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dontpulloutman · 6 days ago

Note

PLEASE ALANA I NEED YOUR DAD!REED RICHARDS TERRIBLY!!!!!!!!

baby blue

reed richards x reader

notes: reader has psychic powers (basically a human lie detector), and is a doctor/scientist. reader and reed protect the world and their baby. no fantastic four sorryyyy

summary: on the top floor of the baxter building, you and reed richards—world’s smartest man, doting husband, and newly minted father—live quietly in the afterglow of a decade long love. between early morning baby feedings, late night bioluminescent garden naps, and the occasional battle with mole man’s latest tantrum, the two of you protect the city with precision, power, and a shared tenderness no villain can disrupt.

you're a mind-reader, he's made of stretch and stardust, and together you're building something softer than heroism: a family.

ao3 link

─────

The alarm doesn’t go off because you told it not to last night. You were too tired, and Reed was already asleep on your shoulder, curled inward with the sort of unconscious vulnerability only a genius lets slip when utterly worn out. His limbs had gone soft and pliable—stretching just barely as he reached for you in his sleep—and you let the soft hum of the lab below lull you both into a gentle, shared quiet.

Now it’s morning, and the Baxter Building is sunk in golden haze.

You open your eyes and he’s already awake.

Sort of.

Reed is standing in the middle of the wide glass-walled living room, shirtless, half in pajama pants, half in yesterday’s lab coat. His hair is a dark mess of coils, the left side crushed from your pillow. He’s holding the baby monitor in one hand and a beaker in the other, squinting at it like he’s trying to remember if it’s supposed to be bubbling like that.

You sit up in bed and stretch, bones cracking in that satisfying, very human way. Your body still feels like it belongs to someone else a little—postpartum has been kind to you, all things considered, but there’s still that phantom echo of weight, of someone else inside. It’s only been a few weeks since your daughter was born, and some days your ribs still ache from how tightly you’d held her there, like your body knew before your mind how much she’d matter.

Reed turns at the sound of the bedsheets shifting.

“You’re up,” he says, voice still caught in the middle of his throat. “She cried. Only a little. I didn’t want to wake you.”

You smile, already pulling your robe around your shoulders. “You couldn’t have woken me if you tried, Doctor Richards. I was gone.”

He crosses the room in three long, elastic strides and kisses the side of your head. His lips are warm, familiar, entirely too soft for someone with hands that have built machines that float in orbit.

“How’s her breathing?” you murmur.

“Even. Like yours.” He looks slightly dazed when he says it, like he still can’t believe that both of you are real and here and his. “I recorded it. Compared the patterns. They match. Thought it might mean something.”

“Probably that she likes me best,” you say with a grin, and you can feel the smile in his brain before it breaks across his face.

The lab smells like metal and lavender—the latter thanks to the diffuser you insisted on adding last year, which Reed has fully embraced with obsessive precision, programming a different essential oil profile for every day of the week.

You trail behind him with a cup of coffee, watching as he tweaks the sensor settings on the atmospheric probe he's building. He’s explaining it all to you, but not really for you to understand. It’s more like he’s telling the air around him what he thinks it needs to hear. You love it when he does that—how he paces and mutters and forgets his body, except for the parts of it that get carried away, stretching as he reaches three different monitors at once.

He stops mid-sentence and turns.

“You know I’m in love with you,” he says, like it’s a question he needs to confirm even after all this time.

You take a sip of your coffee. “You say that like it’s new information.”

“No. No—it’s not. But sometimes I say it and it still feels new.”

You set the mug down and cross the lab to him, placing your hand on the small of his back. “That’s because you’re not used to having everything you want.”

He looks at you with the sort of awe that hasn’t dulled since the first time he met you—ten years ago now, but it’s burned itself into both of you with a clarity that doesn’t fade.

You were twenty-four, fresh from a bioengineering residency, newly cleared for field classification because of your abilities. You’d been able to tell Reed was lying before he even finished his first sentence in that awkward introduction in the science wing of the United Nations R&D symposium. Not maliciously lying—just hiding. You knew immediately that he was afraid of being seen, truly seen, and you saw him anyway. That was the thing.

“You read minds,” he’d said to you, after watching you dismantle a lobbyist’s entire argument with a single glance and a half-smile.

You tilted your head. “Sometimes.”

He’d gone quiet. It wasn’t often someone made him feel quiet. He liked it.

You fell in love not all at once, but slowly, meticulously—like building a machine with someone else’s hands in yours. Over cold coffees and debates and nights in the lab where he couldn’t bring himself to leave the math, and you stayed because you knew it would undo him to be alone with it.

You married in a garden on the rooftop of his building. It was spring, and you wore white with your hands in his, bare-faced except for the flush that rose up when he whispered that he wanted forever. Your vows were short. He cried anyway.

Your daughter woke up at 9:43 AM. You know this because Reed has been tracking her REM cycles.

He hands her off to you with this reverent gentleness that always makes your heart stutter. He’s so careful with her, like every inch of her is cosmic—like he can’t believe anything so perfect came from anything as human as you both.

She makes a noise like a sleepy complaint, then sighs. You rub her back and lean into Reed’s chest as he wraps his arms around both of you.

“I made her some socks,” he says. “They regulate temperature based on her skin’s electrochemical activity. Want to see?”

You press your face into his shoulder to muffle your laugh. “Sure, Doctor. Show me the wonder socks.”

By noon, you’re working again. You’re logged into your secure neural interface, sorting through a new case report on suspected anomalies in memory transference fields. Reed is at the far end of the lab, but every time you look up, he’s looking at you.

He doesn’t always realize he’s doing it. His eyes just wander, always toward you. Sometimes he catches himself and blushes. Other times he doesn’t bother to look away. He doesn’t see a point in pretending anymore.

You test his theory, half-distracted by your own data.

“I’m thinking about you naked,” you murmur, just loud enough.

He short-circuits so spectacularly that he knocks over a circuit stabilizer with his elbow. You grin, sipping coffee like you didn’t just detonate his train of thought. He narrows his eyes at you but his mouth is twitching. He walks over, kisses your temple, and whispers, “Liar.”

You glance up. “I’m not lying. You just weren’t ready.”

He gives this tiny huff of air, forehead pressed to yours. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“You say that every week.”

The sun is setting when the world decides to catch on fire—metaphorically, of course. A breach in the lower city district. Something dimensional. Something dangerous. Reed’s already halfway into his blue suit when you pull your hair back and check the baby monitor.

The nanny unit is stable. No interruptions. Your daughter’s heart rate is steady. You can do this.

You take Reed’s hand, and he squeezes it. Just once.

He doesn’t tell you to be careful—he never has. He knows you’re lethal when you need to be, knows your powers make you a psychic force the world still hasn’t figured out how to name.

Together you two leap off the balcony, you in his arms, the city sprawling beneath you like an old promise.

Later, you’re back. Tired. Scraped. Alive.

Reed stitches the cut on your arm himself, eyes narrowed in focus, muttering things to keep his hands steady. You don’t need anesthesia—your pain threshold is sky high—but you like the way he gets when he takes care of you. Like he’s safeguarding something sacred.

Your daughter is asleep again. Her tiny chest rises and falls, steady as the pulse beneath your palm.

Reed curls into you in bed, one arm around your waist, the other stretched just far enough to flip a switch on the bedside lamp.

“I’ll love you even if the stars forget our names,” he says, quietly, as the room fades to soft electric dark.

You kiss his forehead, your fingers threading through the hair at his temple.

“I’d remind them.”

And you would. Every time. Every day.

Always.

The room goes quiet again, except for the low hum of something running beneath the floorboards—probably one of Reed’s subterranean temperature regulators. You’ve long stopped trying to catalog what’s running where. It’s part of the comfort now. The soft, white noise of genius echoing through the infrastructure.

His body folds around yours like it was always supposed to. His skin is warm, always warmer than yours, and it smelled like cedarwood soap—the one you picked out for him three years ago and had to reorder in bulk because he claims it “smells like the way you look at me.” Which doesn’t mean anything, not logically, but then again, neither does the way his breath steadies when he feels your hand on his back, even in sleep.

Your daughter lets out a sigh through the monitor, a small huff of air like a punctuation mark in the night. You both freeze, instinctively. And then…nothing. Just that same slow, fluttery breathing.

“She’s dreaming,” Reed whispers, and you can hear the awe in his voice again.

“Of what?”

He pauses. “Us.”

You turn to look at him, cheek brushing the pillow. “You always say that.”

He nods against the sheets. “Because I always hope it’s true.”

You don’t sleep late anymore. She won’t let you.

By 6:13 AM, the apartment is glowing with a muted pink sunrise, bouncing off the silver trim of the walls and the polished glass surfaces Reed insists are better for light reflection. He’s not wrong, but the tile is always cold.

You walk barefoot into the nursery.

She’s awake already, blinking slowly at the mobile Reed built the week she was born. It floats. Not because it’s suspended from the ceiling, but because he added a minor anti-gravity field in the base. You didn’t even know he was working on it until you walked in and saw a cluster of tiny moons and stars orbiting lazily above her crib like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Her eyes find you.

You pick her up, kiss her warm cheek. “Good morning, moonflower.”

She smells like baby lotion and sleep. You press your forehead to hers and she flails her hand in what you’re choosing to interpret as affection.

By 6:32, you’re in the kitchen, her head tucked against your chest in her carrier, your fingers moving with muscle memory alone as you start the kettle. Reed comes in a few minutes later, tugging a soft gray sweater over his head, collar sticking out crookedly beneath it.

“You slept?” you ask, watching him blink toward the espresso machine.

He makes a so-so motion with his hand, and you click your tongue. “What time?”

“Two-ish. Slipped out when you fell asleep,” He stretches slightly, his shoulder blades pressing against the thin cotton of his shirt. “The garden room’s done. I wanted it perfect before you saw it.”

Your heart stutters. You’ve been watching him sketch it in his notebook for months now—on napkins, on receipts, in the margins of baby book pages. A space for the three of you to breathe, he’d said. A room that would feel like safety.

You pass him the espresso shot you pulled the moment he walked in. He takes it with both hands, eyes a little too grateful.

“She’s very alert this morning,” he murmurs, kissing the top of the baby’s head. She makes a pleased sound and grips his finger in her impossibly small hand. “That’s new. Do you think she’s developing early?”

You lean against the counter. “Are you asking as a scientist or a father?”

He looks up at you. “Both.”

You give him a long look. “Then yes. But mostly because her father is unbearable about milestone charts.”

He smiles, the real kind, and sets his cup down to rub your back slowly with the heel of his palm.

“I want to show you,” he says softly. “The garden.”

You follow him through the east wing, down a hallway you haven’t used in months. It was under construction for so long you started ignoring it entirely—Reed had asked you not to peek, and even though you could’ve read it from him if you tried, you didn’t. You know how much he loves the surprise of something given.

He stops in front of the door. Touches the panel. The lights shift.

“Close your eyes,” he says.

You obey.

The doors slide open with a gentle whoosh, and he guides you forward with a hand on the small of your back.

The smell hits you first. Like dusk in a meadow, sweet and warm and slightly electric. Then the sound—soft hums, like a living lullaby, low-frequency music programmed to your vitals.

“Now,” he whispers.

You open your eyes.

It is—

Impossible.

Beautiful.

Everything.

A circular chamber, glowing faintly with shades of indigo and pale cobalt. Bioluminescent plants curl along the walls and ceiling, casting a soft halo around everything they touch. The light pulses slowly, like breath. In the center, a cradle. Not a baby’s, but a nest of sorts—a round velvet-lined platform surrounded by flowering vines that sway gently despite the absence of wind.

You step in, breath caught in your throat. The baby shifts against your chest. Reed moves beside you, silent, reverent.

“They release serotonin,” he says finally. “Gradually. In sync with your circadian rhythms. I programmed the sensors to adjust to your neural output. If you’re anxious, the plants emit a calming agent through their leaves. If you’re exhausted, they respond with a tailored scent profile.”

You blink, and your eyes sting.

“Reed…”

He steps forward, hands in the pockets of his sweater now, like he’s nervous you won’t like it. “It’s for sleep. For peace. I wanted you to have something that couldn’t be weaponized. That doesn’t require you to do or fix or save.”

You turn and kiss him without thinking. Just press your lips to his and breathe him in until you feel him soften against you, arms wrapping around both you and the baby.

“She’ll grow up in this room,” you whisper. “And she’ll know that her father made it bloom.”

He exhales shakily. “I love you.”

“I know.”

“No—I really love you.”

You smile, eyes still wet. “I know, Reed.”

You stay there until 10 AM.

You both lie down in the nest, your daughter between you, her tiny fists relaxed in sleep. Reed reads aloud from a journal article he wrote years ago but never published—something about dream mapping and the neurological basis of emotional inheritance. His voice is low and even, like water against stone.

You close your eyes and let your thoughts go quiet. It’s not often your mind empties—it’s always buzzing, always catching static from the thoughts of others. But in here, in this room he made for you, it’s silent.

Just him.

Just her.

Just you.

And when she stirs again, tiny fists stretching toward the glowing blue canopy above, you smile.

Because morning is still happening.

And it’s perfect.

The room is still the color of a dream when she begins to stir again. You feel it before it starts—something shifts in the air, like a new current pulsing from her tiny chest. Her mouth searches, her body curling inward, the smallest of sounds escaping her, soft and imploring.

“She’s hungry,” you murmur.

Reed lifts his head from the nest’s edge where he’d moved to study one of the glowing vines, watching its petals respond to changes in temperature with silent curiosity. He’d touched them like someone handling museum glass. “Already?”

You shift her gently, cradling her in your arms. “It’s been two hours. She’s on her own schedule, remember?”

“She’s early,” he murmurs, gaze fixed on her again, as though trying to memorize the way she opens her mouth and her fists clench with want. “But I suppose at that age, I used to ignore hunger for the sake of continuity.”

You laugh softly, untying the wrap of your robe. “That is, quite possibly, the most Reed thing I’ve ever heard.”

He doesn’t argue. He’s too focused on the curve of your body as you settle into the cushions, letting your daughter latch with a soft sound that cuts right through the quiet. Reed breathes in deeply, almost as if the moment itself is something he can inhale.

You rock her gently, your fingers brushing over the soft fuzz of her hair. “She’s getting better at this.”

“She’s perfect at it,” Reed replies automatically, reverent as a prayer.

You give him a look—one of those narrowed, half-laughing glances that says, you’re biased and ridiculous, but I love you for it. And he just nods, because you’re right. And he is.

A few minutes pass. The only sounds are the occasional contented sighs from the baby and the low, affectionate thrum of the plants around you, adjusting their glow ever so slightly.

“She’s calming,” he notes. “Her cortisol’s dropping.”

“You can tell that just by watching her?”

“No. I added biosensors to the lining of your robe.”

You blink at him. “Reed.”

He shrugs. “Just to be sure.”

You close your eyes and smile, tired and full and impossibly in love with the absurdity of him.

“You’re not allowed to invent any more things for at least twelve hours.”

“But—”

“Reed.”

He sighs dramatically. “Fine. I’ll make breakfast instead.”

You open one eye. “Just toast the bagels.”

“I could attempt something new,” he offers, already standing, limbs unfolding in long, practiced movements. He’s got that faraway look again, the one he gets when an idea begins sketching itself behind his eyes. “I was reading about eggs last week—there’s this folding method, thermodynamically counterintuitive, but—”

“Just toast the bagels.”

He deflates with comedic precision. “You don’t trust me in the kitchen.”

“I trust you with everything,” you reply honestly. “Except scrambled eggs.”

He disappears toward the kitchen, and you stay nestled in the garden room with your daughter. Her eyelids have started to flutter closed again, her lips slackening as she finishes. You press a kiss to her temple, re-wrapping your robe and holding her against your chest.

“Your father thinks you’re the moon,” you whisper to your baby. “I can feel it. He looks at you and everything lights up.”

The plants around you flicker a little, as if agreeing.

The kitchen smells like slightly burnt bagels.

Reed has pulled his sleeves up, hair slightly wild in the front like he’d run his hand through it in frustration. The toaster glows faintly on the counter, one of his own designs—it’s smarter than it needs to be, with heat settings controlled by micro-gestures.

There’s a plate already waiting when you walk in, the baby still tucked into your arms, her body heavy with post-feeding sleep.

“Bagels. Toasted. Slightly,” he says, proudly, and presents them like they’re part of a scientific exhibit.

You blink. “Is that cream cheese and honey?”

He hesitates. “You like sweet and savory?”

You grin. “That’s...actually perfect.”

He beams, which is still your favorite expression on him.

You sit at the little round table by the window, the one he built himself out of old alloy and wood, and you shift the baby into the bassinet nearby, watching her chest rise and fall. Reed makes a sound—small, fond, slightly awed.

“She breathes like you.”

You take a bite of your bagel and hum. “She’s breathing like someone who drank her weight in milk and is about to sleep through the world ending.”

“That... will never happen,” he says, chewing.

“It’s parenting,” you reply, mouth full.

Reed eats slowly, as always—every bite deliberate, like he’s still not used to the routine of eating as an act of care. You always have to remind him that food is part of survival. He’ll ignore it if you don’t. But this—bagels at 10:30, baby curled up beside you, sun streaming in through the upper glass, your husband across from you looking like a disheveled dream—this feels like the closest thing to permanence you’ve ever tasted.

You reach across the table and brush his hand with your fingers. He looks up instantly.

“You’re really proud of yourself for the garden, aren’t you?” you tease.

“I want you to sleep.” His voice is soft. “You haven’t really slept. Not since—well. Not deeply.”

You nod. “I know.”

“I’ve been watching. The twitching in your left eye. Your breathing patterns. You clench your jaw in sleep, sometimes. And it breaks my heart a little.”

Your throat tightens. He doesn’t say things like this unless he’s certain. It takes him a long time to process emotion, to translate it into language. So when he does, it’s a seismic event.

You squeeze his hand. “It’s getting better. Because of you.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just watches you eat, his eyes tracing the line of your cheek, the slope of your nose, the curve of your mouth as you chew.

Then, suddenly... “I want to build her something.”

You blink. “She’s five weeks old.”

“I know. But something she’ll have for later. When she’s older. A kind of learning environment. Simulated language exposure. Maybe a kinetic chamber. Something tactile.”

You laugh softly. “You can’t help yourself.”

“I can,” he insists. “I just don’t want to.”

You rest your chin on your hand and look at him, really look. His eyes are still tired but burning. Always burning. He’s lit from within in a way that doesn’t exhaust you. It groundsyou.

“I love you,” you say.

His face goes soft, like clay warming in the sun. “You always say that at breakfast.”

“Because I always mean it.”

He leans over the table, stretching just a little too far for normal arms, and kisses you.

Then he settles back, cheeks faintly pink.

The baby coos.

And your day begins again.

Just like that.

Together.

The moment you lean back in your chair, bagel half-eaten in your hand and your eyes flickering toward the light-dappled bassinet where your daughter dreams of stars, your wrist buzzes. Soft but sharp.

It’s the kind of alert that isn’t allowed to be decorative. No chimes, no pretty colors. Just red. Blinking. The kind of alert that lives in the space between routine and crisis.

You glance at Reed. He’s already checking his watch, jaw twitching slightly as he reads through the emergency codes.

“It’s him again,” he says flatly.

You don’t have to ask who.

“Mole Man.”

You sigh. “You’re kidding.”

He looks up at you, lips pressed into a thin line. “I never joke about Mole Man.”

It’s funny how domesticity doesn't dull your instincts. Not really. Not after everything you and Reed have been through in the last decade. It might be easier now—gentler around the edges, softened by parenthood and morning coffee and domestic habit—but the moment something shifts in the city’s undercurrent, you feel it like electricity under your skin.

You glance down at your daughter, still sleeping. Oblivious to the way the ground is probably already groaning somewhere beneath midtown.

Reed moves fast. Controlled, clinical, like the chaos is just an extension of the morning chores.

He pulls out his communicator and taps into the Baxter Building’s private channel. “Esmé? We need you up here.”

You smile at the sound of her sleepy voice on the other end. “Already halfway up the elevator. You think I didn’t feel the tremor, Doctor?”

“I didn’t want you to feel it,” he mutters.

“She’s fine,” you call over your shoulder. “Just tell her.”

“She’s fine,” Reed says into the mic. “Sleeping. Fed. I’ll transmit her current vitals.”

You stand and scoop up your daughter, pressing a kiss to her soft forehead before transferring her gently to her carrier—one of Reed’s newer models, layered with protective monitors and lined with memory foam that adjusts to her sleeping posture.

Reed watches you secure her, hands flexing at his sides. “I hate leaving her.”

“I know,” you say quietly.

“I really hate it.”

You reach out and touch his cheek, grounding him. “Then we finish this fast.”

Esmé arrives just as you’re lacing up your boots. She’s in a coat and her favorite slippers, gray hair wrapped in a scarf, a thermos of black coffee in one hand and a biometric reader in the other.

“You didn’t even wait for me to clock in,” she says dryly, peering into the carrier with a warm smile. “Hi, baby bird. Your mom and dad are going to go clobber the little troll now, okay?”

“She’s asleep, Esmé.”

“Babies understand tone, sweetheart.”

Reed shuffles toward the hallway, fingers already stretching ahead of him to reach the containment gear.

“He’s in the central borough again,” he says. “Coming up through the theater district. Seismic spikes suggest he’s using the same diggers as last week, just… deeper. Angled toward the subway lines this time.”

You click the buckle on your tactical belt. “I thought you neutralized those.”

“I did. He built new ones. Or scavenged them. His tech is primitive, but he’s resourceful. And stubborn. And lonely.”

Esmé rolls her eyes. “He’s a man in a cape with a mole army and an inferiority complex. You’ve given him too much screen time.”

Reed frowns. “He also has a quantum destabilizer now.”

You pause. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

You nod slowly, flexing your fingers. You’ve felt the ripple already, like a sour note on the edge of a chord. Something about the city’s mindscape is off. People are scared, but underneath that—distorted wavelengths. Interference. The kind you feel when someone is broadcasting fear in organized bursts. Controlled panic.

“He’s trying to cause chaos deliberately this time,” you say, sliding your commlink into your ear. “Not just a tantrum.”

“I thought the same thing,” Reed replies. “He’s planning something bigger.”

“Then let’s make it small again.”

The sky is bright and quiet when you step out onto the hoverpad balcony, Reed already adjusting his kinetic shielding glove as the wind pulls at his sweater.

You wear the same blue suit Reed made for you years ago—sleek, simple.

You let the world underestimate you until it’s too late.

The city glimmers in the distance, unaware of the war happening under its skin. You exchange a look with Reed—one of those shared glances that doesn’t need words. It’s not romantic. It’s not even about love.

It’s about knowing someone’s rhythm so well you can anticipate the beat before it drops.

You leap first.

He follows, catching you.

You both land in the middle of a collapsed street corner, the air thick with dust and the scent of melted cement. Reed’s arm stretches mid-air, snapping into a support column to soften your descent.

You hit the ground, already scanning.

You close your eyes for half a second.

You listen.

Not with your ears. With your mind.

Voices. Hundreds. Fear, confusion, the flicker of what the hell is happening mixed with the pulse of commuter urgency.

And under it—grit. Gravel. Intent.

You lock on.

“East quadrant,” you mutter. “There’s a pressure tunnel extending toward 43rd.”

Reed’s already reaching for the seismic map on his belt. “Mole Man’s heading toward the Civic Tower. There’s a reactor below it. Old. He could destabilize half the grid if he gets access.”

You don’t answer.

You’re already running.

The thing about Mole Man is that he’s not trying to destroy the world. He just wants it beneath him. He wants to carve out some craggy kingdom and force the city to kneel. He’s a tyrant without a country.

But you’ve met his mind before.

You know what to expect.

“Split left,” you tell Reed as the tunnel forks. “I’ll draw him out.”

He pauses. “You’re still—”

“I’m fine.”

He looks at you. Really looks.

Then he nods. “Don’t get cocky.”

You smirk. “Don’t get dramatic.”

The fight, when it comes, is sharp and strange.

The Mole Man bursts out from under a steel grate like some deranged opera villain, goggles askew, shouting about injustice and surface scum and revolution.

You throw him against a wall with a thought.

His little mole creatures hiss, scrabbling toward you with metal drills grafted onto their arms. Reed knocks three of them out with a single elastic punch, his body snapping into impossible angles with methodical precision.

“Did he upgrade them?” you call out, ducking under a burst of energy.

“I think he taught them,” Reed answers grimly, slamming another against the wall. “They’re coordinating.”

“Adorable,” you mutter. “We should send him a parenting book.”

It takes seventeen minutes to subdue them.

Nine for you to breach his mental field and dismantle his panic broadcast.

Six for Reed to destroy the destabilizer with a containment pulse.

Two to tie Mole Man up with what looks suspiciously like fiber optic cable Reed had in his belt “just in case.”

You’re both breathing hard. Sweaty. Dust-covered.

And victorious.

Reed’s communicator buzzes.

Esmé’s voice is bright: “She just made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a giggle. She’s fine.”

You exhale slowly. Smile. “Let’s go home.”

He looks at you—your hair a mess, your face streaked with concrete, eyes shining with adrenaline.

He falls in love with you again. Just like that.

Like it’s brand new.

Like it’s always.

#tbr list !

388 notes · View notes

dontpulloutman · 6 days ago

Text

Observed Behavior

pairing: Reed Richards x Fem!Mutant Reader

summary: 6.5k words. Dr. Reed Richards doesn’t pay you much attention. You’re just another intern in the lab—quiet, efficient, always taking notes. But you’re also a telepath. And Reed has no idea you can hear every filthy, unspoken thought he has about you.

rating: E. dirty talk. no infidelity, I promise! rough piv sex. oral (fem receiving). mind reading. mutual pining. semi-public sex. come on face.

a/n: omggggggggggggg I loved writing this. I only saw Fantastic Four: First Steps yesterday but I feel like I've been obsessed for months already. I actually wrote this before seeing the movie, but held off until today to post. hope you like it!!!! 💙

You don’t like Reed Richards.

You tell yourself this the moment you meet him. He barely acknowledges your existence. He doesn’t shake your hand. Doesn’t even make eye contact.

You say something polite—something like, "Pleasure to meet you, Dr. Richards."

He says, without glancing up from the display in front of him, "The data’s unstable. Did you notice the gravitic skew in quadrant six?"

Oh.

Okay. That kind of guy.

Later, you categorize him like you’re filing a report: Brilliant. Socially stunted. One of those too-smart-to-be-nice types who treats human interaction like a necessary evil.

It makes your job easier. You’re not here to be liked.

You’re here to assist with the joint-mutant initiative. Quietly. Professionally. Keep your head down, do your work, keep the mental channel muted unless someone explicitly asks for help. Your mutation makes people nervous. Not everyone wants to know what they’re broadcasting.

But Reed Richards?

Reed Richards is broadcasting filth.

The first time it happens, you think you’ve misread. You’re across the lab, checking output from a cracked containment dome, and his thoughts slip past your mental wall like a hot breath on the back of your neck:

God, what those lips would look like around my cock.

How tight she’d be, wet and warm and surprised.

Bet she tastes sweet. Fuck, I’d drag it out. Make her beg.

She wouldn’t beg. She’s too proud. I’d make her anyway.

You jolt. Your pen jerks off the page. A shaky line across your log sheet. You don’t dare look up. You’ve never heard him speak like that. You’ve barely heard him speak at all. Reed is curt. Precise. Dismissive, even. But now you hear it in his head, like it’s on a loop, layered with vivid images — your thighs spread across his desk, his fingers prying you open while he murmurs clinical observations that make your cheeks burn.

She’d be wet already. I’d test her reaction time. Graph her pulse. Hypothesize what makes her shake.

You swallow, shift in your seat, force your hands to stay still. You should block him out. You usually do. No one wants to hear what people are really thinking. It’s invasive, and it’s dangerous, and it’s too much to carry.

But this? This is—

“Is something wrong?” His voice cuts across the room. Crisp. Flat. Like he doesn’t have his hand buried in your imaginary cunt.

You look up. Just once.

He’s watching you. Eyes sharp behind his glasses. No heat in his expression — none of the filth you just heard. He looks the same way he always does. Unreadable. Detached.

“No,” you say. Too quickly. “Nothing’s wrong.”

Reed nods once and returns to typing, but his thoughts don’t stop.

I wonder if she’d moan when I touch her or bite her lip to stay quiet.

Bet I could break her composure. Bet I could ruin her neat little posture.

You grip the edge of the counter until your knuckles ache.

You’ve made a huge mistake.

Because now that you’ve tuned in, you don’t think you can stop.

The worst part isn’t how filthy it is.

It’s the contrast.

Reed Richards — Dr. Richards, to everyone — never even swears in conversation. He refers to the human body like it’s a schematic. He’ll say “pleasure response” instead of orgasm, and you’ve heard him refer to Sue’s divorce attorney as “a challenging presence,” which you think is his version of calling someone a dick.

So the first time you hear him think the word cunt, your brain short-circuits.

Bet it’s tight. Warm. Slick around my fingers. Her cunt would grip me like it knows me.

You grip the edge of the lab table.

Reed hasn’t moved. He’s still typing, back straight, posture annoyingly perfect. A model scientist. The embodiment of control.

But in his head—

I’d stretch her out with my tongue first. Just to taste. Just to make her shiver.

Then I’d fuck her open with two fingers. Maybe three. Just to see how much she could take.

You feel your face flush hot.

His voice in your head is the same one he uses when he’s narrating quantum anomalies. Methodical. Fascinated. Detached.

Like your body is a phenomenon he wants to understand. Just for the data.

She’s got sensitive tits, I think. Would need a gentle mouth. Then a rough one.

I’d chart how many licks until she breaks.

You turn away before he can see the expression on your face. Not that he’d be looking.

Reed doesn’t look at you.

Not unless you speak first. Even then, his gaze usually lands near your shoulder or just past your head — like you’re a part of the room’s architecture. Necessary. Functional. Forgettable.

Which is why you can’t fathom the sudden, overwhelming specificity of his thoughts.

Would she come if I sucked on her nipples and slid my thumb over her clit?

Or would she need to be fucked?

Deep. Slow. Me inside her while she tries not to cry out.

You have to leave.

You mumble something — “back in ten” or ��need a break” — and Reed doesn’t respond. He doesn’t glance your way. Just lifts a hand absently in acknowledgment, still facing the board, still immersed in whatever algorithm or image his mind is chewing on.

Except now you know that algorithm is you.

Your wet heat. Your thighs. Your pulse as he imagines pressing his mouth to it and whispering, “Come for me. Let me see.”

You flee to the hallway, breath stuttering in your throat, shame and heat and disbelief running a relay race in your chest.

You’ve heard dirty thoughts before. You’ve had them.

But never from someone so composed. So quiet. So far removed from the possibility of ever touching you.

And that’s what makes it dangerous.

He has no idea you can hear him.

And worse — he’s not trying to stop.

The rest of the day, you try to block him out.

You build mental walls. Steel-plated. Brick-layered. Reinforced with every ounce of discipline you’ve learned since puberty, when people’s thoughts started bleeding into your skull like background noise you couldn’t shut off.

But Reed’s thoughts don’t bleed. They pierce.

They stab through.

You’re elbow-deep in diagnostics when it happens again — no warning, no break in his typing cadence, no shift in posture.

Just a whisper inside your head like a hand between your thighs.

She’d come so pretty if I rubbed her clit just right. Not hard. Just enough to make her beg.

Your knees go weak.

You drop the calibration tool.

It clangs against the lab floor and rolls under a counter.

Reed doesn’t turn around. He never does.

But in your head:

Imagine her on my desk, shaking. Panting. Just a little ruined.

Would her thighs tremble when I pull out, or when I sink in?

Fuck. I’d edge her until she sobs.

You squeeze your eyes shut. Grip the counter. Count backward.

Ten. Nine. Eight.

It’s not enough.

I wouldn’t even fuck her the first time. I’d make her ride my face. Learn how she moves. What makes her lose rhythm.

You suck in a breath and drop to your knees, fumbling under the bench for the runaway tool. Your fingers shake as you grab it.

You’re burning from the inside out.

He’s just standing there — chalk in one hand, the other curled around the lip of the console, muttering numbers under his breath.

As if he doesn’t know what he’s doing to you, like he isn’t narrating how he’d make you come.

You crawl out from under the counter, wiping your palms on your lab coat. Try to focus. Try to breathe.

But the thoughts keep going.

She probably moans softly. Gasps, maybe. One hand on my wrist, the other gripping the sheets.

Would she let me come on her face? Or just in her mouth?

Your hand slips on the console. The system glitches — an alert flashes red on the screen.

“Everything okay?” Reed says, without turning.

His tone is bland. Neutral. The same one he uses when he’s asking about error margins or component failures.

You force your voice to steady. “Fine. Sorry. Just bumped the interface.”

“Run the sequence again,” he says.

You do.

But your fingers tremble the whole time. And every time you glance up, you see the line of his spine, the tension in his forearms, the methodical tap of chalk against board — like he’s not thinking about bending you over the lab bench and pressing his mouth between your thighs.

But he is.

And now you know.

It’s not supposed to be a social thing.

You’re huddled in the lab with Reed, Johnny, and a visiting biophysicist from MIT who talks with his hands and keeps spilling his coffee. It’s late afternoon. The conversation’s circling around particle harmonics and neural feedback delay — nothing you haven’t heard before.

Reed, as usual, is silent. Focused. His back to the room, one hand scrolling equations, the other holding a piece of chalk he hasn’t used in fifteen minutes.

You think maybe you’ll survive the day without hearing anything from him. You’ve built the walls again. Brick by brick. You’re not letting him in.

And then Johnny goes, “I still don’t get why you didn’t just read her.”

You blink. “What?”

Johnny laughs. “Come on, don’t play dumb. You could’ve. You always say that trick comes in handy when people lie.”

Your blood goes cold. You look up slowly. “Johnny…”

“Oh shit. Was that not public knowledge?” He raises both palms in mock defense. “Sorry. I mean, I thought everyone knew.”

They don’t. Not everyone. But Sue, Ben, Johnny — they do. Reed, you’d assumed… maybe. But not definitely.

Until now.

Because Reed goes still.

Not visibly. Not to the average eye. But you see it.

His hand halts mid-scroll. The chalk pauses just before touching the board.

He doesn’t turn around. Of course not. He never does.

But the entire current in the room changes.

The MIT guy, oblivious, whistles low. “Telepathy? That’s incredible.”

“Yeah,” Johnny says, grinning. “She’s like a human lie detector. Except it’s not like she goes digging, you know? She just picks stuff up.”

The scientist nods. “Is it active or passive?”

“Both,” you say, voice light, controlled. “Depends on the day. And the person.”

“Must be fun.”

You shrug. “Sometimes.”

Johnny leans on the console. “Sometimes not, huh?”

Your eyes flick briefly to Reed’s back. His hand is still frozen in midair, like he’s been caught in amber.

You look away.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Sometimes… not so much.”

The conversation moves on.

Someone cracks a joke about lab gossip being unsafe around you. The MIT guy asks a question about psi-shielding. Johnny starts talking about that one time you ruined a poker night by knowing someone’s cards.

But Reed doesn’t speak, doesn’t move.

For the first time in days, his thoughts are silent.

You feel the absence like a blow.

No whispers. No fantasies. No wondering what your cunt tastes like or how you sound when you come. Just—

Nothing.

A void. You should be relieved. Instead, you feel like you’ve been locked out of something you didn’t know you needed.

Behind Reed’s still frame, you can sense it — the slow, dangerous coiling of tension.

Not shame, not guilt. Only awareness.

He knows, and now he’s thinking about what you’ve heard.

You don’t sleep that night.

You lie in bed with your mind reeling, blankets too heavy, your chest too tight. The silence in Reed’s head echoes louder than any of the filth that came before. You didn’t realize how much you’d come to expect his thoughts. Not want them — not exactly — but… count on them. Like a metronome. Like proof he was human under all that restraint.

Now?

Nothing.

No late-night fantasies. No secret hypotheses about your body. Just a wall — colder and more deliberate than anything you’ve ever put up yourself.

He knows.

And now you’re waiting for the fallout.

You think about packing.

You think about going to Sue and getting ahead of it — telling her you’re sorry, you didn’t mean to listen, you never asked for the thoughts to come in like that, you tried so fucking hard to block them out.

You think about how Sue would tilt her head, lips pressed together in that gentle, unreadable way of hers, and say, “I’ll talk to Reed.”

That thought alone makes you want to crawl out of your skin.

You don’t go to the lab the next morning.

You call in sick — stomach flu, maybe food poisoning.

You spend the day in your apartment, curled on your couch with a half-drunk mug of tea and the soft buzz of muted news. You try to distract yourself with papers, textbooks, even an old simulation of Mars terrain scans.

None of it sticks.

Because the only thought that plays on repeat is this:

You’ve ruined it.

You had one shot. One internship. One thread of hope that could’ve led to something real — something bigger than the lab, bigger than Earth.

You’ve wanted space since you were old enough to name constellations. You were supposed to be part of the next crew rotation. If you did well, if you impressed the right people, if Reed thought you were worth keeping—

But now all he sees is a liability. An intruder. A mind he can’t trust.

Maybe he’s already filed a report. Maybe by Monday you’ll be reassigned to inventory. Or security compliance. Some corner of the building where they can keep you out of people’s heads and off the launch manifest.

You curl tighter. You don’t cry but your throat aches like you might.

You’d rather he shouted. Rather he confronted you. Rather he called you invasive or perverse or unprofessional.

Instead, he just disappeared.

That silence — the absence of his voice in your head — feels like the worst kind of punishment.

You come in early the next day.

Earlier than usual. Earlier than anyone else should be there.

Except he’s already in the lab.

You hear the soft click of the console keys before you see him. The low whir of cooling fans. The faint scratch of chalk across board.

When you step inside, Reed doesn’t turn.

He’s where he always is — back straight, eyes forward, sleeves rolled, a shadow of stubble softening the sharp lines of his jaw. His body is still, but his mind—

His mind is deafening.

F=ma. ΔS = Qrev/T. Entropy is always increasing. Entropy is always increasing. Entropy is always increasing—

You press your hand to the doorframe.

It’s not that he’s shut you out.

It’s that he’s replaced the thoughts. Stuffed the filth back into its cage and barricaded the door with math. With precision. With the cold comfort of numbers.

But it’s loud. So loud.

Equations loop over and over, like static, like punishment, like he’s trying to drown himself in calculus and thermodynamics until there’s no room left for want.

You don’t say anything.

You just take your seat. Log into the console. Pretend the silence is normal. That the walls haven’t shifted. That this isn’t your fault.

But then, after twenty-eight minutes of stillness—

He turns.

Slowly.

His eyes meet yours for the first time in days.

And then, like the flip of a switch, the equations stop.

The noise cuts.

And what follows is even worse.

“I owe you an apology.”

The words land like glass.

You look up — stunned, unsure you heard him right.

Reed continues, voice stiff, almost formal. Like he’s reciting something practiced.

“I was unaware that my thoughts were… accessible. To you.”

He swallows. His gaze doesn’t waver. “If I caused any discomfort, or crossed any boundary—”

“You didn’t,” you say, too fast.

But he doesn’t stop.

“I understand if you wish to leave the internship. I will personally ensure a neutral letter of recommendation and full academic credit, if you—”

“No.” You shake your head, your throat tight. “I don’t want to leave.”

Silence.

Your breath trembles in your chest.

“I’m not upset,” you say, softer. “I never was.”

Reed stares at you.

You’ve never seen him look so unsure.

“I should not have allowed those thoughts to form,” he says, quieter now. “I certainly shouldn’t have repeated them.”

You offer a breath of laughter — too hollow to be real. “You didn’t say them.”

He blinks. “I thought them.”

You nod. “You did.”

A pause.

Then you add, “But I heard more than what you thought.”

His brows draw together. “Meaning?”

“I heard how hard you tried not to.”

“I’m truly so, so sorry,” he says.

The words sound foreign in his mouth — like he doesn’t quite know how to say them aloud. His voice drops as he says it, too, like he wants to bury the sentence somewhere low between you.

“It was unprofessional.”

You blink. It hits different when it’s said that plainly — not just the apology, but the weight of the word.

Unprofessional.

He means it. You can hear it in his thoughts now, the edge softening — shame curling in the quiet corners. He’s not just sorry you heard him. He’s sorry he thought it at all. Sorry he let himself want. Sorry his discipline failed.

“Reed,” you say, gently. “It’s alright.”

He doesn’t move, he doesn’t breathe, for a second.

It’s not the kind of apology that’s waiting for forgiveness. It’s the kind that assumes none is possible.

“I should have—” he begins, but the sentence crumbles.

You step closer before you can think better of it. Not too close. Just enough to catch the tiniest flicker in his eyes — a shift, like he’s bracing for something more than your words.

“I’ve heard worse,” you say, lips twitching in the ghost of a smile. “You just think very… graphically.”

His mouth parts — just slightly. For the first time, you see something almost human flicker behind his usual impassivity.

Embarrassment.

He opens his mouth to speak again, but nothing comes.

You reach for the console behind you, just to give your hands something to do.

“If you’re wondering whether I was offended,” you say, “I wasn’t.”

His gaze lifts to yours slowly. “You weren’t.”

You shake your head. “I didn’t say it wasn’t… surprising.”

Something changes in the set of his shoulders. The faintest drop. Like a gear slipping in a machine.

You can hear it again, too — faint, fainter than before, but real: She’s not angry. She’s not leaving.

You lean back against the edge of the table, arms crossed loosely. “I’ve had these powers my whole life, you know. You hear people think things they’d never say. Half of them wouldn’t even admit it to themselves.”

Reed doesn’t respond. But you feel the shift. The stillness that isn't emptiness anymore — it’s presence. It’s him, fully here, not hiding behind data or circuits or chalk.

“It can be fun sometimes,” you admit. “Other times…” You trail off. “Not so much.”

His fingers flex slightly where they rest at his sides.

You almost expect him to end it there. To nod, turn away, retreat to the board, drown himself in equations again.

But instead, he says, quietly:

“I didn’t mean for you to feel like an object.”

Your chest tightens.

You meet his gaze.

“I didn’t.”

You watch him for a moment, unsure what to say next.

The lab is quiet. Still. The hum of the equipment blends into the background like white noise. Reed hasn’t moved since his last apology — hands loose at his sides, eyes lowered just enough that you can’t quite tell if he’s looking at you or through you.

You shift slightly on the edge of the table.

“Are you okay?” you ask, softly.

It’s the gentlest question in the world. You don’t expect much. A nod, maybe. Or the barest deflection.

Instead, he huffs a laugh.

Short. Quiet. Almost self-deprecating.

And so out of place coming from him that it draws your eyes back to his face immediately.

He still doesn’t smile. Of course he doesn’t. But there’s a flicker at the corner of his mouth, like he might have once, in another life, remembered how.

Your chest eases — just barely — and you smile at him. Tentative. Careful. The kind of smile you give a wounded animal when you’re holding out a hand.

Reed blinks, and this time his gaze meets yours without hesitation.

He doesn’t say yes, or no, or I will be.

But he doesn’t look away.

He doesn’t turn back to the board.

You take that as enough.

The air between you settles, not warm exactly, but less charged. Less sharp.

You glance down at your tablet, then back up. “Do you want to… work on the gamma dispersion scan?”

A pause. Then he nods.

It’s quiet again as you both fall into rhythm — screens blinking softly, files opening, measurements calibrating. For ten minutes, it almost feels normal. Like none of this happened. Like your body hasn’t been the subject of his private curiosity. Like you haven’t heard, in his own voice, the words tits and cunt wrapped in awe like he’s discovering a new element.

But every so often, you catch the stillness in him.

The way he doesn’t quite type as fluidly as before. The way his thoughts — no longer loud, no longer obscene — hover just out of reach. Reined in. Scrubbed clean.

Control, you hear him think, a little later. Keep control.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Because now that you’ve forgiven him — now that you’ve stayed — he’s afraid he’ll slip again.

He’s afraid of wanting.

Of letting you hear it.

And maybe, more than anything, he’s afraid you won’t look at him the same if you do.

You wait until the next lull. After the data finishes compiling. After you both fall into quiet, careful work, pretending the air isn’t thick with everything unsaid.

Then, without looking up, you ask:

“What are you really thinking?”

The words slip out like a whisper. Not a demand. A coaxing.

You hear him stop breathing.

His fingers freeze on the console.

You look up.

He’s staring down at his hands like they belong to someone else. His brows twitch — the smallest knot of conflict pulling across his forehead.

You don’t press. You wait.

He swallows hard.

“I—” His voice is rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “I don’t think I should say.”

You nod slowly. “I know.”

There’s a pause. The kind that feels like a coin balanced on its edge — waiting to tip.

Then, finally, Reed lifts his gaze to meet yours.

It’s not a sharp glance. Not a command or a calculation. It’s vulnerable. Raw.

“Are you sure?”

You nod before your brain can stop you. “I’m sure.”

Your heart hammers against your ribs.

The silence that follows isn’t heavy. It’s charged.

And then—soft, almost reverent, like he’s saying it for himself more than for you—his thought brushes your mind.

She’s the most astonishing thing I’ve ever seen.

You don’t move.

She’s smart. Composed. And when she smiles at me like that, I want to get on my knees and put my mouth on her cunt until she forgets every name but mine.

Your breath catches.

Reed’s eyes are still on yours. Steady. Honest.

I want to see her fall apart. Hear her. Feel her thighs around my face. I want her to let go with me. Just once. Just to know what it’s like to make someone like her come.

You’re frozen.

Flushed.

His thoughts echo again, softer now, barely there:

I would be gentle. At first. I’d learn her rhythms. I’d listen.

You part your lips, but no sound comes out.

Reed doesn’t look away.

You see the tension in his jaw. The restraint. The ache he’s too careful to name aloud.

But this time, he’s not hiding.

He’s giving you the truth.

And your whole body sings with it.

The silence stretches, but it doesn’t break.

Reed watches you like he’s waiting for you to flinch. For you to run. For you to laugh it off or look away or say no.

You don’t.

Your breath is shallow. Your pulse pounds behind your ribs like a warning, like a promise. But you don’t move.

You stay.

Reed’s fingers flex slightly at his sides. A twitch. A tremor. And then—carefully, like he’s unsure the ground will hold—he takes one slow step forward.

Your heart leaps.

He pauses.

Then another step.

Still watching you.

You straighten, knees brushing the edge of the console. Your hands—useless at your sides—curl instinctively into the hem of your coat. You feel like a held breath. Like one word might shatter you.

And then he’s close enough that you can see it in his face—the nerves he’s trying to hide. The deep ache folded into his silence. The apology still lingering beneath his restraint.

But also the want.

So much want.

You reach out.

Just a little.

And that’s all it takes.

His hand lifts—slow, hesitant—and finds yours midair. The contact is gentle. Barely there. Your fingers brush his palm and his thumb curves awkwardly over your knuckles, like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

But you link your fingers with his.

You squeeze.

His breath shudders.

You’re close now. Not quite touching chest to chest. Not yet. But his body radiates heat like a solar flare, and your joined hands hang between you like a thread you’re both afraid to tug.

He doesn’t say anything.

He doesn’t have to.

His thoughts are quiet, but open. Not graphic. Not filthy this time.

She’s here. She’s still here.

You lift your other hand—slowly, carefully—and touch the crook of his elbow. His arm tenses for half a second, then relaxes under your touch.

His hand in yours tightens. Just a little.

You smile at him. Tentative. Like before.

And this time, Reed exhales like it breaks something loose inside him.

You lean in slowly.

No rush. No sharp breath or whispered question. Just instinct. Trust. The press of his fingers wrapped in yours.

Your lips find his.

A soft, fleeting brush.

So light you could pretend it didn’t happen.

But it does.

He stills.

For a heartbeat, maybe two.

Then something inside him snaps.

Reed surges forward—still silent, but no longer hesitant. His free hand lifts to cup your jaw, fingers spanning your cheek with a trembling kind of reverence. His mouth crashes into yours again, firmer this time, open, hungry.

You gasp, and he takes it.

Takes you.

His lips drag over yours like he’s starved. His body leans into yours, chasing heat, chasing breath, chasing something he’s kept buried under equations and silence for too damn long.

You kiss him back, matching his pace, your fingers gripping the front of his shirt just to stay grounded.

It’s not perfect. It’s messy.

Teeth clash once. Your nose bumps his. He exhales sharply against your mouth, and you laugh, surprised and dizzy.

Reed groans low in his throat like it drives him wild.

His grip shifts—hand sliding to the back of your neck, the other pressing firm at your waist, tugging you closer. There’s no more distance now. You’re chest to chest, breath to breath, his mouth working yours like it’s a formula he’s been dying to solve.

You reach blindly for something—anything—to anchor yourself.

Your fingers find the edge of his belt.

Not teasing. Not intentional.

Just need.

A way to keep your feet on the ground while the rest of you unravels.

You clutch the leather and kiss him deeper.

And Reed—God, Reed—moans softly into your mouth like he’s the one overwhelmed.

His thoughts flood through you again, all barriers down now.

So soft. So warm. She kissed me first.

I want to lift her onto the desk. Get my hands under that coat.

I want to taste her. Right now. Right fucking now.

Your knees buckle slightly, and he catches you with both arms, tugging you flush against him, the hard press of his belt against your stomach making your skin spark.

You don’t speak.

Neither does he.

But you kiss like you’re telling secrets. Like you’re breaking rules. Like every second is borrowed time.

Reed drops to his knees.

It happens fast. One second his mouth is pressed to yours, the next he’s sinking down like gravity’s claimed him — like he’s meant to be there. At your feet. Between your legs. Worshipful and wild.

His hands slide up your thighs, warm and unhurried. He lifts your skirt like he’s unfolding a secret he’s only ever dreamed of touching. You brace one hand against the console behind you, the other tangled in his hair, fingers trembling.

He doesn’t speak.

He stares.

Like your thighs are a formula. Like the space between them holds the answer to every question he’s never let himself ask.

Then his hands slide higher, thumbs brushing the crease of your hips, and he leans in.

He kisses the inside of your knee. Then higher.

Your breath catches as his mouth moves up your thigh—soft, open-mouthed kisses dragging heat across your skin. He hums low in his throat, like he’s cataloging every inch, and you feel it all the way to your core.

“Fuck,” you whisper, your head tipping back.

Reed doesn’t stop.

He kisses just beside the place you want him most. Once. Twice. Then his hands shift—firm on your hips—and he nuzzles against your panties, dragging his nose along the damp fabric like he needs to breathe you.

And then—his thoughts, finally, finally back:

She’s soaked. God, she’s so wet. All for me.

Your legs shake.

He pulls your panties aside and exhales softly at the sight.

Perfect.

And then his mouth is on you.

You cry out—sharp and helpless—the sound echoing off the walls of the lab. He licks a slow stripe through your folds, groaning like he’s tasted something he’ll never recover from.

You grip his hair harder.

Reed doesn’t stop. Doesn’t hesitate. He licks you like he needs it, tongue dragging up to circle your clit, then back down to press flat against your entrance. His thoughts are a blur—lust, wonder, obsession—louder now, less composed.

You whimper.

She’s so sweet. Want to keep her like this. Want her coming on my tongue.

He moans against you, the vibration shooting through your whole body. His mouth moves faster, more deliberate, like he’s testing responses, building a pattern. Every flick of his tongue is data. Every gasp from you is a new variable to study.

Your knees threaten to give, and he only grips your thighs tighter, pulling you closer, mouth never leaving you.

“Reed—fuck, I—”

You shatter.

Come for me, he thinks, right as his lips wrap around your clit and suck.

Your cry rips through the air, your body spasming against his mouth. He doesn’t let up. He holds you through it—tongue coaxing, soothing, tasting every twitch and shake as you come undone.

And when it’s over, when your chest is heaving and your thighs are trembling, he looks up at you.

Mouth wet. Eyes dark.

Ravenous.

He stands, slow and steady, hands dragging up your thighs as he rises. When he’s eye level again, you see it—his mouth slick with you, his chest rising hard like he’s been holding his breath the whole time.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

Just pulls you in and wraps both arms around your waist, pressing his face into your neck. He inhales deeply.

And fucking hell, he smells like you.

“Are you alright?” he murmurs, voice low and gritty in your ear.

You let out a breathless laugh, your chest still fluttering. “You’re seriously asking me that?”

He lets out a sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a groan — and you feel it more than hear it, vibrating against your throat. His hips are right against you now, belt biting into your lower stomach. He’s hard. So fucking hard.

You push against him, mouth near his jaw. “Reed.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you. And when he does, your hands come up to frame his face.

Not tender. Hungry.

You drag your thumb across his bottom lip. His eyes flick down to your mouth like he’s about to lose it.

“What are you thinking?” you ask.

A pause.

Then his gaze darkens, and the answer bleeds out of him—wordless but clear.

I want to fuck her right here. I want to bend her over this table and hear what she sounds like when she’s cock-drunk.

Your knees go weak.

And he sees it.

You don’t say a word.

You just drop your hand from his face, trail it down between your bodies, and reach for his belt.

Reed doesn’t stop you.

Doesn’t even blink.

He watches, jaw tight, as you tug the leather loose, then work open the button and drag the zipper down. The metal teeth part with a low rasp, and he exhales sharply when your hand slips inside.

You wrap your fingers around him.

Hot. Heavy. Hard as hell.

“Jesus,” you murmur under your breath, stroking him once, slow and deliberate.

Reed’s head tips back.

His hips jerk forward slightly, chasing the friction, but he still doesn’t touch you. Just lets you have him, your hand moving over his cock like you’ve been thinking about it for weeks.

(You have.)

His thoughts are a mess—fractals of want, raw and unfiltered.

You squeeze a little tighter.

She’s touching me. She’s—fuck—she’s got her hand on my cock. I’m not going to last.

His breath catches.

“You’ve been thinking about this?” you ask, voice low, thumb swiping the head.

“Every goddamn day,” he grits out.

You jerk him faster.

He growls.

And then—too fast to brace for—he grabs your hips and spins you around.

Your palms slam against the console. You gasp, but you don’t stop him—not when you feel him crowding up behind you, not when his hands drag your skirt back up to your waist, not when he rips your panties down your thighs in one fluid motion.

One hand slides up your spine, pushing between your shoulder blades until your chest is flush to the table.

The other guides his cock to your entrance.

“Say you want this,” he breathes out, the head of him nudging against your slick folds.

You push back into him.

“Reed,” you pant, “just fuck me already.”

He groans like it’s ripped out of his throat and then he slams into you hard.

Your gasp turns into a choked moan as your body jolts forward from the force of it. One of his hands clamps tight around your hip, the other braced beside your head on the console. His cock drives into you again, again, again—deep, punishing thrusts that make your breath stutter with each slap of skin on skin.

The sounds echo off the lab walls—your gasps, his ragged breath, the obscene wet suck of your cunt taking him over and over.

“Fuck,” Reed growls, hips snapping, “you feel even better than I thought.”

Your eyes flutter shut.

His mouth is right at your ear now, breath hot and filthy.

“I’ve been thinking about this since the day you walked in,” he pants. “That face. Those sweet thighs. Wanted to bend you over this table and fuck you stupid.”

You cry out—high, breathless—when he grinds into you just right, cock dragging over every swollen nerve inside you.

“I knew you’d be wet for me,” he growls. “But this?”

His fingers slip down, find your clit, and rub fast, hard, cruel.

“You’re soaked. So fucking messy.”

You brace yourself on trembling arms, the pressure building fast—too fast. He’s everywhere, filling you, touching you, whispering things he should never say out loud.

“You gonna come for me, pretty girl?” he grits out, voice tight and close.

You whimper, legs shaking. “I—fuck, I think I—”

“You’re close,” he hisses. “I can feel it.”

His pace goes brutal. He fucks into you like he wants to break you, the slap of his hips against your ass echoing over every surface, every panel and beaker forgotten. Your cunt clamps down, fluttering, and your voice breaks into a cry as your climax rips through you.

You don’t just come. You gush.

A warm burst sprays out of you, splashing down your thighs, hitting the tile with a wet splatter. You cry out, humiliated and wrecked and still twitching, your walls milking his cock in desperate aftershocks.

Reed groans like he’s dying.

“God damn,” he breathes.

You can’t speak. Your cheek is pressed to the console, mouth open, panting, whole body slick and trembling.

He doesn’t stop. He fucks you through it, harder now, more ragged. You feel the way your slick coats his cock, dripping down onto the lab floor with every brutal thrust.

You feel ruined. Your legs give out.

There’s no warning. No graceful slide. Just the quivering collapse of overstimulated muscles, your knees hitting the tile with a soft thud, skirt bunched around your waist, panties still tangled around your thighs.

You don’t care, you don't think you could.

Not with your cunt still twitching from the last orgasm, your thighs sticky, the lab floor glistening with the evidence of just how hard he made you come.

Reed groans above you and you glance up.

He’s flushed and wrecked, shirt untucked, cock still slick with your arousal as he strokes himself, fast and frantic, hand gliding over the mess you left behind.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You look—Jesus.”

You open your mouth, just slightly.

Not coy nor innocent, but ready.

You brace yourself on one arm and tilt your chin up, eyes locked on him. The unspoken invitation hits him like a punch.

His grip falters. He bites down a moan. You see his whole body jerk with restraint.

“Please,” you whisper, voice hoarse and aching. “I want it.”

That does it.

He grunts, cock twitching in his hand. “Fuck—fuck—”

He steps forward, the tip of him flushed and slick and angry-looking, and you hold steady even as your thighs tremble. His breath goes wild, chest heaving as he pumps himself harder, faster, your name breaking on his tongue like a prayer.

“Gonna come,” he pants. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

Thick, hot ropes paint your cheek, your lips, your chin. One lands across your chest, the rest splashing across your flushed skin. You close your eyes as the first drops hit, lips parted as you gasp at the heat of it.

He moans—deep, guttural, undone.

You feel it drip down your neck, cooling already.

When you blink up at him again, his hand is still wrapped around his cock, his chest still rising like he’s run a mile. His eyes meet yours—dark, dazed, hungry—and the raw possessiveness isn’t there.

There's only you.

His gaze drops to the mess he’s made of your face, and then to your mouth.

You swipe your thumb across your bottom lip, tasting him.

His breath stutters again.

“Holy shit,” he whispers.

You smile, slow and blissful.

#tbr list !#I AM READING THIS WHEN I GET HOME

3K notes · View notes

dontpulloutman · 8 days ago

Note

Can I request accidental pregnancy after a one night stand with Superman but reader want nothing to do with him and wants to raise the child on her own but she works at the planet so Clark is trying everything he can to help her <3

Clark's Baby Daddy Chronicles l C.K.

w.c: 8.3k

t.w.: Smut, P in V, Oral f receiving, sub/dom headspaces mentioned, brief Daddy kink, Pregnancy, lots of fluff, lots of angst, lots of silliness, Reader does not like Superheroes, Clark is just a sweet man trying to take care of his babies, lil grumpy x sunshine vibe, descriptions of pregnancy and discomfort that comes with it

a/n: Thank you so much for the request! I loved this! <3 Please read all warnings before interacting with my works. 18+ only!

Summary: Clark ensures he could be part of the baby's life and yours.

Month Four: Nausea

You hated being coddled. A group dinner was turned into a love fest, just for you.

It was suffocating being around people who had baby fever, especially when they weren’t dealing with pregnancy themselves. You depart from the table, gaining the courage to order some food. You hear a metal chair scrape irritatingly across the ground.

You knew exactly who had followed behind you.

You stand in line with your hands in your pockets, you briefly think about how you needed new trousers, they were getting a little tight on your stomach. You loosen your belt, allowing more room for the soft swell.

The atmosphere was mellow, lights dim and verging on yellow in the trendy new spot near the Daily Planet building. Fake plants collecting dust were scattered around the restaurant.

Clark’s arm bumps against yours as the server takes their sweet time taking orders. You check the time on your watch, they had a whole speech, the line was unnecessarily long. You catch his eye, lingering over your hands lightly cradling your stomach, thumbs hanging on to your belt loops.

You put them down to your sides self consciously.

The options were rather limited, gourmet deep dish, gourmet chicken tenders, gourmet burgers, gourmet deli sandwiches. You settle for a chicken Caesar salad, Clark butts in with his own order of a double cheeseburger with fries before the cashier could ask if you wanted anything else.

The total was given, and Clark pressed his card against the screen before you could even reach into your pocket for your wallet.

Your arms are crossed lazily as you balance yourself against the counter near the pickup area. Clark has his hands in his pockets and stares at the ground beside you. He told you to wait at the table with the rest of your coworkers, but you refused.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say lowly. He gives you a tight-lipped smile. He waves a dismissive hand.

“Pfft. No big deal.”

His cheeks were rosy with a light blush as he avoided your gaze. You sigh, you didn’t really want the pity or extra attention.

Much less from him. He was the most annoying coddler of them all.

He takes the tray of food back to the table, walking a step behind you. Everyone turns to see you walk over. You hold back a snort as Lois awkwardly pulls back a chair for you.

Everyone eats and chats, sometimes the conversation is directed to you, asking indirect questions about your pregnancy.

How are you feeling? Seeing anyone? Have you set up a registry?

You were four months along, you were just barely showing underneath your loose clothes. But months before, everyone figured out your gestational status.

Maybe it was because you were more irritable. You think it was because of the way you stormed out of an editor meeting mid way through to puke your guts out in the bathroom nearby.

Clark had always been the most attentive. He even confirmed it in front of everyone. Steve invited the newsroom out for drinks, you agreed.

Clark narrowed his eyes at you, everyone gathered near the entrance to the Planet, dividing up and waiting for Ubers. Lois was nudging your shoulder, challenging you to a drinking game.

“Aren’t you pregnant?” Clark blurts out.

You were about to tell Lois that you weren’t going to drink, hoping she would catch the hint as you pressed a hand to your stomach. You froze in place, blinking as everyone turned to you.

The casual drinks turned into a celebration. Everyone wishing the new mother a healthy pregnancy. You’d smiled through grit teeth as everyone made a ruckus at the bar and toasted to you.

Clark would never forget your glare. You didn’t speak to him directly for a week. Your dry emails scalded him.

The conversation is focused on something else now, you pick at the pieces of parmesan cheese left in your bowl. It was really good. Your lips are downturned in a small frown. You should have gotten something more filling. Your stomach growls lightly, imperceptibly.

Clark shifts the tray of his fries in your direction, his attention directed at the conversation as Jimmy tells a story of a date he recently went on, his hand flinging every which way as he dramatizes the woman.

You cautiously take some of his fries, dipping them into the ketchup he had poured out on the tray.

Clark glances in your direction, sending you a soft smile, mouthing a ‘you ok?’ from across the table. You nod and his eyes twinkle. His smile widens for a second.

Your cheeks sting from the heat rising within them.

…

Month Five: Development

Whenever you look through the maternity section, your brain shuts off. You leave the site or leave the store entirely.

They were just so boring. You liked your style, you thought your bump looked cute when you wore a tank top and cargo pants. But a lot of your usual attire didn’t fit anymore.

You think the baby’s a big one, judging by the look on your doctor's face, when she told you the growth was super healthy for 19 weeks.

The adjective makes you gag. Superman gives you a super baby. You sigh, your folder landing on your desk a little too forcefully as you scoot the chair out from under the desk.

You sit down and unzip your fly, finally allowing yourself to take a deep breath, the soft swell of your belly starting to rest against your lap. Your shirts ride up and your pants were held on by a hair tie you borrowed from someone when you just couldn’t zip up your jeans again.

A cup lands on your desk, a smoothie cup. You sigh. Clark says it’s a good source of nutrients, all natural sugars and all of that other healthy bs. They were also extremely good, no matter how hard you try to find anything negative to say.

Clark was behaving like a mother hen, but most of the time you couldn't be bothered to push him and his attention away.

He waits by your desk as you take a sip, as he usually does to ensure your satisfaction.

You wince lightly. It tasted greener than usual. You smack your lips as you try to decipher if it was spinach or kale.

He extends a hand towards the smoothie, fingers bending repeatedly in a ‘gimme’ motion.

“I could get you another one,” he says softly, humorously.

You hold the cup tightly, pulling it closer to your chest. Gosh you were so cute. He knew how sensitive you were with smells and tastes now.

He changed his cologne after he gave you a side hug goodbye one night and you flinched.

It was right after taking you home, like he does most days.

It was strange how he stays as late as you now. He must be busier than usual. Certainly not waiting for you to pack up so he could offer you a ride or anything.

“I’ll deal,” you mumble, taking the straw and taking another sip. He lifts his hand in a sign of surrender, and he makes his way to his desk a couple of cubicles away.

You could see him in his cubicle because of his broad shoulders. Your hands twirl the straw absentmindedly, watching him clumsily organize his workspace.

You lean back against your chair, rolling it back to see his face more clearly over the desk shields.

He could feel your stare, the way you analyze him. He misses being able to tease you about your cold gaze.

He could hear you gulp. He could tell you liked this flavor. Some weird name like caterpillar fruit salad or something.

“Thank you.”

He lifts his head, glancing around the room. He almost wants to point at his chest to see if you were speaking to him.

You snort. His face turns red as he watches your lips spread into an amused smile.

You lift the cup, tapping against the side.

“Thank you, Clark.”

He smiles bashfully. Ducking his head as he waves you off. He sits down and you smile to yourself as you scoot closer to your keyboard.

A hand meets your shoulder, you jump. Your hands are pressed to your chest.

“When are you going to take that white boy home?”

You’re appalled. You make a sharp noise from the back of your throat, utterly appalled. Catherine Grant looks at you with a craze you haven’t seen before.

You pull her in closer, into the cubicle space. She moves your papers and sits on your desk, bending down to hear your whisper.

“It’s not like that.”

She scoffs. She looks at your desk, finding one of Clark’s notes on an article draft you were working on, he quite literally drew a smiley face and heart on a post-it. She scoffs again.

Cat was smart as a whip. She knew everything about everything. You couldn’t disagree with her more in this regard.

“It’s not,” you affirm. She gives you a look. The man was already clingy, helpful, and kind, sure. But if you would have asked him to jump off a cliff, he’d do it with a running start.

“He’s just nice. I’m literally pregnant."

She bites her fingernail, shaking her head.

“Pregnant and single,” she corrects.

She shimmies in her seat, wiggling her brows.

“Milky tits, a fat ass, c’mon. That would not stop a straight man with half a brain.”

Unfortunately, most men had even less than a third of a brain. You cross your arms. She stands at your glare, making her way back to her desk.

“I hear wedding bells in your future, babe,” she whispers harshly right next to your ear.

She passes by Clark’s desk and makes a motion of eating from a plate with a fork behind his back.

…

The newsroom was nearly empty, but you could hear typing ahead of you. You slowly peek to the side from your desk, Clark was ever so diligent at his desk.

The glow of the computer monitor reflects off of his glasses. You slowly inch away from the edge and refocus on your work.

He wonders when you’d start to pack the hell up and actually go home. He didn’t even think his fingers were capable of cramping up. But they did from being on the keyboard for so long.

He could see you, two desks away from him. His vision makes you easily visible. The fetus snugly cradled in your belly.

It makes him smile softly. He overheard you tell someone the baby was the size of a mango today. That was adorable.

He just wished he could go to appointments and shopping with you. He sighs, focusing back on his screen. Maybe get some kissing in too.

You don’t open your balcony door, there’s an excessive pile of leaves and dust on the ground and over the patio chairs.

You don’t even go out there anymore.

He was frustrated, but he understood. He used to joke that you had the same mentality as Lex Luthor who has progressively become an opposing voice to the conversation on Metahuman intervention and conflicts.

He understood your point. Superheroes could turn at any point. A bad day, a missed calculation could end up in so much destruction. And it already has.

But Superman was starting to show you how you and many others didn’t have to worry. There will always be a prevalence of good people.

It all fell apart.

He visited every night the week you found out you were pregnant, looking into your bedroom with X-ray vision, and watching as you retook pregnancy test after pregnancy test.

He’d watched you cry, he’d watched you zone out into your ceiling fan, even watched you as you slept, still sniffling.

You were scared. He was too.

“Holy shit- Clark.”

He sits up at your voice, his thoughts disappearing, replaced with a spike of anxiety rising through his throat.

Your chair rolls loudly as you push away from your desk.

He stands, almost knocking down his cubicle along with his chair as he rushes to your side. He kneels to your level. He looks over your body.

“What, what, what, what?” he asks in a panicked frenzy.

Your stare at your bump, eyes wide and flickering. As if waiting for something to rip through your skin and maul your face.

You yelp again, cupping your stomach in panic. He grips your desk chair, swerving it to the side to have you face him, his body between your legs.

His eyes squint lightly as he stares at your stomach. He doesn’t find anything wrong. The baby was curled in the amniotic sac, heartbeat stable.

A tiny leg twitches and he flinches. He takes a deep breath in.

“Kicking,” you sigh softly, astonished. It felt like flutters, you pressed a hand to the side, where you felt the movement.

You take his hand and place it to where the kicks are prominent. His hands shake, his palm smoothing over the fabric of your shirt. Clark’s hand was large. So warm. You just realized how close he was to you. His fingers glide underneath the waistband of your trousers, thumb rubbing the kicked spot tenderly.

It was so intimate, you swore his eyes were glistening with welling tears. He exhales shakily, adjusting his glasses and sweeping a hand across his curls as you let go of his hand.

His eyes land over your pelvis and he looks away quickly, clearing his throat as he stands. His cheeks turned pink. You glance down and you curse at yourself. Your panties were on full display, zipper wide open. You needed new pants.

…

It was a cool night, you zip up your jacket quickly and clutch the strap of your bag as you hop out of Clark’s car, he comes out of the driver's side and stares at you, opening and closing his mouth, wanting to say something.

It was cold, you wanted to get inside.

“Clark-” you start, wanting to thank him for the ride.

“I want to take you out to dinner.”

Your mouth shuts and your breath stutters. He stands up straighter amidst the silence.

“I mean- can I take you out to dinner- may I?”

…

“He asked you out?”

You nod.

“I think he has a fetish,” you say calmly as you hold up a onesie and feel the texture of the fabric. It was so soft, you pouted at the cute baby elephant design.

Lois looks concerned by your statement. She pushes down the onesie in your hand so that you drop it back into the pile of baby clothes already in your shopping cart.

She lifts a brow and crosses her arms.

“I’m sorry, what?”

You shrug, pushing the cart to the maternity aisle. Lois follows, lifting up clothes, allowing you to either nod or wince before it either goes into the cart or is left behind.

“Well, he just likes you. He always has,” she says carefully. You attempt to recall instances where you felt his interest before your pregnancy. You guess you just didn’t notice.

“Since when?” you ask.

“The moment he walked into the Planet and saw you almost put your fist in Jimmy's stomach for stealing your story.”

You purse your lips and shake your head. Lois sighs.

You bought some pants and shirts for work, a dress, pjs and underwear. Lois also chipped in and bought some onesies, claiming that as godmother she needed to provide early.

You grumbled at the self-appointment.

Being on your feet had you winded, your soles ached. You sip on your lemon water, taking a break from shopping as you take lunch. Lois swirls the straw in her drink.

Everyone was too afraid to ask you questions. No one knew you were seeing anyone. Many were theorizing the baby was Clark’s but given by the way you spoke about him, it seemed unlikely.

“So, do you know who the father is? I mean has he offered to be there for the baby?”

She avoids your gaze as she asks, looking to the side as if the topic didn’t interest her as much as it did. You look off into the distance and let out a long, heavy sigh.

“Remember that interview I did about five months ago?”

It took her a moment. She startles you as she leans over the table. She cups your face and makes you turn your head. Your lips pursed, her eyes widened, and her mouth opened in shock.

“Superman?!”

…

Month Zero: Conception

“You’re so annoying,” you grit out.

“That’s not what you said the night before, or the night before, or the night before…”

You grip onto his shoulders tightly. His suit was on the floor, each piece making a trail to your kitchen. Your ass slid against your kitchen island as he pumped into you.

You kiss him harshly, teeth clinking, lips bruising and leaving him breathless. Your thighs spread as you wrap your legs around his waist.

His hand twists your shirt at the small of your back as he thrusts in a steady rhythm, the fabric tightens around your torso and highlights every dip and curve. His hips slam onto your pelvis, making your body jiggle with each beat.

“S-shut up-“ you stutter.

He came to you at this point. Your work relationship strong due to his punctuality.

He’d arrive at your apartment's balcony, wait there as you got your recorder, your pen, and your notebook ready.

You’d open your sliding door, dressed professionally in your pajamas. He’d step in with his hands intertwined and in front of him. His cape would caress your bare legs, like a breeze in the summer night.

You came at him with tough questions. He’d get heated, you’d shift in your seat. He always smelled your arousal.

And you’d always spread your legs for him the second he confronted you, stepping between them as you sat on your couch, his cock covered in Kryptonian fabric straining in your direction, willing you to touch.

You wouldn’t publish the interviews. So, he’d come back to try again.

He carries you to your bed, despite your growls and barks, you really didn’t bite. He could feel you soften underneath him as he drills into your tight wet hole over and over again.

Your nails dig into his skin, barely leaving a mark, if only light red lines on his back as you took his cock throughout the night.

You’re left a panting mess, lower belly painted in white, a path leading to your pussy, his seed dripping from your folds.

He had left a 50-dollar bill on your dresser. He didn’t pull out quick enough. An honest mistake when your walls got so tight he didn’t even want to move.

He was going to come back the next day, probably check if you took a morning after pill, if not tease you about your frequent forgetfulness due to stress.

That was the plan, until he was accused of attempting to conquer the world and build a harem.

Your balcony was locked, blinds closed shut. You never answered despite his soft knocks. You didn’t trust superheroes, he knew this well.

He broke what little faith you had in him, and it wasn’t even his fault.

…

You pinch the bridge of your nose, sighing out as you finish your recount of events. It gave you a headache whenever you thought about Superman for too long. He just recently stopped knocking at your balcony door, about the same time Clark asked you to dinner.

Lois nods along. Oh Clark. He was going to be a father. Out of wedlock no less, she wonders what the midwestern farm boy thinks of that. Her lips purse.

He’s too open minded to be thinking of that type of stuff. She doesn’t approve of his “plan”. She wonders what you would say when you realized. Because you will realize.

The baby has potential super strength and might have laser beams shooting out of its eyes, but the child’s will also have an uncanny appearance to Clark Kent.

“What did you say to Clark?”

You look down at your plate of lunch, picking at the pieces of food with your fork. Lois sips her lemonade as you mutter.

“I said yes.”

She almost spits out her drink from laughter. Clark is so screwed.

…

Month Six: Libido highs

You were so soft. Softer than a rose petal. He could tell you liked being cared for, pampered. But you just didn’t open up.

He could tell by the way your heart fluttered each time he got you something sweet from the cafe next door. When he would bring you fresh flowers to decorate your desk each week.

He loved taking care of you, taking you home, asking about your day especially when you had difficulty expressing yourself with anything other than irritation.

A compromise was made as you started dating. A subconscious compromise. He’d take you home right after seven at the latest. Straight home. He’d come in and make you dinner, maybe even let you help.

Then he’d be on his merry way home.

You’d relax and work on your laptop, snug as a bug, freshly showered, and in your pajamas for the night, an oversized shirt and sleep shorts.

You were doing just that tonight, watching reality tv, a hand absentmindedly rubbing over your belly as you zoned out.

But something was different. Your energy finally increased over the past week or so. You move as if your center of gravity wasn’t shifted completely. Like a lioness on the prowl. You turn to stare at him as if he were prey, hands tight against the back of the couch.

You had acted this way the whole day, eyes following him as he made his way through meetings, calls, errands.

“Can you stay the night?” you ask, your head resting on your arms, resting on the back of the couch as you watch him wash the dishes from your kitchen. You bite your lip as his tank top was visible over his dress shirt. You imagine this was how it felt to see a girl's bra through her shirt.

You smile innocently as his eyes roam over the way you're on your knees on top of the couch. He shifts and faces the sink, willing his growing boner to soothe over. The shirt was loose over your shoulders, exposing your collarbones. You weren’t wearing a bra, apparent by the lack of a strap.

“Y-yeah,” he clears his throat, his voice cracked.

You haven’t had sex with Clark. But Clark remembers the feel of your body in hyper detail. He shivers as you make your way over to him, pressing your front to his back as you reach over to the cupboards.

Your belly presses against him, he straightens his back. His hands squeeze the sponge in his hand and he closes his eyes, almost in prayer.

Your hand meets his side as you reach for a mug and your tea bags. He gets them for you, glancing briefly to see the way you rest a hand on top of your belly, fingers highlighting the curve of your breasts by pressing the fabric of your shirt underneath them.

The more your pregnancy progresses the more he wants to tear apart a room, maybe even your clothes. How dare you walk around the editing room with a shirt that pronounces your bump and the breasts that rest atop it, pants that show off your thickening hips and juicy ass.

He grips the sponge so hard it almost rips from the pressure. He wants to touch your soft tits so bad.

“They’re throwing a baby shower for me next week. Wanted to know if you’re coming with me.”

He pauses briefly at the invitation. He wasn’t just invited as a guest. He was invited to go with you. As your partner. He fights a grin of elation.

Your water heater boils loudly. You press a hand to his back, rubbing up and down. You could feel his back muscles. You bite your lip as they flex under your touch.

He turns.

“I’d love to go with you.”

You smile softly, genuinely. He dries his hands with a rag, takes your hand and presses a soft kiss against it.

“Yeah?” you ask breathlessly.

He nods. His hand squeezes yours as you swing it lightly between your bodies.

“You don’t have to. I’m not trying to ask anything of you,” you rush out.

He takes a step towards you, you avoid his pointed gaze. You were asking so much more than a baby shower.

“What if I want to?”

You take a step, bringing your intertwined hands to the side of your bump.

“You want this?”

He bends down to meet your gaze, willing you to meet his eyes. He cups your face gently, tapping your chin with his thumb when you couldn’t quite look up at him.

Your eyes were red, slowly welling with tears. Frustration, anxiety, fear. He cups the side of your belly, thumb rubbing soothing circles over your skin.

“I want this and more.”

You sigh in relief, arms winding over his shoulders, fingers playing with the collar of his flannel as he kisses your cheek and pulls you close into his warm embrace.

…

You sit on the couch behind him, fingers threading through his hair, pulling it back as he types in his laptop, grumbling about the red line highlighting underneath proper nouns.

Your legs were spread wide to accommodate his broad shoulders as he sat on the carpet facing the tv.

He was in a shirt and sweatpants. Some of your most oversized clothing items you had on hand. They were form fitting, luckily.

You fight the urge to pounce on him. You didn’t think he could be so large. Tall, yes of course. But muscular and shaped like a Greek God?

Who would have known. Then again, he is from a farm. He must know a thing or two about working with his hands.

His kisses have gotten even more adventurous. The tension is sticky and dewy. He knew exactly what he was doing to you. At least you hoped he did so that he could follow through.

You peed yourself in the morning, after rushing to work and having missed your alarm. The kid kicked harder and harder each day, your organs losing space inside of your body. A hit to your bladder was imminent.

Clark had watched you straighten up from your chair to stand stiffly, hand on your back to handle the weight. You were 26 weeks along, just about to get into your third trimester.

You were waddling to the restroom and he was pretty sure you weren’t waddling the night before as he left you at your apartment door. You texted him SOS.

He had to look through your desk drawers for spare undies. He pulled them out of your drawer to shove in his pocket quickly. They were maternity panties, the ones that stretched over your belly.

He was flustered as he made his way to the bathroom, looking behind him after barging in to the women’s.

He held the underwear between his fingers as he handed them to you, snickering under his breath about granny panties. You pinched his side and used a stall to change.

“You could have asked Lois,” he mentions, completely embarrassed from being inside the women’s bathroom. Even if the door was locked and no one could enter.

“You're my boyfriend, I don’t want her to see my intimates,” you retort behind the stall.

The word repeated in his head over and over again. He couldn’t not think about the casual way you said it. He felt his pants tighten, he grinned as you came out of the bathroom. He was your boyfriend, and you were his pregnant girlfriend carrying his big baby that just made you pee your pants.

He came up behind you and pressed himself against your back. The proximity surprised you, his hands cupped your belly, adjusting the stretchy strap of your maternity trousers lower and lower until it bundled up on your waist.

His fingers press underneath your belly, inching closer to your cunt.

“What-”

He kisses you as you turn your head, holding you in place as his lips moved languidly over yours, his hands wandered, softly at first, resting on your bump but it quickly evolved into passionate fondling.

He cupped your breast, squeezing as you leaned further into him and lifted a hand to caress over the back of his head. The other hand pressed against your hip, pressing you against him to grind on you.

You felt his hot erection press against your ass, you arched your back to press your mound against the bulge.

The knock at the door didn’t soften him, but his groping slowed to a pause. He caresses over your belly, his head buried between your neck and shoulder, inhaling deeply.

They knock again.

“Clark, we need to go.”

He growled, kissing a path to your jaw and shocking you from his possessive hold. His glasses were skewed as he unwillingly pulled away.

He was flushed as he made his way out of the women’s bathroom behind you. Cat stared at you pointedly as you avoided her gaze. She gave a wry laugh as Clark said a quiet ‘excuse me’.

You couldn’t focus the rest of the work day, and now as he sits on the floor of your apartment between your knees, you couldn’t help but feel frustrated.

Your hands travel, smoothing over his shoulders, then over his biceps, squeezing the mass until it hardens with a flex.

He turns his head, the side of his face meeting your bump. He looks like a deer caught in headlights. You tip his head so that you could meet your lips with his.

He must be shy. The bastard.

In his own head, he was thinking if you’d find his body familiar if things continued. He’s visibly nervous. He’s had time to think over the possibility of you somehow remembering the shape and size of his dick from months before.

You shift in your seat. You stick your tongue in his mouth and moan. He suddenly forgets about all of his worries. He turns his body, departing from your lips and kneeling in front of you.

You lean forward to peck his lips.

You wince as your feet meet the ground. He stops, parting from your lips, like a dog straightening up from a rustle in the bush. He’s been noticing you wincing a lot lately.

“What is it?” he asks softly, cupping your cheek.

You shake your head, leaning down to kiss him again. He pulls away. You whine from the back of your throat and you surprise yourself with the noise.

He bites back a smirk. His chest rumbles with satisfaction at your neediness.

“Tell me what’s hurting.”

You groan and slump against the cushion. You lift your foot. Your usual heels didn’t fit anymore, you had to wear sandals. It's been like this for a couple of days now. You could barely bend down to see your toes.

He pushes his laptop off to the side and takes your feet to his lap. His thumb presses against the arch of your feet, a tingle shoots through your leg and to your center. His touch was firm yet gentle.

Your head lolled against the cushion, and you sank deeper into the softness of your couch. You groan as he presses and kneads your foot. You didn’t even notice one of his hands started rubbing up your calf and to your inner thigh.

Your eyes are closed, your leg twitches in a short burst of pleasure as he continues.

He kisses up your leg. You sit up but he pushes you back down against the couch, palm right up against your mound and cupping your belly.

His fingers on the sole of your foot continue to massage into your muscle.

“Let me take care of you. Hm?” he says, mouth parted as he played with the waistband of your shorts.

You gush.

“So good,” he hums against you, tongue flattening over your folds. You cup his head against you pressing his face deeper. You roll your hips.

The lower half of his face was covered in your arousal as he pulled back. He kisses your inner thigh as you lift yourself up on your elbows.

“You taste so good. So sweet.”

Your leg twitches, breath stuttering. You internally squeal. You want to grab your throw pillow and shove your face in it to bite and scream. His eyes narrow and his eyes flicker from your chest, your heart pumping erratically, to your cunt.

He grips your hands pushing them against the cushions as you attempt to reach for his head as he dives in again, you moan out at the strength he displayed. Sweet, shy Clark, holding you down as he ate your pussy like a man starved, not caring for the breathy whines of overstimulation that vibrated through the walls as he pressed the tip of his tongue around the rim of your hole.

Clark loved your attitude. He loved being able to turn you into putty in his hands. He’s sure you didn’t even realize as he maneuvered you onto the bed, over his body.

You were somewhere else, somewhere not quite away but never quite conscious enough to retort or scowl or take the control you so desperately required at work, in public with your colleagues.

Even Superman got you fucked out and stupid, despite your skepticism and cold demeanor.

You were always so warm when he had you like this, underneath him, his cock impaling you, his mouth licking over your skin.

He situated you on his lap, your eyelids were threatening to close completely, and you had lost all of your words. He took your clothes off of your body, hands wandering and squeezing, your hips, your ass, your breasts. His lips praised you as he brought you to ecstasy over and over again with his tongue, fingers, and cock.

“Good girl.”

Your hips stutter, your eyes widen. You look at him as if he held the world in his hands. Putty in his hands. You bounce on his cock, his hand lightly holds your throat, the other playing with your sensitive nipples, squeezing your swollen flesh.

“Fucking me so good, my good girl.”

You lean forward, your round stomach pressing against his. You kiss over his neck, although due to the deep thrusts from below, you often paused just to moan out. You close your eyes tightly as he lifts his hips up into you.

You lose your inhibitions completely to a place he’s never taken you before.

“Daddy,” you blurt out, word coming out as he thrusted and his cock punched the breath from your lungs.

He pauses, he makes you sit up straight again. He teases you, failing to hide his smirk at your completely petrified face. He was a daddy, technically.

“Fuck, I don’t-” you press a hand to your mouth in shock, your eyes were teary from pleasure, you were shaking.

He sits up against the headboard, taking your hands away from your face and kissing your lips softly and slowly. He cups the back of your head, keeping you in place as he moves your hips back and forth, plunging you onto his cock like a sex doll.

He uses your body, you break the kisses to moan, to bite your lip and attempt to contain yourself. That won’t do.

“Who’s your daddy?”

You try to say it, you try to answer him but your shyness prevents you. You bite your tongue, pursing your lips as your face scrunches as if you were in pain. He cups your belly, he kisses down your jaw, coaxing you to let go.

“You’re so stubborn. Who’s your daddy?” he repeats, his pace quickens. You let go with tears in your eyes, you babble your answer repeatedly into the air.

“Fu-You. You, Clark, You, You, You.”

He makes you repeat yourself all night.

…

He was so peaceful asleep, his arm was holding you close by the waist, his face shoved in the pillows, hair a complete mess. He snores a little.

Your finger caresses his cheek lightly, he takes a deep breath in, his eyes fluttering open. It was eleven. You both slept in.

Your stomach growls and he looks pulls you closer, his face gently resting against your breasts.

You didn’t really like being cuddled in bed. There wasn’t enough space to spread out, your body was too hot during the night and now with your pregnancy, the discomfort made it hard to sleep.

You melt into his touch, burying your nose into his hair and smelling your shampoo and a hint of salty musk.

He kisses up your neck, to your lips, making you groan as he attempts to use his tongue to open your mouth.

“Morning breath,” you mumble self-consciously, keeping your lips pursed as you speak groggily. He hums pressing a kiss to your temple, rolling his eyes.

“I’m making you breakfast. You two hungry gals need to eat.”

You don’t say anything as he sits up, you stare at him as if he grew a second head. How did he know? You’ve barely asked your obstetrician for the gender the day before after being so indecisive for months.

Maybe you mentioned it. The confusion is excused as pregnancy brain.

He knows his way around your kitchen, your apartment in general. As if he lived there himself. He serves you from your favorite plate, turns on the tv in the background as you talk because you hated the silence between each shift in conversation topic.

You hated yogurt but you let him feed you a scoop of his.

He had a lot of his things here you notice, some snacks he likes, a Smallville sweater he left. The crib he built, the stuffed cow he bought the baby, up as decoration against your spare bedroom’s window because “it’s a safety hazard to have stuffed animals and thick blankets in the crib, y'know".

“How are you feeling?”

You're ripped away from your inner thoughts. He rests his hand on your stomach. You nod.

“No heartburn?”

You shake your head. He lifts your feet to his lap, massaging the swelling around your ankle. You feed him the rest of the food on your plate, he always serves you too much.

“No bleeding gums?”

Your disturbed expression tells him no. He laughs and you stuff a piece of toast in his mouth.

He was treating you like his baby momma, as if the child growing in your womb was his. But you had to admit, you could see him as a father to your baby. Some part of you already did.

Your chest feels heavy. You sigh. You have to tell him who the father is. One of these days.

…

Month 8.5: Labor

Maternity leave just started, albeit later than usual due to your stubbornness. He hated seeing you in so much discomfort.

You were mentally done with pregnancy at 35 weeks. It was uncomfortable to sit, to lay down, to eat, to shower, to just be.

The final straw was when you started leaking. You were one of the lucky ones to express colostrum. Some cheesy and outdated “mommy” blogs called it liquid gold, stating that the milk was a blessing.

Your blessing made two large wet spots in the middle of lunch, your coworkers avoiding looking you in the eye for the rest of the day as a result.

You had cried that night, completely humiliated. You were leaking all day and Clark couldn’t help but think that this was all his fault. And it was.

That was the final straw. You stayed home.

You were sitting on your couch, staring at the ceiling in deep anger.

“I hate him,�� you mutter. Clark leans over the back of the couch and rests his head against your shoulder.

“Who are we hating today?”

You shake your head. You’ve been anxious to tell him. He knows the man, they talk for interviews all of the time. You think they were friends.

You sigh.

“The man who did this to me.”

He says nothing but a short “oh.” and kisses the side of your head. You blink up at the ceiling, having expected him to ask clarifying questions.

He pats the side of your belly, like he would a dog that would bound up to him at the park whenever you wanted to walk outside.

He chuckles at the sound it made, like a hollow watermelon. You grip his hand tightly, head turning slowly to glare.

You stand, wobbly, pressing a hand to your back to steady yourself.

“Are you not going to ask?” you ask accusingly. His visible confusion makes you even more upset. You turn the corner.

“What do you mean?”

You scoff. He was a journalist. You’d think he’d be better at asking questions, that he’d yearn to learn the truth, to know more.

His lack of interest on the topic of the biological father wasn’t going to be healthy in the long run.

“You’ve never asked, Clark.”

Your hormones were getting more rampant, more irregular. You went through emotions quickly. Having a metahuman baby would surely make the effects even more intense. You scowl.

“Asked what?”

You groan lightly, you cross your arms. He was too calm, too genuine. It made you pause. Why did he fit into the father role so perfectly? He never seemed concerned at the prospect of his newish girlfriend having a baby from another man.

“About the father.”

He shrugs. He swallows thickly and smooths his hair back.

“Do you want me to ask?”

You nod.

“You have to know. In case…”

You drift off, your voice trembling. What if he doesn’t want a metahuman baby? What if it’s too much? What if the child looks too much like his buddy?

“You have to know,” you say with finality. He sits down on the loveseat, gesturing for you to sit on the couch, facing him. His lips twitch, as if he found the situation funny.

You huff.

“What- how do you want me to ask? Serious, casual, w-what?” he stutters wittily. You stare at him, unblinking. He nods, pursing his lips at your eyes full of scold.

“Who is the father?”

You swallow thickly. He mimics the action. His leg bounces, ready to hear you say what he already knew.

“Superman.”

His lips twitch, your hands were wringing in your lap with nerves. You look down at your feet, as they shift against the carpet.

He chuckles. He stands.

“Superman?”

You scoff at his tone. His voice was filled with disbelief. He kisses your cheek sweetly, rubbing a hand over your belly before standing up straighter.

“Ok.”

He swallows so thickly that he almost chokes on his tongue as he goes back to the kitchen. His face pales as he faces away from you.

He was panicking. What will happen once that curly dark-haired baby comes out looking exactly like Clark Kent. Will you shrug it off as coincidence? Should he tell you the truth before you figured out Clark and Superman were one in the same?

He chopped some fruit, dwelling in the silence that followed his dismissal. He hears the couch shift, you stand, determined.

“You don’t believe me,” you state. He avoids your gaze. He chops up a mango for you to snack on. He shrugs.

“You don’t think your buddy Superman could ever be an absent father?” you spit out. His hands tighten. He places the knife against the cutting board softly. He was about to retort a sharp no.

Because Superman was not an absent father.

You huff heavily through your nose at his silence. Your body starts to shake with frustration.

“Why don’t you call him up. Ask him.”

He says your name slowly.

“You get an interview from him any other day, I'm sure you could get him alone to ask about child support.”

He turns to face you, your eyes hardened. You turn to your balcony, throwing your hands out. You ignore the slight pressure on your belly. It must be a strong kick.

“You know what? I’ll call him right now.”

You open the sliding doors roughly.

“Superman!”

He follows you outside. He feels his chest ache as he looks around. A sense of nostalgia from stepping into your balcony.

“Superman!” you shout again, a tad bit louder. Clark stands behind you. The sounds outside were deafening, you didn’t think you would be able to hear yourself from the street below

“What are you doing-“

You cut him off, holding a finger up as if his voice was disturbing your call.

“He said he would answer my call no matter where he is, what he’s doing, he could hear me.”

He does. He hears you perfectly well. Superman wasn’t going to come. He looks at you softly, you shout a few more times. Annoyance builds within you, sadness festering with it.

You clutch your belly with a hand, you wince, the pressure around your bump becoming more prominent. You felt your heart in your throat, you groaned at the tightness. Clark jumps to action, hand moving to cup your bump and ask you what was wrong.

You clutch the balcony’s thin metal railing as you lean away from him. Petty and still upset.

He notices the creak coming from the rusty bars. He sees the way it bends forward from your weight. You pushed away from him and suddenly you were weightless.

You yell out as your feet slip from the ledge.

He holds you up by the waist, another hand cupping your head. You stare at him, terrified to fall. Your chest rises and falls, you wrap your arms around his shoulders tightly.

You hear the fence clash against the street below.

A pressure releases from your center, it felt like you pissed yourself, but your bladder wasn’t squeezed by the baby’s kick. Your pajama pants dampen.

He was floating, the soles of his shoes lightly brushing the walls of the building. His curls flop forward as you stare up at him.

Your yell was so loud he flinched.

“Hospital!”

…

Month 6: Family Road trip

She babbles from the back of the car. You could see her from the mirror you set up in front of her seat, biting into the teething toy Clark froze a while ago as he drove.

The drive from Metropolis to Kansas was almost 6 hours long. It was like a family road trip, even though you’re sure she wouldn’t remember a thing about her travels along the state.

Clark has his hand on your thigh, resting there. You place your hand on top of his and he glances in your direction, giving your leg a squeeze.

Driving back to Kansas was annoying, admittedly, but after groveling at your doorstep or whenever you dropped off his Dolly at his apartment, he finally managed to make you agree to seeing him again.

He couldn’t fly you both to Kansas, no matter how much he attempts to convince you to climb on his back.

The car parks right outside the Kent household. He takes little Martha Dorothy, Dorothy mostly your silly little suggestion for a middle name because Kansas, out of the car seat and into his arms. He coos at her, mimicking her slight fussiness from the hot humid air she was blasted with as the doors opened.

She was so small in his arms, she leaned against his shoulder. Clark blew on her face lightly, providing a cool breeze. She sleeps as he rubs her back in circles.

Martha and Jonathan Kent greet you all with open arms.

…

Martha was in Clark’s old crib, she slept peacefully, Clark rubbing her belly as she snoozed.

“She liked the cows,” he says almost in a whisper. You looked over at him and could see the adorable way he was crouched over the wooden crib, his hulking form watching the teeny tiny half human dream of candy clouds and rainbows probably.

You hum, crossing the room and pressing against his back, arms winding around him and palms sliding over his chest.

He’s been begging for you back for months, ever since Dolly was born. You press your face in his neck. His flannel smelled like him. Not like smoke and dust from debris like Superman. Not like printer ink and that expensive coffee that he gets from around the corner.

He smelled like plain old Clark, hot chocolate and firewood.

“I really want to marry you.”

He touches your hand, playing with your fingers. He wasn’t nervous as he told you this. He was surprisingly calm, and his voice was steady. He tips his head lightly to glance at you.

You were surprisingly not freaked the hell out.

“Not right now, though, obviously.”

You nod, snorting at his clarification. You peck his cheek, smoothing back his hair.

“Obviously, yeah.”

You watch the baby settle into deep sleep. She had Clark's hair and his eyes, a slightly darker shade. You wonder if you would have ever realized the similarities.

You tsk. You definitely would have.

—-----------------

Hope you enjoyed anon! This was fun and silly to write. I’ve never written about some of the smut aspects. lol I'm exploring.

Requests will be closing soon (a day or so) because I’m about to move into my new apartment soon and start the semester and lowkey I gotta lock in for senior year. I need that honor chord twins. 😔

Chubby Clark request soon! 😝

Taglist:

@aphroditesblunt @animegamerfox @twizzlelutz

-Alejandra 💋🐇

762 notes · View notes

dontpulloutman · 12 days ago

Text

see it through ✴︎ cl16

genre: friends to lovers, fake dating au, fluff!, humor, slight angst, slow burn-ish, yearning

word count: 9k

“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.” Or: you go from social media manager to girlfriend in under a day. Keeping up appearances for Charles’ family isn’t easy, until it is – and until they’re not really appearances anymore.

notes... internet translated italian ahaha

auds here... this fic is quite long! i hope you all like it. title from this bee gees song which reappears in the fic later. few music references here so if you like to listen to music, just look for the titles, they’re famous!

You’d gotten the phone call on a Saturday morning.

Barely morning, you realized when you were digging for your phone in the sheets, half-asleep—it’d been five minutes past noon. You’d swiped, pressed the phone to your ear, and waited for the other end to speak, eyes shut.

“Good morning,” a vague voice had said on the other said, distinctly American. “This is Jenna Griffin, newly appointed PR specialist for Ferrari. Your boss told me you were free for lunch on Monday, so can I pencil you in for a one-thirty meeting?”

You click your tongue. “Um, yeah.”

“Wonderful. Monday, one-thirty. Apologies for the weekend call, it’s for Mr. Leclerc.” The line buzzes dead after, and you flop backwards onto your bed, confused out of your mind.

Your job for Ferrari was simple—create social media content, do the occasional damage control, have a pre-interview discussion with journalists, and generally stay out of everyone’s hair. It’s not a high-maintenance job, but it pays well, and you get to travel; plus, you’re young, and you figure this is just a stepping stone for a more legitimate post. Your point is, you’ve never gotten into trouble before, and are only at meetings to take minutes or get assignments.

Which is why a Monday lunch meeting—on your vacation, nonetheless—seems so out of the ordinary. And arranged by a PR agent from Ferrari? Last you’d heard, cars were objects and didn’t need publicity. The whole affair gives off a vibe of semi-mystery, almost, like you’re in the MI6 and taking lucrative calls in alleyways.

You feel through your bag for your hotel key card, wallet, and phone, and finding them all there, you leave and make your way to the restaurant. You’re not too nervous; you’ve had to have your own sit-down talks with higher-ups and even Charles or Carlos before, but none of the “you’re fired” variety.

The restaurant isn’t far from where you’re staying, so you shove sunnies on and trek there, managing to make it inside unscathed.

Table 17, the text reads, and you’re quickly ushered into a private section of the place. It’s empty, save for a couple and a far-off table seating one guy, whose back is to you. You realize it’s Charles when you squint your eyes harder. The waitress doesn’t give you much of a choice and seats you across him, promising to return with noontime champagne.

You slide your sunglasses onto your hair and look up. “Hi,” you say politely.

“Hey,” Charles says back casually. He wears a Richard Mille and a few other bracelets, a linen blue polo, and jeans.

“New PR thing?”

Charles smiles, shrugging. “Man, I’ve no idea. Wake up on Saturday and I’m due for a meeting. Is this for social media?”

Huh, so he doesn’t know either. “I don’t know. It was a super random call for me, too.”

He shrugs. “Both clueless.”

“Right. So, to be clear, we’re waiting for—”

“I am so sorry I’m late,” a woman says sheepishly, her heels clicking along the tiled floor. She definitely looks the part for a PR officer: pantsuit, heels, a blond bob, ridiculously expensive handbag, eccentric sunglasses. “Scusami, really.” Her Italian apology has an American twang.

“All okay,” says Charles with a small smile. “We were barely waiting, no?”

You nod, offering a tight-lipped smile of your own. “Yeah, don’t worry about it.”

She slides into the seat beside him and waves a waiter over, ordering in quickfire English; clearly, she’s been here before. Absently, you wonder if her previous affairs in this restaurant were also to have clandestine meetings. Your reverie doesn’t last long, though, because immediately Jenna’s starting her agenda. “So, are introductions in order?”

“I, um,” you say, “I’d say so, yes.”

“Alright, spectacular. I’m Jenna Griffin, just moved to Monte Carlo after living and working in SoCal. I’ve been appointed as a PR manager for Charles here, but don’t worry. You’re in good hands. I’ve handled three Kardashians, two NBA players, two One Direction members, and a lot of nepo babies.”

“Wow,” you say, nodding.

“Cool.” Charles says, clearly impressed.

Jenna’s gaze flits between the two of you, both smiling at each other. “Right,” she says. “Let’s get down to business.” She clears her throat and pulls out her phone from her handbag, scrolling for a few moments. While the silence settles, you steal another glance at Charles, and hide a chuckle when you find his eyes already glancing back at you.

“Aren’t we waiting for Carlos?” He asks, taking a sip of water.

His PR agent looks up briefly, then answers. “Actually, it’s just you two today.”

You nod slowly, burrowing even further into the confusion you’d been feeling since Saturday. It wasn’t like you were expecting Carlos, per se, but a meeting with just you and him—now, that’s a bit strange.

“So, I know this is all very confusing. But it’s happening for a reason,” says Jenna. “Charles—and I really only feel qualified to say this because I’ve done my research—has been on a streak of…erm, well, lady-related scandals lately.”

“Oh, God,” Charles groans across you, and you chew your lip. You’ve seen the headlines, but you’re still clueless as to how this concerns you.

“As a PR agent, I think it won’t do good for his public image to be seen as somebody who sleeps around.”

“It was two headlines,” Charles cuts in with a laugh. “And they were both fake. Please don’t misunderstand.”

Jenna clicks her tongue. “Yeah, the public definitely has some thoughts.” She turns to her phone and reads off of it. “‘Charles is a playboy and not a driver’, ‘Leclerc is too busy pulling girls’… times ten thousand. So, yeah, it’s a bit of a smear.”

“Right, okay. Listen, I’m not sure I understand,” you say with a stuffy laugh. “What has all this got to do with me?”

“Everything,” she answers with a smile. You raise a brow. “Well, you see, we PR managers always have a network. We keep tabs on who’s who, and who needs what. As a new manager, I need to implement some of my strategies around here. Go digging, you know? Find something good. And when I found your pretty little face in the background of many of Charles’ paddock photos, I realized you could help create something newsworthy.”

“Are you talking about a PR stunt?” You ask, your frown deepening.

“Well—virtually, essentially, yes.” She opens her mouth to explain but is interrupted by the serving of champagne and appetizers. “Okay. Don’t think this is a haphazard decision. Naturally, we had to find out if this would even be a good idea…”

“Which it’s not,” you say, taking a swig of champagne.

She nods. “The thing is, your bosses and I really did go over several scenarios, and this one seems the most likely to keep your fans engaged. This way, the appearances won’t look so staged.”

“—Jenna,” Charles says, clearly having detected your hesitance, “I don’t think she’s interested.”

“It’s fine,” you say, but you still sound off-put. It’s not fine, not really. “I don’t see how this is going to help Charles, though. I’d think the idea of him being committed to somebody would just further alienate his fangirls.”

Jenna chuckles. “While that is, to some extent, true, the number of fans who would go gaga over the two of you far, far outweighs the opposing population. This is a special case. A girl next door social media manager with a social media presence—and a wildly popular, totally charming Formula One driver? I mean, talk about Harry and Meghan! Everybody loves love. And, might I add, Charles’ male fans might actually like seeing you two together.”

You sigh, a quick huff of frustrated air. “So, what is this then?”

“It’s a proposition for the fans.” She smiles. “It’s a fake relationship.”

You reach for champagne, but find you’ve totally drained your glass. The room falls into muted silence, and you can’t bring yourself to look at Charles. You didn’t expect this on a Monday afternoon. You thought maybe it was a job termination. Or a leaked text message. Somehow, this is the strangest of all possibilities.

“So, good?” She chirps. “I’ll send you the primer.”

You both stare at each other. “We’re not actually going to. Right?”

“Right. We are not dating.”

—

“We’re dating!” You chirp, practicing your appearances in front of Carlos and Lando, who had visited the former.

“You two look like two people dating pretending to be friends,” Lando observes.

You grumble. Many of your shots had been staged pap photos outside his apartment, or fans happening to catch you two together; no official statement had been released, according to Jenna’s “masterplan.” For the most part, it was a good dynamic of putting up a façade for the public and settling back into a platonic relationship within minutes.

Nothing really goes wrong at first—and then Charles ruins it.

It happens after a Ferrari event in spring. You’re in Monza again, weather humid when you re-shoot the fifth TikTok for the day with Carlos. There are celebrities to and fro, even more journalists and a shitload of fans crowding the perimeter of the area. You’ve successfully pulled off the fake dating stunt, keeping a lowkey profile and doing your job.

There’s a green room for the drivers and close managers to wait and rest, where you stow yourself away to avoid the crowds. You review the reels and stories for the day, and cap it off with a “goodbye, Tifosi!” post with Carlos that’s enough to quell the many notifications.

Granted, many of the said notifications are of the speculative nature. Some are wondering if it’s you posting or if a new hire was underway to make room for the new couple. You ignore them anyway and take a seat on the couch across Carlos, sighing with exhaustion.

“Where’s your boyfriend?” He teases.

“Ha-ha,” you say, unimpressed. You gesture to the TV behind him, showing a live feed of Charles’ last interview of the day with Natalie Pinkham. Once this is over, you’re free for the week: free of social media manager and fake girlfriend responsibilities. The thought alone makes you well up with relief.

You and Carlos both watch intently as Charles answers several event-related questions that, to your horror, simmer into personal ones. Natalie sounds excited when she goes, “Any plans for the week with a special someone?”

Charles has no thought behind his eyes, a muted wave of panic coming over him as he fumbles for a response. “My family’s staying up in Tuscany, in a farmhouse we own, stay in for spring and summer. We are actually visiting them for the week.”

We are actually visiting them for the week. Your look of pure, unadulterated shock doesn’t go unnoticed by Carlos, who’s quick to snap pictures of you on his phone. What the hell is Charles talking about? Tuscany? No, family?

“I take it you didn’t know about this,” Carlos says with a laugh.

“You think?!” You holler, still appalled. Charles has a lot of gall to spin this without your permission, or Jenna’s for that matter. You know she’ll love it, though; it’s really, mainly, you who has a problem with it. Anxious, you get up and watch the broadcast end; not a minute later, Charles enters and offers a can of sparkling water to you.

“Thirsty?” He asks casually.

“Very,” you pipe, taking a gulp.

“You’re welcome,” he says teasingly.

“Oh, thanks! I think I’ve been busy thinking about the fact that I’m meeting your family!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” He yells, trying to match your agitated volume. “I didn’t know you were watchi—I was nervous! I didn’t know what to say anymore! And—you kno—well—and Natalie kept asking a ton of questions!”

Your face of disbelief matches his of sheepish apology, facing each other frozen. Across you, Carlos lets out an incredulous laugh, mumbles something about wanting popcorn. You honestly can’t blame him. Had you been an outsider, you would’ve relished in Charles’ slip-up, too. Instead, you’re the one who’s apparently going to Tuscany on Friday to meet the extended Leclerc clan.

“It’s fine. It’s gonna be”—you attempt to find an appropriate adjective—“bearable. At least we don’t need to keep up appearances there.”

You’re met with disagreeable silence. When Charles doesn’t chime in with an agreement, you turn slowly back to him. “No.”

“It’s only for a week—”

“No!”

“A week!”

You’re both standing up, pacing around the other frantically. Pretending to suddenly be bumped up from social media manager to Charles’ girlfriend was a daunting enough proposition. Getting hate mail and death threats was enough incentive to let you want to leave. Timing exits and entrances was difficult. And now, pretending to be together in front of his family? His family.

“Why can’t you just tell them we’re not actually dating?!”

“It’s just—it’s complicated having to explain why.” You remember his assortment of man-whore scandals and realization sinks into you. You sit on the arm of the couch, deflated and contemplative. Despite your own knowledge of the scandals being totally baseless and false, you understand it’s difficult to explain the lengths of tabloids and online rumors to older family members.

You might have to grin and bear it.

“Fine.” You digress. He cheers silently. “One week. Once our quickie breakup is finalized, you’re telling them it ended well. I don’t want to be in anybody’s bad graces.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay.”

Tuscany won’t be so bad, you think. What’s the worst that could happen?

—

Charles’ extended family greets you at their farmhouse when you arrive heaving two pieces of luggage. It’s populated by two aunts, three uncles, and two younger cousins, and their hospitality is contagious. They all somehow remind you of Charles, their faces, their laughs, their easy attitudes.

His aunts, Mia and Giulia, are the first to pull you in for a hug and inspect your face. Good eyebrows! Good lips! Healthy attractive child for you both!

You have to pry yourself off of them with giggles and smiles and pretend the kid comment was never uttered for your own sake. They’re kind, ushering you inside and serving dinner immediately, inquiring about the drive and if it was bad, if Charles had spotted any dead sheep or cattle on the way (none.)

His cousins are both little boys, eleven and six, shy and with thick accents. Charles’ smile is huge when he speaks to them in Italian, eyes comical and animated. His three uncles all eat fairly quietly, talking about politics, or racing, only when they feel like it.

They ask many questions, and tell so many stories, over limoncello and rigatoni that leave you stuffed after two platefuls. You didn’t think you’d be satisfied so soon after the drive, but you’re grateful for it. His uncle Giorgio leads the tour of the house, his voice slow and constantly sliding into Italian, but Charles is quick to supply a translation into your ear. Lit by terrace lights, you get a night view of the house, surrounded by the hills, the lemon trees, and a swimming pool in the back. Further back, there are two horses for riding, and bicycles for easier transportation.

A vineyard borders the other side of the hill, owned by a different family. You can’t digest the beauty of this place, even without the sun to provide a better view. You’re back inside, being shown the rest of the wide dining room and kitchen that lead out onto a balcony-terrace area, and then clambering the stairs to be shown your room—a beautiful one on the second floor that overlooks the hills.

“This is so beautiful,” you say honestly. “Thank you so much. And Charles will be staying…?”

“In my childhood bedroom!” He quips excitedly, already halfway out the door to review his living situation.

Giulia and Mia share a look and then the former goes, “Wait, Charles!”

He slows to a halt and turns, awaiting their words. “Ay. Bambino, because you have been in Monaco so long these days, and we have gotten a lot of stuff, your childhood bedroom is now more of a… storage room.”

“A storage room?!” He sounds scandalized.

“Bambino, mi dispiace,” she continues. “But—let’s not be conservative! You two have been dating now for a year, correct? Surely, you’ve slept in one bed.”

Your face grows warm. “Um, actu—”

“Shh,” Mia says kindly. “No need to make excuses. Charles, stay with your girlfriend. And we will wake you both for breakfast. Ciao!”

You barely voice your assent, managing to wedge in a thank you! before the door closes and leaves you and Charles alone.

In a room without a single couch. The only non-bed “resting” space is a single chair, and as much as you want to, you don’t want Charles to break his spine trying to sleep on it. The situation is clear. You need to configure the bed.

“We cannot sleep on the same bed.”

“I’ll take the floor.”

“No! I mean—ugh. I don’t want to risk you pulling a muscle. Also, more importantly, if any of your family walks in and sees you sleeping on the floor, they’re going to think we’re freaks.”

“The bed is big enough for us both,” he says, gesticulating. You narrow your eyes. If you’re going to be avoiding physical contact, it definitely isn’t. It’s like the gods had decided to bless the room with a bed perfect for two people snuggling.

You place your hands on your hips, analyzing the best way to tackle the situation. You won’t lie, you’d thought about the possibility of sharing a room—but a bed was completely different. You’d expected a couch, a loveseat of some kind, both of which are woefully missing. Thinking fast, you take the three decorative, cylindrical pillows and place them vertically on the centre of the bed.

You step back. “Okay. That’s our boundary.”

Each side is a bit small, but it’s the price to pay, you think, taking a long look at your handiwork. Beside you, Charles snorts. “That is not going to work.”

“I’ll bet you it will,” you say matter-of-factly, retreating to the bathroom to get ready for bed. When you emerge, Charles is fast asleep, half his body on your side of the boundary. You have to pour water on his face to shoo him away, and that’s when you’re positive your creation will work.

You place yourself gingerly on your side of the border, remaining perfectly still as you drift off to sleep. You wake up the next day on Charles’ chest, pushing him away before admitting you’d been in that position in the first place.

You slide him five euros over breakfast.

—

Charles is a good driver, skier, and biker—you can attest to this from being by his side, reviewing pictures and videos of him for a living.

But there’s one thing he absolutely sucks at, and it’s teaching. You thought you’d never have to attest to this, but here you are, with scraped knees and a smudge of soil on the hem of your shorts, on your sixth attempt to learn how to ride a bike.

It’d been his idea, like many of the odd things you’d gotten yourself into. “Let me make up for dragging you along,” he’d said, and then proceeded to commit attempted murder every time he sent you away on the bicycle. Five tries did you no good; Charles’ directions contradicted each other and came much too fast, causing you to crash into the grass or skid yourself to a halt, your sneakers coated in a light layer of dust.

“Why are we still trying?” You ask woefully, examining the scratches on your calf. And to think you would’ve gotten to go truffle hunting with his uncle had Charles not swept you away to bike.

“It is an important life skill. Just—don’t look at the ground. Okay. Andiamo!” He sends you off again, watches as you twist and careen into a bush. Again. Your groan of pain matches the ooof he lets out, jogging to help you up. You turn away from the ground and toward his face. His laughing face.

“Ow. What?” You ask, raising a brow. You flex your fingers, waiting for him to pull you upwards.

“You smashed into a bush and a berry’s all over your cheek.” He says, still laughing when he helps you up. You hold the tip of your pinky to your face, press down, and sure enough, when you inspect it again, it’s stained a dark berry color.

“Is this toxic?!” You ask, agitated.

“Che? Toxic? No, no. It’s a juniper berry.” He reaches over and swipes his thumb across your face, sending you into a frozen state. Your hands remain at your sides while he focuses on wiping the rest of the fruit off of your cheek, showing you his stained finger afterwards with a proud smile. “All gone.”

You turn and pick up the bicycle. “One more for good luck,” you say, shaking off the nerves and gut churning feeling deep in your stomach. You situate yourself atop the bike, trying to remember and re-remember all the tips Charles had given you.

“Don’t look down, just breathe, keep your eyes trained straight. If you crash, on the grass always. Better than this path.”

“Got it,” you say breathlessly, determined. You take off, eyes trained on the landscape in front of you, leaving the house behind and gliding quickly downhill. It takes you a beat to realize, however, that you’re not falling. You’re doing it—properly. You turn to voice your pride, but that’s what gets you caught in your thoughts.

Charles is cheering behind you, but once he detects you’re stumbling, he runs the few metres over. Still, he can’t catch you fast enough; you do manage to turn right and land on the grass. In his own rush, Charles trips on the horizontal bike, and lands right beside you, atop your arm.

Eventually you’re both doubled over laughing, your fingers finding purchase on the blunt grass. You both only quiet down when you hear his aunt’s car, old and rickety, grow louder. You look up to find Giulia peeking out of the driver’s window, her face as amused as it is confused.

Beside her, Mia yells. “Buon lavoro, Charles!”

“What’d she say?” You ask, still half-laughing.

“Good job,” he replies, entertained. “She said good job.”

—

Charles takes Giorgio’s Vespa and rides you both to town two days later, even with the offer of a car. He claims the motor ride is the best way to experience Tuscany at its finest. Nothing about the two-seater bike on the pebbly road feels fine, though, and you’re seriously contemplating broken ribs when he makes a sharp turn. It’s only a ten, fifteen-minute ride, but the downhill slope makes it seem faster—and more dangerous.

Your grip on his waist had gone from loose and hesitant to tight and anxious, your voice a mantra of possible death in his ear. He can’t help but laugh, revving harder and chiming in with a biting remark of his own.

“You know who this is named after?” He shouts over the wind whipping both of you.

“Mmm?” You ask.

“Apollonia, from the Godfather.”

“Oh, Christ. The girl who died?”

“Hey, she was beautiful! My uncle loved the movies so much, his Vespa had to be named after her.” You lean onto his back for purchase, still unused to the speed at which he zips through the countryside. Eventually, after a few turns, the terrain turns from rough to smoother, and he parks at the busy-looking town square, populated by locals and tourists alike, but not with the traffic of more popular cities. Alleyways lead to smaller corner stores and cafés; a chapel overlooks the area, and a market populates the centre.

“What would you name your bike, if you had to?” You ask as a follow-up, removing your helmet and shaking your hair out. You pull at your dress to straighten it out.

“Well…” He takes both your helmets and stores them in the bike, leading the way toward the bustle. “My uncles, and my father—they always say we name our most precious things after beautiful women. Apollonia. My other uncle, Leo, he named his sailboat after his mother, Bianca. Even my dad would name few objects after my mother. It’s a way of honoring them, you know?”

You nod, stopping at a produce stall and examining a bunch of tomatoes. “I think that’s sweet.”

“Yes, so I guess… well, I don’t know, really. My mother’s name, maybe?”

“She’s got a beautiful one,” you comment offhandedly.

“Yeah. Or, if we go by appearances, I suppose your name.”

You ignore the flush of nerves that well up in you and turn back to face him, confused and amused. “My name? Why’s that?”

“I mean,” he coughs, crossing his arms and smiling, “people think we are together, so if I get a bike, and they ask for her name, I must say yours, no?”

“Only if you want to,” you chirp back, amused. What had possessed him to suddenly bring you into the discussion? Neither of you are pretending for all these strangers. Here in town, you’re friends again, browsing the market, walking around stalls, eating free samples of pesto and cheese.

“I do want to,” he says. It’s a joke, you’re sure. Half-sure. It’s a joke.

The town square’s noise begins to die when the sun sets. City-dwellers leave to take trips back to main hubs of Italy, and with no nightlife in the area, many in the square are families or couples sitting down for dinner. The ride back, while short, might be dangerous in the dark; you tug on Charles’ sleeve to relay your thoughts.

“Don’t worry,” he says dismissively. “I’ve biked here past midnight.”

“What were you even doing in town at midnight, hmm?” You tease lightly, following him around. There’s not much to do except eat at this point, judging by the way you’d both exhausted the stalls in the afternoon. He rolls his eyes, mumbling excuses.

“You womanizer,” you whisper in an exaggerated scandalous tone. You poke his bicep. “Bedding the locals.”

“I was not, ay!” He defends. You’ve noticed his accent is so much thicker here, where he has to speak Italian all the time, except with you. It sounds nice. “I would come to smoke weed.”

That’s even funnier, you think, throwing your head back to laugh. Thoughts of teenaged Charles, tinged pink and tan from summer, on a momentary break from a junior racing career, biking fast back and forth—for a joint no less—are both funny and endearing. “That is so cute, Charles. Drug virgin.”

“Don’t speak of those when we’re in front of the house of the Lord,” he says sarcastically, gesturing to where your cyclical walking had landed you: back in front of the town’s chapel. There’s a pot of holy water by the front doors and a rack of candles for lighting and offering. Besides that, there’s a coin drop box being manned by a priest.

In silent agreement, you walk in sync to the candles, lighting one each and whispering brief intentions. You’re not religious, you’ve never been; a church seemed foreign to you, always. But you figure there’s no harm in a candle and an offer to the big guy, if he’s there.

There’s a mural painted by the doors, which you observe silently while Charles goes to drop donations into the box. You catch bits of their conversation. Good evening. Are you a tourist. No, we live up the hill, visiting for spring, yes.

The rest you don’t catch, turning to Charles and watching him talk, animated as he is solemn. The priest smiles at you politely, turns to Charles, goes, “Siete qui insieme?” You rack your brain for the Italian you’d picked up recently but can’t match it to anything.

Charles nods. “Qui per cenare, ed esplorare.” Esplorare, explore? You fail again, but continue listening anyway, occupying your eyes with the mural.

“È la tua ragazza?” The priest asks with a soft chuckle.

“Oh, sì, sì.” Charles looks very sure of himself when he says so.

The priest nods once. “Se ti sposi, allora dovrebbe essere qui, no?”

Charles turns slowly, looks at you, then smiles. “Okay,” he says, still looking at you. “Farò in modo che accada.” Then they’re exchanging quick Italian goodbyes and he’s walking back to you, guiding you to a nearby restaurant for dinner.

“What was that about?” You ask, the curiosity getting the best of you. You don’t remember what they said, so you can’t plug it into Google Translate; your last hope is getting Charles to translate it for you. You figure it’s no problem. He’s always translated for you during your stay here so far, word-for-word recounts that have you feeling fluent in the language after decoding them. Whether it be a family anecdote or a market transaction, the language has never become an issue for you.

You walk beside him, awaiting the translation that never comes. Instead, he smiles, shakes his head, and says, “That was nothing.”

—

Your first, last, and only close call happens during a wine and poker night with Charles’ uncles and aunts. You’d spent the morning semi-cuddling (to beat the early a.m. cold, you both insisted), and then a majority of the afternoon in the nearby vineyard volunteering to help pick grapes, and they’d offered to let you wind down for the night inside.

It starts off well enough—you and Giorgio best the first two rounds, much to everyone else’s chagrin, and you rest on the sofa, reading Giulia’s cookbook with a glass of wine. At quarter to midnight, Charles’ six-year-old cousin, Marco, comes inside and slots himself beside Charles, eyes sleepy.

“Cugino,” he says. Cousin. His voice is squeaky and childish.

“Yes, Marco?” Charles asks, preoccupied with his cards.

“Put me to sleep,” he says in accented English.

“Later. You should wait.”

“Can she do it?” A chubby hand rises and points toward you. You offer a small wink, sipping wine.

“Only if she wants to,” Charles says, turning to face you. You chuckle.

“I’d be happy to, Marco.” You smile.

“Cugino.” Marco tugs on Charles’ sleeve to regain his attention. “What’s her favorite color?”

Oh, shit. Neither of you had really thought this would come up, so you hope Charles can fake it well. While you know everything about him, he knows not much about you, especially little niche facts like this one. Charles clears his throat and goes, “Blue.”

“Favorite song?”

“Uh. Marco, aspettare. OK?”

“Why should he wait?” Giorgio asks, gruff. “Your aunts and I are curious, too.”

Charles meets your eyes, and you try to signal for him to lie, which he ends up doing. “It’s Take a Chance on Me. ABBA, zio.”

You do know that song, but it’s definitely not your favorite. You close the cookbook and get up, pacing onto the seat beside Marco and leaning against it, smiling and nodding. Beside Giorgio, Mia asks sweetly, “Do you have any tattoos, dear?”

Just you, or are Italian aunts ridiculously straightforward? You open your mouth at the same time Charles does, and that’s what leads to your downfall. Yes, one, you say. No, none, Charles says at the same time. You both look at each other, eyes wide.

His uncle grunts. “Bambino, do you know nothing of this lovely girl?”

“You misunderstand,” Charles says. “I thought she wouldn’t want to share that yet, zio. I tried to cover for her, but, er—she seems okay with sharing it.”

It’s a flimsy excuse but it seems to work, and the poker game resumes without any more questions about you.

Still, you grow nervous, frustrated a bit, and, once you spot Marco asleep, you take him into your arms and mumble a polite goodnight, carrying him upstairs. The call was just too close. Why did Charles feel the need to interject like that? Had you been caught in such a lie, you’d need to reveal everything.

Something else tugs at your chest, but you refuse to admit it incites an unhappy feeling out of you. Charles’ lack of knowledge about you did nothing but remind you that in the end, he did know nothing about you, and this was just contractual and obligatory and for the press-turned-for the family. You pat Marco’s forehead, sighing. You shouldn’t be so upset, but you are.

You know a lot about Charles, but it’s a cold fact that he can’t say the same about you; at least, not to the extent that you know him. The doors and staircase creak, signifying the game’s end and everyone’s retreat to bed; you await Charles’ entrance, which comes after you hear him opening your room, finding it empty, and then—

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” you say, hushed. You get up and walk past him, crossing the corridor and opening the door halfway into your room.

He says, then: “You really never tell me anything about yourself.”

You freeze, turn, suddenly frustrated all over again. Suddenly sad. “Yeah. You really know nothing about me.” It’s exaggerated, so it cuts deeper.

He’s upset, you realize. “Do I have to beg for these sorts of basic facts? I wa—I…” He pauses. “I want to know you more. I’ve always wanted to.”

“You didn’t even think to—to ask me the most basic questions before we got here.” You’re aware he didn’t owe you this, but your irritance doesn’t quell. “My favorite song, my favorite movie, color, anything. I could name all that on your behalf.”

“Every time I ask, you deflect. You never told me, either,” he says defiantly.

You scoff and ponder for a minute before shaking your head and clambering down the steps. You need some fresh air, having gotten mad so quickly. You know it makes no sense—he never needed to ask about you. Prior to last week, you worked with him. Still, everything’s changed now, and it feels hurtful knowing he can’t name these things about you.

You take a seat on the terrace chair, pretend not to notice when he sits beside you, separated by a table.

You hug your arms closer to yourself, sigh. “It’s, a koi fish on my hipbone. Hurt like a bitch.”

He looks at you, curious. You continue.

“My high school superlative was ‘most likely to be elected president’—embarrassing, I know. I won the local spelling bee. Thrice in a row. I love the color green, and the movie Fantastic Mr. Fox.”

You pretend you’re not feeling anxious from the sudden sharing, clearing your throat and keeping your gaze trained on the landscape of houses and hills around you.

“I love crosswords to a worrying degree, I’m a dog person but have never owned one, and my favorite song is Don’t Go Breaking My Heart. I kill it on karaoke.” Finally, your eyes slide slowly over to look at Charles. He’s already looking at you, smile soft on his flushed, pink face.

“I didn’t think of you as much of a singer,” he says, eyes crinkling from the size of his smile.

Huffing and stifling a laugh, you cross your arms defiantly over your torso. Your lips melt into a pout, and you flip him off in an attempt to stave him off. He just laughs harder, gulping the rest of his wine with ease.

“To be fair, I think I dance better,” you respond proudly. “It’s still bad, but it’s better. Better than you, anyway.”

“Is that a challenge?” He asks, mouth half-open, still caught in a laugh. “Wow. Okay, d’accord. It’s on.”

“It is most certainly not a challenge, Charles!” You object frustratedly.

“Challenge accepted!”

Against your vocal protests, he gets up from his chair and reenters the house, exiting with his phone in one hand and the rest of the wine in the other. He browses his selection of songs, humming until he seems satisfied with one of them. He pours you both a glass of preparatory red, a grin lighting up his face.

You burrow into the chair, unrelenting when he stretches out a hand to invite you to dance. You only end up giving in when you’ve successfully finished your wine, getting up and straightening out the wrinkles in your dress.

Your hand is still loosely clutched around his when he plays the Bee Gees song he’d queued up, and then both of you start dancing.

It’s a bit fast-paced, but you catch up well, letting yourself move fluidly to the song. All the while, your hand remains looped around his, like an anchor, a saving point. You shut your eyes to immerse yourself in the song, a smile on your face. When you crack them open, you watch Charles dance goofily, with moves you’d be totally embarrassed by otherwise. This time, you’re strangely endeared.

Where you expected yourself—the both of you, really—to be stiff and awkward, you’re both loose and easygoing, chuckling and laughing as the song progresses. Your dress swishes by your knees softly when you move, letting go of his hand momentarily. It flexes with the feeling of his absence. Charles dances like he has no care in the world, with movements that would rival a fifty-year-old’s. You find that you don’t have a care in the world either, watching him with a stupid grin on your features.

Your heart swells and seizes, and you swallow, not wanting to realize why yet. He reaches for your hand again, seeks it in the evening light. You give it to him easily, cut his search short. You’re what he looks for.

He lifts your linked hands right as the song starts its ending, and you realize you’re supposed to twirl around them. With a laugh, you follow, letting your arms stretch out when you’re done. He pulls you back, with strength that sends you barreling into his chest. “Dude,” you mumble, giggling. “Charles, you ruined my flow.”

You both part, but barely; your hands are still clasped, your distance barely increased. You stare up at him when the next song clicks on.

It’s slower this time, a song you recognize from films and novels. You remember this specific rendition from two years ago in Silverstone, when Charles had shared over a meeting that he’d been busy teaching himself the piano—specifically, The Way You Look Tonight.

The song continues, your hands still together, your eyes boring into his. The moon makes his light eyes a different shade, all green and soft edges rivaling the intensity of his stare. “Come on,” he says. “Why stop, no?”

He raises your hands, guides his vacant one to wrap around your waist. It’s warm there, secure, belonging. With all the hesitance in the world, you wrap a hand around his upper arm. Your gaze is unbreaking.

“Thank you,” he says, steering you both into a slow, easy rhythm. The nerves melt away slowly when you continue to sway. You cock a head to the side in a silent request for elaboration.

“For sharing.”

“Oh. It was only right,” you reply. “Considering you know nothing niche about me.”

“Tell me…” He starts, but the words tangle in his throat, lodge themselves there in a fit of nerves. He breathes, breaks the gaze. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind… if you told me more.”

A brief shine of surprise passes through your eyes, and you nod. “Alright.”

“Alright.” He smiles.

“Do you think, ” you say, swallowing the sorrow, “we’ll need to keep doing this when the week is ov—?”

“Let’s not dwell on that,” he says quickly. He sounds—sad, almost, at the thought of this being fake. In the days spent here, picking grapes, drinking wine, going on bike rides and practicing Italian, it was easy to let the lines blur. Perhaps he’d forgotten.

You realize, when he leans forward and slots his chin atop your head: you’d forgotten, too.

—

Despite the tension, the next day goes fairly normal, and Charles takes you to town on Apollonia late at night. The Tuscan air is crisp and clean when he parks by a pub, loud not with techno music or hip-hop, but Italians singing. Inside, it’s not so crowded, populated by regulars, few tourists, and several older people.

Charles orders himself a beer, and a cocktail for you after you request something sweet. The bartender gives you an extra one on the house, and you and Charles seat yourself in front, watching people sing on the stage.

“Vi piace cantare?” Someone asks, and Charles quickly supplies: he’s asking if we like to sing.

You wave your palm back and forth. So-so, you signal. Charles, of course, ever the social butterfly, slides into a natural conversation with him, about Italy, pubs, beer, and singing. The guy introduces himself as Antonio, owner of said pub and a man who is apparently more than happy to clear the queue of singers for you two.

“Wait, seriously?” You ask. Antonio nods, clapping Charles on the back. You’d have thought they’d been friends for years or something.

You immediately turn down the request, but Charles scrambles onstage, having downed two bottles of beer. You’re overcome with horror as you watch him walk across the small stage to the side of it to request a song, encouraging whoops from the crowd.

“Ohhhhh. Oh, no. This is not a good idea,” you say, gulping. “Plus, I’ve had a lot to drink. Your aperol spritzes have so much alcohol in them.”

Beside you, Antonio laughs. “Non si preoccupi—do not worry. He seems to be a confident guy. You’re in good hands.”

“Am I? He didn’t even ask if I wanted to sing. I don’t even know what to sing.” You watch him whisper a song to the guy in charge of the pub’s ancient karaoke system, half-sure that the song archive stops after 1990. The stage creaks when Charles reaches for another mic and then stretches his arm out to offer it to you.

You muster your best angry face, but he just laughs. “Come on. You will like it.”

Gulping the rest of your cocktail, you accept the mic, and then his hand, strong in yours as he helps you climb onstage. The crowd of locals and few tourists cheer for the both of you, and you don’t do much to hide your stage fright; even the buzz of alcohol can’t help you. You hope (and know, deep down) that Charles will.

“Buona sera a tutti,” Charles says, met with more raucous cheering. “Io e il mio amico cateremo per te stasera.” He bows, and you follow a bit stiffly, not knowing what he’s saying.

“Amico?” Someone jeers from the audience. “O fidanzata?!”

Charles laughs, and you know he’s truly entertained because his eyes crinkle the way they do. You fiddle with your dress, your hair, anything to channel the nerves. He waves the crowd off with a shush motion and then turns, gestures for the song to start. He catches your eye, anxious, quells your nerves by taking your hand and squeezing it. Don’t worry, he mouths. I’m here.

You identify the song before two seconds of it even play, and the realization is breathtaking: your favorite. You shut your eyes and let a huge smile come onto your face, laughing. You almost can’t believe him for this.

He starts off the song, taking your hand and leading you into a dance. Don’t go breaking my heart.

You twirl around him, exaggerating your movements and smiling. I couldn’t if I tried.

Somehow, you find dexterity, flow in the movements, the words. Maybe because you love the song so much. Charles matches your enthusiasm, singing loudly and exaggerating his accent to incite laughs from the onlookers. When he speeds up, so do you, allowing both of you to join in an upbeat rhythm that leaves you panting.

Ooh-hoo, nobody knows it, you both sing, laughing and shimmying toward each other. You both point and laugh, joining hands again when the chorus ends to sing your lines all over again. Charles always leads you well, alert as he is excited, letting you melt into him, adapt to the dance. You feel like you’re floating.

Don’t go breaking my heart, he sings.

I won’t go breaking your heart, you sing back, ducking underneath your hands, laughing.

The tension, warmth, spark between you grow as the song begins to close, your words breathless, faces flushed with alcohol and semi-exhaustion. Even if your face seems to show it, though, you find you’re not tired at all, smiling as your heart beats faster. You pull away, dancing to the last bits of the song, having let go of all your worries, nerves. Why were you ever nervous? You always trusted him.

The song fades to an end when you pull together, faces as close as they’d ever been. You’re both breathing heavy with the intensity of your dance, smiling. You shut your eyes, laugh, with the ecstasy of this moment. From the crowd, the bartender yells: “Ora bacia! Kiss!”

Both you and Charles turn to the crowd, who quickly cheer him on, and laugh. But they’re not kidding, you realize—they’re all yelling kiss in unison, intermittent whoops and cheers joining the chant. It’s like a rural Italian version of an MLB kiss cam.

You turn back to Charles, who’s looking at you already. His eyes dart to your lips. You’d never done it before—appearances never went that far—but the crowd is unrelenting, and you nod back when he cocks his head to the side in silent question. Like always, you’re nervous. And again, like always, he helps you through it.

Warmth blossoms through your chest when he leans in and presses your lips together.

That would’ve been enough to satisfy the crowd, you think, but neither of you pull away. Sparks ignite your stomach, your hands looping around his neck, his around your waist. You kiss him back effortlessly, like you’d done this a million times before. You feel him smile against your own smile, laugh when you laugh.

The kiss is nothing if not dizzying, the perfect kind, the kind of the fairytale variety. His lips are soft, a bit chapped, against yours; when your tongues meet, they taste like aperol spritz and beer. Your hands tighten around his neck, like you need him still against you, when you both pull away for air. The crowd cheers.

You barely even hear them, staring into his eyes.

—

The night becomes cloudy, raining softly over the hills when everybody’s done singing; Charles boards Apollonia and like always, you wrap your hands around him, leaning against his back. You’re a bit tipsy, but above all, you’re utterly conflicted with how everything’s seemed to turn in on itself within the last few days.

The rain only grows as Charles revs harder, and the Vespa skids to a screeching, horrible stop. Thankfully, you’re not far from the farmhouse, so you don’t walk much; still, both of you are drenched, Charles’ arms stained with motor oil that drips off with the force of the rain. He stows away the bike, turns back to you. You’re looking at him expectantly.

“What is this?” You demand, raising your voice.

“Rain,” he replies blankly.

“This.” You wag a finger in between you both. “We kissed in Antonio’s pub, Charles. And we might—we might tell ourselves it was because of the crowd’s pressure, but we know. We both know that kiss was for nobody but us.”

He wipes a hand over his face. “What do you want it to be?”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly, sighing. Your hair is dripping with rain. “I really don’t.”

“I’ll tell you what I want,” he says. And he pauses, like he always does when he’s unsure, nervous, bumbling, and then blurts it out. “You—I want you. I was a fool to realize it late. But years of being with you, around you… I should’ve known earlier, I—”

“Charles,” you cut in, not expecting the sudden rawness. “No, no.”

“You’ve got to realize,” he says desperately. “I do. I constantly think of you, feel for you, look for you, look at you. I’ve known you for so long, I always end up liking you all over again. Everything comes back to you. Seeing you here, a place I love—seeing you love it here—listening to you sing, dancing with you—don’t you—haven’t you gotten it yet—?”

You stare at him.

You’re faraway, on the clouds, dry from the rain, when he says it. I love you.

—

The morning after is quiet, muted. You drown in your own overbearing thoughts.

“Got a lot on your mind?” You emerge from them quick, eyes darting over to Charles’ two aunts leaning by the doorframe of the dining room. You offer a polite smile, hoping it hides the conflict in the recesses of your mind.

“A bit,” you reply.

“Come join us,” Mia offers. “We will pick lemons outside. For lunch.”

You take a basket from the entryway and follow them through the front door and onto the yard, matching their slow pace, relishing in the morning sun that hasn’t yet grown too hot.

Tuscany is beautiful. Despite your best efforts, you’d grown to love it here over the course of the week. The hilly terrain, the fruit, the constant goat sightings, the bike rides to town where you clutch Charles’ shirt out of fear you might fall off.

They seem to spot good lemons within milliseconds, balding the branches in minutes. Perhaps because of your own cloudy thoughts, or maybe their breakneck speed, you fail to catch up, and they notice.

Mia again brings you out of your thoughts, guiding you three to the next tree. “Are you upset, bambina? Is Charles being a pest?”

“Oh, God, no,” you say with a laugh. “We—he’s a great tour guide. I never explored Italy before, and it’s beautiful here. He bikes me to town, because I can’t, uh, ride, unfortunately. He transacts for me, because my Italian is hopeless. He buys wine and cheese and lets me pet sheep when we bike past them on the hills.”

“Bambini innamorati.” Mia sighs fondly. “What is it you like about Charles?”

You hum, thinking. There are lots of things you like about Charles, but surely his family share the same sentiments. What’s unique? What about him is just yours? “His humor, I suppose,” you say. “He finds the fun in everything, even in competition, in boredom. Everywhere else, his good traits—everyone knows them. A stellar driver, charming, kind. Good-looking. But his humor, I think… I think he reserves his weirdest jokes, his best laughs, for the best people in his life. I’m just glad I’m there.”

Giulia is the next to speak, slow and encouraging, prompting you with a question you’d once dreaded but now feel excitement to hear: “Tell me again, how you and Charles met?”

It’s a rehearsed story, with bits of lies that you and Charles had to insert to make it appear more romantic and less coworker-esque. But you’d only told the short version before. To some journalists, to his cousin. You figure you’ll lie less and tell a more unabridged version. “Oh, okay,” you say, nervous and collecting your thoughts.

“I work with Charles. I was spending time with him a lot, so naturally, we became somewhat friends. Not very close, but comfortable enough. I had to take pictures and videos for him and his teammate, so we really were together a lot. I suppose that’s how we met. How we became… something more, is a totally different story. I think the best thing about it was that neither of us were looking for it.”

You breathe, pausing. “It simply happened—despite both of us not expecting, not needing a relationship, it happened anyway. Almost funny, how young people like myself look for the moment of love at first sight. The staggering moment of eye contact and realizing you’ve met your soulmate. But—it wasn’t like that for me. It happened slowly, like I had to dissect what I felt. Like my heart had always known, so I had to catch up with myself and realize I…”

You pause. You really aren’t lying. “…I’m in love with him.”

Giulia and Mia exchange a knowing look over the branches.

—

“So, are you dating?” Natalie asks. It’s the first race of the season, and everyone’s excited—but this interview moves slowly, Charles dictating the flow of it himself. He smiles.

“Yes, we are.”

“Well, there’d been rumors a few months ago that this was a PR stunt, calculated by your new officer, Jenna Griffin. So, tell me again, are you dating? For real?”

Charles seeks you in the crowd of the meet-and-greet fans, finds you in the front row. You roll your eyes when he smiles fondly at you. A Tuscany trip and several months later, he thinks, has changed everything.

For the better. “For real.”

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dontpulloutman · 13 days ago

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quick psa: i transferred to a new uni and Umm im kinda struggling cos my workload is twice what it was in my old school SO PLS BE PATIENT WITH ME 😭 i'll try to post something this week when i get the chance ermm yeah thats it Brb

#rio yapping

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dontpulloutman · 14 days ago

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girl dad!clark <3

a/n: hopping on the train!! little blurb for now, but much much more coming soon <3

The biggest villain in the house this morning isn’t some escaped alien warlord or Lex Luthor’s latest scheme—it’s three rumbling stomachs and a too-small box of pancake mix.

Sunlight spills through the kitchen windows in long, golden stripes, warming the checkered tile floor and catching little motes of flour in the air. The house smells like vanilla extract, melting butter, and a hint of something burned—probably from Clark’s earlier attempt at hash browns. The pan still sits in the sink, blackened slightly, like even it gave up trying to correct his enthusiasm.

Your daughter squeals from the table, fists already raised in triumph before the match even begins. She’s dressed like royalty meets superhero: a glittery tutu over pajama pants, a sparkly dish towel knotted around her neck like a cape, and one of Clark’s old T-shirts hanging past her knees. Her curls bounce as she wiggles in her seat.

Clark settles across from her with a theatrical sigh, his hair still tousled from sleep, glasses slightly askew. He rests his elbow on the table with a soft thud.

“Okay,” he says, voice low and serious, like he’s briefing the Justice Gang. “This is for all the marbles. You ready?”

“You can’t cheat this time,” she warns him, sticking out her tongue.

“I never cheat,” Clark replies, somber as a Sunday sermon. He lifts one finger and points it at her dramatically. “Superman’s honor.”

You snort softly from the stove, flipping the next pancake with a practiced wrist. It lands with a sizzle that blends into the chorus of giggles behind you. You glance over your shoulder just in time to see your daughter grip his single outstretched finger with both tiny hands.

“One… two… three—GO!”

For a moment, there’s tension. Real effort, or the illusion of it. Her face is scrunched up in effort, and Clark is biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning. His hand wobbles, shakes—and then falls dramatically to the table.

“AHHH! Nooo! You’re too strong!” he groans, collapsing backward in mock defeat.

She shrieks in delight, doing a little dance in her chair that sends her juice sloshing dangerously close to the edge of the table.

You set the plate of pancakes down on the counter and watch them. Watched them always. The quiet tenderness he shows her, the way he lets her win like it costs him nothing, the way he’d burn every pan in the kitchen and still call it a good morning if it meant hearing her laugh like that. The way he’s always been your hero, not just the world’s.

“Rematch?” he asks, already propped back up on his elbow.

She gasps. “DOUBLE or NOTHING!”

“You’re on.”

And even though he could bench-press a mountain, Clark Kent loses again.

You shake your head and pour syrup over the stack of pancakes, smiling. The battle rages on—not against monsters or meteors or moral dilemmas, but in the form of sticky fingers and giggles and love that hums soft and golden through the kitchen like sunlight itself.

-----

click here to be added to my superman taglist!

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dontpulloutman · 14 days ago

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CAUSE I'M A PUNK ROCKER - c. kent

synopsis you moved to smallville because you had to save your family's farm. it was a place you never wanted to stay at but also couldn't escape. then you met him: quiet, steady, and the one person who saw through your walls. slowly, without warning he became the part of you you didn't even know you were missing

a.n my longest fic to date. there will be a part 2 cause i didn't wanna make it too long. this part is spans reader and clark relationship from childhood to late teens (ends with them just starting uni), reader will be a punk rock musician in the next part. also wrote the song lyrics myself so sorry if they're cringe lol not betaread

wc 10.2k (ik it's long but give it a chance!)

heads up slow burn, porn with plot, bestfriend clark, no use of y/n, reader is female, they get into a fight but they get over it, lana lang and peter ross are mentioned but their personalities are completely my own creation. clark is a munch, mutual loss of virginity, fingering, p in v, unprotected (wrap it b4 you tap it), mentions of car crashes

You loved Blüdhaven. It was where you were born, where you’d been raised. The only time you ever spent outside of it was when you were visiting your grandparents in the summer. There was never much to do, but making friends with the cows and watching your grandma knit were admittedly things you liked doing. In moderation of course, 3 weeks out of the year in slow living was all you could handle.

Blüdhaven had loads to do, there were always events going on, concerts happening, new exhibits at the museum. Your class field trips were anything but boring, and you loved going on little adventures or “side quests” as you liked to call them with your friends. On the last day of school, you even got to have a water baloon fight after field day. You had walked home soaking wet but happy, smiling from ear to ear.

That smile quickly dropped when you saw the look on your parents' faces. Your mom had quickly ushered you into the shower, bringing you neatly folded clothes and resting them on the countertop before telling you to come back to the living room once you were done.

As the steam curled around the patterned tiles, your thoughts ran wild with what they had to tell you.

Had they found out you had helped Amelia cheat during the math exam in April? Had your teachers told them you had accidentally dropped the paint in art class a few weeks ago? They had said you weren’t in any trouble though, that couldn’t be it. You pondered like this for a few more minutes before your heart sunk into your stomach. Your library book. It sat under your bed, mockingly collecting dust, and was 4 weeks overdue yesterday. You had been meaning to give it back, but you had accidentally tore the spine away from the pages after reading a particularly angering scene. Great. You were really in for it now.

Before you could think too much about what exactly your punishment would be, your mothers yelling pulled you out of your trance. Twisting the knob, the water ca,me to a halt as you dried yourself off before changing into the clothes your mom had picked out. The pajamas were soft, but offered little comfort to your now terrified mind.

Carefully padding down the stairs, you sat in the chair across from the sofa, looking at the floor dejectedly before opening your mouth to apolgize. Your parents speak before you can.

“Sweetheart, we have some important news to tell you”

Your shoulders immediately relax, realizing that this isn’t going to be a lecture. But something about your dads tone has you nervous. What could be so important that they had to sit you down?

Pausing for a beat, he continues.

“So you know how we were planning on not going to the farm this summer? We were gonna have you go to that summer camp with your friends instead”

You nodded as he began again

“Well, Grandma and Grandpa have been having a hard time taking care of everything on the farm, you know they’re getting older. It’s hard to keep up with all the animals and crops when you’re our age let alone theirs” He moves forward slightly, linking his fingers together. “Grandpa had a scare yesterday, he almost fell while getting off the baler. He called us asking if we could come stay there with them.” He stops speaking for a moment.

You’re confused, and pretty upset. You go to the farm every summer, this is the only time in your 9 years of living that you’ve ever asked to stay back. Your best friends were going to Camp Ivy, you had asked months before and now you were ghoung to have to go to that stupid farm again while all of them had fun. Without you. Great, just great. Digging your nails into your palm, you stiffen a little as your mother continues where he left off.

“We said yes, but we aren’t just going to be staying for the summer, we’re moving there permanently”

Your heart stops for a moment. You’re genuinely at a loss for words. Your mother reaches out her hand, to comfort you, you think. But you quickly move back, the tears you were holding back move freely as you get up and run into your room. You let your body hit the bed, crawling under the covers as you put your pillow over your head to muffle your crying.

Your life is officially over. All of your friends, your teachers, everyone you know was going to forget about you while you’re stuck in the middle of nowhere, Kansas. Great. Just great. You wake up the next day and on your way to the bathroom catch sight of the outfit you had worn yesterday, you had been so happy when you had gotten home and now you were just like the shirt. Creumpled up, dirty, and in desperate need of a wash.

Your parents had given you space, but within the next few days you had already begun to pack, your whole life soon was boxed away and put into a truck as you got in the car. It would take 2 days to get to Smallville.

In all honesty it doesn’t fully even set in that you're moving, your mind warps it into being just another summer trip. But for some reason, the minute your head hits the hotel pillows in Indianapolis it really hits you. In all honesty, you should’ve seen it coming. For a whole now they had been talking about oving (they didn’t know that you’d heard them of course, it was always after bedtime). Also Grandma and Grandpa needed help, they were strong but even you couldn’t do all that work on your own. Even though you were upset you were leaving everything you knew behind, you would rather do that than make your parents stay unhappy and your grandparents stay overwhelmed. Sighing you let yourself sink further into the pillow, closing your eyes as you drift off to sleep.

The next day is spent once again, staring off out the window, you had tried to read, but your motion sickness forbade it, feeling nauseous befor eyou could even turn a page. As you watched the sky darken and rain begin to come down, you let yourself day dream about what you would be like if you were a character in the book. Maybe even the main character. It was fun, and as you got lost in the scenario the sun slowly moved further west, gently hiding as it fell past the horizon.

It’s late when you reach the farm, your eyes open after what feels like hours as you stretch softly. Your mom opens the backseat door, and you get out. The air is refreshing, warmer than you remember it being, but comforting nontheless. Your grandparents are already asleep as you quietly open the door. Your things would arrive tomorrow, the movers had said they’d arrive sometime between 8am and noon.

The house, like the farm it resided on was massive, to you at least. Out of the 5 bedrooms of the house, you had your own special one, decorated mostly with things your grandma had crotched or knitted.

You let your backpack hit the floor as you took a shower to get the long car ride off your body. After changing you stayed up to finish the last few chapters of your book.

The next few weeks weren’t like anything you had expected, The fomo of not going to summer camp and the harsh reality that you wouldn’t be going back to Blüdhaven really set in, and you struggled to do much more than lounge around on the couch all day. Even the animals could feel the resentment you had, the last time you tried hanging out with the cows, they had basically run off.

You spent most of the day either watching old black and white filmswith grandpa, watching grandma knit, or reading. You had been evicted out of your room after you had been “in there too much” according to mom.

Now you would read sitting in the cornfields, at first it was kinda scary because they were tall and when they moved it almost sounded like someone was behind you, but you got used to it. May was ending and you were feeling more miserable than ever, so it didn’t really come as a surprise to you that your parents were sitting you down in the kitchen that morning.

You were having a staring contest with the gingham tablecloth as your parents went on and on about how they were “concerned for you” and how you “needed to make more friends” honestly, did they expect you to just forget about all the ones back home? Making new friends now would be accepting the fact that they weren’t going to be your friends anymore. The thought of that made your eyes sting and before you could even think about it you abruptly stood up, tearing your eyes away from the cloth as your palms made an echoing thwack sound as they hit the table.

Before your parents could open their mouths, you turned around and ran, the door shut loudlky as you ran, you winced, you hadn’t meant to be so rude but you couldn’t help it. You had obsiously been so upset, they hadn’t even thought about what it would mean, making new friends. The tears flowed freely down your cheeks as your arms pushed against the neverending cornstalk. You didn’t know where you were planning on going, but you knew for a fact you couldn’t stay on the farm. They’d come looking for you, and the last thing you wnated was your parents to look at you with the eyes they’ve been giving you recently. Always a little sad, you hadn’t been able to put your finger on it for a while but you had finally realized what it was, pity.

The gentle breeze and the moving of the plants hid your quiet sniffles, and you continued to walk for what felt like hours. Once you hit the fence that marked where your farm ended, you made your way to the side of the road as you continued walking. The sun was fully out now, it was probably mid afternoon. You were starting to get thirsty, but your pride wasn’t going to let you turn back now, you were in too deep.

Just as your feet started to ache a little bit more, you began to make out what looked like a farmhouse. You continued walking just off the road, and as you got closer you came face to face with a mailbox. Leaning your head to the left you noted in bold white letters, KENT was written on the side. You contemplated for a moment what you should do. You hadn’t spoken to anyone but your family for nearly a month so you weren’t sure if you would sound stupid or not, but the dryness in your throat quickly made the decision for you.

Oh well, even if the Kents were your grandparents' age, maybe you could befriend them. That would shut your parents up. Could you be friends with people your parents age though? Before you could deliberate any further you had reached the porch. You stopped, looking side to side for someone outside, but after seeing nobody you exhaled, straightening your back and looking at your parents eye level. Most adults are that height and that way they wont have tio stare at your head when you open the door, the long hike you took here probably messed up your hair, and that wouldn’t make for a good first impression. You knocked on the door. Once. Twice.

The door slowly creaked open and you were confused when you didnt see someone looking down at you, as you let your eyes fall back to normal your breath got caught in your throat. Looking back at you wasn’t someone your grandparents age, not even your parents. He loooked as old as you, maybe older cause he was a little bigger than you. And his eyes were bluer than you thought was possible. Bluer than clear skies, the oceans you had seen, even your markers.

You both stared at each other for a moment before he opened his mouth.

“Hi, can I help you?”

Around 50 thoughts ran through your mind, all slamming into each other and making you stare at him blankly for a second or two.

“Um hi I took a walk, a really long one, longer than I meant to at least-” before you let yourself ramble and make yourself look even stupider than you already have, you shake your head before speaking again, more coherently this time. “Could I get some water? I think i’m dehydrated”

He smiles at you, cheeks caving into dimples as he pushes the door open. “Of course! I’ll have Ma get you some, she’s making some rhubarb pie, if you stay long enough you can have some too!”

You’re pretty shocked at the instant kindness and welcome in your random arrival, but you feel yourself smiling, truly smiling, for the first time in weeks. “I’ve never had Rhubarb pie before, but it sounds good”

He gapes at you for a minute, before beginning to ramble about how it’s the most perfect, amazing dessert to ever exist. You listen intently, following him further into the house after you take your shoes off. Clark, who tells you his name after he proclaims his love for rhubarb pie, brings you to the kitchen.

A woman with wavy brown hair turns around, meeting your eyes with a smile as she shakes your hand gently. “Hi! I’m Martha, it’s nice to meet you! You’re (Grandpa and Grandma’s names” grandbaby aren’t you?”

You nod, somewhat surprised that she already knows who you are, whenever you visit you stick mostly to the farm, rarely going out more into town. Knowing your grandparents, they probably gushed about you to their neighbors so you shouldn’t be too shocked.

You sat down at the table, a glass of water in hand. Martha aske how long you were going to be staying, and Clarl perked up when you said you’d moved here permanently.

“Does that mean you’re going to go to Weisinger?” He asks

You nod, you’re pretty sure that’s the elementary you’d be attending. It is the only one in Smallville after all. Behind you, grabbing a pie pin Martha assks.

“What grade are you going into honey?”

“Fifth grade” You smile at this, at least after this year you would get to be out of elementary. You were excited to go to middle school, it seemed more grown up.

After hearing that, Clark says that he’s going into fifth grade too, and you smile wider. A friend. You had actually gotten a friend.

As May ended, so did the slump you had been in. You had been driven home later that day, with two tupperware, one full of pie, and another full of casserole. Martha had insisted. You waved goodbye to her and Clark as you sheepishly stepped inside. You heard quick shuffling, you steeled yourself, ready to get yelled at.

The last thing you expected was to be wrapped in an enveloping hug. After a more concerned than angry lecture, you held out the tupperware for them and told them all about the very interesting day that you had.

You spent the rest of the summer having fun, mostly with Clark. You guys caught fireflies at night (you always let them go, it was fun watching them all come out at once), climbed and fell off of hay bales, started a book club made up of just you two, and tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to teach him the guitar. You introduced him to your favorite series, loaning him books that you would read together in the corn fields. By late August you even pinky swore. From that day on, you two were officially best friends.

Adjusting to Weisinger was hard at first, you weren’t used to such small classes. It didn’t help that everybody knew everybody, most of them since birth, but Clark made it easier. He introduced you to his friends, and soon enough you had a new little circle. The school year went by fast like it always did and soon enough you were getting ready to go to Junior High. You didn’t feel as grown up as you thought you would, but it was exciting nonetheless.

That was until you got your schedule back. Unlike in Elementary school where you just had one teacher that taught you all the subjects, in middle school you had a different teacher for each one. When you compared your schedule to Clarks, your heart sank. You didn’t have any classes together, only lunch. Ever the optimist, he could sense your frustration. He reassured you.

“We still have lunch together, don’t worry. Besides we have a promise don’t we? I’d never let myself drift away from my best friend” He smiles, and you feel your heart skip a beat. You shove him a little before bringing your hand up to his, pinkies interlocking as you smile.

Clark, as usual, was right. Your classes were still full of people you knew, as moving here like you did was pretty rare. Most of them were boring, but some classes you always looked forward to. The two main ones were English and music. Over the summer the ‘Book Club’ you had with Clark turned into a writing club, you had exhausted all the books both of your parents thought you were mature enough to read, and so after putting your heads together you decided to just write your own stories. You both went about it differently. Where Clark was methodical, direct, almost documentative, you were more metaphorical, lyrical, introspective. It was fun seeing how the other would have such different takes on prompts, and class gave you an oppurtunity to imporve your skills. Music was also like that, but instead you got to play on an electric guitar. You had wanted one since you had first picked up an acoustic, but your mom insisted that playing on an acoustic would “sharpen your skills”. She was right, it had been what she had done when she learned how to play. Nothing could beat the adrenaline rush you got when playing an electric for the first time though. It felt like the notes itself were flowing through your veins. This was definitely something you could get used to.

Clark and you still hung out at least twice a week. Sometimes you did homework together, trying and failing to work on math. Two heads is better than one didn’t apply to you guys when it came to anything math related. Other times you wrote lyrics as he wrote up things for the daily announcements, it let him write about stuff the way he wanted. You guys were great. You two had somehow gotten even closer, you were both rarely seen without the other during breaks. In seventh grade you had three classes together, that was fun. And going into eighth, you only had one. Anything was better than nothing though, and you quickly settled into the new routine.

It was orgnaized chaos, until yesterday at least.

As you guys were biking home from school Clark told you about a crush he had one one of your classmates. Not just anyone though, he had a crush on Lana. Lana Lang. The perfect, beautiful, frustratingly nice Lara Lang. You almost crashed your bike when he told you, but luckily a rock you passed over hid it for you. Truly a blessing in disguise. You listened to him talk about her, offering input on how he should ask her out. He thought he didn’t have a chance, but you convinced him otherwise later.

As you had predicted she had said yes to him, and they had a date planned for Sunday. It wasn’t anything too crazy, just getting ice cream and biking to the creek. He admitted he was nervous though, because he didn’t know if it was normal to kiss someone after a date. You didn’t really know either, it’s not like your parents talked to you about things like this, and you didn’t have an older sibling to ask, so you both tried to figure out what the social norms were. After deliberating for hours (20 minutes) you guys thought that before she went back to her house, he would kiss her if it felt right. That followed another long discussion about what “feeling right” meant and how he would know. One of the things you and Clark had in common was not really understanding social situations at times. While he had to actively identify them and figure out how to react, you had a hard time reacting in what you knew was the “normal” way. It was nice having someone that you didn’t have to pretend all the time around, and you think he appreciated having someone besides his parents that he didn’t have to constantly overthink around. He could be honest with you, blunt even.

That’s why it didn’t really shock you when he asked you a question the next day. You’re in your bedroom- him at your desk, writing; you at the foot of your bed, strumming mindlessly. The question itself does surprise you, though.

“Do you think we could kiss? For practice at least I don’t wanna kiss Lana badly. That would be a nightmare.”

You pause for a moment, accidentally playing a chord a little flat before you laugh. He looks back at you and you laugh, shaking your head.

“Practicing sounds smart but are you sure? You’d be losing your first kiss to me instead of her.”

He contemplates for a moment before responding. “I don’t think I would, besides I'd be your first kiss too so it would balance out.”

It’s your turn to think now, and after a moment of deliberation you nod your head. What he said is logical, besides you don’t really mind losing your first kiss to Clark, you’ve known him for a long time and he’s one of the few people you fully trust.

“How should we do it? Also do you mean like right now?” You put your guitar to the side, leaning to your right and cracking your back.

He gets out of your chair and sits in front of you. It isn’t awkward per se, it never is with the two of you, but something is different. He looks at you differently than he normally does. You don’t know how to describe it, before you can contemplate longer he interrupts your thoughts.

“If you dont mind, that is. You do know that you can tell me no, right?” He looks at you a little worried but that disappears when you smile.

“Yeah yeah, I know.” looking at him. Both of you sit still for a minute again before he grabs your hand, gently tugging you closer. You can feel your heartbeat thrumming. He tells you to not be nervous, and before you can quip out a retort, his lips are on yours. It’s an interesting feeling, he’s warm, like always and a hand that had pulled you closer is slowly bought up to your face. A second later your eyes are opening as you both simultaneously pull apart. “How was that? Was it bad?” He asks

You think about it for a moment, but after seeing him get more nervous you reassure him it was fine, you were just trying to figure out how to descrube it. You’re careful to not sound overly enthusiastic, and for the first time since knowing him, you lie to Clark. Lie might be a stretch, it’s more of a half truth. I mean it’s not like you could tell him that you liked it, or that you wanted to do it again. Lana. Pretty, perfect Lana. You shove whatever confusing emotions youre feeling down as you and Clark go back to normal, he’s still sitting on the floor with you , but now he’s to your left, reading over your lyrics and helping you edit them while you keep playing chords trying to figure out what sounds right.

You find yourself dreading Sunday. The usual excitement you have for the weekend is dampened when you remember how it’s going to end. You’re supposed to be happy for Clark, be the one cheering him on from the sidelines. So why is it that you’re struggling so much to do it?

And so like you always do when you’re feeling things you don’t fully comprehend, you grab your journal. The leather is worn around the edges, and you pull the thin bookmark to the side as you begin to write. You write in pen, it doesn’t fade like pencil does, but it makes for a very annoying writing utensil when you seem to be writing all the wrong things. Three hours and much more pages later, you read over the lyrics you’ve scrubbled down.

You said she makes you happy, so why can’t I breathe?

I smile like I mean it, but it cracks my teeth

I tell myself it’s nothing, just a shadow in my mind,

But when your eyes find hers the colors start to blind

You groan, getting angry but not having the heart to strike what you’ve written. You drop your journal at your desk and grab your backpack, you have algebra homework due. You should;ve known Clark would come straight to yours after dropping her. Your parents just let him in now, the only thing that you need to hear to know he’s here is the special knock you both came up with last summer. You perk up, composing yourself and making sure you don’t look like you’ve been wallowing in self pity for the last few hours like you actually are. You open the door with a smile. Clarks eyes meet yours and you quickly usher him into your room, pulling out some snacks as you sit down.

He tells you everything, what the bike ride to hers was like, all the mosquitos that bit him, what she was wearing when she came out. Red shirt Blue jeans with some grease on them from working on a car project with her dad. They had gone to get ice cream, he was still being assaulted by mosquitos. He got vanilla cone, she got bubblegum. Once they biked haphazardly to the creek, they sat and talked. You followed along, you were happy for him, and all seemed yto have gone as smoothly as could be imagined.

“Once the sun got closer to setting we biked back to hers and before she left she leaned in and hugged me. I think she pecked my cheel? I got really nervous and kinda forgot. I did smile at her at least,and hugged her back. But duh who wouldn’t hug someone back if they were- anyways yeah then she went inside, and I came here.

The excitement you had for him earlier much to your dismay only increased when you heard how it ended. You hugged him, told him he did a good job, and hung out for a few more minutes. It was getting late, and you guys had school in the morning. You gave him your algebra homework before he left, telling him to follow the steps you did to get the right answer. You made sure to mention that your dad had looked over it to make sure you were right. The last thing you needed was to be wrong while trying to help other people. He thanked you and you walked him down, giving him another hug and waving as biked off. You closed the door behind you, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you had been holding. As you turned around to go back upstairs the whole family stared at you from the living room, the movie on the tv being all but forgotten. Just illuminating their faces as they gave you a collective look that screamed ‘I know something you don’t’. After a second you went back to your room upstairs, catching a sliver of conversation as you did.

“When are they going to get together” “Oh hush ma, what if she hears you?”

“Oh please, I’m sure she already likes him”

Your heart quickens a bit as you make your way up.

This is really bad, what are you going to do?

For the first summer since moving to Smallville, you and Clark don’t spend basically everyday together. Sure, you still hang out at least once a week, but the feelings you were trying to deny are just getting stronger and you don’t know what to do with them. You write more songs now, and for your birthday your parents finally got you an electric guitar. They complain about the noise if you play too late, but you know that they don’t mind, not really. You even build more on the lyrics you had written down a few months ago back when you really didn’t know what was going on. You glance over the page, playing the chords you had color coded with highlighters as you hum along.

You talk about her like she hung the sky

And I'm nodding along just to get by

You laugh and I crack a little more

Staring at the shoes I wore to your front door

I’m the margin where your thoughts begin

The line you cross then write again

You talk about her, I laugh on cue

Fold up my feelings, just like you do

I swear i’m happy and it’s half true

But I still wish she was me to you

It’s frustrating, feeling this way. You should feel happy for him, you do feel happy for him. But you can’t help it.

You go to bed restless that night.

That fall was the worst harvest Smallvilles ever had. Some of the farmers had crop loss so severe that they had to sell some of their animals. Smallville was as tight knit as they come, and so people helped each other out where they could. You and Clark worked together, opening a small food pantry for those in need.

Because of the rough start to autumn, back to school morale was at an all time low. That coupled up with the fact that this was your first year of high school made your nerves all the more worse. You tossed and turned restlessly before deciding to just get up. You walked to your closet, pulling on a pair of comfy shorts before biking over to Clarks. His room is on the second floor, but he always leaves the first floor studys’ window unlocked so that you can come over if you need him. You leave your window open, he manages to get up somehow, you don’t really know how but you don’t ask questions.

After pulling the window up and avoiding making any creaks or noises, you contort yourself into the house. Gently going up the stairs you reach Clarks door. You knock quietly. Once. Twice.

After a few seconds Clark comes to the door, he clearly hasn’t slept yet either, and his shoulders relax as he sees you. After letting you in he closes the door behind you.

“Couldn’t sleep?”

You drop onto his bed responding with a hum. “I blame it on nerves”

“How come you’re nervous?” a familiar weight joins you on the mattress.

“I dunno, it’s nothing really”

His eyes narrow a little before laying down, you’re both laying horizontally on the bed now, knees to the edge. “You’re lying”

“No i’m not”

“Yes you are”

“Am not”

“Are too”

You roll your eyes, looking to the side before staring at the ceiling. The fan moves along lazily, doing little to cool the burning you felt in your face

“High school just seems scary, after this I either have to get a job or go to college. Either way, i’ll be leaving Smallville and leaving Smallville means leaving you. And the last time I left behind my friends we basically stopped speaking all together save calls on our birthdays. I don’t know if I can handle that. And I know it sounds dumb-”

He cuts you off, he looks at you, and you can feel it. Meeting his eyes you look back at him, they’re still the same shade of blue, bright, blinding, beautiful.

“We aren’t gonna stop being best friends just because you move y’know. We made a promise. We keep our promises.” His pinky intertwines with yours and you can’t help the smile that reaches your face.

“I know I know, but we’re both only going to get busier. Me with my music and you with writing. We’ll join clubs, you’ll finally ask Lana out and i’ll probably go out with Pete”

“Wait Pete Ross? Of all people, why Pete?” He gets up, leaning back on his elbows, looking at you in disbelief

Immediatley you feel defensive, you get up too, mirroring him. “Why not? We have music together and he’s pretty cool.” “Well I don’t know, he seems” Clark pauses for a moment. Knowing him he’s trying to figure out how to say a not so nice thing in a nice way. He settles on calling him “Unique”. You scoff getting up feeling anger start to bubble up in your chest. “Ok I dont understand why you can’t be supportive of who I want to date when I've been your number one when it comes to you and Lana” You start to walk towards the door before he grabs your arm, stopping you. You flinch, he’s holding onto you, hard. He lets go immediately, apologizing.

“Look I didn’t mean it like that, I'm sure he’s great.” His hands come up to his neck, scratching it softly. He’s lying, you know it. Great. Just great.

You had given him the decency to be happy for him and Lana, so why couldn’t he even pretend to be happy for you? It wasn’t even like you guys were together. You pushed out a quick goodbye and made your way quietly down the steps. You had never left Kent's house feeling worse than when you had come, but apparently there was a first time for everything.

You knew he’d be waiting to bike with you in the morning, so you left for school half an hour early. Your mom looked at you skeptically before handing you your lunch. After saying bye to your grandparents, you left.

You honestly don’t know if you were even hiding how shitty you felt. Last night kept playing on loop, and you dreaded the day ahead as you got closer to your new home for the next four years.

Smallville High seemed huge, intimidating to you in the past, and you were older now. If you looked close enough, you could see the grout chipping off the bricks. You looked up, seeing SMALLVILLE HIGH SCHOOL in bold red letters. They loomed over you mockingly.

Letting out a sigh, you made your way into the mostly empty halls. Checking your watch, you still had some time before first period, so you decided to go to your music class and scope out the place. It wasn’t grand by any means, but it was a huge upgrade from junior high. The room was small, cosy. There were rows where the choir would sing, and along the side of the wall opposite lay an assortment of instruments. Guitar, bass, drums. There were also cases, you assumed, for the band and orchestra instruments.

While you were busy exploring your new school, Clark had arrived at your house. He had some of Ma’s oatmeal cookies with him, they were your favorite and he really was sorry. He felt even worse after your mom told him you had left early. Said it was something about trying out for band. She had looked at him with pity, like she knew something he didn’t. Smiling and nodding, he turned around and picked up his bike.

Since when did you want to do band?

The first bell rang and you made your way to class. The first period of the day was history. It was a subject you liked, but your teacher Mr. Jensen seemed to have a natural talent for making the most interesting of things boring. As his monotone voice dragged on you felt yourself nodding off a little before someone to your right nudged you gently.

Looking over, you noticed Pete Ross of all people signaling his head to the board. You almost laughed, how ironic.

The rest of the day passed with a similar vibe, you were exhausted and if you had to do one more ice breaker you were going to slam your head into the wall. At least you hadn’t seen Clark today though, small wins.

Speaking of Clark, he had spent almost all day trying to spot you, this year you guys didn’t have any classes together, or lunch so he had resorted to wasting his passing period. Not like he really needed it to get to class on time. He bit on the inside of his cheek, he had really messed up this time.

The following 3 weeks were some of the worst you had ever had. You didn’t know if it was because you had been ducking Clark, or if it was because your music teacher seemed to hate everything you had to offer. He said your music was “too rough” and it would lead to “sin”. As if. You rolled your eyes, getting angry just thinking about it. You tried to write new songs, but you kept on turning back to one of the earliest pages of your journal. The page was worn out more than the ones surrounding it, and was dotted with a few old tearstains. You flicked your pen back and forth before writing

I wrote your name in every line

You traced hers over it, realigned

I was the echo you never heard

Just background hum beneath your words

This was getting really pathetic, you knew you were in the wrong by now. He had tried to apologize and you had been too upset to forgive him. You steeled yourself, and decided that today was the day. You grabbed your bike, and headed over to the Kents.

Your heart was hammering in your chest, you thought you were going to throw up. You took deep breaths as you walked up to the porch. Clark. This is Clark. The same guy that cried when he saw ant piles disappear in the rain, the same Clark that walked a mile with you on his back when you were 10 because you scraped your knee playing. You’re fine, he’s fine, you guys will be ok. You knock on the door

The door opens and green eyes meet yours. Lana Lang. She smiles at you, but it doesn’t fully reach her eyes.

“Oh hey, you! So good to see you?”

“Yeah you too Lana, is Clark here?” Your resolve is crumbing by the second, your feet itch with the urge to just turn around.

“Clarkie? Yeah he’s here, do you want something?” She bats her eyelashes at you, waiting for a response

“Uh yeah, I wanted to talk to him actually, can you just send him out? Or I can come in-” As you say that she closes the door so just her face peeks out.

“I’ll see if he can come out” She smiles at you, then slams the door in your face. And so you wait. And wait. And wait. Three minutes turns into five, and before you know it it’s been fifteen minutes. You’re contemplating just leaving but the door opens again. You perk up, expecting Clark but it’s Lara at the door instead. Something is different about her though, your eyes narrow and you notice the lipstick she had on earlier is almost gone, smudged around the corners. Her face is flushed, and she’s breathing heavily. You feel yourself start to get sick.

“So sorry love but he’s too busy to come talk right now. Maybe some other day?” She doesn’t even let you speak, and closes the door in your face. Wow.

What you didn’t know is that Lana hadn’t even told Clark you had come, when he asked who it was she said it was just some delivery man that had gotten the wrong address. They had been working on a piece for the Smallville Torch, his first issue was a big deal and he had wanted a second pair of eyes. He had tried going to you, and you needed space. Lana had offered and he didn’t see the harm in it. He wasn’t really expecting her to just abandon helping him though, she basically out of nowhere had started to give him the look and started to kiss him. He didn’t mimd, but he really needed to work on the piece. After giving her some more pecks he got back to work. Lana had left the room saying she needed to use the restroom, but he heard the front door open. He honed his listening in, and when he heard Lana telling someone that he was busy he was confused, then he heard your voice. You sounded hurt. It dawned on him then, what had actually been going on.

Ever since you guys had that argument, he had gotten kinda lonely. All of his other friends had told him to just find you and apologize again, but he knew you wouldn’t really accept it until he had given you space. He had started to hang out with Lana more, and more, and she always acted weird when you were brought up. He put his head in his hands, god he had really done it this time. He was ripped out of his thoughts when the door opened and a smiley Lana had waltzed in. He told her to leave, nicely or so he thought. She started crying, asking what she did wrong. When he wouldn’t give her an answer, she started to yell. At least Ma and Pa weren’t home, they wouldn’t have liked to hear him yell at a lady, even if she was hurting him.

As he walked her back to the stairs she kept on talking, but about you now. Started saying all kinds of awful things and if he hadn’t known better he would’ve cussed her out. He closed the door as she left and went back to his room to try and figure out how to fix this mess.

You’ve been crying for a good hour by now, you can’t help it. You keep on trying to tell yourself that he’s just a friend but you can’t help the way your heart aches. You can’t deal with it anymore. You open the all too familiar page in your journal and write the final chorus to the song.

I’m the silence when you need a friend

The start of stories that never end

You talk about her, I know you should

She makes you smile the way I wish I could

And maybe that’s just how it goes

Some hearts stay hidden, some never show

As you finish the last line, the ink is still wet as you make your resolve. If you can’t get rid of the feelings you have for Clark, you’ll just shove them down.

You lay in bed trying to figure out what chords are gonna be the best for your song when you hear your window start to creak open. You don’t tense up, but you are thankful that your tears had stopped flowing a few hours ago.

A weight dips into the bed in front of you, and as you look up your heart breaks just a little bit. Sitting at the foot of your bed is Clark. His clack curls lay messily on his head, he’s looking at you apologetically, and you don’t miss the redness in your eyes as he stares. He’s been crying, the poor thing.

You don’t even spea, just letting your guitar rest softly on the bed as you move to stand up in front of him. Standing, you cradle the head of the boy sat beneath you. You can hear small sniffles as he begins to apologize. Your fingers toy with his hair gently, as you apologize to him too.

“And I’ve been meaning to tell you, honestly I was just going to tell you tomorrow, but me and Lana are done” His voice shakes slightly as he nuzzles his head further into your stomach.

Whatever anger that you had immediately vanishes as you listen. He tells you about what happened earlier that day, how he had been feeling, him trying to find you.

You both had been so lonely these last few weeks. You move his head gently so that he’s looking at you, and raise a pinky. Silently, they interlock.

You find yourself falling into a new rhythm, you aren’t that sad anymore, not really. Clark and you both date your fair share of people in highschool, you start a band that (miserably) ends. He’s at every gig you had. Clark gets better and writes more stories for the Torch. By senior year, not only is he editor in chief, he’s also the Captain of the Smallville Crows, the varsity football team. You guys make an odd pair, him in his letterman and blue jeans, and then you in your studded leather jacket and ripped jeans. You guys were still two peas in a pod.

While most things were the same, some things had changed. You had started to dye your hair, going from purple to green, before settling on the dark cherry red you had now. Clark had changed too, he had gotten taller, stronger. He was able to lift things that shouldn’t even be humanly possible, he would flinch at loud noises, and vanish when there were emergencies in town.

You guys decided to go to prom together, as friends of course. Neither of you had dates and you didn’t see the fun in going alone. You arrive at the gym around 9:30pm, in the Kents pickup.

It’s been pretty fun so far, the music they’re playing isn’t half bad. They played a lot of the Mighty Crabjoys, you shouldn’t be too surprised though. Clark had managed to get the whole team hooked on them. As you guys are sitting at the bleachers chilling, he suddenly freezes.

You freeze too, and ask what’s wrong. He says something, barely a whisper but you make out “My parents. It’s my parents, somethings wrong.” Getting up he looks to you

“Stay here for me”

Matching him, you get up.

“Like hell I will”

He flashes you a smile before worry covers his face again. He grabs your hand and rushes out of the gym, leading you both to the truck.

Turning the car on, he speaks

“Ok I, I don’t know if I can explain thai right now”

“Then don’t. Let’s go”

He hesitates for a second before backing out and speeding away from school. You guys are going fast. Fast for your standards means lightning speed for clarks. You guys are going down the dirt road and when you glance at the wheel, you see his knuckles turning white.

The truck comes to a screeching halt, and through the highbeams you see a truly scary sight. Jonathan's truck crashed off the side of the road, crumpled. You feel your heart drop as you scramble to get out of the car.

Looking at the scene in front of you, you bring your fingers to your hair, trying to calm yourself.

“Clark this is bad, really bad. We gotta call someone” He shakes his head “There isn’t any time”

And for the first time since you’ve known him, Clark Kent has rendered you truly speechless.

You watch as he rips the mangled door of the truck off its hinges with his left hand, getting Jonathan and Martha out like they weigh nothing. You wonder for a second if the gas tank is leaking and if you're hallucinating this whole thing. You snap out of it, opening the back of the pickup to lay his parents down.

You don’t question him, Clark has always made sure you were safe. So what if he was insanely strong and could probably pick your whole house up without breaking a stretch. He was still the same Clark.

He begins to drive towards the farm and you break the silence

“Does anyone else know?”

“Just Ma and Pa, and you now too”

There’s a brief silence before you ask, quiter. “Why me”

“Because I trust you.”

After his parents are put in bed and their injuries taken care of, (You had insisted on them getting xrays but he said he could see their bones. That weirded you out for a second, then you asked him to describe your skull. It was his turn to be weirded out then)

You guys don’t end up going back to the dance, and instead lay in the fields watching the stars. A comfortable silence envelops you both, and you guys slowly drift off to sleep.

Graduation creeps up quickly, a small ball of dread has been building for the last few weeks. You had already been accepted into Gotham University, full ride courtesy of a Mr. Bruce Wayne. Apparently, if you were poor enough, he’d just throw money at you. You weren’t sure if it was charity or penance, and honestly, you didn’t care.

It was funny, though, how one man could casually bankroll someone’s entire education without blinking, while the rest of the country drowned in debt just for daring to want a future. You wondered how deep his pockets went, how many zeroes it took to feel absolved.

But you weren’t about to spit in the face of your ticket. If the system was rigged, you were taking whatever scraps fell off the billionaire table, and running.

Clark was going to be leaving too, but to Metropolis. He had gotten into Metropolis University for journalism and you couldn’t be more happy for him. He’d finally be somewhere bigger, somewhere that matched him. Not just his powers, though that would probably help, but the rest of him too. His inherent goodness, the kind that made people want to be better by just standing next to him, would probably create more positivity in the city.

The night before you both were to walk the stage, you went out into the fields like you always did. It was basically tradition at this point. You guys could be quiet together, no small town noise, no teachers, no futures looming on acceptances and job offers.

Just the two of you and the stars.

You were both laying in the back of his truck, staring up at the kind of sky that makes you feel small in a good way. Crickets chirped in the tall grass. His plaid flannel was draped over your shoulders. You strummed your guitar absentmindedly, playing some song you had heard on the radio earlier. You guys sat in comfortable silence

“Do you ever think,” he said quietly, eyes still on the stars, “about how weird it is? That we’re supposed to just.. start our lives tomorrow? Like real ones. Adult ones. Without ever really being with someone we trusted?”

You stopped strumming

Not because the thought was strange, but because it wasn’t. Not at all.

“Yeah, actually” you said. “All the time.”

You shifted slightly, and the flannel slipped down your left shoulder.

“People act like we’re supposed to have all these big experiences already figured out. Like we’re gonna just wake up in our dorms or our apartments or wherever, and just know what the hell we’re doing”

Clark smiles at that, small and sad. “I’ve been working since I can remember and I still don’t feel like I know anything”

You laugh softly, nudging him a little. “You know plenty, you just think too much”

He turned his head to look at you, something was different about his eyes. They seemed to glow in the moonlight, a bright, blinding blue.

“Maybe I do, but not about this.”

Your breath catches in your throat

“This?” you repeat, almost afraid to ask

He doesn’t look away, just says that he “trusts you”

It wasn’t a confession, not really. But it felt like one. Something quiet and huge at the same time. Something that shifted the air in between you

You swallowed, “I trust you too”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but was pronounced. It pulsed with everything you had wanted to tell him but hadn’t, not yet.

You set your guitar aside

“I don’t wanna go into the rest of my life never having felt close to someone y’know?” you admitted, voice quiet. “Not like that, I mean really being close to someone, them actually seeing me and choosing me”

His hands found yours in the space between you. “Me neither”

You leaned in first. Or maybe he did. You weren’t sure, because the second it happened, time seemed to stop.

It felt unreal having his lips on yours, they were soft, and his hands pulled you closer. You broke the kiss as you straddled his waist, and then you kissed him again. You had kissed people before, but it never felt like this. Your arms looped behind his neck as you felt yourself grinding into him subconsciously. He grounded into your mouth before bringing his hand to your waist to help you move.

His hands both came to your waist, and he gently flipped your positions so that you were lying on your back and he was on top of you. His kisses began to trail down, moving from your lips to your neck, down to your collar bones. When he was met with the barrier of a shirt he looked at you for permission. Once you gave him the go ahead he brought it over your head. You couldve sworn you saw hearts in eyes as he stared at you. He looked at you as if you were a work of art, a sculpture of a deity so holy that you had to worship it. He began to kiss down your sternum, unclasping your bra before his mouth found your nipples. Swirling his tongue, he sucked gently while tweakung the other. It made a familiar heat rush down between your legs and you couldn’t help the small pants that escaped your mouth.

This seemed to only spur him on however, and he went further and further down before removing your shorts. He groaned when he saw the wet spot of your panties, glossing over it with his fingers before he pulled them down too.

“Is it alright if I try something?” He asked you softly

You nodded your head, unsure about what exactly he was planning on doing

And that was when you felt a warm tongue pressing into you. Clarks head was deep between your thighs, his fingers gripped your thighs gently but firmly as he ate you up. The feeling you had now was entirely foreign to you, and you couldn’t help but grab at his hair as he pushed himself deeper and deeper in. His nose rubbed against your clit as his tongue continued to prod at your folds and you felt a coil building up in your stomach. He brought his right hand own, letting go of your right leg while pushing your left up higher causing him to hit you at a new angle. That on its own would’ve been a lot but his thumb began to make small circles on your clit. It was too good, and far too much. You barely got out a warning before you were cumming, he stayed put, helping you ride out your high. He pulled away from you with a smile on his face, and wiped his lips before coming up to kiss you.

As his tongue wrapped around yours you could taste yourself on him, it was embarrassing how much it had turned you on. While he kissed you, he began to fumble with his shorts, getting them pushed down and then kicking them off to who knows where.

“Is it ok if we go all the way? It’s totally fine if not-” You cut him off by kissing him and claw at his boxers. He laughs into the kiss as gets them off and for the second time in your life, Clark Kent has left you speechless. He’s big, really big, I-dont-even-know-if-it’ll-fit kinda big, but you’ve never backed down from a challenge.

“Can you law down f’me? I read somewhere that I have to get you ready for it first”

You laugh at that, imagining him trying to fund a website that gives sex tips. You oblige, laying down as he covers his fingers with some of his spit before bringing them back down to your enterance. He starts off with one finger, it's a stretch, but after a while he adds another, then another, he slowly scissors you open and after a few minutes you’re ready. He asks you if you’re sure one more time as he lines himself up. After you tell him again, smiling “yes, i’m sure” he begins to push in slowly.

You’d be lying if you said it didn’t hurt. For the first few minutes you thought you were gonna be ripped in half, Clark made sure to rub circles on your clit, and kissed your face as you adjusted inch by inch. Soon enough, you’ve taken all of him and you give him the ok that he can move.

And move he does. He starts softly, his arms are at either side of your head and he thrusts softly in and out. He begins to pick up the pace and your back starts to arch. It feels so good, it's like your whole being is wholly consumed by him, he’s everything you want and everything you need. You open your eyes and he’s at your neck, smiling as he presses kisses into it. You feel yourself get closer and he shifts slightly. He’s hitting deeper in this position, his arms holding you up by the hips as his thrusts quicken in intensity. He’s hitting something deep inside you and you can feel the knot building inside you getting tighter and tighter. You manage to get out that you’re close and somehow his speed starts to increase even more. He’s letting out quiet moans and whimpers. Whispers out small praises for you, that you’re “doing so good f/me” and taking him “so well”. It all starts to be too much for you and you reach your arms out, grabbing his face to pull him in for a kiss. He fills you to the hilt and you let yourself go. He follows suit shortly after, smiling and pressing kisses all over your face before gently pulling out. You’re already on the pill so he isn’t as worried as he would’ve been otherwise.

You both lay tangled together in the back of the truck, the stars reflecting back, forming constellations that you both know like the back of your hand. Neither of you said I love you. Neither of you had to

But god, did you both wish you could.

You guys drive back home. He drops you at yours, walks you to the door before hugging you goodbye. You hear him leave as you close the door.

You go over the next day, you had borrowed one of Clarks writing books to help with some songwriting, and you knew he was going to need it if he started packing.

Opening the door you saw Martha at the kitchen table, hunched over. As you got closer you made out what she was doing, she was sketching out.. suit designs?

After noticing you she quickly ushers you over, “Come look sweetie, it’s a project. For Clark”

You join her at the kitchen table, helping her with a color scheme. You decide to use the primary colors. You add a cape too, for “pizzaz”

The night before you both meet for college, you guys hang out in your room. Things aren’t awkward between you two, but you’re holding yourself back from telling him how you feel. You don’t bring up that night, or the suit.

Before he leaves, he hugs you. Tight, like always. He tells you that you’ll do amazing in Gotham, and that he can’t wait to visit. You smile, telling him that if he doesn’t come see you at least once that you’ll murder him.

You hear about a new hero that’s popped up in Metropolis called Superman a few weeks later. As you’re sitting in your dorm watching the skyline a flash of gold and red streaks across the night sky

It’s just a blur, but it brings a smile to your face anyway

He remembered.

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dontpulloutman · 15 days ago

Note

CHARLES SMAU THANK YOU GODDDDDDD (insert dancing gif that they wont let me put here)

YEYSYEYEYSSS and maybe for max too hehehe

#—♡

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dontpulloutman · 16 days ago

Note

ik you would cook up such good f1 writing im so up right now ITS WHAT THE PEOPLE (me) WANT 🙏🏽🙏🏽

THANK U FOR PUTTING SUCH FAITH IN ME 😭😭😭 im in a bit of a writing slump rn but i have a charles smau in the works 🤭 i'll post it when it's finished pls dont hate me for making u wait 🥹🫶

#—♡

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dontpulloutman · 16 days ago

Text

love is patient — mv1

smau + written blurbs

max verstappen x !o’ward single mother reader

you never thought you’d come back here—home. not like this, with a daughter on your hip and old ghosts whispering in your ear. mexico feels warmer than you remember, maybe because this time, you aren’t alone. it’s been three years since you left him. since the bruises, the silence, the fear. since elba packed your bag with shaking hands and pato flew home early from a race just to sit outside like a guard dog. three years of rebuilding, of healing, of raising your daughter with a village made of blood and love and pit crews who call you mamà.

you came to support your brother for his fp1 drive—just another race weekend, another step forward. but fate has a funny way of showing up when you least expect it. one second, you’re chasing your toddler through the paddock, calling her name. the next, you’re crashing into someone solid, steady, familiar only because he’s on every billboard from here to belgium.

max verstappen

and somehow, everything starts to change. you are not sure you’re ready. but maybe you don’t have to be. maybe this time, love will wait for you. and maybe, just maybe… it’ll be worth letting in.

fc : saradeanii on ig and kelly

original request is here.

(a/n) : literally halted everything to write this asap bc this request altered my brain. hope you love!

—

yn_oward

liked by patriciooward, elbaoward, lando and 475,007 others.

yn_oward : life crumbs, eat up

tagged : elbaoward and patriciooward

—

view 18,045 other comments.

nolansiegel : i hope that you bought every single pastry in that case for my dear niece

liked by yn_oward and patriciooward

↳ yn_oward : she was with auntie elba so naturally the whole bakery was bought out within minutes

liked by nolansiegel, patriciooward and elbaoward

↳ elbaoward : mi bebé consigue lo que quiere 😊 (my baby gets what she wants)

liked by yn_oward and patriciooward

patriciooward : my niece has more fans than I do and I am completely okay with that

liked by yn_oward and elbaoward

↳ yn_oward : don’t worry. no matter how popular she gets she will always make time for uncle patito🤧

liked by patriciooward and elbaoward

↳ patriciooward : hope you feel the same way. miss influencer 🙄

liked by yn_oward and elbaoward

↳ yn_oward : the sass with you is off the charts lately and ive seen you 3 times this week ALREADY

liked by patriciooward and elbaoward

↳ patriciooward : blah blah blah can’t hear you

liked by yn_oward and elbaoward

arrowmclaren : our favorite icon and her uncle patito🥹🥹🧡

liked by yn_oward, patriciooward and elbaoward

alexanderrossi : So we’re just casually out here being the best looking family in motorsport?

liked by yn_oward, patriciooward and elbaoward

↳ patriciooward : we’ve always been doing that. catch up

liked by alexanderrossi, yn_oward and elbaoward

davidmalukas : Bro is she taller than me yet or what

liked by yn_oward, patriciooward and elbaoward

↳ yn_oward : watch out, she is catching up 🤭

liked by davidmalukas, patriciooward and elbaoward

yourbff : MILF MILF MILF MILF

liked by yn_oward and elbaoward

↳ patriciooward : pls stop harassing my sister

liked by yn_oward, elbaoward and yourbff

↳ yourbff : you’re just mad that your niece and your sister are in my possession not yours 😈

liked by yn_oward and elbaoward

↳ patriciooward : yes quite salty

liked by yn_oward and yourbff

elbaoward : the body is quite literally insane. im gagged

liked by yn_oward

↳ yn_oward : i love you so fucking much ❤️‍🔥

liked by elbaoward

—

The kitchen smells like vanilla and brown sugar.

Elba’s crouched at the counter, guiding tiny, flour-covered fingers as your daughter, Carmen, presses cookie cutters into the dough with a level of concentration that could end wars. There’s flour on her cheeks, streaked across her curls, and somehow all over Elba’s shirt too. You’re leaning against the island, half-watching, half-scrolling, just enjoying the soft buzz of family filling your home.

Pato walks in with his phone glued to his face, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Wait. Wait. No, you’re kidding—hold on.”

You glance up, sensing it before he even says anything. He’s pacing now, turning in a full circle, the way he does when his brain is moving faster than his body can keep up.

“Wait, FP1 in Mexico? For McLaren? Are you serious?!”

Elba turns, still holding Carmen’s tiny wrist. “What? Say that again?”

Pato finally looks up at all of you, eyes wide and disbelief painted across his face like a kid on Christmas morning. “They just confirmed it—I’m driving FP1 in Mexico City. For McLaren. I’m going home.”

You freeze for a second, stunned, and then the entire kitchen erupts.

You shout, Elba screams, Carmen throws her dough star in the air like confetti. Pato’s laughing, half disbelieving, half overwhelmed, and suddenly you’re all hugging in this messy, sugary, warm pile of joy in the middle of your kitchen.

“Elba,” he gasps, “you better get the signs ready. I want madness in that garage.”

“Oh don’t worry, I’m bringing a megaphone,” she says, wiping her eyes with a floured oven mitt.

Carmen tugs on Pato’s sleeve, looking up at him with big eyes. “Patito, are you gonna go zoom zoom?”

He scoops her up, dusting flour from her cheek with the edge of his nose. “You better believe it, princesa. And you’re gonna be there cheering for me, yeah?”

She nods like it’s the most important job in the world.

And just like that, you know — this moment is going to live in your heart forever.

However, as happy as you are for your brother, the thought of going back there— made your stomach drop.

—

flashback

It was raining that day. Not a gentle, cinematic drizzle, but an unrelenting, furious kind of rain — the kind that soaks you to the bone even if you’re under cover. You could still hear it through the old windows. Carmen was curled against your chest, warm and asleep, completely unaware of the storm inside and outside the house. You hadn’t packed much. Just what you could fit into a bag before he came home. You didn’t want to think about him — not tonight. Not after everything.

You were sitting on the floor of your daughter’s nursery. It used to be your favorite room in the world. Pale peach walls, little painted moons, the rocking chair Elba had found secondhand and restored with care. But even here, with Carmen breathing soft against your collarbone, you didn’t feel safe.

Until you heard the knock. Three sharp knocks — not frantic, not impatient. Just enough to make your body jolt. You didn’t move at first. You didn’t trust your own ears. But then…

“YN?”

Elba’s voice. And then Pato’s — “It’s us. Open the door, hermana.”

You were on your feet so fast you startled Carmen. She whimpered, confused by the sudden movement, but you held her close and ran, barefoot and shaking, down the hallway to the front door. You fumbled with the lock. Your hands wouldn’t stop trembling. And then the door opened. And there they were. Pato in a hoodie, soaked and wild eyed, like he’d been driving for hours. Elba in a huge raincoat, clutching a dry towel and a bag of snacks like she knew you wouldn’t have eaten. They both looked at you and—

You broke.

You didn’t mean to cry. You didn’t even feel it coming. But the moment Pato stepped forward and gently pulled Carmen from your arms, cradling her like she was made of gold, something inside you shattered. You collapsed into Elba. Not gracefully. Not in a cinematic way. You crumpled. She held you as tightly as she could, her arms around your shoulders, whispering “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s over now,” over and over while you shook in her grip.

Pato looked down at Carmen in awe, whispering something in Spanish you couldn’t catch. She blinked up at him and yawned.

“I got you,” Elba murmured into your hair. “We’ve got you. You never have to go back there. Ever.”

You nodded, but you couldn’t speak. You just kept crying — silent, broken sobs that came from somewhere deeper than you knew you could feel. They didn’t rush you. Pato sat on the floor with Carmen, humming gently as she reached for the strings on his hoodie. Elba stayed with you until your knees stopped shaking.

And when you were finally able to breathe again, when your fingers unclenched and your lungs didn’t feel like they were caving in, she helped you pack the rest of Carmen’s things. Pato took the carseat from the hallway and clicked it in like he’d done it a thousand times before.

And as you pulled out of the driveway with everything that mattered in the backseat — Carmen, your family, your life — you didn’t look back. Because the storm had already passed. And for the first time in a long time, you were going home.

—

The room is dim and still, lit only by the soft amber glow of a nightlight humming near the dresser. Rain is tapping faintly against the window — nothing like the storm from before. This rain is slower, quieter. Like it knows you’re exhausted. Carmen is asleep, nestled peacefully against Pato’s chest. He’s lying on his back, one hand spread protectively over her small body, the other tucked behind his head. His eyes are half-closed, but you know he’s not asleep. He hasn’t taken his eyes off her for longer than a second all night.

Elba’s next to you, curled on her side, her hand loosely wrapped around yours under the covers. She’s been rubbing gentle circles into the back of your hand for the past fifteen minutes. Not saying anything. Just there. The four of you are all tucked into Elba’s bed like you used to be as kids — scared of the dark or thunderstorms, crawling into each other’s rooms like it was second nature. Like love was instinct.

You hadn’t meant to say anything. You thought you could stay quiet. You were getting so good at pretending. But something about the way Carmen’s chest rises and falls against Pato’s hoodie — something about the way your siblings haven’t stopped holding you like you might disappear — loosens the knot in your chest.

“I didn’t think I was gonna make it out,” you whisper. The words slip out so softly they barely make it past your lips.

But Elba hears. She squeezes your hand instantly. “You did, though,” she murmurs, voice thick. “You’re here.”

“I stayed too long,” you continue, blinking up at the ceiling. “I knew it was bad. I just… I kept telling myself if I could wait it out, things would change. That if I stayed quiet, he’d stop yelling. If I agreed more, he’d stop breaking things.”

Pato doesn’t say anything at first. He just shifts slightly, like his whole body tenses at the thought. Carmen stirs against him and he immediately softens again, rocking her gently with a quiet shh, like the rage inside him has nowhere to go but it’s still there, seething under the surface.

“I was so ashamed,” you say. “Even when I knew I needed to go. I felt like I’d failed everyone. I thought… if I just tried harder, it would stop.”

“You didn’t fail,” Elba says, voice fierce now, even in a whisper. “You were surviving. You were protecting her. And yourself. That’s not failure, hermana. That’s strength.”

Pato finally speaks, his voice quiet and hoarse. “You never had to try harder. You just had to come home.”

You press a hand over your mouth, trying to stop the sob before it escapes, but it’s too late. Your whole body shakes with it — the guilt, the grief, the bone-deep exhaustion from carrying it all alone for so long. And then you feel him. Pato reaches over with one arm, still holding Carmen safely in the crook of the other, and he pulls you into him. Somehow, he manages to hold both of you at once — his baby niece asleep on his chest, and his sister finally falling apart in his arms. You curl into him without hesitation, burying your face in his shoulder.

“I got you,” he whispers, again and again. “We’ve got you. You’re safe now. You’re never going back there.”

Elba wraps her arms around both of you from the other side, creating this warm, protective shell around you. You’re in the middle — always in the middle — but this time, you’re not alone. Carmen stirs and lets out a soft sigh, the kind that babies do when they feel safe. It makes you cry harder.

“I didn’t know what love looks like,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I forgot.”

Pato presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Then let us help you remember.”

So you lay there, in a bed that smells like lavender and cookies and something like childhood, wrapped in arms that never stopped reaching for you. Carmen breathes steadily between you, her tiny hand resting over your heart. And for the first time in a long, long time — you finally let yourself sleep.

—

You should’ve known peace doesn’t last forever. It’s barely 10 a.m. The smell of coffee and cinnamon still lingers in the air, and Carmen’s squeals echo softly through the kitchen as she plays with a wooden spoon and a mixing bowl. She’s propped up in her high chair, messy curls sticking to her forehead, wearing a onesie Elba insisted she needed — the pink one with the little avocado dancing on it. You’re watching her with a quiet smile, heart still tender from the night before. You hadn’t cried like that in months. Maybe years. But for once, it didn’t feel like a breakdown. It felt like healing. Like something shifting back into place.

Then the doorbell rings.

Elba looks up from the stove, brow furrowed. “You expecting anyone?”

You shake your head slowly. No. No one even knows you’re here. Except— A cold chill shoots through your spine. Before your body even registers it, your hands are shaking.

Elba sees it instantly. She turns off the burner and steps forward. “Stay here with Carmen,” she says, calm and commanding, voice wrapped in steel. “Don’t move.”

You barely nod. She walks to the door — but before she even reaches it, there’s pounding.

“Open the door! I know she’s in there!”

Your stomach drops. You scoop Carmen up with trembling arms and back away from the kitchen window, heart racing so loud you can barely hear her confused little murmurs. Elba cracks the door, just enough to see who it is. You hear his voice again — louder now, full of venom and fake sweetness twisted into something sick.

“She can’t keep my daughter from me. That’s my kid. Where is she?”

Pato is downstairs in seconds. He doesn’t even need to ask. One glance at your face, pale and frozen, Carmen clinging to your shirt, and his expression hardens. He walks to the door, gently nudging Elba aside. She doesn’t stop him.

“Back away from the house,” Pato says, his voice like thunder behind a closed door. “Right now.”

You can’t hear what your ex says, but you catch the words “my rights” and “my family.” It makes your knees buckle.

Elba is at your side instantly, guiding you and Carmen into the hallway, out of sight. She crouches in front of you, both hands cupping your face as you fight to breathe.

“Look at me,” she whispers. “He’s not getting in. He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t touch her. You are not alone.”

You cling to her hand, nodding quickly, trying to stay upright. Carmen presses her face into your neck, sensing your fear. You kiss her temple, over and over, whispering “You’re okay, baby. Mama’s here. You’re okay.”

Outside, you hear Pato’s voice again — louder now. “You don’t show up here and bang on the door like that. You don’t scream about custody and make threats when you haven’t lifted a finger to be a father.”

There’s a beat of silence. Then—

“You lay a hand on my sister again, and I will see you put in the ground. I will make the last few seconds of your life absolutely miserable. Don’t test me.”

A car engine roars to life. Tires squeal. And just like that, he’s gone. But your heart is still racing. Elba closes the front door, locks it, and slowly makes her way back to you. Pato follows, his chest rising and falling fast, hands curled into fists at his sides. When he sees you — sitting on the floor with Carmen pressed to your chest, tears streaking down your cheeks but your body wrapped around your daughter like armor — his entire expression softens. He crouches beside you, gently reaching out to brush Carmen’s curls back.

“She’s okay,” he says, voice hoarse. “You’re okay. He’s not coming back here.”

“I don’t want her to grow up like this,” you whisper, eyes locked on Carmen’s tiny hand curled around your finger. “Always waiting for the next time. Wondering if she’s safe.”

“You won’t have to,” Pato says immediately.

You look up, confused. He glances at Elba, then back to you. There’s a fire in his eyes, but not the kind that burns. The kind that clears everything in its path.

“We’re moving,” he says. “Out of Mexico. All of us. You, me, Elba, Carmen. I don’t care what I have to do. I don’t care what it costs. I’m not letting him be within driving distance of you ever again.”

You blink at him, stunned. “Pato—”

“I’m serious,” he cuts in. “We’ll go to the States. I’ll transfer everything. You can start over. Carmen can grow up without any of this hanging over her head.”

You’re crying before he even finishes the sentence.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen—”

“No.” Pato’s voice cracks. “Don’t you dare say sorry. You saved her. You got out. That’s all that matters now.”

Elba kneels beside you, wrapping her arms around your shoulders. “Wherever you go, we go. That’s the deal.”

You bury your face in her neck, holding Carmen tight between you all, and finally let the fear drain from your body. The tears come slow and heavy. But they feel different now — not panicked. Not helpless.

Just the weight of survival. Finally being lifted. You don’t know where you’ll go next. What city, what house, what future waits. But you know this—Carmen will grow up surrounded by love. By strength. By people who never let you fall — not when it counted. And you’ll never be alone again.

—

And that was the last time you had been in Mexico — until now. You’d always thought coming back would break something inside you. That the air would feel heavier. That every corner would carry a ghost. But standing here, in the middle of the paddock surrounded by noise and color and a sea of McLaren orange… it doesn’t hurt the way you feared.

Because you’re not that version of yourself anymore. You’re not alone. And neither is Carmen — who is currently sprinting ahead of you with alarming speed, pigtails flying, the back of her McLaren shirt flapping as she runs full throttle through the hospitality zone.

“Carmen!” you call, half laughing, half mortified as you weave past a cluster of engineers. “Come back here, chiquita loca!”

She squeals louder in response, her tiny feet pattering over the pavement like some kind of motorsport fairy in sparkly sneakers.

Pato had already been pulled away by his PR team the second you arrived, promising to meet you and Elba at the motorhome. Elba is somewhere behind you with a coffee and three bags slung over her shoulder, yelling encouragement like this is a race she’s coaching.

“Let her tire herself out!” she calls. “That child runs on tortillas and craziness!”

You round the corner, prepared to wrangle your daughter into your arms before she knocks into something—or someone—but you stop short when you see her skid to a halt on her own. Because she’s standing in front of Max Verstappen. And he’s smiling.

It’s not the smug, cocky smirk that lives in so many photos. It’s something quieter, smaller. A private, lopsided kind of smile. He looks… startled at first, blinking down at Carmen, who’s just staring up at him like she might tackle him next.

“Hi,” she says, not shy in the slightest. “I like your shoes.”

You want to melt into the floor.

Max glances down at his racing boots, then back at her. “Thanks,” he says, then points to hers. “Yours are faster, though.”

Carmen gasps like he just handed her a trophy. “They LIGHT UP.”

“I can see that,” he says, crouching a little to her level. “That’s probably how you snuck up on me.”

That’s when you reach them, breathless and slightly embarrassed. “I am so sorry, she has no concept of personal space—”

Max stands up slowly and shakes his head. “No need to apologize. She’s got great pace.” His gaze flicks to you, and the smile lingers. “Must run in the family.”

You blink, momentarily stunned by the softness in his voice — and the way his eyes settle on you like he’s seeing all of you, not just the frazzled mother chasing a child around pit lane.

“I’m YN,” you say, brushing a few strands of hair behind your ear. “Pato’s sister.”

Recognition clicks in his expression immediately. “The sister,” he says, like it makes perfect sense. “He talks about you. And her.”

You glance down at Carmen, who is now spinning in a slow circle, her arms out like airplane wings.

Max notices too. “How old is she?”

“Almost three,” you say. “Going on thirty.”

“She’s incredible,” he says, and it sounds like he means it. He glances back at you. “Takes after her mother.”

You feel your cheeks flush. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you — not just with admiration, but something gentler. Like he already understands more than he should.

Carmen comes barreling back toward you, clearly done with her performance, and you reach for her — but Max is quicker. He catches her with surprising ease, lifting her effortlessly off the ground as she laughs and kicks her light-up shoes in delight.

“Gotcha,” he says, bouncing her once on his hip. She beams at him, wrapping an arm around his neck without hesitation.

You should feel nervous. But somehow, watching them — her tiny hands against his shoulder, his calm, steady grip — all you feel is… safe.

“She doesn’t usually take to people this fast,” you murmur, watching them.

Max glances at you again, eyes soft. “Maybe she just knows good people.”

Carmen wiggles down and runs back to Elba, who’s finally caught up and freezes mid-step when she sees who you’re standing with. Her brows shoot up behind her sunglasses, mouthing Is that Max f—ing Verstappen? at you. You laugh, nod, and then glance back at him.

“Thanks for being kind,” you say quietly. “Not everyone knows how to… meet us where we are.”

Max nods like he understands, even if you didn’t explain what you meant.

“I’d like to,” he says, just as quiet. “If that’s okay.”

Your breath catches. The noise of the paddock fades a little. You nod.

“Yeah,” you say. “I think it is.”

And for the first time since you returned to Mexico, you feel it — not fear, not grief. But hope. The start of something new. Something soft. Something like a second chance.

—

Back at the hotel, you’re curled up in the corner of the couch, Carmen asleep across your lap, her little limbs tangled in your hoodie. Elba’s painting her nails on the balcony, and Pato’s tossing popcorn into his mouth from across the room like it’s a sport. You hadn’t planned to say anything. You weren’t going to say anything.

But then Elba glances at you through the open door and says, “You’ve been staring at your phone like it slapped you. Spill it.”

You chew the inside of your cheek, trying to play it cool. “Max gave me his number.”

Pato chokes on the popcorn.

“Verstappen?!” he coughs. “Mad Max?! That guy?!”

You nod, eyes wide. “He… also asked if I’d want to go out sometime. But I didn’t give him an answer.”

Elba comes in from the balcony, already holding your phone like she’s going to text him herself. “Why not?!”

You shrug, keeping your voice low so you don’t wake Carmen. “Because I haven’t dated anyone since… him. And I have a daughter. And it’s Max Verstappen.”

“So?” Pato says, flopping next to you. “He saw all that today — Carmen chaos included — and still wanted to take you out. That says a lot.”

“He was actually kind of perfect with her,” you admit softly.

Elba plops down beside you with a grin. “Then text him back, dummy. You’re allowed good things.”

You look down at your phone again. His name — Max Verstappen — is sitting there like a dare. After a beat, you type,

I’d like that. Just don’t expect me to let you win if we go karting.

You hit send before you can overthink it. Elba gasps. Pato whoops. And in your lap, Carmen shifts slightly in her sleep, mumbling something about “zoom zoom.” You smile. Maybe this really is a second chance.

—

It had been years since you’d gone on a first date. Long enough that getting dressed felt like learning to walk again — too many outfit changes, too much pacing, not enough deep breathing.

Elba watched from the bathroom doorway, arms crossed and smirking. “You’ve changed your top three times,” she pointed out, holding Carmen on her hip. “Max Verstappen is not gonna care if you wear the white one or the blue one. Just put on the one that makes you feel like you.”

“I don’t even know who I am on dates anymore,” you muttered, glaring at your reflection.

“You’re someone who deserves flowers, dessert, and a man who looks at you like you’re sunrise and moonlight at the same time.” She winked. “Wear the white.”

Carmen leaned toward you and babbled, “Pretty, Mama.”

You smiled, heart softening instantly. “Okay, the white it is.”

Pato had set up “uncle babysitting headquarters” — complete with a blanket fort, popcorn, and at least four episodes of her favorite show queued up. Carmen was already crawling into it like it was the palace of dreams.

“You’re good?” you asked him, still lingering in the doorway, purse in hand.

He waved you off. “We’re golden. Elba’s ordering pizza, I’ve got backup juice boxes, and I taught her how to say ‘Max is overrated.’ Go fall in love or whatever.”

You rolled your eyes but laughed — the nerves cracking just enough to let a little joy through. And then… there was Max. Waiting outside the hotel lobby, leaning against a black car in a dark button-up and rolled sleeves, his hair still a little messy like he’d run a hand through it too many times.

He looked up, and when he saw you, he straightened immediately — eyes wide, then warm. “Wow.”

Your breath caught. “You clean up nice.”

“So do you.” He opened the passenger door for you. “Ready?”

You nodded. “As I’ll ever be.”

He didn’t take you to a fancy restaurant or anywhere overly polished.

Instead, he drove you into the hills just outside the city — where the air was quieter and the world felt slower — and pulled into a private little terrace restaurant lit only by string lights and candles. You could hear soft music playing, the scent of roasted peppers and citrus drifting in the air.

“Max,” you whispered as he helped you out of the car, “this is… beautiful.”

He didn’t let go of your hand. “I figured if I got to take you out, I didn’t want it to feel like just another thing in the calendar. I wanted it to be yours.”

He’d reserved the back table, tucked into the corner of the terrace. The view overlooked the city lights, soft and distant like stars. There were flowers waiting at the table — wildflowers, not roses. Something real. Unpretentious. Thoughtful. You didn’t even know what you ordered. You were too caught up in the sound of his voice, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, the quiet way he leaned in every time you spoke — like he didn’t want to miss a single word.

He asked about you. Not just what you do, but what you love. What makes you laugh. How you take your coffee. What Carmen’s favorite bedtime book is. He told you about growing up and the first time he drove a kart. He admitted he was nervous. You admitted you were terrified.

“I haven’t done this in a long time,” you confessed, sipping your wine slowly, the stars reflected in the glass. “Not since… not since everything.”

Max nodded gently. “I know. And I’m not rushing anything. I just… I want to know you. At whatever pace feels okay.”

You looked at him then — really looked — and the world slowed for a second. Something inside your chest cracked open like light through a doorway.

“Thank you,” you said, voice soft.

“For what?”

“For being kind.”

His expression shifted, something tender blooming behind his eyes. “You don’t have to thank someone for treating you the way you deserve.”

The drive back was quiet in the best way. Your hand found his without thinking. He laced his fingers through yours like he’d done it a hundred times before. Outside the hotel, he walked you to the elevator, hands in his pockets, eyes hesitant for the first time that night.

“I had a really good time,” you said.

“So did I.”

You hesitated — then stood on your toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek. Slow. Warm.

He smiled, just a little crooked. “Does this mean I get to see you again?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I think it does.”

You stepped into the elevator, heart pounding. Just before the doors closed, Max leaned forward, holding them with one hand.

“Text me when you’re in,” he said. “Not because I need you to. Just because I’ll be thinking about you.”

You nodded again, unable to speak. And as the doors closed and the elevator climbed, you realized something. You weren’t scared anymore. Not of love. Not of joy. Not of the way your heart fluttered like it had a mind of its own. Not when you had Carmen. Not when you had Elba and Pato. And maybe — just maybe — not when Max Verstappen looked at you like this.

—

yn_oward

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yn_oward : te extrañé mèxico

tagged : elbaoward, patriciooward and maxverstappen1

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several weeks later…(several dates with max have occurred and things are going swimmingly)

The apartment is quiet — rare, considering Carmen’s usual evening zoomies — but tonight, she’s curled in your lap, pouty and dramatic in the most theatrical way possible. A coloring book sits abandoned on the coffee table, and her arms are crossed tight over her chest.

“She’s been like this for thirty minutes,” you mutter into your phone, smiling despite yourself.

Max chuckles on the other end of the line. “That bad, huh?”

“Oh, you’ll see.” You flip the camera around and hold it up. Carmen instantly lights up at the sight of him. She sits up straighter, but the pout stays firmly in place.

“Hi, Maxie,” she grumbles, arms still folded.

Max appears on screen with the faintest of dimples. He’s lying on his hotel bed, hair damp from a shower, wearing a t-shirt that looks too soft for its own good. “Hi, schatje. What’s with the grumpy face?”

She gives an exaggerated sigh. “I wanted to make a snow angel today.”

Max blinks. “A snow angel?”

“It’s summer,” she says dramatically, flopping against your shoulder like the world has betrayed her. “There’s no snow anywhere.”

You stifle a laugh. “We offered sidewalk chalk angels. It was rejected.”

Carmen nods solemnly. “Not the same.”

Max smiles, eyes soft. “No… I guess not.”

She reaches for the phone, her tiny fingers gripping the edges like she’s FaceTiming royalty. “Can you make snow, Maxie?”

He raises his eyebrows. “Not quite. But I’ve got a break coming up soon.”

Your heart skips. You don’t even realize you’re smiling until Carmen turns to look at you like Did you hear that?!

“You do?” you ask, brushing down some of Carmen’s hair.

Max nods, and even through the screen, it’s like you can feel the warmth in his voice. “Two weeks. I was thinking about getting away. Maybe somewhere with mountains. Somewhere… snowy.”

Carmen gasps. “LIKE FROZEN?!”

Max laughs — a full, delighted laugh that fills the speaker. “Exactly like Frozen. And you, princess, could make all the snow angels your heart desires.”

She squeals and jumps up, nearly knocking over her juice box in the process. “Mama! He said we can go to Frozen!”

You laugh too, holding the phone steady as she runs in circles. “She’s never going to let us forget this.”

“Good,” Max says, eyes never leaving yours. “I meant it.”

You go quiet for a second, heart fluttering the way it always does now when he looks at you like that — steady, certain, like he’s already picturing the three of you somewhere quiet and safe and filled with laughter.

“Okay,” you say softly. “Let’s do it.”

“Really?” he smiles.

You nod. “Carmen’s never seen snow. I haven’t had a real holiday in… years.”

Max leans back against the pillows. “Then I’ll plan it all. Cabin, snow gear, hot chocolate. I’ll even build the snowman.”

Carmen pops back into frame, breathless. “I want one with a carrot nose!”

Max winks. “Then a carrot nose he shall have.”

—

“Am I being reckless?”

Elba looks up instantly, the glow of her face mask cracking slightly as she frowns. “Where is that coming from?”

You shrug, folding your arms across your chest like they can keep the nerves in. “It’s only been a few weeks. And we’re going on a trip together. With Carmen. That’s… not nothing.”

Pato pauses his smoothie mid-sip. “You think we’d let you go if we didn’t trust your gut?”

“That’s the thing,” you murmur, sitting down at the foot of the bed. “I don’t know if I can trust it. After everything, I still doubt myself. I wonder if I’m seeing what I want to see, or if I’m putting Carmen into something too soon. She loves him already. What if this doesn’t last?”

Elba slides off the bed and kneels in front of you, hands gentle on your knees. “Then it doesn’t last. But that doesn’t mean it was a mistake.”

You blink at her.

“It means you took a chance,” she continues. “You opened your heart again, and that’s the bravest thing you’ve done since walking out of that house. And Max? He hasn’t just been good to you. He’s been good to her. That matters more than timing.”

“Yeah,” Pato chimes in, sitting up a little straighter. “You’re not dragging Carmen into anything. You’re showing her what love looks like when it’s safe. When it’s real. That’s a gift, hermana.”

You look between the two of them, your heart swelling and cracking all at once. “But what if I mess it up?”

Elba smiles. “Then we clean up the mess together. Like always.”

“And Max already knows the stakes,” Pato adds. “He’s not walking into this blind. He sees you — all of you — and still chooses to stay. That’s not reckless. That’s rare.”

Your eyes well up before you can stop them. “I didn’t think I’d ever get here.”

Elba pulls you into a hug so fast you barely have time to breathe. “You earned this, YN. Every quiet joy, every new beginning. You deserve to feel safe and happy and in love.”

Pato walks over and wraps his arms around both of you from the side. “Just let Carmen make all the snow angels she wants, or we’re gonna have bigger problems.”

You laugh through your tears, holding them both tighter.

—

The snow is so fresh it squeaks under your boots. It had started falling late last night, just as you, Max, and Carmen arrived at the cabin — slow and delicate, like the world was being dusted in powdered sugar. By morning, the yard is blanketed in white. Carmen presses her face to the window with wide eyes, mouth open in pure wonder.

“Maxie!” she gasps. “It’s here!”

Max laughs from the kitchen, already pulling on his coat. “Told you I’d deliver, liefje.”

Moments later, you’re all bundled up — boots, scarves, mittens twice her size — and she’s charging out the door into a magical winter wonderland, squealing like someone just handed her the keys to Disneyland.

“SNOW ANGELS!” she shouts, and throws herself onto the ground like a tiny soldier taking a very dramatic fall.

You laugh so hard you nearly slip on the steps, your phone barely steady in your hands as you try to get a picture.

“She’s so ready for this,” Max grins, standing beside you, his gloved hands stuffed into his pockets. “This is the moment we trained for.”

“She’s been dreaming about this for weeks,” you say, your voice thick with affection.

Carmen kicks her legs furiously, arms sweeping back and forth. When she finally pops up and turns to look at her creation, she gasps. “Mama! LOOK! I did it!”

You cheer and clap. “It’s perfect!”

She runs to Max next, launching herself at him. He catches her easily, twirling her once before setting her down gently. “Best snow angel I’ve ever seen.”

“Now you do it,” she demands, tugging on his sleeve.

“Yes, ma’am,” Max grins, immediately flopping backward into the snow without a second thought. His legs and arms start moving and Carmen giggles so hard she nearly topples over again.

You watch them — your daughter and this man who’s become something steady, something kind, something safe — and your heart aches in the best way.

—

Later that night, Carmen’s finally asleep — cheeks pink from the cold, arms curled around the stuffed snowman Max bought her at a little mountain shop on the drive up.

The fire crackles gently in the cabin’s hearth, casting everything in a soft orange glow. You and Max sit on the couch, a blanket across your laps, his arm lazily draped behind your shoulders.

Neither of you speaks for a while. It’s a comfortable silence. The kind you only get when being next to someone feels like breathing.

“She had the best day of her life,” you whisper eventually, smiling into your wine glass.

Max looks at you with that warm, half smile that never quite reaches both corners of his mouth. “So did I.”

You glance at him, heart skipping just a little. He hesitates, then says it — voice low and careful, like he’s not sure how far he’s allowed to go. “I think about this. A lot more than I say.”

You tilt your head. “This?”

He gestures to the cabin. To you. “Us. You, me, Carmen. The way this feels.”

Your breath catches.

“I know it’s early,” he continues, eyes never leaving yours. “And I know your life has been about protecting her, protecting yourself. And if all this ever feels like too much, just say the word.”

You shake your head slowly. “It doesn’t feel like too much, Max. That’s the thing. It feels… good. Easy. Safe.”

A pause. Then softly—“It feels like hope.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for days. His fingers slide into yours under the blanket.

“I don’t want to just be a phase,” he says. “I want to be something you can rely on. I want her to grow up knowing I’m not going anywhere. And I want you to know that, too.”

Your heart thuds, steady and sure.

“I want that too,” you whisper. “I want to see where this goes. I want Carmen to keep waking up asking for you. I want her to feel what I feel — that you’re good. That you’re ours, in a way I didn’t think we’d ever have.”

Max leans forward, forehead brushing yours, and everything goes still.

“Then let’s build something,” he whispers. “However long it takes. However slow you need. I’m in.”

You kiss him — slow, certain — and when he pulls you into his arms, you feel it in every inch of your body: the safety, the possibility, the future.

—

yn_oward

switzerland 📍

🎶 it’s just us — kali uchis

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yn_oward : quick trip to switzerland so carmen could live out her dreams of being elsa <3

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f1gossipgirls

1,800,000 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Max Verstappen spotted getting off his private jet this morning… carrying a child?! 👀👶 Sources say the little girl is the daughter of none other than IndyCar star Pato O’Ward’s older sister, who has recently been linked to the reigning F1 World Champion.

—

The restaurant is low-lit and buzzing, tucked into the corner of a quiet marina just outside the city. The kind of place Max likes — lowkey, not flashy, with good pasta and a wine list even Elba had nodded at in approval.

Carmen is seated between you and Max, carefully coloring on the back of a kids’ menu with the focus of someone preparing blueprints for a skyscraper. Pato’s halfway through his second bowl of truffle risotto. Elba’s sipping something citrusy with a smug little grin because she called the best dish of the night before it arrived.

You’re glowing — Max can’t stop looking at you. Laughing at something Pato said. Tucking Carmen’s hair behind her ear without even thinking. Reaching for Max’s hand under the table and squeezing it once, like I’m here.

Halfway through dinner, you excuse yourself to go to the restroom. Carmen doesn’t even look up, too busy drawing what she claims is “Mama, Maxie, me, and our snow dog.”

And just like that, Max is alone with your siblings. There’s a beat of silence.

Then Elba leans forward, eyebrows raised. “You gonna say it now, or are you waiting for dessert?”

Max blinks. “Say what?”

“That you’re in love with our girl,” Pato says casually, swirling his wine. “We’ve known since the second week. You look at her like she put the stars in the sky.”

Max laughs softly, but there’s no deflection in him. Just honesty.

“I am,” he says, voice low. “I’m completely in love with her.”

Elba softens immediately.

“I didn’t expect it,” Max continues. “Not like this. But it’s… it’s the kind of thing that makes you rethink everything. Like, ‘how did I even breathe before this?’”

Pato raises a brow, amused. “You got it bad.”

Max grins, but his tone is steady. “I know she’s been through a lot. And that you’ve both spent years protecting her and Carmen. I don’t take that lightly. I want you to know — I’m not here to play a part for a season. I’m here for the whole damn story.”

Elba smiles, something fond in her eyes. “She’s never been this light around someone. Even when she’s tired, even when Carmen’s being a handful… she’s just peaceful with you.”

Pato nods. “And the kid adores you. That’s all I need.”

Max glances at Carmen, who’s now drawing a tiara on your stick figure. His heart swells. “She’s magic,” he says. “Both of them.”

You return moments later, sliding into your seat like nothing had changed. You don’t notice the exchanged looks, the tiny smirk on Pato’s face, or the soft smile Elba’s hiding behind her glass. But Max sees you. And they see him seeing you. And it’s clear — he’s not going anywhere.

—

The checkered flag waves and the crowd erupts. Max crosses the finish line first — engine screaming, hands punching the air, and his name echoing through the grandstands like a drumbeat. It’s his first win in a while, and it’s in front of you.

You’re in the paddock with Carmen in your arms, both of you in matching Red Bull gear, her headphones too big for her tiny head and her “Team Maxie” shirt a little crooked because she put it on by herself in a rush.

The second his car pulls into parc fermé, Max doesn’t even wait for the official signal. He climbs out, rips off his helmet, and his eyes are already searching the crowd. And when he finds you, his entire face changes.

He doesn’t go to his engineers. Doesn’t do a dramatic celebration. He runs — full-speed, no hesitation — right to you. You barely have time to react before he’s there, lifting Carmen out of your arms with practiced ease, spinning her in a circle as she shrieks with delight.

“You did it!” she yells, throwing her arms around his neck. “You won, Maxie!”

“I did it for you, liefje,” he says, breathless, forehead pressed to hers. “And for Mama.”

He turns to you, eyes blazing with adrenaline and love, and pulls you in like he’s waited a lifetime. The kiss is everything — fierce, joyful, grounding. The world blurs around you.

Photographers are snapping away, fans are screaming, but in this moment it’s just the three of you.

Carmen is still clinging to him, one arm around his neck, her tiny fingers tangled in his suit. “Can we get ice cream now?”

Max laughs, still flushed. “As much as you want, angel.”

Elba and Pato are somewhere in the background, cheering and yelling, but all you can hear is Carmen giggling and Max whispering “I love you” into your ear, over and over, like he still can’t believe he gets to say it. And for the first time, in front of the world, this isn’t just a fairytale. This is family.

—

maxverstappen1