Summary: Giving the batboys that sloppy toppy (I personally hate sucking dick so I hope this is alright lol)
Pairings: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne x gn! Reader.
A/N: 18 + minors evaporate !! Unedited.
DICK GRAYSON
This man is a FREAK, since you've started dating, the two of you have done just about every position possible. That being said, he's obsessed with giving you head. And by the time he is ready to cum he wants to do it whilst fucking you, not in your mouth.
It takes some manoeuvring, catching him after a long patrol or work out when he’s slumped against the couch (you don’t let him get the sheets sweaty if it’s not from sex). But the second your hand wraps around the base of him and you’re pressing a teasing kiss to the tip of his dick he’s putty in your hands.
He’s got a trembling thigh thrown over your shoulder, hands clutching the closest couch cushion as he babbles incoherently.
Tries to pull you off several times cause “baby, He’s not gonna last. Honey, he’s gonna cum before he can fuck you” :((.
Somehow still doesn’t get that that’s kind of the point. Ends up accidentally overstimulating himself cause he’s trying not to cum while you’re trying very hard to make him.
JASON TODD
It's not often that Jason's in the mood to let you suck him off, not when he deals with and sees so much fucked up shit every day. When you do fuck, he wants to hold you close. Wants to kiss you senseless and bury his face in your neck.
Your best bet? Wake him up with it. Jason’s a light sleeper, he’ll pretty much wake up if you shift even an inch beside him but it’s not impossible. It still takes his brain a few seconds to kick the sleep from his system and if you’ve already got your lips wrapped around his dick then he’ll simply malfunction.
Forgets your name, forgets his name, forgets where the fuck he is the only thing he knows for sure is the glorious warmth sucking his soul out.
Tries to hide his groans by burying his face in his arm, you’re not afraid to use a little teeth to warn him otherwise.
Genuinely meets god for a few seconds after he cums, hips jerking as he moans so loud the neighbours are definitely gonna complain later.
TIM DRAKE
Blowjobs are how you often bribe him into spending time with you.
He’s working on a case for too long? Hand in his pants, until you can get your mouth on him, a lot harder for him to smack you away.
Busy dealing with WE shit? You’re on your knees beneath the desk until he’s dragging you home/to bed.
You really, really want something? He’s so fucking weak to the feel and sight of your tongue sliding against his dick that you can get him to promise you anything in the moment. Though he probably will forget about it so you need to record him making those promises :))
Cries. No matter how often you suck his dick he never gets used to it. It’s like he’s a virgin and it’s the first time anyone is ever touching him Every. Single. Time.
He’s so overworked and exhausted all the time that it honestly doesn’t take much before he’s trying to tug you off as tears line his lashes cause sweetheart you’ve already made him cum twice. He’s sensitive. He can’t go again yet!
(Spoiler alert: he can. Though he might need a few hours to recuperate after)
BRUCE WAYNE
We all know he's done some questionable shit to maintain his secret identity. Once you've been dating for a while you're even willing to sometimes help him nurture the Brucie Wayne act. It's never anything super raunchy, but one encounter with a slightly too friendly-for-comfort Selina Kyle later and it's you who's acting up.
Pulling him into an abandoned corridor of whoever's sprawling mansion this party is taking place in and dropping to your knees. He puts up a token protest, (you both know he could easily stop you) as you undo his slacks but the second your lips wrap around him he's a goner.
Listen, he’s disciplined. He’s withstood literal torture but the way you swirl your tongue against him before you take him so deeply your nose brushes his pelvis is probably the most overwhelming sensation he’s ever experienced.
Keeps one large hand on the back of your neck, forgets to even use it for leverage he’s so out of it, thighs shaking and head thrown back against the wall as he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood.
Hell, he’s so lost in the heavenly feel of your warm mouth he doesn’t even notice the scandalised giggles that ring out before disappearing as not one, but at least three separate couples stumble across you.
pairings | bruce wayne x queen! reader,
summary | you know it's wrong, your father would be furious if he ever found out, so why does it feel so good?
warnings | age gap (reader in mid to late 20s, bruce in late 30s/40s), smut, minors dni. reader can be imagined as biological or adoptive. hal and guy were supposed to be part of this but i got tired of looking at it, maybe one day.
It’s not until you’re sitting across from him, resume sitting untouched across his desk, as piercing blue eyes stare into yours questioningly, that you realise how silly your alcohol-fuelled impulse decision is. Applying to be Bruce Wayne’s personal assistant hadn’t precisely been a well-thought-out plan, more of a joke than anything—a petty jab at your father after yet another silly argument, but still a joke nonetheless. Something to bring up at the next League meeting, just to watch your dad pitch a fit at the thought of you working for “the enemy.”
It had been a joke right up until you woke the next morning and checked your phone, only to have an email response from Bruce himself, asking when you’d be available for a job interview. Dumbfounded, you’d responded in a hungover daze, thumbs sluggishly drafting a response, hitting the send button before you could stop and think.
You certainly hadn’t expected to end up in his office, dressed in business attire you’d bought just the day before, because how were you supposed to explain to the Batman that you’d been joking when he’d gone out of his way to schedule this meeting himself?
You weren’t naive enough to believe that Bruce spent enough time actually working at Wayne Enterprises to even warrant having a PA. Nor would his control freak tendencies. Thus, the silent question, “Why were you here?”
He quirked a perfectly sculpted brow, no sign of the mask he adorned for the paparazzi in sight, as the two of you stared each other down. Your skin prickles slightly under his gaze. Bruce Wayne is, after all, an unfairly beautiful man, yet you refuse to be the one who breaks first.
“I have to admit, I was surprised to read your application.” He drawls, eyes flashing with a hint of amusement that has you wanting to melt into the floor. Instead, you lean back in your seat with a pout, crossing your left leg over your thigh, the pencil skirt you’d chosen riding up slightly.
His eyes follow the movement before quickly flicking back up to your face, but it’s too late, you’ve seen him looking, and suddenly, it's not nerves stirring low in your belly. Slowly, you change your position once more, shifting an arm so it pushes up your tits, tilting your head slightly to show off your neck and collarbone.
Bruce’s face remains placid, but blue eyes flicker down traitorously to trace the expanse of skin in a barely there movement.
Interesting. Perhaps there was slightly more merit to that Playboy “persona” than the League believed.
Teeth dig into your lower lip, perfectly manicured nails drumming a line across the meat of your thigh. “So, do I get the job?”
“Hmm,” he raises a brow, blinking once before he seemingly regains his composure, “the job… Yes, I’m sure we can work something out.”
The contract is all for show; you don’t need this job, nor do you expect to do much paperwork. But you still grasp Bruce’s calloused hand eagerly as he “welcomes you to the team,” and boasts about “what a pleasure it’ll be to have you working with him.”
His touch lingered just a little longer than strictly appropriate, not that you minded. “I do believe the pleasure will be all mine.” You bite back a victorious smirk.
Just like you didn’t technically need the job, you didn’t technically need the fancy new apartment Bruce had set you up in. Not when you had a zeta tube readily available for your use, though, given how difficult it would be to explain you suddenly zipping between Gotham and Star City repeatedly, you’d taken the leap and moved to rainy Gotham.
Your father had, predictably, pitched an absolute fit.
Not that you cared much when it meant you got to have Bruce beneath you like this, a red flush spreading across his sweaty chest and face, muscles taut beneath your hands as you rolled your hips teasingly.
It had taken surprisingly little to coax the older man into your bed. A few carefully tailored outfits, lingering gazes, and touches. A little game for just the two of you, seeing who will bend first under the pressure.
The bat breaks first, slipping through your window, bruised and bloodied after yet another night of fists thrown and hurtful words exchanged with his second eldest son.
As Roy’s older sister, you’ve seen a lot of Jason in recent years and witnessed the fallout from many arguments as well. “He loves you, Bruce, it’s why he lashes out so much. If he didn’t care, then he wouldn’t bother.”
It should have been weird, discussing one of his children when you’d fantasised about climbing him like a tree for the past few weeks, but the minute relaxation of his muscles at your words had made it worth it. You weren’t sure how the world never seemed to notice the pressure Bruce placed upon himself, trying to shoulder every burden alone. Then again, you doubted many people cared enough to look past the carefully crafted veneer he donned.
“I suppose you’d know, having spent a lot of time with him.” Bruce’s voice is gruff, his brow furrowing as he lets you take off the cowl to assess the damage, and your hands pause in their movements. There was something there, an underlying… bitterness? Jealousy?
Your stomach swoops. He wasn’t trying to imply… “I have never been involved with Jason!” Your voice is slightly shrill as you reel back to look Bruce in the eyes. “I… where… why would you even think that!”
“You seem… close.” He grumbled, shrugging his broad shoulders in an attempt at nonchalance, but the way he continued to avoid your gaze betrayed him.
No way, he really was, “Are you jealous?” The giddy words slip past your lips before you can think better of it, a grin tugging at the corners of your mouth, only for it to drop as he slips out of your grasp abruptly. You can see his walls going up as he retreats, and you reach for him desperately, fingers curling around his bicep in a grip you both know he could easily escape.
“Wait, Bruce?” You try not to let your sudden panic show, but you doubt you succeed.
His jaw clenches. “I didn’t come here to be mocked.”
There are a hundred things you could say, that you should say, instead, what comes out is a hoarse whisper. “Then what did you come here for?”
He remains stoic in his silence, but his eyes, always so expressive for you, dart down to your slightly parted lips. You don’t think; you simply move, grabbing his face with both hands so he can’t wriggle away, and you kiss him.
He inhales sharply against you before grasping your hips in a split second, pulling you closer until you’re standing torso to torso. Your hands slide down his neck, arms locking themselves behind his head as one of Bruce’s migrates to rest on the small of your back.
You pull apart for breath, his forehead resting against yours as he gasps. “This is… we shouldn’t.”
“I know.” You whisper, but don’t move.
You’re not quite sure who initiated the second kiss, but neither of you pulled away. Neither of you stopped when clothes were shed or when you collapsed clumsily onto your mattress together. It’s… tender, a far cry from the teasing little game you’ve been playing and the earlier kiss, fuelled by desperation.
Bruce worships you with his touch, takes you apart bit by bit, and before the night is even over, you know it can never be a one-time thing. Bruce has ruined you for all other men. And when you wake the next morning, still curled up in his arms, you think a part of him feels the same.
Sex with Bruce is always Earth-shattering, whether it’s rough and desperate or slow and gentle, and every time you fall into bed together, you find yourself falling a little more in love, though you’d never dare to voice it. Lest you lose the blissful rhythm you’ve fallen into together, one that sees you lying with your head on his chest, a palm splayed over his heart, still beating slightly faster than its normal resting rate.
It’s the middle of the day, and Bruce probably has all sorts of responsibilities, but he doesn’t seem inclined to move, and you won’t be the one to bring it up. In fact, “we should just spend the day in bed,” you plead, eyes still closed as you try to snuggle further into his side.
“Whatever you want, darling.” He hums, still slightly sex drunk, and you press a kiss to his chest to hide your gleeful giggles.
Unfortunately, your bliss doesn’t last much longer, not when fate itself seems determined to fuck with you, in the form of your father.
It’s like something from a horror movie, the way your bedroom door swings open and your dad’s familiar voice filters into your previously peaceful space.
“Sweetheart, are you home? Can we talk? Don’t you think it’s time you quit with the rebellious act… and come… home?” His voice trails off into nothingness as you sit upright, tugging the blankets up to cover yourself.
“Dad!” You scream.
“Bruce?!” He yells shrilly in outrage, the man still lying beside you, sighing as he mentally prepares for the inevitable confrontation.
“Oliver.”
“Bruce! You— My daughter?! What the fuck is wrong with you? I’ll fucking kill you!” His skin has gone nearly purple with rage, and you suspect it’s only your body acting as a barrier that prevents your dad from launching himself at Bruce.
“Dad!” You scream again, throwing a pillow at him, “Get out!”
“So that deviant can make a hasty retreat out the window? I don’t think so!”
“So I can get dressed, you freak!” He hesitates, but when you reach for your bedside table to brandish the lamp menacingly, he gets the hint.
Bruce is silent as the two of you get dressed, and it makes the nerves in your stomach worsen tenfold. You feel as if you’re about to throw up, until Bruce takes the shirt from your hands, the confused question dying before you can ask when he slips you his shirt instead. Holding out his hand for you to take, he leads you out to meet your father.
Oliver scowls fiercely as he notices your conjoined hands, mouth opening to no doubt start yelling again when you beat him to it.
“Bruce and I are together, and you’re just going to have to deal with it.” You’ve never voiced it out loud, what this thing between you and Bruce is, and you don’t dare to look at him for fear of how he’ll react. Your fears are instantly assuaged when his thumb softly strokes the back of your palm, grounding you with a silent message: I’m right here.
“He treats me like a princess.” You admit softly, overcome with a sudden wave of embarrassment.
“I treat you like a princess!” Oliver whined, actually whined like he wasn't a fully grown man nearing 50.
You shoot him a withering scowl, refusing to back down, you’d always given in to your father before, always been the one keeping the peace in your fucked up dysfunctional family, but not this time. Not when it mattered.
Like always, your dad breaks first, collapsing against the couch dramatically with a huff, as if he were a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Fine!” You raise a brow in surprise at his easy acquiescence but allow your shoulders to release some of their tension, letting out a sigh of relief as you lean into Bruce’s side, only to jump when your dad starts screeching bloody murder once more.
“Nope! Nu-uh, we’re not doing that!” He leapt between you, pushing you behind him and holding an arm out like he was shielding you from some great threat. “Don’t smirk at me, you asshole!” Oliver jabs a finger at Bruce, who only thinly veils his amusement. Which of course, sets off your father even further as you fight back a whine.
summary: He hands you his drink, a simple, innocent gesture. Twenty minutes later, you're unresponsive in his arms, and what started as a pleasant night evolves into the worst moment of his life.
word count: 5.6k
"I hate these things." Dick grumped, fiddling with his tie for the hundredth time that night.
You reached up to swat his hands away gently. "What, the tie or the gala?"
"Both." He whines, grabbing one of your hands and tangling your fingers with his.
"You say that every time Bruce drags you to one of these, you're such a baby." You mock, leaning in to peck his pouty lips.
His lips twitch with the effort it takes to keep pretending to frown. "You know, I'm starting to think you keep showing up on my arm just because you like watching me suffer."
"You caught me," you grin slyly before adjusting his tie properly, "Or maybe I just like seeing you in a tux."
His breath hitches, adoration painted across his face as he leans closer, "That so? You’re not so bad yourself, y’know. Very distracting."
You rolled your eyes, trying to appear nonchalant, but you couldn't prevent the flutter in your stomach at his attention. It was hardly your first gala together, Dick had seen you dressed up plenty of times before, but everytime he looked at you as if you were a goddess.
He drapes an arm over your shoulder, pulling you snug against his side. "Let’s just get through this thing. Then it’s you, me, some cheap Chinese takeout, and most importantly, no pants."
"Oh, baby, you really know how to treat a woman." You giggled, kissing his jaw and leaving a lipstick stain that he either doesn't notice or doesn't care to wipe off.
The two of you stay like that, standing on the fringes of the room, content to ignore everyone else, until you spot Cass looking longingly at the dancefloor.
"Dick," you nudged him, "you should dance with Cassie."
You can tell he's hesitant to leave you, but Cassie clearly wants to dance and Dick would do anything to make his siblings happy. "Take this?" He holds out the drink he'd been nursing for 10 minutes but had yet to touch.
"Why, Mr Grayson, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were trying to get me drunk." You joked, gently tugging him closer by the lapels of his jacket.
He grins as you steal a kiss just before lifting the rim of the glass to your lips. "Moscato?" You raise a brow at the choice, your favourite, "You really were planning this."
"I didn't say drink it." He tries to play innocent, but you both know he's been waiting to hand it off to you. You give the liquid a swirl before taking another sip, relishing in the sweet taste as it coats your tongue.
"Now go on, dance with your sister."
Dick’s still smiling when he leans in, brushing your cheek with a kiss. "I’ll be back in a minute."
"I'll count the seconds." You joke, waving him off like a woman seeing her husband off for war, delighting in the way Cassandra lights up as Dick leads her onto the floor.
With Dick gone, Tim sidles up to your side seamlessly, your own sleepy little guard dog as he eyes the other gala goers mistrustfully.
You snort before pulling him into your side, which he readily accepts. Your heart swells with affection for the boy you'd come to view as your own little brother.
You take another drink, trying to stave off your sudden bout of cotton mouth. When that doesn't work, you clear your throat before downing the rest of your glass.
Tim gives you an odd look, but you wave off his concern, "just a little thirsty." You don't admit that your throat is suddenly drier than the Sahara as you take a glass of water from the nearest waiter.
You take slow sips, but no matter what you do, your tongue still feels like paper. Annoying, but not unbearable, an unfortunate side effect you sometimes suffered when drinking.
A few minutes pass, and you start to think something might be wrong when your vision blurs a little. You unconsciously lean slightly against Tim, who startles as he feels the heat emanating from you. Placing the back of his palm against your forehead, before you can stop him. "Jesus, you're hot."
"Careful Timmers, wouldn't wanna make Dick jealous." You joke weakly, fanning yourself with your free hand as the heat crawls down the back of your neck and chest. "Though, it is kind of hot in here."
"I guess." Tim seemed a little unconvinced, pulling out of your grip, only for you to stumble. "Oh wow, I think you might've had a bit too much to drink."
"Hmm, maybe." You agree even if you don't remember having that much. You turn your head, wincing a little as the light reflects harshly from the chandeliers into your eyes.
"Ok, I think it's time we get you home." You nod your head, only to immediately regret it when the world spins a little bit.
"What's this? My little brother is trying to abscond with my girlfriend? Say it ain't so." Dick suddenly appeared, a hint of worry hiding behind his good natured demeanour.
You beam, going to embrace your boyfriend, only to trip when your ankle wobbles. Your heart thumps wildly against your chest, as you lean heavily against Dick's chest.
You don't see the alarmed glances Tim and Dick exchange, keeping your eyes closed to try and abate the odd pressure building up behind them.
Dick says something, hand cupping your jaw as he keeps your head upright, but you don't hear it. His voice is muffled, as if he is trying to speak to you through water.
He seems worried, but you don't understand why; everything's so floaty.
"I'm fine... think I just need to... to" you trail off, losing your train of thought.
"Hey—hey, no, no, no. Stay with me." Dick’s voice cuts through the haze, low and urgent, a stark contrast to the earlier soft teasing you’d shared over stolen kisses and that glass of Moscato.
His hand is warm against your jaw, gently cradling it, thumb brushing your cheek as he keeps your head propped up.
Despite your best efforts, your vision slips in and out of focus. All you can see is Dick's face, so pretty even in his panic. You don't want him to look at you like that, you never want him to be upset, you want him happy, always.
You try to tell him that, but your tongue refuses to cooperate. You don't know why he's so frantic; you're just a little overheated. Your mouth finally opens, but you can't remember what you wanted to say. The thought, whatever it was, slips from your grasp like sand.
Your legs suddenly give out, the new glass of water you'd been clutching slipping from your lax grasp and shattering against the marble floor.
Dick is already moving, catching you before you hit the ground. His arms wrap tightly around you, cushioning your fall.
"Hey, hey—look at me. Look at me, baby."
The sound is distant to your ears, as if from another world entirely. But the commotion grabs the attention of the nearby gala goers, and alarmed whispers reach Bruce's ears from across the room just in time for him to witness his eldest catch you and sink to the floor.
He forgets his charming, genial mask, shoving through scandalised socialites as he runs to reach his son.
Tim's already calling an ambulance, and Damian has appeared suddenly as if from thin air, snarling at anyone attempting to get a closer look.
Dick is hysterical, tears in his eyes as he holds your face in his hands as he tries to get you to respond, but any words he can elicit from you are slurred and confused.
His son doesn't even register his presence until he's kneeling opposite him, clasping a grounding hand on his shoulder. Dick looks up at him, tears sliding down his devastated face. "Bruce, Dad, help her, please!" He begs, voice cracking.
Bruce inhales sharply, the word Dad hitting him like a freight train. Dick hadn’t called him that in months. Years, maybe. It's a word he'd secretly ached to hear for so long, but not like this, not tinted with raw desperation.
Bruce inhales sharply at that, at his son desperately looking at him to fix something they're both powerless to combat.
"She’s going to be okay," Bruce tells him, quietly, as if trying to soothe a wounded animal.
"You can't know that! You can't promise me that!"
Dick looks down at you, taking in the way you gasped raggedly for air, pupils blown wide as you twitch in his grasp.
"Dick." Bruce squeezed his shoulder, grounding him and forcing him back to the present moment. "The ambulance will be here soon. She's still breathing and still has a pulse, she's going to be okay."
"She just... she just collapsed," Dick babbles, as if he hadn't even heard Bruce. "She was fine when I left her, she was, she was fine! But when I got back she couldn't, couldn't breathe - "
"She’s breathing," Bruce murmurs, his hand pressed lightly to your neck. "Pulse is faint, but still there."
"She couldn’t focus. She can’t speak, Bruce." Dick sounds like he’s on the verge of a panic attack. "I don’t... I don’t know what’s happening!"
Bruce doesn’t answer right away. Not because he doesn’t care—God, he cares so much it aches—but because he doesn’t know, and that terrifies him.
Dick is muttering, a mindless stream of thoughts as he clutches you tighter against his chest. "I gave her my drink," he stammers suddenly, as if the memory just struck him. "I didn’t touch it, I just… handed it to her. It was moscato, she likes moscato."
He looks up at Bruce, haunted. "Did I do this? Did I—was it the drink? Or—what if it was something else, what if something's wrong with her heart, or she's sick or something, she was unwell last week. I don't know. I don’t know."
Bruce doesn’t answer right away. Not yet. His mind is already spinning, cataloguing symptoms, possibilities: low blood sugar, dehydration, cardiac event, something neurological. The possibilities were endless.
"We’re going to figure it out," he tells Dick quietly. "Help will be here soon, she'll be ok son."
"She has to be," Dick whimpers, thumb brushing over your cheekbones, and then a little quieter. "She promised me forever."
Bruce watches, his heart in his throat as he watches Dick's hand absentmindedly reach into his pocket for something. Was that... a ring?
That train of thought is abruptly derailed when the paramedics finally arrive.
Dick tries to stay with you as they check your vitals, his hand gripping yours like a vice even as you're lifted onto a stretched and rolled into the back of the ambulance.
One medic tries to gently pull him back, but he doesn’t budge, refusing to leave your side. "I’m staying," he snaps, voice low and dangerous. The paramedic hesitates, glancing at his colleague, who just nods their assent.
"Just stay out of our way," he mutters, but Dick barely hears him, already sinking onto the bench beside the gurney, white-knuckled fingers still wrapped around yours.
"She was fine," he whispers to no one in particular. "Twenty minutes ago, she was teasing me about getting her drunk. We were laughing."
He can't stop the tears from falling any longer when they attach an oxygen mask, your eyelids fluttering open and closed at random intervals.
"Stay with me, please, baby, just hang in there." He begs you feverishly. Your head lolls toward him, something like recognition flashing in your eyes before it's gone again in a blink.
"Miss," the second paramedic says suddenly, gently lifting one of your eyelids and shining a small penlight into your eyes. "Miss, can you hear me?"
"Pupils are dilated. Sluggish response," he mutters, more to his partner now. "Could be neurological."
Dick’s stomach drops. "Neurological? Like what, a stroke?"
"We won’t know until we get her stable. It could be toxins. It could be a reaction to something. Could be—" The medic stops himself, shooting Dick a look. "Could be a lot of things."
"She didn’t take anything," Dick says quickly, defensively. "She doesn’t even like taking Tylenol without checking with her doctor first."
"You gave her a drink?" the other medic asks.
Dick nods slowly. "Moscato. Mine. I hadn’t touched it; I was holding it for too long. I didn’t want to waste it—" He swallows. "She was happy. She kissed me. She was fine."
You let out a soft, breathless sound. Not quite a moan. Not quite a word. But it yanks Dick forward like a lifeline, his hand tightening around yours.
"Hey, hey, I’m here," he says urgently. "Babe, can you hear me? Just squeeze my hand, yeah? Just let me know you can hear me."
You don’t respond, you can’t, and Dick nearly starts to sob again. Helpless to do anything but watch and pray to a god he doesn’t believe in, as the paramedics work around him. He rests your clasped hands against his lips, rocking restlessly back and forth as he watches for any change in your condition.
Your eyes flutter weakly open for half a second, glassy and unfocused, and he leaps to reassure you. "I’ve got you," he whispers, running his free hand gently down your cheek. "I swear, I’ve got you. Just stay with me."
Your fingers twitch—the smallest, weakest movement, but Dick clings to that like a lifeline. His hand tightens around yours, and you suddenly twitch again, your whole body flinching as your eyelids blink rapidly.
"Hey, sweetheart." His voice shakes as he leans forward, cupping your cheek again. "You with me?"
Your eyes are wide open, but they’re not focused, unseeing as you stare right through him before abruptly attempting to recoil. "Don’t touch me!" you gasp, trying to pull your hand away, though he doesn’t let go. "Get off me, get—"
"Hey, hey, it’s me!" Dick says quickly, panic clawing up his throat. "It’s me. It’s Dick, you’re safe, baby, you’re safe."
You’re thrashing now, feeble but undoubtedly panicked. Your pupils are blown wide, nearly swallowing the colour of your irises.
"There’s someone! He’s behind you, Dick!" you sob suddenly, eyes locked on the corner of the ambulance where no one sits. "He’s watching me, he’s watching me. Stop looking at me—"
"There’s no one there," Dick breathes, helpless. "There’s no one there, I promise, I swear—"
One of the medics leans over. "Hallucinations. She’s panicking, we need to sedate her before she hurts herself."
"No," Dick says reflexively. "She’s scared. She needs to know she’s not alone. She doesn’t like being sedated."
"She can’t hear you right now," the paramedic says gently, already preparing a sedative. "You have to let us do our job."
You scream again, incoherent, like you’re fighting something only you can see. "I’m right here. I’m not leaving," he says, voice trembling. "You’re okay, I’ve got you. There’s no one else here, just me. It’s just me."
But you don’t hear him, head thrashing from side to side, murmuring something over and over, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. His heart splinters.
"Give it to her," he says quietly. "If it’ll help her stop being afraid... do it."
The sedative enters your bloodstream through the IV, and your breathing begins to slow within moments. Your muscles go slack, and your face's tension eases slightly.
Dick swallows hard, brushing your cheek with the back of his hand once more.
"I’m right here," he whispers. "You’re safe now. Whatever you’re seeing… It’s not real. I promise. I won’t let anything hurt you." But the words feel cheap and hollow against his tongue, because he’s already failed to keep you safe.
His mind's a mess, but Dick’s sure that this whole thing really is his fault. The timeline, the symptoms, you’ve been poisoned, with a glass of wine that had been meant for him. If you die, it’ll be all his fault. If you die, then Dick thinks he might just die with you.
The thought hits him like a bullet to the chest. He can’t imagine a world where he doesn’t hear your laugh, doesn’t feel your hand reaching for his across crowded rooms, doesn’t get to kiss you goodnight and pretend, just for a moment, that the rest of the world doesn’t exist.
You whimper in his arms, body twitching against the restraints that keep you from hurting yourself. The EMT had told him it was necessary, but it felt like cruelty.
You start to seize right as they get to the hospital, thrashing against your restraints as they wheel you through the ER doors. The paramedics speak rapid fire at the awaiting nurses and doctors, Dick barely hears any of it.
"Sir, you need to stay here—" someone tries to stop him from pushing past the double doors, but Dick shrugs them off with more force than necessary.
"I’m not leaving her!" he shouts, his voice cracking at the last word. His fists are clenched so tightly at his sides that they tremble.
"Mr. Grayson!" An overworked nurse tried to calm him down, and had he been in his right mind Dick would have been appalled at his behaviour.
A hand clamps down on his shoulder, pulling him back and Dick whirls around, snarling in Bruce's face.
"Let them work," Bruce says quietly, yet sternly.
Collapsing into Bruce's awaiting arms, Dick feels like a small child again. Completely helpless. He's sobbing, gasping against Bruce's chest.
The man is silent, aware that nothing he says can make it better, no matter how badly he wants to take away his son's pain. He wishes he could absorb it all and make everything magically better. But he can't, so he remains a pillar of support, holding his son up.
Time doesn’t pass normally in the hospital. Every second feels like an eternity, every tick of the clock on the far wall drawn out like torture. Bruce tries to get him to sit, but Dick refuses, staring at the doors they wheeled you through like it will bring you back.
"Please be okay," he whispers into the silence, his voice barely audible. "Please." He doesn't know who he's begging anymore: you, the doctors, God, or himself.
The hours feel eternal, a torturous, maddening slog as they wait for any sort of news.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, casting everything in a sickly white glow that makes the hospital hallway feel more like a purgatory than a place of healing.
Dick’s been pacing outside the ICU for so long he’s probably worn a hole in the ludicrously expensive shoes. Every nurse who walks by earns a hopeful glance, and every time they pass without stopping, it feels like another knife to the gut.
He’s running on adrenaline and guilt, the phantom image of your limp body in his arms haunting every breath.
Then, finally, footsteps approach, and Dick's nearly manic when someone finally adresses him.
"She’s stable. Still weak, but the anticholinergic treatment’s working. We’ve flushed most of the toxins from her system. You can see her now"
Anticholinergic treatment? That meant... poison.
Dick's already moving before she finishes, murmuring a breathless "Thank you" as he slips past her and into the private room Bruce is undoubtedlybpaying for.
The sight of you hooked up to various machines, IV lines, oxygen monitors, heart rate beeping slow and steady, makes his chest tighten, but at least you’re here. Alive.
He drags a chair up to your bedside and takes your hand, careful not to jostle the IV. It’s warm, but no longer searing like it had been in the ambulance.
"Hey, baby." He murmurs, voice cracking as he brushes his thumb gently across your knuckles.
You don’t respond.
He speaks softly anyway. He promises you’re safe, that everything's fine, that he’s right here, and that his family is already tearing Gotham apart, trying to figure out who did this.
The nurses try to get him to leave when visiting hours are over, but Dick kicks up a such a fuss that he's sure he accidentally scares them. Bruce ends up flashing some money to smooth things over, the benefits of being rich.
He refuses to leave your side; he won't leave you alone when you're so vulnerable. He does his best to stay awake, he needs to be there for you when you wake up, but eventually he succumbs to the exhaustion.
The room is quiet, save for the steady rhythm of the heart monitor and the soft mechanical whir of the machines monitoring your vitals.
Dick sits slouched in the chair beside your hospital bed, one arm resting awkwardly across his chest, the other still holding your hand like a lifeline. His head is bowed forward, chin tucked against his chest, breathing deep and even.
His suit jacket has long since been discarded, his tie loosened, his hair a mess, and dark circles paint shadows beneath his eyes.
You stir slowly, fighting desperately against the lethargy. Your eyelids feel like cement is weighing them down as you attempt to open them.
Your fingers twitch. A slight, barely perceptible movement before you manage to curl them around the hand clasped in yours.
The light is blinding, burning your retinas when you finally manage to pry them open. The world swims, but you push through it, turning your head as you follow the trail of the hand holding yours up to the blurry image of your sleeping boyfriend.
"…Dick?" Your voice is raw, no louder than a whisper. Not enough to stir him from his exhausted slump.
You squeeze his hand weakly, but it’s enough for him to jerk upright, eyes wild with panic, before they lock on yours.
"Hey," you croak, attempting to smile, but your facial muscles won't cooperate.
For a moment, he just stares at you, like he’s not sure he’s really awake. He lets out a shaky, tearful laugh before dragging the chair closer. "You’re awake," he breathes through a sob.
"I… yeah," you rasp, coughing from the dryness of your throat. "Hurts."
"I know love." He leans forward, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "You’ve been out for almost a day. They said you were stable, but, god, I didn’t know if—" His voice cracks on a sob, and you want nothing more than to reach out and comfort him but your sluggish body refuses to obey.
"M'sorry, didn’t wanna scare you."
"No, no, no, honey. Don't apologise, this isn't your fault." He shakes his head, eyes wet with unshed tears. "It's mine—"
"Don’t," you interrupt as sternly as you're able. "Don’t do that. Not your fault. I’m okay. I'm okay."
You start to cough again, and Dick reaches for the cup of water on the bedside, helping you drink slowly through the straw.
He helps you lie back down against the pillows, looking at you with such tenderness you almost cry. "You didn’t leave."
He smiles, a broken, crooked thing, but still shining with so much love. "I never will, never."
requested by | anon
pairing | dick grayson x fem! reader
summary | dick's always had a bit of a protective streak, especially when it comes to you
warnings | creepy man, implied homophobia
The bass thrums loudly through the club, vibrating through your bones as you and Donna wait in line for the next round of drinks. Your phone screen lights up, and Donna laughs as she sees the text from Dick.
"I miss you already, hurry back :("
"Girl, he's obsessed with you. How does he even function when you're at work?" She teases, making you teasingly shove her and flip her the bird.
"I'll be back soon, you big baby."
"I'm counting the seconds <3"
Butterflies erupt in your stomach, a broad smile stretching across your face.
"You two are sickeningly sweet," Donna rolls her eyes, but her own fond grin gives away her true feelings, "it's cute, even if it makes me feel depressingly single."
"With how sexy you look tonight? That could be about to change." You wriggle your brows.
"From this crowd? They'd be so lucky," she scoffed, making you throw back your head and laugh.
As if your words had been a spell to summon desperate assholes, a hand slides down your back, resting dangerously low. You turn to smile at Dick, only to falter at the sight of a complete stranger. "Buy you ladies a drink?"
Even when you recoil in shock, a smirk he must think is suave pulls at the corner of the man's lips, but Donna's look of disgust lets you know she's not charmed either.
Your skin crawls as you slide out from his grasp and next to Donna, who's stepped forward, shielding you slightly from view. "Not interested," she deadpans, arms crossed and showing off her impressive biceps.
The douchebag only flinches minutely before his grin comes back full force, apparently suicidal as he steps closer into your personal space, even when you and Donna back away even more.
"Playing hard to get? I like that in a woman." He reaches for your face, only for you to smack his hand away harshly.
"What are you? A cartoon villain? The answer's no. N-O." You sneer over Donna's shoulder.
That strikes a nerve, his eyes narrowing as he looks between you and Donna, "Oh, I get it, you're a —"
Fury lights in your chest, and a nasty retort readies itself on the tip of your tongue as you push past Donna, but Dick beats you to it, appearing from thin air and clapping a hand down on the creep's shoulder harshly.
"You harassing my girl?" Dick's voice is upbeat, an eerie smile stretching across his cheeks.
It's more than a little satisfying to watch the man wilt under Dick's stare, and if you're being honest with yourself, it's kind of hot.
"I—your—no?" the guy stammers, flinching away from Dick's touch and wincing when Dick's grip tightens painfully.
Your boyfriend leans in, whispering something that you can't make out over the music blasting from the dancefloor speakers, before he lets go.
You don't think you've ever seen a man scamper away from you so quickly, nor so inelegantly, as he ends up stumbling and crashing into the corner of a table.
Dick's by your side in an instant, sliding a hand up to cup your cheek loosely as he scans your person, "You ok?"
"Mm, you got here in the nick of time," You nod seriously, even if your smile betrays your mirth, "my hero."
Leaning up to him, you press a kiss on his cheek, turning to whisper in his ear when he pouts that 'you missed', "You know, seeing you defending me like that was sexy. What do you say we head home early?"
It's Dick's turn to nearly trip over himself as he eagerly leads you to the exit, leaving you to throw a hurried wave over your shoulder to a smirking Donna.
tag & div creds for the loml @froggibus. 18 + nsfw themes
You and Wally are the perfect couple. Childhood friends turned sweethearts. You're each other's first everything, from dates to kisses to more. The details of which Wally painstakingly outlines to Dick, not enough to betray your trust, but enough to give Dick a picture of what you like in bed.
You've only ever had eyes for each other and are more than content to accidentally rub your love in Dick's face. You're both incredibly physically affectionate, holding hands, cuddling, giggling between kisses in the Titans' common area.
It would be fine, Dick could move on, if only you weren't affectionate with him, too. Walking down the street, you'll casually interlace your fingers with his, swinging your arms like you're doing with Wally with your other hand.
If you didn't pepper his face in joyful kisses whenever he brought you your favourite food, or cry into his chest during sad movies while Wally rubs a soothing hand down your back nonchalantly, like nothing's wrong.
You’ll answer the door in nothing but Wally’s shirt and still smelling of sex, driving the dagger deeper into Dick's gut, only to beam at Dick like he hung the stars and unintentionally get his hopes up.
He's so painfully jealous it burns, self-loathing and guilt unfurling in his gut each time he's confronted with how adorably in love you and Wally are. What kind of best friend was he?
It’s not until he hits his 20s and he’s watching Wally feed you strawberries, your lips closing over his fingers, that Dick comes to a heart-stopping realisation.
It’s not just Wally he’s jealous of.
Suddenly, every time the three of you are even in the same room, it's nearly unbearable. Each interaction is agony, because the two of you clearly love him, just not the way he desperately wants.
He knows you'll never look at him the way you do each other, but his traitorous heart can't help but beat faster with every smile thrown his way. Every time you and Wally invite him over to dinner, or a movie, or pull him into a hug, he can't help but delude himself into thinking that maybe the two of you feel the same way he does.
summary: you and clark have embarrassingly obvious crushes on each other. It was cute at first, but your friends are starting to get tired of the relationship's lack of progress.
a/n: unedited cause life got me burnt tf out
Clark is aware that he should be listening. He knows several members of the League like to complain about Bruce's "endlessly boring rants", to which Clark gently chides them, it was important to receive feedback, to constantly strive for improvement.
But, well, you were just so cute today. How could anyone expect him to pay attention to Bruce's monotone droning when you were sitting across from him?
Your nose scrunches adorably at something Bruce says, arms crossed against your chest as your lower lip juts out in an enticing pout.
He watches the way your lashes brush against your cheek, eyes on display for once as your mask rests on the table. You'd once confided in him that the mask wasn't just for protecting your identity, but because you struggled to control your facial expressions sometimes. Something that exasperated you but just made you all the more endearing in Clark's eyes.
Since then, Clark had unintentionally made it a goal of his to study each and every microexpression, committing each to memory. He could spend hours just staring at you, admiring every emotional detail as it flickered to life.
Not in a creepy way! You're just so... special.
He sighs softly, unaware of the knowing smirks thrown his way, Batman pausing mid-sentence as he turns to stare at his friend with a raised brow. "Superman?"
When Clark doesn't answer, Bruce follows his gaze, huffing as he crosses his arms in a show of stern disapproval despite his internal amusement at Clark's obvious pining.
"Superman?" Bruce clears his throat, speaking a little louder as snickers ring out across the room.
Sensing a change in the atmosphere, Clark blinks rapidly, a blush covering his sheepish face as he stares into the blank white lenses of Batman's cowl whilst trying to play off his inattention.
"Anything to add, Superman?"
"I, er..." he coughs, "No, I think you've covered everything."
There's a handful of snickers that let Clark know he's failed spectacularly, and he has to fight the urge to sink down in his chair. Mortification flooding his veins, cheeks flushing an undoubtedly bright red, had he really been so obvious with his... admiration of you?
Oh gosh, had you noticed him staring? He thinks he might throw up. What if you thought he was some weirdo lecher?
You hide a laugh behind your hand that only he can hear, eyes sparkling in amusement, and suddenly the embarrassment is worth it.
The first to intervene are Oliver and Dinah, a half cocked plan forming over wine and dinner the night of Clark's pitiful display during the League meeting.
"Oh, come on, Ollie, you have to admit, it's cute."
"It's pathetic, I was cringing in second-hand embarrassment for him." Oliver denies. "I mean, he's been pining like a puppy for how long now?"
"You're getting really worked up about this, babe." Dinah raised an amused brow.
"I mean, they're clearly perfect for each other." Ollie tugs at his hair, "It's painful, Di, painful I tell you!"
Dinah's not sure how that one conversation led her here, sitting next to you in a cozy cafe across from Ollie and Clark in what is definitely a double date, despite her husband's reassurances they were just friends 'hanging out.' But she's starting to understand Oliver's frustration.
"Where are Hal and Barry?" You ask, clearly a little suspicious when 15 minutes pass and neither of them shows up, narrowed gaze focused on a fidgeting Oliver.
"I didn't tell you? They're uh busy, work things, you know how it is."
"Yeah, work things." You hum.
"Right, looks like it's just the four of us then, who's ready to order?" Oliver claps, flagging down a waiter as Clark keeps alternating between staring dopily at you and staring holes into the poor menu.
"So, Clark, you working on anything at the moment? This one's always telling me how much they enjoy reading your articles." Dinah prompts, elbowing you with a sly grin as you stare at her with wide eyed betrayal.
"Really?" Clark coughs, staring at you hopefully.
"Well, yeah, you're a talented reporter, Clark. I can tell you put a lot of heart into everything you write." Clark looks torn between puffing his chest in pride and collapsing in on himself in embarrassment.
"I think you're really talented too!" Clark blurts, and it's your turn to be flustered at the compliment.
Dinah's beginning to see what Ollie means.
Diana's the next to meddle, deciding it's time for a more physical approach. Which is how you somehow find yourself standing across from Clark in the Watchtower training room, trying (and failing) to keep your traitorous eyes from trailing over his ridiculously toned form.
The biceps he usually kept hidden away beneath his suit were on display for once, drawing your attention like a blaring neon sign. Look at me! They taunted you, beckoning your gaze as your imagination began to delve into sinful places. How easy it would be for him to pick you up, hold you against him or even throw you around—
"Are you ready?"
"Ready?" You parrot in a daze, swivelling to stare at a smug Diana.
"To spar?" Right. Yes. That. The spar, the spar you were about to have with Clark. The no powers, close quarters, sweaty, contact-filled spar.
Your heart hammers like a jackrabbit, and though Clark throws you a concerned glance, he's kind enough not to mention it.
The spar is, quite frankly, painfully embarrassing.
At first, you're both hesitant, circling each other as you test the waters. When it becomes clear that Clark won't attack first, you make the first move, slowly building confidence as you find a rhythm. Confidence, which turns to annoyance to outright anger when Clark doesn't even attempt to hit you back.
As your frustration builds, so too does the power behind your hits. "You're not even trying," you hiss.
"I don't want to hurt you." Clark stammers, and your rage reaches an all-time high. Did he think he was better than you?
"Excuse me? What's that supposed to mean?" Instantly, Clark knows he's said the wrong thing, your brows furrowing even further in anger. His stumbled explanations fall on deaf ears as you lash out with renewed vigour.
"Yeah! Kick his ass!" The unexpected voice takes you both by surprise, your eyes briefly darting to the sidelines, and when did Wally and Nightwing get here?
You looked away for one second. One second of inattention, a brief, infinitesimal moment in time. But one second was all it took (you could practically hear Batman's scolding tone in your mind) before pain exploded across your face like a supernova.
You're not even entirely sure what's happened as your knees buckle, hands instinctively clutching your face, only to come away concerningly wet.
Tears of pain slide down your cheeks, but you don't even notice over the searing agony of your definitely broken nose.
The gallery devolves into chaos; the spectators are yelling, clamouring around you as Clark profusely apologises repeatedly. There's horrified tears in his eyes, and you can't help but think that if anyone should be crying, it's you.
Still, he's clearly distraught, trailing after you as you stumble half blindly toward the infirmary.
"I'm okay," you try to reassure him, the word's garbled through your mouth full of blood.
This has the opposite effect of reassurance.
You see very little of Clark in the weeks following him accidentally breaking your nose. Not because you’re holding it against him, but because he’d looked so distraught upon seeing your healing face that you’d opted to stay away from the Watchtower until it completely healed over.
That didn't stop the influx of apology texts, or the apology flowers, or other little knick-knacks and souvenirs from around the globe. It was cute at first, but your living space was starting to get a little crowded.
"Clark, seriously, it's fine, it was an accident." You sigh, for what must be the hundredth time.
"I know, but—"
"But nothing." You take his anxiously twiddling hands in yours without thought, just wanting to calm him down. It stuns him into a flustered silence, and in keeping up with your emboldened momentum, you manage to bite the bullet. "Make it up to me then. There's a movie I've been wanting to see. Come with me? You're paying."
The high of your victorious attempt to ask Clark on a date lasts all of five seconds before it's ruined in the form of Booster Fucking Gold.
"Wait, are you guys talking about that one with the hot redhead? I wanna come!"
"He likes you too, you know." Bruce can't believe he's doing this, but it's been years, and neither you nor Clark has made a move. It was pitiful.
(Also, he may have overheard his children concocting some harebrained kidnapping scheme with Harley Quinn of all people and decided enough was enough.)
"What?! I have no idea what you're talking about." You respond somewhat shrilly, the picture of nonchalance. Trying not to falter under the weight of 'unimpressed batstare vol. 3.'
Your shoulders hunch in on themselves, eyes alternating between the monitor and his stone faced expression. "Really? I mean," you cough. "he said that? Like... to you?"
Even behind the mask, Bruce's stare is deadpan, the kind that said he'd rather be literally anywhere else right now. "Just put us all out of our misery and kiss him already."
"Wha? Like right now?" His stare is expectant, with the promise of hell to pay if you don't get out of his sight right now.
You take the hint. Nearly tripping over your feet in your scramble to escape from under Batman’s heavy stare.
You're not sure if you're hoping Clark is currently on the tower deck or not. Batman’s words had given you the confidence boost you needed, but there was still that underlying anxiety.
What if he was wrong? What if Clark’s feelings had changed? What if -
Clark finds you first, sunny smile on his face as he approaches you. He’s so beautiful, radiant even in the sterile watchtower lighting. He’s saying something, asking you a question maybe but you barely hear it over the roar of blood in your ears.
You don't speak, you know you'll lose your nerve if you do, and quickly lean in to kiss him mid sentence. Gently at first, hands just ghosting the tops of his shoulders, giving Clark ample opportunity to pull away should he want.
Large hands move to cradle the small of your back, pushing you closer against your chest as Clark tilts his head, deepening the kiss with a soft sigh.
Your arms move to lock around his neck and Clark lets out a small hum of approval that makes your stomach swoop.
“Get a room!”
“Yeah Supes, get some!”
“Fucking finally!”
The various jeers and exclamations startle you so badly you jolt in Clark’s arms. If it weren’t for him holding you up you likely would’ve hit the floor, because at some point during the kiss Clark had started floating.
Over his shoulder you catch a glimpse of some colourful costumes before you’re suddenly whisked away. It’s not the first time you’ve experienced Clark’s speed but it’s still enough to pull an alarmed scream from your throat.
“Clark!” You hiss in embarrassment when he finally sets you down in a room occupied only by the two of you, though his hands still linger on your hips.
“Sorry, just wanted to get you alone.” He grins bashfully, and it’s enough to douse your annoyance. Your eyes stay narrowed in a mock glare but you both know there’s no heat behind it.
“I’ll make it up to you.” He whispers before kissing you once more.
(Later on, you’ll scold him for it, for now you’re more than content to keep kissing him.)
pairings | platonic! bruce wayne, barry allen, hal jordan, oliver queen x fem! reader. ex bf! dick grayson, wally west, kyle rayner, roy harper x fem! reader. + surprise pairing at the end
summary | your ex’s father/mentor begs you to take his miserable mentee back
a/n | crack. ngl i really lost the plot in kyle's part.
WALLY WEST & BARRY ALLEN
Three days. That's how long you managed to avoid Barry Allen following the end of your relationship with Wally. A bit pathetic, really, but you're not sure what else you expected trying to avoid a man that could move faster than light.
Why had you been avoiding Barry?
Because, simply put, even before your relationship with Wally evolved into something more romantic in nature, there was nothing worse than disappointing him.
You'd always adored Barry. He was smart, and kind, and in little you's eyes, the coolest hero ever! He'd always been so supportive of you, and a small part of you even believed that Barry had been nearly as ecstatic as Wally was when you'd started dating. He certainly acted like it sometimes.
The familiar soft call of your name and a warmer-than-average hand on your shoulder have you stopping in your tracks. Shit! You were so close! The zeta was literally within steps' reach, but Barry Allen was just too goddamn fast.
Mentally bracing yourself, you turn to meet Barry's gaze, face devoid of his cowl, leaving you to read every ounce of concern with perfect clarity.
"Barry," you sigh, traitorous voice already a little wobbly as you valiantly tried to keep the tears at bay.
For Fuck's sake! He hadn't even said anything yet, and already you were crumbling under the weight of his stare.
"Hey, kiddo. Heard you'd hit a bit of a rough patch with Wally, wanna talk about it?"
"No." Though you try to remain strong, to sound disinterested, your traitorous voice cracks, lower lip wobbling pathetically. You maybe could have played it off, if it weren't for the sudden onslaught of tears spilling down your cheeks.
"Oh, sweetheart," Barry murmurs, already pulling you in for a hug, one of his hands cupping the back of your head. "Let's get you somewhere more private, yeah?"
Barry doesn't wait for an answer before the world is blurring around you, and within a blink, you're in a different room. It's modest, bare bones, with a small desk and bed, and you realise this must be Barry's room on the watchtower. You doubt he'd ever even used it. Why would he, when he had Iris waiting for him at home?
The thought sends a pang through your chest, a harsh reminder that your once shared space with Wally is now barren of his presence, bereft of his warmth, leaving you cold and alone.
Abruptly, the tears start anew, loud and gut-wrenching sobs filling the silence as Barry pulls you in for another hug.
"Let it out, kiddo." Barry hums, rubbing comforting circles on your back as you soak his shoulder.
"He's such an idiot!" You wail.
"Boys usually are."
"I just don't understand, why would he even—"
"I don't know, you'll have to ask him that, but I know Wally regrets the things he said." At that you pull back a little, an unimpressed scowl covering your face.
"I'm not just taking his side. You're both miserable, and I know Wally's a stupid idiot boy, but do you think maybe there could be a conversation?"
"Only if you're there to back me up." You mumble, averting your gaze from Barry's deadly earnest gaze.
"Course, kiddo." The warmth in his tone nearly makes you cry anew because for as much as you'd missed Wally, you'd nearly missed Barry just as much.
If you're being honest with yourself, you were always going to fold the second Barry turned those big blue eyes of his on you.
As if on cue, the door slides open and a dishevelled Wally stumbles in. There's a brief moment of satisfaction as you notice that Wally looks worse than you do before you betrayal shoots down your spine.
"You set me up!"
"Sorry kiddo, would it help if I said it was only because I missed you?"
Before you can respond, a pair of arms wrap around your waist, as Wally looks up at you like a pitiful puppy as Barry stifles a laugh.
"Please, baby, I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry. I didn't mean it, I'm a mess without you, I can't do this without you. I'll do whatever you want, please—" The words come out rapid fire as mortification floods your veins.
"Oh my God, yes fine! Just get up!" You practically shout, accutely aware of Barry watching the scene.
"Yes! Thank you! I won't let you down!" Wally celebrates like he's been chosen to be team leader instead of you giving his pathetic ass a second chance and it's nearly enough to make you take it back.
But then he looks at you with with such adoration in those wide, watery green eyes of his and you know you never truly stood a chance against him either.
KYLE RAYNER & HAL JORDAN
You were being hunted.
Donna called you paranoid. Kori tried to reassure you that no, Hal Jordan wasn't staring at you ominously across the watchtower, plotting your death. (Though Gar insisted he was, little shithead.)
It only worsened in the week following your fight with Kyle, the feeling of being constantly watched. Everywhere you went, there was suddenly a Green Lantern staring intently.
John, to his credit, did his best to give you space, throwing you somewhat pitiful glances. Likely just checking in on you, a little embarrassing but kinda sweet. Guy just leered but had yet to try and approach you, annoying, but ultimately harmless.
It was Hal who was the problem. Hal, who suddenly stared with the intensity of a horror villain. Hal, who you swore nearly vaulted the table after a mission debrief, in his quest to get to you.
Hal, who was now chasing you through the streets of your hometown, desperately calling your name, "Why are you running?"
"Why are you chasing me?" You yelled back, stopping only momentarily to wave off a few concerned citizens with a strained smile. It's in the midst of one of these reassurances when a large green hand scoops you up and into the air.
"Hal, what the hell! Put me down!"
"No can do, little lady." His voice is a little hysterical, and it's enough to make you stop squirming and really look at him. Hal's normally perfect hair is in disarray, his skin a little paler than usual, and though you can't see his eyes behind the mask, you can practically see the widened, manic irises.
"Hal... are you okay?" You ask, suddenly a little concerned for his mental state.
"Am I—Am I okay?" He repeated shrilly, reaching out to place his hands on your shoulders, making you freeze as he suddenly leaned in as if to deliver a secret.
"You need to take Kyle back."
"Hal—"
"No, no, listen to me! He's been crashing at my apartment, figured it couldn't be that bad, help him get back on his feet, right?"
"Right?" You agreed, only to instantly feel like you'd chosen wrong.
"Wrong! At first, he was just depressed, you know how sensitive he is, but then I tried to get him to take a shower, and you know what he said? He said he couldn't even shower because it reminded him of you! I don't care what kind of sex life you two had, but the man needs to shower!"
"That's—"
"I'm not finished!" He burst, "He won't stop painting you! Everywhere I turn, there you are! I'm running out of space in my shitty apartment!"
Before you can even think to respond, a secondary green blur appears, knocking Hal away from you and disrupting the construct keeping you afloat.
A scream tears from your throat as you suddenly free-fall, heart hammering frantically against your chest until another pair of arms catches you.
"Are you okay? He didn't hurt you, did he?" Kyle's voice is frantic, one of his hands cupping your cheek, forcing you to look at him.
"Hurt me? Kyle? What are you— Did you just bulldoze Hal?!" You yell in disbelief, attempting to turn in his arms to find the other Lantern.
"Hurt him?" It's Kyle's turn to be confused, "Why are you concerned about him? He kidnapped you!"
"Hal didn't kidnap me. Why would you even think that?"
"Because it's all over the news—Wait, Hal?"
"Yes, Hal!" An irritated voice snaps, as a scowling Hal Jordan flies toward you and Kyle, "What the hell, man, I'm on your side!"
"Hal?"
"Is there an echo in here or something? Yes Kyle! It's me, Hal, the guy whose couch you've been soaking with your tears for the past week."
"I thought—the news said you'd kidnapped her." Kyle stammered, voice suddenly a little quieter, "I thought maybe Parallax had gotten to you again."
The absurdity of the situation settles over you amidst the stunned silence, and it's not long before the silent giggles you'd attempted to hide erupt into full-blown laughter. Tears slide down your cheeks as you hold your aching side.
"Ok, well, it wasn't that funny." Hal grumps, which of course, makes you laugh harder.
And maybe, you lean a little further into Kyle's touch, a move he accommodates easily. And maybe, you don't hate the way he still feels like home.
ROY HARPER & OLIVER QUEEN
You wake to a persistent knocking on your front door, pulling you from the few hours of sleep you had managed to get. Fury and irritation flood your veins as you wrench the door open with a snarl. "Oh my god, Roy, go home alrea—" You trailed off, blinking at the sight of a dishevelled Oliver Queen instead of the ex-boyfriend you'd been expecting, "—dy"
You go to slam the door closed, but Oliver's faster, jamming his foot in the threshold, only to yelp when you nearly crush the appendage. One of your neighbours even pokes their head out at all the noise, to which you nervously laugh him off before pulling Ollie inside.
"Oliver, what the hell are you doing here?" You seethe, patience already frayed from Roy's constant attempts to contact you, raging from lengthy voice messages, to sleeping outside your door.
"Please take him back." Oliver barely waits a second before he's pleading with you.
"Oh, for fuck's sake, not you too." You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose.
"Please! I know he can be an idiot sometimes—"
"Wonder who he gets that from?" You murmured, but Oliver ignored you, continuing his pitch.
"But Roy's a good kid, and he loves you! You're the best thing that's ever happened to him!"
"Yeah, and now he's sending you to fight his battles, huh?" You remained unimpressed, even if internally your heart ached with longing for Roy.
"No, Roy doesn't know I'm here; he'd probably kill me for interfering," Oliver admitted, running a hand through his hair before coming to sit next to you on the couch you'd collapsed into.
"Look, I made a lot of mistakes with Roy. Lord knows I haven't always been there for him, but somehow, despite me, he's turned into someone to be proud of. I just, I want you to remember that. To remember how much he loves you. Trughtfully, I think Roy's loved you since before he even realised what love was."
"Oliver..."
"I have to admit part of this is a selfish venture. I've always hoped I could one day officially call you my daughter."
Oliver's words bring tears to your eyes before you can stop them, and the man's face suddenly becomes comically panicked at the sight of your tears.
"Wait, no, if Roy finds out I made you cry, it's game over for me." He fretted.
"I won't tell if you won't." You laugh through the tears.
"Sounds like a deal to me."
Of course, Roy chooses that exact moment to crawl through your window, blasting Haddaway's What Is Love' through a shitty speaker.
DICK GRAYSON & BRUCE WAYNE
Of all the places you'd ever thought you'd meet your end, an elevator had never made the list. You'd forever curse yourself for allowing Batman to corner you like this, but in your defence, you hadn't expected him to launch through the closing doors like a missile as you frantically shoved the 'close door' button.
Batman hits the emergency stop button without a word, and your stomach sinks. He really is going to kill you. You broke his son's heart, and now he's here to enact parental vengeance on behalf of his beloved eldest son.
He reaches toward you, and you, highly trained vigilante that you are, freeze like a deer in headlights. Batman's hands clasp firmly on your shoulder, eyes wide behind the cowl as he looks at you with the intensity of 1000 suns. "Please take my son back."
You blink, flabbergasted as the words sink in, the dread in your gut morphing into something near incredulous. Batman, the Dark Knight, terror of Gotham and scourge to petty criminals and villains alike, was begging.
Barreling over your confused silence, he keeps going, "He got a haircut. It looks atrocious. I'm told this is a result of extreme emotional distress caused by your breakup."
Were you hallucinating? Was this some sort of alternate reality? Too dazed to even begin to formulate a response, you simply blink, gaping like a fish.
"I don't know what he did, but I'm sure it was stupid, and I will personally ensure it never happens again."
"I don't think—"
The elevator moves, and the doors fling open as a concerned-looking Superman peers inside, "You two ok?"
"Fine." Batman saunters out, not even sparing you a backward glance, no indication of the near manic energy he'd just unleashed upon you.
"Sweetheart?!" Nightwing barrels past Superman, reaching for you instinctively, only to freeze at the last second.
Despite yourself, fondness fills your heart at the sight of him, even as you cup your hand to your mouth to hide the gasp.
It truly was a horrendous haircut.
MICHAEL CARTER & J'ONN J'ONZZ
You could safely say that you liked most of your colleagues, closer to friends, really, on the Justice League. Even Guy Gardner had squirmed his way into your heart, though he still tended to piss you off most days of the week.
J'onn, though, had always secretly been your favourite. Not a fact you hid from him, it would be pretty difficult to, given his set of powers, but more so, Bea and Tora didn't pout over it.
So it wasn't exactly a surprise when J'onn sought you out almost as soon as you boarded the watchtower after a personal weekend away. What was a surprise, however, was the slight furrow to his brow and the palatable concern that seemed to be floating off him in waves.
"J'onn, is everything ok?" You mentally asked, unsure if this was a conversation to be had around prying ears.
J'onns' telepathy had never bothered you the way it still did for many others, likely what had contributed so greatly to your close friendship over the years.
"Yes, I am fine, Booster, however..." He trailed off, an interesting experience during a telepathic conversation.
"Oh, you heard about the breakup then?" You outwardly cringed before projecting a sense of gratitude that he'd thought to check up on you.
"Yes, I... heard. Loudly." J'onn spoke, horror threatening to overwhelm you as he realised his meaning. "I've done my best to maintain his, and your, privacy, but he is quite...sad."
A polite way of putting pathetic.
"Are you talking about the boss? He's been crying into tubs of ice cream all weekend."
"Skeets!" You scolded the little robot, gaze swivelling to see if there were any eavesdroppers.
"You wanna see videos?" Skeets buzzed, almost excitedly.
Yes.
"No! Skeets, that's horrible!" You tried to maintain the outraged facade, but one look from J'onn let you know your performance was weak at best.
"Not even the one where he compares your smile to the 'dawn's morning rays, chasing away the frost and bitterness of the night?'"
That's— "He said that?" You fiddle nervously with your necklace, something you just now realise Michael had bought for you.
"You dumping him has created a poet, it seems."
"What," you cough, pretending to be nonchalant, "what else has he said?"
"That you were his only reason for living and he couldn't bear to face the cold, cruel world without you."
"What?" You gasp, "Skeets, that's legitimately concerning!" Hurriedly pushing past the now seemingly callous little robot. Suddenly desperate to see the man you never stopped loving.
"Too far?" Skeets questioned the Martian as they both watched you frantically scurry to find Michael. Neither seemed too concerned.
"Not if it stops the constant barrage of sadness against my mental shields, my little friend." J'onn hummed with a commiserating glance at his unintentional companion to Michael's misery.
"Wait, I need to film this!" Skeets suddenly flew after you, leaving J'onn alone in blessed silence.
For approximately two minutes, before Michael's joyous proclamations of devotion and never-ending love breached his senses. Maybe it was time for a holiday, he decided. One far, far away from Booster Gold.
You knew it! My new original song “I Knew It, I Knew You” for Disney and Pixar’s Toy Story 5 will be yours on June 5th. I’ve always dreamed of getting to write for these characters who I’ve adored since I was a 5 year old kid watching the first Toy Story movie. I fell instantly in love with Toy Story 5 when I was lucky enough to see it in its early stages, and I wrote this song as soon as I got home from the screening. Sometimes you just know, right?
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Thinking about how doesn't take much to be denser than a brick for CK. He's a nerd for comics, hyper-fixated on his favorite storylines and fiction. He has unknowingly shut down multiple women’s attempts towards hinting at a date.
After he finally gets a girlfriend though? Holy shit is he excited to fuck. Getting his dick wet for the first time is pure bliss, better than the first rare Superman comic he got graded.
His thrusts are sloppy, but he makes up for it by rubbing your clit and eagerly rutting into you, talking to your pussy rather than you.
“Oh…yeah that's it you're taking me so well. you're such a pretty girl.” He rasps out, brushing his hair back with his free hand so his bangs don't stick to his forehead when mumbling, “So wet... ”
His eyes focused on the space where your bodies connect, watching as your pussy grips around his stupidly big cock when he pulls back.
His glasses are crooked, falling off of the bridge of his nose as he clings to your hips.
a/n: this has been in my drafts for months oops!! thank u everyone for sending me requests i promise im working on them!!!! 💓💓
he’s busy. he’s working. he doesn’t have time for you.
and you try to be understanding about it.
because this is what he wanted, right? more funding, bigger backing, investors with pressed suits and polite smiles and questions that stretch meetings long past midnight.
this is the part where everything gets real. less dirt under his nails, more contracts on the table. less chasing storms, more chasing signatures.
scott miller, suddenly a man with somewhere else to be.
you sit cross-legged at the edge of his bed, the lamp casting that soft honey glow over the room, and you check your phone again. nothing. no text, no “on my way,” not even a half-assed thumbs up.
your reflection in the mirror catches your eye, silk shorts, oversized tee slipping off one shoulder, just enough to be something. just enough to maybe make him forget whatever spreadsheet or investor call has him tied up.
you huff, flopping back dramatically against the pillows.
it’s stupid, you know it is. he’s not ignoring you on purpose. he’s just… consumed. like when he used to get with storms, eyes locked on the horizon, everything else fading out into background noise.
except now the storm is paperwork. meetings. expectations.
the lock clicks. you don’t move, too wrapped up in your own sulking, but you hear him. the way he exhales like the day’s been sitting heavy on his chest, the soft thud of his bag hitting the floor.
“you awake?” scott asks, voice low, careful.
you roll onto your side, propping your head up with your hand. “barely.”
he steps into the light, loosening his tie with one hand, hair slightly mussed, sleeves rolled just enough to show the lines of his forearms. he looks… tired. but there’s something else there too, something sharper, more focused. like he’s been switched onto a different frequency lately.
his eyes land on you, and they pause.
just for a second.
then again, longer this time.
“…hey,” he says, softer now.
you shrug, pretending not to notice the way his gaze drags over your bare legs, the hem of your shirt, the way it dips just enough.
“thought you were busy,” you say lightly.
“i was.” he steps closer, unbuttoning his cuffs, but his attention isn’t on his hands anymore. it’s on you. “ran late.”
“figured,” you reply, turning your face away just slightly. “important investor stuff.”
he hums, like he’s half-listening, half-thinking. “you’ve been waiting up?”
you don’t answer right away. just pick at a loose thread on the blanket.
“maybe.”
another step closer. then another.
“you didn’t have to do that.”
“i know.”
there’s a pause. thick. quiet.
that familiar weight of his attention when it finally, fully lands on you.
“what’re you wearing?” he asks, voice dipping lower, rougher around the edges now.
you glance up at him through your lashes, feigning innocence. “what, this?”
you tug lightly at the hem of your shirt, letting it slip a little more off your shoulder.
his jaw tightens.
“yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself.
“not tempting you in the least, right?” you tease, but there’s a hint of something real underneath it.
he stills. then he exhales a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh, dragging a hand down his face before looking at you again, properly this time.
“you’ve gotta be kidding me.”
before you can respond, he’s moving, closing the space between you in two strides, hands bracing on either side of you as he leans over the bed.
“i’ve been stuck in rooms all day,” he says, voice low, eyes locked on yours, “listening to people talk numbers and risk and long-term projections...”
his gaze flickers down again, slower this time, less restrained.
“and you think this isn’t tempting?”
your breath catches, just slightly.
“you didn’t seem in a rush to get home,” you murmur.
“that’s because i didn’t know this is what i was coming back to.” his hand slides to your waist, fingers curling just enough to pull you a fraction closer.
“don’t get it twisted,” he adds quietly, leaning in, his voice brushing warm against your ear, “i’ve got time for you.”
your heart stutters.
“yeah?” you whisper.
his grip tightens, just a little.
“yeah.” he says, while lowering his head to gently kiss your neck. his weight presses against you as you shift your legs to either side of him, finally getting some relief in your core.
"dont be needy sweetheart, only just got home" he chuckles, big hand softly massaging your breast.
you pout playfully, pulling him closer with your legs. you feel his hard on through his work pants, making you giggle against him. he takes your shirt off, discarding it somewhere in the bedroom, and wastes no time before worshipping your bud in his mouth. he mixes between soft sucks and bites, other hand exploring down your shorts.
he quickly finds your clit through the fabric of your underwear, teasingly rubbing tight circles.
you moan against his kisses, fiddling with his belt and trying to push them down. he gives you a hand, freeing himself just enough to get his hard on out. you drag your fingertips up and down his cock, kissing him desperately.
scott pulls your panties to the side, taking a second to admire your glistening clit. “shit baby, so wet for me” he whispers, stroking his length.
his tip nudges against your hole, gathering the slick, before entering deeply.
“mhmm, fuck scott i missed you” you whine, needily rocking your hips to feel more of him. the weight of him on top of you feels intoxicating. your cunt flutters around him, sucking him in deeper. his tip repeatedly hits your soft spot, tightening the coil in your stomach.
“gotta stop squeezing me like that baby, shit, not gonna last long” he mutters, groaning into your ear.
you match each others desperation perfectly. you grip onto his bicep like a vice as you gush around him. “just cum inside me scotty”
after that, scott crumbles, letting his seed fill you up. his eyes never leave yours. he stays ontop of you for a minute, big hand stroking your hair.
Summary: you get jealous of wally's flirting and leave the party early, but he won't let you go that easily
CW: 1.3k, alcohol, wally and reader are somewhat drunk, friends -> lovers, jealousy, pining,
froggi yaps -> sorta based on the events of last weekend, a little self indulgent of me but i needed to write smth for myself between these reqs <3
The shot of tequila you just downed still burns in your throat as you slump in your chair. The alcohol burns but the bittersweet taste in your mouth isn’t from the liquor, it’s from the sight laid out in front of you.
The party is dark, the walls freckled with orange and purple lights that dance through the house. Ten feet in front of you, at the far end of a fold out table, are Dick and Wally.
The people who’d dragged you to this party, who’d pregamed with you before cramming into the back of a cab to get here. The people who are now playing beer pong with two of the prettiest girls you’ve ever seen.
Part of you wishes it was darker in here so you didn’t have to see it. So you didn’t have to watch them grin and holler, flirt with the girls on the other end of the table between shots.
Bile rises in your throat—or maybe it’s alcohol, it’s hard to tell. All around you, people are having fun. Dancing, drinking, singing obnoxiously to the music. You should be up there with them but you’re rooted in place, butt glued to the chair, forced to watch.
Wally sinks another cup, cheering. The girl says something snarky, the flirtatious undertone burning your ears, and chugs the alcohol from the cup.
For a second, Dick meets your eyes across the room and offers you a smile. You force one back, ignoring the way the backs of your eyes burn. It’s not him making you feel this way, it’s not even the girls they’re playing with.
They don’t know how you feel. They’d only met you tonight, and they’d been nothing but kind to you. They chatted about your interests, complimented your costume, one even helped you apply your lipstick. No, it wasn’t their fault at all.
The only person to blame here is you. You, for falling in love with your best friend. You, for coming to this party with him and thinking you had a chance. You, for not having the balls to go over to him and ask for his attention.
More cheers, more drinks, and your stomach churns with nausea. You’re not drunk enough for this—or fuck, maybe you’re too drunk for this. The room is swaying, your heart aching in your chest.
And before you can think, you’re rising to your feet. You stumble slightly, the floor wiggling tilting you. You blink back more tears, forcing your face to be as neutral as possible as you walk past them, through the crowd of bodies, and to the stairwell.
You just need some air. That’s all. Once you’re outside, the cold air will snap you out of it and you’ll feel good enough to head back into the party.
But the outside air doesn’t soothe you so much as it suffocates you. It pricks at your skin, seeps into the places your clothes don’t cover. You’re breathing but your lungs only fill with sand, each breath getting shallower and shallower.
And then the garden gate blows open.
The world around you fades away. The thrumming bass of the party, the flashing lights, it all disappears.
You don’t even realize what you’ve done until you’re a block away, tripping over your own feet up a sidewalk. The party is far behind you now, replaced by freezing night air and dull streetlights.
Guilt chews at your insides with each step you take but you can’t bring yourself to stop because the guilt feels better than the all-consuming jealousy you’d felt earlier.
You’d made them promise before you left. Promise not to leave you. Promise to help you get home safely. And here you are—leaving them instead.
It’s been ten minutes since you left the party, maybe less, and now your phone is blowing up. Wally’s contact pops up, your phone buzzing incessantly. Every missed call leads to another, along with a barrage of texts.
You freeze reading them over. The guilt burns now, floods you, threatens to eat you alive. The tears you’ve managed to keep at bay flow freely, coating your face, closing your throat with unspoken sobs.
You don’t answer, instead, you send him a picture of the road in front of you. You mean it to be: I left early, I’m almost home, I’m fine.
He leaves you on read and you breathe a sigh of relief, only for a streak of lightning to come crackling up beside you.
Wally’s gasping, his cheeks flushed, chest rising and falling harshly. He stands in front of you, blocking your way forward. “Where are you going?”
Your voice is shaky. “Home.”
His brows furrow, eyes zeroing in on the tear stains on your cheeks. “You’re crying,” he frowns. “Are you okay? Why are you crying?”
You sniffle, wiping your tears onto the back of your hand. Twenty minutes ago, you would’ve died to have his attention on you. Craved it, even. Now it’s like a cosmic smack in the face. A reminder of how pathetically jealous you feel.
“I’m fine. Just…going home.”
He sighs, placing a firm hand on your shoulder. “You didn’t tell me you were leaving. I-I was worried.”
“I didn’t think you would notice,” you say quietly.
Your words hang in silence, thickening the air between you. Wally’s fingers flex, frown lines only deepening.
“That’s just silly,” he says. “Of course I would notice. I-I always notice.”
You didn’t notice when those girls were there.
“Talk to me,” he pleads. “Please, tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it.”
That only prompts you to cry harder, the burning in the backs of your eyes increasing tenfold. You shake your head and try to turn away so he doesn’t see you cry but instead he pulls you into his chest.
“Hey, it’s okay.”
He smooths a hand down your back, the warmth of his palm soothing away your chill. You let your head fall into his chest, his t-shirt soaking up your sobs. It’s bittersweet having him hold you like this.
Wally’s heart breaks seeing you cry like this. It hurts him, tugs on something in his chest that he didn’t even know was there. “You’re okay, it’s okay,” he draws circles along your spine. “I’m here, I’ve got you.”
It’s silent for a beat. Just the two of you hugging on the sidewalk, Wally holding you like he’s afraid you’ll run again, like you’ll slip through his fingers and disappear. And you, leaning against him like you’ll fall if you don’t, like he’s the only thing keeping you steady.
“I was jealous,” you say finally.
He pulls away only slightly, just enough so he can meet your eyes while his hands remain on your hips. “Jealous?”
You nod solemnly.
“Of what?”
“I-I don’t know. Of you, those girls—it’s stupid. This is stupid.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, “you like me.”
You shake your head but both of you know it’s a thinly veiled lie at best.
“You like me and you wanted my attention,” he teases, eyes practically twinkling. “Well, this is one hell of a way to get it.”
You slap his bicep. “Shut up.”
“Not until you admit it.”
“You’re insufferable.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “But you like me.”
You groan. “I don’t. I really, really don’t.”
He lets his hands drop from your waist, looking nonchalantly over your shoulder. “Then I guess you wouldn’t mind if I went back to the party?”
And that alone is enough to set that spark of jealousy ablaze once again, your hand fisting in his shirt and pulling him close to you.
“No. Don’t go,” you look at him through your lashes, “please.”
“Fuck, don’t look at me like that.” His eyes meet yours, “I’m not going anywhere, I’m all yours.”
It’s hard for you to believe that when he was flirting with other people thirty minutes ago. As if he senses the doubt in your mind, Wally kisses you.
He closes the gap between you and cups his hands on the back of your neck and presses his lips against yours like he’ll never get the chance again. He tastes like booze—both of you do—but it’s so Wally that it hurts.
You drop your hand from his shirt, grabbing at the loops of his jeans instead. The world falls away from beneath your feet and the only thing keeping you here is Wally, always Wally.
When he pulls away, you’re shaking. No—he’s shaking. Vibrating.
You blink. “Wally…”
“I like you too, by the way.”
dc masterlist | navigation
thanks for reading & have a wonderful week /ᐠ > ˕ <マ ₊˚⊹♡
Newest on the team at the Daily Planet, your co-workers set a high bar in terms in friendship.
You like Lois. Jimmy is a decent desk-mate. Cat is nice enough. You don't even want to talk about Steve.
But Clark Kent... There's something about him that irks you.
His niceness.
No-one is that nice. And honestly? You'd rather keep him at arms length, then let him worm his way into your heart — because you’ll be damned if you let that stupid thing get broken again.
(Or: Clark Kent and the string of terrible, horrible, very bad attempts to woo his co-worker. Unsuccessfully.)
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
[15k, coworkers to lovers, grumpy x sunshine, one-sided enemies to lovers, fem!reader, you are, lovingly, a difficult women (with some trust issues) but that is exactly what clark likes about you <3 - title from the waitress soundtrack of the same name!!!]
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Click-click. You click your pen, off then on.
The screen of your monitor hums with a faint buzz, just like all the fluorescent lights in the Daily Planet do.
The office murmurs around you, slowly waking with chatter, and it's just one more thing to mentally convince yourself you can't hear. On a good day, you can ignore it.
On a bad day…
Click-click. Off and then on.
Displayed on your screen is what's been served up to your chopping block, a new piece for you to tear to shreds with edits.
You've become the unofficial office shark, a one-stop shop for ruthless edits. Nothing leaves your sight without being slashed to pieces with red pen.
Beside you, on your desk, is a copy of yesterday's print.
You're trying hard not to look at it —not the title, Superman Saves Downtown; No Casualties in Extraterrestrial Attack— and not the byline either, printing Clark Kent's name on the front page.
Stupid Clark Kent and his dumb, stupid exclusive Superman interviews.
It's actually laughable how your envy reduces you to the insults of a second-grader – which actually is probably making you dislike it all the more.
With a huff, you try to redirect to the piece you're supposed to be editing.
"You know, your screen's gonna set alight if you keep glaring that hard."
You move your glare from your screen to the speaker behind it. Daily Planet's finest photographer, your desk-mate, and occasional pain in your ass, Jimmy Olsen.
He grins, despite being at the receiving end of your pointed stare. Jimmy is one of the few lucky ones immune to it.
"Alright, Medusa. What's got your panties in a twist this early in the morning?"
"Nothing has any effect on my panties whatsoever," you mumble back, breaking your glare to look back at your screen. Dropping the pen on your desk, you shake the mouse back to life.
"Have you considered that maybe that's the problem?"
"I'm gonna file a formal complaint if you keep talking about my panties," you grouse back, to which Jimmy laughs.
It's all bark and no bite really.
Jimmy is one of the only ones who have actually figured that out about you—that you're prickly to begin with, but you never really mean it.
The shuttered swirl of the heavy revolving door announces the arrival of, none other than, the object of your morning envy — though the dropped files are a classic of the Clark Kent entrance.
Papers fly as they hit the floor, scattering in a flutter you can hear across the office. It's quickly followed by Clark's muttered shoot!
One particular piece of paper does an elegant arc, swooping high and settling close to yours and Jimmy's desk.
Out the corner of your eye, you squint at it, but it's too far to make out the words.
Clark scampers after his spilled papers, hasty apologies spilling from him like an overzealous printer stuck on reprint. "Hi–sorry. Morning, hi, sorry, lemme get that—"
He ends up beside your desk by the time he's gathered them all in his hands, straightening up to his full height.
It's just for a moment—then he's hunching back over, shoulders curling forward.
Like it does much good; he's still at least 6 feet tall.
"Morning, guys," Clark says warmly, nodding to Jimmy, then you. His retrieved papers are in an untidy pile, held against his chest precariously. "What are we talking about?"
He's probably asking to be polite. Or to distract from his fumble with the papers.
Unfortunately for him, you've decided making Clark squirm is an easy way to enact a quiet retribution.
"My panties." You say plainly.
Jimmy coughs out a laugh, even though you're technically telling the truth. Hey, he was the one who brought them up! You shoot him a wry grin – then watch Clark.
His mouth has opened, as if to give a response to that, but then he closes it, thinking the better of it.
You imagine it must be hot, blushing that fiercely. His cheeks and the tips of his ears both appear as if he’s had too much time in the sun. Farm boy red, you'd call it.
In the end, Clark only swallows. Then nods at you both, his eyes averted, and scuttles away with a mumble you can't hear.
A glimmer of enjoyment toys a smile on your mouth. You convince yourself it's from watching him squirm. For grudge-related reasons, obviously.
"Must you torture him?" Jimmy asks, the moment Clark's out of range.
"No," you answer with a shrug, turning back to your screen. "But he makes it easy."
You don't add that you're pretty sure his bashful disposition is almost surely put on. He's a grown man. No one… blushes and sputters like that actually. Certainly not at you.
Instead, you punch the keys of your keyboard a bit too rough, deleting a whole sentence from the piece on-screen.
"It's the Midwestern in him," Jimmy says, with a sympathetic sigh.
"Yeah, well, it makes you wonder how he became such a hard-hitting journalist." You snort, though you make an effort to keep your voice low.
"Seriously, how is it that he's the only one who gets the exclusives with Superman?"
Across the desk, Jimmy's eyebrows raise an inch. "Ah. So that's what the glare was for."
You don't dignify that with a response—mainly because he's hit the nail on the head. Damn you for choosing a profession where your coworkers are paid to be nosy and observant.
You shrug again and remove another sentence that has the gall to have three adjectives in a row.
Jimmy leans forward. "Y'know, maybe that's the real secret to good journalism – he's just nice. You could try it sometime?"
He's joking of course, but there is still something in you that stiffens. He's brushed an exposed nerve by accident.
You're nice. You are.
It's just… There's something about Clark Kent – something that seems to irk you specifically.
Beyond his ability to cop all the limited interviews with Metropolis' hero —which does indeed drive you up the wall— there is just something about him that gets under your skin.
He's so perfectly polite – so nice, it's almost to a fault.
You've seen him give his lunch away to someone who forgot theirs. He knows the names of the janitor's kids. He says hi to everyone in the office.
He says 'golly' for Christ's sake.
It's simply too good to be true. No one is just that good by nature — well, maybe Superman — and definitely not without something else, some other motive lurking below.
The journalist instinct in you itches. Something about him doesn't quite add up.
Besides, you've been around one of these guys before. Had the displeasure of being the idiot who fell for them and dated one. They're always a real sweetheart, convincing everyone that the sun shines out their ass.
They're the honey in a trap. They lure you in with sweetness for long enough, and you never realise it's slowly become vinegar in your mouth.
You like to think you know better now.
And on top of Clark's infuriatingly nice demeanour, and his penchant for snagging the front-page at the last second — he's knocked you to the second page of print twice now — is the fact he's, undeniably, attractive.
You have eyes. You can, begrudgingly, use them.
Even you can admit that Clark Kent is a 6 foot something, dark-haired and light-eyed, tall glass of water.
You suppose it's good thing that he doesn't strut around like he knows it. That might be the thing that tips him from a slight thorn in your side to downright unbearable.
Alright, now you're being dramatic. It's not like he's Lex Luthor or anything of that sort.
It's just that you're somehow the only one who seems to be wary of him, to notice the inconsistencies in his absences, to be distrustful of his kindness.
(You pointedly ignore the voice that tells you that says a lot more about you than it does about him).
It makes that little voice in your head, the one you spent so long working to keep quiet, wonder if you've got it all wrong. If you're losing your touch.
Because you know there is a chance that he is that nice and you're the only one too cynical, too scornful to believe it.
The cursor on the screen blinks back at you, almost mocking.
You steal a glimpse to your left, towards Clark. As if sensing the movement, he looks up from his computer. He smiles crookedly and gives a little wave.
You purse your lips and nod, acknowledging it, eyes quickly back on your own screen.
The cursor is still blinking tauntingly at you, in the same place as before.
You start typing just to get it to stop.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
It's usually a good day when the culinary column has leftovers for the office, you've learned.
It doesn't happen often. Today, it's a much needed pick-me-up. The November weather is gloomy. Overcast. The rain had fallen in sheets this morning, puddles pooling along the path to work.
You're trying very hard not to feel the squelch in your socks.
Impossible when you can hear it, a gross wet noise with every hurried step you take toward the break room, which is where they said the macaroons would be waiting.
Sweet, sweet sugary goodness, not far away — if you're not too late, that is.
You'd been entirely too wrapped up in your latest article, headphones in and world blocked out, that Lois had to tap you on the shoulder to get your attention.
You'd jumped, then turned with a fury in your brow at being interrupted—then clocked the treat in her hand.
"Better hurry," she had said, brows wiggling.
Springing to your feet, your thanks is nearly swallowed up by the swiftness of your stride— broken when you hastily have to backtrack to avoid having your headphones violently ripped out.
Headphones safely removed, you depart your desk at double speed.
As you walk, you roll out your sore shoulders. God, it's been a moment since you moved about.
Your neck isn't grateful for the hunched position you've kept it in either, twinging its annoyance. Still, you round the corner to the break-room with an impressive haste.
And—there.
On the table, perched in adorable ruby-coloured cupcake wrappers, are macaroons. Sage green little discs, cream sandwiched between them.
There are only two left.
Beside them, standing at the table, are Jimmy and Clark. Thankfully, both already have a wrapper in their grasp, meaning they've at least had one.
"Yo," Jimmy says, as you beeline for the table. "Just in time—"
Clark, for once, doesn't greet you with a smile. Instead, he frowns a bit, seeing your locked focus as you lead with an outstretched hand towards the plate.
"Oh, gimme," you urge.
Then, right as your fingers close around one, it's suddenly batted out of your hand.
It flies from your hand and makes not a sound as it lands on the ground, crumbling into the world's saddest pile of green crumbs.
Bewildered, you gape down at it, bottom lip unconsciously jutting out.
Your sorrow turns quickly to indignation. You look up at the culprit, eyes narrowed—but don't even get to speak before Clark's explaining himself.
"You're allergic to pistachios!" Clark stresses, sounding appalled. "What- why would you— that's why I didn't bring you one!"
Right, okay. What? Well, fine, okay, yes, pistachio would explain the green colour of the macaroons.
And yes, you are, technically, in the eyes of the law, allergic. Barely.
What's some itching in the throat?
Actually, better question: How does Clark know that?
Your brain skips a couple times, struggling to compute through both the implication that he's somehow figured out your very mild nut allergy—or that he would've brought one to your desk.
Your eye twitches. "You— how do you even know that?"
"You… You mentioned it during one of the team-bonding exercises they made us do," he says, abruptly sheepish.
He shifts on his feet. One hand scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly.
Jimmy, who usually can't take the cue to be quiet, picks now to say nothing. You decide you hate him.
"That—" You start, still reeling through Clark's answer. That exercise was months ago, when you first started at the Planet.
Born of tiredness, the weather, and the fact Clark's appalled expression is nearly, nearly cute — which is infuriating — a pettiness rises within you.
Despite being entirely correct, suddenly, you can only think, who is he to tell you what you can or can't eat?
"It's a mild allergy, Kent." You stress the word mild. "I think I'll live."
You can tell on his face that he doesn't really like that answer.
Frankly, you've decided you don't really care.
Glancing between the plate on the table and Clark, you make a split-second decision.
Your hand shoots out, but Clark is faster—and he snaps up the final macaroon before you even reach the plate.
Incredulity colours your face as you whip around, a scoff forming on your lips. Clark holds the macaroon between his fingers, his face one of tentative panic.
Then he promptly stuffs it in his mouth, whole.
"Clark!" Jimmy says, finally breaking his silence.
Clark, his cheeks now a burning red, begins to chew awkwardly through the treat in silence.
You stare at him.
What the hell? You're not sure if you're more pissed off that he stole the final macaroon from right under your nose – or that he did it to self-proclaimedly help you.
You can't quite believe the sheer audacity of the move. Or that he also, somehow, manages to look cute while he does it.
Woah. Cute? You blink hard.
The lack of sleep and excess of caffeine has to be getting to you. You do not find Clark Kent cute. Much. Not when he's just cheated you out of two macaroons now.
You open your mouth, ready to unleash a string of how dare you and just who do you think you are and what the freak, dude — and then you catch Jimmy's eye.
And you remember his stupid comment about being nice—and think about how he probably thinks Clark did something good.
Noble Clark Kent, saving the office idiot from herself. You close your mouth, say nothing.
Biting your tongue, it feels like your socks squelch extra loud in your aggravated exit.
Left behind in the break-room, Clark watches you go.
He finally manages to swallow the macaroon, which goes down lumpily. Cringing, he thinks that might be a top competitor for the driest mouthful of his life.
Never mind that. It's definitely taking out the top spot for one of his trying-to-help-turned-bad-turned-worse moments with you.
Clark has more of those than he cares to admit.
Gosh, how did he manage it? To not only fumble in the worst ways whenever it came to you, but consistently?
You might be one of the only people on the planet with a genuine reason to potentially dislike him. And it's entirely by accident.
Ironic, really, considering he feels pretty much the opposite.
Maybe that was the cause of this, his newest fail of epic proportions. The daft betrayal of his heart to go sky-rocketing at the simple sight of you. Though, Clark thinks simple is too small a word to describe you aptly.
Scintillating. Gorgeous. Otherworldly — and he actually has some idea of that. None of the words really match up to the image of you.
You've got purpose. Fire. You're a woman who knows how to do her job well—and that's exactly the kind Clark can't help being drawn to.
Too bad it's completely fruitless.
Clark stares at the doorway you've just disappeared through and positively wilts.
"So." Jimmy says, a thousand words stuffed behind the single syllable. Clark turns with a soft sigh to find Jimmy grinning like he's definitely enjoying this.
"How's that wooing going for ya?"
Clark sighs again, more weary this time, his cheeks no less hot.
He's beginning to regret telling Jimmy of his feelings for you—despite the fact it's good to have someone to lament to about your constant rejection.
Though, it's not as though he really handed that information over willingly. Jimmy had wormed it out of him after catching one too many lovesick glances across the office. Clark had vehemently denied it, but to no avail. He's pretty sure Lois has also caught on.
"You know, I think this was easier when you didn't know."
"Sorry, man," Jimmy grimaces, though he's really not radiating apologies. "Hey, I'd take it back if I could."
Clark delivers him a look that tells him exactly how much he believes that—not at all.
Jimmy laughs. "Yeah, okay, I'm lying. It's fascinating, watching you crash and burn every time."
He makes an airplane noise, a little neeeow, swooping his hand through the air before miming an explosion. Really helpful stuff.
It just makes Clark slump over even more than usual. His shoulders droop so much he's almost in danger of dragging his knuckles on the ground.
His eyes roam over the remains of the first macaroon you'd attempted to eat on the ground. Staring at it, Clark can admit it wasn't his finest move— and his only defense was that he'd acted in surprise.
Batting it out of your hand, though? Jeez, you probably think he kicks puppies in his spare time too.
It's just a touch humiliating that the situation he is so desperate to succeed in, is in the most hopeless.
Sure, he can save the world, but a regular interaction with his co-worker whom he happens to be crushing on? No dice.
His cheeks flare hot again. In an attempt to preserve some of his dignity, he buries his face in his hands.
"I don't know how you think this is helpful," Clark says, words muffled behind his hands.
"Okay, I'm sorry," Jimmy relents genuinely, holding his hands up in surrender. "I'll be helpful. What about… Have you thought about doing, I don't know, a romantic gesture? Getting her flowers?"
Clark drags his hands off his face, knocking his glasses as he does. A fingerprint smudges on one of the panes. He fixes them, straightening up at the seriousness in Jimmy's tone.
"You think?" He asks earnestly. "Wha— but I'm not even sure I know which kind she likes the most."
Jimmy does that half-hearted eye roll he always does when Clark's being infuriatingly earnest. He shrugs, slowly backing toward the exit. "You're a journalist, Clark. Figure it out."
Just before he disappears through the door, Jimmy pauses.
Mouth twisting to hide another smile, he points down to the crush of green macaroon that's slowly sinking into the carpet.
"Better clean that up before Perry sees it — otherwise we'll never get culinary treats again."
Then he leaves Clark alone in the break-room - with nothing but the remaining evidence of his latest fumble and a plan.
Half a plan.
The beginnings of one.
It's something at least, Clark thinks wistfully.
The siren of an ambulance whirs by on the street down below. Someone three floors up coughs. One of the interns peeks around the doorway, her face hopeful.
Clearly, word of macaroons passed round quickly.
Her face droops at the sight of the empty plate on the table. Well, Clark hopes it's because of that – and not the sight of him. She moves on without a word.
With a final sigh, Clark pushes back his sleeves and crouches down beside the green mess. As he picks, he ponders.
Flowers. Sure. Yeah, he could do flowers.
How on earth could he possibly fumble that?
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
There's a bouquet of flowers on your desk.
It's Monday morning, 8.45am, and you already have a plan of exactly how this day will unfold.
It's going to go swimmingly. You'll tackle the brute of that interview you'd gotten from Todd Inc. Industries yesterday; you'll treat yourself to a sandwich from Benny's for lunch; and you'll have no interactions with Clark Kent, if you can help it.
You've forgiven him for the macaroon incident — solely on the fact that he had somehow been a little bit right.
Not that you went home, bought yourself your own damn pistachio macaroons, and had to wheezily jab your EpiPen in your own thigh.
Of course not. You would never do such a thing. (Nor admit that to Clark).
So, begrudgingly, you've decided he's forgiven. The incident is not quite forgotten though.
All of this is to say—nowhere in your plan is a bouquet of flowers.
Treading a little slower, you approach your desk like it holds a ticking time-bomb and not an array of freshly cut greenery.
Your skeptical gaze darts over them, narrowed, looking for… something.
But they're just flowers.
Displayed in a pale blue vase, wrapped in coloured cellophane, bright marigolds and deep blush-coloured posies peep over the side.
You step closer, tentative. Your nose twitches. God, you can smell them sweetening the air. Which means they're probably expensive.
Which means your first thought is that this must be some kind of mistake — you are not the person who just gets flowers.
Stepping closer yet, you eye the bouquet as if it's going to grow teeth and bite you, dropping your bag into your seat.
Your face pinches together in thought, then quickly glance around the office, hunting for someone who's missing flowers.
Clearly, they've been put in the wrong place.
No obvious flower-shaped indent glows back at you, indicating their true place. You huff a sigh and look back at the flowers.
They are… lovely, you'll admit. Automatically, you check the office, making sure no-one's observing you.
Then, gently, you reach out and brush your thumb pad over one of the posy petals. It's fleshy, soft. Unbidden, a soft noise of longing escapes your throat.
When was the last time you got flowers?
The thought stains as it hits, and you remember exactly what the last occasion was. You snap your hand back.
Then squint at the flowers as if they might give you the answer. Would he…?
No. No, you hadn't heard anything since the break-up and that had been- been like a year ago.
He wouldn't. He wouldn't. You had been very clear.
You give a forceful shake of your head to clear the thought.
If it's not him, you're still not going to be foolish enough to entertain the thought they're meant for you.
Wrangling your bag to the ground, you slump down into your chair. The elevator chimes, people still trickling in. The clock reads closer to 8.50am now. You glance past your monitor.
The absence of your desk-mate is actually somewhat of a relief. Even though you have nothing to do with this, Jimmy is precisely the guy who will rib you for days for this mix-up.
You can already hear him now: Any flowers this morning, milady? Any callers to court you today? Shall we be expecting a marriage proposition any day now?
"Good morning."
Speak of the devil — you've spoke a smidgen too soon.
You turn, eyes already narrowed at Jimmy returning from the printers. He spots the flowers, face contorting into surprise, and really hams it up — which means he's definitely already seen them. Fantastic.
"Ooh, lucky lady." He wiggles his eyebrows. "Flowers, huh?"
You're not sure why you feel so defensive. "They're not for me."
"Aren't they? They're on your desk."
You cut him a look. You have to bite your cheek to stop yourself from commending his incredible observational skills.
But then, Jimmy leans forward, plucking a delivery card you hadn't spotted from the bouquet.
He turns it in his hand—and your name is printed on the other side in swoopy, curled letters.
Huh. You blink at it. They are for you.
After a moment, your brows knit together. That… might not be a good thing.
Did you piss off another band of lawyers, are getting sued to hell, and this is to soften the blow?
Are you being pranked right now?
Maybe you're getting fired. A moment later and you laugh at yourself at that thought. Yeah, that and Perry has grown a sudden unexpected soft spot for you overnight, enough to send you off with a fresh bouquet. Unlikely.
Jimmy offers out the card, and you take it, bringing it closer, as though the letters might change form if you look closer.
They don't. It's your name, for sure. Your desk number and everything.
You turn the card over in your hand. There's something written on the back.
I hope you can forgive me.
Blinking hard, you read the words again.
What day is it today? Your eyes glance to your desk, at the small flip calendar you have, and familiarity flashes from the date.
You read the card again.
Then once more, just to be sure—eyes darting between it and the date.
"Everything okay?" Jimmy's voice filters in, muted in your ears.
You make some noise in response, but it's far away from you. A sinking feeling begins to bury itself in your stomach. You really didn't want to be right, but you are. You must be.
Marigolds and posies. On the 16th day of November. I hope you can forgive me.
The sinking feeling transforms into a sharp sort of anger.
This Monday is really not going the way you planned. No way you're getting goddamn stalked.
Brashly, you stuff the card back into the bouquet, uncaring of the way they crush under your harsh movements.
"Woah, okay, what—?"
You ignore Jimmy and his surprise – you'll explain it later, or maybe never – and scoop up the flowers from the vase.
Water trickles out, leaving a scatter of fat droplets across your desk. You'll be pissed about it later, undoubtedly, but right now, you need these flowers out of your sight. Shredded. Do flowers burn well?
Goddamn, you thought this was done.
You thought he was out of your life for good—and that he could be remembered as a shitty ex, your worst mistake, and nothing more.
But, no. Of course, he's the type to love-bomb.
To think he can swoop back in, a year later, and pretend that nothing even happened. Your boots click loudly as you head for the trash at the front of the bullpen.
Which is, of course, when Clark makes his arrival.
You spot him coming around the corner and can already sense his unfathomably polite greeting. He sees you and smiles, giving an awkward wave that he plays off as adjusting his glasses. "Oh, hey—"
He appears to just now notice the flowers in your hands.
"Oh! Um, flowers-! Wow, those sure are nice—"
"I don't have time for you this morning, Kent." You say, for once not meaning to snip at him in particular. He's just in the crossfire of your very, very bad morning.
“You don’t…?”
Clark’s sentence trails off as you don’t even pause, breezing right past him.
The flowers crumple beneath your fingers further as your grip tightens without even meaning to, mind blazing with a well-rooted anger. You come to a stop before the trash.
With a resounding flourish, you dump the flowers.
They hit with enough force to flutter your hair back and send a loose sticky-note afloat for a second.
You huff, a little more settled at the sight of your ex's unanticipated attempt at a re-entry into your life exactly where it should be: going out with the garbage.
"Wow." A voice snaps you from your focused stupor.
You glance up, relieved to find Lois—even if she is glimpsing at the ruined flowers amongst the junk of the office with an amused look.
She asks, "What'd they do to you?"
You huff again, your shoulders sinking down as you do. "Let's just call them an unwanted advance."
Lois' dark brows raise, her lips pressed together as if holding back her next comment. She eyes the greenery in the trash once again, then her eyes travel over your shoulder. She focuses back on you.
"Well," she says evenly, her smile polite. "I'm sorry it feels that way."
Her eyes dart over your shoulder again, just momentarily.
You almost want to peer over your shoulder to see what had drawn her gaze. But the string twined around the flowers snapped, the cellophane around the flowers unwrapping in a loud, dramatic crinkle.
You eye the marigolds with a barely contained contempt.
The thought of who gifted them to you—of him tracking you down, finding your work, figuring out your very desk number—is nearly enough to make your lip curl.
A droplet of water slips down your forearm. You look down, spying the dew on your arms.
Abruptly, you're aware of just how you'd stormed across your workplace with all the grace of a toddler in the midst of a tantrum. All to trash some flowers.
You blink, then press your hands to your jeans, half to wipe them, half to calm yourself.
Right. You were fine. This was fine.
Just because— you weren't— just because he used to call you crazy didn't mean it was even remotely true. Even if you crashed out over a bouquet of flowers sent on your old anniversary.
You screw your eyes up and take a breather. This is why you kept your distance from him. He toyed with you. He liked seeing you rattled.
Feeling less ruffled, you wipe your hands again and trek back to your desk.
You pass Clark's desk, footsteps slowing. He sat now, his head bowed.
Despite all your usual prickliness, his averted eyes and the memory of your snappish tone brings a lump to your throat. An apology lodges it in.
Even your worst envy and disgruntlement hadn't had you being quite this rude before.
You open your mouth — then close it.
How does that apology even go?
So sorry Clark, my ex-boyfriend— who I nearly considered getting a restraining order against —sent me a bouquet of flowers, the same kind he always used to, specifically on our old anniversary as a pathetic bid to see if any chance with me — or maybe just to fuck with me — which isn't your fault, so I really shouldn't have snapped at you and your handsome, likeable face.
Bit of a mouthful, really.
You decide, maybe a bit cowardly, you'd rather swallow the regret instead. Continuing forward, you collapse into your seat opposite Jimmy.
For only a moment can you pretend to not notice his gaze.
Clearing your throat awkwardly, shuffling your papers, your eyes flick up. Your desk-mate stares across at you for a long moment, his eyes a little wider than usual.
Slowly, one eyebrow floats up.
He doesn't even have to voice his question aloud for you to know what it is. You can feel it.
What the fuck, man?
"Sorry," You exhale tiredly, too tired to explain for the same reason you didn't apologise to Clark.
It's barely a sentence. Even as his eyebrow joins its others' raised position, Jimmy is kind enough not to comment.
He only narrows his eyes into a bewildered squint. It doesn't match the polite, absentminded smile on his face.
Which you suppose is fair, considering the sentence you just said makes you sound like a six-year-old being asked her opinion on boys.
Shuffling your papers again for something to do, you sink down further in your seat. Embarrassment slights you.
God. How the hell did your morning get so bent out of shape?
The baby blue vase is still intruding on your desk space, so you nudge it to the side. The water within sloshes.
You sigh. "I'll explain later, okay?" you say, and you leave it at that.
Jimmy takes the cue from you and dutifully begins actually doing his work, as opposed to simply pretending to.
It takes another half hour to stop glancing over at the place you know the crushed flowers lie. It crosses your mind an infuriating amount of time, the niggling worry that they— that you might be wrong.
But you steel yourself. Marigolds and posies and on today, of all days. It has to be him.
You're too good a journalist to ignore the coincidence. Occam's Razor agrees with you too.
Besides, who else would be getting you flowers?
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
"Okay, I do think maybe the universe is working against you," Jimmy says, his chair gliding across the tiles of the Daily Planet.
He's got a cup of coffee in his hand, and the motion of his roller-chair nearly spills it, a wave of amber liquid sloshing up the side of the ceramic.
Clark watches it worriedly — it's a bit too late for coffee, but Jimmy never seems to let that stop him. It doesn't spill somehow. Jimmy comes to a halt next to his desk, thinking face on.
"That or she hates you." He offers, far too blasé about that potential for Clark's liking.
He's rolled over because you've taken a break from your desk to head to the restroom. It's the first time you've left your desk since The Incident. The blossom blunder. The flower fiasco.
Gosh darn writer's brain, Clark thinks, wishing he could turn it off for a moment.
He's grateful for Jimmy, but he's not sure he really wants to talk about it so soon after.
"Please don't say that," Clark says with a sigh, then drops his head forward into his hand. It's an all too familiar motion now. "I think I need to- or I don't think- I—"
He cuts himself off with another sigh, unburying his face from his hands.
He'd told Jimmy, yes, because the other man had all but squeezed the information out of him, but mainly because he needed help.
It had become evident that, despite all his best attempts, no wooing that Clark Kent can offer can seem to capture your attention. Now he can see it a bit more clearly.
You're inscrutable.
Or completely uninterested — in him.
"I think I need to leave it." Clark says with finality. He glances at the door that leads to the restrooms, checking you haven't returned. "I'm clearly bothering her."
"Mm, no." Jimmy says immediately. He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. "There's something else there. I can, like, sense it."
"Sense it?" Clark echoes, almost too eagerly. He feels himself flush.
"Yeah, sense it." Jimmy shrugs nonchalantly, taking a sip of his coffee. "Call it my journalistic instinct. It… It doesn't make sense. It's gotta be something else."
Clark opens his mouth to defend you, to say that actually, you not being interested in him is something that may make perfect sense — but Jimmy beats him to the punch.
"How'd you pick the flowers?"
Clark blinks. He checks the door again. "Um. Social media."
"Social media? Which one?"
"The- the pictures one?" If Clark's being honest, there are far too many sites, and he's on none of them. "I just typed her name in, and a bunch of photos came up."
"In where?" Jimmy presses, eyes a little narrowed.
"The search bar…?"
Jimmy's face twitches, as though Clark's given a severely wrong answer, but he doesn't say anything.
Instead, he pushes back to his desk — coffee floundering again — and returns with his laptop in one hand.
"Okay," he starts, finally placing his hazardous coffee down, both hands rested and ready to type. "What and where exactly did you—"
In a manner much unlike himself, Jimmy abruptly shuts his mouth.
He presses his feet against the tiled floor and sails back to his desk smooth - just in time for Clark to catch a glimpse of you heading back for your desk.
Clark straightens up instinctively — then hunches back over. For once, he's not trying to catch your eye, not trying to sweeten your day with a smile.
It feels wrong to ignore you. But, well, whatever Jimmy says, whatever sense he says he has, Clark thinks you've made yourself perfectly clear.
You are not interested in him in the slightest. Not even as friends.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
For the remaining Monday, a day that feels like it's dragging its heels just to spite you, you do what you do best.
You ignore the flowers, the office, and dive headfirst into your work.
You're half an editor for the office – hence the office shark title – but half trying to shed the title. The big goal has always been to commit fully to your writing. It's… a steady work in progress.
Perry likes what you show him, enough that he keeps giving you assignments, but you're far from being relieved of editing duty.
Today, you're happy to have it. Tearing through first drafts and all but rewriting entire sections is much easier than doing any writing yourself.
The day goes slow, feeling as though time barely trickles by.
But no day can exceed its 24 hours. Five o'clock drags around, eventually, and frees you from the shift.
You have a date with your bed, hidden beneath the covers, and a re-watch of Dirty Dancing. Maybe some wine – though it is Monday.
It's as you're packing up with haste, eager to be out through the revolving door and away from work, that your gaze sweeps across the office. The realisation comes gently. Despite being in his usual place, you haven't seen Clark all day.
Huh.
And it continues that way.
Not that you're noticing, no. Of course not.
You actually normally make an effort not to notice Clark. He makes it difficult, what with his height and Midwestern manners that make him the nicest guy in the office.
But, somehow, when you make an effort not to notice someone, it can somehow have the opposite effect.
Like the task suddenly becoming suspiciously easy.
You make it all the way through Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday before you slip up.
Because, really, you should know better than to invite Lois Lane into your business. Doing so is basically giving her a pass to snoop into your feelings. And snoop she will, when given the chance.
Still, the question has been bugging you since the beginning of the week.
So much so that you can allow some snooping if it gives you some answers.
"Is Clark avoiding me?"
You're stopped at Lois' desk.
She's here early, like you are, and there's no Jimmy, no Clark, no Steve, no Cat, or much of anyone else to eavesdrop on your conversation.
"Mmmm," Lois barely manages to drag her eyes away from her screen to focus on you. The question you've asked sinks in a second later. "Avoiding you? Doesn't sound like Clark. Why don't you ask him?"
"You know, the funny thing about avoidance is…" You say dryly.
Lois' gaze is already back on her article. She shrugs, voice distracted. "Maybe the flower thing."
That has your eyebrows raising.
A glum guilt forms a stone in your throat that you have to swallow back. What, because you had a bit of a meltdown, he suddenly can't stand the sight of you?
You feel ticked off. Then realise you're feeling ticked off that Clark Kent, who usually irks you, is ignoring you. What has the world come to?
"The flower thing?" You start, already a bit ready for a tiff. "That's not—"
"Look," Lois interrupts you, a quiet desperation in her tone. "Can we please pin this? I'm in the middle of something here, and I really need to get this done before 1pm."
Your annoyance washes away in a moment, face pulling a sympathetic scrunch. "Yikes, a Perry-special deadline?"
Lois nods, an exasperated sigh blowing out of her mouth. "The very one." She pulls a thankful smile at your understanding.
"Need more coffee?" You offer.
"Oh, so much." She groans, moving to grab her cup. You take it from her, well aware of the pressure of a Perry-special deadline, and more than happy to help.
You grab yourself a cup while you're there and decide to brew a fresh pot for the office too, because it gives you more time to think.
Because, really, if you think about it, you shouldn't have noticed.
Since starting at the Daily Planet a couple months ago, a transplant from Metropolis Star, from day one has Clark Kent's seemingly innate niceness been there.
And since day one, you've been suspicious of it.
You maintain: no-one is that nice.
And not to you, least of all.
You're, for lack of a better word, abrasive. You know you can be… harsh.
According to your ex-boyfriend, you're seven kinds of crazy and a bitch too. A rude woman who's never going to find someone else who will love you like he does. (In your books, that's a relief).
You try not to take that to heart, because he certainly is an ex for a good reason—but, you also know that there is some degree of truth to his words.
You're… unpalatable to some.
You'd knocked heads with Lois for a while before eventually, shakily finding your footing in that friendship.
Jimmy and you had taken at least a month to move out of the frosty zone and start talking beyond glib comments.
You still can't stand talking to Steve.
But Clark? He'd been nice to you from day one.
There has to be a catch. The other shoe must be dangling, invisible and overhead, waiting to drop.
Because if there is, the grudge is easy.
Clark Kent stays at a distance, with you holding a ten-foot pole made up of unresolved issues.
You don't have to worry about what it does to your heart that he's still kind to you, even when he's seeing the worst parts of you. Let's you excuse the moments you've been storing to the side, harbouring, fueling something.
The grudge means you don't have to worry about what it means if he sees you.
It keeps you safe from the part of you that wants him to see you.
When the coffee smells like it's nearly burning, you're shaken from your thoughts, with a suspiciously yearning-shaped lodge in your throat.
You take the coffee off just in time to rescue it. It's a tad overdone, but you don't think Lois will be complaining. You hope.
You pour a cup for her, then half the sugar jar in too.
As you pour one for yourself, you resolve that you're… just not going to think about it.
Grudges, Clark Kent, feeling safe? Sounds like a problem for Future-You.
Probably to be dealt with in a healthy way, never.
You tell yourself it's a good thing that he seems to be avoiding you, because you can get more work done.
Then you nod to yourself as if that can make it true, and set off to deliver Lois' coffee.
Time dwindles by.
Jimmy makes a remark about the burnt coffee when he makes it to his desk, to which you glower in response.
Perry chews out some intern in the back for a serious misprint in yesterday's paper.
Keyboards clatter, and the soulless blink of the cursor taunts you all day.
You're ready for home by 5 o'clock, but — "You coming tonight?"
You look over your desk and blink at Jimmy before frowning. "Tonight? What's tonight?"
"Drinks." Jimmy reminds you, eyebrows raised. "Remember? For Cat's birthday?"
Right. As he says it, the memory does tickle at your mind.
The plan that Cat had made cute, personalised invitations for: black card, cat-themed, very fitting.
You quite liked Cat, even if you didn't know her too well.
Truthfully, going to a bar sounds like the last thing you want to do right now.
You've had a date with a big bottle of red wine booked and waiting since Monday—since the very moment those flowers graced your desk—and the last thing you want to do is try to socialise.
"Yeah," you say eventually, though it comes out a bit weary. "Yeah, I'm coming."
Jimmy grins. "Great. We're all thinking of walking together."
Your eyes travel up past him to the little group that's congregating close to the door, waiting for the stragglers to finish packing up.
Clark, Lois, Steve, a couple girls from other departments you don't know the names of.
Great. Cool. That won't be an awkward walk at all.
Though, you guess Clark isn't avoiding you anymore.
The revolving door has dragged a bit of snow in, the tiled ground wet with its melt. Stepping out into the chilly November night, you shiver instinctively.
Snow has been falling all day, a little softer now, little flurries that pass by and stick to your hair. The streetlights glow amber. The city is quieter under the muffle of fresh snow.
You keep your hands buried deep in your pockets. You end up at the back of the group.
It's a short walk to Crowley's, the dive bar Cat's chosen, so you don't mind too much. You're still the newest addition to the work group so you know how this goes.
Though, there had been some half-baked plan to stick by Jimmy's side. That idea clearly had been shared. The two girls whose names you don't know walk on either side, giggling easily.
Right. Because, somehow, Jimmy is the ladykiller of the office.
That had been surprising to find out — because if you had to pick anyone at a glance, you'd have put money on Clark.
Not that you would admit that. Aloud.
As you round the last block, you slide a little on an icy patch, stomach swooping. You curse under your breath, righting yourself a moment later.
Silently, and watching your feet more closely, you huff a sigh of relief, because wiping out with co-workers you're still getting to know ranks up there in terms of embarrassing.
You look back up, making sure you're still with the group — and lock eyes with Clark momentarily. He's looked back to check on you.
But then he's tugged back into conversation with Cat.
His head turns, showing an aggravatingly attractive side profile. You watch as his dimples appear with an easy smile, then subsequently curse yourself for finding them so endearing.
The chill has nearly made its way through your coat, so it's a relief to get down the stairs into Crowley's.
Inside, it's warm, crawling with heat that brings a flush to most everyone's faces.
A crowd of bodies fill the space, packed loosely. It's pretty busy for a Friday night.
Thankfully, Cat has had the forethought to book out one of the booths. You follow the single file of your group, filtering through the crowd one by one til you reach the back of the bar.
The booth fills up quickly, and in a matter of moments you realise there's only one seat left— the one next to Clark.
He looks at you still standing and blinks before giving you a hesitant, crooked smile.
You feel your treacherous heart give a lurch and damn it to hell. Then damn Clark for being as attractive and nice as he is.
You look at the seat again, considering.
Think of the flowers from Monday and his avoidance all week; think of the mess of your heart that only threatened to worsen when you got closer to Clark.
Yeah, you're gonna need a drink before that happens.
The wooden bar is sticky from spilled drinks— a fact you find out after placing your hand on it.
You pull it back with a frown, shaking your hand out with a quiet bleh! You make sure not to lean on it as you survey the scene before you.
Behind the bar, the bartenders look flustered. There's three of them, each moving with a pace that is both not fast enough and entirely unsustainable - making you extra thankful your retail days are behind you.
The wait gives you time to think. Gives you time to decide on exactly what you want to do tonight.
You'd been, for lack of a better word, moping for the better part of this week.
It had been an unsettling Monday, followed by a bout of paranoia that had you checking all your accounts.
Maybe you missed one; maybe there was something you'd forgotten.
You hadn't. Your ex was blocked on every single one of them, just as you'd left them a year ago.
It should appease your anxiety. Instead, it just makes it that much worse that he'd managed to figure out your exact desk.
The only regret you'd had with dumping the flowers, the only glimmer in your angry armour, was not taking the message card, hunting down each and every shop the brand had, and confirming your suspicions.
You decide that, between the flowers and the weirdness of Clark actually avoiding you back, you deserve a drink.
And an irresponsible hook-up.
Cat would forgive you — in exchange for the gossip.
Which is all good and well, because as you're done deciding, someone sidles up beside you, pushing through the crowd.
It's a man — a decent-looking one too, from what you can see.
He's tall, not quite as tall as Clark (shut up, brain), and he's got a beard that could probably be better taken care of.
But he's got a strong jaw and a decent head of hair. You can't tell what colour his eyes are in the dimness of the bar.
Eyes which fix on you for a moment.
Then he leans two arms up on the bar. "What's your poison?" He says, in lieu of a greeting, nodding in your direction. His voice is low.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" You say with a smile you don't quite feel.
You're testing the waters. Sue you, you like to play with your food a bit - see if they can handle you being a little mean.
"I would," the man says, turning more to face you. His eyes flick up and down, clearly checking you out. "That's why I asked, isn't it?"
It's a good enough response for you. You eye him up and down and decide, yeah, fuck it, you deserve this.
You know exactly the kind of guy he is.
He won't call you. The sex will be good… enough. It'll scratch the itch, leave you feeling probably a little shit about yourself.
Right up your self-deprecating alley for tonight. After all, misery does love company.
"Scotch." You say, in answer to his first question.
That makes his eyebrows raise. "Really? You can handle that, huh?" His eyes glitter darkly. "Didn't peg you for that kind of girl."
"You have no idea what kind of girl I am."
It comes out a little harsher than you're going for, but you blame it on the bad week chafing.
You go for a more simpering look to make up for it — but the man's eyes aren't on you anymore.
They're over your shoulder. You become aware of a sudden warmth behind you.
"Everything okay over here?"
You don't recognise the voice at first, as it's deeper than it usually is, but you don't even have to turn the whole way to know.
Striped tie, white button-up, broad shoulders.
Your simper turns into a scowl on a dime.
"Kent," you greet, through slightly gritted teeth. "What are you doing?"
Clark looks down at you, surprise showing on his face at your expression.
His 'tough' demeanor — tough your ass, Clark Kent doesn't have a tough bone in his body — melts under your glowering gaze.
"I'm— I was checking in." He stammers. He seems to shrink down a little, realising there seems to be a misstep somewhere.
"I don't need you to—"
"This guy your boyfriend or something?" The man at the bar interjects.
You whip back around, already blinking in shock. Boyfriend? How in hell did he make that jump?
"No," you say — at the same time Clark says, "Boyfriend?"
You shoot another glare over your shoulder because he isn't helping. It's too late.
You can tell the man has decided you're not worth the fuss, his hands raising up in a defensive motion.
"Look," he says. "Whatever you've got going on, I'm not getting in the middle of it. My bad."
You watch as he slips away from the bar, disappearing through the throngs of people, with a sinking feeling in your chest.
The moment he's out of sight, you tear around to face Clark. He at least hasn't fled the scene — which is more than you can say you would've done.
Your eyes scrunch closed, your hands raised in little claws of confusion. "What… just happened?"
Clark has the decency to look sheepish when you open your eyes, his shoulders rolled in, head hung low. "I thought he was harassing you."
"Harassing me?" You repeat, in a bit of disbelief. You'd love to know what hoops he jumped through to reach that conclusion. "I was flirting with him."
"Flirting?" Clark echoes. "You sounded mad at him!" He defends himself.
"Yeah? Well, do I sound mad at you?" You drop your hands, flexing them at your side. "Because I am! I can't believe you– you- ugh, that just cost me my hookup."
"Hookup?" Clark says — and oh my god, is there an echo in this bar?
You glance up at him, still confused, and notice there's a colour to his cheeks that wasn't there a second ago. "You were gonna sleep with him?"
Your jaw drops open an inch. Okay, yeah, he's from a small town in the South, you can excuse it a little bit.
But you hadn't expected him to be so tightly strung about this—especially considering it's none of his business.
You fold your arms tight across your chest. Clark gets an expression that embodies the word apprehension.
"Okay, Smallville, I don't know if you know, but it's 2025—"
Clark cottons on to exactly what he's said wrong, and though it seems impossible, his face flushes darker.
You barrel on, "—which means I don't need to be married to—"
"No!" He interrupts desperately. "That is not what I-! I would never insinuate that— I firmly believe in a woman's right to choose. You can… do as you wish…"
It ends on a feeble, quiet note as though Clark's realised all his problems tonight stem from talking too much.
He raises a hand to rub the back of his neck awkwardly, his cheeks still flaming.
He does seem genuinely remorseful — because he's so goddamn genuine in everything he does — that it softens you a bit. You know he would have had the best of intentions stepping in.
However, good intentions only go so far to dull your sharpened tongue.
"Yeah, well, thank you so much for your permission, Kent."
Clark's eyes shutter closed, an obvious regret rolling off him in waves. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to overstep, I— I'm just sorry."
God, how are you in this situation — where your co-worker, who you begrudgingly think is hot, but also don't like much (liar, says your brain), scares off your hookup and gets called your boyfriend in one exchange?
Deciding you'd rather apologise with a bottle of wine to Cat, you do what you should've done at the beginning. You decide to go home.
You sigh, "I think I'm just gonna head out."
"Because of me?" Clark says, sounding incredibly guilty.
It must be contagious, because you suddenly feel quite guilty too.
He rolls on, pleading in his voice, "No, please don't. I'm sorry- I'll help you find another one, another, uh," He coughs awkwardly. "Hookup."
He nods, not at all confidently.
Somehow, you doubt that would go over well.
Though, the thought does amuse you — Clark going around the bar, politely tapping different gentlemen on the shoulder, asking their availability and then talking you up.
God, you can't imagine he'd have all that much to sell them on.
His expression reminds you too much of a kicked puppy to fib to him. "No, not because of you," you say with a soft sigh. "It's just been… a week."
Somehow, it's as though your words make him look guiltier.
Blue eyes wide, he swallows thickly. "Look, I know I likely contri—"
"Kent," you cut him off. "I'm sorry, but I don't want to talk about it. I'm just," you heave another sigh. "I'm taking this all as a sign. It's not my night."
You shove your hands in your pockets, already dreading the cold that awaits you outside. "Think you can apologise on my behalf to Cat?"
Clark, looking more downtrodden than you've ever seen him, gives a slow nod. "Yeah. Yeah, I can do that for you."
"Thank you," you say, lips pursed tightly. You nod awkwardly, already ready to excuse yourself through the crowd. "Goodnight, Clark."
He watches you go.
The cold keeps you company the whole long, lonely walk home.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
November rolls into December and cold, snowy weather gets pulled along with it.
Despite Jimmy's protests, Clark knows he was right to stick to his instinct — that you were thoroughly uninterested in him.
He loses himself in assignments, head down, as the whole office struggles to meet deadlines in the abysmal weather driving down morale.
The only light glistening at the end of the tunnel? The Daily Planet Christmas party.
It's held at this swanky ballroom, same as every year. The fanciness of the place is balanced out with its cozy decor, dozens of couches and cushy armchairs dotted around the place.
Wreaths and garlands are strung around in all the colours of Christmas, sparkling under the fairy lights.
There's holly in every corner, tinsel around the doorframes – and Clark's sure he's seen some mistletoe under one of the doors out to the balcony.
It's Christmassy in a way that reminds him of home.
Reminds him of Smallville, plaid bedsheets, and the smell of Ma's fresh apple pie.
He's only half hoping you'll come.
A half hope because it appears that whenever he has any interaction with you, it somehow ends with him inserting his foot into his mouth.
It was becoming a concerning pattern at this point – one that he was rather desperate to break.
Yet still, some other part of him – a larger part if he was really honest with himself – still wanted to see you here tonight.
Amongst friends, even if he wasn't one of them.
And it's that part of him that sighs, a wistful romantic sigh he really should work on containing, when you wander in.
It's only been twenty minutes since the party started, so you're not exactly late.
And Clark would be lying if he said he hadn't been counting each minute of it, his eyes checking the door each time it had opened and someone new wandered in.
As subtly as he can, he takes you in with another longing sigh.
There's snow in your hair and on your coat. You look a little peaky from the cold, but Clark can already see the good the warmth of the party is doing to you. There's a bit of glitter on your eyelids, a berry-red colour on your lips.
You look captivating.
Gosh, he's in deep. Clark curses himself and his gooey heart. Despite all his fumbles, all his missteps, he can't shake the crush just yet.
He will. He will. You're perfectly within your rights to rebuff and reject him – you don't owe him a single darn thing.
But feelings are silly things. No matter how respectful he might be of your own, there's no quick fix to get his own to fade.
And with the way you look tonight, enigmatic and beautiful, all at once, Clark knows he's far from getting over it.
Tucked away in a corner, waiting for Jimmy to return with some drinks for the both of them, Clark fiddles with his tie awkwardly.
It's one Ma sent for his birthday – spotted and autumnal in colour.
He's not sure if it's in style or anything that suits him, but his Ma bought it for him, so of course, he's going to wear it.
"Yo," Jimmy announces his arrival, both hands occupied with two cups that are nearly overflowing with eggnog. "My bad I took so long. Got caught up talking to Cassidy at the punch bowl."
Jimmy hands one cup to Clark – who takes it – and then he glances over his shoulder, back at the punch bowl.
With one hand free, Jimmy sends a little wave back to the drinks table, to Cassidy. She promptly bursts into flustered giggles.
Clark takes a sip of the eggnog, though he knows it won't have an effect on him in the slightest. He gives an awkward smile at Cassidy, attention back on Jimmy when he spins back with a sudden, renewed interest.
His eyes are wide, sparkling with a devious enthusiasm, like when he's picked up a new lead in an assignment.
The moment he speaks, Clark realises why.
"I think I know why y/n trashed the flowers."
Clark holds back a little groan. It's nice that Jimmy is still rooting for him, really, it is. But there comes a time when it needs to be put to rest.
"Jimmy–"
"No, Clark," Jimmy interrupts – and he's grinning a little in a way that catches Clark's attention properly. "I was so right about my sense. It was something else altogether. I think, if you– just, wait–"
He takes a chug of his eggnog as he fishes his phone out of his back pocket, eyes fixed on it as he begins to hunt through.
A few clicks and then— he's holding it out towards Clark, showing a recognisable photo.
It's you – and another man, technically. But Clark hadn't been looking at that, just at the bouquet of flowers in your hands.
Marigolds and posies. You're smiling at the camera, but, looking a little closer, he can tell it doesn't quite reach your eyes.
"The photo you found, was it this one?" Jimmy asks, sounding like he already knows the answer.
Suddenly feeling a little timid, Clark shifts on his feet. Then nods. "Uh, yeah. Why does that matter?"
"Clark," Jimmy starts, phone still held out. "That's her ex. After what happened, I looked up her name, like you did. And look, I follow her, and these photos? Nowhere on her page."
He takes another fast sip of the eggnog, talking through his mouthful. "So I followed the thread, and all of those photos are on his. He just accepted my follow, just now. Look, he has all these photos up, but she's deleted them."
Jimmy's pulled the phone back, his thumb scrolling down the page on his screen.
Photos flash by, the dates stretching back, and you're in all of them – smiling stiffly, on his arm, looking like a completely different person.
"And," Jimmy adds on, drawing his hand back. He studies his phone intently, clearly looking for something in particular. "Look. Look. The day you sent them?"
He waits until Clark's squinting at the screen – taking in the date of the post in particular.
"It was on their goddamn anniversary."
Clark blinks, taking in the information. The realisation settles over him, feeling like a burst of sunlight amongst the snowy weather.
"She didn't know it was me who sent it." He murmurs more to himself, tasting the words, the understanding, as it melts on his tongue, sweeter than anything.
You hadn't known it was him.
You'd thought it was – your words suddenly ring back through his memory. Let's call it an unwanted advance.
An ex you've all but scrubbed from your life, clear you want to be rid of—an ex that still has all your photos posted, clearly holding on.
Gosh, no wonder you'd trashed the flowers in the manner you did.
Then you'd hunted for something to soothe the sting in the bar – just for him to ruin that too.
Oh, Clark thinks he might be the unluckiest fool in all of Metropolis.
Jimmy watches all the shades of Clark's realisation, pocketing his phone and trying not to look too smug. He fails horrendously.
"See, what'd I tell you?" He sips his eggnog again, brows raised a mile high. "Sensed it."
"She didn't know." Clark repeats, unknowingly clenching his cup of eggnog a bit too tight.
Did it get warmer in here? His tie suddenly feels too tight.
He blinks and looks down at Jimmy with a seriousness usually reserved for Superman affairs. "I have to let her know."
"Yeah, you do!" Jimmy says, giving an affectionate punch to Clark's shoulder.
It bounces off easily, and Jimmy hides his wince, giving his hand a delicate shake. "Universe working against you, I called it. There's still hope, man."
"Wha– Jimmy, no." Clark pivots, realising what his friend meant. "Look, what matters most is that she knows she isn't getting– getting stalked by an overbearing ex, okay? Not my feelings."
He thinks back to the bar, the fumbling interjection, the misread situation, the frustration in your face.
No, Clark had dug himself a big enough hole. It was time to put down the shovel.
Jimmy's expression grows serious, his brows pinched together.
"Look, Clark, you haven't tried just… telling her. How you feel. You've been so focused on these hints, these gestures, and look where it's got you."
Clark winces at the reminder, and an apologetic look settles over Jimmy's face.
"Sorry, sorry. Just – maybe being forward is the best thing here?" He offers, shoulders hunching up in a shrug. "Like, as far as we know, she could have no clue what your feelings are. Don't you think you should at least let her decide before you take away the chance?"
Clark sighs, glancing up from his eggnog to look across the room.
You're easy to spot, because Clark has so much practice, his eyes drawn to you easily.
Jimmy did, despite all his smugness, have a point.
"Fine," Clark says eventually, a sigh laced through it. He's crashed and burned through several interactions with you; what's one more? "Okay. I'll tell her."
An infectious grin spread across Jimmy's face like wildfire, his cheeks rosy from the eggnog that he's probably already had too much of.
Jimmy's a small guy. Him and liquor are an interesting equation.
"Attaboy!" He crows – going to sock Clark in the shoulder again, before he thinks the better of it. "Trust me, it'll go well. I can sense it."
Clark's pretty sure Jimmy's just talking it up to make him feel better – but if Clark pretends to believe it, he can use it.
He rolls his shoulders back, ditches his half-finished eggnog on a nearby table, and swallows nervously as he adjusts his tie.
Sure, yeah, Jimmy's sense was usually right. It's just a lot to hang on a usually.
Clark tries to haphazardly fix his hair, running a few fingers through the black curls. He hopes his cologne still lingers.
As he straightens out his sleeves, he looks back to Jimmy, nerves already rearing up. "Do I look alright?"
"Buddy," Jimmy says earnestly. "You look like a million bucks. Go get her."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
Christmas parties aren't usually your thing.
Work events are a strange in-between social activity, where co-workers cross lines they never would at work, and you get the pleasure of seeing your boss in a tinsel bowtie.
Christmas jingles play all night, and the drinks are either not boozy enough or far too boozy.
Taking a sip of the punch you've served yourself, you cough a little, throat burning. Definitely on the too boozy side.
You silently pray no one witnessed that, taking a quick glance around, to quickly realise that at least one person did. Lois sidles up to your side, holding back her laughter with a smile.
"Don't say a word." you say a little hoarsely, before she can speak.
That makes her break, a laugh tittering out. She hides it behind her cup of punch.
"The punch has been taken over by Cat. If you'd been here earlier, I would've made sure to give you some warning."
She gives you a delicate nudge with her elbow. She looks beautiful tonight – a darker lipstick that she normally wouldn't wear to the office. Her blue eyes are darkened with make-up, her lashes long and spidery.
She comments idly, "I wasn't sure if you were gonna make it."
You decide you need another sip of punch so the honesty can slip out.
"I wasn't sure if I was gonna make it either, to be honest."
You glance around the party filled with your co-workers – and wonder if you'll ever truly shake the feeling of alienation. You know half of it is in your head. Yet, you've been at the Planet for months, and you still feel so new.
"Yeah, well, given you didn't stick around at Cat's drinks…" Lois trails off, and when you turn to her, she's fixed on you. Her eyebrows raise an inch.
She wants you to explain. You suppose that's fair.
Mulling over your thoughts, you think of how best to put it, when– "Was it because of Clark?"
You blink, a little surprised at her question.
"What?" Then, a beat too late. "No. No, it wasn't because of Clark."
Lois doesn't seem convinced by your answer, tilting her head with a little hum. "Mm, I saw him go up after you to the bar. Which, shortly after, you left."
You feel exposed that she witnessed your little spat with Clark. You'd hardly call it a spat though – it was more like, well-intentioned, incredibly nice Clark Kent stepped in and you snapped in his face.
You heave a sigh, thinking back to where you should start. The flowers?
Actually, now that you think about it, Lois never did tell you why Clark was avoiding you over that.
She beats you to the punch again, this time with a question that peels back all your layers. "You don't really like him, do you?"
She's not wrong, so why does the question bite?
Maybe the sting in your chest means she and you are both wrong.
You think over how much Clark has plagued your thoughts these last few months, how he'd managed to aggravate you, managed to draw your attention seamlessly.
He just… vexed you.
He's tall and handsome and so fucking nice — and he pushes your articles to the second page, gets all the Superman interviews, and, apparently, remembers you have a nut allergy.
He's– He's Clark!
You suck in a sharp breath. "What? No."
It sounds weak, even to your ears.
For some reason, that seems to irk Lois. She takes another sip of her drink, brows still raised at you over the rim of it.
"I don't get it," she says, after she swallows. "He's so nice. Like, chronically nice. Why is it such a chore for you to admit that he's a good guy?"
Something inside you stings and recoils at being called out for being unreasonable. Your excuses start tumbling out.
"Because I can't!" You hiss quietly. "Because– because he steals my front-page spots, and he gets all the exclusive Superman interviews. He rubs it in my face!"
Lois scrunches her face up a bit. "He doesn't steal them; Perry gives them to him." She states factually.
Which, yes, you know that Lois — but isn't she supposed to be on your side?
"And he can't control who Superman decides to talk to." She continues on, her tone nonchalant, easily picking all your gripes and dissolving them to nothing. "They have a relationship that allows Clark an in. It's a source the same as any other—you can't expect him to share that."
You huff, shoulders deflating, the wind thoroughly taken out of your sails by Lois' sound logic.
Of course she's right. Of course you're the stubborn idiot who can't let it go.
"Aren't you supposed to be on my side?" You whinge.
"There are no sides." She says with a smile and an affectionate roll of her eyes.
"Seriously, I think you're getting in your own way with this one. Why is it so hard to admit that you might have no real reason to dislike him?"
"Because-" The word gets stuck on your teeth. "Because he can't just be that nice! And if he is, and if I do admit it, then I have to admit how much I actually like him."
It comes out scathing — as if that can cover up the truth of what you've just revealed.
You don't even hear it until Lois's expression settles into something far too close to a smirk.
Oh shit. What did you just say?
"Wow," Lois says, blue eyes bright. "How much you like him? Do you… Do you have feelings for Clark?"
A preposterous idea. Positively ridiculous. Nonsensical.
No, you've never thought of Clark in that way—nor how great he would likely be at being a boyfriend.
You didn't think of how different he treated you compared to your last boyfriend, how much nicer he was to you, without the two of you even being friends.
Your denial is fast.
"No!"
Lois is faster.
"So you're just pretending you don't have feelings for Clark?"
"Yes!" You sputter, then realise exactly what you've just admitted. "No, I mean, no! Fuck, stop interviewing me right now, I'm- I'm not—"
Your words trail off into a lackluster sigh. You couldn't even kid yourself now, not with Lois' interrogation tactics shoving you into a spotlight.
You swallow, feeling the uncomfortable truth go down, burning like a gulp of the too-strong punch.
Clark Kent is nice. You like that he's nice. You like him – and there was zero chance in hell that he liked you back.
And you would rather tie yourself in knots than look that truth in the face.
"Okay, you know, this actually makes a lot of sense," Lois muses, more to herself than to you. She's staring at the floor, clearly turning things over in her head.
"Yeah–and yeah, but, then," she looks up, now graciously including you in the conversation again. "Why trash the flowers?"
You sigh again, the chafe of your ex coming up yet again wearing you down. "Look, my ex–"
Someone clears their throat behind you.
You watch Lois' expression as it changes from polite surprise to something far more knowing. A smile pulls on her lips.
"Hi, Clark," She says – and you feel a jolt of anxiety run through you.
God, is this the Christmas party from hell? You've barely been here 15 minutes, had your feelings for your fellow co-worker weaseled out of you by a different co-worker, and now he's here? Behind you?
God, you can't catch a break.
"Hi, Lois," he says as you slowly spin on your feet.
You go slowly, as though it might somehow, through divine intervention, change who's standing behind you.
No dice. Clark stands before you, in one of the most hideous ties you've ever laid eyes on, his attention fixed on you.
You swallow thickly. Think about saying hello, then decide nothing but a squeak will come out if you open your mouth, and save yourself the embarrassment.
It doesn't deter Clark.
In what looks like a nervous motion, he nudges his glasses up his nose and clears his throat.
"y/n. Might I talk to you for a moment?" He glances up to Lois, then back to you. "Privately."
Another jolt of anxiety, this one straight to your system. You feel your pulse pick up a bit, wondering what wicked deity above had it out for you.
Steeling yourself, you think: fine, let's rip this bandage off.
It sounds strong in your head, but your voice comes out as a croak when you say, "Alright."
Still, Clark nods.
He turns, and you, albeit reluctantly, follow him through the crowd, making sure to keep your distance. You don't look back at Lois, already picturing the expression on her face.
Ahead of you, Clark's eyes spy over his shoulder every couple seconds, as if checking you're still there. When he reaches the edge of the room, it's apparent he hadn't thought about what private place to take you to.
"Darn," he says, more to himself. "There isn't exactly…"
He trails off, eyes locking onto something, and you follow his gaze to the balcony door. You resist the urge to snort.
It'll be private for sure — no one else is foolish enough to brave the cold outside.
Clark glances back at you, an infuriatingly endearing expression that reeks of polite guilt. Yet still, he pushes forward, sliding the door open and stepping out into the snow.
You glance at the mistletoe hung over the balcony doorway and gather yourself with a slow inhale. Then bravely follow him out.
Outside is a whole different world.
Whiter than white, flurries of snow twirl about in the soft wind. You can see the street out here, a traffic light cycling through its rainbow of greens, ambers, and reds. There are cars on the roads too, yellow taxis and blue buses braving the slippery streets.
The sound of them is muffled against the snow, so much so that all you can really hear is the crunch of your own footsteps on the balcony.
It's decently tucked away from the party, wrapped around the part of the building that none of your co-workers are really inhabiting.
Private, indeed.
Your breath comes out in a cloud before you. Really, you would've grabbed your coat if you knew you'd be facing the frosty climate again so soon.
Wrapping your arms tightly around your middle, you focus on the man you'd followed out here.
Clark, irritatingly, doesn't appear cold at all. In fact, his arms remain at his side, his hands clenched into tense fists.
You eye him up and down and prepare for the worst.
Rip off the bandage, Kent, you will him mentally.
"I want to apologise."
You blink. Huh?
"W-What?" It's so unexpected that you stumble over your response.
"I'm sorry," Clark says genuinely, then keeps going like he's on a roll, and if he stops he won't be able to get the words out. "I– it was meant to be a nice gesture, but, well, the wires got a little crossed. And I can see now, that was my fault. Really, I should've signed the card but I…"
Signed the card…? You know you must be looking very confused right now.
"I," Clark clears his throat, then shoves his hands in his pockets. "I was the one who sent you the flowers."
A dim realisation goes off, like a lightbulb at the very, very back of your head.
The card he should've signed; the flowers. The flowers! The flowers!?
The very ones you had very publicly, in front of the whole office, in front of Clark, trashed.
You can feel the confusion pulling at your face, contorting it to a bewildered expression.
There are a thousand questions.
One stands out.
"Why would you get me," You jab a finger into your own chest harshly. "Flowers?"
"Well, uh, originally to apologise for the macaroon incident in the break-room. But also because…"
Clark sucks in a deep breath, then stares up at the sky, as if gathering his strength. A few snowflakes find a home on his eyelashes. God, he's so pretty (shut up, brain), it's not even funny.
"Because I like you." He says, evidently nervous. "In a romantic sense."
Maybe when you came outside, you slipped on the ice and hit your head.
That must be it – this has to be some dazed dream from a knock to your head.
Because you could've sworn Clark Kent just told you… he likes you.
Romantically. As in, with romance in mind. He's crushing on you, so to speak.
Wants to hold your hand and kiss you on the mouth.
Unwittingly, you warm a little at the thought. It's overshadowed by the much, much stronger emotion: astonishment.
"You…" You can't help how the disbelief colours your words. "Like me?"
"Well, uh," Clark clears his throat, glancing up at the sky again nervously for a moment. He nods, finds your eyes, and speaks more surely this time. "Yes. Yes, I do."
Yes, you've hit your head. You're probably in the back of an ambulance, high on pain-meds, at this current second.
That, or Cat spiked the punch with magic mushrooms and you're experiencing a very, very vivid hallucination.
It doesn't compute.
"But I'm…" You struggle to find the right words. He can't like you. It just doesn't make any sense.
The words come out a bit opposing on instinct: "But I'm rude."
"You are not," Clark defends quickly, his brow furrowed. He pulls his hands out of his pocket to wave them around. "You're spirited."
"I'm distrustful." You counter.
What are you doing!
"You're protective!" Clark claims.
"I stole an assignment from under you in my first week at the Planet!" You say with indignation.
Internally, you reel at yourself. It feels like there are a thousand little gnomes running around wildly in your brain, bashing it with hammers.
Why, why, why are you trying to convince him not to like you?
"You needed to establish yourself as a writer." Clark says easily, with a shrug of his shoulders. "And it was a beautiful article, much better than how I planned to write it."
"I threw your flowers in the bin!" You remind him, a little more desperately now, despite the fact you very much did not know they were from him until about 70 seconds ago. "In front of you. And everyone else at work."
"You thought they were from an ex," Clark says with another shrug, far too understandingly. "Who you suspected was stalking you."
"I'm…" You're running out of things to say now.
How is he not flinching in the face of all your flaws? At all your ugly parts?
How have you done all this to keep him at arm's length, and he's still decided… still says he…
"I'm mean." You say firmly.
So why does it feel like your bottom lip is about to start trembling?
That for some reason makes Clark chuckle, a smile breaking out on his gorgeous face.
He shakes his head. "Well, that one is just plain untrue."
You stare at him for a long moment. He has an answer for all of it. He means it. He likes you.
"You really believe all that about me, don't you?" You ask, and it comes out a little awed.
Like his faith in the world, in people, is something you're finally seeing the size of — and you can't see past the end of it. It goes on forever. He really does think you're wonderful.
It makes a stone form in your throat. It doesn't matter what he thinks; you know how this ends.
Good intentions only get you so far—and whilst you've somehow convinced Clark you're worth it, you can't keep that up. Something will fracture. He'll get tired of something – of you.
"It doesn't matter," you say, a little bitterly, your eyes dropping to the ground. "It's- we— I couldn't."
Clark shifts somewhat uncomfortably on his feet. "Well, yes, if you don't feel the same way, I–"
You don't mean to cut him off, but a laugh, a nearly delirious, scornful one, bursts out of you.
You hadn't been looking at it, but Clark's confession slides your feelings right under the microscope – magnified and impossible to ignore.
You're laughing at yourself. For letting a pretty face and some niceness win over your best attempts to deny yourself this. You have the backbone of a chocolate éclair, clearly.
This is such a bad idea. Why do you still want it anyway? You're wildly torn, head and heart tied in a vicious battle. How do you have this and keep your heart safe at the same time?
"I," you begin, stammering to a stop. "Clark, you're– you're you! Of course, even when I was trying not to, I had… I had feelings for you."
There's a long moment. You worry your words have been swallowed up in the snow. You really don't want him to make you repeat it.
But he only asks, quietly, "Had?"
You want to laugh again — because you could probably have slipped that past anyone else. Not Clark.
"Have," you say, feeling pathetically exposed.
You can't look at him. You're studying the pile of snow building up on your shoes with intense interest, wondering how the hell this doesn't end wrong.
Part of you is still reeling from his confession, still churning out new disbelief. He likes you. He likes you.
"You say you couldn't." Clark says gently, making a very important distinction. "Did you mean… you wouldn't? Why not?"
"Me." You state plainly, finally looking up at him.
You gesture to your chest - to the big, gaping hole in your heart - like it's obvious, like he should be able to see it from freaking space.
"I'm why not. I'm—"
You cut yourself off to a mutter.
"It wouldn't be good. We'd go on one date and– and it'd go bad, or I'd mess it up, and you'd realise what everyone else already knows. And then we'd have to be awkward co-workers for the rest of time. Which, if you think before was bad, let me tell you, it can get worse."
He doesn't say anything for a moment, eyes studying the ground, and you think, with half relief and half devastation, that you've convinced him.
Oh god, please don't have convinced him.
You feel like your heart's on a string, and you keep tangling it up, then giving Clark the knot—waiting for the one he can't undo.
Waiting for the problem too difficult, the one that's finally not worth the effort.
"Maybe," Clark says eventually, with an even shrug, and your heart sinks.
Plummets. You wanted this; you wanted this – you can't be this devastated.
And then he says, "I can't promise the date will be good, but…"
Your heart soars again, tugged up your throat. You look across the balcony at him, and you can barely feel the chill of the wind anymore.
"I know that I like you enough that I'd like to try."
Your gaze shifts to stare at the ground, hard, because you don't think you can take something that genuine head-on.
God, he really gives a shit about you. Like, he really likes you, the full ten yards, and everything. How did that happen?
You can do this. Can you do this?
He wants to take you on a date. You're spirited, protective, a bit too harsh sometimes, and Clark has looked at that whole package and said, That's the one I want.
You've been helpless at denying yourself this whole time. Really, what's one more time?
Despite the part of you that screams about how it could all go wrong, you grip the hopeful part of you that sings, What if it all goes right?
Shit, is that itchiness behind your eyes? Are you about to cry?
You sniffle and give yourself away in one sound.
"I haven't been on a date in a while." You admit very quietly, letting yourself open up just a crack. "I might not be very good, uh, company."
You hear the snow crunch as he steps closer, closing the distance between you. The balcony suddenly seems so much smaller.
You force yourself to be brave, to look up — and you're instantly rewarded with a smile you've never seen before.
Clark is beautiful when he's happy—grinning with the radiance of the summer sun.
You realise you've never really had that grin directed at you. For you. Because of you.
"That's okay," Clark says, closer to a whisper. It sounds like he really means it. "We can figure out a good date together. Whatever you wanna do."
God, he looks gorgeous out in the snow. It eddies around you, carried by the wind, and even with the cold, it feels like a part of you has finally thawed out.
You might not get to have this – but you get to try. And that's enough.
Clark huffs, a happy sound, opening his mouth to speak when–
"Yo!"
A loud rapping on the glass door startles you both, whipping towards the sound in an instant.
It's goddamn Jimmy Olsen.
He's holding a cup of the eggnog, and you can spot a bit that he's spilled down his front.
His cheeks boast the warmth of indoors – or maybe it's just the booze of his drink. You and Clark both blink at him, bewildered by his interruption.
"Mistletooooooe!" He points above the balcony doorway, at the one you'd remembered seeing as you passed under it.
It stretches the rules a bit — you and Clark aren't under it — though you have a feeling Jimmy doesn't care about that in the slightest.
His voice is a bit muffled through the glass, but you can clearly make out what he says as he yells, "Them's the rules!"
You fluster a little, turning back to Clark – who, adorably, looks much the same.
"He's drunk," he says sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "And he's been listening to me try to woo you for months, so," he coughs awkwardly. "Excuse him."
Only Clark Kent would use the word woo and mean it with complete sincerity.
The other words catch up. Months. Months, he said.
How did you deserve this?
It’s a small voice in your brain you’re becoming very unfond of. Shaking off your past, you decide, at least for tonight, you're done with that question.
You step a little closer, close enough to feel the fan of Clark's breath over your skin.
He smells like bergamot, something musky, and a spiced Christmas pie.
"It's the rules, right?" You say, a little breathier than you intend.
But Clark is watching you closely, pink colouring the apples of his cheeks. His beautiful mouth is pulled into a hopelessly endeared smile, his dimples showing.
He's looking at you like you're all he wants.
"Right," Clark breathes, the word barely audible.
You can hear it just fine, because it's a murmur that passes his lips as he leans down, nearing your lips.
He hesitates. You know it's because he wants you to be sure you want this so soon. You've think you’ve wasted enough time already.
Pressing up on your toes, you grip him by his unsightly tie, and – for the first time in months – you meet him midway.
And with his lips against yours, soft, warm, entirely dedicated to kissing you breathless?
You can't even feel the cold anymore.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
ok my loves i'm posting this thang so i can get OUTTA here and start watching me show :) i hope it is enjoyed!! @citrinesparkles @sparklingsin are the two peeps i know would like to be tagged and my usual frends @spideystevie @djarinova @brettsgoldstein @strangerstilinski, i relinquish this the tumblr void & hope it doesn't flop :P
your taunt was meant to be cruel, edged with a secret clark guarded with his every being. his face contorts in frustration, annoyance ebbing deep within him. his body remained bowed above you, trembling with effort when you deliberately shifted.
his hips jerk involuntarily, tip of his cock grazing your clit, throbbing and aching from having been blue-balled. "don't…say that." you release a shuddering breath as his thumb comes down to your sensitive bud. you jump at the rough callouses, rubbing against it hard.
your gaze snaps up, catching the conflicted look paint his expression, mirroring one of your own when he withdraws completely from you without breaking eye-contact. clark lifts you, a motion that was effortless as he carries you toward the bed. the tense, impulsive air from earlier — wanting to fuck each other so bad that you'd both been on the floor, had been promptly broken, replaced with clark's much more competitiveness and determination to prove you wrong.
he doesn't immediately re-enter you as he lowers you onto the unmade bed. instead, he kneels between your parted thighs. warmer, bigger palms slide up the plush fat, tightening in a painful intensity as he tugs you abruptly to the edge. it knocks the breath completely out of you.
his thumb skirts at the edge of your inner thighs where you were slick with arousal. the silence felt much more unnerving than his usual show of poutiness. "...clark?"
clark leans down, replacing the pads of his thumb on your inner thighs with his mouth. you jump at the press of his lips, followed by the sharp nip of his teeth on the sensitive skin. he works his way upward, holding you still against the mattress.
it's agonising. all of it. his slow explorative touches, all the hot, wet kisses everywhere but where you needed it the most. he's somehow managed to park his own aching need, painfully bobbing against his own abdomen — with the intentional dragging out of your pleasure.
you wince when his gaze meets yours. they aren't unkind, but they're glazed with a new teasing glint you hadn't quite seen from clark yet.
"claaark…quit teasing…"
your sweet plea echoes in the room, and you feel a low, approving hum vibrate against your skin. as though he'd been waiting for you to get the taste of what you'd deprived him of. his mouth wraps around your pussy without further teasing. tongue flattened, pressing a firm and relentless pressure. your back arches off the bed, though restricted with a possessive hold pushing them back down onto the duvet.
"f-fuck! cla — hhrk. don't — stop!"
clark's palm slides up your belly, moving upward to cup your warm, sweat-slick breasts. he squeezes the softness as his tongue works your pussy. dipping in and out of your tight walls and up to your clit. his mouth was just so fucking big that it felt like he was everywhere around you.
helplessly, you buck into clark's mouth, rocking and grinding into the gentle curve of his nose. whimpering incoherently at the assault of his wet, insistent tongue curling to the roof of your cunt.
he knows when you're close. and he sucks your bud hard, the sound wet and obscene in the room, "a-ah fuck! gonna cum. g'na cum!"
clark's acknowledgment rumbles riiight against your clit. he feels the telltale sign of your orgasm as you pulse on his tongue. broken cries spill from your throat as you cum hard, thighs quivering with how clark refused to relent, drawing out every last drop of your slick until you're a trembling puddle beneath him, with an arm strewn over your eyes as you finally come down from the high.
the mattress dips at the shift of his weight, the shadow casting over you ominously just as you think it's over.
he looks to you, desperate and broken, unable to curb his own need. you feel him pry your arm away from your face, "gonna put it in okay? hm?"
you barely get to protest as he positions himself at your entrance. offering you enough time for refusal or hesitation. but the needy look of his gaze was enough for your body to act in compliance. you slide your palm past your navel, to the folds of your cunt, parting it wider for him to see the eager pulse.
a low broken groan rumbles in clark's throat at the sight, the quiet invitation being all he needed. he enters you in a deep thrust, accentuated with a jerk of his hips. you both gasp simultaneously, the overwhelming full feeling coming so soon after your earlier orgasm has you tightening deliciously around his cock.
"mmh…baby you need t'relax," he chokes, enforcing his iron will to make good on his unspoken promise to make sure you feel like he fucked you.
he wanted you to feel him even days after, and that determination was enough for him to keep a languid pace, designed to draw out your pleasure.
and god, it had. each stroke of his girthy cock in your walls, the creamy, slick that made it so much easier for him to fuck your pussy in shallow thrusts. the sounds alone were making your belly churn with need, let alone that sweet spot he hit over and over again.
your palms come up to rest at his abdomen, each thrust making you go dumb, incoherent babbles spilling from your lips. his body remains a fortress. the muscles in his arms tensed and reddened, back rigid and strained with every fiber of him taut.
"s'too…much!" you squeak, weakly pawing at him, in attempt to push him.
clark catches your hands, lacing his own fingers with yours with a single palm, pinning them gently above your head with a pressure that offered you escape if you wished. he keeps at the pace, brows knit in focus.
"i-i can't anymore."
he merely tuts softly at your breathless whisper, clearly having lost all the fight from your earlier taunts. he sees the truth in your words, the trembling or your thighs and blissed out look in your eyes. but he shakes his head, voice low and equally pleading.
"yes…you can."
"claaaaark…" you whine softly as he guides your limp arms over his shoulders, cupping one of your palms flush against his fever-hot cheeks.
"i'm getting real…real close baby," his voice cracks for a second, "can you hold on? f'me?" through laboured pants, he continues grinding and circling his cock into your cunt.
you pulse around him with another, drawn out whine. dragging your nails down his damp, strained biceps. when you offer a weak nod, the bed creaks louder. whispered curses were quickly swallowed when he shifts his angle a tad, hitting a spot in you that made your vision blur.
"fuck! t-there", you gasp sharply, fingers digging into his muscles. you nod hastily, unsure at even what — the insistent probe of his cock in that gummy spot deep within you sent shockwaves through your entire body. pushing you into another, white hot peak. the bed frames only continue scream louder under the relentless motion he keeps up.
"here?" he pants, gaze unfocused as he tilts his body to support his weight, with his forearm against the duvet to keep the angle.
"FUCK, yes! there, there — th—ah!"
your pussy gushes around him with no further warning, fluttering hard along his length as you cum again. a ragged grunt resonates against the side of your head, followed by clark's growls. his hips bucks wildly, body shuddering as he coats your insides deep with spurts of his thick spend.
the force of his very last thrust elicits a screeching crack of the bed frames, and you both drop hard.
the two of you briefly look at each other in a bewildered surprise and synchronised breathing, and you finally break the intense haze.
"shit." you croak, voice hoarse in its delivery.
clark lets out a huff, rolling to his side and taking you with him so you're nestled against his chest instead of being crushed beneath him as he slump.
content: sub!clark, minimal plot, mean!reader a wee bit, praise kink (reader receiving this time), degradation kink kinda, reader & clark still being lovey-dovey
⊹★a/n: srry for bein not uploading in a bit, was busy with finals but we’re so back! not proofread!
꒰๑꒱──────────────★ ˚ ̟ ⊹ ♡
You massage your temples, an attempt to soothe your frustration after a heated phone call. You just blew a major business deal over the phone. You don’t want to even begin to think about what the rest of the board will say. You normally keep your composure, but you couldn’t stay silent when a stupid, chauvinistic pig was undermining your work in this industry simply because you are a woman. Thus, the most reasonable course of action was cursing him out. Oh, well! You like to keep your pride intact.
Your office phone rings again, the most aggravating noise in the world right now. Without hesitation, you snatch the phone off the hook and yell into it, “I thought I made myself clear, but I guess fuckwads such as yourself lack comprehen—
“Madam, your husband’s here. Mr. Kent. Is now a good time to send him up?” Amanda, the front desk receptionist, asks with a squeak. She feared you.
You clear your throat, a little embarrassed. You can’t let it show in your voice; you return to your usual stern tone. There’s a reputation to uphold at this empire. “Um, yeah, sure, send him up. Thanks,” you say rather curtly.
“You’re welcome, madam, he’s on his way.”
You’re first to hang up, of course, and lie back against your grand, brown tufted leather chair. You hook your fingers together, and your mind is consumed by the dreadful announcement you’re going to have to make at tomorrow’s board meeting. You’re so deep in thought, you barely notice your husband entering the den.
It’s not a literal den; you’re just a figurative lion to all your subordinates. Your office is so grand and opulent, perfectly suited for a boss like you.
“Hey, hon! We’re having lunch together today, ‘member?” He comes in beaming, typical Clark. He’s so excited to see his beautiful wife and can’t wait to show you what he made. Hint: it’s your favorite with some Kent embellishments.
Suddenly, you’re up and marching towards him. He can’t help but admire your form in the impeccable suit you don. The crisp suit jacket and matching pencil skirt, plus the black stockings, goodness gracious, Clark thought you looked so hot.
“So, I made yo—
“Shut up.” You push him back against the wall, or more like he lets you push him. You roughly tug his tie, pulling him down towards your lips.
He mumbles into the kiss, “Whoa, happy to see m—
“Shut up.” You ignore him and pull apart to leave hectic kisses on his neck.
“I missed you too—
“Shut up.”
“You smell so go—
“Hush.” You say through gritted teeth before removing his tie and unbuttoning his top with haste, moving down to his exposed collarbone.
“Sweetpea, your lunch—
“Oh my God, Clark, stop talking,” you groan, then kiss his lips again.
You grip his shirt and pull him towards the leather loveseat. He gently places the lunchbox down on the coffee table as your frantic hands discard his white button-up.
He breaks apart, “But, honey, it’s gonna get cold.”
You skillfully unbuckle his pants without looking down since you’re glaring into his eyes instead.
“What did I say about talking?” You palm him through his briefs.
“Honey, I want you to eat first,” he says as his breath hitches.
Oh, Clark, your over-worrying husband who just wants to make sure his hard-working wife is properly nourished. He hates knowing you work long hours without eating when you’re caught up in back-to-back meetings or whatever it is you do; he isn’t privy to all the details.
“Zip it.” You push him until the back of his knees hit the loveseat. Your eyes glaze over him; he looked so pathetic while half-naked for you.
You lean down and pat his thigh, making him lift up so you can say bye to those tightie whities.
Finally, you wantonly shove off your pencil skirt and mount his beefy thighs. The sight of your lacy black garter belt and stockings makes his brain short-circuit. He wonders how he got so lucky to have a woman like you, so out of his league, like this. His hands unhesitatingly find your waist as you grind on his growing hard-on.
“My goodness, babe—
You press a finger to his lips, effectively shushing him. “As a man, you have no right to fucking speak.”
His brow furrows, thinking about what he could have done to upset his wife.
“So tired of you weak men thinking you’re above someone like me,” you mutter, grinding harder on bare cock.
Clark finally gets it, but lets you talk to him like this. He has no issues with his gorgeous woman expressing her frustrations through sex. A bit unhealthy, but why would he argue with you? He supports all your rights and wrongs.
He whimpers at the feeling of your clothed cunt rubbing against him. He watches you, eyes full of pure admiration as his big hands caress your smooth skin.
“You all think you’re so fucking smart. So capable of running the world."
"Mhm," he hums without thinking, and you halt all movement.
"Are you seriously agreeing with me right now?"
"Wait--no, ma'am, um, you're so right; I could never do what you do," he sputters.
"That's what I fucking thought." You scoff when you feel that all-too-familiar dampness down there. "That fast? Jesus Christ, you men are so easy."
He blushes and proceeds to watch you in awe as you dry hump him, already so lost in the feeling of you when he's not even inside yet.
Clark whines when you stop again, unashamed of how desperate he is now. Suddenly, you spit into your hand before gripping his girth. With your other fingers, you push your panties to the side and sink down on him.
"Goodness, honey!" he blurts out.
You set a steady, normal pace, bouncing up and down his cock as if he were your own personal toy.
You tut, "Don't even think for a second this is for you. All I need is this cock right here."
He whimpers at your harshness, living for you being rough with him.
"Just use me, sweetheart , take all you need," he begs, and you roll your eyes.
"You make me s-sick." You moan while lifting your hips up, then slamming back down again.
You fumble with your own buttons; the heat was becoming too much. You shrug off your jacket and the rest of your useless clothes, giving your husband the perfect view of your bouncing chest.
His mouth falls agape, babbling all kinds of incoherent nonsense at your gummy walls, clenching him and your fat breasts practically begging to be touched.
You chuckle when he reaches for them. "Can't help yourself? You’re all so predictable. This all you ever think about right? You only think with that dick of yours?”
Nonetheless, you let him fondle and squeeze your tits as you ride him to your heart’s content. Clark holds you tighter against him, big hands splayed across your back so his mouth is mere inches away from them.
You melt when he kisses a tit before swirling his tongue around your sensitive nip and sucking on it. Arms wrapped around his neck, your hitched breathing like music to ears. You’re in an embrace with silver bullets forming on your skin.
“What man in this business works harder than me? Huh? Who has more degrees—shitt!” you moaned while your fingers became entangled in his messed up curls. The vibration of your voice sent a shiver down his spine. Paired with your God-sent cunt and your beauty, Clark could feel himself nearing his peak.
He lifts his head, “you’re the most hard working woman—gosh!—I know, baby!”
“Who became a billionaire in their twenties? Hmm? None of those other fucks that’s for sure—fuck, fuck!” you cry out when Clark pulls your hips down harder, burying himself even deeper. You let his take of control slide for the moment, too drunk on the sensation of him filling you up like this.
“T-that’s right, sweetie, you’re better than all of them!They all wish they could have half the mind you have!”
“Damn right! Ah, fuckkkk, Clarkie—Unghh!”
The nickname slipping out was enough to bring him over the edge. He holds you firmly against his chest once again and you nuzzle into his neck, muttering all kinds of profanities.
“May I, sweetheart? May I, p-please?” he pleads.
“Just do it!” Already knowing what he was asking.
His movement stills as he unleashes his heavy load in you, moaning your name so loud you’re sure the whole building hears. You cling to him when you cum at the same time, breathless when the pleasure washes over your body.
The only sounds in your grand office are the sounds of you and Clark panting as you both come down from the quick high.
Chest still heaving, he asks, “you feel any better, hon?”
explicit [18+] lipstick dick perverted uncut clark strikes again for a nasty part two bj
perv uncut clark would buy you the most vibrant slutty red lipstick that he could find at the store, watching as you uncap it to put it on in the mirror and stroking his cock in the reflection right behind you. your mouth drifts open, filling in the lines and bashfully thanking him for thinking of you and picking out such a beautiful color. clark has a dumb, horny, glazed over look in his eyes while he’s pulling on his thick dick on the bed, lowly giving you a cheeky you’re welcome while his hand strokes away. murmurs for you to come to him and get on your knees when you’ve finished thoroughly applying it to your lips. so you go over to him, wide eyed and crawling on your knees the whole way until you’re back home between his thighs, face to face with his cock.
he taps your cheek with it and says you’re so fucking pretty he can’t stand it, pulling on the extra skin wrinkled at his tip while it’s resting on your face. has you kitten lick the tip and makes you dig your tongue in the skin again to unsheathe his crown. it’s still a big mouthful and you still feel so inexperienced. but clark reassures you that you’ve done so amazing and he’s never cum harder from a mouth in his life.
and really, your naïveté was what drew him in, made him weak in the knees. not even for a second would he think to get bored or turned off by it. he thinks it’s part of your unique charm. charm that made him so possessive protective over you in the first place.
so with your new lipstick on, he asks you to pucker up and give his dick as many kisses as you can (and it’s so thick you’re sure you can scatter dozens on the width alone), his mouth falling open in a long appreciative groan and tending to your hair behind your back like last time again. it felt so good for him to scratch your scalp and gently tease his fingers through while you went to work. planting good long kisses all over his hard dick. leaving lipstick prints everywhere your mouth touches. even stray streaks smear on him, but clark says it’s okay, he likes it. prefers it a little messier. and when you sneak in some french kisses and add your tongue in the mix with a few of them, he precums a droopy string right at the tip, hidden by the hood and oozing for your attention.
‘that’s it baby girl, you can lick him now. look how pretty you made him look,’ he sprawls his legs out more to show off his kiss covered cock. you couldn’t deny seeing the print of your lips in red on his dick gave your stomach butterflies and had your pussy squeezing on nothing. clark was gonna take care of you after you take care of him first though.
you follow directions perfectly of course, licking the top then nibbling on the extra flappy skin and soothing the bite with a snake of your tongue. giggling when it jumps in your mouth like he’s been waiting for you and searching for a mouth like yours for quite some time. clark’s dick throbs and moves around on its own in your mouth, your lipstick now slightly worn off to a stain as you mix your slobber with his precum.
‘I wanna, I wanna stroke him for you but I don’t wanna ruin it. he looks so cute with my lipstick all over,’ you hum an almost drunken sounding laugh.
clark nods and agrees with a grin. ‘mmmhm. we’ll do this again but take pictures next time. don’t worry about smudging, just do what you feel honey. besides, you know I’ll be fucking that mouth again when I get close,’ he coos.
you oblige and wrap a tense hand around the fat, red smeared base and stroke. it’s still so heavy in your grasp, you can’t believe he masturbates like that everyday and doesn’t get aches in his arm. it felt heavier than a brick. but when you see his biceps flex you’re reminded that he is strong enough to take care of himself every hour of the day if he wanted to.
taking turns bobbing your head down and then swishing your tongue in circles at his balls then his tip, you hum around the chubby length and hear him go ballistic above you. starts cursing like you’ve almost never heard him curse before. grabs a fistful of your hair to shove your throat down as much as he wanted. you taste a mixture of him, his salty sweetness, and the remnants of lipstick as you try your best to hold onto your composure. your eyes well up here and there, sure, but after a few attempts at relaxing your throat, you take another inch than you were able to before. and when it ends with a wet gag around his cock, he still congratulates you with praise like he’s so proud that you were able to neck him down further. you salivate around his cock more, probably cause you were closer to throwing up, and slather more of the lipstick from his skin around your lips.
‘oh my gosh, you’re doing so well. taking him deeper already,’ he marvels. ‘take a break for a sec. focus on the tip.’
you heave to catch your breath, rim of your mouth an absolute mess while you jack his cock and then swirl your tongue by digging it in the hole of his tip. the hum that leaves your throat gives him even more sensations, has him hissing and fucking up into your lips, fighting to sit still. when clark can’t hold off anymore, your breather is over. he doesn’t take it easy on you while he grabs the side of your head and humps into it like your mouth was a pussy.
‘oh, oh, oh yes—like that, right there, pretty lips. gag on it again. gag. yeah, look at that hot mess.’
light tears brim your eyes when he vigorously grinds and bucks his hips to make his dick fit, choking you every single time. you hum a warning that you’re about to throw up if he tries to go deeper but he shushes you and shivers while his own hand goes down to cup and squeeze his hanging sac. you notice the twitch of his balls, how they look like they’re flexing and preparing to empty a load. clark whimpers, weak and pink in the face while he humps your mouth once more and relieves your throat when he pulls out until it’s just the tip resting on your tongue again.
‘I’m gonna cum, I’m about to cum. swallow my load, you ready? milk my cock like that baby. mmmmm, and keep wagging that pretty tongue.’
you zig zag your tongue across the tip and in his hole until he’s shooting his thick cream like a fountain on your tongue. like icing a cake, covering all the surface area. throbbing and flexing like his cock was possessed with every cumshot spurting from him. from the way clark sounds you wouldn’t know if it was extreme pleasure or extreme pain, but you’re sure the lines blurred beautifully when you gently bite down on the foreskin with your teeth at the tail end of his load.
‘fff…fuck! fuck sake, oh my god,’ he cries. shoots out another sorry spurt that you clearly wrung right out of him, draining his balls of all that he had and then some. his sweat collects down his neck, and you wanna cover his throat in marks and licks and kisses too.
‘you’re making so much progress, baby, that tongue and that throat is getting dangerous. not gonna be able to handle it if I fuck your face balls deep, but we can still give it a try next time,’ he chuckles. still panting and giving you the same warm aftercare as last time. wiping your tears, fixing your hair. he pulls you up to give you a warm, messy kiss. you guess he doesn’t much care that all’s he can probably taste is his cum from his own dick, but it seemed to excite him more than anything when his kisses trail down until he pulls your legs apart and noses along your pussy lips.
‘now, I always reciprocate. so here’s another lesson for you: if another guy — which, there won’t be another guy to make it clear, because you’re only gonna be having fun with me — but hypothetically. another guy you’re with doesn’t return the same head he just got, that you just gave, then he’s a lost cause. he should be eating this pretty pussy up, at least touching you afterwards for god’s sake. make you cum too after drinking him down so good like that,’ he further explains. kisses the hood of your clit, same way you had been kissing his. ‘you deserve to cum as hard as I just did. even harder, in fact. so I’m gonna make you.’
you don’t know what to say to that, only nodding your head and bracing yourself for more of his tongue as it starts to dance and swirl around your clit. you shake and quiver like a fish stuck on land, now squeezing your toes and resting your bent legs on those broad shoulders. the more he drags his tongue and slathers you in mixtures of your wetness and his spit the more you whine and gush underneath him. clark looks so pleased to be making you squirm this way, laughing into your pussy and giving your clit a little teasing wet kiss. ‘swallowed my cum so nice baby, now it’s my turn to swallow all of yours.’
. . . .
next part + tw v0mit bj
can obv be read stand alone but the technical first part is in my masterlist under the same name perv uncut clark. im obsessed with him and his nasty side. thank you to all for showing love for my filth i love reading all my notifications it makes me so happy<3
“Four days,” Clark says, leaning against your kitchen counter like the most smug farm boy in the galaxy. “No sex until Friday. You can do that, can’t you?”
“Oh, I can,” you lie. You cannot. It’s not that you’re addicted to him—it’s just… fine, okay, you are. When your boyfriend is literally Superman, restraint isn’t exactly your strong suit. But you were still going to try.
You cross your arms, aiming for nonchalance. “You’re forgetting something, Smallville. I’ve got self-control.”
“Uh-huh,” he says, sipping his coffee like this is nothing. “You couldn’t even make it through Man of Steel Monopoly without—"
“That doesn’t count,” you cut in, cheeks warming at the memory. “You were cheating.”
“I was winning.” He tilts his head toward you, voice dropping low, “and you’re already thinking about breaking the rules.”
“I am not.” You absolutely are.
“I’m just saying,” Clark continues, “I think you’ll fold by Wednesday night.”
“Oh, please,” you scoff. “I’m making it to Friday. And when I win, you’re taking me to that seafood place in Metropolis. The fancy one.”
“Sure baby, if you even make it that long.” He said laughing, and it was warm and deep and did things to you that were going to make this whole “no sex until Friday” arrangement absolutely impossible.
“So,” you said, stepping closer until your chest brushed his arm. “If we’re doing this… what exactly counts as breaking the rules?”
Clark hesitated, his jaw tightening just slightly, which told you he hadn’t actually thought this through. “Uh… no sex. That’s all.”
Your smirk was wicked. “Define sex.”
“You know, sex.”
You tilted your head. “Right. But define ‘sex,’ Kent. Because I’m pretty sure you’ve got, like, Smallville Boy Scout definitions, and mine might be… broader.”
His eyes flickered down at you—quick, almost guilty—and then back up, “You know what I mean.”
“Mm. I don’t. Clarify.”
Clark sighed, that low, exasperated sound he made when you were purposefully annoying him and he secretly liked it. “No kissing where it counts. No touching where it counts. No…” His voice dipped lower, “…oral anything.”
You fought a grin. “Interesting choice of words.”
“Stop,” he warned, but his cheeks were pink now, which was almost as satisfying as getting him into bed.
“Stop what? I’m just trying to make sure we’re on the same page,” you said, running your finger in an absentminded little circle against his bicep. “So I could walk around the apartment in a towel after a shower, dripping water everywhere, and that wouldn’t be breaking the rules?”
“That’s… not—” He coughed. “That’s not technically sex, no.”
“Or I could sit on your lap during movie night. Totally innocent. No rules broken.”
Clark’s jaw flexed again. “…Right.”
“And if I… oh, I don’t know…” you leaned in so your lips were just brushing the shell of his ear, “…accidentally moaned your name in my sleep?”
He turned to look at you fully, and the shift in his eyes made your knees a little weak—like you’d just poked at the Superman side of him instead of Clark. “You keep testing me, sweetheart, and Friday’s going to be very, very long for you.”
“Bold of you to assume I’ll regret winning.”
He hums, all calm and unbothered, but you can see it—how his hand lingers on the counter, knuckles whitening just slightly. “You remember what happened the last time we made a bet?”
You try to play innocent. “Nope. No idea what you’re talking about.”
Clark gives you a look, the one that says he’s running through every single memory in his superbrain and knows you’re lying. “You ended up handcuffed to my bed for three hours.”
You snort. “And you loved it.”
“Mm.” His lips twitch, fighting a smile. “Not the point.”
“You’re right,” you say, sidling past him toward the couch, deliberately brushing against his chest on the way. “The point is that you’re going to be paying for my oysters and champagne by Friday night.”
He follows you—because of course he does—and drops onto the couch beside you. “And the point is that you have zero poker face.”
“Oh, please.” You grab the remote, flicking on Netflix. “I’ve got plenty of poker face.”
Clark doesn’t even answer—just drapes his arm over the back of the couch and lets his thumb graze the bare skin of your shoulder.
You last fifteen minutes before you start to squirm. He notices, naturally, and smiles faintly like the predator he’s pretending not to be. “Wednesday night, huh?” he murmurs, eyes on the TV.
You grit your teeth, leaning back into his arm like you’ve got something to prove. “Friday, Kent. I’m making it to Friday.”
And that’s when he leans in, lips brushing the curve of your ear. “Guess I’ll just have to make sure you’re good and restless until then.” You know, in that moment, you’re so fucked.
The next morning, steam still clinging to your skin from the shower, you tug on a thin silk night slip, one thaf is definitely not bet-friendly—and pad into the kitchen.
Clark’s already there, hair damp from his own shower, in a fitted blue t-shirt that makes your pulse do funny things. He’s sitting at the table, reading the Daily Planet on his tablet, coffee in hand, and working his way through a plate of eggs
You pause in the doorway, catching his eye for just a second, then—without breaking contact—you reach for the hem of your night slip and tug it up. Over your hips. Past your chest. And off.
Clark freezes mid-bite. Fork halfway to his mouth.
“Morning,” you say breezily, tossing the slip onto a chair and padding over to the laundry nook, bare ass bouncing. You bend tossing in towels with your ass high, knowing full well he can see everything. The air’s cool, nipples tight and aching, and you swear you hear him exhale a curse under his breath.
Laundry done, you saunter into the kitchen, open the cabinet, and pour yourself a cup of coffee like you’re not putting on a one-woman burlesque show before breakfast.
You take the mug to the couch and plop down next to him, crossing your legs. “Whatcha reading?”
Clark doesn’t look. “News brief. Morning update for the Planet.”
“Mhm.” You sip. “How’s that going?”
He swallows, jaw tight. “Fine.”
The silence stretches. You shift, scooting an inch closer. Then another. Until your thigh brushes his. His voice is slightly hoarse now. “Sweetheart—”
“Can I have a hug?” you interrupt.
“Not a good idea.”
“Didn’t ask if it was a good idea.” You set your coffee down and slide into his lap before he can react, straddling him.
Clark’s hands fly to your hips—not to pull you closer, but to keep you in place—as if that’s somehow going to help. You loop your arms around his neck, leaning in until your breasts press against his shirt. “It’s just a hug, Smallville. Not breaking any rules.”
Clark’s eyes are locked anywhere but on you, like he’s memorizing the wood grain of the coffee table. His thumbs flex against your hips before he catches himself and goes still. “You’re—” His voice comes out rough, like gravel. He clears his throat. “You’re naked.”
You tilt your head innocently. “Am I?”
He gives you that look—the one that I’m two seconds from throwing you over my shoulder. “You know you are.”
“Right. Which… is fine.” You shift just enough that the movement drags your nipples across his chest. “Because being naked isn’t against the rules.”
The rest of Tuesday is… fun. For you. For Clark, it’s some kind of Herculean test of willpower.
By Wednesday morning, you’ve traded the silk night slip for nothing but one of his button-ups—and not much else.
By Thursday, you can tell he’s hanging by a thread. Which is exactly why you push.
That night, you’re in bed together. You’ve been good—technically. No touching “where it counts.” No breaking the rules. But as he scrolls through something on his phone beside you, broad shoulders relaxed against the headboard, you get an idea.
You start slow—just sliding a hand over your own stomach under the blanket. Then your fingers drift lower. You bite back a sound, but the mattress dips as his head turns. “Sweetheart?”
“Hmm?” You keep your eyes closed, breath soft and uneven now.
Clark freezes. “What are you—” His voice drops. “Oh, no.”
“Not breaking the rules,” you murmur, lips curving. “I’m just… helping myself sleep.” Within seconds, your fingertips find slick heat, and your hips give a tiny involuntary roll. The sound that slips past your lips is embarrassingly needy. You hum, teeth catching your bottom lip. You keep going, rubbing slow circles, your breath catching in quiet, uneven little gasps.
His phone’s still in his hand, but his jaw is tight now. “You trying to get me to lose?”
“Mm,” you breathe, eyes closed. “Not… technically…”
The blanket shifts over you as your hips move again. Your whimper is quiet but not quiet enough. Clark groans under his breath, rolling to face the opposite direction like distance will save him. “You’re impossible.”
You smile to yourself, dragging your fingers lower, dipping into your own heat. The slick sound is filthy in the quiet room, and the next moan that slips out is louder. He inhales sharply through his teeth, but doesn’t move.
“Fine,” you pant, your own voice starting to shake with how badly you’re aching. “Guess I’ll just keep doing it myself… thinking about your cock instead of my fingers… about how big you’d feel inside me right now…” That does it. His free hand shifts under the blanket toward his own waistband, and a second later you catch the faintest movement of his fist working over himself. Your hips stutter. “Clark—”
“Don’t start,” he grits out, jaw tight. “You started this game.”
You let out another moan, high and breathless, and that’s it—his phone clatters to the nightstand. In one motion, he’s on his side facing you, catching your wrist under the blanket and pulling your fingers from yourself.
“Move ‘em,” he orders, you barely have time to inhale before he’s replacing them with the hot, thick press of his cock, sliding in slowly. You moan, nails digging into his shoulders as he stretches you full.
Clark braces one palm beside your head, the other gripping your thigh so tight you swear you’ll feel it later. “Four days,” he murmurs against your ear, voice low and dangerous. “I made it four days with you teasing me like that. You owe me.”
Your nails rake down his back, earning a low grunt. “Fucking… knew you wouldn’t last,” you manage between moans.
Clark’s laugh is dark and breathless against your skin. “I lasted,” he pants, slamming into you harder. “You didn’t.”
You gasp when his hips snap forward, the headboard knocking against the wall. “I—” you start, but it melts into a moan.
“Could’ve kept my hands to myself,” he goes on, driving the words between thrusts, “but then you had to sit there and—god—touch yourself right next to me.” His pace picks up, his fist bunching the sheets near your head like he’s holding back from just railing you into the mattress.
His forehead presses to yours, sweat slick at his hairline, and his voice drops to a dark murmur that makes you clench around him. “God—fuck—” you whimper, the words breaking into a moan when his cock drags against that perfect spot inside you. You’re so wet now that every snap of his hips is filthy and loud under the blankets, slick and obscene.
“You hear that?” Clark groans, fucking you harder. “That’s how fucking desperate you are. Four days, and you’re dripping all over me like a slut who can’t keep her hands to herself.”
He bites down on your shoulder, groaning like he’s just as far gone, hips jerking into you with mindless, hungry force. “Gonna cum in you,” he grits out. “Gonna fill this perfect little pussy so deep you’ll still feel me tomorrow.” You choke out a cry, your back arching as your orgasm hits—sharp and devastating—your cunt pulsing around him, slick spilling down between your thighs. He fucks you through it, chasing his own high, his thrusts growing erratic.
When he finally eases back just enough to look at you, you feel the hot spill of him leaking out between your thighs. His fingers slip down, pressing against your swollen cunt pushing his cum back in making you jolt.
“Not done,” he murmurs, watching your face as he keeps moving inside you, slow and filthy. “I’m gonna fuck it deeper so you remember who you belong to.” And with that, Clark Kent—boy scout farm boy, world’s greatest hero—starts all over again, ruining you until you can’t even remember what day it is, much less who won the bet.
a/n: ive has the MOST stressful week but alas time shall go on and writing smut exists so staying alive can’t be that bad also super thankful for all of u whores
WICKED GAMES…… sitting on your boyfriend’s lap proves a bigger issue than you thought
18+ MDNI
🏷️ fem!reader,hands free orgasm,sub!clark [0.6k]
You’re sitting on his lap leaning over the open laptop sat on the kitchen table,scrolling through a news article he called you over to show you and he’s calling on every power in the universe to help him not blow his load right here and now. You’re wearing those pj shorts that he wants banned from the house for this exact reason,the ones that your ass practically swallows up and leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Maybe if he just doesn’t look and keeps thinking about anything else he can play this off,maybe if he thinks about work yeah wor- oh god oh god why do you keep moving like that? Do you really need to be squirming so much to read an article? You’ve got to be able to feel him through his flannel pyjamas,surely? If he looks down he can see the outline of his cock nestled between your ass cheeks. He wants the ground to open up and swallow him,what was wrong with him? You must think he’s some sort of pervert,you can’t even sit on his lap without all the blood in his body rushing to his cock. It’s pathetic,he can feel his cheeks heating up as he thinks of you maybe pulling your shorts down,maybe even slipping him out of his pants,lining him up to your entrance and sinking down on him. You wouldn’t even have to move,he’d be happy just to feel your walls gripping around him,fluttering and twitching trying to accommodate his size,you’re always so tight and so warm and so we- what is your deal?! You’re doing it on purpose,you must be,each shift of your hips,the arch of your back as you place your elbows on the table in front of you,you’re torturing him! It’s embarrassing,mortifying really at how close he is,how he can feel his balls tightening with each little wiggle of your ass,how much he wants to thrust up into your softness and make a mess of himself. What would you say to him if you felt the wet patch start to bloom across his pants,would you scold him? Tell him he’s disgusting? Make him clean up the mess by wetting your fingers with it and have him lick them clean? Would you sink down on him anyway,ride him to another orgasm while his sticky cum clings to your thighs? He loves that sound,the thwap thwap thwap of your bodies meeting while he thrusts up into you,your arousal dripping down his balls. Would feel so good, so good “feels so good”. The words escape his throat before he can even register them,a pathetic whine as he ruts himself into you,one,twice. That’s all he needed,just that little bit of friction to have him soaking himself. “s’good s’good” he moans out,sitting up to wrap his arms around your body,pulling you back towards his chest,hands squeezing anywhere they can. He would apologise later,beg for forgiveness for being such a disgusting pervert,sink to his knees in front of you and take anything you wanted to give him but right now he needs to fuck up into you and cry into your ear as his body goes into overdrive,soaked cock twitching and already half hard again.
