i don’t expect anything from men ever and so i can’t be disappointed by the things they do. i don’t expect rich, cis, white men to be anything other than who they are which would be individuals with the privilege to not care about anything going on in the world.
it’s absolutely understandable and okay to be disappointed in your favorite hockey players but don’t try to kid yourselves into thinking that they were ever good people in the first place. and to me, every nhl player is conservative automatically until proven otherwise tbh. i knew the us winning would bring out people’s true colors and that’s what i was a little afraid of.
glad to see people enjoying the gay sex hockey show but get you facts rights HBO has nothing to do with this it's a beautiful Crave original funded by the Canadian gov and paid for with my taxes 🫵
I have watched the yaoi hockey show and know what fuck y'all this some good ass shit I didn't know the Canadians swung up the streets like this, my american taxes can't even pay for my elders social security I'm pretty sure they're just funding elon musk's latest eugenics project at this point but y'alls government gives you free healthcare AND gay ass yaoi flavored big tiddy hockey dudes fucking and feeling in every fancy ass penthouse set this side of the north american continent while serving up full peaches this some good shit thank you canada hope y'all beat the mighty ducks or whatever next year and your next leader doesn't date katy perry, goodnight and be blessed
Secrets I have held in my heart (are harder to hide than I thought)E.M.
⭐︎ Warnings: 18+, mdni! idiots to lovers, best friends to lovers, smut smut smut, lots of pining, mentions of unrequited feelings (they're not), slight angst, unprotected sex, breeding kink? kinda. alcohol and weed consumption. high sex?
⭐︎ Pairing: Eddie Munson x fem!reader
⭐︎ Word count: 20.4k
⭐︎ Summary: A weekend alone with Eddie at Steve's cabin reveals all yours and his deepest desires, feelings you were too afraid to act upon bubbling to the surface, leading to a steamy night that might change you and your best friend forever.
⭐︎ Author's note: I've been meaning to write a best friends to lovers with Eddie for a while now (especially after writing ikyllatk, if you know you know. this is Cheer and Eddie to me in a different universe hehe). @hellfire--cult and I went feral over this idea and we've been talking about this since foreverrrrr and here we are finally! thank you for inspiring me, love ♡
⭐︎ the library
divider made by @cafekitsune
The sun is beating down on your skin, kissing it with warmth as the cold water from the lake is still clinging to your body, making goosebumps appear as you shiver the slightest bit. Your eyes are closed, a content smile rests on your face, despite the way your blue lips tremble. Birds are chirping all around you, the trees rustle whenever the wind blows, the water splashes when your best friend makes his way out of the lake, cursing a few times when he steps over the sharp rocks on the ground.
You don’t open your eyes just yet but you listen to him moving closer and closer to where you’re laying on the pink towel you threw on the grass earlier. You don’t have to take a look to know that he is staring at you, he always is. Like a weight on your body, his stare always feels like a warm blanket, heating up your insides and making you feel something you shouldn’t.
Eddie’s eyes are roaming your body, your glistening bare skin, the skimpy bikini bottoms that are only held together by the strings on the sides, the little bow coming undone slowly. He kneels down before you, making a gasp fall from your lips when the water from his hair drips on your belly and his cold hands touch your hip, fingers reaching for the strings so he can fix the little bow.
You open your eyes to find him looking down with a smug smile as he plays with the strings on your bottoms, re-tying it for you. Your breath hitches in your throat from the touch of his hand and the closeness of him, if you were to sit up, your noses would bump together but you stay in place, only pushing yourself up on your elbows.
“I’m sorry, sweets,” he chuckles softly, taking his sweet time as his fingertips graze your bare hip, “didn’t mean to get you wet,” he smirks, a look of mischief flashes in his eyes as water continues to drip from his body onto yours.
“Are you sure?” You challenge him the way you always do, blinking at him innocently as you bring your knees up higher and bite your lip, making him gulp and blush instantly.
You always know how to break him.
Eddie is oh so confident and flirty, throwing looks and comments your way that are a little too suggestive for someone who is considered a best friend, but the moment you join in on his game, even if only subtly, he turns into a blushing mess, no longer the confident, cocky guy he wishes to be.
But even when he turns into this, blushing and nervous, you can still feel that one certain energy radiating off him and it makes you squirm, it fills you with curiosity and the urge to cross that invisible line, your deepest desires, the ones that are locked away begging to be released. You never let them, you never even looked or paid attention to what you really wanted or craved. You played his game, you flirted back, you teased him but you never admitted to yourself that there was… something.
“Hm, no,” Eddie murmurs, suggestively. He ties the knot, strongly and then, he hooks his finger around the strap, he pulls it back and lets it snap against your skin, making you jolt in your place, a tiny gasp falling from your lips once more as a bigger smirk appears on his face. His eyes roam your body, he takes you in fully before he leans back and plops down on his own towel, laying down, he places his arm behind his head, closing his eyes to the sun, he lets out a sigh of contentment, acting as though he didn’t just touch you the way best friends normally don’t do. Asshole.
“This is nice, I’m glad we came out here.”
You hum in agreement, taking advantage of the fact that his eyes are closed, you allow yourself to take a closer, better look at the man who had become your best and closest friend. He is attractive, very handsome, you aren’t blind, you never have been but he is your friend, you never allowed yourself to look at him a certain way but lately it’s become harder to stay so… blind, to not let his lingering touches make you weak in the knees, to not let his comments fill you with giddiness, to not feel something when he holds you in his arms, when he plays with your hair or places his hand on your thigh when you’re in his passenger seat.
You don’t know where this sudden change has come from, it’s always been that way with him, from the very beginning, he’s been touchy and affectionate with you but it didn’t always make you so excited, it’s been a recent development, something that Nancy and Robin teased you about, they saw your reactions whenever he kissed your cheek and called you pet names, whenever he walked into a room only smiling the moment his eyes would meet yours.
You never noticed it before, the feelings he left you with after all his sweet gestures and touches, only when your friends had brought it up to you, leaving you a blushing and a confused mess, did you start to open your eyes… a little, and suddenly things started to change, your reactions to his comments, no matter if they are flirty or sweet, your reactions to his lingering touches, the way his fingers would play with yours, the way they would drum against your skin, so very close to the hem of your skirt or your shirt, the way he would tuck your hair behind your ear or wipe the foam off your upper lip after taking the first sip of your morning latte before taking his thumb into his mouth and licking it off, moaning while doing so – what was normal before, suddenly wasn’t anymore, everything he did, everything he does now drives you crazy and leaves you yearning for more but you never dared to be the one to take another step forward, to cross that daring line, to make the first real move.
He is still Eddie, your best friend, your soulmate, the person you don’t want to lose, especially over something like this, over reading into something that might not be there, over losing control of your own feelings. After all, this could all just be a part of… him. Maybe it’s just who he is, affectionate, teasing, flirty, daring. Maybe he is like that with everybody, not just you.
But maybe not, maybe you are the only one and maybe, just maybe he is waiting for you to be the one to make another move, to take another step, maybe he has been waiting, maybe he has been waiting for a while now.
You bite your lips so hard, you almost rip the skin open, your eyes are glued to his form, to the way his chest rises up and down, his wet hair a mess around him, lashes fluttering as his eyes are squeezed shut, your fingers itch to touch the ink on his pale skin, you lick your lips as your eyes follow his happy trail, mouth watering at the way his swim trunks are so low on his hips, his bulge so… god, you need to stop – but how can you? Your best friend is just so pretty. And his hands are so big, fingers so long and you have felt them on your skin before but you would be a goddamn liar if you said you didn’t think about them in other places.
Your cheeks heat up at your own thoughts, though it doesn’t stop you from daydreaming some more and the longer you do, the more you start to lose yourself in them, wondering about all the different what if’s, wondering what would happen if you just made the move your friends have begged you to make, to be more daring, to be more teasing, to break him enough for him to do something you both clearly want.
A bravery you don’t usually have, surges through your body, taking over completely. The urge to tease him back the way he teases you is so strong, so before you chicken out, before you think too much and too long, you reach behind you, undoing the bow he tied on your bikini top, you turn away from him and take the skimpy black thing off, throwing it down next to you, the cool breeze kisses your skin and if Eddie opened his eyes right now, he’d be met with the sight of your bare chest.
You press your lips together and turn around, flipping your hair over your shoulder, you lay down on your stomach, stretching your arms out and letting out a sigh of contentment. You turn your head into his direction but close your eyes, even though you’re dying to see his reaction to you being topless but you are trying to play it cool, like it’s nothing.
Eddie peeks one eye open after listening to all your movement and he almost chokes on his spit when he does, jaw falling slack, both eyes shoot open as he takes in the sight of you, of the skin that wasn’t bare only seconds ago – how, when, what?
He blinks, eyebrows furrowed, lips parted as he is gawking at you, at the way your boobs are pressed against the towel beneath you, at the softness of your skin, at the single drops of water still clinging to your body that he wants to touch oh so badly, your hair looks so shiny and soft, your face so content as you lay half naked next to him.
Eddie’s cheeks heat up when he realizes that he would have seen you bare if only he opened his eyes a few seconds sooner. He licks his lips, nearly drooling over the sight of you. Suddenly, his trunks feel tighter than before when his mind takes him to places he only reserves for late nights when he is all alone and not afraid to risk to pop a boner.
He tries to look away, he really does but he can’t, not when you look this hot. He allows his eyes to roam again and it only makes his case worse, his breathing quickens, his skin heats up, his hands itch to touch your soft skin, his lips long to trail kisses down your body, to have a little taste of you.
If you were his, he would, he would start on your neck and he would kiss down to your shoulder and then your back, and he’d take it lower and lower until his lips would reach those skimpy panties, he’d take them off and taste you the way he always dreamed of, he’d lick a stripe up your pussy, suck on your clit, eat you out like the starved man that he is and he would get lost in your moans and your whines, in the pleasure that only he could make you feel.
Eddie clears his throat, he nearly curses when he feels his dick twitching in need of you. He clenches his jaw, even more so when he sees your lips twitching into a smirk. Oh… Oh.
He raises his eyebrows in surprise, his breath halting for a moment when he realizes what you did, you did this on purpose, you aimed to tease him.
It’s not exactly something new, you being a tease but you have never taken things this far, you have never stepped up to his level.
But now that you did… he can take things further as well, right?
If you decide to tease him like this, then he will tease right back.
He pushes himself up, adjusting his trunks, he nearly lets out a groan when you wiggle your butt a little, pretending to get more comfortable.
He bites his lip as he looks around in search for the sunscreen you have brought with you, he finds the bottle peeking out of your bag. He presses his palm on the grass beneath him, leaning over your body to reach for the yellow bottle.
“What’re you doing, Eds?” You murmur, rather seductively
A smirk tugs at Eddie’s lips, the tone in your voice tells him that you believe you are in charge here and… maybe you are, right now, but he won’t let you win so easily.
He chuckles lowly when a gasp tears from your pretty lips after he squirts the cold cream on your back.
“Don’t want you to get burned, sweetheart,” he whispers, closing the cap of the bottle, he throws it on the ground before he lays his palms flat against your hot skin, spreading the white cream all over your back.
You grow flustered and you start blushing, your breathing gets heavier and you visibly gulp when he starts massaging the sunscreen into your skin. You suck in a sharp breath when his hands move up to your shoulders, gripping you there for a moment before he moves back down, the coldness of his rings making you shudder a little.
Eddie can’t even hide the smug look on his face after feeling your reaction, pride swelling in his chest when you sigh so beautifully because of his touch.
You easily get lost in this, eyelashes fluttering, soft breaths and sighs falling from your lips as his strong hands move up and down your skin, touching you in ways that make you squirm beneath him.
“Feels good,” you whisper as you arch your back a little, not knowing that just a small movement like this is enough to drive him insane, once again.
“Fuck,” he curses softly under his breath, he swallows harshly.
“What was that?” You ask, not hiding the smugness in your voice, very well.
“Nothing,” he lies, “nothing, sweets.”
“You sure?”
He hums, shaking his head at your teasing, at the way you think that you will win the game that he started.
Eddie moves his hands down to your sides, making sure to get the cream everywhere, so you won’t get burned, of course. His fingers dip dangerously low to the side of your boobs, and while it was only meant to tease you, to get a reaction out of you, he realizes that it was a mistake, only a little too late – it only makes his case worse when he feels just how soft and smooth your skin is that is usually hidden under all your clothes, when he feels himself craving to touch a little lower, to feel more of you, to make you feel–
“Mmmh.”
Eddie freezes, hands halting at your sides, his big brown eyes widen and his lips part once again, he stares at the back of your head, stunned.
You moaned at his touch, whimpered even, making those butterflies in his stomach feel stronger than ever.
“Why’d you stop?” You mumble, wiggling your butt as though to tell him to keep going.
Do you even know the power you hold over him?
Do you even understand what you do to him?
Eddie bites his lip, he bites hard, hard enough to taste iron. He sucks in a sharp breath, biting back the growl that threatens to fall from his mouth when he adjusts behind you, the rough material of his swim trunks rubbing against his dick. He is fucking rock hard and if you only turned around to take a look at him, you would see it.
“I’m sorry, got a little distracted,” he says lowly, voice getting a little shaky.
He feels so hot, and it’s not the sun that is making him sweat, it’s all you.
He can see the way your lip twitches, the way your dimple shows when you smirk at his words.
“Oh? By what, the birds?” You giggle.
He chuckles, shaking his head at your question even though your eyes are still closed. He takes a moment to look at your surroundings, at the beautiful scenery, the trees and the big lake in front of Steve’s cabin – well, his parents cabin.
God, he wonders where this weekend will take him, you and him.
A weekend you were both supposed to spend with your friends, turned into this. Just you and him, and no one else.
It’s only day one, and you are already close to making him cum in his swim trunks, like some pathetic teenage boy who couldn’t handle his crush’s teasing or touching.
This will either be the best weekend of his life, or this might kill him – if you are only teasing, then this will surely kill him but if you are not, then he owes your friends a lot, for pretending to be sick or busy. He knows that they were lying when Robin fake coughed on the phone after telling him that she couldn’t make it, that she and Steve couldn’t make it, cause he got sick too… apparently.
And Nancy forgot that she promised to help her mom with something, and if Nancy couldn’t come, then Jonathan couldn’t either of course – which led to Argyle staying back as well, cause where would he ever go without his best buddy?
Eddie looks back down at you, at his best friend, who is laying half naked before him so comfortably, teasing him so freely. Another sigh escapes your lips and you squirm beneath him once again.
Yeah, no matter how this will end, you will be the death of him.
“Yeah, the birds,” he mumbles, snorting at his own words.
He leans down closer to you, squeezing your sides which makes you jolt a little, a giggle falling from your lips.
“I’m sorry,” he chuckles, eyes lighting up at the sweet sound, “I forgot how ticklish you are,” he teases, as if.
“Mhmm sure you did, Eddie.”
With a mischievous smile, he decides to take his teasing further, playfully digging his fingers into your waist, he begins to tickle you, making you yelp and jolt in surprise as you start squirming beneath his touch, giggles now falling freely from your mouth as his name rolls off your tongue so effortlessly, awakening those butterflies in his stomach. God, he wishes he could make you call out his name in different ways.
You jump up, with your arms covering your front, one hand pressing against your boobs, hiding only just a little as you turn to face your best friend. You watch the way his eyes widen as they instantly fall to your chest, lust flashing in them, jaw dropping as his cheeks redden right this second, his expression makes you giggle even harder, even more so when you push him back and he falls onto the grass, flat on his butt, wet curls hanging in front of his hair.
Eddie is so stunned by you, he can barely move as he stares at you, at your half naked form. God, you are so beautiful it hurts.
The afternoon sun begins to turn golden, kissing your glowy skin and all your curves, your hair cascades down your shoulders, your hand that barely hides anything pressing against your boobs, he wishes it was his own. Licking his lips, he pushes himself up on his elbows, letting his eyes roam your body, shamelessly, dreaming about the way he would love to get between those delicious looking thighs of yours, the way he’d kiss every inch of your body, leaving no trace unmarked, the way he would nuzzle his nose into your neck and inhale your sweet scent, not playfully the way he usually does, but with a trail of kisses that he would leave behind.
He would worship you in ways he can’t even begin to describe. Oh, how often Eddie finds himself up at night, working on yet another song about you, thinking of words that haven’t been created yet, strong enough to describe you.
He feels uncomfortable in his swim trunks that are getting a little too tight, his skin feels on fire, not from the sun but from you. He lusts after you, yes, but there is also more than that, so much more. It isn’t just the lust that makes these feelings so intense, it’s all his deepest feelings for you, feelings that only his notebook filled with song texts know about… and maybe your friends, who aren’t as oblivious as you are.
“I’m gonna take a shower, and you should too,” your voice pulls him out of his thoughts.
Eddie clears his throat, watching you get up, not bothering to pick up your top or your dress that you wore earlier, you simply keep your chest hidden by your right arm.
“You’re helping me cook dinner,” you give him a pointed look before you turn around and begin to walk back to the house.
Eddie smiles cheekily as he pushes himself up further, eyes glued to your butt now.
“Are you telling me to get into the shower with you?” He calls after you, unaware of the butterflies that he caused in your stomach now.
You don’t turn around, you keep walking, hiding the flustered expression on your face from him. You flip him off without looking back, biting back your smile when he laughs loudly.
Eddie watches, craning his neck to see more of you, the way your butt jiggles as you skip up the stairs. He bites his lip, groaning at the sight of it.
“Goddamn.”
You will be the death of him.
-
It’s dark outside by the time Eddie comes out of the steamy bathroom, the cabin is mostly dark too, candles illuminate the living room and the sound of music fills the space. A smile lingers on his face as he makes his way down the hallway, his wet curls bouncing with each step that he takes, he throws on a clean shirt, his gray sweatpants hang low on his hips.
A groan almost falls from his lips when he walks into the kitchen to you standing there in nothing but one of his shirts, now that sight is nothing new to him but it never fails to take his breath away, though usually you have on more than just the shirt. Your bare legs are glowy beneath the dim lights, from hours in the sun and that delicious smelling cream you always put on your skin after showering, you sway your hips to the music, shirt riding up in the process. Eddie can’t help but wonder if you are wearing any panties at all beneath his shirt. Fuck. He shouldn’t let his mind go there, you have done enough teasing for the day, he almost jerked off in the shower and maybe he should have, maybe that would have released some of the tension in him but he wouldn’t have been able to stay quiet, he never is.
God, this really will be a long weekend filled with torture and teasing. He knows he should probably stop playing this dangerous game but he just can’t help but play into it.
He slowly makes his way to you, you’re humming to the music, knife held in your hand as you cut up vegetables, an opened bottle of beer on the counter before you, your damp hair is braided loosely, falling down your back. He can smell your body wash from here, the sweetness of it – of you is so intoxicating to him, he wants nothing more than to wrap his arms around your waist, pull you into him and bury his face in the crook of your neck, inhale your scent and kissing your soft skin, he craves it so very badly, even more so, he craves for it to be something normal.
Eddie wants you to be more than just his best friend.
Everybody knows it, everybody but you.
And maybe it’s better this way, maybe he would lose you if you did find out.
You might be a tease, you might let him touch you in ways no one else is allowed to, you might give him hope sometimes, the hope that you could feel more than just something platonic for him but at the end of the day you are still best friends and he can’t lose that, especially not because he can’t control his feelings.
Because what happens when you do find out and you don’t feel the same?
What happens then?
What happens if it drives you away?
What happens if he loses you?
And he can’t allow that to happen, he can’t lose you, not you, anyone but you.
Eddie knows he should do himself a favor and stop being so touchy and affectionate with you, it does him no good, if anything, it makes him want you even more but he can’t help it, he has to take what he can get… right?
He comes up behind you, snaking his arms around your waist, he breathes in your sweetness, chuckling when you tense up for a second before a cute giggle falls from your lips.
“You scared me,” you whisper, tilting your head back, you look up at him as you ease into his touch.
“Sorry sweets, didn’t mean to,” he murmurs, teasing you with that pretty smile of his as he snatches a piece of the cucumber you’ve been cutting and bites into it, winking at you as he steps away again and takes a look into the large pot on the stove.
“Pasta?”
“Pasta Arrabiata,” you say, imitating the Italian accent that Steve always makes whenever he is cooking.
Eddie chuckles, “wow that was horrible.”
“Shut up,” you giggle, scrunching your nose at him.
If you knew how his heart flutters at your laughter and at your cute nose scrunches.
“Since when do we put cucumber in pasta?”
The disgusted look on your face makes him laugh again, he leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest as he eyes you up and down.
“I’m also making a salad, it’s for you, you need to eat more veggies.”
His lips curl into yet another smile, warmth blooms in his chest.
You take care of him, you always do. From making sure that he eats enough when he gets a little too lost in writing songs or working on campaigns to making sure that he wears a hat and a scarf when it’s cold outside, whether it’s something small or big, you are always there to look after him, you’ve always been there.
“Alright, I’m eating the greens just for you, sweets.”
He licks his lips as he eyes every inch of your exposed skin, tracing your soft features with the longing look in his brown eyes. The way his shirt looks on your body, the way your hair falls in front of your eyes despite you tucking it behind your ear just moments ago, the way you bite your lower up as you give him a disapproving look.
“No,” you shake your head, pointing your knife at him, “you gotta eat them for yourself.”
“Are you threatening me?” He smirks, closing the gap between you both again, you instantly lower the knife and place it on the counter.
You shrug, teasing him with a sweet smile, “what if I am?”
Eddie licks his lips, inching closer and closer to you, a smile tugs at his mouth, he hums as he raises his hand up to your face, combing his fingers through your wet hair before he tucks the fallen pieces behind your ear again.
He is unaware of the effect he has on you, of the fluttering in your chest, of the burning in your skin, of the shaky breaths you suck in.
“Then I think that’s really hot,” he winks at you as he moves his hand down your neck and then your shoulder, sliding it down along your spine, lower and lower until he’s holding your hip and pressing himself against you as he moves onto your other side, slower than necessary.
Your lips part in surprise, every trace that he has touched starts to burn, your knees grow weak and your heart starts beating faster – how much longer can you deny the emotions he causes inside you?
“So, how can I help?”
He is teasing you, you can hear it in his voice, and you don’t have to turn around to face him to know that there is a smirk on his face.
“Set the table, pick a movie to watch later, dinner is almost ready.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he murmurs into your ear before he walks away without another word, giving you a moment to take a few deep breaths.
You take a sip of your cold beer, closing your eyes for a moment, you listen to your beating heart, you feel the goosebumps on your skin, you feel the rush of blood to your cheeks, the weakness you feel for your best friend.
How much longer can you deny what is really inside of you, that it’s not just physical attraction?
Your heart flutters when his deep voice sounds through the dining room as he sings along to the music, your lips curl into an adoring smile. You can hear him rummaging through the drawers, trying to find the table cloth you assume.
Picking up the knife again, you continue chopping your vegetables, finishing up on your salad, though you quickly get lost in this… domestic energy you both have created. It feels so warm, so safe, so familiar. A feeling you can’t imagine sharing with anyone other than your Eddie.
He comes back into the kitchen, humming, he grabs two plates and cutlery and places them on the counter before he passes by you, without a teasing smile or comment, he places his hand on your lower back, he reaches over your shoulder to retrieve two wine glasses from the shelf and steps away again, leaving the kitchen once more.
It all feels so natural, so normal and yet, it makes you struggle to breathe because the butterflies in your stomach go wild – just the way they always do, but now it becomes harder and harder to not pay attention to them.
You take another deep breath, willing yourself to calm down, to push aside your feelings, to keep doing what you did before… be unaware of what is buried deep within your heart. So, you move along and distract yourself with finishing cooking dinner, not allowing your mind to take you further into this pit of hell as you call it, because that’s what love and feelings are, hell.
There is no good in love, there is no peace in having feelings.
It’s a rollercoaster ride that ends no matter how long it lasts, pleasant or not, it ends.
And you refuse to let feelings get in the way of yours and Eddie’s friendship, he means too much to you to risk taking a step further into something that your stupid heart desires, you love him too much to let your lingering feelings ruin what you both have, besides… who is to say that he could feel something for you?
You are his best friend and he is yours, that’s all you’ve ever been and it’s all you’ll ever be, best friends, nothing more or less, best friends who are affectionate with one another, who tease each other, who sleep in each other’s arms and do things that other best friend’s might not do… Though when you step into the dining room with the heavy pot in your hands, you halt in your tracks, freezing at the sight before you.
The table is set but not like usual, it makes you struggle to keep pushing away those feelings that have been sneaking their way to the surface because why did he place the plates so close to each other when the table is so big? And why did he place candles on the table and light them up instead of keeping the lights on? And why did he change the channel on the radio? Why is slow music playing instead of the rock channel he usually settles for when there is no better option for him?
You can handle his teasing, you can handle his touching, his flirting, his suggestive comments and looks he gives you so often.
But this is something else, this is something that would have normally made you run, a table set up so romantically, a dinner that seems to become something intimate. Yeah, if someone else had set this up, you would’ve definitely ran, you would’ve felt anxious, suffocated.
Those feelings don’t exist with him though, it’s quite the opposite, even with the lingering fear inside of you for what you feel for him. You feel giddy.
“Picked the movie, sweets,” Eddie calls from the living room, snapping you out of your troubled thoughts. He enters the room with a grin on his face.
You clear your throat and finally take the final steps to the table, putting down the pot in the middle, you glance at your best friend.
“Yeah? What’d you pick?”
“Something neither of us have seen yet,” he winks at you, moving closer and closer until he is right in front of you again. He grabs the chair and pulls it back, gazing down at you with his dark eyes, “sit.”
“I gotta get the rest of the food–”
“I’ll get it, now sit down, princess,” he murmurs.
Whenever his voice gets so low, your knees feel like they’ll buckle at any moment, shivers run down your spine and your cheeks grow hot.
“Alright,” you chuckle, plopping down on the wooden chair, you gaze up at your best friend, batting your eyelashes at him.
Eddie sucks in a sharp breath, there is not much you have to do to drive him crazy.
“Smells really good in here,” he comments, the mouth watering smell of pasta sauce and garlic bread makes his stomach growl.
“Thanks Eds, now get the rest of the food before it gets cold.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he winks at you, squeezing your shoulder before he turns around and makes his way out of the room and into the kitchen.
You take a deep breath when he’s gone, rolling your shoulders and trying to calm your nerves, your heart is racing and it makes you feel ridiculous. You are here with Eddie, your best friend, Eddie. You got nothing to feel nervous about, you’ve been here plenty of times before, at dinner alone with him… though, it was never like this, you never had candle light dinners with slow music playing in the back. And his touches, his smiles, his voice never drove you this crazy before, he never made your heart flutter, his hands never made your skin feel hot, he never made you feel like you’d fall to the ground because your knees felt like jelly, he never made you feel those things before until recently… or did he?
“I’m starving,” Eddie says dramatically as he places the salad bowl and the garlic bread on the table. Before he takes a seat, he opens the wine bottle and reaches for your glass, he glances at you as he starts pouring it in your glass, he notices your flushed cheeks and how fidgety you are in your seat as you eye him up and down, it makes his heart flutter.
“We can’t have that,” you chuckle, reaching for his plate, you start filling it with salad first to which he protests, claiming that it will only make him starve even more. “You need some healthy food!”
“Not too much of it though,” he shakes his head as he lifts the lid of the pot, inhaling with a smile on his face, “I need that.”
Your giggle makes his smile widen.
“Alright.”
“You know I love your pasta,” he grins as he watches you fill the plate.
“That’s Steve’s pasta,” you chuckle.
“Nah, that’s his recipe, you cooked it,” he retorts, tilting his head to the side, “besides, you do it better.”
Warmth fills your chest and your cheeks, your smile gets even bigger now.
“Don’t tell him that! He’ll be distraught!”
“Don’t worry, it’s our secret,” he mumbles with a grin on his face as he finally takes the seat across from you, taking the plate from your hands when you hand it to him with a soft ‘thank you’.
He waits for you to fill your own plate before he picks up the fork or even takes a sip of the wine you picked when you went grocery shopping together this morning. He leans back and takes a look around, your surroundings are so different than usual, so unlike the small apartment he recently moved into where you eat your dinners at his tiny kitchen table. He appreciates the home cooked meals you always bless him with and the way you always want to take care of him, it makes him feel warm, it makes him feel safe.
Eddie wants to do the same for you, he wants to make you feel the way you make him feel but he believes that he can’t measure up, that he can’t give you what you give him, that he can’t provide you the same feeling of safety or warmth and maybe that is the sole reason why he hasn’t made a move on you yet, not because he is scared of ruining your friendship – god, he wants to ruin it so bad. But because you deserve more than he can give you, you deserve this, a big house with a stupid fireplace, a big garden, stability, someone who can take care of you, someone who can give you more than a small, shitty apartment, someone who can give you more than just the flowers he gives you or the pastries he brings you when you’re taking your lunch breaks at work.
Yeah, your friendship is very precious to him, he is scared of losing you, every goddamn day he wonders if this will be the day where you don’t show up for him but it isn’t the reason for his lack of effort in fighting for what he actually wants, it’s the fact that he believes that you deserve better than him, someone less like him, someone more like… Steve.
So he settles for loving you from afar, he tries to spoil you, he tries as best as he can. He teases you whenever he gets the chance to, he becomes giddy when you react to it, when you blush and giggle or even tease him back the way you did today, it sparks something in him, maybe it’s confidence or maybe just an illusion that you could feel the same, whatever it is, he basks in the feeling in those moments.
His eyes soften and the beating of his heart becomes stronger as he watches you, the way you dig your teeth into your bottom lip, the way your beautiful eyes shine in the dim light, the light flush in your cheeks making you look so damn cute, the way your smile only widens when you glance at him, a small huff falling from your mouth.
“What are you looking at?” You tease, putting down your plate before you.
You.
He always looks at you.
Eddie knows he won’t have this forever, someday you will meet someone who will give you everything that he wishes he could, someday he won’t be the one sitting across from you enjoying your dinner, someday he won’t be the one in your life.
“At your shirt, is it new… or?” He teases, acting like he didn’t just get lost in his head, thinking of your future that he might not be a part of.
You look down at his shirt, smiling proudly, you stole it from him the last time you stayed over, “mhm got it from this store called the drawer.”
Eddie snorts, though he adores the look on your face, “you’re so lame, the drawer? Really?”
“Mhmm,” you nod, picking up the fork you start eating happily.
“Who sold it to you?” Eddie asks, squinting his eyes at you.
“Oh, this uh… really handsome guy, said he’s in a band, corroded coffin?” You raise your brow, pretending to think. “Yeah, that’s what it was.”
Eddie’s stomach flips in excitement at the compliment. You’ve called him handsome plenty of times before, but it never fails to make him blush.
“Damn, he sounds really cool,” Eddie says, laughing.
You nod, a serious and adoring look now flashing in your features, no hint of amusement behind those eyes, no teasing, just pure adoration for him, “he is, he is the coolest actually.”
He gets flustered easily when he’s with you but when you look at him like this, with that sweet smile and those soft eyes, he doesn’t know what to do with himself, he doesn’t know what to say or how to act, so he hides his face by looking down at the delicious food in front of him, a sheepish smile resting on his face, one that makes your own even bigger. He finally takes a bite of the pasta and his eyes instantly close as he moans at the taste of it, making you giggle yet again.
“Fuck me, yeah I’m sorry sweets, but I ain’t letting you get married, you’re stuck with me,” he jokes as he takes another bite, completely forgetting about all the anxious thoughts that swirled in his mind just moments ago.
“Oh, you mean I’m stuck being your private chef?”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”
You raise your eyebrows at him, chewing on the garlic bread slowly, you try to ignore the heat building up in your stomach as you look into his chocolate eyes, waiting for him to say that word.
“Oh, then what would you call it?”
Eddie looks at you through hooded eyes, a teasing smirk tugging at his plump lips.
“Housewife.”
A surprised giggle falls from your lips, though your cheeks start burning, especially under his gaze. Something tugs at your chest, something strong, something warm. Housewife. You never craved to be that, you never had such desires. Sure, you always dreamed of finding the one, finding true love, finding someone who will love you the way you can love, the way you always wished to love but that’s it, you never imagined yourself past the dating stage, you never daydreamed of weddings and a husband, you never thought of becoming a wife, a housewife at that but… when you think of yourself as that with Eddie by your side, with your best friend, with the one who had always been by your side through thick and thin, something in you beats a little stronger.
You clear your throat, lowering your gaze to his ringed fingers, you can’t help but let your mind take you to sacred places.
Eddie watches you intensely, eyes lighting up at the flustered state you are suddenly in, a state he only ever sees you in when he teases you with touches, with pick up lines, with his flirtations but never this. There is a little spark in him now, the sparkle of hope.
“Well that would make you my husband.” Your voice is shaky, filled with nerves and something else that he can’t decipher at this moment.
Oh, Eddie would put a ring on your fingers right this second.
He never really planned his future, he never really saw one, especially not one in which he would be happy with a wife and kids by his side but he would be lying if he said that he doesn’t want these things with you. You make him crave things that were never even a thought of his before he met you, you make him want to be that for you, a husband.
He doesn’t believe that he can give you what you want, what you need, what you deserve but he knows one thing for sure, if he was given the chance, he would make you so damn happy.
“Would that be so bad?”
You look up again and into his eyes, something in them is different now, something in the way he looks at you is so… intense and raw, there is a softness in them, one stronger than usual.
Would that be bad?
You shake your head before you can even come up with the right words to say, or with words you should say. Something has changed, perhaps a long time ago or just now, but you know one thing for sure, your heart never beat this strongly before and your hands never itched to touch his so badly.
You know the truth is hidden behind the walls you have put up, but that wall started crumbling a long time ago, long before you had the chance to even notice.
The energy in the room has shifted into something more… intimate and it’s not the candles or the music, it adds to it, but those aren’t the main reasons, it’s the energy you both have created, it’s the lingering touches, it’s his foot touching yours under the table, not playfully like usual, it’s different, it’s all so different but it’s good. A comfortable silence takes over the room as you continue eating and as the seconds and the minutes pass, and you both sip on your wines, pouring a second glass, you both get a little bolder when the alcohol hits you.
Your hands inch closer and closer to each other, your eye contact becomes a little more intense, making your breathing stutter and your heart skip several beats.
And when he is done with his food, he pushes his plate aside and leans his elbows on the table, he clears his throat and takes a deep breath and then, he brushes his fingertips against your own before he envelopes your hand fully, taking it into his large one.
You can’t describe the feelings rushing through you, he held your hand plenty of times before but until now, you never let yourself feel the rush of it, you never allowed yourself to pay attention to the electric feeling cursing through your veins but you allow it now, slowly… you allow it.
“They’re really missing out, aren’t they?” You speak the first words that come to your mind as you stare into your best friend's beautiful eyes.
Eddie looks around the dining room, shrugging when he looks back at you, his eyes roaming your face, his lips curl into a smile.
“I don’t know, I kinda like it just being the two of us, we never really get the chance to be alone like this.”
You nod in agreement, “that’s true, I like it too,” you murmur before you reach for your glass and take a big sip of wine.
“More wine and weed for us,” Eddie jokes, wiggling his eyebrows at you.
You roll your eyes playfully, setting the glass back down, you tilt your head to the side, “speaking of weed, wanna roll us a joint?”
Eddie doesn’t want to let go of your hand just yet but he nods, he could use that relaxation anyways, maybe it will calm his nerves around you before he does something that he might end up regretting later on.
“Yeah, I’m gonna clean this up first.”
You shake your head, “no, I can do it–”
“Sweetheart,” Eddie says sternly, glaring at you, “I know I said housewife, I hope you know that doesn’t mean slave.”
You can’t help but giggle at the seriousness on his face or in his voice, “Eddie, I hope you know that that’s exactly what most men think of when they want a housewife.”
He frowns in disgust, scoffing at that, he begrudgingly lets go of your hand and pushes his chair back.
“Well, most men are pigs who don’t even deserve a wife in the first place,” he says, getting up, he glares at you and points at you to stay seated. “You don’t have to do all the work, you cook, I clean up, it’s simple.”
A smile graces your features, you tap the table before you reach for the wine bottle, pouring yourself a third glass, “well then, whatever you say, husband,” you giggle and get up as well, holding your hands up in surrender when he gives you a warning glance, “don’t worry, I won’t lift a finger, I’m gonna grab my wine and wait for you in the living room.”
“Yeah,” Eddie murmurs as he gathers the dirty plates, “sit your pretty ass down.”
You definitely feel the wine in your system now, that fuzzy feeling and the slight dizziness feels so welcoming though.
“Yes, sir.”
Before Eddie can stop his mouth from running, those words tumble out of his mouth just like that.
“Good girl.”
You nearly choke on your spit and trip over nothing, his words rush right to your core, your cheeks start burning hotter than before.
Good girl.
He called you a good girl, with that raspy, deep voice of his that never fails to make your insides crawl with need, that never fails to ring through your head when you’re in your bed with your hand between your thighs, imagining him and his voice calling you just that.
You don’t know how you manage to keep your composure but you do, only allowing a soft giggle to leave your lips as you continue your way out of the dining room and into the living room, you round the corner and rush to the big couch where he luckily can’t see you, your knees almost buckle before you can even take a seat.
You close your eyes and sigh out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. Pressing a hand to your chest, you nearly gasp at the beating of your heart.
“Oh my god,” you whisper to yourself.
Eddie will be the death of you, you are sure of it, if not tonight then tomorrow, and if not then, then on the last day of your trip.
The veil that was hiding all your truths was already being lifted when you were still in Hawkins, slowly everything was coming out, all the feelings you were denying, all the things you were so afraid of admitting, you lost control and power a long time ago. The moment Robin opened her eyes to what was there this whole time, the moment she confronted you about your feelings for him was the moment you could no longer hide. The veil is no longer there, it’s long gone and lost with the wind.
You run your fingers through your hair and lean back into the soft cushions, taking a big gulp of the red wine that will surely give you a headache tomorrow morning, you keep your eyes closed for a moment, you begin to curse her out in your head because all your reactions to his words and touches just now only confirmed all her beliefs.
Fuck Robin for saying all that shit to you that changed your feelings and opened your eyes completely, a month ago. Fuck her for telling you that you indeed have feelings for Eddie, for your best friend. Fuck her for making you start realizing it and be self conscious for it. Fuck her for making you feel scared of losing Eddie because of it.
“Fuck,” you whisper to yourself, you open your eyes and look around the lightly dimmed room, you take in the sound of Eddie’s voice, of his humming to the music, of the way your heart flutters more and more.
You are so fucked.
You will ruin the friendship, you are sure of it.
If only you knew that this is exactly what he wants.
You keep yourself busy with your wine glass, staring into blank space as you continue letting your thoughts eat at you, letting the insecurities and the doubts creep in, when all you want to do is get lost in the feeling of what he gave to you at the dinner table, just moments ago.
You are so lost in your head, you don’t even notice the music being turned off, you don’t even hear his footsteps or his voice until he is standing right before you after throwing a bunch of different snacks on the coffee table.
“I know the munchies are gonna hit you,” your best friend chuckles as he finally sits down beside you, joint already between his fingers, lighter on the coffee table. He turns to you, wiggling his eyebrows at you as he offers you the joint.
Yeah, maybe this will help, maybe this will relax you enough to get a grip on yourself again, maybe this will stop you from doing something that will make you regret.
Your heart, your body, everything in you seems to be sick of living in denial though because before your mind can kill this moment, you are already moving forward, looking into his eyes, you lean down, closer and closer, you wrap your lips around the joint that is still snug between his fingers.
The widening of his eyes, the parting of his lips, snaps you out of whatever had possessed you, though not enough, not even in the slightest.
You raise your brows at him expectedly, waiting for him to light up the joint for you.
The flush in his cheeks, the rosy color taking over his face, his squirming makes satisfaction rush you.
You were teasing him all morning, all afternoon and every time you added one more, you wanted to risk more, but now things just have gotten out of hand, you got lost in your own little game and you let your feelings, your desires take full control of you.
Poor Eddie doesn’t know what to do with himself as he looks down at you, if it wasn’t for the alcohol in his system, he would lose all composure and stutter like a little kid around his crush. He manages to reach for the lighter and he never looks away from your pretty eyes or your lips, or the shirt that keeps riding up on your thighs, a little more and more.
He lights the joint and he is surprised when you don’t look away, when your eyes stay locked with his and a satisfied moan escapes you – only worsening his case. You inhale deeply and furrow your eyebrows in concentration, a lazy smile spreads on your kissable lips and you lean back further after blowing out the smoke. You bring your knees up to your chest and hand him the joint.
“That’s nice,” you sigh out in pleasure, “I needed that.”
“You’re starting to sound like an addict,” Eddie smirks, hiding his blushing cheeks behind his curls as he takes the joint from your fingers and places it between his lips, unaware of the way you follow his every movement as he gets comfortable beside you, resting his feet on the table, he stretches his arm out and wraps it around the headrest behind you.
“What… movie did you pick out?” You ask him and he doesn’t even notice your stuttering or the way your eyes are glued to his exposed skin as his shirt rides up, exposing his happy trail.
Eddie shrugs, reaching for the remote, he glances at you, “I dunno, one of the movies Steve recommended we should watch.”
“Oh?”
“Mhmm,” He nods and presses play before he throws the remote on the coffee table, “let’s see how good his taste is.”
“You already know he loves the cheesy shit,” you laugh and scoot closer to him with your wine glass still in your hand, you’re searching for his warmth.
“Yeah, he does,” Eddie chuckles.
He lowers his gaze to your thighs, noticing the goosebumps on your skin, he puts the joint into the ashtray and he reaches for the knitted blanket thrown over the couch, he spreads it open and covers your legs with it, “don’t want you freezing, sweets,” he murmurs.
Your eyes soften for him, a smile spreading on your lips. You lean forward and place your wine glass on the coffee table and then you scoot closer to him and throw the blanket over his lap as well before you place your head on his chest, snuggling up against him with a content look on your face… beside the blushing on your cheeks.
Eddie wraps his arm around you without a second thought – this is nothing unusual for you, neither is the hand holding, or the sharing of clothes or the intimate touches but everything you do today, that you usually do as well, feels so different, it makes him nervous, it makes you nervous, it feels like the first time.
And when you place your hand above his heart, he grows anxious that you might feel just how strongly it’s beating for you, he is scared that you will figure out his feelings and that that will make you run, run from him.
“Your heart is racing,” you whisper softly, causing him to tense up a little but when you press your chin against his chest and you gaze up into his eyes, he feels a sense of calmness bleed through him, safety.
Eddie blinks, not knowing what to say without giving away the truth, without giving away just how much he wants to kiss you right now, how much he wants to make you his, how badly he wants to confess and get it off his chest.
“Is everything okay?” Your angelic voice makes him feel weak, the candle light makes you look so soft, your scent makes him feel drunk, his lips yearn to touch yours, his heart screams for you.
God, he really wants to kiss you so bad.
And he wants to kiss you even more when he sees the way your own eyes flicker between his lips, his neck and his eyes. He tightens his hold on you, prompting you to scoot even closer as you lean your warm body into his as your hand slips down to his stomach, your nails grazing the sliver of exposed skin on his stomach, he nearly whimpers at the feeling. You truly know how to drive him crazy.
“Yeah,” he whispers, lips curling into a smile, “everything is perfect.”
Almost perfect.
It would be perfect if he could just grab your face and smash his lips against yours, kissing you breathless.
You bite your lower lip as you keep staring up at him, you look as though you want to say something, your eyebrows pull together whenever you hold something back, whenever you desire to speak up about something – he doesn’t pressure you to talk though, he never does, he gives you time, as always.
His eyelashes flutter, his lips part in surprise when he watches you move closer to him, closer and closer until your lips are pressed against his jaw, you peck him once before you shyly pull away and bury your face in his chest, turning your attention back to the TV right as the movie begins to play and he is glad that you do, because his eyes widen the way they probably never did before and blood rushes to his cheeks, no doubt making him look like a tomato right now, his heart feels as though it will beat out of his chest at any moment.
You were teasing him this morning, you were very clear about that, the smirk and the smugness on your face gave it away every time but you are no longer teasing now, this is different, this is something else, this is something new.
Eddie swallows the lump in his throat and he takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly and shakily.
He wonders if you know the effect you have on him, he wonders if you know how he feels for you, he wonders if you know just what he would do for you.
“Pass me the joint?” He whispers, not recognizing his own voice due to how shaky it is.
You do as he asks, pulling away for just a second, you reach for the joint and hand it to him before you settle back comfortably against his chest, pressing your cheek tightly against it.
Despite the nervousness in him, he keeps his arm wrapped around you tightly, and he even takes it a little further, becoming a little bolder, he sneaks his hand under your shirt and lays his plat flatly against your warm back.
You sigh in contentment and curl further into him, welcoming the touch of his hand, especially when he starts rubbing up and down.
“That feels so nice,” you murmur, moaning softly, “don’t stop, Eddie.”
Of course it wasn’t the greatest move to make, of course it would backfire, of course he would be the one with the problem. It’s already not helping that you’re almost fully on top of him, hand underneath his shirt as your nails scratch against his skin and now you are moaning because of him.
He places the joint between his lips and takes a long drag, needing it desperately.
“Your hands always feel so nice, Eds.” The words tumble fall from your lips just like that, like you no longer find yourself caring about the consequences of your words or your actions, maybe it’s the alcohol and the weed in your system that makes you so careless and bold, or maybe it’s the reassuring touch of your best friend that gives you the confidence to let you say what’s on your mind.
Eddie freezes, shocked he stares at the movie playing on the screen, his hand stops moving as well for a moment, he wonders if he really heard you right. You press against his hand again, wanting more.
“And you don’t know what they can do, sweets,” he rasps into your ear, confidently and like he isn’t losing his mind over you.
A whimper sounds through the room, your whimper. You try to conceal it by coughing into your hand but he heard it, and he felt how you tensed up at his words.
He swallows harshly, squirming beneath you, he tries his hardest to hold back that growl. His hand slips from under your shirt and down to your thigh when you lean forward to reach for the joint in the ashtray.
“Rolling good joints?” You murmur, trying to hide your nervousness and how flustered you really are.
Eddie can’t help but snort, mumbling a soft ‘sure’ to your question.
Despite the tension in the room and your unwanted awkwardness, time keeps passing and the night goes on, the movie continues playing, moving into a direction that neither of you expected at the start of it – what begins with an innocent scene of the beautiful lead getting ready for her date with the guy she is keeping a secret, develops into something different, something more, something that should not have the effect on you that it does right now but when they start kissing in his car, slowly and sensually at first, her fingers buried in his long hair as his slip under her shirt, you can’t help but bite your lip. Your skin grows hot, your thighs clench together, your grip on his shirt tightens as your mind flips this scene into you kissing Eddie in his car.
The wine was supposed to help, the weed too, but neither of them did, neither of them managed to give you the calming effect that you were hoping for, if anything both only heightened your senses and intensified absolutely everything in you, because suddenly, his body feels so much closer, his cologne so much more intoxicating than usual, his touch heating your skin on fire, his breath on your skin tickles you and those evil thoughts in your head make you wonder what it would feel like to feel his breath elsewhere, to feel his lips on your skin and his hands holding you tightly, keeping you in place as his lips touch parts of you only your hands did before.
Your heart starts beating faster and you begin to lose composure, the rational voice in your head is gone for good, desire and need taking over now, a confidence you didn’t know you had rushing through you as you move your leg, pressing the heel of your foot against his shin.
And while you are getting bolder, Eddie is trying his best to stay calm, to not act upon his feelings and ruin the one good thing in his life, despite the clear signs you are currently giving, he makes no move, even when he wants nothing more but to bury his face in your neck and suck on your skin until you are marked up by him. The smell of your perfume drives him insane, the feeling of your skin pressed against his makes his stomach flutter with no end near in sight, his heart hasn’t stopped racing yet.
The blanket slips from your lower half, his shirt has ridden up on your body, revealing the panties you are wearing, the black lace resting so perfectly on your soft skin. He clenches his jaw at the sight of it, biting back the moan that wants to fall off his lips so badly.
Something else flutters now, not just his heart or those butterflies in his stomach and it makes him so uncomfortable because he won’t be able to hide it, not right now.
Soft moans fill the living room, along with the sounds of lips smacking together. You bite your lip even harder, hold onto him even tighter as your eyes stay glued to the screen, watching intently as the couple undresses each other slowly, their hands becoming more and more desperate on each other, whimpers getting louder.
You are so lost in it, you let your body move on its own, your foot continues to slide up his shin and his knee, hip angling as you twist your body further into him. As the scene gets more and more intense, the thoughts in your head do too.
The coil in your stomach grows, burning hotly, you are throbbing between your legs, growing wetter and wetter each passing second as you imagine yourself moaning like the girl on the TV – moaning for him, with him.
Eddie is frozen in place, stunned at everything that is happening this very moment, not only is the scene very erotic but the moves you are pulling now are just about enough for him to get hard – and he can’t exactly conceal anything, not when he is wearing grey sweatpants and you are tightly pressed against him.
Do you even know what you are doing to him?
When Eddie shifts beneath you and his fingers dig deeper into your skin, you lower your head and tear your eyes from the screen to his lap and your mouth waters in an instant, eyes growing wide and the burning in your stomach only worsens.
“Got a problem there, Eds?” You blurt out as you stare at the very prominent bulge.
He wants to crawl under the blanket and hide his flustered face but instead he rolls his eyes, trying to act cool, averting his gaze from you and back to the screen, pretending that it’s the girl in the movie that caused this.
“I am just a man, leave me alone…”
A giggle escapes you, and you look up at your best friend to find him blushing furiously. His long lashes kissing his skin every time he blinks, his dark eyes shine so prettily, his lips are just so… so kissable. His neck is so perfect to be marked up by you. His dark hair cascading down to his shoulders so perfectly, but you want to make a mess of him.
“Aw, poor man,” you tease him before you finally let go of any doubts, of any fears or anxious thoughts, you grab the joint from between his fingers and put it back on the ashtray and then, you lean back to him and do something that you always craved to do, you press your lips against his jaw, kissing him.
His lips part in surprise, heart stopping for a moment, he stares into blank space now as you repeat the motion, pressing your lips against his skin again and again, humming in contentment.
His legs feel like jelly and if he wasn’t sitting down already, he surely would’ve felt his knees buckle at this electric touch. Words can’t describe the feeling of this, of you. He imagined this so many times, your lips on his skin, just the imagination of it had him feeling giddy but this, he can’t even function.
You move closer and closer, your hand finding the chain around his neck, your breath kissing his skin, you gaze up at him with those pretty eyes that could make him do anything you would ask for.
“Sweetheart, what are you doing…?” He finds his voice again.
You shrug, looking at him innocently, “I don’t know, I just want to kiss your face, is that so bad?” You ask before you lean in again, not waiting for an answer from him, you press your lips back against his jaw, finger hooked around his chain and your other hand moving from his chest and up to his hair, giving it a slight pull.
Eddie’s eyes flutter closed, the soft smile that rested on his features before slowly falling now. He clenches his jaw when you kiss it again and again, his heart races like crazy now, the feelings in him, the love he feels for you bursting in him as he finally gets a taste of what things could be like if you were his girl.
You light up a fire in him, but make him weak at the same time, you make him feel safe but he also burns for you, he desires you in ways he wasn’t even aware existed, only a taste of this, of you, could kill him because if he can’t have you again after having you once, he surely will die slowly and torturously as he forever will be reminded of this, of what could be.
He breathes in shakily as his hands fall to your waist, gripping you tighter than ever before, it takes everything in him not to grab your face and kiss you senseless but it takes even more to stop you.
He wants this, he wants you so bad, he wants to keep feeling your lips, your touch, you.
But what is this to you?
His hand moves up to the back of your neck, he wraps his fingers around it, pulling you away softly with a deep inhale.
“Don’t do this to me now, darling,” he whispers weakly, not caring about how vulnerable he sounds, how vulnerable he must look right now.
You ignore his pleading, and you move closer again, straddling his thigh as you wrap your arms around his neck, you look into his eyes as you inch closer and closer to him, no longer caring about anything. You kiss his cheek softly and then the other, noting the soft sigh falling from his lips, the grip of his hand on you becoming tighter and stronger.
Eddie is breathing heavily now, he doesn’t even know what to do with himself as your lips are so close to his own.
“You’re killing me here, sweetheart,” he whispers.
You pull back to look at him, taking in the intense emotions flashing in his eyes as he stares at you with nothing but hunger, his eyes flicking back and forth between your lips and your neck.
“Why?” You whisper innocently as you lean in again and without thinking, you press your lips to the corner of his mouth.
Eddie’s eyes flutter closed for a moment, a curse word falls from his lips as he clenches his jaw again.
“Because I’m trying to hold back.”
“Who says I want you to?” You ask softly and he opens his eyes again, tilting his head to the side, he furrows his brows at you.
“Don’t do this to me, baby, you know how bad I–”
The brush of your knee against his bulge as you throw your leg over his thigh completely leaves the words stuck in his throat, you straddle him the way you only ever did in his dreams.
“How bad you what?” You whisper as you slowly lean your forehead against his, letting your lips brush against his own as you gaze into his eyes.
You can see the way he is holding back from doing what he wants, what you both want, so you give him a little push. You nuzzle your nose against his, giving him that soft look that gets you anything you want, that makes him weak.
If only you knew just the feelings you cause inside of him.
Eddie takes a deep breath, he shuts down all the racing thoughts in his head and finally, he cups your cheeks, holding your face gently.
“Oh, fuck me,” he whispers and smashes his lips against yours, kissing you finally. He pushes all his fears and his insecurities aside, not wanting to dwell on them any longer, not wanting to think of them now when he gets the chance to do this and your whimper, that needy little sound that comes from you when you kiss him back only fuels his need to kiss you harder and deeper.
You press yourself against him, wrapping your arms around him tightly, you bury your fingers into his curls, taking a fistful of his hair as you move your lips against his, slowly at first. You get so lost in it, loving the way it feels to kiss his lips, to kiss your best friend. It’s everything and more than you imagined it to feel like, it feels so perfect, so right, so safe. You let yourself fall into him, melting into his embrace as his hands move down to your waist, holding you tightly the way you do to him.
The sound of your sighs and moans, lips smacking and the movie still playing in the back, whimpers coming from the girl on the TV makes it all a little more intense, because the burning in your thighs becomes unbearable, the feeling of his tongue brushing against your lower lip as he pushes you down against his bulge has you aching and yearning.
To Eddie this feels like a dream, like it’s something not real, not even close to being real because this is something that only ever lived in his mind, whether he was just thinking about you at work, while writing songs, while sitting next to you or while getting off in the middle of the night, this was only ever a dream but now it isn’t. The kiss is real, your moans are real, your body is truly pressed against his, you are sitting right on top of him, slowly dragging your hips along his aching dick and it feels so fucking good, better than he could ever even dream of.
Everything in him burns for you, his heart, his soul, every cell, every organ, you are like a drug to him that he was already addicted to before he even tried it, but now? He is gone forever. A kiss that could lead to nothing, that could only stay this, a kiss, perhaps a mistake for you that you will regret come morning, enough to break him.
What is it gonna be? The kiss that will lead to the start of something his heart screamed for since the very beginning? Or will this be his kiss of death?
He has to be sure, he needs to be sure so he pulls away, begrudgingly so, he pulls away from the kiss that he never wants to stop, breathlessly, he opens his eyes to look at you for the first time after this change between you both but you are not having it, leaning in with a whine, you peck his lips again, making his heart flutter.
“Baby–” You cut him off by kissing him again, desperately and he once again has to pull away reluctantly.
“Baby, hear me out first, fuck–” he groans when you peck his lips again, whining at him in a way that has him clenching his jaw but this time, he cups your cheeks and pulls you away from him and you finally open your eyes and look at him, pouting at him with a needy look on your face. Fuck. “Fucking hell, wait– you need to tell me if you really want this or if its the alcohol and the weed talking.”
You shake your head wildly, grabbing his wrists as you lean closer again, kissing his cheeks, his nose, his chin and finally his lips again, the way you always desired to, the way you always dreamed of, the way you always denied yourself of it when it’s all you ever wanted.
“Is it the alcohol and the weed talking for you?” You murmur against his lips, looking at him through hooded eyes.
With a frown he shakes his head, “fuck no, I’ve wanted this for so long, sweetheart, you have no idea for how long.” He admits openly, not caring about being vulnerable right now, about admitting his feelings for you – the friendship is ruined now.
Your lips twitch, eyes shining with nothing but love for him, for your best friend, your heart bursts in your chest, everything in you calms down yet screams in joy. You can see the anxiety in his eyes, the fear that lingers within him, you want to take it.
“Good, then we’re on the same page,” you whisper happily, nuzzling your nose against his.
Eddie blinks, staring at you, stunned. A shaky breath falls from his lips, his heart has stopped beating for a moment, the world has stopped moving, time has stopped. He had dreamed of this for so long, fantasized about what it would feel like to kiss you, to touch you, to hold you, to love on you but he had never thought of this, simply because he never thought it would happen, that it would be a possibility, you feeling the same. He thought he was doomed, cursed to spend his life loving you from afar and watching you slip through his fingers as the years would pass, he would love you while you would love someone else, while you would build a life with someone else, he would stay your best friend, the obsessed, lovesick best friend who would never move on, the best friend who would choose you over and over again even if he was given the chance to be loved by someone else, he would never love anyone the way he loves you, his heart belongs to you, fully. He is yours, he had always been yours but he never thought that you could be his, no matter how many nights he spent wishing for it. Life had never been kind to him so why would it grant him the highest wish he has? And yet, here you are, looking at him as though he hung the stars and the moon, as though he is the best thing that was ever created, like he is something pure, something beautiful, something worth loving. Have you always looked at him this way?
His eyes start burning as his heart starts beating again, the warmth he felt because of you, turning into burning desire, the desire to claim you like he had always wanted to, to rip his heart from his chest and give it to you.
You whisper his name sweetly, grabbing his hand softly, you move it down your shoulder, your chest and finally placing it above your beating heart.
“All for you, baby.”
His breath hitches in his throat, his eyes flicker between your face and his hand, feeling the racing of your heart that matches the beat of his own. His eyes soften, love taking over the lust that was flashing in them just moments ago. He doesn’t know what to say, the words are stuck in his throat, he is speechless.
You can see it, you can see the shock in his eyes, he stares at you like he wonders if this is real or not. He is breathing heavily, blinking slowly, his lips part, cheeks flushing.
“Eddie–”
Suddenly, he moves forward and grabs your cheeks again, slamming his lips against yours roughly, desperately. He kisses you hotly, strongly, more intensely than he did before, like he is scared that you might slip away if he doesn’t do it this way.
You throw your arms around his neck again, whining needily into the kiss, you part his lips with your tongue and slip it into his mouth, deepening the kiss further as you grind your hips against him, making him moan against your lips as he holds you stronger, gripping you tightly as though he is scared that you will slip away if he doesn’t.
This kiss is much hungrier than the first, so much deeper and intense, it’s filled with a desperation that was pent up for a long, long time – not weeks or even months, but years. He waited for years for this, you can feel it and your heart races wildly for him. The need to show him just how much you want him too, how you reciprocate his love burns so deeply within you.
You grind your hips against his, feeling just how hard he is for you, the ache between your legs becomes worse, unbearable, and he can tell, he can feel by the way you move your hips, by the sounds of your needy whines.
Eddie doesn’t know what to do with himself, never had he felt such desperation before, such an overwhelming amount of love. He feels stuck between wanting to cry out of pure happiness while making love to you and devouring you vigorously as he shows you just how much he needs, wants you.
His ringed fingers dig into your waist and he begins to push you off of him, guiding you down against the soft cushions without breaking the kiss, he groans against your lips when you spread your legs for him, tugging him on top of you before he can even do it himself. God, you truly want him just as much.
Eddie slides his hand up your body, cupping your cheek once more, he continues kissing you, clashing his tongue against yours, making you mewl as he takes control and grinds against you, a movement that tears out a different kind of sound in you, a whine so needy that it sends shockwaves through his body.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he breathes against your lips heavily as he pulls away from the kiss and opens his eyes to reveal just how dark they are now.
You wrap your legs around his waist, causing your shirt to ride up in the process, your panties exposed to him now.
He clenches his jaw, trying to control himself but it’s becoming so hard when you are under him like this, looking up at him with those needy eyes as you grab each side of his neck, leaning up to kiss him, again and again, pecking his cheeks and his lips before you trail the kisses down to his jawline.
“I need you so bad, Eds,” you whisper into his skin, moving your hand down his shoulder and his arm, fingernails grazing his goosebump covered skin, you take his hand in yours and bring it back down to your body, placing it on your chest, “please?” You ask in desperation.
He takes a deep breath, making his heart flutter and his body burn when he grabs at your boobs for the very first time.
“Please what?” He murmurs as he presses you down again so he can latch his lips onto your jawline. “Tell me what you need, sweet girl. My fingers, my tongue… or my cock?” He surprises himself when those words fall off his lips when he doesn’t even know how to function at this moment.
You shut your eyes and bite your lip when he kisses down your neck, finding your sweet spot with no struggle, he starts sucking.
“Mmm, y-your fingers,” you whimper as you take his other free hand and guide it down your stomach slowly, “want your fingers, Eddie and then your cock.”
He could cum right here and there, he had dreamed of this too many times.
“Yeah?” He rasps against you, still kissing your neck, “you want me to fuck you with my fingers first?”
You nod wildly, bringing his hand down to your laced panties, you spread your legs further, grinding against him needily. You are so wet, having soaked through your panties already.
“I-I always think about you when I touch myself, I imagine it’s your fingers instead of mine,” you admit with burning cheeks.
Eddie opens his eyes widely, leaning back from your neck after marking it up, he looks at your blushing face.
“R-Really?” He stutters, though with a satisfied look on his face.
Through hooded eyes, you look at your best friend as you nod shyly, humming.
“Guess we got something in common then,” Eddie smirks as he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours, he pecks your lips as he slips his fingers down between your legs, finally, cupping your pussy, he presses against your wetness, growling at the feeling.
“Fuck baby, you’re soaked.”
“I always am for you!” You whine, desperately grinding against the heel of his hand.
His cock twitches at your words, stomach tensing up.
The thought that you might’ve been sitting next to him during movie nights, squirming because of him, waiting to go home so you could touch yourself while thinking of him drives him insane. If he had known… he could’ve done this way sooner.
Eddie pushes your panties aside, dipping his fingers through your folds, he makes both you and himself moan.
“Don’t tease,” you whimper, bucking your hips and pressing yourself against him as he teases your entrance.
“I can’t believe this is happening,” Eddie says as he brings his digits up to your clit, “can’t believe you’re letting me do this.”
While the shocked look on his face and the disbelief is cute, you can tell what is going on – what went on in his head all this time that he thought that his feelings would never be reciprocated.
You grab his face and smash your lips against his again, kissing him just as roughly as he kissed you the second time, you try to show him, to make him feel what had been there all this time, and he welcomes it so happily, kissing you back right away while his fingers continue to move against your clit, teasingly at first, intensifying the aching inside of you. He licks into your mouth, sliding his tongue against yours as he moans needily, getting lost in the feeling he had craved for so long.
His stomach flutters when you wrap one leg around his waist while rolling your hips, wanting and needing more, he can feel you getting wetter and wetter, moans getting louder, lips moving sloppier. He slips his fingers lower, dipping his middle finger into you slowly, inching it inside of you, pulling the neediest sounds out of you as you clench around him already.
“Fuck,” he mumbles against your mouth, “you’re so tight.”
“More!” You demand with a whine, making him chuckle.
“More huh? One finger not enough for you, sweets?” He asks to which you shake your head, furrowing your brows when he adds a second finger, scissoring them inside of you as he opens you up.
“No, I-I want more,” you whimper at the feeling of him splitting you open, preparing you for his dick, just the thought of it has you drooling already. “I need–” the words die on your tongue and you quickly forget what you even wanted to say when he starts fucking you in slow but deep movements.
“You need what, hmm?” He taunts you, unable to hide the satisfied smirk on his face as he watches you fall apart beneath him, losing your mind over just his fingers as your jaw falls slack and those sweet sounds begin to fill the room along with the squelching of your pussy. “God… You’re so fucking wet.” Eddie doesn’t even know what to do with himself, his heart is beating like crazy, his cock is aching in his grey sweats that feel way too tight by now, pre cum already leaking through the thick material, something he should feel embarrassed about, but he can’t, not when you look him up and down like you’re some hungry and feral animal in heat.
“All because of you, I’ve been wet all day!” You whine as you grab at his hair when he buries his face in your neck, breathing heavily against your skin as he covers you in love bites. He growls against you, loving those words a little too much.
His wrist starts moving faster, fingers splitting you open, he fucks them in and out of you.
“Do you fuck your tight little pussy like this too?”
Your brows are scrunched together so tightly, eyes rolling back when he curls them inside of you, hitting just the right spot to make you cry out.
“N-No! Not t-this good!”
You roll your hips against his hand, craving to feel him deeper. Your hands are all over him, his hair, his shoulders, his back, gripping at his shirt as you hold on for dear life while he sucks on your neck and fingerfucks your sopping pussy. The room is filled with such dirty sounds, something that should leave you a blushing mess, something that should leave your cheeks burning in embarrassment but you cannot bother to care, it just feels so good and Eddie fucking loves it.
He pulls back to look at you, to admire your face and those marks he left on you, proudly he looks down at you, a look of love, a look of lust flashing in his eyes. He watches the way you bite your lip, eyes open widely again, you admire him too. And then, you push yourself up on your elbow, pecking his lips before you look down at his hand, wanting to see, wanting to watch his fingers moving in and out of you.
“You like that, huh?” He mumbles as he presses his forehead against yours, “you like being fucked by your best friend like this?”
You whimper again, louder this time as you nod, clenching around his fingers so tightly that he can’t help but growl – how is he going to last? How will he be able to control himself not to cum the second he enters you?
Everything becomes so much hotter, the air around you, the energy in this room, his body against yours, his fingers inside of you, the coil in your stomach, everything starts burning and somehow, it only fuels the need in you.
You grab at the hem of your shirt and push it up to your collarbones, exposing your chest to him, your boobs bounce as you throw your head back against the pillow to see him better and his reaction does not disappoint, if you weren’t so lost in pleasure you would have giggled at the awestruck look on his face, at the wide eyes and the parted lips.
“Baby,” he whispers as he presses his large hand to your now bare waist, slipping it upwards slowly, “you’re unreal, fuck… you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs as though in disbelief, staring down at you as though you are something that came straight out of his imagination. He grabs your boob roughly, pinching your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, he leans down and wraps his lips against the other, wasting no time to suck on it, making you arch your back against him as you throw your hand into his curls, fingers grazing his scalp as you give it a harsh tug, something that he fucking loves.
“I-I… oh my god!” You whimper as tears begin to pull in your eyes when he presses his thumb to your clit, teasing you. “D-Don’t stop! Don’t stop, Eddie! That feels so good!” You nearly scream as he starts moving his fingers faster than before, fucking them in and out of you roughly. You are clenching around him, digging your heel into his ass as you move along to his thrusts.
He looks up at you, loving the sight of you coming undone before him, it’s the prettiest sight to him. He can’t wait to watch you fall apart beneath him when he actually fucks you. He licks around your nipple, adding more pleasure to your body.
“Eddie!” You writhe beneath him, blinking the tears away as you look down at him. Your stomach tenses up, burning as the pleasure builds up more and more, almost becoming unbearable, everything inside of you is lit on fire, absolutely every part of you. Your toes curl, your knuckles turn white from how rough you are grabbing at his curls, the sounds that fall from your mouth are almost not recognizable, sounding too pornographic but you have never felt anything like this before, especially not from just being finger fucked.
Eddie pushes himself back up, straightening his back, he slides his hand further up your chest, passing your collarbones and settling around your throat, he tests the waters at first, needing you to be okay with this – he watches the way your eyes darken at this, lips parting as you push yourself up on your elbows, you bring your hand up to his wrist, wrapping your fingers tightly around it, you press it harder against your throat, asking him to choke you.
Eddie laughs darkly, lips curling into a satisfied grin, he shakes his head at you, “of course you’re into that shit. You’re a naughty girl aren’t you?”
It takes you a moment to answer his question because the view before you is just a little too distracting. Eddie hovers over you with one hand between your thighs, knuckle deep buried inside of you while his other hand is now wrapped around your throat, rings on, veins popping out of his tattooed forearm, dark curls falling in front of his face as he looks down at you like he wants to devour you but make love to you at the same time.
God, he is beautiful.
Your eyes move down his body, the wet patch on his sweatpants, the bulge making you drool, making you want to drop to your knees for him, worship him, choke on him, suck the soul out of him. You can’t help yourself, moving your hand down his stomach, you grab his dick, wiping the smirk off his face completely as he moans loudly.
“F-Fuck, sweetheart.”
You palm him through his sweats, teasing him the way he teased you, though Eddie is less patient than you are. His hips stutter, a whimper falls off his lips so prettily and you almost tease him for it but he curls his fingers so deeply inside of you, presses his thumb against your clit so strongly that your vision blurs for a second.
“Eddie… Eddie!” You say his name twice, pressing your hand stronger against him, you hook your fingers around the band of his pants.
“D-Don’t tease me or else I’ll cum right this second,” he growls as his cheeks start burning at his words.
“Don’t do that,” you warn as you push his pants down just enough, his dick slaps against his stomach, precum leaking out and rolling down his length, his tip an angry red, thick veins so prominent. Your eyes widen and your mouth waters at the sight of him, of his size, his length.
Eddie looks down at you with burning cheeks and begging eyes, he feels the way you clench around his fingers, feels how you soak his digits.
You look at him intensely, watching him fall apart at nothing but the touch of your hand, his eyelashes flutter, a content sigh falling from his lips when you wrap your fingers around his length, “your cock is so pretty, Eds,” you purr, jerking him off slowly, you tease him a little, “I want to choke on it.”
His hips stutter, cock twitching in your hand as he whimpers at your words, “fuck… you can’t just say that to me.”
You pull your hand away from him, holding it up to him, “spit.”
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, eyes darkening further but he complies, right away, he spits into your hand and watches the way you bring it back down to his dick, wrapping your fingers around him again, you grip him just perfectly, jerking him off in a way that he only ever dreamed off.
“You’re gonna kill me,” he moans, clenching his jaw in concentration, his eyes moving back and forth between your glistening pussy and your hand getting him off. “I-I won’t last long,” he warns you, wanting to get lost in the pleasure, but even more so, he wants to feel you wrapped around him.
With your free hand, you tug at his wrist, needing to feel his lips on yours again and without wasting a second, he slams his mouth against yours, kissing you roughly as he takes full control, parting your lips with his tongue, he moans into your mouth when you clench around his fingers again.
The room is now filled with heavy moans, no longer coming from the TV but from you and him, desperation so clear in both your voices, lips smacking against one another so needily and the alcohol, the weed in your systems only makes it all a tad bit more intense.
As much as Eddie is enjoying the feeling of your hand wrapped around him, he has to stop you or else he will cum before getting what he actually wants.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, lips twitching when you already whine in protest, “baby, I-I fuck… I need you stop or else I’ll cum too fucking soon.”
You pull away begrudgingly, wanting to pout at him but he quickly distracts you by speeding up his fingers inside of you. Letting go of your throat, he brings his now free hand down to your clit, wasting no second to play with your sensitive nub while he curls and slams his fingers in and out of you.
A gasp falls from your lips as he repeatedly brushes your sweet spot, the one that allows you to see stars. A single tear slips down your cheek, one that he instantly kisses away. You want to look at him, you want to watch your best friend but the pleasure becomes too much and you can’t help but shut your eyes tightly. Your stomach burns in a way that has you whimpering and when you try to close your legs to relieve that pleasurable pain, he grabs your knee and stops you.
“I can feel you clenching around my fingers, baby,” he murmurs hotly against your lips, “I know you want to cum, so let go for me,” he whispers, “let go.” One more swipe against your clit, one last thrust, one more kiss to your neck and you come undone for your Eddie, leaking around his fingers as your body trembles beneath his.
“Oh my god,” you whisper.
He slows down his movements, looking down at your legs to see them shaking, just from this. He lets you ride out your orgasm, giving you a moment to catch your breath. He kisses your face, your cheeks, your forehead, your jawline and your lips. And then, he pulls his fingers out of you, his mouth waters at the sight of your slick, wasting no time to bring his digits up to his lips, he dips them on his tongue, closing his eyes at your taste, he moans loudly.
You open your eyes at the sound, stunned, you stare at him in hunger and lust, watching the way he laps at his fingers that were inside of you just seconds ago. His eyes are closed and he looks content. If you hadn’t been so feral already, you definitely would have been by now.
“You’re even sweeter than I thought,” he mewls after releasing his fingers with a pop, opening his eyes to look down at you with a smirk. “I can’t wait to take my time and eat your pussy.”
You grab him by the chain around his neck, tugging at it harshly, you’re surprised it doesn’t break by the force, you pull him back down against you and kiss him, tasting yourself on his tongue.
Eddie smiles against your lips, loving the way you moan at your own taste. He feels your hands sliding down his back, tugging at his shirt, demanding him to take it off and he does so instantly, only breaking the kiss for a second so he can tear it off his skin before his lips are back on yours, his pants are next to go as you push them down further, with your help he kicks them off, not caring where they land.
He hooks his finger around your ruined panties, he begins to tug at them and you push your hips up so he can take them off, dragging them down your legs, he throws them to the ground beside his clothes before you both pull away from the kiss to take off the shirt that is still bunched up over your chest.
“You’re so perfect,” he murmurs, looking at you in awe and then, his lips return to you and he places his elbows on either side of your head, pressing his chest against yours as you wrap your legs around his waist, tugging him closer and closer until nothing separates you any longer, until he feels your heat against his aching dick and he is so close, so close to getting what he wanted, until he remembers.
“Fuck,” he curses in annoyance, clenching his jaw already as he breaks the kiss, “wait…” But you don’t listen, cupping his cheeks, you make it even harder for him when you keep kissing him, pleading for more.
Frustration bubbles up inside of him and he almost wants to cry.
“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, shakily. “Wait, wait, wait…”
Finally, you pull away, eyes filled with curiosity, “what?”
“I don’t–” he cuts himself off, rolling his eyes as he clenches his fists and closes his eyes for a moment, “I don’t have a condom,” he says through gritted teeth, feeling dejected but then he feels you pull him closer again, cupping the back of his neck, you press your lips back against his.
“It’s okay, I’m on birth control and I’m clean,” you whisper, pressing your heel against his bum, “I waited too long for this, so don’t stop… please, Eddie.”
A growl threatens to spill from his lips, the feeling of frustration is suddenly replaced by something else, not only the need he had felt for so long but something else, something much stronger, something that has him fighting his inner demons.
He opens his eyes, staring at you as though you had gone crazy.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me, sweets?”
You giggle so cutely at that, in a way that makes him want to pound you into this couch until you are nothing but a screaming mess.
“I have an idea,” you admit smugly, batting your eyelashes at him as your eyes flicker back and forth between his tattoos and his lips, hand already moving down his stomach, fingers reaching for him, you bite your lip as you look into his eyes, he is staring at you so intensely that it makes you blush. You wrap your fingers around his length again, mewling when you guide him through your wet folds, teasing both you and himself.
Eddie grips the pillow beneath your head, cursing at the feeling. You can tell that he is trying to control himself, trying to keep his composure but he is losing it quickly when he feels your heat, your wetness.
With your free hand, you hold onto his bicep, looking up at him with begging eyes, “please, fuck me, Eddie,” you whisper as you tilt your head up to kiss his lips, “show me how bad you want me, don’t hold back… please–”
With a growl, he lets your words die on your tongue, replacing your hand with his own, he guides himself to your entrance, nudging it with the leaking tip of his cock, he presses his forehead and his lips to yours as he thrusts inside of you, torturously, splitting you open around his length.
His heart could burst for feeling you so close, so intimately, his love for you burning stronger than ever, the immortal flame getting bigger and bigger, his body feels on fire, his soul feels at home and now he knows you feel the same, when you hold him close and you kiss him so passionately, tightening your legs around his waist in order to feel him closer, whimpering into him in such a needy way while you keep grabbing at him like he isn’t close enough despite being pressed against you, he knows you feel the same, in every way.
He pushes into you deeper and deeper, scrunching his eyebrows in concentration as he feels you fully, working you open with nothing between you. He feels your warmth, feels your heat around him, your wetness dripping down onto the couch beneath you as fills you up completely. He never felt anything like this before, he never thought he would but god, he is already addicted, he had always been to you but now even worse, he will never be the same again, he will come back to Hawkins a changed man.
“Fucking hell, darling,” he growls against your lips as he stills inside of you, giving you a moment to adjust to his size and himself a moment to concentrate so he doesn’t ruin this by coming too soon, though the thought of filling you up with his seed drives everything in him crazy, he wants it, craves it so bad. “You feel so… so perfect.”
You’re wailing, squirming beneath him, already looking down, wanting to see your bodies connected as sensitive whimpers escape your mouth.
“Y-You’re so big, Eddie,” you say, eyes blurred with tears, words leaving your mouth breathlessly, “hurts so good.”
Your words don’t exactly do him a favor, especially when he opens his eyes and he looks down at you, watching the way your chest rises up and down heavily, the way you look down between your legs in desperation before your big eyes look up at him, glassy. Your lips are so puffy from all the kissing, your forehead glistening with sweat, your cheeks flushed.
Your walls flutter around him, making it harder and harder for him.
Eddie grabs your chin, “you’re so fucking gorgeous, baby, so fucking sweet and good for me but you’re driving me crazy, right now.”
“Fuck me,” you whimper, pouting at him as you hold his bicep harder, “please, fuck me, Eddie. I need it, I need you so bad– ah!” You scream out when he pulls out and slams back inside of you again.
“Shh, I got you, I got you, baby,” he shushes your words, “can’t believe you are so desperate for my cock.”
Your nails dig into his skin, your free hand gets lost in his hair, tugging at his curls as you roll your hips against his, going crazy at the feeling of him inside of you.
“Please, please, please!”
Eddie groans at your pleading, at the obvious desperation, at the need that you feel for him, and only him. His left knee digs into the soft cushions on the couch and he places his right foot against the floor, watching your face intently as he starts rolling his hips, making you gasp out loudly.
“Oh my–” He pants, eyes rolling back as your name falls from his lips.
“You… I…” You stutter, unable to find the right words, to even come up with anything as you lose yourself in this feeling. Your mouth waters and so do your eyes, his chain dangles before your face as he thrusts into you, faster and faster, deeper and rougher. You can’t help but clench around him, he fills you up so perfectly, his tip brushes against that one spot so rightly.
You throw your arms around him as he cups the top of your head, holding eye contact with you as he rolls his hips harder.
“I’m so fucking obsessed with you, do you even know that?” He kisses your lips, smacking them loudly against yours.
“Mmm, I’m obsessed with you too, baby,” you whimper as you meet his thrusts, rolling your hips as well.
“I never thought I’d get to have this, to have you.”
You only hold onto him tighter in response, leaning into his neck, you brush your nose against it and latch your lips onto his neck, pecking along until you find that one spot that makes him whine, you start sucking, marking him up the way he did to you, not knowing just how feral that makes him.
To wear your marks on his skin, to be claimed as yours makes his heart burst but it awakens something in him, because suddenly, he feels the need to pound you into this couch and he does so, he snaps his hips into yours, thrusting roughly.
“Eddie!” You scream out in a choked sob, digging your nails into his skin as you cling to his body.
“You feel so fucking good,” he moans loudly, not bothering to hide just how desperate you make him feel. He cups the back of your neck and pulls you back down, wanting and needing to see your face, he wastes no second before his lips are back on yours and his hips strike roughly into you, cock slamming in and out of you, the squelching sounds of your pussy filling the room, along with your moans and the slapping sounds as he fucks you.
Neither of you want to pull away from the kiss, no matter how sloppy it gets, you don’t want to break the kiss and neither does he, not even when you grow breathless. You cling to each like you never did before, welcoming the pleasure that becomes almost too much. There is soreness in your thighs, burning in your lower back and an overwhelming sensation inside of you, an itch that only he can mend.
And Eddie, he feels as though he is losing his mind, getting to feel this, to feel you, to kiss you and swallow your moans as your dripping walls cling to his cock, twitching around him and begging to be filled. Your arms and legs are so tight around him, you beneath him like he had only seen you in his dreams and in his imagination, you’re shaking, whining and trembling and you are close, he can feel it by the way you are getting tighter and tighter after each of his thrusts.
Reaching down, he hooks his forearm around the back of your knee and he brings it up, pushing it higher until he can thrust into you from a different angle, one that makes you scream out with a high pitched moan and the neediest look he had ever seen on your face.
“Fuck… just like that, baby, scream for me,” he rasps out.
“Y-You’re so good, fuck me… Eds! Your cock feels so nice, please don’t stop, don’t ever stop!” You sputter, not knowing just how those words make him feel.
You don’t know where to look, his pretty face, how he looks as he fucks you like you only ever dreamed of, how pretty his face is when he moans your name so sexily or how his glistening cock pounds in and out of you.
And Eddie struggles just the same, though he settles on watching your beautiful face, wanting to see you fall apart more and more.
And though you don’t want this moment to end, and neither does he, you both drag it out for as long as you can, not caring about anything anymore, not caring about the mess you are making on the couch. You are both sweaty, you are leaking down onto the cushions and Eddie is sure that he ripped a hole into the pillow beneath you earlier from how roughly he held it.
A strangled whine leaves your lips and he knows you can’t hold on any longer, so he brings his hand down your stomach, pressing his fingers against your clit, causing you to jerk and whimper against him.
“You’re close, baby, I can feel it,” he whispers against your neck, not slowing down his movements in the slightest, if anything, he starts fucking you even deeper, making you scream louder now as your fingernails rip through his skin from how hard you’re grabbing him and he welcome that pleasuring burn, “cum around my cock, do it for me, sweetheart. I know you want to be my good girl.”
With another loud whine, you finally let go of him, arching your back and shutting your eyes tightly, you cum around your best friend's cock, for the first but definitely not the last time. You tighten around him so strongly that his hips stutter and his knees almost buckle, heat spreads through his skin and his stomach tightens as his own body screams for release.
He can’t wait any longer either and panic ripples through him when you hold him tighter than before, locking him in as you refuse to let go. It makes his heart flutter and it does make him want to release but–
“I need to pull out, sweetheart,” he says shakily, knowing all too well that he doesn’t actually want it and apparently, you don’t either because you start shaking your head at him, opening your needy eyes.
“No, no, don’t make a mess– cum inside of me, please!”
His hips stutter once more, his dick twitches achingly inside of you, “you can’t just fucking say that–” he whimpers, unable to finish the sentence, one more thrust and he spills inside of you, coating your walls with his seed as your name falls from his lips before he smashes his lips to yours for the hundredth time tonight, swallowing your cry.
Tears of pleasure run down your cheeks, your leg starts slipping from his waist and his thrusts slow down, though his grip doesn’t loosen on you, he continues to hold you close, the way you do as well as you grab his shoulder and his bicep, squeezing him tightly while your tongue clashes against his.
Your walls spasm and contract around his length, sending shockwaves and an unbearable amount of pleasure through his sensitive body.
Slowly, he removes his hand from between your legs, sliding it up your hot body until he is cupping your cheek again, he makes you both whimper when he pulls his softening cock out of you.
Your name rolls off his tongue when you both pull away from the kiss, he says it like it’s a blessing, like a prayer. Your eyes make contact again and you stare at each other for a moment, lovingly, adoringly, and then, you both smile and giggle and press your lips back against each other, pecking one another again and again.
“My Eddie,” you whisper as you admire the marks you left on him.
“Fuck,” he whispers when he realizes that this isn’t just a moment, that this isn’t just for now, for tonight, that you waited for it just like he has. He looks down at you, brushing away and tucking your hair behind your ear as he caresses your cheek, his heart soaring in his chest. “I can’t believe this happened.”
You giggle at him, “I’m glad it happened.”
“Yeah?” He grins lazily, eyes dropping to your chest as he leans down and presses his lips to your jaw, “I’m fucking on top of the world right now.”
You brush your fingers through his curls, giggling yet again.
“You’re a dork.”
“Yeah, but I’m your dork, right?” He asks with a hopeful glint in his eyes, one that questions more than just this. He wants to be yours, he wants it so badly.
You nod happily, eyes flashing with happiness.
“Mhmm, you’re mine, all mine.”
“Fuck,” he whispers as he feels his sensitive dick twitching at your words, heart bursting inside of him, “I’m yours, all yours.”
You tug him closer and closer, breathing against his lips as you eye him hungrily again, you feel him leaking out of you and it only makes your thighs burn again, “and I’m yours.”
“Yeah, you are,” he rasps as his fingers dip inside of you, he groans at the feeling of his cum leaking out of you, he pushes it back into you with a moan, “you’re mine, sweetheart.”
“Mmm, Eddie,” you mewl, pushing your hips up and chasing for more already.
“You want more?”
You nod, “yes… more, please!”
Not needing to be told twice, he slowly pushes his fingers and his cum back into you, making you both moan at that.
“You know what, I'm glad we did this today,” Eddie mumbles against your lips.
“Yeah?” You moan, arching your back in pleasure when he curls his fingers inside of you.
“Mhmm, that means I get to fuck you over and over and over for the whole weekend,” he smirks before he slams his lips against yours again, kissing you passionately and sensually while his fingers move and in out of you, creating a mess with his cum leaking out of you and your own wetness sticking to your thighs and his.
You both fill the room with filthy noises, needy and desperately you touch each other, grabbing and pulling at each others hair as the night goes on, continuing to mark each other up, to taste one another, to fuck like animals in heat, the movie long forgotten as his tongue laps at your pussy when he is kneeled on the ground with your legs dangling of his shoulders and your fingers pull at his hair roughly.
This night never ends, the pleasure continuing until the early morning hours, until you can no longer take it, until you both get too sensitive, until you’re both nothing but a panting, sweaty mess and even then, you still kiss and cling to one another.
The night was filled with desperation, with pent up emotions, with filthiness yet with love and adoration, and this night has changed you both forever, for good.
-
“So… What you’re telling me is–…” Steve begins, arms crossed over his chest, jaw clenched as he stands before you and Eddie with a stern look on his face. You are both on his couch, looking up at him like scolded children. “You need to buy me a new… bed?”
You are blushing furiously, embarrassment written all over your face. You glare at Robin who is standing in the corner, sipping on her soda with an amused look on her face.
“Uh… yeah.”
You know how badly Eddie wants to laugh, he is smug, you can see it on his face but he stays quiet, for a second at least.
“And a new arm chair?” Steve mumbles, looking between you both.
“Yeah.” Eddie snorts to which you elbow him, shushing him.
“Don’t forget the flower vase,” Robin snickers.
Steve throws his hands up, “and a fucking flower vase, thanks Robin!”
You put your finger up and straighten your back, “actually, the flower vase fell by itself–”
“Because you were fucking on top of the table!” Steve retorts to which your boyfriend chuckles in satisfaction, not being embarrassed by anything in the slightest.
You turn to look at him, he only smirks at you and shrugs, holding your thigh tighter than before.
“I’d buy a new couch too–”
“Eddie!”
Robin moves closer and eyes you both, eyeing the matching marks on your necks.
“I hope you used protection, at least.”
Steve raises his eyebrows, looking at you both expectedly, your flustered face gives you away completely as you sink deeper into the couch, wanting nothing more than to bury your face in Eddie’s neck.
“Great, now I might be a fucking uncle.”
“Godfather,” Eddie corrects him, making you giggle.
“Go to hell,” Steve shakes his head, though he can’t hide the look on his face and how delighted he is to hear that he would be considered a godfather if it were to happen. And despite the clear distaste on his face after hearing what you did at his cabin, he can’t help but feel happy for you both.
Robin looks down with a smile on her face when Eddie wraps his arm around you and kisses your cheek softly and Steve’s eyes soften as well.
He sighs and rolls his eyes as he finally takes a seat, he reaches for his beer and takes a sip.
“I’m happy my plan worked but you both will go back, replace the furniture and clean everything up before I lose my shit and I kill you before my parents kill me.”
You nod at him with wide eyes, while Eddie furrows his eyebrows, “clean up? Oh, we did clean up and besides, we didn’t waste a single drop.”
“Eddie,” you whine as you bury your face in your hands while Robin groans in disgust.
Steve only sighs but his lips twitch slightly, curling into a smirk as he nods at Eddie.
“At least I know your children aren’t running around my cabin.”
You give Eddie a warning glance but he is already smirking at you, gripping your thigh harder, slipping under your skirt.
“They’re somewhere else.”
“Oh, gross!” Robin coughs and turns away with a frown on her face.
“Eddie!” You whine and slap his chest to which he pulls you closer and kisses your cheek, chuckling in amusement.
Steve shakes his head, sighing.
“I’m never inviting you both to that summer house ever again.”
virgin!perv!Eddie Munson x popular!cheerleader!Carver!fem!reader
Masterlist Tag Lists
Summary:
No one could be more surprised than Eddie when you start giving him attention. But you’re the best thing that ever happened to him - consequences be damned.
Part 1
Warnings:
Smut (18+), masturbation, cumshot, voyeurism(?), dry humping, unprotected p in v, creampie, cum eating (kind of?), oral (f and m receiving), nudes being spread, violence, blood
Word Count: 16.7k
A/N:
I’m so sorry this took much longer than I thought - but I really hope you love it! One million thanks to my amazing friends @punkrockmlchael for my banner and always being a great help, @feral4youu for being an actual lifesaver and always wiling to discuss and help with plot and ideas, and @sudsys for reading everything I write as I write it and hyping me up!
Eddie watched practice from the bleachers this time, giving you his full attention. The sports bra and tiny little shorts you were wearing didn’t hurt. But you really were so good, it was impressive. His eyes widened when you pulled off a string of back handsprings without missing a beat.
“Why is the freak over there watching us practice?” your teammate, Leah, whispered to you, grabbing her white sneaker and leaning into a stretch.
You shrugged, redoing your pony with your green scrunchie wrapped around your wrist. “I invited him.”
Leah looked at you like you were crazy. “Why would you do something like that?”
“He’s a nice guy.”
Leah just stared at you. Then, a shrug - “If you say so.”
After practice, you went to the locker room right away and took your shower. Dressed in your green shorts with the white stripe on the sides and a loose Hawkins Tigers t-shirt, you met Eddie at the exit just as promised.
“Ready to roll?” he asked you. He’d been playing with his keys as he leaned against the brick wall, looking a lot more casual than he felt. He couldn’t believe this was happening - he was about to have you in his van, then in his house - in his bedroom. Sitting on his bed.
Thank god he put the panties away in his closet this morning.
“Ready,” you echoed, looking cheerful and energetic despite the long, challenging workout you had just done. Your pink duffel bag was over your shoulder, your hair down.
The ride to Forest Hills was a little awkward. Eddie, who normally could talk endlessly, couldn’t find anything to say. What could he say to you? He couldn’t exactly start rambling about D&D or Ozzy Osbourne. You would definitely think he was a total loser.
His palms were sweating as he pulled into the trailer park, both from his hands’ tight grip on the steering wheel and from the anxiety of you seeing where he lived. The Queen of Hawkins in his trailer? He felt like he could be sick.
He pulled up in front of the trailer, eyes glancing over to you to see your reaction. You didn’t really have one at all. It almost seemed like you didn’t care - like you didn’t look down on him for living here or being poor. He had pictured you scrunching your nose up, looking disgusted at the thought of stepping inside. But then he felt guilty - he shouldn’t have thought so low of you.
“Welcome to my castle,” he said as you walked up the front porch, Eddie dropping the keys his first attempt at opening the door. He blushed as he bent over and picked them up, trying again with shaking hands. He could feel you watching, making his nerves worse. Finally he got the key in the stupid lock and pushed the door open.
You looked around, taking in the Munson trailer. It was mostly neat, a few wrappers and dirty dishes sitting around that Eddie quickly scooped up. There was a collection of hats in the living room, a mug collection in the kitchen. It was small, but in a cozy way. It felt warmer and more lived in than the Carver house, that was for sure.
“Do you want to, uh…” Eddie gestured down the hall. “Come to my room?”
You smiled at him, but there was no innocence behind it. If Eddie picked up on it, he didn’t show it. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
Eddie led the way down the hall, distinctly aware of your presence behind him. He could physically feel it, like a promise of…something looming overhead. In his dreams, he thought.
Walking into his bedroom, the first thing he noticed was that he hadn’t cleaned up in a while. The room was a bit of a mess, clothes strewn across the floor and his ashtray on his bedside table full of both cigarettes and weed. The smell from the joint he smoked last night still permeated the room, much to Wayne’s disappointment, he could imagine.
“Sorry,” Eddie muttered as he lifted the ashtray and unceremoniously dumped it in his trash can. Your lips quirked up in amusement, which made Eddie feel a bit more at ease. At least, until he remembered who you were and that you were in his room.
“It’s no problem,” you said easily. You dropped your duffel bag on his floor and took a seat on his unmade bed.
The sight of you sitting on his mattress was distracting, to say the least. His eyes lingered on the way the sheets bunched around your bare thighs, your shorts riding up even higher than they originally were. You leaned back casually on your arms, your head tilted to the side, breasts perky and…well, there.
Your smile only grew - his staring was obvious but you didn’t mind. You liked the attention you got from Eddie. It’s not like you weren’t getting plenty elsewhere, but none were quite as adoring as the flustered metalhead standing in front of you.
“…The shrooms?” you reminded him playfully, to which Eddie shook his head as if he were knocking some sense back into his brain.
“Right. Yeah. Uh, they’re in one of these drawers…”
Eddie turned and began searching through the bottom drawers of his dresser. As he was digging through, he was completely unaware that you had decided to help him - by opening his bedside drawer.
The yearbook caught your attention immediately - it was obvious one of the pages had been dog eared and you were curious. With Eddie still crouched on the other side of the room with his back to you, you flipped open the book - and landed straight on your cheerleading photo.
Your eyes went wide. It wasn’t hard to imagine why the page was bookmarked, why the pages were slightly stuck together, or what he had been doing with it. You weren’t exactly surprised at the discovery, but having the proof in front of your face filled you with a wicked sort of delight.
“Eddie,” you said, your voice teasing. “What’s this?”
Eddie didn’t have the forethought to be scared, but when he turned around, he went pale, rooted to the spot. “O-oh,” he stammered. “I just- I- it was an accident-“
“Have you been looking at this picture of me?” You had a mischievous grin across your face, holding the yearbook wide open for him to see. “And what have you been doing while looking at it?”
Eddie’s cheeks were bright red as he gaped at you, completely lost for words. He couldn’t believe this was happening. Thank god he had hid the panties, but why didn’t he have a better hiding place for the fucking yearbook, too? “Look, I can explain-“
You flipped through the pages, seeing just the one marked - only you. Eddie fumbled over his words frantically. “I just- it was- I just needed to save that page, because…” He couldn’t even come up with an excuse. He wanted to throw himself out the window of a very tall building.
“Do you touch yourself while looking at pictures of me, Eddie Munson?”
It was pure panic now. His head was spinning, his breath quick and shallow as he looked around the room, desperate for something to spark some kind of idea. “I’m sorry, I- seriously, I’m not a creep I swear. Please don’t-“
“Why don’t you show me what you do?”
It was like his world stopped turning. Everything froze. Eddie looked at you with wide eyes - “What?”
You slowly crawled across the bed towards him, not breaking eye contact, his heart palpitating. When you reached where he stood at the end of the bed, you lifted your hand, rubbing it over his thigh. He was straining beneath his jeans, the zipper pressing against him uncomfortably. “I’m more of a visual learner. I want you to show me what you do with that picture.”
Eddie swallowed hard. He looked at a spot on the wall over your head, like he was scared to meet your eyes. “I…I don’t know what you mean-“
“I think you know exactly what I mean.” You sat back on your knees, looking up at him. He finally looked down at you, feeling breathless, like the air he was drawing in wasn’t quite making it to his lungs. His palms felt sweaty, he wiped them on his jeans.
“Look, I’m really sorry, I know-“
“Why are you sorry?” You frowned. “I’m not mad. I just wanna see.”
Eddie froze. He didn’t make a move, like if he did anything at all the moment would slip through his grasp, you would disappear or start laughing and call him a freak and leave with a new story to tell Carol and Tina. But none of those things happened. You lifted your hand instead, drawing it down his arm until your hand intertwined with his.
“Come show me.”
You pulled Eddie down and finally he obliged, crawling onto the bed next to you and sitting with his back against the wall at the head. You smirked at him, hands rubbing up and down his thick thighs. “So. How do you start?”
“Uh…” Eddie was still trying to gather his bearings, still trying to come to terms with the reality of what was happening. “I…”
You tried a different angle. “What turns you on?”
“You,” he answered quickly, before he had the time to think about it. He immediately felt like slapping himself, but the grin on your face only made his heartbeat speed up.
“What do you think about?”
“Fuck,” he breathed - and then it all spilled out. “I think about whatever you were wearing at school. Especially if it was your uniform. I think about your legs, your ass, your tits. Think about-“ He almost let it slip, almost said the way you look when you’re getting fucked, but pulled it back at the last second.
You sat up on your knees, giving him full view of your body now. His eyes roamed, drinking you in without shame, the apprehension leaving his body with the possibility of you giving him access to yours. “Do you like what I’m wearing now?”
Eddie nodded eagerly. Yeah, he very much did. The tiny little shorts showed off your body, and the oversized shirt did nothing but remind him of what you looked like underneath it. He longed to touch you, to finally feel your skin beneath his fingertips. He was sure he could make you feel better than Steve did. He’d had plenty of time to think about it.
“Would you like it better if I…” You played with the bottom of your shirt, pure teasing, but Eddie didn’t mind. “…took something off?”
Eddie’s eyes practically bugged out of his head, but he was nodding so fast he could barely process the way you giggled. His cock was so hard within his jeans, and you had him in such a trance, he was ready to take it out now and give himself some relief.
“You first,” you said. “Let me see what you’re working with, Munson.”
He was out of his mind with lust, he might as well have been having one of his wet dreams with how little thought he was putting into this. You were here, in his bed, telling him to take his cock out - he wasn’t about to question a goddamn thing.
He hesitated for only a moment before his hands darted down to his jeans, eyes never leaving you as he worked open the button and zipper and lifted his hips slightly to shove the material down his thighs. When he pushed his boxers down, his already rock hard cock slapped against his stomach, and then it was your turn to widen your eyes.
“Jesus Christ, Munson.”
Eddie stopped. He looked up at you, eyebrows furrowed together. “What?”
“Eddie.” You looked at him seriously, but he didn’t seem to get it. “You are huge. Do you really not know that?”
His cheeks tinged pink, heat rushing to them. “Well, I…I mean, I guess I kind of knew, but I don’t exactly have any experience-“
You didn’t acknowledge the last part of his sentence, because it was a surprise to no one that Eddie Munson was a virgin. But how could he not know what he was packing?
“I’ve never been with a guy quite so big…” you said, hands rubbing over his bare thighs now. He was bigger than Steve? His cock twitched, desperate to feel your hands on him, but you weren’t quite there. Yet.
“You- you haven’t?” The thought sent a thrill through Eddie, and without thinking, he wrapped a hand around his cock. He squeezed at the base, tip throbbing, flushed red with his arousal.
You were surprised at the desire that sparked deep in your belly, the sudden need to wrap your lips around him and blow his mind. But - not yet. You wanted to see a show first.
“Definitely not.” You licked your lips as you looked down at him. “It’s gonna take some work to fit.”
Eddie let out a strangled groan, hips snapping up into his fist just once at your words. “Fuck. You…you want to do that?” His voice shook as he spoke. “I think- I mean, we could make it fit.”
He hadn’t even said it to be hot, but it made you clench your thighs together anyway. “Maybe sometime,” you smirked. “What do you do when you start?”
“Uh…” Eddie cleared his throat. “I just…” He slowly stroked his hand up and down his cock, chest heaving as he watched you, in real life, on his bed. “Shit. I just…like this.”
Your gaze was hungry as a drop of precum beaded on his slit, and without missing a beat, he smoothed his thumb over it and rubbed it down his shaft. Your eyes flicked back up to his. “Do you want me to…?”
“What?” Eddie asked, lazily stroking himself as he looked at you, the small part of his brain still thinking logically struck with confusion.
You didn’t answer him. Instead, you leaned forward and spit on the head of his cock. Eddie let out a gasp, his cock jumping in his hold, but he spread the saliva around with his hand quickly, lubricating his dick as his eyes darkened on you. “Shit.”
“What next?” you whispered.
“I…” his eyes left you for only a second, darting to the yearbook then back to the real thing. “I’d look at the book. Look at your body. Think about what’s underneath.”
At that moment, you grabbed the bottom of your shirt and lifted it up and over your body, leaving you in just your sports bra. Eddie didn’t move his eyes an inch as you reached behind your back and unhooked the bra, slowly letting it fall forward, exposing your breasts.
His breath caught in his throat - sure he’d seen you topless before, but that was from across the room, hidden behind a shower curtain. You were half naked in his bed right now - he couldn’t get over that - here, wanting to show him. His eyes roamed your perfect tits, sitting so pretty on your chest, within his grasp. He didn’t reach for you - you hadn’t invited him to do that yet - but it took everything in him to keep his hands to himself. Without even noticing, he had begun pumping his cock, eyes locked on you.
The pleasure was building in his body quickly. His hand moved faster, breaths coming in shorter bursts. He let out a low, shuddering moan, his eyebrows furrowed in pleasure.
Watching Eddie jerk off - to you - was hotter than you’d expected when you initiated this little plan. You didn’t expect the way your panties clung to your wet pussy, your nipples hard in the cool air of his bedroom. You weren’t prepared for how badly you wanted him to touch you, how badly you wanted to tell him to fill you with that huge cock. The thought of having it inside you - it made you shudder, clit throbbing from nothing but the idea. What was happening to you?
“That’s it,” you cooed. “Stroke your cock just like that for me. That’s right. You’re doing so good, getting off for me. Look so good, Eddie.”
He looked so far gone, his wrist flicking so fast as he brought himself higher and higher. His cheeks blushed red, the muscles in his neck tightening every time he got especially close. He looked so good.
You were really about to say fuck it and crawl onto his lap when he started moving his hand faster, little “Fuck, fuck, fuck,”s spilling from his lips as he neared his release fast. You were almost disappointed, but also needed to see how he looked when he came.
“Are you close, Eddie?” you asked him, as if it wasn’t completely obvious he was.
“Yeah, oh fuck yeah,” he huffed. His abdomen muscles were clenching, his thighs shaking. And his eyes never left you - well, mostly your tits - but they never strayed from your form in front of him. You were all he needed to see, the only thing he needed to cum in under 2 minutes.
“Good boy,” you praised, and he whined. “You’re being so good for me, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Eddie moaned immediately. “So good. So good for you.”
You leaned in closer, seeing how absolutely wrecked he looked. So far gone. “You gonna cum for me, Eddie?” You grabbed your tits in your hands, squeezing them and playing with your nipples right in front of his face.
Eddie whimpered, then - “Oh, fuck!” - and he was cumming, his cum shooting up and onto his hand, his stomach, you. Some of it splattered onto your breasts, painting your smooth skin and nipples with white. Eddie’s jaw dropped at the sight, his cock twitching and giving one last spurt of his release.
When it was over, both of you stayed still, unsure what to do next. Eddie was terrified of doing anything that would ruin the moment, anything that would ruin his chances of having this - or more - happen again. He wanted that more than anything.
You sat back up on your knees. Eddie’s cock was softening as it lay against his stomach, his body still painted with his cum. He didn’t care - he couldn’t take his eyes off of you. You, coated in his release, had to be the hottest thing he’d ever seen in his life.
“Do you, uh…have a towel?” you asked awkwardly, gesturing to your chest.
“Oh, shit, yeah,” Eddie said. He leaned off the bed, grabbing a dirty-but-not-too-dirty towel from the floor. “Here. Can I…?”
You didn’t say anything, but let him wipe you off. Only once you were clean did he move back to his own body, wiping himself off. He pulled his jeans back up as you got your bra and shirt back on.
“That…that was…” Eddie began.
“Hot as hell?” you offered with a smirk, and he felt such immense relief in that moment, he let out a deep breath.
“Yeah. Holy fuck. I’ve never- never even dreamed of anything that hot-“
“I’m glad I could help you out,” you said. You were smiling at him kindly from where you sat, and Eddie still couldn’t believe his luck. He couldn’t believe this had happened, and you didn’t seem disgusted with him whatsoever.
“Oh shit,” Eddie said as he laughed sheepishly, standing from the bed. “I forgot all about your shrooms. Let me just, uh…sorry, I can’t think straight.”
“It’s okay,” you said. You were picking up your duffel bag, much to Eddie’s disappointment. “I do need to get going after you find them, though. My family’s gonna be wondering about me if I’m not home for dinner.”
“Got you.” Eddie held up the bag of shrooms. “Want me to drive you back to your car?”
“Yeah, that would be great.”
As you walked out of the trailer with Eddie, letting him lock up behind you, it felt surreal. What you’d just done, you hadn’t planned. Sure you loved teasing Eddie, but you hadn’t intended for it to go that far. But you found that you didn’t regret it. You found yourself wanting to do it again.
Eddie was a changed man the next day at school. He walked into Hawkins with his head held high, as if every student in the school could see it on him, could tell what he had done with you. Well, you hadn’t actually touched him, but still. It was pretty awesome.
When he saw you at your locker, laughing with Carol and Tina, he thought you looked radiant. He wanted to walk right up to you and say something, but he knew that probably wouldn’t go over well. It wasn’t like you were his girlfriend - but fuck, he wished you were. He caught your eye and you sent him a smile that sent sparks through his body. Carol and Tina looked in his direction, shooting him a look that was some kind of mix between disgust and confusion.
He wasn’t entirely unused to it.
He followed you around just about the whole day - he knew your schedule, of course he did. He waited until he saw you in the rare moment you weren’t surrounded by your friends, standing at your locker, getting ready for the game. He took a deep breath and began walking in your direction. He could do this. He was going to talk to you.
“Got something to say to my sister, freak?”
Jason stepped out in front of him - fuck, Eddie hadn’t even realized he was around. Rookie mistake: approaching the hottest, most popular girl in school in front of her douchebag twin brother. Patrick and Andy were on either side of him, forming the perfect ‘bully’ scene straight from a movie.
How cute.
“I-“
“No, you can save yourself the breath because I don’t think there’s any world where you’d have an excuse to talk to my sister that makes any sense.” Jason turned to each of his friends, laughing as if he were a real comedian. “If she wants to buy, she’ll come find you, freak. School’s over. You can run back home to your trailer park now.”
Eddie clenched his fists - he couldn’t let Jason get to him the way he was trying to. It wasn’t worth it. Behind Jason’s back, you turned, finally noticing the scene going on behind you. You looked confused for only a moment before you stomped over, bag over your shoulder.
“Jason,” you said. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Jason did a double take, looking back over his shoulder at you, then back to Eddie. “You can’t actually want to talk to this loser, right?”
“What if I do?” You put your hands on your hips, looking at your brother with all the attitude in the world. “I don’t remember hiring you as my bodyguard.”
Jason scoffed. “Yeah. Well, don’t worry, if this is the company you want to keep, I won’t be getting involved.”
“Good.” You tilted your head to the side. “Now don’t you have a basketball game to get to?”
Jason didn’t move at first. He looked between you two again, Patrick and Andy waiting for guidance from their leader. There was no independent thinking in that friend group whatsoever. Jason scoffed and shook his head. “Fine. Bitch.”
The three basketball players walked off towards the locker rooms, standing tall as if they needed to make the point that they were unbothered. You and Eddie watched them leave.
“Thanks,” Eddie said, looking less than his usual confident self. “That guy’s an asshole.”
“Yeah. Try living with him.” You smiled softly. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why he’s playing protective older brother all of a sudden. He doesn’t actually give a shit about me outside of his own reputation.”
“It’s okay. He just doesn’t want his sister seen talking to the freak. I get it.” He laughed, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It bothered you.
“Seriously, fuck him,” you said. “But, uh…” A smirk danced across your lips. “You wanted to talk to me?”
“Oh, yeah.” Eddie pushed Jason from his mind, turning to the Carver twin standing before him - you were much nicer on the eyes. “Uh…about yesterday…”
“Yeah?” You took a step closer to him and Eddie felt his heart thudding against his chest. There was no one in the hall but the two of you, his cock immediately stiffening as you placed your palm on his chest. “Did you think about it after I left?”
Oh, fuck, did he.
“Yeah,” Eddie admitted, needing to clear his throat. “Yeah, I…I did.”
“Ooh,” you hummed, pleased. “What did you do? Did you touch yourself again?”
Eddie closed his eyes. Fuck, you were going to kill him. “Yes.”
“Yeah?” you giggled. “Did you make yourself cum for me one more time?”
Eddie nodded. He was so far gone for you.
“And without me,” you tsked. “I would have liked to see it, Eds. Wasn’t that a little selfish of you?”
“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. You did something to his brain that he couldn’t understand. “Can…can I make it up to you?”
Your eyes lit up at that - it made Eddie’s heart stutter. You really wanted to see him again? That badly? “Of course you can,” you said. “Maybe I can come over again after the game?”
He nodded, way too vigorously. “Yes. Yeah. Of course.” His eyes dropped to the bag on your shoulder. “D’you want me to wait and give you a ride?”
“I can drive,” you said. “I don’t wanna subject you to basketball.”
Eddie was a little disappointed - he kind of loved watching you cheer. He loved watching you, at least. But he wasn’t going to say that. “Okay. Cool. You know where to go?”
“Yeah,” you smiled. “I’ll see you there.” You trailed your hand down his arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in your wake. “Miss me while I’m gone.”
Eddie went straight home after school. He wasn’t interested in hanging around and taking even a single chance at missing you - even though you’d be cheering for at least 2 hours. Wayne was still home when he pulled up.
When he walked into the trailer, he saw Wayne standing by the kitchen counter, dressed in his work clothes and drinking a cup of coffee while he scanned over the paper. He looked up when Eddie closed the door.
“Hey, son,” he said. “How was school?”
“Fine,” Eddie said. He tossed his keys on the counter with a clatter. Wayne looked over at him before turning back to his coffee.
“How’d that essay turn out?” he asked.
Shit. Eddie hadn’t even started the essay that was due tomorrow. How did Wayne even remember that? He had been too preoccupied with you.
“Oh, uh…” he scratched the back of his neck. “Good. It, uh…came out good.”
Wayne gave him a hesitating nod, before shaking his head and turning back to his coffee. Yeah, he knew Eddie better than that.
Leaving Wayne in the kitchen - putting his coffee cup in the sink and reminding Eddie to lock up before he went to bed - Eddie went down the hall to his bedroom.
He was glad he came home first, because your panties were right there in the middle of his unmade bed. Maybe he’d had a little session this morning before school, so what?
He hid them far in the back of his closet, where he didn’t have to worry about any possibility of you finding them. Once that was done, he got to work straightening up his room. No more nasty ashtray this time.
When he was done, he checked his watch. Then again 5 minutes later. And again.
It was torture waiting for you. He didn’t know what was going to happen, but as long as you were coming over, he knew it would be the best thing that had ever happened to him. Just like last time - and you hadn’t even touched him.
A knock at the door pulled him from the chords he was plucking on his guitar. He jumped up, hanging the guitar safely back on the wall, and practically ran to the front door.
You were a sight for sore eyes on the other side. He thought you would have changed, but you were in your uniform. That sweet smile on your face, way too innocent for the kind of girl you were. And Eddie could see it, could sense it.
“Hi,” he said, his palms sweaty. He tried to subtly wipe them on his jeans.
“Hi, Eddie,” you purred, voice like honey. When he didn’t move, your smile grew bigger, your light giggle like music to his ears. “Are you gonna let me in?”
“Oh, yeah! Yes. Yeah,” he said quickly, shaking his head, the tips of his ears going pink. He stepped out of the way, holding the door open for you. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay,” you said, kind as ever. You stood in his living room, such a pretty thing looking so out of place on this side of town.
Eddie closed the front door, then turned. He was standing right in front of you, unsure what to do. Should he offer you a beer? Suggest to go back to his bedroom? Would that be too forward?
“…How was the game?” he asked dumbly.
You laughed. “Fine. The usual.” You tilted your head. “Sad you missed it?”
His cheeks heated - you saw right through him in a way that scared the hell out of him, but also turned him on. He shrugged. “Maybe.”
You giggled again, taking a step forward. You were much closer now, the smell of that damn perfume filling his senses - matching the stolen lotion hidden in his closet. He felt his cock stiffen. He had fucking pavlov’d himself.
Slowly, you reached out and trailed your fingers down his arm, your touch feather light. Goosebumps appeared across his skin, a shiver running through his body.
“Wanna go to your room?” you asked, your voice so soft and beautiful it floated through the air to Eddie’s ears, his whole body going hot. He was getting harder by the second, and nothing had even happened.
“Yeah,” he said, barely a whisper. “Let’s go.”
You led the way, Eddie trailing behind you, watching your ass as your skirt swayed with every step.
In his room, you perched on the end of his bed like a doll, the prettiest thing he’d ever seen. He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure what to do. It made you laugh as you beckoned him over.
Eddie swallowed, shifting awkwardly on his feet before finally moving to sit next to you. He couldn’t even look at you, bouncing his knee.
“Eddie,” you said lightly. “Calm down. It’s okay. It’s just me.”
It’s just you.
Yeah, it’s you, that’s the point.
Slowly, he turned to look at you. You were looking right back at him, your eyes shining with mischief. Your lips looked so soft-
“Do you want to kiss me?”
He was sure he had imagined it. He was asleep, dreaming, or he was in the middle of the most vivid jerk-off fantasy yet, because it sure sounded like he heard those words with his own ears from your mouth.
“What?” he asked, his eyes going wide.
“I said…” You lifted a hand, resting it on Eddie’s cheek. He jumped the tiniest bit, not expecting the contact, his breathing becoming shallow. Your thumb touched his bottom lip, gently pulling down before letting it go. “…do you want to kiss me?”
You really had said it. Before Eddie could wake up from this dream, he nodded vigorously. Yeah. Yes. Please.
You smiled, then leaned in slowly. Eddie watched you for as long as possible until his eyelids slowly fluttered shut, your warm breath on his lips, and then finally, finally, he felt the sweet pressure of your lips against his own.
Eddie had never kissed anyone before. Never even come close. But none of that mattered because right now, his lips were connected to yours, and holy fuck, what was happening?
He didn’t know what to do. He sat there, still, until you giggled against his lips and took the lead. You grabbed Eddie’s hand laying down by his side and brought it to rest on your hip while your lips moved against his own, showing him what to do. They were as soft as they looked, maybe even more so, and they tasted like the cherry chapstick you were always putting on in class.
He gripped your hip tighter, the stiff material of your cheer uniform beneath his fingers. He couldn’t believe he was finally touching it, touching you. You tilted your head a little more to the side, and Eddie jumped slightly when he felt your tongue slide against his bottom lip.
He kept his mouth shut, not getting the hint - you moved your hand to his chin, gently pulling down. With his lips parted, you licked into his mouth, and Eddie moaned, lightning shooting up his spine and his cock now fully hard. He held both your hips tightly now, pulling you closer.
You laid back on the bed, pulling Eddie down with you. This is it, he thought. She’s in my bed and we’re kissing and I’m gonna get to fuck her. Holy shit. Holy fuck.
You tangled your fingers in his curls, pulling slightly, which made him moan against your mouth again. He leaned over you, hips slotted between your legs, his left hand on your thigh, slowly rising up your skirt. At this angle, your skirt was almost all the way around your waist anyway, your Hawkins green panties pressed against the ache in Eddie’s jeans.
He was breathing heavily as you kissed, tongues licking against one another, pressing together. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, feel it thudding against his chest. When you let out a soft, breathy moan - that was it.
He couldn’t take it anymore. On primal, animal instinct, he rolled his hips against you. It pulled a low, strangled groan from deep within him - all he could think of was that it was your warmth he was pressing his hard cock up against. That only made him more desperate, and he rolled his hips again.
You whined, and Eddie began moving his hips faster. He thrusted against your heat, hips jerking unevenly, the friction exactly what his aching dick needed.
He pulled away from the kiss abruptly to bury his face in your neck. His body was shaking, huffing breaths against your skin as he whimpered quietly with every delicious thrust.
“God, Eddie, you’re so needy, aren’t you?” you whispered in his ear. “D’you want this pussy?”
He shuddered, nodding quickly, a choked groan torn from his lungs. His hips moved faster and faster, his fists clenched into the material of your uniform, god that uniform, and the warmth of your cunt was right against his dick, and you were whispering filthy things in his ear, holding onto him, pulling his hair-
“‘m gonna cum,” he whimpered.
Before you could say or do anything, Eddie stilled, his vision going black and his ears ringing, his cock pulsing as he came undone in his jeans. He kept rutting against you, pathetic whines into the curve of your neck. He moved his hips until every last drop had been spent.
Then, as he came down - the realization.
“Did you just dry hump me until you came in your pants?” you asked, giggling. You didn’t push him off you.
Eddie blushed deeply, not moving his face from your neck, not yet brave enough to meet your eyes after that. “Yeah.”
After Eddie had kissed you, it was like his obsession with you grew even more than he ever could have thought. If he felt like he thought about you all the time before, it was something totally different after he had felt your perfect lips on his, and made him cum - well, kind of. He mostly did that himself.
You didn’t speak to Eddie for a week. You’d give him a short smile when you passed by him, but you didn’t speak, didn’t ask to buy, didn’t come over. It filled Eddie with a deep disappointment - had he fucked up? Did he go too far? Or did you just think he was a total loser for cumming in his pants like that?
He felt so ashamed of himself. His dream had just begun to come true, he was just starting to think he might have a real relationship with you - then he went and got carried away during your first kiss. He was such an idiot.
He was so miserable it was noticeable to his friends, the guys joking that you must have gotten back together with Steve for him to be so upset. That only made things worse.
Eddie was still moping as he lounged on his bed the next Friday night. He thought about going to the game just to see you, but there was no game tonight. So, he sat at home, beating himself up over ruining the best thing that almost happened to him.
He still thought of you the way he always did. It still made him ache, still made him reach for his bedside drawer. You were like a drug he just couldn’t quit, no matter how bad it was for him or how guilty he felt.
The panties hidden in his closet were just beginning to beckon when a knock at the front door startled him. He sighed - it was probably someone lost, looking for a specific trailer. Forest Hills could be confusing if you’d never been there before, and this happened somewhat often.
He lazily reached for the door knob and pulled it open, the expression on his face bored - until he saw you standing on the other side.
Had he fallen asleep in his bed? This was a dream, right?
Eddie didn’t know what to say. He looked at you, stunned. Your smile grew bigger - he was just so cute.
“Hi, Eddie,” you said, sending his heart rocketing in his chest. “Can I come in?”
“Oh, y-yeah,” he said, moving out of the way. This time, you walked inside and went straight down the hall to his bedroom, giving him a smirk over your shoulder. He shut the door and followed like a lost puppy.
You had made yourself comfortable on his bed. Dressed in a colorful tank top and tiny jean shorts, you left little to the imagination. Eddie slowly, still dumbfounded, took a seat next to you.
“I’m sorry I haven’t spoken to you since…” You trailed off, not saying the obvious, as if sparing Eddie the embarrassment. He blushed, but continued listening. “My friends were…getting suspicious.”
“Suspicious?” Eddie asked, eyebrows shooting up. “Of what?”
“Of what I’ve been doing with you,” you said, finally meeting his big brown doe eyes.
“Oh,” Eddie said. Frankly, he wanted to shout from the rooftops that he had kissed you, but he understood why you might not want people to know yet. He was a freak, after all.
“It’s not because I’m embarrassed of you, I swear,” you said. “God, I couldn’t give less of a fuck about what those assholes think. I like you. I just don’t want to subject you to that. To the Hawkins gossip mill, the spotlight. To Jason and Steve. It doesn’t feel fair to you.”
Eddie nodded slowly. He didn’t exactly care about Jason or Steve at all, but he got where you were coming from. “So…”
“So,” you said. “I came here because I wanted to see you.”
Something twisted in his chest. “You wanted to see me?”
“Of course.” You rested your hand on his thigh, the warmth of your palm against him. “I like you, Eds.”
“Yeah?” He was breathless, your words stealing every thought, every ounce of energy from his body. “I…like you, too.”
You smiled. Eddie could have cried when you leaned in, and he met you in the middle, pressing your lips together again.
His hands grabbed onto you right away, holding onto your waist and pulling you close. Your chest pressed against his, and you pulled him down to lay on the bed with you, never separating from him.
Eddie felt like the luckiest guy who ever lived as he made out with you on his bed, his hand rubbing your side, your hand just under the very bottom of his shirt, resting on his skin.
You bit lightly at his bottom lip, and he moaned, allowing you to lick into his mouth, massaging against his tongue, all while Eddie let out quiet, desperate little whines.
You hooked your leg around his waist, pulling him closer. His straining hard-on pressed against your hips, and he grinded against you. It felt so good, that delicious friction on his throbbing cock, but he wasn’t going to let himself get carried away this time. He would not be cumming in his pants again.
You moaned, bucking your hips up against him. The feeling of him so hard between your legs made you impossibly wet, soaking your cute pink panties you’d put on for him.
“Eddie,” you moaned into the kiss, and he thought he had to have been dead or something. The sound of you moaning his name was something he thought he’d never experience outside of his filthy fantasies.
“Fuck,” he breathed against your lips. He rutted against you harder, fully hard now - maybe harder than he’d ever been in his life. Your hands trailed up his shirt, featherlight touch on his sides covering his skin in goosebumps.
You lifted his shirt over his head, leaving his chest bare. He felt a little self conscious, but the feeling of you rubbing your hands all over his chest like you couldn’t get enough erased those thoughts from his head real fast. Your hands smoothed over his sides and chest, his shoulders and back, like you wanted to feel every inch of him.
He was getting the hang of making out, starting to feel more natural. It was good for you, too, his kisses making you grind your clothed pussy against his hard cock.
Eddie pulled back, just slightly. “Can I please fuck you?” he asked, completely out of breath, his eyes glazed over and darkened with lust.
You giggled, the blunt question almost cute. You didn’t answer him with words, instead pulling him back down into the heated kiss.
Eddie slid his hands beneath your tank top, his calloused palms such a contrast to your smooth, perfect skin. They were shaking as he rose higher and higher, pushing the material up your body until he had removed it. You weren’t wearing a bra underneath - the sight pulled an involuntary groan from him, and he lowered his head, wrapping his lips around one of your nipples.
You gasped, hands tangling in Eddie’s curls as he ran his tongue over the bud, his hand giving the other equal attention. His cock was throbbing as he sucked on your tits, just like he’d dreamed of, precum soaking into his boxers.
“Feels so good, Eds,” you moaned, arching your back into his mouth. He groaned against you, rutting his hips into you. His mouth never quit as his hand worked its way down to your shorts. He fumbled with the button for a solid minute before he finally pulled back, using both hands to get it undone. He pulled them down your legs, taking in the cute little pair of panties you’d picked today.
He gulped as he drank in your body, now completely bare besides that thin pink lace. You looked even better than he pictured. Your tits were so perfect, nipples hard in the cool air of his bedroom, still slick and shining with his saliva. Your whole body was flushed - so cute. You were breathing heavily, your eyes darkened with want just like his were.
Slowly, he reached for his belt buckle. He didn’t break eye contact with you as he undid his belt, then his jeans, pushing them and his boxers down his thighs. His stiff cock bobbed at his lower belly, tip flushed red with desire and precum beaded at the slit. He shed his jeans the rest of the way, tossing them to the floor.
He reached for your panties next, practically drooling as his heart beat in his ears, but stopped himself short. His eyes glanced up to your face - “This okay?”
You nodded. “Yeah, baby,” you purred. “You can do whatever you want to me.”
He groaned. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and slowly pulled them down, torturing himself, until they were off. Like a force of habit, before he could even think about it, he brought them to his nose and breathed deeply. A wicked smirk crossed your lips as you watched him.
Eddie gripped your thighs, spreading them wide just like in his favorite fantasies. Holy fuck, your pussy was even prettier than he imagined - he could have bust just from the sight alone - and it crashed through him, then, not for the first time, that he not only finally had a girl in his bed - he had you.
“Am I dreaming?” he asked, genuinely wondering. He had to be asleep or high or something, because there was no fucking way-
You laughed. “This is all real, baby.” Your hand trailed down your body, Eddie watching intently. You dragged your hand down over your tits, your stomach, down to your pussy. Eddie watched as you circled two fingers around your clit. “Oh, Eddie. I want you so bad.”
His cock twitched hard. His brain short circuited at the sound of you saying his name with those words, in that tone. He had to squeeze his eyes shut, taking deep breaths.
Your face twisted in concern. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he breathed quickly. “Just trying not to cum.”
“I haven’t even touched you yet,” you laughed.
He had never been so hard in his life. It was almost painful how badly he needed you. He was breathing so heavily, his hands trembling as he rubbed your bare thighs. He glanced up at your face one more time to make sure this was okay before he traced a finger through your folds, feeling how wet you were. He quickly brought it to his lips and sucked every bit of your slick off his finger, groaning.
Your eyes widened. “Fuck, Eds.”
“Taste so good,” he rasped. “Just like I knew you would.”
He situated himself between your legs, leaning down to kiss you again. His hard cock was pressed right against where he wanted to be more than anything, which only made him throb harder. Fuck. This was happening.
Eddie whimpered as he thrusted his hips forward, dragging the underside of his cock through your wet folds. You were that wet for him? Jesus Christ-
The feeling of your pussy against his cock was like nothing he’d ever experienced or even dreamed of. So velvety soft, and warm, and soaking wet with how badly you wanted him - not Steve. Eddie.
“You ready?” you asked him, reaching down to grasp his cock. Eddie whimpered again, his hips bucking into your hand without his permission. He was shaking, barely able to hold himself up over you. His heart was pounding in his ears.
“Y-yeah,” he said. “Fuck, yeah.”
You smirked, tracing him through your wetness one more time before pressing his fat tip right at your entrance. Eddie could not fucking believe this was happening.
Then, with one last deep breath and a roll of his hips - his tip pushed into your tight cunt. He breathed out sharply, hands tightening into fists in the sheets. Holy shit, you were gripping him so tight -
Eddie screwed his face up, his breaths coming out in quick pants as he inched further and further inside of you. He couldn’t look at you - fuck, he wanted to so bad, but he knew he’d cum instantly. He was already barely holding on from the feeling of being enveloped by your tight, wet heat, inch by inch.
“Oh my god, Eddie,” you moaned, manicured fingernails digging into his biceps. “You’re so big, holy shit-“
Eddie whimpered again, his hips jerking forward and pushing the last few inches in at once. “Shit,” he rasped. “Oh, god. Fuck. You’re- holy fuck, I’m inside of you- Jesus Christ-“
You let out a breathy laugh - he was cute, but he was also huge and pressed balls deep inside of you, so fucking deep you could feel him in your throat.
“Go ahead and fuck me, Eddie,” you cooed, and Eddie thought he must actually be dreaming this time. He nodded quickly.
“Yeah. Yeah, okay. I’m gonna fuck you now.” He was hyping himself up, and talking himself off the ledge. He pulled his hips back slowly - then pushed back into you, a shuddering groan leaving his lips as he felt his cock dragging back through your perfect cunt. His head dropped down between your tits, moaning as he began pumping his cock into you.
“Oh god,” he cried, fingers digging into the plush of the bed. “Shit. Oh, baby- fuck- H-ah, I-I can’t-“
He was fucking you so frantically - babbling incoherently, face contorted in pure pleasure - you’d never had a guy fuck you like this. Never had a guy so…grateful to be inside you, so completely affected by you and your body.
You had to admit, it was hot.
“Shit,” Eddie cursed. “You are so, so fucking tight, you feel so good, I’ve never felt anything so fucking- so fucking good in my life, I can’t believe I’m fucking you, holy shit-“
Eddie lifted one hand, grabbing one of your breasts around his face and squeezing it, wrapping his lips around your nipple and sucking on it again. You gasped, the movement unexpected - you clenched around him and Eddie let out a shuddering whine, losing his rhythm.
“That’s it, Eddie,” you praised him, which made him rut into you even harder as he buried his face in your neck. “Does it feel good?”
“Oh, god, yes, fuck yes,” he keened. “I’m not gonna- oh baby, I’m not gonna last, fuck fuck fuck-“
There was nothing he could do. He cried your name - just like he did every time he came - but this time you were here, and holy fuck, he was cumming inside of you, coating your walls with his spend and groaning desperately as he emptied every last drop into you.
His hips kept snapping into you, urgently rutting against you until he couldn’t take it anymore. Only then did he still, shuddering body pressed to your chest.
You had never had sex like that before. The guys you fucked weren’t virgins by any means, for one thing- but you’d never had a guy so utterly consumed by his desire for you. Even now, Eddie could hardly look at you, struggling to slow his racing heart, his body still shaking with aftershocks.
It made the sex good for you, even though you hadn’t cum. You were more turned on than you’d ever been, clit still throbbing between your legs.
“Was that okay?” he asked, breathing hard. “You didn’t…”
“It’s okay, Eds,” you said. “I had fun. Did you?”
His eyes went wide. “Yeah, fuck yeah. That was the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” He looked down at you beneath him, so perfect, real. “I could still make you cum?”
You raised your eyebrows. “You…want to?”
“Oh yeah, yes, I, uh…I really really want to,” he rambled nervously. “Let me just, uh…”
Finally recovered enough, he sat up on his knees, slowly pulling out of you. The second he left your tight heat, it was like grieving the best thing he’d ever felt. But - fuck - just like in his dreams, he watched his cum dripping out of you, and he hardened just the slightest bit.
His eyes were locked on your pussy, like he was in a trance. Slowly, without ever averting his gaze, he lowered himself between your legs, wrapping his arms around your thighs and preparing to bury his face in your cunt.
“W-what are you doing?” you asked him, leaning up on your elbows to look down at him. He had just cum inside of you, there was no way he was about to-
He looked up at you, all wide eyed confusion. “Eating you out?” he said, like a question. “I mean, only if you want me to-“
“No, I-“ You were still confused, was he seriously about to just dive in with his cum leaking out of you? “I mean, you want to?”
“Fuck yeah I want to,” he huffed a laugh, like he couldn’t believe you’d even ask. He looked back down at your pussy, spreading your folds with his fingers and looking at it like he’d never seen anything better. “You know how many times I’ve dreamed of this?”
You would have said something else, but then Eddie dove in, sticking out his long tongue and licking a stripe through your folds, tasting both of you on his tongue. You cried out, falling back on the pillows.
Eddie groaned as he devoured you, licking and sucking, bringing you higher and higher. He had no clue what he was doing, but he certainly had the enthusiasm. He was sloppy with it, not even thinking, just doing what he’d always dreamed of while his cock hardened again, grinding his hips against the bed.
He couldn’t help it. He had just cum harder than he ever had, but here he was, rock hard, ready to go again. This was his dream come true, and he was going to take full advantage of it. He sucked hard on your clit, and your back arched, pressing your pussy harder against his face while you pulled him in by his hair, groaning loud.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he said, muffled against you. “Pull me in, baby, just like that. Fuck, you’re so good.”
“Eddie!” you keened, the coil tightening in your belly, burning hotter and hotter. “Oh my god- you’re fucking unreal-“
“You deserve to be worshipped, baby,” he hummed against your slick pussy, determined to pull an orgasm from your shuddering body. “Can you cum for me?”
It was like he had put on a whole new confidence, a whole new man now that he was finally getting what he always wanted. You were barely holding on, slipping off the edge-
“EddieEddieEddie, oh god, oh fuck-!”
You cried out, a loud, desperate, broken moan as your vision went white and you fisted your hands in Eddie’s hair, grinding your hips against his face as you came harder than you ever had. Eddie groaned and took everything you gave him, like it was the sweetest nectar from the gods and he’d never get a taste again.
He kept going until you were pushing him away, too sensitive to stand any more. He pulled back to look up at you - looking absolutely sinful, his lips and chin wet with your slick and his eyes wide and adoring.
“Can I please fuck you again?”
Your eyebrows shot up in surprise - “What?”
You looked down, and sure enough, Eddie was fully hard again. He wrapped a hand around himself, desperate for some kind of pressure on his aching dick, his sweaty, tattooed chest heaving while he looked down at you like he was ready to devour you all over again.
“Please,” he said. “I couldn’t help it. That was so fucking hot. Please.”
Stunned, you simply nodded.
Eddie wasted no time in climbing back over you, kissing your neck, your face, your chest. He lined himself back up and pushed himself inside with a whine.
“Shit,” he whimpered. “Oh, fuck. I really won’t last.”
He pulled his hips back and snapped them into you, building a fast, desperate pace. You were so sensitive, your mind turning to a lustful haze, all you cared about was the feeling of Eddie’s massive cock sinking into you, to the fucking hilt each and every time.
Eddie couldn’t think straight. It was pure animalistic instinct, driving into you like he would die if he didn’t. The noise of his skin meeting yours filled the room, with his breathy groans and your fucked-out whimpers.
Suddenly, you sobbed, clenched around him, holding him tight, throbbing-
“Are you cumming again?” Eddie asked, looking at you in disbelief. “Oh fuck, oh Christ-“
He let out a roar of a moan, wrapping his arms around your body in a tight hug, his face buried in your neck while he bucked his hips into you, filling you with his release for the second time. He rode out his high until he couldn’t take it anymore, stilling, trembling.
You stayed like that for a few minutes, both completely wrapped up in each other, unable to let go of the tight grip you had on one other. Finally, finally, Eddie lifted his head from your shoulder and looked down into your eyes.
He looked so blissed out, looking at you in wonder, sweat creating a sheen on his forehead, lips red from biting them. You were in much the same condition, body flushed, eyebrows furrowed, pretty lips parted as you looked up at him.
“Eddie…” you whispered. You didn’t have to say more - he could feel everything you left unsaid.
When he reluctantly pulled out, he collapsed on the bed next to you. He wrapped an arm around your middle, pulling you as close to him as possible.
“Don’t leave,” he whispered, his nose nudging the shell of your ear. “Stay the night.”
You couldn’t say no.
“Well boys, I may be a third year senior, but I’ve graduated from what matters. I’m not a virgin anymore.”
That got everyone’s attention at the table. The guys looked at him, both dumbfounded - and also not believing a word he said.
“With who?” Jeff asked suspiciously, his brows drawn together. “You finally call that groupie from the Hideout?”
“No,” Eddie said, sly grin on his face. He opened his lunchbox, smiling to himself like he was proud. He opened a bag of chips, popping one into his mouth. “That’s the best part.”
“Who, then?” Gareth asked, humoring Eddie.
Eddie looked across the cafeteria. You were standing in the line, laughing with Carol. You were wearing the sweetest little sundress, and all Eddie could think about was getting beneath it. You glanced over, sending him a brilliant smile that had his chest aching for you. He turned back to his friends, eagerly awaiting the answer.
When your name rolled off his tongue, silence descended over the group. Then - laughter. Eddie’s face dropped as his friends laughed harder than he’d ever seen.
“Yeah, and I’m the Queen of England,” Grant said.
“How was that dream? Did you wake up sticky?” Jeff joked.
“Mastubating with her panties doesn’t count,” Gareth said.
Heat spread through Eddie’s body, both anger and embarrassment. Sure, it was unlikely, but they really had no faith in him? They thought it was that impossible?
“I’m being serious,” Eddie said. “We-“
“Man, I think you’re getting a little too obsessed,” Gareth said. “You’re losing it.”
“I am not crazy!” Eddie exclaimed. “Jesus, is it really that hard to believe that she might like me back?”
That comment settled over the group. Gareth, Jeff, and Grant looked at each other - and Eddie thought maybe they might listen to him. But then they started laughing again, and Eddie’s heart sank.
“Good one, Eddie,” Jeff said. “Almost had me for a second there.”
Eddie deflated. His friends really thought he didn’t have a chance in hell with you. They thought you were so far out of his league, the idea was laughable.
It kind of hurt.
Eddie gave up the subject as Dustin, Mike, and Lucas approached the table with their lunch trays - not the conversation to have in front of his lost little sheepies.
Lunch moved on as normal, but Eddie was still bothered. Sure, he was a freak, and probably the least popular student in Hawkins while you were the most - but that didn’t mean he wasn’t good enough for you, right?
Maybe they were right.
Standing at the mirror in your en suite bathroom, you applied your lipstick in the mirror. Rubbing your lips together and cleaning up the smudge that escaped your lower lip, you were finally satisfied with the look. You wore a low cut black top with a short skirt, your hair perfectly styled.
Eddie was gonna lose his mind.
Slipping your heels on your feet, you walked out of your room and down the hall.
“Seeing Steve?”
You froze, rolling your eyes before turning around. “What do you care?”
Jason crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, in his usual varsity jacket, polo, and jeans. He looked smug, but when didn’t he?
“Just checking on my sister. Wouldn’t want her out getting herself in trouble.” His eyes quickly scanned your outfit. “Especially dressed like that.”
You were losing your patience fast. “It’s none of your business where I’m going,” you said. “Don’t you have plans with your boyfriends?”
He dropped the smirk. “Fuck you. You’re such a bitch.”
“Wonder where I got it from,” you rolled your eyes again, crossing your arms. “Are we good here? Can I go?”
Jason scoffed. “Yeah, I guess so. Have fun being treated like nothing but a hole to fuck - seems like you like that, though.”
Having heard enough, you turned and stomped down the stairs. Thinking you were in the clear after escaping Jason, you let out a breath. You were almost free, hand on the doorknob, when-
“And where are you going looking like that?”
You wanted to scream. You wanted to punch a wall, to throw something, to run away. Instead, you turned.
“I’m going out with a friend,” you said, crossing your arms over yourself more in an attempt to hide than to have an attitude.
Your mother looked at you with clear disapproval, full glass of wine in her hand - definitely not her first of the night. “You look like a whore.”
The words struck you like a slap. You winced, looking down at your feet. You didn’t know what to say. There wasn’t anything to say.
“Are you one?” she asked, taking a step closer to you. “Going to meet up with some boy, I suppose. Maybe if you spent more time with your brother and his friends, you’d have some respect for yourself.”
You just nodded, the anger and shame rolling in your chest. There was no point arguing back with your mother. She was sure to smack you back down anyway.
She shook her head, slowly. “How did I end up with a daughter like you?”
You waited until she had returned to the living room to polish off that glass of wine and pour another. You willed the tears brewing in your eyes not to fall - you didn’t want to ruin your makeup, after all - and snatched your car keys from the hook by the door.
And went off into the night.
You’ve pulled yourself together by the time Eddie opens the door to find you standing on his porch, looking sorely out of place in his trailer park. His lips curled into a grin and he held a hand out that you accepted. He brought your hand to his mouth and placed a gentle kiss to your knuckles.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
You blushed, taking in Eddie’s ripped jeans with the chain attached and Iron Maiden t-shirt. The bad boy metalhead look was really doing it for you - you had to admit.
“Thank you,” you smiled. Eddie stepped back into the trailer, never letting go of your hand - then pulled you into him. You squealed and laughed as you crashed into Eddie’s firm chest, looking up at him with sparkles in your eyes. He pressed his lips to yours in a passionate kiss, stealing the breath from your lungs.
It was still so new to you. You never expected that you would have butterflies in your stomach because of Eddie Munson. You never expected that you would be dressing up for him because you wanted him to think you looked beautiful. Never would you have thought you’d be sneaking out of your house just to see him again.
“I, uh…” he said shyly after you had parted. “I got some…movies from Family Video. I thought maybe you might want to watch one?”
You were a little taken aback - with Steve, it seemed like it was always just sex. You assumed all Eddie had wanted was sex, too, but - this was a pleasant surprise. You smiled at him. “Yeah. That sounds nice.”
You curled up with Eddie on the couch in the living room of the trailer, watching Day of the Dead. A couple of times you winced, hiding your face in Eddie’s chest - he ate it up, pulling you closer, his arm around you.
“It’s okay, baby,” he whispered against the top of your head. “I’ve got you.”
When the movie was over, Eddie shut the TV off. He looked down at you. “D’you have to go?” he asked quietly, nose nudging your cheek. He placed a gentle kiss against your jaw.
It really didn’t take any convincing. “I don’t have to,” you said. “No one will notice if I don’t come back on time.”
Eddie was relieved to hear you could stay, but his chest ached for you at your words. He didn’t know much about your home life - besides that Jason was your twin brother, and that was bad enough.
He rested his hand on the side of your face, his thumb caressing the skin there. “Wanna go to my room?”
Minutes later and you were on Eddie’s bed once again, your arms wrapped around his neck while he kissed you like you were the air he needed to breathe. His hand was up your shirt, groping at your tits - god, he was obsessed with them - already hard beneath the confines of his jeans.
He was breathing heavily as he rested his forehead against yours, trying to get his bearings. His head was spinning with how turned on he was, how badly he wanted to have you again.
“Can I take it off?” He whispered, pulling at the hem of your top.
You nodded. Eddie wasted no time, throwing the top to the floor and pressing kisses to the tops of your breasts, sucking the skin into his mouth and leaving marks. You moaned, arching your back. There wasn’t a single thought in your head anymore other than Eddie.
His hands slid around your back, fumbling with the clasp of your bra. It took him a while to get it, but eventually he sighed in victory as it came undone and the material fell away, revealing your perfect bare tits. He grabbed them in his large hands, rubbing his thumb over your nipples. He stayed there for a while.
“…Having fun?” you asked with a giggle, relaxing back on his pillows while Eddie lavished attention on your chest.
“Fuck yeah,” he said, not even looking up to meet your eyes. “I fuckin’ love these.”
You hummed, enjoying the feeling. He rutted his clothed cock against your thigh, groaning. You ran your hands beneath his shirt, feeling his soft stomach, his chest. You pulled the worn band tee over his head and tossed it away with your own.
Before long you were both completely naked again, Eddie holding your body close to his own. His cock was throbbing against you, so desperate for something, anything.
“Can I try something?” he asked breathlessly, looking down at you.
You furrowed your brows slightly. “Sure,” you said. You didn’t need to know what it was - you would let him do whatever he wanted. It was too fun.
He threw a leg over your body, straddling your stomach. You looked up at him with wide eyes, his massive cock at eye level. He rubbed the tip of his cock around each of your nipples, slowly, tortuously - then slipped his shaft between them, holding them close around it.
You gasped as Eddie rolled his hips, his cock dragging between your breasts. His eyes were glazed over, looking down at you with pure lust as he thrusted again, fucking your tits. He groaned loud, throwing his head back.
“Is that good?” you asked softly, watching him use your body to pleasure himself. “Feel good?”
Eddie nodded quickly, continuing to thrust his hips against you. “S-so good,” he stuttered, moving his hips faster.
You looked up at him through your lashes, and opened your mouth, sticking your tongue out to brush against the tip of his cock every time he rocked forward.
He gasped, quickly turning into a moan, moving faster and faster and faster-
His thighs were trembling around your body, his hands squeezing your tits tighter. He was rutting his cock between them, panting, little whines on the end of each breath.
“Make yourself cum, baby,” you said. “You’re doing so good, so fucking good.”
“Yeah?” he rasped. “Want me to- to c-um?” He was so close already, that heat spreading throughout his body. The way you looked beneath him, beautiful face, shining eyes looking up at him, and your tongue sticking out, rubbing against that sensitive underside of his cock-
He cried out and came hard, his spend shooting onto your face, tongue, and chest in endless ropes while he shook and whimpered and rode out every last aftershock.
After he had calmed down enough to move, he climbed off of you on shaking legs. He took in your appearance while you looked up at him, your expression far too sweet for the sinful view in front of him.
You were laying in his bed, naked, covered in his cum.
“God,” Eddie breathed. “You- you look…”
An idea struck you at that moment. You looked over at his dresser, seeing the polaroid camera sitting on the edge that you had noticed earlier. You nodded towards it. “Get the camera.”
His eyes practically bugged out of his head, but he quickly jumped up and grabbed it. He came back over to you holding the instant camera between his hands, a nervous grin on his flushed face.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yes, Eddie,” you said, full of confidence, a smirk on your face. “Then you’ll really have something to look at.”
Eddie was in love.
He lifted the camera to his face, seeing you through the viewfinder. You laid splayed out across his bed, his release coating your tits and face, looking like the hottest thing he’d ever seen - none of the barely touched dirty magazines beneath his bed could compare to this.
He snapped the photo. When it printed, he watched it develop until that beautiful sight revealed itself in front of his eyes. His breath got caught in his throat - it was perfect. It was fucking filthy. He took another, just because.
“Can I, uh…keep this in my wallet?” Eddie asked, looking at you sheepishly.
You smirked up at him. “Sure, Eds.”
After cleaning you up, Eddie repaid the favor between your legs. He brought you to heaven on his tongue three times before he let you go, you reluctantly mumbling about needing to get home before your parents realized you weren’t there in the morning and called the national guard.
You both redressed, pulling your bra, top, and skirt back on. You picked up your lacy black panties from the floor of Eddie’s bedroom - where it felt like they belonged. His heart was beating in his ears when you walked up to him and rested a hand on his chest.
“Here,” you said, stuffing the panties into his jeans pocket. “For your collection.”
Eddie was obsessed with that photo.
He looked at it every day, multiple times a day. It was infinitely better than your cheer photo (although that still got pulled out, too). He couldn’t get enough of it.
The flush on your skin. Your half lidded bedroom eyes. Your naked body on full display. The cum coating your tits and face - his cum. That expression on your face, so seductive. He wanted to go back to that moment again and again.
He had the photo in his wallet as he walked into school. It felt like it weighed 50 pounds there, he couldn’t think of anything else. A few times he snuck off to the bathroom, just to pull it out and look at it for a minute.
You gave him a smirk and a wink when you passed him in the hall, making his cheeks burn. He couldn’t wait for the next time he’d get to be alone with you.
He couldn’t stop looking at the photo any chance he got. As he left his last class before lunch, he thought maybe just one more peek before going to the cafeteria. He snuck off into the bathroom, closing himself in a stall and reaching into his pocket, taking his wallet out and opening it-
Finding nothing.
He froze. His body felt ice cold. He knew it was in that pocket of his wallet, it had been all day, but he checked the whole thing just in case. Empty.
Pure panic struck into his chest. He rushed out of the bathroom, sprinting to his last class. The room was empty. He searched all around his desk - inside it, on the floor beneath it, the floor of the whole room. He rushed through the hallways, every classroom he’d been in since he looked at it last - it was nowhere.
He felt sick to his stomach as he walked to the cafeteria. What had he done?
Jason was at his locker after school when Andy approached him - cautiously. He knew how Jason’s temper could be, and he was worried he was about to be on the receiving end of it.
“Uh, hey, man,” Andy said, apprehension evident in his voice. Jason turned to his best friend.
“What’s up?” he asked, his brows furrowed. He shut the locker door, giving Andy his full attention. Besides the confusion on his face, he seemed relaxed, in a good mood.
“Uh…” Andy scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t know how to tell you this.”
“Just say it,” Jason said, beginning to lose his patience. The anticipation was making him anxious. Whatever it was, it was bad. “What’s going on?”
“Look, Jason,” Andy said. “I just, uh…look, as soon as I saw it I came here. It hasn’t been seen by anyone after me. But I, uh, just thought you should know this was being passed around.”
Andy held out a polaroid photo, upside down. Jason looked down at it, then glanced back up at Andy - who was looking anywhere but at Jason. He took the photo from his friend’s hand, and turned it over.
“Oh, Jesus Christ.”
He felt sick. He felt angry. Nausea roiled in his stomach, and fire spread through his veins, making him shake. “What the fuck?”
“I don’t know, man, I swear,” Andy said quickly, holding his hands up. “It was being passed around in the locker room, and I came straight to you. I don’t know where it came from.”
Jason clenched his fist, tensing his jaw. His breathing picked up, head spinning, tunnel vision. The anger was clear in his eyes - Andy backed up.
He turned and punched the locker, leaving a deep dent.
Steve stood in the locker room, laughing with some of his teammates. He was shirtless, still wearing his jeans. He didn’t even look when Jason came in.
“Harrington!”
Steve turned just in time to feel a heavy force against his chest, slamming his back into the lockers and knocking the air from his lungs. His wide eyes met Jason’s fiery ones. The rest of the team backed off, staying out of it.
“What the fu-“
Jason swung his fist, catching him right in the jaw. Steve’s head was knocked to the side, blood spraying from his mouth. Steve recovered quickly, shoving Jason off of him.
“What the fuck, man?” he said, holding his jaw. “What the hell was that for?”
Jason held the photo in front of Steve’s face with a hand that shook in anger. Steve looked at it, his face conveying complete surprise.
“What the fuck have you done?” Jason screamed in his face. “You fucking creep. I’ve had about enough of you.”
Steve snatched the photo from Jason’s hand, looking at it closer. “Jesus,” he whispered. “I don’t- I didn’t-“
“I know damn well this was you, you fucking piece of shit,” Jason yelled, getting in Steve’s face. “She’s done nothing but give you everything you want, and you treat her like a fucking-“ He stopped, rubbing a hand over his face. He was furious. He was more than furious.
“I didn’t fucking do this,” Steve said, still looking down at the photo. The anger was building within him, too. “That’s not my fucking bed. I don’t- I don’t know who took this.”
“You’re a fucking liar-“
“I’m not!” Steve yelled back. “Fuck! That doesn’t look anything like my room. I swear to god, I didn’t take that fucking picture.”
Steve looked sincere. Lost for words, Jason took a step back. “You didn't take it.”
“No, dude,” he said. “I- I didn’t even know she was sleeping with anybody else. I don’t know anything about it.”
Steve was pale as he looked at the photo. He didn’t like seeing you like that, knowing it wasn’t him you were with. The idea of you with another guy made him sick.
Jason looked at him for a minute longer, before snatching the photo out of his hand. He pointed his finger in his face- “Let me find out you’re lying, Harrington.”
And with that, he stomped out of the locker room.
“I’m so fucking sorry,” Eddie said for the millionth time. “I swear I never would have let it out of my sight, I never would have done this on purpose, I’m not like that, baby, I promise you-“
“Eddie,” you said, putting a stop to his rambling. “Please. I get it.”
“I just don’t want you to hate me,” he said. His eyes were glassy, and he had never felt so panicked, so guilty, so distraught in his life. “That picture was for me only. You’re my dream girl, baby. I would never in a million years do anything to fuck that up.”
You knew he was telling the truth. You knew it was an accident. But still, it was your naked photo that got passed around the school, it was your body the entirety of Hawkins High got a full view of, and it was you that would have to live with it.
“It was careless, Eds!”
“I know,” he said. He dropped to his knees in front of where you sat at the end of your bed. “Fuck, I know. I can’t…I can’t tell you how fucking sorry I am. How badly I regret it.”
You had told him he could carry the photo with him, sure, but you thought he’d be careful. You knew he genuinely regretted it, he was so remorseful, and when he looked up at you with those big doe eyes, it was hard to stay mad. But this was something he couldn’t undo.
“I get it, Eddie, but you can’t take this back.”
“Is there any way I can make it up to you?” he begged, pleaded. He clutched your hands in his. He would go to the ends of the earth to make things right.
“You really fucked me over, you know that?” you ranted. “How am I supposed to live that down? I don’t know if we can see each other anymore, I mean, I have to fucking explain this to everyone. You’re such an asshole, Eddie, I trusted you-“
Eddie pressed his lips to yours, cutting you off.
Your eyes went wide. You shoved him away from you. “What the fuck?”
You looked at each other, Eddie’s chest heaving with his breaths. It felt like electricity between you, an invisible pull, stronger than anything you’d ever felt-
You grabbed his shirt in your fists and pulled him into a fiery kiss. Eddie wasted no time in pushing you back and crawling over your body onto your bed, his tongue in your mouth and his knee slotting between your legs.
It was passionate, sloppy, and desperate. Eddie rucked your shirt up and off, mouthing at your tits as he exposed them. You moaned, arching your back into his mouth. You clawed at his back, pulling his shirt up and over his head.
“Come on, I’m aching for you, baby,” Eddie murmured, rocking his hips against you. “Need you so bad.”
You could feel how bad.
You flipped the two of you over so you were on top, pinning his wrists down and catching Eddie off guard. He groaned as you kissed his tattooed chest, placing kisses lower, lower, lower. He watched you with rapt attention as you made it to his hips, undoing his belt and jeans. He lifted his hips to help you pull them down to his thighs.
His hard cock slapped against his stomach, precum already dripping onto his skin. Your mouth watered at the sight. You moved forward and licked a stripe from his balls to the tip of his cock.
Eddie groaned, his head dropping back against your pillows. “J-Jesus,” he stuttered. “Oh my god.”
You wrapped your lips around his tip, tasting him. Swirling your tongue around it, you slowly began taking him deeper and deeper down your throat.
“Oh, fuck,” Eddie moaned, watching your every move. This might have been the best thing he’d ever seen in his life. You with your pretty lips wrapped around his cock, looking up at him, making eye contact as you sucked him-
You bobbed your head on his cock, taking him deeper with every stroke. Eddie’s hand came to rest on your head, carding through your hair. He didn’t push - just held on.
“Fuck,” he moaned. “That’s- shit, oh my god. You’re so cool, fuck.”
You almost laughed, but kept going, lifting a hand to massage his balls. He whimpered, his cock twitching in your mouth. You took him deep, humming around him and sending vibrations through him.
Eddie cried out, throwing his head back. His thighs were quivering, little gasps and moans spilling from his lips. You ran your tongue along the underside with every movement, paying special attention to right below his head.
Eddie was huffing, barely holding on. His hips thrusted up into your mouth, hard, and you gagged.
“Shit,” he hissed, his hips involuntarily bucking into your mouth. He couldn’t stop, even though he felt
bad - it was too good. “Sorry, fuck, sorry, ‘m sorry-“
You traced the vein on his cock with your tongue, making him whimper. Saliva dripped from your lips down his shaft, sloppy and messy and perfect. You swallowed around it, taking everything Eddie was giving you as he fucked your mouth.
“Fuck! Fuck-“ he rasped. “Jesus, baby, I- I’m gonna- gonna cum, please, wanna be inside you, wanna fill you-“
You pulled off of him, and his slick cock landed against his stomach, throbbing. He whimpered. Even though he’d told you to stop, he missed the delicious warmth of your mouth.
He flipped the two of you back over, pulling your panties off and pushing your skirt up. He traced his cock through your folds, soaking wet and ready for him. He lined himself up, his pants still down around his thighs. His eyes met yours, and he pushed inside.
You whined at the stretch, and Eddie’s eyes fluttered closed from the pleasure. He sunk into you inch by delicious inch, making you feel so impossibly full.
He drew back, before snapping his hips back into you. You cried out, his cock so deep in you you could feel him everywhere. He set a quick, frantic pace, fucking you like he might die if he wasnt inside you.
“You feel so good,” Eddie moaned into your neck, hips rocking along with yours. Your bodies moved together like they were meant to be connected, like you belonged like this. “So good, you’re so good. Tight and hot and wet - fuck - so perfect for me-“
“Eddie,” you whined, arching your back, your bare chest pressed against his. He sucked at your neck, leaving marks. He wished he could carve his name, so everyone would know you’d been fucked by him. That it was him who marked you in that photo.
“You moan my name so pretty, baby,” he groaned. “Sounds so good. Fuck, even better than I imagined.”
Eddie pulled back, looking down at you. You looked so hot when you were getting fucked - even better when he was the one fucking you. His lips parted in awe, he watched your face as he rutted into you, faster and faster, his release building-
The door slammed open.
“Where the fuck did this picture-“
You screamed, and Eddie quickly rolled off of you. He pulled his pants up as fast as possible as you covered your chest with the sheets. Jason stood in the doorway, absolutely stunned as he looked between the two of you. Then, his face twisted into pure anger. He looked at you.
“Eddie fucking Munson?” he screamed. “You’re fucking the freak now?”
Jason stomped over, grabbing Eddie by the arm and throwing him to the floor. Eddie hit the ground with a huff, holding his hands up. “Please, man-“
“You sick fucking bastard,” Jason said. He swung, hitting Eddie in the face, knocking him back. Eddie groaned, covering his face.
“JASON!” you screamed. “Stop, jesus!”
“How dare you touch my sister, you fucking freak!” Jason yelled. He swung again, hitting Eddie hard. Eddie fell back against the floor, blood spraying onto your carpet. He hit him again, and again.
“Jason!” you shrieked, jumping off the bed with the sheet clutched to your chest. You pulled on his arm, trying to drag him away from Eddie. Jason spun on you, pointing his finger in your face.
“You fucking idiot,” he seethed. “You let this freak take those pictures of you like that? You let him touch you?”
“Jason-“
“No,” he said. “Why do you have to be such a fucking slut? First Steve, now Munson - what’s next? Hargrove? One of Munson’s freak friends?”
“Don’t fucking talk to her that way,” Eddie mumbled weakly from the ground.
Jason turned, kicking Eddie hard in the stomach. “Shut the fuck up! You’ve done enough!”
You were sobbing, tears streaming down your face as you tried to get your brother to stop. “Jason, please! Just go!”
“Do you know how embarrassing it is to be your brother?” Jason said, turning back to you. “You disgraced the whole fucking family, whoring around town. Everyone knows what you are. That’s the only reason he’s here - he knows you’re easy.”
The words hit as if he’d punched you, too. “I hate you!”
“I don’t fucking care if you hate me,” he said. He took one last look between the two of you, kicking Eddie hard in the stomach one more time. Eddie curled into a ball with a groan as Jason finally left, slamming your door behind him.
You dropped to your knees next to Eddie. “Oh fuck, oh jesus-“
Eddie groaned, his face caked in blood. You pushed the hair out of his face, assessing the damage. He had a deep black eye blooming, his lip split. He opened his eyes just barely to look at you.
“Eddie, I’m so sorry,” you cried. “I’m so fucking sorry. I never should have brought you here. I never should have-“
“Not your fault, princess,” he said weakly, grabbing onto your hand. It broke your heart.
“It is,” you said softly. “It is my fault.”
A few minutes later and Eddie was sitting on your bed, frozen peas held to his eye. You dabbed at his lip with a piece of gauze from the first aid kit sitting on the bed next to him.
“Could be worse,” Eddie said, wincing as pain shot through his jaw.
“…It’s pretty bad, Eds,” you said gently. You wiped the last of the blood off his cheek, then lowered your hand with a sigh.
“Does it make me look tough?” he asked, grinning slightly - until he winced again, his whole head feeling like he’d been hit by a truck.
“Eddie…” you looked down at your feet. “I don’t think we can see each other anymore.”
Eddie’s face dropped. “Baby, no. Please. Don’t say that.”
“This is my fault,” you said. “I knew what Jason would do if he caught us. And I did it anyway, I brought you here anyway.”
“Baby…” Eddie reached for your hand. “I knew what he would do, too, and I still did it. I was okay with that possibility. I was okay with it because I wanted you. I still want you, getting my ass kicked or not.”
“I just can’t live with myself after that,” you said. “I can’t live with myself knowing you’re in danger because of me, knowing your life is going to be worse because of me.”
Eddie chuckled, but there wasn’t much humor behind it. “Baby, Jason has already hated me. That’s nothing new.”
“You weren’t fucking his twin sister before.”
“That just makes it better,” he said. “Please, princess. Don’t do this. I- I love you.” The words struck both of you deep - neither of you expected it. “I love you, and I can’t lose you now that I have you. I couldn’t live with that. Please.”
“Ed…” you sighed. “I think you should go home.”
Eddie just looked at you. You weren’t budging. His heart was cracking into a million pieces in his chest. He had never had something so perfect slip from his grasp like this, and it was devastating.
“Baby, please, don’t- don’t do this,” his voice cracked.
You shook your head. “Go home, Eds.”
He looked at you. He debated begging, getting on his hands and knees and sobbing at your feet. But instead he stood, grabbing his t-shirt and pulling it over his head. He gave you one last look at the door - sitting on your bed, your head in your hands - and he left.
Eddie was miserable without you.
And you were miserable without Eddie. That was the truth. You missed him every second of every day. You longed for him. Your heart and your body craved him.
It wasn’t hard for the Hawkins student body to figure out who took the photo when Eddie showed up to school with two deep black eyes, cuts and bruises on his face. Everyone whispered about the two of you behind your backs, the girls on the squad giving you strange looks every time they saw you.
Carol and Tina didn’t understand, but they didn’t turn on you, at least. It felt like they were your only friends for a while.
“Really?” Steve had said, after pulling you into the locker room at school to talk privately. “Eddie Munson? You let that freak touch you like that?”
It was clear he was hurt. His eyes wide, brows furrowed. His usual confident stature was instead hunched, his shoulders dropped. He looked horrified at what you’d done.
“I like him, Steve,” you said, defeated.
“I just don’t understand.” He shook his head. “You could have had anyone- we could’ve- you were mine.”
“We broke up,” you reminded him. “Remember? It was nothing but sex between us anymore.”
Steve’s face crumpled - as if he finally realized how he had lost you, and that it was his fault. “Baby-“
“He’s good to me,” you said. “He was good to me.”
He looked at you, pained. “And I wasn’t.”
It wasn’t a question.
You didn’t speak to Jason. He was furious with you, and you were furious with him. Things at home were extremely tense.
At school, he pretended like you didn’t exist. His friends snickered at you in the hallway, whispering things like “slut”, “whore”, “freak fucker”. You didn’t particularly care what his asshole friends thought, but it did start to weigh on you.
Every time you saw Eddie in the halls, the guilt ate you alive. He’d taken a lot of hits. He had a mean black eye, his lip busted, bruises on his jaw. He had bruises all over his stomach and chest, too. Jason had gotten him good.
Despite that, he still tried to catch your eye in the hall, still tried to talk to you. You avoided him - he didn’t deserve to get involved with you. He deserved better than what he’d have to deal with.
You hadn’t ever felt so alone.
Eddie craved you like no other.
He watched every move you made, every time someone gave you shit for being involved with him he had to hold himself back - he wasn’t exactly in any shape to fight.
A couple of days after the incident, he noticed you weren’t at school. Not the next day, or the day after that either. Jason was there. It filled him with a deep anxiety, his stomach churning.
When you hadn’t been at school for a week, he decided he’d had enough worrying.
Sneaking out during lunch, he went to his van. It took a few tries for the old thing to turn over, but it finally did. He drove a direction he’d only been a handful of times - into the nicest part of Hawkins. Where you lived.
A small, locally owned supermarket caught his attention on the way. On a pure whim, he whipped the van into the parking lot like a maniac and ran inside. The cashier gave him a strange look as he checked out - no doubt wondering who had beat the shit out of him and why - but Eddie paid it no mind. He hurried back to the van and the rest of the way to the Carver house.
He was relieved to see only your car in the drive when he pulled up to the fancy two-story home. He gripped the bouquet in his sweaty hand, headed up the walkway, and rapped on the door.
When he didn’t get an answer within a minute, he knocked again. Then again, louder.
Finally, the front door swung open. You stood on the other side, looking irritated - until you saw Eddie. Your face softened, your mouth dropping open. “Eddie-“
“Please,” he said, cutting you off. “Please. Can I come in? I just want to talk.”
You hesitated. Finally, you stepped back, letting him into the house. “Yeah, come in.”
Eddie stepped into your house for the second time in his life. He took in the grand entryway, the huge, fancy living room off to the right, the massive kitchen ahead with a marble island. He felt sorely out of place.
“Oh, uh, these are for you,” he said, handing you the bouquet of tulips. You took them and brought them to your noise, smiling softly.
“Thank you,” you said. “Let me get a vase for it.”
You scurried off to the living room, leaving Eddie behind. He debated if he should follow you, but ultimately stayed put until you came back a minute later, the flowers in a vase in your hand.
“Come on. Let’s go to my room.”
Eddie kicked his shoes off by the door and obediently followed you upstairs, the hardwood creaking under his feet. In your bedroom, you sat the vase on your dresser and closed - and locked - the door behind you. You were alone, but weren’t taking any chances.
“Eddie-“
“Please, just listen to me,” he said. He grabbed your hands in his. “I know I messed up-“
“It’s not about that,” you said. “I swear it’s not about that. I just…watching Jason hurt you like that- I couldn’t live with myself. I’ve felt like shit since it happened. It was my fault.”
“Baby, no.” He pulled you closer. “You can’t blame yourself for something your asshole brother did.”
“I do, though,” you mumbled. “I know how he is. And I brought you here. I thought he’d be at practice, but I was wrong, and you paid for it.”
“And I’d do it again if it meant I could be with you.”
You looked up at him with sad eyes, tears brimming. Gently, you raised your hand and rested it on the side of Eddie’s battered face. “Look at you, Eddie.”
“I don’t care,” he said. “I don’t give a fuck about Jason or any of his friends, I promise you. I don’t care about Steve Harrington. I don’t care about anyone in Hawkins the way I care about you.”
You parted your lips to speak, but before you could, he pulled you into him, pressing his lips to yours in a soft kiss that conveyed every ounce of love he felt for you. It was gentle - his lip still hurt - but he didn’t care about that. All he cared about was showing you what you meant to him.
The tears escaped your eyes, falling down your face as you kissed Eddie back. His arms slid around your waist while yours wrapped around his neck. He held you close, his body pressed against yours.
He pulled back, resting his forehead against yours. “I love you. I mean that. And I’d do anything to make sure you know it.”
“I do know it,” you whispered. “And I…I love you too.”
Eddie smiled. “Then that’s all that matters.”
You shook your head, a breathless chuckle. “You’re crazy, Eddie Munson.”
His smile only grew. “Only for you.”
Being Eddie’s girlfriend was better than you ever could have dreamed.
He treated you like a princess, for one. He may not have had a lot of money for fancy dates and gifts like Steve, but that didn’t matter to you. Eddie loved you, he worshipped the ground you walked on. It was different - you’d never been treated that way before.
You’d never had someone love you like that.
Jason and Steve were not happy, but you couldn’t have cared less. Steve continued to try to get you back - the first time he’d grabbed your ass in the hall after you had started dating Eddie, you nearly hit him yourself. He got the hint pretty quick, although he didn’t give up the idea that you’d come to your senses one day.
Things with Jason were even worse. He wouldn’t even speak to you, wouldn’t look at you. He pretended you didn’t exist at home. You honestly preferred it that way.
Eddie’s friends couldn’t believe he had been telling the truth. They were all too scared to talk to you, but Eddie loved watching them eat their words. Every time he brought you to the lunch table or to Hellfire, sitting on his lap and kissing him as many times as possible, they’d all just stare.
“Hi, princess,” Eddie greeted you with a smirk after cheer practice, leaning against his van. You were still in your uniform, and you ran and jumped into his arms, wrapping your legs around his waist.
He laughed as you kissed him, holding you tight. He’d recovered since the Jason incident, his bruises fading and cuts healing. He looked like himself again - your handsome boyfriend.
“Missed you,” you mumbled against his lips. You kissed him again, longer this time.
“I watched you practice,” he said, laughing again. “I’ve been here the whole time.”
You shrugged, unable to wipe the grin off your face. “Still missed you.”
You knew you had an audience, but you didn’t care. He sat you back down on your feet, his arms still wrapped around you. “Ready to go?”
“Fuck yeah,” you said. “Get me out of here.”
You climbed into the passenger seat of Eddie’s old van. He shot you a smirk before he started the engine, backing the van out of the parking space and driving away from Hawkins like a maniac. As usual.
As he drove, he rested his hand on your thigh. He still couldn’t believe he had you here with him - his girlfriend. He glanced over at you, your hair blowing in the wind, the sun kissing your skin and lighting you up from the inside. Beautiful.
an: heyyyy me again so yeah could not stop thinking about a pathetic steve so here we are!! enjoy and feel free to send suggestions, concepts, or just chat!!
side note i listened to i wanna be yours by arctic monkeys on a loop while writing this so do with thag what you will!
masterlist here!!
summary: you and steve are coworkers and while you try (and fail) to act like he doesn’t exist, he’s a little obsessed with you and would do anything to have your attention
(fem!reader x steve harrington)
warnings: angst, fluff, cursing, public teasing (nothing too crazy), jealous reader, dirty talk, f masturbation, fingering, biting, kissing, spit, handjob MDNI!!!!!
wc: 15.5k
When it came to Steve Harrington, you were indifferent.
You didn’t fall in with the group of girls who fawned over him like some king, worshiping the ground he walked on and giggling at his attempts at jokes. But you didn’t fall in with the other group either. The ones that hated him, that called him names and rolled their eyes when he walked in the room with a smile on his face.
So you fell somewhere in the middle. To you Steve Harrington was your coworker, someone you often had to pick up the slack for or cover for when he was running late. You wouldn’t call him a friend but wouldn’t say he was your enemy either.
The arrangement the two of you had worked well for you. You’d cover for him or save his ass when needed, and in turn he’d leave you alone. Well sometimes he would. You didn’t mind him but sometimes it seemed like he could go on forever and you just…it drove you a little crazy, okay? He was good about leaving you be, making small talk for a little before the both of you quieted down and went about your shift.
Part of this arrangement was you teasing him until his cheeks burned and his felt fuzzy, but that was neither here nor there.
But sometimes you think he just couldn’t help it. He’d start going on about something and then it would be 45 minutes later and he’d still be going. You let him do this about once or twice a week. You didn’t mind him or his company, so if it made him happy to ramble on every once in a while you could live with that. He was a yapper and you were quiet. You would hum along to something you’d heard on the way to work and entertain his chit chat for a few minutes but that was really it.
Did that mean you couldn’t appreciate that he was actually really pretty? Of course not! He had dimples that made him seem boyish and sweet, even when he was being a menace. His hair was perfect, especially after he’d spent the day running his hands through it a million and one times. His lips were pouty and pink and so what if you stared at them when he was droning on about something? A perfect nose that you’d admired the slope of more times than you could count when he was sitting beside you going through returns.
He was pretty. You wouldn’t deny that. But that was it. No more, no less. It didn’t mean you liked him or wanted him or would fall to your knees for him like half of Hawkins did. Sure, you passed the time at work by teasing him and making him squirm, but it was only because you were bored and he was there, all pretty and willing.
You were indifferent.
****************************************
Steve liked you.
If you were in the same room as him he couldn’t help but to watch you. He didn’t know if you saw him and he couldn’t bring himself to care. He’d watch the way you’d tuck your hair behind your ear once every few minutes. He’d watch you scrunch your nose when you were reading and pout your rosy lips when sorting through dvd’s. God you were just so pretty.
He wanted your attention all the time, he craved it. He knew he looked like a little lovesick puppy the way he followed you around and hoped you’d smile at him or indulge his ramblings every now and then.
Pathetic. That’s what he was when it came to you. Sometimes you were a little mean to him but he liked it, loved anything you’d give him. He would even show up late on purpose sometimes just to hear you scold him!
“M’not always gonna be here to cover for you, Harrington. Be a big boy and get to work on time.”
His cheeks would be pink and he’d give you a shy smile, promising this was the last time but you both knew better than to believe that. You didn’t put up with his bullshit, you called him out when he needed it and you didn’t try and act like somebody you weren’t around him. He loved it.
Like today, you’d barely come in the door before he was on your heels, going on about some party from the weekend before and how it was sooo lame and that he didn’t have any fun. He’s so occupied with his rambling he doesn’t realize you’ve stopped until he slams into your back, hands coming up to grip your shoulders so you don’t both fall over.
Your hands grip the counter just in time and he expects you to turn around and gripe at him, scolding him like a toddler who’d been on your heels but you don’t. You huff a laugh and playfully shove at his shoulder, shaking your head.
“Jesus, Harrington. Maybe I need to get you a leash, hm?”
And maybe Steve likes that a little too much because he can feel the tips of his ears burning and blush working its way up his neck and covering his cheeks in a pink that makes him squirm.
He watched you quirk an eyebrow at him, a knowing smirk on those lips he’s dreamed about for months and he wonders why he’s not more embarrassed, why his heart is racing and his cock is swelling in his pants. Fuck.
“On second thought, I think maybe you’d like that a little too much.”
*************************************
One thing you love about working with Steve is teasing him. You’ve done good to not let him get too close to you, staying neutral when it comes to his antics but you can’t help the giddiness you feel watching him blush and squirm when you’re mean to him. You’ve come to learn he likes when you embarrass him.
You’re embarrassed to admit it makes you feel a little powerful, a little special when you make him this way. He’s not the big, bad, ‘King Steve’ he was in high school when he’s in front of you, oh no. You think he’s quite pathetic the way he’s practically attached to your hip and you relish in the way he hangs onto every word you give him, especially considering you don’t give him much.
Like today you’re perched on a stool at the cash register, barely working oscillating fan doing little to cool you down when the ac is shitty, pushing around warm air that makes your thighs stick together and leaves a sheen of sweat on your forehead. You hate the heat, but what you don’t hate is the way Steve’s eyes are glued to your thighs, watching closely every time you readjust or a bead of sweat slides down your leg.
“Careful, Steve, I won't be happy if you drool on my leg.” That snaps him out of it, shoulders thrown back as he whips his head up to your face and oh yep! There’s those red cheeks you’ve come to like so much.
He opens his mouth to say something, probably nothing that would make sense but you spare him from trying to explain his wandering eyes, reaching down into your bag to pull out your next bit of entertainment for the day.
This’ll be good.
Out of the corner of your eye you see him watching you closely and you can’t help the smirk you wear when your fingers find what you were looking for, wrapping around it and pulling it out for Steve to see. You don’t miss the way his lips part or the way he grips the counter in front of you.
“They’re my favorite,” you wave the cherry blow pop in front of you like you’ve found gold, smirking at the way his eyes follow it through the air, “I only have the one but I can share, I guess.”
It would be rude of you to not offer him any. You might tease and be mean, but you certainly weren’t rude!
Ripping the wrapper off you waste no time, sticking the sweet treat in your cheek, throwing away the trash and swinging your legs around so you’re face to face with Steve, knees pressed against his as your feet dangle off the stool.
Maybe you could blame the way you make a show out of it on the lack of customers today. You’ve been here for 4 hours and only a handful of people have come in. Yeah, that’ll do. That’s why you pull it from your mouth with a pop that makes him flinch, lolling your tongue around the candy in a way that makes his eyes glaze over. You can hear him gulp when you hollow your cheeks and close your eyes, pretending like the taste of artificial cherry is what’s making your ears buzz and your heart race.
Dragging the blow pop from your mouth you gasp, letting your tongue swipe against your bottom lip that you’re sure is shiny with spit. “Oh, where are my manners! Here ya go, Harrington, have a lick.”
Not giving him a second to react, you surge forward, pushing the sucker against his lips before he has the chance to open, smearing the stickiness and your spit around his mouth and smiling wide at the sight of him, a tint of red around his pouty lips that suits him well.
“Messy boy, aren’t you?” You swipe your thumb over his lips, collecting some of the mess and you can see the way his tongue peaks out and you know he’s dying to let it touch your thumb. You pull back before he can, popping your thumb in your mouth and humming around it as if it’s the blow pop itself.
“Told you I could share!”
You could be indifferent to him and still want to make him melt to his knees for you, right?
**************************************
Steve thought about the cherry blow pop incident for weeks. He was surprised he didn’t cum in his pants like a teenager when the spit soaked treat touched his lips or when he watched you suck on your thumb after it swiped across his mouth.
That was just one example of how you tortured him, how he loved it. He’d had to go home that night and barely made it through the front door before he was pulling his cock out and picturing you on your knees in front of him, teasing him for being a “messy boy.”
You had no idea.
This shit would happen, these events that Steve was positive were chemically altering his brain chemistry, and he wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you? You’d do something like that, something so hot it was engraved in his mind forever and then five minutes later it would be as though it never happened. You’d smirk at him, go back to what you were doing and spend the rest of the day ignoring him or giving him one word responses while he begged at your feet for a scrap of attention.
He really was like a puppy.
So he was confused, beyond confused on if you were friends, if you wanted him…he just didn’t know what to make of it. He hadn’t seen you act this way with anyone else and it made him feel…special. God he was pathetic.
The problem with all this was that he wasn’t entirely sure you didn’t hate his guts. I mean yeah, you’d tease and scold him when he was being an idiot and you were mean but never cruel or malicious. But you also never really went out of your way to start a conversation, never really cared to keep one up with him either. You rarely smiled at him, which killed him, because he saw the way you’d laugh at something Robin said or the amusement dancing in your eyes when the kids came in to raise hell. You never let him have it though, and fuck he wishes you would. All he got were teasing smirks and he wasn’t complaining about them, not one bit, but he wanted to see if he could make you all sweet and mushy like everyone else did.
There’s been a few times he’s caught you staring but you never back down, never look embarrassed to have been watching him and he wonders if you were staring so hard to put a curse on his bloodline or something! He wouldn’t mind if you were, the feel of your eyes on him somewhat satiate the craving he has for you.
He’s thinking about you again, just like always. In fact he’s so deep in thought, leaned forward letting his chin rest in his palm that for once he doesn’t notice you come up behind him.
He wishes he would have noticed you because then maybe he could have prepared himself to talk you and then maybe he wouldn’t have fucked everything up the way he did. Maybe it would’ve gone differently and ended without you in tears and him feeling the world's biggest douche bag.
“Dreamin’ about me, Harrington?”
“Aren’t I always.” He meant for it to come out teasing—but it didn’t. Now you were staring at him and he was staring out the window, the tips of his ears burning and he wished he could swallow his own tongue.
“Anyways, any chance you’ll cover my shift this Friday?”
“Why? Where are you going?” Full on pouting now he finally met your gaze. You never missed a shift, in fact you were the only one that anyone could count on to pick up extra shifts.
“Who are you, my daddy?”
His fingers twitched on the counter in front of him and neither of you missed the way his throat bobbed. Jesus Christ you made him crazy. “If you must know, I have a date and Friday is the only day that works.”
Wait—what? You had a date? With someone who was not him. Based on the way his heart dropped to his ass, he realized he might want far more than just your attention. His throat clogged as he looked at you, waiting as patiently as possible for his answer but fuck a date? You’d never gone on one as long as he’d known you—well that he knew of.
“But…you don’t go on dates.”
“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Oh he was fucked now. He’d opened his big mouth and pissed you off—not in the way he’d liked either. “Well I just, I just meant I’ve never seen anyone ask yo—I didn’t think anyone…or you…I’ve never seen you go on one so I just figured you didn’t.” His foot could not get any further down his throat. He was fucking this up royally, but he was flustered! The pretty girl he liked was going out with someone, god knows who, and his feelings were a little hurt, even if he didn’t have the right!
“Forget it.” Any amusement you’d held towards him vanished, something else passed over you that he recognized as hurt and then anger. Lots of anger.
“Wait! M’sorry, I didn’t mean it like tha—”
“No you wait, Harrington. I don’t care what you think or what you think you know, it’s none of your business. I didn’t ask for you to question whether it was possible someone could like me enough to take me out, I asked if you’d cover my shift. Which—by the way—is not a big ask considering I cover your ass at least two times a week! But forget it, asshole, I’m sure my date was a fluke anyways, right?”
Before he could apologize or even blink you’d stormed away, slamming the break room door behind you. Shit he was an idiot! A huge, massive, blubbering idiot who’d made you more mad than he’d ever seen. His words got all jumbled around you anyways let alone when he was jealous over someone else getting to take you out.
He’d fucked up big time and was just sure you were cursing his bloodline now.
*********************************
Big, angry tears rolled down your cheeks in the employee bathroom you’d locked yourself in for the last twenty minutes. You were pissed, livid even, but more than that you were hurt. Which was only making you more mad, because why the hell did Steve Harrington have the power to hurt your feelings! He wasn’t anyone to you but a coworker, maybe an acquaintance, and yet here you were crying in the bathroom at work because he…what? Didn’t think you were pretty enough or cool enough or—whatever he fuckin’ thought—to date?
Okay, sure he didn’t say that exactly, but how else were you supposed to take his blubbering. And yeah, for the most part you were quiet and reserved and didn’t give a fuck what anyone thought, but that didn’t mean you didn’t have feelings for godsake.
At the end of the day Steve was a guy, a cute guy that you’d admired for his beauty and wouldn’t deny that he was overall sweet and kind, and you were a girl, a girl who apparently was not meant for dates.
And that hurts your feelings more than you’d care to admit.
A knock on the door had you wiping at your cheeks furiously, though at this point nothing would be able to hide your red cheeks and swollen eyes. “Who is it?” You cringed at how your voice sounded cracked and whiny.
“It’s Robin,” Oh thank god. Thank fucking god it wasn’t Steve. “Dingus is out here looking like he’s about to have a meltdown but won’t tell me what’s up, just said you were back here and that I should come check on you.”
Taking a deep breath you pulled the door open just enough for Robin to slip in, quickly closing it back behind her and trying not to let your bottom lip tremble when she turned to look at you and gasped. You weren’t even a crier! What was going on!
“Woa—shit I don’t think I’ve ever seen you cry. Are you okay? What happened? Did they get Steve too, he seriously looks two seconds away from curling up on the floor.” Hands immediately covering your face you sigh, willing no more tears to fall until you can get out of here and into your own bed.
“It’s not, I just—I really don’t wanna talk about it right now, okay? Do you think you could start early and cover the rest of my shift? I promise I’ll make it up to you I just…Rob I just need to go home.”
“Of course I can, are you crazy? There’s nothing to make up. Go! I’ll tell Harrington you’re not feeling well and he’s stuck with me for the rest of the night,” giving you a reassuring squeeze as you gathered your things you’d grabbed on the way in here you gave her what you hoped came off as a thankful smile, “and when—if—you wanna talk about this, I’m here. Just so you know. I can listen sometimes despite what they all say.”
You nodded, squeezing her hand and giving yourself one last look in the mirror, grimacing at the utter mess you saw staring back at you. Hiking your bag on your shoulder you fled the safety of the bathroom and all but ran to the door.
Steve was with a customer, the polite smile he had on his face completely wiped off when he caught a glimpse at your puffy eyes and tear stained cheeks. You didn’t spare him one look, practically running for the door without uttering a word in his direction.
God he felt like a piece of shit. He doesn’t think he’d ever seen you upset, let alone crying. He’d fucked up bad and didn’t know how to fix it when he’s sure you wouldn’t give him the time of day now.
He’d have to find a way to make this better, the pit in his stomach growing when he thought of you being upset—hurt—because of him.
He stood there staring at the door until Robin came up beside him, a concerned look on her face as she studied him. “Did she say what happened?”
“No, she didn’t. Just said she needed to go home and didn’t want to talk about it. I’ve never seen her so upset though, I’m worried.”
He was thankful she didn’t call him out for his bullshit. It was obvious whatever happened had been between the two of you and he didn’t think he couldn’t take Robin ripping into him right now, even if he deserved it.
“Yeah, me too.” And fuck he was.
*************************************
3 days since Steve had made you cry. The more you thought about it, the worse you felt because if you were being honest with yourself, maybe there was a small, teeny tiny part of you that grew fond of Steve. Steve with his goofy smile and bashful grin when he’d tell you stupid jokes.
It was one thing to be hurt because he’d been a jerk, but now you were dealing with feelings you didn’t want. You’d been hurt because you liked Steve and hearing him say…well you guess he didn’t say much, just stumbled his way through some sentences that all started pretty shitty, your feelings were all twisted up that he viewed you a certain way.
But instead of thinking too hard about these newfound feelings you had, you chose to ignore it completely. Obviously! You didn’t have the time or energy to worry about what Steve Harrington thought of you, especially when you glance at the clock on your nightstand and shit you’re gonna be late for work!
This is your first shift in 3 days and your stomach turns because you know you’ll be working with Steve. It also happened to be Friday, the day of your date that you had canceled in a fit of hurt and anger when you got home from your last shift. But based on how that jackass you couldn’t even remember the name of took it, you’d dodged a bullet.
You’re pulling into Family Video before you know it, dread washing over you and it doesn’t help that the humid summer heat as your bare thighs sticking to your seat, it only adds to your frustration. You make no move to actually get out, but you know you can’t afford to miss a shift or risk this job so you get it over with, pulling yourself out and walking in before you say fuck it and head back home.
Walking through the front doors you see him immediately, standing behind the counter with worry etched between his brows and a small frown on his face. He looks like a kicked puppy, staring you down as if you’ve wronged him.
“You’re late.”
You stiffen, spine straightening at his words and a string of curses are on the tip of your tongue, ready to lash out at him because how dare he. But before you get the chance he’s speaking again, effectively cutting off the tyrade you had going on your head.
“And that’s fine, totally fine! You’re just never late so I was worried, but then again I know today’s Friday so I wasn’t sure if you’d be showing up at all…I didn’t get the chance to tell you the other day I’d already told Robin I’d cover her shift today but I talked to the boss and if you need to go you can, I can manage one night by myself, I swear!”
You didn’t answer him, walking past and heading to the break room to hang up your things and try and mentally prepare for what was sure to be the longest shift of your life. The only thing you had going for you was that it was a Friday night, so hopefully you’d be busy and not have time to stress over being stuck with Steve.
When you come back out he’s standing in the same spot you left him, staring around like a lost little kid waiting for someone to give him direction. Well you won't be doing it tonight. Wordlessly you take a seat on the stool, trying your best to ignore his stare burning into the side of your face. You’d snap at him if you didn’t think you’d have a meltdown.
“Are you sure you don’t want to go? I know you said tonight was the only night that would work for your date and I swear to you I can handle it. The place’ll still be standing tomorrow.”
Maybe you should go. You could go home and lay in your bed and wallow some more, eat some ice cream and try and forget the past week had ever happened. But you couldn’t. You needed the money and you certainly weren’t gonna hide from Steve when he’s the one that fucked up. So with all the courage you can muster you turn to him, doing your best to give a blank face so he can’t see the hurt brewing behind your eyes.
“No, Harrington. I don’t go on dates, remember?”
**************************************
Steve watches you turn away from him and fuck, okay he deserved that. He was a major asshole who had spent the last 3 days trying and failing to figure out how to get you to forgive him.
Then you walk in looking so pretty that for a second he forgets that you’re mad at him, that he had fucked up. But then he sees your eyes and they look sad, detached and that kills him all over again.
If he thought you might have disliked him before then he had no idea how good he had it! He’d give anything for you to smirk at him, to call him an idiot or to roll your eyes and pretend like you didn’t care when he rambled on, even though he could tell you did care, your eyes always gave you away.
“Can I please just—”
“No.”
“Please, I’m begging for you to just—”
“No, Steve.”
“But—”
“Nope.”
“Goddamnit please just let me at least try and explain myself a little bit. I know I don’t deserve it but I hurt you and I never, ever wanted to do that. Please. 5 minutes, honey. Please.”
He thinks he’s shocked you, eyes widening the tiniest bit before you shrug at him, casting a quick look his way before you turn back around and face away from him.
“I’m listening.”
Doing your best to ignore the fact that he just called you honey, he’s never done that, you turn to him and shrug, trying to act indifferent but on the inside you’re dying to know what he has to say. You want to know what he really thinks even though it goes against everything you’ve ever thought or stood for.
Jesus Christ you were the pathetic one, hoping for the reassurance of King Steve. Highschool you would absolutely kick your ass if she could see you now.
“I’m not…good at sorting my thoughts, especially around you and the shit I said the other day came out so wrong, so not how I meant it and I just—fuck I’m sorry. I never want you to be sad or hurt because of me…or anything at all,” He didn’t even know how to properly say anything without it coming out that he just liked you so much it made him a fool! “I was not trying to suggest people didn’t want to take you out, that came out all wrong. I’m sure there’s a line of people just waiting for you to give them a chance,” I would know, I’m front and center. “But I was just surprised because I hadn’t ever heard you talk about going on dates so I guess I just assumed…I don’t know. I’m an idiot who was also maybe just a little jealous and fuck it’s not even my business what you do! The point is that I’m sorry, okay? I’m so sorry that I hurt your feelings, it was never my intention.”
It had been a few minutes with neither of you saying anything, the store empty and only the buzz of the crappy ac could be heard around you as he waited for you to say something, anything.
“Do you want me to get on my knees and beg for your forgiveness? I’ll do it, I swear. I hate you being upset with me, it fuckin’ sucks.” He couldn’t help it, his skin was crawling the longer you stayed quiet and he thinks he’d do anything to get you to not look so sad.
He hears a small huff from you and if he was looking he’d have seen it was a small laugh of disbelief. “I may be mean but I’m not cruel, Harrington. I wouldn’t make you get on your knees on this floor.”
Relief flooded through him and despite the humidity swirling around in the air he swore he felt cooler, lighter than he did before. “Does this mean I’m off your shit list then?”
Your laugh was loud this time and he felt his chest swell with pride that he had been the one to cause it, even if he hadn’t meant to.
“What makes you so sure I have a shit list?”
“Oh come on, you definitely do.” Things felt somewhat normal again and it eased the ache in his chest that had lived there for 3 long days. Maybe this whole thing would make you guys even closer, actually make you friends.
“Alright, maybe I do. And you’re definitely on it, but not because of what happened,” He found himself smiling at you and if he looked close enough he swore he saw a ghost of a smile on your lips before you wiped it away with the back of your hand, “but about the other day, I…you did hurt my feelings. I know, it’s shocking I have them but every once in a while I’m reminded I’m just like the rest of you, unfortunately. Look, I’ve worked with you a while and you’re sweet, Steve. You’re a good guy and when you were saying those things…I know you didn’t mean it the way it came out, but it made me feel..fuck I hate this shit. It made me feel like you thought I wasn’t good enough or pretty enough or some shit like that and it just…it fucked with me, okay? But I know you’d never be cruel like that so I forgive you. We’ll forget this happened so I don’t have to talk about my feelings anymore and we’ll be good. We are good. Fuck I’ll even admit we’re friends if we can not talk about this ever again.”
“You think I don’t think you’re pretty or good enough?” That was all his brain could think of. How the fuck could you think that? Had he not been obvious? He all but drooled over you every time you were in his line of sight.
“Really, Steve? That’s all you got! I just said we were friends. I'd thought you’d be over the moon.” Your eyes were looking everywhere but him and he knew you were trying to deflect. You’d just been vulnerable with him and he should move on but he couldn’t stomach you thinking you weren’t good enough or pretty enough, let alone thinking that he thought those things!
“Honey, I’d be lucky even if you even gave me a second glance. Good enough? You’re too good for me and every other sorry prick in this town. I fuckin’ swear it. I was caught off guard and jealous. Jealous that someone else had gotten you to give them the time of day!” You looked stunned but he kept going, “And I can give you all the dirty details about how pretty you are. How I spend all day practically getting paid to stare at you, what a job! How I’ve memorized every little detail of your pretty face, how I stare a little too long when you’re bent over in front of me. Or how I think about your cute little mouth wrapped around that blow pop and wish it was my—”
“Steve Harrington!” You’d slapped your palm over his mouth to shut him up and if he wasn’t enjoying how squirmy you suddenly were he’d nip at your palm to make you jump. It was nice seeing you all red faced and hot because of him for a change, even though he loved it when it was the other way around.
Maybe he’d said too much, let his filter slip a little too far but he wanted—no needed for you to know how perfect you were. Not just to him but to anyone with common sense.
Pulling your palm away he opened his mouth but you shot him a glare as he did, as if you could sense he was going to do it. He watched as you tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear and cleared your throat bringing your weary eyes to meet his.
“Smacking me around now?” He was a little shit, he knew it but he was sure you liked it anyway.
“You love it.” And shit, you’d got him there. He’d let you do anything you wanted to him with a smile on his face and his heart happy. But just because he’d made you feel better didn’t mean the hurt just went away and he’d do whatever it took to fix it.
“Caught me,” He threw you a wink that you ignored, rolling your eyes at him, “but seriously, there’s not one thing wrong with you and I’m sorry that I made you feel any different. I’m a dick. I’ll tell you till I’m blue in the face how pretty you are if that’s what it takes.”
“Oh no, I’ve heard plenty, you perv. Now I know why you’re so quiet when I’m reorganizing the bottom shelves, you’re staring at my ass!” He shrugged at you sheepishly, not being near as embarrassed as he should be for admitting that.
“But…thank you, Steve. This was just a misunderstanding that you’ve more than cleared up. We’re good, Harrington. I’m good.” And the relief he felt was seen on his face and felt throughout his body. He could’ve used the moment to be sweet, dragging out the conversation but you still looked a little uneasy about opening up to him so he thought it better to go back to territory you were comfortable with, him annoying you.
“Oh I know we’re good! We’re friends now, remember? Don’t think I’ll ever let you forget it.”
*************************************
Things between you and Steve had been…good.
There was a bit of tension between you, the kind that made your throat dry when you looked at him and your thighs clench when he whispered something in your ear if customers were around and he didn’t want them to hear. Maybe it was from the things he admitted or maybe it was because you were suddenly much more aware of Steve.
You’d had your talk, if you could call it that, a few weeks ago and the time you’ve spent together since then had been mostly normal. Steve, getting on your nerves, rambling about nothing for as long as you’d let him, looking at you with those pitiful puppy dog eyes when you gave him some attention. You, teasing him relentlessly, even more now than before. Covering for him less, he’d been showing up on time almost every shift you had together. Bending over in front of him more just to hear him curse and see his cheeks flush.
And maybe kind of developing a crush on him.
It’s not your fault, it’s his! How were you supposed to resist him after he said he’d be lucky to go out with you, after he told you he’d been jealous someone else was, after he told you how pretty you were and how he thought about your mouth wrapped around his—
Fuck—no, you were not going down that road again. Every time you thought about what he said, how genuine and needy he seemed when he talked about you, your head got all fuzzy and your knees threatened to give out. It was all you could do not to pounce on him the second the words left his mouth.
So yeah, you had a big fat crush on Steve Harrington.
He’d also taken your comment about being friends to heart, bringing it up every chance he got and using it as an excuse for the two of you to spend even more time together. You’d walk in Family Video and he’d flash you that smile, opening his arms for a hug you pretended to hate but in reality looked forward to every day.
“Hello, friend.”
“As your friend I have to tell you how pretty you look today.”
“C’mon friend, come to this party with me. It’ll be lame without you.”
You’d threatened to revoke his “friend” privileges and he’d gasped, clutching his chest dramatically and pretending to stumble to the floor. It took everything in you not to giggle at his antics. You were quickly becoming obsessed with Steve, and even more obsessed with how quick you could get him to turn into a puddle at your feet.
That was how you find yourself here at the Hawkins public pool with your bag strap digging uncomfortably into your shoulder and sweat dripping down your back, wearing what you’d bet was a grimace as you walked around the scattered chairs looking for Steve.
One thing that remained constant and strong was the mid summer heat that took your breath away and put you in a less than pleasant mood most of the time. Poor Steve got the brunt of your frustration but he never complained. And that’s why you finally agreed to come to the pool with him, because he was sweet and patient and adorable, even when he was annoying the shit out of you.
What you didn’t account for was the added heat you’d endure from seeing Steve shirtless before you, arms crossed over his chest and pale pink swim trunks sitting on his hips.
When did Steve Harrington get chest hair and why was your mouth watering over it? It made him look sexy, older in a way that erased all boyish features you’d come to love. He looked…fuck he looked hot. His hair was slicked back and you knew he’d already gotten in, too impatient to wait for the 10 minutes longer it had taken you to get here. He had a trail of hair on his lower belly that ran down under the band of his swim trunks and you think you might have actually let out a whimper at the sight.
You took a step toward him and cursed yourself when your legs wobbled a little bit. If he saw it he didn’t say anything, righting yourself quickly and making your way over so you could toss your bag into his waiting arms, trying not to look at the patch of chest hair just inches from your face and failing miserably.
“My own personal pool boy, a girl could get used to this.”
It didn’t take long to figure out that the easiest and quickest way to get yourself together was to turn it on him, to make his hands twitch and his stomach clench and to tease him until he was panting like a puppy.
“At your service, ma’am.”
Grabbing your arm he tugged you to the chairs he’d saved for the two of you, a cooler sitting between them with the lunch he’d made for the both of you. It makes your heart skip a beat and your tummy flutters. Your sweet Stevie.
He sat your bag down between the chairs, laying back so his arms were stretched back and crossed behind his head, a twinge in your stomach tightening as you watched him stretch out before you. A fucking Greek god. You needed to even the playing field and you needed to do it now.
Grabbing the sunscreen from your bag you put on the sweetest smile you could conjure while your body screamed at you to straddle his thighs and kiss him dumb. “Stevie, can you help me out with this?” He nodded without thought, that’s just how kind he was, sitting up to grab the bottle from your hands.
Before he could make a move to get up you knocked his legs apart, pushing yourself down and back so that you were wedged between his thighs, your back almost completely pressed against his front.
He cursed behind you, trying to scoot back but your hands dug into his thighs to keep him there, a silent plea. You’re sure if you could see his face he’d look almost pained at the feeling of your skin pressed to his.
You heard him flip the cap open and squeeze some sunscreen in his hand, neither of you saying anything for a moment before he leaned forward, his lips almost touching the shell of your ear when he spoke, “s’gonna be cold.” You nodded wordlessly and straightened up a little, pushing back further into him.
“Fuck.” You didn’t mean for it to slip out and hoped you could blame it on the cold lotion hitting your back, but you knew that was a lie. Steve’s big, calloused hands on your shoulders and back had you holding back whines and moans threatening to climb up your throat. Jesus Christ this felt good, too good.
Any composure you had left flew out the window at his next move and you were quickly falling behind in the one sided game you’d started with him.
You felt his hands move down lower to where the string of your bikini tied in the back, your thighs clenching hard when he slid them toward the front, following the line of your top and just barely slipping under the cup of your breast to tease the skin there before he was pulling back and going to your shoulders again.
Holy fuck.
He tensed behind you when your fingers dug harder into his thighs, but you didn’t even mean to. It was just a knee jerk reaction to his fingers gliding over the underside of your boob for Christ's sake. It wasn’t until you leaned back just a little, totally innocent you were just readjusting, that you felt it.
Steve was hard. His swimsuit did a shit job of concealing it. And he was pressed up against you so tightly you could feel him throb against your lower back when you gasped. This was your opportunity to one up him, to move ahead a few spaces.
Head turning to the side just slightly so he was in your peripheral, you needed to make sure he was looking and listening. You spoke as if you weren’t dripping wet yourself, thighs sore from how hard you’d been squeezing them together.
“Poor baby, touching my shoulders and grazing a pair of tits has you all needy, huh?”
He whined low in his throat, leaning forward to press his forehead against your back. You could feel little puffs of air against your skin as he tried to compose himself, not that you’d let him.
“Stop. Don’t be mean.” The words were whispered against your skin and you smiled.
“Don’t act like you don’t like it when I’m mean. Gets you hard, doesn't it, when I tease you?” You were being mean, so mean, but if the way he subtly tried to buck up against you was indication of how he felt, he loved it.
You kept going, basking in the feeling of his hands grilling your hips tight and his breathing against your back was getting faster the more you talked.
“You really are like a puppy. It’s just so fucking cute how whiny you get when you’re like this.”
Both of you stilled when a whimper slipped out a little too loud and all of a sudden you remembered where you were, a fucking public pool. Steve must have realized too because he pulled back, scooting far enough away that you weren’t touching anymore and you hated how you already missed the feel of his skin on yours.
Clearing your throat you shuffled over to the other chair, glancing at Steve to see his mouth shut and eyes looking anywhere but you. Maybe you’d gone too far. You opened your mouth to apologize but before you could he was up and tugging you to the edge of the pool, jumping in and practically dragging you in with him.
The cool water actually did a good job of cooling you down, physically and mentally. When you broke the surface, gasping for air, Steve was already there looking at you. You couldn’t read the look on his face, couldn’t tell if he was upset with you so you bit the bullet.
“M’sorry if I went too far, Steve. It’s just…you were…the sunscreen—you were making me feel crazy so I wanted to even it up. I shouldn’t have done that though, especially not here. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
For the first time since you came up from the water he broke his stare, opting to look around you before he came closer, pulling you in so no one would hear your conversation.
“Don’t be sorry, I’m not. I only pulled away because I was seconds from cumming in my shorts like a teenage boy and I was embarrassed.”
Lips pulling into a smile you covered your mouth and he pouted at you, huffing like a child when he saw you trying not to laugh at him. “No need to be embarrassed, Stevie. You can’t help that you’re a needy little thing.”
His hand swatted at yours that had come up to pinch his cheeks and you cooed at him to tease him further. “So mean.” He tried to look annoyed but failed and it made your stomach dip at how pretty he looked, drops of water falling off his lashes, lashes you and every girl in Hawkins would kill for.
“You really are pretty, Harrington.” The tips of his ears burned bright red and he moved toward you instinctively, like he wanted to kiss you. God did you want to kiss him. But you didn’t want to do it in a public place where you wouldn’t be able to make a mess of him after so you pulled back and splashed some water in his face with a giggle.
“C’mon big boy, let’s swim! I didn't come all this way just to stare at your cute face.”
Although you wouldn’t mind it.
*******************************************
The next few weeks are quiet, work goes by painfully slow when you’re not with Steve and you hate it. Your shifts with Steve are filled with teasing touches and flushed cheeks and very little work.
You’ve also been spending a good chunk of the time you’re not at work with Steve as well. He somehow almost always convinces you to come over to watch a movie or go with him for a late night ice cream run. You find yourself in his car or playing with his hair while you lay in your bed more often than not.
And you love it.
Trying to act like you weren’t obsessed with him was exhausting so you mostly gave it up. You’d smile at him more, laugh at his jokes more freely, and have become much more touchy with him.
Neither of you could seem to keep your hands off each other if you were in the same room. He always had to have a hand on your hip or one holding your thigh and you couldn’t keep your fingers from rubbing at his neck or slipping through his hair if he was close.
There hadn’t been a conversation about what was happening, but neither of you seemed to mind. You think that you’d become best friends who were just crazy about each other and that was enough for both of you.
Until it wasn’t.
If you were being fair, you knew that technically you and Steve hadn’t officially become exclusive or anything. The two of you probably weren’t even dating, even though you spent all your time together. Cuddling and teasing constantly.
But you weren’t fair. Everyone who spent any amount of time in a public setting knew that you and Steve were, for lack of a better word, an item. If someone saw you at the grocery store or at the post office, or anywhere, it was a safe bet that Steve was two paces behind you if he wasn’t already at your hip.
This was common knowledge. Or at least you thought it was. So it’s a surprise, a bad one at that, when you come back from your break with a smile on your face that is quickly wiped away when you see some blonde you went to school with hanging over the counter with her tits pushed at Steve, a devious smile on her face as she bats her eyelashes at him.
All the blood rushes from your body and you’re not sure you can even keep down the sandwich you’d had for lunch. A sandwich that Steve had made for you, might you add. There’s a horrible twist in your belly and you’ve never felt such rage as you have looking at the way she toys with the collar of his shirt between her fingers and at the way he gives her a small smile and doesn’t pull away.
You were jealous. So jealous it took the breath right out of you and made your brain go blank. One minute you’re standing there with your skin hot and heart pounding and the next you’re sliding back into your seat beside Steve with a glare so sharp it could cut glass.
“Need help with anything or are you just gonna keep groping the staff?” If your glare was sharp your words were sharper, serious and stern and directed at the girl who was still touching Steve, your Steve.
Both the girl and Steve’s eyes widen at your tone. She finally takes a step back and you feel like you can breathe again. You see the way Steve’s staring at you but you don’t look at him, you can’t or you might do something crazy like hit this girl, or even worse, cry.
Once the initial embarrassment from your words wears off she straightens her back and narrows her eyes in your direction. “I think we had it handled, sweetie. Your coworker here,” You flinch at the way she emphasizes coworker and feel yourself shrink a little, “was just giving me some movie recommendations. But thanks for the offer.”
“I’ll leave you to it then.” The words taste bitter on your tongue and you want to slap the smirk off her face so bad your palm twitches. Steve is quiet beside you and you can’t even begin to process how that adds to your fury, to the pain that’s bubbling up beneath your skin and threatening to spill out.
You’ve taken one, maybe two steps away from the counter, ready to go back to the bathroom of shame and cry again over Steve fucking Harrington when a hand on your wrist stops you.
The same hand, the one that belongs to the boy you’ve become enamored with, tugs you gently back to his side, hand leaving you for just a second so he can wrap his arm around your waist and tug you into his side. Your hips are touching and you feel a wave of relief wash over you, the pain and anger dissolving while his hand grips you tightly against him.
A sick satisfaction runs through you as you watch the way her jaw clenches and her eyes dim as his arm curls around you. Coworker my ass. Steve clears his throat beside you, catching yours and her attention, “I’m afraid I’m all out of recommendations for you, but maybe my coworker here has some for you.” Before she can even think about speaking you cut her off with a faux pout, “I don’t think I do, sorry!”
Deciding Steve isn’t worth the battle you’re more than willing to start, what an idiot, she turns around and pretends to look through the new releases for all of five seconds before she’s scurrying out of the store and leaving you both alone again.
Steve gives one last squeeze to your hip before he moves to sit back down, the reality of your little outburst smacking you in the face. Well, this is awkward. You sit down on your stool, tapping your hands on the counter while you try and gather the courage to look at him.
You hope he’s not upset with you and if he is well…fuck him! Just because you haven’t said it out loud doesn’t mean he’s not yours. You know for a fact if he caught you flirting with a guy he’d be pissed! All whiny and pouty and pawing at you for attention. So you were justified in being upset, totally and fully justified.
Now you’ve worked yourself up to tell him off and give him a piece of your mind, and you turn to him to do just that when it all slips away in an instant. Because Steve isn’t upset, no, he’s staring at you with wide, bright eyes and a smirk so big and knowing you curse yourself in your head.
Oh this is even worse! Now you’ve given him a big head, bigger than he already had!
“So that was…interesting.” You can hear the amusement in his tone and you roll your eyes. You much prefer him all pathetic and whiny over this…cocky Steve. But really you don’t mind this either.
“Shut it, Harrington.” You think if you weren’t so obsessed with him you’d have the decency to be even a little embarrassed at how you acted but you aren’t! You practically marked your territory in front of her and you can’t find it in you to care or regret it.
“You were jealous. Over me! I’ll never shut up about this! I’m taking a spot in the paper for this, alerting the press as we speak!” His bottom lip between his teeth and he looked giddy like it was Christmas morning and he’d gotten the brand new shiny bicycle he’d spent all year wishing for.
You could have denied it, but what was the point in that? Everyone already knew anyway how you felt, you weren’t exactly subtle about it. Might as well embrace it at this point.
“And so what if I was? Figure you’re mine anyways, right?” Your cheeks tint the lightest shade of pink as you watch him take in your words, his eyes a little wide and a small shy smile on his lips.
“I am?”
God okay, maybe you hadn’t been as obvious as you thought the last months.
“Well…I thought so. You take up all my time anyways, Harrington, might as well. Plus I like you—well a lot. I’m yours too, ya know. If you want I guess, I don’t know, I thought this was just unspoken between us and now you’re making me nervous!”
His lips parted in what could either be shock or awe, you weren’t sure. He didn’t look appalled at the idea so that was a good sign, right?
“I’m sorry I just…sometimes I’m not even sure you like me all that much so I’m just a little shocked but yes! Fuck—yes I’ll be whatever you want.”
Maybe he was a little dumb or maybe you weren’t as good at showing your feelings as you thought but either way you’d make sure he felt wanted, needed by you.
“Steve, if I didn’t like you I promise I would not be spending all my time with you. I’m mean sometimes because you like it and I like seeing you all messy and cute. M’kinda obsessed with you, you idiot.”
His grin widened, dimples popping out and your heart sped up at the sight. He was pretty, so pretty and despite how you acted sometimes you felt so lucky that he even wanted to spend any time with you, let alone all of it. Steve Harrington had wiggled his way deep into your heart and your brain and you think your life would be dull without him.
“I’d ask you to pinch me but I know you’ll make it hurt,” Your hand reached out automatically towards his thigh and he swatted you away with an eye roll, “I’m obsessed with you too, have been for months. Since the first day you started actually. Want you to be my girl, wanna be yours too.”
Leaning forward you pressed a quick peck to the corner of his mouth and you felt his head turn, trying to catch your lips. He wouldn’t get off the hook that easily, it took no effort to remember how it felt to see that girl's hands all over him. Even if it wasn’t his fault you don’t think he’d mind paying for it anyways. Add on the cocky grin he had earlier when he realized you were jealous and all of a sudden you had big plans for Steve Harrington, plans that made your thighs clench and had you pulsing around nothing.
You cooed at him, pulling back just in time to see his brows furrowed and a cute little pout working its way on his lips. He had no idea what was coming to him and you couldn’t want to see how sorry he would be.
“Patience is key, baby.”
*****************************************
It was a week later when it all clicked for Steve.
A week of teasing touches and sneaky glances his way, even when people were looking. You’d leave a kiss on his cheek or the corner of his mouth or on the side of his neck right right under his ear. He was going crazy, body leaning forward subconsciously anytime you were near him.
You’ve barely let him touch you and at first he was worried but you’d whisper in his ear about “payback” for making you jealous and while he was nervous, now he was just excited. And impatient, wanting and begging for you to just do it already. He couldn’t take much more teasing, his cock had been aching for what felt like forever and no matter how many times he found himself in bed, stroking himself to the thought of you, it wouldn’t ever be enough.
He thinks you’ve finally decided to put him out of his misery, calling him earlier to ask if you could come over, that you had a special surprise that was just for him. He’d agreed without hesitation, telling you to come over whenever you wanted and that he’d be waiting for you. His parents weren’t around this weekend so he didn’t have to worry about them and he was thanking god for that.
It had been 4 hours and 37 minutes since you called, not that he’d been counting, when he heard a knock at his door that had him all but jumping over the couch and sprinting for the front door. He practically ripped it open, grinning wide as he took you in with dreamy eyes and his stomach twisted in knots.
You were wearing a sundress that reached about mid thigh and he had to hold himself upright with the door at the sight of your bare legs, tan and smooth and fuck he just needed to bite at the skin between your thighs. The dress had little strawberries printed all over and he’d bet money that you tasted just as sweet as the fruit. His mouth watered at the sight of your full lips all glossy with whatever you’d put on them and it took everything in him not to lean forward and suck your bottom lip into his mouth.
He didn’t realize he had been standing there just staring until you cleared your throat, a knowing smirk on your lips as he shook his head to clear him from the daze you’d put him in. “S’pretty, you’re so pretty.” His voice was quiet and he wasn’t sure if he meant for you to hear or if he was just talking to himself.
“Thank you, handsome. Can I come in or do I need to stand on the porch with you eye-fucking me all night?” He doesn’t think he’d ever get used to your crassness, even though he wasn’t complaining about it. He loved that you spoke your mind, no matter how dirty, and hoped what one day he’d be comfortable doing that too.
“Right, right, yes come in,” Pulling the door open he stepped to the side so you could come in, knees wobbling when he caught a whiff of your perfume as you passed, “Are you hungry? I can…order something. I don’t have much to cool but maybe I could run to the store real quick?”
He heard your muffled giggle as you walked through the house in front of him, hips swaying as you walked and he felt his cock twitch in his pants just looking at you.
“Just hungry for you, Stevie.”
You were teasing, he knew that, but he wasn’t sure you weren’t serious by the way you eyed him over your shoulder like he was your prey. And fuck did he want to be. He’d crawl around on the floor if you asked.
By the time he followed your trail and made it through the living room you were at the foot of the stairs, lip between your teeth and hands together behind your back all innocent. You both knew better than to believe that.
“Can I see your room?” Fuck this was happening. He nodded at you, grabbing your small hand with his and relishing in the way it felt to hold you. He led you up the stairs and was careful not to go too fast, to seem too eager. He knows you’d tease him for being so excited but based on the look in your eyes he thought that maybe you were pretty excited too.
Pushing his door open he watched as you took in his room, eyes light as you scanned over the posters he’d hung haphazardly, some artwork the kids had drawn for him hanging above his desk. His bed was unmade and he cursed himself, as if you’d care.
“Looks exactly how I pictured it.”
“You pictured my room?”
“Maybe.”
He stood still, leaning up against the door he’d closed and locked behind him as you made your way around, lifting up papers and magazines, humming quietly to yourself. You must have been a witch or something the way he’d become so entranced with you, following your every move like he wasn’t meant to do anything else.
So when you turn around to face him quickly, he’s startled, eyes shooting up to meet yours like he’d gotten caught with his hand in the cookie jar before dinner.
“Alright then, on the bed.”
The flurry of questions he has does little to deter him as he scrambles past you and pushes on the bed a little too quickly. He falls forward face first and hears you snicker behind him. He’s not sure where you want him so he hopes he’s right. He scoots back, flush against the wall, the headboard on his left and foot of the bed on his right.
“You want this, Harrington? I’m not misreading anything, right?”
He’s shaking his head furiously, eyes wide and mouth closed as he watches for your next move.
“Oh now you have nothing to say? Months of knowing you and you’re hardly ever quiet. Use your words, big boy.”
“Y-yes, I want this. Whatever you want.”
The smile you reward him with makes his chest ache and the blood rush through him so fast he can hear it pounding in his ears. He thinks he wants you looking like that all the time, proud and pleased with him.
“Good! It’s time for payback then.”
**********************************************
You really really hoped your nerves didn’t show on your face as you stood in front of Steve. You don’t think he’d notice even if they did, eyes glazed over as he waited for whatever you had planned.
Now at this point you were over the whole jealousy thing from last week, really you were! But you played into it a little extra just so you could be mean to him right now. Although with the plans you had, you’d be being mean to him and yourself.
Wordlessly you reached down, fingers toying with the hem of your dress and you watched as Steve’s eyes tracked the movement, throat bobbing slightly as you lifted it a few inches before letting it drop back down.
This only lasted for a few minutes before you’d had enough, gripping your dress and almost ripping it over your head and letting it drop to your feet. What you hadn’t mentioned was that you had nothing underneath it, absolutely nothing.
Steve drank you in, slack jawed with his eyes almost bugging out of his head when he moved from your face to your tits, staring at your already hard nipples that you would blame on the coolness in his room. His eyes moved down further and he groaned, a deep, guttural sound that made your clit throb under his stare.
Was that some drool leaking down to his chin?
“Take a picture, it'll last longer.”
“Can I?” You don’t think he even realized the words left his mouth and you fought the urge to laugh at how out of it he seemed already.
“Not tonight, baby.”
His hands fisted the sheets below him as the pet name slipped past your lips and you smiled sweetly at him. Pointing to the headboard you directed him with a quiet voice, “I’m gonna sit there,” moving your hand to point toward the foot of his bed he followed your finger eagerly, “and you’re gonna sit there, facing me.”
He obeyed instantly, shuffling toward where’d you directed him while you climbed onto the bed and and situated yourself against his headboard with your legs stretched out in front of you.
“Can I have your shirt?” It wasn’t anything special, a plain white t-shirt that hugged him beautifully, but you wanted it all the same. To have his smell surrounding you, covering you in him. He peeled it off so he was left in a pair of jeans that stuck to him in all the right places. Unsure of what to do he tossed it to you and you wasted no time in slipping it over your bare frame, pleased that it bunched at your hips just how you’d hoped.
You could see the disappointment in his face at the extra layer you’d added and you itched to lean forward and pinch his flushed cheeks in adoration. He was just so adorable it made you crazy. With everyone else he was strong and stern, the babysitter and protector and king of Hawkins.
But with you…with you he was soft and sweet, pliable in your hands like putty and you ate up every second of it.
****************************************
Steve thinks he might have gone to heaven, you sitting across from him in nothing but his shirt with your thighs on display.
His chest feels hot despite the cool air hitting his skin and he thinks if he doesn’t get his hands on you in the next three seconds something horrible might happen. You're giving him that teasing smile that makes his tummy clench and sends excitement zipping down his spine.
He still can’t believe you like him, that you’re obsessed with him. It’s like a dream come true and he thinks he’s pinched himself at least 17 times in the last week.
He’s pulled from his thoughts when you call his name softly, head snapping up to meet yours and he feels dizzy all over again from how pretty you look.
“You’re gonna watch me, okay? No touching me or yourself until I say.” Wait—what? He gives you a nod and tries not to let his disappointment show in his face, and he knows he fails based on the way you smile and shake your head at him.
But any disappointment he had is gone in a flash when you lean back and spread your legs to give him a glimpse at just how much you like him. He might black out, he’s not sure. You’re glistening for him, a little bit of slick on your thighs and suddenly he’s starved. He audibly groans at the sight of you on display for him.
“She’s pretty—fuck so pretty.” He’s talking more to himself than you but he sees the way you twitch at him referring to your pussy as “her” and it makes him smile shyly, still not moving his eyes from where you’re dripping on his bed.
He watches closely as your hand trails down, rubbing over your thighs for just a second before you’re taking two fingers and spreading yourself open for him, both of you too impatient to drag this out too long. Before he can stop himself he’s moving forward, going to his knees and crawling across his bed that feels far too big all of a sudden. He doesn’t realize he’s moved until your legs are closed and one foot is pressed against his bare chest, stopping him from getting any closer.
One hand is holding him up and the other is holding onto your ankle as he pleads with his eyes for you to let him closer, just a taste, he just needs one little taste.
“We’ve just started and you’re already breaking the rules?” The faux disappointment in your tone makes him pout, leaning down to press a small kiss against your calf and he hears you chuckle at his attempt at distracting you.
“M’sorry, baby, you’re just so pretty, she’s so pretty. Let me have a taste, please? I’ll be good after that, I swear. Just one taste, honey.”
He watches in anticipation, hope is swelling in his chest as you study him and he can see the contemplation in your eyes as you take him in. He’s so close he can smell you and it lights his whole body up, cock so hard pressed up against his jeans he could cry.
“Hmm, no,” He hears the whine he makes but can’t be bothered to care, “what fun is payback if I give in before I’ve even touched myself! You can be patient, I know you can.” You have much more faith in him than he has in himself, body slumping in defeat before he’s moving back to where you directed him the first time.
“Can I at least take these jeans off? It hurts, baby.”
“Fine, but the boxers stay on, sneaky.” It takes him no time before he’s peeling his jeans off, sighing in relief when some of the pressure is released and he feels like he can breathe again.
Well he can breathe until you’re spreading your legs again, fingers slipping back down to tease at your clit as your eyes stay locked on him. His chest is tightening as he watches you. Watching the way your legs spread wider when you notice him fisting the sheets beside him. Watching the way your head falls back against his headboard when you move down to circle your messy hole, a moan so lewd coming from your mouth he feels a bead of precum drip down his cock.
Jesus Christ, he couldn’t decide if this was heaven or hell but he’s sure that either way he’d gladly spend an eternity here.
He’s torn between watching your face or watching your fingers in your cunt, eyes flickering between the two every few seconds so he didn’t miss something important. He remembers how you compare him to a puppy and he’s sure he’s never looked more like one than he does right now. He’s practically panting across from you and you’re the treat that would be making his tail wag—if he had one.
“Feels so good, Stevie. This is how wet I get just from thinking about you, ya know? Always have me messy and ready for you.”
“Please let me touch you. Fuck—please, sweetheart. Need it so bad, need you so bad. I’ll be good, I swear. Never make you jealous again. God I swear I’ll do anything.”
He knew you were getting close, thighs threatening to close on your hand and hips lifting from the bed eagerly. He could see it on your face too—you wanted to deny him, to torture him some more but he could see you giving in.
“You beg so pretty, Harrington. Fuck, get over here. Now.”
He didn't need to be told twice, launching himself across the bed and fitting himself between your thighs that had opened a little to accommodate his wide frame. He waited expectantly, and you smiled down at him fondly.
“You know, you really look like a—”
“A puppy, I know. So can I have my treat then?”
Nodding at him you swiped your fingers through your folds and held your hand out to him, fingers shiny with you and he opened his mouth quickly. His head moved forward and he took your fingers in his mouth, lapping his tongue around them greedily, determined not to waste a single drop. He hummed around them, eyes closed so he didn't see the way you were staring at him like he’d hung the moon.
“S’good then?” You sounded breathless above him and he could only nod, not wanting to drop your fingers from his mouth just yet. God, you tasted good. He’d compare you to a nice summer treat but the truth is you’d be perfect for any season, any day. Fuck he’d stay buried between your thighs 24/7 if you’d let him.
He finally pulled off just enough so that he could speak, “better than a blow pop.” The laugh that pulled from you made his heart warm. It was loud and genuine, shoulders shaking slightly as you grinned at him, teeth on display and everything.
It was quiet for a few minutes, you pressing your fingers down on his tongue and even though he’d cleaned them up, the taste of you lingered and he would gladly sit here with your fingers in his mouth for hours.
But you had other plans.
“Need your fingers, Stevie. They’re bigger than mine and I’m already close from watching you lap at my fingers like a little greedy puppy.” His eyes fell from yours, cheeks red and ears burning as you teased him.
“Can I use my mouth?”
“Mhm, not today. I already gave in way too quick, you were just too cute to say no to.” He wants to pout, to protest and beg but he thinks just watching you fall apart on his fingers will be more than enough for him.
You part your legs further as he slips down to rest his cheek against your inner thigh. His hair tickles the soft, sensitive skin there and you giggle. He moves just enough to press a quick, open mouthed kiss and dreams about the marks he hopes you’ll let him leave there one day.
With a nod from you he moves his eyes to your cunt, swollen and dripping, and runs his fingers over your clit just to feel your thigh twitch against his cheek. He wraps the hand he’s not using around your thigh, clutching it to him tightly as he eases two of his fingers into you. They slip in easily with no resistance and the feeling of your warm, hot walls snug on his fingers makes him grind his hips down into his bed.
“Shit—she feels good, hugging my fingers so tight.” Your hips buck up against his hand, urging him in deeper and he smiles against your leg. A groan slips out of him when your hand slips down to rub slow, loose circles on your clit, head rolling back so that all you can see is his eyes peeking up at you.
He doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so hot in his entire life. He can see the little beads of sweat rolling down your forehead and how you’re panting and whining above him, especially when he curls his fingers upward and finds that spongy spot that has your mouth dropping open and eyes squeezing shut.
“There it is, yeah? That’s the spot?” You’re nodding quickly, fingers that were circling your clit are now sliding into his hair and gripping it tightly. The burn of it makes him moan against your thigh, the sting of your grip making his eyes roll back into his head almost.
“D-don’t you dare stop, Harrington. M’close, so so close.” He doesn’t think there is anything that could get him to stop. Not when you’re dripping down his hand and your thighs are shaking like they are.
The final straw is when he moves his mouth down a couple of inches, teeth scraping against the skin where your thighs almost touch and he bites down, hard enough to leave a mark. He hears the thud of your head knocking against his headboard and the curse that flies out of your mouth as you clench down on him so hard you almost push his fingers out. He works you through it, licking over the mark he just left to soothe the sting and slowing down his fingers once you start to twitch and whine from the feeling.
It’s not until you're pushing his hand away and letting your legs slump that he takes a peek at you, a lazy smile on your face and hair sticking to your forehead where you’d been sweating. He knows there’s a widening grin on his face as he looks up at you, placing one last kiss before he’s sitting himself up so his legs are under yours and his hands are resting on the tops of your thighs.
“If that’s what you call payback then remind me to piss you off more often!”
You roll your eyes, letting your body fall back against his headboard, “Don’t get smart with me now, Harrington. Not when I’m about to make you cum. I would hate to change my mind.”
His ears perk up and honestly he hadn’t even thought about himself since he’d gotten between your thighs, content with watching you squirm and moan around his fingers. But he wasn’t gonna turn you down, hell no! Just the thought of you anywhere near his cock had him twitching in his boxers.
He closed his mouth, fingers coming up to mimic zipping a zipper of his lips and tossing the non existent key far behind him. You smirked at him, hand coming close to pat his cheek, almost like you’d pet his head.
“Good boy, now turn around and take those boxers off, please.”
********************************************
Holy shit. You didn’t think you'd ever cum so hard in your life. You swear you might have actually seen stars for a minute there when he curled his fingers just right. And when he bit you? How the hell did he know you had a thing for biting.
Keeping him at arm's length had been the hardest thing you’d ever had to do, especially when he was looking at you like you were a five course meal in front of him. He’d practically been salivating at the sight of you and it took everything in you not to give into him immediately.
But now that you’d cum, all you could think about was him. About finally getting your hand on his cock and listening to the way he’d gasp and whine with your hand around him. Just the thought was enough to send another wave of arousal and need over you, your toes curling and fingers digging into his bed.
He still hadn’t moved in front of you and you cocked your head at him, trying to figure out why he suddenly had that sad pout on his lips. “What’s the matter?”
His cheeks were red and he looked almost embarrassed as he tried to avoid eye contact with you and you worried you’d done something to upset him. Maybe this wasn’t as good for him, maybe he didn’t like you teasing him?
“S’just…you haven’t kissed me and I just—I wanna kiss you so bad but I didn’t know if there was a reason you hadn’t or maybe you just didn’t want to or—”
You cut him off, gripping his shoulders and pushing your lips against his that were swollen and slick with spit. He moaned against you, sighing and relaxing in your hold. Fuck—how had you not kissed him yet?
His tongue swiped against your bottom lip and you heard the little whine he let out when you didn’t let him in, laughing against his lips. He took the opportunity to move closer, hands moving to fist at your hair and you felt lightheaded from how good he felt, how sweet he tasted.
When you needed to breathe you regretfully pulled back, foreheads touching and noses bumping into one another as you both took big, greedy gulps of air. His eyes almost sparkled as he looked at you, a shy smirk on both your mouths.
“Better?”
“Perfect.” It was hard to ignore the way your heart thumped against your rib cage like it was trying to fight its way out. He was perfect. Everything about him and the way he carried himself drew you to him like a moth to a flame. Your mind was consumed with all things Steve.
And while you wanted to be mushy and sweet with him, one glance down between you had your mouth watering and fingers twitching at your sides. There was a dark wet patch on his blue boxers and the outline of his cock was prominent. You think you know why he was so cocky in high school now, he definitely had the goods to back it up.
“Kiss me whenever you want but if you don’t get your boxers off in the next 5 seconds I might do something crazy.”
Your words snapped him out of his post kiss haze and you laughed softly as he scrambled off the bed to pull his boxers down his legs and practically kick them across the room. You gulped at the sight of him, of his pretty and thick cock already leaking and shiny for you. You motioned him forward, eyes kind and soft as you spread your legs for him.
He smiled when you patted the space in front of you and he crawled back between your legs and shuffled so that he was sitting in front of you, his back pressed to your front, the material of his shirt clinging to his sweaty back. Your thighs stretched around his hips but you loved the slight burn it brought you. You laid back and brought him with you so that he was slumped against your chest, your feet hooked over his calves.
His hands were on either one of your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh there while his arms were loose at his sides. You took the opportunity to slip your hands under his arms, hands reaching up to run over his chest, tweaking one of his nipples on your way and watching the way his cock twitched where it was resting against his lower belly.
Steve looked like a dream, head thrown back on your shoulder, thigh thighs spread open with his pretty cock on display for you. As your hands made their way to his tummy you scratched softly, fingers sliding through the trail that started under his belly button and went down. He must have felt sensitive there because he turned his head to the side, mouth pressed against your neck as he cursed.
“S’good, so good. Fuck, I swear anything you do feels fuckin’ perfect.” You pressed a quick kiss to his shoulder at his words, feeling the high of them as he spoke.
Holding your hand out in front of him, palm up toward his face he hummed against you, not sure what you were wanting him to do, but willing to do just about anything if it meant your hand would be on his cock.
“Spit.”
All that was heard in the room was his quick intake of air, eyes fluttering as he leaned toward your hand. He looked back at you once, to double check that this was real or for confirmation that you really wanted him to spit in your hand, you’re not sure. But you nodded, throat bobbing as he turned back and spit, watching in awe.
“Good boy.”
Any strength he had left was gone at your words, head falling back to its place on your shoulder as you moved your hand down, taking hold of his cock and hearing him hiss at the contact.
You think this might be the best thing that’s ever happened to you.
His cock was hot and smooth under your touch, a mix of his spit and precum making it easy to glide your hand over his shaft, letting your thumb catch on the tip and relishing in the way he gasped in your ear.
“Such a pretty cock for a pretty boy, hmm?” The feeling of his fingers digging into your thighs only spurred you on, hand tight around him as you stroked him quickly, loving the way his tummy would clench and he’d gasp at how slick he was, how good it felt.
You’d never seen him so needy, so pathetic as he was right now, little whines and pleas against the shell of your ear as you gripped him. He was heavy in your hand and you wondered how he’d feel on your tongue, how he’d taste when he thrusted into your mouth. You’d add that to the list of things you needed to do immediately.
“M’sorry, sorry fuck—you’re gonna make me cum, m’gonna cum—oh shit.” He was throbbing hard against your palm, breathing even harder against your neck and you cooed at him when his hips started thrusting up in time with your strokes.
“Without asking? I don’t think so, Stevie. You haven’t even said please!” Your hand slowed and he moved so his hand was wrapped over yours, trying to get you to go faster but you swatted him away, scolding him with a pinch to his hip.
Taking one look at his face that was still buried in your throat, you could tell he was out of it, so fucked out you weren’t sure he could even form words, let alone beg. But that didn’t stop you from egging him on, slowing down until he was so worked up he was on the verge of tears.
“Oh fuck—please…baby, honey, please let me cum? I’ve been so good I just..shit I need it. You feel so good, perfect girl. O-oh my god, please. Please please please.”
He was mumbling, a mix of curses and pleas as he left sloppy, open mouthed kisses against your throat. You think you’d give him anything he wanted right now with how pretty he sounded, all pathetic and fucked out for you.
“Go ahead, pretty boy. Cum on my hand, yeah? Make a mess of us.” Your hand sped up on his cock, feeling yourself leak into his bed as he twitched against your fingers. You kept going, kept talking as his hips got sloppy and cock was red and begging for release.
“Don’t know how you’ll ever fit inside me, Stevie. Gonna have to prep me for days I think.”
“Next time you’ll have to use my mouth, yeah? I hate letting your cum go to waste.”
“Y’look so pretty like this. My sweet boy thrusting up into my hand, gonna think about this for days.”
He thrusted up one final time, hips stilling and body going tight as his orgasm took over. His cum coated your fist that was still wrapped around him, reaching his belly and even spilling down onto his thighs. He couldn’t even see the way you pouted at how much had been wasted, cursing yourself for not letting him use your mouth.
Slumped completely against your chest he mumbled something about his legs feeling like jelly and you giggled, cheek resting against his forehead.
“Soooo, good then?”
It took all the energy he could muster to squeeze your thigh, head moving to the side a fraction so he could look at you, smiling so big his cheeks had to hurt. “Are you fuckin’ kidding? I think I just saw god for a second.”
Rolling your eyes and shoving at his shoulders, butterflies danced in your stomach at how pretty he looked. His skin was flushed and glowing, hair a mess where you’d both pulled at it, lips swollen and red from biting and kissing and holding them between his teeth. He looked phenomenal.
As much as you’d love to stay here wrapped up in him for the rest of your life, your thighs had gone numb from being stretched around his hips and your back ached from sitting back against his headboard for so long.
Out of the corner of your eye you could see him nodding off on your shoulder, eyes fluttering shut and little puffs of air hitting your skin. You tapped his cheeks with your clean hand, “C’mon, Stevie. Gotta clean us up and then we can go straight to bed.”
He groaned in protest but leaned up enough so that you could slip from behind him, legs tingling when you stood on them, hobbling to the bathroom on shaky legs and flipping Steve off when you heard him chuckle from behind you.
“Oh fuck off, Harrington.”
******************************************
When Steve wakes up the next morning it’s slow and sweet, eyes blinking open and a small smile on his lips when he feels you pressed into his side.
He looks down and tries not to laugh at your mouth hanging open, a little bit of drool on his chest from where your cheek is squished against his skin. Your hair is sticking up in every direction and he can feel your breath on him. It makes his heart grow in his chest, an overwhelming sense of joy and contentment washing over him as he stares down at you. He could get used to this, you attached to his hip and waking up to you in his bed.
Thinking back to when you barely gave him the time of day, he smiles at your relationship now. How you’re just as needy as him, tugging on his belt loop to pull him to you if he’s not close enough for your liking, pulling his hand to your thigh in his car if he doesn’t do it first. He’s seen you use your foot to pull his chair closer to yours at work countless times, a little smile on his mouth every time.
There’s a part of him that doesn’t know how he got so lucky. He feels that way all the time but especially when you laugh louder than you mean to, hand coming up to cover your mouth with a bashful smile. He feels it when you're humming along to a song you’d heard on the radio, head moving side to side and hips swaying to the beat in your head. He feels it when you randomly bring his hand up to your mouth, pressing a kiss to his palm and to his fingertips.
He feels it all the time, really.
And he loves when you're mean to him, when you tease him about staring at you too long or for getting all bashful when you do something normal like tuck your hair behind your ear or scrunch your nose. He loves that you turn him into mush.
“Stop staring, you creep.” He’d been so lost in his thoughts he didn’t notice your eyes opening or how’d you had scooted closer to him, one leg coming up to tangle with his, wrapped together tightly.
“That’s rich coming from you considering I’m gonna have to clean your drool off me.” You gasped, sitting up straight and smacking at this chest, appalled at the notion that you would ever—could ever—drool on him in your sleep.
“Keep it up, Steve. Remember what happened the last time you pissed me off?”
As if he’d ever forget. Unfortunately for you, the idea of repeating last night, or anything like it, was hardly going to deter him from pressing your buttons in the way that only he knew how to do. Reaching out he tugged you back down to him, tucking you back into his side and pressing a soft kiss to the crown of your head.
Summary: When Joyce and Murray finally reconvene with Hopper in the Russian prison, the group—with the help of Dmitri—manages to force the bloodthirsty Demogorgon back into its cage. Taking advantage of the confused chaos unraveling in the building, they escape, seeking temporary refuge at Dmitri’s apartment. His remaining time in Russia is short-lived, so Dmitri opts to spend his last evening in the country paying a visit to the one bright spot in his life—the pretty girl that works at the diner downstairs.
Rating: 18+ EXPLICIT
Word Count: 6k
Content: NSFW, smut, porn with a little bit of plot, oral sex, unprotected p in v, creampies, spanking, spit kink, daddy kink, choking, soft!dom dmitri, rough sex, dirty talk, anal sex, knife kink, squirting
When you pull back slightly for air, nearly gasping, he steadies you, and you ask him boldly, “Are you coming in?”
He cups the side of your face, caressing your bottom lip with his thumb as his gaze flicks from your eyes to your lips, and he nods. “Please”
Dmitri swipes his keys from their usual spot on the small, rusty hook inside of his locker in the staff break room, thankful that he had long since made it a habit not to carry them while on duty (after several other guards had suffered the misfortune of being slyly pickpocketed by prisoners). The other various odds and ends inside of his locker had likely been dumped immediately after his traitorous secret had been discovered—probably unceremoniously tossed in the incinerator—but the small keyring had luckily escaped unscathed, and it was the only thing he would have missed, anyway.
Making his way back out into the hallway, Dmitri hastily ushers Hopper, Joyce, and Murray in the direction of the exit doors and then toward a dark green SUV sitting in the parking lot. They all pile in, and he momentarily glances at himself in the rearview mirror, taking in the exhausted expression lingering on his face before turning the key in the ignition, pulling out onto the main road, and slamming his foot down on the gas pedal as hard as the snow-covered motorway will allow.
A tense silence hangs in the air, punctuated only by the sounds of their chattering teeth and Murray’s fumbling attempts to get the heat going from his spot in the passenger seat. Joyce eventually pipes up from the back, “So uh…Enzo, right? Where exactly are we going?”
A car coming from the opposite direction passes by, and Dmitri tightens his grip on the steering wheel. He responds tightly, “My apartment. We’ll be there in just under an hour, so please do try to keep your reunion festivities in my backseat to…a minimum,” vaguely flourishing a hand in she and Hopper’s direction.
Hopper coughs, and Joyce crinkles her nose and asks, “But isn’t your apartment the first place that someone would come looking for you?”
Dmitri meets her gaze in the rearview and smirks, “Now what makes you think I would let a place like that keep my real address on file?”
The car settles back into a tentative, uneasy silence, which remains until they arrive in the small, nondescript town that Dmitri calls home. After parking behind his building, Dmitri leads the Americans down a hallway, up a flight of stairs, and to the familiar, faded red door of his apartment. His hands shake ever so slightly as he inserts the key into the lock, turns the handle, and flicks the lights on—part of him was certain he’d never see this place again. Not that he could stay here now, though, anyway. His false address would only give him a head start against potential retribution from the prison, but if he remained in Russia, they’d find him sooner or later.
Despite the looming sense of dread, Joyce convinces everyone that showers are in order before anything else. Dmitri isn’t sure if it’s for the woman’s own sake or if she’s just grown tired of the sight and smell of their dirty, bloody, appearances, but either way he’s thankful to be afforded a bit of time alone, nearly drowning himself under the hot stream of water.
Afterward, once he’s picked through the back of his closet for various odds and ends that are at least partially suitable for his guests to wear in place of their filthy clothes, Dmitri casually suggests that they head to the diner below his apartment to strategize over food and coffee as he runs a thumb over a faded, torn piece of receipt paper in his pocket with a heart drawn on the back of it. And if he has ulterior motives that involve seeing a familiar, comforting face in the wake of the worst night of his life, well, they don’t need to know that.
---
The jingling of the bell above the diner door jolts you out of the daze that you had been lost in, having spent the better part of the last hour leaning against the counter attempting to stave off sleep—it was an uncharacteristically slow evening. You straighten up, hand automatically reaching for your faded yellow notepad and your favorite blue pen, and your heart leaps in your chest when a pair of familiar blue eyes meets yours. Your favorite regular has arrived with three companions in tow.
Originally from Chicago, you’ve spent the past two months in Russia as a part of your graduate studies. In that time, Enzo’s caffeine habits have become a daily staple of your shifts. The night that you met—your first shift—you’d somehow managed to get his fairly simple order of coffee and toast entirely backwards. Your program here, which is a remote offshoot of your school back in Illinois, is in English, and your meager attempts at studying conversational Russian before packing your bags and hopping on a plane certainly left something to be desired. Though you had initially thought you could string together enough competency to get by as a waitress for a few months, your mortification in that moment whilst you accidentally sputtered an apology in English had left you poised to run on foot to the nearest airport. However, the annoyed reply you were waiting to hear from the man you were serving never came. Instead, Enzo’s eyes had crinkled at the corners in amusement as he chuckled, pulled a pen out of his pocket, grabbed a napkin, and wrote out the Russian words from his order in the English alphabet for you.
After that, Enzo made it a goal to teach you something in Russian every time that he came in, kindly coaxing you on your pronunciation of the letters and words while watching you intently over the rim of his coffee cup with a gleam in his eyes. When you’d get something right, he’d reward you with a grin that made your knees weak; it was something you were almost embarrassed to admit you’d grown to shamelessly savor each day. In return, you’d started writing things on the back of his receipts in Russian—it was normally small, inconsequential nonsense, but the soft look it always brought to his face when he glanced down at it on his way out would leave you feeling warm long after he left. Sometimes you'd even been brave enough to doodle little hearts in lieu of words, though you didn't dare look to see his reaction to those.
Now, Enzo’s face lights up as his eyes gently take you in, and he gives you a little wave before he heads over to his usual booth in the back corner with his companions. Your pulse quickens in response under the brief scrutiny of his friendly gaze as you make your way toward their table.
When you approach, you notice that the others are conversing in English, and you raise an eyebrow in Enzo’s direction. Shrugging, the corners of his lips tug upwards, and he says by way of greeting, “I figured you could use a break from the language lessons tonight.”
After you bring them a round of coffees, Enzo introduces you to his company: Hopper, Joyce, and Murray, who are apparently visiting Russia from Hawkins, Indiana. Excited by this information, you explain that you’re from Illinois. One of the men, Hopper, chokes on his drink, prompting Joyce to frantically begin patting his back in concern.
“You’re American?” Hopper asks, eyes wide.
You tilt your head to the side, uncertain why the news is so surprising to him. “Yes…?”
Wiping his face with a napkin, he pointedly looks at Enzo this time as he flatly states, “She’s American.”
Enzo takes a deep breath, flicking a glance up at the ceiling and clenching a fist before replying, “She is.”
A shit-eating grin makes its way across Hopper’s face, and he offers up his best impersonation of Enzo’s accent, “Oh, so it’s fine when YOU have an American woman—” Hopper is cut off by a loud bang from underneath the table, and he grunts in pain, scowling as he reaches down to rub his shin. You snort and busy yourself by collecting their food orders.
Recognizing that Enzo and his friends are wrapped up in what must be a serious conversation, heads bent together over the table as they murmur in hushed tones, you focus on cleaning and serving other customers. You try to ignore the warmth that blooms in your chest every time that you discreetly steal a glance over at their table, only to find Enzo’s steady gaze already on you.
Two rowdy men make their way into the diner, collapsing into a booth in a fit of boisterous laughter, and you groan inwardly. You finish topping off Murray’s coffee, and as you turn to put the pot away so you can begrudgingly serve your new arrivals, you’re stopped by a hand wrapping loosely around your wrist. You turn around and look down at Enzo, whose eyes flick over to the men before giving you a silent, questioning look.
You brush your pinky over his thumb as you steel yourself and say, “I’ll be fine.”
Twenty-five minutes into serving the two men, and you’re far from fine. Both of them reek of alcohol, and after hearing the non-native slips of your tongue when you took their order in Russian, they had since begun making suggestive hand gestures while jeering at you with words you had yet to learn. One quick glance at Enzo out of the corner of your eye tells you all that you need to know about what exactly the men are saying to you; his eyes have darkened dangerously in anger, and if he grips his fork any harder, it’s likely to split in half.
Hoping to hurry them along, you begin to clear out some of their empty plates, but when you go to make your way back to the kitchen, you feel a hand brush against your waist in an attempt to grab you. You yelp in surprise and jump backward, nearly dropping the dishes, just as Enzo smoothly steps in between you and the edge of the table. The men go quiet as Enzo casually picks up a knife and twirls it in his hand for a moment before stabbing it directly into the center of a half-eaten sandwich. You notice Hopper standing a few feet away with his arms crossed, a concerned look on his face. Enzo cooly mutters something at them that you can’t understand, but whatever it is sends them scurrying out of the diner, leaving nothing but their payment and a generous tip in their wake.
You don’t realize that you’re shaking until Enzo turns to look at you and places his hands on your shoulders, steadying you. “Are you alright, солнышко?”
Your heart rate picks up as he uses the nickname you’ve grown to love hearing fall from his lips—sunshine. You try to hide the tremble in your tone as you respond, “I’m alright. Thank you, Enzo.”
Joyce and Murray have come to stand beside Hopper, jackets on and poised to leave. Enzo glances back at them, sighs, and then turns to you once more and asks, “When does your shift end?”
Your eyebrows raise of their own accord at the question. Though an intoxicating tension has slowly been simmering between the two of you inside of the diner day in and day out, neither of you has dared to actually cross that line yet. You tell him, “In an hour, why?”
He shrugs, giving you a small smile as he explains, “You mentioned before that you don’t live far. I’d like to walk you home, if that’s alright.”
You bite your lip to contain the pleased grin that sneaks its way across your face and nod, “Meet me out front.”
Enzo’s friends bid you farewell and make their way out the door, a gust of snowflakes and cold air flying inside as they exit.
---
As promised, when you shrug into your coat and slip outside an hour later, you spy Enzo leaning against the brick wall of the building with his hands in his pockets, gazing over at you with a thoughtful expression. As you approach, he pushes off of the wall and offers you his arm. And if you happen to lean into his warmth a bit closer than necessary as you begin to walk, he doesn’t seem to mind.
The walk is regretfully short, just a few blocks, and the two of you make your way down the deserted sidewalk in a comfortable silence. When you arrive at the door to your apartment, Enzo finally speaks up, “I’m going to be going away for a while, back to the United States with the people you just met. I’m not sure how long I’ll be gone, but I wanted to thank you for your company these past couple of months. I admittedly did not actually drink coffee that frequently before I met you.” He scratches the back of his head as he laughs weakly.
Your chest begins to ache at the implication of his words. You place a hand on the junction between his shoulder and his neck and lean in, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek and murmuring, “I’ll miss you, Enzo.”
He slides a hand over yours, holding you in place before you can step backward, and his warm lips graze the shell of your ear as he whispers, “Dmitri. Call me Dmitri.” His other hand slides down to rest on your waist, and he shifts to lean his forehead against yours.
You feel the caress of his breath as it makes its way across the infinitesimal space between you, and you close the distance as you quietly speak his real name against his lips, “Dmitri.”
A small sound escapes his mouth in response, and Dmitri crushes his lips against yours, both of his hands slipping inside of your jacket to pull you flush against him. Whatever dam was standing in between the two of you before breaks open now in a flood of heat and desperation. Dmitri’s tongue dances at the seams of your lips and you open your mouth to give him access. You wrap your arms around him, holding him tight as you let him devour you with his lips, tongue sliding against yours warmly. You bite his lip and he chuckles, kissing the corners of your mouth before slotting your lips together again, and you dare to push your lower half against him, a whimper building in the back of your throat as he responds in kind, grinding against you.
When you pull back slightly for air, nearly gasping, he steadies you, and you ask him boldly, “Are you coming in?”
He cups the side of your face, caressing your bottom lip with his thumb as his gaze flicks from your eyes to your lips, and he nods. “Please”
You struggle to pull your keys from your pocket, eager to feel his lips against yours once more. When you reach out to place the key in the lock, you nearly fumble as Dmitri snakes his arms around you from behind. He kisses you squarely on the back of your neck, and you shiver in response.
Once you’re inside, you stumble through the threshold, barely finding the time to flick the lights and toss your jacket in the direction of the hook before your chest is pressed up against the wall. Dmitri kneels down on the floor behind you, running his hands up and down your stocking-clad legs before slipping his hands under your skirt to knead your ass.
Pressing kisses to the backs of your knees, he drawls, “Beautiful girl, you always drive me crazy with this uniform.”
Dmitri grips your left ankle and pulls it outward to spread your legs further apart as he teasingly runs a finger over your cunt, dick beginning to ache when he feels the dampness soaking through your panties and the stockings. Lust clouding your brain, your response falls from your lips before you can think better of it, “Sometimes, I like to imagine you bending me over the front counter, lifting up my skirt, ripping a hole in my stockings, and fucking me where everyone can see.”
“Naughty girl,” he groans, rising up and pulling you flush against him. He undoes several of the buttons of your uniform shirt while kissing and sucking on the tender spot between the bottom of your left earlobe and the corner of your jaw. You gasp as he slips a cool hand inside of your bra, cupping one of your breasts and running his thumb over a hard nipple, and you press your ass into him in response. Feeling the outline of what’s undoubtedly a large cock straining against the seam of Dmitri’s pants, your mouth begins to water at the thought of him slowly stretching your cunt open with it before fucking you relentlessly.
You breathe out, “I hope you plan on fucking me with this tonight,” running a hand over his dick and squeezing.
Dmitri chokes out a response that’s caught between a moan and a laugh, “I hope that your pretty little pussy can handle my cock, princess,” bringing a hand back down under your skirt and smirking when he sees that your arousal has begun leaking down the inside of your thighs.
He turns you around, kissing you deeply, fucking your mouth with his tongue, and his jacket falls to the ground as you pull it off of him. He unbuttons the rest of your shirt, and you let out a breathy little gasp as he untucks it from your skirt, pausing to squeeze your hips firmly in his large hands. Tossing your top to the side, he marvels at the way your breasts spill out of your bra before reaching behind you to unclasp it. Dmitri leans in, and you run your hands through his hair, panting as he traces circles with his tongue before starting to suck on your nipples.
A small sound of surprise leaves your mouth as Dmitri’s strong hands return to your ass, giving a quick squeeze as he begins to hoist you up, and you wrap your legs around his waist. You both kick off your shoes, and he carries you toward the kitchen, placing you down on the edge of the island. His eyes scan the room for a moment, considering, and he squeezes your thigh briefly before walking toward the sink. He returns a moment later, a knife in his hands, and you bite your lip to stifle a gasp as you realize what he’s about to do. Bunching your skirt up around your waist, he carefully trails the dull side of the blade up the inside of your thighs and then slides the curved tip of the handle over your hot core, sending another jolt of desire through your body. He gazes at you for a moment before he opens your legs wide and pulls the stockings outward at the junction between your thighs. You hear the sound of tearing fabric, and then he puts the knife down.
A sob of pleasure falls from your lips as he uses the new hole he just made to push aside your panties and slide a single callused finger through your dripping folds. You whine at the loss of contact as he pulls his hand away, placing his now glistening finger in his mouth and sucking it clean. Your pussy aches for more stimulation, and you unconsciously buck your hips upward toward him. Dmitri smirks and tuts, “Patience.”
He leans in to kiss you deeply, swallowing your moans as you feel two thick fingers sliding against your hot core. He plunges one inside with a wet squelch, slowly pumping a finger in and out of your needy cunt. He bites your lip, sucking on it for a moment before letting go, leaning his forehead against yours, and murmuring appreciatively, “So wet, you lovely girl. Is this all for me?”
You nod, unable to do anything but pant and moan as picks up his pace and inserts another thick finger. Entranced by the sight of your arousal pooling out of your wet, sloppy cunt all over your stockings and onto the counter beneath you, Dmitri palms himself roughly over his pants before leaning down to taste you. You cry out in pleasure as he grabs your ass with either hand and buries his face in your cunt, eagerly fucking his tongue into your hole like a man starved. You allow him to continue to hungrily lap at your folds for a few more moments before you’re overcome by the need to feel his cock splitting you open, and you grab his hair, pulling him in for a filthy kiss, tasting yourself on his lips.
Clad only in your rumpled skirt and your torn, soaked stockings, your breasts bounce as you slide down off of the island. Dmitri watches you intently as you kneel down on the floor in front of him, taking your time to remove his belt and unbutton his pants. He cups the back of your head as you pull his thick, leaking cock out of his boxers. A strangled moan escapes Dmitri’s throat when you spit on his dick, pumping it with one hand as you cup his balls with another.
Dmitri grunts in pleasure as you put your lips on his cock, licking and sucking at the tip. You run your tongue up and down it before eventually taking him whole into your mouth, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes as his dick hits the back of your throat. Feeling his hand still resting gently against your hair, you push back against it. His eyes widen a fraction as he realizes what you want him to do, and you look up at him, squeezing the backs of his thighs in affirmation before he begins fucking your mouth. A line of drool begins to spill down the side of your mouth, and when you slip a hand under your skirt to play with your aching cunt, Dmitri has to fight not to shoot spurts of hot cum down your throat right then and there.
“If we don’t stop now, your pretty little lips are going to be dripping with my cum, sweetheart,” Dmitri breathes out, voice wrecked.
You pull your mouth off of his dick with a pop and look up at him, a challenge in your eyes as you say, “You’d better get your cock inside of me, then.”
He asks you huskily, “You want me to fuck you like this? Right here?”
You nod, and a feral sound leaves his mouth as he pulls his dick out of your mouth and bends down to pull you to your feet. He turns you around so you’re bent over the counter, and you hear a tearing noise as he rips the hole in your stockings even wider. You whine, and he leans his body into yours, pinning you down and pressing your face down sideways against the counter as he nips at your earlobe and whispers in your ear, “Such a dirty little girl. Look at you, your messy little pussy is dripping everywhere, begging to be filled. Do you want to feel my fat cock inside of you?”
Your response is drowned out by the shameless moan that falls from your lips unbidden when he lazily begins to pump his fingers in and out of your cunt again.
“I need to hear you say it, солнышко,” he says calmly, voice a direct contrast to the way his fingers are eagerly fucking into you.
“Please fuck me, daddy.”
The last word comes out before you can stop yourself, and a depraved, feral noise rumbles in Dmitri’s throat as he kicks your legs wider apart, pushes your panties aside, and slides his thick, leaking cock inside of you, reveling in the way your tight pussy clamps down on him. You grip for purchase on the counter as Dmitri stretches you open. Your hard nipples rub against the cool countertop as his hips snap to yours in a brutal pace, and his balls wetly slap against your ass as he bottoms out in your cunt.
White hot pleasure begins to build inside of you as you Dmitri fucks you harder, and you both brokenly moan in unison. He reaches a hand around your waist, and with the added stimulation of his deft fingers on your clit, the peak of your pleasure hits you like a freight train. Your palms skid along the counter as your vision goes black at the edges, and you cum so hard it leaks all over Dmitri’s cock as he roughly fucks you through your orgasm.
Your lust-addled mind supplies another unspoken part of your aforementioned fantasy, one that you now desperately want, and you smoothly push him off of you and turn around to kneel down in front of him again. You lick your cum off of his cock, sucking and pumping it briefly before pulling off, leaving your lips parted slightly as you stare up at him with a needy, inviting gaze, looking absolutely debauched with your glossy lips and smudged eyeliner. He groans in pleasure when he understands what you want him to do, reaching down to fist himself, pumping his cock roughly until thick spurts of cum are shooting out of it, splattering all over your waiting face and tits.
After he comes down from his orgasm, he shuffles off for a moment in the direction of your washroom. He returns with a warm, wet rag, and he kneels down in front of you as he gently wipes his cum off of you. Something tugs in your chest as he puts the soiled cloth aside and kisses you tenderly on the nose, on your cheek, and then on your lips. Dmitri scoops you into his arms, carrying you toward the door that he assumes is your bedroom.
When you reach your bed, he leans down to pull the covers back, placing you down into the bed and taking off your skirt, stockings, and underwear, tossing them to the ground. You reach up to pull his shirt over his head, adding it to the pile, and he removes his boxers and pants before sliding in between the sheets naked beside you.
You’re not sure how much time passes as you lay there, both on your sides and staring at one another in the dim light washing over your bed from the lone street lamp outside. He lovingly traces a finger from your shoulder blade, to your eyebrows, down your nose, and across your jaw line. In return, you run a hand through his hair, and his eyes close in contentment.
Eventually, Dmitri brushes a finger over your bottom lip, and you grasp his wrist, opening your mouth to begin sucking on it. His eyes shoot open as you bob on his finger, and he inserts another, his gaze turning heated as drool leaks out of your mouth and down his hand. You brush a hand over your stiffening nipples, moaning softly, and he cups your breasts as he leans over to lick into your waiting mouth.
Pushing himself up slightly so that he’s leaning down over you, Dmitri tilts your chin to look into his eyes as he purrs, “Are you going to behave for daddy?”
You nod, your cunt clenching down around nothing, and you can feel sticky, wet arousal beginning to leak down the inside of your thighs again. Dmitri smirks, moving his hand down to grip at your throat, tightening his grip when you moan in response.
“Open,” he rasps.
Without hesitation, you comply, and a shiver goes down your spine as he mutters, “Good girl,” before hooking his thumb over the edge of your lips. He slides the digit deep enough along the inside of your cheek to make you gag slightly before leaning down to roughly spit into your mouth. Obediently, you swallow it, and Dmitri hums in pleasure.
You reach for his hardening cock, stroking it as you push him onto his back and climb on top, straddling him. Dmitri runs his hands over your hips, praises falling from his lips as you slide your soaked cunt up and down along his fat cock. He bites his lip and throws his head back in pleasure, gripping your hips tightly when you line yourself up and finally sink down onto him.
Dmitri gazes at you with hooded eyes as you eagerly ride him, licking his lips as he takes in the way your breasts bounce with each thrust. You catch him staring, and you lean down to capture his lips in a bruising kiss, pulling back slightly to whisper against his mouth, “Fill me up with your cum, Dmitri.”
He growls, and before you know what’s happening, you find yourself on all fours with Dmitri behind you. He slams his dick into you from behind, and you choke out a wail of pleasure. He spreads your ass cheeks apart, marveling at the sight of his dick sliding in and out of your pussy. His thumb brushes over your other tight hole and you moan loudly, pushing back onto his dick desperately. He grins, beginning to rub the hole, and you whine in response, wiggling your hips and nearly panting in frustration. Dmitri spits, generously spreading it around the rim before slowly pressing a finger inside as he continues to relentlessly fuck your cunt.
“Do you like when I fuck you like this, солнышко? Like daddy’s little whore?” He asks, a strangled edge to his voice.
You nod and cry out, “Please, yes. Fuck me harder, Dmitri.”
He groans, bringing a hand down hard against one of your ass cheeks, and your pussy clenches down harder on his dick at the pleasurable stinging sensation. He smacks you two more times, and you press back into him, urging him to go deeper. Dmitri wraps a hand around your throat as he pushes you down flush against the bed, fucking you roughly into the mattress.
Grasping your hips, Dmitri pulls you back onto all fours to shove his cock deeper inside of you, moaning when he sees how coated his dick is in your sopping wet slick as he pulls out slightly. He feels your legs begin to tremble as heat builds inside of you, nearly reaching a crest, and flips you onto your back.
He grips your throat, and—dizzy and desperate with pleasure—your mouth falls open. His eyes widen a fraction, and he grins before leaning down to spit inside of it. You swallow, and he hungrily watches the bob of your throat as he slides his dick back into your cunt and begins hammering into you again. Without warning, the heat that had slowly been creeping through you explodes, and you don’t even have the energy to feel embarrassed as clear fluid gushes out of your cunt.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he pants out as he watches you messily squirt all over his cock and balls, and moments later, he cries out as his dick pulses with his own orgasm. You hold him fast against you, milking his cock as he dumps a heavy load of thick, hot cum inside of your pussy. You whine at the loss of contact when he pulls his softening cock out of you and watch as he spreads your legs apart and leans down in front of you to lap at the cum that’s messily pouring out of your cunt, leaking all over yourself and the sheets, before eventually crawling back up to hold you gently in his arms, praising you and whispering sweet nothings into your ears.
---
You wake up the next morning to the feeling of something thick and hard slowly grinding between your ass cheeks and quiet moans from behind you. Dmitri’s hands trails across your naked body, cupping your breasts and teasing your nipples. Biting your lip, you angle his cock against your folds to show him the slick that’s already begun to gather there.
“So eager for me,” he remarks, using your arousal to allow his cock to wetly slide between your ass cheeks. The head of it catches on the tight ring of muscle there, and you gasp, eagerly pressing back against him, silently asking for more. At that, Dmitri flips you over so you’re face down, and he roughly palms your cheeks as he slides his dick along the crevice of your ass.
Dmitri leans forward, bare chest brushing against your back as he whispers into your ear, “You want my cock in your ass, dirty girl?”
“Please, Dmitri,” you beg him as you reach an arm out to pull open your night stand, tossing him a bottle of lubricant. He chuckles darkly, popping it open and spreading a generous amount over your hole as he carefully begins to work you open, finger by finger.
When he finally pushes his thick, lube-covered cock into your ass, a feral moan punches out of him and you nearly black out in pleasure; you feel so full you want to scream. He begins to pump in and out of you at a torturous, leisurely pace, folding himself over you to bite and suck on the side of your neck while he plays with your breasts. Desperate, needy moans pour from your lips at the hot, wet, filthy slide of his dick in your tight hole, and you reach a hand down to your untouched cunt. Dmitri notices and bats your hand away, replacing it with his large, thick fingers. A low, rough grunt leaves his mouth as he pumps them inside of you, feeling you dripping into his palm. Your back arches and your muscles tighten as the smoldering heat in your abdomen takes you over the edge, your pussy clenching on Dmitri’s hands and cum flooding out as he holds you tight through your intense orgasm.
He pants into your ear, “Daddy’s going to fill your ass up with his cum now, princess,” and he hammers into you so hard that you see stars. His dick twitches inside of you as he reaches his peak, and you can feel it as he begins to ejaculate inside of your ass, roughly fucking pools of his hot cum into your tight hole. When he pulls it out of you, you can feel his sticky seed leaking out of your ass and over the backs of your thighs, and your body shakes in pleasure as you feel his tongue begin to prod and lap at your fucked out hole.
“You’re so fucking perfect,” he whispers afterward, pulling you close.
THREE MONTHS LATER
While you had been tempted to follow Dmitri back to America, the cost and effort you had already put into your studies in Russia prevented you from leaving until you were finished three months later. Now, you’ve been back home in Chicago for two weeks, and you’ve returned to your post as a teaching assistant at your university. After a long day of grading tests, you’re standing at your desk in your small, private office, shuffling paperwork into your bag as you prepare to head home.
In the days since setting foot back on American soil, you’ve toyed with the idea of taking a road trip to Hawkins, Indiana time and time again to find Dmitri. But each time you go to reach for your luggage to begin packing, you freeze, a small, uncertain part of you mockingly asking what makes you think that night with Dmitri was anything more than a pleasurable, messy fuck for him. Though he hadn’t given you many details, you’d gotten the hint that his decision to leave his country for an undetermined amount of time wasn’t exactly a leisure trip, and it feels borderline presumptuous to imagine yourself pathetically crossing state lines to seek him out.
But now, as you think back to the hushed, intimate moments you had shared before he left, your self-doubt wavers again. After your early morning romp, he had pulled you to him and protectively wrapped his arms around you, and you had fallen asleep to the sound of him adoringly whispering tender phrases that you couldn’t quite understand into your ear. It was that last soft memory, before he had quietly extracted himself from your sheets, pressing a kiss to your lips and murmuring a sad goodbye, that kept you up at night.
“Здрасте, солнышко.” (Hello, sunshine.)
Your thoughts are interrupted by a familiar voice, and you turn your head incredulously toward the source, heart leaping in your chest as you see Dmitri leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets and a warm smile on his face.
--
A/N: Please suspend your disbelief, as we're going to momentarily pretend that Dmitri isn't a dad (even though he's definitely a dilf) and also Joyce collectively includes herself in the "from Hawkins" introduction for the sake of simplicity.
Comments, reblogs, and/or asks are always appreciated!
Summary: When Hopper crawled back to Hawkins, half-dead but miraculously still in one piece after his lengthy ordeal in Russia, your brother arrived with a straggler in tow—a man named Dmitri Antonov.
Cut to several months later, Hopper has no idea that your “friendly outings” spent introducing his house guest to “American culture” have turned from museums and shopping to a hot, sweaty, in-depth practical study of Dmitri’s very attentive hands and mouth on your writhing, naked body.
While the two of you have been successful in keeping your sultry little secret thus far, Dmitri’s patience may finally snap when you arrive at the Byers’ new house for their ‘Welcome Back to Hawkins’ barbecue, clad in a flowy little sundress.
…the same little sundress that you were wearing the night that you and Dmitri finally stopped pretending you weren’t attracted to one another. The night that he bent you over the hood of your car and fucked you until your voice was hoarse from screaming his name.
So yeah. It’s going to be a long afternoon.
Rating: Explicit, 18+ ONLY
Word Count: 6k
Content: NSFW, SMUT, unprotected p in v, creampie, oral sex, choking kink, spit kink, anal play, cum eating, thigh riding, mutual masturbation, mild jealousy, inappropriate use of an ice cream spoon, fluff, feels!
A/N: This story is canon divergent in that it assumes life has returned to normal in Hawkins without the impending threat of otherworldly doom, etc. Also, you're Hopper's adopted sister.
“Jesus Christ.”
You heard the sound of Dmitri’s voice before you saw him, and a tickle of triumph peeled through you. Acutely aware of the searing gaze that was now wholly focused in your direction, you reached down to brush a nonexistent speck of dirt from your soft, flowing sundress, which was adorned with a pattern of oranges. Casually pushing your sunglasses further down your nose, you glanced over to find Dmitri’s blue eyes staring at you incredulously. You grinned, and he huffed in response, shaking his head and running a hand through his hair.
“Fancy seeing you here,” you chirped as you shut your car door and strode up the driveway, heading toward the backyard of the Byers’ new house, where a lively party was taking place to celebrate the family’s return to Hawkins.
You lazily grazed a finger over Dmitri’s chest as you passed him, and as your hand reached for the latch to the gate, you heard the sound of metal crunching as he clenched the can of soda in his hands. Biting your lip, you turned back to look at him, your eyes sparkling in amusement as you followed the slow sweep of his eyes, which had stopped to focus on where the hem of your short dress fluttered high against the backs of your thighs.
Ignoring the heat that bloomed in your chest under his rapt attention—and the sight of his forearms in the white button down shirt he was wearing, the sleeves of which were rolled up to just before his elbows—you strode away toward your brother, who was (unsurprisingly) guarding his post in front of the grill. When it came to barbecues, anyone interested in helping with cooking the burgers and hot dogs would have to pry the spatula from Hopper’s cold, dead hands.
“Hey, Hop!” you called over to him.
He looked up and grinned, pulling you into a tight, one-armed hug as he asked, “Hey! What’s this, I thought you had work?”
You shrugged. “I convinced someone to cover my shift. I didn’t want to miss out on all the fun.”
“Joyce is going to be so happy to see you, and Enzo will probably appreciate a familiar face. I’m still working on convincing him to go out and meet more people around town.” Hopper jerked a head in the direction of the man in question, who had made his way back into the yard shortly after you, and you willed your expression to remain neutral.
When Hopper had finally returned to Hawkins four months ago, he’d arrived with a straggler in tow—a Russian man named Dmitri Antonov, or “Enzo.” You’d offered to help Dmitri acclimate to life in the United States, much to your brother’s relief, as he already had his hands full trying to explain his own mysterious resurrection. And while Hopper was well aware of the time you and his new house guest spent together, he hadn’t the slightest clue that your polite, educational “American culture” outings generally ended with you naked and writhing under Dmitri’s touch.
After flitting around the decorated yard to say your hellos, receiving a bone-crushing hug from Joyce along the way, you excused yourself and walked into the kitchen to grab a drink from the fridge. You bent down, hand grasping a cold can from the bottom shelf, and when you straightened back up, you nearly jumped out of your skin when you felt somebody standing behind you.
A hand reached out to curl around your waist, and Dmitri’s lips brushed against the shell of your ear as he murmured, “You wore this dress on purpose.”
You smirked, turning to face him, and your breath tickled his lips as you spoke into the scant distance between your mouths, “And you refused to let me cum for hours last night. Let’s call it even.”
He sucked in a breath, heat flashing in his eyes as he remembered you splayed underneath him the night before, moaning, whining, and unashamedly begging him to push you over the edge toward your aching release. Entranced by the warm, golden glow of the setting sun pouring in through the windows on either side of your bed, he had instead taken his time kissing, biting, licking, and sucking his way across every curve and plane of your beautiful, naked body. He’d edged you for hours, fighting the urge to wrap a palm around his length, but the way you’d held on to him for dear life and screamed his name when your cum gushed over his cock had been worth every second.
So did he deserve for you to show up at the barbeque wearing his favorite little sun dress? The one that generously accentuated your breasts while leaving little to the imagination in its meager length? The same dress that had dealt the final blow to his crumbling self control the night that you both stopped denying the way you naturally gravitated toward one another? The night that he’d kissed you until you were breathless? The night that he’d fucked you right then and there, bent over the hood of your car?
Perhaps he did.
You had flushed at the memory of that day when you pulled the dress out of your closet before the party.
---
You’d picked Dmitri up for another outing, and the weather had been sweltering hot. Internally warring with himself, the poor man had spent most of the drive trying (and failing) to avert his gaze away from the trickles of sweat that dripped down your cleavage and the indecent tease of your upper thighs that became exposed with each gust of wind that sliced through the open windows. Was it a cheap shot? Maybe. But in the two months since he’d arrived in America, Dmitri had been nothing short of a complete and total gentleman to you. You could hardly complain about that, but the problem lay rooted in the fact that the soft looks, the comfortable silence, and the unabashed laughter that quickly became a staple of your budding friendship cracked open something inside of you—a warm, fond feeling that left you missing him each night that you dropped him off, counting down the days until you could find a reason to invite him out again for some other mundane activity.
And you knew your utter enjoyment of his company wasn’t one-sided, because you watched the reserved, tentative way that he interacted with anyone else that you, Hopper, or Joyce introduced him to. He carried the burdens of his past with him like heavy, cumbersome walls, hesitant to let his guard down lest the other shoe drop. But with you? With you, Dmitri let himself smile.
However, be it your brother’s looming metaphorical presence (there wasn’t a doubt in your mind that he’d had a chat with Dmitri before introducing the two of you) or a casualty of his unfailingly respectful nature in your presence, all of your interactions were—on the surface—wholly platonic. So when an abnormally hot day in May gave you an opening to wear one of the less wholesome dresses in your closet? Well, you couldn’t pass up the opportunity to try and pry a reaction out of him.
Your day had been spent trailing the vast halls of a large museum that was a few towns over, and it had been difficult to ignore the way that Dmitri had lingered closer to your side than usual, the backs of your hands occasionally brushing. Later, after the sun had dipped well below the horizon, he’d offered to drive home, because he’d caught you yawning repeatedly. And when he’d opened the passenger side door for you, you had shivered at the feeling of his hand when it brushed the small of your back for but a moment. The skies were uncharacteristically clear that night, so you’d waved off the exit to Hawkins and directed Dmitri further down the highway toward your favorite deserted hilltop spot to look at the stars.
Leaning back against the hood of the car, he’d reveled in the way your eyes lit up as you pointed out the constellations. And when you’d inadvertently leaned into him after a chilly breeze passed, the day’s hot weather giving way to a cool evening, he’d casually placed an arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him. You’d then found yourself caught in a silent battle of will as you were enveloped in the pleasant scent of his cologne, earthy with a hint of citrus and spice.
Feeling a brush against your thigh, you’d looked down to see Dmitri thumbing the hem of your dress. He’d spoken his next words so quietly. “You’re very beautiful. I hope…you don’t think that I don’t notice.”
Your breath had caught in your throat as you turned to look at him, feeling warm all over at the imploring look in his blue eyes and the sincerity of his gaze. Huffing out a small laugh, you’d replied, “I was beginning to worry that maybe I just wasn’t your type.”
Choking out a strangled laugh, Dmitri had leaned his forehead against yours, cupping your face with both hands. You’d closed your eyes for a moment at the comforting sensation, only to open them wide as he stated with a fierce conviction, “You are perfect.”
“But…,” you’d trailed off.
“You deserve far more than what I can offer you. Not to mention, your brother will, as he so politely put it, ‘shove his entire fist up my ass’.”
You’d let out a long suffering sigh. “First of all, I’m a grown woman, so Hopper doesn’t get a say in what, or who, I do. And Dmitri, I couldn’t care less what you have to offer. I just want you, plain and simple.
Running a finger over the shoulder of your dress, Dmitri had replied matter-of-factly, “A man like me is no good for a sweet, clean girl like you.”
“Well maybe I want to get dirty, Dmitri.”
You’d boldly locked your eyes with his as the words fell from your mouth—a challenge. And in turn, you’d watched as his resolve crumbled, making way for him to stop toeing the invisible line he had drawn in the sand the day he met you as he brought his lips crashing down onto yours.
Once you’d started kissing him, you couldn’t stop, a small whine building in the back of your throat as his tongue sought entrance into your mouth to devour you further. And when you’d urged him to touch you, granting him the consent he’d needed lest you’d changed your mind, the exploration of his deft hands across your body had left you keening under his touch.
And thus, that was how you’d found yourself bent over the hood of your car, your dress hiked up and your panties pushed aside as Dmitri fucked you. Gripping the edges of his jacket, which he’d insisted on laying across the cold metal of the hood before he began to work you open with his fingers (an exercise that was purely performative, given how you were already dripping wet for him), you’d screamed his name repeatedly as he pounded into you from behind, intense waves of pleasure rocking through your body. Afterward, Dmitri had pulled you to his chest and held you tight against him, peppering kisses along the curve of your jaw.
After that night, it was like a switch had been irreversibly flipped. No longer forced to keep his feelings at bay, Dmitri lavished you with attention whenever you were alone. Be it the way he took advantage of being able to freely drink you in with long, appreciative stares, his tendency to kiss your hands while you were driving, the utter enjoyment he found in making you squirm by whispering things that ranged from sickeningly sweet to downright filthy in your ears when you were in public, or his newfound addiction to experiencing each and every exquisite way you came apart under his touch.
And you couldn’t get enough of him.
---
“Even? Mm, we’ll see about that, Лисичка.” (little fox) Dmitri smirked, reaching into the fridge behind you, and his chest brushed against yours as he grabbed a bottle of water. Still pressed up against you, he twisted off the cap and slowly ran the tip of his tongue around the circle of the opening before taking a deep sip, eyes fluttering shut and throat bobbing while he swallowed. When he lowered the drink, he noticed your mouth had fallen open ever so slightly. He gently pushed upward on the bottom of your chin with his pointer finger, tapping the center of your closed lips afterward, and he winked before turning on his heel and heading back out the sliding glass door. Alone in the kitchen once more, your eyes darted to the freezer. You grinned.
If Dmitri thought you merely arriving in the dress would be the extent of his teasing for the day, he had another thing coming. And as he stood across the yard, caught in an uncomfortable conversation with an eager woman named Kathryn that Joyce had pawned off on him with a thumbs up, he was wholly unprepared for the scene that unfolded a few feet away. There you stood with…Officer Callahan was it? It didn’t matter. What mattered was the way you glanced over at him with a mischievous twinkle in your eyes before turning back to the other man, nodding enthusiastically at whatever he was saying and twirling a red, white, and blue popsicle in your mouth.
Dmitri felt a hand on his forearm, and he shrugged Kathryn’s touch off as casually as he could before turning back to her and saying, “Sorry, what?”
She repeated herself, “I’m going to head over to try and talk to Officer Callahan about the kids that’ve been dumping trash in my driveway. You’re welcome to join me.”
While he wasn’t sure how much he trusted himself to maintain his composure in front of you, one glance at the way Callahan’s eyes were nearly glazed over by the sight of you slowly licking a stripe up the side of the popsicle had his feet moving before his brain could protest.
Pulling your lips off of the popsicle with an audible pop, you smiled widely when Dmitri approached. Turning to the man beside you, you asked, “Phil, have you had a chance to meet Dmitri yet?”
Callahan tracked the way Dmitri gravitated to your side, close enough to make a silent statement but far enough away that anyone else standing further off would think nothing of it. He nodded slowly. “Yeah, Hop brought him by the station a few times. Nice to see you, man.”
Dmitri’s face remained impassive and he nodded by way of greeting, noting the way the man’s eyes continued to flick to you as you resumed slurping on the frozen treat in your hands far more enthusiastically than necessary. He feigned interest for a few minutes as you chatted with Kathryn and Callahan, only allowing himself to finally give in and look over at you again when he heard a small yelp leave your mouth. He nearly choked on air as he took in your current state: lips wet and stained red, drips of color splashed all over your chest, and a piece of the popsicle was nestled—cold, sticky, and melting—between your breasts.
“Oops,” you giggled, laying it on a bit thicker than necessary because you just knew that the frayed rope of Dmitri’s patience was on the precipice of snapping. You scooped the stray piece of the popsicle out of your cleavage and tossed it into the grass.
Looking down at the mess you had made, you excused yourself to go inside and clean up. Although Kathryn immediately resumed her side of the conversation, Callahan turned to watch you go, as if he were contemplating giving you a hand. At this point, Dmitri’s dick was too fucking hard to give a single shit about how it looked, so he shot Callahan a warning glance before following after you (although he did make sure Hopper was still standing vigil at the grill before closing the back door). Silently making his way toward where he assumed the bathroom to be, Dmitri rapped a knuckle against the door.
At the sound of the single knock, there wasn’t a doubt in your mind as to who was on the other side. You turned the knob, and before you could blink, Dmitri had swiftly shut the door and clicked the lock into place before hoisting you up on the counter. You bit back a moan as he gripped your hips and buried his face in your neck, pressing wet, hot kisses to your collarbone. Your hips snapped forward at the feeling of his tongue trailing down your chest, sliding down to lap up the sticky, flavored mess that was splattered across the swell of your breasts. As his tongue darted lower, dipping below the fabric, he outright groaned when he realized that you’d taken things a step further by foregoing a bra for the day.
“It would be a shame if this dress got wet,” he murmured, letting his tongue slide lower to graze your nipples, and you sucked in a breath as you felt them stiffen underneath his touch. Wrapping your legs around his waist, you unzipped his shorts and snaked a hand inside of his boxers, your arousal growing as you felt the way he was already throbbing for you. As you began to pump his cock, Dmitri lifted one of your breasts out of the dress, taking the tender skin between his teeth, biting and sucking until a generous red mark appeared.
His hands slid up your dress to slide your skimpy excuse for underwear down your legs, discarding the white fabric on the floor. A moan teetered on the edge of your lips as he teased the damp mound between your legs with two fingers before sliding them in, his own pleasure rumbling in his throat upon finding your channel slick with arousal. Perhaps far too eager to chase your release after Dmitri’s edging marathon, you bucked into his hand.
“Sweetheart, are my fingers not enough?” Dmitri drawled, taking your bottom lip into his mouth to suck on it. He crooked his thick fingers inside of you, and he swallowed your answering whine with his mouth.
“...Need your cock, Dmitri,” you panted, whilst he slid a third finger inside.
Obliging you, Dmitri scooped you into his arms and turned away from the sink, sheathing his cock inside of you as he began to mercilessly fuck you against the wall. His lips grazed your neck, blazing a trail hot, open-mouthed kisses, and his voice was on the edge of desperation as he spoke between grunts, “Ты такая красивая, my lovely girl.” (You’re so beautiful)
Your hands were fisted in the back of his shirt as you spread your legs wider, the angle allowing Dmitri deeper access to your cunt; you were desperate to feel the pleasurable stretch of his large cock bottoming out inside of you. He continued to hammer into you before eventually slowing down, gently placing your legs on the ground and turning you around to face the wall. You braced yourself as he hiked your right thigh up into the air, hooking his arm under your knee before thrusting back in again so deep that you felt a line of drool slip from the corner of your mouth as you silently screamed in pleasure. You turned your face to the side to look at Dmitri, licking your lips and letting them fall open. In turn, he wrapped a hand around your throat and squeezed as he roughly spit into your mouth.
You swallowed, and Dmitri tightened his grip on your throat, plunging in and out of your pussy with fervor. A dizzying orgasm punched through you, and your pussy clenched down on Dmitri’s thick cock as he rocked you through the waves of your pleasure before reaching his own peak, shooting thick ropes of cum inside of you. A fond chuckle tumbled from Dmitri’s lips as he kissed you tenderly, putting your leg down and helping you regain your balance.
Straightening your dress and making a halfhearted attempt at taming the results of you eagerly raking your fingers through his hair, you reached down to pick up your underwear, which were nowhere to be found. You were on the verge of asking Dmitri where they had gone when you looked up and watched as he placed them in his pockets.
You gaped, and he smirked. “I think it’s only fair that you match,” he said, gesturing to where your hard nipples were prominently showing through your dress. You rolled your eyes, and he cupped your face, placing an affectionate kiss to your cheek before adding, “Though…we should probably clean you up first.”
He looked pointedly at where the mixture of your cum and his had begun to drip down the inside of your thighs, but before you could reach for a tissue, he had you pressed up against the sink as he dove back under your dress, lapping at your folds. You gripped the edges of the counter as he slipped his dexterous tongue into your hole, caught between the feeling of overstimulation and the crest of another wave of release. Your legs spread wider of their own accord as he began to outright fuck his tongue into your cunt, and when you felt Dmitri pull you forward slightly to drag a wet finger over the tight ring of muscle between your ass cheeks before sliding the tip of it inside, you had to bite down on your palm to muffle the sounds of another orgasm ripping through you.
---
The rest of the party was fairly uneventful after you and Dmitri took it upon yourselves to christen the Byers’ new bathroom, though you found most things paled in comparison to his company as of late. Well aware that you both shared an insatiable desire for one another, something you’d been pleased to discover early on when your trysts began, you made a valiant effort at mingling with the rest of the guests—if only to keep yourself distracted from the amused, knowing glances that he periodically shot your way every time you subtly adjusted your thighs. (And in turn, he would conspicuously reach a hand into his pocket, where you knew your underwear were held captive.)
Later, after excusing yourself from a long-winded conversation with one of Joyce’s neighbors, you glanced around the yard—which was bathed in the glow of lights strung about from the fence and the trees—in search of Dmitri. Eyeing where your brother was seated beside the fire with a guitar in his hands, belting out a song terribly off-key for Joyce and those who remained, you shot a glance in the other direction toward a dark, unlit corner. Rounding the tall hedges that hid a small table and chairs behind them, you found Dmitri sitting there, casually leaning back in a chair with his legs spread invitingly while eating a bowl of ice cream. He smirked, as if he had known you’d come to find him eventually.
You waltzed over to him, plopping down on his knee and turning sideways to face him. He stiffened for a moment, and you giggled, “You hear that terrible noise that sounds like a dying bear? Hopper’s busy performing for everyone around the campfire right now. Nobody will notice we’re over here.”
He relaxed at that, putting the bowl aside and wrapping his arms around you. In turn, you ran a hand through his hair and pressed your lips to his. Dmitri hummed into the kiss, deepening it and licking into your mouth, sliding your tongues together. You felt a pull of fabric, and you glanced down to see him untying the strings ruched over your breasts, which were meant to keep the front of the dress snugly in place. With the tension released, he trailed his hands along your shoulders to push down your sleeves, allowing your naked breasts to spill out.
Your eyes widened at his boldness, and he shrugged as he began to palm them. “Relax, I’m keeping an eye out. And if I die here tonight by way of your angry brother, at least I die a very happy man.” He winked.
You laughed, and you were about to adjust yourself to fully climb into his lap, but with a firm grip from his large hands on your waist, he spun you so that you were facing away from him and straddling his right thigh. He began to fondle your breasts, eagerly groping them while pinching your nipples and lavishing your neck with hot, open-mouthed kisses. Purposely shifting his thigh slightly, you bit back a whine as your bare cunt rubbed against the fabric of his shorts, the friction sending pleasure straight to your core. He tugged on your hair, pulling your head back for a messy kiss, and you cried out into his mouth at the sudden feeling of something cold biting at your nipples. Twisting your head back around, you looked down to find Dmitri was running a spoon along your swollen breasts, which were now dripping with remnants of his vanilla ice cream. Your hips pushed forward, and you began to grind down, seeking friction as heat licked in your belly in response to the cold metal teasing its way across your chest.
“Come here,” Dmitri murmured as he turned you around, still straddling his thigh but facing him this time. He dipped his head and took it upon himself to clean yet another sticky mess from your tits with his mouth, licking them generously and obscenely sucking on your pert nipples. Unable to hold back any longer, you shamelessly began to ride his thigh, cunt sliding in the pool of your arousal coating Dmitri’s shorts.
“That’s it, good girl,” he purred as he roughly began to palm himself over his shorts, looking into your eyes with a heated stare. “Cum on me, малыш, it’s okay.” (Baby)
You buried your face in his neck, and he gripped your hips tightly as your orgasm hit you in a wave of pleasure. You had but a few stray moments to pant against his neck before the sound of a snapping twig had you rushing to tug your dress back into place, jumping into the chair beside Dmitri just as he leaned an elbow on his leg to cover the mess you had left there, feigning an air of casualness.
Hopper approached, a slightly drunken stumble to his step as he peered over at the two of you in the darkness and barked out, “Why are you guys sitting over here in the dark? Was my singing that bad?”
You snorted, and Dmitri covered his mouth with his hand to stifle a laugh. Hopper scoffed, crossing his arms as he continued, “Well, whatever. Joyce hid the guitar from me, and they’re all roasting marshmallows now, if you’re interested.”
Feigning a tired stretch and forcing out a yawn, you shook your head. “I actually think I’m going to head home, Hop. I’m pretty tired.”
Hopper nodded in understanding and replied, “I don’t want Joyce running around cleaning everything up herself tomorrow morning, and I’m not exactly in driving condition anyway, so I’m going to crash here.”
You leveled him with a stare, a retort asking why he didn’t just move in with her already after making headway with his monumental emotional constipation while they were in Russia on the tip of your tongue. But you’d save your regularly scheduled nagging for later. In the meantime, you had your own love life to secretly carry out. “I think Dmitri was ready to go, too, so I can just drop him off instead of him driving your truck home.”
Hopper nodded, “Good, yeah, I have to head to work early in the afternoon anyway, so then I can head straight there from here.”
After saying your goodbyes to those that were left mingling, you couldn’t walk to your car fast enough, keenly aware of Dmitri right on your heels. The moment that the doors were shut, you turned to him and asked, “Want to stay the night?”
Dmitri reached over, lacing his hand with yours. “I’d like nothing more. Well…that, and finally getting you out of that dress.”
You grinned as you put the car in reverse, swinging your head around as you backed out of the driveway. For as extensively as the two of you had already mapped out one another’s naked bodies, nights spent sleeping cocooned in Dmitri’s embrace were dreadfully few and far between, carefully orchestrated around Hopper’s rare overnight shifts. However, before heading back to your place for some much needed alone time behind closed doors, you abruptly made a right turn, courtesy of an idea that had just formed in your head.
Dmitri looked at you expectantly when you eventually pulled into the dark, deserted parking lot of the town’s public pool. You shrugged and said with an air of nonchalance, “It was so hot today, I’ve been dying for a swim.”
Never one to question your ideas, no matter how brazen, Dmitri simply shook his head and smiled at you as you both let yourselves out of the car and approached the pool’s locked gate. Dmitri looked poised to hoist you up over the fence, but you walked a few paces away, returning a moment later with the extra key that you had learned the lifeguards kept stowed away under a rock.
Dmitri followed you to the pool’s edge, looking down into the gently rippling, illuminated water. You turned to him, plucking at the buttons on his shirt as he shucked off his shorts. Remembering his comment about your dress earlier, you opted to leave it on for your late night swim. You knew there was a sweater and shorts stuffed somewhere in your trunk, anyway.
When you jumped in, you were pleased to find that the water was still warm from baking in the hot sun all day, and you beckoned Dmitri to join you. He sighed dramatically before backing up for a running start, folding his body up into a ball before he landed, which sent a wave of water crashing down on top of you. You sputtered and laughed as he swam over to you, moving your wet hair from where it was covering your eyes and kissing you. You slotted your lips against his for a moment before pulling back and putting distance between the two of you. His brows furrowed in confusion, only to realize once it was too late that you were winding your arm backward to drag it across the water and splash him.
A chase ensued, in which you would swim fast and hard to escape Dmitri’s grip for a minute or two, he’d catch you by the ankle or the shoulder and bring you in for a heated kiss, only for you to slip away and start the process all over again. Eventually, you reached the ladder, and you made a swift exit from the pool before Dmitri could stop you.
You glanced back at him with a mischievous look in your eyes. Dmitri’s mouth went dry as he treaded water, drinking you in. He found himself unable to tear his gaze away from the way your soaking wet dress clung tightly to the curves of your body, your breasts on clear display with the thin fabric rendered nearly see-through.
Fully aware that he was staring, you slowly lowered yourself onto one of the pool’s lounge chairs, loosening the ties of your sopping wet dress to allow your breasts to spill out freely once more. Dmitri climbed out of the pool, making his way toward you. Keeping your eyes on him, you lifted your dress and spread your legs wide open, reaching a finger down to tease your slit. You were still sensitive from the stretch of his cock in the bathroom and from your shameless performance on his thigh, but your stolen moments throughout the day had been too brief, too rushed, and you desperately wanted to savor Dmitri this time, to drink him in.
“Гавно,” (shit) he breathed out as he approached you, watching as you spit on your fingers and resumed your steady ministrations on your cunt. He came to sit down on the chair beside you, pulling his hard shaft out of his boxers. As he began to lazily stroke himself, eyes raking over you with admiration, you inadvertently felt your cunt flutter and clench down on the two fingers you were pumping inside of yourself, eager to feel the stretch of something thicker and larger plunging in.
Holding his gaze, you began to play with your breasts and brought your arousal soaked fingers to your lips, licking your juices from them. Dmitri bit his lip as he tightened his grip on his cock, a shallow moan leaving his mouth. You stood, motioning for him to lay down on the chair, and you peeled off your dress and settled your naked body between his thighs, where he was still tugging at his shaft. You replaced his hand with yours, leaning in to lick stripes up and down the side of his cock. He groaned your name, hips pushing upward into your teasing touches until you finally slid your open mouth over him.
You eagerly bobbed up and down on his cock, taking him deep into the back of your throat repeatedly until he began to shudder under your touch. You slowed to a stop, pulling off of him with a line of split trailing from his tip to your bottom lip. Dmitri beckoned you closer, and he sat up at the waist as you climbed into his lap. You keened in pleasure as your wet folds slid against his erection, and he chased after your lips for a searing kiss. Wrapping his strong arms around you, he lifted you, lining up your glistening hole with his thick, waiting cock. A rush of adoration burned through you as you locked eyes with Dmitri, who was staring at you reverently, and you both simultaneously cried out when he finally sunk into you.
Cradled intimately in Dmitri’s arms, tremors of pleasure poured through your body as he made love to you. The slick sounds of him sliding in and out of you were punctuated by a string of sweet words and phrases that he desperately spoke between your heated kisses, fluidly switching back and forth between English and Russian. When your whines grew more desperate, your fingers digging into his back, Dmitri lifted you up slightly so the head of his cock sat nestled at the edge of your hole before plunging back in, burying himself to the hilt. Suddenly, your orgasm rocked through you, and you desperately cried out against Dmitri’s mouth, tears falling down your cheeks from the intensity of it. Dmitri’s release came shortly after, and he embraced you tightly as his cock pulsed, filling you deeply with his hot cum.
You didn’t move afterward, and Dmitri’s arms stayed wrapped around you as his cock softened inside of your spent cunt, cum beginning to dribble out onto the chair below. He kissed the tears that stained your cheeks before nuzzling into the side of your neck.
--
The next morning, you awoke in your bed to the rare feeling of utter contentment that sleeping beside Dmitri brought. His arms were wrapped around you, his head resting on top of yours, and you snuggled further into his chest, clinging to him tightly.
Voice slightly muffled, you quietly said, “I’m not ready to wake up yet. I want to enjoy this for a little longer.”
Dmitri smiled, breathing in the floral scent of your shampoo. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
—
Comments, reblogs, and/or asks are always appreciated!
pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x reader
summary: clark is light in ways the world doesn’t always notice. he makes breakfast for dinner, reads to you when you’re sick, peels oranges like his mom used to, and sunbathes on the fire escape like a houseplant that loves way too hard. he doesn’t say “i love you” until the light is just right and you’re wrapped up in him like a second skin, but he shows it every day in the way he stays. inspired by the orange poem by wendy cope. (or alternatively: 4 times he showed you he loves you + 1 time he says it) listen to the playlist here.
word count: 11.1 k. oops. i swear this was only supposed to be 8k words but unfortunately, i'm insane.
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, established relationship, piv sex, character study, dom/sub undertones, switching (reader and clark take turns domming/subbing), marking kink, hair pulling, big soft men who are whipped for you, soft but kind of unhinged sex, size kink (clark picks up the reader/pins them down), nipple play, unprotected sex, oral (fem!receiving), outdoor sex (sex against a tree), face riding, public sex, use of pet names, tooth-rotting fluff, my love letter to midwest summers!
Your boyfriend photosynthesizes.
Well, that's the joke, anyway.
You’ve said it so many times now it might as well be printed on a T-shirt. My Boyfriend Is Solar-Powered! in Comic Sans. Or maybe Papyrus. Whatever will annoy him the most. Haven't really decided yet.
It started out as a throwaway line, one of those things you kind of just say when you’re half-awake and fully-annoyed because he’s hogging the sunny spot in the kitchen again like a smug, six-foot-four housecat with insane shoulders and even more insane bedhead.
But the first time you said it—like, actually really said it—he was standing by the window, shirtless, holding his coffee in that chipped blue mug that says "My Son's a Smallville Elementary Grad!" and somehow survived a farm, a college dorm, three apartments, and a move cross-country.
The light was doing that thing it loves to do in the morning, all golden and warm and syrupy, catching on his collarbones and the slope of his neck like he was painted by fucking Michelangelo. He had one hip braced against the counter, the other leg crooked, like someone told him to look as unintentionally hot as possible while waiting for the kettle filled with your guys' tea to boil.
You blinked at him, still clutching your own mug and not yet caffeinated enough to regulate your mouth, and said, “Do you ever feel like… like a plant?”
He raised an eyebrow. Blew on his coffee. You can see the way his breath fogs up slightly, that super breath of his doing just enough to cool down his coffee to the perfect temperature. “That a dig?”
“No. It’s just. You—" You waved vaguely in his direction. "Well, you just kinda look like you’re charging.”
That got a huff of a laugh. “What, like a phone?”
“No,” you said, and grinned into your mug. “Like I said, a plant. Like you're photosynthesizing.”
After that, it became a thing.
He always smiled when you said it. Looked down at himself, half-amused, half-embarrassed. “I mean,” he’d say, “you’re not wrong.” Or: “Someone’s gotta keep the plants company, y'know?"
But he never corrects you. Never laughs it off like it’s ridiculous.
Because it isn’t.
You’ve seen the truth of it, slow and subtle and layered in all the small things. The way he’s just a smidge lighter on his feet after a sunny day, how he runs warmer, more golden, like someone turned the saturation up to a hundred. The way his voice softens, deeper, when he’s been in the sun too long. The way the shadows under his eyes seem less sharp after just an afternoon spent lying on the roof, pretending he’s napping when you both know he’s just... breathing.
And the bruises. That’s the part he thinks you don’t see.
You do.
They heal so much faster when he’s been drenched in the sun. You’ve watched the inky blackish-purple fade to this sickly yellow in the span of a couple hours and tried really, really hard not to stare.
You’ve said nothing when he limped into bed one night after a particularly difficult battle and rolled out of it the next morning like absolutely nothing had even happened. Sometimes he winces and pretends it’s nothing. Sometimes he… forgets to pretend.
And still, you never say that’s not normal out loud, even though it’s not. Because he isn’t. Not in the way that matters. Not in the ways that make you love him.
You love him like a long exhale. Like a secret that’s safe with you. Like the song you play on repeat in the car, the one you never get sick of, even though it makes your throat tighten every time.
Sometimes it’s peaceful, like when your ribs finally uncages and let someone else in for the first time in your life. But sometimes, sometimes it's just so fucking devastating.
Because he’s Clark. And Superman. And most importantly, he's yours.
And it feels too big. Too fragile. Like trying to hold water in your hands. You want to keep him safe, but you also want to keep him. The real him. The him that leaves you sticky notes that say “eat something, please” and walks around humming old Mighty Crabjoys songs and insists you don’t have to fold my socks, seriously, who folds socks?
But you lie awake sometimes watching him breathe, thinking to yourself, How do I love someone that belongs to the world?
And the answer is: you just do. One day at a time. One morning at a time. One sunlit moment in the kitchen at a time.
That Monday morning, it’s the same as always.
You pad into the living room half-asleep, dragging your feet and wearing one of his T-shirts that hits you mid-thigh. He’s already up, standing barefoot by the window, coffee in hand, arms folded loosely across his chest like he’s holding himself together in case he gets pulled apart again later.
Pause in the doorway. Watch him for a second. The light pooling around his ankles. His shoulders lift, just barely, when he hears your steps.
He doesn’t turn.
“Guess what,” you say.
He smiles, small and crooked. “Hmm?”
You cross the room. Slide your arms around his waist from behind and press your face between his shoulder blades, where the sun’s been warming him for at least half an hour.
“You’re glowing again,” you murmur. “Must be that high-potency sunlight. You hogging the sun again?”
He laughs, the sound low and warm. “You caught me.”
“You’re a danger to local crops,” you whisper. Feel the goosebumps rising underneath his skin. “The corn’s jealous.”
“Oh no. Not the corn.” He turns a little, just enough to look down at you. His eyes are so fucking blue at that moment. “Should I apologize to the corn?”
“Absolutely. It’s your fault they can’t compete. You're literally the reason why Iowa's GDP is going down.”
He leans in. Brushes a kiss to your temple. “I’ll draft a formal statement for them later.”
You stay like that for a minute. Him holding you. You pressing your nose into the slope of his back, breathing him in—sunshine and laundry and that faint green note that’s uniquely Clark. Like basil, or clean leaves. Like something still growing.
And you think: This is the part he doesn’t say out loud.
This is how he tells you.
Not with words. Not yet.
Your boyfriend photosynthesizes. And maybe it’s not the kind of love you can pin down, or explain, or protect. But it’s real. It’s alive.
And you love him.
And he, quietly, completely, loves you back.
(He hasn’t said it yet. But you don’t really need the words to know.)
.
Clark shows you he loves you in ways so small, they’d be easy to miss if you didn’t know how to look for them.
But you do. You catch them in those quiet little corners of the day.
How he folds down the corner of your book before you can reach for a receipt or a pen. How he touches your wrist, not yanking, just there, when you step into the street without looking. How he makes a soft sound of protest—ahem, maybe more like politely exasperated—when you try to carry six grocery bags at once like you, too, are invincible.
And then there’s the orange.
You’re curled into the couch, one of his sweatshirts swallowed over your knees, watching—but not really, to be honest—some long-winded documentary about volcanoes or Icelandic horses or some other quietly majestic subject that definitely feels at odds with your mood. The narrator has this super calm, soothing British lilt and the lighting is very National Geographic: all muted blues and wide drone shots and crashing waves. You haven’t really spoken in close to at least half an hour.
Clark doesn’t push. Never does.
He just lets you sit in it, whatever it is, as long as you need to.
But eventually, he nudges your ankle with his socked foot, like a hello, and when you glance up, he’s setting something on the coffee table with a kind of shy precision.
An orange.
Already peeled.
Not just peeled. Sectioned. Arranged.
It’s kind of ridiculous, how careful it is. No torn rind, no mangled wedges. The peel’s just laid out like a ribbon, one continuous spiral that speaks of time and gentleness and someone who took this seriously. Each segment is placed on a napkin, still glistening with juice, like a little offering.
You blink at it.
Then at him.
He’s pretending to watch the TV, but his body betrays him. His shoulders just slightly angled toward you, eyes flicking sideways like he’s checking the weather.
“I didn’t know if you were hungry,” he says after a beat. Like he’s not sure he’s allowed to say more. “But it’s one of the sweet ones.”
Your throat does something stupid. You reach for a slice and hold it for a second, too long, then pop it into your mouth.
It’s still cold from the fridge. Bright, juicy, perfect. Like summer broke through the haze in your chest.
You make a noise you don’t mean to. Something between surprise and relief.
Clark shifts, trying to look casual, but you catch that familiar smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“I was gonna ask if you wanted one,” he says, still mostly facing the TV, his face painted in blue. “But you looked kind of… I don’t know. Stuck. So I figured I’d just do it.”
“You peeled it for me?”
He finally looks over at you, eyebrows lifted. “Well, yeah.”
And somehow that—that—is what catches in your chest. Not the orange, not the care. He says it like it’s obvious. Like of course he did. Like there’s a whole world of things he would do just for you without even needing to be asked.
You swallow. “You didn’t have to.”
“I know,” he says, shrugging a little. “But that's kind of the point.”
You don’t say anything for a minute. Just reach for another slice.
When you bite into it, something in you loosens. Maybe it’s the juice. Maybe it’s the tenderness.
Clark, watching out of the corner of his eye, shifts a little closer and says, voice low, “When I was a kid, my ma used to 'em for me.”
You glance over. He’s staring at the documentary again, but his tone when he says it, it’s not for the Icelandic horses on the screen.
“She knew I hated the sticky part,” he goes on. “Didn’t like having all that juice on my fingers. So she’d do it before school. Wrap ‘em up in plastic, tuck ‘em in the corner of my lunchbox next to whatever sandwich she made that day. Tuna on Fridays. Always with too much mayo.”
You smile, just a little. “You were a picky eater?”
“Not picky,” he says defensively. “Just—just particular. I didn’t like when my food touched.”
“Mhm.”
“I was seven!”
You laugh, and he finally looks at you, sheepish and warm.
“She used to write little notes sometimes too,” he adds. “On the napkin. Stuff like ‘remember your science quiz’ or ‘you’re stronger than you think.’” He scratches the back of his neck. “Sometimes just a heart. Sometimes that was enough.”
You watch him as he says it, and you think, Of course. Of course you grew up like that. With kindness taught into you like table manners. With love folded into your lunchboxes.
“And now,” you say, voice subtle, “you’re the one peeling oranges for someone else.”
He shrugs again. “Only for you.”
You raise an eyebrow.
“I mean it,” he says. “Everyone else can deal with the sticky fingers. You get the napkin and everything.”
You press a slice into his hand before you can talk yourself out of it.
He pauses, then leans forward and bites it from your fingers, playful but gentle. A little juice escapes down the corner of his mouth. He licks it away without breaking eye contact.
It shouldn’t make your heart ache. But it does.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
“For the orange?”
“For the orange. And the napkin. And, you know. The general care and keeping of me.”
He smiles at that. Tilts his head toward you until your shoulders brush.“Well,” he says, “you’re pretty high-maintenance. Comes with the territory.”
You scoff, gently ebow him. “I am not.”
He raises his brows. “Okay. Yesterday, you made me reheat the tea because it was two degrees below your ideal sipping temperature.”
“That’s not high-maintenance. That’s just me having standards.”
“Sure,” he murmurs, bumping your knee with his. “And your standards include expertly peeled fruit on Tuesdays, apparently.”
You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “I just mean…” You trail off, unsure how to say it without sounding too serious, too much. You chew your lip, watching the light hit his profile. “I hope,” you say softly, almost to yourself, “you never stop doing that.”
He leans his head against the back of the couch, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “What, feeding you citrus?”
You huff out a laugh. “You know what I mean.”
He doesn’t answer for a long moment. Then he says, simple and sure, like the truth it is:
“I won’t.”
.
You don’t even really remember texting him. You think you might’ve. Maybe. Who knows.
In the middle of your 2 a.m. sick delirium, burning up and freezing at the same time, with every single cell in your body screaming and staging some sort of mutiny, you vaguely remember opening your phone with bleary eyes and typing something half-coherent.
A string of emojis. A sad face, a skull, a wilted flower. Vomit emoji. You might’ve hit send. You might’ve just passed out mid-thought.
Either way, Clark’s there when you come to.
He’s on the floor beside your bed, cross-legged, slouched a little in that way he always is when he’s trying to make himself smaller than he actually is. He’s doing this thing he does similar to when he's reading out his first drafts—voice low and even, a little scratchy like he hasn’t used it much today, or maybe just because it’s the middle of the night and the Metropolis is quiet for once and so is he.
You blink, once, twice, groggily, and he doesn’t even look up as he says:
“…and then I told Jimmy that if he was going to hide in the cafeteria instead of facing Eve, he should at least clean up after his brooding, because no one wants to sit next to a scone that’s been glared at for thirty minutes."
That's when you make a sound—half a groan, half a breath—and he glances up.
“Oh,” he says, smiling. “Hey. You’re awake.”
God, you swear your head's a pressure cooker. Your throat feels like someone lined it with sandpaper and regret. You’re pretty sure you’re covered in sweat, and not in a sexy, cinematic way, but more in a swampy, bedraggled, my skin might never be clean again kind of way.
And yet here he is, reading from what you now realize is his work notebook.
Not even a novel. Just… Clark, narrating his week.
“God,” you croak. “I think I’m dying.”
Clark shifts immediately, one knee bent, his hand brushing against your arm like he’s checking for tremors. “You’re not dying,” he says gently. “You’re just sick. Classic human stuff. I Googled it to make sure.”
“You Googled my flu?”
“Yeah. Also called my dad.”
Your lips twitch. “Of course you did.”
“He said tea, soup, and don't try to touch your toes.”
You blink at him. “I wasn’t gonna—”
“I didn’t think you would. But he insisted.”
He presses a glass of water into your hand. Holds it there, actually, like you might forget what to do with it. You sip slowly, mostly because he’s watching you with the intensity of someone monitoring the nuclear launch codes. His hand stays curved behind your back the whole time, steady and warm, his thumb sweeping once over your shoulderblade.
“Still tastes like shit,” you mutter, grimacing.
“That’s just your fever lying to you,” he says. “Give it time. I brought supplies.”
Which is how, ten minutes later, you’re propped up like a limp marionette with three pillows, wearing one of his hoodies, while Clark, bless him, is rumbling around in your kitchen making the world’s most dramatic instant ramen.
He hums while he works, something mellow and vaguely twangy—something that sounds like wide-open spaces and Sunday mornings and the kind of radio stations that only exist halfway between here and Kansas.
When he brings the bowl back, he sits on the edge of the bed and feeds you, spoon by spoon, blowing on each bite first like he thinks you might scald your tongue.
You watch him through a fever-glazed blur. “You’re really committing to the bit.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What bit?”
“The Florence Nightingale… Florence Kent thing.”
He grins, bashful. “It’s not a bit. I just… I didn’t want you to be alone.”
Your stomach flips. It has nothing to do with the soup.
“And also,” he adds, “I brought a book, thought you might like something to listen to in the background.”
You blink at him.
“I figured I’d read to you once the soup’s done. Unless you’d rather I make more toast. I could do toast. Or try. I mean, it’s technically one of the few things I can’t mess up.”
You take the spoon from his hand. “Baby.”
“Yeah?”
“Sit down before you vibrate out of your flannel.”
He obeys instantly, because Clark is nothing if not obedient when you sound just a tiny bit bossy and ill. You laugh a little. Then cough a lot.
When you stop hacking, there’s a glass of water in your hand again, and he's looking at you like he’s trying to mentally calculate your temperature based soely off your pupil dilation. You wave him off until he settles down again, until his work stories blur into white noise and you feel yourself drifting.
Later, when the room is dark except for the glow of the bedside lamp, and your fever’s burning lower, no longer trying to boil you alive but still leaving your limbs really heavy and wrung-out—you stir, blink groggily, and find him exactly where he’s been all day: back on the floor, this time leaning against the bed frame like he’s trying to become one with the carpet.
There's a book in his hands.
You squint. “Is that… Star Wars?”
He doesn’t look up right away. Just flips a page, calm and unbothered, like this is a completely normal Wednesday night activity. “Yeah. From a Certain Point of View. It’s like… like—little side stories. People on the edges of the main stuff. Background characters getting the spotlight. I thought you might like it.”
“You’re reading me Star Wars fanfiction.”
Clark glances up, grinning. “Not fanfiction. It’s licensed content.”
“Clark.”
“It’s from Jimmy.”
“Clark.”
He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, it’s kind of sanctioned fanfic. But it’s good. There's one from the point of view of Obi-Wan’s ghost and it made me emotional.”
You try to snort, but it comes out more like a croak. “You’re such a nerd.”
“Says the person who cried over an R2-D2 Lego set last Christmas.”
“That was a very moving gift and you know it.”
Clark reaches over to adjust your blanket, tucking it up under your chin with careful fingers. “I just thought it might be nice. Something familiar. It’s kind of like comfort food, but for your brain.”
You look at him—really look at him—glasses askew, hair flattened on one side from the couch pillow, sweatshirt stretched over his broad chest like it was never meant to fit a man built like a brick wall—and feel that weird, awful feeling twist in your chest again.
The one that always comes when he’s like this. Sweet and earnest and just slightly off-center in a way that makes your whole life feel gentler.
“Thank you,” you rasp, voice hoarse but sincere.
He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Don’t mention it.”
Then, after a beat:
“I was gonna read the one about the cantina bartender next. He has some very strong feelings about the music.”
“. . . Okay yeah, you're weird.”
“Exactly.”
He closes the book for a moment and reaches for your hand under the blanket. His fingers wrap around yours, warm and firm and callused at the knuckles. He squeezes gently.
“I know I’m not good at this,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “The taking-care-of-people thing. Not like my dad was. He used to bring orange Jell-O and put those cold cloths on my head when I got sick. He'd sit with me and hum old country songs like that could fix it. And sometimes, it kinda did.”
You squeeze his fingers back. He looks at your joined hands like they’re something fragile.
“I don’t really even know all the right things,” he continues. “But I’m gonna stay right here until you feel good again.”
You swallow. Your throat aches. Your heart does, too, but in a different way.
“Clark,” you whisper. “You’re doing perfect.”
He gives you this look—hazy and overwhelmed, like maybe he needed to hear that more than he thought. He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, cool and steady and grounding.
“I got you,” he murmurs. “Always.”
He reads until your breathing evens out again, then switches to humming—barely there, just a thread of melody tracing the shape of the room. He doesn’t move from his place beside your bed.
You don’t think he even blinks when you stir, reaching a hand out for his. He’s just there.
So you dream of a cantina bartender with strong feelings about the music. Of a man with dark hair and horrendous posture and the kindest eyes in the galaxy, carrying soup and picture books and the whole weight of your heart like it’s not heavy at all.
.
It was supposed to be a date.
Like, a real date. One with proper shoes and napkins that aren’t made of recycled drive-thru material. A night where neither of you had to sprint, lie, cover for the other, or show up late with leaves in your hair because someone, cough, got caught helping rescue a tour boat from sinking off the coast of Maine.
Just dinner. Just one Thursday evening. A normal, honest-to-god, pre-planned, mildly fancy dinner.
You’d even made a reservation at that Italian place ou guys have been meaning to try.
Clark had combed his curls with what looked like actual intent and buttoned his shirt all the way to the top, then unbuttoned one (just one) like he’d read about the concept of casual in a book. You caught him practicing his posture in the hallway mirror before you left.
“Do I look like I own a belt?” he’d asked.
“You do own a belt.”
“Right, but do I look like I believe in it?”
You had rolled your eyes. He’d kissed your forehead. You’d both agreed, silently and aloud and silently again: This time, it’s gonna stick.
Just dinner.
Just you and him.
Just—
The sky, it turns out, had other ideas.
You’re only two blocks from the restaurant, your heels clicking rhythmically against the sidewalk. He’s saying something about dessert—about how he’s never actually had crème brûlée and how suspicious he is of any food that requires a blowtorch—and you’re about to tell him that he’s a coward and has terrible, horrible opinions when he—
Flinches.
Just slightly. A twitch, more than anything. Like someone tugged on the collar of his shirt from behind.
You stop. Narrow your eyes.
“Kent.”
He stills, then winces, and it’s over. The wind picks up just enough to ruffle his jacket and toss a strand of your hair across your lip.
“Baby,” you say, dragging out the vowels like you’re preparing to scold a dog who’s eyeing the Thanksgiving turkey.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know. I know. I just—there’s something happening in Hob’s Bay. I think it’s Parasite again.”
“Parasite?” you repeat, like that somehow makes it better. “The guy who eats energy and punches holes through cement walls like graham crackers?”
Clark winces again, guilt washing across his face like rain.
“I can take you home first,” he says quickly. “I’ll be fast. Twenty minutes. Tops.”
“You said that last time,” you remind him.
“Yes, but this time I mean it with—” he pauses, trying to sell it, “—I mean it. I've got improved time management skills. I’ve been working on it, I swear. I downloaded a calendar app.”
“Oh my god, Clark.”
“I even color-coded it!”
You cross your arms. “Clark.”
“I swear on my mom’s ceramic cow collection.”
“…The one on the microwave?”
“She dusts them twice a week.”
You sigh, but you’re already unhooking your arm from his. He’s practically vibrating now, trying to stand still. There’s a flash of green in the far-off clouds.
“I liked this dress,” you say.
“I love that dress,” he says, almost in awe. “I’m gonna come back and ruin it for you in much better ways.”
A beat. He realizes how that sounded. “I mean, like—because of pasta sauce. And maybe dancing? gosh, I’m terrible at this—”
You laugh despite yourself. Even as the first drops of rain start to hit your shoulders. “Go, Kansas.”
He kisses your cheek. Then the other. His hands linger against your face a half-second too long, his thumbs warm even through the chill.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, quiet now. “Promise.”
Then he’s gone.
“I know,” you reply to no one in particular, because you do.
You spend the next hour curled on the couch in the dress you never got to wear properly, the hem slightly damp from the rain and your eyeliner gently betraying you. The news cycles through static, then footage of Clark shielding a crowd with a dented bus stop sign like it’s a riot shield, eyes glowing faintly, shoulders squared. Calm. Measured. Still gentle, even in a fight. You eat a sleeve of saltines out of spite.
He texts you twice:
CLARKY <3: STILL FIGHTING THE SLIME GUY. HE’S YELLING ABOUT “THE SYSTEM” SO I THINK THIS IS POLITICALLY MOTIVATED.
CLARKY <3: ALMOST DONE. PLEASE DON’T FALL ASLEEP. I OWE YOU SO MUCH CREME BRUILALAE 🍨
You don’t reply. He needs to focus. But you do leave the kitchen light on.
It's past ten when he gets back. He lands with a whisper on your fire escape—so quiet it takes you a second to realize he’s there. You’re already in pajamas at this point.
He taps gently on the window.
When you slide it open, he’s dripping. Suit ripped at the collar. A graze on his temple that’s already healing. Mud on his boots. Eyes wide and sheepish and a little desperate.
“You’re late,” you say.
“The Italian place was closed,” he says, holding up a crumpled brown paper bag like an offering. "But I brought dumplings?"
Your stomach betrays you with a loud growl. Fucking saltines. He smiles, relieved.
“They’re from that place you like,” he adds quickly. “The one with the crab rangoon that makes you make weird noises.”
You cross your arms. “You think you can just bribe me with steamed buns and flattery?”
“Yes?” he tries.
“…You’re not wrong.”
You step back to let him in. He shrugs off the cape, moving slower than usual. His shoulders dip lower. His steps drag a little. The exhaustion sits in him like weight.
“Sit down,” you say.
“I can—”
“Clark. Couch. Now.”
He obeys without question, settling into the cushions like a man unraveling. You grab a towel and a hoodie from your room—one of his—and toss both at him. Then you disappear into the kitchen.
After a beat, he calls after you: “I missed you.”
You don’t answer right away. Just finish plating the takeout, dividing the dumplings and the sticky rice and the rangoon with practiced ease. Your apartment smells like warm ginger and garlic. Familiar. Safe.
When you bring the food over, you find him curled sideways on the couch, legs too long, towel around his shoulders like a cape. He grins when he sees the plates.
“You forgive me?” he asks, hopeful.
You hand him a rangoon. “Chew before you talk.”
He does. Then says, with a mouthful of crab: “I really did want it to be a normal night.”
You look at him. At the tired, good man who flew across the city to keep someone else’s world from breaking. At the one who brought you dumplings and rainwater and apologies on the roof of his tongue.
“I know,” you say.
He finishes chewing, then leans forward, chin on your shoulder, voice curling around the edges. “You look beautiful, by the way.”
You snort. “You say that now that I’m in fleece pants with soup stains.”
“I stand by it,” he murmurs. “Always.”
You let him curl around you then, dinner plates on the coffee table, reruns of I Love Lucy playing low in the background. He eats with one arm around your waist. You steal his dumplings when he’s not looking.
Later, when you’re both too full and too warm and too tired to move, he says it again.
“I’ll make it up to you.”
You nudge his leg with your foot. “You already are.”
He hums, pleased but tired, and lets his head fall back against the cushions. “Still wish I hadn’t missed dinner. Not the food. Just—being there. With you.”
There’s a smear of sauce near his mouth when you glance over him. He’s so unbelievably warm around the edges like this—like the fight’s finally bled out of him and he’s just Clark again. Your Clark.
“You always say that,” you murmur.
“Because I always mean it.”
You reach up, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. He goes quiet. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you like he’s trying to memorize the moment.
There’s a beat where neither of you speak. The kind that hums with the weight of something unspoken, blooming slow between you. Then, without moving your hand, you ask, “You gonna let me kiss you now, or are you still trying to be polite?”
That gets a smile. A real one. A little crooked, a little shy.
“You can do whatever you want,” he says. “You always could.”
So you lean in.
The kiss starts off like a warning.
Your mouth brushes his—brief, firm, no room for questions, not really—and then again, slower this time. He makes a noise, deep in his chest, something caught between relief and surrender.
When your fingers slide into his hair, he tilts into it instinctively. His hands stay right where they are, just one at your waist, one braced uselessly on the couch cushion like he’s reminding himself not to move unless you ask him to.
He huffs something like a laugh when you pull back for a breath. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”
You smile. “Flatterer.”
His hand on your waist shifts slightly, pulling you in closer. Not rough. Not needy. Just—anchoring. Your knees bracket his hips and you kiss him again, open-mouthed this time, licking into his mouth like you’re starved and this is your first taste of real food.
And Clark lets you.
He lets you kiss him with all the frustration of the ruined date and the tension of waiting and the affection that’s been building in your chest for weeks, maybe months. He meets you where you are—mouth pliant, eyes closed, his breathing unraveling under your hands.
“You always come back like this,” you whisper, teeth grazing his jaw. “All apologies and those puppy dog blue eyes and your make-up take-out. Like I wouldn’t crawl across glass to have you.”
He exhales, sharp and shaky, like your words hit a nerve. His hands tense slightly at your thighs, just for a second, then relax again. He doesn’t try to flip you, doesn’t shift to take control. Just looks at you.
“I mean it,” you murmur, kissing just under his ear. “You come in, wrecked and kind and too damn good, and I’m supposed to what? Sit next to you like my skin isn’t trying to crawl off my bones just to get to yours?”
Clark swallows. “You—” His voice is rough, halting. “You can have me.”
He says it so quietly you almost miss it.
“You already do,” he adds. “You don’t have to prove anything. You—”
Your mouth is on his before he can finish. You kiss him like you’re trying to breathe him in, to memorize the way his ribs rise under your hands. His lips part on a gasp, and you take it as invitation. He lets you tilt his head back even further, lets you set the rhythm—his hands gripping the couch cushions like they’re the only things that can possibly ground him.
You pull back, just enough to see his face. His hair’s still damp, starting to curl at the edges, his cheeks flushed. His glasses are askew, so you reach up and slide them off. Set them gently on the side table. His eyes don’t leave yours for a second.
"Stand up," you say, and he does, wordless, chest rising fast under the hoodie. He's got the towel instead of the cape draped around his shoulders, like he's still half in hero mode. You take that off.
Your fingers go to the hem of the hoodie next, lifting it. He raises his arms obediently, eyes half-lidded, focused. He’s still in the bottom half of the suit, and your breath catches—because even now, even like this, he wears it like a second skin.
But you want the man. Not the symbol.
“Off,” you say, fingers brushing the slick, faintly scorched fabric of the suit’s torso. “I want you, not him.”
He nods. It’s so damn slight, like he’s not so sure his voice will work. His hands go to the hidden seams and he peels the suit down, exposing inch after inch of bare skin beneath—toned and marked from the night, faint purple bruises already turning gold where his healing has started. You trail your fingers and follow him down, down, down his sternum, then lower, across his ribs.
The suit hits the floor in a gentle whisper. Boots, too. The cape’s already been discarded—somewhere between the fire escape and your front door—and now he’s just standing there in front of you, bare and breathless and completely yours.
“Come closer,” you say. "It's my turn."
He goes to help you, but you stop him. Eyebrows raised. "Eyes up here. I'll do it myself."
Clark watches you the whole time, not rushing, not leading. His expression open, undone. His bottom lip's caught between his teeth, eyes trained on every single one of your painstaking actions. Peeling your shirt off, your ratty fleece pants, your bra, all of it. He's enjoying this way more than he should, those eyes of his glinting in the light, but that's the intoxicating part of it.
When you're done, he finally speaks up, voice reduced to a hush. Wills himself to look away from your body and just look into your eyes. "How do you want me?"
You hum, turning on your feet, pretending to think it over. Really, it's just an excuse to have him look at your bare body. Tempt him a little bit. It drives him insane. Still, he doesn't break eye contact.
"I think," you purse your lips. "I want you underneath me tonight."
He nods. Serious. "Of course."
You lead him back to the bedroom. Not because he needs help walking, but because there’s something in you that just wants to savor the walk. He lets you guide him backward, his legs bumping against the edge of the bed.
He sits.
Then waits.
Clark just looks so… perfect like this.
Hard, aching, weeping, cheeks pink and pupils dilated. Hands, those goddamn hands, politely by his sides. Does nothing but lay down on the mattress, just waiting for whatever you feel like doing to him. The knowing—the seeing, does more to you than you'd like to admit.
You crawl, slowly, over his body. Fingers skirting over the freckles of his body, the light dusting of hair across his torso, the goosebumps that rise there. Anything but pay attention to his cock that's begging for you, until you're close to straddling his face, hovering there.
A pause. Those baby blue eyes, the cause of so many of your little deaths. His lips, pink and wet as his tongue swipes over them. A hint of a smile. You brush a curl away from his forehead, fingers methodical and thoughtful.
"Okay."
Once you give him the go-ahead, he's all instinct, steady hands pulling your thighs more snug over his shoulders with all of the skill and quiet confidence of a man who's been breaking you down and laying you out for a long time.
It's so easy—so easy to lose yourself in it. So easy when you're on top of the world.
Clark knows. You've genuinely never met a guy who enjoys eating someone out more than him. He knows all the ways to make your legs shake and your head vibrate out of its skull, all the little skills and patterns and consistencies to get you to cum within minutes, but from the way he takes his time, mouth roaming everywhere—your thighs, your legs, the back of your knees—
He means to torture you. Make you eat your words. But you're gonna have the last say tonight.
You squeeze your legs around his face, bringing his attention to you, all blue-eyed innocence glancing up to you. Little shit. "Hey," you will your voice into something vaguely commanding. "How many times do you think you can make me cum tonight?"
All you get is a lopsided smile. "As many times 's you want."
"Ball park?"
He strums his fingers along your thigh. Pretends to think about it. Looking up at the corner of his eyes like he's doing mental math. "How about we start with five or six and go from there?"
"Perfect. Delightful, Kent. Alright, procee—"
His arms tighten around your thighs, and that's all the warning you get before he dives right in, parting your lips with his tongue and tasting all that you've got to offer, and god, if that doesn't make the slick accumulate even more in between your thighs, gushing, eyes falling closed.
A trooper always, Clark's mouth is warm, forming into a smile. "Baby, you taste so good. Needed this."
There's desperation in it, the way he sucks on your clit, two fingers finding themselves rocking against your cunt so that you feel nothing but full, boundless pleasure. You're so wet that his digits are sliding effortlessly, even more so as he licks you through it.
All you can do is whimper and whine, hands coming to rest up against the headboard. "Clark, Clark, so good. Don't stop. Please."
The mattress shakes around you as he grinds up into the air, barely concealed want and need and everything he hasn't said before, teeth gently scraping at your cunt. You can hear it too, his mouth working against you, his moans rising above it all. And god, the tension—the fucking strength of this man—the fact that he's letting you ride his face like there's no tomorrow.
Then his tongue sweeps hot across your clit, his two fingers curling inside you at the exact moment you squeeze. And fuck, you pulse hard and come until you've got nothing left to give, just a mantra of his name—"Clark, Clark, baby—"
He licks and sucks you through the aftershocks, shuddering through it all, and then it's back down to earth.
You fall down on the bed next to him, legs unable to hold you up. The only way to describe how you feel now is just—pure, fucking, boneless glee. And then you look over, and god, if that's not the best view in the world—Clark. The bottom of his face glistening, smiling in that stupid, boyish way of his, curls in his eyes and a twinkle there like he just won the lottery.
"What are you smiling about?"
Clark shakes his head, shrugging and looking up at the ceiling like it has the answers. "Oh, nothin'. Just happy."
This hunger, this love for him—you don't think it'll ever go away. You don't think you could ever get sick of it, you don't think you can ever get your fill of him. You're going to want him this badly for the rest of your life.
But before you could spiral down that terrifying staircase of thoughts, you're brought out your stupor with one large hand trailing up your thigh. Clark's shifted so that you're beneath him, world turned upside down. He's going back down for more.
"We've got at least four more to go, sweet girl. Made you a promise, remember?"
.
It’s honestly the quiet that gets you, at first.
That slow, rolling kind that doesn’t sit heavy so much as drape itself across everything like an old quilt. The kind of quiet that has its own rhythm. Space between sounds.
Not silence, never that, but it's more akin to a hush. A pause you didn’t know your life had been missing.
There are birds, sure. A lot of them, actually. There’s the wind, too, rattling through those wheat-colored fields, whistling past the house's warped slats like it’s trying to remember a song it used to know. But underneath it all is stillness.
A kind of breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, now slowly, slowly letting out.
A little more soap opera meets Hallmark original—maybe some mysterious family feuds and charming small-town antics. Some lingering drama about a pie contest. You fully expected someone with an old-timey name to pour you coffee at the local diner you guys stopped at and mention she “hasn’t seen Clark Kent around these parts in a while.”
Instead, you got: rooster at 5:30. Floorboard in the kitchen that creaks like it’s about to file a complaint against you just for exisiting. A guest room that smells faintly like wood polish and wheat. You got Clark, elbow-deep in chicken feed at seven a.m., wearing a white t-shirt that’s hanging on by a thread but you're not complaining.
You’re house-sitting for the Kents while Jonathan and Martha are on a cruise—a cruise, of all things. Clark’s voice had been thick with disbelief when he told you.
“Can you believe my dad packed four Hawaiian shirts?” Then later, when they called from the boat to say they’d already made friends with a retired couple from Branson and signed up for salsa dancing classes, Clark had stared at the phone like it had personally betrayed him.
“They deserve it,” he says eventually, a little quiet. “They’ve never done anything like this. I hope they stay gone the full two weeks.”
You’d kissed his shoulder and said, “Selfishly, me too.”
Because being here, just the two of you, it’s not glamorous. But it feels like something. Something good.
One morning, early on, you found yourself squinting into the haze of a Kansas dawn, clutching a cup of coffee that tasted like burnt hope, and whispering, half to yourself, “Do… do the cows have names?”
Clark, already in his work boots and wrist-deep in a feed bag, turns like you’d just offered to marry him.
“Of course they do!" he says, smug. “That’s Millie.” He points at a big black-and-white cow with the expression of someone who’d once gone on Twitter and got traumatized. “She’s real skittish when it rains but loves, absolutely loves cantaloupe rinds. That one’s Donnie—he’s dramatic. Moooos like he’s dying if you’re even five minutes late.”
You blink at him. “You’re serious.”
“Deadly,” he says, patting Millie with the same affection he uses on your lower back when you cook dinner barefoot. It makes you snort. “Also, we don’t call it breakfast here. It’s ‘morning feed.’”
You stare. “This is so not the rural romance novel I signed up for.”
He grins, boyish and crooked. “Let me guess. Thought it’d be Days of Our Lives but make it cornfed?”
“Exactly. Where’s the murder mystery? The barn dance? The family rival who wears all linen and says ominous things like, ‘You’ll never take the south pasture from me, you bastard.’”
"You forget. It's the Midwest. We're not in the South," He scratches behind Donnie’s ear. “But there is a someone with drama kinda like that here. Name's Barb, I think,” he says. “She runs the Dairy Queen and once hit a deer with her truck and cried about it for a week.”
You pause. “…Okay. That’s actually kind of sad. But wholesome."
“See?”
The days fall into a rhythm, eventually.
You weed the garden (poorly). He fixes the gate (obscenely well). You help collect eggs and try not to let on that the chickens genuinely unsettle you. Clark, that menace, just laughs every single time one flaps in your general direction and you flinch like it’s going to demand your wallet and keys and job.
One Friday afternoon, you find yourself washing strawberries at the sink while Clark scrubs paint off the porch railing—some old project Jonathan started and never finished.
You glance up and he’s standing there in the sun, t-shirt stained, face flushed, humming some old country song under his breath, and your chest physically hurts from how much you love him.
“You wanna do something dumb?” you ask, voice louder than it needs to be, just to get his attention.
Clark looks up, squints against the light. “Always.”
It’s not fancy.
Twenty minutes later, you’re both in the back pasture, far enough from the house that it’s just you and the cows and the sound of summer in every direction.
There’s a plastic grocery bag between you full of things neither of you should technically call lunch. Two kinds of chips (barbecue for you, cheddar for him). A Diet Dr. Pepper, sweating in the heat. One sad gas station brownie. And a couple of oranges, wrapped carefully in plastic wrap.
You lift an eyebrow as you start to unpack. “You know we have actual food, right?”
He shrugs, pulling the chips open. “The grocery store’s like forty minutes away,” he says, like that explains everything. “Didn’t wanna leave you.”
Your mouth opens, ready to toss something casual back—something about sandwiches, or homemade pasta salad, or literally anything with protein—but then you see how gently he’d wrapped the oranges. How he packed napkins, remembered your favorite chips, brought two plastic forks for the brownie like it was a birthday cake.
So instead, you say, “...I like barbecue,” and your voice is quieter than you mean it to be.
He glances over, chin on his shoulder, smiling like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I know.”
You eat like kids. Cross-legged on the blanket, crumbs everywhere, licking orange juice off your thumbs. You wipe your hands on your pants. He stretches out on his side, elbow propped, watching the clouds like they’re moving too slow. His knee brushes yours and doesn’t move away.
You think you feel a mosquito bite. You don’t really care anymore.
“I forgot what this feels like,” you say at one point, picking salt from the corners of your lips. “Just… doing nothing. On purpose.”
He hums. “It’s good for you. Stillness.”
“You sound like your mom.”
“She’s smarter than I am.”
“You said that last night when I told you to take a nap.”
“See? Pattern holds.”
You lean back on your elbows and look at him, really look. Light getting caught in his lashes. He’s watching you, too, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. Like the world could ask for him and he’d still choose to stay here, sweaty and dumb and mosquito-bitten and happy beside you.
He peels another orange with a practiced hand, splitting it down the middle and handing you the sweeter half.
“Thanks,” you murmur.
“Sometimes I miss this, y'know?” he says, around a bite of an orange.
You glance over.
“Not the chicken poop or the mosquito bites,” he adds, “but the...quiet. The not-having-to-be-everything-all-the-time. Out here, you’re just...you. You fix the fence. You make a mess. You listen to cicadas and complain about the humidity and your ma yells at you for tracking dirt inside.”
You tilt your head. “You ever think about staying? Settling down here?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just plucks a blade of grass and spins it between his fingers.
“Sometimes,” he admits. “But then I think—this is what shaped me. But it’s not all I am. The world’s loud, and it’s messy, and it needs things. But this…” He looks at you. “This is what I miss when I’m out there.”
You nod. Reduced to speechlessness, because it's so tender and perfect and so him that it hurts.
Clark finishes the orange. Wipes his fingers on a napkin, then on his jeans when that doesn’t do the trick. You lie back on the blanket with a quiet sigh, letting the sun press into your skin, the breeze lift the sweat at your temples.
It could’ve ended there. Could’ve been just a quiet kind of golden. But then you nudge his ankle with yours.
“Bet I could outrun you,” you say lazily, like you’re not poking a bear.
Clark huffs. Turns his head toward you, amused. “That so?”
“Mmhm,” you say, stretching. “You’ve been slacking. Porch paint and chicken duty’s got you soft.”
He squints at you. “You really wanna start this?”
“You said yourself, Kansas. Nothing to do out here but complain about the heat and cause a little trouble.”
He smiles slowly. The kind of smile that curls at the corners. Dangerous only someone so gentle and kind can be.
“Alright then,” he says, sitting up. “You get a ten-second head start.”
Your eyes go wide. “Wait, really—”
“Nine,” he says, already grinning, already counting.
You scramble to your feet. “Oh my god, you are not serious—”
“Eight.”
You bolt.
The grass is taller in some spots and it catches at your ankles, slows you down. The air is thick with sun and the hum of everything living. You turn left, laughing, hair sticking to the back of your neck, and glance behind you just in time to see him loping after you, easy and unhurried, like he’s letting you win.
Which is worse. Infuriating. Fucking ass.
“KENT!” you shout over your shoulder. “I swear if you let me win I’m gonna trip myself just to spite you—”
“Then you better run faster!” he calls back, but he’s laughing too, bright and open and young in a way he doesn’t always let himself be in the city.
You make it halfway to the barn before he catches you, just a hand on your waist, barely a tug. You spin with the momentum and half-collapse against him, breathless, wheezing from the run and the heat and the sheer absurdity of it all.
“You cheated,” you gasp.
“I didn’t even use my powers.”
“That’s worse.”
He leans in, resting his forehead against yours, both of you flushed and sweating and smiling like idiots.
“You’re fast,” he murmurs, voice low. “But I know how you move.”
You roll your eyes, still catching your breath. “Don’t say stuff like that unless you wanna get kissed.”
“Maybe I do,” he says, quiet now.
Oh, if that doesn't make you wanna ruin him. When you lean in, he tastes like oranges and sweat and something warm you can’t name.
“You’re always holding back,” you murmur against his mouth. “Let me have you.”
Clark’s breathing stutters.
“You have me,” he says, like it’s a promise. Like it’s been true since the first day you met.
Your teeth graze his lip, just enough to make him gasp. “Then act like it.”
Now that—that—does something to him.
His hands slip quickly under your sundress, palms mapping the curve of your back, hungry and greedy all at once. Your head tips back when his mouth finds your neck again, hot and open and just a little bit wild. His teeth scrape the spot just beneath your ear and your fingers clench in his curls, hard.
The bark digs into your shoulder blades. You can faintly feel the ground disappearing from under you. Grass sticks to the backs of your calves. The sky overhead is lazy and blue, clouds like pulled cotton, and none of it, absolutely none of it, matters.
Not the cows, not the heat, not the fact that you're pressed up against a pecan tree in the middle of a Kansas pasture—just this. Just him.
It doesn't take long for it to escalate.
You're not normally a fan of this—quickies, anyway, you'd rather take your time, break him down methodically, piece by piece, but you think you'd actually combust if you don't have him right there, right at that second. And damn it, you will.
You will.
Your hands scramble to wrench his shirt off, a mad dash to get as close to his skin as possible. He helps you, your pretty boy, your sweetheart, your sunshine—chuckling when the fabric inevitably gets caught between his head and shoulders.
"Clark—" you glare at him, not really annoyed with him but his stupid, stupid shirt. "Get it—please, get it off—"
"So impatient," He grins. He helps you anyway, giving you that final push to get the shirt off his head. And then ou're like a moth drawn to a flame, nipping at his skin, sucking little love bites that you know he adores into his chest. "Baby, sweetheart—"
"Sweetheart, baby—" You kiss his collarbone, hands going to undo his belt, the metal clinking from your actions. "Need you now."
Clark nods vigorously at that. "Yeah, yeah—okay."
He readjusts, free now from his belt, jeans dropping low, and he's scooping your thighs up so you're flush against the tree for leverage. The bark of the tree's rough and it'll leave some truly horrendous marks later, but he's pushing your dress up around your waist, cock situated and ready at your entrance.
A breath. A look between you. And then he sinks you down, no prep, no foreplay, just him and the burn of taking all of him bare.
You make an embarrassing noise when he bottoms out, yelping and wrapping your arms around his neck. Clark slows down, pressing kisses on your forehead and muttering small little praises. "You're doing so good. You feel amazing, baby, you just let me know when, I'll wait—"
Fuck, that turns you on more than it should've. You clench around him, mouth parting in a quiet moan. "Now, I'm ready now. Move, Kent."
His hand hitches your leg up higher for a better angle, and—yeah, if that's not the hottest thing in the world. The tenderness mixed with the way you know he's about to utterly destroy you. He rolls his hips, once, twice, until he sets a punishing rhythm.
He moves, hard and deep inside of you, always a stretch widthwise. Always feels like a rearrangement. Every single vein, every twitch, every agonizing inch as he gets to work fucking you like your life depends on it.
And the tree shakes—it fucking shakes, leaves falling all around you—when his pace gets punishing and relentless. All you can do is take it, legs shivering and hands scrambling to hold on to something, anything.
The strap of your dress has fallen down your shoulder at this point, and Clark takes the opportunity to wrap his hot mouth around your exposed nipple, eyes falling closed. "Tastes like heaven."
"Clark—" You shudder, his ruts turning more and more shallow. "Need more, I need—need help, please—"
He nods against your skin, letting go of your nipple with one wet pop. A hand skirts down between you, wordless, and rubs hard circles against your clit, never twisting, just a constant, almost vibrating pressure that wrenches more desperate gasps out of you.
You love him.
It hits you the hardest at that moment, when he grins and you can feel those tell-tale signs of your orgasm shuddering closer, so impossibly close that it makes your knees weak. Like your body can’t hold the thought anymore.
Months of this, this agonizing need to tell him, to show him. And suddenly it’s all you can feel—this pressure behind your teeth, this wild, unspooling thing clawing to get out. You didn’t plan on it. You don't meant to. But it’s already there, clawing its way up your throat with a kind of ferocity that feels unstoppable.
You pull back a breath. Just enough to get the words free. Try to get lucid fast.
“I—”
But then his hand’s on your cheek.
Soft. Certain.
“Wait,” he says, and it’s gentle, but firm enough to stop you.
You freeze, stunned. Like someone hit pause on your entire brain.
“W–W–What?” you whisper, barely breathing. His pace doesn't break. Still pounding into you like he doesn't see right through you. His eyes flicker between yours—quiet, careful, like he sees exactly where you were going. Like he caught the words mid-flight.
“Not yet,” he murmurs. “Not like this, baby. Not while I'm—not against a tree.”
“I don't—I don't mind,” you whine.
He laughs under his breath. "No.”
You must've pouted, must've frowned, or… or something, because Clark's expression goes soft. He tugs you closer, hips going deeper this time until your head falls back, like an apology.
You're so close, so goddamn close, and fuck, if he's not determined to make it up to you. Focus redirected to the sole goal of making you finish harder than you ever have before. Another broken moan slips out of you.
And you're still overtaken by this need to say something, something to encapsulate this feeling inside of you. So instead, you say the next best thing, “You’re mine,” you say, fierce and true and sure.
Clark nods. “Yours,” he echoes, like it’s gospel.
You come around him like that, muscles wound up tight, him working himself into you faster—faster, until he pulses inside you. It's all warmth, his shoulders shaking like a leaf, you holding onto him like the old tire swing on a tree. Chests heaving. Sweat pooling underneath your knees. But he doesn't let go.
He pulls back just a tad, just enough to rest his head against the crook of your neck. His curls tickle your skin, just slightly. "Hold me tighter?"
You're still quivering, traitorous legs twitching, but you do. You wrap your arms around him and squeeze until he sighs, relaxed and spent and all the things that you let go unsaid.
The cows, thankfully, have the decency not to interrupt.
.
He’s on the fire escape again.
You don’t see him at first—just the corner of his shirt sleeve through the window screen, fluttering gently in the breeze like a flag someone planted in a place they want to stay.
You step closer.
And there he is.
Sitting on the metal grate, knees drawn up, socked feet tucked against the warm steel, one arm draped loosely over the railing like he forgot the rest of the world exists. His head's tilted back against the sun, eyes closed, face subdued in that way it only gets when no one’s watching.
Or maybe just when you are.
His shirt—some washed-out old thing from Central Kansas A&M—is rumpled and crooked on his frame like he pulled it out of the laundry basket and shrugged it on without thinking. One sleeve's shoved all the way to his elbow, exposing the freckles on his forearm.
You’re barefoot, cradling a sweating glass of lemonade in your palm, still in sleep shorts and one of his too-big sweaters again. You hadn’t meant to come looking for him. You just woke up and felt the space beside you was empty, not in a sad way, just… hollow. Cool.
You followed the pull of it until it led you here.
He doesn’t move when you open the window. Doesn’t speak. But his eyes blink open, lashes catching the light. He looks at you, and that alone does something to your insides.
It’s the kind of look that hits low and blooms slow.
Not a spark, but a sunrise.
His smile when he sees you is small. A little crooked, like maybe he’s not so sure it’s okay to be this happy about something so simple.
Like you just standing there, sleepy and squinting and probably still with pillow creases and hints of drool on your cheek, is his favorite part of this whole Saturday.
He lifts a hand and stretches it toward you.
Palm up.
Fingertips flexing.
“C’mere,” he says, voice warm from disuse. “It’s nice.”
You don’t hesitate.
You climb carefully, your lemonade forgotten on the windowsill, and ease down between his legs. The fire escape creaks beneath you but holds. Of course it does. He shifts to make room for you like he already knew exactly how this would fit—your back against his chest, his knees bracketing yours, arms folding around you like second nature.
And you just sit like that, folded into him.
His chin hooks over your shoulder. His breath brushes your neck. One of his hands rests against your stomach, just above the hem of your sweater, warm through the fabric. The other finds your thigh, fingers drumming lazily against the denim there.
And you breathe. In and out. Slowly. Like maybe you forgot how before this.
“You been out here long?” you murmur.
He shrugs behind you. “I dunno. Long enough, maybe.”
You lean back into him, let your head fall onto his shoulder. “Get what you needed?”
There’s a long pause. Not like he’s unsure, just like he’s letting the quiet fill in some blanks first.
“Yeah,” he says finally. “I think I did.”
You let the silence stretch after that. It’s not awkward. It’s just… Clark.
Which is to say: it’s safe.
The sunlight spills golden across the alley, catching in the curls at his temple. Today, he smells like clean cotton and cedar and whatever fancy soap he borrowed from your shower. His skin's warm.
You rest your hand over his where it sits on your stomach. His thumb traces a lazy circle just under your ribs, like he’s mapping out the shape of you in his mind.
“I used to sit like this back home,” he says after a while, voice soft. “Not on a fire escape, obviously. We had a roof. And a swing. My dad always left it out a little too long, so in the summer it was warm to the touch by the time I got to it.”
You hum, eyes slipping closed.
“He used to say it was good for me. Sunlight. Said I always looked like a weed after a storm when I stayed inside too long. Pale and strung out and grumpy.”
“Grumpy?” you smile, turning your face a little to glance at him. “You?”
“Oh yeah,” he grins. “Pouty little farm boy, hair sticking up, refusing to eat my vegetables unless they were corn.”
“Let me guess,” you say. “Martha snuck green beans into casseroles when you weren’t looking.”
He makes a pleased noise. “Bingo. Said it was her secret weapon for keeping me out of trouble.”
“That and the swing?”
“That and the swing.”
You settle again, your cheek to his shoulder, the metal warm beneath your thighs. You wonder if this is what he felt like, back then—sitting outside in the golden quiet, the weight of the sky pressing gentle on his shoulders, like a blanket he didn’t know he needed.
“Isn’t it a beautiful day?” he says suddenly, like it just occurred to him.
And it is.
But it would’ve been, anyway.
You twist slightly, enough to catch the line of his jaw, the slope of his nose. He’s not glowing. Not exactly. But something in him is bright.
And you—you love him so goddamn fiercely in that moment it feels like your ribs might crack from the inside. Like your heart is blooming against them, stubborn and wild and wholly his.
You lace your fingers with his where they’re still resting against your chest. His grip tightens. Not possessive. Just… sure.
He’s quiet a long time.
Then, like he’s been trying to time it right: “I love you.”
Just that.
Just the words, tucked into your collarbone. No fanfare. No build. Just truth. It roots into you like sunlight in soil. You don’t speak for a long moment, trying to get your lungs to work again. Your body. Everything else. Because it’s a simple sentence, but it feels like something tectonic and holy.
Eventually, you turn, content and sure.
“I love you too.”
His head drops forward until his forehead presses to yours. You feel him exhale, shaky but smiling.
“I kept trying to find the right time,” he says. “I didn’t want it to feel like… I don’t know. A checkpoint. Like I had to say it because it was next on the list.”
You smile, thumb still brushing his skin. “So you went with the middle of the fire escape, during golden hour, while I’m in your hoodie and haven’t showered since last night?”
He shrugs. “Yeah. Felt right.”
You sit like that for a while, sun on your skin, his breath on your neck. The world feels quieter with him this close. Still.
Eventually, when the light starts to dip low, painting the fire escape in rust and gold, you shift to get up.
He doesn’t let go. Not immediately. His hands stay at your waist, his fingers patient where they rest at your sides. Anchoring you.
“You look good in this light,” you murmur. “Like—too good. It’s kind of rude, honestly.”
He huffs a laugh. “Yeah?”
You nod. “Like you belong in it.”
He looks at you for a long moment, something intimate and private in his eyes.
Then, “You’re not wrong.”
You tilt your head. “What, that you photosynthesize?”
But he just shakes his head, slow.
“No. Just… I think it’s you,” he says, almost like he’s surprising himself. “You make everything brighter.”
And it’s stupid, and it’s a little embarrassing, and you kiss him anyway. Because he’s warm and real and saying the kind of thing that would make anyone else roll their eyes—but with him, it just lands.
Tastes like the last light of the day and something sweet and earthy beneath it. Like coming home.
your childhood best friend is synonymous with ‘the guy you call when something (inevitably) goes sour.’ clark is dependable, steady, safe. and maybe—well, more than maybe—the grass is greener in his bed.
or: two times your love life needs a little clark kent tlc. third time’s gotta be the charm, you swear.
wc. 18k+
tags. 18+ explicit nsfw, unprotected piv/mating press, size kink, slightly (?) jealous sex, first time cunnilingus, fingering n squirting, multiple orgasms, edging, creampie, light hair tugging, pathetic clark who whimpers, anecdotes and yearning, talk of past toxic relationships, hurt/comfort if u squint (!!!)
— basically what ciderclark could have been if they werent pussies LMAO. title from the cure's just like heaven aka the most romantic song forever ^u^
Clark lives through every day like the ice cream store’s about to close.
In other words, he’s an avid believer in carpe diem, and he is never too busy.
It’s admirable, really. How he’s always bustling in tandem with Metropolis, zipping in and out of the Daily Planet with a Jitters Coffee in hand and two suits on his shoulders. Flying up and down town to open doors for grandmas, kick lost balls back over the fence, zoom past Stryker’s Island to let Lex Luthor get a real good look before he starts another day in prison.
‘Superman doesn’t have time for selfies’ is bullshit.
He always makes time for one more thing. One last squeeze in his itinerary, whether it be volunteering to take pictures for someone else’s article or being the one in the picture himself—posing straight and strong, beaming that friendly grin before he takes off to seize the day!
Which is why he's the first one you text when you finally dump the guy you've been seeing.
It started with that dream. The one that's been recurring for about a week, enough that you remember the details down to where the specks of dust will end up as they float through the air.
The one where you find him sitting at the front of the school bus, saving a seat with that beat-up backpack decorated with Mighty Crabjoys pins and patches. Sun already high up, and it’s balmy inside, the smell of old vinyl upholstery and seat cleaner already soaking your clothes while the driver skips to the next song on his Johnny Cash CD.
Clark is wearing a bright, dorky grin on his face. Says something over the loud rumble of the engine like: ‘Gosh, we have a test—I know, why on Monday—but you will knock it outta the water. Here comes the sun!’
Or, if you’re going by last night: ‘Seize the day!’
And last Friday: ‘Strike while the iron’s hot,’ which might’ve come from one of those Shakespeare playbooks on his shelf. Probably the one with the deepest stress lines on the spine, because that’s just how he is.
Not like you know, though. Shakespeare has always been Clark’s specialty.
Your heart flutters.
You laugh and ruffle your hands in his downy black hair, and he doesn't do anything to fix it (even when you aren't looking) and you get off a stop before school so he can break his lunch sandwich in half.
Then, you spend the last twenty-odd minutes scuffing sneakers against the dusty sidewalks, sun warming your backs, talking about the latest music and baseball games, the who likes who and the I like—
The bed creaks when you prop yourself up on your elbows.
Your head spins, still stirring and cottony with the last of deep sleep, and your phone alarm is trilling incessantly on your nightstand.
It’s weird how these things have been happening more frequently. Especially considering you’re fresh out of a breakup, if being ghosted and then dumping the guy a week later over voicemail could be considered one.
You thought of it as more of a casual fling, really. A talking stage, as some would call it—a date here and there, just getting to know each other.
Been seeing might be a misleading way to put it. That implies a certain threshold of intimacy, one you hadn’t passed.
He’d fallen silent once you started talking about Smallville. About your best friend, who’s six-four and raised on Kansan corn, a gentle giant you followed to the city and kind of planned to keep in your life.
(He ghosted you the next day. But just to one-up him, you think you might’ve started thinking about canceling the next date when he asked just how important Clark was over anybody else.)
Eyes dry and bleary, your lips are chapped because you somehow started drooling at midnight. Air conditioning’s still on—you always forget despite the nightly reminder text Clark sends you—and you’re shivering under your blankets, hair a mess and plastered to your forehead.
Your Queensland Park apartment is dark and blue with the morning haze, save for the tiny sliver of light shining through your bedroom door. It’s from the lamp you leave on in the sitting room. Ma Kent lent it to you—something to have from home, as if you didn't take her overgrown son with you.
The shade is stained glass, like those ones you find at an old library. Simple and cerulean and rimmed with tarnished brass, and the slightly greenish tinge from the glass color superimposing on the warm lightbulb greets you every day without fail.
So does Clark, with his good morning motivational texts—exactly at seven-thirty, even on weekends.
It’s clockwork. Expected. The same exact time those bus doors would open and wash you in a wave of exhaust and vinyl.
Once, it was ‘Sun’s up, guns out!’ with a photo attachment.
It was him on the front page, framed in a way you know for a fact that Jimmy Olsen got the photo credit in the byline.
He was in his suit, all blue like your lampshade and red like the color of the flannels he left in his wardrobe drawers in Smallville, and he was holding a semi-truck over his head. Biceps straining against the seams of his costume, dark hair windswept in the way his Internet fangirls go crazy over.
You snorted at it. Alright, you...giggled, and maybe you had a pep in your usual morning slouch, but that’s all there was to it. Seriously.
It’s just so endearing that in the lifetime you’ve spent with him, Clark has never run out of cheesy things to say.
You reach across your tangled blankets and wrinkled pillows, grasping clumsily for your phone on the nightstand. You swipe up on the screen, shut off your alarm, and immediately pull into the last message he sent you.
Two minutes ago: ‘Hit a home run like Clark.’
He’s added that stupid bobblehead of Chicago's eponymous cub mascot you got him as a gag gift one Christmas, way back in grade school. The one with the left ear chipped off and a poorly painted Meteors logo over the red and blue C.
A small, fond grin blooms on your face, uncontrollable.
You weren’t aware that he kept it. Hell, you didn’t even know that he brought it to Metropolis.
But that’s just how Clark is. Thoughtful at his core. Kind and sentimental. Actions speak louder than words and the whole works.
He’s tucked himself neatly into your breast pocket. The edges of you line up like the stars, and you house every little thing he’s done in the space between your heart and lungs.
And it’s the steadiness of that which grounds you here.
When things inevitably go wrong, you call him first. CLARK KENT, branded in big letters on your phone screen.
He’s down for anything. Picking you up after a bad day at work, killing (sorry, escorting out) the cockroach that mysteriously found itself in your apartment, helping fold your fitted sheets because you can never do it quite like he and his Ma do.
That’s the kind of man your childhood best friend is, in all his messy-curl, soft-sighed glory. Crooked glasses that he didn’t start wearing until high school, suits by the day and flannel pajamas by night. Blushes if you stare at him for too long, earnest in everything he does.
Consistent. Cerulean sea glass patiently shaped by the test of time.
You like his message and swing your legs onto the floor. The hardwood is cold beneath your feet, and you pad over to the thermostat, turning down the AC and wandering into the bathroom while you think up some witty response.
A pun is too cringy to send. You could just prattle off the date of the next Cubs v. Meteors series, but Clark probably already has a season ticket, so there’s no point.
Your phone buzzes, twice.
Daily Planet newsletter | Friday, April 27
REMINDER: 4th date, Matthew
You grimace at the second pop-up banner.
You still haven’t cleared your calendar of pre-planned dates.
In your sleep-smudged state, you had forgotten. You were lucky enough to score a job that lets you leave early on Fridays, so you just set the afternoon as your go-to day for completing your miscellaneous tasks before the weekend.
Chores, laundry, dates.
You worry the inside of your cheek between your molars.
You decide to blame it on the dream, and the fact that you were immediately greeted by Clark’s text.
Over-optimistic, typed out in that cheery voice you know he intended to send it with even though you can’t possibly hear it. You can hear it in your head though—how it squeaks slightly, pitches up in the way it does when he’s excited.
You really haven’t spent much time with Clark recently, you realize. Seeing him doesn't count, because technically, everyone in Metropolis sees him, even if it’s a red blur rocketing around the stone corner of an Art Deco high-rise.
You’ve just...been busy. With work, and your broken electric kettle (right, you have to fix that before you do something rash at work), and your unlucky streak in relationship business.
He’s definitely busy with balancing Superman and his articles too, but...
That’s a silly thing to worry about, isn’t it?
Making time is practically enshrined in his philosophy, his raison d'être. And if not today, then tomorrow, or some other day. You know Clark Kent well and long enough to understand that he’s superb at making up for things.
Maybe you should take a page out of his book.
TO: clark kent
u busy tonight?
we should bring back friday dinner for good lol
but at ur place, mines messy
Delivered with a whoosh.
You put your phone face down onto the bathroom counter and wrench the sink on, cupping your hands beneath the rapid stream. Frigid water splashes onto your face.
Pressing your wet fingers against your eyelids, stars bloom in your vision. Two breaths, in-out. Long inhale, short exhale.
Like this is just an exercise. Like your heart didn’t stammer for several beats after you punched the send button.
He’s probably on his way to work right now. Gets up early like he’s still in the heartland. Like he has cows and crops to tend to instead of interviews and articles.
All things considered though, Mr. Kent wouldn’t be happy if his son was always tardy or MIA to farm work like he is in the city.
A quiet laugh bubbles in your stomach. You wonder how he even gets in and out of the Planet in that ridiculously bright suit.
You swipe your hands on the soft fibers of a hand towel and pick your phone up again.
He’s in the middle of formulating a message, three dots dancing after each other in the text bubble.
You press the first letter of what you want to say on the keyboard. There’s no going back now.
TO: clark kent
my boyfriend said so btw
Nice to let him know, right?
(You hope he remembers the joke.)
Clark’s dots disappear for a moment. You imagine him pondering in the way you know so well: cheek sucked in and caught between his teeth, eyes wandering to zone out at the ceiling.
Then they start again, bopping along in consecutive order.
Three buzzes, muted against the cradle of your palms.
FROM: clark kent
Haha, ok.
I’m not flying tho
and I don't have melon pops.
A snort finds its way out of your nose. You feel warm despite the cold water still beading on your face.
He remembers.
Which is sweet on its own, referencing those two times he’s come to your rescue in times of love-life crisis.
Which goes back to how making time (be there in a jiffy) and giving thoughtful gifts (thought you might like these flowers) and comforting you when you need it most (oh, sunshine, if you wanted someone to dote on you, you could’ve just asked me) practically runs in his blood.
And he’s right. It’s pretty doting—and dare you suggest—boyfriend-like already.
…Oh. You freeze.
It dawns on you then that a sappy, sickly smile that’s strikingly close to a lovesick one has been creeping onto your face.
Oh, no.
—
Your first heartbreak comes during your eighteenth summer in Smallville.
Well, it’s less heartbreak and more embarrassment.
Turned to face the popcorned wall of the general store, you wait for the line to connect. The retro payphone handset is cold in your hand, just like how it’s cool in here, the barest respite from the hell on earth outside.
Of all days to fall for something stupid, you chose Senior Ditch morning. You should have just lazed around at the Kents’ like Clark asked you to.
The fan in the far corner rattles in the way it has since before you were even born, paper streamers dancing on the metal grate. The dial tone finally starts droning—ouurrrrr.
You worry your bottom lip between your teeth, index finger tangled in the cord. Please don’t be mad.
He picks up on the first ring—click! Waits in silence for another second before finally addressing the elephant in the cornfield with his usual cheery voice, “So. Nate's a jerk, isn’t he?”
Sighing, you rub your thumb over your eyelid, press the speaker closer against the shell of your ear. “Yeah. Sorry.”
“’S fine.” You can see him in your mind, flattening his mouth into that weirdly reassuring upside-down smile. “We all learn some way, right?”
“Mhm,” you swallow and do a quick check of your surroundings.
Eddie the clerk is wiping down the counter—milkshakes sold out today—and Mr. Stone is getting ready to set up today’s round of rummy in the back.
No sign of that asshole Nate.
No sign of anyone, really. Kind of stupid now that you think about it, setting a ditch day during the peak of a heat wave.
“Just say it.” You lean your shoulder against the wall and look out the windows. The white backside of the painted GENERAL STORE letters glare back at you. You pitch your voice down, “Told you so, sunshine.”
Clicking his tongue, “I don’t sound like that.”
“Your Ma would disagree.”
“Well, I didn’t tell you so, sunshine,” he sighs. You can hear the small smile bleeding into his voice. “I just said that the grass isn’t always greener on the other side.”
“Right.” You draw out the word, honey-slow on the ‘i’.
“Right?” Clark laughs, a windchime sound. Your tone has completely passed over his head. “I only meant you might enjoy your day off more if we were polishing off a pint of Neapolitan and binging Star Wars instead of going on a date.”
You stay silent for a heartbeat. Wheels spin in your head—why the hell are you calling him anyways?
Clark should be mad. That you brushed off his advice, that you woke up early to walk to town instead of his house. That you ditched him for some boy who couldn’t even care for you like he does.
But he isn’t. He’s so water-under-the-bridge forgiving and sweet and—
Fuck, if you aren’t sorry for being stupid. It might be the embarrassment or the sting of slapping yourself mentally or even the heat, but you’re half-desperate when you say:
“Please pick me up.” You blurt it so fast that you think the words muddled into one. Silence. Static over the line. “Clark? Hey, you know I’m sorry for—”
You hear a faint jingle over the staticky line, then a far-off yell, “Pa! I’m going out!”
“Drive safe!” Another beat. “Darn boy left the phone hangin’ again. That you, sunny?”
You bring your hand up to your mouth and stifle an amused exhale against the back of it. “Yeah, it’s me, Mr. Kent.”
He clicks his tongue, a mannerism that’s almost identical to the way Clark does it. “Mm, way he was lookin' all concentrated, I knew it had to be you. What’re you doin’ out in this heat anyway?”
You set your mouth into a flat line. “...Things.”
The bell to the store rings, and Eddie choruses a ‘hey, Mr. Morris’ without even looking up from the counter.
Mr. Morris nods to Eddie, waves to you and then tilts his head with a frown. He’s been coming here long enough to know where you take your usual perch with Clark, so it must be strange to see you without the Kents’ awkwardly big son.
You point to the phone, and his frown relaxes with an oh.
“Things, you say,” rumbles Mr. Kent. You could probably see his greying beard fluffing up if you squint hard enough. “Does this have something to do with Clark bein’ all mopey this mornin’?”
“Um,” you stammer, swallowing. You wince. “Maybe. I...well, a guy asked me to meet him.”
“Oh. See, I’d say if a boy doesn’t show up to take you himself, he in’t worth chasing, but I think you heard enough of that from Clark,” Mr. Kent drawls. Your nose furrows, deepening your grimace. “Well, I hope that works out for you someday. If you need to find me—prob’ly in twenty minutes if my boy is abiding the speed limit—I'll be in the barn.”
He lets out a hearty laugh. You echo him, albeit weaker and half-awkward.
“Yeah, Mr. Kent, I—I'll see you ‘round.”
You hang your head and hook the handset back onto the payphone.
Main Street is distorted by heat waves. The cracked asphalt wobbles along with the fading white paint dividing the lanes, and you think about Clark.
Tearing down the roads at a speed of exactly 30 mph, hands tapping at nine and three on the sunwarmed wheel. Skipping to the next Rascal Flatts song on the CD that never leaves the truck, like it’s just another day.
Mr. Kent said that Clark was looking all concentrated on the phone. You know that look like the back of your hand: lashes resting against his cheeks, eyes trained down and glasses sliding to the tip of his nose. Tongue caught in the pocket of his cheek, dimple pressing in as he mulls over whatever is playing out in his head.
And then you wonder when was the last time he cut his hair—it's gotten quite long, enough that when he tugs a cap on, his curls stick out of the back—and if he managed to get the magnitude of his laser vision right this morning because last week, he burned himself shaving.
You lean your head against the pane, graciously cold on your cheek.
The heat must be playing tricks, you think, with a superimposition of Clark swimming on the glass.
(Or it might just be that you kind of, maybe, really miss him and whatever weird thing he’d randomly blurt out if he was here.)
Smallville Giants cap snug over his head, downy hair curling out of the snapback in the way you imagined it to be. The brim is low over his forehead, shadow making the blue of his eyes shine out in that somewhat off-putting way they do in the dark.
He grins in that lopsided, downturned way that reminds you of the Kents’ border collie, Shelby, thumping her tail against the ground. A laugh escapes you in a small exhale through your nose, and you brush your fingertips against the window.
And then he taps the glass.
Real. Solid. Smile widening to show teeth with a double-exposure in the reflection.
Your heart leaps into your throat as you spin around. It really is him, arms firmly crossed over a white-shirted chest and charming dimples shining at full force.
“What—Clark!”
You must look like a fool right now, limbs all frozen up in surprise and eyes wider than the fine china saucers Mrs. Kent likes to display in her dining room. Eddie laughs from behind you, slapping a rag onto the metal counter.
“Hi!” Your best friend’s broad hand is a blur as he waves, voice muted by the glass. “I think you ordered a chauffeur?”
You quickly stride over to the door, pushing it open. The bell rings with a clear, windchime sound; a blast of searing, humid hellfire presses down on you. Sweat begins to bead at your neck.
“Very funny.” Still, you’re helpless to the fond smile that tugs at your face. Clark strides over, freckled cheeks slightly pinkened, thumb pressing into the palm of his other hand.
The left side of his mouth quirks up at the same time he shrugs his shoulders. “I came, you called.”
Letting the door shut, you step out into the Kansan summer and stand under the shade of your abnormally tall friend. You’re earnest, from the bottom of your heart, when you say, “Thank you, Clark.”
A nervous scoff skips out of his mouth, and he palms the back of his neck. “It’s nothing. Come on.”
He urges you to a nearby alley—strange.
You don’t remember hearing the truck, and there’s no sign of it on the street either. Getting from the farm to town in the time between Mr. Kent picking up the phone and you hanging up would be impossible unless he was breaking the sound barrier.
You let him walk ahead of you, lengthening the gap between your and his strides.
“Wait,” you start, steps stalling, “how did you...?”
Clark freezes and slowly pivots to face you, mouth twisted in a way that screams guilty. “Okay, don’t be mad.”
“Dude—”
“—I flew here because I didn’t want you getting heatstroke—”
“—I’ve been waiting for you to fly me since forever.”
He pauses, mouth mid-word and his index finger in the air, like this is a debate rebuttal and not a page out of your wildest dreams.
Clark didn’t take the truck. He’s going to fly you back home.
Like they do in the fucking Titanic, but in the air. Where the birds fly. Where you can look down and see the rippling fields and the cows that look like brown and white clouds in the grass.
Pinching his lips till they turn white, he wipes his hands on his blue-jean thighs and stares at you in that absent, froggish way. “Sure, I guess that works out.”
You bound over to him, stomach bubbling with a schoolgirl-giddiness you only remember feeling when he does something so thoughtful and sweet. Which is every day.
So maybe that’s not normal. You should probably seek medical attention.
You circle around him and reach to grip his shoulders—they're firm beneath your hands, conditioned by years of helping out on the farm (and also a little bit of alien genetics).
Clark obliges, almost mindless, bending his knees by a fraction to let you jump onto his back.
He smells like hay and sunshine and a long day at the lake. Fresh, clean linen, a faint tang of salt next to a braid of sweet corn silk.
Like the same citrus soap he's used since forever, and the old books at the library. Like a thread of oak wood—same as the tree in his backyard and the walls of his bedroom.
It’s more comforting than any cologne or Mrs. Kent’s stew.
You know it now. Clark Kent will always be someone you can run home to.
You dig your chin into the crook of his neck and shoulder, sighing. “Have I ever told you how much I love you?”
Clark cranes his head back, trying to get a glimpse because of course he does. He’s always a stickler for eye contact when talking—it's inscribed into his heartland manners.
The tips of your noses brush, two compasses crossing.
“Hmm,” he hums, weak, “I don’t know. Maybe last week, when I let you copy my physics homework.”
“Helped me, you mean.”
“Yeah…”
You flick the tip of his ear, already red and warm like someone tried to tear it off.
“You’re mean.”
“I love you too, by the way,” he quips, pushing off the floor gently.
Then he starts floating, legs unfurling as he drifts up. Your laugh is light as you tighten your arms around his neck, him holding you close to his warm back.
That shouldn’t make you feel the way it does. Like he believes in it, a hundred percent. Like he isn’t just saying it because he loves you like he loves everyone else.
“C’mon.” You tap his collarbone. He hooks his acquiescing arms under your knees. Squeezes your calves once with his broad palm, reassuring.
You push down the odd feeling swelling in your chest as the wind starts to comb its fingers through your clothes.
It’s okay like this.
Comfortable, steady. Held by your best friend. Soaring above the little town that Clark makes feel like the whole world has been singled to this hundred-thousand-acre plot.
“Just this once, okay?” Clark says, though the way he says it with a wobbly face makes you think that he wouldn’t mind a round two. “Because we’re already skipping school.”
“Right,” you nod, grin widening, “and we should totally be back in time to finish up Porter’s final essay.”
He pinches his mouth. “What do you mean you haven’t finished?”
“Okay, I only need my thesis.” You press your ear to his shoulder and look down at the quickly shrinking Smallville. “...And everything else after that.”
The wind, mercifully cooler, whistles around you. Oh, there’s the windmill, and the winding road, and the golden, rippling fields for as far as the eye can see. A soft sigh leaves you.
You’re going to miss the cornfields and the lightning bugs. The way the air smells slightly heavy when a storm’s approaching. How everyone is so well-knit with each other, how things are easy and unthinking.
Automatic, the most natural thing in the world.
“Sunshine, you—” he sputters, breaking you from your spiral. You’ve stopped just beneath the clouds, moisture wetting his curls till they’re pitch dark and plastered to his forehead.
He cranes his head down to rest his chin on your forearm. Sighs, resigned.
“That’s barely the introduction.”
—
By some stroke of luck, you bitterly break up with your first long-term boyfriend at the same time Clark gets his first apartment.
It’s small in here, still bare and honest. Ceiling popcorned and a little warmer than eggshell white like a small-town general store. The carpet is light brown, and you’re sure there’s a strange stain in some dark corner.
And if you had to be honest, you think Clark chose this place specifically because it was ugly. He always puts his highest hopes in even the smallest and most shriveled of things. Even in Lex Luthor, that miserable eggshell of a CEO.
(But it’s all in typical Downtown fashion. At least he isn’t settling in the snazzy, gentrified Upper East Side.
This is temporary, he said, ‘till I can find a place in Midtown. But that’s for when the rent there miraculously dips, which is likely never unless metahumans start shooting lasers out of their eyes in front of the Daily Planet.
Wait...)
The temperature doesn’t work, either.
Well, it does. Kind of.
But it’s confined to just a small unit attached to the wall, so you can’t even feel it if you’re more than five feet away.
His bedframe sits in the corner disassembled, futon rolled out over a full-sized mattress that’s been plopped in the middle of the room. He could’ve fixed that, given his super speed and strength and whatever else he has. Even could’ve done his entire studio in a day, but he didn’t.
Because he was ‘waiting for you’. For two weeks. To come over to help him set up and have a little housewarming party after, just like the movies. Junk food and sodas and all.
You think back to how you got here.
Soaked to the bone. Shivering. Clothes vacuum sealed to your body and umbrella inverted in your clenched hand.
What a day for your boyfriend to be an asshole and give you an ultimatum: break up, or cut your last root from Smallville.
Ergo, you did what any best friend would do.
You chose Clark, because it has always been that way.
Clark doesn’t give ultimatums. Doesn’t get insanely, obsessively overbearing when you talk to other guys and absolve himself of any wrongdoing if you catch him staring at a girl.
He’s forgiving. Concerned, yeah, but not authoritative.
For god’s sake, he exclaimed ‘what in tarnation’ when he cracked open the weathered door and saw you dripping all over the hallway.
“My boyfriend sent me here,” you told him, gaze downturned in guilt, and his face softened from surprise to wordless understanding.
That’s how things have always been between you. Wordless. A language of eyes and gestures you’ve been fluent in since your formative years.
You squelched inside like your feet had cephalopod suction cups on the bottom of them. Clark helped with shucking off your heavy jacket while you mumbled through the long story (not so) short.
The ultimatum.
How you realized in the moment that your now-ex was trying to isolate you from your friends.
How that jerk—you refrained from asshole or motherfucking egotistical dickwad because a certain someone would cough—was so gung-ho about being the guy for you.
The first one you had to call.
As in, expected you to overhaul your pre-established laundry list of speed dials. Like he wanted to be the one you called at midnight to hide a body (Lana and Pete) or the one you relied on if you were, god forbid, stranded in Blüdhaven (Clark).
As if, when you did call him, he actually came to your rescue instead of smacking his lips and saying, ‘Um, sorry babe, I’m a little busy.’
And maybe as you kept going on, it started to dawn that you weren’t really bitter about breaking up.
You were more bitter about being stupid enough to stay with him for so long. For just pushing the little icks to the side, all ‘cause he might’ve been a little pretty and he made you feel okay every three or four days.
Clark had been sifting through a box while you explained. Rain still pattered outside, racing down the window, but it was lighter than the absolute storm that had slammed into you on the way here.
He paused, turned a little pink at the ears, and handed over a haphazardly folded towel like he was consciously controlling his actions.
Which was weird. Because he’s always meticulous about his laundry.
“Wait, sunshine,” he stuttered before you disappeared into the bathroom. “The plumbing’s opposite. Cold is hot and hot is cold.”
“Thanks, Clark.”
And then you unfolded the towel, and there lay a neatly creased pair of your underwear. Clean. Clothesline scented.
You remembered this one.
Late night, big calculus test the next morning. Cramming in his dorm, and you brought an extra change of clothes that you ended up using. You probably dumped your stuff into his hamper by mistake.
You laughed, a little too loud. Clark heard you, and you heard him plead don’t say anything in a low, defeated tone through the thin wall.
You didn’t push. Didn’t pry. Because Clark’s just like that.
Sentimental. Plan A to Z. Keeps your stuff in case you need it ten years down the line.
And besides, you’re here now. That’s better than spiraling into a self-beatdown or throwing darts at a picture of your ex’s face.
You stop at the doorway of the bathroom with your eyes still itching and red-rimmed, a towel wrapped around your body.
The apartment is eerily still, frozen in a moment.
Everything in this 400 square foot place is raw.
Exposed. Naked. White painted brick on the windowed side, stucco boxing the rest in.
Like all of Clark’s life has been dwindled down to a couple boxes and furniture bought off Craigslist. A couple white-painted nails sticking out of the wall and a broken outlet, as if that’s fine.
It is, for a fresh graduate who’s paying rent off savings and an entry-level salary from the Daily Planet.
(Thank god for that full-ride scholarship he managed to snag four years ago.)
Plus, you trust that Clark has his priorities straight, because according to the to-do list endearingly taped to the mirror, the fridge is installed and working, and he’s already deep cleaned every surface.
Dust specks float past you, and there’s a breeze—slightly clammy from the aftermath of a storm—circulating from an open window.
Widening patches of sky peek out from the clearing clouds. The air smells wet, in that good, after the rain way. A tad salty from the bay, too, with a hint of chill.
The rays of a New Troy golden hour paint the room in faint, honeyed gold, and the ceiling fan in the main room is spinning in languid circles, droning on with a rusted noise that’s starting to grate on your nerves.
You can hear the metro rattle by below, the foundation of the complex shivering slightly as it rumbles on the tracks. There’s a tune playing from another door down, jazzy and vague.
You take two steps out of the bathroom, bare feet padding from old tile to worn carpet fibers. You peek around like some cartoon character, searching for a telltale sign of Clark.
Empty. His gingham beige-brown curtains, same as the ones from Smallville, flutter with a gentle breeze.
But laid on top of his futon-mattress combo is one of his old shirts—you stifle a laugh, it’s the Crabjoys one that shrunk in the dryer—and the pair of shorts you left with your underwear.
Small miracles.
You pull the shirt over your head. Smells like Clark, all citrus shampoo and line-dried cotton. Comforting, in the way he’s so familiar that he feels like home.
The tide of self-deprecation in you subsides.
You dig into the freezer next—because ice cream makes everything better, obviously—kitchen tiles warm against your soles as a geyser of cold air billows up. Not frigid. Just cold, like it’s barely working.
There’s a pint of Neapolitan, which has maybe a single, pathetic, half-scoop left in it.
You move on.
The frozen custard that you vividly remember him buying and sending you a picture of two days ago is in the same state as the pint. And—even worse—there's a frustratingly empty box of ice cream sandwiches.
Prodding further, pushing aside frozen food and ready-to-microwaves...
Oh, a box of honeydew cream popsicles!
And there’s one left. It’s semi-melted in your hand, barely holding onto its shape.
You get that he’s all corn-fed and trying to bulk, but how much sugar does Clark need to consume in a day?
A flutter of movement catches your eye just as you’re ripping and crumbling the cold, plastic wrapping into your fist.
Right. Old building like this—there's a fire escape.
You find Clark slumped against the raw brick on the rusted landing, bones loose under the tangerine sky and curls ruffled by the evening breeze. Well, less slumped and more crumpled.
Legs pretzeled at an awkward angle to fit on the escape landing. Shoulders hunched so he can fit. New glasses folded up and tucked into the collar of his pajama shirt—Crabjoys again, this time the right size.
(You don’t want to know how many of those shirts he has.)
An open book is flattened against his stomach, browning page corners dog-eared and well loved.
Tom Sawyer. Of course.
An old bedtime story turned favorite book. Vaguely, you remember that Mrs. Johnson in third grade chastised him for writing multiple book reports on it, even if they were completely different and lent a new perspective each time.
(She eventually gave up. Clark Kent continued to write his weekly reports on The Adventures of Tom Sawyer until his Pa caught on and introduced him to Huckleberry Finn.)
Chipped paint rasps at your bare shins, and your shorts hitch up as you duck out the open window. The grate is hard beneath you when you drop next to him with the iced treat in hand; it's already half-slush, coating your fingers with sticky, melon-flavored cream.
"Didn't get one for me?" he croaks, rolling his head to face you. The shadow of a passing flock of geese dances over his face; a shift in the wind, and his eyes are clear and soaked in golden hour light.
"Last one in the freezer, cowboy," you tell him, offering the popsicle. He presses the flat of his tongue against the syrup rivulets on the back of your hand—you wrinkle your nose. "You're gross."
"And you're the one who's stealing my last melon pop.”
He sinks his teeth into the soft cream, and you bite after him.
“How’d you dry the rain off the grate?” you ask, fingers curling around a rough bar. It’s weirdly warm against your skin.
Doesn’t feel gritty like the fire escape in your apartment does. Your hand comes away without a smudge.
Wow. He really meant it when he crossed off deep clean on that to-do list.
“Heat breath.”
Perks of being superpowered. “Huh.”
You take turns like this, switching bites until only the wooden stick remains. You leave it between your teeth, leeching the last of the cold into your mouth and letting your sticky hand dry in the wind.
Below is a street you don’t remember the name of, jam packed with the post-workday rush. Taxis, trucks, and bikes splash through shallow puddles.
A cat yowls across the street, and the middle-aged guy busking beneath the awning on the corner is ripping a riff on his trumpet.
The traffic song wraps around you, rhythmed in a syncopated hymn that drowns out the rush of blood that comes to your ears.
"I've been reading up on the area," Clark starts. "There's this bodega, right down the block. Oh, and the bakery on 38th and Scott, we could try their brownies if we line up at six."
"Big city plans for a small-town guy," you say, droll, chewing absently on the wooden stick. The back of your head lazes against the auburn rough of the bricks, and a gentle breeze sifts between the buildings.
Clark scoots closer, shoulder to shoulder with you. He's a furnace like always, skin pinkened and glowing in the way it does when he’s in the sun.
He puts his chin on your shoulder, looks at you real closely—eyelids at half-mast, mouth pressed into the shape of mischief. You give him a sidelong stare, holding the blue of his pupils.
In them—cloud swirls, the shadow pattern of the birds above soaring by with a breeze that trails its fingers down your spine.
You feel a little warm under his stare, blood rushing to your head. "What?"
"We're gonna have so much fun here," he finally says, smile breaking out on his face. "Smallville One and Two, reporting for duty!"
You let out a wheezing laugh, looking up at the clouds. There's one shaped like a flying man, puffy marshmallow limbs stretched in a starfish. "And let me guess, you're One, and I'm Two."
"Fine, Smallville Half and Half."
"But which Half comes first?"
"Doesn't matter," Clark grins. Knocks his knee against yours, reassuring in that way you know so well. "They come in pairs. Do not separate."
You shove his shoulder—doesn’t budge. His deltoid is hot beneath your hand, though you aren’t sure if it’s really him or you that’s warmer.
“Cheeseball,” you mutter. Eyes rolling, even with the grin tugging incessantly at your mouth.
He laughs with the odd, boyish charm he’s never really grown out of. It tickles something in your brain, how he starts off with a quick scoff that devolves into full-bodied hiccups.
You want to hear it forever.
You want to stay here forever with your legs cramped together side by side on the hard fire escape. Skyscrapers and stone for as far as the eye can see, cut by the grid of streets that beat with the heart of Metropolis.
“Oh!” Clark straightens like he’s been struck. Reaches into his pocket, draws out his phone. He taps around the screen and then shows you a video. “Look, Pa sent me this.”
It’s home in the Kents’ backyard. Rippling gold fields and heavy panicles of grain, a soft static that used to lull you right to sleep. Old, metal-wood fences and the cry of cicadas.
You squint at the screen.
Cows graze like little brown and white clouds in the sea of green. It might be Linus yonder by the leftmost fence, and Franklin flicking his tail next to Patty. Or is that Shermy and Lucy?
You can’t tell them apart like Clark can.
There’s an irregular shape shadowed by Franklin’s back leg. He zooms in for you without asking and oh—it’s a calf.
Fluttering ears. Big, softhearted eyes. Fluffy brown coat. Reminds you of Clark, in a way. All earnest and new to everything.
The bottom barrier of their fence is still broken, you notice. It’s just a small tear, probably from the time his powers started developing.
He had torpedoed—yes, like a missile—out of the back door and banged his head into the base of the fence before the screen door could rattle back into place.
Guess that crack there serves as a reminder: no flying on the farm.
“Cute,” you say. “We should go back sometime soon.”
He smiles in agreement and reaches back to place his phone on the windowsill. His arm flexes in front of your eyes—hard lines and veins rising beneath tan skin—and you suddenly get why the freezer is so empty.
You clench your jaw and duck your head.
“Anyways” —he cuts himself off, tucking his lips between his teeth as he thinks. “Uh, I got my suit in the mail, too. Been hiding it in the closet, ‘cause I haven’t set up my bedframe yet.”
You keep your eyes trained on your knees but let a smile pull at the corners of your mouth. He was waiting for you. “Can I be the first to see?”
He scoffs in amusement, dimples sinking in easily. It never fails to amaze you, how they’re so ready to just appear even when he’s only talking.
“Don’t be silly, I know you were peeking when Ma was making it.”
“Thank you for the astute observation,” you mumble. Unneeded heat gathers in your cheeks.
“A-S-T-U-T-E.” Clark is unfazed as you stare at him blankly. He shrugs, corners of his mouth pulling down like it’s no big deal. “It was in the crossword this morning.”
Eyes flicking up, you plant your palm on the side of his face and hold him away. “Okay, third place winner of Smallville Middle’s spelling bee.”
“Well—! Most sixth graders would stutter on perspicacious too,” he stammers, words smushed by your hand to his cheek.
You mumble, “Apparently not Loretta and Marcie.”
“I’ll have you know that I could spell the first-place word.” Swatting your hand off with a flippant wave, Clark plucks Tom Sawyer off his chest and sits up properly, letting it flop onto the grate. “Bouillon: B-O-U-I-double L-O-N. Because Ma always uses it in her stew.”
You know. You were there, waiting for him by the steps with a rented movie you don’t remember anymore and chips in case he was hungry. So sure he would win.
And if you still call Marcie ‘Marcie-Farcie’ in your head? Well, Clark doesn’t have to know that.
Reaching around him (and ignoring how solid and furnace-hot his chest is in your arms), you lean into him with a fake-coy smile. “Hey, could you spell loquacious for me right now?”
“Lo...?” Clark’s brows furrow with that faint wrinkle between them. You kind of want to smooth it out with your thumb. “Oh, don’t be mean. And—hey is for horses.”
You blow a short raspberry. “You’re no fun.”
“I’m very fun,” he stammers, voice pitched high. “I wear trunks on the outside. I—I like Neapolitan ‘cause I get to eat all of my favorite flavors.”
“Right,” you say, nodding politely. You press your mouth tight, trying not to laugh as Clark returns the hug and holds you tight. “Right.”
“And I can fit a hundred lollipops in my cape, isn’t that great? Oh—and I can recite all of Romeo and Juliet.”
He clears his throat. Steadies himself, posture straightening. Slips into that tone he's been practicing, dubbed the Superman Voice. “Two households, both alike in dignity. In fair Verona—”
A short laugh leaves you, uncontrollable. Joy sloshes around in your chest. “Alright, alright, you’re fun.”
“I knew it,” Clark says, giving you a pointed look. Eyebrows raised and clear blue eyes shining with something you can’t name.
The breath in your lungs unravels to the quick.
You still haven’t pulled away, arms tight around his chest. He’s warm, alive, grounding.
Safe, in the way he’s always been.
And on a more bitter note, in the way your ex hated. With a capital H.
In that what’s so great about him way. In that maybe you should stop seeing him way.
It never made any sense.
Clark’s nothing but honest. Soft. A sweet, heartland, golden retriever to the core who names his parents’ cows after Peanuts characters.
The thought of liking someone while they were in a relationship wouldn’t cross his mind. Hell, the thought of even liking you, single or not, wouldn’t either.
…Would it?
Clark coughs, untangling himself with a long inhale. “We—should start. Um, on my furniture. Like I said, we’re gonna have so much fun once we settle in.”
“Dude, you make it sound like we’re gonna live together.” You ignore how that idea makes your chest feel odd.
Like your heart’s about to leap out and crack your sternum. Like waking up to the sight of your sleep-soft best friend making breakfast is a perfectly fine thing to think of.
“I mean…” He shrugs, lips pinching and angling downward as if he’s truly considering it. “You honestly slept at my parents’ house more than your own.”
Your throat runs dry, caught. “Your—well, your bed’s just comfier.”
“Yeah, it’s ‘cause Shelby farted on it.”
“Ew.”
—
The thing about lightbulbs is: they aren’t the same as before.
Older lightbulbs take some time to light up. Flip the switch, open the circuit. Gentle buzz, and the filaments catch with a current, every second stretching into the next before the brightness flickers and then peaks.
Those were the bulbs in Smallville and Clark’s old apartment.
Newer lightbulbs are instantaneous. Snap of the finger—flick and light, like a Zippo. And that’s you right now, standing in the shadow of a pent-up tsunami of realizations that’s about to hit you full force.
This is familiar.
Standing in front of the door to Clark’s apartment, bag heavy on your shoulder and shifting on your feet as you wait for him to answer your knocks. 3-D glares back at you on the golden plate, bright against the dark, polished wood.
Familiar, but not the same.
For one, his old apartment was chipped white paint and Downtown charm. This one’s Midtown class, all dark marble and crisp navy blue.
And for another, you’re nervous beyond reason, and you’re seriously considering just finding a hole to wither in.
Your heart is stuttering. Knocking around between your lungs, tapping at the underside of your sternum in a way Clark’s super-hearing is sure to pick up on.
Long inhale, short exhale. This is just dinner, just like the million others you’ve had.
Except, you’re kind of dolled up—as in, a smidge more makeup than you’d usually wear around him (which is close to none, because he’s seen you in middle school with acne and that terrible haircut). As in, you fixed your sweater for glaring wrinkles in the elevator and made sure your jeans didn’t have lint on them.
Except, over the course of the very short workday you spent mulling over your bad decisions, it started to wash over you that blaming everything on that dream would technically be blaming your own subconscious.
“One sec,” you hear, muffled by the door. The latch clicks, and there’s Clark, warm smile on his face, dimples like gentle craters in his cheeks. “Hi.”
Your stomach somersaults and lands with a pathetic hop.
Which is bad. You think you need an icepack, or medical attention, or frankly, anything to peel your mind off the sight of Clark in his white button-up, undershirt visible beneath the fabric. First two buttons undone, sleeves rolled up to reveal the veins nestled in the crook of his elbow, glasses half-buried in his combed-down curls and slacks sinfully tailored to his thighs.
The smell of bagel crumbs floats around him, weirdly. Toasted, fresh, with a hint of…vanilla bean, which isn’t his usual vanilla. Not that you mind; you briefly consider just pulling him in by the lapels of his shirt and—no.
You think of him agonizing over two bottles—extract or bean syrup—in the grocery store before your mind scrubs itself blanks. Whiteboard clean. Nothing rattling around if you shook your head.
Like when the tide pulls all the way back from the beach. Like when you’re staring down at the plain of barren, sandy dunes below your feet, look up, and stare into the face of a hundred-foot-wave question of oh, when did he suddenly become attractive to you?
Sure, you might have realized that what you’ve been missing in other guys has been lurking in your golden retriever of a best friend for eternity. That no other guy would treat you so sweetly like he did.
But that’s different.
That’s pining and idealistic stuff.
This is insane. Mentally. Physically. Hormonally. Gripping the table’s edge-y.
It’s one thing to want someone emotionally, but physicality is a completely different thing. And now, two seconds deep into a miles-long stare, you’re suddenly aware of just how badly you'd want Clark if he wasn’t your best friend.
In the same way he was in that picture of him lifting a semi-truck like a fucking paperweight. Damn Jimmy Olsen for always getting Superman’s best angle, so much that you’ve developed a peeve for when the random people in your feed start gushing paragraphs about taking off their pants or whatever.
(Of course, if someone caught wind of that, they didn’t hear it from you…)
Or the same way he was in the aftermath of that first real heartbreak of yours. When you dripped all over his welcome mat looking like a sad paper-maché of a freshly broken-up and bitter barely-graduate, and then helped him move into his apartment and totally didn’t stare when he did all the grunt work for the heavy furniture.
Or—you dread to think—Smallville.
When he was still sort of skinny and awkward and a fish out of water. Still being fed corn from sunrise to sundown, winning the runner-up to half his contests, and accidentally melting a hole through a lab table in chemistry and giving you that sheepish, smile-wince look of endearing guilty apology.
Oh.
The wave crashes over you. Burning cold. Startling. Dreadful. Heart entering freefall.
You maybe. Might. Probably. Definitely. Have harbored a secret, heavily denied and-or repressed crush on Clark Kent.
Corn-fed and six foot four Clark Kent. Academic whiz and full-ride merit scholarship recipient Clark Kent. Who unironically finds it beautiful to say things like ‘what the hay’ and ‘oh, sakes alive.’
The Clark Kent who waited two weeks for you to help him move in when he could’ve done it himself in two minutes. The same guy who dropped everything to pick you up after you were stupidly pranked.
Your childhood best friend. Whose name is synonymous with ‘no.1 most dependable and would die for you.’ Whose toddler pictures you’ve had a guest-starring role in.
You barely register Clark tilting his head, brows furrowing in mild confusion. “Sunshine?”
“Hi,” you blurt, a little flat. “Clark.”
You’re sure your mouth is at an awkward, slightly sour angle, because he studies you before slowly stepping back to let you in. You’re half-ready to run to his bathroom and bang your head against the mirror.
He just. Looks at you. Lips set in that slight pout of consideration and his right-hand dimple shifting.
You avoid his eyes, feigning interest in his doorframe. Dark wood, solid, and ridiculously small when Clark is filling out the space inside.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, shifting on your feet. “Never better.”
“Okay,” he says. Simple, short. Like he’s not going to think deeper into it—at least you hope he won’t. He flashes a small smile, “I’m making bagels.”
You shove down the urge to snort at how in character that is for him.
Here you are, freaking out over the newfound discovery that you were none the wiser to secretly yearning for Clark since high school. And he’s unconcerned, shifting his mouth to and fro in the expressive way you know so well and making fucking bagels for dinner.
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.” Clark lets an easy grin rise on his face, and he reaches to grab the strap of your bag, reeling you into his apartment. You echo him, a light laugh escaping as you kick off your shoes and let him take your things.
He nudges the door shut with his heel and peers into your bag, surprise etching into the line of his brow.
“Woah.” Reaches in, pulls out a bottle of wine by the neck. It’s ridiculous how your stomach starts simmering with want when you see how big his hand is compared to the glass. “So, I’m guessing you bought this to make up for my lack of ice cream?”
You blink, twice. Takes a moment for you to eke out a squeaky, “Uh, sure.”
Too casual to be innocent, you dig your hands into your pockets and stroll into the kitchen with uptight leisure. You exchange stiff pleasantries while you avoid his eyes—how’s work and you won’t believe what the media’s saying about you right now.
Orange-yellow light spills out from inside the oven. Clark’s bagels, slightly more malformed than the ones you’d find at a coffee shop, have just started baking, still pale and lumpy.
His apartment has changed slightly since the last time you saw it; the sitting room is still straight ahead, tall glass and blinking city lights; hallway to the right, the faint outline of doorways visible despite the lights being off.
But there’s frames on the wall now, glass panes glared by the amber light coming from the lamp next to the TV. The couch is different—more sunken in, like it’s seen its fair share of nights crashing onto the cushions in exhaustion.
And there’s stuff pinned to the fridge door. Mismatched magnets from Jitters Coffee and some touristy store in Gotham (though you didn’t know they even existed), and random sticky notes taped to the metal.
CALL MA and Crabjoys reunion ticketing: Apr20 are the ones that really get you. Remind you that some things never change.
You zero in on a photo strip painstakingly centered in a magnetic frame, long sandalwood beams squared around four snapshots of you and Clark.
Together. Pinching each other’s cheeks with one of those dumb filters from the photobooth in Metropolis Uni’s gift shop. You remember this one.
Spring semester of junior year, wide smiles full with the relief of surviving midterms week. The booth had been so small that you had to sit in his lap. He was warm when he wrapped his arms around your waist to keep you steady.
Your core stirs. Unintentionally, of course. But still enough to send a violent wave of rapid-firing neurons into a massive short-circuit.
It doesn't help that Clark is radiating that same heat when he comes up behind you. Sidles up next to your arm, setting his hand on the blue cabinet above and kneading his cheek between his teeth.
“Uh,” he starts, quiet like the subtle hum of the oven’s fan, “are you hungry?”
It’s barely five. You’re still lingering on the photo strip, studying the way Clark’s watching you in that long-ago moment. Eyes soft, smile angled downward in a manner you’d call adoring. Like he’s in love.
Not that love you usually practice. The one where you kid with each other and battle in footsie under the dinner table. The one you’ve been swimming in since childhood, when he slept with a Meteors poster under his pillow to manifest their next win. When you made eyes at other boys and he had to remind you to pay attention in class.
But one where he looks like he wants to take you by the collar of your shirt too. Lean into you, full tilt and without hesitation, like he’s yearning to become one under your skin and carve his name into the underside of your ribs. Like he’s got a spark of desire flickering in his chest.
Or not. You could be delusional.
You remind yourself to inhale. “No, I—I’m good.”
“Okay,” he says, voice rumbling low. Your knee twitches—the barest, involuntary spasm of a muscle in reaction to the sparks setting off behind your ribs. “Because I think we need to talk.”
You go ramrod-stiff so quickly that you swear one of your joints cracks. A thrill runs through your heart—fuck, he definitely caught on. If there’s one thing about his policy of making time, it’s that establishing clear communication is included.
Pitched in a somewhat sheepish tone, “What?”
“I mean,” he ducks his head down, shoulders tight as he gestures between the two of you with a finger. Looks back up at you with earnest eyes, blue so clear you can see yourself in the glassy reflection. “You’re acting weird. Did I do something?”
You shake your head, immediate. Relief courses through you, but it’s quickly replaced with a wave of guilty heartache. Here is a man who only wants to be sweet and care about you, and you’re thinking you might want more. Want him to kiss and touch and say, I’m in—
“No, it’s not you—I’m just…” you fish for an excuse “…a little stressed.”
“Well.” Clark does a short, dorky side-to-side, shoulders more relaxed. “Talk to me.”
Your throat feels full when you swallow. Pulse thundering, you tap the picture with your finger. “You kept it.”
He looks a little stunned, head listing to the side owlishly. “Why not?”
You shrug. Stupidly, “Dunno.”
A smile breaks on his face, tender as a rising sun. Certain, too, like he needs to remind you that duh, “It’s my favorite picture.”
Oh.
You didn’t know that. He keeps the most romantic (arguably) picture of you and him on his fridge, where it’s impossible to not pass by on the daily. That’s fine.
Your stomach clenches in a way that makes you feel stricken and stupidly, ridiculously heartsick.
“You’re kidding.”
“Not,” he huffs, shifting to lean against the fridge. He’s almost the same width—god—and you’re a little too distracted with the solid shape of his bicep tightening under his sleeve and the barest dip of muscle before his elbow. “You still haven’t answered the question.”
Frowning, “What question?”
“What you’re so stressed about,” Clark says.
Pinching his mouth to the side, his dimple winks as he studies you. He’s been doing that a lot—new nervous habit, you suppose. “Does it have something to do with your text this morning?”
Your jaw clenches, caught. “Maybe...”
He knows you too well.
Clark does that thing again—tilts his head, going from one side to another. Like he’s trying to gauge you from every angle. You fiddle with a loose string in your sleeve.
He blurts, “I didn’t like Matthew, by the way.”
Which—okay. Valid. Clark is honest as always, and he’s entitled to his own opinions, which you agree with, because looking back, Matthew was pretty unlikeable.
He insisted on splitting the bill—not that you’re salty about needing to pay, for god’s sake, you have a job and a fair amount of disposable income, but because he was just cheap. Like he needed someone to pick up his slack and excused it with, ‘well, everyone’s all about equality these days, right?’
And he only wore a faint, sneerish smile as if he was embarrassed to appear more than nonchalant. Chewed cinnamon gum like it was his second job, rolled his eyes at the slightest thing.
Never laughed, unless it was in derision when a kid tripped over their own feet, or something. And he was addicted to wired headphones. And pretended to be an avid reader—you know he was acting, because he couldn’t tell you who narrated The Great Gatsby despite it being opened to the last chapter in front of him.
You might’ve overlooked a lot of things about Matthew because he was cute. Baritone and solemn dimples and curly black hair and eyes that curved into crescents at the slightest twitch of his mouth.
And, alright. Just for the sake of adding it to the pile of late revelations that have dawned upon you during this hour:
You probably swiped right on him because he resembled Clark.
Not a little. A lot. In an almost eerie way.
Like he was his evil twin from Park Ridge or something, but skinnier and vampirish, and lacking freckles and that eclectic, heartland music taste.
But enough about that. You never told Clark you were shooting your nth shot with another guy and hoping he’d be the one. He shouldn’t know who Matthew is.
There are probably a hundred thousand Matthews in Delaware, but only one Matthew the Clark Clone.
(How long has he been listening in on you?)
You blink at Clark for a few seconds. His ears start flushing pink the longer you stare, you notice.
“Yeah, I didn’t either,” you mumble through the words, pausing between syllables like it needs some effort to force out.
“I know it’s not my place to say,” he sighs, looking down at the cool tile beneath your socked feet. “But...maybe you haven’t gone the best way around finding love.”
“Why, you jealous?” You mean it as a joke. A flippant, throwaway line to tease.
But Clark looks at you hard. Plucks his glasses off his head and sets them down on the counter, serious.
Faint frown lines surface on his face, eyes suddenly sharp. Then he blinks, and he’s back to normal, pretending the wall is so interesting. “…No.”
You poke his cheek. It’s warm; a current of sparks runs up your arm and into your heart. “Admit it. You already know you could do better than half the guys I’ve cried to you about.”
His eyes flick to the ceiling momentarily before meeting yours again. Stammers over his own breath and squeaks as he asks, “Just half?”
Oh, he’s jealous.
You can see it, clear as day. Clearer than Clark’s pretty eyes. That maybe you aren’t alone in this. That just like always, you’re on the same page as your best friend.
“Okay,” you say, leaning closer to him in challenge. “So, what’s your advice, Mr. Kent?”
He allows himself an inhale—one he doesn’t really need, being superpowered and all—and purses his lips.
He’s blushing in the way you know so well, the way he does when you look at him for too long. Like some shy bastard. Like he isn’t aware of what’s starting to brew between you.
The thing about Clark is that he wears his heart on his sleeve. Sometimes literally, like when a kid slapped a heart sticker onto his supersuit.
But he’s so open about his desires that it’s sometimes hard for him to hide them. Like now—standing with his shoulders bunched up and tense, practically holding his breath as his pretty ocean eyes drift around and eventually land on your lips.
His lashes flutter. Exhales stutters a little, let out slowly.
Says under his breath, “Well, sunshine, I think more organic relationships have better benefits in the long run.”
“Uh-huh.” You’re helpless to the slow, amused grin bubbling onto your face. “Elaborate.”
Clark keeps on rambling, eyebrows shooting up as he explains, “Like, you hardly know anyone on a dating app, right?”
“Right.”
“And—you know, romantic feelings can develop elsewhere.”
“Really?”
“Yes!” he exclaims, gesturing wild nonsense with his hands. “For example, Cat’s really into this whole friends to lovers thing, and honestly, I think she’s got a point.”
You fold your lips inward, holding them between your teeth as you try not to laugh.
“See, she says that people benefit from already knowing their partner,” Clark says, gaze trailing down without a thought. “That ultimately, friends sometimes feel the most fulfilling love. And it’s easy for them, to communicate their desires” —he finally catches himself, eyes wide and blinking quickly— “and stuff.”
You open your mouth, running dry from nerves. Quiet and sheepish, still unsure despite seeing all the signs, “Wanna put that to the test?”
The way his inhale quivers should be illegal. “I—don’t know what you mean.”
“I mean,” you say slowly, surprising yourself with how steady you feel despite the uproar rioting in your chest, “maybe—you know, Cat’s theory. Maybe I do need someone who knows me.”
Clark’s eyelids flicker, and then finally squeeze shut. His voice is tight when he murmurs, “Yeah, yeah.”
You say his name. Soft. Quiet. Like a Friday night in Smallville at the Kents’. Like the aftermath of a dinner get-together, when you used to sit on his bed and cover your face with a comic instead of talking with the neighbors in the living room.
He makes a small noise of response, a gentle hymn that comes with the smallest up-tilt of his head. A couple curls fall loose over his forehead and without thinking, you brush them to the side with a trembling finger.
Some things between you don’t need words. Like when you’re hungry and find an orange already peeled. Or when you glance at each other during a movie and find that the other is also trying not to laugh.
But this needs words. Need the confirmation that yes, Clark Kent can make time, but he can also make a different space in his already big heart for you, too.
“Sunshine?” His whisper is vulnerable, cracked wide in the middle. “I can hear your heartbeat, y’know? It’s the one where you’re planning something.”
Fuck. You can’t take it anymore.
“I like you.” It spills out without a second thought, but you steamroll on, fingers dragging from his hairline and down to cup his cheek.
You sound like a damn teenager professing her undying love when you say it again. “I like you. Since Nate, when your Pa said you dropped everything to get me. And I just—
I realized nobody loved me like you,” you choke out. And it feels so free to say that, as if some vice you didn’t know was clenched around your heart has released itself. “And I took that for granted when I should’ve—”
“Sunshine,” Clark cuts in, breaking your laundry list of guilt. Says it with that heartland twang you’ve been missing from his voice because he changes it slightly to fit in with Metropolis.
He doesn’t say more. Just leans in. Places a peck to the corner of your mouth.
And you stare at each other for seconds. Eyes wide. Something you can’t name shooting through your heart and oh.
Oh, it feels like you’re finally on the right side of heaven to wrinkle his stiff workshirt in your fists and pull him in for a real, dizzying kiss.
One you know you can’t turn back from. One that makes your body feel so viscerally alive, like livewire has been activated under your skin.
You’re going to feel this for days, you think.
Clark moves his lips over yours like he has all the time in the world. Like he’s really going to savor the seven-odd years you spent oblivious to your own feelings.
Your chest is vibrating with anticipation, core growing warmer and warmer until you realize that there’s a hot wetness growing between your legs. And of course Clark decides that now is the perfect fucking time to wrap his arms around you and lift.
You think he was made for this. To hold you like you’re made of foam. To be so strong and tender at the same time, cradling you closer like he’s trying to fuse into your skin.
Wouldn’t mind, a thought smears by in your mind.
He sets you down on the counter, which is cold and hard beneath you. Breaks away for a split-second to angle his head differently, catching you with your mouth still parted. Sweeps his tongue leisurely along your bottom lip, nips and sucks as he plants a large, burning palm on your knee and shifts it to the side with a light but firm push.
You swear a star sparks in your skull and starts bouncing around the cavity of your chest.
He kisses you deeper. Hungrier, like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held. Corralling you between the wall and himself, hands coming up to graze from your waist around to your back, thumbs caressing in circles over the bare sliver of skin beneath your sweater, which you didn’t know until now had ridden up.
“Should’ve” —a soft sigh unfurls in you as he peels himself off, only to attach himself to your jaw, taking his time as he blazes a shallow line of kisses to your ear— “done this sooner.”
“Well,” his voice is rough, mouth forming a simper against the underside of your jaw’s hinge—kisses there, and then closer and closer to your throat. You bare your neck to him, easy and unthinking; the ceiling spins above you. “Better late—” sucks at the sensitive, tender spot just beneath your chin, fuck “—than never.”
You register that he’s sliding his hand under the back of your sweater, pressing hot skin along your back. Fingers skating over the divots in your spine, he drags himself back up and waits there with his nose beside yours like he’s asking for permission.
His eyes are closed, the corners of his mouth barely lifted up, a smile about to unfurl. You plant a chaste kiss on his lips, and as you pull away, he lurches forward, as if he’s trying to chase another hit.
“Wait,” he mumbles, some dreamy look surfacing on his relaxed face—brows floating up slightly, seam of his pink and swollen lips parting. “Come back.”
“I’m gonna pass out if you keep kissing me like that,” you say, tone whispered.
Even then, you might be understating yourself. You feel like you’re teetering on the knife’s edge of sanity.
You run your hand down his chest and pinch the fabric just above his belt, untucking it absently and looking down at him through your lashes. You don’t even know why you lament honestly, “And then I can’t take this off. And then we can’t fuck.”
Clark frowns, opening his eyes to look at you in that upturned, tragically kicked-puppy way that makes you ache. In your chest, at the crux of your thighs.
Too fast? You avert your eyes in shame.
“I prefer the term making love.” His lashes flit in a way that would make some of the women at your workplace envious, and he’s holding your eyes in his pretty blue ones. Reminds you of the sky in the countryside, just after the last raincloud has cleared up, the scent of petrichor still heavy in the air.
You nudge yourself forward and brush your mouth over his upper lip. Salt and sugar blooms on your tongue. “Oh, I forgot that you talk like a geriatric. We should stop before your knees crack.”
“Ah, we can’t have that,” he hums, genuine concern blooming on his face, just beneath that stupid, bright tipsy-flush on his cheeks that make you feel something weird.
Slips his hand out from under your shirt, gently takes your chin in his grip and rubs his thumb over your spit-slick bottom lip, all while brushing his mouth over his ministrations. Pouts like he’s the one being subject to the hormonal mutiny that’s making you feel so violently alive.
You want, want, want.
Tugging at his shirt, abandoning your restraint to push your hips forward and against his solid stomach and fuck, a sound escapes you that sound suspiciously like please? and he breaks into a breath-stealing smile like a coy cat that just got the cream.
It’s no surprise that you barely blink before you find yourself lying supine and sinking into his mattress. Smells like that damn vanilla, and sandalwood, and the wind of Smallville. As if he flies back just to dry his laundry on the porch clothesline.
The blankets are peeled back neatly. Fitted sheet soft to the touch—you curl your fingers in the cotton for something to ground yourself with, because apparently Clark isn’t enough.
Pillows plush and considerately placed beneath your head, the mattress dips for the weight of Clark settling on his knees between your legs.
He sort of hangs there for a second as you catch your breath and reel in the uncountable minutes of insanity that have just passed. Scrutinizes you with gentle, earnest eyes, cupping the back of your clothed knees with broad, kind hands.
He presses his thumb into the outside of your knee, right in the faint divot where the cap sits over bone, tendon, and muscle. You swallow, watching him as he traces his eyes up and down your body—collected, steady.
Safe in the way he has always been. Clark squeezes the top of your calf once before letting his hands slide up—a line of flinty sparks follows him—to cup your hips.
“Sunshine,” he rumbles, soft eyes meeting yours. Tilts his head, loose waves of inky hair falling over his forehead. Adam’s apple bobbing, he lets go of your hips and holds your hands instead, all earnest and somewhat guilty. “Do you mean it?”
You blink up at him, confused. “Huh?”
“That you like me.” He turns over your hands so he can press his thumbs into your palms. “That you want this.”
A small, almost disbelieving laugh scuffs out of your mouth. Of course he’s double and triple checking.
“Silly,” you say, curling your right-hand fingers around his thumb. “I can’t lie to you.”
“Can you say it again? Just to be sure.”
“Clark.” You lift his hand toward your face. Kiss the back of it softly, and smile at how comforting the feel of his skin is. You’re all innocuous and doe-eyed when you say, “I want you to fuck me. I want you to fuck me and make me feel it for days.”
His breath stammers in a way that makes you flush. All barely-held restraint and trembling like you’re doing something to make him weak.
He gives you a tight, downturned smile once he settles himself, the same one that would flash across his face to reassure you.
Except, it’s a little different now. Except, there’s something terrifyingly raw swimming in his—you've just noticed—unnaturally dilated pupils, and you’d be wrong not to call him lovesick or fond.
Maybe he’s always looked at you like that, all benign and wanting, and you didn’t realize until now. The thought of beating yourself up over wasting so, so much time when Clark was right in front of you flickers through your head, but it’s quickly wiped away when he gently lets go of your hands and starts undoing his button-up.
You’re fixated on the way his fingers work the buttons—nimble, with just the right application of pressure to pop it open. You follow them all the way down to the last, where the hem you untucked earlier hangs over the tent rising in his slacks.
He’s big, the crotch of his pants tight. The outline of his cock is visible through the dark fabric. Holy shit.
Your chest tightens for a breath.
Unconsciously, your thighs squeeze tighter in search of friction.
Futile. Clark nudges his knees wider to stop you as he shrugs away his shirt and then strips off his undershirt.
You hope your eyes aren’t bugging out.
He’s sculpted like a goddamn Greek statue—solid muscle, defined pecs and shoulders—yet soft at the same time. A thin layer of fat hugs his abdomen in true farmer fashion, mellows out his broad frame and you suddenly want to wrap your arms and legs around him and maybe just let him fuck you animalistically like that.
“C’mere,” he says, syllables muddled together with his eyes all fluttering and mouth loose like that, like he’s drunk off desire. Like he’s also noting how heavy the air has gotten, hazy with lust. Takes your fingers in his again, draws it toward the center of his bare chest.
His skin is blistering under your palm. A furnace almost; your neck prickles with heat as another wave of arousal tides over you.
And then you feel it. Pounding hard enough to pulse like it’s right under the first layer of impenetrable skin and not buried beneath layers of fat, muscle, and bone. A strange, not-quite-human thrum that kisses your fingertips.
Clark takes a steadying breath, pitches himself down to kiss you all while holding your touch firmly over his heart.
His lips slide over yours—longing, like the short minute that’s passed since he last kissed you was an eternity.
And his heartbeat jumps.
Actually. Speeds up to thunder at what seems like a hundred miles an hour, strong and loud and trying to leap into your palm. Stays like that for the honey-slow seconds that your mouths lazily dance, and for another ten after he ducks his flushed face into the right side of your neck.
He smells like an underlayer of woodsy cologne and flour. Like the faint, diluted scent of corn ripening in the wind. Like home.
“You make me so nervous,” Clark finally says, voice lilting into borderline self-amusement. “God, sweetheart, you have no idea.”
His lips press over your jugular, feeling the pulse there. Eyelashes flutter on your skin as he nips your skin, not hard enough to hurt but enough to know that your blood will darken the surface later.
Somehow, in the smudged haze of craving and teeth, he finds his way to the button of your jeans. Pauses there, forefinger picking at the overlap of denim.
Your breath freezes in the same moment as his.
“Please?” he asks so sweetly. You cant your hips up in response.
His exhale hisses out all at once, almost a gasp. Cheek searing where it lays on your neck, deft touch working the button out of its nest and zipper rasping as he opens it.
The sound of it is so loud in his otherwise still bedroom.
Your breath shudders when he slips your jeans down, over the curve of your ass and down your legs. Cold air hits your clothed cunt, cooling the wetness that’s gathered in your panties.
Your jeans get stuck around your left ankle, to which he giggles boyishly to himself between breaths, and oh, your heart swells so much that you feel too small for the mush of endearing-lovey-sweet churning in your chest.
You tug at your sweater, pulling your arms out of the sleeves and wrestling the lump of fabric over your head. Takes a minute, because you’re a little shaky and practically bursting at the seams with anticipation.
Then you’re laying there and letting Clark take you in, all vulnerable with your undergarments mismatched (gosh, maybe you really should have picked underwear that matched your bra) and clothes discarded out of sight.
And it’s stupid, really. How your inhale hitches. A little stall, if you will, at the dawn of an aching expression on his face, looking at you. Really looking at you.
Like he wouldn’t have this any other way. Like he’s trying to find the best way to get under your skin, just like how he inspects a chessboard to make his next move. Like he already knows what’s going to make you twitch, or clench, or come so hard that you see the pearly gates.
Fast and unprepared and in his own bed, fitted sheet already wrinkled while you try not to squirm because you’re a little embarrassed that your bra is black and your panties are white with navy polka dots.
“Don’t stare,” you whisper, though it comes out as more of a mortified squeak.
“Why not?” Clark just smiles. Easy. The most natural thing in the world, when he grazes his fingertips over the waistband of your panties. “I'm just admiring the most beautiful woman.”
You scoff, crossing your arms over your bare stomach. “Yeah. My eyes’re up here, you know.”
“Really,” he protests. Dips his fingers beneath the elastic of your panties. “Or as Ma would say, I’m happy as a clam.”
Draws the smallest tension and lets the band snap back against your hip, because he just has to be cheeky and tease.
“Oh,” he gasps in revelation, heartland twang starting to bleed back into his low, baritone words, “or that’s a sight.”
Your skin burns, feverish from your soaked cunt to your head.
Then Clark shifts himself down to nuzzle the damp gusset, applying the barest feather of pressure over your clothed clit. He shudders. Wraps his arms around your thighs so he can hold you closer as he starts laving over the thin fabric.
A soft sigh spills out of your mouth, helpless. Nakedly sweet and honest in a way you didn’t expect yourself to be.
Uncontrollable, your fingers thread into his downy hair and tug lightly.
He groans quietly but doesn’t listen, mouth instead moving back up to your stomach.
Clark buries his nose just under your navel. Breathes you in, solid biceps tightening slightly around your thighs. Exhales with a muffled, broken sound that echoes your own and your heart flips.
“Baby, you’re so soft,” he mumbles, head angling down to start blazing a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses back down your stomach, up the delicate inside of your right thigh. Presses himself close to your skin, licks over where your pulse thrums between your legs and sucks.
You inhale sharply, shifting your hips, now aware of just how empty you are.
He hums in response, teasing the same spot on the other side of your cunt. You wriggle a little more, trying to get his mouth where you want it.
Impatience burns behind your ribs. You want it, you want it so fucking bad that the need cuts you open and raw, like barbed wire drawn taut over your sternum.
“Please,” you breathe. Can’t even recognize your own voice now, all breathy and desperate. Looking down at him through your lashes, you dart your tongue over your bottom lip. Tastes like salt, and him. “Clark, please.”
Eyes flicking up to yours, he hums in low question. Tilts his head, so his curls tickle your inner thigh. “Patience is a virtue, y’know.”
You swallow, going still for a fractured moment. You come up blank, like a reel left out so long that all the fish of your thoughts know it’s bait. “I...”
A gentle smile rises to his face. “’S alright,” he says, all saccharine and forgivingly merciful. Water under the bridge, you think to yourself. “I’ll remind you.”
Slips his fingers under the elastic of your waistband again, pulls down your panties as a flare of sudden, sharp need rips through you. Curves his smile a little sharper when the gusset sticks to your cunt for a moment, tacky with your arousal.
The flimsy little piece of fabric lands somewhere out of sight, too, and Clark lets a nearly disbelieving sigh puff out from his mouth as he stares at your naked sex.
You watch, mesmerized and head floating in a near-dream state, as he lowers himself flat onto the mattress—you don’t miss the subtle way he grinds his hips down—and lays his head against your thigh.
“Should—should I tell you now that I’ve never done this before?”
Curse your stupid, big mouth.
Clark stiffens. Stares at you with eyes unblinking and wide. “What?”
Your stomach drops in panicked freefall. “No—fuck. Not like that.”
“I’m gonna need some clarification,” he says, propping himself up on his elbows.
“I’m not a virgin,” you blurt. “If that’s what you think. I just...”
He blinks at you, finally. Questions in that earnest, pleading voice, “No, that’s—sunshine, are we going too fast? We can stop right now.”
A wave of heavy embarrassment crashes down on you.
Your palms slap onto your face, eyes squeezing shut at the mortifying, humiliating fact that— “I’ve never had a guy go down on me!”
“And” —you have to fight yourself to be honest about this— “half the time, I don’t come anyway.”
Clark just sort of twists his mouth, looking at you with those melancholic eyes, dimples shifting as he processes.
Just zones out a bit. As if he isn’t laying stomach-down on the bed, extremely eager to eat you out two seconds ago. Okay, maybe he is still a little eager, just toned down.
But you can see it. In the way he blinks, up at your eyes and down to your navel. In the way his hand is still resting on your thigh, ready.
He wets his bottom lip. Says, in a hoarse, choked voice like he really can’t believe it, “But you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” you breathe, peeling your fingers off your face, “more than okay. So you better ruin it for everyone else.”
He smiles, dorky and charming, face all ruddy. You lament—oh, you feel like a fucking travesty with the way his dimples make your heart somersault like that.
“So,” he starts, pitching his head down to study your sex. Trailing his fingers from your thigh to your folds, he wets himself with the slick arousal already there. “What even happens after you have sex with other guys? When you aren’t satisfied?”
You try not to worm around as Clark gently strokes the tip of his middle finger up your seam. You shiver, though, when he pauses just below your clit and drags back down.
“Just…I take care of myself after. Obviously,” you mumble, restraining the urge to lift your hips just so and let his thick fingers fill your aching cunt. But patience is a virtue, and you’ll be damned if you don’t find out what Clark’s whole reminder is about. “Lots of sore wrists and stuff.”
An easy grin blooms on his face again. Start pumping the tip of his finger into you, slowly working you open.
“Like this?” he asks, once the second knuckle of his finger has been swallowed by your cunt. Thicker than you thought it would be. Which makes you wonder about and crave the stretch of two.
“Yeah,” you try to keep your voice from squeaking, but it does anyway. You cover your mouth with the back of your left hand and card the right into his silken, messy waves. “I just—god, you’re thick.”
“Easy, honey,” he shushes. Kisses the top of your mound, to which you respond with a soft, open sound. Takes his mouth lower, minuscule centimeter by minuscule centimeter, until he’s pulling out his one finger and stretching you out with two, just as he latches his scorching mouth around your clit and sucks.
You moan. Loud, embarrassing, pitched up at the end.
The feeling of being so full aches in you. Feels like he’s penetrating your entire body. Like he’s going to live in the cavity of your chest forever, and right now you’re more than willing to keep him warm.
He laps at you all while rocking his fingers, getting your parted folds all sticky and slick with saliva and arousal. Detached himself with a tacky string of viscous liquid, eyes rolling up before they shut, forehead nuzzling into your stomach.
“Did you do it like this?” He crooks his fingers, thick and hot in your cunt, presses into a spongy spot that makes you tug at his hair for more. You whine a little. “Or that?”
Slides impossibly deeper into you, bypassing that first spot and nudging his fingers into a place that shoots white-hot pleasure ripping up your spine, and his tongue swipes searing over your clit and you think you fucking gush a little down to his wrist.
“God,” you choke out, and Clark just keeps teasing that spot, moaning softly into your cunt and stroking and rocking his touch until your stomach starts to tighten, all raw and urging. “There, there, shit.”
It’s like a switch has flipped in you.
You’re fucking ruined for life. Hips rutting up to chase the next thrust of his fingers, the next flick or swipe of his tongue as your neurons go into overdrive. Sobbing: “Oh, Clark—baby, fuck, that’s—good, so good, Clark, please—”
He rolls his tongue hard over your sensitive clit, upping the intensity at which his digits are fucking into you—a filthy push-pull that you can hear, lewd noises of your cunt spasming in as he bullies that bundle of nerves inside you.
“C’mon,” he groans, a desperate sound vibrating into you. Kisses your clit again, and you feel another surge of wetness coat your inner thighs when he shoves his fingers in deep to keep stimulating your g-spot. Sounds all wrecked and wanton when he rumbles, open-mouthed over you, “That’s it, honey. Keep doing that. Make you feel better than all those jerks, yeah?”
You keen, high-pitched. Hips rutting up into his face, unabashed, muscles gradually tightening until you’re all wound up.
It’s getting to be too much, like you’re being filled to the brim and then some. Like you’re about to spill out of your own skin, all ‘cause of your best friend’s ministrations. His tongue. The way he stuffs a shallow, wanting moan into the crook of your inner thigh and cunt. How he’s shifting his hips into the mattress, how the bedframe is creaking slightly from the movement.
Your pulse is pounding. Like you’re trying to mimic the way his heart was when he let you feel it, and your head is spinning with it, too.
And then Clark dips the tip of his tongue low, tasting you from the top of the opening of your sex—fucking gasps with a sound that almost cries and drags the flat of his tongue hot up to your clit. Wraps his plush, sweltering lips around it and starts laving with abandon, grinding his fingertips into your g-spot.
It’s not the way he’s lapping at you that makes you break. It’s not even his thick, full fingers stretching you out in a way that burns so sweetly in you.
It’s just Clark.
He reaches for the hand you have buried in his hair.
Wraps his warm, gentle palm around your wrist. Squeezes you once, firm enough to ground you by a thread-thin tether. Kneads his thumb over your pulse point and looks up at you through his lashes, eyes out of focus and so honest.
Starbursts pop in your vision.
You swear you black out for a second as you come, moans shaky against the back of your hand.
Your orgasm hits you hard and soft at the same time. Crests and crashes with a tidal wave of wetness that dribbles out of your cunt, soothes over your head as bliss fills your body. Your ears are ringing, hearing smudged and cottony like you’ve been dunked in the pool and someone’s trying to talk to you from above the surface.
You quiver, helpless as you chase the aftershocks against Clark’s eager mouth.
There’s a trembling sincerity when he slowly pulls his fingers from you, like he’s reluctant. He’s still guiding you down from the last ripples of ecstasy, tongue undulating over the still-twitching seam of your cunt, whispering pleasant nothings between each lick like he’s found an altar between your thighs.
But he doesn’t bring you down. Doesn’t let you stray far from that high-up edge, nose now pressed into your clit as he wraps his thick, solid arms under your legs, then over your stomach to lock you in place.
“Clark,” you sigh, squirming from the stimulation. You can hardly recognize your voice, all tender and soft and pitched. “Clark.”
His lips make a wet, lewd sound when he reluctantly draws himself away from your cunt. Leaves a web-thin, almost star-spun string of slick connecting you to him, panting so feverishly that he pushes your legs closer to your chest.
He hums, looking a little dazed. Eyes unfocused, tongue darting out to taste that string of fluid, which breaks and dribbles down his chin in a way that makes your stomach riot with butterflies.
"Going somewhere?” he rasps, and god, if that doesn’t make your heart leap for the chance to give him another and then some.
“No,” you mumble, heat prickling under your skin.
Clark blinks at you, cheek squished to your inner thigh. Lets his eyes roll closed when you stroke your fingers through his hair, exhale balmy on your bare skin.
“Okay,” he says, quiet.
This time, he’s slow with it. Takes his time, languid and sensual flicks and laves meant to wriggle between your seams and pick you apart from the inside.
Tides you through your refractory period, sighs when you start to tighten your thighs around his head again. Lights that spark in you once more, using his drenched, arousal-shiny fingers only to play with your clit while his tongue slips into your throbbing cunt instead.
You don’t know how much time has passed. You only know this: back arching and hips twitching as Clark guides you toward another orgasm, skillfully fucking you with his tongue like this is his last meal and he needs to savor it.
You feel a telltale tingle in your core again. Coils up tighter, raw, wrings you dry until you’re rocking your hips and pushing at his head to go deeper, faster, harder.
Faintly, you register his bedframe creaking. Clark moans—loud, honest, fervent, broken in a way you’ve never heard—right into your folds and—
Your inhale catches. Stammers as your high starts to crest, and you whine, pliant and helpless, fuck—
Clark stops. Retracts himself, tongue sweeping over his swollen bottom lip to gather your wetness. Swallows, and your eyes follow the motion of his Adam’s apple.
He looks more wrecked than you feel. Looks like he’s the one dangling on the precipice of coming, like he’s the one who’s been licked within an inch of his life.
He sits up, kneeling between your legs and shit, he’s blushing all the way down to his chest. Pink from head to pec, hair plastered to his forehead from what you assume is the humidity between your thighs.
“Gosh,” he pants. Long inhale, short exhale. He closes his eyes like he’s tasting the last of you lingering on his tongue. “Gosh, I’m so sorry, sunshine.”
You prop yourself up on your elbows, panic spiking in your chest. “What’s wrong?”
He groans. Folds himself back down by the waist and buries his burning face into your sternum. Kisses the skin there, and drags his fingers up your spine to dawdle on the clasp of your bra.
“Not you,” comes his muffled murmur, still pressing sincere, reverent kisses on your chest. “Just—you taste too good.”
You pause. Process the fact that Clark had to take a second because he was enjoying himself too much. And a laugh spills out of your mouth.
You comb your hands through his hair, making him shiver when your nails scrape on his scalp. “I was about to come again, you know.”
He groans, mortified, and presses his forehead harder against your sternum.
“Gosh,” he stutters, and you’re pretty sure that’s his word of the day, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t take it.”
“Take what?” You cup your hand to his warm, flushed cheek, tilt his head up to look at him.
He stares back at you, mouth glistening and parted, eyes flicking down to your lips. He swallows.
“I think—well, I almost,” he squeezes his eyes shut, “I didn’t want to come yet. And uh, I don’t have a condom.”
You guess he’s your best friend for a reason.
Here you are, looking each other up and down and realizing that you’ve both unwittingly edged yourselves. Get a load of this fucking comedy.
You huff, amused. Squeeze his cheeks in your palms, and your heart flutters when he smiles, bashful. “You’re funny.”
“Sure, sunshine. I'll make that up to you,” he says, shifting his fingers on your back and undoing your bra. “So just to be sure—”
“Yes, Clark,” you grumble, tangling your fingers in his curls and tugging. Hard. You swear his eyes roll into his skull a little. “We can fuck without a condom.”
“You’re so crass,” he chides, and cool air hits your breasts.
Your bra lands somewhere soft, cushioned, and when you look, you find that he’s thrown it and the rest of your clothes—with terrifying accuracy—into his hamper.
That cracks something wide open in you. It blooms in your chest, unfurls like the first thaw of spring.
He’s so sweet. There isn’t another word for how he makes you feel. It’s just a something, somehow, stitched together with a lifetime of bandaids and inside jokes.
And you mourn. Even though the space between your bodies is so tight that your skin is sticky with humidity, even though his belt is clicking and he’s asking again, because he’s got that devastating habit of being a quintuple-checker:
“Will you let me have you?”
Not can I. Will you.
You snap out of your daze, heart still sighing dreamily as you practically leap to help tear his belt out of the loops.
“Is that a yes?” he wonders out loud, laying his forehead on yours. He squeezes his eyes tight when you unzip his fly and relieve a little more pressure from his hard cock. Chokes out, “For the record—oh, god—I’m a yes. Please.”
Clark kisses you with undisguised desire when you palm him over his underwear. He’s scorching in your palm, weighty when you try to grind the heel of your hand on it.
He whimpers. Honest to god whimpers, a ruined sound that whistles in the miniscule space between your open mouths, and your arm jerks, startled by how sudden and unexpected and hot that is.
Clark does it again, louder this time. Your core throbs.
“Baby,” he groans, furrowing his brows in concentration, “as much as I like that—”
“Yeah,” you breathe, steadier than you expected yourself to be, with your throat running dry and heart pounding in your throat. “Yeah, I want—”
“I know,” he says. Gently nudges your hand off his clothed erection, crowds you up against the headboard. Then he takes you by the knee, hand blistering up your thigh, and delicately guides you to lay on your back.
Your head lolls to the side, nose pressing into one of his pillows. Smells like home in a way you can’t really explain beyond the faint scent of sleep and lemon detergent. Smells like him, in the purest sense possible; all wool-soft and mellow, like the kindest comfort during a winter storm in Smallville.
He shimmies out of his pants. His cock bobs up, all eight inches and girth standing at attention, the head deeply flushed and pearled with pre. It slaps lightly against his navel, leaving behind a thread of slick that breaks quickly, and you burn white-hot and raw with lust.
Clark slides a plush pillow under your hips. Gazes down at you through his lashes, eyes shining with a light that makes your chest ache. Whispers, almost to himself, “You’re so pretty. My pretty girl.”
You don’t remember how you respond to that.
Because Clark is taking his cock in his hand, and that has the audacity to make his size look normal, and he strokes himself slowly as he guides himself toward your soaked cunt. You think you lose your breath.
He breaches you with a single, slow thrust, with an open-mouthed stammer of breath, and there’s so much of him sliding forward that you don’t even try arching your back to let him go deeper. And he just waits there, to the hilt, girthy and heavy and pulsing in time with your dripping, stretched cunt, and you’re so fucking full of him that you think you won’t be able to get up tomorrow.
Good thing it’s Friday, is the last thing that runs through your mind before he bends over and takes you with him, folding your legs against your chest like you’re one of those fucking origami cranes he makes in his free time.
(Yes, you’ve seen the box under his bed. No, not the one with his suit.
The one with a thousand colorful, paper cranes he folds at his desk when anonymous tips are slow and takes the time between work and alien invaders to painstakingly link them all up onto a thread of fishing line. The one he brings to a thrift shop every time he finishes a string, just so a lucky someone passing by could have a little goodness in their day.)
And Clark fucks like this means more than the world to him. Slow, sensual, with purpose. Grinds the searing head of his cock into the spot that made you see starbursts on his tongue earlier, cloistering his chest against your shins like he needs—not wants, but needs, desperately, more than air or sun—to live in your skin.
He moans in time with you, breathes out in a voice that sets you ablaze, “God, you’re so tight—sunshine, you’re perfect.”
He’s everywhere. Whimpering with his mouth over yours. Slipping his thumb expertly over your twitching clit over and over until you’re trying to arch into him, but you can’t, because he’s fucking you with his entire weight behind each world-stopping thrust and oh—
You get why he says ‘making love’ like an old-fashioned loverboy.
Because he is. Because he’s pushing and pulling into your cunt like he’s promising, like he’s revering. Heavy and softhearted and caressing the outside of your hip with a warm, soothing hand, and you understand.
“I love you,” you gasp. Just feels like the right thing to say, head spinning and mouth wet with his and your spit. Tastes like salt, and yourself. “Clark, please.”
“I can hear you,” he chokes out in the middle of an aborted whine. Ducks his nose behind your ear, breathes in the scent of your skin, all flushed with heat and thinly veiled with sweat. “Your heartbeat, it’s—so fast.”
He jerks up into your walls with a calamitous, devastating grind. Makes that same gush of wetness drool out of your spasming cunt, and when he plunges in you again, his pelvis slaps into the fat of your ass with a sound so tacky your ears burn, all shameful and alive.
“You liked that,” Clark gasps, taking your bottom lip in his mouth and sucking. Lets go after a moment when he’s satisfied with how swollen and pliant you are and rolls that bundle of sparking nerves between your thighs. You clench around him, uncontrollable, legs bucking up to no avail. “Holy—I love you, too. Gosh, I love you so much for so long, you’ve no idea—”
You can’t recall when your orgasm started cresting. It had just built slowly like one of those soda bottles that used to explode in Clark’s face randomly, creeping up on you like all this.
The realization that you are deeply, raptly in love with your best friend. That you want with him what all the people in the movies have—being late for your train because you get coffee together in the mornings; finding sweet, handwritten notes on his fridge, right next to your photobooth strip; passing each other in the hallway like two familiar ships, exchanging an earnest kiss before he runs off to fold the laundry and you to take inventory of the groceries.
And you want him forever. Yours to kiss. Yours to curl up to when the night gets too cold for even his thick, pillowy duvet, for him to hold you close and mumble his thoughts against your cheek.
A ruined whine rips through your lungs. You’re so close, teetering on the edge of the precipice.
He starts the hand holding your hip, dragging it up your side, over your ribcage. Traces the space between your bones, splays his hand wide for a moment between your breasts. Pushes down slightly, and you can feel your own heart leaping to try and touch him.
Oh. This is proving to be too much for you.
And then he reaches up to take one of your hands still tugging at his hair, threads his fingers between yours. Holds on tight, grounding.
Clark kisses your cheek. Chaste and sweet compared to the downright filthy way his cock is sparking the live wire under your skin.
Locks your eyes with his unfocused ones, and all you see in your smudged, pleasure-sick vision is the way he’s looking at you with something between disbelieving awe and endearment.
You come with his name already in your mouth and sugar-salt on your tongue.
He works you through the aftermath, rolling his hips with a gentle, powerful grace as you shiver and sigh brokenly against him. Makes love with a trembling, earnest sincerity, until you’re melting and he’s approaching his orgasm.
Clark doesn’t slow when he lowers your legs. Your thighs are a little sore, and you’re still rushing with your own high when he holds you tight in his solid, secure arms until your breasts are flattening against his chest.
It isn’t long until his rhythm is stammering like your poor heart, until he’s following you close over the edge, stuffing a low, warm, quivering moan close to your ear and spilling hot ropes deep into you like this has been his life’s mission all along.
—
You wake with the moon kissing your back and the AC kicking on.
Mouth dry, because it somehow found itself open, and there’s a spot of drool crusting on your cheek. You’re hungry, and it’s late by the analog display blinking from the top of the nightstand.
The clock sits just under a lamp. Familiar, like a second home. Blue-glass shade, tarnished brass.
And then you remember that this isn’t your apartment. You’re waking up in Clark’s bed, soft sheets pooling around your hips, and he’s done the favor of cleaning you up and putting out an old, threadbare shirt and a pair of shorts at the foot of the bed.
Crabjoys and college shorts. Of course.
The door creaks, letting a rectangle of golden-warm light stretch across the floor.
He’s standing there, in pajamas patterned with little brown cows and glasses hanging off the collar of the worn-thin shirt tight on his biceps and chest, and he’s balancing a little plate with a sliced bagel and condiments you can’t see well.
His curls are egregiously messed up. The back of his hair sticks up at an odd angle, presumably from your incessant tugging in the throes of pleasure (your stomach warms at the reminder), and his ears are bright red in the dim light.
Your heart swells for a sigh. There he is. Your best friend.
“Hi,” he breathes, shuffling into the room. He’s wearing tattered bunny slippers that squeak a little. “Good thing I set a timer on the oven. Could’ve burned our breakfast for dinner.”
“You spoil me,” you say, sitting up to reach for the shirt. You pull it over your head and he’s there before you when you emerge from the worn cotton, pressing a grateful kiss to your temple.
“That’s because you're the best thing in the world,” Clark rolls his eyes, smoothing his thumbs over your cheeks.
He’s so gentle. Intimately familiar.
You’ve already loved him for a lifetime.
You wouldn’t mind one more.
— kisses to the lovely wonderful betas dee @kentbot and nini @dancing-inasnowglobe for prereading this crazy fic for me! please let me know if u enjoyed, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated <33
pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x barista!reader
summary: you work at a coffee shop on the ground floor of the daily planet. it’s not glamorous. it smells like burnt espresso and the customers are kind of shitty and most of your day is spent judging people’s caffeine orders like some kind of underpaid oracle. enter clark kent. mister medium-drip-extra-room-sincere-eyebrows. says “golly” unironically. blushes if you so much as look at him too long. you make it your personal mission to see how many times you can get him to blush. you were just trying to make rent. now you might be in love. unfortunate. (written in honor of me getting back to the barista game) listen to the playlist here!
word count: 10.2k
content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv sex, light dom/sub undertones, bratty reader, soft dom!clark, nipple play, size kink (this 6'4 man had me FOLDING during the movie i stg), unprotected sex, creampie, clark being absolutely whipped, yearning, tooth-rotting fluff, praise kink, use of pet names (baby, pretty girl), he talks you through it, clark being a d1 yapper, reader being a yapologist
It starts with a spill.
Which—of course it does. It’s not dramatic. Not really the kind of spill that gets you a lawsuit or hazard pay. It’s just enough of one to be inconvenient. A dribble of some lukewarm latte that one of your coworkers left behind (Probably Ricky, that fucking asshole) down the side of your wrist that makes your already-caffeine-slicked skin feel somehow both sticky and itchy.
The sleeve of your Planet Roast sweatshirt is getting sacrificed to mop it up because (a) the napkin holder is jammed and (b) your manager still hasn’t fixed the bar towels situation, even though you’ve asked twice. Politely.
(Okay. Once politely. Once via a passive-aggressive note that ended with a poorly drawn crying espresso bean. Still counts.)
It’s 10:37 AM, and you’re officially in the danger window.
The Daily Planet’s early risers have mostly finished their first or second cups, and the lunchtime rush hasn’t started yet, but there’s always a trickle of stragglers. The ones who survive on iced Americanos and sheer willpower, who come downstairs from their fluorescent cubes in varying states of business casual panic. Some are trying to look busy. Some are trying to look mysterious. Some, cough—Steve Lombard—cough, are actually just hungover.
And then there’s him.
Clark Kent.
You’re not sure when exactly he started coming down to the cafe, but you are sure that he doesn’t belong here. Not in a snobby way, more in a—you are clearly from a much, much better plane of existence than all of these other assholes kind of way. You’re used to people who don’t make eye contact, who steal way too much Splenda and leave their phones on speaker, who mumble their orders while reading off an open Google Doc. Clark’s different.
He holds doors open. Says thank you like it’s a full sentence. He apologizes when he’s the one getting bumped into.
And, crucially, he smiles at the espresso machine. As opposed to you.
Today, it’s a soft “hi,” with a sheepish little wave that he directs mostly at the pastry display like he’s embarrassed to look you in the eye. His cheeks are a little pink from the cold, his tie’s crooked, and he’s got one of those laminated intern badges that all the real reporters pretend not to need.
But no, this guy? He wears his badge everywhere. Like it’s some sort of a security blanket. Or he’s worried someone will think he’s lying about working here.
“Morning,” he says, but his voice sounds like it might not be. Like he needs to double-check the time.
“Morning,” you echo, grabbing a clean cup and only half-listening because you’re wondering if you should give him a pastry on the house just to see if he’d implode. “Let me guess. Medium drip. Black. Room for... guilt.”
That gets a startled laugh. Loud, loud enough to make the woman still waiting for her Hawkgirl Dulce De Leche Frappe monstrosity startle. He adjusts his glasses. Fiddles with his watch, which you suspect might actually just be a glorified calculator. Would have to guess so, since he's always running perpetually behind. “No guilt,” he says. “Just... maybe sincerity.”
“Oh,” you say, eyes wide. “Even worse.”
And for a second, just a blink, he looks flustered. Not in the way the regulars do when they forget their punch card or order a mocha and realize they meant matcha. It’s different. It’s like he wasn’t expecting to be teased. Or wasn’t sure he deserved to be.
“Well… uh… I like your pin,” he says abruptly, nodding to the enamel one stuck to your apron strap. It’s a tiny frog wearing a barista apron and holding a steaming cup that says “RIBBIT AND RIP IT.”
You arch a brow. “Do you?”
He hesitates. “Yes?”
“You sound unsure.”
“Well, I—I meant it. It’s cute. Like it has, uh. Frogtitude.”
“Oh no,” you say gravely. “You can’t just make up frog puns and expect me not to retaliate.”
Clark stammers. Stammers. “I—I wasn’t trying to—”
You’re already scribbling on his cup. Big loopy marker letters, all caps: “FROGTITUDE™️” under his name. Then, after a beat, you add a cartoon frog with glasses. The resemblance is... vague and not really all there, but it's charming, if you do say so yourself.
He watches this entire process with what can only be described as quiet horror and admiration. You pass him the cup like a peace offering.
“I like your tie,” you say casually. “Very, uh. Father-of-the-bride-who-also-coaches-high-school-football energy.”
He blinks. Looks down at it. It’s navy with tiny golden wheat stalks.
“Wow,” he says, adjusting it self-consciously. “I, uh. My mom got it for me for Christmas.”
“Of course she did.”
You’re trying not to enjoy this too much, but it’s hard. Watching him process attention is like watching someone try to download a new emotion over dial-up. He’s not awkward in the charming TV nerd way, he’s awkward in the earnest way. Like he still hasn’t realized he could probably get away with murder if he smiled hard enough.
(You think, selfishly, shamefully, that you'd probably help him hide the body if he could just smile at you instead of the damn espresso machine.)
“It’s... nice in here today,” he says, gesturing vaguely at the café. “I mean—I—I like the energy.”
You glance around at the over-caffeinated chaos.
The guy in the corner booth from the Gossip column loudly arguing with someone on Zoom about the best way to go about the whole Astronomer CEO cheating with his head of HR drama.
The sticky note on the register that says NO “EXTRA HOT” LATTES. IF YOU WANT TO TASTE HELL, TRY GOTHAM.
“Sure,” you say. “If you’re into… all that.”
Clark sips his coffee and actually makes a noise. Like a barely-there huh that somehow contains three syllables and a question mark. You clock the pink in his cheeks deepening. You did that. That’s yours now.
“You’re funny,” he says, and it’s so genuine it actually throws you for a second.
“Well, yeah,” you reply, recovering. “What else am I gonna do down here? I’m not allowed to unionize.”
There’s another laugh. Fuller this time. Like it slipped out before he could hide it. He looks at you, and this time he really looks, with this open, warm-eyed gaze that makes you feel like maybe you’ve done something brave just by speaking.
You drum your fingers on the counter. “You’re not gonna try to tip me with a compliment, are you?”
He panics. “No! I mean—do you want me to? I can—”
“Clark,” you say, slowly, with the air of someone taming a horse. “I’m just messing with you.”
“Oh,” he says. And then, small: “Right. Of course.”
There’s a pause. He fumbles his change, and you’re so tempted to reach over and do the hand-touch, cup-over-cup move from every romcom ever, just to see if he’d faint.
But you don’t. Not yet. You’ve got time. He’s clearly coming back.
Instead, you lean on the counter and say, “Same time tomorrow?”
And he nods, wide-eyed and startled like a deer being asked out at gunpoint even though you both know it probably won't be the same time tomorrow. “I—yeah. Yes. Definitely.”
You watch him leave, sipping his drip coffee like it’s the elixir of life, like you didn’t just ambush him with amphibian-related puns and call his tie ‘dad-coded.’ He pauses halfway to the elevator and glances back once, expression unreadable but soft.
Once the doors to the elevator close, you grin to yourself and write a note on the back of a pastry bag:
Make Midwestern Huckleberry C-O-M-B-U-S-T!
And then you tape it to the espresso machine. Just above the “clean me or I’ll start putting the Large cups over the Medium cups” sign. Grin. Tomorrow, you’ll find out if he can blush all the way to his collar.
.
When you finally clock out, approximately five and a half hours later, you hit the bodega first, because you’re not walking all the way to the Metro Foods just to remember they’re out of your specific brand of oat milk again and pay two dollars more for a smaller carton out of spite. The corner one’s closer. Grimy. Honest. Sells smokes behind the counter and probably a small arsenal of weapons underneath it.
You actually like that a lot about it.
The bell above the door screams when you push it open, but it’s doing its best. Hey, you're doing your best, too. Your hoodie kind of still smells like steamed milk and despair, and your sneakers are still faintly damp from where someone spilled their large iced sugar nightmare and “forgot” to tell anyone. You had the absolutely wonderful (mis)fortune of finding it with your foot.
The fluorescent lights in here are especially aggressive today, which feels… personal.
The guy at the register gives you a nod, the kind that says you’ve been in here enough times that I acknowledge your existence but not enough to ask your name. You respect the boundary, maybe 's why you like it so much here.
You grab a basket and beeline for the produce—because, you reason with yourself like you would a spoiled three-year old toddler, that if you start with kale, you can pretend this entire excursion actually has integrity.
You will not acknowledge that you’re really here for frozen dumplings and pretzels you’ll inhale over the sink tomorrow morning because you forgot to make real lunch again.
Not yet.
Tomatoes are too expensive. Everything is too expensive nowadays. Even the sad little ones with the weird texture that squish when you so much as look at them the wrong way. You poke one out of morbid curiosity. It feels like poking someone’s arm after they’ve fainted. Uh… not encouraging.
“Three seventy-nine a pound,” you mutter. “Fucking recession indicator.”
You don’t mean to wander past the coffee aisle after that. But it happens.
The scent hits first—too sharp, too acidic. Like someone tried to bottle up productivity and ended up with regret.
You shouldn’t even be here. You hate this aisle.
You’ve gone on rants. Real ones. Passionate, foaming-at-the-mouth monologues in the breakroom while nursing a triple shot over ice and picking stale biscotti crumbs out of your apron pocket. Rants that started with "I swear to God if Ricky buys another bag of pre-ground Peet’s I'm going to stage a coup," and ended with "coffee is alive, you soulless freaks, it breathes, it deserves better than a Mr. Coffee drip."
But.
You're the opener tomorrow.
And that means 5:45 a.m. You, alone, eyes crusted, body upright through spite and caffeine residue. You’re the one who calibrates the espresso, who restocks the milks, who makes sure the ancient, haunted BUNN drip machine doesn’t spit hot water directly into someone’s shoe again.
So you double back. Casually. Like maybe you’re here for—what? Dog food? An out-of-body experience?
Your gaze snags on a familiar name.
It’s a brand you respect, even if their whole Portland-vibe marketing leans a little too close to “guy who unironically wears a beanie in July.” But the beans are good. Real good. Sweet and chocolatey, but with a little complexity, a little grit. Not too dark. Holds up in drip, which you need. Doesn’t taste like ash.
The bag is $17. You stare at it like it’s winking at you.
No one would have to know.
You think about Clark, that earnest doofus, sipping that crap with both hands like it’s the only thing tethering him to this plane of existence.
You picture his face if he tried this one instead. Something real. Something warm and round and—God, maybe just sweet enough to throw him off his awkward axis.
You glance around. No one’s watching you.
The bag lands in your basket with a quiet, traitorous crinkle.
You pay in exact change. The cashier says nothing when he scans the bag, just gives you a look that says I, too, have sinned for flavor.
Back on the sidewalk, your tote is heavier than it should be. The wind hits sharp as you walk. Your hoodie doesn’t do much, but it smells like espresso and burnt toast now and maybe just the faintest whiff of rebellion.
Let him try this. Let Kansas boy lose his mind. Let him ask what it is and how you made it and if it always tastes like this.
.
The next morning, Clark’s late. Again.
You’re not watching the door.
You’re not. You’re definitely not timing how long it takes him to get down from the tenth floor and line up like the world’s gentlest golden retriever with a press pass. But you do clock that it’s 8:06 and he usually comes in around 7:50ish like clockwork, which means he’s either dead or forgot his umbrella and got caught helping an elderly woman cross the street while carrying her dog and her groceries and probably also her dog’s groceries.
Which is honestly more likely.
You’re behind the bar with one AirPod in, half-listening to a true crime podcast you’ll forget the name of by noon, when the door creaks open and in he comes—jacket open, hair wind-mussed, glasses a little fogged, holding his press badge like it might serve as protection against the cold and or social consequences.
“Sorry—sorry,” he pants as he shuffles up, already fishing for his wallet. “Someone had their car parked sideways in the loading zone, and then I dropped my notepad in a puddle, and the elevator—well, it made a noise I didn’t love.”
You stare at him blankly over the espresso machine.
Clark stares back.
And then, because it is Clark, he adds, “I think it’s probably fine though! I mean, I told someone. I left a sticky note. Elevator maintenance probably has a system.”
You set a clean cup down and pick up a Sharpie like it’s a weapon.
“Ohio,” you start, eyes narrowing, “do you usually ride in elevators that squeal like a haunted child?”
He shrugs, smiling like you’ve just asked if he takes sugar. “I mean, it is an old building.”
“Clark.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.”
You sigh, but it’s mostly for show. “Medium drip. Extra room. Extra faith in the structural integrity of ancient elevators.”
“Right,” he says, blushing already. “You always remember.”
You don’t answer. You just pour.
You brewed a pot of those beans you got from the bodega that morning. Snuck it in under cover of darkness, stashed the bag behind the weird cinnamon syrup no one ever uses. If you’re gonna break house rules and your bank account, you might as well break them for something someone worth ruining lives over.
You slap a lid on and slide it across the counter.
Clark doesn’t grab it right away. Just stands there, all soft-eyed, looking somehow both undercaffeinated and deeply grateful to be here. Like maybe this five-dollar cup of coffee is the only stable thing in his life right now.
“Hey,” he says, awkward but sincere. “Meant to tell you—I liked what you wrote on my cup yesterday.”
You blink. “You remember what I wrote? Frogtitude?"
Clark laughs, but it’s almost a gasp of a laugh, like he was holding it in too long. “That. That was—it made me smile all day.”
You try not to show that that does something to you. That this man is genuinely thanking you like you left a handwritten note in his lunchbox and not a badly drawn amphibian in a barista apron.
“You’ve got low standards, Iowa.”
“I don’t know about that,” he says, and then finally takes a sip of his coffee.
And pauses.
And blinks.
And then blinks again.
“Oh my gosh,” he whispers.
It’s not performative. He says it like he’s just witnessed the birth of a star.
You fight down a grin. Hard.
“Something wrong?” you ask, innocent. Not innocent.
He lowers the cup just an inch, looking at it like it’s betrayed every expectation he’s ever had. “No, it’s just—I mean—I don’t think this is the usual blend?”
You raise an eyebrow. “Preeeeetty sure it is.”
He frowns in concentration. Takes another sip, slower this time, as if he’s trying to confirm that he wasn’t hallucinating. “This is... smooth. Like, really smooth. But still rich? Like a chocolate bar that went to college.”
You stare at him. “Do you write poetry on the side or something?”
Clark reddens, fingers curling tighter around the cup. “Sorry! I just—I think I’m having a moment.”
“No, please, go on. I’d love to hear more about your emotional journey through this coffee.”
He clutches the cup closer to his chest, like someone might come snatch it. “Seriously, this is incredible. Did you—did someone special roast it?”
“Sure,” you say, casually wiping the bar down. “We’ve got a guy in the basement who cries on the beans for that extra depth of flavor.”
Clark chokes on his next sip, which is honestly a gift. He coughs and tries to cover it with a laugh, eyes watering.
“I’m kidding,” you say, grabbing him a napkin. “No tears. Just some good taste.”
He takes the napkin with both hands. “I don’t know how I’m going to go back to regular coffee after this.”
“You won’t,” you say. “That’s the point. I’m ruining you on purpose.”
Clark looks up, startled.
You don’t look away.
Just raise your eyebrows. “I mean, the house blend’s a crime against humanity, and I’m tired of pretending it’s not.”
Clark is bright pink now. Full-blush. Red all the way to the collar of his slightly-too-big work shirt, and you try not to think of the image of him—crouched over an ironing board, impossibly large, minding all the little creases.
Success. He does blush all the way down.
“Well,” he says softly, “I appreciate the sabotage.”
“Anytime.”
You say it offhand, because you’ve been trying it out in your head and it fits—somewhere between teasing and affectionate, and definitely enough to make him glance up like he’s not sure if you’re being mean or just... noticing.
You are noticing. You always have.
He fiddles with his receipt, eyes down. “Hey, uh... if I brought in some cookies—like, homemade—would that be weird?”
You blink. “For who?”
“For you,” he says. “I mean, and your coworkers. But—mostly you.”
It knocks the wind out of you for half a second.
“I like baking,” he adds quickly. “It’s relaxing.”
You try not to show your reaction. Fail. “You bake?”
He nods, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Chocolate chip. Oatmeal raisin. Sometimes those little peanut butter ones with the Hershey kiss?”
You raise a hand. “Okay, now you’re just bragging.”
Clark smiles again. Quiet. Unfiltered. Honest.
The bell above the door chimes behind him as another customer walks in. He looks down at his watch—calculator-confirmed—then back up at you.
“See you tomorrow?” he asks.
You tip your head. “You bring cookies, I bring our secret crying man blend. Deal?”
His grin could power the city.
“Deal.”
When he finally leaves your line of sight, you snatch the note from yesterday to add a slight revision:
Make Midwestern Huckleberry C-O-M-B-U-S-T! ABSOLUTELY E-X-P-L—
"Dude, you need to get back to work or something."
"Shut up."
.
A couple days later, Clark brings in the cookies.
They’re in a Tupperware container that looks like it’s survived three different potlucks and maybe a tornado. There’s a sticky note on the lid that just says: “Made these last night. Might be too soft? Also I didn’t measure the vanilla, I just sort of... guessed. -CK” with a little cartoon of a cookie saying “Hi :)”.
They’re oatmeal chocolate chip. Still warm. Still slightly underbaked in the best possible way. He drops them off awkwardly between customers—says something like, “Hope they’re edible,” and then fumbles his wallet and apologizes to the napkin dispenser.
You take one while he’s still there, bite into it dramatically just to make him squirm, and then say, flatly, “This is offensively good.”
Clark—sweet, flustered Clark—beams like you just gave him a Pulitzer.
.
Now it’s Thursday, mid-morning, and you’re on break for once.
Which means you’re sitting in the corner booth in the café’s far back, the one with the wonky cushion and the view of the alley dumpsters. You’re sipping your own coffee for once—your actual coffee, the not-house-blend blend—and listening to some girl on a podcast whisper-shouting about how Love Island is an allegory for late-stage capitalism and mutual destruction disguised as connection. It’s pretty great.
And then the bell over the door rings.
You don’t look up right away. You try not to. You try to hold onto the moment—the horrific British accent, the rare heat of a ceramic mug. But your body knows. Your body alwaysknows.
Sure enough, when you glance up, it’s him.
Clark walks in like a gust of air—rumpled coat, puff of breath from the chill outside, cheeks again slightly pink and tie valiantly losing its battle with gravity. He spots you almost instantly. And you—you pretend not to see him.
You do not wave. You do not smile. You just raise one brow and sip your coffee like you are a god on break and he is mortal and interrupting.
He hesitates for exactly two seconds, then walks up to the counter like normal, orders, does his awkward wallet-fumble thing with the same sincerity of someone offering you their firstborn in exchange for an Americano.
One of your coworkers—Dev—makes his coffee. Dev’s in college and hates everything including his life, so he hands Clark his cup with all the warmth of a DMV employee.
And then Clark... doesn’t leave.
No, he glances over his shoulder.
At you.
And then—God help you—he comes over.
You watch him cross the café with the awkward but determined gait of someone who’s trying not to overthink walking.
“Hey,” he says, standing beside your booth.
You sip your coffee. “You’re lingering, Nebraska.”
He flushes. “Well. I just... I’ve never seen you on break.”
“You mean sitting down like a human person?”
“Yeah,” he says, then realizes how that sounds. “No! I just—I mean—like, not behind the bar. It’s new.”
You raise a brow again. “New enough to investigate?”
Clark hesitates. He looks like he’s going to retreat. But then—he doesn’t.
“Can I sit?” he asks.
And for the sheer novelty of it—he, who’s never sat in here once, not in any of the three weeks you’ve known him, not even when there were pastries involved—you nod slowly and say, “Sure. Knock yourself out.”
Clark sits carefully. The booth groans under his weight, like it wasn’t built to accommodate six feet and four inches of earnest farm boy. He sets his cup down like he’s worried it might be offended.
“You’ve never sat down down here before,” you say.
He clears his throat. “Usually I don’t because of, um... the lighting. It’s—uh—aggressively fluorescent.”
“Mm. Not because of the draft or the, I don’t know, weird linoleum tiles?”
“Those too,” he says solemnly. “Also the smell of despair coming from the bathroom.”
You snort into your sleeve. “Wow. Big talk from someone who’s been down here religiously for weeks.”
He ducks his head, grinning. “I’m a complicated man.”
“No, you’re a journalist with a caffeine dependency and a weirdly solid moral code.”
He raises his cup in salute. “Guilty.”
There’s a brief pause where you both sip. You’re not sure what he expected, but the fact that he’s now stuck in the booth across from you, elbows too big for the table, legs slightly too long for the bench, is clearly dawning on him in real time.
“So,” you say, stretching your legs out a little further, just to trap him. “What’s the angle, Illinois?”
“No angle,” he says quickly. “Just... thought it’d be nice. To talk.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Talk. Like people. Who talk.”
“Exactly,” he says, determined now. “I mean—we’ve been talking already. Sort of. You insult me a lot.”
“That’s my love language.”
He laughs. “Good to know.”
You lean back, stretch your legs just enough to box him in. “So. What would we even talk about? You want my coffee origin story?”
His expression perks up like you just offered to tell him your first kiss story.
“Actually, yes.”
You sip your coffee. “I was forged in a vat of over-extracted espresso and crushing student debt.”
“Ah. A classic hero’s journey.”
“More of a Greek tragedy. There’s no escape and everyone dies a little inside.”
He lets out a soft, real laugh—head tipped back, hair curling slightly at the ends from the cold outside, cheeks still faintly pink. You try not to memorize it.
“So what about you?” you ask, swirling the last bit of your drink. “What’s your tragic origin? Fall into a printing press as a baby?”
“Close,” he says, beaming. “I wrote a very intense op-ed about the school lunch program in eighth grade. Got published in the Smallville Post. After that, I was hooked.”
You blink. “That is... deeply wholesome.”
He shrugs. “I peaked early.”
A silence settles again, but it’s not awkward. It’s... comfortable. Warm.
And he’s got his sleeves rolled up.
You hadn’t noticed before, not really. But now—now that he’s sitting still, now that he’s not fumbling or moving or half-tucking his badge away like it might explode—you can see it.
Clark has arms.
Like, not just functional limbs. Not just hey-I-moved-a-couch-once arms. No. These are storytelling arms. Like if he wasn’t a journalist, he’d be... forging swords or something in Ireland. Or baking heritage sourdough by hand in an Amish colony. Or holding you against a barn door in some kind of emotionally charged, enemies-to-lovers farmhand romance book that you’re not saying you’ve read. Or—
Anyway.
You’re not that fixated on them. You’re not. You’re just—not blind.
It’s a new kind of hell. Because he’s sitting there, all polite and good and earnest, sipping his coffee with his dumb beautiful mouth, and you are trying so hard not to let your gaze drop back down to his biceps again.
“You okay?” he asks, brow crinkled, voice all warm concern like you didn’t just zone out mid-conversation to contemplate the state of his triceps. Like he doesn’t know that his sleeves are a war crime and you’re the sole surviving witness.
“Yup,” you say, way too fast. Like, cartoonishly fast.
He blinks. Tilts his head, trying to parse your tone. “Just thinking.”
Nods a little. Waits a beat. Then, gently, “About?”
You look at him. Really look.
Big blue eyes, impossibly earnest. Brows drawn just slightly, like he thinks maybe you’re upset, or tired, or—God help you—bored. He shifts in the booth like he’s about to apologize for existing.
And you can’t help it.
You reach out—calmly, smoothly, with the casual gravitas of someone pretending they didn’t just short-circuit at the sight of his forearms—and pluck the pen from behind his ear.
Clark stills immediately.
“Oh—uh—” he stammers, straightening up a little, like he’s done something wrong. Like getting his pen stolen is a disciplinary offense. “Did you—do you need to write something down?”
“Don’t move,” you say, already uncapping it with your teeth.
His mouth opens like he’s about to ask something else, but you don’t give him the chance.
Instead, you reach for his left arm—fingertips brushing warm, tan skin—and gently, purposefully, pull it toward you.
And he lets you.
He lets you guide his arm across the table, palm-up. Lets you anchor it with one hand while you write on the inside of his forearm with the other—steady and precise, like this is a totally normal thing you do to customers who bake you cookies and blush when you roast them. Like this isn’t the first time you’ve touched him. Like it’s not doing something to you, even though it absolutely, definitely is.
His skin is warm. Firm. Soft in places, freckled in others, with those faint dustings of hair that are completely unremarkable except for the way they catch the light and make your brain lowkey stop functioning.
You feel the tremor run through him—not dramatic, not visible, but real. A low hum under the surface, like a live wire.
And then you see it.
Goosebumps. Skin slowly turning pink. Crawling across his forearm, blooming under your touch like he’s standing in a cold wind even though the café is very much decidedly not cold.
He stares at your hand on his arm like it’s some sort of a religious event. Like he’s worried blinking will make it go away.
You cap the pen back with a little click and tuck it gently back behind his ear.
He still doesn’t move.
You glance up. He’s still staring at his arm when you say, lightly, “I’m free this weekend. Saturday. After five.”
Clark opens his mouth. Nothing comes out.
Closes it. Tries again. “Okay,” he breathes, like he forgot how his lungs work. “Yeah. Yes. I—great. I’ll—uh—yeah.”
You give him a look. Tilt your head just slightly. “Words, Clark. You’re a journalist, remember?”
His ears go scarlet.
“I’ll text you,” he says quickly. “And we’ll... we’ll do a thing. A date. Together. If that’s okay.”
You lean back in your seat like a cat in a sunbeam. Sip your coffee. Smirk just a little.
“That’s the idea.”
Clark’s holding his arm like it’s breakable. Like the number’s written in gold leaf and not cheap ink from a $1.99 pen.
And you swear, swear, you catch him glancing down at it again as he gathers his stuff. Like he’s memorizing it in case a strong wind comes through and blows it away.
His whole face is still pink when he stands up. The tips of his ears are practically glowing.
It’s ridiculous.
It’s endearing.
It’s—dangerous, honestly, how much it makes you want to reach for him again.
You don’t. Not yet.
But you do watch him leave, this tall, flustered, ray of sunshine who now has your number on his arm like it’s some sort of secret message.
The pastry bag note's no longer hanging on the espresso machine. You've taken it home.
.
It’s just a date.
Just. A date.
With Clark Kent.
But it's like your closet is mocking you. Every shirt is suddenly wrong. This one’s too tight. That one’s too try-hard. This one screams, “pleasegod please love me despite my visible trust issues.” And the one you were going to wear, the one you felt okay about an hour ago, now feels like it’s not enough. Like you’re not enough. Which is… probably not great? Mentally? But you’re too deep in it to self-soothe now.
You glance at the time.
Two and a half hours. Technically plenty.
But then your phone buzzes, face-down on your bed.
You dive.
CLARK K.: Hey :) still good for 5:30? No pressure. I mean there is pressure. But only like, fun pressure.
CLARK K.: Wait that sounded weird.
CLARK K.: I’m excited. That’s all.
You stare at the screen for a beat too long, forehead pressed into your comforter. He’s so earnest it makes your chest hurt. You type back with what you hope is cool, flirty detachment and not the energy of someone reapplying deodorant for the third time today.
YOU: yeah, still good
YOU: u need the address or u you gonna x-ray locate it thru the earth’s crust or whatever
Immediately regret it.
Too much. You’re being too much. You’re going to get blocked for making geology-flavored metahuman jokes before the first date even happens.
But then—
CLARK K.: Lol hahahahahahaha
CLARK K.: unfortunately I can't x ray because that's impossible like no one can do that obviously unless you have a radiology unit in your eyes or somethi g
CLARK K.: Anyway, I'll have the address or I’ll else I'll end up at Arby’s by mistake.
You send it. You don’t even hesitate this time. He invited this dynamic, so now he has to live in it.
YOU: if u show up with curly fries ur getting ghosted
CLARK K.: Harsh, but fair
CLARK K.: Bringing my best behavior 😃
CLARK K.: See you soon!
You throw your phone across the room. Gently. With love.
.
When the knock comes, it’s not loud. Three small, polite taps. You check the peephole even though you know it’s him. Because you’re not unhinged. Just… cautious.
And then you open the door.
And there he is.
Standing on your doormat like he hasn’t just obliterated your frontal lobe with one (1) rolled flannel and an orange flower in his hand.
It’s not even a bouquet. Just a single, bright zinnia. Slightly wilted on the edge. Like he wanted to bring something sweet but not too much. Thoughtful but not too presumptuous.
He’s got that sheepish, slightly stunned look again. Like you surprised him. Like maybe he hadn’t been fully prepared to see you either.
And he’s a little out of breath.
Not dramatically. Not like he sprinted. But like he got here and paused outside your door for a second too long, maybe psyching himself up, and now he’s a little flustered and trying to play it cool but failing. Adorably.
“Hi,” he says, and it’s soft, shy almost.
And you—You blush. Full face, full body. Heat blooms up your neck, across your chest, creeps over your ears. Which is frankly rude. Unfair. You were doing so well playing it cool.
He notices. Of course he notices. He lights up like he’s just won a prize.
“You look…” He trails off, then clears his throat. “I mean, you always look great. But wow. Tonight is… wow.”
You take the flower from him, trying not to smile too hard.
“Wow back,” you mutter, because you’re a disaster.
You’re pretty sure this man could say “macaroni salad” and you’d swoon like you’ve just been proposed to. Which is fine. Probably.
Definitely.
He offers you his arm, awkward but sweet. You take it.
And for one brief moment, you think maybe—maybe—you won’t survive this date. But God, what a way to go.
.
Clark picks a diner just a few blocks from your place. Neon sign buzzes a little. Booths are cracked vinyl. Menus are laminated and sticky in that way where it’s not wet, exactly, but it’s not dry either.
You sit across from him in a booth that squeaks every time you shift your weight. He folds his hands on the table like he’s about to say grace or apologize for the dust bowl. Instead, he says, “I haven’t been here in a while. I think the last time was after a stakeout that ended in a twenty-two-hour nothingburger. I was so hungry I ordered pancakes, a tuna melt, and fries. I wouldn’t recommend that combo.”
You raise your eyebrows. “That’s—deranged.”
“I was sleep-deprived and emotionally fragile. And honestly? The fries were great.”
You hum, flipping through the menu. “You brought me to a trauma site.”
“It’s not a trauma site. It’s—comfort food. Nostalgic. The kind of place that still thinks calling something a ‘patty melt’ is sexy.”
You snort. “It kind of is.”
Clark chokes on his water.
And then—it starts.
The conversation, not a thing, not capital-R Romantic or anything, just… this sort of low, steady hum between you. Easy. Weirdly so. He asks you about the café, and not in the fake way people do when they’re trying to be interested. Like he actually wants to know. Like it’s funny to him that the oat milk goes missing every Wednesday and you’re 80% sure it’s stolen by the guy who “works remote” in the corner but only ever types on his laptop when people walk by.
Then he tells his work stories, but not the cool ones. Not the “once I interviewed Superman” stories, though you do wanna ask how he managed to get that in. He talks about how Lois once replaced his keyboard with one where every key was set to type ‘I AM A NERD’ no matter what he pressed. And the time Perry tried to switch to standing desks and accidentally gave himself a back spasm.
“I tried to help him stretch it out,” Clark says, “but then I sneezed and cracked my glasses in half. I don’t even know how. It was like a cartoon.”
“And Perry still lets you write about city politics?”
Clark grins, crooked and earnest. “Well, yeah. But only because I make sure to mention ‘accountability’ every third paragraph.”
“Do you always laugh at your own stories this much?”
He grins, sheepish, pink in the cheeks. “Yeah. Sorry. I just—once I start remembering the details, it gets funnier in my head, and then I spiral. It’s a problem.”
“No, it’s cute,” you say, too fast.
He blinks. You blink. You both look down at your drinks like they’ve suddenly become very interesting.
“I mean,” you say, aiming for casual and missing by a mile, “objectively speaking. Anyone writing about local politics doing God’s work.”
Clark smiles, small this time, like he’s trying not to spook the moment. “Well, you’re really easy to talk to. Helps a ton."
You press your foot against the floor so you don’t accidentally kick him under the table.
“Yeah,” you say. “You too. Except for the patty melt thing. That’s still upsetting.”
“I stand by it. You’ve never lived until you’ve had American cheese with a side of regret.”
You roll your eyes. “How do you not have IBS?”
He shrugs, all innocent Kansas-boy charm. “Good genes?”
You snort. “Is that what we’re calling them now?”
Clark turns bright red. Like, collarbone red. You catch it and immediately file it away as a top five moment of your week.
Instead, you sip your drink and try very hard not to look at his arms again when he reaches for the salt.
He offers to walk you home after, like this is Gotham and not Metropolis, and you’re in mortal danger of getting mugged by a rogue streetlamp or conscripted by a rogue theatre troupe doing King Lear in the park. You don’t say no. You don’t really want to.
Besides, it’s kind of… nice. The way he walks like someone who’s not in a rush to be anywhere. Like he means to make it to the end of the sidewalk and not a second sooner.
He tucks his hands into his jacket pockets like he’s afraid they’ll do something inappropriate if left unsupervised. Occasionally, they drift back out when he gets excited about something he’s saying and then, as if remembering themselves, they’re quickly shoved back in.
“You know,” you say, bumping your shoulder gently into his, “for someone who’s allegedly a professional journalist, you don’t ask a lot of prying questions.”
Clark hums. “I’ve been told my bedside manner is… Midwestern.”
“That’s not a real thing.”
“It absolutely is. It’s like… nosiness with a layer of apology. We’ll ask about your divorce but bring banana bread to soften the blow.”
You shoot him a look. “Your poor sources.”
“I bribe them with muffins.”
You’re still laughing when your building comes into view. The stoop light is doing its usual impression of a dying firefly—glow, flicker, darkness. Repeat. You slow your steps instinctively, angling your body toward the door, signaling with every possible fiber of your being that this isn’t the part where the night ends.
Clark doesn’t catch the signal.
He stops at the bottom of the steps. Full stop. Hands still in his jacket, like he’s clocking out of the shift. Like he’s already back on the subway in his head.
“Well,” he says, and it sounds practiced. Gentle, but finite. “This was really nice.”
You blink. That’s it?
“Yeah,” you say, voice thin. “It was.”
There’s a beat.
Then another.
He just stands there, beaming at you. Not moving. Like a Labrador who brought you a stick and isn’t quite sure what happens next. You stare at him, willing him—telepathically willing him—to pick up the stick.
Nothing.
You glance toward the door, then back at him. “It’s, uh… it’s not super late, if you… if you wanted to come up.”
Clark blinks like you just offered him the deed to your apartment and half your 401k.
“Oh.” A pause. “I mean—I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“You wouldn’t be.”
He shifts his weight. “You probably have to open early tomorrow…”
“So do a lot of people. That’s not a reason not to have tea.”
“Tea?”
You gesture vaguely in the air. “Or, you know. Sit on furniture. Continue human interaction.”
“I wouldn’t want to overstay—”
“Clark,” you say, trying not to visibly collapse into yourself, “you walked me home. Like a 1950s poster boy. I think we’re past overstaying.”
He opens his mouth. Closes it again. And then—finally—finally—you see it click. His eyebrows do this subtle arch like a cartoon light bulb just pinged over his head. The most adorable software update in real time.
“Oh,” he says again. And this oh is different. Softer. Real. A little horrified at himself.
You laugh under your breath. “Jesus Christ.”
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, earnest and red to the ears. “I—I just didn’t want to assume. You were being polite and funny and I didn’t want to turn that into—”
“You’re extremely noble,” you say, climbing one step higher so he’s looking up at you a little. “It’s wildly inconvenient.”
He laughs, ducking his head, curls falling into his eyes. “Sorry. I thought maybe you were just being nice. Or—friendly.”
“I am being nice,” you say, leaning against the doorframe, “but I don’t usually invite friendly people upstairs for ambiguous beverages.”
Clark’s eyes flick up to yours. There’s something hesitant there. Warm. A little surprised.
“Right,” he says, and you swear you can see him rerunning the entire walk in his head, mentally cataloguing every flirtation he’s now realizing happened in real time.
You reach for the door handle. “So. You coming, or do I have to start naming teas until one of them sounds sexy enough?”
He smiles, crooked and boyish. “Depends. Do you have chamomile?”
“I have a tea that claims to be chamomile and tastes like sadness.”
He climbs the steps after you. “Perfect. That’s my favorite flavor.”
It's silent when you unlock the door. Just steps in after you, careful not to drip melted snow from his boots on your welcome mat. He shrugs his coat off like it’s second nature to be here, like his body already knows to move slow, stay soft. You kick your shoes off, gesture vaguely at your kitchen table-slash-coffee shrine-slash-tea graveyard.
“Make yourself at home,” you say, voice light, like this isn’t the most vulnerable you’ve felt in weeks. “Just ignore the sink. It’s full of, uh, science experiments.”
He grins. “I’ve faced worse.”
You scoff. “Bet you say that to all the girls with half-dead succulents and a box of Celestial Seasonings they forgot they bought.”
But he just smiles, gentle, and stays right where he is while you fill the kettle.
You busy yourself at the counter, pretending to debate your options while the water heats, even though you already grabbed the chamomile—the knockoff, stale variety you mock on principle but suddenly feel weirdly sentimental about. Behind you, Clark wanders just far enough to hover near the bookshelf, hands in his pockets, polite and fidgety.
The kettle whistles. You make the tea.
By the time you bring the mugs over, he’s perched carefully at the far end of the couch, like he’s trying not to startle the furniture. You sit beside him, close but not touching, and set the mugs down on the coffee table.
Clark clasps his hands. Sits up straight like he’s in an interview.
You try to act normal. You do not succeed. And you don’t realize how close you’ve gotten until your knees brush his thigh and he doesn’t move. Just tenses. Barely. And then… relaxes again.
Okay. Now or never.
“I feel like you’re waiting for a sign,” you say, not looking at him. “Like a signal or something.”
Clark laughs, a little too quickly. “Am I that obvious?”
“You’re very obvious.”
He doesn’t defend himself. Doesn’t argue. Just watches you now, really watches you, and you can feel it, the way you feel the warm buzz of a lightbulb, even after it’s been switched off.
“I don’t want to—” he starts, then stops. “I don’t want to ruin a good thing.”
“It’s tea,” you say softly. “It’s not sacred.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
You don’t speak.
And then—then—finally, he moves.
It’s small at first. His hand brushing yours. Just that. But his fingers catch. Linger. Curl slightly, not gripping, just anchoring. Like he’s still asking.
He’s close enough now that you can see the faint line of stubble on his jaw. The slope of his neck. The soft line of his mouth, which is not currently smiling.
“You’re allowed to kiss me,” you say, and your voice is steadier than your heartbeat.
Clark lets out a breath, and you feel it on your lips before he’s even touched you. His eyes flick to your mouth. Back to your eyes. His hand rises, hesitating near your jaw like he’s not sure where to land, like your skin might flinch away from his touch.
It doesn’t.
It starts gentle—just the press of his mouth to yours, warm and careful—but the second you kiss him back, really kiss him, something in him unspools. The restraint fractures. And God, you don’t expect how good he is at this. How confident.
He tilts his head, deepens it, not asking now. Not apologizing. His hand cradles the back of your neck like he knows exactly where you want him. His other slides across your waist, slow and steady, grounding you as your pulse kicks up like it’s trying to escape your throat.
And he kisses like someone who’s had to be careful his whole life. Like he’s used to holding back and hates that he wants more. Like he’s used to stopping himself midwant.
But not now.
Now he touches you like he’s hungry for it, like this moment is a warm room in winter and he finally stepped inside. Like he’s letting himself want you, all at once, with no filter.
Your fingers find his shirt, the fabric soft from too many washes, and you tug, not roughly, but enough. Enough to make him groan softly against your mouth. He doesn’t pull away.
If anything, he leans in more.
And when his lips part, when his tongue brushes yours, it’s not sloppy. Every shift of his mouth, every exhale against your cheek, feels like a choice.
Like he’s already thought it through and decided: yes. This.
You pull back, just a breath, dazed. “You sure you don’t do this often?”
His eyes are dark now, focused entirely on you. He smiles, slow and wicked and too knowing.
“I never said I didn’t,” he murmurs. “I said I didn’t want to assume.”
Somewhere in the heat of it, your shirt ends up bunched under your arms. His fingers push it higher, slower now, thumbs grazing ribs like he’s not just trying to take it off, he’s trying to understand you.
“Can I…?” he asks, voice low, already hoarse.
You nod, half-dazed. “Yeah.”
He helps you peel it off, careful but not clinical, eyes locked to yours the entire time. Like he’s waiting for your breath to hitch, and it does, and then his eyes drop and he murmurs, “Oh.”
“You’re staring,” you manage, breathless.
“I know,” he says, completely unrepentant.
And then it’s your turn.
You reach for the buttons of his shirt and suddenly your hands are too clumsy for the task. The first button slips. The second is stubborn. God. He watches you with a soft smile like you’re trying to solve a beautiful, impossible equation.
“Let me?” he offers, fingers brushing yours.
You nod. “Please.”
He undoes the buttons one by one. Carefully. Methodically. Like he’s doing it more for your benefit, not his. And when he finally shrugs it off, lets it fall to the floor behind him, you see him.
All of him.
And goddamn.
You freeze for a second, mouth parted slightly, eyes trailing over him like you’re cataloguing a new species.
Because this man is ripped.
Not gym-bro toned or Hollywood-pretty. No, he’s absolutely dense with it. Broad shoulders and thick arms and a chest that looks like it was designed to be leaned against in major catastrophes. Every inch of him looks functional, like he was built for holding, saving, protecting.
“Jesus,” you whisper. “You did not say you were hiding a full Greek tragedy under that flannel.”
Clark huffs out a startled laugh, cheeks flushing pink.“I, uh…” He rubs the back of his neck. “Farm work?”
You narrow your eyes. “That is not just from hauling hay bales and fixing fences, my guy.”
You reach out without fully meaning to, your fingers brushing lightly against his chest, like your brain demanded physical confirmation of whatever softcore mythological nonsense is going on under his shirt.
He catches your hand, not to stop you, just to hold it, then kisses your palm.
“I like the way you look at me,” he murmurs.
You look up at him, gaze flicking between his mouth and his eyes. “I’m trying not to faint.”
“You can,” he says, lips just barely grazing yours. “I’ve got you."
You kiss him again, and it’s greedy this time—hands in his hair, on his shoulders, trying to get closer even though you’re already half in his lap. And he kisses you like he feels it. His hands bracket your ribs like he’s trying to memorize your shape.
Then his mouth finds your neck.
It starts with a kiss just below your ear. A press, then a drag of lips. Then he breathes in and groans.
“You smell so good,” he mutters. “You’re gonna ruin me.”
And then he’s on your neck. Mouth open, tongue and teeth and heat. He kisses like he means to leave something behind. You can feel it—not just the ache, but the intention.
You gasp, fingers tightening on his shoulders. “Clark—”
“Say my name again,” he murmurs, lips brushing your throat. “I’ll do anything.”
He sucks gently, then a little harder. You know it’s going to bruise. You feel it blooming. He licks over it immediately after, like an apology. Then does it again, just slightly lower.
“Clark,” you breathe. “You’re obsessed with my neck.”
He smiles against your skin. “I really am.”
“Do I even need to wear a scarf tomorrow?”
He pulls back, eyes dark. “You might want to. But I’d rather everyone knew.”
You stare at him, dazed, unmoored, panting slightly, and suddenly it hits you all over again.
You like him. You like him too damn much.
He leans in again, forehead to yours, lips hovering.
“You okay?” he asks.
You nod. “Yeah. You?”
But then he stills.
“Wait—” he says, pulling back just enough to blink at you, dazed and kiss-swollen. “Do you—I mean, I didn’t think we’d—uh. I didn’t bring anything. I don’t have…”
He trails off. His ears are pink.
You blink. “You don’t—?”
He shakes his head, mortified. “No. I wasn’t planning on—I mean, I hoped, but I didn’t think we’d... I didn’t want to assume.”
You sit there for a beat. Legs wrapped around him, who is very much shirtless, very much flustered, and very much... him about this. You have to exhale a laugh. “Of course you didn’t.”
His eyes widen. “I’m sorry—I swear I’m not usually—well, I am usually—”
“Clark," You rub your hands along his extremely toned shoulders, to ground you a little bit before the words you're about to say. "I'm clean. I'm on the pill. If it's okay with you, it's okay with me. To…" you cough. "Go without a condom."
Clark goes quiet.
Just runs his fingers along your bare abdomen, then the edge of your waistband. It stays like that for a second, and for a second, you wonder if you've just fucking fumbled this. If he's gonna push you off and walk off that door and now you've just lost the first crush you've had in a year and one of your best, hottest tippers—
"Baby, that's okay with me," He's hooking his fingers down, pulling your pants off gently. "I'm clean too. I'm—yeah, that's alright."
You grin. Let him pull them all the way off, along with your panties, until he's face to face with your cunt and you can see his pupils dilate, lips falling open slightly.
"You're—wow, you're just…. god you're beautiful."
Beautiful, yes. But you're also soaked, so unbelievably soaked under the weight of his stare, and so you shimmy down lower, lower, lower, until you're closer to him. "Get your pants off, then."
"Yes ma'am."
The gasp that escapes you when his boxers drop is… unladylike. He's pink and hard and positively leaking at the tip, fucking massive in a way that makes you sweat a little bit.
Clark tilts his head, one of his hands coming down to give himself a preliminary stroke. "Is—do you like what you see?"
You nod. Because that's the only thing you've got the mental power to do right now. "Uh huh."
He bends down, like a predator on the prowl, until he's slotted in between your legs, cock hanging heavy between the two of you. You move around a bit, trying to get comfortable, trying to prepare, but it's no use.
You just need this man in you now.
And just like that, he's sinking into you without much fanfare, but fuck. There's just so much of him. He's huge in a way that almost feels like your guts are reaaranged, like tomorrow, you're gonna have to call a funeral home and get your tombstone engraved. Something along the lines of: here lies your will to keep going after possibly getting the dicking down of your entire life.
"Hey, I lost you there for a second," Clark snaps you back to the moment, blue eyes looking over your features with concern.
He's paused, only halfway in when you look down, and he's caressing your hip carefully. Like that'll ever compensate for the fact that you feel full, so fucking full. "Need a second?"
"Don't you dare stop, Minnesota."
And then he smiles, dorky and a little lopsided. "Okay."
Your nails dig into his shoulders then, when he shifts, trying for your same to go slow but you can tell—you can tell that it's barely controlled restraint. Everything pulses.
Finally, he bottoms out and it feels like you both release a breath you didn't even know you were holding.
Another shift, testing, trying to find your limits, and you moan softly, bordering on a whimper. Clark looks at you again, and you nod. Giddy up.
When he slowly starts to pull out, you almost whine, the feeling of him slowly vacating, every vein seeming to brush along all your sensitive nerves on the way out. "Oh god. Oh god, Clark, fuck, it feels so good—"
Your words seem to ignite something in him, because he starts thrusting in earnest, in and out, in and out, driving you wild and breathless.
He cups one of your breasts, like it's gonna be the thing that tethers him back to reality, the pad of his thumb skating over your pebbled nipple and twisting, pulling, relishing in the way you hiss and start thrusting back onto him.
"You like that?"
"God, yes. Clark—"
You don't get to finish, because he's tilting his head down to put one of your tits into his mouth and it's warm and wet and sloppy, his tongue massaging over the bundle of nerves and nipping every so often. His other hand doesn't even break a sweat.
It's a fucking attack on your senses, that's what it is, legs spread wide, tits all for his to do whatever he wanted with, and you're just laying back and taking it.
Holy shit.
“Look at you,” he whispers, pulling off of your nipple with a wet pop! until he's kissing up your throat again. “So gorgeous. So good for me.”
You pull him in by your legs to make him go harder, deeper, chasing friction like it owes you something. “You’re not what I thought you’d be.”
His pace doesn't break, but he raises an eyebrow, “What did you think?”
“I thought you’d be gentle.”
He grins against your neck, the edge of his teeth dragging heat over your pulse. “I am being gentle.”
You groan, tilt your hips, when he clutches your hips again, slamming you down even harder. “Jesus.”
“No,” Clark mutters, kissing your mouth again like he means to drown in it. “Just me.”
The room sounds so filthy—him, grunting and groaning in your ear, so profoundly wrecked and needy that it sends tingles up your spine, the echo of his balls slapping against you, thrusts progressively getting harder and sloppier as you both approach that edge.
Your eyes roll back, lips going soft and reduced to moans that are a combination of his name, more, harder, please. And Clark, ever the people pleaser, he obeys.
His hands are searing, forcing you to arch for him, get that angle that drives you both a little bit crazy. Feeling yourself get closer and closer and closer to the edge, you reach for one of his hands, hard and pressing on your belly, to move it down to your clit, aching and sensitive.
Luckily, he gets the hint. Keeps his eyes on you while he starts mercilessly rubbing that bundle of nerves, grinding you down onto him. "You gonna come for me soon, pretty girl?"
"Yes—" You whine. "God, yes, just please—please don't stop. I'll do anything, I—I'll–"
He presses a kiss to your forehead. "I know, baby, I know."
It doesn't take long after that, with the way he's pinching softly at your clit and how his thrusts rapidly start to get less and less controlled, pushing up against your gummy walls to no abandon, and you gasp—high and keening—one solid hand tangled in your hair—
"Oh, I'm gonna cum—are you there? Tell me you're there, tell me you're gonna—oh—"
You moan, loud and unrestrained, and you clench around him as you finish, seeing stars and constellations behind your eyes.
He's off the edge with you, and if you thought you were full before, you absolutely weren't—feeling the warm, hot spurts of him finishing inside.
Holy shit.
The room's quieted. Just you and him, breathing raggedly, his forehead pressed against yours. Then—a kiss against your cheek. A kiss against your nose. A kiss against your lips.
And then for the crescendo—
"Good girl. Such a pretty baby."
.
It starts simple. Like a “good morning.” Like a “still here.”
You’re barely awake. Still somewhere in the in-between, tucked under your too-thin quilt with one leg out and the other tangled with his.
But then his hands tighten. One sliding lower, anchoring you to him, the other cradling the back of your head like he’s afraid you might vanish. He kisses you deeper, hungrier. The kind of kiss that says I thought about this all night. I woke up wanting this.
His mouth moves to your jaw, then to your neck, of course it does. Of course. You gasp when he finds the same spot he marked last night. His teeth drag there, just a little, just enough.
“Clark,” You gasp—because it’s him, because it’s too early for this, because it’s already too much—and he groans like that’s a reward.
“You taste like heaven,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry. I can’t stop.” Then, quieter: “Can I stay a little longer?”
You peek open one eye, blearily take in the state of the room—your jeans half-on the floor, toast crust on the nightstand, that stupid coat rack leaning like it’s had a long winter. One of your socks is in the plant. Everything’s a mess. It’s all a mess.
And Clark, six-foot-something of rumpled, shirtless disaster, is lying beside you like he belongs here. Like he’s always belonged here. Like this is what he looks like in the morning—hair all askew, sleep still tucked in the corners of his smile, too sincere for his own good.
You look back at him. “I mean. You’re kind of in too deep already.”
His grin gets a little lopsided. A little dazed. “So that’s a yes?”
You reach for himl, like your heart isn’t currently doing somersaults. “That’s a yes.”
Clark smiles, then. Really smiles. All teeth and earnestness, like you’ve just handed him a lifetime supply of sunlight and told him it’s his now.
And it’s almost too much.
The good of it. The sweetness pressed up against your ribs like maybe it’s got claws, too.
But you let it stay. Let him stay.
You groan into your blanket and mutter under your breath, “God help me, I’m gonna have to make you breakfast, aren’t I?”
Clark, already half off the bed, perks up. “I like waffles.”
You sigh, dramatic. “Of course you do. That tracks.”
And that’s where you leave it, for now. With Clark in your bed and his flannel on the floor. With the hum of something that good if you let it If he stays.
summary: standing ovulation, or whatever they say. (or, in other words, you want clark to fuck a baby into you)
wc: 4.2k
genre/tags: husband!clark, mentions of pregnancy, fluff, smut, p w/lil plot, no protection is used (the fic is based off juno by sabrina carpenter....we're talking babies here), feral!clark, breeding kink, slight praise kink, p in v sex, fingering, dry humping/grinding, making out, big dick!clark ofc
notes from auddie: in celebration of sab's album coming out tn, have this fic inspired by one of my fav songs hehe. this is a little break from my super long beast plot-driven fics and was super fun to write! ...and i need clark as my husband stat.
you don't mean to be staring, but how could you not?
clark's standing at the dresser across from your shared bed, back turned to you, pulling off his shirt – slow and casual, as if he doesn't know what he's doing to you.
he's talking about something mundane – leads at work he wants to pursue, perry's latest rant, jimmy's recent fling – but you can't hear a word of it.
all you see are the deep lines of his back muscles, the slope of his shoulders, the way his biceps flex when he drags the fabric over his head.
he tosses the shirt into the hamper in the corner of your bedroom and finally turns to you, probably to ask why you haven't given any input in the time he's been speaking. it's an odd occurrence, being that he's usually the listener between the two of you.
you feel your pulse spike when his hands move to the buckle of his leather belt, skillfully pulling the material from the loops of his slacks.
"am i boring you?" clark asks, quirking a brow upward at your silence.
it takes a minute for his words to register in your brain, slowly blinking back to his attention, humming absently, "hm?"
his eyes narrow slightly and you can read his expression. he's using his damn super vision to determine if anything was biologically wrong with you. therefore, he'll be quick to know that–
"you're staring," he says, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"no, i'm not," you lie. plain as day.
clark's brow lifts, playing along. "no? you've said nothing for two whole minutes."
"i'm allowed to enjoy the view in my own home," you shoot back, tone pitched too high. too innocent. or, at least, a poor attempt at sounding innocent.
clark chuckles, walking closer to the foot of the bed. he still hasn't bothered to put on a shirt – he knows exactly what he does to you. "you, mrs. kent, are insatiable," he murmurs.
"excuse me," you scoff, trying to appear nonchalant but you know the pounding of your heart betrays you. "you're the one walking around looking like that. shirtless. muscles out. like i'm not supposed to be drooling."
"you're married to me," he reminds you, all calm, climbing up onto the bed. "you've seen it a thousand times."
"and it never gets less rude."
he laughs again and then he leans in to kiss you.
it's supposed to be a sweet kiss to your lips, but the second his mouth brushes yours, you surge forward, grabbing his jaw and pulling him closer.
and clark, the most attentive lover there can be, adapts to your eagerness, allowing you to guide him to lean back against the headboard.
"baby," he murmurs against your lips when you climb into his lap.
"you're literally obscene," you mumble, trailing kissing along his jaw and down his neck. "looking like that everyday," you add, grounding your hips against his lap, already feeling the stirring within his slacks.
clark groans, soft and choked, as his grip tightens around your hips, instinctively squeezing the flesh there. "i was just trying to talk to you about work," he manages, his voice raspier now.
"you can tell me after," you breathe, "i need you right now."
clark kisses you like he's trying to be patient, but you feel the way his hands grip tighter, his breathing grows heavier, like he's holding back because he knows what happens when he doesn't.
and honestly, you're waiting for that patience to snap.
you grind down once in his lap, just to test him. just to see.
he groans, low and rough like you lit a match in his chest.
"jesus, sweetheart," he murmurs against your lips, hands gripping your hips to still you. "what's gotten into you tonight?"
"you," you breathe, rocking once more to make sure he feels your neediness. "just you."
he huffs a laugh, though it comes out strained, like he's working harder than usual to keep his composure. "just me, huh?"
"always you," you whisper, eyes wide and desperate when they meet his. "but-" you bite your lip, hesitant for only a moment before it all rushes out. "i don't know, clark. lately it's like i can't think about anything else. you, your hands, your mouth... the way you feel inside me."
he stills beneath you, chest rising in a deeper breath as his blue eyes search your face. whatever he finds there – probably sheer desperation – makes his jaw tighten, something tender sparking behind his gaze.
"sweetheart..." his thumb brushes your cheek, his voice low, coaxing. "you've been wound up all day, haven't you?"
heat flares in your chest, down to your stomach, pooling between your thighs. you nod, breath shuddering. "it's worse than usual. i-" your voice breaks as you cling tighter to his shoulders, confessing in a rush, "i keep thinking about... about babies. about you giving me one."
it's true that you'd been thinking about this for a while now. it's only natural, after all! you and clark have been married for two years now, building a home, creating a rhythm that feels so solid it sometimes makes your chest ache with how much you love and adore him.
lately, though, it's been impossible to ignore the way your friends keep announcing pregnancies, showing off ultrasound pictures, or casually dropping that they're "trying." each time, a flicker of longing sparks in your chest – one you usually try to dismiss as typical baby fever. until times like this. when it roars up and consumes you whole when clark is right there in front of you, or in this case, beneath you.
maybe its hormones, maybe its timing – hell, you know you'er ovulating right now, your body practically begging for it – but it doesn't feel shallow. it feels like a need. deep, bone-deep need. and clark is the center of all of it: the way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way you know without a doubt he'd be the most incredible father.
and now, you can't stop fantasizing the face of a child with his matching smile. maybe his deep ocean eyes, if you're lucky.
your words hang in the air, hot and heavier than anything you've ever blurted mid-makeout. but clark doesn't flinch, doesn't pull away. if anything, his expression softens, though his body underneath you goes taut with a different kind of tension.
"baby..." he breathes, this time not in playful endearment toward you but as if the word itself is sacred on his tongue with its other meaning. his hands steady on your hips, grounding you, even as you feel him hardening beneath you. "is that what you want? really?"
your answer is a quiet, desperate "yes," before you can think better of it. "i've been thinking about it for weeks... months even. all our friends, pregnant or trying... it just- clark, it makes me realize how much i want that with you. with our family. i already know you'd be a great father."
his gaze melts, a mixture of awe and something more primal flickering under his long lashes. "yeah, sweetheart? months?" he murmurs, almost to himself. then he swallows hard, voice dropping to a husky growl. "'ve thought it about it, too. more than i probably should."
you suck in a short breath, brows raising at the lowness of his tone and his words. "you have?"
he hums in confirmation, the sound bubbling in his throat. "yeah," he rasps. his hands, once firm on your hips, glide to your belly, fingers dancing over the fabric of your t-shirt. "thought about you swelled up in here," he murmurs, his hand slipping beneath the hem of your shirt to gently caress the skin there.
you shiver at his touch, hips pressing involuntarily into his lap. "clark..." your voice cracks, low and needy, betraying just how much this is all affecting you. your mind is already muddled with a lust-filled haze from ovulation and his words aren't making it any better. the warmth of his hands against your stomach, the idea of him imagining you like this, it makes you ache.
he leans down, brushing his lips over your collarbone, just above the collar of your shirt. each of his kisses are deliberate, teasing. "you want me to make you a mommy?" he murmurs, low against your skin.
his gaze is heated, the grip of your waist nearly bruising from the sheer amount of restraint he's holding inside. he's truly so considerate, gentle in the way he always holds you, despite holding the amount of strength that can easily harm you. but he never does.
to this day, you wonder how he manages it – how someone with the power to move mountains can touch you like you're the most fragile thing in the universe.
but tonight, there's a crack in his usual control, and you can feel it in the way his dingers dig deeper into your waist, the way his breath comes ragged against your collarbone.
he lifts his head and his eyes flicker down to your lips, and then your stomach. you can read his mind clear as day behind his eyes. he's picturing it. you. swollen with his baby, carrying his family. it's as if the image makes something primal twist inside him – and you, too – and when his gaze meets yours again, it's darker. hungrier.
"sweetheart..." his voice is a rasp, reverent and rough at the same time. "i'm trying... trying to be careful." his words are emphasized by the way his hands glides up and down your sides, perhaps in a way that prevents him from squeezing you too roughly.
you cup his jaw, forcing him to look at you, grounding him as much as you're urging him on. "you don't have to be careful," you whisper, lips barely grazing his as you speak. "not tonight."
he exhales sharply with a slight groan. his grip tightens, dragging you flush against him until you can feel the full length of his cock straining between you.
"i need you, clark," you insistent, desperation clear in your tone as you rock against him. "i want all of you. everything. no protection."
your words are basically gas to the fire already brewing simmering within him. his head dips, lips crashing against yours, the kiss much rougher now, full of teeth and need. his hands roam with more urgency, no longer holding back as he palms your ass, dragging you against him.
the kiss grows messy, your breaths tangling together and his tongue hot and insistent against yours. he groans deep in his chest when you grind down against him harder and then, all of a sudden, you're no longer in his lap.
with one fluid motion, clark flips you on your back, the mattress dipping under his weight as he cages you in. your gasp breaks the kiss, but his mouth is persistent, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your jaw and throat.
"clark–" you manage, breathless and clutching his shoulders.
"sorry, sweetheart," he murmurs against your skin, his voice raw. his hands slide beneath your shirt, dragging it upward to your neck, palms warm as they roam up your stomach, ribs, cupping your breasts. "needed you spread out f'me... needed to see you."
he groans as his hands shower attention to your breasts. his thumbs graze your nipples until they pebble beneath his touch. "so pretty," he murmurs, reverent as he rolls the hardened peaks between his thumbs and forefingers. "these'll get so big," he adds, groaning to himself as if imagining it – the growth your breasts will have all to do with the eventual pregnancy hormones.
your breath hitches at the idea, arching into his touch as a shiver runs down your spine. "yeah," you agree with a whisper, nodding.
his lips brush against the curve of one breast, feather-light at first, then harder, trailing wet and teasing kisses down to your nipple. he groans against your skin as he swirls his tongue around the pebble, flicking it with practiced precision, all while keeping his gaze locked on yours.
you whine when he gets rougher, biting and nipping at your breast with more fervor, the sharp pleasure making your fingers tangle in his curls.
"so, so perfect," he says, lips leaving a wet trail of saliva down your chest to circle the other nipple with his tongue with equal reverence. his thumb rolls the previous peak, puffy and wet from stimulation.
you writhe beneath him, the need too much between your thighs. you're sure you're soaked through your panties and pants and it's taking all of you to not rip them off yourself. "clark," you whine impatiently, hips bucking upward against the bulge in his slacks.
"alright, alright," he murmurs, his voice bordering a deep growl. his hands drift from your breasts, gliding down your bare sides, sending shivers down your spine, until they reach the waistband of your leggings. with a quick force, he tugs the material down your thighs and calves, pulling them off your feet and tossing it behind him.
in the meantime, you tug the rest of your shirt up above your head and toss it aside.
he growls low in his throat as he slides his hands up the bare skin of your thighs, reaching the apex. one hand dips between your thighs, making contact with the heat of your core through your panties.
his fingers press lightly at first, teasing over the soaked fabric with slow, deliberate strokes. the friction has you gasping and arching, hips lifting into his hand.
he hums, low and rough as he presses harder, the pad of his finger pushing right against your clit through the cotton of your panties. "oh, sweetheart. you're absolutely drenched," he growls, fingers finally tugging aside the material to expose your core to the air. "all dripping for me already... just thinking about carrying my baby, and you're soaking like this for me?"
you moan, the sound raw and needy as you nod, fingers clutching the sheets as he begins teasing you, brushing over your clit with precise, yet slowly agonizing strokes. "mhm, 'm so wet, clark. i want more," you beg, hips bucking into his hand, desperate for more.
he hums in acknowledgment, but even you can tell his patience is fraying. he makes quick movement in tugging your panties down your thighs, also discarding them somewhere on the floor behind him.
with massive hands, he spreads your legs apart, watching as you core clenches around nothing. his hand returns back to your heat, gathering some of your slick with a drag of his hand.
his fingers slide inside you just enough to tease, pressing against your folds while he drags the pad of his thumb over your clit again and again. each motion is deliberate, savoring your wetness. "don't think 've ever felt you this wet before," he muses, voice a mixture of awe and desire. "feel like i could slide right in without prepping you."
"you can!" you're quick to point out, hips twitching eagerly.
you hear him chuckle lowly before dipping a finger past your entrance. "maybe, but that wouldn't make me a gentleman, would it?"
you whine, arching your back restlessly, fingers clutching the sheets. "please... don't tease me. i'm ready," you insist. "want all of you. now."
his laugh is low, vibrating through your as he leans down, lips brushing against your in a fleeting kiss. "my insatiable wife," he murmurs, teeth grazing your lower lip. "so eager..."
you can't help but whimper, nodding when he leans back to look at you. your eyes round with pure want, and your teeth trap your bottom lip.
"who am i to deny my wife when she's asking – begging me to put a baby in her?" he asks rhetorically, leaning back to finally unbutton his slacks. it's a shock how he'd managed to keep his pants on this long with the way his cock is straining against the slim fabric.
he slides his slacks down, freeing himself at last. the head of his cock glints in the dim light of your bedroom, twitching with need, and you breath hitches.
"all this time..." he rasps, voice rough and low as he wraps a hand around himself, stroking himself lazily. "always careful... condoms, always... and now, i get to have you raw."
you gasp as he leans forward, sliding his fat cock between your folds, slicking himself up with your arousal. he groans, biting his lower lip as he lines himself up with your welcoming center.
you nearly choke on a moan a the swollen head nudges against your entrance, the sensation sending a shockwave through you without that thin barrier you've alway had between you.
your thighs fall apart even more – if that's even possible – welcoming him in, your hands reaching up to clutch at his broad shoulders.
with a low guttural groan, he sinks the head of his cock past your entrance, stretching you inch by inch. the burn is immediate, overwhelming, but so is the delicious flow of pleasure seeping into you at the feeling of him bare inside you for the very first time.
"oh my," he whines, feeling your heat engulf him in a way he never felt before.
your mouth falls open on a broken moan, nails digging into his shoulders and carving crescents into his skin. every inch feels different, raw and unfiltered, his skin dragging against yours with no barrier between you.
clark shudders above you, arms trembling as he braces himself. "sweetheart..." he breathes, almost reverent, forehead pressed to yours. "you're... wow, you're squeezing me so tight. feels like i'm inside you for the first time all over again."
his voice trembles and your walls flutter at his words, clenching around the thick intrusion as your body adjusts.
he groans low, jaw tight, and you can tell he's fighting the urge to slam the rest of the way inside you.
"clark–" you gasp, voice shaking beneath him. "it's so – ah– s'much!"
"i know, i know, baby." he peppers kisses across your cheeks, the corner of your mouth, your jaw, his hips rocking into you just enough to sink another inch inside you. "just breathe, sweetheart."
the stretch makes your thighs quake, toes curling into the sheets as he pushes deeper, inch by inch. when he finally bottoms out, your whimper turns into a cry, arms winding tight around his neck and pulling him closer to you.
your whines have barely has the chance to fade before clark pulls back, his hips grinding slowly, savoring every bare inch of you.
but, through bleary eyes, you notice something shift within him. something in his face changes; his pupils blown wide, lips parted, breath ragged as if your heat alone snapped some final tether insied you.
"gosh," he groans, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in to the hilt, making the headboard slam against the wall. your cry is loud, broken and desperate, and it only spurs him on. "you're... jesus... you'll take every drop i give you, yeah?"
your nails rake down his back, but the words are stolen from your throat when he suddenly hooks your knees, folding you in half with shocking ease. your thighs press against your chest, body bent open beneath him and you're utterly helpless under the strength of his body.
"clark-!" you gasp, eyes flying wide at the intensity of the position.
"mating press," he rasps, rutting into you hard enough to make the mattress squeal beneath your bodies. "that's what you want, isn't it? me breeding you like this?"
the sound you let out is more a sob than a moan and his grin is feral, sweat dripping down his temples as his hips piston into you, faster, deeper, filling you to the brink every time. the slap of skin against skin fills the room as he finds his rhythm, mingling with your cries and his low growls.
"you're gonna get so full of me... my seed inside you, making you a mom... your belly all swollen. oh, you'll be such a good mom," he rambles between grunts, pushing his cock back and forth into your core.
every thrust drags his cock deeper against your sweet spot inside you, your gummy walls fluttering around him, tightening as though your body is begging to be thoroughly bred.
"i'll take of you so well. y'wouldn't lift a finger at all. leave it to me," he continues, lost in his own words, no doubt playing the image of you both with your little family of your own.
your cries break into a scream – your poor neighbors – when his thrusts turn brutal, his cock slamming into you with single-minded desperation. the angle, the force, the sheer intensity of him above you has your body spiraling too fast to keep up.
"clark– wait! 'm going to-"
"cum for me," he grits out, voice rough. "want you to cum 'round my cock for the first time."
the command tears through you, and you tip over the edge, cleching down around him so hard he chokes on a moan. your release gushes hot against his cock, coating him as you tremble beneath him.
"atta girl, sweetheart. you're doin' so well," he pants, his pace going erratic as he chases his own high. "you were made to be bred by me," he rasps.
when you clamp down again against him, your pussy quivering from the stimulation, his hips stutter.
he gasps, slamming himself all the way to the hilt, holding you down in the mating press as his cock pulses deep inside you. the first hot spill makes you moan, the sensation unlike anything before – thick, raw, flooding you in heavy spurts that seems endless.
clark's head tips back with a low moan as he ruts through it, fucking his cum as deep as he can push it. "take it," he pants, breath shuddering. "take every drop, baby. don't waste a single bit."
you whine at the stretch of him, and you feel the sticky warmth that leaks out around his length, only for him to push it back inside you with another sharp thrust.
he stays locked inside you, while he catches his breath, still holding your thighs up. when he looks back down at you, he's met with your fucked-out expression: lashes fluttering, eyes glazed over with unshed tears, and flushed cheeks.
he lets go of your thighs and gently hoists them back down on the bed, making you hiss from the soreness. one of his hands reach up to cradle your jaw, caressing your cheek with his thumb. "was i too hard, sweetheart? 'm sorry."
you shake your head firmly, despite your desirousness. "no, you were perfect," you croon softly, your chest heaving as you catch your bearings.
"you took me so well," he murmurs, voice reverent. "so good f'me," he praises.
you reel from the praise, a soft smile lifting your cheeks. you feel his cock twitch inside you, still half-hard within your walls. as if remembering what this was all about, you glance down at your stomach, noting the belly bulge you sport from his cock nestled deep inside you. you hum softly, reaching to pat your belly.
"we're going to be parents," you coo warmly, glowing at the image of you cradling a little baby in your arms.
"yeah," he agrees, his voice a low rasp. with a cheeky grin, he adds, "as long as my seed takes, that is."
you chuckle softly. "given how much you cum, i'd be surprised if it didn't."
he laughs lowly, leaning down to meet your lips in a sweet kiss, one that's much less rough than the prior ones you shared in the past half hour.
when he leans back, you feel his hands rub up and down the skin of your thighs, gently soothing the aching muscles. "we can never be too sure," he rumbles smoothly, eyes glinting mischievously.
i have a feeling i'm not leaving this bed anytime soon.
"not if i can help it," he murmurs. you hadn't realized you said your thought out loud.
he spreads your thighs out, glancing at the your shared juices coating and gathered at the base of his cock. "think you could go a few more rounds, sweetheart?"
despite your exhaustion, your gaze hardens, more determined than anything. "i said i wanted a baby, didn't i?"
clark grins, slow and boyish, leaning back on his knees, letting his gaze rake over you like he's re-memorizing every curve, every line, every inch of your spent body.
then, you notice it – the way his gaze drifts down and stays there, locked on your navel. your stomach tenses instinctively.
"oh my god," you gasp, eyes widening in realization. "don't tell me you're using your x-ray vision to see through me right now."
he smirks, utterly shameless. "gotta make sure i made it into your womb," he murmurs. his casual confidence makes your already trembling knees go weaker.
you laugh breathlessly, a mixture of disbelief and want, and you press your palms against his chest. "clark kent, you are so full of yourself."
"only when it comes to my wife, mrs. kent," he counter, leaning down to nip at your jaw, fingers tracing lazy circles over your belly again. "ready for round two?"
you swallow, heat pooling between your thighs again despite you fatigue, and nod eagerly. "always," you whisper, voice soft but steady.
"good," he rasps, rolling his hips enough to make your breath hitch. "because i'm not stopping until you're stuffed full of me, sweetheart."
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