture of your walls fit perfectly with his buds as each of them grazed the crevices of your rugae every time his hips bumped into yours.
"c-clark, I don't... I'm gonnaâ i- i cant-" he presses down onto the bulge which makes you scream, "y-yes you can, baby, please- one more, just one more- iâ please, sweetie, gosh, I love you so much!" his speech quickly became incoherentâa sign of his impending orgasm.
another tell-tale sign is, of course, the hardening of his buds. they were so strong that they halted his movement, burying him deep inside you while hooking onto your ridges. "o-oh my godâ" you gasped, feeling the vein on his cock rubbing against your g-spot. "t-too muchâ I'm- I'm too full, clark!" and he shakes his head, chuckling lowly.
"n-no you're not baby! i-i can see it! you still... you can still handle more..." he starts to look more and more pained with each word, his body aching for release. "p-please.. pleasepleasepleaseâ- take it, baby, take it... please, it hurts... y-you're gonna be good f'me right? gonna be good and take it?" fuck, it was intoxicating. everything was. his speech, his smell, the feeling of his alien dick literally hooking inside you to cum deep in your womb...
"please..." was all you could mutter, but he understood. his body understood.
his release was cataclysmic. the buds settled slightly deeper into your crevices, allowing him to shoot into you with bullseye precision. "h-holyâ oh myâ" he couldn't even speak. his breath came out in short pants and he looked up, as if begging some higher being to release him from this seemingly everlasting ache.
upon feeling his warm cum painting your insides, and hearing him mumble "g'nna make you a mommy... you're gonna look s-so pretty with myâ hhnnng... my kid inside y-youu...", you orgasmed aswell. you walls clenched and rubbed against the now soft buds on his dick, pressing down onto his shaft which has his stomach clenching and caving, almost folding the kryptonian in half.
in the midst of it all, you swear you saw his eyes glow red for a moment, but he quickly blinked that away. his eyes flickered back to your face, and then back to you pelvis, before he threw his head back again with a groan.
"y-you're... shoot.." he's barely catching his breath, "you're not... full enough.." and he resumes his thrusting which makes you give up on looking at him, eyes lazily rolling back.
your entire body relaxed and went limp, allowing him to use you as he pleased.
"wanna make you a mommy... and you're not full enough."
Letting your husband Frank know that you are particularly sore after a night of baby trying on a busy day in the OB ward
itâs actually dana that notices you grimacing as you head back to the ward after consulting on a case in the er. she watches you for a total of ten seconds before turning to find langdon. when she does, she walks over and gives him look that crackles with thunder and lightning.
frankâs smile at some joke heâs halfway forcing donny to listen to drops instantly. already knowing thatâwhatever this is forâheâs toast.
âare you stupid?â
âdana, whatââ
âactually, ya know what,â she throws her hands up in the air with a laugh that makes him feel a little worse. âiâm sorry, i shouldnât ask questions i already know the answer to!â
âi-i,â frank tries just as donny slinks away, wanting no part. he backs away with his hands raised in surrender and scared eyes.
âshut up, and listen tâme, hun: i know youâre excited and that your wifeâs a cutie, but you better give that girl a break so help me god, or iâll wring your neck, do you hear me? poor thingâs yawning and limping like you havenât let her sleep in two weeks.â
blinking, frank gulps and reddens with a flush shame.
that same night, instead of tugging you to the bed after dinner, heâs draws you a bath. helps you inside the tub and soaps your skin well, pecking your skin with feather-light lips.
âyouâd tell me if itâs too much, right? us? tryinâ for a kidâŠâ
taking a warm, wet hand, you tilt his head until heâs looking at you. his eyes are the most uncertain youâve ever seen them.
âyes, i would. was actually gonna ask you for a break tonight but you read my mind before i could bring it up.â
thinking, frank bits at the skin of his lip. embarrassed more than anything.
âyouâll keep telling me right? when you need a break or wanna cool it for a bit? or we could make some kinda scheduleâwell, you make a schedule and just tell me when and where. seriously, babe. the last thing i wanna do if tire you out, or god forbid, hurt you in some way. iâd never forgive myself ifââ
you shut him up with a gentle grab of his chin.
âin all this time of knowing me, do you really think i wouldnât tell you if you were really hurting me? last night was just a lot, which i fucking loved by the way. just needed a break tonight⊠thatâs all, frankie. i promiseâŠâ
frank eyes you, and is pretty quiet for the rest of the night. holding you but still in his head, thinking about what dana said to him; and promising to lighten it up, no matter what you tell him.
maybe like nurse!reader x frank or something like that.. unless ur tired of writing for him ofc! <3
favorites - f. langdon x fem!reader
summary: frank knows he's not supposed to have favorites in the workplace, but there's just something about you that he can't seem to resist, for better or for worse.
warnings: SMUT (minors dni, 18+ only), (slight?) infidelity, frank is a munch, fingering, p in v, protected sex, no use of y/n, frank has no kids!! mentions of divorce, regular pitt gore, idiots in love
author's note: I'M FINALLY DONE GET THIS OUT OF MY DRAFTS!! thank you for the request anon!! i hope i did it justice. something actually took over me while writing this... i don't condone infidelity but.......
wc: 9.1k
Frank knew he wasn't supposed to have favorites.Â
Really, favoritesâor any sort of personal biasâis unprofessional. Itâs especially unprofessional in his line of work, where youâre expected to be able to operate with anyone regardless of your own personal feelings or partiality. And, for a while, Frank understood and abided by this rule. Sure, it was hard sometimes to work alongside Santos after he finished his leave from rehab, but even their strained relationship had morphed into something more respectable these days. Frank liked to believe he treated everyone the same. In Frank's eyes, he has no favorites.Â
Well, except you. Â
Youâre a different story. Something a little more... complicated. Youâre a difficult thing to describe, Frank thinks, and an even more difficult thing to behold. Youâre impossibly smart, witty, quick on your feet, hard when you need to be and sweet when you can. All of these things draw Frank to you, and he has a hard time understanding why.Â
When Frank came back to the Pitt after his leave of absence, terrified out of his mind about jumping back into the environment where he once fell down a hole too deep, he was convinced maybe his return was a bad idea. Maybe, after all this time, the voices were right. He shouldnât be allowed to be a doctor.Â
These whispers swirled in his head like poisonous ivy on brick walls, growing their way to the core of his brain where they planted and nursed the most horrid of self loathing thoughts. Frank was halfway through his first shift back, contemplating the validity of what the voices had been saying to him, when he saw you for the first time.Â
You were tucked away into a corner, medicine bottle in hand as you bit your bottom lip, listening intently as Mateo rattled off some unimportant patient details. You nodded every once in a while to prove you were paying attention, your dedication shown through your body language and intense facial expression.Â
It didn't take long for Frank to realize you were a nurse, and a new one at that. You still had that anxious air surrounding youâone that Frank knew all too well.Â
He attempted to listen to what Collins was saying to himâreally, he was trying. But his eyes kept drifting to the side of your face, the curve of your hips, the small smile that escaped you when he overheard Mateo trying to soothe your nerves. He couldnât look away.
From then on, it was difficult for him not to treat you differently.Â
If there was any opportunity to have a nurse on a case, whether that be administering medication, patient assessments, or monitoring vitals, your name was the first thing out of Frank's mouth. Yes, he knows there are many talented nurses in the Pitt, but none of them were quite like you. None of them worked so well with him, none of them understood and returned his playful banter the way you did, none of them could take one look at his facial expression and determine exactly what was necessary for him to succeed in the way you always did.
It was almost magical the way he felt around you. In between stolen snacks from the staff lounge, shifts that ran overtime, and shared caffeine addictions, Frank grew fond of you, against his best wishes.
But it was so hard for him to fight it. He attempted, he really did. For a while he didnât return your morning smiles, he feigned annoyance at your weekend updates with Mohan, but it was all futile. You were intoxicatingâfunny, gorgeous, sarcastic, and most unfortunately for him, engaged.Â
That was the second thing Frank had noticed about you his first day back: the sparkling rock on your left hand. He had to admit, it was a sizable ring, which made it all the worse. It was salt in the wound. Frank, a man who had just gotten over his marriage, enthralled with you, a woman about to enter into hers. The irony was not lost on him.Â
With every mention of your wedding, with every compliment of your ring, it felt like someone was dragging nails across a chalkboard directly in Frankâs ear. Chadâs presence irked him in a way he wasnât able to understand, or rather, in a way he didnât want to accept.
One sided affection was growing increasingly difficult for him. He felt crazy, desperate, running his fingers through his hair at night and asking himself, why didnât he meet you sooner? But Frank knew, deep down, there was nothing he could do to change the fate of your relationship. You were happily engaged to a man you loved, who loved you. It didnât matter that he noticed the way your lips tugged into a smile the first time Frank caught your eye during the day, or the packet of goldfish youâd slide his way halfway through his shift, or even the quiet moments you two have had in the stairwell together after a particularly difficult case. There was no hope for him.Â
So, Frank took what he could get. Sure, it was blatant favoritism, but Frank couldnât bring himself to care.Â
//
âOkay! I think you're all done.â You smile, patting your palms on the tops of your scrub clad thighs. The elderly woman in front of you, staring at her freshly dressed numb burn wound, beams back at you with a grateful expression as her frail hands clasp together in appreciation. Her young daughter that sits right by her side looks at you before saying, âThank you, miss. For being so kind.âÂ
âAbsolutely, my pleasure.â You respond, beginning to clean up the materials around you. âAnd, Maâam, do you remember your steps for after you're discharged?â
âYes, I think Iâve got it.â The mother begins to reply. âNo harsh chemicals, only soap and water before the antibacterial cream, and then change the bandage daily.âÂ
âYup, you got it. If there are any complications, if the pain suddenly becomes unbearable or if there's any swelling or pus, come right back here and weâll get you sorted.â You explain.
The kind woman thanks you again as her daughter helps her up and out of the room, making sure to give you one last smile on her way out. You give a small wave back just as a familiar face approaches you.
âFeel like helping me today?â Langdon asks as you turn to look at him. His brown hair falls in front of his face as he angles his eyes down to meet yours. Something swirls in his irises, something familiar and warm, and you find yourself feeling clammy at the sight.Â
You roll your eyes in fake annoyance, clearing your throat. âItâs only 11 and you're already asking for my help?â
âPretty please?â He says, his voice turning syrupy and low. His bottom lip juts out into a pout. You find your eyes trailing over his oh so soft looking mouth. âRobby and I have a patient in Trauma 1 that I need you for, like asap.â
You laugh and shake your head as you give him a silent nod. Youâve never been able to say no to Frank, and he knows it. He grins in response, flashing you his million dollar smile before turning around, motioning you to follow him.
You try not to let his words swirl around in your head as you trail behind him, but somehow they find their way to the forefront of your mind.Â
I need you.
For the next thirty minutes, you and Frank are glued to each other's side as you work in Trauma 1. Where Frank goes, you follow. Youâre there for it allâthe first time the patient codes, the blood transfusion you assist on, the frantic calls from Frank as Robby rushes into the room, it all swirls around you and him like a complex symphony.Â
Frank watches you in admiration, though youâre so engrossed with the task at hand that you fail to see it. His eyes follow as you skirt around the room, listening to every order Robby gives you, nodding and jumping into action. This is one of the things he admires the most about youâyour dedication. The silent way you accept direction without hesitation.
The thirty minutes pass like seconds. Before you know it, the patient is stable, and you watch as Frank and Robby chat quietly. You donât feel like interrupting their seemingly private conversation, so you take your leave and head to the staff lounge, rubbing the soreness out of your shoulders as you walk down the halls.Â
In the privacy of the staff lounge, you take a quiet minute to yourself. You crack open another redbull and give a sigh of relief at the taste. You need the boost this morningâyou felt restless last night, tossing and turning in the comfort of your bed. A million things were running through your mind as you attempted to sleep. You tell yourself to get a grip, to shake it off. There are more important things to worry about, better things to do with your time than lament on things you shouldn't be thinking of.
When you think youâre beginning to take too much time, you force yourself back on to the floor. You walk fast towards the direction you last saw Dana, hoping to chat with your charge nurse for a few minutes before tagging along with Perlah and Princess. Youâre so engrossed in your own mindâstill replaying the same thoughts that kept you up last nightâthat you donât see the shine of the floor below you, somehow missing the bright yellow bucket full of soapy water.
You donât see the puddle of liquid in front of you until youâre slipping in it, falling backwards and smacking your head on the linoleum tile with a gasp. Pain blossoms at the base of your skull as your body lays on the ground. Your eyes flutter softly, vision turning blurry before, eventually, it fades to black.
//
Your ears are ringing.Â
Someone is faintly yelling words you can't quite pick up somewhere in the background. You feel a pair of hands behind your neck as someone is propping your head up, and just when you think you may have escaped this incident unharmed, just as your eyes begin to squint open and you make out the face of Dana and Robby, the back of your head throbs. Â
âOh, motherfucking christââ You sputter, attempting to sit up. âJesus that hurts.â
âHey hey. Take it easy, kid.â Robby orders, grabbing one of your arms to help steady you.Â
Dana crouches down beside him, immediately handing you an ice pack that feels freezing against your palm. You accept it gratefully as your eyes continue to adjust to the harsh fluorescent lighting of the ED.Â
âQuite a fall you took there,â Dana starts. âHere, let me check to see if your head's bleedinâ.â
You groan as her hand ghosts against the back of your skull, hissing when the tips of her fingers barely come into contact with your pulsing skin. When she removes her fingers to examine them, theyâre dry, which is a reliefâat least you wonât need stitches.
âDo you know where you are?â You hear Robby ask.Â
âIâm in hell,â you reply. You watch as a little of the concern melts from his face, a small smile replacing the serious expression he had been sporting since he watched you slip.Â
âWe should examine you for a concussion,â he continues, beginning to stand back up. Your ass is still firmly planted on the floor, one hand propping yourself up as the other ghosts the ice pack against your temple. Your entire head feels like it's on fire, like someone just took a wooden mallet and went crazy against the inside of your mind.Â
You're just about to take Robbyâs helping hand up when the sound of rushing footsteps catches your attention.
âWhat the fuck?â You hear Langdon say, and you donât have to turn to know the way heâs looking at you. Your head starts to pound even further. âWhat the hell happened?â
âI acquainted myself with the floor,â you mumble, finally taking the aid to get yourself back on two legs. You feel like a baby deer finding its footing for the first time, wobbling slightly back and forth as you try and steady yourself.Â
âAre you okay?â Langdon asks, his arms finding their way to yours, attempting to help stabilize you.Â
âIâm fine, totally good. Just embarrassed.â You laugh, immediately regretting it as you wince from the pain.
âHow hard did you hit your head?â He asks, eyes scanning over your face. He turns to Robby before asking, âHas anyone assessed for a concussion?â
âNo, not yet, I was just aboââ
âSomeone help me!â A voice cries out.Â
Robby, Dana, and Frank tense immediately. Your reaction time is a little slower, and youâre still a little confused until you see Whitaker on the floor, attempting to stop the convulsions of an elderly man currently laying on the floor.Â
âJesus, we got people dropping like flies!â Dana yells before running over to help the poor fourth year med student. Robby isnât far behind her, grumbling to himself about how he can't catch a fucking break, how its always one thing or another.Â
âLangdon!â He booms from across the room. âTake over for me. Check her for anything, I gotta go.â
Frank gives him a wordless nod, taking no time before leading you towards an empty room not too far away. You feel like a grandma being walked across the street. Langdonâs hands are wrapped around your body, guiding you towards the seat of the bed before they remove themselves, shutting the door behind you both.Â
âItâs a fucking shit show out there,â he breathes as he swiftly brings up a stool, positioning himself in front of you. âWeâve got doctors cracking their skulls open, patients seizing on floorsâit's not even lunch.â
âYeah, well. I wasnât planning on practically seeing god today.â You huff. âHoly shit my head hurts.âÂ
âYeah, letâs make sure you didnât give yourself permanent brain damage.â
He wheels himself around the room in a comfortable manner, like he's done so many times before. His fingers wrap against the cool metal of a flashlight, and before you know it he's shining it in your face, making you flinch.
âJesus! A little warning, please?â You hiss.
âSorry, sorry.â He smiles sheepishly. âJust let me check out your pupilas and then Iâll turn it off.â
He scooches his stool closer to you, finding a respectable place that is semi in between your legs. There's still enough distance that it's professional, but it's just close enough that it makes you sweat.Â
âCan you tell me your name?â He finally says, clicking the flashlight off. You assume that means your pupils are fine, and heâs moving on to the cognitive aspect of his makeshift exam. You roll your eyes. You're almost positive you donât have a concussion, just the makings of an incredibly nasty bruise and bump, yet you answer him anyway.
âAnd what day is it?â
âWednesday.â
âTheâŠ?âÂ
âThe twelfth, jesus. Do you want the year too?â
âI wouldnât say no.â
You playful wave your hand, dismissing him. The pain in your head has slowly receded, not as prominent as it originally was. It thrums slightly in the background, though, not completely over.
âAlright, can you look at my finger?â He starts again, breaking the small silence. He holds his index finger in front of your face. âIâm just gonna move this around, and I want you to follow it, okay?â
âYes, Dr. Langdon,â you attempt to tease, but your voice comes out lower than expected. You watch as Frank swallows hard.
âTell me what you did this morning.â He stares intensely into your eyes as he asks the question, still moving his finger around the peripheral of your vision. You follow your order, eyes never leaving his hand as you think of your answer, hoping you don't seem as frazzled as you feel. Did he get closer or are you imagining things?
âWoke up. Ate breakfast. Came to work. Helped on a couple different cases before the one with you and Robby. Went to the staff lounge to down a redbull and before I knew it I was slipping on the wet floor.â
âGood, okay.â He breathes. He stops moving his finger around which allows you to look at him once more. His stethoscope hangs loosely around his black scrub top, the white of his undershirt peeking through his collar as his chest slowly rises and falls. He looks handsome today. Yet again, he always looks handsome, and you find yourself biting the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from telling him that very same thing.
âYou were great this morning. With Robby and I, I mean. You handled it like a champ.â
âThanks,â you whisper. You never know what to do when Frank compliments you. âItâs all you guys. Youâre easy to work with.â
âYeah, but you were collected. Purposeful. Calm. Even when Mateo almost threw up.â He chuckles.
âI try.â You say, and itâs true. You always try. You always give it your best, but it's just easier with Frank. Youâre not sure why.
âIâm gonna take your temp now.â He decides, rolling away from you for a second to get a thermometer.Â
âThat feels a little unnecessary,â you say. You donât want to be a botherâFrankâs a busy man, a coveted one at that. You know he could be helping someone else right now, and you'd hate to think that you were stealing him away from people who needed him more.
âNope, donât even.â He replies. âIâm checking off every box.â
He brings the electric thermometer that reads your temporal artery to your forehead. He clicks the button and watches for a few seconds as the device seems to think for a moment, giving you a small smile when a normal and acceptable number flashes on the screen.
âThank you, again. For checking me for the concussion.â
âNo problem.â He responds. âCanât have you getting worse. Donât know what Iâd do if I had to ask Jesse to do anything instead of you.â
You try not to think too much about what he says to you. You try to pretend you don't notice the way he favors you over other nurses. You try to pretend you don't care. You try to pretend it doesn't kill you.
When Frank finishes putting away the thermometer, you think he's done with his exam. Yet, he doesn't get up to leave. Instead, he leans back, stretching his arms in the air. His shirt riles up, a sliver of his skin between the tops of his pants peeking out. Your eyes scan down the hair on his abdomen.Â
You clear your throat. Looking at Frank like that is wrong, for many different reasons. When you get up to move, Frank puts out a hand to stop you, wordlessly communicating that he doesn't want to leave yetâthat the exam isn't over.Â
âWhat are you checking right now?â You ask as Frank sits in front of you, seemingly doing nothing.
âYour responsiveness.â So, bullshit, basically.
âAnd how is it?âÂ
âWell, for starters, you're responding.â
You give him a small chuckle. You feel appreciative of the calm moment between you twoâyouâre only halfway through the day, yet you feel like youâve been going one hundred miles per hour all morning, never stopping to catch your breath. Especially with your newfound head wound. The rest and ice will do you good, youâre sure.
âHow have you been?â Frank asks in hopes of breaking the silence. Your eyes flicker up to meet his, and you give the normal response. Iâm good, smile. Work is crazy, cheek bite. Thank god Iâm off this friday, chuckle.
Through your painfully normal response, Frank watches as your eyes betray you. Your body plays the part perfectly, posture open and inviting, smile bright and cheerful, but something distant swirls in the dark parts of your irises. Frank catches it all.Â
He frowns. He wants you to be open with him, but he doesn't push it.Â
âGood. Thatâs good. Have you been telling him about all the amazing shit you do here?âÂ
âUm⊠No. Not recently. Weâre actuallyâŠâ You try to think of how to phrase it. âWeâre having a little bit of a disagreement right now.â
âOh.â
âYeah. Itâs stupid, nothing serious, obviously,â you lie. âI just feel bad. I feel like itâs been distracting me.â
Frank tries to act like he's not enthralled. Obviously, he's sad that youâre feeling inadequate with yourself and distracted at work, but Chad can go kick rocks.
âYouâre not off your game. Not at all. You were amazing this morning.â
âThanks.â You reply, still deflected. You toy with your slightly melted ice pack, squishing around the slushy-like gel between your fingers. Your eyes bounce around the room. You donât want Frank to see the discouragement in them.Â
âI mean it. Youâre a great nurse, and partly the reason why Iâm a great doctor. I⊠I couldnât do this without you, I hope you know that.â He whispers.Â
It hasnât been the easiest thing for him, coming back. There have been so many demons he's had to face, so many challenges he's had to overcome. The cold glances he's had to brush off his shoulder and the shame of his actions all seem a little more bearable when youâre by his side.
He smiles when you look at him again. There's a slight awe in your eyes, like you can't believe what you've just heard, but it's true. Frank thinks the world of you.Â
âCan I ask what you're fighting about?â He says, lying to himself about his intentions. God forbid a nice doctor care about his a nice nurse. âWeâre⊠friends, so I guess I can ask.âÂ
You sigh. You don't want to let on too much, to make him worry about you or anything. âHeâs staying with a friend right now. Weâre just disagreeing on stuff about the future. Really, itâs nothing.â
He can see the way youâre downplaying your true feelings in real time as arguments replay in your mind. Harsh words being tossed around, all about how youâre too busy, you never see me anymore, we never have sex anymore.Â
You donât tell Frank any of this, obviously. You would be mortified if he knew about the state of your relationship. (Or secretly enthralled, depending on how honest you want to be with yourself.)
âWell, heâd be an idiot to fuck this up with you.â He confesses.
You laugh. Itâs heartfelt, Frank can tell. Heâs proud of himself for pulling it out the depths of your lungs. After a second, your eyes fall back to the ice pack that's now fully jelly in your hands, feeling a similar melted sort of emotion. You start to speak, but feel like your words fail you.
âI donâtââ Want him. Love Him. âI justââ Want you instead. âItâsââ Easy. Kiss me. ââComplicated.â
âWell,â he starts again, âWe donât have to talk about it if you don't want to. And, anyways, I have to finish your exam.â
âThereâs more?â You groan. This has been the longest concussion assessment of your life.
âMobility. Iâm just gonna check around your neck, see if anything hurts. That sort of stuff.â
You gulp. âSure.â
Frank rolls his stool in front of you once more, a pair of plastic gloves now hiding his hands from the fluorescent lights of the room and the soft feeling of your skin. He inches slowly towards you, trying to find a compromise between the space he knows he should give you and the space he wants.
Quietly, he brings up his fingers to the side of your neck, lightly brushing against the area where your jaw meets your throat. You swallow thickly.Â
âIâm gonna press lightly on the sides of your throat, and then Iâm gonna ask you to move your head around. Let me know if anything I do hurts you, okay?â
âY-Yeah.â
You watch as his gaze leaves your face to focus on the task at hand. Heâs gone from being Frank, to being Dr. Langdon. Itâs sexy admirable.
You feel the light pressure of his two fingers as they make their way down your throat. You wait patiently for his instructions, trying not to gasp when his grip changes from two fingers to five, his hands practically engulfing your neck.
âMkay,â he murmurs, cocking his head. âTo the left⊠Good. Now the right.â
You feel yourself getting hot. Your heartbeat is spiking, you're sure of it. What a horrible time for Frank to have his hand on your carotid artery.
âYou seem flushed? Are you alright? Is it hurting?âÂ
âJesusâNo. Itâs nothing. Sorry.â You cringe.Â
He halts his movements. You feel his hands soften around you, feeling lighter around your throat. Oh great, you think. He thinks he's hurting me.
When you finally get the courage to open your scrunched up eyes, you see that heâs back to Frank now. Frank, whose hands are around your throat, his latex clad fingertips barely brushing against the small hairs on the back of your neck. Frank, whoâs the closest heâs ever been before. Frank, whose eyes are bouncing back and forth between your eyes and your lips.Â
Itâs wrong. You know it is. Itâs bad to want it. Itâs bad to think about it.
Itâs even worse to do it.
But it happens anyway.
You don't know who starts it. One minute youâre trying not to crawl out of your skin in embarrassment of the way your body betrays you, the next your heart turns to putty as you feel his lips brush against yours, soft and slow with hesitance.
You kiss him back. You donât think you could pull away if you tried. He tastes like the peach-nectarine red bull he drank this morning. He smells handsome, if that's even possible. Like the ocean. Your hands itch to cradle his face, to make their way into his dark brown hair that always looks perfect, no matter how many times he runs his fingers through them.
Itâs deep. Itâs sweet. Itâs everything youâve wanted since the first day you saw him.Â
You play with your fingers to distract yourself reaching out to touch him, as if heâd turn to gold and crumble from your midas touch. Your fingertips run over something hard.
Your ring.
And suddenly it's over.
You pull back from him. You're breathless, you feel disheveled. Your lips feel swollen. Your head hurts worse than when you practically slammed it on the floor like a basketball.
âAre youâshit. I⊠Iâm sorry, I shouldnât haveââ
âWe shouldnât. I canât, I haveââ
âYeah, yeah, obviously. Shit.â
âYeah. Um. I should⊠go.â
âYes,â he breathes, âYouâre all good. No⊠no concussion. Or brain damage.â
âThank you,â you say, scrambling to stand up. âFor⊠Yeah, okay.â You find your footing faster than you did in the halls. Youâre not sure what you would do if Frank tried to help stabilize you, but you imagine it can't be anything good.Â
You leave the room without looking back.Â
//
For the rest of his shift Frank is torn into pieces.
He feels awful. You came to him, hurtâpossibly concussedâand what did he do? Kiss you. Stupid idiot. You had trusted him. Confided in him about problems you were having in your personal life, problems you were having with the man who put that rock on your finger, and Frank just couldnât help himself, he had to ruin it.Â
It was clear you were avoiding him. Painfully so.
You immediately walked away in the opposite direction if he spotted you, never giving him the chance to ask you for help with a patient. Every time you caught his eye, you were deep into conversation with whoever was around you, always managing to avoid his gaze he so desperately wanted you to see.Â
Youâre nowhere to be found when heâs roaming the halls, right as Frank is in between cherry picking cases. Youâre somewhere in a room down the hall when Frank sits down to log some information, pretending to look busy as he clicks the mouse around an empty screen. He feels like a kicked puppy.Â
The worst part is he knows he did it to himself. He knew at the beginning of your friendship that he wasnât capable of knowing you without loving you, and he worked with you anyway. Now it's all ruined, he thinks. Youâll never speak to him again. Youâll probably never want to be in the same room as him, especially alone. Itâll be horrible to work with him, youâll hate every minute of it.
Heâll be a gentleman about it though, transfer to night shift. Never speak to you again. Wishing you and your future toddler twins a good life as you cradle a new baby that looks just like fucking Chad. He can see it all play out in his head. Heâll die alone. The cat he doesnât have will eat his face.
The hours pass by quickly as Frank loses himself in his head. He goes through the motions. Heâs done it all before. Itâs not good to work distracted, but there's no use in trying to clear his mind. He wants to talk to you desperately, but he doubts heâll get the chance.Â
And heâs right. You take off like a shot when your shift ends, leaving a trail of dust behind you. No one seems to notice but him. Frank feels so twisted inside, like heâs fucked everything up beyond repair. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he sits in the driver's seat of his car. He let himself get too comfortable, be too hopeful that anything could change between you two.Â
He drives home in disappointed silence.Â
//
When Frank finally makes it back to his house, to his sparsely decorated apartment that's just a little too small and a little too dark, he collapses with exhaustion. His bag is tossed somewhere haphazardly, his lanyard with his medical ID thrown loosely on his kitchen counter. He slides off his scrub top and doesn't bother to look where it lands.Â
A hot shower should fix everything.Â
He stands under his showerhead moments later, his shitty water pressure doing an even shittier job at getting the shampoo out of his hair. He tries to distract himself with miniscule things in order to prevent thinking of you. This ends pathetically, however, when Frank realizes he doesn't have much of anything else to distract himself with.
Heâs not married anymore. He barely has any friends. All he does is work, and if Frank thinks of work, then Frank thinks of you.
âThis is pointless,â He mutters to no one.Â
When he finally deems himself clean, appreciative of the small relief that the shower has given him, Frank tosses on an old pair of sweatpants that ride low on the bony parts of his hips, sliding over a black steelers t-shirt to go with it. He reheats some leftovers from the night before, going through the motions of being too eager and burning his mouth over and over with every bite.Â
Heâs impressed with himself about how his cooking skills have grown. Now that he lives alone, all of the decisions fall to him. It wasn't like he never cooked when he was married or anything of the sortâFrank always helped out. But now, heâs on his own. He wonders briefly if youâd like the meal heâs eating. If youâd like his cooking.Â
He stands in the kitchen for longer than he should. His plate is clean now. The dishes are washed and dried, put away in their respective cabinets. But Frank canât bring himself to move. From here, he can see the entirety of his home as it lies before him. His small living room with a couch and a TV he got on sale. The door to his bedroom cracked slightly askew, allowing for the tiniest bit of light to bleed in from his bathroom.
His apartment is cold. Empty. It feels lonely and like salt in the wound. Itâs times like this when Frank misses you the most. He closes his eyes and selfishly imagines you in his kitchen, smiling softly at him as he cooks for the two of you. The way youâd look on his couch, watching a movie so scary youâd have to turn to look away, burying your face in his chest.Â
He tries not to think about you in his bed. It never ends well for him, and he feels all the more shameful the next time he sees you.Â
When heâs done playing pretend in his mind, he makes his way to his couch alone. He turns on some shitty reality TV show to distract him, and make his space less quiet. He rots in the same position for what feels like hours.Â
Frankâs eyes just begin to flutter shut when he hears the faintest knock on his door.Â
At first he thinks heâs imagining it. Itâs late, and Frank doesn't talk to his neighbors. It mustâve been from down the hall.
But then it happens again. He pauses the show and groans as he stands, stretching out his arms and legs before he rubs his eyes. He knows he didnât order anything, so maybe someoneâs just got the wrong house?
He contemplates a few different possible scenarios until he opens the door, and itâs clear the person in front of him is at the right place. You stand anxiously, toying with your fingers like you did that morning. You look at him like a deer in headlights, almost as if you weren't expecting him to answer. Neither of you say anything.Â
He breaks the uncomfortable silence. âHow the hell did you get my address?â
You seem relieved when he speaks, like you were afraid he might shut the door in your face. âI have my ways.â
âThat's⊠frightening.â He admits. âDo you⊠do you want to come in?â.
âYeah.â
He maneuvers his body and opens the door widely for you, allowing you to step inside. You slowly creep into his living room, looking around and taking in his scarce decor, his degrees hung on the wall. He barely has any photos in frames.Â
His apartment radiates the same sort of Frank-esque smell that graced your senses earlier that morning, and you find yourself inhaling deeply, as if you were running out of breath. You hope he doesnât notice.
When Frank shuts the door behind you, he leans against the kitchen counter in order to give you some space. He thinks maybe youâre here to yell at him, to tell him youâre transferring to Presby or even moving just to get away from him.Â
But he canât help himself from worrying about you, which is why he ends up asking, âAre you okay?â
You don't answer him, which only puts him on edge more. He's always been used to easy conversations between you two. He hates this switch. He hates himself for it even more. The guilt that starts to bubble in his stomach again at the sight of you suddenly feels unbearable. He thinks he may just die if he doesnât try to make amends in some way, he can't bear the thought of losing you because he couldn't control his desire.Â
âIâm so sorry,â he begins to say, âFor this morningââ
âNo, no. That wasnât your fault at all. Donât apologize.â You confess. âActually, thatâs why Iâm here. ThatâsâThatâs what I want to talk to you about. If you have a second.â
âO-Of course, yeah.â
âUm⊠so I left work really fast. As Iâm sure you saw. Partly to avoid you and partly because kissing you made me realize some things that I had been ignoring. So I went home and got into a really big fight with Chad.â
Langdon gulps at your confession. He wants to reach out and touch you, but he decides against it.Â
âWe fought about⊠well about everything. He said that I wasn't in love with him. And⊠he's right. Iâm not. And also, apparently he was sleeping with the âfriendâ he was staying with, so. Tried to tell me it was my fault because I wasn't giving him any attention.â you whisper.Â
You stop yourself to catch your breath. You feel overwhelmed talking about something so fresh. You feel almost embarrassed in a way to admit thisâthat you had been so in love with Frank that it ruined your already crumbling relationship.Â
âI ended things with him. Gave him his stupid ring back and told him to get the hell out of my house. I gave him the night to pack a bag but I couldnât be there any longer, so I just left. I couldnât think of anywhere else to go.â
Frank stays quiet as you explain the situation you find yourself currently in. He watches as your eyes dart around the room once moreâyou're nervous. You're worried heâll kick you out, make you go back to your home where you have to come to the realization that the man you thought you were going to spend the rest of your life with is a cheater.
âIâm so sorry.â He says. He hears the way his own voice cracks. He hates seeing you emotional, and itâs getting to him. âHe didnât deserve you at all. And fuck him for trying to say it was your fault.â
He watches as you take a shaky breath. You look up at him. Youâre dressed more casually than when he last saw you, a pair of low rise jeans and some old band t-shirt covering your body. You look nice for someone who's just had their world turned upside down.Â
âBelieve it or not⊠Iâm actually not that torn up about it. In his defense, I donât think I've mentally been there for the past six months. Iâve been distracted.â You admit. Your stomach does a somersault when you watch as Frank clenches his jaw. You have to admit being cheated on feels shitty, but there's a certain feeling of freedom blooming in your chest as you stand in your favorite residentâs living room.Â
âBy what?â He asks. His voice is low. His arms are crossed, and his fingernails dig into his arms. They leave tiny crescent shapes in his skin.Â
You gulp. âBy you. Always by you.â
Frank freezes. The hair on the back of his neck stands up straight, sending a chill down his spine. He canât believe the words that are leaving your mouth. He feels like he must be dreaming. It just isn't possible for you to be standing in front of him after all this time, newly single, saying youâve wanted him just as much, if not more, as heâs wanted you.Â
Your confession hangs heavy in the air. Frank gets flashbacks to this morning. The feeling of your neck in his hands, the shape of your lips as they slotted so perfectly against his. He starts to understand that he was so worried after the kiss had happened, so convinced that he had screwed everything up, that he forgot to see the way youâd melted against him and moved your mouth against his. Â
âAbout this morning⊠Did you mean it? Did you mean to kiss me?â you whisper. âBecause if not, Iâll go, and we never have to talk about it again.â
Frank pushes himself off of the counter and walks towards you. He gets closer than he did this morning, yet his hands make their way to that same spot on your neck, just below your jaw. You exhale shakily as you wait for his reply.
âAll I do is think about you. Every goddamn day.â He breathes out. âIâm sorry about how that fucking asshole treated you, but Iâm notâIâm not sorry youâre not with him. You deserve to be with someone better than that. Who wants you.â
Something crackles between you two. Now that you both know where the other stands, itâs hard to not act on it.Â
âAnd do you want me?â You ask lowly.
âYes.â He replies, not missing a beat.
âThen kiss me. Please.â
Frank moves you closer with one small tug at your neck, bringing your face to his as his lips lightly brush against yours. Your eyes flutter shut, and you sigh into him as you let your hands wander. As your hands move up towards his hair, his move down your torso, resting lowly on your hips. He feels the rough material of your jeans underneath his palms. He hooks his fingers around your belt loops and pulls you closer, your body coming flush with his.Â
âWe donât have to do anything,â he says once he breaks away from you. The last thing Frank wants to do is rush you and scare you away, so heâll let you dictate how far you go tonight. Heâll take anything he can get, even if it's just a kiss. As long as it's with you.Â
âPlease, Frank. Havenât stopped thinking about you for months,â you confess against his lips.Â
The admission makes him rock hard. You feel like play-doh in his hands, so soft, so willing. You look at him in a way that makes him flush. Youâre so perfect, he thinks. And by some miracle, you want him just as much as he wants you.Â
So how could he refuse you?
He slides his hands down your ass to the back of your thighs, hoisting you up around his hips as he carries you to his bedroom. You feel his erection press through his sweats, and when he lays you down gently, you bite your lip at the sight of his outline through the sweatpants.Â
It doesnât take long before his hands are tugging at the hem of your shirt, signaling to you that he wants it off. You work on sliding it over your head as Frank removes his own shirt, his chest heaving up and down as his eyes rake down your body. His lips find their way to your neck as they kiss on your pressure point, causing you to squirm. You run your fingers through his hair as a way to distract yourself from the pleasure. He kisses his way down your chest until he comes to the swell of your breasts, reaching behind you to unclasp the garment. He groans as you help slide it off your body. He takes one nipple in his mouth and you gasp at the feeling of his warm tongue swirling around your areola.Â
He gives both of your nipples a little bit of attention, suckling slightly, watching the way they gleam with his spit in the moonlight before he keeps moving down your body. When he reaches the top of your jeans, you give a little hip lift in desperation. He gets the hint. His fingers undo the button and zipper, grabbing both your pants and underwear before sliding them down your legs. He discards them somewhere in the darkness of his room before his eyes are back on you. Your thighs are pushed together in slight embarrassment of how wet you are. A flush creeps its way down your neck as Frank slides his hands up and down your hips, trying to coax you open for him.Â
âYou donât have to,â you breathe out.Â
âBut I want to. Please let me, baby. Been thinking about it forever.â
You melt at his words. Youâve never been able to say no to him, not at work and not between the sheets of his own bed. His pleas cause your legs to spread open. He moves his head down to the same level as your soaking pussy, grinning when he sees how wet you are for him. He takes a moment to admire how you practically drip onto the sheets.Â
You cry out when his tongue finally licks a fat stripe up your cunt. Your fingers tug at his brown curls, his name leaving your lips in small whispers as he moves his mouth against you. Itâs sloppy, and the sound he makes against your pussy is obscene. He wraps his hands around the outside of your thighs, throwing your legs over his shoulders. This changes the angle of your hips, allowing his tongue to dive deeper into your core as your back arches from the sensation.
Before you can register him moving, Frankâs middle finger breaches your entrance. He pushes it in slowly, watching in awe at the way your tight walls engulf his digit whole. You groan at the intrusion. He curls it ever so slightly, a chuckle caught in his throat as your hips begin to grind down on his palm.Â
Frank wants to tease you, he really does. But for your first time together he can barely contain his excitement, let alone make you wait any longer than you have to, so he slides his ring finger in as well, developing a smooth rhythm that has you crying out his name. Â
He presses his tongue up against your clit, sucking it into his mouth as his fingers work to bring you closer and closer to your first orgasm of the night. You feel the familiar ache in your abdomen as he picks up his pace.Â
âFrank, fuck, fuckââ You whine. ââM close.â
He groans against you in response. He wants nothing more to have you cumming into his mouth, your sweet slick dripping down his tongue as he licks your pussy like it was made for him.Â
Your thighs begin to tremble and shake around his head. You scrunch your toes in pleasure as your eyes roll into the back of your head. You see stars as Frank brings you to the edge. When you cum, it's with a gasp and an arch of your back. You throw your head back against his pillow, and Frank doesn't let up on his movements as he works you through your orgasm.
When you finally come back down from your high, you see Frank with a shit eating grin between your legs. The lower half of his face shines with your juices.Â
âOh my god,â you blush, bringing your hands up to your face to hide your embarrassment.Â
âFuck, that was hot.â He laughs, pressing a wet kiss to the inside of your leg.
He climbs back up your body, wiping his mouth before kissing you softly. His tongue runs over your top lip, sliding its way into your mouth. You taste yourself as he deepens the kiss. Your hands run up and down his shoulders until your palms come flush with his chest. You feel the softness of his hair over the sharp edges of his muscles, sneaking your fingers down to the drawstring of his sweatpants. You undo them as Frank suckles at your neck.Â
You gingerly slip a skilled hand down his pants until you feel his erection through the thin fabric of his boxers. He hisses through his teeth at the relief the pressure from your hand gives him. You bite your bottom lip before cupping him gently, then raking your nails over his lower stomach once more before slipping your warm hand into his underwear. You gently grab his cock, watching as he shudders into your body. An involuntary whimper escapes his throat as you slowly begin stroking him up and down, feeling how hard and angry he feels even in the dark.
ââM not gonna last long if you keep doing that.â He groans.Â
You can't help but smile at the way his face scrunches up in pleasure as you continue to tug at his weeping member, occasionally running your thumb over his slit, gathering the precum before spreading it down his base.
âCanât wait anymore. Need you.â He states plainly, grabbing your wrist and removing you from his pants before he stands up, removing his sweats and underwear in one motion.Â
His cock, now free from the restrictive fabric of Frankâs boxers, pulses red between his legs. You drop your head back onto the mattress. Heâs big.Â
âNeed you to fuck me, please,â you beg as he leans over to his bedside table, ripping open a condom. He throws his head back as he slides it over his penis, eventually lining himself up to your dripping entrance. He drags his mushroom tip up and down your soaked folds, tapping your clit lightly. Your legs twitch at the stimulation.
âYou're my favorite, you know that?â He teases.Â
You drag him down for a kiss. Your nails scrape down his back as he slowly begins to push himself in, watching with hooded eyes at the way you take him so well. It's lewdâdown right pornagraphic the way you sound. You feel yourself stretch around him, chest rising and falling as he kisses you deeply, swallowing your moans as he begins to move his hips.Â
Heâs slow at firstâcalculated, like heâs thought long and hard about each stroke. His hips find a rhythm that makes your mouth fall open and leaves your mind blank, only one thing running through itâFrank, Frank, Frank.Â
Your hands fall from his back onto his soft sheets, scrunching them up in between your fingertips. Frank leans back and grabs your thighs, throwing them over his shoulder before pressing his torso into yours. You gasp at the change in angle. Suddenly, with each thrust he reaches deeper and deeper, grunting each time his thick head brushes against the spongy part in your walls, enthralled at the way it makes you moan.Â
His pace feels unrelentless and unforgiving. For a man whose admitted to liking you and respecting you so much, he sure fucks you like he doesnât. It only brings you closer to the edge.
You watch his face in a haze. The way his lips part slightly, the small beads of sweat that have gathered on his forehead due to the physical activity, the way those piercing blue eyes that you love so much suddenly look pitch black with lust.Â
He reaches his thumb down to circle your aching clit, biting his lower lip as he watches your back arch, pushing your tits into his face. He wants this burned behind his eyelids forever, buried alongside him in his grave.Â
Your high pitched whines and hics let him know you're close again. He feels the way your walls clench around him, gushing out your arousal with each slam of his hips. You move your legs down to wrap around his hips, linking your ankles together to pull him impossibly closer to you as he continues to pistol into your pelvis. You cum unexpectedly, like a white hot blaze bubbling in your stomach, shooting down your veins before you even realize it's happening. It renders you speechless. Tears prick the sides of your eyes as Frank works you through it, his encouraging yet incredibly sexy voice whispering praise in your ear.Â
When you come down from your high, you feel the way his hips stutter. Their movements, once precise, now feel erratic and dangerously close to finishing. You watch in amazement as his eyes squeeze shut. He grows louder and louder, slurred words leaving his lips as he tells you how good youâre doing, how nice you feel, how he could fuck you forever. His hips slam and eventually stall, a growl making its way into your shoulder as he releases his warm load into the latex of his condom.Â
Your fingers find the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck as he pants above you. You two laugh gently before Frankâs arms give out, leaving him to lay on top of you. You bear the weight of his body for the light neck kisses he gives you in return. Something tugs at your heart. The moment is slow, hazy in the best way. It's yours to share and hold.Â
When he finally pulls out of you, you whine at the loss of contact. You could have stayed like that forever. With Frank, forever.Â
âI know,â he whispers. He can already read your mind.Â
He walks to his bathroom and is gone for a moment, discarding his condom and cleaning himself up slightly before wetting a washcloth to wipe you down as well. Itâs warm and comforting as he cleans up the mess you made between your own thighs, a mixture of the condoms pre-given lube and your own arousal.Â
When you hear the start of his shower, you smile softly. It feels so domestic, like what youâve always craved with Frank. Like what Chad never gave you.Â
He helps you up off the bed, cracking another joke about you slipping as your legs try to find some balance. All you can do is give him an annoyed look before his lips are on yours again, dragging you from his room to the shower.Â
You fall asleep in his arms afterwards. You're dressed in an old shirt of his, a pair of his boxers clad on your lower half. His sheets smell like you and him. You two speak softly about what this all means, how long youâve wanted this, how much Frank has needed you. About how heâll never let you go now that he has you, and no Chad is changing that.Â
You kiss him gently. A thank you, an Iâve missed you, and an I love you seemingly all said with one small peck.Â
Frank doesnât fall asleep immediately. Youâre slumped against his chest, softly breathing in and out as his fingers curl against your lower back. From here, Frank begins to memorize the slope of your nose from up close, the fluffiness of your eyelashes that flutter occasionally. Heâs thankful for this moment of peace. He always wants this, he realizes. You, in his arms. His ring on your finger. Your toothbrush next to his. The smell of your shampoo on his scrub tops that will no doubt distract him.Â
He drifts off thinking of his rule that he followed dutifully for a long time. Heâs still following it as far as heâs concerned. He knows heâs not supposed to have favorites, and he doesnât.
Well, except for you.Â
//
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clark kent đ± đ«đđđđđ«Â
đđđ đŹ / đđ° â 18+, MDNI, secret admirer au, slowburn romance, mutual pining, radical acceptance and love is the real punk rock, yearning, clark is a softie, smut, piv, oral sex (f!recieving), fingering, creampie, touch starved clark KentÂ
word count: 18k
Summary: You start getting anonymous love notes at the Daily Planetâsoft, sincere, impossibly romantic. You fall for the words first, then realize they sound a lot like Clark Kent. And just when the truth begins to unravel, you start to suspect he might be more than just the writer⊠he might be Superman himself.Â
notes â not proofread and my first full Clark Kent fic!
â reblogs comments & likes are appreciated
The first thing you notice isnât the coffeeâitâs the smell.
Sharp espresso. The exact blend you order on days when the world feels like sandpaper. Dark, hot, and just a touch too strong. But when you reach your desk and set your bag down, the cup is already waiting for you, balanced on the corner of your keyboard like it belongs there.
A single post-it clings to the cardboard sleeve, the ink a little smudged from condensation:
âYou looked like you had a long night.â
No name. No heart. Just that.
You stare at it for a second too long. The office hums around youâphones ringing, printers whining, the low buzz of voicesâbut your ears tune it all out as you reread the handwriting. Rounded letters. Slight right slant. You canât place it.
And no one in this building knows your coffee order. You made sure of that.
Across the bullpen, Jimmy Olsen drops into his chair with a paper bag in his teeth and two cameras slung around his neck.
âSomeoneâs got a secret admirer,â he sings, catching sight of the note.
You glance up, but try to play it cool. âCould be a delivery mistake.â
He snorts. âRight. And Iâm dating Wonder Woman.â
Lois, passing by with a stack of mock-ups under one arm, pauses just long enough to lift a perfectly sculpted brow. âWhoâs dating Wonder Woman?â
âJimmy,â you and Jimmy say in unison.
âRight,â she says, deadpan, and moves on.
You feel a little heat crawl up your neck. You pull the cup closer. The lidâs still warm.
Youâre still turning the note over in your hand when Clark Kent rounds the corner. His hair is a little damp at the ends, like he didnât have time to dry it properly, already curling from the late-summer humidity. His tieâstriped, loud, undeniably Clarkâis halfway undone, the knot drifting lower by the second. His glasses are slipping down his nose like theyâre trying to abandon ship.
Heâs juggling three manila folders, a spiral-bound notebook balanced on top, a half-eaten blueberry muffin in his teeth, and what youâre almost certain is the entire city councilâs budget report from 2024 spilling out of the bottom folder. Itâs absurd. Kind of impressive. Very him.
âClarkâcareful,â you call out, mostly on instinct.
He startles at the sound of your voice and turns a little too fast. The top file slips. He manages to catch it, barely, with an awkward swipe of his forearm, the muffin top bouncing to the floor with a quiet thwup. He rights the stack again with both arms now locked tight around the paperwork, and when he looks at you, heâs already wearing one of those sheepish, winded smiles.
âMorning sweetheart,â he says breathlessly. His voice is warm. Rough around the edges like he hasnât spoken yet today. âSorry, Iâm lateâPerry wanted the zoning report and the express line was⊠not express.â
You donât answer right away. Because his eyes flick toward your deskâspecifically the coffee cup sitting at the edge of your keyboard. And the note stuck to its sleeve. He freezes. Just for a second. A micro-hesitation. One breath caught too long in his chest. Itâs nothing.
Except⊠itâs not.
Then he clears his throatâloud and awkward, like he swallowed gravelâand shuffles the stack in his arms like it suddenly needs reorganizing. âNew⊠uh, budget drafts,â he says quickly, eyes very intentionally not on the post-it. âI left the tag on that one by mistakeâignore the highlighter. I had a system. Kind of.â
You blink at him, watching his ears start to go red. ââŠYou okay?â
âOh, yeah,â he says, waving one hand too fast, almost drops everything again. âIâm fine, sweetheart. Just, you know. Monday.â
He flashes you the smile againâcrooked, a little boyish, like he still isnât sure if he belongs here even after all this time. Thatâs always been the thing about Clark. He doesnât posture. Doesnât strut. Heâs got this open-face sincerity, like the world is still worth showing up for, even when it kicks you in the ribs.
And youâve seen him work. Heâs brilliant. Way too observant to be as clumsy as he pretends to be. But itâs charming. In that small-town, too-tall-for-his-own-good, mutters-puns-when-heâs-nervous kind of way.
You like him. Thatâs⊠not the problem. The problem isâ He turns to walk past you, misjudges the distance, and thunks his thigh into the sharp edge of your desk with a grunt.
You flinch. âYou good?â
âYep.â He winces, but manages a thumbs-up. âJust, uh⊠recalibrating my ankles.â
Then heâs gone, retreating to the safe, familiar walls of his cubicle, still muttering to himself. Something about rechecking source notes and whether anyone notices when hyperlinks are one shade too blue.
Youâre left staring at the cup. At the note.
You run your thumb over the y again, the way it loops low and curls back. Thereâs something oddly familiar about the penmanship. Not perfect. Neat, but casual. Like whoever wrote it didnât plan to stop writing once they started. Like they meant it.
You donât say it aloudânot even to yourselfâbut the truth is whispering at the edge of your brain.
It looks like his. It feels like his. But no. That would beâ Clark Kent is thoughtful, sure. Heâs the kind of guy who remembers how you like your takeout and always lets you borrow his chargers. He holds elevators and never interrupts, and he stays late when you need someone to double-check your interview transcript even though itâs technically not his beat.
Heâs the kind of guy who brings you a jacket during late-night stakeouts without asking. Heâs the kind of guy who makes you laugh without trying. But he couldnât be the secret admirer.
âŠCould he?
You glance toward his cubicle. You canât see him, but you can feel him there. The way his presence always lingers, somehow warmer than everyone elseâs. Quieter.
You tuck the note into the back pocket of your notebook.
Just in case.
-
You forget about the note by lunch.
Mostly.
The newsroom doesnât really give you space to linger in your thoughtsâphones ringing, printers jamming, interns darting between desks like caffeinated ghosts. Itâs chaos, always is, and you thrive in it. But even as youâre skimming through edits and fixing a headline Jimmy typoâd into a minor war crime, part of your brain keeps circling back to that one y.
By the time you head back from a sandwich run with mustard on your sleeve and a half-dozen emails on your phone, thereâs another cup on your desk. Same order. No receipt. No name.
But this time, the note reads:
âThe line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.â
You freeze mid-step, bag still dangling from one hand.Â
You hadnât published that line. You wrote it. Typed it, then stared at it for twenty minutes before deleting itâthought it was too sentimental, too soft for the piece. You didnât want to seem like you were editorializing. And yet⊠it had meant something. Youâd loved that line.
And someone else had read it. Which meansâŠ
Your eyes flick up. Around.
The bullpen looks the same as always: fluorescent lights buzzing, keys clacking, the faint scent of stale coffee and fast food. Jimmyâs arguing with someone about lens filters. Lois is deep in a phone call, gesturing with a pen like she might stab whoeverâs on the other end.
And thenâClark. Sitting at his desk, halfway behind the divider. Fiddling with his glasses like they wonât sit quite right on the bridge of his nose. He glances up at you and smiles. Soft. A little crooked. Familiar in a way that does something deeply unhelpful to your chest.
You stare for a second too long.
He blinks. Looks down quickly. Reaches for his pen, drops it, fumbles, curses under his breath. You see the top of his ears turning red.
Something inside you shifts. The notes are sweet, yes. But this is specific. This is someone who read your draft. Someone who noticed the cut line.
You never shared it outside your initial file. Not even with Lois. You almost didnât send it to copy at all. So⊠who the hell couldâve read it? How could they have seen it?Â
You return to your chair slowly, like it might help the pieces click into place. Your eyes catch the handwriting again.
The loops. The slight leftward tilt.
Clark does have neat handwriting. Youâve seen his notebook, all tidy bullet points and overly polite margin notes.
You tuck this note into your drawer. Next to the other one.
You donât say anything.
-
Later that afternoon, the newsroomâs background noise crescendos into something louderâLois and Dan from editorial locked in another philosophical brawl about media framing. Youâre not part of the fight, but apparently your latest piece is.
âItâs fluffy,â Dan says, waving the printed article like it personally offended him. âIt doesnât do anything. Whatâs the point of it, other than making people feel things?â
You open your mouthâjust barelyâready to defend yourself even though itâs exhausting. You donât get the chance. Clark beats you to it.
âI think it was insightful, actually,â he says from across the bullpen, voice louder than usual. âAnd emotionally resonant.â
The silence is sharp. Dan arches a brow. âListen, Kent. No one asked you.â
Clark straightens his tie. âWell, maybe they should.â
Now everyoneâs looking. Lois leans back in her chair, visibly suppressing a smile. Dan scoffs and mutters something about sentimentality being a plague.
You just stare at Clark. He meets your eyes, then seems to realize what heâs done and looks at his notebook like itâs suddenly the most fascinating object in the known universe.
Your heart does something inconvenient. Because now youâre wondering if it is him. Not just because he defended you, or because he could have somehow read the line that didnât make it to print, but because of the way he did it. The way his voice shook just a little. The way he looked furious on your behalf.
Clark is soft, yes. Awkward, often. But thereâs something sharp underneath it. A quiet kind of intensity that only shows up when it matters. Like someone whoâs spent a long time listening, and even longer choosing his moments.
You make a show of checking your notes. Pretending like your stomach didnât just flip. You donât look at him again. But you feel him looking.
-
The office after midnight doesnât feel like the same building. The lights buzz quieter. The chairs stop squeaking. Thereâs an eerie sort of calm that settles once the rush hour of deadlines has passed and only the ghosts and last-minute layout edits remain.
Clark is two desks away, sleeves rolled up, tie finally abandoned and flung haphazardly over the back of his chair. Heâs squinting at the screen like heâs trying to will the copy into formatting itself.
Youâre just as tiredâthough slightly less heroic-looking about it. Somewhere behind you, the printer groans. A rogue page slides off the tray and flutters to the floor like itâs giving up on life.
Clark gets up to grab it before you can.
âYouâre going to hurt yourself,â you say as he crouches to retrieve it. âOr fall asleep with your face on the carpet and get stuck there forever.â
He offers a smile, crooked and half-asleep. âIâve survived worse. Once fell asleep in a compost pile back in high school.â
You pause. âWhy?â
âThere was a dare,â he says, deadpan. âAnd a cow. The rest is classified, sweetheart.â
You snort before you can stop it.
Itâs late. Youâre punchy. The kind of tired that makes everything a little funnier, a little looser around the edges. He sits back down, stretching long limbs with a groan, and you let the quiet settle again.
âYou know Clark, sometimes I feel invisible here.â You donât mean to say it. It just slips out, quiet and rough from somewhere behind your ribcage.Â
Clark looks up instantly.
You keep staring at your screen. âItâs all bylines and deadlines, and then the story prints and nobody remembers who wrote it. Doesnât matter if itâs good or not. No one sees you.â You tap the corner of your spacebar absently. âFeels like yelling into a tunnel most days.â
You expect him to say something vague. Supportive. A standard âno, youâre great!â brush-off. But when you finally glance over, Clark is staring at you with his brow furrowed like someone just insulted his mom.
âThatâs ridiculous,â he mutters. âYouâre one of the most important voices in the room.â
The words are firm. Not flustered. Not dorky. Certain. It disarms you a little.
You blink. âClarkââ
âNo. I mean it, sweetheart," he says, almost stubborn. âYou make people care. Even when they donât want to. Thatâs rare.â
He looks down at his coffee like maybe it betrayed him by going cold too fast. You donât say anything. But that ache in your chest eases, just a little.
-
The next morning, youâre halfway through your walk to work when you find it.
Tucked into the side pocket of your coatâthe one you only use for receipts and empty gum wrappers. Folded carefully. Familiar ink.
âEven whispers echo when theyâre true.â
You stop walking. Stand there frozen on the corner outside a coffee shop as cars blur past and someone curses at a cab a few feet away. You read the note twice, then a third time.
Itâs simple. No flourish. No name. Just wordsâquiet, certain, and meant for you.
You donât know why it lands the way it does. Maybe because it doesnât try to dismiss how you feel. It just⊠reframes it. You may feel invisible, small, unheardâbut this person is saying: that doesnât make your truth meaningless. You matter, even if it feels like no oneâs listening.
You fold the note gently, like it might tear. You donât tuck this one into your notebook. You keep it in your coat pocket. All day.
Like armor.
-
By midafternoon, the bullpenâs usual noise has shapeshifted into something louderâone of those half-serious, half-combative newsroom debates that always starts in one cubicle and ends up consuming half the floor.
This time, itâs the great Superman Property Damage Discourse, sparkedâunsurprisinglyâby Lois Lane slapping a freshly printed article onto her desk like it insulted her directly.
âHe destroyed the entire north side of the building,â she says, exasperated, as if sheâs already had this argument with the universe and lost.
You donât look up right away. Youâre knee-deep in notes for your community housing series and trying to keep your lunch from leaking onto your desk. But the words still hit.
âTo stop a tanker explosion,â you point out without much heat, eyes still scanning your page. âThere were twenty-seven people inside.â
âMy point,â Lois says, crossing her arms, âis that someone has to pay for all that glass.â
âPretty sure itâs the insurance companies,â you mutter.
Lois raises a brow at you, but doesnât push it. Sheâs used to you playing devilâs advocateâusually itâs just for fun. She doesnât know this oneâs starting to feel a little personal.
And then Clark walks in. Heâs balancing two coffee cups and what looks like a roll of blueprints tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled up and tie already loose like the dayâs been longer than it shouldâve been. His hairâs a mess, wind-tousled and curling near the back of his neck, and heâs got that familiar expression onâhalf-focused, half-apologetic, like heâs perpetually arriving a few seconds after he meant to.
He slows as he approaches, catches the tail end of Loisâs rant, and hesitates. Just a second. Just long enough for something behind his glasses to tighten. Then, without warning or warm-up, he steps in like a man walking into traffic.
âHeâs doing his best, okay?â he blurts. âHe canât help the building fellâthere was a fireball.â
The bullpen quiets a beat. Just enough for the words to settle and sting. Lois doesnât even look up from her monitor. âYou sound like a fanboy.â
âI justââ Clark huffs. âHeâs trying to protect people. Thatâs not⊠easy.â
He lifts his hand to gesture, but his elbow clips the corner of his desk and sends his coffee tipping. The paper cup wobbles, then crashes onto the floor in a slosh of brown across your loose notes.
âClark!â You shove back in your chair, startled.
âSorryâsorryâhang onââ He lunges for a stack of printer paper, overcorrects, and knocks over another folder in the process. Its contents scatter like leaves in the wind. He flails to grab what he can, muttering apologies the whole time.
The tension breaksânot because of what he said, but because of the way he said it. Because heâs suddenly in a mess of his own making, trying to mop it up with a handful of flyers and an empty paper towel roll, red-faced and flustered.Â
You canât help it. You smile. Just a little.
Lois glances sideways at the scene, then turns to you, tone dry as dust. âWell. Heâs⊠passionate.â
You arch a brow. âThatâs one word for it.â
She doesnât notice the way your eyes linger on him. She doesnât see the shift in your chest when you watch him drop to one knee, scooping up wet files with shaking hands, his jaw tightânot from embarrassment, but from something quieter. Fiercer.
Because Clark hadnât just jumped to Supermanâs defense.
Heâd meant it.
Like someone who knows what it feels like to try and still fall short. Like someone whoâs carried the weight of peopleâs expectations. Like someone whoâs watched something burn and had to live with the cost of saving it.
You know itâs ridiculous. You know itâs a stretch. But still⊠your breath catches.
He steadies the last folder against his desk, rubs the back of his neck, and looks upâright at you. Your eyes meet for a second too long.
You offer him a look that says itâs okay. He returns one that says thanks. And then the moment passes. You turn back to your screen, heart pounding for reasons you wonât name. And Clark returns to quietly drying his desk with a half-crumpled press release.
You donât say anything. But youâre not watching him by accident anymore.
-
Youâve read the latest note a dozen times.
âSometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I canâtânot yet.â
Thereâs no flourish. No compliment. Just rawness, stripped of any careful metaphor or charm. Itâs still anonymous, but the voice⊠it feels closer now. Less like a mystery, more like someone standing just out of sight.
Someone with hands that tremble when they pass you a coffee. Someone who knows how your voice sounds when youâre frustrated. Someone who once told you, very softly, that your words matter.
You start thinking about Clark again. And once the thought roots, itâs impossible to pull it free.
-
You test him. Itâs petty, maybe. Pointless, probably. But you do it anyway. That afternoon, youâre both holed up near the copy desk, reviewing your latest layout. Clarkâs seated beside you, sleeves pushed up, his pen tapping lightly against the margin of your column draft. His knee keeps bumping yours under the desk, and every time, he apologizes with a shy smile that doesnât quite meet your eyes.
Youâre running on too little sleep and too many thoughts. So you try it. âYou ever hear that phrase? âEven whispers echo when theyâre trueâ?â
He looks up from the page. Blinks behind his smudged glasses. âUh⊠sure. I mean, not in everyday conversation, but yeah. Sounds poetic.â
You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just slightly. âI read it recently,â you say, like youâre thinking aloud. âCanât stop turning it over. I donât knowâit stuck with me.â
He stares at you for a beat too long. Then clears his throat and drops his gaze, pen suddenly very busy again. âYeah. Itâs⊠itâs a good line.â
âYou donât think itâs a little dramatic?â
âNo,â he says too quickly. âI meanâitâs true. Sometimes the quietest things are the ones worth listening to.â
You nod, pretending to go back to your edits. But his pen taps a little faster. The corner of his mouth twitches. Heâs trying to look neutral, maybe even confused. But Clark Kent couldnât lie his way out of a grocery list.
And if he did write it, that means he knows youâre testing him.
You donât call him on it.
Not yet.
-
Later that evening, he helps you file your story. Technically, Clarkâs already done for the dayâhe couldâve clocked out an hour ago, couldâve gone home and slipped into his flannel pajamas and vanished into whatever quiet life he keeps outside these walls. But instead, he lingers.
His jacket is folded neatly over the back of your chair, sleeves still warm from his arms. His glasses sit low on his nose, catching the screenâs glow, one smudge blooming near the top corner where heâs pushed them up too many times with the side of his thumb.
He leans over the desk beside you, one palm braced flat against the surface, the other gently scrolling through your draft. His frame takes up too much space in that warm, grounding wayâshoulder brushing yours occasionally, breath warm at your temple when he leans in to squint at a sentence.
Youâre quiet, but not for lack of things to say. Itâs the way heâs readingâcarefully, like every word deserves to be held. Thereâs no red pen. No quick fixes. Just soft soundless reverence, like your work is already whole and heâs just lucky to witness it.
And his hands.
God, his hands.
You try not to look, but theyâre impossible to ignore. Big and capable, yes, but gentle in the way he uses themâfingers skimming the edge of the printout like the paper might bruise, thumb stroking over the corner where the page curls, slow and absentminded. The pads of his fingers are slightly ink-stained, callused just at the tips. He smells faintly like cheap soap and newsroom toner and something you canât name but have already begun to crave.
You wonderâjust for a momentâwhat it would be like to feel those hands touch you with purpose instead of hesitation. Without the paper buffer. Without the quiet restraint.
He leans a little closer. You can feel the press of his shirt sleeve against your arm now, soft cotton against skin. âLooks perfect to me,â he murmurs.
Itâs not the words. Itâs the way he says themâlike heâs not just talking about the story. You swallow, pulse jumping. You wonder if he hears it. You wonder if he feels it.
His eyes flick to yours for just a second. Something hangs in the airâfragile, charged. Then the phone rings down the hall, and the spell breaks like steam off hot glass. He steps back. You exhale like youâve been holding your breath for three paragraphs.
You donât look at him as he grabs his jacket. You just nod and whisper, âThanks.â
And he just smilesâsoft and private, like a secret passed from his mouth to your chest.
-
You donât go home right away. You sit at your desk long after Clark and the rest of the bullpen has emptied out, coat draped over your shoulders like a blanket, fingers toying with the folded edge of the note in your lap.
âSometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I canâtânot yet.â
Youâve read it enough times to have it memorized. Still, your eyes trace the handwriting againâcareful lettering, no signature, just that quiet ache bleeding between the lines.
Itâs the first one that feels more than just flirtation. This one hurts a little. So you do something you havenât done before.
You pull a post-it from the stack beside your monitor, scribble down one sentenceâno flourish, no punctuation.
âThen tell me in person.âÂ
You slide it beneath your stapler before you leave. A deliberate offering. You donât know how heâs been getting the others to youâif itâs during your lunch break or when youâre in the print room or bent over in the archives. But somehow, he knows.
So this time, you let him find something waiting.
And when you finally shrug on your coat and step into the elevator, the empty quiet of the newsroom echoes behind you like a held breath.
-
The next morning, thereâs no reply. Not on your desk. Not slipped into your coat pocket. Not scribbled in the margin of your planner or tucked beneath your coffee cup. Just silence.
You try not to feel disappointed. You try not to spiral. Maybe heâs waiting. Maybe heâs scared. Maybe youâre wrong and itâs not who you think. But your chest feels hollow all the sameâlike something almost happened and didnât.
So that night, you write again. Your hands shake more than they should for something so simple. A sticky note. A few words. But this one names it.
âOne chance. One sunset. Centennial Park. Bench by the lion statue. Tomorrow.â
You stare at the words a long time before setting it down. This oneâs not a joke. Not a dare. Not a flirtation scribbled in passing. This is an invitation. A door left open.
You slide it under your stapler the same way youâve received every one of his notesâunassuming, tucked in plain sight. If he wants to find it, he will. Youâve stopped questioning how he does it. Maybe itâs timing. Maybe itâs instinct. Maybe itâs something else entirely.
But you know heâll see it.
You pack up slowly. Shoulders tight. Bag heavier than usual. The newsroom is quiet at this hourâjust the low hum of the overhead fluorescents and the soft, endless churn of printers in the back. You turn off your monitor, loop your coat over your arm, and make your way to the elevator.
Halfway there, something makes you stop. You glance back. Clark is still at his desk.
You hadnât heard him return. You hadnât even noticed the light at his station flick back on. But there he isâelbows on the desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes already lifted.
Watching you.
His face is unreadable, but his gaze lingers longer than it should. Soft. Searching. Almost caught. You feel the air shift. Not a word is exchanged. Just that one look.
Then the elevator dings. You turn away before you can lose your nerve.
And Clark? He doesnât look down. Not until the doors slide shut in front of your face.
-
You tell yourself it doesnât matter. You tell yourself it was probably nothing. A game. A passing flirtation. Maybe Jimmy, playing an elaborate prank heâll one day claim was performance art.
But stillâyou dress carefully.
You pull out that one sweater that always makes you feel like the best version of yourself, and you smooth your collar twice before you leave. You wear lip balm that smells faintly like vanilla and leave the office ten minutes early just in case traffic is worse than expected. Just in case heâs early.
You get there first. The bench is colder than you remember. Stone weathered and a little damp from last nightâs rain. Your coffee steams in your hands, and for a while, thatâs enough to keep you warm.
The sky begins to soften around the edges. First blush pink, then golden orange, then the faintest sweep of violet, like a bruise blooming across the clouds. You watch the city skyline fade into silhouettes. The sun drips lower behind the glass towers, catching the river in a moment of molten reflection. Itâs beautiful.
Itâs also empty.
You wait. A couple strolls past, fingers laced, talking softly like theyâve been in love for years. A jogger nods as they pass, earbuds in, a scruffy golden retriever trotting faithfully beside them. The dog looks up at you like it knows somethingâlike it sees something.
The wind kicks up. You pull your coat tighter. You tell yourself to give it five more minutes. Then five more.
And thenâ
Nothing. No footsteps. No note. No him.
Your coffee goes cold between your palms. The stone starts to seep into your bones. And somewhere deep in your chest, something you hadnât even dared name⊠wilts.
Eventually, you stand. Walk home with your coat buttoned all the way up, even though itâs not that cold. You donât cry.
You just go quiet.
-
The next morning, the bullpen hums with the usual Monday static. Phones ringing. Keys clacking. Perryâs voice barking something about a missed quote from the sanitation board. Jimmyâs camera shutter clicking in staccato bursts behind you. The Daily Planet in full swingâordinary chaos wrapped in coffee breath and fluorescent lighting.
You move through it on autopilot. Your smile is small, tight around the edges. Youâve become a master of folding disappointment into your postureâchin lifted, eyes clear, mouth curved just enough to seem fine.
âGuess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.â You drop your bag beside your desk, shuffle through the morning copy logs, and say it lightly. Offhand. Like a joke. âShouldâve known better.â You make sure your voice carries just far enough. Not loud, but not a whisper. Casual. A throwaway comment designed to sound unaffected. And then you laugh. Itâs short. Hollow. It dies in your throat before it even fully escapes.
Lois glances up from her monitor, eyes narrowing faintly behind dark lashes. She doesnât laugh with you. She doesnât smile. She just watches you for a beat too long. Not with judgment. Not even pity. Just⊠knowing. But she says nothing. And neither do you.
What you donât see is the hallwayâjust twenty feet awayâwhere Clark Kent stands frozen in place. Heâd just walked inâlate, coat slung over one arm, takeout coffee in the other. He had stopped just inside the threshold to adjust his glasses. Heâd meant to offer you a second coffee, the one he bought on impulse after circling the block too many times.
And then he heard it. Your voice. âGuess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.â And then your laugh. That awful, paper-thin laugh.
He goes still. Like someone pulled the oxygen from the room. His hand tightens around the coffee cup until the lid creaks. The other arm drops slack at his side, coat nearly slipping from his grasp. His jaw tenses. Shoulders stiffen beneath his white button-down, and for one awful second, he forgets how to breathe.
Because you sound like someone trying not to care. And it cuts deeper than he expects. Because heâd meant to come. Because he tried. Because he was so close.
But none of that matters now. All you know is that he didnât show up. And now you think the whole thing was a joke. A stupid, secret game. His game. And he canât even explainânot without tearing everything open.
He stares down the corridor, eyes fixed on the edge of your desk, on the shape of your shoulders turned slightly away. He watches as you pick up your coffee and blow gently across the lid like it might chase the bitterness from your chest.
You donât turn around. You donât see the way he stands thereâgutted, unmoving, undone. The cup trembles in his hand. He turns away before it spills.
-
That night, you go back to the office. You tell yourself itâs for the deadline. A follow-up piece on the housing committee. Edits on the west-side zoning profile. Anything to fill the time between sunset and sleepâbecause if you sleep, youâll just dream of that bench.
The newsroom is quiet now. All overhead lights dimmed except for the halo of your desk lamp and the soft thrum of a copy machine left cycling in the corner.
You drop your bag with a sigh. Stretch your shoulders. Slide your desk drawer open without thinking. And find it. A note. No envelope. No tape. No ceremony. Just a single sheet of cream stationery folded in thirds. Familiar handwriting. Neat loops. Unshaking.
You unfold it slowly.
âIâm sorry. I wanted to be there. I canât explain why I couldnâtâ
But it wasnât a joke. It was never a joke. Please believe that.â
The words hit like a breath you didnât know you were holding. Then they blur. You read it again. Then again. But the ache in your chest doesnât settle. Because how do you believe someone who wonât show their face? How do you believe someone who keeps slipping between your fingers?
You hold the note to your chest. Close your eyes. You want to believe him. God, you want to. But you donât know how anymore.
-
What you couldnât know is this: Clark Kent was already running. Heâd been on his wayâcoat flapping behind him, tie unspooling in the wind, breath fogging as he dashed through traffic, one hand wrapped tight around a note he planned to deliver in person for the first time. Heâd rehearsed it. Practiced what heâd say. Built up to it with every beat of a terrified heart.
He saw the park lights up ahead. Saw the lion statue. Saw the shape of a figure sitting alone on that bench.
And then the air split open. The sky went green. A fifth-dimensional impânot even from this universeâtore through Metropolis like a child flipping pages in a pop-up book. Reality folded. Buildings bent sideways. Streetlamps started singing jazz standards.
Clark barely had time to take a deep breath before he vanished into smoke and flame, spinning upward in a blur of red and blue. Somewhere across town, Superman joined Guy Gardner, Hawk Girl, Mr. Terrific, and Metamorpho in trying to contain the chaos before the city unmade itself entirely.Â
He never got the chance to reach the bench. He never got the chance to say anything. The note stayed in his pocket until it was soaked with rain and streaked with ash. Until it was too late.
-
Itâs supposed to be routine. Youâre only there to cover a zoning dispute. A boring, mid-week council press event thatâs been rescheduled three times already. The air is heavy with heat and bureaucracy. You and your photographer barely make it past the front barricades before the scene spirals into chaos.
First itâs the downed power linesâsparking in rapid bursts as something hits the utility pole two blocks down. Then a car screeches over the median. Then someone starts screaming.
Youâre still trying to piece it together when the crowd surgesâsomeone shouts about a gun. People scatter. A window shatters across the street. A chunk of concrete falls from the sky like a thrown brick.
Your feet move before your brain catches up. You hit the pavement just as something explodes behind you. A jolt rings through your bones, sharp and high and metallic. Dust clouds the air. Thereâs shouting, then screaming, and your ears go fuzzy for one split second.
And then he lands.
Superman.
Cape whipping behind him like itâs caught in its own storm, boots cracking against the sidewalk as he drops down between the wreckage and the people still trying to flee. He moves like nothing youâve ever seen.
Not just fastâbut impossible. His body a blur of motion, heat, and purpose. He rips a crumpled lamppost off a trapped woman like it weighs nothing. Hurls it aside and crouches low beside her, voice firm but gentle as he checks her pulse, her leg, her name.
Youâre frozen where you crouch, half behind a parking meter, hand pressed to your chest like it can keep your heart from tearing loose.
And then be turns. Looks straight at you. His expression shifts. Just for a moment. Just for you. He steps forward, dust streaking his suit, eyes dark with something you donât have time to name. He reaches you in three strides, body angled between you and the chaos, hand raised in warning before you can speak.
âStay here, sweetheart. Please.â
Your stomach drops. Not at the danger. Not at the sound of buildings groaning in the distance or the flash of gunmetal tucked into a strangerâs hand.
Itâs him. That word. That voice. The exact way of saying itâlike itâs muscle memory. Like heâs said it a thousand times before.
Like Clark says it.
It stuns you more than the explosion did.
You blink up at him, speechless, heart stuttering behind your ribs as he holds your gaze just a second longer than he should. His brow furrows. Then heâs goneâinto the fray, into the fire, into the part of the story where your pen canât follow.
You donât remember standing. You donât remember how you get back to the press line, only that your legs shake and your palms burn and every time you try to replay what just happened, your brain gets stuck on one word.
Sweetheart.
Youâve heard it beforeâdozens of times. Always soft. Always accidental. Always from behind thick glasses and a crooked tie and a mouth still chewing the edge of a muffin while he scrolls through zoning reports.
Clark says it when he forgets youâre not his to claim. Clark says it when youâre both the last ones in the office and he thinks youâre asleep at your desk. Clark says it like a secret. Like a slip.
And Superman just said it exactly the same way. Same tone. Same warmth. Same quiet ache beneath it.
But thatâs not possible. Because Superman isâSuperman. Bold. Dazzling. Fire-forged. He walks like he owns the sky. He speaks like a storm made flesh. He radiates power and perfection.
And Clark? Clark is all flannel and stammering jokes and soft eyes behind big frames. Heâs gentle. A little clumsy. His swagger is borrowed from farm porches and storybooks. Heâs sweet in a way Superman couldnât possibly be.
Couldnât⊠Right? You chalk it up to coincidence. You have to.
âŠSort of.
-
You donât sleep well the night after the incident. You keep replaying itâframe by impossible frame. The gunshot, the smoke, the sky splitting in half. The crack of his landing, the rush of wind off his cape. The weight of his body between you and danger. And then that voice.
âStay here, sweetheart. Please.â
You flinch every time it echoes in your head. Every time your brain folds it over the countless memories you have of Clark saying it in passing, like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.
But it means something now.
You come into the office the next day wired and quiet, adrenaline still burning faintly at the edges of your skin. You arenât sure what to say, or to whom, so you say nothing. You stare too long at your coffee. You snap at a printer jam. You forget your lunch in the breakroom fridge.
Clark notices. He hovers by your desk that morning, a second coffee in handâone of those specialty orders from that corner place he knows you like but always pretends he doesnât remember.
âRough day?â he asks gently. His tone is careful. Soft. As if youâre a glass already rattling on the edge of the shelf.
You donât look up. âItâs fine.â
He hesitates. Then sets the coffee down beside your elbow, just far enough that you have to choose whether or not to reach for it. âI heard about the power line thing,â he adds. âYou okay?â
âI said Iâm fine, Clark.â
A beat.
You hate the way his face flickers at thatâhurt, barely masked. He pushes his glasses up and nods like he deserves it. Like heâs been expecting it. He doesnât press. He just walks away.
-
You find yourself whispering to Lois over takeout later that afternoonâhalf a conversation muttered between bites of noodles and the hum of flickering overheads.
âHe called me sweetheart.â
She raises an eyebrow. âClark?â
âNo. Superman.â
Her chewing slows.
You keep your eyes on the edge of your desk. âThatâs⊠weird, right?â
Lois makes a soundâsomewhere between a scoff and a laugh. âHeâs a superhero. They charm every pretty girl they pull out of a burning building.â
You poke at your noodles. âStill. It feltâŠâ
âWeird?â she teases again, nudging her knee against yours.
You shrug like it doesnât matter. Like it hasnât been clawing at the back of your brain for three days straight. Lois doesnât press. Just watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then she moves on, launching into a tirade about Perryâs passive-aggressive post-it notes and the fact that someone keeps stealing her pens.
But the damage is already done. Because you start thinking maybe youâve just been projecting. Maybe you want your secret admirer to be Clark so badly that your brainâs rewriting realityâlatching onto any voice, any phrase, any fleeting resemblance and assigning it meaning.
Sweetheart.
Itâs a common word. It doesnât mean anything. Maybe Superman says it to everyone. Maybe he has a whole roster of soft pet names for dazed civilians. Maybe youâre the delusional oneâsitting here wondering if your awkward, sweet, left-footed coworker moonlights as a god.
The idea is so absurd it actually makes you laugh. Quietly. Bitterly. Right into your carton of lo mein. You tell yourself to let it go. But you donât.
You canât. Because somewhere deep down, it doesnât feel absurd at all. It feels⊠close. Like youâre brushing against the edge of something true. And if you get just a little closerâ
You might fall right through it.
-
Clark pulls back after that. Subtly. Slowly. Like heâs dimming himself on purpose. Heâs still thereâstill kind, still thoughtful, still Clark. But the rhythm changes.
The coffees stop appearing on your desk each morning. No more sticky notes with half-legible puns or awkward smiley faces. No more jokes under his breath during staff meetings. No more warm glances across the bullpen when youâre stuck late and your screen is giving you a headache.
His chair now sits just a little farther from yours in the layout room. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel. You notice it the way you notice when the air shifts before a storm. Quiet. Inevitable.
Even his messages change. Once, his texts used to come with too many exclamation marks and a tendency to type out haha when he was nervous. Now theyâre brief. Punctuated. Polite.
âGot your quote. Sending now.â
âPerry said weâre cleared for page A3.â
âHope your meeting went okay.â
You reread them more than you should. Not because of what they sayâbut because of what they donât. It feels like being ghosted by someone who still waves to you across the room.
You try to talk yourself down. Maybe heâs just busy. Maybe heâs stressed. Maybe youâve been projecting. Maybe itâs not your admirerâs handwriting that matches his. Maybe itâs not his voice that slipped out of Supermanâs mouth like a secret.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
But the space he used to fill next to you⊠feels like a light thatâs been quietly turned off. And you are the one still blinking against the dark.
And yet, one afternoon, someone in the bullpen makes a snide remark about your latest piece. You donât even catch the beginningâjust the tail end of it, lazy and smug.
ââbasically just fluff, right? Sheâs been coasting lately.â
Youâre about to ignore it. Youâre tired. Too tired. And whatâs the point in arguing with someone who thinks nuance is a liability?
But thenâClark speaks. Not from beside you, but from across the room. Youâre not even sure how he could have possibly heard the guy talking across all the hustle and bustle of the bullpen. But his voice cuts through the noise like someone snapping a ruler against a desk.
âI just think her work actually matters, okay?â
Silence follows. Not because of the volumeâhe wasnât loud. Just certain. Unflinching. Like heâd been holding it in. The words hang in the air, charged and too real.
Clark looks immediately horrified with himself. He goes red. Not a faint flushâcrimson. Mouth parting like he wants to take it back but doesnât know how. He tries to recover, to smooth it overâbut nothing comes. Just a flustered shake of his head and a noise that mightâve been his name.
The other reporter stares. ââŠOkay, man. Chill.â
Clark mumbles something about grabbing a file from archives and practically stumbles for the hallway, papers clenched awkwardly in one hand like a shield.
You donât follow. You just⊠sit there. Staring at the space he left behind. Because that momentâthose wordsâit wasnât just instinct. It wasnât just kindness. It was him.
The way he said it. The emotion in it. The rhythm of it. It felt like the notes. Like the quiet encouragements tucked into the margins of your day. Like someone watching, quietly, gently, hoping youâll see yourself the way they do.
You think about the phrases heâs used before.
âThe line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.â
âEven whispers echo when theyâre true.â
And now:
âHer work actually matters.â
All said like they were true, not convenient. All said like they were about you.
You start to notice more after that. The way Clark compliments your writingâalways specific. Never lazy. The way his eyes crinkle when heâs proud of something you said, even when he doesnât speak up. The way he turns the thermostat up exactly two degrees every time you bring your sweater into work. The way he walks a half-step behind you when you both leave late at night.
Itâs not a confession. Not yet. But itâs a pattern. And once you start seeing itâ
You canât stop.
-
Itâs a quiet afternoon in the bullpen. The kind where the overhead lights hum just loud enough to notice and everything smells like stale coffee and highlighter ink.
Clarkâs sprawled in front of his monitor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed with the kind of intensity he usually saves for city zoning laws and double-checked citations. Youâre helping him sort through quotesâmost of which came from a reluctant press secretary and one very talkative dog walker who may or may not be a credible witness.
âCan you check the time stamp on the third transcript?â he asks, not looking up from his notes. âI think I messed it up when I formatted.â
You nod, flipping through the stack of papers he passed you earlier. Thatâs when you see it. Folded beneath the top printout, half-tucked into the margin of a city planning spreadsheet, is a different kind of note. A loose sheet, scribbled across in black ink. Not typedâwritten. Slanted lines. A few false starts crossed out.
At first, you think itâs a headline draft. A brainstorm. But the longer you stare, the more it reads like⊠something else.
âThe city is loud today. Not just noise, but motion. Memory. The way people hum when they think no oneâs listening.â
âI canât stop watching her move through it like she belongs to it. Like it belongs to her.â
You freeze. Your eyes track down the page slowly, like touching something sacred.
The letters are familiar. The lowercase y curls the same way as the one on your very first noteâthe one that came with your coffee. The ink is the same soft black, slightly smudged in the corners, like whoever wrote it holds the pen too tight when theyâre thinking. The paper is the same notepad stock heâs used before. The same faint red line down the margin.
You donât mean to do it, but your fingers curl around the page. Your chest goes tight. Because itâs not just similar.
Itâs exact.
You hear him coming before you see himâthose long, careful strides and the faint jangle of the lanyard he keeps forgetting to take off.
You tuck the paper into your notebook. Quick. Smooth. Automatic.
âHey, sorry,â he says, rounding the corner with two mugs of tea and a slightly sheepish smile. âPrinterâs jammed again. I may have made it worse.â
You nod. Too fast. You canât quite make your voice work yet. Clark hands you your teaâjust the way you like it, no commentâand sits across from you like nothingâs wrong. Like your whole world hasnât tilted six degrees to the left.
He launches into a ramble about column widths and quote placement, about whether a serif font looks more âestablishedâ than sans serif.
You donât hear a word of it. You just⊠watch him. The way he gestures too big with his hands. The way his glasses slip down his nose mid-sentence and he doesnât bother to fix them until theyâre practically falling off. The way his voice drops a little when heâs thinking hardâlow and warm and utterly unselfconscious.
He has no idea you know. No idea what you just found.
You murmur something about needing to catch a meeting and excuse yourself early. He nods. Worries at his bottom lip like heâs debating whether to walk you out. Decides against it.
âThanks for the help,â he says quietly, as you shoulder your bag. âSeriously. I couldnâtâve done this draft without you.â
You give him a look you donât quite know how to name. Something between thank you and I see you.Â
Then you go.
-
That night, you sit on your bedroom floor with the drawer open. Every note. Every folded scrap. Every secret tucked under your stapler or slid into your sleeve or left beside your coffee cup. You line them up in rows. You flatten them with careful hands. And you compare. One by one.
The loops. The lines. The uneven spacing. The curl of the r. The hush in every sentence, like he was writing them with his heart too close to the surface.Â
Thereâs no room for doubt anymore. Itâs him. Itâs been him this whole time.
Clark Kent.
And somehowâsomehowâheâs still never said your name aloud when he writes about you. Not once. But every letter reads like a whisper of it. Like a promise waiting to be spoken.
-
The office is quiet by the time you find the nerve.
Desks are abandoned, chairs turned at angles, the windows dark with city glow. Outside, Metropolis hums in its usual low thrumâsirens and neon and distant jazz from a rooftop barâbut here, in the bullpen, itâs just the steady tick of the wall clock and the slow, careful steps you take toward his desk.
Clark doesnât hear you at first. Heâs bent over a red pen and a half-finished draft, glasses low on his nose, the curve of his back hunched the way it always is when heâs lost in edits. His tie is loosened. His sleeves are pushed up. Thereâs a smear of ink on his thumb. He looks soft in the way people do when they think no oneâs watching.Â
You speak before you lose your nerve. âWhy didnât you just tell me?â
Clark startles. Not dramaticallyâjust a sharp breath and a too-quick motion to sit upright, like a kid caught doodling in the margins. âIâwhat?â
You donât let your voice shake. âThat it was you. The notes. The park. All of it.â
He stares at you. Then down at his desk. Then back again. His mouth opens like it wants to offer a lie, but nothing comes out. Just silence. His fingers twitch toward the edge of the desk and stop there, curling into his palm.
âIââ he tries again, softer now, ââI didnât think you knew.â
âI didnât.â Your voice is gentle. But not easy. âNot at first. Not really. But then I saw that list on your desk and⊠I went home and checked the handwriting.â
He winces. âI knew I left that out somewhere.â
You cross your arms, not out of angerâmore like self-protection. âYou couldâve told me. At any point. I asked you.â
âI know.â He swallows hard. âI know. I wanted to. I⊠tried.â
You watch him. Wait.Â
And then he says it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the truth, raw and shaky and so Clark it nearly breaks you. âBecause if I told you it was me⊠you might look at me different. Or worse⊠The same.â
You donât know what to say to that. Not right away. Your heart clenches. Because itâs so himâto assume your affection could only live in the mystery. That the truth of himâsoft, clumsy, brilliant, realâwould somehow undo the magic.
âClarkâŠâ you start, but your voice slips.
He rubs the back of his neck. âIâm just the guy who spills coffee on his own notes and forgets to refill the paper tray. Youâre⊠you. You write like youâre on fire. You walk into a room and it listens. I didnât think someone like you would ever want someone like me.â
You stare at him. Really stare. At the flushed cheeks. The nervous hands. The boyish smile heâs trying to bury under self-deprecation. And then you say it. âI saved every note.â
He blinks.
You keep going. âI read them when I felt invisible. When I thought no one gave a damn what I was doing here. They mattered.â
Clarkâs breath catches. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. He takes a slow step forward, tentative. Like heâs afraid to break the spell. His eyes search yours, and for a momentâfor a second so still it might as well last an hourâhe leans in. Not close enough to kiss you. But almost. His hand brushes yours. He stops. The air is heavy between you, buzzing with something fragile and enormous. But it isnât enough. Not yet.
You draw in a breath, quiet but steady. âWhy didnât you meet me?â
Clark goes still. You can see it happenâthe way the question lands. The way he folds in on himself just slightly, like the truth is too heavy to hold upright.
âIâŠâ He tries, but the word doesnât land. His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to the floor, then back up. He wants to tell you. He almost does. But he canât. Not without unraveling everything. Not without unraveling himself.
âI wanted to,â he says finally, voice rough at the edges. âMore than anything.â
âBut?â you press, gently.
He just looks at you and says nothing. You nod, slowly. The silence says enough. Your chest achesânot in a sharp, bitter way. In the dull, familiar way of something you already suspected being confirmed.
You glance down at where your hand still brushes his, then look back at himâreally look. âI wish youâd told me,â you whisper. âI sat there thinking it was a joke. That I made it all up. That I was stupid for believing in any of it.â
âI know,â he murmurs. âAnd Iâm sorry.â
Your throat tightens. You swallow past it. âI just⊠I need time. To process. To think.â
Clarkâs eyes flickerâhope and heartbreak, all tangled up in one look. âOf course,â he says immediately. âTake whatever you need. I mean it.â
A beat passes before you say the part that makes his breath catch. âIâm happy it was you.â
He freezes.
You offer the smallest smile. âI wanted it to be you.â
And for the first time in minutes, something in his shoulders unknots. Thereâs a shift. Gentle. Quiet. His hand lingers near yours again, knuckles brushing. He doesnât lean in. Doesnât push.
But God, he wants to. And maybe⊠maybe you do too. The moment stretches, unspoken and warm and not quite ready to be anything more.
You both stay like thatâclose, not touching. Breathing the same charged air. Then he laughs under his breath. Nervous. Boyish.
âIâm probably gonna trip over something the second you walk away.â
You smile back. âJust recalibrate your ankles.â
He huffs out a laugh, head ducking. âI deserved that.â
You start to turn away. Just a little. But his voice stops you againâquiet, sincere, something earnest catching in it. âIâm really glad it was me, too.â
And your heart flutters all over again.
-
Lois is perched on the edge of your desk, a paper takeout box balanced on her knee, chopsticks waving in lazy circles while you pick at your own dinner with a little too much focus.
You havenât told her everything. Not the everything everything. Not the way your heart nearly cracked open when Clark looked at you like you were made of starlight and library books. Not how close he got before pulling back. Not how you pulled back too, even though your whole body ached to close the distance.
But you have told her about the notes. About the mystery. About the strange tenderness of it all, how it wrapped around your days like a string you didnât know you were following until it tugged. And LoisâLois has been unusually quiet about it. Until now.Â
âIâm setting you up,â she says between bites, like sheâs discussing filing taxes.
You blink. âWhat?â
âA date. Just one. Guy from the Features desk at the Tribune. Youâll like him. Heâs taller than you, decent jawline, wears socks that match. Heâs got strong opinions about punctuation, which I figure is basically foreplay for you.â
You stare at her. âYou donât even believe in setups.â
âI donât,â she agrees. âBut youâve been spiraling in circles for weeks, and at this point, I either push you toward a date or stage an intervention with PowerPoint slides.â
You laugh despite yourself. âYou have PowerPoint slides?â
âOf course not,â she scoffs. âI have a Google Doc.â
You roll your eyes. âLoisââ
âListen,â she says, gentler now. âI know youâre in deep with whoever this guy is. And if it is Clark⊠well. I can see why.â
Your stomach flips.
âBut maybe stepping outside of the Planet for two hours wouldnât kill you. Let someone else flirt with you for once. Let yourself figure out what you actually want.â
You press your lips together. Look down at your barely-touched food.
âYou donât have to fall for him,â she adds, softly. âJust let yourself be seen.â
You exhale through your nose. âHe better be cute.â
âOh, he is. Total sweater vest energy.â
You snort. âSo your type.â
âExactly.â She lifts her takeout carton in a mock toast. âTo emotionally compromised coworkers and their tragic love lives.â
You clink your chopsticks against hers like itâs the saddest champagne flute in the world. And later, when youâre getting ready, you still feel the weight of Clarkâs almost-kiss behind your ribs. But you go anyway. Because Lois is right. You need to know what it is youâre choosing. Even if, deep down, you already do.
-
The date isnât bad. Thatâs the most frustrating part. Heâs nice. Polished in that media school kind of wayâcrisp shirt, clean shave, a practiced smile that belongs on a campaign poster. He compliments your bylines and talks about his dream of running an independent magazine one day. He orders the good whiskey and laughs at your jokes.
But itâs the wrong laugh. Off by a beat. The rhythmâs not right.
When he leans in, you donât. When he talks, your thoughts driftâto mismatched socks and printer toner smudges. To how someone else always remembers your coffee order. To how someone else listens, not to respond, but to see.
You realize it halfway through the second drink. Youâre thinking about Clark again.
The softness of him. The steadiness. The way he over-apologizes in texts but never hesitates when someone challenges your work. The way his voice tilts a little higher when heâs nervous. The way his laugh never lands in the right place, but somehow makes the whole room feel warmer.
You pull your coat tighter when you leave the restaurant, cheeks stinging from the wind and the slow unraveling of a night that shouldâve meant something. It doesnât. Not in the way that matters.
So you walk. You tell yourself youâre just passing by the Daily Planet. That maybe you left your notes there. That itâs just a habit, stopping in this late. But when you scan your ID badge and push through the heavy glass doors, you already know the truth. Youâre hoping heâs still here.
And he is.
The bullpen is almost entirely dark, save for a single desk lamp casting gold across the layout section. Heâs hunched over itâtie loosened, sleeves rolled up, shirt rumpled like heâs been pacing, thinking, rewriting. His glasses are folded beside him on the desk. His hairâs a messâfingers clearly run through it too many times.
He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, breathing out hard through his nose. You donât say anything. You just⊠watch. It hits you in one perfect, unshakable moment. The slope of his shoulders. The cut of his jaw. The furrow in his brow when heâs thinking too hard.
He looks like Superman.
No glasses. No slouch. No excuses. But more than thatâhe looks like Clark. Like the man who learned your coffee order. Like the one who saves all his best edits for last so he can tell you in person how good your writing is. The one who panicked when you got too close to the truth, but couldnât stop leaving notes anyway.
And when he finally lifts his head and sees you standing thereâstill in your coat, fingers tight around your notebookâyou watch something shift in his expression. A flicker of surprise. Panic. Bare, open emotion. Because youâre seeing him without the glasses.
âCouldnât sleep,â you murmur. âThought Iâd grab my notes.â
He smiles, slow and unsure. âYou⊠left them by the scanner.â
You nod, like that matters. Like you came here for paper and not for him. Then you walk over, slow and deliberate, and retrieve your notes from the edge of the scanner beside him. He swallows hard, watching you.
Then clears his throat. âSo⊠how was the date?â
You pause. âFine,â you say. âHe was nice. Funny. Smart.â
Clark nods, but youâre not finished.
âBut when he laughed, it was the wrong rhythm. And when he spoke, I didnât lean in.â
You meet his eyesâclear blue, unhidden now. âI made up my mind halfway through the second drink.â His lips part. Barely. You move to the edge of his desk and set your notebook down. Thenâcarefully, slowlyâyou pull out the chair beside his and sit. The air between you goes molten.
Clark leans in a little, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. One hand moves down, like heâs going to say something, but instead, he reaches for the leg of your chairâfingers curling around it. And pulls you toward him. The scrape of wood against tile echoes, loud and deliberate. Your thighs knock his. Your breath stutters.
Heâs so close now you can feel the heat rolling off him. The weight of his gaze. Your heart hammers in your chest. And lower.
âClarkââ But you donât finish because he meets you halfway. The kiss is fire and breath and years of want pressed between two mouths. His hands come upâone to your jaw, the other to the back of your headâand tilt your face just so. Fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you to him like heâs afraid you might vanish.
You moan into his mouth. Soft. Surprised. He groans back. Rougher. You reach for his shirt blindly, fists curling in the cotton as he pulls you fully into his lapâinto the chair with him, your legs straddling his thighs. His hands donât know where to land. Your waist. Your thighs. Your face again.
âYouâre it,â he whispers against your mouth. âYouâve always been it.â
You know he means it. Because youâve seen it. In every note. Every glance. Every moment he looked at you like you were already his. And now, with your bodies tangled, mouths tasting each other, breathing the same heatâyou finally believe it.
You donât say it yet. But the way you kiss him again says it for you. Youâre his. You always have been.
His hands roam, but never rush. Your fingers are tangled in his shirt, your knees pressing to either side of his hips, and you feel himâall of himâunderneath you, solid and steady and shaking just slightly. The chair creaks with every breath you share. His mouth is still on yours, slow now, like heâs memorizing the shape of you. Like heâs afraid if he goes too fast, youâll disappear again.
When he finally pulls backâjust enough to breatheâitâs with a soft, reverent exhale. His nose brushes yours. âYouâre really here,â he murmurs, voice hoarse. âGod, youâre really here.â
You blink at him, your hands sliding to either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing the high flush of his cheeks. He looks so open. Like youâve peeled back every layer of him with just a kiss. And maybe you have.
His lips find the edge of your jaw next, slow and aching. A kiss. Then another, just beneath your ear. Then one lower, along the soft skin of your neck. Each press of his mouth feels like a confession. Like something that was buried too long, finally given air.
âYou donât know,â he whispers. âYou donât know what itâs been like, watching you and not getting toââ Another kiss, right beneath your cheekbone. âI used to rehearse things Iâd say to you, and then Iâd get to work and youâd smile and Iâd forget how to talk.â
A laugh huffs out of you, but it melts fast when he leans in again, his breath fanning warm across your skin. âI didnât think Iâd ever get this close. I didnât think Iâd get to touch you like this.â
You shift in his lap, chest brushing his, and his hands squeeze your waist gently like heâs grounding himself. His mouth finds your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth again.
âYouâre soââ he breaks off. Tries again. âYouâre everything.â Your pulse thrums in your throat. Clarkâs hands stay respectful, but they wanderâcurving up your back, smoothing over your shoulders, settling at your ribs like he wants to hold you together.
âI used to write those notes late at night,â he admits against your collarbone. âDidnât even think youâd read them at first. But you did. You kept them.â
âI kept every one,â you whisper.
His breath catches. You tilt his face back up to yours, studying him in the low, golden light. His hairâs a little messy now from your fingers. His lips pink and kiss-swollen. His chest rising and falling like heâs just run a marathon. And still, even nowâheâs looking at you like heâs the one whoâs lucky.
Clark kisses you againâsoft, like a promise. Then a trail of them, across your cheek, your jaw, your throat. Slow enough to make your skin shiver and your hips shift instinctively against his lap. He groans quietly at thatâbarely audibleâbut doesnât press for more. He just holds you tighter.
âIâd wait forever for you,â he murmurs into your skin. âI donât need anything else. Just this. Just you.â You bury your face in his shoulder, overwhelmed, heart pounding like a war drum. You donât say anything back. You just press another kiss to his throat, and feel him smile where your mouth lands.
-
The city is quieter at nightâits edges softened under streetlamp glow, concrete warming beneath the fading breath of the day. Thereâs a breeze that tugs gently at your coat as you and Clark walk side by side, your fingers still loosely laced with his. His hand is big. Warm. Rough in the places that tell stories. Gentle in the ways that say everything else.
Neither of you speaks at first. The silence isnât awkward. Itâs thick with something tender. Like a string strung tight between your ribs and his, humming with each shared step.
When he glances down at you, his smile is small and almost shy. âI canât believe I didnât knock over the chair,â he says after a few blocks, voice pitched low with laughter.
You grin. âYou were close. I think my thigh is bruised.â
He groans. âDonât say thatâIâll lose sleep.â
You look at him sidelong. âYou werenât going to sleep anyway.â That earns you a pink flush down the side of his neck, and you tuck that image away for safekeeping.Â
Your building looms closer, brick and ivy-wrapped and familiar in the soft hush of the hour. You slow as you reach the front step, turning to face him.
âThank you,â you murmur. You donât mean just for the walk.
He holds your hand a beat longer. Then, without a word, he lifts itâpresses his lips to your knuckles. Itâs soft. Reverent.
Your breath catches in your throat. And maybe thatâs what breaks the spellâmaybe thatâs what makes it all too much and not enough at onceâbecause the next second, youâre reaching. Or maybe he is. It doesnât matter. He kisses you againâthis time fuller, deeperâyour back brushing against the door behind you, his other hand cradling your cheek like heâs afraid youâll vanish if he doesnât hold you just right.
It doesnât last long. Just long enough to taste the weight of whatâs shifting between you. To feel it crest again in your chest.
When he finally pulls back, his lips hover a breath away from yours. âIâll see you tomorrow,â he says softly.
You nod. You canât quite say anything back yet. He gives your hand one last squeeze, then turns and disappears down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders curved slightly inward like heâs holding in a smile he doesnât know what to do with.
You unlock the door. Step inside. But you donât go to bed right away. You walk to the front window insteadâbare feet quiet on hardwood, heart still hammering. Through the glass, you spot him half a block away. He thinks youâre gone. Which is probably why, under the streetlight, Clark Kent jumps up and smacks the edge of a low-hanging banner like heâs testing his vertical. He catches it on the second try, swinging from it for all of two seconds before nearly tripping over his own feet.
You snort. Your hand presses against your mouth to muffle the sound. And then you smile. That kind of soft, aching smile that tugs at something deep in your chest. Because thatâs him. Thatâs the man who writes you poems under the cover of anonymity and nearly breaks your chair kissing you in a newsroom.
Thatâs the one you wanted it to be. And now that it isâyou donât think your heartâs ever going to stop fluttering.
-
The bullpen is alive again. Phones ring. Keys clatter. Someoneâs arguing over copy edits near the back printer, and Jimmy streaks past with a half-eaten bagel clamped between his teeth and a stack of photos fluttering behind him like confetti. Itâs chaos.
But none of it touches you. The world moves at its usual speed, but everything inside you has slowed. Like someone turned the volume down on everything that isnât him.
Your eyes find Clark without meaning to. Heâs already at his deskâglasses on, shirt pressed, tie straighter than usual. He mustâve fixed it three times this morning. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, a pen already tucked behind one ear. Heâs doing that thing he does when heâs thinkingâlip caught gently between his teeth, brows drawn, tapping the space bar like it owes him money.
But thereâs a softness to him this morning, too. A looseness in his shoulders. A quiet sort of glow around the edges, like some part of him hasnât fully come down from last night either. Like heâs still vibrating with the same electricity thatâs still thrumming low behind your ribs.
And then he looks up. He finds you just as easily as you found him. You expect him to look awayâbashful, flustered, maybe even embarrassed now that the newsroom lights are on and youâre both pretending not to be lit matches pretending not to burn.
But he doesnât. He holds your gaze. And the quiet that opens up between you is louder than anything else in the building. The low hum of printers. The whirr of the HVAC. The hiss of steam from the office espresso machine.
You swallow hard. Then you look back at your screen like it matters. You try to focus. You really do.
Less than ten minutes later, heâs there. He approaches slow, like heâs afraid of breaking something delicate. His hand appears first, gently setting a familiar to-go cup on your desk.
âI figured you forgot yours,â he says, voice low.
You glance up at him. âI didnât.â
A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. Soft. A little sheepish. âOh. WellâŠâ He shrugs. âNow you have two.â
You take the coffee anyway. Your fingers brush his as you do. He doesnât pull away. Not this time. His hand lingers for half a second longer than it shouldâjust enough to make your pulse jump in your wristâand then slowly drops back to his side. The silence between you now isnât awkward. Itâs taut. Weightless. Like standing at the edge of something enormous, staring over the drop, and realizing heâs right there beside youâready to jump too.
âWalk with me?â he asks, voice barely above the clatter around you. You nod. Because youâd follow him anywhere.
Downstairs, the building atrium hums with the low murmur of morning traffic and the soft shuffle of people cutting through the lobby on their way to bigger, faster things. But hereâbeneath the high, glass-paneled ceiling where sunlight pours in like gold through waterâthe city feels a little farther away. A little quieter. Just the two of you, caught in that hush between chaos and clarity.
Clark hands you a sugar packet without a word, and you take it, fingers brushing his again. He watchesânot your hands, but your faceâas you tear it open and shake it into your cup. Like memorizing the way you take your coffee might somehow tell him more than youâre ready to say aloud.
You glance at him, just in time to catch itâthat look. Barely there, but soft. Full. He looks at you like heâs trying to learn you by heart.
You raise a brow. âWhat?â
He blinks, caught. âNothing.â
But youâre smiling now, just a little. A private, corner-of-your-mouth kind of smile. âYou look tired,â you murmur, stirring slowly.
His lips twitch. âLate night.â
âEditing from home?â
He hesitates. You watch the way his shoulders shift, the subtle catch in his breath. Then, finally, he shakes his head. âNot exactly.â
You hum. Say nothing more. The moment lingers, warm as the cup in your hand. He stands beside you, tall and still, but thereâs something new in the way he holds himselfâlike gravityâs just a little lighter around him this morning. Like your presence pulls him into a softer orbit. Thereâs a beat of silence.
âYou⊠seemed quiet last night,â he says, voice gentler now. âWhen you saw me.â
You glance at him from over the rim of your cup. Steam curls up between you, catching in the morning light like spun sugar. âI saw you,â you say.
He studies you. Carefully. âYou sure?â
You lower your coffee. âYeah. Iâm sure.â
His brows pull together slightly, the line between them deepening. Heâs trying to read you. Trying to solve an equation heâs too close to see clearly. Thereâs a question in his eyesânot just about last night, but about everything that came before it. The letters. The glances. The ache.
But you donât give him the answer. Not out loud. Because what you donât say hangs heavier than what you do. You donât say: Iâm pretty certain heâs you. You donât say: I think my heart has known for a while now. You donât say: Iâm not afraid of what youâre hiding. Instead, you let the silence stretch between youâsoft and silken, tethering you to something deeper than confession. You sip your coffee, heart steady now, eyes warm.
And when he opens his mouth againâwhen he leans forward like he might finally give himself away entirelyâyou smile. Just a soft curve of your lips. A quiet reassurance. âDonât worry,â you say, voice low. âI liked what I saw.â
He freezes. Then flushes, color blooming high on his cheeks. His gaze drops to the floor like itâs safer there, like looking at you too long might unravel him completelyâbut when he glances back up, the smile on his face is small and helpless and utterly undone. A breath escapes him, barely audibleâbut you hear it. You feel it. Relief.
He walks you back upstairs without another word. The movement is easy. Comfortable. But his hand hovers near yours the whole time. Not quite touching. Just⊠there. Like gravity pulling two halves of the same secret closer.
And as you re-enter the hum of the bullpen, nothing looks different. But everything feels like itâs just about to change.
-
That night, after the city has quietedâafter the neon pulse of Metropolis blurs into puddle reflections and distant sirensâthe Daily Planet is almost reverent in its silence. No ringing phones. No newsroom chatter. Just the soft hum of a printer in standby mode and the creak of the elevator cables descending behind you.
You let yourself in with your keycard. The lock clicks louder than expected in the stillness. You donât know why youâre here, really. You told yourself it was to grab the folder you forgot. To double-check something on your last draft. But the truth is quieter than that.
You were hoping heâd be here. Heâs not. His desk lamp is off. His chair turned inward, as if he left in a hurry. No half-eaten sandwich or scribbled drafts left behindâjust a tidied workspace and absence thick enough to feel.
You sigh, the sound swallowed whole by the vast emptiness of the bullpen. Then you see it. At your desk. Tucked half-under your keyboard like a secret trying not to be. One folded piece of paper.
No envelope this time. No clever line on the front. Just your name, handwritten in a looping scrawl youâve come to know better than your own signature. A rhythm youâve studied and traced in the quiet of your apartment, night after night.
You slide it free with careful fingers. Your heart stutters as you unfold it. The ink is darker this timeâless tentative. The strokes more deliberate, like he knew, at last, he didnât have to hide.
âFor once I donât have to imagine what itâs like to have your lips on mine. But I still think about it anyway.â
âC.K.
You stare at the words until the paper goes soft in your hands. Until your chest feels too full and too fragile all at once. Until the noise of your own heartbeat drowns out everything else.
Then you press the note to your chest and close your eyes. His initials burn through the paper like a touch. Not a secret admirer anymore. Not a mystery in the margins. Just him.
Clark. Your friend. Your almost. Your maybe.
You donât need the rest of the truth. Not tonight. Not if it costs this fragile thing blooming between youâthis quiet, aching sweetness. This slow, deliberate unraveling of walls and fears and the long-held breath you didnât realize you were holding.
Whatever youâre building together, itâs happening one heartbeat at a time. One almost-confession. One note left behind in the dark. And youâd rather have thisâthis steady climb into something realâthan rush toward the edge of revelation and risk it all crumbling.
So you tuck the note gently into your bag, where the others wait. Every word heâs given you, kept safe like a promise. You donât know what happens next. But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, youâre not afraid of finding out.
-
Youâre not official.
Not in the way people expect it. Thereâs no label, no group announcement, no big display. But youâre definitely something nowâsomething solid and golden and real in the space between words.
Itâs not office gossip. Not yet. But it could be. Because you linger a little too long near his desk. Because he lights up when you enter a room like itâs instinct. Because when he passes you in the bullpen, his hand brushes yoursâjust barelyâand you both pause like the air just changed. Thereâs no denying it.
And then comes the hallway kiss. Itâs after hours. The building is quiet, the newsroom lights dimmed to half. Youâre both walking toward the elevators, your footsteps echoing against the tile.
Clark fumbles for the call button, mumbling something about how slow the system is when itâs late, and how the elevator always seems to stall on the wrong floor. You donât answer. You just reach for his tie. A gentle tug. A silent question. He exhales, soft and shaky. Then he leans in.
The kiss is slow. Unhurried. Like youâre both tasting something thatâs been simmering between you for years. His hands find your waist, yours curl into his shirt, and the elevator dings somewhere in the distance, but neither of you move.
You part only when the second ding reminds you where you are. His forehead presses to yours, warm and close. You breathe the same air. And then the doors close behind you, and he walks you out with his hand ghosting the small of your back.
-
You start learning the rhythm of Clark Kent. He talks more when heâs nervousâlittle rambles about traffic patterns or article formatting, or how heâs still not entirely sure he installed his dishwasher correctly. Sometimes he trails off mid-thought, like heâs remembering something urgent but canât explain it.
He always carries your groceries. All of them. No negotiation. Heâll take the heavier bags first, sling them both over one shoulder and pretend like itâs nothing. And somehow, he always forgets his own umbrellaâbut never forgets yours. You donât know how many he owns, but one always appears when the clouds roll in. Like magic. Like preparation. Like heâs thought of you in every version of the day.
You donât ask.
You just start to keep one in your own bag for him.
-
The third kiss happens on your couch.
Youâve been watching some old movie neither of you are paying attention to, his arm slung lazily across your shoulders. Your legs are tangled. His fingers are tracing idle shapes against your thigh through the fabric of your leggings.
He kisses you onceâsoft and slowâand then again. Longer. Like heâs memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he might need it later.
Then his phone buzzes.
He stiffens.
You feel the change instantlyâthe way his body pulls back, the air between you tightens. He glances at the screen. You donât catch the name. But you see the look in his eyes.
Regret. Apology. Something deeper.
âIâIâm so sorry,â he says, already moving. âI have toâsomething came up. Itâsââ
You sit up, brushing your hand against his arm. âGo,â you say softly.
âButââ
âItâs okay. Just⊠be safe.â
And God, the way he looks at you. Like youâve given him something priceless. Something he didnât know he was allowed to want.
He kisses your temple like a promise and disappears into the night.
-
It happens again. And again.
Missed dinners. Sudden goodbyes. Rainy nights where he shows up soaked, out of breath, murmuring apologies and curling into you like he doesnât know how to be held.
You never ask. You donât need to.
Because he always comes back.
-
One night, youâre curled into each other on your couch, your legs thrown over his, your cheek resting against his chest. The movieâs playing, forgotten. Your fingers are idly brushing the hem of his shirt where itâs ridden up. He smells like rain and ink and whatever soap he always uses that lingers on your pillow now.
Then his voice, quiet in the dark, âI donât always know how to be⊠enough.â
You blink. Look up. Heâs staring at the ceiling. Not quite breathing evenly. Like the words cost him something.
You reach up and cradle his face in your hands.
His eyes finally meet yours.
âYou are,â you whisper. âAs you are.â
You donât say: Even if you are who I think you are.
You donât need to. You just kiss him again. Soft. Long. Steady. Because whatever heâs carrying, youâve already started holding part of it too.
And he lets you.
-
The night starts quiet.
Takeout boxes sit half-forgotten on the coffee tableâone still open, rice going cold, soy sauce packet untouched. Your legs are draped across Clarkâs lap, one foot nudged against the curve of his thigh, and his hand rests there now. Not possessively. Not deliberately.
Just⊠there.
Itâs late. The kind of late where the whole city softens. No sirens outside. No blinking inbox. Just the low hum of the lamp on the side table and the warmth of the man beside you.
Clarkâs eyes are on you. Theyâve been there most of the night.
He hasnât said much since dinnerâjust little smiles, quiet sounds of agreement, the occasional brush of his thumb against your ankle like a thought he forgot to speak aloud. But itâs not a bad silence. Itâs dense. Full.
You shift, angling toward him slightly, and his gaze flicks to your mouth. Thatâs all it takes.
He leans in.
The kiss is soft at first. Familiar. A shared breath. A quiet hello in a room where no one had spoken for minutes. But then his hand curls behind your knee, guiding your leg further over his lap, and his mouth opens against yours like heâs been holding back for hours.
He kisses you like heâs starving. Like heâs spent all day wanting thisâaching for the shape of you, the weight of your body in his hands. And when you moan into it, just a little, he shudders.
His hands start to move. One tracing the line of your spine, the other resting against your hip like a question he doesnât need to ask. You answer anywayâpressing in closer, threading your fingers through his hair, sighing into the heat of his mouth.
You donât know who climbs into whose lap first, only that you end up straddling him on the couch. Your knees on either side of his thighs. His hands gripping your waist now, fingers curling in your shirt like he doesnât trust himself not to break it.
And then something shifts.
Not emotionalâphysical.
Clark stands.
He lifts you with him, effortlessly, like you donât weigh anything at all. Not a grunt. Not a stagger. Justâup. Smooth and sure. His mouth never leaves yours.
You gasp into the kiss as he walks you backwards, steps confident and fast despite the way your arms tighten around his shoulders. Your spine meets the wall in the next second. Not hard. Just sudden.
Your heart thunders.
âClarkââ
He doesnât answer. Just breathes against your mouth like he needs the oxygen from your lungs. Like yours is the only air that keeps him grounded.
His hips press into yours, one thigh sliding between your legs, and your back arches instinctively. His hands span your ribs now, thumbs brushing just beneath your bra. You feel the tremble in themânot from fear. From restraint.
âClark,â you whisper again, and his forehead drops to yours.
âYou okay?â he asks, voice rough and close.
You nod, breath catching. âYou?â
He hesitates. Not long. But long enough to count. âYeah. Just⊠feel a little off tonight.â
You pull back just enough to look at him.
Heâs flushed. Eyes darker than usual. But not winded. Not breathless. Not anything like you are. His chest doesnât even rise fast beneath your hands. Still, he smilesâlike he can will the oddness awayâand kisses you again. Deeper this time. Like distraction.
Like he doesnât want to stop.
You donât want him to either.
Not yet.
His mouth finds yours againâslower this time, more purposeful. Like heâs savoring it. Like heâs waited for this exact moment, this exact pressure of your hips against his, for longer than heâs willing to admit.
You gasp when his hands slide under your shirt, palms broad and steady, dragging upward in a path that sets every nerve on fire. He doesnât fumble. Doesnât rush. Just exploresâlike heâs memorizing, not taking.
âCan I?â he murmurs against your mouth, fingers brushing the underside of your bra.
You nod, breathless. âYes.â
He exhales, soft and reverent, and lifts your shirt over your head. Itâs discarded without ceremony. Then his hands are on you againâwarm, slow, mapping out the shape of you with open palms and patient awe.
âGod, youâre beautiful,â he murmurs, more breath than voice. His mouth finds the edge of your jaw, trailing kisses down to the hollow beneath your ear. âI think about this⊠so much.â
You shudder.
His hands move againâdown this time, gripping your thighs as he sinks to his knees in front of you. You barely have time to react before heâs tugging your pants down, slow and careful, mouth following the descent with lingering kisses along your hips, the dip of your pelvis, the inside of your thigh.
He looks up at you from the floor.
You nearly forget how to breathe.
âIâve wanted to take my time with you,â he admits, voice rough and low. âWanted to learn you slow. Learn how you taste. How you fall apart.â
And then he does.
He leans in and licks a long, deliberate stripe over the center of your underwear, still watching your face.
You whimper.
He smiles, just slightly, and does it again.
By the time he peels your underwear down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, your knees are trembling.
Clark hooks one arm under your leg, lifting it over his shoulder like itâs nothing, and buries his mouth between your thighs with a groan that rattles through your whole body.
His tongue is warm and soft and maddeningly slowâcircling, tasting, teasing. He doesnât rush. Not even when your fingers knot in his hair and your hips rock forward with pure desperation.
âClarkââ
He hums against you, and the sound sends a full-body shiver up your spine.
âIâve got you,â he whispers, lips brushing you as he speaks. âLet me.â
You do.
You let him wreck you.
Heâs methodical about itâlike heâs following a map only he can see. One hand holding you steady, the other splayed against your stomach, keeping you anchored while he works you open with mouth and tongue and quiet, praising murmurs.
âSo sweet⊠thatâs it, sweetheart⊠you taste like heaven.â
Youâre already close when he slips a thick finger inside you. Then another. Slow, patient, curling exactly where you need him. His mouth never stops. His rhythm is steady. Focused. Unrelenting.
You come like thatâpanting, gripping his shoulders, thighs shaking around his ears as he groans and keeps going, riding it out with you until youâre trembling too hard to stand.
He rises slowly.
His lips are slick. His eyes are dark.
And youâve never seen anyone look at you like this.
âCome here,â you whisper.
He kisses you thenâdeep and possessive and tasting like you. Youâre the one tugging at his shirt now, unbuttoning in frantic clumsy swipes. You need him. Need him closer. Need him inside.
But when you reach for his belt, he stills your hands gently.
âNot yet,â he says, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet. âLet me take care of you first.â
You blink. âClark, Iââ
He kisses you againâsoft, lingering.
âIâve waited too long for this to rush it,â he murmurs, brushing hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. âYou deserve slow.â
Then he lifts you againâlike you weigh nothingâand carries you to the bed. He lays you down like youâre fragileâbut the look in his eyes says he knows youâre anything but. That youâre something rare. Something heâs been aching for. His palms skim over your thighs again, slow and deliberate, before he spreads you open beneath him.
He doesnât ask this time. Just settles between your legs like he belongs there, arms hooked under your thighs, holding you wide.
âClarkââ
âI know, sweetheart,â he murmurs, voice low and raw. âIâve got you.â
And he does.
His mouth finds you againâwarm, skilled, confident now. No hesitation, just long, wet strokes of his tongue that build on everything he already learned. And thenâwithout warningâhe slides two fingers back inside you.
You cry out, hips jolting.
He groans into you, fingers moving in tandem with his mouthâcurling just right, matching every flick of his tongue, every wet press of his lips. He doesnât stop. Doesnât falter. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark and hungry and so in love with the way you fall apart for him.
You grip the sheets, gasping his name, over and over, until your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure.
âClarkâGod, IâI canâtââ
âYes, you can,â he breathes. âYouâre almost there. Let go for me.â
You do. With a cry, with shaking thighs, with your fingers tangled in his hair and your back arching off the bed.
And he doesnât stop.
He rides your orgasm out with slow, worshipful strokes, kissing your thighs, murmuring into your skin, âSo good for me. Youâre perfect. Youâre everything.â
By the time he pulls back, youâre bonelessâdazed and trembling, your chest heaving as he kisses his way up your stomach.
But the way he looks at you thenâlike he needs to be closerâtells you this isnât over.
His hands brace on either side of your head as he leans over you. âCan IâŠ?â
Your hips answer for youâtilting up, chasing the heat and weight of him already pressed between your thighs.
âYes,â you whisper. âPlease.â
Clark groans low in his throat as he pushes his boxers down just enough, lining himself upâhis cock flushed and thick, already leaking, and you feel the weight of him between your thighs and gasp.
âGod, ClarkâŠâ
âI know,â he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, hips rocking forward just barely, teasing you with the head of his cock, dragging it through the slick mess he made with his mouth and fingers. âI know, baby. Justâjust let meâŠâ
He nudges in slow.
The stretch is slow and steady, his breath catching as your body parts for him. Heâs thick. Too thick, maybe, except your body wants himâtakes him like it was made to.
You whimper, and his jaw clenches tight.
âYou okay?â
âYâyeah,â you breathe. âDonât stop.â
He doesnât. Not even for a second. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, whispering your name, kissing your temple, gripping the backs of your thighs as you wrap your legs around his waist.
âFuck,â he hisses when he bottoms out, buried deep, balls pressed flush against you. âYou feelâJesus, you feel unbelievable.â
Youâre too far gone to answer. You just cling to him, nails dragging lightly down his back, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you again.
The first few thrusts are slow. Deep. Measured. He pulls out just enough to feel you grip him on the way back in, then does it againâand againâand again.
And then something shifts.
Your body clenches around him in a way that makes his head drop to your shoulder with a groan.
âOh my god, sweetheartâdonât do thatâIâm gonnaâfuckââ
He thrusts harder.
Not rough, not yet, but firmer. Hungrier. The control he started with begins to slip. You can feel it in his grip, in the sharp edge of his breath, in the tremble of the arm braced beside your head.
âBeen thinkinâ about this,â he grits out, voice low and wrecked. âEvery nightâevery goddamn night since the first note. You donât even know what you do to me.â
You whine, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he snapsâhips slamming forward hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.
âClarkââ
âIâve got you,â he gasps, fucking into you harder now, his voice filthy and tender all at once. âIâve got you, babyâso fuckinâ tightâcanât stopâdonât wanna stopââ
Youâre clinging to him now, crying out with every thrust. Itâs not just the way he fills youâitâs the way he worships you while he does it. The way he moans when you clench. The way he growls your name like a prayer. The way he falls apart in real time, just from the feel of you.
He grabs one of your hands, laces your fingers with his, pins it beside your head.
âYouâre mine,â he grits. âYou have to be mine.â
âYes,â you gasp. âYesâClarkâdonât stopââ
âNever,â he groans. âNever stopping. Not when you feel like thisâfuckââ
You can feel him getting closeâthe way his rhythm starts to stutter, the broken sounds escaping his throat, the way he buries his face against your neck and pants your name like heâs desperate to take you with him.
And youâre almost there too.
You donât even realize your hand is slipping until heâs gripping it againâpinned tight to the pillow, your fingers laced in his and clenched so tight it aches. The bed frame is starting to shudder beneath you now, the headboard knocking a rhythm into the wall, and Clark is gasping like heâs in pain from how good it feels.
His hips snap forward againâharder this time. Deeper. More desperate.
âFuckâfuckâIâm sorry,â he grits, voice ragged and thick, âIâm trying toâbabyâI canâtâhold backââ
You moan so loud it makes him flinch.
And then he breaks.
One second heâs pulling your name from his lungs like itâs the only word he knowsâand the next, he slams into you so hard the bed shifts a full inch. The lamp on the bedside table flickers. The candle flame bursts just slightly higher than beforeâflickering hot and fast, the wick blackening with a thin curl of smoke. It doesnât go out. It just burns.
Clarkâs back arches.
His cock drags over everything inside you in just the right way, hitting that spot again and again until youâre clutching at his shoulders, babbling nonsense against his skin.
âI canâtâI canâtâClark!â
âYou can,â he pants. âPleaseâplease, baby, cum with meâI can feel youâI can feel it.â
Your body goes taut.
A white-hot snap of pleasure punches through your spine, and your vision blacks out at the edges. You tighten around himâclenching, pulsing, dragging him over the edge with youâand he loses it.
Clark cursesâactually cursesâand growls something between a moan and a sob as he slams into you one last time, spilling deep inside you. His body locks, every muscle trembling. His teeth scrape the soft skin of your throatânot biting, just grounding himself. Like if he lets go, heâll come undone completely.
The lights flicker again.
The candle sputters once and steadies.
He breathes like a man starved. His chest heaves. But you can feel itâunder your hand, against your skin. His heartâs not racing.
Not like it should be.
Youâre gasping. Dazed. Boneless under him. But Clark⊠Clarkâs barely even winded. And yetâhis hands are trembling. Just slightly. Still laced in yours. Still holding on.
After, you lie thereâchests pressed close, legs tangled, the sheets barely clinging to your hips.
Clarkâs arm is slung across your waist, palm wide and warm over your belly like it belongs there. Like he doesnât ever want to move. His nose is tucked against your temple, breath stirring your hair in soft little pulses. He keeps kissing you. Your cheek. Your jaw. The edge of your brow. He doesnât stop, like heâs afraid this is a dream and kissing you might anchor it in place.
âStill with me?â he whispers into your skin.
You nod. Drowsy. Sated. Floating.
âGood.â His hand runs down your side in one long, reverent stroke. âDidnât mean to⊠get so carried away.â
You hum. âYou say that like I didnât enjoy every second.â
He smiles against your neck. You feel the curve of it, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.
A moment passes.
Then another.
âI think you short-circuited my bedside lamp somehow.â
Clark freezes. ââŠDid I?â
You roll your head to look at him. âIt flickered. Right as youââ
His ears turn bright red. âMaybe just⊠a power surge?â
You arch a brow. âRight. A romantic, orgasm-timed power surge.â
He mutters something into your shoulder that sounds vaguely like kill me now.
You grin. File it away.
Exhibit 7: Lightbulb went dim at the exact second he came. Candle flame doubled in height.
-
Later that night, long after youâve both dozed off, you wake to find Clark still holding you. One of his hands is under your shirt, splayed low across your stomach. Protective. Possessive in the gentlest way. His body is still curled around yours like a question mark, like heâs checking for all your answers in how your breath rises and falls.
You shift just slightlyâand his grip tightens instinctively, like even in sleep, he canât let go.
Exhibit 8: He doesnât sleep like a person. Sleeps like a sentry.
-
In the morning, you wake to the scent of coffee.
Your kitchen is suspiciously spotless for someone who swears heâs clumsy. The pot is full, the mugs pre-warmed, your favorite creamer already swirled in.
Clark is flipping pancakes.
Barefoot.
Wearing one of your sleep shirts. The tight one.
You lean against the doorframe, watching him. His back muscles flex when he flips the pan one-handed.
âMorning,â he says without turning.
You blink. âHowâd you know I was standing here?â
âI, uhâŠâ He falters, then gestures at the sizzling pan. âHeard footsteps. I assumed.â
You hum.
Exhibit 9: He heard me from across the apartment, over the sound of a frying pan.
-
Youâre brushing your teeth later when you spot the mirror fogged from the shower.
You reach for a towelâand notice itâs already been run under warm water.
You glance at him, and he just shrugs. âFigured youâd want it not freezing.â
âFigured?â you repeat.
He leans against the doorframe, smiling. âLucky guess.â
You donât respond. Just kiss his cheek with toothpaste still in your mouth.
Exhibit 10: He always guesses exactly what I need. Down to the second.
-
That night, he falls asleep on your couch during movie night, head on your thigh, hand around your wrist like a lifeline.
You swear you see the movie reflected in his eyesâlike the light isnât just hitting them but moving inside them. You blink. Itâs gone.
You look down at him. His lashes are impossibly long. His mouth is parted. His breathing is steadyâbut not quite⊠human. Too even. Too perfect.
Exhibit 11: His pupils did a thing. I donât know how to describe it. But they did a thing.
-
The next day, a car splashes a wave of slush toward you both on the sidewalk.
You brace for impact.
But Clark steps in front of you, faster than you can blink. The water hits him. Not you.
You didnât even see him move.
You narrow your eyes. He just smiles. âReflexes.â
âClark. Be honest. Do you secretly run marathons at night?â
He laughs. âNope. Just really hate laundry.â
Exhibit 12: Literally teleported into the splash zone to shield me. Probably didnât even get wet.
-
And still⊠you donât say it.
You donât ask.
Because heâs not just some blur of strength or spectacle.
Heâs the man who folds your laundry while pretending itâs because heâs âbad at relaxing.â Who scribbles notes in the margins of your drafts, calling your metaphors âdangerously good.â Who kisses your forehead with a kind of reverence like youâre the one whoâs unreal.
You know.
You know.
And he knows you know.
Because heâs hiding it from you. Not really.
When he stumbles over his own sentences, when his smile falters after a late return, when his jaw tenses at the sound of your name whispered too softlyâyou donât see evasion. You see weight. You see care.
Heâs protecting something.
And youâre trying to figure out how to tell him that you already know. That itâs okay. That youâre still here. That you love him anyway.
You havenât said it yetânot the knowing, not the loving. But it lives just under your skin. A second heartbeat. A full body truth. You think maybe, if you just look him in the eye long enough next time, heâll understand.
But still neither of you says it yet. Because the space between whatâs said and unsaidâthatâs where everything soft lives.
And youâre not ready to let it go.
-
The morning feels ordinary.
Thereâs a crack in the coffee pot. A printer jam. Perry yelling something about deadlines from his office. Jimmyâs camera bag spills open across your desk, and he swears heâll fix it after his coffee, and Lois is pacing, muttering about sources.
And then the screens change.
Itâs subtle at firstâjust a flicker. Then the feed cuts mid-commercial. Every monitor in the bullpen goes black, then red. Emergency alert. A shrill tone splits the air. Someone turns up the volume.
You look up.
And everything shifts.
The broadcast blares through the newsroom speakers, raw footage streaming in from a local news chopper.
Metropolis. Midtown. Chaos. A building half-collapsed. Smoke curling upward in a thick, unnatural spiral.
The camera joltsâand then there he is.
Superman.
Thrown through a brick wall.
You feel it in your bones before your brain catches up. Thatâs him. Thatâs Clark.
Heâs on his knees in the wreckage, panting, bleedingâfrom his temple, from his ribs, from a gash you canât see the end of. The suit is torn. His cape is shredded. Heâs never looked so human.
He tries to stand. Wobbles. Collapses.
You stop breathing.
âIs Superman going to be ok?â someone behind you murmurs.
âJesus,â Jimmy whispers.
âHeâll be fine,â Lois says, too casually. She leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee like itâs any other news cycle. âHe always is.â
You want to scream. Because thatâs not a story on a screen. Thatâs not some distant, untouchable god.
Thatâs your boyfriend.
Thatâs the man who brought you coffee this morning with one sugar and just the right amount of cream. The man who kissed your wrist in the elevator, whose hands trembled when he whispered I want to be enough. Who holds you like youâre something holy and bruises like heâs made of skin after all.
Heâs not fine. Heâs bleeding.
Heâs not getting up.
You freeze.
The bullpen keeps moving around youâhalf-aware, half-horrifiedâbut you canât speak. Canât blink. Canât breathe.
Your hands start to shake.
You grip the edge of your desk like it might anchor you to the floor, like if you let go youâll run straight out the door, out into the chaos, toward the wreckage and the fire and the thing trying to kill him.
A part of you already has.
A hit lands on the feedâsomething massive slamming him into the pavementâand your knees almost buckle from the force of it. Not physically. Not really. But somewhere deep. Something inside you fractures.
You donât know what the enemy is.
Alien, maybe. Or worse.
But itâs not the shape of the thing that terrifies youâitâs him. Itâs how slow he is to get up. How much his mouth is bleeding. How his eyes are unfocused. How youâve never seen him look like this.
You want to run.
You want to be there.
But youâre not. Youâre here. In your dress pants and button-up, in your neat little office chair, with your badge clipped to your hip and your heart breaking quietly.
Because no one else knows. No one else understands whatâs really at stake. No one else sees the man behind the cape.
Not like you do.
Your vision blurs.
You wipe your eyes. Pretend itâs nothing. The bullpen is too loud to hear your breath catch.
But stillâyour hands tremble and your heart pounds so violently it hurts.
And you cry.
Quietly.
You cry like the city might if it could feel. You cry like the sky should. You cry like someone already grievingâlike someone who knows what it means to lose him.
The footage wonât stop. Superman reels across the screenâhis suit torn, the shoulder scorched through in a blackened, jagged arc. Blood smears the corner of his mouth. Thereâs a limp in his gait now, one he keeps trying to mask. The camera catches it anyway.
The newsroom is silent now save for the hiss of static and the low voice of the anchor describing the damage downtown.
You sit frozen at your desk, the plastic edge biting into your palms as you grip it like it might stop your body from unraveling. The taste of bile has settled at the back of your throat. Your coffeeâs gone cold in its cup.
Across the bullpen, someone mutters, âJesus. He took a hit.â
âLook at the suit,â Lois says flatly, standing by one of the screens. âHeâs never looked that rough before.â
âDudeâs limping,â Jimmy adds, pushing his glasses up. âThat alien thingâwhat even was that?â
Their words feel like background noise. Distant. Warped. You canât seem to hear anything over the white-hot panic blistering in your chest.
You blink, your eyes burning, throat tight. You canât just sit here and cry. Not in front of Lois and Perry and half the bullpen. But your body is trembling anyway. You clench your hands in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your skin.
Heâs hurt.
And heâs still out there.
Fighting.
Alone.
You canât just sit here.
You shove your chair back hard enough that it scrapes against the floor. âIâm going.â
Lois turns toward you. âGoing where?â
âIâm covering it. The attack. The fallout. Whateverâs leftâI want to see it firsthand.â
Loisâs brow lifts. âSince when do you make reckless calls like this?â
âI donât,â you snap, already grabbing your coat. âBut I am now.â
Jimmyâs already halfway to the door. âIf weâre going, Iâm bringing the camera.â
Lois hesitates. Then sighs. âHell. You twoâll get yourselves killed without me.â
You donât wait for her to finish grabbing her phone. Youâre already out the door.
-
Downtown is a war zone.
The smell of scorched concrete clings to the air. Smoke spirals in uneven plumes from the carcass of a building that must have been beautiful once. Sirens scream in every direction, red and blue lights flashing off every pane of shattered glass.
You arrive just as the dust begins to settle.
The battle is over but the wreckage tells you how bad it was.
The Justice Gang moves through the remains like figures out of a dreamâtattered and bloodied, but upright.
Guy Gardner limps past, muttering curses. âNext time, Iâm bringing a bigger damn ring.â Kendra SaundersâHawkgirlâhas one wing half-folded and streaked with blood. She ignores it as she checks on a paramedicâs bandages. Mr. Terrific is already coordinating with local emergency crews, directing flow with a hand to his ear. And MetamorphoâGod, he looks like heâs melting and re-solidifying with every breath.
And thenâŠ
Him.
He descends from the smoke. Not in a blur. Not with a boom of sonic air. Slowly. Controlled.
But not untouched.
He lands in a crouch, shoulders tight, the line of his jaw drawn sharp with tension. His boots crunch against broken concrete. His cape is torn at one edge, flapping limply behind him.
Heâs hurt.
Heâs so clearly hurt.
And even through all of itâthrough the dirt and blood and painâhe sees you. His eyes lock onto yours in an instant. The rest of the world falls away. Thereâs no press. No chaos. No destruction.
Just him.
And you.
The corner of his mouth liftsâjust a flicker. Not a smile. Just⊠recognition.
And something deeper behind it.
You know know.Â
And he is letting you know.
But he straightens a second later, lifting his chin, slotting the mask back into place like a practiced motion. He squares his shoulders, winces barely perceptible, and turns to face the press.
Lois is already stepping forward, questions in hand. âSuperman. What can you tell us about the enemy?â
His voice is steady, but you can hear it nowâhear the strain. The breath that doesnât quite come easy. The syllables that drag like theyâre fighting his tongue. âIt wasnât local,â he says. âSome kind of dimensional breach. We had help closing it.â
Jimmyâs camera clicks. Kendra coughs into her hand.
Youâre not writing.
Youâre just watching.
Watching the soot along his cheekbone. The split in his lip. The way he shifts his weight to favor one side. The way the âsâ in âjusticeâ drags like it hurts to say.
He looks tired.
But more than thatâhe looks like Clark.
And itâs never been more obvious than right now, standing under broken sky, trying to pretend like nothingâs changed.
You want to run to him. You want to hold him up.
But you stay rooted.
When the questions start to slow and the press begins murmuring among themselves, he glances over. Just at you.
âAre you okay?â he asks, barely audible.
You nod. âAre you?â
He hesitates. Then says, âGetting there.â
Itâs not a performance. Not for them. Just for you.
You nod again. The look you share says more than anything else could.
I know.
Iâm not leaving.
You donât have to say it.
When he flies awayâslower this time, one hand brushing briefly against his ribsâitâs not dramatic. Thereâs no sonic boom. No heat trail. Just wind and distance.
Lois exhales. âHe looked rough.â
Jimmy nods. âStill hot, though.â
You say nothing. You just stare up at the empty sky. And press your shaking hand over your heart.
-
You fake calm.
You smile when Jimmy slaps your shoulder and says something about getting the footage up by morning. You nod through Loisâs sharp-eyed stare and mutter something about your deadline, your byline, your blood sugarâanything to get her to stop watching you like she knows what youâre not saying.
But the second youâre alone?
You run. Itâs not a sprint, not really. Just that jittery, full-body urgencyâthe kind that makes your hands shake and your legs move faster than your thoughts can follow. You donât remember the trip home. Just the chaos of your own pulse, the way your chest wonât stop aching.
You replay the scene again and again in your mind: his landing, the blood on his lip, the flicker of pain when he looked at you. That not-quite smile. That nearly imperceptible tremble.
Youâd never wanted to hold someone more in your life.
And when you reach your door, keys fumbling, heart still hammering? Heâs already there.
You pause halfway through the doorway.
Heâs standing in your living room, like heâs been waiting hours. Heâs not in the suit. No cape. No crest. Just a plain black T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, his hair still damp like he just showered.
He looks like Clark. Except⊠tonight you know thereâs no difference.
âHi,â he says quietly. His voice is soft. Familiar. âI didnât mean to startle you.â
You blink. âDid you break through my patio door?â
He winces. âYes. Sort of.â
You lift a brow. âYou owe me a new lock.â
âIt doesnât work like that.â He says with a roll of his eyes.Â
A silence stretches between you. Itâs not tense. Not angry. Just full of everything neither of you said earlier.
He takes a step toward you, then stops. âHow long have you known?â
You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and toe off your shoes before answering. âSince the lamp. And the candle,â you say. âBut⊠mostly tonight.â
He nods like that hurts. Like he wishes he couldâve done better. Like he wishes he couldâve told you in some perfect, movie-moment way.
âI didnât want you to find out like that,â he says quietly.
You walk to the couch and sit, your limbs finally catching up to the adrenaline crash still sweeping through you. âIâm glad I found out at all.â
Thatâs what makes him move. He sinks down beside you, hands on his knees. You can see it in his profileâthe exhaustion, the regret, the weight heâs been carrying for so long. Youâre not sure heâs ever looked more human.
âIâve been hiding so long,â he says, voice barely above a whisper. âI forgot how to be seen. And with you⊠I didnât want to lie. But I didnât want to lose it either. I didnât want to lose you.â
Your throat tightens. âYou wonât,â you say. And you mean it.
His head turns then, slowly, eyes meeting yours like heâs trying to memorize your face from this distance. You donât look away.
When he kisses you, itâs not careful. Itâs not shy. Itâs like something breaks open inside himâsoftly. The dam finally giving way.
His hands cradle your face like youâre something heâs terrified to shatter but needs to feel. His mouth is hot and open, reverent, desperate in the way it deepens. He kisses like heâs anchoring himself to the earth through your lips. Like everything in him is still shaking from battle and youâre the only thing that still feels real.
You reach for him. Thread your fingers into his hair. Pull him closer.
It builds like a slow swellâhands tangling, breathing harder, heat coiling low in your stomach. He pushes you back gently against the cushions, his body moving over yours with careful precision. Not to pin. Just to hold.
You feel it in every motion: the restraint. The effort. He could crush steel and heâs using that strength to cradle your ribs.
He undresses you with reverence. His fingers tremble when they touch your bare skin. Not from hesitationâbut because heâs finally allowed to want. To have. To be seen.
You undress him too. That soft black T-shirt comes off first. Then the flannel. His chest is mottled with bruises, a dark one blooming across his side where that alien creature mustâve hit him. Your fingertips trace the edge of it.
He exhales, shaky. But he doesnât stop you.
Youâre straddling his lap before you realize it, chest to chest, foreheads pressed together.
âAre you scared?â he whispers.
Your thumb brushes his cheek. âNever of you.â
He kisses you againâslower this time. More control, but more depth too. His hands glide down your back and settle at your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needs the reminder that youâre here. That you chose this.
The rest unfolds like prayer. The way he touches youâthorough, patient, hungryâitâs worship. Every gasp you make pulls a soft, broken sound from his throat. Every arch of your back makes his eyes flutter shut like heâs overwhelmed by the sight of you. The way he moves inside you is deep and aching and full of something larger than either of you.
Not rough. But desperate. Raw. True.
And even when he faltersâwhen his hands grip too tight or the air warms just a little too fastâyou hold his face and whisper, âI know. Itâs okay. I want all of you.â And he gives it. All of him. Until the only thing either of you can do is fall apart. Together.
Later, when youâre curled up on the couch in a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing, he rests his forehead against your temple.
The city buzzes somewhere far away.
He whispers into your skin: âNext time⊠donât let me fly off like that.â
Your smile is soft, tired. âNext time, come straight to me.â
He nods, eyes already fluttering shut.
And finally, for the first time since this beganâyou both sleep without secrets between you.
-
You wake to sunlight. Not loud, not harshâjust soft beams slipping through the blinds, spilling across the floor, warming the space where your bare shoulder meets the sheets. You blink slowly, the weight of sleep still thick behind your eyes, and shift just slightly in the tangle of limbs wrapped around you. He doesnât stir. Not even a little.
Clark is still curled around you like the night never endedâhis chest at your back, legs tangled with yours, one arm snug around your waist and the other folded up against your ribs, fingers resting over your heart like heâs guarding it in his sleep.
You donât move. You canât. Because itâs perfect. You let your cheek rest against his arm, warm and solid beneath you, and you just listenâto the steady rhythm of his heart, to the rise and fall of his breathing, to the way the silence doesnât feel empty anymore. You donât know if youâve ever felt more grounded than you do right now, held like this. It isnât the cape. It isnât the flight. It isnât the power that quiets the noise in your chest.
Itâs him. Just Clark. And for once, you donât need anything else.
He stumbles into the kitchen half an hour later in your robe. Your actual, honest-to-god, fuzzy gray robe. Itâs oversized on you, which means it fits him like a second skinâbelt tied loose at the hips, collar gaping just enough to make you lose your train of thought. His hair is a mess, sticking up in soft black tufts. His glasses are nowhere to be found. He scratches the back of his neck, blinking at the cabinets like heâs not entirely sure how kitchens work.
You lean against the counter with your arms folded, watching him with open amusement. âYou own too much flannel.â
Clark glances over, eyes squinting against the light. âIâll have you know, that robe is a Metropolis winter essential.â
âYouâre bulletproof.â
âI get cold emotionally.â
You snort. âYouâre such a menace in the morning.â
âAnd yet,â he says, opening the fridge and retrieving eggs with the careful precision of someone whoâs clearly trying not to break them with super strength, âyou let me stay.â
You grin. âYouâre lucky youâre cute.â
He burns the first pancake. Which is honestly impressive, considering you werenât even sure it was physically possible for someone with super speed and heat vision to ruin breakfast. But he flips it too fastâlike way too fastâand the thing launches halfway across the skillet before folding in on itself and sizzling dramatically.
You raise an eyebrow. Clark stares down at the pancake like it betrayed him. âI didnât account for surface tension.â
âDid you just say âsurface tensionâ while making pancakes?â
âIâm a complex man,â he says solemnly.
You lean over and pluck a piece of fruit from the cutting board he forgot he was slicing. âYouâre a menace and a dork.â
He pouts. Full, actual pout. Then shuffles over and kisses your shoulder. âIâll get better with practice.â
You roll your eyes. But your skinâs still buzzing where his lips brushed it.
Later, you sit on the counter while he stands between your knees, coffee in one hand, the other resting warm on your thigh. Itâs quiet. Not awkward or forcedâjust soft. Full of little glances and sips and contented silence. Thereâs no fear in him now. No carefully placed pauses. No skirting around things. He just⊠is. Clark Kent. The boy who spilled coffee on your notes three times. The man who kept writing to you in secret even when you didnât see him.
âYouâre not what I expected,â you say, fingers brushing his arm.
He lifts an eyebrow. âOh?â
âI donât know. I guess I thought Superman would be⊠shinier. Less flannel. More invincible.â
âAre you saying Iâm not shiny enough for you?â
âIâm saying youâre better.â
He blinks. And thenâjust like thatâhe smiles. Not the bashful one. Not the public one. The real one. Small and warm and honest. The kind of smile you only give someone when you feel safe. And maybe thatâs what this is now. Safety. Not the absence of dangerâbut the presence of someone who will always come back.
His communicator buzzes from somewhere in the bedroom. Clark lets out the most exhausted groan youâve ever heard and buries his face in your shoulder like itâll make the world go away.
âYou have to go?â you ask gently, threading your fingers through his hair.
âSoon.â
âYouâll come back?â
He lifts his head. Meets your eyes. âEvery time.â
You kiss him thenâslow and deep and familiar now. The kind of kiss that tastes like mornings and memory and maybe something closer to forever. He kisses you back like he already misses you. And when he finally pulls away and disappears into the sky outside your windowâless streak of light, more quiet partingâyou just stand there for a moment. Barefoot. Wrapped in your robe. Heart full.
Youâre about to start cleaning up the kitchen when you see it. A post-it note, stuck to the fridge. Just a small square of yellow. Written in the same handwriting you could spot anywhere now.
âYou always look soft in the mornings. I like seeing you like this.â
âC.K.
You read it three times. Then you smile. You walk to the cabinet above the sink, open the doorâand stick it right next to all the others. The secret ones. The old ones. The ones that helped you feel seen before you even knew whose eyes were watching.
And now you know. Now you see him too.
All of him.
And you wouldnât trade it for anything.
-
tags: Â @eeveedream m @anxiousscribbling @pancake-05 @borhapparker @dreammiiee @benbarnesprettygurl @insidethegardenwall @butterflies-on-my-ashes s @maplesyrizzup @rockwoodchevy @jasontoddswhitestreak @loganficsonly @overwintering-soldier @hits-different-cause-its-you @eclipsedplanet @wordacadabra @itzmeme e @cecesilver @crisis-unaverted-recs @indigoyoons @chili4prez @thetruthisintheirdreams @ethanhoewke (<â it wouldnât let me tag some blogs Iâm so sorry!!)
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MINI NATâS NOTE: i havenât stopping thinking about this loser kansas failure man since friday. i literally got out of bed to write this because i canât sleep. hope yâall love it, mwah!
CW: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, rough sex, service top clark, he whimpers cause i said so, sexy uses of x-ray vision, clark kent can FUCK, super stamina yes god, hyperspermia, supermanâs super huge dick, belly bulging, porn w.o plot, no use of y/n.
"Clark, pleaseâ"
Your voice breaks on his name, swallowed by the sound of the headboard slamming into the way again and again and again.
Your thighs are shaking, pinned wide open by Clarkâs hands, his grip near desperate as he ruts into you with a punishing force. Itâs not as hard as he could go, you know that he must be biting through his lip trying to control himself. You wish he could go harder, that he could really give it to you.Â
He deserves it. He works so hard, he deserves a nice warm hole to pound into after saving the world for the hundredth timeâor after turning in another perfect front page piece to Perry.
Youâve brought it up a few times, when Clark was too drunk off the feeling of your lips against his own and the taste of your tongue on his to shy away from the conversation.
You could take it, youâd take anything he gives you with open arms and spread legs and a smile on your face.
Clarkâs far too sweet to ever pin you down and just take. Heâs a gentleman through and through, he was taught to treat ladies with respect. Superman isnât an exception to those good farm boy manners of course, no matter how many times youâve daydreamed about him flying through your window and tossing you on the mattress and using you.
God, you really do love him like this though.
âSorry,â he pants, forehead pressed to yours, dark curls mussed. âIâm sorry, I canâtâI canât stop. You feel too good, baby, youâre so good.â
Clarkâs voice breaks on the last word like heâs begging you to understand, but the thrust of his hips says otherwise. There's nothing apologetic about the way heâs fucking youâlike itâs the last thing heâll ever do. Like his survival depends on it. The bedâs screaming under the weight of his body, your body, his strength.
Your spine arches off the bed as his hips slap against yours hard enough to sting, wet and relentless. âClark,â you gasp, nails raking down his back uselessly. âDonât stop. Pleaseâdonât stop.â
His cock splits you open again and again, thick and flushed and incessant, pistoning deep and hard and needy. Itâs too much. It always is. Too thick, too long, the fat head of him kissing up against something so deep inside you it shouldnât be physically possible.
The room smells like sex. Sweat and musk and Clarkârain, ozone, sunlight. The sound of your bodies coming together bounces off the walls, the wet slap of skin on skin. The filthy, slick noises of your pussy sucking his cock deeper makes your ears burn.
Youâve lost count of how many times youâve come. Clark hasnât. Of course he hasnât.
âFive,â he groans, burying his face in the sweaty expanse of your neck. âYouâre so sensitive now, baby, I knowâI can hear it, your heartbeat skips every time I do thisââ he pulls out, just halfway, then slams forward and stays there, his cock so deep your stomach distends a little. âGosh, look at that.â
Youâre soaked, ruined, you know it. Youâve been trembling under him for five rounds, but you love it. Every ragged thrust, every strangled apology he canât stop moaning, every load he pumps into you like his body has to. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, drag him even deeper, and Clark whines.
âIâmâfuckâIâm gonna come againâplease, baby, let meâpleaseââ
Heâs come three times already. You can feel the wet, hot mess heâs made of you, dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets. Youâre already so full. You feel full.
The last time he came inside you he barely gave you a minute before he was hard again, aching and apologizing even as he buried himself back in your cunt. His come is still dripping out of you in thick, creamy ropes, and he still hasnât stopped chasing it. He canât.
"Yes." Your legs wrap tighter around his waist. You want it. You need it. âGive it to me, Clark.â
That's all it takes for him to lose it again.
His body locks upâhips jerking, mouth falling open with a loud, broken moan.
You cry out as you feel him twitch deep inside you, and then it happens againâhot, endless, thick spurts of come painting your insides, filling you up so full it hurts. Clarkâs gasping, his mouth falling open against your shoulder, his whole body trembling.Â
His cock doesnât go soft, it never does. Not when heâs buried in you like this. Not when you keep fluttering around him, squeezing down like you want to milk every last drop from his body.
âShit, I didnât meanââm sorryâI keepââ His hips stutter and then roll again, like heâs addicted to how you feel around him, like stopping would kill him. âItâs too muchâI know, babyâI justâyou make me so messyââ
Thereâs even more come leaking down your thighs in thin streams of white, soaking the sheets, slicking his cock every time he pulls out just to slam back in. You can feel how slippery everything is now, how swollen you are, how stretched. And stillâhe doesnât stop.
âYouâshit, you take it so good,â he moans. âMy good girlâmy pretty girlâlook at you, look at how much I gave you.â
Clark looks down, a soft groan rips out from somewhere deep in his chest at the sight of his cock punching up inside of you. His eyes go, glassy and unfocused for a moment. Thatâs the only warning you get before he tilts his hips ever so slightly, and youâre crying out when he hits that spot up inside you perfectly on the next thrust.
Thatâs a definite perk of dating a metahuman, x-ray vision. You know that even without any special powers he could take you apart until you were a crying, shaking mess. That being said, the MRI eyes help.
Clark has spent hours learning each and every part of your body, inside and out. Heâs made a home between your legs and watched your nervous system light up more times than you can count.Â
Heâs watched the way your dopamine levels spike when he mouths at your clit just right, the way your pulse lights up when his fingers slide deep and curl at just the right angle. Heâs studied you like scripture, like a blueprint.
You cry out, screwing your eyes shut as your hands slide down his back. You revel in the feel of him on top of you, the muscles of his back rolling and working under your greedy touch. Youâre going to come again, you know you are. The spring inside of you starts coiling tighter and tighter with each thrust.
âPlease,â Clark gasps, nearly sobbing it. âLet meâone more time, I promiseâpleaseâI know youâre full, baby, I knowâjust one more.â
âYouâre gonna break the bed again,â you gasp, too dumb and lost for words to say anything else.
Clark doesnât respondâmaybe he canât. Maybe heâs already too far gone to hear anything but the desperate squelch of his own come leaking out of your ruined pussy and down the hard length of his cock.
âI love youâI love you so much," he mutters incoherently, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over the meat of your hips as his cock carves a place for itself inside you. "You feel too goodâgod, you were made for me.â
The mattress jerks violently beneath you with every thrustâyou can feel the wood frame groaning, splintering. Not the first time. Probably wonât be the last.
Itâll be worth it.
MINI NAT'S NOTE: anyway this movie changed my life. i started rewatching 70s superman the second i got home. james gunn thank you for making superhero movies with love and whimsy again.
maybe like nurse!reader x frank or something like that.. unless ur tired of writing for him ofc! <3
favorites - f. langdon x fem!reader
summary: frank knows he's not supposed to have favorites in the workplace, but there's just something about you that he can't seem to resist, for better or for worse.
warnings: SMUT (minors dni, 18+ only), (slight?) infidelity, frank is a munch, fingering, p in v, protected sex, no use of y/n, frank has no kids!! mentions of divorce, regular pitt gore, idiots in love
author's note: I'M FINALLY DONE GET THIS OUT OF MY DRAFTS!! thank you for the request anon!! i hope i did it justice. something actually took over me while writing this... i don't condone infidelity but.......
wc: 9.1k
Frank knew he wasn't supposed to have favorites.Â
Really, favoritesâor any sort of personal biasâis unprofessional. Itâs especially unprofessional in his line of work, where youâre expected to be able to operate with anyone regardless of your own personal feelings or partiality. And, for a while, Frank understood and abided by this rule. Sure, it was hard sometimes to work alongside Santos after he finished his leave from rehab, but even their strained relationship had morphed into something more respectable these days. Frank liked to believe he treated everyone the same. In Frank's eyes, he has no favorites.Â
Well, except you. Â
Youâre a different story. Something a little more... complicated. Youâre a difficult thing to describe, Frank thinks, and an even more difficult thing to behold. Youâre impossibly smart, witty, quick on your feet, hard when you need to be and sweet when you can. All of these things draw Frank to you, and he has a hard time understanding why.Â
When Frank came back to the Pitt after his leave of absence, terrified out of his mind about jumping back into the environment where he once fell down a hole too deep, he was convinced maybe his return was a bad idea. Maybe, after all this time, the voices were right. He shouldnât be allowed to be a doctor.Â
These whispers swirled in his head like poisonous ivy on brick walls, growing their way to the core of his brain where they planted and nursed the most horrid of self loathing thoughts. Frank was halfway through his first shift back, contemplating the validity of what the voices had been saying to him, when he saw you for the first time.Â
You were tucked away into a corner, medicine bottle in hand as you bit your bottom lip, listening intently as Mateo rattled off some unimportant patient details. You nodded every once in a while to prove you were paying attention, your dedication shown through your body language and intense facial expression.Â
It didn't take long for Frank to realize you were a nurse, and a new one at that. You still had that anxious air surrounding youâone that Frank knew all too well.Â
He attempted to listen to what Collins was saying to himâreally, he was trying. But his eyes kept drifting to the side of your face, the curve of your hips, the small smile that escaped you when he overheard Mateo trying to soothe your nerves. He couldnât look away.
From then on, it was difficult for him not to treat you differently.Â
If there was any opportunity to have a nurse on a case, whether that be administering medication, patient assessments, or monitoring vitals, your name was the first thing out of Frank's mouth. Yes, he knows there are many talented nurses in the Pitt, but none of them were quite like you. None of them worked so well with him, none of them understood and returned his playful banter the way you did, none of them could take one look at his facial expression and determine exactly what was necessary for him to succeed in the way you always did.
It was almost magical the way he felt around you. In between stolen snacks from the staff lounge, shifts that ran overtime, and shared caffeine addictions, Frank grew fond of you, against his best wishes.
But it was so hard for him to fight it. He attempted, he really did. For a while he didnât return your morning smiles, he feigned annoyance at your weekend updates with Mohan, but it was all futile. You were intoxicatingâfunny, gorgeous, sarcastic, and most unfortunately for him, engaged.Â
That was the second thing Frank had noticed about you his first day back: the sparkling rock on your left hand. He had to admit, it was a sizable ring, which made it all the worse. It was salt in the wound. Frank, a man who had just gotten over his marriage, enthralled with you, a woman about to enter into hers. The irony was not lost on him.Â
With every mention of your wedding, with every compliment of your ring, it felt like someone was dragging nails across a chalkboard directly in Frankâs ear. Chadâs presence irked him in a way he wasnât able to understand, or rather, in a way he didnât want to accept.
One sided affection was growing increasingly difficult for him. He felt crazy, desperate, running his fingers through his hair at night and asking himself, why didnât he meet you sooner? But Frank knew, deep down, there was nothing he could do to change the fate of your relationship. You were happily engaged to a man you loved, who loved you. It didnât matter that he noticed the way your lips tugged into a smile the first time Frank caught your eye during the day, or the packet of goldfish youâd slide his way halfway through his shift, or even the quiet moments you two have had in the stairwell together after a particularly difficult case. There was no hope for him.Â
So, Frank took what he could get. Sure, it was blatant favoritism, but Frank couldnât bring himself to care.Â
//
âOkay! I think you're all done.â You smile, patting your palms on the tops of your scrub clad thighs. The elderly woman in front of you, staring at her freshly dressed numb burn wound, beams back at you with a grateful expression as her frail hands clasp together in appreciation. Her young daughter that sits right by her side looks at you before saying, âThank you, miss. For being so kind.âÂ
âAbsolutely, my pleasure.â You respond, beginning to clean up the materials around you. âAnd, Maâam, do you remember your steps for after you're discharged?â
âYes, I think Iâve got it.â The mother begins to reply. âNo harsh chemicals, only soap and water before the antibacterial cream, and then change the bandage daily.âÂ
âYup, you got it. If there are any complications, if the pain suddenly becomes unbearable or if there's any swelling or pus, come right back here and weâll get you sorted.â You explain.
The kind woman thanks you again as her daughter helps her up and out of the room, making sure to give you one last smile on her way out. You give a small wave back just as a familiar face approaches you.
âFeel like helping me today?â Langdon asks as you turn to look at him. His brown hair falls in front of his face as he angles his eyes down to meet yours. Something swirls in his irises, something familiar and warm, and you find yourself feeling clammy at the sight.Â
You roll your eyes in fake annoyance, clearing your throat. âItâs only 11 and you're already asking for my help?â
âPretty please?â He says, his voice turning syrupy and low. His bottom lip juts out into a pout. You find your eyes trailing over his oh so soft looking mouth. âRobby and I have a patient in Trauma 1 that I need you for, like asap.â
You laugh and shake your head as you give him a silent nod. Youâve never been able to say no to Frank, and he knows it. He grins in response, flashing you his million dollar smile before turning around, motioning you to follow him.
You try not to let his words swirl around in your head as you trail behind him, but somehow they find their way to the forefront of your mind.Â
I need you.
For the next thirty minutes, you and Frank are glued to each other's side as you work in Trauma 1. Where Frank goes, you follow. Youâre there for it allâthe first time the patient codes, the blood transfusion you assist on, the frantic calls from Frank as Robby rushes into the room, it all swirls around you and him like a complex symphony.Â
Frank watches you in admiration, though youâre so engrossed with the task at hand that you fail to see it. His eyes follow as you skirt around the room, listening to every order Robby gives you, nodding and jumping into action. This is one of the things he admires the most about youâyour dedication. The silent way you accept direction without hesitation.
The thirty minutes pass like seconds. Before you know it, the patient is stable, and you watch as Frank and Robby chat quietly. You donât feel like interrupting their seemingly private conversation, so you take your leave and head to the staff lounge, rubbing the soreness out of your shoulders as you walk down the halls.Â
In the privacy of the staff lounge, you take a quiet minute to yourself. You crack open another redbull and give a sigh of relief at the taste. You need the boost this morningâyou felt restless last night, tossing and turning in the comfort of your bed. A million things were running through your mind as you attempted to sleep. You tell yourself to get a grip, to shake it off. There are more important things to worry about, better things to do with your time than lament on things you shouldn't be thinking of.
When you think youâre beginning to take too much time, you force yourself back on to the floor. You walk fast towards the direction you last saw Dana, hoping to chat with your charge nurse for a few minutes before tagging along with Perlah and Princess. Youâre so engrossed in your own mindâstill replaying the same thoughts that kept you up last nightâthat you donât see the shine of the floor below you, somehow missing the bright yellow bucket full of soapy water.
You donât see the puddle of liquid in front of you until youâre slipping in it, falling backwards and smacking your head on the linoleum tile with a gasp. Pain blossoms at the base of your skull as your body lays on the ground. Your eyes flutter softly, vision turning blurry before, eventually, it fades to black.
//
Your ears are ringing.Â
Someone is faintly yelling words you can't quite pick up somewhere in the background. You feel a pair of hands behind your neck as someone is propping your head up, and just when you think you may have escaped this incident unharmed, just as your eyes begin to squint open and you make out the face of Dana and Robby, the back of your head throbs. Â
âOh, motherfucking christââ You sputter, attempting to sit up. âJesus that hurts.â
âHey hey. Take it easy, kid.â Robby orders, grabbing one of your arms to help steady you.Â
Dana crouches down beside him, immediately handing you an ice pack that feels freezing against your palm. You accept it gratefully as your eyes continue to adjust to the harsh fluorescent lighting of the ED.Â
âQuite a fall you took there,â Dana starts. âHere, let me check to see if your head's bleedinâ.â
You groan as her hand ghosts against the back of your skull, hissing when the tips of her fingers barely come into contact with your pulsing skin. When she removes her fingers to examine them, theyâre dry, which is a reliefâat least you wonât need stitches.
âDo you know where you are?â You hear Robby ask.Â
âIâm in hell,â you reply. You watch as a little of the concern melts from his face, a small smile replacing the serious expression he had been sporting since he watched you slip.Â
âWe should examine you for a concussion,â he continues, beginning to stand back up. Your ass is still firmly planted on the floor, one hand propping yourself up as the other ghosts the ice pack against your temple. Your entire head feels like it's on fire, like someone just took a wooden mallet and went crazy against the inside of your mind.Â
You're just about to take Robbyâs helping hand up when the sound of rushing footsteps catches your attention.
âWhat the fuck?â You hear Langdon say, and you donât have to turn to know the way heâs looking at you. Your head starts to pound even further. âWhat the hell happened?â
âI acquainted myself with the floor,â you mumble, finally taking the aid to get yourself back on two legs. You feel like a baby deer finding its footing for the first time, wobbling slightly back and forth as you try and steady yourself.Â
âAre you okay?â Langdon asks, his arms finding their way to yours, attempting to help stabilize you.Â
âIâm fine, totally good. Just embarrassed.â You laugh, immediately regretting it as you wince from the pain.
âHow hard did you hit your head?â He asks, eyes scanning over your face. He turns to Robby before asking, âHas anyone assessed for a concussion?â
âNo, not yet, I was just aboââ
âSomeone help me!â A voice cries out.Â
Robby, Dana, and Frank tense immediately. Your reaction time is a little slower, and youâre still a little confused until you see Whitaker on the floor, attempting to stop the convulsions of an elderly man currently laying on the floor.Â
âJesus, we got people dropping like flies!â Dana yells before running over to help the poor fourth year med student. Robby isnât far behind her, grumbling to himself about how he can't catch a fucking break, how its always one thing or another.Â
âLangdon!â He booms from across the room. âTake over for me. Check her for anything, I gotta go.â
Frank gives him a wordless nod, taking no time before leading you towards an empty room not too far away. You feel like a grandma being walked across the street. Langdonâs hands are wrapped around your body, guiding you towards the seat of the bed before they remove themselves, shutting the door behind you both.Â
âItâs a fucking shit show out there,â he breathes as he swiftly brings up a stool, positioning himself in front of you. âWeâve got doctors cracking their skulls open, patients seizing on floorsâit's not even lunch.â
âYeah, well. I wasnât planning on practically seeing god today.â You huff. âHoly shit my head hurts.âÂ
âYeah, letâs make sure you didnât give yourself permanent brain damage.â
He wheels himself around the room in a comfortable manner, like he's done so many times before. His fingers wrap against the cool metal of a flashlight, and before you know it he's shining it in your face, making you flinch.
âJesus! A little warning, please?â You hiss.
âSorry, sorry.â He smiles sheepishly. âJust let me check out your pupilas and then Iâll turn it off.â
He scooches his stool closer to you, finding a respectable place that is semi in between your legs. There's still enough distance that it's professional, but it's just close enough that it makes you sweat.Â
âCan you tell me your name?â He finally says, clicking the flashlight off. You assume that means your pupils are fine, and heâs moving on to the cognitive aspect of his makeshift exam. You roll your eyes. You're almost positive you donât have a concussion, just the makings of an incredibly nasty bruise and bump, yet you answer him anyway.
âAnd what day is it?â
âWednesday.â
âTheâŠ?âÂ
âThe twelfth, jesus. Do you want the year too?â
âI wouldnât say no.â
You playful wave your hand, dismissing him. The pain in your head has slowly receded, not as prominent as it originally was. It thrums slightly in the background, though, not completely over.
âAlright, can you look at my finger?â He starts again, breaking the small silence. He holds his index finger in front of your face. âIâm just gonna move this around, and I want you to follow it, okay?â
âYes, Dr. Langdon,â you attempt to tease, but your voice comes out lower than expected. You watch as Frank swallows hard.
âTell me what you did this morning.â He stares intensely into your eyes as he asks the question, still moving his finger around the peripheral of your vision. You follow your order, eyes never leaving his hand as you think of your answer, hoping you don't seem as frazzled as you feel. Did he get closer or are you imagining things?
âWoke up. Ate breakfast. Came to work. Helped on a couple different cases before the one with you and Robby. Went to the staff lounge to down a redbull and before I knew it I was slipping on the wet floor.â
âGood, okay.â He breathes. He stops moving his finger around which allows you to look at him once more. His stethoscope hangs loosely around his black scrub top, the white of his undershirt peeking through his collar as his chest slowly rises and falls. He looks handsome today. Yet again, he always looks handsome, and you find yourself biting the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from telling him that very same thing.
âYou were great this morning. With Robby and I, I mean. You handled it like a champ.â
âThanks,â you whisper. You never know what to do when Frank compliments you. âItâs all you guys. Youâre easy to work with.â
âYeah, but you were collected. Purposeful. Calm. Even when Mateo almost threw up.â He chuckles.
âI try.â You say, and itâs true. You always try. You always give it your best, but it's just easier with Frank. Youâre not sure why.
âIâm gonna take your temp now.â He decides, rolling away from you for a second to get a thermometer.Â
âThat feels a little unnecessary,â you say. You donât want to be a botherâFrankâs a busy man, a coveted one at that. You know he could be helping someone else right now, and you'd hate to think that you were stealing him away from people who needed him more.
âNope, donât even.â He replies. âIâm checking off every box.â
He brings the electric thermometer that reads your temporal artery to your forehead. He clicks the button and watches for a few seconds as the device seems to think for a moment, giving you a small smile when a normal and acceptable number flashes on the screen.
âThank you, again. For checking me for the concussion.â
âNo problem.â He responds. âCanât have you getting worse. Donât know what Iâd do if I had to ask Jesse to do anything instead of you.â
You try not to think too much about what he says to you. You try to pretend you don't notice the way he favors you over other nurses. You try to pretend you don't care. You try to pretend it doesn't kill you.
When Frank finishes putting away the thermometer, you think he's done with his exam. Yet, he doesn't get up to leave. Instead, he leans back, stretching his arms in the air. His shirt riles up, a sliver of his skin between the tops of his pants peeking out. Your eyes scan down the hair on his abdomen.Â
You clear your throat. Looking at Frank like that is wrong, for many different reasons. When you get up to move, Frank puts out a hand to stop you, wordlessly communicating that he doesn't want to leave yetâthat the exam isn't over.Â
âWhat are you checking right now?â You ask as Frank sits in front of you, seemingly doing nothing.
âYour responsiveness.â So, bullshit, basically.
âAnd how is it?âÂ
âWell, for starters, you're responding.â
You give him a small chuckle. You feel appreciative of the calm moment between you twoâyouâre only halfway through the day, yet you feel like youâve been going one hundred miles per hour all morning, never stopping to catch your breath. Especially with your newfound head wound. The rest and ice will do you good, youâre sure.
âHow have you been?â Frank asks in hopes of breaking the silence. Your eyes flicker up to meet his, and you give the normal response. Iâm good, smile. Work is crazy, cheek bite. Thank god Iâm off this friday, chuckle.
Through your painfully normal response, Frank watches as your eyes betray you. Your body plays the part perfectly, posture open and inviting, smile bright and cheerful, but something distant swirls in the dark parts of your irises. Frank catches it all.Â
He frowns. He wants you to be open with him, but he doesn't push it.Â
âGood. Thatâs good. Have you been telling him about all the amazing shit you do here?âÂ
âUm⊠No. Not recently. Weâre actuallyâŠâ You try to think of how to phrase it. âWeâre having a little bit of a disagreement right now.â
âOh.â
âYeah. Itâs stupid, nothing serious, obviously,â you lie. âI just feel bad. I feel like itâs been distracting me.â
Frank tries to act like he's not enthralled. Obviously, he's sad that youâre feeling inadequate with yourself and distracted at work, but Chad can go kick rocks.
âYouâre not off your game. Not at all. You were amazing this morning.â
âThanks.â You reply, still deflected. You toy with your slightly melted ice pack, squishing around the slushy-like gel between your fingers. Your eyes bounce around the room. You donât want Frank to see the discouragement in them.Â
âI mean it. Youâre a great nurse, and partly the reason why Iâm a great doctor. I⊠I couldnât do this without you, I hope you know that.â He whispers.Â
It hasnât been the easiest thing for him, coming back. There have been so many demons he's had to face, so many challenges he's had to overcome. The cold glances he's had to brush off his shoulder and the shame of his actions all seem a little more bearable when youâre by his side.
He smiles when you look at him again. There's a slight awe in your eyes, like you can't believe what you've just heard, but it's true. Frank thinks the world of you.Â
âCan I ask what you're fighting about?â He says, lying to himself about his intentions. God forbid a nice doctor care about his a nice nurse. âWeâre⊠friends, so I guess I can ask.âÂ
You sigh. You don't want to let on too much, to make him worry about you or anything. âHeâs staying with a friend right now. Weâre just disagreeing on stuff about the future. Really, itâs nothing.â
He can see the way youâre downplaying your true feelings in real time as arguments replay in your mind. Harsh words being tossed around, all about how youâre too busy, you never see me anymore, we never have sex anymore.Â
You donât tell Frank any of this, obviously. You would be mortified if he knew about the state of your relationship. (Or secretly enthralled, depending on how honest you want to be with yourself.)
âWell, heâd be an idiot to fuck this up with you.â He confesses.
You laugh. Itâs heartfelt, Frank can tell. Heâs proud of himself for pulling it out the depths of your lungs. After a second, your eyes fall back to the ice pack that's now fully jelly in your hands, feeling a similar melted sort of emotion. You start to speak, but feel like your words fail you.
âI donâtââ Want him. Love Him. âI justââ Want you instead. âItâsââ Easy. Kiss me. ââComplicated.â
âWell,â he starts again, âWe donât have to talk about it if you don't want to. And, anyways, I have to finish your exam.â
âThereâs more?â You groan. This has been the longest concussion assessment of your life.
âMobility. Iâm just gonna check around your neck, see if anything hurts. That sort of stuff.â
You gulp. âSure.â
Frank rolls his stool in front of you once more, a pair of plastic gloves now hiding his hands from the fluorescent lights of the room and the soft feeling of your skin. He inches slowly towards you, trying to find a compromise between the space he knows he should give you and the space he wants.
Quietly, he brings up his fingers to the side of your neck, lightly brushing against the area where your jaw meets your throat. You swallow thickly.Â
âIâm gonna press lightly on the sides of your throat, and then Iâm gonna ask you to move your head around. Let me know if anything I do hurts you, okay?â
âY-Yeah.â
You watch as his gaze leaves your face to focus on the task at hand. Heâs gone from being Frank, to being Dr. Langdon. Itâs sexy admirable.
You feel the light pressure of his two fingers as they make their way down your throat. You wait patiently for his instructions, trying not to gasp when his grip changes from two fingers to five, his hands practically engulfing your neck.
âMkay,â he murmurs, cocking his head. âTo the left⊠Good. Now the right.â
You feel yourself getting hot. Your heartbeat is spiking, you're sure of it. What a horrible time for Frank to have his hand on your carotid artery.
âYou seem flushed? Are you alright? Is it hurting?âÂ
âJesusâNo. Itâs nothing. Sorry.â You cringe.Â
He halts his movements. You feel his hands soften around you, feeling lighter around your throat. Oh great, you think. He thinks he's hurting me.
When you finally get the courage to open your scrunched up eyes, you see that heâs back to Frank now. Frank, whose hands are around your throat, his latex clad fingertips barely brushing against the small hairs on the back of your neck. Frank, whoâs the closest heâs ever been before. Frank, whose eyes are bouncing back and forth between your eyes and your lips.Â
Itâs wrong. You know it is. Itâs bad to want it. Itâs bad to think about it.
Itâs even worse to do it.
But it happens anyway.
You don't know who starts it. One minute youâre trying not to crawl out of your skin in embarrassment of the way your body betrays you, the next your heart turns to putty as you feel his lips brush against yours, soft and slow with hesitance.
You kiss him back. You donât think you could pull away if you tried. He tastes like the peach-nectarine red bull he drank this morning. He smells handsome, if that's even possible. Like the ocean. Your hands itch to cradle his face, to make their way into his dark brown hair that always looks perfect, no matter how many times he runs his fingers through them.
Itâs deep. Itâs sweet. Itâs everything youâve wanted since the first day you saw him.Â
You play with your fingers to distract yourself reaching out to touch him, as if heâd turn to gold and crumble from your midas touch. Your fingertips run over something hard.
Your ring.
And suddenly it's over.
You pull back from him. You're breathless, you feel disheveled. Your lips feel swollen. Your head hurts worse than when you practically slammed it on the floor like a basketball.
âAre youâshit. I⊠Iâm sorry, I shouldnât haveââ
âWe shouldnât. I canât, I haveââ
âYeah, yeah, obviously. Shit.â
âYeah. Um. I should⊠go.â
âYes,â he breathes, âYouâre all good. No⊠no concussion. Or brain damage.â
âThank you,â you say, scrambling to stand up. âFor⊠Yeah, okay.â You find your footing faster than you did in the halls. Youâre not sure what you would do if Frank tried to help stabilize you, but you imagine it can't be anything good.Â
You leave the room without looking back.Â
//
For the rest of his shift Frank is torn into pieces.
He feels awful. You came to him, hurtâpossibly concussedâand what did he do? Kiss you. Stupid idiot. You had trusted him. Confided in him about problems you were having in your personal life, problems you were having with the man who put that rock on your finger, and Frank just couldnât help himself, he had to ruin it.Â
It was clear you were avoiding him. Painfully so.
You immediately walked away in the opposite direction if he spotted you, never giving him the chance to ask you for help with a patient. Every time you caught his eye, you were deep into conversation with whoever was around you, always managing to avoid his gaze he so desperately wanted you to see.Â
Youâre nowhere to be found when heâs roaming the halls, right as Frank is in between cherry picking cases. Youâre somewhere in a room down the hall when Frank sits down to log some information, pretending to look busy as he clicks the mouse around an empty screen. He feels like a kicked puppy.Â
The worst part is he knows he did it to himself. He knew at the beginning of your friendship that he wasnât capable of knowing you without loving you, and he worked with you anyway. Now it's all ruined, he thinks. Youâll never speak to him again. Youâll probably never want to be in the same room as him, especially alone. Itâll be horrible to work with him, youâll hate every minute of it.
Heâll be a gentleman about it though, transfer to night shift. Never speak to you again. Wishing you and your future toddler twins a good life as you cradle a new baby that looks just like fucking Chad. He can see it all play out in his head. Heâll die alone. The cat he doesnât have will eat his face.
The hours pass by quickly as Frank loses himself in his head. He goes through the motions. Heâs done it all before. Itâs not good to work distracted, but there's no use in trying to clear his mind. He wants to talk to you desperately, but he doubts heâll get the chance.Â
And heâs right. You take off like a shot when your shift ends, leaving a trail of dust behind you. No one seems to notice but him. Frank feels so twisted inside, like heâs fucked everything up beyond repair. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he sits in the driver's seat of his car. He let himself get too comfortable, be too hopeful that anything could change between you two.Â
He drives home in disappointed silence.Â
//
When Frank finally makes it back to his house, to his sparsely decorated apartment that's just a little too small and a little too dark, he collapses with exhaustion. His bag is tossed somewhere haphazardly, his lanyard with his medical ID thrown loosely on his kitchen counter. He slides off his scrub top and doesn't bother to look where it lands.Â
A hot shower should fix everything.Â
He stands under his showerhead moments later, his shitty water pressure doing an even shittier job at getting the shampoo out of his hair. He tries to distract himself with miniscule things in order to prevent thinking of you. This ends pathetically, however, when Frank realizes he doesn't have much of anything else to distract himself with.
Heâs not married anymore. He barely has any friends. All he does is work, and if Frank thinks of work, then Frank thinks of you.
âThis is pointless,â He mutters to no one.Â
When he finally deems himself clean, appreciative of the small relief that the shower has given him, Frank tosses on an old pair of sweatpants that ride low on the bony parts of his hips, sliding over a black steelers t-shirt to go with it. He reheats some leftovers from the night before, going through the motions of being too eager and burning his mouth over and over with every bite.Â
Heâs impressed with himself about how his cooking skills have grown. Now that he lives alone, all of the decisions fall to him. It wasn't like he never cooked when he was married or anything of the sortâFrank always helped out. But now, heâs on his own. He wonders briefly if youâd like the meal heâs eating. If youâd like his cooking.Â
He stands in the kitchen for longer than he should. His plate is clean now. The dishes are washed and dried, put away in their respective cabinets. But Frank canât bring himself to move. From here, he can see the entirety of his home as it lies before him. His small living room with a couch and a TV he got on sale. The door to his bedroom cracked slightly askew, allowing for the tiniest bit of light to bleed in from his bathroom.
His apartment is cold. Empty. It feels lonely and like salt in the wound. Itâs times like this when Frank misses you the most. He closes his eyes and selfishly imagines you in his kitchen, smiling softly at him as he cooks for the two of you. The way youâd look on his couch, watching a movie so scary youâd have to turn to look away, burying your face in his chest.Â
He tries not to think about you in his bed. It never ends well for him, and he feels all the more shameful the next time he sees you.Â
When heâs done playing pretend in his mind, he makes his way to his couch alone. He turns on some shitty reality TV show to distract him, and make his space less quiet. He rots in the same position for what feels like hours.Â
Frankâs eyes just begin to flutter shut when he hears the faintest knock on his door.Â
At first he thinks heâs imagining it. Itâs late, and Frank doesn't talk to his neighbors. It mustâve been from down the hall.
But then it happens again. He pauses the show and groans as he stands, stretching out his arms and legs before he rubs his eyes. He knows he didnât order anything, so maybe someoneâs just got the wrong house?
He contemplates a few different possible scenarios until he opens the door, and itâs clear the person in front of him is at the right place. You stand anxiously, toying with your fingers like you did that morning. You look at him like a deer in headlights, almost as if you weren't expecting him to answer. Neither of you say anything.Â
He breaks the uncomfortable silence. âHow the hell did you get my address?â
You seem relieved when he speaks, like you were afraid he might shut the door in your face. âI have my ways.â
âThat's⊠frightening.â He admits. âDo you⊠do you want to come in?â.
âYeah.â
He maneuvers his body and opens the door widely for you, allowing you to step inside. You slowly creep into his living room, looking around and taking in his scarce decor, his degrees hung on the wall. He barely has any photos in frames.Â
His apartment radiates the same sort of Frank-esque smell that graced your senses earlier that morning, and you find yourself inhaling deeply, as if you were running out of breath. You hope he doesnât notice.
When Frank shuts the door behind you, he leans against the kitchen counter in order to give you some space. He thinks maybe youâre here to yell at him, to tell him youâre transferring to Presby or even moving just to get away from him.Â
But he canât help himself from worrying about you, which is why he ends up asking, âAre you okay?â
You don't answer him, which only puts him on edge more. He's always been used to easy conversations between you two. He hates this switch. He hates himself for it even more. The guilt that starts to bubble in his stomach again at the sight of you suddenly feels unbearable. He thinks he may just die if he doesnât try to make amends in some way, he can't bear the thought of losing you because he couldn't control his desire.Â
âIâm so sorry,â he begins to say, âFor this morningââ
âNo, no. That wasnât your fault at all. Donât apologize.â You confess. âActually, thatâs why Iâm here. ThatâsâThatâs what I want to talk to you about. If you have a second.â
âO-Of course, yeah.â
âUm⊠so I left work really fast. As Iâm sure you saw. Partly to avoid you and partly because kissing you made me realize some things that I had been ignoring. So I went home and got into a really big fight with Chad.â
Langdon gulps at your confession. He wants to reach out and touch you, but he decides against it.Â
âWe fought about⊠well about everything. He said that I wasn't in love with him. And⊠he's right. Iâm not. And also, apparently he was sleeping with the âfriendâ he was staying with, so. Tried to tell me it was my fault because I wasn't giving him any attention.â you whisper.Â
You stop yourself to catch your breath. You feel overwhelmed talking about something so fresh. You feel almost embarrassed in a way to admit thisâthat you had been so in love with Frank that it ruined your already crumbling relationship.Â
âI ended things with him. Gave him his stupid ring back and told him to get the hell out of my house. I gave him the night to pack a bag but I couldnât be there any longer, so I just left. I couldnât think of anywhere else to go.â
Frank stays quiet as you explain the situation you find yourself currently in. He watches as your eyes dart around the room once moreâyou're nervous. You're worried heâll kick you out, make you go back to your home where you have to come to the realization that the man you thought you were going to spend the rest of your life with is a cheater.
âIâm so sorry.â He says. He hears the way his own voice cracks. He hates seeing you emotional, and itâs getting to him. âHe didnât deserve you at all. And fuck him for trying to say it was your fault.â
He watches as you take a shaky breath. You look up at him. Youâre dressed more casually than when he last saw you, a pair of low rise jeans and some old band t-shirt covering your body. You look nice for someone who's just had their world turned upside down.Â
âBelieve it or not⊠Iâm actually not that torn up about it. In his defense, I donât think I've mentally been there for the past six months. Iâve been distracted.â You admit. Your stomach does a somersault when you watch as Frank clenches his jaw. You have to admit being cheated on feels shitty, but there's a certain feeling of freedom blooming in your chest as you stand in your favorite residentâs living room.Â
âBy what?â He asks. His voice is low. His arms are crossed, and his fingernails dig into his arms. They leave tiny crescent shapes in his skin.Â
You gulp. âBy you. Always by you.â
Frank freezes. The hair on the back of his neck stands up straight, sending a chill down his spine. He canât believe the words that are leaving your mouth. He feels like he must be dreaming. It just isn't possible for you to be standing in front of him after all this time, newly single, saying youâve wanted him just as much, if not more, as heâs wanted you.Â
Your confession hangs heavy in the air. Frank gets flashbacks to this morning. The feeling of your neck in his hands, the shape of your lips as they slotted so perfectly against his. He starts to understand that he was so worried after the kiss had happened, so convinced that he had screwed everything up, that he forgot to see the way youâd melted against him and moved your mouth against his. Â
âAbout this morning⊠Did you mean it? Did you mean to kiss me?â you whisper. âBecause if not, Iâll go, and we never have to talk about it again.â
Frank pushes himself off of the counter and walks towards you. He gets closer than he did this morning, yet his hands make their way to that same spot on your neck, just below your jaw. You exhale shakily as you wait for his reply.
âAll I do is think about you. Every goddamn day.â He breathes out. âIâm sorry about how that fucking asshole treated you, but Iâm notâIâm not sorry youâre not with him. You deserve to be with someone better than that. Who wants you.â
Something crackles between you two. Now that you both know where the other stands, itâs hard to not act on it.Â
âAnd do you want me?â You ask lowly.
âYes.â He replies, not missing a beat.
âThen kiss me. Please.â
Frank moves you closer with one small tug at your neck, bringing your face to his as his lips lightly brush against yours. Your eyes flutter shut, and you sigh into him as you let your hands wander. As your hands move up towards his hair, his move down your torso, resting lowly on your hips. He feels the rough material of your jeans underneath his palms. He hooks his fingers around your belt loops and pulls you closer, your body coming flush with his.Â
âWe donât have to do anything,â he says once he breaks away from you. The last thing Frank wants to do is rush you and scare you away, so heâll let you dictate how far you go tonight. Heâll take anything he can get, even if it's just a kiss. As long as it's with you.Â
âPlease, Frank. Havenât stopped thinking about you for months,â you confess against his lips.Â
The admission makes him rock hard. You feel like play-doh in his hands, so soft, so willing. You look at him in a way that makes him flush. Youâre so perfect, he thinks. And by some miracle, you want him just as much as he wants you.Â
So how could he refuse you?
He slides his hands down your ass to the back of your thighs, hoisting you up around his hips as he carries you to his bedroom. You feel his erection press through his sweats, and when he lays you down gently, you bite your lip at the sight of his outline through the sweatpants.Â
It doesnât take long before his hands are tugging at the hem of your shirt, signaling to you that he wants it off. You work on sliding it over your head as Frank removes his own shirt, his chest heaving up and down as his eyes rake down your body. His lips find their way to your neck as they kiss on your pressure point, causing you to squirm. You run your fingers through his hair as a way to distract yourself from the pleasure. He kisses his way down your chest until he comes to the swell of your breasts, reaching behind you to unclasp the garment. He groans as you help slide it off your body. He takes one nipple in his mouth and you gasp at the feeling of his warm tongue swirling around your areola.Â
He gives both of your nipples a little bit of attention, suckling slightly, watching the way they gleam with his spit in the moonlight before he keeps moving down your body. When he reaches the top of your jeans, you give a little hip lift in desperation. He gets the hint. His fingers undo the button and zipper, grabbing both your pants and underwear before sliding them down your legs. He discards them somewhere in the darkness of his room before his eyes are back on you. Your thighs are pushed together in slight embarrassment of how wet you are. A flush creeps its way down your neck as Frank slides his hands up and down your hips, trying to coax you open for him.Â
âYou donât have to,â you breathe out.Â
âBut I want to. Please let me, baby. Been thinking about it forever.â
You melt at his words. Youâve never been able to say no to him, not at work and not between the sheets of his own bed. His pleas cause your legs to spread open. He moves his head down to the same level as your soaking pussy, grinning when he sees how wet you are for him. He takes a moment to admire how you practically drip onto the sheets.Â
You cry out when his tongue finally licks a fat stripe up your cunt. Your fingers tug at his brown curls, his name leaving your lips in small whispers as he moves his mouth against you. Itâs sloppy, and the sound he makes against your pussy is obscene. He wraps his hands around the outside of your thighs, throwing your legs over his shoulders. This changes the angle of your hips, allowing his tongue to dive deeper into your core as your back arches from the sensation.
Before you can register him moving, Frankâs middle finger breaches your entrance. He pushes it in slowly, watching in awe at the way your tight walls engulf his digit whole. You groan at the intrusion. He curls it ever so slightly, a chuckle caught in his throat as your hips begin to grind down on his palm.Â
Frank wants to tease you, he really does. But for your first time together he can barely contain his excitement, let alone make you wait any longer than you have to, so he slides his ring finger in as well, developing a smooth rhythm that has you crying out his name. Â
He presses his tongue up against your clit, sucking it into his mouth as his fingers work to bring you closer and closer to your first orgasm of the night. You feel the familiar ache in your abdomen as he picks up his pace.Â
âFrank, fuck, fuckââ You whine. ââM close.â
He groans against you in response. He wants nothing more to have you cumming into his mouth, your sweet slick dripping down his tongue as he licks your pussy like it was made for him.Â
Your thighs begin to tremble and shake around his head. You scrunch your toes in pleasure as your eyes roll into the back of your head. You see stars as Frank brings you to the edge. When you cum, it's with a gasp and an arch of your back. You throw your head back against his pillow, and Frank doesn't let up on his movements as he works you through your orgasm.
When you finally come back down from your high, you see Frank with a shit eating grin between your legs. The lower half of his face shines with your juices.Â
âOh my god,â you blush, bringing your hands up to your face to hide your embarrassment.Â
âFuck, that was hot.â He laughs, pressing a wet kiss to the inside of your leg.
He climbs back up your body, wiping his mouth before kissing you softly. His tongue runs over your top lip, sliding its way into your mouth. You taste yourself as he deepens the kiss. Your hands run up and down his shoulders until your palms come flush with his chest. You feel the softness of his hair over the sharp edges of his muscles, sneaking your fingers down to the drawstring of his sweatpants. You undo them as Frank suckles at your neck.Â
You gingerly slip a skilled hand down his pants until you feel his erection through the thin fabric of his boxers. He hisses through his teeth at the relief the pressure from your hand gives him. You bite your bottom lip before cupping him gently, then raking your nails over his lower stomach once more before slipping your warm hand into his underwear. You gently grab his cock, watching as he shudders into your body. An involuntary whimper escapes his throat as you slowly begin stroking him up and down, feeling how hard and angry he feels even in the dark.
ââM not gonna last long if you keep doing that.â He groans.Â
You can't help but smile at the way his face scrunches up in pleasure as you continue to tug at his weeping member, occasionally running your thumb over his slit, gathering the precum before spreading it down his base.
âCanât wait anymore. Need you.â He states plainly, grabbing your wrist and removing you from his pants before he stands up, removing his sweats and underwear in one motion.Â
His cock, now free from the restrictive fabric of Frankâs boxers, pulses red between his legs. You drop your head back onto the mattress. Heâs big.Â
âNeed you to fuck me, please,â you beg as he leans over to his bedside table, ripping open a condom. He throws his head back as he slides it over his penis, eventually lining himself up to your dripping entrance. He drags his mushroom tip up and down your soaked folds, tapping your clit lightly. Your legs twitch at the stimulation.
âYou're my favorite, you know that?â He teases.Â
You drag him down for a kiss. Your nails scrape down his back as he slowly begins to push himself in, watching with hooded eyes at the way you take him so well. It's lewdâdown right pornagraphic the way you sound. You feel yourself stretch around him, chest rising and falling as he kisses you deeply, swallowing your moans as he begins to move his hips.Â
Heâs slow at firstâcalculated, like heâs thought long and hard about each stroke. His hips find a rhythm that makes your mouth fall open and leaves your mind blank, only one thing running through itâFrank, Frank, Frank.Â
Your hands fall from his back onto his soft sheets, scrunching them up in between your fingertips. Frank leans back and grabs your thighs, throwing them over his shoulder before pressing his torso into yours. You gasp at the change in angle. Suddenly, with each thrust he reaches deeper and deeper, grunting each time his thick head brushes against the spongy part in your walls, enthralled at the way it makes you moan.Â
His pace feels unrelentless and unforgiving. For a man whose admitted to liking you and respecting you so much, he sure fucks you like he doesnât. It only brings you closer to the edge.
You watch his face in a haze. The way his lips part slightly, the small beads of sweat that have gathered on his forehead due to the physical activity, the way those piercing blue eyes that you love so much suddenly look pitch black with lust.Â
He reaches his thumb down to circle your aching clit, biting his lower lip as he watches your back arch, pushing your tits into his face. He wants this burned behind his eyelids forever, buried alongside him in his grave.Â
Your high pitched whines and hics let him know you're close again. He feels the way your walls clench around him, gushing out your arousal with each slam of his hips. You move your legs down to wrap around his hips, linking your ankles together to pull him impossibly closer to you as he continues to pistol into your pelvis. You cum unexpectedly, like a white hot blaze bubbling in your stomach, shooting down your veins before you even realize it's happening. It renders you speechless. Tears prick the sides of your eyes as Frank works you through it, his encouraging yet incredibly sexy voice whispering praise in your ear.Â
When you come down from your high, you feel the way his hips stutter. Their movements, once precise, now feel erratic and dangerously close to finishing. You watch in amazement as his eyes squeeze shut. He grows louder and louder, slurred words leaving his lips as he tells you how good youâre doing, how nice you feel, how he could fuck you forever. His hips slam and eventually stall, a growl making its way into your shoulder as he releases his warm load into the latex of his condom.Â
Your fingers find the sweaty hair at the nape of his neck as he pants above you. You two laugh gently before Frankâs arms give out, leaving him to lay on top of you. You bear the weight of his body for the light neck kisses he gives you in return. Something tugs at your heart. The moment is slow, hazy in the best way. It's yours to share and hold.Â
When he finally pulls out of you, you whine at the loss of contact. You could have stayed like that forever. With Frank, forever.Â
âI know,â he whispers. He can already read your mind.Â
He walks to his bathroom and is gone for a moment, discarding his condom and cleaning himself up slightly before wetting a washcloth to wipe you down as well. Itâs warm and comforting as he cleans up the mess you made between your own thighs, a mixture of the condoms pre-given lube and your own arousal.Â
When you hear the start of his shower, you smile softly. It feels so domestic, like what youâve always craved with Frank. Like what Chad never gave you.Â
He helps you up off the bed, cracking another joke about you slipping as your legs try to find some balance. All you can do is give him an annoyed look before his lips are on yours again, dragging you from his room to the shower.Â
You fall asleep in his arms afterwards. You're dressed in an old shirt of his, a pair of his boxers clad on your lower half. His sheets smell like you and him. You two speak softly about what this all means, how long youâve wanted this, how much Frank has needed you. About how heâll never let you go now that he has you, and no Chad is changing that.Â
You kiss him gently. A thank you, an Iâve missed you, and an I love you seemingly all said with one small peck.Â
Frank doesnât fall asleep immediately. Youâre slumped against his chest, softly breathing in and out as his fingers curl against your lower back. From here, Frank begins to memorize the slope of your nose from up close, the fluffiness of your eyelashes that flutter occasionally. Heâs thankful for this moment of peace. He always wants this, he realizes. You, in his arms. His ring on your finger. Your toothbrush next to his. The smell of your shampoo on his scrub tops that will no doubt distract him.Â
He drifts off thinking of his rule that he followed dutifully for a long time. Heâs still following it as far as heâs concerned. He knows heâs not supposed to have favorites, and he doesnât.
Well, except for you.Â
//
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