cameron

“g-gosh, taking me so deep huh? feel good?”

he’s standing at the edge of the bed, you’re lying on your back on the mattress, one leg wrapped around his waist and the other propped up against his body, the heel of your foot resting on the front of his shoulder.

he’s watching the way your stomach bulges as he thrusts into you.

one of his hands comes to your hip now, the other splays over your torso, pressing lightly.

you can feel every inch and every ridge and vein of his cock as he slams into you. hard and deep, but not too fast. he’s taking his time.

one hand snakes down to rub at your clit, the other moves up to rest below the base of your neck.

“please,” you moan out.

“please what, baby?” he asks, “am i not giving you enough? so greedy.”

you can’t find the words to beg, so you place one of your hands over the one he’s placed below your neck and move it higher up on your throat.

he gets the hint and squeezes lightly, applying the perfect amount of pressure as his hips start to move faster.

he groans as he watches your mouth fall open, his name falling off your lips over and over again.

“s’good, ryland. you feel so good,” you mumble, starting to feel drunk on his cock.

he stops rubbing your clit just before you can finish.

“keep telling me how good it feels, honey. need you to tell me,” he rasps.

his eyes are half lidded, drooping behind his glasses, which are starting to slide down the slender bridge of his nose.

he squeezes your throat again after a moment of reprieve and feels you instantly clench around his cock.

“f-fuck! you feel so good, ryland. so good to me, wan- want to c-cum,” you whine, your hands moving to reach out for him.

both of his hands move to your waist and he pulls out quickly, letting your legs fall.

you want to cry.

“what—” you begin to ask.

but he beats you to it, he flips you over so you’re bent over the bed.

he lines himself up, letting out a shudder as he pushes back inside you.

you moan louder than ever before as he hits the perfect spot inside of you.

your head falls into the mattress, cheek pressing into it as you arch your back and take it.

ryland moves to grab your wrists with one hand, holding them behind your back as he fucks into you mercilessly.

“still good, baby?” he asks, blissed out.

“y-yea, so good,” you whimper into the mattress.

finally, he finds your clit again, rubbing circles as his hips start to stutter.

you know he can’t cum until you praise him again, but you make him work for it.

he works you closer and closer to your orgasm as he’s hanging on by a thread.

he releases your wrists, moving to give your ass a gentle slap with the hand that had them pinned down. he’s urging you to say what he needs to hear.

you cave in just before you cum.

“good boy, ryland. so good for me, you make me feel so good,” you praise, chasing your own high now.

he lets out a guttural moan, his breathing picks up, the sound of deep gasping breaths fills the room.

he’s whimpering your name now as he works carefully on your clit, trying his best to get you there before he taps out and finishes.

“baby,” he whines pathetically, finally dropping his dominant facade.

you smirk, cheek still buried in the mattress.

“cum for me, be a good boy,” you finally say, voice completely wrecked as your orgasm tears though you.

“oh, ohhhh,” he wails, finally breaking and filling you to the brim with his cum.

you feel him pulse inside of you as he finishes. his spend runs down the back of your legs. his body nearly short circuits as he watches it drip.

at last, he collapses forward onto you, enveloping you in his strong arms.

he presses a kiss to your temple before picking you up and cradling you in his arms and taking you to the bathroom to clean up.

he sits you gently on the counter and turns on the sink.

after you both freshen up, you brush your teeth together, giggling the whole time.

eventually you fall asleep with your head on his chest, completely content and completely fucked out.

——————————

writing smut is getting a little easier, but it is still so hard. im trying my best, you guys. thanks for reading :3

Clark had you on her bed, pinned in the mating press as she pushed the silicone—that was too big for your cunt in and out of you.

You whimpered pathetically with each thrust. Your knees that were against your chest were aching, but you didn’t care, or even realize it. Your mind was basically putty at this point.

Her big calloused hands kept her body wide open, stretching out. With each slow, deliberate roll of her hips elicited a sharp gasp out of you.

Her hand cradles your face, smiling down at you mischievously, “Greedy little thing, isn’t she?”

You nod, leaning your head backwards against her pillow. You then mewl as her lips attach to your neck, sucking onto your skin. Your cunt flutters around her when she hits that one sweet spot.

Clark felt your thighs tremble as she applied the most pleasurable pressure, getting you to chant pleas for her to go faster. “Oh, fuck… f-fuck. Clark.”

She hums against your neck, nipping at it. She pulls the strap out and grins when you whine. Your hands harshly drag down her back, but she doesn’t even feel it. “Oh, is it not good enough for you, pretty girl?”

You shake your head, drooling while you hiccup, “No, no, Clark.. It was p-perfect. Just need—”

You almost hate yourself for how badly you need it, especially when you see your girlfriend’s shit-eating grin. If you weren’t so cockdrunk on her strap, you’d say something about how you know Ma Kent didn’t raise her to be like this.

She nodded, teasingly dragging the tip across your slick folds. It catches on your clit when she speaks again. “Oh, I know, baby…. I was just trying to be nice. You know how sensitive you get sometimes.”

You released a low, aching note as your back arched against her bare chest, “I can take it.”

Clark smiled slyly, tilting her head—inching it back into you, “Oh, yeah? You can?”

You nod vigorously as you cry out, feeling her stretch you out again. “Yes, stop toying with me.”

She chuckles softly, creating a faster pace, “Ain’t my fault, love. You make it too easy.”

The strap somehow sinks deeper than before, probing against your G-spot. If your brain wasn’t short-circuiting before, it sure is now. The angle overwhelms you in the best way.

The sound of Clark’s pelvis hitting against yours echoes throughout the room. The thick base of the strap continues to widen you in a way you didn’t know was possible. Your eyes squeeze shut, almost screaming, "Oh my God, Clark—"

Her hips shudder as your inner walls start to spasm around her cock. She speeds up, chasing your peak. “That’s it, darling. Taking it so well—squeezing me so good.”

Then you feel your entire body locking up. A broken very escape from your mouth, pulsing around her. Everything feels so fucking humid and endless around you two. You begin to sob as the coil in your gut snaps, “Clark… I’m cumming. Oh, God—”

It hits you so goddamn hard that vision whites out. You come around the strap like a thunderous force. But it doesn’t get Clark to stop. She keeps fucking you, calling you a good girl under her breath. You’re not sure if she’s trying to help you ride it out or taunt you.

“m’never too tired for you.” you tell him with a soft smile, the response is easy and truthful.

you waste no time, shimmying out of your cotton pajama bottoms and underwear before crawling over to him. you straddle him, hands placed on his shoulders to balance yourself as you get seated in his lap. you really feel the tension in his shoulders now, woven deep into his muscles, right under your finger tips. your bottom lip juts out, unpleased with the realization. ryland takes quick note of this, his eyes moving around behind his glasses and coming to rest on your lips.

“what’s that sad little face for, huh, sweetheart?” his brows furrow together as he brings his hand up to your face, rubbing his thumb lightly across your jutted out lip. his eyes track the way your lip moves under his thumb.

“you’re so tense, ry.” you sigh, fingers working their way into his muscles to try to alleviate some of that tightness. you know tonight is one of those nights where ryland is going to need a little extra care from you.

“i know.” he whispers, sucking a breath between his teeth as your finger digs into a relatively sensitive spot on his shoulder. “long day.” he sighs, withdrawing his hand reluctantly from your face and running it through his hair before he places it down against the mattress.

“yeah?” you hum, grinding yourself down onto him through his sweatpants. “i can help you. you want me to help you relax, right?” your voice is soft and sweet, penetrating him deep in his stomach and coating his insides with sugar. you know just how to work him, what makes him fall apart right under you.

“please.” he nods, letting out a deep breath at the contact, shoulders slouching and eyes closing as he lets the sensation wash over his body. the feeling of his thighs twitching under you already has you smiling with pride.

you continue, hips rolling languidly against his lap. you feel the way he begins to harden underneath you, which only gives you more courage to continue.

“does that feel good?” you whisper, moving your hands from his shoulders to the nape of his neck, fingers grabbing at the short hair that rests there.

“yeah—yes,” he sighs, eyelids opening once more to see your face. his eyes peer into yours from behind his glasses—his pupils have grown, blown wide as that familiar desire creeps into his limbs and makes its way to his stomach. “you always feel good.” he smiles lazily, hands coming to rest on your hips to help guide your movements against him.

with the added force of his hands on your hips, one particularly rough drag of your core against his now hard dick has you gasping involuntarily. you look down to his lap and see that his light grey sweatpants now have a darker patch covering them, evidence of your wetness rubbing against him.

you slow the motion of your hips and raise slightly from his lap, which causes a dissatisfied sound to fall from ryland’s lips at the loss of contact.

“slide your sweatpants down, ry.” you order him gently, fingers scratching at the back of his neck. he nods, hands moving from your hips and down to the elastic waistband of his sweatpants, thumbs hooking into them and pushing them down just far enough for his dick to spring free and hit his stomach.

you don’t settle back down on his lap just yet, instead, you lean forward to place a gentle kiss against his cheek, then a peck against his lips. “let me take care of you tonight, yeah?” you whisper against his lips before pulling away completely.

being cared for without expecting something in return is something that ryland is still getting used to (and sometimes can’t believe), so when you meet his eyes again, he’s looking at you as if you’ve hung all the stars in the sky specifically for him—all because of that one simple sentence.

“okay.” he agrees at last with a faint nod of his head. you give him a small knowing smile which he returns immediately.

you finally sit back down to continue the rolling of your hips, the wetness from your core coating the length of him in preparation as you drag yourself back and forth against him.

he’s sighing at the contact, head falling back to rest against the headboard before he raises his hands to your hips again, but this time they don’t guide you—they just rest there, allowing him to ground himself.

“are you ready?” you whisper against his ear, your breath tickling his skin as you speak.

“i’m always ready for you.” he answers quickly, voice low and honest.

you remove one hand from his neck and push it down between the two of you, grabbing his hardened length in your palm and giving it a few strokes before lifting your hips and guiding his tip to your entrance.

you swear you can feel ryland shake under your fingertips in the anticipation of feeling your tight, welcoming warmth wrap around him.

you begin to take him in, your walls expanding around him as they accommodate the familiar stretch you’ve grown very quickly to crave. ryland breathes in deep, holding the breath and not letting it go until you’re fully seated on him and he’s buried to the hilt.

only then does he release the breath he’s holding—his head falling forward to rest against your shoulder as his fingers squeeze the flesh of your hips.

“feels good?” you question, already knowing the answer, but still wanting to hear him say it.

“so good—always so good.” he mumbles into your shoulder, arms moving to wrap around your back and pull you even closer into his chest.

once you’re adjusted to the familiar stretch, you start slow, rolling your hips against him as you grind yourself down onto him. the head of his dick is pressing in deep, pulling soft moans from you as you feel him right where you need him most.

you raise yourself, ever so slightly, then let yourself fall back down into his lap. ryland’s breath hitches at the stimulation.

“is this what you needed, ry? to feel me wrapped around you?” you question, panting as you work up a steady rhythm, raising your hips, then letting them fall—bouncing yourself in his lap with more momentum.

“yes—” he nods frantically against you, “yes, i just needed you.” he groans, placing wet kisses against your shoulder to try to muffle the sounds that are falling from his lips.

you can’t help but notice the way ryland is leaning into you—his body slouching as that tightness expels itself from his muscles with each and every deep drag of him against your walls.

“i love feeling you inside of me, ryland.” you whine, pressing a kiss against the side of his head as you continue to push him further to the edge. “i love making you feel good.” you hum, lips pressed into his ear as you speak.

the rest of that unwelcome tension and stress inside of him dissolves right then and there as if the words you’re speaking to him are some sort of magic potion to cure all of his ailments.

“god—” he groans, his hips twitching as he hears the soft words you’re speaking specifically for him and him alone. “i don’t deserve you.” he whispers, voice breaking off at the end with heightened emotion.

“you do.” you argue, driving yourself down against him with quicker momentum. you feel the way his length twitches inside of you as he grows closer to painting your insides with his release.

you use the hand that’s placed in his hair to pull him back away from your shoulder to get a good look at him. his cheeks are tinted red, glasses askew, and his eyes are glassed over with pent up emotion. your chest constricts at the sight.

he is utterly beautiful when he’s a mess underneath you.

“i want to feel you cum inside of me. can you do that for me, please?” you question, voice low as you begin to feel the familiar tightness growing in your own stomach.

a small “yes” is all he can manage to get out before he’s leaning in and pressing his lips against yours. you tug at his hair with your fingers as you work harder to make him collapse under you.

there’s the familiar twitch of him inside of you before he’s letting go like you asked him to, covering your insides with his seed. he groans into your open mouth as you squeeze around him to help milk as much as you can from him.

“i love you, i love you so much.” he’s panting out, placing kisses against your jaw as he uses his last bit of energy to drive up into you, helping you reach your own release as he rides out the end of his.

your chest is heaving as your movements slow, then come to a halt. “i love you.” you return the sentiment, a tired smile making its way across your face as you feel him begin to soften ever so slightly inside of you.

ryland is spent. his blonde hair is sticking to his forehead from sweat and you can see the tiredness creeping into his eyes. every blink is slower than the last—as if his eyelids are growing heavier with every passing second.

“how do you feel?” you question, maneuvering your hand to his forehead to brush his hair back before letting your hand linger, your palm caressing his jaw softly as you rub your thumb across his cheek.

“better,” he answers, turning his head to place a quick kiss against your palm before he’s nuzzling his cheek into your gentle touch.

As you gently took them from her hands, your fingertips grazed her skin. You attempted to shake off the thought that Clark had, for a second, melted under your touch. Too many coffees this morning. You managed a quiet thank you as you placed the bouquet down on your desk, trying to hide your obvious flustered state.

It was juvenile, actually—borderline hypocritical that you were acting like this. For almost five years at the Daily Planet, you’d been writing about sex. Passion. Unabashed desire. What it’s like to hook up with thirty-somethings. Modelizers. Threesomes. Hell, even foursomes. So why did you suddenly become so strung out every time Clark came within five feet of you?

When you eventually glanced back up at her—at her full six-foot glory—you smiled softly. Clark’s expression subtly shifted as you tried to sound confident. “They’re beautiful, Clark. I love them.”

She nodded, gulping as the words seemed to escape her. “I—yeah. Good. I’m happy you like them.”

Clark didn’t move right away, and neither did you. You cleared your throat, running your hands down your outfit. “Is there anything else you need, sweetie?”

She blinked, snapping herself out of whatever fantasies she was having, and vigorously shook her head. “No. Just… happy birthday.”

Clark then nodded once more, too quickly, as she started to back up, trying to smoothly return to her desk while maintaining her gaze on you. She bumped into a fellow reporter, causing them to drop all their papers. “Ah, darn it. I’m so sorry,” she immediately said, leaning down to help the person out.

You watched her, tilting your head slightly as you pouted while she clumsily cleaned up the mess. God, she was such a puppy dog. Even in your Clark afterglow, you still picked up the scent of cheap cologne behind you. You could practically hear that smirk already forming in Jimmy’s thoughts. “Shut up, Jimmy.”

Later during your lunch break, you were sitting in the staff lounge at a small table with Lois. You were stabbing a piece of leftover birthday cake from your friends’ surprise party the night before. Lois scoffed while watching you. “You really think Perry would approve of that?”

You playfully rolled your eyes, swallowing the bite of your cake that was mostly fondant. “Please, in my first year here, he published that one column of mine about my friend Sammy’s girlfriend wanting to do it up the butt.”

Lois chuckled before sipping her bitter coffee. “Well, that was different—and kind of expected of you. This is a piece about lesbians wanting to screw Superwoman. For fuck’s sake, you wanna name it ‘Supersex’.”

The second she uttered the words, Clark—of course—walked past the break room after coming back from fighting Ultrawoman all afternoon. Her steps slowed down as soon as she heard her alter ego’s name slip from Lois’ mouth. She didn’t mean to lean against the doorframe and listen in, but apparently, curiosity killed the superhero.

You came to your idea’s defense quickly. “Hey! It’s not about lesbian women wanting to fuck her. It’s more about why people continue to drag politics into the bedroom—why so many gay women I’ve talked to use Superwoman as a haven during sex. She basically represents strength without the threat that sometimes comes with it. It’s like protection without the patriarchy.”

Out in the hallway, Clark found herself glued to the floor. She felt like she’d been thrown into a building again, as she had only an hour ago. Her body straightened up against the doorframe, suddenly very aware of how obvious it was that she was eavesdropping.

Your words, “Superwoman as a haven during sex,” were already repeating throughout her mind. Her face was entirely red, from embarrassment and from the new insight that people were role-playing—or cosplaying her—she couldn’t remember the exact term for it in such an intimate manner. She gulped in slight discomfort, but she kept on listening to their conversation.

Lois replied to you, “You’re lucky Perry loves you for some reason unknown to me, and that you’re good at your job, because that pitch is still batshit insane. It would be better if you could get an interview with Superwoman.”

She laughed, but despite your best efforts, you perked up immediately at the mere concept of it. Lois paused, pointing her fork at you. “Don’t even think about it. I was just pulling your chain.”

You were already somewhere else, biting down on your lip, fantasizing about finally being alone in a room with the most powerful woman in the world. “Stranger things have happened, Lois,” you mumbled.

Following that week, you were lingering near the edge of a blocked-off street. You were fiddling with your press badge against your chest, tapping your foot against the cement. The people around you—common civilians and even more thirsty reporters—were trying to push you out of the way, but you remained put, refusing to give up your position.

Most of you were there for the same reason: Superwoman. She was hopefully nearing the end of her grueling fight with one of Alexa Luthor’s creatures. You were supposed to be maintaining your gaze on her steel limbs and quick movements across the sky. Yet you were too focused on Clark Kent—or the lack of her.

Where was she? Every time Perry published one of her articles about Superwoman that included an interview with her, Clark told you guys that she just happened to be at the right place at the right time. You had your doubts like any journalist would, often teasing her and asking if Superwoman was her girlfriend.

She would always blush like a little schoolgirl, shaking her head with a tight smile as she muttered, “I don’t see why good journalism is funny.”

You frowned as you momentarily forgot about the superhero that was harshly throwing the Luthor tech monstrosity into the pavement, causing nearby vehicles and pedestrians to rattle. Despite your distraction, you could faintly hear the ground cracking—something you could already imagine Jimmy commenting on tomorrow after Clark’s next Superwoman article hits the front page again, but only if she actually shows up.

Finally, the final impact rippled through the entire block. As Clark—or Superwoman—continued to hover in the sky and dust from the wreckage swirled around her, her posture straightened involuntarily as her eyes scanned the crowd below.

She was barely paying attention to how some civilians were almost getting trampled by emergency crews and reporters, or to all the accidental damage she had created in the aftermath, but to you standing right there, waiting for her—both Clark and Superwoman.

The worst part was that you were looking right back up at her. You squinted your eyes as she quickly looked away, swearing she had made eye contact with you.

You knew you probably didn’t, since the last time you’d felt this way was at your first concert, sitting in the nosebleeds, watching your favorite artist talk to the crowd and foolishly believing—out of sheer adrenaline and delusion—that they had actually seen you.

Superwoman eventually landed a distance away from the barricade, not daring to even approach you. Instead, she turned her attention toward the rampage of squealing children rushing to her. Cameras started to flash behind as she crouched down to their level, already welcoming them into one big group.

You bit down on your lip as she picked one child up—a little girl with light brown ringlet curls in a sparkly dress—and twirled her around in the air. You could hear her voice as the little girl giggled. “You look like a princess!”

Against your better judgment and your infatuation with Clark, you immediately filed this sight of Superwoman away for posterity—blaming it on your ovulation, or whatever felt convenient in the moment to make yourself feel a little less slutty.

The echoes of the children’s laughter drifted into the background as their parents began gathering them up, stuttering thanks to Superwoman for giving their kids even the slightest bit of attention. She straightened again, flashing them that charming smile that had made you want to bash your head in after seeing it on TV in the newsroom—and now you weren’t sure you’d survive seeing it in person.

As the crowd behind you fizzled out, you kept watching Superwoman gently guiding overstimulated, clingy children toward their proper caretakers. It strangely reminded you of that one time when you and Clark spent all afternoon looking for a poor lost tabby cat’s rightful owner after she found it outside your home.

You even stayed, unlike the reporters and civilians, noticing the awkward interaction between Superwoman and the Justice Gang. If you didn’t know any better, you might have guessed that she was trying to fight the urge to zip away. Thankfully for her sake, you didn’t have superhearing abilities like she did—especially when Guy Gardner saw you standing there, resembling a child who had just thrown up in the middle of the night.

He let out a slow whistle, gesturing toward you. “Hey, somebody is waiting for you, dude.” Superwoman didn’t have to follow where his finger was pointing. She knew you were still there. She glanced at you briefly, sucking on her teeth. “Yeah, I know. Coworker. She wants to, uh, do an interview with me.”

Guy wiggled his eyebrows, lightly punching Superwoman’s shoulder like she was one of the bros, while Mr. Terrific and Hawkgirl were already mentally clocked out. “An interview, huh?” he joked. “Are you completely sure that’s the only thing she wants?”

Superwoman frowned at him, tilting her head in disapproval. “Come on, Guy? Seriously?” Her question only stirred Guy on, his shit-eating grin widening. She dipped her chin as she relented and started to walk over to you. Her voice dripped with roughness. “Goodbye.”

You barely had enough time to fix yourself once it hit you that the woman of steel—Superwoman herself—was not only approaching you, but making eye contact with you. When she stopped in front of you, you failed to remain strong and professional the second you gave that damn smile again, now directed only at you.

Her voice fell from her defined cupid’s bow as she asked gently, “Is everything okay over here, ma’am?”—trying to sound as normal as she possibly could.

The next night, the impending interview with the infamous superhero. She was running an hour behind. You were running two hours behind. Somewhere between taking apart your closet and the remaining shock, you had forgotten about making dinner for your guest.

You had music playing in the background as you ran around your kitchen. As you attempted not to overcook the already crappy food on the stove, you were still thinking about how you got her to agree to this crazy idea.

Once you returned to the Daily Planet after your walk back, leaving erratic voicemails to Clark about questions about where the hell she was, the second and third people you told were Lois and Jimmy.

Both of them stared at you like you’d just casually discovered Kryptonite as you explained that you dared to ask Superwoman not just for an interview for an article about people role-playing as her during sex, and that she was actually open to your stupid suggestion about having dinner at your place.

As the initial bewilderment passed and a flushed Clark reappeared in the newsroom with messy hair and a poorly buttoned dress shirt, Jimmy tried to share the jarring news with Superwoman’s favorite reporter. Luckily, you caught him in time, throwing a pen at his head before he could. “Ow! What was that for?” he asked, rubbing his forehead with a pout.

You flicked your fingers at Jimmy, giving him a warning glare to drop it immediately. It was bad enough that even after three years of Clark working here, she still referred to you as an “intimacy writer.” You didn’t want her to know you were writing a column about her idol-friend in that way. Little did you know.

Now your shoes—the same ones you often wear at work because of Clark, which give you an extra few inches—tap against the hardwood floor. You try to indulge in the slow, traditional music—the kind you imagine Superwoman listens to—but your mind is too frazzled. Not to mention the small radio on your counter next to the stove, updating you on your late date and overpowering your record player.

As you were placing the plates down on your round dining table, feeling like a housewife, there was a tap on the glass door leading out to your balcony. Your body froze, except for your hands that were shakily grazing the plate you just set down. Another tap echoed throughout your home, snapping you out of the haze.

You wiped your clammy palms on your perfect outfit as you crossed the room. When you reached to open the door, your heart dropped to your stomach. There she was.

Superwoman was standing awkwardly on your teeny tiny balcony, acting like she was one of those bugs that was more scared of you than you were of it. You noticed how her cape was drawn in and how tense her shoulders were. She was also hiding—or trying to at least—to hide in the shadows so your neighbors wouldn’t see her. You appreciated her anonymity, since you knew she was doing it to protect you from possible scrutiny and harm more than herself.

Her eyes were already on you, glancing down your body, taking in your clothes. Her heart softened—you dressed up for her. She melted when she heard the flutter of your heart from her gaze. For a minute you two stood there in silence.

You managed a meek, “Hi.”

She responded with a soft sigh—something she seemed to remember she could do. “Hello, Miss.”

You felt your body freeze again at the sound of her voice. You forgot how to speak. For God’s sake, you’d apparently left your brain in your kitchen—or maybe last month, before you even came up with this column idea.

“Hi. Shit, I already said that, didn’t I?”

Superwoman nodded, chuckling. “You did, but that’s okay. I understand.”

She cleared her throat. “I don’t mean to come off as improper, but can I come in, before—”

Your brain short-circuited slightly, laughing dryly. “Oh, yes. I’m sorry. Please come in.”

Superwoman leisurely stepped inside, slightly ducking her head. You eyed her as she stood by the threshold, unintentionally making her resemble a gentle giant in your small house. You didn’t know why her mannerisms kept reminding you of Clark—maybe the two were rubbing off on each other or something.

She adjusted her cape. “You look pretty… really pretty.”

Your brain short-circuited. “Oh, um… thanks. Thank you?” You let out another dry chuckle, turning on your heel and guiding her to the dining room.

As she quietly followed, her eyes traveled around your home. Unbeknownst to you, Superwoman had already been here before—even slept on your couch after you needed company after a bad date. But tonight, it seemed different to her. The lighting was warmer. The smell of homemade food lingered in the air. Or maybe it was just because she was finally on a not-really-date date with you.

She spoke while keeping pace with you. “You have a lovely home.”

A mortified sound escaped your lips, something that landed somewhere between a hum and a forced chuckle. You waved off her compliment, nodding no. “It’s such a mess, I apologize. I started cleaning five hours ago.” You gestured toward the dining room as it came into your eyesight. “But thank you.”

Superwoman’s smile deepened, widening as she saw what was sitting on your wooden dining room table. Simple silverware and plates that had grilled chicken and mac and cheese—what she knew was your comfort food. She peered at you, biting down on her grin. “This is nice. Looks good.”

You let out another forced laugh—something that seemed to come out on autopilot. “Thanks. You’re lucky I didn’t give up and go to the store and buy microwaved meals.”

She complied as you gestured to her seat and sat down. “That would have been fine too. I’m not a picky eater.”

You winced as the words continued to slip out of your mouth. “Oh, well, I love that for you—your parents probably loved you.”

You pointed toward your kitchen behind you, smile tightening. “I’m gonna, uh, go grab our drinks. Is soda okay—that’s all I have. And turn off the radio. I forgot it was on. I was using it to keep track of you. Sorry, that was kinda creepy.”

As your back was facing her, you whispered a quiet “fuck,” reeling from your embarrassment, completely unaware that Superwoman was smirking at your endearing rambles. She was amused that you were just as nervous as she was.

When you returned with the sodas in your hand, she seemed more relaxed now, but still sitting carefully, as if she didn’t want to break your beautiful furniture. She leaned in to you as you set down her soda. “The music you’re playing is pleasant.”

You brightened slightly, shrugging as you sat across from her and setting your soda down. “Oh, thanks. I figured you might enjoy it.” You regretted your words when you noticed her brow lift.

Against your will, more words decided to come out. “I mean, I’m not saying that I imagine you in that way. I’m not. My mind just thought that since you’re America’s symbol of hope, you’d listen to music like this.”

She tilted her head slightly, snorting lightly. “I actually listen to a lot of punk rock.”

You blinked. “You do?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t have that genre on vinyl. But my record player can connect to Bluetooth, though. I can just—”

Superwoman raised a hand, dismissing your offer. “It’s fine, sweetie. I like this too. I can introduce you to my favorite bands later.”

You don’t know what shuts you up first—the goosebumps rushing up your body like a flood from the pet name, or the thought of seeing her again.

Dinner was beyond awkward.

Not awkward in the awful sense, just painfully self-aware awkward. Your food was barely touched since you were riddled with nerves, whereas the woman across from you had devoured her entire plate. After wiping her chin like a well-mannered superhero, she spoke up.

“So when does this interview of yours start?”

Your body went rigid, your gaze flicking to her as your hovering fork trembled. “Whenever you want. I, uh, kind of forgot it.”

She shrugged, reassuring you. “We’re taking this at your own pace. I made sure to ask for the night off.”

Besides Vivienne Clare’s “Silver Lullaby” playing in the background, it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. You placed your fork down, gulping as you hoped your voice didn’t sound too shaky. Why were you so nervous? It was déjà vu from all the times before with Clark.

“Can I start now? Before I lose my nerves.”

“Of course you can.”

You hesitated before finding your voice again. “Okay, first question. How did you feel when I told you that people—queer women in general—have been using you as a symbol during sex?”

Your shifty eyes finally met hers. To your surprise, she was already staring. She had an attentive and patient expression, as if she’d been waiting for you forever. Then:

“I’m not going to lie. It did baffle me at first. But as I thought about it, public figures like myself are generally going to get interpreted differently. There are some people like Alexa Luthor who believe I’m no good… and there are people like you.”

You blinked. “People like me?”

Superwoman huffed, her grin remaining. “Yes. People like you who see me as a human—even in this suit.”

Something in your chest tightened at that, making your heart skip several beats. Her unwavering gaze on you made all your coherent thoughts come undone.

“Does it bother you? Knowing that people are getting their partners to essentially role-play as you?”

You watched her smirk and tilt her head, your thighs tightening around nothing as you realized it might be one of the most beautiful things you’d ever seen on a woman.

She replied softly, “No, it doesn’t.”

You paused once more.

“It doesn’t?” you probed, surprised.

Superwoman shook her head. “As long as both parties are on equal terms, and it stays within the limits of their bedroom—without interfering with me personally—I’m more than okay with it. People are allowed to express themselves freely, even sexually. This is a free country.”

You snorted, the composed superhero continuing to unravel you. But something in her answer made you study her. You gasped, lifting your fork to point accusingly at her. “You practiced! You did your homework.”

She exhaled through her nostrils, putting her hands up slightly. “Ah, you caught me. It’s just not every day I’m asked by an intimacy writer if I want to be interviewed for an article about—”

You waited a beat. Intimacy writer. That phrase. You know that phrase. Why do you know that phrase? It sounds so familiar, but so different hearing it from her. Too specific. God, maybe Superwoman did turn your brain into mush.

You tried again, finishing her sentence. “Your persona being used as a haven during sex?”

She didn’t flinch from your bluntness; her smirk only grew as her voice dropped slightly. “Something like that.”

Despite currently having your A/C on to battle the Metropolis heat, a burning sensation took over your entire body. Damn it—she was using the voice on you. How were you supposed to survive that?

You exhaled quietly, not knowing what to do with your fork anymore. “You really did practice.”

“I did,” she stated, her eyes twinkling at the glorious sound of your heartbeat continuing to spike. It hasn’t calmed down since she walked through your window. “I was nervous… just like you. Nervous about saying the wrong thing to such a well-respected columnist.”

You snickered, keeping yourself from making a self-deprecating jab at your line of work, not wanting to get a lecture about how you should respect yourself more from the woman of steel herself. If she knew half the things that were running inside your head right now, she’d realize that you had none at all.

“That’s highly ironic,” you said. “Considering every time I open my mouth, something worse comes out than before.”

That earned you another chuckle. You didn’t know your chaos could be so endearing to someone else.

“You’re being honest. It’s rare to see somebody like you who also wears your heart on your sleeve as I do.”

Okay, it was official. You were melting. Or you had already melted all over your chair, slipping off it and becoming part of your carpet. You quickly grabbed your soda, giving her a tight smile before guzzling it down like it was tequila.

Once you finished, you noticed her eyebrows fully raised, her smirk having transformed into a grin. “You’re very good at making me forget my own questions.”

She teasingly pouted, head tilting to the side. “Well, I apologize for that. It’s not my intention.”

Your empty glass hit the table as you began to fidget. “No, it’s my fault. I should have written them down or something. I never interview people—I basically just take tidbits from my friends’ lives and mine for my columns.”

Superwoman cleared her throat. “I know. I’ve read your work.”

You stared, momentarily thrown. “You have?”

She nodded. “Yes. I’m a Metropolis citizen first before I’m a superhero. Plus, I’m usually already reading your coworker—Clark Kent’s articles about me—and you’re often next to hers.”

You shifted in your seat, avoiding her gaze. “Yeah, even in the news, Clark and I still seem to find each other.”

Her smile softened, never failing to warm your heart. “I like to believe she’d say the same about you.”

You muttered, “Yeah, me too.”

Later in your kitchen, you were trying to wipe off the mac and cheese stains from the dirty plates as quickly as possible. Even though they were basically glorified plastic dishes you got for a buck at the store, you still wanted to keep them nice—especially if you were going to do this again with Superwoman, as she mentioned before.

The interview got better once you started pretending your soda was actually alcohol. You asked her about maintaining her image and the responsibility that came with it. You questioned her ability to handle being perceived in every sense of the word.

Luckily for your column, she was answering all your questions perfectly. For your sake, she was answering them a little too humanly. You had to remind yourself this wasn’t the time to get parasocial about Superwoman.

After you’d gotten all your material down in the back of your head, the conversation steered into something more personal. Suddenly, you were the one in the hot seat. She asked you about your life—what it was like being the Daily Planet’s first sex columnist and an openly lesbian woman.

As you rambled about your favorite artist or book—or whatever it was—you could have sworn you’d told her before, particularly when she was nodding along, resting her chin on her hand, like she’d heard it somewhere before but still wanted to hear you talk.

Her voice carried into the kitchen, probably still sitting at your dining room table: “Everything alright in there?”

Your plate almost slipped from your hand, reality shaking you out of your fantasy of her kissing you senselessly. “Oh, uh, yeah! Just trying to get… the stains off the plates. I’ll be back out there in a second.”

Once you finished with the dishes and dashed over to your record player to stop it so you didn’t damage your vinyl, you walked back into the dining room. You found Superwoman standing there, hands interlocked together at her waist.

She was smiling at you again. Yet this time, it seemed sad. That’s when it hit you. She was getting ready to leave. Of course she was. Not only was the dinner done, but so was the interview. Well, the interview was done almost two hours ago.

But the thought—the sight of whatever this was—made you want to cry. You wondered why. You’d only met this woman yesterday. So what if you’d had one of the best not-really-date dates with her? Or that your conversation with her was the most earnest you’d ever had with another person.

The words came out before you could stop them: “Are you leaving?”

Superwoman stared at you, bewildered, like she hadn’t expected you to seem so disappointed. She let out a shaky breath, the awkwardness flowing back into her veins.

“Yeah, I should,” she mumbled. “I’m guessing it’s late.”

She was right—your stove clock did say it was nine-thirty. Superwoman was probably the type of person who went to sleep early, like an old person. “Right, yeah. I don’t mean to keep you.”

She pressed her lips together and held your gaze. “You’re not, I promise.”

She held out her hand, putting herself on the line and hoping you would meet her halfway. “Thank you for tonight. I enjoyed myself.”

Your mouth opened as you unsteadily slipped your hand into hers. “Yeah, you’re welcome. I did too.”

The second your fingers grazed hers, something sparked within you. It wasn’t subtle. It was electric—completely unmistakable. Like in every bad romance movie you’d watched growing up, the air now held a sudden tension so sharp you could cut it with one of Cat Grant’s heels.

Neither of you moved, until, before you could say anything, Superwoman pulled you in and crashed her mouth into yours.

At first, she was gentle, with a sense of desperation. Her other hand slid up to your waist, as if she wanted you to climb under her skin. The kiss wasn’t rushed—until you let out a breathy moan.

Upon hearing you, the rest of her restraint snapped. Her grip on your waist tightened as the kiss deepened. Your hands clutched onto her suit, fingernails digging into the blue fabric—whimpers continuing to fall from your mouth. At this point, she was the only thing keeping you steady.

Once she retreated, you felt her lips pecking at your jawline as her hand moved to your shoulder. In between devouring your moans and attacking your neck, she began tugging on the spaghetti strap of your top.

While licking your neck to soothe a hickey, she whispered, “Been wanting to do that since forever.”

You whimpered back, biting down on your bottom lip to conceal your sounds. “We met yesterday.”

She huffed as both straps of your top completely fell, eyeing your shoulders. “You don’t even know half of it.”

She leaned in to kiss you again, but you pulled away slightly. “I, uh, have this rule. I don’t sleep with women I just met.”

Superwoman only chuckled against your lips, like she knew something you didn’t. “Well, if it makes you feel better, it’s already tomorrow in Paris.”

Both her suit and your clothes were discarded onto your bedroom floor. Her naked body glistened on top of you beneath the sheets, each kiss growing more possessive as her desire for you becomes more uncontainable.

The room had already faded around you. It was just Superwoman kissing down your chest and smirking at the sight of your front-clasp bra. Your breath hitched when you felt her remove it, teasing you as she said, “Somebody meant business.”

You gasped loudly as you felt it in your head when she took your right nipple into her mouth while groping the other breast.

“Such a pretty girl,” she mutters. “If you knew how many times I’ve thought about this—“

You cut her off with a blaring moan, "F-Fuck... I forgot… Ah, how sensitive I am.”

She chuckled, switching over to your left breast, enveloping your nipple with her lips—giving it a slight tug. "Mm, good. That gives me something to play with.”

Finally, her mouth unlatches from your nipple, now pressing kisses down your midriff before stopping at the edge of your panties. On instinct, she whimpered against your skin.

She’s been dreaming of this for three years straight. If she couldn’t get drunk off a glass of wine, she could get intoxicated off your cum.

You lifted your hips, trying to get her where you needed her the most. “Please, baby, please.”

She chuckled as her large palms held you down. “Patience, darling. I’ll get there.”

Her eyes skimmed down as your legs began to spread, noticing a dark patch on your underwear. She grins. “Is this all for me? Can I, sweetheart?”

You nod instantly, attempting to wiggle your hips, but her grip on them remains strong. “Fuck, yes.”

Her left hand squeezes your thigh, before gradually sliding the lace down your legs. “Language.”

If you weren’t in such a haze, you’d be more embarrassed by how soaked you were, or how another moan was taken from you as she dragged her tongue against your cunt.

You started acting like a fish out of water—legs shaking, hips bucking, and hands trembling—trying to get a hold of yourself.

She pulled away for a moment to get a better look at you, realizing she’d let her greediness take over for a minute. She stared—mouth slightly agape. “Good golly… she looks even better than I imagined, honey.”

She lowers her head again, pressing her mouth to you more deliberately this time. She runs her tongue up and down your folds, causing you both to moan.

As you grind your aching cunt against her nose, she mumbles something about how you’re the best thing she’s ever tasted. She even slipped two fingers into your hole, curling them just perfectly.

“Oh, God,” you mewled as she switched to sucking on your clit. Your hand becomes tangled in her hair, pushing her down even further—if that’s possible.

She whimpered into you once more, sending a thrilling vibration through you—making you feel like you were the one with the ability to fly.

As you were about to see the entire galaxy and come, she takes her fingers out and gently pulls her mouth away.

You cried out, raising your head slightly to see what was happening. “What… What's wrong? I was so clo—“

She giggled, guiding herself back up your body. With her hand, she brushed strands of hair away from your eyes. She nipped at your bottom lip. “I know, sweetie. You were doing so well—taking me so well.”

You threw your head back, slightly annoyed that Superwoman had just blue-balled you, for all intents and purposes.

“Then why did you stop?”

She smirked down at you, grabbing your legs to wrap them around her waist. “Because I want you to come with me.”

“Oh.”

She nodded, lining her cunt up with yours. You knew you’d be seeing the bruises on your skin from how tightly she had been holding you. “Figured you would like that.”

You two then started rubbing your cunts together in an agonizingly slow way. She groaned into your neck as your arms circled her neck. “Gosh, baby. You feel so perfect—so warm.”

You whined, beginning to drool against your pillow as her clit hooked on yours. “Oh my god, please!”

She kisses your cheek, pinching your nipple—grinding against it a little faster. “That’s it… That’s my good girl. C’mon, sweetheart. I know you can. We’re so close.”

Her back finally hit your bed, her breathing heavy—but not as much as yours. When she peered up at you, there was still a glassy film in your eyes. Your head had been swaying slightly as you slipped in and out of consciousness. You couldn’t remember the last time you were fucked so good.

As she watched you—after grabbing you a glass of water from the kitchen and peppering you with kisses—she held back from telling you that she was in love with you. For all you knew, she was a stranger. She wondered if you did this sort of thing more than you admitted in your columns.

In the quiet aftermath of everything, she glanced up at your ceiling—looking at all the cracks that seemed to mirror her mind. She involuntarily listened to your heartbeat, making sure it was steady.

For the very first time in her life, she didn’t want to see your face. She didn’t want to turn her head over and watch the slow rise and fall of your breathing. She knew if she did, she’d get selfish and never want to let go of you. You didn’t deserve somebody who used her alter ego to get into your pants.

After what felt like hours of damning silence and her thoughts running wild about how she could flee, she heard your soft, sweet laugh.

"Perry's gonna kill me. I just slept with both my interviewee and coworker."

Her head snapped toward you, eyes widening in utter disbelief and horror. "H-how did you know?"

You smirked at her, your hand searching for hers under the sheets. "You just told me."

It was by chance, choosing your roommate. An online search that yielded only two results.

The first—a man in his fifties who was, exclusively, looking for women in their twenties to share an apartment with. That one was easy to ignore, which left you with only a single other result that you had no hope for after reading the description of your first choice.

To your surprise, the description of your second option for a roommate was exponentially better.

Male, thirties, no pets, open to males or females. I occupy one bedroom in a two bedroom apartment and am looking for someone to occupy the other. You will have your own room, but a shared living room, kitchen and bathroom. My occupation is a middle school science teacher, so my schedule is set. I would prefer someone with a similar work schedule, but am open to other options as well. Rent and utilities will be split equally. If you are interested, my contact information is listed.

A year later, you can’t help but be grateful for giving your second option a chance.

If you hadn't, you never would have met Ryland Grace.

You and Ryland had clicked almost instantly. He was kind and accommodating, even taking a whole entire Saturday to help you move all of your boxes and furniture in when you made the big move. The two of you also built your new dresser together that first weekend, which is the first big test of any relationship, platonic or romantic. It didn't end in arguing about who was right and wrong, instead the time was spent laughing together and getting to know how each others brains ticked. Admittedly, though, it did take the two of you entirely too long to build that dresser.

The two of you fell into an easy rhythm of living together. It helped that your schedules were similar, giving you more time to spend together after your workdays to get to know one another past just the surface level details. You had expected your roommate to be someone you were cordial with, spoke to in passing, but never went out of your way to get to know on a deeper level, but with Ryland it was different.

You found yourself looking forward to coming home and being able to debrief about your days together, which quickly became a habit. Ryland always speaking of the students in his classroom and you, always the kids that came into the library. Sometimes they overlapped, his students coming into the library after school to work on projects. You had heard stories about their fantastic science teacher, which you later learned was Mr. Grace. On one occasion, you let it slip that you knew Mr. Grace, which didn't seem like a big deal at the time, but you later realized was a mistake.

Ryland came home the very next day with a story about the huge rumor that had dropped that day about Mr. Grace’s secret girlfriend who worked at the library. The two of you spent the rest of the evening laughing about it, and it turned into one of your favorite inside jokes that you shared.

You did find yourself becoming attracted to the scientist-turned-science-teacher, but that was something you would never confess to, at least not to Ryland. It was too nice of a living situation to risk things turning sour, so you bit your feelings back and swallowed them down the best that you could. There had been hints of reciprocal feelings, small gestures and comments that never went any further—nothing physical or concrete to really go off of.

Which is why you found yourself hooked up on a blind date—someone a friend had said you might like. You didn’t have high hopes, but you still agreed.

You just hadn’t told Ryland yet.

You make your way towards the kitchen, freshly showered and dressed, but still stifling a yawn against the back of your hand as you cross the threshold into the kitchen.

“Good morning, sleepyhead. Did you snooze your alarms again?” The familiar cheery voice of Ryland greets you. He has his back turned towards you, pouring himself a cup of coffee. He's already dressed, wearing his knitted fox cardigan that you love, and had, admittedly, stolen a few times to wear to work. You received lots of compliments on it, too. It also was more ammunition to feed the secret girlfriend rumor at school.

“It’s not even seven yet, Ry.” You argue, pulling the chair out from the kitchen table and taking a seat. You did snooze your alarm, but you wouldn't dare to tell him that. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right this early in the morning.

“You’re usually showering by six, I didn’t hear the faucet turn on until quarter after six this morning.” He states matter-of-factly, finally turning to face you. He’s holding two cups of coffee, you notice one of the mugs as his—a mug you bought him for his birthday that says I make horrible science puns, but only periodically.

The other is yours—a mug he bought you for Christmas that’s speckled with stars, and in the center it says you’re the star of this story. He places the mug in front of you without a word before bringing his own mug to his lips and taking a large sip of his coffee, drowning almost half the mug in one go. You're positive it's probably already his second cup this morning.

“Wow, Ry, that’s a bit creepy, don't ya think? I think I might need a new roommate who hasn’t memorized my shower schedule.” You tease with a smile, wrapping your fingers around the mug and letting the hot porcelain warm your palms. Truthfully, you liked that he had memorized your schedule. Knowing that you take up space not only in his apartment, but in his mind too makes your stomach flip with what you can only describe as butterflies.

“C’mon, after a year of living together I know your routine and our rhythms. You’re trying to paint me unfairly as some freak and I do not appreciate that, thank you very much. Especially this early in the morning.” His eyes crinkle behind his glasses as he laughs, watching as you take a sip of your coffee. You hold it in your mouth, the sweetness of the creamer mixed with the bitterness of the coffee coating your tongue deliciously before you swallow with a content sigh.

He has your coffee preferences down, too. He used to tease you about how much creamer you consumed, saying that you liked the sugary taste more than the coffee itself, which while it was definitely true, you always argued that that just wasn't the case.

Though, recently, you’ve noticed that there's always an extra unopened container of your favorite creamer sitting in the fridge, waiting specifically for you. He doesn't acknowledge this new habit, doesn't hold it over your head. It's just Ryland being Ryland, doing something for you and expecting absolutely nothing in return. Just one of the many reasons why you've found yourself holding a certain fondness for him—a crush? That sounds utterly ridiculous for your age, so you'll stick with fondness.

“Good?” He raises his eyebrow expectantly, his glasses have slipped down his nose, so he's staring at you over the lenses rather than through them, waiting for your response.

“Perfect.” You answer, placing the mug back down, a soft clink rings out as it hits the table. He smiles and nods, already knowing what your response would be.

"It's Friday, so you're off at four today, right?" He asks casually, bringing his mug back to his lips and finishing off his coffee before turning and placing the empty cup in the sink basin.

"That would be correct." You nod even though he can't see you. "You know, you're really not helping those freak accusations we talked about. First my shower schedule and now my work schedule? It just keeps piling up." Your voice is light, your smile shining through the words.

"Can't a guy just have a good memory?" He teases, spinning back around to face you. That slanted smile you've grown attached to is plastered on his lips.

"Maybe." You return with a shrug of your shoulders, smile still on your face. Everything pauses as the two of you just look at one another, taking each other in. The moment is soft and fleeting, but it still makes your heart clench. Before you know it, he's pushing himself away from the counter and coming to pass you, reaching his hand up and ruffling your hair as he passes by.

"Hey!" You protest, swatting your hand at him and missing, which earns you a childish laugh from him as he carries himself to the living room, entirely too pleased with himself.

The conversation lulls as the two of you go about your morning, existing side by side, but not exactly together. His presence is always near, but never overbearing. It’s nice, comfortable even. You finish your coffee off before standing and making your way to the sink to set your empty mug beside his in the basin. His footsteps sound in the hallway, old floorboards groaning under his weight as he makes his way back to the kitchen where you still are, grabbing your lunch from the fridge to pack it away.

When he reaches the kitchen, he has his bike helmet in his hand and his backpack on his back, signifying that he’s getting ready to leave. “Did you want to get food from that new Thai place tonight? I’ve heard good things this week in the break room about it. I can grab it on my ride home if you do.” He offers, pausing by the table as you zip up your lunchbox. Your movements still as you take in his words.

Your date is tonight.

You know you're not doing anything wrong by going on a date, but your stomach still flips with a weird sense of guilt for Ryland and the fact that you haven't told him yet.

“Actually, I won’t be home tonight,” you start, and you can see the confusion wash over his features in real time. “I have a date tonight.”

Your heart just dropped to your stomach.

You're sure of it.

It takes a few seconds, but he responds. “A date?” He echoes the word, voice slightly frayed at the edges. He tilts his head, shifting his weight between his feet uncomfortably as he waits for your response.

“Yeah,” you laugh nervously, picking at the zipper of your lunchbox. “A blind date. One of my friends set it up, it’s silly really.” Your cheeks start to warm as you finish your sentence. That guilt that started in your stomach is working its way up to your chest, and it's moving rapidly.

Ryland recovers swiftly, nodding his head and giving you a small smile, but you're not really sure it reaches his eyes.

Are you making things up? Seeing things that aren't there?

You have to be.

“It’s not silly. Is he picking you up?” He questions, but you think you know what he’s really asking. Am I going to meet him?

“No,” you shake your head quickly, “I’m taking the bus. Meeting him at the restaurant. I didn’t want him to know where I live just yet. I know my friend knows him, but I just didn't really think that was a good idea. You never know." You know you were rambling, but you just couldn't stop yourself. It's something you do when you're nervous—a trait you've found out you share with Ryland.

“Yeah, you never know really. That’s smart. Definitely very smart. I'm proud of you. Well—uh, I’ve got to head out. I'm going to be late if I don’t get going now. I’ll see you after work? Will I see you? Before your date?” He's rambling too, the both of you just word-vomiting all over the place from nerves. It could be funny if these weren't the circumstances.

“Yeah, I’ll be here. I’ll see you before I leave. I hope you have a good day.” He's walking past you and to the door as you speak, planning his exit as quickly as he can. With his hand on the knob, he pauses and turns his head over his shoulder to look at you once more.

“Yeah, you too. Sounds good. I'll see you tonight.” Then he’s out the door, leaving you standing alone in the middle of your shared kitchen with the feeling that you're doing something entirely wrong.

───

Your shift at the library seems to drag on and fly by simultaneously. It’s probably the nerves. At this point you don't know if they're from your date, or seeing Ryland when you get home.

Probably both.

───

Before you know it, you’re home and changing into your dress for the date that you're not even entirely sure you want to go on anymore. You don’t feel the need to make any drastic changes to your makeup, so you just do a small touch up on your makeup from work. Taking a final look in the mirror, you exhale a deep breath and work up the courage to make your way to the kitchen where you know Ryland will be waiting.

When you reach the end of the hallway, you see him sitting at the table, a pen in his hand and his focus on the stack of students’ tests that sit in front of him as he works through grading each of them thoroughly.

“You know you really shouldn’t be bringing work home, Mr. Grace.” You tease him like normal, because it's the only thing you know to do. Smoothing the skirt of your dress out, you close the distance to the kitchen table where he's stationed. His focus flicks up towards you, you watch the way his eyes take in your appearance, the way they linger on your dress before moving up to your face.

“That’s the life of a teacher. Overworked and extremely underpaid.” He responds casually, placing his pen down and stretching his arms out. You hear something pop, probably his back from being stiff and him sitting crouched over the table.

Something you've gotten on him for plenty of times.

“Isn’t that the truth.” You smile faintly, tapping your fingers against the table.

He only nods, so you continue, “Well, I’m getting ready to head out. Do I look okay?” You question him quietly, pulling your arms to your sides so he can get a good look at you. You find yourself wanting his validation.

“Yeah, you do,” he nods, giving you a small smile. “You look very pretty in your dress. I like that color on you. It looks good with your skin tone.” His voice is soft and sincere, almost shy in a way as he speaks. It makes you smile, a real grin that you can’t contain.

“Thanks, Ry. I appreciate that.” And you do. More than he will ever know.

“If you need anything, just call me, okay?” His voice has grown serious now. “If anything at all goes wrong—don’t hesitate. Call me and I’ll be there to get you, even if I have to sit you on the back of my bike and peddle the both of us home.” You let out a small laugh at the mental movie your mind creates for you. It's ridiculous, but you're one hundred percent positive that he's telling you the truth.

“I’ve got you on speed dial. You're my emergency contact if it goes south.” It sounds like a joke, but he really is your emergency contact.

Just the same as you are his.

“And you better use it if you need to.” He smiles, voice full of sincerity.

“I will. I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

“I’ll see you soon. I hope it goes well.”

“Thanks, Ry.”

Then you're out the door, leaving Ryland sat at the kitchen table wondering why his heart feels like it's been broken into two.

You knew the date wasn’t going anywhere almost as soon as it started. The man was nice, the conversation flowed, but you just didn’t click.

It also didn’t help that you kept comparing him to Ryland all night. Comments he made, jokes he said that you just knew Ryland would never say. He didn't have that same effect on you that Ryland had. That easy connection that blossomed between the two of you almost instantaneously just couldn't be replicated with the man you met tonight, but that didn't surprise you, not really. Ryland was one of a kind, the type of soul that you could never find in another body no matter how hard you looked.

You knew your feelings for Ryland were there, constantly lingering and slowly growing, but you hadn't realized just how deeply they ran until tonight. All your date had shown you tonight was that you never wanted to go on another one if it wasn't with Ryland.

───

You turn the doorknob to your shared apartment and let yourself in—the apartment is dark and quiet, except for the sound of old reruns playing on the television in the living room. Your eyes flick to the time on the clock and you furrow your brows.

It's late.

Ryland is usually sleeping by now.

You slip your sandals off slowly, careful to not make any excessive noise. Cautiously, you make your way towards the living room, your steps are quiet just in case Ryland has fallen asleep accidentally on the couch. It's not common, but it has happened before. You peer into the living room and see him on the couch, but he's not asleep just yet. His eyelids look heavy, half-lidded, trained on the television, but you're not sure he's actually watching it. You see an empty takeout container of what you can only assume is the Thai food he spoke to you about this morning. The old floorboards creak under your foot as you step on a particularly touchy spot, giving you away. His head turns quickly, eyes opening wider as he sees you standing in the entryway.

"Are you trying to sneak in on me?" He teases sleepily, that easy humor threading itself through his voice as he speaks.

"You caught me red handed." You sigh dramatically, raising your hands in mock surrender as you carry yourself further into the living room, not focused on being quiet anymore.

He watches you, silently, but you can tell there are words sitting in his throat that he won't let come out just yet. He waits, ever so casually, as you take a seat on the middle cushion of the couch, curling your legs up under yourself.

"Did you wait on me?" You know those aren't the words he wants to hear right now, but you ask anyway, eager to hear his answer.

"Yeah, well—I tried to. I think I was about half asleep when you came in. Didn't even hear the door open." His response was what you were hoping to hear. A smile forms on your face as you watch him shift his body to face towards you. He props his elbow on the top of the back of the couch, leaning his head against his hand, the movement causing his glasses to slightly shift.

"I was quiet. I thought you'd be sleeping so I didn't want to disturb you." You shift now, scooting in deliberately closer to him. Your knee knocks into the side of his sweatpant clad thigh and he feels it, glancing down at the contact before bringing his eyes back up to find yours again.

Neither of you move.

"You never disturb me." He tells you softly, the words dancing around in the air for a moment as you pause.

"I don't think there will be a second date." You finally say, giving him an entryway into the conversation he's been waiting to have.

You swear he almost looks relieved when he hears confirmation that the date didn't go as planned. His shoulders loosen ever so slightly and he nods his head. "I'm sorry it didn't work out." The words sound sincere enough.

"No, don't be sorry. I didn't have high hopes anyway." You shrug casually, sighing lightly. "We just didn't click very well—you know?" You scrunch your brows together while you think and he gives you a nod to continue. "Sometimes you just click with people and you know it will lead somewhere. That didn’t happen.”

"Yeah, I understand what you mean. Completely." A pause, then he opens his mouth to speak again, closes it, and the words wither up and die on his tongue before he can even spit them out.

"Like, you and I, we click. I just didn't feel that with him." You're hoping he catches the hint you're throwing him, but knowing Ryland, he probably hasn't.

"Yeah, we clicked very well. We're very good friends."

There is the confirmation that he hasn't caught the hint. It makes you laugh, how oblivious he can be to things sometimes. Your laughter confuses him, his brows now knitting together as he thinks.

"What?" He questions, letting out a nervous laugh because he feels like he's missing out on something.

He most definitely is.

"He just wasn't you, Ry." The words are quiet, but they're out there now. Hanging between the two of you like a bridge, an invitation that you hope he will accept.

"What? I'm sorry—what was that?" He's leaning his head in closer to you now, as if he'll understand what you're saying if he can just close the distance between the two of you.

You try again.

More straightforward this time.

"He wasn't you. I think I knew it wasn't going anywhere before I even met him. I kept thinking of you, and he just wasn't you. The way he made me feeling isn't the way you make me feel. You make me feel things I've never even experienced before. This date just made me understand what I've been too stubborn to acknowledge for awhile. I have feelings for you, Ryland." Your nerves have caught up to you, evident from the lengthy explanation you give him. He's quiet, taking your words in and trying to digest them—make sense of them.

Your heart is trying to make its way outside of its home in your chest as the seconds tick by.

"You don't know how long I've hoped to hear those words from you." He breathes, his words dripping with honesty. "I think I've had feelings for you since about the fourth month of you living here. It was so hard not to, but I didn't want to make you uncomfortable so I just tried to push them down." You think he's finished, but he continues. "I almost went crazy tonight, sitting here thinking about that awful date and worried you would come home with good news. I know that makes me a horrible person, but I don't think I care anymore."

His confession has you melting, your legs turning to jelly where they sit beneath you. You lean closer into him, reaching your hand forward, not realizing where it's about to land, and place it on the top of his thigh. The two of you look down to where your hand has landed, its place on his thigh that is so dangerously close to his dick. You both look up at the same time, eyes locking on each other. You find no indication that he wants you to move, so you leave your hand there.

The energy between the two of you has shifted, becoming more charged.

You're close now, so close that you can feel his breath fanning across your face. It's warm, heating your cheeks. His breath smells like the spearmint toothpaste that sits in the holder alongside both of your toothbrushes. His eyes are searching your face, looking for any indication of you not wanting this.

Not wanting him.

He finds none.

And still, he asks, because that's just who he is. Always needing one hundred percent certainty.

"Is this okay?" His voice is soft, scared almost, breaking quietly near the end.

Your brain is short-circuiting, all dizzy and fogged up from the closeness paired with his scent. You can't get any words to form, so you do the next best thing—you nod.

"No," he shakes his head, "Words, please. I need to hear you say it, okay? Please?" He finishes with your name, whispering it so delicately, so softly, as if he's afraid he'll break it, break you, if he doesn't treat it with the utmost care.

"Yes," you manage to mutter, still nodding your head, "Yes, this is okay. Please." You finish stronger, the words coming out louder than the first.

There's a pause, a nervous breath, then his lips are on yours. It's not a perfectly practiced kiss you'd see in movies, it's clumsy, noses bumping into each other and breathy laughter throughout. Two people beginning to learn each other in a different way, a more sacred way.

His hands are hesitant, finally raising them to slide up your thighs and settle on your hips. He pulls away, his eyes are dazed and his pupils are blown wide. "Still okay?" He questions again.

You don't respond immediately, instead, you shift your weight, bracing your knees against the couch cushions and raising to balance on them before you swing one across his lap so that you're now straddling him. His hands keep their place on your hips through your movements, rubbing soft circles against the fabric of your dress as you get yourself situated on his lap. Your hand that was on his thigh moves to rest at his side. The skirt of your dress has risen up, bunching up around your thighs from your movements. You can't help but feel the way his hardening length presses into you.

"Yes," you tell him, raising your hands and placing them on his broad shoulders, gripping the fabric of his t-shirt between your fingers. "Is this okay?" It's your turn to question now, to confirm that he wants this, wants you, just as much as you want him. You watch his eyes flutter shut for a moment, his chest heaves as he takes in a long breath. Exhales, then his eyes are open again.

"Yes," he says, voice still slightly shaky with residual nerves, "this is more than okay." He confirms, a sheepish smile making it's way across his lips.

A smile tugs at the corner of your own lips, then you're leaning back in and capturing his mouth with yours once again. His lips are soft, softer than you imagined they would be. You're both still shy, almost unsure of yourselves when it comes to this new territory between the two of you. You take a chance, moving your hands from their place on his shoulders to his head, threading your fingers through his blonde locks. You tug, just hard enough, that he gasps into your mouth.

You swallow the sound down greedily, wanting to hold onto it forever—keep it locked away in a place only you have access to. His fingers tighten, ever so slightly, around your hips.

You pull away this time, getting a good look at his face. His cheeks are tinted red and his lips are a darker shade of pink than usual from your kisses. You bring a hand around, placing a finger under his chin and making him tilt his head back. He obeys so easily, tilting his head back quickly with no resistance at all.

"Did you like that? Me pulling your hair?" Your voice is sweet, honey coating every word.

"I think—" he pauses when your lips find his jaw, "I think I like anything you do to me." He breathes, hands tightening around your hips instinctively. You let out a small giggle, your breath fanning across his cheek. You continue to kiss along his jaw, then down his neck. The collar of his shirt has been pulled down slightly from the bottom edges being trapped under your thighs. You continue, kissing down to his exposed collarbone, pausing momentarily before nipping lightly at the sensitive skin that stretches along the bone.

He groans softly—then, subconsciously, his hips buck up into your panty-clothed core. The friction is nice, pulling a soft gasp from your throat. His hands still.

"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to. I really didn't mean to." His words are quick, full of remorse at his unintended actions.

"No, it's okay," you whisper, trying to console him. You begin to make your way back up his neck, planting small kisses against the base of his throat as you move. "Can we take your shirt off? I wanna see you."

"No."

Oh.

The word makes you pause, pulling away from him almost immediately. Your skin grows hot from the feeling of embarrassment. He tilts his head back down so the two of you are face to face again. When he sees your expression, his eyes go wide and he scrambles to correct himself.

"No—I mean, yes, we can." He sputters, using his hands on your hips to pull you even closer to him. "Yes, I want you to see me. I want to see you too. I just—if we're going to go further than this I don't want it to be here—on the couch I mean. I want to do it right, in bed." He clarifies quickly, trying to salvage whatever he can of this interaction. His thumbs begin to circle your hips again in hopes of calming you.

You finally let out a breath you didn't know you were holding.

He wants to do it right.

"Okay," you whisper, nodding your head in agreement. "Can we go to the bedroom, then?"

"Yes, please." He nods, tapping your hips lightly with his fingers to signal for you to get up.

You place your hands on his shoulders to steady yourself, swinging your leg off of him and placing your foot on the floor. He keeps one hand on your hip, steadying you as you stand. Your dress falls back down, no longer bunched at your thighs.

It's his turn to stand and he does so quickly, bumping into you on the way up.

"Sorry," he hums, "Just excited." The honesty makes you laugh.

"Excited to have sex with me?" You tease, tilting your head up to see his face.

"Yes—excited for that reason. To have sex with you." He smiles shyly, the light from the television allowing you to see the tint of red that spreads across his cheeks.

You shake your head with a smile before turning to make your way towards the bedrooms. He follows closely behind, keeping a hand placed on your hip to tether himself to you as if he's afraid one of you will float away if he lets go. You continue, coming up on the first bedroom in the hallway—which just so happens to be his.

You reach for the handle and turn it, pushing the door open to step into his room. You've been in his room a handful of times before to grab something for him or to turn off his fan, but never for a reason like this.

His room isn't fully dark, a small lamp sitting on his bedside table illuminates the room just well enough for you to see. He has a bookshelf in the corner where dozens of textbooks on molecular biology, DNA, chemistry, and other sciences sit.

Just light reading for him.

His desk sits along the wall, the chair pushed halfway in. Papers and pens are scattered all across the face of desk. He has an unfolded basket of clothes sitting on top of his dresser. Folding them is the worst part! His voice pops into the back of your head. You swear you've heard him say that at least one hundred times by now. He watches the way you take in his bedroom, the way your eyes linger on certain things. He finds himself becoming self-conscious when he notices the clothes on his dresser.

"Sorry, I wasn't expecting visitors." He says truthfully. He never would have imagined that he would be ending his night with you in his bedroom.

He surely wasn't going to complain, though.

"With the amount of times I've heard you complain about folding clothes, I'm honestly surprised you only have one basket that isn't folded." Your voice is light, you're smiling as you talk. He laughs from behind you, his hand running from your hip up your side.

"Ry, can you unzip my dress?" Your voice is quieter now, the gentle humor that was there just a moment ago has faded into something gentler.

He doesn't speak, but you feel his hands trail up your back to the zipper that sits at the top of your spine. He grabs it in his hand and you swear you can feel his hand tremble slightly before he works up the courage to pull the zipper down, down, down, all the way to the base of your spine. His hands raise back up, pushing the fabric from your shoulders and down your arms. The dress drops, and you're left standing in your bra and panties, facing away from Ryland.

His hands hesitate before they move down to the clasp on your bra, it takes him a moment, but he unclasps it for you. You shrug the straps from your shoulders and down your arms to let it fall to the ground, joining your dress in a pile by your feet. You have one final article of clothing to shed, which you do so yourself. You hook your fingers into the waistband of your underwear and bring them down your legs before stepping out of them. The pile of your clothes on the floor is now complete.

You take a breath before turning around to finally face Ryland. Your nerves disappear the second you see the lock on his face.

His eyes are wide and his lips are parted. There's something so soft about the way he's taking you in. You think you're going to have to reach out and poke him to bring him back down to earth, but then he speaks.

"You are absolutely beautiful." He reaches his hand out to your hip, finally touching you without the barrier of clothing. His fingertips are soft as he squeezes the flesh between his fingers—it almost seems like he's testing you to make sure you're real. His fingers trail up your stomach, leaving goosebumps in their path. He pauses at your breast, looking towards your face once more for an invitation.

You nod.

He continues.

His touch is soft, ghosting over the flesh of your breast. He grabs a hold of it, holding it in his palm. His fingers close around your nipple, twisting the hardened bud between his fingers. Your body is on fire under his touch. You whimper softly, heat coiling down low that has you squeezing your legs together to get any amount of friction you can.

He takes note of that.

"You like that?" He questions, wanting to take his time to learn you.

You nod.

You're becoming impatient, wanting to see him and feel him.

"It's your turn now." You urge him softly, your fingers coming up to grip the hem of his shirt. He nods, his hand moving away from you and grabbing onto his own shirt. You help him raise it up and he maneuvers it off of himself—it joins your pile of clothes in the floor.

You knew Ryland had a nice build, but you didn't expect this. His biceps are large, and the skin on his stomach lays tightly over his muscles. It's now your turn to bring your hand up and run it across his stomach, feeling the warmth of his skin and the way his muscles contract under your fingertips. Your hands glide around before settling down low on the waistband of his sweatpants.

"Is this okay?" You say the words that have become habitual to the two of you at this point.

"Yes, please." His eyes meet yours through his glasses as he confirms. You nod, hooking your fingers into the waistband of his his sweatbands along with his boxers and pull the both of them down his thighs at the same time. He steps out of them, and now the pile of your clothes on the floor is truly complete.

You're able to take him in now—all of him.

He's bigger than you imagined. Not huge, but a good size and thickness. You know the stretch is going to hurt so good. He's hard, his dick is poking out and red at the tip. You reach your hand down to grasp him in your palm, then pause. You raise your eyes to his and he's already watching you.

He nods.

You continue.

You grip him in your hand, running your thumb over his leaking slit to gather some wetness. He's sensitive, already twitching in your palm with minimal effort on your part. You stroke from the tip to the base of his dick and it has him groaning, a sound pulled deep from his chest. That heat, the need, coils low in your stomach again.

"You're so gorgeous, Ry." You tell him, watching the way his eyebrows knit together in pleasure. His eyes catch yours again and you see the way his cheeks turn that familiar shade of pink. He's so responsive it makes you weak in the knees.

"Gorgeous." he repeats, like it's a foreign concept to him. He doesn't really believe it.

"Yeah, really gorgeous." You confirm with a simple nod of your head, like it's the most obvious thing you've ever said to him.

To you, it is.

You stroke him languidly a few more times, enjoying the feeling of him twitching against your palm.

The feeling curling deep in your stomach is becoming too hard to ignore.

You need him.

"Lay down on the bed, please." You tell him softly, giving him one final stroke before taking your touch away from him completely. He whines at the loss of contact, his hips jerking closer to you. His eyes are open and watching as you step closer to the bed.

"Wait, no—I want," he pauses, unsure of himself, then, "can I taste you, please?"

His words land hard, a pulsing sensation flows through you, right where you need him the most. Who would you be to deny him?

Especially when he asks so nicely.

"Yes." You nod, eager for the contact with him. You face the bed, crawling onto it before turning yourself around and laying on your back. The air from your movements causes a waft of his scent—a mix of his aftershave, shampoo, and that detergent he swears by, to blanket you, enveloping you in a nice little cocoon of him. He follows you, making his way onto the bed and lodging himself between your legs, his arms hook under your legs and his hands rest so gently against your stomach.

He takes in the sight of you sprawled out and ready for him and he swears he's in heaven—or as close to heaven as he will ever get. He places a kiss against your thigh.

"You look so pretty." His breath fans over you as he says it, causing your pussy to clench around nothing.

You shy away, covering your face so you don't have to look at him. "Hey, no—I want to see you, please." His voice is so soft it makes your heart ache. You oblige, uncovering your face so your view is now Ryland between your legs.

With your attention now on him, he gets to work quickly. He flattens his tongue, licking a stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit, circling the bundle of nerves with his tongue. You gasp, which only encourages him more. His tongue moves back down to your entrance, prodding your hole to get a better taste of you.

He devours you like a man starved, scared that this will be his first, and last, meal. Though, at this point, the both of you know that this isn't going to be a one and down type of encounter. He's attentive, quickly learning what you do, and don't like. He licks back up, focusing on your clit, finding that spot that makes you keen and arch your back from the sensation.

"I'm gonna come." You manage to choke out, your thighs flexing tighter around his head. Your voice, those words, are music to his ears. His tongue becomes more precise, flexing to a taut point and circling around your clit to help pull your orgasm from you. Your eyes shift down, the sight of Ryland between your thighs paired with how deliciously he's sucking on your clit are enough to send you over the edge. The coil in your stomach snaps, hot pleasure coursing through your limbs. You reach your hand down to grab a handful of his hair, trying to pull him away from you, but he doesn't let up.

Your grip on his hair paired with tasting you on his tongue has him moaning, sending vibrations through your already overly sensitive cunt. He lets you ride out your orgasm on his tongue, his movements eventually slowing to a halt.

Neither of you speak for a moment, you because you're still too blissed out, chest heaving as you suck in deep breaths. Ryland because he can't believe this is happening. He has stilled, his head resting against your thigh. You feel a few light taps, Ryland's fingers against your stomach, and you look down. His fingers are still wrapped around his hair and his glasses are crooked, but he doesn't notice. The mixture of spit and your release are coating his lips and chin. He's smiling up at you so sweetly it makes your heart ache that familiar ache.

"Good?" He asks, voice unsure. You want to laugh. You just came on his tongue and he's still worried he didn't do good enough of a job.

"Great." You breath, giving a light tug at his blonde locks to signal him to come up. He wastes no time, unhooking his arms from your legs and crawling up the bed, caging you between his arms. Your hands move to his face, fingers grabbing at his glasses to correct their placement. You catch his eyes with yours.

His eyes are soft as he stares into yours, so full of something you can't quite name yet. Your fingers run down his cheek and settle on his jaw, thumb brushing against his skin. He leans into it. The yellow light from his bedside lamp catches his skin so perfectly, casting a warm hue across his face that paints him as one of the most beautiful paintings you've ever laid eyes on. He's so beautiful like this, face so relaxed and carefree.

You think he's an angel—something otherworldly for sure.

You feel his length twitch against your lower stomach, hard and leaking from the slit with desire. That familiar heat is already forming in your belly again. "I want to feel you," you tell him, voice quiet and sure. "All of you, Ry."

"Okay," he nods, "I want you, too."

You smile, removing your hand from his face and snaking it between the two of you, grabbing his length and stroking him. "Can I be on top? I want to see you."

"Yes," he nods, quicker this time. "You can have me anyway you want me. Anything you want." His voice is so certain and he's moving before you can say another word. Taking his position with his back flat against the bed, you raise to your knees and sling one leg over him, straddling him once again. His hands find your thighs, resting near the top of them like that's exactly where they were made to be.

You raise again, giving yourself room to take him in. Your hand raises to his lips, fingers splaying out expectantly. There's a flicker of confusion in his eyes.

"Spit." He does so without another command, so eager to please and be good. You gather the spit on your fingers, using your thumb to get the residual saliva left on his bottom lip. You reach down again, grabbing ahold of him once more, fingers now wet and ready to help lubricate him. You give him a few pumps, coating the spit along his length. His hips buck at the contact, a quiet groan leaving his lips as his eyes screw shut. His tip prods at your entrance and you sink down ever so slightly, dragging the moment out.

He whines, a sound so beautiful you want to have it on recording so you can play it whenever you want.

Slowly, you sink down further, taking him in inch by beautiful inch, until you're fully seated on him. A quiet moan slips past your lips at the stretch, the fullness you feel. He fits inside you so perfectly, completely made for you, and you, made for him.

You quickly decide that this is it, you're complete.

Ryland Grace has been your missing piece all along.

You just can't believe it's taken you a year to realize this.

His hands grip your thighs, fingernails marking crescents into your skin. "You—you feel so good," he gasps, swallowing hard. "I know I'm not going to last long." Embarrassment weaves itself into his words, but he shouldn't feel that. To you, it's endearing. He's going to come quickly because of you.

"That's okay," you start to shift your hips, raising up, then back down slowly, setting your own rhythm. "I want you to feel good." Moving quicker, you place your hands on his stomach to steady yourself, the tight muscles under his skin flexing as you gain momentum.

He says your name, but it's broken off at the end with a moan, "I don't think I can have you like this just once and be done." A breathy laugh, trying to be nonchalant, but his words are anything but casual and he is literally inside of you, already twitching as your walls squeeze around him.

You continue your motions, the drag of him inside of you making that coil in your stomach already begin to tighten. "I can't either."

He whines at your response, hips bucking up into you as you come down onto him again. The tip of his dick hits a certain spot inside of you that has your vision blurring. You chase that feeling, moving up and down feverishly, trying to catch the sensation again.

Ryland is a moaning mess under you, caught between scrunching his eyes closed in pleasure and trying to keep them open so he can watch the way you get yourself off while using him.

"I'm gonna—" a low groan, "Come. Can I?" Come inside? He doesn't have to say the words for you to understand where he was going with the sentence. Nodding, you work quicker, grinding against him to help him reach his peak.

"Please," you beg, "I want to feel you. Please come inside me, Ry." The nickname paired with your movements help throw him over the edge. He's gasping, hips bucking as he releases inside of you. You continue to grind against him, milking him thoroughly as you chase your own orgasm now. Your clit rubs against his pubic bone, the friction helping that coil in your stomach get closer and closer to snapping.

Ryland knows you're close, feeling the way your walls are constricting around his twitching dick. He watches you move, working yourself up and using him to get there.

He thinks it's the most ethereal thing he's ever seen.

"There you go," he croons, rubbing soothing circles against your thighs with his large hands, "Use me. Let go for me, sweetheart."

Sweetheart.

Ryland has never called you anything other than your name before.

The unexpected use of the pet name and the sound of his voice is enough to let that coil snap. For the second time tonight, you're coming all over Ryland Grace. Crying out, you ride the high down until there's nothing left to hold onto anymore.

All that can be heard in the room is the sound of both of you breathing, heavy long breaths as you both try to get oxygen back into your lungs. His hands continue to work themselves over your thighs, then up your hips and your sides to help you ground yourself back to him.

Before you know it, he's wrapping his arm around your back and readjusting himself so he's sitting with his back against his headboard, still inside of you, but growing softer, as you straddle him.

His hands move to your face, fingers wiping back the sweaty hair that's sticking to your forehead. He looks happy, a sweet smile tugging at his lips while he watches you through his glasses.

He would do whatever you asked him to.

He's sure of that now. Maybe he always has been.

"What?" You question, scratching your nails lazily against his abdomen.

"Nothing," he smiles wider, "I was just thinking—" a pause, "does this change our roommate agreement?" That humor that flows so easily between the two of you is back, not changed by the events that just took place or the fact that he is literally still inside of you.

The question is so silly it makes you laugh, a deep sound coming up from your stomach.

"Yeah, Ry. I think it does."

Tomorrow morning the two of you will have a lot to figure out, but tonight, you’re just happy to be in each others arms.

────୨ৎ────

━━━━━━━━━━━ ♠ ━━━━━━━━━━━

You leave the entryway light on.

It’s been on for hours, a little amber square above the entrance to your luxury apartment, because you knew she would be late. The news had cut into your afternoon game show with the alert: a shooting at PittFest, multiple casualties and absolute chaos downtown. You’d stared at the screen with your phone in your hand, though you didn’t bother to call or even text. She never answers during her shifts because she can’t, and if she could, it would mean something is wrong. 

So you cooked dinner, cleaned up the apartment, and waited for her.

Your partner works in an ER. Late comes with the territory more often than not. 

It’s partner, by the way, not girlfriend. She makes that very clear, she’d shut it down years ago, citing she was not, in her words, “a fuckin’ teenager, for Christ’s sake.” Partner was the only word you both agreed on.

Dinner is long cold by the time you portion it onto a plate and slide it into the fridge, covering it with foil and doing your best not to feel abandoned. You turned the stove light on because you can’t stand overhead lighting when it starts to get dark outside. And then you hovered around the apartment for the rest of the evening with the windows open, listening for sirens, or for footsteps out in the hall, or for the little thunk the elevator leaves when it stops on your floor.

The end of her shift comes and goes without a word.

By the time you hear the key in the lock turn, you’re relieved instead of upset. 

“Dana?” you call, standing from the couch. “I made dinner, it’s in the fridge. I can heat it up if you want.”

The door shuts and there’s no answer.

You frown, pausing halfway between the couch and the kitchen. Usually she calls back immediately, a version of “Hey, baby,” or a comment about the shitty hospital food she had for lunch. Especially when she comes home to a cooked meal. Instead, there’s just movement, you can vaguely make out the scuff of shoes on the entryway tile.

“Dana?”

Still nothing. 

You pivot, rounding the corner toward the entry way, and stop dead in your tracks.

She’s standing just inside the apartment, her bag still slung over her shoulder and her coat unzipped. Her hair is still half-up in her favorite claw clip, though it’s a mess. Not a surprise after a day like today. 

But her face?

“Holy shit,” you gasp, moving toward her quickly.

Her left eye is swollen and bruised; skin dark down to her cheekbone. The bridge of her nose is mottled blue with faint purpling already beneath it. There’s dried blood just under one of her nostrils like she forgot to wipe it away.

“Dana, what the hell -” Your hands come up and cup her face carefully, afraid of hurting her but also unable to stop yourself from touching her. Her skin is cold, really cold. “Oh my god, what happened? Who did this to you?”

She recoils with a hiss when your thumbs brush too close to her nose, her eyes squeezing shut for a second. 

“I’m fine,” she mutters, but her voice is rough from exhaustion. “Just - just long a shift.”

“Fine?” your voice jumps an octave with panic. “You have a black eye, Dana, you’re - you’re -” You swallow hard. Up close you can see just how uncomfortable she looks, her jaw is clenched, from pain you assume, and her expression is worn out. “You’re hurt.”

“I said I’m fine,” she snaps. The same tone she probably uses on combative patients, but never with you. “It’s nothing.”

It is very much not nothing.

“Dana,” you say softly, refusing to let go of her face, even as she slides the backpack from her shoulders. “Talk to me, please.”

She doesn’t respond at first, but she doesn’t pull away either. She just stands there in your hands as she sheds her coat and you watch the fight drain from her eyes. 

“Angry patient took a swing,” she says quietly. “He caught me off-guard while I was having a smoke.”

“I’ll kill him.”

She huffs, a weak attempt at a laugh. “Get in line.”

You falter a little at that. You know the hospital would be dealing with it, they have security and cameras, and you’re sure Dr. Robinovich has already made a bigger deal out of this than Dana wants. 

“Come here,” you murmur, guiding her further into the apartment. “Let’s sit down, shoes off.”

She tries to pull from your grip. “I can’ -”

“No,” you cut in. “I’ll bet my last dollar this didn’t happen at the end of your shift, which means you worked through it. It’s time to relax.”

She’s silent as she lets you steer her toward the couch. She lets you keep a hand on her the whole way, and you’re not sure if it’s for her or for you. And when she sinks down onto the couch cushions, her eyes flutter shut again and she almost looks relieved. 

You kneel in front of her and settle your hands on her knees. “Stay right here,” you say. “I’m getting ice. And water. And - and something for the pain. Don’t move, okay?”

You hear her chuckle and are surprised to see a small but genuine smile on her face. “My own personal nurse,” she murmurs, looking down at you.

You hurry into the kitchen before she can change her mind. Ice clatters together in a ziplock baggy, your hands clumsy with adrenaline. You get her a glass of water and the entire ibuprofen bottle from the cabinet. She doesn’t even move, still exactly where you left her when you return. Slumped into the couch like someone who’s run out of fuel.

“Ice pack delivery,” you say softly. 

Her eyes crack open and track the items in your hands, then your face. You gently press the bundled ice to her swollen face and she inhales quickly as she hisses through her teeth.

“Sorry, sorry,” you whisper, pulling back a little.

“No, it’s -” She steadies the ice pack on her face herself. “It’s good, it’s just cold.”

Your other hand balances the water in your palm and the pill bottle in the crook of your arm. “Here, water. And ibuprofen.”

She takes the pills without argument, which makes you much more nervous than if she’d fought you. Dana doesn’t surrender control easily or often, especially not over her own body.

The bruising is bad. You catch sight of it again as she lowers her hands to take the water from you. It makes you both sick and angry, and you want to press for details, but you don’t. 

“Do you want me to heat up your dinner?” you ask, pivoting topics. “It’s still good, promise.”

Her stomach betrays her with a growl. “…yeah,” she admits. “I’m starving.”

Relief wells in your chest. It isn’t often you get compliant Dana, and you’re grateful for it tonight. “Okay, good. Sit tight. I’ll be right back.”

“Bossy,” she mutters, but there’s no real heat behind it. 

You hover while she eats. With her plate balanced carefully on her lap, the ice pack resting against her face in between bites, she moves very slowly. You keep refilling her water before she can ask, adjusting her napkin, nudging her fork back onto the plate anytime it threatens to fall off. Your knee bounces with nervous energy that you can’t burn off. Every time she winces it causes your heart to lurch.

“You know,” she eventually says through a mouthful of food, “most adults manage to feed themselves without supervision.”

It’s a joke, but you don’t smile. “You got punched in the face.”

“It’s an occupational hazard.”

“Dana.”

She sighs, poking at the remaining food on her plate. “I’m a big girl,” she says. “You don’t have to coddle me.”

But she doesn’t push you away or stop you when you steady the plate when she shifts uncomfortably in her seat. 

You practically have to force yourself not to touch her for a whole five seconds as you lean back away from her. “Okay,” you say. “Not coddling.”

She glances at you over the rim of her water glass as she takes a sip. “Mhm.”

When she eventually finishes her food, you take her plate before she can even sit up, let alone stand. You set the plate in the sink and come back immediately, perching on the coffee table in front of her. She’s leaned against the back of the couch, head tilted up and eyes closed again.

“Dana.”

She hums in acknowledgement but doesn’t open her eyes. 

“…don’t go back,” you whisper.

Her eyes open slowly.

“To the hospital,” you continue, your voice trembling now that the request is out there. “Please, you’re not safe there.” You swallow hard, trying to keep your plea even. “You’re running yourself into the ground for that place, I can’t -” You stop, unable to finish the thought. I can’t watch you get hurt again. I can’t lose you. You’re being dramatic, you know, but seeing here like this makes it too real.

For a really long moment, she just looks at you. Then she lets out a quiet laugh that sounds brittle. “Relax,” she says. “I’m done.”

You blink in surprise. “Done?”

She nods. “Done. Thirty years, and I’m done. And this, tonight…” she waves her hands up toward her face, toward the bruising that’s still not even fully there yet. “…this was the last straw.”

“Dana -”

“I brought my stuff home.”

She nods toward the backpack she left in the entryway. Slowly, she slides off the couch and retrieves it, and then dumps it on the coffee table next to you: out falls her stethoscope, a few pens in her favorite cup, and the photos you know she keeps taped to the Charge Nurse computer.

You don’t know what to say. You weren’t actually expecting her to agree to not go back, this must be weighing on her a lot heavier than she’s letting on. This is real, she’s really not going back.

“…okay,” you whisper. It’s not actually okay, none of this is okay, but you’re relieved. You reach out and take her hand, the one not still clutching the backpack, and brush your thumb over the back of it.

The rest of the evening passes slowly. With Dana not going to the hospital tomorrow, and you sure as hell not going to work while your partner is like this, there’s no reason to get up early, so you allow the late evening to blur into night without rushing to bed.

You clear the coffee table, moving quietly so you don’t jostle the couch where Dana still sits with her eyes closed. She insists she’s awake, but the exhaustion is evident even in her voice and she isn’t fooling you when her head begins to tilt forward.

By the time everything is cleaned up, she’s already shaking her limbs as she stands, trying to physically rid herself of sleepiness.

The shower is her idea. 

“I’m not broken, kid,” she says when you hesitate in the bathroom doorway with your arms folded across your chest. “You can get in here with me.”

You don’t bother to deny her. Dana can have whatever she wants tonight.

The shower is both long and gentle. She lets you wash her hair, either because she’s tired or because she doesn’t feel like fighting anymore. 

Back in the bedroom, you both get ready for bed in a silence that doesn’t feel awkward, but is certainly tense. At least, it feels that way for you. You keep glancing at her when you think she’s not looking, taking in the bruising, the way her mouth is permanently turned down into a subtle frown, the complete opposite of the Dana you’re used to.

The bed dips when she climbs in next to you, settling on her side facing the wall. Her body is stiff even now in the comfort of her own bed. You switch off the lamp and lay beside her, trying to give her space, if her earlier annoyance over your hovering was any indicator of how the rest of this evening will go. 

But to your surprise, she moves. The tiniest little backwards scoot in your direction, an invitation so rare that you might’ve imagined it.

Dana Evans is not the little spoon. You can count on one hand the number of times it’s happened over the years you’ve been together. Dana is in charge, Dana is the caretaker, Dana is the big spoon.

That doesn’t stop you from wrapping your arm over her, settling across her waist gently. Then you hear her sigh, see her body melt into the mattress beneath you, settling backwards until her back rests fully against your front.

Her hand finds your wrist and pulls it closer, anchoring it to her ribs just under her breasts. Even as her breathing evens out and she drifts off to sleep, her fingers loosen but she never actually lets go of you completely.

━━━━━━━━━━━ ♠ ━━━━━━━━━━━

Week 1

Dana sleeps.

Not the half-asleep dozing she’s always done between shifts, the kind that never actually let her get through a full REM cycle; but instead a deep, heavy sleep that has her completely unresponsive all night. She sleeps through alarms she hasn’t turned off yet, she doesn’t toss or turn, she sleeps through sunlight peeking through the windows and the noise of the late-morning traffic outside your apartment. And when she wakes up, she’s disoriented like she doesn’t know where she is or why she isn’t at work already.

You take those first few days off, of course. A quick email to your boss with a vague explanation, no details. There’s no change you’re leaving her alone right now, not when she’s in a vulnerable state like this.

Most mornings she goes from the bed to the couch with your blanket wrapped around her shoulders and her hair wet from a shower or sticking up with frizz when she skips one. The bruises on her face deepen to an almost black before leaking into a sickly yellow. She eats whatever you put in front of her and her appetite is unpredictable, like her body still thinks it’s at the hospital and can’t spare the time to eat, only to be ravenous later.

By the third day, she’s hovering in the kitchen while you cook, leaning against the counter with her arms folded because she’s supervising you more than she’s actually helping. 

“Smells good,” she says, her voice still a bit rough from her afternoon nap. 

Eventually, though, she reaches for a knife to start chopping vegetables at a speed that would’ve made her coworkers laugh - Charge Nurse Dana, notorious speed demon, reduced to veggie slicing like she’s teaching a cooking class for beginners. To her credit, you’re the cook in the relationship, your boring 9 to 5 giving you more free time than she’s ever had.

Later in the week, people start checking in. 

They text first, brief check-ins that you assume medical professionals do when they’re worried. Sometimes calls that she mostly ignores and voicemails she listens to on speaker while she stares at the ceiling for so long that you can almost see the war inside her.

You know she misses it, even if she doesn’t say it.

Then, inevitably, someone shows up.

You’re cubing chicken for the crockpot when the knock comes on your apartment door. Dana checks the peephole and you hear her call out that it’s Robby.

She opens the door to find him holding a paper bag from a takeout place two blocks away, the smell of greasy comfort food spilling into your entryway. 

“Jesus,” he says as he takes in the swelling that’s just now starting to go down under her left eye.

Dana shrugs casually. “You should see the other guy.”

He doesn’t laugh, but his mouth does twitch. “I brought lunch,” he says as he holds up the bag like it’s proof of his usefulness. You all know it’s an excuse.

“Bribery works,” she replies. “She’s in there makin’ food, though.” You can practically hear her nodding toward you even though you can’t see them from the kitchen.

“It’s fine, this is for dinner anyways!” you call out to them.

You stay in the kitchen long past necessary, trying to give them the privacy you’re sure they need. But their voices drift in anyway.

“…shouldn’t have happened at all,” Robby is saying angrily. “Security still wants you to press charges. Administration is freaking out.”

Dana laughs, but it’s the same, ingenuine laugh you’ve heard all week. “Good, maybe they’ll fix something for once.”

There’s a pause where you can’t hear anything before Robby speaks again.

“You look like hell.”

“Feel worse.”

You grip the edge of the kitchen counter as you try to force yourself not to listen harder.

“…you serious about this?”

You know what he’s asking, and it causes your heart to beat rapidly.

When Dana doesn’t answer immediately, you imagine her staring at the floor, or maybe the wall absently. She always avoids eye contact with uncomfortable subjects, and this is one of them. 

“Yeah.” There’s silence from both of them for a moment before she adds, “I meant what I said. I’m done.”

You let out a heavy sigh, careful not to be too loud. You keep your back turned to the entrance to the living room even as the tension unwinds from your body at her admission to someone other than you that she isn’t going back to that place.

Robby also exhales, like he’s been holding that breath since he walked in, the real reason he came. “Thirty years is a long time,” he says.

“Exactly.”

“You don’t have to decide right now, you can just…take some time, you know?”

You finally peek out into the living room, quickly so they don’t see you. Robby is leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, like he’s seeing her for the first time – this strange version of Dana Evans who isn’t in scrubs, who isn’t a Charge Nurse, who isn’t holding people together by sheer force of will because she’s too busy holding herself together instead.

“And if you change your mind?” he urges.

Dana shrugs casually. “Then I change my mind.”

“But not today.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. “Not today.”

Robby nods slowly, accepting it even if he doesn’t like it. He reaches out and squeezes her shoulder. “Well,” he says, forcing a lighter tone. PTMC will survive without you. Probably.”

“Barely,” she replies dryly.

They share a small, tired smile.

You step into the living room then, handing over paper plates for the takeout Robby’s brought and pretending you didn’t hear the conversation. Dana glances up at you as she thanks you. 

Later, after Robby leaves and the apartment settles back into the quiet of the afternoon, you notice her backpack is still where she always leaves it in the entryway, and you make the decision to put it away. It’s only in the hall closet, three feet from where it sat before, but those three feet make all the difference. It’s out of sight and mind, gone from your view because she’s not going to pack it up and take it to work tomorrow, and putting it away makes it not feel like a ticking clock on your sanity.

━━━━━━━━━━━ ♠ ━━━━━━━━━━━

Week 2

The second week brings energy.

On the second morning of the second week, you wake up to an empty bed and have a moment of panic before you hear the sound of cabinets open in the kitchen, followed by the clatter of a mug that’s been set down too hard on the kitchen counter.

You find Dana standing at the counter in clothes instead of pajamas, hair damp from a shower, with coffee in hand.

“Good morning,” she says casually, as if she hasn’t been sleeping sixteen hours a day for the past week.

“You’re…” you stare at her as you try to figure out the right word. “…vertical.”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

There’s color in her face now, real color, not the flush from feverish sleep. The bruising has almost entirely faded to yellow, much less shocking against her skin. She looks…like herself.

Later in the day, she’s pacing. She’s restless, unable to sit still that’s the complete opposite of the way she’s spent the previous 10 days. She’s wiping counters that are already clean, reorganizing the drawers in your shared dresser, cleaning things in the apartment that you already keep spotless. You catch her standing at the large window that faces the street more than once.

“Do you want to go out?” you ask finally, when you can’t take it anymore.

She looks relieved at the question, like she didn’t want to bring it up yourself. But she quickly schools her expression into a more casual one.

“Yeah,” she nods. “Yeah, actually.”

The first outing is just the pharmacy, a quick in-and-out. You hover behind her the entire time, on-edge in a way you’ve never had to be around her before. She notices, of course, but she doesn’t call you out on it. She just bumps your shoulder lightly with hers and takes your hand every time she notices you getting restless.

By the time you make it back out to the car, she’s smiling. She’s clearly missed the Vitamin D and fresh air.

The grocery store is next. It’s hilariously normal, and Dana doesn’t seem half as nervous about being out and about as you are. At one point, you turn around and she’s disappeared, and she appears only a few moments later holding up a large box of something you like with a small smile on her face.

“I thought you were the one on bedrest,” you joke.

She snorts. “I was.”

You don’t miss her use of past tense.

Errands stack up after that, and you do them together: the post office, the gas station, a quick stop for takeout since you’re tired of cooking. Nothing strenuous, just normal life stuff that you’ve been avoiding ever since she left the hospital. People look at her face, then away quickly, most polite enough to stare. And she ignores them.

At home, she starts helping more. She jumps in when you’re folding laundry, she takes the trash out before you can get to it.

That night is different too. She still curls into you, she’s still the little spoon, like she’s gotten used to being the one held for once. One time, you wake up to find her already awake, watching you with a strange look on her face that disappears the second she realizes you’re looking up at her. 

“Go back to sleep,” she murmurs, brushing hair off your forehead. I

You do.

The next day, you’re putting groceries away after another trip; nothing that was urgent, just a restocking on things you use regularly. But behind you, footsteps approach you and arms slide into place around your waist.

Dana presses herself up against you from behind, her chin settling on your shoulder. 

“Missed this,” she murmurs, her breath hot against your neck.

Your hands pause with a box of pasta in your hands. “Me too.”

She doesn’t let go though, if anything, her hold on you tightens. You lean back into her, relaxing into her arms and letting yourself be held.

But then you feel it.

It’s not her hands on your body or her breath at your neck, it’s lower than that. Something that’s solid, unexpected pressure on your lower back that’s definitely not something that could be explained away as an item in her pocket with how it presses into the exact center of your back, just above your butt.

You drop the pasta box onto the counter.

“…Dana,” you say slowly, because surely there’s a logical explanation you’re not seeing here.

She hums against your shoulder, far more calm than you feel right now.

You turn your head just enough to see the side of her face. She isn’t looking at you, sharp eyes looking straight ahead, but there’s a smirk on her mouth, which is still pressed into the top of your shoulder. 

Your voice comes out incredulous. “Are you kidding me right now?”

Her hands move, one arm tightening around you, the other traveling to hold your hip. “What?” she asks, sounding deceptively innocent. “Too soon?”

“Too soon?” you echo, twisting in her arms as much as you can to look at her. “Dana, you’re still healing.”

She doesn’t move off you, but you can see her eyes narrow, some of the playfulness leaving her. “It’s been over a week,” she murmurs into your shoulder.

“I’m serious,” you say. “You don’t have to prove anything, I don’t want you to do too much too fast.”

She goes quiet, but whether it’s to consider your words or figure out her own, you’re not sure. Then she takes a deep breath, and you can practically feel the lecture coming.

“I don’t need you to be my mother,” she says. “I need you to be my partner.”

You’re facing the counter again, her arms locked so tight around you that turning toward her fully is impossible. But you don’t need to see her face. The conviction in her voice is enough, and you’re sure if you could see her, the expression on her face would match.

“You’ve been taking care of me for a week, and I grateful. Really,” she continues. “But I’m not broken. And I need my woman.”

You sigh dreamily despite yourself as she lifts her mouth from your shoulder and places a kiss to your neck. Your eyes close and your head tips back enough to give her room.

“Let me take care of you,” she murmurs against your skin. “I want to, I need you.”

The hand at your hip slides forwards, slipping beneath the waistband of your leggings. The fabric stretches around her wrist as she works her way inside, and you feel the pause when she realizes you’re bare underneath. No underwear. Her fingers drift lower, brushing over your mound, teasing lightly over your clit before swiping down through your slit.

“Already wet for me?” she teases, and you can hear the smile that’s returned to her face. 

You nod with a shaky breath, letting your hair fall over your face. Both hands brace on the counter in front of you, your knuckles whitening instantly.

Her middle and ring finger press inside you, and you stretch easily to accommodate. She doesn’t linger, immediately moving, pumping them deep and steady inside you, curling as she bottoms out and the heel of her palm grinds against your clit.

You cry out, eyes screwing shut as she fucks you with her fingers, made only worse by her ruthless teasing.

“Poor thing, all pent up.”

“You needed this more than I do.”

“Fuckin’ love this pretty pussy.”

The kitchen fills with the sound of your ragged breathing and the obscene slick sound of her fingers moving inside you.

“Fuck, Dana,” you gasp, bending at the waist until your forehead rests on your arms.

She pulls out abruptly, leaving you both empty and aching, her fingers wet and dripping. Before you can protest out loud, though, she shoves your leggings down and fumbles briefly with her own pants, pushing them just low enough to expose what you felt earlier: the harness snug around her hips, navy blue silicone hanging heavy between her thighs. The tip notches at your entrance as she positions herself.

“Dana, pl-” The rest of the word is punched from your lungs as she pushes inside you with one swift thrust. 

Her hands clamp down on your hips as she pauses to let you adjust to the intrusion. Her fingertips dig in harshly, squishing the fat of your hips in her hands. 

This is the Dana you know. Dominance and confidence are rolling off her in waves. This past week, all of your carefulness and her fragility, dissolves under the weight of this Dana.

When you let out a deep breath and she watches the tension drain from your body, she finally begins to move, pulling all the way out slowly before sliding back in, her thrusts slow and controlled. 

Her feet hook on the inside of yours, nudging them gently to encourage you to spread your legs for her. One hand splays on your lower back, holding you down, while the other stays planted on your hip, pulling you back to meet her hips.

“A-ah, shit - fuck, Dana -”

Your cries spark something inside her. She leans over you, her chest against your back and breath hot at your ear as her pace picks up. Her hips snap forward, harder, deeper, the strap driving into places your own fingers never could, hitting your cervix in a way that has your vision going white.

“Can’t believe I haven’t had you in over a week,” Dana grits out, her movements never slowing even as she speaks. “Missed this pussy so - fucking - much!” Each word is punctuated with particularly brutal thrusts that have you moaning loudly.

Your sounds egg her on more, her speed picking up until you can’t even think straight, and just as your last braincell tries to form a coherent thought, you’re cumming hard around the silicone, orgasm so sudden it has you letting out a loud, strangled sound. Your hips twitch wildly, running from her even though there’s nowhere to go, your hips trapped between hers and the counter.

She doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow down. She just keeps driving into you, riding you through the aftershock until you’re reaching back blindly, grabbing at her hips with shaking hands, tears blurring your vision and your legs threatening to give out entirely until you’re nothing more than a puddle on the kitchen floor. 

The rest of the week is no better.

Dana fucks you on every surface in the entire apartment: in the bedroom, in the shower, bent over the front-loading dryer in the laundry room, splayed out on the island in the kitchen, even in front of the window that faces the street when she’s feeling particularly voyeuristic. 

Her energy has picked back up and her disposition channels entirely into ruining you every chance she gets. 

She has you riding her in reverse cowgirl so she can stare at your ass while she smokes a cigarette in bed (which you chastise her for later, even though you weren’t complaining in the moment, she reminds you). She’s rubbing her own cunt against yours, or over your mouth, or your thigh, or even once over your ass while you’re face-down on the bed. She has you stretching your legs over her shoulders while she shoves you into a mating press, the captain, the hot seat; any position she can fold you into, she’s doing it. 

By the end of week 2, you’re exhausted.

━━━━━━━━━━━ ♠ ━━━━━━━━━━━

Week 3

Dana is restless. 

Not in the way that she can’t sleep, or that she’s irritable. But it’s like she doesn’t know how to be still anymore. The apartment is too small for her, she’s pacing the boundaries of an invisible cage like a tiger. If you’re standing up, she’s standing up. If you grab your keys, she’s reaching for her shoes. A quick run to the store turns into you wandering the aisles together because she doesn’t want to go home and just be there.

She burns through energy the way she used to burn through double shifts. The restlessness spillins into everything: reorganizing cabinets and half-finished projects, long showers that end with your cheek pressed against the tile, hands that can’t stop touching you once they start until you’re both sweaty and panting. Mornings blur into afternoons, afternoons into nights, marked by the pull of her mouth and the heat of her skin instead of the time on the clock.

And when she isn’t touching you, she’s watching you.

You catch her constantly. She leans in the doorway while you cook, propped on one elbow while you answer work emails or sit in virtually in meetings, her expression unreadable and filled with something you can’t figure out how to name because you’ve never seen it on her face before. 

Something big is weighing in her mind, you can feel it. It’s partially in the way she watches you, and it’s made up of the restlessness that’s written into everything she does. She doesn’t talk about the hospital, but and you don’t ask. Partially because you already know, and because you don’t want to hear it out loud.

If this is the calm before the storm, at least you’re in it together.

It all comes to a head on the night you two host a dinner party. The idea was hers, and that should’ve been your first clue. She’s testing the waters.

It’s just dinner, for three people she’s known way longer than she’s known you. Three people who have seen her at her best, her worst, her bloodiest, her most exhausted. Three people who belong to the world she’s been avoiding talking about for weeks.

In the late afternoon, your apartment smells incredible: like garlic and onion and rosemary, with meat that’s been slow-simmered and smells rich. You’re dressed up like you’re ready for a job interview, in slacks that show off your ass and a shirt that shows off your figure a little too well for someone who’s just hosting a dinner for your partner’s friends.

The doorbell rings not long after and they arrive together.

You can hear them out in the hallway, voices overlapping and occasionally a burst of laughter. Dana opens the door and everything happens at once.

Robby barrels in first with his arms open, pulling Dana into a hug that’s so tight her feelings almost leave the floor. Jack crowds in right behind him with a hand landing on her shoulder, squeezing it with a reassuring smile. Lena slips through last, jugging a bottle of wine and her purse, her expression soft once she gets a good look at Dana.

“Look at you,” Robby says into Dana’s hair, sounding relieved. “You look good.”

“Better than when we last saw you,” Jack adds dryly.

Dana laughs, still half-buried into Robby’s shoulder. “Yeah, well. It’s not a hard bar to clear.”

Lena sets the wine down and steps in, cupping Dana’s face with both her hands and turning it gently side-to-side like she’s looking for any remaining damage. Once she seems satisfied that all of the bruising and swelling is gone, she pulls Dana into a hug of her own. “Missed you, boss.”

A complicated emotion flickers across Dana’s face at that, but it’s gone before you can quite figure out what it’s called.

And then they notice you.

“Hey!” Lena says immediately, arms opening just as wide. “C’mere.”

You barely have time to register what she’s saying before you’re pulled into a hug that smells like perfume and red wine. Robby joins in from one side, Jack from the other, and suddenly you’re in the middle of a three-person squeeze-fest that’s warm and a little overwhelming.

“Thank you,” Robby says quietly near your ear, obviously suggesting it’s for more than just dinner. “Seriously.”

Jack pats your back, firmly and twice. “You kept her alive for us.”

“Ignore him,” Lena laughs. “We loved you already.”

When they release you, you’re a little flushed and touched despite yourself.

Dana is watching the whole thing with crossed arms, looking both proud and tender.

The tension that’s been living under Dana’s skin all week seems to loosen as shoes are kicked off and coats are handed over and hung up. Someone grabs the red wine and heads for your kitchen. Voices bounce off the walls and the air feels warmer, your tiny apartment that’s normally just for you two feeling more alive than ever.

Your dinner table is crowded in the best way: serving dishes are passed hand-to-hand, wine refilled repeatedly without asking, elbows bumping as everyone settles in. Dana insists on carving the roast herself, waving off your offer to help. And then she settles at the head of the table out of pure habit, you immediately to her right instead of at the opposite end where you usually land.

“This is incredible,” Lena says around a mouthful of potatoes, pointing her fork at you. “If you ever leave her, I’m available.”

“Get in line,” Robby replies immediately. “I called dibs the minute I tasted the gravy.”

Jack laughs. “You two would starve in a week, neither of you can boil water without paging nutrition.”

“I think the implication is that I would cook,” you laugh.

“Excuse you,” Lena argues. “I can make toast.”

“Burning bread isn’t the same as toasting.”

Dana laughs and shakes her head as she reaches for her wine glass. “This is why nobody invites you anywhere, Jack.”

“You invited me.”

“Against my better judgment.” 

You catch the curl at the corner of her mouth as she says it - its fond, not biting.

Robby leans back in his chair, patting his stomach. “God, this beats the cafeteria mystery meat. Last Tuesday they served something that looked like a hockey puck.”

“That was meatloaf,” Jack says.

“It was a crime is what it was.”

“You all have it easy.” Lena turns to Dana. “Night shift gets the real horrors. By midnight, it’s just whatever’s left in the vending machines and the stale cookies nobody wanted during the day.”

“At least night shift doesn’t have administration breathing down your necks,” Robby counters. “Pick your poison.”

“At least admin goes home eventually,” Lena says. “I had a psych hold try to bite me last week.”

Dana’s fork pauses just before her mouth. “You okay?”

“Oh yeah,” Lena waves it off. “They missed. Mostly just ruined a perfectly good set of scrubs.”

“Occupational hazard,” Jack says. “Better than the projectile vomited across three beds.”

“Do not continue this story while I’m eating,” Robby warns.

“I’m just saying, it was an impressive distance -”

“Jack.”

“Fine, fine.” He lifts his hands in surrender, then looks to Dana. “See what you’re missing? Top-tier entertainment.”

That same look from earlier shows itself on Dana’s face again before she schools her expression into a smile again, taking a sip of wine. You feel her foot slide against yours under the table.

Lena leans forward with her elbows on the table. “We did have a med student hurl during a trauma, though. Nearly took out a whole instrument tray.”

Jack groans. “I told them not to bring him in, kid looked like he was gonna pass out during rounds.”

“Natural selection,” Robby says.

“You’re awful,” Lena tells him, but she’s laughing.

Dana shakes her head. “First rule of trauma: don’t lock your knees.”

“Second rule is not to puke in your mask,” Robby adds.

“Third rule,” Jack throws in, “if you do puke, at least aim away from the patient.”

“Jesus,” you mutter to yourself.

All four of them turn to you at once, grinning. 

“Welcome to emergency medicine,” Lena says cheerfully, as if any of this is completely acceptable and polite dinner conversation.

Dana’s hand lands on your knee for a moment under the table, a silent apology paired with a small smile. 

Robby raises his glass. “To Dana not being there to witness any of this.”

There’s a moment that follows the toast where it’s not exactly awkward, but it’s heavier than the conversation has been so far.

But then Dana lifts her own glass a second later. “It’s a tragic loss for the hospital.”

“May we all be so lucky,” Lena adds.

Jack nudges Dana’s shoulder with his. “Seriously, though, it’s not the same.”

Her expression is soft as she sips her wine. “Yeah,” she says quietly. “Well.”

You reach for the hand that’s on your knee, squeezing it gently. 

Jack clears his throat, apparently deciding to rescue the mood. “So, has she been completely insufferable these last few weeks?”

You open your mouth but then glance at Dana, who’s watching you with narrowed eyes. “…she’s been very helpful,” you settle on.

The table erupts with laughter.

“Oh my god,” Lena wheezes. “Blink twice if you need rescue.”

Jack leans forward. “I can get you out of here in like thirty seconds, tops.”

Dana kicks him lightly under the table. “Touch my partner and you die.”

The rest of dinner is easy and light. Plates are abandoned in favor of second glasses of wine, stories are told with embellishment that makes the hospital sound like some sort of thriller movie, told with shorthand communication that comes from years of comradery. But eventually the night winds down with the slow accumulation of cues: empty glasses, phones checked for the time, the slow gathering of belongings. 

Lena tries to stack plates, but stops when you insist she leave them, that you’ll take care of it.

Coats reappear and shoes are hunted down from the entryway.

“We’re doing this again,” Robby says as he pulls Dana into another hug. “Soon.”

“Yeah,” Lena adds. “Don’t disappear on us.”

“You know where we are,” comes from Jack.

Dana nods. “I know.”

Then they turn to you one-by-one, wrapping you in the same affection, promises tossed over shoulders as they disappear out your front door.

You don’t bother with the kitchen tonight, it can wait until the morning.

Instead, Dana disappears down the hall and when you join her in the bathroom, she’s already leaning over the sink, brushing her teeth with a distant expression in her eyes. You fall into the routine beside her, shoulder-to-shoulder with mint foam on your lips.

For a bit, the only sound is the rasp of toothbrushes. Then Dana spits, rinses, and sets her toothbrush down. She doesn’t look at you, instead she stares at herself in the mirror. 

“I think…” she starts, but then stops as she considers her words. “I think I want to go back.”

You close your eyes for a moment, mint still sharp on your tongue. 

You’ve felt it building all week. It lived in the pacing, the sleepless energy, the way she devoured the hospital stories tonight like she’s starving. She isn’t made to exist outside of that hospital for long. It’s carved into her bones, wired into who she is as a person. The woman you fell in love with is the woman that hospital made, you can’t hate it.

You rinse your mouth to buy yourself a second of time, then meet her gaze in the mirror. 

“…yeah,” you say finally. “I figured.”

Dana’s eyes search yours in the mirror. “Yeah?”

“I knew it was coming.” You nod. “I know you.”

You turn to face her instead of continuing through the mirror. “I’m not mad,” you add, because you can see the question on her face. “I’m just worried. What happened wasn’t a fluke, Dana. You got hurt, badly.”

“I know.” The way she says it isn’t dismissive or defensive. “I’m not going to go back the same,” she continues. “I want a real conversation with admin. Security, staffing, protocols, all of it. Not their usual ‘we’ll look into it’ bullshit.”

You search her face, looking for the familiar stubborn denial, or for the determination that sometimes scares you. Instead, you find her thoughtful, almost resolute. Like she’ll really push for big changes.

“Okay,” you say slowly. “I can live with that.”

She looks relieved at that, and she reaches out, cupping your cheek, her thumb resting just under your ear. “I’ll be careful,” she murmurs.

You lean into her hand, closing your eyes for a second.

“C’mere,” she says quietly, pulling you to her. She wraps her arms around you, your cheek settling against her shoulder. She holds you tight, chin against your temple, and she presses a kiss into your hair. 

You finish getting ready for bed quickly after that. Not because it’s awkward, but because the exhaustion of the day has wrung everything out of you and you’re tired. Lights get turned off, your doors and windows are checked.

You settle into bed and she follows, an arm wrapping around your middle, her face tucking into the curve of your neck like you haven’t been holding her the same way for weeks now. Little spoon, right where you belong.

You fall asleep before she does.

Dana stays awake with her eyes open in the dark, listening to the rhythm of your breathing. 

Three weeks. It was three weeks of you doing your best to build a world inside your tiny shared apartment that she could survive in.

You took time off work without hesitation. You filled the fridge, managed the bills, you kept your home running like she wasn’t breaking down in the middle of it. You never made her feel like a burden, even when you were doing everything for her. You kept her going. Meals, medication, ice packs, clean laundry, your quiet company every second of every day keeping her sane when she couldn’t tolerate anything else. 

But even now, even when she wanted to go back to the place that scared you so badly, you weren’t trying to stop her from being who she is.

Her nose brushes the back of your neck as she sighs into your skin.

You’ve been her calm in the storm, not the cage. You deserve more than the half-life you’re living around her hospital chaos.

The word girlfriend was never an option for her. She hates it, it feels juvenile, temporary, meant for people who don’t know what they want. Partner had sufficed all this time, but now it doesn’t feel like enough.

Wife.

She presses her face deeper into your shoulder, finally closing her eyes as certainty settles over her.

Wife sounds better.

━━━━━━━━━━━ ♠ ━━━━━━━━━━━

Clark was a brother in Alpha Gamma Rho. He was a backwards-hat, cut-off tank kind of guy. The legend of AGR keggers because he never seemed to get drunk. The very same legend who held doors for everyone, even if it made him late. You could see Clark mowing down brothers on the frat lawn in a game of tackle football, or studying with a pair of crooked, taped glasses in the library. Sometimes he was pulling senior pranks, parking cars on roofs or wrapping an office in Christmas paper. Other times he was exercising his secret duty of negotiating with campus police when a party was coming up, bringing them donuts and promising no problems, if they’ll only let it run its course. Needless to say, the farmboy wore many hats– but he had a core that was simple. Warm, thoughtful, passionate love. Intentional care. Remarkable intelligence. Those were just a few things that you loved about Clark. 

And you– well, who could ever figure you out? The girl with no solid shtick. President of the literature club, occasional peer tutor through the university library, who could often be found committing drunken karaoke offenses at the off-campus bar with your friend and roommate Lois. Nobody would be shocked to see you in fishnets and lacy black everything one day, and mary janes and a denim skirt the next. You walked with your head down and iPod blasting on school sidewalks, but you managed robust debates in class. You even put on the bulldog mascot suit and rushed the field during your sophomore-year homecoming game, because your public speaking professor (assistant coach of the MetU team, coincidentally) offered anyone a pass on the final presentation if they had the guts. When your peers would walk by and see you either hiding in a novel or handing out bookmarks for your club, no one batted an eye – because you were just that girl who did anything. Knowing everyone, yet knowing no one. 

It seemed every expectation of you both was subverted by another facet. Multi-dimensional in a one-note world. College isn’t always the place for fully-formed people like that, but perhaps it can be good for finding each other… can’t it?

You and Clark worked from the beginning.

He liked you when he found you standing in the corner of one of his frat parties, cradling a vodka cranberry (heavy on the vodka) with glazed eyes, staring over the sea of bodies like someone had personally offended you. He thought your dopey frown was sweet. You both remembered that night like it was yesterday.

—͙͘͡★—

“What’s the matter?” Clark had cooed, sauntering over with an empty beer bottle and a torturous little smirk on his face. His eyes were green and bright like the light across from Gatsby’s dock. You loved Gatbsy. Your drunken self thought of Gatsby religiously. Something about drinking and prohibition, and then the thought train just…

“My one friend dragged me here, and I think she’s gettin’ her face chewed over there,” you slurred, pouting, as a black-polished nail pointed across the party to another corner near the kitchen. Your good friend Lois, the only friend you had, really, had a guy in a jersey shoved up against the wall like she wore the pants in that makeout. 

Clark snickered and rested his elbow on your shoulder, laughing softer when you tried to wrestle out from under it. “You’re friends with Lane? That can’t be right. Lois is wild– and she’s here all the time. I’ve never seen you before.”

You lifted your buzzing head and rolled your eyes, sipping your drink– nearly missing the straw, and chasing it with your tongue. “Yeah, well, she needed a resume booster and I needed to get out of the house.”

Clark grinned at your soft mushing words, and he jutted his chin out with a curiously furrowed brow. “How many of those have you had, shortie?”

With a disgruntled scoff, you deflected: “M’not short!”

“Right, you’re just tall among hobbits,” Clark said, and he sat against the windowsill beside you.

He took a second to look you over that night. You had on quite the mix: a dainty little silver necklace that would nod to self-discipline, but it was bracketed by a denim jacket filthy with button pins screaming of new wave and half-niches. A little square neck tank that revealed a freckle by your collarbone. Army green cargos that rose low enough to squeeze the chub of your hips and tummy. Your boots had to have a platform at the very least one inch tall, he deduced, because they were serious and you were still short. And to top it off, there was a plum rim around your lips but a soft, neutral center, which meant you had lipstick on at some point, and had drank it all off. 

All of your small contradictions mixed with your very suspicious glances at him made his heart thump, and he knew then and there that he could see you sitting across from him at diners and nuzzling into his neck at theaters. He saw you kissing his cheek, he saw you crying over a test, he saw you waking up with tank top straps slipping from your rounded shoulders and yawning like a cat. He saw you with him, the little romantic…

“Y’know, you don’t look like a frat party kind of girl.”

“I do what I want,” you scrunched your nose, “Nothing means anything anyway.”

“Oh, do I detect a little nihilism, shortie?” Clark teased.

You swatted his shoulder and whined, “I am not short! And do you even know what that word means?”

“What, you think I’m an idiot?”

“Who coined nihilism?” you sneered, leaning down a bit to study his eyes, to see if they shifted. 

Clark tipped his head back and craned up, giving you a knowing grin. “Nietzsche. But that one guy Jacobi was the first guy to bring it up, Nietzsche just made it big. There was that other guy who wrote about it in Fathers and Sons…”

“Turgenev,” you suddenly smiled, the drunken judgement slipping away. “You know your depressing Germans!”

“And Russians,” he hummed, smiling wider. Your eyes were big as the moon, and his heart felt like it could seize at any moment. He had to find a way to keep you. “What’s your name, smartypants?”

By the way you smiled, it was clear you preferred that nickname. 

—͙͘͡★—

It was unusual, following that fateful encounter. Usually in college you get the couple who dances around each other for years, or you get the two horndogs who can’t even wait until the first date. For you and Clark, it just started… shapeless. 

You were too drunk to walk home that night, and so was Lois, so instead of letting you crash with all the other drunkies on the ground floor of the AGR fraternity, Clark personally put you both up in his room. He slept in his buddy Oliver’s room next door, in case he heard any creepers try to catch you or Lois offguard… or if he heard any puking. Then, when he expected to find you embarrassed the following morning, you were simply precious. A perfect, whiny little picture of a hangover– asking him shamelessly for McDonald’s and hogging his mattress until the fog cleared. When he asked Lois if you’re usually so fond of quick friendships, she just raised an eyebrow and said, “Don’t be stupid.”

And you liked him from the start, too. Let’s get that straight. 

You didn’t really want to, because the reputations of frat guys seemed to lean towards accuracy in most cases– but you couldn’t deny that they could be brutally attractive. When he stalked over with a Sharks cap on backwards, pretty little curls of chocolate peeking out at the nape of his neck, flexing those annoyingly toned arms under an AGR short-sleeve, you felt heat creep up the back of your neck. If you weren’t drunk, you might have been a bit more stuttery. But it was when he gazed up at you like a puppy whilst dropping all kinds of specialized knowledge on philosophy, the soft timbre of his tone cutting through the egregious EDM shaking the house, you felt the butterflies making your toes curl in your boots. He was sweet, non-threatening, and he smiled like a wolf. Something in your gut told you that Clark Kent was hiding a whole lot of beautiful behind that brotherhood insignia on his chest. 

It took you two all but a week to fall disgustingly in love, because Clark fell first, and he was a self-starter. 

He found you at the library the day after your drunken romp at his house and brought you a coffee (his brothers felt the urge to adopt you as their pet, by the way, when they found you rummaging like a racoon through the fridge and Clark sitting on the counter behind you, staring with hearts in his eyes… and Lois asleep at his side.) The day after that, he bribed Lois with five bucks to tell him you would be leaving the literature club at four. He walked you to your tutoring shift. The next, he almost breached the creepy line when he used the student directory at the tutoring center to find your dorm number… but you didn’t mind when he showed up with Chinese food and that God-given grin. 

Then the week was up again, and there was another AGR party. You were formally invited that time; he snuck you up to the roof through a series of window-hoppings, and he kissed you when you were in the middle of a rant about women writing under male pseudonyms…

—͙͘͡★—

“And did you know that they didn’t even let George Eliot get buried in Westminster? All that judgement for being a female writer, and then the thing with her husband dying and finding a new lover, and the Church said no, so now she’s buried in Highgate and she’s never been moved! Such bullshit, because she literally redefined–”

Clark couldn’t take it. Your eyes did this special thing when you got angry over book stuff, this little flash– like someone was starting up a lighter, over and over again– and it made his knees weak. He lurched forward as if he had no control over the urge, and he pressed his lips to yours in a manner that didn’t match the preceding; gentle, like he might hurt you if he wasn’t careful. His big palms, a bit rough around the curves, cradled your cheeks, and he smiled when he felt the way you sucked in a little breath, like he made you lose your place in thought. 

You didn’t even pull away, you only let your lips brush his as you asked, "What are you doing?”

“I think I’m in love with you,” he said, like an absolute idiot. But he wasn’t one. If any girl would take that kind of truth bomb well, it would be you. He knew that for sure.

You nearly knocked him on his back with how excitedly you kissed back, lips slotting against his eagerly and unorganized, head tilting from left to right, trying to find the right way, the right pace, the best feeling. He knew within a second of your sloppy mouth that you had probably never kissed anyone before and were dying to figure it out. 

“Easy, easy!” he chuckled, passing his fingers through the strands of hair around your face. “Jeez, Einstein–”

“Shut up,” you giggled, pulling back. Your eyes were on fire in a whole new way. “You love me?”

“Probably,” he hummed. Definitely. 

“I love you,” you countered. 

“Yeah?”

“It’s probably too soon,” you reasoned, eyes drifting to his lips like they were a magnet. 

“Yeah,” he breathed. 

“Maybe we’re moving really fast,”

“Maybe.”

“What would I be?” 

“My girlfriend.”

“And you’d be my boyfriend,”

“Hopefully.”

“And you want that?”

“Sure I do.”

“You don’t think I'm fat?”

“What?” Clark mumbled against your skin, because he couldn’t take it anymore. He could volley your questions with his lips on your neck. “Stupid question… I like how much you weigh, and if you lose a pound I’ll be pissed.”

“I’ve never had a– mmf– a boyfriend before,”

“That’s fine,” a kiss.

“I might get needy,”

“Mm, please do…” a nip.

Your eyes fluttered when his hands slipped into your back pockets, squeezing happily. “I have a lot of h… homework, all the time,”

“So do I.”

“I vote in every election,” 

“Mhm, so do I,” a squeeze.

“I want to write books for a living, even if it means I’m poor,”

“I have a family farm back home… won’t ever have to worry…”

“I- I want to have kids… three kids and two dogs,”

“Farm’s definitely big enough… they better have your eyes, cutie.”

“Mmf–” It got hard to think when his teeth scraped behind your ear. “Are you even listening? You’re talking crazy,”

“Three kids, two dogs, active citizen of democracy, I’ll keep you fed and pretty and– mm, is this new perfume? – n’ you love me?”

“Oh, god… yes.”

“Good. Then we’re both crazy.”

—͙͘͡★—

So, it worked. Nothing you said turned him off or away. He practically knew what you were thinking before you said it. Clark didn’t have to learn to anticipate your every move, he just did. And you seemed to read his mind, although that wasn’t so innate as it was easy– it was all over his gorgeous, gorgeous face. 

It was one of those things where you seemed to just fit like interlocking fingers. Every strength, every weakness, they melded into a trade of wills. Where he couldn’t, you could, and you shared life like a milkshake. One straw and a lot of kissing between sips. 

Your first time was in your shared dorm room with Lois, when you remembered to lock the door but forgot to deadbolt it, and so she had the misfortune of opening it up and finding the two of your startled into fits of laughter, hiding from her grumblings about ‘boys’ and ‘privacy’:

—͙͘͡★—

You really had never felt anything like it before, and whatever bad porn you watched or had seen in artsy movies did not do it justice. Or, maybe it was just Clark.

Clark had you pressed into the mattress under two hundred and twenty pounds of soft, twisting muscle, his hands wrapped around your back and digging into your sides. You weren’t sure you’d ever be small enough to hold, but maybe you just needed a bigger guy all this time. Everything in proportion, right?

And god, he was a whiner. Clark rutted into you in what should’ve been little motions, but he was so genuinely large that any thrust made your legs shake. It was quite a struggle getting the condom on, actually, because he was so anxious to be sweet with you that his hands shook. You had to roll it on for him, and you couldn’t help but laugh at his blushing cheeks. 

“Oh, god, baby,” he whimpered, nibbling at the joint of your neck and shoulder as the plush heat of your walls throbbed around him. “Oh my god, oh my god…”

You were a hot mess, burning up and completely eager. Every grind was met with a buck of your hips, your knees hitched high and your fingernails– purple this time– digging into the meat of his back. For a first timer, you had no reservations. You moaned into the dampening hair behind his ear, “Ho-oly shit, Clark…”

His hands rushed to touch every inch of your back and sides as he lifted himself up a bit and gazed down at you. His chain dangled against your lips and he watched as you took it in your mouth, passing it between tongue and teeth, batting those sinful lashes up at him. He scrunched his face up with a weak desire and tucked a hand under your knee, opening you up that last bit before driving into you with a force that managed to compromise speed and safety. Just as his hands kneaded your tummy, just as your hands twisted the sheets up, just as the two of you were begging and pleading and whining like little vocal twin flames, Lois unlocked the door and froze in the doorway. 

You startled immediately and Clark flopped on top of you, his first concern to cover you from whoever it was. But a poor moment of judgement caused him to keep going, even when Lois burst into a flurry of curses. 

“Jesus Christ, you guys– oh my god, somebody should’ve just told me, I wouldn’t have come home, couldn’t even put a fucking sock on the door like civilized people– oh my god, are you still going? Fuck, guys, ew! Privacy! Privacy in my own dorm room, that's all I ask! Boys in the room, there’ll never be boys in the room she said– oh, Christ, someone text me when it’s over!”

You devolved into helpless, shocked laughter as she babbled herself out and locked the door again, and Clark smiled into your chest as he made you punctuate every giggle with a moan. He couldn’t get enough of the way you sounded– it was breathy, like a whisper, until it hit harder and your pleasure reached a low register, whiny and hungry. He wanted to chase it out of you until you had no sound left. And he did– until your back arched, until the condom simply couldn’t take any more, until your eyes fluttered shut and wouldn’t open again, until your body twitched and slumped and every other word either sounded like “Clarkie” or “Love you.”

—͙͘͡★—

No matter what first came to pass, or whatever college threw at you, Clark didn’t budge. He knew it when he sought you out at that party. He knew you were the stroke of good luck he’d never find again. So, he kept you. Good choice, because he got a free tutor out of it- not that he needed it. The perks were really just making out in the library. 

He met your parents after a couple months, and they gushed over him. The homegrown farmboy had the good sense to bring flowers, and your parents kept them on the sill for weeks until they wilted to nothing. You showed him your childhood room, and he nearly cried at a little list of birthday wishes you had pasted next to your vanity, to which you laughed and accused, “You sap.”

Then it was his turn; he took you home on break to the farm, and his parents nearly gave Martha’s ring over on the spot. You received five pie recipes free of charge. Jonathan Kent gave you a rigorous tour of the farm, and he even let you brush the horses– one of which sneezed on your nice blouse. Clark took you into town for a new one and you got to see all the places he grew up in, and then you nearly cried, and all he could do was kiss you and tell you just how pretty you looked with grass in your hair. 

Clark bought you exactly one second-hand novel a week, and you wrote him little poems on scraps of paper and tucked them in every place possible, so that when he went through life, he’d find it unexpectedly, and remember that wherever he was, you were, too. 

He went to the slam poetry night your club hosted. You were crowned kegger queen to his kegger king at a particularly rowdy party. His brothers threw you a birthday party and got you delightfully drunk, so you could enjoy a childhood birthday wish of stargazing at midnight next to a cute boy. Said cute boy had to usher his friends to bed just so he could consummate the day you were brought into the world properly (and it was better than the first, somehow.) When you woke up the next morning, hungover in his bed, you smiled to yourself. Your tank top strap slid down your arm. He pushed it up. 

It didn’t matter on your shy or outgoing days, or when you felt dark or light. It didn’t matter when he had to put on the ‘brother’ face and do the stupid shit fraternities do. What mattered was that he protected your heart in a little box, and just when it felt like maybe you two wouldn't meet on some small level, you did. It was synchrony. It was easy.