Hello all! This blog is still relatively new, and I don't have a whole lot of written works out there, but I think I'm starting to gather enough that perhaps someone might want to go looking for them so I'm making this masterlist! I have never done this before so it will most likely be very ugly, but let's just call this a placeholder until I get a proper collection of works together, shall we?
Summary: You're exhausted after a long day, but you're awake enough for Bucky.
Word Count: Over 1.1k
Warnings: Established relationship, oral sex (f. receiving), unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), pet name (sweetheart), mild dirty talk, slight feels, mention of being a housewife, breeding kink if you squint, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).
A/N: Just a rambling thot I wanted to share. We'll call this a Sex(y) Saturday rambling. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!
You’re exhausted after multiple exhausting weeks in a row.
Bucky’s footsteps are gentle as he goes to the bedroom since you aren’t in the living room to greet him. He groans when he sees you facedown on the bed in nothing but your underwear, but there’s an edge of concern because you know he sees the weariness in your body. “Ready for me, sweetheart, or just a long day?”
You try to lift your head. “Both?” Your original intention was to seduce him because who wouldn’t want to seduce Bucky Barnes? But you ended up collapsing on the bed once most of your clothes were off. “And as much as I want you to fuck me, I’m too exhausted to move,” you mumble into the blanket.
“Poor thing. You work so hard. One day I’ll convince you to quit.” You hear the familiar rustling of clothes coming off. He wanted you to quit your job weeks ago. “You just relax,” he urges, the mattress dipping under his weight. “Let me do the work.”
A tired giggle slips out. “Okay, Bucky. You do the work.” He could offer to give you a massage, but you both know it would lead to him fucking you. It always does.
The loving partner that he is, he rolls you onto your back so he can kiss your lips, his stubble tickling your skin. It isn’t just a kiss. It’s hunger laced with desperation, tenderness wrapped in devotion. As tired as you are, it awakens the need inside you and itches to break through your skin.
Before you can make a sound, he flips you back on your stomach and tears your underwear away. He manhandles you easily with his strength, lifting your hips and sliding his fingers through your folds. “So wet already and all I did was kiss you,” he murmurs, your cheeks burning because you know he’s staring at your pussy like he discovered the world’s greatest treasure. “What did I do to deserve you?”
And then he attacks.
Your heart is hammering against your chest as his mouth and fingers work you over, his tongue swirling in a maddening way that has you moaning his name. He’s relentless, pressing deep and teasing your clit until your thighs tremble. You shriek when he smacks your ass, gripping the flesh and groaning as he continues to enjoy his meal. You need him to make you come, fuck you, whatever he’ll give you.
He’s your devil and your god.
“That’s it. Just let me do the work,” he encourages you, his fingers curling and earning a muffled cry from you. “Exhausted and still need my cock.”
“No!” you sob when he takes his fingers out, but he takes mercy on and presses the head of his cock to your soaked entrance.
“Yes,” he growls, driving into you in one deep thrust. You can only scream into the mattress and fist the blanket when he moves. He stretches your walls in ways that make you ache and need more. “Fuck, you look so perfect when you take it.”
He’s a man of his word, making sure you don’t have to do any of the work. He pulls your hips back, making you take every delicious inch of him. His thrusts are so hard and deep that it takes the very air from your lungs. But what brings the tears to your eyes is his back draping over yours, his hand covering yours in a way that makes you feel loved and owned.
“Love you, sweetheart. Love that you’re mine,” he rasps in your ear and you can only whine, his words and thrusts creating endless sensations that keep crashing over you. “Say it.”
How are you supposed to speak when you can barely form a coherent thought? “Love you, Bucky… I’m yours,” you manage because you do and you are.
He moans with delight, somehow driving even deeper into you, spurred on by your declaration. “Taking my cock so well. And you’ll take every drop after I make you come,” he praises, nuzzling your neck when he finds your clit and rubs it fast. Pleasure coils tight, making you start to spiral. “Just let go.”
You shatter with a broken cry, your back arching as much as it can with him pinning you down. He doesn’t let up as you gush around him, your eyes fluttering as he makes you ride it out. It’s dizzying, leaving you breathless. He bites down on your neck when he fills you up after a few more thrusts, marking you inside and out. You’re panting, even though all you did was take it, and he’s careful not to crush you with his weight.
“I don’t like you being exhausted, but that was hot,” he teases, only taking himself when he has to and you whine instantly from the loss. You don’t want him to leave your body, don’t want to waste a single drop of your mixed release. “You okay?” he adds, moving you on your back again, your body boneless as his hands roam all over you.
“I’m okay,” you whisper, smiling tiredly up at him. You aren’t sure how you’re still awake, but he looks refreshed, his steel eyes sparkling. It could be the serum that makes him bounce back so quickly, but you like to think it’s thanks to his love and need for you.
“That’s my girl,” he whispers fondly, leaning into your touch when you reach up to touch his cheek. There’s a smirk on his face when he kisses your palm, and your eyes widen when his cock is suddenly back inside you. Super soldier rebound rate is insane, and each of your holes have been thoroughly wrecked because of it, but you can take it. “Shh. Just relax. Let me keep doing the work,” he urges again, his lips brushing yours. “And let me convince you to quit your job.”
“What?” you ask. At least, you think you ask. You’re pretty sure it came out like a pleasurable sound instead of a word. And why is he bringing that up again?
“You’ll be too busy feeling me for days to do anything else by the time I’m done with you,” he promises, rolling his hips, your hands barely gripping his arms. His hair falls in his eyes and he smiles when you moan. “You just stay home, keep my cock warm, and have my babies.”
You gasp. You could keep his cock warm day and night. The two of you would have beautiful babies.
“Your company doesn’t deserve you.”
No, they don’t.
“I’ll convince you,” he groans, leaning down to kiss your breasts. “Right before I fuck you to sleep.”
Summary: Bucky doesn’t know how to sleep, how to let go, how to be touched softly. But tonight, you show him.
Word Count: 5.2k
Warnings: 18+ (mdni); explicit sexual content (oral m receiving); ptsd; post-mission trauma; insomnia; heavy emotional intimacy; crying during intimacy; mentions of scars and past violence (Bucky’s past with Hydra); discussions of self-worth; aftercare; slight sub!Bucky; Bucky is needy; Bucky is sensitive
Author’s Note: Yeah, so, I’ve been craving Bucky lately, what can I say. And I just need him to feel good. Also, I thought you lovely people might be in the mood for a little more smut from me, so here it is. I hope you enjoy!! But, minors please stay away.
Masterlist
You are lying on your back. The cotton sheets are a halo around your hips, and in your hand is a book cracked open. You are trying to get some reading done while waiting for Bucky to come out of the bathroom. The pages tremble every time the air conditioner groans awake in the corner, mechanical lungs inhaling and exhaling with a kick.
Outside, the moon throws silver knives across the floor.
The glow from your nightstand lamp is cozy, nearly sticking to your skin, as if it hasn’t recognized it’s supposed to dry down and let you breathe. It pools in the hollows of your collarbones, smears across the fabric on your chest
Bucky’s boots are still by the door. His mission suit somewhere under the chair, your socks abandoned by the bathroom tiles. The world feels suspended here, breath caught in the throat of time, as though the clock has paused to listen in.
Bucky climbs into bed in a way that makes you feel he’s apologizing for taking up space. As though he’s afraid the mattress will throw him off. As though he doesn’t know how to live in a moment that isn’t trying to kill him.
His hair is damp from a too-quick shower, smelling like your soap. The fabric of his shirt is soft and black and barely holding on to the heat of him. He pauses, hesitates, looks at you with eyes that do not know how to rest. Eyes the color of a storm that’s already passed, but left the sky wounded. Bruised.
You feel him. Before he even touches you.
The mattress dips, sags, droops under his weight. And then he’s on you, crawling over you - careful, always so careful - cool metal brushing against your thigh. The rest of him is all heat and history. He lowers himself onto you, across you, over you, as though as if he’s attempting to become something less than his size. His forehead digs into your ribs. His body bends over yours, and he exhales a sigh against your skin.
You don’t say anything first. You keep reading, your eyes pretending to follow the words, your fingers curled in the page crease. But you feel everything. Every twitch of his breath. Every tremor of thought. The way he’s trying to sync his inhale to yours. The way he can’t. The way he keeps missing the rhythm.
The book smells of paper. The air is refreshing. And Bucky smells of vanilla and something a little more pronounced, gunpowder still soaked into the seams of his skin. Like soap and something scorched. Something burned in and not burned out.
His metal hand rests on your hip, as a claim. The plates shift, minute and mechanical, twitching against your skin like they don’t know how to be still.
He stretches across you and you breathe for both of you.
Your shirt rides up due to his jittery hands, baring the soft plane of your stomach. His hair sticks to your skin, damp strands like threads stitching him into you. His flesh hand is clenched in the sheets beside you, tense, then loose, then tight again. Gripping, letting go, gripping. The movement vibrates against your hipbone.
His metal fingers trail around your waist, twitching in stutters and stops, like static trying to settle. He is trying so hard to be soft for you. To be quiet.
To take up less space than his grief allows.
But his body tells the truth. You feel it in every sigh. In every restless shift. In the aching pause between his breaths. In every attempt to let himself sink into you and fail because his haunted mind would not let him. In the places where he grips too hard and then lets go too fast, afraid of hurting you with his weight. With his presence. With his past.
His eyelashes are dark, damp, tremulous against the half-light, and the blue shadows under his eyes. His brow twitches. His jaw clenches and unclenches. His lips are parted, about to whisper something, maybe your name, maybe something else. But he swallows the words. He always does.
And then he flinches. A little. A muscle in his leg jerks. His shoulders lock. He shifts again, his breath hitching - sharp and terrified - as if he’s trying to run from something chasing him behind his own eyes. And then he lets out a sound. An echo resembling remorse. Maybe a confession. Like something broken opening wider and bleeding out between you.
Your hand finds his hair. Soothingly, you card your fingers through the tangled strands, gentle, gentle, untangling what you can. He shivers against you, caught in the kindness of your touch, his breath snagging on a sound he does not let escape.
He buries his face lower, burrowing into the hollow of your stomach, like he’s trying to disappear into you. To live there. To hide there. To heal there.
You set the book aside.
You weren’t reading anymore.
Your free hand drifts down the curve of his back, over the soft black cotton that clings to him, that fails to hide the history beneath it. Your fingers map the scars you cannot see. Your nails drag lightly, and he shudders, his sigh dissolving into something that almost sounds like a sob, almost a whimper, something caught, something trembling.
“Bucky,” you whisper, trying to keep him grounded. Trying to keep him here with you.
His hand tightens, sudden and intense, around your ribs - his grip a question that forgot how to be gentle - but then loosens just as fast, immediately, as though ashamed of itself, as though remembering what his hands are capable of and scared he could be leaving bruises. You feel his throat work against your skin, the muscles jumping as he swallows the pain. His eyes stay closed, but you know he is not asleep. They are moving fast under the lids, as though he’s chasing something running from something, something you can’t see.
Pulling your knees up, you tilt your hips, cradle him closer. Hold him together. Massaging the back of his neck with your palm, you press your lips into his hair, breathe him in. “It’s okay,” you whisper, your voice threading into the dark.
And something in him gives.
He exhales - one of those broken, bone-deep exhales that feels like it takes something out of him - and his arms wrap tighter, pulling at you, his face pressing harder into you, like he wants to tie himself to this, to you, to now.
His legs shift, twisting the sheets, and the movement drags the blankets lower, cool air kissing your skin, making you shiver. But you don’t care.
He doesn’t look up, but you feel his mouth, warm and trembling, press soft kisses into your skin - your stomach, your side, your hip. Not sensual. Not urgent. Just grateful. Just desperate. As if he’s apologizing for every second he’s brought his ghosts into your bed. As if he doesn’t realize that he is the peace. That he is the quiet you’ve been craving. That he is the thing you want.
“Baby,” you murmur. So soft it could almost be a secret.
His breath catches, again. You feel it shake through him. For a moment, you think he might cry, but he doesn't. He never lets himself cry. He only holds - holds tighter, holds harder - because that’s the only language his body still remembers.
You keep stroking his hair. Over and over. Repetitive. Like a metronome. Like heartbeat. Like love in motion.
He is still trying to match your breathing, the slow in, the slow out, but he keeps missing, falling off, catching himself again.
But your hands do not falter.
Your thumb brushes over the curve of his ear. The soft baby hairs at his temple. The strands of damp hair stuck to your skin. You feel it all - his war with himself, his stubborn fight against his own body and mind, the ache sewn into his spine. He’s trying to let go. But doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know what letting go might cost him.
You think about the way he always looks at you. The caution. The affection. The want. The way his eyes go soft around the edges, the way his mouth always twitches as though he’s trying not to smile, as though he’s afraid smiling too hard will break the world in half. As though joy is too sharp a thing for a man like him.
You think of the ways he’s let you in.
In the quiet. In the closeness. In the details. Piece by piece. Day by day.
How you’ve been learning each other in coffee cups abandoned on the counter. In stitched-up wounds after a mission. In laughter shared on rooftops at 3 am after a mission that almost killed you both and didn’t. In glances. In stillness. In trust.
You want him to feel safe.
You want him to feel whole.
You want him to feel loved in ways that do not require explanation.
And more than anything you want him to feel good. In this moment. In this body. In your arms.
“Bucky,” you breathe again, softer than silence, softer than sleep, and he makes a sound that isn’t quite a word - it hums against your ribs, a low vibration that curls through your belly like the slip of something sacred, something monumental. You feel it buzz inside the cage of you, behind your lungs, inside your bones. It isn’t loud, but it is everything.
Your fingers find his jaw - tired stubble and shivering skin - and you guide him up, gentle, like lifting a wounded thing out of water. His face tilts, hesitates, and then his eyes open. Glassy. Heavy. Blue like the end of something. Blue like the part of the ocean that forgets how to let light in.
And it hurts.
God, it hurts to look at him like this.
“Hey,” you whisper.
“Hey,” he echoes, equally soft, a hazy half-smile, a sleep-heavy voice, but there’s panic behind it. Hope. Fear. Love. Hunger. Anguish, fraying at the edges like an old wound that never healed clean. His gaze darts, a nervous animal trying to decipher your shape in the dark.
You inhale slowly, pulling air into a chest that feels too weak to contain it. Your lungs tremble against your ribs. Your heart knocks on the inside of your sternum, asking permission.
“I was thinking,” you say, voice made of glass. “I know we don’t always have a lot of time. And I know we’ve been waiting. And I want to keep waiting. I do. But-”
But.
It catches in your throat. The moment, the need, the wanting of something that isn’t just physical but spiritual, emotional, some cosmic aching to give him a moment he can keep.
You swallow. Your thumb drags across the plush curve of his lower lip, and he shivers beneath it like you’ve touched something more than skin. Like you’ve touched nerve. Memory. Fear.
He shifts, chin nudging your belly, so he can look up at you better. His pupils are wide. His lashes are damp. There’s a quiet behind his gaze that feels like standing on the edge of something endless. Someone that goes deepdeepdeep down. Without a ground. But the fall still hurts.
“I want to make you feel good.”
And that’s when he goes still.
Still in the way buildings are before they collapse. Still in the way a soldier freezes when the landmine clicks. Still like he’s afraid any movement might ruin this.
His hands tighten around your hips. Reflexive. Instinctive. Terrified. He draws a breath and you feel it - his chest stuttering like a clock that’s lost its gears. He looks up at you with a caution you wouldn’t wish on anyone.
You let your hand drift lower. Trace the fine line of his jaw. The day-old stubble like sandpaper, the patch of softness at his throat. The vein that pulses just beneath the skin.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” you say, and you know it should be obvious, but maybe not for him.
His throat works as he swallows. His lips part, close, part again.
His eyes are wide, a little uncertain, nervous, and so full of something you almost can’t look at. Holding back a huge tide of things. Shame. Want. Guilt. Terror. Hope.
“I just want to take care of you,” you say, quieter now. More intimate. As if the words aren’t just sound but touch, as if you could press them into him. “I want this to be about you tonight.”
That’s when he truly reacts. When he shakes his head. Quick. Frantic. Eyes widening a fraction.
“No- no, doll, let me- ” His voice is hoarse, breathless, almost begging, and his hand is already slipping up under your shirt, warm palm trembling where it finds your skin, always giving, always giving, because that’s the only way he knows how to survive love. To turn it into service. Into penance.
“Bucky.” Your fingers slip into his hair again, the strands damp with the remnants of his shower, of your shampoo, your scent. You tug, not harsh, just enough to make him look.
“Please. Let this be about you.”
His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking, his eyes darting away like he’s afraid you’ll see the thoughts he’s been hiding. He’s trying to crawl out of his own skin, trying to rearrange his instinct to serve into something resembling self-worth.
He climbs higher, up your body, until his forehead leans against yours. You feel him everywhere now. The press of his thigh between yours, the heat of him melting into you, the war of him pulsing through every inch.
He still smells like your shampoo, like your lotion, like your soap, like the tiny pieces of you he steals just by being near. His hand comes up to cradle your face, calloused fingers trembling, thumb resting just beneath your eye.
“I can’t-” he manages, voice breaking at the seam. “I can’t just- baby, I want to- I need to- ”
“I know,” you say, softly, lovingly, and your hand slides down to cover his, pressing his palm into your cheek like a seal, letting him feel your warmth, your devotion, your need. “But you can, baby. I promise. And I need this. I need to take care of you. I need you to let me love you, Bucky. Not for what you do. Just for being here with me. Let me take care of you. Let me make you feel good. You deserve that.”
His eyes flutter shut as though the thought is too much. As though it burns. And keeps burning even behind his eyelids.
And you can see it - that fight between the soldier and the man. The soldier who only knows how to take orders, how to protect, how to hurt himself to help others. The man who just wants to be touched like he matters. Who wants to say yes. Who’s terrified to say yes.
His tongue darts out to wet his lips. His cheeks flush pink, and it is so achingly tender you want to cry. “You don’t have to,” he whispers. It’s so quiet, it could break in half.
“I know,” you soothe, sweet and sure. “But I want to.”
His metal arm is still hooked around your waist, his grip just shy of desperate. You feel the hesitation in every inch of him, the restraint, the guilt, the trembling hope. He’s holding back like he always does - afraid of hurting you, afraid of being too much, afraid of taking, afraid of letting himself be wanted.
“Are you sure?” he asks, and his voice cracks open on the last word. Breaks right in your hands.
“Yes,” you answer sweetly, forehead still on his. “Only if you want it, too.”
He exhales. A ragged thing. A sound that feels like exorcism. His eyes close. His lashes kiss your cheeks. His breath shudders against your mouth. Then he opens them back up and fixes those blue babies on yours, so serious.
“Promise you’ll let me take care of you after,” he says, so heartbreakingly soft, pleading, as though he’s asking if the world will still be here when he opens his eyes. Like the only way he knows how to exist is in reciprocation.
“I promise,” you coo, brushing your lips against the corner of his mouth. A kiss made of patience. Of safety. Of yes.
The silence settles again. But it’s not leaden. It’s important.
He is so quiet you can hear the clock ticking in the bathroom, the city sounds far below, the pulse of your blood in your ears, and the love for him in your heart.
Then a small nod. A breath, cracked open.
“Okay,” he whispers.
And you smile.
You smile as though something holy just revealed itself inside this moment. As though you just found a piece of him he thought he’d misplaced. As though the world - your world - just angled on its axis.
Because this isn’t about sex. Not just that. Not even mostly.
This is about trust.
This is about healing.
This is about saying yes to being loved.
And tonight - you’ll show him how.
You start with kissing him softly.
Once. Then twice. Your lips brushing over his like the wings of something delicate, something fluttering in silence, trying not the break the stillness. You take your time. Let him feel it. Let him learn the temperature of your mouth, the curve of your upper lip, the warmth of want steeped in tenderness. You kiss him as though you are offering him something he doesn’t have to earn.
Then deeper.
Your tongue, slow and exploring, presses gently against the seam of his lips until he opens for you, a sigh slipping into the small space between your mouths. And it is not just a sigh, it is a soft and aching sound that tastes of your name. His hands find your waist, clinging like a man dropped into a dream he’s afraid to wake from.
You push gently at his shoulders with coaxing hands, rolling him onto his back, and it is like watching a fortress crumble into sand.
His eyes go wide. Disarmed. As though he doesn’t know what to do. As though he is waiting for the sky to fall. His hands hover in the air, uncertain, but then they land on your hips. Cautious. Unsteady. Holding you as though he’s never held something that was allowed to be his. Holding you there like a man afraid to lose his most important piece.
You straddle him.
Your knees bracket his hips, thighs flush against the warm sides of him. The heat of him bleeds into you. Your hand slips beneath his shirt, fingers grazing over the rigid landscape of muscle and memory. You feel the shivers that tremble underneath his skin.
You push his shirt up, up, up, until he lifts his arms to let you pull it over his head, compliant and trusting. You toss it somewhere onto the floor.
The moonlight catches him like a painting.
Silver striping across his chest, glinting off the sharp, cold curve of his metal shoulder. His skin, dappled with scars that are pale against the warm tan, maps of history you’ve never asked him to retell. His body is a battlefield dressed in soft shadows.
And never have you seen something more beautiful.
You smooth your palms flat against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under your hands. Violent. Loud. Flapping against his ribs. You lean down and kiss him again - slow and full and sure - letting him feel your affection, the depth of your desire, how nothing about this is rushed.
His lips tremble against yours. His breath is broken at the edges. He kisses you back as though he’s afraid this might be the last time. Starved. Grateful. Desperate.
You pull away from his mouth to let your lips trail lower. Dragging them down his throat, along the column of it, to the hollow where breath gathers. You pause there, breathe him in. Then you let your tongue trail over the curve of his collarbone, tasting salt, heat, him. You let your nails scrape lightly against his skin, just enough for him to feel it, to ground him in the moment.
He exhales sharply and inhales shakier.
His grip on your hips tightens, then loosens, then tightens again. He’s trying not to pull you closer, not to be too greedy, but he wants to. His thighs twitch beneath you. His fingers flex. Needy, wanting, but afraid to want too much.
You kiss lower. Down the center of his chest, along the dip between his ribs. You pause at every scar. Let your mouth linger on each one. Your tongue traces them. Your lips offer gentleness in every place where pain once lived. You worship him in pieces. And he feels it. You feel him feeling it.
He’s already a mess.
His breath chokes. He gasps at every flick of your tongue. His legs tense. He arches under you without meaning to, his body speaking a language he hasn’t yet agreed to learn. Your hands glide down his sides, soothing and calming. Your thumbs find the sensitive hollow of his waist and press lightly - and he shudders, a breathless groan slipping out.
His eyes squeeze shut and his teeth catch on his lip. His whole body is thrumming, taut with restraint.
“Bucky,” you whisper, your mouth warm above his sternum. “You know you’re allowed to make noise, right?”
His eyes blink open.
Wet. Drowning. Glossed over with something close to disbelief. His lips part around a broken breath, and he nods. His throat bobs, and he looks at you as though you’ve offered him permission to exist.
You smile and lean down to kiss the center of his chest again. Then further, your lips tracing down the line of his stomach, the shapes of his abs, pausing to let your tongue dip into his navel. Your hands smooth over the tense muscle there, feeling him jerk under your touch.
You flatten your tongue against the line of his abdomen, following the part of hair that disappears below the waistband of his sweatpants. His body curves toward you. Hard. He quivers. A sound rips out of his throat. His hips surge up, involuntarily.
When you reach the waistband of his sweats, you pause. Right there at the edge. Let your fingers gently hook into them. Let your eyes lift to meet his. Let him see you. The intention. The want. The care. The certainty.
His cheeks are reddened - pink spilling down his neck, painting and accentuating the curve of his collarbones. His hair is a jumble of dark curls encircling his head, knotted into your pillow. His chest quickly rises and drops. He is panting.
“Is this okay?” you make sure.
His eyes are drooping, but his pupils are blown. His lips are parted, and he nods, shaky. Swallows.
“Yeah,” he breathes, biting his lip. “Yeah, sweetheart.”
You slide his sweats down carefully, kissing the skin you uncover, the sharp jut of his hipbones, the soft skin of his inner thighs, letting him adjust, letting him suck in a sharp breath and feel that you are here. You let your fingers brush over the fine hair, the places he’s tried to hide from everyone.
He is hard already.
Dark, flushed, curved against his stomach. The cool air makes him whimper - a small, broken sound that barely makes it into the air before his metal hand flies up to cover his face.
You smile. Not smug. Not seductive.
Tender.
And you lean forward. Kiss the edge of his hip. His thigh. Let your tongue drag along the sensitive skin there, feeling him twitch, hearing the soft, desperate sounds he makes.
“It’s okay, baby,” you coo, your breath warm against him, making him feel your heartbeat in your mouth. “Let yourself feel it.”
You take him in your hand first. Patient. Slow. Thumb brushing over the tip, collecting the moisture there, sliding and smoothing it down, down, down the length of him. With a deep groan, he jolts beneath you. Hips lifting off the bed in a stuttering motion before he forces himself back down as though he’s apologizing for taking up space.
“Fuck,” he breathes. A word, a plea, a desire - punched out of him, muffled behind the fist still pressed against his mouth.
You keep stroking him.
Slow. Unchanging for the first part. Watching his chest rise and fall, the way he writhes just a little, the way his brows knot together and his beautifully parted lips tremble with the effort of being good, or being quiet.
“Breathe, Bucky,” you remind him softly. “You’re okay. You’re doing so good.”
He gasps. Inhales as though he forgot how. Shaky. Shattered.
You lower yourself to the tip and kiss it faintly. A soft brush of your mouth, a sweet lick of your tongue - and he cries out, body lifting, a gasped groan torn from somewhere deep and his hand flies from his mouth to grip the sheets. His hips buck.
“Oh god,” he chokes. His head drops back against the pillow. His neck long and exposed. His throat tight with his attempts at holding himself back. You see the tendons stretch. The bob of his Adam’s apple as he tries not to fall apart.
Your other hand rises to press lightly against his hip, grounding him.
And then you take him into your mouth.
Slow. Inch by inch. Let him feel the shape of your lips, the warmth of your tongue, the way you make space for all of him. Your mouth is wet and soft and home around him. Your tongue swirls as it slides along his underside. Your lips seal around him.
“Sweetheart-” he gasps, breaks off, groans. “I- shit. Please-”
His flesh hand flies to your hair. Tangled. Not pulling. Not pushing. Just holding. Anchoring himself.
He is trembling.
Coming undone beneath you.
You begin to move, slow, with gentle intention. Your tongue swirls around him, warm and purposeful, tracing every sensitive ridge. And oh is he sensitive. It would make you smile if your mouth weren’t so full of him.
Your hand curls at the base, stroking where your mouth cannot reach, a duet of tenderness that makes him feel. You are giving him all of yourself - your softness, your safety, your desire.
He is releasing rumbling and pleasured sounds. Gasping. Moaning. It’s fervent. It’s unclaimed. He tries to swallow them back, but you hear them. You hold each one like treasure, feeding them back in kisses that say, I’m here.
You draw him deeper. Your tongue traces the tender underside, coaxing an arc of sound from him - so unguarded, so full of release that it reverberates in your lower belly, kindling a heat between your thighs that is waiting to burn. But this is not about you. It’s about him.
Your cheek hollows, creating a vacuum that pulls him in. Your tongue flicks against the tip in an easy, deliberate rhythm. He cries out. He shudders, thighs trembling, his hips convulsing beneath you - an unwilling but eager wave.
His hands clamp into your hair - gentle yet full of need. His metal hand claws into the sheets, as though trying to hold down his own unraveling. He is trembling from head to toe, every muscle tight in an exquisite struggle not to break.
“Oh- shit, baby,” he rasps, voice ragged, body arching even as he tries not to. His restraint is a pulse and it's beating tremendously.
You ease your mouth away just enough to whisper, breath still heated on him. “It’s okay, Bucky. I’ve got you.”
“Please…” he whimpers, voice cracking. “Please, baby, I can’t-” His words catch. He gasps. “I’m- I’m gonna- You-”
You look up at him, thumb brushing the delicate spot beneath the head, your hand stilling around him. Your eyes hold his. “It’s okay,” you repeat softly. “Let go, baby. Let me take care of you.”
Those steel-blue eyes, blue and shiny with something fierce and vulnerable, meet yours. They are tear-filled. He lingers there - on the brink - then they flutter back shut. His head tips back. His mouth splits open, and a fractured, beautiful sound breaks free as he comes forcefully.
You don’t stop.
You let him come apart in your mouth, let him call your name in gasps, let his hips buck, let him surrender. He pours himself into your warmth. Crashes like waves against you.
He comes hard and long, trembling into release, filling your mouth while a canopy of sounds leave his own and they have you shivering yourself.
His body arches, then collapses. You swallow carefully, taking your time, tasting him - with devotion. Your hand continues its rhythm as your tongue slides away - until he pulls back, whimpering with sensitivity, covered in a vulnerable, gleaming sheen.
When he finally stills, you give him a moment to collect his thoughts and brush soft kisses along the map of him - down his stomach, over his hipbone, across that sharp pelvic ridge. Each kiss whispers you’re safe. You’re held. Each kiss calms the tremors further.
Licking your lips, you rise to kneel above him again. His gaze is heavy-lidded. His breaths are uneven shards of air. Tears have dried on his flushed cheeks, leaving the echoes of salt and release on his skin.
Immediately, his arms move to wrap around you, pulling you down, making you slightly fall into his chest. He holds you tight against him and buries his face in your neck.
He smells of surrender - soft, smoke, vanilla, comfort. You let him hide in the softness of you, stroking his hair. He melts into your chest, finding something steady in your heartbeat under his ear. And you smile at the way he nuzzles in.
You feel him press a kiss to your throat - a soft, sloppy thing - and he mumbles quietly into you. “Gonna- gonna take care of you… swear- gonna make you feel so- so good…” But his words already slur into half-sleep. His body softens. The rumble of his breath evens out. His arms slowly loosen, and you feel him start to sink into you. He goes warm and heavy against you, complete and comforted, weighting your world in the best possible way.
And then he’s asleep.
Completely gone, breathing even and warm, wrapped around you as though you are the only home he’s ever known.
You stay awake a little longer.
Your fingers trace circles into his skin, threading through his hair. With closed eyes, you press your lips to his temple, and you let yourself smile, only for you, in the darkness. Listening to his soft snores against your throat. Feeling the way his relaxed breath hits your skin.
Because you know tomorrow will come and he will keep his promise.
But tonight, you let him rest.
Tonight is about him.
Because he is safe.
Because he is home.
Because for once, he let himself be loved.
“To love and to be loved is to feel the sun from both sides.”
summary: clark has the perfect plan to get to know the love of his life. it consists of eight dates, eight carefully crafted steps, and if all goes well, a happily-ever-after. but when jimmy sets him up on a blind date with you, sticking to the plan turns out to be a lot harder than he thought.
word count: 21k (i’m so sorry… the plot was plotting)
warnings/tags: 18+ mdni, tooth-rooting fluff, comfort, banter, slight angst if you squint, strangers to lovers, idiots in love, slow-burnish, clark’s pov, teacher!reader, reader’s in her late 20s, reader is shorter than clark, reader is skeptical of superman, kissing, cursing, introspection, miscommunication, fingering (f receiving), oral (f and m receiving), multiple orgasms, doggy style, missionary, unprotected p in v, creampie.
a/n: i’ll admit i went a little off the rails diving into clark’s head and writing from his pov. i really took my free will to the next level, but i hope i managed to capture him and his essence. special mention to @sai-int for helping me edit this fic!!! she was so supportive and kind, and made me feel like a professional writer <3 dear angel: you’re a mastermind, and i’m beyond grateful you took the time to engage with my work!!! and thank you all for reading :) likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated!!!
Over the years, experience has taught Clark that whenever Jimmy labels one of his ideas as brilliant, it’s usually the complete opposite.
Which is why, the moment he approaches his desk first thing in the morning, Clark’s already saying, “No. Thank you.”
“Hello to you, too,” Jimmy notes, rolling his eyes and watching as Clark drops into his chair, adjusting his tie. “You haven’t even heard what I was going to say.”
“I don’t need to, because I have the feeling it involves me in some type of way.”
“Well, aren't you smart?”
“If smart means being your friend long enough to know you, then yes.”
Spreading his arms wide, Jimmy smiles as if he were a kid about to ask for a pony. “Come on, Kent! You’re going to love this brilliant idea I had yesterday.”
Were there a hidden camera in the office, Clark would be staring straight into it right now, like they do in The Office. Instead, he just glances at Jimmy while unpacking his bag. “Your brilliant ideas are never to be trusted.”
“Now why would you say that?”
“It’s just that you always find a way to put me in the thick of it.”
“That’s not true. Name at least one time something like that happened.” As Clark inhales to list a dozen examples, Jimmy stops him by holding up a finger. “Never mind. But you have to trust me on this one!”
Clark blows out his cheeks, peering up at him over his glasses. “Alright. What is it?”
“So there’s this girl—”
“Here we go again.”
“—which is totally your type.”
“You said that last time.”
“But this time I mean it.”
“You said that the time before last time.”
“Well, I’m not perfect, you know? Neither am I a certified matchmaker. This is a hobby, which I do out of pure affection for you.”
“I don’t recall ever asking you to do this.”
Jimmy shrugs, inspecting the coffee Clark had set on his desk as if it belonged to him. “Technically, you did. You said, and I quote: Oh, it’d be nice to have somebody. I’m all alone. I’m miserable.” He drops his voice into a deep imitation of Clark’s, hunching his shoulders in an exaggerated way.
For the record, he hadn’t exactly said it like that. Jimmy just loves being dramatic.
Clark clenches his jaw the moment Jimmy lifts the cup closer to his mouth. “Buddy, that’s mine,” he mutters, though he makes no move to snatch it back.
Completely unbothered, Jimmy takes a trial sip, smacking his lips together as he drifts his eyes shut. “God bless caffeine.”
Clark sighs, leaning back in his chair. “Just because you heard me saying it once doesn’t mean I was explicitly asking you to get me a girlfriend.”
“I still wanna do it,” Jimmy argues. “I’m telling you, that girl’s out there, and it’s my duty as your best friend to find her.”
That last bit has Clark shaking his head. When put that way, what he wants sounds stupid, even childish. The whole relationship thing, falling in love. The white picket fence and the late nights in.
It had been around the time Jimmy introduced his current girlfriend, Molly, to both Lois and him that Clark found it all so endearing he actually snorted and patted his friend on the back.
They were at a bar, drinking with the ease of a Friday night, and despite not being able to get wasted, he felt tingly all over. Perhaps it was because the mere image of love was standing right in front of him, this time personified in a couple he knew.
“It must be nice to be in a relationship,” he had mused, without meaning to say it out loud. It was meant to stay a thought, but it had slipped past his lips, and immediately three pairs of unrelenting eyes were scrutinizing him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to ruin the mood. I’m really happy for you guys.”
Lois, it seemed, had only heard the first part. “You want to date?”
“Sure. Why not?”
“And here I thought you weren’t the dating type,” Jimmy said, raising his eyebrows and taking another sip of beer. “I mean, you never have any free time outside of work. You’re constantly in a rush. In fact, I’m surprised you’re even here tonight. How would you even manage to fit in a girlfriend with your schedule?”
In moments like those, Clark wished alcohol would have an effect on him. “I’d figure it out. But of course I’d like to be with someone.”
If other people could have it, why couldn’t he? In his mind, he deserved it as much as anyone else. Though again, he wasn’t like anyone else. He wasn’t even a person to begin with. He might look like one, but his DNA was far from normal.
As obnoxious as Jimmy was, and still is to this day, once he got something in his head, it was as good as done. “Babe, don’t you have, like, a hundred friends who are single?” he asked Molly, intertwining their fingers, and she pursed her lips, thinking.
Molly ran a hand through her long red hair, toying with a specific strand. “A great deal.”
Jimmy’s gaze slid back to Clark, a smirk plastered across his features. “Then consider it done, mister. You may start calling me Cupid from now on.”
Fueled by desperation and maybe a little fear, Clark almost choked on his own saliva. “You don’t have to—”
“I want to! It’ll be fun.” Jimmy clapped a hand on Clark’s shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. “You leave it to me, and I’ll set you up with the love of your life.”
That night, promises were made, and days later, Jimmy had put together a PowerPoint presentation, each slide featuring a different woman, along with her job and hobbies.
In the end, Clark ended up going out with several of Molly’s friends and work colleagues. One would think that, with this much help, he would’ve had better luck, but none of those dates were of his liking.
The ones at the forefront of his memory were the following:
Alexandra: sweet, but her ex-boyfriend had cheated on her just two weeks before their date, and she was still in love with him. He spent the entire evening listening to her cry and handing her tissue after tissue. They decided to stay friends.
Casey: tried to convince him to take off his glasses, insisting that they looked ‘unconventional’. She said she often wondered why natural selection didn’t eliminate poor eyesight before glasses were inverted. He faked a call from his mother twenty minutes in and ran to his apartment.
Emma: claimed Superman was a government-made hologram designed to control and terrorize human beings. He didn’t stick around to hear the rest of her theory.
Not just finding someone, but actually connecting with them, was becoming harder than he’d thought. Jimmy often tells him he’s too particular when it comes to meeting new people, although Clark doesn’t consider being meticulous a flaw.
Years ago, he’d come up with what he believed was the perfect plan to get to know someone. It consisted of eight dates, eight carefully crafted steps.
Dates 1 and 2: Minimal physical contact. A handshake or a kiss on the cheek at most, but a first kiss that soon was off the table.
Dates 3 to 5: A real kiss was allowed, but nothing more. Hugging was fine. Still in the getting-to-know-her stage. Visiting each other’s apartments was too risky, though small gestures were encouraged. Conversations could start leaning toward future relationship prospects.
Dates 6 to 8: Resist the temptation to go further. Make sure the other person was as invested as he was. If all is still going well by the eighth date, tell her the truth, and hopefully think about marriage someday.
The problem is that Clark has never made it past the first date with any of Molly’s friends, and it’s starting to get on his nerves. How difficult could it be to find someone even a little like him?
Jimmy snaps his fingers in front of his face. “Earth to Clark. Where’d you go?”
“Sorry,” Clark says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I can’t believe I’m even considering this.”
“I can always create you a Hinge account—”
“We’re definitely not doing that.”
Jimmy raises his hands in mock surrender. “Alright. But please, you need to trust me on this one. I have a really good feeling about this girl.”
Clark’s expression sours, going poker-faced. “Is it because she’s the last option you have?”
Jimmy clutches his chest, pretending to get offended. “You always think so badly of me.”
Scowling, Clark sighs for the hundredth time this morning, and the clock hasn’t even struck nine-thirty yet. “Can I at least see a picture of her?”
“Nope. It’s a blind date. Exciting, right?”
A crease forms between Clark’s brows. “You can’t be serious. How am I supposed to recognize her if I don’t know what she looks like?”
“That sounds like a you problem,” Jimmy replies, giving a dismissive wave of his hand. “Does tonight work for you?”
“Well—”
“Perfect. I’m so glad you’re not busy saving the world or whatever. I’ll text you the details. And hey, if everything goes according to plan, maybe you can even tell her about… the thing.”
Clark hooks two fingers into Jimmy’s sleeve, tugging until he’s leaning down so they’re eye-to-eye level. “We said we wouldn’t talk about the thing at the office.”
“I know. I just still can’t believe it! You’re Sup—”
“—Super committed to my job? Yup. Love it. I’m a big fan of newspapers,” Clark interrupts, his voice an octave too high.
Across the bullpen, Lois asks, “What are you two whispering about over there?”
“Someone’s got another date lined up!” Jimmy chirps, now popping around behind Clark to give his chair a spin.
“Poor thing,” Lois says, crossing her arms over her chest. “I thought you were done with those.”
“Me too,” Clark mumbles, palming his cheek flusterdly.
Grinning, Jimmy adds, “I could help you next time, Lois.”
“I’d rather die alone, but thank you.” At that, she strides off, and Jimmy’s mouth downturns, resembling something that looks a lot like a pout.
Before strolling off toward his desk, he gives Clark one final glance. “Just imagine the double dates we’ll go on, CK!”
Clark forces a smile to appease his friend.
Perhaps being single wasn’t the worst fate after all.
While getting ready, he finds himself torn between restless anxiety and utter resignation. It’s a strange combination, to say the least. Both feelings coexist tensely inside him, neither winning out over the other.
You’re ten minutes late to the date, which isn’t much, not really. After pacing the block twice, he’d arrived half an hour early to the restaurant Jimmy sent the location of, hoping nothing in the world would go wrong and force him to abandon the establishment and leap up into the air.
Already, he’s read the menu more times than he can count, memorizing each dish with its ingredients and price. He knows the chicken parmigiana comes with a chicken breast that can be topped with mozzarella, Parmesan, or provolone, and that the garnish—
“Clark?”
His head snaps up from the menu, and he sees you standing there with an apologetic smile, holding out your hand in greeting.
“Hey,” he says, standing so fast his chair nearly tips. He grips your hand, enveloping it, and swallows like his throat has gone dry, suddenly parched. “I’m—Yes. Hi. Hello.”
Golly.
He’s temporarily lost the ability to speak coherently. No longer does he know which letters go together to form the words he wants to say. It’s beyond incredible, the effect your beauty has on him.
You tilt your head, studying him before giving him your name. “Jimmy said I should look for a guy who looks tall even when he’s sitting, but you’re way taller than I expected.” Your nose wrinkles immediately after hearing yourself. “That sounded weird, didn’t it? Sorry. I swear it sounded less awkward in my head.”
A nervous laugh escapes his throat. “It’s alright. I’ve been mistaken for Bigfoot a handful of times now.”
Usually, when he jokes, the response he receives is no more than a polite chuckle. He’s convinced he has no sense of timing, no instinct for delivery, but now you’re genuinely laughing at what he’s just said. It feels authentic, and for him, that’s unbelievable.
Then he realizes he still hasn’t let go of your hand. He drops it like it burns, wiping his palms on his black slacks as he sits again, silently chiding himself for how much he’s sweating.
“I’m so sorry I arrived a bit late. I couldn’t find a place to park.” You hang your purse from the back of the chair as you sit, the corner of your mouth quirking up. “Did I make you wait too long?”
Clearing his throat, he lifts the menu and waves it awkwardly. “I, uh, had plenty of time to learn all the dishes.”
“Then I suppose you’ll have no problems ordering for me.”
He’s left flabbergasted. “But—How?”
“I like almost everything, that’s why it always takes me forever to choose. Trust me, you do not want to be stuck here with me until closing,” you explain, lifting your shoulder in a half shrug.
A distorted echo of his own conscience cuts through his thoughts: who says I wouldn't want that?
Soon you’re talking, the conversation unspooling. You tell him you’ve known Molly since primary school, and that when she initially asked if you wanted to go on a date with one of Jimmy’s friends, you turned it down.
“—So I thought I’d try to navigate the dating world on my own, but months passed without much success and I lost motivation.” You lace your fingers together, setting them neatly on the table. “Then Molly asked to meet, and this time she brought Jimmy, and… well, here I am.”
“I’m glad you didn’t lose all your hope,” he rejoins before realizing the hidden meaning of his words. He steers away from that subject. “Jimmy’s a pretty… chatty guy, don’t you think?”
“He’s great! Plus, I’ve never seen Molly this happy.”
“You’re right. They look good together.”
“And he talked a lot about you. Said some very nice things.”
“Does that mean you know more about me than I know about you?”
“Maybe.” Your eyes wander around the room before returning to his. “Besides, he paid me to be here, so this date better be a success.”
His expression falls. There’s a sudden tightness that creeps into his chest, and he can’t help but blink owlishly. “Wait, did… did Jimmy actually pay you?”
“I’m kidding!” you clarify, stumbling over your words as you lean forward, your knuckles brushing his across the table. His shoulders loosen, and he exhales. You continue with a soft chuckle. “That was my best attempt at breaking the ice. I don’t think I’ll ever be good at jokes.”
“I’m no better. Want proof?”
“Go on.”
“Why are colds bad criminals?”
You lift your brows. “Why?”
“Because they’re easy to catch.”
Propping your chin on your hand, you shake your head with a crooked smile. “That was… terrible.”
“Oh come on, you could at least pretend it was funny.” Clark laughs.
“And lie to you? Never.”
“You’ve crushed my dreams of following my true passion.”
“… Which is?”
“Pursuing a career in comedy, obviously.”
You’re laughing. Again. He thinks he’s never managed to make someone laugh this much in such a short span.
Once the laughter dies down, you offer up another question: “So, you work at the Daily Planet, right?”
He nods. “Mostly reporting. Some articles and interviews as well—”
At that moment, a waitress interrupts before he can continue, carrying a notepad in her hands. After she finishes listing off tonight’s specials, he blurts out both orders: the same dish, because panic takes over. He then asks you to choose the drinks; you settle on water, and he echoes your choice without thinking.
Once the waitress is gone, you continue your thought. “I’ve read some of your pieces—Some of the interviews with Superman, for instance.”
“Oh.” He hums, with an air of shock.
“Sorry. You’re probably tired of people bringing him up.”
His pulse quickens in the blink of an eye. “No, not at all. It’s just that I sometimes forget people are meant to read what I write, you know? It still amazes me.”
“Well, you’ve got an avid reader here.” Your lips curve knowingly. “So… is he cool? Nice? Or does he think too highly of himself?”
That last part catches him off guard. He fumbles with the napkin in his lap, mindlessly tearing it into smaller pieces. “What makes you think that?”
You ponder, wrinkling your nose. “Well, when someone has that much power, it’d be easy to slide into arrogance.”
His voice, when it comes, is so subdued that he can barely hear it. “I believe he takes what he does very seriously. I wouldn’t say he’s arrogant.”
You rest your chin on your palm, studying him. “He’s not so fond of the media, though, right?”
“That’s because some have chosen to distort his image.”
“I see you’re a Superman apologist,” you tease, tapping the table with two fingers. “So tell me: if he’s not exactly approachable, then how did you manage to land all those interviews with him?”
In situations like these, Clark realizes he’s been taking air for granted. How do you know which buttons to push to make him sweat?
“I just…. happen to be in the right place at the right time. That’s all.”
You give him a lopsided grin. “Don’t be so modest! Give yourself some credit. You’ve given him a voice no one else has. I think it’s admirable.”
There’s a fleeting moment when he falls silent, partly blinded by your radiance. He feels as though he can’t look at you properly while speaking, as if he’s staring straight into the Yellow Sun.
It seems almost unreal that you’re here, sitting across from him, breathing the same air, your shoes only inches away from his under the table.
You’re beautiful. And he’s petrified of making the wrong move—of saying the wrong thing and scaring you off forever.
“I wouldn’t say we’re friends or anything like that,” he adds after a beat. “It’s strictly professional. He wants others to hear his side of things, too.”
He isn’t too sure what he just said, too stuck on the fact that he could really be falling for you after knowing you for less than half an hour. It sounds absurd—Gosh, it is absurd. That he knows for sure.
But what role does absurdity play when it comes to love? Aren’t those the very things that can’t be logically explained? The unreasonable acts?
Stick. To. The. Plan. You big poet.
Cutting off Clark’s mental spiral, the waitress timely returns with both of your drinks, placing them carefully on the table. He takes a sip, the water cold and numbing against his throat, though it does nothing for the heat rising in his cheeks.
He sets the glass down. “Anyway, enough about me. Tell me something about yourself.”
“I teach,” you say, your tone softening. “Primary and high school. For my older students, I focus mostly on literature.”
“That sounds like a lot of responsibility.”
Your eyes brighten a little. “It is. It can be incredibly exhausting at times, but I wouldn't change it for anything in the world. Teaching is my calling, you know? What I’m meant to do.”
His lips quirk before he even speaks. “Should I confess then that I haven’t read a fiction book in years?”
“How are you still going on with your life?” You jest, taking a sip of your water.
“I manage just fine.”
“Lucky you, I can recommend you something whenever you want.” It’s like you’re half hoping for a denial, because then you clarify, “Not like I’m forcing you or anything. Not everybody enjoys reading. I’m only saying that if you’re interested—”
Jimmy won’t believe it, Clark thinks, that he set him up with someone who overthinks their words just as much as he does.
His heart sings as he answers, “That’d be nice.”
While you eat, Clark starts memorizing all these details that you mention, storing them in the back of his head:
You’ve trained yourself not to curse, thanks to all the hours spent surrounded by children, though every once in a while a bad word sneaks out, especially when you stub your little toe on the edge of your bed.
He learns that you’re not much of a drinker. You’ll take a gin and tonic every now and then, but you refuse to accept beer, wine, or anything too sugary.
As a kid, you dreamed of being a librarian, and you even worked in one through college.
When the check is paid and his cheeks ache from smiling more than he has in weeks, he insists on holding the door open for you as you step outside.
The moment he turns back, you’re holding your phone out toward him.
“I’d really like to see you again, if you want to,” you murmur, fluttering your eyelashes with a hopeful grin on your lips. “Think you can—Would you give me your number?”
His mouth hangs agape briefly before he shuts it tightly. His eyes gloss over you once more. “I’d love that. Of course. I mean, you’re great, and I think—”
A giggle escapes you as you perceive him to be just as nervous as you are, and you give the device a playful shove back into his chest.
He takes it, pressing each number with practiced delicacy while trying not to waste the little time you had left. He hands the phone back, rocking on his heels, searching for the right thing to do with his hands.
“It was a good first date,” he admits at last.
The silence between you deepens, and then you say, “I’m glad I accepted Jimmy’s offer.”
“He’ll be all over me at work tomorrow.”
You beam at him, your eyes crinkling at the corners. “Tell him I said hi.”
“I will.”
Even so, there’s a part of Clark that doesn’t want to leave. He wants to know more about you, despite having already memorized all those little details you shared throughout the night.
You both have responsibilities, and he knows he can’t ask for too much when you’ve only just met, but he would stay up all night if it meant spending just a little more time with you.
God, he’s already in so deep.
You tighten your grip on your purse strap, slinging it over your shoulder. “Okay, then… bye. I guess I’ll see you around.”
You shift closer, rising on your toes, and judging by the way you’re tilting your head, he’s pretty sure you’re planning on kissing him on the cheek.
He suddenly remembers his plan, panic kicking in before common sense, his hand shoots forward to hold yours, stopping you.
Startled, you slip your hand into his, saying, “A true gentleman.” You give it a firm shake. “Noted.”
“Sorry, I just—”
“Don’t worry.” You offer him another one of your earth-shattering smiles. “Goodnight, Clark.”
He waves, and so do you, but neither of you moves right away. He gestures toward the sidewalk. “I’ll go first.”
You take two steps backward. “Yup. Fine.”
Needless to say, when he’s a block away and risks glancing over his shoulder, he finds you already looking back at him.
“I need all the details!”
“Jimmy, I swear to God—”
“You’re entitled to tell me! I was the one who set you up!”
Clark shushes him, pressing a hand over his mouth. They’re right by the printers, and he flashes an innocent smile at a woman passing by on her way to the break room, concern flickering in her eyes.
“Stop yelling, man!” Clark hisses, his gaze boring into Jimmy’s as he all but slaps his large hand over his mouth. “You’re scaring people, and you have—What the hay, dude?!”
Clark yanks his hand back, staring at his palm in disgust. His skin is wet and sticky.
“Did you just lick me?” Clark grimaces, wiping the saliva on Jimmy’s shirt. “How old are you? Three?”
“I will not be silenced.”
“You’re gross.”
“And I’ll continue to be if you don’t tell me how it went last night,” Jimmy presses excitedly, giving a light punch to Clark’s chest.
Clark sighs, looking around to make sure no one’s eavesdropping their conversation. “I already told you it was fine. What else do you want to know?”
“Did you kiss?”
“What?! No!” Now Clark’s the one yelling.
“Relax. It’s not like I asked if you two reenacted the Kama Sutra.”
A rush of heat prickles at the back of Clark’s neck. The newsroom feels stifling, and he tugs at his collar, aiming to keep his voice even. “Why are you more… unfiltered than usual?”
“Kissing isn’t a sin, pal. Stop treating it as if it were,” Jimmy explains, and with a shake of his head, he drifts toward the coffee machine, leaving Clark even more confused.
He quickly follows after him. “But it’s too early for a kiss. We’ve only been on one date.”
Steam curls from the machine as Jimmy fills his cup. The vapor fogs Clark’s glasses, blurring his vision for a second.
“You notice how you're trying to control the situation? It’s like you want to structure every single thing,” Jimmy says, stirring in sugar, clinking a spoon against the ceramic. “You need to just let it flow. See where it takes you. Forget about that stupid eight-dates thing.”
Taken aback, Clark’s brows snap together. “I don’t ‘go with the flow’. And my plan’s not stupid. I just… put a lot of thought into it,” Clark laments.
“How many times did you shake her hand last night? Five?”
“In my defense, she did it first.”
“Oh! Fantastic. Looks like I’ve found someone who matches your freakiness.”
Clark opens his mouth to argue, but the unexpected buzz in his pocket derails his train of thought. As his heart hammers, he fishes out his phone. His lock screen lights up with a new message from an unknown number.
He can’t help the way his lips twitch upward, betraying him. He’s been waiting all morning for this.
Jimmy leans in, trying to angle the screen toward himself. “Oh, man. Is it her? Tell me it’s her.”
Clark pivots the phone away trying to use his size to his advantage, but Jimmy cranes his neck anyway, squinting at the text that’s popped up:
I really hope you didn’t give me a fake number last night.
Clark’s thumb hovers over the screen, debating his next reply. Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy remains grinning next to him, taking a long sip of coffee before nearly hollering, “Remember that sexting in public is gross!”
He walks away after that, and a few heads turn in Clark’s direction as he jerks upright, almost dropping the device. “He’s joking, obviously,” he sputters, his head bent. “I’d never do that. You’re all… safe.”
Retreating to his desk, he sinks into his chair, hiding his face behind the glow of his phone screen. He creates a new contact under your name.
Clark: What kind of person do you think I am?
The typing dots appear right after.
You: I barely know you. Why should I trust you?
Clark: I can’t think of any good reason right now.
You: Well, if you want to prove your identity, tell me the color of the jacket I wore yesterday.
Clark: It was blue… and you paired it with a black sweater and a pretty pair of earrings.
You: Your eyes do work wonders.
Clark: It’s the glasses. They take all the credit.
You: But is your memory always this good?
Clark: Only on important occasions.
Your second date comes a few days later at a bookshop café you’ve been meaning to try. Clark’s determined to leave with at least one book under his arm, and after debating his choices with you, he ends up choosing Atonement.
Turns out you don’t talk much. You mostly read, and yet the silence between you feels natural, almost familiar. Most people don’t consider Clark’s quiet nature much of a virtue, but he’s never seen it that way.
He thinks back to his parents on the Kent farm, sitting side by side on the porch. They wouldn’t speak, only stare at the horizon, steady and unflinching.
He wonders if this is how they felt when they were younger, or how they still feel after so many years of being together.
It’s too soon, and he knows it. Still, the thought lingers, stubborn as ever: if that kind of comfort was supposed to take years, why is he already finding it with you?
As with most things in life, Clark has always believed that something very good is inevitably followed by something very bad. After the date, a thousand excuses run through his head, all the things you could say to ghost him.
I don’t think we really connected. Maybe we could just stay friends.
Actually, I’m not single. I have a boyfriend and two dogs in another city, waiting for me to come home.
You’re kind of boring, your relationship with Superman is concerning, and I never want to see you again.
All his doubts fade the moment you text him before going to bed, reminding him to send you his thoughts after finishing each chapter of the book.
The third date happens almost a week later, when both of you finally manage to carve out the time. You’d mentioned a certain movie you’d been wanting to see, and now that it had finally hit theaters, Clark wasn’t wasting the chance.
You’ve taken your seats in the designated theater. The movie, Materialists, won’t start for another ten minutes. You’re devouring the popcorn he bought, tossing kernel after kernel into your mouth, while he steals a handful whenever you pause.
“I didn’t know you liked popcorn so much,” he says, laughing softly at the way you pop them into your mouth.
“I love it, but I’m starving, too.”
“Guess you’ll have to survive on popcorn for now.” He stretches his legs, sinking deeper into the seat. “By the way, what’s this movie about?”
He can't tell you that he got these tickets online while he was in Europe just a few hours ago, and that's why he didn't have time to read the plot.
“A love triangle,” you explain, crossing one leg over the other. “I hope it’s good. I’ve heard all kinds of opinions.”
It starts off promising. When Pedro Pascal’s character, Harry, flirts with Dakota Johnson’s Lucy at the wedding, he spares you a quick glance, noticing how your gaze is fixed on the screen. You partially cover your face each time they get too close.
About halfway through the film, there’s a scene where Harry and Lucy start making out in his apartment. It’s heated, and now Clark finds himself picturing doing the same with you, which isn’t helpful at all.
The safest distraction, he decides, is eating. He dips his hand between the two seats, where the bucket of popcorn should be wedged.
Except it isn’t there anymore. Somehow, in that moment, it’s gone, and instead of buttery kernels, his hand brushes against yours.
Driven by reflex, you jerk it away, nearly jumping in place. Clark turns to you, and an expression of perplexity settles on your features. A thousand thoughts race through his mind.
He wants to say he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to be so forward, that he was only reaching for the popcorn to derail thoughts of which you were the protagonist.
What he doesn’t know, because that would require slipping inside your head, is that you’re forcing yourself not to turn and stare at him. Every so often your control falters, and you steal a glance from the corner of your eye, grateful for the excuse of being seated so you can drink in his profile unnoticed.
His nose, the soft fullness of his lips, the line of his chin. The way his glasses slip down and he pushes them back up, how the flickering scenes from the film ripple across the glass in short fragments.
He’s everything you ever wanted, and more. Your friends would probably tell you you’re rushing, that you should be more objective, keep a cool head. But nothing feels cool beside Clark. Your emotions turn visceral, heat rises under your skin, and logic abandons you exactly when you need it most.
From then on, it all happens in slow motion.
Your hand goes back to the armrest, palm tilted upward, as though waiting for something from his side. He notices the faint creases of your skin, the twitch of your wrist as you squirm.
The most primal part of him aches to grab your face and kiss you until you’re breathless. But that’s not something he can do, something he should do. It doesn’t go according to the plan.
Instead, he makes the choice to take your hand deliberately. He intertwines his fingers with yours, no inch of skin apart. Warmth radiates from you, seeping into him where you’re joined as his thumb brushes along your knuckles.
There’s a moment when the movie fades into background noise for him, and he can’t help catching every small disruption in the theater. A woman a few rows down chewing with her mouth open. A young couple kissing like the world’s about to end. A phone that buzzes and refuses to be ignored.
And yet, the sound he picks out most clearly is your heartbeat as it drowns out the rest. It echoes in his ears so loud, so frantic, that he feels as if it belongs to him.
Clark tests his luck, as though this were an experiment, and squeezes your hand. The effect is immediate; your pulse stumbles, skips, and the rush of it startles him enough that his knee jerks, knocking into the seat in front and making a stranger yelp.
The man turns around in an instant, forehead wrinkled in annoyance. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Clark swallows hard. He hadn’t meant to hit him that hard. “I’m so sorry. I think I got a cramp,” he whispers, hoping that he’ll take pity on him.
All he gets in response is a grunt, which sounds like a curse, but he couldn’t care less.
He hasn’t been this buried in work in months. If he had to lay the blame on someone, he’d have to call it quits and tell Superman he’s not doing any more interviews.
In other words: no more referring to himself in the third-person.
Defending himself against every critic and headline is one thing, but doing it disguised as a reporter is entirely different.
He’s afraid the people who read his articles will eventually start thinking he’s losing his objectivity. But given the circumstances, and since Lex Luthor appears to be on every TV program calling Superman a filthy martian, it’s not like Clark can stay silent.
His stomach’s been growling for the past hour. It’s officially lunchtime. He should put something in his body before hunger drives him to slam his keyboard against his desk, though the thought of abandoning the draft in front of him makes him itch.
Good gosh. Perhaps he should start writing under a pseudonym.
When he checks his phone, there’s a message from you. You’ve got a long break between classes, and you’re thinking of grabbing lunch. The mere thought of food makes him fantasize about gnawing on anything remotely edible.
Clark: Think I’ll just skip lunch today. There’s so much I have to get done.
He sends the text without waiting for a reply, sets the phone down beside his computer, and goes back to work.
From behind his back, a hand waves a Pop-Tart in his direction, waggling it. A theatrical voice murmurs, “Eat me.”
Clark lets out a laugh, swiveling just enough to see Steve smirking as he leans on the edge of his desk.
“I’m serious. Take it. You look like you need it more than me.”
“It’s fine, I’ll just eat later,” Clark retorts, rubbing at his temples and sinking back into his chair.
Narrowing his eyes, Steve says, “You look stressed.”
“Well, I most certainly am.”
“Is it about all the hate your little friend’s been receiving lately?”
On any other occasion, were he not this tired, he’d have corrected him, insisting they’re not friends. But today, he lets it slide. “It’s draining. Collecting all this information and then—having to ask—”
His own sigh cuts him off. There’s a weight pressing on his chest he can’t shake, and he peers up to stare at Steve.
Steve bites into the Pop-Tart, chewing it with a thoughtful expression. “I wonder if this is the end of Superman.”
Clark tries to keep his voice level. He really does. “What?”
“I mean, he’s constantly being criticized. Sure, most people still like him, think he’s great, but—”
“He’s not gonna stop helping others just because there’s some… bald guy on TV who lives to antagonize him. His entire purpose on earth is to be helpful. It’s what drives him. It’s—He’s not giving up.”
Startled, Steve tilts his head. “Did he tell you all that?”
Clark stammers, “He didn’t, but I—I know that’s what he’d say if I were to ask him.”
After that, Steve appears to have decided to drop the subject, finishing what’s left of his snack. Clark assumes that’s the end of their conversation, which had been long enough to exasperate him anyway, even though he considers himself to be patient.
But then—
“So… I’ve heard you’re going out with this girl.”
“You mean Jimmy told you.”
Steve shrugs. “Same thing in my book. When are you seeing her again?”
Clark stiffens, stretching his arm to grab a pen and rhythmically clicking the end of it. “I don’t know. We’ve both been busy the last few days.”
You? Busy teaching, preparing lessons, and correcting assignments.
Him? Busy juggling two lives. When he tells you he’s exhausted and heading to bed early, it’s often a lie. Later, you’ll catch him on TV, throwing himself at some gigantic creature, and text him a picture of the screen: Unlike you, your friend’s not getting much sleep tonight.
“Got a picture of her?” Steve asks out of nowhere.
Studying him for a moment, Clark draws his brows together. “I’m not showing you—”
“Kent,” a voice cuts through, calling his attention. Nino, the security guard from the entrance, stands a few meters away, and he looks irritated to have been sent upstairs. “There’s someone waiting for you outside.”
That’s weird. “For… me? Are you sure?”
“It’s a girl. Says she’s looking for Clark Kent.” The man’s voice thickens with annoyance. “As far as I know, you’re the only Clark Kent in the entire building, so unless you’ve got a secret twin brother or something—”
Clark’s already rising to his feet before the guard finishes. “Alright, alright. I’m coming.”
He doesn’t expect to see your face when the doors open and the rush of cooler air spills in. His heart jolts inside his chest as he steps toward you, and that’s when it hits him.
He had actually missed you more than he realized. What stage of the plan was he in now?
“What—I don’t—You’re here?”
“I texted you, but you weren’t answering, so I figured I’d just… drop by,” you begin, slightly breathless. “You said you were skipping lunch, and I brought you food, and—”
Looking down, he catches a glimpse of the paper bag you’re clutching. The smell alone makes his stomach rumble in betrayal. “You didn’t have to.”
“I was getting something for myself as well.”
“But—”
You take one step closer, a grin tugging at your lips. “Aren’t you hungry?”
“Don’t play that card with me. You know I am.”
That makes you laugh. “Then take this, and tell me if you like it.” You press the bag into his hands, and your fingers brush against his. Neither of you pull away. “It’s a sandwich and fries. I got myself the same thing, so I’m counting on it being good.”
I missed you. I missed you. I missed you. I missed—
“I’m sorry I didn’t check my phone. I just… there’s a lot going on at the moment.” His pinky hooks against yours, and you glance down for an instant. “I wasn’t avoiding you or anything.”
Nodding your head, your eyes twinkle with something he can’t describe. “I know. I didn’t think that, and I—”
You quiet down when a crowd of people interrupts your moment, the murmur of voices overlapping, making you grimace.
“I'd better be going,” you say, jerking your thumb toward the street. “My next class starts in about half an hour, so—”
“Makes sense,” Clark answers, though his words don’t match the way his throat tightens, wishing he could disappear into the crowd with you instead. He massages the back of his neck, scanning the sidewalk like he’ll lose you if he looks away. “I’ll head back inside.”
You sigh, shoving your hands into your pockets. “And I’ll go back to dealing with eight-year-olds.”
Would now be a good time to ask when he can see you again? The thought burns on his tongue, when—
“Kent, are you coming in?” Nino’s holding the glass door open with one hand, and he seems to be seconds away from letting it slam shut.
“Right. Sorry,” Clark murmurs, clearing his throat. “Yeah—Bye.”
He lingers until you vanish from sight before stepping back inside. The moment Jimmy spots the bag, he’s immediately smirking, but Clark walks straight past him, setting it beside his keyboard and reaching for his phone.
You: Want me to grab you something? I’m nearby anyway.
You: Hello?
You: Well, now I’m just getting you food.
You: Would it be weird if I dropped it off at your office?
You: I’m trusting my instinct.
All the while he eats the sandwich, he can’t stop beating himself up for not telling you how much he’d been wanting to see you. He rubs his fingers together, the salt of the fries clinging to his skin, and he gets the best idea he’s had in weeks.
There’s a chance Perry will scold him for leaving earlier than he should, but he’s willing to take the risk.
Hours later, he finds himself at a florist's, buying you flowers. He waits outside your work longer than he expected, watching as each child is picked up one by one.
Eventually, as the last of your students leaves, he watches as you descend the steps. Your face lights up as you catch sight of him.
“Clark?” You’re smiling now, walking faster. Your eyebrows shoot up to your hairline when you notice he’s hiding something behind his back. “What is it?”
You reach out, but he dodges. “Easy there.” He thinks about teasing you a little longer, but the way you’re looking at him makes him weak in the knees, and he brings the flowers out from behind him. “This is my way of thanking you for today’s lunch.”
“Oh my God!” you squeak, taking them into your hands. You bury your face in them, smiling wider. “These are so pretty! Thank you, thank you, thank—”
Before he can react, your arms loop around his neck. Your chest collides with his, and he stumbles back, losing his balance for a brief moment. He circles your waist, lifting you off the ground. You laugh against his ear, the flowers brushing the back of his neck, while his nose sinks into your hair as he breathes in.
How is he supposed to go slow when being with you feels like a dream?
That’s it. He’s gone. Completely head over heels for you. You could do anything to him, tear him apart and piece him back together, and he wouldn’t even try to stop you. He can’t understand how someone who was a stranger just weeks ago can now make him feel a hundred different things at once.
A month ago, if he’d seen you on the street, he would’ve glanced twice and kept walking.
Today, he’s terrified of losing sight of you.
The hug lasts only seconds, but for him, it stretches into years. As he sets you down, he notices how close you are.
His breath comes unevenly as you curl your fingers into his tie. You’re staring at him, deeply, though you make no move, and he offers you a crooked smile.
“I take it you liked the flowers?” he asks, his voice pitched a little higher than usual.
Your answer doesn’t come in words, but in a kiss.
Your lips fit against his perfectly. The kiss is sweet, fleeting, and gentle. You pull away, and he follows your mouth instinctively. You throw your head back, laughing, so that he’s met with your cheek instead.
He noses your skin, eyes fluttering shut. “Are you free tonight?”
For the sake of his sanity, he counts both encounters as the fourth date.
Tonight, you’re having your fifth date. This event marks the end of stage two of his plan.
Everything feels like it’s moving too fast. He has to remind himself that sex is absolutely off the table for a fifth date, even if he’s stepping into your apartment for the first time.
“It won’t happen.” He’s talking to his own reflection now as he fixes his hair in the mirror. “You’re strong. You’re… committed to the plan.” Tapping his finger into the glass for emphasis, he says, “Stick to it. Think about the final outcome.”
This plan wasn’t something he came up with overnight. Its roots go back to when he was sixteen, when his friends first started dating and fumbling through romance—a life he thought was reserved for everyone but him.
Clark believed he was a danger to others if he wasn’t careful. For the longest time, he smothered every feeling that even brushed against love, locking it away before it could grow. He was afraid of hurting someone.
He never quite stopped feeling like an infant in the body of a man, learning his limits piece by piece. He knows he has two arms and two legs, two eyes and a mouth. He knows that when he grips something, it stays there.
But then there are the gifts. The strength, the senses, the heat in his blood; powers he never asked for, but could never escape. With Ma and Pa’s help, he learned how to live with them, though the process was frustrating, sometimes terrifying.
At the age of seventeen, he didn't know what was destined for him. He was just a boy who wanted to hold a girl’s hand without worrying about burning holes in the ground with his heat vision.
He always knew his life would be complicated. He knew finding someone who could stand beside him, someone willing to accept his calling, would be nearly impossible.
That’s why he couldn’t just let things happen. He didn’t trust fate. He didn’t want to wait for love to stumble across him by chance. He had to find it, not wait around for fate to find it for him.
His phone rings, pulling him from his thoughts, and he realizes he’s been standing in the bathroom for almost five minutes. He accepts the call without checking the screen.
“Hello?”
“Well if it isn’t my favorite lovebird. How are you doing?”
“Jimmy, I’m leaving in ten minutes. Be quick.”
“Are you nervous?”
He is, but Jimmy doesn’t need to know that. “Why would I be?”
“You’re finally getting laid!”
Clark stops buttoning up his shirt. “Wait. What? Why are you even saying this?”
“Because—aren’t you going to her place?”
“Yeah. And?”
“Well, do the math, dude!”
“You’re trespassing all my limits. Please, Jimmy.”
“Look, it’ll do you good. Even Superman needs to copulate sometimes.”
“Copulate?! I don’t—That’s it. Goodbye, Jimmy.”
The state in which he arrives at your apartment is far from what he’d hoped. Hair toussled, cheeks pink with windburn.
His hand trembles slightly as he knocks, checking his phone for the fifth time to confirm the hour. He’s not early, nor is he late, but right on schedule.
He’s really doing this, standing outside the apartment of the girl he fancies. He tells himself it’s simple: come in, talk, share dinner, leave within the span of two hours. Easy-peasy.
Only nothing about this feels ordinary. One single line of his plan won’t leave him alone, and it flashes every time he closes his eyes: visiting each other’s apartments was too risky. Now, with his pulse racing and nerves gathering tight in his chest, he knows exactly why he wrote that.
Dear Clark from the past: you were wise beyond your years.
When you finally open the door and invite him in, he has to remind his lungs how to work, forcing in a breath. Crossing the threshold feels less like walking into a room and more like stepping into uncharted territory.
His eyes roam over the portraits on the wall, the small decorations, the ceramic sculpture of a dog perched on a shelf. It hits him only then how desperately he’s been avoiding your gaze.
“You have a really nice place,” he murmurs at last, forcing himself to turn back. It would feel wrong not to.
You surprise him with takeout from a place he’d mentioned once in passing. They sell these wraps you can customize to your liking, and he doesn’t remember ever telling you his exact dream order, but you’ve nailed it anyway.
His has pulled beef, cheese, and a rich dressing that overshadows every other flavor. Salsa slips from the edge of the wrap, trickling down his chin as he takes a big mouthful, and you laugh, cheeks full, still chewing.
“What?” he asks, the word muffled, and it’s almost as if he’d momentarily forgotten the first rule of table manners his parents had taught him. He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, a clumsy but effective maneuver to deal with the greasy mess on his fingers.
You sip your water, pressing a napkin to your lips. “Since when are wraps so messy to eat?”
“Mine’s about to explode, but it’s worth it,” he replies, and you nod.
You lean back in your seat, scratching your chin in thought. “Hey, remember the other day you said you were staying late at the office?”
Clark hums, his eyes fixed on his wrap. Better to stay absorbed in his food than risk betraying the truth. That he hadn’t spent his Wednesday night typing, rereading the same sentences until they blurred into nonsense.
“Did you manage to finish that article?” you ask, now resigned to using a knife and fork instead of wrestling with your wrap.
“Oh, yeah. I just… had to check some minor details with… my source,” he says, hoping the conversation won’t make the food turn in his stomach.
Lifting your fork, you point it at him. “Let me guess. Does his name start with an S and end with -man?” He doesn’t bother answering, because it isn’t necessary. “Don’t even say it. I already knew I was a mastermind.”
“He told me all about his fight with the Kaiju,” Clark tries.
You chew slowly on a carrot, thoughtful. Your gaze narrows on him. “Do you agree with everything he does?”
Clark nearly bites his tongue. “What—what do you mean?”
“When you’re writing about him, quoting him, making references to all his rescues, don’t you ever feel like… maybe your opinion might differ from what he did? That you might disagree with his actions?”
Why did it feel like tonight you were the journalist and he was the one on the record?
“I get what you’re saying,” Clark answers, straightening in his chair. “But yeah, I agree with what he does.”
You arch your brows. “With every single thing? Really?”
“I wouldn’t interview him if I didn’t.”
“I don’t believe you.” Your tone is teasing, playful, but under it runs a thread of sharp skepticism. “There’s gotta be something about him you don’t like.”
Clark pretends to think, then shakes his head. “Not that I can remember.”
You ball up your napkin and toss it at him, laughing. “Come on!”
“What?” He catches it and tosses it back with no real effort. “I’m being honest. He gets me exclusives, front page spots. What’s not to like about that?”
You click your tongue and wave him off. “See? You’re biased. You’re not thinking straight. If you were, you’d find something unlikeable. Everyone has flaws.”
Clark attempts to shift the focus of the conversation. “So does that mean I’ve got something you don’t like about me?”
You bite your lip, glance up at the ceiling as though calculating. “You could say that.”
His interest sparks immediately. “What is it? Now I have to know.” He scrapes his chair across the floor until he’s sitting at your side, facing you directly. “You’re not getting out of this.”
“I’m not roasting you for free!”
“I’m literally asking you to!”
“Clark—”
“I’ll just keep going until you break,” he teases, leaning in closer. “You’ll get tired of me eventually.”
With him this near, your eyes betray you, flicking from his gaze to his mouth before you catch yourself. Clark notices. Of course he notices. He watches as you squint, weighing whether or not to give in to his persistence.
Finally, you decide to, because the next thing you say is: “You never question him, not even once.”
He had been waiting for you to say something untrue, something easy to laugh off. But your words catch him off guard. He leans back slightly, needing that extra inch of distance to really look at you.
Your gaze softens as if you regret pushing too far. Rising from your seat, you gather both your plates and glasses. “I’m sorry. I was just—I was joking. You know I’m terrible at that, right?”
You’re trying to dissolve the tension, to make it vanish into the clatter of dishes. He can’t blame you for it.
“Yeah, now I remember,” he says quietly, watching the curve of your shoulders as you walk toward the kitchen. “Please, never give up teaching.”
He trails after you. You’re at the counter, cutting squares of the brownie you baked earlier. You take the first bite, humming at the rich taste as your foot taps the floor, and he can’t stop watching the way your face relaxes with delight.
“Good?” he asks, folding his arms. Despite your recent exchange, he can’t avoid getting lost in your beauty.
It’s a fact that you always look pretty, but tonight there’s something different he can’t quite place. Maybe it has to do with the way you carry yourself, more at ease, a little less preoccupied.
You’re glowing, and it has nothing to do with a physical change, but with something harder to name, something more intimate.
You answer his question with a small, “You have to try it,” and then you’re holding out a piece to him, the same one you’d bitten into seconds ago.
His eyes flick to yours, then down to the brownie, then to your fingers, and back to you.
“Come on,” you insist, swaying the piece a little. Your tongue darts out to lick the chocolate at the corner of your mouth. “I swear it’s not poisoned.”
This is the end of him. Who would’ve thought, out of all possible scenarios, that he’d die right here in your apartment?
He inches forward a little, carefully biting into the brownie, hyper-aware of how close his teeth are to your fingers. He braces for you to look away, to break the tension, but you don’t, and neither does he. His gaze stays locked on yours as he literally eats from your hand.
Don’t get hard. Please, just don’t.
“It’s… delicious,” he manages after a beat, clearing his throat. “Can you make, like, a whole batch for me?”
Rolling your eyes, you say, “Sure.” You finish the last bite yourself, brushing crumbs from your fingertips. Then your brows knit together, like a thought just struck you. “By the way, how’s Atonement going? You like it so far?”
He scrambles in his mind for the last place he left off. “I reached the part where Robbie and Cecilia are… well, you know.”
“You mean the library scene?”
“Yeah.”
“They recreated it so well in the movie. I still remember it to this day.”
“I had no idea there was a movie.”
“It’s from 2007. We should watch it someday… or perhaps tonight?”
There’s no way he’s surviving you, not with the way you’re looking at him now, the way you’re leaning back. You tilt your head to the side, the movement shifting your shirt just enough to reveal the faintest strip of skin. His breath catches before he can stop it.
Your lips part slightly, as though you’re about to speak, but the silence stretched instead.
“Darn it,” he mutters under his breath, and he’s sure you’re about to ask what he said, but you never get the chance, because he cups your face and kisses you.
His mouth crushes onto yours, and it takes you a few startled seconds to catch up before you melt into it, fingers clawing at the collar of his shirt to drag him closer. You climb higher, nails raking against the sensitive skin at his nape, and he shudders under your touch.
Without drawing away, he makes a sudden movement and lifts you onto the counter. Your lips break apart for just a gasp, and you’re immediately tugging him back down, kissing him harder.
As your tongue slides against his, a moan dies on his throat, caressing your hips through layers of fabric. He can even taste the chocolate from the brownie you both just shared.
Your legs part instinctively, and he looms forward, fitting himself between your thighs. You feel the unmistakable hardness against you, and the sound that escapes you is closer to a whine. Hooking your ankles around him, you lock him there, grinding just enough to drive him nuts.
Any other man in his shoes would be floating. Ecstatic. But he isn’t, not fully, because beneath the fever of it all lies the stinging edge of guilt.
He’d sworn to himself he wasn’t here for this, that it was too soon. He’d promised. Yet what you two are doing couldn’t be further from just talking.
The back of your head bumps against the cabinet, making you wince, and instantly he adjusts, pulling you tighter into him, angling your body until you’re practically perched on top of him.
His senses are overstimulated, beyond heightened. He swears he can hear the rush of blood in your veins, the frenzied beat of your pulse. Outside, cars pass, sirens wail, horns blare. Tires screech against concrete, and voices rise and fall.
He presses his hand more firmly to your skin, needing to feel the weight of flesh beneath his palm to remind himself that this, what he’s living right now, is real.
He’s here with you, though at the same time he feels like he's everywhere all at once.
The moment your hand slides even an inch lower, this will all be over too fast. He can’t stay still. He can’t think, because doing so would mean putting a stop to this madness. And the truth is, he doesn’t want to. He knows he made a vow to himself, but—
Your phone starts ringing somewhere down the hall. Your room, or maybe the bathroom. Once his ears catch it, it’s not like he can unhear it. That insistent sound drills through everything.
His hands freeze at your sides, his voice coming out rough. “I think your phone’s… ringing.”
Between kisses, you reply, “I don’t care.”
“What if it’s important?”
“I’m sure it’s not.”
“But what if it is?”
Finally, you break away, drawing in a long breath. His lips chase yours for just one last kiss before he moves aside to let you slip down from the counter.
Clark takes a step back. The second you’re gone, he’s leaning back against the wall, his head thudding against it. He drags in a shaky breath, noticing how fogged his glasses are, and then his eyes peer down at the front of his tented pants.
In a rush, he drops onto the couch, grabbing the nearest cushion to shield his lap, shifting uncomfortably as he adjusts beneath it. Even though his cheeks feel warm, the guilt burns worse than the ache.
You come back with your phone in hand, shrugging, and you drop it onto the table. “Wrong number. Told you it wasn’t important.”
Sinking onto the couch beside him, your gaze flickers down before you can help.
He drags a hand over his face, desperate to find a way out from your unrelenting stare without having to meet it. “Please, just ignore it. It’ll go down. Eventually.”
“Clark, it’s normal.”
“That doesn’t make it any less mortifying.”
“I actually feel flattered.”
Silence envelops you both. He can feel himself relaxing.
Then you speak again. “I’m sorry. Was that too much?”
His head jerks toward you. “What do you mean?”
“Like… the kissing. I feel like I got carried away.”
“I didn’t think you were too much. I—I liked it,” he admits, scratching the side of his nose. “I think you were able to see that clear as day.”
That has you exhaling a breathy laugh, and he tries to shake off the discomfort weighing down on him.
There’s a question he knows he should wait to ask you. It's been playing in his mind, formulating itself at odd hours of the day. Normally, he's able to suppress it, to file it away in a mental junk drawer, but he must be too affected to tell right from wrong.
“Are you seeing someone else?”
“No,” you answer quickly, a puzzled frown on your face. “… Are you?”
“No.” He also shakes his head to make his answer more emphatic. “But would you want to? See other people?”
“Oh, no.” You keep quiet for a moment, your lips pressed into a thin line. “Why are you me asking this? Do you want to?”
He snorts. “Gosh, no.”
“It’s always a possibility.”
“Trust me, it isn’t.”
“You could want to explore other connections.”
“Are we on Love Island?”
“You get what I’m trying to say.”
In fact, he does. Sliding the cushion back where it belongs, he turns to face you. “I like where this is going.”
What he’d meant to say was: I like you. He only reformulated it at the very last second.
The next time you kiss him, it’s different. Slower, softer as your nose brushes his, and he wonders if he’s still in control of the plan.
You wake up with the flu on the day you were supposed to have your sixth date.
You: I must’ve gotten it from one of my students.
You: I feel like crap. I’m so sorry, I really wanted to see you :(
Clark leaves the sentence he was typing half-written, fingers abandoning the keys. He pushes his chair away from the desk with his feet, staring at his reflection on the phone. The white glow of the computer screen casts shadows across his jaw and under his eyes.
Clark: At least let me cook for you.
You: Nooooooo!!!
You: I don’t want you to get sick.
He wishes he could tell you that you're not passing him any germs; not today, not ever.
Clark: I won’t stay for too long.
Clark: I know a soup recipe my mother taught me. I haven't made it in a long time.
That should be enough to soften you.
You: Alright…
When night comes around, he’s in your kitchen, chopping vegetables on a wooden board. The TV hums faintly in the background, interrupted every so often by the sharp sound of you blowing your nose.
The soup is simple, just as it’s always been. His Ma used to make it for him whenever he was sulking as a boy, a cure for bad moods as much as for colds. He only hoped his came close.
Steam curls upward as the vegetables start getting tender, and he keeps one eye on the pot while stirring. You’re standing beside him, watching the procedure.
“I’m sure it smells great,” you mumble, congested. “I mean, I wouldn’t know, but it looks like it does.”
Clark lowers the heat, sets the spoon down. His thumb grazes your cheek before he pulls you into his chest, whispering, “Come here.”
You let out a disapproving sound, but your body doesn’t offer any resistance as he hugs you. “You’re going to end up catching what I have.”
“No, I’m not.”
“That’s how contagious illnesses work.”
“Turns out I’m the exception.”
His arms wrap around your shoulders, palm smoothing circles into your back. You lace your fingers behind his waist, muffling your face against his shirt with a pleased noise.
“You’re so warm,” you say groggily, like you might fall asleep standing there. He kisses your forehead and goes back to stirring with one hand, not letting you go.
Later, after you’ve eaten and declared that the soup made your stomach feel simultaneously more full and leagues better, you put on a random movie to pass the time. Clark actually tries to follow the plot, but you don’t.
Your attention keeps drifting toward him, more interested in the man sitting beside you than in the film.
“You never take them off?”
“Take what off?”
You say it like it’s obvious. “Your glasses.”
Subtly, he adjusts them out of pure instinct. “I can’t see much without them.”
“Have you ever tried contacts?”
“Oh, no. My eyes are too sensitive for that.”
“Everybody’s eyes are, in fact, sensitive.”
“I can’t handle them,” he insists, shrugging. “They feel weird.”
Another minute passes without you uttering a word.
But you won’t drop it. “Can I try them on?”
“Some other day. They’ll make your headache worse.”
Blowing out your cheeks, you hug a cushion to your chest, propping your chin on it. “You keep talking to me like I’m a child.”
He picks up the remote to pause the movie. “I’m just answering your many questions.”
“Curiosity is one of my best traits.”
“I know.”
“Which is why I keep wondering why I’ve never seen you without your glasses.”
“Because I wouldn’t be able to make out your gorgeous face without them.”
“Touché.” You lean against his shoulder, stifling a yawn. “Let’s save this debate for another night.”
“Want to call it a day?”
“No, I can stay up for a little longer.”
Your eyelids end up betraying you ten minutes later, fluttering shut as your head tips against him, your body pressed firmly into his side.
By the time the credits roll, you’re fast asleep. He takes a slow breath, carefully gathering your frame in his arms, and you stir just enough to mumble something about being fine, but you don’t fight him when he carries you to bed.
Clark sets you down gently, covering you with the blanket, smoothing it over you and tucking it along your shoulders. You sink deeper into it with a soft sigh.
“Clark?”
“Tell me.”
“There’s a spare set of keys on my nightstand—”
He freezes. A key? Sixth date. Sixth. Date. What does this mean?
“—so you can lock the door on your way out. I don’t want to get up anymore.”
Sinking to his knees, he lingers at your bedside for a moment. His hand hovers before caressing your cheek, and then he gives a feather-light kiss to your forehead.
You try to hide from his gaze, but it’s nearly impossible. You bury your face into the pillow. “Stop looking at me like that.”
Clark can’t help the smile tugging at his lips. “Like what?”
“Like I’m dying and you don’t have the cure,” you mutter, peeking through one eye. “I know I look bad, but don’t make it so obvious.”
His brows knit in concern. “You don’t look bad at all.”
Attempting to shove him away, you lift a hand from under the sheets to push at his chest, though he doesn’t budge an inch. “Oh, you’re too sweet.”
“I mean it,” he says, voice steady, eyes holding yours. “You’re beautiful. Can’t you see it?”
The certainty in his words makes your smile falter. You don’t miss the confidence in the way he stares at you, the weight behind his honesty. In a sudden urge of truth, perhaps fueled by your discomfort, you ask him, “Where have you been all my life?”
He can’t think of anything clever to say, because he’s afraid of making a false move.
“Why don’t you try to get some sleep, huh?” His lips brush your forehead again, this time scattering delicate pecks across your skin. “I’ll call you in the morning to check on you.”
You nod, surrendering to exhaustion, your eyes fluttering shut as your body relaxes. “Don’t forget to call me,” you whisper, rolling onto your side to fully face him, curling against the sheets.
He huffs out a quiet laugh. “I promise I won’t.”
When he rises, he stills, watching you without realizing it. Your face has softened into pure calm, the rise and fall of your chest unchanging, your lips parted in a quiet breath. The sight disarms him.
“What are you doing, giving me your keys?” he whispers into the room, as if someone might answer.
He finds them right after that, not daring to make noise, and only exhales once he’s outside your apartment, the door clicking shut behind him.
His first loss shouldn’t look like this.
As he plummets from the sky, body tossed by the Hammer of Boravia as if he were nothing but a ragdoll, Clark tries to frame the fall as a lesson.
All heroes who wear capes face a moment they don’t win. They fall, they falter, but they always get back on their feet.
Sooner or later, that would happen to him, too. Just not now.
He’s driven into the ground once more. He can’t stop it this time, can’t even shift the angle, so he braces himself for whatever comes. His back collides with the pavement, and it shatters beneath him.
The debris pulverizes into dust, thickening the air, and it scrapes his lungs as he breathes. He’s got a rib, maybe two, fractured. He’ll have to check at the Fortress.
All around, screams erupt and people scatter. He’s 99% sure no one got caught under him. A burst pipe sprays water across one side of his suit, and as flexes his wrist, he tries to mask the pain and fails in the process.
Tiny voices start murmuring all sorts of things. Even tinier shadows edge closer.
“Is he dead?”
“He can’t die, you dummy.”
“My dad said he could beat him up.”
A little girl points straight at him, her tone squeaky with awe. “ARE YOU THE REAL SUPERMAN?”
Blinking slowly, Clark realizes they’re all wearing the same clothes.
It’s a school uniform.
He crashed outside a school. Fantastic.
“Kids? What did I say about not overwhelming him back in the classroom?”
Is that your voice? Maybe he’d hit his head harder than he thought.
“But Miss—”
“No buts. Move a bit further away. Give him some air.”
Oh, God. It’s definitely you.
He attempts to sit, but the pain rips through his ribs, pulling a wheeze from his chest. His vision steadies in flashes, until finally, there you are, standing at the edge of the crater, eyes wide.
From high above, the Hammer’s deep voice pours into Clark’s ears, saturating him.
The United States will continue to feel the wrath of the Hammer of Boravia…
“Are you okay?” Your soft voice cuts through the chaos. You descend through the debris, your focus seemingly fixed on helping him. Even though the crowd swells around the scene, you’re the only one moving. “Can you stand up?”
When he looks up, the sights hit him. Dozens of phones are raised, their lenses all aimed at him. Clark swallows, hearing the strain in his own voice when he manages, “Ma’am, you’ve got to get out of here. It’s not safe.”
You shake your head, determined, and you offer him your hand. He takes it, barely, and with your help he staggers upright, your shoulder slipping under his arm for support.
The absurdity of it all. You've been in this exact position before, only last time he wasn't wearing the suit.
The Hammer speaks again, hovering high above, his voice reverberating across the city. “This is your last warning,” he roars, vanishing into the sky, leaving the street shaking.
Clark's instincts urge him to follow him, to continue the fight. But he’s too weak, and as he intends to move, he collapses again, groaning as if his entire body’s crumbling with every effort.
“Don’t force yourself right now,” you scold, slipping an arm under his to steady him. “You can’t… fly in these conditions.”
Of all the people to see him like this, it had to be you. His luck is unbelievable.
The crowd begins to thin, and by the time you help him to a bench, fewer eyes linger. The city seems eager to swallow the moment whole and move on.
Another ordinary day in Metropolis.
He presses a trembling hand to his side, each breath stabbing his ribs as they expand. You stand in front of him, arms folded, watching him closely without taking a seat.
He needs to recover fast, but his strength keeps slipping away.
“So… Superman in the flesh,” you say, tilting your head. “Funny thing. I know someone who knows you.”
“You’ll… have to be more specific than that,” he murmurs, keeping his gaze low, afraid the dizziness will swallow him if he looks up.
“Clark Kent,” you reply, tipping your chin up. “He’s my—well, it doesn’t matter.”
That makes him tense, pulling himself upright despite the pain. “Your… what?”
“We’re seeing—” You stop, narrowing your eyes. “Wait. Why do you care?”
If he weren’t certain the laugh would tear his ribs apart, he’d laugh at the absurdity of it all.
He ignores your question, his gaze drifting past you to the school. Children are filing back into their classrooms. “I wouldn’t want to take up more of your time,” he says quietly. “Your students must be asking for you.”
You follow his line of sight, then back to him, your brows knitting. “I don’t know if you’ll find this disrespectful, but—maybe you shouldn’t have done that thing in Jarhanpur.”
It’s the last thing he needs. Pain gnaws at his body, but the sharper sting comes from hearing you dissect his choices to his face.
He pushes himself up, almost limping, his hand dragging across his shoulder. “Thank you for the constructive criticism, ma’am. But I have to go now.” His eyes catch yours for just a beat. “Stay safe.”
Then he’s gone, vanishing into the sky.
When he checks his phone hours later, he finds a message from you waiting for him.
You: I think now I’ve got beef with Superman. Call me?
Clark gets Jimmy a last-minute birthday gift. A dumb, cheap disposable camera despite the fact that he has tons. But it's the thought that counts, right?
Yeah, blame him. He’s definitely not getting the best-friend-of-the-year award. He had almost forgotten about the whole event, until Jimmy approached him at work that Friday before they parted ways.
“See you later!” Jimmy had said, and Clark had stood there, his eyes locked with his friend’s for a solid half-minute, trying to understand why they’d be seeing each other in just a few hours.
Right. The party.
Clark had forced a smile. “Sure.”
The party’s at the bar where Molly works. This is her night off, but she still manages to score him a huge discount, which is the only reason Jimmy’s picked this place.
The bar’s already buzzing by the time Clark slips inside. He spots Jimmy instantly, his laughter carrying above the noise. Clark shoulders his way through the crowd, tapping him on the back. “Hey, buddy.”
Jimmy turns, face lit up red by the neon bar lights. His grin grows even wider when he sees Clark. “Man, you came! I wasn’t sure—”
“Of course I came. Got you something, but don’t open it yet.”
Jimmy nods, taking the small ‘Happy Birthday’ bag from Clark’s hands. Molly drifts by and he loops an arm around her waist. “Babe, can you put this with the other gifts?”
She says something Clark doesn’t quite catch. A guy nearly barrels into him, waving a tray of free shots. Clark thanks him but refuses to grab one, stepping aside.
For a fleeting second, he thinks Jimmy and Molly are staring at him, but then he realizes their gaze is aimed past his frame. “What is it?” he asks.
He follows their line of sight, and there you are, standing in the doorway.
Jimmy slings an arm around his neck. There’s sweat trickling down the sides of his face. “I know it’s not your birthday, but I also got you a gift,” he murmurs into Clark’s ear. Meanwhile, Clark can’t stop staring at you, waiting for your eyes to find his. “It just arrived.”
It takes you a full minute to reach them, murmuring apologies to the people you brush against. You’re wearing a denim skirt and a long-sleeve top. He reminds himself not to stare too long, not to look at you as if no one else exists.
Clark’s been having a problem. Actually, he has many, scattered across cities, countries—even galaxies. He’s had them for many years now.
But lately, one specific problem has been bugging him, and it’s solely your fault.
Ever since you kissed for the first time, he hasn’t stopped thinking about it—dreaming about the feeling of your lips on his, the taste of you on his tongue, waking up hard and aching. Nearly every morning, still half-lost in a dream, he finds himself rutting into the mattress, moaning your name.
The worst moments are when his phone lights up with your messages. Sometimes you’re up before him, and you send him voice recordings, your voice still thick with sleep. He places the phone on the cold pillow beside him, turns the volume up, and pretends he isn’t waking up to an empty bed.
When he says it out loud, in the privacy of his head, it sounds pathetic. Creepy, even.
And then he texts back, Good morning! Hope you have a wonderful day at work! You’d never guess that just minutes before, he’d been in the shower, stroking himself to the thought of you.
It’s become a ritual now: open his eyes, get out of bed, jerk off, shower, Daily Planet.
At present, you give him a quick hug, and you seem shy, almost hesitant. He understands the feeling, since it’s the same one running through him. The first time you’re together in front of mutual friends. The very friends who set you up.
“I didn’t know you were coming.”
“It was a surprise,” you reply, a delighted smile breaking across your face. Your eyes crinkle at the corners with a playful sparkle. “Are you surprised?”
Your smile is so contagious it gets to him. “Very much surprised, yeah.”
He hasn’t seen you since that morning, since the fight he lost against the Hammer of Boravia. That day he wasn’t Clark for you; he wore another name, another face, a cape heavy on his back.
The urge to kiss you rises fast, blocking out everything else. He lowers his head, holds his breath—
But before he can, Molly tugs at your shoulder.
Clark steps back and watches the two of you lean in, whispering. You glance at him as she points toward the bar, mouthing a sorry.
“You mind if I steal her for a bit?” Molly asks.
He shakes his head, and you catch the small gesture he makes.
With a beer in hand, he engages in small talk with half the bar. He ends up the listener, executing a series of practiced moves, because his body may be there, keeping him present in appearance only, but his mind and heart are elsewhere.
He nods at the right moments, shakes his head in disbelief when needed, parts his lips when the other person’s excitement spikes. Even mutters “Jeez, that’s tough” if the story calls for sympathy.
He slips away from one of Jimmy’s cousins, who probably managed to utter a hundred words per minute, and paces through the crowd. He expects to find you with Molly, but instead you’re alone in a booth, circling the rim of your glass with your finger.
He takes the opportunity and slides in beside you. “Did it hurt?”
You squint at him. “What?”
“When you fell from heaven, did it hurt?”
That elicits a low chuckle from you. “You’re real smooth.”
His shoulder brushes yours as he leans closer. “You having a good time so far?”
“Yeah,” you breathe into his ear, raising your voice over the music. “Even better now that you’re here.”
He doesn’t miss the way your gaze flicks to his lips. He tilts his head, breath grazing your cheek, lashes fluttering—
Someone clears their throat, and you pull away.
Lois slides into the seat opposite. “Kent, I see you’ve decided to invade female territory.”
Under the table, his knee knocks yours. “It’s not my fault you left her alone, Lois. What else was I supposed to do?”
“I didn’t leave her alone! I was just getting more of this,” she says, lifting her drink and taking a sip of it. “So, where were we? Oh, yes! Superman.”
Clark nearly chokes, coughing hard. You rub his back, concerned. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” he rasps. “Just choked on my saliva.”
“You should see how flustered Clark gets at work whenever we talk about his most beloved friend.” Lois beams at you, setting her palms down flat on the table.
You let out a quiet laugh. “Oh, I can imagine.”
“He gets pretty defensive,” she presses.
He lifts a finger, calling her attention. “I don’t.”
“You totally do.”
“I just give my opinion,” he counters, raising his brows. “It’s literally our job.”
Lois rolls her eyes, her hair flicking over her shoulder. “Don’t do that. You’re changing the topic.”
“I’m not—”
“What do you think about what Superman’s been doing lately” Lois turns to you, the corners of her mouth quirking up, turning the spotlight on you.
You toy with your glass, your expression dull. “I guess some things could’ve been avoided if done differently.”
“Like what?” Lois inquires, leaning forward.
“The fight with The Hammer of Boravia. Entering a country without first getting permission.”
Clark downs the last of his beer in a single motion. He needs to do something with his hands. At his sides they feel strange, unfamiliar, like they’d only just been stitched onto him a moment ago.
Lois reclines in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest, a smug smile stretching on her features. “This is what I was talking about! He’s dying on the inside.”
“Don’t you think he had… fair motives?” he turns to you, gesturing too broadly. “It’s not like he thought it would make things worse.”
“Well, then maybe he should think twice before acting,” you reply, straightening. “I’m not one of those people that think he’s being dishonest. I believe he wants to do good, but he interfered with international affairs. He knew the authorities weren’t going to give him a medal for it.”
“But he was stopping a war,” Clark insists, his voice tighter than he means it to be.
“I’m not saying what he did was wrong, Clark. Regardless of his intentions, he should reflect on his actions no matter what they are. Everything he does ripples across the planet,” you continue to explain, your eyes locked on his. “He might be morally right, but he has to know any intervention he makes on another country will be questioned.”
A sickness twists in his stomach. Between the thrum of music, the clatter of glasses, the press of bodies, and voices overlapping like static, a dizziness blooms at the base of his skull.
At that moment, Lois cuts through. “He crashed outside a school the other day, didn’t he?”
Your head snaps in her direction. “I work there.”
“And how was he? Got his ass kicked?”
“Excuse me,” Clark begins, adjusting his glasses, “but he didn’t completely get his ass kicked.”
“He was pretty hurt,” you argue, your nose crinkling. “I saw him. I helped him get up.”
As if sent from God above, Jimmy bursts into the booth wearing a birthday hat crooked over his hair. “Okay, enough chatting. Less than thirty seconds until my birthday. Dance floor, now!”
Lois trails after him when he disappears back into the crowd, but you stay seated, and so does Clark.
The countdown begins in the background. His chest is tight, and it would be an outright lie to pretend the conversation hasn’t rattled him. He sizes you up. “I didn’t know you hated Superman.”
You exhale a long breath. “When did I say that? Honestly, what part of what I just said gave you that impression?”
“You took the opportunity to rip him apart.”
10…
“I’m being critical, Clark. We all need to be—even you.”
9…
He can’t control the way his face twists with each passing second. He must be watching you without a shred of remorse, because then you’re saying, “Can we talk like adults without you looking at me like I’ve murdered someone?”
8…
He averts his gaze. Holds his tongue.
7…
You catch your lower lip between your teeth. “Are we really fighting over this—”
6…
“—over Superman?”
5…
“Clark, will you please look at me?”
4…
He does, but stays silent.
3…
“Why do you care so much about what I think of him?”
2…
His tongue feels heavy in his mouth as he intends to speak. “I—I don’t—Can we—”
1…
The look on your face is beyond devastating.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY, JIMMY!
The bar explodes with cheers. Lights dim, the room falling almost entirely into shadow. Even in the half-dark, Clark notices the tight line of your jaw, how tense it is. You don’t meet his eyes when you ask to slide out of the booth to go congratulate Jimmy.
When he rises, it’s slow, like his muscles are made of lead. His legs feel numb, his fingertips burning. He watches you cross the room, sees you touch Jimmy’s back before hugging him briefly.
Molly arrives and folds you into a hug too. You shake your head, adjusting the strap of your bag. A moment later you step back, and Molly turns her attention to Jimmy, arms looping around his neck, pressing a kiss to his lips.
Clark realizes you take that as your exit. You’re leaving without even glancing back at him. Panic flares, and he strides toward Jimmy, interrupting a conversation to pull him into a hug.
“Happy birthday,” he murmurs as he pulls away.
Jimmy smiles, though not fully. “Thanks, man. I appr—”
“I got you a disposable camera, hope you like it, happy birthday!”
Clark rushes out of the bar, nearly stumbling onto the sidewalk in his haste. He scans both sides of the street and spots you nearly at the end of the block.
“Wait!” he shouts.
You turn, startled. “I’m heading home,” you say. Your apartment is only four blocks away.
“Let me walk you.”
It isn’t necessary. He knows you’ll be fine. The streets on a Friday night are crowded, buzzing with life. But the most profound part of his being needs it. He needs it.
You hold your hand up. “Don’t—just don’t,” you say, frowning. “It’s no use.”
“Please, let me.”
“I’m tired.” You rub your eyes, letting out a shaky breath. “I should—My head’s a mess right now.”
He takes a step forward. You’re still too far away. “I just want to make sure you get home safe,” he says, opening his heart to you. “You can kick me out later, but—just let me do this one thing.”
You tilt your head back toward the sky as if searching the stars for an answer. It takes you some time, but you end up sighing, giving a small nod. He jogs up to you, and together you start down the street toward your building.
When you slip the keys into the lock, you ask if he wants to come in for a minute. It goes without saying it won’t be a minute. It won’t be two, not even five.
A sixth sense isn’t among his powers, but he knows that once he steps inside, once he breathes the air of your home and the door clicks softly shut behind him, it will be almost impossible to leave.
The first thing you do is toss your purse onto the counter. He doesn’t move past the doorway. He just stands there in silence, coat still on. His eyes follow you as you turn your back on him, and then you spin around, forcing the confrontation.
“What was that back in the bar?”
The question cuts straight through him. Clark had improvised answers before: quick excuses about why he stayed late at the office, why he never took off his glasses, why Superman, of all people, chose to grant interviews only to a soft-spoken reporter like him.
Yet this is different. What’s about to happen feels inexplicable, and has no easy exit.
“I got carried away,” he finally says, burying his hands in his pockets to prevent you from seeing how hard his skin is burning, knuckles white from balling his fists too tight.
“Oh, really? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Don’t do that.”
“What exactly don’t you want me to do, Clark?” You take a step closer. Your lips are trembling, he notices that. “I don’t know what happened there. I don’t know what got you so… defensive all of a sudden.”
In his mind, he compares this moment to the first time he ever saw you. Maybe you were standing at the same distance back at the restaurant Jimmy had picked that night. Maybe you were even wearing the same shoes you have on now.
But everything feels different tonight. He can’t deny it, can’t cover it up with anything.
“I was asked for my opinion, and I gave it, and then you suddenly changed completely. You’re stiff, you didn’t talk to me. You didn’t even look at me.”
Clark struggles to meet your eyes. Every time he does, he sees the lie he’s been weaving for nearly two months.
“Even still, you won’t look at me.”
He knows he’s here to talk. You want answers; you deserve them. But even though he understands that, sees it as rational and appropriate, it doesn’t mean his body comprehends it the same way his mind does.
You continue, each of your words is punctuated by a wild movement of your hands. “Why does it bother you that I don’t agree with every single thing he’s done?” Your mouth opens and closes before you find your voice again. “Last time I checked, I was dating you, not him.”
There are a million clever things he could say, but the only thing that comes out is: “The Boravian government isn’t well intentioned.”
A humorless laugh bursts out of you, almost leaving you breathless. “You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, rubbing your temples. “Did he tell you that?”
“Yes. I asked him.”
“That’s right. You seem to have unlimited access to his knowledge.”
“What are you implying?”
“Does he pay you for the interviews?”
The question made his head snap back, as if dislocated. “You think Superman’s bribing me?”
“I don’t know! You’re just so—loyal to him!”
“He’s not a bad person.”
“Nobody’s said that, Clark! You’re putting words in my mouth. All I said is that he should’ve considered the consequences of his actions.”
“You believe he had the time for that while trying to save a whole country?”
“Why don’t we call him and ask, huh? Do you have his number? Does he own a phone? Does he—”
“People were going to die!” Clark’s shout rips through the room, his throat raw with the effort. Heat surges through his veins, rushing outward until every nerve is thrumming. He feels both more alive than ever and completely paralyzed.
You take a step back, stunned. His voice still echoes in the room, and shame rises in his chest. He’s never known where his breaking point was until now.
“Okay,” you say slowly, steadying yourself. “What is it that you’re not telling me?”
Should he leave? Vanish? Hand back the spare key you offered him one late night?
You continue to stare at him. “There’s something more to this. I know there is.”
It’s over. He can’t undo what just happened, so why not risk the last chance he has with you?
His fingers close around the edge of his glasses, pulling them from his face. At first, you don’t register what’s happening, until your hand flies to the wall, bracing yourself.
“Holy fuck.”
It’s the first time he’s heard you curse.
You blink furiously, chest tightening with every breath. No sound comes out at first.
“You—What? This… this whole time, you—WHAT?!”
“Please, don’t freak out.”
“I’m not freaking out. I’m fine,” you snap between gritted teeth, though your expression betrays you. “I only had one drink.”
“I know.”
“I’m not drunk,” you insist.
“I know,” he repeats, softer this time.
Your eyes don’t leave him, even as your breathing slows. “You look… different. How?”
He holds up the glasses between you. “They’re called hypnoglasses. They—they alter the way people see me.”
You swallow hard after a while, brow furrowed, like you’re working out impossible math in your head. “Were you going to tell me, or are you doing it out of—what, guilt?”
“It was supposed to happen after our eighth date.”
You stop dead in your tracks. “Excuse me, eighth date? Have you been… counting them?”
Something good was supposed to happen tonight. That’s what he’d thought initially.
He feels stupid as soon as the words leave him. “That—You didn’t have to know that.”
“Why after the eighth date? Why only eight?”
“I don’t know! I like even numbers.”
“Clark, I swear—”
“I thought if we got that far, then… then it meant you really liked me,” he mumbles, heart clenching in his chest. “That you liked me as Clark. And then—well.”
Now it’s your turn to be speechless. He pushes forward anyway.
“I care about what you say about Superman because I’m him. I’m sensitive. I speak before I think. I took matters into my own hands because I believed it was the right thing to do, and I don’t regret it. I wasn’t representing anyone except myself.”
His voice softens, almost breaking.
“And for the record, I like you. A lot. I know I’ve never said it out loud, and I know that it’s late for a confession like that, but I think you deserve to hear it.”
He’s afraid you might slide down the wall, that everything he’s said has been too much. That tonight has shifted something in you. He tells himself he’s half-ready to face another loss, and though it wouldn’t be fought with fists, it would still break him all the same.
“Please, just—just tell me you want me to leave and I’ll go.”
“I don’t want that.”
Perhaps he’s heard you wrong. “What?”
“I said I don’t want you to go.”
He can’t answer in any form other than monosyllables. “Why not?”
You gather your courage and step closer, tilting your chin to meet his eyes. “You have to be more careful. I know you’re—bulletproof, but you still need to take care of yourself. Take care of what you do. Think things through.”
“I seriously don’t understand—“
“What I’m trying to say is that—that I like you, too.” You cut him off, voice rising just a little. Those four words undo him. “I—I really do.”
“Even after all this?”
“I guess I’m really stubborn.”
“So… you don’t want me to go?”
“No.”
“You don’t hate me?”
You touch his forearm gently. “I’d never be able to hate you.”
“You don’t hate… Superman?”
“We may not see eye to eye on everything, but that shouldn’t be an issue,” you counter. “We’re both adults. We can deal with it.”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
Holding his gaze, you whisper, “No. I don’t hate him, and I don’t hate you.”
Clark pulls you into his arms, tucking his chin near your neck. He hugs you with unguarded enthusiasm, your hands stroking small circles along his back. He breathes in your perfume, closing his eyes briefly, as if he could keep you there forever.
“You know what I would hate?”
“What?” His answer is muffled against your shoulder.
“Not knowing more about your dating plan.”
He draws back just enough, still holding you close, your faces inches apart. “Forget about it.”
“Impossible.”
“It’s—not worth it. Trust me.”
“Please, tell me.”
“You’re gonna make fun of me.”
You narrow your eyes, lips curving into a pout. “I promise I won’t.”
For an instant, Clark thinks about changing the subject, but he gives in.
“It consists of eight dates. Divided into three parts—” He cuts himself off when your lips quiver, fighting a smile. “That’s not fair! You’re already laughing.”
You have to bite your lip to stifle your grin. “I’m sorry. It’s just that—you had it all planned. It’s cute.” Your hands slide up to link behind his neck, and a flush creeps across his cheeks. “Okay. You may continue.”
He clears his throat. “Right now, if we count tonight as our seventh date—”
“Are you sure you want to count our first argument as a date?”
“—we’d be in the last stage,” Clark finishes. “Then one more date. After that, if everything went well, I’d tell you the truth, but I—I got ahead of myself. For obvious reasons, of course.”
“Does each stage have… its own conditions?”
“Sort of.”
“Is not touching me one of them?”
“S-sorry?” he stutters, ears going red.
“It’s just that your plan sounds a lot like a chastity one.”
Clark sputters, looking down. “I mean—I never specified such a thing. It’s not prohibited, but—No, I wouldn’t say engaging in that kind of activity was written into the actual plan.”
You hum thoughtfully, nodding. “And would you like it to stay that way?”
“I’m the one who made it, right? So… theoretically… I’m allowed to make a few changes here and there.”
“How interesting.”
His thumb grazes the strip of bare skin between your top and your skirt. “It depends on what you want to do tonight.”
Your chest rises with expectation. You wet your lips, and Clark sees how your pupils expand until they nearly eclipse the rest of your iris’, as if the Yellow Sun had been replaced by an overwhelming moon. “I want it all.”
A tempered heat begins spreading through his limbs. “All as in… all of it?”
“Why don’t you start by kissing me first,” you murmur, rising onto your tiptoes to hover your mouth over his, “and then we just… see it as we go?”
Clark nods as though you’ve given him a concrete assignment that he must now accomplish.
And suddenly, he has a goal.
This is really happening. He knows it doesn’t exactly fit the plan he drafted for himself. If he were following it, he’d wait. But circumstances have shifted.
Again and again, life has pulled the ground out from beneath his careful steps, and strangely enough, he can’t complain.
It’s hard enough to control his own feelings, but trying to rein in someone else’s is nearly impossible. And he can see it, that you want this as much as he does. There’s a yearning, something raw and real, sparking between you.
Maybe Jimmy was right. Maybe he should… go with the flow. At least for once.
RIP Clark Kent’s dating plan. You were a loyal ally through all these years of restraint and abstinence, but your time is up.
Clark kisses you, slowly at first. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, and the way you kiss him back sends a deep shudder through him. At some point, his glasses slip from his pocket and clatter to the floor, but he hardly notices.
The sweetness doesn’t last. That first careful kiss soon spirals into something more frantic. You tug at his hair, drawing involuntary sounds from him each time your mouths break apart by the barest inch. Like magnets, you find each other again and again, tongues clashing, your teeth knocking into his.
He’s already hard. It hasn’t been long, barely anything at all, and yet his body is betraying him with a raging boner. Every time you brush against him, he shifts his hips back, desperate not to let you feel it. He doesn’t want to push too far or make you uncomfortable.
But you notice, and before you can speak, he blurts out, “I’m sorry. It’s just—you’re… so pretty, and I’m—”
Your lips are swollen, flushed from kissing. “You shouldn’t apologize for being aroused,” you say, the corner of your mouth lifting in a brief smile. “Besides, you’re not the only one.”
You pull away just enough to unbutton your skirt, sliding it down the length of your legs. He stares, entranced, before shrugging off his jacket and tossing it aside with his glasses.
Eyes locked on his, you take his large hand and guide it between your thighs, pressing it lower until he cups you. Even through the lace of your black thong, he feels it: the undeniable slickness clinging to his fingers. You’re wet.
No, scratch that—you’re beyond wet.
His breath hitches at the scent of you. You gasp when his fingertips trace your folds over the thin fabric. “See?” you manage, your voice trembling despite your attempt at calm. “I’m just as—as affected as you are.”
Something in that moment snaps him out of restraint; it’s as if a hand has struck his cheek, jolting him awake.
He devours your mouth this time, pushing you backward until your shoulders hit the wall. His strong thigh wedges between yours, prying them apart and holding you there.
One hand braces the wall beside your head, while the other hooks your underwear aside. He’s transfixed by the sight of you: glistening and inviting in equal quantities.
His fingers skim you at first, his knuckles grazing your stomach as he lifts your top. His mouth wanders down your throat, and you throw your head back, hips canting up instinctively. “Clark—please—”
You sound so sweet, so needy, that he can’t make you wait any longer. He pushes a finger inside, achingly slow, your slick guiding him deeper. You’re tight and warm, and he swears he can feel the pulse of your heartbeat.
You moan, and the sound elicits a groan from him, his mouth ghosting over your jaw as he curls his finger inside you.
“Shit,” you mutter, eyes squeezed shut, hands fluttering helplessly with nowhere to hold on. Not that you could fall, because Clark’s holding you as though the world itself depends on it. He pumps his finger a few more times before easing it out of you, instead focusing on rubbing your clit with earnestness.
He captures your lips again, angling your face with a firm hand on your chin to deepen the kiss. All the while, his ministrations on your clit don’t falter, and you can’t help but whimper.
“You’re—God, you’re killing me with these sounds,” he rasps. You melt against the wall, chest heaving, and he inhales unsteadily, peering down at where his hand moves against you. “I’ve been dreaming about this. About you. I can’t—believe you’re mine.”
He fears that last word carries more meaning than it should, but it’s the only truth he knows. He wants to be yours as wholly as you are his; he wants to give you his time, to learn every last detail of who you are.
You nod as best you can, your fist curling into his shirt. “I’m—I’m yours,” you coo, voice thick with desire. Between kisses, you add, “And… you’re… mine.”
Another moan bubbles up in your throat as he sinks two of his fingers into your heat, stretching you even further. The wet sounds each time he draws them back and forth captivate him.
“Are you close?” he asks, though he already knows, but you still whine in agreement. “Oh, I know. You're shaking so bad. You wanna come?” Your nails rake over his arms, clutching at him. “Alright. I got you.”
He works you toward your peak, and moments later, you break, coming around his fingers. Your thighs clamp around his hand, hips twitching with aftershocks. His own moan muffles against your cheek as he peppers it with sloppy kisses, drinking in every one of your mewls.
When you come back to your senses, you kiss him languidly, your tongue sliding against his. “That was… amazing,” you breathe into his mouth, giggling as you attempt to catch your breath. You tangle your fingers in his hair. “I want to touch you.”
He stills. Clark carries so much pent-up tension that it might work against him. He’s pretty certain that the moment you put your hand on him, he’ll finish embarrassingly fast, and he can’t let that happen.
So instead, he drops to his knees.
Your brows lift in surprise. There are beads of sweat clinging to your temples, and Clark parts your thighs with his hands, positioning himself between them. Your cunt, still dripping, is right before him.
He hears you swallow, suddenly shy with him this close to such an intimate part of you. “You don’t have to—”
“But I want to taste you.” His thumbs spread your folds as his mouth waters, and his gaze flicks upward, asking for permission. “Can I?”
You nod frantically, panting, and he settles in. His tongue slides into your entrance, savoring you, before laving over your folds. He closes his mouth around your clit and sucks with intent, and you can’t keep watching him. It’s too much.
“So—fucking good,” you stutter, threading your fingers in his black curls. Your hips rut instinctively against his face, chasing the friction when he eases back a little. “I don’t—I don’t even want to know where you learned all this.”
Clark slips his digits back inside you, plunging them to the hilt. He’s not used to this loss of control, this need to consume, but he doesn’t know how else to do this. If he stops, he fears you’ll vanish, leaving him to wake from the same cruel dream where he’s helplessly humping his mattress.
“You taste like heaven,” he purrs, pulling back with a string of slick connecting his mouth to your pussy. His hand slides higher, palming your breast through your bra. It’s as if the rawest part of him, which is usually buried beneath restraint, has broken loose, and now he only craves more.
“Please, don’t stop.” Your voice is barely a whisper. Your eyes are teary, and for a moment he worries, but then you look at him, pleading. “Keep—keep going, just like that—”
Your flesh is soft beneath his grip, and he squeezes your thigh, grounding you as his fingers piston in and out of you. His tongue draws the same pattern again and again over your nub, and he can feel your whole frame trembling.
As you experience your second orgasm of the night, you don’t make a sound. Your knees buckle, and Clark has to press you against the wall to keep you upright.
With broad strokes, he continues to drink from the nectar between your thighs, enamored with the taste, the scent, the feel of you.
He lets go only when you tap his shoulder, your eyes half-lidded. He rises, making sure to steady you with a hand at your waist. You cradle his face, wiping the spit running down his chin.
You kiss him, softer than before, standing on top of his shoes. “Why are you still wearing clothes?” you ask, your hand slipping down to tug at his belt. You unbuckle it as you lead him toward your bedroom, and he follows without a word.
He sits at the edge of your bed, touching you wherever he can while you undress him. You pop each button of his shirt with ease, taking your time, leaving a kiss here and there before trailing lower. Your fingers caress his chest, and your gaze meets his.
Your voice carries a strained edge when you speak. “Clark?”
“Yeah?”
You’re looking at him with so much affection he could cry on the spot.
“I—I think—” The words die on your tongue, and after a beat you say. “I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as you.”
His heart stings. For a moment, he’d thought you were going to say those three words he’s been biting back.
Nevertheless, his lips cover yours gently, smiling. “Oh, I have.”
“Yeah? Who is it?”
The answer is simple. “You.”
You stifle a laugh. “That’s very cheesy,” you murmur, kissing him shortly. Your fingers unbutton his pants, lowering the zipper, your eyes searching his. “I want to take care of you.”
He draws back a little, takes a deep breath. Again, he’s nervous, as though you aren’t both already half-naked. “There’s something I need to tell you.” You hum in encouragement, and he clears his throat. “Well, I—Gosh, I don’t know how to say this.”
“Just… say it however it comes.”
“I’m not going to last long,” he admits, heat prickling at the back of his neck. You blink, brows furrowing. “I’m not being modest or anything. I—I just know it. I know my… body.”
You take a moment to think. “And what’s the problem with that?”
“Well, it’s certainly not… what you’d expect from me.”
You shake your head. “You’re overthinking it.”
He swallows, lifting his hips so you can tug his pants down. You sink to your knees on the carpet, kissing him again, your nails scraping lightly at the skin just above the waistband of his boxers.
“I don’t care how long you last.” You lick into his mouth, swallowing his whimper. “I just want you to feel good. That’s all.”
Pressing his forehead against yours before straightening, he observes as you push his boxers down. His cock springs free, unashamed, like every other time he’s thought of you alone in his apartment.
The only difference tonight is that it isn’t his hand that grabs it, but yours.
You stroke him once, tentative, studying every vein. Your mouth hovers over the tip before your tongue darts out to taste a bead of precum, moaning at the taste. Clark fists the sheets beneath him, peering up at the ceiling.
“Hey,” you whisper, urging him to look at you. Your hand glides up and down his length, and you chuckle. “Eyes here.”
Clark plants both hands on the mattress, leaning back, his gaze locked on yours.
“That’s it,” you coo, flattening your tongue along his shaft as your hand works him. “Is this okay?”
“Feels… nice,” he manages, attempting to come up with coherent sentences. “It feels—Oh, Jesus.”
His tip disappears behind your lips, and you suck dutifully, making his thighs twitch. He tries to even his breath, but it comes in rapid exhales.
As you hollow your cheeks, he slides a hand down, feeling the outline of himself through your skin. A choked moan rumbles in his chest when you take more of him, your throat tightening around his length. Seconds later you pull back, eyes watery, stroking what you can’t fit into your mouth.
The knot in his lower stomach is becoming unbearable. At times, his knee jerks with small motions. He can’t remain still, about anything but you and the hot paradise of your mouth.
His eyes flutter shut for an instant, and then you pinch the skin above his navel, startling him back, almost tickling him. You bob your head, trying to keep eye contact, but even you have to take a break sometimes from the intensity.
That’s when your free hand slips between your legs, pleasuring yourself too.
“Oh, baby,” he groans, barely registering the pet name. It only spurs you on, and a little saliva begins to drip from your lips, sliding down the side of his shaft, making a mess in his trimmed hair.
And now he’s close. So close he could come any second. He drags a palm over his face, holding his breath, and—
The pleasure disappears. He blinks once, twice, unsure if he’s lost what was left of his sanity or if you’re having fun edging him.
Sort of breathless, you sit back on your knees, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, and it only takes one look at you for him to know exactly what you’re thinking.
For a moment, he swears he blacks out. He feels as if he’s outside himself, disoriented, like a runner who has to reach the finish line at all costs. Except here, the goal waits between your thighs.
Then the haze clears, and he’s back in the bedroom with you. You’re on all fours before him, back arched, presenting yourself. His hands knead the flesh of your ass, and he gnaws at his bottom lip before the urge overpowers him.
He bends, tongue sliding through your slit and tracing it along your folds, tasting you until your voice breaks, pleading for more.
At long last, the moment of truth has arrived. He fists himself, lines up, and notches his tip at your entrance, slowly pressing in.
Don’t come. Don’t come. Don’t—
“Fuck,” you keen, wriggling your hips, quivering. “You’re—you’re splitting me in half.”
“Don’t… try to rush it.” He pulls back a little to push in again, then pushes deeper, growling through clenched teeth. “It’s gonna take a while, sweetheart.”
He doesn’t miss the way you clench around him. His knees buckle and he has to steady himself with a bruising grip on your waist.
“You like that, don’t you? You like it when I call you those names?” Clark asks, voice rough, desire thick in his throat. “That’s why you’re clamping down on me?”
He watches as you nod, the gesture nearly imperceptible. “Please, move.”
Swallowing the lump in his throat, he blurts, “Can’t. You’re—really tight.”
“I wanna feel you,” you retort, your hand groping back, searching for his thigh. Your neck twists so he can cast you a glance: you look already wrecked, mascara smudged under your eyes, lips swollen and parted. “It’s okay. You won’t hurt me. I can take it.”
He knows you can. He repeats it all along as he continues to feed you his cock, storing all the noises you make and the responses you have to his touch in his memory.
Once he bottoms out and can’t go any further, when his balls are flushed firmly against your cheeks, he pulls out until only the tip remains, and slams back inside.
The sound alone is pornographic. Your inner walls stretch to adjust to his size, welcoming him in, and you mutter something about feeling him in your stomach.
“Y-you hear that?” Clark asks, voice breaking. To prove his point, he rolls his hips, the obscene squelch filling the void. He does it again, and again, each thrust making your breath hitch. “She’s crying for me. Wants me to keep her full.”
With a whine, your arms finally give out, and your face sinks into the pillow. That change in angle drives him mad. Clark spreads your cheeks wide, watching the way he disappears into you as he ruts harder into you. He pounds against your sweet spot, the room echoing with the lewd slap of skin meeting skin.
Chest flush to your back, he buries himself even deeper, one arm curling around your breasts to pull you upright as he jackhammers into you, giving you no chance to recover before he’s plunging forward again.
“C-Clark, oh my God,” you wail, clutching at him, trying to turn your face to catch his eyes. “You’re fucking big, you’re—you’re everywhere.”
He licks a stripe along your shoulder blades, tasting salt, and then drags his mouth along your damp skin. “You feel so good, baby. So good, so warm—I never wanna leave you.”
His own pace is killing him. It’s too fast, too deep, too erratic, but he can’t stop. He’s far too caught up in the moment to think of a way to make it last. His body, acting on instinct, moves on its own, leaving him behind.
You’ve told him before that you’re on the pill, that it’s safe, but he still needs to hear it again.
“I’m—I’m close,” he whimpers into your ear, twitching, working every muscle he has. “Can I—I’m just—Please, let me. I’m sorry, I’ll make it up to you, but p-please.”
“Come inside me,” you breathe, arching your back. “I want it. You can let go.”
And with your permission, he does, spilling inside you. His hips falter, driving in short thrusts as he spills inside you, pumping his release deeper with each spasm.
His heart hammers like it’s going to burst free from his chest, tearing out of his ribs, beating hard against your spine as he clings to you. He chokes on a sob against your nape, mouthing at your hair, feeling a surge of blood rushing through him.
Your body lies flat against the mattress, his last brain cells fighting not to crush you with his full weight. He braces himself on his forearms, the fire in his abdomen slowly ebbing.
He thinks he’s spent, but then another hot spurt escapes him, and he tightens his grip on the sheets.
Your walls flutter around him, and you crack one eye open, trying to glance back. “How are you still—”
“I have no idea,” he replies, nosing your cheek. “There’s probably a Kryptonian anatomy book somewhere that could explain it.”
You chuckle, exhaling as your body softens beneath him, getting comfortable. Maybe you think that’s it, that the two of you will collapse into bed, or shower, or do anything other than keep going at it.
But Clark gets hard… again. He never fully softened in the first place. Now, buried deep inside you, he feels himself swelling again, his length hardening back to steel.
After a couple seconds, you notice it. “Are you—are you hard again?”
“Looks like it,” he husks, hips shifting before he even realizes it. “Feels even better now.”
He’s still sensitive from his first orgasm. He can hardly believe either of you are ready for more, but his body isn’t listening.
You wince when he pulls out, clenching around nothing. You try to push yourself up, but your arms refuse. “What are you doing? I wanted you to stay.”
No answer. Just pure silence.
You twist your neck, brows knitted. “Clark? Is something wrong?”
He’s too entranced by the sight in front of him. His essence leaks out of you, and he surges forward to glide his fingers through the mess, gathering it to smear it along your folds. You moan low in your throat as he pushes it back into your hole, your body greedily swallowing two of his fingers.
“You’re—much kinkier than I thought,” you mewl, and then he presses his arousal flush against your lower back, making you chuckle. “Second round?”
He hums, kissing your neck, then your jaw. In one swift motion, he flips you onto your back, pinning you to the mattress. His lips claim yours as his palms slide down to your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers before replacing his touch with his tongue, lavishing attention on each hardened peak in turn.
You rake your nails against his scalp, squirming beneath him. He kisses his way back up to your mouth, biting at your lips.
“I can see you better this way,” he rasps, rubbing the head of his cock through your folds, sighing when he catches your entrance. “You’ll tell me if it hurts?”
Looping your arms around his neck, you tug him closer, kissing him shortly. “I will.”
This position grants him the privilege of watching your eyes widen as he sinks into you, inch by inch, until you’re filled to the brim again. Your nostrils flare, your mouth falling open in silent pleasure. His forehead drops to yours and his eyes roll back, high on the sensation.
He braces both arms on either side of your face, and you lock your ankles at the base of his spine, urging him on. Clark starts a slower rhythm this time, his only focus now to pull you apart.
His balls swing and impact rhythmically against the curve of your ass. You tilt your pelvis on each of his thrusts to help him reach deeper, telling him to go faster, harder.
“You’re so beautiful,” he chants between ragged breaths, whatever thought crosses his mind spilling out unchecked. You’re pinned beneath him, his sheer size overwhelming, like he could consume you whole without much effort. You tilt your head back, turning to putty. “I’d do anything for you. Just say the word and—and I will.”
His eyes fall closed as he inhales deeply, only reopening them once he’s expelled the breath.
“I love you,” he confesses then, voice wrecked, each word punctuated by a jerk of his hips. Any sort of reaction involving coherent speech appears to be beyond you. You just take what he’s giving you, your tits swaying as he pounds into you.
“C-clark, I—” You can’t finish your thought. He can almost see the gears turning in your head, how your face scrunches in ecstasy and the words tangle in your throat. “I—”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to say it back just because I did,” he answers, sneaking a hand between your bodies to rub at your clit, circling it with precision. “I just wanted you to know it. I can wait.”
Your breathing staggers. You grab his face to kiss him, tangling your tongue with his. His gaze flicks between your blissed expression and the place where your bodies meet. His own orgasm creeps closer, though he’s determined to wait until you’re there with him.
The headboard keeps rocking against the wall, and you’re murmuring his name like it's the only word you remember of the English language. By the look on your face, he knows you’re close, that you just need a little more pressure for the knot in your stomach to snap.
“I’m gonna get you there, don’t worry,” he promises, rutting harder into you, never letting up on your clit.
“I—I’m so close,” you whine, sucking in a sharp breath, your thighs tightening around his frame. “Don’t stop.”
“Never,” he pants, holding himself on the edge of the precipice. “I’m right here, honey. I’ve got you.”
You come with a cry, shockwaves wracking your body as your walls clamp and flutter around him. Clark follows instantly, shuddering as he spills deep inside you for the second time, his whimpers muffled by your neck.
He doesn’t pull out until he’s sure you’ve milked every last drop. When he finally does, it’s reluctant, wishing there could be a way to live his whole life buried inside you without facing any consequence. He drops onto the mattress at your side, tugging you into his chest.
To his surprise, he actually feels tired. He’s sticky, sweaty, and madly in love with you.
Wait. He told you he loved you while still inside of you.
Romanticism isn’t dead, ladies and gentlemen, because Clark Joseph Kent is the living proof of it.
Your hand traces absent shapes on his chest, your breath warm near his ear. “I think we need to shower.”
“Yeah,” Clark mutters, staring up at the ceiling. “With holy water.”
You both laugh at that, and he holds you closer, stroking up and down your arm. After a while, he realizes you’re not tracing nonsense on his skin.
You’re writing the same letters, over and over.
I. L. O. V. E. Y. O. U. T. O. O.
“Oh,” he breathes, capturing your fingers and tilting your chin until you’re looking at him. Your lashes flutter, your face glowing with a pleased expression. He can’t stop the smile pulling at his lips. “Really?”
“Yes.” You kiss him softly, brushing your nose against his. “I love you, Clark.”
He seals his mouth with yours. “I think we should start saving to gift Jimmy and Molly a trip somewhere nice.”
“That’s your way of saying thank you for setting us up?”
“Exactly.” He gives you another peck. “I’d suggest preparing yourself for the double dates. I’ve already made my peace with the idea.”
The mere thought doesn’t unsettle you in the least. If anything, it only widens your smile, and your eyes crinkle at the corners.
Clark’s duty on Earth had always been clear. He came from a distant planet called Krypton, and despite the circumstances, his life’s purpose was to serve humanity, to make the world a better place.
What he never expected was that, beyond that destiny, he would find someone who would make his time on Earth feel greater than any calling ever could.
Over the years, experience had taught Clark that whenever Jimmy labeled one of his ideas as brilliant, sometimes… he was right.
september will be good september will be good september will be good september will be good september will be good september will be good september will be good september will be good september will be good september will be good september will be good september will be good september will be good september will be good september will be good september will be good september will be good september will be good september will be good september will be good
He feels so good, he always does. You swear his fingers alone are bigger than a few of the guys you’ve slept with. The first time you told him that Clark made you cum three times with just his hand.
From Afternoon Delight (A Very Professional Lunch Break)
Word Count: drabble, 1-1.5k (god forbid I write something long form)
Warnings: size kink!! fingering, reader has a personality and is implied to be shorter than Clark, nothing descriptive other than that though, cursing, mentions of Clark Kent’s gargantuan cock, mentions of cockwarming, overstim if you squint, 🤞 <- keep this in mind
Clark Kent x Fem! Reader (no use of y/n)
Clark is a big man.
You (and his tailor) know this with certainty.
The first thing that you ever noticed about Clark was his height, towering over everyone he passed on his morning commute. The ache you felt in the back of your neck after every conversation with him.
You still remember the first time you really noticed it though, it was a hopelessly mundane moment. You were flirting with him at the coffee station, and your eyes just happened to drift down and clock how his hips ended just where the counter-top began. You're only human, it's not your fault your first thought was about how easily he could fuck you while you sat on it.
You couldn't look him in the eye the rest of the day.
His size became even more obvious after you started dating.
"You know when I was a kid, my Ma signed me up for piano lessons." Clark says, his voice casual, like he's not knuckle deep in your cunt. Clark is sprawled on the couch beneath you, looking pretty as ever. His lips glossy and swollen from your kisses. You had done all the typical third date things, nice dinner, pretty dress, prettier lingerie underneath. He'd walked you home, taken up your entire door way and acted like he wasn't silently begging to come inside.
You were less patient, grabbing him by the lapels and pulling his lips onto yours.
You can hardly breathe, his finger curling inside as he speaks. "Really?" you ask, voice breathy. You knew his hands were big, you'd seen them hold his phone and make it look like a toy, watched with fascination as he struggled to hold the little teacups they gave you at the Chinese restaurant (first date).
Looking at his hands was a lot different than having them inside you.
You had rolled eyes when he talked about preparing you. ‘Not a virgin Clark’ you’d murmured against his lips.
Clark had hummed, pulling back to bag those pretty lashes you. ‘Gonna feel like, unless you let me open you up.’ He argued.
You scoffed, reaching for his belt but Clark grabbed your wrist. He fixed you with a look, or more accurately a warning. Then he dragged your hand down past his belt and planted it firmly on his bulge.
Oh.
‘Can I please finger you?’ Clark asked, his blue swimming with want. You could drown in them.
You swallowed, trying to save face. ‘Yeah.’ You croaked, voice cracking.
Which brings you to now. “I wasn’t into it.” Clark explains. His thumb is working your clit in slow circles, helping ease his finger out to the tip and then side it back down until he reaches the knuckle. “But one of ladies in town got it into head, kept telling her I had piano fingers.”
“What does that even mean?” You ask, fighting back a moan, doing your best to seem unaffected. Your body betrays you, a gush of wetness seeping down and drenching Clark’s palm.
“You’re so wet baby.” He coos, sliding another finger in. “Means I have big hands.” He continues, “Long fingers.” He curls them, for emphasis of course.
“Fuck.” You gasp. You feel yourself clenching, your hands gripping his shoulders and feeling nothing but steel, absolutely no give.
Clark makes a shushing noise, his thumb picking up pace and he drags his fingers in and out, over and over. His lips plant wet kisses along your neck, sucking on your pulse point as you whine.
He’s deeper inside you than you’ve ever been able to get with your own fingers, deeper than any of your exes ever reached. Forget about length, they’re thick too. You make a note to ask him about his ring size later, for reference.
“I got you, it’s okay.” Clark whispers into your mouth, his fingers picking up speed, his thumb increasing its pressure.
You already feel like jello, between his lips, and his fingers, and the coil pulling tighter and tighter in your stomach you didn’t stand a chance.
“Clark.” You moan, then force yourself to swallow the next one “If these are your fingers-” you gasp as he curls his fingers, as if on cue. Your thighs twitch around his hand, your train of thought completely lost.
Clark hums, his eyes are reverent, his free hand reaches up and cups your face, catching it as you try tuck into his neck. “What was your question pretty girl?” He asks, guiding your head so your forehead rests against his.
Despite the fact that it’s your world getting wrecked, Clark’s forehead is sweaty, his eyes glistening as they study your every reaction. You whimper, hips frantically grinding down onto his fingers. Clark curls them again.
“How big is your dick?” You pant.
Clark chuckles, and then because he can, he twists his fingers together inside you and thrusts them again.
“Let go baby.” He tells you, and you nod, your stomach burning with pleasure, so close. “Let go and I’ll show you.” He promises.
With one more hard pass over your clit, Clark is catapulting you over the edge. His fingers still wrapped together inside you as you squeeze him like a vice. He can’t wait to feel it again when he’s inside you.
In the meantime he helps you ride it out, letting your head fall into the nook between his neck and shoulder. Your entire body shakes with the force of your orgasm, your thighs clenched tighter than tight around his wrist.
After what feels like an eternity, you stop shaking, your breathing finally levels out. “Oh my god.” You groan into his neck.
Clark presses a to the side of your head, his dry hand stroking your hair. The other is still inside you. “That’a girl.” He whispers.
You squeeze his fingers, body reacting before you can tell it not too. The fucker smirks, surely filing that reaction away for later.
You kiss him, hard, hoping to distract, to finally get your hands, or better yet you, around what you want.
Clark groans into the kiss, matching your force with fervor. His tongue dances alongside yours, tracing the top of your mouth, doing his best to swallow you whole.
Then his fingers start again.
“Clark.” You protest, pulling away.
Clark tries to follow you, leaning off the couch and chasing your lips. You manage to stay just out of reach. “What?” He asks.
You pout, but grind down onto his hand nonetheless. “Thought you were gonna fuck me.” You whine.
Clark doesn’t answer, instead he takes the opportunity to unbuckle his belt (one handed- after all the other one is still busy). He only unzips enough to free himself.
You watch, silent, and stare at it. Clark ever so patient, takes your wrist, and this time he wraps your hand around him.
Once again, Clark Kent has made you feel oh so small.
He doesn’t break eye contact, but he makes a noise low in his throat that has you gushing around his hand again, for the umpteenth time tonight.
“Okay you can finger me a little more.” You say, as if it’s actually your idea, “If you really want.”
authors note: look at the scenes of him holding a phone and tell me I’m WRONG, anyway idk how I feel about this one so everyone tell me their thoughts! I insist
“Four days,” Clark says, leaning against your kitchen counter like the most smug farm boy in the galaxy. “No sex until Friday. You can do that, can’t you?”
“Oh, I can,” you lie. You cannot. It’s not that you’re addicted to him—it’s just… fine, okay, you are. When your boyfriend is literally Superman, restraint isn’t exactly your strong suit. But you were still going to try.
You cross your arms, aiming for nonchalance. “You’re forgetting something, Smallville. I’ve got self-control.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, sipping his coffee like this is nothing. “You couldn’t even make it through Man of Steel Monopoly without—"
“That doesn’t count,” you cut in, cheeks warming at the memory. “You were cheating.”
“I was winning.” He tilts his head toward you, voice dropping low, “and you’re already thinking about breaking the rules.”
“I am not.” You absolutely are.
“I’m just saying,” Clark continues, “I think you’ll fold by Wednesday night.”
“Oh, please,” you scoff. “I’m making it to Friday. And when I win, you’re taking me to that seafood place in Metropolis. The fancy one.”
“Sure baby, if you even make it that long.” He said laughing, and it was warm and deep and did things to you that were going to make this whole “no sex until Friday” arrangement absolutely impossible.
“So,” you said, stepping closer until your chest brushed his arm. “If we’re doing this… what exactly counts as breaking the rules?”
Clark hesitated, his jaw tightening just slightly, which told you he hadn’t actually thought this through. “Uh… no sex. That’s all.”
Your smirk was wicked. “Define sex.”
“You know, sex.”
You tilted your head. “Right. But define ‘sex,’ Kent. Because I’m pretty sure you’ve got, like, Smallville Boy Scout definitions, and mine might be… broader.”
His eyes flickered down at you—quick, almost guilty—and then back up, “You know what I mean.”
“Mm. I don’t. Clarify.”
Clark sighed, that low, exasperated sound he made when you were purposefully annoying him and he secretly liked it. “No kissing where it counts. No touching where it counts. No…” His voice dipped lower, “…oral anything.”
You fought a grin. “Interesting choice of words.”
“Stop,” he warned, but his cheeks were pink now, which was almost as satisfying as getting him into bed.
“Stop what? I’m just trying to make sure we’re on the same page,” you said, running your finger in an absentminded little circle against his bicep. “So I could walk around the apartment in a towel after a shower, dripping water everywhere, and that wouldn’t be breaking the rules?”
“That’s… not—” He coughed. “That’s not technically sex, no.”
“Or I could sit on your lap during movie night. Totally innocent. No rules broken.”
Clark’s jaw flexed again. “…Right.”
“And if I… oh, I don’t know…” you leaned in so your lips were just brushing the shell of his ear, “…accidentally moaned your name in my sleep?”
He turned to look at you fully, and the shift in his eyes made your knees a little weak—like you’d just poked at the Superman side of him instead of Clark. “You keep testing me, sweetheart, and Friday’s going to be very, very long for you.”
“Bold of you to assume I’ll regret winning.”
He hums, all calm and unbothered, but you can see it—how his hand lingers on the counter, knuckles whitening just slightly. “You remember what happened the last time we made a bet?”
You try to play innocent. “Nope. No idea what you’re talking about.”
Clark gives you a look, the one that says he’s running through every single memory in his superbrain and knows you’re lying. “You ended up handcuffed to my bed for three hours.”
You snort. “And you loved it.”
“Mm.” His lips twitch, fighting a smile. “Not the point.”
“You’re right,” you say, sidling past him toward the couch, deliberately brushing against his chest on the way. “The point is that you’re going to be paying for my oysters and champagne by Friday night.”
He follows you—because of course he does—and drops onto the couch beside you. “And the point is that you have zero poker face.”
“Oh, please.” You grab the remote, flicking on Netflix. “I’ve got plenty of poker face.”
Clark doesn’t even answer—just drapes his arm over the back of the couch and lets his thumb graze the bare skin of your shoulder.
You last fifteen minutes before you start to squirm. He notices, naturally, and smiles faintly like the predator he’s pretending not to be. “Wednesday night, huh?” he murmurs, eyes on the TV.
You grit your teeth, leaning back into his arm like you’ve got something to prove. “Friday, Kent. I’m making it to Friday.”
And that’s when he leans in, lips brushing the curve of your ear. “Guess I’ll just have to make sure you’re good and restless until then.” You know, in that moment, you’re so fucked.
The next morning, steam still clinging to your skin from the shower, you tug on a thin silk night slip, one thaf is definitely not bet-friendly—and pad into the kitchen.
Clark’s already there, hair damp from his own shower, in a fitted blue t-shirt that makes your pulse do funny things. He’s sitting at the table, reading the Daily Planet on his tablet, coffee in hand, and working his way through a plate of eggs
You pause in the doorway, catching his eye for just a second, then—without breaking contact—you reach for the hem of your night slip and tug it up. Over your hips. Past your chest. And off.
Clark freezes mid-bite. Fork halfway to his mouth.
“Morning,” you say breezily, tossing the slip onto a chair and padding over to the laundry nook, bare ass bouncing. You bend tossing in towels with your ass high, knowing full well he can see everything. The air’s cool, nipples tight and aching, and you swear you hear him exhale a curse under his breath.
Laundry done, you saunter into the kitchen, open the cabinet, and pour yourself a cup of coffee like you’re not putting on a one-woman burlesque show before breakfast.
You take the mug to the couch and plop down next to him, crossing your legs. “Whatcha reading?”
Clark doesn’t look. “News brief. Morning update for the Planet.”
“Mhm.” You sip. “How’s that going?”
He swallows, jaw tight. “Fine.”
The silence stretches. You shift, scooting an inch closer. Then another. Until your thigh brushes his. His voice is slightly hoarse now. “Sweetheart—”
“Can I have a hug?” you interrupt.
“Not a good idea.”
“Didn’t ask if it was a good idea.” You set your coffee down and slide into his lap before he can react, straddling him.
Clark’s hands fly to your hips—not to pull you closer, but to keep you in place—as if that’s somehow going to help. You loop your arms around his neck, leaning in until your breasts press against his shirt. “It’s just a hug, Smallville. Not breaking any rules.”
Clark’s eyes are locked anywhere but on you, like he’s memorizing the wood grain of the coffee table. His thumbs flex against your hips before he catches himself and goes still. “You’re—” His voice comes out rough, like gravel. He clears his throat. “You’re naked.”
You tilt your head innocently. “Am I?”
He gives you that look—the one that I’m two seconds from throwing you over my shoulder. “You know you are.”
“Right. Which… is fine.” You shift just enough that the movement drags your nipples across his chest. “Because being naked isn’t against the rules.”
The rest of Tuesday is… fun. For you. For Clark, it’s some kind of Herculean test of willpower.
By Wednesday morning, you’ve traded the silk night slip for nothing but one of his button-ups—and not much else.
By Thursday, you can tell he’s hanging by a thread. Which is exactly why you push.
That night, you’re in bed together. You’ve been good—technically. No touching “where it counts.” No breaking the rules. But as he scrolls through something on his phone beside you, broad shoulders relaxed against the headboard, you get an idea.
You start slow—just sliding a hand over your own stomach under the blanket. Then your fingers drift lower. You bite back a sound, but the mattress dips as his head turns. “Sweetheart?”
“Hmm?” You keep your eyes closed, breath soft and uneven now.
Clark freezes. “What are you—” His voice drops. “Oh, no.”
“Not breaking the rules,” you murmur, lips curving. “I’m just… helping myself sleep.” Within seconds, your fingertips find slick heat, and your hips give a tiny involuntary roll. The sound that slips past your lips is embarrassingly needy. You hum, teeth catching your bottom lip. You keep going, rubbing slow circles, your breath catching in quiet, uneven little gasps.
His phone’s still in his hand, but his jaw is tight now. “You trying to get me to lose?”
“Mm,” you breathe, eyes closed. “Not… technically…”
The blanket shifts over you as your hips move again. Your whimper is quiet but not quiet enough. Clark groans under his breath, rolling to face the opposite direction like distance will save him. “You’re impossible.”
You smile to yourself, dragging your fingers lower, dipping into your own heat. The slick sound is filthy in the quiet room, and the next moan that slips out is louder. He inhales sharply through his teeth, but doesn’t move.
“Fine,” you pant, your own voice starting to shake with how badly you’re aching. “Guess I’ll just keep doing it myself… thinking about your cock instead of my fingers… about how big you’d feel inside me right now…” That does it. His free hand shifts under the blanket toward his own waistband, and a second later you catch the faintest movement of his fist working over himself. Your hips stutter. “Clark—”
“Don’t start,” he grits out, jaw tight. “You started this game.”
You let out another moan, high and breathless, and that’s it—his phone clatters to the nightstand. In one motion, he’s on his side facing you, catching your wrist under the blanket and pulling your fingers from yourself.
“Move ‘em,” he orders, you barely have time to inhale before he’s replacing them with the hot, thick press of his cock, sliding in slowly. You moan, nails digging into his shoulders as he stretches you full.
Clark braces one palm beside your head, the other gripping your thigh so tight you swear you’ll feel it later. “Four days,” he murmurs against your ear, voice low and dangerous. “I made it four days with you teasing me like that. You owe me.”
Your nails rake down his back, earning a low grunt. “Fucking… knew you wouldn’t last,” you manage between moans.
Clark’s laugh is dark and breathless against your skin. “I lasted,” he pants, slamming into you harder. “You didn’t.”
You gasp when his hips snap forward, the headboard knocking against the wall. “I—” you start, but it melts into a moan.
“Could’ve kept my hands to myself,” he goes on, driving the words between thrusts, “but then you had to sit there and—god—touch yourself right next to me.” His pace picks up, his fist bunching the sheets near your head like he’s holding back from just railing you into the mattress.
His forehead presses to yours, sweat slick at his hairline, and his voice drops to a dark murmur that makes you clench around him. “God—fuck—” you whimper, the words breaking into a moan when his cock drags against that perfect spot inside you. You’re so wet now that every snap of his hips is filthy and loud under the blankets, slick and obscene.
“You hear that?” Clark groans, fucking you harder. “That’s how fucking desperate you are. Four days, and you’re dripping all over me like a slut who can’t keep her hands to herself.”
He bites down on your shoulder, groaning like he’s just as far gone, hips jerking into you with mindless, hungry force. “Gonna cum in you,” he grits out. “Gonna fill this perfect little pussy so deep you’ll still feel me tomorrow.” You choke out a cry, your back arching as your orgasm hits—sharp and devastating—your cunt pulsing around him, slick spilling down between your thighs. He fucks you through it, chasing his own high, his thrusts growing erratic.
When he finally eases back just enough to look at you, you feel the hot spill of him leaking out between your thighs. His fingers slip down, pressing against your swollen cunt pushing his cum back in making you jolt.
“Not done,” he murmurs, watching your face as he keeps moving inside you, slow and filthy. “I’m gonna fuck it deeper so you remember who you belong to.” And with that, Clark Kent—boy scout farm boy, world’s greatest hero—starts all over again, ruining you until you can’t even remember what day it is, much less who won the bet.
a/n: ive has the MOST stressful week but alas time shall go on and writing smut exists so staying alive can’t be that bad also super thankful for all of u whores
warnings: brief wound description, first aid, tiny angst (could not be smaller), canon typical pain/gore
summary: you think you can hide a stab wound from your husband? yeah, okay, good luck with that
author notes: cheeky little short thing hahah I wrote this out of nowhere pls enjoy its very fluffy, very sweet, bucky is very soft here lowkey kinda ooc but I feel like if he was healed completely this could be accurate anyways do enjoy
word count: 1.8K
The door inched closed with a tentative click as the lock turned, your hand falling from the gold doorhandle. Safety. You were home, that was the important thing. Not the searing pain in your head and abdomen, part of your sleeve pressing against the wound. Fucking idiot had a knife. You didn't expect him to have a knife. It wasn't deep. Probably. Okay, it could have been way worse. You weren't going to bleed out and that was good enough for you. Whether it was enough for him was another question, but he would be asleep. You'd be able to sneak into the bathroom and patch yourself up before he ever knew you were even stabbed.
You had to pass the bedroom to make it to the bathroom. It was typical of Bucky when you went on missions like this to keep the bedroom door swung wide open for when you got back. He'd done that tonight, the darkness spilling into the corridor of your home.
Slipping past the door, you thought you had made it. Listen, you were trained spy. You could get past any situation, you could step as quietly as a mouse. You could steal things from people so that they forgot they had the item in the first place. And yet, you weren't able to make it past your own bedroom door without catching your foot on an uneven floorboard and hiss at the pain of a wrong move against your wound. You knew you were done for when the bedsheets shuffled and the 6-foot-something man sat up, eyes heavy with sleep and donning fresh bed-head.
If you hadn't just been caught, you would have smiled at how purely adorable he looked.
Because he wasn't the Winter Solider in these moments. He wasn't a spy or a super solider, or any form of weapon. He was your James. With a boyish grin and a need to have his arms around you at all times, whether you liked it or not. Though, you always did like it.
He grunted, breathing air through his nose and attempting to adjust to the light shining in from the corridor. "Doll?"
"Hi, honey." You smiled towards him, leaning against the doorframe as a way to shield and distract him from the way you were holding your side. He grinned at you when he fully came around. "I'm just gonna go wash up, then I'll come to bed."
Bucky nodded sleepily. "M'kay, sweetheart. See you inabit."
When he trailed off and dropped back against his pillow, you let out a silent sigh of relief and continued your movement in the direction of the bathroom. Light switch on, you dragged the aid kit from the cabinet below the sink and works on patching it up. Luckily the bleeding had ceased and the cut wasn't deep enough to need stitches. Antiseptic to clean the wound came first, teeth gritted together in a hiss that echoed against the white tile as the alcohol cleaned but pained you simultaneously. Then just a simple patch placed over the wound, which now looked a lot less intimidating now that it was clean and wasn't seeping blood seemingly endlessly.
While it would sting if you moved it in the wrong way, it was covered and in a much better condition to heal, so you were happy. With the light switching off, you followed your own path back towards the bedroom, entering this time and silently moving over to the dresser, pulling out one of Bucky's old t shirts that smelt like him and dragging it over your head.
The bed was warm as you slipped into it, the ends of your fingers still freezing from the November cold and shivering as you drew the covers over your body. More warmth came over you as your beloved turned in his sleepy state and pulled you towards him, flesh arm wrapping around your waist and pressing your back flush against his chest. His metal arm moved to under his pillow, leaning his head forward to press against the back of your neck and breathe in your scent. A sense of comfort, a reminder of home, because you were his home and he loved you so much.
As your eyes fluttered shut, he mumbled. "Mission go well?"
It was just his usual check in, same as always. You always told him the truth, no matter what had happened, because he deserved to know, and you knew he would react in the exact way you needed him to in that moment. "Yeah." You murmur back, nodding softly, even thought you knew his eyes were closed. "Got all the intel with no casualties."
"That's m'girl." A flush crept up onto your cheeks.
Sighing into the skin at the back of your neck, his hand wandered, needing to feel you around him, safe, home, his. From the dip of your waist, to the curve of your hip and tucking under your his shirt. He knew you would be cold, without you having to even shiver. On any other day you would welcome the warmth of his flesh hand against your bare skin, the comfort and clarity warming you up. But the further upwards his hand moved, the closer he was getting to the gauze patch just above your hip bone. He hadn't been able to feel it through the thick fabric of his shirt — there was no avoiding it this time.
Then, just as you were about to shuffle tiredly he reached it, flesh brushing over the rough fabric. His fingers paused, just hovering slightly above the wound now. To you, it hadn't been a very large patch because the wound hadn't been that big, but to him, the love of his life had gauze stretching across her abdomen — it didn't matter how big the wound was. You had frozen, eyes squeezed shut, pushing it down and praying he would ignore it. Of course, he wouldn't.
His lips parted — he pulled his metal arm from under his pillow and propped himself up on it, able to look down at you, eyes now open and furrowed at you. "Sweets?"
"Mhm?"
"Can I ask why you've got a gauze patch on your hip?" He was calm with it, being forced to be so due to the sheer tiredness painted on his face, the urge to fall asleep almost taking him over. But no, your safety was more important to him.
You turned, taking the path of acting like there was nothing wrong. Gaslighting? You suppose. "There's not a gauze patch on my hip, Buck." He raised a sassy eyebrow at you, hand dipping to the hem of his shirt and pulling it over the curve of your hip. He didn't need to say anything else for you to realise there was no getting out of this now. You hummed, grazing your finger over the wounded area. "Yeah. That's not my hips, baby, that's above my hips."
"Must think you're so funny." He mumbles, taking your hand and entwining his fingers with yours. "You're hurt, probably in a lot of pain and you're just joking around like that. Hurts me, doll."
Snorting, it was your turn to raise an eyebrow at him. "Don't act like you don't do the same."
He stayed silent at that. Got'em. Your smug thoughts were silence as Bucky moves down your body, removing your hand from the patch and instead replacing it with his lips, softly pressing against the fabric, warming the area. Slowly, he wandered your body, lips following every movement, pressing against every possible patch of skin, murmuring sweet nothings underneath each breath as he did so, warming your body and your heart. Once he reached your shoulder, he mumbled against the skin. "Tell me what happened?"
"It was just some guy, Buck." You murmured, turning to fully face him and reaching your hand up to press against his cheek and letting your thumb rub against the stubble there. "With a knife, didn't see him coming, he managed to get through my defences and lightly stabbed m—"
"Stabbed? You were stabbed!" The words had his voiced raised, eyebrows rising just as much as you realised that the man was now, wide awake.
"Lightly." You tried to croon, comfort, maybe settle some of the anger he was feeling.
But Bucky was having none of it. "Baby, no." He spoke, his voice as soft as ever, externally showing his care and worry for you over the internal battle inside his brain telling him to go and find whoever did this to you and make their life a living hell. Then again, he knew you, he trusted you and with your skill, you had probably already killed him even after being stabbed in the abdomen.
Leaning upwards just a little, so as not to strain yourself, you pressed your lips against his cheek. "I'm okay, I swear. I'll heal, I always do."
"Someone still hurt you though."
"And he's got what's coming for him." You shrugged, clearly not as put off by this whole situation as much as Bucky was. You were strong — he knew that more than anybody. That doesn't mean it didn't pain him to see the gauze patch against your skin. Skin, of which, he had an unbreakable habit of kissing at any and every possible moment. "But I'm alive and I'm not going anywhere."
Bucky grumbled, hand at your hip, thumbing over the tender skin next to the wound. He wasn't happy with just leaving it be, but the two of you needed sleep, you needed to heal and he needed to just… hold you for a bit. In his arms, under the warmth, a reminder that you were strong, and safe, and his. "M'kay, I'll drop it. On one condition."
"Go on, honey."
"Promise me you tell me next time you come home hurt?" The words crushed you just a little. You should have told him, but he'd been so tired recently, and you didn't want to bother him. He continued. "I'm your husband, doll, I'm here to protect you and help you. I can't do that if you don't tell me."
Knowing he was right, you nodded. "I promise, Bucky, I will."
He smiled, leaning down a leaving a kiss in your hairline. "Thank you. All I ever want is to know you're safe and alive. Now come on, sleep will help you heal and you're almost definitely tired from the blood loss."
You hummed, turning over and letting him press his chest against your back, curling slightly to fit better against him. With a warmth settled in your heart and the feel of his warm fingers splayed across your stomach, making sure you weren't going anywhere, the two of you drifted off together into the best sleep you'd had in a while. You knew you were safe with him, and he knew that you were warm and alive, shielded by him even in the throes of an unconscious sleep.
notes: i saw a lot of love for this idea on my ‘works in progress’ post so here you are!! this was a request but i lost it so whoever requested a scary protective bucky, this is for you. enjoy :)
you’d met bucky barnes at one of the wilson’s neighborhood parties; you’d known sarah since playground days, and had reluctantly known sam, as he refused to abide by the “no boys allowed” sign taped on your treehouse door. since then, you had come to every party, every one of the kids’ events, and every holiday, so you knew all of these people like the back of your hand.
but then bucky had waltzed in, a platter of homemade cookies in hand, jawline sharp enough to cut glass, and you just about keeled over.
“holy biceps, batman,” you mumbled, trying to hide your obvious stare with a sip from your drink.
“that’s bucky, sam’s new friend,” sarah explained, poking your side. “you should talk to him.”
“talk? the man looks like he was carved out of marble, i’m not just talking to him.”
nevertheless, sam decided that simply wasn’t your choice, and introduced you two with suspicious haste; after all these years, he was still such a pain in your ass.
however, you did have him to thank for the past six months of bliss with the man of your dreams.
as you’d told sarah, ‘man of your dreams’ was not an exaggeration in the slightest. bucky barnes was a gentleman in the truest sense of the word.
he opened every door, carried every bag, guided you around with a hand on the small of your back. he spoke to you gently, touched you even gentler, and he looked at you like you’d hung the moon and the stars.
he was perfect.
however, as little as you could believe it, the rest of the world did not view him that way.
you’d noticed quickly that when you and bucky walked down the street, people crossed to the other side. when you went on dinner dates to fancy restaurants or on morning hikes in the park, people quieted their conversations and kept their heads down. even bucky’s teammates joked about the intimidating air that followed your boyfriend around like a storm cloud.
but you just never saw it! your bucky was the sweetest man on earth, and under all those muscles and rough callouses, he was really just a big old teddy bear.
“teddy bear?” sam had snorted when you told him about your observation. “more like real bear. you’re prancing around with the white wolf, kiddo, people are gonna stare.”
“why should people stare, huh?” you defended. “just because of his past? that’s not okay.”
“it’s not a bad thing! it’s like when you see someone with a big dog,” he explained. “you have scary dog privileges.”
you’d scoffed, dismissing him and returning to your movie. you didn’t speak of it again—honestly, in the whirlwind of romance that came with bucky, you had hardly had time to think of it.
it was the first thing you thought of, though, when you were walking home one night, phone dead, and realized someone had been following you for the past few blocks.
you turned, they turned.
you slowed, they slowed.
you walked faster, they nearly broke out into a jog.
god, what you wouldn’t give to have your scary dog privileges right now.
luckily, you were only a block from your house, where bucky was inside, waiting for your phone call saying you were ready for him to come get you from work. but with your stalker closing the distance between you, you began to worry if you would even make it inside.
sure, you could defend yourself; but you weren’t a superhero. what if this guy had a gun? a knife? some sort of chloroform rag? you wouldn’t stand a chance.
as you reached the neighbors driveway, you could practically feel breath on the back of your neck. you kept your head forward.
so close, you are so close.
when you reached your house, you decided to make a run for it, barreling up your driveway like a mad woman. unfortunately, you only managed to slam your first against the door once before an arm wrapped around your middle.
you screamed bloody murder, thrashing against your assailants hold. he tried to put a hand over his mouth and you bit ferociously until you tasted blood, and your fists pounded on his arms.
“god—just stop struggling, you stupid bitch—” before he could finish, the door swung open, and there stood bucky: tight black t-shirt, metal arm whirring, cold stare targeted right above your head.
your assailant dropped you with a curse and attempted to run, but bucky was on him in a slow and steady stride—jesus, it was like michael fucking myers.
you backed yourself into the corner of the porch, watching as bucky pulled the other man back, first bunched in the hood of his sweatshirt.
your attacker was a middle aged man, balding, probably about forty-five, and vaguely familiar in the way a lot of middle aged men were. bucky did not bother pulling him to stand, opting to drag him by the hood back to the steps of your home.
“do—should i call the police—”
bucky shook his head. “nah. go inside and wait five minutes, then call sam.”
you nodded, trying to ignore the pleading look the man on the ground sent your way. huh. predator becomes prey.
you’d followed his instructions (almost) and called sam five minutes later. however, bucky had implied you stay away for those five minutes, and the curiosity had gotten the better of you after about two.
tiptoeing to the door, you looked out the crack, hidden enough so neither men would notice you. at first, you couldn’t really see what bucky was doing—he had pulled the man to his feet and backed him against the wall, broad shoulders blocking your view, but you did hear something.
a sickening crack of bone.
you stifled a gasp as your attacker screamed, muffled by bucky’s hand as he shoved him back down to the ground, hand going back to his hood like it was a leash.
sam arrived in record time and the man was gone before you knew it, clutching his jaw and cowering all the way.
when bucky came back in, you were sat on the sofa, flicking through streaming services and trying to hide your shaking hands. your boyfriend had just broken a man’s jaw like an eggshell. you’d hardly even seen him cock back.
he sits down next to you, making sure to leave some space between you. “are you okay?” he asks softly. “hurt?”
you shake your head, still not meeting his eyes. “i’m fine. just a little bruised.”
you let the silence hang over you, that scary storm cloud suddenly present. after an agonizing minute of silence, bucky speaks up.
“you saw me break that guy’s jaw, didn’t you?”
you nod shyly.
“i’m sorry,” he whispers, raising a hand but stopping short of your arm. “are you okay to—”
you nod, settling in against his chest, letting him wrap his arms around you like a weighted blanket. “that was intense,” you admit. “i’ve never seen you like that before.”
he nods, smoothing your hair and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “i’m sorry, honey, i didn’t mean to scare you.”
you couldn’t help but notice the distinction in his words; he was apologizing for letting you see him do it, not that he did it in the first place. “it’s okay. i should’ve stayed inside.”
he continued to pet your hair, arms tightening every once in a while, like he was scared you’d get up and run away. you could almost here the thoughts running through his mind: ‘i’m not dangerous, i promise. please don’t leave me.’
“thank you for protecting me,” you whispered, rubbing his chest right over his heart. “i don’t know what i would’ve done without you.”
“please call me next time,” he whispers. “i don’t want you walking home alone in the dark.”
“my phone died,” you grumbled.
“call me from a payphone then.”
“a payphone?” you laugh.
he cringes. “did i say an old people thing again?”
you nod, leaning up and kissing the little creases by his eyes. “it’s okay, i love my old man.”
he grunts, and you feel it vibrate in his throat as you bury your face in his neck. god, you could suffocate in his cologne and you’d die happy.
“you promise you’re not scared of me now?”
you shake your head, kissing his pulse point. “you’re still a big teddy bear to me. plus, i plan to take advantage of my scary dog privileges now.”
SUMMARY Joaquin's good at distracting you from your mess & inner turmoil, all while comforting you in the process. Being taken care of feels nice; you’re glad you finally know what it’s like.
PAIRING joaquin torres x gender neutral!reader
GENRE angst, fluff, hurt/comfort, established relationship
WORD COUNT 2.5k
WARNINGS swearing, dishware breaking, descriptions of blood and minor wounds from ceramic shards, negative self-talk, very brief self-harm (slapping hands against each other), childhood trauma; reader suppressing said trauma and emotions, allusions to past emotional and physical abuse (no explicit descriptions, none inflicted by joaquin), one innuendo, brief sambucky divorce mention, reader is called english & spanish pet names by joaquin, reader can understand one (1) spanish phrase so it's up to interpretation if they can speak fluently or not, no mentions of Y/N
AUTHOR'S NOTES requested! played around with my vocabulary here; i actually enjoyed the process of writing this pieceee
One moment you’re in well-deserved, contented solitude, the next there’s shattered ceramic all over the kitchen tiles. You would’ve swept the shards up with pure neutrality and moved on as if it never happened if what had broken was your own piece of dishware. But it wasn’t.
It was an honest mistake, yet here you were, fretting over a mug that was easily replaceable. Except you knew you couldn’t replace the sentimentality Joaquin had over it.
That’s what made you reach your own breaking point.
You impetuously got on your knees with shaky hands, ones that you’ve already slapped against the other to get them to fucking stop shaking, trying to salvage what’s left of Joaquin’s mug given to him by his grandmother.
Some pieces are microscopic, and you’ve forgotten the fragile material can turn into dust specks because the tiniest pieces are digging into your legs; the adrenaline rushing through you cancels out any pain you’re supposed to feel.
On autopilot, you frantically compile the bigger chunks on the right, the medium pieces in the middle, and ones you have to squint in order to see towards the left. Your whole body was numb to begin with, but even more so when it sounds like there’s some shuffling coming from the front door.
Was he supposed to be home yet? A part of you wonders, eyes desperately trying to find anything that tells time.
Why was it when you need something so desperately, you can’t find it?
You think you can vaguely hear Joaquin call out for you somewhere, but the sound of your heartbeat overpowers any other sound trying to enter your ears.
A shadow suddenly looms over you and your hoard of shards just when you were about to attempt to remap all the pieces together. There’s nowhere for you to hide.
You admit to defeat and hastily stand upright on your feet— no doubt on more crumbs of the wreckage. Every part of your body faces Joaquin except for your borderline bloodshot eyes. You haven’t blinked since you dropped the ceramic.
You speak before he does.
“You’re home.” You state the obvious out of pure fear.
Joaquin is now alert because he’s never heard that tone from you, ever.
“Cariño—“
You flinch and immediately screw your eyes shut and choke on your muddled emotions. You feel like a goddamned child again, ready to get chastised over a broken material object when you were clearly in worse condition for wear.
You try to breathe in and out as smoothly as possible, but you just end up letting out a nervous sob. Your whole system shakes when you hiccup. “I know, I’m sorry. I’m— I–I’m trying to fix it.”
He stares at you as if you were insane, like the mess he knew you didn’t mean to make matters to him more than your wellbeing. Your anxiety ridden body interpreted the feeling of his gaze on you the wrong way.
To you, the energy you felt was that he was going to cuss you out and belittle you for being so careless.
“Baby, fix what? You’re fuckin’ bleeding.”
You’re confused as to why Joaquin wipes right above your eyebrow when you force your eyes open and he pulls his hand back to show you. There is blood on your face.
How is there blood on your face?
Your brain tries to rack through possibilities, because what the fuck? You’re convinced these are grounds for Joaquin to leave you: you’re incompetent, stupid, slow.
While you were spiraling, he examined the rest of your body for any more injuries, which were present much to his dismay. There are harsh, red specks littered on your legs, your fingertips seem to have shallow slashes on every odd digit.
His hands inch closer to your wrists, not wanting to startle you, like you were some helpless stray animal on the side of the street. The mere idea of him looking down on you makes the air you fought to breathe enter the wrong airway.
You whip your head to face the counter, shooting your arms out to shield yourself; you don’t see how Joaquin’s demeanor breaks.
“Stop. Please.”
It’s not about you, he reminds himself.
“Hey, hey,” he calls out to you carefully. “I’m not mad at you. I’m not— I’d never hurt you.”
Your voice involuntarily wanes in your throat, feeling even worse that you made him feel as if he had actually done something terrible to you.
Your knees grow weak, but before you can hit the cold tiles, Joaquin catches you by the waist and you let him.
You’re just so tired of everything and nothing at the same time.
All the assignments you’ve been willingly shouldering at work as a toxic escape, accepting every single event invite you receive from friends, all the times Joaquin offers to have a date night; you take him up on them, even if you know you’re tired. Not of him, never of him.
You just don’t want to face what you’ve been afraid to acknowledge, things you’ve been running from: mechanisms of the past and outdated ideologies & habits that were instilled into you ever since you learned how to start writing sentences on your own.
They’ll all go away if you distract yourself enough. That’s what you learned and observed under the roof that was put above you.
But why wasn’t it working for you?
Joaquin’s gentle voice cuts through your recollection of unpleasant memories like sunbeams peeking through a curtain. “My love, you’re okay. I got you; I’m not going anywhere.”
“Joaquin, I’m so—“ Another sob threatens to emerge before he shushes you softly.
“Can I carry you?”
You say yes almost pathetically; your body is still half numb, but conscious enough to anchor on your lover. He looks at you for non-verbal confirmation to make sure it was still okay, you nod your head a little stronger. He bends down a bit to slip his arm under your unstable knees while the other supports your lower back, lifting you up to relocate you.
Joaquin bringing you to the bathroom was mainly to give your growing wounds the immediate attention they needed, but also an attempt to distract you from the state of the kitchen. He was aware that broken things were a trigger for your suppressed memories to come haunting you at full force; he was aware of the most significant tidbits of your childhood, but never forced you to talk about more than what you were comfortable sharing.
He knew you’d tell him about everything else when you were ready, and even if that time never comes, it’s a fact that he’ll still love you regardless.
Your boyfriend approaches the bathroom and tries to lower you on the counter. You don’t want to let go of him, arms still hanging around his shoulders. Joaquin chuckles, “mi vida, you gotta let me tend to your wounds.”
“Being in your arms is enough. Let me bleed out.”
He laughs again, shaking his head. He pinches the tip of your nose affectionately and you scrunch it in faux annoyance. “Even cheesier when injured. Got it. ‘M never letting this happen again.”
Joaquin means every word and you know it.
He searches through the cabinet for a first-aid kit and a pair of tweezers, you peer down at your hands with slightly bloody fingers. They’re no longer shaking. You weakly mention Joaquin’s name, not really meaning to, but he hears you loud and clear.
He’s in front of you at an instant after shutting the faucet. “Yeah, baby?”
You shake your head, but he’s persistently eyeing you, a small towel in his hold to dry his hands. You falter under his gaze, “I think I got some blood on your neck… sorry.”
“And you have it all over you from your wounds; your blood can’t hurt me, okay?” Not directly, his subconscious adds, because seeing you covered with scratches that’ll sting like a bitch when it comes into accidental contact with sweat and different textures already hurts him.
Tweezers in hand, he’s ready to make use of his knowledge on how to sterilize injuries, starting with the one on your forehead. His hand hovers right above the spot.
“Close your eyes for me?”
You do as he says. Now that you’ve calmed down a tad, you realize how you probably got it. The mug fell out of your slightly slippery hand from when you were reaching it on a high shelf, making the shards scatter everywhere like glitter. You suppose a piece grazed your forehead.
There’s a sudden sizzle on the cut that makes your features twist in irritation, hands curling in your lap.
“Aw. Sorry, baby.” You wave Joaquin off, eyes still shut, because it isn’t his fault even if he feels really bad about it. You open your eyes when you no longer sense his arm working in front of you.
The side of your mouth quirks up slightly at the limited edition bandages he pulls out. Joaquin puts a Captain America designed Band-aid on your wound before he crouches in front of your legs, sniffling at the sight.
“Just a warning that this’ll feel prickly, my love. Just hold onto me if it gets too much.” You mutter an ‘okay’ back.
The clumps of scarlet now look like freckles, regenerating cells on its way to engulfing the glass into your skin. Joaquin tries not to panic for your sake, trying to balance both urgency and caution in the way he plucks any shards out while immediately wiping them down with Betadine.
Your hands jolt to rest on his head of worn down hair when you feel a slightly more painful prick. His usual curls have slightly matted down, no doubt because of his "heroic duties” that you loved to tease him about.
In the middle of his calculated ministrations, he mumbles to you, “I’d usually be down here for different reasons, y’know.”
You tilt your head back trying not to laugh, scoffing playfully at his implication.
“Yeah. I would’ve preferred that too, Quino.”
Hands still busy tending to you, Joaquin tells you about how his day went while you were having your alone time. He was mainly ranting about how he was trying to get Sam to “make the hell up” with Bucky because he was sick of the impalpable stress and tension that followed Sam like a rain cloud. He felt bad for his friend, and so did you.
(But when Joaquin mentioned that it’s gotten to a point that Sam had one time gotten uncharacteristically and unnecessarily meaner towards your boyfriend during a briefing, you threatened that you’d kick America’s new and sexy ass.)
He places the final plaster on the underside of your foot, peering at you from below, but your eyes are already on him. He smiles lovingly.
Joaquin rises back to his full height in front of you, placing all the tools he used back on the counter carefully, one by one. He’s quick to start on your hands.
You feel strange. A part of you is thankful that you’re injured because of the way Joaquin cradles your hand as if he were holding a porcelain doll. Being taken care of feels nice; you’re glad you finally know what it’s like.
Joaquin glances quickly to check on you, but doubletakes when sees a growing smile instead of the concentrated pout he expected. Affectionately confused, he points it out when he’s finished with your left hand. “You look like you rolled around in shards, but you’re grinning like a weirdo. What’s up?”
Your face burns at his words, your freshly bandaged hand flying to cover your face. You groan in embarrassment.
“Stop! God forbid I get giddy when my boyfriend holds my hands like I’m fragile.”
He raises an eyebrow to rag at you, still occupied with your right hand. It’s slightly worse than the left, so he’s taking his time. “Oh, you like that? What happened to your strong and independent reputation? Are you giving it up to show the world that you are, in fact, very chalant?”
You laugh, and it isn’t as tired as it sounded an hour earlier. You mean it half-jokingly but Joaquin nearly drops the pair of tweezers when you quip out, “fine. Get this over with faster so I can go clean the kitchen.”
He thought he was doing a good job distracting you. It was successful at first, but he underestimated the extremity of your overthinking. The moment he looks at you and there’s no longer a trace of humor on his face, your own expression falls to a solemn one.
“Don’t think about it anymore, alright?” He hears you breathe in to talk, cutting you off promptly. “And before you say anything else: no, I’m not tired. No, it’s never a hassle; I want to help, I always will. And no, you can’t help nor watch me clean.”
You roll your eyes in good nature, sarcastically replying, “I was just going to say thank you, actually, but sure.” Joaquin knows you understand what he said.
He sneakily grabs your side as you maintain eye contact with him, eliciting a squeal from you. “Oye, me sacás de quicio.”
“Mhm, I sure am. But you love me.”
He places a kiss on your right palm, every damaged surface finally covered with tender love, care, and bandages. “That I surely do, mi amor.”
The two of you stay in silence for a little bit, the humming of the restroom’s ventilation and the sound of Joaquin breathing keeping you grounded.
“I’m sorry.”
He shakes his head, hand cradling the side of your face. You lean into his touch.
“Why are you apologizing? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I know how much the mug meant to you.” You remind him, immediately looking down in guilt. It takes a lot of self-control to not fiddle with the brand new plasters on your hands.
“And? I could always just buy a new one.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, which it is.
“Yeah, but your grandmother gave that one to you.”
“And I’m her favorite; she’d give me her whole cupboard of dusty mugs if I asked.”
Your head shoots up to look at him, mouth agape at the comment. You slap Joaquin’s bicep weakly with the back of your hand. His ploy to get you laughing and distracted again worked perfectly. But to explicitly reassure you, he tells you, “I’ll forever care more about you than I do about any material object, alright? I mean it.”
While there’s still some hesitation, you nod, because you know what sincerity looks like on him.
It takes him a little bit— with a kiss (not on an injured area) and giving into your insistence to wipe the back of his neck free from the minimal smudges of your blood— but he manages to coax you into retreating to your shared bedroom, telling you to get your well needed rest as he goes back into the kitchen.
Joaquin won’t ever mind cleaning your mess up, even if he has to do it a thousand times.
TRANSLATION Oye, me sacás de quicio. = Hey, you're getting on my nerves.
Hear me out. 8 or 6 (Or any of the prompts honestly) with dom!bucky and some somno ??
first time writing somno so I hope it hits what u wanted bb
-
It starts with just watching.
You’re curled on your side, lashes casting soft shadows, breathing deep and slow with your mouth slightly open. One arm tucked under the pillow. The sheet kicked down around your hips.
You’re wearing one of his shirts. Always do.
He stares at you in the blue wash of moonlight for longer than he should, propped on one elbow, chest aching. You look so sweet like this. So warm. So safe. And his.
You shift a little in your sleep, and the shirt rides up just enough to tease the swell of your ass. The temptation sinks its teeth into him, slow and deep. It’s not new. He’s thought about this a hundred times. You’ve thought about this. Brought it up the first time with red cheeks and soft stammering—how you liked the idea of waking up to him already inside you. Already wanting you.
Needing you.
So when his fingers trail under the hem of your shirt and he finds you wet, he doesn’t even pretend to be surprised.
“God, baby…” he murmurs, nearly a groan. “Even in your sleep, you want me.”
His cock’s already heavy against your thigh, and the way your body shifts under his touch—instinctive, unconscious—only makes it worse. You don’t wake when he pushes your leg forward a little, opening you up. Don’t stir when his metal hand grips under your knee and holds you there, exposed and dripping.
“Open your legs for me, baby,” he whispers against your cheek. “I wanna see you.”
You don’t respond.
But you do give. Completely.
And that’s all the answer he needs.
His flesh hand cups between your thighs, dragging slow over your slit, collecting slick with every pass. Your pussy clenches a little in your sleep, and Bucky almost loses it.
“You’re so fucking wet for me already,” he mutters, lips brushing your shoulder. “You missed me that bad, huh?”
You still don’t wake. Still breathing soft. Completely pliant as he drags your hips toward him, hooking your leg up and over his thick thigh like he owns you.
Because he does.
He lines himself up and just rubs the head of his cock through your folds, slow and patient, getting every inch slick and warm. When he finally pushes in, it’s just the tip— then deeper, inch by inch, careful not to jolt you too fast.
Still, your body knows. Knows what to do. You make the softest noise—barely audible—and Bucky swears he almost comes right then.
“Shh, that’s it,” he soothes, pushing in deeper. “Just like that. Let me in, baby.”
He rocks his hips slow, hands gripping your waist, controlling your movement— lifting, guiding, keeping your body spread and tilted just right. You whimper once in your sleep when he hits that spot, and his heart thunders.
His hand slides up and cups your jaw, turning your face toward him as he thrusts deeper.
“C’mon, sweetheart. Wake up for me.”
You stir a little.
Another soft breath. Eyes flutter.
Then finally—hazy, half-lidded—you look at him.
“There she is,” he whispers, voice rough. “Takin’ me so good. Felt you squeeze around me even in your sleep. So greedy for it, huh?”
You don’t answer. Not yet. Still not fully there.
So he presses two wet fingers to your lips.
“Suck on it.”
Your mouth parts instinctively despite barely being able to hold your eyes open. Tongue curling around his fingers like you were born to do it. And now Bucky’s the one groaning, watching you suck with sleepy devotion while your body rocks on his cock.
“Fuck, baby,” he pants. “You look so pretty like this. All fucked out and not even awake.”
He fucks you deeper then, harder, possessive now— metal hand splayed across your belly to feel himself moving inside you. His other hand still in your mouth.
You’re so fucking warm around him.
Bucky has to grit his teeth just to hold off— the way your walls flutter around his cock while you barely murmur his name is enough to make any man lose it.
But not him.
Not yet.
You’re waking in pieces, little whimpers and soft gasps slipping from your lips as he moves inside you— slow and steady, fucking you with thick, deep strokes that drag through every inch of your sleepy cunt.
“Just let it happen, baby,” he whispers against your jaw. “Gonna make you come like this. All soft for me. All mine.”
You moan, barely awake, your hips starting to move on instinct. He guides you with both hands — one firm on your waist, the other slipping down between your legs, rubbing circles against your clit like he knows every little nuance of your body. (Because he does.)
You tremble when it hits— a quiet, shuddering orgasm that takes you by surprise, eyes fluttering, mouth parting with a broken moan as your thighs twitch and close around his waist.
He holds you there, watches it wash over you.
“That’s it, baby,” he breathes. “Fuck… just like that. So good for me.”
You go limp in his arms, boneless and dazed, chest rising and falling with a quiet hum as you sink right back into sleep.
And that’s when he loses it.
Because you’re still dripping around him. Still clenching just enough to drive him crazy.
His hips start moving again, slow and rough, deep enough that your sleeping body rocks with every thrust. One of your legs slides off his hip, and he catches it with his metal hand, spreading you wider again so he can watch his cock disappear into you.
“Still so fucking tight,” he mutters, voice low and dark. “Still taking me, even now.”
You stir faintly in your sleep— a sigh, a little breathy sound that turns him feral.
He fucks you deeper.
Not hard. Not fast. But thorough.
He finishes like that— buried deep, forehead pressed to your shoulder, whispering your name as he spills inside you, grinding slow as he fills you to the brim.
But he doesn’t pull out.
Doesn’t stop.
You’re still soft and soaked and pliant, so he just keeps going— slow, messy thrusts to fuck it deeper. To keep you full. To leave no part of you untouched.
His cum leaks around the base of his cock and he groans at the sight, pressing his hand to your lower belly.
“Still mine,” he whispers. “Gonna keep you like this. Stuffed full.”
You twitch in your sleep, and he kisses your temple, slowing only slightly.
“You don’t gotta wake up yet,” he murmurs. “I’ll take care of everything.”
And he does.
He stays inside you until he gets hard again. Until morning comes. And every time you stir, just a little?
owmg when ur going out to party, dressed up than u usually are like tight dress and all and when u come out u happen to see ur neighbor joaquin there he just chokes on air 😭😭
whoever u r thank u for ur service w this request bc i am down horrendous for this man. also disclaimer… i am not a native Spanish speaker so i did my best thru some google searching in some moments.
joaquin torres x reader; 18+; mdni
-
You almost didn’t go out.
The air in your apartment had been heavy, thick with the kind of indecision that only strikes when your body wants to move but your heart isn’t sure why. The city was too hot, your closet too full of clothes that all felt wrong, and your mood had been teetering somewhere between restless and reckless. You weren’t in the mood to be seen.
Until you pulled that dress from the back of your closet.
It slid from the hanger like silk over skin, catching the low light and scattering it in a thousand glittering sparks. It draped dangerously low at the front, scandalously open in the back, barely held up by two delicate chain straps that pressed cool and teasing against your collarbones.
You slipped it on with slow, deliberate fingers.
When you caught your reflection—hair down, skin kissed by shadow and shimmer—you didn’t recognize yourself.
You looked like temptation incarnate. Untouchable. Like a walking fuck you to anyone who had ever underestimated you.
So you went out.
The club was loud, alive in a way that felt both chaotic and comforting. Bodies pulsed to the beat, drinks clinked, laughter blurred with bass. You moved through it like smoke, a glimmer in the dark, parting crowds without meaning to. You were halfway to the bar, the hem of your dress brushing against the tops of your thighs, when you saw him.
Joaquin.
You froze mid-step.
He was standing near the DJ booth, backlit by shifting neon. His black shirt clung to his chest, the sleeves stretching tight around arms you’d seen in passing—carrying groceries, lifting weights in the shared gym, wiping sweat from his brow after a morning run—but never like this. The gold chain around his neck caught the strobe lights, glinting against his throat like a challenge.
And he looked good. Better than he had any right to. Broad, strong, taller than you remembered, with that stupidly perfect jawline you’d tried not to think about in the shower. His dark curls were messy, like he’d run his hand through them too many times, and his mouth was curled into an easy, flirtatious smile as he said something to the guy next to him.
Until he saw you.
It happened like a slow crash.
His gaze flicked over lazily at first, like muscle memory. But when it landed on you, everything about him changed. His body jerked like he’d been jolted with electricity. His smile dropped. His beer tilted dangerously in his hand. You saw his throat bob in a hard swallow, his eyes widening, mouth parting with a silent, stunned—
“Oh fuck.”
You didn’t stop walking.
You couldn’t. His stare was a magnet and you were already mid-drift, hips moving with every ounce of awareness you had about how the dress clung to your waist and swayed with every step. You felt the way his gaze dragged down your body—slow, reverent, almost painful in its intensity. Like it took effort. Like it hurt him to look but he couldn’t stop.
You stopped just in front of him, close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin, to see the way his pupils had blown wide in the low light.
He didn’t speak at first.
Didn’t move.
Just stared, mouth parted, like he wasn’t sure you were real.
“Joaquin?” you said, soft and teasing.
His breath hitched.
Then his lips parted and he shook his head, smiling like he couldn’t believe you were standing there in front of him. “Dios mío,” he murmured, voice raw and thick with awe. “You look… What the fuck, mami.”
The word rolls off his tongue like a slip, like something that startled even him, and your brows lift.
“Mami?”
He groaned softly and tilted his head back, running a hand through his hair like he was resisting the urge to physically shake the lust out of his body. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me right now.”
You smiled—sweet, slow, dangerous. “I just walked up to you.”
He laughed, but it came out broken, almost pained. “Exactly. You just walked. That’s all it took. Do you understand how fucked that is?”
His gaze dropped again, sweeping from your collarbone down to the dip between your breasts and the glittering sway of the dress as it hugged your hips. His tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek and he blew out a long, shaky breath.
You grin, letting your gaze roam over him in a slow, deliberate sweep. The sleeves of his shirt strain around his biceps, and the material clings to his chest like it was stitched directly to his skin. That gold chain around his neck glints every time the lights flicker overhead, resting against the slope of his collarbone like it belongs there. You’re struck with the sudden, vivid urge to hook your finger through it and pull.
“You clean up nice, Torres,” you murmur, your voice just loud enough to reach him over the hum of bass and laughter.
Joaquin blinks again, as if snapping out of a trance, and huffs a breath that sounds dangerously close to a whimper. He rakes a hand through his hair.
He gestures vaguely at you, flustered and grinning like he can’t decide whether to be impressed or absolutely wrecked. “You have destroyed me, actually,” he says finally, and his tone is baffled, reverent. “I’m out here trying to act normal and my brain just—” He makes a sputtering noise and waggles his fingers near his head, miming a short-circuit. “Gone. Wiped clean. Nothing left.”
You laugh, the sound light and teasing. “I didn’t do anything.”
“That,” He points at you, eyes wide. “That is a lie.”
Your smile deepens. “Are you calling me a liar, Joaquin?”
He steps a little closer. Not enough to touch, but enough for his presence to wrap around you like heat. His cologne hits you—clean, warm, and expensive in that casual, I-don’t-even-know-what-brand-it-is way. “I am,” he says, almost helpless. “You walked over here in that dress. With that look on your face.”
You arch a brow. “What look?”
“The one that says you know exactly what you’re doing,” he breathes. “I mean—” His eyes trail over you again, slower this time, like he’s forcing himself to take it all in properly. “You’ve always been beautiful, but this? This is like… mean.”
“Mean?”
He nods solemnly. “You’re giving me an actual, real-life problem right now. My heart is doing something weird. I might need to sit down.”
You can’t help the way your body warms at his words—so sincere, so stunned. The way he’s looking at you isn’t predatory, isn’t slick or rehearsed. It’s wide-eyed. Knocked breathless. Like you just rewrote the laws of physics and he’s still adjusting.
You tilt your head, voice softer now. “You okay?”
He laughs again—short, stunned, and kind of ruined. “Not even close.”
And then he rubs a hand across the back of his neck, eyes darting from your face to your collarbone to the glittering edge of the dress where it drapes low across your chest, and he swears under his breath—something low and quick in Spanish you don’t catch.
Your brow furrows. “What?”
He waves you off with a lazy, boyish grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes—because his eyes are still on your body. “Nada. Just… trying not to combust.”
“Is that what that face is?” you tease, smiling coyly.
“No, that face is me trying to remember how English works.” His voice dips lower, quiet now, just for you. “Trying not to grab your hand and run out of here before I do something stupid.”
Your heart stutters.
The tension shifts—sweet and playful, but undercut with something magnetic. Something deeper. You can feel the tremor in the air between your bodies, the faintest hum of what could happen if one of you leaned just a little closer.
You laugh again, a whisper against the music. “Don’t tell me you’re shy, Torres.”
“Not shy,” he says, inching forward with a new kind of boldness. “Just trying to be respectful.”
Your brows lift. “Why’s that?”
“Because every cell in my body is currently screaming at me to touch you,” he says simply. “And I really, really don’t want to blow this by saying something dumb.”
You blink. He’s looking at you like the sun just came up in front of him. Like you stepped out of a dream and into his night.
You wet your lips, heartbeat dancing against your ribs. “What would you say if you weren’t trying to be respectful?”
He hesitates for half a second. Then he leans in, voice a near-growl against your ear.
“Quiero arrodillarme y adorarte como mereces.”
You freeze.
The words are velvet and smoke, too smooth, too dark, too hot. You don’t know exactly what they mean—but you feel them. Low in your stomach. High in your throat.
“What… what was that?” you whisper, blinking up at him.
He smiles, all teeth this time. “Spanish. Don’t worry about it.”
“Should I be worried?”
“Oh, definitely.” He grins wider. “But in a fun way.”
You swallow, throat tight, your body lit up with the kind of anticipation that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with him—this version of Joaquin, standing in front of you with heat in his eyes and trouble in his smile.
“‘In a fun way,’ huh?” you repeat, pretending your voice isn’t half a breath short.
He nods slowly, eyes roaming your face now—like he’s committing every inch of it to memory, like he knows he’s about to do something he’ll never be able to undo. “The funnest way,” he murmurs, barely audible over the music, “if you let me.”
Your lips part, and for a second, you can’t think of anything clever. The club blurs around you—bass thumping, lights pulsing, bodies pressing together in a haze of sweat and perfume and noise—and still, it feels like you and Joaquin are moving in a different rhythm, suspended in a slow, quiet moment that no one else is part of.
And then he reaches for you.
Just two fingers—light and warm against your wrist. Not pulling, not insistent. Just asking.
“Come dance with me?” he says. It’s not a line. It’s a request dressed in reverence.
You raise your brow. “You dance?”
“I do a lot of things, hermosa,” he says, guiding you gently toward the dance floor. “You just haven’t seen them yet.”
The way he says it—low and teasing, with a hint of something darker curling behind the charm—makes your stomach flip.
The crowd parts for you like it knows you don’t belong in it. Or maybe it’s Joaquin’s hand on your back, firm and protective, that creates the space. You barely notice the music until he turns to face you, his hands settling lightly at your waist like he’s giving you every chance to say no. His touch is warm. Steady. Worshipful.
He watches you for a beat, gauging.
You nod once, a small invitation.
That’s all he needs.
He draws you in, not rushed, not greedy—just sure. His body fits to yours easily, like the two of you have danced before in some other life. His hands settle with a touch more pressure, just enough to make you feel it. One stays at your hip. The other finds the small of your back, fingertips resting in the dip where your spine curves and your dress dares to plunge.
You sway together, slow despite the beat, hips brushing in a rhythm that’s more intimate than the music calls for. It’s barely a dance. It’s a tease. A conversation in movement.
“You smell good,” you say quietly, head tilted so your lips are just beside his ear.
He laughs—soft, like you’ve pulled it from his chest without meaning to. “So do you. I think I inhaled you the second you got close.”
You smile, slow. “Good.”
His hand tightens a little at your back. “You really don’t play fair, do you?”
“Never claimed to.”
You move together in slow sync, your bodies aligned from thigh to shoulder, your cheek nearly brushing his. His gold chain glints again, and without thinking, your fingers rise to it. You ghost your touch across the warm metal and the line of his collarbone beneath.
Joaquin shudders.
You feel it.
He leans in, mouth grazing the shell of your ear, voice dropping again into that dangerous, honeyed tone, “You’re driving me crazy, mami.”
Your breath hitches, and you roll your hips against his.
He just grins against your skin and says, slower this time, like a promise, “Me vuelves loco. No sabes lo que haces con ese cuerpo.”
You don’t need to understand the words to know. His voice is thick with reverence and sin, fingers twitching where they hold you, like it’s taking everything in him not to drag you somewhere dark.
You look up at him, heart fluttering in your chest like a warning. “Joaquin…”
His eyes search yours. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
“I don’t want you to.”
His smile softens—like that meant more to him than you expected. But the tension underneath it? Still simmering.
“You sure?” he asks, brushing his nose lightly against yours. “’Cause I’m five seconds away from kissing you like I’ve wanted to since the day you moved in. And if I do that, I’m not gonna stop at just one.”
You don’t hesitate.
You grab a fistful of his shirt, lean up on your toes, and say, “Do it.”
His hand slides up to cradle your jaw—not rough, not desperate, but anchoring. Like he knows exactly how much you need to feel it. And then he kisses you.
Not a club kiss.
Not a quick, testing thing.
It’s deep. Intentional. Slow and consuming and entirely unbothered by the chaos around you. He tastes like beer and breathless restraint, mouth hot and sure against yours, and you melt into it like you’ve been waiting for him in a thousand different timelines.
When you finally pull back—barely—he whispers something else in Spanish, voice strained, eyes shining.
You blink up at him. “What did you say?”
He just smiles, brushing his thumb across your cheek.
“Nothing,” he lies.
But the way his voice shook tells you everything you need to know.
It starts with that kiss.
And then another.
And then another—deeper, hungrier, until your back hits the wall just outside the side exit of the club, the heavy door thudding shut behind you. You’re in the narrow alley now, half-lit by flickering neon and shadows, the air thick with the city’s heat and the heady rush of adrenaline pounding in your chest.
Joaquin doesn’t stop touching you.
One hand braces beside your head. The other’s on your hip, gripping like he needs to anchor himself—like he’s still not entirely sure this is real. His mouth moves over yours with slow, worshipful precision, but the tension in his body is anything but calm.
He’s holding back.
Just barely.
You press your body up against his, hips tilted forward until he groans into your mouth, the sound breaking free like he hadn’t meant to let it slip.
“Fuck—fuck, you feel good,” he pants, dragging his mouth down the side of your neck, biting lightly just below your ear. “This dress should be illegal.”
You arch into him, breath hitching when his fingers tighten at your waist.
He laughs, low and breathless, and it sounds like gratitude. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me, hermosa.”
You smirk. “I’m starting to.”
That’s when it changes.
Because then he growls—a soft, dangerous little sound you didn’t know he had in him—and lifts his head to look you dead in the eye.
“Oh, you wanna be cocky now? That it?”
You grin. “Maybe.”
“Okay,” he says, he says, and then his voice dips, Spanish pouring off his tongue like honey laced with venom, “Voy a bajarte ese vestido con los dientes y hacerte rogar con la boca llena.”
You blink. Your body shivers. “What—what did you just say?”
He grins, wide and sinful. “Don’t worry about it.”
“Joaquin…”
He leans in, noses at your cheek, speaks right into your ear. “I want you to ride my face until your legs shake, baby.”
A sound escapes your throat. Embarrassingly needy. Your thighs press together instinctively.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes half-lidded, smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth. You make a small, broken sound in your throat. He hears it. Feels it vibrate through you. And that flips a switch. He moves fast.
One hand skims down your side, hitching your leg up around his waist until your hips are tilted just so, until your dress rides higher and his hand fits perfectly beneath your thigh.
“You think I haven’t thought about this?” he says, dragging his mouth across your jaw. “Think I haven’t imagined what you’d sound like—pressed up against me, all needy, whispering my name like you mean it?”
You try to speak, but all that comes out is a breathy little gasp—because his hand slides just under the hem of your dress, fingers stroking your inner thigh with slow, taunting passes.
“So soft,” he murmurs against your throat. “So damn perfect.”
His thumb brushes the edge of your panties and you jump.
“Ohhh,” he coos, mocking-sweet. “Sensitive? Poor thing.”
He kisses the corner of your mouth. Then your jaw. Then the base of your neck.
“Tell me to stop,” he says, breath hot. “Say the word, and I’ll step back. But if you don’t…” His fingers press firmer. “I’m gonna keep telling you all the things I want to do to you. I want you squirming.”
“Joaquin,” you pant, already squirming.
He cuts you off with another kiss, filthy and consuming, tongue deep in your mouth like he’s starving for it. When he pulls back, he’s panting.
“I’m going to make you scream, baby.” He promises.
Your knees buckle. He holds you up with ease, strong arms caging you in, bodies pressed flush together. You can feel all of him now—hard against your hip, restrained only by the thinnest thread of decency. And it’s fraying.
“Say something,” he rasps. “Say anything. Or I swear I’m gonna get on my knees and make you say my name instead.”
“Jesus Christ,” you whisper.
He grins. “Close. But not quite.”
And then—slow, deliberate—he sinks.
Down.
To.
His.
Knees.
Hands gliding down your hips, eyes never leaving yours. That gold chain catches on the fabric of your dress as he trails his mouth down your body.
“Wanna hear how you moan,” he says, voice rough. “Wanna taste how sweet you are when you stop pretending you don’t want this.”
His hands slide under your thighs, pulling them gently over his shoulders, face burying between your legs like it’s the only place he’s ever meant to be.
And just before his tongue meets you, he murmurs one last, filthy promise.
“Get ready to cry for me, mami. I’m not stopping until you do.”
You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until his mouth finally meets you—soft at first, reverent, like he’s not just eating you out, he’s committing you to memory. His hands grip the backs of your thighs, guiding you open, tilting your hips just right until your shoulders hit the wall behind you and your head falls back with a gasp.
“Fuck,” he murmurs under his breath, like he’s overwhelmed. Like he’s grateful.
His tongue is slow and purposeful, flattening against you with aching pressure, then curling—lifting—until your knees start to shake. He makes a sound like he just tasted something holy, and he leans in deeper, nose pressed just above his mouth, chin slick and greedy, like he wants it to drip down his neck.
“God damn,” he groans, “you taste like fucking heaven. How do you taste this good, huh?”
You moan, loud and unfiltered, and his hands tighten, holding you in place like he needs to keep you there—needs to be the one to feel every twitch, every tremble, every helpless grind of your hips against his face.
“Don’t run,” he mutters, voice low and wrecked. “Don’t even think about pulling away. I haven’t had my fill yet.”
You try to warn him—try to say something, anything—but your voice breaks when his tongue moves faster, flicking against your clit in tight, devastating patterns. Your thighs twitch around his head.
And that makes him smile.
“Ohh, yeah,” he pants, mouth glistening. “That’s it. Just like that, baby. Give it to me.”
You whimper, and it goes straight to his cock. You can see it—how his hips shift, the way his hand drags down briefly to palm himself through his jeans, but he doesn’t unzip. Doesn’t touch himself properly. He’s too busy—too focused—on you.
“Come on,” he breathes against you, thumb now pressing into your inner thigh to open you wider. “Wanna feel you fall apart on my mouth. Let me have it. Let me earn it for you, baby.”
He flicks his tongue again—just right. Just enough to tip you over the edge.
Your body tenses. Your breath catches. He feels it—he knows.
“There she is,” he growls. “That’s it, that’s my girl. That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”
You cry out, hips jerking, and he groans, sucking harder, holding you still while your orgasm slams through you like a fucking freight train. He doesn’t let up. He keeps going, tongue and lips and teeth teasing through the aftershocks, chasing another wave before you can even think.
And when you start to squirm—really squirm—he lifts his head just enough to speak.
“Oh, we’re not done,” he says, voice hoarse. “You think that was it? One little orgasm and I’m gonna let you go?”
“Joaquin—fuck—too much!” You shake your head, breathless, overwhelmed.
He smiles. It’s feral and loving.
“I said I wasn’t stopping until you cried, didn’t I?”
His mouth is back on you in a blink.
He licks you through your whimpers, through the shaking in your thighs, through the way your body starts to twist away from the pressure only to be pulled back in by his hands.
“You can take it,” he whispers against you. “You are taking it. Look at you. Fuck, mami—look at you. You’re perfect like this.”
You don’t even realize there are tears in your eyes until they fall. Until your breath hiccups and your body gives, slumping against the wall, hips trembling, thighs clamped tight around his shoulders. Your fingers find his hair, desperate and shaking.
And he moans into you like that’s what he was waiting for.
“There she is,” he croons. “There’s my good girl.”
You whimper again, and he finally—finally—pulls back, chin soaked, lips swollen, eyes wrecked. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, but not before sucking one last taste off his bottom lip.
And then he stands.
Your knees buckle, and he catches you instantly, arms wrapping around you like you’re fragile, like he didn’t just make you see stars in an alley behind a club.
“You okay?” he whispers, voice gentle now. Real.
You nod, still trying to catch your breath.
He leans in close, brushes your hair back, kisses the corner of your mouth like it’s sacred. “That was the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”
You blink up at him. “You—Jesus—what was that?”
He smiles, soft now. Sweet.
“That was me,” he says, holding you steady, “finally giving in.”
Hi, I'm Gigi ✨ @galaxywannabe - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag