Jack almost retreats. His instinct tells him to — to give you your privacy, to close the door, to pretend he hadn’t walked in on such an intimate moment. But something deeper roots him in place; the strange warm feeling swirls in his chest, maybe. 

There’s something strangely intimate, he finds, in watching you when you think no one is looking — when you have nothing and no one to perform for. You look peaceful, completely undone, totally in your own world. 

Jack freezes in the doorway when you shift on the bed, sinking further into the mattress as you adjust the vibrator between your thighs. It seems to hit the spot, as you exhale a whimpered sigh a second later. 

So Jack just decides to watch you — he migrates to the desk chair, in hopes of relieving the strain of his prosthetic, but the old floorboards betray him with a soft creak.

You don’t react immediately, but your expression flickers a bit, as a subtle awareness prickles up your spine. You worry, briefly, that someone may be watching you — you always are, in a way, especially when your headphones are on — but you struggle now to shake the feeling.

Your eyes flutter open, if only to prove to yourself that there’s no one there, and they widen in shock when they land on Jack in the corner of the room.

“What the fuck—?” you exclaim, clicking the vibrator off with one hand and slinging off your headphones with the other.

Jack startles, too. His hands lift in surrender as a laugh sputters from his lips. “Sorry! Sorry, I— I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Your face burns red-hot. You can feel the heat climbing up your neck and to your ears as your eyes flit to his eyes and away again. “H-How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long,” he shrugs and crosses his strong arms over his chest. His freckled biceps strain against the sleeves of his black tee, which he wears tucked into his camo fatigues. A crooked smile tugs slow at his mouth as he tilts his head. “Two minutes. Give or take.”

“I thought you weren’t coming home until later— Why didn’t you say something?”

“I tried to,” he quips, brows raised to his hairline. “But then I realized you were having a pretty good time in here, so… I didn’t want to interrupt.”

You bury your burning face into your hands. “That’s so embarrassing…” you groan, muffled into your palms.

Jack’s laughter doesn’t make you feel any better. 

“Why is it embarrassing?” he chuckles as he closes the distance between you. 

You can tell that he’s limping from the quiet scuff in his step. The mattress sinks under his weight as he sits on the edge of it, relieving the ache in his amputated limb that he’s been carrying all day. 

He looks over his shoulder at you, lips curling into a sly smirk when he can still hear your headphones playing from just beside you. It’s a muffled, indistinct humming that he can’t quite make out, but it’s very obviously someone else’s voice.

He nods towards it, silver curls turning golden in the amber light. “What are you listening to over there, huh?”

“Nothing,” you answer, a little too quickly, as you take the headphones back into your hands.

“Oh, yeah?” he hums. “Let me see.”

You jerk them away when he reaches out for them. “Don’t…” you murmur, all shy, like a scolded child.

“I’m not upset, baby,” he assures with a gritty laugh. “I just wanna know what you’re into. That’s all.” 

He eases the headphone from your grip; this time, with little protest from you. He holds your weary gaze with his glimmering one as he slips them over his own ears. He’s met with a bassy, masculine voice: “—God, you’re so sexy… Look at how you’re dripping on my fingers, baby…”

You watch, mortified, as confusion etches across his weathered face — eyes squinting and brows lowering. “Who is this?” he asks.

“No one,” you mutter, gaze averted, as you pick at pills of cotton on the blanket with anxious hands. “He’s just… some guy on the internet. I don’t even know what he looks like, he just makes… You know… Audio stuff.”

“Audio stuff, huh?” Jack echoes with raised brows, before huffing a quiet laugh. “God, I’m old…”

He slides the headphones from his silver curls and passes them back to you with something different etched across his features now, something thoughtful. Curious. Interested, even.

“…You’re not mad?” you wonder in a timid voice.

“Why would I be mad?” he scoffs, then bounces a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I think it’s hot. I like knowing what you’re into.”

He leans in to kiss you, and your stomach does a back flip. His scruff brushes your delicate skin when his lips meet yours. You melt against him with a heavy sigh through your nose, as some of the embarrassment from before slips from your skin.

“C’mon,” he slurs between his kisses. “Keep listenin’ for me…”

You pull back, features screwed. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he nods once, without taking his unwavering stare off yours.

Your fingers tremble with hesitancy as you go to put the headphones back over your ears. Jack’s hand catches your wrist in a soft, calloused grip — redirecting you with a gentle touch. 

“No,” he says in a gravelly voice, eyes low and lidded. “Let it play.”

He reaches over and taps your phone screen with his pointer finger — once to disconnect the wireless headphones and second to unpause the audio. The voice resumes, sounding a little foreign now as it plays throughout the otherwise silent bedroom.

“—You always get so sweet for me when I kiss your neck,” the masculine voice slurs.

Jack doesn’t miss a beat. 

He props his fist beside your blanketed thighs and twists his upper body to lean in closer. His warm breath fans over your jaw right before he plants a wet kiss to your neck. Your jaw tightens as you fight back a shiver.

“See? I can feel your heart racing for me…” the stranger mumbles between mimed kisses. “Let me see if I can find that sweet spot, huh? Right… here…”

Jack’s teeth graze over your pulse point — not enough to hurt, but enough to make your breath hitch. You raise your hands to his shoulders, balling the fabric of his shirt into your fists. His mouth curls into a slow smile against you, and you sigh when his scruff brushes your delicate skin.

“You love this, huh?” Jack mumbles into your skin.

“This is…” you trail off in mild anguish. “Both incredibly hot and wildly embarrassing.” 

“Why is it embarrassing?” the older man laughs, as his lips slide over the thrumming tendon of your neck.

“I don’t know…” you mumble, trailing your hands up and over his broad shoulders until your fingers find the silver curls at the nape of his neck. “I feel like… Like you just caught me watching porn or something, and now we’re watching it together— It just feels weird.”

Jack hums against you, as if it were a proposition that needed considering.

“Sounds pretty fun to me,” he hums and pulls off of you with a quiet click. His mouth is softly swollen from his kisses, and his eyes are lidded and glittering with mischief when they lock with yours. “Wanna try that later?”

You swallow hard, features crumpling in distant shame as you squeak out, “Yeah…”

Jack’s grin widens right before he presses it to your mouth — in a lengthier and more languid kiss that pushes you slowly back into the mattress again. You sigh hard through your nose when his tongue licks into you, like velvet in your mouth. Your fingers tug harder at his silver curls, and you smile to yourself when he groans quietly against you.

He follows the direction of the foreign male voice spilling from your phone, and it leads him to your spread legs — where a wet patch has already started to form in the thin cotton of your underwear. You melt into the mattress when his strong arms wrap around your thighs to hug you close against him.

“Look at how wet you are for me, baby… Your pussy’s just begging for my mouth, huh? God, you’re such a little slut for me, aren’t you?”

Jack freezes, mid-kiss on your inner thigh. He flashes you an amused look up your clothed body, clad in one of his oversized t-shirts that’s slipping off your shoulder now.

“Do you like being talked to like that?” he asks.

Your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water for an embarrassing moment. “I… I don’t know… Maybe?”

“Hm… Good to know,” Jack nods and gets back to work.

“I’ll warm you up with my tongue first, okay? Nice and slow…”

Jack takes the instruction in stride. 

He slips his pointer finger in the hem of your panties, slipping the fabric to the side, until your drooling pussy is on display for him — already needy and craving the orgasm it missed beforehand. 

Jack ducks down to lick a fat stripe up the length of your cunt in time with the sound effects of the audio. His tongue slots just perfectly within your silken folds.

Your mouth parts in a silent moan as your head tips back against the pillow. You feel Jack smiling against you when your hips buck instinctively to chase his mouth. 

“You like that?” he mumbles, in time with the foreign voice playing just beside you.

You exhale a breathless laugh that turns into a moan when Jack returns to your pussy, kissing you there like he would your mouth. He groans against you when your fingers twist harder in his curls; the vibrations only add to your sensitivity. Your whine swells within the walls of the quiet bedroom, entwining with the wet sounds from the audio and the realer ones coming from between your thighs.

“Now… How about I suck on the pretty little clit, huh? Get it nice and swollen for me…”

Your face flares at the overtly crude language.

Jack doesn’t miss a beat.

He spreads your velvety folds with his thumb and forefinger, bearing the most sensitive part of you for him. His lips wrap around your clit a second later, and your thighs clench instinctively around his head. His scruff prickles at your delicate skin when you jerk against him. A cry spills from your parted mouth before you can stop it.

“Wait, wait, wait—” you hear yourself say.

Jack pulls off of you with a quiet smack. His eyes are lidded; his mouth is swollen; his chin is coated in a layer of your slick. “Too much?” he asks.

You lift your head to stare down your body at the man between your thighs, nodding until the words catch up to you. “I’ll— I’ll cum too fast if you keep doing that.”

His brows lift as something teasing swims in his heavy eyes. “Isn’t that the point?”

Jack returns to your weeping pussy, licking and sucking you there, with noises far more lewd than the ones spilling from the speaker beside your head. There is no further protest from you, as he drags an orgasm from your trembling body — a much more powerful one than you would’ve gotten with just your vibrator, had he not walked in on you. His fingers threaten to dig bruises into the plush of your thighs as your hips twitch wildly against his face.

“Good girl— Good fucking girl,” the stranger’s deep voice croons throughout the quiet bedroom, coaching you through the orgasm Jack gives you with nothing but his tongue.

He caresses you gently on the comedown, with his calloused hands and his wet mouth, molding you back together again as he kisses his way back up your trembling body. 

The voice on the phone continues while the two of you work with graceless limbs to undress — your fingers scramble with the buttons of his camo pants while he tugs his shirt up and over his body by the neckline.

A heavy sigh grumbles in the back of Jack’s throat when you free his half-hard cock from the confines of his boxers, pulling the hem down beneath his heavy balls. His muscular chest, flushed with need, heaves as you take him into your hand.

“I’m gonna fuck you now, okay?” the masculine voice continues to slur. “You don’t have to beg for it, baby, I’m gonna give it to you. I’m gonna give you all of it—” 

Jack reaches for the phone again while you massage his cock the rest of the way hard; he feels like heavy velvet in your fist. He taps the screen to pause it.

“Alright, enough of that,” he huffs as he shifts on his knees. “I need to focus.”

You blink up at him, a little dazed from your lingering orgasm, as a smile curls slowly at your lips. “Aren’t you supposed to be good at multitasking, Dr. Abbot?”

“Multitasking’s for paperwork, baby,” the older man quips with a smug smirk and a pair of squinted eyes. He takes his stiff cock in his fist and eyes you carefully as you lean back onto your elbows, thighs nice and spread for him. “And this—”

He nudges the drooling tip of his cock against your already sensitive clit and grins wider when your head tips back with a moan.

“This deserves my full attention, don’t ya think?”

     Adrian liked to ask a lot of weird questions and say a lot of weird things. It was something you just sorta had to get used to after you joined the 11th Street Kids. And you did get used to it, eventually, after a couple dozen bizarre things came out of his mouth in your presence. After a while, it actually became pretty endearing. It might even be one of your favorite things about him.

     It helped take the edge off everything. It was hard to be as down and in your head about everything when you had Adrian bringing you odd conversation topics all the time. He asked you if you thought Eagly would eat him if he was a worm - to which your answer was yes, then no, because Eagly usually only cared about bigger prey like possums or rats. He’s talked your ear off about his ranking of the best and worst textures to touch at his civilian job, which made you question why salads were split into several very different ranks based on what kind of dressing they had on them. He’s even taught you a thing or two about the human body - mostly what artery is where and what bone or organ does what if hit - and you, in turn, were part of the group of people that had to convince him that no, he did not need his entire pinky toe to stand and walk.

     None of this prepared you for the direction he decided to take your conversation tonight. You were doing a stakeout in the back of the van, needing to scope out a place before you sent in the cavalry. The back door was propped up just enough that you and Adrian could look out of it. 

     You were early, way too early to be justified as “getting there before them”. You knew you were there early, but did Harcourt or Economos or Chris want to listen to that? No, they didn’t. They listened enough to send Adrian with you, just in case you got jumped, but they didn’t give any thought to the fact that you knew the vague time these people showed up out here, meaning you knew that you didn’t need to be sitting out here two and a half fucking hours in advance.

     “Hey, do you want to have sex?” Adrian blurted out, not even looking up from his binoculars, laying on his stomach and kicking his feet a little as he looked out the back door.

     You paused for a long moment, pulling your head up from your own pair of binoculars to stare at him. It took you a while to find your words. Or, rather words.

     “What?” You asked him, and that finally got him to look up at you.

     “I asked if you wanted to have sex with me.”

     “Yeah, I got that part.” You clarified. “I mean, like… people don’t normally just ask other people if they just wanna have sex. Are you trying to ask me out, do you just want to get in my pants, are you just like really horny for some reason, I don’t-“

     “What? No, no, that’s not why I’m asking. That would be weird.” Adrian cut you off with a laugh. “It’s just that it’s going to take these people at least, what, another hour, hour and a half to get here? Sitting here doing nothing gets boring eventually. And we haven’t had a lot of time to just sit and do things by ourselves.”

     He sat up, sweeping his arm at the door, gesturing to the world outside the cramped van.

     “I’d ask you if you wanna go out and like… shoot some stuff while we wait, but that would be way too noisy, and there’s nothing fun to shoot out there anyways. We don’t really have much else to do in the van, so I figured hey, what’s a good bonding activity we can do in a fairly small space that usually takes less than an hour…?"

     Adrian trailed off, waving his hands in the air, like he was waiting for you to follow his line of reasoning.

     “…sex?” You finished for him after a moment.

     “Exactly!” He replied, excited. “It’s a great bonding activity between friends! I mean, I do with Peacemaker. It’s always a great time.”

     “Okay, but Peacemaker’s your best friend.” You pointed out.

     “Yeah, but you’re my third best friend, you’re not that different from him.”

     “Third best friend? Who’s your second best-“ You stopped yourself the moment it dawned on you. “Eagly.”

     “Yeah, it’s Eagly.” Adrian confirmed, drumming his fingers against his knees. “So… what do you think? We don’t have to have sex, obviously, we just do something like… I dunno, eye spy.”

     You thought about it for a moment. It wasn’t a bad offer. He wasn’t doing it because of some deeper emotional thing that might end up making the friendship awkward later on, like him just wanting to hook up or him having a crush on you that he was going to try and navigate by doing this. It was just a platonic suggestion of having sex to pass the time. Nothing more, nothing less.

     “Sure. I’m down.”

     This had to be one of the best mistakes you’ve ever made. It’s a mistake because you’ve come twice, and Adrian’s head was still buried between your thighs. It was one of the best mistakes because it felt good, really good. It was still a mistake though, because you were getting really sensitive now. 

     He was good at what he was doing. It didn’t start out being nearly as good as it was now. Part of it was the sensitivity - even the slightest movement of his tongue felt like it was almost too much at this point. Part of it was that over the last half an hour or so, maybe a little longer, Adrian had begun to learn how your body worked, really learned it.

     When he started out, he was slow, and a little uncoordinated. He was exploring more than anything else. There was enough thought behind his actions that you knew this wasn’t his first time getting his mouth on someone with your equipment. That, or he was just insanely talented at oral sex. Jury’s still out on that one, but you’ve heard of odder talents.

     Your first orgasm started building when he stopped poking and prodding around with his tongue, trying to find what spots gave what reactions, and started working with a sense of purpose. His tongue worked over your clit, laying it flat as he slowly moved his head up and down. When your fingers threaded into his hair and pulled him closer, he put a bit more pressure into it. He tries a few things out - licking just to the sides of your clit, or trying to be more precise with his tongue, or licking and prodding at your entrance a little before moving back up. It’s a bit of a bumpy road getting you to orgasm, just because of him moving around a fair bit, but the journey is good, and once you’re on the edge he has the sense to not stop what he was doing with your clit that got you there.

     You initially tried to move back from him after you came. He pulled his head up, after all, you figured that you guys were either calling it quits or moving away from you getting head and onto something else. You stopped when his hands and arms looped around your thighs, gently holding you in place. You were confused, until he looked into your eyes with a grin.

     “Sorry, I just wanted to catch my breath properly for a second.”

     He chuckled, delightfully casual for the moment, before diving back into you.

     You moaned and writhed under him as he once again switched things up. He had changed his approach from just licking you to sucking your clit, pulling it into his mouth. He hummed a little, smiling when you jolted and whimpered, your hold on his hair tightening. He rubbed your thighs while he worked, drawing small circles on the flesh of your inner thighs with his thumbs. His tongue got involved too, moving over your clit in little kitten licks in between sucks. 

     Your second orgasm rolled over you like a wave, your hips bucking up into his face as you rolled it out. Unlike after your first orgasm, Adrian didn’t pull back afterwards. He stayed down there, still sucking on your clit. He barely even let up on the pressure he was using to do it. You whined, biting down on your lower lip and trying to push his head back.

     “Adrian…”

     He pulled his head up again, resting it on your thigh as he looked up at you.

     “Just one more?” He asked, hopeful. “I promise you. Pinky promise. Just one more, that’s all I want to do.”

     You thought about it for a moment. Your clit was way too sensitive at this point, but you also didn’t want to stop. It was too much, but the good kind of too much. You couldn’t think of a reason not to, either. You had time before the people got here, enough that he could wring another orgasm out of you and you’d still have the time to do something else. It felt good, it wasn’t like he was bad at what he was doing, you weren’t just waiting for him to get done. And, truth be told, doing this with Adrian was fun. He made it fun.

     So in the end, you nodded your head and told him sure, you were down for another round. And that’s what landed you here - Adrian still between your thighs, one being held by one of his hands, the other lifted over his shoulder. Two of the fingers on his other hand were buried in your cunt, slowly pumping in and out of you, curling now and then to press against your G-spot, usually in time with a particularly harsh suck to your clit.

     At first you were thankful for the fingers in your hole. Adrian had to slow down his mouth and focus more on what his fingers were doing when he first pushed them into you. He was busy exploring and experimenting with them, testing what angle worked best for you and when the best time to curl his fingers was. It took some of the stimulation away for a second, the sensation being a duller pleasure than the sharp, every present one.

     Then he resumed sucking and licking with the same vigour he had before, and that was when you started cursing his dexterous fingers. Now it just added to everything, making your legs twitch in his hold and making you clench around his fingers as you rapidly approached a third orgasm.

     “Are you about to come again?” Adrian asked, keeping his face nestled in your cunt, leaving his words muffled. He picked up the pace of his fingers.  “Come on, go ahead and come, I want you to feel good. I want to make you feel good.”

     After a few more thrusts of his fingers and another dozen little licks of his tongue, you came again, calling out his name and arching your back off of the floor of the van. He pulled his mouth off of you, slowing the pace of his fingers until he was sure you had made it all the way through your orgasm, at which point he pulled them out of your hole.

     He stood back up, wiping his fingers off on his pant leg and wiping his mouth off with the back of his other hand. You were left looking up with him as you propped yourself up on your elbows, eyes locked on a little problem of his.

     “Do you want me to return the favor?” You asked, staring at the tent in his pants for a moment before looking back up at his face.

     “I don’t really care. I don’t feel a need to come every time I do something like this.” He shrugged in response. “I mean, yeah, I enjoy the feeling, it’s not bad, but I could take it or leave it, honestly,”

     “I get that.” You nodded in understanding, before looking back down at his clothed hard-on. “I was just thinking that it might be a little more comfortable for you if you had that taken care of.”

     At your words, Adrian looked down, eyes locking on his own restrained erection. You both just stood there in silence for a moment, before he finally broke it,

but it’s what happens between the sheets that drives him crazy.

the way you go from lectures and quick wit to drooling, babbling, arching mess under him. from einstein to nothing but a bimbo with a heartbeat. he swears he could die watching you fall apart like that.

now you’re flat on your stomach, hips tipped up just enough to give him everything, ass high and soft while clark drives into you from behind. your fists twist the pillow, nails dragging across the fabric, drool and tears staining it in little wet patches. every thrust makes the bed creak. every thrust makes you yelp.

he’s been working you open for what feels like hours—fat cock gliding through you, pulling out slick and plunging back in, stretching you so wide you swear you’re going to break. your slick drips down your thighs, sticky strings on his skin. and still you’re pushing back into it, greedy for more.

“hah—mmm, baby. . you’re killin’ me,” clark breathes, voice gone high, hips jerking. his glasses are somewhere on the nightstand but he can still see every tremor of your ass, every bounce of your body, like a movie. “you good, sweetheart?”

“ohhh—c-clark!” you slur, tongue heavy, spit shining your chin. your words fall apart before you even finish them.

clark’s tip hits your cervix again and again, heavy, mean, perfect. the pace is filthy—long, fast drag all the way out, then a brutal slam back in, until you can feel every vein, every pulse. it makes your toes curl and your eyes cross, makes your brain feel soft and liquid.

“nngh. . so pretty like this. goin’ dumb on me,” he leans in, muttering against your shoulder, like a prayer.

you claw at the sheets, your pussy clenching and fluttering around him, sucking him in like you’ll die if he leaves. your walls clamp down so hard it makes him whine, big body shuddering above you.

your mind’s gone—nothing left but wet whimpers and broken cries. “cl—claark! i c-can’t—fuuck, i can’t—!”

“yeah you can, baby,” he pants, voice rougher now, his hips snapping harder, deeper. “you can take it. nngh—i’ll help you, ‘kay?”

he peels his hands off your hips, leaving faint deep purple marks. his palms skate up your body until his fingers wrap around your wrists. in one smooth motion he pulls your arms back, hauling your upper body off the bed. your tits bounce, your back arches, and his cock drives even deeper, spearing some untouched spot inside you.

your toes curl, your breath catches. the sound you make isn’t a word. it’s a sob.

“ohhh, see?” clark groans, his head titling slightly, pace unrelenting. “got you right where i want you, baby. juust like that. . stay dumb f’me.”

and when you both finally cum—together, like you always do because clark times himself to the tremors of your body—it’s disgusting in the best way.

his cock jerks deep inside you once, twice, before unloading; thick, hot ropes of cum painting your walls, spilling straight into your womb until you swear you can feel it pooling. it’s so much it makes your belly feel heavy, makes a soft bulge rise where his tip is still pressed to your cervix.

it leaks out around him, running down your thighs, mixing with your own slick until the two of you are nothing but a wet, creamy mess.

your body trembles and twitches under him, muscles clenching and fluttering even as the aftershocks roll through you. clark drags himself out slowly, painfully slow, watching the way your swollen folds cling to him, still trying to keep him inside. the wet drag makes him hiss through his teeth.

he lets out a broken whine at the sight of you—your sappy, ruined pussy still twitching, dripping both your spend onto the sheets, painting them a pale, sticky colour. you’re lying there with your back arched, eyes glossy, mouth slack, a dumb little smile tugging at your lips even though you’re completely gone.

the sight makes his chest ache and his cock twitch.

you’re smart, always so put-together, but right now you’re nothing but a trembling, cum-filled mess because of him. and it makes clark want to ruin you all over again—push back inside, press his palm over that little bulge in your tummy, and fuck you until you can’t even remember your own name.

And you absolutely did.

You kept it in mind when he walked through the door of your shared apartment, you had been laying on the couch in the living room as a random show played on the tv, sitting up slightly as you rested your elbows on the back of the couch and laid your head on your arms with an innocent smile. 

“Welcome home.” You hummed softly as your eyes trailed up and down his large figure, his suit jacket hung over his arm, his white button-up hugging his biceps with the sleeves pulled up just a little, a few of the buttons undone—Fuck. He looked so good.

“Hi baby.” He smiled softly as he kicked his shoes off and bent down to pick them up before placing them on the shoe rack you forced him to assemble (you hated that he wanted you to just leave your shoes at the front door when you first started dating). 

You readjust slightly as you keep staring, watching his every movement like a predator waiting to attack its prey. 

Clark sat upright and froze for a moment, turning his head to face you with a knowing expression at your silence.

He knew. So, he gave.

“B-baby..” He whined softly as you bobbed your head up and down his cock.

He was splayed across the couch, his right arm resting on the couch arm with his left laying on top of your body, his hand resting on your thigh. 

You moaned softly as you pulled off him for a second, your tongue swirling around his tip before pressing a soft kiss to it. “So pretty, Clark. ‘Ya know that?” You say before wrapping your lips around him again and bobbing your head up and down on his dick once more. 

He nods with a soft whimper as his right hand grips onto the couch arm, his head leaning back slightly as a shaky breath left his lips. 

Gosh he’s perfect. You thought as you pull off him for a bit and mumble against his dick, “Touch my pussy, baby. She’s so wet for you.” 

And just that, sent him off the edge. His climax washed over him like a wave as his body shuttered softly. Low whimpers and whines leaving his lips as you pull away and tilted your head up at him with a smile, his cum dripping down your face. 

“I-I’m sorry!” He panicked as he cupped your face lightly, wiping his spend off with his fingers.

You shook your head with a chuckle before grabbing his hand, and licking his cum off his fingers, your eyes still staring up at him before smiling again.

The second time you kept what he said in mind, it was just about midnight. You had been stirring in your sleep and Clark had been turned away from you as your eyes shot open. 

You turned towards Clark and scooted to him as you rested your hand on his shoulder, shaking him softly. “Clark?”

He hummed softly as you pulled him to roll over on his back, the moonlight peeking through the blinds. He moved his arm to make space for you as you moved to straddle his lap, his hand snaking below you to pull his pajama pants and underwear down enough to free his cock. 

He already knew. Even when his ass was half asleep, he knew. 

He was still soft, so you went to move down slightly and wrap your hand around him before he stopped you, his voice deep and raspy from sleep as he cupped your face, “Hold on.. Look at me for a sec.” 

You rubbed your eye with your hand as you looked down at him, blinking softly as you watched him smile lightly. You tilted your head and narrowed your eyes in confusion before you felt something below you harden… What the fuck?

“Ok. Go ahead, baby.” He mumbled softly as he rested his hands on your ass, flipping your satin nightgown up just a bit as he closed his eyes once more. 

You were still confused on how he got so fucking hard so quickly but you weren’t gonna question it. 

You lift your hips up just a bit as you pull your panties to the side and sink down onto him, a moan leaving both of your mouths as he filled you.

You just about rode him into the next life, your hands resting on his chest as you lifted your hips up and sunk down on him constantly. 

You whined softly as you threw your head back, the veins on his cock rubbing your insides just right as his tip kept hitting your sweet spot deliciously. 

“C-Clark!” You squealed softly as the soft plap plap plap of your ass smacking against his thighs lingered in the air, your cunt squelching around his cock. 

“S’okay, baby… Use me.” He groaned softly as his hands helped to lift you up and down his girth. 

Your body shook above him as your climax hit you like a damn truck. Your walls tightening just enough to help him reach his own as you felt ropes of his cum fill you to the brim. 

Heavy breaths left both of your lips as you both basked in the afterglow of your spend. 

You pant softly with a smile before leaning down and pressing a kiss to his forehead. “Thank you, my love.” 

He opened his eyes just a bit with a smile as you then press your lips against his, his hands groping your ass softly. 

“Anytime, baby.” He whispered against your lips. 

“Anytime.”

“It is if you ever want someone to watch something with you.” There’s a hint of something in his voice. Something tinged with bitterness, nearly spite. 

You stop yourself in your tracks before you dig deeper. 

It’s hard, a constant uphill battle, to not profile everyone around you. Especially Spencer. Devotion roots easily in your gut, your passion is what made you such a good prosecutor and an even better profiler. You enjoy digging your nails under the edge of people, peeling them back, watching their brains process and hum. But, the obsession runs deep. The line between observing a near-stranger – a witness, a defendant, an unsub – and someone you know is constantly begging to be toed. You refuse. 

Once you know someone beyond the initial internal documentation of their ticks, once you know exactly how hot they like their coffee, not by the way they approach a steaming cup set before them, but by habit of placing the mug on their desk daily, it becomes easier to fill gaps with what you want to see instead of what’s actually in front of you. 

It’s a habit you’ve forced upon yourself after years of heartbreak driven by stupid, selfish, temporary wants and desires. 

Not that this intense desire to study Spencer Reid has been temporary. You find yourself lingering on him constantly. Always edging the boundaries you’ve set for yourself, testing the limits of getting to know someone and subconsciously getting under their skin entirely. 

You spent your childhood sheltered inside of your mind, creating universes that only serve to crush you when they don’t come true. You can’t let yourself build one where Spencer Reid is upset at the prospect of you not enjoying a movie with you. 

So, instead, you mimic his shrug (subconscious, mimicking him to appear similar to him, to be that one step closer to him), and say, “I guess so.”

You realize too late that you’ve led the conversation to a dead end, too busy catching yourself before you stumble into a world of fantasy where Spencer is in any way interested in you beyond the polite friendliness he gives the rest of the team. 

“Um,” he says after a minute, “have you watched anything interesting lately?”

You consider for a second, gnawing on your lip while you think. The last movie you watched was Finding Nemo – a piece of perfect cinema you’re certain he wouldn’t appreciate. You tell yourself you’re imagining how his eyes flicker to your mouth, lingering on teeth biting into skin. 

“Not really, no. I did read that book you recommended, though.”

Your chest glows as his face lights up, jumping into the nuances of the memoir he recommended last month. Settling into the comfort of listening to the steady drone of his voice, you rest your chin on your palm and listen to him. 

You don’t need fantasy to indulge in some fantastic world where you have everything you need. For now, (forever, as far as you’re concerned) it’s enough to watch him talk with his hands, eyes locked on yours, enthusiastic as you relate over a shared interest. 

It becomes easier to tell yourself that you rimagination has always been just that – fodder to harbor your crush, to stoke an ember that you don’t want to let die – when you see the girls he eyes. Bar nights Morgan has dragged him out to and cases where female witnesses are present, you force yourself to watch how his breath catches when faced with the attention of girls much prettier than you. How he stumbles on the first syllable of the first word he says to them, how he avoids eye contact in favor of staring at the very-safe shoe. 

He doesn’t do that with you. He looks you in the eye, let’s his gaze slide right past your exposed shoulders and collarbones in the slinky tank top you put on to join the team out. 

It was Morgans idea, of course, it always is. You’d landed early, why not take a nap, freshen up, and celebrate the lives you’d won at extending on your past trip?

The bar tender is gorgeous. All long blonde hair falling smoothly across tanned shoulders and cute freckles spanning her nose. You sit with her a while, leaning against the bar to chat and bask in the cute southern accent as she describes her recent move from her home town. You’re giggling with her when Spencer approaches. 

“Scotch, neat, and an ice water please,” he says, lingering too long on his s’s and making a mad dash from noticing her face to focusing on the bottles lining the wall behind her. The scotch for Hotch, the water for him. 

You consider pointing out that he hates most ice and will certainly hate that this bar serves it crushed. You don’t, though, swirling the remnants of the fruity drink the bar tender recommended to you minutes earlier. 

Your mind is slightly hazed, edges of the scene around you blurring and mixing together. It’s this mush of thoughts and feelings that begs you to throw down the rest of the drink and make a move. A tentative one, something that can be explained away and laughed off tomorrow. Bold enough to gather intel. 

The alcohol wins, giving you the golden feeling in your limbs that makes you just brave enough, just warm enough, just stupid enough, to tilt your chin up and swallow the contents. 

It barely burns as it goes down, fruit overtaking your senses. 

You scoop up the scotch when she sets it down, giving the girl a grin. You won’t blame Spencer’s obvious attraction on her, she’s beautiful in the way you love openly as well. 

“C’mon,” you say to Spencer, holding the sleeve of his soft sweater between two pinched fingers and leading him to the table. You set Hotch’s glass in front of him with a soft smile before rounding on Spencer, still holding him close. 

“What?” He asks, a laugh lifting the end of the question. So comfortable, so familiar, so used to you that his eyes meet yours and hold them.

It feels like an insult. 

Spencer has gained confidence, slowly, like a sapling breaking through the soil and reaching toward the light. Steadily, he’s shedded just enough of his awkward nature that he doesn’t feel any hesitation around colleagues. Friends, you allow yourself to call it. But, enough lingers that he stumbles near a girl he finds pretty. 

It’s stupid, but his mellow smile aimed at you is the insult. 

A little dizzy, you breathe in to answer. You were going to ask him to dance, judge his reaction based on that. You’ve managed to drag him out before, giggling as he fights to determine where to put his hands. Laughing outright when he makes an actual attempt at moving with you. 

But you’re hardly drunk, maybe just a toe beyond tipsy. Nowhere near the armor you would need when he doesn’t struggle to place his hands on your waist – why would he need to be nervous when it’s just you? Or worse, when he flat out denies you. 

So, cowardly, you smile softly at him, “can you order me a cab? My cell is dead.”

Your spirits are down after your revelation at the bar. Nowhere near devastation that would reek to your colleagues, but enough that you sit next to Emily on the plane. 

The crush feels so immature to you but you can’t kick it. Late at night, you might admit that you’ve stretched far, far beyond a crush and are sitting firmly in the place of love, but the day brings some shame so you’ve committed to calling it a crush. It’s safer to pretend it’s just that, safer to imagine that it’ll fade away.

You ignore how easily he brightens your days with a steadfast determination. It’s made difficult by how consistent he is, though. He’s maintained his habit of filling your mug whenever he goes to refresh his. He hands you gingerale as you step on the jet and reminds you of the weather when you’ve been told a destination (you never remember to check the forecast). 

You’re glad when Hotch makes the call to let the team sleep and fly out early the next morning after a case. You won’t be able to sleep, never have been in hotels, but it affords you the rare moments of peace. No files to cram your mind with, no paperwork to file. Just a warm tea in a hotel lobby in a town you’d never heard of before six days ago. 

You’re tired, but you realize you’re not unhappy. 

“Hey,” Spencer says from behind you, voice soft. It doesn’t scare you, really, but it’s unexpected enough to make you jump slightly in your seat. “Can’t sleep?”

He asks even though he knows the answer. 

“I decided I’m over that whole trend,” you reply, smiling at him as you watch him fold into the couch next to you. “What about you?” “I came to find you,” he says, sitting on the opposite end of the couch but turning to face you, knees angled toward yours. 

“Oh?”

“You’ve seemed down.” He doesn’t phrase it as a question, just a casual observation. “Kind of distracted, I guess. You know, Rossi has some really good connections to therapists that specialize in our fields. I only went to a few sessions but I do believe talk therapy can be useful. Actually, I was just reading about –”

“Spencer,” you cut him off, shaking your head with a small smile and a pit in your belly. “I’m okay.”

His eyes flicker over your face, watching for a lie. Luckily for you, you’re a good liar and he simply lets out a sigh in response, 

“I am,” you nudge him with your foot, knocking his ankle with your shoe. 

A part of you wishes he would prod, just to show he cares enough to double check, but you know it’s a silly desire. Your conclusion is only fortified by his reaction: to leave you be, just like any adult friend would.

“Okay. Can I tell you about the study anyway?”

You let him, of course you do. 

You find Spencer, outside, pacing. His hands white from being wrung and exposure to the frosty air. You practically run to him, hands holding his scarf tightly, calling his name. 

When he looks at you, he looks near to tears. 

“What’s wrong, Spence?” You ask, catching his elbow. 

“Nothing,” he says, too fast, breath uneven. You click your tongue at him in disapproval, tugging him forward by your hold on his elbow. 

“Come on,” you urge, bringing him around the building so the wind isn’t as biting. 

The trick with Spencer, you’ve learned, is that he hates leaving a silence lingering. You take your time pushing yourself up on your toes and winding his scarf around his neck. You even loop it through, the same way your parent did to you when you were a child. Two pats to his chest where the edges of the scarf lay, biting your tongue the entire time. 

“I’m just scared that I’ve messed it all up.”

“One setback in the geological profile isn’t going to stop the investigation, we just have to start over.”

“No, not that.” A fierce shake of his head, curls tumbling over eyes that bore into yours. “Not just that, at least.” He’s breathing heavily enough that you’re seriously concerned that he’s going to have a panic attack. 

You’re in New York and have spent the past fifteen hours working, with hardly more than bathroom breaks, on a geological profile just for the unsub to break his pattern immediately after conclusions were drawn. Hotch had sent both of you to go back to your hotel to sleep and try again. Spencer dodged immediately, forgetting his bag and you inside. 

Thinking for a second, you grab his elbow again, this time linking your arms. “Come on,” you say for the second time in five minutes, leading him again. He follows you without any question or preamble. 

It’s easy to find a stand selling hot drinks and you buy cocoa for both of you before leading him back through the spaces between several buildings. You find a somewhat secluded cove for him to duck into, press his drink between his cold hands, and make him drink. 

After a few minutes of thawing, Spencer’s breathing returns to normal. “Talk to me,” you urge him, voice pitched soft and calm. “You’ve never not talked to me before.”

“Says you,” he whispers, morose. 

“What?”

“You’ve been gone,” Spencer says, voice low, eyes steady on yours.

“What?” You repeat, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Spencer, I’ve been here, with you and everyone else.”

“Sure,” he says, finally breaking his gaze to blow steam off of his cup and take a sip. 

“Don’t do that,” you beg, “don’t cut me out.”

“You cut me out first. One day, it’s like normal. You were my best friend, all bubbly and ready to listen to me talk nonsense and … and you. And then suddenly you’re gone.”

You swallow thickly, guilty. You hadn’t thought he noticed how the sting of constant rejections shot across the field of your mind made you distant. You’d been so busy worried about proving to yourself that your love for him is one sided that you hadn’t realized that you were suddenly pulling back from him entirely. 

“Maybe I’m just completely out of the loop on this kind of stuff, it wouldn’t be the first time. But I thought,” he cuts himself off, leaning his head back and exposing his throat over the top of his scarf, “and then. I don’t know, maybe I never knew.”

“You’re not making sense,” you say, worried and stepping closer. “Which is quite weird for you, given how much you usually explain things to me.”

“I don’t know how to say what I want to say without ruining this more,” he admits, still looking skyward. 

Your heart throbs, mind racing with all the awful things he could be fighting against admitting to you. You refuse to linger on them though, shaking your head even though he’s not looking at you. 

“Just tell me, Spence, I promise I’m not gonna react badly.”

“You can’t know how you’ll react.”

“I know that I trust that any part of you, no matter what you think about it, couldn’t be anything but wonderful to me.”

He’s quiet for a while, after you say that. You let him, patiently waiting and doing your best to not tumble into a world of uncertainty as you do. 

“You used to say that kind of stuff to me all of the time. Last year, six months ago, I thought I knew everything. Where this,” he gestures between you, looking down from the sky to meet your eyes, “was going. Maybe it was wishful thinking or naivety or just a crush running rampant making me think all sorts of things, but then I suddenly do something to ruin even just the friendship we have and you’re gone, not taking to me, and I’m left not even knowing what I did. And now I’m lost – I’m nearly 30, I’ve been here before, I’ve been worse and better and I don’t know where I’m going from here. I especially don’t know where I’m going without you here.”

You blink at him, heart pounding in your ears. He’s hardly making sense, rambling whatever thoughts tumble into that brilliant mind of his. 

“Where did you think it was going?” You ask, stepping closer to him, urging him to answer. 

He says your name like he’s begging and you shake your head at him. 

“Please, just say it.”

“I thought you felt the same way,” he admits. 

You’re teetering, looking forward into something you told yourself, over and over and over, was just a dream. A reality you could never have, a boundary you should never toe. 

“The same way?” You ask, voice soft and wavering.

“Please,” he says, voice breaking and eyes shutting, “I’m sorry, just, please don’t make me say it.”

You take the final step closer to touch him, first his arm, then his shoulder, and finally his cheek. You swipe a finger under the soft skin of his eye, urging him to look at you. 

“Maybe I did.”

He keeps his eyes closed for a moment, completely still. When he opens them, he comes to life. The wind is moving his curls around his face, messy and tumbled. When he speaks, there’s no preamble, just the messy outpour of thoughts you’ve been getting up until now. 

“You left,” he says, as if it explains everything. “And I –” he swallows, “I tried to ask, and then I convinced myself you didn’t need me. That I didn’t deserve – ” His words splinter. He inhales and the next sentence comes out like proof. “I thought you felt the same way.”

The world narrows to the precise tilt of his mouth. You forget the cocoa, the winter, the hotel lobby – you forget how you always tell yourself not to build a life on a wish. He’s two steps closer than he was seconds ago; you feel the heat from his jacket, the scent of peppermint and old library books. His hand finds yours like it’s always known the path. There’s no stutter, no overthinking; just the clean, hot certainty of him.

“Please, tell me it wasn’t just me.”

You shake your head before he can finish. Your heart is racing, pumping warmth and adereneline to every facet of your being. Your head is dizzy, your mind stumbling to keep up. To break past the boundaries you so firmly set for yourself. 

You’ve seen it, over and over, the way he notices you. But it was never the way you thought it should be so you forced yourself to ignore it, to rationalize. The sudden shift in perspective gives you whiplash. 

“I was scared,” you admit, slow, hand sliding from his cheek to rest on his neck. He steps closer again, toes knocking against yours, invading your space. “I didn’t want to assume. You know how easy it is to take what we do, how closely we have to look at people, how easily we learn about them, and twist that into something we want and now what they need? I was terrified that’s what I was doing to you, Spence. I didn’t want to hope.”

He’s nodding as you talk, eyes alight. 

“I kept trying to be rational about it, like it was a case file: list the evidence, eliminate the impossible, leave what’s left, and it always came back to you; it always did, but then you pulled away, suddenly, and I thought maybe I’d misread everything. Like, maybe I’d built this whole thing in my head because I wanted it to be true, and I kept rewriting the conclusion just to avoid how much it hurt, but then every little thing you did contradicted that distance and I didn’t know what to believe anymore, and I – I don’t want to keep running these hypotheses just to keep myself safe. I want to try something different, with you as the constant and me as the variable, and I know I’m not good at this, I’ll probably trip over it constantly, I’ve never actually done this before. But I want to try. If you want to, I really, really, want to try.”

Breath shaking in a sudden exhale, you nod at him, “yes,” you whisper, pleading and happy and nervous all mixed into one word. 

Slowly, you tilt your chin, leaning up and hoping, wishing, in a way you’d never before. To your delight, he responds, dipping down and pressing his forehead to yours. 

“Okay?” he asks, so Spencer, so polite, so him in a way that makes your chest ache. 

“Okay.”

He closes the last inch between you like he’s testing gravity, like the world will hold him if he dares. Your lips meet first in the faintest, most careful brush, and the breath you’ve been holding since he admitted everything hitches out of you. It’s soft, exploratory, almost shy, but electric, and you feel him tilt his head just slightly, matching your angle, warming the air between you.

You could feel Sam’s gaze on you.

He wasn’t happy. No. It was worse than that. He was mad. Now, Sam didn’t get mad often. But when he did, it was for good reason.

“You can’t just walk in there by yourself!” His voice raised as you both got out of the Impala.

You just rolled your eyes, “I’m more than capable enough, Sam.”

Dean passed you a gun from the trunk of his car, not wanting to get involved in whatever argument you two were having this time.

This time.

Your arguments were almost a ritual on hunts by this point. It wasn’t anything you hadn’t dealt with before. A vamps nest. At least 10 of them. You’d handled worse on your own, so you had no idea what Sam was picking an argument for.

Dean had voiced his dislike for the arguments. It was either an argument about weapons, about the plan, about who was acting as bait or who would be walking inside first. Whatever you were hunting, you’d argue about it with Sam.

Days like this, from a strangers perspective, you’d have no idea you and Sam were a couple. It would start with him trying to talk you out of your idea, but he knew you were stubborn, and it would escalate to shouting. Mostly caused by you.

It was a complete contrast to what you were like when you didn’t have hunts to deal with. You’d cuddle in bed, sit on Sam’s lap in the library when finding lore, would shower together after a stressful or long day. You loved each other more than you’d ever loved anybody before.

Those were the good times.

Right now, was the other part of your relationship. The part where you thought you knew best, that your plan was the better plan, that it felt like Sam just didn’t trust you enough to let you do things your way.

You knew he trusted you. He knew you could handle yourself. He just didn’t like when you walked into things alone, didn’t like that you’d be putting yourself in danger. Not when he loved you so much, not when you could all come up with safer plans.

But you didn’t like that. You wanted to do your plan. You were stubborn in that way.

“You have one gun, one knife,” Sam placed his on his belt, a gun on the other side. “That’s not gonna do a lot if all ten of them hear you.”

“Good job I have my fast reflexes then, huh?” You grinned, starting to walk down the muddy trail.

Sam took a breath, looking towards Dean who shrugged. He caught up to you, following where you were headed, towards the abandoned barn that you’d tracked the vampires to.

“Okay, doors at the front, side door around the corner,” you mumbled, eyeing up the property.

“You’re not going alone,” Sam whispered.

You checked the bullets in your gun, holding it firmly in your right hand, “yes,” you looked at Sam. “I am.”

Beginning to walk closer, you knew Sam was staying in his planned spot with Dean. Until one of the barn doors swung open and you had to drop to the floor extremely quickly.

Not even a second after the barn door closed, Sam rushed over, helping you up as he brushed the dirt from your hair.

“Sam, it’s fine,” you shook him off. “A little dirt isn’t gonna hurt me.”

“Yea, well, they might.”

You folded your arms, not daring to make any eye contact. Instead, you settled on getting ready, tying your hair back before moving away from Sam.

“Let one of us go with you,” he tried.

“I’ve got this,” you glanced back once more. “Just trust me, alright?”

You walked away. And just like that, Sam watched you disappear into the barn. He hated himself for it. Wished he’d never let you go alone. Why he didn’t sneak in after, he had no idea. He trusted you, that’s why. He always did.

Big mistake.

Everything was a mess from that moment onwards. Gunshots were heard moments after you got inside. Too many. The shots stopped once he assumed you’d run out of bullets.

That’s when Sam and Dean rushed inside. A few vamps down, but you were nowhere to be seen. All they saw, was a trail of blood going towards the back of the barn.

Which eventually, after killing a few more vampires, they heard a scream that sounded like yours.

Once Sam finally got his eyes on you, relief flooded him. You were sat next to the body of one of the vamps. But you were in pain, Sam could see that, could see the strength slowly leaving your face.

“Told you I could do it,” you looked between the brothers.

You stood yourself up, toppling towards Sam who just about caught you. His hands on your waist and one of your arms. Once you were steady, he let go, seeing fresh, dark red blood on his hands.

“You’re bleeding,” he stated.

“What?”

He pushed your jacket back, seeing blood seeping through your shirt, “you’re bleeding,” he repeated.

You stepped back from him, lifting your shirt, seeing where there was a diagonal cut trailing down your side. It hadn’t been hurting, but now it definitely was.

“Uh, that one grabbed my knife,” you explain simply. “I’m fine, doesn’t feel too bad.”

“You trailed blood through the whole barn.”

“Okay, but I got the job done,” some blood trickled onto your hand while you stood there, causing you to look.

Sam couldn’t miss the way your eyes fluttered shut for a second.

“Alright, come on, we need to go,” he placed his arm around you, trying to keep you upright.

Still, you were stubborn as usual, “I can walk, Sam, it’s fine.”

You couldn’t even walk in a straight line, only making it to the entrance of the barn before you leaned against Sam, holding your hand to your side.

“Hey, hey, you’re alright,” he placed his hands on your shoulders, finding Dean behind you after. “Go get the car started.”

You took a deep breath, looking up at Sam as you gripped onto his arm, “a little blood never hurt anyone, right?”

With all the energy you had, you started walking again. Sam shook his head. He knew you were like this, knew you never wanted to admit when you needed help. He watched you stumble again, this time you caught yourself, balancing on your own.

“You’re so damn stubborn, you know that?” Sam walked beside you.

“Guilty as charged,” you nodded.

Somehow, you did make it back to the impala. The drive was silent, you in the backseat trying not to get too much blood onto the leather seats of Dean’s precious car. Sam glanced back every few minutes to check you were okay.

By the time you reached the bunker, you were fighting to stay awake. So much to the point that you didn’t notice when Sam was lifting you out of the car and into his arms to carry you inside.

You don’t really remember anything, until you woke up in the medical room with Sam and Dean cleaning things up across from you. Without making a sound, you felt your side, felt the bandages there. They’d patched you up while you were out cold.

Of course, you tried to sit yourself up. You never liked being in the medical room. It gave you weird hospital vibes. That’s when Sam heard movement. Turning around instantly to see you.

“Woah, woah, easy,” he rushed, trying to stop you from sitting up.

“I’m— fine,” you say, more to yourself, not looking at Sam.

He stood up straight, arms folded, his eyes never leaving you. Dean took that moment to subtly leave the room, giving you and Sam some space to talk.

“Why?” Sam finally spoke. You furrowed your brow. “Why do you always insist on doing things in the most dangerous way?”

“Sam.. I don’t—“

“Yes you do!” His voice raised. “Every time we have a good plan, a safe plan, you wanna play hero and go in first thinking you can kill whatever it is we’re hunting.”

“That’s not what this is.”

Sam scoffed, “no? Then what is it?”

For once, you stayed silent, looking down into your lap. Sam walked away from where you were, continuing to put away the medical supplies he’d used.

“You know we’re on the same team, right?”

You took a moment to respond, “yes, I know that,” you paused. “It’s not like you ever let me come up with a plan, it’s always you and Dean deciding things.”

“Because we know your plan would be doing it alone.”

You shuffled, moving to stand up off of the bed. Sam heard you groan in pain, causing him to turn and see what you were doing. He shook his head again.

“What’re you doing?”

“Getting up?” You said as if it was obvious.

“No, you need to rest, honey.”

“Don’t honey me.”

Sam laughed. You insisted on starting to walk towards the doorway. He watched, saw you struggling, saw you wincing with each step. He didn’t help, partially because he was annoyed at the fact you pulled this every hunt, partially because he knew you wouldn’t want his help.

He was surprised when you turned to look at him, “I’m going to the bathroom, then I’m going to bed,” you had an unreadable expression on your face, something close to guilt.

Sam nodded, “get some rest,” he watched you leave, calling out softly after. “I love you.”

“I love you!” He heard from the down the hall after a second.

He couldn’t help but smile. Knowing even through the arguments, that love was always there.

. ・ 。 . ・ ゜ ✭ ・ . ・ ✫ ・ ゜ ・ 。 .

It was quiet. No noise around the bunker. As it often is after a hunt. Everyone catching up on sleep, resting and recovering from injuries.

Not Sam though. He was in the library, not reading lore as he usually would be. Instead, he was sitting at the table, photo album open in front of him as he looked through the many photos slotted inside.

It wasn’t his own, but one of yours. One you brought with you with many childhood memories, family getaways, things from back when your life had been normal. Before you met Sam, some just after, before your life turned into this whirlwind of hunting.

You’d been through these photos many times with Sam. Explained what was happening, what event it was, he practically knew your whole life, everything good and bad.

He loved looking through these. Sometimes he’d do it for fun, sometimes it was at moments like this, after a hunt. You got hurt, you decided to be stubborn, worry Sam a little, and seeing those old photos made him feel better. Made him think of what the future would be like.

Ever since he met you, he knew you were special. Knew that he had to get to know you, get to be with you. It was almost instant, that feeling of comfort that you gave each other.

Sure, Dean had been a little concerned. Especially since the arguments started. The arguments that were only for hunts. Fuelled by your need to be independent, want to prove you could handle things on your own. Made worse by Sam’s utter fear of losing you like he lost other people.

The arguments could get harsh, but it was out of care. Soon after always came the apologies, the forgiveness, the love.

Now, Sam sat alone. Photo album open in front of him, one of his favourite pictures of you. Accompanied by a ring box that he’d set down nearby.

He stared at it. The cute bear box he’d managed to find at a thrift store while on a case a couple of months ago. Sam felt like it was very you, very cute, something you’d like.

It’s the ring he wasn’t sure on. A golden band, beautiful diamond in the middle. He’d never seen you wear jewellery often, only out of you not wanting anything to get dirty.

He picked it up, took the ring out to look at it for the millionth time. He took a breath, running his hand over his face. He had no idea how to do a proposal, how to set things up, if that’s what you’d even want.

What he didn’t expect. Was for you to walk through the door at that moment.

“There you are,” your voice echoed through the quiet library.

Inevitably startling Sam, causing him to drop the ring from his hand, watching as it fell to the floor, bouncing just once before going still. The bear box went too, but he was fast enough to catch it.

“Sorry,” you apologised quietly as you cautiously walked closer. “Just didn’t know where you— what is that?”

He turned to look at you, you saw the ring box in his hand, the ring laying on the floor. You didn’t know what to do or say, so you just looked at him.

Sam was frozen for a moment, until he snapped out of it, scrambling to the floor to pick up the ring to get it back in the box as quickly as he could. Standing up with it open in his hand.

“Sam..?” You couldn’t take your eyes off of the ring.

He ran a hand frustratedly through his hair. Unsure of how to proceed. He took a breath, looking at you softly, then back to the cute teddy bear box in his slightly shaking hands.

“Is that a… bear?” You asked, unfazed by his nervousness. “With a bow tie?”

“Uh, yea, yes it is.”

You took a step closer, “it’s adorable, Sam,” you smiled. “I uh— I didn’t mean to intrude, if you were busy… I was just coming to talk to you.”

He didn’t answer for a moment, glancing to the table where your photo album is still open. Looking around at the empty room. Just seeing you in front of him. The soft look on your face, a little worry, a little tiredness from the hunt, thankfully you didn’t seem to be in pain anymore.

“No, it’s okay,” he paused. “Actually... you know what?”

You frowned, wondering what he was doing. He stepped closer, took one of your hands in his, the ring box in the other. He shook his head, clearly thinking about what he was doing.

“I love you, I think you know that by now,” he chuckled. “And I uh, I know in reality it hasn’t been all that long but— I know I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

You watched him, watched as he knelt down in front of you on one knee. Your hand still in his, his thumb moving back and forth in a soothing motion. He took a long, deep breath, letting it out slowly.

“Sam?” Your eyes widened. “Are you— Is this— You’re not actually—“

“I am,” he looked up at you, his eyes meeting yours.

He held the box forwards, the ring shining from the reflection of the library’s lighting. His hand was visibly shaking, one of the only times you’d seen Sam this nervous. It wasn’t like him at all. That’s how you knew it was real.

“You mean the world to me,” he started. “And maybe it’s silly to say I feel like I’ve always known, but… honey, you’re it for me.”

The tears didn’t stay at bay, they were already settling in the corners of your eyes, trying to hold them in to let Sam finish. But he was your Sam, the Sam you loved, the Sam that meant everything to you. The Sam that you sometimes had terrible arguments with. But this was still happening despite that.

“This isn’t how I meant for it to happen, but I guess it’s kind of us,” he laughed, causing you to let out a soft laugh with him. “I couldn’t imagine this life without you, so… will you marry me?”

Without giving an answer, you practically fell down to his level, wrapping your arms around his neck as you let the tears fall down your face. His arm held you around your back, keeping you from falling fully to the floor.

“I love you,” your voice came out high pitched, muffled against his neck.

Sam pulled back slightly, “is that a yes?”

“Oh!” You moved, settling back on your knees. “Yea, yes! Of course it’s a yes!”

He slowly stood up, taking your hand to pull you up with him. Sam took the ring out of the box, placing it down on the table as he steadily held your hand. He slid the ring onto your finger, breathing a sigh of relief after seeing it fit.

Now your hands were shaking, holding your hand higher to get a good look at the ring. You couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe he had actually just proposed. He steadied your hands, a warm expression covering his face.

“You’re serious?” You sniffle. “This is really real?”

He nodded, tears filling his eyes too. You didn’t stay there any longer, standing on tip toe to kiss him. He rested his hands on your hips as yours cupped his face, pouring all of your love into it.

“God, I love you,” he whispered against your lips.

He held you tight, taking this moment in. Thinking over all that just happened. An out of the blue proposal, an unplanned one at that, but you said yes. Somewhere deep down, maybe he thought that you wouldn’t.

Not that he knew, but you were thinking similar. Wondering why he proposed, wondering why he would seriously want to spend the rest of his life with you. Of course, you wanted to be with him, but after everything recently, it didn’t seem like it would be happening at this moment.

You let go of Sam, taking a small step backwards. You fiddled with your hands, unsure of how to speak, how to word what you were thinking, how you felt, without sounding like you wanted to backtrack.

“I um, I just wanna—“ you tucked your hair behind your ears nervously. “I’m sorry, you know, for yesterday. For all of the hunts when I’ve been stubborn, when I’ve almost gotten myself killed, when I’d argued over it even when—“

“Baby,” Sam interrupted as you started to ramble. “It’s okay, honey, you don’t need to apologise.”

“Yes I do,” you leaned against the table. “I’ve been horrible, I’ve shouted at you, argued with you, told you that you didn’t trust me… I’ve been a lot to deal with and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Sammy.”

Sam moved to stand next to you, placing his arm around your shoulders to tuck you into his side. He kissed your head softly, wanted to make sure you knew he didn’t need you to apologise.

“It hasn’t just been you,” he traced soft circles against your shoulder. “I shouted back, I argued against your points. I haven’t always let you explain how you wanna do things.”

He paused, moving to stand in front of you now. He placed his hands on your waist, urging you to sit on the table for a moment, which you complied. You held his hands, squeezing softly.

“I think I’ve just been scared that you’d push it too far,” he explained. “That you’d go that one step too close to danger that you’d really get hurt, and that I wouldn’t be there to save you.”

“And you’re right,” you said what he’d least expected. “I have been pushing it. Pushing you, pushing myself further than I should have.”

You look down, letting go of his hands to run yours through your hair out of frustration. You were taking some accountability for the way you’d been acting, the first time in a long time.

“I just felt like I had to, to make myself be a better hunter, to get myself up to your standards.”

“My standards?”

He reached up, tilting your chin so you’d look at him, “not those standards,” you clarify. “Your hunting standards. You and Dean have always been better than me, stronger than me. I felt like.. if I put myself in more dangerous situations that it’d push me to be just as good as you.”

Sam was confused, “where is this suddenly coming from?”

You shrugged, “it’s always been there, I just never said anything.”

“So you thought throwing yourself into danger was the answer?”

“Well— no, not really,” you paused. “I don’t know.”

He took a breath, stepping back just slightly. Sam was more worried than anything hearing all of this. Finding out how you’d been feeling, why you’d acted the way you did. It made more sense. He didn’t like it though. Hated that you hadn’t brought it up.

“I was coming to talk to you about it all,” you folded your arms over yourself. “But then I found you here, and saw the ring…”

“You were?”

You nodded slowly, “I’ve gotten worse recently, I thought you deserved some kind of explanation for my recklessness.” You looked down at your ring, fiddling with it. “I didn’t expect to get proposed to right now. If ever.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. If ever? What did that mean? Maybe the amount of time you’d been together, maybe you thought he would’ve waited longer. He had no idea. But it wasn’t even a question on his part, he knew he wanted to be with you.

As you stopped fiddling, you saw his expression. Part confusion, part trying to understand the meaning behind your words. He truly didn’t know, and that surprised you.

“Sam… I didn’t think you’d ever propose,” you chuckle nervously. “Even before we started dating we would argue over hunts all the time, I didn’t think you’d wanna deal with that forever. Especially not the shouting.”

“You think the arguments would stop me from wanting to propose?” He asked.

“I thought it’d stop you from wanting to be with me period.”

Now it was registering in his brain. You thought he hated the arguments, maybe even hated you for the arguments. He wondered if the way you argued, the way you sometimes shouted at him would’ve stopped him from wanting to be with you.

“Honey, no, no,” he shook his head, cupping your face softly in his palms. “Nothing could ever stop me from wanting to be with you.”

He saw your expression, the unbelieving look. The way your lips tilted into a frown. Things went from a happy proposal to expressing feelings he didn’t even know you’d had.

“You shout sometimes because that’s the way you express how you feel, I’m just better at keeping myself calm,” he reminded you. “I get that, I’ve always known that. Why would you think it’d make me wanna leave you?”

Instinctively, you leaned into his touch, “you’re just— you’re always so positive with things, you manage to keep your cool for the most part,” you place your hand over one of his. “You’re the complete opposite to how I am. I’m always stubborn, always argue instead of just talking over things.”

“You know what I think?” He smiled, you shook your head. “The arguments are because we care about each other. You wanna go it alone, prove that you’re stronger than me, I don’t want you to be alone so I argue to try and stop you from putting yourself in danger… the arguments make us stronger.”

“You truly think that?”

He thought back. The first time you wanted to throw yourself into a hunt. You argued with Dean heavily. Shouting back and forth. That was the moment he realised your temper was a little bit like Dean’s. And he didn’t mind one bit.

The first time you argued with Sam, just before you began dating. He refused to let you go into a hunt first, so you shouted at him. Got upset, let out your anger, but he knew that was just… you. That was your way of expressing how you felt. He knew you didn’t mean to hurt him by shouting.

The first time you changed plans half way through a hunt to try and be the hero, he got angry after. Questioned why you’d put yourself in danger, told you that everyone could’ve gotten hurt. But you just argued back, shouting at him as he shouted at you. In the end of it all, one of you would cave first. Ending the argument with a hug or kiss. Because neither of you really meant the harsh words.

Over time, he learnt what your ways were. You knew arguing was your best bet at getting anywhere with Sam. So, on hunts, that’s what happened. Deep down, Sam was just worried about you. There was nothing else to it.

“Do you see us arguing anywhere else but on hunts?” He brushed your hair back from your face.

You shook your head.

“Exactly,” he leaned to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “Maybe you feel like you have something to prove, or maybe you wanna be the lead on some cases. One argument on each case isn’t gonna make me stop loving you.”

“No?”

“No,” Sam crouched slightly, getting to your level. “I love you, always, arguments and all, okay?”

“Okay.” You smiled.

“C’mere,” he stood up, holding his arms open for a hug. You were against his chest instantly.

You weren’t sure how long you stood in his arms for. But you loved it. Loved how safe he felt, how loved he made you feel. His embrace was always warm, comforting. It reminded you that he loved you, more than he could ever express with words.

“Just one thing,” Sam pulled out of the hug, being serious. “Now you’re my fiancée… could you maybe be just a little bit more careful.”

Your eyes widened, “And if I say no, Winchester?”

He liked the challenge, just you being you, “then I guess you’ll have to let me trail behind you on hunts,” he compromised. “Just close enough to stop you from getting hurt.”

You took a breath, “fine,” you gave in. “Plus if you’re my husband to be, I don’t think I could argue with having you behind me all the time.”

You were just trying to be nice about the whole thing. But you didn’t miss the way Sam’s lips curved into a smirk. Sometimes he couldn’t help himself.

“Oh yea?” He squeezed your hips. “Are we talking about hunts or in the bedroom?”

“Sam!” You pushed him away, a laugh echoing around the library.

“What?” He laughed with you, shrugging as if he’d said the most normal thing in the world. “Gotta tame that attitude of yours somehow.”

You stood, fake annoyance on your face. He knew that, knew how to get you riled up and laughing at the same time. He couldn’t not make that comment.

“This is what I get for being honest about my feelings.”

“Maybe,” he walked towards you again, pulling you flush against him. “Or maybe… it’s the way we start to celebrate our little engagement, hm?”

His lips connected with yours. Gently at first, getting deeper the more you settled into it. Your hands tangling in his hair as his hands ran up and down your back. It was all perfect.

You pulled back for a moment, smiling against his lips, “I love you,” you sighed happily.

He pecked yours in one final kiss, “I love you more, my sweet girl.”

He couldn’t even form complete thoughts as the car door opened, your fingers tightening on top of his. You slide in the passenger seat, throwing a cheeky grin at him. You didn’t even let him close the door for you, as you shut it by yourself.

Clark stood outside in the cold night air, staring at you from the window. He cannot believe that just happened.

For once in his life, he didn’t open the door for his date.

The same thing happened when he dropped you off at your apartment. You didn’t even think twice before opening the car door yourself as Clark scrambled out of his seat, racing to open it before you did.

He failed.

But it’s okay, cause you’re pretty and you smell nice, and you’re wearing this giddy smile, eyes a little tired but still sparkling. He stared down at you, with a matching grin and twinkling eyes.

A moment passed, “See you tomorrow?” Clark dumbly asks.

You nod and bite your lip, tummy flipping with excitement and nerves, “See you tomorrow, Clark.”

.

.

.

The past few weeks of seeing Clark has been…nice. He’s sweet, thoughtful and very nice to look at. So when accidentally you snapped at him, you were sure he didn’t want to see you ever again. 

The summer heat is nipping at your skin, you had been stressing out about the printer since morning, the ancient machine that the Daily Planet has kept in store for ‘memories’ will be the death of you.

“Fuck— fucking stupid machine, shit—“

“You need some help there?”

You jump at the sudden voice, butterflies appearing in your stomach as you realise who it belonged to.

“This thing is pissing me off.” you grumble, not even looking at Clark, too busy glaring at the printer in front of you.

The man chuckles, leaning against the wall with hands tucked in his pants pockets as his eyes shamelessly trails over your figure.

“You look pretty.” he absentmindedly said.

The sudden compliment made you freeze your banging on the machine. Finally turning to meet his eyes, with a few strands of hair covering your vision. You tucked them behind your ear.

Because of your frustration at the machine, the small printing room has gotten more hot, which made you more agitated. So, you had put your hair up in a very messy bun, hair coming out in all sorts of directions, two buttons on your top were undone, giving Clark a nice view of your collarbone and a tiny glimpse of your cleavage. He swallowed hard as you fully turned to him.

"I'm a mess." you chuckle, hand resting on your full hips, head tilting to the side.

You look hot and bothered, your cheeks a little pink, your smile is teasing, and your hips are tantalising him. It's making his brain short circuit.

You, successfully making Superman weak in the knees.

He shrugs, hand scratching the back of his neck and awkwardly coughs, "My statement still stands."

Huffing, you face the machine again, "Go back to work Clark, or did you come here just to bother me?"

Clark moves inside the tiny room, his huge figure taking in half of the capacity. You could feel his body heat as he comfortably stood behind you, looking over your shoulder. Stomach flipping when you feel his slow and steady breathing.

"Do you know what's wrong with it?"

"If I did, I wouldn't be here, would I?" you accidentally snapped, eyes widening in horror. Oh no, he's going to hate you. "Sorry. I'm just annoyed and it's so hot in here and—“

His deep laugh stops you from continuing, "It's alright," he shakes his head, "I shouldn't have stressed you out more."

You sigh, guilt eating up your senses. You liked having here with you. He brings a sense of comfort, safety, calmness. He doesn't deserve your little outburst.

Clark sensed the air getting thicker with tension, so he clears his throat, backing up from your personal space, "I can call Jimmy to help you out-"

"It's okay, I got it." you rushed out. Hand clutching tightly at the edge of the printer. You cannot fail this. Don't embarrass yourself.

Clark nodded awkwardly, lingering on the door for a second too long, gazing at you with a certain look before hesitantly leaving you in your little room.

As you hear his footsteps retract, your shoulders slumped in relief, the guilt never once leaving your system.

"Stupid fucking machine."

.

.

.

Turns out Clark doesn’t hate you. 

You have been going steady and now have created a little routine. The grocery runs has been fun, a routine that you two have made after 1 month of dating. Restocking in your respective place every first Saturday of the month, has been consistent.

“Aw, you two lovebirds are too cute.” the cashier complimented, “You match each other very well.”

Your cheeks turn warm, hands occupied by putting the groceries in the bags. Glancing at Clark to see his reaction, your stomach flutters when you see his adorable dimples. A shy smile stretching over his face.

He clears his throat, “Thank you, ma’am.” eyes shifting to yours. Fond, warm, and very much in a daze. 

You quietly giggled, sending the cashier a quick smile before leaving the store. 

Clark falls in step beside you, nudging your shoulder, “She said we look like we’re made for each other.” he shyly muttered. 

You raised your eyebrows, glancing at him from the side, “She didn’t say all of that.” you smirk.

He shrugs, “I filled in the blanks.” his voice soft. 

Your heart stutters. 

Two heavy recycle bags settle in your arms as you try to balance them using your hips. Clark immediately took note of your fidgeting, and quickly moved his hand to grab the bottom of the bags, helping you stabilise yourself. 

“Clark, I got it.” you grumble.

The tall man sighed, almost ripping the bags out of your hands. If anyone looked for too long it was like he was trying to steal them.

“I know you do, sweetheart,” he deeply sighed, fingers pressing against his eyebrows, “but I can do it. Do you see these guns?” he jokes, flexing his biceps close to your face. You laughed. He’s so silly. 

Clark was also carrying his 2 bags of groceries, which is why you do not want him to carry yours. It’s yours. Why would you inconvenience him?

But Clark was adamant, Clark’s other fingers securely tucked in near your wrist where the bag handle is.

You playfully roll your eyes, “Back off, Kent.”

He gasps— loud, dramatic and offended, “I can’t believe you just called me Kent.”

You affectionately rolled your eyes and pushed past him, almost sprinting to the car so that he couldn’t keep up.

Oh, but Clark definitely could.

He chuckled to himself, shaking his head fondly at how stubborn you are. But you’re already opening the back trunk, organising your bags in. He underestimated your dedication, sighing softly with a giddy smile on his face, definitely his girl.

.

.

.

This particular day has been awful.

You’re suffering from writer's block and can’t find to type out any good comments and sentences. Everything you created sounded bleak, bland, boring and Perry has been waiting for a piece from you for days.

When he came to your desk, you gave him a thousand apologies, and Perry looked at you sadly… disappointed, if you would add.

“Should I give this to Cat to cover?”

“No!” you stood up abruptly, chair squeaking and making a few heads turn to you. You could feel a pair of specifically worried eyes on your back, “I got it. I promise. I will have this ready by tomorrow.”

Perry sighed, head nodding slowly, “Alright kid, I trust your abilities but tomorrow is final.” he stated, walking away.

You gripped the edge of your table, fingers twitching and heart suddenly pounding in your chest, “Fuck.” your breathing starts to pick up. 

No, no, no. Please, not now.

Your feet moved before you could think and Clark was up on his feet the second he could hear your uneven breathing. Going to the only place he knows you would go. 

The air on the roof is cold, the sky is so blue it reminds you of someone. But your chest starts to tighten, your vision starts to blur and sweat is forming behind your neck and hairline. 

“Please, please–” sobs start to wreck your body, and your feet are now all wobbly. 

Clark could hear everything from the elevator and it made his stomach drop and eyebrows furrow, as he fidgeted in the small metal box, “Why is it moving so slow—” he angrily muttered to himself, fingers aggressively pressing the button level repeatedly. Not caring the weird stares people are giving him.

The rooftop door violently swung open, so hard it almost flew off its hinges and you knew immediately who was on the other side.

“Clark, leave me alone.” you turn, not letting him see you. Your voice sounded so small, it tore his heart in two and he’s supposed to be indestructible. 

He takes small steps closer to you, “I’m sorry, pretty, but there is no way I’m leaving you up here alone.”

"I got it, it's okay." your voice trembles, lips quivering.

Clark huffed, standing straighter, "No." he clenched his jaw, he sounded... angry.

You glance at him through your teary eyes, "What–?"

"Stop saying that line."

You scoff, "What line?"

Clark stares at you with wide eyes, like the audacity of you to even question that insane, "Your 'I got it' line."

Your stomach drops as your sniffling continues. 

He deeply breathes out, moving to stand directly behind you, hands placed on your hips to turn you to face him fully. His thumbs softly caressing your shirt covered waist.

He leaned down, eyes trying to meet yours, "Look at me." he softly mutters.

Your eyes were fixated on the floor for a couple more seconds before they met his ones. Him and his soft, apologetic, blue eyes. Your breathing slows down.

He stares at you for a moment, searching, evaluating, you don’t even know.

But you would never guess what he was going to say.

"I. Got. You." he states, a pause in between every word. It wasn’t an opinion, it wasn't a joke, it's a statement. A fact. Like the nature of it is embedded in him, "Okay?"

Your lips wobbled, nose twitching and a new fresh of tears making their appearance on your eye line. Panicked eyes staring into his ones, trying to come into terms in what he just uttered out of his mouth.

"I will be here, with you." Clark continues, his hand now moving up to brush your falling tears away, "You can try to push me away but you need to call some reinforcements because I am not budging. You understand me?"

Slowly your arms moves to wrap around him, head tucking in his warm chest. "You got me?" your voice hoarse, his heart sinks seeing you tightly shut your eyes and hearing the hesitance in your tone.

His big arms wrapped tightly around your frame, hands softly caressing your back, "Of course, sweetheart. Always."

“Thank you.”

“My baby.” he sighs, emotional and heavy. His head tucking in your neck as he holds you tighter, “No need to thank me.”

“You make me feel so safe.” your trembling voice continues, a new wave of tears making you choke up.

Clark’s stomach flutters and drops at the same time.

For the strongest man alive, he sure feels pretty useless right now.

Because what has happened before that made you need to say that outloud? He thought it was given? He’s your boyfriend?

He doesn’t dwell on it for long, “I can help you with your paper.” he suggests, pulling your face out of his chest, his large hand on your jaw, thumb softly brushing your skin. 

“Clark—“

“I swear to God if you say—“

You giggled. Clark’s eyes widens at your beautiful voice, goosebumps appearing on his skin. 

“I was gonna say, ‘Yes, I would love your help’.” your voice turned down to a whisper, “Save me, Clark Kent.”

Clark grins, the tears are still in your eyes, some running down your cheeks but your eyes are a little bit brighter, your voice a little lighter, your breathing evening out and you’re still hugging him.

It makes him melt.

“I got you, baby. Don’t worry.”

Now Clark is making it his sole mission to take care of you.

the cup nearly slips out of his hand. his jaw clenches, something sick curling in his stomach, because you sound so sure—like it’s been sitting heavy on your chest for weeks and you finally let it out. he freezes in the doorway, coffee cup creasing between his thick fingers, staring at you and lois huddled by her desk like the world didn’t just tilt sideways. he forces himself to move, to keep walking, though each step feels wrong, like wading through cement. he sets the extra coffee down on your desk without a word, the gesture suddenly hollow, stupid. his throat is tight, his ears ringing with the echo of your confession.

"ugh, my hero," you grin, looking up to see him. he just nods, eyes looking everywhere but you. then, without a sheepish goodbye, or a murmured compliment, he trudges to his desk. you furrow a brow, watching the way his shoulders slump and his mouth curves downwards. you shrug and sip the coffee, practically groaning at the taste.

clark can barely focus for the next ten minutes because lois is still laughing at whatever you said, patting your back, and putting way too much sugar in her cup. when he moves his chair farther away from her chattering, he's met with the sight of perfect little jimmy olsen. clark knows it's wrong, but he can't help but feel hatred towards the red-head. of course you’d want jimmy. why wouldn’t you? he’s—he’s everything. he’s normal. he’s good. he's not…clark. he exhales deeply, pushing the thoughts out of his brain and rising to his feet. he mutters something about interviewing superman to lois before slinging his bag over his broad shoulder. for the first time in months, clark passes your desk without tripping over his own feet or offering to bring you back lunch. he just keeps his gaze straight, ignoring the small smile you send him that would've had him in cardiac arrest last week. when he shuts the door to the stairwell, he slams it harsher than usual.

"huh," you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else. it’s odd, the absence of his usual stammer, the way he doesn’t even pause to ask if you’ll need anything while he’s out. clark kent doesn’t just leave. not without fussing. not without that earnest, big smile that always makes you laugh under your breath. you glance toward the glass doors just in time to see the back of him vanish into the street. his frame seems even larger when weighed down with that invisible heaviness, his shoulders hunched like the city itself pressed down on them.

lois waves a hand in front of your face. “earth to dream girl. what’s got you staring holes into the exit sign?”

“nothing,” you say quickly, taking another sip of your coffee. it burns your tongue, but you don’t flinch. “he’s just…weird today.”

lois smirks, like she knows something you don’t. “maybe you’ve finally scared him off.” you roll your eyes, but there’s a seed of unease tucked somewhere beneath your ribs. clark, ignoring you? clark, walking out without a word? something’s off, and you don't like it.

meanwhile, he’s already halfway down the block, jaw tight, breath sharp against the collar of his shirt. every noise in the city seems louder, harsher. he wants to fly, to tear through the clouds until the ache in his chest evaporates, but even that won’t fix the image burned into his head—your smile, your voice, the certainty when you said something about loving jimmy. he adjusts his glasses, forces his hands into his pockets. you deserve jimmy, he tells himself. you deserve someone simple. someone safe. not a man who lies every day just to keep you from finding out what he is. but god, it really does feel like he’s been punched through a building.

~

the next morning, the newsroom is its usual chaos of ringing phones and rustling paper. you’re perched at your desk, expecting the familiar shadow of clark kent to appear at your elbow with a steaming cup balanced carefully in his hand. but he doesn’t. he walks straight past you, no “morning,” no stammered compliment about your outfit, not even the ghost of his bashful smile. his stride is stiff, mechanical. he sits, adjusts his glasses, and pretends the stack of notes on his desk is suddenly urgent.

your brows pinch, the silence where clark usually is buzzing like a mosquito in your ear. from across the bullpen, lois notices immediately. she grins like a cat with cream, rolling her chair over until she bumps against clark’s desk with a little thunk. “wow,” she drawls, crossing her arms. “no coffee or expensive danish for your girlfriend today? what’s the world coming to, kent?”

normally, clark would flush bright red, choke on his words, maybe even sputter something about she’s not my girlfriend. today, though, he just stares at his computer, jaw tight. “it’s not funny, lois.”

her smirk falters, curiosity sparking. “okay, grumpy. what’s crawled up your cape?”

he exhales slowly through his nose, voice quiet enough that only she can hear. “i heard you two yesterday. by your desk. i wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but i couldn’t not hear it. she basically confessed her love for jimmy.”

lois blinks, letting the information sink in, then lets out a bark of laughter so loud perry pokes his head out of his office and scowls. she waves him off, shoulders shaking. “oh, clark,” she says finally, grinning like she’s just been handed front-page gossip. “you are so out of your depth.”

he looks at her, confused and a little wounded. “lois-” but she’s already rolling back toward her desk, still laughing under her breath, deciding it’ll be far more entertaining to let him stew in his own misery than clear things up for him. from your desk, you glance between the two of them, unsettled by the storm cloud hanging over clark’s usually sunny face.

~

by the end of the day, you’re convinced something’s wrong. it’s not you—at least, you don’t think so. clark isn’t avoiding eye contact out of shyness, he’s dimmer. a man sized shadow slumped in his chair, typing but not seeing, answering questions with one-syllable words. it unsettles you. so, on impulse, you stop by his apartment that evening, balancing a warm paper bag of his favorite takeout against your hip. you knock, humming under your breath, rehearsing some lighthearted line about him looking like he needed it.

when the door creaks open, you almost drop the bag. clark stands there, hair mussed, tie still crooked from work. his glasses slide a fraction down his nose and he doesn’t even push them back up. his expression is blank, exhausted—nothing like the clark kent that you know. “hi,” you start, lifting the bag like an offering. “i, um…thought you might want dinner. you seemed…i don’t know. sad, today.”

for a beat, he just blinks at you. no blush, no stammer, just an emptiness that makes your stomach twist. and it’s impossible not to remember the last time you stood at this doorway. it was months ago, when you came to return the coat he’d forgotten at the office. he’d opened the door with his shirt half-tucked, papers scattered behind him, his ears blazing red. he’d practically yelped, slammed the door in your face, and by the time he opened it again—thirty seconds later—his hair was brushed, his apartment spotless, his shirt pressed like he’d just stepped out of the dry cleaner. you never questioned it, just laughed at how adorably flustered he was.

but tonight, none of that frantic effort. no rush to impress you. just clark, a shell of himself, standing there like he doesn’t quite know what to do with your kindness. “you didn’t have to do that,” he says finally, voice low, almost flat.

you frown. “clark, it’s just noodles. not exactly a grand gesture.” he steps aside reluctantly, letting you in. the apartment is dull, curtains drawn, papers stacked haphazardly on the table. he doesn’t make any excuse for the mess, doesn’t try to straighten anything. you set the bag down, glance back at him. “are you gonna tell me what’s wrong, or do i have to guess?”

his throat works. he looks at you, then away, as if the sight of you burns. clark rubs a hand over his face, glasses skewing, and mutters, “it’s nothing. really.”

you narrow your eyes. “you look like your dog died.”

“i don’t…have a dog. well, not really,” he says, almost defensively, before realizing how stupid it sounds.

you huff out a laugh despite yourself, unpacking the food. “exactly my point. sit down before you collapse on me.” he obeys, but slowly, like his body weighs twice as much tonight. he doesn’t even move to help, just watches as you set the cartons on his table and search his cabinets for plates. normally, he’d be at your side in a second, fumbling for napkins, tripping over a chair leg in his rush to make himself useful. “you’re freaking me out, clark,” you say finally, sliding a plate of noodles toward him. “yesterday you were fine, and today you’re like this. did perry yell at you? did lois make some crack about your tie again?”

“no.” his fork stirs aimlessly through the noodles, appetite nonexistent. his eyes flicker up to yours for a heartbeat, then drop to the table. “just—don’t worry about it.”

but you do. you can’t not. this is clark, the man who once apologized three times in a row because he accidentally bumped your chair. the man who leaves sticky notes on your desk when you’re having a bad day, with scribbled little cartoons that always make you smile. seeing him dulled, detached, is like finding the sun burned out overnight. “too late,” you murmur, softer than you meant to. “i’m already worried.”

his throat tightens. he pushes his food away, elbows braced on his knees, palms clasped so tightly his knuckles blanch. he wants to say it—that he heard you, that he knows you’re in love with jimmy, that it’s tearing him apart. but the words wedge in his chest like shards of glass. so instead, he shakes his head. “you don’t have to take care of me. i’ll be fine.”

you stare at him, unsettled. the clark you know would’ve blushed at the sight of you standing in his doorway with dinner, would’ve tripped over his gratitude, would’ve told you a dozen times you didn’t need to, but thank you, thank you, thank you. this version of him? he feels distant—even untouchable. “so who will?” you sigh, reaching out to rub your manicured nails up and down his arm. he flinches at the sudden contact. “if i don’t take care of you, who will?” you repeat the question, voice quieter this time.

for a beat, there’s nothing but the hum of his old refrigerator, the distant honk of a horn outside. then, the sudden snap of his words. “maybe you should go take care of jimmy instead.” the words land like a slap. sharp, petty, and completely unlike him. his voice isn’t raised, but it cuts through the room like glass.

your lips part in confusion. “what?”

instantly, his face crumples, shame flooding in. he drags a hand over his mouth, shaking his head. “i—god, i didn’t mean that.”

but you’re still staring at him, confusion knitting your brow. clark kent doesn’t snap. he doesn’t sulk like a child or spit out jealous little barbs. he doesn’t tell you to go take care of someone else. except, apparently, tonight he does. you whisper, incredulous, “where did that even come from?”

that’s when the words begin to spill out like you’d given him truth serum. “iheardyouandloistalkingaboutjimmyyesterday.” he babbles, eyes pinching shut in pure embarrassment. “i wasn’t eavesdropping—well, i guess i was—but that’s only because i have really, really good hearing.” you blink at him, stunned into silence. his words tumble over themselves, frantic and messy, and it’s so painfully unlike the careful, gentle clark you know. “you said he was super amazing and he was perfect and blah blah, and it really upset me because i really like you.”

your chest goes still, like the air’s been punched out of you. clark’s face is pink, his glasses slipping low on his nose as he finally dares to glance at you. his expression is raw, almost desperate. and then, all at once, it clicks. the conversation he must’ve overheard. the laughter with lois. the exaggerated tone you’d been using.

your lips part. “oh my god.”

he flinches. “i knew i shouldn’t’ve said-”

“no, clark,” you cut in quickly, leaning forward across the little table. “you didn’t hear the whole thing.” his brows pinch, confusion warring with the nerves flickering across his face.

“jimmy is so cute and amazing and everything he does is just perfect. i think i’m in love with him,” you’d said, slouched against lois’s desk, your voice dripping with mock sweetness. lois had nearly spit out her coffee, laughing as you mimicked the wide-eyed gush of the new intern who couldn’t string two sentences together without swooning over poor jimmy olsen. “and she didn’t know that he was right behind her! i almost died.”

back in clark’s apartment, you cover your mouth, a laugh threatening despite the tension. “clark… i wasn’t talking about me. i was making fun of that new intern, melanie. you know, the one who brings jimmy muffins every morning like she’s feeding a baby bird?”

his entire body stills. he blinks once, twice, the words catching up like bricks tumbling into place. “…oh.” clark’s ears flame instantly, red creeping down his neck. he scrubs a hand over his face like he can hide inside his palm. “i-” his voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “i thought—i really thought-”

“that i was in love with jimmy?” you supply, a mix of incredulity and something softer curling around the words.

he groans, deflating like a balloon and dragging his fingers through his hair. “god, this is humiliating. i’m sorry. i shouldn’t have assumed. i just—i heard it, and it felt like someone punched a hole straight through me. and then tonight i went and…” his jaw tightens, guilt coloring every syllable, “snapped at you. you didn’t deserve that.”

you study him, the way his shoulders slope in defeat, the way his chest still rises and falls too fast. you’ve never seen clark kent like this. it makes your heart ache. “clark,” you say gently, resting your hand over his where it grips his knee. he jolts at the touch, eyes flying to yours. “you like me?”

the question cracks something open in him. his throat bobs as he nods, slow, reluctant, but honest. “more than i should.”

your lips curve into a wide grin. “you’re serious.” you try your best to feign disbelief.

his laugh is humorless, quiet. “painfully.”

you tilt your head, studying him, the way his broad frame looks so small slumped forward on the couch. “i had a hunch.”

that makes him look up, startled. “you…what?” sure, maybe he was a little obvious. okay, more than a little. but in his defense, how else was he supposed to act around you? how do you look at someone who makes the whole room feel like it’s finally in color and not trip over your own feet? he thought he’d been careful. that the coffees and lunches and endless, nervous “thank yous” were just gentlemanly. the kind of things anyone would do for a coworker. except no one else at the planet is lining up outside your favorite deli to grab your lunch when you’re too swamped to get it yourself. no one else memorizes how you take your coffee down to the sugar packet.

but you noticed. of course you did.

you shrug, trying to bite back your smile. “clark, you bring me coffee every single morning without fail. you pull out my chair like we’re in a black-and-white movie. you once carried my bag down three flights of stairs because you said it looked heavy—it had one book in it.”

his ears are glowing now, eyes wide behind his lenses. “i—i thought i was being-”

“discreet?” you finish for him, laughing softly. “you aren’t very discreet.”

he groans, hiding his face in his hands, muffling something that sounds like, “oh, god.”

but you reach forward, gently prying his hands away until his flustered face is bared again. “hey.” your voice is softer now. “for the record i like you too. i have for a while.”

his mouth parts, a little stunned breath catching like he doesn’t quite know how to hold it. the corners of his lips twitch up, like a smile is fighting its way through all that disbelief. “you—really?”

“painfully,” you echo back, teasing but oh so true.

No matter how many times you told him that you embraced his love, the worries came back every once and a while, but it came back while he was at work.

Clark was nearby, hoping to get you to proofread his article before submitting it to Perry when he caught a few words that were shared between you and Lois.

"Maybe you need a break," Lois suggested, while nursing her hot cup of coffee.

A break from what?

"Yeah, maybe you're right," You agreed, as you spun side to side on your chair.

You agreeing to Lois's suggestion got him worried, were you two talking about your relationship with him?

"It's normal to take a break from it when it feels smothering," Lois added.

That word, smothering. That's what got him sweating with uneasiness. To Clark, there was no way that you weren't talking about your relationship with him, there's just no way.

Usually you and Clark finish work at the same time, and get home around the same time, but you were the only one home. You wrapped yourself in a blanket on the couch, just doodling away on your ipad, waiting for Clark to come home so you can talk about plans for tonight's dinner.

After an hour of waiting, the door opens and you can hear awkward shuffling enter your shared apartment. You look over to see Clark holding a white large bag, which made you assume that he went shopping.

"Where did you go, love?" You asked from the couch as you kept your eyes on his moving figure.

Clark didn't reply, but he dropped his satchel on the ground, which made you raise an eyebrow, because he treated that bag like it was his baby. You watched as Clark came over with the white bag, got onto his knees and unpack whatever that was in the bag. He the unpacked a fluffy, blue blanket and wrapped it around you snuggly. Clark then unpacked all your favourtie chocolate bars, snacks, and drinks from the bag and placed it all on the round coffee table.

"Baby, what's all this?" You questioned, as you tried to sit up but he stopped you.

"Darling," Clark spoke up, looking at you with puppy eyes. "Please don't leave me."

"What?" You questioned with a confused face.

"Darling please," He begged. "Please don't leave."

"Baby, what are you talking about?"

"I know I can be gosh damn overwhelming, but I can work on that!" Clark continued, with you still being as confused as ever. "Gosh darling, just please don't leave! I am give you more space! Whatever you need! Just please don't leave and say that we need a break!"

"Sweetie, who said anything about needing a break?" You ask as you started to run your fingers through his hair, it usually helps him relax.

Clark leaned his head so that he was resting more into your soft hands, feeling more calm and letting his pounding heart relax.

"I- I overheard your conversation with Lois, about needing a break from our relationship-," Clark started rambling but you gently took his face into your hands, your thumbs gently rubbing small circles on his jaw.

"Love, I wasn't talking about taking a break from our relationship," You spoke, shutting down his rambling thoughts and soothing his panic slightly. "I was complaining about not being able to draw. Like recently, I just can't seem to draw anything that came to mind and it was driving me insane."

oh.

"I would never, ever, want to break up with you," You continued speaking, thumbs now rubbing circles on his cheeks. "You are such a sweet, loving, caring human being, who makes me feel confident, safe, loved, and worth something. I love how clingy you are. I love how caring you are. I would never. ever. leave you. You're stuck with me and I'm stuck with you. I'm never leaving. Ever."

Clark smiles, and you spent your time placing soft kisses all over his face. Nose, cheek, chin, temple, everything on his face got some love.

"I'm sorry I made you worry," You spoke between kisses.

Clark smiles with a blush scattered on his cheeks and ears, and you smiled back.

"I love you," You whispered.

"I love you too, darling," He whispered back before bringing himself up from kneeling on the floor to lay himself on top of you, getting a laugh from you.

"Clarkkkk," You giggled as you felt him wrap his arms around you, resting his head on your plump stomach. "Don't you want to change into more comfortable clothes?"

"Mm no," He mumbled. "Already comfy."

You smiled and brought your hands to his hair, running your fingers through his dark coils. You heard a sigh from Clark, signaling that he was really comfy. Although, he moved his arm so that it wrapped around your large thighs, his hand gently grabbing a greedy handful of your softness.

You smiled as you gently grabbed his glasses to place them aside, so he can get more comfortable, which is followed by your ipad so you both can have maximum comfort for the long cuddle session ahead of you.

Thank you for reading!! If you enjoyed and want more, my requests are open! just please read my pinned message for more deets! <33

She’s also the one and only person you tell all of your secrets to, and you’ve come to realize that was a huge mistake.

It’s not that she can’t be trusted, or that you’re worried she’ll use them against you, but if she raises her eyebrows at you one more time when you say good morning to Clark, you’re going to move to Gotham. 

Really, you should have known from the moment you let it slip that telling her about your crush on Clark was a mistake. You’d been huddled on her couch, feeling perfectly giggly and warm and ready to gossip, except it had turned into you spilling your guts. It’s not like you’re in love with him, despite what Lois thinks, you just think he’s cute. And tall. And funny. And considerate. And perfect.

Maybe it’s a little more than a minor crush, but regardless, Lois’s reaction has been over the top and frankly a little ridiculous. Plus, you refuse to believe that half of the Daily Planet staff didn’t have a crush on Clark, although it seems like you might be the only one based on the treatment he gets from the rest of your coworkers. 

In the handful of weeks since you’ve let your little confession slip, Lois has made it her mission to get you to tell Clark how you feel about him, for reasons she refuses to tell you. It was funny at first, little eyebrow raises or elbow nudges when he walked next to you to reach his desk, but now it seems like all she’s capable of talking about. 

“Last I checked, you covered international affairs, so this is actually none of your business at all,” your attempt at a scathing response just has her laughing, and you can’t help but crack a smile too, even though you’re still frustrated with her. 

As sweet as she is, and you know her heart is in the right place, she just doesn’t get why you can’t walk up to him and ask him to coffee or dinner or whatever else people do on first dates. It’s not just the fear of rejection, of getting shot down and having your heart stomped on, although that fear is present too. It’s something more, something deeper, something Lois would never understand.

All your life, you’ve never once been asked out on a date. You’ve never been anyone’s secret crush, the recipient of sweet notes stuffed inside a locker. Instead, you’re the designated wingwoman, the girl that unlucky friends get stuck talking to while your friends get chatted up by more attractive suitors and you deal with the sulking, the pouting, the thinly veiled jokes about your appearance. And it’s fine, really. Maybe a little lonely, but it’s no big deal.

The thought of Clark looking at you like that, though, makes your stomach turn. It doesn’t matter how old they are, how accomplished, how successful, how seemingly sweet, every guy you’ve ever talked to has turned into the boys you swooned over in high school, who never paid you a second glance or else made cutting remarks when they thought you couldn’t hear, or maybe they just didn’t care. 

“C’mon, just talk to him,” Lois thankfully keeps her voice low, pouring endless amounts of sugar into her coffee as you sip from your own mug, “It’s Clark.”

“Exactly,” you reply, huffing a little at the expression she gives you in response, something between irritation and humor. “Clark’s a nice guy. He’s great, even. But all guys seem great before you’re stuck at a restaurant with them and they promise to call back but never do.”

“That won’t be a problem,” she reassures you, and when she sees that her words just bounce right off, she tacks on, “and if it is, we’ll hunt him down and make him pay.”

You snort into your mug, shaking your head as you try and reign in your laughter when you hear footsteps approach.

“Who are you hunting down?” Clark asks, although he knows better than to get between Lois and her investigative tactics. When she knows there’s a story, she’ll stop at nothing to get it. 

“Our enemies,” you respond, giving him a smile before making your way back to your desk. If you were more level-headed, less prone to feeling like you’re going to explode from even a millisecond of attention, you’d stay and banter, sending playful remarks back and forth. 

Instead, you scurry away before you can embarrass yourself, not realizing until you’re back at your desk that you’ve left Clark and Lois alone together. You wonder if you should start looking for those Gotham apartments now or wait until the end of the work day. 

By some sort of miracle, though, they both go their separate ways, which doesn’t mean much because all of your desks are crammed together and well within earshot of each other. At least this way you can keep your eye on Lois and whatever scheme she’s busy cooking up. 

Lois must be playing the long game, though, because within a few weeks your crush on Clark has become old news between you and your friend, even if you only seem to fall more and more in love with him. He brought you a lemonade one day when it was unseasonably warm and you almost confessed on the spot because you find him so incredibly lovely, but then every failed declaration of love you’ve ever made came flooding back so instead you just thanked him and reveled in the way he smiled at you. 

Maybe Lois is right, and Clark isn’t like every other person you’ve ever had a crush on, but you’re not willing to find out, not yet. For now, you’re content to sit and pine and yearn in silence, because being able to smile at him across your desks is better than a heartbreaking rejection, even though it feels like it physically pains your heart sometimes. 

“Can you please just talk to him? You’re killing me over here,” Lois hisses to you as your eyes trail Clark’s path through the office towards the elevators.

“I talk to him all the time,” you tease, even though you’d thought the two of you had moved past this topic of conversation and you can feel that old frustration building up again.

“Seriously,” she says, even as she swats you on the arm with the folder she’s holding, “just tell him. I can promise you, nothing bad is going to happen. And if it does, you can be in charge of movie nights for eternity.”

“As tempting as that sounds, I think I’d rather eat my own shoes than have to walk in here every day and bring the mood down because I was rejected by my office crush that I have to work next to,” you pause, continuing before Lois can jump in, “I know, he’s not like them. But I can’t help it, there’s no way in hell I’m saying anything to him.”

“Clark is not some random stupid guy who’s gonna be mean to you, he doesn’t even kill spiders. And I have it on good authority that he’s gonna say yes.”

By good authority, she means Jimmy Olsen, who swears up and down that he and Clark have had the same conversations that the two of you have had more times than she can count. The both of them are on the verge of locking you and Clark in a closet somewhere if it means you’ll finally tell each other, even if it is ridiculously childish. 

“You’re crazy, and I’m not going to humiliate myself, no matter what you promise me,” you put an end to the conversation, hoping that this time it finally stays buried.

What you’re unaware of, though, is that your crush on Clark is far from buried. He hadn’t meant to overhear the two of you, but he’d realized that he forgot a folder on his desk and had to turn back to grab it. You and Lois were so wrapped up in whisper-yelling at each other that you didn’t notice when he scrambled back over, and he had planned on leaving again as soon as the folder was in his hand, but then he heard his name and he couldn’t resist listening for a second more.

Even though he’d missed the beginning of your conversation, he’s certain he knows exactly what the two of you were talking about. And he’s certain that he’ll never tell Jimmy any more secrets that he doesn’t want spread around the office. Thank God it hasn’t made its way to Cat yet. 

Towards the end of the day, when you’re more focused on pretending to look busy than actually doing your work, the conversation you had with Lois still lingers in your mind. Maybe she’s right, and telling Clark how you feel would be the smart thing to do, if only to put you out of your misery.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” Clark’s voice, though soft, causes you to startle, a gasp sounding in your throat as you whip your head around. He looks sheepish, cringing at himself, and he thinks that this must be a sign to keep his mouth shut. 

“Yeah, sure, of course,” you smile up at him, something more than just polite, and Clark finds himself forging ahead anyway, despite the alarm bells ringing in his head that this is a terrible idea. 

“Do you, I mean, would you maybe,” Clark shakes his head at himself, pressing his eyes closed because he finds there’s no way he can speak eloquently when you’re looking at him like that, all soft and trusting. “Maybe, sometime, do you want to get dinner? Together?”

“Together?” You ask, as if you’ve never heard the word before. Clark is so sure that he’s making a fool of himself, but he nods anyway, trying his best to smile at you when all he feels like doing is grimacing at himself. 

“Yeah, together,” he confirms, “like as a date. A date, together.”

“You’re asking me on a date?” You’re looking at him as if he’s grown three heads, and there’s a part of him that wants to take it back, wants to pretend like he never said anything and just go home, but he fights the urge and forges ahead.

“I am,” he’s still managing to keep a smile on his face, praying he doesn’t look deranged, “unless you don’t want to, then it can just be friendly. Casual. A friendly, casual dinner.”

“No!” You practically shout at him, cringing when it draws the attention of the remaining stragglers of coworkers still milling around, “I mean, no. A date would be nice. Perfect.”

“Yeah?” Clark’s still not sure that you’re not just saying yes to be nice to him, because that seems like something you’d do just to spare his feelings. You’re nice like that. Really, he thinks you’re perfect, but that seems like coming on a bit strong. 

“Yeah,” you’re grinning now, unable to help yourself, “I’d been meaning to ask you out for a while, actually, I just didn’t have the courage. Even just the idea of you saying no made me want to run away.”

“I’d never say no to you,” he says it so earnestly, so eagerly, that you actually believe him.

“It’s a date then,” you confirm, and the two of you just beam at each other, so unbelievably, stupidly happy.

Maybe Lois is right, and Clark is completely unlike every other crush you’ve ever heard. So far, at least, things are going a million times better than you could have ever dreamed. You’re going on a date with Clark Kent. Clark Kent asked you out on a date. 

Somewhere by the coffee machine, hidden by the beams that divide the office, Lois and Jimmy share a silent high-five as they watch your interaction with Clark, grinning into their mugs. 

-

The first call from your mother comes just before lunch. You should let it roll to voicemail. You don’t. You still haven’t learned how to stomach the guilt of ignoring her, how to live with the knowledge that she’ll call your aunt to lament about how you’re too busy for family.

“Are you wearing the blue dress I bought you?” she says without preamble. “It’s flattering. Black is slimming, but blue’s better on you. Brings out your eyes.”

“I’m at work, Mom.”

“You can wear a dress to work. You know, if you… tried a little more. You’ll feel better when you start making healthier choices. I was talking to Linda about a cleanse—”

“I like my choices.”

She tuts, a sound like a nick to the quick. “You’ll thank me when you’re confident. When people look at you and see discipline.”

You swallow, tight. Another postcard pinned to the corkboard of your chest: discipline equals beauty, equals worth. “I have to go.”

“Dinner Sunday. Don’t be late. And be prepared to say no to potatoes. You know how you get.”

How you get. Like you’re a storm gathering at the horizon. You hang up, jaw aching from the way you’ve clenched it. The newsroom sounds like it’s under water. You concentrate on breathing, on steadying your hands over the keyboard.

A shadow drifts over your desk. Clark’s voice is low. “You okay?”

You don’t look up. If you look at him you’ll fall apart. “Fine. Deadline.”

He hums, skeptical, and leaves without pushing. Minutes later, a yellow sticky note appears on your desk, sliding like a small sun beneath your fingers.

Breathe. Lunch on me at one. — C

You don’t go at one. You go at one-thirty because you pretend to forget and then hate yourself for taking up space, for taking up time he offered so easily. You expect him to have gone without you. He hasn’t. He’s sitting in the lobby with a brown bag and two waters, broad shoulders hunched like he’s trying to make himself smaller to fit the vinyl chair.

He stands when he sees you. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you echo, breathless from the elevator and the impulse to run away from who you are.

“I got you the grilled cheese.” He lifts the bag, the motion almost sheepish. “With tomato. Don’t yell at me about the tomato. It wasn't extra.”

You hear yourself laugh. “I wasn’t going to yell.”

“You were going to give me the 'don't spend money on me' look.”

You sit beside him. You don’t deserve him. You devour the grilled cheese anyway because hunger and shame are two wolves who never stop circling each other, and because he’s watching you like every bite is a string he’s untying around his own heart. He talks about nothing, about a weird elevator guy, about the copy desk’s war against serial commas, about Jimmy’s newest camera, until your breaths match the rhythm of his sentences.

“Thanks,” you say when most of the grease-speckled paper is gone.

“Anytime.” He tilts his head. “You sure you’re okay?”

You tell the truth because with him, you always do. “Mom called.”

He doesn’t push. He just nods like a metronome keeping time in a song you’re both learning to play. “We can work late together tonight,” he offers. “I’ll bring takeout. You can tell me about the blue dress.”

You inhale, shaky. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, soft, attempting to cover his slip up. “I just… like when you tell me things.”

-

The second call is after eight, after the newsroom has thinned and the artificial light has turned everything flat. You’re alone at your desk; Lois left hours ago, tossing a smirk over her shoulder that said don’t be dumb, and Jimmy trailed after her for a stakeout that sounded like code for “getting tacos.” Clark’s somewhere nearby, drafting a story at the desk across from yours, a twin island of mess and focus.

Your phone lights up with Mom, and you swear you won’t answer. You answer anyway, and admonish yourself for being a glutton for punishment.

“Your cousin’s down three dress sizes,” she says, like hello is a luxury. “She cut carbs. You should ask her for tips. She looked radiant today when I saw her. You could look like that. You’ve got a pretty face.”

The words land like pennies, light, relentless, collecting in a jar that bends your neck with its weight. “I have to work.”

“I know this is hard to hear. But I say it because I love you. Because I want you to be your best. You’ll never be happy if you—”

“Gotta go.” You hang up. Your hand shakes. You set the phone face-down and stare at the blank wall across the aisle until the tiny black dots in your vision scatter.

“Hey.” The word is a whisper. Clark kneels by your desk like you’re a spooked animal he’s trying not to scare off, one big hand steadying your rolling chair. “Talk to me.”

You press your tongue to your molars until the ache distracts you. “It’s dumb.”

“It’s you. It’s not dumb.”

“She thinks...” You break off, hating the waver in your voice. “She thinks if I were thinner, I’d be… better. Easier to love.” There. It’s out where it can’t fester. It looks uglier in the light. You brace for the reflexive no, that’s not true platitude you’ve heard from well-meaning people before.

What you get instead is a question. “Do you think that?”

Your laugh fractures. “I think I… don’t forget it. Even when I know it’s arbitrary. Even when someone’s kind. I just...translate everything back into her language.”

He absorbs it. You can feel him become even stiller, like stillness is a muscle he has to flex. “Do you want to keep talking here?” he asks. “Or take a walk? Or… I brought food. It’s cold by now, but I can microwave it.”

“You brought food?”

“Lo mein.” He smiles, tentative, like he’s offering a hand into a crowded subway car. “It’s not the same unless you burn your tongue on it, but—”

You stand. He stands with you. He doesn’t touch you until you reach for him first.

You anchor two fingers in the sleeve of his shirt and tug. That’s all. That’s enough. He follows your lead to the break room, reheats the cartons, pours water, sets the chopsticks the way he knows you like: one half splintered in two so they’re shorter, more manageable. You eat at the far counter where the window shows you the building’s brick flank and the slice of city beyond it.

“Does she know what you do?” he asks finally. “Does she read you?”

“Sometimes. She’s proud, in her way. She brags. She also asks if there are… more flattering headshots.”

Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from him before, a sharp inhale like he’s choking on his own restraint. “I wish I could put her in front of my desk for one day. Just one. And make her watch the way this whole floor stops when you stand up to pitch. The way your phone rings with sources who trust you. The way you make copy sing so hard it haunts the building after you leave.”

You stare. The lo mein tastes like nothing.

His throat moves. “I wish you both... could see you the way I see you.”

Silence pools between you. You can hear your heart in it. You can hear his.

“I don’t know how to do that,” you confess, small.

“I do,” he says softly. “I can help.”

The words hang in the fluorescent light. You’re not sure how you leave, only that ten minutes later you’re in your apartment with a couch littered by the jacket you shrugged off and the keys you tossed where they shouldn’t go. Clark toes out of his shoes at the door like he’s done it a hundred times, even though he hasn’t, and sets the takeout on your coffee table. He isn’t here to save you. He’s here to sit with you while you save yourself.

He doesn’t crowd. He asks where your plates are, where your blankets live, whether he can make tea. You let him. You sit with your knees tucked under your chin and let chamomile fog your face while a documentary plays with low volume and softer rhetoric than the one your mother speaks in.

At some point your head tips onto his shoulder. At some point his arm drapes over your back, careful at first, then firm when you don’t flinch. At some point you cry without making a sound. He doesn’t say shh or it’s okay. He says, “I’m here,” and he is.

When the credits roll, he doesn’t move. Neither do you. The tea has cooled. Your eyes feel swollen.

“You can say it,” you whisper to the dark. “The thing you didn’t say.”

“What didn’t I say?”

“That she’s wrong.”

He exhales. “She is wrong.”

“Say more.”

He tilts so he can see you, the streetlight leaking through your blinds washing one side of his face in amber. “You’re not a problem to solve. You’re not a work in progress. There isn’t a finish line called ‘worthy.’ You’re worthy right now. You’re…” He swallows, throat bobbing, the tendon at the side of his jaw tight. “You’re the best thing about my mornings. And most of my afternoons. And every night I try to go to sleep and don’t, it's because I keep thinking about what it would feel like to…”

“You don’t have to say it,” you whisper, even as your chest expands to make room for the words you ache to hear.

“I do.” He looks at your mouth. He looks away. His voice goes quiet in a way that makes the world feel like a church. “I’m in love with you.”

It takes a full second for the sentence to land. Then another for the meaning to bloom.

“No,” you say automatically, reflexively, the denial learned young and practiced often. “No way. You can't be. You could have anyone.”

His laugh is small and disbelieving. “I don’t want anyone.”

“Clark—”

He doesn’t rush you. He doesn’t reach. “Can I tell you the things that made me fall in love with you?” he asks, and when you nod, he starts counting them like beads on a rosary. “The way you circle the last sentence you write before you send it, like you’re blessing it. The way you pretend you don’t like my jokes and then write worse ones in the margins of my drafts. The way you always leave my desk with one object straighter than you found it, just one, like you’re pretending not to care. The way you take the stairs when you’re angry because you like how the burn in your legs sounds louder than the voice in your head. The fact that you put your hair up in the same messy bun when you’re thinking hard, and it looks like a sun I can put my hand against without getting burned.”

Your eyes sting. Your breath shakes. “Stop.”

“I can’t.” It’s almost a laugh; it’s almost a prayer. “I love your laugh when you’re not trying to be polite. The loud one.”

You rub your face. “I’m not… I’m not the fantasy. I know that.”

He doesn’t blink. “You’re my favorite reality, and every fantasy I have ever had in one.”

The room goes very still. Somewhere outside, a car door slams. On the screen, the menu loops.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks.

You nod because you cannot do anything else. He leans in slowly, like he’s afraid of startling you, like you’re a fawn who might bolt. His mouth brushes yours once, a feathering touch that splinters you at the seam. He tastes like tea and lo mein and something you can’t name that feels like a house you haven’t lived in yet but already remember.

You make a sound, small and astonished. He catches it with his lips. The second kiss is deeper. The third is a promise. He doesn’t crowd you, doesn’t slot you beneath him, doesn’t take. He asks “okay?”, and again you say yes.

When the kiss gentles, he rests his forehead against yours. You feel his breath on your lips, the curve of his smile against the edge of your mouth.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispers.

“Stay.”

“Always.”

It doesn’t happen that night. You could let it, easily. You could let him tip you back and swallow you whole and then take the pieces home like a magpie collects bright things. But Clark is made of patience, and you are made of a thousand little don’ts and shouldn’ts and not-yets that have taught your body to brace.

You fall asleep with his arm around you and wake to sunlight and the smell of something toasting. He’s in your kitchen with his sleeves pushed up and your rodeo clown of a toaster wheezing out heat like it’s asthmatic.

“I didn’t know if you do full breakfasts,” he says, sheepish. “So… toast. And fruit. And coffee, which I can be trusted with.”

You stand in the doorway in an oversized T-shirt and watch a man you want cut a strawberry in half and then in half again, reverent, like he’s opening a locket. He looks up and the expression on his face, open, warm, a little shy, turns your bones to warm wax.

You touch him because you can. Your fingers push into the soft cotton over his spine. He shudders, slight, like touch is a language he’s fluent in but has learned not to speak out loud.

“Hi,” you say against his shoulder.

“Hi,” he says into your hair.

He leaves at nine because you have a late morning meeting and he insists on giving you space to get ready. He kisses your cheek at the door and looks like he wants to say something huge and dangerous and true. You squeeze his hand like you heard it anyway.

At your desk, Jimmy swivels into your orbit like a planet with too much curiosity. “You look well-rested,” he sing-songs.

“Don’t be weird,” you say.

“I’m never weird,” he lies.

Lois drops a file folder on your desk and both of you jump. “Tell him to stop narrating your personal life. It scares the interns.” She leans in, voice low. “You good?”

You look past her to where Clark is pretending to read an email and failing to hide his smile. The grin finds its echo in your ribs. “I’m good.”

Lois’s mouth does a small, satisfied tilt. “About time.”

Sunday dinner comes like a dare. You almost cancel. You almost don’t. You go because not going feels like letting the wrong narrative win, and because Clark texts you do you want backup? i can be there at six with a pie and a bad joke and you say no. but tell me the joke anyway.

He sends back i used to hate facial hair but then it grew on me. You groan. Then screenshot it.

Your mother hugs you at the door and says, “You look nice,” and then, “Did you try that blue dress on yet?” and then, “Bread’s on the table,” in the same breath, each phrase a bead on the same string.

You sit through it like a pro. Your uncle asks about your job, your aunt asks about your love life, your cousin shows you pictures and you say all the right things while something in you scrapes its nails against the inside of your skin.

You survive. After, you stand at the sink with your mother, hands slick with suds, the dull white light buzzing overhead, and she says, “I only push because I care.”

You say nothing. She adds, as if it’s kind, “You could be so breathtaking if—” and you set the dish down with a clatter.

“Mom.”

She blinks at the tone.

“I am breathtaking,” you say, voice even and shaking, new muscle burning clean under old scar. “And I don’t need to be smaller to be loved.”

Her mouth opens. Closes. The silence redraws the room’s outlines.

“You’re sensitive,” she says finally.

“I’m done,” you say, and mean it.

You walk to your car with your hands shaking and the night air slick against your throat and the streetlights scattered like punctuation over the dark. Your phone vibrates before you get the key in the door. How’d it go? from Clark.

I told her the truth, you type. I’m at my car. I’m okay.

He responds, Proud of you. Then, a beat later, Open your trunk.

You frown. You pop it. There’s a pie inside, wrapped in a tea towel. There’s a note taped to it with a doodled smiley face definitely wearing glasses.

Backup, in case you changed your mind. — C

You laugh, wet and unbelieving, alone under a streetlamp, and you want him so much it feels like you might split.

You wait until Friday to invite him over again. Not because you’re uncertain; because certainty deserves ceremony. You tidy the apartment. You light a candle that smells like rain on pavement. You wear the soft black shorts you sleep in and a camisole that shows a slice of collarbone that’s always felt like a letter you were too shy to mail.

He knocks exactly when he said he would. He has flowers, not roses, but a messy bouquet that looks like a field at noon, and wine, and that patient expression that says he’ll go as slow as your body needs.

“Hi,” you say, smiling so wide you feel absurd.

“Hi.” He looks at you like you’ve stepped into a spotlight. “You look...” He stops, breathes, starts over. “You look like yourself. So, incredibly beautiful. I love that.”

You pour wine. You eat pizza on the floor. He tells you about a story he wants to chase and you tell him about a city councilman whose smile never reaches his eyes. You laugh at nothing and everything. The candle burns lower. The apartment settles around you like a cat does: in increments, with trust.

You kiss him first. He’s on the couch and pulls you into his lap like it’s a place that was always meant for you. He makes a sound into your mouth, surprised and greedy, and his hands lift to your waist, hover, and then settle, warm and big, fingers splayed like he’s mapping you.

“Okay?” he asks against your lips, the word a pulse.

“Yeah,” you breathe, and drag your hand through his hair, fingers catching at the nape in a way that makes his breath hitch.

The kiss deepens, unspooling, not frantic. He doesn’t try to slot you under him, still. He lets you choose the angle, the pressure, the rhythm, and when you rock once, slow, the heat that skates over his face is almost reverent.

“God,” he says softly. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

“Me too.” You brush your mouth along his jaw. “So long.”

He exhales like relief has weight. “Tell me if you want to stop, or slow down, or if you want...” He breaks off when your mouth finds the soft spot under his ear. “anything,” he finishes, voice high pitched and a little wrecked.

You take his glasses off before you lead him to your bedroom. It isn’t a movie moment; you bump your hip against the dresser and say ow and burst out laughing because you’ve been bracing for a grand failure, for proof that you’re not built for soft lighting and slow hands. But he laughs too, and he touches the place you bumped with a thumb like he can soothe it through the fabric, and the fear loosens.

“Lights?” he asks.

“Leave them,” you say nervously, the fear of letting yourself be seen only outweighed by the desire for Clark Kent. Your words, to you, feel like its own kind of vow.

He kisses you standing, then sitting, then not quite lying down. His hands learn you like a language he’s studied and finally gets to speak out loud. He doesn’t skim over the parts of you you’ve been taught to hide. He lingers. He kneels and drags his mouth over your shoulder, down your arm, along the slope of your breast where your camisole slips, and murmurs, “Beautiful,” like the word is a boundary he’s crossing back to bring you with him.

Your body talks to you in your mother’s voice sometimes: careful, careful, don’t take up more space than necessary. He answers in his own: take up more. He strokes reverent circles over the soft of your belly and bends to press a slow kiss there that undoes you at the hinge.

“Clark,” you say, and it comes out a plea.

He lifts his head. “Yeah?”

“I want...” You pause, searching for the right words. You’re not used to voicing desire; you’ve learned to ration it. “I want you to see me. All of me. And still...”

He’s already shaking his head, eyes gone bright. “I don’t know how not to.”

He helps you out of your camisole like it’s silk even though it’s old cotton, his hands steady, his mouth soft. He kisses each shoulder, the notch of your collarbone, the tender place where your pulse thuds. He looks at you like time could start right now and he wouldn’t miss anything important.

“Tell me what you love,” he says, voice hoarse.

You’re not sure you can. He helps anyway. He drags his lips down your sternum, pauses to nuzzle the curve of your breast, to breathe you in; when you arch, he mouths you there with a care that makes your knees go loose.

“I love this,” he says, and his hand cups you whole, no rush, no squeezing you into smaller shapes. “How you feel in my hands. I love that when you sigh, your whole body sighs, like you don’t hold back even when you think you do.”

You could cry for how gently he names you. Instead you touch him back. He’s solid under your palms, warm and broad and steady, and the way his breath stutters when you trace his chest is new and addictive.

“Can I?” He motions at your shorts, then back at your face. Consent is his liturgy.

“Yes,” you say, and when he slides them down, he does it like he’s unwrapping a gift he’s been thinking about for months, hands shaking only a little.

He looks. Not a devouring look, not a greedy one. A witnessing. Your thighs, your hips, the places that are soft and spill a little, the stretch marks like pale lightning, the places where you carry yourself. His mouth opens. Closes. He makes a quiet sound like awe.

“You’re...” He shakes his head, like the word he wants is too big for his mouth.

He kisses the inside of your knee. Then higher. Then higher. He doesn’t rush. He murmurs things you’ll remember later like a song, so pretty, so warm, I’ve got you, I’ve got you forever, and when he finally settles between your thighs, he looks up to check again, one palm steady on your hip.

“Please,” you whisper, and his mouth falters into a smile you feel against your skin.

The first drag of his tongue is slow and sure, a question and an answer. You say yes without speaking. He learns the angles you like by the sounds you can’t stifle, by the way your hand laces in his hair, by the way your hips try to leave the mattress and he brings you back with a firm, anchoring hand and a there you go, that’s it. He doesn’t flatten you into something neat. He lets you be a chorus.

When the pleasure finally crests, you say his name the way you’ve wanted to say it, the way you’ll say it for the rest of your life, syllables broken and made new. He stays with you through it, breathes you down with kisses, with praise that sounds like the opposite of apology.

“Still okay?” he asks when you can breathe again.

“Yes,” you say, and take his face in both hands, thumb skimming his lower lip. “I want you.”

He pauses like he’s trying to memorize the shape of that sentence. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

The first brush of him against you is careful, almost chastened, like desire is a horse he refuses to spook. He lines himself up with one hand and braces beside your head with the other, eyes on yours. “Tell me if it’s too much. Tell me to stop if you want.”

“I won’t,” you say. “I’ll tell you anything but stop.”

He eases in by inches, patience like a rope you both hold. Your breath hitches; he stops; you nod; he inches. The stretch is sweet and aching, the urge to hide and the urge to be ruined warring in your throat until the latter wins, and when he’s finally fully inside you, he drops his forehead to yours and laughs, helpless and quiet.

“You okay?” you murmur, even though it’s obvious he is not.

“I’m...” He inhales like another life just opened under his feet. “I’m sp in love with you.”

He moves like the word deserves, slow and thoughtful, like he’s trying to write I love you in a language made of hips and breath. He doesn’t look away. Every time you gasp he follows the sound like a tide, stays where you need him, shifts when you say please, murmurs yes, yes, yes like he’s agreeing to your body’s terms.

You don’t worry about angles. You don’t worry about the way your stomach softens, about the way your thighs spread. You worry about the way you feel like a prayer caught mid-air, the way he says good, the way he says look at me, the way he says your name like it’s both question and answer.

When you cum again, it’s not fireworks but weather; inevitable, sweeping, a front passing overhead and making the leaves on all your inner trees turn their faces upward. He follows with a shudder and a low groan that vibrates into your mouth when you drag him into a kiss.

After, he doesn’t roll away. He doesn’t laugh and make a joke to break the tension. He breathes with you. He cups your cheek with one big hand like he’s holding a lantern, thumb sweeping once, twice, three times against the soft under your eye.

“You okay?” he asks again, because it’s his nature to keep asking.

“Yeah.” Your voice is rough. You clear it. “I’m… more than okay.”

He grins, boyish and proud. Then sobers. “I know you’ve learned to brace,” he says, careful. “For comments. For looks. For hands that only touch certain parts. I want to be a place where you don’t brace.”

You inhale, a little broken. “You already are.”

He kisses you slow. “Then we’ll keep choosing it. Every day.”

In the weeks that follow, your mother tries again. People like her always do. She says something at brunch about a dress that “doesn’t do you any favors,” and you brush hollandaise over asparagus and say, casual as a knife, “The favor it does me is that I love it,” and then change the subject without offering her a chair at the head of your confidence.

She blinks and recalculates. You don’t do it for her. You do it because you have finally remembered how to be on your own side.

At work, the place that has always been home develops new rooms. You write cleaner. You pitch harder. You walk through the bullpen like you belong in your own life. Clark still brings you coffee. He still leaves sticky notes. He still hovers, as a verb, as a vow.

Jimmy keeps asking about custody, and now, when you two will take him to the park. Lois winks at you and smiles so hard you’re worried she pulled a muscle. Perry starts muttering about office romances and HR in a tone that suggests if you make him happy on a Thursday he’ll forget to be annoyed. You and Clark don’t make a show of anything. You also don’t hide. What would be the point.

One late evening, weeks after the first time he worshipped you into believing, you’re both the last ones in the newsroom again. The city’s lights spill through the bank of windows in streaks. The copy desk is a ghost ship. The vending machine hums like a tired bee.

He looks up from his screen and finds you already looking at him. The smile that moves through him when your eyes catch would be embarrassing if you didn’t wear an identical one.

“Break?” he calls.

“Custody hearing?” you call back.

“Jimmy’s yours on weekends,” he says solemnly.

“That’s fair.”

You meet at the middle aisle, both of you reaching, briefcase-full of reasons to touch. He slides his hands over your hips and you fit yourself against him like a sentence finding its period.

“You doing okay?” he asks, even now, like the question itself is a devotion.

“Yeah.” You tip your head. “You?”

“Yeah.” He kisses your forehead and then the corner of your mouth. Then, because you still surprise each other, he whispers, “I brought pie.”

You laugh quietly into his shirt. “Backup?”

“Always.”

He looks at you a long moment like he’s memorizing a byline. You let him. You let yourself be seen, big and bright and untrimmed, and it feels better than any finish line you were promised.

“Not breaking up,” he murmurs against your hair.

“We’re not even...” You pause, then tilt back, eyes searching his because you already know the answer. “We are.”

“Yeah,” he says, relief and wonder braided through the syllable. “We are.”

Back at your desks, you work in tandem, words pouring clean, the newsroom’s hum once again your favorite song. At some point, a sticky note skates onto your keyboard without you seeing his hand. You flip it open.

You’re breathtaking. — C

You roll your chair back and he meets you halfway and the kiss you share there in the hush of the empty bullpen is slow and soft and certain.

You don’t brace.