Being in love with Scott Miller isn’t for the faint of heart — especially when you have to watch him fall for someone else.
▸ PAIRING & WC: Scott Miller x F!Reader — 2.6K
▸ WARNINGS: Implied sex (no graphic descriptions), fwb to lovers, idiots in love, un-unrequited love basically, hurt/comfort
▸ A/N: first actual scott fic i wrote (and with plot!), pls go easy on me. thank you dear shay @lunexiax for giving me this opportunity to finally test him out <3 if you see similarities in the miscomm between this and right to love, no you didnt (jk i outlined for that one and thought the vibes would kinda fit scott too). more scott to come!!!
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Scott Miller is not the kind of guy you marry — hell, he’s not even the kind of guy you date. The closest he’ll ever get to wedlock is his marriage with his job. For as long as you can remember, he’s always been the numbers guy. Calculating the probability of success and conducting risk analyses to see if something is worth the effort.
With you, he has determined from day one that, while your friendship is worth investing in, a real relationship with you is not.
Scott is your best friend, your partner-in-crime. The two of you have been glued to each other’s sides for as long as you can remember. He’s a few years older than you and you grew up chasing after his footsteps, and he never seemed to mind. You never curbed that habit.
Not when you ended up graduating from the same university, with a major that complemented his future career. Not when you recruited for StormPAR because he was leading investor relations there. Not when you decided to pack up your life and move to the midwest to chase tornadoes.
In the first week of your three-month research project for the new sensors, you and Scott had a little too much to drink. One kiss led to another and suddenly you’re falling into bed with him.
Scott hesitates initially, his words about how relationships and women are a pain echo in your mind — so you find yourself blurting out we can keep this simple, no strings.
He only grunts in agreement before he slides into you. His mouth is hot, distracting, and the unsaid agreement is signed with the burning ache between your legs.
So you buried your feelings, swallowed your ego, and took what he could give you.
Because, for Scott, you’ll eat the crumbs if it means you get to keep the taste of him on your tongue.
It should be fine — this arrangement. You get him and he gets company every night, particularly when you’re in the middle of nowhere surrounded by crazy weather fanatics. Theoretically, it should be fine.
But you never expected the addition of a new variable — Kate.
Kate is… perfect. She’s gorgeous, sweet, and terribly smart. Within days of joining the team, she’s leading them to the greatest tornadoes, giving them the opportunity to collect prime data they’ve never been able to capture. She’s quick as a whip and she seems to get along with everyone — whether it’s the prissy, uptight StormPAR guys or the wild, free-flying tornado enthusiasts.
Once again, it should be fine, except you’ve never seen Scott so bothered by someone. She’s different, you can see it. The way he watches her, frowns at her. He calls her dandelion. You’ve always only had your name, he’s never had a cute pet name for you. You can’t help but wonder what he thinks about when he sees her.
If she is what he sees now when he fucks you. Even when you’re in bed with him, his mind is sometimes far away. He absentmindedly traces your bare shoulder, keeping you close even if his attention seems elsewhere.
You can’t watch him be silently enamored with someone else so you start leaving at the end of the night.
He doesn’t stop you.
One day, when your friend tells you about an opening for a data analyst position, you entertain it — even if it means you have to move to New York.
Because, while you love Scott, you also can’t bear to watch him fall for someone who isn’t you.
As you’re leaving his room one night, he finally stops you. He’s still naked in his bed, sheets pooled around his hips, as he catches your hand. The look on his face is indifferent when he asks you why you don’t stay; he is asking out of curiosity, not out of desire.
You’re shrugging on your shirt, back turned towards him. “I have to get up early tomorrow. I’ve got an interview.”
Maybe you shouldn’t have revealed that, but you’re exhausted and the honest answer slips.
“An interview? With who? For what?” He sounds more alert now.
“Just a job.”
“You’ve already got a job,” Scott presses, forcing you to face him with a tug of his hand. His brows are furrowed.
“I don’t know. I might want to try something different.”
He blinks at you for a moment, gears turning in his mind. “Something different,” he echoes slowly.
“It’s not a big deal,” you brush him off, “I don’t even know if I’ll get it. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”
Scott, again, doesn’t say a word.
It seems so… easy for him to let you go. You know it isn’t on him to love you the same way you do him; that’s not a fair ask. But you also have enough pride to know when to take a step back.
Creating physical distance is not the challenging part; it’s dealing with the emotional toll. Every time you have to avoid your silently-designated spot next to him at bars or how you opt to take Javy’s car instead of his, a piece of your frail heart chips away. You don’t come over uninvited anymore, instead sliding under your own covers for the first time in weeks.
Scott’s not a fool. Of course, he notices but he still doesn’t say anything.
On the other hand, he actually starts talking more with Kate, private chats in the corner of a bar or early mornings over coffee. Sometimes his gaze would flick over to you, harden, and ultimately return to her. That used to be you, but you left that space empty for someone else to fill.
Then you finally get the call.
“I got the job,” you tell him quietly that night.
You told yourself this would be the last time. One last night with him before — for the first time in your life — you allow your paths to diverge. Scott in Oklahoma, you in New York.
The two of you are side by side in bed, you’ve slipped on his t-shirt, drowning in the cotton and his familiar storm-stained scent. You allow yourself to indulge in your last night.
Scott doesn’t look at you, his eyes zeroed in on the blank television screen of the crappy motel room. “Do you want it?”
No, no, you don’t. You want to stay here — with him and the rest of the team. But this is also a great opportunity, both for your career and the survival of your heart. “I think so.”
He whips around to face you, eyes flashing with what you think is irritation. “You think so? You’re not even sure?”
“Well, it’s a big jump, but I might take it,” you swallow.
“You shouldn’t do it unless you’re absolutely sure.”
You roll your eyes at him. “I’m never absolutely sure about anything.” Except for the fact that I’m in love with you and that it would destroy me if I stay and watch you fall in love with Kate.
“Then don’t go. Stay here.”
His words are cold and stiff. It’s calculated. You are an asset to the team. It would be a pain to hire a new analyst in the middle of tornado season and get them fully trained to do what you do. Maybe you could stay just another month until all this is over, maybe you can get them to postpone your start date.
But could you really do it? Could you stand by the sidelines and swallow your feelings long enough to last until the bitter end?
Sighing, you know your answer. “I’m not going to lie. I don’t think I can do this anymore. I don’t think I can be here anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
It’s now or never. If you’re leaving anyway, you might as well confront him — if you can’t have him, then at least Kate could.
“I’m not stupid, you know. I can see it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re in love.”
The pin-drop silence that ensues is deafening. Your heart thunders against your eardrums; you can hear the hitch of his breath.
“I’m not—” he stops himself, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
With a deep sigh, you extract yourself from his side. Your fingers pick at the worn linen. “I’ve never seen you like this before, Scott. And listen, I get it if you want to end all this, whatever we’re doing.” He frowns. “Kate is wonderful, so I understand.”
Scott’s furrow only deepens. “What the hell are you going on about?”
“You and Kate,” you say, tongue heavy like lead in your mouth. “You guys make a good pair. I’m happy it’s working out, but I just can’t be here to watch that happen so I’m going to take the offer and move to New York. I know it’s tough to replace my work during this time, I’ll try and stay until the end of the season, but afterwards—”
“Fuck that,” he snaps, “like hell you’re leaving. What do you mean you can’t be here anymore? What are you going on about with Kate?”
Maybe he thinks you’re badmouthing her. “She’s great! I’m happy for you. I’m just—” your chest constricts. “I’m in love with you. Shit. I’ve been in love with you, Scott. I can’t do this no-strings thing anymore. I thought I could take it, whatever scraps you’ll let me have, but I can’t. Especially not when you’re falling for someone else.”
Scott pinches the bridge of his nose and he looks more than pissed off as he looks at you. “Who said anything about falling for someone else? Also, you’re in love with me? Since when?”
A groan slips past your lips. “This is so humiliating. Can we drop it?”
“Oh, no, you started this, so you answer my question. Since when have you been in love with me?”
“Forever! Fucking forever alright. Is that what you want to hear?” You grumble, “I was in love with you before… this even started.”
You see his tongue press against the inside of his cheek, his blue eyes sharp. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you’re my friend, Scott.”
“Apparently not if you didn’t fucking tell me,” he glares.
“Would it have changed anything?”
Disbelief colors his face. “It would’ve changed everything. Are you kidding me? You’ve been in love with me all this time and you didn’t tell me?”
Is the thought of you loving him really that repulsive? He’s got his hands balled into fists on the sheets, jaw clenched like he would rather be anywhere but here. While the possibility of him rejecting you has always crossed your mind, you didn’t think that he would have this visceral a reaction. Gone are your chances of maintaining a cordial relationship after you leave.
He’s right. This changes everything.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “I shouldn’t have—” your breath snags in your throat again, your eyes sting with unshed tears. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want this to change anything between us. We’ll stay friends.”
“We can’t stay friends,” he scowls. Your heart sinks.
You press the heel of your palms against your eyes, praying the tears away. The last thing you want to do is cry in front of him. “I can’t— I’m gonna go. I need to—”
“No, you’re staying right here so I can kiss some fucking sense into you.”
For a second, you can’t hear past the rushing in your ears, the frantic urge to leave. But when his words settle in and your brain slowly digests each individual syllable, you pull your wet hands away from your eyes. Scott swallows thickly when he sees your face.
“You think what — that I was in love with Kate?” He scoffs but there’s no weight to his words. He almost sounds weak. “What gave you that idea?”
You balk at him. It’s your turn to be confused. “You— you’re literally always watching her! You call her dandelion for god’s’ sake! Who gets a cute nickname like that?”
“That’s because I’m bad with names! You know this. You know me. It took me a while to remember her name — and I keep watching her because she’s like this little circus freak. Who the hell guesses storms by looking at goddamn flowers?”
You open your mouth, then promptly shut it again. Speechless.
“And that job? I can’t fucking believe you even thought about leaving. Leaving all this. Leaving me. You know damn well I’d never let that happen. If you really wanted it — and you were leaving for yourself, then sure, do it, but you’re out of your mind if you don’t think I’ll be following you to the ends of the earth.”
Your lungs stutter against your ribs. “What?”
Scott turns to face you, hands sliding up to cup the back of your neck. He forces you to look at him. To really look at him. “I’m in love with you. I’ve been fucking in love with you.”
You feel the desert in your throat when you croak out, “Since when?”
“Forever.”
“Why didn’t you tell me then?”
“You were the one who said you wanted to keep it no strings! I thought you didn’t want to date.”
“That’s because you’re always going on and on about how women and relationships are a pain!”
Scott lets out a frustrated breath, as if you’re the fool in this situation. “Except when it comes to you! Jesus, you’re never a pain. You’re the best part of my day. I think about you all the goddamn time. Sometimes, I want you to stop doing this tornado chasing thing because it’s dangerous and I want you in a safe fucking bubble where nobody, nothing can touch you. But you’re passionate and I fucking love that and I fucking love you.”
“But you— what— this can’t be happening.”
“You’re a goddamn idiot.”
Your lips press together. “You love me and you’re calling me a goddamn idiot? Really?”
“That’s because you are. Fuck. I can’t believe I wasted all this time. I can’t believe I even let you take that interview,” Scott grouses, mostly to himself. “I need you to get it through your thick skull that I don’t want anyone else. It’s always been you. You think I’d let anyone tail me around like you did?”
A pinched pout forms on your lips, mostly to stop yourself from crumbling. “I just thought you felt bad for me.”
“You somehow managed to be the smartest person on this team and the biggest idiot,” he mumbles. “I love you. I’m not letting you out of my sight, you hear me. Need you in my car every day. Next to me every time we go out. I need you in my bed every night and I don’t want you leaving either. We’ll share one room from now on.”
You sniffle, “That’s very fiscally responsible of you.”
Scott chuckles, “Well, I’ll take any excuse to keep you next to me. Can’t have you getting bored with me.”
“Please,” you roll your eyes with a smile, “if we’ve survived this long without getting sick of each other, what’s forever, right?”
The reality of what you’ve just said slams into you like a truck. Heat floods your insides.
“I mean—”
“Is that a proposal?” He smirks. Before you can dig a bigger hole for yourself, Scott leans over and presses his lips against yours.
Sweet, slow, steady.
“Because I’ve got a ring with your name on it back at home. I’ve been itching for a reason to finally take it out.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, cheeks warm.
“Yeah, well, you love me anyway.”
That, you can’t deny.
+ sam: you know how excited i was to write this and i hope it didnt disappoint. ily queen thank you for always matching my freak and my yap mwah!!
scott is yearning for (taglist): @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @pinksplace @stanmarvelous @coffinlolz
toy flesh [explicit 18+] — [part 2] follow up to part 1 which is linked in my masterlist. this is lots of cute fluff, next part will get down to more filth. there are tons of nasty opportunities
. . .
She also thinks it somehow has to be a one off thing. A pricey, fancy one off toy that fakes a few cumshots after the first time she cleans and rides it, flooding this pool inside of her and all over her bedsheets. But there it goes again, and again, and again.
Topping her third round off by falling backwards near the headboard, new toy gripped tight into her palm while she slides it in and out to still feel full but finally give her hips a break. It was worth every penny, as ridiculous as the amount really was for a hole in the wall sex toy shop. A lot of the others looked sparkly and lengthy and quite pretty, but something about the girth and the hefty weight of the last (or the only?) one in stock on the shelf made her rush to grab it before anyone else could have.
After paying the man at the counter she keeps scoping out her surroundings for any prying eyes as she’s trying to sneak her giant new purchase, stuffing the box into her purse as best she can. It would be dishonest to say she didn’t rush to rip it out of the plastic, feel out the raw feel of the skin, the veins, the fat. It felt real. Unlike any other rubber playthings she’s bought in the past, this one was almost responsive to her touch somehow. Did it require batteries to act like that? To pulse when it feels her grip, or leak when she teased herself on the tip?
It would jump every time she spat on the head and rubbed the base up and down in a firm grip. Pre cumming right at the tip when she did her favorite forms of foreplay and fooled around with it like she’s playing pretend. It throbbed, it wiggled around, and most of all it fucking came. Like a man.
In warm, sudden bursts, she felt it oozing out while she was just getting started. As heaven sent as it felt in the moment, afterwards it made her furrow her brows and grab the toy again and even look down at her own pussy to ensure she wasn’t feeling things that weren’t really there. But lo and behold, it dripped down her inner thighs, slathering her blanket and oozing right out of the tip of the dildo.
It felt like magic. Like her new rubber cock was attached to a real living person — a needy, sensitive, girthy person hung like a horse that didn’t take a lot of teasing or effort to draw so much arousal out of. But the idea was silly, so much more nonsensical than the fact that it was probably nothing more than just an impressively built and nevertheless expensive toy with some kind of hidden wiring and technology that was capable of pulling off acting like a real living cock. Right?
She doesn’t bother questioning it after five or six rounds in one night over the Saturday of her last jobless weekend before the start of her new position the following Monday. It had done wonders for the stress in her body, the tense and worried state it was nearly permanently in. She’d gotten better at taking it all up to the hilt, stuffing it inside up to her stomach after taking an edible and throwing on whatever TV show could make decent background noise. She grins with her heavy lidded eyes falling closed while another load pumps inside her. The second one of the hour to be exact. That addicting feeling of her toy cock gradually just losing it, losing all control like her pussy did things that triggered this quick, heavy release.
She’ll hang around her home in nothing but her underwear and her robe, eating cookie dough ice cream straight out of the carton, higher than a dopey teenager stuck in her own element. It doesn’t take long for her to take her favorite toy and rut her clit against it until it got warm like some kind of horny genie lamp. And then like clockwork it fills up for her again like it’s getting hard, twitchy, and ready all just for her pleasure. In the very back of her head she thinks this thing is so real it could have the off chance of somehow getting her pregnant since the cum had the consistency and the warmth of a real breathing person.
When Monday inevitably arrives, she gives up making sure every single hair stays in place and just parts it all to one side, buttoning up her favorite coat as armor against the unpredictable weather. As she strolled along the streets to her new work building, petting the dogs passing by on their owners’ leashes and twirling the cord of her headphones, she imagines what kind of office would hire someone like her. Blunt, casual, some neurological differences that make it difficult to focus if the topic didn’t interest her. Virtually no prior experience in the field she’s been hired in. It didn’t feel real getting the call back to learn she’d been selected, but who the hell was she to call them stupid for picking her of all the candidates?
The hustle and bustle was apparent as soon as she entered the building, asking around with wide eyes where her section was, what floor was she supposed to go to. Everyone looked busy but remained patient and kind, directing her to her floor, telling her to find a tall, shaggy haired man by the name of Clark.
It wasn’t hard to seek him out of everybody else, large frame still evident even with his hunched over posture, diligently typing away on his computer. When he looks up she was struck to find that he was almost dangerously beautiful. Handsome, pretty, dorky, everything that had always baited her into making terrible decisions. Just by talking to him she could tell he had anxiety, stiff movements and facial expressions that had her wondering if he was nervous from the pressure of being in charge of a new hire, or if he was more specifically nervous about being around her in particular.
Clark is attentive and sweet, helpful and patient with her learning new things, getting used to the environment and what was to be the new routine. Picking up the mail, distributing the mail, transferring phone calls, helping Lois with office duties and finding supplies with low stock to re-order. Certain areas felt overwhelming but overall the job itself seemed mundane. The only thing sticking out to her was Clark and his antsy eyes and big arms, anxious ticks and shy smiles. How he bent over backwards to help her with just about every question thrown his way or another way, making himself of use to her in any way she may have needed.
On her smoke break she feels the rain start to pour within seconds of going outside, and although she’s walked through rain and shine plenty it was still a bit of a test to see how far Clark would actually go if she’d asked to take her home. And he was so eager, so easy. If she got to know him well enough and if they became comfortable enough, she could give him the nickname of being her own mister Yes Man. Yeah, of course I’ll take care of that for you. Yes, you don’t have to worry about that, I’ve got it. Yup, no worries. Yeah, I’ll get this going for you. He was so full of yes’s she almost wonders what the limit may be.
Throughout the day he reciprocates just about every glance, every minor, innocent brushing of arms and fingers and touches on each other’s shoulders, upper back, arms. He hands her a pen and she grazes his fingers entirely on purpose and doesn’t hide dragging the moment out. The more she does the more flustered he’s become.
When Jimmy meets her and shakes her hand, he pulls her aside to whisper in her ear that Clark is very, very single and she laughs so hard she snorts. And when Clark comes back from his lunch break wearing different trousers than he was before he left, she doesn’t attempt any subtlety at eyeing his new pants up and down and shrugging with a little knowing nod at what might’ve made him have to change. Clark makes up some half baked lie about spilling hot sauce on his other pair, and she nods enough to try convincing him she believes it.
After her training is done and the paperwork is filed and the day is finally, finally over she gets a nod from Clark across the room, tilting his head in the direction of the elevators with briefcase in hand. He nudged his glasses further up his face and sniffled, waving bye to staff and pressing the button to head down, holding the door open with an extended arm.
“Thanks so much again by the way,” she graciously squeezed the thick muscle of his upper arm as the elevator doors close. Clark’s turned bashfully red almost immediately, chin down at the ground pretending to look at his shoes.
“It’s nothing. I really wouldn’t want you um, getting all soaked out in the rain, that wouldn’t be right. I’m glad you felt safe enough to ask me.”
“Of course I did. You’ve been nothing but a big sweetheart. Seriously, if anyone’s intimidated by the height they could have one conversation with you and it’ll change their mind,” she laughs, meeting his wide eyes framed by his thick glasses. The elevators ding to alert they’ve arrived to their destined floor, Clark taking a second too long to process before shoving his arm back out to stop the doors from closing in on them again. His version of a curse word slips under his breath while he nearly drops his briefcase, clearly still tripping and stumbling his way out to the parking garage.
“Well I guess so. I’m not that tall. Maybe a little over average, but— I hope I’m not intimidating. Um, here, let’s go this way,” Clark awkwardly trails off, pointing to his little beat up blue vehicle parked way over in the corner. When he points it out she wonders how he even fits himself in there.
“Uh, usually I prop the drivers seat back for my legs. A little crammed but I’ve had her since I started driving. My Pa gifted me this, and she’s still been up and running good after all these years so I don’t really see a need for finding anything else.”
She nods her head and smiles, impressed. He doesn’t let her hand go even near the handle, ripping it open and holding it while she slides in and sets her bag down on the floor near her feet. “Wow. You know, that shows a ton of loyalty to keep one of these for years like you have. I like that.”
He sheepishly nods his head with curls moving on his forehead before gently closing the door and jogging over to the other side.
She takes in her surroundings, observing the little details. His hanging dog charm around the rearview mirror. Taking in all the neatness, the warm vanilla scented air fresheners. How the seat is propped back as far as it could possibly go to accommodate for his height. She notes how he kept himself a spare pair of glasses in one of the cupholders, another style than the ones he wore to the office. When he turns the car on, music began to boom through the speakers, jolting him with a twitch as he rushed to turn the volume all the way down, laughing through a string of apologies. She only giggles harder, clearly less upset than he was, more amused if anything.
Each mundane little thing about Clark piled more on to this growing irresistible urge to just make the plunge already, to crawl in his lap, to kiss him so hard his glasses get crooked and eventually fall right off his face. It became more tempting with each passing glance from the side, every accidental brush of her thigh with his hand while he shifted gears, a murmured apology with those signature pink cheeks. He always looked so embarrassed, and it somehow always served to really turn her on.
“Uh, so I’ll turn here right?”
“Yeah. Yeah just, just turn then you’ll go straight for a while. I’ll let you know when we’re approaching.”
Clark follows directions, going about five miles below the speed limit as he keeps his eyes on each house passing by, curiously wondering which one could be her home. Was it the well groomed, modern style with a picket fence, or an old school, overgrown lawn with an artsy mailbox?
He slows down more as the end of the street was coming, pulling off to the side as she pointed out her home. Clark forgets to hide how eager he is to scope it out, the little pink painted one story home with healthy plants branching out from their pots on the porch, the lady bug mat, the absence of any cars parked out front. Figures she must only get around anywhere on foot.
Rain still patters on the windshield as his windshield wipers barely keep up in time from the heavy drops, and puddles outside forming in the potholes of the road. Her plants looked to be the only happy ones to have some rain to quench them.
“This is me right here,” she reluctantly says, a sigh leaving her throat while she peers back over to the man in the driver’s seat. “I had fun, says a lot for a first day at a new job. Those are always pretty stressful but you’re such a great teacher that I know I’ll be in good hands,” she says, rubbing the lipgloss leftover on her lips together while eyeing him up and down, back and forth between his pretty face and his robust chest.
“I… I’m not that good, you just made it easy,” he disputes. “You asked all the right questions, you’re smart. I know you’ll get the hang of it real soon—“
“—You know, when I met Jimmy today he told me you were single,” she interjects before her mind could steer her away from the risky decision. “So was he… was he joking or was he—“
Clark groans loud, making a fist and then nearly slamming his forehead into it to hide his face, mortified that Jimmy set him up like this. To have this awkward interaction with his now co-worker.
“Gosh…. of course he did… that’s— no. I’m sorry he was acting inappropriate—“
“No as in you’re not single.”
Clark pulls his head back up, blinks, utterly confused.
“No, no I’m—“
“No as in yes?”
“N-No, no as in he’s right. I… I am, it’s just I didn’t want him disclosing stuff like that that to you, that information. Like as if you’d even care if a co-worker is single or not is ridiculous. If he makes you uncomfortable again I can talk to him, it doesn’t have to be a whole HR thing but if you want it to be I can absolutely help…”
She chews her bottom lip to prevent another shit eating grin from spreading onto her cheeks, placing a deliberate hand back on his upper arm to nab his attention, soothe any of his sudden woes.
“Listen, stop. Listen to me Clark. I was asking to clarify it with you because I was hoping that he was right,” she admits, a soft laugh not far behind the end of her small confession, trailing off with a rub of his shoulder, making him hold his breath and keen from the contact.
“You um. So you aren’t freaked out, you aren’t uncomfortable in any way? I just can’t imagine what it’s like, being a… a woman. A beautiful woman you know, like you, in a new workplace and having men be obnoxious on top of that—“
Clark stutters and takes a breather, shutting his car off and tilting his head up so his neck is exposed, blankly looking up at the ceiling.
“Clark.”
“Yeah?”
He doesn’t look back down or turn his head, Adam’s apple of his throat bobbing as he swallows more nerves down.
“I’m not uncomfortable. Not freaked out. And if you want me to just get my stuff and go, not mention any of this tomorrow, then I could,” she starts. Clark takes a deep breath in like he wants to interrupt, but she holds a finger up and he obeys, shutting his mouth closed. “Or,” she began. “I could kiss you for being so sweet, and we can act normal tomorrow, but you can give me another ride home if you aren’t busy again. And we can see where this goes.”
The drop of his jaw was nearly out of a cartoon, heartbeat throbbing so fast it might as well be audible in the quiet of the small space of his car. He can’t take his eyes off her, blinking ever so slightly when his eyes start to dry up. It looked like he wanted to pinch himself just to make sure everything was real.
“I… I really like the second option more. A lot.” he finally mutters. Licks his lips while staring down at hers like he had countless times today, this time with layers of restraint stripped away.
“I like the second option more too,” she chuckles at his dumbstruck face, soothing a palm over his thigh and rubbing his flexed muscles through his trousers. “I also noticed you changed your pants after lunch.”
Clark swallows while her face comes closer, nearly nose to nose, sharing and exchanging breath.
“Uh, yeah, yeah I….”
“That story about spilling some hot sauce was bullshit, right?”
Clark nods without a second thought, confirming everything she already knew.
“Did you have a little too much fun? Make too much a mess, had to end up changing before you got back to the office?”
“Yeah, yeah I did,” he bows his head down a bit, licking his lips again. Still close enough to smell her perfume, to stare at the glittery shine of her lipgloss, begging to know what it tastes like.
“I thought so.”
Clark doesn’t get another moment to think or conjure up a response before she’s leaning in and he’s dreamily shutting his eyes, humming into her mouth while she tilts her head to the side. Her nails splay out across his neck while he whimpers in her mouth, trying to keep up and savor the exquisite taste of her while he can. With plenty of hesitation trying to hold him back, he goes for it anyway and takes his own palm to the middle of her back, hugging her close to him while they kept making out like it wasn’t any different than coming home after years of being away.
“You’re really pretty, makes it really hard,” he pants. Pulls away but not too far, lips still brushing hers as he speaks.
She laughs right at him, tucking a curl behind his ear and adjusting his glasses so they’re straight again on his face. “Apt word choice there.”
“No! No I mean, that’s not what I meant….”
“As much as embarrassment looks cute on you, you don’t have to be,” she assures with another giddy laugh, kissing his cheek and leaving a subtle glossy mark on the skin. Then aims for each corner of his lips only to be pulled back in by him to get the heated momentum back up and running.
“You’re unbelievable,” he breathes. “I want to just… I wanna keep going forever.”
Shit, is he talking too much too soon?
“I mean you don’t have to, really, you can head home whenever you like… I only meant I like this a lot.”
She doesn’t let his overthinking become worse, just grabbing him by the collar and kissing him again. Adding tongue swirls into the mix.
“You taste like your Spearmint gum,” she observes. “Really nice.”
“I’m glad you like it,” Clark nods, his meek persona still in full swing even after having her tongue in his mouth. “You’d tell me if my breath was bad, right?”
“Of course I would.”
The pair still kept exploring each other’s kissing techniques, her hands stroking his arms and his chest while Clark’s stayed on the middle of her back in easy circles. It could’ve been ten, fifteen, even twenty minutes passing by while the rain hardly lightens up from pouring out from the gray clouds scattered in the sky. Clark offers to walk her up to the door so she could get home safe and dry, and she couldn’t pass up the offer, even if he kept reassuring her he didn’t mean to allude to any funny business. He takes off his own jacket to hover it over her head as they make the short trip, insisting he does it as to not get her hair wet.
“I like your plants, your place is cute. I can pick you up and take you home tomorrow if you’re up for that.”
She grins and gets up on her tippy toes to kiss him once again, an innocent little smooch he graciously accepts and reciprocates.
“And how about the day after that, and then the day after that, and the next week after that…”
Clark laughs at her and puts his jacket he’d been using to shield her from getting doused by the rain, squeezing her hip with another smile and going back in for yet another because it was too good to pass up.
“Absolutely. Rain or shine, I’ve got you.”
“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow then. Bright and early. Do you have my number? Wait, hold on,” she unzips her purse and shuffles through it before finding her keys, unlocking the door and barging inside. Clark remains respectfully at the doormat, not willing to push any boundary this early, besides a car makeout here and there. He watches her in blissful astonishment as she scribbles on a piece of paper, folds it up then marches back to put it in his front pocket herself.
“For emergencies. And you know, anything else.”
Anything, she says. Anything else. “Right. Yeah. I’ll text you.”
“Please do. And text me when you’re home safe!”
“I will,” he chuckles, leaning his head back down to steal another goodbye kiss before he walks back to his car with a pep in his step that he hasn’t had in a long, long time.
“Bye!”
She waves from her porch before he chastises her to get back to her house so she doesn’t stay in the rain, but she just sticks her tongue out at him then goes back anyway.
It all felt intoxicating. He wondered if he could even drive in such a distracted, head in the clouds state like this.
His gut fluttered with butterflies and his cheeks hurt from smiling so much, back on autopilot as he starts up the car, blasts the volume back up and turns back to the main road. It felt overwhelmingly unreal that he can still taste her lip gloss and how much it’s rubbed off on him. How he can still feel the ghost of her hands touching and caressing parts of him that haven’t been touched and felt like that. He has stars floating above his head like he’d been knocked the fuck out, unconscious.
Just as he’s venturing back to the street towards his place, his dick starts to feel wet against his left thigh. Still trapped by his boxers and his trousers, that same familiar sensation creeping back up on him before he could press the gas after a red light turns green. He clenches his jaw and tries to stay concentrated with tight hands on the wheel. Gasping when his dick starts tingling as he’s teased and rutted on by that same mysterious force, gliding him in between their lips, teasing their opening with his tip.
Clark barely makes it home and sticks his face in the steering wheel, licking his lips, breathing with his mouth stuck open. He feels when it goes inside, how the thrusts are long and filling and slow at first, excruciatingly wonderful as it’s taking him in down to his balls. Drenching him down with wet arousal on every pull out. His full body shivers again, butts his head against the wheel five times before accidentally bumping the horn.
Mortified with horror, he ducks his head down as much as he could and peaked around to catch only a few witnesses of his neighbors taking out their trash bins out on the curb. He awkwardly waves and subtly grabs onto his bulge through his trousers, dampness seeping through the fabric. With a braced huff, he counts to ten to enjoy the warm embrace before he’s exiting his vehicle, slamming the door and not bothering to fix his floppy hair before snatching his briefcase from the backseat, covering his crotch from the world and jogging to his door, soft rain still falling from above.
When he makes it inside he throws his belongings to the ground, rushes his clothes off akin to how he did on his lunch break earlier. As naked as he was born with those glasses still on, he lies back on the couch and clenches his jaw, absently thrusting up into the unknown heat. Feels the heat react with more tight clenches, taking his breath away. He closes his eyes and hugs a pillow to his abdomen while he pictures his new co-worker on top of him again, bouncing just like this wet heat on top of him right now. Wants her lipgloss to stick to his skin, wants to be engulfed in her hair, her perfume, her smile. Her laugh when she’s making fun of him.
Without any warning but the pit in his stomach squeezing and dropping, he cums like a fountain and it ripples out of him so fast it punches him into a straighter posture, all the sudden sitting up. He sees his own cum lathering his dick and his pubes, and he can distinguish the very moment she’s cumming not long later too.
After Clark lays there and chugs an old but full glass of water lying on his coffee table, he caught up to his breath as he tries to get himself together to draft up a text when he finds the energy to get up and pull that crumbled piece of paper out of his pant pocket.
With multiple tired, anxious tries of attempting to find some neutral ground between sounding caring and interested versus sounding desperate or obsessive, he takes a deep breath and presses send before he could talk his mind out of it.
Hey this is Clark. I made it back home safe awhile ago and forgot to let you know. Just wanna say I had fun and I’ll pick you up around 8:30 if that’s cool. Good night :)
Clark thinks of throwing his phone across the room to ignore the insecurities bubbling out of him. What else should I say. Was what I said too much. Will she even want to kiss me again? She said she’d tell me if my breath tasted bad. What if tomorrow things are different—
A text tone buzzed his couch cushion, phone screen lighting up. Surprised but delighted, he rips it back up off the couch and shoves it in his face to read carefully.
I probably had even more fun than you. Glad you’re home safe and I’ll see you tomorrow :) 8:30 sounds perfect Mr. Yes Man. I’ll be waiting out front for you, get good rest! goodnight!
Gobsmacked, he’s left re-reading the same words over and over and over until his eyes grew heavy and he knew time for bed was gonna have to be a little early tonight. He brushes his teeth, wishing he could keep the remnants of her lips on his mouth but knows he just has to wait until tomorrow for more kisses. With a hiss he scrubs his dick of the sloppy mess left thick and slathered on his entire lower half with a warm washcloth.
While he’s in bed he idly wonders what her nights looked like. If she spends them alone like Clark does. If she was more outgoing than him, had people over, went out more. If her life had more color on the pages than his. Dirtier thoughts naturally start to seep in after that, threatening to really take over the narrative he’s built in his mind. Does she touch herself nearly as much as he does? Can she cum multiple times if she’s coaxed? Does she take more charge or does she want him to take over? Or maybe she wanted both. He could do both.
Endless wonders still can’t help flooding his thoughts, so much so that they infiltrate his dream as he slowly drifts off to sleep. Dreaming of her on top of him, of playing with his tie before yanking on it to pull him around as she pleased. She got down further and nuzzled her cheek against his bulge through his office pants and took him out to lick it down like a lollipop was between his legs, even squeezing on him so good it hurt a little bit.
The dream ended with her on top and riding him, backwards cowgirl style, tight hold of his tie still in her fist. When he’s pulled out of his dream and awoken it’s around two in the morning, and somehow his dick had gotten just as wet and used in the night again, this time while he wasn’t even conscious. Clark thought he’d aged out of having any more dirty, raw, cum-in-his-pants type of wet dreams like these. He guessed that now after the day that he had and the girl that he met that everything was about to turn upside down.
. . .
thank you thank you to everyone who commented and reblogged and liked my first part im so happy you guys are enjoying its so fun reading everyone’s reactions :) i like the alternating POVs too for this between her + him
****(only able to fit 50 tags per post, I’ll make another one linked to this post so I can tag the rest!)
(partial) tag list: @7angel7spit7 @imsonotweird @fuhinn77-blog @sunflowers-and-rainy-days @astraea-and-her-novels @brains-2-beauty @theplaid-wearingmoose @navybluelover @kirbyisking99 @ifyouseethisnoyoudont22 @idontexistrightnow @caffeineaddicty @tinythebunni @contaminatedcupcake @klarkcentral @tragicgirl23 @carlandoxlestappen @thecheeseman27 @darker0moon221b @bad-wolf1991 @just-aliyah @iceyyycapsicle @rrosesandtears *rest of tag list will be in separate post linked to this one cause of the tag limit!
a/n: Here’s my little “get well soon” gift for @kryptidfiles !! Imagine this wrapped in a huge bow with flowers sticking out from every side. EVERYONE GO FOLLOW HER BLOG and I hope you enjoy!!
Summary: You made the mistake of turning sex into casual conversation with your coworker and accidentally start the worst HR violation of your life.
Classification: Smut +18 | coworkers to lovers, several smut scenes, alcohol consumption, rude/arrogant Scott Miller, oral sex, fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, rough groping, protected and unprotected sex, doggy style, missionary, squirting, ass smacking, marking/bruising, praise, dom/sub dynamics, workplace boundary issues and emotionally repressed idiots in love.
Word count: 9,2k
There was a difference between good sex and great sex, the same way there was a difference between getting fucked and being made love to...
Good sex was what you expected from anybody decent enough to make it that far with you. It was the kind people talked about casually with their friends, the kind that came up over drinks after someone asked, “So, was he good?” Good sex happened on Tuesdays after work with the guy from Hinge who insisted on taking you out somewhere too expensive for a second date. You split a basket of fries, drank half a beer because you still had work in the morning, drove home with exhaustion sitting heavy behind your eyes, then let him fuck you well enough to sleep for four uninterrupted hours.
Good sex was practical and predictable. It convinced your body you were living a normal life.
Great sex was different. Great sex happened after work parties when your mascara was already smudged and your heels were in your hand by midnight. It happened on weekends with nowhere to be the next morning. You never talked about great sex because it sounded exaggerated the second you said it out loud, like you were overselling a man nobody else would understand. Great sex made you cum or at least brought you close enough that your stomach tightened every time you remembered it afterward. You thought about great sex while driving long stretches of empty highway, your hands steady on the wheel while your mind wandered somewhere warmer.
Great sex stayed in your body for days. You caught yourself replaying parts of it absentmindedly while standing in line for coffee or brushing your teeth before bed.
Then there was getting fucked…
There was no cleaner way to define it. It lived somewhere between fantasy and urban legend, passed around between women in half-serious conversations that always dissolved into laughter. Everybody claimed to know someone who’d experienced it but nobody could explain it properly. Getting fucked was the kind of sex that distracted you in the middle of the day badly enough to make you stop what you were doing and change your underwear. It sat dangerously close to the limits of what sex could actually be before the whole thing collapsed under its own weight.
If a guy treated you too much like an object, it fell apart immediately.
If you didn’t orgasm, it didn’t count.
If you weren’t still thinking about him six months later at red lights and in grocery store aisles and during lonely hotel nights, then it wasn’t that either.
Getting fucked sat at the very top of the scale, lit up like something obvious and somehow most men still missed it completely.
Being made love to was worse and more dangerous, honestly.
For somebody like you, it could become embarrassing fast. Storm season kept you on the road for months at a time, bouncing between states, sleeping in motels with stiff sheets and weak air conditioning. Off-season meant office buildings, weather models glowing across multiple monitors, long meetings about funding, new equipment and data collection. Your life moved constantly and men liked that at first. A woman who was smart, busy, gone half the year, financially stable and difficult to pin down.
Men loved the idea of you because it excused the fact they never had to give very much. Most of them thought they were in love but really, they just liked access to somebody they found impressive.
Before all of that, you used to think being made love to meant passion…intimacy. That it was slow sex with somebody who knew your body so well they could pull an orgasm out of you patiently and confidently, like it mattered to them as much as breathing did. You imagined hands lingering at your waist, sleepy conversation afterward, somebody brushing your hair away from your face before kissing you again.
Instead, you ended up underneath men who mistook enthusiasm for intimacy. You stared at ceilings while they grunted above you, listened to them breathe your name like they were performing something instead of feeling it. Sometimes you felt your stomach turn from the boredom alone, your body rocking mechanically with theirs while your mind drifted somewhere else entirely to storm reports, grocery lists and whether you needed to change your oil before the next drive west.
You never let them finish once you realized you hated it, that was the one thing you refused to fake. You pushed them off, sat up and reached for your clothes while they blinked at you in confusion. You told them it wasn’t going to work, sometimes you said it gently and other times you just didn’t bother. Either way, you watched realization settle over them while they sat there flushed and humiliated, their ego bruised worse than their feelings ever were but somehow your harsh words still made them cum…
Needless to say, after a while, you stopped having sex altogether.
You were in your rental house after a long day spent staring at storm data and listening to Javi ramble about whatever breakthrough he thought he’d made this time. It was late, the entire house felt heavy and warm, every light dimmer than usual and lately, you weren’t alone nearly as often as you used to be.
Scott sat at your dining table with your laptop open, shoulders slightly hunched, completely absorbed in columns of numbers and radar models. You’d known him for two years and he’d been your partner for one of them.
People were right about him. He was direct to the point of rudeness, arrogant enough to make most people defensive within five minutes and mean when he thought someone deserved it but unlike most men in your field, Scott had learned how to admit when he was wrong, far from gracefully or happily but still, he did it.
The two of you were impossibly stubborn in almost identical ways, so sharing space with him sometimes felt like being trapped in a room with a sharper version of yourself. Separately, you were both good at what you did but together, you were nearly impossible to beat.
You couldn’t pinpoint when “coworkers” had turned into Scott walking into your house without knocking, helping himself to your fridge and sitting at your table like he paid rent.
“Best orgasm you’ve had during sex?” His voice came from across the room, casual and flat, like he’d asked you about rainfall percentages. He didn’t even look away from the laptop while he said it.
You’d forgotten he was meeting you there before the two of you drove to the bar together, which was why you were still walking around in sleep shorts and a bra, trying to find something decent enough to wear without looking like you’d spent an hour trying.
You took a sip from the beer he’d already pulled out of your fridge and nearly snorted into the bottle. “You think men do that?” you asked as you disappeared into your bedroom.
“To you?” Scott finally looked up. His eyes tracked your movement automatically while he reached for the beer the two of you were apparently sharing now. “I hope so.”
He took a drink as his eyes followed your movement.
You walked back into view holding two dresses on mismatched hangers. “You’re a fucking idiot,” you said plainly. “And maybe a pervert.”
Scott pointed at you immediately. “You’re changing in front of me. I could probably keep count of your bras at this point and I don’t. That actually makes me less of a pervert.”
You disappeared back into your room. He could hear hangers scraping against the closet rod while you searched through clothes with growing irritation.
“Just because it doesn’t make you hard doesn’t make you not a pervert,” you called back, your voice muffled through the wall.
“How do you know I’m not?” he shot back instantly, sounding almost offended by the assumption.
Silence followed but about a minute later, you walked back out wearing a dress he’d never seen before. It was simple, fitted enough to make his eyes stop for a second before continuing downward automatically. You crossed the room toward him, letting your heels drop onto the hardwood before slipping them on one at a time.
“You’re not attracted to me, Scott,” you said flatly.
He looked up slowly then, his eyes dragging over the length of the dress with enough attention to make most people nervous. On you, it just made you impatient.
“You seem awfully confident about that.”
“I am.” You adjusted the strap on your shoulder before glancing toward his laptop screen. “So don’t say shit that makes me sound stupid.”
Scott looked back at the laptop fast enough to make the movement obvious. He pretended to scroll through data he’d stopped reading the second you started undressing in the next room.
“I’m ready,” you said. “Good to go?”
“Need five minutes,” he muttered.
You walked behind him toward the front door, tapping his shoulder as you passed. “The data will still be there tomorrow. C’mon, Scotty.”
The teasing grin in your voice made something in his jaw tighten. You disappeared outside before he could even think of an answer.
Scott closed the laptop harder than necessary and stood, quietly adjusting himself through his jeans with the irritation of a man betrayed by his own body. He shut off the lights one by one and grabbed your keys from the counter before locking the door behind him.
The porch light was off so you couldn’t see the tent in his jeans. Thank fuck for that.
“Scotty was an eight-year-old with chubby cheeks,” he muttered while locking the deadbolt. He glanced over at you waiting by the passenger side of his truck. “It’s Scott.”
“It’s whatever I decide it is,” you replied easily.
He rolled his eyes and walked down the porch steps, unlocking the truck with a sharp click.
“Come open my door.”
“Since when do you need me to do that?” he complained, already circling the hood anyway.
“Since you got comfortable commenting on my bras.”
Scott stopped in front of you to stare before reaching around your waist to pull the handle open. The movement brought him close enough to smell your perfume underneath detergent and beer.
You smiled to yourself while climbing into the passenger seat because for once, Scott didn’t have anything smart to say.
Talking about sex with your coworkers was probably the least professional habit you could develop but professionalism stopped mattering after twelve-hour drives, shared motel rooms, gas station dinners at midnight and enough close calls together to make normal boundaries feel unnecessary. There were barely any women in the field to begin with, which meant the few of you that existed clung together fast and Scott, despite being deeply irritating most of the time, was easier to talk to than most people.
Brutally honest people usually were.
At some point, conversations that started as jokes during long drives turned into real discussions about relationships, sex, exes and every disappointing person either of you had ever slept with. It happened slowly enough neither of you noticed the line moving until it was already somewhere far behind you.
HR would’ve had a heart attack.
That night, you learned Scott Miller did not do good sex. If good sex existed to him at all, it involved two people fully clothed and standing on opposite ends of a room.
The bar was more crowded than you expected, packed wall to wall with storm chasers, meteorologists, researchers and people who somehow always smelled faintly like dust and gasoline no matter how clean they looked. Whenever women in the field found each other, there was an unspoken tendency to group together immediately, so you spent most of the night at the bar talking with another researcher from Oklahoma while music pounded so loud you felt it vibrate through the floor beneath your heels.
Eventually Javi appeared beside you carrying drinks you absolutely weren’t going to refuse. He handed one over before leaning closer, lowering his voice.
“What’s wrong with Scott?”
You blinked at him. The question caught you off guard enough to make your brows pull together immediately because nobody ever asked about Scott. People either tolerated him, argued with him or avoided him entirely. Whatever problem Scott had, he usually fixed it himself before anyone could notice it existed.
Your eyes scanned the crowd automatically until you found him near the back corner of the bar with a soda in his hand. Of course he wasn’t drinking, he stood half-shadowed against the wall looking deeply unimpressed by the concept of social interaction…and staring directly at you.
Your eyes narrowed slightly until Scott finally got the message and looked away first.
You turned back to Javi. “Do you mean tonight or in general?” you asked dryly. “Because I’m pretty sure he was dropped as a child, but you’d have to ask his mother for confirmation.”
Javi frowned harder. “I mean tonight. He looks tense and it’s making me uneasy.”
“It’s Scott. He always looks tense.”
“More than usual.” Javi glanced over his shoulder carefully. “Tell him to relax for once…and to make some friends. That’s literally why we came here.”
You pointed at yourself immediately. “Why am I responsible for that?”
Javi shrugged like the answer was obvious. “Because you speak ‘Scott’ fluently. Translate what I just said into something he’ll actually understand.”
Your gaze dropped to the drink in your hand. “You’re bribing me.”
“And that drink cost me twenty-five dollars,” he replied. “So yes. Go.”
You snorted into the rim of your glass. “Pretty sure stress is what’s making you bald, by the way…not Scott’s burning gaze.”
Javi adjusted his baseball cap defensively. “Just go talk to him.”
You shook your head, already grinning despite yourself and pushed through the crowd toward the back of the bar, which Scott noticed immediately.
The music got louder the closer you got to him, voices bleeding together into useless noise, so instead of trying to shout over it, you reached forward and hooked one finger through the belt loop of his jeans.
“Outside,” you said simply, tugging once as you moved toward the exit.
Scott followed without argument, that alone should’ve concerned you more than it did.
The plan was for him to ask what you wanted once you got outside. Instead, somewhere between the crowded bar and the exit door, he got distracted watching you walk ahead of him. Your dress moved against your hips every few steps, exposing flashes of leg skin under the low bar lights and the muscles in your bare back moved subtly every time you pushed through another cluster of people.
Inevitably, Scott’s eyes dropped lower before he caught himself.
By the time the two of you stepped outside into the cooler night air, he still hadn’t said a word.
You finally let go of his belt loop once the two of you were far enough from the entrance that the music had dulled into muffled bass behind you. You turned to face him properly, folding your arms across your chest as you looked up at him.
“What’s your current issue?” you asked.
“Current?” Scott repeated, brows pulling together.
You nodded once like the question made perfect sense.
“When’s the last time you had sex?”
A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Excuse me?”
He shrugged carelessly, shoving one hand into the pocket of his jeans. “What? Are you the only one allowed to ask those questions?”
You laughed again, this time shaking your head as you pointed at him. “Yes. Obviously.”
Scott snorted.
“And those are long-drive questions,” you continued, motioning vaguely toward his truck behind you before pointing back toward the crowded bar. “Not ‘parking lot outside a packed bar’ questions.”
“You still need to answer.” He shrugged again. “Those are the rules.”
“Have I ever told you how stupid those rules are?”
“First time I’m hearing complaints since you’re the one who made them,” he replied with a grin.
“You’re insufferable,” you muttered under your breath before taking another sip of your drink.
Scott stayed quiet as he just watched you over the rim of his own soda, patient and expectant in a way that immediately irritated you because he clearly thought he was getting an answer eventually.
“Are you seriously gonna make me answer?”
“I can’t make you do anything,” he said calmly. “But I can wait. I still have to drive you home.”
You looked up toward the entrance of the bar. Through the windows you could still see people packed together under neon lights, laughing too loud, talking over each other about work, storm patterns and equipment failures. You’d already reached the point of the night where conversations started blending together into white noise.
“Can we leave now?” you asked.
Scott didn’t answer verbally. He just pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocked the truck with a click, then held his hand out toward your drink.
“Get in and lock the doors,” he said as he took the glass from you and turned back toward the bar to return it.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” you called after him while walking directly to the passenger side and doing exactly that.
Honestly, you didn’t mind answering the question. The problem was that once you actually thought about it, you realized you weren’t entirely sure how long it had been. It had been long enough that you had to start considering technicalities and long enough that the answer became embarrassing and unfortunately, thinking about sex while sitting alone in Scott’s truck immediately led your brain somewhere unhelpful…
Scott eventually climbed back into the truck and shut the door behind him. He didn’t start driving right away, he just sat there in the dark, one hand resting on the wheel while the dashboard lights cut sharp shadows across his face…waiting, because the thing about car questions was that silence usually came first.
“A year and a half,” you blurted out finally. “Give or take.”
Scott’s head turned toward you so fast it almost looked painful. “No,” he said immediately. “I don’t believe that.”
You laughed in disbelief and looked toward him. “Believe whatever you want, Scott. I answered the fucking question. That’s the game.”
“A year and a half?” he repeated, staring at you like you’d confessed to murder. “What the hell do you even do on weekends?”
“Currently?” you replied dryly. “Sit in your truck while you annoy me.”
“No,” he said, already turning the key in the ignition. “You’re irritated because you’re sexually frustrated.”
You barked out another incredulous laugh.
“And you’ve been sexually frustrated since I met you,” he continued as he shifted the truck into reverse. “Which explains why you piss me off every single fucking day.”
“Excuse you?” You turned toward him fully now, half laughing from sheer disbelief. “First the bra comments and now this? What’s next? Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?”
“Put your seatbelt on.” The command came out flat and automatic.
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do, Scott. I’m not drunk enough to–”
The words died in your throat the second he reached across you.
His arm slid in front of your chest while the truck reversed smoothly with his other hand still turning the wheel. His forearm brushed against the underside of your breasts accidentally…or maybe not so accidentally and your breath caught hard at the sudden closeness. Scott grabbed the seatbelt beside your shoulder, pulled it across your body in one sharp movement, then clicked it into place at your hip without looking away from the rear window once.
You drove home in complete silence.
No radio or conversation, just the steady sound of tires against asphalt and the occasional flick of the blinker while Scott kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. You’d heard every version of his voice over the last two years, sarcastic, irritated or sharp enough to make grown men defensive in meetings but hearing him tell you to put your seatbelt on while his arm pressed across your breasts had done something deeply unfortunate to your brain.
This was entirely your fault. You were the one who made sex an acceptable topic between the two of you, you were the one who turned it into a game, into background conversation during long drives and late nights. Somewhere along the way home, your definition of good sex had rewritten itself around that precise moment.
For most people, that probably counted as foreplay, but for you? It counted as a serious fucking problem.
By the time Scott parked outside your house, your thoughts had spiraled so badly that you barely registered the truck stopping. You stayed seated even after he cut the engine, staring forward blankly while the silence settled heavier around you.
Scott got out first without saying anything and walked around the front of the truck toward your side.
The passenger door opened. You looked up just in time to feel him lean in and reach across you again, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric stretched over your waist as he unclipped the seatbelt. The contact lasted maybe a second but that was already too long.
Only then did you finally move. You climbed out quickly, making an effort to keep close to the truck instead of brushing against him, then headed straight for your front door while digging through your purse for your keys even if it was practically empty and somehow that made it worse. You found lip balm…receipts…some loose cash, everything except what you actually needed.
Scott followed behind you quietly.
You still hadn’t found the keys when his arm appeared beside you, reaching around your body with frustrating familiarity. He’d had your keys the entire night, he usually did whenever the two of you went out together because you constantly lost track of them.
The metal clicked softly as he unlocked the door for you.
Your breath stalled as Scott stood so close behind you that you could feel the heat coming off him through the thin fabric of your dress. His chest nearly touched your back, one arm still braced near your shoulder while he turned the lock. It boxed you in completely, your body caught between the door and him and the worst part was that it felt good.
The sharp heat low in your stomach made that painfully obvious.
Good sex, apparently, was standing fully clothed on your own porch while your coworker unlocked your front door…all while standing right behind you.
The lock finally clicked open. You pushed the door open and stepped inside fast to put distance between you before turning back toward him.
Determination sat stiffly in your chest now…You were staying dressed. Whatever this weird tension was had to be alcohol-fueled, temporary, deeply stupid or preferably all three and gone by morning.
Unfortunately, Scott looked unfairly good standing on your porch under weak yellow light.
At some point he’d taken off his cap, you didn’t know when and hadn’t realized until now. Why did he look dreamy!? His hair was messy from running his hands through it all night and the expression on his face had settled back into that unreadable calm that somehow made things worse.
“Night, Scott,” you said quickly, then shut the door directly in his face…very determined to remain dressed.
“Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?” That sentence replayed in your head later for one humiliating reason: Scott Miller had never been the kind of man to hand off work he could do himself.
You’d been wrong earlier, completely wrong.
Great sex didn’t happen on weekends or after parties or during long-awaited moments with somebody you trusted. Sometimes it happened five minutes after you slammed your front door in a man’s face and tried convincing yourself you still had common sense.
You stayed standing by the door after closing it, palms warm against the wood, waiting to hear his truck start. You expected the familiar sound of the driver’s side door opening, shutting and the low rumble of the engine before he pulled away but nothing happened.
At first you told yourself you were imagining the silence because you were still too aware of him…then a full minute passed…followed by another and then three more.
Five long, miserable minutes where your brain refused to focus on anything except the fact Scott was still outside your house.
You opened the door expecting embarrassment or maybe annoyance, maybe him realizing he forgot something. Instead, he was still standing there in the same position with that same unreadable expression, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans like you hadn’t just shut the door on him…five minutes ago.
You stared at each other for a second too long.
You never figured out what exactly snapped first. Pride, self-control or curiosity…maybe all of it at once again.
One second he was standing on your porch and the next you were grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him forward hard enough to make him stumble into you as your mouth crashed against his.
The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the fragile determination to stay dressed shattered. You didn't just invite Scott in, you practically hauled him across the threshold, pulling him into a kiss that tasted of alcohol and months of suppressed frustration. It was messy and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongues that left you both breathless.
You stumbled backward, the friction of your bodies fueling a fire that had been simmering for far too long. As you navigated the space, your heels clicked erratically against the floor until you kicked them off with frantic movements, one flying toward the wall and the other sliding away as you backed into the dining area.
You hit the edge of the heavy wooden table and Scott didn't miss a beat. He gripped your waist with bruising force and hoisted you up, the sudden elevation making you gasp into his mouth. He didn't stop kissing you but his path shifted, lips sliding down your jawline to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands were everywhere, frantic and demanding, sliding up the fabric of your dress and bunching it up around your waist until your thighs were bare and shivering against the cool wood.
You felt his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, tugging them down with a sharp, decisive motion until you could kick them off, exposing you to the air. As he lowered himself, his mouth found the swell of your breasts through your dress, biting lightly against the fabric on his way down between your legs.
"You don't need to do that," you managed to moan, your voice trembling as he moved your weight, sliding you toward the edge of the table until you were perched precariously, your legs naturally falling open.
"Shut up," Scott muttered against your skin, his voice a low, arrogant growl that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your clit as he finally settled himself firmly between your thighs, the heat of his body radiating against your wetness.
Then, he dipped his head. The first touch of his tongue was a shock of heat, it was wet and precise. He dove right in, tongue licking upward from your perineum to your clit in one long, sweeping stroke. You arched your back as a loud moan escaped you since it had been so long since you’d felt anything this raw, this focused. You were starving for it and Scott was feeding off of you with a primal intensity that blurred everything else out.
He used his hands to grip your hips, pulling you closer to the edge so he could bury his face in you as he kneeled. He began to lap at you with a rhythmic, punishing speed, his tongue flattening out to cover as much surface area as possible before narrowing into a sharp point to flick relentlessly against your clit.
The sensation was overwhelming. You began to squirm, hips jerking instinctively against his mouth as your fingernails clawed at the tabletop. You weren't just enjoying it, you were unraveling.
"Fuck…Scott...please," you whimpered, though you didn't know what you were asking for.
He responded by changing your position. He pushed you flat onto your back on the table, the hard wood pressing into your spine and hauled your legs up, draping them over his broad shoulders. The position left you completely exposed, your pussy flared open and glistening in the dark room.
He didn't stop the oral but added more by sliding two fingers deep inside you, stretching you open while his tongue continued to hammer away at your clit. The combination of the internal pressure and the external friction was too much. You were shaking, breath coming in short, jagged gasps as your feet drummed against his back.
He could tell you were close, encouraging him to increase the pressure, fingers curling inside you to hit your G-spot while his tongue sucked your clit into his mouth, creating a vacuum of pleasure that felt like it was pulling your entire soul out through your cunt.
“Holy s-shit!” Your head thrashed from side to side, a loud, unrestrained scream tearing from your throat as the orgasm hit you like a freight train. It was violent and all-consuming, your internal muscles clamping down hard on his fingers as waves of intense pleasure crashed over you, leaving you whimpering and twitching on the table.
As the peak slowly subsided, Scott didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his breath hot against your sensitive skin, slowly lapping the remaining juices from your pussy. He cleaned you thoroughly, his tongue lingering on every inch of your swollen cunt until you were completely spent, lying limp and shivering on the table, finally satisfied.
He straightened slowly from between your legs, chest rising hard with uneven breaths that matched your own. His mouth was swollen and wet when he licked across his lips absentmindedly, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made heat crawl back under your skin even while your body still twitched from the orgasm.
From your place sprawled across the dining table, you stared up at him in stunned silence. Your thighs were still trembling now against his sides and you were almost certain your expression looked ridiculous, wide-eyed and dazed in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to look around another person in years.
Scott held a hand out toward you and you took it automatically.
He helped you sit up first before guiding you carefully off the table, one hand steady on your waist while your legs struggled to cooperate beneath you. The second your feet touched the floor, your knees nearly gave out entirely.
Scott wiped his mouth with his palm. “Goodnight,” he said and the gentleness of it caught you off guard more than anything else that night had.
His hand slipped away from your waist and the two of you just stood there for a second, staring at each other while trying and failing to breathe normally again.
Then Scott turned and walked toward the front door.
You stayed frozen in place while he opened it and left your house without another word. A few seconds later you finally heard the sounds you’d been waiting for earlier, the truck door opening, shutting and the engine starting before he drove off into the night.
You tried walking toward your bedroom afterward and immediately realized your legs barely worked. You ended up half stumbling down the hallway, one hand dragging along the wall for balance because your entire lower body still felt weak and oversensitive.
Great sex…that had been unbelievably, painfully great sex.
You thought about it constantly afterward. In the shower, during calls and meetings, while sitting in traffic or lying awake at night staring at the ceiling with your thighs pressed together. You didn’t mention it to your friends or talked to Scott about it, even during the long stretches of silence that filled the truck during drives. The two of you understood what happened without discussing it directly, you’d crossed a line and both of you seemed aware that talking about it too much would probably drag you over it again.
The following mornings, you waited for him outside on your porch instead of letting him walk into your house like usual. Mostly because you’d spent the entire week masturbating to the memory of him between your legs on your dining table before getting ready for the day and you didn’t trust yourself to survive seeing him inside your kitchen before sunrise.
For one solid week, you slept perfectly. No insomnia or late-night work spirals, no pacing around rooms or answering emails at one in the morning just to keep your brain occupied. Whatever tension usually sat under your skin had disappeared completely and now it sat between you both instead.
Every drive felt heavier, the silence stretched longer and every sharp inhale from him made your stomach tighten unexpectedly until eventually you got sick of pretending neither of you noticed it.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” you interrupted suddenly.
Scott glanced toward you briefly, eyes leaving the road for barely a second before returning forward. “Do you want to?” he asked.
“I don’t,” you admitted. “I feel like you do though.”
“You’re right.”
You snorted quietly and looked back down at the laptop balanced across your knees.
“I thought you liked being right.” Scott added.
“Fucking love it,” you replied automatically before grimacing. “Usually.”
Silence settled again until you broke it. “Okay,” you sighed eventually. “Maybe one thing.” You turned to him properly this time. “I wasn’t that drunk that night. Actually, I wasn’t drunk at all. I had that one beer before we left my place and the rest were mocktails.”
Scott turned his head enough to study your face for a second. “I wouldn’t have touched you if you were drunk,” he said flatly. “I’m an asshole, not fucking stupid.”
You leaned back against the seat slowly. “Even that’s changed.”
His brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”
“The coffee for starters,” you said. “The lunches, too. You stopped buying disgusting gas station sandwiches and now we actually eat dinner out like normal people.” You gestured vaguely toward him. “You used to hand me coffee with five sugar packets on the side because you couldn’t remember how I took it. Now it’s magically perfect every fucking morning.”
Scott adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.
“I thought eating around other people would make this less weird,” he admitted. “And I got tired of sugar packets all over my truck.”
“Our truck,” you corrected automatically before pointing at him accusingly. “And nothing about this is normal, Scott! You ate me out on my dining table!”
“Stop yelling at me.” His tone stayed frustratingly calm.
“Why?” you shot back. “Is it making you hard?”
Scott shifted in his seat hard enough that you noticed instantly. Both his hands locked tighter around the steering wheel while he stared straight ahead at the road. The tension in his jaw became visible because unfortunately for him, you weren’t wrong.
The last week had changed things. You looked less exhausted and less tightly wound. You hadn’t snapped at him once during work and he hadn’t gotten a single unhinged one a.m. email from you all week because for the first time since he’d met you, you were actually sleeping.
“So when are we doing it again?” he asked finally, against every ounce of common sense he had left.
NEVER…that should’ve been the answer. It was the logical answer, the responsible one, the answer two coworkers with already questionable boundaries should’ve landed on immediately.
It just wasn’t the truth.
You had always maintained that getting fucked couldn’t happen in motel rooms. It didn't matter how good the sex was, the second cheap carpet, bad lighting and a rattling air conditioner got involved, the whole thing dropped several levels automatically.
Motel sex could be great, sometimes even memorable but it couldn’t be that, so the next time it happened definitely wasn’t in a motel room.
The weather that day had turned bad enough to keep everyone grounded but not dangerous enough to send your team chasing storms through three different counties. There was heavy rain, low visibility and too much lightning for comfort but not enough rotation to justify going out.
At some point, without either of you actually saying it outright, waiting the storm out in Scott’s apartment became the plan instead of sitting cramped inside the truck for hours pretending the tension between you didn’t exist.
You still couldn’t pinpoint who made the first move once the elevator doors closed behind you.
One second you were standing beside him soaked at the edges from the rain, listening to distant thunder through the concrete parking garage and the next, Scott’s hand was inside your pants like it belonged there.
You gasped hard into his mouth as his fingers slid against you immediately, already somewhat familiar with exactly what made your hips jerk forward. The kiss that came after barely counted as one, it was messy and distracted, interrupted constantly by your breathing and the quiet sounds you kept failing to swallow down.
The elevator ride lasted less than a minute but by the time the doors opened onto his floor, your orgasm was already hitting you in sharp waves around his fingers while your forehead pressed against his shoulder to keep yourself standing.
If you weren’t already fucked, you were about to be.
You’d been inside Scott’s apartment before. A handful of times after late nights working or when weather reports needed reviewing somewhere quieter than a crowded diner. You remembered the big windows first, stretching across the living room area with a full view of the skyline in the distance. Tonight they framed heavy gray clouds and rain pouring so hard that it blurred the city lights into smears of white and yellow.
Scott barely gave you time to look around because the second the apartment door shut behind you, his hands were on you again. He walked you toward the living room with rough impatience, pulling your pants down from behind while you stumbled against the edge of an armchair. Your underwear followed immediately after, dragged down together in one quick motion before pooling around your ankles.
The air in Scott’s apartment was heavy, charged with the static of the storm raging outside. The gray light of the overcast sky filtered through the windows but the atmosphere inside was scorching.
"Kneel," he commanded as he pointed toward the armchair, his voice a low, authoritative rumble.
You didn't hesitate. The tension that had been building between you for weeks, the unspoken glances and lingering touches, had finally snapped. You sank to your knees on the plush seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. You leaned forward, gripping the headrest with both hands, body already trembling in anticipation. You were completely exposed to him, your ass tilted back and waiting.
Scott disappeared for a moment, leaving you in a silence broken only by the distant roll of thunder. When he returned, the sound of a foil packet tearing echoed in the room. You heard the metallic click of his belt unbuckling and the slide of a zipper.
The anticipation was agonizing. You heard him roll the condom on, followed by the wet sound of him spitting on the head of his cock to make the entry smoother.
He stepped up behind you, heat radiating against your backside. He lined himself up and then, with one powerful, decisive surge, he thrust deep inside you.
You let out a sharp, strangled whine, your fingers digging into the fabric of the headrest. It had been so long since you’d felt a man inside you and Scott was massive. The initial stretch was borderline painful, a blunt force that filled every millimeter of your tight, starving pussy. You blinked rapidly, tears pricking your eyes as your body struggled to accommodate his size, your breath hitching in your throat.
Scott didn't give you time to adjust. He reached forward, his large hands clamping onto your hips with bruising force and yanked you backward, pulling you deeper onto his cock until there was no space left between you.
"I wanna see you," you moaned, your voice broken and desperate, trying to twist your torso around to look at him.
He didn't let you. Instead, he leaned in and sank his teeth into the skin of your shoulder, a sharp bite that made you moan despite your best efforts. His hand moved from your hip to your jaw, gripping it firmly to keep your head pinned forward.
"Just focus," he rasped calmly against your skin, the contrast of his steady voice and his firm grip sending a shiver of submission down your spine.
He let go of your jaw and began to thrust. He didn't start slowly, he hit you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. The apartment was suddenly filled with the sound of your sudden, loud moans and frantic curses. You collapsed forward, your chest pressed against the headrest, your body jarring with every hit.
As he hammered into you, Scott reached around, his hands finding your breasts. He didn't bother undressing you further, he grabbed your boobs firmly over your clothes, squeezing and kneading them with a rough, possessive grip that matched the violence of his hips.
"I'm gonna fuck you on every surface of this apartment," he growled. "You'll be seeing a lot of me."
The sex quickly became raw and primal and so, so fucking good. The sound of skin slapping against skin, mixed with the wet, rhythmic thud of his pelvis hitting your ass filled the room, competing with the roar of the thunder outside. Every thrust shook your entire frame, quaking your body from your head to your toes. You were whimpering loudly now, the pain of the initial stretch having completely melted into an overwhelming, white-hot pleasure you never thought you could feel.
Your eyes watered, staring out into the distance of the room, the world blurring as the friction built. It was fast, harsh and so perfect that you found yourself wanting to bite the armchair, your teeth sinking into the fabric as your back arched violently. You were unraveling, the long period of abstinence making you hypersensitive to every inch of him.
"I'm right there, keep going! Scott, please! Don’t fuckin’ stop." you whined, voice echoing through the apartment.
He didn't, he instead increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and more frantic, drilling into you with an obsession that felt like he wanted to merge his body with yours. The thunder peaked with a deafening crash that seemed to trigger something inside you.
Suddenly, your internal muscles spasmed. A wave of heat exploded from your core and you felt a sudden, uncontrollable gush of fluid. You were squirting, something that had never happened to you before, the hot spray soaking the armchair and your own thighs. You began to shake uncontrollably, your legs giving out as you sobbed out of pure pleasure into the headrest.
Scott let out a guttural groan, the feeling of you flooding around him driving him over the edge. He loved it, hell, he was obsessed with the way you were falling apart under him. He kept going, ignoring your tremors, continuously driving himself into you as you peaked into a mind-blowing, screaming orgasm that left you completely breathless.
With a final, deep thrust, he groaned loudly, coming hard into the condom.
The momentum stopped abruptly. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you frozen, chests heaving in unison.
Slowly, he withdrew, the wet sound of his exit punctuating the silence with an obscene pop.
You both watch the rain lash against the glass, the gray light illuminating the wreckage of your passion. You took a long, shuddering breath, body still twitching from the aftershocks as your pussy twitched around nothing, back arching further needily, earning a smack from him.
"Holy fuck," you both breathed simultaneously, the weight of the encounter settling over you in the heavy, humid air.
There was no going back after that day. Not to abstinence, not to disappointing hookups or to pretending sex was something casual and forgettable that fit neatly between work schedules and storm reports.
Once Scott got his hands on you, everything else lost appeal embarrassingly fast.
What started as isolated incidents quickly turned into a pattern neither of you seriously attempted to stop. It was a terrible idea professionally, obviously, but somehow the two of you functioned better afterward. Meetings became easier, long drives felt lighter and you argued less viciously because the tension always had somewhere to go now instead of festering under your skin for weeks.
You started going home together most nights under the excuse of saving gas money. Then showering together afterward became another practical decision because apparently water bills mattered too now. Somewhere between shared coffee in the mornings and him keeping spare clothes for you at his apartment, things moved quietly into something neither of you had planned for and the worst part was that it worked.
The sex stayed incredible. Sometimes rough enough to leave hickeys along your skin and fingerprints fading across your thighs and hips by morning, or other times slow enough that you ended up tangled together for hours afterward while thunderstorms rolled outside the windows. Every now and then he fucked you hard enough to leave you shaking afterward, staring blankly at the ceiling while he stood in the kitchen making you food like that was a normal sequence of events but eventually you realized it wasn’t just about that anymore.
You started having actual dates without calling them dates, it was dinner after work that lasted until restaurants closed around you. You went grocery shopping together because both of you were too exhausted to go separately and you began falling asleep on opposite ends of his couch while weather models played quietly on television screens neither of you were really watching.
Off-season made it worse.
Without constant travel, motel rooms and adrenaline keeping you both distracted, there was finally time to explore whatever this thing between you had become. You drifted naturally between your house and his apartment depending on whose place seemed closer to the office that day. Half your belongings somehow ended up at his place and vice versa. You texted each other constantly during meetings despite sitting twenty feet apart, phones hidden beneath desks while coworkers talked around you.
Scott started bringing your coffee to your desk already made exactly how you liked it before you even decided you needed one. You started buying his preferred cereal without asking if he wanted any. He slept better with you in his bed and you stopped grinding your teeth in your sleep when he stayed over.
So naturally, being made love to finally happened exactly the way you once thought it would and it wasn’t some exaggerated version of romance men convinced themselves they were capable of after two drinks and mediocre conversation.
It sort of snuck up on you. It was Scott pulling you into his lap while both of you were exhausted after work, kissing your shoulder absentmindedly while you read through data on his laptop. It was him waking you up slowly on Sunday mornings with his hand sliding under your shirt and nowhere either of you needed to be. It was sex that lasted forever because he knew your body well enough to take his time with it, knew exactly what made you gasp, what made your legs tense and what made you hide your face against his neck when the pleasure became too much.
He paid attention and it made all of the difference. Scott learned your body like he learned storm patterns, thoroughly and obsessively, until touching you became instinct to him and it showed…
The morning light filtered through the curtains of your bedroom in soft, golden slats, painting the sheets in hues of amber and cream. The house was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of your shared breathing and the distant chirp of birds welcoming the dawn. You were tangled together, skin on skin, the warmth of the duvet trapping the heat of your bodies in a private, humid cocoon.
There was no rush, no storm to outrun and no urgency born of desperation. There was only the heavy, sweet weight of Scott pressing you into the mattress. You were both fully naked, your limbs entwined in a lazy, possessive knot.
Scott began slowly, his lips tracing a path of fire across your collarbone. He wasn't just kissing you, he was tasting you, tongue swirling against your skin in slow circles that made you shiver. He moved lower, mouth finding the sensitive curve of your breast as you let out a soft, airy moan. He took your nipple into his mouth, sucking firmly while his thumb and forefinger pinched the other peak, twisting it just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
You arched your back, your fingers sliding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. The friction of his chest against your breasts was intoxicating, the rough hair of his torso grazing your sensitive skin.
He shifted, sliding his body up so he could look into your eyes. His gaze was dark, filled with an intensity that felt more overwhelming than any of the rougher encounters you'd had. He didn't move to flip you or push you into a different position, instead, he settled between your thighs in a classic missionary stance and pushed inside. There was no latex barrier this time, no clinical snap of a condom. It was raw, wet and absolute.
The sensation of his bare skin sliding against yours was a revelation. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt the full, throbbing heat of him filling you completely. It felt different, more intimate and permanent. The lack of a barrier made every ridge of his cock feel amplified, every pulse of his blood echoing against your own internal walls.
He didn't start with the punishing pace of the past. Instead, he began to rock, his movements slow and agonizingly deep. He pressed his palm flat against your stomach, pushing down firmly to tilt your pelvis, ensuring that every thrust hit the deepest part of you.
"Gripping me like a fucking vise…so perfect." he groaned, his voice a gravelly morning rumble that vibrated through your chest.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles to pull him even deeper. You were lost in the rhythm, the slow, sliding friction creating a build-up of tension that felt like a tightening coil in your belly. You ran your hands through his hair, your nails lightly scratching his scalp as you moaned into the first rays of the morning sun.
The intimacy was suffocating in the best way possible. As he continued to rock, his movements grew slightly more urgent, the slow glide turning into a passionate, driving force. He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, tasting the salt and sweetness of your skin while he continued to pinch and tease your nipples, hand roaming your curves with a familiarity that spoke of a deep, obsessive knowledge of your body.
It didn’t take long for your breath to become shallow, chest heaving as the pleasure began to peak. You could feel the walls of your pussy clenching around him, milking him with every deep stroke. Your body tensed, toes curling into the sheets as a wave of heat crashed over you. You cried out, a long, melodic sound of surrender, as your orgasm ripped through you in slow, pulsing waves that left you shaking beneath him.
Scott didn’t slow his pace as his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily. He continued moving, the intimacy of the connection almost too much to bear.
"Want to be done?" he whispered, his voice strained, muscles trembling with the effort of holding back.
You looked up at him, eyes hazy with pleasure and affection. The thought of him pulling away felt wrong because you wanted everything. You wanted the weight, the heat and the mark of him.
You shook your head with an escaped whimper, pulling his face down to yours. "Don’t you dare pull out…’want you to come inside." You breathed.
The request broke the last of his restraint. Scott let out a guttural sound, a mix of a groan and a sob and began to drive into you with a renewed, primal intensity. It was a desperate, loving hunger. He hammered into you, movements strong and deep, each thrust a claim and a promise.
As he reached his limit, his grip on your hip tightened, fingers digging into your skin. He thrust one last time, burying himself as deep as physically possible and you felt the hot, thick bursts of his cum flooding into you. The sensation of him filling you from the inside out was the most intense feeling you had ever experienced, a physical manifestation of the bond that had grown between you.
In the height of his release, as his body shuddered violently against yours, he gasped out the words he had been holding back.
"I love you," he choked out, the confession raw and unplanned.
The world seemed to stop for a heartbeat. You felt a surge of emotion that rivaled the intensity of the orgasm, a warmth that started in your chest and radiated to your fingertips. You tightened your hold on him, pulling him down for a deep, searing kiss.
"I love you too," you whispered against his lips.
He collapsed onto you, heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your own, both of you spent and glowing in the morning light, finally and completely entwined.
A few years ago, you would’ve hated the idea that Scott Miller of all people would end up teaching you everything worth knowing about sex. It would’ve bruised your ego badly, especially considering how seriously you once took those stupid categories and scales in your head before Scott showed up and ruined all of them completely.
Good sex stopped mattering.
Great sex became expected.
Getting fucked became routine enough that you lost count somewhere along the line, usually around the third orgasm of the day and definitely before he started dragging you into his lap halfway through work calls just because he felt like bothering you…with his hands and dick.
But somehow, even after all the rough sex and ruined schedules, Scott still managed to make love to you exactly the way you once imagined it should feel.
So if somebody offered you the chance to go back and do it all over again, you would without hesitation.
You were an absolute HR nightmare now and what a fucking delight that was!
A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!
Look at him just chewing the FAWK out of that gum 😭 (wait chew me next)
summary: tired of the parade of men falling at your feet at lex luthor's wedding and your silence from last night's fight, clark decides to take you on a wild ride in his best friend's ferrari.
wc: 2.6k
tags: set in an au/smallville where clark was bffs with lex before everything went to shit, oneshot, plot what plot, smut 18+ MDNI, rough!clark, things break™ and tear™
a/n: part of the KENT - a clark kent furniture-breaking collab with my clark harem <3 go read the other brilliant fics on there! had so much fun writing this. thank you @tw1sters for hosting this and letting me be a part of it! (i did not think i was going to post this on time. hope you enjoy!)
The roar of the Ferrari was doing very little to muffle the frantic beat of your heart. You wanted to stay mad at Clark— you really did— but it was hard to maintain a cold shoulder when you were coasting along the Metropolis coastline at sixty miles an hour. Close to midnight. Wind in your hair, your favourite tune blasting out of the speakers, all while you boyfriend's hand was splayed heavy and warm on your exposed thigh.
What was a girl to do?
Clark finally cut the engine, parking inside a small alcove, a quiet sanctuary where the dark expanse of the Atlantic crashed against shoreline. It was the spot where Clark had professed his love for you over a year ago.
"And why are we here?" you asked, trying to feign anger still.
"I don't like it when you're mad at me, sweetheart," he murmured softly. The nickname sounded just slightly different when he was dressed in rich velvet, and sitting in an expensive car.
You climbed out, the silk of your dress catching the sea breeze, and perched yourself on the sleek, red bonnet of the car. Clark followed immediately, his coat discarded, sliding onto the metal beside you. When you pointedly shuffled a few inches away, he simply closed the gap, his shoulder bumping yours.
"You're so cute when you're mad," he teased, though his eyes held something that felt anything but playful.
"Don't belittle me, Clark. You can't just drive me to our spot and expect everything to be okay."
A cold, salty gust of wind swept over the cliff then, and you couldn't suppress the shiver that ran down your spine.
"C’mere," Clark said, his voice soft. Before you could protest, he hooked his hands under your arms and pulled you up and directly into his lap.
Suddenly, you were encased in him. He was a solid wall of heat, his arms wrapping around your waist to block out the cold. His familiar, clean scent filled your senses. He tucked his chin over your shoulder, pulling you flush against his chest.
"Better?" he whispered into your ear.
The contrast was jarring. Barely an hour ago, you were surrounded by the suffocating opulence of Lex Luthor’s wedding. Now, there was only the salt spray, the hum of the Ferrari and Clark's warmth.
"We shouldn't have left," you breathed, though you made no move to get away from him. "Lex is going to notice his car is missing. As is his best man.”
"You're forgetting that Lex has a bride to keep him occupied tonight," Clark murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to hum through your very marrow.
You knew that tone in his voice too well, and your breath hitched in response.
"He won’t miss the car, and he certainly won’t miss his best man."
He shifted, his nose brushing the sensitive skin behind your ear. "Besides, I had to get you out of there."
"Why?" you asked, your voice barely a breath as his lips grazed your pulse.
"Too many men looking at you," he whispered, his voice clouding with something darker. He wasn't even trying to hide it. "Too many people trying to find an excuse to get close to you. It was starting to get to me."
You turned your face slightly towards him in the cradle of his arms. "Oh, so this is a rescue? A selfless act for your own peace of mind?"
"Partly," he answered, a small, sheepish smirk playing on his lips. "Is it so wrong to want my girl to myself?"
He pressed a kiss to the slope of your shoulder, his lips barely grazing the skin, yet the heat of it made your eyes flutter shut. It was dizzying— the freezing chill of the Atlantic breeze a stark contrast against the burning furnace of his body. Looking out at the moonlight dancing over the waves, the anger you’d been nursing all evening began to dissolve, feeling petty and distant.
"Is this how you plan to make it up to me?" you asked, breathless, as his hand drifted to your hair, brushing the strands away to expose the nape of your neck.
"Does it feel like a good start?" he countered, as he pressed his lips to the curve of your throat, his pull a little too sharp, a little too hungry. A flash of heat ignited in your chest, radiating downward.
His hand landed softly on your thigh, his palm a searing weight against your skin. He began to drag his hand up and down, fingers inching dangerously close to the high-cut hem of your slit.
"Clark," you warned, voice already low, stripped of its restraint.
He hummed in response, the sound deep and resonant against your skin, his hands slipping past the silk.
"God," he groaned, the sound raw as his fingers met with your slick, aching heat. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes dark with a sudden realization.
“You haven’t been wearing anything under this all night?"
His fingers started to move with a languid pressure against your folds, gliding and squeezing for a reaction.
"You sat through dinner like this? Right next to me?"
"Didn't have— hnnmph— anything to go with the gown," you managed to gasp, hands slipping behind you to fist into his hair.
"Love punishing me, don't you?" he murmured, his voice a low rasp against your ear.
A response died on your tongue as Clark slid his fingers inside you, filling you completely. He knew exactly how much pressure to apply—damn him— wrenching a moan from your throat.
"You looked so beautiful tonight," he cooed, biting your ear, as he continued to scissor his index and middle finger into you, curling it and beckoning your peak closer.
"Look even prettier like this."
He watched you— watched the way your eyelashes fluttered, the way your lips parted for air, the way they cried his name— drinking in the sight of you coming undone in his arms. The press of his fingers in all the right places sent you hurtling to your peak in no time. The orgasm tore through you, a white-hot wave that left your muscles trembling.
"Hate making my girl upset."
Before you could even float down from the high, Clark’s hands were spinning you around. In one fluid motion, your back hit the bonnet of the Ferrari. Clark pressed himself flush against you instantly, his heavy frame pinning you to the car as his mouth devoured the column of your throat. Between his dark gaze and the warm-from-before bonnet, you felt like you were on fire.
His fingers hooked into the delicate straps of your dress, dragging them down until the silk gave way, exposing your breasts to the biting air. The sudden chill made your nipples peak and the pulse in your core jump. Clark’s half-lidded eyes darkened to an almost black as he took in the sight before him— your messy hair, your heaving chest and your spread-eagled limbs.
All so open. Waiting. For him.
Ducking his head, Clark latched onto your right breast, mouth warm and wet against your skin. He hitched one of your legs over his hip, his hard length grinding against your core through his thin trousers. The friction was maddening— a steady rhythm that made you hiss into the air. You were gone, lost in a haze of salt and the searing heat of his skin as he moved to the other breast, his tongue swirling against your pebbled nipple until you were sobbing his name into the dark.
"I've been waiting to do this all night," he groaned, his voice vibrating against your skin. You could only whine in response.
Without breaking eye contact, he sank to his knees between your legs, bunching up your dress as he went. His hands slid behind your thighs, dragging you to the very edge of the bonnet, and then his mouth was there— cupping your leaking cunt with a hunger that made your toes curl in your heels and back arch right into his perfect nose. The pressure of it all; the feeling of his face buried into your pussy made your eyes roll into the back of your head.
The first sweep of his tongue was broad and firm, tasting you, before settling into a relentless pace that threatened to send you right back to your peak. He lapped you up, flicking at and sucking the small bundle of nerves; the darkening in his eyes, as he gazed up at you from between your legs, pushing you over the edge once more.
Clark crept back up to you, claiming your mouth in his; the taste of yourself on his lips maddening. He nipped and sucked at your lips until the coppery tang of blood bloomed between you. The sting only fueled the fire; it made your head swim with a delicious lightheadedness while heat crashed through your core.
"Fu-uckk. I need you baby," you moaned against his mouth, hands framing his face. You’d been dying to tear through his shirt all evening, despite the anger.
Or rather, because of it.
And so you did, pulling and scratching at the shirt till the buttons popped and his heaving chest loomed into view.
Clark didn't need to be told twice. He pulled back just enough to fumble with his belt, the sharp screech of the zipper echoing in the silence. He looked beautiful under the peeking moonlight in the alcove, the light glinting off of the sheen of sweat and your cum covering his face and chest.
When he finally freed himself, his length was thick and leaking, a heavy heat that made you feel heady with want. Teasing, he let his cock brush against your aching folds, gathering your arousal on him, before pushing in slowly.
He let out a low, animalistic growl just as he seated himself deep within you, your eyes fluttering shut at the sensation. He grasped your hips, his fingers sinking into your skin, bruising, and began to move gently. You lifted yourself just ever so slightly, back arching into him for the proper angle.
“I'm sorry, my darling,” he whispered, as your walls clenched around him, struggling to accommodate his sheer size.
Was he sorry for splitting you open like this? Or for the fight from last night? You didn't really care at the moment. Couldn't. Because Clark picked up the pace then, every thrust sending a jolt of lightning through your spine.
"Clark... please," you begged, your head lolling back against the car. The alcove had long disappeared. The world had narrowed to Clark, you and the erotic sound of slick friction between you as he dragged himself in and out of you.
It was tantalizing— the slow burn of his thick cock against your heated self. You'd been so mad last night, so irritated, that you'd slept on the couch and hated every bit of it, hated not waking up to his arms around you, or his morning wood pressed up against your back.
And now, you couldn't even remember what the fight had been for.
Clark leaned over you, his palms slamming down onto the bonnet on either side of your head to anchor himself as he began to move faster. He moved with unchecked power, jaw tight, his breath coming in hitches against your neck. Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, nails digging crescents into the hard muscle, as a desperate whimper was ripped from your throat with every dragging slide of his length. Everytime he buried himself into you to the hilt, the friction against your aching clit sent you into overdrive.
"God, my love," Clark whispered into the crook of your neck. "You're taking me so good."
You were coiled tight soon, gliding along the edge of a crescendo, as Clark filled your senses. You loved when sex with him felt like this; rough, earnest and raw— like nothing else mattered.
Suddenly, there was a whining creak, and a growl from Clark as he shot up into you. You happened to glance down, and immediately felt your face heat up. His release mixed with your own wetness, had formed a thick ring of white around his shaft as he continued slid in and out. He was still hard— you could all but keep yourself from moaning at the sight— and he kept pumping into you, driving his thrusts even deeper and deeper.
You were not in control anymore. Clark was simply using you, moving your hips up and down, drilling his cock into you, dragging you across the metal bonnet of the car like a ragdoll, sure to leave burns all across your back and ass.
Not that you cared. You were far too gone, floating in the limbo of subspace, feeling the sheer force of him, his strength, as he drove you toward a peak so intense, it felt like the earth was shifting beneath you. Moan after moan tumbled out of your lips, as he bought both of you to the very edge again.
Then, the world seemed to actually sink under you with a violent, bellowing noise.
Just as the climax rocked through both of you, Clark let out a moan, his body locking as he poured himself completely into you. In that same instant, a loud crrrr-eak of protest screamed through the air. The Ferrari hissed, a cloud of steam erupting, as the radiator shattered and the front completely buckled under you.
Your eyes flew open, chest heaving, to absolute carnage around you.
Clark had completely flattened the bonnet; the heavy Italian machinery crushed beneath his force. The tires had blown out with the pressure, hissing as they deflated.
And, worst of all, where his hands had been bracing his weight, two deep handprints were pressed clean through the reinforced metal.
Clark stayed over you for a long beat, his forehead resting against yours, panting, the heat still rolling off him in waves. He glanced at the wreckage— a shadow of a smile pulling at his mouth as he looked back at you.
"Clark," you breathed, half-laughing and half-horrified, voice wrecked from him. "Lex is going to kill you.”
"Lex—", Clark kissed you hard, "will be fine," he rasped, his voice still tantalisingly low. He reached down, his thumb tracing the bruised edge of your lip before withdrawing. The car groaned again, settling deeper into the sand as his weight shifted.
He stepped out of the wreckage and reached for you, his hands wrapping around your waist to lift you effortlessly from the ruined metal. Instead of setting you on the ground, he held you against his chest, your heels dangling, keeping you encased in his arms.
"How the hell are you going to explain this to him?" you asked, feeling completely spent suddenly.
"I’ll tell him I hit a patch of ice," he said, his voice smooth and entirely unbothered. He nuzzled against your side, pressing another chaste kiss to your bruised lip.
"In Metropolis? In the middle of spring?"
“I’ll crush it more, make it unrecognizable. Tell him the car totaled while we were getting gas.”
You shook your head at him, a small, sluggish smile playing on your lips. He set you down then, his fingers lingering on your hips as he looked down into your eyes.
His were still dark, and twinkling.
Oh, no. Oh, yes.
"Besides," he added with a wicked drawl that made your knees weak all over again. "By the time he sees the car, we’ll be back at the farm, and you’ll be in my bed.”
You quirked an eyebrow at him. “In your bed, huh?”
toy flesh [explicit 18+] — [part 1] Clark randomly feels someone sitting on his dick even when he’s alone in his room. pretty much. part one for that magic toy prelude in my masterlist
. . .
Clark thinks it has to be a one off thing. Has to be. A wet dream too close to reality that somehow got his dick a little too wet. A hallucination manifested in some relaxing body tremors that felt so good it ultimately had him cumming everywhere in his pants, untouched, with the book he was nose-deep in forgotten while he lied down and stared at the wall in wide eyed, wide-mouthed shock. What just happened? How did that just happen?
He holds out hope that maybe he’ll get to touch himself and get rid of this pent up energy, get it flushed out of his system, not feel the same unexplained touch of someone else’s body—someone else’s flesh directly on top of him. While he goes about his daily routine before work he doesn’t ever stop looking down at his dick like he’s checking in on it. See if it falls off or grows a bigger brain of its own. Pulls his waistband out to take a confused peak while he’s scrubbing his teeth, foam running down the corner of his mouth. Watches his dick swing around and reluctantly roll upward and harden again from the memory even as he’s ironing the fine lines in his button down shirt.
It felt juvenile. It felt ridiculous.
What grown man couldn’t keep it down and stay soft for a dull eight hour work day?
He has to fondle himself to the memory again before he leaves, cum uncontrollably splashing just about everywhere even though he prepares himself with a tissue right at the tip. The shirt he spent nearly fifteen minutes ironing had to get thrown in the wash and replaced with something wrinkly and unkempt, but at least it was free of cum stains.
Clark sighs as the elevator door opens up to his office floor, trudging over to his desk and setting his briefcase down. Skips right over to their break room’s coffee maker to brew up a sugary full cup for the day ahead of him. Jimmy gave him a greeting with a rougher pat on the shoulder, jolting Clark in a reactionary shiver when he thinks back to being touched in bed by no one or something while he was withering all alone in his room.
He pushes his glasses up his scrunched up nose, letting out an almost disgruntled sounding hey.
Jimmy squints at him, noticing the offbeat attitude of his close friend and coworker. “You good, man? Sleep alright last night or did somebody take a hot piss in your Froot Loops?”
“Slept… slept fine, it’s just I’m kinda going through stuff right now. I don’t know.”
Clark swallows and stirs his steaming cup after dropping another sugar cube in. Jimmy pats his shoulder once again, trying to get Clark to meet his eyes with a tilt of his head.
“You know… maybe it’s about time.”
“What?”
“You know, dude, maybe it’s that time. Time for you to get yourself laid. I think it could help flush out some of these nerves in your system. You seem so tense. I know a few girls that would hop on that train, if you know what I mean.”
Clark turns beat red rather quickly, taking a long sip to gather his thoughts and come up with a response.
“Yeah you couldn’t have been any more direct actually. I… listen I understand, but it’s not that. Trust me, I’m getting… more than you think. I guess. Cause something like, something happened last night, I don’t even know how to explain it. And I liked….. it. It’s just really weird so maybe now’s not the time to discuss—“
Jimmy laughs a long, boyish giggle and slaps one of Clark’s broad shoulders, pulling Clark further aside into the corner with a look around for any coworkers meandering.
“Dude, I knew it. You found yourself a lady. You’ve been getting some and you haven’t been telling me. That’s really lame of you man, I thought our friendship had no barriers—“
“I haven’t met a— look, okay, it was weird, and I mean really really weird. I don’t know if you’ll understand it or if it’ll just sound crazy.”
“Whatever crazy thing you’re about to say, I’ve probably done crazier,” Jimmy assures with a knowing nod paired with a grin. “Trust me.”
“Uh, okay….” Clark clears his throat and lowers his voice, leaning down to Jimmy’s ear level. “Have—have you ever like, came untouched before? Felt someone…. down there…. even though no one else was in the room?”
Clark stares at Jimmy now, loosening the tie around his collar like he’s already broke out in another sweat just thinking about it. Wondering if it might happen again. If he has some odd guardian angel that likes to fuck him and look after him all at the same time.
“You mean you finished, no hands, completely dry? You’re living the dream. Should be more grateful. Why do you look so terrified right now.”
Clark closes his eyes and pinches his brows in a long sigh before nodding to Jimmy to follow him to the bathrooms after setting his coffee on his desk. With uneasy paranoia he peers down to check for any feet on the floor in the stalls before he continues.
“I… I don’t think you get it. It felt like someone literally rode me, like, put me inside them and came on my dick and everything. I wasn’t doing anything! Wasn’t even hard before it started happening, I was just reading. I don’t know how else to explain this or make it any clearer to you!”
Jimmy looks astounded after every word, awestruck with an open mouth. Even flashes of envy pass through his eyes while he chuckles and shakes his head. Typical Clark and his way of complicating things. Overthinking what truly sounded like a gift. “Sounds like a you’re being haunted by a friendly ghost that just wants to hop on that thing, dude. So what did it really feel like? And can I get one too?”
Clark closes his eyes and his mind goes back to last night. In the comfort of his soft sheets, legs sprawling out and taking over the entirety of his bed. How right when the plot of his novel started taking off he felt almost a tickle. A wiggle of what felt like a smooth, slithery tongue. It was unrecognizable when it started, like maybe he had an itch down there to scratch, or maybe some blood began randomly flowing down south.
When it became unmistakeable, too soft and wet to deny what was happening to him, he slammed his book shut with the bookmark in place and spread his legs wider, feeling the sweat breaking out. Feels his dick happily jump right into the warm invisible hole teasing his tip. He felt the hole clench down and struggle to take him all, slowly inching up and down like a bunny on top of what it could take. He clenched a fist at his side and held his dick up with a thumb, raising his hips gently into the heavenly heat. How the pace it had going stuttered when he did, probably in shock that he had more of himself to give.
Clark remembers crying with pleasure, pre cum getting drained out of him so effortlessly, so smoothly. Drool picks up on his tongue while he’s nearly going cross eyed, the pussy on top of him bouncing harder, bouncing faster—
“It feels— it feels unbelievable. I mean it was incredible,” Clark answers Jimmy’s question that had awkwardly hung in the air. “Haven’t felt anything like it before. Something might be seriously wrong with me.”
Jimmy raises a brow. “Watching too much porn? Just take a break. Meet a girl.”
Clark’s full body shivers, goosebumps now swarming up his arms and the back of his neck, making all the hairs there start to stand up. He feels an eager hand all the sudden grab onto his bare cock and slick their palm down, cold and wet like the hand had a puddle of lube to gloss him down.
If it hasn’t visibly shown up as a wet spot on his groin through his trousers yet, by the feeling of it it’ll start showing a dark spot soon. If he didn’t take his dick out it would surely start a puddle that would only dry as a fresh stain.
Clark takes a deep, shaky breath, turning over to grab onto the tile of the wall, resting his forehead against it and gripping like he’s engulfed in pain. Like his surroundings started spinning all around him.
“Woah, Clark. Dude. Take it easy. What’s happening?”
Jimmy gets closer to check on his friend but Clark can’t take it, shooing him off with a hurried no, it’s fine—just get out of here. I need a second. thanks!
“You sure you’ll be able to hold up the rest of today? You have enough leave. I’m sure Lois would understand—”
“Just, just…. I need to take a— I’ll take a ten, okay,” he whimpers, clutching onto the humiliating bulge growing so fast he already was showing a hefty print. “Maybe a fifteen. I can’t—I don’t know.” The hand stopped slicking up and down his cock and he feels it tease him by rubbing his length up and down a pearly wet slit, not yet having him enter.
He shoos Jimmy away and hurries to a stall, slamming it shut and locking it with his back to the door while his dick bobs around for more of her attention. Tingles sprout in his belly while his whole body starts to tense.
“Uh, okay,” Jimmy mutters. “Well I’ll leave you to it I guess? Here for you buddy. Don’t piss off your ghost girlfriend. Maybe next time she won’t fuck you as good if you do,” he laughs.
“Shut. The door. And shut. Up!” Clark howls, fumbling with his zipper and rushing to roll some toilet paper up into a ball for his tip when he’s hanging out of his boxers. He distantly hears his friend mumble a jeez, so touchy. sorry and the door creaks open and falls closed. With privacy at last, Clark is able to heave and thrust his hips gently into the beautiful, tight wet heat, little abstract murmurs and whimpers leaving his throat while his dick gets wetter, and wetter, and wetter.
“Don’t—Don’t, don’t want you to stop,” he quietly begs. Veins popping on his temple from all the straining his body is doing. “But I… I have to get back to work.”
Whatever is wrapped around his cock doesn’t pay his words any mind, sinking down all the way to his balls and creaming on his base the more they start their rough bouncing. Like they’re angry, like they’re taking everything out on his cock. Clark wished he knew what he did wrong, or maybe what he did right to deserve this kind of treatment from someone he couldn’t even see.
“I’m not gonna last, I’m not, it feels so good…. feels too good…. I can’t handle this again, not right now,” he breathes. Sees his tip bead more floods of pre cum and slip down the base of his cock, getting his balls messy with slick. The sound is obscene, with every up and down motion everything can be heard. How wet the pussy around him really is. How his cock stuffs it all the way through. If somebody came in right now, they would think he’s having real sex with a real body in this stall right now. When in all honestly, Clark doesn’t know what he’s having.
“Oh my gosh, gosh you’re more wet this time, you’re getting it so wet…. You’re gonna get me in trouble, wait…. please.”
The pussy on top of his dick starts to quiver, tremble and squeeze him down harder than before. Like it’s finally found release after a record of an eight minute round of going nuts on him like he’s nothing but a toy built strictly for their use.
Some cum that isn’t even his starts dribbling down on him, and that’s when the floodgates start to open. Clark can’t hold it anymore, and he doesn’t know how bad it’s gonna be trying to both cover his load and then clean it all up.
He whimpers and squeezes his eyes shut once again, knuckles turning white while he holds on for dear life and busts another long, drawn out nut into whatever this thing is that’s tortured him yet again. He spits out rope after rope of cum in the waiting piece of balled up paper and tries to catch it all there but a few stray drips do manage to burst out too fast for him to act. He sprays a part of the wall and whines a little no, please, please no, you made me cum too hard again, I need to get back to work.
The come down is always humbling. Seeing exactly how foolish he was acting as the sweat under his arms and on his face visibly stains his clothes and his skin. He managed to wipe off his messy cum lines off the wall and stuffs another rolled up ball of toilet paper down his boxers to soak up whatever else is leftover in his pants.
When he feels ready enough he’s still catching his breath and trying to get his blushing face under control as he heads over to the sink to splash some water on his face. Presses on the soap dispenser over and over again until more than a mountain of soap is bubbling in his palm, lathering his sticky, filthy hands.
Clark fights everything inside him to try and act natural when he heads back to his desk. Ruffles his hair more than necessary, tightens his tie, rolls up his sleeves.
The cup of coffee he’d made had lost most of its heat but Clark was so preoccupied in his head he doesn’t notice, still gulping some down and logging back into his computer to answer more messages and emails that were left for him. His eyes zone in on an email he’d been CC’d in from Jimmy and Lois about an upcoming new hire’s start date for their vacant Office Assistant position.
The email read that Clark would be assigned as the one primarily training her since he’d started out in her exact title position a year ago. Clark adds a thumbs up to the email and closes out of it to start on another assignment, thinking in the very back of his head that if his dick can’t control himself while he’s training said new hire next week he’d be blowing his brains out, not out of his cock next time.
Jimmy side eyes him from across the room, mouthing a you good? much to Clark’s bashful shake of his head, assuring him with a roll of his eyes and a tired response of yeah, I’m fine. shut up.
Lois comes out of the blue up behind him and drops a fat stack of paperwork on Clark’s desk with a tight smile.
“New hire coming in next week. You got my email right?”
Clark nods and leans back in his chair, casual as he can muster.
“She’ll have to mostly rely on you for help and onboarding, since me and Jimmy have too much going on. Travel, deadlines, some new leads finally getting back to us for interviews. So you’ll take her under your wing for us, yeah?”
“Of course. It’s not uh, it won’t be a problem,” he answers under his breath, taking another sorry sip of his lukewarm coffee. He hopes the thing in his pants won’t be a problem.
“You sure? Jimmy said you didn’t look well. You can’t call out and leave her all alone here on her first few days, it’s gonna be overwhelming in the start—“
“Jimmy doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’m fine. It’ll get taken care of,” he promised.
“Alright, then don’t get her sick, got it?”
Clark wants to slap Jimmy for even bringing up his frazzled state to anybody in the office, mortified over what had taken place barely ten minutes ago, and how unpredictable his dick was gonna act for a while. Or forever. Who even knows at this point.
“My germs are all mine,” he swears, hands defensively up in the air. “Count on it.”
Lois gives him another one of her hard stares that basically told him she’d make him eat his words if he dared showing up to the office coughing, sneezing, puking. Clark was only worried about leaving his desk for twenty minutes at a time to get his dick rode by the same tempting mystical source he had yet to fully identify, let alone begin to understand.
It never left his brain even while he worked, back of his pen stuck in his mouth to chew on while he wrote up more emails and forwarded ones from their general inbox. Hours had gone by until he had about forty five more minutes left until he could be freed and finally head home, and Clark really thought he was in the clear of having another accident during work hours.
That was up until the fucking tease went at it again. The warm, sopping wet tightness wraps around his tip and slips him in, no mercy given. His dick springs back to life effortlessly, and Clark wants to cry.
He holds his head by covering his face with both hands, scooting his swivel chair forward so his crotch was safely hidden underneath. He drools an ungodly amount at the tip, feeling how eager this round was for her, how quickly she ruts against him and has him crying softly into the sleeve of his shirt.
Clark’s mewling and groaning is muffled into his arm, too helpless to hold in any of his noise when they move in sways up and down, switching off between going deep and going shallow with their pushes. Clark is beat red all over again, giving up after several minutes of unabashed torture and shielding his wet crotch with his briefcase pressed up against him, running off back to the toilets this time to sit down and breathe while undeniably enjoying everything being done to him. Fuck the last thirty minutes of his shift. Fuck the emails and the phone calls and the scans and the letters.
Clark shuts his eyes and actually smiles for a change as he eggs on whatever higher power bouncing on top of him to keep going. Nods his head and can’t help his soft murmurings of please, yeah, yeah keep doing that, you do it so good.
It might be his new imaginary best friend, or it might be his first sign to go to a mental hospital. Whatever it was, since it’s made Clark cum this hard, he guessed it couldn’t have mattered too much if it always made him feel this good.
. . .
The weekend was spent the same way. Getting his dick milked while he lied back and screeched every time she squeezed on him some way, somehow. He doesn’t answer anyone that texts him for plans, doesn’t do the dishes or take care of his laundry like how he’d hoped. No. He whines and stutters and cries, barely able to get in the shower without his dick getting trampled on.
It’s not a long shot to think he could be developing something. A mental illness. A haunted curse that plagues him with orgasms at all times of the night and the day. He’s one more round away from calling somebody to perform an exorcism or splash holy water on him to escape this succubus that had to be laughing in his face at how easy he is to rile up.
When Monday comes around again Clark doesn’t want to take any chances traumatizing the new hire with all the blotches of cum stains littering his pants. With a scoff and a sigh he steps each leg into a second pair of boxers to make slightly more effort into covering up. Even packs a backup pair in case both pairs he’s currently wearing are soiled by the end of the day.
After a hectic first hour of scanning and distributing the stack of morning mail from the bin, he slips a stick of gum on his tongue and gnaws on the flavor with his mouth open when an unfamiliar silhouette teeters closer towards the edge of his desk from the entrance.
Clark doesn’t get to looking up until she’s clearing her throat, playing with a strand of her hair with a smile aimed at the ground.
“Hi, sorry if I’m interrupting your work. I’m actually starting today,” she explains, eyeing him up from head to toe. Clark rips his head up at the voice and clears his throat, sitting up straighter and pulls a polite hand out.
“Oh! Oh, yeah that’s right. You’re our new hire. It’s nice to meet you, I’m Clark.”
She takes his hand with a laugh. Clark wished he understood what was funny. He joins in on it anyway, anxiously chuckling while he doesn’t stop shaking her hand in his. Realizing it had been well over ten seconds of her soft palm held up in his own long, gigantic fingers, he slips his hand off of hers, lingering in the awkward air of the moment.
She nods and scans her gaze around, peaking at the state of Clark’s desk. The endless string of sticky notes, the protein shakes, the tie he’d already taken off his neck. “So am I in the right place, or—“
“Yup. Yeah, yeah you found where you should be. I’ve been tasked to uh, help you fill all this out. After that we can get you started on some basics,” he breathes out, pointing to the stack resting on the side of his desk, sticky note on top with her name on it. Clark finds himself trying a little desperately to keep himself more cool, more composed. She’s the kind of pretty that made him nervous, suddenly aware of his undone appearance, of every awkward move he makes. He stops chewing his gum with as much rigor, clenches his jaw and scratches the back of his neck.
“I started out in the position you’re in, it’s real easy to move up,” he mentions, gathering up the paperwork and attempting to straighten it out before a quarter of the pages fall from his grasp in a pile. Beat red, Clark doesn’t do anything but stare at the ground and sigh before sheepishly joining in on her laughs.
“You’re pretty organized, aren’t you?” she chuckles, bending over to pick up the few documents that landed on the floor. Clark’s jaw even drops when he catches the smallest glimpse of her hot pink colored thong poking up above from her dress pants.
“Yeah. Yeah I really am, you know. Organization is key,” he nods, tight lipped smile still on his face. He takes the pages she hands him over, watching her subtly arch her head to smell something in the air. Fuck. What the fuck? Did he even put on any cologne this morning after draining his dick for the hundredth time?
Before he could shoot himself in the head with more irrational insecurities his mind makes up she soothed his very visible worry with another laugh and a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Is it me? Do I reek like sweat or something—?”
“No, no. You don’t smell bad, you’re fine. I was just trying to figure out if you were chewing Spearmint or not,” she assures. “I like it. Promise. You do not reek of anything,” she snorted through another laugh. Clark beams, looking around everywhere but her face. Afraid his face could give his every fleeting thought away.
Thank god. “Uh, oh yeah. Yeah it’s Spearmint. You want a piece? I have a new pack,” he offers. To his surprise, she snatches up a piece out of his hand hardly before he gets to offer it to her. Blinks dumbly while she opens it up and tears the piece in half, stuffing one in her mouth and giving the other half back to him.
“Uh—“
She smiles at him, chewing the gum out of one side of her cheek. “I have this oral thing. A fixation I guess. Chewing or having something in my mouth really helps me.”
The thing about Clark is, he has manners. Has restraint. Thought he was a good boy that didn’t go on and chase any tail that came into his orbit. Especially not a new pretty co-worker. He doesn’t want to think about putting different parts of himself inside her mouth just to calm her down. Or the color of her thong. Or that wicked smile and addicting perfume to match. Something tries to draw him in closer, reason with his conscience like she’s teasing little signals, it’s not like you’re her boss or anything. if you flirt back no one would know a thing.
Clark stops his zoning out and nods his head to agree. “I get it. Having stuff in my… in my mouth cools me off too. Like—like stress.”
“You shouldn’t worry yourself that much. Seems like you’re wound up pretty tight.”
He feels like there’s this window into his thoughts standing clear as day right above his head, broadcasting every fleeting thought or mood. When he tries to look at her, stare at her back the same way she stares at him, he just wanted to run away before his own dick caught up with him.
Clark scratches his chin and sheepishly nods with his head down, agreeing with a gentle mumble, yeah you know, just normal stuff, kinda on edge. Not like he randomly cums in his pants or anything. He quickly finds a way to change subjects by directing his focus back to the work left in front of them and guides her to sit over at her new desk to fill out some new hire paperwork. She taps him on the shoulder and grins when she says his name to ask him questions. He dutifully answers everything he can, emails some higher ups to get her logins to some of their systems and trains her how they go through their mail and answer consumer’s inquiries over the phone.
She takes just about everything in a stride. Overwhelmed of course by certain things that have nuances and will take more time getting used to. Clark introduces her to more staff, waves to Lois, makes the new hire her own cup of coffee after showing her their break room. Jimmy tries to raise a brow, even wiggles both of them up and down at him from behind her back, but it only makes Clark kick him in the shin and gruffly threaten him under his breath as he’s passing by while she wasn’t looking.
Clark sends her off to her first break, telling her to meet him back at her desk for more training later. Watches absentmindedly as she picks up her purse, snatched up a lighter from one of the pockets and stuck a cigarette behind her ear, waving goodbye and strolling out to the elevator doors. Before the elevator doors close he could see her take the stick from her ear and put it between her lips, probably a habit she’s picked up from that oral thing, Clark figured. He wants to stop himself from picking apart her business but he’s too intrigued to stop, still lost in thought at his desk while he takes a break of his own.
After spitting his piece of gum out he chugs a few thick swigs of his protein shake, spaced out in blank thought. A corner of his mouth smiles when he feels the other half of that stick of gum she’d torn off and given back. His dick twitches but ultimately stayed soft, undetected in his pants. He’d shamefully started wondering how the hell his dick was so well behaved, so normal today of all days. Not that it was a bad thing. He just found it curious. Why was this the first time in days his dick wasn’t getting swallowed, rode, or came on by whatever invisible force that clearly had been having its fun tormenting him? And will it ever come back to fuck him again?
Once Jimmy finds Clark alone at his desk wiping fingerprints off his glasses, he swats his shoulder and bashed one of his knees to his swivel chair, causing him to start spinning.
“What the hey, dude—don’t—“
“This could be your shot. All’s I’m sayin,” he shrugs. Sees Clark stop his chair and shove his friend forward, only enough power to knock him off his feet a little bit. “Hey, hey! That’s all I’m saying, I said!” he laughs and defensively puts both his palms up to shield himself from any more of Clark’s wrath.
“You can’t say that stuff. Don’t. She’s new, okay! And… and she needs my help learning everything around here. She doesn’t need some big oaf getting in her business, abusing power, or being… being weird towards her,” he concludes.
“Hey, opportunities sometimes fall right out of the sky. This one just fell right into your lap. And you’re not a fat oaf dude. Pfft, you actually think being her co-worker is gonna affect anything?”
“Uh, yes it does in fact. It will literally affect everything. You think it’d be appropriate for me to treat her like that?”
Jimmy shrugs again, ruffles Clark’s curls and says he should think about reconsidering some of his rules and start breaking them in order to finally get something he wants.
When she’s back from her break her hair is damp, fresh perfume sprayed on her coat to get rid of some of the stench from her cigarette. She looks refreshed, albeit a little more flustered than she was before she left. Her boots squeak slightly on the floor from stepping out on the wet ground outside. He thinks about complimenting her boots, her coat, her hair, thinks about complimenting her everything. But his words fall short after his voice cracks from the very simple greeting of hey, welcome back.
“Hey, can I ask you for a favor after work? It’s totally fine if you say no or if you can’t. You don’t have to give me any reasons,” she assures.
Already eager to know what she’s going to be asking of him, his ears perk and his posture straightens up as he scoots his chair over to her desk.
“Yeah of course. What’s up?”
“It started raining pretty hard and the forecast says it won’t stop until tomorrow morning. I actually walked here to work, and if it’s not any trouble, would you be able to give me a lift back home?”
Clark swallows an upcoming lump in his throat, feeling his palms start to get clammy. The mere thought of the proximity was enticing. Having her next to him, in his car. Her trust in him helping her with something as intimate as having her get back home safely. He tries to answer casually, like he’s a nonchalant guy — as if the offer wasn’t any big deal, wasn’t making his heart start to beat a little faster.
What comes out though is a horribly rushed, clumsy, stuttered —
“Ohyeahofcourse, you don’t even have to worry about it!”
Jimmy’s teasing still echoes through the hallway of his brain. About opportunities. About how sometimes they seem to fall right out of the sky. How this one has fallen right into his lap.
“Thanks so much Clark, I appreciate it. You’ve been the sweetest guy. I’m really lucky to have you here to teach me everything,” she praised. Turning his cheeks pink in all of two seconds with a flat palm on his broad shoulder, squeezing gently and holding the warmest smile.
“We’re lucky to have you. You’ve been— you’ve been great,” he gulps, trying to bring the focus back to her. “We don’t have too much more to fill out, but um, I don’t wanna overwhelm you with any more new things today. Let’s wrap up this paperwork then we’ll hopefully get you on those phones to practice the last hour.”
“Great! I’m almost finished with those. And for the record I do promise where I live isn’t far, I don’t wanna be too much an inconvenience,” she laughs. Clark shook his head again, ready to protest the very idea that she was asking too much. In truth, she was so stupid pretty that if she asks him to say his ABC’s backwards he’d still give it his best shot. She almost cuts off his attempt to deny it, straightening up some of the last pages left to read over and sign.
“You are not any inconvenience. If you are, then please keep inconveniencing me,” he says, flashing a toothy smile at her. He prays to himself that it comes out right, and to his delight, she grins back, adorable face expressing back to him, well, then don’t mind if I do. “with anything you need, I’ll be here.”
Is he being too much?
“Thanks, Clark. I owe you.”
Oh? What should you owe me?
He shakes off any perverted thoughts and spares a glance at his watch.
“Are you hungry? It could be lunch time. Up to you. We don’t clock in and out, we just have timesheets, so breaks are pretty flexible.”
“Yeah, I could eat.”
Clark’s head screams well there’s a full meal right in front of you.
“Great.”
. . .
He sees her head off to the break room and start chatting with Lois, smiling at her welcoming disposition while she checks in on how her training is going. Clark knows he has the option to stay, to ogle while he ate at his desk, but he feels like he has too much steam to blow off before handling the rest of the day. With a long final exhale, he adjusts his glasses and snatched up his keys to head back home for his lunch hour.
Once he’s back at his apartment he immediately sheds his god awful shoes and his suffocating button down before he’s lying flat on his back in bed, staring up at the wall. Trying to manifest that magical touch and beckon it to come back. Beg for it even. Wonders to himself if there’s some hidden way he hasn’t figured out yet to trigger it, or if it’ll always remain spontaneous.
Clenching his jaw he angrily starts groping his crotch, trying to feel himself out. He opens one eye to peer down at his dick and see if he just thought about it hard enough he’ll bring it back to life, feel that beautiful all consuming weight drip on top of him again.
“C’mon. C’mon, please… You… you’ve fucked me every day and I took it all last night, now I want it, I need it. Right here, please?”
Clark strokes his cock while it sways back and forth against his belly, mind already feeding into an idiotic fantasy of his new hire bending over, showing him her pretty colored thong. Maybe she’d pull her panties up higher so they’re peaking out further above her waistline, or maybe she’d pull them over to the side….
He raises his hips off the bed to thrust into his fist at the thought, pants still strung down barely past his groin. Figures if he shows back up to work the rest of the day in different pants, it’s his business and his business only, and so be it.
“Oh god it was so good last time, wish you could touch me like that again…”
He knows it’s pathetic. Everything he’s doing, everything he’s saying. While he grips the tip and twists particularly tight, he shamefully whimpers out his new hire’s name while his dick starts to drip into pubes. Messy, sticky, but gosh he needed this. Clark deeply misses the warmth on top of him, the hot teasing, the bouncing, and the thrill of not knowing what will happen next—
“Oh my god….”
. . .
posting this cuz I’m so done looking at it already dear jesuslawd. if I should keep going somehow let me know I love coworkerXcoworker getting down and nasty. I like the idea of clark not knowing what’s going on and getting slobbered on by his work crush. fully no clue when/if the next part comes out oh my lawd. thanks soooo so much for all the love on the first little prelude:( im so obsessed with every reblog+comment
“It’s a pan-seared chicken with creamy mashed potatoes, roasted corn, and a tarragon beurre blanc. Comfort food but dressed up a bit. I hope you like it, Clark. Now, dig in and be honest.”
“This looks amazing,” he says earnestly, his eyes wide with a kind of quiet wonder.
“It’s nothing that crazy,” you downplay instantly.
“Well, I wish you could see what I see.”
“Ah,” you squawk in lieu of an actual response. Though you soothe yourself, knowing that if anyone else had experienced the downright heart-melting look he gave you, they’d be reduced to the speech capabilities of a bird too.
You give them a curt nod before disappearing into the back as quickly as you can. As soon as you enter the threshold of the kitchen, you press your back against the door. Then proceed to slide down it.
Why didn’t Lois tell you the friend she brought was so… handsome and sweet?
Or
Running a restaurant is hard, and you’ve been running yourself into the ground; the inspiration that once came so easily has started to dry up. But when fate, or rather, Lois Lane, introduces you to a certain cute journalist, you find yourself struck with a love you never saw coming.
Tags/Warnings: Fluff, Implied Smut, Chef!Reader, Love at First Sight, Dorks in Love, Clark Kent Being Adorable, Secret Identity Stuffs, Clark's Hypno Glasses, Cooking Together, Kissing, Breakfast for Dinner, Falling in Love, Getting Together, Love Confessions, Mutual Pining
WC: 6.1k
A/N: Between You, Me & Tuscany, Sydcarmy edits, the Shawn Hatosy Quinn audio and this fanfic called The Ingredients of You and Me (linked here if you're curious, it's amazing!), I needed to write something with a chef. Hope you enjoy!
***
Something’s missing.
You’ve been bent over your stove for the past hour, tweaking your take on the classic Béarnaise sauce, but it’s missing something.
Something you think you may never find.
With a deep sigh, you look around at the Béarnaise sauce graveyard you’re in.
You had to get this right.
Maybe it’s the fact that you’re under immense pressure, not just from yourself, and the expectations you’ve built up in your own mind. Maybe that’s why nothing makes sense right now.
You take another spoonful, tasting, letting it coat your tongue, thinking that maybe this time, something will click. But no.
It still feels hollow.
You stare at the pan, at the slow swirl of butter and egg and vinegar, and feel like giving up.
Before you can continue to beat yourself up looking for answers, you hear the familiar squeak of the kitchen door.
There stands Lois, hands on her hips, like she knows you’ve been driving yourself into the ground.
“You okay?” she asks, concerned. Without which you would have kept spiralling, or be found under a pile of dirty pans and half-finished sauces.
“I can’t cook. I’m a fraud.”
“I’m sure you’re being dramatic.”
“Am not. This stupid sauce is missing something,” you reply with a pout. You grab a fresh spoon, handing it to her. “Try it. It’s supposed to go with the porterhouse.”
She takes the spoon, blows on it slightly, and tastes, her expression softening instantly. That small look of satisfaction, that’s why you got into cooking. To make people happy.
“I may not have your highly trained palate, but I think it tastes delicious.”
“You’re too kind,” you mutter with a light giggle. You knew she’d say that, though it doesn’t bring you closer to what you're missing.
It’s not just the Béarnaise, it’s most of the menu. The restaurant has been steady, reliable to a fault, a well-oiled machine; you have a brigade of talented chefs who execute every dish with precision, though some of this place’s joie de vivre has gone.
That fresh spark is fading, and ideas are starting to feel recycled.
You knew that it was bound to happen, but only three years in? The stress of it was starting to gobble you up, feet first. If you didn’t shake things up, business would slow to a crawl.
You just knew it, it's a fickle business that thrives on innovation. But you could get it back, you just needed to keep trying, keep pushing, keep—
You hear a shuffle in the main restaurant and look towards the door.
“Is someone else here?” you ask inquisitively.
“Sorry, I brought my coworker with me. We were on our way to a café to work on an article when I thought I should drop by and check on you.”
“You’re not going to a café. Let me cook for you and your friend,” you demand, practically decided on the matter.
“I couldn’t—”
“It would be my pleasure.”
“Aren’t you under enough pressure?”
“It’ll be good practice. You could be my little guinea pigs.”
Lois hesitates, studying your face, as if she’s trying to calculate how many hours of sleep you’ve gotten from a single look.
“You sure about that?”
You wipe your hands on a towel, already reaching for a fresh pan, ready to cook your heart out.
“I need this. Just something simple, y’know. Cooking for friends.”
“Alright,” she says, a small smile breaking through. “But if I get food poisoning, I’m writing about it.”
“Very funny.”
***
Clark waits by one of the tables, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. When Lois asked if they could drop by her friend’s restaurant, he agreed.
“She’ll probably be cooking herself into a coma right about now,” she told him.
It’s a beautiful place, intimate without feeling too small. He can’t believe he hadn’t come across it sooner. From the softly painted mural of the sky at sunset stretching across the ceiling to the polished wood of the tables and bar. It felt warm, lived-in even.
His ears perk up when you start to speak.
“I can’t cook. I’m a fraud,” he hears you lament.
Your voice…there's something about it. Clark feels his heart skip a beat. He's only heard you speak once, but it's like a hit of dopamine.
He tunes back in to hear Lois compliment your cooking.
“You’re too kind,” you say in response, followed by a soft giggle. Clark feels the tips of his ears start to turn a soft pink.
He wasn’t trying to listen. Really. But his super hearing didn’t seem to want to turn itself off all of a sudden. Complete coincidence.
Though it doesn't hurt that the tones of your voice float through his head like a melody. He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly feeling like he’s intruding on something private.
He tunes the rest of the conversation out, focusing on the traffic outside and the light rain just starting to hit the pavement.
Lois exits the kitchen and makes her way over, weaving easily between the tables. “My friend says we can stay and write here if you want.”
“Oh, uh, how kind of her.”
“Yeah, she’ll cook for us too, and before you try and protest, I’ve already tried to convince her not to, but she’s as stubborn as a mule.”
They settle down at a table, the cutlery neatly aligned and cute placemats matching the mural above them.
He listens in again and hears your little mutterings to yourself, “Where did I put the shallots?” and “I need to put an order in for more tarragon…”
“Where are you?” Lois asks teasingly as she waves a hand in front of his face. Had he gotten caught swooning over a person he hadn’t even met yet?
“Just thinking, is all.”
It’s not a complete lie, just a lie by omission.
With a deep breath like you’ve been running all over your kitchen, you step out into the main dining room area. Clark hears your footsteps before he sees you, light and swift.
You come into view with a smile like sunshine, and it’s like he forgets to breathe.
“You must be Clark. Forgive me for trapping you in my restaurant, but now that you’re here, I refuse to let either of you leave hungry.”
For a second, he just… stares.
Then, as if remembering how words work, he straightens, nearly knocking his knee against the table in the process.
“Oh—no, it’s fine,” he says quickly, fumbling with his glasses again, a faint flush still clinging to his ears. “Better than fine. Great.”
Lois snorts under her breath.
“You should’ve heard her five minutes ago,” she adds, leaning back in her chair. “On the brink of a total meltdown.”
“Lois,” you warn, though there’s no real bite to it.
You turn your attention back to Clark. “So what sort of food do you like?”
“I’ll take whatever you recommend.”
You pause for a moment to look him over and attempt to read his mind. With a soft hum, you note his slightly hunched posture, his kind blue eyes behind his glasses, the way he seems both confident and yet a little unsure of where to put his hands.
An interesting case.
“You probably wouldn’t like something super avant-garde, so I’ll leave the molecular gastronomy alone. How about something warm and comforting? You’re a real home-cooked meal kind of guy, right?”
“Right on the money.”
“I can work with that. Any allergies I need to be aware of? I don’t want to kill you, talk about a bad first impression,” you chuckle nervously.
“No allergies I know of.”
You give him a nod, already filing things away. “And the usual for you, Lois?”
“You know me so well.”
“Well…you’re such a Metropolis girl. Your order isn’t that hard to figure out.”
“And what is that supposed to mean?” Lois calls after you, only a little offended, as you walk away toward the kitchen.
Clark follows you with his eyes until you disappear behind those silver doors.
And without meaning to, he's counting down the minutes until he can see you again.
***
You cooked up a little storm in there. A carrot or two may have gone flying, but it was fun, though, no pressure of trying to be the most inventive chef Metropolis has ever seen.
You lay the plates in front of them, that small pit of dread in your stomach as you debate whether they’ll like it or not. It sucks how your perfectionism can’t seem to let you go, or maybe it’s just a bout of imposter syndrome, or even better, a wonderful mix of both.
Though judging by the look on Clark’s face, you have nothing to worry about.
“It’s a pan-seared chicken with creamy mashed potatoes, roasted corn, and a tarragon beurre blanc. Comfort food but dressed up a bit. I hope you like it, Clark. Now, dig in and be honest.”
“This looks amazing,” he says earnestly, his eyes wide with a kind of quiet wonder.
“It’s nothing that crazy,” you downplay instantly.
“Well, I wish you could see what I see.”
“Ah,” you squawk in lieu of an actual response. Though you soothe yourself, knowing that if anyone else had experienced the downright heart-melting look he gave you, they’d be reduced to the speech capabilities of a bird too.
You give them a curt nod before disappearing into the back as quickly as you can. As soon as you enter the threshold of the kitchen, you press your back against the door. Then proceed to slide down it.
Why didn’t Lois tell you the friend she brought was so… handsome and sweet?
After much deliberation, you call her the next day to find out more about this classically handsome man.
The phone trolls for a few moments before she picks up with a tired “hello”.
“Lois, what the fuck?”
“What did I do?” she groans, no doubt running a hand through her hair. You're constantly stressing her out like this.
“Be honest with me.”
“Always.”
“Clark.”
“...Uh huh?”
“Are you tapping that?”
There’s a beat of silence so complete you can practically hear her blinking through the phone.
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Come on! You said you’d be honest with me.”
“He’s single. Happy now?”
You kick the air in your kitchen like it personally offended you, grinning despite yourself.
“…very.”
“Is that the only reason you called me?”
“Uh… no? I wanted to check in on my best friend—”
“You’re so transparent,” she cuts in, amused. “Go back to cooking and daydreaming about Kent.”
“That’s not—”
The line goes dead mid-protest. You stare at your phone for a second, then lower it slowly.
“…Rude,” you mutter.
You glance back toward your stove and a smile blooms on your face. You had every reason to celebrate.
He’s single.
***
He really wants to see you again.
You’ve stayed in his mind for the past few days; whenever his mind was idle, it would all somehow circle back to you. Your nervous monologuing in the kitchen as you cooked, the soft laugh you tried to hide behind your hand, the way your heart skipped a beat when he complimented your food. His might have even skipped a beat too in response.
He’s even gone by your restaurant for dinner… more than once.
“Any exciting plans tonight, Clark?” Jimmy asks, spinning slightly in his chair.
“I think I might drop by Sky Avenue,” he muses casually.
“Wouldn’t this be the fourth time you’ve been there this week?” Jimmy asks with a raised brow, every thought clear as day.
He thinks he’s crazy and maybe he’s right.
“It's a nice restaurant.”
Admittedly, he’s never been the type to frequent the same place over and over, but there’s just something about the food you make. It’s like one bite could transport him somewhere completely new, somewhere where the sun always shines and the air smells of roses; somewhere closer to you.
“You should join me. The food there is really good. Lois can vouch for it.”
“Uh huh. The food,” Jimmy grins.
Clark exhales through his nose, already regretting opening his mouth.
“Yes, Jimmy. The food.”
“Right,” Jimmy says, unconvinced. “And I suppose the chef has nothing to do with it?”
Clark doesn’t answer right away. He just fumbles with his tie a little, loosening it unnecessarily.
“…She’s talented.”
Jimmy laughs at his coy response; he’s more obvious than he thought. Turns out, when it comes to you, Clark can't hide a thing. “Oh, you’ve got it bad.”
“I do not.”
“You’ve been there three times in one week, and you want to go a fourth.”
“It’s a nice restaurant,” he asserts again.
***
The two of them sit by the window, the restaurant bustling, the sound of good conversation and the smell of good food in the air.
It’s strange just how at ease Clark feels here, like he’s seeing into a world you’ve created for others to enjoy.
“So it's not about a girl?” Jimmy asks, still unconvinced.
“No.”
A moment passes as he sees your face flash in your mind. Bright with golden backlighting that most certainly wasn’t there in real life. Or maybe you could just do that, he wouldn't put it past you.
“Not necessarily.”
Clark takes a deep breath as your laugh rings in his mind. Maybe he does have it bad.
“Not entirely.”
Before Clark can defend himself any further—
“Clark. You’re back!”
He startles slightly, looking up, genuinely surprised. He didn’t even hear you walk up.
Where’s his super-hearing now?
“I hope it’s not an imposition,” he says, standing a little too quickly.
“Not at all,” you reply easily. “Spend all the money you want at my restaurant. Plus, in all honesty, the waitstaff are always happy to see you.”
“They are?”
You tilt your head, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “It’s always nice to see a handsome face, right?”
That steals the air from Clark’s lungs in an instant.
“And you must be Jimmy. Lois has mentioned you,” you move on, not privy to the mental breakdown you’ve just caused.
The two of you converse, but he's still caught in the fact that you called him a “handsome face.”
He tries to focus, but then you look at him again, and whatever thought he had just… disappears. He blinks, catching himself, and gently tunes back into the conversation.
“It’s an honour, Clark.”
“What is?” he gulps.
“That my restaurant is your…coup de coeur.”
“Coup de cœur?”
“It's like…”
You tap your chin as you try to find the words, your eyes widening when you finally do.
“It's like you have a crush on my restaurant.”
“That's a good way to put it.” He smiles but thinks what he’d dare not say out loud, “Not just the restaurant.”
***
You're still buzzing from seeing Clark last night. You had heard that he's been by, but he's always been too in the weeds to go out and say hi.
And he looked just as good as you remembered, like the kind of guy you'd end up in a whirlwind romance with. Though you might be getting ahead of yourself.
It’s a slow lunch, the usual clientele lining the tables by the windows, lingering over wine and quiet conversation.
When a rumble shakes the floor—
And when there’s a rumble in Metropolis, there’s bound to be property damage.
You step out of the kitchen into the front, eyes darting to the windows just in time to see Superman.
He’s darting through the sky, a streak of red and blue, lifting debris, carrying people to safety.
Though you're afraid, you feel your heart start to calm. He’d keep you safe, you knew that.
Later, when the worst of it has passed, he lands nearby, scanning the area one last time.
You step outside before you can overthink it.
“Uh, Superman?” You squeak as you walk right up to him.
He turns to you with that million-dollar smile, “Yes?”
He can sense him assessing you for any injuries, ready to help at a moment's notice.
“I—”
You pause, head tilting slightly, thinking, or rather, knowing, you heard something. It’s like your chef instincts kicked in, tuned like a sixth sense for anyone hungry in the vicinity.
“I think your stomach just grumbled.”
“My stomach? Impossible.”
Right on cue, another distinct grumble echoes through the air.
“…Wait.” You point at him, already backing toward the door. “Right here. I mean it, okay?”
Before he can respond, you’re gone.
The bell above the door chimes wildly as you rush back out five minutes later, slightly out of breath, a plate balanced carefully in your hands.
“I’m a chef, so you can trust me. This is like top-tier stuff,” you say, holding it out to him. “Slow-roasted beef, toasted brioche, plus my signature herb butter sauce. And forgive me for sounding a little cocky, but it’ll knock the socks off your grandma.”
He laughs, and butterflies flood your chest like they were activated by it.
Something about it feels warm…familiar.
“Thank you.”
“Long day?”
“You have no idea.”
He takes a bite, and you hold your breath. You might just die if he hates it. The guy saves lives, he deserves a decent lunch.
“This is amazing,” he beams.
“My first job was at a sandwich place, so I've had a lot of practice.”
“I should—”
You know what he's going to say, so you stop him in his tracks and put your hand on his.
“No, no, no, it's on the house, Superman. You just stopped the whole street from becoming a pancake; it's the least I can do. Plus, I doubt you have anywhere to put a wallet. Unless there are pockets I can't see.”
“No pockets.”
“Thought so.”
***
You found yourself inspired yet again, ideas bubbling over faster than you could keep up, churning out sandwich after sandwich after Superman’s visit the day prior.
So inspired, in fact, that you found yourself making a sandwich for a certain journalist you couldn’t quite stop thinking about, sending it to the Daily Planet with a note: “Since you like my food so much.”
As you cool down from your lunch service, your phone buzzes. It’s a text back from Clark, with the cutest slightly off-centre picture of him holding the sandwich, a thumbs up taking up half the frame, like he’s just discovered selfies.
You snort at it, typing out a quick, “Don’t let it get cold.”
He’s such a dork.
You feel yourself brimming with ideas nowadays. You can’t stop them; you’re a fountain of inspiration. Everything just makes sense, like it’s just clicking into place. The puzzle in your mind slowly completes itself. Everything that new feeling goes straight into what you’re cooking.
As you bounce ideas off your sous-chef, pacing slightly, hands moving as fast as your thoughts, she chuckles.
“I haven’t seen you this inspired in a while.”
“Yeah, something’s changed, I guess,” you mumble.
“Or someone?”
“Hm?”
“The super hot guy that’s shown up three or four nights this week?”
You roll your eyes, turning back to your prep for dinner. “It’s nothing.”
“Sure it isn’t.”
You try to ignore the way your lips betray you, curling into a smile so bright that someone could see it from the moon.
***
As if to prove your sous-chef right, Clark’s here again, just stepping in as you clear down. Your head snaps up at the sound of the cars rushing by, becoming muffled as he closes the door behind him.
“Clark?” Your voice jumps an octave, far too excited to hide it. He looks good, almost good enough to eat.
“Hey, I was just in the neighbourhood… I thought I’d visit. Are you busy?"
You blink, then gesture vaguely behind you. “No, I’m just clearing up. About to head out.”
“Have you eaten?”
“Ironically, no. Why? Are you offering?” You chuckle.
“Maybe?”
Seeing him outside the restaurant?
You know you’d be a fool not to say yes.
“You’re on.”
***
After a brisk walk, you reach his apartment.
It’s all comfy and lived-in, books and newspapers strewn across his coffee table, a quiet view that overlooks the city skyline, a wide array of ambient lamps glowing softly in the evening light.
“So what are we doing?” you ask, stepping into the kitchen, leaning lightly against the counter, arms crossed.
“We are not doing anything. You’re sitting back as I cook for you.”
You think of arguing, but that thought quickly dies when you think about how distractingly appealing it would be to watch him cook, sleeves rolled up, his forearms flexing as he moves, completely focused on pleasing you, and decide to acquiesce.
“And what are you making for me, Chef?”
“Breakfast for dinner.”
“I’m sorry, did you just say breakfast for dinner?”
“Just sit back and relax.”
“Most days, I skip breakfast, so this will be a nice change of pace.”
“Skipping meals, especially breakfast? That seems illegal for a chef, no?”
“Oh, shut up.”
He leads you to his kitchen island, and you sit, watching him from your perch, chin resting in your hand, eyes following every movement whether you mean to or not.
He makes quick work of clearing space, pulling ingredients together, taking out pans and bowls with an ease that feels almost practised, starting on eggs like he’s done this a thousand times before. Though the thought that he’s made breakfast for someone like this does have you feeling a little jealous.
“How do you like your eggs?” he asks, interrupting your pouting.
“Soft-boiled,” you reply, a little too quickly, like you’ve been waiting to be asked.
He moves around the kitchen with quiet confidence, tossing bacon into a pan with a sharp sizzle.
“Why do you come by my restaurant so often?” you ask, trying to sound casual.
“It’s like you said. It’s my coup de cœur.”
“Is it just my food?”
He pauses and turns from the stove to look you in the eyes. It's so distracting that you think they should be registered weapons.
“It’s not just your food.”
You look away, knowing that if you looked any longer, you’d end up a puddle on his floor.
“Someone once told me that cooking is an act of love,” you murmur, almost like you’re letting him in on a secret.
“Yeah?” he asks softly, turning down the bacon as he approaches the kitchen island, leaning across from the other side, bringing himself just a little closer.
Eye to eye.
"It was a chef I met when I studied in France for a bit. It was this super-intense French kitchen. I felt like throwing myself in a blender half the time."
You chuckle at the memory of the head chef throwing a pan of coq au vin into the trash just as you were completely it after a single look at it. It wasn't funny haha then, and it isn't funny haha now, so maybe the chuckle is a trauma response.
“Fresh out of culinary school, it was like being on a different planet. My French was shit, I barely understood half the orders being shouted at me, but even being what felt like a million miles away, I cooked my way through it. Made the soup that my mother would make me when I got sick, or the ridiculous overloaded grilled cheese sandwich that my dad called a ‘five-star meal’. And after that one bite, it felt like I was right back there with them.”
Even now, you can taste the salty warmth of broth and melted butter on toasted bread, the memory bringing a soft smile to your face.
“And I… held onto that, knowing that they made them because they loved me. And with every dish I make, every dish I eat, I hold the idea that no matter how far away you are, one dish can make you feel right at home. It’s cheesy, I know.”
“I happen to love cheese so…”
“You love cheese?”
“My favourite’s gouda,” he admits, a little sheepish, and you lightly punch his arm.
“Of course it is. So… what's the Kent family speciality?"
“Biscuits and gravy… takes me back to potlucks and Sunday mornings with more food than anyone could reasonably eat.”
“You'll have to make it for me sometime so I can add it to my mental recipe rolodex.
“I’ll see what I can do,” he says like it's a promise.
His hand inches toward yours. You notice him hesitate like he wants to hold it, but isn’t sure if he should.
“Is that why you cook?” he asks.
“I’d say so. I don't know, I just like to take them to places they’ve never been or places they haven’t been in a while, all through food. I find it interesting, like the association of taste and memory…”
“Are we making a memory, right now?”
You nod, your mind wrapped up in a soft haze. “I think so. Breakfast for dinner will always belong to you, Clark Kent.”
Taking the leap, his hand finally closes the distance, and you feel your heart bloom like a red tulip in spring. He toys with your hand, the rings on your fingers, tracing the small scar you got from the first time you tried cutting onions too fast and nicked yourself for it.
"Cooking is an act of love..." He repeats.
You huff, nudging him lightly with your free hand. “You’re such a dork.”
"You're the one who said it."
"Yes, yes, that's true but..."
You look up from your intertwined hands, catching his eyes, just as smitten with you as you are with him. "There's just something about you saying it."
Letting out a slow breath, your body visibly relaxing as the moment settles around you.
“Makes it… dorky.”
He chuckles before taking your hand and kissing it lightly, the tenderness of it, sending your heart into overdrive. It was a soft brush of his lips against your hands. Hands which work so hard day after day, to feel him kiss them as if they were something precious, made you feel like you were melting.
The moment is interrupted as you both hear the bubbling in the background start to get quite ferocious, “The eggs!”
With a rush, you both fumble back over to the stove, nearly bumping into each other in the process.
“The soft-boiled eggs might be slightly hard-boiled now.”
As he lifts the lid off, the steam gets in his face, so, like the kind person you are, you reach for him on instinct. Just a simple, absent-minded gesture.
“Won’t your glasses fog up?”
Without thinking too much about it, you take off his glasses to de-fog them.
Clark doesn’t move.
You don’t even notice that Clark has become a statue as you wipe off his glasses with your sleeve, humming to yourself oh-so innocently.
Looking back up, you freeze too.
It's like you’ve both looked at Medusa.
If you weren’t mistaken, Superman was now standing right in front of you, but that can’t possibly be, right? The whole world starts to tilt on its axis as you fumble with Clark’s glasses.
What the fuck is going on?
Slowly, almost mechanically, you put his glasses back on his face. “Sorry about that.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Internally, you are absolutely not okay.
Out loud, you add, “Though we should probably talk about what I just saw.”
“…Probably.”
“You let me take them off,” you sputter out, trying to rationalise what you just witnessed.
“I didn't see it coming.”
“You're Superman. I’m sure I was practically moving in slow motion.”
“Are you mad? Scared?” he asks carefully.
“Wait, mad? Scared? Why would I be scared?”
“I can hear your heartbeat.”
“My heart isn't racing because I'm scared. I guess I'm just surprised…”
You twiddle your fingers, toying with your rings, “Excited?”
“Excited?” he repeats back to you, his eyebrows quirked up in confusion.
“Okay,” you add, slightly breathless. “Maybe a little overwhelmed. This is a lot, you’re a lot. In an amazing and kinda batshit crazy way. I mean…you’re Superman.”
“I’m still me,” he says.
“I know, I know. It's just going to take some or a lot of getting used to, I guess, because, well, holy shit.”
You gesture at him wildly, trying and failing to get your breathing back to normal.
“You’re taking this better than most people.”
“Yeah, well. Most people haven’t had their best customer turn into a superhero while they’re trying not to over boil eggs.”
He laughs at your joke, and you feel yourself ease up. Not only was he a cute journalist, but a superhero?
Jackpot.
“Did you like the sandwich I gave you yesterday…Superman?” you ask as you step into his space, your hand brushing against his.
“Yeah, it was absolutely delicious.”
Like “delicious” was your activation word, you step forward and pull him in by the tie before you can think better of it, pulling him slightly off balance.
He says your name breathy, almost desperate. You gulp, fuck, it sounds too good on his lips, those words of his.
Without delaying for another second, you kiss him like you've been starving for him all your life.
His hands find your waist, holding onto you as you try to climb him like he’s a tree.
The soft moans that escape his lips only urge you on. If you didn't need to breathe, you never would've let go.
You separate to catch your breath, your eyes locked onto one another. You're both hungry but not for pancakes or hashbrowns.
“So you’re okay with me being Superman?” he asks.
“If the way I just attacked your face is any indication, yes. Now, kiss me before I lose all my nerve.”
Like he's been waiting for it, he pulls you back in, all but melting against you. He kisses you as if his life depends on it, like he never knew it could feel so good.
Behind you, the stove clicks softly as you turn it off without looking.
As if reading your mind, he pulls back just a little bit to murmur in a husky voice, “Jump.”
You follow his order, and he lifts you up into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist.
“Fuck…” you mumble to yourself.
You could get used to this.
“Bedroom?” He asks, searching your face for any hesitation.
You nod excitedly, “Please.”
The world outside can wait.
***
Morning greets you happily, and you greet it back with a big smile.
Everything that Clark did to you last night is still fresh in your mind, just thinking about it makes you feel tingly.
You find your face pressed against Clark’s chest, his arms wrapped around you protectively.
And you must admit, his pecs make good pillows.
You sneak out of bed, successfully not waking him, ready to cook a breakfast to end all breakfasts.
Clark wakes up a while after you to the sound of a busy kitchen.
He follows the noises to see you already cooking and humming to yourself, completely at ease.
In that moment, he wonders to himself if you know just how wonderful you are. It’s like everything you do only makes him fall that much more.
“Morning,” he drawls, his voice deeper from just waking up. Your head snaps up, pupils dilating the moment you lay eyes on him.
“Good morning to you too.”
He rounds the kitchen island to wrap his arms around you from behind.
“Unfortunately, due to you keeping me up last night, we have to have breakfast for breakfast,” you tell him as you crack an egg.
“I'm sorry,” Clark murmurs against your neck, kissing your skin lightly. He just can't help himself.
"How are you making our eggs today?" He asks as he lifts his head from the crook of your neck.
“I was gonna make us omelettes. How do you normally like them? Scrambled? Poached?”
“Sunny side up.”
“I should've known.”
Among the ingredients spread across his countertop, he notices something he doesn't remember buying.
He looks between you and the bread, “This was not in my pantry.”
You shrug at him, "So what if I snuck out to go buy a baguette? It’s going to taste divine, my bread guy baked it just this morning.”
“Your bread guy?” Clark chuckles, the laugh vibrating against your back.
“Oh yeah, fresh ingredients are my love language. Just you wait until I drag you to a farmer’s market, I'll be bouncing off the damn walls.”
He kisses your cheek lightly.
“It's a date.”
***
A little over a month has passed, and you've fallen head over heels.
Farmer’s market dates have become a routine, Sundays spent perusing stalls as if you’ve always done it.
Of course, Clark has been showing up at the restaurant just as often, sometimes helping carry crates when you don’t ask him to and coming to keep you company when you're up late doing prep.
He even surprised you one night by sliding a bowl of beef noodle soup straight from your favourite restaurant in Taiwan. You had been dreaming of this soup since your trip last year.
“Did you fly there?” you asked, mouth agape.
“You told me how much you missed it and I—”
Safe to say you didn't let him finish his sentence, practically leaping into his arms and kissing him senseless.
Some nights, you fall asleep at his apartment without meaning to. Just sitting beside him for a moment that turns into hours, your head on his shoulder, as he reads to you.
And now, you’ve never been more inspired. Ideas don’t feel like something you have to force, freeing yourself from the likes of the Bearnaise sauce graveyard.
Love will do that to a person, you suppose.
The pressure you used to carry like a second spine continues to loosen. You’re not digging yourself into a little hole. Instead, you’re taking it one plate at a time.
Your restaurant is closed, it’s late at night, and you’ve already said goodbye to the last of your staff. You enjoy the kind of quiet that only comes after a full service settles over the dining room, after a job well done.
You walk out of the kitchen and stop still.
Standing among the empty tables is Clark, a smile blooms on his face the moment you step into view.
“What are you doing here?”
“I had to stop by.”
“You had to.” Looking him over, like he stepped out of your wildest dreams, “With flowers?”
He shifts a little, suddenly a touch sheepish. That dimpled smile appears like it always does when he’s trying to charm you. It works every single time. “Yes. With flowers.”
“I would be insane if I left things the way we have.”
You hold your hands behind your back with an easy smile and an even easier lilt in your step.
“And how have we left things?” you ask with a tilt of your head.
“It has been a month, a wonderful month, and we've never said the words. Never put a label on it.”
You continue to weave through the tables, footsteps soft against the floor, until you’re standing just close enough to feel his heart beating in time with yours or at least imagine it.
The dim amber light spills over his handsome face in a golden wash, like he's stepped straight out of a painting.
Outside, rain begins tapping gently against the windows, a familiar pitter-patter.
“And you want to?”
One more step, your shoes are just short of his.
“Put a label on it?”
“I do, you have no idea how much.” He reaches out and takes your hands in his softly. “If I could be so lucky, I would like to be your boyfriend.”
“I’d like that. A lot.”
He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks without realising it, then leans in and presses a tender kiss to your knuckles.
“Are you going to call me a dork again?”
“It’s a term of endearment, Clark,” you say, smiling as you lean in to kiss his cheek. “You’re my dork… and I’m yours.”
Then your eyes brighten as if you’ve just remembered something very important.
“Oh! I have something to show you!”
You pull back just enough to grab a menu from the nearby table and wave it at him with unmistakable pride.
“Now serving breakfast for dinner, once a week.”
“Really?”
“What can I say? You inspired me.”
He wraps his arms around you and picks you up, spinning you around.
“Clark!” You chuckle before returning to the ground.
Though you don't get a moment to catch your breath as his lips find your neck, intent on covering every square inch of it with his touch.
“Let's go to my office.”
“I'll follow your lead.
With a smirk, you grab onto his tie and pull him towards the doors at the back. Making things official between the two of you deserves a proper celebration.
after excusing yourself from harry’s runners world shoot, the raw takes come shooting through an email. and now all u want is him. also raw.
based on my filthy mind and the help of this request! +everyone who shared ideas! ty all!
CW: age gap, mean harry, bratty/subby!reader, begging, softdom!harry, thigh riding, rejection, p in v, HEAVY DEGRADING, (consensual), daddy kink, size kink, heavy dirty talk, spitting, idk this is filthy. and he’s mean.
likes/reblogs soo appreciated!
WC: 7.2k
“Right there, Harry, that’s great.”
He wasn’t even doing anything. Just propped against the hot pavement on one arm, lazy and unbothered like he was only half present.
And somewhere behind the scenes, there you were—legs trembling, pulse skidding, coming apart over absolutely nothing.
He was sprawled out beautifully—one leg up, one leg straight out. His thighs fat and the hairs that coated them a delicious dark brown. His body was oiled, shimmering in the set of the sun and glistening through his natural moisture.
And then there were the shorts.
Tiny. Barely there, really. A bright fabric that was pushed up to the tops of his quads and wedged between the line of his hips.
He looked transcendent. Genuinely. And you didn’t use such a word lightly. He looked absolutely out of this world and you were practically whining just at the sight of it.
“That’s perfect, Harry,” the photographer called from just beside you, “I want you to stretch out your left arm further backwards, lengthen you out a bit.”
He just nodded, complying easily and perfecting her request.
The second he shifted, you knew you had officially lost.
Thick muscles pressed outward on his back, curving over his rounded shoulders and flowing in a cohesive swarm to his pecs. He was swelling everywhere—big and curved and covered in a delicious layer of sweat.
You, on the other hand, were clamping your thighs so tight together that you swore it might just leave a rash.
He saw you do it, too. The way you would squirm and rub your nose or cough awkwardly to appear normal. He knew you weren’t. You were never good at hiding the filth that poisoned your pretty mind.
He got off to the way you worshipped him. You were younger than him, by a good bit, but it’s not like either of you minded. If anything, you both preferred it this way.
A man your age couldn’t dream of satisfying you the way Harry did. He spoiled you, physically and emotionally and through the luxuries in life as well. But it wasn’t just that.
He handled you—rough and raw and fucking dirty.
It really was a two way street. You were everything he could possibly want. A cute little thing who was sexy and shy and only showed yourself to him.
And you pried at him for his attention every minute of every day.
He was obsessed.
So, once the first session wrapped and he was strutting his way to his trailer, it didn’t take long for your legs to drag yourself to him.
“Harry,” you start, “hi.”
Not exactly what you were planning on saying, but the second you stepped within a 12 inch proximity of him, all logic went out the window.
The way he peered down at you. The towel hung around the back of his neck. The subtle smell of fresh sweat mixed with a deep vanilla musk. The look he always got on his face after a long day of shooting.
“Hey.”
He continued to walk his way towards his trailer, mountains following him as the sun snuck behind them.
“Harry,” you trot to keep up with his quick strides, “are you done?”
He coughed into his hand as he shook his head, maintaining his pace as his yellow sneakers crushed against the gravel.
“No, we’re doing a couple more. Then I’m done. Y’ok? Don’t have to stay.”
You practically laughed in his face. To say you wanted to leave seems somewhat criminal.
“No,” you say too immediately, “no, I wanna stay.”
He just nods, sniffing up the fresh air before grabbing onto either side of the towel around his neck.
You consider saying more as the two of you continue to walk along the path. You think about telling him how undeniably sexy he looked sprawled out for the camera like that. You even think about complimenting his little shorts, telling him how much you love them and maybe even hooking a finger into the waistband for just a second.
But your mind is mush.
And if your mouth can barely keep up with your mind even when it’s working properly.
“Harry, I need you now.”
Your voice was dropped to a whisper, eyes rounded and cheeks hot as you sped to keep up with his quick walk.
He paused, slowing his strides before coming to a full stop and turning to face you.
He looked completely unphased.
His hands continued to tug loosely against the soft cotton of the towel, his biceps pressing into his forearms from the bend of his elbows and his chest heaving softly in steady breaths.
“Why don’t you tell me what I’m doing right now, y/n.”
You swallowed, thick and heavy through a bite of your cheek. Your wide eyes peered across your surroundings, taking in the multiple trailers and the people in headsets and the constant chatter of people hard at work.
“You’re working…” you mumble, tugging at your bottom lip with your teeth and blinking up at him in a silent plea.
Nothing about the way you were looking at him was helping him stay stern.
“That’s right,” he nods, “now tell me, is Harry able to help you when he’s working?”
His tone was sickeningly patronizing, staring down at you like you were an idiot who couldn’t think for herself.
And, in total honesty, with the way he was speaking and the sweat that just dripped down his stomach, you sort of were.
“…No.” you shook your head, face flushed and panties soaked.
“So you can wait patiently until I’m done or you can wait for me at home if you can’t handle it.”
You were falling to pieces in front of him. His tone was sharp, but still suggestive in a way that had your head spinning.
He was toying with you. Spitting harsh words in your face until you squirmed some more and tensed tighter. He wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t been so blunt with him—but you were asking for it. He knew it’d get you riled up and he knew he’d get himself riled up just from watching it.
It was his perfect fantasy. You, dumb in front of him and whipped up by thoughts of his cock. On your tongue, in your hands, between your legs, you didn’t care. It was dizzying for him to watch you fall so pathetic for it all.
You nod, swallowing dirty thoughts and keeping your lips sealed for a moment. You actually almost let a smile fall through, delighted by his strict response, but force it down to fit your part.
“Ok,” you whisper, pressing your legs together and batting up at him.
And then there was this smirk. Low. Relaxed. Laced with pride like he knew he owned you. Like he knew you were a desperate thing that would claw at him until he gave you just a taste.
Satisfied with your understanding, he resumed his pace. Walking towards the trailer in slow and confident steps. You followed, as close as you could. No matter how thick your head felt or how unstable your legs performed.
Eventually, shooting resumed itself.
But his shorts seemed…shorter. And tighter. And thinner.
It wasn’t long after before his thighs suddenly grew. Thicker and stronger and you thought maybe even a couple extra hairs grew too.
Then it was his arms. They seemed to swell more than usual, bulging in a thick sphere and creating a smooth bend for every bead of sweat.
His face seemed to have changed too. His jaw was sharper. His nose was strong and his eyes seemed to keep changing colors.
Once you found yourself wet at the sight of his fingernails, you decided it was the right time to send yourself home. To do as he asked.
You really thought it’d be a good idea. You thought it’d solve all your problems and maybe even ease the constant ache between your legs.
You were cozied up on your couch, a thick knit blanket slung over your crossed legs and a bowl of cereal on your lap. You were calming over time—slowly.
But then there were the mockups.
Like, hundreds of them. Sent right to the laptop that you and Harry shared. You were watching a show when the notification popped to the top right of the screen, a glowing email that seemed to have come from the heavens itself.
RWM Raw Takes—HS 3.3.26 Issue. Review Pending.
You really shouldn’t have clicked on it. It was for Harry and his team to go over and carefully select what was right.
It wasn’t your fault that your fingers were moving without thought and just happened to click right on the email.
Totally accidental.
What lied on the other side of the small preview was…sickening.
Sweaty abs. Swollen biceps. Chunky thighs. Slutty little shorts with nothing but skin. Dunking in an ice bath. Stepping out of the ice bath. His shoulders. His pecs. His knees. The way his calves strained with every step.
It was fucking porn.
You don’t even realize you’ve stopped chewing at first.
Your eyes lock. Your jaw slows. Completely stalls. You’re just… frozen there, food forgotten, staring like if you blink it might disappear.
You swallow late, like an afterthought, and lean forward without meaning to.
Scroll.
Another one.
Your eyebrows lift, lips parting just slightly as a quiet, disbelieving laugh slips out. You zoom in to places you shouldn’t, drag the screen, take it in longer than necessary. There’s this buzzing feeling building in your chest—not overwhelming, but almost.
Scroll.
It gets better.
Fucking bike shorts. Leopard print. Tight around his quads and hugging his thick bulge beautifully.
You shift on the couch, tucking one leg under you, then the other, like you can’t quite get comfortable in your own skin anymore. Your bowl sits abandoned on the coffee table, fingers hovering near it but never quite making contact again.
You don’t even care. You’re too far in now.
Scroll.
“Oh my god…” you murmur, jaw slack and core dripping.
Because the next one loads, and your head drops back against the couch with a soft, breathy laugh. Your hand drags down your face, but you’re already peeking through your fingers, already leaning back in.
There it was. The pose that had you so riled up in the first place. His tanned body, long against the concrete with one thigh up and the other stretched out in front of him. His inked arm rugged with muscle, glistening in the orange glow of the sun.
And his face. Scrunched up and fucking angry. Exhausted. Tired of the shoot and watching himself as he shifts against their commands.
You shift again, restless, energized, like you’ve had too much caffeine or not enough sleep or something in between. Your heart’s not racing, not exactly—it’s just… heavy, present in a way that makes everything feel sharper.
Scroll.
You don’t even notice how long it’s been. Just that you can’t stop.
The door clicks open.
You barely register it at first—too zoned in, eyes glued to the screen, fingers hovering even though you’re not even scrolling anymore, just staring. There’s something hot under your skin, something restless and bright and impossible to shake, and you’re so deep in it you almost miss the sound of him coming in.
Almost.
A bag drops by the door with a heavy thud.
“Hey,” he greeted, voice so rich and exhausted that you nearly fainted right there. It was just getting all too much.
And then you realize what you’re doing.
Your entire body jolts like you’ve been caught doing something illegal, hands moving faster than your brain as you slam the laptop shut with a sharp clap. The sound echoes a little too loud in the room, but you’re already moving, pushing off the couch and abandoning everything, practically tripping over yourself as you hurry toward him.
“Hi,” you say, too quick, too bright, like you weren’t just completely consumed by something else two seconds ago.
He’s already halfway inside, shrugging off his jacket with slow, heavy movements, like the day’s been sitting on his shoulders for hours.
His hair’s a mess, slightly flattened in places, slightly curled in others. There's this faint crease between his brows that hasn’t quite smoothed out yet.
He barely looks up.
“Long day?” you ask, softer now, trying to level yourself out as you reach him.
“Mm.”
That’s all you get.
And instead of diminishing your spirits, his cold tone excites you. Because you know he’s revving up to treat you like you needed.
He nudges his shoes off, toeing them aside without much care, then drags a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. There’s a kind of quiet exhaustion in the way he moves. Nothing dramatic, just… worn.
And hot. So hot that you were sure your arousal had made its way to the inner skin of your thighs.
It only got worse once you took a quick scan of his body in front of you. Nothing but a loose t-shirt and those tiny fucking shorts.
And suddenly all that jittery energy from before has a perfect place to go.
You hover for a second, then step in closer, hands brushing lightly against his arms, like you’re testing the waters, “You okay?”
That’s when his eyes meet yours. Dark and deliciously green and cold with intent.
“M’fine. Tired.”
You nod, taking a step closer as you bring a palm behind his neck and another against chest.
His eyes follow your hands as they move, watching slowly as he waits for your next move.
“I’ve been thinking about you,” you peer up at him, “missed you when you were gone. Couldn’t stop my thoughts.”
He pauses for a second, like he’s finding the right thing to say.
Because really, his mind is thinking, I missed you too, honey. What have you been up to?
But his dick had other plans.
“Wouldn’t have missed me if you could handle watching me on set,” he shrugged, pushing past you and running a hand through his hair.
You froze, staring at nothing before running to catch up with him and planting yourself right back in front of him.
His eyelids hung low as they glanced down at your return.
“But I couldn’t handle it,” you shake your head slowly, “I tried. It hurt.”
He squints his eyes at your quiet comment.
“Hurt?”
You nod your head immediately, “needed your help. My thighs only gave me so much.”
He tried to hide the subtle smirk that came after that confession, but he couldn’t.
So you took it as a sign, placing your hands back on him again and twirling a loose strand of hair on the back of his neck.
“I was busy. Other people needed me. For more important things.”
It was a bunch of bullshit. There was nothing in this world that was more important than your pleasure. Not to him. He’d make you cum morning noon and night if it was up to him.
“But, Harry,” you pull yourself closer into him, kissing at his neck as you mumble through his skin, “I still need you.”
He took a deep breath, a sly grin forming on his face before he could stop it as your tongue rolled around his skin.
“You don’t need anything. You’ve got yourself all worked up over nothing and I have shit to do.”
And then he walked away, further into the kitchen until he reached the door to the laundry room. Pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it into the empty machine.
He was sick for that one.
Your legs dragged you back towards him before your mind could consider it.
“I do need it,” you defend immediately, “I do, really. Please, Harry.”
He sighs, shutting the lid of the washing machine and spinning around to face you. You were a clingy little thing—following him around like this. It was intoxicating.
“Need what, y/n.”
You cling to him again, hands roaming his damp skin and face pressed close to his own.
“You. Your cock, I wanna cum. Please, baby, want your thighs,” you whine, embarrassingly desperate and not caring in the slightest.
“You wanna cum?” His voice was condescending, lowering his head in a small and patronizing nod.
“Mhm, yes, please.”
Then he let out another sigh, curving out of your grasp and walking out of the tight laundry room and back into the kitchen.
“You’ve been a brat today. Asking for me at work and now begging for me the second I walk in the door. If you wanna cum, you can do it yourself.”
You frown, scurrying back over to him in the kitchen and pawing at his shoulders until he turned to face you again.
“You won’t help?”
You played that one up a bit, just a little. Batted your eyes a smidge heavier, blinked until your eyes were glassed.
But he didn’t budge.
“No.”
He continued his stride, wearing nothing but those little shorts that may as well have been a string of thread.
It was fucked up.
You just continued to follow him like a lost puppy dog, pathetic and desperate and begging for an inch of his attention.
“Harry,” you tapped his shoulder again, but this time, he didn’t turn around. He kept walking, stepping into the living room and peering down at his phone screen.
You didn’t let up.
“Harry, please,” you tugged at his skin, “please, I want you. Just touch me, Daddy, please. I’ll come so fast, I promise.”
You knew the name would start the fold, but it was nowhere near enough.
He didn’t answer. He just kept walking, all the way up until his feet reached the soft carpet and he took a slow seat on the couch.
His phone was in his hand, so small in comparison to his thick fingers, and he scrolled mindlessly. His legs were spread out wide, little shorts hiking up even further at the stretch and tightening against his bulge. His free arm rested behind his head, a low sigh rolling through him at the feeling of sitting down.
You’ve never felt so hungry for something in your whole life.
“Harry,” you whine, dragging the name a bit, “I need to cum. I’ll let you fuck me however you want, please.”
He just shook his head, eyes still locked on his screen.
“No.”
Now you were stumped.
But you were never opposed to begging. You’d do it for hours. You didn’t care how ridiculous you sounded or how humiliating it was. You were going to get what you needed. Maybe he didn’t know it yet, but you did.
“Daddy, please, it’s no fair. Just fuck me…”
And then you had another thought.
“…let me fuck you. I won't say a word, just let me use your cock. Wanna fuck it into myself until I cum, please.”
He peered up from his phone, slow and teasing, to get a good look at the mess in front of him. You—whiny and loud and fucking annoying. All for his cock.
He considered it for a second, letting you bounce on top of him until you fell unstrung.
But he had other plans for you. Better plans.
“No.”
And then he was back in his screen, scrolling with his thumb but not really reading anything he saw.
You huffed, thinking for a second before losing yourself in the figure in front of you.
Thumb scrolling, face lit faintly by the screen, expression completely unreadable—neutral in that annoyingly calm way of his. No urgency, just him existing there like nothing else is happening in the world worth reacting to.
Which felt rude, since you were prying at him from the moment he walked inside.
But you couldn’t sit here and pretend like you didn’t like it this way.
He leans back further into the couch, head tipping slightly into the cushion, one knee shifting just enough to get more comfortable, still fully absorbed in whatever’s on his screen. Every now and then his thumb pauses, then keeps moving, slow and automatic.
And when you focused in on the subtle sways of his spread knees and the way his quads spread flat against the fabric, there was nothing he could say anymore that could stop you from getting your fix.
It started slow.
A cute little exhale to show him your frustrations. He didn’t react, he just sunk deeper into the cushions and let his knees fall further apart. Projecting the bulge that pressed against his little shorts carelessly.
You took slow steps forward, watching as Harry attempted to take sneaky glances—barely looking up from his screen in a sad try at keeping composure.
Once your toes hit the edge of the couch, legs stood between his open knees, you paused for a moment. Staring down at him and watching as his stomach took quicker breaths and his scrolling started to lose meaning.
And then you put your hands on his shoulders, rubbing softly against his bare skin and humming a gentle sigh. He was so smooth…poreless and moisturized and gorgeously tanned.
He continued to ignore you—no matter how hard it was getting—and kept his head faced down in a stubborn fit.
But you were stubborn too.
And worse than he was.
So you shifted closer to him and brought a knee onto the cushion, and then another one, until your legs were wrapped tight around his left thigh.
He still didn’t move.
The sigh that left your lips was inevitable, so lost in the feeling of his thigh pressed up against where you needed it most. So wet that you figured he probably even felt it. You shift your hips a bit as you settle, slowing your movements with every stab of pressure.
And even when you pressed your lips against his neck, he still didn’t break.
He tasted so sweaty, his skin damp on your cold lips and fresh on your tongue. It tastes like exertion—like overheated limbs and flushed cheeks and the lingering aftermath of his body being pushed too hard for too long.
You could barely hold it together when your knee pressed harder into his crotch, squishing against the warmth of his half soft cock and crying for a taste.
You’re not totally sure what it was, but you were fucking obsessed with watching him stiff up. Or, in this specific moment, feeling it. He was salty and twitchy and always firmed up fast.
Your mind drifted to thoughts of his cock slapped against your tongue—halfway erect and thickening up in your mouth. The moan that slipped through your lips was fully involuntary.
But the way your hips started to grind against his quads was fully voluntary.
It even pulled his focus for a moment, bringing him closer to the tipping point but never far enough. His eyes darted over to your rolling hips, pressing heavy against his skin in a plea for some relief.
But his gaze left just as quick as it got there, and he was back into his phone with a deep breath and a shake of his head.
“You’re pathetic.”
You whimper at the treat of his voice—landing over you like a gift that you didn’t even know you wanted.
“Daddy, please,” you whine, “give me your cock, I need it.”
Your lips continue to suck against his dewy skin as your hips rocked back and forth, moving with a mind of their own and too far gone to stop. His neck curved gently to the side, granting you the access you so badly craved.
“No,” he mutters, “if you need to cum so badly, you do it on my thigh.”
You groan, a mix of displeased yet still satisfied meshed through your tone. But, you still rearranged for a moment to shrug off your clothes, desperate for closer contact and reeling at the feeling of it.
You were separated only by thin black panties, the cotton drenched and chilling against his skin.
“Mmm,” you hum, lips finding their way back to his skin and licking up the remaining beads of sweat.
It was really only a couple of minutes before things got sloppy.
Your hips rocked against his thigh like muscle memory at this point, moving how they pleased and ignoring any cohesive thoughts. You were erratic—grinding up into him with a complete lack of respect for yourself.
The skin of his neck was soaked in your tongue and nagged at by your teeth, working as a blank canvas for you to use however you pleased.
And even when breathy moans started rolling through you, his face read nothing but fucking bored.
So bored that it was honestly erotic. Like you were just a little pet getting off on top of him and that he had ten things better to do. His face was still in his phone. His hands hadn’t touched you once.
But his hard cock nudged up against your knee told you all you needed to know.
“Look at yourself, y/n. You’re so fucking desperate. Haven’t even touched you and you already sound like you’re about to cum.”
You were just happy his attention was on you.
“Not good enough,” you whine into his neck, “still need your cock. Put it in me, please, I want it deep.”
Harry was convinced he’s never been so attracted to you in his life.
Sure, you’ve always been a bit of a brat when it comes to his cock and you’ve always been vocal with what you want. But this was different. This was something that could only be explained by hours of pent up sexual energy and a complete lack of relief.
“I’m not fucking you. If you wanna lose my thigh, keep complaining,” his voice was was low and exhausted, fighting to stay stern but you could tell he was stringing loose.
You just groaned at his words, frustrated to say the least. But when your clit kept knocking into the same sweet spot of his quad, there wasn’t much time for you to sit there and mope.
You couldn’t stop drifting to thoughts of the photos. Every reminder of his glistening skin and the fact that you were tasting it right now had you feral. Your pussy was sopping wet as it slid around the hairs of his thigh, your panties absentmindedly slipping to the side from all of your movement.
At the feeling of your wet folds, finally breaking through the cotton that got pushed aside, Harry cocked his leg up once in a teasing bounce.
The noise that followed was nothing short of bliss.
“Mm, please, felt good,” you groan, hips meshing harder against him, “give me something else, please.”
And the second he shut his phone off and tilted his head towards yours, you knew you had him.
“Hm?”
“Feels so good against your thighs, so strong, Daddy. Am I making a mess?”
His leg started to bounce up and down in a steady rhythm now, pressing harder into your clit with every subtle shift. He stared deep into your scrambled face as it struggled to stay against his neck, tightening his jaw in reflex.
“You’re fucking filthy, you know that? You like claiming me? So wet on top of me that your panties couldn’t even stay on,” his words are spitting at you as he shakes his leg quicker, watching your reactions and reading what he should do next.
“Mhm, wanna ride you all day, just give it to me,” you murmur, slowly falling deeper and deeper into the heat in your stomach.
It was building slowly, the grind of your hips and the bounce of his leg working cohesively to bring you to where you desperately needed. But it wasn’t enough. You were a needy thing, and if you were gonna cum you needed his dick.
“Give you what?”
“Your cock, Daddy, please. I need it! I’ll let you d—”
And before you could even finish the filthy thought, your stomach caved into itself and your legs clamped tighter around his thigh.
“—Fuck, I’m gonna cum!”
The smirk that found Harry’s face was sickening.
“Yeah? You gonna cum all over Daddy’s thigh? Feels good, doesn’t it?”
And god, it did.
Your mind was racing, stuck in a constant loop of the day and spiraling through never ending tension. You eyes would force themselves open every now and then just to get a peak at your throne—his clenching abs and his thick thighs and his little fucking shorts.
“Mm yes feels so good, so good, so good, so g—”
And right when you were about to cum, when you were finally about to release what’s been building deep inside of you all day, both of his hands came to grip at your sides and flip you off of his thigh and onto your back.
Your mind spun at the sudden change, mouth open and searching for the right words to say and falling completely short.
“Harry, what are you d—”
His lips smashed into yours before you could get it out, pressing your back deeper into the cushions and splitting your lips apart with his tongue.
His lips tasted as of sweat and an intense exercise, so salty and fresh and deliciously him. You were suffocated by his mouth, hands scrambling around his body as you tried to settle into the sudden change.
“Shut the fuck up,” he spit, “you’ll be quiet when I fuck you, ok?”
It was the best news you’d ever heard in your entire life.
Your nod was quick and aggressive as you kissed him harder, wrapping your legs around his hips and pulling his core closer to yours. His cock was solid and twitching beneath his little shorts, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.
His fingers hooked into your thong and tugged them down your ankles so quick that you barely processed it. Your top came next, his hands shoving it up and over your head before reconnecting his lips to yours in a winding hunger.
The pawing only got worse. Your hands were grabbing at his bulge and whining into his throat, squeezing his cock and crying for a real taste. He just let you touch him. Claw at him. You were humiliating yourself and he was fucking obsessed.
He was more than well hung. His cock was massive and throbbing at every pass of your nimble fingers. His tiny shorts barely held him in—pressing a tight tension in the fabric to the point where you thought they might even rip open.
“Give me your cock, Daddy, I want it. Put it in my mouth, wanna suck on it, please,” you whine, breaking the kiss and breaking Harry’s only rule. To stay quiet.
But he wouldn’t reprimand you for your misbehavior just yet. Not when the breach was as sweet as that was.
“You want it?”
“Mhm.”
“This? You want this cock?”
“Mmm,” you hum, nodding your head through a bitten lip and glassed eyes.
He lowers his face closer, nose nudging into yours and lips grazing against your own before—
“Be a big girl and go get it.”
You whimpered into his lips before tugging down on the tight waist band, shoving it off his thighs until it sprung up against tummy with a smack.
He was dripping at the tip, a dribble of clear liquid slipping down his shaft and coating his tip in a thin layer.
You would do anything to slap it against your tongue, to shove it down your throat until the salty drip reached the backs of your tastebuds and drowned into your belly.
“Quiet,” he spits in a reminder, grabbing his base and lining it up against your hole.
You shook just at the feeling of his tip against you, drawing up and down in teasing motions and passing a little harder on your clit.
And when he pressed in—slow, steady—your lips fell apart before your mind could settle.
He was so thick inside of you, spreading your little hole open and pushing through your tight walls. He was long and ridged and so dense.
“Oh, feels s—”
His hand slapped over your mouth before you could finish, hips bottoming out against you simultaneously in one quick motion.
“Sh. No talking till you cum.”
You nod furiously, knowing it’ll be soon anyway. And with the agreement of your nod, he slips himself half way out before slamming hard back into you.
And then again.
And again.
And again and again and again until you were locked in your pleasure and spinning with every new thrust.
“Fuck, baby,” he groans, head falling down onto yours, “feel so good like this. So worked up for me. Did you like humiliating yourself? Making a fool of yourself?”
You nodded again, fast and sloppy and no real meaning.
“I know you did. Riding me like the filthy whore you are. And now shutting up to let me fuck you. S’it hard for you to stay quiet? You have something you wanna say?”
Your brows fall into each other as you nod again, lip bitten between your teeth and cheeks flushed a deep rose.
“Shame. You’re not gonna say it though, right? Gonna listen to Daddy? Stay quiet for him?”
You squeeze your eyes shut as he pushes in deeper, harder, quicker. Nodding again and pressing harsh into your lip until you taste the tinge of metallic blood.
The golden cross that hung around his neck was smacking into your chin with every jab, your tongue mindlessly searching for it to get a little taste.
“Mm.” He hums, satisfied with your compliance and thrusting into you harder.
His fingers come to pry at your mouth, thumb crawling around your bottom lip before pressing into the heat of your tongue. He tugs down until your jaw drops open, displaying your red mouth and the way your tongue twitched with every harsh thrust.
He fucked into you harder as he pressed his fingers into your mouth, lapping around until they were soaked and covered in your sweet saliva. Your tongue was following his fingers, searching for a hint of his skin and stopping yourself from sucking tight around them.
“Fucking love this mouth,” he grits, spreading your mouth open further, “is my baby hungry?”
You just not immediately, not sure what he was referring to but desperate for anything.
“Wider.”
You obey, spreading your jaw wide as his fingers tug down as an aid. His thrusts don’t slow. If anything, they pick up, slamming deep into your tummy until his tip kissed your insides.
And then, hovered over your open mouth, he spit, thick and quick and right on your tongue.
You hummed as you shut your mouth, letting the glob of saliva roll around in your mouth and over your tastebuds until you could taste all of him. It was delicious, fresh and sweet and thick.
“Fuck,” he groaned at your eagness, dropping his head and rolling into you deeper and deeper and deeper. Every passing second seemed to have made it all more intense, his cock stretching you out so wide just like you wanted.
The ache had been sitting in you for so long that your orgasm rose quickly, built up from too many hours of silent tension and constant prying.
The pressure intensified gradually, the kind that bordered on overwhelming for a second before tipping into relief. Your shoulders instinctively tensed into each other against the cushions, breath hitching and body stilling.
Then the knot released with a sudden pop.
The sensation spread instantly through your bloodstream, sharp for half a heartbeat before melting into warmth. Relief flooded every muscle so quickly it almost made you dizzy, like the tension you’d been carrying had unraveled all at once.
Your chest erupted in light moans and sudden yelps, clamping tight around his cock until his tip was swollen in pressure. He just watched as you rode through your peak, clawing at his back and tugging him closer into your body.
He followed soon after, stilling inside of you with one last stroke, settling deep into your belly and filling your insides with his cum. Groans and heavy breaths swarmed between you two, filling the quiet air and replacing the prior smacks of your sex.
Your body went heavy against the cushions at the fall, every inch of you sinking deeper into it as the tightness finally gave way.
The soreness lingered faintly beneath it, overwhelmed and tender, but underneath was that overwhelming loose, weightless feeling that made you want to close your eyes and stay there forever.
“Shit,” he breathed out, forehead against yours as he fell weightless above you.
“Mm,” was all you could get out.
You’re sprawled across the couch like your body physically gave up, flat on your back with one arm tossed over your stomach and the other dangling off the edge of the cushion. Your chest rises and falls in slow, heavy breaths that still haven’t quite evened out, lungs working hard to catch up after being pushed too far.
Heat clings to your skin, making you feel heavy and overheated and completely drained. Every muscle aches with that deep, overworked soreness that settles into your limbs after you’ve exhausted yourself past the point of caring.
Your legs feel useless, too tired to move properly, and even shifting against the couch cushions seems like more effort than it’s worth.
“Ok?”
You nod. “Mhm.”
“Good,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead and brushing a strand of hair off of your forehead.
Your eyes stay half-lidded, blinking slowly up at him. There’s sweat cooling along the back of your neck, your body sinking deeper and deeper into the cushions with every passing second. The exhaustion sits on top of you like extra weight, pulling you down until you feel almost glued to the couch, too spent to do anything except breathe through it and let your body recover.
With another soft kiss to your lips, he pulls out, slow and steady as to not further exhaust you. You know you should probably get up. Get your clothes on. Pee. You know, all the things.
But you couldn’t. You were completely wiped and wanted nothing more than to be pampered by your man and lay there like you couldn’t hold your own head up.
He stayed buried deep inside of you until he was soft and warm and limp, resting within your hole until he snapped out of his trance.
Harry sinks back into the couch beside you with a long, exhausted huff, his head tipping against the cushion as his eyes fall shut for a moment. It all clings to both of you—warm skin, tired limbs, breathing only just beginning to steady again.
Your legs are draped lazily across his lap, too exhausted to hold yourself up properly anymore, and his hands settle around your ankles automatically like it’s instinct. His thumbs move slowly against the little bone there, absentminded and gentle, working small circles into smooth skin.
Neither of you says anything.
The room is quiet except for the soft sound of breathing and the occasional shift of the couch cushions beneath your weight. Your eyes stay heavy, body melted into the corner of the couch while his hands continue rubbing slow, steady warmth into your skin.
Every now and then his grip tightens slightly before melding back over the bone. His head stays leaned back, eyes still closed, looking just as worn out as you feel, but comfortable in it—comfortable with you.
The silence settles around both of you easily, soft and familiar, the kind that only happens when neither person feels the need to fill it.
But then he goes to grab his laptop.
And suddenly, you’re wide awake.
You sit up just enough to register the moment properly, voice already cautious, “Okay, Harry, don’t be mad.”
That makes him pause mid-open.
He glances at you, one brow lifting, “Mad?”
You don’t help your case by looking guilty. Already so fucked out of your mind and now desperately trying to piece together a way for this to make sense. Because really, you had no business opening his emails.
His hand hovers over the trackpad, a silly grin on his face as he watches you panic, “What did you do?”
It’s light—teasing already, like he’s assuming you’ve done something small and mildly inconvenient, not world ending. He knew you could never do anything too bad. He had nothing to worry too much about. Or at least he hoped.
You hesitate a beat too long.
“…Nothing,” you say, which is immediately suspicious. You also follow it by sinking deeper into your spot on the couch and hiding your face into the side of the pillow.
That gets a quiet huff of a laugh out of him, “That was a terrible answer.”
He opens the laptop anyway.
And the second the email loads, everything clicks into place.
His shoot. Raw selects. A grid of him looking unfairly good in that effortless, camera ready way that probably should’ve come with a warning label.
Harry leans back slightly, eyes scanning the screen, then slowly turns his head toward you.
“Ahhh,” he says, dragging it out, amusement spreading across his face. “Makes sense now.”
You groan as you sink deeper into the couch.
He gestures vaguely at the screen, “This is what you were doing while I was gone?”
You cover part of your face with your hand like it might erase the memory, “I wasn’t—I was just—scrolling.”
“Scrolling,” he repeats, with a nod, like he’s testing the word.
“It’s not funny,” you mutter, but it’s ruined immediately by how tired you sound and how much you’re already trying not to smile.
He leans forward again, still scrolling through the images, “No, it is a bit funny.”
You kick his tummy lightly with your foot—no real force behind it. He just chuckles, shaking his head as he continues to scroll through the shoot.
“Okay,” he says, catching your ankle loosely before you can pull away, still grinning. “Relax. I’m not mad.”
You peek at him through your fingers.
He tilts the laptop slightly toward youx “Actually,” he adds, softer now, “this just explains a lot about the last hour of your life.”
You groan, dropping your hand completely, “I was not losing it.”
“You were absolutely losing it,” he says, far too calmly for someone being accused of anything.
There’s a beat where you just stare at him.
Then he nudges your legs gently back into place across his lap like nothing happened.
“Come on,” he says, shifting the laptop so you can see it properly too, “Help me pick which ones I actually like.”
You blink, “You want my opinion?”
He glances at you like it’s obvious, “Yeah. ‘Course.”
Then, after a pause, a little more casually, “You’ve already got strong feelings about it anyway.”
In a world where Superman never became a journalist, he crafts custom countertops for a living. His biggest challenge isn’t the work; it’s keeping his hands to himself around you long enough not to break what he’s trying to sell.
▸ PAIRING: Clark Kent x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, pure pwp, public blowjob, titty fucking, dirty talk, clark says 'mouth pussy', reader briefly described to be shorter than clark, clark is a salesman ok
▸ WORD COUNT: 4K
▸ A/N: so excited to post my fic for this silly lil collab!! thank you to my clark babies for indulging me when i mentioned hosting this furniture-breaking extravaganza. you're all a godsend and i am sending the biggest smooches. please show all the fics lots of love with comments, reblogs, and likes!!!! <3 hope you enjoy this one!
↤ main masterlist | KENT masterlist
A furniture store isn’t the most glamorous place to work. Every day, Clark finds himself surrounded by the same wooden doors, the same marbled countertops, and the same monologue of “we can help you find the perfect set for your home.” Every day, he has to explain to a new customer the differences between materials and price, spend an hour modeling their home on antiquated software, and talk them through the most inane sales pitch — only for them to walk away at the end of it all.
So, when the front door bell chimes, Clark forcefully drags his eyes away from an article about Superman’s latest save across the Atlantic (the jet lag is still kicking his butt). His practiced smile is set in place as he says, “Good afternoon. Welcome to— oh.”
“Well, are you going to finish your greeting, Mr. Kent?”
Your sweet lilt has his smile lifting even higher. While this may break some of the professional boundaries he has set for himself, he can’t help but think you’re an absolute sight for sore eyes, especially when you’re wearing his favorite dress.
It’s a pretty little white number, Clark thanks whoever invented sundresses. It hugs your body just right, accentuating your dips and curves. The cinched bodice clings to your skin and the skirt flares out around your legs. However, what Clark really loves is the way the straps curl around your neck, holding up your pretty breasts in that sweetheart neckline. A little bow sits in the middle, slightly below the lace trim that frames your cleavage.
Clark’s pants tighten at the sight. If you’re wearing this dress, he knows you mean trouble.
He rounds his desk to meet you where you stand. He maintains a safe enough six-foot distance between the two of you. His fingers are already itching to snatch your waist, to pull you flush against him, to kiss you senseless, but he is still technically at work, so instead he distracts his trembling hand by pushing up his glasses.
These are certainly things he cannot do when his boss is sitting at the desk right next to his. His boss doesn’t even know he has a girlfriend — let alone someone as pretty as you.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. How can I help you today?”
Your molten gaze flicks up to meet his blue eyes. His breath hitches in his throat. He knows that look in your eyes. He’s slightly fearful of what comes next. “I’m looking for something very sturdy. Very solid. Strong. Beautiful.”
Clark swallows thickly, index finger hooking on his tie to loosen it. Summer really has arrived, hasn’t it? He clears his throat and gestures to the rest of this small store. “Well, we have quite the collection here. I can walk you through all our offerings. I hope you’ll find something to your liking.”
There are very few things that the great, big Superman cannot handle in his life. The first being Kryptonite — basic, inherited, genetic flaw that is unfortunately unavoidable. The second is the way you’re staring at him right now — doe-eyed, lashes gently brushing against your cheeks every time you blink, teeth sinking into the corner of your bottom lip.
Your tongue darts out to swipe across your lip, your eyes dragging slow and warm from the tip of his head, down along his broad shoulders and sturdy frame, to his long legs hidden beneath his customary black slacks. By the way you’re looking at him, you’d think he’s wearing next to nothing — but there’s just something about a man dressed properly for work that really just gets you going.
You’ve told him as such.
“I think I’ve found just the thing,” you grin at him.
Clark chuckles, “Well, let’s not commit too early. I can show you what we have here towards the back.”
“Nonsense,” another voice cuts through. Perry stands from his desk with a frown at Clark, then splits into a smile when he sees you. “If the lady knows what she wants already, we can certainly help her with it. Which one piques your interest, ma’am?”
Your amused glance darts to Clark for a brief second before returning to his boss. “I’m not really sure if the one I want is for sale.”
“Oh, I’m sure we can make an arrangement,” Perry insists, clearly unaware of how Clark is beginning to heat up right behind him.
“Hmm, I might have to agree with your employee here. Perhaps I can’t commit too early. I’m looking for something very specific for my home. Something… strength-resistant.”
Perry’s brows pucker immediately as he looks at Clark in confusion. He turns back to you. “You mean stain-resistant?”
“No, I mean I need it to be indestructible,” you shrug.
A chuckle bubbles up Perry’s throat. “Well, unless you’ve got Superman in your kitchen, you’ll be just fine with the ones we’ve got here.”
Clark makes a choked noise behind him, immediately whipping his face away to hide the aggressive flush slowly spreading across his face. Perry gives him an annoyed look and you have to bite down on your laugh too.
“Theoretically, which one could Superman not break?”
Perry probably decides then and there that you aren’t a serious customer so he passes you back to Clark to explain the full catalogue of offerings that his store has. He tells Clark that he’s off to lunch and to make sure that you get the full service, everything you need.
You throw out a — “I’m sure he’ll have no problem giving me everything I need” — to which your boyfriend has to swallow a garbled sound again.
True to his word, Clark begins to walk you through the counter options. He smooths his hands over the various models they have, from the darker countertops to the pristine white cabinets to the delicate silver handles. Endless possibilities of combinations to put together your future home — which you will need.
One day. Eventually. Not right now when you’re renting, though.
Clark still gives you the full tour anyway; if not for your future reference, it’s to distract himself from your proximity. He can hear the rhythm of your heart, how it skips a beat when he gets close to you to explain the difference between quartz and quartzite, how it thumps a little louder when Clark mentions how durable certain countertops are, how they could hold the hottest pots or handle the worst of scratches. He can hear the subtle changes in your breath as his arms flex when he reaches for the higher cabinets to explain how the arched door is a classic, but the square inset is more common these days.
“And we have standard sizes but we’re sure we’ll find something to your liking. Even if it’s an inch, it makes all the difference.”
“Yeah, size really does matter,” you muse thoughtfully to yourself, eyes falling to his pants where there is a noticeable tent.
Clark blushes red to the tips of his ears. “Um, well, I think that’s most of it. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
You take one step then another and another until he’s backed up against the counter. Even if you’re shorter than him, Clark still lets out a squeak as he plants his palms on the counter, as you flatten your hands on his chest.
“There is something I was hoping you could help me with.”
He chokes on a nervous cough. “Ah, and what may that be?”
“I really need to test the strength on these counters. Do you think you can help me with that,” you start and look up at him coyly, “Mr. Kent?”
His throat moves with the lump caught there. “I— uh— I’ll do my best, but what do you mean— whoa.”
Your hands are already flying to his belt, unbuckling it swiftly before you’re reaching for the button and zipper. Clark’s hands immediately find yours, squeezing to stop you where you are. You look up at him with one raised eyebrow, a question.
A challenge.
“I don’t think we should be doing this. People can walk by and we have glass doors. Not to mention, if another customer comes in and they see this…” He looks at you so pitifully. His heart is practically bursting out of his chest. Perry takes long lunches but it doesn’t mean that nobody will drop by while he’s gone.
“Clark.”
Your voice is firm. Curt. Clark freezes. “Yes?”
“Put your hands back on the counter.”
Your name rolls off his tongue in one last desperate plea.
“I thought Perry said that you’d have to give me everything I need, and you were offering to be so helpful earlier. Now, you won’t assist me in this one final check?”
Clark swallows. You’re serious. You’re really dead set on doing this. In broad daylight, in the middle of his workplace. Who is he to deny you when you’re so determined? He peels his hands off yours and carefully puts them back on the counter, palm flat against the surface and fingers curling around the edge.
“Good boy,” you purr as you continue to work off his pants. “Now, I really want to test the strength of these counters. So I’m going to get on my knees, I’m going to take care of you, and I want to see how that counter survives against your grip. Does that sound good?”
He can’t find his voice. His throat is tight. His cock is so hard in his briefs and your hand is oh so close to it. He can practically feel the ghost of your touch. A gasp wrenches out of his throat when you wrap your hand around his cock through the cotton.
“Asked you a question, Mr. Kent.”
“Yes, sounds good,” he rasps.
Then you’re dropping to your knees, your skirt floating and settling around your thighs. You look up at him with those pretty eyes as you drag the thin fabric down, freeing his cock to bounce against his stomach. The tip is bruised red as it bumps the hem of his shirt. Clark reaches for his tie and loosens it further.
“Ready for your test, Mr. Kent?” You tease with a finger tracing up the underside of his cock.
The length twitches needily for you as a whimper pours out of Clark’s throat. His cock is mouthwateringly thick, long in a way that you can still feel it in your insides from last night. You know how much of it you can take between your legs, but Clark never lets you mouth at him long enough, says, “I’m going to finish too quick, honey. Let me take care of you instead.”
Now, he’s paying the price on that because, while he knows how your mouth feels on him, he hasn’t had it that often — or for long periods of time. You seem intent on testing the limits of his restraint today.
Your fingers gently wrap around his cock at the base as you nuzzle closer to his cock, the tip of your nose brushing his length. Clark jolts slightly, nearly bumping your face with his length. “Sorry,” he mumbles, embarrassed.
“Why are you sorry? Are you apologizing for having such a thick cock, baby?”
Clark whines, eyes slamming shut as he tilts his face to the ceiling. He can’t watch this. He can’t look at you all pretty on your knees in front of him, your tits practically spilling out of your dress. From this angle, he can see the dip between your breasts, his tongue salivating at the thought of burying his face in them.
Then he feels it — the first tentative lick. His eyes automatically drop down to you again and, boy, that was a mistake. You’re still peering up at him with those sultry eyes as you lean close to the base of his cock before dragging a long stripe along his cock. Clark grips the counter harder as he prays to whatever deity exists to show him some small form of mercy.
Your lips wrap around the tip — just the tip — and Clark’s head is already spinning. The room tilts on its axis as he forces himself to stand upright, as you suckle hard on it, the slurping sounds echoing in the quiet of the room.
“Gosh, honey, slow down,” he huffs breathlessly.
You pull off him and purse your lips, still gripping his cock. “I haven’t even done anything.”
“I know, I’m just sensitive.” And nervous. So incredibly nervous. He’s strung up so tight, muscles taut as he keeps glancing at the door. Even if the two of you are partially hidden, there are still passersby moving back and forth in front of the shop.
Your lips shift into a pout. “How are you going to last, Mr. Kent? I won’t be able to test my counter properly.”
Clark’s eyes flash a stark blue at you as he grits out, “Are you going to keep calling me that?”
“What? Mr. Kent? You don’t like it?” You tease, giving his cock a few pumps. Clark twitches in your hand.
“I like it too much.”
“Kinky fucker,” you laugh and he glares at you.
The expression doesn’t last long when you dip your head again and take him further between your lips. The cavern of your mouth is hot and wet, engulfing him with the kind of heat that has him nudging his hips forward in search of more. Every time you pull him out, his stomach sinks with the loss.
Your mouth feels heavenly. Your tongue swirls around his length, pressing against the delicate underside of his cock as you take him in deeper each time. He hears your little gags when his cock hits too deep, when he accidentally thrusts inside your mouth. He likes hearing it. Likes hearing that he’s too big to fit inside you.
But he’ll make it fit. He always does.
“Such a pretty girl,” Clark murmurs as he looks down and strokes your face with his thumb. He feels the imprint of his cock on your cheek, placing slight pressure on it. He feels it jerk inside your mouth. “You look so good with your mouth plugged up like this.”
You release a whine that’s muffled into his length.
Clark watches in sick fascination as his cock disappears inch by inch into your mouth. It’s a gorgeous sight seeing how much of him you can take in, how he manages to squeeze himself deeper each time.
His eyes can’t help but fall to your chest where you take deep breaths every time you suck him in. At some point, you pull him out and mouth along the side of his cock, hands coming up to hold him and pressing your breasts together to deepen your cleavage.
The instruction falls from his mouth before he can stop himself.
“Take them out,” Clark gasps, “please.”
You don't need to ask him what them means. Clark has always had a thing for your tits, especially in this dress.
“Filthy, filthy Clark, baby,” you grin and tug on the collar to allow your breasts to spring free. He lets out a groan at the sight. Your pretty breasts and your nipples, pert and peaking in the cold of the room. You push them together, deepening the shadows between your tits, and grope them gently. The flesh is pliant under your touch and Clark watches mesmerized as they follow the shape of your hands. “Do you like them?”
“Like them?” He breathes out, “I love them so much, honey. Wish I could put my cock in between them, have them wrap around me all warm.”
“Yeah? You want me to fuck my tits, Clark?”
His jaw clenches as he shakes his head. “I think I need to stuff your mouth again to stop you from saying such crude things.”
“You like me crude,” you wink and Clark adjusts himself so he can slide his cock between your breasts. He groans with every slide of his cock between your tits, how you keep pushing them closer together to wrap tighter around his length.
“Gosh, feels so good. So tight.”
“Better than my pussy?”
Clark snorts a little. “Every part of you is perfect,” he begins, and you roll your eyes, “but nothing is better than your pussy. She’s perfect.”
A whine falls involuntarily from your lips. Your legs press together on instinct, a need for friction between your legs.
“Does she need attention too, honey? How about you give her some then? I can’t let her feel neglected,” Clark coaxes as he fucks up through your tits again. He works himself into a frenzy as he pants, looking down at you. “Come on, sweetheart. Put your hand between your legs. Give her some love. I want you to touch yourself for me. Touch yourself while I slide my cock between your beautiful breasts.”
One of your hands stays to prop up your breast for Clark and the other snakes between your thighs and feels the dampness between your legs.
“Lift your skirt for me, pretty girl. Let me see.”
You bunch the fabric around your waist, holding it up by your forearm as your fingers find your wet folds.
Clark exhales shakily. “You didn’t wear panties?”
“W-wanted to make it easy for you,” you whimper quietly as your fingers slip along your slick folds. You’ve been leaking since you came in, the sight of Clark with his suit and tie, his glasses on his face, and how he drank you in so hungrily.
“Such a good girl for me, aren’t you?” Clark coos softly, “She’s so needy for me. But I can’t put my cock in her just yet. Not here, not right now. Can she wait until I’m home?” You nod eagerly, desperately. “For now, I want you to rub yourself for me. I want you to feel how you’re dripping all over your fingers, practically aching to be filled. I just fed her last night and she’s already so hungry again. Greedy girl.”
Oxygen is punched out of your chest when you begin to rub at your clit, the sensitive bundle of nerves tingling as your knees dig into the tiles. Your thighs are aching, you want to sit back on the balls of your feet and spread your legs wider, but you won’t be servicing Clark then. You won’t reach his cock, so you keep going. The dull pain only adds to the intensity of the torture between your legs.
“Put me back in your mouth, honey. I want to feed you my cock.”
You’re obedient, compliant in the cockdrunk haze and the burning deep inside your gut. You comply easily, hand moving away from your breast to take hold of his cock and angle it back between your lips. Clark groans as he sinks back in, all the way to the back of your throat.
Tears prick the corners of your eyes when he slams all the way back in again, your nose buried in the short curls at the base of his cock. His hand tangles in your hair as he begins to fuck up into your mouth, guttural groans spilling from his lips as he does so. His other hand is still planted on the counter, fingers tensing on the cool, hard surface.
He’s too lost in the heat of your mouth, the humidity trapped, soaking his cock, the shape of your lips as they move along his shaft. You feel so good, so perfect around him. It’s like this mouth was created to mold around his girth the same way your pussy was made to take his cock — every inch of it. You’ve always taken him so well.
“Such a perfect mouth pussy for me, honey,” Clark groans. You whimper around his cock at his words, the unexpected term knocking the breath from your lungs. “Feels so good, so hot around me. I’m so close. I don’t think I can last. It feels so, so good. So perfect. You’re perfect.”
Your other hand reaches up to his thigh and gives him a squeeze. Permission.
“Can I cum inside your mouth? Can I fill this pretty throat with my cum?”
You squeeze him again.
“Oh gosh, perfect. So perfect. Your mouth feels divine,” he whines as he drives his cock into your mouth, his hand moving your head in rhythm with his thrusts. “I’m going to paint the inside of your mouth white. Don’t swallow yet. I wanna see. I wanna see my cum inside your mouth.”
He earns a stifled whine around his cock.
His hips stutter as he continues to plunge into your mouth. Your saliva coating the length of him until he slides in and out all too easily. It’s hot, it’s tight, it feels too darn good, and suddenly the orgasm cracks through him like a whip. His heart is thundering in his ears, he’s choking on gasps as he spills into your mouth. His cock is still so hard but he’s pouring cum onto your tongue, spurt after spurt until he sees your cheeks puff up a little.
It’s a lewdly adorable sight and Clark wishes he could capture that image of you with a camera. The last of his cum drips onto your tongue and he sees a drop dribble out of the corner of your lips, rolling down to your chin. Your eyes are glassy, likely from the force of his thrusts but also from keeping his climax trapped in your mouth.
He breathes heavily as he leans down, fingers around your chin, thumb pressing between your lips to pry your mouth open. You open it slowly, cautiously curling your tongue around his cum to stop more from spilling out. Clark sees the thick white cum sticking to your tongue, to the roof of your mouth, painting the insides of your cheeks.
He feels his cock twitch again. He always cums a lot, which is why he avoids cumming in your mouth most of the time, but he thinks he may start getting used to this. It’s a pretty sight, like a painting inside your mouth that is only meant for him and him alone.
“Gorgeous,” he murmurs, “now, swallow for me.”
You close your lips and he watches as you gulp down all his cum, your throat moving as you do so. He sneaks an X-ray look as he watches the viscous liquid slip down the column of your neck and into your stomach. His own belly flips with need.
“You’re watching it, aren’t you?” You whisper.
“I like seeing you swallow,” he mutters in response.
Clark tugs you to your feet and you stumble towards him with a giggle. You tuck your tits back into your dress and smooth out the skirt. When you tilt your face up to look at him, he’s got such an enamored look on his face that makes you melt. His thumb brushes your face, dusting off the dried cum on your face as you look away sheepishly.
“You’re so—” he stops there, breath catching in his throat. He almost proposed to you. Right then and there. After you’ve had his cock in your mouth and given him the most mind-blowing orgasm.
And you swallowed every single drop.
“Hm?” You tilt your head, a singsong tilt to your tone. “How about we look at the counte— oh my god.” Your eyes blow up wide and Clark’s chest flares with panic as he whirls around.
There it is. The giant crack splitting the countertop in half. It’s not even a small hairline fracture, it’s a massive gap where the counter is now misaligned, one shifted higher than the other. There are chips of granite between his fingers. He winces.
It’s completely unsalvageable.
“So,” you cough, “this counter isn’t Superman-proof then?”
Clark groans, rubbing his face. “Perry’s going to take this out of my paycheck.”
“Well, I have to commend you for the full-service experience. Rating you five out of five stars.”
He chuckles, dipping his head and kissing you on your lips. “Worth every penny.”
Pairing: Clark Kent x Female Reader
Word Count: 4k
Content: fluff, flirting, suggestive comments, soft, shy, and protective Clark, kinda country girl!reader, The Daily Planet gang comes along - Cat, Jimmy, and a bisexual Lois if you squint, mechanical bull riding, line dancin', and a whole lot of boot scootin'. Lmk if I missed anything.
Synopsis: You invite your colleagues from The Daily Planet out to a western bar. Clark didn't know you could dance like THAT.
A/N: based off this amazing prompt from @distantlydreamingofwater - I saw it and knew I had to write something for it! Divider by @thecutestgrotto 💓
Main Masterlist | Read on AO3
Stocks n Bonds is not The Daily Planet’s typical after-work joint, but a few of your colleagues graciously let you pick the bar tonight to celebrate your first full month as a columnist. You aren't writing any hard-hitting articles like you'd hoped yet, but the lifestyle section readers have been treating you well and enjoying your pieces.
Tonight you are more than ready to let off some steam, dance, and have a few drinks with your new team. You didn't expect for everyone to be so welcoming, but you've been accepted with open arms, sharpened pencils, and coffee refills.
“You know, I’ve never heard of this place, and I’ve heard of every new place,” Cat says as you’re all winding down around 4:30 - so close to freedom.
“Oh! This place isn’t new! I’m writing a piece on it, actually,” you say. Perry entrusted the Musings of Metropolis column to you, and you’re writing a short series on bar trends. The "musings" come from bar patrons about their favorite drinks, why they love particular bars, and what is considered hip nowadays. It's definitely fluff, but we all start somewhere.
“Oh, come on, don’t worry about deadlines and work tonight!” Jimmy says with a wave.
“I’m not! I promise, I picked this place because it was really fun the last time I visited for work-related research. Now I want to go as a paying customer and really take my time to enjoy it," you explain.
“Okay…” Lois says skeptically. “I’d better not see you sneak out your phone to take notes while we’re there.”
“I swear I won't!” You say with a giggle.
Your desk-mate, Clark, smiles and stands up before looking down at his outfit. “Am I dressed okay for this place?”
You look at his white dress shirt, black pants, and adorkable glasses. “You look great. You all do! It’s nothing fancy, so don’t be surprised if you feel overdressed.”
“Better to be overdressed, I suppose,” Lois says with a shrug.
You all waste the last half hour chatting and discussing deadlines, new article ideas, and watching videos of Cat's new puppy instead of actually writing. It’s time to clock out before you know it.
“I’ll be the designated driver if anyone wants to ride with me,” Clark offers. You've heard from your co-workers that it's impossible for Clark to get drunk. Some weekend you're going to test that theory, but not tonight.
“I’m going with Cat & Jimmy,” Lois says. “But thanks!”
You watch the larger than life columnist twirl his car keys around his finger and nod solemnly.
“I’ll ride with you,” you say. “If that’s okay.”
He smiles, and his dimples do their thing. “Of course that's okay."
---
You all walk out to the parking garage, and you jog over to your car with a quick “I’ll be right back!” thrown over your shoulder to Clark. He waits by his car as you open your own car door and kick off your Sambas in favor of your preferred footwear: your perfectly worn-in cowboy boots. The soft red leather slips around each foot like a glove. They pair great with the jeans you wore for casual Friday to the office today. Everyone loves casual Friday except Clark. He’s always dressed like he’s from the 40s in some form of button-down shirt and trousers, but the style fits him somehow. He's that timeless kind of handsome that can get away with it.
You rush back to his car, and he smiles at your feet.
“Didn’t take you for a boot gal,” he says with a smile as he opens the passenger door for you. So, timelessly handsome and an old school gentleman. Because of course he is.
“Thanks! Yeah, I’m gonna need ‘em for tonight!” You reply as you slide into his car with a thank you.
"Are you planning on wrangling some cattle after we go to this bar?" He asks jokingly with a smirk as he leans down into the open door.
"No, silly. I need them for the bar. It's a western bar. There's line dancing, and I'm not missing out this time!" You exclaim. You haven't line danced in months so you're itching to get out there and do it tonight. You used to go a few nights a week in college, but Metropolis isn't a hotbed of honky-tonks and western bars, so you've had to settle for a few impromptu dances in your small apartment kitchen. When you came across Stocks n Bonds, you immediately fell in love with its exaggerated cowboy aesthetic and huge, gleaming dance floor. It felt like home with a city veneer, but you'll take what you can get these days.
---
You finally built up the courage to head to the dance floor after a drink with your coworkers - are you allowed to call them friends yet? That's what they are, right? I mean, Lois invited you to her mom's retirement party next month. Jimmy jump-started your car in the parking garage last week. Cat and you trade memes and slightly inappropriate texts about Superman most days. And Clark… well, you and Clark just look out for each other. If he gets up to get more coffee and notices your empty mug, he'll bring it back hot and full with a little sugar. That one day the heat in the office went kaput, he threw his Daily Planet sweatshirt at you to stay warm. Whenever you bring donuts, you make sure to get an old-fashioned cake one just for him. And you always let him borrow your stapler because his likes to jam. But that's just what colleagues do. Right?
You can feel all of their eyes on you as a handsome man wearing what looks like a very expensive cowboy costume waltzes up to you and asks you to dance. He's definitely from the city - you can tell by his outrageously expensive cologne and the creases where his shirt has been recently pressed.
Cat, Lois, Jimmy, and Clark all watch as he leads you in a slow dance before it fades into a more upbeat one.
"Why did he put his hat on her head like that?" Clark asks. He's usually an even-tempered, cool guy but right now he feels like he could throw one of the empty beer bottles cluttering their table at a wall.
Cat giggles and Jimmy shakes his head before explaining, "You haven't heard of the hat rule?"
"The hat rule?"
"C'mon, I thought you were from the country!" Cat giggles.
"Smallville is rural, but that doesn't mean there's cowboys everywhere," he explains. "I mean, there are a few ranchers that wear the whole getup," he says as he gestures to the dance floor full of pearl snap shirts, Wranglers that have never needed a patch, and fancy boots with the tags tucked in. "Anyway, what's the rule?"
"The hat rule," Lois starts, appearing at their table with another round of beers and one Shirley Temple for Clark, "is that if she wears the hat, she has to ride the cowboy."
Clark sputters on his first sip of the sweet drink before simply stating, "No."
"No?" Cat asks. "C'mon Clark, that guy's pretty cute. Maybe she wants to wear his hat and dot dot dot."
The upbeat song ends and, you return the hat to the nice gentleman with a thank you before heading back to your table. Why is everyone still staring at you? "Hey guys," you say warily as you sidle up next to Clark. He's so big - he kind of feels like a watchdog among all of these handsy cowboys. Clark feels your warm body brush against his side and he doesn't move.
"Are you guys having an okay time?" You ask. "You all look like your goldfish died. Is this not your vibe?"
"I, for one, am having a lovely time. There's plenty of cow-people to ogle," Lois says with a wink.
"Cat? Jimmy?" You ask.
"Yes!" They say at the same time. Jimmy gestures to the camera around his neck.
"I thought you said no working tonight!" You exclaim.
"I'm not working - this is just for fun. Do you think I'm going to miss any of us yahoos trying to line dance? Not a chance. Plus, if I happen to get some nice shots of the bar you can always use them in your article."
"Sneaky," you tease him.
You watch Clark who is trying to fish out the cherry from his drink with the straw. "And you, Clark? You don't want to dance?"
"Can't really dance well in these shoes," he says, looking at everyone on the dance floor. His eyes seem to be tracking your former dance partner. "But I'm having fun."
"Most people don't have to convince someone that they're having fun if they truly are."
He huffs out a laugh. "I'm enjoying myself. You look like you're having fun."
"Do I?"
"Yes. I learned about the hat rule," he says, finally looking your way.
"The hat rule is fake," you scoff. "Besides, I never would have let him put his hat on me if there was an expectation. He was just being friendly."
"He was very friendly," Clark quips.
"My mama always told me to never refuse a dance when asked. It's just a dance. You don't have to marry the person," you say, watching Clark process. He nods as a familiar song starts to play and you squeal. The dance floor starts to fill with mostly women who look ready to dance like their lives depend on it.
"This is my favorite! Gotta go!" You say with a wave as you skip to the dance floor.
"I'm getting more drinks," Lois says. Cat and Jimmy stay with Clark and watch you take off.
Got a little boom in my big truck
Gonna open up the doors and turn it up
Gonna stomp my boots in the Georgia mud
Gonna watch you make me fall in love
The lyrics and dance moves you have memorized from many nights in college dancing to this song take over as the worn soles of your boots glide across the floor.
You undo your claw clip and toss it across the way to Clark, letting your hair fall down around your shoulders as you start to dance. He catches it clumsily and clips it to his loosened tie. You spy Jimmy punching Clark in the arm and saying something that you can't make out over the music. The familiar lyrics of the fun, cheesy country song continue and you move your body to the music with the crowd. It's a fun song to dance to, and even a little sexy at times.
"I didn't know she could dance like that," Clark mutters to his colleagues.
Lois laughs as she returns to their table with drinks and touches Clark's chin. "You might want to close your mouth there, Clark. You're going to start panting if you're not careful."
"She's cute though. You should pant," Cat adds with a giggle.
"I'm not panting," he says as he rolls his eyes. But there are parts of him tingling - parts that you definitely don't talk about with your co-workers. "I just didn't know she could dance…" he trails off as you bend forward to the floor and whip your hair as you come back up. "Oh," he mumbles. You blow a kiss to your coworkers and motion for them to join you on the dance floor. Cat and Lois take the bait, and you start teaching them the basic moves as the song plays.
Jimmy excuses himself to use the restroom as Clark watches you. You've been his desk-mate for a month now, and he's thought you were pretty since day one, but he figured you had a partner already. You're so kind and funny with a bit of a wild streak. Someone like you certainly would be snatched up by now, right? He's never asked, but you've also never mentioned someone special. The jeans, the boots, the confidence… it's a deadly combo. Like kryptonite.
"Clark, seriously, you're going to give Steve a run for his money when it comes to being borderline creepy," Jimmy says, back from the bathroom already. How long had Clark been staring at you and daydreaming? "Stop staring at her. Better yet, ask her to dance."
"I don't know how to dance to this stuff," he says.
"Just wait for the next slow one, then," Jimmy suggests. "If you don't ask her, some faux cowboy is going to sweep her off her feet."
Jimmy's right. Clark knows he's right. But you sit by each other for at least forty hours every week. He doesn't want to make things awkward. Plus if things progressed, you'd both have to tell HR, and…
"There he goes. He's going to ask her," Jimmy says, and they both watch as the cowboy glides confidently across the dance floor toward you.
"No he's not," Clark replies and is up and walking toward you with long, purposeful strides.
"Look who decided to join the fun!" You exclaim as Clark stands next to you. "And hello again," you say to your previous dance partner. His belt buckle shines under the lights.
"Dance with me," Clark says at the same time that the cowboy asks, "Can I steal you again?"
Lois's eyebrows fly to the ceiling and Cat giggles, but cuts the tension quickly. "C'mere cowboy. Show me how it's done," she says, stepping between you and the other man. You hear Jimmy's camera clicking as the cowboy takes Cat's hand and spins her in a circle before pulling her in for a dance. Lois quickly notes the heat radiating between you and Clark and points a thumb over her shoulder. "I'm going to get another drink." She scurries off to the bar, and you're left alone under the lights with Clark. A slow song starts playing, and you take Clark's offered hand. His palm is a little sweaty, but you give it a squeeze as a silent thank you.
"Think you can keep up with a slow one?" You ask.
"There's no fancy footwork?" He asks as he pulls you closer and settles his hand at the curve of your spine.
"Not for this one," you say. Your hair clip is still hanging on his tie - a metaphorical cowboy hat claiming this one as taken.
"You sure know how to dance. Where are you from again, anyway? I know you didn't learn those moves in Metropolis," he says, confidently guiding you around the dance floor to the sultry ballad.
"I'm from a little town outside of Lawrence," you tell him.
"Kansas?" He asks, eyes widening.
"Yes."
"I'm from Kansas," he says. "Smallville. How do I not know you?"
"Well, Clark, millions of people live in the state, so the statistical probability of us knowing each other-"
"Right, sorry," he says, shaking his head.
"So, you're a Kansas boy… that actually makes a lot of sense," you say. His hand flexes around yours as he spins you out and back into his arms. He's a great slow dancer.
"Oh, am I fulfilling some kind of Kansas stereotype?" He asks playfully.
"You're just… not as flashy as some people here. Not that flashy is a bad thing. You maybe just… remind me of how nice home can be." You shake your head as you say it, realizing how intimate it sounds. "Sorry, that came out weird."
"I know what you mean," he says softly. "It's why I always take my coffee breaks with you. You're like the calm in the storm of the bullpen most days. Reminds me of… yeah, home. That's not weird to say. At least I don't think so."
You're both interrupted from your borderline romantic conversation by a series of shuttering clicks from your table. Jimmy doesn't try to hide the fact that he's taking photos of the two of you dancing. "You might want them someday!" He shouts over the music. You sigh out a laugh and look up at Clark, who has started rubbing a circle with his thumb on the back of your hand.
"You looked… good - dancing out here," he says, breaking away for a moment to push his glasses up his nose. He's nervous.
"Oh, everyone loves Country Girl," you say with a laugh. "It gets the people going!"
It definitely got me going, Clark thinks to himself but doesn't say it out loud. He simply smiles and pulls you in a bit tighter as the slow song crescendos before fading out.
"Thanks for the dance, Kent."
"My pleasure, cowgirl."
You break away back to your table to see everyone else gathering up their bottles. "Are you guys leaving already?"
"Mr. Jinx got into my peace lily. My living room camera alerted me. I have to get home so he doesn't try to eat it!" Cat says, biting her lip. Jimmy nods and holds up his car keys. "I'm their ride, so… we'll see you guys Monday?"
"Okay, yeah. Thanks for coming. I hope your little guy is okay," you say the last part just to Cat.
You exchange a hug with the girls and a salute to Jimmy before they're out the bar doors.
"Looks like it's just you and me," you say, turning back to Clark. He's leaning against the table with his head in his hands, looking frustrated. "We can go if you want. Or I can get a cab."
"No," he says, sitting up. "I don't want you to-"
"Okay then," you say. "Get up. I want to show you something - let's get you out of your weird funk, Kent!"
"I'm not in a funk-" he starts as you pull him by his beefy arm from the table across the bar to an adjoining room. Your hand feels steady on him as you finally enter the room to a rowdy crowd surrounding someone being thrashed about on a mechanical bull. The rider has one arm in the air, waving wildly, and looks like they are about to hurl before they are thrown off the robotic beast.
"You wanna ride?" You ask, looking up at Clark with a challenging stare.
"Absolutely not," he says. You raise a brow and smile, "Scared?"
"I'm not scared. I'm in dress pants."
"Well, that's your fault for not partaking in casual Fridays," you tease as you walk over to the man behind a small stage. "I wanna ride please."
"Sure thing, little lady. You'll be up after this next one. I'll go easy on ya."
"No need!" You tell the man with a smile.
You and Clark both watch the next brave soul climb atop the bull with a questionably sober laugh. The young man is overconfident and gets bucked off in less than thirty seconds. You giggle as he climbs out of the pit to which he mutters a "buckle up, buttercup" to you with beer breath and a sneer. Clark bristles next to you, stepping slightly in front of you to shield you from the drunkard. Clark helps you step into the inflatable ring and watches you get onto the bull, somehow making the whole ordeal look graceful. He catches the way the denim of your jeans creases at the upper thigh when you fully mount yourself on the mechanical beast and clears his throat. Thank goodness for desks at work that keep him focused on writing and not on whatever part of your body that is - your thigh? Hip? He's not sure; he just knows that he likes it and wants to see more of it.
The bull operator takes things too easy on you even though you asked him not to, and you yell for him to "turn it up a notch".
"Okay, cowgirl!" He shouts back sarcastically as he cranks up the dial. The bull start to move faster and with more jerky movements. Clark runs a hand nervously through his hair and you start to get tossed around on top of the saddle. You grasp the horn of the saddle harder and keep your hand in the air as close to ninety degrees as you can. Your legs are burning as you hold on for dear life, and you can feel your t-shirt riding up around the curve of your waist. "Look at this gal go!" The operator yells.
Clark white-knuckles the edge of the inflatable pit, impressed and terrified at how hard the bull is bucking you. And turned on - gosh, the way your thighs are gripping the broad back of the beast, the sliver of skin at your waist that's showing above the top of your jeans, your chest - no, Clark, don't stare at her tits like some pervert. The bull starts to slow down and you dismount with a sigh, blowing hair out of your face. You take a cheeky bow and wink at the operator in an I told you so way before reaching for Clark.
He helps you out of the ring. "You can take the girl outta Kansas…" he says with a low whistle.
"I'm beat. You ready?" You ask, lacing your fingers through his like it's the easiest thing in the world.
---
When Monday rolls around, you waltz into work with a box full of donuts and two old-fashioneds for Clark. The bullpen is ablaze with talk of some new Hammer of Boravia weirdness.
Lois, Jimmy, and Cat stop their conversation as you set the box down at your desk. "Who died?" You ask with a terrified look.
"No one," Cat says with a giggle. "We just wanna know how the rest of your weekend went."
"Oh! Umm… let's see. Saturday morning I went to the farmer's market. Have you guys been? They have this adorable booth with kolaches. Then I went to a movie with a friend. Sunday I just cleaned my apartment and got a late night coffee. Why? What did you guys do?"
"You owe me twenty, Jimbo," Lois says.
You look between the three of them, confused.
"They placed a bet."
"I can see that, Cat, thank you," you say sarcastically. "What bet?"
"That you and Clark didn't go home together on Friday night," she says quietly. "She thinks he wouldn't put out on a first date." She uses air quotes around first date.
"Oh!" You say, pretending to be scandalized. "You guys want a donut?"
"Hold on, hold on," Jimmy says, holding up a hand. "I didn't hear a denial."
Clark walks in at that moment looking deliciously pressed and clean in a white button down and dark blue trousers. "Morning gang," he says with a bigger than normal smile. "It's such a beautiful day!"
"Oh, hell," Lois says, handing the crumpled twenty back to Jimmy with a roll of her eyes.
"God, I love being right," he says with a grin, pocketing the cash.
"Ooh, you got me two old-fashioneds? Thank you," Clark says with a grin, closing the box with two donuts in hand. He takes your claw clip from the strap of his messenger bag and sets it on your desk. "You left that at my-", he coughs, "at the bar."
"Oh my God, I should have bet more money," Jimmy quips and you roll your eyes as Lois and Cat laugh.
Clark is blissfully ignorant to the whole exchange as he unpacks his bag and sets a worn pair of brown cowboy boots under his desk. You eye them and look at him questioningly.
"I had my ma overnight 'em. I knew I had some back home," he says. "I figured they'd be easier to dance in."
"Oh, he's down so bad," Jimmy says, snapping a picture of the two of you.
"All right, everyone!" Perry shouts. "Get to work! The first person to get an exclusive with Superman gets a bonus!"
"Ooh, game on," you say. "I love a challenge."
Clark smiles at you. He's going to make you work for it, but that bonus will be yours.
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on a03! - Main Masterlist✦
✦pairing: Clark Kent x wife!reader✦
✦summary: You and Clark take the kids to see Ma and Pa.✦
✦warnings/tags: established relationship, tooth-rotting fluff, domestic fluff, shenanigans, implied smut, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: I'd like to dedicate this on to my homie @let-it-sn0o0ow bc she's my Clark homie. It's that time of the month, guys! The one where everyone knows I'm ovulating! Enjoy!✦
Kansas gets hot, in the summer.
It doesn’t affect Clark. It never has. He’s been rolling hay bales and carrying cows in from the pasture since he was six. Not much has changed, with age. He still let Pa try to heard Bessie himself, ringing the bell and whistling with a hopeless expression.
“Maybe we should call that dog your cousin’s got.” Pa jokes, but it’s tired. Bessie isn’t moving for anyone.
So Clark claps his father on the folder, and smiles.
Pa sighs. “Son, I got it-“
“I know you got it. But I got it, y’know. A little faster.”
Clark waits for his father to relent. A small nod of his head, and grumble about gettin’ old puttin’ the world on his bones. It’s the same as when he was a kid. Same as when he was a teenager, or young kid coming back from college. It’s hot, and doing something the hard way is very important to build work ethic, but Clark would just rather get Pa out of the sun. It’s unrelenting, with the flat air and lack of clouds. Pa’s face has been red for twenty minutes.
The house has got AC, and lemonade. Clark doesn’t think Pa really needed to leave it’s safety for a moment, but the man is stubborn.
And now, just like forever, Clark is carrying Bessie into the barn.
“Daddy!” Something almost slams into Clark’s legs, and he lets out a rare grunt to stop himself from tripping. “I was playing with her!”
Clark sighs.
Not everything has stayed the same. He’s not the wide-eyed, hopeful kid that tossed all the cows into the barn, then told Ma and Pa about the city.
He’s trying not to fall over his daughter, as she pulls at his pants and tries to jump up and grab Bessie. The cow doesn’t seem to share the same enthusiasm to get free, watching Maya with a lazy cow-expression.
Maya seems to think he’s holding Bessie captive. Her little eyes—you say they look like Clark’s, but he never sees anything but you—are starting to get glossy with tears. That’s not good.
“You can play with Bessie after Pa and I milk her, tiger-“
“But I want to play with her now!” Maya screams, and Clark flinches. The girl has stronger lungs than the roosters.
“Maya, you can go play with the goats-“
“The goats are mean! One of them ate my shirt, Daddy, and Ma gave it to me, and-“ Maya cuts herself off with a tiny gasp, and her lips are starting to wobble. “I- I didn’t mean to ruin it, it was a gift and I ruined it- And- I’m sorry-“
“Woah, okay- Big breathes-“
Clark tries to crouch down to Maya’s eye level, but he’s tall and can’t really get the balance to stop Bessie from toppling of his shoulders. If he was thinking a little more, he’d be able to find it.
He’s too worried about Maya, and the fact that watching her cry has always felt like throwing a baby bird into an incineration. Watching any of them cry makes his heart cry too, like it’s being stripped down and flayed, but Maya especially is like a blade to his heart.
She’s got a softness to her, that you say matches him. Little hands that always hold things so softly, hair that’s always got something in it, from her poking around in places she shouldn’t be. Clark says you’re the one who always ends up in strange, dangerous places.
You counter that at least you know you’re in danger. Clark—and Maya—always seem to think there’s going to be a lighthouse to guide them back home, and a sweet woodland creature that aides them on their quest.
“No animals ever aide me, darling.” He’d hummed, kissing the top of your head.
You’d given him a flat look. “What about the deer? Who gave you directions?”
“You’re exaggerating that story. Animals can sense distress, it was just helping us get out of the woods-“
“You can fly, Clark. You didn’t need directions-“
“Maya wanted to pet it.”
You’d laughed softly, and kissed his cheek. “You wanted to pet it,” you’d murmured, and he’s turned a little red. You knew him too well.
And you always say he’s too soft on them. But it’s a gentle joke.
Clark knows you love it. If you didn’t, the joke wouldn’t be followed by a kiss, then your head on his shoulder.
It’s not proving to be very helpful right now, though. Little, fat tears are starting to stream down Maya’s face, as she clings to the sweater—indeed half-eaten, with little bits of thin yarn sticking out and a fair portion of the sleeve sticking out at an odd angle—like it’s the most priceless thing in the world.
He knows that, to her, it might as well be.
Bessie can wait.
Clark drops her on the ground, and tries not to groan when she immediately starts to wander back into the pasture. He’ll get her later. After Maya isn’t crying so loud it’s going to make the birds start screaming back.
“Can I see it, baby?” He holds out a hand, and Maya nods. Sniffs, a little snot running down her nose, and puts her tiny hand in Clark’s.
He turns it over, inspecting the damage. It’s not that bad. Nothing worse than he got into, at Maya’s age. Nothing Ma can’t fix.
The silence proves to be too much for Maya. She clears her throat, looks around the barn, and drops her voice to a whisper.
“Ella made me hang out with them.”
“No, I didn’t!” Ella—the oldest, who’s been very proudly proving that the kids did get Clark’s Kryptonian genetics—all but appears in the barn next to them. “Dad, I didn’t, Maya’s lying-“
“You’re lying!” Maya screams. “You said they hated me! You made me go-“
“I was telling a joke, Maya. I didn’t, like- Throw you at them-“
“Yes, you did!” Maya turns back to Clark with wide eyes. “She threw me, Daddy, she threw me-“
“Liar-“
“Hey.” Clark glares between them, and he has to use his parent voice. It’s just the Superman voice, but he still feels bad about it. “Take a few breathes, nobody’s hurt, we can work this out-“
“My sweater is hurt!” Maya screams, and Clark winces. He walked into that one. “Ella killed my sweater-“
Ella opens her mouth to scream back, but Clark gives her a firm look. She prides herself on being the mature one, and—hopefully—that will mean she’s not going to drop to the four-year-old’s level.
By some miracle, the look—the one where he raises his brows, and sets his mouth in a line—works. Ella huffs and rolls her eyes. Crosses her arms and wrinkles her nose, muttering under her breath.
“Your sweater is fine, Maya. Stop being a baby.”
Maya almost shrieks. “I’m not a baby, I’m four-“
“Yeah, that’s basically a baby-“
“Daddy, I’m not a baby-“
“I know you’re not, Maya.” Clark sighs, gently petting Maya’s head. The snot is starting to get out of control. “Ella, don’t call her a baby, sweetheart.”
Ella makes a sour face. “But-“
“Eleanor.” Clark’s tone is still soft, but he gives her another look.
Somehow, it works.
“Whatever.” Ella rolls her eyes. “She’s still a liar about the goats.”
“I’m not-“
“Maya Rose.” Clark says, still letting his voice be gentle. Maya blinks, still crying, but doesn’t scream anymore.
The full name thing works wonders. He should use it more often.
“Did Ella throw you to the goats? Tell me the truth.”
Maya pouts, but shakes her head. “But- She did say they didn’t like me.”
Clark sighs, and looks back to Ella. “Is that true?”
“Maybe…” Ella mutters. “But- She was annoying me, she kept chasing the chickens when I was doing the hay! I was trying to control it, and- She was going to get hurt, dad, I was trying to get her to go away so she wouldn’t get hurt- I was being careful like you say-“
“Do I say to tell people mean things, to keep them safe?”
Ella pauses, then looks at the floor. “No.”
“And Maya,” Clark looks back to his smaller daughter, who’s trying to wipe her nose with her non-damaged sleeve.
He replaces it with his own. His flannel is older than both of them combined. Maya’s sweater will be harder to fix if it’s covered in snot.
“Do we lie about things to get what we want?”
Maya shakes her head, and Clark lets out a heavy breath. That all seems to have—for once—worked out in his favor. No more screaming. Bessie’s back in the pasture, but she’ll be easier to get than explaining to you with Maya’s got a chuck of Ella’s hair, and Ella’s covered in bite marks that match Maya’s teeth.
“Can you both apologize?” He says, and they both nod. Mumble apologies that don’t sound so sincere, but are better than nothing.
“Can I finish the hay, dad?” Ella asks nervously, and Clark sighs.
“Yeah, okay. Maya, can you go find Pa? Give him your sweater, ask him to show you how to feed the goats without a fallen solider?”
Maya nods eagerly—all the damage of the past ten minutes vanished from her mind—and sprints outside the barn. Clark offers Ella his hand, and she takes it, almost dragging him outside to the hay.
She might be stronger than he was, at her age. He certainly doesn’t remember being able to throw the hay that far, but maybe the distance looked shorter when he was a few feet closer to the ground.
Ella’s also got a confidence Clark is pretty sure he lacked. Ma and Pa didn’t fully understand what he could do. He didn’t understand. Clark learned through trial and error and squished trees and face plants into mud when he overshot his flying. Ella’s got him.
And she’s just a strong, bossy, smart kid. She’s got her mother’s mouth, and… lack of care for what’s regarded as polite.
Clark’s always loved that about you, though. There’s a lot of things to be angry about, in the world. You don’t bite it down, and you never cower in the face of the noise. He knows for a fact, that when it’s behind closed doors you’re quieter. More worried about what everyone thinks, anxiously wringing your hands about if everyone in the room hated you.
They never do. They never could. Clark is pretty sure everyone sees you the same way he does. Like the cool, shaded breeze in the dead of summer. The only star that’s bright enough to break through the clouds. That shines bright enough he can even see it when he visits Gotham.
You’re a flower, that pokes up between cracks in the sidewalk.
That brings more flowers, to Clark’s life.
And Ella is the same.
Loud, fierce child, who screamed so loud when she was born. Like a war drum, or trumpets. Clark doesn’t think Ella could be stronger if she tried.
But the girl works hard.
And she’s throwing the hay bales like they’re baseballs, all the way across the field.
“Maya thinks she can talk to animals, dad.” Ella rolls her eyes, talking the whole time she works.
Clark feels a little useless. He’s just sort of standing there, watching his eight-year-old work. Maybe he should’ve told Pa to supervise, so he could help Maya with her sweater, and the goats. The goats love Clark, and if they started chewing on Maya again, he’s sure he could get through to them-
“I mean- That’s not a Kryptonian thing, right? Some of us can’t talk to animals? Or…” Ella pauses, frowning at the air. “Do some of us get, like- Special powers? I haven’t learned how to use my frost-breath yet, maybe that’s your power, dad. And Maya can talk to animals, but- Why don’t I get a special power? Does aunt Kara have a special power? Do you only get one if you’re weak?”
Clark blinks at her, the words finally catching up with his head.
“El, did you just call me weak?”
Ella flushes a little, and shakes her head. “No, but- Aunt Kara’s so strong, and Pa says I can pick up more hay than you, and- I didn’t mean to-“
“I know.” Clark smiles at her, and she relaxes. “Aunt Kara is strong, and so are you. But there are no special powers.”
“Then why does Maya think she can talk to animals-“
“She’s just playing. Remember when you were five, and made me and your mom meet all your pet rocks?”
Ella frowns. “No?”
Of course she doesn’t. That was three hours of Clark’s life, listening to Ella talk about all the rocks hopes and dreams and specific family dynamics. It had actually been pretty interesting. He’d gotten invested.
He wonders if they still have the chart she drew. He’ll check when they get home, just to see if that helps her remember. Or just for him to look at, and cry about how big she is now.
Probably the latter.
He’ll make you look at it with him. You won’t cry, but you’ll comfort him and maybe kiss him with a loving giggle, which is all he really wants anyway.
“Well,” he shrugs at Ella. “You did. Maya’s having fun, that’s it.” He pauses, then adds, “Next time she won’t leave you alone, maybe call me or mom, okay?”
Ella nods, staring at her fingers. “But… Not special powers?”
Clark almost laughs. “Ella, we have special powers. Don’t think we need more.”
“But why can’t I use my frost breath-“
“Because we live in a city, sweetheart. It’s not safe.”
Ella frowns, and Clark sighs.
“When I bring you to the fortress, we can start working on it. Deal?”
“Really!” Ella almost squeals, looking up to Clark with shining eyes. “I can go with you soon? Can I meet Gary? Can I fly around the whole arctic and pick up and iceberg and-“
“Yeah, sure. Soon. Once I talk to mom.”
“Let’s go talk to her now-“
“No, hey-“ Clark grabs Ella before she can run off. Now is not the time to tell you about that impulsive promise. “Hay bales, Ella. We have to finish them.”
“Right. Right.” Ella shoots back to the massive rolls, picks one up, and vaults it almost a mile down the field.
She gives him a proud look, and Clark offers a thumbs up.
“How far can you get them, dad?”
Clark grins, picks one up—making a quick judgement call if he wants to actually throw it as far as he can, which would be at least to the ocean—and tosses it about fifteen miles away. He can hear it land, somewhere in an abandoned field.
Ella’s eyes shine, and she looks up at him in awe. “Can you throw me that far?”
“Uh-“ He almost says yes. Ella can fly, and it would make her so happy. “Sorry, sweetheart. Mom would kill us.”
“She’d just kill you.” Ella grumbles, and Clark can’t laugh at that. He’s supposed to mature and collected and not susceptible from peer-pressure, especially when the peer is his child.
“Well, we can ask her after dinner. Maybe she’ll say yes.”
You won’t. Clark knows you won’t. You don’t care that Ella’s half-Kryptonian, she’s still your baby. And you have made it very clear to Clark that he will not be throwing your babies up into the stratosphere. But the little false promise satiates Ella, and she returns to her hay bales. Clark gets to hear all about how Lena from school—Clark doesn’t know who that is, but Ella tells you about school drama more than she tells him, and maybe he should start asking questions so Ella knows she can talk to him about silly gossip—is going to the Maldives for summer break.
Ella thinks that’s very silly. She could go to the Maldives right now, if she wanted.
“But I won’t.” She says quickly, at the look on Clark’s face. “I won’t Dad, I’m just saying I could-“
“Yes, well.” Clark sighs. “If you do it now, I’ll know exactly where to find you.”
Ella pouts, and starts to complain about how Jade got her nails done, and they were the fancy kind. Clark doesn’t know what the fancy kind of nails are, or why an eight-year-old needs them.
“She’s nine, dad. She’s the oldest in our class.” Ella sighs dramatically. “I can’t wait to be older.”
“You should, kiddo.” Pa sighs, trekking through the grass with a face Clark swears is only getting redder.
“Pa, where’s-“
“Maya fell in some mud.” Pa says your name with a small smile. “Sent her up for a shower. Figured I’d come over here and hang out with my coolest granddaughter.”
Ella beams at the praise, starting to bounce up and down on her toes. She gives Clark a please look he doesn’t know how to say no to—probably because she’s just mimicking yours—and he sighs.
“Don’t stay out too long, guys. And El, if Pa starts to look tired-“
“I can look out for myself, son. Go get changed, you’re smellin’ like you ran in the cow pens.”
Clark sighs. “Thanks, Pa.”
He kisses the top of Ella’s head—even as she whines and squirms away from it—and turns back to the house. Ma and Pa don’t get to see the kids as often as they’d want. Clark knows they’re trying to milk every second they have with their grandchildren, and he’s not about to take that away from them.
It’s how the kitchen ended up the way it is. Jack standing on a stool to crush chocolate chips with little fists, and a lot of mud on the floor.
“Ma, what happened-“
“Maya came in whinin’ and rolling on the floor, Clark. Wouldn’t stop ‘till I threatened her cookies.” Ma smiles fondly. “Good thing she don’t know most of my threats are empty. Scurried off the find her mother, moment I said it.”
“I still don’t wanna give them to her, Ma.” Jack grumbles, face in a pinched little glower. “She said my smoothies tasted bad.”
“You put oat milk in with the kale, Jackie.” Ma hums. “I didn’t like it either. But,” she pokes his chocolate chips. “You’re makin’ good cookies. And your banana orange smoothie tasted gosh darn perfect.”
Jack puffs out his chest, and turns back to Clark hopefully. “Can you try my smoothies, Dad? I’m experimenting.”
Clark feels a coil of dread in his stomach, but nods like he’s never wanted to do anything more. He’s experienced too many of Jack’s experiments before. With the food, before it was smoothies, it was new ice cream flavors. Last year, when they visited, Ma showed him how to make it from scratch, and soon the house back in Metropolis was filled with black current and vanilla extract and cherries and suspicious fruits and pizza Jack had been stealing from his pre-school.
Just a few weeks ago, the experiments had been a spider and rat he’d been keeping under his bed. He’d told you and Clark he was trying to extract the spiders venom, and train the rat to do his homework. By some miracle, he hadn’t got bitten.
Clark had found Jack on the roof last night, trying to map the stars and figure out where Krypton was. He’d agreed to eat one of the cinnamon brownies Jack had convinced Ma to make, to make up for forcing Jack to bed.
He shouldn’t be able to get sick.
He’d still spent an hour on the toilet this morning, and really didn’t want to waste his night like that as well.
But you say he should be feeding Jack’s curiosity. And you’re—as usual—right.
So Clark takes both the smoothies, and drinks them slowly. Jack watches his carefully, the whole time. It’s a little eerie. His son has all your coloring, but in every other way, he’s a photocopy of Clark.
There’s always been something glinting and dark, in the boy’s eyes. It’s like he thinks everything is a question he can and will answer.
Right now, Clark feels like the question. Even if he’s just drinking a truly horrible smoothie.
“Do you like them?” Jack asks, barely a second after Clark is done, and he sighs.
“This one is good.” He holds up the pinker one, and sets down the green one on the table. “But this one is a little bitter, Jack.”
Jack nods slowly, tilting his head. “Mommy liked the first one, too.”
“Everyone likes the pink one, Jackie.” Ma gives Clark an amused look. “Ask ‘im what the secret ingredient is.”
Clark frowns. “The wha-“
“It’s chocolate!” Jack shouts, like he’s announcing he figured out time travel. “I put chocolate in the smoothie, Dad! That’s why everyone likes it! Nobody wants the healthy one, but they like the chocolate one, and- We’re making the brownies out of oat milk, to see if people like them more- and- And Ma says we can make people vote after dinner-“
“Jack.” Ma play-hisses, light shining in her eyes. “You’re givin’ up the game!”
Jack’s eyes widen. “I- Um- Dad?”
Clark fights his smile, and raises his brows. “Jack.”
“Can you keep that secret? Pleeease?”
Jack gives him the pleading eyes, and Clark is pretty sure you’re teaching them to all the kids on purpose.
“Won’t tell a soul.” He glances around the kitchen, eyes landing back on the mud. “Ma, I’m gonna clean this up and go check on Maya-“
Ma says your name with a shrug. “Got Maya goin’ down for a nap. Belle’s been down since noon, think she’s tryin’ to sync them back up.”
Clark sighs. The twins have been weaning off of naps for a few months, but that also means they’ve been taking them at random, unpredictable times. He grabs the mop from the closet and gets to work on the mud, but keeps an ear upstairs. He can hear you cooing and singing softly, trying to coax Maya down while letting Mabel keep sleeping. It’s a fine line. He doesn’t know how you always manage to walk it so well.
“Can I have blue cupcakes for my birthday, Dad?”
Clark blinks at Jack, who’s suddenly squatting next to him while Ma turns on the over.
“Blue… Cupcakes?” Clark frowns. “What flavor is that?”
“It’s blue.” Jack says, like it’s obvious.
“Blue what?”
“Blue. It tastes like blue, Dad.”
“Oh. Okay.” Clark has no clue what blue tastes like. “Like, um- The slushies? That we get at the movies?”
“No, it’s a cupcake-“
“It’s blue, Clark.” Ma hums from the oven. “Tastes like blue.”
“Thanks, Ma. Jack, I don’t know where to get blue cupcakes-“
“I can make them!” Jack says quickly, and that’s terrifying. “Mommy can help me, I’ll show her now so we can do it at home-“
“You ain’t gonna do such a thing, Jackson.” Ma cuts in, her voice a little stricter than before. “What did I say ‘bout botherin’ your mother.”
Jack sighs dramatically, then mutters. “Later.”
He recovers quickly. Shuffles back to Ma’s side, and starts staring at the brownies as they rise in the oven. Clark give ma a curious look, and she sighs.
“The woman’s been runnin’ around nonstop since dawn. Go make sure she ain’t watchin’ the TV again, Clark. Worried she’ll send herself to an early grave.”
Clark feels his heart stutter a little. You would push yourself paper-thin and cracking, before you asked for his help with the kids. Even with his parents, you don’t like to just relax. You hang on the fringes of every room and make sure it’s all going smoothly. You came out a few hours ago, to check on Maya and Ella, and even then you’d been flushes and tired. Clark had barely gotten a kiss before you running back to check on Mable and her coloring.
The singing upstairs has stopped.
He doesn’t have to use his super hearing to know that Ma is right, and he needs to go make sure you relax.
You’re exactly where Clark thought you’d be.
“You need to stop watching that, baby.” He murmurs, coming up behind the couch and rubbing your shoulders.
You hum, but don’t look away from Ma and Pa’s ancient little TV. You’ve got to turned to Metropolis local news, and you’re watching Guy and Kendra fight some gooey looking, tentacled space monster.
Clark leans down and kisses the top of your head. You reach up to lightly touch his face, but still don’t pull your attention from the TV.
“That thing looks dangerous,” you murmur as a tentacle flies out, and whacks a building.
“Yeah. Might put eggs in you like I did.”
That’s got enough edge to make you blink at him in surprise, your face a little flushed.
“Mr. Kent.” You whisper, and he kisses your nose.
“My love.”
“Don’t my love me, Clark, what did you just say-“
“Did you not hear me?” He keeps grinning at you, mostly because it’s adorable when you start to squirm. “I can, uh- Say it again.”
You raise your brows, Clark holds your gaze, and the moment breaks when you giggle.
“You’re so weird.” You kiss his cheek, relaxing for maybe the first time since you packed the kids in the car and left for the airport. “And you’d never put your eggs in me. It would make you feel bad.”
Clark frowns. If they hurt you, yes. He’d never do anything to hurt you. Sometimes he’s still worried he’s going to hug you a little too hard and you’ll snap. When you were pregnant with Ella, he’d had Terrific use his little balls to make sure you and the baby were healthy, and made a plan to get it out of you should things start to go south. Nothing, not even his eggs, will ever hurt you.
But-
“I don’t think I’d want to put my eggs in anyone else. He murmurs, staring at where your hands are tangled together. “I mean, if this is a situation where I’d have to put my eggs in someone, and they wouldn’t hurt, I’d always put them in you.”
You blink at him slowly, and your smiles spreads easily back over your face. You lean up to kiss under his jaw, and murmur against his skin.
“I love you.”
Clark turns his head, and kisses you fully. Deeply. The kind of kiss he hasn’t given you while there’s daylight, in too long. The kids have all decided kissing was gross, and now whenever he does it Ella gags, Maya boos and tries to fling herself between them, and Mabel screams like she’s being murdered. Then after, Jack asks twenty questions about why they’re doing that, and if Mommy likes it.
Gosh, Clark hopes you like it.
With the way you’re rising up into him like steam, he’d say he’s safe.
He takes the chance, while you’re distracted. Grabs the remote from off the couch, and flips off the TV.
You shoot back with wide eyes and a glare. “Clark, I was watching that-“
“You don’t have to, baby, it’s fine-“
“But what if it’s not? What if you have to leave, and- Stop smiling at me-“
Clark bites down his laugh as you glare at him, shaking his head. “I’m sorry-“
“No, you’re not-“
“I am, you’re just so cute when you’re angry.”
“I’m not-“
“Okay.” Clark kisses the little wrinkle between your eyes. “You’re not.”
Your glare deepens. “Stop agreeing with me-“
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Clark-“
He kisses you again, and revels in the way you moan opening into his mouth.
And Clark loves his kids. He really does. More than anything.
But Jesus, he misses this all the time. How you can get whiny and petulant and dramatic. How you hold onto him so tight, and pull him down until he’s all but folded over your body. You both have to be collected and mature, now.
It feels good to break once in a while. To grab your neck and tip it back, push his tongue down your throat and get drunk on the way you call for him. You tug his hair a little, and he moans for you.
When you pull back, your whole face is blown out with lust. You smile so sweetly at him, almost putty in his arms, and he needs to get you somewhere with a lock on the door.
“You’re covered in mud.” You whisper, and Clark knows you’re thinking the exact same thing he is.
“Shower’s- Um- I mean, you’ve seen it. It’s big-“
You giggle. “It is big.”
Clark blushes like he hasn’t had you naked and writhing, in the bed you share, knocking you up with little monsters. He blushes like you both aren’t completely aware what he can do to you. What he’s thinking about doing right fucking now.
What he’s about to do, when he scoops you off the bed princess style, giggling and kicking your feet and-
“Mommy!”
Mabel’s shrill, fearful voice tears through the halls, and you sigh.
Clark tenses. “I can get her, darling-“
“No, it’s okay.” You slide out of his arms with a smile. “I wasn’t using a line, you really are covered in mud. Go shower for dinner.”
“But-“
“Shower!” You call over your shoulder, walking away before he can think to catch you.
Clark stares at his shoes for a moment. It had been so close, to the door being closed and Ma going to take care of it. Although, he doesn’t really want Ma to be figuring out what he’d be doing to you, that made him ignore his children. Maybe it’s for the best, he decides as he showers, that you got interrupted.
It certainly doesn’t feel like it’s for the best, when he makes his way downstairs for dinner. Somehow you’d found the time to change and look prettier. The setting sun gives the impression of a halo, the warm, misty night making you look like a fairy goddess that’s blessing the chipped, wooden table with it’s presence.
That’s sort of how it’s always felt, though. From the first moment Clark saw you, he’d been pretty sure stardust had taken form, and the whole sky itself was standing right in front of him. When he’d brought you to meet his parents the first time, he’d worried you’d be shining so bright it would blind the whole table, and you wouldn’t have any interest in the simpleness of their lives.
But you’d taken. You’re perfect, so you’d molded right into his life like you’d always been meant for it. Like the place in his heart—the one just for you—hadn’t been empty before, but just in the wrong shape. And the moment you’d walked through the door, it figured out what it was supposed to be. How it was supposed to beat.
He can’t picture you anywhere but at the table anymore. Looking so pretty, with his ring on your finger and your child running up to grab his legs.
“Daddy, daddy, daddy-“
“He can hear you, Belle.” You say gently, trying to help Jack with his napkin. “Give him a moment to answer.”
Mabel nods, takes a deep breath, and looks up at Clark with glossy, hopeful eyes. “Daddy?”
Clark smiles. “Yeah, Mabel?”
“Can you look at my drawings? Before dinner? Please?”
“Uh-“ Clark looks up at you, and you shrug.
“Ask Ma.”
“Long as she washes her hand and doesn’t take longer than ten minutes,” Ma calls from the kitchen. “Our Belle can do whatever she wants.”
Mabel squeals, and he doesn’t get another second before Mabel’s dragging him back into the living room. Where the kids had set up camp, for most of the day. Books and stuffed animals and crayons are scattered all over the ground, and Clark can match each item to each kid.
The notebook that looks like it’s written by a mad scientist belongs to Jack, and Clark squints at the scribbles, because Jack’s handwriting is horrible, and a mix of English and his own secret language he refuses to teach anyone else. The three stuffed lions are Maya’s and Clark makes himself remember all their names— Lemony, Alice, Roar—because she always cries when anyone gets one of them wrong. The big girl books—with no pictures, and tiny print—are Ella’s, because she’s too old for silly things now.
All the markers and finger paints are Mabel’s. Clark considers reminding her not to get paint on Ma’s chairs, but the deed is done. And Ma must have seen it. She probably doesn’t mind at all.
“This one is me.” Mabel pulls him down to the floor, picking up a bundle of paper, and shoves the first one right into Clark’s face.
He examines it for a second, then looks back to Mabel.
She’s drawn herself as something purple, with wings. Clark’s long learned not to question her strange little brain. In the spring, when you’d all gone to beach, she’d sat with you on the shore and sorted the shells and stones he’d brought her from the water. To this day, he can’t fathom understanding her system.
He has a lovely time trying.
“It looks great, Belle.” He leans forward, pretending to try and see the others. “You got one of Mommy?”
“Yes!” She squeals, then shoves Clark back with a glare. “Wait, daddy, I have to do them in order.”
Clark nods, and settles, cross-legged on the carpet. Maya nods with satisfaction, then shuffles around her drawings like she’s figuring out something very important.
“This is Maya.” She says finally, turning around a picture of another purple creature for Clark to see.
He nods, and points at a strange little shape on her head. “What’s that?”
“It’s her chicken, Daddy.”
Clark frowns. “Maya’s got a chicken?” He didn’t memorize that stuffed animal.
“No, he’s a lion. His name is chicken.”
Maya points a little finger across the room, and Clark sighs. There is, indeed, another lion shoved into the couch cushions. If he has to guess the culprit of purchase, he’d name Pa.
Lemony, Alice, Roar, and Chicken.
Easy enough.
“This is Jackie.” Mabel—already moved on—shoves another purple person into Clark’s face, this one covered in a bunch of extra, swirling colors.
Clark nods, and praises her work with the brush—her fingers—before asking for the next one. He doesn’t want to be late to dinner, and face the wrath of you and Ma.
Mabel’s drawn Ella bigger than anyone else, even Clark. You’re the prettiest drawing, and the only other purple person with wings. Ma’s got a smile that’s a little terrifying with the teeth Mabel tried to give her, but there’s a light in her eyes Clark can somehow see through the page. Pa’s round, smiling without teeth—a creative choice Clark thinks resulted from the Ma situation—and has a big sun shining behind him.
Clark looks at his own purple person very carefully. There are weird little lumps on the ground, near his feet. There’s a big shape on his chest, that he’d think was the Superman symbol, if Mabel really understood Clark’s special job at all.
“What are these?” He asks her, tapping the page, and Mabel gives him a look like she can’t believe he’d ever have to ask.
“That’s your heart, Daddy.” She snaps, pointing at the symbol. “And that’s us.”
She points at the lumps, and Clark’s world is starting to get a little blurry.
Us.
Mabel and her siblings. They’re at Clark’s feet, like huddled penguins.
“Belle, can I keep this?” He asks softly, forcing his voice not to waver, and Mabel beams.
“Yes!”
Clark sends her back to the table, and rushes upstairs to put the drawing in one of your work binders.
He doesn’t want to ever lose it.
Dinner is as chaotic as any other. Ma made good, healthy food—steak and asparagus and potatoes and lemonade—that everyone devours, shouting and laughing over each other.
“Mom,” Ella says, leaning forward, and you hum.
“Ella.”
“Ask Dad how far I threw the hay today.”
You give her an amused look. “Can you not tell me yourself?”
“I can. I want you to ask Dad.” Ella turns to him. “Dad, tell her, please-“
“Across the field.” Clark says with a grin, and Ella’s chest puffs out. “She got it in the pen, one toss. Every single one of them.”
You nod slowly, and Pa clears his throat.
“Clark was only gettin’ them over that little patch of words, between the barn and the corn.”
“Oh.” You give Pa a small smile of thanks, before looking to Ella. “Good job, baby. Did you do your homework?”
Ella scoffs. “No, homework is gross-“
“No, it’s not!” Jack shoots up with an indignant expression. “You’re just bad at it.”
“I am not bad at it, it’s stupid, everyone thinks homework is stupid.”
Jack sticks out his tongue. “You’re just mad I’m better at it.”
“You’re not-“
“I am, and I’m going to be so much better at 2nd grade than you were-“
“Because you’re a nerd-“
“Eleanor.” You snap, narrowing your eyes, and she scowls.
“Jack started it-“
“I’m ending it. Apologize.” Your glare turns to Jack. “You too, Jackson. Don’t poke her.”
Jack and Ella roll their eyes, and grumble apologies. Mabel, uncaring about her sibling’s little fight, shoves her hand into the air, almost bouncing in her seat.
Ma smiles at her. “Yeah, Belle?”
“I made drawings!” She says, beaming around the table. “Daddy says they’re amazing, and- Mommy, can I show everyone my drawings-“
“Can I have Chicken?” Maya asks, seeming to realize that people are asking for things, which is a window. “Mommy, I want Chicken-“
“I-“ You blink slowly. “Who?”
“Chicken.” Clark murmurs, giving you a small smile. “New lion. Maya, you know the rules.”
She pouts. “No lions at the table.”
“Good. And no drawings, either, Mabel. You can show people after dinner.”
“Nooooooo!” Maya’s head shoots up. “I wanted to show people things, Daddy, Belle got to pick bedtime stories last night, and- And it’s my turn-“
“Maya.” Clark gives her a look, and she shakes her head.
“It’s my turn-“
“To show us what?”
“The goats, they’re my best friends now-“
“I took pictures.” Pa cuts in, raising his brows at Maya. “Can I show ‘em the photos?”
“And you can choose the bedtime story tonight.” You add, reaching over to wipe a little bit of potatoes off her cheek. “Deal?”
Maya pauses, thinks, then nods.
Mabel coughs dramatically, and you sigh.
“After dinner. Belle. But I want a clean plate.”
Mabel nods, and starts to eat with the kind of vigor that wins a war. All four kids end up with bits of asparagus in their teeth and shining dishes—maybe the motivation, maybe just Ma’s cooking—but there’s still desert left. You went out with the twins that morning to get pie.
No one’s allowed to eat it, until they try Jack’s brownies.
It’s amusing, so watch everyone eat them slowly while Jack looks like he’s about to shout they’ve all just fallen right into his evil trap. He’s taking tally, on a little whiteboard, of who likes them.
The results are everyone.
They’re brownies.
“I knew it!” Jack pumps his fists in the air. “Mommy, they’re healthy, they’re good- Ma helped me use good things and the brownies won’t give us cavities-“
“Jack.” You say softly, smile wide. “Big breaths.”
He takes a stuttered gasps—sometimes he forgets—and launches into a long speech about how he made them, and the merits, and a very confusing story about the smoothies. Once he’s satisfied, you all move onto the pie, and Mabel’s presentation.
“You two head off.” Ma murmurs to you and Clark, as you cut the pie into small pieces.
You look at her like she’s suggested Clark fly you into the sun. “But- Mabel’s paintings-“
“She’s already showed ‘em to you both. And you deserve a break. Take it.”
“But-“
Ma says your name gently. “Me and Pa’ll have it handled. Clark,” she smiles at him. “I don’t want either of ya back in my house ‘till the kids are asleep.”
Clark nods, and wraps his arm around your waist.
You’re still frowning, as he steers you outside, dodging Ella and Maya in the hall, avoiding the window that Mabel will be able to spot them through.
“Ella needs to do her stretches. Her body gets too tight, and then she’ll break a glass in the morning, and it’ll upset her, Clark, you know it will-“
“So does Ma.” Clark murmurs, kissing the side of your head. “Where should we go?”
“I don’t know, I- Maybe back-“
“No. Ma said rest.”
“Clark-“
“We can go to the roof.” He glances up at the barn. “That way, something goes wrong, you can run right back in.”
You sigh, and turn to press your face into his chest. He gets a mumble and nod, and smiles to himself.
“Hold on.”
He doesn’t need to tell you, before he takes off. He likes doing it anyway. You always try to dig your nails into his skin, and it makes him feel even more like he’s yours.
You did this, the first time you came to Smallville. Clark flew you up to the roof of the barn, you cuddled in the warm summer night, and just sat in each other. In the greatness of the night sky above you, talking about most nothing. It’s become a tradition every time he comes home, to the point that Clark’s stashed a blanket to make it more comfortable.
“How was your day, Honey?” He murmurs when you’re settled, and you hum.
Every time, you say you like the stars. And Clark knows you do. You’ve held his hand and made it trace constellations in the sky, and Clark’s pretty sure you’re making half of them up, but you look so pretty doing it, he doesn’t really care.
“Good.” You mumble, face pressed fully into his chest, and Clark smiles.
You say you like the stars.
You always just hold onto him.
You’re my star, is what you’d grumbled when he asked about it a few years before Ella was born. He’d grinned, and said you could be stars in orbit.
It wasn’t just the two of you, though, filling up that sky.
Your other stars fill up the night sky even brighter. Clark feels like he has more and more gravity, every single moment.
He’s never going to be able to thank you enough for it. For the humanity of it all.
Instead, he just keeps holding you under the stars.
“How was yours?”
“Pretty great. Ella’s getting big.” He sighs. “Don’t think about it until I see her next to the cows.”
You laugh. “Of course you’d measure her height by cows.”
“Well, she’s past the leg now. Like, uh- I think she could pick it up. If I let her.”
“Don’t. She’ll start throwing them up into the air to catch them.”
“I’d make sure they don’t hit the ground-“
“Clark.”
You prop your chin on his chest with a glare, and he smiles. Traces a hand over your cheek, pulling you little further up his chest.
“I won’t. Just working out if we could.”
“Okay.” You relax, then ask- “Can you throw a cow?”
“Yeah. I don’t, risk can be too big, but I could.”
You wiggle a little further up his chest. “Hot.”
Clark laughs, even as his face heats. “Really? That does it for you?”
“Everything you do does it for me. It’s so annoying.”
“Yeah?”
You nod. “Wanted you all day. I almost drooled out Jack’s smoothie, because you walked past the window. One day I’m going to, and you’ll have to explain why mommy is cationic.”
Clark frowns at the sky. “Well- Don’t got cationic. That’s really bad, sweetheart-“
“I don’t want to.” You snap. “It’s your fault. You and your stupid perfectness.”
“You’re perfect too-“
“Don’t kiss my ass.”
Clark smiles to himself, and kisses your hairline. “Sorry, darling.”
“Thank you.” There’s a long pause, and when you speak again, your voice is softer. “Do you think your parents like me?”
He says your name sternly, and grabs your chin. You worry about this every time, like Ma wasn’t the one who told Clark he should propose to you before Pa did, and they both got left.
“I know-“
“You don’t. They love you. I promise they love you. I love you-“
“You’re not the one who got bewitched, pretty girl.” Clark kisses you again, and your pout quickly melts into a sigh.
You can never hold the line long, when he gives you a real compliment.
“What happened, that made you think that again?” He asks the question carefully, even though he knows the answer is going to be something you know is nothing.
He’s right.
But he knows you better than anything, so he usually is.
“Your mom thinks I’m pregnant again.” You mumble, playing with the fabric of his shirt. “Which means she thinks I’m being a bitch-“
“She thinks you’re glowing.” Clark corrects quickly, and just dives right into it. Better to rip the bandaid off. “And you are pregnant. So she’s just stating fact.”
He kisses you, hoping it will delay the reaction to his words.
It does.
For about three seconds.
“I’m pregnant?!” You shout, pushing up on his chest. “Clark, why didn’t you fucking tell me-“
“Didn’t want too early.” He says calmly, rubbing your hand planted on his pecs. “And I just started hearing the heartbeat last week, was hoping we’d- You know. Do this first.”
“But- I-“ You shake your head. “The pill-“
“Think you missed it date night, baby.”
“But Plan B-“
Clark winces at that. “Um- I had the attack in the morning. You got the kids to school, and-“
“I forgot.” You whisper, eyes getting impossibly wider. “Fuck- Clark- I forgot, and- Five kids is so many-“
“At least it probably won’t be twins again-“
“Probably-“
“Won’t be.” He says quickly. “Won’t be twins. And I know five is a lot, but we can- Um- Drop them at the Watchtower?”
“No.” You jab a finger at him. “Never again, Clark. Ever.”
Clark lets out a heavy breath, and that’s a good call. He still doesn’t love to think about the last—and, evidently, only—time they dropped the kids with the Justice League.
“Oh my god.” You breathe out, collapsing over him.
He raises his hands to rub your back carefully, and you laugh shakily.
“Another one. We’re having another one.”
Having is good. And the anger seems to have faded to shock.
“I hope it’s a girl.” He says carefully, lips brushing over your ear. “None of them look just like you.”
You smile, and kiss a soft spot on his neck. “You’re so sappy.”
“You love me.” He turns to look at you in the starlight, and it never doesn’t knock him out.
Your beauty, and how it leaks into everything around you. How you just came into his life, and offered him the world like it was nothing. All the things he wasn’t sure he’d get, because they were human things. Soft things he’d always loved, but never wanted to force. Never wanted to settle. Never wanted to have anything but the easy love Ma and Pa did.
And he’s always floored by how everything of him is tied into you. Everything he’d fight and die for, everything that makes him understand why his parents shot him into the sky when Krypton died. He’d give all of himself, to protect the priceless gift you’d offered him. Keep offering him. All the love and hope that he tries to offer others, just for him to bathe in the warmth of.
The way you look at him, like he’s more than just a man.
It’s the only time he really believes it, and somehow also the place he believes it the least. You look at him like a god.
But he’s never felt more mortal and grounded than under your attention. Holding you in his arms. Sharing little jokes and stories every day, getting lost in your grace, your hands, your voice.
Your freaking mouth, and how he never knows what’s going to come out of it next.
“Clark.” You say in a soft, sing-song voice, sitting up to straddle him. “You wanna go…”
You trail off suggestively, and Clark swallows.
Shit.
“Do stuff?” He whispers, and you nod.
“The kids are in bed.” You run your fingers up and down his abdomen, and you’re not even trying to seduce him. You just like to touch him, and it’s driving him out of his mind. “So we can go back inside. And I can be quiet this time, I promise-“
“Yes.” Clark croaks out, and you beam.
“Yes?”
“Always.” He pushes up to kiss you, and all the stars seem to shine a little more like he can reach them. “Yes."
✦End note: escapism is okay and healthy guys it's fine.✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist✦
✦summary: all week, clark's been acting strange. he won't go near you, won't look at you, and by friday he's vanished all together. everyone seems to know why but you. but nothing's going to keep you away from him. not for that long.✦
✦warnings/tags: enemies to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (male masturbation, manhandling, clark's feral, emotional sex, dry humping, blowjobs and facefucking, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, crazy overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 10.5k✦
✦author's note: request and voted fic! i got. real horny with it✦
Clark has been acting strange all week.
He got into work on Monday with a red face, and you didn’t question it. He runs everywhere. It’s a little ridiculous he doesn’t have a red face more.
“Want some water?” You’d tapped on his desk, and he’d let out a sharp breath.
“Yeah.” His voice had been strangely rough, his glasses almost slipping off his nose. “Water- Water would be nice. Thank you.
He hadn’t looked you in the eyes.
Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.
You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.
“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.
“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“
“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“
Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘
“It’s not a mating dance!”
“It seems like a mating dance-“
“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”
Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.
You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.
“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“
You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.
He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.
His eyes are black, and gleaming.
You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.
Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.
You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.
“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”
Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.
Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.
But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.
He looks dangerous.
And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.
But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.
“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”
Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“
Clark looks at you.
And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.
“You smell good.” He mutters.
He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.
“What the fuck is up with him?”
Nobody seems to be sure.
On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.
“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.
“There are no other words I could use, though-“
“Corrupt?”
“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”
You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.
“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.
“Dogshit.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“
“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“
“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.
“Yeah. Because I had a source.”
“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.
You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.
“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“
“Shut up, I’m excited-“
“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.
He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.
Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.
You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.
And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.
Today you keep it under control.
It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.
“It’s- Uh- Superman.”
You blink. “What?”
“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”
“I- You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“I can find someone else-“
“No, I- I’ve got it.”
He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.
You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.
But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.
You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”
He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.
“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.
Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.
He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.
He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.
And you have no idea what to do.
Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.
He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.
You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.
And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.
“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”
His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.
“Clark-“
“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”
You blink. “Back up?”
He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.
He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.
But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.
You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.
He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.
“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“
“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.
“You’re sick-“
“No. I’m not.”
“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”
He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.
“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”
That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.
His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.
And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.
It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.
The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.
But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.
“Clark- Please-“
He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.
“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”
You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.
And you look back. You can’t help it.
But all he does is stare at you.
So you walk away.
Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.
“Is he-“
“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”
You frown. “But-“
“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“
Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.
“Don’t go visit him.”
You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“
“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”
“But-“
“Don’t.”
“What if he needs something-“
“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”
“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”
Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Lois-“
“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”
She walks away without another word.
On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.
You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.
Don’t.
His door is right there.
Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.
Don’t.
You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.
But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.
You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.
Don’t.
But you want to.
Don’t.
He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-
Don’t.
Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.
And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.
He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.
You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.
Before Clark can open it, you walk away.
On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.
It’s a distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-
You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.
This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.
It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.
He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.
He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.
Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.
You miss him.
Goddamnit.
Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.
You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.
He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.
You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.
You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.
Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.
But why is he home visiting you.
Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.
You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.
“Hello?”
Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.
He doesn’t look well.
Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-
Like Clark.
Just like Clark.
And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.
Or something else.
Without the glasses, there’s something else.
He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.
He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.
“Clark?”
“I’m here for your interview-“
You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.
He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.
Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.
His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.
“Clark- Wait-“
Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.
At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.
You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.
He’s burning at 150 degrees.
He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.
The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.
You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.
Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.
That time it was definitely your name.
Superman moaned your name.
You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.
Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.
It does nothing for hearing him.
And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.
It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.
Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-
Oh.
That’s… Big.
You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.
The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.
You still haven’t really dealt with that.
Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.
And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.
To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.
When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.
You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.
Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.
Dear lord.
Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.
You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.
Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.
He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.
You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.
Clark is Superman,
And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.
His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.
“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.
This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-
You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.
He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-
No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.
But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.
The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.
If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.
And you’re not that strong at all.
Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.
You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.
When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.
He’s naked.
Fully naked.
And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.
He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.
But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.
And his cock.
You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.
Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.
“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“
“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”
He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of release on his thigh. He’d been humping the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-
“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”
“Clark-“
“Stop saying it like that.”
You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.
His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.
“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”
Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.
“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”
You laugh softly, despite everything.
Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.
“Don’t laugh either.”
“I- I’m sorry-“
“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“
He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.
“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”
“No- That- That’s weird-“
“Kal-El?”
“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.
“I need to be able to call you something.”
“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”
That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.
“No, not- Not like that-“
“Not like what-“
“It’s just, when you talk-“
“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.
It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.
“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.
“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”
“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“
“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”
He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”
“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”
“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“
“You said I shouldn’t talk.”
“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“
“Shut up.”
“Sorry.”
The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.
“You better fix the wall, Kent.”
“I will. ‘M sorry-“
“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”
You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.
“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”
That’s not promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.
“You know kryptonite?”
You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”
“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“
“Clark.”
“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.
“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.
His cock twitches. You try not think about it.
“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“
“It what-“
“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”
He trails off, words hanging in the air.
Saw you.
You activated the red kryptonite in him.
There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.
“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.
Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.
“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.
“Please don’t make me say it.”
You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.
“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“
“Can’t you?”
Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.
And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.
“You- You can’t mean that-“
“Why not?”
You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.
“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.
“You don’t have to pity me-“
“It’s not pity.”
He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“
“Who says it’s not how I feel?”
You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.
“Uhh… Steve?”
You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”
Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.
You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.
“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.
You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”
His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.
“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”
“No, you-“
“Don’t tell me what I feel.”
He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.
“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”
He nods, tight and controlled.
You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.
Not with fear.
With excitement.
“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”
And Clark snaps.
He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.
Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.
If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.
But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.
He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.
There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.
You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.
Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.
You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.
He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.
“Clark-“
“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“
He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.
“Smell so good.” He almost whines. “So good.”
You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.
Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.
It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.
“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“
“You- You can’t-“
“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“
“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.
You don’t mind at all.
“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“We talked about this-“
“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.
You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.
And you feel it.
The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.
Oh.
Right.
Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.
“I need to get you ready.”
You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“
Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”
“How do you know-“
“Nose.”
“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“
“Not enough.”
He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.
“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.
That’s his agreement hum.
Your jaw drops.
“Are you serious-“
“I can’t help it.”
“You- You could wear nose plugs-“
“No. Like it too much.”
Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.
“You- Can’t move-“
“You should move-“
“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”
You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.
“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”
Clark grunts. You smile at the air.
“You came in bed last night.”
He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”
“About who?”
You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”
And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.
“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”
“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.
“Yeah? Like what?”
Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.
“A brat.”
A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.
And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.
“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.
Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.
“You- You can’t just say that-“
“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”
Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.
“Can you please look at me-“
“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.
“Clark-“
“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.
You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.
“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”
“I- I need to get you-“
“I’m going to touch you, okay?”
His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.
Enough.
You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.
“Sorry-“
“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”
He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.
You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.
The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.
He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.
You add a second, and squeeze at the base.
Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.
“Be- Be careful.”
You pause. “Does it not feel-“
“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“
Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.
You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.
And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.
You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.
Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.
“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“
He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.
You want to taste him.
When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.
“What- What are you-“
You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.
The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.
There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.
You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.
“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“
You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.
It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.
“Are you-“
You moan, and Clark gives in.
He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.
“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“
Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.
“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“
You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.
And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-
Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.
He’s cumming.
And he’s not stopping.
Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.
Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.
“If you-“
“Do that inside me.”
You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.
“I- I mean- Clark-“
He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.
“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”
His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”
Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.
“Oh- Oh god-“
“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”
You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.
“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”
He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.
“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.
You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.
He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.
“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“
You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.
Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.
Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.
You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.
You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.
There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.
It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.
“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”
His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.
“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.
Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.
“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”
Well. If he needs it.
It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.
“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“
“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”
It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.
You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.
“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.
He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.
“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”
And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.
“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“
“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.
Clark hears it.
“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”
You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.
Maybe Clark could let you live with him.
Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.
Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.
That’s a good plan. The best plan.
There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.
“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.
You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.
“Don’t do that.”
Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.
He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.
“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.
You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.
He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.
Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.
He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.
His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.
You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.
Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.
“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.
“I liked it.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”
Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.
And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.
He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.
“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”
You nod. It’s all you can manage.
He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.
“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“
He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.
Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.
“Big.”
He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.
“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“
You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.
“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.
“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”
You blink, and his eyes widen.
“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“
Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.
“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.
Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.
“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”
Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.
“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.
Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.
You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.
He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.
Safe and attended to.
You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.
It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.
“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“
He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.
Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.
He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.
Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.
It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.
Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.
Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.
And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.
Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.
Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.
You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.
There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.
Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.
You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.
He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.
It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.
If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.
On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.
There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.
Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.
It’s an oddly romantic thought.
There are lots of those to go around.
Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.
“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.
“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”
“See it-“
“X-ray vision.”
“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.
Clark bows his head, almost in shame.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.
You shake your head. “It fine-“
“I wanted to-“
“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”
He blinks at you, then relaxes.
“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.
“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”
Clark laughs at that, and you beam.
It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.
“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.
“I-“
“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“
“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”
He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”
You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.
“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“
“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“
Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”
You laugh. “Bring it on.”
✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Your secret, annual summer fling with your best friend’s brother was never meant to last — but when his mother catches you in his bed, everything changes. Cornered, he does the only thing he can think of: he tells her the two of you are engaged.
▸ PAIRING: Clark Kent x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, secret fwb to lovers, best friend's brother (kara is clark's sibling), fake engagement, hurt/comfort, fluff, semi-public sex (three smut scenes), thigh riding, so much miscommunication (guilty pleasure), insecurities on reader's part, jealousy, clark dirty talks, inaccurate portrayal of smallville (picturing super small town), reader has a shit ex
▸ WORD COUNT: 14K
▸ A/N: second and final part to my submission to @elixirfromthestars' arcade! thank you so much for the incredible response to the first. i hope this one lives up to your expectations sweats. thank you to every single person who sent me a message about the fic, i adore seeing your thoughts and it means the world to me that you took the time to talk to me about it!!!! <3 this one goes out to all of you
↤ main masterlist | part one
Once you’ve washed off all the grime, you plant yourself on Kara’s bed with a deep sigh.
“You know, you’ve been spending more time with Clark than me,” Kara points out. “I’m almost hurt.”
You turn to face her, her blue eyes sparkling with mirth. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t think I’d have to do that any longer.”
That has her squinting at you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
It means Clark probably already has feelings for someone else. His time of finding distraction in you is coming to an end, which means that whatever you and Clark have — this strange, unlabeled, annual thing — will also conclude.
The thought has your stomach twisting.
“Nothing. What should we do today? What’s fun around here?”
Kara gives you a look. “My idea of fun is getting drunk and it’s impossible to do on Earth. How about we take you somewhere else? A planet with a red sun?”
That doesn’t sound too bad. Maybe then she can leave you there so you don’t have to ever face Clark ever again. Or your stupid feelings. This stupid crush.
Yes, in the time that it took you to bathe and reflect on your quote-unquote relationship with Clark, you’ve established that you may have formed some feelings for him. An unhealthy, unreasonable attachment. You see now that it’s impossible not to fall for Clark Kent; you’re just like all those other girls in college who threw themselves at his feet for even a chance.
Clark is perfect. Tall, smart, sweet. Thoughtful. He’s everything everyone could ever ask for wrapped up in a perfect little bow. The invisible cherry on top of him being Superman is a nice little addition that you feel territorial over.
No one else knows him like you do.
Except Lois — and how could you ever compete with Lois?
“When can we go?” You blurt out.
“Okay, you’re freaking me out. What’s going on with you? I’ve joked about that before and you always tell me that you’d rather go skydiving without a parachute than go to outer space.”
“Maybe it’s time for a change,” you mutter.
As if summoned by your own despair, Lois appears at the door. Her eyes look brighter, her smile wider. Your heart squeezes, wondering what’s brought about that expression.
You hate yourself for feeling this way — you should be happy for them; your two good friends finally finding each other after years of pining. Instead, that ugly green monster has reared its head and is now driving the ship of your emotions.
“What’re you two talking about?”
“She wants to go with me to a planet with a red sun,” Kara gasps. “We have to go before she changes her mind.”
Lois would absolutely love that. She’s an adventurer. A risk taker. A bold soul. Perfect for Clark.
She is also incredibly perceptive.
“You said you’d rather swallow hot coal before you ever let Kara do that. You doing okay?”
Why does everyone have such a good memory?
“I’m fine! Let’s not fret over a perfectly normal character development. I am still at an age where I want to experience new things.”
Kara looks at you incredulously. “I wouldn’t worry if you didn’t sound like you got lobotomized in the past few days. Did all that farmwork finally get to your head?”
“Or Clark’s dick,” Lois adds with a laugh.
“Gross!”
“Look at the three of you ladies.” The new voice has the three of you whipping your gazes to the door. Ma Kent stands at the door, hand on her chest as she stares at you all in awe. “I’m so happy my dear Kara has found such great friends.”
“Ma,” Kara groans.
“You should’ve seen her growing up. She was always getting into fights, would come home bleedin’ and all scratched up.” She shakes her head, which earns another protest from Kara. “Now, Pa and Clark are fixing up the roof, why don’t all four of us go into town for a little bit of shopping? I could use help picking out things for the house.”
“Just because we’re women doesn’t mean we want to go shop—”
“We’d love to, Mrs. Kent,” Lois intercepts with a smile.
She glows at Lois. “Please call me Martha.”
As the group of women fills the car, Clark is waving at all of you from the front porch. His eyes move towards you, then stay. It’s like he’s reading you and you feel as if all of that bitter jealousy is written all over your face. So you look away, missing the way his gaze cracks with your dismissal.
You’re keeping yourself sidetracked from all these stupid feelings by exploring the town. Ma Kent takes you on a full tour of the tiny village, which all of you cover in basically an hour. It doesn’t have much, but it’s cute. Homey. Everyone seems to know the Kents around here, much to Kara’s dismay as she gets her cheek pinched one too many times by people noting how she grew up so pretty.
Luckily, before Kara can direct her laser eyes at the latest woman to do just that, Ma Kent’s exclamation has all of you turning.
“Well, I’ll be darned.”
You look up to find that she’s stopped in front of a shop. That marvel in her eyes should be signal enough for you to run for the hills. She’s then grabbing your hand and pulling you in.
White. White is all you see.
Racks on racks of wedding dresses and all sorts of bridal wear. If you didn’t know any better, you were blinking away the glare of the sun in this shop. Kara snorts next to you. “Better get ready. Ma loves weddings.”
“Sweetheart, have you thought about what wedding dress you want? Are you and Clark going to do something small? Big? Should we go for something simpler? No matter, we should try on everything until you find the right one.”
You don’t have time to argue because then Ma Kent is now speaking to the shop owner.
The lie is quickly spreading with her now telling the shop owner that her dear son Clark is getting married. Gossip undoubtedly spreads quickly in a place like this and you’re already dreading the day Clark has to tell her and them that none of this is real — that this wedding will never happen.
“It’s fine, you should go try some on,” Lois says, nudging your shoulder with a reassuring smile.
“I can’t do this. I’m lying to that poor woman who’s gonna get her heart broken when Clark and I eventually break it off,” you add with air quotes and a wince.
Lois mumbles something that ends with not happening, but you don’t catch her actual words. Then you’re getting whisked into the dressing room, handed one dress after another. You squeeze into one with the help of the owner — Mrs. Mills as you now know — and step out.
It’s a more old-fashioned number taken probably from the Cold War. Puffy sleeves, extra heavy-duty lace, and a neckline that’s choking you. You look like an antique.
Ma Kent is immediately on her feet. “Oh, look at how wonderful you look. Beautiful, absolutely beautiful. How do you feel, sweetheart?”
“Um,” you pause, gaze flying over to Kara and Lois for help.
Kara is too busy snickering but thankfully Lois has some sense. “She looks gorgeous but I don’t think this dress is her.”
So then you’re in and out of dresses until your limbs are aching from the weight of some of these gowns. You nearly give up hope — maybe you really aren’t meant to be a bride — until you find this next one.
They say that when you find the dress of your dreams, you just know. It’s like everything just clicks. You don’t need to look at another dress.
This is it.
This dress knocks the breath right out of your lungs. You’ve never once thought of yourself as a bride, but this one makes you feel like you could actually be one. You could picture yourself walking down the aisle, surrounded by family and friends. Bouquet in hand, big smiles all around.
At the end of that aisle — Clark.
You don’t even register the curtains being parted until you hear the gasps behind you. Then you turn and you swear you see Ma Kent shed a tear. She’s got a hand over her mouth, a tear rolling down her cheek.
“Honey, oh, sweetheart. You look beautiful. You look positively perfect. The most beautiful bride-to-be.”
There’s thickness in your throat that you can’t seem to swallow down. Because you agree. You don’t think you’ve ever looked — or felt — prettier in your life.
Ma Kent puts her hands on your shoulders as she smiles at you. “You know, before you, I’ve never seen my boy with anyone like this. Sure, he’s had his crushes growing up, but the way he looks at you — like you carry the moon and the stars in your hands — it’s how pa looks at me too. I’m glad he met you. I’m glad that he brought you to us.”
The guilt hits you in full force, like a truck running over you. It’s a fresh wave of new emotions that tides over you, mixing in with the heartful words that strike you to your core. You can’t even find the right words to say as tears well up in your eyes.
“Gosh…”
You briskly wipe away your tears, clearing your throat as your eyes go to the door. The door where Clark stands.
He’s just… standing there. His blue eyes drag from the tip of your toes, up the curve of the dress, the bodice, and then your face. You watch as his throat moves when he swallows. For a moment, you think you also see his eyes glisten.
Then it’s as if it’s just you and him. The air sucked out of the room. You and Clark in a bubble shielded from the outside world. This distance makes it feel like you’re both standing on each end of the aisle. Suddenly, you can see all too clearly Clark in a custom fitted tux. You in this dress, your hair done up, face painted.
Just you and him, minutes away from forever.
Clark opens his mouth, but the words don’t come.
Instead, the illusion is shattered when Ma Kent shouts at him. “Clark! This is bad luck. You can’t see the dress — let alone the bride in the dress — before the day!”
He burns red to the tip of his ears as he flounders, focus bouncing between his mother and you. Mostly you. He can’t seem to stop staring at you, gaping at you. The more he looks at you, the redder he gets. “Sorry, sorry!” He flusters, “Mr. Morris told me you were here, I didn’t realize—” Ma Kent whacks him on the shoulder but he still can’t seem to decide whether to look away or keep staring at you. “You look—”
Jimmy beats him to it. “Whoa, you look good. You know for a prete—”
Clark interrupts him this time, slapping a hand over his mouth before he can finish the sentence. Then he looks at you again — awe and wonder and what you may mistake as adoration. “You look…” he swallows, “really good. Beautiful. Just so—”
This group seems to make a habit out of interrupting each other. Ma Kent takes her turn. “Out! Both of you!” She’s using all her might to push the two boys out of the store.
Still, the last thing Clark sees before he gets shoved out is you.
A night out is exactly what you need. One night of drinking and dancing to get your mind off the fact that you’re slowly falling in love — or maybe have been in love — with your best friend’s brother — your annual situationship. With Clark Kent.
A night of drinking yourself into oblivion in the one place you never thought you’d come to and the one place you least expected to fall in love.
Kara is flicking through her closet when she notes, “I don’t know what’s going on between you and my brother, but if he’s got you down, we’re going to change that tonight. He either needs to get his shit together or we’ll find you someone new.”
But then she pauses and she turns to you, an uncharacteristically soft look on her face. One that is both sympathetic towards you but also firm.
“But I also know my brother and he’s soft at heart — and I know you and the walls you’ve put up around yours — so I need you to also be sure before the rest of us are left here to pick up the pieces.”
You don’t know what that means. If anyone’s getting their heart broken, it would be you when Clark eventually turns you down for the girl of his dreams. You’re a blip in the grander scheme of his life, perhaps it’s time for you to learn your place.
You haven’t had a moment alone with him since this morning. Not that you want it. You haven’t been able to look him in the eye after the wedding dress incident.
The look in his eyes, the lines carved onto his face, when he saw you, is engraved in the back of your mind. It’s an expression that constantly flashes every time you close your eyes. Some silly part of you mistakes it as love. That foolish part of you thinks that there might be hope with Clark. Maybe he could feel the same way.
But that hope is dashed when your mind also reminds you of how he shifted away from you that morning, how he looked embarrassed next to you with Lois before him.
So perhaps Kara is right — either you find a middle ground with Clark or — you hate the thought — you find a rebound.
Kara puts you in a pair of cowboy boots and a sundress, topping it off with a Stetson to match. You look cute — a far cry from your usual corporate getup. A light touch of makeup, enough to make you look somewhat alive, and you’re good to go.
The plan is to go bar hopping tonight. One drink (or two) at each bar before you go to the next. You do that until you run out of bars to go to which is apparently a big fear out here when there are not too many around.
As you’re putting on the finishing touches, the engagement ring — the fake one — that Clark bought for you seems to taunt you from your dresser. You don’t have to put it on. Not tonight when his parents aren’t around. Not when you think you’re out to find someone to mend your Clark-shaped broken heart.
But you can’t resist and slide it onto your ring finger. It still glimmers just as bright.
When you finally step out of the room, your eyes first land on Clark. His focus previously on Jimmy immediately moves towards you, towards the sound of your thundering heartbeat. There’s a flicker in his eyes — a flame that lights as he assesses you from head to toe. The following movement in his throat is oddly reassuring.
He’s making his way towards you, long legs moving fast to make sure you can’t escape again — not like the last few times. Then you’re tilting your face up to look at him.
“You look… wow,” Clark breathes out, “uhm, it looks good on you.”
“Thanks,” you cough awkwardly.
Unfortunately for you, Clark has also gone full cowboy with his double denim look and a hat that pairs well with yours. Broad shoulders stretching out the light-wash blue of his shirt, the color that makes his eyes pop even more. You can practically see a button straining to keep his shirt together across his chest.
God truly isn’t fair, but you suppose you’re not sure what god created a specimen like Clark Kent.
“You look good too,” you murmur quietly.
Clark’s eyes shine with the compliment, his charming smile stretching an inch wider. “Thank you. Listen, about today, you—” he stops himself, teeth catching his bottom lip. “I’m sorry ma made you do that.”
That’s not the reaction you were hoping for. Your smile wobbles as you wait for him to continue.
“I’ll have a chat with her not to rush you into this. I know this is all… pretend,” he enunciates slowly, eyes gauging your response, but you don’t move an inch.
“Right, it’s all pretend,” you echo numbly.
You don’t know what you were expecting—
This is a lie. You knew exactly what you wanted to hear from Clark.
You wanted to hear a repeat of this afternoon. A confirmation.
You look beautiful. Perfect. I’m actually in love with you. Will you marry me for real?
Your rational brain slams onto the brakes of your imagination. You shouldn’t let your fantasies run amok, lest they get lost in bouts of insanity.
“I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” Clark says softly, “so if things get too far and you want to stop this, I completely understand. I put you in this situation and that’s unfair to you.”
“It’s okay. I get it. We’ll… figure it out,” you mutter.
“I—” he starts again but stops himself. You could see his eyes swirling with a thought, a conflicting one by the look on his face. Apparently, he decides against it and shakes his head, instead offering his arm. “Shall we?”
You nod and loop your arm through his.
The problem with Clark is that he can’t seem to say no — and that he doesn’t get drunk. So when others ask to drink with him, he tries to deny them politely, but then they only insist harder. It gets to a point where Clark just has to drink with them to get them to leave him alone. But once one succeeds, that means every girl in the damn bar is trying to get with him too.
All of this to say is that he is constantly being dragged away from you.
First bar, one girl approaches him as he’s getting drinks for the rest of the group. She keeps him preoccupied as he throws awkward glances seeking help in the group’s direction. Every attempt to save him is foiled by said girl who keeps him trapped there. So you throw back your first shot of the night.
Second bar, it’s one girl after another once Clark caves to the first drink. You didn’t know that the number of attractive bachelors in Smallville added up to one Clark Kent, so he seems to be the only desirable man in the entire place. For some reason, the women here are immune to Jimmy’s charms, much to his relief. You down two additional shots here, followed by a cocktail with double tequila. Then you dance with Lois and Kara.
Third bar, you’re the one getting approached. Kara gives you two thumbs up while Lois stares at him skeptically. Clark is being cornered by yet another woman. So you take that man’s hand and dance with him. When you chance a glance at Clark, he looks a little ticked off but he doesn’t do anything. He just sits there and glares. So you keep dancing. But then Clark gets up and offers his hand to Lois and that is when you choose to turn your back on him and accept this stranger’s offer for another drink.
Fourth bar, you’re sufficiently sloshed.
On the bright side, you’re definitely enjoying yourself and you’re definitely not paying attention to Clark getting flirted with for the thousandth time that night. He barely looks at you too, too busy trying to be nice and reject this onslaught of advances. Sometimes, you wish he could be more assertive, put his foot down when he has no interest.
Sometimes, you wish you had put a stupid label on your thing with Clark so you could freely stake your claim on him. But as it stands today, you have no right to be jealous. You have no right to deny him the pleasures of other people’s company.
Your irritation boils over into pettiness, which is a terrible shift when you hear an all too familiar voice calling your name in the crowd.
It’s a voice you haven’t heard in years but one that still sends chills down your spine. Not the good kind.
You’ve managed to avoid this man for most of your adult life; how is it that you managed to bump into your douchebag of an ex, who had you swearing off relationships forever, in this bumfuck town of all places?
“You look incredible,” Patrick beams, pearly white gleaming underneath the bar’s dim fluorescent lights.
“You look like you don’t belong here,” you deadpan, whirling around in search of your friends.
Patrick catches you by the elbow. “I’m gonna take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn’t.”
“Aw, why are you being so cold to me? We haven’t seen each other in a while.”
You don’t care about him, you haven’t thought about him in years, but the audacity of this man to act like this when he was the one who dumped you through text with two words. “Seriously, piss off, Patrick.”
“One dance, then you can tell me to go to hell. Just one.”
“Patrick—”
He’s already taking your hand. You blanch and end up trapped in the crowd on the floor, Patrick’s palms on your waist as he begins to move his body. You feel your dinner coming back up at the touch of this man. You can’t believe this loser really had that much of an impact on you, enough for you to forsake any romantic relationships.
Every time you try to leave, Patrick’s twirling you around and bringing you back to him. At some point, he’s got his front pressed up against your back, arms wound tight around your body. His breath is warm on the back of your neck and you feel repugnance crawl up your throat.
Just as you’re about to try and make your fourth escape attempt, you’re wrenched out of his hold and into the hands of another. You tip your face up to see Clark.
He’s looking at you warily but you know better; there’s a hint of a flame in his gaze — anger. It’s not directed at you but you have a pretty good idea who it’s for.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine,” you clear your throat, drawing yourself away from him too.
Despite being irrationally annoyed with him — somewhat reasonably considering he’s been practically ignoring you all night, you are thankful to see him. You slacken against him and he softens a tad as he wraps his arm around you.
“Clark, buddy! I haven’t seen you in a while too. You two a thing now?” Patrick taunts, words slurring together into a jumbled mess as he trips forward. Clark is quick to shove him away from you, hauling you closer towards him. “Oh, come on. We can share. She’d like that too.”
Your blood runs cold as you seethe at him. “Go to hell, Patrick.”
Clark doesn’t say a word but you can sense the rage roll off him in waves. He proceeds to use his massive frame to split the crowd and drag you off the dance floor and out of the bar. You’re about to stomp your way back inside when Clark catches your wrist and pulls you off to the side.
“Clark, let me go.”
“You’re drunk.”
Your irritation spikes. “So what?”
He grits his teeth and inhales deeply. “Why’d you let him touch you like that?”
“I didn’t let him do anything,” you snap, “I got stuck in there.”
“Because you weren’t being careful,” he snips.
You cross your arms over your chest. You roll your eyes. “Since when do you care?”
He narrows his. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t you have other women to entertain?”
Clark’s jaw shifts. “Are we really talking about this again? I thought I made it very clear to you that I only want you.”
“Sure didn’t seem like it,” you mutter, “whatever. You can do whatever you want. We’re not dating.”
A look flits across his eyes, too fast for you to decipher, but then his gaze hardens again. “So what do you want from me?”
One thing. There’s only one thing you can ask from him. One thing you have any right asking of him.
“I want you to fuck me.”
“Really?” He laughs, “Out here?”
“Never stopped you before.”
Countless nights fucking outside beach houses and bars, or that bistro in New York, or the boardwalk in LA. You’ve ticked off a lot of places in your list of the most risky locations to have sex, so this shouldn’t be any different.
For some reason, it feels like it is.
Clark lets out one final grunt before he pounces on you. His mouth slants over yours, tasting of liquor and something syrupy in whatever cocktail girl number ten probably bought for him. The thought irritates you and you end up nipping on his bottom lip particularly hard. He yelps and jolts back.
“What was that?”
“Felt like it.”
He blinks at you, confused, annoyed for a moment, before he breaks into a chuckle. “You look cute in green.”
“I’m not wearing—” you stop yourself when the realization dawns on you. “Funny.”
“I try to be,” he grins, dimples carving onto his cheeks.
Clark doesn’t give you a chance to bite back another stupid retort before he’s kissing you again, deeper, harder. He presses you against the wooden walls as his mouth wanders south along the column of your neck, leaving wet welts in his path. His teeth nibble tiny constellations on your skin, like he’s mapping out the sky above you. The stars begin to blur when he tugs your sundress down to free your tits, nipples practically aching for attention.
“Missed me?” Clark teases.
“No,” you answer tersely, shoving his head back down to your chest. He doesn’t need to be asked twice before he’s giving you all the attention you need. His mouth is warm as it latches onto one nipple, hand overpowering as it palms your other breast. His knee nudges between your legs until his thigh is pressed up against your barely-covered pussy.
“No panties?”
“Thong.”
He curses under his breath. You smile to yourself. A rare occurrence. You always give yourself a mental pat on the back when he does.
“Remind me to kill Kara,” he grumbles into your chest.
“Can you not talk about your sister when you’re sucking my tits?”
“Fair point.” Clark pushes his thigh higher until he’s grinding his muscle between your legs.
A moan pours out of your lips at the friction — the firmness of his leg combined with the scrape of the denim against your pussy. Your underwear is practically buried in your cunt as his hand wanders to grab a handful of your ass.
“Perfect,” he mumbles, “you’re too perfect.”
Your heart melts with his words. How could he be so soft with you when he doesn’t even want more? You urge those selfish thoughts of your mind, instead focusing on the delicious heat building between your legs.
“Does my thigh feel good on her, honey?”
With your eyes closed, you nod. Your teeth catch your bottom lip to stop another moan from spilling out but you feel Clark’s hand on your cheek, his thumb on your chin to free it.
“I wanna hear you.”
“C-can’t be too loud,” you stutter when he bounces his thigh.
“No one’s going to hear. Everyone’s too busy inside,” he insists as he positions you atop his thigh. “Use my leg. Can you get yourself off for me?”
You shake your head, tears pricking your eyes at how intense the feeling is in the pit of your stomach. You’re already always so aroused with Clark around, but it’s amplified tenfold when you’ve got alcohol in your system, your inhibitions and guard completely lowered.
“Yes, you can,” he coos, squeezing your hips. “I know you can, honey. Just gotta grind on my thigh. Just like that. That’s a good girl.”
He doesn’t need to ask you twice. When Clark uses that voice on you, you know you’re a goner. You’ve started rutting yourself on his thigh, feeling pathetic and ashamed, at the same time completely empowered by how much this is affecting Clark. He’s watching you with those dark eyes, drinking in every inch of you as you grind your cunt down on his leg. You tug the gusset of your panties to the side so you have more of your skin rubbing directly on him, leaving a dark pool of your juices on his leg.
“‘M making a mess,” you whine quietly.
“It’s okay,” he soothes you, “keep going. I want you to make a mess on me, want you to mark me. Need you to know that I only want you, need everyone to know that I only want you.”
And it’s definitely the liquor that’s making you vulnerable because you’re then looking up at him, doe eyes pleading, when you ask him, “Promise?”
Clark’s eyes flutter at the expression on your face. “Promise, honey. I’m all yours.”
With that in mind, you begin to mindlessly grind your hips down on him. Every shift of your hips chases a friction that fuels the fire burning inside you. When you tilt your hips in a particular direction, his thigh bumps up against your sensitive clit. You end up leaning forward to get more and more of that feeling, adjusting yourself until Clark doesn’t try to smother your moans, instead he drinks in every little noise that leaves your lips.
He continues to bury his face in your neck, breathing in your scent and lapping at those marks he’s left behind. All the while you’re humping him pitifully, hips stuttering when you get a little too close. Clark’s hand buries in your hair, yanks your head back until you let out a cry.
“Let them hear you. Come on. Let yourself go for me. She likes my leg, doesn’t she? It feels good for her. Keep rubbing her on me.”
It’s almost embarrassing how quickly you cum all over his leg. You nearly slide off his thigh but Clark moves faster to hoist you up against him, letting you ride out your orgasm scraping yourself against his thigh.
“Good girl,” he mutters, “my turn now. Can you take me?”
Your nod is weary but it’s enough for Clark to slowly ease you off his leg and turn you around, forcing you to plant your hands against the wall.
“Going to need you to hold yourself up. I’ll be here to catch you okay,” he reassures you, lips gentle against the back of your shoulder, before you hear the clink of his belt and the hiss of breath past his kissed teeth as he buries himself inside you. The stretch is mind-numbingly delicious, particularly as he grabs onto your hips and pushes your leg closed together.
His grip is bruising as he begins to piston in and out of you, blissfully ignorant of the muffled thumping music behind those walls. He doesn’t falter when the front door to the bar opens and chatter spills out with drunk guests exiting. The two of you are cloaked in the shadows as Clark continues to drive his cock deep inside your pulsing cunt.
However, the harder he fucks, the louder you get. At some point, one of the patrons does turn and your heart stops, thinking you’ve finally been caught.
But Clark slaps a hand over your mouth while the other grabs your breast as he fucks up into you in earnest. Every stroke feels intentional, every stroke feels like it’s designed specifically for you. He knows how to angle his hips just right to hit all those sensitive, electrifying spots inside of you.
“Perfect puffy pussy,” Clark groans. “You’re too good to me. I never want to be inside anyone else. I never want anyone else to be inside you. Will you promise me that?”
You blather your agreement, words barely coherent with the force of his thrusts and the hand covering your lips. Your fingers slip against the wall, you’re pretty sure the wall itself is rattling with how hard he’s jerking his hips forward.
“You’re perfect. Perfect for me. Pussy’s shaped to my cock now,” Clark moans. “Need to teach her who she belongs to. Whose cock she can take. I’m gonna make sure this pretty pussy knows every inch of me.”
His balls slap up against the back of your thighs as his length sinks over and over again inside you. Clark’s always had both length and girth, but this position has you feeling more of him. He treats you like a ragdoll, a fleshlight, for him to fuck and use. He gropes you all over, exploring every curve and dip on your body like he’s committing it to memory.
You bump your hips back as you grow impatient, that second flame scorching every one of your nerves as you try to stop your knees from buckling. Clark holds onto you tighter, presses you against him as he whispers promises into your ear.
I’m always going to catch you.
I’ve got you, you can let go.
I’m going to keep you full.
Clark’s body tenses and you know the telltale signs by now. You arch your back a bit more, enough for him to grab your hips again, thumbs digging into the swell of your ass as he plunges into you a few more times before he spills inside you.
Warmth coats your insides as Clark’s forehead presses against your shoulder blades, his hands trembling with the weight of his climax. It’s as if he’s been holding back, his cum filling you up and beginning to leak from where the two of you are connected. It’s thick and sticky and you feel it cling to your walls. Your breathing is labored as you try to regain your bearings, as you remember where you are.
“Shit,” you huff in a laugh.
“Got that right,” Clark chuckles behind you. “Are you okay?”
Always so careful.
“I’m fine, Clark. I’m not fragile.” You bump your ass backwards against him.
Clark grunts when he feels him push deeper inside you again, spurring his cum back in you. “I know, I just want to be sure.”
When he finally pulls out, the cum leaks down your legs and thankfully Clark has a few napkins handy. He drops to his knees and cleans you up, just enough to make you presentable. You slide the straps of your dress back onto your shoulders as you lean up against the wall.
“He didn’t tell you anything, did he?” Clark asks warily.
You cock an eyebrow. “Who? Patrick? What would he tell me?”
He searches your eyes for a second, swallowing thickly. “Nothing. I was hoping he wouldn’t say anything stupid to you.”
“Aside from forcing me to dance with him, I don’t think he can do anything dumber than that. For now,” you add casually.
Clark’s lips pinch together. “Stay close to me. I don’t want him catching you off guard again.”
“Okay, guard dog.”
His mouth finally quirks up into a smile, his hand reaching out to pinch your hip. “Should I bark for you?”
And you laugh.
When you return to the group, clearly much less presentable than you were earlier, Jimmy is the only one who points out the dark stain on Clark’s jeans.
“Must’ve spilled on myself.” Clark shrugs.
None of them looks like they believe it.
“So,” Kara begins. Her eyes are avoiding you, which is never a good sign. “You and my brother.”
Flames lick up your neck again and you hide your embarrassment behind your cup of tea. Your head is still pounding with the aftermath of your mistakes last night. Everyone else is fast asleep, hoping the liquor wears off eventually. Clark is already up and running, nodding his head at you with a smile before he disappears into the barn.
Kara is sulking because she still can’t feel the alcohol on this planet. So now, she’s taking that out on you.
“Are you guys a thing now?”
The words you shared last night are a blur, your inebriated state amplified by you being absolutely cockdrunk, but your best friend doesn’t need to know that.
“I don’t know,” you mutter honestly.
“Really? That stain on his jeans wasn’t you marking your territory?”
“Kara!” You snap, cheeks warm.
“Hey, there are things I wish I could unsee. If I had to see that, you have to have the tough conversations.”
Pursing your lips, you look down at your mug again. The tea ripples with your sigh. “I honestly don’t know, it’s a weird situation.”
“You’re both adults. You can talk.”
She’s not wrong, but you’ve never been good at dealing with emotions. Exhibit A: Clark. Exhibit B: the nearly permanent toll you took from your very minor breakup with Patrick.
“I don’t know how to start. Also,” you pause, that familiar sinking feeling returning.
You hate to call it insecurity, because the last thing you want to be worried about is a man. But you can’t help yourself when it comes to Clark — it’s easier to pretend you don’t care than face the possibility of him rejecting your feelings. Unless you’re a hundred percent certain he feels the same way, not even a shred of doubt, you can’t seem to muster up the courage to say the words out loud.
Because if he’s in love with someone else, if he chooses someone else, then you don’t have to think of the alternative — that you are simply not good enough to love even after all this time.
Kara peeks at you, eyebrow raising.
“Nothing, never mind,” you clear your throat.
The corners of her lips tighten. “I’m your best friend, you know this, right? I’m your best friend first regardless of whatever you have going on with my brother. Whatever it is that’s bothering you, you should be able to trust me with it.”
Your face softens as you slide an arm around her shoulder. “I know and I’m thankful for that.”
“Don’t get all sappy on me now, I’m just here to make sure you’ll be my sister-in-law someday. For real. Not some fake story Clark made up so ma still thinks he’s her golden boy.”
Her name rolls off your tongue again in a scold.
As if summoned, the front door creaks open and out pops her mother. “Just the person I’m looking for. Kara, I’m out of milk, can you run into town and grab some?”
“What’s the point of having cows if we still have to buy milk?” Kara grumbles under her breath.
“You know you can’t drink raw milk,” she chides.
“We can do that, Mrs. Kent,” you smile, elbowing your best friend. “Anything else you need?”
The older woman’s face practically melts and that guilt sucker punches you in the gut again, especially when she says — “You can call me Ma, we’re going to be family soon.”
Thankfully, before your conscience has you confessing the god-honest truth, Kara jumps in. “We’ll go now. See ya later, Ma.”
You shoot her an appreciative look.
The two of you make a pit stop for a treat-yourself coffee in town. While you enjoy the Kents’ instant coffee, nothing beats a fresh cup doused in all sorts of syrups and creams (at least that’s what you tell yourself when you swipe your credit card for the overpriced beverage).
Kara is telling you about her latest research project at the university where she’s completing her PhD. Neither of you expected her to go down this route, but she enjoys experimenting and torturing professors, so the two vices combined make for an interesting educational experience.
That’s when you hear your name again — and it’s not the barista.
Your blood runs cold the moment you register the voice. Twice in less than twenty-four hours after years of absence has to be some cosmic joke.
Patrick sidles up to you, a little too close for comfort. Apparently, Clark’s warning does nothing to deter him from bothering you.
“Fancy seeing you again,” he grins.
You feel that expensive coffee coming back up. Kara immediately slides between the two of you, a glare set in the firmness of her eyes. “Didn’t know this place let dogs in.”
“You’re still funny, Kent,” Patrick muses, unfazed as he redirects his attention to you. “You disappeared last night.”
Clark’s face in the darkness flashes before your eyes, the press of his fingers in your hips.
“What’re you even doing here?” You snap.
He seems to think about it for a moment. “Visiting a… friend,” he notes. Kara stiffens next to him.
“Why don’t you go back to them then? I don’t think we need to see each other.”
“That’s cold,” he juts his bottom lip out.
You can’t believe you once found this man attractive. You can’t believe you banned all romantic relationships because of him.
“You’ve got some fucking nerve acting like this when you’re the one who dumped me.”
His eyes spark with surprise. “Hey, that wasn’t my choice.”
Your glare only deepens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“This guy is insane,” Kara mutters, latching onto your elbow. “Let’s just go.”
“Oh, come on, Kara, you were there too.”
Your confusion shifts to your best friend, who bares her teeth at Patrick. “What?”
“Kent told me to break up with you.”
Your heart stops.
“Clark. Remember the guy who pulled you away from me last night? It makes sense now why he told me to end things with you. He wanted you for himself. Didn’t think he had it in him but I have to give him credit for that,” he whistles low with a chuckle.
You’re not laughing. You’re not even thinking.
Your mind is reeling with a million thoughts, a million memories. Your young, stupid self crying for hours about Patrick ending things, your first relationship. Months you spent blaming yourself for unanswered questions. You cried with Kara — hell, you’ve cried in front of Clark.
All this time—
“You knew?” You whip around to face your best friend who now has guilt written all over her face.
“Look, he did it for a reason.”
“A reason you didn’t bother to tell me.”
“You should talk to him,” she winces.
“Hey, if you’re still interested, I wouldn’t mind reconnecting. We can pick up where we left off,” Patrick offers you that grimy smile.
You’re too nauseous to even process the ridiculous request.
“Patrick!”
The three of you look up and all color drains from his face when he sees the woman approaching him. She seems sweet. Her eyes glitter when she sees the two of you.
“Hi! Are you Patrick’s friends? It’s so nice to meet you.”
It dawns on you then that this isn’t just a friend, not with the way she wraps her arms around Patrick’s bicep. Not with the way she leans in to peck him on the cheek.
You’re about to hurl.
“You’re fucking disgusting,” you spit at him and turn to her with a sympathetic look. “You deserve better than him, trust me.”
Before any of them could respond, you’re already hightailing out of there.
Kara doesn’t breathe a word the entire ride home, but neither do you. You’re too busy fuming.
To think that your very first heartbreak was caused by Clark. It doesn’t even seem plausible. He would never do that; he’s not the type to. But you need to hear the words directly from his mouth.
You’re on a path of rage when you stomp through the house looking for him. You call out his name over and over until he sticks his head out of the bathroom, hair wet sticking to his forehead and a befuddled expression.
He smiles only for a second before he sees the look on your face. His eyes dart to Kara behind you before flicking back to you.
“Uh, hi?”
“You told Patrick to break up with me sophomore year. Yes or no?”
Clark pales. His lips part and close.
“Clark,” you grit out.
“Yes.”
The disappointment hits you like a bullet train. You didn’t want to believe it but deep down, you knew the truth; Kara’s face said it all, you were just hoping that Clark would at least provide some sort of explanation. Rationalize why he did what he did. It isn’t the fact that he told Patrick to break up with you that upsets you, it’s the fact that he watched you despair over this man for months and never said a word — and to then start this with you, albeit unintentionally, and agree to your no-strings-attached conditions knowing full well where that condition is rooted — is what devastates you.
“That’s it?” You whisper, “You’re not going to tell me why you did it?”
Clark’s gaze merely shifts away. An abandonment of accountability.
“Clark, you’re not that type of guy. I just need to understand why you would do something like that.”
“He wasn’t good enough for you,” he quickly breathes out.
“That’s not your call,” you grit out.
“I was trying to protect you.”
That’s where he gets you. This supposed moral high ground. Clark has always been the good guy, the one who’s polite and sweet, the favorite. But saying this when he barely knew you? Saying this now? You can’t help the frustration that explodes in your chest.
“I don’t need you to protect me. I’m perfectly fine on my own.”
“So you’ve said,” he mutters under his breath.
“Jesus, Clark, we weren’t even doing anything back then and you felt it appropriate to intervene? Were you going to intervene with any guy you also deemed not good enough for me now too?” The words that come out of your mouth are hurtful; they have the intention to hurt. You see the impact you intend flicker across his eyes.
Your brain is telling you to stop but you’re no longer listening to that part of you. Instead, you cave into the demands of your fragile, wounded heart.
“You’re not my boyfriend. You don’t get to do these things if you’re not even in a relationship with me. At this point, I’m not even sure if you’re my friend.”
His blue eyes snap towards you — cold, faltering with the sting. “That’s not fair. I’ve always been your friend first — before all this.”
“A friend wouldn’t have done that without reason. Without telling me.”
He takes a deep breath. “You’re right. I should’ve told you. But it isn’t fair that you’re making all these assumptions about me based on what he said. You know me. You should know better.”
“Well, maybe I don’t.” Your voice fractures, betraying the sorrow simmering under all the anger. “Maybe this was a mistake.”
The moment you say it, you regret it.
Clark has never been a mistake, not to you. He’s one of the best decisions you’ve ever made — becoming his friend, starting this thing with him, falling in love with him. You don’t regret a single moment; if not for the memories you now hold close to your chest, then at least it reminds you that you are capable of love. That it is still possible for you.
But you know that you’ve crossed a line now with the expression etched onto his face. You look away.
“Ma’s just come in, we shouldn’t do this out here,” Kara coaxes gently, “come on.” She guides you to her room, where she proceeds to let you cry into her sheets.
It seems rather silly when you think about it — you started this with no commitments with Clark to avoid crying over a man, and yet here you are today, doing exactly that. Part of it is you mourning what you’ve just lost, this conversation has changed everything between the two of you. Part of it is remorse after the fact — words you can’t take back, words you don’t mean.
“I’m an idiot,” you rasp, rubbing your eyes furiously. “I shouldn’t have said all that. I was just upset.”
“He knows that,” Kara murmurs as she tugs you into a hug, your head instinctively fitting into the curve of her shoulder. “Clark understands. The two of you just need room to breathe and process all this.”
You draw away from her. “You’re really not going to tell me?”
She sighs your name in a way that does not reassure you. “It’s not my place.”
“You were there.”
“Clark made me swear and, as much as I love you, I also love my brother and I keep my word.”
Your eyes narrow at her and you can see her resolve crumbling in real time. It’s not visible to the naked eye but you’ve known Kara for far too long to see her giving in. “Kara…”
“Stop. Don’t give me that face.”
“Kara, I need to apologize to Clark. I need to have a reason to apologize to him.”
She groans, “You’re the worst. You know you’re the only one who can bully me into doing anything. Not even Lois can do it. I’ll bite her before she tries.”
“She would wear tactical gear before she does anything like that.”
“Right,” she grunts, “I hate you.”
“You absolutely love me.”
“I do,” she relents, “which is the only reason I’m telling you this.”
You cock an eyebrow, waiting.
“Alright, so, this was probably a month into the two of you dating. I never liked him by the way, but you were all starry-eyed because it was your first relationship and I didn’t want to say anything.”
“Please don’t remind me of my poor decisions, I have enough of them keeping me up at night.”
“Right, so I was hanging out with Clark in the library—” you give her an incredulous look, “—okay so Clark was in the library and I went to find him to figure out vacation plans. We were walking and that’s when we saw Patrick with that blonde girl from statistics making out against one of the shelves.”
Fucker. You should’ve known, especially after today. All those times you brushed off his constant need to hide his phone when you come into the room, or leaving you at night because he has to meet his friends, or constant excuses to go to the library when he barely passed any of his classes. The signs were there and you chose to put on blinders.
“Clark saw red. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him move that fast. One second Patrick was there and the next he was up against a wall. Mind you, Clark wasn’t even into you back then — not like he is today. He’s always been protective of you, you know.”
It’s not surprising. With Kara practically adopting you as a sister, Clark always was thoughtful with you. When he thought of something for Kara, he would always consider you as well. It’s nice, particularly as you’ve never had a big brother protecting you.
But you suppose your attraction towards Clark was never a surprise either. You never considered him a real brother, not when he looked like that.
“Anyways, long story short, he basically told Patrick to break up with you, told him not to give any stupid excuses. Made me swear that I wouldn’t tell you either.”
“But why wouldn’t he tell me? It was Patrick’s own mistake!”
“You should’ve seen yourself back then. You acted like Patrick was the be-all end-all. You called that sleaze perfect once and I nearly gagged.”
“That’s all the more reason to tell me!”
Kara sighs and shrugs. “In Clark’s mind, he probably thought he was protecting you. He didn’t want you to think it was your fault. You have a way of taking responsibility for things that aren’t yours to stress over. He likely thought you were going to blame yourself.”
“Jokes on him, I did that anyway,” you mumble.
“Well, we thought that asshole would at least do it nicely. Didn’t think he would do it over text with two words.”
We’re done.
And then he didn’t pick up your calls or answer your devastated texts. You cringe thinking about how embarrassingly desperate you were back then to get answers. What a waste.
Knowing all this, you feel even worse. Clark was only trying to protect you; you had a feeling it was something along those lines. It’s Clark after all, he wouldn’t do such things for selfish reasons. He was thinking of you. He’s always thinking of you.
“I need to suck up my pride and apologize, don’t I?”
Kara’s lips twitch. “I think he would appreciate it. Though, I suppose he also does owe you an apology — knowing him, he’s probably already preparing a speech on what to say to you too.”
Clark disappears for the remainder of the day. In fact, he really only comes in for dinner. He looks worse for wear with the shadows under his eyes and the exhaustion that hangs heavy in his gaze. When he sees you, there is a brief moment when light enters his eyes, brightening his baby blues, but then they quickly dim again as he throws his face away.
Fuck. Have you really screwed this up beyond repair?
The meal is only awkward for those who know. Lois and Jimmy sense trouble in the air but, aside from some confused looks, they don’t voice their concerns — not publicly at least. Clark is quieter than usual and Lois, who sits next to him after you sat down next to Kara, nudges him subtly.
He softens for her.
The interaction across from you has your heart aching. After what you said to him, you have no right to be jealous. Clark deserves better than an emotionally unstable person like you who can’t even tell right from wrong, who can’t even apologize. He deserves someone good, someone strong. Someone he doesn’t need to constantly protect.
The realization sinks into your bones, integrating itself into your very being. That little voice inside your head that tells you to worry only grows louder. It tells you that there’s probably a reason why Patrick cheated on you, why Clark would prefer Lois or that girl from the carnival over you, and why love isn’t meant for you.
It’s irrational. It’s stupid but you can’t help it when your heart is already breaking.
After dinner, you offer to help with the dishes but Ma Kent tells you not to worry and to go wash up for bed. You do as you’re told, but, after you’re dressed in your pajamas, you go looking for Clark. You have to tell him now — apologize, beg for his forgiveness, and maybe, maybe tell him how you really feel. Rip off the band-aid now.
Unfortunately, by the time you find him, he’s chuckling with Lois next to him. They’re washing the dishes, making conversation over suds between their fingers. You don’t mean to eavesdrop; you just happened to be there when they were talking.
“Well, that’s because you’re the idiot who waited this long!” Lois laughs, the sound is affectionate. Delighted.
Your stomach twists.
“I can’t help it,” Clark grumbles, “I was too scared to ruin it.”
“Let’s be honest. You had nothing to worry about, Clark.”
The puzzle pieces slot together in your mind. They click into place. The conversation, their interactions, the smiles they share. You’ve always known that Clark admired Lois, it appears as if he’s finally made his feelings known.
And Lois feels the same way.
You had nothing to worry about.
I was too scared to ruin it.
Waited this long.
God, how could you be so silly? To think Clark Kent would love you. To think you had a chance with him.
You turn on your heel, ready to escape the scene before you can break, only to run headfirst into another solid, soft body. You look up to find Clark’s dad looking at you.
“Will you spare me a minute?”
This can’t come at a worse time.
But you nod and you follow him into the living room. His fingers run over the picture frames — family photos of the four of them, Clark and Kara, some individual photos. There are some photos of Clark you haven’t seen before, boyish smile at his elementary school graduation, pearly whites at his college graduation, sun-kissed skin of him in that field out back. Pa Kent smiles almost sorrowfully at the memories before he turns to you.
“I just want to say — I think you’re a good thing for Clark. He clearly loves you very much. I can see it in his eyes. He’s never been like this with anyone else.” Your throat tightens as you bite your lip to stop the tears from falling. “He’s always been a good kid, tried to do right by everyone. Definitely tried to be so good to us. Keeps threatening to come home,” he chuckles, “but I want to know that he’s in good hands. That you’ll take care of him.”
He chokes on his words, tears welling up in his eyes. You flail, unsure of what to do, searching the room for a napkin for him even as you feel the wetness on your cheeks.
“Oh, you silly, soft man,” another voice interrupts gently, and a tissue appears before him. Ma Kent pats her husband on the back as he sobs quietly into the cloth. “Don’t scare her away before she’s officially part of our family.” She smiles in teasing apology when she turns to you. “He’s all mush when it comes to Clark. The same thing will happen when Kara finds someone too. Clark may seem strong, but he’s also all heart like his dad here. It seems Earth has given him another weakness beyond Kryptonite.”
The knowing look she gives you nearly shatters you. The truth hangs on the tip of your tongue. You could tell them right now. Save them the suffering from the secret, but you can’t do that to them — and not to Clark. This is something he has to tell his parents. When he eventually breaks the news to them that this engagement has fallen apart, maybe he has his new, real relationship to show.
And they’ve met Lois, so naturally they would fall in love with her. They already adore her. It’s hard not to love someone as wonderful and smart as her, so you can’t blame them.
For now, all you can do is nod and smile. “He’s my weakness too.”
Your week with the Kents comes to an end much too soon. Kara’s preparing to jet off back to her city while you’re on the first flight out that day. You had switched to an earlier flight, save yourself the pain and the heartache of having to face Clark and his parents for a second longer.
When you come down that morning with your suitcase packed, everyone’s at the breakfast table. Your eyes land on Kara first who you informed of your flight change. She doesn’t look surprised, but the rest of them do.
“I thought you were going to fly back with us,” Lois frowns.
“I have, um, a work thing, so I booked an earlier flight. Don’t mind me though, you all enjoy your breakfast. I’m going to call a cab.”
Clark is quick on his feet to approach you. You haven’t really seen him the last couple of days. You spent most of it avoiding him after all. He doesn’t fight it; instead, he seems to be maintaining a respectable distance too. Probably out of consideration for his new, actual relationship.
You’ve moved back to your original plan to crash with Kara as Jimmy joins Clark and Lois takes the extra guest room. All of this you do after their parents are asleep to avoid suspicion.
The lines on his face deepen as he comes up to you. “Don’t be silly, I can drive you.”
“It’s a far drive, you really don’t have to. I don’t mind. I’ll take—”
“I want to,” he interrupts softly.
“Let him take you, sweetheart,” Ma Kent insists as she comes up to you, pulling you into a tight hug. “It’s been so nice to meet you. I’m happy I finally got the chance to see the woman who stole Clark’s heart.” Your smile wanes for a moment. “I’m sure Clark would want to take you to the airport and spend some quality time in the car.”
Crap, you didn’t even think about the extremely long drive to the airport. Whereas before you had plenty to distract you, this time, you’re left in the tense aftermath of your conversation — and your lack of apology.
You haven’t even agreed when Clark’s already throwing on a cap with the car keys jingling in his hands. He once again takes control of your suitcase. “I’ll put this in the truck while you say goodbye to everyone.”
Again, no room to protest.
Jimmy sends you off with a big smile and another teasing remark about you and Clark. “Maybe we’ll see you around Metropolis more often now.”
You doubt that.
Lois is the only one who flags your red-rimmed eyes. “Are you sure you want to leave so quickly? I’m sure work can wait. We’ll miss you around here.”
Again, you doubt that.
“It’s okay, I have to catch up, otherwise it’ll be a rough week for me. I’ll miss you guys too.”
“Clark and I are going to do a piece on elections in your city so maybe we’ll come visit you at some point?”
We. You didn’t think it would sting despite what you’ve already heard, and yet here you are kicking yourself once again. All you can do is nod and murmur an of course.
Pa Kent is next and he’s practically pouting at you. “I hope I didn’t scare you off last night. I didn’t mean to—”
“No, please,” you smile, “I thought it was very sweet. Thank you. I would stay if I could. I promise.”
“Well, you’re welcome here anytime, alright? With or without Clark.”
“Seconding that.” Ma Kent holds you at arm’s length again. “It’s been such a joy having you here, sweetheart. We can’t wait to see you again soon.”
You bite your tongue and nod just as Kara wrangles you into a headlock and ruffles your hair. A laugh bubbles up your throat. “You better come visit me before our annual pilgrimage next year. I expect lots of gifts.”
“You fly for free, mine involves torturing myself through TSA and paying for tiny seats. I think you should be visiting me.”
“Touché, I’ll see you in a month or so,” she grins, “also, I can come with you, so you know, it’s not awkward with Clark.”
You shake your head, giving her arm a squeeze. “Thanks, but it’ll be fine. I need to talk to him anyway.”
She doesn’t look appeased but nods.
By the time you step outside, Clark is leaning against the truck. His arms are crossed over his chest, biceps stretching that t-shirt, strong brows puckered in a deep frown. Any other day, you’d ask him for a quick pit stop on the way to the airport, promising you have more than enough time to get through security. However, things are different now.
“Ready?” You ask, drawing him out of his thoughts.
He seems caught off guard that you’re already in front of him. That’s surprising, he usually hears you coming. Guess he’s stopped tuning in to the sound of your steps.
Clark clears his throat and swings open the passenger door for you, holding out a hand.
You slide your palm over his, a peace offering, before hopping into the seat.
The air is thick with tension you couldn’t cut through with a band saw. You have to roll down the windows to let some air in to cool your stiff shoulders and the heat up your neck. Time passes by quickly and slowly all at once. The world outside blurs before your eyes as Clark peels down the highway.
This is your chance. You can apologize now, keep things polite and concise. This can be an amicable end to this arrangement you have, so he can have a clean slate to start with Lois.
But the words are stuck in the caverns of your chest and it’s beginning to irritate you how cowardly you’re being. Perhaps there’s a piece of you that’s also dreading this conversation, knowing that this would finally end this years-long adventure you two have had. Even with the gaps in between, Clark has been a steady presence in your life.
“It’ll be a real awkward drive if you’re this quiet the entire way,” Clark breaks through the silence first. His smile is light, almost in jest.
You offer him a wry smile in return. “You’re right. We don’t have to make this weird.” With a deep breath, you begin. “I’m sorry. For all the things I said. That was unfair to you and you’re right, I do know you. I don’t think you’d do anything without reason. I was just hurt that you and Kara kept this from me all this time, you both knew how horrible that breakup was for me. Still, it’s no excuse for my words. You’re my friend and I love you immensely. I know you had my best interest in mind.”
Clark reaches over and squeezes your leg. It’s meant to be a comforting gesture but you can’t help the way your core pulses on instinct, years of trained response. “I’m sorry. You’re right, I should’ve told you — I assume Kara did…” You nod. “I thought I was doing what was best, I didn’t want you to get hurt. It’s not your fault that he’s an absolutely terrible person. You deserve better than that. You always have.”
“Thank you,” you murmur, “for protecting me then and protecting me now.”
“You’ll always have me, I promise you that.”
A laugh of disbelief slips past your lips. “I was pretty stupid, falling for his charm like that. I should’ve known that he was too good to be true. He was always showing up with flowers and gifts and would say all these little lines that seemed so sweet at the time. So stupid.”
“It’s not stupid,” Clark corrects you, “you just… believed in love. You believed in a love that you deserve, because you do deserve all those good things. You deserve someone who means it when he tells you that you’re beautiful and wonderful and smart. You deserve someone who makes you a fresh cup of coffee every morning with an abysmal amount of additives and remembers your favorite treats and gets them for you just because. You deserve… good. A good, grand kind of love.”
Curse your silly little heart. Just when you think you’ve reached the bottom, you find new depths of your heart for you to fall into with your love for him.
Many say that if you love something, then you let it go. You should know when to let it go — and you love Clark and this is one of those moments. Despite what Clark said to you in the throes of passion — I only want you, his conversation with Lois that night has made it clear where you stand.
You were always meant to be a temporary distraction. Not someone’s forever. Not Clark’s.
While you make small talk the rest of the ride, you settle on a decision that both weighs heavily in your gut but frees your heart.
Clark guides you to the very last point before he has to leave you. He’s silent for a while and you can tell he’s deep in thought. However, before you can let yourself chicken out again, you finally muster up the courage to tell him.
“Hey, listen,” you swallow, “I don’t want things to be awkward. We have a great group of mutual friends, we have this trip we do every year. We had a good thing.”
His eyes squint, noting the use of past tense. He’s always been observant.
“But I don’t think I can do this anymore,” you blurt out, “like you said, we deserve love. Maybe it’s time for us to finally pursue it, right? We’re not getting any younger.” Your attempt at an awkward laugh is drowned out by the quiet hustle and bustle of the tiny airport.
Clark still isn’t saying anything. So you continue to ramble.
“And you know, same goes for you, you should be able to be with someone you love—” Lois’ face flashes in your mind, “—and you deserve someone who treats you right, who loves you, who understands you. And I just don’t think either of us can get there if we keep this up.”
“Is that really what you want?” Clark asks quietly.
It’s not, because all you want is him. But when you look at him, all you can see is the love he is capable of, the love he deserves — and you aren’t on the receiving end of it.
“Yes,” you simply say.
He searches your eyes for a moment then gives in. “Alright. If that’s what you want.” His arms draw you into a hug and you hide your quiet tears in his chest. You don’t know if he feels it dampening his t-shirt, but he doesn’t say a word. You never liked it when someone comforted your tears. “I’ll see you soon, okay? Safe flight. Let us know when you land.”
You nod and pull away from him, swiping away at your eyes before he can notice. “Thanks, Clark. For everything.”
With that, you turn and make your way further inside. You don’t look back once.
Rain hasn’t stopped pouring since you came back from Smallville. Fall comes early. Everyday you look out the window from your tiny cubicle and watch the drops roll down the glass. Everyday you pop open an umbrella to grey skies and make your slow walk home. It’s like whoever is up there is mocking you for the very position you’ve put yourself in. Sad and alone.
You’re officially back to your humdrum life.
As promised, you text the group the moment you land safely. You get quick miss you’s from everyone and Clark reacts to your message with a thumbs up. You don’t know what to make of that. The group has been relatively quiet as everyone settles back into their daily routines. There are occasional pictures from Jimmy of the Daily Planet office and these are the only times you get glimpses of Clark.
There are, of course, photos of Clark and Lois — she did mention that they’re working together on a new piece, so that shouldn’t be surprising, but you put away your phone and instead turn on the television to the most depressing romance movie you know (if you didn’t think of Me Before You, then you’re wrong). You cry and cry and cry. At least you can blame it on something other than your fragile heart.
Your auto-generated playlists on the way to work reflect your mood — yearning, miserable, heartbroken. It doesn’t help so you’re quick to switch to AC/DC before your feet reach the office lobby.
Your coworkers pepper you with questions about your vacation.
“Didn’t you say your best friend had that cute brother? How was he?” One of them teases.
You can’t bring yourself to answer, simply laughing and waving it off. He’s in love with someone else, you want to say.
After work, you join your colleagues for the occasional happy hour. It distracts your mind for a few hours until the buzz is the only company you have in the quiet of your apartment, then it only makes you spiral further. You close your eyes to sleep and you see Clark. You have wet dreams like a pubescent teenager, except they aren’t fantasies, they’re memories.
You wake up drenched in sweat before you splash your face with cold water and a good dose of reality.
All in all, life is the same — slightly worse, but, as they say, it’s always the darkest before the dawn.
You make the mistake of signing up for dating apps. Men with terrible pick-up lines, men with terrible mustaches, and terrible men in general are the only ones in your messages. It doesn’t help when you compare each one to Clark and none of them come close.
You agree to one date and, while he was pleasant, you can’t help but be preoccupied with your own self-pity.
The two of you thankfully part ways at the restaurant and you make your way home with your feet aching in your heels and your back sore from slouching in your own misery. You’re rummaging through your purse for your keys when you hear the sharp intake of breath.
A familiar breath.
Your head whips up to find Clark standing there. His eyes rake over you and something you mistake as awe descends on his face. He looks adorable, positively edible in a trench coat and a bright yellow umbrella next to him. He’s still in his suit which means he probably came straight from work; you wonder if he flew here.
“Clark, what are you doing here?”
“That’s a nice welcome,” he drawls sarcastically.
You give him a look but smile anyway. “You know what I mean.”
“Lois and I are in town for work. I, uh, came to give you this,” he pulls out a shirt from his satchel. It’s one you had left in Clark’s room in your hurry to leave one of those nights. “You left it at my parents’ place.”
“Oh, you didn’t have to bring it back. I would’ve seen Kara eventually.”
“It’s no big deal.” He shrugs. Squirms.
“Well, thank you,” you breathe out, accepting the shirt from him.
Your fingers brush. Electricity zings through you like a warning.
You’re not sure what to say now. He’s not leaving but he’s also not saying anything more. He seems conflicted for a second, looking at you, at the floor, then at the elevator. He’s probably itching to leave to avoid how awkward this is.
“I should, uh, I should go,” Clark coughs.
You pause, hesitating. “Did you want to come in for coffee or something? It’s still pouring out.”
His tongue presses against his teeth, lips stretching out a bit wider on the brink of a yes, but then he stops. “Oh, that’s okay. I don’t want to intrude.”
“You’re not intruding, I’m inviting,” you smirk. He’s shuffling his feet like he’s nervous.
“Is this an invite for—” he stops himself, biting his bottom lip. “I don’t want to be presumptuous.”
It wasn’t. However, now that he’s mentioned it, you can’t get the idea out of your head. One last time. One last night to relive the memories. One last night to act upon the dreams that have plagued you these past couple of weeks.
“You look beautiful, by the way,” Clark croaks, hand reaching up to scratch the back of his neck.
You look down at your dress and your heels, splashes of rain dotting your stockings and shoes. “Oh, thank you.”
“Anyway, I shouldn’t bother you any longer, you must be busy.”
He turns. Your hand darts out, fingers catching his sleeve.
Clark turns back, eyes wide.
“Stay,” you find yourself saying.
His eyes look torn, blue flickering into something darker. Sadder. “You said you couldn’t do this anymore.”
“It’s still summer,” you try to reason — both with him and yourself, “maybe one last time for old time’s sake?”
Clark’s chest rises with the hitch of his breath.
The two of you are at a standstill.
With every passing second, embarrassment sinks deeper into your skin. It’s as if he’s prolonging the rejection, dragging out this moment to find a way to politely turn you down when—
“I can’t do this. Not anymore.”
Your hand drops, heart plummeting. You should’ve known better. Stupid, stupid.
“O-oh,” you stutter silently, wringing your fingers together on your purse handle. Perhaps he and Lois acted on their feelings already. More than the confession you overheard weeks ago. You can’t help yourself, you’re a glutton for punishment. “Is— is it because you’re in love?”
His eyes widen, surprise coloring his face. “How, wait, how’d you know?”
“It’s pretty obvious,” you force out a smile.
Be happy for him. Be happy for them. This is a good thing.
Clark groans, hand reaching up to run over his face furiously. He goes underneath his glasses before he looks sheepish, cheeks flushing a deep scarlet. “Am I really that transparent? Gosh, I’m sorry. I really wanted to tell you a different way.”
“No, god, no, it’s fine,” you cut him off, “I mean, it’s a good thing, right?”
He perks up, ears pinking. “Is it?”
“Yeah, I mean, I’m happy to hear it.”
Are you? Liar, liar. You will be eventually. You can’t wait for him to leave so then you can burrow yourself in bed in the pity party you’re throwing for yourself.
“Are you really?” Clark looks shy, his face alight.
Clearly, you’re not a very good liar because the smile wipes off his face quickly. You realize then that you don’t look like you mean what you’re saying. Your lips are pressed together in a thin line to stop your tears, your throat is dry like sandpaper.
“Wait, what’s wrong?”
“Nothing!” You busy yourself with zipping up your purse, anything to stop him from looking into your eyes. You may actually burst into tears on the spot.
“You look upset. Did you… not want it?”
“No, I just—” you gasp and you can’t stop it now. The dam has broken and you can feel the saltiness on your tongue. Clark looks very concerned, hands moving around like he’s trying to help but doesn’t know how. “I’m fine. I’m just fucking selfish, I guess, I’m glad you and Lois are together now and—”
Clark blanches. “What? Me and Lois? What are you talking about?”
Your cheeks are still wet when you tilt your head in puzzlement. “Aren’t you two… together now?”
He looks positively aghast, nearly gagging. “No, why would you think that?”
“Back at the farm, you two seemed really close.”
“We’re friends!”
“But I heard you talking,” you start and his face twists further, perplexed. “She said something about you waiting too long and that you shouldn’t have worried. You said you were scared to ruin it.”
Genuine confusion is all over his face before it melts into understanding. “Oh. Oh gosh. No, that wasn’t about— no, that wasn’t her. Lois is like the older sister I never had. That— the idea of it would be… gross. Not that there’s anything wrong with her! I just don’t see her that way.”
“Wait, so who were you talking about?”
Clark moans, doing a full turn in a pace. “Do I really have to spell it out for you?”
Your brows pinch.
“I love you. I’ve always loved you.”
The gears in your brain stop turning. Your lungs stop working entirely. Your entire circulation is cut off. You’re trying hard to process this but you can’t seem to connect the dots.
He takes a step forward, hands reaching up to cup your cheeks. His umbrella falls with a thud somewhere in the back but you don’t even hear it. All you can hear is the thundering in your ears. “Thought you said it was pretty obvious,” he gives you a wry smile, “I’ve been in love with you for years.”
“That’s not—” you choke, “that’s not possible. We’ve been fucking for years, sure, but you weren’t in love with me.”
“No, you weren’t in love with me,” Clark huffs out a laugh, “I wouldn’t have agreed if I wasn’t completely head over heels for you.”
You balk when you look up at him, eyes shining. “So you let me sleep with you all these years because you were in love with me? And I just — what — used you for your body?”
He laughs again, brighter and louder this time. “Yes, that’s exactly what I did, because I’ll take you any way that I can get you. That’s not to say I didn’t enjoy it,” he grins, cheeks dimpling with that mischievous twinkle in his eye. “I did. Thoroughly. Each time.”
“You’re insane.”
“Is that what you really want to say to me?”
You shake your head, face aching and you realize you’ve been smiling so wide this entire time. “I love you. I love you so much. Love you so much that it hurts. I missed you.”
Clark groans and crashes his lips down on yours, tightening his grip around your face. “You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that.”
“You never said anything,” you whimper when he begins kissing along your jaw and down your neck.
“I didn’t want to scare you. I didn’t want to ruin what we had.”
“Lois knew,” you mutter in realization.
“Lois has always known,” he makes his way back up to you, kissing your lips then your cheek then your eyes. “She knew the moment I met you, I was a goner. I couldn’t think of anyone else but you.”
“We met like five years ago, Clark.”
He grins unapologetically. “Then I’ve been in love with you for five years.”
“You’re ridiculous,” you say, embarrassed.
“No, I just love you. Now, will you let me in? I want to take care of you. Missed you too much. You left too fast.”
He doesn’t have to ask you twice. Your key is in your door and then it’s open and Clark’s toeing off his shoes quickly, messily, so unlike him in his rush to pin you up against the door. He intertwines your fingers together and presses them into the wall.
Then he pulls back, staring at your left hand. His lips pinch. “You’re not wearing it.”
You look at your bare hand. “Oh. I didn’t think I’d need it. I was— I need to also tell you I was on a date before this.”
Clark’s face sours before he settles on bitter understanding. “We weren’t… together, so it’s not like I have any right. I should’ve told you at the airport, should’ve stopped you the moment you told me you wanted to end this.”
“I was thinking of you the entire time, if that helps,” you add sheepishly. “I was trying to get over you. I’ve been moping for weeks, crying to myself.”
His expression thaws as he kisses you again, gentler this time. “I never want to be the reason you cry ever again. Only happy tears.”
“We were both silly.”
“Yes, yes, we were,” he murmurs against your lips. “Where’s the ring?”
“Um, that drawer.”
You’ve started keeping it in your kitchen because your desperate self, the one with zero self-control, tried it on every night before you go to sleep, tormenting yourself with what could’ve been until you finally shoved it under your extra kitchen towels.
Clark separates from you only briefly to dig through the pile and pull out the silver band. He practically flies back to you, taking your hand and slipping it on your finger. Right where it belongs. His lips twitch into a smile as he lifts your eyes to meet his.
“So everyone knows you’re mine,” Clark whispers, “until I can make it real.”
Your lips tug into a smile. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
+ sam: aaaaah it's done!!!! thank you so much for tuning in. i really hope you've enjoyed this little journey with these two. i've grown so fond of them <3 if you liked it, i really do appreciate any reblogs / comments / likes!! and ofc my inbox is always open if you wanna come yap about them hehe
