scott miller is so obsessed with your tits it’s actually insane
i just KNOW that man falls asleep with his face buried in your chest. not even on purpose—like mid-rant about some storm that pissed him off, hands on your waist, and then boom, he’s out like a light with your nipple in his mouth like a baby.
and don’t even get me started on how he talks to them.
“look at them,” he murmurs, staring at your tits like they hung the damn moon. “prettiest fucking pair i’ve ever seen. all mine, huh?”
he says “mine” with his whole chest. because he genuinely believes god put you on this earth to walk around braless in one of his old stormpar shirts just to torment him.
he gets angry when he hasn’t touched them in a while. like you’ll be in the passenger seat chewing gum, totally oblivious, and he’ll glance over and mutter, “i miss your tits.” like he’s grieving.
and if you’re having a bad day? scott is immediately grabbing your face like: “baby. come here. let me put my mouth on ‘em. you’ll feel better, promise.”
the worst part is he’s RIGHT.
he’s so goddamn tender with them, too. rough hands, but soft suckling. tongue slow and lazy. he gets genuinely offended if you pull him away too early.
“what the—babe? i wasn’t done.”
“you were down there for ten minutes—”
“and?? i was doing god’s work.”
no one—and i mean NO ONE—has ever loved tits the way scott miller loves yours. he could be chewing someone out over a busted radar and still glance over at you like “god, i hope she lets me suck on her tits tonight.”
synopsis : clark thought distance would settle things. that metropolis would distract him. instead, coming home means facing the one person who knows exactly how to unravel him with a smile. (wc : 5.2k) part one
a/n : omg part two of 'before you go' is here finally. i included some of clark rating lingerie since i've gotten asks abt it ! i'm still working on the requests i got, so don't worry if you've requested somethiing and i haven't posted it yet (i'm on winter break so i'm very happy and have more time). ALSO the angel face one-shot with the projectionist is almost done y'all i swear 😭
warnings mdni 18+ childhood best friends to lovers, mutual pining, suggestive teasing, semi-public sexual touch (field), masturbation (m!solo), sexting, lingerie photo tease, clark experiencing blueballs, heavy tension, soft dominance and gentle restraint, praise kink undertones, clark quietly losing composure
the kent house looks the same as it always has—white paint a little sun-worn, porch steps creaking in the places he remembers—and for a moment he just stands there with his duffel slung over his shoulder, breathing it in like he forgot what air was supposed to smell like.
his mom cries when she sees him. his dad claps a hand on his shoulder and tells him he’s grown again, says it like a joke but looks at him the way fathers do when their sons leave and come back altered.
they don’t scold him for missing thanksgiving or christmas, not really. martha just presses his face between her hands and says they understood, that metropolis is big and busy and full of opportunity, that he’s doing good things.
clark nods and smiles and still feels the guilt curl low in his stomach, stubborn and unmoving.
later, after his bag is unpacked and the house settles back into its easy quiet, he finds himself drifting down the familiar roads without really deciding to.
habit guides him more than thought, muscle memory older than reason. your house comes into view at the end of the street, unchanged in the way small towns protect the things they love.
he hesitates only a second before knocking.
you answer the door barefoot, hair loose, expression already sharpening like you knew it would be him.
clark barely gets your name out before you’re scolding him, words tumbling fast and familiar, where the hell have you been, kent? and you vanish for months and think you can just show up like nothing happened? there’s heat in it but not cruelty, the kind of anger that comes from missing someone too much.
then you pull him into a hug.
it’s quick and instinctive and completely disarming. clark stiffens at first out of surprise, then melts without meaning to.
your arms are warm around his back, your body fitting against his like it always has, except—except it doesn’t. not anymore.
he becomes acutely aware of you in a way he hasn’t let himself be since last summer, the press of your chest against his, soft and unmistakable, the way you tuck your chin against his shoulder like you’ve done since you were kids.
his brain stutters.
it’s stupid, he thinks immediately. juvenile. something he should have outgrown by now. he’s had months away, months of city lights and crowded classrooms and new faces, he shouldn’t be thinking about you like this.
clark clears his throat when you finally pull back, laughs a little too loudly, says something about how it’s good to see you too, really.
you narrow your eyes at him like you always do when you sense something he isn’t saying, but you let it go.
the days that follow fall into an easy rhythm, deceptively simple.
you sit on the hood of his truck at sunset and talk about nothing important, about your job and his classes and people you both know only by reputation now.
you laugh more than you expect to. clark keeps noticing things—how your voice drops when you’re tired, how you tuck your thumb into your palm when you’re thinking, how you look at him sometimes when you think he isn’t paying attention.
neither of you mentions that night. the one before he left. the way it changed something quietly and permanently between you. it lives in the space between sentences instead, in the pauses that stretch a second too long, in the way clark’s gaze lingers and then pulls away like he’s afraid of what he might find if he looks too closely.
spring break stretches ahead of him, wide and open and full of possibility, and clark tells himself—over and over—that he’s just happy to be home.
morning comes soft and bright, sunlight spilling through the kitchen windows like it’s got nowhere better to be.
clark is halfway through a bowl of cereal when he hears the sharp, familiar knock at the door. he knows it’s you before martha even looks up from the sink.
“that’ll be her,” she says, smiling to herself.
clark barely has time to stand before you’re pushing the door open, already talking, already filling the room with your presence.
you’re dressed casually, like this wasn’t planned, like you didn’t wake up knowing exactly what you were going to do. clark notices, distantly, how awake you look this early.
“good,” you say, spotting him immediately. “you’re dressed.”
“hi to you too,” he says, smiling despite himself.
you don’t return it—not right away. instead, you plant your hands on your hips and tilt your head, eyes narrowing in mock appraisal. “you disappear for months, kent. i barely see you since you got back. so today? you’re mine.”
he blinks. “what.”
“mall,” you declare, like it explains everything. “you’re driving. you’re carrying bags. and you’re not allowed to complain.”
jonathan chuckles from behind his paper. martha bites back a grin and reaches for her coffee like she’s already decided not to intervene.
clark looks between them, helpless. “i don’t—i mean, i wasn’t—”
you step closer, dropping your voice just enough to be dangerous. “you owe me. thanksgiving. christmas. radio silence.”
he exhales, defeated before he even realizes it. “how long?”
you beam. “however long it takes.”
twenty minutes later, he’s in the driver’s seat with you buckling in beside him, humming to yourself like you won something.
the town rolls by familiar and slow, fields stretching wide on either side of the road, and clark feels that same strange pull in his chest he’s been feeling all week. being near you does that now. tightens something, loosens something else.
by the time you reach the mall, he already knows he’s lost.
you drag him from store to store without mercy, hands curling around his wrist or sleeve when he lags, laughter bright and unrepentant.
he carries bags obediently, grumbling under his breath until you silence him with a pretzel from auntie anne’s, pressing it into his hand with a smug little smile.
“chew,” you tell him. “less talking.”
he does.
it’s outside the dressing rooms that things start to shift. you step out in the first outfit, spin once, hands on your hips. “well?”
he clears his throat. “it’s—yeah. it’s nice.”
“nice?” you scoff, already retreating behind the curtain again.
the second outfit is better. the third is worse. you make him rate them anyway, numbers climbing and dropping, your laughter threading through the space like music. other shoppers pass by, oblivious, but clark feels oddly exposed, like this moment belongs too much to the two of you.
then you lean out, finger crooked. “come here.”
“what—no, i can’t—”
“clark.”
the tone leaves no room for argument.
he steps inside the dressing room, curtain swishing shut behind him. he doesn’t know where to look. the mirror catches him mid‑panic, tall and broad and suddenly very aware of how close you are.
“i just need a quicker opinion,” you say easily, already reaching for the next hanger.
he swallows. nods. tells himself it’s fine, it’s just shopping.
you don’t turn around right away.
clark hears the rustle of fabric first, the soft slide of hangers against metal, the quiet click of the hook as you rehang something.
the dressing room feels even smaller now, air warm and close, the kind that presses against his chest and makes him too aware of his own breathing. he fixes his eyes on the wall, on a scuff near the baseboard he’s sure wasn’t there a minute ago, anything that isn’t you.
“okay,” you say, casual, almost distracted. “this one’s a little different.”
he nods like that’s a normal thing to say. “yeah. okay.”
you step back into view slowly. not bare, but close enough to make his brain misfire.
the lingerie is soft, barely there, something pale and delicate that clings instead of hides. it’s not flashy, and that’s what gets him. it looks like something meant to be seen up close, in quiet rooms, by someone who knows you.
clark freezes.
you glance at him through the mirror, eyes bright, knowing. “well?”
he opens his mouth. nothing comes out. he clears his throat, tries again. “i—uh.”
“you’re supposed to rate it,” you remind him, sweet as sugar. “remember?”
his gaze flicks down despite himself, catches on the curve of your chest, the way the fabric cups you just enough. his ears burn instantly. he looks away like he’s been burned, stares at the ceiling this time, breath going a little uneven.
“clark,” you tease softly. “you’re allowed to look. that’s kind of the point.”
“I know,” he says quickly, too quickly. “I just—this is—”
“different?” you offer, stepping closer. “you said that already.”
he swallows hard as he nods.
you watch his throat work, the way his hands curl and uncurl at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.
it shouldn’t thrill you the way it does, seeing him like this: flustered, undone, and still so gentle it aches.
you turn slowly, giving him a full view this time, pretending to adjust a strap, arching just enough to make it impossible not to notice. “is it bad?”
“no,” he blurts. “no—it’s—it’s good. really good.”
you smile at that, soft but sharp around the edges. “number?”
he laughs nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. “you’re gonna make fun of me.”
“probably,” you admit. “but go on.”
he risks another glance, longer this time. his cheeks go pink instantly. “nine,” he says, barely above a murmur.
“only nine?” you pout, exaggerated. “wow. guess i shouldn’t get it then.”
his eyes widen. “no—i mean—you should. you definitely should.”
you hum, satisfied, stepping past him toward the curtain.
your shoulder brushes his arm on purpose, light enough to be plausible, heavy enough to linger. clark stiffens at the contact, breath hitching before he can stop it.
you pause with the curtain half open, look back at him over your shoulder. “you’re doing great, by the way.”
“at what,” he asks weakly.
“not combusting,” you say, then disappear back behind the curtain, leaving him standing there alone, flushed, heart pounding like he just ran a mile.
he thinks you’re finished. he really, truly thinks that’s the end of it.
you disappeared with a wink like you’d gotten what you wanted—and clark, bless him, really thought he was in the clear.
he wipes his palms on his jeans, sucks in a few slow breaths, and sits back down on the little bench inside the dressing room. he tells himself, again, that he’s fine.
you don’t give him long to believe it.
the curtain rustles again just two minutes later, and you reappear like some kind of fever dream, like sin incarnate in lace and sheer black fabric.
this set is different. darker, bolder, more intentional in the way it shapes your body and draws the eye.
the lace pattern across the bra is finer, more delicate, and the fabric along the cups dips just low enough that he sees the edge of nipple beneath—just the faintest shadow. the matching panties cut higher along your hips, soft mesh framing more of your thighs than he’s prepared for.
his mouth dries instantly.
you don’t even give him a second to recover. “you liked the last one,” you say, shifting your weight slightly, one hand on your hip. “but you didn’t love it. so i figured i’d get a second opinion.”
clark’s brain stutters again. second opinion. like this is an exam. like he’s not already hard and straining and painfully aware of every breath in his body.
he grips the edge of the bench. “you’re—this is—um.”
you cock your head. “worse?”
he shakes his head fast. “no.”
“better?”
he can’t look at you, not directly. instead he looks at your reflection in the mirror behind you, which, if anything, is worse.
now he sees your back too. the way the thin clasp stretches across your shoulder blades, how easy it would be to tug it loose. the waistband of the panties clinging to the dip of your spine. he sucks in a sharp breath, blinking hard.
“clark,” you murmur, voice softer now. teasing but slow, sultry in a way that makes his cock twitch where it presses awkwardly against the front of his jeans. “i need a number.”
he manages, somehow, to get it out. “ten.”
“oh?” you smile. “see, that’s more like it.”
you’re standing closer now. close enough that he can smell the faint scent of your perfume, something sweet and warm and cloying. close enough that if he reached out, he could probably touch your thigh, or rest his hand against the soft dip of your waist, or—
then you reach behind you.
just a small motion. your arms bending at the elbows, fingers fiddling behind your back like muscle memory. the tiny clasp of the bra catches between your thumbs.
he sees it before it happens—your fingers slipping beneath the band, the first little twitch of your knuckles—and he shoots up so fast he nearly trips over the bench.
“i—i should go,” he blurts, already halfway to the curtain, voice an octave higher than normal.
you blink. “clark?”
“you’re—jesus,” he mutters, yanking the curtain aside like it offended him, heat climbing violently up his neck. “you can’t just—i mean you can—but i shouldn’t—i’ll wait outside.”
you barely have time to smother your grin before he’s gone, the curtain swinging back in place, the faint sound of his boots stomping across linoleum growing quieter as he flees.
the car ride home is quiet in the way only small towns know how to be. fields rolling by in soft green waves, the afternoon sun slanting low enough to warm the dashboard.
clark grips the steering wheel like it’s the only thing tethering him to the present moment.
he does not look at you.
not when you buckle in beside him, not when you toss your bags into the backseat, not even when you lean over to adjust the radio and your knee brushes his thigh.
his jaw is tight, eyes fixed straight ahead, posture rigid in a way that feels almost formal.
you notice.
you also don’t say a word about the dressing room.
instead, you sigh contentedly and kick your feet up on the seat, stretching like you didn’t just leave him flustered and fleeing five minutes ago. “that was productive,” you say lightly. “i got everything i needed.”
“mmh,” clark manages, knuckles whitening slightly around the wheel.
you glance at him. “you okay?”
“yeah,” he says too fast. “just—traffic.”
there is no traffic. you’re the only car on the road for a mile in either direction.
you hum, unconvinced, and start rambling anyway. about the store that closed near your place. about a movie you’ve been meaning to watch. about how ridiculous mall pretzels have gotten price-wise.
your voice fills the cab easily, comfortably, like it always has. like nothing happened.
clark swallows.
he can feel it—every bump in the road, every shift of your weight beside him, the faint heat of you bleeding into his space.
his jeans are uncomfortably tight now, a dull, persistent ache settling low in his body that he absolutely refuses to think too hard about. he adjusts in his seat once, subtly, then stills completely when you glance over again.
“you’re being weird,” you say, not accusing, just observant.
“i’m not.”
you smile to yourself, turning to watch the fields pass by. “if you say so.”
the rest of the drive is like that. you chatting, teasing gently, reaching over once to steal a fry from the bag he swore he didn’t want.
your fingers brush his hand and he jerks like he’s been shocked, breath hitching before he can stop it. you pretend not to notice. he pretends not to exist.
by the time you pull into your driveway, the tension has settled thick and heavy between you, unsaid and unmistakable.
clark cuts the engine and exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath the entire ride.
you unbuckle, grab your bags, and pause before opening the door. “thanks for driving,” you say softly. “i had fun.”
he nods, still not quite trusting himself to meet your eyes. “yeah. me too.”
you step out of the car, then lean back in just enough to add, “we should hang out later,” you say lightly. “maybe go sit out back. it’s nice out.”
and then you’re gone, door shutting gently behind you, leaving clark alone in the driver’s seat with the echo of your voice and a body that absolutely refuses to calm down.
he rests his forehead against the steering wheel for just a second.
he’s in so much trouble.
the air cools as the sun begins its slow descent, the kind of evening that feels like it was made to be remembered later.
clark hears you before he sees you, the soft crunch of footsteps through dry grass, the familiar cadence of your movement threading through the quiet.
he’s already there, blanket folded under one arm, nerves humming low and constant beneath his skin.
“you came,” you say, like it was ever in doubt.
“yeah,” he answers, a little breathless despite himself. “i said i would.”
the grass behind your house has grown tall with spring, green and gold and whispering as it shifts in the breeze.
you lead the way without looking back, parting it easily, like you’ve done this a hundred times before.
clark follows, senses tuned too sharply, aware of everything—the brush of stalks against his jeans, the distant hum of insects warming up for night, the way the light catches in your hair.
you spread the blanket out with practiced ease and drop down onto it, folding your legs beneath you.
clark hesitates only a second before sitting beside you, close but not touching, the space between you charged and deliberate.
for a while, you talk. about nothing important. about how weird it feels that the seasons keep moving even when people leave. about the way sunsets look bigger out here than anywhere else.
your voice stays easy, unbothered, like the drive home never happened, like you didn’t leave him coiled tight and struggling for composure.
clark listens, nods, and answers when prompted. his attention keeps drifting back to the way the light softens your features, the way the breeze lifts the hem of your shirt just enough to show skin. every time you shift, he feels it like a pull in his chest.
“you’re quiet again,” you note gently.
he exhales, glancing out toward the horizon. “just… thinking.”
“dangerous,” you tease, smiling.
you lean back on your hands, stretching your legs out, grass bending beneath your heels.
the movement brings you closer, your knee brushing his thigh. it’s light, accidental. but clark’s breath stutters anyway, a quiet betrayal of how tightly he’s wound.
you notice. this time, you don’t pretend not to.
“hey,” you say softly, turning toward him. “you okay?”
he nods, then hesitates, honesty tugging at him. “yeah. just—being home again. it’s a lot.”
you study him for a long moment, eyes searching, understanding blooming there without words. then you reach out and rest your hand over his, grounding and warm.
the light keeps changing while you talk. gold thinning into amber, amber bruising toward purple, the sun sinking low enough that the grass around you glows at the tips and darkens at the roots.
clark lies back at some point without really deciding to, elbows propped, eyes on the sky. you follow a moment later, shoulder brushing his, close enough that he can feel the warmth of you through denim and cotton.
“remember when we used to come out here just to get away from everyone,” you say, voice quiet, almost lazy. “like the world stopped existing past the tree line.”
he smiles faintly. “we thought we were so grown.”
“we were,” you argue softly. “at least a little.”
silence settles again, not awkward. the kind that carries memory instead of emptiness.
clark swallows, throat tight, because there are memories here he’s been circling for days without touching head-on.
“i think about that night sometimes,” he admits finally, eyes still on the sky. his voice is low, careful, like he’s afraid it might shatter if he presses too hard. “before i left.”
you don’t pretend not to know what he means.
your fingers curl into the blanket between you, knuckles brushing his. “me too.”
his breath shifts immediately, deeper, slower, betraying him. he turns his head to look at you then, really look at you, face half-shadowed in the fading light.
“i didn’t regret it,” he says quietly. “just so you know.”
you smile, small and knowing. “i figured.”
your hand moves first, sliding over his, fingers threading gently through his.
clark’s grip tightens instinctively, thumb brushing the side of your hand like he’s relearning something familiar.
“you were always gentle,” you murmur, teasing but fond. “even then.”
his cheeks warm instantly. “i didn’t want to mess it up.”
you roll onto your side to face him fully, propping your head on your hand. the movement brings your leg closer, thigh pressing lightly against his hip.
he inhales sharply this time, no longer able to hide it. you feel it—the tension in him, the way his body responds to you like it remembers exactly what to do.
“you didn’t,” you say softly. “you still wouldn’t.”
your free hand drifts, slow and unhurried, resting on his stomach. you feel him tense beneath your palm, muscles jumping, breath catching.
the bulge in his jeans is unmistakable now, thick and heavy against the fabric, and you don’t pretend not to notice. your fingers trace just above it, not touching yet, just enough to make his hips twitch.
“you don’t have to—” he starts, voice strained.
“i know,” you interrupt gently. “i just want to.”
his eyes close for a brief second, lashes dark against his cheeks.
the grass shifts around you as the breeze picks up, the world dimming further, insects humming to life.
you’re still in the open, sky wide above you, but it feels private anyway—like the land itself is keeping your secret.
your hand finally settles where he’s aching most, palm pressing firm over his cock through his jeans.
clark gasps, sharp and quiet, hips lifting before he can stop himself. you smile at the sound, leaning in to brush a soft kiss against his jaw, his cheek, not quite his mouth.
“still sensitive,” you whisper.
he lets out a shaky laugh that turns into a breathless sound when you squeeze, slow and testing, feeling him thicken under your hand. “you’re not—” he exhales. “you’re really not helping.”
“i know,” you say sweetly, thumb stroking just enough to make his composure unravel another inch. “but you missed me. you don’t get to pretend otherwise.”
his hand comes up to your wrist then, not to stop you—never that—but to hold on, grounding himself as you stroke him through his jeans, the memory of you crashing into the present.
clark’s chest rises and falls unevenly beneath your hand. the sky’s gone dusky now, stars just beginning to bloom overhead, but neither of you are looking up anymore.
you pop the button open.
his abs twitch.
then comes the zipper, pulled down slow, the teeth parting inch by inch under your fingers.
he makes a sound at that—low and tight, barely audible, but unmistakably wrecked.
you murmur something wordless against his cheek, soft and fond, breath warming his skin as your hand slips beneath the denim and finds the thick heat of him through the fabric of his boxers.
he’s hard, twitching under your palm like the wait’s been killing him.
and then, just when his breath hitches and his hips shift up like he’s ready for more, you are the one who slows it.
your hand lingers on him for one moment longer, thumb pressing down again like a period at the end of a sentence, as if to mark it—this happened—before you ease away, casual and unbothered, like nothing monumental just took place between the two of you.
clark’s breath stays uneven. his chest rises and falls too fast, the air catching like it’s stuck somewhere between want and disbelief.
his jeans are still tight, painfully so, his cock still straining against the fabric, and his body is nowhere near ready to be abandoned.
the sudden absence of you—your hand, your closeness, the way you looked at him like you meant it—is almost worse than the touch itself.
you sit up, brushing grass from your legs, gaze flicking toward the darkening sky. “it’s getting late,” you say lightly, like you’re talking about the weather. “i should probably get some sleep.”
clark blinks up at you, dazed. “oh. yeah. right.”
he pushes himself upright too quickly, the movement making him wince as the ache settles deeper, sharper. he adjusts himself subtly, cheeks burning, grateful for the cover of the grass and the dim light. he nods again like he needs to convince himself. “yeah. okay. that makes sense.”
you smile at him—soft and fond. then you lean over and press a kiss to his cheek close enough to make his pulse jump all over again.
“night, clark.”
“night,” he echoes, voice rough.
he doesn’t see the way your lips curve as he turns away, shoulders tense, hands shoved into his pockets as he heads back toward the road. he doesn’t see the little spark of satisfaction in your eyes, the quiet calculation settling in as you watch him go.
the kent house is dark and quiet when he gets home, his parents already asleep.
clark showers longer than necessary, letting the hot water pound against his shoulders, trying, and failing, to will his body into submission.
his thoughts keep drifting back to the feel of your hand, the sound of his own breath breaking in the open air, the way you said his name like you knew exactly what it did to him.
he goes to bed restless, sheets cool against overheated skin, staring at the ceiling and telling himself to calm down. telling himself this is fine, that tomorrow will feel normal again.
his phone buzzes on the nightstand.
he frowns, reaches for it, squints at the screen.
you : still awake?
his thumb hovers before he can overthink it.
clark : yeah
three dots appear. disappear. reappear.
then the image loads.
it hits him like a punch to the chest.
it’s you. standing in front of your mirror, phone held just high enough to catch everything.
the black lace set from the mall, the one he rated a ten without hesitation, hugging you like it was made for you alone. lace sheer enough to tease, straps sitting just right on your shoulders. the panties ride your hips in a way that makes his mouth go dry instantly.
you’re smiling like it’s just a normal photo..
clark groans softly, rolling onto his side, phone clutched in his hand like it might burn him. his cock throbs painfully, hard all over again, and this time there’s no pretending he doesn’t know exactly what you’re doing.
another message comes through.
you : just thought you should know i bought it
his head drops back against the pillow, a helpless sound slipping out of him as he exhales your name into the quiet room, staring at the screen longer than he means to.
the glow of it lights up the dark room, throws soft shadows across the ceiling, the familiar shape of his childhood bedroom suddenly feeling too small to hold everything happening inside him.
his thumb brushes the edge of the phone without locking it, like he might accidentally close the photo if he isn’t careful.
he shouldn’t.
that thought lands weakly, half-formed, already losing ground.
he’s back home, in his parents’ house, the same walls that watched him grow up, watched him learn how to be careful and good and restrained.
clark exhales slowly through his nose, jaw tightening as he rolls onto his back, one arm thrown over his eyes like that might help.
it doesn’t.
your image is burned into him now. the look on your face like you know exactly what you’ve done to him and are pleased about it.
his cock aches, heavy and insistent, trapped in his boxers, and every shift of his legs sends another pulse of heat through him.
“god,” he whispers, barely audible.
he hesitates again, fingers hovering uncertainly at his waistband.
there’s a moment where he thinks about stopping, about turning the phone face-down and trying to sleep it off like a normal person. about how tomorrow he’ll see you again and how he’s already this wound tight.
then his phone buzzes once more.
no new message. just the screen lighting up again, your photo still open, still waiting.
clark groans quietly and gives in.
his hand slips beneath the waistband of his boxers, breath hitching as he finally frees himself.
the first slow stroke pulls a strained sound from his throat before he can stop it. he squeezes his eyes shut, then opens them again immediately, dragging the phone closer, needing to see you while he does this.
he strokes himself slowly at first, thumb brushing over the leaking tip before spreading it down his length. the slick sound is loud in the quiet room, obscene against the stillness, and it makes his hips roll up into his hand without permission.
he thinks about your hand on him in the grass. the way you squeezed, tested, learned him again like you already knew all his tells. he imagines it’s you now, fingers wrapped around him instead of his own, your mouth curved in that knowing smile as you watch him fall apart.
his grip tightens.
“you did this on purpose,” he murmurs, voice rough, embarrassed and undone all at once.
he strokes faster now, breath shallow, eyes flicking between the photo and the ceiling like he’s afraid of being caught even though he’s alone.
he’s missed this more than he let himself admit. missed you. missed the way you make him feel like he’s allowed to want.
his phone slips from his hand and lands against his chest as he nears the edge, your image still there, still watching him. clark bites his lip to keep quiet, body tightening as the ache crests into something overwhelming, his hand working him through it with a helpless urgency.
and when he finally comes, it’s with a broken breath and your name barely whispered into the dark.
afterward, he lies there panting, chest rising and falling, shame and satisfaction tangled together in his gut. he wipes his hand on his boxers absently, then reaches for his phone again before he can stop himself.
i have the greatest idea! i would write this myself but im lazy, and i have exams and your writing is a gazillions times better so!
so imagine this, reader is an interim boss at the daily planet after perry has gotten into an accident. she’s all mean and uptight because as a woman in such an important position she wants to be taken seriously (obv). and for some reason she has it OUT for clark the minute she meets him.
she calls his work ‘pathetic’ says the only reason perry liked him so much was because he was his one connection to superman, constantly belittles him - but for some reason clark is enamoured by her. repeatedly trying to appease her, brings her coffee, starts coming to work early, the whole thing.
eventually she lets up - still cruel and broody but less horrible to him. one day it all starts crashing down because clark finds her crying because she had to call off her engagement (her fiancé called her emotionally unavailable) and she looks up from her phone and sees clark just standing outside the door looking hella guilty (it’s late btw so no one is at work)
she gets up screaming at him, calling him all sorts of derogatory names (some of which he can tell isn’t really directed at him) before she pauses in the room and breaks down in sobs, leaning into her desk, head in her hands.
clark walks over to her, cautiously taking her into his arms and just hugging her for a minute.
anyways being the emotionally detached person she is, reader turns the whole thing sexual as a way to deal with her vulnerability. so they fuck and might i add imagine this as a really steamy top bottom sitch where clark is so eager to please and reader (for once) is soft and gentle towards clark (calling him baby, my boy, sweetheart, all of that) and clark who’s had a crush on reader for months now, is OVERJOYED. reader tells clark to be meaner to her, asking him to bend her over her desk, pound into her from the back, pull her hair, blah blah - clark is hesitant but will do anything to please her because it’s her.
it’s clark ofc so he thinks this is the beginning of some blossoming relationship and a month passes of them fooling around like this and reader seems to be opening up to him - but in reality she’s telling him super insignificant things and doesn’t truly let him in.
one day they’re at clark’s - they never go to readers because it’s too ‘intimate’ and reader leaves to go have a shower and she gets a call from her ex fiancé. clark doesn’t pick it up obviously but he gets curious as opens her phone to look at messages (he knows readers password now after she lost a dare from clark and had to tell him her password and not change it for three weeks) and he looks through their texts and lo and behold, they’ve been texting for about two weeks about how they want to get back together, about how they miss eachother, about how stupid it was to call it off blah blah.
one text in particular stands out to him. her fiancé (james) asks if she’s been seeing anyone cause he hasn’t (reader also has a past of cheating when she feels she’s trapped or not in control) and she texted back saying no.
clark flips out, dropping the phone back on the sofa, feeling really disregarded and unimportant. reader comes back asking if they should watch a movie before clark asks her what she thinks their relationship is.
reader calls it a ‘pastime’ beacause she has no regard for his feelings (obviously) and clark leaves the apartment to her for the night, crying as he leaves (not without a little bit of arguing though because i live for the angst x)
you can end it how you want cause i dunno how id want it to end tbh. okay that’s it thanks baddie! this was a long one sorry lmao x
i reread this so many times you don’t understand 🧘🏾♀️ this is so good omgg here it is !
synopsis : when perry is hospitalized, the daily planet appoints you, a sharp-tongued interim editor-in-chief, determined to prove you belong. clark kent becomes your primary target—picked apart, belittled, and pushed harder than anyone else in the newsroom. (wc : 10k…)
a/n : based on this request ! this kinda hurt to write 💔 i honestly can’t believe i finished it so fast ngl… this request forced me to use my brain more than usual so thank you. this is formatted in regular format bc i'm sparing you guys from straining your eyes for 10k words. ALSO happy christmas eve
warnings 18+ mdni : big inhale. mean!reader, emotional manipulation, power imbalance (workplace dynamic), verbal cruelty / workplace hostility, miscommunication & avoidance, sex used as coping mechanism, unprotected p in v sex (he pulls out), praise kink, dirty talk, hair pulling, fingering, soft dominance, clark’s a pleasure dom (& it’s known), usage of pet names, emotional dependency (one-sided), phone snooping, infidelity-adjacent behavior / emotional cheating, angst, hurt/comfort, hurt no comfort, breakdown, arguments / emotional confrontation, clark experiencing emotional distress 💔, unhealthy coping strategies, reader makes morally questionable choices. exhale
𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐭 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐞’𝐬 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐞.
you invade it.
that’s what it feels like the moment you step inside—like you’ve crossed some invisible perimeter and claimed territory no one expected you to touch.
the room still carries the imprint of him: the blinds crooked from the rushed move, boxes half-packed in a neat but mournful little row, tape hanging loose from one of the cardboard flaps as if the office itself isn’t convinced he’s gone.
somebody abandoned his framed great caesar’s ghost cartoon on the desk—jimmy’s handiwork, a tiny caricature of perry mid-exclamation. it peers up at you while you sort your folders into stiff, perfect stacks, the inked expression borderline judgmental, like even the décor is taking bets on how long you’ll last.
interim editor-in-chief.
interim.
the word sits behind your ribs like a swallowed shard.
every person who offered congratulations wore the same thin smile, their voices pitched with polite optimism that didn’t match their eyes.
they shook your hand, told you you’d do great, then drifted back to their desks to quietly speculate about whether you’d hold the seat warm until perry came back—or until the planet decided you were a temporary experiment that had run its course.
so you make yourself impossible to dismiss.
your desk becomes an altar to precision. folders aligned edge to edge, pens in measured rows, sticky notes trimmed, rewritten, rearranged until they obey the exact logic in your head.
nothing crosses your workspace half-finished. anything sloppy, unclear, or softened for comfort gets dragged back into the light and torn apart without hesitation.
which is why clark kent never stood a chance.
you clock him instantly on your first day—not because he commands attention, but because he seems fundamentally unprepared for it.
a big man in a shirt that doesn’t quite fit, tie skewed just enough to bother you, arms full of papers that look moments away from surrendering to gravity. he bumps into two desks, apologizes three times, and somehow manages to smile like he didn’t almost drop all of his work on the floor.
he’s late to your first morning meeting.
“sorry,” he says, breathless as he pushes his glasses up his nose. “there was a—”
“don’t care.” you don’t even lift your eyes from your clipboard. “sit.”
the shift in the room is instantaneous—a soft, collective intake of breath.
your staff watches the exchange like spectators bracing for a crash, the kind where no one admits they’re hoping for sparks.
clark’s face tightens. he swallows, nods, and folds into the nearest chair as though trying to compress himself into something small and unobtrusive.
you don’t allow it.
“kent,” you say, glancing up at last. “you’re on the crime desk this week. your last three pieces were… what’s the word i’m looking for…” you tap your pen, let the silence sharpen. “ah. pathetic.”
he blinks. “i—”
“if i wanted reworded police reports, i’d print the damn press releases. this is the daily planet, not a high school newsletter. perry might’ve been charmed by your ‘aw shucks’ routine, but i’m not perry. if you want to keep your byline, tighten your work or move aside for someone who can actually write.”
you let the words land. they do, hard.
he barely reacts, but the subtle things give him away—the faint tightening at the corners of his mouth, the small drop of his eyes before he lifts them again, steadying himself.
“yes, ma’am,” he says quietly.
you nod once, already on to the next point in your notes, as if his name is something you filed away and promptly forgot.
the newsroom acclimates to you the way a body adjusts to cold water—sharp inhale, stiff shoulders, a quick acceptance that this is how things are now. conversations shrink when you pass by. jokes wither mid-sentence. no one is foolish enough to speak loud enough for you to hear.
you are precise, fast, unforgiving, and once you give a note, it becomes law. there’s no circling back, no softening, no second chance because someone had a rough morning.
clark takes the brunt of it.
his drafts come back dripping in red. you cross out entire sections, write lazy sourcing in the margins, underline quotes, ask who is this and why should i care, and quote someone who isn’t a cop, kent.
more than once, you tell him to go back out and actually talk to the people who lived through the event instead of standing safely near the tape.
one afternoon, you lean a hip against the edge of his desk, flipping through his latest printout. the newsroom hums around you, typewriters clacking, phones ringing, faint city noise bleeding in through the windows.
he sits there with his hands folded in his lap, waiting, shoulders squared but tense.
“still leaning on superman, i see,” you mutter.
he looks up, blinking behind his glasses. “sorry?”
“half this piece hinges on a paragraph about him showing up near the scene.” you turn a page. “of course it does. why bother digging when you share a phonebook with the city’s mascot?”
his face tightens, the shift small but unmistakable.
“that’s not why i—”
“don’t insult us both.” you snap the pages straight. “everyone knows why perry indulged you. you were his bridge to the cape. he’s not here. i am. if you want to keep your spot, stop acting like a source’s friend and start acting like a writer.”
a low murmur ripples from a nearby desk. you ignore it. clark doesn’t. something clenches in his jaw—too sharp, too controlled for the soft-spoken man you’ve seen stumbling in late or apologizing for bumping into chairs.
“i’ll fix it,” he says quietly. “i’m sorry.”
you wait for resentment. you’re good at weathering it. people usually hide their annoyance poorly—eye rolls, muttered curses, brittle courtesy. you’ve heard every version of too harsh, too cold, impossible to please.
what you don’t expect is the coffee.
it’s waiting on your desk the next morning when you step into the office—cup from the good place down the block, not the sludge upstairs. your name, spelled correctly, sits on the sleeve; below it, a scribbled note: 2 sugar, no cream.
you lift the lid. the smell hits you exactly right.
through the glass office wall, you spot him at his desk, coat draped over his chair, typing with that earnest, focused concentration he tries to hide. his tie is straighter today. he doesn’t look toward you. he doesn’t wait for your reaction. he just works.
you pick up the cup, take a slow sip, and feel the warmth spread across your tongue in a way that annoys you instantly.
irritating.
you drink every last drop.
—
it becomes a thing.
you don’t ask him to do it. you don’t thank him for it. you just start finding small offerings in the mornings.
coffee, sometimes, or a new legal pad when yours mysteriously runs out, or a printed copy of an obscure source you mentioned needing once, weeks ago.
he starts showing up early, long before most of the bullpen drags themselves in, sitting with his headphones on and his brows furrowed in concentration as he works through whatever latest assignment you butchered with red ink.
and, irritatingly, he improves.
his second drafts come back tighter. he starts structuring his pieces more aggressively, putting people at the center, not institutions. instead of hiding behind quotes from officials, he goes to the neighborhoods actually affected by whatever the story is about. he turns up with handwritten notes, photographs, and quotes that make even you pause when you read them.
you never tell him this, of course.
you just circle fewer paragraphs.
the rest of the staff notices the way you ride him harder than anyone else. they whisper about it at their desks, in the break room, near the elevators.
some of them think you have it out for him because he’s perry’s favorite. some of them think you don’t like his face. some of them think you’re on a warpath against the “nice guy” because it makes you feel powerful.
they don’t know that you overheard the board discussing you outside the conference room. they don’t know you heard the word “emotional” tossed around like it was a hazard, like something that might slip out if someone shook you too hard.
they don’t know your fiancé—now ex—told you last month that you didn’t know how to let anyone in, that you treated every relationship like a negotiation, that you didn’t understand “real softness.”
they don’t know that being good isn’t enough, not for you, not in this job, not in this city. you have to be better. you have to be untouchable. you have to bleed stone when everyone expects you to bleed feelings.
so you take every doubt, every offhand comment, every soft suggestion that maybe, maybe, you’re too harsh, and you sharpen it into something else.
and clark kent, apparently, is the perfect whetstone.
“you’re really riding him,” cat remarks one evening, leaning in the doorway of perry’s glass box. “more than anyone else.”
“he can take it,” you answer, not looking up.
“sure,” she says. “but you know he’s the one superman actually talks to, right? the board will have a coronary if you scare off their favorite whisperer.”
“if the only thread connecting this paper to superman is one reporter, then they’ve been living on borrowed time,” you reply. “no one’s irreplaceable.”
“must be comforting to believe that,” she says lightly.
you glare. she grins. “just saying. some people see him as a human hotline to the guy in blue. you seem to see something else.”
sometimes you think you do.
other times you remind yourself that it doesn’t matter what you see. what matters is keeping this job until somebody official decides whether you’re more than a temporary patch.
he still smiles at you.
it’s the most infuriating part.
you call his work pathetic and he nods and fixes it. you bark his name across the bullpen and he straightens immediately, jogging over with that stupidly earnest expression like you’re not about to take his article apart in front of him.
but little by little, something shifts.
you start to notice that he’s actually listening to your notes. he doesn’t flinch when you point out flaws anymore; he asks questions, leaning over your desk, brows drawn together.
“so if i lead with the family instead of the police statement, that could work better?” he asks one afternoon, chewing the inside of his cheek.
“yes,” you say. “because the reader cares about the people, not the paperwork. unless you want them to fall asleep halfway down the page.”
his lips twitch. “right. no sleeping.”
you narrow your eyes. “are you… laughing at me, kent?”
“no, ma’am,” he says quickly, but his eyes are warm. “it’s good advice.”
ma’am again. you roll your eyes.
“go rewrite it,” you say. “and cut the last two paragraphs. they’re fluff.”
“got it.”
he hurries away, the back of his neck a little pink.
—
the night it all cracks, it’s raining.
the storm started around six, just as most people were packing up to go home. thunder rolled over the city in slow waves, the sky turning that bruised purple that always presses memories against your ribs.
you decided to stay late. partially because you can’t stand the thought of going back to your apartment and the quiet waiting there; partially because perry’s inbox is still a beast and someone needs to tame it.
the bullpen emptied out, one by one. cat slung her bag over her shoulder and gave you a knowing smirk through the glass wall.
“don’t work yourself to death, boss,” she called. “some of us still need you alive to terrorize clark.”
you waved her off without looking up. “go home, grant.”
you heard the elevator doors open and close a few more times, voices fading, footsteps thinning. by eight, the building sounded different—quieter, softer, the hum of the city outside muted by the rain.
your phone buzzed where it lay face-down on the desk.
you ignore it. your eyes ache from staring at the screen. emails blur together. the buzzing persists, insistent. with a sigh, you flip the device over.
james.
you stare at the name for a long moment. the last time you saw it pop up, it was followed by a long, ugly phone call and a ring left on your kitchen counter. emotionally unavailable. cold. detached. all the words he threw at you like grenades while you sat on your sofa, listening to your carefully constructed life shift out from under your feet.
now:
been thinking about us a lot.
can we talk?
you tell yourself you don’t care. you tell yourself you’ve moved on. you tell yourself you have bigger things to worry about than one man’s inability to understand boundaries.
and yet.
your thumb hovers, then taps.
what is there to talk about?
the reply is almost instant.
james : everything. i miss you. i was stupid.
your throat burns. you swallow hard, fingers tightening around the phone. the office feels too big suddenly, the lights too bright. your eyes prick, traitorous and hot.
you were honest, you write back. you called it like you saw it.
james : did i? or did i just call you names because i was hurt? you’re not emotionally unavailable. you just don’t know how to let go of control. we could fix it. we can fix us.
a tear slips out before you can stop it, landing on the screen and blurring the words. you swipe it away, annoyed at yourself, at him, at the whole situation. you shouldn’t have checked. you should’ve turned your phone off and buried yourself in work until your eyelids turned to sand.
instead, you’re here. in perry’s office that isn’t really yours, clutching your phone like a lifeline while your ex tries to pull you back toward something you’re not sure you can do differently.
your vision blurs. your chest hurts.
you don’t realize you’re crying until your shoulders start to shake.
you press the heel of your hand to your eyes, trying to will it away, to force the tears back into some hidden reservoir. you’re not crying at work. you don’t cry at work. you don’t cry, period.
“uh… boss?”
you snap your head up.
clark stands just outside the door, one hand braced on the frame, the other clutching a manila folder to his chest. his hair is damp from the rain, curling at the edges. his tie is loosened, top button undone. his glasses have a faint mist on them.
“i’m sorry,” he stammers immediately. “i didn’t mean to… i thought you were still working and i had the revised draft and then i saw you were… and i…” he gestures vaguely, completely wrecked by his own presence.
rage flares, easier to handle than humiliation.
“what the hell are you doing?” you snap, voice cracking. “do you just sneak around in doorways like some kind of creep, kent?”
he recoils. “no. i… i heard… you sounded upset. i didn’t want to just walk in, but you didn’t answer, so—”
“so you decided to stand there and watch?” your words sharpen with every syllable. “take notes? see if your scary boss really has tear ducts after all?”
“that’s not—”
“you really are pathetic sometimes,” you spit. “hovering in hallways, acting like some noble guardian when you’re just nosy. what, did you think this gave you an edge? that if you caught me crying you’d finally have leverage?”
his hand tightens around the folder. “i would never—”
“you never mean anything, do you?” The hurt in your chest claws for an outlet. “you always just stumble into it. late to meetings, late to your life, late to the part where you mind your own damn business—”
your voice cracks on the last word.
“you don’t have to talk to me like that,” he says softly, but there’s something strained underneath. “i’m just—i was worried.”
“oh, spare me,” you snap. “you don’t get to be worried. you barely know me.”
“i’m trying,” he says, a little louder this time. “i’ve been trying—”
“you really think you’re special, don’t you?” you cut him off. “everyone’s big, gentle, harmless clark. you think that means you get access to me? to my private life? because you bring me coffee and smile at me? grow up.”
you’re about to say something else—something cruel, something you’ll regret—when your voice wobbles.
you clamp your mouth shut, but it’s too late. the anger stutters, trips, and suddenly there is nothing left to hold you upright.
you turn away, one hand searching blindly for the desk. your fingers find the edge and you grip it hard, bowing your head. your shoulders start to shake again, harder this time, sobs tearing out of you like they’re trying to escape your ribs.
“shit,” you whisper, voice breaking. “shit, shit…”
for a moment, only rain and your uneven breathing fill the room.
then: footsteps. slow, careful, like approaching a wild animal.
“hey,” clark murmurs. “hey, it’s okay.”
you want to tell him to leave. you want to fling another insult at him, push him away, rebuild the distance you just smashed. but your throat feels raw and your chest aches and you are so tired.
a warm palm touches your upper back, barely there at first. you don’t fling it off. you can’t. every muscle in your body feels stretched to breaking.
he gently guides you away from the desk, turning you toward him. the move is careful, asking permission without words. you let him.
the second your face hits his shirt, the dam breaks completely.
you clutch at the fabric, fingers curling in the cotton. he wraps his arms around you, big frame folding protectively, chin hovering near your temple. his chest is solid under your cheek, his scent familiar now: coffee, city dust, something clean and distinctly him.
one of his hands rests between your shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of your head. he doesn’t say anything. he just holds you.
you cry.
it’s ugly. hiccupping, uneven, the kind of crying you haven’t allowed yourself to do in years. it rips through you, dragging up every jagged thing you’ve shoved down: the board’s doubt, perry’s absence, james’ words, the fear that no matter what you do, it will never be enough, you will never be enough.
clark takes it. he stands there, a quiet pillar in the storm, letting you shake and crumble against him. every so often, you hear him whisper something—little nothings, nothing too specific, just soft sounds meant to anchor you.
“it’s okay,” he says once, so quietly you almost miss it. “you don’t have to be strong all the time.”
the words make you cry harder.
eventually, the storm runs out of force. your sobs soften into uneven breaths. your fingers unclench from his shirt, leaving small, damp creases. you feel hollowed out, scraped clean and raw.
you pull back first.
his arms loosen immediately, giving you space. you step away, wiping your face with the heels of your hands, embarrassed heat burning in your cheeks.
“i…” your voice is hoarse. you clear your throat. “that didn’t happen.”
you mean it as a joke, almost. a thin attempt at levity. but it comes out brittle.
clark looks at you, and there is no pity in his gaze. only concern, and something deeper you don’t want to name.
“it did,” he says softly. “and it’s okay that it did.”
you laugh, sharp and humorless. “of course you’d say that.”
“what does that mean?”
“nothing.” you glance at the clock. it’s nearly ten. the building is almost certainly empty by now. the rain drums softly against the glass. “you should go home, kent.”
“i’ll go when you’re ready to,” he says.
“don’t make this weird.”
“you think me not wanting you to be alone after a breakdown is weird?”
“i think you thinking that means anything is weird,” you snap, more harshly than you intend.
his jaw tightens.
you’re still too raw. too exposed. you need distance, control, something you can manage with your hands instead of your heart.
your gaze drifts over him. the loosened tie. the damp hair. the worry stitched into the corners of his eyes. the way his chest still rises a little faster than normal, like the adrenaline from your meltdown hasn’t completely left his system.
you think about james calling you emotionally unavailable. about every time you’ve taken something messy and turned it into something you can handle.
you take a step forward.
“you really will do anything, won’t you?” you murmur.
he swallows. “what?”
you reach up, fingers brushing his tie. you tug it gently, pulling him closer. his breath stutters.
“you wanted to comfort me,” you say. “you did. you were… nice. soft. you can keep doing that.”
you watch the realization flicker across his face, the way his eyes dart from your mouth to your eyes and back again. his hands flex at his sides, as if he doesn’t know whether to reach for you or retreat.
“i don’t think that’s what you need right now,” he says carefully. “you’re hurting.”
“i know what i need,” you say, low. “and i know what i want.”
you slide your hand up to the back of his neck. his skin is warm under your fingertips, the fine hairs there prickling.
“tell me no,” you say, giving him the chance, because you’re not a monster. “if you want to.”
his eyes flash. “i don’t want to.”
you raise an eyebrow.
clark clears his throat. “i… i don’t want to tell you no.”
you kiss him.
your fingers slip into his hair, drag just enough to make him gasp against your mouth. he shudders under the touch, breath catching like he wasn’t expecting you to be this greedy so soon.
but you are. you want his mouth. you want his hands. you want to hear how his breath stutters when you pull, how his hips twitch forward like his body doesn’t know how to stay still around you.
his hands move like they’ve been waiting. slow at first, cautious, then needier. he presses you flush to him, groaning under his breath when he feels the shape of your thighs snug between his, your chest brushing his with every shallow inhale.
“boss,” he mutters into your mouth.
you nip at his bottom lip and tug, not gentle. “don’t call me that right now,” you whisper. “call me… whatever you want.”
he pauses, blinking slow, pupils blown wide. “you. i’ll just—i’ll just call you you,” he says, and it’s so earnest you almost laugh.
you huff a laugh. “of course you will.”
his hesitation lasts one more breath. and then—he melts into it. into you. into the kiss that deepens in one long, aching sweep of tongue and teeth.
he groans again when your hips roll into his, a soft grind that makes him press harder against you without thinking. his hand cups your jaw with reverence, but the other travels lower, down your back, over the curve of your ass, pulling you closer. he kisses like he’s trying to memorize how your mouth tastes when you let him have it.
and it’s good.
it’s good enough to make your knees weak. good enough to make your fingers fumble with the leather of his belt, dragging him forward until the heat of him pins you to the desk’s edge. you feel him—hard against your thigh now, heavy, aching. he gasps softly when you press into it again, just to tease.
papers scatter across the floor as you lean back, giving him your body to look at: throat tilted, lips slick, breath shallow.
his gaze drops instantly. to your mouth. to your chest rising with each inhale. to your fingers still curled around his belt like a promise.
“come here, baby,” you murmur.
the endearment spills out and lands like a match to dry leaves.
his whole body stiffens then softens. his cheeks go pink, but there’s a new gleam in his eyes. something open and wrecked and starved. like he’s been waiting to be called that his whole life.
“you sure?” he manages to whisper, hoarse now. “i’d never forgive myself if—”
“i said i’m sure,” you whisper, tugging his tie to bring his mouth back to yours. “let me have this. let me have you.”
his hands shake when they settle on your hips. you feel it. you kiss him again like you can taste how close he is to breaking.
he kisses you like a man who’s been told he can die happy now. like he doesn’t trust himself not to ruin it by moving too fast, but his body betrays him anyway.
his hands come up, palms big, one sliding under your shirt to touch the bare heat of your back. his fingers spread wide, drag up your spine until your breath stutters against his cheek.
“you’re shaking,” you whisper, voice hushed like a confession.
“you’re not,” he says, awed.
you aren’t. because your mind has already left the station, wrecked by the way he’s looking at you. like you’re already half-undressed and spread across this desk, like he’s never going to get over the sight of you whispering come here, baby while gripping his belt like a threat.
he kisses you again, harder now, tongue sliding deeper. you feel his hips twitch forward like he can’t help it. your thighs part instinctively. he groans when the bulge in his slacks grinds up against the heat between your legs.
“fuck—” you gasp, voice high and soft.
you reach for his shirt, pulling it untucked one side at a time, slipping your hands underneath to feel skin, real and warm and trembling.
he’s so solid, so there, all muscle and warmth and gentle restraint. his stomach jumps when your fingers dip lower, brushing the edge of his waistband.
“this okay?” you murmur, fingers already working the buttons open. your hands are greedy. like they’ve been waiting their whole life to trace the lines of him. how his chest rises too fast, how his abs tighten when your nails scrape lightly over them.
“yeah,” he says, breathless. “yeah. god, yes.”
you kiss him again as you push his shirt from his shoulders, trailing your fingers over the skin you expose. you make a soft sound against his lips, a pleased hum that goes straight to his cock, which is now pressing firmly against your core with every breath. the friction makes you roll your hips—once, twice—and you both groan when you do.
“gosh,” he pants. “you’re—”
“i know,” you whisper.
you guide his hands to your waist, then up, until they’re under your blouse. his touch is hesitant until you nod yes, you can.
clark’s thumbs drag over the curves of your ribs, the edge of your bra, the swell of each breast as he pulls the fabric up, exposing you to the stormlight filtering through the blinds.
“beautiful,” he says, almost without meaning to. “you’re so—”
you cut him off with a kiss, and then you’re tugging your own shirt over your head, tossing it aside.
his mouth follows instinctively—trailing down your neck, then lower, tongue dragging slow across the swell of your chest. he mouths over the edge of your bra, presses a kiss to your sternum like he’s praying.
your legs wrap around his waist, dragging him in again. his cock slides right where you need him, and you’re only wearing thin underwear beneath your skirt.
you’re soaked. you know he can feel it. the groan he lets out is almost pained.
“can’t believe you’re letting me—” he breathes.
“you think i don’t want this?” your voice is thick. you grind up again, rolling your hips into him, biting your lip when the pressure lands just right. “i want everything, clark. i want you to fuck me right here on perry’s desk. want you to ruin me a little.”
his mouth falls open, eyes locked on yours.
and then he’s gone—completely unraveled.
his hands drag your skirt up, up, until the fabric bunches at your hips and the desk under your ass feels cold and real.
his palms squeeze your thighs once, then spread you wider. he steps between your legs, mouthing hungrily at your throat now, like he needs to taste every inch.
he kisses your shoulder, then your collarbone, his mouth hot and dragging. when he pulls back to look at you, his eyes are wide behind the lenses, pupils blown. he’s panting a little, lips red from kissing, hair messy from your hands, and still wearing his goddamn glasses.
you almost moan just from that.
clark’s hand slides between your thighs, fingers brushing your inner thigh, then higher, until they find the mess between your legs. he groans the moment he touches you.
your head drops back as he strokes once, then slips one finger in, easy. your body clenches, greedy.
he watches you as he adds another, moving slow, curling them just right until your thighs twitch and your mouth falls open on a gasp.
“that’s it,” he murmurs, transfixed. “that feel good?”
you nod, shivering. “more. don’t stop.”
he doesn’t. he fucks you with his fingers. but there’s a shake in his wrist now, his other hand fumbling with his belt, pushing his slacks down just enough to free himself.
he wraps his hand around his cock with a shaky exhale, like just touching it now is too much after feeling how wet you are.
the low sound he makes when he strokes, goes straight to your spine.
his fingers don’t stop moving. you feel every curl, every press against the softest part of you. you’re dripping, your slick coating his knuckles, making a mess of both of you.
he looks down at where his hand moves inside you, then up again—glasses low on his nose, eyes glassy and desperate.
“i don’t wanna hurt you,” he says again, voice rough as his hips roll into his fist. “i want it to be good. really good.”
“it is,” you whisper, arching your hips into his hand.
he pulls his fingers out slow. then, with one hand still slick, he lines himself up, the head of his cock heavy and flushed against you.
he pushes in slow.
you both gasp.
he’s big—thick—the stretch enough to steal your breath and make your legs shake where they’re wrapped around his waist.
your nails dig into his shoulders, and his whole body locks up like he’s trying not to move until you say so.
you moan when he bottoms out. when the weight of him settles deep inside you, hot and pulsing and so full it almost hurts.
he’s not moving yet. he’s frozen, holding himself over you with his palms braced on the desk, arms trembling with restraint. he blinks like he’s trying to ground himself, to stay focused. but his hips twitch forward, just slightly, and his breath stutters when your walls squeeze around him.
“okay?” he asks, eyes flicking up to yours. “you okay?”
you nod, breathless. “move, clark.”
“are you sure? i don’t want—i’m trying not to—”
you tighten around him, hips tilting up, voice barely a whisper. “move.”
he groans—low and helpless—and then he does.
the first stroke is slow, deep. like he wants to feel every inch drag through you. your body arches into it, your hands sliding up his chest.
he pulls back, then sinks in again. and again. hips rocking into yours in a rhythm that’s too careful but desperate all the same.
you wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him deeper.
“you’re doing so good, baby,” you whisper against his ear. “so good for me. doesn’t it feel good?”
he shudders, hips jerking slightly. “yes—yes. it’s—you’re—”
he stops himself, brows drawing together like the words are caught in his throat.
then he moves faster.
his hips snap into yours with more force now—still gentle by most standards, but for clark, it feels like letting go. like something inside him’s been waiting to break loose. the stretch of you around him, the mess of your slick pulling lewd sounds from each stroke, the desk rocking beneath your bodies—it’s all too much. and not enough.
you cling to him, gasping every time he thrusts a little deeper, a little harder. you clutch at his shoulders, moaning into his neck, mouth open and gasping. the angle is good, the stretch even better but you want more. you need more. it’s not enough.
“clark,” you pant, hand slipping up to grip the back of his hair. “bend me over.”
he falters mid-thrust, blinking down at you. “… what?”
“i want you to be meaner,” you whisper. “pull my hair. pound into me. bend me over the damn desk and make it hurt a little.”
his mouth opens, then shuts. he shakes his head like he didn’t hear you right.
“you don’t—you don’t want me to do that,” he says softly. “i don’t want to scare you. i don’t want to ruin this—”
“you won’t,” you whisper, dragging your nails down his chest. “i promise. i need it. and i want you to do it. please.”
“okay,” he breathes. “okay. just tell me if—if it’s too much.”
“i will,” you say. “i want you to be too much.”
that does something to him. he twitches inside you, jaw clenched like he’s trying to hold back from coming right then and there.
he kisses you—hard, messy—before pulling out with a slick sound that makes both of you shiver. then he grabs your hips, firm and certain now, and guides you to turn around.
your hands hit the desk first, palms splayed wide, chest pressing down against the surface. your breath fogs the glass frame of a picture. your skirt is already bunched up around your waist.
clark groans when he sees you bent over like that. your thighs shaking. your cunt wet and swollen and dripping.
he hesitates for a moment.
“clark,” you say, voice steady, “fuck me.”
he doesn’t make you ask again.
he lines up and pushes back inside, deeper from this angle, his hand gripping your waist tight as he sinks in all the way.
you cry out, arching against him, and he barely holds in the sound that tears from his throat.
his hips start to move—slow at first, then faster, rougher. the desk creaks under your elbows. your skin slaps against his with every thrust.
you reach back blindly and his hand finds yours, fingers threading together for one tender beat—before he lets go and grabs your hair instead, tugging just enough to make you gasp.
he freezes. “too much?”
“no,” you gasp. “don’t stop. more.”
he groans, deeper now, and tugs again, firmer. your spine curves. your eyes flutter shut. every thrust now hits something devastating. you feel him everywhere. the drag, the weight, the sound of him losing control behind you, breathing raggedly like he’s never fucked like this in his life.
the desk shakes beneath your forearms. every stroke feels like it’s going to knock you over the edge.
and he’s still careful. even now.
his hand slides around your waist, slow but sure, until his fingers find your clit, slick and swollen and begging for attention.
he touches you and listens to every gasp, every twitch, every time you moan his name. two fingers, circling. pressure just right. learning you in real time and adjusting for you.
“i’ve got you,” he whispers.
his voice is shaking.
he’s so close.
your body clamps down on him with every pass of his fingers.
you try to warn him. you try to say his name. but it slips out as a broken cry the second your orgasm hits, hard and fast and all-consuming.
your whole body locks up—hips jolting, mouth open, moaning so loud you’re sure someone three floors down could hear it.
“oh—oh, goodness,” he gasps.
he barely lasts a second longer.
clark groans something wordless and desperate, pulling out at the last possible moment.
his cock jerks once, twice, and then he’s coming—hot and heavy, painting the curve of your ass and the small of your back in thick, milky ropes. his hand’s still between your legs, still stroking gently as your orgasm ripples through the last waves.
his breath catches like he’s winded. he’s bent over you now, forehead resting between your shoulder blades, chest heaving.
“you okay?” he pants, voice hoarse. “did i—was that?”
you nod, too gone to speak. your body is limp, soft, boneless in the best way.
after, when the air is filled with the sound of your mingled breathing and the rustle of fabric, you sit on the edge of perry’s desk with your head against clark’s shoulder, his arm wrapped carefully around your back. the storm outside has softened to a steady drizzle.
he leans his forehead against yours.
“you okay?” he whispers.
“yeah,” you say. your voice is steadier now that your heart’s barricades are safely back in place. “you?”
he laughs softly. “this might be the best i’ve ever felt in my life.”
you should correct him, tell him not to romanticize what just happened. you don’t.
this is nothing, you tell yourself. a release valve. a moment. it doesn’t have to mean anything.
clark, though, walks you to your car with his coat over both your heads, hovering too close, opening the door for you like you’re something he wants to shield from the world.
he sends you a text once he’s home—thank you for trusting me—and falls asleep with his phone in his hand, a goofy, hopeful smile on his face.
he thinks this is the beginning of something.
you tell yourself it’s just easier than crying.
—
the next month is a fog of blurred lines.
you don’t talk about what happened in so many words. you don’t sit down and define anything. you don’t label.
you just keep ending up together.
it starts with you pulling him into your office after everyone’s gone, your voice low as you tell him you need a distraction and he’s very good at providing one. his cheeks flush, his hands shaking a little as he closes the blinds.
then it’s a stolen hour at his apartment after a long day, your legs tangled in his sheets. you lie there, tracing patterns over his skin, telling him stupid little stories from your childhood that mean nothing. what your first pet’s name was. how you once broke your arm falling out of a tree. the way your mother burned every casserole she ever tried to make.
he stores them like treasures and he gives you everything.
you learn about the farm, the fields, his parents, the lonely stretch between small-town life and metropolis. how he worried he’d never measure up here. how your relentless standards, weirdly, made him believe he could. he tells you he likes when you push him, because it means you see something worth pushing.
you don’t tell him that you do, because that feels too big.
instead, you call him baby when he’s inside you, fingers digging into his shoulders, and watch his eyes glaze with joy.
you never invite him over to your place. you always have a reason: too messy, too far, bad neighbors, you’re not in the mood to host.
you don’t let him carry your groceries. you don’t tell him when you visit perry in the hospital. you don’t mention that james has started texting again, little feelers sent out into the dark.
when clark asks how you’re feeling after a long day, you shrug and say fine. when he asks what you want from all this, you say something noncommittal like it’s nice, isn’t it? and kiss him until the question melts away.
he takes what you give. he tries not to push.
he still can’t help but hope.
you see it in the way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention. in the way he brightens when you laugh, genuinely, at something dumb he’s said. in the way he relaxes when you text him first.
it’s dangerous, that look. that hope. so you keep your confessions small and your softness controlled.
if you never say the words, they can’t be used against you. that’s what you’ve always believed.
—
tonight, you’re at his apartment.
you’ve been here enough times now that he’s started stocking your favorite snacks in his cupboard, your favorite tea in his cabinet. there’s a hair tie on his coffee table that’s not his. a book you brought over last week lies face-down on the arm of the couch.
you try not to think about how domestic it all feels.
“shower?” you ask, stretching your arms over your head. your blouse rides up a little; clark’s eyes flick to the sliver of skin, then snap back up.
“yeah, of course,” he says, standing. “towels are where they always are.”
“thanks, sweetheart.” you pat his chest as you walk by. you do it casually, easily, like it’s just another word. his heart stutters under your palm.
you disappear into the bathroom, closing the door behind you. the sound of running water starts a minute later.
clark exhales, sinking back onto the couch. he runs his hand over his face, trying to tamp down the stupid amount of happiness humming through him.
he glances at your phone, abandoned on the cushion beside him. bright case, cracked at the corner. your screen lights up with a notification.
he doesn’t mean to look.
he really doesn’t.
but a name flashes, and beneath it, a preview:
james : can’t stop thinking about seeing you again.
his stomach dips.
before he can think better of it, his hand moves. he picks up the phone. it’s still lit, the message glaring up at him.
he tells himself he’s not going to open it.
he tells himself it’s none of his business.
he’s always been a terrible liar when it comes to himself.
you’ve trusted him with your password—lost a dare, rolled your eyes and rattled it off, made him promise not to change your background for three weeks. he’d laughed, swore he wouldn’t touch anything important.
his thumb hovers over the lock screen.
the shower runs in the background, a steady hiss.
he unlocks it.
the guilt hits instantly, thick and sour. he almost locks it again. almost tosses it back on the couch and pretends he never saw the name, never felt that little spike of dread.
instead, he taps the message thread.
the first thing he sees is your response from earlier tonight.
you : it was good to talk. i’ll think about it.
scroll.
james : i miss you. i miss us.
james : i hate that we ended like that. i was angry, i said things i didn’t mean
you : you weren’t wrong.
james : i was harsh. you’re not broken. you just protect yourself too much. i should’ve helped, not attacked.
you : maybe.
further up, messages from the last two weeks.
coffee sometime?
dinner?
maybe we could start slow. see if we can do it better this time.
and then, the one that punches all the air out of clark’s lungs.
james : be honest. are you seeing anyone? because i’m not.
you : no.
the room tilts.
no.
he stares at the word until it blurs.
his chest feels too tight. his fingers go numb around the phone. he didn’t expect… he doesn’t know what he expected. you’ve never promised him anything. you’ve never called him your boyfriend or said you were exclusive or given him any concrete thing to cling to.
but you’ve spent nights in his bed. you’ve fallen asleep with your head on his chest. you’ve kissed him like he mattered. you’ve let him hold you like you were something fragile, for once, something you didn’t want to shatter.
he thought—stupidly, obviously—that even if you weren’t ready to name it, this was something.
clark drops the phone. it lands on the sofa with a soft thud, face-down.
he sits there, staring at it like it might bite him.
in the bathroom, the water shuts off.
he scrubs at his face, trying to school his expression into something neutral. his eyes are wet. he drags the heels of his hands over them, angry at himself for crying now, of all times.
you come out of the bathroom in one of his t-shirts, skin flushed from the heat. you look softer like this, less armored. you fold the towel, padding barefoot over to the couch.
“we could put on that documentary you mentioned,” you say casually. “or—”
“what are we?” he blurts.
you stop.
the room goes very still.
“we’re doing this again?” you deflect, tossing the towel onto a chair, buying yourself a second. “we’re us.”
“that’s not an answer.”
“sure it is.”
“it’s not,” he says. there’s an edge in his tone you’re not used to. “you know it’s not.”
you sigh, rolling your eyes, defaulting to exasperation because it’s easier than fear. “why does it matter, clark? we’re having fun. it’s nice. why do you have to put a label on everything?”
“because it matters to me,” he says, voice rising, frustration leaking through. “because i—” he breaks off, jaw clenching. “because i care about you. more than just… this.”
the word hangs there, pointed.
you look away. your chest tightens.
“clark…”
“are you getting back together with him?” he asks. no preamble. no soft lead-in. just the question, blunt and bare.
your head snaps back toward him. “what?”
“james,” he says. his gaze flicks to your phone on the couch and then back. “are you getting back together with him?”
you follow his gaze. your stomach drops.
“you went through my phone?” your voice is flat, deadly quiet.
he winces. “i didn’t… i saw his name, and i… i know it was wrong. i know. but i read the texts.”
for a moment, there’s silence. you could go for the easy anger. you could latch onto the invasion of privacy, tear into him, deflect, deflect, deflect.
instead, you feel tired.
“you had no right,” you say, because that’s true. “and also… yes. we’ve been… talking.”
“for weeks,” he says. “while you were… while we were…”
“yeah,” you say plainly. “while we were.”
he laughs, a short, choked sound. “and when he asked if you were seeing anyone—”
“i said no,” you finish for him. you lift your chin. “because i’m not. not in the way he meant.”
he looks like you slapped him.
“we’re not dating,” you continue, forcing your voice to stay flat. “you’ve never asked for exclusivity. i never promised it. you’ve kept things vague too. what was i supposed to say? ‘i have a coworker whose bed i sleep in sometimes’? you wanted honesty or you wanted a label. you don’t get both when you never asked for either.”
hurt flashes across his features.
“don’t twist this into something it isn’t,” he says, voice going rough. “you know exactly what i’ve been feeling.”
“do i?” you shoot back. “you’ve never said it. you’ve just looked at me like that.”
“like what?”
“like you’re falling in love.”
the words come out sharper than you intend. they land anyway.
he laughs once, bitter. “wow. what a terrible crime.”
“don’t make it sound romantic,” you say. “this was supposed to be simple.”
“for you.” he rakes a hand through his hair. “for me, it’s never been simple. i like you. a lot. i-i think about you when you’re not here. i watch you tear my work apart and all i want to do is bring you better work next time so you’ll be proud. i can’t unclench that. if that’s a problem, you should’ve pushed me away before you climbed into my bed, not after.”
you bite back the instinctive retort. most fights you can win by sheer force. this one clearly doesn’t have a winner.
“what do you want me to say, clark?” you ask quietly. “that i don’t care? that this meant nothing? neither is true. i like you. i trust you. i…” you falter. “i feel… something. but i can’t build my life around feelings. every time i’ve done that, i’ve lost.”
“so you’ll build it around fear instead,” he says.
you glare.
“you said it yourself,” he continues, wounded honesty pouring out of him now. “if you never name it, it can’t be taken away. if you never admit you’re with someone, you can walk whenever you want and tell yourself it was casual. it’s safer that way, right? for you, anyway.”
“you don’t understand.”
“then explain it,” he pushes. “look at me and say what we are in your own words. no metaphors, no hedging. just tell me.”
the silence stretches.
you think of james, of the life you almost had with him—familiar, organized, structured. you think of the board, of their wary glances. you think of perry, groggy in a hospital bed telling you not to let them see you shake.
you think of clark, eyes wet, still standing in front of you even after you’ve weaponized every insecurity he’s shown you.
“you’re…” your throat tightens. “you’re important to me.”
“and?” he prompts.
“and this is…” you try to force the word out, any word that might bridge the gulf between you. nothing comes.
the silence answers for you.
“a pastime,” you say at last, because it’s the only label that keeps everything small enough to hold. “something we fell into. something that made the last few weeks easier to carry. that’s all.”
he flinches like you slapped him.
“a pastime,” he repeats quietly.
you hate the way it sounds in his mouth. flippant and disposable.
“you knew what this was,” you insist. “i never sold you a fairytale. i never called this love.”
“you also never admitted it wasn’t,” he replies. “you left it in limbo so you could keep taking what you wanted without having to give anything back.”
you bristle. “i gave you plenty.”
“sex isn’t the same as trust,” he says. “letting me hold you when you’re falling apart and then pretending i don’t exist as soon as you’re steady again—that isn’t closeness. that’s using someone as a crash mat.”
the words hit home because they’re not entirely wrong.
“i didn’t mean to hurt you,” you say, because it’s the only defense you have left.
“you didn’t try not to,” he answers, very softly. “that’s the part that stings.”
you look away.
“are you going to get back together with him?” he asks.
“i don’t know.”
“do you want to?”
you hesitate. “he knows parts of me you don’t.”
“he also called you names and left when things got hard,” clark says. “but sure. he knows you.”
“you knew what this was, clark. i never lied to you,” you say, forcing yourself to hold his gaze.
“you didn’t tell me the truth, either,” he says, hurt raw in his voice. “not once.”
“i told you i didn’t want anything serious.”
“you never actually said that.”
“i implied it.”
“people aren’t contracts,” he snaps. “you can’t just hide behind implication and then act surprised when they get hurt.”
you flinch. the james of it all stings—contracts, negotiations, control. you shove it down.
“i told you enough,” you insist, more defensive now. “you’re the one who decided to build castles in the air.”
his eyes shine.
“castles?” he echoes. “is that what you think? that feelings are some kind of… fantasy? some stupid little daydream you can indulge as long as you don’t say the words out loud?”
“better than pretending they mean more than they do,” you throw back. “this was good. it is good. but it doesn’t have to be everything.”
“maybe it does for me,” he says. “maybe that’s the difference.”
you look at him—really look at him.
clark, with his big heart he carries around like an open wound. clark, who let you tear him apart day after day and still showed up with coffee. clark, who held you when you broke and didn’t ask for anything in return except the chance to keep standing beside you.
clark, who you have used—because that’s what it is, if you strip away the softer words—as a buffer between you and your own loneliness.
“you’re going back to him… aren’t you,” he asks again.
“i don’t know,” you say, because it’s the only honest answer you can give. “maybe.”
he nods, like that hurts in a way he expected.
“and me?” he asks. “where do i fit in that?”
you open your mouth and, still, nothing comes out.
you don’t have a good answer—no, you don’t have a kind one.
“you don’t,” you say finally.
there it is. the ugliest version of the truth.
his face crumples. he looks away, blinking fast.
“okay,” he says, voice thick. “okay. that’s… clear.”
“clark.”
“no.” he stands abruptly, needing movement, needing distance. he grabs his jacket off the back of the chair with shaking hands. “no, it’s—i get it. i do. you don’t owe me anything. you never promised. i just… i thought…”
his voice breaks.
you take a step toward him. “don’t—”
“i thought you saw me,” he says, eyes shining with tears he can’t blink away fast enough. “not a source. not a second choice. just me. i thought that meant something.”
guilt slams into you.
“it did,” you say, the words slipping out. “it does.”
“not enough,” he says. “not like this.”
he shrugs into his jacket, movements jerky. he walks to the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob.
“you know what the worst part is?” he asks, not turning around.
you swallow. “what?”
“if you called me tomorrow,” he says, “and asked me to come over, i’d probably say yes.”
the honesty of it steals your breath.
“i don’t want to be that person,” he continues, voice low. “i don’t want to be the backup. the pastime. the… whatever. i want to be somebody’s first choice.” he finally looks back at you, eyes red, jaw set. “and i wanted that somebody to be you.”
you feel something crack in your chest.
“clark…”
“i’m gonna give you the apartment for the night,” he says, cutting you off gently. “you can stay. i’ll go. i need some air.”
“you don’t have to—”
“i do.” he manages a small, sad smile. “if i stay, i’ll forgive you before you even ask. and you won’t have any reason to change.”
the words land with surgical precision.
he opens the door.
“for what it’s worth,” he says, pausing in the doorway, rain-battered hallway behind him. “you’re not emotionally unavailable. you’re terrified. but that doesn’t make you unlovable. it just means you’re gonna keep hurting yourself and everyone around you until you decide you deserve better.”
your eyes burn.
“i never wanted to hurt you,” you say. it feels flimsy, too little, too late.
“you didn’t want to not hurt me either,” he repeats softly. “that’s the difference.”
then he’s gone.
you stand there in his shirt, in his living room, surrounded by the quiet proof of how easily you’ve let yourself fit into his life without letting him truly touch yours.
you could go after him. you could drag him back, kiss him breathless, promise you’ll try, promise you’ll be different. you could shove down your fear and lean into the gaping space he’s carved open in your chest.
instead, you sink onto the couch and stare at your phone.
it buzzes.
james : still there?
you stare at the message for a long time. your thumb hovers over the keyboard. the shower you took is cooling on your skin, the smell of clark’s soap clinging to you like a ghost.
for the first time in a long time, you don’t know which fear is bigger: the fear of being alone, or the fear of being known.
you lock the phone.
the next day at the planet, clark is on time.
earlier than on time, actually. he’s at his desk when you arrive, tie straight, hair neat, eyes rimmed faintly red but clear. there’s no coffee on your desk.
you feel that absence like a missing tooth.
“morning,” he says when you pass, polite and distant the way he is with people he barely knows.
“morning,” you manage.
you retreat to your office, close the door, and stare at your reflection in the glass. you look the same. no one would know that the floor shifted under you last night.
the day grinds on. assignments, edits, meetings. you avoid his eyes. he avoids yours. he’s professional. good. his work is sharp, focused. you circle even less than before.
at lunch, you sit in your office with the door closed, pretending to read a draft while your mind chews on his last words.
you didn’t want to not hurt me either.
he’s right.
the realization sits heavily in your chest.
that afternoon, as people filter out, you stand in your office doorway and watch him. he’s packing up his bag, carefully tucking his notebook inside, sliding his glasses case into the front pocket.
“kent,” you call.
he looks up. waits.
you swallow. the words feel huge in your throat.
“i… owe you an apology,” you say. your voice isn’t as steady as you’d like. “for last night. for… everything. i was cruel, unfair. you didn’t deserve that.”
something in his expression softens. but he doesn’t step closer.
“thank you,” he says.
“i don’t…” you exhale, shoulders dropping. “i don’t know how to be what you deserve. not yet. maybe not ever. but you were right about one thing.”
“which thing?” his lips twitch, almost wry.
“i don’t want to keep hurting people because i’m scared.” your fingers curl around the doorframe. “i’m… going to talk to someone. like, actually talk. a therapist. i called this morning. i have an appointment next week.”
his brows lift, genuine surprise flickering across his face.
“that’s… that’s good,” he says softly. “i’m glad.”
“i don’t expect you to wait,” you add quickly, because you won’t do that to him. “and i’m not telling you this to make you feel… responsible. i’m just… it felt like the least i could do. to tell you i heard you.”
he looks at you for a long moment.
“i never wanted to be the reason you changed,” he says finally. “i just didn’t want to be the excuse you used not to.”
you nod.
“friends?” you ask, the word awkward on your tongue.
he hesitates, then gives you a small, real smile.
“we can start with coworkers,” he says. “and see where we go from there.”
it’s more than you deserve. it’s exactly what you need.
summary: when Clark realizes he’s messed up, he does what any apologetic, hopelessly devoted boyfriend would do: he floats outside your bedroom window, and refuses to leave until you let him explain.
clark kent x reader
cw: hurt & comfort, fluff, est relationship, very light angst, apologetic clark
wc: 0.8k
Clark knows he’s in trouble the moment you stop answering his texts.
Not the playful kind of trouble, either, the real kind. The kind where your replies dry up into polite nothing, then into seen-without-response silence. The kind where his calls go straight to voicemail. The kind where even his x-ray vision can’t tell him what he did wrong, only that your bedroom light is on and you’re very pointedly not letting him in.
So he does the only thing that makes sense. He floats.
You’re sitting on your bed in an oversized hoodie — his oversized hoodie, arms crossed, pretending very hard to be busy on your phone when a shadow slides across your curtains. There’s a soft tap tap tap at the glass. “…Absolutely not,” you mutter, without looking up.
Another tap. A little more tentative this time. “Sweetheart,” Clark’s voice floats through the window, muffled but unmistakably him. “Please don’t make me hover out here like a creep.”
You finally look up, and there he is. Clark Kent, hovering awkwardly outside your second-story window, hands folded like a kid waiting outside the principal’s office. His glasses are slightly crooked, cape-less, hair doing that soft curl thing it always does when he’s stressed.
Your resolve wobbles, but you try to hold firm. “Go away,” you call. “I’m mad at you.”
His shoulders slump. “I can tell. You didn’t even put a heart on my last text.”
“That was on purpose.”
“I figured.” He winces. “Can I come in? So we can talk? Like adults?”
You narrow your eyes. “You are an adult. A very annoying one.”
He perks up a little. “But still your adult?”
You fight a smile. Fail. Catch it with your teeth. “No.”
He leans closer to the glass, lowering his voice like this is very serious business. “Okay, but I’m getting cold.”
“You don’t get cold.”
“…Emotionally.”
That gets a laugh out of you before you can stop it. Clark’s face lights up immediately, like he’s just been handed a gold star.
“There it is,” he says softly. “I knew you were still in there.”
You sigh dramatically and slide off the bed. When you yank the window open, Clark nearly drifts forward out of habit and has to steady himself with an embarrassed little cough. “Hi,” he says, hopeful.
“You are on very thin ice, Kent.”
“I know,” he says quickly. “That’s why I flew instead of knocking. Seemed… safer.”
You step aside with a roll of your eyes. He floats in carefully, landing like he’s afraid to scuff the floor. The second he’s inside, he folds his arms behind his back, posture straight, expression earnest. “I’m sorry,” he blurts. “Before you even say anything. I’m sorry.”
You blink. “…You don’t even know what I’m mad about.”
He nods solemnly. “I have several theories.”
“Oh?”
“Option one: I interrupted you while you were talking and didn’t realize it.”
“Option two: I tried to ‘fix’ something when you wanted me to just listen.”
“Option three: I said ‘it’s not a big deal’ and it was, in fact, a big deal.”
You stare at him. “…Okay, first of all, stop being right.”
He relaxes a fraction, hopeful smile creeping back. “So I’m in the right neighborhood?”
“Yes,” you admit. “Barely.”
He steps closer, careful, hands open at his sides. “Can you tell me which one? Or do I get to keep guessing until I deserve forgiveness?”
You huff. “You forgot our movie night.”
His face falls. “I—”
“Not because you were saving people,” you add quickly. “I know that happens. But you didn’t even text. You just… disappeared.”
Clark’s jaw tightens with guilt. “I should’ve told you. I didn’t want to worry you, but that was stupid.”
You soften despite yourself. He always looks like this when he knows he messed up, like a big, apologetic puppy who’s afraid he disappointed you. “I just wanted to feel picked,” you say quietly.
He’s in front of you instantly, hands gentle on your arms. “You are picked. Always. I swear.” His thumb rubs small circles, grounding. “I never mean to make you feel second.”
You sigh, the last of your anger leaking out. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”
He smiles, relieved. “You’re lucky you opened the window.”
You laugh, finally, and he beams like he just won something. He leans his forehead against yours, warm and familiar. “Can I stay?” he asks. “I’ll make it up to you. I’ll even let you pick the movie.”
“That’s dangerous territory.”
“I’m brave,” he says solemnly.
You shake your head, smiling, and tug him toward the bed. “Next time, use the door like a normal boyfriend.”
He grins. “Where’s the fun in that?”
And honestly, you don’t have an answer, because with Clark Kent hovering outside your window just to talk things out, it’s very hard to stay mad for long.
heavy and flushed, thick where he splits you open, buried to the hilt inside your soaking cunt.
your walls flutter around him, stretched full, hugging him tight, and it’s taking every ounce of clark’s strength not to move. not to thrust up, not to buck into that hot, aching squeeze he’s dreaming about every time he closes his eyes.
he’s already sweating. not even doing anything, and he’s flushed down to his chest—broad pecs rising and falling beneath you, nipples hard, jaw clenched so tight his throat keeps working around it. there’s a vein in his neck that pulses every time your pussy clenches.
“feels too good,” he rasps, head falling back against the couch.
you hum sweetly, letting your weight settle in his lap, the wet sound of your bodies adjusting making him curse under his breath.
he’s throbbing inside you, cock twitching with every tiny shift, and you can tell—he’s barely holding it together.
you lean forward, lips brushing his ear. “don’t move,” you whisper, smiling when he groans. “remember? we’re building your tolerance, baby. training you to last.”
“you say that like this isn’t the hardest thing i’ve ever done,” he mutters, voice cracking at the edges.
his fingers are digging into your hips now. he wants to thrust so badly, wants to fuck you hard and deep and messy until you’re dripping, until you’re whining for it—but he doesn’t.
because last time, he barely made it five strokes in. you kissed him, told him it was okay, but he still looked at you like he was ashamed to even be breathing the same air.
so now, he’s sitting here with your pussy wrapped around his cock, not even grinding, just feeling you. soaking in your heat, letting his body adjust.
“i don’t think—” he exhales hard, arms trembling a little. “i don’t think i can hold out.”
you smile sweetly, rolling your hips just enough to make him groan.
“you can. you are.” you kiss his jaw. “you’re being so good for me, clark.”
he groans again, deep in his chest. “if you move again, i won’t last.”
you laugh, and it’s all teeth and sin.
“guess we’ll just have to practice again tomorrow, then.”
y’all this projectionist one shot is taking forever 😭 i’m trying to work out the mechanics of handheld filming cameras in the late 70s… it shouldn’t be this hard
HEYYY SO I thought of this idea where the reader is doing laundry and finds a ring box in Clark’s pants or whatever LMAOO I just thought it could be something cute and dramatic
i've been loving these fluff requests sm 🥹 here it is !
the laundry room hums softly, cramped but familiar, and clark lingers in the doorway the way he always does, pretending he’s not watching you fold his shirts with a care he insists he doesn’t need.
he brought the basket in, socks already spilling out, and you muttered something about him never checking his pockets while he smiled and promised, again, that he would next time.
you’re sorting quickly, muscle memory taking over, when you reach for a pair of dark slacks you don’t remember seeing lately. they’re his good pants, the pressed ones he wears to meetings or events or anytime lois gives him that look that says try a little harder today.
you lift them by the waistband and, without thinking, reach into the pockets.
something solid knocks against the metal drum of the washer.
you pause, brow furrowing. “… huh.”
behind you, clark goes very, very still, though you don’t notice yet. you’re too focused on the pocket, fingers brushing fabric before closing around something small and smooth. when you pull it free, your breath catches.
a ring box.
black velvet, hinged, and extremely unmistakable.
the room seems to hold its breath around you, even as the washer keeps churning, oblivious. your hand trembles just slightly as you turn your head.
clark looks like he’s been struck by lightning.
his face drains of color, hands half-raised like he’s bracing for impact. he opens his mouth, shuts it again, and you blink once, trying to ground yourself.
“clark.”
“i can explain,” he blurts immediately, panic flooding his voice. “i mean—not explain, because it’s not what you think—well, it is what you think, but not like this—”
you lift the box between two fingers, heart thudding. “why is there a ring box in your pants.”
he stares at it like it’s betrayed him. then he drags a hand through his hair, curls springing loose as he lets out a helpless groan. “you weren’t supposed to find that.”
your stomach drops. “i wasn’t supposed to?”
“no—yes, but—not like this,” he says, already pacing now, words tumbling over each other. “i had a whole plan. there was going to be a day, and i was going to cook—well, try to cook—and i was going to say something meaningful and not ramble and now it’s just—” he gestures weakly at the washer. “this.”
you’re still holding the box, still not opening it, like doing so without permission would be crossing some invisible line. your voice comes out quieter than you expect. “you were going to propose.”
he stops moving to look at you, eyes soft and earnest and a little terrified. “yes,” he says. “i was.”
the silence stretches, fragile and heavy. you swallow. “how long have you had it?”
“… three weeks,” he admits. “i kept moving it around so you wouldn’t accidentally see it. apparently i forgot laundry existed.”
the laugh escapes you before you can stop it, sharp and breathless and a little hysterical. clark flinches like he thinks he’s done something wrong.
“is that—bad?” he asks. “i mean, not bad bad, but—”
you cross the room and press the ring box gently into his chest, smiling despite the sting behind your eyes. “i found it in your pants,” you say. “on laundry day. you didn’t even get to kneel.”
his shoulders slump. “i know. i ruined it.”
you shake your head, warmth blooming in your chest. “no. you just made it very you.”
he blinks. “i did?”
“you planned for weeks. you overthought it. you hid it too well. and then you lost to a washing machine.”
“… that does sound like me.”
you take his hands, feeling the warmth there, the slight sweat betraying how nervous he is. “you don’t have to do it now,” you add quickly. “i didn’t mean to ruin your moment.”
but clark squeezes your fingers, steady and sure. “i want to,” he says. “even if it’s messy.”
and then he’s lowering himself to one knee right there on the laundry room floor, surrounded by detergent bottles and stray socks, like this is exactly where it was always meant to happen.
he opens the box, and the ring catches the light—simple, perfect, chosen with care that makes your chest ache.
he looks up at you, cheeks flushed. “i had a speech,” he admits. “but i forgot it.”
“that’s okay.”
“i love you,” he says. “i want to come home to you every day. i want to build a life with you that survives bad timing and worse laundry habits.”
your vision blurs. “yes,” you say, voice shaking. “clark—yes.”
he exhales like he’s been holding his breath for years, sliding the ring onto your finger with reverent care. when he stands, you laugh into his chest as he wraps you up in his arms, rocking you gently while the washer dings behind you, the cycle finished and completely forgotten.
later, you’ll joke about how close you came to washing your engagement ring on cold. but for now, you stay right there, clinging to each other in a room that smells like detergent.
synopsis : you both have spent all season pretending you can’t stand each other. but no one fucks like that by accident. (wc : 1.6k)
a/n : almost done with the angel face one-shot w the projectionist 🤭 one of my favs honestly ! i also have a requested blurb that i’ll post tmr 🧘🏾♀️
warnings mdni 18+ : reader is a part of tyler's crew, reader loves getting on his nerves, ‘enemies’ to fuckbuddies lowk, motel sex, unprotected p in v sex (cum inside), brief mentions of oral sex (f!receiving), dirty talk, rough sex, mutual hate boner, sexual frustration
low-pressure stretching thin in the air like pulled taffy, wind curling sharp over the fields. and boone’s shouting over comms from the van behind you, yelling for “more goddamn speed” while you hang half out the passenger side window with your arm raised like a rodeo queen.
“hell yeah,” you yell back at the sky. “she’s droppin’!”
you’re laughing too loud, chewing gum like it’s oxygen, and the sky’s turning bruise-dark with streaks of yellow-green—the kind of color that makes sane people get under something heavy. but you chase it like it owes you money.
“go, go, go!” someone barks from the radio. you twist the dial and reply with a cackle, spitting your gum into the wind just to pop a fresh piece in. you’ve got three more in your pocket. you always keep extras—habit you picked up just to piss off the man you’re about to pass on the left.
and speak of the devil.
storm par’s rig comes into view just ahead—sleek, branded, smug-looking in the way only government-funded science toys can be. you’d recognize the boxy shape of it anywhere, even under a sky like this.
you lean your whole body out the window to wave and flash the crew a grin as you drive past.
javi doesn’t react. he’s too busy talking on comms, probably trying to warn his people to stick to the grid.
but scott?
scott fucking miller clocks you instantly.
driver’s seat, sunglasses pushed up, window cracked. chewing gum like it’s your name in his mouth. he glares—not even a regular glare, but that dry, infuriated you again look he always saves just for you.
you blow him a kiss, then a bubble, then snap it loud enough to cut through wind and engine.
he rolls his eyes.
“right back atcha, sweetheart,” you mutter with a grin, settling back into your seat as the van jolts forward. “try not to choke on your data while we bag this one.”
“you’re gonna make him stroke out one of these days,” tyler laughs from the driver’s seat. “swear to god, he turns purple when he sees you.”
“then i’m doin’ god’s work.”
the radio crackles. tornado’s touchdown confirmed six miles out. you all slam into motion like kicked-up gravel—every van, every radar reader, every hungover intern suddenly wide awake. the sirens finally start up in the distance, and that means you’re close. real close.
storm par might have the fancy gear, but your crew’s got instinct—and a lead foot.
and you’ve got a hard-on for adrenaline and a man who looks at you like he wants to shove you up against a motel sink and shut you up with something worse than a gum wrapper.
you tap your fingers against the open window, glance at the mirror, and catch scott’s rig gaining on you.
“god, he’s so annoying,” you say, chewing fast now, snapping loud. “i hope he eats shit in a ditch.”
but the way your thighs press together when he gets closer says otherwise.
the storm’s long gone by the time you're back, but your body still feels like thunder.
scott’s got you folded damn near in half on the creaky mattress, springs screaming every time his hips snap forward. his cock drags slow on the way out, thick and slick, then slams back in hard enough to punch the breath out of you.
the motel room smells like sweat and rain and sex.
his hand is braced beside your head, forearm flexed, veins standing out while the other grips your thigh, fingers digging into soft flesh like he’s marking where you belong.
you choke on a gasp when he pushes in deep again, cock grinding against the mess he’s already made between your legs.
“ah—fuck—scott—”
your voice breaks when his cock hits deep, tip kissing that spot that makes your toes curl and your thighs clamp around his waist.
he groans at the way your pussy squeezes him, forehead dropping to your shoulder as his breath stutters hot against your neck.
“yeah?” he pants, voice wrecked, low and strained. sweat drips from his hair, streaking down his temple, landing on your chest. “you’re the one who opened the door, sweetheart. don’t act surprised.”
you had. barely ten minutes after the chase ended. the whole crew had scattered across the shitty roadside motel lot, bragging over cheap beers and replaying footage. you’d barely made it through a cold shower when there was a knock at the door, loud and sharp and familiar.
you’d opened it wearing nothing but a towel, gum wrapper stuck to the carpet. scott hadn’t said anything, just stared—that same glare he always gave you before he did something stupid.
next thing you knew, your back hit the mattress and his mouth was between your legs, tongue mean and fingers worse, muttering shit like “you gonna keep running your mouth now?” as you came on his face.
now he’s fucking you like he’s still mad about it.
“you’re—such a dick—” you gasp, fingers curling into the pillow behind your head as his hips start snapping harder, faster. the bed bangs the wall with every brutal thrust.
he laughs breathlessly. “is that why you keep letting me in?”
your answer comes out as a broken sound, half whimper, half moan, because his grip tightens and he angles his cock just right, grinding deep, pelvis rubbing against your swollen clit every time he bottoms out.
“this why you run your mouth on every chase?” he growls, teeth grit. “just trying to get me worked up? huh?”
“no—” you lie, hips lifting to meet his.
his thrusts get meaner and the mattress bangs the wall.
“liar.”
you claw down his back, nails dragging red lines through sweat and freckles. he hisses, jaw tightening, cock twitching inside you—but he doesn’t stop. if anything, he fucks you harder, rutting into you like he’s chasing something feral.
this isn’t the first time.
hell, it’s not even the third.
every time you pass his rig on the road, every time he chews gum like he wishes it was you, every time you get a little too close at the diner or the bar or in line for gas—it ends like this. motel rooms, mouths slick with spit, his fingers buried inside you under your shorts, your teeth on his neck, one of you saying fuck it first.
you don’t even remember how this started. only that once it did, neither of you could stop.
when he presses down harder on your thigh, angling your hips up to take him deeper, your eyes roll back.
“fuck,” he growls, voice ragged. “this pussy’s been drivin’ me fucking crazy all week.”
you whimper his name, thighs trembling.
“you get off on pissing me off, don’t you?” he mutters, bending low to bite at your jaw. “always so loud… you want everyone to know who’s fucking you?”
“shut up—”
“can’t. not when you’re taking me like this.”
you dig your nails into his shoulder and drag him down harder. his pace stutters and he groans.
“god, you’re such a problem.”
you grab his face, force him down, mouths crashing together—wet, sloppy, all teeth and breath and moans swallowed between kisses.
“then fix me,” you breathe against his lips, daring him.
his grip tightens.
he slams back in, balls heavy against your ass, cock pulsing deep inside you, and then his hand drops.
two fingers slide between your bodies, slick instantly, circling your clit slow at first, like he knows exactly what he’s doing and hates himself for it.
your breath stutters, hips jolting up without permission, a sharp sound tearing out of your throat.
“jesus fucking—” he hisses, voice cracking. “you—god—”
his thumb presses harder, tighter circles, rough and unrelenting, and you’re gone in seconds—back arching, cunt clamping down hard around him as your orgasm hits you full-force.
you cry out, loud and broken like you don’t care who hears.
your pussy spasms around his cock, slick and tight and greedy, and that’s what does it.
he ruts in deep, grinding instead of thrusting, losing all control as he groans like it physically hurts to hold back.
“don’t—fuck—don’t do that—”
you do it again anyway. roll your hips up, clench hard, ride the aftershocks while he keeps circling your clit through it.
his whole body stutters.
“fuck—fuck, i’m—”
he tries to pull back, tries to slow down, but it’s too late.
his cock kicks inside you, thick and twitching, and he lets out a strangled groan as he spills deep—a full-body jolt that punches the breath out of him. one hand flies to your hip, gripping hard, keeping you pressed against him while he loses it.
“ohh—fuck, baby—”
you’ve never heard him call you that.
his mouth hangs open, eyes screwed shut, jaw tight—and he keeps thrusting through it, desperate, sloppy, panting into your neck like it’s all your fault.
“shit—i was trying—”
his hips jerk, cock still twitching as he pumps the last few strokes into you, balls pulled up tight, breath gone. the way he groans through it, long and low, sends heat all the way up your spine.
his fingers dig in like he can push it deeper.
“you’re always running that mouth, and then—jesus,” he pants, still buried inside you, still twitching. “gonna kill me.”
he finally stills, chest heaving, forehead pressed to your collarbone, breath ragged.
you don’t say anything.
you just smile slow, smug, your cunt still fluttering around him.
hey. before anything else, i want to be clear about one thing : i do know who sent this. i’ve blocked this anonymous ask, and bc of that i was able to see who it came from. i’m not going to put anyone on blast or drag this publicly. that’s not my goal here. but i also don’t want this framed as some faceless drive-by comment. i also think it’s worth saying that submitting something like this anonymously makes it harder to read as good-faith feedback. if you’re going to make a claim about someone’s honesty that’s usually a conversation that works better when it’s said openly.
that said, i want to respond bc this is honestly a pretty serious thing to say.
i’m always open to feedback about my writing. pacing, repetition, overused phrases, whatever… that part is fine. but saying or strongly implying that i’m using ai to generate my work isn’t just craft critique, it’s questioning my honesty as a writer, and that’s not a small accusation.
it’s also widely known that ai doesn’t create from nothing, it learns from existing, human-written work. so when people say something “sounds like ai,” what they’re often pointing at are patterns that already exist in human writing, especially in shared genres and communities… 🫤
a lot of the things you listed : em dashes, repeated phrasing, ‘not yet,’ sentence interruptions, building suspense with ‘but,’ are just choices of style (? is this the right word 😭). they’re things people use on purpose for rhythm and tension, ESPECIALLY in fanfic. writers in the same spaces tend to pick up similar habits, and that doesn’t immediately mean ai is involved.
and i’m gonna be honest… the wording here makes it seem like this isn’t the first time you’ve said something like this to someone. starting with “your writing style is just like the others who use ai” feels more like a general assumption than a specific concern. i understand being wary of ai (trust that i am too… why would i want ai in creative spaces???), but approaching people this way isn’t very productive ngl
you’re allowed not to like my style & you were allowed to scroll past or block me (before i blocked you 😬) if it wasn’t for you, but framing this as ‘constructive criticism’ while also implying i’m deceiving people crosses a line i don’t appreciate.
synopsis : you’ve always skated every winter. clark has always known that. so when the lake doesn’t freeze this year, he takes his time making sure it does—safely, gently, and just for you. (wc : 3k)
a/n : i’m going ice skating next week and i just had to write a little something up 🤭
morning light spills across the counter in pale stripes, catching on the steam curling up from the kettle. outside, smallville is hushed under winter—white fields, bare trees, the world holding its breath.
you’re standing at the counter in socked feet, arms folded around yourself, watching clark move around the kitchen like this is the most natural place for him to be. sleeves pushed up, hair still rumpled from sleep. he hums under his breath while he cracks eggs into a bowl, careful, precise.
normally, you’d be right there with him. stealing pieces of toast, leaning into his side, sneaking kisses when he’s not looking.
today, you poke at the edge of the counter with your finger instead.
clark notices almost immediately. he always does.
he glances over, brow furrowing just a little. “hey,” he says softly. “what’s going on in that head of yours?”
you shrug, not quite meeting his eyes. it’s silly, really. not something worth dampening a perfectly good morning over. but the disappointment sits heavy in your chest anyway, familiar and stubborn.
“nothing,” you say, which earns you a look.
clark sets the bowl down and turns fully toward you, leaning his hip against the counter. his voice stays gentle. “that’s not a nothing face.”
you sigh, letting your shoulders drop. “the lake,” you admit.
his head tilts. “the lake?”
“it didn’t freeze enough this year,” you say, finally looking at him. “i went by yesterday. it’s just… slush around the edges. not thick enough to skate.”
you try to laugh it off, but it comes out small. “i know it’s dumb. i just—i always go every winter. since i was a kid.”
clark’s expression softens instantly, something warm and familiar settling into his eyes. he steps closer without thinking, his thumb brushing absently over your wrist like it always does when he’s grounding you.
“it’s not dumb,” he says gently. “i know. you go every year.”
you glance up at him, caught. “yeah,” you murmur. “i guess i just assumed this one would freeze too.”
he’s quiet for a moment after that. not distracted—thinking. you can see it in the way his gaze drifts past you, jaw tightening slightly as something clicks into place.
you’re about to tell him it’s really fine, truly, when he looks back at you.
“… i could fix that,” he says.
you blink. “fix what?”
“the lake,” clark says slowly, carefully, like he’s testing the idea out loud. “i could freeze it, and make it thick enough. safe.”
your heart stutters. “clark.”
he lifts his hands a little, already reassuring. “i’d make sure. i wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t safe. i can control it—I’d layer it, reinforce it. it’d be solid.”
you stare at him, disbelief melting into something bright and warm that spreads through your chest.
“you’d… do that?” you ask.
his smile is shy, almost bashful. “yeah,” he says. “if it means you get to skate.”
the kettle clicks off behind him, forgotten, steam curling into the air as the morning quietly changes.
bundling up takes longer than it should, mostly because clark keeps getting distracted.
he holds your coat open for you, waiting patiently while you shrug into it, his hands settling at your shoulders to smooth the fabric down.
when you reach for your scarf, he beats you to it, looping it around your neck with careful fingers, tugging it snug but not tight.
“you don’t have to fuss,” you murmur, smiling despite yourself.
he hums. “i like fussing.”
your boots thud softly against the porch as you step outside, breath fogging instantly in the cold.
the air smells sharp and clean, snow crunching underfoot as you make your way down the path.
clark locks the door behind you, gloves already on, his gaze flicking to you like he’s taking inventory—hat, scarf, coat, mittens, skates.
satisfied, he nods once and falls into step beside you.
the walk to the lake is quiet, companionable. winter presses in from all sides, the world muted beneath a blanket of white. your hand finds his easily, tucked into the pocket of his coat, his thumb rubbing slow, absent circles against your knuckles.
“i can’t believe you’re actually doing this,” you say after a moment, half-laughing.
he glances down at you, lips quirking. “i can.”
you bump his shoulder lightly. “show-off.”
“only a little,” he admits.
the lake comes into view through the trees, wide and familiar, its surface dull and uneven. patches of thin ice cling to the edges, but the center remains dark, water shifting sluggishly beneath a fragile skin.
you slow without realizing it, the disappointment from earlier flickering back for just a second.
clark notices.
he squeezes your hand gently. “give me a minute,” he says.
you stop together at the shore, boots sinking slightly into packed snow. the lake stretches out before you, silent and waiting.
clark steps a little closer to the edge, studying it with quiet focus. there’s nothing dramatic about him right now—no cape, no spectacle. just clark, thoughtful and steady.
he turns back to you. “stay right here, okay?”
you nod, heart fluttering. “okay.”
he shrugs off his scarf and adjusts his stance, breath already fogging thicker in the cold. for a moment, he just stands there, looking out across the water, making sure.
clark takes a slow breath in, shoulders rising beneath his coat.
then he lets it out.
the air in front of him crystallizes instantly, a pale fog spilling across the surface of the lake. frost blooms outward in delicate veins, spider-webbing over the water in widening rings.
it doesn’t snap or crack—just settles, quiet and controlled, the surface stiffening beneath the cold.
he pauses almost immediately to wait for any signs of disturbance down below.
you watch him tilt his head, listening—not just with his ears, but with something deeper.
the lake murmurs softly beneath the forming ice, water still moving, alive. satisfied, clark exhales again, slower this time, directing the cold downward just enough to thicken the surface without sealing the world beneath it.
layer by layer.
each breath is measured, intentional. the ice spreads clean and clear, glassy instead of cloudy, trapping bubbles and ripples like something suspended in time. fish dart below, dark shapes gliding through the unfrozen depths, untouched.
he stops again and waits again.
you can see the care in his posture, the way he refuses to rush. this isn’t about speed or strength—it’s about precision. it’s about making sure he isn’t harming the organisms below.
finally, after one last controlled breath, the lake lies still beneath a smooth, solid sheet of ice, stretching from shore to shore.
clark steps back, breath fogging as he straightens. he studies the surface for a long moment, eyes narrowing slightly as he checks thickness, density, integrity.
then, carefully, he steps forward.
your breath catches as his boot presses down against the ice.
it holds.
he shifts his weight slowly, testing it, pressing harder. still solid. no cracks, no groan of protest—just a steady, reassuring silence beneath him.
he takes another step, then another.
finally, he turns back toward you, standing a few feet out on the frozen lake, his smile breaking wide and bright, proud in that quiet, understated way of his.
“okay,” he calls. “it’s safe.”
relief and excitement rush through you all at once, your chest tight with something warm and almost overwhelming.
the lake—your lake—is ready.
you hesitate at the edge of it, boots planted in the snow, staring out at the ice. it looks different like this—clear and endless, the surface smooth enough to reflect the pale winter sky. it’s beautiful, almost unreal.
clark notices the way your fingers curl into your gloves.
you slip your hand into his without thinking, his palm warm even through the layers. together, you step closer to the edge, the ice creaking faintly beneath the first careful press of your boot.
it doesn’t give.
you take another step, heart fluttering, and clark stays right there with you, steady as a pillar. his grip tightens just a touch, reassuring rather than restraining.
“see?” he murmurs. “solid.”
you laugh quietly, the sound fogging into the air. “i trust you.”
step by step, you move farther out onto the lake, your confidence growing with each one. the ice is cold beneath your boots but firm, unmoving, holding you without complaint. when you finally stop, you glance around, taking it all in.
the lake stretches wide and empty, just the two of you at its center.
clark squeezes your hand. “want to put your skates on?”
you nod eagerly.
you both move back toward the edge, settling onto a fallen log half-buried in snow. clark crouches down in front of you without a word, reaching for your boot. he waits until you give a small nod before he starts unlacing it, movements careful and unhurried.
“you don’t have to—” you begin.
“i know,” he says softly. “but i want to.”
he swaps your boots for your skates, fingers nimble despite the gloves, tightening the laces just right. when he finishes the second one, he looks up at you, eyes bright behind his glasses.
“comfortable?”
you flex your ankle, smiling. “perfect.”
he stands, slipping into his own skates with practiced ease, then offers you his hand again.
this time, when you step onto the ice, it’s different.
the familiar glide returns instantly, muscle memory waking up like it never left. you push off gently, skating a small circle around him, laughter spilling out before you can stop it.
clark watches you like he’s seeing something sacred.
when you skate back to him, he joins you, a little stiff at first, but steady. you guide him with light pressure, fingers intertwined, showing him how to lean, how to trust the glide.
soon, you’re moving together, slow at first, then smoother—two shapes cutting clean lines across the ice, breath puffing into the cold, hands never quite letting go.
the lake rings softly with the sound of blades against ice.
you lose track of time out there.
the cold settles into your cheeks, your nose, your fingertips, but it never quite reaches your bones. movement keeps you warm—gliding, turning, pushing off in easy rhythms that come back to you like an old language. the ice answers every shift of your weight, smooth and forgiving beneath your blades.
clark stays close, even when he pretends not to.
he watches you skate lazy loops across the lake, your scarf trailing behind you, laughter breaking free whenever you pick up a little speed. when you spin, arms out, he lets out a quiet breath like he forgot to take one.
“you’re really good,” he says when you pass by him again.
you grin. “told you.”
you circle back, catching his hand and tugging him along. he stumbles just a little, then laughs—a soft, surprised sound—before finding his balance. once he settles into it, he’s careful but graceful, long strides eating up the ice with more ease than he expects.
“you’re a natural,” you tease.
he shakes his head, smiling. “only because you’re holding onto me.”
you skate together like that for a while, hand in hand, tracing wide arcs across the lake. sometimes you let go, drifting apart just to come back together again. sometimes he pulls you in closer, steadying you when you slow too fast, his arm warm and solid around your waist.
at one point, you skate ahead and glance back at him, skating backward with a playful challenge in your eyes.
he raises his brows. “don’t look at me like that.”
“like what?”
“like you’re about to make me do something reckless.”
you laugh, reaching for him again, and he catches you easily, pulling you flush against his chest. you both wobble for a second before finding your balance, breath puffing out in shared laughter.
you stay like that, arms around each other, blades barely moving.
the lake is silent around you, the world reduced to cold air and warmth where you touch.
clark leans his forehead against yours, careful of his glasses, his breath fogging between you. “thank you for bringing me here,” he murmurs.
you blink. “i should be thanking you.”
he shrugs lightly. “i like seeing you happy.”
something soft settles in your chest at that, deep and steady. you tilt your head, brushing your nose against his, and he smiles—small, fond, entirely yours.
the kiss is gentle, just a press of cold lips warming slowly, lingering longer than necessary. his gloved hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing along your jaw like he’s memorizing you in this moment.
when you pull back, your breath mingles, clouds drifting together before fading into the winter air.
by the time you finally leave the lake, the cold has settled deep into your muscles, the kind that makes your limbs feel pleasantly heavy. your cheeks ache from smiling, your fingers tingling even inside your gloves. clark notices before you say anything, slowing his pace, pressing close enough that his arm brushes yours with every step.
“cold?” he asks gently.
“a little,” you admit, laughing. “worth it.”
he smiles at that, pride quiet and warm, and reaches for your hand again, tucking it into his coat pocket like it belongs there.
the house greets you with stillness and warmth. clark barely has the door closed before you’re shedding layers—coats draped over chairs, scarves unwound, boots kicked off in a loose pile by the door. the cold lingers on your skin, sharp and bright, until it meets the soft hum of the heater and begins to melt away.
“shower?” clark suggests, already reaching for the hallway light.
“please,” you say, shivering theatrically.
he laughs under his breath and follows you down the hall.
steam quickly fills the bathroom, curling along the ceiling as the water heats. clark tests it first, adjusting the knobs until it’s just right before stepping aside to let you in. the warmth sinks into your skin instantly, easing the chill from your bones.
soon, you’re both under the spray, close enough that there’s no room for cold anymore. clark’s hands settle at your waist, warm and steady, thumbs tracing slow circles as if grounding himself. you rest your forehead against his chest, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing, the water drumming softly around you.
he presses a kiss into your hair, lingering. “you okay?”
“perfect,” you murmur.
afterward, everything slows.
you pull on something soft and familiar, curling up on the couch while clark moves around the kitchen, putting together something simple—soup warming on the stove, bread crisping in the oven.
he brings you a bowl, nudging your knees aside so he can sit beside you, your legs tangling together under a blanket.
you eat quietly, stealing glances at each other, the kind of comfortable silence that only comes from knowing someone deeply.
later, the world has narrowed down to the steady rise and fall of clark’s chest beneath your cheek.
the room is dim, curtains pulled just enough to let in the glow of moonlight reflecting off the snow outside. it paints everything silver and slow—the tangle of bare limbs, the sheets pushed down and twisted at your hips, the lingering warmth between you that hasn’t quite faded yet.
your skin is still sensitive, pleasantly so, every brush of movement reminding you of where you’ve just been together. clark’s arm is wrapped around you, heavy and sure, his palm resting low against your back like he doesn’t want the space between you to grow any wider than it already has.
he presses a soft kiss into your hair, unhurried, content.
“you okay?” he murmurs, voice low, worn smooth.
you smile against his chest. “yeah. really.”
his fingers trace slow, absent paths along your spine, following the same lines he did not long ago, gentler now. the air carries the faintest hint of heat and closeness, of something shared and finished but not forgotten.
“today was…” he starts, then lets out a quiet breath.
“perfect,” you say before he can finish.
he hums, agreement settling easily between you.
you shift, tangling your leg over his, and he adjusts instinctively, pulling you closer until there’s no doubt where you belong. your hands find each other beneath the sheets, fingers threading together naturally.
your engagement ring catches the moonlight.
clark notices it immediately.
his thumb brushes over your knuckles, slow and thoughtful, before circling the ring itself. he turns it gently, back and forth, like he’s grounding himself in the feel of it—of you. there’s something reverent in the way he touches it, like it still amazes him that this is real.
“i love you,” he says quietly, almost to the room.
you squeeze his hand. “i love you too.”
he smiles then. no false smugness from earlier when he completed a spin around you. a real smile—tired albeit—but full of the love he carries for you.
clark smut with reader that can’t focus while they fuck🙏
very much relatable. thanks for requesting 💌
CHATTERBOX 18+ ⸻ CLARK KENT
clark kent x fem!reader
WORD COUNT. 658
WARNINGS. 18+ only! general filth, pinv, reader can’t turn her brain off and clark being cute and teasing about it. mdni
Turning off your mind is always quite the struggle, it's never quite as easy as you hope it to be. It's like there's no off switch, your brain always seeming to be a rapid pingponging of thoughts, no matter the situation.
Even now, when your mind should be empty, sole focus supposed to be on Clark with the way he looks and smells and sounds and feels; your brain is drifting back to a conversation you had in passing with someone at the train station, and then to the paper shopping list you made and lost soon after.
Clark pulls his face out from the crook of your neck, lifting his head to get a better view of you below, your brows scrunched — but not in bliss like they usually are at a time like this, but instead focus.
He lowers slightly, pressing a kiss to your lips. "Penny for your thoughts," he whispers against your mouth, the tip of his nose skimming yours.
"I never found that shopping list."
"I did," he smiles lazily, a dopey grin tugging on the corners of his mouth. He presses another kiss to your lips, and the unrushed motion of his hips into yours subside, a lull occurring in the gentle fucking he's giving you. "It's on the fridge."
"You found it?" you ask, eyes ardently softening as you peer up to him. You slip your hands from around his shoulders and up to his neck, palms settling either side of it. "Where was it?"
"Next to your phone."
"You found my phone?" you ask, elated tone genuine.
"I did," Clark chuckles softly and shakes his head, the act small, like he finds the exchange endearing. He presses another kiss to your lips and another and another, searing warm acts of affection across your cheek, along your jaw and then down your throat. "Was by your shoes next to the front door."
You slide one hand up the short dark hair at the back of his neck, grazing your fingers along his scalp until you settle them around the crown of his head. You shake your head slightly, baffled by your own inanity.
When he thinks your mind to be clear, he resumes the motion he had halted a few moments prior; hips winding into you, cock retracting and pushing back into you in a steady, easy rhythm.
Though that's the case, and Clark should've known that. But really, he got just too ahead of himself.
"Did you know lemons float—"
"But limes sink," he finishes off your fact, an entertained smile lining his lips — temporarily halting the small littering of kisses at the base of your throat. "I did know that."
"Did I tell you that before?"
"You did," he nods and lifts his head, lining it back up with yours. "But I don't mind it," he kisses the tip of your nose, blue eyes gentle on you below.
"Did I turn the oven off?"
"No," he brings a hand to hold the side of your head, keeping you there. He chuckles. "I did."
"What time tomorrow—"
He dips in to sear a kiss to your lips, disrupting your question as he knew this to be a futile game with you. Clark knew of your inability to shut down your brain, and while he loved your natural inquisitive nature, he knew you needed a little bit of help quietening the contents swirling in your mind. If anything he was doing you a favour.
"No more questions," he shushes you softly, cooing into your mouth. "Focus on me," he whispers, timing it with a slightly more deliberate roll of his hips — cock sinking in that bit deeper.
And as he predicted, a whiney noise falls from between your lips, the blissed sound hindering the chance for you to ask anymore questions. And so he does it again, knocking another airy gasp from you; further disabling the thinking centre within your brain.
clark is like someone dipped a daydream in golden hour and gave it a name.
cue: “hold on… this writing is fire???????” image/meme whatever.
anyway.
you described him perfectly and i will forever be in your debt because of it. i literally skimmed over the fic and i fell in love, so i am reading it as of right now. so. yeah. you write in a way thats so understandable but so rhythmic and thats one of the things that usually attracts me to a style of writing and pushes me to learn more of it and explore.
but anyway.
yay you ate
I LOVE THIS 😭🫶🏾 i’m so happy you like it ! i’m always so nervous that my metaphors/similes don’t make any sense (trust that i have compared some characters to ‘weird’ things in the past…), so this means a lot to me 🤍
