I never seen a fic where Clark Kent is giving the reader anal, could you possibly write one about that pls???
so tight, sweetheart.
18+, mention of p in v, accidental slip, size kink, praise, fingering, anal
omg i had so much fun writing this!!! hope you enjoy <3
you didn't mean to yelp. didn't even mean to reach behind you and smack his abs in sheer reflex. but the moment his thick tip slipped out of your soaked pussy mid thrust and nudged hard against your ass, your body jolted like it'd be electrocuted.
"oh—s-sorry honey, i didn't mean to—are you alright?" clark had stilled immediately, voice filled with concern, his big hand caressing your back like he could soothe the sting with touch alone.
you were already nodding, even if your eyes were watering from the burn. "it just—caught me off guard."
but he was pretty silent after that despite how hard he was inside you. his breathing all heavy and uneven against your back.
and then he spoke, "you're real tight back there."
you thought that was the end of it, but it wasn't. clark kent, ever polite, ever kind, ever sooo deliriously good to you, couldn't get it out of his mind.
for weeks.
the way your body had locked up, how your tight hole had resisted him instantly. the idea of working you open slow, gentle, making you feel good in a place no man had explored.
he didn't push any further that night but he watched. every time he bent you over, every time he sank into you and saw your ass bounce and squeeze, every time he made you cum and your whole body trembled from it. he imagined, swallowed thickly, and bit down on his lip to keep from saying what he was thinking.
and when he finally brought it up, all soft spoken and careful, eyes flicking downward, blush blooming across his cheeks, you knew you were in trouble.
"i've been thinking about it. just—feeling how tight you were and i'd never hurt you, sweetheart, you know that...but i'd really like to try. if you'll let me. i can be real gentle. i promise."
it took a few more talks and a few more nights of slow, messing fingering in the shower, of clark whispering how good you were for him as he added one slick finger, then two, then curled them just so.
by the time you were panting into a pillow with his thick fingers pumping in and out of your ass and his free hand rubbing your clit until your legs kicked helplessly, you were begging him to give it to you.
but nothing — not his fingers, not your toys, not even the slick he'd poured so liberally between your cheeks — could've prepared you for the sheer width of his dick splitting you open now.
clark's hand is on your back, warm and soothing, his voice soft above you.
"you're doing so good, sweetheart. so, so good for me. just breathe."
but it burns. that thick head easing in feels like too much, like your body's struggling to adjust, and your cheek presses deeper into the pillow to muffle your whimper. you're already crying, silent tears dripping down your face, not from the pain exactly, but from the sheer pressure of it. from the fullness and from the way your body clenches around him automatically, too tight for even him to move.
he feels it immediately. he groans behind you, deep and guttural, forehead tipping to your back.
"g-gosh," he breathes, voice trembling. "you're squeezing me so hard, i can hardly—gosh, baby..."
he rocks forward a just a little, honestly just an inch, and you sob into the sheets.
"oh, honey. i know. i know it's a lot. i'll go slow, i promise—i got you." his hand slides between your legs, fingers gentle and slick as he rubs slow circles over your clit, trying to soothe you and distract you.
and it works — your hips twitch, your back arches instinctively, trying to run toward the pleasure as his cock sinks deeper into your ass, inch by careful inch. he whispers the whole way through.
"that's it, that's my good girl... taking me so well back here. can't believe how tight you are."
by the time he bottoms out, you'e shaking and breathless, clutching the sheets in both fists.
his eyes flutter shut, sweat building on his brow, jaw tight as he holds still inside you, hands trembling on your hips like he's trying not to lose it.
"baby...i'm not gonna last long," he murmurs, kissing between your shoulder blades. "it's too good. feels like heaven in here."
he pulls back slowly. not all the way, but enough to rock his hips again, give you that full stretch as he slides back in. it's so overwhelming. every motion feels like it lights your whole spine on fire, and he moans with each little thrust, each slow, careful grind of his hips into your backside.
your body clenches tighter and his fingers find your clit again and this time he rubs. quick, purposeful strokes that make your thighs tremble. that make your pussy slick all over again, even untouched. that make your body finally start to unravel from how full you are.
"let go for me," he pleads, voice shaking. "please, baby, let me have it."
you cum hard. it crashes through you, tearing a cry from your throat as your whole body clamps down around him. this is all he needs. his grip tightens and he spreads you open with both hands now, and pounds into you. his slow, deep thrusts so unforgiving.
your rim stretches again with every drag of his dick. he's got you leaking, trembling, and so spent.
"feels so good," he groans, hips smacking into you. "so tight. g-golly, i can't—“
he stutters and fucks in hard. so, so deep. you feel him throb.
then he gasps and spills inside you, buried to the hilt, moaning your name into your damp skin as you twitch helplessly around him.
when it's over, he collapses over your back, chest heaving.
To the boy i loved before / Steve Harrington / teaser
pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader
Summary: Dustin’s disappointed by his sisters decent into loneliness, and after a new discovery that gives him an opportunity to unite his two favorite people—A certain light comes back into your life.
Wc: 1.8k (this is just a small teaser I’m working on the rest)
A/n: watching s5 felt like going back to an ex I forgot about… I miss u Harrington. More to come of this story since I’m locked in the house for the next 2 days but just wanted to see if the concept is received well at all. Not proof read
Masterlist / AO3 [soon]
Hawkins, Indiana. Beginning of Spring Break, 1985.
“Knock, knock.” The prebubesant voice of your younger brother rings through your room, interrupting the scribble of your pencil on your notepad.
Dustin stood in your doorway, wearing a cartoonish tactical vest and socks pulled up high, a closed fist hovering on the wooden frame from where he’d just startled you back to reality.
“Hey,” you gently whisper, a croak in your voice from not using your vocal cords for a few hours. Dustin smiles at you while you go to sit up. “What's up, hon?”
“Just letting you know I'm going out with some friends. Mom's asleep, so I thought I'd let you know.” his curly head tuts down the hall to your mother's room.
You sit up straighter, quicker. Eyebrows furrowed suddenly, “What? I thought we were going to watch Golden Girls tonight?”
“Well…” Dustin's voice rises at least 7 octaves, stepping a foot in your room. “We were, buuuuuut– that new cafe opened across town and everyone wants to go, and Steve offered to drive and–”
The utter betrayal of your younger brother washed over you in waves, “Are you ditching me for milkshakes, Dustin Henderson?”
“What! NO!”
You shoot a glare towards him. Dustin's head drops to the carpet below his feet.
“Yes…”
“I'll remember this, dusty. The great golden girl betrayal of spring break 85.” You huff, rising to your feet to put your notepad and pens on your desk.
Dustin sighs, grabbing a throw pillow placed haphazardly on your bed and pulling it close to him. He looks over as you arrange stuff on your desk, obviously working on your next art project.
Dustin Henderson has looked up to his sister from the moment he was conscious, literally and physically. He had always seen you at the epitome of cool. You always gave the best advice to get him through the social confines of elementary, middle, and now high school. You taught him to be kind and caring. To have good taste in movies. To be stubborn enough to get his way when it mattered, to never back down. You were everything he has ever wanted to be.
Maybe until this very moment.
Dustin sighs dramatically. “You know,” he picks at the tassels on your pillow, “it’s the first night of spring break, and it's your senior year… you don't have any plans or like senior-stuff to be doing?”
“Senior stuff?”
“I don't know,” Dustin stutters. “I'm not a senior, but I'm pretty sure there's senior stuff to do.”
“Right.. Right…” you sarcastically mock, turning to see Dustin sprawled across your newly washed bedding. At least his shoes were off the side and not mucking up your white duvet. You squint at him, suspicious to your bones, "What are you getting at here?”
Dustin's eyes travel towards the ceiling, avoiding eye contact as he speaks slowly. “Well, you know, it's a Friday night and like– the weather is perfect, and a lot's going on in town and… you’re in your bedroom.. Drawing and wanting to hang out with your 14-year-old brother…”
“Whoa! Okay, and what's wrong with that, mister suddenly popular?” you say, hand to your chest, slightly offended at whatever Dustin was trying to insinuate.
“Nothing!” Dustin defends, sitting up against your headboard, crushing multiple stuffed animals behind his back. You want to protest, but are currently too blinded by the complete attack coming from your once-loser brother. “Don’t you just want to go out and hang out with your… friends.”
You face drops, “Why’d you say friends like that, Dustin?”
His tone goes stone cold, along with his horrible poker face. Slightly shaking his head, "I didn't. I actually said it very normally.”
“I have friends, Dustin!”
“I never said you didn't! I actually just insinuated that you do!”
“Well, if I wanted to hang out with my friends, which I do in fact have, I would! But I don't want to tonight.” You rush over your words.
Dustin snaps his fingers, and you notice the look on his face, and you can practically see the light bulb above his head, “You know what? You can just go with me tonight!”
You roll your eyes, settling on the bed beside Dustin, your voice a little calmer now—less defensive. “I don't know how fun hanging out with a bunch of 14-year-olds will be for me.”
“You like hanging out with me,” Dustin frowns.
You cock your head at him, “You know that's different."
“Steve Harrington will be there…” Dustin mentions.
“Ok?” you say, a little too much attitude in your voice than intended.
“He’s in your class.”
You nod, “yes, but that does not mean we are friends–” you scoff, “ he probably doesn't know I exist.”
“Yes, he does,” Dustin responds quickly, almost interrupting you. You sneer at him suspiciously, almost as if to ask him what he meant by that. “You know, because of me. I mention you sometimes.”
On cue, you hear the honk of who you can assume was Harrington outside your house waiting to pick up Dustin and his friends for milkshakes.
You pat his back, ushering him up. “Be safe, bro.”
Dustin starts to walk out of your room feeling positively defeated by what he thought would be a constructive conversation with his big sister, you just follow him out happily.
“Offer still stands,” Dustin grabs his stuff and heads for the door.
You smile at him, oh-so tooth-rottingly sweet Dustin. You pat his shoulder off of invisible dust or dirt, “thank you, but I think I'm better off than hanging out with Steve-the Hair-Harrington and your gang.”
“He’s not that bad.” Dustin throws out, and your face is already scrunched up in hesitancy. “He knows he was a dick during high school and he's a lot… kinder now.”
“Kinder?” you ask, Dustin opens the door and you see the faint outline of Steve's face behind his car's windshield in the slowly darkening afternoon light. “That thing?”
Dustin giggles, “he's fun.”
“Right..” you laugh, “have fun, be safe. And I'm going to watch Golden Girls and spoil all of it when you get back.”
Dustin starts to descend the creaky wooden porch stairs, looking back to yell, “you can’t spoil shit, it's a sitcom!”
“Watch the language!” you shout, despite the smile on your face.
Dustin's hand wrapped around the handle of Steve's car, waving goodbye to his sister before placing himself in the front seat. His head whipped over to Steve, waiting for a greeting—but no dice. Steve's eyes stared forward at Dustin's front porch, more specifically, where you stood.
It wasn't a new idea in his brain to get you and Steve to hang out. After the past few years of having Steve in his life, grown more and more into an elderly brother figure. Dustin has thought about it on multiple occasions. Before, it was rare to be with Steve if it didn't involve alien monsters or conspiring against evil dimensions, so not many chances to try and get his slowly social-declining yet awesome sister to chop it up with fastly social-declining yet newly awesome Steve Harrington.
“Steve.”
“Hm?” he had finally snapped out of it, now noticing you had gone inside the house and now they were just wasting gas and time in his driveway. “Are we going to go or are you going to keep longingly staring at my sister?”
“Woah, I am not doing that.” Steve defends, putting the car in gear and reversing out of the gravelly road, “just making sure she gets inside all right.”
“Yeah, all those 3 feet. A lot could happen.” Dustin mocks, “she's into all those dramatic romance novels; she might like the yearning gaze you just tried to give her from our driveway.”
“Whatever, man. I barely know her now.” Steve waves off, eyes focused on the road.
“I tried to convince her to tag alone tonight,” Dustin mentions for no real reason…
Then Steve responds pretty quickly, and Dustin smiles to himself knowingly. Staring out at the Hawkins streets.
“Yeah? What did she say?” Steve said. Curious as he can be without distracting himself from the road.
“She said she's too good to hang out with Steve-the Hair-Harrington.”
Steve almost swerves a little, “no, she didn't."
“It was close enough.”
Steve scoffs at him before turning into Lucas' driveway.
Dustin then spent the remainder of the night thinking up a plan, weighing out the odds, mysteriously glaring at Steve as Dustin's brain went haywire, and enjoying his chocolate milkshake.
It puzzles Dustin why you were so put off by Steve now. He knew for a fact you used to run around with him and some of his old crusades in at least late middle school, maybe as a freshman. Dustin saw it in the old photos you still had littered around your room, noticing at least one or two with the familiar head of hair. Dustin would notice Nancy too in some.
Dustin also knew you’d grown to be a recluse after junior year, specifically, brushed it off as school getting too busy–extracurriculars. Whatever. And he wasn't going to lie to himself and say it wasn't depressing watching his admirably social sister seemingly cave in on her own isolation.
He had to do something.
So when Dustin came home that night, carefully not to wake his worrisome mother. He saw the couch empty except for some messily thrown blankets draped around. Noticing a small note taped to the table.
Ran out of ice cream
went to the 24 hour store
Be back soon incase you get back before me :)
Scribbled out in your cursive handwriting. Right. Dustin thinks to himself. Your car was gone from the driveway when Steve dropped him off.
This was the time, the only time. As he suspects you’ll be a house rat for the entirety of spring break, if Dustin has anything to do with it.
Slipping off his shoes, Dustin tiptoed down the hallway and passed your creaky door, eyes watchful of your window, expecting to see the headlights of your car at any moment. Dustin looked around curiously, not like he hadn't been in here more than a million times. With or without you. Yet, some places still were not all that familiar to him.
Dustin turned the knob of your closet door, pulling the metal string to illuminate the small area. Looking around a plethora of muted-toned clothes. A lot of it covered the floor, almost completely covering the carpet. Shoes sat on the floor, badly organized. Next to a box of old Barbies, multiple canvases of art, finished and unfinished. Next to a few stacked boxes with your younger handwriting scribbled onto the labels.
Dustin's eyes darted to the one labeled ‘middle school.’
His head whipped back to look out the window again, before falling to his knees to rummage through the box. He found old photos, report cards, arcade tickets, and doodles. Dustin's eyes almost popped out of his head when he found multiple letters addressed to boys in your class. Dustin didn't recognize a lot of them until.
Steve.
Steve Harrington.
Wrote sloppily, and addressed but not stamped, and–even better–with a corny heart doodled next to it.
You were a boldface liar, and Dustin Henderson struck a jackpot.
clark being able to hear you masturbate through the walls...
18+ mdni
the walls in your apartment building aren’t thin. they’re perfectly normal, really. it just so happens clark isn’t, which means he’s constantly subject to hearing things he’s not supposed to. sometimes it’s just innocent and endearing, like you complaining on the phone about the skirt you ordered being a size too small (though he’s certainly not complaining when he sees you in said skirt walking down the hall.) other times it’s… well, it's immensely more risqué.
soft moans bitten off into your hand while you pleasure yourself, the buzz of a toy pressed against your cunt, the slick sound of your fingers pumping into what he can only imagine is the sweetest pussy to ever exist. it’s fucking torture for him.
and he tries to shut it off. he really does. but it’s harder at night when there’s just a few feet of drywall between you and nothing but the distant sound of the city at night to block it out. he’s gone as far as desperately searching up advice about how to get turned off, but he doesn’t exactly have a grandma in the picture to imagine and he just feels filthy using his parents to solve his problem.
so maybe sometimes he indulges. when all else fails and playing music at a reasonable volume (because he’s not an inconsiderate neighbour) doesn’t help him, he’s left to squirm restlessly in his bed. eventually the tossing and turning grows too much for him—he's helpless to do anything but sneak a hand below the waistband of his pyjama pants.
he feels particularly guilty because they were a christmas gift, too. they shouldn’t be soiled by the evidence of him jerking off to the sound of his hot neighbour pleasuring herself next door. it’s perverted and gross and oh so fucking weird but god he couldn’t care less about the burning shame crawling up his neck when it’s soon replaced with an overwhelmingly hot flood of pleasure. the warm grip of his hand around his cock has him caving instantly, and soon his moans are a symphony with yours.
unlike him, you don’t have kryptonian hearing. but that doesn’t stop him from gnawing on his fist or burying his face in his pillow to keep himself silent, stifling his grunts when every quick pump of his fist pushes him closer and closer to the edge. you're an entire room away and yet he can just feel the tight squeeze of you wrapped around him, taking every thick inch until you're milking him dry and he's begging for mercy. most nights he succumbs before you, leaving him to stare at the ceiling with a sticky hand and even stickier pants while your moans continue to crescendo in the next room over. your libido definitely gives him a lot of sleepless nights.
something something clark hearing you moan his name once and going absolutely insane for months because he can’t tell if he imagined it or not. yeah
cw/ kinks. non/dubcon. brief description of harassment (from a stranger), abduction, naive! reader, established relationship, toxic! simon, drugging, manipulation, primal play, violence and hostility, fear play, dacryphilia, fingering, brief mention of blood, nausea and dizziness, fingering, size difference, belly bulges, pussy and ass eating, unprotected sex, rough sex, edging, squirting, ass play. simon is a BAD boyfriend, very dead dove. SMUT
synopsis. you dont listen to your boyfriend's warnings to keep safe, and so he shows you what it's like to be kidnapped.
a/n. this is dark. if you are uncomfortable or the warnings trigger you, feel free to scroll. consume media with your own discretion. know yourself and your limits.
simon didn't like to think he was controlling of his girlfriend.
he knew how men operated, though. saw sweet, bubbly things like you and immediately their minds would fill with the urge to corrupt such purity.
a bartender, you once were before he whisked you away. having endured constant leers and gropes from drunken bastards would've made simon believe you'd learned from experience to keep your guard up, but you hadn't. not even close, actually. your survival instincts were dreadful in all regards.
the night you met, simon'd just left the pub you worked at a few minutes after you did - intending to head back home after meeting old friends - when he'd found you, soft and trembling with your purse clutched to your side as a man held you up against a brick wall. as the stranger's grimy hands groped sloppily at your tits, you were crying and begging for mercy. "i just want to get to the bus, sir… p-please don't hurt me."
the man obviously had no intentions of letting you go, and so simon acted. grabbing the fucker by the back of his dirty flannel, and throwing him to the ground hard enough for his head to connect with the concrete with a sick thud. then, he looked up at you, shivering and in deep shock, with several buttons of your uniform top undone.
"face the wall and cover your ears, girl. don' look 'till i tap you."
his voice came almost unnervingly quiet, but it brooked no argument. you didn't resist. the least you could do, since this man had rescued you, was obey his command to disassociate from the violence he was about to rain down on the other man. you press your trembling palms flat against your ears and turn to look at the brick wall, faintly hearing repetitive, dull thudding of fists on muscle and flesh. then, the occasional muffled, sickening crunch of a bone.
you pinch your eyes shut tightly and try to imagine a different scenario. the beach. you always liked the beach. waves crashing in the distance, the sun kissing your skin, the scent of salted ocean...
you feel a hand on your shoulder and snap out of your thoughts. the man who harassed you is nowhere to be seen, but there's a puddle of blood on the ground where he used to be. your stomach churns. he's wiping his hands on his dark jeans, his knuckles bruised from hitting your attacker.
"y'alrigh'?"
you blink up at him upon hearing the sound of his voice, eyes fluttering for a moment as you try to make sense of all the recent turn of events. being harassed, getting saved, your attacker getting beat into a bloody pulp.. no, you're not okay. your brain is foggy and your heart is pounding so hard that it echoes through your ears. he leans down to be level with you and holds onto your arms. not in a restraining way, though. his grip is loose and comforting.
" 'm sorry if i scared you," he murmurs, looking down at you calmly, but earnestly.
he's breathing heavily from adrenaline and his body's worked up like a tight coil, but he's still very gentle with you. soft for someone whose hands are still sticky with blood. you nod slowly, your breathing regulating once your body understands you're safe with him. he rubs your arms to stop you from shaking.
"you're shaking like a leaf. must be cold." he mumbles, shrugging off his jacket before you even nod. it smells delightfully like his cologne when he drapes it around your shoulders, a clean and woodsy scent that reminds you of cedar trees.
" 'm simon." he adds after a beat. "whas' your name, girl?"
you tell him your name softly, and he repeats it right after, wanting to make sure he's got it right. "s'pretty, suits you well." he says smoothly. he still hasn't let go of your arms, thumbs brushing back and forth like he's trying to ground you. he looks at you a little too long than a stranger should, eyes searching your features. you sniffle a little, staring up at him with big, watery eyes. "t-thank you..."
"d'you needa ride home?" he asks tentatively, seeming to be a little unsure if he's overstepping, but determined to protect you nevertheless. "s'late. your bus'll be another half hour, if that. wouldn't be man o' me to leave y'standing here."
you nod softly, "o-okay. uhm yes, please. i don't wanna be out here anymore."
he leads you towards his truck, opening the door for you and putting his hand on the top so you don't bump your head by accident. he then buckles your seatbelt for you, knuckles brushing the top of your thighs as he clicks it in place.
"th-thank you, simon" you say as he gets in on his side and turns the key in the ignition to start the car.
" 'course" he mutters, putting his hand on your thigh casually. "couldn't leave you like that."
a smile spreads across your face and you find yourself even more comfortable with the strange man. and so you start talking. perhaps a nervous tic due to a rush of sudden emotions flowing through you; or a dislike for sitting in silence, but once it starts, it doesn't slow down for a second.
you tell him everything. your full address. apartment number. that you live alone. that your roommates moved out and you haven't replaced them yet. that your bedroom window's always sticking open and that your landlord won't call someone to fix it, and it makes you nervous sometimes because you're a heavy sleeper.
you don't even notice the way his jaw tightens as you speak, knuckles going white around the steering wheel you're telling him information he could use to rob you, kill you, force himself on you, like nothing. all the more, you're wide eyed and grateful, holding onto the sleeve of his jacket still wrapped around your shoulders.
he looks over at you. "shouldn' be trustin' people so easy," he says with an edge in his voice. "i could be a bad man. coulda only got rid of that prick to have you to m'self."
you blink, a frown crossing your lips. you don't seem to be scared by his question, more upset at the suggestion that he could be bad. in your mind, you've labeled him as your savior. "you're not one of the bad ones."
he stares at you, trying to make sense of your words. you seem confident that he's the epitome of a white knight. he wants to be angry at how easy that came out of your mouth, but he can't be when you're staring up at him like that. he's a sucker for a pretty face.
he sighs and turns his gaze back to the road. "just sayin' you oughta keep your guard up more, girl. y'don't know me."
you don't take your eyes off him, feeling a little drop in your tummy when he takes his hand off your thigh. "i know enough, though. you helped me. that's what's important."
he exhales hard through his nose and shakes his head like he's trying to clear it. you watch the streetlights flicker across his face as he drives, and you feel the uncomfortable feeling in your body give way for warmth. he parks in front of your building fifteen minutes later. "this it?" he questions, having committed your address to his memory subconsciously after you'd told it to him. he'd been able to drive here with no assistance.
you give him a quiet nod, unbuckling your belt and looking up into his eyes. something in you feels like you should give him something for doing all of this for you. maybe a hug? however, you didn't want to overstep, and you find yourself awkwardly patting his shoulder instead.
you curse yourself under your breath for your evident lack of social skills, hoping he doesn't think you're as strange as you seem. not wanting to hang around longer than you're welcome to, you wave to him like he's your boyfriend dropping you off after a movie. simon watches you disappear inside with an unreadable look on his face.
you're halfway through unlocking your apartment door when something makes you turn back. the street's quiet, his engine still idling. you jog down back down the stairs all the way down to the path toward the curb, the sleeves of his jacket flapping over your hands.
he rolls the window down as you approach. "what're y'doing back here? go to bed."
you pant, breath puffing in the night air. "i... it's just, d-do you want tea? or... or dinner? i know it's late, but i feel bad just letting you drive off after all that."
simon blinks at you. he can't believe what he's hearing.
you shouldn't be inviting a strange man into your flat at this ungodly hour. he's probably not entirely sober either. if he wanted to hurt you, he could, with zero effort. men with his size usually send most people bolting the other direction.
you rush to fill the silence. "you saved me, and i just- i mean, it's the least I could do, right? i make really proper sandwiches. and tea. everyone compliments my tea. i'll put sugar in it. do you like sugar, simon?"
he should say no. but you're looking up at him like he's sunlight after a storm, eyes wide and hopeful. he doesn't have it in him to turn you down. not when you're already clutching his sleeve and tugging at it like you expect him to follow.
"do i like sugar." he echoes in mild disbelief, cutting the engine. "okay, i'll come in. just for a bit."
you smile so big it makes your cheeks hurt. the second he's out of the car, you're tugging him eagerly back up the stairs with you.
you live in a cozy little walk-up that contains a mess of throw pillows and mismatched mugs and other clutter; it's obvious you're a little hoarder. there's cute trinkets everywhere showing you've done your best at bringing the dull London apartment to life, but you've failed to capture one consistent aesthetic. it's charming, nevertheless.
"sorry it's messy," you chirp, dropping your keys into a bowl shaped like a cat and kicking off your shoes while he helps you out of his jacket. "i didn't have time to clean up. didn't think to, either. i hardly get any visitors. all my family live outside town." he kneels in front of you after, undoing your lace-up boots delicately to put them in the corner. you thank him with a little grin, offering him house slippers right after.
he blinks down at them. "they've got bunny ears."
you giggle, a soft sound, like windchimes. "i've got bear ones too if you want."
God almighty.
he accepts the bunny slippers.
you make him tea first, bustling around your tiny kitchen like a little homemaker. he offers to help, but you frown at him like he's personally insulted you. "no, no, you sit. i'll take care of you." he can't remember the last time anyone said that to him. probably never.
you chatter as you move around the kitchen, barefoot now, he notices. you've already forgotten he's not a stranger. you rave about your favorite teas, how you like your eggs, and ask him if he wants toast or an english muffin. you even hum a little as you stir something in a pan.
every now and then, you drift closer to him, touching his arm to get his attention or leaning against the counter beside him while something cooks. simon can't tell if it's nerves or attraction (or some dangerous mix of both) but your sweetness is starting to eat away at the last of his restraint.
you make him a plate, serve him like it's the most normal thing in the world to cook for a man who could've easily snapped your neck twenty minutes ago. "hm. thank you."
when he's finished, you sit beside him on your couch, pulling your knees up and crowding close into his space, you keep offering him bites off your fork even though he's got a whole plate in his lap. and he lets you. lets you curl into him as you browse for a movie. lets you tuck a blanket over both of you. lets you sigh happily as your head lolls against his shoulder.
you're asleep on him. a stranger. he's about to move you off gently, but then you whimper quietly, pressing closer in your sleep, and your fingers twitch in the fabric of his shirt. you're holding on.
he exhales slowly and sinks deeper into the couch. he's decided he'll stay for tonight. just to keep you safe in case some slimeball creeps through your faulty window.
you jolt awake with a little gasp, embarrassed immediately, but simon doesn't flinch. he cracks one eye open and grunts.
"you slept here."
"reckon i had to," he murmurs, voice gravelly with sleep. "y'never moved off me."
"oh my gosh," you sit up. "sorry! i really didn't mean to, i just- my shift was so long and i was so tired- let me make you breakfast. do you- would you want that?"
he looks at the visible eagerness to please etched into your features. the minute he huffs out, "yeah that sounds lovely." you rush to your feet to start working. you're halfway through pulling eggs from the fridge when you realize you haven't asked him what he actually likes, so you turn back, holding the carton against your hip. "do you want your eggs fried, simon? or i could scramble them. or i could make them poached."
he's sitting on your couch still, big hands rubbing at his face, hair a little mussed from sleep. he looks far too at home in your space for someone who walked in for the first time just hours ago. "whatever you like," he says through a yawn, leaning back and stretching lazily until the hem of his shirt rides up over his stomach. simon doesn't miss how your eyes follow the movement and linger.
when you set the plate down in front of him, consisting of eggs, toast, beans, sausage, his brows lift. "that's well nice," he mutters, almost to himself, before picking up the fork. you hover a little, chewing your lip. "you think so?"
he takes a bite, chews, swallows, then looks straight into your eyes. "yeah. i like it a lot."
it shouldn't make you as warm and fuzzy as it does. you grin and go to sit opposite him, sipping tea while he eats. simon's not saying much, but you can feel his gaze on you more than the steam rising from your mug. he's in no rush to leave. in truth, you don't want him to. this sweet stranger has already begun to carve a soft spot into your heart.
simon had told himself, at first, that he was just checking in on you. but every time he tries to stop, you beg him to promise that he "won't act like a stranger" and to visit you as much as he liked. that you were lonely and his visits made your day. how safe you felt with him (as you kept reiterating). you begin to rely on him more and more.
you warm up to him even more each time he comes over. you start calling him "si." you bake him sweets. you tell him every thought that pops into your head and giggle at your own jokes. you look up at him like he hung the stars.
he told himself you needed protection. that's all. but it wasn't long before he was letting himself into your apartment without knocking and doing things around your house. fixing things and cooking for you and doing chores like it's his apartment. your feelings for him grew stronger and stronger each and every day, and before you knew it, odd jobs and work in your living space turned to him coming home with flowers everyday.
kissing your face.
murmuring sweet talk.
asking you out on a date.
and finally, making you his girlfriend.
you're sprawled across his lap on the couch, still in your soft pajamas, your cheek pillowed on his shoulder. you squint up at him, face scrunching. "you know, I liked you right away. I knew you were safe."
he knows damn well he isn't, and you don't. he's buried it away far enough so you don't have to see it. nevertheless, simon leans down, kisses your temple, his hand splayed over the curve of your back to curl you closer to him.
you're still just as naive as the day he found you crying by the bus stop with that god-awful lost look in your eye. you're too nice, trusting, and living like nothing in this grimy, spit-on city could ever touch you.
you're lucky it was him that found you, not someone else. lucky it was his truck you got into. it's his body you fall asleep on. he sees the way people look at you when you're walking alone, headphones in, no sense of danger in those pretty eyes. he has to recognize it for you every time; filthy pricks eyeing you up like you're nothing but meat.
"luvie," he warns one morning, voice gruff as he adjusts the strap of your little bag over your shoulder, "you've got to stop smilin' at every fuckin' bloke who makes eye contact with you, alright? it's bait."
you blink up at him all dewy-eyed, utterly unfazed. " 'm just being friendly," you say, "you're so dramatic sometimes."
his jaw tightens. " 's not dramatic. you walk around and keep battin' y'lashes, someone's gonna get ideas."
and every day, it's something new.
you leave the pub after dark because your shift ran late and he told you to call him but you didn't want to "be a bother." you give a man on the street your number because he "seemed lonely" and "was really polite." you let some random cab driver walk you to your door after a night out because "he offered and you didn't want to be mean." you let out a sigh when he scowls at you, unimpressed by your clear nonchalance regarding the situation. with a tilt of your head, you say: "you worry too much. nothing happened! nothing ever happens."
simon crosses his arms, standing in your kitchen. he's watching you pour cereal like nothing's wrong, as if you didn't nearly lead a man up to your apartment (thank god he was there and scared the fucker off) two nights ago. it's interesting, because you'd invited simon up to your place back when he was a stranger. but back then, he thinks grimly, you'd been vulnerable. shaken. grateful. you'd given him your trust because you felt safe in that moment, not because you were handing it out like sweets to anyone who smiled at you.
"d'you even understand how close that was?" his voice is low and stern.
you glance up, blinking. "i said i was sorry..."
"it's not about sayin' sorry," he interrupts. "it's about learnin'. fucking hell, i told you not to entertain men off the street. what part of that didn't sink in?"
a sigh leaves you, and you wilt like a puppy being scolded. you do love how simon protects and dotes on you, but you don't like the condescending tone in his voice when he chastises you. you're a grown woman, and you know what you're doing. "obviously, if a man tried to make a pass at me, i'd stop him." you say, but that's exactly the problem. simon knows you wouldn't be able to.
you wouldn't react fast enough or firmly enough before the wrong kind of man took your hesitation as an invitation.
he pushes off the counter, advancing on you. "obviously?" he echoes, incredulous. "you don't bloody know, that's the whole point. you keep thinking blokes will back off if you say no, but you don't see it, christ- half of 'em won't give a toss what you want."
"you're always mad at me lately!" you respond defensively. "i don't mean to-"
"i know you didn't mean to," he cuts in, dragging a hand through his hair. "you never mean to, love. that's the problem."
you gaze down at your bowl, blinking hard, and his gut twists with guilt, but only for a second.
"d'you think I like getting calls from you where you're cryin' in the middle of the fuckin' road?" he asks. "do you think I like picturein' what could've happened if i got there a minute too late?"
you drop your spoon with a clatter, the sound loud in the tense kitchen. your voice is filled with frustration and panic that threads through every syllable. "i'm not a child, for gods sake, i can handle myself!"
his chest heaves, hands clenching into fists at his sides. "no, you don't!" he snaps back. "you don't know how fast someone can ruin your life. you don't know how little it takes for someone to see you as prey and act on their urges while you make it so fucking easy for them! you think you're being nice and sweet, but you're just… you're just asking for trouble, and i can't fix it before it finds you!"
you're heated. "you're just scared that because i'm not living in fear every second, i'm prone to getting in trouble. i know when something's unsafe, simon! i can be polite without enticing men!"
"polite?" he laughs bitterly, shaking his head in disbelief at your sheer stupidity. you are not understanding the situation at all, and no matter how many times this happens to you; how many close calls you have, you still don't take your safety, or your life, seriously. he tries to spell it out for you. "polite gets people in your bed, gets them on top of you without your permission. polite doesn't keep you alive! you think just because you smile or answer them nicely, they'll go away? they won't."
"and you keep allowing it to happen over, and over, and over."
you feel your chest tighten, heat rising in your face. he looks at you for a long moment, the tension between you strung taut. "just stop trying to control me. i know what i'm doing. i was surviving before i had you, wasn't i?"
it finally clicks for him.
no matter how many times he tells you...
no matter how hard he warns.
you're not going to really understand until you really experience it. until danger has it's teeth-bared close.
he doesn't tell you that, though.
simon exhales sharply, running his tongue over his teeth. his deep blue eyes rake over your stubborn face.
a beat of silence.
then, "fine. well. guess we'll see, then."
"…what's that supposed to mean?"
"nothin'," he says too easily, backing off a step. "eat your food."
a heavy, musky pile of fur is pressing down on you, soft, with the faint scent of smoke and something animal. it's the first thing you register before the cold hits. the air is biting, sharp enough that it stings your cheeks with every gust of wind and numbs your fingers, even though they're gloved. you blink, but your lashes feel clumped, stuck with the wetness of half melted snow.
you push your hands out of the furs clumsily, joints stiff and sore like you've been lying still for too long. everything feels wrong. too quiet, too far away. the ground beneath you isn't a floor; it's hard and uneven, scattered with a thin crunching layer that snaps when you shift your weight. snow. you're in snow.
you sit up too fast and your stomach lurches. you have to catch yourself on your palms, breathing slow to fight the black creep of dizziness at the edges of your vision. you don't recall falling asleep here, let alone anything that's happened in the last several hours. a chunk is missing in your memory.
you remember walking, your hands shoved in your coat pockets, breath fogging in little clouds. you remember…
your head throbs. a strange chemical tang is lodged in your sinuses, something sour and artificial that makes your stomach turn if you inhale too sharply. "where..." you blink, scanning your surroundings. the forest closes in on you on all sides, tall and dense. it's muffled here, sound swallowed up by the snow and the tree line. no hum of traffic, no voices, no power lines. Only the brittle snap of branches shifting overhead.
you turn in a slow circle, your breath puffing in the air. nothing up ahead. not a path. or houses. or a road. you're alone.
until.
there. footsteps, somewhere behind you, muted but distinct, a deliberate crunch-crunch-crunch that doesn't align with the frantic beat of your own pulse. then it stops. then comes again.
it's not steady, in a rhythm you can follow. just there. a crunch that's far too deep rooted to be the random settling of ice or the soft fall of snow from a branch. someone's putting their weight down. you whip your head toward it, but the trees all look the same. black spines, white drifts, shadows stitched between them. you squint until your eyes sting, but you can’t discern any movement.
the sound stops. your ears strain in discomfort with the silence. when there's no noise around you, you can hear your own heartbeat in your head, a slow, dragging thud. "it's nothing..." you mutter. "it's nothing. a deer... maybe a fox." you take an unsteady step forward, snow crunching under your boots. boots that you weren't wearing before you got here.
crunch.
you freeze. the breath you were about to take stalls halfway, sticking in your lungs. the sound is a lot closer than it was before, but when you turn to scan the darkness again, the trees loom too dense in every direction. you can't tell if it's twenty feet away or seven. every instinct you have starts clawing at you. move, move, move... but your legs feel lead-heavy, locked in place. your fingers tighten around the edges of the furs draped over your shoulders, bunching the fabric up.
crunch.
this time, behind you.
your stomach drops so hard you feel it in your fucking feet. you twist again, but you still can't see anything. the cold air is starting to taste metallic in your mouth. there's nothing around you but the sound of your breathing and the footsteps, stopping and starting, circling. you begin backing away, boots slipping a little on the ice. your eyes keep darting between the trees, trying to catch something; a shape, a flash of movement, a face.
then it comes. not one step, or two, but a multitude of them, plowing straight toward you from behind. as the sound fills your ears, your instincts finally take the reins. your fight or flight comes full force. you run.
you don't even think about direction, just away from the noise, away from the beast tailing you. your breath starts coming out in ragged clouds. the furs are heavy, but you can't make yourself drop them, not when you can already feel the sting of the wind on your exposed skin.
somewhere behind you the footsteps speed up.
you're tearing through the snow like it's the only thing between you and death, every muscle in your legs screaming at you to stop, to slow down, but you can't. if you slow down, it's over. the crunch of boots behind you is relentless, eating at the distance you're trying to claw back with every step.
you keep trying to look over your shoulder, desperate to see them, to know, but the dark swallows everything. the trees blur into one unbroken wall of black, and all you can hear is the sound of your own breath paired with those heavy, deliberate steps that quicken rapidly. you whip your head forward just in time to trip over something half-buried under the snow.
your skull comes in contact hard against something solid and unmoving, the pain blooming so fast and hot it steals the air from your lungs. white bursts across your vision, your ears ringing like they've been stuffed with static. the cold seeps instantly into your knees and hands where you've hit the frosted ground.
panic claws its way through the fog in your head and forces you to move. you lurch upright, dizzy, the world spinning hard enough that you have to grab at the nearest tree to keep from going down again. you don't even know if you're running in the same direction anymore, but you don't care. your legs take over, sprinting so hard you can barely keep your footing. "move..." you gasp to yourself, willing yourself to pick up speed again. nevertheless, the widening thud of those boots in the snow is gaining.
the resounding steps behind you are fast in a way that doesn't make sense for something that big. your lungs are on fire. your legs keep threatening to give out. you hear them closing in. you try to push harder, but your foot catches again, your balance tips, and you stumble so badly your body can't even recover before- hands.
massive hands. they catch you like you weigh nothing, one clamping around your middle, the other hooking under your arm to yank you fully off the ground. your legs kick, scraping snow out of the air, but your boots never find purchase again. the grip is unshakable as they drag you back against something solid, living, breathing, and far, far stronger than you.
the noise behind you changes. less crunching snow now, more of a deep, steady inhale, like whoever has you is taking their first real breath of you. you thrash so hard it feels like you're tearing something inside yourself, your voice shredding as you scream. "LET ME GO! s-stop it! who are you?!" your yells come out raw, high-pitched, so loud your own ears ring. you kick wildly, boots slamming into shins as your heels dig into flesh behind you for leverage. your fists flail to punch at whoever's holding you back.
they don't make a single sound.
you twist and lurch in his grip, but the chemicals still humming in your blood make the world lag a fraction behind your movements. but you fight anyway because the alternative is unthinkable.
the huge man barely stumbles as you slam both elbows back into him. he shifts his weight and you're suddenly turned, your shoulder wrenched hard, boots skidding uselessly over the ice-slick snow before he drives you into the ground, snow flying up around your head.
his knees pin your hips before you can twist away, one giant hand fisting in your coat to keep you from bucking. the other catches your wrist mid-swing and slams it into the ground beside your head.
you scream again, the sound cutting through the trees. you try to twist your head to bite him, to do something, but that's when his hands shift, both of them sliding to your throat. not squeezing the windpipe, but worse. the sides. the soft spots. vulnerable places where the blood moves fast to your brain.
it's instant. your pulse jumps and your vision sparkles. the fight or flight in your body explodes into frantic, jerking panic, and your nails rake at his wrists, your heels dig trenches in the snow as you buck and twist. the world tilts violently, black spots flickering in the corners of your eyes...
you're making wildly unpleasant, desperate little sounds, half-sobs, half-groans, but the hands on your neck don't shift. the beast holds you there, the grip like a vice until your arms feel heavy, until your legs stop kicking quite as hard, until the pounding in your skull turns hollow.
the dark seeps in from the edges. your lungs burn, and your head feels like it's filling with warm water. slowly, your body betrays you, weakening even though you're begging yourself to keep fighting.
the last thing you're aware of is the faint sound of his breath and the sharp wind of the winter above you as everything fades to black.
you come to slowly.
your head is pounding and your mouth is uncomfortably dry from lack of saliva production, though you're unsure if it's from chemicals in your system or if you're just severely dehydrated. how long have you been out this time? when was the last time you ate, or drank water?
as you sit up, the first thing you notice is the smell. wood smoke from a fireplace burning somewhere in the background. leather. mahogany candles. your eyes adjust to the dim lighting of the room and you see log walls, a rough-hewn ceiling beam above you.
you've been taken to a cabin.
for a moment, you're delusional enough to think maybe you wandered here yourself, that someone found you in the snow and patched you up. there's something wrapped expertly around your head; a bandage, and when you touch it, your fingers come away faintly tacky.
blood, from your fall.
you swing your legs off the bed, bare feet hitting creaky floorboards. your balance is unsteady and the pounding in your skull causes the room to sway, but you force yourself up.
shuffling towards a table, you search for some kind of clue as to where the hell you are, maybe your captor left a device laying around for you to call simon and the police.
fuck, simon. he must be anxious out of his mind. you don't know when you were captured, but your boyfriend goes crazy when he doesn't hear from you for extended periods of time while you're out without him. but now, when you should've been at home with him a long, long time ago, he's either called the police or gone looking for you himself. you can imagine him checking everywhere you usually go like a lunatic.
your heart aches at the thought of never seeing him again...
someone's watching you.
it takes your eyes a second to land on him. the beast lurks in the far corner of the room, standing perfectly still with his broad shoulders brushing the walls, face swallowed in shadow and the thick balaclava covering his face. you're not able to discern how long he's been there. but you're sure it wasn't just now. "please…" your voice wavers so bad it's barely sound. "please, i don't... my boyfriend is crazy about me, okay? h-he's gonna find me and then he'll kill you for kidnapping me!" you shake your head, tears stinging before they even fall.
he doesn't answer.
you take a step back, palms lifted like that might somehow make you smaller, safer. "just- i'm hurt. i can't-" your voice breaks again, and you swipe at your eyes uselessly. "i just wanna go home. i won't tell anyone."
the movement from him is sudden. just a few long strides and he's in front of you before your brain even catches up. his huge hand clamps around your bicep and you gasp, tripping over your own feet as he hauls you backward. "no, no! please, stop, i didn't do anything wrong! i'm sorry, please don't hurt me!" you kick at the floor, nails digging into his wrist, but it's like fighting a stone pillar. he doesn't make a sound.
you hit the bed hard, the mattress dipping under your weight. he follows instantly, using one hand to press you flat against the blankets like it's nothing. he uses his weight to pin your hips down, while one hand splays flat on your chest.
"get off me! my boyfriend will find me!" you keep reiterating your certainty that simon will come to rescue you before this beast does anything to you. it just sounds like you're deluding yourself. simon is tactile and told you about his stories in the military and his days of hunting where he tracked creatures miles upon miles. but as you remember being outside, there was nothing around you at all. you're in the middle of nowhere with a blizzard sure to hit within the week. your captor took you conveniently so finding you would be impossible, realistically.
your voice dissolves into sobs, messy and gasping. you twist hard, try to roll to your side, but his hand on your chest shoves you flat again without effort.
it's pathetic, how weak you are against him. every jerk of your body is countered before it's even fully started, every scream muffled by the thud of your own heart in your ears. in contrast, his breathing is slow and measured. he behaves as though he has all the time in the world.
he didn't restrain you because he didn't need to. he holds you down with that one hand effortlessly, and you try to grab for his mask in a desperate attempt to uncover the psychopath who's doing this to you. but oh, that earns you punishment. he slams your hand back to pin it against the bed, maneuvering both your wrists into one hand and placing it roughly over your head. he's calculated. knows how to grip you hard enough to bruise, but not enough to break your bones.
your captor tilts his head just slightly, studying you. the movement chills you worse than any words could have.
his free hand moves. cupping your cheek, forcing you to look up at him.
then, it slides down. down. down. to your waist, peeling up the furs he put you in and your work top you'd been wearing when he'd chloroformed you. you let out a cry and desperately attempt to squirm away, but his hand and body pinning you don't allow you. he shoves your shirt and bra up in his fist till they bunch at your collarbones, exposing your breasts. your nipples pebble immediately when the cold air hits them.
his thick, calloused fingers find your breast, roughly squeezing the soft mound like dough. your nipple, already stiff, gets caught between his fingers, rolled and pinched until you can't hold back a strangled whimper. his hand is so large that it engulfs your breast entirely, leaving no part of it untouched by his groping. he seems to relish in the way your body yields beneath his touch, the supple give of your skin and tender tissue molding to the contours of his palm. "fuck! stop it, get off me, you psychopath! you c-can't just kidnap me and ngh- damn it-!"
his other hand, still wrapped around your wrists, tightens slightly in a wordless warning. you can feel the strength in his fingers and know instantly that any resistance on your part would be futile. maybe even dangerous, with how unpredictable he is. still, your instincts drive you to squirm and try to pull away from his touch, your body recoiling instinctively from the undesired fondling.
he seems to pity your feeble struggles, a soft scoff leaving him. leaning in closer, his masked face hovers over the exposed flesh of your breast. he lets go of your wrists to raise his mask above his mouth, attaching his lips to one of your nipples. the sensation sends jolts of revulsion and unwanted arousal through your body. "mngh, no oh my gosh, stop it! please no more-"
he flicks your nipple upwards with his tongue, leans down, and engulfs the entire bud in the wet heat of his mouth. you gasp, a shock of sensation shooting straight to your core as he suckles and nibbles at the sensitive peak. his tongue swirls around, tormenting it until it's rigid and achy. he can't get enough of the way your body responds to his touch in shivers or little flinches.
tears leak from the corners of your eyes, dripping down onto the pillow beneath your head. he takes his time torturing you, lavishing each breast with the same attention. your captor's tongue and teeth work your flesh, alternating between tender suckling and sharp nips.
when you thrash, his grip on your wrists tightens warningly. he pauses, his masked face lifting from your breast. behind the fabric, you feel the weight of his displeased gaze. without warning, his lips move sloppily down your body, open-mouthed kisses laving over your cool skin.
he lets go of your wrists. no need to hold them down any longer; you're not capable of fighting back against him at your full strength, and now, when you're panicked and disoriented from hitting your head and the chemicals in your system, you're defenseless. he stops at your skirt, unbuttoning it with nimble fingers before dragging down the zipper, then the waistband, with his teeth.
the man leans down, mouth hovering over the sensitive skin just beside your pussy, dragging wet kisses down your thigh slowly and agonizingly. he keeps you spread wide, pushing your skirt to your ankles and following the movement with his mouth.
once your skirt's on the floor and his mouth is at your ankle, he drags a wet trail of kisses up your calf and sinks his teeth into your flesh, holding in place until you scream. he digs harder, harder, rupturing a blood vessel with his maw, and when he pulls back, there's a bite mark blossoming on your skin along with a trail of blood.
he makes a grunting noise that indicates his satisfaction, and licks your blood off his mouth. a snide grin stretches across his pink lips. he doesn't hide his enjoyment of your discomfort, and your expressions serve as encouragement for him to continue. his tongue drags along the trail of blood dripping down your leg, cleaning it up and sucking on the bite mark he left while you wriggle in place. your body is caught in such a strange mix of pleasure, pain, fear and arousal.
he begins to move back down again, making his way down your leg; nipping, sucking... all while keeping his gaze fixed on your screwed up face. you aren't being noisy anymore. the screaming and begging display your terror, and if you're able to control it, he isn't scaring you well enough.
that means you could get yourself kidnapped again by not taking this seriously. and the next time your captor might not be your boyfriend in disguise.
he stops between your thighs once more, noticing the damp patch that's begun to grow on your soft cotton panties. he pushes two thick fingers at the seam of your cunt, making your body jolt and your hands to fly down to the intrusion between your thighs. "wait-"
he huffs and knocks your hands away carelessly, intrigued by the considerable patch of wetness that's gathered between your legs. certainly you're not getting off on this.
you stare up into your captor's eyes. if you weren't so disoriented, you'd realize they're an exact copy of your loving boyfriend's; from the thick lashes to the striking color. he rubs three of his thick fingers against the cotton covering your hole while thumbing around for your clit. he wants better access to you. his free hand grabs the waistband of your underwear and tugs it up hard so it grinds into your dripping pussy. you scream at the sudden mildly painful sensation of the crotch of your panties pushing up between your swollen pussy lips.
slowly and silently, his thick fingers nudge the cotton into you while his other hand keeps the band of your underwear pulled tight. "mmh! what are you- no, it hurts, no more! please," you gasp, your mouth parted in half choked whines that you aren't able to hold back. every twitch of your body only makes him adjust his grip, jerking the elastic higher and harder as the soaked fabric rides against your clit so sharply you gasp. "not there, it's pressing there!"
as his chest rises and falls raggedly, his fingers drag back down, three of them broad and heavy against the damp strip, pressing until the fabric is shoved right between your cunt, molding it together.
"mmh! please, please, it feels weird-" he interrupts you by tugging it up sharply, making you break off into a scream. any more and the fabric will tear from how much tension it's enduring. he licks his lips once he feels the way the cotton is soaked through as the fabric rolls against your folds.
thick fingers curl around the edge of the fabric between your thighs, tugging it cruelly until your pussy lips spread under the pressure, and there's no barrier anymore, only cotton plastered to you so tightly it might as well be your skin.
"you're hurting me!" you swing your arms up at him uselessly, hoping they'll connect with flesh, but he leans down and grabs a fistful of your hair roughly to stop you. tears spark in your eyes from the pain, and your arms raise up quickly to fly to your head. you can only hope he doesn't yank hair clean out of your scalp. the message that he's not one to be trifled with is understood.
you arms drop, and he lets go of your hair to pat roughly at your cheek as one final reminder. as a weak sob bubbles out of you, he returns to rocking the soaked gusset of your panties side to side, dragging the cloth across your clit in slow, merciless friction. every noise you make causes his eyes to flit up to your face. he's feeding off the sounds you can't swallow down.
you're dripping, slick spreading along your thighs and pooling beneath you. guilt ebbs at your conscience. how could you be enjoying ministrations from him - a man violating you - while your boyfriend must be out there, worried sick? regardless, your body reacts against your will, jerking against the bed as he keeps you strung open while he toys with you. he rubs and rubs and rubs until you're shaking under him, your panties nothing but a soaked rag grinding your hole raw.
your captor finally gets tired of simple teasing. the hand holding your waistband shifts, yanking it sideways with no warning at all. The soaked fabric snaps against your skin before it's wrenched aside. you're bared to the cool air, your folds glossy and swollen. you squeal and kick at his chest, your foot finally giving purchase as it collides with his shoulder. somehow, you budge, maybe even harm the goliath of the man, as his grip had loosened enough for you to use your other foot - you reel both back and kick hard at his chest to knock him back a little more, then you run.
you bolt off the mattress and scramble to your feet, heart hammering. every nerve in your body is screaming at you to get out of here. you kick off your skirt to help you, momentum carrying you forward - but before you can make it three steps, a massive hand wraps around your ankle. "get off!" you scream, twisting wildly, but he yanks hard. the sudden pull throws you off balance and your body pitches forward. you hit the floor hard, your forehead colliding with the cold surface with a dull thud. dizziness blooms instantly, stars exploding behind your eyes.
strong hands clamp under your arms, lifting you effortlessly. your body arches involuntarily as he hauls you through the air, your legs kicking, your ears are ringing so much from shock and pain that your screams come out muffled. unfazed, he tosses you onto the mattress hard enough to make your body bounce against the frame. you land in a tangled heap, arms flailing weakly, hair splayed across the pillow. "i-i can't, please p-please stop… just a second," your skirt is now in a heap on the floor, leaving you more exposed to him than before. you'd done nothing but anger your captor further and make yourself more vulnerable.
he looms over you again, his broad frame swallowing the small space. you're completely at his mercy once more. "shouldn'ta done that, girl." he finally uses his voice. you lift your head weakly at the vaguely familiar sound. the gravel, the baritone... it matches simons.
you must've hit your head too hard again.
he drags two thick fingers through your seam, spreading you open with the pads just to look. your thighs try to snap shut, but he's already there, pressing them down, watching the way your hole flutters when he teases the slick around it with nothing more than the edge of his fingertip. simon smears your slick higher, splits your folds apart with two fingers, and you squeal, half-panicked, half-overheated, your hands flying down to clutch his wrist. "pl- fuck, please be gentle for a moment, i-i need just a second."
it does nothing. he ignores your weak little attempts at holding him off and pushes, one long finger nudging, testing your hole. and then, without any warning at all, he shoves both digits inside.
you choke on your breath. it's too much, it's so much, the stretch immediate, your walls gripping so tight around the intrusion of his fingers inside you. your hands tighten desperately around his wrist. "please! it's too much, i know you can hear me, stop it!" he only exhales a rough grunt, jerks his hand out of your grasp, and uses the heel of his palm to slam your thighs wider apart until your knees are nearly to your chest.
now there's nowhere to run. he can get deeper.
his fingers piston forward again, filling you to the knuckle in one thrust. he drags them back out to the tips, then forces them back in roughly, again, again, again, until your belly clenches and you can't breathe from the stretch. your lack of sexual experience becomes evident as two fingers alone have you writhing and ready to plead for mercy. you hadn't had sex with simon yet; he'd been so respectful, wanting to take his relationship with you slow. the two of you had only touched on the surface - frotting, panted french kissing, and he'd let you cum on his tongue once after eating your pussy slow and gentle during a movie night.
he'd never rushed you, never pushed, never even slipped his hand beneath your clothes without asking first. that was your simon. that was the man you were falling deeper and deeper in love with.
this wasn't him. this was someone with his voice, his face, his hands... a cruel copy of your sweet boyfriend.
and to think your last conversation with him had been an argument.
your body seizes around his fingers. he pumps harder, rougher, until your juices begin coating his knuckles. his free hand slides up between your thighs, thumb finding your clit without hesitation. there's no gentleness in the way he touches you, no patience in the way he circles. it's rough, paired with pinching and dragging the little bundle back and forth. your hips buck wildly, half away from the sensation, half toward it, but it doesn't matter. he follows, rolling it between his fingers while his other hand drives those thick fingers into your hole. scissoring, twisting... pushing against the softest parts inside you that your own fingers have never been able to reach.
he sucks his teeth and speaks for the second time. "cunt floodin' my hand. must be a pervert, t'get off ta' thing like this." your response is a pathetically pitchy moan. you can't find it in yourself to muster a defense, because he's right, isn't he? you're sick... a pervert... to be gushing for a faceless degenerate instead of fighting him like your life depended on it. he twists his thumb against your clit a little rougher, your head tossing against the sheets. "it... mmhn, 's... 'it's n-not my fault!" that earns a scoff from him.
he spreads you wider with his fingers, toys with the folds at the edge of your hole just to push them back in again. he's trying to see how far you'll open for him before you break.
when you're writhing so hard your whole body lifts off the bed, he pushes deeper, grinding the heel of his palm against your clit while his fingers fuck you into the sheets, pumping into you roughly and quickly. you clamp your puffy walls down on him with a scream, white covering your vision. you're certain you're at your limits... but he tears his fingers out of you.
it makes you sob out loud, hot and frustrated tears spilling down your cheeks before you even realize you're crying. your hands shove at him weakly, and your voice comes out cracked and furious, "l-let me go! i hate y - hic - this, i-"
he knows exactly what this is. you're not broken like he wants, you're just furious that he ripped your orgasm away. that means his work isn't done.
simon grabs your wrists in one big fist, yanking you back down flat to the mattress. then, his other hand pushes your shoulder over so you roll until your face is pushed into the cold pillows and your ass is tipped high. your thighs clamp shut in panic again, but he forces them apart, spreading you wide so he can watch where you're open and dripping for him. your pussy is glossy and twitching from the ruined build-up with your underwear still rucked to the side. yet you keep trying to wriggle away, tears wetting the sheets beneath your face. "get off me, stop it! just let me go- ah!"
with a sudden surge forward, he buries his face into you like a man starved. his mouth seals over your hole, tongue shoving deep without hesitation, lapping up everything you've spilled out already. he moans at your taste, the sound rumbling against your core as his tongue flattens and curls, dragging through your folds.
you shriek into the sheets as his palms spread over the fat of your ass to hold you still. his nose grinds against your swollen clit while his tongue plunges sloppily inside, and you can feel his jaw working, can hear him slurping shamelessly, sucking your juices into his mouth.
you're wailing, trying to shove yourself up on your hands and knees, but the weight of him forces you into the bed, giving you no wiggle room. you didn't want to stop fighting, but even if you got out, where would you go? there’s a snowstorm and surely there's no phone signal... you're locked in with the beast.
his tongue drags down further, tracing the seam of your ass, hot breath spilling against the tight ring before he pushes, filthy and unashamed. "oh my- ahn, not there, please, it's dirty!" your cry shatters into breathless moans as he presses his mouth against your rim, tongue teasing the rim before descending back to the dip between your holes then dragging back down to your folds again. "mm. shu'up." he mumbles into you.
simon switches back and forth, slurping at your pussy until you're squealing, then shoving his tongue against - and in - your ass. he can't decide which one he likes more. you're dripping all over his chin, his stubble coated in a combination of his saliva and your arousal. but he hadn't forgotten about punishing you for trying to escape earlier, so he focuses on your ass, biting the plush flesh of your left cheek until iron fills his mouth and adds to your sweet taste on his tongue. you sob and kick back at him pathetically, just for him to dive in again.
thick thumbs spread your folds apart for his tongue to push into your pussy, twisting, writhing like he's fucking you with it. every plea that breaks out of you only makes him more ravenous. simon slaps his tongue against your hole, sucking hard enough to make you jolt, then laps up the mess drooling out of you while you moan indecently
he lifts his head, then he's spitting onto your ass, spreading it with his tongue, and diving back in. "mmnh! i s-said not there, you- fuck, no more!" your cries fall deaf on his ears as he works his mouth gluttonously on you, tongue darting between your hole and then laving over the wet outside. then he drags his fat, heavy tongue back down and sucks so hard on your clit that your orgasm from earlier resurfaces instantly. but again, he pulls away with a wet smack and leaves you throbbing, your body screaming at the loss.
"no! please, please, please, i can't, i can't take it anymore!" a rough hand fists in your hair, shoving your head down into the mattress again to shut you up, your cheek smushed and your cries muffled. by now, everything is swollen and achy or painful for you. you can't tell if your head or your cunt from two denied orgasms feels worse. your captor unbuttons and tugs down his pair of faded trousers, tossing them to the floor to join your skirt in a heap. he's holding you down so you can't see what he looks like. his boxers come down to his knees next, and you can hear him begin to palm himself heavily, the lewd slap of his fist milking his cock echoing through the room.
you try to twist and look back at him, but his grip tightens, shoving you deeper into the bed. he curses lowly while fisting himself above your messy pussy before he settles in behind you. again, he lets a thick glob of saliva drop from his tongue to get you even sloppier. the slick drip runs down between your folds, and he smears it with the fat head of his cock, spreading it around.
your voice cracks through the pillow, panicked and begging, "j-just... at lea-least -sniff- at least use a condom, please." you don't even get the full plea out before his cockhead slaps against your hole, cutting you off. he does it again, smearing himself through your slick and letting his fat, flared tip drag between your ass cheeks mockingly. it circles your rim, descends down through your folds, presses against your swollen clit in messy passes until you're gasping into the sheets.
with no warning, he pushes inside you with one brutal thrust forward, splitting you open around the thickest part of him. he stretches you raw and impossibly wide in a single thrust. you scream as his cock drives all the way inside, your body clamping down around him like you're going to tear apart. he groans gutturally, shoving until his hips are flush against your ass, his cockhead nudging so deep inside you it makes your belly jump. the pain of two fingers stretching you out doesn't even come close to the excruciating stretch and burn of a cock that feels like the size of your forearm.
every inch of you is stretched to its limit. unable to form a single thought, your hands claw uselessly at the mattress in an attempt to anchor yourself away from him and off his cock. meanwhile, he just holds there, thick and throbbing inside you. he lets you squirm on his cock while he cages you down with his weight. after watching you flail stupidly for a moment, he gets tired of toying with his food. his big palm spreads over your stomach and presses up, firm, forcing your belly against his cock.
an undistinguishable sound that combines a cry, moan, and scream leaves straight from your throat as you feel the hard shape of him inside you through your own stomach, every vein and ridge outlined under his palm as he stirs your guts from the inside.
"haa, i'm g-going to… oh no!" your thighs start shaking uncontrollably and your gaze fuzzes up again suddenly. the coil in your belly from before resurfaces way too fast, and when it snaps, you gush - squirting helplessly all over his cock, the sheets beneath you soaking instantly. "oh fuckin' hell, squeezin' me so damn tight," he groans, rutting his hips to stir deeper and coax more out of you. his palm rubs in circles, pressing down harder to exaggerate the swell, to force your pussy to clench around him while the wet gush continues to splatter down his pelvis.
delirious from the fullness and the overstimulation, you begin babbling nonsensically. with your pussy squeezing him so hard your walls spasm around the fat length of him, he's not sure how much more he can take. "mngh. loosen up, girl. y'chokin' m'cock." he pants, trying to get you to relax by pressing your belly up more, thumb stroking over the bulge of his cock inside you.
he thrusts once, grinding the head against your cervix. "listen to that," he mutters. "squirting 'round me like a proper whore."
"'s too big! i can't take any more!" you wail. "you're gonna break me, please, i c-can't-"
he drags his hips back slowly, thick cockhead catching at your hole, then slams back in in one brutal stroke.
he stays still for a long moment, letting your belly rise and fall rapidly under his palm as you quiver. he's memorizing the way your insides clench and pulse around him to adjust to his size.
then, finally, he moves - every shift of his hips pushing his length inside you deeper and scraping against the swollen walls of your pussy. the first push of his hips rattles you entirely. you feel so stretched that you can hardly function. you squeeze around him, wailing. every convulsion of your walls pulls him impossibly deeper. his palm presses harder against your stomach, forcing you to feel exactly how full you are.
the burn of his cock dragging through your walls is overwhelming, the stretch so raw you can't even control the way your nails tear at the sheets. "c-can't-" your voice comes out weak because your throat is raw from crying, but his response is nothing more than a low, guttural groan. the sound of your desperation feeds him. he doesn't slow down. instead, he drags back until only the swollen head is keeping you stretched open, then rams in again, hips slamming flush against your ass with enough force to make the mattress creak.
your body jolts forward with every thrust, your cheek grinding against the now-damp pillow since your hot tears have been smearing into the fabric. the initial discomfort of being stretched out blooms into an aching pulse that makes your body feel blissful even when your mind screams at you to resist. simon rewards every involuntary move of your hips with a rough thrust.
sliding lower, his hand leaves your stomach. you think for one moment he might ease up, but he doesn't. thick fingers pinch your clit, rolling it between calloused pads with the same rough impatience as before; he can't decide if he wants to torture you or rip an orgasm from you by force. the double assault makes your hips buck wildly, your cries pitching higher as you try to twist away, but his cock is already locking you in place, stretching you wide around him.
"ah, shit - hear that? sloppy cunt can't get enough of me stuffin' it." he says, voice gravelly, more a growl than words. his fist grabs at your hair, yanking your head back enough for your body to arch. "look at you, cryin' and leakin', but still pushin' back for more." you can't keep your voice down, your pleas splintering apart until they sound like nonsense. it doesn't matter, because he's not listening. his cock batters at your insides, thick shaft dragging mercilessly against every sensitive place inside you, each thrust driving your body closer to a place you don't want to go again.
he changes his angle suddenly in one rough adjustment of his grip on your hip, shoving your ass higher and your thighs wider. the new position drags him deeper still, scraping along parts of you untouched until now.
"tha's it," he grits out, breath harsh in your ear. "body knows what it wants. no need f'you to keep pretendin' not to be a cockwhore." his words make your stomach twist, embarrassment clashing with the unbearable fullness until you can't tell which hurts more. as your stomach turns at the shame of finding pleasure in this despite your lack of consent and the fact that you're simon's, one of his big hands slides down again, a finger prodding at your other hole. the first push of his fingertip has your body jolting violently, a strangled scream muffled against the sheets while his finger forces its way into your ass.
his finger twists. the stretch makes your whole body seize. you're crying in earnest as he works his finger, curling, fucking your ass in time with the brutal rhythm of his cock splitting your pussy open.
your body can't keep up with the assault, cock pounding your cunt, finger stretching your ass, thumb still rolling your swollen clit whenever he wants to hear you shriek louder, which you do. he takes out his finger to slip a second inside harder, all while his cock continuously bullies your soft insides as they squish around his cock.
he takes his fingers out from inside you again to smear your leaking juices with his hand; up your backside, getting it wet by dragging it over your hole before stuffing in a third finger. your whole body lurches forward, choking on your own breath as he works you open there too. "p-please, please, not another, I'm begging! please, not there, it hurts!"
"quit your fuckin' whining." his thrusts turn brutal, each one snapping your body forward against the sheets. you're unable to keep track of what part of you is hurting and what part of you is melting from the way he won't stop. he takes his hand off your clit out of nowhere just to grip your jaw from behind, dragging your face up until your mouth is open for him to lean down over you, hot breath spilling onto your cheek as he snarls into your ear. "open up. stick y'tongue out, too."
you let out a weak cry. "p-please… i will if you take your fingers out of my a-!" he shuts you up with closing his mouth around yours, his tongue tangling with yours messily. his saliva and yours mix each time he swirls his tongue around yours, slurping and sucking on you while he ruts into you with no rhythm, cock battering your cervix until your stomach is tight and bulging where he's dragging you open.
you moan into his mouth without meaning to, muffled cries swallowed by him. as you're forced to kiss your captor, you think of simon - sweet, careful simon, who never kisses you like this, who never shoves his tongue down your throat. you try to pull back to get a breath, but his grip on your jaw is iron, tilting your face until you have no choice but to meet him.
remembering simon makes your belly twist worse, makes you sob into his mouth because you feel an insurmountable amount of guilt. it's like you're betraying him, but your body doesn't care.
he bites your lip and pulls back, spit stringing between your mouths. "aw, hear that?" he mutters, nosing at your cheek and then licking a broad stripe over the skin to taste your tears. mocking them. "messin' yourself for me like a bitch in heat. bet your boyfriend's never pulled it outta you like this."
he pounds inside harder, upward, and you cum messily around him with both holes clenching around him tight, slick soaking your thighs and his cock to make every thrust wetter, louder, nastier.
your body jerks violently as he continues stretching you open while his cock thrusts incessantly into you. he keeps your jaw trapped in his hand, not letting you hide. his gaze is locked on every expression break across you; the roll of your eyes backwards, you biting hard on your lip to stifle moans, the way your lashes flutter when he hits too deep.
regardless, he keeps dragging you back every time you start to collapse forward, holding you suspended on the thick stretch of his cock like you're nothing but a sleeve for him to use.
your body's given up. you're cockdrunk to the point that all you can do is squeal brokenly as he forces you back down, rutting into you like he wants to hollow you out and keep you stuffed forever. he hitches your hips higher by banding his arm round your thighs, now curling and pumping his fingers in your hole while holding you suspended while he rams up into you. helplessly, you dangle there while he uses your body to chase his own release. "gonna cream this lil pussy full," he drives in harder, harder, rutting with a desperation that's more animal than human. "gonna knock y'up, make y'carry me in ya every fuckin' day after this. that what y'want? huh?" he jerks you back harder.
your insides clench and gush again, helpless, the thought making your head spin. another orgasm tears through you before you can even answer. the sound you make is raw and embarrassing, high and broken, as your cunt milks around him.
his hands squeeze bruises into your hips as he holds you open, keeps you stuffed full. "y'hear that? y'cum when i tell you m'gonna breed you. thas' what your body fuckin' wants." he says, then shoves deeper. he keeps your ass arched, fists in your flesh like handles, slamming you back to meet his thrusts until you're nothing but a wet hole clinging around him.
"not done," he snarls, yanking himself free with a gush of slick. then he hauls you up, flips you onto your back, and drives in again, pinning you under his weight. you squeal at the sudden manhandling as he flips you and drives back in, fucking you on your back. he holds your thighs up against your chest, forcing you to stare at his face even through your blurry tear-filled vision. "look at me. I want you to remember."
your mouth falls open as he forces your face toward his, and his mouth slots against yours messily, wet tongue tangling with yours as you moan into him, dizzy and humiliated and so far gone you can't stop yourself.
"you're gonna remember who did this," he mutters hot against your lips between kisses, "every time you're out late all on your own. every time this pussy gets all slick. every time your little boyfriend tries to touch you, you're gonna feel me instead. me. right here." he says curving his cock to hit the deepest parts inside of you repeatedly.
the last few thrusts are deep, punishing, until his body locks hard against yours and he grunts through his teeth, cock pushing up deep inside you. hot, heavy spurts flood you so much you feel it spilling instantly, leaking down your ass, but he keeps pumping it in, dragging you down tight onto him, refusing to pull out. cum leaks out with every slam, spilling down onto the bed, and he groans, angling his hips to push it deeper, to force more of him into you until you're stuffed past the brink.
he locks you there, cock swelling and throbbing while he pours another hot load into your womb, fucking it into you so none goes to waste.
cw. brat taming (barely), tummy bulges, clark talks you through it, semi-voyeurism, unprotected sex, doggy, gentle dom! clark, size difference, pull out method, 18+ content ahead. adults only.
synopsis. clark kent just wants to give his boss a gift for her birthday. she brushes him off as always. he's had enough.
kinktober | dc masterlist | navigation | masterlist
clark kent never thought he'd be the guy to take orders laying down, but here he is, working for you, someone adjacent to a tyrant. with how bitter you are, he suspects you must've grown up without love or attention, because here you are now, taking it out on the people around you with no hesitation. you hold yourself above everyone to the point where it feels like the workplace isn’t a democracy. everyone must fall at your feet, or risk demotion. or worse.
anyway, clark is a very patient and kind person. sees the best in everyone, looks for reasons why you act the way you do, rather than talking unfavourably about you with the rest of his colleagues. when he finds out, much to your chagrin, that your birthday was coming up and no one’d noticed, he decided to take it in to his own hands and went out to buy you cute things.
a dress that he knew would look nice on you, a stuffed animal, and flowers.
he decides to drop it off with you privately to not make a scene. he’d hate to embarrass you, and he didn’t do it to seem like a good guy in front of everyone else. it was all about you. so during lunch, while everyone was out, he came into your office after knocking. his hair’s falling over his forehead, glasses slipping down his nose, that soft smile spreading on his face when your eyes flicker from the flowers to the bear and back.
“i uh…” he clears his throat, shifting on the spot. “happy birthday. i thought you might like these.”
you look up at him from your spot at your desk, then shift your gaze to the gifts - your gifts - that he’s holding under his arm. he can’t be serious, can he? how did he even find out? with how close you keep your cards to your chest, you figure he must have done research about you behind your back.
“kent, i don’t know who told you it was my birthday, but i don’t accept gifts from employees. especially not stuffed animals. i’m not a child, in case you haven’t noticed.” truly, you love stuffed animals. but you’d sooner swallow printer ink than disclose that to him.
though your tone is harsh, clark doesn’t flinch. he just blinks at you, steady. calm in a way that’s infuriating.
“it’s just me. nobody else knows.” his voice stays so soft it makes your skin prickle. “i just wanted you to have something nice today.”
the teddy bear’s button eyes are aimed at you. it would be easier if he looked hurt or embarrassed, but he just looks… patient. he expected the snap, but it doesn’t change anything for him. he’s used to you by now.
clark’s tuned in to your every reaction. his senses pick up everything, from your shallow breath, to the tightness in your voice, to the way your perfume is overlaid by a certain restlessness that clings to you no matter how polished you look. he doesn’t mean to be so hyper focused on you, but he can’t help it. he’s watched you long enough to know exactly what the tenseness in your body means.
he sets the bouquet down carefully on your desk, placing the teddy bear beside it. “you don’t have to like them,” he says quietly. “i wanted you to know somebody cares.”
you snap again. “and that’s not your job, kent. your job is to get copy in before deadline.”
he doesn’t leave, or argue. he knows its pointless with you, because once you've got something set in your mind, it's nearly impossible to budge you. unless... you're persuaded well enough. clark stays where he is, watching you with those steady blue eyes. he tilts his head slightly. “you seem… tense, boss.” he says, carefully. “i know i don’t have the right to say that. but...i notice.”
the words hit home for you because you know they're true, you just don't know how he knows. you take pride in the fact that you're very difficult to read, and yet here he stands, your subordinate, telling you you're worked up. you glare up at him, unable to discern that he can smell the frustration and pheromones radiating off you. you decide to play clueless. “you’re observant. congratulations.”
he takes a step closer. one slow, deliberate step, and suddenly the office feels smaller. it's not exactly crowding, because he's far too gentle and considerate of you to do such a thing, but his presence is imposing. with the striking size difference between the two of you, he's looming over you regardless of if he intends to or not. “can I help?” he asks softly.
your lips part, your face screwing up in sheer disbelief at the bold ask. “excuse me?” the sincerity and eagerness to please you is obvious on his face, and it's honestly worse than if he'd been teasing you. you loathe pity. "i don't mean to overstep," he continues, leaning a little closer to test the waters, "it's just, you do everything for everyone else, you're working all the time... it feels like no one's looking after you.
clark gently touches your shoulder, and you flinch. he can feel the way your pulse and heart rate increase drastically and how you're growing more flustered. “i’d like to. if you’d let me.” by now, you should've screamed at him and thrown him out, but his eyes are locked on yours intently, and he's tracing your skin under his fingertips, distracting you from coming to your senses. you know he knows exactly how wound up you are, how much of it isn’t anger at all.
you scoff, push back in your chair. “i don’t need taking care of, kent. least of all by you.” when you stand and try to brush past him, his hand closes around your wrist gently. "let go, now." you hiss up at him, in awe of his boldness. is he not afraid of you? why is he not intimidated by you? you could destroy him, his career, his-
“no. not until you stop pretending you don’t want this.”
your hesitation and the movement of your thighs pressing together is all the confirmation he needs.
clark turns you, presses you down against your own desk in one easy, devastating motion. you're bent over embarassingly, pencil skirt riding up over your thighs to reveal a strip of pretty blue lace. hm, unexpected, clark thinks.
papers scatter onto the floor. “kent, if you don’t-!” your words die when his hips press against your ass and you feel the sheer, impossible size of him straining against his slacks. your knees almost buckle. “clark,” you say desperate to keep your footing. he's too focused on how you've said his first name. he can count how many times you've done that on about three fingers. “don’t you dare-”
he’s already pulling your skirt up, pushing the fine material to your waist as his big hands splay across your hips. he leans forward to press fully against you, muttering filth in your ear. “you’ve been wound so tight, boss. i need to help you relax.” you nudge your ass back against him in an attempt to get some control of the angle, but his palm pushes at your shoulder blades and forbids you. "not this time. my turn to be in charge."
his breath is warm against your ear, voice disturbingly soft in contrast to the iron way he holds you bent over the desk. you try to turn your head and spit some insult back at him, but then you feel him fumbling his fly open behind you, the sound of a zipper dragging down, and every nerve in your body seizes up.
clark tugs your panties aside with thick fingers, the lace stretching against your skin as he exposes your puffy cunt to the cool air. you're mortified at how wet you are already and how easily his thumb can slide up and down your seam before he lines himself up. "it's slippery," he hums. "your body's more honest than you are, boss."
then the fat head of his cock is nudging at your entrance, barely breaching, and your retort breaks off into a shaky gasp. clark doesn’t push in all the way, simply grinding the tip forward to press into you, then slip out again and leave your walls clutching at nothing. more slick oozes out of you. “clark.” you plead.
“mm?” his hand strokes over your ass soothingly, though he doesn’t stop rutting his cockhead against your soaked little hole. in, out, just enough to pop past your entrance before retreating again, juices gathering on his shaft. “too much?” he murmurs.
you fist your hands against the desk, panting hard. it’s been too long since anyone’s touched you, and he knows it. he’s figured it out somehow, the bastard. you can feel it in the way he handles you, all gentle but immovable, patient but not merciful.
“don’t… don’t tease me,” you manage. he answers you by nudging it inside again, his chuckle is low, warm against your spine as he leans over you. “tease you? 'm trying to make it fit. you’re so tight, i can barely get the tip in.” his tip drags slowly through your resistance and stretches you before sliding free.
he ruts in again, deeper this time, just past the crown, and holds there, thick shaft throbbing as your walls clench desperately around him. you feel like you might tear in half, even though you're so wet that you're dripping onto his cock, long, slimy strings connected to where your pussy and his swollen tip meet.
clark’s free hand finds yours where it’s clenched into the desk. he peels your fingers open gently, threads his much larger hand through yours and pins it down, grounding you even as he rocks his hips in shallow thrusts. “i’ll get you used to me, kay?” he whispers. “gonna stretch you out nice and slow so it's not this difficult next time i'm inside you.”
next time.
next time.
your brain fogs up.
he ruts again, slip, stretch...and every drag of his tip makes you arch and push back in spite of yourself, desperate for more. his cock is the opposite of gentle like him, fat, swollen, too big for your body no matter how slow he goes.
he eases the head in first, the same way he’s been doing for what feels like hours, letting your hole stretch wide around him, but this time, he doesn’t pull out. he groans a little too loudly for someone who's fucking his boss on the clock, but he can’t hold it back anymore. he starts to inch forward, deeper, deeper, until you’re squealing into the desk.
“shhh,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades even as you writhe. “i know, i know, sweetie. breathe, please. i'm gonna get allll of me in you."
the veins ridging along his shaft drag against your walls with every careful inch he pushes inside. he's pulsing hotly into your puffy walls, stimulating places that haven’t been touched in forever. your nails claw at the desk. “clark, mmh, clark, it’s too-!”
“shh” he interrupts gently, his hips rocking forward another inch, stretching you wider, wider, the fat base of his cock pressing mercilessly against your cunt lips. he's nearly bottomed out by now. “it's not too much. see? you're taking so much already.”
you wail when he shifts his angle just slightly, because the curve of him bends forward just enough to hit something unbearably deep, a soft, spongy spot that makes your vision blur. he groans against your ear. “feel that? right here. right here, boss.” his hips nudge again, the curve of his cock stroking deliberate circles against that sensitive patch inside you, and you sob against your desk, the sound humiliatingly high-pitched.
the deeper he goes, the more you feel like you’re being split open, your body forced to mold his cock, which swells thicker the further in he goes. by the time his heavy length fills you fully, the head is pressing so deep against your womb you swear he’s rearranging something inside you.
he just holds there, hips flush with your ass while his cock is pulsing in your cunt. “see?” he pants, “i told you i’d fit. took it all like a good girl." his hips flex and the thick curve grinds into that spongy spot again, wringing a choked squeal from your throat.
you thrash, trying to deny it, but the words fall apart. “it’s ngh, f-fuck, it’s too- clark, it’s too much."
his palm strokes down your trembling belly, cupping low where the shape of him bulges up against your insides, pressing outward. he groans when he feels it. “aw, look at that. you can feel me here, can’t you?” he presses up firmly on your tummy bulge, making you cry out when the fat length inside you shifts and grinds deeper against your sweet spot.
clark doesn’t give you a chance to catch your breath. once he’s got every fat inch seated deep inside you, he finds that rhythm that makes you go limp against the desk. not too fast; he’s not jackhammering you into the wood, but not slow either. a steady, perfect pace, deep thrusts that pull little noises from your throat you can’t swallow down.
his cock slides out until only the swollen head remains, then sinks back in to the hilt, veins dragging against your slippery walls, the curve of him finding that spongy spot with every stroke. “gosh, you feel so good.”
you’re clinging to the edge of your desk like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality, eyes wet, mouth open and useless. the sharp click of your heels against the floor matches the rhythm of his thrusts. he keeps his chest pressed to your back, murmuring right into your ear. “mnh- knew you just needed someone to take care of you. my poor boss-" he punctuates his word with a deep shove of his cock in you. "-all alone on her birthday. nobody noticing. nobody giving her what she needs.”
he bites down on your neck, then presses hot, open mouthed kisses against the sweat-slicked flesh. he moans as your cunt flutters helplessly around him. “but i noticed. i always notice you.”
he presses up against your belly, right where you bulge with the fat shape of him, and he uses the leverage to lift you slightly, pulling you higher onto his cock. The angle changes so he's pushing in even deeper. you nearly scream, having to bite down on the stupid teddy bear he bought you so you don't alert anyone who's still in the office. he keeps squishing your tummy, pushing the outline of himself inside you. “i know, baby, it’s so much. all that attitude, and now you’re just a little sweetheart with me stuffing you.”
you know he's fucked you stupid, as you've gone from hurling insults and dismissals at him to sobbing and moaning like you're in heat. he's close; every squeeze of your walls has his thrusts stuttering. you’re so wet and tight he can barely keep the steady rhythm. his hand presses harder into your stomach, grinding you against the desk as he forces his cock as deep as possible.
he moans, voice breaking with strain, “you gonna let go for me? you gonna soak me for your birthday?”
the little patronizing tone in his voice is what tips you over the edge. your whole body convulses, thighs quaking as your cunt clamps down violently around him. you gush hard, an embarrassing flood that spills all over his cock, soaking his slacks where they hang half-open. your pussy milks him, and you can feel the way his fat length is suddenly slippery with your release.
his hips jerk and stutter, as his cock is squeezed tightly. he can see it: your slick walls sucking after him, clamping down with such force that it feels like your cunt doesn’t want to let him go. a creamy ring circles the base of his cock, thick and wet from the way you’ve coated him inside. “haa- goodness,” he pants, watching himself disappear into you again.
when he tries to pull out, your walls keep clinging to him greedily, sucking him back in like your pussy's begging to be filled. he nearly finishes on the spot, his cock throbbing violently, heavy with the load that wants to be spilled in masses into you. his instincts scream to finish inside you, to plug you full. but if he came now, there'd be a risk that he’d knock you up on your own desk.
with a grunt, clark drags himself out at the last second, your walls suctioning at him, fighting to keep him buried. he nearly shoves back in to finish where he started, but manages to pull free, yank your skirt higher, and bare the soft curve of your ass.
“oh g-geez, 'm cumming!” his cock jerks violently in his fist as he strokes once, twice, then spills in hot, thick ropes across your ass and thighs. creamy spurts paint your skin, hot and sticky, dripping down the crease of your cheeks and slipping down the blue lace he’d pushed aside. he groans with every pulse of his cock, emptying load after load on you. it's so much that it gathers at the swell of your ass and trickles down the backs of your legs.
clark braces himself over you while panting and watching his cum streak and drip across your body. his big hand settles on your back, smoothing you down gently as you twitch against the desk, still leaking slick down your thighs.
Summary: Obi-wan x jedi master reader / oho wan joins your class of Force projection / no warnings this is just pure fluff and teacher appreciation <3
Words: 1k
Writer’s note: Billie’s verse in guess makes me go feral so i wrote this lols<3
“Good morning, young apprentices” you started as soon as you walked through the classroom. “Can someone please remind the rest of us what we learned last time?”
The eight year olds looked at each other in silence until one raised a hand. “To find our Force signature”
“Yes” you smiled fondly, “and how have you been doing? Have you mastered it?”
“Yes!” They answered in unison.
“Well then… today we will work in bins so, grab a friend.”
The kids’ faces brightened as they turned to their chosen partner, all the while you saw a familiar face walking into the room.
“We seem to have a visitor today” you said with a smirk.
The students turned to the door and bowed, as he made his way into the class. You did as well.
“General Kenobi, what brings you around?”
His eyes lightened and a mischievous grin appeared on his lips. “Same as this padawans, master: learning.”
You faced down to hide your smile, “Please join me, General.” You signaled at the spot next to you in front of the class.
Obi-wan obliged with a nod.
“Now that we have mastered our Force Signatures, we can start projecting on other people, but most importantly, to other Force users.” You started walking around the room, explaining.
Obi-wan’s eyes trailed you as you do.
“Every one of you will write their name and a color next to it” you placed your data pad on one of the kid’s hands. “I’ll explain later.”
“You can reach another person’s mind through the Force. You can have thoughts as if they were your own, see through their eyes, feel through their skin and so on.”
“Like at all times?” One kid asked.
“Powerful Force users can, but Jedi only do it with the other’s consent.” Your voice was firmer, “now, make sure the person you will work this exercise consents to you being in their mind.” Grabbing the data pad again, you examined the list of names and colors.
“Do I have your consent General Kenobi?” You asked him quietly, a step away from him. Your eyes still fixed on the data pad.
“Of course, my dear.” His warm voice wrapped in your ears.
“Good” you turned to your students, beginning to walk between them “Please stand in front of each other. Feel the Force flow through you. Identify your signature and let it take you over; your arms, your legs, your head and chest. Let it flow freely through you. When you are ready, let it reach the person in front of you. Let your signature curl around them, nuzzle them. Do it kindly, do not crash into them. You are a guest, behave like one. And likewise, allow your partner to enter your mind. Now, focus on what they are looking at. Look at yourselves through their eyes; make yourselves comfortable through the bond and then, find their color.” You finished with a smirk, returning to the front with Obi-wan.
His eyes shone with pride and enthusiasm.
One by one, the children in your class said their partner's color as you checked your notes. They all got it right.
“And can you see everything?” One of them asked.
You exhaled before answering, “If the person whose mind you are looking into does not have barriers, then yes. But us, as Force users, should always have them.”
“A more powerful jedi can look into my mind without my permission?” A little girl asked.
“Ah” you smile, “bold of you to assume Jedi are the only Force users in the galaxy. But answering your question, yes. Other Force users can and will fish through your minds to look for the information they want. That’s why you must prepare, to protect yourselves from more powerful users.”
“So, General Kenobi can look into your mind?” Another kid questioned you.
You were about to answer when Obi-wan started. “Make no mistake, young ones, a teacher is much more powerful than a soldier.”
“He can try,” you teased. “But I can try as well.” You walked back to the front of the room. “Would you like us to?” You asked the group with a grin.
The children erupted in excited cheers.
“What would you like to know about General Kenobi?” You asked your students.
“His favorite color!”
“Favorite drink!”
You stood in front of Obi-wan rolling our shoulders to relax as your signature brushed his. He didn’t even try to pull a barrier, he let you in without any opposition.
“Blue and Jawa Juice” you declared as fact.
He merely nods. “Now, what would you like to know about your teacher?” Obi-wan asked the crowd with a grin.
“Favorite student!”
“If she has a boyfriend!”
A scoff left Obi-wan’s mouth. “She does not have a favorite student” He took a step closer to you, “and Jedi do not have boyfriends.”
The groan was general.
“Thank you, General Kenobi. Do we have any other questions?”
A child raised her hand, “So if any other Force user can look into our heads, does that mean they can see anything?”
You nodded, “yes, that’s why we must protect ourselves.”
“Even the embarassing stuff?”
“yes”
“So if I remember I got dressed in the morning, can they see that too?” She asked, horrified. “Like even your underwear?”
You laughed, “well we should have it on our mind then but yeah, I guess so.”
“Can General Kenobi tell us if he can do it?”
You turned to him, eyebrows raised in a challenge. The corners of his lips quivered upwards, but before he could answer you started. “General Kenobi will do no such thing because one: he is too much of a gentleman to do so. And two: we as Jedi do not intrude into other minds and look for information that does not belong to us. Remember that and see you tomorrow.”
The kids walked out giggling, excited with their new knowledge.
“Blue lace?” Obi-wan whispered in your ear.
With a flick of your wrist you closed the door of the classroom, granting you privacy.
“That’s not fair, now is it?” You turned to him with a blush growing on your cheeks.
His eyes are embedded into yours, his pupils blown and wide looking at you. “How so?”
“Because you saw me get dressed this morning, General.” You murmured against his lips before finally locking the kiss and wrapping your arms around his neck.
Being trucker!Clark’s passenger princess means sitting pretty in the passenger seat with the window cracked, country radio humming low, and his old, worn-out leather wallet tucked into your hands. Inside, wedged behind receipts and a faded license, there’s a little Polaroid of you in that bunny costume from last Halloween. He hands you a few bills, tells you to grab “road snacks,” and watches fondly as you wander into the gas station, his whole world tucked into a truck stop convenience store.
Every stop is an excuse to wander. The little trinkets, keychains, lighters, shiny belt buckles, and ball caps catch your eye every time, even though you promise him you’ll just grab chips. By now, Clark’s dashboard is covered in your collection, a mismatched shrine of stickers, bobbleheads, and neon sunglasses. He pretends to grumble about the clutter, but you’ve caught him smiling at it more than once.
“Feet down, sweetheart.” He lightly swats at your bare legs when you prop them up on the dashboard, too protective for his own good. His voice softens as he adds, “A crash could send that airbag right through you. Wouldn’t know what to do if my girl got hurt.” You pout but drop your feet instantly, because you know his worry isn’t pretend.
Stretch breaks turn into cardio. Whenever you stop at a quiet truck station to stretch, Clark gets “a little carried away.” One minute, you’re leaning against the truck door, arms over your head, the next his big hands are on your hips, bending you over the bed of his rig. He smirks against your ear, growling something about how it’s “a good workout after hours on the road… cardio, y’know.” His idea of cardio leaves your legs trembling long after you’re back in the passenger seat.
His oversized flannels are your uniform. You tell him it’s because they’re warm, soft, and smell like cedar and tobacco. The truth? You just like how his eyes darken every time you pad around the motel room with nothing but his plaid hanging off your shoulders. He never says no when you borrow one, though, especially because he knows what it does to him.
Stopping at diners like locals. From greasy spoons with checkered floors to quiet mom-and-pop joints tucked off backroads, Clark makes sure you’re fed right. He sits across from you in cracked leather booths, knuckles brushing yours over coffee cups, insisting you get dessert because “pie’s the only reason to eat here anyway.”
Hotel nights are sacred. On the rare occasions he springs for a motel or a nicer roadside hotel, it’s not just about sleep. You curl up in his arms, flipping through channels while room service trays pile up. Burgers, fries, sundaes, maybe champagne if Clark’s feeling fancy, he feeds you bites between kisses, his laugh low and easy as you make a mess of the sheets.
"Don't flirt with me, Clark Kent," you warn, though it doesn't come out like a warning so much as a desperate plea.
You’re a little tipsy on your mom’s Riesling and hiding from a house full of family. He’s the boy next door who smells like safety and saves the world in his spare time. You've been in love with him your whole life, and tonight, with the New Year about to dawn, you get the feeling he might just feel the same way. | friends to lovers, fluff, 2.3k words
︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶
Your mom is wine-drunk in the Kent's kitchen, laughing too loud at something Martha said about the Hendersons' new tractor. Your dad and Jonathan are in the living room with Clark's cousin Pete and his wife, arguing about whether that touchdown in the fourth quarter counted. Someone—probably your aunt Linda—put on music that hasn't been popular since 1987.
It's 11:43, and you're sitting on the stairs like you're fifteen again, except Clark's not next to you anymore. He's by the fireplace, letting Pete's four-year-old daughter hang off his arm like it's a jungle gym, lifting her up and down while she shrieks with delight.
"Again, Uncle Clark! Again!"
He's not her uncle, not really, but all the kids call him that. He's just Clark to everyone here, the Kent boy who made good in the big city, who comes home for holidays and helps with harvest and never mentions that he spent last week preventing an alien invasion.
You know, though. You've always known.
The wine makes you too warm—your mom's heavy hand with the Riesling, Martha's insistence that "it's New Year's, honey, live a little." One glass. Maybe two. Enough that standing up feels like a bigger decision than it should be, at first.
"Where you going?" Your cousin Jade appears at the bottom of the stairs, beer in hand. She's almost a decade older than you, always treated you more like a little sister than a cousin. She's also pretty much president of the 'Clark Kent Is Your Soulmate and I Will Die on This Hill' club. "Don't tell me you're bailing before midnight."
"Nah, just—just need some air," you tell her.
"It's freezing out there."
"I need to make a call," you lie.
You've spent years perfecting the art of deflecting questions from family members. It comes in handy when your best friend is Superman. Jade rolls her eyes but waves you on, disappearing into the kitchen.
You catch Clark glancing over as you pass, but Pete's daughter is now demanding he 'make her fly like Superman' (the irony isn't lost on you), and you slip outside without a scene.
Outside is better. Quieter. The Kents' front porch looks exactly like it did when you were five, when you were fifteen. Three months ago, when you were crying with your mom and Martha because your then boyfriend Aaron had just proposed and you'd said no and couldn't explain why.
You sit on the porch swing, the one that creaks on the left side. Clark fixed it at least three times in high school, but it always goes back to creaking.
You enjoy maybe five minutes of quiet before the front door makes its old-house creaking sound.
"It's too cold for you out here."
His voice makes you jump a little. You turn, see him closing the door behind him with that careful way he has, like everything in the world might break if he's not gentle enough, and not for the first time you're overwhelmed with the sudden, stupid urge to just tell him.
You're drunk. Not blackout drunk, but the kind of drunk where the words come slow and the feelings come too fast, all at once. "Then come keep me warm."
It comes out softer than you meant, more honest than you meant, and you watch Clark's face do that thing where he pretends not to notice you've said something that matters. He crosses the porch in two steps, shrugs out of his red flannel—the one Martha bought him a few Christmases ago that he only wears home—and drapes it around your shoulders.
The flannel smells like Clark, which is to say it smells like safety and warmth and all the best things in life. Things you used to dream of having, back when you let yourself dream about that kind of thing. It's obviously big on you, sleeves hanging way, way past your hands.
"I think you're drunk," he says. Not an accusation so much as an observation, and he's not completely wrong. Clark has seen you really drunk plenty of times. He's seen you wasted and vomiting into Mrs. Johnson's prize roses. He's seen you wake up hungover, heartbroken, and all the other messy parts that only best friends ever get to see, the parts most boys only know from a comfortable distance.
You tuck your legs under yourself on the porch swing, making room for him. "Just tipsy."
"Uh-huh." He sits down but leaves a careful gap between you. You think he's measuring the exact amount of space that keeps this safe. The swing creaks its familiar complaint. "You know Aaron left three messages on my phone?"
"What?"
"Wanted to know if I could 'talk sense into you.'" Clark's mouth twists like he doesn't know whether to be annoyed or amused. "Said you'd listen to me."
The night rushes back at you, the one you don't really want to remember—Aaron down on one knee in the cornfields, his grandmother's engagement ring in the cold moonlight, your hands shaking when you told him you couldn't marry him, you were sorry but you couldn't. He'd kept asking why, and it was a question with an answer that was too big for any words you had to offer at that moment.
"Oh my God," you say now. You lean back against the swing, head falling over the top edge in pure, drunken melodrama, nervous giggle slipping through your teeth. "That's ridiculous."
Clark leans back with you. You can't see his face, not properly from this angle, but he sounds like he's smiling. "What, I'm not a reliable enough male authority figure for you?"
"I love how he thinks you can talk sense into me."
"Right? I've been saying that since we were kids. I mean, when have you ever listened to me?"
A little braver, you turn your head to the side, and there's Clark's profile in moonlight (you think there should be a law against people being so handsome) as he stares up at the winter stars.
You can't remember when exactly it was that you started noticing things about Clark that a best friend probably shouldn't notice. Like the exact angle of his nose, and the precise dimples at the corner of his mouth when he smiles. It's been getting worse lately, adulthood bringing with it a whole host of new, confusing observations you can't seem to shake of with none of the innocence and invulnerability of adolescence.
He must feel you watching him, because his head turns to meet yours. "You okay?"
There's a lot to answer to in that question. You know he means Aaron, the breakup, but the wine makes your think of all the other things he could be asking without actually asking, things you don't talk about but you both know are there, hanging in the air between you like cobwebs.
You look up at the stars again. Stars are safe. "Yeah. I am."
You hear rather than see Clark's slow nod. The creaking of the swing fills the silence for a bit.
"He was a nice guy," he says.
"He was a nice guy," you agree.
"But not the right guy?"
You don't say anything. That's a dangerous line of conversation to follow when you're drunk (or maybe not drunk, but...tipsy, worse when Clark's warmth is around you, Clark's scent in your lungs.)
You can't help the joke, though. "You're supposed to say he wasn't good enough for me. What kind of best friend are you?"
"A realistic one," Clark laughs. Then, he hesitates. "He wasn't... he's not..."
Your mouth quirks at his reluctance to say anything bad. About anyone. Ever. "Not what?"
"Nothing." You watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows hard. Must everything he does be so attractive? "Forget it."
"C'mon. If you're gonna start an insult, at least finish it."
His jaw tightens. Then his tongue flicks over his bottom lip, and you think—no, it could be the wine, or the moonlight, or the way you haven't kissed anyone since Aaron, but you're pretty sure Clark is staring at your mouth right now, too.
You feel very suddenly hot under the flannel.
"How's...how's Lois?" You blurt it out. It's a clumsy, desperate attempt to derail a moment that maybe, probably, doesn't even exist anywhere outside of your head, but if you don't do it, you'll explode, turn into little pieces of dust right here on the Kent's porch.
That brings his gaze back up to yours. "What?"
"Lois." Your tongue doesn't feel like it's your own. "Lane?" Your hand gestures with the too-long flannel sleeves don't really help.
You remember her from Clark's phone screen, calling him on that Sunday you stopped by his apartment, from the many stories he's told you of his time at the Daily Planet, from his own mouth. 'She's a force of nature' and 'she's so brilliant' and 'I told her everything because she would've found out anyway.' Every story, every anecdote. Lois Lane was a recurring character.
Clark is looking at you like he can't quite believe what you're asking. "Why?"
"Why?" you echo.
"Why are you bringing up Lois?"
"Why are you answering my question with another question?"
"Yeah, how dare I," he deadpans. There's a strange kind of stillness to him now; he studies you for a long, silent second, like he's searching for the words you can't bring yourself to say. Then, the revelation: "Gosh. You're jealous."
You choke a laugh. "What? No."
He's wearing that infuriating, endearing, boyish grin that makes his blue eyes crinkle at the corners, has made your insides warm and gooey since you were thirteen and realized that maybe boys weren't, in fact, a waste of time and brainpower after all, if they were anything like this boy.
"That's cute."
Oh, you hate him. "Clark."
"What?"
"I am not jealous."
"Okay." He says it too easily, and you instantly know you're being played somehow. His gaze flicks over your face, and his voice lowers, now a gentle tease. "Just to clarify...Lois is only a friend, now."
Now.
"Good." You hope to God he can't hear the relief in your voice because it sounds deafening to you. "That's great. Good for you. Or not, whatever, I mean, either way–"
You stop talking, because he's staring at you. And not like he did earlier, with some strange guarded distance, but a full-on, all-consuming gaze where his pupils swallow his irises, where he looks like he's about to lean across the whole safe gap on this swing and do something you've only imagined (in guilty, half-hidden fantasies in the dark) for far too long.
"W—what?"
"You done?" He says it like he wants to laugh.
"You're laughing at me."
"A little." He scoots closer to you on the swing then, no pretense, just solid, certain intention that makes your heart thud painfully same way it did when you were sixteen and he'd almost, almost, kissed you that night on the bleachers after homecoming. "Kind of waiting to see where this nervous babbling is going."
"I don't babble," you protest. "You're the one who babbles."
His thumb brushes over a strand of hair next to your face, almost idly, almost accidentally, as though he doesn't mean to be doing it at all but it just kind of happens. All of your barely held together composure flies off the porch.
"Okay," he says again.
Your stomach drops in the best, swooping way. He's definitely, definitely staring at your mouth now.
"Don't flirt with me, Clark Kent," you warn, though it doesn't come out like a warning so much as a desperate, borderline-pleading request, you think.
"Who's flirting?" But he's smiling, and now you're really in trouble, because once Clark starts with those dimples, that's it, it's all over. You're a puddle of feelings on a porch swing, waiting to evaporate. "You're the one who wanted me to keep you warm, remember?"
"Yeah, you're doing a lousy job so far."
His whole hand cups the side of your face. "I'll work on that."
He's leaning in and in, closer and closer, the moment suspended and stretched thin, nose almost brushing yours.
"Five!"
A muffled chorus erupts from inside. You look to the door, then back to Clark, with his blue eyes, his stupid long eyelashes and that lock of black hair that keeps falling onto his forehead.
"Four!"
"Is that the countdown?" You whisper it, words half-breathed, like you'll be caught and sent to separate rooms if anyone finds you two out here. You're no longer kids and haven't been in years, but in moments like these, you can almost taste that innocence again, that untarnished way Clark made you feel safe, like no harm, no bad things could ever come to you as long as you were together.
"Think so," he says.
"Three!"
Clark tilts his head. "Do you wanna..."
"I don't wanna."
"Two!"
"Yeah." His hand slides from your cheek to the back of your head. "Me neither."
"One!"
The cheers erupt, faintly muffled, and the sound is drowned out by your pulse pounding in your ears.
The first kiss is a whisper, a soft brush of lips that doesn't so much end as begin a new one, a firmer one, with your hands fisting in Clark's shirt to pull him closer.
Kissing Clark Kent isn't anything like kissing any other boy. There's no clumsiness, no awkward fumbling for the right place to put a nose, the right way to tilt a jaw. It's all instinct, all surety, your hands framing his face to pull him down deeper. And he just goes. He yields to every whim, every needy tug of his shirt, his hand dropping to your waist and slipping beneath his borrowed jacket to grip your hip with slightly cold fingers and a warm, warm palm.
"Happy New Year," he whispers against your mouth, grinning.
"Happy New Year," you breathe, and then he's pulling you in again. You don't think it's going to be such a bad year, after all.
The thing about loving Clark Kent was that you had to share him with the world. You’d known that going in.
You shared him with the entire planet, who needed Superman. You shared him with the Metropolis and the Daily Planet, who needed their reporter. You’d made peace with it, because the man who came home to you at night, who left his cape at the door, was entirely, completely yours.
Or so you thought.
You never worried about other women. How could you? Your husband was the most kind, loyal, and genuinely oblivious man on the planet. His eyes never strayed; they always found you in a room, lighting up with nothing but pure love.
But somehow you had started to get your doubts. And it was making you crazy.
It started small. With a name you hadn’t heard before—“Stacey” that was tossed casually into conversation like you’d obviously know who that was.
“Stacey brought in donuts for the office,” Clark had said one morning, grabbing his tie. “Maple bacon. I’ll save you one if there are any left.”
“Stacey always writes the cleanest copy. Makes editing so much easier.”
“Stacey says I need better pens. She gave me this one—”
You eventually just started grouping this ‘Stacey’ into the names of all his other coworkers you knew. Lois, Jimmy, Cat, Perry and now, Stacey.
Not a problem at all, just a new coworker friend, you thought.
Clark had believed it too because he was well, just… Clark.
He was kind, he was attentive, and he was hopelessly, endearingly naive to the nuances of office politics and affections. He saw the good in everyone and assumed everyone operated with the same honest heart he did.
So, he didn’t see the lingering touches, or the way Stacey would sometimes steer him by the elbow, the way her eyes lit up when he walked into a room.
He only had eyes for you after all.
But gosh you couldn’t help but see it.
You saw it that one time that you stopped by the Daily Planet to drop off lunch because Clark had forgotten his.
Stacey had practically launched out of her chair to greet you, but you saw the way her hand brushed his sleeve when she stood by Clark like she had some unspoken claim on him.
And worse, you saw how natural it looked.
Not on his end. Clark was just being himself, smiling politely, balancing his lunch bag in one hand, thanking you for bringing it, and then turning and introducing her with his other.
On Stacey’s end however? It looked like she was used to this closeness. Like she thought she had some special part of him reserved for her.
And maybe she did.
The thought festered in you all week, before you had eventually tried to push it out of your mind. Then it happened again.
Clark invited you as his plus one to some charity gala thing he was reporting on. Stacey had been there, and saw the two of you together, but approached to say something just to Clark.
A compliment to his tux, and when she made eye contact with you, Stacey just gave the fakest smile she could muster and walked away.
Okay, rude, you tried to brush it off but the nagging feeling remained.
It was a week later, the first time you’d actually heard the term out loud, and was from no other than Jimmy Olsen.
You, Clark, Jimmy, Lois and Cat were all out for drinks. Clearly, Jimmy had one too many as he kept rambling on about this woman at their job that you’ve never heard of before that wouldn’t leave him alone.
He’d clapped Clark on the back standing up to get another drink before, “At least your work wife knows what she’s doing. Thank god, Perry hired Stacey.”
You froze, head snapping towards Jimmy's already retreating figure.
You didn’t know how to react. On one hand, maybe it was a joke. People said that sometimes. But on the other hand, why would Jimmy say that if it wasn't true? You knew what work wives were and Clark wasn’t the type to engage in that kind of flirtatious office banter.
Was he?
It gnawed at you, quiet at first. You caught yourself replaying the phrase in your head, over and over long after you left the restaurant that night. Work wife. Work wife. Work wife.
If he has a work wife, then what does that make you? A housewife? A backup wife?
The confusion curdled into a quiet, burning insecurity. Was she better than you? More attentive? More interesting? Did she understand the pressures of his job in a way you never could?
The questions gnawed at you, making you feel like you were failing as a wife in some fundamental way you couldn’t even name.
You had even started snapping without meaning to at small things.
A forgotten towel on the bathroom floor. The way Clark chewed. The fact that his phone buzzed late at night with Daily Planet group messages—and you wondered if Stacey was on the other end.
The breaking point finally came on a rainy Tuesday.
Your manager had given you the rest of the day off, since you finished all your tasks for the day and decided to drop by the Daily Planet to say a quick hello to your husband.
You knew that you couldn’t stay long since he had an important meeting to get to that he told you about, but stopping by for a quick kiss and a small pick-me-up coffee couldn’t hurt. So, you showed up at the Daily Planet, a hopeful smile on your face and a warm coffee in hand.
Making your way through the bustle of the office, you found Clark not at his desk, but in the breakroom. And he wasn’t alone.
Stacey was standing close to him, her hand on his tie, laughing as she straightened the knot. “There,” she said, her voice dripping with a sweet tone. “Can’t have you looking anything less than perfect for your meeting.”
Clark beamed down at her. “What would I do without you?”
The words were a physical blow. What would I do without you?
You stood frozen in the doorway, the coffee cup growing damp in your tightening grip. You watched as she patted his chest, her fingers lingering for a moment before she turned to grab her mug and walked away. Clark’s smile was still in place, warm and utterly clueless.
You turned and left before he could see you throwing away the coffee meant for Clark on your way out, your heart hammering a painful rhythm against your ribs. The rain outside matched the storm raging inside you.
By the time Clark came home that night, tie loosened, hair mussed and wet from the rain, you couldn’t keep it in. “Honey, I’m home!” he started as he walked through the door.
But the smile faded the second he saw you. You were sitting on the edge of the couch, still slightly soaked from the rain, your hands clenched in your lap.
“Hey,” he said, his voice softening with immediate concern. He dropped his bag and came to you, kneeling in front of you to take your cold hands in his warm ones. “What's wrong? Did something happen? Why are you sitting here all cold and wet, you’ll catch a cold.”
You pulled your hands away, the gesture small but sharp. It made him flinch.
“I came by the Planet today,” you said, your voice flat, devoid of the emotion that was churning inside you.
His brow furrowed in confusion. “You did? I'm sorry, I must have been in my meeting. I didn't see you.”
“You weren't at your meeting yet,” you corrected him, finally meeting his eyes. “You were in the breakroom. With Stacey.”
The confusion on his face deepened, then cleared into a look of understanding. “Oh! Right, she was helping me with my tie. It got twisted up. You know how I am with these things.”
He offered a small, sheepish smile, completely missing the storm brewing in your gaze.
Clark blinked when you didn’t respond to him, his head tilting slightly. He still didn't get it.
The innocence in his expression was suddenly infuriating.
“She was just being a good friend. Did I- did I do something wrong?”
That’s what set you off.
“Jimmy called her your work wife!” The words exploded out of you, laced with weeks of pent-up insecurity and doubt. "Remember? He said that right in front of me and all your coworkers! And you didn't correct him! You just let him say it! Because it's clearly true.”
To your utter astonishment, Clark laughed. It was a soft, dismissive sound that felt like a slap. “Honey... it's just an expression, right. A silly office joke. It doesn't mean anything.”
“It means something to me!” you shouted, surging to your feet. The tears you'd been holding back finally broke free. “It means something when you say things to her that you’re supposed to say to me! What am I, Clark? Just the housewife? The one you come to when you're done playing reporter with your work wife? Does she get the best parts of your day? Do you tell her things you don't tell me because you ‘don’t know what you’d do without her’?”
He stared up at you from the floor, his face a mask of stunned bewilderment. “How can you say that? How can you think that? You're my wife.”
“Then why does it feel like I have to share that title?” you sobbed, wrapping your arms around yourself. “I saw the way she looked at you. I see the way she touches you. And you... you're so blind to it! You're so... so nice to her!”
Realization, slow and horrifying, finally dawned on his face. The sheer naivety that you usually found endearing now seemed like a betrayal.
“You… you think I…? With Stacey? Honey, no! There is nothing there! I would never—”
“I’m not accusing you of cheating!” you interrupted, your voice cracking. “I’m accusing you of being an idiot! I love you Clark, I really do, but I feel like I’m being replaced by a… a donut-bearing, tie-fixing, work wife!”
“Oh, gosh,” he whispered, his own eyes glistening. He rose to his feet, his movements slow. “Honey, I am so sorry. I am so... stupid. I never... I never saw it like that. I swear to you, I thought it was just... friendship. She's helpful and kind and I—”
“And I'm not?” you choked out, the insecurity laid bare. “Am I not helpful enough? Kind enough? Is that why you need her? Am I failing as a wife?”
The question shattered him.
He crossed the space between you in an instant, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his thumbs wiping away your tears.
“No. No, don't you ever think that. Don't you ever.” His voice was raw, fervent. “You could never fail me. You are everything. You are my heart. The thought that I made you feel like this... that my ignorance hurt you…” His voice broke. “I would never, ever want anyone but you. I thought the ‘work wife’ thing was just a dumb joke from Jimmy. I didn’t… I didn’t know it hurt you. There is just you. Only you."
“Then please don’t let her act like she can have you while you're at work, and don't let your coworkers call her that.” you whispered.
“I won’t,” he said immediately. “I promise. I’ll be more careful a-and I’ll set better boundaries with Stacey. I never want you to feel like second place to anyone. Not ever.”
Finally, you let yourself lean into him, pressing your forehead against his chest. His arms came around you, strong and steady, like they always did, and you let out a shaky breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.
“I just don’t want to lose you,” you admitted, voice small and muffled against his shirt.
Clark kissed the top of your head, holding you tighter. “You won’t. Not in a million years. You’re my wife. My only wife. And nothing or no one will ever change that.”
You stayed like that for a long time, wrapped in the safety of his arms, the steady rhythm of his heart a soothing balm against your ear.
Later, Clark, who was now determined to make it up to you, put on a movie you both loved, pulled you onto the couch, and tucked you under his arm like he always did. He brought you your favorite snacks, kissed your temple, and made silly comments just to get you to smile again.
You didn’t even make it halfway through the film before your attentions began to shift, the air between you thickening with a new, tender intention.
He turned your face towards his, his expression unbearably soft and full of an aching remorse. “Let me show you how much I love you,” he breathed, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through you. “Let me remind you who my heart belongs to.”
The movie was forgotten. He kissed you then with a deep, soul-searching tenderness that felt like an apology and a vow all at once. It was a kiss that sought to erase every doubt, and to overwrite the memory of anyone else’s touch with the certainty of his own.
He led you to the bedroom and made love to you with such a passion and a patience that left you breathless. It was slow, and deep, and emotionally overwhelming, a healing balm on the raw hurt of the past weeks.
Afterward, he held you close, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your back. And the previous ache in your chest eased completely.
Because maybe he didn’t always get it right. Maybe sometimes he was too clueless for his own good.
But at the end of the day, he was still yours, and that’s all you could really ask for. His heart, in all its loyal, sometimes oblivious glory, belonged to you. And he would spend every day for the rest of his life making sure you never, ever forgot it again.
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author's note: thanks so much again for the request, i hope you enjoyed!!
as always, my requests are always open if you want to send me a message about a story you'd like for clark or lowk any other character, im happy to write it for you. thanks for all the love and check out my other work<33
the whole office knows you’re a flirt, but you only really have eyes for one guy. He happens to have eyes for you too. (or; you and Clark take turns making eachother jealous.) wc: 1.4k
David!Clark Kent x fem reader
“What are you eating, honey?”
Clark turns his head, mouth full. You’re speaking to him in that low, sweet tone you only use with him. It’s enticing, dangerously so.
He holds out his candy bar, pulling down more of the wrapper. It crinkles in his giant palm. “D’you want some?”
Now that he’s looking, you look away. It’s the name of the game. “Oh, I shouldn’t, babe. I’m watching my figure.”
“You-“ He chokes, flustered, and proceeds to descend into a coughing fit.
“Clark!” You squeal, and guilty of being a little amused, take the sweating plastic cup of iced tea you’ve been sipping on, scurry the three feet to his desk, and hand it to him. “Are you okay?”
Clark is red faced, whether from lack of air or pure embarrassment he’s not sure.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, neglecting your question. “You don’t need to watch anything. Sorry.”
You laugh, delighted. “I was joking, babe, I'm sorry. I’ll have some, would that make you feel better?”
He smiles up at you boyishly. “Maybe. Hey, you took my breath away.”
“One way or another…” You mumble, accepting a piece of chocolate.
-
Clark Kent is attracted to you, you’re sure of that much. Whether it goes past physicality you don’t know, but he’s not half as subtle as he tries to be. He’s a great mannered guy, but also just that. A guy.
Which is why even though his eyes don’t linger very long, they definitely still do. It’s more of a bodily reaction, and once his very well-trained brain catches on to what he’s doing, his handsome face will warm and subsequently turn away.
It’s like a game of cat and mouse, except you take turns being the cat and the mouse.
This morning, when you arrive at your desk, He’s at his beside it, but it's Lois who talks to you first.
“What was that on your story this weekend?”
You tilt your head. “Huh?”
“Don’t play dumb with me. How was your date?”
Clark had been minding his own business, but he’s certainly listening now. He’d been out attending to his affairs as Superman last night, got home late, and hadn’t had the chance to check his phone. He wonders if you’d notice if he took it out now, if he was really sneaky about it.
“Don’t grill me, it’s 9 AM.”
Lois takes a sip of coffee, which you really wish you had right now. “We’re journalists, we’re nosy! You shouldn’t post about it if you don’t want me to drill you.”
You sigh, and slump into your chair. “It wasn’t a date, I think. We split the check.”
She winces. “Ouch.”
“Yup.”
Clark frowns at his computer.
“It’s fine.” You say, but it’s not, he thinks. “What about you, handsome?”
He shouldn’t assume you’re talking to him, that word can describe most of the guys here, but he turns to look at you, and is glad to see he assumed correctly. “What about me?”
“What did you do over the weekend?”
Clark knows it’s not a matter of just being included, you actually want to know. “Oh, nothing exciting.” A lie. “I was… y’know, busy. I called my ma, that was nice.”
How sweet. This farm boy is adorably out of place in this city of womanizers and check-splitters.
“Busy, huh. Are you cheating on me, honey?” You tease, expecting him to go his usual shade of pink and brush you off. Though, he’s gotten a lot better with your advances.
“I think I should ask you the same thing,” He says, a self-satisfied snicker leaving his lips. “Let me bring you your coffee.”
He stands, leaving his chair to spin in his absence, and leaving you with wide eyes, parted lips, and a little warmth of your own creeping up your neck.
Lois doesn’t stop giggling to herself until he comes back.
-
“I don’t want to see him.”
Lois snorts, amused. “Isn’t that a little dramatic?”
“Nope,” You lament, crossing your arms. Your head lolls dramatically against your chair, completely aware of the picture you’re painting. “…maybe.”
It’s definitely dramatic. In your defense, it’s not that you don’t want to see Clark himself. It’s the stupid giant colorful bouquet he came in with this morning. You’ve managed to avoid him all of ten minutes, but part of you knows this can’t last all day.
Jimmy watches pointedly, an equally amused grin on his face. “You’re pouting. Like, very visibly. It’s… depressing, man.”
You gasp, swiveling to face him. “Some of us actually have feelings, man.”
You are pouting, though. You can almost feel the frown lines forming on your face.
A sigh escapes your lips involuntarily. “It’s just, it’s a bit mean. I know i’m a flirt, maybe that’s the problem. He doesn’t think i’m being serious. I just- I thought we were getting somewhere, but I guess we aren’t.”
“You don’t know what the flowers are for,” Lois tilts her head, looking at you with what can only be described as pity. “Maybe they’re for Jimmy.”
“Yeah, I like flowers.”
You snort, burying your face in Jimmy’s shoulder. He pats your back awkwardly.
“He has a hot date during lunch or something, I just know it. I’m such a hypocrite. It’s just, why bring it to work and rub it in my face? It’s mean, he’s mean. I hate him.”
“No you don’t.”
You tsk. “No, I don’t.”
“But I will. I’m gonna move on. I’m gonna move on, right now. With you, Jimmy-“ You coo, squishing his face-
“Hey!” He laughs, not uncomfortably. “I’m not part of this.”
“You’re the most handsome guy in the world-“
“What’s- Oh.”
The three of you look up like a group of guilty children. You’d probably rather it have been Perry who came in and walk out with a slap on the wrist, but of course it had to be Clark.
The situation is not really favorable, considering you’re practically half draped over Jimmy’s lap. You’ve decided he has a date later, so it doesn’t really matter, yet jump off him anyway.
He looks between the three of you. Clark is sporting an adorable little pout, and a furrow in his brow. And he’s still holding those dumb flowers!
“You’re not at your desks,” He surveys.
“You’re right, maybe we should get back to them,” Lois suggests, standing up, nodding at Jimmy to join her.
You gape at her, betrayed, and once they’re behind Clark’s back, she mouths one word to you. “Awkward.”
Awkward indeed.
“Hey,” You shrug, smiling timidly up at him. “Morning. What’s…”
“Are you hiding from me?”
You frown, even though you definitely were. “Why would I hide from you, babe?”
“Because of these?” He asks, gesturing to the bouquet.
You can see it more closely now. Soft petaled roses, sweet asiatic lilies, and a few daisies you didn’t even know could be pink. There’s some limonium used to fill the spaces in between the bigger flowers. All complete in some newspaper and a pretty purple ribbon.
It’s beautiful. You might lose your breakfast.
“I-“
“Is it a lot? I, I’m not really good at this sort of thing, sorry. Do you not like them?”
“Why would it matter if I liked them?”
He tilts his head, confused. “Because they’re for you…?”
You’ve never stood up so quickly in your life. “They’re for me?”
Clark is less bashful now, looking down at you fondly. A cautious step forward, paper crinkling under his arm just like the candy bar a few days ago.
“Of course they’re for you,” He says, “who else would they be for?”
You’re at a loss for words. Embarrassed at how hard headed you’d been, but most of all, deeply enamored. Clark Kent is giving you flowers. And really pretty ones, at that.
“I was gonna ask you to be my date to that charity gala next month,” He explains, pushing up his glasses with his free hand. “I know we’re there as journalists, but there’s still that dinner, and-“
“Clark.”
“Yeah, honey?”
“Can I kiss you?”
The bouquet is immediately forgotten on the table, and Clark pounces at you with all the control of a starving man. His hands hold your face, gripping tightly but not overly so.
His teeth gnash into yours. It’s a funny thing, until it isn’t, and you’re really, truly kissing Clark Kent. Your coworker Clark Kent.
When you pull back for air, your hands finally have free space to wander. They crawl up his torso, choose to land on either side of his firm chest.
“I take it you liked the flowers,” He grins, strokes your cheek with his thumb.
“Stupid,” you giggle, beaming. “Come kiss me, handsome.”
scott miller who lets you lay your head in his lap and suck on his cock while he goes through storm images and data. he's all but ignoring you, eyes glued to the oil slick colors of the doppler radar while you give kitten licks to his slit and try to get his attention by bobbing your head as deep as you can at your awkward sideways angle. still he doesn't glance down, clicking through endless spreadsheets with numbers coded under columns you can't read even under better circumstances, and you're starting to think you're doing something wrong until you lift your head to press all the way down and he takes an almost punishing grip on your hair, holding you still while you whine and gag. when you tap his hip, he lets you drag back to breathe. a line of spit connects your lips to his thick, ruddy tip, and finally he casts those steel blue eyes down to you with a look of disdain and maybe, if you try hard to imagine it, something softer.
"don't distract me," he says. "you're the one who wanted to do this."
summary: when you run into your childhood friend clark at a bar, the only question you want to ask him is 'when did you get hot?'
pairing: female reader x clark kent
notes: we collectively say thank you to ms sabrina carpenter for her new album which means a whole lot of new inspo for fics xx
likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!
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You couldn't remember the last time you'd been properly touched by a guy.
Actually you could. But you had decided to expunge your shitty ex from your record. He was more cheating rat than human, so he wasn't really deserving of the status.
Besides, the emphasis was on properly touched.
After months of sulking at home your friends had finally convinced you that it was time to saddle up and get back on the horse.
Three bars in and you were wondering why you'd wasted so much time hermitting. Your feet were feeling gloriously numb in your new heels, your shoulders had finally stopped bunching around your ears and giggles were falling from your lips with ease as you and your friends walked arm in arm.
Your last stop was the Rodeo, a trendy bar that was apparently where all the suits of Metropolis flocked too after a long day of corporate grind.
You felt like you were at a prospect convention. Men were practically falling from the disco light flecked ceiling. You could feel them analysing every inch of you and your new dress that clung tightly to your body as you weaved through the crowd, sizing you up like you were a prized heffer up for auction.
Then again, you were doing the same thing in return.
He was hard to miss. His massive frame dwarfed the bar. A crisp white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, grey suit pants that were barely containing thighs the size of your torso as he leant over to talk to the bartender.
You could barely hear your friends over the thumping bass as they chatted animately. You swore you heard one of them say something about a 'Jimmy' when your course to the bathroom was suddenly diverted.
Your eyes found him again as your friends corralled you towards the other end of the bar. He’d turned ever so slightly, enough that you could see that thick glasses framed his face. A mass of black curls piled on top of his head.
Kind of nerdy. Just your type.
It was so dark that you couldn’t make out his facial features. Not that you were complaining about the current view.
You let your eyes wonder over behind the bar, watching the bartenders make quick work of the drinks - lithe fingers cutting fruits and toned arms shaking cocktails in a flurry. Maybe you should quit your job and become a bartender, then you wouldn't have to worry about doing upper body weights.
He was facing you now. If the bar hadn’t been so packed you would have sworn he was staring directly at you.
The sound of your name being called was like a sharp pin loudly popping your balloon of thoughts. A hand darted out to pull you forward.
“This is Jimmy.”
You tore your gaze from the bar to be met with a freckled face grinning at you. His eyes lit up in recognition at the sound of your name.
"Oh don't you know Clark?"
Your eyes followed his hand gesturing towards the other end of the bar.
Your brow furrowed.
You only knew one Clark. And that Clark was a weedy salt of the earth farm boy. He stuck out like a sore thumb. You’d have spotted him from a mile away in here.
“Huh?”
"Clark Kent. Aren’t you both Kansas country bumpkins?”
You turned back to look down the bar.
“He’s ordering us a round.” You followed Jimmy’s finger and froze as you realised who he was pointing at. There was no way. You’d remember if he had a face like that.
As if he’d somehow heard his name over the thrum of the bass, the man turned in your direction again. A familiar smile spread across his lips. A hand raised in awkward greeting.
As if it had been orchestrated, the lights flickered just as he tilted his head, momentarily illuminating his face in a pale pink hue, his features finally on full display.
You blinked.
The strong cut of his jaw, the chisel of his chin, the astute slope of his nose. Someone could have told you that he’d been modelled after a statue of Zeus and you wouldn’t question it.
"Jesus." You murmured.
"What was that?" Jimmy queried.
"Oh I just uh-" You forced yourself to look away. "I haven't seen Clark in years that's all."
You didn't hear Jimmy's response as you did a double take, then a triple take.
"Why don't you go help him bring the drinks over?" Your friend suggested. Even in the dark, you could see a familiar twinkle in her eye. She knew you too well.
"We'll go grab a table. Let you two catch up."
A tipsy chorus of agreement sounded out at the suggestion. Jimmy didn't seem to need any extra encouragement as he eagerly led your friends towards an empty booth before you even had a chance to argue.
"And if you don't take him home to play naked twister, I might have to." You smacked her playfully as she pulled away from your ear. Her loud laughter reverberated through you as she left you to go join the others.
His eyes never left you as you started making your way towards him. Your dress was suddenly too tight, your heels too high, your fingers too fidgety as you started to make your way towards him
His features came more into focus. You remembered those kind eyes so vividly. The perfect shade of blue, with a few gold flecks in them. The way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled.
It was definitely your Clark, he'd just doubled in height and width.
Your name left his lips as you reached him. Not a voice crack in sight. The deep reverb of it sent a shiver up your spine.
You were suddenly very grateful that you had liquid courage flowing through your veins as you spoke.
"Hey stranger."
"Hi yourself."
He shot you that same smile that used to lift you out of the foulest of moods.
Careful not to spill your drink, you lent up and wrapped your arms around him. His muscles rippled under your fingertips as he embraced you back. He smelt like a mixture of smoke, bourbon and vanilla.
"So what brings you here-"
"How are you-"
You both laughed as you cut each other off.
"Sorry, you go." Clark apologised, shoving his glasses back up to the bridge of his nose as he gestured for you to continue.
"How are you? I've been reading your articles you know. You're killing it."
Clark smiled shyly. "Thanks, yeah work has been good. Busy. You know Metropolis, always something to write about."
"Yeah never a dull day." You sighed. Your commute to work was interrupted at least once a week with some metahuman wreaking havoc. But you couldn't bring yourself to leave, the chaos was almost addictive.
"What about you?"
"Oh I'm actually working in the marketing department at LutherCorp." An unreadable emotion flashed across Clark's face.
"Marketing huh?"
"It's alright." You shrugged. "Pays the bills."
"I always thought your dream was to be a fashion designer."
You couldn't believe he'd remembered that.
"It was but....I don't know." Another shrug. "Isn't that every girl's dream growing up? No one actually ends up doing it. It's practically impossible."
Clark frowned as you sipped your drink.
"It's not impossible. I remember your designs in school, they were great. You could definitely do it, you just have to believe in yourself."
You looked up at him. If it was anyone else you would have brushed them off, that they were just saying whatever they could to make you feel better.
But this was Clark. The same Clark who had emphatically supported you when you declared that you wanted to be a mermaid when you were seven. He believed everyone on this planet could achieve incredible things. He could convince you that you could fly if he really wanted to.
"I have been thinking about going back to school. Metropolis University has a pretty good fashion program." You admitted. You couldn't believe you were telling him this. You hadn't even told your friends yet.
"You totally should. The fashion world would be lucky to have you.”
This time it was your turn to blush. “Thank you.”
"You still keep in touch with anyone from school?"
"God no." You scoffed. "I only go back home to see my parents." You twirled your straw through your drink as you studied him.
"What about you?"
"Same." Clark nodded.
"Are your parents still up at the farm?"
His smile widened, "yeah they are. They still ask about you, you know."
Your heart warmed. "They were always so kind."
It only felt like yesterday that you were spending nearly every afternoon after school there, running around chasing the cows with Clark as his mum desperately tried to corral you inside for afternoon tea.
"Remember those scones your mum used to make? God they were good."
"She still makes them for me when I visit."
You groaned dramatically, "I'm jealous."
Clark’s laughter was short lived. A pained expression crossed his features.
"I should try and visit them more." Clark sighed, dampening the mood slightly between you two.
"Yeah, me too.” A wave of homesickness washing over you at the thought of your parents.
"They keep trying to get me to come back for the county fair."
Clark chuckled, "Same.”
"Mum rang me last week and told me that I simply had to come this year because they've added an apple bobbing stall. Can you believe it?”
"Well, how could you turn that down?"
You snorted into your drink at his response.
"True, as born and bred Kansas folk, apple bopping is literally in our DNA."
Clark's laughter dissipated after a few moments as he studied you, a smile on his lips.
"You know." He began, taking a sip of his drink. He coughed as the liquid slid awkwardly down his throat. You watched him as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shot you a sheepish grin before placing his glass down.
"We could always go to the fair together." He said it so casually you nearly missed the way a blush had begun to emerge on his cheeks.
You grinned. "Two city slickers crashing the Smallville county fair would be fun."
"Yeah and you know...it would make our parents happy. And I'd have good company." His eyes locked with yours. "It'd be fun."
You cocked your head slightly as you studied him. "It would be."
Before either of you could say anything further, the bartender plonked two cocktails in front of you.
You looked down at the little pink umbrellas sticking out of them. You looked up at him in amusement.
"Are these....pina coladas?"
"What’s wrong with pina coladas? They're delicious." Clark protested.
You threw your hands up in defence. "I didn't say they weren't!"
Clark shot you a look as he pushed one over to you. "It was meant to be Jimmy's, but I don't think he needs another one."
"Well I'm certainly not going to turn down a free drink." You batted your lashes at him as you picked up your glass and held it up to his.
"To making it out of Smallville."
"And to running into friendly faces." Clark added.
“Cheers to that." You agreed as your glasses clinked together harmoniously.
Your eyes never left his as you pressed the glass to your lips, the eye contact too long to be casual.
His adams apple bopped as he swallowed. His perfectly shaped lips glistened with the remnants of the liquor in his glass. His brow furrowed ever so slightly as he focused on not spilling his drink. The reminiscing had made you momentarily forget just how gorgeous he was. You could stare at his face all day, you decided.
"Is there something on my face?"
Shit, you had actually been staring.
"No." You answered quickly.
"Are you sure?"
You frowned, "Yes. Why?"
"It's just- I don't know." He looked at you sheepishly. "You keep giving me this weird look. I thought maybe I had pineapple in my teeth or something."
The laugh slipped out before you could stop it at the sight of his puzzled, innocent face. You pressed your hand to your mouth to stifle your giggles. Your reaction only made him look even more like a confused puppy.
"Sorry I'm not laughing at you it's just-" You cut yourself off as you tried to level out your voice. He looked at you expectantly.
The assorted mixture of alcohols swirling around in your stomach helped you blurt out your next words.
"When did you get hot?"
Even the dark lighting couldn't conceal the violent crimson that bloomed across his face at your words. He couldn't be nervous at that, could he? Surely he didn’t get shy anymore when he looked like this. He'd have girls throwing themselves at him constantly.
"You- you think I'm... hot?"
A vision of young Clark flashed before you. Sweet, nervous, awkward, bumbling. He may look different, but he hadn't changed one bit.
It made you want to rip his clothes off even more.
"Are you kidding me? You look like Superman or something."
You took a sip of your drink, missing the way he flinched.
"S-superman? Why do you say that?"
You peered up at him over your cocktail glass. "Clark." You gestured to his body. "You look like you could lift my car up with your hand."
"Oh." His blush deepened.
"Seriously I cannot believe I didn't see the vision in school."
"Well, I was a pretty ugly kid."
"You were not!" You protested.
"Kids at school certainly thought so." He remarked.
Your mood faltered. Clark had gone through a rough time before puberty hit, especially with the other boys. Unfortunately, most country kids weren't raised to be accepting of people who were different. And in Smallville, being gentle, sensitive and selfless almost to a fault as a young boy was practically unforgivable.
"Kids are jerks."
"You weren't." Clark countered. "You always stood up for me."
"You would have done the same." You brushed it off, trying to ignore the way your heart raced under his gaze.
"And you were never ugly you were just..." You trailed off as you studied him. "I don't know you were just Clark, kind and sweet Clark. But now you're..."
Clark's eyebrows raised expectantly.
“Well now you're kind and sweet and also really hot Clark.”
He laughed at your explanation, his nerves visibly dissipating as he studied you intently.
"And no one's going to look their best in school anyway." You gestured to yourself to illustrate your point.
Clark shook his head. "You don't count."
"Why not?"
"Because." He slung the rest of his drink down his throat. "You've never had an ugly phase."
You tried to hide the effect his words had on you. "I don't know about that. Remember my side ponytail phase in sixth grade?"
"I do. And your emo phase in year seven. And your Mighty Crabjoys phase in sophmore year."
"The Mighty Crabjoys were not a phase, thank you. They still rock."
Clark looked at you like you'd hung the moon in that moment.
"You're beautiful. You always have been." His words came out softly. Almost reverently, like he was saying a prayer.
You looked up at him, your lips slightly parted as you tried to rack your brain for a response. It was like you'd forgotten how to speak.
You couldn't believe out of all the bars in Metropolis, you'd ended up at the same one as him. That he was the one person who had made you feel more alive in the last twenty minutes than any guy had ever made you feel in your whole relationship. You were't religious by any means, but it almost felt like divine intervention.
"Oh sorry." The liquor swished dangerously close to the lip of your glass as someone accidentally bumped into you.
The moment between you two shattered, allowing you a brief respite to collect your senses off the floor.
"It's busy huh?" You observed lamely after a few moments of silence passed. Great one.
"Yeah it is." Clark glanced around before looking back down at you. “You know.” He cleared his throat, "I know a pretty good pizza place down the road. It's usually not too busy, if you wanted to maybe go somewhere quieter to-"
"Yes." You answered, probably a little too eagerly. But you were too entranced to care. "I'd like that.”
A knee-weakening smile split across Clark's face. "Great.”
He twisted around to look in Jimmy's direction. "I don't think our friends are going to miss us."
You followed his gaze. Jimmy was seated in the middle of the booth, your friends huddled up to him like nesting birds desperate for warmth. They were giggling and hanging on to his every word, like he was a messiah spouting gospel.
"What the..."
"It's best you don't ask." Clark sighed, "I gave up a long time ago."
You shook your head in disbelief, letting your eyes linger on the sight for a few moments before turning to look at him.
"Shall we?"
You glanced down to see his large palm extended out for you. An invitation that you were more than happy to take.
You nodded, letting your hand slide into his. It was warm, and ever so slightly clammy. It entwined perfectly with yours. “Us hot country bumpkins have to stick together, right?”
His laugh intermingled with yours. “Right.”
In that moment, you knew.
Clark squeezed your hand and smiled down at you, like he knew it too.
This was what being properly touched felt like.
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The soft glow of your bedroom lights bathed the walls in a warm hue as you lay sprawled across your bed, a tablet propped up against your knees while lo-fi music hummed gently from the speakers. It was late afternoon at the Tower, and the kind of peaceful quiet that followed a day without villains or rogue.
You had your window cracked open, more out of habit than anything else. Somewhere far below, you could faintly hear the city’s buzz. But up here, it felt like your own little sanctuary—until you heard the distinct clink of the latch sliding open.
You didn’t flinch. Instead, a slow smile tugged at your lips as you glanced sideways toward the tall windows just as they cracked open fully, letting in a gust of wind and a very familiar, curly-haired boy who stumbled in with a bit more flair than necessary.
“Peter,” you drawled without looking up, “you know there’s a door, right?”
He straightened, brushing wind-tangled curls out of his face and grinning. “There's no fun in that."
You turned your attention to him, a smile pulling on your lips as you placed the tablet away. You stood up from your bed and walked over to him, placing a soft kiss on his lips that he flourished into. Peter's hands found your waist as he moved you both from left to right earning a giggle from you. Time felt like it slowed down every time you kissed Peter. He was always so soft, so loving- so unreal.
You pulled away first, wrapping stray pieces of hair around your finger and twirling it. His eyes were glued to you-full of admiration and love. He let out a sheepish laugh before he removed his hands from your waist to pull his backpack off.
"Almost forgot, I have a surprise." He mentions, crouching down so he could unzip his backpack before rummaging inside.
"A surprise?" You ask, eyebrows furrowed.
Peter looked up at you through his lashes, a small awkward smile tugging at his lips. "I, uh… brought something. It’s kinda nerdy. Okay, it’s really nerdy. But I was thinking—maybe you’d wanna do it with me?"
You let out a breathy laugh at your boyfriends remark. "Pete, I don't care how nerdy it is if it means I get to spend time with you."
He chuckled nervously before pulling out a LEGO set. It had a massive gray spaceship and a number that read '7,541 pieces', the unmistakable title in the corner: Millennium Falcon.
Your mouth fell agape. “Peter, that thing’s huge.”
He laughed, cheeks flushing. "Ned and I pooled together some money a while back to buy one, and we built it together over a couple weekends. But then this one went on sale, and I kinda… saved up again. I was gonna build it solo, but I thought it'd be more fun with you."
Your heart warmed at the thought.
He looked up at you then, eyes a little uncertain. "I know it’s dorky. I just thought—if you don’t want to, it’s totally fine—"
You leaned forward, reaching out to cradle his face with your hands. "Peter, that’s really sweet of you. I’d love to."
Relief washed over his face like a tide. He beamed, leaning forward to kiss your cheek before immediately beginning to unload bag after bag of LEGO pieces from his backpack. Within minutes, your floor was covered in numbered plastic packets, the massive instruction manual flopped open.
You settled onto the carpet, legs crossed beneath you. Peter sat opposite, already sorting out the first few bags.
"Okay, so bag one is all the base plates," he said, eyes skimming the instructions. "And fun fact—did you know the actual Millennium Falcon in the movies was twenty-five meters long? The UCS model is over thirty inches! They had to build a full-size cockpit for some of the original shots."
You let out a giggle at his comments, "Really?" you asked teasingly. You loved it when Peter would give you random fun facts and would become completely absorbed in his interests.
Peter’s eyes lit up. He nodded eagerly, clearly thrilled you showed even a dime interested. "Yeah! But I think this is the updated model,” Peter murmured, nose buried in the instruction book.
“It’s more accurate to the Force Awakens version—but it still has the classic round dish instead of the rectangular one, which is way better, honestly.”
You smiled as you sorted. “You sound like you’ve memorized the schematics.”
“I have. Pretty much.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
Peter shot you a proud look. “Did you know the Falcon’s hyperdrive is a Class 0.5? That’s faster than an Imperial Star Destroyer. Han bragged about it all the time.”
“Oh really?”
"Also," he added, glancing up, "did you know that its hyperdrive was a class 0.5? That’s one of the fastest ratings in the galaxy."
You gasped dramatically. "Scandalous."
“And the reason it looks so weird is because George Lucas originally designed it as a flying saucer, but changed it at the last minute. The final design is based on a hamburger with an olive on the side.”
You paused, mid-sort. “Wait. What?”
Peter grinned. “Yeah. The olive is the cockpit.”
You reached across the instruction booklet to boop his nose. "You’re such a nerd."
"You love it," he teased.
"I do."
An hour in, your floor was buried in baggies, bricks, and half-assembled engine cores. You’d lost count of how many times Peter had given you little Star Wars facts. Every single time, you smiled and gave him soft, amused responses:
“That’s so cool.”
“Really?”
“You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”
He always flushed a little when you said that. It made you want to keep doing it just to watch him try not to squirm.
The Falcon began to take shape. Compartments, smugglers’ holds, the cockpit frame. Peter showed you how the dish connected, and you helped him attach the forward mandibles. Each piece that clicked into place made the whole thing feel like a game.
You were reaching for another gray tile when the door cracked open behind you.
“Hey, kiddo, I was gonna ask if—”
Tony Stark stopped cold in the doorway. His brows furrowed as he took in the scene: you and Peter Parker sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor, surrounded by a colorful minefield of LEGO, instruction books, half-built Falcon parts, and a disturbing amount of laser blaster minifigures.
He tilted his head slowly, eyes narrowing.
“What’s Spider-Boy doing here?”
Peter stiffened like he’d been hit with a stun gun. “Uh… hi, Mr. Stark.”
You looked up with a calm, practiced smile. “He wanted to hang out. We’re building LEGO's.”
Tony squinted. "That’s aggressively nerdy."
"Dad!"
He held up his hands in mock defense. “Hey, hey. Not judging. Just… observing. Judging a little, but still.”
Peter smiled awkwardly. “It’s a really advanced set.”
“I can see that.” Tony squinted. “Wait—when did you get here?”
Peter blinked. “Uh… not long ago?”
Tony’s eyes narrowed. "Wait a sec. When did you come in? I didn’t see you at the door."
Before Peter could speak, Tony looked at the two of you- then the window.
Tony pointed at Peter and looked directly at you. "Did he come through your window?"
Peter and you tried to speak at the same time once again- but were cut off.
"How long has that been going on? Is this, like, a nightly thing? Is he Batman-ing his way in here every week?"
“Dad,” you sighed, “we’ve been over this—”
Tony held up a finger. “You know what? Nope. Gonna circle back to that later. But in the meantime—Peter, dinner’s at seven. You’re staying. No arguments.”
Peter nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”
“And next time,” Tony added, walking toward the door, “just use the damn door, kid.”
The hours passed in a whirl of bricks and giggles. Peter occasionally scooted closer so you could see the finer parts of the manual. Your arms would brush, and he’d blush, but neither of you mentioned it. At one point, he explained how the Falcon’s sensor dish was knocked off during the Battle of Endor, and that’s why it has a rectangular one in The Force Awakens.
Suddenly, Peter began looking around. He checked beside his legs and around the partially built spaceship. "Where’s the trans-clear radar tile? The one with the circular etching?"
You looked around, then frowned. "It was right here a second ago. Did it fall under the rug?"
The two of you searched every corner of the carpet. Peter was halfway under your bed, legs sticking out like some kind of reverse-spider-crab.
"Got it!" Peter popped back up, hair sticking out in every direction and holding the piece triumphantly. "I found it!"
You grinned. "Oh, my hero!"
He placed it delicately in your palm like he was bestowing a rare jewel.
By the time you reached the final few pieces, the sun had dipped beneath the skyline, casting golden light across the floor. Peter clicked the last turret into place and leaned back, breathless.
You both stared at the completed Falcon. It took up nearly half the floor space between you. In Peter's words, it was 'the second most beautiful thing ever made because you came first.'
Peter exhaled, satisfied. “I’m really glad I got to spend today with you.”
You turned to him and gently cupped his face in your hands. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than with you.”
He blinked, clearly trying not to melt.
“Even if it’s just building LEGOs and me nerding out about Star Wars?”
You smiled, thumb brushing his cheek. “Especially that.”
He gave you that crooked, sunshine smile you adored—one that lit up his whole face.
Right on cue, FRIDAY’s voice filled the room:
“Miss Stark, Mr. Parker: dinner is ready. Mr. Stark has requested your presence. His exact words were: ‘tell the lovebirds to wash their hands and drag themselves to the kitchen before I come up there and hose them down.’”
You and Peter both burst out laughing.
Peter ran a hand through his curls, grinning. “That’s definitely your dad.”
You groaned with a smile, pushing off the floor and stretching. “I should’ve known he’d call us out eventually.”
He gave you that boyish, shy smile that made your heart melt. “You sure he’s not gonna kill me?”
You looped your arms around his neck. “If he was going to, he would’ve the first time you came through my window.”
“…So just mild intimidation tonight?”
You grinned. “Very mild.”
Right then, the door swung open without warning. You were greeted with none other than your father, who looked mildly annoyed.
“You two elope and forget to RSVP to dinner?”
You rolled your eyes, pushing yourself up slightly. “We were on our way.”
Tony stepped further into the room, gaze narrowing just slightly at Peter, who immediately sat up straighter, like being caught slouching was somehow the real offense.
“You okay there, Underoos?” Tony asked, lips twitching. “You look like I walked in on something scandalous. Should I knock next time?”
Peter’s face turned an impressive shade of red. “N-no! I mean—no, sir. We were just building the—uh—Falcon. That’s all. Just the Falcon. LEGO Falcon. Nothing else.”
Tony gave you a knowing look. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
“Dad.”
He smirked. “Hey, I’m just saying—you tell your daughter and her spider-boyfriend dinner’s at 7:00, and 7:10 hits so I come looking and find his hands suspiciously close to your knee and you sitting there making oogly eyes at him."
Peter let out a noise that might’ve been a panicked laugh.
“We were literally talking about Star Wars,” you deadpanned.
“Uh-huh. Nerd foreplay,” Tony muttered. “The most dangerous kind.”
You gave him a look. “Can we not, please?”
Tony held his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. You’re right. I trust you. Mostly.” He gave Peter a long look. “Sixty percent.”
Peter squeaked out a “Thank you?”
Tony’s gaze dropped to the LEGO Millennium Falcon laid out in all its half-built glory. He tilted his head.
“Huh. Not bad.” He gave a small nod, then added, “I could probably build it faster.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Sure you could.”
He smirked. “Excuse me, I’m a mechanical genius. That thing’s like baby’s first blueprint.”
“You still couldn’t figure out how to open a cereal box this morning.”
“That was sabotage. Who triple seals Frosted Flakes?”
Peter tried and failed to stifle a laugh, to which Tony turned, mock-offended. “Oh, so now you’re on her side?”
Peter put his hands up, smiling nervously. “I’m neutral! Switzerland!”
Tony pointed at him. “Stay that way. Smart man.”
He took a final glance around the room, nodding once more before backing out. “Wrap it up, lovebirds. Dinner’s getting cold and I’m not reheating lasagna for two teenagers who chose LEGO bricks and whatever the hell you two were doing up here over my homemade masterpiece.”
You snorted. “You didn’t make that lasagna. FRIDAY ordered it.”
“Semantics,” Tony called over his shoulder as he disappeared down the hall.
summary: Clark starts to panic when his Ma and Pa ask him to come back to Smallville for a wedding. Why? He may or may not have accidentally implied he had a girlfriend. So he asks you to come with him as his fake girlfriend.
word count: 14.5k+
pairing: clark kent x fem!reader
notes: i don't think i've ever written the "fake dating" trope and i realized that that was not right. how could i have gone this far without ever writing it?! so, here it is!
warnings/tags: no use of y/n, reader works at the daily planet, fake dating trope, friends to lovers, mostly takes place in smallville, clark is a softie, reader knows clark is superman, fluff, slow burn, oblivious idiots, one mention of reader using bobby pins in hair, slight angst
Clark was pacing. Not unusual—he did that in the newsroom whenever a deadline loomed—but this was different. His tie was loosened, his glasses sliding down his nose, and the look on his face wasn’t the usual “Perry wants three rewrites before lunch” kind of stress. This was real panic.
You leaned back in your chair, coffee cup in hand, watching him wear a path into the carpet between your desks. “Clark, you’re going to burn a hole in the floor if you keep that up.”
He stopped mid-step, ran a hand through his dark hair, and exhaled sharply. “Smallville.”
You blinked. “…That’s a place, yes. Congratulations, you remembered your hometown.”
He shot you a look—half exasperated, half pleading. “There’s a wedding. Next week. One of my childhood friends. Ma and Pa really want me to come home for it.”
“Okay,” you said slowly, sipping your coffee. “And this is a crisis because…?”
Clark hesitated, his cheeks flushing pink. “Because they’ve been…asking if I’m seeing anyone. For months.” He adjusted his glasses, avoiding your eyes. “And I may have…implied…”
“Oh, Clark.” You set your cup down with a grin. “You didn’t.”
“I did,” he admitted miserably, slumping into the chair across from you. “I didn’t mean to! Ma asked if I was lonely and—I panicked. I didn’t want her to worry, so I just... And then Pa said he was happy I’d found someone, and by the time I realized what I’d done it was too late.”
You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh. “So let me get this straight: your parents think you have a girlfriend, and now you’re about to roll into Smallville looking tragically single at a wedding full of gossiping neighbors?”
Clark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Exactly.”
“That is hilarious,” you said, fighting back giggles.
He peeked at you through his fingers. “It’s not funny.”
“It’s so funny. You’re basically in a Hallmark movie, Clark.”
He gave you a flat look, then took a deep breath like he was bracing for impact. “That’s why I wanted to ask you something.”
Your eyebrows rose. “Oh boy. This sounds serious.”
“Would you…” He swallowed, fidgeting with his tie. “Would you pretend to be my girlfriend? Just for the week. Come to Smallville with me, go to the wedding. Smile at my parents so they don’t think I’m a complete failure at dating.”
You stared at him. For a second, you wondered if he was joking. But no—Clark Kent didn’t joke like this. His expression was earnest, almost sheepish, and you realized with dawning horror that he was completely serious.
“Oh my God,” you breathed. “You are in a Hallmark movie.”
He said your name softly, and the way it rolled off his tongue almost made you forget this was ridiculous. You leaned back in your chair, crossing your arms. “So you want me to be your fake girlfriend. To meet your parents. And your entire hometown. For a whole week.”
He winced. “When you say it like that—”
“Clark, that’s not fake dating. That’s method acting.” But then you caught the nervous way he was watching you, the faint blush on his cheeks, and the way his hands curled awkwardly in his lap like he didn’t know what to do with them. And suddenly… you weren’t laughing anymore. “Well,” you said finally, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I’ve always wanted to see Smallville.”
The relief on his face was so immediate and genuine it made your chest tighten. He beamed, wide and boyish, like you’d just saved the world instead of agreed to play along with his lie. “You will? Really?”
“Yeah,” you said, shaking your head at him. “But you owe me, Kent. Big time.”
He grinned, sheepish and grateful. “Deal.”
And just like that, you’d agreed to be Clark Kent’s fake girlfriend. For one week. In his hometown. At a wedding. What could possibly go wrong?
---
Clark’s apartment was exactly what you’d expect from him: neat, cozy, and just a little bit old-fashioned. Stacks of newspapers were carefully folded on the coffee table, a half-finished crossword sat beside a pencil, and a throw blanket was draped across the couch in a way that screamed Martha Kent folded this once upon a time and Clark never changed it.
You perched on the edge of the sofa, eyeing the surroundings while Clark fussed in the kitchen. He’d insisted on making tea—because apparently, if you were going to fake-date him, beverages were mandatory.
He emerged a moment later, balancing two mismatched mugs in those big hands of his. He handed you one, sitting down at the opposite end of the couch like a man preparing for a business negotiation.
“So,” you said, blowing across the steam of your tea, “we should probably set some ground rules.”
“Ground rules?” he echoed, brows lifting above the rim of his glasses.
“Obviously,” you said. “Fake dating is a delicate art, Clark. If we’re going to sell this, we need a game plan. Consistency. Coordination.” You ticked off on your fingers. “We need a backstory, a timeline, rules of conduct—”
“Rules of conduct?” His mouth twitched, like he was trying not to laugh.
“Yes,” you said firmly. “For example: no kissing unless absolutely necessary. None of this ‘spur of the moment’ stuff.”
He choked a little on his tea. “Kissing?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Clark, if your entire hometown thinks you’ve got a girlfriend, someone is going to expect us to kiss. You’re not exactly going to sell the act with a stiff side hug.”
He went scarlet, staring down into his mug like it might save him. “I just… didn’t think about that.”
“You didn’t—Clark, you dragged me into a fake relationship without considering kissing?”
“I panicked!” he said, voice higher than usual. “I just wanted Ma and Pa to stop worrying, I wasn’t thinking that far ahead.”
You laughed, shaking your head. “Unbelievable. Fine, rule number one: no kissing unless we both agree it’s necessary. Rule number two: no embarrassing stories that make me look bad.”
Clark looked up at that, indignant. “I wouldn’t do that.”
“Oh, you wouldn’t?” You leaned forward, smirking. “You’ve got thirty years’ worth of baby photos your mother will absolutely whip out at dinner, and you expect me to believe you won’t let me suffer?”
His ears turned pink. “I’d never embarrass you on purpose.”
You sipped your tea, studying him. He meant it—you could see that earnestness in his eyes, the way his brows knit slightly like the thought of humiliating you was genuinely offensive to him. That sincerity was going to make this entire charade very dangerous.
“Fine,” you conceded softly. “Rule number two: no intentional embarrassment. Rule number three…” You hesitated, twirling the mug in your hands. “We need a believable backstory. How we met, how long we’ve been together, that sort of thing.”
Clark perked up a little, as if relieved to be on more solid ground. “That’s easy. We could just say we met at the Planet. Friends turned into something more.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That’s boring. And vague. If people ask questions, you’ll fold like a cheap suit.”
He frowned. “I don’t fold.”
“You fold,” you said flatly. “You’re too nice to lie convincingly.”
He sputtered, adjusting his glasses. “I can lie!”
“Clark,” you said sweetly, “what did you have for breakfast this morning?”
“…Toast,” he replied, after an oddly long pause.
You arched a brow. “Uh-huh. And that little hesitation wasn’t suspicious at all.”
“I did have toast,” he muttered, flustered. “I just also had… three pancakes.”
You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your tea. “Exactly my point. If someone corners you at the reception and asks how we got together, you’ll crack in seconds.”
Clark sighed, conceding. “So what do you suggest?”
“We build a story with details,” you said, warming to the task. “Something casual but sweet. Like… you asked me out after we stayed late on a story together. You brought me coffee, I brought you takeout, and we realized we’d been accidentally dating for weeks already.”
His mouth softened into a smile. “That’s actually… really nice.”
“See? Believable and romantic.”
Clark set his mug down, fiddling with his tie like he always did when he was nervous. “Okay. That works. And, um… how long have we been dating?”
You tapped your chin. “Long enough that meeting your parents isn’t weird. But not so long that people start asking about rings. Four months?”
He nodded thoughtfully. “That sounds right.”
You could feel his eyes on you as you scribbled the details onto a notepad you’d stolen from his desk: timeline, first date story, favorite things about each other—fake answers pending. When you finally looked up, he was smiling faintly, like the sight of you planning this out amused him more than it should have. “What?” you asked.
“Nothing,” he said quickly, looking away. But the tips of his ears were red, and you weren’t entirely sure what that meant.
You shook your head, setting down the pen. “Alright, Kent. We’ve got the ground rules. Now all we have to do is survive one week in Smallville without blowing our cover.”
Clark smiled nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “What could go wrong?”
You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. “Oh, don’t say that.”
---
The drive out of Metropolis stretched on for hours, skyscrapers shrinking into farmland, city noise dissolving into the steady hum of open road. Clark insisted on driving—something about “wanting you to see the view,” though you suspected it was also his way of staving off nerves. He fiddled with the radio more than usual, tuning through stations until he settled on a fuzzy country channel that seemed to relax him.
The closer you got to Smallville, the more he loosened up. His posture uncurled, his shoulders dropped, and for once he wasn’t hiding behind that sheepish city-desk persona. This was his world—cornfields rolling in every direction, red barns dotting the horizon, and an endless sky overhead that felt like freedom.
By the time you pulled into the long dirt driveway, your nerves had caught up with you. The Kent farmhouse came into view: white paint weathered by decades of Kansas sun, a porch swing creaking lazily in the breeze, and a bright patchwork of Martha’s flowerbeds framing the front steps. It looked like a painting. Too picturesque—like the kind of place where pretending to be Clark Kent’s girlfriend could unravel in an instant.
Clark parked the car and turned to you, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Okay. This is it.”
You glanced at the farmhouse. “Your childhood home. No pressure at all.”
“You don’t have to be nervous,” he said, though his own hands tightened around the steering wheel. “Ma and Pa… they’ll love you.”
The words slipped out before he could catch them. He froze, ears going red. “I mean—they’ll love meeting you. Because you’re… you know… nice.”
You bit back a smile. “Smooth, Kent.”
Before he could sputter out a defense, the screen door banged open. Martha Kent stepped out onto the porch, apron dusted with flour, her face lighting up the second she saw her son. She waved, calling his name, and a moment later Jonathan appeared beside her, steady and smiling as he leaned on the railing.
“Showtime,” you muttered under your breath, reaching for the door handle.
Clark glanced at you, nervous, and then did something unexpected. He reached across the console and gently took your hand in his, his palm warm and steady. “We’ve got this,” he said softly.
Your breath caught, just for a second. Then you nodded, squeezing back.
Martha reached the two of you first, arms outstretched. “Clark Jerome Kent, you didn’t tell me you’d be here this early!”
Clark laughed, pulling her into a hug. “Hi, Ma.”
Jonathan followed, giving his son a firm clap on the back before his gaze shifted toward you. “And this must be the mystery girl we’ve been hearing about.”
Oh God. Here it was—the test.
Clark’s hand was still laced with yours as he pulled you gently forward. “Ma, Pa… this is my girlfriend.” His voice wavered only slightly. “We, uh—we work together at the Planet.”
Martha’s face broke into the warmest smile you’d ever seen, eyes crinkling as she caught both your hands in hers. “Well, aren’t you just lovely. I’ve been waiting years for Clark to bring someone home. Come in, come in, I’ve got pie cooling on the counter.”
Jonathan chuckled low in his throat. “Better warn her about your Ma’s pie, son. Once you’ve had it, you’ll never eat another slice without comparing.” You laughed politely, though your stomach was still tight with nerves. Clark gave you the faintest smile—reassuring, like you’d passed the first round
Inside, the farmhouse smelled like cinnamon and clean laundry. The living room was cozy, lined with bookshelves and family photos, a worn quilt draped over the back of the couch. A pair of boots sat neatly by the door, clearly Jonathan’s. Every detail radiated warmth and history, a life well-lived.
Martha ushered you both into the kitchen, where she sliced pie and asked question after question. How did you and Clark meet? What was your first impression of him? Did he take you out somewhere nice, or did he settle for greasy takeout again? Clark’s ears went red at that, but he played along. “It was good takeout,” he muttered defensively.
You smiled into your fork. “It was actually perfect. He insisted on paying even though I said we could split it. That’s when I knew he was trouble.”
Jonathan laughed, shaking his head. “Sounds like our boy.”
Clark glanced at you from across the table, and for a moment it felt less like lying and more like slipping into a story that fit too well.
Later, after Martha declared herself satisfied with your answers and shooed everyone out of her kitchen, Clark led you upstairs to drop your bag in the guest room. He paused outside the door, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry about all that. They, uh… they can be a little enthusiastic.”
“They’re wonderful,” you said honestly. “Honestly, Clark, if this is how you grew up, no wonder you turned out so…” You trailed off, realizing you were about to say so good. So kind. So easy to love.
He tilted his head, curious. “So what?”
You shook your head quickly. “So polite. That’s all.”
He didn’t push, though something in his expression softened. Then, awkwardly, “just so you know, uh… there’s a chance they’ll show you baby pictures tonight. They… do that.”
You grinned. “Can’t wait.”
Clark groaned. “You’re supposed to dread it.”
“Why? I think little farm-boy Clark sounds adorable.”
His cheeks flushed pink again, and he muttered something under his breath about regretting this already. But when he looked at you—really looked—there was something flickering behind his glasses. Something that said he wasn’t regretting a thing.
The sun was just beginning to dip low over the Kansas horizon when Martha called you both down for supper. The farmhouse smelled incredible—savory roast chicken, mashed potatoes whipped light and buttery, green beans fresh from the garden. You hadn’t even sat down yet, and your stomach was already growling.
Clark walked beside you down the narrow staircase, his hand hovering near your back in that tentative way of his—like he wanted to guide you but wasn’t sure if it crossed some invisible line. When you glanced at him, he quickly dropped it, shoving both hands into his pockets as if he’d been caught.
The dining room was warm and homey, mismatched chairs pulled around a sturdy oak table that looked like it had hosted every holiday and birthday party for decades. Martha bustled at the head of the table with serving dishes while Jonathan poured sweet tea into mason jars. “Sit, sit,” Martha said cheerfully, waving you both into the chairs beside each other. “Clark, don’t let her hover. She’s company, not a farmhand.”
“I wasn’t—Ma,” Clark protested, but he obeyed, pulling out the chair for you before sitting down himself. The gesture made your chest tighten unexpectedly. Fake boyfriend or not, it was… nice.
Dinner began with chatter about the weather, the crops, how the community had rallied to prepare for the wedding. Martha asked you questions in that gentle but probing way mothers have, as though she could piece together your entire character with just a handful of details. “So,” she said, ladling chicken onto your plate, “what’s it like working with Clark?”
You paused, fork poised. Clark stiffened beside you. “Well,” you began, deliberately glancing at him with a mischievous smile, “he’s punctual. Organized. A little too serious sometimes. But he’s also… dependable. The kind of guy you want around when things get messy.”
Martha’s eyes sparkled knowingly, and Jonathan chuckled into his tea. Clark ducked his head, ears turning red. “She’s exaggerating,” he muttered.
“Am I?” you teased. “You’re the one who makes sure I eat lunch on deadline days.”
Martha clapped her hands together, delighted. “Oh, I like you.”
Clark gave you a sidelong look that said thanks a lot but his mouth twitched like he was holding back a smile.
Halfway through dinner, Martha disappeared into the living room and returned with a thick leather-bound photo album. Clark immediately groaned. “Ma, no.”
“Yes,” she said firmly, setting it down in front of you. “If you’re bringing a girl home, she deserves to see the whole truth.”
Jonathan smirked. “Brace yourself.”
You opened the album eagerly. The first page showed a chubby-faced toddler Clark, cheeks smeared with chocolate cake. “Oh my God,” you breathed, grinning. “Look at those curls.”
Clark covered his face with his hand. “Please don’t.”
But Martha was already leaning over your shoulder, pointing out pictures with relish. “Here he is at five, trying to wear his father’s work boots. Couldn’t lift his feet an inch, but he insisted. And this one—oh, he was seven, insisted on wearing a cape made out of a pillowcase for an entire summer.”
You laughed so hard you nearly dropped your fork. “A cape? Really?”
Clark peeked through his fingers, groaning. “I was imaginative.”
“You were adorable,” you corrected. “Don’t fight me on this, Kent.”
Jonathan’s eyes twinkled as he added, “That pillowcase got more miles than our old truck.”
By dessert, you were wiping tears of laughter from your cheeks, and Clark was slumped in his chair like a man resigned to his fate. Martha set a fresh pie in the center of the table, looking utterly pleased with herself. “I like how she teases you,” she said to Clark. “You need someone who doesn’t let you get away with hiding.”
Clark shifted uncomfortably. “Ma…”
But her words lingered in the air, heavier than she probably intended. You glanced at Clark, catching his expression—the faint flush on his cheeks, the way his eyes darted toward you and away again. It sent a flicker of something warm through your chest, something that had nothing to do with pie.
Later, as you helped Martha clear the table, she leaned close and murmured, “he’s happy with you here. I can tell.”
You froze, a plate balanced in your hands. “Oh, well, we—” You caught yourself before stumbling over the whole truth. “He’s easy to be around.”
Martha smiled softly, knowingly. “That he is.”
When you returned to the living room, Clark was on the couch with Jonathan, who was recounting a story about Clark trying to build a treehouse as a teenager. Clark looked up as you entered, and for just a moment—barely a flicker—you saw it, the way his shoulders eased when his eyes landed on you.
Like he really was happy you were there.
And that was far more dangerous than any fake-dating rule you’d written down.
---
The Kent farmhouse was quieter at night than you were used to. In Metropolis, even at 2 a.m., you could hear taxis honking, people shouting, the hum of life never shutting off. Here, the silence felt different—peaceful, weighty, broken only by the chirp of crickets and the occasional low moo from the pasture.
You padded barefoot down the hallway, the floorboards creaking in that way old houses did. Clark was waiting near the back porch, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest. He looked… comfortable here, like part of the house itself, a boy who’d grown into a man but never really shed the soil of Smallville from his skin.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asked softly, pushing his glasses up.
You shrugged, joining him. “Too quiet. My brain keeps waiting for a siren or a car alarm.”
Clark chuckled, holding the screen door open so you could step outside with him. The night air was cool, carrying the smell of cut hay and earth. Above, the stars stretched endlessly, brighter than you’d ever seen them in the city.
For a moment you both just stood there, listening to the rustle of the breeze through the cornfields. Then you nudged him with your elbow. “So. Pillowcase cape, huh?”
Clark’s head whipped toward you, his expression stricken. “My mother—”
“—is a treasure,” you cut in, grinning wickedly. “And she told me everything. Little Clark, running around the farm with a pillowcase flapping behind him. Tell me, is that where the whole Superman aesthetic came from?”
He groaned, covering his face with one hand. “Please don’t.”
“No, really, it makes sense!” You leaned against the railing, smirking. “The cape, the heroics, the dramatic poses—it all started with a pillowcase. Honestly, I’m impressed. You’ve been workshopping the look since you were seven.”
Clark peeked at you through his fingers, his ears turning bright pink. “I’m never forgiving Ma for that.”
“You should thank her,” you teased. “If not for her laundry, the world would’ve been deprived of Superman’s fashion choices.”
“I can’t believe you’re making fun of me for this,” he muttered, but his lips betrayed him with a reluctant smile.
“Oh, I’m never letting this go,” you said firmly. “Next time you swoop in to save the day, I’m going to picture you in cowboy boots and a pillowcase.”
He laughed then, shoulders shaking, the sound low and warm. It curled in your chest, softer than you expected. He wasn’t embarrassed so much as he was… delighted that you were delighted.
The porch swing creaked as you sat, pulling your knees up and gazing out at the fields. Clark joined you, the swing dipping slightly under his weight. His arm brushed yours, just enough to make you aware of the heat radiating from him.
“It’s funny,” you murmured after a moment. “You always seem larger than life in Metropolis. But here…” You glanced at him, silhouetted against the starlight. “…you just seem like Clark. The guy who eats too many pancakes and folds under interrogation about breakfast.”
He turned toward you, his expression soft. “I like being just Clark. At least here, I don’t have to pretend as much.”
Something in the way he said it made your heart squeeze. You wanted to ask what he meant, wanted to push past the careful smile and the glasses he always seemed to hide behind. But you swallowed the question. Not tonight.
Instead, you bumped his shoulder with yours, light and teasing. “Well, for the record, I like just Clark. Even if his cape beginnings were tragic.”
His laugh was quiet, but his gaze lingered on you longer than it should have, like he was memorizing the way you looked under the stars.
The screen door creaked open, and Martha poked her head out, smiling knowingly. “You two don’t stay up too late now. Big day tomorrow.”
Clark’s ears went pink again. “Yes, Ma.”
When she retreated, you smirked. “She thinks we’re sneaking kisses out here.”
Clark nearly choked. “What? No—”
“Relax,” you said, fighting a grin. “I didn’t say we were. Just that she thinks we are. Which, honestly, is good for our cover.”
He shifted, visibly torn between mortification and agreement. “…I suppose that’s true.”
You leaned back, eyes twinkling. “Don’t worry, Kent. Your virtue is safe.”
Clark groaned. “You’re going to make this week unbearable, aren’t you?”
“Absolutely,” you said cheerfully. “That’s what fake girlfriends are for.”
But as the porch settled into silence again, you became aware of his hand resting close—too close—on the swing between you, your pinky brushing his knuckle every time the swing swayed. Neither of you moved. Neither of you acknowledged it.
And in that quiet, under the stars and the scent of hay, the line between fake and real grew blurrier than ever.
---
Clark was up before the sun. You should have expected that—farm boy habits die hard—but you hadn’t counted on him knocking softly at your door at seven in the morning, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slipping down his nose, looking far too awake for someone who’d been teased mercilessly the night before. “Sorry,” he said when you opened the door, still in your pajamas. His voice was low, almost sheepish. “Did I wake you?”
You blinked blearily at him. “You mean, aside from the rooster at five? No, you’re just the cherry on top.”
His lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. “I thought maybe we could get breakfast in town. If you’re up for it.”
You stared at him for a moment, then sighed dramatically. “You’re really milking this fake-girlfriend thing, huh?”
Clark’s expression faltered. “We don’t have to. I just thought—”
“I’m kidding,” you interrupted, fighting a grin. “Give me ten minutes. I’ll even make myself presentable for Smallville.”
He relaxed, the tension slipping from his shoulders. “You don’t have to—”
“Yes, I do,” you said firmly, shutting the door in his face.
Ten minutes turned into fifteen, but when you came down the stairs, Clark was waiting by the door, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He smiled when he saw you, warm and genuine, and for one terrifying second, you forgot this was pretend.
The drive into town was short. Clark’s truck rattled a little on the old roads, dust kicking up behind the tires, the fields stretching endlessly on either side. Smallville proper came into view, a few blocks of brick storefronts, a courthouse with a flag flapping in the breeze, a row of shops that looked like they hadn’t changed in fifty years.
Clark parked outside a diner with a faded sign that read Maisie’s, its front windows fogged from the smell of bacon and coffee. Inside, the bell above the door jingled, and immediately half the heads in the diner turned toward you. “Clark Kent!” an older man in a John Deere cap called from a booth near the window. “Well, I’ll be damned. Thought you were too high-and-mighty in Metropolis to remember us little folk.”
Clark flushed but smiled politely. “Good morning, Mr. Jenkins.”
“Morning,” the man said with a nod, eyes flicking to you. “And who’s this?”
Clark glanced at you, then back at the man, his voice a little tighter. “This is my girlfriend.”
It was the first time you’d heard him say it to someone outside his family, and the word landed strangely, heavy in the air. Girlfriend. Like it wasn’t borrowed or temporary. Mr. Jenkins let out a low whistle. “Well, ain’t you full of surprises, Kent.”
By the time you slid into a booth, whispers had already begun to ripple through the diner. You leaned across the table, lowering your voice. “You realize everyone in this town is going to know I exist within the hour, right?”
Clark’s smile was small, almost apologetic. “Yeah. Sorry. Gossip travels faster than tractors around here.”
“Fantastic,” you muttered. “By lunchtime, someone’s probably going to ask me when the wedding is.”
The waitress arrived then, a cheerful blonde who looked only a few years older than you. Her eyes widened when she saw Clark. “Well, if it isn’t Clark Kent! Back in town for the big wedding?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said politely.
“And who’s this?” she asked, smiling at you.
“My girlfriend,” Clark repeated smoothly, glancing your way. Something about the ease in his voice caught you off guard. It sounded natural. Too natural.
The waitress grinned. “Well, she’s prettier than the last girl you brought in here.”
Clark nearly choked. “There wasn’t—”
“She’s teasing,” you said quickly, rescuing him, though you were grinning. “Relax, Kent.” His cheeks went red, but he ducked his head, fiddling with the laminated menu. When the waitress left, you leaned your chin on your hand, studying him. “You get flustered so easily.”
“I don’t,” he protested weakly.
“You do,” you said, amused. “I’m starting to think this fake-dating plan was a bad idea. You’re going to blow our cover by turning red every time someone mentions the word girlfriend.”
Clark sighed, but there was a faint smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll get better at it.”
“I hope so,” you teased. “Because if not, I’m going to have to start kissing you just to make it believable.” His head snapped up, eyes wide behind his glasses. For a second, you thought he might drop his menu. “Kidding,” you said lightly, though your pulse betrayed you.
Clark muttered something that sounded like “not funny,” but his ears burned scarlet all the way through breakfast.
When the food came—pancakes stacked high, eggs, bacon—the smell alone made you sigh in delight. You dug in without hesitation, and Clark watched, amused, before following suit. “This is dangerous,” you said between bites. “If I lived here, I’d weigh two hundred pounds from this diner alone.”
“You’d get used to it,” Clark said with a chuckle. “Smallville’s good at simple comforts.”
He looked around the diner, his expression softening. Neighbors waved at him, old classmates stopped by to say hello, and through it all he introduced you—my girlfriend—with the same steady tone, each repetition settling deeper into your chest.
By the time you left, the bell jingling overhead again, you could feel eyes on your back, whispers trailing behind you like a ribbon. Smallville was watching.
After breakfast at Maisie’s, Clark offered to give you “the tour,” which seemed ridiculous—you’d seen the whole town from the truck window in under three minutes. Still, you didn’t protest. Watching him here was different, and you wanted to see more.
The sidewalks were cracked and uneven, lined with lampposts draped in faded bunting for the upcoming wedding. Storefronts had old-fashioned awnings, and the bakery window displayed heart-shaped cookies dusted with sugar. People waved as Clark passed, and he waved back, every smile warm, every handshake firm.
It was strange. In Metropolis, Clark blended in so well—quiet, unobtrusive, the kind of man you could overlook if you weren’t paying attention. But here, he was someone. Not flashy, not larger than life, but rooted. Known. Loved.
You were halfway down Main Street when a voice called out. “Clark? That you?”
A tall man in a plaid shirt strode across the street, grinning. Clark’s face lit up with recognition. “Pete,” he said, shaking the man’s hand. “It’s been a while.”
Pete glanced at you, curious. “And this must be…?”
Clark’s hand found yours before you even thought about it, fingers slipping between yours with easy confidence. “My girlfriend,” he said, the word so smooth it nearly made you stumble. “We came down for the wedding.”
Pete let out a low whistle, eyebrows raised. “Well, well. Clark Kent finally found someone. Don’t let him fool you,” he said to you, “he was the shyest guy in school. Could barely look a girl in the eye.”
You laughed, squeezing Clark’s hand just enough to make him squirm. “Some things never change.”
Clark groaned, but Pete chuckled and clapped him on the back before heading off, muttering about telling the whole town Clark finally grew a backbone.
As you continued down the street, Clark muttered, “you didn’t have to encourage him.”
“Oh, but it’s fun watching you squirm,” you teased. “Besides, you’re very convincing when you say girlfriend. Almost like you believe it.”
Clark stopped walking, his hand tightening around yours. For a heartbeat, he looked at you with an intensity that stole the air from your lungs. Then he cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and said lightly, “we should stop at the florist. Ma will want fresh flowers for the rehearsal dinner.”
You let him change the subject, though the word girlfriend still buzzed in your chest like static.
At the florist, an older woman behind the counter recognized him immediately. “Clark Kent, as I live and breathe! Haven’t seen you in years.” Her eyes slid to you, widening with interest. “And who’s this pretty thing?”
Clark’s voice didn’t even waver. “My girlfriend.”
The woman beamed. “Well, aren’t you two a pair. He’s always been such a sweetheart. You take good care of him, honey.”
You smiled politely, but when you caught Clark’s pink ears, you nearly laughed. “Don’t worry,” you said sweetly. “I plan to.”
Outside the shop, Clark groaned. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
“You’re not?” you asked, arching a brow.
He hesitated, lips parting as though he had something to say—something true, not part of the act. But then a car horn blared, and a group of locals waved from across the street, shouting greetings. Clark waved back, the moment gone.
By the time you made it back to the truck, you’d been introduced as Clark’s girlfriend half a dozen times. Each time, it slipped more easily from his tongue. Each time, it rattled you a little more. Sliding into the passenger seat, you buckled your belt and exhaled. “Well. That was exhausting.”
Clark laughed softly, starting the engine. “That was Smallville.”
You glanced at him, taking in the relaxed curve of his smile, the way the sunlight hit his profile. For all your teasing, he looked… happy. And that, you realized with a pang, was the most dangerous part of all.
---
The community hall in Smallville had been dressed to the nines for the rehearsal dinner, though it still bore the bones of a building that usually hosted county fairs and bake sales. White streamers looped from the rafters, strings of fairy lights cast a golden glow over folding tables covered in rented tablecloths, and someone had gone heavy on the mason jar centerpieces. The place buzzed with laughter, chatter, and the clinking of cutlery.
Clark walked in at your side, hand brushing yours, and instantly half the room turned to look. “Clark Kent!” someone called, and then there was a chorus of greetings, neighbors and old friends hurrying over.
You had seconds to brace yourself before you were introduced for what felt like the hundredth time that day. “This is my girlfriend,” Clark said smoothly, his hand sliding against your back with the ease of a man who’d been doing it forever. The word girlfriend rolled off his tongue too naturally. Too comfortably. Each time he said it, it landed in your stomach like a stone—and not in the way you expected.
The bride, a sweet-faced woman named Lucy who looked at Clark like he was still the boy who carried her books in high school, hugged him tightly before turning to you with eager eyes. “So this is the famous girlfriend! I was beginning to think he made you up.”
“Oh, I’m very real,” you said, smiling as Clark went red. “And Clark has been nothing but a gentleman.”
“Of course he has,” Lucy said warmly. “He always was.”
The groom—broad-shouldered, with the air of a man used to tractors and long days in the sun—shook your hand firmly. “Brave of you, coming to Smallville with this one. Everyone’s gonna talk.”
You laughed lightly, squeezing Clark’s hand beneath the table as you all sat down. “Let them. I can handle it.” Clark’s glance was quick, but his eyes were warm.
Dinner was served family-style, platters of fried chicken and bowls of mashed potatoes passed around the tables. Clark helped fill your plate before his own, a small gesture you noticed more than you should have.
The conversations flowed easily at first—neighbors asking Clark about Metropolis, about the Planet, about his parents. Then, inevitably, the spotlight shifted. “So,” an elderly aunt asked, leaning forward with sharp eyes. “How did you two meet?”
Clark froze. You felt it in the way his shoulders stiffened, the way his hand under the table tightened around yours like a lifeline. He was going to stumble. You could see it coming. You jumped in. “We worked late on a story together. He brought me coffee, I brought him dinner, and the next thing I knew we’d been accidentally dating for weeks.” The table chuckled approvingly, the aunt nodding as if you’d passed some kind of test. Clark exhaled, sending you a grateful look that made your stomach twist. But the questions didn’t stop.
“What was your first date like?” someone else chimed.
You opened your mouth, ready to spin another tale, but Clark surprised you. His voice was quiet, steady. “It was simple. Dinner, conversation. I remember thinking I didn’t want the night to end.”
The table cooed. You stared at him, caught off guard, because he wasn’t embellishing. He wasn’t grinning or winking like he was playing a part. He was looking at you with a softness that felt alarmingly real. Your heart skipped.
The music started after dinner, a local band striking up a tune that was more enthusiasm than skill. Couples drifted to the dance floor, laughing, clumsy but joyful. “Dance with me?” Clark asked suddenly, his hand outstretched.
You blinked. “Clark, people are watching.”
“That’s the point,” he said, though there was a nervous edge to his smile.
Reluctantly, you let him pull you up, his hand settling warm and careful at your waist. The band played something slow, the kind of song that made small-town folks sigh and sway. At first, you were hyper-aware of every step. His palm against your back. The way his thumb brushed lightly as if by accident. The heat of his body so close to yours.
But then the room blurred. The chatter and laughter faded. There was only Clark, his eyes behind the glasses searching yours like he was memorizing you. “You’re good at this,” you said softly, trying to lighten the moment.
“I’m trying not to step on your toes,” he admitted, smiling faintly.
“You’re doing fine.”
The song stretched on, and neither of you pulled away. His hand was steady, his touch gentle, but the way he held you—it didn’t feel fake. It didn’t feel like a performance for the town. And you knew he felt it too, because when the song ended, he didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered at your waist, reluctant, like he hadn’t quite remembered this was supposed to be temporary.
Applause rippled through the hall as couples clapped for the band. You and Clark stepped back quickly, both a little flushed. “You’re enjoying this too much,” you teased, though your voice wasn’t as steady as you wanted.
Clark’s smile was soft, almost shy. “Maybe I am.” And that was the problem. Because maybe you were, too.
The hum of the truck filled the silence, a low steady sound as Clark steered them down the two-lane road back to the farm. The headlights carved pale cones into the dark, catching glimpses of cornfields stretching endlessly on either side. The town lights had faded in the rearview, leaving nothing but Kansas night sky—vast, jeweled with stars, endless.
You leaned back in your seat, still warm from the glow of the rehearsal dinner. Your hair smelled faintly of fryer oil and wildflowers from the centerpieces, your cheeks still held the flush of laughter and dancing. And yet, for all the noise and chatter of the evening, this silence felt louder.
Clark’s hand was loose on the wheel, but his knuckles were pale where he gripped it tighter than necessary. “You did good,” you said finally, breaking the quiet.
He glanced at you, puzzled. “Good?”
“Convincing,” you clarified. “Not even a single stutter when you called me your girlfriend.”
His mouth twitched. “Practice makes perfect.”
“Practice, huh?” you teased, tilting your head to study him. “Well, if you keep this up, you’re going to make half of Smallville jealous. There were at least three women tonight who looked ready to throw me out the window.”
Clark groaned softly, adjusting his glasses. “Don’t say that.”
“It’s true,” you pressed, amused. “You really didn’t notice? They were practically glaring daggers. And Lucy? She nearly swooned when you walked in.”
“She’s married,” Clark protested.
“Doesn’t mean she’s blind.” That earned you a startled laugh, deep and genuine. It rolled through the truck, warm enough to loosen something tight in your chest. The road stretched on, the stars overhead brighter than anything the city could offer. You found yourself watching him instead of the fields—the relaxed way he held himself here, shoulders a little looser, smile a little easier. And then, because you couldn’t resist, you said, “so, Kent. About that dance.”
He stiffened almost imperceptibly, eyes fixed on the road. “…What about it?”
“You didn’t seem like a man faking it.”
His jaw worked, but he didn’t answer right away. The truck’s engine filled the silence, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter. “I wasn’t trying to fake anything.”
The words sat between you, heavy, undeniable. You swallowed, suddenly very aware of your pulse. “Clark…”
He cut you a glance, something raw flickering in his eyes before he turned back to the road. “I just meant—it was nice. That’s all.”
You wanted to push, to ask what nice meant when his hand had lingered at your waist, when his eyes had looked at you like you were the only thing in the room. But the farmhouse lights appeared in the distance, saving him from having to say more—and saving you from having to admit you weren’t sure you wanted this to stay fake anymore.
Martha had left the porch light on, warm and welcoming. The moment the truck rumbled into the driveway, you exhaled like you’d been holding your breath the whole ride. Clark parked, cut the engine, and for a long moment neither of you moved. Finally, he cleared his throat. “You don’t have to come out to chores tomorrow if you don’t want to. Most people don’t find feeding chickens relaxing.”
You smiled faintly, grateful for the reprieve. “I’ll think about it.”
When you stepped out of the truck, the cool night air rushed around you, carrying the scent of hay and summer. Clark walked you up the steps, his hand brushing against yours in a way that couldn’t be accidental, not anymore.
At the door, you paused. “Goodnight, Clark.”
He hesitated, his mouth opening like he wanted to say something more. But all he managed was a quiet, “goodnight.” You slipped inside, heart racing, leaving him on the porch with the night sky and whatever thoughts he couldn’t quite bring himself to voice.
---
The smell of coffee drifted up the staircase before sunlight even fully crept through the curtains of your guest room. By the time you stumbled downstairs, hair mussed and still tugging on a sweatshirt, Clark was already at the stove, spatula in hand. He glanced up at the sound of your footsteps, smiling in that calm, easy way that made you feel like mornings weren’t so bad after all. “Morning,” he said. “I made pancakes.”
Of course he did. You sat at the table, wrapping your hands around a steaming mug of coffee. “Do you ever not make pancakes?”
“They’re easy,” he replied simply, sliding a plate stacked high onto the table. “Besides, Ma says I’ve been hooked on them since I was five.”
You took a forkful, begrudgingly admitting they were good—fluffy and warm, just sweet enough. Clark watched you like he was waiting for a verdict, and when you gave him a satisfied hum, his whole face brightened. “See? Worth it.”
After breakfast, he offered to show you around the farm, which apparently meant actual chores. You protested—halfheartedly—until he handed you a pair of boots and led you out into the yard. The Kansas sun was already hot, beating down on fields of tall corn and stretching pasture. The barn loomed ahead, red paint faded but sturdy, and the distant lowing of cows echoed across the property. Clark walked like he’d done this a thousand times, easy and relaxed, while you tried not to trip over uneven ground in borrowed boots. “You’ll like this part,” he said, leading you toward the chicken coop.
The smell hit before you saw them. A dozen or so hens clucked and strutted around the pen, feathers ruffling, beady eyes watching like tiny sentries. Clark opened the gate with practiced ease, stepping inside. You hesitated at the threshold. “They look… aggressive,” you muttered.
“They’re harmless,” Clark promised, grabbing a tin bucket of feed. “Come on.”
Against your better judgment, you stepped in. The hens crowded closer, clucking louder, pecking at the dirt near your boots. “See?” Clark said reassuringly. “They just want food. Here.” He handed you a scoop of feed. “Scatter it on the ground, not on yourself.”
You tossed a handful of feed nervously, and the chickens surged forward. One particularly bold hen—a plump white one with a sharp little beak—made a beeline for you. Your eyes widened. “Clark. Clark, it’s coming at me.”
He barely looked up from scattering his own feed. “She’s fine. Just toss it further away from you.”
“She’s not fine! She’s charging!” The hen flapped its wings and darted closer, pecking eagerly at the ground right by your feet. You yelped, stumbling backward and nearly dropping the bucket. “Clark!” you shouted, scrambling toward him. “Do something!”
Finally looking up, Clark tried—and failed—to hide his grin. “She’s just curious.”
“She’s a demon,” you shot back, clinging to his arm as the hen advanced again. “That thing is going to kill me.”
Clark laughed then, full and unrestrained, the sound echoing across the yard. He gently nudged the hen away with his boot, then steadied you with his free hand, warm and solid against your waist. “You’re safe,” he said, still chuckling. “I promise.”
You glared at him, though your heart was thudding from more than just the chicken attack. “You think this is funny?”
“A little,” he admitted, eyes twinkling. “I didn’t know you were afraid of chickens.”
“I’m not afraid,” you insisted, scowling. “I just have… a healthy respect for animals with sharp beaks.”
Clark’s smile softened, though it lingered at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from all terrifying poultry during your stay.”
“Gee, thanks, Kent. You’re my hero.”
His expression shifted almost imperceptibly at that—something flickering in his eyes, something you couldn’t quite name. He looked at you a beat too long before clearing his throat and stepping back, releasing your waist.
“Come on,” he said, voice a little rougher than before. “There’s more to see than just chickens.” Clark led you out toward the pasture after depositing the empty feed bucket back at the barn. The air smelled of grass and sun-warmed earth, and the low, steady sounds of cattle drifted over the fence line. “You’ll like this better,” he said, leaning his arms casually over the wooden fence. “Cows are easier than chickens. Slower. Friendlier.”
You eyed the herd suspiciously. Half a dozen big, lumbering animals grazed lazily in the field, tails flicking. They didn’t look dangerous, but they also didn’t look like creatures you wanted charging at you. “Friendlier?” you asked doubtfully. “They’re huge.”
Clark smiled, the kind of patient, good-natured smile that was annoyingly reassuring. “Just follow my lead.”
He swung the gate open and gestured for you to follow. Reluctantly, you stepped in after him, boots sinking into the soft dirt. The cows barely acknowledged your presence—until one of them, a massive brown one with a curious face, lifted its head and started walking toward you. You froze. “Clark.”
He glanced back at you. “What?”
“It’s coming this way.”
“That’s okay,” he said calmly. “They’re curious animals. Just stand still.”
The cow picked up speed, ears flicking forward. Your heart lurched. “Clark, it’s not walking. It’s charging.”
“It’s not charging,” he said, though his brow furrowed now. “She probably just wants to sniff you.”
“Sniff me? Clark, she’s the size of a car!”
By now the cow had broken into a lumbering trot. Instinct kicked in—Clark moved in front of you, his arm shooting out like a protective barrier. For a split second, you thought he was going to push you down out of the way. Instead, the cow barreled straight into him. The impact was less of a crash and more of a giant, clumsy bump, but it was enough to knock Clark off-balance. He stumbled backward—into you—and the two of you went down in a heap onto the grass.
The world tilted, your breath whooshed out, and suddenly you were flat on your back with Clark sprawled half over you, his glasses askew, his face inches from yours. For a moment, neither of you moved. The cow huffed once, sniffed Clark’s jacket, then wandered off with a flick of its tail, entirely unconcerned. You blinked up at him, stunned. “Did Superman just get taken out by a cow?”
Clark groaned, pushing himself up on one elbow, his hair sticking up from where it had been mussed in the fall. “Don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m starting,” you said, laughter bubbling up uncontrollably. “The man of steel, the hero of Metropolis, flattened by Betty the cow.”
His ears went pink. “Her name’s Daisy.”
That only made you laugh harder. “Even better.”
Clark rolled off to the side with a sigh, flopping onto the grass beside you. He pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, muttering, “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”
“Not a chance,” you said, still giggling. “If the chickens didn’t take you out, at least the cows did.”
He turned his head toward you then, and despite your teasing, his expression was soft. His glasses were crooked, his cheeks flushed, but there was something in his gaze—something warm, unguarded—that made your laughter catch in your throat. “Glad I broke your fall, at least,” he murmured.
The words hung there between you, heavier than they should have been. You swallowed, your heart pounding far too fast for a moment that was supposed to be funny. You forced a smile, breaking the tension. “Don’t flatter yourself. The cow did all the work.”
Clark chuckled, shaking his head, but his eyes lingered on you a beat too long before he sat up and offered you his hand. As he pulled you to your feet, steadying you easily, you realized something unsettling: for all the jokes and the pratfalls, falling with him—literally—didn’t feel like a mistake. It felt like the most natural thing in the world.
By the time you and Clark trudged back up the dirt drive, you were both dusted in grass stains and flecks of dry earth. His jacket was smeared with a suspicious streak of mud, and your hair was sticking out in directions you didn’t think hair could manage.
Martha was waiting on the porch. The second she saw the state of you, her eyes widened, then narrowed in the way only a mother’s could. “What on earth happened to you two?”
Clark winced. “The cows.”
“The cows?”
“They, uh… got curious,” he said diplomatically, shooting you a warning glance not to elaborate.
You ignored it. “One of them full-on tackled him.”
Martha’s hand flew to her mouth, stifling a laugh. “A cow tackled you?”
“Bumped into me,” Clark corrected quickly, color rising in his cheeks. “It wasn’t—”
“She flattened him,” you cut in, grinning. “And took me down too, by the way. So much for Superman—small-town livestock is apparently his one weakness.”
Clark groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
“Not in a million years,” you said sweetly.
Martha was still smiling as she ushered you both inside. “Well, I hope you had the sense to laugh about it. Jonathan always said the farm humbles everyone eventually.”
You kicked off your boots by the door, muttering, “some of us more than others.” Clark shot you a look but didn’t argue.
Upstairs, you tried to fix your hair in the guest room mirror, but it was a lost cause. A gentle knock sounded on the door, and when you opened it, Clark stood there with a damp towel in one hand and a sheepish expression. “Thought you might need this,” he said, holding out the towel. His hair was still mussed, a little dirt streaking his jaw. He looked less like the put-together reporter you knew in Metropolis and more like… Clark.
“Thanks,” you said, taking it from him. “You’ve got grass in your hair, by the way.”
He reached up blindly, fumbling at the wrong spot. “Here.” Without thinking, you reached up and plucked the stray blade of grass from his dark curls, holding it out between your fingers. His breath hitched, just faintly. He smiled, soft and lopsided. “Guess I lost the fight, huh?”
“You lost to a cow, Kent,” you reminded him, grinning. “There’s no coming back from that.”
“Technically, you went down too,” he pointed out.
“Details,” you said quickly, fighting to keep your tone playful even as your heart thudded.
His eyes lingered on yours for a beat too long. The air between you seemed to hum with something unsaid. You stepped back first, breaking it with a forced laugh. “Anyway. Go clean yourself up before your mom decides we can’t be trusted unsupervised.”
Clark chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Good idea.”
---
Morning broke bright and clear over the Kent farm, sunlight spilling across the fields like it had been ordered special for the occasion. Inside the farmhouse, however, it felt less like a tranquil Saturday and more like a staging area for a major operation.
Martha was already bustling about the kitchen before either of you made it downstairs, humming as she packed pie and potato salad into carefully labeled containers for the reception. Jonathan was outside, making sure the truck was clean, muttering something about “showing up respectable.”
And then there was Clark. You stopped short in the hallway when you saw him in the mirror by the coat rack, fumbling with his tie. His dress shirt was crisp, sleeves rolled up to his elbows while he tried—and failed—to wrangle the silk knot into something passable. His brow was furrowed in concentration, glasses slipping down his nose. He looked unfairly handsome. “You’re going to strangle yourself,” you said finally, stepping into the room.
Clark looked up, flustered, and immediately shoved his hands into his pockets like you’d caught him in something compromising. “It’s… fine. I’ve got it.”
“You don’t,” you said, laughing softly. “Come here.”
He hesitated, then stepped toward you. The tie hung loose against his chest, and you slid your fingers along the fabric, tugging it free. The scent of his cologne—something subtle, woodsy—drifted around you as you worked. “Stand still,” you murmured, looping the tie neatly. “You wear these every day and you still don’t know how to tie one?”
“I usually don’t rush,” he admitted, watching your hands. His voice was quieter now. “Guess I’m nervous.”
Your eyes flicked up to his. “About the wedding?”
“About all of it,” he said simply.
Something in your chest tightened, but you didn’t push. You finished the knot, smoothing it down against his shirtfront, your fingers lingering longer than necessary. “There,” you said softly. “Now you look like you could charm a whole town.”
Clark gave you that boyish smile that still managed to undo you. “Thanks.”
Before you could step back, Martha appeared in the doorway, beaming. “Well, don’t you two look nice.”
Clark immediately straightened, ears turning pink. You, however, only smiled. “Your son cleans up well.”
Martha winked knowingly. “He does.”
The rest of the morning blurred into a whirlwind. Martha insisted on fussing over your hair, pressing bobby pins and a sprig of baby’s breath into it like you were family. Jonathan handed Clark a fresh boutonniere, clapping him on the shoulder. “You two ready?” he asked as he grabbed his jacket.
“As we’ll ever be,” Clark said, glancing at you with a smile that felt like it was meant just for you.
The truck ride into town was quieter than usual. You smoothed your dress nervously in your lap, feeling the weight of what was coming. Clark’s hand rested casually on the seat between you, close enough that the back of your hand brushed his every time the truck hit a bump. Neither of you moved it away.
By the time the church came into view—white clapboard, steeple stretching into the sky, steps already crowded with guests—you were acutely aware of every eye that would be watching you today. Not just strangers. Clark’s entire world. Clark parked, turned off the engine, and looked at you. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. Just… looked. Like he was memorizing you. Finally, he said, quiet and certain, “we’ll be fine. As long as we stick together.”
You swallowed hard, forcing a smile. “Together. Got it.”
When he offered his arm, you took it. And as you walked toward the church doors, the weight of his hand steady against yours, it was impossible not to wonder if this—this closeness, this ease—was really something you could just pretend.
The church was packed. Benches creaked as families crowded in, dressed in their best Sunday clothes. Ceiling fans whirred overhead, stirring the faint scent of flowers from the bouquets lining the aisle. The organ player struck up a cheerful hymn while chatter swelled, punctuated by the rustle of paper programs and the occasional shush from an impatient grandmother.
Clark guided you toward a pew near the front, his hand pressed lightly against your back. Heads turned as you walked—neighbors, childhood friends, people who clearly remembered Clark Kent as the lanky boy who once tripped over his own shoelaces at the harvest festival. Now, here he was, with you. “Don’t look now,” you murmured as you slid into the pew beside him, “but we’re officially the second-biggest event at this wedding.”
Clark adjusted his glasses, pretending to study the program. “They’ll get over it.”
“Will they?” you whispered, glancing at the row of ladies behind you, all of whom were leaning close and whispering as they stared. “Feels like we’re about to be written into the town newsletter.”
That earned you a faint, amused smile. “There’s no newsletter.”
“Oh, please. Every town has a newsletter. Even if it’s just Mrs. Henderson calling everyone after Sunday service.” He huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t argue.
The music swelled, and the bride appeared at the back of the church, radiant in lace and satin, her father beaming proudly at her side. Everyone stood. Clark rose smoothly, tugging you up with him, his hand curling around yours where it rested against the pew.
Through the ceremony, you felt the weight of that hand, steady and warm, grounding you. Every time you shifted, every time your nerves prickled under the gaze of curious neighbors, he squeezed gently, as though reminding you: I’m here. You’re not alone.
The vows were sweet, the kind only small-town sweethearts could make—filled with promises of “forever” and “home” and “nothing fancy, just us.” The bride’s voice trembled as she said “I do,” and the groom grinned like he’d won the lottery.
Something tugged at your chest then. You glanced sideways at Clark. He was watching intently, his expression soft in a way that made your stomach flip. For a moment, you wondered what his vows would sound like—what promises he would make, who he would look at with that same quiet devotion.
The kiss was met with applause, cheers echoing through the church. As everyone settled back into the pews, Clark leaned close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “They look happy,” he murmured.
You nodded, forcing a smile even as your heart did a strange little twist. “Yeah. They do.”
When the ceremony ended, the couple walked back down the aisle, hands clasped, faces shining. Guests followed in pairs, spilling into the sunlight. Clark offered his arm again without hesitation. As you looped yours through his, someone behind you whispered, just loud enough, “don’t they make a picture?”
Another voice replied, “Martha must be over the moon.”
You felt the flush creep up your neck, but Clark only squeezed your arm a little tighter, leading you out into the bright Kansas day like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The crowd spilled out of the church in a blur of chatter and laughter, guests making their way toward the hall where the reception would be held. Martha and Jonathan disappeared into the throng, happily stopping to greet old friends. The bride and groom were swarmed with congratulations, a blur of white lace and wide smiles.
Clark guided you through the press of people, his hand firm against your back, until you slipped around the corner of the church into the shade of a big oak tree. The sudden quiet was almost startling after the crush of voices. You leaned against the rough bark, tugging at the hem of your dress. “Is it always like this here? Everyone staring like they know your business before you do?”
Clark chuckled softly, adjusting his tie. “Pretty much. Smallville doesn’t have secrets. Just… stories waiting to spread.”
“Great,” you muttered, glancing around to make sure no one had followed. “By now, half the town has us married with three kids.”
His lips curved into a smile, but he didn’t look at you right away. Instead, his gaze lingered on the sunlight spilling across the fields beyond the churchyard. “Would that be so bad?”
You blinked. “What?”
Finally, he turned toward you. There was no teasing in his eyes, no smirk—just something earnest and steady, the kind of look that made your throat tighten. “I mean,” he said quickly, a touch of color rising in his cheeks, “I’m not saying… I just—” He broke off, raking a hand through his hair. “Forget it.”
You tilted your head, studying him. “Clark.”
He sighed, shoulders slumping. “You make this whole thing feel… easier than I thought it would. That’s all.”
The words sat heavy in the air, more than they seemed at first glance. Your pulse quickened. You forced a light laugh, trying to ease the tension. “Well, you picked the right fake girlfriend. I’m very convincing.”
But Clark didn’t laugh. He stepped a little closer, the sun catching in his dark hair, his glasses slipping slightly down his nose. “Yeah,” he said softly. “You are.”
For a heartbeat, it felt like the world held its breath. The quiet hum of cicadas in the grass, the faint murmur of voices around the corner—it all faded until there was just him, so close you could see the flecks of grey in his eyes. Then the church doors burst open, and a gaggle of bridesmaids spilled out, their laughter shattering the moment. Clark stepped back instantly, clearing his throat, tugging at his tie like it had betrayed him. “Reception time,” he said, his voice steadier than his expression.
You pushed off the tree, heart still racing. “Right. Reception.”
The reception hall was already buzzing by the time you and Clark arrived. Fairy lights twined along the rafters, mason jars filled with wildflowers lined the tables, and the smell of fried chicken and barbecue lingered in the air. A local band tuned their instruments in the corner, testing notes that rang out sharp before melting into twangy chords.
As soon as Clark stepped through the door at your side, a ripple went through the room. Heads turned. Smiles widened. It was subtle, but you felt it—the way people were watching, whispering. “Here we go again,” you muttered, leaning closer to him.
Clark’s lips quirked faintly. “They mean well.”
“Sure,” you said. “Until one of them asks when we’re having kids.”
You barely had time to catch your breath before Martha appeared, beaming as she drew you both toward a cluster of relatives. Jonathan trailed behind, more subdued but no less proud. “This is her,” Martha announced warmly to a group of older women who looked like they’d been waiting for this exact moment. “The girlfriend I told you about.”
The women descended like hawks.
“Oh, isn’t she lovely.”
“Clark, you clean up nice, don’t you?”
“Look at the way he’s holding her hand—so sweet.”
You smiled politely, answering questions about how you met, what you did for work, what Clark was like at the office. Every time you stumbled, Clark jumped in smoothly, filling the gaps, his voice steady. And each time he said my girlfriend, the words felt heavier, pulling at something inside you.
Dinner was a blur of chatter and food passed down long tables. You barely managed a few bites of potato salad before the bride’s uncle leaned across to ask, “so how long have you two been together?”
“Four months,” you answered quickly, sticking to the story.
“Four months?” The man grinned. “Well, I’ll say this—he looks at you like it’s been forty years.”
Your fork froze halfway to your mouth. Heat crept up your neck, and when you dared to glance at Clark, he was staring fixedly at his plate, ears red. The band struck up a lively tune, and the chatter shifted to laughter as couples drifted toward the dance floor. The bride and groom took the first spin, twirling under the string lights while the crowd clapped in time. Then the music shifted to something slower, sweeter. “Go on,” Martha urged, nudging Clark toward you. “Don’t just sit there. Dance with her.”
Clark hesitated, but when you raised your brows in challenge, he sighed and offered his hand. “Would you like to dance?”
You let him lead you to the floor. His palm slid to your waist, warm and steady, and your hand rested against his shoulder. For a moment, the chatter around you dimmed. The music swelled, and Clark moved with a surprising grace, guiding you easily. You tried to focus on the swirl of couples around you. But the weight of his hand at your back, the gentleness in his touch—it didn’t feel fake. Not one bit.
The song ended, but Clark didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered, reluctant, until the band launched into a faster tune and the floor filled with laughing dancers. Only then did he step back, clearing his throat. Before you could recover, the bride’s voice rang out. “Bouquet toss!”
A gaggle of women gathered in the center, cheering. You were herded into the group before you could protest, Clark grinning as he leaned against the wall to watch. “This is ridiculous,” you muttered, glancing back at him.
He only shrugged, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Tradition.”
The bride tossed the bouquet high, petals scattering. It arced through the air, and before you could even think, it landed squarely in your hands. The crowd erupted in cheers. Someone shouted, “looks like Clark’s next!”
Your face burned. Clark’s ears went pink, but he laughed, shaking his head. He crossed the floor toward you, slipping an arm around your waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Guess that’s our cue,” he murmured.
You looked up at him, bouquet clutched in your hands, your heart thudding far too fast for something that was supposed to be a joke. “Don’t get any ideas, Clark.”
The cheers still hadn’t died down after the bouquet toss. People were laughing, clapping, shouting things like, “better start ring shopping, Clark!” and “don’t let her get away!”
Clark groaned softly, though his arm stayed firmly around your waist. “I told you this would happen,” he muttered, his voice low, just for you.
“Oh, don’t blame me,” you shot back, clutching the bouquet like a weapon. “You’re the one who grew up in a town that treats weddings like a spectator sport.”
Before he could answer, someone in the crowd called, “kiss her, Clark!”
The chant caught like wildfire. “Kiss her! Kiss her!”
Your heart stopped. You looked up at him, wide-eyed, panic prickling your chest. This was supposed to be pretend—handholding, dancing, smiles for his parents. Not this. Clark froze too, his grip tightening at your waist as if to anchor himself. His eyes flicked to yours, searching, questioning. “What do we do?” you whispered, your throat dry.
“They’re not going to let it go,” he murmured, voice taut with nerves. “If we don’t—” He didn’t finish the sentence, but you both knew what he meant.
You swallowed hard. “So we…?”
His Adam’s apple bobbed as he nodded. “Only if you’re okay with it.” Your pulse thundered in your ears. The crowd’s chant grew louder, impatient. Clark’s hand slid from your waist to the small of your back, pulling you gently closer. “It’s just for show,” he whispered. “Right?”
“Right,” you breathed, though it sounded anything but convincing.
And then he kissed you.
It was tentative at first, careful—like he was afraid to push too far. His lips brushed yours, soft and warm, a touch that should have been fleeting. But the second your mouth met his, the world seemed to tilt. The noise of the reception hall faded. The cheers dimmed. All you could feel was Clark—solid, steady, trembling faintly like he was holding back something bigger.
Your fingers curled against his chest before you even realized what you were doing, holding on like you didn’t want it to end. He deepened it just enough, the faintest pressure that sent your stomach flipping.
Then it was over. Too soon. The hall erupted into applause and whistles, but you barely heard it. Clark pulled back, his forehead brushing yours for a dizzying second before he straightened, his glasses askew, his cheeks flushed red.
The crowd roared, satisfied, moving on to the next round of dancing. But you stood there, bouquet still clutched tight, your lips tingling, your heart in your throat. Clark leaned close, his voice low and rough. “Guess that sold it.”
You forced a shaky laugh, though your hands still trembled. “Yeah. Totally believable.”
But as you looked up at him—at the way his eyes lingered on you like he couldn’t quite look away—you both knew the truth.
It hadn’t felt fake at all.
---
The farmhouse was quiet when you returned from the reception. The drive back had been filled with the low hum of the truck and little else. Clark had kept his eyes on the road, hands steady at the wheel, but you noticed how his knuckles were tight on the leather. You didn’t speak—didn’t dare—because every word you thought to say came back to the same impossible thing: the kiss.
You lingered in the living room with Clark, the faint tick of the old clock filling the silence. He pulled at his tie, loosening it, and you pretended to smooth the wrinkles out of your dress though your hands were still trembling faintly. Neither of you mentioned the kiss. “Long day,” he said finally, voice quiet.
“Yeah,” you agreed. “Your whole town knows my life story now.”
His lips quirked faintly, but the humor didn’t quite reach his eyes. “They’ll forget in a week.”
You snorted. “You don’t actually believe that.”
For the first time since you’d left the reception, his gaze lingered on you—steady, searching. Your heart tripped. Then he looked away, running a hand through his hair. “You should get some rest. Tomorrow’ll be busy too.”
“Right.”
You both moved at the same time toward the staircase, falling into step side by side. It felt like a scene from a play you hadn’t rehearsed, every move too careful, every breath too shallow. At the top of the stairs, the hallway stretched in two directions—his room one way, the guest room the other. You turned first, gripping the doorknob. “Goodnight, Clark.”
He hesitated, his hand resting on his own doorframe. “Goodnight.” His voice caught just slightly on the word, low and rough, like there was more he almost said.
You held his gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Something unspoken pulsed between you—louder than any words you could’ve managed. Then you slipped into your room and shut the door softly behind you.
Leaning back against it, you let out the breath you’d been holding. On the other side of the wall, you swore you heard him do the same. Something had changed. Neither of you named it, neither of you touched it—but it hung heavy in the air between your rooms, undeniable and terrifying.
And maybe… thrilling.
---
Sunlight slanted through the curtains when you woke, soft and golden, carrying the faint crow of the rooster outside. For a moment, you just lay there, staring at the ceiling, the weight of the previous night pressing down. The laughter, the bouquet, the kiss—the kiss most of all.
You dressed quietly, smoothing your hair, then padded down the creaky staircase. The smell of coffee and frying bacon filled the air. Martha was at the stove, humming, her apron dusted with flour. Jonathan sat at the table, paper folded neatly, coffee steaming in front of him.
Clark was already there, of course. Shirt sleeves rolled, hair still damp from a shower, glasses slightly fogged from the steam rising off his mug. He glanced up as you entered, and for a split second his eyes softened—then he quickly looked back at his plate. “Morning,” Martha greeted cheerfully, sliding a plate of eggs onto the table for you. “Sleep well?”
“Fine,” you said, sliding into the chair opposite Clark.
Jonathan’s eyes twinkled over the rim of his paper. “You both look a little tired. Long night?”
Heat rushed to your cheeks. Clark coughed into his coffee. “Reception ran late,” he said smoothly.
Martha’s smile was quiet, knowing. She didn’t press, but when she set the plate in front of you, her hand lingered on your shoulder, a gentle squeeze. Breakfast passed in near silence, punctuated only by the clink of silverware and Martha’s occasional chatter about neighbors or crops. Every now and then, you caught Clark glancing your way, then quickly dropping his gaze. The air between you was different now—charged, careful, like neither of you knew how to step without breaking something fragile.
When the last of the dishes were cleared, Martha dried her hands on her apron and turned toward you both. “You’ll be heading back today?”
Clark nodded. “Yeah. We should get on the road before it gets too late.”
Martha smiled, but there was a softness in her eyes, a weight in her voice. “Well, we’re glad you came. Both of you.”
Jonathan folded his paper, looking at Clark. “Drive safe.”
The goodbyes on the porch were warm, lingering. Martha hugged you tightly, whispering, “Come back soon.” Jonathan shook your hand with a firm squeeze, then pulled Clark into a rough hug that spoke volumes. And then it was just you and Clark, back in the truck, the farmhouse shrinking in the rearview mirror. For a long while, neither of you spoke. The road stretched ahead, dust rising behind the tires, the Kansas sky vast and endless. Finally, you said, lightly, “so. That went well. No one threw tomatoes. No one questioned our act.”
Clark’s hands tightened faintly on the wheel. “It wasn’t an act to them.”
You glanced at him. His jaw was tight, his gaze fixed straight ahead. Something in his voice made your chest ache. “Clark…”
He shook his head, cutting you off gently. “I just mean—they believe it. That’s what matters.”
You wanted to argue, to ask if that was really what he meant, but the words tangled in your throat. Instead, you leaned back in the seat, staring out the window at the fields rushing by.
The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. Not exactly. It was something else—full, heavy, brimming with all the things neither of you were saying. And as the city skyline of Metropolis eventually came into view, you realized one thing with terrifying clarity: leaving Smallville didn’t mean leaving this behind. Whatever had shifted between you… it was coming home, too.
---
The Daily Planet was just as loud and chaotic as when you’d left it. Phones ringing off the hook. Perry barking orders from his office. Reporters weaving between desks with half-empty coffee cups and stacks of notes. It was as if the world hadn’t paused at all while you were gone.
But you had.
You slipped back into the rhythm easily enough—sorting through emails, drafting headlines, scribbling notes on the pad by your desk. Clark sat across from you, glasses in place, tie neat, typing with steady precision. Everything looked exactly as it had before. And yet, nothing felt the same.
You didn’t talk about Smallville. You didn’t talk about the kiss. You didn’t talk about the way his hand had steadied you during vows, or the way the town had cheered when his lips touched yours. Instead, you talked about work. Sources. Deadlines. The article due by end of day.
Normal.
Except every so often, when you glanced up, you caught him looking. Not at you—not exactly. At your lips. His gaze would linger for half a second too long before flicking guiltily back to his monitor.
The first time, you almost convinced yourself you imagined it. The second time, your pulse jumped, and you immediately ducked your head, pretending to rifle through your notes. By the third time, you couldn’t ignore it anymore. You set your pen down, leaning back in your chair, fixing him with a look. “Do I have ink on my face or something?”
Clark startled, blinking behind his glasses. “What? No. Why?”
“Because you keep staring,” you said lightly, arching a brow. “At my face. My mouth, actually.”
Color crept up his neck, blooming hot across his ears. “I—I wasn’t—” He pushed his glasses up in a flustered motion, fumbling with his tie like it had suddenly betrayed him. “I was just—thinking. About—about the article.”
You bit back a smile. “Right. The article on zoning ordinances that’s apparently written across my lips.”
His expression was priceless—caught between mortified and desperately trying to regain composure. He ducked his head, typing furiously, as if the clacking of keys could drown out the truth.
You watched him for a moment longer, your heart thudding, then shook your head and turned back to your own screen. Neither of you said anything more, but the silence buzzed, alive, charged with everything left unsaid.
Later, as the office bustled around you, you caught yourself glancing at him too. At the curve of his mouth, the softness in his smile when he thought no one was watching. And you hated to admit it, but you weren’t thinking about zoning ordinances either.
The next few days slipped into routine again. Deadlines, coffee runs, editing sessions where Perry barked orders from behind his glass office door. On the surface, everything was exactly as it had been before Smallville.
But beneath it, the air between you and Clark buzzed differently. It started with little things. Reaching for the same file at the same time, your fingers brushing briefly over his. Neither of you pulled away as fast as you should have. Walking back from the copy machine, his hand at the small of your back to guide you through the crowded bullpen. You didn’t shrug it off, and he didn’t remove it quickly enough. Leaning over his desk to point out a typo on his notes, your shoulder pressed against his. You swore you felt him stop breathing for a second.
And through it all, Clark was Clark—earnest, soft-spoken, trying desperately to pretend nothing was different. But he was also terrible at hiding the way his eyes lingered. Sometimes you’d catch him staring not at your face, but at your lips, and the pink in his ears would give him away instantly when you tilted your head like you’d caught him red-handed. “Problem?” you’d ask innocently.
“No,” he’d mutter, ducking behind his screen.
And still, the cycle repeated. It didn’t help that people were starting to notice. One afternoon, Jimmy stopped by your desk with a grin. “So, uh, when are you and Kent gonna make it official?”
Your pen froze mid-sentence. “What?”
Jimmy’s grin widened, oblivious. “Oh, come on. You two have been joined at the hip for weeks. Everybody’s talking about it.” You opened your mouth, ready to protest, but across the bullpen you caught Clark’s reaction—his chair jerking upright, his tie tugged nervously, ears bright red. Jimmy laughed. “Oh, I get it. Playing it cool. Respect. But seriously, don’t wait too long, or someone else might swoop in.” With a wink, he sauntered off, leaving you staring after him with your pulse hammering.
You turned back to your desk slowly, only to find Clark watching you. The moment your eyes met, he dropped his gaze, fiddling with his glasses like the frames themselves had betrayed him.
The rest of the day was torture. Every glance felt weighted, every brush of contact charged. Even simple things—sharing a pot of coffee, exchanging notes—seemed to hum with the memory of that kiss in Smallville.
By the time the office emptied for the night, you were both wound tight with unspoken words. You gathered your things, slinging your bag over your shoulder. Clark stood too, smoothing his tie, clearly debating whether to say something. But he didn’t. He only offered a small, quiet smile. “See you tomorrow.”
You nodded, forcing your voice to sound normal. “See you tomorrow.” As you walked away, you felt his gaze on your back. Warm. Lingering. Like he was holding back an entire storm of feelings he didn’t know how to let loose. And the worst part? You realized you were doing the same.
---
It was nearly midnight when you heard the knock at your apartment door.
You’d been curled on the couch, still awake despite the late hour, nursing a half-empty mug of tea while the city hummed faintly outside your window. The knock startled you—not loud, but steady, unmistakable.
When you opened the door, Clark stood there. He looked… disheveled. His hair mussed, his shirt rumpled, a faint smear of dirt across his jaw like he’d just come from something he didn’t want to explain. His tie was missing, his sleeves rolled unevenly. And his eyes—those soft, steady eyes—were brighter than usual, like he hadn’t been able to talk himself out of whatever had driven him here.
“Clark?” you asked, confused. “It’s late. What are you—?”
“I—I’m sorry,” he blurted, shifting on his feet. “I didn’t mean to wake you, if you were—were sleeping. I just—”
He broke off, pushing his glasses up his nose, then immediately dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. “I couldn’t—go home without—”
“Clark,” you said gently, stepping back to let him in. “You’re rambling. Come inside.”
He hesitated only a second before stepping past you. You closed the door, watching as he hovered awkwardly in your living room, as if unsure whether to sit or stand, whether he belonged here at all.
“You look like you wrestled a tornado,” you teased softly, trying to ease the tension.
“Something like that,” he muttered, not meeting your eyes.
You tilted your head. “What’s going on?”
Clark’s jaw worked as if he were chewing over the words. He started pacing, slow and deliberate, like movement might untangle the knot in his chest. “I’ve been trying to ignore it,” he admitted, his voice low, rough. “Back at the office, on the drive home, even in Smallville, I told myself it was just—pretend. That it didn’t matter.”
Your heart thudded. “Clark…”
He stopped pacing, finally looking at you. His expression was raw, unguarded in a way you’d never seen before. “But it does matter. More than I thought it could.”
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. “What are you saying?”
Clark’s hands flexed at his sides, restless. “I want to kiss you again.” The words tumbled out, fast, like he’d been holding them back for too long. “I know we said it was fake—that it was just for show. But I can’t stop thinking about it, and I—” His voice faltered, his cheeks flushing as he pushed on. “I don’t want the only time I kissed you to be in front of everyone else. I want it to be real. Just… between us.”
The silence stretched, heavy with everything unsaid. You stared at him, at this man who could hold up the weight of the world but still stood here, shifting nervously like a boy confessing a crush. Your heart hammered in your chest, every nerve alive. Slowly, you stepped closer, close enough to see the faint streak of dirt still smudged across his cheek, the way his breath caught when you moved.
“Clark,” you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips despite the way your pulse raced, “for someone who can fly, you really are terrible at subtlety.”
His laugh was shaky, breathless. “I know.”
You reached up, brushing your fingers lightly against his jaw, the smear of dirt soft beneath your touch. “Then stop talking.”
And before he could overthink it, you leaned in.
This kiss was different. Not hesitant, not for show, not careful under the eyes of a crowd. This was heat and softness and everything you’d both been holding back. His hands came up, cupping your face as if you were something fragile and precious. Your fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he went willingly, melting into you with a sigh that made your knees weak.
When you finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, foreheads pressed together.
“That,” Clark whispered, his voice low and reverent, “that’s what I wanted.”
You smiled, your heart racing. “Good. Because I think I want it too.”
cw : 18+ MDNI; pillow humping, mentions of clark's superpowers, slight size kink, praise kink, soft!clark. reader and clark aren't virgins but they haven't had sex together before.
You’d been restless all day, tossing and turning on your bed while waiting for Clark to come back. The house felt too quiet without him in it, too big, like the walls pressed in when his steady warmth wasn’t there. You tried reading, tried scrolling through your phone, but none of it worked. Your body was buzzing with nervous energy, the kind that left your skin hot and your thoughts circling back to him every other second.
Clark, with his broad shoulders and shy smile. Clark, who kissed you like you were made of glass but held you like he might never let go. Clark, who’d never been in your bed in that way yet.
The ache between your thighs wouldn’t be ignored.
You pressed your face into the pillow with a muffled groan. Maybe if you just rubbed a little, just to take the edge off—
It wasn’t supposed to turn into this.
One shift of your hips, and you were gone. Your breath caught when the seam of the pillow brushed over your clit just right, heat sparking low in your stomach. You pressed harder, dragging your hips against the fabric again, and the relief was so sharp you moaned before you could stop yourself.
Your hands fisted in the sheets, clinging like you needed the anchor. You rocked your hips in slow, desperate circles, the pillow catching perfectly where you needed it most. Your thighs trembled already, the hunger sharper than you remembered, and it felt so good to imagine Clark being the reason why.
“Clark,” you breathed into the pillow, testing his name on your tongue like a secret. The sound only made you hotter.
You lifted your hips and ground down harder, faster now, chasing it. Your damp panties made the slide easier, every drag over your clit sending jolts of pleasure through you. You buried your face deeper in the sheets, trying to stifle the whimpers spilling out, but they kept breaking free — high, needy, wrecked.
If he were here, you thought, he’d be watching you with those wide blue eyes, lips parted like he couldn’t believe what you were doing. He’d touch you, hold you down, make you say his name again and again—
The thought alone nearly undid you. Your hips stuttered, movements growing frantic, desperate, chasing that sweet edge as your whole body arched into the pillow.
You’re so close it hurts. The pillow is damp beneath you now, each desperate roll of your hips dragging you right up to the brink. Your thighs shake, your breath coming out in ragged, helpless gasps as you bury your face into the sheets.
“Please…” you whisper to no one, your voice breaking on the word as if you’re begging for permission.
And Clark hears it. Every muffled cry, every desperate gasp — carried straight to him through the night with that cursed, blessed super-hearing.
For one suspended heartbeat, he forgets everything else: the city, the noise, the weight of the world. There’s only you. Only the sound of your body breaking apart on your own.
By the time he reaches your apartment, his chest is heaving, not from the sprint — he never tires — but from the rush of heat in his veins. Super speed means he doesn’t miss a second. He sees you trembling over the pillow, hips grinding, so close to falling apart that his own knees nearly buckle.
And god, he’s grateful. Grateful that he got here in time to watch the moment you give in.
You don’t hear him at first. You’re too far gone, too close, too desperate as you rock against the pillow. Your moans are breaking into little cries, high and breathless.
Then—
“Sweetheart…”
You jolt, your hips stilling, shame rushing through you like fire when you lift your head. Clark’s standing in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame, his voice soft but weighted. He’s flushed in a way you’ve never seen before, his eyes glowing in the low light.
“Clark—I—”
“I couldn’t… not hear you.” His throat bobs as he swallows, gaze dragging down your body, lingering where you’re trembling against the pillow. “God, you sound so beautiful when you’re like this.”
Your face burns. “I wasn’t—”
“You were.” His voice rumbles like a storm, but he steps closer, slow, steady, like he doesn’t want to spook you. He kneels by the bed, his huge hand coming up to cup your cheek. “I should’ve turned around, given you privacy. But I couldn’t walk away, honey. Not when I heard you.”
You shiver at his honesty, at the raw awe in his eyes. “I just… missed you.”
Clark’s chest tightens. He presses his forehead to yours, his smile breaking soft and reverent. “I missed you too. More than you know.”
When he kisses you, it’s deep, slow, grounding—his hands cradling your face like you’re breakable glass. You whimper, clutching his shirt.
“Show me how much you want this,” he whispers, his breath shaky. “Let me take care of you.”
Your pillow is forgotten. You nod.
Clark undresses with deliberate slowness, as if giving you time to change your mind, but your eyes can’t stop widening as each layer drops—broad chest, sculpted abs, everything about him too much in the best way.
And then he’s hovering over you, his hands braced on either side of your head. His sheer size eclipses you, his frame shadowing yours.
“Clark…” your voice breaks when your eyes trail down between you both.
He follows your gaze, cheeks flushed, voice low and almost sheepish. “I know, honey. I’m… bigger than you’re used to.”
Your thighs clench, nerves twisting with want. “Will it… fit?”
His heart clenches. He presses kisses across your face, your neck, down your chest. “We’ll take it slow. I’ll make it fit. You don’t have to worry—I’d never hurt you.”
When he finally presses inside you, it’s everything—stretching, burning, overwhelming. You cry out, clutching his shoulders, and he stops immediately.
“Talk to me, sweetheart. Too much?” His voice is soft, panicked almost, his thumb brushing tears you didn’t realize fell.
“Just—full,” you gasp, trying to breathe around it. “Clark, don’t stop.”
His groan is raw relief. “God, you’re perfect. Taking me so well. Look at you, sweetheart—so tight, so good for me.”
He moves slow, deliberate, every thrust careful, his praise endless. “That’s it, baby. You feel incredible. You’re all mine, and I’ve got you. Always.”
When you finally cum, it’s with a sob, overwhelmed by him, stretched and cherished all at once. Clark holds you through it, whispering in your ear, kissing away every sound.
And when he follows, it’s with your name on his lips like a prayer.
After, he doesn’t let go. He pulls you onto his chest, tucking you under his chin. His hands rub lazy circles on your back.
“You don’t ever have to hide from me,” he murmurs, kissing your hair. “If you need me, for anything—just call. I’ll hear you.”
gosh i cannot stop thinking about what kissing clark kent is like
clark, with his soft voice and softer smile. clark, who looks at you like the world begins and ends with you.
and every kiss with him starts slow, sweet, bordering on shy little pecks before he gets a little braver and starts to hold you like you carry the light of the yellow sun in your heart.
his hands are always warm. you swear he runs hotter than the rest of the world. he is warm, the same way the summer air is warm, just as the sun starts to set, that comfort lives somewhere just beneath his skin, seeping through the fabric of your clothes.
he holds you like it’s second nature, like his body was made to know yours. one hand cradles the side of your neck, broad fingers spread gently across the back of it, grounding and protective, sending a jolt of thrill down your spine.
his thumb moves in slow, absent-minded strokes along your jaw, tracing the shape of you like you’re something he never wants to forget. the pad of it brushes the curve beneath your ear, then glides along your cheek, as if he’s coaxing your face toward him with nothing but tenderness.
his other hand settles low at your waist, fingers resting just above the dip of your back. he draws you in without force, just a steady pull, soft and sure. he likes to keep you close enough to feel your heart beat against his.
he likes to hold you with one hand, cupping the side of your neck, fingers splayed across the back of it, gentle touch at the nape, his thumb caressing your jaw lovingly. his other hand rests at your waist, nearing the small of your lower back so he can pull you close and closer if he wants.
and then his lips, gosh, those soft, full, plush lips, moulding with yours. he tilts his head just a little to kiss you, those curls shifting with his movements.
clark only pulls away to look at you, it’s like he can’t help himself. his gaze lingers on your lips before it climbs back to your eyes, all soft and starry. he leans in again just enough for his nose to brush against yours. it’s a small, playful nudge. he does it again, just to see your smile start to pull at the corners of your mouth. you try to stay still, to meet his gaze with mock sternness, but it’s useless. he always gets it out of you—that shy, quiet laugh, the one that bubbles up before you even realize it.
you shake your head, barely, and murmur something like “you’re ridiculous,” but your hands are already reaching for him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt like they’ve done this a thousand times.
you tug, gently but with purpose, pulling him in, and he follows your touch like gravity. his body leans into yours again, his hand at your waist tightening, fingers pressing into the dip of your back until there’s no space left between you.
he exhales through his nose just before your mouths meet again, a sigh caught halfway between a laugh and a moan, like he’s been holding his breath waiting for this.
when his lips find yours again, it’s slower this time. deeper. needier. his mouth parts beneath yours enough to invite you closer; an open door you’re already halfway through.
he sighs into your lips, letting his breath mix with yours, letting his hand at your waist tug you even closer if that's possible. his lips part open just enough to invite you in and deepen the kiss, which you do without hesitation, of course.
your tongue presses past the soft seam of his lips, slipping through the smallest space between his teeth. he squirms.
just the slightest shift of his shoulders, a barely-there gasp caught in his throat, like he wasn’t ready for it, even though you do this every time. you always find his tongue with yours in that same way. and he always acts like it’s brand new, like it takes him by surprise.
you huff out a laugh against his mouth, and his fingers twitch at your waist in response. he pretends he’s not just as flustered as you are.
you press your tongue between the gap of his teeth, huffing out a laugh when he squrims, every single time, the moment your tongue finds his between the press of your lips.
clark doesn’t just kiss with his mouth, by the way. he kisses with his entire body. he loves to press into you with every inch of himself: with the curve of his shoulders as they dip into yours, the line of his chest as it meets the rise of your own, his hands, his breath, the subtle tremble that runs down the length of his spine
he presses into you like he’s trying to become something smaller, something moldable, something soft enough to be held, and not feared. every inch of him seems to lean forward, like he’s being drawn to you without choice, like your touch rewrites gravity, like he wants to crawl into your chest and make a home in between your ribs, beside your beating heart.
he makes these quiet, barely-there sounds as he kisses you—little hums low in the back of his throat, hushed and breathy and almost shy, like they’re slipping out against his will. they’re the kinds of sounds that feel secret, just for you, tender things that fall apart in the space between your mouths.
and he likes to talk sometimes, actually, he really likes to talk, especially when he’s kissing you. not before. not after. no, right in the middle of it. lips still lazily slotted against yours, breath catching in that soft space between moan and mumble, words tumbling out all muffled into your mouth like his brain can’t help but share whatever’s swirling in it, even if it’s completely useless.
and half the time, it is.
you’ll be midway to melting into him, half a second from sighing his name into his mouth, hands moving to run through his hair, and there he goes—muttering about laundry or whispering a quick “can y’remind me to call ma back later?” in the same breath he’s using to kiss your bottom lip.
sometimes, it’s sweet. so sweet you want to cry a little—the way he’ll suddenly whisper a soft, breathless “you’re so beautiful,” right into your mouth. other times, you’re trying to decipher something about how he finally remembered to pick up that weird milk you like with your coffee after work, the one he’s forgotten to grab three days in a row. you try not to laugh into the kiss, but you do, every single time.
but god forbid you ever try to say something mid-kiss.
maybe it’s something stupid, like a joke you forgot to tell him earlier or something silly jimmy and lois got into at work today. maybe you just want to say “i missed you,” or remind him that the oven’s still on—but he doesn’t care. not in that moment.
he’ll nod, pretend to listen, let out these soft hums of encouragement like he’s totally invested. “mhm,” he’ll say, eyes fixed on your lips, watching the way they move. catching every flick of your tongue. every flash of your teeth.
he tries. he really does. but his patience is paper-thin, and the moment you pause to breathe, he’s already leaning in again.
“baby,” he’ll whisper, voice low and warm and soaked in affection, “can we talk later?”
his hand comes up to your cheek again, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, gaze drifting from your eyes back to your lips and then back again.
and listen, he does that thing where he looks right into you. eyes soft and pleading, blue as a spring sky just before rain, his lashes heavy, his smile barely there. it’s not fair.
he says your name like it’s the most precious word he knows, like he’s afraid it might fall apart in his mouth if he says it too fast. and just like that, whatever you were going to say is gone, the thought evaporating into the heat between your bodies, replaced by the ache of wanting to feel his mouth back on yours.
Clark had always known he was big. It was the first thing anyone ever said about him, even as a boy—tall for his age, broad-shouldered, built like he belonged to some older century. He’d been careful his whole life, trained by experience to minimize himself. To keep his strength folded inward, hidden beneath polite smiles and lowered voices. He broke things easily. He frightened people without meaning to. He had learned not to reach too quickly, not to hold too tightly, and not to exist too loudly. Even before the powers revealed themselves—before he could melt steel or see through walls or hover two feet off the hayloft floor—he had been a boy afraid of his own hands.
But she never looked at him with fear. That was the part that undid him.
She didn’t flinch when he moved. She didn’t step back to see him better—she stepped closer, as if proximity made him less impossible. Her gaze never flickered to the width of his chest or the breadth of his shoulders with caution; she tilted her head back and looked at him like he was a sunrise breaking over the horizon. Not a threat. A marvel. Her lips parting just slightly, eyes widening—not with apprehension, but with something soft and unguarded, something almost worshipful.
He remembered the night she borrowed his sweatshirt—some old thing from college, sun-faded and loose, the cuffs frayed from too many winters. He hadn’t thought much of it, just draped it over her shoulders when the evening air grew cool. But then she’d tugged it on, and the moment caught like a snare in his throat.
It dwarfed her.
The sleeves hung well past her wrists, the hem brushing her thighs. The collar slipped wide, exposing one shoulder, bare skin, and delicate against the worn cotton. She hugged herself in it with a lazy, contented sigh and murmured something like, “Smells like you,” as if that wasn’t a weapon. As if she didn’t just speak the words that would echo in his mind for the rest of the night like a church bell in a hollow room.
Something shifted then—not loudly, not visibly. Just the subtlest crack across a lifelong restraint. A thread pulled from a tight seam. He hadn’t known he could want something so quietly. I hadn’t known desire could be so soft, so reverent.
He was meant to be gentle. Polite. Considerate to the point of disappearing. That’s what Ma had always told him—don’t give people a reason to be afraid of you. And he never had. But watching her swim in his sweatshirt like it was made to drown her, watching the way she curled into him at the end of the night like she belonged there—it made his restraint feel suddenly cruel. Like denying something holy.
It started subtly. He'd brush his knuckles along her cheek and pause longer than necessary, caught in the way her skin fit beneath his touch like porcelain molded to the cup of his hand. He’d place his hands on her waist and feel how his fingers could nearly meet at her spine. When he kissed her—slow, cautious, always asking permission in every breath—he couldn’t stop noticing the way he had to lower his head so far just to reach her mouth, how she rose onto the tips of her toes to meet him halfway, as if it were a dance they’d always known the steps.
It started slowly—because with Clark, it always had to. Not out of hesitation, not anymore, but out of respect. Out of reverence. Because she was something fragile in a world that too often begged him to crush. He kissed her like a man undoing a knot he didn’t know had been tied around his throat for years, hands trembling not from nerves but restraint—always restraint. And she let him, whispering promises against his skin, coaxing him out of hiding with nothing more than soft sighs and the unspoken vow that she wanted him, all of him, exactly as he was.
He entered her with his brow furrowed and lips parted, breath stalling somewhere between disbelief and awe. She was so warm. So tight. So small it made his eyes flutter shut. Her body gripped him like she’d been carved to hold him and only him—soft and impossibly snug, like her form had folded itself around the shape of him.
He exhaled her name like a prayer, his forehead pressing to hers, his chest heaving. “God… sweetheart…” The words bled from him, disjointed, barely tethered. “You’re—Jesus, you’re so…”
Her arms were wrapped around his neck, lips brushing his jaw, her body trembling beneath him as she adjusted, as she took him inch by inch, whispering that it was okay, that she wanted it, that she could take more if he gave her time.
But time was a thing Clark always had in excess. So he gave her all of it.
He moved slowly—agonizingly so—rocking into her with deliberate caution, holding her hips steady as though she might vanish if he gripped too tightly. The room was silent save for the rustle of sheets and the broken, wet sound of her breath catching every time he pushed a little deeper, stretched her a little further. Her thighs shook around his waist, clinging to him, and her nails dug into the broad planes of his shoulders in a desperate attempt to hold onto something real—to ground herself against the weight of him.
And then it happened.
It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t something he even realized was possible. He drew his hips back and then sank into her again, this time deeper—just a little deeper—and she let out this sound, a high, gasping sob that stole the air from his lungs. His eyes dragged downward, across the slick heat of her chest, her stomach fluttering beneath him—and he stilled.
There, just above her navel—faint but visible, pressing out against the soft curve of her belly—was him. His cock. The shape of it, a protrusion that shouldn't have been possible, that wasn't supposed to happen. And yet there it was, plain and devastating and real.
His breath hitched, eyes widening with something close to disbelief. “Oh my—” he broke off, swallowing hard. His palm spread across her stomach, large and trembling, and when he pressed gently—just gently—he felt himself beneath the skin. He felt her flutter around him in response, whimpering beneath his touch.
He blinked down at her, lips parted, utterly speechless.
“You—you can see me,” he whispered, his voice cracked open with reverence, like he was witnessing something divine. “I’m inside you, and—Christ—you can see me.”
Something in him—whatever dam he’d been clinging to, whatever fragile thread of self-control he’d kept taut through years of carefulness—snapped.
He didn’t mean to. But he pushed.
Not rough. Not cruel. But deeper. With intention.
She gasped, fingers clawing at his back, and the bulge pressed up again, more prominent now, her stomach tightening beneath his palm. His hips stuttered. Then rolled again.
And he watched.
He watched himself move inside her.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he groaned, his voice thinned to a whisper, desperate and adoring. “Look at you. Look what you’re doing. Look what you’re taking.” He kissed her—sloppy, fervent, too full of feeling—and when he pulled back, there was something glazed over in his eyes. Something wrecked.
He wasn’t holding back anymore. Couldn’t. Not with her moaning beneath him like this, not with her belly rising to meet his hand, not when the very thing he’d spent a lifetime shrinking from now made her cry out in pleasure. In praise.
His rhythm grew rougher—not violent, but fuller. More grounded. Each thrust deeper, more deliberate, chasing that moment over and over again—not for dominance, but because the sight of himself inside her had ruined him. Shattered him. And he needed to see it again. And again. Her belly bulging, fluttering under his hand like her body was trying to hold all of him but couldn’t quite manage it—and he loved her for trying.
She sobbed his name. Not in pain. In disbelief. In stunned pleasure.
And Clark—Clark, who had been taught to hide every ounce of his strength, who had been taught to be soft and careful and small—gripped her hips, pressed his forehead to hers, and let go of every lie he’d ever told himself about needing to hold back.
“You’re made for me,” he panted, brokenly, as her body pulsed and squeezed around him. “Look at you—you’re made for me.”
And she was.
And he took.
He should have stopped. He should have slowed, steadied, and reminded himself that he was too much for anyone—always had been. But the sight of her beneath him, trembling and flushed, the deep arch of her back, the wet sheen between her breasts, the way her stomach lifted with every punishing thrust like her body was giving him proof of what he was doing to her—it was too much. Too much beauty, too much proof, too much love. He’d never seen anything like it. He had never imagined anything could make him feel like this—so wrecked, so reverent, so on the edge of feral.
He was fucking into her hard now—hips snapping, thighs taut, every movement carving a deeper place for himself inside her. She was clinging to him with everything she had, legs wound tight around his waist, nails biting into his back as she moaned and sobbed his name against the hollow of his throat. Her voice was breaking, slipping into incoherence, her body straining to take him, to hold him, to keep him inside—and it only made him want to give her more.
His palm splayed across her lower stomach again, feeling the bulge with every thrust, watching her flesh rise and fall beneath his hand like he was moving inside a body too divine to be real.
And he couldn’t stop.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped, brokenly, his forehead pressed against hers, his voice cracking like glass. “I’m sorry, I—God, sweetheart, I’m—” another thrust, deeper this time, dragging a high whimper from her throat, “I don’t mean to—I can’t help it. You feel—fuck, you feel too good.”
And he did mean it. He was sorry—not because it hurt her, because it didn’t. Because she was moaning, her body trembling around him, her face a vision of overwhelmed bliss—but because he knew he wasn’t being gentle. He knew he was driving into her with too much force, too much want, because the sight of her taking him was undoing him. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the obscene, gorgeous swell beneath her navel, where he could seehimself inside her. It was like something sacred. Like watching a prayer be answered in real time.
His hand slid up her body, cradling her ribcage, his thumb brushing under the curve of her breast as he fucked into her again, the mattress groaning beneath them. Her body jolted with every thrust, soft gasps tumbling from her lips, her head thrown back in helpless surrender.
“You’re so small,” he whispered, reverently, as though in awe of his own undoing. “You’re so perfect—I’m sorry, I just—I need to see it.” His voice trembled. “I need to feel it.”
And he did.
He thrust in again, harder than he meant to, watching the bulge rise again under his hand, impossibly vivid and obscene, and he groaned—deep, low, and animal—something closer to prayer than pleasure. “Jesus, baby,” he breathed, kissing her temple, her cheek, and her open mouth, “I can feel myself inside you. I can see it—look at you. You’re taking all of me. All of me.”
She was shaking, breathless, her thighs twitching around him, hips arching like her body didn’t know whether to run or pull him deeper. Her lips were red and parted, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes, but she wasn’t crying from pain—no, it was something else. Something more. Something he understood, because it was tearing through him, too: the overwhelming pleasure of surrendering to something bigger than both of them.
“You’re doing so good,” he choked, kissing her, letting his thumb stroke along her jaw. “So fucking good, baby—so good for me, letting me in like this.”
And still—he couldn’t stop moving.
Couldn’t stop the way his hips kept rolling forward, chasing that same motion, needing to feel that resistance and watch the way she swelled to accommodate him. His cock dragged along her walls, dragging wet, fluttering sounds from deep inside her, and she keened—Clark—her voice raw, her body arching like she was about to break apart beneath him.
“I know, I know,” he murmured against her mouth, breath hot and ragged, “I’m sorry, I know it’s too much—but I can’t stop, baby, I can’t—you’re letting me, you’re—God.”
Another thrust. Another bulge. Another wave of strangled pleasure curling up his spine like fire.
He wanted to live here—in this moment, in this body, in this girl who took everything from him and begged for more, who looked at him not like he was dangerous, but divine. She didn’t flinch. She opened. She let him see himself in her—on her—and Clark, for the first time in his goddamned life, wasn’t scared of what he saw.
