loonalockley
loonalockley
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loonalockley · 4 hours ago
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My poster and keychain design are finished woo!1!!,
all the face shading gone cuz of the protection glass thingy ugh sjjsjsj
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loonalockley · 4 hours ago
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Something something 5 times lance didn't realize the blade member he was hitting on was keith
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+ 1 time keith finally said something about it (im not drawing that😭😭)
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loonalockley · 13 hours ago
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DADDY, YOU DUMMY — IV
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SYNOPSIS: One moment, Wayne Manor is calm. The next, there’s a toddler standing in the dining room with a Red Robin plush, and a very familiar pair of blue eyes None of Bruce’s sons have children. Only one of them is even in a relationship And that is most definitely not Timothy Jackson Drake PAIRINGS: Tim Drake x Fem! Reader TAGS: Time Travel, Slow burn, Strangers to Lovers, Original Female Character
đŸœŒ :: the restraint i showed aksksks i wanted so badly to make this fluffy and domestic. if you have anything you want to see from this series, let me know and, if it interests me, i'll try to incorporate it as much as i can
đŸœŒ :: if you're not already part of the permanent and/or series taglist, check comments
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“Mommy!” the little girl gasped, darting across the floor.
Her shoes hit the stage with soft thuds, the plush toy bouncing against her side with every determined step. The crew scattered out of her way in surprise as she made a beeline past speakers—heading straight for one person.
The little girl skidded to a stop right in front of her, head tilted back, eyes shining with joy.
“Hi!” she said brightly, like they were not strangers. “Mommy, I found you!”
[Y/N] froze.
Her lips parted. She looked down at the girl—and then up again, spotting Tim, looking like he was half-apologizing, half-panicking.
But the girl—Gia—was already talking. Launching into a breathless, excited ramble like her heart had just spilled wide open—words spilling out like she’d been holding them in for days. 
“I knew you’d come! Daddy said you were working far. I waited really good, and Aunt Cass played with me. I made drawings and—and I didn’t cry today, not really—”
[Y/N] blinked, her expression caught between confusion and disbelief.
Her gaze drifted from the little girl’s eager face back to Tim—silently begging for context. For any kind of explanation.
Her eyes met his, wide and unguarded, asking him without words:
What is happening?
Is this a prank? A mistake? Some kind of trap?
“I—” [Y/N] started, her voice thin with disbelief. “I think
 there’s been a mistake—”
But before she could take a step back or even gather her thoughts, Tim had crouched beside the little girl, placing a steadying hand on her small shoulders.
“Gia,” he said softly, like he was trying to ground them both. Her name fell from his lips like a lifeline, gentle and warm.
The little girl paused, mid-sentence, eyes flicking toward him with all the innocent trust in the world.
And [Y/N], still frozen, realized she had no idea what to say.
No publicist briefing, no media training, no pre-interview flashcards had ever prepared her for this.
She’d handled press ambushes, persistent paparazzi, even that one award show collab stage where her co-artist had proposed on stage unprompted.
She’d been coached on how to smile through invasive questions, how to steer conversations away from controversies, how to cry artfully in interviews about rising fame and artistic integrity.
But nothing—nothing—had taught her how to respond when a stranger’s child ran into her arms and called her “Mommy.”
Beside her, her manager stood frozen too—one foot slightly angled like they weren’t sure whether to step in or step away.
But [Y/N] didn’t move either. Couldn’t.
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The moment Gia broke away from his side and took off running, his stomach dropped. 
His brain stuttered through at least ten different reactions in the span of a second—too many eyes, too many questions, too fast.
She darted across the venue floor, plushie tucked under one arm, curls bouncing behind her, her little voice echoing—“Mommy!”
His feet were already moving before he realized it. But he didn’t call after her. Couldn’t.
His throat was tight, and the shock hit him like a punch to the ribs.
[Y/N] was here.
He hadn’t expected to see her yet—certainly not now, not like this. Not standing mid-stage with a clipboard in hand and confusion etched all over her face.
Tim felt like his own world was spinning.
The moment Gia’s little voice rang out—“Mommy, I found you!”—it was like the ground had shifted beneath him.
Not in the way it had when he first realized she was his daughter from the future. Not even in the way it had when she looked at him and called him Daddy for the first time.
No, this was different.
This was [Y/N], standing under stage lights and looking like someone had just handed her a live bomb with no instructions. Frozen. Unmoving.
Her eyes wide, lips parted, staring down at Gia like the girl had just materialized out of thin air.
Because to her, she had.
And Gia—God, Gia was beaming. Pure joy radiated off her, unfiltered and certain.
She’d found her mother. She was so sure.
Her hair bounced as she shifted on her feet, her little hands clutched around her plushie and her heart plainly visible on her sleeve.
She just kept talking, voice bubbling and sweet and painfully sincere
“I knew you’d come! Daddy said you were working far. I waited really good, and Aunt Cass played with me. I made drawings and—and I didn’t cry today, not really—”
Tim could see it all playing out and felt completely helpless to stop it.
He didn’t call out. Didn’t shout for her to wait or come back. Because part of him didn’t want to.
Because part of him wanted to see what would happen if this worked—if somehow, impossibly, Gia could have both her parents in this time, too.
But reality caught up to him, fast.
[Y/N] was standing under the stage lights with confusion in her eyes, looking at Tim not like he’d orchestrated something—but like she couldn’t quite comprehend what was in front of her.
Because to her, Gia didn’t exist.
She didn’t know about the girl with her smile and Tim’s eyes. Didn’t know about the way she cried asking for when Mommy was coming back.
Didn’t know that somewhere in the folds of time, she and Tim had built a life—one so strong and full of love, it birthed this impossibly brave child now standing in front of her.
Tim’s hands trembled.
She doesn’t know. She wouldn’t understand. She wouldn’t believe.
Tim’s thoughts raced.
Should he tell her? Could he?
How do you look a person in the eye and explain, “Hey, surprise, that’s our daughter from a future you haven’t lived yet”?
Would she think he was crazy? Would she push Gia away?
Would she hurt her—without meaning to?
“I—I think
 there’s been a mistake—”
Tim couldn’t risk it. Not when Gia’s whole world was balanced on this fragile moment of recognition.
He could try—had to try—to soften the fall.
He crouched beside the little girl, placing both hands gently on her arms. “Gia,” he said softly. “Sweetheart, listen to me.”
She blinked up at him, wide-eyed and patient, waiting for what she didn’t yet realize would hurt.
“I know you’re excited,” Tim continued, his voice as steady as he could manage. “But
 she isn’t your Mommy.” 
Gia’s face scrunched. She turned back toward [Y/N], who was still frozen.
The little girl pointed insistently.
“Daddy, you dummy,” she said, not unkindly, just confused. “It’s Mommy! See?”
Tim’s heart cracked just a little. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know if there was a right way to say any of this.
She was just so certain. And still so small.
How do I tell her that her mom doesn’t know her yet?
How do I look into those eyes and make her understand that the woman standing in front of her is a stranger to her?
She doesn’t know you. We’re not together. You haven’t even been born.
He crouched lower, his voice calm and gentle, like he was trying not to spook her or himself.
“Gia, listen to me. That’s
 that’s not Mommy.”
“Yes, she is,” Gia said immediately, her chin tilting up. “You said Mommy was working far. But she’s here now. I found her.”
Tim shook his head slowly. “I know you want her to be here. I do too. But she isn’t Mommy, baby.”
Gia’s face twisted, the first tremble of disbelief beginning. She was looking at him, then back at [Y/N], then back at him.
The doubt had crept in now—real, quiet confusion that made her eyes shine in a different way.
“But
” she started, voice softer. “But she looks like Mommy.”
Tim swallowed hard. “I know, baby. I know she does.”
Gia was beginning to unravel. Her little face was pulled into a frown as she searched his for a correction. Her mouth twisted. Her brows pinched.
She turned back toward the woman on the stage, confused and already scared.
“Mommy!” she called out again, louder now, more uncertain. “Daddy’s being mean again!”
Her voice trembled. Her eyes welled.
“Why are you guys making fun of me? It’s not funny! Did I do something wrong?”
Tim’s heart cracked.
“No,” he said quickly, pulling her into a hug, holding her tightly against his chest. “No, sweetheart. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He held her there, tight and close, while [Y/N] stood just a few steps away—watching, overwhelmed, and still not knowing.
His chest ached.
Because of course Gia didn’t understand. Of course she thought she was right—because in her world, she was. [Y/N] was her mother.
But this wasn’t her [Y/N]. Not yet. Not here.
“It’s okay,” Tim said, gently brushing her curls back from her tear-streaked face, his voice soft and careful like glass might break if he raised it even a notch.
“Mommy’s gonna come home soon, okay? We can wait for Mommy. Right?”
Gia shook her head before he even finished, the first real sob catching in her throat.
“But Mommy’s right here,” she cried, voice cracking. “Why can’t we just go home now?”
And Tim—God, Tim wanted to say yes. Wanted to pull [Y/N] into the picture and make the timeline bend to their will.
The silence that followed was thick. Even the crew had paused, like they’d all collectively sensed the weight of the moment unfolding on the stage floor.
And in the middle of it,
“
We can go home after Mommy finishes her work, okay, baby?”
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What the hell is happening?
“Do you
 know this kid?” her manager whispered tightly, sidling up beside her like they were watching a slow-motion car crash.
[Y/N] shook her head once, slow and deliberate, eyes locked on the tiny figure currently trying to convince her father that she was her mother.
“No,” she breathed.
“Okay. Fantastic,” her manager muttered. “Wanna run away?”
“Tentative,” she muttered.
Because she should. She really, really should. Every rational, PR-trained neuron in her brain was lighting up in alarm.
She was a public figure. This had headlines written all over it. This could turn messy. It already was messy. But—
“She really thinks I’m her mom,” she whispered.
“Yeah,” her manager replied flatly. “Looks like it.”
The air shifted.
“Mommy!” the girl cried again, louder this time, her voice suddenly more uncertain. Wobbly.
[Y/N] flinched.
“Daddy’s being mean again!” the girl shouted.
“Why are you guys making fun of me?” Her voice cracked, trembling. “It’s not funny! Did I do something wrong?”
The sound of her voice was like something tearing inside [Y/N]'s chest. No child that small should sound that heartbroken.
Tim pulled her in immediately, wrapping his arms around her.
Tim Drake—Tim Drake—was crouched on the ground, cradling the child like she might break apart if he let go. His face looked torn. Wrecked.
“No,” he said quickly, his voice low, but steady. “No, sweetheart. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
[Y/N]’s throat tightened.
Because this wasn’t a tantrum. This wasn’t some prank or media stunt. This wasn’t delusion or confusion.
This was a child. A child who missed someone deeply and had convinced herself she’d found them.
“I don’t think I can run away,” she whispered to her manager.
They sighed beside her. “Yeah. I kinda figured.”
The words were out before she could stop them. They’d leapt from her mouth like instinct. And the moment they did, the little girl froze, all blotchy cheeks and shimmering eyes, staring up at her like she’d just made the world spin back into place.
“
We can go home after Mommy finishes her work, okay, baby?”
Tim looked up so fast you could almost hear the whiplash. “What?”
[Y/N] had no idea what she’d just agreed to.
A beat of silence. Then—
“Mommy?” Gia whispered.
Her heart thudded painfully.
The word hit harder than it should have. Something about the way she said it—quiet and wobbly, as if afraid it might vanish if she said it too loud—lodged itself deep in [Y/N]’s chest.
The girl’s eyes were huge, still shining from the weight of unshed tears. And she was looking at her like she hung the stars. Like this moment, right here, decided whether or not the world was safe again.
[Y/N] didn’t know her. But standing there on that stage, beside a child who was so clearly unraveling and trusting her to make it better—she couldn’t bring herself to say no.
[Y/N] blinked down at her. Her lips curved—soft, unsure. “Yeah?”
Gia sniffled, brows scrunching. “Daddy’s being so mean to me.”
[Y/N] barely hesitated. She crouched down too, right beside them, her expression so calm she startled even herself. “Should we punish him?”
Tim’s jaw dropped.
Gia considered this with all the seriousness of a Supreme Court ruling. Then gave a decisive nod. “Yeah.”
[Y/N] smiled softly, brushing a thumb under Gia’s eye to wipe a lingering tear. The skin beneath her fingertip was warm and slightly damp, and Gia didn’t flinch—if anything, she leaned in. The kind of instinctual trust only children had.
“Okay then,” [Y/N] murmured. “Mommy’s got your back.”
And Tim, still kneeling on the ground, could only stare—utterly stunned—as his daughter and the woman who didn’t know she was her mother teamed up against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.
[Y/N] at her conspiratorially, brushing a lock of hair behind the girl’s ear. “We can punish him later, okay? After Mommy’s done with her work.”
Tim made a small noise of protest. “Punish—?”
“Shh,” [Y/N] said, smirking. “It’s a secret punishment, okay? He doesn’t get to know.”
Gia nodded with renewed purpose. “Yeah.”
Then her expression softened. Her hand curled around [Y/N]’s hand that was brushing her hair, as she asked, in the smallest voice yet,
“Are you coming to Grampa’s home with us?”
[Y/N] hesitated. Her eyes flicked to Tim—who looked about as useful as a broken compass—and then back down at Gia.
“We’ll see later, okay?” [Y/N] said gently. “But first, go play with Daddy while Mommy works, okay?”
Gia’s mouth opened in protest. “I wanna watch.”
[Y/N] gave her a firm but kind look. “You still have to go with Daddy so Mommy can focus.”
Gia considered this, clearly displeased but not wanting to break whatever fragile sense of magic had just stitched her little world back together.
“
Okay,” she said finally.
Tim gave [Y/N] a lingering look—part awe, part disbelief, all tangled with the very real sensation that the future had just crashed headfirst into the present.
She met his eyes, her expression unreadable but steady now, like she’d managed to find a foothold on the edge of this surreal cliff.
“You can explain later,” she said quietly—less an invitation, more a command softened by curiosity.
Tim exhaled. A breath he didn’t know he’d been holding.
“
Yeah,” he replied, voice just as low. “I will.”
Gia tugged on his hand then, her other arm still wrapped tightly around her plushie, the moment already shifting forward in her mind like children often did.
And [Y/N], still standing center stage, turned her attention back toward the clipboard—her grip just a little tighter.
Her manager stepped up beside her again, keeping their voice low. “Do you know what you’re doing?”
[Y/N] didn’t look up from the clipboard. Her thumb ran absently along the paper’s edge.
“Hell no,” she muttered.
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Gia sat perched on top of a large black equipment box, her tiny feet swinging back and forth with unbothered ease, the Red Robin plush cradled in her lap. She hummed to herself—off-key but earnest—while the stage crew moved around her, careful not to disturb the child whose presence had quickly become the elephant in the rehearsal room.
Tim stood beside her, only half-focused on the files the event coordinator had handed him. His eyes flicked down the list of setup specifications, audio channels, lighting grid positions. Nothing stuck.
Why the fuck did she do that?
He replayed it in his mind over and over—[Y/N] stepping in, voice warm and soothing, wiping Gia’s tears like it was natural. 
Why? Why say that? Why take on something so impossible, so sudden, so terrifying?
A small voice broke into his spiral.
“Mommy looks pretty.”
Tim blinked. “What?”
Gia looked up at him with a bright smile, kicking her feet against the side of the box. “Mommy looks pretty,” she repeated.
He looked across the stage—[Y/N] was conferring with a tech, pen tapping her clipboard again, sharp but calm. Her stance was grounded. Professional. A little tense.
Tim ran a hand down his face. “Yeah,” he murmured, helplessly. “Yeah, she does.”
Gia giggled and went back to humming. Like nothing had happened. Like this was just another Tuesday.
Tim looked like he was either going to faint or throw himself into the Batcave’s abyss.
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[Y/N] exhaled as the final light cue was tested and approved, the last of her notes scribbled across the corner of her clipboard. “Okay,” she muttered, stepping off the stage. “What’s next?”
Her manager, already flipping through their schedule, answered without looking up. “Your press briefing. With the other performers.”
She slowed, gaze drifting across the room to where Gia still sat on the equipment box, feet swinging, plushie in hand. Tim was beside her, explaining something gently as she nodded with exaggerated seriousness.
[Y/N] didn’t realize she was smiling until her manager sighed.
“Is there any way I can opt out of that?” she asked, voice dry but hopeful.
“Nope,” they said, already walking. “In your contract.”
She groaned softly, tearing her eyes away and falling into step behind them.
Of course it was.
Meanwhile—Sometime in the Future for @luc1dw0rld
The kitchen was warm with the smell of garlic and butter, the soft hiss of something sautéing in the pan filling the quiet.
The door slammed open. “It happened!”
[Y/N] stood barefoot at the stove, hair tied loosely up, a spatula in hand as she stirred. “You’re home early,” she called over her shoulder, glancing at the clock above the sink.
Tim stood there—still in his jacket, hair a mess like he’d run through a wind tunnel, eyes wide and wild. “It happened!”
[Y/N] turned away from the stove completely now, brow furrowed, spatula still in hand. “Husband, you’re not making sense. What happened?”
“Gia,” Tim said breathlessly, pointing to absolutely nothing. “She time traveled!”
There was a beat of stunned silence.
“
She what?”
“She’s in the past!” he rushed out. “Remember when Gia came to us before we were even dating? Yeah, that’s happening now.”
[Y/N] froze. Her jaw dropped, and she actually stumbled a step back against the counter.
“You left her with Bart, didn’t you?” she said slowly, voice rising with each word.
Tim hesitated. “
Only for a bit.”
Her eyes widened. “Tim Drake, you IDIOT!!!”
The spatula clattered onto the counter as she stormed toward him, apron fluttering behind her like a cape of wrath. “She’s four! You left our daughter with a walking Red Bull can!”
Tim threw his hands up. “I’m already fixing it!”
“You better fix it faster,” she snapped.
Tim paused. “
Yeah, about that. How long was Gia with us back then again?”
She froze.
“TIMOTHY!”
“I’M FIXING IT!”
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ARCHIVE PART THREE | PART FIVE
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đŸœŒ :: @piatosniathenie @mei-simp @reanabella @jjoppees @sirlovel @kopivm @just-set-things-on-fire @wawawaja @cxcilla @amandjslpz @astraeasworld @melancholicreaper @noirluvs @snowflakemoon3 @tvnile @sunariin @boogiemansbitch @bbmgirll @hanniefaerie
đŸœŒ :: @the-broken-heart-archives @whosat @kjkjkjknk @vivian-555 @jollykingdomturtle @httpmitsuya @itoshirinlover @whats-in-nat5-hat @lonelycrystal-star @raisingkangs @mxvoid26 @enthusiastforstars @sizzlingloveharmony @erosxcupid @taytayy178 @belladonnadarksshade @lunagalaa @jenjubili @yoonsilly @lookingforsyd @esposadomd @fulla02 @cassini-among-the-stars @fandomcrazy6226 @shivscaprio @edogawaaa11 @gloomysel @tricky-ritz @bonnie-tz @kisskilletc
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loonalockley · 14 hours ago
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DADDY, YOU DUMMY — III
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SYNOPSIS: One moment, Wayne Manor is calm. The next, there’s a toddler standing in the dining room with a Red Robin plush, and a very familiar pair of blue eyes None of Bruce’s sons have children. Only one of them is even in a relationship And that is most definitely not Timothy Jackson Drake PAIRINGS: Tim Drake x Fem! Reader TAGS: Time Travel, Slow burn, Strangers to Lovers, Original Female Character
đŸœŒ :: as much as i want to post at least one fic per day it's just not realistically possible since i am busy. i do hope this makes up for the wait
đŸœŒ :: is it obvious yet that i love cliffhangers? if u wanna be tagged on part four, please check comments
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The morning light had climbed higher through the windows, casting warm gold across the table and soft shadows along the floor. Breakfast was mostly done, plates pushed aside in favor of quiet conversation and the occasional sip of lukewarm coffee.
Gia had wandered back over from her napkin-folding with Cass, arm reaching up to tug at Tim’s sleeve.
“Daddy?” she asked, peering up at him with wide eyes. “When is Mommy coming?”
The question made the room still again, tension slipping back into the spaces it had briefly vacated. Dick froze with a spoon halfway to his mouth. Damian’s arms folded tighter across his chest. Even Cass, still seated on the floor, looked up.
Tim’s brain kicked into overdrive.
She doesn’t know. She doesn’t understand she traveled through time. She doesn’t know her mother hasn’t arrived yet because, right now, her and I aren’t together. Hell, we barely know each other!
But Gia was looking at him with her eyes—his eyes.
So Tim forced a gentle smile and crouched beside her.
“Hey, sweetheart,” he said softly, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. “You know how Mommy sometimes has to sing in really big places far away?”
Gia nodded slowly, uncertain but listening.
“Well,” he continued carefully, “I think this might be one of those times. She’s probably getting ready for a concert somewhere. That’s why she’s not here right now.”
She blinked. “She’s working?”
“Yeah,” Tim said, voice steady despite the tightness in his chest. “But you know Mommy—she always comes back after the show, right?”
Gia frowned, lip jutting out slightly, but didn’t argue. “She didn’t tell me,” she mumbled, crossing her arms.
He watched her closely—the way her brows pinched together, the way her bottom lip trembled just a little before she bit it back. She was trying to be brave. Trying not to cry again.
And Tim
 he didn’t know how to fix this. Not really.
So he sat with her. Just sat, quiet and still, as her tiny frame leaned into his side.
Hoping that, for now, the lie would be enough to keep her heart from breaking.
Just until they figured out what the hell to do next.
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“She’s probably getting ready for a concert somewhere”
Suitcases lay open across the bed, half-full of carefully folded clothes and crumpled papers. A half zipped dress bag hung from the closet door, shimmering faintly under the soft afternoon light—a custom piece, sleek, beautiful, and still comfortable. 
In the middle of the room, [Y/N] moved back and forth with practiced ease. Phone tucked between her shoulder and cheek, she was currently on her second cup of tea and third mental checklist, eyes flicking between the mirror and the soft carry-on that always seemed to be missing something.
“Okay, I’ve packed the chargers, the throat spray, the allergy meds.” she muttered, only half to herself. “What am I missing?”
“Sleep,” came her manager’s voice crisply through the phone. 
“Don’t I know that,” she said, exhaling, tucking a smaller jewelry pouch into the case. “Anything else I should know?”
“Your call time is eight sharp tomorrow for rehearsals, soundcheck’s at four, and you haven’t replied to the Wayne Foundation’s RSVP coordinator about the dinner after the benefit.”
“I thought that was optional?”
“Everything’s optional until it’s not,” her manager said dryly. “You’re not just there to sing. You’re there to be seen.”
She didn’t answer right away. Just zipped the side compartment of her carry on closed, her fingers on the zip. 
Gotham wasn’t exactly her usual tour stop. She wasn’t even sure why she’d agreed—well, okay, she did know.
It was Wayne Enterprises. It was a charity concert. It was good press. 
And for some reason, part of her had wanted to go.
She didn’t know yet that the city she was about to land in held more than just another gig. 
That the man she’d met once in Metropolis would soon become unavoidable. 
That somewhere in the same skyline, a little girl with her smile was waiting for a mother who did not know her yet.
She just knew she had a show to put on. 
She had no idea that the most important act of her life was already waiting for her in Gotham.
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Wayne Manor had settled into a lull—conversations had dwindled into quiet, and even Jason had disappeared somewhere, muttering something about needing air.
Tim stood in the foyer, phone in one hand, messenger bag slung over his shoulder. Three missed calls from Lucius blinked back at him. At least five emails were flagged as urgent.
“Where are you going?” a small voice asked.
He looked up.
Gia stood partway down the stairs, one hand gripping the banister, the other clutching her Red Robin plush. Her curls had started to come loose from the braid Cass had tied for her earlier.
She had been in the library, pestering Damian. She must’ve gotten bored and wandered off to find him.
“Just work, sweetheart,” Tim said, keeping his tone light. “I won’t be gone long.”
Her bottom lip began to wobble. “But Mommy’s not here,” she said. “You never leave when Mommy’s not here.”
“I know,” he said gently. “But I’ll only be gone for a little bit, and Uncle Dick and Grampa’s going to stay with you, okay? You guys can play games or do cartwheels—remember? Uncle Dick is really good at those.”
Right on cue, Dick came in from the hallway leading to the kitchens, holding up a juice box. “Hey, Munchkin. You ever tried building a cave out of couch cushions?”
“But Mommy’s not here,” she repeated.
Tim’s heart twisted. “I know, baby.”
“Can’t you stay?”
“I’d love to. But I—”
He didn’t finish. Because she was already running the rest of the way down the stairs and into him, wrapping her small arms around his legs, face pressed into his knees.
“Don’t go,” she whispered.
Tim looked down, at the tiny arms wrapped around him. In the corner of his eye, Dick hovered—juice box forgotten, his usual easy grin replaced with something quieter.
Tim let out a breath.
“
Okay,” he said finally, his voice low. “Okay, kiddo. You win.”
Gia peeked up at him, hopeful. “Really?”
He nodded, brushing a stray curl from her cheek. “Why don’t you be my assistant at work today?”
She grinned, eyes bright through the tears. “Really? Okay!”
Before Tim could move to hold her in his arms, a familiar voice cut in smoothly from behind.
“In that case,” Alfred said, appearing in the hallway like he'd been summoned, “why don’t we change into something more appropriate, Miss Gia?”
Tim blinked. “I didn’t even know we had toddler clothes.”
“We do,” Alfred replied, utterly unfazed. “Starting yesterday. I had it arranged.”
Of course, Alfred did
Tim could only stare as Alfred offered a gloved hand to Gia, who took it solemnly—like a tiny dignitary being escorted to wardrobe.
Alfred was already leading her up the stairs when Gia paused at the landing to wave at Tim. “I’m gonna go look fancy!”
Tim raised a hand weakly in return. 
“You sure?” Dick asked quietly, having moved beside him.
Tim nodded. “It’s obvious she’s not used to being left anywhere without at least one of her parents. Let’s not push it today.”
The soft patter of footsteps signaled their return.
Gia came down the stairs holding Alfred’s hand, still hugging her well-loved Red Robin plush with the other. She had been changed into a pale blue houndstooth blazer and matching skirt, her outfit completed by a sheer dotted bow tied at her neck. A matching padded headband pushed her hair neatly back, giving her the unmistakable air of someone important on her way to a very serious meeting—despite the fact that her legs still barely cleared the stairs. 
Dick gave a low whistle. “Wayne Enterprises is not ready for this.”
Gia looked up at him proudly. “Granpa Alfred says I look very professional.”
Tim couldn’t help the small laugh that slipped out.  “You absolutely do.”
He reached down, brushing some invisible lint off her sleeve, then gestured toward the plush in her arms. “But why don’t we leave Red Robin here for now?”
“NO!” Gia hugged the toy tighter like it had just been threatened with exile. “Daddy, you dummy! He protects me from bad guys. You said so!”
Tim blinked. “I did?”
“Duh.” She squinted at him like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Mommy wouldn’t say that. She doesn’t like heroes.”
That earned a snort from Dick, who was already leaning against the door, watching the exchange with far too much glee. “Oh, she doesn’t like heroes, huh?”
He elbowed Tim with a grin. “You sure know how to pick ’em.”
Gia added, matter-of-factly, “Mommy says heroes need naps and better hobbies.”
Tim rolled his eyes but couldn’t fight the small smile tugging at his lips. 
He took Gia’s hand. “Let’s go run the company, partner.”
Gia nodded solemnly. “Yes, Daddy. But can we also get snacks?”
“Snacks are absolutely part of the deal.” Tim said, adjusting his bag over his shoulder and squeezing her hand.
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She might’ve not had much sleep but the sharp Gotham air was definitely helping keep her awake.
[Y/N] stepped into the car waiting for her outside Archie Goodwin International Airport, her manager close behind, phone already glued to their ear as they issued rapid-fire instructions to someone on the other end. 
The city skyline loomed  in the distance, a familiar silhouette of steel and cloud, greyed by the always-hovering overcast.
Gotham wasn’t exactly her comfort zone.
It was grittier than what she was used to. Less forgiving. The kind of place where you kept your bag close and your head lower.
A complete 180 from the sparkle of the life she lived.
“Okay,” her manager said, ending the call and slipping their phone into their pocket. “Schedule today’s tight. We’ve got a press briefing at five, and the Foundation’s rep moved your walkthrough to three.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Wayne Enterprises requested it,” they said. “Apparently, the concert floor plans had a last-minute update.”
She raised a brow. “So I have to go to the venue?”
“In a bit,” her manager said, matter-of-fact. “You need to approve the layout for staging, acoustics, lighting angles—”
“Got it,” she muttered, rubbing her temple. “Labor it is.”
Her manager shot her a wry look. “Hey, you said yes to this gig.”
She sighed. “Yeah, I did.”
Y/N glanced up at the skyline, unaware of just how close she was to a life she hadn’t lived yet.
“Lunch first?”
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The doors opened and closed with a soft thud, and every eye in the executive lobby turned.
Tim Drake didn’t exactly go unnoticed on a regular day—he was a company executive, a Wayne, and irritatingly young for someone who could run boardrooms in his sleep. But today? 
Today, he had a tiny hand wrapped tightly in his own and a very serious toddler at his side.
“Good morning, Mr. Drake,” the receptionist started automatically—only to falter when her gaze dropped.
Gia peeked around Tim’s leg like she was assessing the perimeter. Her bright eyes scanned the space, landing on everything from the polished floors to the high glass walls. 
“Oh my god,” someone whispered near the break room.
“Is that a child?” another assistant asked.
“Did he kidnap her?” someone muttered, clearly joking, but not entirely sure.
“Morning,” Tim said dryly, already regretting this.
Gia tugged on his arm. “Daddy,” she whispered, “they’re staring at me again.” 
Again?
Tim bent down slightly. “It’s ‘cause you’re just cuter than everyone else here.”
Gia considered that for a moment, then nodded solemnly. “Okay.”
He bit back a laugh as several interns nearby overheard and choked on their lattes.
They continued across the floor, Gia’s little shoes clicking in tandem with Tim’s longer strides. The lobby buzzed with quiet disbelief in their wake, but neither of them paid it much mind. They reached the elevators, doors sliding shut behind them.
Gia was already pressing her face against the mirror-lined wall, inspecting her reflection with mild interest.
“Hey, sweetheart?” he asked, hands in his pockets as the elevator began to rise. “Have I brought you here before? To work, I mean.”
“Uh-huh,” she chirped, not looking away. “On Bring Gia to Work Day.”
Tim blinked. “And when exactly is Bring Gia to Work Day?”
“Every time Daddy needs hugs at work,” she replied matter-of-factly, turning to beam at him like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
He couldn’t stop the huff of laughter that escaped him. “That sounds about right.”
The elevator dinged. The doors opened.
“Sir,” his assistant stammered, rushing forward, tablet in hand, “your inbox has three emails from Legal flagged urgent, and the Events team needs you in-person to inspect the newly approved concert floor plan before noon. Should I let them—sir?”
“This is Gia,” Tim introduced, completely unbothered. “She’s shadowing me today.”
Gia puffed up proudly. 
“I’m sorry?”
A beat of stunned silence. Then—
“Hi, Gia,” his assistant said, slowly recovering. “It’s lovely to meet you.”
“Thank you,” Gia said primly, and then turned to Tim. “Can I go in your spinny chair when we get to your office?”
Tim smiled. “Only if you promise not to spin fast.”
“Promise.” she lied cheerfully.
And just like that, Tim Drake walked past a half-dozen stunned employees with Gotham’s most adorably unexpected assistant at his side, leaving chaos (and soft coos) in their wake.
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Tim’s office was one of the few places in the tower where silence was usually only broken by taps on the keyboard and pings from his desktop.
Today, that quiet was peppered with the sound of markers uncapping and little hums of concentration from the small girl sitting cross-legged on the floor.
Gia had set up shop on the plush carpet just under the wide windows, a pad of paper in front of her and an array of crayons and highlighters she’d “borrowed” from Tim’s desk. The Red Robin plush sat beside her like a sentry, upright and alert, a silent partner in whatever masterpiece she was currently drawing.
Tim, meanwhile, sat behind his desk with one hand on his mouse and the other holding a coffee he had been taking occasional sips from. His eyes flicked between emails, floor plan, and the increasingly colorful corner of his office.
Gia didn’t interrupt—at least not much. Every now and then, she’d hold something up to him.
“Daddy! Look, it’s us. You’re wearing your sleepy shirt and I gave me a tiara.”
Tim glanced up, smiled. “Incredible,” he said, and meant it.
She beamed, then went right back to drawing.
They had settled into a rhythm.
Tim looked up just as the door opened—because people usually waited for permission around here—and in walked Lucius Fox.
He paused mid-step when he saw Gia.
“I thought the rumors were spreading fast, but I didn’t think they were true,” Lucius said, his eyebrows rising. “You brought a kid to the office, Tim?”
Before Tim could answer, Gia perked up.
“Mister Fox!” she chirped brightly.
Lucius blinked. “Well
 hello.”
She scrambled to her feet and ran to him without hesitation, arms wrapping around one of his legs in a brief but enthusiastic hug. “You have a cool voice.”
Lucius looked down at her, clearly caught off guard. “I
 do?”
She giggled like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Of course!”
Lucius turned to Tim, startled. “She knows me?”
Tim just stared for a second, lips parted. “Apparently.”
Gia gave an exasperated sigh and looked up at Lucius with both hands on her hips. “Mister Fox, you dummy. It’s me, Gia!”
There was a beat of silence as that sentence hung in the air. Lucius raised an eyebrow, clearly unsure what to say.
Tim coughed behind his desk, clearly floundering to process yet another moment of impossible familiarity. He still hadn’t gotten used to how at ease Gia is here—how she already knew every corner of his world, and everyone in it.
Lucius glanced his way with a slight smirk. “She’s very comfortable here.”
“You have no idea,” Tim muttered.
Lucius returned his attention to Gia. “And what brings you to Wayne Enterprises today, Miss Gia?”
“I’m Daddy’s assistant,” she declared, puffing her chest. “But I don’t touch daddy’s computer. Just colors and snacks.”
Lucius laughed. “Sounds like a good deal.”
“Do you want to see my drawing?” she offered.
“I’d be honored.”
As she darted back to her paper pile to pick out the “best one,” Lucius leaned in toward Tim and said quietly, “I don’t know what’s going on. But she looks like you.”
Tim didn’t answer right away. Just stared at Gia across the room.
“It’s a long story,” he said quietly.
Gia rifled through the stack of papers beside her like it was the most important mission of her day. “This one,” she declared at last, pulling out a slightly crumpled page and trotting back over to Lucius.
He took it gently, glancing at the childlike scrawl of bold marker lines and glittery stickers.
The drawing showed two figures—one unmistakably Gia, labeled in shaky crayon as “Me,” and beside her, a taller figure in a long sparkling dress, arms raised. A stick microphone hovered nearby, and the background was a riot of colored dots that looked like stage lights.
Lucius raised a brow, intrigued. “And who’s this?” he asked, pointing to the glittery figure.
Gia beamed. “That’s Mommy!”
Tim went still. 
 “Your mom
 sings?” Lucius asked, expression shifting.
“Mister Fox, you dummy!” Gia giggled, shaking her head like it was the silliest question in the world. “Mommy sings all the time.”
She twirled slightly as she said it, arms flopping like ribbons, the hem of her dress swishing as she spun. 
Lucius glanced over at Tim, who was frozen, staring at his keyboard like it might swallow him whole.
“And where is your mommy?” Lucius asked gently, voice calm, but the question hung in the air like a thread pulled too tight.
Tim’s eyes snapped to him, a faint glare behind them. That—that was exactly what I’d been trying to steer Gia away from all morning.
Sure enough, Gia’s smile faltered. Just slightly. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her skirt.
“Daddy says Mommy has work far away,” she mumbled.
But Gia didn’t crumble. Not this time. 
Her eyes lit up again, small and proud, as she continued, “But you know, sometimes I get to sit backstage and help. I give her hugs before she goes on stage 'cause she gets a little nervous, but only a little. And she always says she sings better when she knows we’re watching.”
Lucius blinked slowly, as if absorbing every word. He handed the drawing back with reverence, like it was something fragile.
“She sounds special,” he said.
Gia nodded solemnly, clutching the paper to her chest. “Duh,” she said, her voice soft but certain. “She’s Mommy.”
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Gia had finished showing off her drawing and was now hunched over the carpet again, diligently scribbling with a purple crayon clutched in her tiny hand. Her tongue poked slightly out of the corner of her mouth as she concentrated, clearly in deep creative mode.
Lucius took a step closer to Tim’s desk, lowering his voice as he crossed his arms. “So
 her mom.”
Tim didn’t look up.
“I wasn’t even aware you had a girlfriend,” Lucius added carefully.
Tim sighed, eyes flicking to the side before he finally met Lucius’s gaze. “I don’t,” he said simply.
Lucius arched a brow. “And yet, somehow, you’ve got a daughter.”
Tim pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s complicated.”
“That much is obvious.” Lucius lowered his voice even further, glancing once toward Gia before continuing. “Does Bruce know?”
Tim gave a tired nod. “Everyone at the manor does. We’re still figuring it out.”
Lucius watched him for a beat, then followed Tim’s line of sight toward the little girl humming to herself at the coffee table. “She certainly seems like she belongs here.”
“Yeah,” Tim said quietly, almost to himself. “That’s the problem. She does belong here—just not here.”
Lucius gave him a long, knowing look. “Let’s pretend I understand what that means. Who’s her mother?”
Tim hesitated, thoughts drifting to the drawing Gia had shown them earlier. “We think—it’s [Y/N],” he said slowly. “Gia has a picture. Looks like her, just
 older.”
Lucius’s brows rose. “The singer?”
Tim nodded once. 
Lucius was quiet for a moment. Then, with the barest hint of amusement in his voice, he said, “Well. You’re in luck.”
Before Tim could ask what that meant, there was a soft knock at the office door. His assistant poked his head in, tablet in hand.
“Mr. Drake, sorry to interrupt—but the Events team is waiting for you to inspect the new concert floor plan. You asked for a walkthrough?”
Tim stared at her for a beat, then sat up straighter. “Right. The concert.”
The assistant nodded. “We’ll need to head down to the venue soon if you want time to review it all before the performers’ soundcheck tomorrow.”
“I guess we’re going to the concert hall,” he muttered.
Tim glanced at Gia—still happily coloring, oblivious to the quiet storm her presence had caused. 
The concert hall was bigger than she expected.
[Y/N] stepped inside, arms folded loosely, her manager a few paces behind her juggling a clipboard and three back-to-back calls.
The space was grand but in that sterile, unfinished kind of way—metal scaffolding still tucked into corners, cables trailing along the floor, half of the lighting rigs aimed at the wrong places.
She tilted her head, eyes scanning the stage where a few tech crew were arranging risers and testing the sound system.
The floor had been cleared for the new layout. Mostly. Some markings were already in place with tape, but the spacing felt different than she’d imagined.
She took a step closer, mentally switching gears.
The center group won’t have room to breathe.
A few more steps forward. Her boots echoed slightly against the floor.
She crouched near one of the taped spots.
“It’s too close,” she murmured under her breath, already visualizing the choreography. “If Trixie lands a split there, she’ll knock the mic stand.”
One of the event coordinators approached with a tentative smile, offering a printout of the floor plan. [Y/N] took it with a “thanks”, her eyes never leaving the stage.
“The cross from stage left’s gonna be a mess,” she mumbled, half to herself. “We’ll need to shift the formation up and cheat the front row just a little right. It won’t look even, but it’ll work better.”
Her manager, now off the call, appeared beside her. “You’re in full function mode already,” they said dryly. “Want to pace yourself?”
“I’ll rest when my dancers won’t elbow each other in the face.”
She turned back toward the stage, already ticking through the checklist in her head—soundcheck, lighting corrections, entrance cues. The concert was days away, but her brain was already moving in counts of eight.
She didn’t notice the elevator doors open on the other side of the hall.
Didn’t see the man walking in.
Or the tiny figure beside him, swinging a Red Robin plush by the arm.
Not yet.
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Two figures stepped into the venue—security escorting them briefly before peeling off. One was immediately familiar: dark hair, suit jacket, face locked into a business-like calm even from across the room. 
The other was far smaller.
A little girl, maybe four or five, skipped beside him, a plush toy tucked firmly under one arm and her other hand clutched in his. Her expression was all curiosity—wide-eyed and beaming at the sheer size of the concert hall.
“Tim Drake?” her manager muttered under their breath. “What’s he doing here?”
[Y/N] turned instinctively, “Hm?”
They watched as the pair made their way in further. The little girl’s head swiveled slowly, taking it all in—the high rigging, the instruments being unpacked, the risers, the taped marks on the floor. Everything seemed to capture her attention for half a second at a time. Until—
Her eyes found [Y/N].
She stilled. Then, slowly, her mouth opened in wonder.
“Mommy!” she gasped, voice bright with delight and something deeper—relief, recognition.
Tim froze.
So did [Y/N].
Her heart jumped painfully in her chest, though she had no idea why. Her lips parted, confused. 
The little girl was already moving, breaking into a run.
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ARCHIVE PART TWO | PART FOUR
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đŸœŒ :: @rainschnael @kopivm @crumbs-and-covers @systemix @rayamaya @phiauniverse @alishii @dnarez @mxvoid26 @crazyzombieblaze @lonelycrystal-star @pinkluv29 @roseinbloom02 @nayykura @6000-fandoms @hearts4mica @khalinda-ev @elliewyn15 @a-taken-url @amandjslpz @lettucel0ver @kysrion @angwlart @whosat @jenjubili @chiizuluvr @urfavvirg0 @lovebug-apple @noirluvs @cupid73 @mx13sworld @unknownshrimp @kjkjkjknk @jjoppees @mosseetrees @1abi @asillysimp @lingxio @uhhellnogetoffpleasenowty @yuhhh03 @bat1212 @mei-simp @piatosniathenie @gothamwing @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore @raisingkangs @reiofsuns2001 @mariaace @sillyskittlesandtoxicwaste
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loonalockley · 23 hours ago
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DADDY, YOU DUMMY
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SYNOPSIS: One moment, Wayne Manor is calm. The next, there’s a toddler standing in the dining room with a Red Robin plush, and a very familiar pair of blue eyes None of Bruce’s sons have children. Only one of them is even in a relationship And that is most definitely not Timothy Jackson Drake PAIRINGS: Tim Drake x Fem! Reader TAGS: Time Travel, Slow burn, Strangers to Lovers, Original Female Character
đŸœŒ :: i am not very familiar with the canon material, please forgive me. i just got into this fandom recently cause of the edits with the bubble guppies songs—you know what i’m talking about—but i can't resist writing when i get an idea. i did read up the lore as much as i can so i hope that's enough of a crash course.
đŸœŒ :: i really wanted to introduce the reader this chapter but it was getting loo long and i hate to end it short but i had to. next chapter, for sure. lemme know if you wanna be tagged for part two
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Wayne Manor was not the kind of place where surprises went over well.
Bruce liked his routines. Alfred had his cleaning system optimized down to a science. And the Batkids—well, chaos followed them often, but even they liked their chaos scheduled. So when a child appeared out of nowhere, no one was quite sure what protocol applied.
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It was just past nine in the evening when the silence in the Wayne Manor dining room was fractured.
The long dining table was actually being used—not for mission briefings or post-patrol first aid, but for something bordering on domestic. Plates were half-full, conversations across the table—mild teasing, half-finished stories, arguments over who had the worst form on a grappling hook. Damian sat near the end, posture too straight, silently judging every word coming out his brothers' mouths. Jason occasionally grinned, the scar near his mouth twitching with each bite of sarcasm. And Dick, ever the glue of the family, kept the mood light.
It was a rare moment having all—most—of the kids over for dinner. The kind of gathering that only happened a handful of times a year. 
But peace never lasted long with the Waynes.
The lights flickered—just once—then the air shifted. A stillness that felt charged. Like the hush before a thunderclap, or the space between heartbeats when something goes wrong.
And then—she was just there.
No door opened. No footsteps. No warning.
She appeared near the head of the table, close to the dining room door. Dressed in a red dress and a black cardigan, ponytailed, carrying a small black bag, and hugging a Red Robin plush. She blinked wide, curious eyes up at the room full of people staring back at her like she was a time bomb.
“Hi,” she said, voice soft and light. “Please don’t tell Mommy.”
A beat.
The little girl’s lip wobbled.
And then she burst into tears.
Damian tensed, already halfway into a defensive stance. Jason blinked like he’d forgotten how his eyes worked. Bruce looked vaguely horrified. 
It was Dick who stepped forward, calm through the rising confusion. He crouched low, arms open, and scooped her up like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he murmured, gently rocking her. “You’re alright. You’re safe.”
The sobs quieted, just a little. Enough to breathe. Enough for the shock to start setting in.
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Twenty minutes later, the rest of the family was assembled in the drawing room. Bruce, Jason, Damian, and Dick were all watching the small girl now wrapped in a blanket on the couch, holding a juice box and kicking her feet. The Red Robin plush she carried now sat beside her like a silent bodyguard.
Bruce stood in front of the fireplace, arms folded, eyes fixed and unreadable. Damian leaned against the far wall near the door, keeping his distance. Dick sat on the armrest beside her, elbow on his knee, one hand propping up his chin. Jason had taken to standing behind the couch, watching the child with intrigue. 
“I didn’t just hallucinate that, right? She just appeared?” Jason finally asked, cutting through the silence. “Like—poof?”
“No alarms or sensors were triggered,” Bruce said, frowning slightly. “One moment the room was empty. Next, she was standing right here.”
Dick let out a low whistle. “She’s tiny. Like, what—three?”
“Four,” the girl corrected, holding up four fingers with mild exasperation. “And I’m not tiny. You’re just giant, Uncle Dickie.”
Dick blinked, taken slightly aback. “Uncle Dickie?”
Jason snorted from behind the couch, grinning. “Well, she’s not wrong.”
“She knows you, Grayson,” Damian muttered, his eyes narrowing.
Before anyone could respond, the little girl rolled her eyes with theatrical flair.
“Uncle Dami, you dummy,” she said, completely unfazed by his glare. “Of course I know Uncle Dickie.”
The room stilled for a breath.
Jason choked on a laugh. “Did she just—?”
Damian’s jaw twitched. “I am no one’s uncle.”
The child gave him a judging look, like she’d heard this line before. “Yes, you are. You’re my grumpy Uncle Dami”
Jason doubled over, wheezing. “This kid’s killing me.”
Damian glared, but it had less bite than usual—more confusion than fury.
Bruce, meanwhile, hadn’t moved from his place by the fireplace, but his gaze had sharpened. He was watching the girl closely now. Familiar. Intimate. Confident in the truth of every word she says.
“What's your name?” he asked, voice low.
The girl gave him a patient, very unimpressed look.
The girl huffed and crossed her arms. “Grampa, you’re also a dummy,” she said, frowning with all the authority a four-year-old could muster. “You already know me.”
A few seconds passed. Nobody moved. 
She paused, blinking at them like they were the ones being ridiculous.
Then she pointed to herself with both thumbs and declared with exasperated pride—
“I’m your granddaughter,” she said. “Duh.”
“I’m Georgina Drake” She beamed. “But you always just call me Gia.”
The room fell silent.
“Drake,” Jason echoed. “As in
?”
“As in Tim.” Bruce confirmed, voice steady and low.
Across the room, Damian looked as if someone had insulted him personally.
“No,” he said immediately, folding his arms. “Impossible. Drake doesn’t even have a girlfriend.”
“Could be a prank,” Dick offered, though his tone was more tentative now. “Or a clone. Wouldn’t be the weirdest thing we’ve seen.”
“I’m not a clone!” she said primly, chin lifting in defiance. “I’m a princess, like Mommy.”
Jason raised a brow. “Okay, princess. Who’s your mom?”
Before she could answer, her head turned—eyes catching on movement by the door.
Tim had just stepped into the room, phone in hand, brows drawn in confusion at the unusually quiet gathering.
The girl’s face lit up.
“Daddy!” she squealed, voice echoing off the walls as she launched herself off the couch like a missile.
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Tim was late. Naturally.
He'd been held up in a meeting at WE and was still reading the message from Dick—
come home now. emergency
—when he stepped into the room, still in his blazer, earbuds in, looking confused. 
“Hey. Got your text. What’s the emergency—?”
Then he saw the child.
And the child saw him.
With an ear-splitting squeal, Gia launched herself across the room with terrifying speed. 
“Daddy!”
Tim had precisely two seconds to process that before she crashed into his legs, arms wrapping around his knees like she’d known him her whole life.
He froze.
Every pair of eyes in the room turned to him.
Tim looked down. She clung to him like a koala, babbling in excitement with enough energy to make his brain short-circuit.
“I missed you!” she chirped. “You were gone forever! I thought maybe you got lost—Uncle Bart said you do that sometimes—but we told Mommy we’d be back before dinner so you can't get lost!”
Tim stood frozen, blinking. “What.”
“But then Uncle Bart had to go too” she went on, not missing a beat, “‘cause Mr. Jon called him on the commy thing and he told me, ‘Don’t touch anything, Gigi, not even a little bit!’ and I didn’t, ‘cause I was being super good.”
She paused, looking up at him, pouting and looking guilty. “But then I got kinda bored
 and I maybe touched the glowy thingy just a little bit. And it was really shiny! And then—poof!”
She flung her hands out like fireworks, eyes wide.
“And then I blinked and I was here with Uncle and Grandpa and they’re being weird and dummies and Uncle Damian is grumpy—again.” She rolled her eyes like that was the most annoying part of her day.
Then she looked back at Tim and grinned, soft and warm, like everything was finally right again.
“But it’s okay now!” she said, with absolute certainty. “’Cause you’re here.”
Tim’s jaw slackened. No words came out.
He looked like his entire operating system had crashed. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly open. Breath caught somewhere in his chest. His hands hung uselessly at his sides as he stared at the tiny girl still hugging his legs like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Tim looked to Bruce, looking for answers. “What the hell is going on?”
“Her name’s Gia,” Dick supplied, still perched on the arm of the couch, grinning like this was the best thing that had happened all month.
“Congrats, Replacement. She’s yours.” Jason said, far too casually, visibly trying not to burst into laughter at the sight of Tim—speechless, wide-eyed, completely out of his depth.
“She says she’s yours,” Damian corrected with a scowl, arms still folded. “We haven’t confirmed anything yet.”
“She’s—she’s mine?” Tim sputtered. “I don’t—wha—what?”
“She does have your eyes,” Bruce said mildly from his place near the fireplace.
Before Tim could respond—or fall over—Gia’s expression shifted.
Her eyes flicked past him to the doorway, searching. “But where’s Mommy?” she asked softly, her voice losing some of its earlier bounce. Her smile faltered just a little. “Is she outside?”
The room stilled. That single question cut through the noise like a blade. 
Tim’s heart stopped. “Mommy?”
She looked at him, confused. “Yeah,” she said. “My mommy. Where’s Mommy?”
Tim swallowed hard. “What’s your mommy’s name?”
Gia scrunched her nose. “You know her.”
“Sweetheart,” he said gently, lowering himself to her level, his blazer wrinkling at the knees. “I don’t think I do.”
Around them, the room held its breath.
Her eyes stayed locked on him, her little face scrunching even more like she didn’t understand why he was asking such a silly question. “Yes, you do,” she said with the kind of unshakable confidence only a child could carry. “She’s my mommy. And she’s your favorite person.”
Tim’s breath hitched. Behind her, Jason made a sound—half laugh, half breath—but didn’t speak.
“Sweetheart, can you tell me her name?” Tim tried again. “Can you tell me what she looks like?”
Gia tilted her head, like he was playing a very weird game she’s still not understanding. He could see her small brain working behind her eyes, wondering why her Daddy was being so weird tonight.
“Is she not here yet?” Her brows furrowed. “But Mommy said don’t be late for dinner.”
Tim swallowed hard, forcing himself to speak carefully. Softly. “Sweetheart
 I don’t know who your mommy is.”
She only blinked at him, like he’d just said the sky was green. Her mouth opened, then closed again. 
“Yes, you do,” she insisted, but the certainty in her voice wavered. “She kisses you on the cheek every single time you go to work with Grampa. And she gets mad when you don’t sleep. And she calls you ‘Timothy’ when you’re in trouble.”
“And she does your ties for you,” She continued, rambling, “because you always get distracted when you’re talking and then you mess it up. And she always says, ‘Come here, dummy,’ and fixes it.”
The room had gone completely quiet. Even the shadows in the room felt still. The fireplace crackled softly. A phone pinged once in the background but no one looked away.
“You know Mommy, Daddy. She—she’s gonna be mad if you say you don’t.”
Her voice cracked on the last word.
Tim’s heart shattered. “Hey, hey, no,” he said quickly, reaching for her hands, small and shaking. “She’s not gonna be mad. No one’s mad.”
But she wasn’t listening—not really. Her eyes darted around the room—searching for her mother in every corner, every shadow. She saw the people she knew—Grandpa, Uncle Jay, Uncle Dickie, even grumpy Uncle Dami—but not Mommy.
“Mommy always says,” she mumbled through hiccuping breaths and tears that have begun to flow down her cheeks, “that you’re really smart, and you forget stuff that’s not important
”
Her tiny shoulders shook.
“
but you never forget me and Mommy.”
Tim’s chest tightened. The world was closing in—what was going on—too fast, too much. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to breathe.
“Daddy, you dummy,” she whispered, and it broke him. “You can’t forget Mommy.”
And that was it. She crumpled, falling into him fully, sobbing now with hiccuping breaths and clenched little fists. She pressed her face to his hand holding hers and cried like her whole world had gone sideways. 
Tim didn’t know what to do.
He didn’t know how to hold her. He didn’t know if he should.
But his arms moved anyway, instinct more than thought, wrapping around her small frame and pulling her in tight. Her weight, so light and yet overwhelming, settled against him like she belonged there.
His throat burned. He opened his mouth, and he whispered the only thing he could think of, even though it was a lie.
“I’m sorry, baby.” His voice trembled. “Daddy’s only joking. Of course I know Mommy”
She sniffled once. Lifted her head from his chest just enough to look him in the face. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes red and shining, but there was a flicker of hope in them now—small, but it made her eyes bright again.
“
You do?”
Tim hesitated. And in that half-second, he hated himself.
“Yeah,” he lied again, smiling through the crack in his heart. “Of course I do.”
She stared at him for a moment longer. Then let out a tiny, hiccupy breath and buried her face in his shirt again.
“Daddy, you dummy,” she whimpered, pouting into his chest. “I’m telling Mommy you’re a meanie.”
That nearly undid him.
A broken laugh caught in his throat, and it sounded more like a gasp. He hugged her closer, eyes squeezed shut.
“Yeah,” he whispered. “You should. She might yell at me, though”
“She’ll ground you,” Gia  mumbled, and though she was still hiccuping, there was a smile in her voice now. “No phone time.”
Tim let out another shaky breath. “Brutal.”
Her little arms curled tighter around his neck.
“You better say sorry,” she said seriously, one last sniffle escaping.
Tim’s laugh broke through this time. “Daddy’s sorry, baby.”
Behind them, no one spoke.
Tim held Gia a little closer.
He didn’t know her mother. Didn’t remember having a daughter.
But the child in his arms believed in him.
So he kept holding her.
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Gia had cried herself to sleep.
Alfred had taken her from Tim the moment they realized she was too tired to stay upright. He’d carried her gently past the quiet hallway and into the sanctuary of Tim’s bedroom. The others hadn’t followed.
Now she lay in Tim’s room, small and still, her arms wrapped tight around the Red Robin plush like it was armor. She was asleep within minutes, curled into the center of the bed like she belonged there. Her cheeks were blotchy, her breathing soft and uneven from exhaustion. 
Down by the drawing room, the heavy silence left behind still lingered. 
They didn’t know what to make of her. Neither did Tim. He didn’t know who she really was. He didn’t know who her mother was. Didn’t even know how she got here. 
And still didn’t know why she called him “Daddy”.
The fire in the hearth had burned low, casting shadows over wood and marble. Tim, seated, sleeves rolled to his elbows, fingers locked together. Focused. Trying to make sense of the impossible.
Dick was the one who broke the silence.
“You didn’t see her when she appeared,” he said gently. “One second the room was empty. Then, she was just there.”
“No alarms,” Jason added. “No signs of breach. Nada. It was like she’d teleported.”
Tim’s brows pulled together. “No signs of a Zeta Beam?”
“Possible.” Bruce said. “Highly likely considering she mentioned Bart earlier.”
“Gia said,” Dick began, “that he told her not to touch the ‘glowy thing’. Then she blinked and ended up here.”
Tim’s mouth felt dry. “And she knew all of you?”
“By name,” Damian grumbled.
Tim exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. “She could be a clone. We can’t rule that out.”
Jason raised a brow. “She said before that she wasn’t.”
“We can’t assume she’s telling the truth. Not yet.” Bruce said, voice firm.
“She’s a child.” Jason shot back. “A weird one, sure, ‘cause she didn’t even flinch when the Demon Spawn glared at her, but still a child.”
“Children can lie,” Damian said coolly, arms still folded. “Especially when taught to.”
Jason scoffed. “She’s four,” he said, throwing a hand in the air. “You’re telling me a four-year-old can lie well enough to fool us? All of us? At the same time?”
Damian didn’t flinch. “Age doesn’t guarantee innocence.”
“She could be telling the truth,” Tim said quietly, voice barely above a whisper. “We need
 something. Something to believe her.”
There was a beat of silence.
“What kind of proof could a four-year-old have?” Dick asked, frowning. “Crayon drawings? An imaginary friend who vouches for her?”
Damian didn’t miss a beat. “The kind that bleeds,” he said coldly. “DNA. Unquestionable data.”
Jason grimaced. “Jesus, demon spawn. She’s not a threat.”
Damian turned to him. “She could be. And if she is, we don’t have the luxury of sentiment. You think just because she calls you ‘Uncle,’ that makes her real? We don’t know what she is.”
“She’s a kid,” Jason snapped, pushing off from the wall. “She cried when Tim said he didn’t know her mom. You think that was a performance?”
Tim flinched.
“We’ll run the tests,” Bruce's voice cut in. “Alfred’s already prepared the labs. We’ll have answers by morning.”
Jason muttered something under his breath.
Dick leaned back in his seat, eyes flitting towards Tim. “If she is
 that means you and someone else—”
“Don’t,” Tim said flatly. His voice was too raw for argument. “Not yet.”
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Tim wasn’t able to sleep. 
He barely sleeps on a regular day—too much on his mind, too much to do, and not enough hours to do it. But tonight, there wasn’t even the illusion of rest.
Not with the child’s words echoing in his head.
Tim sat in the corner chair of his room, one leg folded under him, fingers wrapped around a now-cold mug of coffee. He’d changed out of his dress shirt hours ago. He hadn’t turned the lights on. He didn’t dare.
In the middle of the bed, Gia was still asleep—hands curled around the Red Robin plush like it was her most precious thing. She hasn’t stirred much. Her tiny form was buried in the blankets, hair messy, mouth slightly open in the softness of sleep. One of her feet had slipped out from under the comforter and now peeked over the edge, small toes wiggling with a dream.
The clock on his nightstand glowed past 3:00 AM. 
Still no word on the DNA.
Tim hadn’t expected results until breakfast but every minute that passed in silence stretched the knot in his chest tighter.
He kept stealing glances at the child in his bed.
She looked so safe. 
Like she belonged there.
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The sun was rising by the time something happened.
There was light peeking through the windows—thin and gray, the kind of morning only Gotham could manage. It cast long shadows across the floor, faint gold lining the edges of the curtains, the dresser, the empty coffee mug cooling on the table beside him.
Tim hadn’t moved.
His back ached. His eyes burned. But he didn’t move.
The soft click of the door made Tim lift his head.
Alfred stepped in, silent as ever, a man who had crossed thresholds in this house with worse news in the past—but somehow, tonight felt heavier. He held a single envelope in one hand, the edges crisp.
Tim straightened in the chair, setting the untouched coffee aside. He didn’t ask. Didn’t breathe.
Alfred looked at him with something that wasn’t quite pity, but close enough to make his stomach turn.
He offered the envelope forward.
Tim took it, hands slower than they should’ve been.
It had already been opened. 
Of course it had. Bruce wouldn’t wait for him. Not with stakes like these.
He stared at it for a long moment.
He didn’t know what he expected. Maybe a warning. A delay. A chance to prepare himself for the answer.
He didn’t get one.
His eyes dropped to the top of the first page. A simple heading:
WAYNE BIOTECH Genetic Identity Verification Report Report ID: WE-FSD-PAT-22341 Requested By: Bruce Wayne Analysis Type: Paternity – DNA Comparison Subject Information Child: Georgina Drake Alleged Father: Timothy Jackson Drake
His eyes skimmed the paper to the only line that mattered.
Probability of Paternity: 99.997%
The paper crumpled slightly at his tight grip.
Alfred didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
The bed creaked softly behind him as Gia shifted in her sleep, clutching her Red Robin plush a little tighter.
The world didn’t shatter or explode.
It just shifted.
He still didn’t know how the hell she got here. He still didn’t know who the mother was. But now he knew one thing with absolute certainty:
She wasn’t lying.
She really is his daughter.
He swallowed hard. “What did Bruce say?” he asked, voice barely audible.
Alfred stood a few steps away, hands folded neatly in front of him. “He read the report. Twice.”
“And?”
A pause. Then:
“He did order secondary testing. Just to confirm. The result was the same.”
Tim let out a short, humorless breath. “That sounds about right.”
“Does the rest of the family know?” he asked after a beat.
“Master Richard saw the report with Master Bruce.”  Alfred replied gently. “Master Damian is pretending not to care. Master Jason had opted to not stay at the manor, he’ll likely find out later today”
Tim dragged a hand down his face, exhaling shakily. “This isn’t real. It can’t be. I mean—it is. The test says it is. But how?”
He looked over at Gia again—her face half-buried in the pillow, tiny fingers still curled tight in the plush’s arm. Her lashes fluttered with sleep, mouth slightly open.
She looked so at peace. Unlike the anxiety he was feeling 
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low. “I don’t know how to do this.”
“I imagine no one does,” Alfred replied. “Not at the beginning. But you’re not alone, Master Timothy.”
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ARCHIVE PART TWO
2K notes · View notes
loonalockley · 1 day ago
Text
Swear jars and tiny titans
Pairing: dad!clark kent x fem!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-181938
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A/n: Posting something extra this week!
Summary: When Kryptonian DNA and science collide, one thing becomes clear: parenting just got a lot more complicated.
Classification: Fluff
Word count: 3k
Divider by me ;)
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The morning had been quiet in that deceptively sweet way only weekends could be. Sunlight warmed the hardwood floors of the apartment as your daughter sat plopped in the middle of her soft play mat, babbling to herself in between stuffing an unreasonably large plastic block into her mouth and furrowing her brows when it didn’t quite fit.
She was almost one, her soft curls still sparse and eyes bright and mischievous with fingers constantly grabbing, exploring and throwing. She wasn’t walking yet, not really talking either and while part of you sighed in relief that she hadn’t developed powers yet, you both knew that moment could come and likely would
eventually.
Clark was nearby, folding tiny shirts and onesies into neat piles on the couch with a domestic precision that somehow didn’t rob him of his ridiculous otherworldly charm and you were pacing slowly behind the coffee table, one eye on your child and the other glaring at the TV screen currently filled with faces you didn’t like at a panel of politicians and pundits. All shouting over each other while throwing around words like “meta-human danger”, “genetic unpredictability” and “public safety risks,” all while their faces remained calm and composed, pretending the entire conversation wasn’t built on paranoia and ignorance.
Your arms crossed, uncrossed and then waved in frustration. 
“They keep talking like it’s a disease,” you said, gesturing toward the screen like the people behind it could see you. “As if powers make someone dangerous by default and as if everything good Superman has done can just be
erased because one of them got scared of someone who can fly.”
Clark looked up from the laundry, his hands stilling on the tiny shirt he’d been folding, watching you with that almost-smile he got when you said something that hit him right in the chest. It wasn’t pride exactly, it was deeper than that, warmer
like the look of a man silently confirming to himself, ‘Yeah
 I married the right person.’
“And you know what pisses me off?” you continued, louder now, voice shaking just slightly, not from fear but from frustration that had been slowly curdling in your chest for weeks. “They never talk about the people who get saved, or how the government fails its citizens until someone like you has to step in. They only talk about the ‘threat,’ never the source of the danger. It’s not the powers, it’s the people in power who are the problem. Jeez, it’s like we’ve been through this a hundred times and they’re still
still–”
Your hands flew out in an exasperated motion, fingers splayed and trembling slightly as you gestured at the screen, your heart hammering in your chest so loudly that Clark drowned in the sound, a rapid, insistent drum that made him instinctively want to step closer and tell you to take a breath but before he could say a word, a soft clatter that hadn’t come from your mouthy toddler echoed through the room and objects began to lift, hovering in the air.
He turned slowly, now with the soft fabric of a tiny sock half-folded in his hands. His eyes darted toward the block that had been in your daughter’s grip just moments ago
suspended now, mid-air with no visible support, rotating slowly. But then it wasn’t just the block, no, now it was the stack of clean laundry still unfolded that slowly rose beside him, a few pens on the nearby side table and even the edge of the area rug drifting upward like caught in a soft breeze that didn’t exist.
You kept talking, not even noticing, so caught in your own momentum that you didn’t realize the world around you was bending. “I swear, if one more senator uses the word ‘mutation’ like it’s a death sentence, I will–”
Clark stood up cautiously, like one wrong move might scare the whole scene away or make it worse, his eyes flicking from your daughter to the floating toys and laundry, then back again.
He approached the nearest object, a stuffed giraffe lazily bobbing in the air and poked it with one careful finger. It drifted in a slow circle before sinking and plopping to the floor beside her.
With a furrowed brow, he bent to pick it up, then tossed it gently upward, almost like a basketball free throw. It sailed
 and promptly dropped right back down at his feet. Now he was frowning in full, grabbing a block next and trying again before facing the same result.
“Sweatheart
we have a situation,” he said softly, but you didn’t hear him yet.
“It won’t be anything illegal, I assure you. I know I'm not above the law, I’m usually quite literally under it–”
“Sweatheart?”
“Yes, baby?” you answered first without looking but then when you finally turned, you followed his gaze to the toys, the laundry, the everything hanging motionless in the air. Your gaze settled on the block, now spinning lazily midair in defiance of gravity and just bellow it, your daughter was sitting calmly, watching with her mouth still open around the corner of another toy.
Your heart stopped.
“Is that her?” you asked, a little too loudly, looking down at your child like she'd just grown wings.
Clark was already crouched next to her, brows knit as he studied her expression. She blinked up at both of you, curious and maybe a little confused, but completely still. Not even reaching for the toy she'd just lost.
That’s when you finally lowered your arms, your hands falling to your sides with the heavy weight of disbelief
and just like that, everything dropped.
The toy clattered back onto the play mat, rolling until it bumped against your daughter’s foot. Socks fluttered down to the couch and the pens clicked against the coffee table before rolling out of sight. Then, almost comically, a tiny lavender onesie drifted in the air for a beat longer than everything else before plopping right onto Clark’s head like it had chosen him on purpose.
There was a beat of stunned silence until your daughter’s whole face lit up and she let out a full, bubbling belly giggle, the kind that came from deep in her tiny chest and made her wobble over on her hands. She smacked the play mat with both palms like she’d just witnessed the greatest slapstick comedy of her short life, her little squeals filling the room.
Clark froze, the soft fabric obscuring his eyes and you stared at him trying hard not to smile at the ridiculous picture he made with baby laundry on his head, your heart still thudding from the realization of what just happened.
“Holy shit,” you blurted without thinking, the word slicing through the moment like a stone in a still pond and that’s when your daughter, still watching the both of you with open amusement, kicked her little feet, clapped her hands like she’d just been given the best show of her life and repeated, clear as day, in a proud little voice:
“Sheeh!”
Clark slowly stood to his full height then reached up, grabbed the shoulder of the onesie and peeled it off his face. He looked at you with a raised brow, his mouth twitching between a smirk and a lecture before pressing into a thin line and then, without saying a word, he pointed toward the swear jar sitting on the kitchen counter.
You groaned, already leaning over to snag his wallet from where it sat on the arm of the couch and flipping it open like this was the most normal thing in the world. Clark didn’t even blink, just stood there pointing and holding the onesie in one hand while you thumbed through his cash, plucked out a bill and crossed the room to shove it into the swear jar with practiced ease.
“Happy?” You asked.
He didn’t have to say a word; his expectant silence was enough to make you roll your eyes and fish out a second bill, also from his wallet, for the baby. She let out another delighted squeal at the sight of the green paper disappearing into the jar, as if she somehow knew she was part of the joke.
Clark’s arms dropped to his sides, shoulders slack, making you want to bite back the laugh threatening to bubble up but letting it slip only as a quick, quiet chuckle that you immediately smothered behind your hand before straightening your posture and trying to look like the composed parent in the room.
“She said her first real word!” you defended softly, marveling that it wasn’t just another “mama” or “dada.”
“Which was profanity,” he replied flatly, the faintest twitch of his brow betraying that he was not amused, at least not yet.
“She’s a genius then, wise beyond her years.” You turned to him, arms crossed like you were ready to die on this hill. “This feels like a parenting win to me.”
He just shook his head, letting a slow grin spread across his face, the warmth behind it melting away the last frayed edges of your nerves. “We’re gonna need a bigger jar,” he said, voice soft but amused, eyes flicking to you with a teasing glint.
Then he scooped your daughter into his arms, still giggling and kicking like she hadn’t just mimicked your cursing and possibly witnessed the laws of physics bend around her parents.
“When I said we needed to start saving for college,” he murmured to her, still grinning, “I didn’t mean it like that.”
You stayed rooted near the kitchen, heart slowly returning to its normal rhythm with your hands pressed to your hips like they might hold you together. “So
are we sure that wasn’t her?” you murmured, almost hoping he’d say yes just so the world would feel normal again.
Clark glanced at you over his shoulder, one eyebrow arched in that really? way. “Unless she’s secretly channeling your stress hormones like a tiny Kryptonian lightning rod, no.”
You blinked, trying to find humor in the sudden swirl of confusion, awe and cosmic implications.  “Cool, cool, cool
” you murmured finally, the words tasting odd in your mouth, like trying to talk with a mouthful of marshmallows. “You could also lie to me
 it’s fine, you know?”
Clark didn’t reply at first, just crossed the room in that unhurried, steady way of his, to press a gentle kiss to the crown of your head before plucking the car keys from the counter. With a slight tilt of his head toward the front door, he shifted your daughter in his arms, bouncing her gently as she blew spit bubbles, blissfully oblivious to the fact her parents were quietly recalibrating their entire understanding of reality.
“Where are we going?” you asked cautiously, your voice somewhere between curiosity and wariness.
“To see Uncle Terrific,” he said with a small grin, brushing a thumb over your daughter’s tiny fist before tickling her belly. She squealed and kicked her legs, giggling like nothing in the world had changed because, for her, it hadn’t. “And maybe run a few tests.”
You nodded slowly, letting the words settle. “So
 just a normal Tuesday, then.”
“Just a normal Tuesday, my love,” he assured, voice warm and certain in that way that always made you believe him, even when the air still felt charged from whatever had just happened. “Everything will be okay.”
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The lab was all smooth chrome, glowing screens and quiet humming tech, the kind of place where even a sneeze felt like it might cost thousands.
You sat on the edge of the exam bed, legs swinging while watching your daughter sit contentedly in the middle of the lab floor, chubby legs splayed and tiny hands busy in her own little world. One of Mr. Terrific’s T-spheres hovered nearby, its soft LEDs blinking like a tiny planet within reach. She leaned forward in that wobbly toddler way, tongue poking out in concentration and let out a delighted babble as if sheer will alone could draw it closer. The sphere drifted an inch too near and she clapped, ecstatic, fingers stretching with fearless curiosity that you recognized as equal parts of both of you.
“She’s going to find a way to get drool on that thing,” you warned without moving, half a laugh stuck in your throat because nothing about the day had been normal.
“It’s fine,” Mr. Terrific said without looking up from his console, voice dry. “They’re durable. Also waterproof.”
“She’s teething, so it’ll be a lot more than you think.” Clark added from beside you with one hand sliding across the small of your back and up between your shoulder blades in a slow, steady stroke designed to ease the jitter in your ribs without breaking whatever tiny spell of composure you were clinging to.
“I’m the one who spends hours cleaning them after your visits, Clark, it’s always bad,” Mr. Terrific grumbled but even his complaint had softened at the edges as your daughter squealed and reached again.
You smiled faintly, the nervous flutter still lodged somewhere in your chest. You wanted answers, wanted clarity but weren’t entirely sure you were ready for the implications. “Will this take long?” you asked, voice small over the gentle hum of the lab and the hovering T-spheres your daughter was mesmerized by.
“I hope not,” Mr. Terrific replied dryly, not even glancing up from his console. “I’ve got work to do, and I don’t exactly make house calls.”
He then leaned back, folding his hands together and launched into an explanation that sounded like a lecture from a university you’d never attended. “Given the inheritance of kryptonian genome vectors interlaced with retained paternal DNA post-partum within your own cellular structure, it is plausible that latent metahuman potential was both preserved and modulated in your genome, resulting in a phenotypic expression triggered by acute emotional stimuli.”
You and Clark exchanged a look, Clark raising an eyebrow as if to say here we go and you cleared your throat. 
“And for people with an average IQ?” you asked, half-smiling.
Mr. Terrific leaned forward, tapping a pen against the console. “In more accessible terms, what we’re seeing is a form of microchimerism. Cells from one individual persisting in another long after birth. In your case, paternal cells remained within your system and under the right stress or stimuli, they manifested in ways that produced metahuman abilities. Essentially, the leftover DNA from Clark acted like a latent switch, waiting for the right signal to activate. Smaller activations may have happened before but they were beneath the threshold of detectability.”
You swallowed, feeling your pulse still trying to catch a normal rhythm and Clark gave your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “So
 I’m basically a Kryptonian-powered mutant now,” you murmured, half in awe, half in disbelief.
“Exactly,” Mr. Terrific said, tilting his head with a small nod. “Welcome to the club.”
Clark’s brow furrowed slightly as he glanced at you, concern mixed with curiosity. “You said mutation
 so it’s not going away?”
Mr. Terrific shook his head slowly, folding his hands over his lap. “No, not at all. In fact, it’s likely to continue evolving over time, adapting in response to both internal and external stimuli. Think of it as a dynamic trait rather than a static one.”
You felt a shiver of awe and a hint of nervousness at the idea and Clark’s hand found yours, giving it a gentle squeeze as if silently promising, we’ll handle this together.
That’s when it happened.
The T-sphere hovered a little higher, drifting just out of your daughter’s reach yet she didn’t seem to notice. Her tiny hands reached up again and suddenly she wasn’t on the floor anymore.
She was floating a few feet above the ground, her hair lifted gently as if underwater and her round cheeks flushed with delight. She giggled, kicking her legs while lazily spinning in a slow, carefree circle.
Clark straightened instantly, eyes wide, while you stayed frozen on the edge of the exam bed.
All three of you just stared at her and then at each other. Clark and Mr. Terrific’s gazes found you at the same time, their expressions a mix of disbelief and that slight “what did you do?” tension.
“That’s not me,” you said quickly, raising both hands in surrender before rapidly lowering them just in case.
Your daughter clapped her hands and that tiny movement made her twirl a little more, laughing fully with pure joy.
Clark reached up carefully, catching her midair and lowering her gently into his arms, his smile breaking into a wide grin. “Look at ‘er, flying already,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. “Who’s daddy’s best girl?”
The baby responded with a full, belly-deep giggle, her tiny hands waving excitedly in the air as if she knew exactly what she had just accomplished. You shook your head, half-laughing, half-panicked and jabbed Clark lightly in the ribs. “Wipe that grin off your face, mister. We are so in over our heads.”
He just chuckled, bouncing her lightly. “And I'm loving every second of it.”
You turned to Mr. Terrific, arms crossed and voice steady despite the adrenaline still humming through you. “Whatever you had planned today? Cancel it. We need to figure out how to baby-proof the sky.”
Clark added with a smirk, still holding your daughter, “And of course, baby-proof the apartment again for our newly powered toddler.”
Mr. Terrific groaned dramatically, running a hand down his face before nodding, clearly conceding to the chaos. He started pulling a tablet from his workbench then. “Fine, fine
 now that this happened, as a late push present, here are the initial designs for your daughter’s super suit–”
Both you and Clark yelled in unison, “Nope!”
Instinctively, you raised your hand and a faint, shimmering aura radiated from your tingling fingertips, bending the light around it ever so slightly. The tablet lifted gracefully, hovering toward you as if drawn by invisible threads, until it settled securely in your grasp, a visible confirmation that your powers were evolving exactly as Mr. Terrific had predicted.
“Not even as a Halloween costume?” Mr. Terrific asked, amusement sparkling in his eyes, clearly enjoying the display.
“Too soon,” you said firmly, eyes narrowing in mock seriousness. “Now let’s get to work before I start to panic.”
Clark let out a soft laugh, resting a hand on your back as he watched you and in that moment, it hit him: you were very much in over your heads.
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A/n: Telekinesis inspired by a conversation with @fire-joestar :) thanks for sparking the idea!
1K notes · View notes
loonalockley · 1 day ago
Text
Ù  àŁȘ⭑ bye bye baby
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‎pairing: clark kent x reader (3.2K words)
summary: when you invite the daily planet to come see your newborn baby, how do your coworkers handle it? and more importantly, how do you and clark handle it? (⭑ anon request!)
warnings & content: female reader, this is easily the fluffiest fic i've ever written, idk that much about kids so detail is a little loose here, characters are represented as they are in superman 2025, i love cat grant so much, i also love lois so much, i love my dp girls
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If someone had told you and your lovely husband, Clark Kent, that inviting the Daily Planet crew over to meet the baby would feel like hosting both a diplomatic summit and a circus, he probably would’ve still said yes. He just would’ve baby-proofed the ceiling fan first.
The day started quiet, which should’ve been the first warning. You were bouncing your daughter gently in your arms, wearing a sweatshirt that used to belong to Clark and had since been claimed by baby spit and late-night feedings. Clark, ever the multitasker, was warming a bottle with his heat vision while simultaneously using one hand to fix the crooked drawer under the sink.
“Are you nervous?” you asked, watching him with a half-smile. You were certainly nervous. After all, all of your friends were coming to meet the new addition to your family. You hadn’t been this nervous since your wedding.
“About seeing Perry White try to figure out how to hold a baby? No,” he said, tightening the drawer hinge. “About Jimmy Olsen treating this like a tactical mission? Absolutely.”
The knock that came from your door was soft. Almost cautious. You instantly knew who it was and that it was meant to not disturb the little one cradled gently in your arms.
“And so it begins,” you murmured, headed to the door.
Jimmy Olsen entered like a man on a mission.
“Nobody breathe on her unless you’ve Purelled from the neck down,” he barked, stepping inside with a canvas bag that looked suspiciously like military-issued gear. “Shoes off at the door. No strong perfumes—yes, Cat, I’m talking about you. I also brought masks if anyone forgot theirs.”
“Jimmy,” you said slowly, blinking at him from the living room. “She’s not in a NICU. She’s just a baby.”
“Just a baby?” Jimmy gasped, offended as if it was his own flesh and blood. “She’s your baby. And she’s got, like, zero immune system. I watched a documentary. Or three. Babies don’t have good immune systems until they’re like.. sixteen. Can’t be too cautious, can we?”
He proceeded to set up a small sanitation station by the kitchen counter, complete with disinfectant wipes, gloves, and a spare swaddle he claimed was "just in case she doesn't vibe with the current one." You weren’t so sure Jimmy understood babies, but the gesture wasn’t unkind.
Clark, who had been holding back laughter since Jimmy crossed the threshold, offered with a chuckle, “I think you’re the only person here more prepared than me. And that might be saying a lot.”
Jimmy beamed. “Dads gotta stick together.” He bumped Clark’s shoulder with his own. Clark almost went to reply, his face scrunched up in confusion, before he was cut off.
“He’s not a dad,” Cat Grant said, sweeping into the apartment like a gust of luxury and intimidation. But to you, Cat was no more intimidating than a small kitten. You knew her heart better than her looks. “He’s an overachieving godfather with anxiety. Crippling anxiety.”
Jimmy frowned. “Not godfather. Yet.” He looked at you pointedly.
You smirked. “You’re on the list.” Pa Kent was currently the baby's godfather, with Ma being her godmother. Jimmy and Lois were up next.. if there was a next one.
Cat Grant had shown up with one gift bag and zero tolerance for nonsense. By the time she reached the baby, she had already removed her heels, applied a dab of hand sanitizer, and told Steve Lombard that if he tried to cradle the baby like a football, she’d cradle his head like a bowling ball.
When you passed her the baby, she cooed once. Once. Then shifted her grip expertly, supporting the head and rotating the blanket with the kind of finesse that made even Clark stare.
“You’ve done this before,” he said suspiciously, almost as if he were waiting for the punchline of a joke that wasn’t going to come. “You’ve done it before and you’re.. really good at it.”
“I’ve done everything before,” Cat replied, gently rocking the baby. “Including a brief stint as a nanny for a high-powered family that will remain unnamed. The baby liked me better than the mother. Obviously. Why I gave up that kind of money for being a reporter? Still unsure.”
The baby stared at her with wide, blinking eyes. Her eyes were as blue as Clark’s. Bright, beaming, and kind.
“Smart girl,” Cat whispered, gently booping her nose with her finger.
Steve Lombard, to no one’s surprise, was terrified. Not just terrified, no, Steve was practically petrified as Cat cradled her softly. He looked at her like she was an alien. Which, technically, she sort of was. Half-Kryptonian DNA and everything, not that Steve knew that part.
“She’s just.. really small,” he said, standing near the window like the baby might explode into confetti if he got too close. “And she made a sound. Like a.. like a frog? Should she sound like a frog? I’m very sure that normal babies don’t sound like frogs.”
“That’s a hiccup,” you deadpanned.
“Oh.” Steve looked at Jimmy. “Is that normal?” No, not Clark. Jimmy. As if Jimmy was the baby expert in the apartment.
Jimmy, currently laying out six different pacifiers like he was analyzing forensic evidence, nodded. “Normal. Totally normal. Unless she’s hiccuping all day and night. Is she? Maybe you could take her to the doctor just to be sure. But we should keep her upright. And maybe dim the lights. Actually.. Clark, how's your black-out curtain game?”.. Maybe Jimmy was a baby expert in his own, weird way.
Clark gave you a look that screamed: Is this real life?
You mouthed back: Yes. I think.
Perry White arrived late, holding a bottle of wine and looking vaguely like he’d rather be anywhere else until the moment he saw the baby.
Then, something melted in a way you didn’t know could even happen to a man like Perry.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood next to the couch while you gently placed your daughter in his arms. The tough editor-in-chief who once yelled so hard a desk shook was suddenly silent. Fragile. He stared down at her with a gaze you could only describe as sweet.
“She’s got your eyes,” he said finally to Clark. “And your wife’s cheeks.”
Clark blinked.
Perry smiled. “Don’t look so shocked. I’ve been watching you since you were a twenty-three-year-old stringer in flannel. You don’t think I know those bright, doe-eyed eyes when I see them? She’s gonna be just like you, Kent.”
The party settled into its own kind of rhythm. Cat fed the baby a bottle while humming something in French. Jimmy lectured Steve on how to hold a swaddle correctly while Steve fumbled with one of the practice dolls Jimmy brought "for training." You were certain Steve would never come this close to a baby again after today. Perry sipped wine and told Clark stories you had never heard about his first days in Metropolis.
You stood back, leaning in the doorway of the nursery, watching all of them.
Your family. Your chaos.
And in the center of it all: a tiny girl wrapped in a yellow blanket with a curl of dark hair and a yawn that made Cat Grant swoon.
Clark came up behind you, arms wrapping around your waist. “She’s gonna grow up surrounded by a newsroom,” he murmured. “And people who I’m half convinced are an array of very, very different personalities.”
You smiled. “Ink in her veins.”
“We’re not naming her after your first ever boss in the city.”
“I wasn’t suggesting that.”
A pause.
“Okay, maybe a little.”
He laughed into your neck, warm and safe.
Later, Clark held your daughter in his arms and sat beside you on the couch. The others had insisted in bringing dinner back with them; a gift to celebrate the parents rather than the baby, even though they all had brought gifts for her, too.
“She didn’t cry once,” you murmured, brushing a finger down her cheek.
“She’s used to weird,” he said. “She’s ours.”
And in that soft quiet, filled with warmth and leftover laughter, you knew something for sure: If it took a village to raise a child, then yours was loud, neurotic, and a little bit super.
Perfect.
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The newsroom had never been quiet. Not really. But the moment Clark cleared his throat from beside your desk, and you stood up with both hands resting over your stomach, there was a stillness. Like the eye of a storm.
Lois Lane was the first to notice.
She turned, eyes narrowing suspiciously. “Okay. What’s going on? You’re never this quiet unless someone died. Or got engaged. Or got engaged or then died.”
“No one died,” you said quickly.
“Yet,” Clark muttered, too softly for anyone but Lois to hear. She arched an eyebrow at him.
“We, um,” you began, and your fingers curled in Clark’s. “We have some news.” Ironic, considering they were in the newsroom.
There was a pause.Everyone was holding their breaths.
Cat, lounging in the breakroom doorway, narrowed her eyes like she was clocking a poker game. Like she was trying to clock whatever secret you had before you even spilled it. She was good at that.
Jimmy set down his camera with a small frown. “Are you moving?”
“You got promoted?” Steve guessed. “And I didn’t?”
“I’m pregnant,” you said all at once.
The room exploded.
Lois blinked. “Seriously?” Then she broke into a grin. “Seriously? About damn time. I had five bucks riding on you two beating me to it.” Lois was the first to come over and hug you softly, making sure to give your stomach some room, even though you weren’t even fully showing yet.
Cat Grant didn’t say anything right away. She just walked over, looked you up and down, then reached out and adjusted your collar. “Good. It’s about time this place got a little humanity back in it. Ever since Steve got too cocky I swear this place’s dignity dropped by at least fifteen percent.”
Jimmy nearly dropped his camera. “Does that mean I get to be an uncle? Can I be an uncle? Honorary? I have swaddling charts. I have Pinterest boards.”
“You had those before we were even dating,” Clark teased.
Steve stood frozen. “Wait. Wait wait wait. Like, pregnant pregnant? Not like.. a food baby? Like Clark Kent put a whole baby inside of you?”
Lois smacked him.
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The soft noise of the baby’s sleepy sigh pulled you out of the memory. A great memory. You looked across the room and met Lois Lane’s gaze as she entered the nursery quietly.
“Sorry I was late,” she whispered. “Had to cover a rally across town. But I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” She stared down at your baby like she was the most precious being in the whole universe. “The others just got back with food, too.”
You smiled. “You want to hold her?”
“Obviously.”
She scooped the baby up with gentle arms and years of quiet strength, resting her on her shoulder. The baby cooed. She stared up at Lois with stars in her eyes. The kind of look that told you Aunt Lois was going to not only be a great role model, but also your most prized babysitter in all of Metropolis.
“You’re going to break hearts one day, you know that?” Lois murmured. “Just like your dad. Except hopefully less clumsy. Maybe you should be more like your mom instead. Save us a couple of broken mugs.”
Clark appeared in the doorway, mock-offended. “I heard that.”
“Oh, yeah. You were meant to.”
The three of you laughed. And in that moment, your daughter opened her eyes, yawned once, and sneezed. It was honestly the most precious thing you’d seen since she was born.
Jimmy, from the other room, went into a full on meltdown. His head popped around the corner faster than popcorn popping. “Oh my god, she sneezed! Is she okay? Is she crying? Steve, where the heck is my camera?! ” His voice was a soft whisper yell, careful to not disturb the little one.
And everything was, in the strangest, loudest, most beloved way—perfect.
Which was exactly why you all decided to capture the moment as it was. A family photo of sorts. One you were sure Perry would put on his desk.
“Alright, everyone!” Jimmy clapped his hands together so sharply that even the baby flinched. “Let’s make history. Time for the first official photo of the Daily Planet family with the next generation of journalistic greatness!”
You had just settled the baby down in her bassinet. She was drowsy, warm, full, and blissfully quiet. It had been a big day for someone as small as her, and you just weren’t sure this was the greatest idea in the world. You opened your mouth to object.
Clark beat you to it. His gaze was a little worried and a little hesitant. “Jimmy, maybe we let her nap—”
“No time for hesitation!” Jimmy cut in, already adjusting the lighting by the window with dramatic flair. “This is legacy in motion. Perry, find your good side. Cat, whatever side you’re on is the good side.”
Cat didn’t respond, but she did preemptively fluff her hair.
Steve peered at the camera setup. “How do you do a photo with a baby? Am I supposed to look at her or the camera? Because if we all look at her, it might look weird. Like some cult formation or something.”
“Just sit and smile like a normal person!” Lois snapped, already arranging throw pillows like she was staging a magazine shoot.
The baby, for her part, was still asleep. Thank god. For as sweet as she was, she cried like a full grown adult with big, strong lungs. Clark was sure it was the Kryptonian in her. 
“Everyone squeeze in,” Jimmy directed. “Clark, hold her. No—wait. Actually, no, Perry should. It’ll look historic.”
“Jimmy,” you warned, eyes narrowing. “You wake this baby up and you are not on the godparent list anymore.” If he woke up your baby, Jimmy Olsen was a dead man to you. You’d hunt him down like Batman hunts down his enemies in Gotham. Or, you’d give him a little message to help your personal cause. Yes, waking the baby was that deep.
“Copy that,” he whispered, backing away like a man diffusing a bomb. “Everyone smile on three. One.. two..”
The baby hiccuped again. Loudly. Steve broke into a wheezing laugh.
“Don’t you dare move!” Jimmy snapped, his head whipping over to look at Steve in an instant.
“I—I can't help it!” Steve gasped. “She sounded like a whoopee cushion!”
Cat Grant rolled her eyes and held up her wine glass like she was on the red carpet. “Frame this. It’s the most honest moment of the day.”
You started to giggle, your shoulders shaking as Clark leaned over and kissed your cheek.
“Okay, for real now,” Jimmy begged. “Three.. two.. one—”
At that exact moment, the baby stirred, opened her mouth, and let out a high-pitched wail that echoed off every surface in the apartment.
Everyone froze. Jimmy deflated like a balloon.
“Guess that’s a no on the smiles,” Lois muttered, bouncing the baby in her arms again. “It’s okay, sweetheart. They do this to all of us eventually. Just wait until you pay some bills and see how much tax costs at the grocery store.”
“I’ll try again in ten minutes,” Jimmy said, adjusting the tripod. “Maybe fifteen. She just needs to reset. We all need to reset.”
“Or,” you suggested gently, “we call this what it is: a beautiful disaster. Because, in all honesty, she’s gonna cry like this for the next hour until she falls asleep again. It’s sort of her thing.”
Jimmy sighed, defeated. “Fine. But I’m editing in some smiles. But no one tell Perry I’m doing that.”
“I’m standing right here, Olsen.”
Click.
The camera flashed.
And in that single blurry, chaotic, imperfect photo—Cat with a wine glass mid-sip, Steve with tears in his eyes from laughter, Lois trying not to smile, Clark looking down at you like you hung the moon, and the baby caught mid-wail—you saw it for what it really was: family.
By the time everyone had left, the apartment felt both quieter and warmer than it had all day. You stood in the doorway after closing the door behind Perry, leaning your forehead against the frame for a moment as Clark came up behind you.
“We survived,” you said, your voice muffled.
Clark pressed a kiss to the side of your head. “Barely.”
“I think Jimmy tried to sanitize the remote.”
“I know. I saw him label it ‘high-touch surface.’”
You let out a tired laugh as you turned around, melting into his arms. He hugged you tightly, both of you rocking slightly as the last golden hints of sunlight slipped past the curtains.
In the nursery, your daughter lay in her bassinet again, this time fully asleep. Her little fists were curled up under her chin, and one of her legs had kicked the blanket off just enough to make her look like a tiny dramatic actress mid-monologue.
Clark picked her up gently, cradling her against his chest as you turned off the overhead light and switched on the soft glow of the nightlight. The room turned lavender-blue, dim and peaceful.
You sat on the edge of the rocking chair, rubbing your eyes, and watched him sway with her.
“You know,” you murmured, “I used to think I knew what love looked like. All the usual things—flowers, long walks, the way you looked at me when I beat you to a story.”
Clark raised an eyebrow. “That only happened once.”
“And it was glorious.”
You both smiled.
“But this?” you whispered, nodding at the tiny bundle in his arms. “This is the kind of love I didn’t even know how to dream about.”
Clark looked down at the baby. She yawned, and a moment later her little hand splayed out against his chest like she was reaching for his heartbeat.
“I was terrified,” he admitted. “When you told me. Not because I didn’t want her. I did. I just.. didn’t know how to do this. I grew up in a quiet place. Parents who were saints. But I always knew I was different. I never thought.. I never thought I’d be allowed something this good.”
You reached out and brushed his arm with your fingers.
“You’re more than allowed,” you said. “You deserve it. We both do.”
The baby stirred again, her lips parting in the beginning of a cry. Clark instinctively bounced her, humming low and quiet.
You closed your eyes, recognizing the tune: it was that old Kansas lullaby Martha used to sing whenever she visited. Soothing, simple. Home. After a minute, her breathing evened out again. Clark leaned down and kissed her forehead before carefully lowering her into the crib.
The two of you stood there in silence, hands brushing, watching her sleep. “We should sleep too,” you said softly.
Clark smiled. “You first. I’ll check the doors and finish the bottle you left out.”
You turned, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “Don’t forget to switch to dad-mode patrol.”
He grinned. “Always.”
And as you walked down the hall, hearing the soft sounds of your husband settling the house and the even softer breaths of your daughter behind you, you felt it in every cell of your body:
You weren’t just building a life.
You were living it.
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loonalockley · 1 day ago
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loonalockley · 2 days ago
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pretend until forever — clark kent
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word count : 22.6k words pairing : clark kent x f!reader synopsis : you have a problem, and it involves showing up to your sister’s wedding with a fake fiancĂ© to keep your family off your back. the plan is simple enough, except clark kent agrees to play the part, calm and infuriatingly perfect, and suddenly nothing feels fake at all. how long can you survive the day without your carefully built lie unraveling completely? content warnings : fake fiancĂ© trope, fluff, angst, sexual tension, smut-adjacent scenes, public embarrassment, emotional spirals, family drama, mild language, messy feelings, teasing, romantic tension, workplace interactions, fake relationship scenarios author’s note : okay so yes, this one’s long, i know, but please take it as my silly little sorry gift because i’ll be taking a break for like two to three weeks with uni tests eating my soul, but also, because i genuinely love you lot, i ended up scribbling this whenever i could anyway. also, heads up, there are probably some grammatical errors because i’ve been learning more about american english, so it’s kind of a mix of british and american english throughout. also, some parts might be a bit confusing because i literally had no time to proofread properly, with everything else i’ve got going on, so i basically just sneaked it off as it was. anyway thank you for sticking around and seeing me through my chaotic mind, and see the comment below for the full author’s note if you’re curious for more rambles!!
masterlist
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“Please, Jimmy, I am begging you!”
“I told you that I have a strict ‘no deals with the devil’ policy. NO.”
“You’re my only hope, Olsen, please!”
“I am not Obi-Wan Kenobi!”
You’re doomed, completely and stupidly doomed, not in a poetic sort of way, not in a funny way either, just in that sinking, slow, full-body ache sort of way where you already know the damage is done and there’s absolutely nothing you can do to un-say the words that came out of your mouth, not when your sister had called you before the sun had even risen and your voice was still heavy with sleep and your brain hadn’t caught up yet with the concept of reality or consequences.
All she said was something about table arrangements and final numbers for the caterer and how excited she was to finally meet the boyfriend you’ve apparently been dating for four years, and instead of stopping her, instead of correcting her gently or pretending the call had dropped or even saying something mildly coherent, you just said, “Of course,” and that was it, that was the beginning of your undoing.
Because now you’re engaged, and not just vaguely in a cute, Pinterest board kind of way, but fully, publicly, logistically engaged to a man who doesn’t exist, who has never existed, who you made up months ago to get your mum to stop setting you up with her friend’s nephew who’s a dentist and plays the trombone.
And now it’s too far gone to fix.
There’s a ring involved, a fictional proposal at a cafĂ©, something you vaguely remember muttering about lavender lattes, and apparently he’s vegetarian now, because that somehow came up during brunch with your aunt last month, which means there’s a custom meal waiting for him at the reception and the sheer scale of the lie, the details, is making you feel slightly ill.
And yes, you know you did this to yourself, you know that nobody told you to keep going with the story or build him a backstory or describe his terrible driving and love of crossword puzzles, but you also know that it felt good at the time, it felt safe to be able to nod along when everyone else was talking about their partners and it felt good to have an answer for once instead of just a tight smile and another glass of wine.
You thought Jimmy would help; you thought if anyone would understand the desperation of the situation, the sheer absurdity of it, it would be him, and for a second you thought maybe he would say yes, maybe he’d pretend for a few hours, hold your hand during dinner, say something mildly charming during speeches, and let you get through the evening with your dignity barely intact.
But no! Jimmy Olsen, your last shred of hope, has looked you square in the eye and said absolutely not, and now you’re sitting at your desk with four days to go and not a single person you can reasonably ask to stand next to you in a suit and pretend to be in love with you for an entire night, not just in passing, but with the kind of history and weight that four years of fiction apparently carries.
And you know, deep down, that you should probably come clean, probably tell your family that you made the whole thing up and accept the embarrassment and pitying looks, but you also know how that’ll feel, how it’ll sound when your mum asks why you lied and when your sister gives you that smile that means she’s not surprised, just disappointed, and when your ex looks at you across the room like you’re still the same person you were when you let him walk away without fighting back.
You’re spiralling; you can feel it in the base of your skull, in your chest, in the weight of your hands where they’re curled too tightly around the edge of your desk, and you don’t know how to fix it, but you do know one thing for certain: you are not walking into that wedding alone.
You just need to figure out who’s walking in with you.
“Jimmy, please, I swear there’ll be food—”
“Look,” Jimmy let out a deep sigh, turning to you with an exasperated look, clearly frustrated with you asking him the same question for about twenty-three times now, “I would really love to help you, but not that kind of help
you know what I mean?”
“What exactly do you mean, Jimmy?”
He let out a groan, dragging his hands down his face like just speaking to you physically aged him, “You know what I exactly mean. I don’t do that. I am not a liar, and certainly not someone who’s good at it.”
“You literally fake-laughed through a conversation with my aunt about antique doorknobs last Christmas.”
“That was different, that was me trying to be polite while she showed me photos,” he pointed at you like that made some kind of moral distinction, “and I didn’t have to kiss anyone or pretend to be in a deeply committed relationship in front of multiple people.”
You blinked, “You wouldn’t even have to kiss me.”
“Oh, great, so you want me to pretend to be in love with you coldly, that sounds really convincing.”
“It’s not like anyone’s going to test us,” you snapped, “It’s not a hostage situation, I just need someone to show up in a nice suit and look like they’ve heard me snore before!”
Jimmy narrowed his eyes, “Do you snore?”
“Not the point, James!”
He crossed his arms, clearly done with entertaining the idea, even though you could see the part of him that was starting to feel guilty, the part of him that always looked a little bit like a kicked puppy when someone asked for help and he couldn’t give it, but also, unfortunately, the part of him that had enough self-preservation not to get dragged into your absolute car crash of a lie.
“I’m not doing it,” he said, firm this time, like he’d made peace with it, like he was trying to coach himself through the boundary in real time, “I’m not going to your sister’s wedding and pretending to be your long-term, deeply devoted fiancĂ©. I’m not good under pressure, I have a very obvious tell when I lie, and your family terrifies me!”
You squinted at him, “What’s your tell?”
“I start talking in third person,” he said, dead serious, “and I sweat through my shirt.”
“So? Wear black.”
“Oh, my God, are you listening to yourself right now?!”
You slumped dramatically in your chair, letting your head fall back with a groan that felt like it came from your soul, “Do you have any idea how bad this is going to be? I told them we got engaged. Engaged, Jimmy. That’s not something you can backpedal from gracefully. There’s a ring involved. There was a cafĂ©, and a latte, and I might’ve said he cried.”
Jimmy looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. “You said what?”
“I don’t know why! I panicked! Mum looked so happy!”
“You are actually insane,” he said, pointing at you again, like saying it out loud would make it any less true, “and for the record, I still think you should just tell the truth and face the music like a normal person.”
You glared at him. “If you think I’m walking into a wedding alone with three exes in the guest list and a whole table of aunties who think I need to freeze my eggs, then you’ve clearly never known true fear!”
He opened his mouth, probably to make another point about morality or dignity or whatever other trait you’d long since abandoned, but then paused, squinting at you in that way he does when he’s trying to be delicate about something stupid, “Okay, but, if not me...then who?”
You stared at him, brain empty, mouth slightly open, the same low buzz of panic beginning to climb your spine again like static electricity, because you hadn’t actually gotten that far yet, hadn’t planned anything beyond “beg Jimmy until he caves.”
And the worst part is, he could see it.
“Oh, Christ,” he said again, voice full of dread, “you don’t have a backup plan, do you?”
“I didn’t think I’d need one,” you muttered, and even you heard how sad it sounded.
Jimmy sighed, already regretting asking, and shook his head like he was trying to physically shake himself free of your chaos. “You’re on your own, dude. I mean it.”
“On your own for what?” came Lois’s voice from behind you, curious and immediately too aware, and you didn’t even have time to flinch before she was rounding the corner of your desk with a coffee in one hand and that look on her face, the one that meant you’d been talking loud enough to be heard from Mars.
Jimmy blinked at her, looked at you, and then immediately bailed with a muttered, “Nothing. It’s nothing. Don’t get involved. I need to live.”
And then he was gone, the coward, vanishing into the newsroom like he hadn’t just abandoned you at your lowest.
Which left you sitting there, clearly distressed, clearly unravelling, and now with the added bonus of Lois Lane, a Pulitzer-winning journalist and very inconveniently perceptive human being, standing over you with narrowed eyes and that tilt of her head like she was already ten steps ahead of whatever story you were about to try and sell.
You tried to recover. “It’s fine. I’m fine. I just—Jimmy’s being dramatic. It’s really nothing.”
“Mm,” she said, noncommittal, sipping her coffee like she didn’t believe a single syllable of that. She sat on the edge of your desk, legs crossed, one eyebrow raised. “So what are you actually spiralling about?”
You groaned and buried your face in your hands, already regretting every decision that led to this exact moment. “It’s my sister’s wedding.”
“And
?”
“And,” you mumbled into your palms, “I might’ve told my family I’ve been dating someone for four years and that we’re now engaged, and that he’ll be coming with me to the wedding this Saturday, which is in four days, and also completely not true, because I made him up.”
Lois paused. “You made up a boyfriend who’s now your fiancĂ©?”
“Yes.”
“Four years ago?”
“Yesssssssss.”
“And kept it going all this time.”
“I panicked, okay?!” you cried, finally looking up at her, your hands flailing a bit too dramatically for the office setting but at this point, who cared,
“My mum was giving me that face, and my other sister had just told me she was pregnant again, and everyone was being so smug and fulfilled with their real relationships and real lives and I just
said it. And then I had to keep saying it. I don’t even remember what lie I told about how we met. There was a cafĂ© involved and I think he drinks oat milk.”
Lois blinked. “You’re unwell.”
“Thank you, Lois, very helpful!”
“Okay, but like, genuinely,” she said, shifting a bit on the desk, her tone softening just slightly in that way she sometimes let slip when she wasn’t in full reporter mode, “you should just tell them the truth.”
You let out a strangled, deeply unconvincing laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure that’ll go over great. ‘Hey everyone, sorry, the love of my life I’ve been raving about for years doesn’t exist, I just invented him so you’d stop looking at me like I’m a broken microwave.’”
Lois sipped her coffee again. “You know your family will still love you, right? Like, yeah, they might be weird about it for five minutes, but they’re not going to exile you to the woods for being single.”
You frowned. “You don’t know my family. My cousin Monica live-tweeted her boyfriend proposing and now my entire family uses it as the standard for public affection. My sister’s second baby is already booked for a baptism before it’s even born. My mum bought a hat for this wedding, Lois. A hat. She doesn’t wear hats unless she’s going to cry in them.”
Lois snorted. “Okay, so your family’s insane.”
“Thank you!”
“But you’re still not actually solving the problem. You either tell the truth and deal with the fallout, or you find someone willing to be your fake fiancĂ©, which, frankly, sounds like a logistical nightmare.”
“I tried that,” you said, slumping further into your chair like the embarrassment might kill you through posture alone, “Jimmy said no for like twenty-nine times.”
“Of course he did. The guy folds under pressure if someone just asks him what he wants for lunch. You’re telling me you trusted him with a full-on social deception at a family wedding?”
You groaned again. “He was my best shot.”
She looked at you for a long moment, eyes narrowed like she was scanning you for weaknesses, and then, in the most casual voice in the world, said, “What about, uh, Clark?”
Your heart stopped.
“No.”
Lois grinned. “Why not?”
“No,” you repeated, firm, terrified, already mentally spiralling into the void, “He’s—no. He’s too nice! He’d never agree. He’d probably short-circuit and start apologising to my mother for existing. And also, I barely talk to him. We talk about coffee and copy deadlines. That’s it!”
“Exactly,” she said, like that was a point in his favour, “He’s sweet and reliable. I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t embarrass you. He might even be convincing.”
“Lois!”
“What?” She leaned in, voice low and smug. “You said you needed someone!”
You buried your face in your hands again, because if she said one more word, you might actually have a breakdown in the middle of the bullpen. And worst of all, you were already starting to picture it. 
And that was the problem. That was exactly the problem.
Because part of you didn’t hate the idea at all.
And that was far more dangerous than anything you'd invented so far.
‱───────‱°‱❀‱°‱───────‱
You knew you shouldn’t be doing this, you knew it from the moment Lois leaned in with that smug little glint in her eye and said his name like she was handing you a loaded gun, like she wanted to see if you’d actually pull the trigger, and you knew you shouldn’t have stood up, shouldn’t have taken a single step in this direction.
But you did, and now here you were, standing right in front of Clark Kent’s desk, heart racing in a way that felt both ridiculous and completely deserved, because there was no possible version of this where you came out the other side with your pride intact, and yet your mouth was already open and your voice was already forming syllables like you weren’t about to launch yourself headfirst into the most humiliating conversation of your life.
He looked up at you, smiling a little like he was happy to see you, even though you were very visibly deranged right now, and he just tilted his head a little and said, “Hey.”
And you panicked.
“Yes,” you said, immediately, before he’d even asked anything, and he blinked, confused but not alarmed, just blinking up at you with those stupid kind eyes like you weren’t seconds away from asking him to fully fake a relationship with you in front of your entire extended family.
Then he raised his eyebrows slightly, in a polite, concerned sort of way, like maybe you were short-circuiting, and said, “Are you okay?”
“Yep,” you said, lying through your teeth, too quickly, voice way too high, “fine, totally fine, I’m just—okay, so, uh, weird question, and I’m really, really sorry in advance, but are you doing anything this weekend?”
His brows pulled together in that thoughtful, in a way he did when he was trying to give a sincere answer to a weird question, and he said, slowly, “I think I’m free on Saturday... why?”
And that was when you knew you were too far gone to turn back.
“Uh,” you said, already wishing you were dead, “would you possibly, hypothetically, in a completely fictional and non-legally binding sort of way, want to get engaged?”
He blinked.
You then winced. “Okay, that sounded worse out loud than it did in my head.”
“Engaged,” he repeated as if he’d misheard.
“Yes,” you said, then immediately regretted it, “well—not engaged engaged, I’m not asking you to marry me, I’m asking if you’d pretend to marry me, or at least pretend that we’re going to get married, which is somehow worse, I know, but I swear I can explain—”
Clark was still just looking at you, blinking slowly like he was trying to figure out if this was a prank or a cry for help, and you would’ve felt bad if you weren’t already spiralling straight into the seventh layer of humiliation.
“My sister’s getting married,” you said, breathless now, already waving your hands like that would help slow your brain down, “and I may have told my entire family that I’ve been in a long-term relationship with a very real and definitely not made-up person, and that person may have also become my fiancĂ© at some point, and I didn’t think it would ever come back to bite me, but now she’s getting married on Saturday, and I’ve been explicitly told to bring him, and they’re all expecting to meet him and coo over our engagement story and ask invasive questions about our future children!”
You paused, dragging in a deep breath like you were about to dive underwater, “and Jimmy said no, like very firmly no, and then Lois said your name, and now I’m here, and you can absolutely say no too, in fact you, uh, probably should, because this is crazy and embarrassing and possibly the worst thing I’ve ever said to another human being, and I am fully prepared to fake a concussion to get out of it if I have to—”
“Can I wear a tie?” Clark asked, suddenly, with that tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like this was actually funny to him.
You stared. “What?”
“Well, I feel like a fiancĂ© should wear a tie,” he said, shrugging a little, like this was a completely rational conversation, “I’ve got one that makes me look like I know things about property taxes.”
“You already look like someone who reads real estate blogs on purpose?”
“I don’t,” he said, smiling fully now, “but it’s nice to know I could.”
You stared at him, still half-convinced your ears were lying to you. “You’re saying yes?”
He nodded, still way too calm. “Sure.”
“You don’t even know what kind of unhinged family you’re about to walk into.”
“I grew up on a farm,” he said, “I’ve seen some things.”
“This is not that,” you said, trying not to sound panicked again, ïżœïżœthis is five generations of nosy women with group chats and opinions and a frankly dangerous amount of curiosity. Someone is going to ask you about our sex life before appetisers! This is an actual social war, Clark, and you’re agreeing to walk into it as my fake fiancĂ© for the price of one piece of cake and a lot of emotional damage!”
Clark adjusted his glasses, still smiling in that mild, impossibly steady way that made your brain feel like it was glitching.
“Do I get to pick the cake flavour?” he asked.
“Oh, my God,” you muttered, burying your face in your hands, “this is going to end in flames.”
He leaned in a little, voice lower now, amused but serious enough that it made your spine go weird.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll make us very convincing.”
And you felt that line in your bones, because you were unwell in the worst way, because you had just asked Clark Kent to be your fiancé and somehow, impossibly, he had actually said yes.
‱───────‱°‱❀‱°‱───────‱
“Jesus Christ, you absolute idiot,” you hissed at yourself, elbow propped on the sink as you dragged the eyeliner across your lid for the sixth time and of course it smeared into a crooked little tail that had no business being there.
“Brilliant plan, really, fake-engage the most obvious man in the world, they’ll never suspect a thing,” you muttered, scrubbing at it again with the corner of a tissue until your skin stung.
You leaned back, squinted at your reflection, and nearly laughed because your eyes were already going red and watery like you’d been crying, which was just perfect, exactly the sort of look you wanted to bring home to your family when you announced that Clark Kent had miraculously agreed to marry you.
“They’re going to find out in five minutes, tops,” you said to the mirror, pointing at your own face like you were scolding a misbehaving child. “They know you, they know you can’t lie to save your life, they know you’ve never kept a boyfriend past a month, and you think you can walk in there with Clark bloody Kent and pull this off? You are insane.”
The eyeliner pen slipped out of your grip and clattered onto the counter and you wanted to throw it in the bin. You slammed your palms on either side of the sink, leaning forward until your forehead nearly touched the mirror, and whispered, “You’re going to die, you’re going to actually die when they start asking questions.”
Then louder, like that might help, “What were you thinking?!”
Your heart was hammering against your ribs like it was trying to escape, your hands wouldn’t stay steady long enough to finish one simple wing.
You grabbed the mascara instead, hands shaking, and muttered, “Fine, we’re just going to have lopsided eyes. Whatever. Clark said yes, somehow, impossibly, and now you’ve got to make it through dinner without collapsing.” 
And then, quieter, almost pleading, “Oh please, God, don’t let me sweat through this dress.”
‱───────‱°‱❀‱°‱───────‱
The doorbell went off and you nearly jumped out of your skin, the mascara wand slipping straight out of your hand and rolling into the sink like even your own things were sick of you.
You groaned, properly loud, because of course it was already happening, of course you’d run out of time, and you were still standing there staring at eyeliner wings that didn’t even belong to the same face. The left one was drooping, the right one was flying off into space. 
It was bad.
It rang again, longer this time, like whoever was outside already knew you were falling apart and wanted to make it worse. You looked at the clock. 6:41. Which had to be wrong, because there was no way morning was allowed to arrive this fast. But there it was, blinking at you, reminding you that you were officially out of time.
You muttered at yourself about being stupid, about how your family were going to bury you alive, and then you stomped down the hall in your robe like some gremlin dragged out of a hole, you always did, and then your stomach dropped out completely because it was Clark. 
Except it wasn’t Clark like normal, not with his crooked tie and hair that looked like the subway had bullied him. No. This Clark looked like he had been styled. His shirt was fitted properly, his sleeves rolled, his hair slick in a way that made you want to cry.
You opened the door and almost choked.
“Hi,” Clark said, easy, like he had not just wrecked your entire morning.
“What the hell are you wearing?” It fell out of you before you could stop it, because if you didn’t say something you were just going to stand there like an idiot.
He glanced down at himself and then backed up. “Clothes?”
You pointed at him, furious. “Do not. You look like some dream guy out of a film and it is offensive. You were supposed to show up looking like you.”
He blinked at you once instead, calm as ever. “Thanks? You look great.”
You nearly combusted. “Say that again and I will hit you. I mean it. I cannot deal with that right now.”
He almost said it again, you could see it, but then he softened and shrugged with that tiny smile that was somehow worse. “Alright. I will not say it again.”
“Good,” you muttered, arms crossed so tight you thought you might pass out. “Because this is already a disaster. My eyeliner is criminal, my hair is tragic, and then you have the nerve to turn up like that.”
He leaned against the doorframe, calm as ever, and said, “So, do I get to come in? Or are you just going to roast me from the hallway?”
You glanced at the clock again. 6:43. You sighed so loudly it rattled your chest. “Fine. Come in, but do not touch anything. And stop looking at me like that.”
“Like what?” he asked, grinning, stepping inside.
“Like that,” you snapped, slamming the door shut a little harder than necessary, because maybe the noise would drown out how fast your heart was going. “That thing where you look like you know something I don’t. Stop it.”
Clark glanced around your flat like he was taking mental notes, slow and polite, like he hadn’t just wandered into the lion’s den. He set his overnight bag by the sofa like he belonged there and then turned back to you with that maddening calm. “I don’t know anything,” he said.
You squinted at him, still clutching your robe closed. “Yes you do. You’re smug. It’s smug, that’s what it is.”
He raised his eyebrows, pretending innocence in a way that made you want to throw something. “Why do you think I’m smug?”
“I think you’re enjoying this too much,” you muttered, stalking back toward the bathroom because if you stood in front of him another second you’d combust. “And I don’t know why. You should be terrified. My family is going to eat you alive.”
Clark followed at a slower pace, leaning in the doorway as you picked the mascara back up like it might save your life. “I’m not really worried,” he said, and you nearly dropped the wand again because how was he like this, how was he so calm when you felt like your organs were about to start a mutiny?
“You should be,” you told him, catching your reflection and grimacing. “They will ask you questions. They will interrogate. They will want dates and names and embarrassing stories. Someone will ask about the proposal. Someone will ask about the honeymoon. Someone will ask about
” You waved the mascara at him. “Things.”
“Things,” he repeated, trying not to laugh.
“Yes, things,” you said, stabbing it back toward your lashes. “Personal things. They don’t know what boundaries are.”
He watched you for a moment, arms folded now, and then he said, easy as anything, “So you’ll tell me what they need to hear.”
You whirled on him. “Me?”
“Well, yeah,” he said, smiling like this was all so simple. “You made him up, didn’t you? You’ve already got the backstory. I’m just here to play the part.”
You stared at him, mascara still in your hand, and wanted to scream. “Oh, my God. You’re going to be useless.”
Clark laughed, actually laughed, and it was so warm and low that you forgot what you were about to say next. He pushed his glasses up his nose, still smiling, and said, “Don’t worry. I’ll keep up.”
And you hated it, you hated how much you almost believed him.
By the time you’d shoved half your wardrobe into a suitcase and burnt your tongue on instant coffee, Clark was still just
 there. Carrying your bag down the stairs without breaking a sweat. Opening the passenger door for you like it was normal. Sliding behind the wheel like he wasn’t about to impersonate your fictional fiancĂ© in front of five generations of relatives who could smell fear a mile away.
The car was quiet for all of thirty seconds before you broke.
“They’re going to ask about the cafĂ©,” you blurted, gripping your coffee cup like it was the only thing tethering you to earth. “The one where he proposed. I said it was by the river, I said there were lavender lattes, I said he got down on one knee and cried. They’re going to want details. They’re going to want to know the exact date. What the weather was like. What he said.”
Clark glanced at you, then back at the road, and said, “Alright. So what did he say?”
You blinked at him, throat tightening, because of course you had never thought that far. “I don’t know,” you admitted, voice cracking on it. “I just said he cried.”
Clark smiled a little, eyes on the traffic ahead. “Then I guess I’ll have to improvise.”
You nearly spilled your coffee. “Clark, no, do not improvise!”
“Why not?” he asked, all innocent.
“Because you’ll make it sound sincere and then I’ll die.”
He chuckled, soft and low, and you wanted to throw your coffee out the window.
“This isn’t funny,” you said, turning in your seat to glare at him. “We need to get our story straight. You can’t just stroll in there winging it.”
Clark kept his eyes on the road, maddeningly calm, hands loose on the wheel like you weren’t both heading toward disaster. “So we build it. Isn’t that what we do?”
“What?” you asked.
“Stories,” he said, glancing at you with the faintest smile. “We’ve both made a career out of getting the details right. Same principle, just personal. It’s not exactly breaking news, but it’s still a narrative. We just
 write it.”
You gaped at him. “You’re actually suggesting we treat my fake fiancĂ© like an article?”
He shrugged. “Why not? You’ve got the bones already. We fill in the rest. Motive, timeline, quotes, anecdotes. Keep it consistent. No contradictions.”
You groaned and slumped against the seat. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe you’re enjoying this.”
“I’m not enjoying it,” he said, but he was smiling, and you knew he absolutely was.
“Fine,” you muttered, shoving your empty coffee cup into the holder. “Timeline. Four years. We met at
” You stopped, wincing. “Gosh! I can’t even remember what I said anymore!”
Clark hummed thoughtfully, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “Library?”
You shot him a look. “Do I look like the kind of person who meets people at libraries?”
“Alright,” he said, still calm. “Bar, then. You spilled a drink on me?”
You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds like a clichĂ©.”
“You made up lavender lattes,” he reminded you. “We’re already past clichĂ©.”
You shoved a hand through your hair, heart pounding. “Okay, fine, bar. I spilled a drink. It was rum and coke, not wine, because wine is too obvious.”
Clark nodded like he was taking notes in his head. “And I said—what? That you owed me a replacement?”
“Yes,” you said quickly, leaning into the lie before you could second-guess it. “And you hated me at first. You said I was rude and clumsy and distracting.”
He smirked at that, eyes still on the road. “Sounds about right.”
“Don’t,” you snapped, pointing at him. “You don’t get to enjoy this.”
“Noted,” he said, but the corner of his mouth twitched and you wanted to scream.
You slumped back again, muttering under your breath. “Proposal was last spring. CafĂ© by the river. Lavender latte. You cried. I don’t know why, but apparently you did. Honeymoon is booked for Italy, Tuscany maybe, I can’t remember which part I told them. Vegetarian, crosswords, terrible driver.”
Clark repeated it under his breath, like he was memorising lines. “Terrible driver?”
“Yes,” you said. “You almost hit a dog once and we argued for a week. My cousin remembers that. Don’t mess it up.”
He glanced at you again, amused. “You realise you’ve basically been running a four-year con, right?”
You groaned into your hands and dragged your palms down your face because of course this was happening, of course he was going to ruin everything by pointing out the one detail you had not thought through. 
“I know, do not remind me,” you muttered, muffled and pathetic, like you could somehow smother the entire problem with your own skin if you just pressed hard enough.
There was a silence, and it was the kind that sat heavy enough to make your ribs ache, the kind that made you look up because you could feel him staring at you.
Clark had that careful expression, the one he always got when he was about to drop something you were not going to like, and you felt your stomach twist before he even opened his mouth.
“What?” you snapped, sharper than you meant to, but he was still gripping the steering wheel.
He hesitated, the pause stretching long enough that you wanted to scream, and then he said, almost cautiously, “You don’t
 have a ring, do you?”
Your entire chest caved in. You clutched your robe tighter out of pure reflex even though you had changed into actual clothes an hour ago, because suddenly you were naked, you were exposed, and your heart dropped so fast it made you dizzy. 
“Oh, my God. Oh, my actual God, Clark. I don’t!  I never bought one. They’re going to see it immediately, they’re going to stare at my empty finger and it’s over, it’s done, they’ll know I’ve been lying for four years and then I’ll have to fake my own death and disappear to the mountains because that is the only way out of this.”
“Hey,” he cut in, calm and steady like his voice alone might anchor you before you spun yourself into oblivion. “Breathe. It’s fine.”
“It is not fine,” you hissed, shoving your hand directly at him like evidence in a trial. “Look. Naked finger. Do you see this? They will see this from across the room, they will drag me into the kitchen, and then they’ll demand answers, and then its social execution. They will bury me alive in the garden!”
Clark pressed his lips together like he was trying not to smile, which only made you want to throttle him, and then he let out a small, sheepish laugh. “Okay
 so I might’ve thought of that.”
You blinked at him, wild, your voice climbing. “What do you mean, you thought of that?”
Instead of answering he flicked the indicator and pulled the car over, gravel crunching under the tyres, the sound loud enough that it scraped at your nerves. When you finally looked up the sea was spread out in front of you, pale and endless and stupidly beautiful, the kind of view you might have cried over if your brain wasn’t on fire.
“Clark,” you said slowly, suspicion crawling over you as he shifted in his seat, “what are you doing?”
He cleared his throat, awkward, his hand dipping into the inside pocket of his jacket, fumbling in a way that made your stomach drop further, and then he pulled out a small velvet box.
Your heart lurched so violently you actually gasped. “Oh my God. Is that—”
He rubbed the back of his neck, looking anywhere but you, his ears already going pink. “Yeah. It’s
 it’s a ring.”
You stared at him, properly stared, your brain stuttering and blank. “You
 you got me a ring?”
Clark finally met your eyes and for a second he looked so nervous you almost forgot how to breathe. “I figured it would come up. People notice rings. I didn’t want you to panic more than you already were.” He held the box out with both hands, hesitant, like he was afraid you’d shove it back into his chest. “This is
 this is the one.”
Your fingers brushed his when you took it, your chest too tight, and your voice cracked. “This is a ring?”
His laugh was soft, embarrassed, so quiet you had to lean closer to hear it. “Yeah. Kind of obvious, right?”
You opened it and the air left your lungs in one violent sweep.
It was beautiful, and not in the flashy gaudy way that would’ve been easier to shrug off, but in the kind of way that hurt to look at.
A gold band, simple but solid, with a diamond that caught the weak morning light and scattered it across the dashboard like it was mocking you. It looked old, and it looked like it had been waiting for years.
“Clark,” you whispered, throat burning, unable to stop staring, “I can’t wear this.”
He swallowed, his voice dropping into something softer, almost fragile. “It was my ma’s. Her mother gave it to her. She wanted me to have it. Said it was for when I met
 you know. The one.”
Your head snapped up so fast it almost hurt, your eyes wide, panic spilling everywhere. “Clark, no, absolutely not. I cannot wear this. This isn’t a prop, this isn’t—this is family, Clark.”
He gave a tiny shrug but his jaw was locked tight, his whole body saying he meant it. “She’d want it used. Not left in a drawer.”
You shook your head, clutching the box like it was a live grenade, because this was insane, it was so far beyond the boundaries of your fake plan you could hardly process it. “Clark, this is wrong. We’re lying, we’re faking it, we’re—God—we’re tricking everyone, and you want me to do it wearing something that actually matters?”
His gaze held steady, nervous but immovable, like he was bracing himself to take the hit. “It means something if you let it. Otherwise, it’s just a ring.”
You wanted to tell him no, to shove it back into his hand and demand he find you something cheap and plastic, something that could never feel heavy in your palm. But your throat was thick, your eyes stung, and the diamond kept catching the light like it was laughing at you for ever thinking you could control this.
You sit there gripping the box so tightly it feels like your knuckles might split, like if you loosen your hold even slightly it might detonate right there between you, and he just sits steady the way he always does, like nothing in the world could shake him, and it only makes you feel worse, because you’re sitting here on the verge of combustion while Clark Kent looks like Clark Kent, calm and patient and maddening. 
The silence stretches and stretches until it feels like a weight pressing down on your ribs, so thin and fragile it could snap at any second, and you can’t take it anymore, your breath breaking out of you in a shudder, and all you manage is a single word, low and wrecked, “Fine.”
His shoulders drop in that instant, a subtle easing, relief softening the set of his jaw, and before you can swallow the word back or decide you’ve made a terrible mistake he reaches forward, so slow, so deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away even though you don’t, and his fingers brush yours, warm, steady, achingly gentle, and it’s ridiculous how that single touch is what undoes you more than anything. 
He takes the box from you, cradling it like it isn’t a bomb, like it’s nothing more than a box, and then, without a flicker of hesitation, he opens it. Pops it open like he’s just unwrapping something ordinary, not stepping with you into something that feels like walking into fire.
He slides the ring out, holding it between his fingers, turning it once, the smallest movement, and then he looks at you, properly looks at you, and your chest twists, your pulse stumbles, because there’s something in his gaze you can’t read, something heavy and intent, and it makes everything so much worse.
“Clark,” you breathe, your voice breaking with the panic already clawing up your throat.
He clears his throat, quiet, unhurried, but steady enough to make your stomach lurch. “Will you marry me?”
Your head jerks, eyes wide, your mouth open but empty, because what the hell, because it’s insane, because you know this is supposed to be fake and yet hearing it out loud like that is nothing you were ready for. “Why are you asking me like that?”
“Because,” he says, calm on the surface but a thread of something else tugging underneath, almost sheepish in the way he meets your stare, “you’ll have to get used to it. People are going to want the story. They’ll ask, over and over. And if I can’t even say the words to you, then how am I supposed to convince anyone else?”
The laugh that rips out of you is half-choked, almost hysterical, and you clutch at the seatbelt across your chest. “Gosh. You’re rehearsing? You’re actually rehearsing this? In a car by the sea, Clark? Are you serious?”
His lips twitch, the smallest crack in his composure, and he says it so simply it drives you mad. “Practice makes perfect.”
Your head falls back against the seat, and you’re laughing because there’s no other way to survive the absurdity of this, because he’s insane, he has to be. “You’re insane,” you tell him.
But he doesn’t look away and just holds the ring, like it’s not just part of a scheme, his gaze steady on yours, and when he says, “Will you?” 
It doesn’t sound like a joke, it doesn’t sound fake at all, in fact.
It should be easy, it should be light, it should be nothing more than a game you both agreed to play, but your throat is tight and your chest aches and you can barely force the words past the knot inside you. “Yes,” you laugh, except it’s wet at the edges, breaking against the tears you’re fighting, “yes, I’ll marry you, Clark Kent.”
Something flickers in his eyes then, something raw and unguarded that you can’t pin down before it’s gone, shuttered away so neatly you almost convince yourself you imagined it. Almost.
And then he takes your hand, sliding the ring onto your finger with a gentleness that makes your heart cave in, slow and deliberate, like it belongs there, as if this isn’t fake at all.
The church was already spilling over by the time you pulled up, cars lining the road, people milling about in their best clothes, voices carrying in that bright early morning air, and your stomach dropped right through the floor because this was it, no more rehearsal, no more time to prepare.
Clark cut the engine, and for a second neither of you moved. You stared at the heavy wooden doors, the crowd of relatives and neighbours and people you barely knew but who all knew you, and your hand was already clammy before his even found it.
He reached across so simply, fingers brushing yours, and then he was holding on, steady, grounding, like he hadn’t just put a family heirloom on your finger minutes ago.
You wanted to pull away but you didn’t.
Walking up the path, hand in hand, you could feel the stares already, the whispers barely muted. Your aunt glanced down at your joined hands and her brows went up, sharp as anything, and you knew this was going to spread through the pews faster than the organ could get through the first hymn.
And then there was the sting, sudden and sour, when you saw your sister flanked by her best friends, all satin and flowers and cameras flashing, and not a spot for you amongst them. It should have hurt more. It didn’t. You weren’t here to be her bridesmaid, you were just here to stand and clap and smile when she said her vows, and that was fine. This was her day, not yours.
Except Clark’s thumb brushed your knuckles, light as a whisper, and it dragged you right back into the absurdity of it all, because while your sister was about to marry the love of her life, you were standing here pretending, your pulse hammering like you’d stolen someone else’s story.
Someone called your name, your cousin maybe, but you couldn’t tear your eyes from the glint of the ring under the church lights, sharp and cruel, and all you could think was how in the hell you were supposed to carry this off when you already felt like the lie was carved into your skin.
Clark leaned down, close enough that his breath brushed your ear. “You okay?”
You swallowed hard. “Do I look okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, quiet, almost amused. “You look like you’re about to faint.”
“Great,” you muttered, dragging yourself forward because there was no other option, the ushers were already funneling people inside like cattle and you couldn’t exactly dig your heels into the church steps and refuse to move. “Exactly the look I was going for.”
And of course, because the universe hated you, they were there, all of them, like they’d set up camp at the doorway purely to catch you. Your mum saw you first and her whole body jolted, hand flying to her chest like she’d just witnessed a miracle.
“Oh, he’s finally here!” she gasped, eyes bright as she turned that beam on Clark like she’d conjured him into existence through sheer force of will. “I was beginning to think you’d been keeping him hidden from us.”
“Mum,” you hissed, low, desperate, but it didn’t matter, she was already reaching for Clark’s hand, smoothing her hair like she was about to meet the Pope.
And then your brother, because obviously it had to be him, crossed his arms and gave Clark the slowest, most infuriating once-over, like he was appraising cattle. “So he’s actually real then? Thought maybe you’d rented him from the internet.”
Your hand flew out on instinct, smacking his arm hard enough to make him flinch. “You’re such an idiot.”
He grinned, rubbing the spot with exaggerated pain. “What? I’m just saying. We were starting to place bets. Months of ‘Boyfie said this’ and ‘Boyfie did that’ with no actual proof? Pfft suspicious.”
“Children,” your dad cut in, sharp enough that the word cracked through all the noise, that exact tone that used to send you lot scrambling when you were kids. “Behave. This is your sister’s wedding, not the playground.”
But of course your brother leaned in anyway, muttering, “She hit me first,” before ducking away with that smug grin that made you want to strangle him right there in front of God and everyone.
Meanwhile Clark, the traitor, menace, perfect bastard, just smiled all calm and polite, extending his hand like this wasn’t a firing squad. “Sir,” he said, warm, steady, with that faint drawl curling the edges, and your dad, your dad, who hadn’t smiled in weeks actually looked impressed.
“Oh, isn’t he charming,” your mum breathed, practically glowing, like Clark had just solved all her problems by existing. “What a lovely young man! I like him.”
You gawked. “You just met him.”
“That’s all it takes,” she said matter-of-factly, and then turned her entire focus back on Clark as if you weren’t standing there, as if you hadn’t just combusted into flames. “We’ve been waiting a long time to meet you, young man. She talks about you all the time. More than she realises.”
“Mum,” you snapped, heat crawling up your neck, but Clark was already glancing down at you with that infuriating glint, the one that meant he was eating this up, every humiliating second of it.
And because the devil works fast but your younger brother works faster, he leaned in on your other side, voice low but enough for Clark to hear. “He seems too good for you, sis.”
You spun, teeth bared. “Say that again and I’ll murder you in this church. I don’t care if God’s watching.”
Clark had the audacity to laugh, soft and low, disguising it like a cough, which only made you crush his hand tighter, knuckles white. He looked down at your grip, then back up at you, maddeningly calm, and murmured, “Easy there.”
Before you could even open your mouth to snap at him, there was another voice, cutting clean through the thick awkwardness, and there she was, your other sister, striding across the tiles, balancing her son on her hip as if the chunky little weight was nothing at all.
Her eyes swept over you first, then Clark, and the curve of her mouth shifted into that smile, the one that always meant trouble, the one that made your stomach sink because it was far too knowing already and she hadn’t even opened her mouth yet.
“So this is him,” she said, her tone light and casual, almost airy, but her gaze sharp enough to make you bristle on instinct, like she was cataloguing everything about him now so she could interrogate you later over wine.
“Apparently,” you muttered under your breath, ready to roll your eyes skyward, but of course she didn’t even bother acknowledging you, adjusting her son higher against her shoulder before sticking her free hand out toward Clark. 
“I’m her sister. The normal one. Nice to finally meet you.”
Clark, bloody saint that he was, smiled with that soft politeness of his and shook her hand with the same steady warmth he’d used on your dad, which only made you want to groan, because of course he was going to charm her too, wasn’t he, and as if that wasn’t bad enough, your nephew suddenly lunged toward him with both grabby little hands, chubby fingers stretching, babbling complete nonsense like Clark was the most exciting person in the world, like he’d just spotted the sun and wanted to pocket it.
“Oh, for crying out loud,” you hissed, glaring at the child who only grinned wider, cheeks dimpling like he knew exactly what he was doing. “He doesn’t even do that with me.”
Your sister laughed, shifting the boy’s weight easily, bouncing him once on her hip before tilting her head toward Clark with that amused gleam in her eyes. “He’s a good judge of character. Kids always know.”
Clark chuckled softly, not helping matters in the slightest, and brushed a fingertip over the baby’s tiny fist when it latched around his thumb with surprising strength. “He’s a strong one,” he murmured, his whole face lighting up with genuine delight.
You could feel heat crawling up the back of your neck, the tips of your ears burning, because this was ridiculous, absolutely ridiculous. “Don’t encourage him,” you snapped, crossing your arms tighter across your chest like that would somehow shield you from the scene unfolding right in front of you.
“Why not?” Clark said simply, like he genuinely couldn’t understand the problem, like it was the most natural thing in the world to let a baby cling to him as if they’d been best friends for years. Your nephew squealed in sheer delight at his voice, tiny fingers tightening their hold, refusing to let go, drool collecting at the corner of his smile.
Your sister raised her eyebrows at you, clearly enjoying every second of this. “Looks like he likes him. Honestly, I was expecting
 I don’t know. Someone rougher around the edges, maybe, but you’ve done well.”
“I didn’t ‘do well’,” you snapped again, your voice climbing louder than you meant it to. “I’m not shopping at a bloody market stall!”
Clark’s lips twitched, his whole expression shifting as if he was desperately trying not to laugh, which only made it worse. 
Your sister just rolled her eyes in that superior way she always had, switching your nephew onto her other arm as if to punctuate her point. “Whatever you say, but he’s definitely family-approved already, whether you like it or not.”
You groaned, dragging your hand down your face, trying to cover the mortification burning across your skin, muttering through your palm, “I hate all of you.”
“Love you too, little sister,” she sang back without missing a beat, her heels clicking away as she disappeared down the hall, her son still babbling and giggling happily, his little hand stretched out toward Clark until they were both out of sight.
For a moment there was silence, the kind that pressed in on you, the kind that made your grip on Clark’s hand tighten without you even realising. He glanced down at you, his thumb brushing gently over the back of your knuckles, grounding in that soft way only he managed. “You okay?” he asked quietly, voice pitched just for you.
You tilted your head up at him, glaring through the flush on your cheeks. “Don’t start.”
The wedding begins slowly, almost shyly, like the air itself is holding its breath, the music soft at first and then swelling, filling every inch of the church with something grand and holy and terrifying, and it is the shift in the crowd that makes your skin prickle, the way voices drop, the way chairs scrape faintly before everyone rises at once, all heads turning toward the doors at the back. 
You turn too, though your stomach has been clenched tight for what feels like hours, your lungs pulling shallow air that does not seem to reach deep enough, because you already know what is waiting, you already know the weight of it before it even happens.
And then she appears. Your sister, your baby sister, framed in the doorway in a dress so impossibly white it almost blinds you, the fabric catching the light like it is spun out of something celestial, her hand looped carefully through your dad’s arm, her steps hesitant and trembling in a way that breaks you even before she is halfway down the aisle. 
Her face is soft and shaking, the kind of trembling that comes from joy too big to carry and fear too sharp to hide, and your dad looks so steady beside her, proud in a way that makes your throat close, his back straight and his jaw set like he is holding himself together for her sake.
The sight of them hits you harder than you thought it would, almost violently, like a hand pressing straight into the middle of your chest, because it is not just the image of your sister in a dress and your father walking her toward her future, it is the realisation of what this moment means, what it promises, and how far it feels from anything you could ever touch. 
You cannot stop the knot in your chest, that ugly twisting, the whisper that tells you this kind of fairytale is not meant for you. Not the dress, not the aisle, not the someone waiting at the end with eyes already wet because you exist, because loving you is enough to undo them. 
Not the story that makes entire rooms cry just from watching.
Your chest aches like it is hollow and your throat burns like you swallowed something sharp, and you hate yourself for it, for being so pathetic, for daring to feel grief in the middle of her joy, but it does not matter how much you tell yourself to stop, the sting behind your eyes rises anyway, hot and impatient and unforgiving in its timing.
And then Clark’s hands. They appear suddenly, folding around yours with such warmth and steadiness that it startles you, like you had forgotten you even had hands until he anchored them. His palms are firm, his fingers curling over yours with intention, as though he is tethering you, pulling you out of the spiral before you can vanish into it completely. 
You glance up at him, startled, and he is looking at you the way he always does, but sharper now, more piercing, that gentleness too much, that patience too unbearable when you are crumbling in silence beside him. 
His expression is open, impossibly kind, too soft for what this is supposed to be, and it only makes the ache worse because you know you do not deserve it.
You sniff hard, forcing your mouth into something that might pass as a smile, tight and fragile like cracked glass, nodding quickly as though you can tell him without words, I am fine, I am fine, do not make this worse, do not look at me like that. 
His thumb brushes against your knuckle once, slow and grounding, not insistent, just present, and it is enough, somehow, to keep your chest from splitting entirely open in the middle of the ceremony.
When you force your gaze back to the aisle, your sister is already halfway to the altar, her bouquet trembling in her hands the same way her lips tremble when she blinks too fast. 
And then she reaches him, her husband-to-be, standing there at the end of the aisle with his whole world written across his face, his expression undone in the most devastating way, his tears catching in the light, his mouth trembling open as if the sight of her is too much to contain. He is not composed, not stoic, not trying to hide how much he feels, and it cracks him wide open right in front of everyone.
Your dad takes her hand so carefully, almost reverently, and places it into his. The gesture is simple, tradition etched into every movement, but it lands inside you like a blow, the lump in your throat so sharp it forces you to swallow hard, your vision blurring just as the two hands meet, as her life folds into his. 
And all you can do is stand there, blinking against the burn, anchored by Clark’s grip and undone by everything else, watching your sister step into a story you are certain will never be yours.
The murmurs died down and then the officiant began, voice soft and steady, guiding them into the moment that was supposed to be sacred and contained and almost unbearably beautiful. You could feel the tension in the room stretching through you, every seat in the church suddenly pressing against your ribs as if the air itself were waiting. 
Your sister inhaled, her chest rising under the delicate fabric of her gown, her eyes locking on him, her hands trembling slightly even as they held onto his.
And then he spoke, his voice quiet at first, but every word carving through the church like it belonged there, like it could not be stopped. “I never thought I’d be standing here, marrying you, because I never thought anyone could make me feel like this, like I was home for the first time in my life, like everything else fell away when I looked at you.”
Your chest clenched immediately, instinctive and sharp, and your hand tightened around Clark’s without thinking, your knuckles whitening against his.
It was such a simple, human reaction, a tether to the world that didn’t feel like it was going to rip apart under the weight of this moment, because even though you knew it wasn’t about you, even though it was your sister’s day, hearing those words made everything inside you combust in ways you weren’t prepared to name.
From the corner of your eye, you saw Clark glance down at your hand, the faintest flicker of something in his eyes, a question, a warning, an acknowledgment, but you did not allow yourself to meet it. 
You had to keep your gaze forward, had to keep watching her, had to keep pretending that this distance, this air between you and the raw ache in your chest, could be managed. Your eyes stayed locked on your sister, on the way her lips parted in that tiny, unguarded smile that made everything else feel sharp and impossible.
Her husband’s words continued, each one carefully measured, filled with everything he had kept in his chest for years, and you felt the pulse of it, the way it settled deep under your skin, and you knew you were holding your breath, holding onto Clark because it was the only thing that made the ache bearable, the only thing that let you stand upright without collapsing entirely in front of all these people, because the world was collapsing inside your chest and this hand, warm and steady, was the only anchor you had.
You forced yourself to blink, to nod ever so slightly, just enough to convince the world you were present, just enough to convince yourself that you weren’t dissolving entirely, and even as you did, the words continued to land, quiet and devastating, a tide pulling at something you hadn’t wanted to admit was there, a part of you that had always wanted that kind of certainty, that kind of love, and yet you had never, and would never, have it. 
And still, the hand in yours squeezed just enough to say we’re here, we’re holding, we’re surviving, and for now, that was enough.
You swallowed hard, blinking rapidly, because suddenly the room felt too bright, the polished pews too shiny, the quiet sniffles too loud, and you were hyperaware of everyone’s eyes, even though they weren’t on you. You could feel Clark’s gaze lingering, steady but soft, like he was reading you without needing words, like he knew you were unraveling and he wasn’t going to let go.
Your sister’s voice wavered slightly as she replied, her vows trembling but full of that raw, unpolished honesty that made people lean in, made your stomach twist in ways you didn’t want to admit. And your hand squeezed Clark’s without thinking, your grip tightening as if holding onto him could somehow hold the world together.
You stole a glance at him from the corner of your eye, just a flicker, and he gave you that small, almost imperceptible nod, letting you know it was okay, that he was right there, that he had you. And then you had to look away, focus forward, because her words, beautiful, unguarded, full of that impossible hope, were searing right through you, and your chest felt too tight to breathe normally.
He spoke again, low but steady, recounting memories you knew only she could understand, and you felt that familiar ache flare up again, sharp and quick, because here she was, standing in the kind of love story you’d been convinced you’d never get to have, and yet you were tethered to it, through the hand in yours, through the warmth and calm of Clark’s presence.
The officiant’s voice cut in softly, directing them through the last pieces, and your sister’s hand slid into his completely, her fingers lacing through his, and for the briefest moment, your chest unclenched slightly, not because it was easy but because it was complete.
The moment was absolute, and while the world spun around you, the tightness in your stomach, the fluttering of your pulse, it was almost bearable because his hand was there, grounding you, reminding you that you were still tethered, still whole, still managing to exist in this impossible, perfect chaos.
And then, as they spoke their final words, promising themselves to each other, the whole room seemed to exhale, and your shoulders finally loosened just a fraction, your grip on Clark easing, but not letting go, because even in the midst of their story, even while your own chest ached, you realised that holding onto this small, solid connection was the only thing keeping you upright, the only thing keeping you from tumbling entirely into the kind of longing you’d spent years burying.
After the wedding, the reception was chaos and glitter and flowers and everyone trying too hard to be polite while quietly evaluating every single detail as though the entire day depended on them, and you could feel the tension and excitement vibrating in the air like static electricity, your heels pinching at the wrong places, your dress slightly itchy in all the wrong ways, and Clark’s hand never leaving yours as you navigated the sea of relatives and distant acquaintances you mostly pretended to remember.
“Do you want a drink?” he asked, leaning close so his breath brushed your ear, calm and steady in a way that almost made you forget you were still about to combust from sheer social panic.
“I need water,” you muttered, dragging him toward the drinks table, your voice low enough so no one could hear, though somehow everyone probably did anyway, because you were you, and subtlety had never been your strong suit.
He handed you a glass, watching you with those ridiculous eyes that seemed far too focused, far too kind, and you took it like it was a lifeline. “Thanks,” you said, and immediately felt like an idiot for the dryness in your throat, because of course your voice had gone all shaky again.
“People are staring,” he said quietly, nodding toward the crowd that was definitely noticing the two of you, which only made your stomach twist further because yes, they were looking, and yes, it felt like everyone could read every thought and panic bubbling under your skin.
“I can feel them,” you hissed under your breath, glancing around, and then muttering, “They know, they all know, they can smell the lie on me, I can feel it in the air.”
Clark chuckled softly, a sound that made your chest tighten in an entirely different way, and he squeezed your hand. “They’re just looking,” he said, calm as anything, and you nearly rolled your eyes. “It’s a reception, not an interrogation.”
“Sure,” you muttered, voice dripping with sarcasm, “except everyone here is judging every breath I take, and I have to smile and nod like a normal human being while my eyeliner is sweating and my shoes are stabbing my feet.”
He leaned closer again, smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re doing fine,” he said, quiet but firm, and you could feel the weight of his certainty like a grounding force, and it was almost enough to make you believe it for half a second before your cousin’s laughter nearby reminded you that you were still very much on display.
“Do you want to dance?” he asked suddenly, tilting his head toward the band, and you froze, because of course, yes, dancing. That was an excellent idea, entirely going to be a disaster. 
“I can’t dance,” you said immediately, panic rising in your chest, and Clark tilted his head, patient but amused, and you had to explain, because apparently that was necessary, “I mean, I literally cannot dance. I trip over flat surfaces, and if you think I’m going to sway gently and gracefully like some romantic movie character, you are dreaming. I can’t do it. I just can’t.”
Clark’s lips twitched, that little amused lift at the corner, but he didn’t say anything, just waited, which made you continue, spiraling faster, “And yes, I’ve thought about it, okay, I’ve tried to fake it in the privacy of my room, spinning around like a human windmill, but it never works. I always end up dizzy, tangled in my own arms, muttering nonsense, and frankly, it’s better for everyone if I just stay put, sway awkwardly in a corner, or pretend I’m just really into observing the dĂ©cor. That’s the safest option.”
You pressed a hand to your forehead, exhaling sharply. “So don’t ask me to dance. I cannot, I will not, and this is not negotiable. I know what you’re thinking, that I’m just nervous, but this is not nerves – ”
You hadn’t even finished your tirade about your catastrophic dancing skills when Clark’s eyes flicked toward the edge of the room, that faintly mischievous glint in them making your stomach sink. 
“Someone’s coming,” he murmured, just low enough that you could hear, and before you could ask who, your eyes went wide and you knew immediately. 
Your nosy aunts. The ones who could smell a lie from a mile away and whose sole purpose in life seemed to be monitoring everyone’s social behaviour with surgical precision.
You froze for a second, panic threatening to take over, and then your brain, working at full chaotic speed, fired off a plan. You set your glass down a little too firmly, grabbing Clark’s hand with a grip that was both desperate and decisive, and yanked him toward the centre of the dance floor. 
“Oh babe, come on, let’s dance!” you called out, loud enough for your aunts to hear, forcing a fake giggle that sounded far too shrill for comfort, and immediately cursed yourself internally because now you were fully committed and there was no turning back.
Clark’s eyebrows rose, but that familiar soft smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. He didn’t protest. Instead, he slid his hand into yours and led you toward the first slow song of the evening, the band swelling in that way that made every bride, groom, and their unfortunate guests look like they were part of some cinematic moment you had no right to be in.
As soon as you were on the floor, you realized just how unprepared you were. You tried to sway gently like people in films did, but your knees went stiff, your feet refused to cooperate, and every attempt to move in sync with the music ended in what could only be described as flailing. You were convinced that if someone filmed this, it would be used as evidence against you in some future court of humiliation.
Clark, sensing your rising panic, didn’t let go. He kept his hand on your waist, guiding you with a patience that was infuriatingly perfect, murmuring, “Hey, it’s fine, just follow me, look at me, don’t think about anything else.” 
His voice was calm, a soft anchor in the storm of your nerves, and you tried to focus on it, though your limbs still insisted on moving like they had a vendetta against you.
You laughed nervously, half-groaning at your own lack of coordination, and he tilted his head, still patient, guiding your steps, “There, see? You’re doing fine, just trust me.”
“Fine?” you echoed, eyes wide as you nearly tripped over your own feet, “Fine is catastrophic, I am a danger to everyone on this floor.”
He chuckled, tugging you slightly closer so you wouldn’t fall, “No, you’re doing fine. Just don’t stop moving and don’t think, just follow my lead.”
And somehow, impossibly, it started working. Not perfectly, not smoothly, but enough that you weren’t dragging anyone into disaster. Your arms were still stiff, your steps awkward, and you were acutely aware of your aunts’ sharp eyes from the sidelines, but Clark’s presence grounded you. 
His hands were steady on your waist, guiding your turns, soft murmurs in your ear making you relax just enough to stop panicking, and every small movement you managed to pull off felt like a tiny victory.
You kept your voice loud enough for the nosy aunts to hear, “Oh babe, you’re amazing at this, I don’t know how I got so lucky!” forcing another fake giggle, and Clark laughed quietly, eyes glinting with amusement, holding you steady, making you feel like maybe, just maybe, this disastrous dance could somehow pass.
You stumbled slightly, foot catching his, and your breath hitched, but he didn’t let go. 
He adjusted your hold, murmuring, “It’s okay, you’re fine, really,” and somehow, despite every instinct screaming that you were about to collapse, you found a rhythm, messy and imperfect, but real, anchored by him, and for the first time since you’d set foot on the floor, you allowed yourself to forget the crowd, forget your aunts, and just follow.
You blinked up at him, breath still shaky, and whispered, “Are they gone?”
Clark’s lips curved into that maddeningly calm smile, and he shook his head just slightly. “They’re watching,” he murmured, low and steady. 
Your stomach lurched and you opened your mouth to say something, some panicked protest about public humiliation or the sheer absurdity of it all, but before a word could escape, his hand on your waist shifted, and he swayed you gently against him. Just a little, a teasing, impossibly smooth motion that made your chest tighten and your pulse spike in ways that were far too loud in your own ears.
The music then slowed, the band easing into a soft, lingering song that made the room shrink to just the two of you, the laughter and clinking glasses fading into the background. His other hand found yours, holding it lightly but with enough pressure to steady you, and you realized that even with a dozen eyes on you from somewhere out there, none of it mattered.
You wanted to protest, to pull away, but every instinct that normally screamed disaster in social situations was muffled under the sheer weight of how close he was, how careful and deliberate his touch was. 
Your cheek brushed against his shoulder when you turned slightly, and you caught the faint scent of him, clean and familiar, like this was home and you weren’t allowed to panic.
“Clark,” you whispered, voice tight, “this is
 too close.”
He tilted his head, that little smirk curling the corner of his mouth, but didn’t let go, didn’t break the sway. “It’s fine,” he said, soft, almost tender. “Just follow me.”
And so you did, more because you had no choice than any kind of skill, letting him guide you, the gentle rhythm of his movements anchoring you to the moment. Your heart hammered, loud enough that you could feel it against his chest, and every so often your eyes flicked to the edge of the crowd, half-expecting to catch your aunts with smug expressions, but somehow you didn’t care.
The song stretched on, slow and sweet, and for a few moments you let yourself sink entirely into it, into him, into the absurdity of standing on a polished floor, swaying poorly to a song that somehow felt like it was written just for the two of you. Your fingers squeezed his hand reflexively, your grip tight, and when he murmured a quiet, “Relax,” it was enough to make your chest unclench just a little.
Then your eyes met his, and suddenly the rest of the room disappeared entirely. The soft glow of the chandeliers, the distant chatter and laughter, the clinking of glasses, none of it existed. 
Just him, just you, and the space between your faces shrinking impossibly fast. 
Your gaze flicked involuntarily, catching the curve of his lips, imagining the way they would feel against yours, and heat surged through you in a way that made your palms sweat even as they clung to his.
He held your gaze, steady and calm, but there was something in his eyes now, something unspoken, something that made your stomach twist and your breath hitch in ways you hadn’t expected. You had to fight not to tilt your head closer, not to close the distance that your body was already craving, because the tension was thick, palpable, and dizzying, pressing in from all sides.
Every sway, every tiny step, felt electric. The faint brush of his chest against yours, the way his thumb traced little circles on your hand, it all pulled you closer, made your heart hammer like it was trying to escape your ribs. 
You caught yourself staring again at his lips, daring not to breathe too loudly, because God, the thought of what would happen if you just leaned in, if you let it happen even for a heartbeat, made your pulse spike until you could barely think.
You weren’t sure if he noticed, or if he did and was just as tortured, but the way his eyes lingered on yours, the smallest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth, it was enough to make the world tilt dangerously, wonderfully, and terribly. 
You wanted to step back, to remind yourself of reason and the absurdity of being caught in the middle of a wedding reception, but your body refused, glued to him, and the moment stretched impossibly, deliciously long, suspended between what was allowed and what neither of you could stop wanting.
You both finally eased away from the polished floor, the music fading behind you as you sank into your chairs at the head table with the rest of your sister’s family, your dress still warm from the frantic movement and your pulse stubbornly racing. 
Clark’s hands found yours again on the table, folding over them the same way he had when he’d anchored you on the dance floor, and for a moment the noise around you; the laughter, the clinking of cutlery, the faint chatter of other guests blurred into a soft hum that didn’t reach you.
You glanced at him, another tight-lipped smile curling reluctantly at your own lips, the kind that said I’m surviving, barely, and he returned it with that soft, patient expression that made everything else fall away, like he was deliberately slowing the world just so you could breathe. 
Your fingers squeezed his in answer, tentative, a silent acknowledgment that somehow, despite the ridiculousness of all this, you weren’t completely alone in it.
The maid of honour wrapped up her speech, applause rippling through the hall, and you watched the bride smile, her eyes gleaming, her cheeks flushed, and you tried not to flinch at the way the happy chaos pressed against your chest, the reminder that this was her day, that you were here only as part of the backdrop, and still, with Clark there, warm and steady and impossibly close, it didn’t feel entirely like a stage you were forced onto.
He tilted his head toward you, soft enough that only you noticed, and murmured, “You okay?”
You blinked at him, trying to play it off, letting a breath you hadn’t realised you’d been holding slip out. “Yeah,” you said, voice quieter than usual, not entirely believable even to yourself, and gave him a tighter smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach your eyes.
Clark just nodded, thumb brushing along your knuckles once, slow and grounding, and you realised you didn’t have to answer because he could read the tension anyway, and somehow that was enough to keep the world from collapsing around you for just a little longer.
The applause from the maid of honour’s speech was still settling when the microphone shifted to your father. He cleared his throat and began, voice steady and deliberate, carrying easily across the hall.
He started with your sister, telling stories that painted her in all the right lights, stories that made the crowd laugh, murmur, lean in, the kind that made your chest tighten because the pride and warmth in his voice was impossible to ignore. 
He spoke about her childhood, scraped knees she’d worn like badges, late nights full of whispered secrets, the stubborn streak that had got her into trouble more times than he could count, and the small victories that had shaped her into the person everyone now admired. 
He talked about the friends she’d chosen, the way she had grown, the moments she had fought for herself, and you felt each word pressing into your chest like a weight you weren’t ready to carry.
He slowed, careful with his pauses, choosing words that made you notice his glance wander around the room, until it finally rested on you. “And oh, our other daughter there,” he said, and the pause stretched long enough to make your stomach lurch, “she’s getting married too.”
Your heart stopped, panic tightening in your chest. Eyes turned, murmurs ran across the crowd, and your hands immediately found his, gripping, holding like it was the only lifeline in the room. Your pulse jumped, but he didn’t move.
His thumb traced circles across the back of your hand, soft, steady, and the warmth of him there stopped the world from tipping over entirely.
Your father’s voice continued, now directed at him, the stranger to your family until today, the one you’d been keeping at arm’s length but who now occupied the centre of everyone’s gaze. “I haven’t had the chance to meet you properly until today,” your dad said, a little hesitant, “but I can see she’s found someone who respects her, who cares for her in the ways that matter. You’ve already made an impression, and I am grateful for that. I am grateful that she has someone steady by her side, someone she can count on, someone I can trust to stand with her through life’s moments. Welcome to the family, Clark.”
He pressed closer, just a little, leaning down to brush his lips softly against your temple, and your chest both sank and seized. The intimacy of it, the weight of everyone’s attention, the fact that you were standing here pretending through every approving glance, pressed into you like fire. 
You clutched his hand tighter, the heat rising behind your eyes, and for the first time all night you let yourself notice how absurd it felt, how real it looked, and how much you hated the lie you were living even as your father’s words kept echoing in your ears.
The reception had settled into its usual rhythm by then, laughter bouncing off the walls, glasses clinking, people shifting in and out of conversation. You had been planted at your seat by your mum, who insisted on filming everything, and you were holding your drink like it was a lifeline, trying to blend into the chaos. She kept nudging the phone in front of your face. “Smile, darling, everyone will want to see this later,” she said brightly, like your life was a highlight reel. You groaned into your hand, muttering that no one would want to see your panicked, frozen expression, but she ignored you entirely, adjusting the camera so you could be seen in full, upright terror.
Clark had positioned himself beside your father, leaning casually against the chair back, one hand resting lightly on the table, his posture loose, amused, like he wasn’t a part of this social storm at all. Every so often, his gaze found you, that faint smile tugging at his lips, and you returned a glare sharp enough to send sparks, which he met with nothing but a calm shrug, and the weight in your chest tightened a little because somehow that look made you feel like the entire room had dissolved down to just the two of you.
Then the energy shifted. Your sister raised her bouquet high, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling with nerves and joy, and called out, “Alright ladies, get ready!”
The circle of single women stiffened, bouncing on their toes, hands poised, whispering to one another, eyes flicking between each other and the flower held aloft.
Your mum leaned over, practically poking you in the side. “Go on, love, catch it, don’t be shy,” she said loudly enough for half the room to hear. You groaned, rolling your eyes, muttering that this wasn’t some desperate teenage ritual, but she ignored you completely, already filming every twitch of your expression.
Clark leaned closer, voice low and steady in your ear. “It’s just a flower,” he said, calm as anything, like the world wasn’t spinning a mile a minute around you. You shot him a glare sharp enough to sting, muttering that he clearly didn’t understand the stakes.
He just raised his hands innocently, giving a small shrug, and murmured, “Alright, I’ll stand here and make sure no one throws anything worse at you,” as if that made everything better.
Your sister swung the bouquet back, and the world slowed. You could hear the collective intake of breath from the circle of women, feel the tension stretching across the room like it had weight.
Everyone leaned forward, eyes wide, arms out, the air thick with anticipation. You froze in the middle of it, your mind screaming that you could move, that you should move, but your body betrayed you, rooted to the spot.
And then it happened. The bouquet sailed through the air, not to the side, not to someone else, but straight at you.
Time stretched impossibly as it arced toward your hands. You blinked, frozen, and then instinctively, fingers closing around it. Your chest hammered so violently you could feel it in your throat. 
Your mum was behind the camera, shrieking, “She’s got it! She’s got it!” and you could hear the chaos of laughter and cheers, the whooping and the shuffling of feet, but all of it was muffled, distant, because your brain was registering nothing but the bouquet and the weight of it in your hands.
Clark’s eyes found yours immediately. That same calm amusement lingered in them, soft but infuriating, like he knew exactly what was happening inside your head, and you glared at him, willing him to look away, but he just shrugged, tiny smile playing at his lips, as if he was silently saying, “Well, congratulations.” 
Your fingers tightened around the stems as if holding it harder would ground you, your pulse hammering in your ears.
You forced a smile for your mum’s phone, the edges tight and trembling, because your mind was already spiraling, imagining the whispered comments, the eyes following you, the absurdity of standing there with the bouquet in your hands as if it had been meant for you all along. 
And Clark, still leaning slightly against your father, still calm and amused, gave you that look, the one soft, fond look that made your stomach twist, like he actually saw you in the middle of all this chaos, like none of it mattered except for you, and somehow, just for a second, it grounded you, even though your chest was still on fire, and your brain was still screaming that none of this was real.
‱───────‱°‱❀‱°‱───────‱
The room had thinned out considerably by the time you even noticed, the bride and groom long gone in their shiny getaway car, and most of the guests either lingering with plates of leftover cake or helping stack chairs and sweep up confetti. You were still standing near the edge of the dance floor, staring down at the bouquet in your hands like it held all the answers to some impossible puzzle, your fingers curling around the stems, trying not to crush them.
Clark came up behind you quietly, his footsteps soft against the polished floor, and before you could even turn he was there, close enough that you could feel the faint warmth radiating from him.
“You look like you’re solving the world’s problems with that thing,” he said gently, his voice low so no one else could hear, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
You didn’t look up at first, just muttered, “I’m trying to figure out how this ended up in my hands instead of floating off into the abyss where it belongs.”
He chuckled, soft and warm, and knelt slightly so he was level with you, tilting his head. “You’re meant to catch it,” he said, and for a moment the simple statement hung in the air, too quiet to be noticed by anyone else, but heavy enough that your chest tightened.
“I didn’t ask for it,” you whispered, and finally let your eyes meet his. There was that same calm, unshakable look in his gaze, the one that somehow made you feel safe even when your brain was still screaming at you that everything was wrong.
“You didn’t ask for a lot of things,” he said softly, fingers brushing against yours before he took the bouquet gently from your hands, holding it between the two of you. “But you got them anyway.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the intimacy of it, the closeness of him, the way his hand lingered just a fraction too long. “Clark
”
He smiled, that faint, fond curl of lips that made you forget to breathe properly. “Hey. It’s just a bunch of flowers,” he said lightly, but there was a weight under it, a meaning he didn’t have to say aloud.
You shook your head, a small laugh escaping, shaky but genuine. “Yeah, just a bunch of flowers. And yet somehow it feels like
 like more than that right now.”
He tilted his head, watching you carefully, patient and steady, like he could hold the world in place if he just focused hard enough. “It’s only what you let it be,” he said softly. “Or maybe
 it’s only as big as you let it feel.”
You blinked at him, breath catching, because that sounded so simple and yet it made your chest ache all over again. He gave a small, knowing smile, and then, before you could even process it, he took your hand and said, “Come with me.”
“Now?” you asked, voice a little breathless, half from surprise and half from the lingering adrenaline of the wedding.
“Yes, now,” he said, patient, but there was a spark in his eyes, the kind that made it impossible to refuse him.
You let him lead you out of the hall, weaving past stacks of chairs and the last of the confetti-covered tables, until you reached a small path that curved up toward the back of the property. You didn’t even notice how steep the climb was, just followed him because he was right there, and something in the quiet insistence of him made your legs move without protest.
Eventually he stopped, and you realised he had found a bench tucked just off the path, hidden slightly by a row of tall bushes. You hadn’t even noticed it from the reception side. He gestured toward it, and you sank onto it reluctantly, still holding his hand, still trying not to let the tension in your shoulders betray how much your heart was hammering.
The view hit you before you could even speak. The city stretched out below, lights flickering in colours that seemed impossible, reflected in the water of the river that cut through the middle. The night air was cool, but not cold, and the silence around you was so complete it pressed against your eardrums. Somewhere far below, a car horn sounded, faint, distant, reminding you that the world still existed beyond this quiet bubble.
Clark settled beside you, just close enough that your arms brushed. You didn’t move, didn’t need to. You both sat there for a long moment, simply watching the city, letting the weight of it all sink in. Finally, he broke the silence, voice quiet, careful, as though speaking too loud would shatter the calm.
“It’s beautiful,” he said.
You nodded, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him yet. “Yeah,” you whispered, letting your gaze drift to the city lights instead.
Another long pause, then he let out a soft chuckle, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re overthinking again,” he said.
“I’m not,” you muttered, though your lips twitched into a small, guilty smile.
He laughed again, soft and easy, and it was contagious. You felt the tension in your chest loosen just a little.
“You go first,” he said suddenly, nudging you gently with his shoulder, “say what’s on your mind.”
You took a deep breath, letting your fingers tighten around his. For a long moment you just stared down at your hands, gathering courage, before finally letting your voice spill out, soft, sincere, almost trembling.
“I
 I just
 I don’t even know where to start,” you said, blinking rapidly as you swallowed the lump in your throat. “I’m so grateful for you. For everything. For just
 being here, for all of it. Even when it’s ridiculous or hard or completely impossible, you somehow make it
 easier. And I don’t know how to explain it without sounding insane, but I’m
 I’m just really grateful.”
Clark’s hand squeezed yours, a quiet anchor. He didn’t interrupt, just let you talk, and that made it easier to keep going. “I-I don’t say it enough,” you continued, voice barely above a whisper now, “but I notice. All the little things. And I hate that I can’t tell you all the time without it being a mess, but
 thank you, Clark.”
He shook his head slightly, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear with a fingertip. “It’s nothing,” he said softly, almost dismissively, but the warmth in his eyes told you he meant it differently. “You don’t have to overthink it. You don’t have to do anything but be you.”
There was a pause, heavy in the quiet night. Then his voice cut in again, tentative, careful. “So
 what happens now?”
You blinked at him, startled by the sudden shift. “What do you mean?” you asked, voice tight, unsure.
He looked at you, really looked at you, and there was that faint tilt of his head that always made your chest clench. “I mean, uh, after tonight? After all of this? What happens to us?”
You swallowed hard, heart hammering in your ears. The city stretched out below, all lights and colour, but somehow it felt smaller, impossibly intimate, like it was just you two up here, suspended. “I
 I don’t know,” you whispered, your hands tightening around his, “I guess
 we just keep going. We just
 exist, together or apart or somewhere in between. I don’t know how it works.”
Clark’s thumb brushed along the back of your hand, slow and steady. “That doesn’t feel like an answer,” he said, quiet, almost hurt in the gentlest way. “I mean
 I know tonight isn’t real. I know it’s all a game, a show. But for me
 I don’t want to just stop at tonight.”
He leaned a little closer, still holding your hand, and a suggestion slipped out before you could even stop him. “We could
 just keep doing this. Just us. See where it goes.”
Your eyes widened slightly, caught off guard, and your fingers twitched in his. “Wait. What do you mean?” you asked, genuinely confused.
Clark’s expression shifted for a fraction of a second, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and then he shook his head, as if deciding better of it. “Oh, never mind,” he said lightly, brushing it off too quickly, though you caught the hesitation in his eyes.
You frowned at him, still holding onto his hand. “Never mind?” you echoed, tone sharper than intended, curiosity and frustration mingling. “You can’t just say that and leave it there.”
“I didn’t mean to,” he said softly, and there was a hint of amusement in his voice, but also uncertainty. “It sounded silly, maybe. I just
 I don’t know how to explain it right now.”
“Well, try!” you snapped gently, exasperated, but not angry, just flustered, because you didn’t like the way his words had made your heart flip over. “I’m confused enough already, you don’t have to disappear halfway through the explanation.”
Clark blinked at you, that calm, unreadable look still plastered on his face, and for a moment you thought he might actually get flustered, which made your chest tighten even more. “I didn’t disappear,” he said finally, voice soft, careful, but there was a teasing edge there that made you grit your teeth. “I just tried to not make it more awkward than it already is.”
You huffed, glaring at him, though there was no real heat in it, just that mix of exasperation and something tighter, something that always crawled up your spine when he looked at you like that. “Awkward? Clark, you’re the one who throws ideas at me like we’re already a real thing when we’re standing on a hilltop pretending at a wedding. I’m the one who’s supposed to know how to react.”
He tilted his head, lips twitching, eyes scanning yours like he was trying to measure exactly how much of your frustration was real and how much was performative. “And what do you want me to do? Wait until you figure it out?” His voice was calm, but you could hear the faint edge of something impatient under it.
“I don’t know! Yes! I don’t know anything!” you shot back, hands tightening slightly in his. “You just say things like ‘oh, we could try’ and then vanish before I can even figure out if you mean it or if you’re just messing with me.”
He let out a quiet laugh, the kind that made your ears warm and your chest ache in all the wrong ways, and shook his head. “I’m not messing with you,” he said, almost insistently. “I mean it, I just
 didn’t know how to put it into words without sounding like a fool.”
“Well, congratulations,” you muttered, rolling your eyes and trying not to let your voice shake, “you sound like a fool anyway.”
Clark’s smile softened, those familiar, gentle eyes locking on yours in a way that made your heart do the thing where it lurches and forgets rhythm. “Yeah, probably,” he admitted quietly, and then leaned just slightly closer, fingers brushing yours again, “but at least it’s honest.”
You blinked, letting out a shaky breath, and muttered, “I can’t believe we’re standing here, pretending I have a boyfriend, pretending I’m engaged. All this
 this whole fake thing I made up, it’s ridiculous. I should just tell them the truth, wipe the slate clean and admit it’s all a lie.”
Clark’s fingers brushed lightly against yours again, calm and grounding. “It’s not a lie if it makes things easier for you,” he said softly. “And maybe
 maybe it’s not just for them. Maybe it’s for us, in a way, even if it’s messy.”
You let out a laugh that was too choked to be pure, and then it turned into a few tears breaking through. You sniffled, trying to push them back, but the laughter and crying mixed and you could feel your shoulders shaking. Clark immediately froze. “Oh no I’m sorry,” he whispered, his hands cupping your face gently, thumbs brushing away the tears. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.”
You hiccupped a little laugh through the tears. “You’re ruining my make-up,” you said, half-teasing, half-smiling. Clark’s lips twitched into a grin. “Good,” he said softly. “Tears over make-up seem
 fair.” You laughed again, a little louder this time, the tension of the day loosening in your chest.
For a long moment, you both just stopped, his hands still cradling your face, and you looked up at him, finding yourself smiling even through the remnants of tears. He smiled down at you, quiet and gentle, and for a second it was just the two of you.
“How come we never talk like this at work?” you asked softly, tilting your head. “I mean, really talk. Like we’re
 I don’t know, human.”
Clark chuckled quietly. “I guess we never made the time,” he said, voice low. “Or maybe we were too focused on all the chaos and deadlines and pretending everything was normal.”
You shook your head, smirking through the lingering tears. “We should have hung out sooner. Like, seriously, months ago, maybe even last year.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, still holding your hands. “We should have. Maybe we’d have avoided some
 complications.”
You laughed softly, nudging him lightly with your shoulder. “Complications? Oh, you mean like fake weddings and ruined make-up?”
Clark laughed, warm and quiet. “Exactly like that. But maybe it’s better this way. Because now
 now we actually get to talk. And not just about work, not just about deadlines.”
You smiled, letting the warmth of the night settle around you, watching the city lights glitter below, thinking that maybe, just maybe, some things had a way of working out even if they took their sweet time. “Yeah,” you said, soft. “We should have met earlier.”
“Next time,” Clark said, leaning his forehead lightly against yours, “we won’t wait.”
Clark’s forehead stayed lightly against yours for a few seconds, warm and steady, and you could feel the faint rise and fall of his breath. When he pulled back just enough to look at you, the city lights framed his face like it was its own little stage, his eyes soft, almost glimmering, like he was about to admit something daring but didn’t need words. “You know,” he said, quiet, hesitant, like he was testing the waters, “I like your eyes.”
You blinked, caught off guard, trying to process if he was serious or just teasing. “What? You want to write a poem about it?”
He shrugged, a little awkward, muttering under his breath, “Maybe I did
”
You frowned, squinting at him. “Wait, what?”
“Nothing,” he said quickly, but the corner of his mouth twitched in that infuriating way that told you he was definitely hiding a grin. “Stop teasing me.”
You shook your head, a mix of disbelief and amusement twisting your lips into a crooked smile. “I’m not teasing you. Just saying, I don’t know what you’re on about.”
Clark’s hands stayed on your face, warm and steady, thumb brushing lightly across your cheek. He nodded, soft and patient, his smile unwavering, and it made your chest tighten in a way that was dangerous and familiar all at once. 
You let out a little laugh, the sound soft, like you were trying to ground yourself. “Tonight has been
 insane. Fake everything. Fake engagement, fake family impressions, fake dancing
”
Your words barely left your mouth before a voice cut sharply from behind, heavy with disbelief. 
“Fake?”
You and Clark immediately turned, your heads snapping toward the sound, and your stomach flipped like someone had punched it. Your eyes locked on the figure standing just a few metres away, and your breath hitched.
Jake. 
Your ex.
‱───────‱°‱❀‱°‱───────‱
“Well, well, well,” Jake said, smirking as he took a step forward, hands shoved casually into his pockets. “Look at this. Didn’t think I’d actually see you playing house. And with him, of all people.” 
His eyes flicked to Clark, lingering far too long, sharp and mocking, and then back to you. “Thought you were smarter than this.”
You froze, gripping Clark’s hands a little tighter, trying to ignore the heat rising in your chest, the way your stomach twisted. He leaned against the doorway, that grin still plastered on like he’d rehearsed this, like he lived for this kind of discomfort.
“You always did have a flair for the dramatic,” Jake continued, voice low but cutting, “making everyone think your life was perfect when really
well, we all know how that ends, don’t we?” He laughed, short and cruel, and it made your teeth clench.
“Fuck off, Jake,” you spat, voice sharp and low, but trembling anyway because, of course, he always knew exactly how to get under your skin. Your hands tightened around Clark’s without even thinking, knuckles going white, but he didn’t say a word, just stayed there, letting you handle this.
Jake’s grin widened, sharp and smug, like he was feeding on your reaction. “Oh, don’t be like that,” he said, voice mocking, slow, dragging the words out. “You always get so serious. It’s hilarious. Look at you, all fire and fury, still pretending you’ve got it together.” He leaned slightly closer, too close, smirk still in place, eyes glinting like he was daring you to do more than yell.
“You’ve really done well for yourself, haven’t you?” he continued, like he hadn’t just crossed every line. “New boyfriend, fancy clothes, smiling like nothing ever went wrong. It must be exhausting keeping up the act, no?”
Your jaw tightened and your teeth ground together. “You’re a complete asshole, you know that?” you snapped, voice rising now despite yourself, heat crawling up your neck. “Honestly, how do you live with yourself?”
Jake chuckled, low and cruel, eyes flicking to Clark like he was testing boundaries. “Living? Nah, I manage just fine. But you, sweetheart, you’re still as predictable as ever. All fire and fury, exactly how I remember.”
You took a step toward him, chest heaving, ready to launch into a tirade, but Clark’s hand on yours was firm, grounding, stopping you from lunging. His silence was infuriating in its own way, but somehow it made you feel a little safer, like a line was being held even as Jake tried to push everything over it.
Jake’s smirk didn’t waver. “Oh, don’t glare at me like that,” he said, leaning back slightly but still far too smug for anyone’s comfort. “It suits you, makes this little performance of yours even more entertaining.”
Clark finally stepped forward, one hand half-raised, calm but firm. “Jake, I think you should just leave us alone,” he said, voice polite, but carrying a weight that made you hope it would stick.
Jake tilted his head, the smirk never leaving his face, like he was genuinely amused. “Leave?” he echoed, voice slow, teasing. “Why would I leave when I basically own this place? I mean, come on, this is entertaining.”
You couldn’t help yourself. “You’re an absolute nightmare,” you snapped, voice sharp and low, trying not to let anyone else hear the edge. “Just go, now.”
He laughed, short and cruel, before his eyes flicked between you and Clark. “Yeah, I will, eventually,” he said, smiling at you first like you were part of the joke, and then at Clark, sharp and calculating. “But first, let’s set the record straight. I’m the boyfriend, right? Six years.”
You cut him off immediately, voice rising, disbelief cracking through it. “Ex, Jake. I said ex.”
He shrugged, still grinning, like it didn’t matter at all. “Ex, sure, whatever you want to call it. Doesn’t change the fact that I knew, you know, everything you’ve been doing. All these little acts, all this performance. Must be hilarious to see you squirm while everyone believes it. Imagine if your family found out. Imagine the embarrassment, and the sheer horror of it all.”
Clark’s hand tightened on yours slightly, and he spoke, calm but firm, voice low. “It’s not fake. None of this, me, us, it isn’t–”
Jake cut him off with a sharp laugh, leaning just slightly closer, eyes glinting. “No need to deny anything. I can see it all perfectly well. The handholding, the looks, the smile you try to hide. Don’t bother. It’s all screaming ‘performance’. Don’t tell me otherwise.”
Jake’s smirk didn’t falter, almost like he was savoring the moment. “And imagine what would happen if your family actually found out,” he said, voice low, deliberate. “The truth. That everything you’ve been showing them, all those smiles, the ‘perfect’ life, it’s all been made up. Just think about the fallout. The shock. The shame.”
You couldn’t stop it anymore. “You don’t get to do that!” you shouted, voice raw, catching on the edge of tears, and before you could even think, they were sliding down your cheeks, burning and warm.
“You have no idea what you’ve done! How much you’ve messed with everything; my life, this night, everything, and you just stand there smiling like it’s funny!”
Jake’s grin didn’t falter, that infuriating, smug smile, like he was tasting victory.
“You think this is a joke?” you yelled, finger shaking, pointing straight at him, trying to puncture the smugness, trying to make him feel a fraction of what you were feeling. “You think it’s funny to ruin everything for me, for everyone, just to make yourself feel clever?”
He leaned forward, closer, eyes glinting, like he wanted to push whatever line you had left.
Clark didn’t even hesitate. His hands were on your shoulders before you knew it,  pressing you slightly behind him like a shield, his height and presence immediately asserting itself over the small, smug figure in front of him. 
His eyes didn’t leave Jake’s for a second, and when he spoke, his voice was low, calm, but it carried a weight that made it impossible to ignore. “Enough,” he said, and it wasn’t a request. 
“You have no right to come in here and try to tear her apart, not tonight, not ever. She doesn’t need your approval, your judgement, or your interference. You step away, or I will make sure you regret it.”
Jake’s grin faltered, just slightly, the sharp amusement in his eyes dimming under Clark’s quiet intensity. Clark’s fingers tightened slightly on your shoulders, just enough that you felt grounded and safe, and he didn’t let go.
“Do you understand me?” he asked, voice steady but hard, and the cold edge was unmistakable now.
You pressed closer to him, chest still racing, as Jake opened his mouth, but Clark didn’t give him the chance. “Go on,” Clark said, more softly now, not breaking eye contact, “get out. Leave, because she’s not yours, she’s never been yours, and you’re not going to ruin her night or her life.”
Jake let out a sharp huff, the sound more like a sneer than actual exasperation, and his eyes flicked to Clark with a mocking tilt. “Oh, I see,” he said, low and venomous, “this is your little hero routine, isn’t it? Protecting her like some knight in shining armour.”
Your stomach twisted as his gaze shifted back to you, and then he leaned in slightly, voice dropping so only you could hear. “Enjoy tonight,” he said, “because next time, everyone’s going to know. Every little thing, all of it. They’re going to see exactly what you’ve been hiding.”
Your eyes went wide, your pulse spiking, and you could feel your hands clench involuntarily. Clark’s fingers stayed firm on your shoulders, grounding you, and you could feel the tension radiating off him as he held his stare on Jake, unblinking.
Jake straightened back up, smirk curling again, and with one last glance that promised chaos in the future, he turned and walked away, leaving a cold emptiness in his wake, the echo of his threat lingering between you and Clark.
‱───────‱°‱❀‱°‱───────‱
After everything, after Jake had stormed off and the echoes of his voice were still crawling in your head, you ended up in the hotel room they’d set aside for the wedding chaos, your dress wrinkled and soaked with your own tears, your chest heaving like it might split open.
Clark didn’t even hesitate, he just came close and wrapped his arms around you and you collapsed into him, face pressed to his chest, shoulders shaking, and he didn’t pull away, didn’t flinch at the wet, didn’t even say a word, he just let you cry, let the sobs spill out like they had been piling up for years and years and finally had somewhere safe to go.
You thought about Jake while you cried, about every year he’d spent making your life a calculation, a trap, how he had smoothed himself into every corner of your world like he belonged there and somehow you’d let him, and the way he had whispered that smug little warning tonight, the way he’d claimed he knew, how he had smiled when you got angry and scared, like it was a game he’d already won.
And it wasn’t just tonight, it was everything he’d taken from you, every little piece of confidence, every friend he’d pushed away, every time you second-guessed yourself because of him, and it all hit at once and you let yourself fall apart into Clark’s chest because he was real, and right, and steady, and you could breathe, barely, but you could.
He rubbed your back slowly and patiently, thumb brushing your shoulder like he knew where the knots were without asking, and you whispered, almost strangled, “He ruined everything
”
“Not tonight,” Clark said, low and soft, voice shaking slightly like he was holding it together for both of you, and it was like a lifeline, because suddenly your brain could stop spinning, your chest could stop splintering, because right here, right now, you were safe, and he was keeping it that way.
You let the tears keep coming anyway, because there was still so much to get out, so much poison to wash off, and Clark just stayed there, holding you, steadying you, letting you fall apart and somehow making it okay, somehow making it feel like maybe, for the first time in forever, you could actually breathe without looking over your shoulder.
You then hiccuped into his chest, shaking like you were made of glass, and for a second it felt like the panic might swallow you whole, the tightness in your lungs clawing its way up and you couldn’t even think straight, couldn’t even make the words come out right. 
Clark’s arms didn’t tighten more as he just held you, and somehow that made it just a little less sharp, the edges of your panic softening enough that you could breathe.
“Why are you so afraid to tell them the truth?” he asked gently, fingers brushing through your hair like it was the simplest, most natural thing in the world to care about you, like he didn’t even know how much it should be shocking, like it was just
obvious.
You pulled back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes, and it was all panic, all shame and adrenaline, all the weight of your life pressing down on you at once. “Because
 because I feel like I’m
 I’m always the last one,” you started, voice trembling, “the last one to graduate, the last one to do anything right, like I’m just
 I don’t know
 a footnote in everyone else’s story. Like I have to prove that I even matter at all, and if I just—if I just live my life, they’ll forget I’m here.” 
You choked on the last words, eyes stinging, chest tight, and you didn’t even try to make it sound neat, didn’t even try to hide the spiral of shame and fear and exhaustion.
Clark’s hands stayed over yours, warm and steady, and he didn’t try to talk over you, didn’t try to smooth it out or say some perfect line that would erase it. Instead, his voice was low and patient, careful, like he was leaning into the edges of your panic without trying to sweep them away. 
“I get it,” he said softly, eyes locked on yours. “I get how it feels to be last, to feel like you have to scream to be noticed, to prove you exist in the spaces everyone else fills. And I don’t
 I don’t want to tell you it’s not true, because I know it feels real, but I need you to hear this. You’re not invisible. You’re not a footnote. You matter, even when it feels like the world is forgetting.”
Clark’s thumb brushed along your cheek, carefully, and then he pulled a clean handkerchief from his suit pocket and dabbed gently at the streaks of tears. “See,” he said after a moment, voice soft but teasing, “now you’re just a little bit glamorous. Weddings bring out the inner celebrity, apparently. You’ve got the dramatic tears down perfectly.”
You blinked at him, caught between wanting to scowl and laughing, and then the corners of your mouth cracked as a snort escaped. “You’re ridiculous,” you said, the tension in your chest loosening just a fraction, your laugh shaky but genuine.
Clark’s grin widened, soft and warm, eyes twinkling as he tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. “I know,” he said lightly, nudging your shoulder gently with his. “I’ve been practicing. Someone’s got to keep you laughing when the world decides to suck, right?”
You shook your head, still smiling despite yourself, and for the first time in what felt like hours, the panic seemed to retreat just a little, leaving you with that weird mixture of relief and warmth that only he could manage.
You wiped at the last remnants of tears, sniffling, and Clark just let you do it, thumb brushing lightly across your cheek now and then, tracing gentle circles like he was memorising you.
“You know,” he said, voice quiet but teasing, “it’s weird, isn’t it? That we’ve been at the same office for three years, and I basically only know you from emails, meetings, and the weather report.”
You blinked at him, smirking through the lingering dampness on your cheeks. “Yeah, hilarious. Three years of water-cooler nods and barely a sentence beyond deadlines and project updates, and now we’re
 here. This.” You gestured vaguely at the room, at yourselves, the messy, loud, complicated aftermath of the wedding.
Clark chuckled, eyes softening as he leaned in just slightly, holding your face gently between his hands, fingers against your jawline. “I know. And to think our first real conversation, not as colleagues obviously, started with me awkwardly holding your hand in a fake engagement at your sister’s wedding. Three years in the making, and somehow
 that’s how I got to know you.”
You laughed, small and incredulous, shaking your head. “It’s absurd. Absolutely absurd.”
He smirked, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Yeah, and also kind of perfect, in a weird way. We basically spent three years in parallel universes at work, and then one day, we get a whole lifetime crammed into a single afternoon.”
The smirk lingered on his face, but his eyes softened, and you could feel the shift, subtle but undeniable, like the air between you had changed temperature. He held your gaze, patient, watching, and it wasn’t teasing anymore.
“You know,” he began, almost hesitant, “I’ve noticed things about you. Little things, the way you frown when you’re concentrating, the way you laugh when you’re trying not to, the way your eyes
they sort of do this thing when you’re trying not to feel something, and I’ve been noticing for years without saying anything, just
keeping it to myself.”
You blinked, heart thudding, because he was looking at you like he’d seen right through all of it, all the masks and the facades, and somehow it felt terrifying and safe at the same time.
“I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to make it weird, or mess things up, or
 I don’t know. But after today, I think it’s ridiculous to wait. You’re, uh, er, you’re impossible to ignore. And I mean that in the best way, ha.”
Your breath caught, chest tightening, and you opened your mouth to say something, anything, but the words refused to come. The room seemed to shrink around you, all background noise and chaos fading until it was just the two of you, and you could feel the weight of everything unspoken pressing against your ribs.
He shifted slightly closer, hands still holding your face, thumb brushing lightly against your cheek, and you caught yourself leaning in, just slightly, drawn in by the intensity in his gaze. “I don’t expect anything,” he added quickly, as if reading your mind. “I just
 wanted you to know what I’ve been thinking, what I’ve been feeling, because it’s been there a long time, and I can’t not say it anymore.”
You swallowed hard, pulse racing, and for a moment all you could do was stare at him, trying to process, trying to find words that didn’t exist, feeling like the entire universe had contracted to this one, impossible, heart-stopping truth.
You blinked again, trying to make sense of it, your chest tightening so much it felt like you couldn’t breathe, and then he laughed softly.
“I know,” he said, smirking lightly now, “this is probably a lot. And you’re probably thinking, wow, three years of barely talking about anything besides deadlines and the weather, and now he’s telling me he’s been watching me the whole time. Ridiculous, right?”
You let out a strangled laugh, more from shock than anything else, and your hands instinctively found his, gripping tightly like an anchor. “Ridiculous doesn’t even cover it,” you muttered, voice trembling, but a little laugh escaped anyway, shaky but real.
He tilted his head, that familiar mix of amusement and gentleness in his expression. “Yeah, but also
 true. I mean it. You’re remarkable, even when you don’t realise it. And not in some generic, office-comment kind of way. I mean you, exactly as you are, with everything you try to hide or shove down or pretend isn’t there. That’s the part I can’t ignore.”
Your stomach twisted, heat creeping up your neck, and for a moment all the panic and the guilt from earlier faded just a little, replaced by this dizzying, nerve-shredding awareness that he’d been noticing, paying attention, and now he wasn’t looking away.
You swallowed, voice barely audible. “Clark
”
He shook his head gently, thumb brushing against your cheek. “Don’t say anything yet. Just
 let me finish,” he murmured. “I wanted you to know because you deserve to hear it. And because I
 I’ve been stupid keeping it to myself.”
You blinked, heart hammering so fast it was almost painful, trying to find words but your throat had gone completely dry. “Clark
” you breathed, voice trembling, barely a whisper.
He gave a tiny, almost shy smile, still holding your face gently. “I know,” he said softly. “I just needed you to hear it. No expectations, no pressure, just
 me being honest.”
You swallowed hard, your pulse spiking, and somehow the words tumbled out anyway. “It’s
 it’s a lot,” you admitted, voice catching. “After today, after everything
 I don’t know what to do with it.”
“Then don’t do anything,” he murmured, leaning just a fraction closer. “Just
 let it sit. Let it feel like it should feel. Nothing else matters right now.”
Your chest tightened as your eyes met, and then his gaze drifted lower for a heartbeat, to your lips, before flicking back up to your eyes. You could feel it too, the pull, the tension stretching between you so thin it hurt, that dangerous, delicious kind of tightness.
You licked your lips without thinking, suddenly aware of how close he was, aware of the heat of him, the warmth in his hands, the way he smelled like everything safe and wrong at the same time. “Clark
” you whispered again, breath shaky.
He didn’t answer, just leaned a little closer, and your lips almost touched, that teasing, electric moment where everything else dropped away, and then, finally, you couldn’t hold back. You closed the gap, pressing into him, hands clutching at his jacket as his lips met yours, soft and tentative at first, testing, tasting, and then urgent, all the frustration, the panic, the years of unspoken thoughts spilling into that desperate, messy, perfect kiss.
You wrapped your arms around him instinctively, heart racing, chest pressed against his, and he deepened the kiss, hands sliding from your face down to your waist, holding you close, grounding you, and still the world outside ceased to exist, nothing but the heat, the movement, and the impossible feeling of finally, finally being noticed completely.
Your hands traced the lines of his back, memorising the feel of him through his suit, fingers threading through the fabric, tugging him just slightly closer, trying to absorb him like he could somehow fill all the empty spaces you’d been carrying. He moved with you, matching your grip, one hand cupping your face while the other stayed firm on your waist, and the friction of his palms against your body sent sparks of heat crawling along your skin.
Every small shift of him was enough to make your knees weak, every brush of his thumb across your cheek or along your jaw leaving you dizzy, your chest tight and fluttering all at once. Your lips moved against his, following the rhythm he set, slow and questioning at first, then more insistent, more certain, like he was finally allowing himself to take what he’d been feeling silently for so long.
Even the way he held you; the tilt of his head, the small press of his body into yours made you feel like you were the only person in the world that mattered.
Your fingers wandered slightly to the lapel of his jacket, gripping the fabric, while his hands traced small, careful patterns over your sides, over your lower back, keeping you tethered even as everything else in the room fell away, leaving only the heat of him, the soft press of lips, and the impossible, intoxicating certainty that for once, you were being seen fully, completely, undeniably.
The kiss pulled back just slightly, just enough for you to breathe, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, hearts hammering in sync, and your hands lingered on his chest, palms splayed, memorising the feel of him, while his thumb brushed gently over your knuckle as if to say, silently, I’ve got you. 
You pressed against him, hands tangling in his hair, gripping like you might never let go, heart hammering so loud you were sure he could hear it, and he moaned softly into your mouth, sliding his hands lower, fingers tracing the curve of your back, down to the edge of your dress, making your breath hitch in a way that felt like it had been waiting for this forever.
Your lips moved desperately against his, each kiss sharp and needy, and the warmth of him pressed into you made your knees weak, made the air around you feel thick, almost impossible to breathe, and yet you didn’t want to pull away.
His hands didn’t stop, roaming carefully but with intent, teasing the sides of you through fabric, tracing shapes that made your chest ache and your stomach twist.
Every brush of his fingers made your body tighten, made you shiver against him, and when you dared to move your hands down his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin through his shirt, it was like discovering a part of yourself you’d been holding back without even knowing it.
“Gosh,” he murmured against your lips, voice low, rough, and it made your pulse spike, “you’re insane.”
“Maybe,” you gasped, your words barely coherent, “but I need you, Clark.”
He groaned, a sound that went straight through your bones, and shifted slightly so your body pressed fully against his, his lips ghosting down your jaw, your neck, every touch leaving a spark that you couldn’t contain. Your hands roamed with reckless abandon, clutching him, marking him like he was yours in that moment.
And then his voice, low and rough, broke through the haze. “Tell me if you want me to stop.” It wasn’t a demand, it wasn’t a test, it was just Clark, steady even with his mouth still brushing your skin, his breath hot and his body trembling against yours, but waiting.
You shook your head too fast, desperate, your words spilling out almost in a rush. “Don’t stop, please, Clark, I don’t want you to stop.”
That was all he needed. His hands slid lower, palms spanning the back of your thighs, and with a firm, careful grip he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, the fabric of your dress riding higher as he pressed you gently against the wall.
You gasped, fingers tugging at his hair, and he kissed you hard, swallowing every sound you made, one hand cupping your jaw to steady you while the other held you secure like you weighed nothing.
The heat of him pressed between your legs through layers of fabric, enough to make you whine into his mouth, and he groaned in response, moving his hips just slightly, a tease, a warning, and it sent fire shooting straight through you.
“You feel unreal,” he muttered, his forehead dropping to yours, his voice breaking, like he was losing control but still clinging to it for you.
Your nails scraped down his shoulders, tugging at his shirt, and you managed a broken laugh, shaky and overwhelmed. “You’re overdressed,” you whispered, and he chuckled, soft and breathless, but he didn’t waste time, tugging at his jacket, his tie, letting them fall somewhere you didn’t care about because his mouth was on you again, kissing you like he needed you to breathe.
And then his hand slid between your thighs, gentle first, just a palm pressed over you through the fabric, a test, a question. He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide, and whispered, “Can I?”
“Yes,” you gasped, already trembling, already arching toward him. “Yes, Clark, please.”
He groaned again, softer this time, as though he was breaking apart, and pushed the hem of your dress higher, fingers brushing your bare skin, trailing up slowly, deliberately, until his hand found you, and the sound you made was muffled only because his mouth was on yours again.
The world narrowed to that as his hands, his lips, the way he murmured your name like it was holy, like it was everything, grounding you even as your body burned and your mind screamed that this was too much, too fast and real, and yet you wanted more, more, more.
His hands were everywhere now, sliding up and down your sides, brushing over skin that burned under his touch, and you pressed into him harder, your lips parting as you gasped against his mouth. He pulled back just slightly, just enough to look down at you, and his voice was low, rough with need. “I-I don’t have protection.”
You froze for a second, chest heaving, and then a laugh tumbled out of you, breathless and shaky. “I don’t care,” you whispered, eyes dark and wild. “I’ll take the risk.”
Clark’s lips twitched, almost a grin, but his eyes stayed soft, searching yours, and he murmured, “Then I’ll take it too.” His hands tightened on your waist, and the way he looked at you made the world outside the hotel room disappear completely.
You leaned up, pressing your forehead to his, panting, and kissed him again, slower this time, tasting him, memorizing him, letting the heat between you stretch and thrum like a live wire. His hands moved carefully, but firm, keeping you grounded, holding you like you might float away otherwise.
You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging him down to your mouth, and he groaned into the kiss, tilting his head so he could press his body fully against yours. Every movement, every brush of his skin over yours, was deliberate, making you shiver and whine softly into him, needing, needing him like it was urgent and necessary.
He pressed his forehead against yours again, voice ragged, whispering, “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” you breathed, chest heaving, lips swollen, eyes wild with lust and something that felt dangerously like trust. “Clark, I’m sure. Fuck, don’t stop.”
He groaned softly, letting his hands travel lower, over your thighs, over every curve, gripping you tight, and you responded, wrapping your legs around him instinctively. His lips found your neck, teeth grazing, sucking just enough to make your knees weaken, and you gripped his shoulders, fingers digging in as if holding him tighter would make it better, make it last longer, make it real.
“You’re insane,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick, shaking with the same fire you felt, and you laughed breathlessly, hitting his chest, “I know, and I don’t care.”
He smiled against you, teeth brushing your jaw, eyes dark and focused. “Good, because neither do I.”
‱───────‱°‱❀‱°‱───────‱
After everything, after the fire of it, after the chaos of skin and breath and whispered names, you finally settled. You laid your head against his bare chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, each pulse a reminder that he was real, that he was here, and that somehow, after all the ridiculousness of the day, you were finally allowed this moment. 
His arm circled you, pulling you closer until you could feel every curve of his body, every line, every warmth, and it was blissful in a way that made you think maybe the world outside could wait for a while.
You lifted your gaze to look at him, hair splayed over his shoulder, cheeks flushed, and he smiled down at you, soft, gentle, eyes crinkling the way they always did when he found something worth seeing. “You’re ridiculously cute like this,” he murmured, voice low and husky, and you laughed softly, just a whisper against his skin.
“You know,” you said, fingers tracing idly along the ridges of his chest, still feeling the heat from him and from the memory of everything you’d just done, “I think I could get used to this. Just lying here, doing nothing except
this.”
He chuckled, soft and warm, and pressed his lips to the top of your head. “I could too,” he admitted, thumb brushing over your hair, “I could get used to hearing your heartbeat against me, your soft little laughs, the way you look at me like you’re trying to memorize me.”
Your chest tightened, breath catching, and you murmured, “I’ve never felt
 I don’t know
 like I belong somewhere. But with you, it feels
like maybe I do.”
He tilted his head, eyes scanning your face, catching every tiny expression, every flicker of emotion, and whispered, “You belong with me. Always.”
You could feel the weight of it, the sincerity, the quiet kind of gravity in his words, and you let yourself relax further, pressing closer. “You’re insane,” you said softly, laughter still trembling in your voice, “and maybe a little ridiculous, but I like it. I like you, Clark Kent.”
He grinned, brushing his nose against yours, playful now but tender, “And I like you too, endlessly, like this is how it should have always been, if only the universe had let us.”
Silence fell then, but it wasn’t awkward, it wasn’t tense. It was soft and warm, filled with the sound of your breaths mingling, the occasional chuckle, and the quiet thrum of Clark’s heartbeat beneath your ear. 
You traced lazy circles on his chest, and he murmured little things back, confessions about silly things he loved about you, the way your hair curled when it fell into your eyes, how your laugh got stuck halfway through your throat sometimes, how your hands always seemed to find his even when you didn’t mean them to.
And for the first time in a long time, maybe ever, you let yourself breathe fully, just be there, tangled in him, the night quiet around you except for the soft rustle of sheets and the warmth that had nothing to do with the room and everything to do with him.
“You know,” Clark said finally, voice soft, teasing, “if we’d actually talked like this at work for the past three years, we’d be way ahead of everyone else. We’d be unstoppable.”
You laughed, resting your cheek against him, “Yeah, it’s kind of hilarious, isn’t it? Three years of deadlines and weather small talk, and one day later, we’re here, all finally caught up at once.”
He kissed your temple lightly, hands still around you, and whispered, “Better late than never. Besides, I like how it all happened. The timing is, I don’t know, perfect?”
“Yeah,” you smiled into him, letting your fingers weave into his hair, and whispered, “Perfect in a completely ridiculous way.”
Clark laughed softly, and you both stayed there, tangled, warm, quiet, letting the aftershocks of the night settle around you, knowing that outside, the world could wait, but here, together, was exactly where you belonged.
Everything else could wait. The truth, the explanations, the staring at faces that might not understand, all of it could wait. None of it mattered right now, not with his arms around you, not with your head pressed against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall like it was holding you together when everything else felt like it might fall apart. 
What couldn’t wait was this, the warmth and the softness and the way he looked at you like you were everything, the way you laughed even though your chest felt too full and your heart too fast. 
Pretending until forever had been a joke, a lie, a trap you built to survive, and now it didn’t have to be anything but real. You let yourself lean in, let yourself breathe it all in, let yourself be messy and chaotic and entirely visible, and he held you like he’d been waiting for this exact moment too. 
Everything else could wait, but this feeling, this reckless, quiet, insane kind of perfect, it couldn’t, and it wouldn’t, and you didn’t want it to.
It had been pretend until forever and somehow it was the only truth you needed.
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loonalockley · 3 days ago
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Gentle reminder: someone’s selfship being more developed, with a character you also selfship with, doesn’t make you undeserving of being in a selfship with them
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loonalockley · 3 days ago
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about to pop
hop little bunny, part three
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a/n: idk what to tell you... these two are just too adorable, i can't
summary: “but any man can become a father, but that doesn’t make them a dad, it just makes them a little poke in the creation of a new human being
” you uttered, “do you wanna do this?” you tilted your head gently, “do you wanna be his dad?”
warnings: firefighter!bucky barnes x pregnant!teacher!reader, smut, firefighter!avengers, teacher!yelena belova, teacher!peter parker, roommates to lovers, pregnancy, being knocked up from a one night stand, bucky isn’t the biological dad, former fuckboy!bucky, y/n teaches the first grade, nickname (bunny), third trimester of pregnancy, labour, birth, domestic fluff, breed kink, kissing, size kink, manhandling, dirty talk, oral, overstimulation, handjob, public sex, interrupted sex
word count: 3350
∌ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∜
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WEEK 28
“Oh my god, look at this one!” you squealed as you held up yet another thing from the bag of baby clothes that Bucky’s colleague had gifted you, this time, it was a tiny woollen sweater.
As you had been gushing over each and every item as if they were a bunch of puppies, Bucky simply murmured, “yeah, that one is cute too,” his eyes barely lifting a second from your sore feet in his lap as he rubbed them for you.
“I should really swing by the station tomorrow, thank Tony in person,” you uttered, glancing a moment at the firefighter on the other end of the couch, as the gift had simply been something that’d been sent home with him, “oh, wait, it’s Wednesday tomorrow
” it suddenly hit you, tearing you out of the blissful bubble of handed down baby clothes, “fuck, I forgot
”
“What?”
“Freaking baby brain
” you muttered to yourself a moment longer.
“What is it?” Bucky continued to push, “wait, it’s not a doctor’s appointment I forgot about, is it?”
“No, no, it’s just–, urgh
” you let out a groan, “I have that PTA meeting tomorrow
”
“Oh,” his tensing shoulders promptly dropped back down.
“No, don’t sound relieved, I completely forgot that I was gearing up to go to a battlefield,” you huffed, “and–, oh my god
 Will’s dad is gonna be there
” you remembered, though as you saw Bucky’s expression hastily harden, you swiftly seized his hand as you offered him further context, “it’s okay, he’s okay, he’s just gross. It’s fine, I’ve been a teacher for a hot minute, I’ve learned how to handle the creepy dads
 it’s fine, it’s nothing, I have the patience of a saint, I can handle it
” you half tried to give yourself a pep talk, “thank fuck I'm going on maternity leave in a bit
”
Raising the back of your palm up to his lips, your roommate then reminded you, “just a few more weeks.”
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WEEK 30
“Oh, congratulations!” you pulled Steve’s towering frame into a hug.
“Thanks, Y/n,” he smiled into the crown of your head as he momentarily patted your back.
“Wow
” you withdrew slightly to gaze up at him, “
Captain Rogers of station twenty-three
 has a nice ring to it.”
“Yeah, it’ll take some getting used to,” he chuckled faintly.
“I’m so proud of you, buddy,” you held onto him a moment longer, letting your touch rub down his arm, “you really deserve this, truly.”
“Thank you,” he pulled you into a brief embrace again, “now all we need is to find someone to fill up the lieutenant spot that conveniently just opened up,” he uttered as you parted ways, “any chance you could join our forces and help convince Buck to take it?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” you winked before you then asked, “by the way, do you know where he is?”
“Yeah, I think he’s still up in the gym.”
In fact, he turned out to be the only one in there.
You were gonna announce your presence, but instead, you just froze in the doorway, unable to speak as you drooled at the sight before you. Sweat glistening upon his rippling muscles, veins bulged beneath his skin as he did some bench presses, sinful sounds flowing from his lips each time he pushed the bar up.
But then, when he finally finished his rep, he spotted you standing in the threshold and promptly snapped you out of your horny hypnotised state, “oh, hi, babe! When did you get here?”
“Huh?” you blinked, mouth still agape.
“I asked how long you’ve been here,” he slowly sat back up on the bench, “did you just come over because you remembered it was my day to cook?”
“Is it your day to cock–, I mean, cook! Cook some big, fat, beefy meat–, I–, fuck
” you panted your way through your stumbled words, “
I hate you
 I swear, if I wasn’t already pregnant
” you murmured with a sigh as the firefighter only smirked as he got up and took a sip from his water bottle, “you’re killing me, you know that, right?”
“Oh yeah?” he cocked his head teasingly, “what am I doing?”
“Stop,” you swiftly shut your eyes to try and contain yourself and your raging hormones, “you’re at work
” you whispered before he then crossed the room and leaned in to kiss you, “mmhm
” you whined against his lips, “Bucky, please
 this is so not fair
”
But instead of listening to your desperate plea, he instead grabbed your hand and tugged you along with him. It was a blur of shuffling feet and stolen pecks, but at the end, he backed you into the room that housed all of the firefighters’ turnout gear.
“What are you doing?” you giggled as he swiftly lifted you up to sit on the sturdy table right beside where a bunch of rolled hoses were lined up.
“Giving your cute, pregnant feet a break,” he chuckled as he began to kiss down the side of your neck, “what–, would you rather keep standing?”
“But–, someone could walk in!”
Slowing down, he took a second to ponder, “
hmm
you’re right,” before he then sprinted back to the door, twisted the lock, and then return, “now, where were we?” he slotted himself in between your thighs, gathering up the skirt of your dress slightly in the process as he made room for himself, “oh, right, I think it was somewhere around here,” he then picked back up his peppered pecks, though this time began his dance at your mouth.
Curling your fingers in his sweaty shirt, you stretched out the cotton as the pair of you make out.
“I gotta be honest,” he murmured in between kisses as he felt you up, “I’ve kind of always wanted to fuck in here,” he admitted, “or well, it didn’t have to be in this room specifically, but, you know.”
“Of course you have,” you chuckled, playfully slutshaming him with your tone.
“So,” he nudged his nose against your own, “thank you for making my dream come true
”
And as a smile began to grow on your lip, you asked, “
so, what happens next in your dream?” before he only smirked back at you, tongue flickering out to wet his bottom lip. Holding your eye, he then sank down to his knees before you, causing you to giggle as you began to pick up on his intentions, “oh my god, really?”
“You’re damn right,” he uttered huskily as his touch found your knees, “now spread those legs, mama,” except, he didn’t really wait for you to shift before he cracked you open himself.
Though you couldn’t really see him as he pushed up your dress and began to smother your inner thigh with kisses on a steady incline, you didn’t mind too much as your eyes swiftly fluttered shut. When he reached your drenched panties, he first planted a smouldering peck over the soaked patch that decorated them, offering your covered clit a playful lick, before he then tugged the cotton out of the way.
Trapping your underwear with a hooked finger off to the side, “fucking hell,” he groaned as his stare made your pussy clench around nothing, “yes, baby
” he then let himself dive straight in.
Tracing your slit with his flat tongue, he soon lapped you up as if your cunt was a melting ice cream cone, his nose nudging insistently against your sensitive pearl as he savoured your nectar.
Barely drawing back, Bucky then spat on your already glistening petals before he tilted back in with a growl, his voice vibrating against your puffy clit as he sucked down on it.
One of his hands soon stretched up towards your boobs, sliding up your frame till he cupped the swell of your tit. As he pinched your pebbly nipple through your clothing, his efforts flicked further south before he began to fuck you with his tongue.
When the thumb of the hand which was keeping your panties prisoner stretched out to strum your buzzing clit, your own palm soared over to grab your other boob, mimicking the hold he had on you as your thighs began to quiver around the firefighter’s skull.
Tumbling over the edge, your palm flew up to cover your mouth and muffle the cry that crawled out of your lungs. And though your frame trembled upon the table, Bucky still persisted as he let his tongue ride you through your high.
When you were but a quiver, the firefighter finally stopped bullying your poor pussy and began to kiss his way back up your body. His mouth danced over the curve of your belly, over your heaving chest, around your collarbone and up your neck and jaw, gradually bringing you back to life, till his lips finally found your own again.
And as you tasted yourself on his tongue, you first reached down to palm him through his workout shorts, before your hand desperately buried itself under the waistband to feel his hardness directly against your skin.
He groaned against your lips as you began to stroke his fat girth, his hips blissfully rocking into your efforts, before the unthinkable then happened, causing you both to freeze up like statues, your fingers still wrapped around his throbbing cock.
“Fucking shit,” Bucky cursed at the deafening alarm that suddenly bleared out throughout the station.
“Is that–”
“Yeah
” he answered you with a groan. Resting his forehead against your own a moment, he mourned the loss before he found the strength to tear himself away from you.
“So, you gotta–”
“Mhm,” he lingered in your warmth a second longer before then letting out a heavy sigh and conjuring the strength to pull your hand out of his shorts. Sucking in a deep breath to centre himself and cool back down, he then exhaled slowly, “alright
” before helping you down off of the table, your legs still too akin to jello.
But just before his feet kicked into a run, you caught the fabric of his shirt and pulled him in close to steal one last kiss, lingering just a second longer before you uttered, “good luck,” and let him go.
“Thanks,” he flashed you a bittersweet smile before bolting off.
“Be safe!” you yelled after him as the door slammed behind him.
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WEEK 33
“I know I’m not the father, I know that
”
Blinking back at him as he held his gaze averted, you then uttered slowly, “
 Bucky
do you wanna be his father?”
Meeting your eye, he then let out a long exhale before murmuring, “are you serious?”
“Do you?” you asked again as he hadn’t offered you an answer.
Twisting his neck to glance off to the side, he stated, “
to be honest
I kinda already feel like I am
” he shared, “and I know that I’m not,” his eyes briefly squeezed shut at his words, “biologically I have nothing to do with him, but–”
“But any man can become a father, but that doesn’t make them a dad, it just makes them a little poke in the creation of a new human being
” you uttered, “do you wanna do this?” you tilted your head gently, “do you wanna be his dad?”
“Do you want me to be his dad?” he shot right back.
“Bucky
” you breathed as you gazed back at him, “
you’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to do that with,” you professed, “if I had the power to somehow go back and make you the one who knocked me up, then I would do it in a heartbeat.”
“Well
” brows floating up, he blinked smugly at how flattering your honied words were, “there’s always next time.”
“One is plenty,” you chuckled as you swiftly blocked his attempt at swooping in.
“Hm
” he playfully squinted, “you sure?”
Letting yourself truly ponder it for a good minute, you soon murmured, “
ask me again in a few years
”
Smirking as if he was already fantasising about what it would be like to plant his seed so deep inside of you that you wouldn’t just get knocked up with one kid, but multiple, he then purred, “I’ll start counting down the seconds
”
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WEEK 37
It was bittersweet when you eventually went on maternity leave.
Though you couldn’t help but shed a few tears at the reality that you wouldn’t stay with your class for the rest of the school year, you were still exhausted as well as incredibly excited about the time you now got to spend prepping for your darling baby boy to arrive.
To which you really did.
If nesting was an Olympic sport, then you’d win a gold medal.
Back many years ago, when you had moved into an apartment with a guy that you had a horribly huge crush on, the impulsive choice you’d made to paint your then bedroom pastel blue turned out to not be the mistake you often questioned it to be whenever you stayed up too late, unable to fall asleep, staring at the soft shade till your eyes crossed. With the wooden crib in there and the tall window that flooded the small room with light, the calming tone on the walls made for the perfect backdrop for a nursery. 
The folks at the fire station even pitched in where they could, and even found an area that you yourself had completely blanked on, dropping off prepared meals, enough to stock up your freezer for the first month of your child’s life, letting you soak in the bliss of bonding with your new baby instead of stressing away in the kitchen, only to end up burning down the apartment because of how sleep deprived you’d surely be.
And though you tried to finally land on a name now that your pregnancy drew to an end, that task turned out to be the most difficult of them all, especially since your favourite decided to change every single day, effectively giving your poor roommate whiplash.
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WEEK 39
“Hey, mama,” Carol smiled as you waddled into the fire station, “you look like you’re about to pop.”
“Any day now
” your palm traced the edge of the front desk to aid your balance.
“You looking for Bucky?”
“Nope,” you shook your head and kept your answer brief as your feet kept on steadily shifting, “shower.”
“What?” Thor cocked a brow as he strolled by, interjecting your b-line towards the bathroom.
“The water is out at the apartment and I can’t–, look!” you snapped as you grew impatient, focusing too hard on your breathing to explain yourself, “I’ve been having Braxton hicks the entire afternoon, and the other times that I’ve gotten them, hopping in the shower really helped, so I know that it’s not really protocol to have civilians do this, but can I please just borrow your shower?”
“Yep, alright,” Thor swiftly squeaked, his eyes growing wide as no one in their right mind would dare to piss off a pregnant lady, “you need help finding some towels or something?”
“No, I know where they are,” you called over your shoulder as you kept on waddling.
Though when you hopped in the shower, the false labour pains didn’t go away like usual. In fact, they kind of got worse, no matter how long you stayed in there.
By the time that you were sitting on the cool floor against the back wall, breathing deeply with the showerhead clutched in one hand and lazily spraying your chest, a soft knock sounded at the door.
“Hm?” you kept your eyes shut.
“Bunny? It’s me,” Bucky gently called through the door, “heard you were in here,” a sense of caution seeped through his tone, “is it okay if I come in?”
“Mhm,” you still only hummed, focusing instead on breathing through the pain.
You didn’t blink your eyes back open till the door had creaked open and his footsteps had stopped. Squinting back at him as he now crouched before you on the other side of the shower, “hi, baby,” he uttered gently when your hazy eyes found his.
“Hmm
”
“How are you doing, huh?” his concerned glance scanned your form.
“Okay,” you murmured as your eyes fought to stay open, “it’s just those damn Braxton hicks
 man, they’re really horrible today
”
“How long have you had them?”
“I don’t know
” you tried to retrace your steps, “started at some point before lunch
 actually, do you have any snacks around? I’m starving
”
“We–, uh,” his eyes swiftly grew with worry at that new detail, “w-we have, yeah, but, baby–,” you felt his touch gently ghost over the top of your foot, pleading you to meet his gaze as he then uttered, “listen, would you mind if I went and grabbed Wanda?” he tried his best to keep his tone as calm as he could manage, “just to make sure that everything is alright.”
“Sure,” you breathed, too exhausted to think too much about the fact that you were currently stark naked.
“Alright, I’ll be right back, don’t go anywhere!”
“Mhm,” you simply hummed after him as he zoomed out of the room.
In the short span of time that he was gone, perhaps it was because his presence had distracted and shifted you out of your zone, snapping you out of your trance, fighting stubbornly through the discomfort, but you suddenly began to notice a different kind of pain, not just the cramps that you had endured all day, but something else, something deeper, a pressure down low that kicked things up a notch.
“Alright, we’re coming in again,” Bucky announced before he and one of the station’s paramedics entered the bathroom.
“Hey, Y/n,” Wanda flashed you a soft smile as she kneeled down before you, not caring about the water she got splashed with as she sat down a large first aid bag nearby, “you mind if I do a little exam on you?”
“Go right ahead,” you exhaled and tilted your head back against the cold tile as one of them shut off the water.
During her exam, when she glanced down at her watch to time your Braxton hicks, she promptly paused before uttering, “huh
 uh, Y/n?” she squinted up at you, “do you think perhaps your water broke today?” she asked gently, “because you might not have noticed, it’s not always as dramatic as they make it out to be in the movies like it’s some waterfall.”
“Uh
” you furrowed your brows as you thought, “I don’t know
 I’ve been here in the shower for, I don’t even know how long.”
“Alright,” she swiftly shot Bucky a look before she said, “well, then I know what’s going on. You’re definitely in labour.”
“What?” you blinked back at her, “no. That can’t be.”
“Wait, really? Now? It’s happening now?” Bucky nearly began to run around like a headless chicken.
“Yep, so we better get you up and into our nice little ambulance right downstairs,” Wanda stated before she and Bucky grabbed each of your arms.
Though as they began to try and help you up, you swiftly yelled, “wait! No! Stop!” your eyes as wide as saucers, “I-I can’t move!” everything suddenly became all too real as something deep within you, some primal instinct, screamed out.
“No, it’s alright, we’ve got you,” Bucky uttered reassuringly as he tightened his grip around your arm.
“No, I mean it,” you stated firmly before you locked eyes with him, “I’m not fucking moving.”
“Oh
” he exhaled slowly, “but, honey
 you made me promise to take you to the hospital, that’s where you wanna do this, right?” he sank down to kneel right beside you, “so let’s go, it’s time.”
“I know, I know, but I-I can’t move, I–, no, no, no,” you panted as you cast a glance down at your stomach, “I can feel it, I can feel it,” you gutturally uttered as you clutched a hand to your belly, “it’s happening, he’s coming now.”
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© 2025 thyme-in-a-bubble 
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loonalockley · 3 days ago
Text
be my baby
hop little bunny, part two
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a/n: folks, the short wait is officially over. these goofballs are finally smashing into each other like two barbie dolls in this one.
summary: had he somehow gotten hotter? Because as you’d tipped into your second trimester, you’d found yourself drooling over the walking porn that was your roommate, as if you hadn’t spent years building up your tolerance to his handsomeness.
warnings: firefighter!bucky barnes x pregnant!teacher!reader, smut, firefighter!avengers, teacher!yelena belova, teacher!peter parker, roommates to lovers, pregnancy, being knocked up from a one night stand, bucky isn’t the biological dad, former fuckboy!bucky, y/n teaches the first grade, mutual pining, she fell first he fell harder, nickname (bunny), second trimester of pregnancy, domestic fluff, cuddling, love confession, kissing, dry humping, size kink (i'm a hoe, i couldn't help but give him a big fat monster cock), manhandling, dirty talk, fingering, multiple orgasms, squirting, overstimulation, unprotected sex, penetrative sex, creampie
word count: 6429
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WEEK 14
“Oh, hey, Y/n!” Steve perked up as he was the very first one to spot you walking into the firehouse.
“Hi, Steve,” you smiled back at him, readjusting the shopping bags in your hands.
Off to the side, Bucky glanced up from the book in his grasp as he overheard the unexpected sound of your voice, “Y/n?” he swiftly did a double take, “Bun! What are you doing here–,” he then spotted the bags in your hands and sprung up from his seat, “why are you–, give me those!” he then stole them from you.
“Hey, it’s fine, they’re not that heavy,” you tried to argue, but the firefighter wasn’t having it.
“What are you doing here?” he asked as your eyes flickered down to notice the open parenting book he was trying to hide behind the shopping bags.
“Well, I was in the area, just wanted to borrow the restroom,” you smile, opting to pretend that you didn’t spot his book of the month, “are you okay?”
“Me? Yeah, I’m fine, why wouldn’t I be?” he spat out a bit too defensively to be convincing, “are you alright?”
“Yes, I’m perfectly fine, I just need to pee, yet again,” you once more pointed out the reason for your presence.
Only half listening in, Thor then took one look at the domestic picture before him and exclaimed, “oh, no way. Congratulations!” glancing between the baby book in his coworker’s hand and the telling items overflowing in the shopping bags, “Buck? Why haven’t you shared that you two finally got together?”
“What?” your head promptly whipped around, “no, no, we–, we’re just friends, there’s no–, nothing going on,” you then gestured to your belly and underlined, “he didn’t have anything to do with this.”
“Oh
 uh
” Thor’s face swiftly contorted before he awkwardly glanced around at anywhere but the pair of you, “
so, you said you needed the bathroom, right? It’s that way,” he pointed a finger.
Once you’d returned from the lavatory and found everyone else gathered in the fire station’s open kitchen, Tony then saddled up next to you. 
“So, you wanna stay for dinner?” the lieutenant asked you.
“Oh,” you blinked over at him, “sure, why not?” you then cast a glance to the few settled behind the kitchen island, bustling to prep the family meal, “can I give a hand with anything?”
“Nope, you just sit right on down, relax,” Tony patted your back before he pulled out a chair for you at the other side of the counter, “lucky you, it’s Sam’s night to cook.”
“Oh, what are you making?”
“A little lentil soup,” Sam briefly raised his gaze as he continued to stir the pot.
And as your eyes then drifted from the stove, they couldn’t help but fixate on Bucky as he stood off to the side, chopping away at Sam’s command, the prominent veins on the back of his hand popping and protruding each time he sank down the heavy knife.
Had he somehow gotten hotter? Because as you’d tipped into your second trimester, you’d found yourself drooling over the walking porn that was your roommate, as if you hadn’t spent years building up your tolerance to his handsomeness.
And just as you feared you might soak through your panties and slip and slide off of your seat, Natasha then settled in beside you, leaning against the counter as she courteously handed you a glass of water, “so, what have you been up to today?”
“Oh, you know,” you drew in a controlled breath and tried to cool back down, “just did a bit of shopping.”
“Oh, for what? Tiny, adorable baby clothes?” she then glanced over her shoulder at Clint behind her, “it’s so cute,” she gushed, her husky voice rising an entire octave, “the little shoes? Uh
”
“No, actually, it was some more clothes for myself,” you shared, “I don’t know, I just feel like my boobs in particular have just grown like several sizes overnight,” you then began to giggle, “like, I feel like a fucking pornstar, trying to squeeze them into my regular bras. I mean, I even tried to steal one of Bucky’s shirts the other day and I still felt kinda ridiculous,” you uttered, because it was so strange to have your body change so rapidly and to no longer have his t-shirts hang on you in the same manner that they used to before whenever you’d take them.
Hearing his name through the haze of your words, Bucky perked up, “huh?” as he wrestled himself and tried not to stare at the very subject of your babbling.
“Well, haven’t you noticed?” you chuckled as you gestured to your breasts.
“That your–, no
 that’s crazy, I haven’t been staring at your tits, so why would I have noticed
” he squirmed before then desperately trying to change the subject, “so! That thing you asked about–­, the thing with your students–”
“The field trip?” you found the word his momentarily scrambled mind couldn’t track down.
“Yeah, yeah, that,” he finally settled his ragged breathing, “I’ve talked to Fury about it, and he’s given the green light.”
“Really? Oh, that’s amazing! Thank you so much,” you cheered before glancing around at the rest of the gang, “all of you, truly.”
“Of course,” Bruce smiled from his seat, already at the dining table, newspaper in his grasp. Leaning over, the firefighter then murmured to Wanda at his side, “hey, did you hear? He’s finally doing it.”
“Who’s doing what?” you couldn’t help but ask, wanting in on the hot gossip.
“Captain Fury, he’s stepping down,” Tony shared, “leaving Station twenty-three and retiring for good.”
“Really?” you gasped quietly at the news, “so, you’re gonna get a new captain?”
Bumping her elbow against the man beside her, Carol then uttered, “you gotta do it, Rogers. If you don’t throw your hat in the ring, then it’s gonna be some idiotic outsider they’ll hire to run our house.”
“I don’t know
” Steve let out a heavy sigh and averted his gaze, “I mean, it is a ton of responsibility
”
“Well, you’re already a lieutenant,” Scott pointed out as he sneaked a little spoon down in the soup pot to steal a taste, “and isn’t this what you’ve always had as a goal?”
“Well, I just thought I’d be older, you know?” Steve shared, “I don’t know if I’m ready
”
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WEEK 15
“Oh, jesus, fuck!” Bucky quite literally jumped and stopped in his tracks when he spotted you in the dark kitchen, hunched in front of the fridge like a little gremlin.
“Sorry! I should have turned on a light or something,” you popped one last strawberry into your mouth before closing the refrigerator.
“What are you doing up?”
“Couldn’t get comfortable, and then I got kinda hungry, so yeah,” you sighed as you glanced down at the small bump that had finally popped out, though wonderful as it was, the new shape had also caused you to toss and turned all night long, “urgh, I hate to admit it, but I think it might be time to buy one of those pregnancy pillows, you know, those huge ones that you kinda cuddle, almost like there’s just another person lying next to you.”
Gazing back at your visage on the other end of the open kitchen, you soon heard your roommate utter, “
I have an idea,” as a faint smile tugged at his lips, “go back to bed, I’ll be right there, just gotta go take a leak.”
“Hm,” you squinted at the lack of information, “okay
” before he split off and disappeared into the bathroom.
Returning to your bedroom as per Bucky’s command, you then curled back under the duvet, your nightgown riding up a bit in the process, though you didn’t lie down just yet, instead folded your legs beneath the warm covers.
“Alright,” Bucky breathed when he appeared once more, “scoot over.”
“What?”
“Well, the stores aren’t open, it’s the middle of the night, so in the absence of a real one, I’ll be your pregnancy pillow,” he simply shrugged.
“You’re kidding,” you giggled as he then crawled into bed with you.
“Oh, absolutely not,” he smiled, “you need your sleep, and not just when you finally go buy some pillow, but right now.”
Carefully curling into him, it took a tense moment of your heart fluttering, but eventually you settled into a position that was actually comfortable.
“How’s that?” Bucky opened his mouth again when you stopped wiggling.
Inhaling deeply, you then exhaled, “perfect
” his warmth stirring a bittersweet sensation within you that rendered you incapable of meeting his eye, “thank you
”
“Of course,” he draped his other arm over your ribs to deepen the embrace, “I’ve got you, mama,” a huge grin then blossomed on his lips before he uttered, “you know, even if you were to stumble into the kind of situation where you went into labour and couldn’t get to the hospital in time because of whatever,” he then proudly flexed, “I have actually done it before.”
“Really?” you cocked a brow, “you’ve delivered a baby?”
“Yeah, on the job last year.”
“Well, that’s kinda comforting,” you pursed your lips, “although, as much as I trust you with my life and the life of my baby, please for the love of god, get me to a hospital. I wanna give birth in a place with epidurals and where they’re prepared for if something goes wrong,” you said, “I don’t wanna give birth in some barn.”
“Bunny, where in New York do you think you’d stumble into a barn? Much more realistic it’d be in the back of a taxi or something
”
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WEEK 16
Not only was Bucky infuriatingly sweet with the kids when he and Steve gave your class a tour of the fire station, but did he also have to look that distracting when he did so?
Adorably showing the first graders around and explaining various elements to them, meanwhile you were but a shadow in the back, steadily growing so flustered that one of the kids tugged on your sleeve to ask if you were okay, to which you nearly knocked over a tall shelf stocked with supplies as you stumbled your way through your answer, denying it all and hoping that your roommate hadn’t noticed.
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WEEK 17
“What about Sara for if it’s a girl?” Bucky glanced up from one of the many name books you’d picked up at the library. He was situated on the floor and leaning back against where you layed on the couch, propped up against a bunch of pillows.
“Oh, no,” you grimaced as you lowered the paperback you were skimming as well, “I had a bully as a kid with that name, so it’s definitely not going on the list.”
“Oh, yeah, that wouldn’t be good,” he chuckled briefly before reuniting his gaze with the S pages of the book, “hmm
” he then twisted a tad till his nose nearly bumped against your belly, “what do you wanna be called, huh? Is it
 Simon?” he glanced between the pages and the gentle hill of your stomach, “
Sofie?” he waited patiently for some kind of answer, “
maybe Susan?”
“Buck, you do know they haven’t started kicking yet, right?”
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he turned back around, “it was just worth a try
”
Smiling softly down at the back of his head, your days had grown into something so domestic, something so blurred, that at times it almost felt as if you were a real couple, or at least that was what your brain occasionally tried to fool you into thinking. Though when you then forced yourself to check back in with reality, reminding yourself how he was simply your friend who cared enough about you to abandon so many factors of his usual routine, changing his own life just because you were on the road to become a parent, the melancholy that smacked you in the face nearly brought tears to your eyes.
“
hey, you know, if you want the apartment to yourself for a night, you just say the word,” you soon heard yourself utter, “I’m sure Yelena would let me crash at hers.”
“What?” he glanced back at you over his shoulder, “why would I wanna kick you out?”
“Well, because I’ve kind of been ruining your game lately,” you refused to meet his puzzled gaze.
“You’ve, what?” he blinked, reeling back a tad.
“Well, I mean, I’ve just noticed how you haven’t brought any girls home in a while, which I totally get, a pregnant roommate isn’t exactly the sexiest thing for random women to stumble over as soon as they walk in through the door,” you rambled, “but my point is just that if you wanna get laid, if you wanna hook up with someone in the comfort of your own home, then you just say the word.”
Squinting up at you, it took him a second before he muttered, “
thank you?”
“No problem,” you let out a short exhale before forcing your gaze to reunite with the open book in your hands.
“But, I–
” he slowly sat down his own small paperback upon the coffee table, “
you getting knocked up didn’t ruin my game,” he uttered, “or well, in a way it did, but not like that, it–, uhm
” he kept his gaze averted as he hesitantly told you, “
it made me finally stop hooking up with people, simply to try and get over–
”
“Who?” you asked as you tried to recall the names of any of his exes.
But instead, he just continued to stare down at his feet as he confessed, “
you,” his frame barely moving as he kept his back turned to you, “I know the timing of this is horrible–, fuck, I should just shut up, forget I said anything–,” he cursed as he swiftly rose from the floor.
Sitting up straight, “no, wait!” you called out before he could scurry off, “I–
y–
you were trying to get over me?”
Stopping up, he still didn’t meet your eye as he gnawed on his bottom lip, “
mhm...”
Mouth agape, you gasped, “y-you were into me?”
“Were?” his eyes finally found your own, “bunny, I–
 you don’t know? Fuck, I thought you did, and you were just being–, well, you about it,” he gesticulated. Staring at you for a second, he then drew in a breath before simply telling you, “
Y/n, I–
I love you,” keeping it so short and sweet that it nearly gave you whiplash.
“What?”
“I’m in love with you,” he slowly rephrased.
“Since when?” you continued to gawk back at him, utterly stunned.
“A little over a year, I don’t know, maybe longer
 I think it might have happened slowly over time after you moved in, and then one day it just sort of clicked. But I knew that I couldn’t say anything, so I went from sleeping around with folks just for fun, to banging people simply to try and get over you, which, shocker, did not work,” he confessed, though when he noticed the ecstatic tears that then began to roll down your cheeks, he swiftly misunderstood them and uttered, “oh no, bunny, please don’t cry
”
“You love me?” you simply panted, your bottom lip trembling.
“Well, I–
 oh fuck
” he bowed his head, “I knew I’d fuck this up one day
 I’m sorry,” he once again began to walk away, “I’ll just–”
“Bucky!” you yelled, finally snapping through his haze and making him halt, “I–
 I fell in love with you the night that we met,” you at long last admitted through a blubbering smile, “one moment I was just minding my own business, deeply regretting the ridiculous Halloween costume I’d chosen that year, and the next, I mean, it was like I’d been struck by fucking lightning
”
“Oh, bunny
” a soft smile finally began to bloom upon his lips, “that costume was anything but ridiculous
” he uttered as he slowly began to close the distance between you two.
“Well, I know you didn’t think so, you still haven’t been able to let me down for it,” you rolled your eyes lightly, “joking about where my Hugh Hefner was
” you watched as he sank down on the couch beside you, grin still glowing upon his features, “keeping up that stupid nickname? I mean, even for several birthdays you gave me a bun–, mmph!” your roommate then suddenly shut you up as he crashed his lips against your own.
Though stunned at first, the kiss that you had yearned after for an eternity was nothing short of magical. From the way that his palm coasted up to cradle your cheek, to how he quite literally stole your breath, to lastly the manner in which his soft lips eventually eased into light pecks, leaving you dazed when you finally parted ways.
By the time that your eyes finally fluttered back open, you’d almost forgotten your own name, “holy fuck
” you dizzily blinked back at him, completely starry-eyed, making him smile even wider before he dipped back in to steal one last swift peck, “please tell me that this is actually happening and not just some cruel dream
”
“Hmm
” the gentle rumble of his voice promptly warmed you from within, like a mug of hot chocolate on a cold and snowy day, “does this feel real to you?” he then slowly kissed one of your cheeks, “or this?” he softly pressed his mouth to the other, taking his sweet time.
“I–
 I don’t know
” a playful grin grew at your lips, “I think you might have to try again,” you hazily uttered and caught his eye before he then smirked back at you and began to kiss down the column of your neck. His smouldering lips right underneath your jaw felt so good that your eyes fluttered at the sensation and a breathy whimper crawled its way out of your lungs.
You barely noticed when you soon began to cling to him for dear life, trying to get even closer as his wandering lips conjured soft moans from you. And as the flames inside of you roared and made it impossible for you to sit still, you found yourself desperately crawling your way into your roommate’s lap before your hands tilted up his face for you to ravenously claim his lips once more.
A low groan crackled deep in his throat and melted against your tongue as you soon began to grind down against him, the rock-hard bulge in his pants nudging so perfectly against your hot core that you theorised that you’d maybe be able to cum just like that if he let you try. Eventually, after you’d managed to tear down just the top of his gentlemanly shield, his own hands gave out and began to wander, just like your own did, soon finding your tits in a gentle squeeze, making you only that much more needy as you rocked in his lap.
Although, when you began to nearly rip his clothes off, just as your hands were halfway up his shirt, he tilted his head back and panted, “wait, wait, w-we–, uh,” he blinked a second to try and clear his head, scrounged up enough strength to overcome what his cock was throbbing for him to do, “we don’t gotta do anything you don’t want. I know you don’t usually–”
“I don’t fuck anything with legs like you do?” you teased and rolled your hips just one more time down against him.
“Well, not anymore, but, yeah,” his eyes fluttered as he stifled a groan, “I just mean, I know you usually take things slow, and that’s totally fine with me,” he stated as you tilted in and began to plant kisses all along his neck, making it that much more difficult for him to remain his composure, “you just set the pace that you’re comfortable with.”
“Really?” you murmured against his throat, secretly hoping that your efforts had bloomed a hickey.
“Yeah, of course,” his palm slowly shifted in a reassuring pattern along your spine, “however long you need, whatever you wanna do or don’t wanna do, I’m cool with it,” he murmured as you sat up straight to look at him as he continued to speak, “if you need to wait weeks or months or–”
“Seconds?” you instead uttered, your big, eager eyes blinking back at him as you begged, “please, I feel like I’m gonna explode if you don’t touch me right now.”
Though instead of ripping your clothes off like you were crossing your fingers for, your roommate just started laughing, “damn, these hormones really are no joke,” his head tilting back against the back of the couch as he chuckled.
“Bucky,” you nearly whined as your hazy expression ceased to change.
“A-alright, yeah–, fuck–,” he finally snuffed out his chuckle, though still grinned back at his dream girl in his lap as you swiftly began kissing him once again. But then as your fingers nearly tore the cotton of his t-shirt as you ripped it off, he began to murmur insistently in between peppered pecks, “although, I should probably warn first, you know, just because it’s just good to know, good to be prepared, and some people get kinda intimidated or even get their hopes up when they find out and then frustrated when–, you know–”
“Oh no, I already know that you’re big,” you simply uttered, no room any longer for decorum as you panted, the kiss haven stolen your breath, “first of all, I see your boxes of magnum condoms in the bathroom,” you listed off as if you were recalling your grocery list, “and second of all, the walls in this building are pretty thin, so I can’t even tell you how many times I’ve heard random girls exclaim the same pornographic phrases about how fucking huge you are.”
“Oh, so you don’t think you’ll scream out something pornographic, huh?” he teased as he leaned in to playfully nuzzle his nose against your own.
“No,” you giggled, thinking that that was a ridiculous image, even though you were already rocking down against him like a desperate little whore.
“We’ll see about that
” he smirked before pushing off your already unbuttoned cardigan and letting it drop to the floor, “I’ll make you yell something too filthy for school, just you wait, Miss Y/l/n...”
And with that, his arms around you tightened and scooped you with him as he then stood up from the couch, carrying you with him into his bedroom like the burly fireman that he was.
Gently setting you down near the foot of his bed, your lips stayed locked with his own as you then ripped more of his clothes off. Yanking his jeans down his legs, his boxers, however, still remained when you then offered his brawny physique a small shove, pushing him down to sit on the edge of the mattress. And even though his quick hands got to take off the flowy dress you wore and send it flying across the room, it was your own fingers that soared up to tear off your bra and kick down your soaked panties before he even had the chance.
“Fucking hell
” a breath seeped from Bucky’s lungs as his eyes licked up your bare form, his hand drifting up to caress your hip as he stared, “how are you even more beautiful than I imagined
” his gaze then finally reunited with your own before the flames within him roared once more and he grunted, “come here,” before he then yanked you into his lap, slightly askew as he cradled you close and dipped down to kiss you once again.
And when you soon ran out of patience, his one palm exploring your curves for far too long according to the way your cunt leaked against his thigh, you then grabbed his hand, tearing it away from your tits, and fervently pushed it down between your thighs, a shaky moan tumbling from your lips the second that his fingertips brushed down against your throbbing clit.
“Goddamn, you’re wet
” he groaned against your lips as his touch swept through your glistening petals, “this all for me, huh?”
“All you
” you panted fuzzily, sharing his hot breath, “always for you
” you admitted, causing him to growl before he dove back in and kissed you ravenously once again, his gentle touch rapidly growing rougher at your desperation.
And when he soon filled up your dripping hole with a few of his thick fingers, pumping them within you as he prepped you for his girth, he didn’t manage to play with you for long before you creamed all over his digits, your own nails digging into the back of his neck as you clung on. Though as you buried your face in the bulk of his chest and regained your breath, Bucky’s fingers that he had ceased to withdraw slowly began to move once more, picking up a gentle rocking rhythm till the sensitivity had mostly faded and you were panting once again for him to give you more.
However, when he seemed all too comfortable, not moving in the slightest to do anything other than make you, and you alone, feel good, you seized the reins.
Pushing him back to lie down against the sheets, you haphazardly tugged down his boxers as you repositioned yourself, flinging one leg over to the other side so that you straddled his hips. Reaching down to grasp his fat girth, in your desperation, your hazy gaze stayed locked with his own and made the error of not peeking down at his size, because if you had, then you might have grown a tad too intimidated to do what you then did next.
Nudging his hardness against your glistening pussy, you essentially drooled on his length before your immense eagerness took over and led you to slip in the very tip.
“Wait!” Bucky’s eyes then suddenly went wide as the warm embrace of your cunt finally clenched around the bulbous head of his cock. His hands swiftly shot out and grasped your hips to prevent them from lowering any more, “I’m not wearing a condom!”
Panting at the stretch you finally got to feel, you merely broke out into a giggle as you blinked down at him, “what good would that do?” you then faintly hissed as your laughter caused your walls to clamber down around him too severely, “I mean, unless you have an STD or something.”
“Nope, clean as a whistle,” he told you as he raised himself to sit up more, his face getting closer to your own, “I get tested every month,” he shared, like the manwhore that you’d always known him to be, “you?”
“Yeah, no,” you chuckled once more, “the only thing I’ve got is a baby.”
“Right,” he laughed, “sorry, force of habit–, oh fuck
” his sentence then suddenly crumbled as you began to move again.
Slowly sinking yourself down upon his cock, your thighs trembled on either side of his hips at the way his fat girth split you open.
“Oh my god,” you gasped when you suddenly realised how big he truly was, as just the tip had been a small enough amount of him for you to hold onto your confidence, but when you eased your way further down, that was when you truly realised what you’d gotten yourself into, “i-is–, fuck
” your eyes rolled in your skull as you reached down to rub your clit to ease the dull burn, your shaky fingers stretched down far enough to brush against the remainder of his length that you still had left to conquer, “wait, it’s not–, you’re–”
“Well, I tried to warn you,” he uttered gently as he saw your cockiness melt away.
“Oh, shut up,” you whined as your fingertips traced the base of him.
“You wanna stop?”
“No!” you squeaked stubbornly, “I just­–”
“You want me to help?” his palms dug into the curve of your ass, denting the soft skin, “because, bun, you’re not even halfway yet.”
“I–, no,” you foggily blubbered, “I don’t know, just–, uh
” before you then rolled your hips lightly, maddeningly grinding yourself further down.
Steadying yourself on his broad shoulders, you retroactively pushed his torso back down flat against the bed.
And with your eyes squeezed shut, his hands caught both of yours in a supportive hold, fingers tangling as you gradually impaled yourself completely.
“Atta girl,” he panted when the entirety of his large length was finally fully buried within you.
“And here you thought I couldn’t do it,” you jested with a smile as you finally peeped one of your eyes open to peek down at him.
“Oh, never,” he uttered as he then lifted one of your palms up to his lips for a brief peck, “I’m just way too overprotective of the ones I love.”
Grinning even wider as you drew out the moment, staying completely still atop of him, “I can’t believe I finally get to hear you say that
”
“What? That I love you?” he planted another kiss to the back of your hand, “guess I’ll just have to keep repeating myself then. Say it over and over again till those words stop turning you into a blushing schoolgirl,” he then murmured slowly between pecks, “I
love
you
”
Blinking down at him in utter awe, still stunned at how this could even be real, you whispered, “I love you too
” nearly beginning to tear up again at the rush of emotions that crashed into you once more.
But as his eyes then drifted back up from your hand, seeming so small in comparison to his as he continued to cradle it, he then gazed up at you once more, “well, come on, baby,” he drew in a breath as your cunt fluttered around him, “are you gonna do what bunnies do or what?” he playfully uttered, “hop.”
Mirroring his grin, you then clenched your thighs and raised yourself back up, trembling slightly as every little detail of his cock dragged against your walls, before you dropped yourself back down, each of you moaning loudly as his length carved its way back inside you.
And as you bounced on his fat dick, your juices leaking out and dripping down his balls, the way in which you felt the very tip of him gently kiss against your cervix each time your hips met his own, it nudged against you as if you weren’t already knocked up.
When you soon came once again, squirting all over his cock, one of Bucky’s hands reached down between your bodies and rubbed your clit, making you gush even more as you trembled above him, eventually collapsing down to melt against his burly chest entirely.
And as your hips were now too exhausted to rock on their own, instead of bucking up into you, your roommate instead dug his grip into your ass before he rolled you both over.
Hovering above you, he propped up each of his strong arms beside your head, framing your face and caging you in as he swiftly began to fuck you once again.
His strokes were long, deep and agonisingly slow, making your pussy drool around him even more as his meticulous efforts essentially turned you into nothing but a puddle beneath him.
And though you doubted yourself as the end crept near, he somehow still managed to make you tumble over the edge one last time before he joined you in the ecstasy.
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WEEK 18
“Uh-uh-uh!” a cluster of kids giggled from the schoolyard as they spotted you and Bucky out on the sidewalk. He’d let himself steal a kiss before he went on his way to work as well, “Miss Y/l/n, is that your boyfriend?”
“Good morning,” you awkwardly coughed as you rushed to withdraw from the peck, having no clue whatsoever how to respond to those students, “uh, what was it again that we said about not being late for class? The bell is about to ring,” you uttered.
Thankfully, that did the trick as the kids then scurried off.
“You don’t wanna be late either,” Bucky murmured, faint amusement on his lips as his eyes lingered a moment longer on the children as they ran inside.
“Yeah
” you exhaled, though didn’t even shift an inch as you simply stayed rooted to the pavement before him, blissfully gazing back at him as you didn’t want to burst your heavenly bubble just yet.
“Well, I’ll see you again tomorrow morning, hopefully my shift ends before you head off to work again,” he briefly glanced down at his wristwatch as he spoke, “hey, maybe I could swing by that bakery you love on my way back, huh?”
“Sounds amazing,” you smiled softly, your hand still clutching his own a second longer.
“Alright,” he then grabbed a hold of your jaw and leaned in to kiss you one last time, “bye.”
“Bye, Buck. Thanks for walking me to work,” you momentarily nuzzled your nose against the tip of his own as his palm dropped from your chin to find the bump of your belly in a gentle caress.
Bending down a moment as his thumb swept against your waist, he then pressed a small peck to your stomach as well before he uttered, “be good.”
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WEEK 20
“Oh my god, really?”
“Yep,” your doctor smiled as she watched both you and Bucky share a look before each of your eyes reunited with the scan before you.
“It’s a boy?” your voice trembled a bit at the momentous news, before you then blissfully uttered, “I don’t know anything about boys,” a huge grin lighting up your face, before you then felt an ecstatic tear roll down your cheek, “oh
”
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WEEK 21
“Knock, knock.”
Raising your gaze from the mug of tea on the table before you, you twisted around to spot your roommate suddenly leaning against the doorway to the teachers’ lounge, “Buck? What are you doing here?” you promptly rose from your seat and abandoned your streaming drink.
“Forgot your lunch,” he held up a canvas bag with a little something inside, “didn’t think you or the baby should have to survive on whatever they serve in the cafeteria,” he smiled, “plus I remembered you talking about a certain craving this morning, and even though I don’t know if that’s still the case, I still went down there and picked up–”
Ripping the bag out of his hand, “oh my god,” you peeked inside, mouth already watering, “you got me a sandwich from that spot in Williamsburg?”
“Yeah, well, I had a call nearby, so I just–, hey,” he then stopped as he noticed how tears began to well up in your eyes, his sweet gesture making your hormonal self cry lightly, “bun, are you alright?”
“Mhm,” you nodded, your bottom lip swelling up into a pout, “I just love you so much,” you finally let out the sob that was welling up, “I–, it’s–, thank you for the sandwich,” you threw yourself into his arms.
“Of course,” he chuckled lightly as he wrapped his arms around you as well.
Though just then, as you hugged him tight and your tears steadily dried up, a sharp gasp suddenly rushed out of your lungs as you felt a flutter in your stomach, making you quickly pull back from the embrace.
“What?” Bucky searched your wide eyes, though you didn’t answer him as you instead just grasped his hand and dragged him with you, away from the doorway to the teachers’ lounge and into an empty classroom nearby, “bunny, what is going on?”
“Shh,” you hushed him as your hasty stride finally came to a stop and persistently pressed his flat palm down against your belly.
“What are you–”
“Just shut up and wait!” you exclaimed, staring down at your hands atop his own, before you then muttered just beneath your breath, “come on
 come on
”
As the baby then kicked again, Bucky’s face promptly lit up like a Christmas tree, “oh my god–, was that–”
“Yeah,” you nodded ecstatically.
“Oh my god!” he gasped, catching your eye a moment before he stared back down at your bump beneath his palm, utterly and completely mesmerised, “wow
”
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WEEK 25
“Don’t!” Bucky exclaimed as he swiftly grabbed the little box you were balancing, mere seconds after you had picked it up, and even though he already had his hands full, carrying other items, he somehow still managed to slot it under his burly arm.
“But it’s not even that heavy, come on,” you tried to reach for it, though he quickly stopped you before you could steal it back, “we’re literally just moving this stuff from my room to yours, I don’t see the big problem.”
“No!” he insisted, “I care if it’s even just a single sock, you do not lift a thing.”
Throwing a glance to Steve and Natasha in the corner, both of them kneeling on the floor as they disassembled your bedframe, Steve swiftly uttered, “oh, don’t look at us,” as they both knew that they didn’t have the power to talk Bucky down when it came to such matters.
Blinking back at your roommate, you murmured, “Bucky, I am just pregnant, I can still lift things,” though he still wouldn’t budge, prompting you to come up with a compromise, “okay, how about this, you guys carry the very lightweight things across the apartment, and then I can unpack and organise everything in there?”
“Hmm
” Bucky’s ocean eyes narrowed in your direction as he deliberated, “I don’t know
 can’t you just sit back and supervise from a comfortable seat?”
“Nope,” standing your ground, you then leaned in to press a swift peck to his lips, “but I tell you what, I can try and stay seated for as much of the unpacking as I can.”
Squinting back at you a moment longer, “
deal,” he then uttered and kissed you once more, before he then shifted past you and disappear into the other bedroom, the one that was now yours as well, while the smaller one that was gradually being cleared out would turn into someone else’s bedroom, a wonderful little boy that you could not wait to meet.
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© 2025 thyme-in-a-bubble 
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loonalockley · 3 days ago
Text
not part of the plan
hop little bunny, part one
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a/n: aaahhhhh i can't believe i finally get to share this story with you all!! hope you enjoy reading it as much as i did writing it ♡
summary: “I–
” you blinked hard, scared that you might faint at any moment if the fear looming turned out to be true, “
could you do me a favour?” you mustered just enough strength to request in a small voice, “
could you go buy me a pregnancy test?”
warnings: firefighter!bucky barnes x pregnant!teacher!reader, smut, firefighter!avengers, teacher!yelena belova, teacher!peter parker, fuckboy!billy russo, roommates to lovers, unplanned pregnancy, being knocked up from a one night stand, bucky isn’t the biological dad, former fuckboy!bucky, y/n teaches the first grade, mutual pining (but you think it's one-sided), nickname (bunny), first trimester of pregnancy, nausea/vomiting, crying, doctors' appointments, domestic fluff (except they aren't together yet), masturbation, sex toys
word count: 5588
∌ gentle reminder that feedback, but especially reblogs are the way you support writers on here ∜
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masterlist | join my taglist
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WEEK 0
“Well, well, well
 look who’s sneaking in, late at night like a freaking teenager
”
“Bucky!” you yelped as you spotted your roommate in the dark, “jesus fuck!” you nearly jumped out of your own skin before clutching a palm to your heaving chest, “what are you doing sitting here in the fucking dark?”
“Thought it would be funny,” his broad shoulders shrugged as he chuckled, “and you know, it was,” he tilted his head, “don’t you have school tomorrow, missy?”
“Oh, ha-ha, how hilarious,” you rolled your eyes, too weary to deal with his jokes, “I’m going to bed.”
Rising from his seat in the armchair in the living room section of the open floor plan of the apartment, “no, but seriously,” he shadowed you as you swiftly strayed into the bathroom, “where have you been?”
“Uh
 I–, you know–,” your eyes grew slightly as you scrambled your brain for a lie, “nowhere.”
“Nowhere?” he echoed with a cocked brow, “really?”
“Fine,” you gave up with an exhausted sigh, “Yelena and a few of the others from work dragged me out to a bar
” you shared, though still left out a few very key details.
“You went out drinking and didn’t invite me?” he then scoffed dramatically and clutched a hand to his burly chest, “I am hurt.”
Standing before the sink, you picked up your toothbrush and uttered, “it was a girls night–, or well, Peter was there as well, so it was–,” you then promptly snapped, “look!” and slammed both of your hands down against the sink’s edge, “we already live together, you don’t have to be a part of every other facet of my life!” you exclaimed defensively before regret instantly trickled down your spine as you caught sight in the mirror the genuine look of hurt that flashed over Bucky’s features, “
I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that
” the alcohol in your system made the entire apartment feel like it was swaying as your poor heart shattered a little bit more than it already had managed to that night, “
I’m just really tired. I shouldn’t even have gone out in the first place
”
Brows knitting together, he then finally picked up on how you didn’t simply seem exhausted, but there was something else plaguing your weary features, “
hey, are you okay?” his tone was soft as he continued to stare at you, “did something happen tonight?”
Other than the fact that you’d fucked some random bartender, someone that your friends had sworn was like a sexual sorbet, a palate cleanser to cure one of any crush. And though it wasn’t exactly horrible, it still hadn’t worked as the only way you’d managed to get through it was by closing your eyes and imagining that it was your roommate instead.
“No, nothing happened, I’m fine,” you uttered as you couldn’t hold back any longer, and tears began to stream down your cheeks.
Exhaling solemnly as he gazed at you, “come here
” he swiftly reached for your frame and closed the gap between you, enclosing you in an embrace that arguably only made things worse for you, as it truly confirmed how the desperate experiment hadn’t worked in the slightest.
You were still utterly and painfully head over heels for him.
“I’m fine,” you sobbed, “I swear, I’m just tired
 and way more drunk than I realised
 when did I become such a lightweight?”
“Well, you’ve never really been the big party animal to begin with, so that might have something to do with it,” his broad palm coasted down the length of your spine, causing goosebumps to erupt.   
As his intoxicating musk filled up your nostrils and made you even more dizzy than the alcohol, you eventually mustered up the courage to blurt out, “
I’m gonna go to bed,” you abruptly pushed yourself away from his warmth, though stumbled slightly in the process, prompting Bucky to catch your elbow to steady you, “do you remember where a bucket would potentially be hiding?”
“Yeah, I’ll go grab it,” he nodded faintly, though only let go of your arm when you had reached out to lean against the wall behind you, “I don’t think you’d be able to reach it on your own without having to balance on a stool.”
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WEEK 2
Propped up against the pillows on your bed, your head sloped back and bumped against one of the pastel blue walls in the small room, as you let out a stifled moan.
Steadily strumming your clit, your other hand slowly pumped a dildo in and out of your pussy, as your eyes fluttered and your mind floated away, fooling yourself that the silicone was somebody else.
As your roommate was out on a run that morning, you hadn’t bothered to shut your ajar door before going to town. Though you must have lost track of time, as the sound of the front door slamming shut suddenly echoed throughout the entire apartment, causing you to jolt jaggedly against the sheets.
“Hey, I forget, did you want company today at the farmers market?” Bucky casually bellowed as his footsteps swiftly shuffled in the direction of your room, prompting you to panic and painstakingly rip the glistening toy out of your cunt and scrabble for your duvet to cover up your bare bottom half, “it’s just, I kinda made some plans with Steve as well, but I can cancel them if we already had something, it was just a thing for fun I suggested yesterday after our shift when I thought I was free this weekend.”
By the time that he settled against the doorframe to your room, you were utterly out of breath, “uhm
 I’m sorry, w-what?”
“Did we have plans today?” he repeated, and you hoped and prayed that he wasn’t able to notice just how flustered you were, as well as how your room surely smelled like pussy.
“I–, uh
 no,” you hazily shook your head, “I don’t think so.”
“Great!” he smiled before crossing his arms over his chest.
With your mind still in the gutter, your eyes couldn’t help but flutter down and fixate on the glisten of sweat that gleamed across his rippling physique, the drool-worthy sight promptly causing your cunt to clench around nothing and throb for the missing toy that laid abandoned only centimetres further south beneath the sheets.  
“So
” he exhaled as his brows suddenly furrowed, “you’re still in bed,” he observed in a puzzled tone.
“Well, yeah, i-it’s the weekend,” you tried to say, “I wanted to try to sleep in, but naturally I couldn’t.”
“So you’ve just been–, what? Sitting there all morning, frozen like a porcelain doll?” he squinted down at you from the doorway.
“No! I’ve been–, I’ve–
” you scrambled your brain for a lie before spotting the closed laptop on your bedside table, “I’ve been prepping something for work,” you then hastily reached for the computer and dragged it into your lap.
“Really? Working from bed? Cosy,” the corners of his lips twitched, “and what have you been working on then?” he teasingly poked as a smirk lit up his features, though you didn’t dare ponder if it was because he’d sniffed out the truth.
Averting your gaze, you tried to ignore his knowing grin as you began to share, “well, starting next week, I’ll be kicking off this kind of career theme with my class that’ll last the rest of the school year,” you told him, “essentially, each one of the students will get to pick a job and then I’ll find someone with it who can come in and talk to the kids about it,” your hands gesticulated gently as you explained, “I know that they’re only first-graders, but the point isn’t at all for them to already lock in on one singular path, it’s kind of the opposite, it’s to expose them to options that they hadn’t thought about before, you know, broaden their horizon just a little bit more.”  
“Oh, my first-grade teacher did something similar,” he recalled, “although, I don’t think I remember what career I picked
”
“So, it wasn’t firefighting that you grew up dreaming about?”
“No, that came much later,” he cocked his head.
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WEEK 5
“
and so the only kid who hasn’t thought of something yet is Laura,” you spoke, your fingers flexing around your phone as you held it to your ear.
“Which one is she again?” Yelena’s voice seeped through the telephone.
“Curly hair, pretty shy and has a tendency to cry a lot,” you uttered, raising your gaze from the laptop before you to cast a glance out of your bedroom window, “I think there might be something going on at home, so she’s just very closed off.”
“Oh, right,” your colleague murmured, “I remember her.”
Fiddling with one of the buckles on the denim overalls you wore, you said, “she’s just overthinking the whole thing, which is understandable, but still, nothing I’ve tried so far has done the trick.”
“What have you tried?”
“Well, I took her and the other kids in the same boat to the library to see if that could give them some inspiration. I also tried to just brainstorm a bit with them, tried to find something that excites them, and it worked for everyone else except for her.”
“I’m sure you’ll break through to her in no time,” the teacher on the other end of the line tried to reassure you, though soon thereafter, you heard as she let out a stifled groan.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” Yelena sighed, “my period just started yesterday and it’s really kicking my ass this time around
” she winced as she presumably breathed through a severe cramp that crashed into her, “like my uterus is going through a meatgrinder.”
Like an ice-cold bucket of water splashed in your face, it suddenly dawned on you how you couldn’t recall the last time you were on your period, which was very odd as everything about you, including your menstruation, was always very punctual.
“U-uh
” you scarcely breathed, “Yelena? I–I gotta go
 see you tomorrow morning.”
“Yeah, alright. See you,” you just barely heard her utter before you hung up.
Slamming the laptop shut before you with a reverberating echo, you felt dazed as you rose to your feet and swiftly exited the room.
Stumbling into the living room, you nearly crashed into the back of the couch as the panicked tornado inside of your mind held you prisoner.
Though just then, perfectly timed as your nails dug into the upholstery, the door to Bucky’s bedroom swung open, and as your roommate exited, his feet promptly halted in their stride when he spotted the ashen expression upon your face.
“Hey
” he cautiously uttered, “bunny, you good?”
“Huh?” you lifted your head to finally notice his presence.
Taking a step closer to your frozen form, he asked, “are you alright? Because you look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“I–
” you blinked hard, scared that you might faint at any moment if the fear looming turned out to be true, “
could you do me a favour?” you mustered just enough strength to request in a small voice, “
could you go buy me a pregnancy test?”
At first, the firefighter began to chuckle, assuming that it was some sort of joke. Although when you remained petrified, “oh, you’re not kidding,” his laughter promptly faded once more, “I–, uh, yeah, of course.”
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With each of you thoroughly speechless, you sat side by side in shock on the bathroom floor.
“This doesn’t feel real
” you eventually heard yourself murmur.
“I think it’s pretty real,” Bucky nodded to the tiny test still clutched in your hand.
“I know, but this isn’t–
” your sentence crumbled as you blinked back down at the stick, “it doesn’t exactly fit into my plan
 work, then meet someone and get married, then get a dog, and then, after all of that, I’d have a kid,” you slowly listed off, “I always imagined this would be something I’d plan meticulously, not stumble into from the one time in my life that I have a stupid one-night stand.”
The soft sound of his exhale seeping into the space hung in the air for a second before he then uttered, “
so,” as his eyes flickered down to the positive test once again, “what do you wanna do?” he asked. Though as you let out a sigh, twisting your neck to glance back at him, he reached down and caught your other hand, promptly tangling his fingers with your own as he vowed, “whatever it is, I promise, I’ll be right by your side, every step of the way.”
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WEEK 6
“Hey, is the owner around?” you asked the man behind the bar, “Billy, I think his name is,” you hoped you got it right, as you’d had to ask your friend for a reminder of what the bartender’s name was.
“Yeah, one second,” the mixologist uttered before you watched him poke his head in the back to get his boss.
Strolling out of the back room, a shiver ran down your spine as the visage of the proprietor awoke too many memories you’d rather forget. Although judging by the carefree look upon his face, he didn’t remember you.
“Hey, what can I get you?” he promptly leaned against the bar.
“Hi,” nerves began to crawl up your throat as you blinked back him, “Billy, right?”
“Yeah,” he murmured before he then narrowed his dark eyes in your direction, “I’m sorry, do we know each other?”
“Kinda
” you exhaled, scrunching up your face as you then explained, “I’m Y/n, you know, from a little over a month ago? We kinda–”
“Oh!” the lightbulb went off above his head as he then casually blurted out, “we fucked?”
“Well, uhm, yeah,” you blinked.
“Well then, Y/n,” he promptly relaxed in your presence, savouring your name on his tongue as he uttered it, “what can I do for you? Are you back for more, because if so, I’m taking my break in a little bit. There’s a lock on the door to the storage room,” he winked.
“Oh no,” you swiftly shook your head, “I mean, no thank you,” you felt heat rise in your cheeks as you averted your gaze, “I–, uh
 could we talk? Maybe go somewhere else, somewhere a little more quiet?”
“Sure, I mean, we could go talk out back if you want,” he briefly nodded in the direction of the back door.
“Great,” you swiftly squeak.
“Alright,” he smirked before he then raised his voice, “hey, Jerry!” you watched as his coworker perked up, “I’m taking my break!” Billy called out, though his stare continued to be trained upon you, “man the deck till I get back!”
“You got it, boss,” the other bartender muttered before the two of you filtered through the small storage room and into the alleyway behind the bar.
The very spot where he’d not too long ago had you up against the rough brick wall

“Okay, so,” you anxiously panted, “I’m just gonna rip the band-aid off
” before you then blurted, “I’m pregnant.”
“Oh,” his face momentarily stayed neutral as the news ceased to sink in, “
oh
” realisation then finally dawned on him as his cocky expression faded and he instead began to gasp, “you mean–
”
“Yep,” you nodded faintly.
“You sure?”
“Oh, I’m sure,” you exhaled, his question nearly making you chuckle.
“But like, how sure are you really?” he panted, “maybe it isn’t mine.”
“No, it is,” you stated and shot him a look.
“How do you know?”
Blinking back at him a moment, you then stated matter-of-factly, “
because other than that one time with you, I haven’t slept with anyone for over five years.”
“Oh
” his brows promptly floated up, “yikes.”
“Excuse me?” you squinted back at the fuckboy.
“No, I’m sorry,” he swiftly raised up his palms, “I didn’t mean it like that, just–, I’m so sorry,” he uttered as if you’d instead shared with him that one of your loved ones had just passed.
“You’re sorry for knocking me up, or sorry that I haven’t gotten any in half a decade?”
“Well, I was talking about the no sex thing, I don’t know how you did that,” he tilted his head, “but now that you put it like that, yeah, both, I'm sorry for both
”
Exhaling faintly, you then uttered, “apology accepted.”
Blinking back at you, his nervous glance then fell into a pattern of darting between you and your still unnoticeable stomach, “
so
”
“Look, I don’t expect anything from you,” your hands floated up to gesture alongside your words, “I mean, I don’t even really know you.”
“
is that like a trick question?” he squinted back at you.
“No, it’s not, I swear,” you swiftly shook your head, granting him some reassurance before you stated, “I’m pregnant, I’m keeping the baby, and you don’t have to be any more involved than you want to be. We could figure out some system if you want, or you can just go on with your life as usual, whatever you want.”
“Really?” he blinked, the colour slowly returning to his cheeks.
“Yeah, really,” you nodded.
“Okay, whew
” relief crashed into him like a title wave, “good, because I am really not built to be a father. Don’t get me wrong, I had fun with you that night, but like, that was just it, it was just that night, it was just sex, not the beginning of a white picket fence life
”
“I completely understand,” you offered him a genuine, but faint smile.
“Cool,” he puffed out one last huff, “well, uh, good luck, I guess.”
“Thanks,” you watched as he then shifted, closing the gap between him and the bar’s back door.
“And, you know,” he paused just as his fingers enclosed around the door handle, “if you ever want some company again, you know, if you’re in the mood for a good time,” he glanced back at you over his shoulder, “just hit me up.”
Letting out a sigh, you simply uttered, “okay,” grateful that you simply got through the mortifying interaction relatively unscathed.
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WEEK 9
Raising just your chin as you heard your roommate finally waltz through the door, “hey,” you uttered from your horizontal position on the couch after you’d finally crawled your way back out of the bathroom. And though you were already exhausted, the day haven barely even begun, you were just grateful that the sickening nausea had finally settled, “I know you just finished a twenty-four-hour shift, but please tell me that you picked up some more on your way home.”
Walking up behind the couch, he then dropped a roll of crackers in your lap, “of course I did.”
“Oh, you’re my knight in shining armour,” you swiftly tore open the wrapping.
And as Bucky beamed down at you, his eyes then drifted down over the robe that still draped your frame, “hey, aren’t you supposed to be out the door already? You’re not even dressed yet.”
“It’s Tuesday, the kids have PE,” you explained as you chomped down on a saltine, crumbs raining down upon your chest, “so I get to go to work a little later and puke in my own bathroom instead of hogging the one in the teacher’s lounge.”
Reaching for him to give you a hand, Bucky swiftly tightened his grasp around your own and helped you up off the couch, even though you’d much rather just stay right there and take a nap in the morning light that streamed in through the tall windows that looked out upon the apartment’s small balcony.
Shuffling into your bedroom, the door to which stood directly behind where the large sofa was planted, you began to get dressed, first slipping on a pair of comfortable panties and a soft bra. Although, when you reached into the laundry basket balanced on your chair and brimming with clean clothes, already folded and waiting to be put away, you plucked out your favourite pair of jeans only to discover something that broke your heart.
“Oh no
” you breathed as you discovered that you couldn’t do up the button around your growing waist, “oh no!”
“What’s up?” Bucky heard your alarm and swiftly appeared in the doorway, his eyes already wide and prepared for the worst.
“I am turning into an elephant, that’s what’s up,” you pouted before flinging yourself back onto the bed and giving it another go, struggling with the stubborn denim before you ultimately gave up with a dramatic huff.
Sulking a moment on the mattress, your eyes traced the ceiling as your mind combed through your recollection of your entire closet, thinking of options you could wear that weren’t simply sweatpants, since that might not be the most appropriate thing to show up for work in.
But then your roommate opened his mouth with a gentle sigh, “alright,” he extended a hand in your direction, “give them to me.”
“What?” you twisted your neck against the sheets to blink over at him.
Pushing off the doorframe, the firefighter then sauntered over and grabbed your legs, “I am gonna hang onto these, and anything else you can’t fit into, for that matter,” he uttered as he tugged the pants off for you, “put them in a box over in my closet so that you don’t have to get all depressed looking at them every morning.”
“Really?” a soft smile found your lips.
“Yeah,” he uttered before you scurried up to your feet and shadowed him as he crossed the home and entered his own bedroom, “and then, maybe this weekend or something, we’ll go shopping,” he suggested as he opened up his wardrobe to stash away your jeans.
“You wanna go shopping for maternity clothes with me?” a small chuckle bubbled up your throat, “seriously?”
“Well, you can’t run around butt ass naked for the next many, many months,” he shot back in a jesting tone, though he still briefly glanced over his shoulder at you, his eyes fleetingly flickering down over your body, still only covered in your undergarments.
Giggling gently, you then caught sight of yourself in the large mirror propped up in the corner of the room. Shifting closer, you couldn’t help but search for any changes, even if you didn’t spot any, you still puffed out your belly just to imagine what you’d soon look like.
“Wait!” Bucky nearly startled you as he suddenly yelped, “don’t move!”
“What?” you twisted around a bit, frozen with your palms still resting on your stomach, as you watched him scramble to fish his phone out of his pocket.
Opening up the camera, he then pointed it towards you and said, “turn to the side.”
“What?”
“Come on, Bunny, flash me that belly,” he sang as he sank down to sit on the edge of his bed.
“Why?” you cast a glance down at yourself, “I haven’t even popped yet.”
“Well, then just let me snap a picture now, and then we can see how you grow from each week.”
“Seriously?” you couldn’t help but chuckle back at him.
“You are a magical creature who is literally making another human being from scratch as we speak,” he said with a completely straight face, “of course I wanna document this.”
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WEEK 10
Double-checking that all of your students were out as they clustered around you in the parking lot. With a child clutching each of your hands, you heard Laura on your one side quietly murmur, “wow
” as her eyes grew, the closer the blinking sirens came into view, as a huge fire truck finally curved into the school’s premises.
Leaping out of the engine, you spotted both Bucky, Steve, alongside colleagues like Tony, who coincidentally had a kid in your class.
And as you watched your roommate pause in the chaos to tap his captain on the shoulder, getting his approval to stay outside while his coworkers stormed in to assess the school, you then saw as he began to march straight towards you.
Leaning over a bit, you murmured, “hey, Peter? Would you mind watching my class for a second?”  
“Yeah, sure,” the science teacher nodded before you traded off the children still clinging to you.
Weaving through the crowd of evacuated students, you met Bucky halfway before he swiftly scooped up your hand and guided you around the back of the fire truck for some more privacy.
“Are you okay?” he panted, his wild eyes scanning you, “is the baby okay?”
Taken aback slightly at the level of alarm that seeped through in his tone, you tried to keep your tone soft as you said, “I’m fine, Buck, we’re both fine.”
“You sure?” he continued to gasp, “it’s just, when I heard that it was your school, my heart fucking stopped.”
“Bucky,” you uttered, promptly clutching his hand tighter, wrapping your other palm around it as well as you tilted your chin and forced his darting eyes to meet your calm ones, “I’m okay,” you reassured him, though when he kept on hyperventilating, you then brought his touch down upon your belly, “I swear.”
Staring down at your still unnoticeable stomach, he finally let out an exhale, his broad shoulders relaxing a bit as he shifted his palm slightly over your abdomen, letting it ground him.
Curving around to the side of the truck that the pair of you were situated behind, two blonde firefighters appeared and began to pack their supplies away again.
“Hey, false alarm, dude,” Carol informed Bucky as she returned the hatchet in her grasp back into a compartment on the side of the engine.
“What?” you twisted to look at them both, “there wasn’t a fire?”
“No,” Steve shook his head, “turns out it was just the fire alarm that was pulled.”
“Yeah, apparently Tony’s kid was just acting out,” Carol let out a faint chuckle, “he’s over there right now, probably grounding her till she goes away to college.”
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WEEK 11
“Hey, Buck?”
“Mhm?” he hummed when you appeared in the doorway out to the balcony, bowls of dinner balanced in your hands, the mild evening warmth still enveloping you both.
Handing him his portion of pasta, you then joined him at the small outdoor table, “there’s actually something I wanted to ask you.”
“Okay, shoot,” he uttered as he began to dig in.
“So, you know how I’m doing this career thing with my class all year?” you reminded him before he offered you a faint nod in response, “well, one of the kids, for the longest time, couldn’t decide on a job to pick,” you told him, “but then after that day with the fake alarm, when you guys came by, she hasn’t been able to stop talking about it. She thought it was so cool,” you smiled before asking, “so, I wanted to see if I could maybe convince you to pop by one day and talk a bit to the kids about what it’s like, you know, being a firefighter.”
“Oh, well,” he breathed, barely giving it a second thought before he uttered, “sure.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he nodded, “although, I could also talk to Captain Fury, see if the whole class could maybe do a little field trip to the station,” he suggested as he caught some more pasta on the tip of his fork, “you know, let them slide down the pole, try on a helmet or something.”
“Wait, are you serious?” you promptly gasped, “that would be amazing!” you then leaned in and nearly tackled the boulder of a man in a hug.
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WEEK 12
“You don’t have to be here, you know.”
“Nonsense,” Bucky squinted down at you on the exam table, “of course I’m here,” he shrugged as a smile found his lips, “wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
So far, he had tagged along to each and every one of your doctor’s appointments, even if it had just been to get your blood drawn.
“I really am okay,” you uttered, scared that he was doing all of this out of unnecessary obligation, “I can do this on my own.”
“Sorry,” he simply smiled, “but you’re stuck with me,” as the doctor then entered the room.  
“Aw, you two are so cute,” she uttered as she caught the tail end of your bantering, naturally misunderstanding the smirk on Bucky’s lips, “seems like you picked a good one to start a family with.”
“Oh,” your eyes went wide, “he’s not–, we’re not–
” you stammered as you promptly gestured wildly between you both, “we’re just friends–, roommates,” you clarified, “he’s not the father, we’ve never–, uh, you know, u-uhm–
”
“Oh, my apologies,” she promptly bowed her head.
But Bucky swiftly offered her a tight-lipped smile and assured, “it’s fine.”
“So,” the doctor then tried to transition onto the business at hand, “shall we take a look at how this little bun is cooking in there?”
“Sure,” you exhaled to try and cool down the heat in your cheeks.
“Okay, just lean on back and lift up your shirt a bit,” she instructed, and as you did so, she then picked up a squeeze bottle resting on the ultrasound machine nearby, “this might be a little cold,” she warned before squirting some of the gel on your stomach. Picking up the broad wand to the machine, she then glided the tip against your belly, “let’s see
” she murmured as she redirected her glance towards the small screen, scanning it efficiently before she soon uttered, “okay,” a reassuring smile flashing on her lips, “everything looks beautiful.”
“Yeah?” you tilted your head to try and catch sight of the scan she was inspecting.
“Yeah,” she then spun the screen around towards the pair of you, “if you take a look right here,” she pointed to a small flicker on the image, “that right there is your baby.”
Blinking back at it, the only thing that left your lips was a small, “wow
” as you found yourself unable to tear your stare away. And as the doctor pressed a few buttons on the keyboard and a soft rhythm suddenly began to echo from the machine, goosebumps swiftly erupted across your skin, “is that–”
“A strong and healthy heartbeat,” the doctor smiled.
“Holy shit
” you heard Bucky murmur off to your side, the reality smacking him in the face as well.
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“Is this crazy? Me doing this all on my own? Can I actually do it, or am I about to be in over my head?” you finally broke the silence, your head spinning, though it wasn’t because of how the subway hummed beneath your seat.
“Hey, look at me,” Bucky then grasped your hand, “I can’t predict the future, I wish I could, but I do know this,” he made you meet his eye, “you are going to be an amazing mom.”
Sucking in a deep breath, “really?” tears welled up in your eyes as you felt his fingers squeeze your own.
“Yeah. I mean, I wish more parents were the kind of human beings that I know you are,” he uttered with the utmost sincerity, “you’re so kind and patient. You’re gonna be great, I know it,” he tilted his head slightly, “and this little kid? I mean, they’re gonna be your child, so naturally they’d turn out to be just a ball of sunshine, a little tree hugger, just like their mom.”
Melting down against his shoulder, you half hugged his burly frame as you murmured into him, “why are you so wonderful
”
“Oh,” he then couldn’t help but joke, “a question that I ask myself every day
”
But instead of smiling as well, you just blinked up at him and uttered, “no, I’m serious. You’ve been so incredible throughout the beginning of all of this. But just because I’m now becoming a parent, that doesn’t mean you should be forced to be one as well,” you then averted your gaze and said, “I know I can’t keep living with you after the baby comes.”
Brows knitting tighter, he asked, “what are you talking about?”
“I don’t want you to suddenly hate me when I turn your bachelor pad into a freaking family home,” you said, “I would never want to force you into a lifestyle that’s not for you.”  
“I–
 I’m sorry, you actually think I could ever hate you?” he continued to squint before he then cocked his head, “bunny
 come on
 first of all, I would never ever kick you out. Sure, I lived there first, but that apartment is as much your home now as it is mine, no matter how it may change, you can live there for as long as you want,” he continued to clutch your hand in his own, “and secondly,” he then uttered, “Y/n, I love you,” making your heart momentarily flutter before you reminded yourself of his purely platonic meaning of the phrase, “and so I automatically already love this little baby to bits, purely because it’s yours,” he smiled down at your stomach, “and so just because you’re doing this by yourself, doesn’t mean you’re in it alone. I’m not going anywhere. You’re one of my favourite people in the entire world. And I already promise that I’ll lend a hand and be there for you, and this little nugget, whenever you let me.”
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© 2025 thyme-in-a-bubble 
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loonalockley · 3 days ago
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hop little bunny
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a/n: the root of this story has been with me for so many years that it has gone through countless different versions, but then, about half a year ago, i couldn't get the fantasy out of my head and then i quickly settled on the main dude being bucky and yeaaahhh, it all just kinda snowballed after that and turned into this adorableness...
summary: you know what wasn't in your five year plan? getting knocked up by some random bartender in your unsuccessful attempt at desperately ridding yourself of the long-festering and devastatingly huge crush you had on your roommate...
warnings: firefighter!bucky barnes x pregnant!teacher!reader, firefighter!avengers (steve rogers, natasha romanoff, tony stark, thor odinson, clint barton, sam wilson, carol danvers, bruce banner, fire captain!nick fury, paramedic!scott lang, paramedic!wanda maximoff), teacher!yelena belova, teacher!peter parker, fuckboy!bartender!billy russo, roommates to lovers, pregnancy, being knocked up from a one night stand, bucky isn’t the biological dad, former fuckboy!bucky, y/n teaches the first grade, found family, mutual pining, she fell first he fell harder, nickname (bunny), domestic fluff, just good vibes only, explicit sexual content, total word count is 18k
masterlist | join my taglist 
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PART ONE: NOT PART OF THE PLAN
PART TWO: BE MY BABY
PART THREE: ABOUT TO POP
PART FOUR: CANDLELIGHT (coming 30/8-25)
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and because i couldn't stop myself, here is a little floor plan of their apartment, made in the sims:
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originally steve and bucky's, y/n moved in several years ago after steve got his own place. this spacious two-bedroom apartment opens up into an open floor plan, spacious kitchen and living room that opens out to a cosy little balcony. directly to the right of the front door is the bathroom with a shower tugged away in the corner. right next to the bathroom is the biggest bedroom, a sunny space that belongs to bucky. and lastly, in the opposite corner of the apartment is the other bedroom which belongs to y/n.
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series playlist:
erase me ┈ lizzy mcalpine, jacob collier
first time ┈ hozier
fragile ┈ laufey
andante, andante ┈ abba
the river ┈ daisy jones & the six
jealous guy ┈ donny hathaway (live cover)
green to blue ┈ daniel.mp3
dreams ┈ fleetwood mac
i wanna be yours ┈ arctic monkeys
futile devices (doveman remix) ┈ sufjan stevens
little green ┈ joni mitchell
important to be aware ┈ unworn
she's a rainbow ┈ the rolling stones
sweet creature ┈ harry styles
(you don't know) how glad i am ┈ nancy wilson
jackie and wilson ┈ hozier
every little thing she does is magic ┈ sleeping at last (cover)
blurred moon ┈ daniel.mp3
do you belive in magic ┈ the lovin' spoonful
a groovy kind of love ┈ phil collins
comin' home baby ┈ mel tormĂ©
little life ┈ cordelia
mia and sebastian's theme (married life) ┈ birru (cover)
j's lullaby (darlin' i'll wait for you) ┈ delaney bailey
yeh, yeh ┈ georgie fame & the blue flames
dancing in the moonlight ┈ olive klug (cover)
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© 2025 thyme-in-a-bubble 
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loonalockley · 3 days ago
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I feel like an underrated alive!Shannon scenario is people mistaking buck and Shannon for being siblings since they do look so much a like.
I imagine someone who knows Shannon and knows she's Chris's mom sees Buck and Chris together and makes a comment about how nice it is that he's taking his nephew out. And buck is like I'm his step-dad. And everyone is so embarrassed. The person who came up to them especially. Like she just told Shannon's husband he looked like her brother how do you recover from that?
I think Chris catches on to why his mom's friend is being so awkward first and tells her that when he's out with his dad and Buck people think Buck's his bio dad and his dad is the step-dad so she's not the only one who thinks they look a like.
Buck is still confused. yeah he and chris look alike but most people assume father and son like chris said.
It isn't until chris recounts the interaction to Shannon later that he gets it. Well chris spells it out for him really.
"Mom we ran into your friend earlier and she thought Buck was your brother.
But from then on it keeps happening but it happens when Buck and Shannon are in the same place. And I think it's the thing that finally gets them to bond. Specifically messing with people about it. And by people I mean Eddie.
One of the parents at Chris's school always looks at Eddie weird and he doesn't know why but it's because Buck and Shannon told him that they are twins and when Eddie came out as gay he went from dating Shannon to dating Buck
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