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His tongue flattened against her, licking a stripe up between her folds until he pressed against her clit and she shuddered, a horribly whiny sound pushed from her lungs when he closed his lips around the bead and sucked, like he was trying to pull the life out of her. Her hips jolted, unable to go anywhere as he had her pinned down, and she was practically seeing stars as Sam worked down there. She wondered if he was even breathing.

“Sam- oh my god—” She whimpered, hissed in a breath when he licked back down to her entrance and his nose nudged against her clit, stomach clenching as she reached her hands down to grasp onto his hair, fingers curled into the soft strands.

And then he pulled away.

His hands left her thighs as his mouth left her, but she didn’t have time to whine her complaints at the loss of sensation as his long fingers curled around her wrists, yanked her hands out of his hair. “What did I say, huh?” The tone of voice made her pussy clench around nothing. “Hands to yourself. You’re pretty bad at listening, baby.”

Sam shifted over her, his face over hers as he pushed her wrists down onto the pillows above her head, and she almost squirmed when she saw the look in his eyes, the way his lips were wet with her.

“Are you listening?” He squeezed her wrists as a reminder, and her eyes quickly flickered back up to his eyes. “Do I need to tie you up, or will you keep these here for me?” She knew he wouldn’t hesitate to do it. Sam could be such a soft lover — he’d kiss every inch of her skin, whisper praises and compliments, tell her he loved her a thousand times as he made love to her. But he could also be like this, mean and demanding as he fucked her silly over and over. She wasn’t sure which she liked more.

“I’ll keep them there.” She breathed out, her voice still a little too whiny. He’d gotten her so close to cumming again, the lack of stimulation was driving her crazy, her cunt throbbed as she stared up at him.

“Oh yeah?” Sam narrowed his eyes like he didn’t believe her, and let go of one of her wrists to take both into one of his large hands. Her eyes left his face to follow his second as it dipped down between them, fingering at the waistband of his boxers, until she heard a sharp, “eyes on me.”

Her gaze quickly flickered back up to his face. “See? You can be good sometimes, can’t you?” Sam cooed, boardering on condescending, as he leaned down and pressed a kiss to her mouth, allowing her to taste herself. “You just need some reminding, don’t you, sweetheart? Get so lost in that pretty little head of yours when I’m making you feel so good.”

She’d been so distracted by watching his face, head spinning with his words, that she didn’t realise that he’d freed himself from his boxers until she felt the head of his cock nudging between her folds, gliding easily against her with the slick and spit collected there, and she mewled at the feeling, eyes squeezed shut as he nudged at her clit.

“Eyes open,” his hands left her wrists — which she knew now to keep still — and his fingers splayed across her jaw, squeezing unkindly until she looked up again. “Don’t make me tell you again. You wanna be good for me, don’t you?”

She nodded dumbly, sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth as he rubbed her clit with his cock. Teasing her. “Mhm, I will.”

“You will?” Sam gave her jaw one more squeeze, just for good measure, before he wrapped his fingers around the bare skin of her throat. He didn’t squeeze, didn’t put any pressure, just held her, but the threat was there. The head of his cock rested up against her slickened entrance as his head dipped down, lips brushed her ear as he whispered, “what’s your colour?”

They had a pretty rigid safe word system set out — it was something he went over with her every time they had sex, especially like this, when he was mean and grabby and knew that she wouldn’t like it every time. If she so much whispered the word red he’d be up and off of her before she could blink.

But all that left her words was a whiny, “Green, please Sammy.”

She felt his lips curve up against her ear as he smirked. “Good girl.”

Without warning he pushed into her and she sucked in a sharp breath, her own fingers grabbed at each other in an attempt to keep her hands still, and she shoved a breath out of her throat. He’d worked her open with his fingers when he’d been settled down between her legs, but she still felt the stretch, the burn as he settled his cock deep inside of her, and for a moment she had to remember to breathe back in.

“Fuck honey,” he grunted in her ear, fingers gripped her throat just slightly tighter, still only enough for her to feel pressure. “So tight for me, baby. Can barely take it, huh?”

He pulled back before he rutted back inside and she whimpered, squeezing her own fingers together so tightly so she didn’t break his rule. Needing to hold onto him somehow, though, her thighs clamped harshly around his hips, already trembly from the first orgasm he’d pulled from her.

He thrust in again, and again, and again, and soon she saw stars, gasping and whimpering with every drag of his cock against her gummy walls, pleasure rippling through her in waves that made her stomach clench, her cunt clamped down so tightly around him it was a wonder he could move at all.

“So noisy baby,” he crooned on a particular harsh thrust that made her whine, fingers a little tighter around her throat. “Can’t help yourself, can you?” He huffed with another thrust. “Need me to do all the work, hm? Greedy—” he grunted, “greedy girl.”

It took an embarrassingly short time for her to get close again. Sam was fucking her with determination, grunted every time he pushed himself back in, the head of his cock nudged the soft spongey spot inside of her that made her shudder again and again and again until she was a mess beneath him, lewd wet sounds accompanying her whimpers with each shift of his hips, her pussy fluttering around the stretch of his girth.

He didn’t slow down, didn’t ease up, didn’t give her a breather. She was close to tears by the time she was almost there, already sensitive from her first orgasm.

She clenched around him and his fingers, in turn, tightened on the sides of her throat. She trusted him, she knew he wouldn’t push it too far. Just enough for her to feel a little dizzy, for the bliss to wash over her like a high.

“Sam- mm- Sammy—” She was practically blabbering as her eyes filled with tears, gasping with each thrust, each smack of his hips against hers.

“Oh honey,” he cooed, condescending, mean. “Too much, hm? Need something?”

His hand loosened on her throat and she inhaled a little shakily.

“Please—” she whined, blinking through tears up at him. She didn’t miss the flicker in his eyes as the tears dribbled down her cheeks, but she knew that he knew she’d tell him if it was too much. It had happened before, neither of them messed around when it came to their safe words.

“Please what, huh?” He thrust in harshly and she groaned, cunt fluttering, so close— “Ah-ah, not yet. Don’t you need to ask me something, dolly?” He squeezed her throat once. “You remember what happens if you cum without asking, don’t you?”

Of course she did. The week prior she’d cum too soon, and he spent the next what felt like hours edging her, too skilled with his fingers, words too filthy that they made her head spin. He’d made such a mess of her that she hadn’t been able to even get up off of the bed for a little while after he finally let her cum.

“Mhm, mm, yeah—” she inhaled shakily, whining, thighs clamped tighter around his hips. “Please- please can I- please let me—” she groaned.

“Let you what?” He was dragging it out, the fucker, grunting into her ear as he leaned down over her, pushed his cock so deep her vision almost whitened out. “Tell me, honey. Use those words for me, c’mon.”

The tears were bubbling over faster, rolling down her flushed cheeks. “Let me cum, baby, please.”

“Asking so nicely,” he grunted, pressed a kiss to the shell of her ear. “How can I say no to something so pretty, hm? ‘Course you can, baby, go ahead.”

It wasn’t his words that did it for her, but the hand that snuck between them and pressed down on her stomach, the press of his cock suddenly so much more delicious that she almost fucking fainted.

She came with a breathless whine, hips jerked as she finally gasped a breath and whined again, her cunt throbbed around his cock as he kept pumping, rode her through it entirely. Her head tipped back, his mouth on her neck as her eyes squeezed shut, colours danced on the inside of her eyelids, her own little fireworks display.

Sam came shortly after, groaned into her ear in a way that almost made her cum again, and he rutted into her a few more times before he stopped, warmth spreading through her as he panted against her shoulder.

“Fuck,” he huffed, his own chest heaved, brushing against her bare skin. “Oh sweetheart.” The shift in his demeanour was palpable, soft kisses immediately littered across her shoulder and collarbone, palms flattened to smooth over her sweat-dampened skin. He could be so mean in the moment, so dominating and controlling that he left her a fucking mess underneath him, but afterwards? He’d probably feed her grapes and fan her if she asked him to.

She was still gasping for breath, head spinning, and when she knew she wouldn’t be told off for it her hands lifted, immediately clung to his warm shoulders. She loved the way his shoulders felt underneath her touch, muscles rippling with every movement.

Sam kissed up her throat and jaw before he landed on her mouth, and he kissed her slowly, huffed breaths into each other's mouths as he licked between her lips, sweeped behind her top teeth, their lips both wet with spit.

By the time he had pulled away, he’d so thoroughly kissed her that she almost had her breath back.

“You okay?” His voice was so soft it was like there was an entirely different person on top of her compared to five minutes prior. His hand left her throat, smoothed upwards and cupped her jaw. She felt him thumb away tears that had fallen, some clung to her eyelashes, somewhat cool against her hot and flushed skin.

She nodded as she stroked her fingertips along his shoulders with her fingertips, like she’d committed him to memory. She had.

“Hey,” he lightly tapped her cheekbone with his thumb. “Need words, honey.”

She couldn’t help her smile. He was so caring she sometimes wanted to cry. “M’okay,” she whispered, voice soft like she’d shared a secret. “Really good. You’re so good, Sammy.” She praised, tilted her head to kiss his wrist, and he smiled and blushed like he hadn’t just been the one to fuck the life out of her.

“Says you,” Sam leaned down and kissed her forehead. “You’re perfect. Love you,” another kiss. “Love you so much.”

She smiled so much her cheeks hurt. “Love you too.”

Sam smiled too, that soft smile that made his dimples peek out, eyes crinkled at the corners, and he stroked her cheekbone again. “M’gonna pull out, okay?”

Only when she nodded did he shift, slowly pulled his hips back until she was empty, until all she could feel was the wetness coated between her thighs.

“Christ, made a mess of you,” he murmured, not in the condescending tone from before, instead something closer to admiration. “You’re so pretty when you cum, y’know that?”

She blushed, hard, and shrugged as her cheek dipped to meet her shoulder.

Sam laughed, rolled his eyes as he leaned in and kissed her again. “Don’t get all shy on me now.”

She was still blushing when he helped her sit up, fingers delicately curled around her elbows to pull her upright, her back also damp with sweat. They’d need to change the sheets.

“Two options,” Sam murmured as he gently stroked hair away that was stuck to her forehead, baby hairs that clung to her temples. “We take a shower and let me wash your hair and then go get food, or you let me run you a bath and you wait there looking all pretty for me while I get you something we can eat in there so I can dote on you.”

“You just wanna wash my hair huh?”

Sam smiled. “Guilty.”

Her fingers found his, intertwined with a squeeze. “Bath sounds nice,” she eventually settled on. “As long as you don’t take too long in the kitchen. I’ll miss you.”

He was laughing when he pressed another kiss to her mouth. “Of course. Promise to not take too long, okay?”

Dean didn’t want to go to school. He wanted to hunt. Just like his father taught him to. Although John Winchester trained his boys to be hunters from the very start, he remembered his late wife Mary Winchester wanted her boys to have a normal life. And honouring her wishes, John decided his boys at-least deserve to have a high school experience. While Sam was happy to attend school Dean was throwing a fit. He considered himself better than a high school kid and it deeply bruised his ego to sit in a classroom with kids that were unaware of what goes bump in the night or what Dean Winchester was capable of.

John told his boys that they’d stay in the same town for four years while Dean completed his high school and then they’d move for Sam to complete his’ somewhere else. With that being decided it was a given that John would be gone a lot and the boys had to have each other’s back. John persuaded his eldest by promising him the keys of the Impala if he made it to his junior year with good grades. That was the only motivation that made Dean get out of bed everyday and to engage in focused study. For two years Dean dragged his feet to school and finally after passing his sophomore year at the top of his class, he got the Impala for himself.

Dean parked the car in the school parking and Sam jumped out of the car excitedly running to his class. Dean rolled his eyes and made his way towards his own class. He mostly kept to himself in class, girls swooned over him as he walked the hallways, no matter what grade they were in. The boys envied him since he had the looks, physique and was on top of his class as well. It was hard to categorise him as a bad boy or a good boy. He had his fair share of fights with jocks and make outs with cheerleaders. And now to top it all he had a badass car as well.

A scowl appeared on his face as soon as he entered the classroom. A girl from his class, he hadn’t bothered to know her name, was sitting in his seat, all the way in the back beside the window. He stomped his feet as he walked over to her. Damn she’s gorgeous. But that’s not the point,— Dean shook his head before he spoke,

“You’re in my seat.” He glared at her. She jumped a bit at his voice but then she relaxed. She looked up at him glared back at him.

“What are you, five?” She retorted leaning back in the chair. He breathed through his nose and urged her to get out of his seat but she remained indifferent. She sucked her pen between her lips and stared at his face with a frown. His face flashed with confusion at the change of her attitude. “Can I sit here please? I’m having a bad day.” She said softly and Dean could’ve sworn she was bipolar the way she changed her tone within seconds. With a loud sigh he dropped his bag on the table next to hers and sat on the chair. She sent him a grateful smile and he just nodded. The teacher entered the class and started teaching, after a few minutes passed the girl whispered. “I’m Y/n.” Dean looked at her blankly and turned to face ahead.

Normally teenagers think about relationships, falling in love, but Dean had already internalised to stay far from these attachments, finish school to please his dad so he can finally hunt. But the pretty girl next to him was already causing him to waver in his decision. He was teenager a of-course he felt attracted to a beautiful woman. The class ended pretty soon and the kids were rushing out as fast as humanly possible but she remained seated and Dean noticed.

“Not going to the next class?” He couldn’t help but ask, she had her head down on the desk and her hair was falling on her face which made Dean want to tuck it behind her ear. —God what is wrong with me. He groaned internally.

“No!” She pouted and Dean held back from kissing her right there. He had barely noticed her existence in the past two years and now he’s having these passionate thoughts about her.

“Skipping class?” Dean smirked, she didn’t look like someone who’d skip class for fun. She shook her head at his question and Dean wondered if there’s something wrong with her. He raised his brow at her but she didn’t respond. She sat up straight and stared at her lap. “What’s up then? Can’t help you if you won’t tell.” Dean shrugged.

She didn’t know whether she should tell him, he’ll probably make fun of her. She’s known him for two years, they’re in the same class but he never acknowledged her. He barely has friends and he seemed rude. But he’s asking right? That should mean something! —She thought to herself. “I’m having a bad day.” She finally said and she didn’t expect him to roll his eyes at her.

“You told me that before.” He crossed his arms across his chest. She felt small under his gaze but something made her feel safe too.

“I woke up late and forgot my homework at home.” She whispered. “I got my period early and it stained my pants.” Dean was caught off guard and he felt embarrassed. Yeah he knows what a menstrual cycle is but he’s never had the first hand experience of dealing with someone on their period. But that sure does explain her change of mood. He didn’t speak for a minute and then he shrugged of his jacket and extended it to her.

“Here, you can wear it, it’ll probably cover you.” His jacket was huge, she was pretty small compared to him and it would cover her up good. “Do you want me to walk you to the nurse’s office?” As much as she wanted him to, she didn’t want any rumours to spread about him and her. She shook her head politely.

“I’ll manage. Thank you for the jacket Dean. I’ll return it tomorrow.” She smiled standing up and slipped her arms inside the jacket. She kissed his cheek, both of their faces turned red and she quickly rushed out of the room. Dean stood frozen. He’s never felt this way before, blushing over a kiss over the cheek. He’s done way more than that but this made his heart flutter.

The next morning Y/n was at her locker, Dean’s jacket draped over her arm, she knew everyone saw her wearing his jacket yesterday and she could hear them talk. From her interaction with him she could tell he was a nice person but his reputation preceded him, he was popular and was always found making out with a new girl every week. She didn’t want to be one of those girls so she decided, she would return his jacket and go back to never talking to him again. However her plan was ruined when Dean appeared by her side, he leaned against against the locker beside her flashing her his annoyingly perfect smile.

“How’re you feeling, sweetheart?” Dean asked and she looked around to see all eyes on them. He couldn’t explain why he was drawn to her; it was just a gut feeling, a spark he felt. He thought about her the whole day when he went back home. He knew she’d be stuck in his mind, lingering there longer than a stranger ever should.

“Better.” She replied and handed him his jacket. “Thanks, Dean.” She said before closing her locker and turning to go to class. He wrapped his hand around her wrist, pulling her into him.

“Let’s walk to class together?” Although he asked her it was more like a statement. She gulped before nodding her head. All the girls’ jaws practically hit the floor as they watched Dean lead Y/n to class.

For the following week Dean could be found wherever Y/n was. He practically walked her to her every class, turned down girls left and right and he finally worked up the courage to ask her out on a date. At first she was skeptical at his sudden interest in her, and she turned him down. He followed her like a lost puppy for another two weeks.

“Dean what the hell.!” She exclaimed as he cornered her after class ended. “Why’re you interested in me suddenly?” She folded her arms across her chest.

“I like you. And I wanna take you out on a date.” He replied, his green eyes staring into hers intently.

“I’m not going to be one of those girls you make out with and then dump.” she said, her voice firm but laced with vulnerability. She wasn’t trying to play hard to get—she just knew her worth and wasn’t about to let herself be another passing fling. Dean wanted to feel offended but he knew he had a reputation and he didn’t blame her.

“Just one date." he said, a teasing grin on his face. There was a playful challenge in his eyes, like he knew she was tempted but wouldn’t admit it. He leaned in slightly, his tone softening. “One date to prove I genuinely like you.” His eyes softened and she could feel herself getting lost in his eyes.

“Fine.” She nodded begrudgingly. She knew he wouldn’t have left her alone unless she agreed. She weighed the pros and cons and the situation seemed to be in her favour. He’s got one date to prove himself, if he failed she’d make sure he left her alone and if he did turn out decent enough she might get herself a hot boyfriend. She rolled her eyes at herself,— Dean Winchester and boyfriend don’t go in the same sentence.

The day of the date arrived sooner than Y/n wanted it to. She slipped on a simple sundress and kept her makeup minimal. She heard the doorbell ring, she said goodbye to her mom before rushing to open the door. Not only was Dean on time, he bought her flowers too. She smiled at him taking the flowers from him. He told her she looked beautiful and held her hand to lead her to the car. He opened the car door for her too. The two had dinner at local diner and he was a complete gentleman the whole time. He didn’t make any moves on her, just talked and flirted a bit. Dean paid for the food and helped her into the car again.

Y/n couldn’t stop herself from smiling until her cheeks hurt. She never thought Dean be such a cutie. She thought of him as the bad boy who played around with girls but he proved himself.

“I had fun today. Thank you Dean.” She said putting her hand on his as he drove. He threw her a smirk.

“It’s not over yet, sweetheart.” Dean replied. She looked at him in confusion. She looked outside and realised he’s not driving her back home, instead they’re going towards the lakeside. She tensed, unbeknownst to Dean. She cursed herself for thinking too soon. He’s up to no good—Of course it’s not over yet. She rolled her eyes.

The car came to a halt and he got out of the car and opened her door to offer her his hand with a charming smile. She got out the car and he led her to the front of the car and faced her. He placed his hands on her waist and helped her onto the hood.

Y/n swore she was going to knee him where the sun doesn’t shine if he pulled anything. He let go off her and sat beside her on the hood. She looked at him, he felt her eyes on him and turned to her. He then raised his hand above them and pointed to the sky. When she looked up she saw the most beautiful canopy of stars stretching across the night. The sky was a deep, velvety black, speckled with countless twinkling lights. He brought her see stars. She cursed herself again — for thinking too soon.

The night was cool, the stars above casting a soft glow on them, adding a touch of magic to the moment.

“Sweetheart.” Dean took a deep breath, searching for the right words. “I really like you, Y/n. This isn’t just a fling for me. I want to be more than just that bad boy reputation.”

In that moment Y/n didn’t know what came over her, but it was her who leaned in first. Dean’s gaze lingered on her face as he slowly leaned in, his eyes locking with hers. He brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his touch gentle and tender. She felt her heart race, the moment stretching out between them. When their lips finally met, it was soft and slow, a sweet, lingering kiss that conveyed more than words ever could.

One date turned into five, and each one seemed to deepen their connection. What started as a single evening of getting to know each other blossomed into a series of moments filled with laughter, shared secrets, and growing affection. On their sixth date, Dean asked her to be his girlfriend, and she accepted. Being with her made Dean forget about hunting and how he would have to leave in less than two years. He forgot about how his dad might react or how Y/n would respond if she learned about his life as a hunter.

The news of Y/n and Dean being a couple spread through school like wildfire. They became the power couple, and it was truly endearing to see them together. Dean was the best boyfriend Y/n could ever ask for—always doting on her, showering her with compliments and kisses. He was completely smitten, and Y/n was equally infatuated with him.

They often hung out at Dean’s place since his father was frequently away. Dean shared stories about his mother, telling Y/n how she had died in a house fire and how they had to move. He omitted the part about the unnatural circumstances surrounding her death. Y/n also got along well with Sam, Dean’s younger brother, who liked having her around. Dean was happy that his brother and girlfriend got along so well. Time passed in a blur and they were towards the end of their senior year. Y/n couldn’t believe they’d been together for a year and a half.

Y/n and Dean were cuddling on the couch of his living room when the front door opened and entered John Winchester. The man was pissed, he’d a particularly hard hunt and he called his son thrice but he didn’t respond. When he entered the living room he found the reason his son wasn’t answering his calls and his anger flared.

“Dean.” His voice boomed and the couple jumped up from their place. The older man glared at his son and Y/n squirmed beside Dean. “I called you thrice, son.” He said calmly but Dean knew he was anything but calm.

“My phone is in my room, I’m sorry sir.” Dean replied avoiding eye contact. John looked at Y/n and Dean cleared his throat. “Uh dad this is my girlfriend, Y/n.” John tilted his head as he heard the word girlfriend leave Dean’s mouth.

“Nice to you meet you, Mr Winchester.” Y/n managed to speak, the man was intimidating her. The older man nodded his head. “I think I should go. It’s late.” She looked at Dean sensing the tension in the air.

“I’ll drop you-“ Dean offered but Y/n saw John wasn’t too pleased with his offer and she shook her head, politely declining. “I’ll walk you to the door.” She nodded making her way towards the door. “Baby I’m sorry about dad.” She turned to place a soft kiss on his lips.

“It’s fine, sweetie. I can understand the shock, coming home and finding about his son’s girlfriend he knows nothing about.” She smiled.

“Yeah I didn’t want to tell him over the phone.” He rubbed the back of his head. She pecked his lips but he grabbed her waist pulling her into him, deepening the kiss.

“Okay lover boy. I’ll see you at school tomorrow.” She smiled pulling away.

“I love you.” He mumbled against her lips.

“I love you too. Now go before he gets any more angry.” She pushed him back slightly. Dean went back inside after she had completely disappeared from his sight. He sighed knowing he’s going to an earful from his dad.

“What the hell Dean?” John exclaimed as soon as Dean entered the living room. “A girlfriend?” He yelled making Sam come out as well. Dean opened his mouth to speak but John interrupted him. “I called you thrice because the Rugaru was on my ass and I needed backup. And I come home and see you cuddling with some-”

“Don’t even say anything Dad.” Dean growled before his father could say something about his girlfriend.

“What’re you gonna tell her at the end of the year huh? What would you say about leaving? That you’re going off to college.” His father asked rhetorically and Dean clenched his jaw. “How do you think she’d react if you told her the truth. Can you even tell her the truth?” Dean stayed silent knowing there’s no way he could tell her the truth. John sighed before he placed a hand over his son’s shoulder. “End it before it hurts the both of you.” Was all he said before leaving his son standing there.

Dean contemplated his father’s words. No matter how harsh they were, it was the truth. He had to end it, he knew she would’ve believed him if he’d tell her the truth but he didn’t want her to be any kind of danger, that too because of him. The next day he met with her in school.

“Hey baby.” She kissed his nose as he wrapped his arms around her. “Everything good at home?” She asked wrapping her arms around his neck.

“All good, sweetheart.” He kissed her forehead. He hated lying to her, he hated knowing he’s going to break her heart in a few days. He felt awful knowing he was going to break his promise of never hurting her—the promise of protecting the heart she’d entrusted to him. The weight of his impending actions pressed heavily on him, each moment deepening his regret as he faced the reality of the pain he would cause.

He spent the whole week with her, clinging to every moment. He kissed her as if his life depended on it—because, in a way, it did. Each kiss was a desperate attempt to savor their time together, knowing how fleeting their moments were.

The last week of school before finals was when Dean decided to do it. Y/n was studying hard for finals, so he knew that the distraction might lessen the heartbreak. He hoped that, amidst the stress and focus on exams, the pain of his decision would be somewhat mitigated by her busy schedule. He’d asked her to meet him at the park. He waited anxiously for her arrival. When she neared him with a skip in her step and a smile on her face he had half the heart not to go through with it.

“Hi.” Dean looked at her face, feeling the need to preserve the image of her face into his mind. As this would be last he’d have a good look at her gorgeous face.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” She asked cupping his cheek, seeing the anguish on his face and he leaned into her touch.

“I uh…Y/n, I’ve been struggling with how to say this, but I need to be honest with you.” Dean blinked back his tears not wanting her to see it was hurting him as much as it will hurt her. “I can’t do this anymore.” She chuckled as he said it. “I’m not joking Y/n.” He said angrily and she stared at him in shock.

“I promised myself I’d never hurt you, and the last thing I want is to be the reason for your pain.” Dean cleared his throat as tears formed in her eyes. “It’s not you—it’s me.”

“Dean what are you even- is it about your dad? Did he tell you to do this?” She asked tears dripping down her cheek. He shook his head.

“No he didn’t. We’ll start college soon. We can’t do long distance.” Dean said whatever came to his mind in that moment. He wanted to get over with it so he could go home and cry. He didn’t want to see her tear stricken face, when he’s unable to pull her into his arms and tell her it’ll all be okay.

“Yes we can baby. And if you think that’s a problem I can always go wherever you’re going.” She cried and he wanted to take every word back and gather her in his arms and never let go.

“I don’t want you to.” He said knowing that’s the only way he can convince her. “You’ve been an incredible part of my life, and I’ll always cherish the memories we’ve made together. I hope you find the happiness you deserve, I hope, in time, you can forgive me. But this ends here.”

“Dean you can’t do this to me.” She sobbed holding onto his shirt. “Please.” Her body shook as she cried. He couldn’t bear seeing her like that so he did what he thought was best. He left. He left her sobbing in the middle of the park. With a heavy heart and tear filled eyes Dean entered his house. His father was in the living room, his back to Dean.

“Did you do it?” John asked.

“Yeah I broke up with her.” Dean mumbled wanting to get into bed.

“Dean, you had to break her heart not breakup with her.” John said turning to look at his son.

“What is the damn difference?” Dean snapped not caring about pissing off his father. John ignored his tone knowing he’s hurting. But it’s for the best.

“What if she follows you or tries to persuade you to stay? You need to break her heart, so painful that she can’t help but hate you, ensuring she moves on and never thinks of you again.” Dean went to his room without a word.

Y/n went back to her house, spending the entire night crying and wondering what went wrong. She couldn’t believe it was Dean’s decision alone; she suspected his dad had pressured him. She decided she’d talk to him once more at school before she made any final decisions.

Her heart dropped the minute she entered the hallway, she watched Dean pressing a blonde against the lockers, his lips firmly placed against hers. He looked at her for a split second and he could the see the hurt in her eyes but he continued kissing the girl pressed against him.

I’m sorry, baby. He closed his eyes trying to erase her hurt filled eyes from his memory.

Seeing him with someone else, she felt a deep, piercing sting of betrayal. Her heart sank, a mix of shock and hurt washing over her. It wasn’t just the sight of him with someone else; it was the realization that what they had meant so much less to him than it did to her.

I hate you Dean. She turned away and made her way to class.

Part 2???

Tags:

@spnfamily-j2 @galway-girlatwork @deangirl96 @queensilber

@s0urw00lf @monkey-d-hoshizora98 @deans-baby-momma @fullbelieverheart

@riah1606 @xx-spooky-little-vampire-xx @hobby27

@starkleila @suckitands33 @m3ntally-unstable @kanekilovelove-blog @candy-coated-misery0731

he's laying on his stomach, arm reached up over your waist and head resting on the pillow next to yours, his face turned towards you. his eyes are closed, plush lips parted as he breathes softly in his sleep, and he looks more relaxed then you've ever seen him, almost boyish.

you snap out of it when you let your eyes trail down the curve of his jaw, down his neck and to his bare back. you freeze, a realization making your breath hitch. using your hand that isn't pinned under his, you lift the sheets just enough to see that you too are in fact, naked.

oh god, you internally groan, i slept with dean and i don't even remember it. you drop the sheet and close your eyes again, trying to remember anything you can of the night before.

it starts to come back in flashes; donna and jody had come to visit, and they insisted on taking you and the boys out. you remember them practically shoving you into a black dress that felt way too small, and you can picture the almost hungry look in dean's eyes that you swear had burned you when you stepped out into the war room ready to go. everything after you arrive at the bar is blurry, but you do remember drinking. a lot.

you open your eyes to look up at the ceiling as the pounding in your head only gets worse, grimacing as you try harder to think back to last night. you remember another guy's hands on you, dean coming out of nowhere and you having to drag him away. you can recall the way he protested as you pulled him outside, drunkenly chastising him for his actions. you remember dean mumbling something, his words slurred, and then his lips were on yours.

you remember stumbling to the motel down the street, unable to keep your hands off each other, even as you paid for a room and crashed into said room, slamming the door behind you.

you remember dean's hands, his lips, his tongue all over you as you both undressed and then...oh god. you slept with dean, the one thing you swore you would never do to yourself, never wanting to be just another notch on his belt, knowing that would break you.

because you wanted more than that.

you had been with the boys for years, working with them on and off before they invited you to move into the bunker a couple years ago. you had been hesitant at first, because you didn't know if your heart could handle keeping it's secret if you were that close to dean all the time.

you had fallen for dean, hard. it had been slow, at first he annoyed you to no end, but as you spent more time with him, you saw the way he cared for people, always putting him first. you saw through the obedient soldier act that he thought he had to put on, and as soon as you got a glimpse of that, you were gone.

you kept it hidden though, because you knew he could never feel the same. you saw the women he picked up in the bars you would stop in. they were always effortlessly beautiful, oozing confidence, not sitting hunched over a booth drinking a cheap beer. they were always perfect, bodies enticing and skin smooth, not littered with scrapes and scars.

so you pushed it down, content to just be his friend, watching longingly in the silence, no matter how many times it chipped away at your heart.

you were snapped out of your thoughts when a small groan comes from the sleeping form beside you. you freeze, not even breathing as you wait to see if he wakes up, but he just mumbles something under his breath, his arm tightening around your waist as he nuzzles further into the pillow.

the sight hurts your heart, and you feel a familiar ache bloom in your chest as you think about how this was just another one night stand for him. a million thoughts swirl in your pounding head, taunting you with predictions of what his reaction could be.

you shake the thoughts away, giving dean one last glance before you carefully lift his arm from your body, sliding out from under him. you sit on the edge of the bed, placing your feet on the ground and looking around until you find your discarded underwear and dress from the night before.

you get dressed quietly, trying not to wake dean, who is still snoring softly in the bed behind you. you grab your phone from the night stand, opening your contacts to jody's number as you reach for the doorknob but you pause before you hit the call button, turning back to look at the man sleeping soundly in the bed.

you didn't really just want to leave him there to wake up with a hangover as bad as yours, he was your best friend. you knew that sam had taken the impala back to the bunker, you remember him and the girls telling you and dean to walk to the nearest motel, because neither of you were in any shape to drive.

with a small sigh, you walk over to the dingy motel kitchen, rummaging through the drawers and cabinets until you find a glass and surprisingly, a small bottle of advil. you cautiously walk back over to the night stand, placing the advil and a glass of water on the table.

you step back, biting your lip as you give him one last glance, before turning and walking to the door, opening it and slipping out as quietly as you could.

once you're outside, you wrap your arms around yourself as the chill hits you, and you regret letting jody and donna convince you to wear this ridiculously short dress as goosebumps raise on your flesh. speaking of the devil, you open your phone, wincing as the bright light shoots pain through your head, and you click on jody's contact, pressing call.

it rings a few times, leaving you anxiously walking out of the motel parking lot in what you think is the general direction of the bunker, before jody picks up, her voice through the speaker making you wince. "how was he?" she asks, her voice eager, and you can practically hear the grin in her voice.

"i wish i could tell you," you groan, wrapping your free arm around yourself tighter, trying to preserve as much heat as you could. you turn out of the parking lot, crossing the street to walk on the side of the freeway, shivering as a car zooms past you.

"wish you could─ do not tell me you were too drunk to remember having mind-blowing sex with the guy you've been pining over for years," jody gasps, and you sigh, rubbing your aching temple.

"fine, i won't tell you."

"oh my god," jody exclaims your name, almost sounding like a disappointed mom. "you have got to be kidding me. you both finally manage to grow a pair and hook up, and you don't even remember it─ wait, was that a car?"

you flinch, the seed of guilt growing in your stomach once again as the fact that you were doing the walk of shame on the side of a highway hit you again. "uh, no?"

"i swear to─ are you doing a walk of shame right now?"

"if i say no again will you believe me?"

jody yelps your name into the phone, making you wince and hold the phone away from your ear. you sigh, about to reply, when another voice comes through the phone.

"what'd she do now?" comes donna's voice from the phone, and you groan at the new audience member.

"why do you assume that i did something?" you scoff, cursing under your breath as your heel steps on a loose rock, making you stumble slightly.

"she hooked up with dean last night but was too drunk to remember it and now she's doing the walk of shame on the highway," jody informs donna, and you roll your eyes as donna yelps your name in the same tone that jody did.

"you left him in the hotel?!" donna accuses, and you groan, throwing your hand up in frustration.

"what was i supposed to do?" you defend, feeling the telltale burning of tears behind your eyes as you hug yourself tightly. "wait for him to wake up, stick around to hear the 'look this was great but it was just a one time thing and i don't want you like that' speech?"

"oh sweetie," donna sighs, her voice softening with pity. "that boy's been pining over you almost just as long as you have him, he would never say that."

you scoff at that, rolling your eyes even though you knew they couldn't see you, sniffling back tears that threatened to well in your eyes. "oh c'mon, don't bullshit me right now. this day is already so shitty."

"she's right, hon, poor boy's been hung on you for years," jody adds, but the words only fill your eyes with more tears, and you shake your head, clearing your throat.

"just...let's just drop it, okay?" you plead, your voice breaking slightly as a tear finally slips from your eye. there's a moment of silence on the other end, and you can tell they're having some sort of silent conversation.

"alright honey, we're sorry," donna says, and you can practically hear her slipping into mom mode. "tell us where you are, sweetie, we'll come pick you up."

"i don't know where i am exactly," you tell her, looking around as you walk for any sort of landmark. "i just know 'm on the highway somewhere."

"okay, just keep walking towards the bunker, hon. we'll find you soon," jody assures you, and you feel the knot in your throat unravel just a little bit.

"okay," you breathe out shakily, your voice more of a squeak as you wipe tears from your cheeks.

they reassure you one more time, telling you they'll be right there, before you bid your goodbyes and hang up, leaving yourself alone with the whistling of the morning wind. you continue to walk along the side of the road, not really sure how far the bunker is, so you just grit your teeth and pray to anybody that's listening that your cheap, thrift store heels won't break.

for fifteen minutes, you walk along the side of the road, arms wrapped tightly around yourself to conserve as much heat as you can, and though the cold bites at your skin with sharp teeth, your mind is only on one thing.

dean.

you try and try to force yourself to remember what happened last night, but every time you do, it's just another blurry picture, or the faint whisper of the memory of his skin on yours, but it's still not enough.

you're lost in your reminiscent and slightly self-pitying daydream when a car horn honks at you, and you look up just in time to see jody pull a u-turn to get to your side of the road. her old car pulls up beside you, and you quickly wipe any lingering tears from your face.

"hey kid," she says, offering you a small smile that you can practically feel the pity in. "get on in."

you give her a tight-lipped smile in response, sniffling as you climb into the backseat. you click your buckle in, curling in on yourself as you force your eyes to focus on the kansas scenery blurring in the window as jody starts to drive, missing the knowing look she shares with donna in the front seat.

you spend the day hidden away in your room in the bunker, curled into yourself as if you could squeeze the self hatred out of your body. you had put on your headphones as soon as you had shimmied out of the uncomfortable dress and thrown on a soft, old tank top and pair of shorts, trying to distract your burning mind with the book you were currently reading.

you figured dean had come home at some point, but you were too scared to leave your room to confirm if that was true. you hadn't eaten all day, every time you thought about going into the kitchen, you thought about running into dean, and suddenly, your appetite was gone.

you knew it was pathetic, hiding in your bedroom after drunkenly hooking up with your best friend who you've been stupidly in love with for years, but you honestly didn't know what else to do.

your mind kept racing, flashing scenarios in front of your eyes, some better than others. the one that was most frequent was that you and dean would just forget last night ever happened and move on, but every time you told yourself you wanted that, something clawed at your heart.

you didn't even move when jody came into your room to tell you that she, donna and sam were going out again, just for dinner this time. your heart noticed that she hadn't mentioned dean, but your head elected to ignore that fact.

you gave her a forced smile, not missing the concerned look she gave you, sighing and flopping back onto the bed when she left, closing the door behind her. you turned onto your back, spreading your limbs out like a starfish as you stared up at the ceiling, biting your lip as a longing feeling swirls in your stomach.

even though you can't remember last night clearly, your body still yearns for dean's touch, his lips, his hands, anything just to feel him on you. near you, even. even if your brain can't remember how dean's lips felt on your skin, if you closed your eyes tight enough, every cell in your skin lit on fire with the faint memory of his touch. if you listened hard enough, you could still hear his whispered words in your ear, the soft, sensual sounds he made that had settled in your heart and shot heat between your legs.

suddenly, the loud grumbling of your stomach interrupts your thoughts, and the realization that you had been stowed away in your room all day hits you head on. deciding that you would just woman up for the sake of finally eating, you push yourself out of bed with a groan, not changing out of your old tank top and well-loved shorts before trudging out of your room. your bare feet pad down the hallway as anxiety spikes through you at the thought of confronting dean, but you push it down, the idea of food is too tempting to abandon ship now.

you turn into the kitchen, feet stopping in their place and heart stopping in your chest.

you told yourself you could do it. you really thought that you could face him again and everything could be normal, could still be good.

you were wrong.

because dean is standing in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, a mug of coffee in his hand, and holy mother-of-fuck he looks so good.

you stand frozen in the doorway for a moment, and a part of you shrivels away and dies knowing this was what you can't have. his hair is mussed up and spiky as if he had been laying in bed all day just like you, his black t-shirt stretched over his broad chest, and his plaid pajama pants are slung low on his hips.

you just barely manage to stop the drool from slipping past your lips, shaking yourself out of your dirty daydream as his eyes suddenly snap up to meet yours, the evergreen darker as they narrow at you in a way that shoots heat to your core.

you part your lips to say something, anything, but a wave of fear crashes through you so hard that you can't do anything but turn on your heel to head back out of the kitchen.

"you're avoiding me."

his words are curt and blunt, and honestly so unexpected that all you can do is freeze, any planned escape thrown out the window. "well, good morning to you too," you mumble, turning to face him, a flush settling on your cheeks.

"it's 5 o'clock," dean grunts your name, crossing his arms over his chest, and you have to physically force your eyes to snap up to his, and not drift down to his practically mouth watering biceps as they flex with the moment. "but you wouldn't know that 'cause you haven't been out of your damn room all day. and unless you suddenly came down with somethin', i'm willing to bet it was 'cause a' me."

his words take your breath away for a second, and all you can do is stare at him a little stupidly until you finally muster the courage to speak again. "i'm not...avoiding you, dean. i've just been sleeping off a hangover."

he doesn't respond at first, just clenching his jaw in the way that makes you want to bite and suck all over it, but then he's setting down his mug and pushing off the counter to come stand in front of you.

dean's eyes drop to your mouth, and your heart stutters when he doesn't even try to hide it. all you can do is stare back up at him, your breathing picking up as he stays silent, his jaw clenching when his gaze meets yours again. "we gonna talk about it?"

your heart drops to your stomach, and you tamp out the flicker of hope that ignites in your stomach. "talk about what?" you squeak, your attempt at playing dumb failing miserably.

"don't do that," dean snaps, taking a step closer to you, forcing your back to hit the wall next to the doorway. "last night...happened, and when i woke up, hopin' to find a beautiful girl asleep in my bed, you were gone."

guilt floods your chest, but along with that comes a surge of the flame at his words, hope bubbling up, and this time, you're not sure if you can put it out.

"technically it wasn't your bed-"

"damnit!" dean growls your name, and you freeze on the spot, lips parting in shock as arousal shoots down your spine. "don't do that. don't deflect and shrug it off pretendin' it never happened."

you just gape at him for a moment, eyes flicking to the way his jaw ticks and his fists clench as he steps closer to you, like it's taking all his willpower to not reach out and touch you. the closer he gets, the more your body wants to give in. your skin burns with the memory of his, practically begging for you to screw it all and grab him by the collar, drag him down the hall to your bed and never let him go.

"i...i thought that was what you wanted," you manage to say, though your voice is small, almost a whisper as the emotion in his gaze burns a whole through your chest.

"you thought-" dean cuts himself off, gritting his teeth and turning his head away from you, inhaling sharply before looking back at you, his eyes darker than before. "you're the one that left before i woke up, sweetheart. and if you had stayed then you would've known that-" he cuts himself off again, tearing his gaze from you as if it physically pained him, and a sudden rush of boldness washes over you.

"i would've known what, dean?" you press, taking a step closer to him. you're almost chest to chest with him now, and the familiar scent of whiskey and gunpowder coming from him is making you dizzy.

he looks back up at you as you step closer, but he doesn't move, something in his gaze softening. he hesitantly reaches his hand up, as if he's not sure he's allowed to, and gently traces your cheekbone with the backs of his knuckles, his eyes following the movement.

"you would'a known that i wanted you to stay," he answers, his voice dropping to a low whisper. "i want you to stay."

your heart stops in your chest, and for a second you're pretty sure you've died and gone to some cruel version of hell. "you do?" you ask, your voice a breathless whisper.

dean nods, finally gaining the courage to cup your cheek in his hand, his thumb stroking your skin gently. "more than you know."

"dean..." you whisper, some rational part of you knowing that you really should talk about it before you lose control and climb him like a tree. but his hand feels so good on your face, and you're pretty sure you weren't still drunk, but his proximity was making you feel like you were; drunk on him.

"hm," he hums, his eyes tracing the path of his fingers as he raises them to brush loose strands of hair behind your ears.

"i can't just be another notch on your belt," you say, your voice almost pleading. "i can't be another one night stand that you forget about and reminisce on in a few years, and i know that's what you want, but i'm sorry, i-i just can't be that for you."

your words seem to snap him out of his daze, and his eyes flash back to yours, his hand on your face stilling as he stares into your eyes. for a moment, there's a fear gnawing deep in your gut that this is it, that he's going to drop the caring act and walk out of the room and never talk to you again.

but he doesn't.

instead, his hand dips to gently hold your chin, keeping your head tilted up towards his. his thumb brushes over your bottom lip, making your breath hitch.

his eyes bore into yours, flicking over your face and lingering on your lips, and as soon as his gaze meets yours again, you can see something snap.

"fuck it."

his voice is a growl, making desire crawl in your core, and suddenly his warm, rough hands on either side of your face as he crashes his lips to yours.

the kiss is hard, a smashing of lips against each other that stuns you, making you freeze on the spot. you stand there, shocked, for a moment too long, and dean pulls back, his hands lingering on your face for a second before he pulls them back, as if your skin burned him. he steps back from you, dragging a hand down his face, his jaw ticking as he looks away from you.

"i wanted you to stay," dean says again, his voice a low tone that leaves no room for argument.

now you really are sure that you've died, because there is no way in hell that dean just kissed you.

your heart is pounding, your head is spinning, and all you can do is stare up at him a little dumbly, eyes wide and lips parted in shock, still tingling from his kiss. "dean-"

"i've always wanted you to stay," he practically growls your name, and you're insanely proud of yourself for not falling to your knees right then and there. "why did you think i asked you to move in here? sure it was to protect you, but, fuck, if i'm bein' honest it was 'cause i hated being without you."

you open your mouth to respond, but he just cuts you off with a shake of his head, dark, piercing eyes staring into yours so intensely your mouth immediately snaps shut.

"just- let me say this, okay?" his tone is almost begging, brow furrowed in a way that is just so dean, and you don't think you could do anything but listen. "i wanted you to stay. i wanted to wake up and be able to pull you closer just like i've dreamed about. jesus, do you know how many times i've fucking dreamed of that? of you?"

all the air is knocked out of your lungs, and suddenly, you can't breath. it's not fair. you're stuck staring at him like an idiot ─ he just made your whole world unravel with some words, and it's not fair.

"you've-you've dreamed of me?" you whisper, and you can't even bring yourself to care that it's the stupidest thing you could've said, because the way dean is looking at you might melt you. his jaw is clenched in frustration, and you'd think he's angry if it weren't for the desperation you see shining in his eyes.

he takes a slow step towards you, as if testing the waters, and when you don't flinch or move away, he takes another step, so you're almost chest to chest again. your hands are shaking now, every nerve in your body alight, craving his touch.

"every damn night," he rasps your name, his voice a low whisper that makes your name sound holier than you feel. "you have no idea what you do to me, do you?"

"i-" you start, but the words are caught in your throat as his hands reach out, grabbing your hips and pulling you flush against him. the sharp movement makes you gasp, your hands instinctively coming up to brace yourself on his chest. the feeling of the hard muscle under your hands sends another wave of arousal through you, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

"you drive me fuckin' crazy." dean dips his head down, lips brushing your jawline, making you shiver. he traces a path along your skin, dragging his lips down your neck, the sensation making your brain short circuit.

"dean," you breathe, your eyes fluttering as your hands grip his t-shirt for dear life. your knees feel weak, your head spinning, and you still can't really believe what he's saying.

"everytime i wake up 'nd you're already at the table, coffee in your hands and that sweet smile on your face ─ fuck, sweetheart, you don't know what that does to me." his voice is a low, muffled rasp as his mouth trails down your neck, slowly, as if his lips' purpose was to memorize every cell in your skin.

a soft sound escapes your parted lips at his admission, your eyes going hooded and your knees growing weak, making your grip on his shirt tighten. dean takes this as encouragement though, his arms shifting to wrap around your waist, holding you up and against him, tight against his chest.

"the way you shift your hips when you raise your gun, gets me hard as a rock watchin' you be all badass..." he chuckles darkly against your neck, coaxing a small whimper out of you as he sucks softly at the skin under your ear. "and that pretty mouth of yours, shit, everytime you mouth off or say somethin' smart makes me wanna shut you up by making you scream my damn name."

"dean, please─" you gasp, everything becoming overwhelming. his voice, his lips, the words spilling from his mouth melting into your blood and setting it on fire.

"fuck," he groans your name, his mouth pausing his movements a long your neck, as if your plea physically pained him. one of his hands trails up your back, along your neck and tangles in your hair, cupping the back of your head, keeping you exactly where he wants you. "you're saying please all pretty like you didn't leave me alone this morning, achin' for you."

"i didn't want to," you manage to get out between panting breaths, a small whine leaving your lips as his hand tightens in your hair. "i wanted to stay, you've never─ i didn't think that was what you wanted."

dean stills completely at your words, going silent for a moment. this is it, you think, screwing your eyes shut, this is where i wake up from this cruel dream.

but you don't wake up.

you feel dean pull away from your neck, and when you dare to open your eyes, he's looking at you with so much heat and something so close to reverence that you have to bite back the whimper that crawls up your throat. his stare is so intense that you can't help but turn your head away from him, eyes anywhere but his.

he says your name, low and rumbly in a way that makes heat pool between your legs, but you refuse to look at him, shame creeping up behind your ears. he says your name again, this time hooking two fingers under your chin and turning your head back to him so your eyes were locked on his.

"look at me," he mutters, and suddenly you're not sure you could do anything else. dean's jaw is clenched, brow set, and his eyes are so dark you can barely see the emerald shine that had carved its way into your heart. when your eyes lock on his, his fingers under your chin shift to cup your jaw, his thumb tracing your bottom lip, tugging lightly. "i guess i didn't make myself clear before, because i wanted you there, babygirl. more than i've ever wanted anything."

the pet name makes your head swim even more, and you think you might be drooling a little, but you can't bring yourself to care when dean is looking at you like he wants to eat you.

you're silent as you take in his words, eyes frantically shifting over dean's face, scanning the features that haunt your dreams and your nightmares, your heart pounding in your chest.

"you've...infected me," he punctuates his statement with your name, sending yet another shiver up your spine. "everywhere i go, i hear your laugh, smell your perfume, even when you're not there. because every damn part of me is wishin' that you were."

dean's gotten impossibly closer as he speaks, your eyes fluttering as you look up at him through your lashes.

"dean..." you breathe out, hooded eyes flickering down to his lips then back up to his eyes as your heart skips a beat in your chest. his hand on your jaw moves up to cup your cheek, thumb gently stroking your skin so gently that you can't help but lean into it.

he doesn't respond, his own hooded gaze staying locked on yours as his breath fans over your cheek. "you're damn crazy if you think i wouldn't want you, sweetheart. you have me. you've always had me, ever since you came barging in that vamp nest and almost took my damn head off, i've been gone for you. i've been so damn gone..."

his voice drops to a husky whisper at the last words, his lips brushing yours as he speaks, practically into your mouth, as if he's trying to force you to believe them, and you can't wait any longer.

you're honestly not really sure who moved first, but this time, when your lips crash together, you don't hesitate.

your lips move against his with a need you can feel burning in your stomach, your hands unfurling from his shirt to wind up into his hair, fingers tangling in the short locks. dean groans at the sensation, and you take the opportunity to slide your tongue along the seam of his lips, and you're rewarded with another sound as he opens his mouth to you. your tongues slide against each other, heads tilting and noses bumping as you devour each other.

dean's hands are everywhere, tracing across your skin like you're a canvas and he's an artist, desperate to paint you with his hands. calloused fingers dip into your hips before sliding down to the backs of your thighs, and suddenly, you're off the ground, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.

you gasp into his mouth as he lifts you, walking forward just a couple steps until your back hits the wall. his hand coming up to cup the back of your head before it hits the concrete behind you, and fuck if that doesn't make you even wetter.

"mmh, dean─" you whine into his mouth, arching into him as his hand creeps from the back of your thigh over your ass, his heat seeping into your skin even through your shirt.

dean makes a sound close to a growl, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip, his grip on you tightening. next thing you know, you're torn away from the wall, dean's arms wrapping tight around you as he carries you down the hall.

he practically kicks open the door─his room or yours, you can't really tell, not when you're too focused on sucking small bruises into the skin of his neck. you're only ripped away from your canvas when he drops you onto the bed, a gasp ripping from your lungs as you hit the mattress.

you don't get the chance to catch your breath, however, because dean's standing at the edge of the bed, eyes never leaving you as his hands rise to the hem of his shirt and rip it over his head.

you only get a second to admire what you've been dreaming about for years before dean's on you again, hands scraping up your sides, lifting your shirt with them. you arch your back to help him pull it all the way off, watching as he tosses it aside.

"son of a bitch..." he whispers, eyes tracing over your now bare chest with something so close to reverence it makes your breath catch. his hands wind up your torso, your breath quickening with every new inch of skin he touches, until his hands find home on your breasts, cupping one in each hand.

the sensation coaxes a soft sound out of you, making you arch into his touch. another whimper is pulled from your throat as his thumbs brush over your nipples, your eyes fluttering in bliss.

"dean─" you moan, his name turning into a breathless gasp as his mouth lowers to your breast, sucking at the sensitive skin. "dean, please─"

he suddenly pulls away from you, drawing a whine from your throat, your hips bucking up into him on instinct. before you can speak, his mouth is covering yours, swallowing any weak protests you can think of.

you moan into his mouth, hands winding into his short spiky hair as your mouths meet. the kiss is all teeth and tongue, biting and sucking, practically devouring each other.

you can feel your arousal start to pool in your panties, the fabric molding to your sticky folds. your hips grind up into deans, and you gasp into his mouth when you feel his hand slip into your soaked shorts.

"fuck, baby," dean growls down your throat, and his voice vibrates through your whole body, making you shudder. "so goddamn wet for me, jesus─ better than i ever fuckin' dreamed about, shit─"

a whimper escapes your throat, but it's cut off and replaced by a moan as his fingers swipe through your dripping slit. "oh god─"

your back arches clean off the bed with a loud moan as he slips not one, but two fingers into your sopping cunt.

"atta girl," dean praises, grunting as you squeeze around his fingers at the praise. "so fuckin' beautiful, taking my fingers like you were made for it─ shit, you're so fucking pretty─"

"please─"

"fuckin' squeezing me, so wet and tight─ fuck─"

his fingers pump in and out of you so fast you're afraid you're gonna fly off the bed, and an almost pornographic sound leaves you when his thumb comes up to flick at your clit.

"dean, i─ shit, please─"

"yeah, babygirl, i gotcha" he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your brow, and that alone is almost enough to make you come then and there.

he curls his fingers inside you, and you bite your lip, trying to hold in the sounds he was forcing out of you, but within a second, dean's free hand flies up to your face, gripping your chin and using his thumb to tug your bottom lip from between your teeth.

"ah ah," he tuts, his fingers inside you pausing their movements, making you whine softly. "none of that, sweetheart. i wanna hear everything i do to you, m'kay?"

you stare up at him a little dumbly, jaw slack and eyes wide and blown out, nodding your head.

dean chuckles softly, thumb stroking your bottom lip, his eyes tracking the movement as he shakes his head. "words, babygirl."

"okay," you whisper, voice thick with want. you tilt your hips up into his hand again, the ache of his still fingers in your sopping heat becoming unbearable.

but he doesn't move again, instead he pulls his fingers out, forcing a choked protest out of you, but he just shushes you, his hand on your chin lifting to stroke your cheek gently.

"s'alright, baby, 'm not going anywhere," he assured you and you relax a little as he leans back, eyes dropping to where you needed him most.

"son of a bitch.." dean whispers, his awe-filled voice sending a shiver up your spine, more arousal pooling between your legs. "jesus, sweetheart, look at you.."

you bite down on your lip again, trying to keep in the whimpers that threaten to escape you. your eyes widen as his hand suddenly grips your chin again, his thumb tugging your bottom lip from the grip your teeth had on it.

"didn't i tell you to stop that, baby?" he asks, and the pet name causes heat to pool in your core. "maybe y'just need somethin' to keep your mouth busy, hm?"

you make a soft sound, resisting the urge to push your hips up against him, desperate to feel him. he chuckles softly, and shifts his hand, pressing his index and middle finger that were just inside of you against your lips. you part them eagerly, your tongue swirling around his digits.

"that's it, pretty girl, see how fuckin' good you taste. get 'em nice and wet f'me," dean coos, his voice slightly strained. suddenly, you feel his other hand trailing up your thigh, tracing the edge of your panties. "though i don't think you need much help, she's practically dripping f'me already." 

you gasp as he swipes his fingers over your clothed slit, the damp fabric of your panties sticking to your core, the feeling making you moan around his fingers and your eyes flutter shut. suddenly, he growls in frustration, and tears your panties right from your skin. your eyes fly open, a sound of protest muffled around his fingers.

he pulls them from your mouth, leaning over you to press a nipping kiss to your bare shoulder, making you shiver at the heat of his bare skin against yours. "sorry sweetheart, i'll get you a new pair," he whispers into your ear.

you shiver, moaning softly when his spit slick fingers brush over your folds with just enough pressure to drive you insane. "dean.." you moan, arching your back, trying to press closer to him.

"shh, yeah i gotch'a, baby, 'm getting there," he shushes, finally bringing his fingers to circle your clit again, making you moan, eyes falling shut at the pleasure that shoots through you. "gotta get you nice 'nd ready for me, yeah? make sure this pretty pussy can take me all the way."

his words make you whimper, the sound turning into a surprised moan when he pushes his fingers into your tight heat.

"jesus, so tight baby, goddamn," dean rasps, his voice strained as he works his fingers inside you, even harder than before. his movements are fast and harsh, making you cry out and your thighs tremble as he works you open.

"ah, dean─ fuck," you moan, head dropping back onto the bed as he curls his fingers just right, lingering on that spot before scissoring his fingers, stretching your gummy walls. his hand that isn't working at you runs up your stomach, cupping your face and stroking your skin softly, a contrast to what his other hand is doing between your thighs.

"that's it, beautiful, let go f'me, wanna feel you cum 'round my fingers."

you can feel yourself flying higher and higher as his skilled fingers work inside of you, every curl of his digits seeming to beckon you closer to release. a string of curses leaves you, causing dean to chuckle against your heated skin as he presses a kiss to the corner of your parted mouth. you make a choked sound, and dean growls against your mouth, his thumb moving to rub your clit in tight, fast circles.

"c'mon, baby, you're takin' so well," he pants into your mouth, almost as if he's the one on the brink of an earth-shattering orgasm. "you're so fuckin' gorgeous, bein' such a good girl-"

that's what does it.

you think you scream, or sob, you can't really tell when all you can feel is him. all you can think about are his hands and his voice, and his lips on yours. all you can think is dean, dean, dean.

and god, you almost cum again right after, because dean is working you through it, muttering soft praises in your mouth, and tracing small circles on your bare hip with his free hand.

when he finally pulls his fingers out and you catch your breath enough, you let your eyes flutter open, meeting dean's above you.

"hi," you whisper, voice already hoarse, shy even after what he just did.

dean just chuckles, hand still tracing soft shapes into your skin, the other coming up on the mattress next to your hand, bracing himself above you so your chest is pressed to his. his green eyes bore into yours, the soft, adoring look in them sending a pang in your chest. "hi, beautiful."

you hum softly, studying his face for a moment before you can't resist any longer, your now slack hands in his hair pulling him down to meet your lips.

the kiss is softer, but no less hungry, dean's lips moving languidly against yours, his tongue pressing into you mouth and sliding along your teeth.

"more," you whisper into his mouth, the word cut short as he chases your lips. "dean, i need more─"

dean groans, dropping his brow to rest against yours as you both catch your breath.

"you're gonna be the fuckin' death of me, baby," he mutters, pressing one last kiss to your lips before he pulls back enough to properly look at your face. "god, you're so fuckin' beautiful..."

his words make your breath catch, and a small whine crawls up your throat, making him smile.

you're suddenly very aware that he still has his pants on, and your hands fall from his hair, trailing down his chest, making him shiver. you drag your nails along his skin, savoring the feeling as you reach the waistband of his pajama pants, hooking a finger in it and tugging.

"off, dean, need it off─" you whine, tugging harder, but he just cuts you off with a chuckle, placing his hands over yours and rising on his knees, starting to slide the pants down.

"so damn needy, babygirl."

"dean, please─"

"gotta be patient─"

you cut him off, surging up onto your knees and grabbing his face in your hands, gripping his cheeks and forcing him to look into your eyes.

"dean winchester," you practically growl, and you swear you see him shiver. "i love you, and will continue to do so until i die, but if you don't put your dick in me in the next minute, i am going to fucking kill you."

you don't realize what you've said until it's out of your mouth, but fuck it, you said it, and now you can't take it back, but you brace for rejection anyways.

but dean is just staring at you with wide eyes, plush lips parted and slightly squished together from your hold on his face, and he's not saying anything. he's not saying anything and you're starting to think that maybe he wants to get away from you, but your hold on his face is too strong and he's stuck and─

"you...love me?" his voice cuts through the silence, low and raspy, and damn if that isn't dangerous to your heart.

"yeah." your response comes instantly, you don't even have to think about it. "i-i'm sorry, i know this isn't fair, just springing it on you like this but you're just so good, and i─"

you can't finish your panicked ramble, because suddenly, dean's lips are on yours.

it takes you a second to catch up, but once you do, you're kissing him back with just as much fervor, sucking and biting at his lips and moaning into his mouth. after a long moment of practically eating each other, dean pulls away, his hands travelling down to your waist and gently coaxing you to lay back down.

you go willingly, too high on him and his taste to do otherwise, and you just lay back and watch in awe as he slips out of his pajama pants and boxers, leaving him bare for you. he crawls back over you, and you cant stop the whimper that falls from your lips when you feel him pressing hard into your thigh.

you grind up into him with a soft moan, trying to convey the message that you need him inside of you now.

"baby, you, shit─" he groans, head dropping between his shoulders and jaw clenching. his hands grip your waist tighter, and you hope there are bruises there tomorrow. "slow down f'me, i need t'get a condom─"

"no." you cut him off sharply, making him snap his head up to look at you with wide eyes and pretty, parted lips.

"what d'you mean no─"

"no condom," you say, and suddenly you feel very sheepish, focusing on tracing his anti-possession tattoo with your fingertip. "i mean, i just─ i'm on the pill and 'm clean, so if you are, i want─ i need to feel you─"

you're once again cut off with dean's mouth against yours, and you may never stop talking if he keeps shutting you up like this. he pulls away after a second, forehead resting against yours as he pants into your mouth.

"you're so fuckin' perfect," he mutters your name, his voice so low, so genuine, that it makes you shiver. "wanna make you feel so good, baby. you gonna let me?"

you nod, whining out a breathy yes, and a small grunt of acknowledgement is all you get before dean is pushing inside of you.

the stretch makes you gasp, hands flying to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin and making him groan as your cunt sucks him in greedily.

"fuck, you're so wet, sweetheart," he growls as he bottoms out, hips flush with yours. "this all for me, baby? your pretty pussy all soaked f'me like she knows who she belongs to?"

you moan loudly, hips trying to roll under his where he's got you pinned, his cock just sitting heavy inside your fluttering walls.

"yes, please, dean, yes─"

"wanna hear you say it, baby─"

"it's all for you, my pussy is all for you─" as soon as you get the words out, dean rolls his hips, thrusting into you so hard it punches the air out of you, and your nails drag along his shoulders. "oh god─"

"god, baby, you feel so fuckin' good," he groans, turning his head to bury it in your neck, kissing and sucking at the sensitive skin. "can't believe i waited this fuckin' long, shit─ feel like fuckin' heaven─"

"dean, fuck─" you whimper, clenching around him tightly.

"shit, dont─" he cuts himself off with a sharp hiss, squeezing your waist in warning, his thrusts slowing to a stop. he lifts his head from your neck to look you in the eyes, his gaze making you dizzy. "don't do that, sweetheart, or this is gonna be over a lot sooner than i would like."

you just whine, staring right back at him as you do it again, the groan he lets out sending a shiver of pleasure up your spine.

"oh, that's how you wanna play it, hm?"

next thing you know, his arms are wrapping around you and the world is spinning, dean rolling you both over until you're seated in his lap, knees on either side of his hips and hands braced on his shoulders.

"there y'go," he pants, hands sliding down to your ass, landing a sharp slap on one cheek that makes you yelp. "go on, pretty girl, take what you want."

well, he doesn't need to tell you twice.

biting your lip, you use your grip on his shoulders to lift yourself up until just the tip of him is pressed against your entrance, pausing for a moment before slamming back down so hard it forces a moan out of both of you. you do that a few more times, each hard bounce punching a squeak like moan out of you, until you find a rhythm of bouncing and rolling that has your eyes rolling back.

"that's it, there we go," dean praises, his rough voice only making you go faster. "such a good fuckin' girl, riding my cock like a damn cowgirl, look at you, baby, shit─"

you whine as the head of his cock kisses the spot deep inside you that makes you see stars, eyes rolling back as your hips move faster.

"oh god, please, feels s'good─" you choke on a moan as dean's hand slides around, palm resting against your stomach as his thumb rubs tight circles on your swollen clit.

"yeah? my pretty girl makin' herself feel good on my cock?" he growls, his free hand gripping your hip tight and guiding your motions. "shit─ so fuckin' good, you're so goddammn good baby─ my good girl, look so fuckin' pretty makin' yourself cum on my cock─"

you feel the pressure coiling in your core, your nails dragging down his chest as you start to feel lighter and lighter. "so good, dean, feels─ ah─ feels s'good, s'deep─"

"that's it, doin' so good f'me, tell me how good you it feels, sweet girl─"

"so good─" you cry out, head growing fuzzy as you grow closer and closer to your release. "you're so good, so close─ wanna cum, dean, please─"

your words seem to spur dean on, his hips thrusting up into you in time with the rolls of your hips, and you can feel his pace stuttering as he twitches inside you. "yeah, you gonna cum, pretty girl? say it again, wanna know you mean it─"

you know what he means instantly, and your eyes fly open, locking onto his own lust blown pupils as your pace speeds up almost frantically. "i love you─ fuck, i love you, dean─"

he pinches your clit between his thumb and forefinger at the same time his cock presses on that spot deep inside of you, and you fly over the edge.

you think you might scream, but you can't hear it over the pounding wave of pleasure crashing over you, and the chorus of dean, dean, dean, invading your senses. all you can register is the low moan of your name that falls from dean's lips and his hips stilling inside you as he paints the walls of your fluttering cunt white with his cum.

you practically collapse against him, your head falling into the crook of his head, catching your breath as your head spins. you feel sweaty, and your skin is sticking to his, but you feel so warm, and so safe, and you can't bring yourself to move, so you just nuzzle into his neck, bathing in his warmth.

dean lets out a breath against the side of your head, his hands running gently up and down your back, sending another wave of love through you. he mutters your name into your hair, but you're still so lost in the daze of him that you can't bring yourself to do anything but hum softly.

that makes him chuckle, one of his hands coming up to cup the back of your head as he says your name again, this time gently coaxing you away from his neck. you manage to open your eyes to meet his, leaning into his hand as it cups your cheek, suddenly feeling vulnerable as his eyes scan your face.

"i love you," dean says simply, his voice softer than you've ever heard it. "and i'm a damn fool for not tellin' you earlier, and for lettin' you go before."

"its okay─"

"no, baby, s'not," he cuts you off with a firm shake of his head, his thumb stroking your cheek softly. "s'not okay, because i let you walk away thinkin' that i didn't want you, that you weren't enough for me, and that is something i will never forgive myself for."

"dean..." you whisper, feeling your throat tighten as your glossy eyes flit over his face.

he shakes his head again, sighing softly, his eyes never leaving his face. "just─ let me say this, okay?"

you nod into his hand, your eyes glued on his, and you don't think you could look away if you tried. dean takes a shaky breath, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again and staring right into you.

"i've loved you for a long time, sweetheart, long enough that I don't remember when it started." his voice is low and unsure, making the moment all the more intimate. "you are the most beautiful, smart, funny, badass woman i have ever and will ever know, and if you let me, i will spend the rest of my cursed life proving to you how good you are, and how much i love you."

his words, so sincere, so honest, make your chest tighten and eyes start to burn, and despite being exhausted, both emotionally and physically, you nod without hesitation, leaning down to press your brow to his.

"of course, dean," you whisper breathlessly, your voice wavering with emotion. "you have me, you've always had me."

"good, that's uh, that's really good," he breathes out, as if he was holding his breath. he tilts his head up, and you can feel the smile on his lips when he captures your mouth with his for a soft, chaste kiss. "i love you, sweet girl, so much i don't even know what to do with it."

"i love you too, dean, so so much," you whisper back honestly, nuzzling your nose against his. "and you can start with kissing me some more."

dean chuckles, the sound making a happy feeling glow in your chest, and you can't help but smile.

"yes ma'am," dean responds, and tilts his head up to meet your lips once more.

you let yourself melt into him, arms winding around his neck as you settle against him, safe in his arms. his lips move against yours, and you don't think you'll ever love anything more than you love the man in your arms, and you're going to spend every day showing him he deserves that, even if he thinks he doesn't.

bri's thoughts! well, um...this took me 7 months to finish.. but we don't have to talk about that ! anyways, this is very rushed at the end and not edited at all, so i hope its good. I finally wrote a position other than missionary (sort of) so everybody congratulate me please

He taps the exact same spot, and you sigh. “Dean-“

Your words die in your throat as he leans over the table, holds your gaze, and swipes his thumb over the tip of your nose. It sends little bolts of lighting up your spine and burns in your lower stomach. He touched you. He’s touched you before, but now he’s touching your face, and the tiny point of contact between his thumb and your nose is going to be branded for the rest of your life. He sucks the bit of sauce clean as he leans back, and it’s not reasonable to tackle him over the table and scream that you love him. Also not reasonable to dump the rest of your dinner on your head and see if he’ll clean that too.

So you settle for clearing your throat and whispering, “Better?”

“Yeah.” Dean mutters, still watching you. 

It truly is a strange expression. Brows pinched, tight-lipped, jaw clenched. You’d think he was angry, if you couldn’t see the softness in his eyes. They’re almost glossy, as if he’s going to start crying. 

But before you can ask if he’s okay, the look vanishes, and his voice returns to normal.

“Better.”

———

It’s quiet tonight. 

It’s quiet most nights, in the bunker. The days can be filled with chaos and shouting and loud bangs—followed by another shout, this one from the garage as Dean decides he’s okay and doesn’t let anyone check in to verify that—but then the day moves on, and the night is quiet. 

Sometimes you’re home alone. Sam will pack up for a few days to visit Eileen for a few days, and the last loud noises are Dean teasing Sam about having a girlfriend, then the rumble of an engine as Sam pulls out of the garage. Dean then groans, gives you a strange look, then grumbles that he’s going out.

He never asks you to go with him. It’s a small mercy, but one that only turns bitter in the morning, when he returns with a mark on his neck and the smell of cheap perfume. 

Those are the nights you hate the most. Sam has Eileen. Dean has anyone he wants, but he doesn’t want you, and you’re alone. You lie in the silence of the bunker alone, and try not grab your gun at every single creak down the hall, or start crying when the pain hits your just right. When the darkness of the night gets under your skin, and you don’t have anyone to help you chase it away. 

You always wipe your tears before Dean comes home. 

He doesn’t need to worry about more things. If you can love him in one, silent way, it’ll be never making him worry. 

That’s why you love these types of quiet nights. There’s no pain or worry. At worst, all of you are tired, and energy is something you’ll need to save for the morning. Sam goes to do yoga—because he’s insane—and you and Dean watch a movie. 

“Don’t eat the ice,” Dean mutters your name as you both move around the kitchen for snacks, and you roll your eyes. 

“You’re not my dad, Winchester-“

“It always makes you cold-“

“And that’s my right as an American.”

Dean snorts. “Pretty sure we’re both enemies of the state, sweetheart.”

“So?” You stick your tongue out at him, then squeak as he tries to grab the glass from your hands. “Hey-“

“Calm down, I’m just giving you the maple syrup.” He holds up the bottle, and you eye him suspiciously. “C’mon, I’m not gonna try and take it from you-“

“Yeah, you are- Dean-“

He grabs you by the hook of your elbow, tugs you forward, and hold your gaze as he pours the syrup into your ice. Your lips are parted, and your knees are weak, and he’s not even really touching you. You need to get it the fuck together. 

“Thanks.” You mumble, and he shrugs. 

“Don’t.”

He shuffles off to the Dean Cave, and you sway uselessly for a second before scrambling after him. And when the movie starts, you try to pay attention to the screen instead of Dean’s thighs. But he always spreads his legs, tips his head back slightly, and throws his arm around the back of the couch.

It's not fair. He’s just there, and now you have to swallow and pull your knees to your chest. 

“You cold?”

You blink at him in the dark, and Dean’s looking at you. He should be looking the TV. He’s always looking at the TV. You’d know. 

You’re always looking at him. 

“No.” 

Dean frowns. “You look kinda cold, I can grab a blanket-“

“I’m not cold, Dean.” You force yourself to stop rubbing your calves. “Do you want a blanket?”

“Nah,” he gives you another odd stare. “I actually feel kinda hot. You sure you’re good? If you don’t feel well, we can go to bed-“

“I’m okay.” You cut him off with a voice that’s too soft, and you know he hears it. 

But we.

He can’t say we can go to bed, when you know it’s just going to be you.

“I’m just tired.”

He shrugs, frown still tight on his handsome face. “Then we’ll finish in the morning-“

“No- Dean-“ You grab Dean’s wrist before he can take the remote, and he raises his brows. 

“You’re tired, sweetheart. And it’s just Batman. You know what happens.”

“Not that kind of tired. I wanna finish.” You swallow, and give him a tiny, nervous smile. “Please.”

Dean lets go of the remote, leaning slowly back on the couch, and you must have gotten away with it. You love him, but he’s not the most emotionally perceptive, and there’s no way he’d be able to hear the desperation to be close to him—just for a few more minutes—painted all over your voice. He’s never heard it before. You’re probably safe-

“You sure you’re okay?” He mutters, his attention now fixed firmly back on the TV. “You’re kinda acting like I’m poison or something.”

Fuck.

Your eyes fall on the large gap between your bodies, an invisible barrier you set for your own sanity. It’s too much, to be close to him while doing something like this. It’s one thing to be pressed into a closet with him on a hunt, feeling his bulge near your ass and his body all around yours. That’s necessity. 

This would just be sitting in the dark, glued to his side, with a million other places to go but no desire to be anywhere but here. 

But he said it like a joke. With a dry, hollow chuckle that you know too well. You know Dean too well. 

Love him too much. 

So you put on your best, exasperated mask, and scoot closer. Until you’re not molded into his, but you’re leaning at little into his side. Your feet are brushing his thigh, as you keep them to your chest. You can feel the heat from his body. See every color in his eyes and all the shifting shadows from the TV, cast over his handsome face. 

“Better?”

He rolls his eyes, but gives you a bright grin. “Yep. You want that blanket?”

You shake your head and he shrugs, looking back to the TV. 

His throat is bobbing. Jawline firm. If you reached up, you’d be able to trace the shape of his lips. 

And he’s not a dog. He won’t be able to smell the wetness forming between your legs, when he groans about something or his big, rough fingers accidentally brush your arm. He’s not going to taste arousal on the air when he scoots closer, and you can feel the heat from his body. 

You always try to make yourself small anyway. There’s a fairly large part of you that knows, if you gave in and climbed into his lap, he’d let you. Kiss you like you’ve always dreamed, let you ride his muscled thigh until you were whining for more, then give it to you. Flip you over and fuck you into the couch.

Be the best of your life, then walk away. 

You’d lose all your dignity and break your own heart—Dean can’t be breaking it, he doesn’t even know it’s in his hands, so you’d be the one taking a hammer and smashing it to tiny, fractured pieces—and then need to learn how to walk and breathe again. Because you will have to learn. Your legs don’t know how to move away from Dean, and your lungs don’t know how to breathe if it’s not air you’re sharing with him. 

It will be a lot of work. Not impossible, but too much. You know yourself. You’ll love Dean until you’re in a grave unless you teach yourself not to. And you really don’t want to learn how to hate Dean. Don’t want to learn how to be indifferent to him, either.

You like loving him. It makes apples taste sweeter and water feel cooler. It’s a new kind of heaven, to be able to look at Dean and love him at the same time. He’s a force of nature. 

So you stay at his side. And when you do start to get cold—eating ice will do that, but you always seem to think this time will be different for some fucking reason—you keep your gaze fixed firmly on the TV as you tuck your arms between your legs and try to keep yourself warm. 

Then something warm wraps around your body. Soft and warm and-

A blanket. 

Dean barely moved. He’s still looking at the TV. But the glass somehow moved from your hand to his, and now you’re tucked into a blanket. 

He doesn’t say told you so. 

When he feels your gaze, he turns and gives you a challenge look. Daring you to call him out on it. 

You really don’t want to. It’s too good a selfish opportunity, to lean a little closer and let out a soft sigh when Dean fully moves his arm over your shoulder. 

He’ll rip you apart, if you ask him nicely. 

That’s not a burden you want to place on him. Certainly not one worth disrupting Sam’s yoga over.

The quiet falls again. Dean doesn’t say a word about the blanket, or ice, or how his hand is relaxed against the bare skin of your arm. But you don’t tell him that you feel like you’re on fire. 

This is a silence you could live in. Drown in, if Dean let you. 

Fuck, it doesn’t matter if he lets you.

You’re going to drown in him—even if he never gives you anything at all—no matter what. 

———

It gets worse, after the blanket. It’s like he’s living in your head. Like he knows you well enough to never need to ask what you need, always seeming to pick up on it before you even can.

First there’s the diner. You go to the bathroom while they’re ordering, and when you come back Dean is gone.

“Where-“

“Got a call.” Sam shrugs, and you nod, frowning around the table. 

“Did they take our menus?”

“Yeah, we ordered while you were gone. Don’t worry, Dean got yours.”

You swallow, give a weak nod, and focus your attention on the crayons and children’s placement they set at the table, despite none of you being kids. Sam starts to ramble about hunting ideas as you try to color in the black and white farm picture, looking up only when the diner doorbell rings, to check it it’s Dean.

Eventually, after a few disappointments you’re never going to admit make your stomach feel like a hollow pit—you’re a grown woman coloring like a child in a diner and talking about killing vampires, you don’t need Dean to come back—he reappears. 

It’s like watching the sun climb over the horizon. Everything is brighter and warmer, when he walks back into your view. There’s a bubbly little high that rushes your body, when his eyes meet yours and he grins.

“Dean, I think there’s a nest in Nebraska-“

“Yeah, whatever.” Dean slides back into the booth, right at your side. “You like the crayons, sweetheart?”

You flush, your gaze dropping back to the placemat. “I- Um- Yeah. I know it’s for kids, I just-“

“Helps you focus.” He shrugs. “I know. ’S why I asked for them.”

You blink at him, at the soft, crooked grin and light in his eyes, and chew on your lower lip to stop it from crashing into his. “Thank you.”

“Anytime.” He bumps his shoulder with yours, then looks back to Sam. “Dude, I think we gotta drop the vampire thing-“

“It’s a nest, Dean, we can’t just ignore it-“

“There’s a demon problem in Mississippi.”

“Shit.” Sam sighs, frowning back to his laptop. “We can do that, then Nebraska?”

“Sure. That sound good?” Dean says your name, and you blink at him a little dumbly. 

He can’t see it now. The love written all over your face. He’s never seen it before. 

But something still flashes over his features, when you nod. He swallows, hand curling on the table. 

“Awesome.” He grunts, almost tearing his gaze away, and whatever he and Sam keep talking about is lost to your ears. 

Because the food is delivered only seconds later, and Dean ordered for you. 

He got it all right. 

His hand is lingering on your shoulder again, as he stretches his arm over the booth. 

And it only gets worse from there.

Your leg starts to bounce in the car, and he pulls over so you can go to the bathroom. Your head starts to hurt after the demon hunt, and he passes you water and an Advil before you can even rub your temple. On the vamp hunt he’s always right around the corner, swinging his machete before teeth can even be bared in your direction. 

You get the shower first, when you get back to the motel. Dean’s covered in more guts and grime, but he opens the bathroom door, and makes a dramatic, sweeping gesture with an almost sweet and boyish grin. 

“Ladies first.”

Sam groans from across the room. “Wait, Dean, I smell like shit-“

“We all smell like shit.”

“Dude, I’m literally covered in literal shit-“

“So is she.” Dean snaps, and you sigh. 

You are. Somehow, every fucking hunt on a farm always end in someone covered in shit. But Sam got the worst of it. He took a full topple into the pile. Dean caught you before you could join him, and it’s mostly on your shoes—which now have to be burned—and hands after you helped Sam to his feet. 

“Dean, it’s alright.” You sigh, giving him a small smile. “Sam can go first.”

Dean stares at you for a second—not quite a glare, closer to that strange look from the kitchen—then grunts.

“Whatever. I’m gonna go find a drink.”

He leaves, looking back once with that same, odd expression, then vanishes out into the dark. 

If he’s mad at you, you didn’t mean it. It’s just a shower. But the door slams, and you want him to come back, and if he’s drinking that means he’s looking for company. Company that’s not you. 

It aches, all over your ribs. 

But he doesn’t know. 

So you’re not allowed to chase after him and beg him to come back. 

“You think they’ll serve him covered in blood?” You ask Sam, gaze still trapped on the door like Dean might return. 

“Dunno.” Sam sighs. “Thanks for letting me shower first. I’ll- Uh- I’ll be quick.”

You hum, and Dean doesn’t come back. When it’s your turn to shower, the water is warm, but your bones feel cold. You miss him. It’s been twenty minutes, and you miss him. 

It’s been like that the entire time you’ve known him. You love him, and miss him, and he drifts in and out, never understanding that you’re trying to drag him up to shore. He doesn’t have to keep drifting. You’re right there. If he asked you to fall into the ocean with him, you’d go in a heartbeat. If he crawled out of the waves and told you he didn’t want to drift anymore, but didn’t know how to stop, you’d sit in the water with him until he was ready. You’re always waiting. 

Even when he’s out, and it’s all quiet, you’re waiting for Dean to break the silence and tell you something. Anything. 

You’re just waiting to hear his voice all the time. It doesn’t have to be I love you too. 

Just something, telling you that this doesn’t end the way you know it’s doomed to. You in a silence that’s never going to be broken. Dean walking out a door and not coming back. 

When you pass out , you somehow manage to sleep through the whole night without being woken up by Sam and Dean coming and going from the bar. And you expect him to not be there in the morning. This is the exact type of bloody hunt that usually ends with Dean chasing comfort at the bar, Sam going for a ten-mile run, and you sleeping for about twenty hours straight before you can make yourself move. He’ll be back later, and your heart will stutter in your chest with the pain that he didn’t want you to help him forget, then you’ll keep going, and say nothing. 

You’ve gotten really good at choking on the sore feeling of not being the one Dean wants to help him, and saying nothing. 

But when you wake up, Dean’s on the couch. Feet kicked up on the table, watching TV on low volume and glancing over his shoulder when you try to sit up. 

“Shit-“ You groan. “What time is it?”

“Noon, sleeping beauty.” Dean almost appears in front of you, passing a coffee into your hands. “Sammy’s on a walk, he wanted to check out the park. They got a butterfly garden, if we wanna catch up.”

“I like butterflies.” You mumble, and Dean’s lips twitch. 

“Yeah, I know. Eggs?”

“Wha-“

“You gotta eat,” he says your name with a shrug, and maybe it’s the lingering sleep, but you sort of feel like you’re floating. He’s not looking at you—attention focused on the coffee in your hands, like it’s the most important object in the world—but he is standing right over your body. Blocking the sun leaking through the blinds, mixing with the dust of the motel room to give him the appearance of a halo.

You could just still be dreaming. Dean offers you his hand to help you up, and when you take it, his grip is firm. Gentle, but firm.

It’s too easy to imagine that grip on your hips, or throat, or thighs. Spreading your legs apart for him to take whatever he needed from you, until you have nothing left to give. 

“C’mon.” He keeps his hand in yours for a second too long, eyes darting back up to meet yours. “Breakfast.”

You nod, he moves his hand away, and you can’t chase it. You know how to walk alone. 

But you don’t want to.

And when you walk to breakfast, Dean slows his pace to match yours. Like maybe he doesn’t want to either. 

There’s a soft bird song in the air. The rush of morning wind past your ears. And when you trip on a crack in the pavement, Dean’s arm wraps around your waist, and he pulls your right up. 

He stares at you for a moment. So close. Your heartbeat in your ears and his large hand settled easily on your hip. 

You don’t tell him to move away. He doesn’t ask if he should let go. 

The birds keep singing. The sun is soft, melting through morning fog, and he looks like he has a halo again. 

Neither of you say a word. 

Dean’s hand stays on your hips. 

———

This is the kind of silence that kills. That sinks into things and erodes them, unless you scream and force it away. 

But you don’t know how. You can’t be the one to break it. Dean’s the one that brought it into the car. The one who’s driving with a white-knuckled grip, who hauled you into the car once he was sure your stitches would hold, slammed the door without a word, and took off with only a glare through the rearview mirror. Your throat is too dry to speak, and he’d passed you a water, but he’d done that in silence as well. He’s not even turning on the radio to drown out your ragged breaths and the engine. 

That’s how you know this is the horrible, poisonous kind of silence. 

Dean’s fury is only still and quiet when it’s getting ready to burst. Like the air right before a storm. Electric and empty. Promising wreckage soon, but not now. Now is about the dread. Now is about watching Dean glare at the road, and trying to guess exactly what he’s going to say so you can keep your own footing when he explodes. 

There are too many options. You don’t even know why he’s that mad. It wasn’t a good hunt, but it was far from the worst. You’d gotten hit, but you’d made it out. There was a deep gash in your stomach, but Dean treated it quickly. Picked you up with barely a grunt, carried out to the car, and laid you down on the hood without a word. You’d whined a little as he a pushed your shirt up and disinfected the wound, but he grumbles more when you’re just treating his knuckles. And you hadn’t even said anything. The silence had already started to settle, everything had been painting in pain, and all your focus had gone into focusing on Dean.

His hands, skimming over your sides and resting on your abdomen for better stitch work. His attention, focused entirely on you, splayed out below him. It had been far too easy to pretend you were there just to be touched. That his hands were promises of more, and he was scanning over you not to see if you needed the hospital, but because he was trying to work out where he wanted to start. If he was going to kiss you fully and deeply, latch his mouth onto your breasts, or kiss down your stomach and between your thighs. 

So easy to pretend, when you couldn’t feel the silence choking you, too lost in warm hands on your hips and your heartbeat in your ears. 

But now silence is all there is. 

And it’s going to bury you alive. 

He won’t even look at you, when he parks the Impala at the bunker. You get a stiff hand to guide you out of the car, but he’s staring right over your head. 

It could not be about you. Maybe he’s just tired. He was out late last night, and he came back smelling like booze and flowers, and that was fine. Not your business what he does at night, even if he’d spent the whole day before grinning at you over diner tables and indulging in a long rant about your favorite book. Even if he’d held your hand, when you’d had a random breakdown only a night before.

Maybe that was it. Maybe you’d pushed the boundary of your friendship right up to the line, by crying in his arms. 

But you’d been choking on the air, and hadn’t asked him to hold you. He just had. He’d fallen to his knees and tugged you into his arms, stroking his hand through your hair and keeping you folded gently into his chest. 

“I- I’m sorry,” you’d whispered, still sniffing and clinging to his shirt like a child. “I’m just- ‘m tired, and I’m so- It feels so big.”

Dean had hummed, rubbing soothing circles on your back. “Big?”

“Yeah. All of it.” Your voice had dropped to barely a breath. “I- I don’t- It’s lonely. I’m alone.”

He’d pulled back, that odd expression back on his face. “You think you’re alone?”

You’d swallowed and nodded, and he’d sighed. Pressed a soft kiss to your brow, and pulled you a little closer to his chest. Another weak sob had torn through your body. 

But he hadn’t let you sit in it. 

Dean had muttered your name, his own voice filled with an odd strain you couldn’t quite place. “You’re not alone, you know. You got me.” He’d paused, then added, “and Sammy. We’re here.”

“Thanks.” You’d mumbled, and he’d let out a long, slow sigh. 

“Course. I- I’m here. Whenever you need.”

You’d fallen asleep there. In his arms. And then neither of you had spoken about it, and he’d gone out the next night like you didn’t need him next to you all the time. 

You did something wrong. You had to have done something wrong. Maybe it had been the breakdown. Maybe you’d stared at him a little too harshly, when he’d gotten back last night. You’d been able to taste your own bitterness, that someone else got to have him the way you dreamed about. It might have been tangible in the air, and now he was pissed at you for thinking you had any right over him or his heart. 

You didn’t.

You just love him, too much to ask anything of him, but also too much to not hate him for doing this to you. Making you love him, then fucking off. 

It could be something else. He passed you rubbing alcohol back at the house, to ease the pain of the stitches. Maybe you had said something. Maybe your head had been fuzzy, and Dean fingers had brushed the soft skin of your stomach, and you’d moaned. Maybe you’d been thinking about him touching you aloud. Maybe you’d done something without remembering, and now he was never going to look at you again-

“Woah.” Sam shoots to his feet as Dean half-carries you inside—why is he still helping you when he’s never going to look at you again—and gapes between you. “What the hell happened? I thought it was just a salt and burn-“

“It was.” You mutter, wincing as you start down the stairs, and a new, white-hot pain shoots through your body. “Strong ghost.”

“Are you-“

“I’m fine.” You give Sam a tight smile. “Nothing bad.”

Dean tenses around you, but still doesn’t speak. 

Sam notices. Of course he does. He knows, just as well as you, that Dean’s never this quiet. “You alright, Dean?”

He grunts, settling you down into one of the chairs, and Sam raises his brows at you. All you can do is shrug in return. But the motion makes spots cloud in your vision, and a high moan of pain escapes your throat. 

Dean shoots you a tight look, and when you try to stand up, he crowds over your body and glares down at you.

Sam clears his throat. “Dean-“

“I told you to wait for me.” 

You blink up at him, blocking almost all the light. He looks more like a shadow than a man right now, and you shouldn’t want him to come closer. To maybe drop over you and smother your body. His body is broad enough to take up your whole vision, and it’s all tensed muscle and a handsome glower, searing right over your skin and making the air almost hum.

This is the hunter monsters and demons fear, not the man who watches cartoon and movies with you, bringing you ice and wrapping you in soft blankets when you get cold.

Really, truly angry. 

With you.

“What?” You blink at him, trying not to feel dizzy—for the pain or his attention, you’re not sure—and his nostrils flare. 

“I said wait.” His words are pushed through his teeth, fist clenched at his side. “You told me you’d fuckin’ wait until I got off the phone to go inside.”

“I- I did-“

“No, you didn’t.”

“Dean, I-“

“You have to fucking listen to me.” His voice is rising, gaze narrowing, and you might start crying again. “When I tell you do something on a hunt, you goddamn do it-“

“I did do it!” You scream, but your voice is too high. Too weak. “You hung up! It’s not my fault you started fucking texting someone and didn’t follow me into the house-“

“I followed you! I always follow you-“

“Then why weren’t you there, Dean?” You hiss, and you can’t control it. He can’t just hold you one night, fuck off the next, then act like he cares when you know he was texting someone else. You did the job. And you did it alone, with nothing but creaking stairs and the wind. He doesn’t get to be pissed at you for that. He fucking doesn’t. 

And he’s gone still again, his gaze almost predatory. He can’t bite back. It’ll hurt you a lot more than anything you could do to him. 

“I went in after you hung up.” You snap, all the fight already starting to drain from your body. “You don’t get to be pissed about that when you’re the one who wasn’t paying attention.”

His jaw ticks, his voice dropping to something low. Dangerous. “You think I wasn’t paying attention?”

Sam clears his throat from the background. “Guys, maybe now isn’t the best time to-“

“You weren’t there.” You mutter, ignoring Sam, and Dean’s lips curl. 

“You weren’t there.” He sneers. “I looked up, you were gone, and when I find you again, you’re bleeding out on the fucking floor because you couldn’t listen-“

“So? I got the ghost-“

“You got hurt!” 

He’s shouting again. You don’t have it in you to shout back—your head is starting to swim, and if you try, the sting in your eyes will overflow and you’ll fall apart—so you just sigh, and give him a tired look. 

“It happens, Dean. You get hurt all the time.”

“That’s different.”

“Why? Because you’re a big man? Because chicks dig scars?”

He scowls, grunting your name, but you push on. 

“At least they didn’t get my face, right? Nobody would want me if I got a big scar on my face. God, I’d be useless, wouldn’t I? I mean, it’s not like anyone wants me now-“

Dean’s face flashes with that odd expression again, and you’re going to cry again. You can feel it coming. Hear it in your voice, tight from the lump in your throat.

“Who could want a girl hunter, Dean? I should just follow your every order, shouldn’t I? It’s not like I can hunt alone. Go off alone. Go anywhere without you telling me what to do then dropping me the moment something better comes along? Right? You just want your fucking lapdog?”

Dean takes a step back, like he’s been hit. Just staring at you. And Sam’s frozen somewhere in the background, looking between you with wide eyes, and you can’t do this. Can’t cry in front on both of them. Not when you’re already so tired. 

You push up on shaking feet, and Dean lurches slightly. Takes a stuttering step forward, then freezes as you level him with a glare. 

“I’m going to bed.” You tell the air, not really caring if they hear.

Neither of them say anything. Dean doesn’t try to grab you, or chase after you to argue more. 

You wish he would. 

But the silence follows you down the hall, broken only by your door slamming behind you, and the sound of your own fractured sobs as you fall into the bed, alone. 

———

“Don’t.” 

Sammy sighed from somewhere behind Dean, and when he turned, the kid had his hands up in surrender. “I didn’t say anything, Dean-“

“You were gonna.” He grunted, crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t wanna hear it. I know.”

Sam raised his brows. “Do you?”

“Sam-“

“No, Dean. Tell me what you think I was gonna say.”

Dean scowled. “That it’s my own damn fault she’s pissed at me.”

“And?”

“Shut your face-“

“Why?” Sam didn’t waver, and he was asking to get punched. “What else is there? I mean, if it’s your fault, that should be it, right?”

Dean’s scowl deepened. “I don’t know what they hell you’re trying to say-“

“Don’t you?”

A heavy lump was forming in Dean’s throat. He couldn’t do this not now. 

Not when he could still hear Her words, ringing his ears with every moment of silence. 

Not like anyone wants me now.

Dean wanted Her. 

More than anything. 

He could feel it in his chest, with how it glowed and swelled with light whenever She smiled at him. He could feel it over his skin, with how every other touch felt sickening when it wasn’t Her hands. It turned in his stomach when he kissed another woman, and told himself it was for the best. 

She deserved better. Everyone deserved better than Dean, but She more than anyone else. 

Sometimes, Dean would lean over a bar counter, and dream about Her getting out. Having that apple pie life with some normal, boring asshole who’d never let Her put herself into harms way, who’d know exactly what to do when She cried in his arms, who’d know how to say it.

The thing. 

He’s tried to tell Her, all the time. That when he walked, it was always because he was trying to march in some time to Her heartbeat. He cleared Her plates because he was there for Her. He paid attention to Her, knew Her, and tried to make her feel it like that. 

But he couldn’t even think it. That within itself felt like a curse. If he thought it, some angel or monster would hear and try to take Her away. And it wasn’t denial. He knew. Dean damn well knew why it lived behind his eyes, when he fucked some random chick and moaned the wrong name. Why there had been a broiling, cold, consuming wrath in his muscles, when he’d seen Her bleeding on the floor. Why part of him was shattered on the floor when She called Herself his lapdog. 

He was Her lapdog. He was the one who followed and waited for Her. Who, if She ever left him, would stare at door and wait at the foot of Her bed until she came back. 

And he’d fucked this. All on his own. He shouldn’t have been pissed, but She was right. He hadn’t been there. He’d gotten distracted trying to dismiss the girl from last night, because she didn’t get the one-night thing, and wasn’t deterred by Dean’s eyes been closed the whole time—even as he’d fucked her from behind—and the way he knew he’d groaned Her name when he came. 

Then She’d gotten hurt. Dean couldn’t afford to have Her hurt. He wasn’t worth much, but he knew how to be a shield. How to stand in the line of fire. 

And She’d still gotten hurt.

“You should talk to her-“

“No.” Dean grunted, ignoring Sam entirely. “She’ll get over it.”

She would. She was strong, and resilient, and-

Alone.

Her voice echoed in his again, right between the echoes of his steps in the hall. And he could see it. Her face flushed, cheeks shining with tears. He could feel Her in his arms, warm and soft and curved so damn well against his chest. She’d smelled like flowers. 

Sounds so fucking sad, when She’d said she was alone. 

Dean flopped down on his own bed, and stared at the ceiling. If he closed his eyes, he’d see the pale expression on Her face, and he just wanted to goddamn sleep. To wake up and be back at yesterday. He’d ignore the texts this time. She’d be safe, and—bonus—they wouldn’t be fighting. 

But he kept hearing it. 

Soft sobs that sounded an awful lot like Her’s. And he might be imagining them, but Her eyes and been glossy and Her voice had been strained. 

Alone.

Dean was more alone than She was. She could have him however She wanted, but he had to settle for placeholders that never fit Her shape. 

He couldn’t sleep. 

He kept seeing Her face. Hearing Her voice. 

A drink. 

A drink would help.

Dean shuffled down the hall, trying to keep as silent as possible—She needed the sleep, and he didn’t need another lecture from Sammy—and found the liquor cabinet already hanging open.

There was a whole bottle of vodka missing. 

Son of a bitch. 

He didn’t run. He wasn’t so pathetic as to sprint to Her room. But he did walk fast. She shouldn’t be drinking with fresh stitches, it would thin Her damn blood and make her recovery worse. He’d only given Her a little bit to ease the pain before, and it had barely taken a sip to make Her head loll back, eyes flutter, and body turn to putty below him. 

And Dean wasn’t a good man. He’d taken in the sight of Her—shirt riding up, relaxed and spread out on the hood of the Impala—and memorized it for later. For when She’d tuck Herself against his side on the couch, and he’d have to excuse himself to go chase relief in the bathroom. 

But now She was drinking. Because of Dean. And She was going to hurt herself even more, and he wasn’t a good man, and she deserved better, but- 

He raised his hand to knock on Her door, and it swung open.

She squinted up at him, lips in a pretty pout, and he swallowed. It was too quiet. He’d been planning to storm in and demand She just go to bed. Braced to take any of Her insults or fists pounding on his back as he tucked her in. The noise would keep the thought from his head. The one that meant he’d let Her goddamn shoot him, if it made Her happy. 

He hadn’t been ready for the silence. For how She was swaying slightly, Her hand drifting up to press on Dean’s chest with a small frown, shoving him lightly. 

“You’re here.” She mumbled, words already slightly slurring together. “Big.”

Dean blinked at Her. “Huh?”

“You’re big.” She took an unsteady step forward, and She’d touched him first. 

Dean let his arms shoot up to catch Her, and She giggled slightly, leaning Her head against his chest. 

“And strong.” Her fingers raised up, poking his chin. “Pretty.”

Jesus Christ. “You’re drunk, sweetheart.”

She snorted, rolling Her eyes. “So?”

“So, you’re injured-“

“You get drunk and injured all the time, Dean-“

“That’s-“

“Different?” She dropped Her voice to mock his, and pushed suddenly off his chest. “Shut up, if you’re just gonna yell at me again I’m not telling you my secret.”

“What secret- Shit-“ Dean lunged forward, grabbing Her before she could slam into the sharp corner of her dresser. “Slow down, baby-“

“Baby.” She hummed, hands suddenly grabbing Dean’s face and he swallowed. That was Her focus, analyzing face that She used in interrogations. A little dazed and soft from the drinking, but still sort of terrifying. Dizzying and scary and beautiful, keeping him frozen in place like She’d cast some sort of spell. “I’m not your baby, Dean.”

That drove right between his ribs. Damn near made him double over. But this wasn’t about him right now, so he choked on the broken sound of pain, and pushed on. 

“I know, sweetheart, I’m sorry, just slipped-“

“Do you call them baby?”

He frowned. “I- Uh- Who?”

“Them.” She whispered, leaning against his chest. “The others.”

“Ba- Kid, I don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“Kid.” She scowled, and shit, even that was enchanting. “‘m not a kid.”

“I know-“

“Is that why it’s not me?” She asked softly. “Cause you think I’m a kid?”

Dean said Her name slowly, and he wasn’t sure when he’d grabbed Her hips. She wasn’t moving him away.

He’d take it. 

“I don’t think you’re a kid-“

“But you’re comin’ to tell not to drink.” She mumbled, Her face dropping fully against Dean’s chest. “And you don’t think I can hunt alone.”

“I don’t want you to hurt yourself-“

“You don’t care.” 

Dean frowned. “Of course I care-“

“But you were mad.”

“I-“

“You don’t need to be here.” She muttered. “I’m not a kid. I can take care of myself.”

“I know you can,” Dean sighed Her name, and let his hand tangle in Her hair. “But I told you. You’re not alone.”

It felt right. Like where he was supposed to be, even if he knew he shouldn’t be allowed there. And She melted into him. 

Dean had been the one that hurt Her. She wasn’t his. 

But Her arms were wrapping around his neck, and she hummed softly, taking a deep breath, turning to bury Her face in the crook of Dean’s neck.

“You smell good.” Her words were half mumbled against Dean’s skin, lips brushing on his throat, and damn him, he wanted to stay here forever. 

“Thanks-“

“And I love you.” She whispered, voice drifting off as lighting hit Dean’s whole body.

She was drunk. She couldn’t meant it, she was drunk and tired and pissed at him-

“Sorry.” She breathed. “Love you.”

Dean held Her firm as She became a slack, dead weight in his arms. 

It was quiet again, save for the sound of Her breathing. 

The only sound in the world that mattered. 

It sounded sort of like hope. 

———

Your head doesn’t hurt as much as it should, when you wake up. There should be a migraine. A pounding pain, reminding you that you’d tried to drink away all your pain, only for it come knocking on your door right as you’d been ready to stumble and plead for it to keep hurting you. 

Because not only is there no pain, but you can remember everything so damn clearly. Talking yourself into chasing Dean, and seeing if he’d do you a favor and beat your heart a little further into the ground. Maybe you’d manage to salt the earth, and that would be the end of it. 

Deep down, you know it would only have bloomed again. It always does. 

But Dean fighting you more would’ve meant he cared enough to shout. He had cared enough to shout. 

And the details of him being in your room are a blur. There’s a feeling of warmth, and a phantom sensation of arms around your body, but all you can really remember is the ache. The hunger to have him, and the pain as you remembered you couldn’t. 

But you had. 

There’s a haze of being wrapped in him, and a low voice right in your ear, and the room spinning but around the same center of gravity. And he’d held you back. You’d grumbled and hit his chest, but he’d held you and put you to bed. 

Maybe put you to bed. You don’t remember getting in bed yourself. 

But you also don’t remember there being a heavy weight, on the other side of the mattress. 

“I know you’re awake,” Dean mutters, and your fingers curl into the sheets. 

He’s here. 

He’s still here. 

And you can remember a little more of what he said. What you said. 

You told him you love him. 

Aloud.

Fuck.

“You don’t have to get up.” Dean lets out a long breath, and you feel sort of sick. 

You’ve lost him. You’ve never even had him, but you lost him. This is the part you’ve dreaded from the moment you looked at him, and realized it really was never going to be better than this. Then Dean. Humming to himself and drumming on the wheel. Loud in a way that makes the rest of the world seem to quiet. That makes you want to make things louder to match him, rather than let him force himself to drag down. 

And he’s not going to ask you to leave. He would never. 

But he will turn you down. Tell you that he doesn’t do relationships, and it will be the end. Worse, he’ll say he doesn’t love you, but if you want something without stings, he can offer that. And you’ll take it. You’re weak, so you’ll take it. 

You hope he doesn’t offer it. You’ll overflow with love. It will start to weed, with nowhere else to go. 

Dean takes in a sharp breath, and you brace yourself for the blow. It’ll be better if you take it lying down. You don’t really want to look him in the eyes.

“You, uh-“ He clears his throat, the sound oddly tight. “You don’t have to get up. Or say anything. Just listen. Okay.”

You don’t answer, trying to breathe evenly through your nose, and Dean lets out a dry chuckle.

“Alright. I did say you didn’t have to talk, guess that’s on me. I- Uh- I’m sorry.”

Here it comes.

“Sorry for yelling at you, sweetheart. You’re never anything but good to me, and I know you weren’t trying to get yourself hurt. I just- Son of a bitch, I can’t lose you. Won’t survive it. I need you. More than damn near anything, I need you here, with me. And I’m sorry.” He takes a deep breath. “Don’t leave. I’ll- Shit, I’ll do anything you want. Just don’t stay pissed at me, baby. Please.”

Oh.

You don’t know how to move or speak or react, because oh. That wasn’t an I don’t want you. Wasn’t an I don’t feel the same. 

It was an oh.

Dean coughs. “I, uh- I know I said you didn’t have to say anything, but it sorta- Can you say something? Even if it’s telling me to go to hell-“

“I don’t want you to go to hell.” You mumble, words muffled in your pillow. “And I’m not that pissed. I just- I can do things myself-“

“I know you can, sweetheart-“

“Do you?” You roll over, trying to give him a firm look, but it doesn’t work that well. 

The asshole can sit on your bed all night, and still be the most attractive man alive. It makes all the—albeit pretend—anger die within a few seconds. He looks desperate. Short hair messy, like he’s been running his fingers through it all night. He’s in a thin, tight shirt, frowning at you like you’re the most important thing in the world. 

“I do.” He mutters, his voice rough in a way that rushes right into your core. “I promise I do, baby. I just- You looked so freakin’ small. You were in pain. And I-“

“Can’t lose me?” You finish for him, sitting fully up on the mattress, and he gives you a tight nod. “You could never lose me, Dean.”

He lets out a dry laugh. “In my experience, that’s not exactly something you get to decide.”

“Maybe.” You shrug, drawing your knees to your chest. “But they’d have to drag me away.”

He raises his brows. “They would.”

“Yeah. They would.”

Dean nods slowly, giving you that odd look, then clears his throat. “You sort of- You said a thing.”

Fuck. 

“I know.” 

You fidget with your fingers, trying to hold his gaze, but it’s hard. He looks sort of like a cornered animal. Making himself bigger while preparing to be kicked all the same. 

“Did you mean it?” Dean whispers, and you give him a tiny nod. “How long?”

“Two years.” 

“Son of a bitch.” He runs a hand over his face, giving you an almost exasperated look. “And you didn’t think to freakin’ say something-“

“You didn’t say anything! And you slept with- I- I know I don’t have a say in what you do, but-“ You swallow, trying to prevent your voice from getting too high and needy. “I’m not going to tell you when I think you don’t care, Dean.”

He sighs, grimacing slightly. “Yeah. Fair. Does it matter if I tell you I don’t- That they’re not the same? As you are?”

“Not the same?” 

“It’s not- I don’t care about it. With them.” He sighs. “With anyone but you.” 

“Oh. Okay.” You give him a small smile, and there’s a spark in your chest. It’s dangerous. It’s going to let you fall into this, even if it’s a lie, but you don’t think it is. 

With Dean looking at you like that, it couldn’t be.

“Okay?” He mutters, and you shrug. “Alright. Do you still- Y’know-“

“Love you?”

He nods, and you frown.

“Of course I still love you, Dean. It’s- I’ve put up with a lot more of your bullshit than this and still loved you. One fight isn’t changing that.”

He swallows, eyes wide on yours and voice to soft. “Can you say it again?”

You don’t have to ask what he means. “I love you, Dean.”

His throat bobs, and he leans slightly forward. You can see the dilation of his pupils. Watch the tip of his tongue, flick out over his lips.  

“Can I kiss you?” 

His voice is hoarse, you can almost feel the hunger in it. Written all over handsome features, mirror in your own hands curling on your knees and thighs pressing together. 

“Yeah.” 

There’s nothing else to say. 

Dean leans forward, wrapping a hand carefully around your neck and resting the other on your knee, then kisses you softly. Slowly. It’s already more than you know how to handle. His lips against yours, moving carefully as he angles your face back, finding a gentle, dizzying pace that already sends you into a high that’s better than anything before. His hand slowly dragging your knees down, letting him lay you flat onto the mattress as his tongue traces over your lips. 

He presses down lightly. Asking for permission, right as rough, calloused fingers brush your sides, and he settles between your legs. 

You open for him, letting out a soft sigh down his throat as he sucks on your lower lip, and it’s still soft, but something shifts. 

First it’s the kiss. Deeper. All the way into the mattress until you’re breathless, and his weight over your body somehow becomes not enough. You need to feel him. Feel more. Then his hand trails under your shirt, a knuckle brushing against your breast, and your back arches off the bed. Dean groans, his mouth starting to trail down to you neck—sucking tiny bruises as he kneads the skin of your waist—and when you moan his name, you can feel him. Hard, pressed right against your inner thigh. It just builds another, louder moan, and god, he knows what he’s doing. 

Just kisses, possessive marks and touches, are unraveling you in a second. And the shift is heat. There’s so much building heat, in every moan and wet sound of Dean’s lips on your neck, and he’s moved above you. Kissing the base of your throat, his bulge pressed right over your core, and you need more.

“Jesus,” Dean grunts, pushing on his forearms to scan over your face. “Baby, please don’t start a game you can’t finish.”

You blink up at him slowly. “What if I want to start?”

He swallows. “Don’t-“

“Do you want to start?”

Dean sighs, dropping his brow down to yours. “More than anything, baby.” He rolls his hips against you, grabbing your back and kissing the side of your head when you shiver from the feeling. “You got no idea, how bad- how much-“

“Can you show me?”

Dean stares at you, and you hold his gaze. You want it. More. All of it. Whatever he’ll give you, and if the blown out, starved expression on his face is any sort of promise, he’s going to give you a lot. 

“Yeah?” His voice is low, deeper than you’ve ever heard it, and you were already ruined. It’s a little unfair how just loving Dean ruined you. 

Touching him might remake you. Or wreck you all together. 

You’d really like to find out. 

So you grab his jaw, tugging him back to your level, and kiss him. Slow and long and fir, biting his lower lip and trying not melt when he groans. 

“Yeah.” You whisper against his lips. “You care about it? With me?”

He nods, trying to chase you when you lean back, but you stop him with a hand on his chest. 

“Prove it.”

It’s not a shift anymore. 

It’s a snap. 

Dean’s eyes darken. Narrow. His lips from a tight line, and he nods to himself. Like a challenge accepted. 

And he’s still so slow. Taunting. Pressing you back down into the mattress with a heated kiss, going and going until you’re breathless, hands roaming anywhere he can reach as you cling to his neck. One grabs your breast, palming if for a seconds before rolling a nipple between his thumbs, right as the other wraps around your hips and gives a tight squeeze to your ass. 

“Dean-“ You gasp, and he grunts, nipping your lower lip. “More- please-“

You start to tug on the hem of his shirt, and he rises up, ripping it off and tossing it away. But you barely get a second to reach up, let your hands wander the muscles panes of his chest or take in the virtual god towering over you—muttering your name, somehow muttering your name—before he’s tracing over your shirt, and raising his brows. 

“Take it off,” he grunts, and you’ve never listened to an order faster. 

The clothing flies off both your bodies, Dean’s hands both playing with your tits for barely a second before he’s yanking off his own underwear. 

And Jesus. 

Someone must have owed you a favor. 

He’s everything. Strong and firm, but soft too. Broad. And you’ve see him flexing as a joke, or when he fought hand to hand, but that’s nothing compared to the view of him shedding his pants, towering over you, and slowly starting to stroke his own cock as he holds your gaze. 

Even his dick looks sort of like art. Big and thick and heavy in his hand, standing proud, close enough for you to touch if you reach up.

“Hey.” He swats away your hand, shooting you a firm look. “I’m touching. You’re taking.”

You’re taking. 

Dean wants you to take. 

And you’d have to be insane to tell him no. 

“Okay.” You whisper, and he smirks down at you. 

“Good girl.”

Oh, god. Your thighs try to press together, but he shoves them apart. You’re still in your pants, but when he presses his palm over your pussy, there might as well have been nothing between you. Your hips jerk, and you try to grab his wrist, but he bats you away and starts to rub. Slow and firm, still beating his own cock as you fall apart for him from nothing.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” He moves his knuckle to press over your clit, and a high whine leaves your throat. “Gonna take what I give you?”

“Yes,” you gasp, trying to wiggle to get just a little more friction. “Dean, just- Why-“

He laughs at your high whine, his hand gone from your pussy and slowly starting to trail down your thigh. 

“Relax, baby girl,” he mutters, pulling your legs up into the air. “I’ve got you.”

You melt into the mattress, and nod weakly. He’s got you. 

Dean helps you out of your pants and underwear before kissing the inside of one ankle, then the other. He slowly starts to make his way up your legs, kissing every bit of skin he can find. Leaving a small bite on your knee before kissing it better, right as he grabs your hips, massaging his thumb in firm circles. 

Every breath starts to hitch, as he makes his way to your inner thighs. Another tiny bite, another wet kiss, then a heavy breath over your clit. A soft kiss. 

“Dean,” you moan, your whole body burning with need. “Dean, I-“

You squeak as he lands a sharp slap on your cunt. 

“Take it.” He grunts, teasing two fingers on your dripping pussy. “So fuckin’ wet- I’m taking care of you, right? Told you, baby, all you gotta do is settle down and take it.”

You nod, trying to lay back into the sheets, but it doesn’t last long. 

A loud, desperate moan leaves you as Dean dives between your legs, and you’re going to fly out of your skin. He’s good. So good. And you might be screaming that, as his tongue fucks in and out of your cunt, it’s impossible to hear yourself over the sound of Dean devouring you. His nose rubs your clit, the stubble of his beard burning your thighs, and when you scream something that’s probably his name, he groans right into your pussy. It vibrates through your whole body, sending you so high so fast, and he senses it. 

Dean starts to lick your clit, quick and small until you’re a bucking, moaning mess below him. Gasping for air as his forearm over your stomach pins you to the mattress, tugging his hair in a silent plea to come, then making a high noise as he groans again. 

Finally, his lips latch around you, and he sucks, tongue never ceasing its movement. 

Your orgasm hits you with fireworks and light, eyes rolling back in your head and body going limp, and Dean doesn’t stop until you’re floating down from the high. Then he kisses your hip, up your stomach, and pauses at your breasts. Takes one nipple into his mouth while playing the other between his fingers, switching the moment you start to grind below him, then kissing back up your chest. You get a wide, boyish grin for half a second, then his lips press back over yours. 

Demanding. 

Still so soft.

“Taste like heaven.” He mutters, and you hum, scratching at his shoulder. He chuckles. “Need more, baby girl?”

You nod, and he grunts. 

“C’mon, sweetheart. Haven’t fucked you yet. You’ve got some words for me in that big brain-”

“More.” You gasp. “More, Dean. You- Your cock. Need your cock. Please.”

He groans, kissing your deeper. “There she is. Good girl.”

You whine, and he pulls back slightly, giving you a small frown. 

“Protection-“

“Are you clean?”

He blinks at you. “Yeah, but-“

“Pill.” You mumble, spreading your legs. “If you’re okay, I- Please. Wanna feel you.”

Dean stares at you for a second, then crashes back down into you. This kiss is feral. Hungry and messy and teeth, only broken after Dean rolls you over his body.

He picks you up like you weigh nothing, slowly guides your down his chest, and raises your hips. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan as he helps you sink down onto his cock. Splits you open so gently, looking up with such awe as he rubs your thighs and lets you adjust. 

You’re full. So fucking full.

And you need more. 

You squeeze around him, rolling slightly and whining when he presses that spot deep inside you, and Dean groans your name.

“Shit- Take what you need, baby.” He grunts. “I’ve got you.”

You nod, nails digging into his chest, and start to ride Dean’s cock. It feels so good. Your clit rubs over your abdomen, all the noises in the world just the wet sound of his dick buried in your pussy, and every whine from your throat as you start to climb up again. 

Dean groans when you squeeze around him, head thrown back and fingers teasing over your nipples, but it’s still not enough.

“Dean,” you gasp, squirming over him as your legs start to burn. “I- I need you-“

He moans, hips jerking up, and takes over without another question. Firm hands grab your hips and start to bounce you on his cock, and all you can do is feel it. The dizzying high of Dean inside you, the warmth of him under your hands, the sounds from his chest rolling through your whole body until you’re hovering back on the edge. 

And he knows, before you can plead with him. That you still need more. Dean pushes up on one hand, crashing his mouth back against yours, and pins your down on his cock. You’re trapped against him as he starts to fuck up into you, hitting so deep in your body you might be seeing stars, every groan from his mouth into you like lightning through your blood. 

He’s close. You can sense it, in the way his movement are growing harsher. Hear in his every moan.

“Dean- Dean, I’m-“

“I know.” He growls, slamming against your g-spot with every thrust. “C’mon, baby. Cum for me.”

The coil in your gut snaps, and your mouth falls open as your vision goes white. It’s maybe the most powerful orgasm of your life, only doubled as Dean just keeps fucking you, shoving his tongue down your throat, and groaning your name as he paints your cunt white with his own release. 

He collapses with a groan, still slowly grinding up into your pussy, and you’re only still upright because of his hold on your hips. 

Dean’s thumb wanders slightly. Flicks over your clit, making you both moan as you spasm around him.

“Dean.” You grumble, and he grins up at you. 

“Sorry, baby.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yeah.” He laughs. “I’m not.”

He’s laughing. Grinning. Relaxed below you, and still sheathed inside you. Then Dean rises up, and you meet him halfway. Wrapping your arms around his neck as he kisses you, slow and deep, and slowly roles you under his body. You whimper when he pulls out, and he just softly kisses your neck. 

“Be right back.” He mutters, taking your hand and squeezing it gently. 

You hum, letting your eyes flutter closed as his weight vanishes over your body. This is a warm, comfortable silence. There’s no need to speak. You can feel Dean anyway. There’s a dip in the mattress and a kiss on your ankles, then a warm sensation between your thighs, as he cleans you up. 

“C’mon.” He mutters after a second, pulling you into his arms. “You gotta pee.”

You hum, turning your face into his neck, and when he sets you down on the toilet, you somehow manage to keep your brow pressed to his. Then it’s just even, easy breaths, gentle hands guiding you back to your bed, and Dean tucking you back against his chest. 

He’s holding you like you’re fragile. His voice in your ear is still soft. 

Nervous.

“Can I stay?” 

You nod, twisting in his arms to press your face back against his neck, and he sighs. 

“Are you-“

“‘m sure.” You mumble, wrapping your arms around his torso. “Love you. Want you here.”

His heart stumbles slightly. “Thanks.”

You hum, tangling your legs together, and he sighs, rubbing circles on your back as he shifts you comfortably in his arms. 

He mutters your name, soft in your ear. “I feel it too.”

You smile against his skin. “Okay.” 

“I- I just can’t-“

“Dean-“

“I’ve never- It’s not you, I just-“

“Dean.” You make your voice firm, leaning back to meet his gaze. “It’s okay. I know.”

And you do. You can see it now, in how he looks at you. See it before, as well, when you really look. In every blanket at ordered food and slower step. It might be there longer than you’ve loved him.

But it’s all the same, anyway. You’re still here. Whispering in the dark. Together. 

“You do?” He mutters, and you smile. 

“Yeah. I do.”

End Note: I don't like how my fyp knows how down bad i am for this man. If I get one more jackles Countdown shower scene, i'm gonna... write more horny stuff.

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when you and dean were in between cases one night, freshly exclusive after weeks of just sneaking around behind sam’s back like some horny teenagers—and the conversation of the hour was ‘what gets you going, anyway’. 

aka: what you like—and what you don’t like in the bedroom. 

there was the usual mutually agreed things—nothing crazy rough, no degrading names (unless specifically asked for), a couple other no-no’s. 

as for the likes? nothing really surprised you. nor you, him.

except when dean mentioned waking up to sex.

and oh, he got real shy about it—you’d only ever seen that blush on his face when you’d called his eyes pretty that one time when he wore a green tie. he sheepishly explained how a one-night stand did that to him years ago: they’d done the deed, went to bed, whatever—but then dean woke up with the girl on top of him—and he literally busted as soon as he opened his eyes.

all before 8AM, by the way.

and pretty much all of that stuff in the first half was without his prior consent, by the way—which made you real furious real fast—but dean said it didn’t even matter in the end. 

because he liked it so much.

then, he’d done it to her the following morning as well—a two-night stand, maybe?—and he’d discovered that he loved giving it just as much as receiving it.

and jesus.

were you about to not indulge in that?

i mean, sure, you’d never experienced it before. you’d never received it, much less given it. but this was dean—you trusted this man with every single fiber of your being.

didn’t that technically already include while you were asleep, too?

your line of thinking? 

yes. 

and dean obviously liked it—so much so that he asked for it.

so you agreed. 

and it went both ways.

the first time you woke him up with your mouth on his dick, dean’s pretty sure he saw god. because sure, eyebrows mgee from nowheresvillle was nice and all—but you, oh you already knew all his weak spots. already knew not only how to get him there—but how to make it that much more special. 

and he loved it.

the first time dean woke you up with it, he was still half-asleep himself—but he managed to make you come three times anyway. dean’s been meticulously perfecting his methods ever since.

and he’s only getting better.

because if there’s one thing that dean winchester is good at besides shooting a gun—it’s eating pussy.

see, because while you woke him up with all of him in your mouth or riding his daylights out; you did it more sporadically, with the true element of surprise—whereas dean?

that motherfucker woke you up almost every morning with his head between your legs. 

his breakfast, he called it.

so that’s what dean was about to embark on now. 

it was probably sometime way too early in the AM—who the hell knows. and dean wasn’t about to check the clock, but he knew it was pretty fucking early, since the motel room you both were in was illuminated a deep, dark blue. the kind that is the sky’s unspoken communication that everyone’s still asleep.

well.

everyone except for dean.

no, dean had much better things to be doing at this hour than sleeping. besides, he’d get like this every once in a while—catch up on some decent sleep in the bunker, then not be able to fall asleep in the motel the next day because of how much sleep he got. it was a cycle you knew about—only because dean got so bored he resorted to you as a distraction. he said he wanted 

and you weren’t exactly complaining.

he jokes that he knows your body better than you do nowadays—but the truth is, he does. 

dean’s got a routine down-pat now—and he was currently putting it into motion.

it starts with his hands. not in or on your pussy, but your scars is what he focuses on first. every one he can reach. every one he knows by heart after hours of tracing them beneath his fingertips while you were none the wiser, sleeping like you were now. feeling the uneven skin and pressing kisses onto them like they were sacred—and maybe they were, because for every dent and mark on your body not made by him, to your logic, anyhow, you once said: it wasn’t just merely a reminder of the event, or the hunt, or the monster. 

it was a reminder that you survived it. 

to get to here. 

to get to now.

so dean kisses the scar on the top of your shoulder where you’d gotten cut jumping through a broken window as his other hand traces the healed-over burn on your hip from a pyromaniac vampire. not too hard, but he knows you can still feel it—somehow, in some way. he takes his time—because one, he has to get you as wet as humanly possible (he can), and two, he needs to make this as long as he can. because dean doesn’t get moments like this—so he makes them, steals them for himself.

it’s the only selfish thing he does, you think.

so you let him. 

and dean takes it, every time. 

he’s maneuvered you onto your back without waking you, hands still everywhere. you don’t exactly know how he’s able to get away with so much without waking you. maybe it’s because you feel safe, or maybe it’s your body that wants to suck every ounce of love he has to offer even when you’re not awake for it—but either way, you don’t delve into it too much.

dean handles you like you’re made of glass most of the time—a stark contrast to the hands that tore through hell and blood for so long. your thighs, your hair, your skin—you are the only other place he’s seen that his hands belong besides the grip of a gun. and he takes advantage of that regularly. 

you’ve started sleeping naked for this exact reason. dean didn’t even ask you to. you just did it one night—dried off from your shower (regrettably, without him) and hopped into bed. he asked what, y’know, that was all about, a little nervous since he hadn’t really thought you guys were having sex tonight—but when you shrugged and pressed a kiss on his cheek, grinning while saying ‘so you don’t have any obstacles anymore’, he swore he’d been in a dream all this time. 

but he wasn’t. 

it sure felt like it, though.

why? dean wasn’t sure—but you made everything so… easy. you never pressured him to do anything—sex or otherwise, and you gave him so much comfort that he couldn’t possibly deserve, but he takes anyway. takes everything you had to offer him. you gave him a place to feel safe, to feel needed—and not for a case, or for a fight, or for the next apocalypse. 

you just needed him. 

dean. 

not hunter dean, not the weapon, or the tough and unbreakable face he puts on for the rest of the world. just him. and it feels overwhelming to him sometimes, knowing that he doesn’t need to put on a show for you, or hide the way he’s feeling anymore—so he still does it sometimes. 

but he’s been getting better at that, too. 

for you. 

because of you. 

and he made a vow to himself that he’d spend the rest of his life trying to make it up to you. and it’s not like you need him to—dean knows that, but he wants to try anyways. 

this right now? 

it’s one of the ways he tries.

so back to the hands. back to dean, back to now. he’s half-hovering over you by your side, his elbow propping him up on the sheets so he’s got a good angle as his other hand runs along your torso. not fast—but not too slow, either.

you shift, just a little—and it's only your face that does, but it’s towards dean, facing him even in sleep. he’ll never understand how your body’s able to recognize him, even in your sleep—but he knows how important it is. knows the trust that’s connected to it. your expression is still relaxed, still deep in sleep—and dean gets distracted for the briefest moment when his eyes rake over your face. he’d stare at you for a long time sometimes—and it would never feel necessarily uncomfortable, but it made you a little squeamish, since you thought if dean looked at you long enough, he’d somehow realize that you’re not the one for him anymore.

and if that happened? it wasn’t him, he said back to you in response that night you’d told him that.

so dean watches you sometimes while you sleep instead, without the premise of making you come before you woke up—in the dead of night when instead of drowning in the past like he used to do, he looks at you curled up next to him and counts his blessings.

and most nights, it’s just one. 

care to guess what (or who) it is?

dean leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek that’s facing the ceiling before getting back on track. he has a job to do. don’t tell anyone, but it’s his new favorite job since you got together—and probably will be for life.

he then presses another kiss on your shoulder. then your exposed chest—but the bedding is still on your legs and bottom torso for now. you get too cold right away otherwise. dean’s going to warm you up, sure—but when the motel ac is good, it’s like the arctic’s in the four walls.

so the sheets stay on you.

dean doesn’t suck your boobs yet—just kisses them until your nipples are hard. he’s found that if he does suck them right away, the pleasure you get from it is too strong too fast. more chance of waking you up before he wants you to be up. it’s not even a control thing—you told him how good the feeling of being woken up literally as you come is. so that’s why he does it, and is perfecting it: for you to feel good. 

and if he’s being honest? 

dean gets off on it almost as much as you do. 

so once your nipples are hard, he presses a lingering kiss to the right one before shifting again. his hand had been gently touching your waist and hip the entire time—but you’d moved a little again, so he does the same. plus, it was time for the next step, anyway. 

dean’s shifted closer to you, but you’re still laying face-up as he’s at the side of you, propped up on his elbow. his hand moves to your pussy—and if it was weird calling a person home, it would be even weirder to call an organ home.

dean still does, anyway.

and you’re wet, of course—but not as wet as dean needs you to be for him to pull this off. so he rubs on that dampness between your folds—slowly, of course, builds it and builds it and builds it until it’s literally almost dripping onto his fingers. only then does he slowly slide two of them in you with no resistance—and your legs open despite yourself.

you still feel it, too. dean knows that because of the shaky exhale you let out, the way your hips twitched under his touch. not awake yet—and he doesn’t shove or go rough. he curls up his fingers, making a ‘come hither’ motion. your lashes flutter and your breath catches, but you’re still asleep. 

mission accomplished—so far.

he’s still hovering beside you as his fingers start to pump against your walls—not hard, never hard—pressing another kiss to the corner of your mouth this time. before he goes to your boobs again—this time, he sucks a nipple into his mouth, tongue swirling on the skin. you shift again, a small sound lodging in the back of your throat. dean’ll never understand it: how your body responds so well, even in the depths of sleep. it’s almost like something sacred at this point. 

your hips and thighs slightly twitch when dean’s fingertips brush that spot deep inside you—and one of your hands fists the sheets under your palms unknowingly, your breathing picking up.

you’re getting there.

and it’s because of him.

dean takes pride in that—takes pride in a lot of things he does for you (or to you), because you’re considered something holy in his eyes. perfect. and because it’s for you, some sick and selfish part of his brain lets him think that this might cancel out anything bad he’s ever done, or lets him take back every word dipped in poison he didn’t mean to say.

it won’t, obviously. dean knows this, deep down. 

but sometimes, he likes to pretend anyways. that, and plus that he’s allowed this somehow—allowed to have you in absolutely every single possible way, and he deserves it? because you tell him he does? what the hell? sometimes, dean spends most nights watching you sleep or holds onto you so tight, afraid that you’ll slip away from him like he’s been in a dream all this damn time. 

but it never happens.

and you’re still here.

another broken sound breaking in your throat gets dean out of his haze of you—and he presses another kiss on your cheek before he shifts again, finally about to let his mouth replace his fingers.

don’t tell him i told you—but this is dean’s favorite part. the going down. and also the build-up. he loves it. the way you taste, even the way you smell. how warm you are inside.  the way he can feel you clench, the way your thighs wrap around his head automatically like between your legs was his true home.

and shit.

maybe it was.

dean does all the work for you when he does this. his hands gently maneuver your legs over his shoulders after moving the sheets away, rough palms grazing the sides of your legs as he settles into where he belongs. he presses a kiss to the inside of your ankle, then your calf, making sure to lightly drag the side of his face along your leg so his facial hair tickles your skin—and grins against you as goosebumps form. he does the other leg because apparently, one wasn’t enough before he finally reaches his real destination.

dean had called your pussy ‘almost as pretty as you’ one time—which earned him a slap on the arm and a very red-faced you, but honestly? 

he was right. 

you did have a pretty pussy.

christ, it’s literally glistening as dim blue glow of the early morning sky filters through the shitty motel curtains—and that barely-there light is doing wonders right now. jesus. dean just stares at it, at you for a second, until your thighs shiver—and it’s not from his fingers still being inside you, not moving anymore, it’s ‘cause you’re cold, he realizes.

well.

maybe some of those goosebumps were genuine, then.

anyways, dean settles more in between you, warm hands grazing your skin before pressing more kisses to your inner thighs now, purposefully dragging his stubble on your skin again—not fast, but not necessarily slow, either. because as much as dean likes the incline?

he needs to eat you out as soon as possible.

and dean takes it seriously.

he starts with licking up the entirety of your pussy, collecting all your wetness on his tongue—and he can’t help but already moan a little just at the taste of you, slowly swirling his tongue around your warm folds before pushing his face a little more into you. usually, you’d do this for him with your hand in his hair—but then again, you weren’t exactly awake, now were you? 

speaking of, your thighs had tightened around dean’s head just a little—even as you were still asleep. but dean knew it wouldn’t take long for him to wake you up. so his mouth works a steady but not fast pace, lips sealed against you as he swirls his tongue around. he moves with so much precision—but so much love, too. because he knows every spot on or in you to make you putty in his hands.

you’re getting more squeamish now—not waking up, but just moving more. dean’s not directly focused on your clit yet, but he makes a few passes with his tongue. not teasing—but mostly to build up the pleasure.

and it worked.

your breathing’s picked up, and you turned your head on the other side of the pillow, letting out an exhale. dean can feel your thighs tighten again—but he lets them. he’s said countless times that this is one of his dream ways to die—right between your legs, worshipping you until his last breath. 

and he meant that.

your hips twitch up more into dean’s face as his palms grip on them and part of your thighs, your body knowing the drill better than your brain now. he moans in your wet pussy again almost involuntarily—and he glances up to make sure it wasn’t enough to wake you up. 

when you don’t wake, he lets his eyes flutter shut briefly as he feels the blend of your arousal and his spit pooling around his mouth, threatening to slough down his chin.

good. he wants it there.

you twitch a little harder—and dean could slide his fingers back in you to get you to the edge.

but you can come just from his mouth.

so he doesn’t.

dean sometimes thinks about how creepy it is, that he’s doing this. and the fact that he’s so turned on by it—because don’t get it twisted, he’s been hard since he saw your boobs. he has to remind himself over and over again that you consented. you told him he could do whatever he wanted—and you’d let him.

and that trust? 

it can’t be bought. can’t be negotiated, bartered, or won in some fight. it’s something dean had been wanting not solely just from someone else, but to share that with someone, have reciprocation for those feelings. something real. 

not a one night stand, and certainly not with someone who might betray his confidence, turn their back on him later on. it can’t be replicated—and he’s pretty sure something’s wrong with you to be so trusting of him after all he’s done.

but you still were.

it’s not necessarily surrender—but the fact is, you trust dean enough to have everything he wants from you, even if you’re not awake for it. and sure, it might’ve started because of that random chick that didn’t know how to ask for consent—but it ended with you.

it always ends with you.

dean’s hands find the outsides of your thighs, keeping them latched around his head as his tongue gently flicks over your clit once more, his stubble rubbing against the creases and insides of your thighs along with your pussy. he knows it drives you crazy, so he purposefully slowly shakes his head back and forth once in a while—just because he knows you can still feel him somehow. in your bones. in your blood.

he can feel your heels on his back too, the weight of your calves on the backs of his shoulders as he lays between your legs—and it feels so unbelievably right, him being like this. like he actually belonged somewhere for once in his life.

dean moans again after a beat—and maybe this was why he liked it so much while you’re asleep as well, because the amount of times he’s moaned right into your folds without any stimulation himself is a little pathetic.

but dean’s always been pathetic—and it’s only gotten worse since he met you. 

he can’t bring himself to care, though.

dean can feel your lower body locking up under his hands and the way your pussy throbs in his mouth.

you’re close. 

and you still haven’t opened your eyes.

a broken sound escapes your throat this time when dean’s tongue and teeth pass on your clit again as he keeps up the pace—something caught between sleep and pleasure. he liked the sounds you made all the time, obviously—but there was something about how unguarded you sounded still asleep, something raw.

something only dean was allowed to have.

and he didn’t give a fuck if it was selfish—he’d take it every time. the world didn’t let him have anything, but he’d be damned if he was gonna let some son of a bitch take you away from him—‘cause he’d only let you leave if you wanted to leave him.

so this was his way of saying thank you for not leaving him.

well.

one of the ways.

“de— dean,”

and there it is.

your raspy voice finally rings out as the pleasure builds higher and higher, your breathing bouncing off the motel room walls and hitting dean’s ears as you arch up into him a little more—even though you were muffled by your own thighs around his head. he lived for this.

lived for you.

dean only just moans into your pussy again in response, tugging your thighs impossibly closer to his head as he sucked, licked, and lapped at your clit fully now, not slowing down as he looked up at you, meeting your eyes that were barely open.

everything felt so fuzzy and so good—you close your eyes again as your hand blindly grabs at dean’s head, completely uncoordinated, your fingers eventually threading into the mess of his hair while your breath caught. 

“de— oh m’god, dean—!” a broken moan shatters from your lips, and you feel your entire lower body lock up, your back lifting off the sheets as you come hard, eyes screwed shut, gripping onto dean’s hair like he was going to disappear.

and dean? he watches you from between your legs as you come—well, partially, because your thighs were wrapped so tight around his head, he could only see some of you—but he just groans lowly into your wetness that’s now everywhere on his tongue and face as he feels you throb in his mouth, looking up at you like you answered all his prayers.

and deep down, he knows you have. 

because heaven certainly never did.

and who needed heaven anyway, when the sight of you right now was in front of him?

yeah.

they could keep the pearly gates.

you’re still breathing heavy, warm all over as dean laps up every drop you gave him. he’s slower now, careful of your sensitivity—but his stubble on his face still scrapes against you anyway as he finally unlatches himself with a squelching pop, sucking in a breath while resting his head against your thigh, his eyes fluttering shut as he gasps in gulps of air. he was almost as out of breath as you—and he hadn’t even been the one that came.

your hand had unloosened in his hair at some point—now, it was slowly threading through it, almost absentmindedly. and when dean ultimately opens his eyes after a beat, they take in your blissed-out face as your own eyes are still shut, a small, stupid, but still very much tired smile on your lips.

he did good, dean realizes. 

so his own stupid grin finds its way onto his face before pressing a wet kiss onto your inner thigh, leaving your juices on your skin. that gets your attention, even though you were close to already falling back asleep, despite your orgasm. you lift your head up a fraction off the pillow, forcing your eyes open and your voice to work.

“get up here.”

it’s not demanding, or even that loud—in fact, if the motel ac was any more aggressive, dean might not have heard you. 

but he did.

so he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand before he rises from his beloved spot between your legs—just enough to lay on top of you instead. he rests his head between your boobs, and your hand not still in his hair finds his back, resting there. your chest still rises and falls under his head rapidly as you come down from your high—and dean can’t seem to want to move yet.

it’s times like these his brain is fuzzy and warm—so his thoughts just kinda… 

spill out.

“one day,” he almost whispers in your skin, a little drunk purely on the taste of you, “we’re gonna wake up somewhere… and not have’ta leave.”

not a question. 

not a promise.

and you didn’t have to ask—you knew exactly what he was talking about.

a real life. stability. safeness.

you could see it clear as day if you wanted to.

“i think about that, too,” is what you whisper back, hand still in his hair.

dean stills a little—not because you’re showing him honesty, but because he wasn’t expecting you to actually entertain this idea. he finally lifts his head from you, meeting your now open eyes in the dim light of the motel room, blue still shining through the windows. your hand goes to the side of his face—and dean melts right into your palm.

“tell me,” he whispers—not begs, because dean didn’t beg—but he’s almost desperate to hear it now. no smirk, no deflection with a picket fence joke. 

just:

“please.”

and you’re still half-asleep, by the way—everything’s still slightly dream-like as you bask in the lingering afterglow of your orgasm. so maybe that’s why you’re not so embarrassed to tell dean your pipe dream. the one you only thought about when you saw dean with kids, or held garth’s babies in your arms.

it was pure, self-indulgent and completely unrealistic fantasy. 

but you still find yourself answering anyway.

“a house.”

is what you whisper back like it was your biggest secret (and it kinda was), your eyes half-closed like you were already there.

“with baby parked out front.”

dean’s completely frozen in place as he looks up at you—and he doesn’t make fun. doesn’t crack a joke.

because he could see it, too.

you take a breath in, and dean can see your gaze, your thoughts cracking, even from his position of his chin still resting in the valley of your breasts.

“you work on her every saturday. an’ all the kids in the neighborhood come runnin’ up, beggin’ for you t’rev her even though they know it’ll piss the whole town off—you do anyway. an’ they all chase after her when you peel off down the street.”

another breath, dangerously shakier this time. 

because you could cry. 

you might cry.

you don’t—but something deep inside you completely breaks open and spills out everywhere regardless.

“then maybe one day, you’d look up at all their little faces in the rearview mirror… and for a second—just for one second, you… you’d think about havin’ one’a your own.”

“with me.”

your voice breaks on that last word—involuntarily.

because it was so normal, it hurt. 

because it was everything you couldn’t have.

and dean doesn’t talk for a really long time. you’re scared you went to far by saying that you’ve wanted what you thought you didn’t want for the longest time—

until you met dean.

dean doesn’t move. doesn’t blink. because not only has the thought about it—he stays completely still, like if he moves, the dream you’ve had for so long will shatter and you’ll finally see how broken he really is. how undeserving he is of you.

but it doesn’t come. you’re still looking at him like he’s everything you ever wanted.

so dean lets himself live in it, too. 

just for a second.

he can see the house—not big, but not small, either. baby’s sitting in the driveway, her chrome glinting under the sun as a pack of neighborhood kids swarm her like moths to a flame, tugging on his arms and legs and shouting at him to start the car.

he can hear them laughing. 

he can hear their screams when baby roars to life—tires screeching on concrete before he revs off, doing 50 down your guys’ street that’s only 25 miles per hour. 

your street. your house.

yeah, dean would look up in the rearview mirror, too—oh, and god help him.

but he wants to try.

he wants to make it real.

“one,” 

dean rasps out after what felt like a century—and his eyes are just as wet as yours. 

“i just want one.”

and that makes the tears fall from your face long before the sun is up, your entire face cracking as you look down at him.

because the want you felt?

it literally aches now.

because dean wanted it, too.

and dean doesn’t tell you to stop crying—because he was one gentle touch away from doing the same. your hand’s still on his face—and he takes it in his own, keeping it there before rising up, hovering above just enough so you’re both face-to-face.

and you’re still crying—not sobbing, and certainly not out of sadness—but because you’ve denied the feeling for so long just to find out that dean wanted it just as much as you.

and dean’s losing it, too. in every sense. every single thing that’s been cemented and pounded into his brain is going completely out the window—because while for every part of him that’s scared he’ll fuck up?

there’s a part of him that wants to do better than his father ever did.

and as if you could read his mind:

“you’d be a great dad.”

you force it out between tears—and dean almost crumples right on top of you at that. 

because for the first time in his life?

he believes you.

and the thoughts keep coming, at record pace—you making coffee in the best machine money can buy after living off of gas station’s for decades, both your guns sitting behind glass and resting on velvet instead of in your palms. wind chimes on the back porch because garth said it wards off wraiths. 

and the feel of a tiny hand wrapped on his pinky.

“j— i—” dean can feel the way he’s reacting—and he’s getting even more hard than he was earlier at just the thought of seeing you with his kid growing inside you.

he’d still worship you, just like he did not a few minutes earlier. he’d talk to your tummy all the time, because despite what everyone else thinks, he is corny like that—and he’d make stupid jokes about ‘pokin’ the kid’ as he fucks you.

because he’s dean.

“i wanna make it real,” dean blurts out along with your name, a hand not holding himself up above you reaching to wipe your tear tracks, his voice cracking as his own teary eyes search yours. “lemme make it real— please.”

and it’s not like after all that, you were gonna somehow say no—so all you can do is nod frantically as you raise yourself up into dean, crashing your lips against his and pulling him down to you with both your hands.

and dean lets you, the hand not holding himself up sliding down your side to your tummy, thumb brushing on your skin as he kisses you right back. you choke up a little in his mouth at the gesture—but you don’t dare let go. 

and neither does dean.

he’s desperate, and so are you—so when he pushes into you with no resistance, a broken sound escapes both of you. 

but it’s not necessarily all broken.

even after all the times you’ve fucked, this is completely different than any other. now with everything, you feel heavier, but lighter at the same time as dean’s inside you—and you know he feels it too, because he’s stopped holding himself up and just thrusts into you as his chest is pressed against yours, taking in sharp breaths that have nothing to do with keeping up endurance.

because dean’s trying not to completely break apart in your arms.

you’re still kinda crying—and dean’s pretty damn close to doing so, too—but you can still feel an orgasm building up in your tummy regardless. because it doesn’t hurt physically—but the want you have for something more, something even more real than what you have with dean aches so bad, your heart hurts from it.

and you know dean’s does, too.

because he’s letting out these noises you’ve never heard against your skin—and so are you, for that matter—and he’s kissing every part of your face as your lips try to do the exact same, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as you tug him impossibly closer while he thrusts into you. he’s not even saying anything. he can’t.

because sure, you’re serious about your relationship—but this is like, an actual real life.

that you want.

that he wants. 

and he’d kill any son of a bitch that tries to stand in the way of it.

you come at the same time—and you’re so unbelievably somewhere else with dean as you float down from your high, feeling his hot warmth spread in you, panting against his lips, arms still around him as his forehead rests against yours—and only then do you smile. 

because dean’s still here.

and he always will be.

───────────────────────── 𖤐

It was Lois’ idea, Cat’s too but she was less intimidating than Lane’s expectant stare. She was his friend, she spoke highly of him once she found out about his little crush on you, one of the Daily Planet’s esteemed photojournalists. 

Clark had been looking through the zines you’ve published independently, enamored by the way you captured people in their everyday lives. 

A mother holding their child in the subway was turned into a beautiful mosaic of color as passengers walked past. Another of a dog playing in a park close to the Daily Planet, droplets of water paused in motion, the puppy mid-shaking as children nearby roared in laughter. 

You had no idea how he found your gallery. But you think it was the journalist in him. He liked your older ones too, the ones you made in college. Punk shows and protests, some of your neighborhood and of urban explorations done with friends. 

The scenes you created were insightful. He could imagine the sounds, the feel of the light as it angled to the focal object, the smells. 

Your writing appealed to him. So human, natural, slice of life as you dug into emotions people couldn’t name. 

He fumbled over himself as he discussed this over your first date dinner. You looked so pretty in your dress, he couldn’t help but make a slight fool of himself. You decided he was more endearing, but maybe the next date you would give him the tough talk and finally let him go. 

You’ve been saying this to yourself the past five dates. 

Now you’re waiting for your dinner reservation. His hand at your waist, the other holding your clutch as you stood in the overcrowded waiting area.

His thumb soothes over your hip, you exhale shakily as goosebumps rise from your skin. He was warm, he smelled clean, slightly like the ink of a newspaper. You noted a woody and earthy cologne. His hair more swept back than usual, giving him a put together look. He had his suit jacket resting on his forearm and his sleeves were rolled up because of the heat and humidity that unfortunately lasted deep into the evening. 

The need for sex was growing with each date. An unfortunate need to get laid thrumming through your chest and gathering down south to your pelvis and lower belly. 

Damn it, you needed his hands elsewhere, as if you wanted him to hear the sickening squelch of your cunt as his fingers dragged against your walls. 

But you had a feeling that the farm boy didn’t have it in him to give you what you wanted no- needed. You debated within yourself, feeling the tug of his hand at your waist as you got seated, seeing the way he pulled the chair out for you and pushed it in as you sat, if you should end both of your miseries tonight. 

Surely, you couldn’t lead him on, no matter how kind, how gentlemanly or thoughtful he may be. You needed a rough being, a rough pounding to be satisfied. His eyes narrow slightly as you absentmindedly order, your finger tracing the stem of the wine glass, filled with water. It was amusing, in a way, seeing you zone out. 

In your head you go through the pros and cons. The more you spent time together the more he opened up. And you quickly discovered that he was perfect. He was smart, quippy, funny and cute. He was a good man. Although a little sassy at times, you knew he wouldn’t hurt a fly. 

But he must be a virgin. He’s never made an effort to do more. Not even a simple kiss. There was nothing wrong with it. Nothing at all. But you needed something to help you sleep at night, like horse tranquilizer and not 5mg Melatonin gummies. Did he even know about sex? Who knows if his parents even spoke to him about the birds and the bees back home. 

You overthink about his inexperience and about the way you might react to it. It would be bad, you’re not good at keeping your faces in check, much less your own words. It was a miracle you haven’t said anything before. The sun that always seemed to be following him had seemingly stopped you. 

Clark’s hand lays on top of yours, his fingers sliding further into your wrist feeling your heart race at the touch. His thumb presses against it, moving side to side. Your head lifts to meet his gaze, you shiver.

God, when did he get so hot? You could see the veins in his forearms, his biceps bulge from the sleeves. You felt as if you couldn’t breathe for a second. 

“You okay?” 

You nod, your lips pursing in a tight smile as he squeezes you in his hold. You take a sip from your water, the server arrives with the appetizers. 

You were telling a coworker about this exact problem that very morning. 

Superman was spotted and you happened to be in the area as you both witnessed him stop a robbery in a convenience store nearby. He was greeting people on the street that had witnessed the crime, children coming up to him and wanting to be picked up or talk. It was an opportunity for a candid picture you couldn’t ignore.

“How’s your boyfriend, Clark, right?”

You had been talking about Clark, the man that was taking you on dates and just hasn’t made the move. You turn the aperture ring as you attempt to focus on him, the sun’s glare had you inching closer, huffing as you circled around him, your companion in tow, still keeping the conversation going. 

You groan at the title. 

“He’s not my…”

You groan again, you didn’t know what he was. The relationship hasn’t been defined yet. 

“He’s fine,” you mumble. You pause, remembering that he came over to your desk the day before while you were uploading some negatives to your computer. He’d gotten you coffee, a bagel. You showed him some of your shots and he showed you the newspaper, his name on the first page, grinning from ear to ear. He was confident that day, even going as far as to tease you, groaning exaggeratedly at the fact that you had spilled some sauce on your blouse. 

His thumb swiped it off, ever so lightly pressing into your breast, feeling the softness briefly before he sucked it into his mouth. You’d given him a wide-eyed look. It was the most action you’ve gotten from him. 

You lower the camera, sighing lightly as you recall the moment. If only he could see the way you shifted in your seat and wet your underwear at his cocky look. You swore his eyes drifted to your lap for a moment, his throat bobbing in a thick swallow. 

“He got on the first page,” you say plainly. 

You shoot. You didn’t think it was good. You try to adjust. Your colleague scoffs next to you, clearly wanting more gossip. 

“I heard.” Silence. They clear their throat. “So. How is he in, ya know…?” 

You sigh, you shoot, you sigh again. 

“Damn” 

“Yeah.” 

“So, no good?”

You give them a look. You speak your thoughts, almost as if a plumber had found a leak and cut open a spewing pipe. 

“Nothing’s happened yet. We haven't even kissed. The man has no sexual bone in his body. I’m pretty sure he’s a virgin and I cannot deal with that- I mean- I need to be dicked down- and in a good way. At this point who knows if he even knows how to put it in- ” 

Your breath catches in your throat. You swore Superman just looked directly at you, his face neutral, eyes narrowed ever so slightly. The conversation ended as he spotted you both, your camera lifting quickly to get the shot. 

Perry liked it, he said Superman looked righteous, his face serious, looking deep into the lens of the camera, the audience. Ready to serve. Ready to prove himself.

Whatever that meant. 

…

He walks you home, like always. It was sweet, so sweet you felt your heart chip away with each step as you got closer to your apartment. Your arm was wrapped around his, halfway through the journey he placed his jacket over you. 

You were too focused on the sidewalk, at your feet, to notice his wandering eyes. The way his chest puffed at how large the jacket was on you, how he could see your cleavage whenever he glanced down. 

You rehearse it in your head. Over and over again, finding something new to say, to soften the blow. You felt like the devil. Maybe a demon. A sex fiend? 

A woman has needs. You couldn’t deny it any longer. It was a comparability thing. 

‘I just don’t think we’re compatible. I love sex and orgasms and you don’t give me the vibe that you’d be able to give it to me. We must part ways dearest Clark.’ 

You barely noticed you were at your door. Your heart races. He notices, he somehow always does. His hand moves to your waist. Something’s he’s been doing more of lately. You attempt to find your keys in your clutch. He leans against the wall, watching you. 

It felt like you two were in a bubble. His hand on your waist, you in his jacket, his large chest blocking everything else around you. His scent consumes you, his warm hand burns into your skin.

Your fingers find the keys and you drop them to the floor, he leans down to pick them up as you do. He was quicker. You straighten awkwardly as he holds it up to you, as he rises, he’s suddenly a step closer, his eyes level with yours as he bends to your height. 

Your back was pressed against the door. Did his eyes just flicker to your lips? Did yours? Your face feels as if it’s on fire, his hand on your waist goes lower, to your hip, then the small of your back, his palm resting on the curve of your ass.

You imagine him grabbing a handful, squeezing with his big, strong, sturdy hand… 

“Hi,” he says lowly, he could hear your heart beat out of your chest. He’s never been this close. You could cup his face. You do. 

He smiles, leaning closer. You should be backing off, he should be walking back to the subway with his head down somberly because you broke it off with him. 

“Hey,” you respond back, almost in a whisper. You grab the key, it digs into your hand as he moves in on you predatorially. He looks down on you teasingly, as if he knew something you didn’t. 

You swallow thickly, your mouth parting as you attempt to find your words. His eyes again are directed to your lips. 

“Clark, I need to tell you something-“ 

He slides his hand to the back of your neck, pulling you close into him. His lips move languidly against yours, your cheeks prickles in pleasure and your eyes widen. 

His eyes were closed as he parted your mouth to stuff his tongue in with yours. You yelp, he groans, and pulls your head closer, his nose smooshing against your cheek. 

You get lost in it, eventually your eyes flutter closed as he sucks in your little sounds, his hand moving under your ass, squeezing it and causing you to moan lightly. He lifts you, scooping you up by the back of your thighs. You didn’t notice how your feet were off the ground, in a haze, in your apartment's hallway. 

His mouth pants in hot wet breaths, nose smoothing down your jaw and neck. He starts to kiss down your throat, your hands move to his head, feeling his soft hair, urging him further, your back lightly pressing against your front door.

He stops suddenly. 

He puts you down quickly, almost making you collapse to the floor from how wobbly your legs had gotten. Your hands tighten over his shoulders in a mix of shock and panic as you land on your feet. 

A door opens a second later, the next-door neighbor sliding past you both. You watch silently, eyes wide. You’re pressed against his chest as he attempts to make more room in the tiny hallway. 

He grimaces, nodding apologetically at the old woman who trudges an overfilled trash bag as she attempts to move past him. 

You didn’t notice that he was so big before. You’re sure his shy demeanor made him seem so much smaller. You were sure he wasn’t that tall before, or his shoulders, you swallow thickly the more you think about it, his shoulders were so broad, his arms tight against his dress shirt. 

You watch with your fingers twisted tightly in his coat sleeves. He went to help the older woman, lifting the trash bag and pushing it into the trash chute for her. 

You feel your pussy throb. He was so nice. And so… dirty. You watch as your neighbor woman pats his chest and he smiles sheepishly down at her. 

She leaves, but not before winking at you from her door. 

You think Clark had awakened something in you. You almost glare at him, your stare intense as he pecked your lips good night, leaving his jacket with you because ‘It looked good’ on you. He turned back with a boyish smile as he walked away, your heart beating out of your chest. 

Your new kink was Clark Kent. 

…

You shift in his gaze. 

You’ve been avoiding him the whole day, flustered, your heart racing whenever he were near. You couldn’t focus as you presented photographs to a reporter you were working in collaboration with that week. 

Some heartfelt story of an old woman being helped across the street by a local shop owner every morning. Who gave a shit. You kept on thinking of Clark’s tongue shoving itself down your throat, exploring your mouth and making you melt against his thick, hard, body like softening butter. 

You could hear him from across the large open media room, chatting with Lois or Jimmy at his desk. He texted you good night, sending you a picture of a midnight snack, as you knew, he always likes to snack. It showed off the obvious bulge in his grey sweatpants, and damn it, you could tell he was soft despite its size. 

Fuck his handful of grapes and ritz crackers, he should have sent a picture of himself shirtless with a hand holding his dick. 

You curse him mentally, you could tell from the moment you walked into work he was going to make the day hellish. His eyes followed your every move as you wandered around his floor. You were usually a floor down, in the photo lab with other photographers who worked in the darkroom just as much as you. 

Jimmy stops you, yelling for you to come hang out for a bit. Damn you, Jimmy, you mumbled under your breath, your boots clicking with each step. Clark had sharply turned his head in your direction, an amused look of confusion in his face as if he had heard you. 

You turn your back to him, ignoring the way he stood up. You were wearing lacy black panties underneath your jeans. Clark could see the way your asscheeks wobbled with each step. He felt an almost possessive feeling in his chest, as if everyone else in the room had x-ray vision. He makes his way over to you, his hand makes its way to your waist briefly and squeezes, causing you to shiver as it slid away.

He looks down at you, smiling with a shrug of his shoulders as Jimmy continues talking about this ‘vintage” camera he found on eBay. The seller was sketchy, he wanted your opinion you guess by the way he was describing the bid. 

“Hey…” Clark whispers, albeit a little loudly. You act as if you couldn’t hear him, pretending to be focused on Jimmy’s computer screen. You could smell him, it made your stomach curl pleasantly, your thighs shift. 

Jimmy looks up, he smiles up at Clark. 

“Oh, hey Clark…” Jimmy continues, starting his explanation all over again once he sees him standing next to you. You twitch, adjusting yourself to cross your arms as Clark's fingers tease along your back, like little spiders crawling all over your spine. 

You give him a sidelong glare, refusing to say anything in front of Jimmy. Everyone knew that you were seeing each other, Clark would spend his lunches on your floor at times, Cat always pressed him about dinner locations. 

He’s never been so bold. Jimmy’s eyes flicker to the touches, the way his finger plays with the belt loop of your jeans, tugging lightly. You inconspicuously slap his hand away. It was unprofessional, others thought it was cute. 

Clark, so awkward. Clark, shy. Clark, the goddamn tease. 

You walk away before he could continue, leaving them watching as you practically stomped out of the room. Jimmy raises his hand exasperated at your sudden departure. You didn’t even give him an answer. 

You disappeared the rest of the day, your fellow photographers mentioning that you were in the darkroom, not coming out, not even for lunch. Clark was shitting himself at your sudden enclosure. What if he went too far, he curses himself and his damn recklessness. He just knew that midnight snack picture was too forward. Shit. 

He makes his way to the photo lab. It was the end of the day, most of the building empty for a select few who wanted the quiet to finish up some report or project. 

He stands, shifting on his feet, his hair a mess from how much he attempted to smooth it back. His curls were gone, he places his suit jacket on the laboratory table’s stool. The room smelled like chemicals, the solution baths by the sink almost making his head spin. Your bag was under the workbenches, the only one in sight. He sighs. 

You were the only person in the lab. 

You heard footsteps, coming closer to the darkroom’s revolving doors. You lift your head from where you were focused on the timer when you hear an attempt to slide the door open. Clark didn’t know how things worked in the lab. Jimmy attempted to teach him once, he just didn’t grasp it. 

“Just keep on sliding it to the left, hop in, and slide it again.” 

You were switching printing paper from one tub to the next, your eyes focused on the timer on the side of the sink. He could see all of your stuff set against one of the desks behind you, a large projector in each desk. The darkroom looked haunted, the light casting a red hue over everything inside. 

He looks you over, you were wearing a tank top, no gloves on even though he thinks maybe you should have some. You shake the picture with your tongs, the excess liquid dripping onto the tray. You clip it on the hangar, waiting for it to dry as you go back to the enlarger and pack up. 

“It’s pretty late,” he mumbles.

You hum in response, he gulps. You were aching not to turn around, all you could think about was that kiss, the way his hands felt against you, his smell, the feeling of him. It was driving you crazy. The darkroom was the only place you could clear your mind and he was invading it. 

He walks around the sink, moving close to you, leaning his shoulder against the shield that divides the space between each enlarger. You glance at him briefly. He looked so handsome, you're sure he didn’t even know it judging by the way his eyes were so sincerely attentive to you. 

“I’m walking you home.”

Not a question, a statement. It sent a chill down your body. You look back at your workstation. Clark watches as you pause, your shoulders tense and square off in a sigh. You nod, slamming your negative contact sheet binder closed. 

He could tell you were pent up and it was all his fault. He almost felt pity, a little guilty from the way he nudged you the past two days. But based on what he overheard from your discussion with your friend yesterday morning, his chivalry had not been as appreciated as he thought it was. 

He had become determined. 

You were waiting for him at the door, urging him inside the tube. 

You push the revolving door, succumbing you both to the darkness as he steps in. The glow in the dark paint and plastic stars shine, not enough to illuminate you both, but visible enough to elicit a simple pleasure from your chests. 

It looked really cool, so he mumbled under his breath. You snorted, keeping you both there to admire the darkness. You thought it was too when you first saw the brush on swirls of green glowing paint. 

“I did this one,” you say softly, blindly reaching for his hand to press it against the side of the metal door. It was a star with your initials inside of it. A lot of the Daily Planet’s photographers placed their marks on the entrance to the darkroom. A rite of passage, even for the interns. 

You slide your fingers against his palm tentatively as he traces along the star. He intertwines your hand together at the light touch, stepping closer to you.

You feel his breath on your cheek, you grip your folder tightly, tingling from the feel of his other hand resting against your shoulder, his thumb tipping your jaw up. You couldn’t see him, but he could see you, your eyes wide, but somehow meeting his even if you couldn’t see. 

The air was getting thinner, his fingers squeezed yours and raised it to kiss the back of your hand. Your lips purse, your brows raising at the affection. It feels ten times warmer than when you first entered. 

“We’re going to lose oxygen,” you say shakily, stepping back and letting go, dragging your hands against the revolving door to open it up to the other side. 

Your eyes adjust to the change of lighting. The harshness of the white lab lights makes you wince, the back of your eyes burning for a second before unblurring. 

He watches silently as you place the finished printing papers in the tub of water by the sink, shifting them lightly around the liquid to completely coat and rinse off any fixing solution left. You were so focused like this. In your zone. Your eyes briefly glancing between your pictures as if looking for any tiny mistake, a blur, a crease, a blob. 

You let them sit there, walking over to the long metal table. You point to the pictures you had ready, sitting in piles with the rest of the finished works that the intern took out that morning as they mixed up solutions and trays. 

He stands behind you, peering over your shoulder, the scent of your musk and chemical, something human and stinging, made his head tip ever so slightly to inhale deeper. 

You felt his breath against your neck as he leaned down against the table, his hand resting against the cool metal as you showed him photograph after photograph. 

He mumbles approvingly with each thwip and slerk of printing paper sliding against each other. The glossy finish soothing against his ears and his tired state. You feel a pleasant shiver trickle down your spine as you feel his chest rumble against your back. 

“You have a good eye. You always capture so much movement,” he mumbles, shifting ever closer. He had taken off his glasses, which confused you slightly. But it seemed as if he took in the image you showcased better without them. 

He was so strange. He smelled like warmth and sunshine. His presence was always comforting. God, you wanted it bad. 

Your last picture feels heavy in your hands, the rest stacked beneath them, the corners and edges pinching your skin as you hold them. You lift it closer to him as he rests his chin against your shoulder. You feel yourself melt against his chest slightly before leaning forward, creating a centimeter of space between you both. 

“Superman. He’s a wonder. Almost looks angelic,” you say quietly. 

Your finger traces the figure reverently. He was surrounded by rubble, creating puffs of grey clouds around him, the light shadowing his face as he floated in the sky with the monster of the week lying unconscious beneath him. A crowd had been forming around it, as if coming out of hiding from the buildings at the edges of the frame, all clapping and cheering. 

He hums, his gaze now directly on you. He studies you, you glance at him, suddenly feeling slightly embarrassed at your words. You clear your throat. You weren’t a fangirl, not really. Everyone loved Superman. Everyone appreciated Superman. You hope he didn’t think of you as being part of his fan club. 

He just happens to be around you, maybe you attracted criminals. You're not completely sure, but you always managed to get his attention. He’d look into your cam, almost as if he were waiting for you to take a picture. Perry even seemed to notice that your shots have become more and more about Superman than your usual stuff these past few months. 

It brings in the big bucks, so you don’t mind. 

You turn to your side, facing Clark, tipping your head as you give an inquisitive brow and he looks at you with a half lidded dazed smile. It was shy, intimate, wholly endeared. His eyes pry deeply into yours, as if he knew something you didn’t and was waiting. 

You just didn’t know what for. You offer him the picture, extending it out to him. 

“Could you give this to him?” 

You give him a wanting look, eyebrows creased into the middle of your forehead, almost pleading but not enough to be considered a real beg. You knew he interviewed Superman all of the time. The only other person being Lois. Unfortunately, you didn’t believe Lois had the inner strength to not keep a hold of the picture, she easily swayed with success.

Not that you blamed her.  

Clark straightens up, in utter surprise as you offer him the photograph. It was good enough to be a front-page image. You were willing to give that up. 

“You know him, right?”

He nods wordlessly, gently taking a hold of it, his fingers lightly skimming across yours. A shot of electricity fluttered over your hand, heat spread across your face as he looked you over. As if in awe of you. As if you had personally gifted him the picture. 

He hears you swallow thickly as he places the photo in his laptop case. You point a finger at his chest. 

“Don’t publish it with one of your pieces, alright?” 

His lips quirk up in amusement. He snorts. 

“Superman’s eyes only.” 

You nod firmly.  “Good.” 

Clark bites his lip, looking down at the floor and huffing out loudly. He shakes his head in astonishment, fighting back a grin. You give him a look as he crosses his arms and leans towards you, bending down right in your face. 

“You’re fucking amazing.” 

He says it so sincerely, you let out an awkward laugh, fighting back a smile at the butterflies that he was making you feel from the sudden and exaggerated praise. His large hands cup your face, making you look up at him. 

“What-“

He kisses you, your hands grip his wrists and you gasp as he presses his body into you. 

His lips were soft against yours, your hands move over his forearms, his hand cups the back of your head, his fingers pressing against the nape of your neck. 

“You’re-”

A peck. 

“Fucking-”

Another kiss, this time deeper, his thumb smooths over your jaw, your legs wobble and your eyelids droop. 

“Amazing.” 

Your back hits the metal walls of a door nearby, your hand entangled in his hair, pressing his back towards you to bring him closer. He kissed you harder, groaning as you bit his lip, watching with drunken lust as you pulled back slightly. His cheeks were cherry red, hair a mess, glasses thrown on the floor from when he hoisted you up, his hand palming your ass as he held you up by one arm. 

He tasted like coffee and that tres leches cake he liked from the bakery around the corner. He was so sweet, everything about him was so sugary sweet. You feel his bulge, rising and pressing against the seam of your jeans. Your eyes almost roll back from the size of him, your hips twitch onto it, grinding, your panties were a mess already. 

He kisses you harder, like a starving man, his hand sliding over your hip possessively and underneath your top, his palm against your bare skin and fingers splaying across your ribs, right underneath your breasts. 

You bite your moan back as he pushes your bra up, his fingers finding their way to your nipples. 

“Clark,” you groan out, feeling your body stiffen in pleasure from the stimulation. They were sensitive, his hand squeezing your breast roughly. 

He trails kisses down your throat, shushing you, pushing your strap away to teeth at your skin. He imagines getting you in his bed, tasting you, spreading you out on his sheets and getting on top of you. 

His cock pulses. You feel it and your brain short circuits. You start to unbutton your pants, hands then rushing to his chest to unbutton his shirt. 

He stops you, his head shooting up to face the door. Before you could question him, he opens the door behind you and rushes inside. It was pitch black, you couldn’t see a thing as he closed it. 

“Clark, what are you-”

“Hello?” someone calls out from outside. 

You tense. A fucking intern. You move to buckle your pants, but his hand stops you quickly. Your bags and your stack were out on the table. Your legs tighten around his waist, his hands press you tighter against his chest, his palm resting on the small of your back. 

He was still hard, you had to bite the back of your hand to stifle a moan as you moved against it.

The intern, Micah, you think, calls out your name. You wince. You were in the negative developing room, where you would take out the film from your camera and load the film into a developing tank.

The process had to be done in complete darkness if you didn’t want to risk ruining your film. It was a rather tedious step, annoying if you couldn’t get the roll in place.  

“In here,” you shout. You feel Clark’s chest vibrate, a silent chuckle or snort. You move to slap his chest but miss and hit his collarbone. He makes a hushed ow in response. 

“You ok in there? I’m about to head out.” 

“Yup.” You pop the p. He snorts and you somehow manage to cover his mouth with your palm. His hand squeezes your ass teasingly. 

“I’ll clean up, go home, Micah, have a nice night.” 

A long pause. 

“Ok… good night.”

You could hear the intern open and close the front door. You breathe out a sigh of relief. Clark barks a laugh, and you sigh in irritation. 

“You sounded out of breath.” 

“I did not-” 

“Yeah, you did.” 

You huff. He puts you down, cracking the door open. You both stand out in the light, his chest peeking through, showcasing his defined pecs and collarbones. Your zipper exposes your panties, a little bow at the front making him smirk. 

“Your place or mine?”

He doesn’t think much about the answer. 

“Mine.”

His place was closer, he wanted to see you in his clothes and he wanted to make you breakfast in bed the next morning. It was Friday after all. 

…

You barely had a chance to look around his apartment before he picks you up and walks over to the bedroom. He had a nice city view, open, tall windows that allowed you to see the buildings overhead.

It was nice and very modern. A completely different homestead that you imagined for the farm boy. Then again, you think you might have a lot of wrong ideas about him. 

Your back lands on his mattress. The sheets were soft and fluffy, the pillows silky. He takes off his shirt quickly, taking up all of your attention. 

His hand unbuttoned his pants as he watches you squirm in his bed. He crawls over you, a leg kicking off his pants his cock springing forth from his boxers. 

You moan at the sight. He was out of the ordinary. Long, about seven inches, girthy, you don’t think you could touch your fingertips if you wrapped around him and…

You swallow thickly as it slaps against his ripped stomach. His tip spittles and dribbles pre-cum as he jerks it. Your mouth waters. 

Uncut. 

You’ve never felt need like this. So desperate you felt as if you were underwater, a beast inside of you attempting to claw its way out of your chest and latch onto his expansive one. 

He casts a shadow over you, as he crawls closer. Eyes watching you as if you were his prey. 

His hands make quick work of your clothes, leaving you in panties and your bralette. He touches, presses, squeezes all over your body. 

“Have to get you ready.” 

You pause. He kisses your cheek, pecking down your jaw, his hands briefly squeezing your breast. 

“What?” 

You’re not a size queen, by any means. But you’re sure you could take him. Sure you’ve never had anyone as big as him but… 

You could take him. 

You whine from the back of your throat as he kisses down your belly. His palm pressing against your panty covered cunt. Your thighs close around his forearm, back arching at the stimulation. He could feel your clit through the fabric, pulsing, swollen, ready to be touched.

He presses his face against your pussy, licking erratically, wetting the fabric further with his spit. He could smell your cunt, he groans, his cock throbbing. 

He’s always had a thing for wet pussy. Something in his biology got him so hard at the scent, sometimes enough for him to have to go to the restroom and fix it during your dates. When you were ovulating, his cock stiffened, his body reacting to yours without you even trying. 

Your pussy was so sweet, like it was calling to him. His eyes roll to the back of his head as he finally gets a taste. You smother your mouth with the back of your hand as he pulls your panties to the side, tongue laying flat against your folds, nudging against your fat clit. 

It twitches as he sucks. His fingers pressing against your opening, curling upwards and spreading inside of you. Your gummy walls squelch, a wanton moan escapes you as his tongue enters with his fingers, flicking upwards and pressing against the spongy spot right near your hole’s rim. 

His saliva pools on the sides of his mouth, gliding down your folds and between your asscheeks. You stare at the ceiling in complete disbelief.

The sheets were getting soaked, as if he were a slobbering animal, so hungry for your pussy he started to drool. His hips flex against the ends of the mattress, you take off your bra and start to pinch your nipples as he brings you to the cusp of orgasm. 

He sucks your nub as if there were no tomorrow, tongue circling around it quickly, his fingers pressing upwards and applying pressure. 

Your fingers grip his hair tightly as your thighs start to shake. You feel your lungs start to collapse. 

“Clark.” 

He moans, open mouthed, lips shining with your juices. He looked drunk on it, he swallows thickly as he looks at you from his position between your legs. 

“Say it, say my name again.”

Unbelievable heat courses through your body at his slack jawed expression. 

“Fu- “ He starts to lick and suck again, keeping his eyes on you. “Fuck-Clark” 

One long suck brings you to ecstasy. Your body shakes as an uncontrollable squeal escapes your throat. Your thighs lock around his head, his fingers fuck your through your climax, opening you up, spreading. 

He pulls your panties down your legs as he moves up your body, watching as you twitch and pulse, your mouth open as you panted. 

“Where did you learn to do that?” 

He shrugs. He gives you a smile, soft as he runs a hand over his head, waiting for you to calm down. You feel lightheaded, the world blurs for a moment. 

Your hands shake as they lift to cup his cheek, thumb rubbing against his chin, covered in your slick. 

“Let me suck you off, baby.” 

He shakes his head at your request, head flicking down to lick your thumb clean. He hums and closes his eyes. You gasp at the action. So fucking dirty. 

“C’mon,” you whine. He nibbles on your neck, you melt into his soft comforter. He brings both of your calves to his shoulders to have your thighs press on either side of your torso. A mating press. 

He closes his eyes tightly and shivers at the sight of your bare pussy, glistening, your hole gaping and twitching. 

“Tonight’s about you.” 

He kisses you tenderly, slowly as he licks at your bottom lip, willing you to open up for him. 

“All for you,” he murmurs into your mouth. 

He shifts forward, you let him manhandle you, putting you in any position he wanted. You peek between your bodies, he guides his cock to your folds, rubbing his shaft over you, lubing himself up. His balls were heavy, full. 

His tip pushes into your hole, you constrict around it. You throw your head back as the head pops inside of you with a slimy squelch. Your hands tighten into fists. 

“Holy shit,” you breathe out shakily. 

He knew how abnormally large he was. But he loved watching you squirm and whine. He kisses your cheek.

“Relax. I’ll go slow.” 

You nod, leaning your head back, watching as he focuses on controlling himself. His eyes move across your body, watching as goosebumps rise along your skin, smiling lazily at the sight of you so pliant underneath him. 

“Clark-” your words come out garbled, he watches you intensely as your cunt swallows his cock inch by inch. Your hands fist his sheets, your hole twitches and pulses, your walls squeezing so tight it felt as if they were attempting to push him out. 

He shushes you, kissing down your neck and to your breasts, taking one into his mouth and sucking. His thumb circles over your clit, urging you to open up. 

“You're so fucking huge,” you say out of breath, sweat collecting over your furrowed brow. He pushes in another inch, he groans into you and bites your nipple lightly. 

“You can take it.” 

You felt a building pressure in your lower belly, you took deep breaths in. You felt like you were on the verge of overstimulation, your senses surrounded by Clark, his scent, woody and warm, his touch, his mouth, his monster cock. 

You close your eyes and rock into him, moving your hips from your compromised position. Your cunt produces more slick, tinges of pleasure as his cock drags along your walls and makes your mouth open in half moans and half whines. 

He holds your hips in place. 

“Let me take care of you.” 

He straightens up, you could see his upper body, flexing as if willing himself to not push you further than you could handle. Your nipples tighten, pinched and sensitive in the cold air. 

They jiggled with each flex of his hips. 

He looks further down, his eyes focused on your cunt, watching the way it squelched with each press and drag of his cock. You bit your lip to hold in your moans, the headboard starting to rock against the wall loudly. 

He could see himself inside of you, your walls stretching wide and straining. He lightly nudges your cervix, your body locks up. Your eyes well up in tears. 

“So pretty, just a little longer and it’ll feel so good. Already drunk on my cock, uh?”

His voice was deeper than usual, raspy with want. The tremor of his tone digging into your skin and burying into the marrow of your bones. Your brain is turning to mush, lips parted, almost making you drool.

“Yeah- yes.”

He quickens pace, his balls pressing against your ass, the base of his cock kissing your folds. He presses his body weight against you as your slight winces of pain turn to full on moans of mind-numbing pleasure.

Each thrust feels like a punch in the gut, your lungs compressing and releasing your breath all in one go. A good punch, a sexy punch. His head rests besides yours on his pillow, his grunts feral as he erratically ruts into you. 

He grinds against your pelvis, the pleasure shooting through you from your clit, making your body shake. Your words slurred into mumbles, walls so tight around his cock he almost felt as if it could stop him from moving forward entirely. 

Your feet jostle, the backs of your thighs wobbling against his solid chest. 

“Cum for me, baby.” 

He sits up, releasing his hold on your legs and wrapping them around his waist. His palm presses against your lower belly. The pressure mounts again, you close your eyes tightly, but his hand grips your jaw.

“Hey, look at me.” 

He squeezes your cheeks, making your lips squish together, moans escaping you freely. He seemingly gains control over most of your body as he pounds into you. 

You nudge his hand lower, it lands on your throat. He sees you lose it completely. Your hips move to meet his with each movement, he feels his cock brush against your cervix each time, the soft tissue almost pushing him back like a wall made of Jello.

It sends a delightful shiver up your spine each time. Your body throbs, clit pulsing. 

He’s only ever held the throats of bad guys. If that. It felt so aggressive, so demanding. 

This was entirely new for him. He feels his chest tighten at the sight of your utter enjoyment, almost convulsing against his mattress as each flex of his hips presses you further into it. 

He puts the slightest pressure along the sides of your neck, your cunt tightens so much he had to soften his thrusts. He fears he might actually lose control if you continue, but fuck if it didn’t feel good for him too. 

It felt like your insides were being ripped apart, in a good way. You’ve never felt anyone reach so deep inside you, first emotionally and now physically. 

You were on the verge of orgasm, his squeezing in pulses helping you along. He had a gentle hold over your entire body, sturdy and firm but not pushing further. 

The headboard cracks against the walls, his bed creaks.

“C’mon, cum for me.” 

He leans forward, kissing you with all that he has, your wet pussy makes an even wetter mess, each thrust producing gummy sounds to resound around the walls of his bedroom, your juices dripping to the sheets. 

You swore you saw colors across your eyelids as you came. You could feel his hips twitch, body shuddering and mouth stilling against yours as he spilled into you. 

It went on for a few seconds, both of your bodies wrung tight, molded perfectly against each other as you both shook in pulses. 

He came a lot. You could feel the warmth of his seed spew from around his cock, dripping down your abused hole as he pulled out of you. 

His hand smooths over your twitching thighs as he lightly shushes your groans and moans of utter fatigue. 

He licks you up, moving his lips around your folds as if he were making out with them. The overstimulation made you push on his head weakly, but he didn’t move an inch. 

It was like attempting to move a brick wall. You lean back against his pillows as he laps at you, the sounds of his feast making you cover your mouth and bite down your palm.

His hips flexed against the mattress, and he paused to give out a long moan. You turn your head to see him at full mast, cock still slick with his cum and your juices. 

It was a long night.

…

You woke up in a cloud, your body seemingly floating atop a cumulonimbus. You feel deeply satisfied as you laid in Clark’s bed, nuzzling into the sheets and smelling his laundry detergent on them. 

He changed them as you went into his bathroom to freshen up, right before going to sleep. 

Your eyes finally open and you gaze around his room. He had his front-page paper hung up, a framed picture of everyone from the Daily Planet. A picture of you, cut out from who knows where, stuck into the corner of the frame of a candid of his parents, presumably a baby Clark held between them. 

Your heart soared at the detail. 

You hear him in the kitchen, it smelled like bacon, eggs and warming bread. 

The scene was perfect. The sun’s rays were shining in through the wall to ceiling windows, his kitchen was illuminated by the warmth of the sun. He almost glowed from it. 

You pick up your bag, attempting to be as quiet as possible. He pauses as if he could possibly hear you near silent movement for a second but continues. He was quirky you thought, your hands digging through your cam bag to fish out your camera. 

His shoulders and back flex with every movement, his hand stirring the pan full of eggs, you presume, with a spatula. 

You take a picture of him, with your personal digital camera. You feel a giddiness inside of you as you trace his figure in the image, his exposed torso, the sweats low on his hips. 

You narrow your eyes. He looks sort of familiar. The toaster goes off and he picks up the bagel as if it were nothing, holding it in his palm as he coated it with cream cheese. 

You almost want to tell him to drop it on the plate from how long he holds it like that. You wince, he must have tough hands. But they didn’t feel that calloused.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks without turning. 

You swallow thickly, you could feel the bruises left on your hips, he held onto you fiercely throughout the night. Your back was covered in love bites, breasts too. 

You slept like a baby. 

“Good. You?” 

He turns, food plated. He smiles widely as he makes his way to you.

“Great.” 

Your stare makes him almost miss his step, you pull the sheets over your chest as you sit up. He bites his lip and swallows thickly at the sight of you. 

You were gorgeous, he could see darkened spots over your body, his work. 

You look through the camera roll in your digi cam, ignoring him as he places breakfast beside your legs. He sits next to you, peering over your shoulder. 

You glance between him and the picture you have in your tiny screen. It was Superman, grinning widely, after he saved a girl’s cat stuck in a tree. He had waved at you, pointing to your camera and posing. 

Clark didn’t have his glasses on. You look up at him with wide eyes, mouth parting in shock. Same dark hair, same broad shoulders and chest, same goddamn smile. 

Clark hears blood rush through your veins quickly, your heart beating like a hummingbird’s. He gives you an almost pleading look as you stutter. 

He says your name softly; you slap a hand over your face exasperatedly. How could you have not noticed? You curse under your breath as you cross your arms. 

“Don’t-“ Clark attempts. 

You narrow your eyes. He says your name again, this time in a light warning, pointing a finger at you. Clark Kent who wouldn’t hurt a fly and would actually go through hell and back to save it. 

He makes sounds as you attempt to speak, interrupting you each time. You blurt it out quickly, leaving the room in stilling silence. 

“You’re Superman.”

---------------------

David Corenswet’s voice is sexy and Superman has been freaky and horny since 1978. This is inspired more on the Lois and Clark dynamic from the 80s movies. Like wdym Lois’ underwear is pink, Clark???? Also, I will fight back against any babying of this man! 

Requests open! Plesss give me Clark Kent ideas plesssss

Shutterbug Masterlist

-

The office after midnight doesn’t feel like the same building. The lights buzz quieter. The chairs stop squeaking. There’s an eerie sort of calm that settles once the rush hour of deadlines has passed and only the ghosts and last-minute layout edits remain.

Clark is two desks away, sleeves rolled up, tie finally abandoned and flung haphazardly over the back of his chair. He’s squinting at the screen like he’s trying to will the copy into formatting itself.

You’re just as tired—though slightly less heroic-looking about it. Somewhere behind you, the printer groans. A rogue page slides off the tray and flutters to the floor like it’s giving up on life.

Clark gets up to grab it before you can.

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” you say as he crouches to retrieve it. “Or fall asleep with your face on the carpet and get stuck there forever.”

He offers a smile, crooked and half-asleep. “I’ve survived worse. Once fell asleep in a compost pile back in high school.”

You pause. “Why?”

“There was a dare,” he says, deadpan. “And a cow. The rest is classified, sweetheart.”

You snort before you can stop it.

It’s late. You’re punchy. The kind of tired that makes everything a little funnier, a little looser around the edges. He sits back down, stretching long limbs with a groan, and you let the quiet settle again.

“You know Clark, sometimes I feel invisible here.” You don’t mean to say it. It just slips out, quiet and rough from somewhere behind your ribcage. 

Clark looks up instantly.

You keep staring at your screen. “It’s all bylines and deadlines, and then the story prints and nobody remembers who wrote it. Doesn’t matter if it’s good or not. No one sees you.” You tap the corner of your spacebar absently. “Feels like yelling into a tunnel most days.”

You expect him to say something vague. Supportive. A standard “no, you’re great!” brush-off. But when you finally glance over, Clark is staring at you with his brow furrowed like someone just insulted his mom.

“That’s ridiculous,” he mutters. “You’re one of the most important voices in the room.”

The words are firm. Not flustered. Not dorky. Certain. It disarms you a little.

You blink. “Clark—”

“No. I mean it, sweetheart," he says, almost stubborn. “You make people care. Even when they don’t want to. That’s rare.”

He looks down at his coffee like maybe it betrayed him by going cold too fast. You don’t say anything. But that ache in your chest eases, just a little.

-

The next morning, you’re halfway through your walk to work when you find it.

Tucked into the side pocket of your coat—the one you only use for receipts and empty gum wrappers. Folded carefully. Familiar ink.

“Even whispers echo when they’re true.”

You stop walking. Stand there frozen on the corner outside a coffee shop as cars blur past and someone curses at a cab a few feet away. You read the note twice, then a third time.

It’s simple. No flourish. No name. Just words—quiet, certain, and meant for you.

You don’t know why it lands the way it does. Maybe because it doesn’t try to dismiss how you feel. It just… reframes it. You may feel invisible, small, unheard—but this person is saying: that doesn’t make your truth meaningless. You matter, even if it feels like no one’s listening.

You fold the note gently, like it might tear. You don’t tuck this one into your notebook. You keep it in your coat pocket. All day.

Like armor.

-

By midafternoon, the bullpen’s usual noise has shapeshifted into something louder—one of those half-serious, half-combative newsroom debates that always starts in one cubicle and ends up consuming half the floor.

This time, it’s the great Superman Property Damage Discourse, sparked—unsurprisingly—by Lois Lane slapping a freshly printed article onto her desk like it insulted her directly.

“He destroyed the entire north side of the building,” she says, exasperated, as if she’s already had this argument with the universe and lost.

You don’t look up right away. You’re knee-deep in notes for your community housing series and trying to keep your lunch from leaking onto your desk. But the words still hit.

“To stop a tanker explosion,” you point out without much heat, eyes still scanning your page. “There were twenty-seven people inside.”

“My point,” Lois says, crossing her arms, “is that someone has to pay for all that glass.”

“Pretty sure it’s the insurance companies,” you mutter.

Lois raises a brow at you, but doesn’t push it. She’s used to you playing devil’s advocate—usually it’s just for fun. She doesn’t know this one’s starting to feel a little personal.

And then Clark walks in. He’s balancing two coffee cups and what looks like a roll of blueprints tucked under one arm, sleeves rolled up and tie already loose like the day’s been longer than it should’ve been. His hair’s a mess, wind-tousled and curling near the back of his neck, and he’s got that familiar expression on—half-focused, half-apologetic, like he’s perpetually arriving a few seconds after he meant to.

He slows as he approaches, catches the tail end of Lois’s rant, and hesitates. Just a second. Just long enough for something behind his glasses to tighten. Then, without warning or warm-up, he steps in like a man walking into traffic.

“He’s doing his best, okay?” he blurts. “He can’t help the building fell—there was a fireball.”

The bullpen quiets a beat. Just enough for the words to settle and sting. Lois doesn’t even look up from her monitor. “You sound like a fanboy.”

“I just—” Clark huffs. “He’s trying to protect people. That’s not… easy.”

He lifts his hand to gesture, but his elbow clips the corner of his desk and sends his coffee tipping. The paper cup wobbles, then crashes onto the floor in a slosh of brown across your loose notes.

“Clark!” You shove back in your chair, startled.

“Sorry—sorry—hang on—” He lunges for a stack of printer paper, overcorrects, and knocks over another folder in the process. Its contents scatter like leaves in the wind. He flails to grab what he can, muttering apologies the whole time.

The tension breaks—not because of what he said, but because of the way he said it. Because he’s suddenly in a mess of his own making, trying to mop it up with a handful of flyers and an empty paper towel roll, red-faced and flustered. 

You can’t help it. You smile. Just a little.

Lois glances sideways at the scene, then turns to you, tone dry as dust. “Well. He’s… passionate.”

You arch a brow. “That’s one word for it.”

She doesn’t notice the way your eyes linger on him. She doesn’t see the shift in your chest when you watch him drop to one knee, scooping up wet files with shaking hands, his jaw tight—not from embarrassment, but from something quieter. Fiercer.

Because Clark hadn’t just jumped to Superman’s defense.

He’d meant it.

Like someone who knows what it feels like to try and still fall short. Like someone who’s carried the weight of people’s expectations. Like someone who’s watched something burn and had to live with the cost of saving it.

You know it’s ridiculous. You know it’s a stretch. But still… your breath catches.

He steadies the last folder against his desk, rubs the back of his neck, and looks up—right at you. Your eyes meet for a second too long.

You offer him a look that says it’s okay. He returns one that says thanks. And then the moment passes. You turn back to your screen, heart pounding for reasons you won’t name. And Clark returns to quietly drying his desk with a half-crumpled press release.

You don’t say anything. But you’re not watching him by accident anymore.

-

You’ve read the latest note a dozen times.

“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”

There’s no flourish. No compliment. Just rawness, stripped of any careful metaphor or charm. It’s still anonymous, but the voice… it feels closer now. Less like a mystery, more like someone standing just out of sight.

Someone with hands that tremble when they pass you a coffee. Someone who knows how your voice sounds when you’re frustrated. Someone who once told you, very softly, that your words matter.

You start thinking about Clark again. And once the thought roots, it’s impossible to pull it free.

-

You test him. It’s petty, maybe. Pointless, probably. But you do it anyway. That afternoon, you’re both holed up near the copy desk, reviewing your latest layout. Clark’s seated beside you, sleeves pushed up, his pen tapping lightly against the margin of your column draft. His knee keeps bumping yours under the desk, and every time, he apologizes with a shy smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes.

You’re running on too little sleep and too many thoughts. So you try it. “You ever hear that phrase? ‘Even whispers echo when they’re true’?”

He looks up from the page. Blinks behind his smudged glasses. “Uh… sure. I mean, not in everyday conversation, but yeah. Sounds poetic.”

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “I read it recently,” you say, like you’re thinking aloud. “Can’t stop turning it over. I don’t know—it stuck with me.”

He stares at you for a beat too long. Then clears his throat and drops his gaze, pen suddenly very busy again. “Yeah. It’s… it’s a good line.”

“You don’t think it’s a little dramatic?”

“No,” he says too quickly. “I mean—it’s true. Sometimes the quietest things are the ones worth listening to.”

You nod, pretending to go back to your edits. But his pen taps a little faster. The corner of his mouth twitches. He’s trying to look neutral, maybe even confused. But Clark Kent couldn’t lie his way out of a grocery list.

And if he did write it, that means he knows you’re testing him.

You don’t call him on it.

Not yet.

-

Later that evening, he helps you file your story. Technically, Clark’s already done for the day—he could’ve clocked out an hour ago, could’ve gone home and slipped into his flannel pajamas and vanished into whatever quiet life he keeps outside these walls. But instead, he lingers.

His jacket is folded neatly over the back of your chair, sleeves still warm from his arms. His glasses sit low on his nose, catching the screen’s glow, one smudge blooming near the top corner where he’s pushed them up too many times with the side of his thumb.

He leans over the desk beside you, one palm braced flat against the surface, the other gently scrolling through your draft. His frame takes up too much space in that warm, grounding way—shoulder brushing yours occasionally, breath warm at your temple when he leans in to squint at a sentence.

You’re quiet, but not for lack of things to say. It’s the way he’s reading—carefully, like every word deserves to be held. There’s no red pen. No quick fixes. Just soft soundless reverence, like your work is already whole and he’s just lucky to witness it.

And his hands.

God, his hands.

You try not to look, but they’re impossible to ignore. Big and capable, yes, but gentle in the way he uses them—fingers skimming the edge of the printout like the paper might bruise, thumb stroking over the corner where the page curls, slow and absentminded. The pads of his fingers are slightly ink-stained, callused just at the tips. He smells faintly like cheap soap and newsroom toner and something you can’t name but have already begun to crave.

You wonder—just for a moment—what it would be like to feel those hands touch you with purpose instead of hesitation. Without the paper buffer. Without the quiet restraint.

He leans a little closer. You can feel the press of his shirt sleeve against your arm now, soft cotton against skin. “Looks perfect to me,” he murmurs.

It’s not the words. It’s the way he says them—like he’s not just talking about the story. You swallow, pulse jumping. You wonder if he hears it. You wonder if he feels it.

His eyes flick to yours for just a second. Something hangs in the air—fragile, charged. Then the phone rings down the hall, and the spell breaks like steam off hot glass. He steps back. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for three paragraphs.

You don’t look at him as he grabs his jacket. You just nod and whisper, “Thanks.”

And he just smiles—soft and private, like a secret passed from his mouth to your chest.

-

You don’t go home right away. You sit at your desk long after Clark and the rest of the bullpen has emptied out, coat draped over your shoulders like a blanket, fingers toying with the folded edge of the note in your lap.

“Sometimes I wish I could just be honest with you. But I can’t—not yet.”

You’ve read it enough times to have it memorized. Still, your eyes trace the handwriting again—careful lettering, no signature, just that quiet ache bleeding between the lines.

It’s the first one that feels more than just flirtation. This one hurts a little. So you do something you haven’t done before.

You pull a post-it from the stack beside your monitor, scribble down one sentence—no flourish, no punctuation.

“Then tell me in person.” 

You slide it beneath your stapler before you leave. A deliberate offering. You don’t know how he’s been getting the others to you—if it’s during your lunch break or when you’re in the print room or bent over in the archives. But somehow, he knows.

So this time, you let him find something waiting.

And when you finally shrug on your coat and step into the elevator, the empty quiet of the newsroom echoes behind you like a held breath.

-

The next morning, there’s no reply. Not on your desk. Not slipped into your coat pocket. Not scribbled in the margin of your planner or tucked beneath your coffee cup. Just silence.

You try not to feel disappointed. You try not to spiral. Maybe he’s waiting. Maybe he’s scared. Maybe you’re wrong and it’s not who you think. But your chest feels hollow all the same—like something almost happened and didn’t.

So that night, you write again. Your hands shake more than they should for something so simple. A sticky note. A few words. But this one names it.

“One chance. One sunset. Centennial Park. Bench by the lion statue. Tomorrow.”

You stare at the words a long time before setting it down. This one’s not a joke. Not a dare. Not a flirtation scribbled in passing. This is an invitation. A door left open.

You slide it under your stapler the same way you’ve received every one of his notes—unassuming, tucked in plain sight. If he wants to find it, he will. You’ve stopped questioning how he does it. Maybe it’s timing. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s something else entirely.

But you know he’ll see it.

You pack up slowly. Shoulders tight. Bag heavier than usual. The newsroom is quiet at this hour—just the low hum of the overhead fluorescents and the soft, endless churn of printers in the back. You turn off your monitor, loop your coat over your arm, and make your way to the elevator.

Halfway there, something makes you stop. You glance back. Clark is still at his desk.

You hadn’t heard him return. You hadn’t even noticed the light at his station flick back on. But there he is—elbows on the desk, hands folded in front of him, eyes already lifted.

Watching you.

His face is unreadable, but his gaze lingers longer than it should. Soft. Searching. Almost caught. You feel the air shift. Not a word is exchanged. Just that one look.

Then the elevator dings. You turn away before you can lose your nerve.

And Clark? He doesn’t look down. Not until the doors slide shut in front of your face.

-

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. You tell yourself it was probably nothing. A game. A passing flirtation. Maybe Jimmy, playing an elaborate prank he’ll one day claim was performance art.

But still—you dress carefully.

You pull out that one sweater that always makes you feel like the best version of yourself, and you smooth your collar twice before you leave. You wear lip balm that smells faintly like vanilla and leave the office ten minutes early just in case traffic is worse than expected. Just in case he’s early.

You get there first. The bench is colder than you remember. Stone weathered and a little damp from last night’s rain. Your coffee steams in your hands, and for a while, that’s enough to keep you warm.

The sky begins to soften around the edges. First blush pink, then golden orange, then the faintest sweep of violet, like a bruise blooming across the clouds. You watch the city skyline fade into silhouettes. The sun drips lower behind the glass towers, catching the river in a moment of molten reflection. It’s beautiful.

It’s also empty.

You wait. A couple strolls past, fingers laced, talking softly like they’ve been in love for years. A jogger nods as they pass, earbuds in, a scruffy golden retriever trotting faithfully beside them. The dog looks up at you like it knows something—like it sees something.

The wind kicks up. You pull your coat tighter. You tell yourself to give it five more minutes. Then five more.

And then—

Nothing. No footsteps. No note. No him.

Your coffee goes cold between your palms. The stone starts to seep into your bones. And somewhere deep in your chest, something you hadn’t even dared name… wilts.

Eventually, you stand. Walk home with your coat buttoned all the way up, even though it’s not that cold. You don’t cry.

You just go quiet.

-

The next morning, the bullpen hums with the usual Monday static. Phones ringing. Keys clacking. Perry’s voice barking something about a missed quote from the sanitation board. Jimmy’s camera shutter clicking in staccato bursts behind you. The Daily Planet in full swing—ordinary chaos wrapped in coffee breath and fluorescent lighting.

You move through it on autopilot. Your smile is small, tight around the edges. You’ve become a master of folding disappointment into your posture—chin lifted, eyes clear, mouth curved just enough to seem fine.

“Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” You drop your bag beside your desk, shuffle through the morning copy logs, and say it lightly. Offhand. Like a joke. “Should’ve known better.” You make sure your voice carries just far enough. Not loud, but not a whisper. Casual. A throwaway comment designed to sound unaffected. And then you laugh. It’s short. Hollow. It dies in your throat before it even fully escapes.

Lois glances up from her monitor, eyes narrowing faintly behind dark lashes. She doesn’t laugh with you. She doesn’t smile. She just watches you for a beat too long. Not with judgment. Not even pity. Just… knowing. But she says nothing. And neither do you.

What you don’t see is the hallway—just twenty feet away—where Clark Kent stands frozen in place. He’d just walked in—late, coat slung over one arm, takeout coffee in the other. He had stopped just inside the threshold to adjust his glasses. He’d meant to offer you a second coffee, the one he bought on impulse after circling the block too many times.

And then he heard it. Your voice. “Guess the secret admirer thing was just a prank after all.” And then your laugh. That awful, paper-thin laugh.

He goes still. Like someone pulled the oxygen from the room. His hand tightens around the coffee cup until the lid creaks. The other arm drops slack at his side, coat nearly slipping from his grasp. His jaw tenses. Shoulders stiffen beneath his white button-down, and for one awful second, he forgets how to breathe.

Because you sound like someone trying not to care. And it cuts deeper than he expects. Because he’d meant to come. Because he tried. Because he was so close.

But none of that matters now. All you know is that he didn’t show up. And now you think the whole thing was a joke. A stupid, secret game. His game. And he can’t even explain—not without tearing everything open.

He stares down the corridor, eyes fixed on the edge of your desk, on the shape of your shoulders turned slightly away. He watches as you pick up your coffee and blow gently across the lid like it might chase the bitterness from your chest.

You don’t turn around. You don’t see the way he stands there—gutted, unmoving, undone. The cup trembles in his hand. He turns away before it spills.

-

That night, you go back to the office. You tell yourself it’s for the deadline. A follow-up piece on the housing committee. Edits on the west-side zoning profile. Anything to fill the time between sunset and sleep—because if you sleep, you’ll just dream of that bench.

The newsroom is quiet now. All overhead lights dimmed except for the halo of your desk lamp and the soft thrum of a copy machine left cycling in the corner.

You drop your bag with a sigh. Stretch your shoulders. Slide your desk drawer open without thinking. And find it. A note. No envelope. No tape. No ceremony. Just a single sheet of cream stationery folded in thirds. Familiar handwriting. Neat loops. Unshaking.

You unfold it slowly.

“I’m sorry. I wanted to be there. I can’t explain why I couldn’t— But it wasn’t a joke. It was never a joke. Please believe that.”

The words hit like a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Then they blur.  You read it again. Then again. But the ache in your chest doesn’t settle. Because how do you believe someone who won’t show their face? How do you believe someone who keeps slipping between your fingers?

You hold the note to your chest. Close your eyes. You want to believe him. God, you want to. But you don’t know how anymore.

-

What you couldn’t know is this: Clark Kent was already running. He’d been on his way—coat flapping behind him, tie unspooling in the wind, breath fogging as he dashed through traffic, one hand wrapped tight around a note he planned to deliver in person for the first time. He’d rehearsed it. Practiced what he’d say. Built up to it with every beat of a terrified heart.

He saw the park lights up ahead. Saw the lion statue. Saw the shape of a figure sitting alone on that bench.

And then the air split open. The sky went green. A fifth-dimensional imp—not even from this universe—tore through Metropolis like a child flipping pages in a pop-up book. Reality folded. Buildings bent sideways. Streetlamps started singing jazz standards.

Clark barely had time to take a deep breath before he vanished into smoke and flame, spinning upward in a blur of red and blue. Somewhere across town, Superman joined Guy Gardner, Hawk Girl, Mr. Terrific, and Metamorpho in trying to contain the chaos before the city unmade itself entirely. 

He never got the chance to reach the bench. He never got the chance to say anything. The note stayed in his pocket until it was soaked with rain and streaked with ash. Until it was too late.

-

It’s supposed to be routine. You’re only there to cover a zoning dispute. A boring, mid-week council press event that’s been rescheduled three times already. The air is heavy with heat and bureaucracy. You and your photographer barely make it past the front barricades before the scene spirals into chaos.

First it’s the downed power lines—sparking in rapid bursts as something hits the utility pole two blocks down. Then a car screeches over the median. Then someone starts screaming.

You’re still trying to piece it together when the crowd surges—someone shouts about a gun. People scatter. A window shatters across the street. A chunk of concrete falls from the sky like a thrown brick.

Your feet move before your brain catches up. You hit the pavement just as something explodes behind you. A jolt rings through your bones, sharp and high and metallic. Dust clouds the air. There’s shouting, then screaming, and your ears go fuzzy for one split second.

And then he lands.

Superman.

Cape whipping behind him like it’s caught in its own storm, boots cracking against the sidewalk as he drops down between the wreckage and the people still trying to flee. He moves like nothing you’ve ever seen.

Not just fast—but impossible. His body a blur of motion, heat, and purpose. He rips a crumpled lamppost off a trapped woman like it weighs nothing. Hurls it aside and crouches low beside her, voice firm but gentle as he checks her pulse, her leg, her name.

You’re frozen where you crouch, half behind a parking meter, hand pressed to your chest like it can keep your heart from tearing loose.

And then be turns. Looks straight at you. His expression shifts. Just for a moment. Just for you. He steps forward, dust streaking his suit, eyes dark with something you don’t have time to name. He reaches you in three strides, body angled between you and the chaos, hand raised in warning before you can speak.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”

Your stomach drops. Not at the danger. Not at the sound of buildings groaning in the distance or the flash of gunmetal tucked into a stranger’s hand.

It’s him. That word. That voice. The exact way of saying it—like it’s muscle memory. Like he’s said it a thousand times before.

Like Clark says it.

It stuns you more than the explosion did.

You blink up at him, speechless, heart stuttering behind your ribs as he holds your gaze just a second longer than he should. His brow furrows. Then he’s gone—into the fray, into the fire, into the part of the story where your pen can’t follow.

You don’t remember standing. You don’t remember how you get back to the press line, only that your legs shake and your palms burn and every time you try to replay what just happened, your brain gets stuck on one word.

Sweetheart.

You’ve heard it before—dozens of times. Always soft. Always accidental. Always from behind thick glasses and a crooked tie and a mouth still chewing the edge of a muffin while he scrolls through zoning reports.

Clark says it when he forgets you’re not his to claim. Clark says it when you’re both the last ones in the office and he thinks you’re asleep at your desk. Clark says it like a secret. Like a slip.

And Superman just said it exactly the same way. Same tone. Same warmth. Same quiet ache beneath it.

But that’s not possible. Because Superman is—Superman. Bold. Dazzling. Fire-forged. He walks like he owns the sky. He speaks like a storm made flesh. He radiates power and perfection.

And Clark? Clark is all flannel and stammering jokes and soft eyes behind big frames. He’s gentle. A little clumsy. His swagger is borrowed from farm porches and storybooks. He’s sweet in a way Superman couldn’t possibly be.

Couldn’t… Right? You chalk it up to coincidence. You have to.

…Sort of.

-

You don’t sleep well the night after the incident. You keep replaying it—frame by impossible frame. The gunshot, the smoke, the sky splitting in half. The crack of his landing, the rush of wind off his cape. The weight of his body between you and danger. And then that voice.

“Stay here, sweetheart. Please.”

You flinch every time it echoes in your head. Every time your brain folds it over the countless memories you have of Clark saying it in passing, like it was nothing. Like it meant nothing.

But it means something now.

You come into the office the next day wired and quiet, adrenaline still burning faintly at the edges of your skin. You aren’t sure what to say, or to whom, so you say nothing. You stare too long at your coffee. You snap at a printer jam. You forget your lunch in the breakroom fridge.

Clark notices. He hovers by your desk that morning, a second coffee in hand—one of those specialty orders from that corner place he knows you like but always pretends he doesn’t remember.

“Rough day?” he asks gently. His tone is careful. Soft. As if you’re a glass already rattling on the edge of the shelf.

You don’t look up. “It’s fine.”

He hesitates. Then sets the coffee down beside your elbow, just far enough that you have to choose whether or not to reach for it. “I heard about the power line thing,” he adds. “You okay?”

“I said I’m fine, Clark.”

A beat.

You hate the way his face flickers at that—hurt, barely masked. He pushes his glasses up and nods like he deserves it. Like he’s been expecting it. He doesn’t press. He just walks away.

-

You find yourself whispering to Lois over takeout later that afternoon—half a conversation muttered between bites of noodles and the hum of flickering overheads.

“He called me sweetheart.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Clark?”

“No. Superman.”

Her chewing slows.

You keep your eyes on the edge of your desk. “That’s… weird, right?”

Lois makes a sound—somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “He’s a superhero. They charm every pretty girl they pull out of a burning building.”

You poke at your noodles. “Still. It felt…”

“Weird?” she teases again, nudging her knee against yours.

You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like it hasn’t been clawing at the back of your brain for three days straight. Lois doesn’t press. Just watches you for a second longer than necessary. Then she moves on, launching into a tirade about Perry’s passive-aggressive post-it notes and the fact that someone keeps stealing her pens.

But the damage is already done. Because you start thinking maybe you’ve just been projecting. Maybe you want your secret admirer to be Clark so badly that your brain’s rewriting reality—latching onto any voice, any phrase, any fleeting resemblance and assigning it meaning.

Sweetheart.

It’s a common word. It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe Superman says it to everyone. Maybe he has a whole roster of soft pet names for dazed civilians. Maybe you’re the delusional one—sitting here wondering if your awkward, sweet, left-footed coworker moonlights as a god.

The idea is so absurd it actually makes you laugh. Quietly. Bitterly. Right into your carton of lo mein. You tell yourself to let it go. But you don’t.

You can’t. Because somewhere deep down, it doesn’t feel absurd at all. It feels… close. Like you’re brushing against the edge of something true. And if you get just a little closer—

You might fall right through it.

-

Clark pulls back after that. Subtly. Slowly. Like he’s dimming himself on purpose. He’s still there—still kind, still thoughtful, still Clark. But the rhythm changes.

The coffees stop appearing on your desk each morning. No more sticky notes with half-legible puns or awkward smiley faces. No more jokes under his breath during staff meetings. No more warm glances across the bullpen when you’re stuck late and your screen is giving you a headache.

His chair now sits just a little farther from yours in the layout room. Not enough to be obvious. Just enough to feel. You notice it the way you notice when the air shifts before a storm. Quiet. Inevitable.

Even his messages change. Once, his texts used to come with too many exclamation marks and a tendency to type out haha when he was nervous. Now they’re brief. Punctuated. Polite.

“Got your quote. Sending now.” “Perry said we’re cleared for page A3.” “Hope your meeting went okay.”

You reread them more than you should. Not because of what they say—but because of what they don’t. It feels like being ghosted by someone who still waves to you across the room.

You try to talk yourself down. Maybe he’s just busy. Maybe he’s stressed. Maybe you’ve been projecting. Maybe it’s not your admirer’s handwriting that matches his. Maybe it’s not his voice that slipped out of Superman’s mouth like a secret.

Maybe, maybe, maybe.

But the space he used to fill next to you… feels like a light that’s been quietly turned off. And you are the one still blinking against the dark.

And yet, one afternoon, someone in the bullpen makes a snide remark about your latest piece. You don’t even catch the beginning—just the tail end of it, lazy and smug.

“—basically just fluff, right? She’s been coasting lately.”

You’re about to ignore it. You’re tired. Too tired. And what’s the point in arguing with someone who thinks nuance is a liability?

But then—Clark speaks. Not from beside you, but from across the room. You’re not even sure how he could have possibly heard the guy talking across all the hustle and bustle of the bullpen. But his voice cuts through the noise like someone snapping a ruler against a desk.

“I just think her work actually matters, okay?”

Silence follows. Not because of the volume—he wasn’t loud. Just certain. Unflinching. Like he’d been holding it in. The words hang in the air, charged and too real.

Clark looks immediately horrified with himself. He goes red. Not a faint flush—crimson. Mouth parting like he wants to take it back but doesn’t know how. He tries to recover, to smooth it over—but nothing comes. Just a flustered shake of his head and a noise that might’ve been his name.

The other reporter stares. “…Okay, man. Chill.”

Clark mumbles something about grabbing a file from archives and practically stumbles for the hallway, papers clenched awkwardly in one hand like a shield.

You don’t follow. You just… sit there. Staring at the space he left behind. Because that moment—those words—it wasn’t just instinct. It wasn’t just kindness. It was him.

The way he said it. The emotion in it. The rhythm of it. It felt like the notes. Like the quiet encouragements tucked into the margins of your day. Like someone watching, quietly, gently, hoping you’ll see yourself the way they do.

You think about the phrases he’s used before.

“The line you cut in paragraph six was my favorite. About hope not being the same thing as naivety.” “Even whispers echo when they’re true.”

And now:

“Her work actually matters.”

All said like they were true, not convenient. All said like they were about you.

You start to notice more after that. The way Clark compliments your writing—always specific. Never lazy. The way his eyes crinkle when he’s proud of something you said, even when he doesn’t speak up. The way he turns the thermostat up exactly two degrees every time you bring your sweater into work. The way he walks a half-step behind you when you both leave late at night.

It’s not a confession. Not yet. But it’s a pattern. And once you start seeing it—

You can’t stop.

-

It’s a quiet afternoon in the bullpen. The kind where the overhead lights hum just loud enough to notice and everything smells like stale coffee and highlighter ink.

Clark’s sprawled in front of his monitor, sleeves rolled to his elbows, brow furrowed with the kind of intensity he usually saves for city zoning laws and double-checked citations. You’re helping him sort through quotes—most of which came from a reluctant press secretary and one very talkative dog walker who may or may not be a credible witness.

“Can you check the time stamp on the third transcript?” he asks, not looking up from his notes. “I think I messed it up when I formatted.”

You nod, flipping through the stack of papers he passed you earlier.  That’s when you see it. Folded beneath the top printout, half-tucked into the margin of a city planning spreadsheet, is a different kind of note. A loose sheet, scribbled across in black ink. Not typed—written. Slanted lines. A few false starts crossed out.

At first, you think it’s a headline draft. A brainstorm. But the longer you stare, the more it reads like… something else.

“The city is loud today. Not just noise, but motion. Memory. The way people hum when they think no one’s listening.” “I can’t stop watching her move through it like she belongs to it. Like it belongs to her.”

You freeze. Your eyes track down the page slowly, like touching something sacred.

The letters are familiar. The lowercase y curls the same way as the one on your very first note—the one that came with your coffee. The ink is the same soft black, slightly smudged in the corners, like whoever wrote it holds the pen too tight when they’re thinking. The paper is the same notepad stock he’s used before. The same faint red line down the margin.

You don’t mean to do it, but your fingers curl around the page. Your chest goes tight. Because it’s not just similar.

It’s exact.

You hear him coming before you see him—those long, careful strides and the faint jangle of the lanyard he keeps forgetting to take off.

You tuck the paper into your notebook. Quick. Smooth. Automatic.

“Hey, sorry,” he says, rounding the corner with two mugs of tea and a slightly sheepish smile. “Printer’s jammed again. I may have made it worse.”

You nod. Too fast. You can’t quite make your voice work yet. Clark hands you your tea—just the way you like it, no comment—and sits across from you like nothing’s wrong. Like your whole world hasn’t tilted six degrees to the left.

He launches into a ramble about column widths and quote placement, about whether a serif font looks more “established” than sans serif.

You don’t hear a word of it. You just… watch him. The way he gestures too big with his hands. The way his glasses slip down his nose mid-sentence and he doesn’t bother to fix them until they’re practically falling off. The way his voice drops a little when he’s thinking hard—low and warm and utterly unselfconscious.

He has no idea you know. No idea what you just found.

You murmur something about needing to catch a meeting and excuse yourself early. He nods. Worries at his bottom lip like he’s debating whether to walk you out. Decides against it.

“Thanks for the help,” he says quietly, as you shoulder your bag. “Seriously. I couldn’t’ve done this draft without you.”

You give him a look you don’t quite know how to name. Something between thank you and I see you. 

Then you go.

-

That night, you sit on your bedroom floor with the drawer open. Every note. Every folded scrap. Every secret tucked under your stapler or slid into your sleeve or left beside your coffee cup. You line them up in rows. You flatten them with careful hands. And you compare. One by one.

The loops. The lines. The uneven spacing. The curl of the r. The hush in every sentence, like he was writing them with his heart too close to the surface. 

There’s no room for doubt anymore. It’s him. It’s been him this whole time.

Clark Kent.

And somehow—somehow—he’s still never said your name aloud when he writes about you. Not once. But every letter reads like a whisper of it. Like a promise waiting to be spoken.

-

The office is quiet by the time you find the nerve.

Desks are abandoned, chairs turned at angles, the windows dark with city glow. Outside, Metropolis hums in its usual low thrum—sirens and neon and distant jazz from a rooftop bar—but here, in the bullpen, it’s just the steady tick of the wall clock and the slow, careful steps you take toward his desk.

Clark doesn’t hear you at first. He’s bent over a red pen and a half-finished draft, glasses low on his nose, the curve of his back hunched the way it always is when he’s lost in edits. His tie is loosened. His sleeves are pushed up. There’s a smear of ink on his thumb. He looks soft in the way people do when they think no one’s watching. 

You speak before you lose your nerve. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Clark startles. Not dramatically—just a sharp breath and a too-quick motion to sit upright, like a kid caught doodling in the margins. “I—what?”

You don’t let your voice shake. “That it was you. The notes. The park. All of it.”

He stares at you. Then down at his desk. Then back again. His mouth opens like it wants to offer a lie, but nothing comes out. Just silence. His fingers twitch toward the edge of the desk and stop there, curling into his palm.

“I—” he tries again, softer now, “—I didn’t think you knew.”

“I didn’t.” Your voice is gentle. But not easy. “Not at first. Not really. But then I saw that list on your desk and… I went home and checked the handwriting.”

He winces. “I knew I left that out somewhere.”

You cross your arms, not out of anger—more like self-protection. “You could’ve told me. At any point. I asked you.”

“I know.” He swallows hard. “I know. I wanted to. I… tried.”

You watch him. Wait. 

And then he says it. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just the truth, raw and shaky and so Clark it nearly breaks you. “Because if I told you it was me… you might look at me different. Or worse… The same.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Not right away. Your heart clenches. Because it’s so him—to assume your affection could only live in the mystery. That the truth of him—soft, clumsy, brilliant, real—would somehow undo the magic.

“Clark…” you start, but your voice slips.

He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m just the guy who spills coffee on his own notes and forgets to refill the paper tray. You’re… you. You write like you’re on fire. You walk into a room and it listens. I didn’t think someone like you would ever want someone like me.”

You stare at him. Really stare. At the flushed cheeks. The nervous hands. The boyish smile he’s trying to bury under self-deprecation. And then you say it. “I saved every note.”

He blinks.

You keep going. “I read them when I felt invisible. When I thought no one gave a damn what I was doing here. They mattered.”

Clark’s breath catches. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. He takes a slow step forward, tentative. Like he’s afraid to break the spell. His eyes search yours, and for a moment—for a second so still it might as well last an hour—he leans in. Not close enough to kiss you. But almost. His hand brushes yours. He stops. The air is heavy between you, buzzing with something fragile and enormous. But it isn’t enough. Not yet.

You draw in a breath, quiet but steady. “Why didn’t you meet me?”

Clark goes still. You can see it happen—the way the question lands. The way he folds in on himself just slightly, like the truth is too heavy to hold upright.

“I…” He tries, but the word doesn’t land. His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to the floor, then back up. He wants to tell you. He almost does. But he can’t. Not without unraveling everything. Not without unraveling himself.

“I wanted to,” he says finally, voice rough at the edges. “More than anything.”

“But?” you press, gently.

He just looks at you and says nothing. You nod, slowly. The silence says enough. Your chest aches—not in a sharp, bitter way. In the dull, familiar way of something you already suspected being confirmed.

You glance down at where your hand still brushes his, then look back at him—really look. “I wish you’d told me,” you whisper. “I sat there thinking it was a joke. That I made it all up. That I was stupid for believing in any of it.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “And I’m sorry.”

Your throat tightens. You swallow past it. “I just… I need time. To process. To think.”

Clark’s eyes flicker—hope and heartbreak, all tangled up in one look. “Of course,” he says immediately. “Take whatever you need. I mean it.”

A beat passes before you say the part that makes his breath catch. “I’m happy it was you.”

He freezes.

You offer the smallest smile. “I wanted it to be you.”

And for the first time in minutes, something in his shoulders unknots. There’s a shift. Gentle. Quiet. His hand lingers near yours again, knuckles brushing. He doesn’t lean in. Doesn’t push.

But God, he wants to. And maybe… maybe you do too. The moment stretches, unspoken and warm and not quite ready to be anything more.

You both stay like that—close, not touching. Breathing the same charged air. Then he laughs under his breath. Nervous. Boyish.

“I’m probably gonna trip over something the second you walk away.”

You smile back. “Just recalibrate your ankles.”

He huffs out a laugh, head ducking. “I deserved that.”

You start to turn away. Just a little. But his voice stops you again—quiet, sincere, something earnest catching in it. “I’m really glad it was me, too.”

And your heart flutters all over again.

-

Lois is perched on the edge of your desk, a paper takeout box balanced on her knee, chopsticks waving in lazy circles while you pick at your own dinner with a little too much focus.

You haven’t told her everything. Not the everything everything. Not the way your heart nearly cracked open when Clark looked at you like you were made of starlight and library books. Not how close he got before pulling back. Not how you pulled back too, even though your whole body ached to close the distance.

But you have told her about the notes. About the mystery. About the strange tenderness of it all, how it wrapped around your days like a string you didn’t know you were following until it tugged. And Lois—Lois has been unusually quiet about it. Until now. 

“I’m setting you up,” she says between bites, like she’s discussing filing taxes.

You blink. “What?”

“A date. Just one. Guy from the Features desk at the Tribune. You’ll like him. He’s taller than you, decent jawline, wears socks that match. He’s got strong opinions about punctuation, which I figure is basically foreplay for you.”

You stare at her. “You don’t even believe in setups.”

“I don’t,” she agrees. “But you’ve been spiraling in circles for weeks, and at this point, I either push you toward a date or stage an intervention with PowerPoint slides.”

You laugh despite yourself. “You have PowerPoint slides?”

“Of course not,” she scoffs. “I have a Google Doc.”

You roll your eyes. “Lois—”

“Listen,” she says, gentler now. “I know you’re in deep with whoever this guy is. And if it is Clark… well. I can see why.”

Your stomach flips.

“But maybe stepping outside of the Planet for two hours wouldn’t kill you. Let someone else flirt with you for once. Let yourself figure out what you actually want.”

You press your lips together. Look down at your barely-touched food.

“You don’t have to fall for him,” she adds, softly. “Just let yourself be seen.”

You exhale through your nose. “He better be cute.”

“Oh, he is. Total sweater vest energy.”

You snort. “So your type.”

“Exactly.” She lifts her takeout carton in a mock toast. “To emotionally compromised coworkers and their tragic love lives.”

You clink your chopsticks against hers like it’s the saddest champagne flute in the world. And later, when you’re getting ready, you still feel the weight of Clark’s almost-kiss behind your ribs. But you go anyway. Because Lois is right. You need to know what it is you’re choosing. Even if, deep down, you already do.

-

The date isn’t bad. That’s the most frustrating part. He’s nice. Polished in that media school kind of way—crisp shirt, clean shave, a practiced smile that belongs on a campaign poster. He compliments your bylines and talks about his dream of running an independent magazine one day. He orders the good whiskey and laughs at your jokes.

But it’s the wrong laugh. Off by a beat. The rhythm’s not right.

When he leans in, you don’t. When he talks, your thoughts drift—to mismatched socks and printer toner smudges. To how someone else always remembers your coffee order. To how someone else listens, not to respond, but to see.

You realize it halfway through the second drink. You’re thinking about Clark again.

The softness of him. The steadiness. The way he over-apologizes in texts but never hesitates when someone challenges your work. The way his voice tilts a little higher when he’s nervous. The way his laugh never lands in the right place, but somehow makes the whole room feel warmer.

You pull your coat tighter when you leave the restaurant, cheeks stinging from the wind and the slow unraveling of a night that should’ve meant something. It doesn’t. Not in the way that matters.

So you walk. You tell yourself you’re just passing by the Daily Planet. That maybe you left your notes there. That it’s just a habit, stopping in this late. But when you scan your ID badge and push through the heavy glass doors, you already know the truth. You’re hoping he’s still here.

And he is.

The bullpen is almost entirely dark, save for a single desk lamp casting gold across the layout section. He’s hunched over it—tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, shirt rumpled like he’s been pacing, thinking, rewriting. His glasses are folded beside him on the desk. His hair’s a mess—fingers clearly run through it too many times.

He rubs at his eyes with the heel of his palm, breathing out hard through his nose. You don’t say anything. You just… watch. It hits you in one perfect, unshakable moment. The slope of his shoulders. The cut of his jaw. The furrow in his brow when he’s thinking too hard.

He looks like Superman.

No glasses. No slouch. No excuses. But more than that—he looks like Clark. Like the man who learned your coffee order. Like the one who saves all his best edits for last so he can tell you in person how good your writing is. The one who panicked when you got too close to the truth, but couldn’t stop leaving notes anyway.

And when he finally lifts his head and sees you standing there—still in your coat, fingers tight around your notebook—you watch something shift in his expression. A flicker of surprise. Panic. Bare, open emotion. Because you’re seeing him without the glasses.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur. “Thought I’d grab my notes.”

He smiles, slow and unsure. “You… left them by the scanner.”

You nod, like that matters. Like you came here for paper and not for him. Then you walk over, slow and deliberate, and retrieve your notes from the edge of the scanner beside him. He swallows hard, watching you.

Then clears his throat. “So… how was the date?”

You pause. “Fine,” you say. “He was nice. Funny. Smart.”

Clark nods, but you’re not finished.

“But when he laughed, it was the wrong rhythm. And when he spoke, I didn’t lean in.”

You meet his eyes—clear blue, unhidden now. “I made up my mind halfway through the second drink.” His lips part. Barely. You move to the edge of his desk and set your notebook down. Then—carefully, slowly—you pull out the chair beside his and sit. The air between you goes molten.

Clark leans in a little, eyes flicking to your mouth, then back to your eyes. One hand moves down, like he’s going to say something, but instead, he reaches for the leg of your chair—fingers curling around it. And pulls you toward him. The scrape of wood against tile echoes, loud and deliberate. Your thighs knock his. Your breath stutters.

He’s so close now you can feel the heat rolling off him. The weight of his gaze. Your heart hammers in your chest. And lower.

“Clark—” But you don’t finish because he meets you halfway. The kiss is fire and breath and years of want pressed between two mouths. His hands come up—one to your jaw, the other to the back of your head—and tilt your face just so. Fingers tangle in your hair, anchoring you to him like he’s afraid you might vanish.

You moan into his mouth. Soft. Surprised. He groans back. Rougher. You reach for his shirt blindly, fists curling in the cotton as he pulls you fully into his lap—into the chair with him, your legs straddling his thighs. His hands don’t know where to land. Your waist. Your thighs. Your face again.

“You’re it,” he whispers against your mouth. “You’ve always been it.”

You know he means it. Because you’ve seen it. In every note. Every glance. Every moment he looked at you like you were already his. And now, with your bodies tangled, mouths tasting each other, breathing the same heat—you finally believe it.

You don’t say it yet. But the way you kiss him again says it for you. You’re his. You always have been.

His hands roam, but never rush. Your fingers are tangled in his shirt, your knees pressing to either side of his hips, and you feel him—all of him—underneath you, solid and steady and shaking just slightly. The chair creaks with every breath you share. His mouth is still on yours, slow now, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. Like he’s afraid if he goes too fast, you’ll disappear again.

When he finally pulls back—just enough to breathe—it’s with a soft, reverent exhale. His nose brushes yours. “You’re really here,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “God, you’re really here.”

You blink at him, your hands sliding to either side of his jaw, thumbs brushing the high flush of his cheeks. He looks so open. Like you’ve peeled back every layer of him with just a kiss. And maybe you have.

His lips find the edge of your jaw next, slow and aching. A kiss. Then another, just beneath your ear. Then one lower, along the soft skin of your neck. Each press of his mouth feels like a confession. Like something that was buried too long, finally given air.

“You don’t know,” he whispers. “You don’t know what it’s been like, watching you and not getting to—” Another kiss, right beneath your cheekbone.  “I used to rehearse things I’d say to you, and then I’d get to work and you’d smile and I’d forget how to talk.”

A laugh huffs out of you, but it melts fast when he leans in again, his breath fanning warm across your skin. “I didn’t think I’d ever get this close. I didn’t think I’d get to touch you like this.”

You shift in his lap, chest brushing his, and his hands squeeze your waist gently like he’s grounding himself. His mouth finds your temple. Your cheek. The corner of your mouth again.

“You’re so—” he breaks off. Tries again. “You’re everything.” Your pulse thrums in your throat. Clark’s hands stay respectful, but they wander—curving up your back, smoothing over your shoulders, settling at your ribs like he wants to hold you together.

“I used to write those notes late at night,” he admits against your collarbone. “Didn’t even think you’d read them at first. But you did. You kept them.”

“I kept every one,” you whisper.

His breath catches. You tilt his face back up to yours, studying him in the low, golden light. His hair’s a little messy now from your fingers. His lips pink and kiss-swollen. His chest rising and falling like he’s just run a marathon. And still, even now—he’s looking at you like he’s the one who’s lucky.

Clark kisses you again—soft, like a promise. Then a trail of them, across your cheek, your jaw, your throat. Slow enough to make your skin shiver and your hips shift instinctively against his lap. He groans quietly at that—barely audible—but doesn’t press for more. He just holds you tighter.

“I’d wait forever for you,” he murmurs into your skin. “I don’t need anything else. Just this. Just you.” You bury your face in his shoulder, overwhelmed, heart pounding like a war drum. You don’t say anything back. You just press another kiss to his throat, and feel him smile where your mouth lands.

-

The city is quieter at night—its edges softened under streetlamp glow, concrete warming beneath the fading breath of the day. There’s a breeze that tugs gently at your coat as you and Clark walk side by side, your fingers still loosely laced with his. His hand is big. Warm. Rough in the places that tell stories. Gentle in the ways that say everything else.

Neither of you speaks at first. The silence isn’t awkward. It’s thick with something tender. Like a string strung tight between your ribs and his, humming with each shared step.

When he glances down at you, his smile is small and almost shy. “I can’t believe I didn’t knock over the chair,” he says after a few blocks, voice pitched low with laughter.

You grin. “You were close. I think my thigh is bruised.”

He groans. “Don’t say that—I’ll lose sleep.”

You look at him sidelong. “You weren’t going to sleep anyway.” That earns you a pink flush down the side of his neck, and you tuck that image away for safekeeping. 

Your building looms closer, brick and ivy-wrapped and familiar in the soft hush of the hour. You slow as you reach the front step, turning to face him.

“Thank you,” you murmur. You don’t mean just for the walk.

He holds your hand a beat longer. Then, without a word, he lifts it—presses his lips to your knuckles. It’s soft. Reverent.

Your breath catches in your throat. And maybe that’s what breaks the spell—maybe that’s what makes it all too much and not enough at once—because the next second, you’re reaching. Or maybe he is. It doesn’t matter. He kisses you again—this time fuller, deeper—your back brushing against the door behind you, his other hand cradling your cheek like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold you just right.

It doesn’t last long. Just long enough to taste the weight of what’s shifting between you. To feel it crest again in your chest.

When he finally pulls back, his lips hover a breath away from yours. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says softly.

You nod. You can’t quite say anything back yet. He gives your hand one last squeeze, then turns and disappears down the street, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders curved slightly inward like he’s holding in a smile he doesn’t know what to do with.

You unlock the door. Step inside. But you don’t go to bed right away. You walk to the front window instead—bare feet quiet on hardwood, heart still hammering. Through the glass, you spot him half a block away. He thinks you’re gone. Which is probably why, under the streetlight, Clark Kent jumps up and smacks the edge of a low-hanging banner like he’s testing his vertical. He catches it on the second try, swinging from it for all of two seconds before nearly tripping over his own feet.

You snort. Your hand presses against your mouth to muffle the sound. And then you smile. That kind of soft, aching smile that tugs at something deep in your chest. Because that’s him. That’s the man who writes you poems under the cover of anonymity and nearly breaks your chair kissing you in a newsroom.

That’s the one you wanted it to be. And now that it is—you don’t think your heart’s ever going to stop fluttering.

-

The bullpen is alive again. Phones ring. Keys clatter. Someone’s arguing over copy edits near the back printer, and Jimmy streaks past with a half-eaten bagel clamped between his teeth and a stack of photos fluttering behind him like confetti. It’s chaos.

But none of it touches you. The world moves at its usual speed, but everything inside you has slowed. Like someone turned the volume down on everything that isn’t him.

Your eyes find Clark without meaning to. He’s already at his desk—glasses on, shirt pressed, tie straighter than usual. He must’ve fixed it three times this morning. His sleeves are rolled to the elbow, a pen already tucked behind one ear. He’s doing that thing he does when he’s thinking—lip caught gently between his teeth, brows drawn, tapping the space bar like it owes him money.

But there’s a softness to him this morning, too. A looseness in his shoulders. A quiet sort of glow around the edges, like some part of him hasn’t fully come down from last night either. Like he’s still vibrating with the same electricity that’s still thrumming low behind your ribs.

And then he looks up. He finds you just as easily as you found him. You expect him to look away—bashful, flustered, maybe even embarrassed now that the newsroom lights are on and you’re both pretending not to be lit matches pretending not to burn.

But he doesn’t. He holds your gaze. And the quiet that opens up between you is louder than anything else in the building. The low hum of printers. The whirr of the HVAC. The hiss of steam from the office espresso machine.

You swallow hard. Then you look back at your screen like it matters. You try to focus. You really do.

Less than ten minutes later, he’s there. He approaches slow, like he’s afraid of breaking something delicate. His hand appears first, gently setting a familiar to-go cup on your desk.

“I figured you forgot yours,” he says, voice low.

You glance up at him. “I didn’t.”

A smile curls at the corner of his mouth. Soft. A little sheepish. “Oh. Well…” He shrugs. “Now you have two.”

You take the coffee anyway. Your fingers brush his as you do. He doesn’t pull away. Not this time. His hand lingers for half a second longer than it should—just enough to make your pulse jump in your wrist—and then slowly drops back to his side. The silence between you now isn’t awkward. It’s taut. Weightless. Like standing at the edge of something enormous, staring over the drop, and realizing he’s right there beside you—ready to jump too.

“Walk with me?” he asks, voice barely above the clatter around you. You nod. Because you’d follow him anywhere.

Downstairs, the building atrium hums with the low murmur of morning traffic and the soft shuffle of people cutting through the lobby on their way to bigger, faster things. But here—beneath the high, glass-paneled ceiling where sunlight pours in like gold through water—the city feels a little farther away. A little quieter. Just the two of you, caught in that hush between chaos and clarity.

Clark hands you a sugar packet without a word, and you take it, fingers brushing his again. He watches—not your hands, but your face—as you tear it open and shake it into your cup. Like memorizing the way you take your coffee might somehow tell him more than you’re ready to say aloud.

You glance at him, just in time to catch it—that look. Barely there, but soft. Full. He looks at you like he’s trying to learn you by heart.

You raise a brow. “What?”

He blinks, caught. “Nothing.”

But you’re smiling now, just a little. A private, corner-of-your-mouth kind of smile. “You look tired,” you murmur, stirring slowly.

His lips twitch. “Late night.”

“Editing from home?”

He hesitates. You watch the way his shoulders shift, the subtle catch in his breath. Then, finally, he shakes his head. “Not exactly.”

You hum. Say nothing more. The moment lingers, warm as the cup in your hand. He stands beside you, tall and still, but there’s something new in the way he holds himself—like gravity’s just a little lighter around him this morning. Like your presence pulls him into a softer orbit. There’s a beat of silence.

“You… seemed quiet last night,” he says, voice gentler now. “When you saw me.”

You glance at him from over the rim of your cup. Steam curls up between you, catching in the morning light like spun sugar. “I saw you,” you say.

He studies you. Carefully. “You sure?”

You lower your coffee. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

His brows pull together slightly, the line between them deepening. He’s trying to read you. Trying to solve an equation he’s too close to see clearly. There’s a question in his eyes—not just about last night, but about everything that came before it. The letters. The glances. The ache.

But you don’t give him the answer. Not out loud. Because what you don’t say hangs heavier than what you do. You don’t say: I’m pretty certain he’s you. You don’t say: I think my heart has known for a while now. You don’t say: I’m not afraid of what you’re hiding. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you—soft and silken, tethering you to something deeper than confession. You sip your coffee, heart steady now, eyes warm.

And when he opens his mouth again—when he leans forward like he might finally give himself away entirely—you smile. Just a soft curve of your lips. A quiet reassurance. “Don’t worry,” you say, voice low. “I liked what I saw.”

He freezes. Then flushes, color blooming high on his cheeks. His gaze drops to the floor like it’s safer there, like looking at you too long might unravel him completely—but when he glances back up, the smile on his face is small and helpless and utterly undone. A breath escapes him, barely audible—but you hear it. You feel it. Relief.

He walks you back upstairs without another word. The movement is easy. Comfortable. But his hand hovers near yours the whole time. Not quite touching. Just… there. Like gravity pulling two halves of the same secret closer.

And as you re-enter the hum of the bullpen, nothing looks different. But everything feels like it’s just about to change.

-

That night, after the city has quieted—after the neon pulse of Metropolis blurs into puddle reflections and distant sirens—the Daily Planet is almost reverent in its silence. No ringing phones. No newsroom chatter. Just the soft hum of a printer in standby mode and the creak of the elevator cables descending behind you.

You let yourself in with your keycard. The lock clicks louder than expected in the stillness. You don’t know why you’re here, really. You told yourself it was to grab the folder you forgot. To double-check something on your last draft. But the truth is quieter than that.

You were hoping he’d be here. He’s not. His desk lamp is off. His chair turned inward, as if he left in a hurry. No half-eaten sandwich or scribbled drafts left behind—just a tidied workspace and absence thick enough to feel.

You sigh, the sound swallowed whole by the vast emptiness of the bullpen. Then you see it. At your desk. Tucked half-under your keyboard like a secret trying not to be. One folded piece of paper.

No envelope this time. No clever line on the front. Just your name, handwritten in a looping scrawl you’ve come to know better than your own signature. A rhythm you’ve studied and traced in the quiet of your apartment, night after night.

You slide it free with careful fingers. Your heart stutters as you unfold it. The ink is darker this time—less tentative. The strokes more deliberate, like he knew, at last, he didn’t have to hide.

“For once I don’t have to imagine what it’s like to have your lips on mine. But I still think about it anyway.” —C.K.

You stare at the words until the paper goes soft in your hands. Until your chest feels too full and too fragile all at once. Until the noise of your own heartbeat drowns out everything else.

Then you press the note to your chest and close your eyes. His initials burn through the paper like a touch. Not a secret admirer anymore. Not a mystery in the margins. Just him.

Clark. Your friend. Your almost. Your maybe.

You don’t need the rest of the truth. Not tonight. Not if it costs this fragile thing blooming between you—this quiet, aching sweetness. This slow, deliberate unraveling of walls and fears and the long-held breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Whatever you’re building together, it’s happening one heartbeat at a time. One almost-confession. One note left behind in the dark. And you’d rather have this—this steady climb into something real—than rush toward the edge of revelation and risk it all crumbling.

So you tuck the note gently into your bag, where the others wait. Every word he’s given you, kept safe like a promise. You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in weeks, maybe months, you’re not afraid of finding out.

-

You’re not official.

Not in the way people expect it. There’s no label, no group announcement, no big display. But you’re definitely something now—something solid and golden and real in the space between words.

It’s not office gossip. Not yet. But it could be. Because you linger a little too long near his desk. Because he lights up when you enter a room like it’s instinct. Because when he passes you in the bullpen, his hand brushes yours—just barely—and you both pause like the air just changed. There’s no denying it.

And then comes the hallway kiss. It’s after hours. The building is quiet, the newsroom lights dimmed to half. You’re both walking toward the elevators, your footsteps echoing against the tile.

Clark fumbles for the call button, mumbling something about how slow the system is when it’s late, and how the elevator always seems to stall on the wrong floor. You don’t answer. You just reach for his tie. A gentle tug. A silent question. He exhales, soft and shaky. Then he leans in.

The kiss is slow. Unhurried. Like you’re both tasting something that’s been simmering between you for years. His hands find your waist, yours curl into his shirt, and the elevator dings somewhere in the distance, but neither of you move.

You part only when the second ding reminds you where you are. His forehead presses to yours, warm and close. You breathe the same air. And then the doors close behind you, and he walks you out with his hand ghosting the small of your back.

-

You start learning the rhythm of Clark Kent. He talks more when he’s nervous—little rambles about traffic patterns or article formatting, or how he’s still not entirely sure he installed his dishwasher correctly. Sometimes he trails off mid-thought, like he’s remembering something urgent but can’t explain it.

He always carries your groceries. All of them. No negotiation. He’ll take the heavier bags first, sling them both over one shoulder and pretend like it’s nothing. And somehow, he always forgets his own umbrella—but never forgets yours. You don’t know how many he owns, but one always appears when the clouds roll in. Like magic. Like preparation. Like he’s thought of you in every version of the day.

You don’t ask.

You just start to keep one in your own bag for him.

-

The third kiss happens on your couch.

You’ve been watching some old movie neither of you are paying attention to, his arm slung lazily across your shoulders. Your legs are tangled. His fingers are tracing idle shapes against your thigh through the fabric of your leggings.

He kisses you once—soft and slow—and then again. Longer. Like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Like he might need it later.

Then his phone buzzes.

He stiffens.

You feel the change instantly—the way his body pulls back, the air between you tightens. He glances at the screen. You don’t catch the name. But you see the look in his eyes.

Regret. Apology. Something deeper.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he says, already moving. “I have to—something came up. It’s—”

You sit up, brushing your hand against his arm. “Go,” you say softly.

“But—”

“It’s okay. Just… be safe.”

And God, the way he looks at you. Like you’ve given him something priceless. Something he didn’t know he was allowed to want.

He kisses your temple like a promise and disappears into the night.

-

It happens again. And again.

Missed dinners. Sudden goodbyes. Rainy nights where he shows up soaked, out of breath, murmuring apologies and curling into you like he doesn’t know how to be held.

You never ask. You don’t need to.

Because he always comes back.

-

One night, you’re curled into each other on your couch, your legs thrown over his, your cheek resting against his chest. The movie’s playing, forgotten. Your fingers are idly brushing the hem of his shirt where it’s ridden up. He smells like rain and ink and whatever soap he always uses that lingers on your pillow now.

Then his voice, quiet in the dark, “I don’t always know how to be… enough.”

You blink. Look up. He’s staring at the ceiling. Not quite breathing evenly. Like the words cost him something.

You reach up and cradle his face in your hands.

His eyes finally meet yours.

“You are,” you whisper. “As you are.”

You don’t say: Even if you are who I think you are.

You don’t need to. You just kiss him again. Soft. Long. Steady. Because whatever he’s carrying, you’ve already started holding part of it too.

And he lets you.

-

The night starts quiet.

Takeout boxes sit half-forgotten on the coffee table—one still open, rice going cold, soy sauce packet untouched. Your legs are draped across Clark’s lap, one foot nudged against the curve of his thigh, and his hand rests there now. Not possessively. Not deliberately.

Just… there.

It’s late. The kind of late where the whole city softens. No sirens outside. No blinking inbox. Just the low hum of the lamp on the side table and the warmth of the man beside you.

Clark’s eyes are on you. They’ve been there most of the night.

He hasn’t said much since dinner—just little smiles, quiet sounds of agreement, the occasional brush of his thumb against your ankle like a thought he forgot to speak aloud. But it’s not a bad silence. It’s dense. Full.

You shift, angling toward him slightly, and his gaze flicks to your mouth. That’s all it takes.

He leans in.

The kiss is soft at first. Familiar. A shared breath. A quiet hello in a room where no one had spoken for minutes. But then his hand curls behind your knee, guiding your leg further over his lap, and his mouth opens against yours like he’s been holding back for hours.

He kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s spent all day wanting this—aching for the shape of you, the weight of your body in his hands. And when you moan into it, just a little, he shudders.

His hands start to move. One tracing the line of your spine, the other resting against your hip like a question he doesn’t need to ask. You answer anyway—pressing in closer, threading your fingers through his hair, sighing into the heat of his mouth.

You don’t know who climbs into whose lap first, only that you end up straddling him on the couch. Your knees on either side of his thighs. His hands gripping your waist now, fingers curling in your shirt like he doesn’t trust himself not to break it.

And then something shifts.

Not emotional—physical.

Clark stands.

He lifts you with him, effortlessly, like you don’t weigh anything at all. Not a grunt. Not a stagger. Just—up. Smooth and sure. His mouth never leaves yours.

You gasp into the kiss as he walks you backwards, steps confident and fast despite the way your arms tighten around his shoulders. Your spine meets the wall in the next second. Not hard. Just sudden.

Your heart thunders.

“Clark—”

He doesn’t answer. Just breathes against your mouth like he needs the oxygen from your lungs. Like yours is the only air that keeps him grounded.

His hips press into yours, one thigh sliding between your legs, and your back arches instinctively. His hands span your ribs now, thumbs brushing just beneath your bra. You feel the tremble in them—not from fear. From restraint.

“Clark,” you whisper again, and his forehead drops to yours.

“You okay?” he asks, voice rough and close.

You nod, breath catching. “You?”

He hesitates. Not long. But long enough to count. “Yeah. Just… feel a little off tonight.”

You pull back just enough to look at him.

He’s flushed. Eyes darker than usual. But not winded. Not breathless. Not anything like you are. His chest doesn’t even rise fast beneath your hands. Still, he smiles—like he can will the oddness away—and kisses you again. Deeper this time. Like distraction.

Like he doesn’t want to stop.

You don’t want him to either.

Not yet.

His mouth finds yours again—slower this time, more purposeful. Like he’s savoring it. Like he’s waited for this exact moment, this exact pressure of your hips against his, for longer than he’s willing to admit.

You gasp when his hands slide under your shirt, palms broad and steady, dragging upward in a path that sets every nerve on fire. He doesn’t fumble. Doesn’t rush. Just explores—like he’s memorizing, not taking.

“Can I?” he murmurs against your mouth, fingers brushing the underside of your bra.

You nod, breathless. “Yes.”

He exhales, soft and reverent, and lifts your shirt over your head. It’s discarded without ceremony. Then his hands are on you again—warm, slow, mapping out the shape of you with open palms and patient awe.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he murmurs, more breath than voice. His mouth finds the edge of your jaw, trailing kisses down to the hollow beneath your ear. “I think about this… so much.”

You shudder.

His hands move again—down this time, gripping your thighs as he sinks to his knees in front of you. You barely have time to react before he’s tugging your pants down, slow and careful, mouth following the descent with lingering kisses along your hips, the dip of your pelvis, the inside of your thigh.

He looks up at you from the floor.

You nearly forget how to breathe.

“I’ve wanted to take my time with you,” he admits, voice rough and low. “Wanted to learn you slow. Learn how you taste. How you fall apart.”

And then he does.

He leans in and licks a long, deliberate stripe over the center of your underwear, still watching your face.

You whimper.

He smiles, just slightly, and does it again.

By the time he peels your underwear down and presses an open-mouthed kiss to your inner thigh, your knees are trembling.

Clark hooks one arm under your leg, lifting it over his shoulder like it’s nothing, and buries his mouth between your thighs with a groan that rattles through your whole body.

His tongue is warm and soft and maddeningly slow—circling, tasting, teasing. He doesn’t rush. Not even when your fingers knot in his hair and your hips rock forward with pure desperation.

“Clark—”

He hums against you, and the sound sends a full-body shiver up your spine.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, lips brushing you as he speaks. “Let me.”

You do.

You let him wreck you.

He’s methodical about it—like he’s following a map only he can see. One hand holding you steady, the other splayed against your stomach, keeping you anchored while he works you open with mouth and tongue and quiet, praising murmurs.

“So sweet… that’s it, sweetheart… you taste like heaven.”

You’re already close when he slips a thick finger inside you. Then another. Slow, patient, curling exactly where you need him. His mouth never stops. His rhythm is steady. Focused. Unrelenting.

You come like that—panting, gripping his shoulders, thighs shaking around his ears as he groans and keeps going, riding it out with you until you’re trembling too hard to stand.

He rises slowly.

His lips are slick. His eyes are dark.

And you’ve never seen anyone look at you like this.

“Come here,” you whisper.

He kisses you then—deep and possessive and tasting like you. You’re the one tugging at his shirt now, unbuttoning in frantic clumsy swipes. You need him. Need him closer. Need him inside.

But when you reach for his belt, he stills your hands gently.

“Not yet,” he says, voice like thunder wrapped in velvet. “Let me take care of you first.”

You blink. “Clark, I—”

He kisses you again—soft, lingering.

“I’ve waited too long for this to rush it,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your face with the back of his knuckles. “You deserve slow.”

Then he lifts you again—like you weigh nothing—and carries you to the bed. He lays you down like you’re fragile—but the look in his eyes says he knows you’re anything but. That you’re something rare. Something he’s been aching for. His palms skim over your thighs again, slow and deliberate, before he spreads you open beneath him.

He doesn’t ask this time. Just settles between your legs like he belongs there, arms hooked under your thighs, holding you wide.

“Clark—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he murmurs, voice low and raw. “I’ve got you.”

And he does.

His mouth finds you again—warm, skilled, confident now. No hesitation, just long, wet strokes of his tongue that build on everything he already learned. And then—without warning—he slides two fingers back inside you.

You cry out, hips jolting.

He groans into you, fingers moving in tandem with his mouth—curling just right, matching every flick of his tongue, every wet press of his lips. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t falter. He watches you the whole time, eyes dark and hungry and so in love with the way you fall apart for him.

You grip the sheets, gasping his name, over and over, until your voice breaks on a sob of pleasure.

“Clark—God, I—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he breathes. “You’re almost there. Let go for me.”

You do. With a cry, with shaking thighs, with your fingers tangled in his hair and your back arching off the bed.

And he doesn’t stop.

He rides your orgasm out with slow, worshipful strokes, kissing your thighs, murmuring into your skin, “So good for me. You’re perfect. You’re everything.”

By the time he pulls back, you’re boneless—dazed and trembling, your chest heaving as he kisses his way up your stomach.

But the way he looks at you then—like he needs to be closer—tells you this isn’t over.

His hands brace on either side of your head as he leans over you. “Can I…?”

Your hips answer for you—tilting up, chasing the heat and weight of him already pressed between your thighs.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Please.”

Clark groans low in his throat as he pushes his boxers down just enough, lining himself up—his cock flushed and thick, already leaking, and you feel the weight of him between your thighs and gasp.

“God, Clark…”

“I know,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours, hips rocking forward just barely, teasing you with the head of his cock, dragging it through the slick mess he made with his mouth and fingers. “I know, baby. Just—just let me…”

He nudges in slow.

The stretch is slow and steady, his breath catching as your body parts for him. He’s thick. Too thick, maybe, except your body wants him—takes him like it was made to.

You whimper, and his jaw clenches tight.

“You okay?”

“Y—yeah,” you breathe. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. Not even for a second. Inch by inch, he sinks into you, whispering your name, kissing your temple, gripping the backs of your thighs as you wrap your legs around his waist.

“Fuck,” he hisses when he bottoms out, buried deep, balls pressed flush against you. “You feel—Jesus, you feel unbelievable.”

You’re too far gone to answer. You just cling to him, nails dragging lightly down his back, moaning into his mouth when he kisses you again.

The first few thrusts are slow. Deep. Measured. He pulls out just enough to feel you grip him on the way back in, then does it again—and again—and again.

And then something shifts.

Your body clenches around him in a way that makes his head drop to your shoulder with a groan.

“Oh my god, sweetheart—don’t do that—I’m gonna—fuck—”

He thrusts harder.

Not rough, not yet, but firmer. Hungrier. The control he started with begins to slip. You can feel it in his grip, in the sharp edge of his breath, in the tremble of the arm braced beside your head.

“Been thinkin’ about this,” he grits out, voice low and wrecked. “Every night—every goddamn night since the first note. You don’t even know what you do to me.”

You whine, rolling your hips up to meet him, and he snaps—hips slamming forward hard enough to punch the air from your lungs.

“Clark—”

“I’ve got you,” he gasps, fucking into you harder now, his voice filthy and tender all at once. “I’ve got you, baby—so fuckin’ tight—can’t stop—don’t wanna stop—”

You’re clinging to him now, crying out with every thrust. It’s not just the way he fills you—it’s the way he worships you while he does it. The way he moans when you clench. The way he growls your name like a prayer. The way he falls apart in real time, just from the feel of you.

He grabs one of your hands, laces your fingers with his, pins it beside your head.

“You’re mine,” he grits. “You have to be mine.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes—Clark—don’t stop—”

“Never,” he groans. “Never stopping. Not when you feel like this—fuck—”

You can feel him getting close—the way his rhythm starts to stutter, the broken sounds escaping his throat, the way he buries his face against your neck and pants your name like he’s desperate to take you with him.

And you’re almost there too.

You don’t even realize your hand is slipping until he’s gripping it again—pinned tight to the pillow, your fingers laced in his and clenched so tight it aches. The bed frame is starting to shudder beneath you now, the headboard knocking a rhythm into the wall, and Clark is gasping like he’s in pain from how good it feels.

His hips snap forward again—harder this time. Deeper. More desperate.

“Fuck—fuck—I’m sorry,” he grits, voice ragged and thick, “I’m trying to—baby—I can’t—hold back—”

You moan so loud it makes him flinch.

And then he breaks.

One second he’s pulling your name from his lungs like it’s the only word he knows—and the next, he slams into you so hard the bed shifts a full inch. The lamp on the bedside table flickers. The candle flame bursts just slightly higher than before—flickering hot and fast, the wick blackening with a thin curl of smoke. It doesn’t go out. It just burns.

Clark’s back arches.

His cock drags over everything inside you in just the right way, hitting that spot again and again until you’re clutching at his shoulders, babbling nonsense against his skin.

“I can’t—I can’t—Clark!”

“You can,” he pants. “Please—please, baby, cum with me—I can feel you—I can feel it.”

Your body goes taut.

A white-hot snap of pleasure punches through your spine, and your vision blacks out at the edges. You tighten around him—clenching, pulsing, dragging him over the edge with you—and he loses it.

Clark curses—actually curses—and growls something between a moan and a sob as he slams into you one last time, spilling deep inside you. His body locks, every muscle trembling. His teeth scrape the soft skin of your throat—not biting, just grounding himself. Like if he lets go, he’ll come undone completely.

The lights flicker again.

The candle sputters once and steadies.

He breathes like a man starved. His chest heaves. But you can feel it—under your hand, against your skin. His heart’s not racing.

Not like it should be.

You’re gasping. Dazed. Boneless under him. But Clark… Clark’s barely even winded. And yet—his hands are trembling. Just slightly. Still laced in yours. Still holding on.

After, you lie there—chests pressed close, legs tangled, the sheets barely clinging to your hips.

Clark’s arm is slung across your waist, palm wide and warm over your belly like it belongs there. Like he doesn’t ever want to move. His nose is tucked against your temple, breath stirring your hair in soft little pulses. He keeps kissing you. Your cheek. Your jaw. The edge of your brow. He doesn’t stop, like he’s afraid this is a dream and kissing you might anchor it in place.

“Still with me?” he whispers into your skin.

You nod. Drowsy. Sated. Floating.

“Good.” His hand runs down your side in one long, reverent stroke. “Didn’t mean to… get so carried away.”

You hum. “You say that like I didn’t enjoy every second.”

He smiles against your neck. You feel the curve of it, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

A moment passes.

Then another.

“I think you short-circuited my bedside lamp somehow.”

Clark freezes. “…Did I?”

You roll your head to look at him. “It flickered. Right as you—”

His ears turn bright red. “Maybe just… a power surge?”

You arch a brow. “Right. A romantic, orgasm-timed power surge.”

He mutters something into your shoulder that sounds vaguely like kill me now.

You grin. File it away.

Exhibit 7: Lightbulb went dim at the exact second he came. Candle flame doubled in height.

-

Later that night, long after you’ve both dozed off, you wake to find Clark still holding you. One of his hands is under your shirt, splayed low across your stomach. Protective. Possessive in the gentlest way. His body is still curled around yours like a question mark, like he’s checking for all your answers in how your breath rises and falls.

You shift just slightly—and his grip tightens instinctively, like even in sleep, he can’t let go.

Exhibit 8: He doesn’t sleep like a person. Sleeps like a sentry.

-

In the morning, you wake to the scent of coffee.

Your kitchen is suspiciously spotless for someone who swears he’s clumsy. The pot is full, the mugs pre-warmed, your favorite creamer already swirled in.

Clark is flipping pancakes.

Barefoot.

Wearing one of your sleep shirts. The tight one.

You lean against the doorframe, watching him. His back muscles flex when he flips the pan one-handed.

“Morning,” he says without turning.

You blink. “How’d you know I was standing here?”

“I, uh…” He falters, then gestures at the sizzling pan. “Heard footsteps. I assumed.”

You hum.

Exhibit 9: He heard me from across the apartment, over the sound of a frying pan.

-

You’re brushing your teeth later when you spot the mirror fogged from the shower.

You reach for a towel—and notice it’s already been run under warm water.

You glance at him, and he just shrugs. “Figured you’d want it not freezing.”

“Figured?” you repeat.

He leans against the doorframe, smiling. “Lucky guess.”

You don’t respond. Just kiss his cheek with toothpaste still in your mouth.

Exhibit 10: He always guesses exactly what I need. Down to the second.

-

That night, he falls asleep on your couch during movie night, head on your thigh, hand around your wrist like a lifeline.

You swear you see the movie reflected in his eyes—like the light isn’t just hitting them but moving inside them. You blink. It’s gone.

You look down at him. His lashes are impossibly long. His mouth is parted. His breathing is steady—but not quite… human. Too even. Too perfect.

Exhibit 11: His pupils did a thing. I don’t know how to describe it. But they did a thing.

-

The next day, a car splashes a wave of slush toward you both on the sidewalk.

You brace for impact.

But Clark steps in front of you, faster than you can blink. The water hits him. Not you.

You didn’t even see him move.

You narrow your eyes. He just smiles. “Reflexes.”

“Clark. Be honest. Do you secretly run marathons at night?”

He laughs. “Nope. Just really hate laundry.”

Exhibit 12: Literally teleported into the splash zone to shield me. Probably didn’t even get wet.

-

And still… you don’t say it.

You don’t ask.

Because he’s not just some blur of strength or spectacle.

He’s the man who folds your laundry while pretending it’s because he’s “bad at relaxing.” Who scribbles notes in the margins of your drafts, calling your metaphors “dangerously good.” Who kisses your forehead with a kind of reverence like you’re the one who’s unreal.

You know.

You know.

And he knows you know.

Because he’s hiding it from you. Not really.

When he stumbles over his own sentences, when his smile falters after a late return, when his jaw tenses at the sound of your name whispered too softly—you don’t see evasion. You see weight. You see care.

He’s protecting something.

And you’re trying to figure out how to tell him that you already know. That it’s okay. That you’re still here. That you love him anyway.

You haven’t said it yet—not the knowing, not the loving. But it lives just under your skin. A second heartbeat. A full body truth. You think maybe, if you just look him in the eye long enough next time, he’ll understand.

But still neither of you says it yet. Because the space between what’s said and unsaid—that’s where everything soft lives.

And you’re not ready to let it go.

-

The morning feels ordinary.

There’s a crack in the coffee pot. A printer jam. Perry yelling something about deadlines from his office. Jimmy’s camera bag spills open across your desk, and he swears he’ll fix it after his coffee, and Lois is pacing, muttering about sources.

And then the screens change.

It’s subtle at first—just a flicker. Then the feed cuts mid-commercial. Every monitor in the bullpen goes black, then red. Emergency alert. A shrill tone splits the air. Someone turns up the volume.

You look up.

And everything shifts.

The broadcast blares through the newsroom speakers, raw footage streaming in from a local news chopper.

Metropolis. Midtown. Chaos. A building half-collapsed. Smoke curling upward in a thick, unnatural spiral.

The camera jolts—and then there he is.

Superman.

Thrown through a brick wall.

You feel it in your bones before your brain catches up. That’s him. That’s Clark.

He’s on his knees in the wreckage, panting, bleeding—from his temple, from his ribs, from a gash you can’t see the end of. The suit is torn. His cape is shredded. He’s never looked so human.

He tries to stand. Wobbles. Collapses.

You stop breathing.

“Is Superman going to be ok?” someone behind you murmurs.

“Jesus,” Jimmy whispers.

“He’ll be fine,” Lois says, too casually. She leans back in her chair, sipping her coffee like it’s any other news cycle. “He always is.”

You want to scream. Because that’s not a story on a screen. That’s not some distant, untouchable god.

That’s your boyfriend.

That’s the man who brought you coffee this morning with one sugar and just the right amount of cream. The man who kissed your wrist in the elevator, whose hands trembled when he whispered I want to be enough. Who holds you like you’re something holy and bruises like he’s made of skin after all.

He’s not fine. He’s bleeding.

He’s not getting up.

You freeze.

The bullpen keeps moving around you—half-aware, half-horrified—but you can’t speak. Can’t blink. Can’t breathe.

Your hands start to shake.

You grip the edge of your desk like it might anchor you to the floor, like if you let go you’ll run straight out the door, out into the chaos, toward the wreckage and the fire and the thing trying to kill him.

A part of you already has.

A hit lands on the feed—something massive slamming him into the pavement—and your knees almost buckle from the force of it. Not physically. Not really. But somewhere deep. Something inside you fractures.

You don’t know what the enemy is.

Alien, maybe. Or worse.

But it’s not the shape of the thing that terrifies you—it’s him. It’s how slow he is to get up. How much his mouth is bleeding. How his eyes are unfocused. How you’ve never seen him look like this.

You want to run.

You want to be there.

But you’re not. You’re here. In your dress pants and button-up, in your neat little office chair, with your badge clipped to your hip and your heart breaking quietly.

Because no one else knows. No one else understands what’s really at stake. No one else sees the man behind the cape.

Not like you do.

Your vision blurs.

You wipe your eyes. Pretend it’s nothing. The bullpen is too loud to hear your breath catch.

But still—your hands tremble and your heart pounds so violently it hurts.

And you cry.

Quietly.

You cry like the city might if it could feel. You cry like the sky should. You cry like someone already grieving—like someone who knows what it means to lose him.

The footage won’t stop. Superman reels across the screen—his suit torn, the shoulder scorched through in a blackened, jagged arc. Blood smears the corner of his mouth. There’s a limp in his gait now, one he keeps trying to mask. The camera catches it anyway.

The newsroom is silent now save for the hiss of static and the low voice of the anchor describing the damage downtown.

You sit frozen at your desk, the plastic edge biting into your palms as you grip it like it might stop your body from unraveling. The taste of bile has settled at the back of your throat. Your coffee’s gone cold in its cup.

Across the bullpen, someone mutters, “Jesus. He took a hit.”

“Look at the suit,” Lois says flatly, standing by one of the screens. “He’s never looked that rough before.”

“Dude’s limping,” Jimmy adds, pushing his glasses up. “That alien thing—what even was that?”

Their words feel like background noise. Distant. Warped. You can’t seem to hear anything over the white-hot panic blistering in your chest.

You blink, your eyes burning, throat tight. You can’t just sit here and cry. Not in front of Lois and Perry and half the bullpen. But your body is trembling anyway. You clench your hands in your lap, nails digging crescent moons into your skin.

He’s hurt.

And he’s still out there.

Fighting.

Alone.

You can’t just sit here.

You shove your chair back hard enough that it scrapes against the floor. “I’m going.”

Lois turns toward you. “Going where?”

“I’m covering it. The attack. The fallout. Whatever’s left—I want to see it firsthand.”

Lois’s brow lifts. “Since when do you make reckless calls like this?”

“I don’t,” you snap, already grabbing your coat. “But I am now.”

Jimmy’s already halfway to the door. “If we’re going, I’m bringing the camera.”

Lois hesitates. Then sighs. “Hell. You two’ll get yourselves killed without me.”

You don’t wait for her to finish grabbing her phone. You’re already out the door.

-

Downtown is a war zone.

The smell of scorched concrete clings to the air. Smoke spirals in uneven plumes from the carcass of a building that must have been beautiful once. Sirens scream in every direction, red and blue lights flashing off every pane of shattered glass.

You arrive just as the dust begins to settle.

The battle is over but the wreckage tells you how bad it was.

The Justice Gang moves through the remains like figures out of a dream—tattered and bloodied, but upright.

Guy Gardner limps past, muttering curses. “Next time, I’m bringing a bigger damn ring.” Kendra Saunders—Hawkgirl—has one wing half-folded and streaked with blood. She ignores it as she checks on a paramedic’s bandages. Mr. Terrific is already coordinating with local emergency crews, directing flow with a hand to his ear. And Metamorpho—God, he looks like he’s melting and re-solidifying with every breath.

And then…

Him.

He descends from the smoke. Not in a blur. Not with a boom of sonic air. Slowly. Controlled.

But not untouched.

He lands in a crouch, shoulders tight, the line of his jaw drawn sharp with tension. His boots crunch against broken concrete. His cape is torn at one edge, flapping limply behind him.

He’s hurt.

He’s so clearly hurt.

And even through all of it—through the dirt and blood and pain—he sees you. His eyes lock onto yours in an instant. The rest of the world falls away. There’s no press. No chaos. No destruction.

Just him.

And you.

The corner of his mouth lifts—just a flicker. Not a smile. Just… recognition.

And something deeper behind it.

You know know. 

And he is letting you know.

But he straightens a second later, lifting his chin, slotting the mask back into place like a practiced motion. He squares his shoulders, winces barely perceptible, and turns to face the press.

Lois is already stepping forward, questions in hand. “Superman. What can you tell us about the enemy?”

His voice is steady, but you can hear it now—hear the strain. The breath that doesn’t quite come easy. The syllables that drag like they’re fighting his tongue. “It wasn’t local,” he says. “Some kind of dimensional breach. We had help closing it.”

Jimmy’s camera clicks. Kendra coughs into her hand.

You’re not writing.

You’re just watching.

Watching the soot along his cheekbone. The split in his lip. The way he shifts his weight to favor one side. The way the “s” in “justice” drags like it hurts to say.

He looks tired.

But more than that—he looks like Clark.

And it’s never been more obvious than right now, standing under broken sky, trying to pretend like nothing’s changed.

You want to run to him. You want to hold him up.

But you stay rooted.

When the questions start to slow and the press begins murmuring among themselves, he glances over. Just at you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, barely audible.

You nod. “Are you?”

He hesitates. Then says, “Getting there.”

It’s not a performance. Not for them. Just for you.

You nod again. The look you share says more than anything else could.

I know.

I’m not leaving.

You don’t have to say it.

When he flies away—slower this time, one hand brushing briefly against his ribs—it’s not dramatic. There’s no sonic boom. No heat trail. Just wind and distance.

Lois exhales. “He looked rough.”

Jimmy nods. “Still hot, though.”

You say nothing. You just stare up at the empty sky. And press your shaking hand over your heart.

-

You fake calm.

You smile when Jimmy slaps your shoulder and says something about getting the footage up by morning. You nod through Lois’s sharp-eyed stare and mutter something about your deadline, your byline, your blood sugar—anything to get her to stop watching you like she knows what you’re not saying.

But the second you’re alone?

You run. It’s not a sprint, not really. Just that jittery, full-body urgency—the kind that makes your hands shake and your legs move faster than your thoughts can follow. You don’t remember the trip home. Just the chaos of your own pulse, the way your chest won’t stop aching.

You replay the scene again and again in your mind: his landing, the blood on his lip, the flicker of pain when he looked at you. That not-quite smile. That nearly imperceptible tremble.

You’d never wanted to hold someone more in your life.

And when you reach your door, keys fumbling, heart still hammering? He’s already there.

You pause halfway through the doorway.

He’s standing in your living room, like he’s been waiting hours. He’s not in the suit. No cape. No crest. Just a plain black T-shirt and flannel pajama pants, his hair still damp like he just showered.

He looks like Clark. Except… tonight you know there’s no difference.

“Hi,” he says quietly. His voice is soft. Familiar. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

You blink. “Did you break through my patio door?”

He winces. “Yes. Sort of.”

You lift a brow. “You owe me a new lock.”

“It doesn’t work like that.” He says with a roll of his eyes. 

A silence stretches between you. It’s not tense. Not angry. Just full of everything neither of you said earlier.

He takes a step toward you, then stops. “How long have you known?”

You drop your keys in the bowl by the door and toe off your shoes before answering. “Since the lamp. And the candle,” you say. “But… mostly tonight.”

He nods like that hurts. Like he wishes he could’ve done better. Like he wishes he could’ve told you in some perfect, movie-moment way.

“I didn’t want you to find out like that,” he says quietly.

You walk to the couch and sit, your limbs finally catching up to the adrenaline crash still sweeping through you. “I’m glad I found out at all.”

That’s what makes him move. He sinks down beside you, hands on his knees. You can see it in his profile—the exhaustion, the regret, the weight he’s been carrying for so long. You’re not sure he’s ever looked more human.

“I’ve been hiding so long,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “I forgot how to be seen. And with you… I didn’t want to lie. But I didn’t want to lose it either. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Your throat tightens. “You won’t,” you say. And you mean it.

His head turns then, slowly, eyes meeting yours like he’s trying to memorize your face from this distance. You don’t look away.

When he kisses you, it’s not careful. It’s not shy. It’s like something breaks open inside him—softly. The dam finally giving way.

His hands cradle your face like you’re something he’s terrified to shatter but needs to feel. His mouth is hot and open, reverent, desperate in the way it deepens. He kisses like he’s anchoring himself to the earth through your lips. Like everything in him is still shaking from battle and you’re the only thing that still feels real.

You reach for him. Thread your fingers into his hair. Pull him closer.

It builds like a slow swell—hands tangling, breathing harder, heat coiling low in your stomach. He pushes you back gently against the cushions, his body moving over yours with careful precision. Not to pin. Just to hold.

You feel it in every motion: the restraint. The effort. He could crush steel and he’s using that strength to cradle your ribs.

He undresses you with reverence. His fingers tremble when they touch your bare skin. Not from hesitation—but because he’s finally allowed to want. To have. To be seen.

You undress him too. That soft black T-shirt comes off first. Then the flannel. His chest is mottled with bruises, a dark one blooming across his side where that alien creature must’ve hit him. Your fingertips trace the edge of it.

He exhales, shaky. But he doesn’t stop you.

You’re straddling his lap before you realize it, chest to chest, foreheads pressed together.

“Are you scared?” he whispers.

Your thumb brushes his cheek. “Never of you.”

He kisses you again—slower this time. More control, but more depth too. His hands glide down your back and settle at your hips, thumbs pressing into your skin like he needs the reminder that you’re here. That you chose this.

The rest unfolds like prayer. The way he touches you—thorough, patient, hungry—it’s worship. Every gasp you make pulls a soft, broken sound from his throat. Every arch of your back makes his eyes flutter shut like he’s overwhelmed by the sight of you. The way he moves inside you is deep and aching and full of something larger than either of you.

Not rough. But desperate. Raw. True.

And even when he falters—when his hands grip too tight or the air warms just a little too fast—you hold his face and whisper, “I know. It’s okay. I want all of you.” And he gives it. All of him. Until the only thing either of you can do is fall apart. Together.

Later, when you’re curled up on the couch in a tangle of limbs and quiet breathing, he rests his forehead against your temple.

The city buzzes somewhere far away.

He whispers into your skin: “Next time… don’t let me fly off like that.”

Your smile is soft, tired. “Next time, come straight to me.”

He nods, eyes already fluttering shut.

And finally, for the first time since this began—you both sleep without secrets between you.

-

You wake to sunlight. Not loud, not harsh—just soft beams slipping through the blinds, spilling across the floor, warming the space where your bare shoulder meets the sheets. You blink slowly, the weight of sleep still thick behind your eyes, and shift just slightly in the tangle of limbs wrapped around you. He doesn’t stir. Not even a little.

Clark is still curled around you like the night never ended—his chest at your back, legs tangled with yours, one arm snug around your waist and the other folded up against your ribs, fingers resting over your heart like he’s guarding it in his sleep.

You don’t move. You can’t. Because it’s perfect. You let your cheek rest against his arm, warm and solid beneath you, and you just listen—to the steady rhythm of his heart, to the rise and fall of his breathing, to the way the silence doesn’t feel empty anymore. You don’t know if you’ve ever felt more grounded than you do right now, held like this. It isn’t the cape. It isn’t the flight. It isn’t the power that quiets the noise in your chest.

It’s him. Just Clark. And for once, you don’t need anything else.

He stumbles into the kitchen half an hour later in your robe. Your actual, honest-to-god, fuzzy gray robe. It’s oversized on you, which means it fits him like a second skin—belt tied loose at the hips, collar gaping just enough to make you lose your train of thought. His hair is a mess, sticking up in soft black tufts. His glasses are nowhere to be found. He scratches the back of his neck, blinking at the cabinets like he’s not entirely sure how kitchens work.

You lean against the counter with your arms folded, watching him with open amusement. “You own too much flannel.”

Clark glances over, eyes squinting against the light. “I’ll have you know, that robe is a Metropolis winter essential.”

“You’re bulletproof.”

“I get cold emotionally.”

You snort. “You’re such a menace in the morning.”

“And yet,” he says, opening the fridge and retrieving eggs with the careful precision of someone who’s clearly trying not to break them with super strength, “you let me stay.”

You grin. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

He burns the first pancake. Which is honestly impressive, considering you weren’t even sure it was physically possible for someone with super speed and heat vision to ruin breakfast. But he flips it too fast—like way too fast—and the thing launches halfway across the skillet before folding in on itself and sizzling dramatically.

You raise an eyebrow. Clark stares down at the pancake like it betrayed him. “I didn’t account for surface tension.”

“Did you just say ‘surface tension’ while making pancakes?”

“I’m a complex man,” he says solemnly.

You lean over and pluck a piece of fruit from the cutting board he forgot he was slicing. “You’re a menace and a dork.”

He pouts. Full, actual pout. Then shuffles over and kisses your shoulder. “I’ll get better with practice.”

You roll your eyes. But your skin’s still buzzing where his lips brushed it.

Later, you sit on the counter while he stands between your knees, coffee in one hand, the other resting warm on your thigh. It’s quiet. Not awkward or forced—just soft. Full of little glances and sips and contented silence. There’s no fear in him now. No carefully placed pauses. No skirting around things. He just… is. Clark Kent. The boy who spilled coffee on your notes three times. The man who kept writing to you in secret even when you didn’t see him.

“You’re not what I expected,” you say, fingers brushing his arm.

He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I don’t know. I guess I thought Superman would be… shinier. Less flannel. More invincible.”

“Are you saying I’m not shiny enough for you?”

“I’m saying you’re better.”

He blinks. And then—just like that—he smiles. Not the bashful one. Not the public one. The real one. Small and warm and honest. The kind of smile you only give someone when you feel safe. And maybe that’s what this is now. Safety. Not the absence of danger—but the presence of someone who will always come back.

His communicator buzzes from somewhere in the bedroom. Clark lets out the most exhausted groan you’ve ever heard and buries his face in your shoulder like it’ll make the world go away.

“You have to go?” you ask gently, threading your fingers through his hair.

“Soon.”

“You’ll come back?”

He lifts his head. Meets your eyes.  “Every time.”

You kiss him then—slow and deep and familiar now. The kind of kiss that tastes like mornings and memory and maybe something closer to forever. He kisses you back like he already misses you. And when he finally pulls away and disappears into the sky outside your window—less streak of light, more quiet parting—you just stand there for a moment. Barefoot. Wrapped in your robe. Heart full.

You’re about to start cleaning up the kitchen when you see it. A post-it note, stuck to the fridge. Just a small square of yellow. Written in the same handwriting you could spot anywhere now.

“You always look soft in the mornings. I like seeing you like this.” —C.K.

You read it three times. Then you smile. You walk to the cabinet above the sink, open the door—and stick it right next to all the others. The secret ones. The old ones. The ones that helped you feel seen before you even knew whose eyes were watching.

And now you know. Now you see him too.

All of him.

And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

-