#smutt

Apartment 2b, straight across from apartment 3b.

For the better part of 3 years, you and Clark Kent have lived in these apartments. It took 3 months for you to first interact, 4 more to invite him over for coffee.

You couldn't have just said, " hey Clark, wanna come over for coffee?

Nuh uh, this is you that we were talking about, so obviously it had to have been in a ridiculously, word vomit-y way.

You were both returning from work at the same time, something that had happened every day this week, and every week before that. Turns out you have the same hours as the daily planet reporter across the hall. 

You’d meant to ask him in for coffee last week, but overthought the concept too much. 

Who wants coffee after work? hellloooo caffeine wakes you up and he is obviously trying to go to sleep after work, not get more energy? sigh, just forget it.

But that one evening, the one where returning to your dull, cramped apartment alone for what must've been the thousandth something time, was too tiring and depressing to endure again. There was also that little hope in your head that maybe he was tired of it too. So you decided to spew out whatever word vomit was pending in your mind, before you had time to think about it.

“Hey Clark wait up,” 

A light buzz of excitement shook in the pit of your heels, when you realized that you were really doing this. Watching him turn around at your words, maybe just a little too quickly, like he was waiting for you?

“Y- yeah whats up?” he continued after clearing his throat, his initial attempt at a response coming out far too high pitched for a grown man.

“I uhm, did you…”

I want to come inside! Say it. Come on say uh, say did you want to come inside Clark, do you want coffee? For the love of god say something and stop staring at him.

He looked at you expectantly, but not like he just wanted you to hurry up and spit it out, more like he would wait another hour for you to speak without a complaint.

The first thing you noticed about him, he was always well mannered. Not even on purpose, it was more like a reflex. 

“Do you want the, uhm apartment tour?”

…Seriously? I mean I know I said say anything but come on! It's a metropolis apartment, the layouts are basically the same in every one for the next 10 blocks you idiot! 

“Or, not that because that doesn't make sense, we have the same apartment. I meant coffee, do you want boffee-"

 A sigh of disappointment left your lips and your head dropped at your speech impediment that seems to have resurfaced from 1st grade, and set up shop right in between you and the man across from you.

To your surprise, when you lift your head back up, Clark hasn't gone into his apartment and shut the door, with a mental note to avoid his embarrassingly awkward neighbor for the rest of his life. He is instead, leaning against his locked door, with his hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets, and an amused little smile on his face, one that shows the cutest dimples you've ever seen in your life. 

“Do you wanna start over?” he draws, tone laced with just as much amusement as his face

A tang of shame and something else you can't quite put your finger on, causes the corners of your mouth to curve up in a small smile, as your eyes meet his.

“ Would you like to come inside for coffee, Clark?” you manage, finally.

“Yea, yea I would”

---------

After that, the two of you were classified as normal friends for a while, but became more the first time you drunk-puked all over his shiny black work shoes. Situations like that are really always the make or break point in any kind of relationship, lucky for you it worked out in your favor.

Well lucky isn't exactly the word you would've used to describe it at the moment. It would be something more along the lines of horrific or treacherous, but looking back now... no that was uh, still pretty bad.

But it turned out great! Because now, 2 years and a few months later, Clark Kent is pattering around in your kitchen –he's the only one that's ever really used it– making you lunch. The same way he had for… you can't even remember how long now. 

You watch uselessly from the couch while he cooks a random meal that you'd sent him off Instagram reels, you offered to help, but even he isn't polite enough to pretend you'd know what you were doing. 

He pretends to not want to make it, claiming that social media is causing your generation to lose the good quality meals passed down from your elders. But every time you send him a new video, with the message “ can u make this 4 me??”, he’s over by yours the next day.

 Holding bags of groceries, because “the only groceries you ever buy are instant noodles and frozen fries”, ready to make whatever it is that you want. 

He was like that in every way, with you at least, always there in a flash when you needed him. 

Whether it was a crazy bad date that you needed to escape from. Like that one last week that was so bad you still couldn't even tell him. And he didn't need you to, he just stood outside the ridiculously expensive restaurant your date had insisted on, then just so happened to conveniently forget his wallet, only after ordering the both of you two of the most expensive entrees on the menu. 

Carefully studying the tall building, shifting his body weight on either foot while waiting outside for you. All the while silently wondering if these are the only kind of guys you're into, the expensive restaurant, designer wearing, horrible credit kind. 

Eventually you did come outside, moving too quickly for heels that were as high as yours, glancing back to the glass front wall of the restaurant, wondering if your dad had seen you take the turn to the exit, instead of the bathroom.

After hearing you say once that you didn’t wanna talk about it, he filled the silent walk with ramblings of the hookup stories Jimmy would run his ear off about when he was trying to work.

Shoulders –more like your shoulder and his upper arm, due to your height difference- just barely bumping together as you made the trek back to your place in the chilly, busy, Metropolis streets.

When he noticed your teeth slightly clatter and your shoulders shake a little from the breeze, he didn't say anything about how your date should've offered you his jacket the moment he saw you in that beautiful but slightly skimpy dress, like he wanted too.

Instead, he shrugged off his own, wordlessly draping in over your shoulders. He couldn't just tell you why he  couldn't get cold, despite how much he wanted to.

So instead he continued the flow of the conversation so you did not have the option to reject the sentiment, in fear of him being cold. 

Wrapping his jacket around yourself tighter, you wondered what it would be like to be more than friends with a guy like Clark. Even though you knew you didn't really want “ a guy like Clark”, you really just wanted him. 

“What are you day dreaming about over there?” he remarked from across the kitchen/living room, quickly noticing the lack of keyboard clacking from where you were sitting.

“Just about how I'm ready to tell you about my nightmare of a date from last week” you stated in a sorta cocky tone, only because you know how much he hates not knowing things. Not looking up from your laptop, you quickly type in the last sentence of your paragraph. 

You listened from your cozy position on the couch as the tried to feign nonchalance at your statement, accidentally knocking something over in the process.

He was always so predictably, himself, yet another thing you loved about Clark Kent.

“Yea?- Crap… Ill ah, ill clean that up dont worry” 

“Didnt doubt it Kent” the words leaving your mouth in a vaguely mischievous tone, a plan forming in your mind. As you leisurely strolled over to the kitchen island, dropping yourself down on a creaky stool,  and scooping a handful of shredded cheese in your mouth, taking advantage of his distraction. By the time he noticed, you already raised your hand up to your mouth.

“Hey dont! Ah you little…” he drew sarcastically from your kitchen floor, where he was looking up at you from his hands and knees, wiping up the spilled mixture before it could seep into your sketchy flooring, making a suspiciously attractive tsking noise.

You never noticed, but he always knew when you were going to take something, and what you were going to take. So he’d secretly grate more cheese, or cut a few more strawberries, in anticipation for your stolen handful. Pretending he didn't know, because he knew you liked it.

Clark was just the kind of guy that remembered all those little things about you. 

Like how you “didn’t believe in umbrellas” because it was “just a little rain”. But you always found an umbrella in that little space between your wall and front door, where the paint is cracked along the seam.

Or how you never packed any food for yourself because you claimed you never got hungry at work.

 You did, wouldn't admit it, but you did. Clark knew that about you, which is why you'd always find an apple, crackers, and a juice box in a little box at the bottom of your laptop bag. With a little note in Clarks scribbly hand writing that says “eat me, im good for you!”

You didn't verbally thank him because you knew he didn't want you to.

So instead you did little things for him too, brought new flowers for his apartment without mentioning it, always picking up two laundry detergents at the store because he never remembered it.

You weren't the kind of girl that remembered all the little things about people, you were barley able to remember your own shit, let alone somebody else's.

But for Clark? for him you did, every time.

Friends just do stuff like that, you told yourself. Don't be full of yourself, he doesn't like you, you're just close friends, your subconscious insists whenever your heart gets the notion that it could be for a different reason. 

“Thought you had a story for me? Jeez, where are you today princess?” 

His words dragging you back down to earth, you met his slightly concerned gaze. he was using the nickname he’d given you a while back, after you first asked him to make one of your “reels meals” as he so cleverly called them.

(It wasn't that clever but you didn't have the heart to tell him, because he looked so proud of himself.)

“Didn't realize you were so eager to know about my love life, kansas” you replied, with a nickname of your own, one you’ve also been calling him for a while. 

“Yeah, yeah, you caught me, now spill” 

You couldn't help but giggle at his inability to hide his flaming curiosity when it came to you.

 “Okay well, it was going great until he showed up 40 minutes late with no text…”

You watch as his jaw dropped, before you swear you literally saw the thought shoot up to his head, his face morphed into that of someone who was trying to stifle a laugh.

“Wait, what do you mean it was going great until he was late? That was how he started the night!”

He replied after he was sure he wouldn't burst out laughing in your face, although you still weren't too sure of his ability to compose himself.  

“Yeah it was great when I was at home!”

Now he did laugh in your face, and you couldn't help but join him. It didn't matter what he was laughing at, between his dimples, and the tone of his laugh, you were always laughing with him. 

“Aw princess…” 

He said, gazing at you with a remorseful look on his face. Not that remorseful, considering he still had that big dopey grin of his across his face, but still remorse nevertheless. 

“Thats it Kent, you're not getting any more story time, you’ve lost your privileges!” you exclaim dramatically feigning sadness at his reaction. 

“I just, you deserve better. You know that right?” he says, his laugh drying up, looking you straight in your eyes, completely serious when he says the last part of his sentence.

“Yeah, i uh i know that it's just…” you look down to where your fingers are fiddling with a bottle cap you hadn't even realised you’d picked up, while you try to figure out how to word what you want to say.

“I'm tired of not having someone, you know? For all that romantic jazz” you trail off, trying to make your feelings sound less serious than they are, because you don't like serious feelings.

Clark however, doesn't mind talking about your feelings at all.  “Is that why you went out with that…” he takes a second, choosing his words carefully as he tries to remember that he was raised as a well mannered farm boy who usually has no trouble refraining from profanity.

nother thing that was different with you, he felt so strongly about well, everything concerning you. Like it was all heightened or something.

“Jackass?, jerkoff? dickhe- ” you fill in after noticing his lack of words.

“I was trying to avoid profanity, but yeah.” he cuts you off, exaggerating the word “avoid” to remind you to not “be so crass”.

“I guess, these days it feels like, having someone is better than nothing, y’know?”

“Yeah i get it”

This is it, ask him on a date!! You're both lonely, Do it!

“Hey listen Clark, would you uhm want to… uh-”

Your ability to speak is short circuited by his direct gaze into your eyes.

You’ve studied Clark Kent’s face countless times, and every time, it steals away your ability to speak. 

The subtle crinkle in between his perfectly shaped eyebrows, the one that tells you, you have his complete undivided attention.

The stubble that he rarely let grow, but when he did, it extended your ovulation by 4 days, each time. And his blue eyes that held so much emotion when he looked at you, like you were the only girl he’d ever seen. 

A sudden ding, that you quickly recognized as your oven timer, cut through the tension and made you jump a little.

“And that would be our lunch, let's see how it turned out” Clark said, trying not to sound excited at his newest creation. 

“Yeah lets see if I'm gonna keep you around” you joked

To which Clark snorted in response as he kneeled down to pull the tray out of your old cranky oven. 

“Like you could find someone else to do crap like this” he says under his breath, knowing he'd hate if you went out and got yourself a boyfriend to do this stuff for you, he definitely knew you could.

“Mmm yeah i guess you're right…” you replied, letting him know you heard him anyway, extremely enticed by the smell wafting out the oven. If you could, you'd be floating out of your seat in the air to the smell of the food, like those cartoons you watched as a kid.  

Clark got to work plating the food, placing in front of you, a plate, knife and fork. Before turning around to grab you a coke from your fridge.

Pouring it into a glass instead of just giving you the can like you insisted,

“Hey, the can is fine!” your groan, reaching for his arm across

“No, that's so… just no” you watched the 6 '4 man shudder at the idea of drinking soda straight out the can, quite the ridiculous sight.

“Fine but you're just giving me unnecessary dishes to wash.”

Scoffing in response “ like you ever wash dishes, please! Its dishwasher or dirty over here”

“And besides, I cooked, ill wash the dishes”

“Thats not how it works”

“Its how it works with me, now eat your food” he says while placing down the glass beside your plate.

Giving up on arguing with the incredibly stubborn giant in front of you, you instead dig your fork into your food and bring it up to your mouth.

“Clark, this is great! holy sh-” you grumble out loudly , bringing your hand up to cover your mouth, since your mouth is still full.

“Hey, you can thank me by refraining from your course language, missy” he cuts you off before you finish your sentence. 

“Yeah alright, dad” you remark under your breath, quiet enough so that there was no way he'd be able to hear it.

“What was that? He says without missing a beat, spinning around with a plate and glass of his own before setting it down across from you.

“Wha- how’d you hear that?” you replied, shocked. 

“You- y’said it so loud what do you mean?” he said too quickly, like he was covering something up. Averting your eyes while he spoke in a tone that was too high for him to be telling the truth.

Normally, he is great at lying, seeing he’s been doing it for more than 2 decades now. It's just that thing about it being you, that's causing his ability to dwindle. 

“Oh” you spoke again, you knew you didn't say it audibly, you barely heard it yourself. Over the years, being friends with Clark Kent means you’d have to pretend you didn't notice something.

There weren't any huge slip ups from him that would lead you to question if he wasn’t human or anything. Just little things, here and there. 

Like when he would take a pan out of the oven and use an oven mitt, only those oven mitts were way too thin for him to be holding the pan for longer than 5 seconds. You’d gotten them for 30 cents at a garage sale, you’re pretty sure they’re older than you. 

So without even noticing you were doing it, you’d make up excuses for him along the way. 

The oven mitts aren't that thin then, I must just have really sensitive hands or something. 

Oh anybody could've accidentally snapped that door handle off, it was loose.

Little things prevent you from believing the impossible that everyone did, whether they noticed it or not. Which was probably a big part of the reason Clark had managed to keep it undercover for as long as he did. 

“ Do y’have any more horrible dates planned for tonight, or are you staying in?” his voice cut through the momentary silence.

You scoffed before replying, “ill have you know that the date I have planned for tonight is rather promising” in a know-it-all tone.

“Mhm” Clark says skeptically.

“Whats his name?” he asks and you mentally kiss your teeth. You were hoping he didn't ask that. 

“Its…” you take a second before continuing, brain scrambling to decide if you’d rather make up a fake name then tell him, as you move food around with your fork. 

Sighing, you reluctantly continue, "It's Bartholemew… But he goes by Bart!” you're quick to add the latter when you see his lips beginning to curve in a cocky smirk. 

“Well I hope it goes well.”

“So do I Clark... so do I” you said hopelessly.

It took a while for Clark to be comfortable enough with you to joke around with you a little. When you first became friends, he was all gentleman-y.

 Don’t get me wrong he still is, he's just able to joke around with you now, he’s comfortable. That was what you weren't willing to risk by dating him. Him having someone comfortable to him was such a big factor in your lack of courage.  

—-------

Turns out Clark was right, your date sucked. After getting all dolled up, makeup, hair, the perfect dress, your date wasn’t just late.

He was hours late, as in your date started at 6 and he showed up empty handed at 8.. He’d texted you “5 minutes babe” , at 7 o clock and even your standards weren't low enough to deal with that. 

So here you are, alone in your bed at 9:30, face rid of makeup all snuggled up in your bed, rewatching glee. Instead of being wined, dined, and brought back to bed like how you intended this night to go. 

You’d been wallowing in self pity for hours and decided to make it worse by ordering junk food around 30 minutes ago. Which is what you thought that the loud bang you heard was. 

Woah, the driver must be in a hurry, you thought. 

Only that noise didn’t come from the side of your wall that the door is on, no that came from across the apartment, from where your window is?

Dragging yourself out of bed, you go to investigate the noise, freezing suddenly when you hear your window latch open. 

Holy shit okay, okay this is happening. Fuck my phones dead, that's, that's fine i can do this.

You talk yourself up, grabbing the closest thing you can find to defend yourself, the umbrella.

Quietly, you creep around the corner, steps silent as adrenaline and nervousness buzz through your entire body. Hands shaking so bad you're worried the intruder can hear the latches on the umbrella clicking together. 

Taking one last deep breath, you veer your head around the coroner, only to find the last thing you would expect. 

“Clark?” The words leave your mouth at the same time your death grip around the umbrella loosens, clashing to the floor as you rush over to kneel beside the bleeding, large, groaning man on your floor. 

Your shock and adrenaline illuminates throughout your body even faster as you take in his appearance. 

His hair disheveled in a way you've never seen it before, his soft curls aren't combed back, they now sit all over his head, tangled with between the strands. His face is littered with little cuts,

your eyes zoom in on a particular gash under his eye. Watching it a little further, it almost looks like its… healing itself? 

You watch in amazement as the skin under his eye begins to pull itself together. Forcing yourself to look away, you trail your eyes down the rest of his body.

The familiar emblem is what you notice first, then your brain starts to register the deep blue covering his broad muscular shoulders, the dirtied red cape that surrounds his body. 

Clark Kent is Superman.

The thought races in your head as your mind draws you back to all the things you excused or turned a blind eye to all of these years, how could you have not noticed this?

“M’sorry, t-thought you weren’t home” his deep, damaged voice cuts through the sound of your heart beating erratically in your eardrums. 

“Clark you’re…” you say, unable to continue.

“Superman? Yeah i notic-” he fills in for you, trying to joke away the terribly concerned look in your eyes. 

“Hurt” you cut him off “You’re really hurt” you say, eyes trained on the cuts littering his face, like you think it'll go away if you blink, like you think he will go away.

Shock drapes over his pained features, like he can't believe that you'd care about anything other than the stamp across his chest.  

“Yeah I was, mmfph, yeah I'm hurt” he concludes after trying, and failing, to sit up and talk to you.

Your thoughts momentarily short circuit, trying to figure out what to do, before realizing that you couldn't possibly know how to help him because he is an alien. 

Bringing your hand to either side of his face, forcing him to look at you when his eyes began to flutter closed and his head began to loll to the side. 

“How do I help Clark?" you decide to just ask him, concern washing through your body at a rate that disables your critical thinking skills.

“I'm really sorry about– ahh jeez –this, I thought you wouldn't be here ill-” he drones on, literally apologizing for bleeding into your carpet.

Squeezing his face lightly, you interrupt him again, “Clark”

You watch him look at you, like he's trying to look straight through your eyes and into your mind to figure out what the hell you're thinking right now.

“Yeah?” tone softer than before.

“How do I help?” You say slowly, hoping that he'd stop feeling guilty and just tell you what to do.

“Can you uh, help me up? I'll be fine, I heal fast, I just need to sleep it off.

Immediately, you shift your body to help him up, a low deep groan leaving his lips when you begin to help him off the floor.

He begins to walk over to the front door of your apartment but you quickly drag him deeper into yours. 

“I can go.. Ill be fine i promise” he begins

Holding your ground, “No, no way Clark im not leaving you like this come on” you say as you lead him towards your bed.

He drops heavy onto your mountain of blankets, eyes closed in pain. You find yourself worrying about who's been taking care of him while he takes care of everyone else. 

You bring yourself to lay beside him, wrapping your hands around his head, wishing there was more you could do.

“Again i'm sorry about this, about all of it i-”

“Stop apologizing Kent, trust me if I didn't want you here you wouldn't be here” you joke, trying to make him feel less guilty.

You watch a small smile grace his face, wincing at the same time he does when the movement stretches a cut on his eyebrow.

“How long?” you ask 

“How long what?” he replies, craning his head to see you

“How long does it take for you to heal?”

“Oh this? This isnt bad ill be all good and out of your hair in a few hours” he downplays.

“I guess I'll see what happens on the news tonight huh?

A low chuckle leaves him, filling the quiet room  “Yeah I guess you will.”

—----

You both keep the conversation going, as an attempt to distract yourselves from how close you are to each other.

It doesn't work, every time your leg brushes against his thigh, or he shifts to get comfortable, you notice it. You both really notice it, and it's driving you crazy. At some point during your conversation,Clark was able to turn on his side to face you. 

So now it wasn't just the moderate physical touch that was driving you mad, it was the way he looked at you too. He looked at you like you were the best thing he’d ever seen, and somewhere under that all that adoration, there was something darker that mustered as well.

Soon, you realized you both hadn't said anything for a whale, you were just looking. Just for a second, something you could have easily missed, his gaze dropped down to your lips. 

That second was all it looked for you to bring your face just that little bit closer, and finally close the gap between you two. Clark stilled for a moment, before beginning to move his lips on yours. He didn't kiss like you thought, in truth you’d never been kissed like this before. 

He moved his lips on yours like he craved you for years, and maybe, he had?

His hands grazed the curve of your waist, seemingly asking for permission. You granted in by moving even closer to him, causing his back to lay flat on the mattress, you brought your thighs on either side of him. 

 Hovering your center over his, not because you didn't want them to connect– in this moment, you actually wanted nothing more, but because that would make it real.

Breaking the kiss would also make it real, it would mean you would have to look him in the eyes and give him the chance to take it back.

Eventually, did you have to pull away to breathe, and meet his gaze. When you did pull away, his lips were all pinked and swollen, pupils dilated and he studied you with the same intensity you studied him with. Searching your eyes for any sign of doubt, anything that told him you didn't want to cross this line. 

Because you both knew that once you did, there wouldn't be any going back. 

“Are you sure? I need you to be sure” his gruff voice cut through the blissful silence.

Deciding quickly in your head, you lowered yourself onto him, connecting your heat to his. The action earned you a deep growl that you were sure you would never forget.  

Studying his expression again, you noticed the crinkle in between his eyebrows again, and felt a shock of worry course through you. 

“Shit did I hurt you?” You ask, voice sharp and concerned

“Not the word I’d use to describe it princess” he replied, a subtle smile on his face.

“I need to hear you say it, please.” he spoke again, in a tone sounding like he was in pain.

You brought your face as close as you could without kissing him, and whispered the words he’d dreamt about hearing for far too long. 

“I want this clark, I want you”  you told him, rolling your hips into his so you could watch him writhe underneath you.

Hearing those words seemed to flick a switch in Clark's mind, gripping your waist, he flipped the both of you in one swift motion. The action surprised you, causing a yelp to leave your lips.

“Making noise for me already?” He speaks slowly against your neck, trailing sloppy kissing along your sweet spots, as he begins undressing you. 

This new version of the sweet, thoughtful, gentle man you've known for years, has a pool of wetness collecting in your underwear. 

All you can do is moan helplessly while he works his way around your body, seemingly knowing every one of your buttons to press. The sounds you make bounce off the thin walls of your apartment, drawing Clark's attention.

He murmurs from his position just below your waist , “Cant be too loud okay baby, walls are thin” 

As he pulls your thin sleep shorts and underwear down your thighs.

“You- you’re… wow” he stutters out.

“Clark!” you whine, struggling to keep your composure since he is taking so long.

“Sorry, sorry baby” he says, dragging the suit from its low position on his hips, all the way down to his ankles, before kinking it off. 

Leaving him in his boxers, you examine his length through them, sitting up on your elbows to watch him. 

Dragging your eyes away from his underwear and back up to his gaze when he catches you staring. A lopsided smile sits on his face as he watches you. You’re in nothing but your red lacy bra now, you’d still had it on from your previous night plans. Desperately whining for him to bury his cock deep inside you. 

You watch him peel his underwear off, as soon as his cock is released from its confines, all nine inches of him spring out against his stomach. Tip glistening in precum, you don't even notice your tongue come out to wet your lips.

A smug chuckle leaves Clark's lips as he brings himself back down on top of you, his arms on either side of your head.

“Condom?” your eyes watch as his mouth contours to form the word, wanting nothing more than for him to have his mouth on you.

Your gaze is still trained on his lips while the words leave your mouth,

 “I-im on the pill” you stutter out. The realization that this is finally happening hitting you all at once.

“Okay, are you sure you wanna…?”  Clark speaks again, still wanting to make sure everything was right for you. 

“Yea, yes just, kiss me? Please” you say while bringing your hand up to either side of his head, dragging his lips down to yours. You feel his tongue swipe across your bottom lip and the action has you opening your mouth even wider for his access. 

Pulling apart from you, Clark lazily strokes himself in preparation. You look down at the motion to find yourself entranced by the sight. 

“Gonna make my girl feel good” he mutters the words more to himself than to you.

 You feel the tip of his cock graze your entrance and gasp, causing his head to look away from where you're both connecting, and back at you. 

“Tell me if I need to stop, okay?” he says, light concern floating evident on his expression.

“Oh hold on” you say, contouring to try and remove your bra, before you feel a large hand on your stomach stop you.

“Wait can you uh, can you leave it on” he says, eyes gauging your reaction.

Swallowing, you nod and lay back down, gesturing for him to continue. 

“You say the word and I stop okay? No hard feelings”

“Clark…” 

“Yeah”

“Fuck me please” you dont even recognize your own voice, desperation so evident in your tone. 

Your words are all it takes for Clark to move himself into you, a synchronized moan leaving the both of you. Your hands shoot to grip either side of his arms, to brace yourself. 

“Hpmh- you feel, shit baby can I move?” he strangles out, using all his control to not thrust further up into you.

You nod eagerly, the feeling of him inside you with nothing in between the both of you unlike anything you’d ever felt before, you'd had raw sex before but it wasn't like this.

Clark drags himself out of you, before aggressively thrusting back into your throbbing pussy, that had been sucking him in with so much force, it took effort to move.

He continues his motions, causing moans so harsh to leave you, you weren't sure if you were moaning or screaming. 

“Clar- Clark, feels so, i can’t…fuck” you sputter out, brain rendered useless when he was fucking you this well.

“What's that princess? Where's all your attitude now baby?”

His words cause you to squeeze him in even further, his cock throbbing with need inside you is all you can think about. 

Clark brings his motions to a stop, causing a look of confusion to cover your features. He brings his hands to the backs of both your knees beside you, and your ankles over his shoulders.

In this new position, he somehow feels even deeper than before. He continues his pace, fucking you like youve been waiting for. 

“G’na, fuuckk, Clark” you scream, feeling the tight coil in your stomach radiate through you, unable to control yourself. 

You’ve never come so hard in your life, toes curling, vision blurry, all the while he is still pumping in and out of you, searching for his own release. 

You feel a large palm clamp over your mouth muffling your loud cries as Clark buries his face on your shoulder, releasing his load, deep into you.

All you can do is lay there and listen to his moans of pleasure as you let him use you. 

You both sit there for a minute, breathing heavily against each other, coming down from your highs. 

After a moment, Clark drags himself out of you and drapes a blanket over your naked, sore and shaking body. Your eyes flutter shut as you hear the shower begin to turn on, and Clark returns, still naked, holding a towel.

“Come on let me get you cleaned up”

After watching you groan and roll deeper into the mattress, Clark lets out a sigh of amusement before lifting you in his arms and carrying you towards the bathroom.

Adding to the overflowing list of things you loved about Clark Kent. 

Baelor’s chambers were dimly lit, spacious and rich enough benefit his status. His back was turned, gaze cast outside.

A smile formed on your lips.

“Escaping the world, uncle?” you asked as you approached, closing the door behind you.

Baelor had been standing before the open window, eyes distant at the dark waters of the bay. He spun his rings, a habit he had developed after his wife's passing years ago.

The sound of your voice awakened him from the trance of his thoughts. Turning his head, he silently drained the image of you.

Your silken dress swaying with your hips, the Myr silk of black in the form of winged dragons. Smooth pale shoulders exposed to the cool air, a collared jewel wrapped around your neck.

This time, your hair had been let loose; a halo of white framed your face. Strands rested on your chest, hiding your cold-affected nipples.

“Just taking a break, dear niece,” he cleared his throat.

He watched you approach as if you were a tempting vixen. His eyes roamed your body unwillingly, a sight easier to handle than your face. Seeing you so closely resembled Maekar was testing his control.

Control he took pride in.

You halted by his side, head tilted faintly. “A break from whom? The crowd?”

Your hand is resting on his upper back, feeling the muscles tense and stiffen beneath his tunic. A gentle caress to the left and right seemed to have the desired effect.

You smirked. “The noise of the music?” You moved closer, bringing your other hand.

Slowly, you worked on his shoulders; knots fighting against the expertise of your fingers.

He held back a groan, eyes closed in relief. Years of bending over papers, of carrying responsibilities few men could handle, had gathered on his shoulders. An invisible weight only he could take.

Your fingers worked as if guided by magic, working on a spot that weakened his knees.

You leaned closer, your front pressed to his side. His hand lay still, inches away from touching your chest in that angle.

“Or me?” Your breath tickled his ear, warm air against his skin.

This time, his groan was audible enough. It was not just the tension in his shoulders that tortured him. It was not just the sudden tightness in his pants.

It was your body, pressed on him in scandalous ways.

Your smooth lips found his neck, inhaling his scent. A single peck, then another and another; a trail going down his neck until you found the collar of his tunic.

“Seven save me,” he whispered, his breathing laboured.

In a quick, unexpected move, Baelor turned. His hand grabbed your wrists, keeping them to the side. A gentle pull found you leaning forward, your chest pressed against his.

You craned your neck faintly, lips a breath away.

His pupils had dilated, eyes darkened. His stiff manhood pressed against your clothed naval, causing heat to form between your legs.

Your lips parted to speak, only to be claimed by his. The kiss muffled your moan, head tilted faintly.

Baelor kissed you like a starved man, yet gentle enough to cherish what he had found. His faint beard tickled your skin, his teeth biting your bottom lip when you refused him entrance. His tongue slipped in, claiming you fully.

You tried to free your wrist, but you needed to grab and hold him. You were unsuccessful, feeling his fingers tightening just enough to pass the message.

He would not let you go so easily.

His other hand grabbed your waist, pressing you more against him. Your back arched in response when his fingers grabbed your ass, your strangled moan audible.

By the Seven, he was addicted. And so were you.

Baelor pulled back to inhale, looking at your flushed face and bruised lips. You were out of breath, yet eager to suffocate if it meant you could kiss him again.

“You drive me crazier than your father ever did,” he confessed, his forehead pressed against yours.

Your smirk tempted him to kiss you again, this time until your lips felt numb. “I have noticed,” you whispered, your nose touching his. “The constant looks, the lingering gazes... I am my father’s child, after all.”

His fingers on your ass squeezed in response. You bit your bottom lip to contain a lustful moan. Your hips brush faintly against his, pressing his erection harder against you.

“It is precisely why this cannot continue.”

You were his niece, Maekar’s firstborn.

It was scandalous, frowned upon. Incest had been stopped, discouraged even. Cousins at worst, but a nephew and a niece? The High Septon would come to their door if news spread.

His words did not discourage you. You pressed harder against his body. He was forced to step back, but you followed, until he was trapped between you and the cold wall.

You felt a surge of victory at his suppressed growl, your taunts testing his renowned resilience and control.

“It is precisely why we can, and we want,” you argued, face close enough that your lips touched. “Look into my eyes, dear uncle, and tell me you don’t want this. And I will stop.”

Baelor inhaled, unable to move away from you. The wall kept him trapped, your sinful body driving him mad with each rub of your hips against his. His cock ached, pressing against the restraints of his pants.

He parted his lips to say the words, to end this madness before it overtook you both.

Instead, you leaned in and stole a kiss of your own, taking his delay for the truth he feared uttering.

And Baelor Breakspear, Heir to the Throne, felt weak against you. He released your wrists, both hands wrapping around your body, lifting you faintly from your ass. He pressed, pinched and growled when he felt how right the plum of your ass felt against his hands.

In return, you wrapped your hands around his neck and pulled him closer, as if he were a tree you were attempting to climb.

Your one kiss turned into many, one more desperate than the other. As if starved from touch and love, you devoured him with eagerness unfit for a blushing maid.

Baelor started to lead you back with confident steps. His lips left yours, only to find their way to your delicate neck. His kisses were soft, holding back the urge to mark you in the heat of the moment.

Walking back, your mind went silent as you felt his beard against your flushed skin. Step after step, you resisted only when you felt the edge of the bed against your knees.

He did not wait for you. A strong push sent you on your back, the mattress dipping beneath your weight.

You gasped in surprise and lust, lips swollen. Lifting your body on your elbows, you took the sight before you.

The hearth’s fire cast faint shadows on his body, deepening the dark look of his mismatched eyes.

He made you wait, your thighs wet in anticipation.

Baelor took his time to remove his doublet, throwing it carelessly on the ground. His tunic followed next, allowing you to drinkfrom his bare upper body. His chest and arms were still toned despite his growing age; years of lifting swords and fighting wars kept him in shape.

His hands, strong enough to take a life, grabbed your thighs with control. A single pull brought you closer to the edge of the bed, to him. His hands began roaming the softness of your skin, lifting your dress higher and higher.

“Baelor,” his name left your lips as if reciting a prayer.

He looked at you before spreading your legs apart. Looking down, he noticed that something was missing.

“No small cloth, dear niece?” he teased, one of his hands placed against your wet core.

For the first time that night, heat rushed to your cheeks, and you dared to look aside. You did not answer him. Yet you felt his amusement; heard it in his deep chuckle.

A single digit entered your folds, bringing you back to the present. Your head was wiped forward, inhaling sharply when you felt the finger move.

Baelor smirked. “You went to all that trouble to torture me, dear niece,” a second finger joined. Your back arched faintly. “Don’t you look away.”

A quick curl had you falling on your back, hips backing against his hand. He repeated the move, finding a sweet spot. Stars flashed behind your closed eyes, a deep moan escaping your lips.

His free hand moved to cover your mouth as his body towered over you. Your eyes met, understanding his silent order.

Be quiet.

The idea of being heard made you wetter, but you dared not disobey him, notwith his fingers pumping in and out at a steady pace. Your hips bucked in response, as if you were a filly in heat.

His thumb found your pearl, the nerves on fire with how he pressed and rubbed it.

Another moan, muffled by his hand. This one would have been audible to the floor below had he not kept his hand on your lips.

You felt your walls clenching, your stomach tightening in response. Many times have you attempted to pleasure yourself, and almost all of them have you achieved the ecstasy you chased after.

You knew it was coming. So did he.

And he stopped. Fingers withdrawn, leaving you needy and wet.

Your eyes snapped open, looking at him with a demanding look. One that even your father couldn't compete with.

“Patience, dear niece,” Baelor spoke, kissing your neck. “Both you and Maekar seem to lack it.”

His wet digits moved to his pants, quickly relieving himself of any clothing restrictions. Now, entirely bare above you, your violet eyes cast to his cock. Hard, erect; ready to take back what had been denied of him.

You spread your legs wider, silently inviting him in.

Baelor looked at you. “You'd better keep quiet, dear niece,” he said as he slowly withdrew his hand. “Your father’s chambers are just down the corridor.”

A single nod from your side. You had forgotten how to speak, how to form sentences. Your mind was hazy with need, hips backing against air.

By the Seven, you needed him, and you needed him now.

The hand once on your mouth moved to grab your hip. Strong fingers dug into your skin, careful not to bruise. His fingers that so delightfully worked you wrapped around his member, guiding it in.

A sharp inhale.

Baelor moved swiftly, pushing once until his hips were flush against your own. His hand, now free, moved next to your head, keeping him up.

Your eyes met, and he waited.

Waited for you to get used to him. Waited for you to tell him you wanted more. Waited to ensure he was not hurting you.

A second of charged silence. Then, you nodded again.

He obeyed and moved.

A sharp pull back and then in, slowly, controlled. The friction alone felt odd, yet any pain you had sensed quickly faded. Soon, warmth and pleasure replaced it.

Your hands wrapped around his broad shoulders for support, fingers pressing into his skin. Your body pushed forward with each thrust, skin rubbed against the silk covers.

Bravely enough, you wrapped your legs around his waist, pushing him deeper. You hid your face on his neck, biting on soft, tanned flesh to muffle your moan.

Your bite encouraged him to continue, faster, stronger. His hand on your hip would bruise you by the end. You cared little for it.

What mattered was him and him alone.

Above you Inside you Maybe one day, below you.

His thrusts grew sloppier, unsynchronised. He was close.

His hand left your hip and moved back between your legs. Strong fingers rubbed against your bundle of nerves, causing you to cry out.

Your release came right after, your moan compressed by your teeth into his flesh. You bit hard enough to mark, nails dragging lines across his back.

Baelor thrusted twice more and went still, hips pressing you against the bed. He released deep inside you, his groan contained. You felt it through the vibrations across his chest.

He brought his second hand forward, weakly supporting his body. He did not wish to crush you.

You lay before him, slowly letting him go. Your legs trembled from the aftermath of a sweet release. Your skin was flushed, your white hair a mess spreading behind you like a halo.

He bent to steal one last kiss from you, this time sweeter.

“You will be the death of me, one day,” he whispered against your lips.

You smirked, eyes half shut. Your hand weakly cupped his cheek. “Me or my father?”

“One of you.”

The first time it happens, you don't mean for it to even come out. For the longest time - even before you started to date Frank - you always wanted to call him it. And it's not because you have a bad relationship with your own father, you just wanted to do it.

“Daddy,” you moan out right as you come on Frank's cock.

He stops mid-trust; you can literally feel time stop, heat spreading onto your cheeks. But the clock in the dark room disagrees with you. For a long time, you don't know how he's going to react, but you can still feel his cock pulsing inside of you.

Until he does, “say that again.”

“Daddy?” this time, less confidently.

This time it's his turn to moan. He starts to trust into you again, and he starts to kiss your neck, and you know tomorrow there will be spots to cover, but that’s tomorrows problem.

He moves his fingers down to your clit, rubbing as he trusts, trying to get you to reach peak again. Frank has always been good with his hands, and you feel the sensations all over your body.

“Yeah thats right, you want to come so bad,” Frank says into your ear, “you just need your daddy.”

That's what gets you. You reach peck again, and it's the best orgasm of your entire life.

“I do,” you say breathlessly.

You feel Frank come inside you, and instead of getting off of you, he stays. You play with his hair, and give him kisses which he gives back.

“I loved that,” he says sometime later.

“Me too.”

He adjusts his tie, loosening it slightly as he looks in the mirror. Methodically checking every strand of hair is in place, no whisps escaping tonight. His lily pinned to the suit jacket, still perfect, white against the black. The little dimple just above his smile? Stunning. Harry is more than a unicorn. He’s charming, sweet, kind, & wants the best for everyone in life.

That’s when you appear in the mirror’s reflection, walking casually past to talk to a family member, one who will surely ask the same questions you always get at weddings: “When’s it going to be you?” “Are you settled down?” “Time’s running out.” All tedious. & frankly, nobody’s business but your own.

But as you walk past, something shifts. Harry’s eyes light up.

You’re the groom’s younger sister, heading off to face the usual interrogation from the boomers & beyond. Your light blue dress flows just enough to catch the eye. Your hair is swept into an elegant bun, a few strands escaping. Simple. Stunning.

Harry is best friends with the other groom. They met in school at age ten & have been thick as thieves ever since. He takes one last glance in the hallway mirror, picks his whiskey glass up off the shelf, & heads across the room a few minutes later, following the same path you took.

Sure enough, as he approaches the bar for a top-up, he hears them.

“So, who can we match you up with, darling?” It’s a great aunt you only see at these events. Your grandma is hovering nearby, too.

“Oh, if it happens, it happens,” you say, trying to make it sound trivial. But inside, you’re squirming. Your hands twitch nervously. You’d rather talk about literally anything else, or at least have a drink in hand.

“Well, we just want you to be happy,” the aunt offers.

“Oh yes,” your grandma adds, “my poor little flower. Bless her, maybe you’ll find happiness one day.”

“Who says she isn’t happy?” You turn your head. It’s Harry, smiling, a whiskey in one hand, a glass of Prosecco for you in the other. “Who says you’re only happy if you have a partner? Or a family?” You take the glass from him.

“Well…” your great aunt begins, faltering, “doesn’t everyone want that?”

“Happiness isn’t just one box you tick,” Harry says, offering you the glass. You sip silently, watching him. He’s calm, firm, a gentleman putting outdated views in their place. “Why has no one asked me if I’m happy? I’m in the same boat. But when a woman’s single at a wedding & over thirty, suddenly everyone’s desperate to match her up.”

“Well, you can provide for yourself as a man,” your grandma replies.

“& she can’t?” That line hits you like a shiver. Without thinking, your free hand gently rests on his lower back. “It’s harder for her than it is for a man to succeed alone. You should be bloody proud of her, her salary, her apartment, her car. Everything she’s built on her own.” He nods to you, & you nearly choke on your Prosecco.

The older women panic, clearly flustered, & mumble excuses before heading off toward the grandparents’ table. Harry takes another sip of his whiskey. You start to giggle.

“Guessing you enjoyed that performance?” he asks.

“More than enough, Harry,” you say with a smile.

You’ve known Harry for three years. You met at your brother’s birthday, the night his now husband proposed. “I owe you,” you say.

“No, you don’t,” he replies, smirking.

“Please. As an independent woman, you know I hate being in debt.”

He leans in slightly. “Well… if they knew how little independence you’ve had these past 14 months, they’d be asking us both why there’s no wedding date.”

It all started with a drunken couch make-out at his best friend’s place. You both regretted it the next morning, until a week later, when you found yourself in his king-size bed, wrapped in silk sheets, feeling valued & adored. Only a select few people know you’re a couple. Harry didn’t want to pressure you & you wanted to be sure he was the one. You’ve all but moved in with him now. Your apartment lease expires in two months. That’s when you plan to tell everyone.

Harry gently places his hand around your waist. “Maybe we should cause a little stir,” he says, setting his empty glass down beside him. “Let them whisper a bit.” He takes your hand “Dance with me.”

You raise an eyebrow, surprised & smiling.

“I thought you didn’t dance.” You take the last sip of your drink.

“I don’t,” he says. “But if I don’t hold you close soon, I might combust.”

He leads you gently toward the dance floor, where only a few couples sway, newlyweds, long-time lovers, the odd tipsy uncle & his saint of a wife. The music slows, something soft & golden playing in the background. You barely notice the song, you only feel the way Harry’s hand rests lightly against your back, how your fingers thread into his, the way he leaves just enough space between your bodies to be polite.

Well that’s at first. You move slowly together, small steps, cautious to begin, like pretending it’s just for show. Just for the relatives. Just for the whispers.

But with every turn, every soft sway, the space between you disappears. His touch becomes firmer, more certain. Your head shifts a little closer to his. He leans in now & then to say something quiet things. You barely catch them over the music, but you don’t really need to. They sound like kindness, like safety. Like the version of love you’d almost stopped believing in. Comfort & love.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he murmurs at one point.

“I knew you’d say that,” you reply, trying to sound breezy, but your voice is softer now too.

“Because it’s true. & because I mean it.”

There’s a pause. The kind that says more than conversation ever could.

“You look handsome too”

“I know” he sniggers.

“No Harry, you’re more than just the grooms best friend to me” you say softly. You inhale his scent & sigh.

By the end of the song, there’s barely a breath between your bodies. His hand rests just above the small of your back. Your forehead nearly touches his. You can feel his breath when he whispers your name.

Your lips almost brush. The world around you blurs, the clinking of glasses, the chatter of cousins, the shrieks of toddlers doing laps in sparkly shoes. It all fades. For a moment, it’s just the two of you, suspended. You’re sure people are talking about the two of you but it’s just white noise.

Then you pull back half an inch, just enough to say it. Quietly. Clearly.

“I know where we can go.” Harry looks into your eyes, eyebrows raised ever so slightly. “Where we can just be… more than two random people at a wedding. Away from all these eyes.”

His smile is slow, warm, unmistakably full of love.

“Lead the way beautiful.” It’s barely audible. Your souls ignites.

Harry’s smile deepens, a quiet flicker of mischief in his eyes now he can see that you are both on the same page.

“Lead the way,” he says again, more softly now almost like a dare.

You take his hand, fingers laced tightly, & together you slip off the dance floor. Nobody really notices. Or maybe they do, but no one says anything. Let them whisper.

The corridor off the main hall is dim, lined with flickering fairy lights & soft carpet that hushes your steps. You pass the gift table, a glamour photo booth, & a pair of older cousins arguing gently about cake. Then you tug him left, away from all the celebration. Toward the rooms upstairs.

The hotel suite is quiet when you enter. The door clicks shut behind you. The hum of the hallway fades, & now it’s just the two of you, hearts racing, fingers still tangled, eyes locked like you might not survive the next few seconds if one of you lets go. You booked the room in your name Harry was “staying at a friend’s” well that’s what he told those who didn’t know.

You both pause. It hangs there. That moment between the moment. The space where decision turns into action.

Finally after being careful all day, he’s kissing you. Not gently. Not hesitantly. Like he’s been holding it in for days, despite the fact that he kissed you in bed this morning. Like he’s tired of pretending you’re just the groom’s sister & he’s just the best friend. His hands find your waist, then your back, then your jaw. You lean into him with a soft, breathless gasp that turns into a moan against his mouth. You break only for air. Barely. You need him more than oxygen.

He presses you back toward the bed, or maybe you pull him, neither of you quite sure who’s leading anymore. You don’t care. His tie is already loose, & your dress has shifted slightly at the shoulder. His jacket hits the floor, the Lilly now crumpled. Your heels come off. Nothing’s rushed, but it’s all urgent, every kiss a little deeper, every touch a little firmer, like the two of you have been pretending for far too long & now, finally, you don’t have to.

“Been dying to do this all night,” he murmurs against your neck.

“All night?” you tease, tugging at his shirt.

He laughs, low & hoarse. “Fine. Since the day we met. I think I say that to you every time we have a moment, it’s not changed though.”

You kiss him again. Longer this time. Slower. Like you believe him because you do.

The rest of the world can wait, the reception, the gossip, the relatives & the irritating questions. Right now, it’s just you & Harry, in your own private celebration, wrapped in each other & the honesty of it all. The sounds of the wedding are distant now, muffled laughter, faraway music. None of it reaches you here.

Harry’s hands move slower now. He’s no longer kissing you with urgency, but with purpose. Like he’s savoring every second, like he’s learning you all over again. You’re lying back on the bed, dress slipped off your shoulders, bunched at your waist. His fingers trace your collarbone, your arm, the curve of your waist , reverent & unhurried.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, like it’s a secret he’s finally allowed to say out loud. “Every inch of you. I hope you know that.” His next kiss delicate “& im going to reminds you of that every single day” each word punctuated with another kiss.

Your breath hitches. You’ve heard those words before, from others. But with Harry, it doesn’t feel like flattery. It feels like fact. Like he’s not trying to convince you, just remind you.

You reach up & run your fingers through his hair, pulling him down to kiss you again, slow, soft, deep. His weight settles gently over you, his hands roaming only when invited, his mouth pressing kisses to your shoulder, your jaw, your chest. Every touch is a question, you answer by pulling him closer.

Clothes continue to fall away. No rush, no fumbling. Just the quiet peeling back of everything that isn’t essential. Soon your legs part. Micro moans escaping your lips. A dampness between your thighs. His penis rubbing against your exposed skin. You can feel the thud of his heart as you run your hands over his chest. It’s more than racing, it’s like this every time. & when he finally slides into you, he pauses, just for a second, eyes locked with yours, like he’s anchoring himself in the moment. Like this means as much to him as it does to you.

“Oooh Harry” you gasp when your filled to the brim. Eyes wide with desire, your body automatically remembering the next movement, the next spike of pleasure.

“God baby” he moans catching his breath from the anticipation always feeling you clamp around him. “What did I ever do to deserve this each night”

He moves slowly. Intimately. His hand finds yours, fingers interlocking above your head. His other hand cradles your cheek, & when he leans down to kiss you, it’s so tender you feel it everywhere, like he’s kissing more than your mouth. Like he’s kissing your tired heart, your loneliness, all the parts of you that didn’t believe love like this was real.

“Harry please…”You whisper his name. Wanting more, you always want more with him.

He kisses your temple. “I’ve got you,” he breathes. “Always.”

You slowly open your eyes & look at him, a really deep look. & then you ask the question that’s been living in your chest all evening.

“Are you happy?”

He stills for a beat, his forehead resting against yours. “With you?” His voice is soft, but sure.

“With everything”

“I’ve never been happier in my life.”

You close your eyes, & a tear slips free, not from sadness, but from the terrifying relief of being truly seen. He brushes it away with his thumb & kisses you again.

“What about you beautiful, you happy?”

“Always, why would I settle for anything less” you run your fingers through his hair & his pace picks up. Slowly building, kisses that mean more than anything, passion that’s a slow burn as your body’s mould as one.

You make love like that, slow, quiet, honest. There’s no performance, no noise, just the two of you breathing each other in, skin to skin, soul to soul. The occasional moan or swear word but tonight is about being loved. Each thrust is felt, he is rather endowed after all, but the way he runs his fingers over your body, no inch neglected & the way your hands don’t know if they want to hold him & make deep intense eye contact with each grind or grasp the silk sheets as you close your eyes in pleasure. Both are beautiful. Much like the orgasm that makes you bolt your eyes open, panting desperately for air as he shudders through his own. Making you both feel incredibly.

When it’s over, he stays inside you for a moment, holding your face, his eyes full of something wordless & huge. Then he kisses you like a promise. You lie there eventually resting your head on his chest, caressing his torso once he’s rolled off you. You feel at one. How could anyone not be happy doing this as you both succumb to sleep. No need to head back to the reception.

Sunlight is already warming the room when you wake. It falls in golden strips across the sheets, catching the bare skin of your shoulder & the curve of Harry’s back. He’s still in bed beside you, propped against the headboard, scrolling absently on his phone, not out of distraction, but habit. He’s already showered. You watch him for a second before he notices.

“Morning, gorgeous,” he says, not looking up at first, like he’s said it a hundred times. Then he glances over & grins. “God, look at you.”

You squint at him sleepily. Breasts exposed as you sit up “You’re way too smug for someone who didn’t even set an alarm.”

“We’re at a wedding, not a conference.” He tosses his phone to the side & rolls toward you, dragging the sheet with him. “Besides… I think we earned the lie-in.”

You stretch, the motion tugging the sheets down a little more anymore & he will see the sticky mess that dried onto you as you slept last night, you didn’t clean yourself up. His eyes flick down, then up again, & he exhales softly, like he can’t quite believe you’re real.

He kisses your shoulder, then your jaw, then your temple. Not rushed. Just affectionate.

“You’re staring,” you murmur.

“You’re glowing.” He brushes your hair back, the messy bun that you never took out now more chaos. “You look like sex & sun & smug satisfaction. It’s honestly a lot to take in before coffee.”

You let out a sleepy laugh & roll onto your side to face him. “You look…” You pause to take him in, hair still damp from his shower, still in his robe soft but sexy “Like the guy I’m going to keep waking up next to.”

Something flickers across his face, that look he gives when he’s trying not to get emotional. He leans forward &kisses you gently, one hand sliding along your bare hip beneath the sheet.

“You okay?” you whisper.

He nods, brushing his nose against yours. “Better than. You?”

“I am… actually.” You pause. “Are you happy?”

His reply is immediate, & solid. “Yeah. With you? I’m so stupidly happy it’s almost embarrassing.”

You grin. “Good. I just… you know… needed to hear it out loud.”

“Well, I’ll say it as many times as you need.” He kisses you again, slower this time. “Though I may need breakfast first if I’m expected to string sentences together all day.”

You groan & roll back against the pillows. “We have to face the family circus.”

“Let them stare,” Harry says, standing & pulling on his shirt. “We look too good for them to judge us anyway.”

You drag yourself out of bed & slip into the soft yellow day dress you packed, the easy one that makes you look like you tried, even when you didn’t. Your hair’s still a mess, you’ve brushed it out but it’s still a little wavy, in a romantic way. Harry watches you from across the room, adjusting his cuffs in the mirror. Even casual he looks like a gent.

“You look like summer,” he says, grabbing his watch. “& like maybe you ruined me a little last night.”

You shoot him a teasing look. “Only a little?”

He grins and shrugs. “There’s still time to finish the job.”

“Maybe I need a different appetite quenched” you say as you slip on your shoes.

“You’re irresistible when you say stuff like that” he says. Harry offers his hand again. Just like the night before. “Let’s go make a scene. They’re not ready to face us.”

The breakfast room is already buzzing when you arrive, cutlery clinking, coffee being poured, guests slowly recovering from the night before. A few kids are running barefoot, someone’s gran is hoarding croissants, & somewhere, a groomsman is wearing sunglasses indoors. But the second you two step into the room, time slows. The grooms spot you from across the buffet table. One nudges the other & points. Their matching smirks say everything. One of them mouths, “About time.” Harry doesn’t blush often but that moment has him turning as red as the strawberry jam.

& then there are the oldies.

The same great aunt from the night before cranes her neck, adjusting her bifocals for confirmation. Your grandma lowers her toast & stares, no gawps. You hear whispers begin to ripple, things like “That’s her with him?” & “Well, I never…” & “Did he stay here thought he was at a friends?”

Harry doesn’t hesitate. With his blushing over he walks you right into the middle of it all, your hand tucked confidently in his. He pulls out a chair for you at the long family table, like this isn’t your relationship reveal, it’s your coronation.

You sit, smoothing your dress, smiling just enough to make them all wonder how long you’ve been smiling like that. Then Harry leans down, presses a soft kiss to your forehead, warm & sure, before he says, clear enough for half the room to hear, “Love you, babes.”

Then he sits beside you, pours himself a cup of coffee, & passes you the butter like it’s just another perfect morning in a life you’ve been quietly building together. Which if it was a Sunday morning at his it would be just like this, just less clothes.

You glance around the room. Some people are gawking. Others pretend not to. The two grooms toast you with their mugs from across the table.

Harry leans over and whispers, “How long do you think before someone pretends they always knew?”

You nudge his foot under the table. “Let them try. We’ve got stories they don’t.” You both start to laugh. The mischief in his face alluring.

At this hotel for breakfast they serve eggs & toast & endless pots of coffee, & somehow you & Harry manage to ignore the noise around you. The sideways glances, the pretend not to look, the gleam in your brother’s eyes across the table that says finally. Even though he’s been helping you keep the secret. You sit close, not pressed together but comfortably near, sharing butter, stealing glances. No fireworks. No performance. Just… breakfast.

“I don’t want to make a big deal out of all this,” Harry says eventually, stirring his coffee, voice low. “No announcements. No spotlight. Just… you & me. That okay?”

You glance at him over your mug, lips curling.

“Then just hold my hand.” He doesn’t even hesitate. His fingers slide into yours under the table, like he’s been waiting his whole life to get permission. You never intended this to be a secret kts just how this has kind of happened. You squeeze once. He squeezes back. Neither of you let go until breakfast is over & it’s time to check out.

Down at reception, the two of you roll your weekend bags through the quiet lobby. A few of the older family members from breakfast are loitering by the sofas with styrofoam cups & smug speculation in their eyes. All waiting for their taxis home.

You catch a few whispered phrases “… in the same room, I heard…” & “…well, about time really…” & “…those hotel sheets, the poor staff…”

Harry clocks it too, & just sighs & smirks.

You step up to the counter, already pulling out your purse.

“Room 318,” you tell the receptionist, handing over your card before Harry can blink. He raises an eyebrow.

“I could’ve done that, babes.”

You turn toward him, lifting your chin a little, not defensively, just solid.

“I know. But I can look after myself.”

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t make a joke or push the point. He just steps closer, looks at you like it’s the first time he’s really seeing that part of you, the independence, the quiet power. He knows what you’re doing, the point you are making to all these people.

“I love that about you,” he murmurs, brushing your hair behind your ear. You smile, slip your card back in your purse, & lean in to kiss him, not dramatic, not rushed, just soft & sure, like you’re choosing him again. & again.

As you pull away, you hear one of the aunties gasp, like she’s just seen something slightly scandalous. You turn toward the exit with your suitcase, Harry’s hand finding yours again without a word.

You walk out together, side by side, calm in the face of it all. Not a secret anymore. Not a whisper. Just a woman who can pay for her own room, & the man who would’ve happily paid twice over, as long as it meant waking up next to her.

“Think they got the message?” You ask Harry as you load your bags into your car in the car park.

“Oooh loud & clear” he says as he opens the passenger door for you.

“Oooh still being a gentleman I see…”

“Just for now…” he says as he shuts your door & walks around & gets in the drivers side. “But I know that when I get you home I’m going to make you more than happy” he grips your thigh before putting the car into gear.

“Hmmmm happy & glorious” you stretch out.