1. Of a nature steeped in ill will; possessing a dark and deliberate intent to wound, deceive, or destroy. A word whispered behind lace-veiled lips in candlelit halls, often used to describe the quiet venom of a betrayer or the cold satisfaction in a villain’s smile.
Jolene Acres thought Mystic Falls would be her quiet new beginning. Then she met Matt Sturniolo—a boy with secrets darker than the town itself.
They say he’s dangerous. A monster. The last thing her world needs right now.
But she can’t seem to stay away.
As their forbidden bond deepens, Jolene is pulled into a world of shadows, blood, and truth too twisted to ignore. Because Matt isn’t the only creature hiding in Mystic Falls… and love might be the deadliest secret of all.
Summary: Don’t let your divorce stop you from having mind-blowing sex with your ex-husband… just make sure your paths never cross at work.
Classification: Smut +18 | Ex-spouses with ongoing sexual/romantic entanglement, p-in-v penetration, oral elements implied through context, fingering/clitoral stimulation, squirting, creampie, sensory details, bondage, light breath play/choking, dominance/submission dynamics, teasing/edging elements and overstimulation, mild branding/marking kink and complicated power imbalance in a workplace context.
Word count: 5,6k
Divider by me :)
You’d tell anyone you knew never to fuck a cop, never to keep one sitting on speed dial and never to press call the second your plane touched down in his city or show up at his door past midnight like he was some bad habit you could pick back up whenever it suited you, but nobody ever said you absolutely had to practice what you preached…
After all, he had always been the exception to every rule you made for yourself, including the smart ones.
The kitchen was bathed in the warm, amber glow of the ambient lights, the scent of a simmering dinner still lingering in the air, though it had long been forgotten. Your bag lay abandoned by the front door and your clothes were a discarded trail of fabric leading across the linoleum floor to where you now sat pinned against the cold granite of the countertop.
You were completely naked, your skin warm and sensitive. One of your arms was stretched high above your head, wrist locked tight in a pair of heavy steel handcuffs that David had clicked shut around the handle of the upper cabinets. The metal was cold against your skin, a stark contrast to the searing heat of his body holding you in place.
David, still smelling of the city and the grit of his shift in the Harford County Narcotics Task Force, was positioned between your thighs. He had you folded perfectly, just the way he always liked, with one of your legs hiked high, calf resting heavily over his shoulder, while your other leg was hooked firmly around his waist. The position left you completely open, exposed and vulnerable to him.
As he pushed his cock forward and past your entrance, the sensation was overwhelming. You were incredibly tight, walls gripping him with a desperate intensity because despite the distance and complications between you, you hadn't let another man touch you. You were reserved only for him.
You both looked down together, breaths hitching in unison as you watched his thick, rigid cock slide slowly, inch by agonizing inch, into your soaking wet pussy.
The sight of the penetration and the way your flesh stretched and molded around his girth, made you gasp. You looked up at him, eyes hooded and heavy with lust and whispered in a sultry, teasing drawl, "Welcome home."
His gaze snapped to yours, blue eyes darkening with hunger. He reached up, fingers brushing your wrist as he tightened the handcuff just a fraction more, securing you firmly to the cabinetry.
"That's my line," he rasped, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through your chest.
He began to move his hips, the motion slow and tentative, as if he were rediscovering every curve of your interior. You kept your eyes locked on the point of contact, mesmerized by the friction and the wet, slapping sound of your bodies meeting. David, however, couldn't look away from you. His eyes drifted down to the wedding ring that dangled from a delicate chain around your neck, resting right between your breasts, metal shimmering under the warm lights. He was still wearing his own ring, a silent testament to a bond that neither of you had truly managed to break.
As he drove deeper, the pleasure spiked, sending a jolt through your spine that made your head thud softly against the top of the cabinets. You closed your eyes, your breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches as you tried to focus on breathing, though the sensation of him filling you made it nearly impossible.
David’s large hand came up to grip the leg resting on his shoulder at the thigh, his fingers digging into your soft skin. He leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to your ankle and the tenderness of the gesture made a pathetic, needy whine escape your throat.
"Being inside you is my home," he murmured against your skin, voice thick with emotion. "I hope you feel that."
You could only nod, head lolling back against the cabinets as he continued to fuck you, pushing all the way in until there was no space left between you. He didn't rush, he savored the tightness, the way you clung to him and the sheer eroticism of the scene.
The warm light reflected off the glistening moisture where your pussy met his girth, the lubrication making every slow slide feel like silk. You were trapped, folded and dominated, yet the intimacy was suffocatingly sweet. Every time he bottomed out, you felt the weight of him, the raw power of his body and the undeniable truth that no matter where you went, this desperate, sensual collision in a quiet kitchen was the only place you ever wanted to be.
The slow, tentative pace eventually changed, evolving into something more urgent and possessive. David’s free hand left your thigh and slid upward, fingers wrapping firmly around your throat. He didn't squeeze to hurt but the pressure was commanding, tilting your head back and exposing the line of your neck as he crashed his lips against yours. It was a hungry, open-mouthed kiss, your tongues tangling in a desperate dance that mirrored the friction between your legs. You moaned into his mouth, the sound muffled and needy but he didn't slow down to enable it.
He fucked you with a renewed intensity, hips driving forward with a rhythmic force that threatened to slide you right off the granite. Your free hand scrambled across the cold countertop, fingers splaying wide as you gripped the edge to anchor yourself against the power of his thrusts. Every time he bottomed out, the impact sent a shudder through your entire frame, body vibrating from the sheer depth of him.
He was driven by a frantic sort of hunger.
He didn't know when he’d see you again because you were a ghost in his life, a beautiful haunting that appeared and disappeared at will. If he was lucky, you might stay until the morning but the probability was high that you’d be gone before he even woke up. That desperation fueled him, making every slide of his cock into your soaking pussy feel like he was trying to brand you from the inside out.
As he pulled back slightly, his gaze dropped back down to the ring dangling between your breasts. The metal shimmered against your sweaty skin, colliding softly against your chest with every heave of your breath. Your nipples had peaked, hard and sensitive, reacting to the cool air of the kitchen and the heat of his body. Your breathing accelerated into ragged gasps and the whining in your throat grew louder, echoing the wet, slapping sound of your pelvic bones colliding. Slap. Squish. Slap. The lubrication was excessive now, a thick, slippery slick that coated his shaft and leaked onto the countertop.
"I know, baby. I know what you want," he groaned, his voice a gravelly rasp.
The hand that had been on your neck moved, thumb finding your clit with pinpoint accuracy. He began to circle the swollen nub, applying a firm, rhythmic pressure that made your world tilt. You melted instantly, a violent shudder racking your spine as the dual stimulation of his cock filling you and his thumb teasing your peak pushed you toward the edge.
Suddenly, he withdrew. He slid out of you slowly, the vacuum of your tight walls creating a wet, popping sound as he fully exited. You both watched, breathless, as he held himself just an inch away, tapping the head of his thick, glistening cock against your opening and clit. A string of clear, viscous slick stretched between the two of you, a glistening bridge of arousal that snapped as he pushed back in.
He forced you to look at him, eyes boring into yours with an intensity that felt like it could strip you bare all over again. He captured your lips in another deep, tongue-heavy kiss, this time pulling you flush against him, eliminating every millimeter of space.
"Try not to rip out the cabinet door, will you?" he murmured against your lips, a ghost of a smirk playing on his mouth.
You smiled, a smartass retort forming on your tongue but before you could utter a word, he slammed out and back into you. At the same moment, his fingers reached up to pinch and roll one of your hardened nipples. You let out a deep moan that vibrated in your throat, eyes rolling back as the pleasure became an all-consuming wave. This was the only cure for the day you'd had, the raw, unfiltered dominance of the only man who truly knew your body.
"Nobody else in Baltimore to fuck, huh?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low, teasing rumble as he trailed kisses down your jawline.
Above you, the handcuffs rattled violently against the cabinet, the steel clinking as you strained against the restraint, itching to wrap your arms around him and pull him even deeper. Your free hand reached out, clutching at his shoulder, nails digging into his skin.
"Only one who knows how," you moaned, voice breaking.
The pace accelerated into a blur of heat and friction. The sound of body slapping echoed through the quiet kitchen, a combination of the rhythmic, wet thud of his hips hitting your inner thighs, the squelch of your pussy gripping his cock and the heavy sound of your combined breathing. He was fucking you raw, movements becoming more primal, driving into you with a force that left you breathless and trembling, the wetness between your legs turning into a frothy lather as he continued to claim you.
The friction intensified, the rhythm now changing to frantic. David’s hips became a blur of motion, driving into you with a relentless force that made the kitchen cabinets groan under the strain. You were locked in a feverish kiss, tongues battling for dominance while your breathing began to falter. The air in your lungs seemed to vanish, replaced by a mounting, electric tension that coiled tight in the pit of your stomach, radiating downward toward the point where you were fused together.
As the orgasm began to crest, David shifted his grip. He reached up, palm curling around the wedding ring dangling against your skin and clutching one of your breasts in a firm, bruising hold. He pressed the metal and your flesh hard into his palm, massaging them closer to your heart. He wanted the imprint of that ring, the symbol of what you once were and what he still claimed you to be, to be branded into your skin by the sheer pressure of his desire.
Your lips parted in a silent plea for release that escaped you. Your foreheads met, skin slick with sweat and together you both looked down. You watched the sight of his thick, glistening cock disappearing completely into your soaking wet folds, the skin of your pussy stretched taut and glistening with a lather of arousal.
"Come on, I know you have it...breathe," he commanded, voice low.
The combination of his voice, the visual of his cock burying itself inside you and the agonizingly perfect friction triggered the collapse. You gasped for air, a sharp, jagged intake of breath that broke into a series of high, needy moans. Your body suddenly shuddered with it, your internal walls clamping down on him in a series of rhythmic, involuntary spasms. Your pussy twitched and pulsed around his cock, gripping him with a desperate tightness that nearly brought him to his knees.
He forcefully kept his hips moving, driving through the waves of your climax, refusing to let you simply drift away. Every time he withdrew almost entirely, the vacuum of your orgasm triggered a release and you began to squirt, jets of clear, hot fluid spraying across his pelvis and the floor with a wet, splashing sound. Squelch. Splash. Slap. The sound of the lubrication and the squirting became a symphony of filth, the air smelling of sex and salt.
"I'll never get tired of seeing you cum," he groaned, voice thick with a primal hunger. “Fucking love to see it.”
The sight of you unraveling, body shaking and leaking all over him, pushed him over the edge.
His cock gave a sudden throb deep inside your walls and with a deep-chested groan, he finally broke. He slammed himself into you one last time, pinning you against the cabinets as he began to cum.
You felt the hot, thick pulses of his seed erupting from him, filling you up in heavy, rhythmic bursts. The sensation was that of a flood of warmth that seemed to reach your very core. David’s entire body shivered, his muscles locking up as he poured himself into you, his breath coming in ragged, desperate hitches. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cabinet beside your head, chest heaving against your breasts once he finally released his grip.
You stayed there for a long moment, suspended in the afterglow, the only sound the heavy, synchronized thumping of your hearts and the dripping of fluids onto the floor. Your hiked-up leg remained there, though it now trembled from the intensity of the release. Your hand moved from his shoulder, sliding up to the nape of his neck, nails running through his hair as you felt the last of his cum fill you to the brim.
As the silence of the kitchen returned, you felt the cold steel of the handcuffs biting into your wrists. You knew there would be angry marks to hide the following morning, bruises that would serve as a map of this encounter but as you felt the heavy, warm weight of him still inside you, you didn't care.
You hoped he stayed branded inside you, a secret, liquid mark of his possession that you would carry with you wherever you disappeared to next.
David couldn’t stop thinking about it almost a month later, which pissed him off more than he cared to admit, because he was sitting in the middle of an active investigation surrounded by cops who expected him to be paying attention, expected him to be chasing leads and to be doing literally anything besides staring through the glow of his computer screen while his chair rocked lazily from side to side beneath him.
The task force had spent days chasing a surname that seemed to exist everywhere and nowhere at the same time, buried beneath dead ends, sealed records, reluctant witnesses and databases that returned absolutely nothing useful and every road they took somehow circled back to the same frustrating conclusion: somebody was protecting somebody else and nobody wanted to talk or cooperate.
They were stuck and all he could clearly think about was…sex.
“Any luck?” Gordon’s voice cut through the room as he abandoned his desk and walked toward the printer.
David blinked and sat forward, forcing himself back into the present. “No.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw and shook his head. “I’m thinking we should make some calls.”
Across the room Gordon slapped the side of the printer after it refused to cooperate for the third time. A second later the machine groaned to life. “Calls to who?”
David’s gaze drifted away from the desk phone and landed on his personal cellphone instead.
He shrugged. “We’re wasting time trying to guess.” His thumb moved the mouse through photographs, names, reports and connections on his screen, trying to find something they’d missed while staring at the same evidence for days. “There might be someone I could ask.”
Gordon grabbed the fresh page from the printer and started scanning it. “Your buddy in intelligence?” He watched as David shook his head. “Wouldn’t it go against protocol?”
David laughed without humor. “Fuck protocol. We’re stuck.” He leaned back again. “We want the same thing…It’d be a favor I won’t have to pay back.”
Gordon considered that for a moment, eyes moving across the growing list of dealers, suppliers, runners and associates cluttering the page in his hand.
Finally he sighed. “Make the call.”
David nodded and reached for his phone but the movement stopped halfway once Scott walked into the office looking like he’d just swallowed something unpleasant.
His shoulders hung lower than usual, while his expression was that of annoyance and resignation. “The feds are here.”
The room around them went quiet as he pointed toward the conference room before turning around again, already moving towards it because nobody asked questions or needed to.
David exchanged a look with Gordon before pushing himself off his chair and following the rest of the task force down the hallway.
The conference room was already full by the time they arrived. Half the unit was sitting around the tables or against them while the other half leaned against walls staring forward as several people in suits stood at the front beside the whiteboard that had become a graveyard of photographs, names, timelines and theories.
David walked in last, feet faltering once his eyes locked onto yours and for a second, the entire room disappeared.
You stood at the front beside other federal agents and Andrea Smith herself, head of the Organized Crime Drug Enforcement Task Force, posture straight, expression unreadable and hands folded neatly in front of you like you belonged there.
Like you owned the room…and this wasn’t the first time you’d been standing across from him while holding all the cards.
His jaw tightened which you noticed, because nobody in that room knew him the way you did. They didn’t know how quickly irritation settled into the corners of his mouth or the difference between David being angry and David trying very hard not to be.
This wasn’t anger yet but it definitely was disappointment that came from realizing somebody had been sitting on information they probably should’ve shared a long time ago.
Andrea cleared her throat once everyone settled.
“It seems our investigation has crossed jurisdictional lines. I’ll be giving the FBI the lead and I expect everyone here to cooperate so we can continue moving this case forward together.”
Murmurs spread through the room but Andrea ignored them and stepped aside as you stepped forward. For the briefest second your eyes met David’s again before your attention moved to the rest of the room.
“I want to reassure everyone that we’re not here to take over your case or claim credit for work you’ve already done. We’ve simply been assigned to prevent this investigation from moving into areas that exceed your jurisdiction.”
“And those are?” Scott asked from somewhere behind David.
You didn’t hesitate. “Confidential.” Several groans answered that but you continued. “We’re operating as a joint federal task force.”
You motioned toward the agents beside you. “Organized crime and drug enforcement, financial crimes and safe streets.” Your gaze swept across the room already preparing for the reactions. “I’m Special Agent in Charge…McDougall.”
The room went silent. David’s expression didn’t change but Gordon turned so fast his chair nearly tipped over while a few other heads moved between the two of you, the same sudden realization spreading through the room.
You continued. “I’m assigned to the Public Corruption Unit and you’ll be answering to me.”
Eyes continued to drift toward David with varying degrees of subtlety but when half a room of cops tried to be discreet at exactly the same time it stopped being subtle altogether, becoming its own loud, awkward thing that settled over the room. The shift in attention was immediate and impossible to miss. Men who had spent years reading witnesses, suspects, informants and each other were suddenly pretending they weren’t looking directly at him.
David felt every second of it. Still, his eyes never left you.
You let the silence sit for a moment, long enough to make everyone uncomfortable without letting it turn into a spectacle.
“I know this isn’t ideal,” you said, your voice level and controlled, your attention moving around the room now instead of lingering on him. “Nobody likes finding out their case has a ceiling they didn’t know was there. That’s not a reflection of your work, it’s a reflection of how far this thing goes.”
Your hands remained clasped together in front of you. “What you’ve built here matters. The names, the patterns, the connections and the dead ends–” You paused. “Especially the dead ends…We need all of it.”
You reached back and tapped the whiteboard behind you.
“From this point forward your chain of command remains intact for everything that stays inside your jurisdiction. The moment something crosses into ours, it comes through me first. Not around me, not after the fact…but first.” Your eyes swept across the room again. “I’m not asking anyone here to trust us…I’m asking you to work with us while you decide whether you do.”
You took a step back which was the universal signal that the speech was over. “Any questions?”
David nearly rolled his eyes before the sentence had fully left your mouth because he knew what was coming. In his peripheral vision Scott’s hand was already halfway in the air.
You pointed at him. “Go ahead.”
Scott sat forward slightly. “Any relation to…” His finger pointed toward David and the room somehow became even quieter.
“Yes.” You didn’t hesitate.
If cooperation was going to happen, you knew some things were better handled immediately rather than letting rumors do the work for you. You’d made peace with that possibility years ago when you decided not to change your name.
“He’s my ex-husband.”
A slow ripple of realization moved through the room. Several heads turned as pairs of eyes dropped to David’s left hand and to the wedding band he still wore, then to yours which was bare.
The silence thickened again so you cut through it before it could settle. You tilted your head. “Do you also want to know my blood type?”
Scott blinked with a scoff. “What the hell would I want–”
“You came up with one stupid question.” You shrugged. “I was checking to see if you had another.”
A few snorts escaped around the room. Scott looked offended while Gordon looked like he was trying not to laugh and failing miserably at it.
You didn’t give anyone the opportunity to continue. “We’ll be set up in that room over there.” You pointed toward an office near the back. “So you can keep using this space freely.”
Then you turned toward your own team. “Try not to step all over these gentlemen’s work…Get to it.”
The room finally started moving again, chairs scraped, papers shuffled and people stood while conversations started in low voices and the spell broke. At least for everyone except David, because while everyone else was thinking about jurisdiction disputes, federal oversight and whatever fresh headache had just landed on their desks, he was thinking about you.
Specifically how the hell he’d let this happen without seeing it coming.
His gaze found yours again and for a second it looked like you might actually walk up to him and speak but then a ringtone sliced through the noise.
You grabbed your phone and answered quickly. “Mcdougall.” A second later your posture straightened. “Yes, ma’am.”
You turned away and headed for the hallway, the conversation already pulling your attention elsewhere.
David watched you disappear through the doorway before finally pushing himself upright.
“You in bed with the feds?” Scott’s voice stopped him halfway across the room.
David turned slowly and could see that the look on his face wasn’t accusatory so much as deeply curious which somehow made it worse. “That’s my wife you’re talking about.”
The response came automatically, so sharp that it made several nearby heads turn.
Scott raised an eyebrow. “Ex-wife by the looks of it…I’m wondering how your current wife feels about that statement.”
“What?” For the first time all afternoon David genuinely looked confused.
Gordon finally walked over and without a word, pointed toward David's wedding band. His jaw tightened as he followed their gazes before looking between them again, but mostly at Scott.
“You do ask stupid questions.” David shook his head and walked away before either of them could continue.
A few minutes later you stepped back into the room, phone still in your hand after ending the call. The conversation around you continued uninterrupted as most people had already returned to work, except for your ex-husband who was already moving towards you.
“Talk for a second.”
There wasn’t even the slightest attempt to make it sound like a question. He didn’t stop or wait to check whether you’d agree. He simply kept walking and the assumption that you’d follow him was still firmly intact after all these years.
To your mild annoyance, you did.
He reached an empty interrogation room near the end of the hallway and held the door open for you. The second you stepped inside, he followed and shut it behind you both, letting the click of the latch echo in the small room.
You opened your mouth immediately, clearly prepared to smooth things over before the conversation could become an argument but David beat you to it.
“Is this what that night was?” He asked, the implied accusation as clear as nothing else could’ve been. ”Merely getting info out of me?...That was a low blow.”
The claim landed harder than either of you expected, because David was angry enough to reach for whatever explanation hurt the most and you could see him doing it in real time, trying to force pieces together into a version of events that made sense to him, one where he hadn’t been blindsided in front of his own task force, one where he hadn’t spent the last month remembering you in ways that made him feel like a complete idiot.
You stared at him for a second before a humorless laugh escaped you, the sheer absurdity of it catching you off guard. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t get shit out of you because we were too fucking busy having sex.”
His jaw flexed. “No,” he shook his head. “I’m sure you made it fit somehow in there.”
Your eyebrows shot upward. “Yeah, definitely. I think it was somewhere between the third and the fourth round…Was it before or after we fucked in the hallway on the way to the shower?” You asked sarcastically.
He threw his arms to the side. “Sure. I don’t fucking know…you always were a great multitasker.”
You rolled your eyes. “Fuck you.”
His laugh came out sharp and immediate.
“You did and that’s my fucking problem. You did a month ago and now you’re fucking me again, except this time I’m clothed and at work which makes it way less fun, by the way.” he shook his head, running a hand over his head in frustration. “I should’ve known.”
There was the real problem and it surprisingly wasn't the FBI and the jurisdiction nightmare sitting outside that door. It was you and the fact that you’d shown up after all that time and he’d simply opened the door without a second thought.
“Known what?”
His eyes locked onto yours.
“You hate Baltimore! You always have, even when we were married. You couldn’t wait to get back to Quantico,” He motioned towards you. “That night you showed up at the house and I just…I let you in. I didn’t question why you were there, and I should’ve. I’m a detective, for crying out loud…It’s my fucking job.”
The statement almost made you laugh because it was true, absurdly so. “You didn’t ‘let me in’ David, you just never asked for the keys back, which means it’s still my house.”
In all the years since the divorce, through every argument, every period of silence and every failed attempt at pretending you were finished with each other, it had never once occurred to him to ask for those keys back.
“Then why did you ring the doorbell?” He asked, frustration slipping through the cracks.
You shrugged. “I don’t fucking know. What if you had company? Excuse me for being considerate.” A dry laugh escaped you. “I’m so sorry, that’s always been my greatest flaw.”
The answer visibly offended him. His face twisted, like you’d said something genuinely unreasonable.
“I’m not seeing anyone, much less bringing them into our home,” he pointed.
The words hung between you heavily and neither of you dared correct his words, you simply nodded as something in you gave way and the fight bled out at once, your voice softening before you even fully realized it had.
“I was wrong for that, okay? It’s your space…and we agreed to keep it that way. I should’ve just gotten a hotel room–”
The second the apology appeared, David’s expression changed enough for you to recognize the discomfort immediately. He hated apologies from you, always had, especially when he didn’t deserve one. He let out a slow breath as he shook his head and stepped closer.
You continued. “I was here for work but I swear it wasn’t about your case. I didn’t even know it was yours when I agreed to it and when I found out, I–”
His hand came up, settling against your neck and jaw with a familiarity that neither of you thought twice about. His thumb rested near your cheek as his expression softened.
“Okay, that’s enough. I’m sorry–” he said, bringing your face to his in a deep searing kiss.
The apology barely registered past the contact of his mouth on yours, the words dissolving into the space between breath and impact and whatever resistance you still had left in you didn’t even pretend to last because your hand was already catching the front of his shirt, pulling him back in like instinct had taken over where restraint should’ve been.
The apology actually surprised you more than the kiss did. It always did with him, that sudden shift from bite to something almost careful and honest, as if he didn’t know how to stay angry at you for longer than it took to get close enough to forget why he started it.
“You’re an asshole,” you said in between kisses as his lips curled into a smile.
That smile made it slower and linger instead of resolve, muscle memory was doing half the work for him while the rest of him kept dragging the moment out, refusing to let it end cleanly.
“I know…I know, baby,” he mumbled as he went in for more, tilting your head up for better access. “But you could’ve called.”
His mouth pressed back onto yours soon after, he was trying to make a point without words.
You exhaled into it without meaning to, the sound swallowed between you as he moved closer, crowding the space without actually moving you anywhere else, just pinning the moment in place with nothing but presence and the familiar arrogance of someone who knew exactly what he was doing to you and didn’t care.
Years of habit were overriding every sensible thought either of you should have been having and for a few reckless seconds it became dangerously easy to forget where you were, that there were federal agents, detectives and task force members less than fifty feet away.
Only then did reality return and you pushed firmly against his chest to create distance as you stepped back and he didn’t try to stop you, just watched while you couldn’t help but lick your lips subtly.
“I fucking hate you.” It came out entirely without conviction.
His grin widened as he moved to sit on the edge of the desk nearby and crossed his arms. “You hate that you don’t.” He paused. “And I don’t like how easily ‘ex-husband’ slipped out…so watch your mouth while we’re at it.” he cautioned playfully.
Your brows lifted while a reluctant smile threatened to appear. “Excuse me? Are we not divorced? I mean, we’re not great at it but–”
“I didn’t say that.“ he shrugged. “I said I don’t like how it sounded.”
You laughed under your breath. “Well, too bad. I remember you in court when it happened…and I didn’t put a gun to your head to sign those papers.” You shrugged.
The smile disappeared from his face. “No, I know.” His voice was quieter now, not revealing even a fraction of what crossed his mind every time he remembered that courthouse, every signature, document and opportunity he could have stopped it but didn’t. “...Would’ve told you to make sure you didn’t miss.”
The honesty of it caught you off guard. You looked away first. “I have to go.”
His eyes tracked your movement as you stepped toward the door. “Hate to see it.”
Your hand almost reached the doorknob before you stopped, turning back as professionalism slid back into place. “And just in case you were too busy thinking about sex out there while I was talking, I’m your boss now…a helpful indicator being that we’re both dressed and vertical,” you pointed out, making sure your bedroom tendencies and dynamics didn’t bleed into your jobs.
David nodded once. “Yes ma’am.”
You narrowed your eyes as he looked entirely too pleased with himself and your hand finally settled on the doorknob.
“I love you” he waited, seeing as you still weren’t moving. “Say it back.”
“I’m on the clock and your superior...I’ll say it at lunch.” You pulled the door open, the hallway noise immediately spilled back into the room.
“As long as I get to slide home tonight.” He said under his breath as he got up and followed.
You shook your head as you stepped through the doorway, fighting a smile that absolutely did not belong on the face of a Special Agent in Charge.
David let the door close behind him and knew two things with complete certainty. The first was that working under his ex-wife was going to be a disaster and the second was that by the end of this assignment, he’d be getting down on one knee again…whether it was to sate his primal hunger, sucking the honey right from the source or to propose again, he didn’t know.
A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!
“Oh, god,” Clark groans, the words drawn out and coming straight from his chest.
He’s in a limbo. Between wanting to just thrust up into your warm, wet mouth; or just stopping this right so there’s not risk of him losing it and hurting you. No matter how good it feels. You feel. With your lips wrapped around the thick head of his cock.
You’re bent over the console beside him, creasing the leather seat under your weight. What was supposed to be a nice date night out to a drive in movie quickly turned south, literally, when the two of you realised just now boring the film was. Sharing snacks to handholding to cuddling to kissing to sucking your boyfriend’s heavy cock.
From the corner of your eye, you can see his hand hesitate. The one in your peripheral is gripping the console with white knuckles and leaving indents. You’re sure the other is probably doing similarly to his jeans. Deciding to help him along a little, you place his hand on the back of your head.
Gently, he uncurls it, like you’re soothing him despite being the reason he’s even like this. His fingers brush over your scalp softly before settling onto your nape.
“Fuck-“ he shifts his hips, pushing them into you before forcing himself back. “Gosh, honey.”
Clark’s pants and heavy breathing fill the quiet air of his car. With the rapid puffs, his chest rises and falls like he’s just orbited the Earth. You add to the sounds with the wet contact of your lips on him, taking as much as you can before you switch to licking the tip.
“So pretty.” His large hand travels to your ass, giving it a squeeze before patting it gently. “Didn’t-oh-didn’t wanna watch the movie?”
“Nope.” You grin up at him and if he wasn’t hard before, he definitely would be now. Your head is tilted to the side, pressing soft kisses against his hard dick while smiling up at him. All while you’re bent over the console with your ass in the air and your back arching just right. He almost decides to bend you over the passenger seat and thrust into you from behind under the open door. But it’s too risky. You’re already parked in the middle of a bunch of cars and his windows aren’t tinted. He’ll just have to save that for a road trip to Smallville.
“You’re so yummy, Clark.” You kiss him near the base, your forehead pressing against the unbuckled denim of his jeans. “Love this cock.”
“Yeah?” He says with an embarrassing hitch when your hand finds his balls.
“Yeahhh,” you draw out, moving back up his length again to hover just above the tip. Removing your hand from even lower, your nail teases his tip, barely touching him. “You don’t let me suck you off enough.”
Jeez.
He groans, his head hitting the headrest that rattles the seat. This is why he doesn’t. Because you get all cock-drunk and evil all while he worries about you feeling safe, okay, and loved. The one time he wishes he didn’t have human bone-crushing super strength.
“Why don’t you let me suck your cock more often, Clark?”
He nearly arches into you, your hand stroking him with a feather-light touch. And your voice. The vixen-like pouty tone that you use when you know he’s barely listening. He lets out a moan with furrowed brows.
“Because-“ he hisses through his teeth, trying to be coherent enough to answer you properly. “Don’t wanna hurt you.”
“I just want to make you feel good.” You don’t stop, doubling down with the kitten licks to his tip.
“Oh.”
“Doesn’t that feel good?”
“Yeah, gosh. So good, baby.” He fights off the tingling sensation traveling up his spine and loosens his grip on your head. He can’t hurt you.
“And you feel sooo good in my mouth. You’re so big.” Your warm breath fans over his length before taking as much of him as you can. As much as he can take before he feels his balls tighten. Until you pull away. “You always want to eat me out.”
Stop talking.
Keep talking, the rational part of him whispers.
“Always want to make me feel good. But I love this,” you emphasise your point by resting the side of your head against his thigh again and slap his leaking pink cock against your cheek. He stares, mesmerised by the precum and saliva sticking to your face. “Love it when your hand is in my hair. When you fuck my face.”
Never mind. Stop talking. Keep talking. Doesn’t matter.
“Love it when I get all messy after getting a taste of you.” Your tongue licks a stripe up the underside of his penis, following the curve. “But…if you don’t enjoy it…”
You start to pull away, sitting up with spit and precum on your face, looking like the hottest thing he’s ever seen. Your lips are shiny and wet. Your eyes are blown out and there’s that look of wild and lost in your eyes that he never gets to see enough of. You’re sitting on your knees and he thanks whatever God on this or any other planet that you went braless in a low-cut tank top.
It takes a second too long for his brain to catch up.
“What? No!” His hand links with yours, even now. “I love it. I love you.”
“I know you love me. But do you love it when I give you head?”
“Yes!”
“Then how come you’re always pulling me off before you come?” You don’t ask with frustration or anger, somehow you’ve even manage to make this question sound sexy. Maybe it’s because your hand is still rubbing his thigh.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“And I’d rather have you satisfied and fully enjoying sex with me.”
“I do.” Clark sighs, giving you a look that says ‘it’s a Kryptonian thing’. You give him one that says ‘don’t try me’. He gives in. “Okay, so maybe I always have to think about not hurting you. But I’d rather do that, gosh, even think about hurting you. Even accidentally.”
“Clark.”
“And it’s not to say that I’m not focused on you. It’s hard not to when you-“
“Clark.” You insist again, your voice softening again to that tone you use when you want something from him. “Just fuck my face.”
“I mean it.” You say again at his lack of reaction. Then, before he can even change the subject by suggesting the two of you drive back to his to do this properly, you’re bent over yet again and back to where you were. Sucking his cock with a suction grip.
Here goes nothing.
His hands settle again. This time, with one on your hair, gripping the roots, the other grabbing the flesh of your ass with a lot less apology than earlier. Clark lets himself relax, shifting his hips forward in the cramped seat and spreading his thighs even wider.
You bob up and down.
“That’s it,” he groans, even smiling a little through the feeling. “Always so good at this, baby. Taking this cock so well.”
You moan, the vibrations helping him get back to where he was before. Panting and building him up. He shuts his eyes and drops his head back, focusing on the feeling. The tightness and heat wrapping around whatever length you manage to take. Your free hand fondling his balls that shoots a tingle up his spine. The firm softness beneath his hand as he squeezes and plays with your ass.
“That’s-oh, jeez,” he adds more pressure, the hand on your head sinking you down even further. “Fuck. That’s it, take it honey.”
Your moan is muffled by his length, saliva dripping down to his balls as you deep throat him.
“Ha-“ Clark’s hips meet your mouth in deep thrusts, his body finally letting go. His instincts needing to just get himself deeper into you. To give into to the feeling of you. He moans, his breath hitching and his hips grinding as he gets close.
Closer and closer to the edge as you do your best to take him deep. Your muffled moans. The wet dribble down his length and onto the denim. His frantic breathing and desperate moans. Your warm skin beneath his hand. The pure need in every movement as he finally fucks your face properly. Every shove that has you focusing on your gag reflex and his thickness stretching your lips.
With a heavy groan and a loud broken moan, Clark spills into your mouth while you push yourself up to his tip. He keeps on whining, his hips rocking up as his cock twitches some more. Come spills from your lips and dribbles down your chin, his orgasm slowly ending.
Slowly, his eyes open.
There you are, resting on your elbows with a dazed look on your face. There’s a small smile as you swallow him up and he reaches a hand out to rub your cheek.
“Gosh, that was-“
“Hmm.” You hum and nod, leaning over to nuzzle his still-hard cock.
“More?” He huffs lightly, an incredulous laugh shining up his face. With a loving shake of his head, Clark just rubs his thumb over your lower lip, helping you clean yourself and him up.
“We should probably head home, though.” He sighs, gently pushing your head back with a grip on your chin. Between his index and thumb, you don’t even argue with him. He chuckles when he makes your head dip down into a nod. “Before another person reports us to the staff for inappropriate behaviour.”
Right. Super hearing. You forgot about that.
—
A/N: writing this at 2 am with 12% battery 😛 also kinda horny tmi
Summary: It doesn't matter how Clark's love feels, it won't fix you.
Word count: 8k+
Warnings: angst, insecurities, based on the Olivia Rodrigo song
A/N:
hey guys!! don’t worry, part 2 of hula hoop is still coming <3 but I really wanted to post this fic because I genuinely think it was illegal for olivia rodrigo to release the cure??? The song is devastatingly beautiful. The second I heard it, i knew I wanted to write a fic about it.
This fic is really special to me and definitely one of the more emotional things i’ve written, so I really hope you guys enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it :( xxx
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
The first time Clark kissed you, you cried afterward.
Not because it was bad. God, it was the opposite.
It happened in the kitchen of your apartment at two in the morning while rain hammered against the fire escape outside your window hard enough to rattle the metal. Your apartment smelled faintly like rain-damp laundry, and the tea Clark had insisted on making, even though both mugs now sat forgotten on the counter, steam long gone cold.
You wore one of his sweaters over sleep shorts, the sleeves hanging past your hands because Clark liked tugging them over your fingers absentmindedly when he talked to you. His glasses sat crooked beside the sink where he'd abandoned them while drying dishes, and without them he looked softer somehow. Less like the sharp-featured reporter from the Daily Planet and more like the man underneath all of it.
There had been music playing quietly from your phone somewhere in the living room, something low and old crackling through bad speakers. Clark had been talking about work, about Perry assigning him some impossible article, but you hadn't really been listening anymore because he kept looking at your mouth between sentences like he was trying not to.
That nervousness in him undid you.
Clark Kent, who could stop planes from falling out of the sky, looked terrified of kissing you wrong.
You leaned against the counter while he stood too close in your tiny kitchen, broad shoulders nearly blocking out the overhead light. He smelled like clean laundry and rainwater and something warm you could never fully name. Home, maybe. Safety. Whatever it was, it made your chest ache.
“You're staring,” you murmured.
A flush crept slowly up his throat, visible even in the dim light. “Sorry.”
“You don't sound sorry.”
His mouth twitched slightly. “Guess I'm not.”
You should have looked away then. You knew you should have. Moments like this always became dangerous eventually. Intimacy always carried the possibility of disappointment behind it, and disappointment had teeth.
But Clark looked at you like you were something worth being careful with.
That was your first mistake.
His hand lifted slowly, hesitant enough to give you time to move if you wanted to. When his fingers finally touched your jaw, warmth spread through you so quickly it almost frightened you. He held your face like he thought too much pressure might crack you apart, which was ironic considering he could probably shatter concrete without trying.
“Can I kiss you?” he asked softly.
Not cocky. Not assuming.
You nodded before he even finished speaking, and Clark kissed you like he was trying to convince you of something.
Not with urgency. Not greedily. There was no performance in it, none of the practiced confidence you'd grown used to from other men. He kissed you with unbearable sincerity, like he was offering you every gentle thing inside himself all at once.
The hand on your jaw trembled slightly.
That nearly destroyed you.
Because nobody that powerful should have been nervous around you.
You kissed him back harder than you meant to, almost desperately. Your fingers tangled in the front of his shirt as if your body already knew something your mind hadn't caught up to yet. Clark made this small sound against your mouth, startled and soft, and then his other hand slid carefully to your waist.
For one suspended, impossible second, your brain went quiet.
No comparisons. No inventory list of everything you wished you could carve away from yourself. No remembering every prettier woman you'd passed on the street that day or imagining all the girls Clark could have wanted instead.
Just him. Just the warmth of his mouth against yours and the slow drag of his thumb against your waist through the sweater, just relief so overwhelming it felt almost holy.
It hit you all at once then, sudden and devastating.
Oh.
This was what people meant, this unbearable quiet.
You felt it so strongly your eyes burned instantly.
Clark kissed you deeper, slow and careful, and your chest ached with terrible, desperate hope. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the thing you'd been waiting for your entire life. Maybe love really could reach into all the ruined places inside a person and pull them whole again.
You had spent years believing that.
And the second he pulled away, your chest cracked open with grief so sudden it embarrassed you.
The silence inside your head vanished all at once, replaced by something sharp behind your eyes.
Clark noticed immediately, of course he did.
“Hey,” he said softly.
You turned your face quickly before the tears could fully spill over, wiping beneath your eye with the sleeve of his sweater. “Sorry.”
Your laugh came out weak and embarrassed.
Clark's expression shifted instantly, concern softening every feature. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” you answered too fast.
“Was it too much?”
The nervousness in his voice made guilt twist painfully in your chest. He looked genuinely worried he'd crossed a line somehow, his hand slipping from your waist slowly like he wasn't sure if he should still be touching you.
“No, Clark.” You shook your head quickly. “God, no.”
“Then why are you crying?”
You swallowed hard.
Because how were you supposed to explain that the kiss had felt too good somehow? That your emotions suddenly sat too close to the surface to hold back properly?
So instead, you lied.
“I think I'm just overwhelmed,” you said quietly, staring down at your hands. “I've been waiting for this for a long time.”
Clark's entire face softened at that.
Relief flickered visibly across his expression.
“Oh.”
You nodded quickly, forcing out another shaky laugh. “It's stupid.”
“It isn't stupid.”
His voice dropped softer then, warmer somehow, and before you could say anything else Clark stepped closer again carefully, like he was still trying to make sure this was okay.
“You scared me for a second,” he admitted.
The confession was so earnest it made your chest ache.
“Sorry,” you whispered again.
Clark frowned immediately. “Stop apologizing.”
Then he smiled a little, nervous and sweet in that way only he could manage, and brushed his thumb lightly beneath your eye where your tears had escaped.
“You know,” he murmured, “for the record, I've been waiting for this too.”
And somehow that made your throat tighten even more.
When you were younger, love looked medicinal.
Not literally, of course. Nobody ever sat you down and said one day another person will save you from yourself. It was quieter than that. Hidden inside every movie you watched late at night and every song you replayed until the lyrics hollowed something out inside you.
Love was always presented as transformation. The lonely girl became radiant. The insecure girl became chosen. The moment somebody looked at her with enough devotion, all the sharp little insecurities evaporated like they had never existed at all.
Every story seemed to promise the same thing in different packaging: you will be wanted, and then you will finally become whole.
You absorbed that message young enough for it to root deep.
You remember being fourteen and standing sideways in front of your bathroom mirror, sucking in your stomach until your ribs hurt because girls in magazines looked effortless, and you already understood somehow that effortlessness was the closest thing women were allowed to perfection. You remember tilting your chin different ways, pulling at your clothes, analyzing every inch of yourself with the detached cruelty of someone grading an exam.
Too soft here. Too awkward there. Not pretty in the right way.
You spent years believing there was a correct version of femininity everyone else had received instructions for except you.
At school, pretty girls moved through the world differently. People softened around them automatically. Conversations bent toward them like gravity. They laughed without covering their mouths afterward, existed without apologizing first, and you wanted that ease so badly it made your chest ache.
Instead, you became observant. Funny. Self aware in the exhausting way insecure people often are.
You learned how to laugh before anyone else could laugh first. Learned how to make yourself agreeable and easy to keep around. You became skilled at reading rooms within seconds of entering them, instinctively figuring out who needed you quieter, prettier, smarter, less emotional.
Smaller.
And underneath all of it lived jealousy so intense it frightened you sometimes. Not loud jealousy, but silent jealousy. The kind that sat in your stomach like swallowed poison while you smiled through it politely.
You would see a beautiful girl beside someone you liked and immediately begin dissecting yourself against her without even meaning to.
Her skin is clearer. Her waist is smaller. She doesn't look nervous all the time.
You could ruin entire days that way.
Then dating started, and everything got worse.
Because suddenly there were histories attached to people. Other girls who existed before you. You approached relationships like someone preparing for inevitable disappointment, every question feeling like gathering evidence before a trial.
How many exes have you had?
Have you ever been in love before?
How many girls have you slept with?
You always forced yourself to sound relaxed asking it, like the answers wouldn't matter. Then afterward you'd lie awake replaying every detail they gave you voluntarily and inventing dozens more they didn't.
Sometimes you'd stalk social media until three in the morning searching for faces you could attach to names. Then you'd compare yourself against carefully curated photos until your stomach hurt.
It became ritualistic in a horrible way. You'd spiral. You'd cry. You'd hate yourself for caring so much.
Then you'd do it again anyway.
The worst part wasn't even the jealousy. It was how humiliating love made you feel afterward. The neediness. The panic. The unbearable desire to be chosen permanently in a world where nothing actually stayed permanent.
You hated how quickly affection turned into fear inside your chest. Hated that one delayed text could unravel your entire evening. You wanted love desperately, but you resented what wanting it turned you into.
Then Clark arrived and complicated everything.
Not because he was Superman, though discovering the quiet reporter you'd started falling for could hear heartbeats from buildings away certainly rearranged your understanding of reality for a while.
No, Clark terrified you because of how gently he loved.
There was nothing calculated about him. No games. No strategic withholding. Clark cared openly, almost recklessly, like affection was the easiest thing in the world for him to give.
Most men you'd dated made you feel auditioned, even the good ones. There was always some underlying sense that attraction was conditional, that you were being evaluated against every other woman in the room.
But Clark looked at you with this steady certainty that made your chest tight. Like he wasn't searching for flaws. Like he had simply seen you and decided that was enough.
You didn't know what to do with that kind of acceptance.
The first few months of knowing him, you kept waiting for the illusion to crack. Waiting for him to notice something disappointing about you and pull away slightly afterward. You expected affection to fluctuate because every other version of love you'd encountered had.
But Clark remained painfully consistent.
He remembered things you mentioned once in passing. He brought you coffee exactly the way you liked it after memorizing your order accidentally. He texted you when he got home safe without being asked. When you spoke, he listened with his full attention instead of scanning the room over your shoulder for someone more interesting.
And maybe none of those things sound extraordinary.
But to someone who had spent years feeling fundamentally replaceable, they were.
Clark made you feel seen in a way that bordered on unbearable.
Because part of you still believed love had to be earned constantly through beauty, usefulness, perfection, or whatever version of yourself seemed easiest for other people to keep.
And Clark loved you before you had proven any of those things.
That should have healed something.
Instead, it exposed every wound more clearly.
Because if someone like Clark could love you this sincerely and you still hated yourself afterward, then maybe the problem had never been a lack of love at all.
You met him at the Daily Planet on a Thursday afternoon that already felt cursed.
The air conditioning on your floor had broken sometime before noon, leaving the newsroom sticky with late summer heat and irritation. Phones rang endlessly from every direction. Someone in politics was arguing loud enough to be heard across the bullpen. Perry had shouted your name three separate times in the span of an hour, and by three o'clock you were surviving entirely on bad coffee and spite.
You were halfway through rewriting a headline when Lois appeared beside your desk like a hurricane in heels.
“You look terrible,” she informed you casually.
You didn't glance up from your computer. “And you look intrusive.”
“Good. Keep that energy.” She dropped a folder onto your keyboard before you could stop her. “I brought you something.”
“Unless it's a winning lottery ticket or hard liquor, I don't want it.”
Lois grinned, sharp and dangerous in the way only Lois Lane could manage. “Perfect. You two already sound married.”
You frowned and finally looked up.
That was when you saw him standing awkwardly a few feet behind her.
Tall. Broad shouldered. Wearing a button down rolled messily at the sleeves like he'd tried to look professional halfway and given up afterward. His tie sat slightly crooked beneath the collar, glasses slipping down his nose just enough to make him push them back up every few seconds.
Clark looked painfully out of place against the chaos of the newsroom. Like someone had taken a small town librarian and accidentally dropped him into the middle of Metropolis.
“This,” Lois announced with immense satisfaction, “is Clark Kent. Small town farm boy. Be nice to him.”
Clark immediately looked embarrassed. “Lois.”
“What?” she said innocently. “It's accurate.”
You expected him to laugh it off smoothly.
Most men did.
Instead, Clark glanced at you with visible nervousness, like he genuinely cared whether or not you liked him already.
“Hi,” he said, offering a hand. “Clark Kent.”
His voice surprised you. Warm. Deep. Softer than someone his size should've sounded.
You shook his hand automatically and immediately noticed how careful he was. Most people shook hands absentmindedly. Clark held yours like he was worried about gripping too hard, despite the fact that you were not made of glass.
“Nice to meet you,” you said.
Clark smiled then.
And God.
He was beautiful. Not movie star beautiful, not the polished kind of attractive that made heads turn instantly when someone entered a room. Clark's beauty unfolded slower than that. It crept up on you quietly until suddenly you realized you'd been staring at him for too long.
He looked warm. Open. Like sunlight through curtains early in the morning.
There was something deeply unguarded about him that threw you off balance immediately. Most people in Metropolis wore layers. Professionalism. Charm. Calculation. Everyone at the Planet sharpened themselves into something harder just to survive the pace of the city.
Clark still looked soft around the edges.
Sincere in a way that almost seemed outdated.
You remember thinking, very suddenly and very clearly, 'This man is going to ruin my life.'
Not because he was intimidating, because he wasn't.
That was the problem.
Men like Clark always ruined you the worst. The gentle ones. The ones who listened too carefully and smiled too softly and made you feel safe enough to lower your guard before they left carrying pieces of you with them.
It was never the cruel men who did the most damage. Cruelty at least prepared you for impact. But kind men convinced you to trust them first.
Then they became irreplaceable.
Clark settled into your life slowly after that.
At first he was just another reporter weaving through the chaos of the newsroom, apologizing too much when he bumped into desks and always looking faintly overwhelmed by Lois' existence. You'd catch glimpses of him throughout the day — bent over notes, arguing quietly with Perry, carrying six coffees because apparently he knew everyone's orders within a week.
And he looked at people when they spoke.
Really looked at them.
Most conversations in the newsroom happened while typing emails or scanning headlines or mentally preparing responses before the other person finished talking. Everyone was moving too fast to fully pay attention.
Clark paid attention completely.
The first real conversation you had with him happened after midnight during a stormy deadline shift. Half the office had gone home already, leaving the bullpen dim and exhausted. You were rubbing at your eyes trying to finish edits before Perry lost his mind when Clark appeared beside your desk holding two vending machine coffees.
“I think this legally qualifies as motor oil,” he said, setting one beside you. “But it's warm.”
You laughed despite yourself.
“That's the nicest thing anyone's done for me all week.”
His smile appeared slow and shy, like he wasn't used to making people laugh on purpose.
“You've been here since six this morning,” he said. “Figured you could use it.”
The comment startled you.
Not because it was invasive, because he'd noticed.
“You keeping tabs on me, Kent?”
A faint flush climbed his cheeks instantly. “No. I just... notice things.”
And there it was again.
That sincerity.
After that, Clark became impossible to keep at a distance.
He remembered things casually, effortlessly, in ways that made your chest ache without permission. If you mentioned liking a certain pastry once, he'd bring it the next week because he “happened to pass the bakery.” If you complained about insomnia, he'd text you ridiculous articles about sleep habits at two in the morning because apparently he was awake too.
You started expecting him without meaning to. Expecting the warmth of his voice drifting over your cubicle walls. Expecting him beside your desk asking if you'd eaten lunch yet because somehow he'd noticed you skipped it again.
One afternoon you muttered absentmindedly that your favorite pen had run out of ink.
The next morning there was an identical pack sitting on your desk.
No note. Just Clark shrugging awkwardly when you confronted him about it.
“You sounded upset,” he said simply.
The terrifying part wasn't grand gestures.
It was the consistency.
Clark cared in steady, unremarkable ways that slowly became devastating.
Even after you started dating, even after discovering he was Superman and spending several weeks mentally unraveling over that information specifically, he remained impossibly attentive.
He texted you after interviews. After late shifts. After nights out with friends.
Made it home safe?
That was it sometimes.
Four words.
But nobody had ever checked for you so consistently before.
There were nights he'd disappear suddenly in the middle of dinner because somewhere across the city a building was collapsing or someone screamed for help loud enough for only him to hear. Then hours later you'd receive a text at three in the morning.
Sorry. You asleep?
Did you remember to eat?
It made no sense. This man could be stopping disasters halfway across the planet and still remembered tiny details about you.
Sometimes you'd catch him looking at you when he thought you weren't paying attention. Not staring. Something quieter than that. Like there was an ache inside him he didn't know what to do with.
You'd be talking about something completely meaningless — office gossip, bad takeout, a movie you hated — and Clark would watch you with this soft, almost wounded affection that made your chest feel too small for your ribs.
Like he couldn't believe you were real.
And slowly, horribly, you began to hope.
Not all at once. Hope arrived carefully, in pieces. In the way your body relaxed around him without permission. In the way silence stopped feeling dangerous when you were together. In the way you started believing him every time he called you beautiful, even if only for a few seconds before doubt returned.
You hated that hope most of all.
Because hope meant vulnerability. Hope meant believing this time might be different.
And deep down, beneath all the fear and jealousy and poison you'd carried for years, a small desperate part of you started whispering something terrifying every time Clark touched you gently enough to make your throat ache:
Maybe this was it.
Maybe this was finally the antidote.
One night, months into the relationship, you sat cross legged on Clark's couch while he cooked dinner behind you.
It was late autumn by then. Cold enough outside that the windows fogged faintly around the edges, the city glowing soft and blurred beyond the glass. Clark had left one of his sweaters draped over your shoulders the second you walked through the door because apparently your hands were “always freezing,” and now the sleeves swallowed your fingers while you scrolled absentmindedly through your phone.
His apartment smelled like garlic and tomato sauce simmering on the stove. Warm and comforting, the kind of smell people associated with home.
The television murmured quietly in the background, some black and white movie Clark loved because his parents used to watch it when he was little. You weren't paying attention to the plot, only the rhythm of it. The low static hum of old film. The occasional burst of orchestral music. Clark humming softly under his breath while he stirred the sauce.
It was domestic and safe, the kind of moment people wrote vows about.
That thought hit you strangely hard.
Because this was the sort of life you'd imagined wanting when you were younger. Not glamorous. Not dramatic. Just this. Someone moving comfortably around a kitchen while you existed together in easy silence.
Clark looked over his shoulder toward you then, wooden spoon still in hand.
“You hungry?”
“Starving.”
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“Because I was starving twenty minutes ago too.”
A smile tugged at his mouth.
God, even that smile hurt now.
Not in a bad way. In the way beautiful things sometimes did when you loved them too much.
You watched him move around the kitchen for a moment longer. The sleeves of his gray henley pushed to his elbows. His glasses slipping down his nose while he cooked. The quiet ease in his posture now that he was home with you instead of carrying the weight of the world somewhere on his back.
Clark in private still stunned you sometimes.
Superman belonged to everyone; Clark Kent belonged only to you.
Then Clark's phone buzzed on the coffee table.
You glanced down automatically, thinking it was a text message, and felt your stomach drop almost instantly.
A girl from Clark's college years had followed him on Instagram.
You knew that because her profile included the university initials, and because her picture was beautiful enough to make something sour twist beneath your ribs before you even clicked it.
You should've ignored it.
Instead your thumb moved anyway.
The first photo loaded, and she was pretty.
Of course.
Not intimidatingly glamorous. Worse than that. Effortlessly pretty. The kind of beauty that looked untouched and easy. Soft brown eyes. Tiny waist. Bright smile that didn't seem practiced at all.
You clicked the next photo.
Then another.
And another.
A sickness bloomed slowly beneath your skin because now your brain had something to work with.
A real face. A real woman who had existed in Clark's life before you.
You imagined them younger. Meeting in college hallways. Sitting too close together at parties. Her laughing at something he said while touching his arm casually like beautiful girls always seemed to do without fear.
Had he loved her?
Had he looked at her the way he looked at you now?
Had she ever stood in this kitchen?
You hated how quickly your thoughts spiraled.
Nothing had even happened. A follow request, that was all.
But your body reacted like betrayal had already entered the room.
Your chest tightened painfully. Heat crawled up your throat. You kept scrolling even while nausea spread hot beneath your ribs because some ugly part of you needed to know exactly what kind of woman Clark had once wanted.
Every photo became evidence against yourself.
Her legs are thinner than yours.
She looks easy to love.
She probably doesn't overthink every little thing.
Clark noticed the shift immediately.
Of course he did.
“You okay?”
His voice came from behind you, gentle and immediate.
You locked your phone too quickly. “Fine.”
The answer came automatic, almost too fast.
You heard the stove click off behind you almost instantly.
Silence settled over the apartment except for the television murmuring softly in the background.
“Hey.”
You looked up to find him watching you carefully from the kitchen doorway. Concern already written across his face. He wiped his hands absentmindedly on a dish towel before crossing toward the couch.
“Talk to me.”
The kindness in his voice nearly undid you on the spot.
You hated that sometimes. Hated how quickly tenderness made tears burn behind your eyes these days. It felt embarrassing, how fragile you became whenever he handled you gently.
“I just...” You laughed shakily. “God, this is stupid.”
Clark's brow furrowed immediately.
“It isn't stupid if it's hurting you.”
There it was again. That awful, beautiful softness. Like your pain mattered to him even when it made no logical sense.
Clark crouched in front of the couch slowly, close enough for your knees to brush his chest. His expression stayed open and patient, waiting instead of pushing.
You stared down at your locked phone in your lap.
Then whispered, “Do you ever compare me to other girls? I don't know, like girls you know, girls you dated before me, girls you see walking on the street. Do you?”
The question sat between you for a second too long.
Clark's face softened immediately, something sad flickering across his expression. Not annoyance. Not frustration. Just the quiet hurt of hearing someone he loved talk about themselves that way.
“No,” he said softly.
You looked away first.
“But you've loved people before.”
“I cared about people before,” he corrected gently.
The distinction should've comforted you. Instead it made your throat tighter.
“Sometimes I think about everyone you've ever been with before me and I feel physically sick.”
Clark went very still.
The television laughed faintly in the background at some joke neither of you heard.
Silence stretched between you then, but not the dangerous kind. Not irritated silence. Sad silence. The kind that came from watching someone you loved hurt themselves in real time and not knowing how to stop it.
Clark reached for your hands carefully enough to give you time to pull away if you wanted.
You didn't.
His palms were warm around yours, steady.
“Listen to me,” he said quietly. “I don't want anyone else.”
“But that's not the point.” Your voice cracked unexpectedly on the last word.
Because suddenly this wasn't really about the girl on Instagram anymore.
It was about the ugly thing underneath all of it. The constant, gnawing belief that eventually everyone would realize you were harder to love than they first thought.
That one day Clark would wake up and see you clearly. Really clearly. All the insecurity and jealousy and fear curled underneath your skin. All the exhausting ways you constantly needed reassurance while simultaneously distrusting it.
And once he saw it fully, he'd leave too.
Maybe not cruelly.
Maybe sadly.
But he'd leave.
Because people always did eventually.
Clark searched your face carefully like he was trying to read thoughts you couldn't say aloud.
“What is the point? Please tell me.”
And there it was.
The impossible question.
You stared at him, devastated suddenly by how badly you wanted him to answer it for you.
Fix me.
Please.
Tell me why I feel this way all the time.
Tell me how to stop measuring myself against every woman who walks into a room.
Tell me how to believe you when you say you love me.
Tell me why being loved still feels terrifying instead of safe.
Clark waited patiently while tears gathered in your eyes again.
“I thought...” Your voice trembled badly. “I thought being loved would make me feel different.”
The words landed heavily between you.
Clark looked heartbroken.
Not defensive. Not frustrated. Just devastated in this quiet, aching way, like he'd finally realized how much grief you'd been carrying silently the entire time he'd known you.
“Baby,” he said softly, “you think I don't see how hard you are on yourself?”
That did it.
You started crying fully then.
Because the worst part was that he did see it. Every flinch in front of mirrors. Every shift in your mood after seeing prettier women nearby. Every self deprecating joke disguised as humor.
He saw every ugly little fracture inside you and loved you anyway.
That should have healed something. Instead, it made the grief sharper.
Because now there was proof. Proof that even being loved completely and wholeheartedly still didn't silence the ache inside you.
And that realization terrified you more than loneliness ever had.
Clark moved immediately, sitting beside you on the couch and pulling you into him before you could apologize for crying.
You folded against his chest instinctively.
His arms wrapped around you carefully, one hand moving slowly up and down your spine while the other cradled the back of your head against his shoulder. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear, steady and warm and painfully human despite everything extraordinary about him.
“I've got you,” he murmured softly.
The words nearly broke you apart.
Because he meant them, completely.
“You don't have to earn love,” he whispered into your hair after a long silence.
Your eyes squeezed shut.
Because logically, rationally, you knew he was right. You knew people weren't meant to perform perfect versions of themselves just to deserve softness from others. Clark had spent months trying to show you that through every small, steady act of care he gave so naturally.
But somewhere deep inside you, underneath all the warmth of his body against yours and the comfort of being held, another voice still lingered quietly.
Small.
Persistent.
Cruel.
Then why doesn't it feel like enough?
Loving Clark felt like standing in sunlight with frostbite.
Warmth reached you, it did. That was what made it so confusing sometimes. Because Clark loved you beautifully. Consistently. There was never any shortage of tenderness between you, never any question about whether or not he cared.
And yet some parts of you stayed numb anyway.
Some wounds remained untouched by all that warmth no matter how desperately you wanted them healed.
Clark tried so hard.
Sometimes you thought loving you must feel like trying to hold water in his hands. Every time he soothed one hurt, another crack opened somewhere else. Another insecurity. Another spiral. Another night where your own mind turned against you so viciously it left you exhausted.
And Clark met every single one of those moments with gentleness.
That was the unbearable part.
He never mocked your fear or rolled his eyes at the things that sent you spiraling. Even when he clearly didn't fully understand why your mind turned ordinary things into catastrophes, he still handled your feelings carefully, like they deserved compassion instead of ridicule.
Like you deserved compassion instead of ridicule.
There were nights he'd find you sitting on the bathroom floor after staring too long at yourself in the mirror, knees pulled to your chest while shame crawled hot beneath your skin for reasons you couldn't even fully articulate. Clark would crouch in front of you immediately, concern softening his face before you'd spoken a single word.
“Hey,” he'd say quietly. “Talk to me.”
And sometimes you couldn't.
Sometimes there wasn't language for the heaviness sitting inside your ribs. How do you explain to someone that your reflection feels wrong in ways too abstract to name? How do you explain the exhaustion of constantly fighting your own brain just to exist comfortably inside yourself?
Clark never pushed when you couldn't answer. He would just sit beside you on the cold tile floor, broad shoulders pressed against yours, waiting silently until your breathing slowed again.
Once, after a panic attack left you shaking so badly you could barely unclench your hands, Clark sat cross legged on the edge of your bed and held your face between both palms with such impossible care it made fresh tears spill from your eyes.
The room was dark except for the small lamp glowing beside the bed. Your breathing still hurt from crying too hard, too long. Clark had arrived halfway through it, still wearing his glasses and rumpled work clothes, concern written all over his face the second he saw you curled against the headboard struggling to breathe properly.
He hadn't panicked, hadn't overwhelmed you with questions.
He just climbed onto the bed carefully and stayed close until the worst of it passed.
“Look at me,” he whispered gently once your breathing started slowing.
You tried. God, you tried.
But your vision blurred too badly with tears, and shame crawled hot beneath your skin at the thought of him seeing you like this again. Broken open. Unsteady. Too much.
“I can't,” you admitted weakly.
Clark's expression softened immediately. His thumb brushed beneath your eye, wiping away tears with a tenderness that almost hurt to endure.
“Yes, you can,” he murmured. “There you are.”
The words lodged somewhere painful inside your chest.
Not 'calm down.'
Not 'get it together.'
Not 'what's wrong with you?'
There you are.
Like he'd been searching for you beneath all the panic and noise. Like he still believed there was a version of you worth finding underneath all the unraveling.
And maybe that was the cruelest part of loving Clark Kent sometimes, the way he looked at you during your worst moments like you were still someone gentle and precious underneath all the damage.
Clark kissed every scar like reverence.
Not literally at first. It was quieter than that.
The scar near your knee from childhood. The stretch marks you once apologized for instinctively before he frowned and asked why you were apologizing at all. The parts of yourself you tried to hide automatically because past experiences had taught you softness was conditional.
Clark handled all of it carefully.
The first time he traced his fingers over the faint scars on your thigh without hesitation, your throat tightened so suddenly you had to look away.
It happened late at night while the two of you lay tangled together beneath his sheets, rain tapping softly against the windows while Clark talked about something you weren't really listening to anymore. Your attention had caught entirely on the gentle drag of his fingertips across skin you'd spent years trying not to think about too hard.
Then his thumb brushed over the scars.
He didn't freeze or pretend not to notice them. He simply touched them with the same tenderness he touched every other part of you.
Your chest tightened instantly.
Because he wasn't recoiling. Wasn't silently evaluating your body piece by piece beneath his hands.
Clark looked at your body like it was simply yours. Human and real and deserving of affection exactly as it was.
And still, somehow, you couldn't fully absorb it.
That disconnect tortured you quietly.
Because you knew how lucky you were. You knew people spent entire lifetimes searching for love this gentle, the kind that remained patient even when confronted with the ugliest parts of someone.
Clark loved you in a way that should have felt healing.
Instead, it often felt heartbreaking.
Not because he failed you. Because every time he held you through another spiral and the spiral still returned eventually, grief settled heavier inside your chest.
You started realizing love and healing were not the same thing.
That realization gutted you.
Sometimes Clark would wake in the middle of the night and find you staring at the ceiling beside him while thoughts churned endlessly inside your head.
“You're thinking too loud again,” he'd mumble sleepily, voice rough with exhaustion.
You'd laugh weakly. “Sorry.”
Clark always hated when you apologized for hurting.
Even half asleep, you could feel him frown.
“C'mere.”
Then he'd pull you against him immediately, large arms wrapping around your body until your back pressed firmly to his chest. Sometimes his hand would settle over your sternum like he was trying to steady the frantic rhythm underneath.
And slowly, eventually, your heartbeat would begin matching his.
Steady.
Clark held you like proximity itself could protect you from your own mind.
And maybe sometimes it helped.
There were moments where the noise inside your head softened enough for relief to slip through. Moments where Clark kissing your temple absentmindedly while half asleep made you feel briefly anchored to something solid.
But eventually the pain always returned.
You would wake the next morning and still feel fragile in your own skin. Still compare yourself against strangers without meaning to. Still flinch at compliments some days because part of you remained convinced love could disappear without warning.
And every time that happened, guilt followed immediately after.
Because Clark was trying so hard.
You'd catch him watching you carefully after another spiral with this quiet devastation in his eyes, like he hated that he couldn't save you from something invisible. Superman could stop earthquakes. Could hold collapsing buildings above his head.
But he couldn't pull the self hatred out of your bloodstream.
And the cruelest part was that some broken, childish part of you still wanted him to.
You kept waiting for the moment his love would finally outweigh your fear. For the day you'd look in the mirror and hear his voice louder than your own cruelty.
But healing didn't work like that.
Love didn't either.
That realization came slowly and painfully. It lived in the quiet moments after comfort faded. In the mornings where Clark kissed your forehead before work and you still spent twenty minutes criticizing yourself in the bathroom mirror afterward.
Clark's affection was real. Powerful, even.
There were parts of you that survived entirely because he'd loved them gently instead of harshly. Loving Clark changed you in undeniable ways. It made the world feel safer. Made tenderness feel possible again.
But it was not a cure.
His love could hold you while you unraveled, but it could not stop the unraveling itself.
And maybe that was the hardest truth of all.
Not that Clark failed to save you.
But that he was never supposed to.
The fight happened in winter.
It wasn't explosive or cruel, which somehow made it worse.
There was no screaming. No slammed doors. No sharp words designed to wound on purpose. If anything, the entire thing unfolded too softly, like watching something precious crack in slow motion while neither of you knew how to stop it.
The work gala had been sitting on your calendar for weeks. Some charity event hosted high above the city in a building full of people who looked expensive even standing still. Lois had been excited for it. You had been dreading it quietly since the invitation arrived.
By the time the night finally came, your anxiety already sat heavy beneath your ribs before you'd even started getting ready.
The apartment bathroom glowed warm with yellow light while snow drifted past the windows outside. Makeup products cluttered the counter beside half empty glasses of water and abandoned earrings you'd decided you hated the second you put them on. Three dresses lay discarded across the bedroom behind you like evidence from some humiliating crime scene.
Nothing fit right.
Or maybe it fit fine and your brain simply refused to let you see it correctly anymore.
The black dress pinched too tightly around your waist.
The blue one made your shoulders look broad.
The silk one clung wrong at the stomach.
Every angle in the mirror felt unbearable.
You stood there twisting sideways beneath the bathroom light, arms wrapped around yourself while shame crawled hot and vicious through your chest. The longer you stared, the less recognizable your reflection became. Every insecurity sharpened under scrutiny until it felt impossible to imagine leaving the apartment at all.
Outside the bathroom door, Clark moved quietly through the bedroom gathering his wallet and watch, the soft sounds of hangers shifting and drawers opening carrying faintly through the apartment.
“We're gonna be late,” he called gently.
Not irritated. Never irritated. Even now, with the evening slipping away while you stood frozen in front of the mirror fighting yourself, his voice stayed patient and warm.
You squeezed your eyes shut briefly. “I know.”
There was a small pause before he spoke again, softer this time, closer to the door like he'd started making his way toward you.
“You look beautiful.”
The compliment hit something raw inside your chest.
Your laugh came out brittle before you could stop it. “You don't have to say that.”
Silence answered immediately.
Heavy silence.
The kind that made your stomach sink because you knew, instantly, you'd hurt him.
Clark stepped inside the bathroom carefully, like approaching a wounded animal that might bolt if startled too quickly. He'd already changed into his suit, dark tie loosened slightly at the collar while snowlight filtered pale through the bedroom windows behind him.
God.
Even then, part of you noticed how beautiful he was.
Not intimidatingly beautiful, just unfairly kind looking.
Clark took in the scene immediately. The dresses scattered across the room. Your mascara beginning to smudge beneath your eyes. The way your arms folded tightly around your middle like you were trying to physically hold yourself together.
Concern softened his face instantly.
“You've been in here almost an hour,” he said quietly.
You looked away from the mirror first. “I can't find anything that looks right.”
Clark frowned slightly, confused in that earnest way he always became when confronted with pain he couldn't logic through.
“You've changed three times,” he said gently. “You looked beautiful in every dress.”
Your throat tightened immediately.
Because he meant it.
That was the problem.
Clark wasn't saying it automatically or carelessly. He wasn't throwing compliments at you just to end the conversation faster. He genuinely looked confused standing there in the bathroom doorway, like he couldn't understand why you were seeing something so completely different in the mirror than what he saw standing in front of you.
“I don't understand why you can't just believe me.”
The words were quiet. Careful. Not accusatory in the slightest, but they still split something open inside your chest.
Because there was hurt in them too.
Not anger.
Just the soft, exhausted sadness of someone trying desperately to hand you love in a language you still didn't know how to accept.
You stared at your reflection in the mirror, at the tears gathering humiliatingly fast in your eyes, and suddenly anger flared sharp beneath all the shame.
Not at him.
Never at him.
At yourself. At the exhaustion of carrying this feeling everywhere you went. At how impossible it seemed to escape your own mind no matter how deeply Clark loved you, no matter how gently he held you, no matter how many times he looked at you like you were something worth cherishing.
Something inside you snapped.
“Because you love me.”
The words came out harsher than you intended, echoing off the bathroom tiles in the silence between you.
Clark blinked, visibly thrown by the sudden sharpness in your voice. “Yeah,” he said slowly.
You laughed once under your breath, bitter and shaky all at once. “So of course you don't see me clearly.”
The second the sentence left your mouth, regret crashed into you.
You watched the pain cross his face in real time.
Not offense. Not anger.
Pain.
Real, quiet pain that softened his expression instantly, like you'd reached into his chest and pressed against something bruised there. Clark stared at you for a long second without speaking, and somehow that hurt worse than if he'd snapped back. He looked at you like you'd just reduced his love to something naive. Like you'd taken something honest and beautiful he'd been trying to offer you and called it blindness instead. Like you'd struck something tender directly with your bare hands.
“Is that what you think love is?” he asked softly. “Blindness?”
You opened your mouth, and closed it again.
Because maybe it was.
Maybe some part of you truly believed love required delusion to survive. Maybe you thought people only stayed because affection distorted reality enough to make flaws tolerable.
Otherwise, why would anyone stay at all?
The silence stretched painfully between you.
Clark stepped closer slowly.
Snow drifted quietly outside the windows behind him while the radiator hissed softly in the apartment, filling the room with warmth that somehow never reached your skin.
“I know what you look like,” he said carefully.
You shook your head immediately. “Clark...”
“No.” His voice stayed gentle, but steadier now. “Listen to me.”
He moved closer until he stood directly behind you in the mirror.
Not trapping.
Just there.
Grounding.
“I know every version of you,” he continued quietly. “I know when you're insecure before you even say anything. I know when you're pretending you're okay because your left eye starts twitching when you're anxious.” A sad smile flickered briefly across his face. “I know you leave cabinet doors open. I know you steal my shirts even though you claim you don't. I know you cry when dogs get hurt in movies and pretend it's allergies afterward.”
Your chest hurt.
Clark's voice softened further.
“I know you.”
The words landed heavily.
Completely.
“And I still love you.”
His voice wavered slightly on the last part.
That nearly destroyed you.
Because there it was again. The unbearable truth of him. Clark wasn't loving some idealized fantasy version of you. He saw the mess. The insecurity. The spiraling thoughts and sharp edges and ugly fears.
And he loved you anyway.
Tears blurred your vision instantly.
“But why doesn't that fix me?” you whispered.
The question slipped out before you could stop it.
Raw.
Ugly.
Honest in a way that made your stomach twist afterward.
Why wasn't his love enough?
Why did you still stand in mirrors feeling fundamentally wrong even after being loved this deeply? Why did panic still crawl through your bloodstream at parties full of prettier women? Why did reassurance dissolve so quickly inside you no matter how sincerely he offered it?
Why could Superman hold collapsing buildings together with his bare hands but not the inside of your chest?
Clark looked devastated.
Not because you'd insulted him, and not because he was angry. It was worse than that. You watched understanding settle over his face slowly, painfully, like he was finally seeing the full shape of something that had been hurting right in front of him this entire time.
The problem had never been that he wasn't loving you enough.
The problem was that somewhere along the way, you'd started expecting love itself to save you. To reach into years of fear and insecurity and self hatred and somehow cut them out cleanly. Like being loved deeply enough would finally silence every ugly thing you believed about yourself.
And Clark, for all his strength, could not survive carrying that responsibility forever.
He reached toward you slowly then, hands careful and uncertain in a way that made your chest ache. Like your heart had become something fragile in his hands, something he was terrified of hurting further.
“This isn't something I can save you from.”
The words shattered something inside you.
Not because they were cruel.
Because they were true.
You felt the truth of them immediately, sinking heavy into your ribs with devastating clarity. Clark could hold you through every panic attack. Could kiss every scar on your body gently enough to make you cry. Could love you with terrifying sincerity for the rest of your life.
But he could not heal wounds he didn't create.
Your knees gave out before you fully realized you were crying.
You slid down against the bathroom wall hard enough for the tile to sting through the thin fabric of your dress, sobs tearing out of your chest so violently it hurt to breathe. Everything inside you felt split open. Years of impossible hope collapsing all at once under the weight of reality.
Clark followed you down immediately.
Suit forgotten. Gala forgotten. Everything forgotten except you.
He knelt in front of you on the cold bathroom floor, both hands reaching for your face while tears blurred your vision so badly you could barely see him.
“Hey,” he whispered urgently. “Hey, look at me.”
You couldn't.
Everything hurt too badly.
“You're your own hero in this story, baby,” he murmured shakily, pressing his forehead against yours. “But I don't want to lose you to this.”
The words cracked something open inside you all over again.
Because Clark sounded scared.
Not exhausted. Not resentful.
Scared.
Like he was watching someone he loved drown right in front of him while knowing he couldn't jump into the water and breathe for them.
“You won't,” you whispered automatically.
But even to your own ears, the words sounded uncertain.
Because for the first time, truly, you were beginning to understand how exhausting it must be to love someone who kept asking for proof love could resurrect them.
Clark closed his eyes briefly, his breath uneven against your skin before he spoke again.
“I'll stay,” he said quietly. “But you have to stop asking me to heal something I didn't break.”
That one hurt the most.
Not because it was harsh.
Because he was right.
Love would hold you. Comfort you. Change you in small, tender ways over time. But it would never become the cure you spent your whole life searching for, and somewhere beneath all the grief pouring out of you on that bathroom floor, you finally understood that.
Notes: Check out my masterlist and Kent Fam of 3 masterlist!!
Summary: The Man of Steel doesn't have bad days. But he does. The beam of hope that everyone relies on, but when he falls, where does he go?
Warnings: Clark self-doubts, crying from both sides, insecurities of failing, comfort, happy ending
The Man of Steel could never have bad days. Where the city and people looked up to him for hope, for a piece of happiness and joy to keep moving. But where does he go when it gets too much?
The guilt that eats him up, where he should be strong, be the beaming hope for everyone who looked up to him.
The moment he came through that door, you knew. The unusual quiet, where you knew something went wrong from patrolling around the city tonight. You never wanted to push; he was just as human as anyone, where patience is always available, arms open whenever he was ready.
His shoulders dropped low, his gaze fixated on the ground, until he finally met you lying on the couch. His gaze slowly moved to your growing belly, where your warm smile gave a glimmer of peace within the back of his eyes.
Taking note of his disheveled hair, the dirt that was left on his suit, and the exhaustion that was left behind his eyes, which he never wanted to show directly to you. Yet you could see right through it, never pointing it out. “Hey,” you replied warmly, welcoming him back home.
“Hey. I—” he stammered with the glossed shine that came through his eyes, figuring out his words on how to explain to you his terrible day, the failed attempt during a mission tonight that hurt him silently.
Silence etched around the room for a quiet moment until you spoke.
“Cmon,’” you softly urged, patting the empty spot beside you, arms open where he can fall into.
His safe haven. And he went just to that.
And it all fell onto him slowly.
The sniffles that he racked into small sobs, your small frame wrapping around his. The 240-pound man who curled into your chest, your arms that wrapped around his broad shoulders, as you whispered small reassurances. Your eyes that welled up from the sound, as the pregnancy hormones that arose in you, yet wanting to remain sturdy for your husband.
Never seeing your husband this broken before hurt you in ways you can never describe.
You’ve seen him get scared. Sad during his bad days. Vulnerable with you at times. You've seen him cry— But this? This was something deeper. A layer that was peeled back that you now discovered deep within the years and years of your relationship.
“I’m sorry this is too much,” he gasped, taking a deep breath to compose himself within the crook of your neck. The guilt and shame he brought home to you, all while you're pregnant.
But you're having none of that.
“Honey hey—hey look at me,” you replied ever so softly, tapping your finger under his chin to help him draw his attention to you.
And his gaze broke you into pieces. His wet cheeks, softly swollen eyes, your husband falling apart right onto you to capture some beam of hope, and you just so let it for him
Your small hands that cupped his jaw, kissing every last tear away as you leaned your forehead to his. “You wanna talk about it?” you whispered before reaching into his temples for a kiss, grounding him that you're here. Present with him in this room, with no one else but you two.
Sobs that slowly dwindled, with sniffles and deep breaths etching the thick air.
“I–I couldn’t save them,” he rasped out before looking into your eyes for a slight disappointment, yet none shown through your eyes. “It’s my fault,” he murmured, closing his eyes once more for a moment before looking back up at you
Feeling his large, calloused hands rubbing against the swell of your stomach, where feeling you and her was the only one keeping him sane in his mind.
“Honey–you did what you could, my love. You tried, you did it and that’s what matters,” you reassured him before swiping your thumb across his cheek from an escaped tear, before moving to kiss his forehead once more.”It didn’t go as planned, but you tried. You did your best and people should know that. Life throws us into an unpredicament at times, whether we like it or not, Clark.”
By that time, the hot tears rolled down your cheeks, letting it all out with him, while holding your husband, the only safe space he knew. “They still look up to you,” you said calmly, your hand massaging the back of his head soothingly.
Trembling, “I’m sorry, this must have stressed you out and I didn’t realize it,” as Clark glances back at your teary eyes, the guilt of stressing his pregnant wife adds another heaviness to his chest from the night.
“Hey no—none of that honey. I’m proud of you okay? We’re proud of you,” as your hands go over his that lay against your stomach. “We just want you to know that.”
I’m proud of you.
Who knew the small phrase could take the Man of Steel off his feet. Your words that hold truth, meaning, where it’ll forever hold hope in his mind.
mmh thinking loads about clark and his grown-out hair…don't mind me….
tags: implied smut, fluff, domestic bliss, gratuitous mention of his curls (700+ wc)
—
i'd imagine that fhe first time you noticed would've been when you're just in bed with him, lounging after a hearty home-cooked dinner. he's laying on his belly beside you, with an arm tucked under his pillow. he gets like that when he eats too much, usually burning the lethargy off with a nap. quietly, you'd watch the sturdy, broad lines of his back rise and fall, in utter bliss.
"mm. can feel you staring at me. i think." after a long while of you squinting, he'd call you out on it, voice a sleepy, pillow-muffled drawl.
you'd clamber over his stupidly slender waist, combing your fingers through his thick, slightly coarse locks. "your hairs gotten seriously long."
clark remains a drifting cloud beneath you. the only evidence of his presence being the low, content grumbles he makes at the gentle pressure of your nails against his scalp. he lifts his head a fraction. "…has it?"
"mhm." you hum, non-committal. slumping your whole weight into the wide expanse of his broad back. scents of cedar & peppermint coating your senses. your knuckles come to push the curled out edges by the nape of his neck. it springs back up under your nudge. "i've never seen it stick out like this."
you stroke through his curls a little rougher, eliciting a full-bodied shudder from your sleepy boyfriend, "i see. i've had my hands a little full lately." a soft, deep sigh leaves him, and you feel his calloused hands blindly feel for your ankles, snug by his waist. he thumbs at the muscle there, sliding up your calf.
"should i get it cut?" he offers, cheeks pressed against his pillow.
your ministrations stills, "hmm. dunno." you answer honestly, pulling at the curled edges to make them stick out more. "it's sort of…hot. gives you a dishevelled…rugged look." you lower yourself, resting your cheeks onto his traps.
"…"
his arm wraps around your lower back. and with a swift movement, you feel your vision tilt as he plops you beneath him. "ack!" you gasp, steadying a palm by his thick bicep, which he flexes, for your enjoyment.
clark shuffles to cage you in his arms, favouring his weight with his left forearm. one side of his head is visibly styled out in a messy swoop from where you were combing through. though a shorter, unruly strand curls past his forehead.
"i'm not sure if it's good for the hero image. to look unkempt," he ponders seriously, palms pressed against his cheeks as he lays on his side.
you blink up at him. still thrown by the sudden adjustment."…i'm just saying." your knuckles graze past the stray lock, melting into him, with a thigh draped along his ribs. "i like you like this. softer. just f'me." your words trail into murmurs, but he catches them anyway.
the dimples, deep in his cheeks makes themselves known first, and he lets out a huff, sizing you with a dopey smile. "that so?" clark leans on, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot below your ears. the first peck tickles you, with his messy hair brushing past your ears. "hahah. hey! that tickles." you groan, catching a brief glimpse of his blurred, dark locks," geez…like some…wild beast."
"hmm. make up your mind," he rumbles, trailing teasing kisses past your collarbone, to your sternum. clark lifts his head up, eyes glinting in wanton adoration for you. "am i a beast, or some cool…hip dude?"
you stare at him, in mild disgust. "cool hip dude? nevermind. you can never be rugged."
he nips at your wrist when it comes to rest at the back of his head. "ow!" you yelp, shooting him a displeased look. clark just laughs, replacing the sting with a chaste peck. he guides your hand to the back of his head, as though encouraging you to keep it there.
"got your verdict yet?" the shift in the playfulness is subtle as he makes his way down your midsection. pressing another breathy kiss beneath your breasts to your navel. your eyes don't leave him, and neither does your idle palm, half-vanished in his curls.
before you can think to answer, clark lifts your hips up for a second to slide your sleep shorts down. keeping his gaze locked on yours as he presses his lips to your inner thighs.
you swallow the shudder that threatened to give away your building arousal, hands imperceptibly tightening where it was once lax.
IF I CATCH YOU, I FUCK YOU: M.S.
in which. . .matt makes good on his promise (part 2 to this fic)
warnings: stalking, use of a burner phone, small hints at dubcon, matt (pretend) breaking into your house, smut, unprotected p in v, degradation, dirty talk, hunter x prey dynamics, mask kink, knife kink, creampie, GRAPHIC m*rder depictions/language -> 1.2k
note: this is a dark romance fic that does not end with aftercare and is not for people under 18. don't like it, don't read it!
you closed your book, setting it on the bench beside you. the chilly october air rustled through the trees, scattering fire-colored leaves around the park you sat in. today was your day off, and you had opted to get a chai latte from a local cafe and work on the book you'd been slowly reading through for the past month.
ring ring
your phone vibrated in your tote bag beside you, drawing your attention. you sighed when you saw the unknown caller label, but decided to answer; it could be someone or something important.
"hello?" you answered cheerfully, chewing on your thumbnail as you wondered who it could be.
"hello, y/n y/l/n." a man's voice rasped, deepening your confusion.
"can i help you?"
"i believe you know what i want." the voice replied.
"i think you have the wrong number," you said, voice curt but polite. "have a good day!"
you clicked the line off, setting your phone beside you and taking up your book again. you thought nothing of the call, attributing it to an insurance agent who was completing their daily telemarketing. you had barely gotten five minutes of reading in when your phone rang again. irritation bubbled up in your chest when you saw another unknown number, but you decided to answer, hoping that engaging the person would make them quit calling you.
"i swear to god if you hang up on me again, i'll fuckin' kill you," the man said. "i'll slit your throat. you've seen my knife."
that tips you off. it's matt. you remember the call from last week and his threat about if he were to catch you, he'd fuck you. for some reason, despite knowing who was on the other end of the line, fear bubbled up in your chest and your mouth ran dry. you knew this wasn't matt's cell phone, because you had his number saved. he'd gone as far as to get a burner phone to role play with you.
"i-i'm sorry," you whimpered. "it. . .it won't happen again."
"do you remember a little conversation you had with me last week, sweetheart? it sure would be a shame if you were caught. well, for you, maybe." matt chuckled.
"you're a creep!" you hissed, but that didn't stop the wetness from pooling between your legs.
"awww, baby. don't act like you're not enjoying this, drippin' all over that park bench."
you gulped. he could see you. "i'm not kidding this time! i'll call the cops!"
"and what? you think they'll catch me? you can't even find your own stalker, little dove." he teased.
your body thrummed with a mix of fear and arousal. matt was a little too good at playing this role, to the point you felt genuine terror mixing with your sex drive. you quickly shoved your book into your tote bag, throwing it over your shoulder and dumping your to-go latte in a nearby trash can. all the while, you could hear matt laughing at your fear and the scared little whimpers that left your mouth.
"run, baby. remember. . .if i catch you, i fuck you."
luckily, the walk back to your apartment was less than half a mile, but you couldn't stop yourself from looking over your shoulder now and again, wondering if you would catch matt lurking. you didn't see anything, but you could feel his presence. the sky darkened overhead with the beginnings of an october thunderstorm, making the leaves fall faster and adding to the setting of your "stalker" chasing you.
you hurried into the lobby of your apartment building, racing for the stairs. your body thrummed with the excitement of what matt would do to you when he caught you, knowing he wasn't one to leave a promise empty. sure enough, just when you were about to pull open the door to your floor, you heard footsteps on the stairs below you and matt chuckle darkly.
you fumbled with your keys, hastily unlocking your apartment and shoving the door shut behind you, back pressed against the wood. your "stalker" pounded on the door with the hilt of his knife.
"i know you're in there. . .and i know you're all alone," matt's voice came through. "no big, strong man to protect you from me fucking you into oblivion and then ending you with no one around to witness it."
you crawled away from the door, curling up in a ball by your coffee table. your pussy dripped with excitement, the thought of what matt was about to do to you making your heart race. sure enough, within thirty seconds, matt had let himself into your apartment, dressed in all black and a ghostface mask splattered with fake blood, brandishing a knife that you were sure he had purchased from spirit halloween.
he stalked towards you, gripping your hair in his fist. "well, looks like i caught you, little dove. remember our promise?"
you nodded meekly, voice catching in your throat. your eyes were practically screaming at matt to fuck you as he held the knife to your throat, using the hand that had been in your hair to yank down your skirt.
"you're so pretty like this," he rasped from under the mask, paying no mind to the weak, pretend punches you threw at him. "every night when i pass by your apartment and see you changing with the windows open, it drives me crazy thinking about all the things i could do to you," matt's eyes trailed down your body, pausing when they came to the red, lacy thong you had on. "you have on my favorite color. . .were you waiting for me? wouldn't surprise me that a girl like you would welcome a guy like me."
"that's not tr-" you hissed, but were cut off by the moan that escaped your lips as matt's knife pressed deeper into your neck.
"don't play dumb with me, baby," matt growled as he yanked you up, pressing you against the wall. in an instant, your panties were off, pooling around your ankles. "if it was, you wouldn't be so wet for me."
you blushed, your mouth salivating. the scene was filthy, gruesome, and depraved, but you loved it. "please don't kill me, mr. ghostface!" you squeaked.
the mask was tossed aside, revealing matt's flushed face and eyes gone slightly wild with the thrill of hunting you down like you were some sort of prey. "aww, i won't. how could i ever get rid of my favorite little fleshlight?" he snorted, voice dripping with faux sympathy as he yanked his own pants down.
you didn't get any sort of warning before matt slammed into you, his thick, girthy cock filling you to the brim. "jesus christ, little dove," he cursed. "whatever boyfriend you have isn't fucking you right. you're so fuckin' tight."
whatever role play you and matt had been engaging in fell away as he fucked you relentlessly, your back arching against the wall. you could already feel the knot tightening in your tummy; after all, it had been building since you'd received that first phone call in the park.
"no, please!" you tried to bargain, really not wanting him to stop at all.
"what was that?" matt smirked. "yes please? don't mind if i do."
he slammed into you one last time, which caused you to cry out as you came around him, the walls of your pussy clenching with pleasure. once you had cum, it was over for matt. a loud, throaty groan left his lips as his seed filled you up.
"now," matt said, dropping you to the floor and readjusting his pants. "you don't tell anyone about this and we won't have a problem, yeah? otherwise. . .i might have to hunt you down."
CHLO YAPS: bro what happened to me to make me into this. . .
✧ authors note: hey people…i dont feel very good abt this one but i need to post… (i also need to build a bigger taglist so comment if you want to be tagged)
"look," matt commands, gripping your chin, forcing your eyes to the mirror. "look at how fucking stretched you are around me."
he's got you bent over the bathroom counter, one hand pinning your wrists, the other gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. the mirror is fogged slightly from the shower you'd left running, but you can still see where he's inside you, where your pussy is gripping him, flushed and swollen, taking him deep.
"so fucking tight," he breathes, rolling his hips, grinding deep, watching your face in the reflection. "see that? see how you have to open up for me? how you struggle to take it?"
you whine, nodding, tears streaming welling in your eyes.
"good girl," he praises, snapping his hips forward, making you gasp, making you press against the counter. "taking me so well. so pretty when you sound like this."
he slows down drawing out almost to the tip, before sinking back in, inch by inch, making you feel every vein, every ridge.
"watch," he orders, when your eyes flutter shut. "wanna see your face when i bottom out. wanna see how fucked out you look."
you obey, desperate, needy, and watch in the mirror as he pushes deeper, deeper, until you can feel him in your fucking stomach, and your mouth falls open, eyes rolling back.
"that's it," he murmurs, reaching around, finding your clit with rough fingers. "look at you. stuffed full of me. can barely think, can you?"
"no—" you whimper, and he laughs.
"good." he speeds up, pounding into you now, the counter edge digging into your hips, the mirror shaking with every thrust.
"taking my big dick like you were made for it. like this little pussy was built just for me."
"please," you beg, nails raking down his back, "please, can't, can't take more"
"yes you can," he snarls, fucking you harder, chasing his own release.
"cum on my cock and i'll fill you up. want that? want me to cum deep inside you? you want my babies don't you...look so pretty full of my babies..."
you can't form words anymore, just gasps, whines, the occasional desperate "yes" when he hits that spot that makes your vision blur.
the sound of skin on skin is obscene, wet, slick, the slap of his hips against you, your broken moans, his ragged breathing. he's relentless, fucking you like he wants you to feel him for days.
"gonna cum?" he asks, watching your face in the mirror, your mouth fall open.
"yes, yes, please—"
"beg," he snarls, gripping your hair, pulling your head up, arching your back. "beg me to let you cum. beg me to fill you up."
"please, matt. please let me cum. please cum inside me—"
he groans, losing rhythm, and then he's grinding deep, hot, pulsing, spilling into you with a ragged moan that echoes off the bathroom tiles. you follow, clenching around him so hard he whimpers, sensitive.
he doesn't pull out. stays buried, throbbing, watching in the mirror as his cum spills out around him.
"good girl," he mumbles, pressing lazy kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your jaw. soft now, satisfied.
summary: Clark Kent is the perfect neighbor and the ultimate gentleman. Baking cookies, fixing stuff around your apartment, always there with his reliable smile. So who's he to say no when you ask him to help build your new couch and… break it???
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, neighbors to friends to lovers, whipped clark kent, he is a gentleman, clark and reader are horny for each other, oral (f receiving). clark has a BIG DICK, unprotected p in v sex, creampie.
wc: 3.4k words.
a/n: first of all... thank you so much to @tw1sters for managing and giving me the chance to take part in this SEXY event! i had so much fine writing it ahhh. second, hugeeeee thanks to @theworstwolvie and @clarknsun for being the first one to read and comment on this one, i am truly grateful. third, @sparklingsin!!!!!!!!! YOU AND YOUR TALENT HELLO i love the header sooo much thank you for making time to make it for me. i love all of you (and you readers too) very dearly <3
KENT masterlist | masterlist
You live in a humble apartment located in the heart of Metropolis. With a good amount of room for one person, every night, the sound of the traffic around you would hum like white noise, the high floor-to-ceiling window showing you the perfect view of the city’s nightlife—you mostly never closed the curtains in your living room—hell, you could even view Superman fighting one of his weekly villain fights through it.
Yet the thing that made you love it even more—to the point where you would rather be inside all day than go out with your friends, declining their offers—was not those.
It was your perfect neighbor: Clark Kent.
You pegged him as the ultimate neighbor since the first day you moved in. As the moment he saw you struggling with your boxes of too much stuff, he immediately offered to help.
Lifting up three heavy objects that were filled with your heavy kitchen appliances and bathroom necessities too easily, you can’t help but stare at those bulging biceps as he moved around. Quickly looking away every time you feel like he’d almost catch you.
And let’s just say your moving-in process was finished in just an hour, rather than the whole afternoon, with his help.
“I’m Clark, by the way,” mentioned the broad and tall man as he brushed his palm against his jeans, with his thick rimmed glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose and his deep dimples and boyish smile that you were sure would make you do a double take if you saw him on the streets.
“I live next door,” he pointed to the unit next to you.
So– you have a good view of the city AND a hot neighbor too? You really felt like you hit the jackpot with this one.
You smiled and offered him your name. “Nice to meet you, neighbor. I hope we could be good friends then.”
He nodded, lips curling up even more. “Just knock if you need anything. I’ll leave you to it?”
Humming, you then lead him out of your boxes-filled apartment, thanking him one last time.
You thought it would stop with him acting like a decent person—just helping a girl out with her things, but it didn’t. Later that night, you heard a knock on the door.
Looking up from your kitchen floor, you fixed up your shirt before padding down the hall. Checking the peephole to see the same new neighbor—Clark—carrying a plate filled with what you presume were freshly baked cookies.
Your eyes widened as you opened the door and saw exactly that. His soft smile, the scent of sweetness and the warmth emanating from the cookies almost made your heartbeat quicken.
“Sorry to bother you,” he fixes up his glasses with his free hand, then offers the plate out.
“Housewarming gift. Freshly made– though please do not mind if it’s not that good.”
You looked down at the plate, taking it, then up at him again. “Clark– wow, you didn’t have to…”
His smile softened immediately. “I wanted to. Hope you enjoy it.”
You breathed out a small thanks before he left you to continue your organizing.
The next day, you knocked on his door. His once-filled plate with cookies was now replaced with chocolate muffins you made all morning.
His surprise was evident, soft red hues creeping up his cheeks to the tips of his ears. “I didn’t make those cookies just so you could bake me something as well,” his brows knitted.
“Well, consider it as a thank you for helping me out yesterday.”
He sighed softly. “Thank you,” with his classic, shy smile.
Then it continued. Always using the “I cooked too much” as a reason.
You’d give him your signature pasta recipe, and he’d return it the next day with a pan of freshly baked pie. He’d give you some homemade chicken dish he told you he learned to make from his Ma, you’d return it with a pint full of ice cream you made (just for him).
Though it went on and didn’t stop with the both of you casually exchanging meals.
Your kitchen pipes weren’t working? He’d be there in seconds with a wrench in his hand after you asked for help. Your eyes zeroed the moment his shirt went damp, making it practically transparent. You gulped as you stared at how his back muscles shifted with every move.
You didn’t know he could hear the way your breath hitched, though. His own body reacting the same as he could feel that you were also being affected by the closeness of the moment.
“Just need it to be tightened up,” he hummed, looking up at you from his knees just before the under-sink cabinet.
“Oh–” you straightened up, his voice breaking the trance you were in. “All fixed then?”
“Yeah…” he murmured as he stood up, his tall figure towering over you.
You felt your neck straining. “Thank you, Clark.”
“No worries. I’m open to help you with whatever, okay?”
Whatever, huh?
You almost choked at your own spit with the thought of him helping you with whatever. Immediately pushing those… thoughts down.
“Okay,” you managed to rasp out.
He smiled again before he continued with his day.
“Fuck…” you muttered to yourself the moment you closed your door, your forehead thudded against the wood.
More happened.
You were cooking, realized you were out of some ingredients, and went to him.
“Hey, sorry to bother you… but I’m cooking something, and I just realized that I’m out of onions. Do you potentially have any spare ones?” you asked him sheepishly.
Clark cursed to himself because he didn’t have any. He wanted to keep being the one you go to with every struggle you have; he wanted to keep being your lifeline and salvation, so what did he do?
“I’m sorry I don’t… though I’m gonna go out,” a lie. “Soap’s running short,” another lie. Clark literally just bought a full bottle yesterday.
“Really? Would you help me get some onions then?” your eyes gleaming with anticipation, but not wanting to burden him.
“Of course,” he smiled. “I’ll go get some for you.”
He returned less than 30 minutes later with a bag of onions and some snacks you mentioned you liked weeks ago.
You flushed, thanked him, and he nodded before leaving.
Week after week, it kept happening. It was like the both of you were trying to make excuses to see each other even more.
Purposefully switching up your mails with each other. When he saw your balcony railing wobbled just below an inch, he’d offer to fix it immediately. He heard you struggling with your shopping bags after a day out? He would take it from your hands, letting you carry nothing in your hands.
The both of you started to get closer. Unprompted movie nights in his unit, baking and cooking together, even doing nothing but enjoying a warm cup of tea as you both sit on the lounge chairs on your balcony, sharing childhood stories and laughing together.
Oh, both of you were falling deep.
The gaze held longer, smile now softer—deeper in a way—nothing like you ever shared with other people. You told him about your day, your stressful work, your family—and he told you about his life.
It was sweet, really. Clark Kent was sweet.
At this point, he knew everything about you. How you take your coffee, how your nose scrunched before you let out his favorite free laugh every time he made one of his stupid jokes, how sweet you smell whenever his touch lingered just on your thighs whenever you whispered a secret to him, how your pulse thrummed so evidently the moment he tucked a stray hair behind your ear.
And you knew everything about him as well. How his eyes would crinkle with amusement when you rolled your eyes and acted all annoyed, how his hand would linger around you as you both worked around the kitchen, how his body would tense, how his breath would hitch every time you told him something about yourself. Every time you draped yourself on his lap while watching one of the romcoms you forced him to see.
You felt it. The palpable tension, so thick you could cut it with a dull knife, through the not-so-innocent touches, the whispered words—He felt it too. The problem was, Clark Kent is too much of a gentleman to break those boundaries first, and there’s no way you’re the one who’d tear the bandaid off.
So the both of you didn’t advance into anything more than his arm around your shoulder as you both relaxed, or your arms around him as you let out your stress through the feeling of his warmth and scent wrapped around you.
Until one day.
You told him you were buying a couch, and even made him help you pick the color and measure your space. So the moment it arrived, he was at his feet instantly. Going down to carry the box filled with the parts.
It should be normal now; he’s helping you make furniture and fixing around your place, though he usually didn’t use this thin, figure-hugging compression shirt that made all of his muscles look swollen.
He made you stay out of it completely, just like always, not wanting you to do the work at all—yet you can’t help but linger.
You can’t help but ogle him—practically sexualizing him inside of your head.
The way his bicep would flex with every twist of the screwdriver, his veins popping under his sleeves through his forearm, making you wonder if those blood vessels would also look this enticing around his cock.
Your thighs clench the moment he lay under the couch as he tightened the bolts there. His shirt was riding up to reveal a patch of his skin, covered with soft hairs leading down to his crotch.
And he knew. He could practically smell the heavy, sweet smell of your arousal. He could hear the soft breaths you didn’t even know you let out every time he shifted, and his shirt went up even more.
His own body starts to heat up, flushing even though all of his blood was going south. He was thankful that he opted to wear his baggy sweats rather than his tight jeans.
Nevertheless, you saw his bulge start to thicken under the grey fabric. Eyes widening, you immediately looked away.
Clearing your throat. “Do you want some water?”
He looked up, noting the way that you were more fidgety than usual. “Yeah. Sure, thanks.”
You gave him a tight-lipped smile before walking through the kitchen.
Clark couldn’t help but fixate his eyes on your form. Your soft curves swaying with every step, ass peeking out of those short shorts that—the fact that it was always shorter than the last made it obvious that you want him to see. But he can’t. He can’t lose his control–
Gods, you were bending over the freezer now.
He shut his eyes, sucking a deep breath and letting it out shakily. He felt it wavering—his self-control thinning with every quiet hum you let out of your lips.
His fingers tightened around the whatever tool he was holding instantly. His cock throbbing inside his boxers, wanting—needing to be freed from the confinement and the pressure.
You knelt beside him, handing him the cold water. “All good?”
He cleared his throat, hand brushing over the couch’s fresh cushion to distract himself. “All good.”
You then helped him, fingers brushing his palm, lingering on his forearms whenever he asked you for a tool, and you’d give it. You also made it more obvious now that you saw him get hard.
You would blatantly eye him up and down, bare thighs brushing against his hands– you were horny.
Clark Kent made you horny, and he was the only one who could fix it.
His fingers would tighten around the wooden foot, and you imagined it was you instead. He’d let out grunts, and you imagined that it was you pulling it out of him, how he would probably praise you instead of dirty talking just because he was so respectful—too respectful.
He gulped as he watched how your breath starts to quicken, mirroring it unconsciously.
Then– Click.
The last bolt—the last piece of the couch was put in place. Dragging you back into reality.
“You’re done?” you asked.
He nodded, and you immediately sank down onto the new couch. Shifting around to feel the soft padding underneath you.
He joins, and your thighs grazed immediately, making you almost jolt—the neediness heightening back up inside you.
“It feels solid…” he murmured.
You finally glance at him, eyes low and half-lidded with lust. “Wanna test it?”
He eyed you, the way your chest heaved, pupils blown out before rushing forward and kissing the life out of you.
You stumbled with your lips, before wrapping your arms around him and pulling him flush on top of you as you sank against the armrest. Lips parting, swiping your tongue along his lower lip before nipping it, making him groan out your name.
His fingers brushed along the hem of your shirt, lips separating from yours so he could kiss down your jaw and neck.
“Ask me to stop and I will, sweetheart,” he whispered against your skin.
You shook your head profusely.
“I need words…” as he pulled away to study your face, the way your eyes glossed with want.
“Please– I need you, Clark, please…” You whined.
“Of course,” giving a soft kiss on your cheek. “Anything for you, sweet girl,” another on your lips. The nicknames and his gentleness burned you inside out, making you fall deeply towards him more and more.
He finally lifted your shirt off gently, kissing every inch of your skin revealed. Unclasping your bra, groaning at the sight of your breasts bare before him.
You squirmed underneath him the moment he wrapped his soft pink lips around your hardened nipple. Back arching as your hands found his shoulder and squeezed it.
“You’re so beautiful…” he murmured, kissing further down till his lips made contact with the waistband of your shorts. “Can I?”
“Yes– Clark, yes…” his hips lifting instantly as he hooked his fingers around it, pulling it and your panties with such softness and gentleness that no other man could give other than him.
He let out a shuddered breath as he spread your thighs open. The delicious scent of you hits all of his senses immediately.
He hummed as he saw how your folds glistened—borderline dripping. “Don’t wanna make a mess on the new couch, don’t we, sweetheart?” he whispered, before hooking your legs over your shoulder and diving right into it. Collecting all of your wetness—dragging his tongue on your hole up to your clit, making you let out a quiet cry.
“Clark–!” fingers snaking through his curls, tugging them as you held yourself back from grinding your hips against his mouth.
He looped his arms around your thighs, mouth expertly working you out—all the while his gaze stayed on you. Watching every bit of your reactions, the way you threw your head back against the armrest, eyes rolled, lower lip stuck between your teeth as you hold back your sounds.
It was a sight he could never forget now. He was sure to etch it into the deepest crook of his brain.
You whined out his name the moment he pulled back, though. “I know… I’m gonna give you something better, okay?”
You nodded reluctantly, too weak, too drunk with pleasure to deny and fight him over it. You kept your eyes as he stripped out of his clothes. Hole fluttering and tightening around nothing the moment he was bare before you.
His cock—full of girth and length, was straining and slapping against his stomach. His tip red, glistening with his pre. “You’re– huge, holy shit…”
He let out a soft chuckle. “I’ll make it fit. Don’t worry,” as his fingers brushed your hair back, grazing along your cheekbones.
You hummed softly, parting your legs even more to accommodate his broad figure.
Clark lets out a moan as he begins to slowly slide his tip against your folds. “So wet… you’ve been wanting this, hm?”
The silent nod in your response made his heart bloom, because he had wanted this too. He imagined this happening too many times before—whether when he was with you or alone in his bedroom whispering your name as he stroked himself to the thoughts of you—and really, the reality was so much better for him.
The moment he finally pushed himself inside you? He broke. Letting out a deep guttural sound to the feeling of your velvet walls wrapped so perfectly around him—it was as if you were made for him, no– he was made for you.
And you felt the burn, the stretch, splitting you open from your inside. Your hands find his arms immediately. Making imprints of your nails as you dug into his skin from the feeling of the pleasurable pain.
“Clark–”
“Shh… open up for me, sweetheart. I know you can.”
He stayed still the moment he was buried deep inside you, fingers softly brushing along your bare skin as you began to relax.
You nodded, eyes looking up at him with adoration the moment the burn dissipates.
“All ready?” he asked softly.
“Yeah…”
The both of you let out choruses of moans as he began moving, slowly at first. He pulled your arms so you could wrap them around his neck, his own snaking around your back just to keep you close to him.
His forehead pressed against yours. “You feel so good…” he whispered, pulling you into a deep kiss filled with passion. He kept his easy pace, but it was like he was holding back.
“More…” you moaned against his lips.
Who was he to deny you, his sweet, sweet girl, from pleasure?
He picked up his pace. Still deep, reaching to every inch of your walls, but it was more punishing now.
The couch starts to squeak underneath you—but you both didn’t care. Too captivated by the feeling of each other’s bodies to even notice the foot of the couch.
“Fuck–!” you moaned the moment he angled your hips. Your fingers now sprawled on the span of his back, raking it. Your walls began to clench around him tightly, making him fuck you deeper and faster.
“More!” you cried. And he served. His thrusts now punishing, both your chests panting. Your gasps and his moans echo around your apartment.
Clark swore that you were like an angel before him. With your body wrapped around a thin sheet of sweat that made it seem like you're glowing, hair messily draped everywhere yet still beautiful, your breasts bouncing like an invitation, and your face… gods, your face. He could die peacefully thinking about it alone.
So utterly beautiful and broken, and he was the one who did it.
His hips are working like an animal now, brutal, feral.
You finally realized that the couch underneath you was shaking, but you didn’t care. All you could think about was him, him, and him.
He noticed the way the couch was groaning in protest with the amount of pressure it was being given, but the way your cunt was tightening around him meant that he couldn’t stop. “Gonna break this–” before your walls gripped his cock even further.
“Gonna come–!” you cried.
“Give it to me, sweetheart. Come on.”
And you obeyed. Letting out a sharp cry of his name as your body jolts—convulsing as the waves after waves of orgasm hit your senses—burning your body with the amount of pleasure.
“Fuck–” he cursed, fucking you deeper as he chased his own climax. At last, with a final and intense thrust–
Craaack.
The foot snapped completely, making you yelp out and scrambling to hold onto him.
Clark didn’t even realize that he had already came and spilled inside you, too stunned, too focused on making sure you’re not hurt.
“Are you okay? Are you hurt anywhere?” his eyes widened, doing a one-overlook look at you to make sure no blood came out of you.
Your arms tightened, before you burst out laughing. “I am–” you wheezed. “The couch though…”
He blinked, then huffing out a small and relieved chuckle. “Guess it’s not strong enough, huh?”
Before pulling you onto his lap, shifting you on the floor carefully—still seethed deep inside you, and tugging you closer into a soft kiss. Fingers cuping your cheeks gently.
summary: When Clark tries his football jersey on, your mind is ridden by a sudden need to show him just how much you like it.
Tags and warnings: 18+ MDNI dryhumping, p in v, face-fucking, blowjobs, handjobs, fingering, cunnilingus, sub!clark (for the most part then he takes over), multiple orgasms, raw sex, aftercare, established relationship, clark has a BIG dick.
wc: 2.6k
A/N: ahhhh i rlly hope you like this. First pic posted andddd first smut written😭 special thanks to @kryptidfiles aaaaand @unificsation for proofreading and giving me their honest—and veeeery useful advice! Such sweet individuals 🫧🪽💌 pardonn me rlly if there’s any typos or mistakes english is not my first language😞
Sports have never really been your thing—you don't hate them, but you've never actually sat down and watched a whole game.
You're more artsy than anything, writing has always been a passion of yours. It's not a surprise that now that you're in college you've chosen the journalism path.
But your boyfriend Clark is a different story, he's sweet, well-mannered. a journalist, too. But his body screams athlete. Tall, broad shoulders and chest. Farm-made strength that put him on top of the list for the quarterback recruiting.
To nobody's surprise he made the team as soon as he tried out.
Today he finally got that Jersey with his last name big on the back and a number 8 in bold yellow letters.
You've been waiting for him to get it, see him try it on in front of you.
"Does it look good?" He says, looking at himself on your mirror, you're laying in your bed in front of it. Forearms propping you up on the mattress.
The jersey sticks tightly onto his abdomen, making him look delicious, you agree with hum at his question "I think it's perfect" you lick your lips, gaze sharp and dark. An idea crossing your mind.
That look is familiar to him, it sends a shiver down his spine.
The mirror catches Clark's eyes drag along the silhouette of your body on the bed. Suddenly your pose is not as innocent as it was 3 seconds ago. His nose and ears catch fire rapidly, warm and rosy all over.
You sit up slowly, and crawl to the edge of the bed. you pat the spot next to you, signaling him to sit there. He obeys to your commands like a well-behaved puppy.
"What are you doing?" A nervous chuckle escapes his mouth. He knows the answer, but he wants you to say it out loud.
"Just wanna show you how much I like the jersey on you" You bat your lashes at him innocently.
Once he sits down you get on your knees on the floor and prop yourself in between his legs.
The floor-length mirror next to you catches your attention, you can see your position perfectly.
A smirk forms on your face as he breaths heavily, flustered.
Big tent meeting you on eye level.
"You're so pretty" You mumble against his leg, you leave a kiss over his pants. "Can you take this off for me, please?" He obeys almost immediately, leaving only his boxers and jersey on.
Man what a view.
Your mouth already salivating at the sight of him.
His cock hard against the cotton underwear, displayed lewdly for you to enjoy completely by yourself.
His length wasn't anything unfamiliar to you, your insides were already Clark-shaped.
You make your way through his unclothed thighs, stopping to leave kisses and licks on his skin.
Sucking and licking, biting just enough to mark him up. Above you, you can only hear heavy breathing, soft moans and unintelligible mumbling—most likely praises.
Your hands go underneath the jersey, landing on his happy trail. You toy with the elastic band of the boxers, earning a desperate whine from Clark.
Anticipation making your own underwear pool up with your heat. You pull down revealing his size. Pink head throbbing, glistening with pre-cum.
Soft hands wrap around his thick cock, thumb pressing on the tip gaining a loud moan from Clark.
"Just like that, baby" He mumbles with a low growling voice, arching his hips upwards. You start going up and down, pace slow at first giving special attention to the sensitive tip. "So, so good."
Clark's head rolls back. The sound of him moaning and groaning your name floods the room.
You don't stop moving your hands around his dick, and you add your mouth to the equation. Wrapping your lips on it, sucking softly. tongue slithering on the tip.
Your head bobs at the same rhythm that your hands move on his cock, you flatten out your tongue against him. Clark's hands grab your hair and gently pull, you moan on his dick, sucking inch by inch further down.
Searching for stability, you grab his thighs firmly. His hips jerk upwards, thick, long dick reaching your throat and making gag.
Tears prick down your cheeks, you can hear Clark slurring apologetic words. You look up at him and moan at the sight.
He's a goner. Face red, curls messy on his face, eyes going white, and you swear you can see him slightly drooling. "You're so–mmphg…– so good, baby" He moans out, "So pretty taking me on your mouth so well, look at yourself" His head points to the mirror.
Your eyes leave his gaze to watch the lewd image displayed, your pussy flutters at the sight.
Warm, rosy tongue swirls around his length, nose almost touching his pubes, you breathe through your nose—still watching it all happen in the mirror.
Your left hand starts to play with his balls while the right keeps grabbing his thigh for balance.
His tip swells, a loud, guttural whine escapes his mouth—He's about to cum.
"I'm close, baby, please" He pleads for mercy, he cups your head in his hands. You look at him, holding eye contact and you blink twice at him, giving him permission use you.
And that he does.
He grabs your face from each side firmly and starts thrusting hard—abusing your mouth, making you gag each thrust he takes.
Drool, tears, precum and snot all combined run down your cheeks.
Both yours and his moans are loud enough for your neighbors to complain later.
Clark's cock twitches inside your throat, his hips jerk forward, in and out, his mind fuzzy and blank. Desperately searching for release by any means necessary, a low groan brewing in his chest.
"I love you so– nghh– so much, sweetheart" his voice is whiny, hands still grabbing hard on each side of your face.
Eyes locked with yours, you blink three times—I love you, you moan on his dick loudly, the vibration of your moan sending him into overdrive making him reach his orgasm
Your throat is painted white quickly. Your cheeks puff out with his cum, some escaping and rolling down the corner of your lips, going down his dick onto his lap and the mattress.
You swallow the rest of cum that's in your mouth, his dick softening slowly.
Still licking and sucking softly on it, electricity travels all throughout Clark's body with overstimulation. He slurs unintelligible praises softly.
When he pulls his dick out of your mouth, you get on top of his lap, legs straddling him on each side.
You grab his face forcing him to make eye contact.
When you sit down, you feel his dick hardening again, kryptonian anatomy.
You attack his mouth. kissing and sucking on his lower lip. You moan his name when you feel his hands on your ass squeezing tightly, the fabric of your skirt flipping upwards.
It's your turn to get off, you rock your hips back and forth. The contact of your clothed pussy and his unclothed cock makes both of you moan on each other's mouths.
You pull away from the kiss and grab his face, making him watch you through the mirror. "Good boy…" You smile at him.
Looking down to watch yourself grind on him, you peep his dick already leaking precum again. He helps you move also rocking his hips enough for the friction to make your already wet pussy even wetter, he whimpers your name and you kiss his neck.
You keep a fast pace, until you feel the coil in your belly tightening. Sloppy thrusts suggesting you're about to reach your orgasm.
"I'm so close baby, you've been such a good boy" Your head rests on the crook of his neck, he takes over, grinding his cock against your pussy.
You see stars, and you swear you can touch them too. You reach your orgasm just by dry humping.
Tired and overstimulated, you rest for a few minutes laying on top of him. His strong hands wrapped around your waist.
Then, he lays you down on the bed, takes off your skirt and props your legs open in front of him.
His hands go down to take off his jersey and you stop him with your foot.
"Uh-uh. Do not take that off." Your voice is low, almost a whisper, but it's firm—still commanding him. He smiles and leaves the jersey on, then goes down between your legs.
"'S my turn to taste you" His breath is hot against your core.
Your wet panties stick to your skin, he pulls them to the side and slides his tongue over your slit, all the way from your entrance to your clit. He stays there swirling his tongue around it. You moan at the sensation, your already sensitive pussy throbs and clenches around nothing.
"Tastes so good" He kisses your pussy, you moan shakily.
"Keep going, baby" Your voice is trembling and your legs are shaking, feet resting on his shoulder blades.
His tongue works on your clit as one finger stretches your entrance deliciously, stinging just a little while your pussy gets used to the intrusion.
He moves his fingers inside you; up and down, side to side, preparing you for his next finger to enter.
Two fingers inside, and he arches them just right to touch that soft gummy spot that makes your mouth hang open and your eyes flutter. Your back arches and your fingers get tangled between his soft black curls.
Your second orgasm approaches rapidly, your hands no longer rest softly on his hair now they're full-on pulling. His mouth works wonders on you, and he moans on it like he's the one being eaten out.
You arch your body into his mouth, "Clark!– fuck!" Your muscles tense up, your pupils roll to the back of your head, your mind goes numb. He grabs you by your waist, keeping you in place, his mouth still attached to your clit.
Your body shakes with overstimulation, the numbing sensation of your second orgasm makes you whimper his name repeatedly with a string of 'fuck, fuck, fuck' you pull his hair to make him face you.
Half his face was covered in saliva and your slick. He licks his lips, savoring every bit of your fluids.
"Fuck me, Clark," breathing out, "I'm ready. Please" you beg him, you need to feel him inside you.
You let go of his hair and he gives one last lick to your cunt, tongue flat against your core, drinking everything that he gathers from the motion. "You always taste so good" He takes off your panties completely now, then gets up and slides on top of you.
He kisses your neck, and suckles softly. He positions his dick in between your legs, the head pushing softly in your entrance.
A gasp catches in your throat as he pushes his cock inside slowly.
The stretch burns you, your nails scratch on his chest underneath the jersey.
"You're so tight, baby" He licks his lips, "Always perfect for me"
"Fuck, Clark," you close your eyes feeling him enter slowly, "You fuck me s-so good"
"You have such a dirty mouth" His hand grabs your neck, squeezing softly on the sides; letting you breath but pressing just enough to make your pussy clench around his dick. Earning a deep groan from Clark "You like that? You like it when I choke you?"
"Mhm- yes baby" You manage to get out
His dick goes further inside you, inch by inch until it's fully deep inside you, "Is this okay, baby?" You nod and hum, he looks down as your cunt takes his cock, "your pussy feels like heaven, sweetheart"
He starts thrusting slowly and softly first, cock hitting all the sweet spots. Then his pace gets faster, still careful, but rougher.
He takes your shirt off in one smooth motion. He presses on your lower belly, feeling his dick thump against the skin under his hand each thrust he takes. You can only moan and whimper his name.
His other hand leaves your neck and grabs on your breast, kneading it and playing with your nipple.
The room is hot with sweat and the friction of both your bodies. He uses his X-ray vision to watch his dick moving in and out inside of you, "You take me so well" He coos, "I can feel every inch of you gripping me. So, so good"
You can't even manage to get words out, just slurred mumbles and moans.
You're dizzy, and his dick hits every single part of your insides making you even dizzier.
Each thrust is hard, fast and deliberate. Balls slapping against your ass.
The sound bounces around the walls of the room plap, plap, plap.
Clark keeps spitting praises at you, he groans about how pretty you are and how well you take him—but you can't listen to a thing he says, pleasure getting to your head.
"I love watching my dick disappear inside you" he grabs your face and makes you look down at where your bodies merge together. "Look how perfectly we fit together."
His thrusts turn sloppy, desperate. His release coming closer each thrust he takes.
Your breath hitches, catching in your throat as the familiar feeling in your belly builds up for the third time, winding tighter with every movement. "'M close, Clark" You mumble.
"I know baby, me too" he hisses, squeezing your nipple between his index finger and his thumb.
The tightness of your warmth sends Clark over the edge, finally reaching his climax. He buries himself to the hilt. Every muscle in his back ripples and seizes as he spills into you. You arch into the pressure and reach your climax at the feeling of thick, rhythmic waves of his release pulsing directly against your cervix. "Fuck, Clark you're perfect"
With a sharp, breathless cry. He stays inside, still pouring his cum inside you, spilling out your entrance, staining your sheets. You whine and moan at the sensation, exhaustion and pleasure take over your body.
Clark finally pulls out, and throws himself next to you. Heavy breathing, his arms wrap around you, pulling you in closer as you lay together.
You stay laid up for a few minutes, before he eventually gets up and heads to the bathroom.
Then, comes back with a warm cloth. He cleans the combination of both your climaxes that sits between your legs and the mattress. He leaves tender kisses on your thighs.
"I've got you, just rest," he kisses again, "you don't have to move a single muscle, baby"
You just lay there, tired and dazed. Your muscles aching.
"You did so well taking me like that," He sits next to you once he's finished cleaning you up and takes off his jersey. "I might have to wash this jersey now" He folds it neatly and puts it on the nightstand.
You chuckle under your breath. He lays his head on the pillow, pulling you in closer and hugs you from behind. Leaving kisses on your shoulder and neck.
"I love you" You finally find your voice, you tangle your legs with his. He covers you with the blanket and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you in closer.
"I love you so much more" His face lays on your neck, his hot breathing hitting your skin and you sync yours with it.
The small intimate moment is not a rare occurrence for both of you, but it's always the part you cherish the most when you have sex with him.
Your hearts beat at the same rhythm, and you're comfortable enough to relax and sleep.
Your guess is, this will be the new routine every time he puts that jersey on.
Dividers by @thecutestgrotto 💌
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Dirty Little Secret - Divorced!Scott Miller x Reader
Divorced!Scott Miller x Reader
Summary: When your intuition leads you astray during a storm chase, data is lost. Scott, feeling angry and fed up, comes to your motel room afterward to show you exactly how he feels.
Tags: Scott and reader are divorced, NSFW (18+), hatefucking, unprotected pinv, creampie, dirty talk, name-calling, humiliation, Scott's happy trail (obvi), arguing, Scott is a boob guy, nipple sucking
Word Count: 3k
The rain is pitter-pattering against the car in strong, steady droplets. They dot the windshield and collect in the car’s nooks and crannies as you drive along the road. The wind is strong, and you hold the steering wheel steady against it as it whips against the side of the truck. Your brows are furrowed in concentration. You’re focused, locked the hell in, and ready for anything.
“Hit the gas. We’re falling behind,” comes a familiar voice from your right. Your grip on the wheel tightens.
“I’m right behind Javi–”
“You’re about to go uphill, hit the gas,” Scott says again. You glare at him, then press on the pedal and peel ahead down the muddy road.
“Sorry, did you wanna drive instead?”
“I wouldn’t mind it,” he says.
“We both know you’re too anxious for that.”
“I absolutely am not–”
“Shut up, you’re distracting me,” you huff, turning up the windshield wipers and adjusting yourself in the seat. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Scott shake his head and clench his jaw. “So fucking bossy,” you mutter.
“At least one of us knows what they’re doing,” Scott says casually. You smack his arm.
“Stop talking,” you tell him again. “Can’t fucking see in this rain, I don’t need you in my ear at the same time.”
He says nothing else, instead leaning forward in his seat. Suddenly, the storm up ahead seems to change course. You squint, then blink, then reach for your earpiece.
“Javi,” you say into the mic, “go left.”
“What?” Scott says. “Why would we–?”
“Go left, go left!” you say. Javi’s truck veers to the left, and your heart races in your chest. “It’s moving around. You see it, right?”
“I see it,” Javi says back.
“That’s not enough of a change to make a difference,” Scott says sharply. “You’re gonna make us lose it.”
“I’m not gonna make us do anything,” you say firmly. “I can just tell that–”
“Don’t do that,” Scott talks over you.
“--It’s gonna change course, I feel it–”
“How many times have we done this song and dance?” Scott snaps. “It works less than half the time.”
You say nothing, instead pressing on the gas to stay on Javi’s tail. Scott says your name, sharp and angry.
“You’re being ridiculous,” he says, then reaches for his earpiece.
“Don’t listen to her,” he tells Javi. You whip your head to glare at him. “It’s not moving at a sharp enough angle, the path we were on was perfect–”
“Javi, I’m serious–”
“You two need to pull it together, we’re almost on it. Which way am I going?”
“Right!”
“Left!”
Javi’s truck visibly swerves right for a moment, then suddenly goes left in the direction you suggested. Scott slams his hand against the door of the car as you follow behind Javi.
“We won’t be close enough!” he says. You stare straight ahead as you approach the storm. Javi pulls aside and gets out to drop down the radar machine. You drive along a bit further, then put the car in park and unbuckle quickly. Scott is shaking his head furiously as he gets out, too.
“What’s the matter with you!?” he shouts over the wind as you work together to drop down the radar machine. You glance at him, at his angry face, the bulging muscles in his arms, the soaked shirt clinging to his chest. He gestures behind you. Then, you turn and look back at the storm as Scott announces that Scarecrow is down to Javi.
Your stomach drops.
Damn your depth perception. Damn your gut for misguiding you. Damn Javi for listening to you.
The storm has returned to its original course, and you’re no longer in a good position for it to pass over the radar machine in an effective manner. Fuck. Fuck.
Scott is hurrying back to the car, and you curse under your breath as your cheeks get hot. Javi is talking in your earpiece, saying something about how there isn’t enough time to haul the machines back up and move ahead, that it’ll have to just collect what it collects, that whatever happens it’s okay, that you guys will have another chance. That it’s okay.
You get back into the driver seat and buckle up before pulling away to follow Javi. Scott is shaking his head again. You glance at him out of the corner of your eye, and when you see the way his cheeks and the tips of his ears have flushed, you clench your jaw. He’s angry. He’s pissed. He’s fucking livid.
“-- and I told you it wasn’t a good idea!” you tune back in as he talks. “You don’t listen. You don’t listen to anyone but yourself, you do whatever the hell you want even if it’ll cost us.”
“I get it,” you hear yourself say, embarrassment washing over you.
“Do you? Do you really? That’s what you say every time, I’ve heard it over and over and over.”
Javi talks in the earpiece again as the storm passes. You feel hot and shaky as you drive along, as you move away from the storm and its effects. Scott mutters to himself as he looks at the small bit of data you were able to collect from today’s botched adventure. You tune him out as best you can, but you feel angry – like an exposed nerve being touched every single time Scott says something.
You pull into the parking lot of the motel as the gray clouds move overhead. Scott gets out the moment the car is parked, and he slams the door on his way as he mumbles something along the lines of today being pointless.
Fury swells in your chest, this having been the final straw after a humiliating car ride.
“Say it to my face,” you call after him, getting out of the car and fumbling for your room key. Scott pauses, glancing back at you.
“What?” he asks.
“Whatever you just said. Say it to my face,” you say as the other StormPar cars roll in. Javi approaches the two of you – you, mostly, because he knows you all too well, and he feels badly for putting you with Scott in the first place. If only he hadn’t been working with a new hire, he could’ve ridden with his partner and had him all to himself. Lucky him.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Javi says before Scott can respond. Javi puts his hand on your shoulder. “No one’s mad at you. It happens.”
You don’t take your eyes off of Scott.
“She ruined today’s chase,” Scott says, quietly enough for Javi and Javi only to hear. “Stop babying her, she’s a big girl.”
“Fuck you,” you snap, emotion swelling. Javi steps between you and Scott, blocking him from your vision. He says your name soft and kind. You look at him finally.
“Go calm down,” Javi says to you. “Take a breather.”
You open your mouth to speak, then storm towards your room, key in-hand. You hear footsteps, then Javi saying, “Leave her, man.”
You unlock the door, step inside, slam the door behind you, and lean down to untie your boots. You set them next to the door to dry, then smooth your hands over your hair as you let out a shaky breath. With trembling hands, you reach for the buttons of your shirt to undo them and remove it. The talking outside your room has quieted. Five minutes have passed since you snapped at Scott, and you sniffle as you toss your StormPar shirt aside.
Knock, knock, knock.
You startle slightly, then lean up on your tip-toes to peer through the peephole. Anger roars in your gut once more. Of course Scott’s back for more.
“Go away.”
“No.”
“I’m serious,” you warn, reaching for the door handle. You swallow harshly. “I-I’m serious.”
“I know,” he says. “Let me in.”
You yank the door open suddenly, inhaling as you do. You glare at him with eyes that he could get lost in, and Scott takes a step forward.
“Back up,” you say. He doesn’t. “Back up–”
“What is your problem?” he asks.
“My problem? What is my problem? What’s your problem!?” you ask as he steps inside. You close and lock the door behind him. “You embarrassed me in front of Javi.”
“You embarrassed yourself,” Scott says, looking you over and taking in your tear-stained cheeks. “You need to get your priorities straight.”
“Is that what this is? You came here to give me a motivational speech?”
“I came here to tell you that Javi feels bad,” Scott snaps. You pause.
“What?”
“He feels bad for you. You should probably text him and tell him you’re fine.”
You huff softly. Fucking Javi. Poor, kind-hearted, well-intentioned Javi.
“Okay. I will. You can go now.”
Scott says your name, then. It’s low. Dangerous. Riddled with lust. You glance at his crotch, then scoff.
“You’re a fuckin’ freak, you know that?” you say sharply. He takes a step towards you.
“Tell me something I don’t already know,” Scott says. “I know you too well.”
“Not well enough,” you say, crossing your arms over your chest. When you do, your cleavage is made visible due to the low-cut tank top you’re wearing. Scott takes another step forward.
“You’re an idiot, you know,” he says. It’s got no bite behind it. Your eye twitches.
“And you’re a dick,” you say, leaning back against the wall. “You have some nerve coming in here after the way you talked to me.”
“Maybe,” Scott says, taking hold of your wrists and pinning you against the wall you’re already leaning against. “Or maybe I just know how to get you to calm down. I’m doing you a favor, really.”
“Oh, so I should be thanking you, huh?” you ask, heat blooming between your thighs as Scott’s big hands hold you.
“That’s the idea,” he says. He looks you over hungrily. You are silent for a few moments, weighing your options. You want him, there’s no doubt about that. But you’re also embarrassed, and angry, and absolutely boiling over with the desire to let him have it. You give him a challenging look.
“Make me,” you dare him. Scott smirks, then lowers his head to nip at your throat. You inhale sharply, eyes fluttering as his grip on your wrists tightens. He keeps you pinned firmly against the wall and fits his knee between your thighs.
“Mm. You’re warm,” he hums. Your hands clench into fists and you push against him. He keeps you pinned firmly, though, and presses his body against yours.
“It’s summertime,” you manage. Scott laughs at your pathetic attempt to explain away the heat radiating from you.
“Right. I suppose that’s the reason you’re humping my leg, too?”
You still your hips, which you didn’t even realize were moving in the first place.
“I’m not humping you,” you say sharply. Scott takes hold of the hem of your tank top and tugs it up over your head to reveal your breasts, which are nestled in your bra. He unclips your bra and tosses that aside too.
“Mm, lookit these,” Scott sighs, lowering his head to lip and nip at your boobs. You bite your lip and wiggle your hips against him intentionally this time. “So pretty. Best tits I’ve ever seen.”
“You’re easy,” you tease breathlessly. You try to reach for his hair, but his hands are still tight around your wrists. “Let me go. Wanna touch you.”
“Mm mm,” he hums. “So pretty pinned against the wall…”
“Perv,” you sigh as he tongues at your nipple. Scott pulls away after a moment, then begins to unbutton his shirt. You take the opportunity to shoo his hands away and do it yourself, and he smirks softly as you undo the buttons and push the shirt down his arms. Scott tugs his undershirt off, and you touch his pecs as you look him over.
You stare at him shamelessly, taking in the trail of dark hair starting at his navel and continuing down into his pants. You run your fingers along it, humming as you do.
“Like what you see?” Scott asks as he tugs you towards the bed and shoves you down onto it. Your breasts bounce and he tugs your pants down.
“Shut up,” you tell him as you wiggle out of your pants and underwear, leaving you totally nude on the bed. Scott goes to get on top of you, but you stop him with a hand on his chest. “Lose your pants.”
He smirks again.
“And you say I’m the bossy one,” he says as he kicks off his boots, then undoes his zipper and pushes his pants down. You bite your lip when he removes his underwear. His cock is hard and throbbing and leaking at the tip, and you spread your legs.
“You are bossy,” you say as he gets on top of you once more. Scott takes hold of his cock and guides it to your dripping entrance.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” Scott breathes as he presses the tip in. You inhale sharply, clenching around him and he grunts. “She’s sucking me in, need it bad, hm?”
You give his hand a tug.
“Stop fucking talking and get in me,” you warn. “Or I can take care of this myself.”
“Aw, don’t be like that,” Scott says as he pushes the rest of the way in. “We both know your vibrator won’t do the trick when the real thing’s right here.”
You hate that he’s right. You hate that he knows it.
“Fuck,” you sigh as he pushes in all the way. You hold onto his strong arms and give his biceps a squeeze. “Move, Scott.”
“I should really make you ask nicely, you know.”
“Fuck you.”
He chuckles, then starts to rock his hips. His cock slides in and out of you, slowly at first then getting gradually faster. You sigh softly, brows furrowing in pleasure. Your hold on him tightens.
“Faster,” you moan quietly. Your breasts bounce with the force of Scott’s thrusts, and you moan sharply when he leans down to nip at your right boob. “Fuck, be gentle!”
“You don’t like gentle,” Scott says. “You and I both know that.”
You moan again when he sucks your nipple into his mouth and lets his teeth graze over you. Your core is soaked and hot and clenching around his cock like a vice, holding onto him like it needs him. Scott knows it, too, and you hate that he does. You hate that he has this effect on you, but the truth is that he understands you in a way no one else does.
That’s what being together for years gets you, you suppose.
Scott says something, but you’re so lost in thought that you don’t catch it. You open your eyes to meet his, which are darkened from lust.
“Huh?” you manage. He chuckles.
“I s-said you should…Fuck…Probably thank me, now.”
Your brows furrow and you roll your eyes. Of course. He wants his ego stroked.
“Why would I do that?” you ask sharply, still gripping his strong arms as he pounds you into the mattress. Each sharp, deep thrust makes his cock rub up against your g-spot, and you grunt quietly at the feeling.
“Because you’re not coming unless you do,” he says. You glare at him.
“Fuck you.”
“Go on,” Scott breathes. His thrusts are getting sloppy, which is a telltale sign that he’s getting close to his climax. “I know you can do it. Be a good girl.”
“D-Don’t fucking talk to me like that.”
Scott’s fingers find your clit, and you gasp at the feeling of him touching you. He rubs your sensitive bud in tight, skilled circles as you groan and wiggle your hips. Your pussy clenches again, squeezing him and making him grunt.
“I’m being so nice,” Scott sighs. “Gonna let you come. Just thank me for making you feel good.”
You throw your head back, teetering right on the edge of orgasm. Your body is hot and tense and ready to explode with pleasure. You cry out, lips parting.
“T-Thank you,” you manage, voice high and needy. Scott kisses you. It’s deep and wet and messy, and you moan against his mouth as you fall right over the edge. Your climax washes over you like a wave of heat, a blanket of warmth. You moan and sigh, tears welling up in your eyes as Scott reaches his own orgasm and fucks his seed deep inside of you.
“Fuck,” you breathe as his hips slow to a stop. Your chest rises and falls rapidly as you catch your breath, and you loosen your grip on his biceps as he stills his hips. His lips are parted, sweat beads at his hairline, and his checks have flushed. You touch his cheek.
Scott hums, then pulls out of you.
“How was that, princess?” he asks, moving back and reaching for his underwear. You roll your eyes and sit up.
“And just like that, I’m all dried up,” you say, still catching your breath. Scott hums as he pulls his underwear and pants on. He buttons and zips them, then reaches for his undershirt. You stare shamelessly as he gets re-dressed. He pulls on his StormPar shirt and begins to button it up.
You should say something, you know that. He humiliated you, made you look like an idiot in front of Javi, but something tells you that now isn’t the time. He looks so handsome and worn-out, and something deep inside of you aches to kiss him once more before he goes.
Scott tucks his shirt in and pulls his boots on, then glances back at you as he starts towards the door.
“Get some rest,” he says. You nod, letting out a soft, tired breath.
“Yeah,” you say.
“Don’t forget to text Javi,” he says, smoothing his hair down. “He thinks you’re in hysterics.”
“Okay,” you say, reaching for your phone. Scott stares at your nude form for a few seconds longer, then reaches for the door handle.
“I’ll see you,” he says, then leaves without another word.
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ
Author's Note: This is the first installment in my divorced Scott & Reader oneshot series! I'd like to thank @corens0ups for enabling and encouraging me to write this AU over the past few months, and @avastarred for inspiring me with her fantastic Dad!Scott series. I am so lucky :'))
Taglist: @corens0ups @brucesfavebabymama-28 @avastarred @supermanville @whydontyouputyourseatbelton @punyparkerr (Are you interested in joining one or more of my taglists? Please fill out the anonymous google form here to let me know!)
rynwritesstuff - 2026. Do not copy, steal, or repost my work.
✧ mechanic!matt, dom!matt, unprotected sex (creampie), bigdick!matt, fingering, degradation, slight semi-public sex, rough sex, praise, car sex
✧ summary: your car breaks down and you meet matt, the mechanic who’s blunt, flirty, and impossible to ignore. he gets your car running again, but the real problem is the tension between you two.
✧ word count: 3.7k
✧ authors note: bit of a lengthy one...sorry guys i got carried away while writing lol...
the first thing you noticed about matt was that he looked irritated to be alive.
grease on his hands. dark curls shoved back messily. gray tank top clinging slightly to his back from the heat inside the shop. he was halfway underneath the hood of somebody’s car when your piece of shit sedan made a horrible grinding sound pulling into the garage.
the noise echoed through the building loud enough to make one of the guys in the back physically stop what he was doing.
matt winced immediately.
“jesus christ,” he muttered under his breath, pushing himself upright.
the fluorescent lights overhead caught on the sweat along the back of his neck while he wiped a hand across his jaw, already looking annoyed before he’d even seen you.
you rolled your window down slowly. “that bad?”
he looked at your car.
then at you.
then back at your car.
“how long has it been making that sound?”
“like…” you hesitated. “a week?”
his head dropped for a second.
actually dropped.
“a week,” he repeated flatly.
“i was hoping it would go away.”
“yeah,” he said, voice dry. “because that’s usually how engines work.”
you narrowed your eyes immediately. “you always this friendly?”
that finally got something out of him besides annoyance.
a quick smirk.
small. crooked. gone almost immediately.
you got out of the car before you could stop yourself, warm late-afternoon air immediately wrapping around your skin.
somewhere deeper in the garage, music played quietly through speakers. the whole place smelled like motor oil, metal, smoke, and heat.
matt wiped his hands on the rag tucked into his back pocket while walking slowly around the front of your car.
“you got a name?” he asked casually.
you told him.
he repeated it once under his breath, slower this time, like he was testing it out.
then he nodded toward the hood.
“pop it.”
you pulled the lever from inside while he walked around front. his forearm flexed slightly when he lifted the hood open and you immediately got annoyed at yourself for noticing.
actually no.
you got annoyed at him for looking like that in a mechanic shop.
it felt unfair.
“you know absolutely nothing about cars, huh?” he asked after a minute, leaning further into the engine.
“i know the basics.”
he glanced at you over his shoulder.
“you drove this thing here sounding like a washing machine full of knives.”
“okay well when you say it like that-”
“because that’s what happened.”
you laughed despite yourself and matt looked over immediately.
like the sound surprised him.
his expression shifted for half a second before he looked back down at the engine again.
“matt,” somebody yelled from deeper in the garage.
“what.”
“where’s the socket set?”
“where you left it probably.”
“helpful.”
a second later, another guy came around the corner of the garage, wiping his hands on a stained rag.
for a genuinely confusing moment, you thought you were seeing double.
same dark curls. same blue eyes and same sharp jaw.
his eyes flicked toward you immediately.
then toward matt.
then back to you again.
a grin spread across his face so fast it was almost annoying.
“oh,” he said slowly, dragging the word out. “that’s why you’ve been ignoring everybody.”
matt finally looked up, visibly irritated now. “shut the fuck up, chris.”
chris, (his twin? triplet?) just laughed under his breath, tossing the rag over his shoulder before looking at you again.
“good luck with him,” he said. “seriously.”
“can you go away?” matt muttered.
chris held his hands up innocently. “alright, alright. jesus.” he started backing away before pointing toward the car. “try not to scare the customer off this time.”
“leave.”
“you’re no fun anymore.”
matt grabbed a rag off the counter and threw it at him without looking. chris laughed the entire way deeper into the garage, his voice fading out under the noise of clanging tools and music playing faintly somewhere in the back.
his focus dropped back to your car and he tightened something under the hood.
his rings clicked softly against metal every few seconds.
you crossed your arms loosely, leaning against the side of the car while you watched him work.
which apparently you were doing too obviously.
because after a minute he said, without looking up,
“you can sit inside if you want.”
“i’m okay.”
“unless staring at me is part of the experience.”
your face heated instantly.
“i’m not staring at you,” you said quickly. “you’re literally just fixing my car directly in front of me.”
matt hummed like he didn’t believe you for a second.
“right.”
“you’re in my line of vision.”
that finally made him look up at you.
grease streaked across his hand. curls falling into his eyes. the corner of his mouth pulled slightly like he was trying not to smile.
you had to hide your own smile.
by the time he finally shut the hood, the sun had dipped lower outside the garage doors, warm orange light spilling across the concrete floors and catching against the tattoos on his arms.
“good news,” he said, wiping his hands clean again.
“i’m scared already.”
“she lives another day.”
you exhaled dramatically. “thank god.”
his laugh was quieter this time. lower.
he stepped closer to hand you your keys and suddenly the air felt warmer than it already was.
close enough now that you could smell soap underneath the oil and metal clinging to him.
close enough to notice his eyes properly for the first time.
bluer than you expected.
your fingers brushed when you reached for the keys.
matt looked down at your hand for a second too long before looking back up at you.
“you hungry?” he asked casually.
you blinked. “what?”
he shrugged one shoulder, leaning back against the side of your car like he had all the time in the world.
“there’s a diner down the street.” his eyes stayed on yours. “unless you’re busy.”
you should’ve said no.
seriously.
normal people probably would’ve.
instead you heard yourself ask, “are you always this confident with customers?”
matt’s mouth twitched slightly.
“only the pretty ones.”
twenty minutes later you were sitting across from him in a diner booth that smelled like fries, coffee, and old vinyl seats, pretending you weren’t hyperaware of every time his knee brushed yours under the table.
rain was outside the windows now, dark clouds gathering slowly overhead while neon signs reflected against the glass.
matt had cleaned up before leaving the shop.
sort of.
the grease was gone from his hands and forearms, but there was still a faint smudge near his wrist he must’ve missed. his curls were still messy, damp slightly at the temples from washing his face too quickly.
you kept looking at him.
the waitress dropped the check off eventually, but neither of you moved right away.
outside the diner windows it had gone dark already, neon signs reflecting softly against the glass.
matt tapped his fingers once against the table before looking at you again.
“you got somewhere to be?”
you shook your head before you could think too hard about it.
“good.”
“why’s that.”
he held your gaze for a second too long.
“don’t really wanna stop talking to you yet.”
the air shifted after that.
your heartbeat picked up stupidly fast while matt leaned back slightly, blue eyes still fixed on yours like he was waiting to see what you’d do with that.
“are you this nice all the girls whose cars break down?” you asked quietly.
“your car didn’t break down, thanks to me.”
“close enough.”
he laughed softly.
“and no.” his voice dropped slightly. “just you.”
your breath caught a little at that.
matt looked unfairly good under the low diner lighting. brown curls falling into his eyes again, rings tapping lightly against the tabletop, tattoos disappearing beneath the sleeves he’d rolled back down earlier.
you wondered suddenly what his hands would feel like against your skin.
immediately hated yourself for the thought.
matt was watching you with this calm steady look that made everything feel hotter than it was.
not cocky anymore. honest. and somehow that was worse.
“you barely know me,” you said.
“wanna fix that?” he asked, his head tilting to the side and his eyes surveying your reaction to his words.
your stomach flipped hard enough to hurt.
this was becoming a problem.
the diner had mostly emptied out by now, lights dimmer than before, staff wiping down counters in the background.
somehow it felt like you and matt were sitting in your own little pocket of the world.
which was dangerous, honestly.
because every minute with him made it easier to forget you’d met him literally hours ago.
matt shifted a little closer in the booth then, arm stretching along the back of the seat behind you again. not touching you. it was almost worse that he wasn’t.
his eyes flicked over your face slowly, lingering just enough to make heat creep up your neck.
you could feel your heartbeat in your throat.
your fingers tightened slightly around your drink without realizing.
his mouth twitched barely at the corner, not enough to call a smile, just enough to tell you he saw right through you.
your eyes dropped to the table too fast, pulse fluttering stupidly hard while you pretended to care very deeply about the condensation dripping down the side of your cup.
outside, rain had started sometime while you were inside. droplets streaked against the diner windows under the neon glow outside.
matt glanced toward it briefly before looking back at you.
“you parked at the shop, right?”
“yeah.”
“i’ll drive you back.”
“i can get an uber or something, you don’t have to.”
“i know.” his eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting again. “i still wanna.”
the drive back felt warmer than it should’ve.
music low. some old rock song.
rain tapping against the windshield.
matt driving one handed while the other rested near the gearshift, fingers flexing every so often like he wanted to do something with them but he was stopping himself.
you caught him looking at you at a red light once.
not subtle at all.
“what,” you asked quietly.
“nothing.”
“liar.”
he smiled a little without looking away.
then the light turned green and he finally looked back at the road.
when you got back to the shop, the garage was dark now except for one overhead light near the back. rain fell harder outside, loud against the metal roof.
matt killed the engine but neither of you moved immediately.
your heartbeat was ridiculous at this point.
he turned slightly in his seat to look at you fully.
close in the dark.
too close.
“this usually happen to you?” he asked softly.
“what.”
“meeting somebody and wanting them this fast.”
your breath caught hard.
matt’s eyes flicked down to your mouth again.
slowly.
“because it doesn’t happen to me,” he admitted. “not like this.”
the air in the car felt thick, charged.
matt's words hung between you, and you couldn't look away from him even if you'd wanted to.
he shook his head slowly, his gaze dropping to your mouth again, lingering there like he was imagining exactly what he wanted to do to you.
"you make me-" he stopped, jaw tightening slightly like he was frustrated with himself. "fuck. you make me want to ruin my own rules."
"what rules?"
"the ones about keeping my hands off customers."
your breath shuddered out of you. "i'm not a customer anymore. you fixed my car."
matt's eyes darkened, a slow, dangerous smile pulling at his mouth. "yeah?"
"yeah."
"so if i kissed you right now," he said, leaning closer, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him, "that wouldn't be unprofessional?"
"pretty sure we're past professional, matt."
he moved.
his hand came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheekbone with a gentleness that contradicted the hunger in his eyes, and then his mouth was on yours.
matt's tongue slid against yours with a confidence that made your head spin. his fingers threaded into your hair, tilting your head back against the headrest, taking exactly what he wanted.
you made a sound against his mouth, small and broken, and matt swallowed it greedily, his other hand finding your waist and gripping hard enough to bruise.
"get in the back," he murmured against your lips, the words rough and commanding.
"what?"
"backseat." his teeth grazed your lower lip, a sharp little bite that made you gasp. "now. before i fuck you right here where anybody could walk by and see what a mess you're already making."
your face burned but you were moving, crawling clumsily between the seats into the back, heart hammering so hard you could feel it in your throat.
matt followed, his larger frame folding into the space behind you, and then he was reaching for you, pulling you into his lap, his hands rough and sure as they pushed up under your shirt.
"look at you," he breathed, his mouth finding your neck, sucking dark marks into your skin as his palms slid up to cup your breasts. "already falling apart and i've barely touched you."
you whimpered, your hips moving involuntarily against his, seeking friction.
he laughed darkly, his thumbs brushing over your nipples through your bra, making you arch into him.
his mouth was everywhere, your jaw, your throat, the spot behind your ear, and his hands were on your body like he was memorizing every curve, every sensitive spot that made you moan.
you could feel him hard and thick against you, and the confirmation that he was that affected, that desperate for you, sent chill up your spine.
"matt," you gasped when his fingers found the button of your jeans, flicking it open with practiced ease. "wait-"
"no," he said simply, his hand sliding down into your panties without hesitation, his middle finger sliding through your folds to find you embarrassingly wet.
"you've been looking at me all fucking day like you wanted this. like you wanted me to bend you over that goddamn car and fuck you until you couldn't remember your own name."
your head fell back against his shoulder as his finger circled your clit, the pressure perfect, relentless.
"so don't tell me to wait," he continued, his mouth against your ear, his voice a low, filthy rumble that vibrated through your chest. "not when you're this wet for me."
"oh god-"
"that's it," he praised when you ground down against his hand, seeking more. "that's my girl. desperate and pretty, just like i knew you'd be."
he added a second finger, working you open with rough, deliberate strokes that had you rocking against his palm, chasing the friction.
the rain was loud against the windows, the car slightly humid from your breath and body heat, and you felt completely surrounded by him, by the punishing rhythm of his fingers inside you.
"you gonna come like this?" he asked, his free hand gripping your hip, holding you still so he could control exactly how you took it. "gonna make a mess of my hand before i even get my cock inside you?"
"i-" your voice broke as he pressed his thumb hard against your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your thighs shake. "fuck, matt, please-"
"please what?"
"please-"
he bit down on your shoulder, hard, and you came apart with a cry that he had to muffle with his free hand over your mouth, his fingers never stopping their punishing pace, drawing out every shuddering wave until you were whimpering, oversensitive, boneless against him.
"good girl," he murmured against your sweat-dampened neck, his hand finally stilling, his fingers still buried inside you. "look at you. absolutely ruined and i haven't even fucked you yet."
you whined around his fingers, and he laughed softly.
"want you inside me," you breathed, your face burning. "want you to fuck me. please. right here."
"look at you," he said softly, his gaze dragging down your body, his hands gripping your thighs and spreading you wider over him. "so fucking pretty. so wet. you need this bad, don't you? need me to fill you up?"
"yes," you sobbed, reaching for his belt, your fingers clumsy with urgency. "yes, please, matt-"
he helped you, his own hands steady as he freed himself from his jeans, his cock heavy and hard against his stomach, the tip flushed and leaking.
you wrapped your hand around him without thinking, marveling at the heat of him, the thickness that made your stomach flip with anticipation.
"that's it," he breathed, his hips bucking into your touch. "touch me. get me ready to fuck you stupid in this backseat."
"gonna steam up the windows," you managed, your voice cracking as he throbbed in your palm.
"good," he growled, his hand wrapping around yours, guiding his cock to your entrance, the head sliding through your folds, spreading your wetness. "let them. let everybody fucking know what we're doing in here. let them know how desperate you are."
he pushed up as you sank down, your joint moans filling the small space, the stretch burning so perfectly that your vision blurred.
he was so deep like this, your knees pressed against the worn leather on either side of his hips, his hands gripping your waist that held you still while you adjusted.
"shit," he groaned, his forehead dropping against your collarbone, his breath hot and ragged. "shit, you feel- you're so fucking tight. so perfect."
"matt," you whimpered, rocking experimentally, the shifting sensation making both of you gasp. "too big-"
"you can take it," he grunted, his grip tightening, holding you in place when you tried to lift up.
he started moving then, his hips snapping up with a force that bounced you on his lap, your head knocking back against the headrest with a soft thud.
the car was definitely rocking, you realized, creaking with every thrust.
"they could see us," he said, his voice strained, thrusting up into you with a relentless rhythm.
"could walk right past and see what a mess you are. see how you're taking my cock desperately."
"oh god," you sobbed, your nails digging into his shoulders, your body jolting with every impact. "matt-"
he continued, his mouth finding your throat, sucking dark bruises into your skin. "so fucking hungry for it. look at you. can't even keep quiet, can you?"
he was right. you were being loud, your moans filling the small space, echoing against the windows that were definitely starting to fog up.
"such a good girl," he praised when you clenched around him, your body responding to his words.
"taking it so well. so deep. feel how you're stretched around me? feel how you're making a mess of me?"
"yes," you gasped, your hips moving now, meeting his thrusts, chasing the friction.
he shifted his grip, his fingers digging in hard, pulling you down onto him harder, faster. his other hand found your jaw, tilting your face up to look at him, his eyes dark and blown out, his curls falling into his face with sweat.
"wanna see your face when you come on my cock like a good little girl. wanna see exactly how stupid i fuck you."
the words alone were almost enough. you were so close, your whole body trembling.
"matt," you choked out, your eyes rolling back slightly before forcing them open, meeting his gaze. "matt, i'm gonna-i'm close-"
"yeah?" he grunted, his hips snapping up with new urgency, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the car, mixing with the rain.
"gonna come for me? gonna make a mess of yourself in my backseat? go ahead. do it. come on my cock, sweetheart. show me how good i fucked you."
his hand slid between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, pressing down hard, rubbing tight, desperate circles that pushed you over the edge.
you came with a cry that he had to muffle with his mouth, his tongue sweeping in to swallow the sound.
"shit," he gasped against your mouth, his voice high pitched and soft, his hips stuttering. "shit, you're-i'm gonna-"
"come inside me," you begged, your voice wrecked, your hands gripping his face, forcing him to look at you. "please, matt, want to feel it, want-"
he buried his face in your neck with a guttural sound, his hips snapping forward one final time,
his cock pulsing as he spilled into you, hot and thick. he kept moving, slow, shallow thrusts, his breath ragged and warm against your skin.
for a long moment you stayed like that, breathing hard, his weight pressing you back against the seat, his cock still inside you.
the car smelled like sweat and sex and motor oil, and you felt completely, perfectly wrecked.
"you okay?" he murmured eventually, his voice muffled against your neck, his thumb stroking gently over your hip where he'd gripped too hard.
you hummed, too fucked out to form words.
he laughed softly, the sound warm and pleased, and pressed a kiss to your temple. "yeah," he said quietly. "me too."
when he finally pulled out, you winced slightly at the loss, and he immediately looked concerned, his hands gentle as he helped you shift off his lap, arranging your trembling limbs on the seat beside him.
"sore?"
"a little," you admitted, your voice hoarse. "good sore."
he smiled, helping you dress with a tenderness that felt at opposite with how roughly he'd just fucked you.
he cleaned himself up with a rag from the glove compartment, probably the same one from his back pocket earlier, you realized with a blush, and fixed his jeans before pulling you back against his side.
"stay," he said softly, his arm wrapping around your shoulders, his fingers tracing patterns on your bare thigh. "just… stay here with me for a while."
outside, the rain continued to fall, and the windows were completely fogged over now.
you leaned into him, your head on his shoulder.
"we can't stay in this car forever," you murmured.
"why not?" he kissed your forehead, his voice drowsy and satisfied. "got everything i need right here."
you smiled against his neck.
"you're ridiculous."
you decided that maybe, just maybe, breaking down at this particular garage was the best thing that had ever happened to you.
Summary: In which a simple TikTok showing Matt's new haircut makes you incredibly horny, something must be done.
CW: 🔞Explicit Sexual Content (Smut): Dom!Matt, consensual name calling, daddy kink, unprotected sex, fingering, oral (f receiving), hand job, edging, light choking, light restraint, public sex (living room?), grinding without penetration, if I forgot anything please let me know! If under 18, I am not responsible for the media you consume. (MDNI)
*requested by anon. Here's the post!*
This is absolutely unfair. Honestly, who does this man even think he is? You toss your phone onto the passenger seat with a dramatic sigh, dragging your hands down your face. Matt’s TikTok is replaying on a loop in your mind—his teasing smile, the new haircut he didn’t even warn you about, the fucking white shirt and belt he knows drive you crazy. You let out a groan that’s half frustration, half pure want. Great, now you’re hot and bothered in your car like some lovesick idiot. Okay, you definitely can’t just sit here. Time to do something reckless.
You walk with purpose up the driveway to the Sturniolo house. The front door is unlocked, as always—a habit you’d scold them for if you weren’t so grateful for it in this moment. Inside, laughter echoes from the kitchen—Nick and Chris, unmistakable. But Matt isn’t with them. Instead, you find him sprawled on the couch, hair damp as if fresh from a shower, scrolling lazily through his phone.
Matt looks up and sees you, the same teasing glint from the video looking right into your eyes. Your whole inside is on fire as you stare at those blue eyes. You stand there, swallowing, not breaking eye contact with your boyfriend. Matt smiles sinfully, knowing exactly why you’re giving him that look. He’s teasing you on purpose; driving you crazy is his favorite activity these days.
“I was wondering how long it’d take you to get here,” he teased, patting the empty space beside him.
You cross the room, heart thumping, the space shrinking with every step toward the man who unravels you so easily. You sit down beside him, feeling the heat from his body radiate into yours.
He eyes you up and down, pupils dilating, gaze growing darker. “You look like there’s something on your mind,” he says, his voice lower than usual. His hand lands on your knee, thumb tracing slow, lazy circles that send goosebumps racing up your thigh.
As you try to concentrate, all you can think of is that godforsaken video: how his hair looked so soft, the outfit sinful to your eyes, the way he moved, and the little fuckboy smirk he gave in the back when he wasn’t dancing. You get bold. “That video wasn’t fair. You looked way too good,” you whisper as your hand has a mind of its own and finds the bottom hem of his shirt. “Like, really good.”
Matt grins, his hand sliding higher up your thigh. “Yeah? Did my baby like how I looked? Want to see it even closer?”
You nod, the invitation making your pulse race. Scooting closer, you press a kiss to his jaw and whisper in his ear, “Maybe I want more than just a look.”
He smiles, fingers strong on your jaw, eyes searching yours for a beat before his lips claim yours. The kiss is gentle at first, then his tongue dances across your bottom lip, coaxing a needy whine from you before slipping into your mouth. Your tongues tangle, hungry and competitive.
You graze his bottom lip with your teeth, tugging it between your lips and soothing the sting with a slow suck. Matt moans, voice rough: “Fuck, baby. You drive me crazy.”
As you make out, his hands slide up your sides, fingers grazing the edge of your shirt—hesitant, waiting for your permission. You nod into the kiss, and his touch grows bolder, hands gliding under your shirt, rubbing soft circles beneath your breasts, teasing until you arch into him. “Matt. Please.”
He smirks, lips trailing from yours to your ear, where he nips gently. “Please what? Beg for it, pretty girl.”
You tug at his hair, loving the way it feels between your fingers. Matt lets out a low, desperate groan.
“Please. Touch me. Do something. Stop teasing.” You plead.
He nods and reaches behind you, unclasping your bra with ease and helping take it off. His hand replaces the fabric, thumb circling your nipple, sending sparks through you. “Such a good fucking girl,” he whispers, mouth trailing gentle kisses along your neck.
Before you can go any further, Nick’s voice rings out from the kitchen, “Hey! Chris and I are heading out for a bit.”
Matt pauses, clearing his throat. “Yeah, man. That’s fine. Have fun!”
You look at Matt. He presses a finger to his lips, signaling for silence. If they hear you, they’ll never leave, and this moment will vanish. You listen as the door opens and closes. Finally, you’re alone.
“Thank god, now I can really fuck you without any distractions. Take your shirt off, baby. Let me see you,” Matt commands, voice filled with want.
You move fast, stripping your shirt off, baring yourself to him. The second the cool air hits your chest, his mouth claims your nipple, switching between gentle sucks and teasing bites. His other hand rolls your other nipple between his fingers. You moan, threading your hand into his hair. “F-fuck. Daddy… so good.”
He hums against your skin, mouth working you over until he pulls away, a trail of spit connecting his lips to your nipple. He smirks. “Daddy, huh? That’s a new one.”
You blush, struggling to meet his eyes—half embarrassed, half afraid he won’t like it.
He tips your chin up, gaze soft. “That’s hot. Don’t overthink it, baby.”
You smile, and he bends down to press a gentle kiss to your lips. Your hands slip from his hair as he eases you back, guiding you to lie on the couch beneath him.
He hovers over you, thumb absentmindedly circling your nipple. He kisses along your neck, sucking at the spot just beneath your jaw until you whimper and arch into him. “Matt… God.”
You catch his lips in a hungry, desperate kiss. As your tongues tangle, he grabs your hands and guides them back into his hair. You smile, fingers tangling in the soft strands, impossibly turned on by something as simple as his haircut.
“You really couldn’t stay away, could you?” he whispers as you tug on his hair.
You laugh softly, hands slipping under the hem of his shirt, dragging it upward. “Can you blame me?”
Matt shakes his head, groaning as he pulls his shirt over his head. Your hands roam his chest, lips pressing soft kisses to his collarbone. He throws his head back, a needy whimper escaping him. “Shit… baby, you’re making this really fucking hard for me.”
Before you can catch your breath, he captures your lips again—messy and desperate, teeth grazing, spit slicking your mouths. Everything feels hot and frantic and so fucking good. Matt grinds down against you, and you moan at the thick, heavy pressure. “Feel how fucking hard you make me? My cock missed you. What are we going to do about this?” he mutters against your lips.
“Whatever you want, I just need to feel you.” You pant, voice shaky with want.
Matt kisses down your neck, leaving a trail of love bites in his wake. He tugs gently on each nipple with his teeth, then continues lower, his mouth exploring your stomach. A soft moan escapes you, and he grins, licking up your skin. “Love the sounds you make, baby.” When he reaches the waistband of your shorts, he peppers soft kisses along it, eyes locking with yours—dark and hungry.
“Tell me what you want, good girl. Use your words for me,” Matt says, voice thick with arousal.
You arch, breathless, looking at him and begging. “I want your mouth on me, Matt. Want you to make me cum with your tongue. Please… daddy.”
Matt lets out a low chuckle as his fingers start to unbutton your shorts. “Such a dirty girl for me. You love my mouth on you, don’t you?”
You nod as he slides your shorts down your legs, his gaze fixed on you. “You okay?” you whisper, needing the reassurance.
His eyes linger on the red lace underwear hugging your hips. He swallows, gaze roaming your body, lust obvious. You can see the outline of his cock, straining against his sweatpants. You grab his hand, grounding him. “Matt?”
He moans, fingers tracing the lace. “Holy fuck. Are these new?”
You giggle. “Yeah, got them today. Thought you’d like them.”
Matt smirks, thumb tracing down your body until he finds your clit, rubbing slow circles through the lace. Your mouth falls open, a quiet, “Oh,” slipping out.
“Feel good, baby?” he murmurs, watching your reaction.
You nod, hips chasing the friction as his thumb keeps teasing you. A wet spot forms over the lace, and you whimper, “S’good. Oh my god.”
Matt groans as he watches the wet spot grow, his thumb pressing harder. Your eyes lock, his devilish grin telling you he’s up to something.
Before you can ask, he slides your underwear down and off. He spreads you open, sliding a finger between your folds. “Drenched already, and I’ve barely touched you.” When he pulls his finger away, it’s slick—he brings it straight to your lips.
“Taste.” He presses his finger to your lips.
You open for him, letting him slide his finger into your mouth. You suck, tasting yourself, and he groans. “Such a good little slut. You’re mine. You got me?”
You nod, sucking harder in answer. He slips a second finger in, and you coat it with your tongue. Your eyes flutter closed as he presses a kiss to your ear, whispering, “I’m about to make you feel things that video could never do. Will you be a good girl and take it all?”
You gasp, his fingers slipping free. “Y-yes. I want to be good. I want it all, daddy.”
Matt presses a soft kiss to your lips, muttering, “Good girl.” He kisses down your body, your hands flying to his hair, craving that softness again.
As his mouth travels lower, his hands slide up your thighs, calloused thumbs rubbing soft circles near the top as he holds you open. His teeth graze your hipbone, then his lips suck at the sensitive skin inside your thigh. Your hips buck, desperate for more.
“No, no. Let me control this, baby. I know you want more, but be patient for me. I know you can do it,” his voice is soft against your skin. He looks up, holding your gaze as his tongue drags a slow, wet path from your inner thigh, around the top of your mound, to the other side. You let out a shaky gasp. “I’ve been thinking about tasting you for days,” he groans.
You whimper as his fingers circle your clit, arching into the touch, forgetting all about patience. Matt lets out a soft laugh. “There’s my needy girl.” He replaces his fingers with his tongue, slow, agonizing strokes that send white-hot shivers racing through you.
As his tongue laps at your clit, his fingers return, teasing your entrance, gathering slickness before finally pushing both inside you. His mouth never leaves your clit—switching from soft sucks to flickering kitten licks that make you tremble.
“F-fuck… Matt, feels so good. Oh god—” you moan, his tongue working your clit, his fingers setting a steady rhythm at the same time, sending you to the edge. You look down at him, amazed and in awe, watching him eat you out, gently playing with his hair as his eyes meet yours.
“S-so fucking good… I love your mouth,” you whisper, encouraging him. He nods and groans, sending another wave of pleasure through you.
Wet sounds, the couch slightly creaking under the weight of what is happening, and Matt’s subtle moans fill the living room. You let out tiny gasps as his fingers hit your sweet spot. He grins, mouth detaching, just his fingers moving deep inside you now, and does it again. “That’s it. Let me hear how good it feels. Fucking clenching around my fingers like a good girl for me.”
As Matt’s fingers work you, you reach for the waistband of his sweatpants. “Can I?”
He nods, breathless. “Fucking please, baby.”
You move quickly, pushing his sweats down. Matt pauses, letting you help him out of them.
His cock springs free—thick, flushed, already leaking precum. You moan at the sight, his fingers still inside you but unmoving, savoring the moment. He groans, feeling how much wetter you’ve gotten just from looking at him. You wrap your hand around his length, brushing your thumb over the head to gather precum, then begin stroking him, slow at first, careful.
You look up at him through your lashes, playing innocent. “Does that feel good?” You squeeze his cock on the word, making him whimper. His hips jerk up, cock pulsing in your palm. “Fuck. Jesus Christ, that feels so good. Keep doing that, baby,” Matt whimpers.
Matt starts moving his fingers again, this time fast and sure, no more slow build. He curls them expertly, making you cry out, your hand squeezing his cock in pleasure every time he finds that perfect spot inside of you. Every moan from you makes his cock twitch in your grip, thick and heavy and so, so perfect.
“If I knew this haircut would get me this, I’d have done it a long time ago.” He bends down, still working you with his fingers, and sucks a harsh mark onto your neck. You whimper, breathy and loud, earning a laugh from him. The room is anything but quiet now—filled with moans, wet sounds, and the heavy scent of sex, everything feels sinful.
“Matt, you’re going to make me cum. I can’t—oh god.” You moan, and he nods, fingers moving even faster. The pressure builds hard and fast, your body clenching around his fingers. You grab his neck, stroking him faster, desperate. He smiles and whispers, “Let go, baby. I got you. You know that.”
At those words, you lose yourself to the sensation, to him. Your hand slips from his cock as you come undone, clinging to his shoulders to steady yourself. “Oh god. Fuck, Matt—fuck.” Your body shakes as you ride out the orgasm, feeling wetness on your thighs and beneath you. His fingers slow, helping you through every last wave.
Matt laughs softly, pulling his fingers out and licking them clean, eyes never leaving yours. You lie there, catching your breath. “What?”
“Think that’s the hardest I’ve ever made you cum. Kinda made a mess—so fucking hot, though,” he says, glancing at the evidence all around you.
You look down, blushing at the mess—wet spot on the couch, thighs slick, his hand glistening to the wrist. “Tell anyone about this, and I’ll murder you.”
Matt laughs, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. “Fuck no. This is all mine. No sharing.”
You sit up and push him back against the couch. He lets out a breathy laugh, smiling up at you. “Well, hello there.” You straddle his lap, his cock pressing between your folds. He moans, “So fucking wet. I love how much I turn you on.”
You nod, and slowly start to grind against him, wet sounds coming out where his cock slides against your lips and entrance. “Oh shit, this feels good,” you whisper softly, hands going behind his neck and playing with the hair there.
His hands grip your hips, squeezing as he pants. “Like feeling my cock slide against you, baby? Feel how hard and thick I am for you?”
You whimper and keep grinding, hips picking up speed, his tip catching your clit with every pass. His cock grows slick with your arousal. “Matty, feels so good—love how it feels rubbing against me,” you moan into his neck, leaving soft little love bites along his throat.
Matt moans loudly, tugging your head back to look at you. “I need to be inside you. This is driving me crazy. Will you be a good little slut and ride daddy’s cock?”
You nod quickly, gasping, “Yes. Only for you.”
His hands are gentle on your hips as he lifts you up just enough to guide you over him. You feel his swollen head press at your entrance, gripping his shoulders as you sink down, inch by inch, feeling him stretch and fill you. Matt hisses, watching your face to make sure you take your time.
Matt’s fingers dig in hard enough to leave bruises as you finally take in his full length, buried to the hilt. He looks down, where your bodies are connected, and heat passes through his eyes. You subconsciously clench around him, dragging out a sharp intake of breath from him. Matt is very still, not moving an inch, taking in the feeling of you wrapped tight around him, the wetness and warmth he can feel. Finally, he speaks quietly, “I want you to ride this cock. Show me as you do every time.”
He pulls you into a deep, messy kiss, tongue tangling with yours, his grip possessive. You moan into his mouth.
“Love riding your cock,” you whisper against his lips, lifting your hips only to sink back down. His hands squeeze your thighs in answer.
As your hips glide up and down his shaft, Matt can feel every inch of you. He loves how his cock drags along your walls, pulling out soft clenches around it. “Fuck, you’re driving me crazy.” You smile, riding him hard—pulling almost all the way off before plunging back down, giving him everything.
Your hands move to his chest, just resting there to help as a steadying force as you move. The friction and the movements are building something hot deep inside both of you. Matt’s head leans back, a string of curses and moans tumbling from his lips. He grabs your breasts. His mouth latches onto your nipple, licking, sucking, and nipping, his teeth tugging gently at the peak before flicking it with his tongue until you’re wild with pleasure.
You moan, “Matt, you’re so fucking deep. Cock feels too good—oh my god.” You ride him harder, grinding down in slow, needy circles, feeling his cock pulse deep inside you. The sound of skin slapping grows louder. He pulls his mouth off your chest, face flushed, hair wild from your hands. His eyes are dark with hunger and adoration. "Don’t you dare fucking stop," he growls, voice rough. "We don’t stop until we both cum. Be a good girl—make me cum deep in you."
Without warning, the couch creaks as Matt flips you beneath him, laying you out against the cushions. "I need to take control. Make you feel this cock the way I want." He crashes his mouth to yours—messy, rushed, heated—spit slick between you, tongues tangling wildly.
You barely have time to catch your breath before Matt pins your wrists to the couch with one hand, giving you a devilish smile. His other hand finds your throat, thumb stroking your pulse, pressing just enough to draw a moan from you. He hovers over you like that, eyes burning with possessiveness and awe, just soaking in the fact that you are his. He bends to your ear, breath hot.
“I think it’s time we both cum now,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your ear.
He thrusts back into you, filling you with every inch. Your back arches and you moan, “Oh—Matt, shit.” Each thrust is deep and hard, his hips slamming into yours. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper. He finds that sensitive spot and hits it over and over, drawing whines and gasps from you until you’re a mess beneath him. Your body tightens with every stroke.
Each time he pulls out almost completely, your body clenches at the last second, trying to hold him in. Then he drives forward, filling you. As you gasp, he kisses you, pulling your tongue into his mouth and sucking on it. This is a Matt you rarely see—purely here to claim you in every way possible.
“I need you to look at me.” He commands as he moves faster. You bring your eyes up to his and give him a soft look. His hips stutter at what he sees. "Oh, fuck. So fucking perfect.” His hips snap against yours faster now, trying to find a release.
“Come on, baby. I know you want to cum. Cum on my cock for me,” he coaxes, voice softer now. Little whimpers and moans spill from your lips.
You can feel him getting close too, his rhythm turning shaky and desperate. You drag your nails down his back, making him groan. "Sweet girl, I’m going to cum. Think we can cum together? I want that."
“Yes. Together. Please,” you moan, lost in him and the feeling.
As soon as the word 'please' leaves your mouth, he thrusts into you one more time, his cock paused deep inside you. You feel him fill you with his hot cum, the sensation tipping you over the edge. Your whole body convulses from the pleasure, clenching around him, and you cum. His motions slow down, riding your orgasm out until he knows you’re good, then he pulls out gently. He smiles as he looks down and sees it leaking out of you. Giving you a quick kiss, he gets up, grabs a towel, and wipes you clean.
“I’ll be right back. Don’t move,” he says, disappearing while you lie there, catching your breath.
When he comes back, he has a pair of basketball shorts and a hoodie. He carefully helps you into them, laughing as the clothes completely swallow you. “Cute—I always did love it when you wore my clothes,” he says, pressing a kiss to your head.
Matt pulls his sweatpants back on and then curls behind you on the couch. One arm tucked behind your head as a pillow, the other wrapped around your waist. He peppers soft kisses onto your neck, nuzzling you affectionately.
You hum and scoot closer, just soaking in his warmth and presence after everything.
“Sooo, my hair really did it for you, huh?” he teases.
You roll your eyes and scoff. “I refuse to freak out like those girls on Tumblr.”
Matt lets out a loud laugh. “Yeah, sure, baby. Even though you are one of those Tumblr girls.”
You stick your tongue out playfully, “That’s beside the point, Matthew.”
He grins, “Speaking of freaking out… the whole daddy thing is new.”
You groan, covering your face in embarrassment. “Please, god, don’t remind me. It just slipped out.”
He kisses your head again, gently pulling your hands away and giving you a soft smile. “I like it. Maybe not all the time, but tonight? Perfect. Maybe we should text your dad and tell him you found a new daddy.”
“OH, MY GOD! ABSOLUTELY NOT! ARE YOU CRAZY?!” you sit up on the couch fast.
His face flushes bright red, hand covering his mouth as he tries (and fails) not to laugh. He’s completely messing with you, and you glare at him, but it only makes him laugh harder.
“I really hate you, Sturniolo.”
“No, you don’t.”
You couldn’t hate him. Not even with his terrible taste in jokes.
M yaps: Heheh hope you guys enjoy this and the humor! Call out to my tumblr girls cause it made me giggle.
"quiet, mama.": M.S.
in which. . .you and matt finally get some much needed alone time
warnings: smut, unprotected p in v, creampie, breeding kink, sex while a child is in the house, hair pulling, dirty talk, bending over, nipple play, dilf!matt 😛 -> 1.1k
you were exhausted. being a stay at home mom and homemaker had always been your dream, and you were beyond grateful that matt’s career allowed you to stay at home with your two year old daughter, penelope, but you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t hard. it seemed like every time you turned around there was a diaper to be changed, dishes to do, crumbs to vacuum up, or laundry that needed switching. matt helped when he could, of course, but between traveling and filming, it didn’t leave a whole lot of time.
you yawned, pouring yourself a cup of coffee as you flipped on bluey and penelope happily toddled over to the couch, plopping herself down with the yogurt you’d made her. normally, you’d be more involved for breakfast, but today you just needed a break. you jumped when you felt matt’s arms around you, his warm breath hot on your neck.
“you’re up early. i didn’t pick you up from the airport until after midnight.” you cooed, kissing his cheek.
“says you,” he chuckled, voice still thick with sleep as he tugged on your braid, passing you the creamer. “you need more rest, baby.”
you stirred your coffee, standing on your tiptoes to kiss your husband again. “once penny starts school, i’ll have all the time in the world to rest.”
“fuck,” matt groaned quietly as you kissed him, your arms wrapped around his neck. “i missed this.” he mumbled, squeezing your ass through your thin, silky robe.
you giggled softly, the sound going straight to matt’s dick. somehow, in a way he didn’t think possible, you’d gotten even more beautiful with motherhood. he jutted his hips forward slightly, allowing you to feel his arousal.
“gonna take care of you,” he murmured in your ear, picking you up and wrapping your legs around his waist. “you’re working yourself to death, mama.”
“daddy! where are you taking mommy?”” penelope turned from the TV, blue eyes wide.
“um. . .” matt stuttered. “we’re just. . .going to talk about a surprise! for you! in the laundry room, so don’t come in, okay?”
a grin broke out on your daughter’s face at the idea of a surprise for her and she nodded eagerly, pigtails bouncing, before turning back to the TV. “‘kay!”
“you’re handling what surprise you’re giving her,” you hissed quietly as matt carried you to the laundry room, kicking the door shut with his foot. “you are not lying to our baby, matthew.”
matt snorted. “i will, i will. but right now, i have something else i need to do,” you moaned quietly as matt turned you around, bending you over the washing machine. “fuck, this was all i could think about while i was gone. i was with nick and chris ‘n shit thinkin’ about your pretty little ass.” he groaned, pulling your robe up and smirking when he saw your lack of panties, cunt already glistening for him.
within seconds, matt’s pajama pants and loose boxers were around his ankles, his cock already hard and leaking salty pre-cum at the sight of you splayed out on the washing machine and ready for him. a tiny whimper left your lips as he slid in, but your husband clamped his hand over your mouth.
“matt. . .” you whimpered against his fingers, your body pulsating with a mixture of want and pain after not having sex for over two weeks while matt was away filming a brand deal.
“fuck, this little pussy’s gonna have to get used me again, isn’t she?” he cooed, voice dripping with faux sympathy. “quiet, mama. penny’s right across the hall.” he said, starting to slowly thrust in and out of you, allowing you to get used to his size again.
tears pricked your eyes as matt fisted your hair, pulling your head back so you could look at him as he started fucking you harder while the hand that had been across your mouth moved to palm and pinch your nipples, the cold metal of matt’s rings spiking against your skin. it was obscene; you were bent over the washing machine in your pink robe like a whore while matt took you raw from behind, both of you extra quiet as you minded your daughter out in the living room.
“‘m gonna put a fuckin’ baby in you,” matt breathed in your ear as his cock twitched against your walls. “make you a mama again and give penny a sister. have a pretty belly that shows everyone just how good i fucked you, yeah?”
you slapped your own hand over your mouth to keep a moan from escaping you at matt’s sinfully dirty words. you were both well aware that you weren’t on birth control, having decided early on in your relationship that you wanted multiple kids. your whole body shivered at the thought, an ache developing between your thighs and in your lower stomach as your climax approached.
matt wasn’t far behind you; his breathing had become heavy and ragged as he fucked you, deep strokes that kissed the tip of your cervix. “you feel so good, baby. love fillin’ up this pretty pussy.” he said as he gave one last thrust that had your eyes rolling back and you practically screaming as you came, legs shaking and chest heaving. at the sight of you cumming for him, your husband let his own release take over, his seed coating every inch of your cunt.
“shit.” you breathed as matt pulled out, using the washing machine to steady yourself.
matt used a clean towel that you had in a basket nearby to wipe both of you off, kissing your forehead as he focused special attention on wiping off the cum running down your legs. “so good for me,” he cooed. “can’t wait to see that positive test soon.”
you blushed at the words, but anything else that you were going to say was interrupted by a “DADDY!” from the living room.
“well, guess that’s our cue,” he smirked, kissing you softly once more as he took your hand and led you out to the living room. “yes, penny baby?”
“taking forevwer,” your daughter groaned, words slightly garbled by her two year old speech. “where my ‘prise?”
you raised your brow at matt, wondering how he was going to get himself out of this one. “she’s waiting, daddy.”
matt glared at you before turning back to your daughter. “um. . .how about. . .we take you to get ice cream later? yeah, ice cream!”
CHLO YAPS: i need dilf!matt so fucking bad holy shit fuck fuck fuck 🙏 thank you for reading! likes/comments/reblogs are appreciated<3
sugardaddy!matt/pornstar!matt hasn’t seen reader in weeks… he munches on her.
matt’s beard rubbed against your inner thighs, soaked in your sweet arousal. messy—sloppy, the sheets were an uncomfortable type of wet, but neither of you put a stop to it.
pleasure ripped through your entire body as you hit yet another orgasm. overstimulated, worn out, and fucked into oblivion by his tongue. you tugged on his hair, closing your thighs around his head; practically suffocating him. he held them apart, not even close to being done with you—his feast.
“keep ‘em open,” he mumbled against you, pulling away to spit on your sollen folds, letting out a rough noise at the sight. “fuck, look at her.”
instinctively, his hand slaps your cunt, pulling a squeal from your lips. matt grins at your reaction, kissing the sensation away. “my favorite fuckin’ pussy.”
he dives back in, closing his eyes and devouring your taste, his nose nudges your clit. with him laying on his stomach, his hips rut against the bed, giving his cock some relief. the feeling makes him moan into you, sending vibrations up your spine.
your back arches off the bed, though matt pins you down. “where you goin’? i’m not done yet.” he takes another release from you, and maybe another until he’s drenched with you all over his face. this was purely for his own pleasure.
18+ MDNI — kissing, fem!receiving oral, swearing, pussy whipped!clark, slight exhibitionism kink. FT. FARMHAND!CLARK KENT X AFAB!READER
you were supposed to be helping martha with some odd jobs around the farm. you had convinced yourself that both you and clark could control yourselves for a day. you’d even brought an apple pie along with you, knowing that it’s jonathan’s favourite.
now the pie sits, abandoned, on the kitchen counter in the house and clark’s hands are all over you, touching, grabbing, holding. he’d managed to drag you over to the barn without much resistance on your end; not with his strong hand gripping your wrist and his thumb running soothing strokes along your pulse point, that same shit-eating grin etched across his face.
once you’re inside, he pushes you against the wall and attaches his lips to yours, one hand in your hair and the other on your waist. his hips grind up into yours, making you all too aware of the bulge in the front of his jeans and sending your head spinning. the kiss is frantic and messy—teeth clashing and breathing heavy as you pour your overwhelming need for him into each touch.
“i’ve missed you s’much, sweetheart.” he mumbles into your mouth, fingers slipping beneath your shirt and trailing up your ribcage until they reach the undersides of your tits. “you saw me, like, two days ago, clark.” he breaks the kiss to stare at you with a dumbfounded expression, cheeks flushed with exertion. “yeah, two days too long.”
you let out a breathy laugh, shaking your head as you lean forward to trail your lips along his jaw, smiling to yourself when you hear him groan hoarsely. his thumbs brush over your nipples until they harden beneath them, making your eyes flutter shut under his touch. his touch is addicting, and you’re sure you’ll never be able to resist it.
your hands slip down to the waistband of his jeans and fumble with the fly for a moment before he stops you, pulling them away and instead slowly dropping down onto his knees in front of you. the sight of him looking up at you through his dark lashes steals the breath from your lungs, only made worse by the smirk that tugs at the corner of his mouth when he registers your reaction.
“clark—” you hiss, glancing out of the open door of the barn and scanning the field for any sign of his parents, “what are you doing?” he doesn’t say anything for a moment, focused solely on pulling your shorts and panties down. “what’s it look like i’m doing, sweetheart?” he replies playfully before lowering his mouth between your legs.
he starts off with gentle kisses, his movements worshipping every inch of you with careful precision, before he gains more confidence and licks a stripe through your folds. the pleasure that sparks through you is immediate and sends your knees buckling, though the arm wrapped around the backs of your thighs stops you falling far. your hand drops down to thread your fingers through his dark curls, tugging gently and evoking a satisfied sigh from him.
his mouth moves up to wrap his lips around your clit, sucking on it like it provides him with the one thing keeping him alive, and to be honest, if he told you that was the case, you’d believe him. “shit, clark—!” you whimper, biting your lip to try and control your volume while your hips shift uncontrollably against the onslaught of sensations flooding through you.
when he draws away slightly, you whine in protest, arching your back to try chase his mouth. “let them hear you, sweet girl. i want this whole farm to know how good i make you feel.” his words only make the heat coiling in your gut that much more intense, that much more unbearable. when he notices your restlessness, he doesn’t hesitate to return to his previous position, lapping at your core like a man starving.
you can feel your orgasm approaching, and try as you might, you cannot contain the moans of pleasure that escape through your parted lips. you can no longer focus on keeping quiet for his parents’ sake, the attention he’s giving you sending your head spinning and erasing all rationale from your mind.
when his tongue buries itself inside of you, his nose pushed against your clit and his fingers grasping helplessly at your thighs, you have only a moment to warn him of your imminent climax before it crashes over you with enough force to momentarily stop your breathing. it blanches your vision and has your toes curling, your body shaking against the wooden wall of the barn. he doesn’t let up until you have relaxed completely, looking up at you once more when he pulls away. he’s grinning like an idiot, a self-satisfied look painted across his face, only emphasised by your juices smeared across the lower half of it.
he helps you pull up and button your shorts before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and pressing a chaste kiss to your temple. “guess you should go find my ma before she starts to look for you.” he flashes you a smug smile, patting your thigh and turning to leave the barn. you watch after him, dumbfounded for a moment, until you’re broken out of your reverie by martha calling your name.
“coming, mrs kent!”
author note. sorry if this is really bad i wanted to post something 😭
