⭑ 𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞: basically porn w very little plot can you guys tell i’m getting lazy with kinktober… all i know is i need dr. kent to check my mouth too with that big ole DIH
𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐭𝐨𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
not here as in his office, because of course you’d come here—he’s been your dentist for three years, you’ve never gone anywhere else—but here as in this moment, in this chair, in this silence. your legs together under the baby blue paper drape, back half-reclined, mouth still tingling from the rinse and your heart beating in ways it shouldn’t.
“let me see,” clark says, quietly.
he’s standing over you again. too close. closer than he’d stood the last three visits, or the last dozen. you could see the shape of him better now, his scrub top hugging his arms in a way you never noticed. you could smell something that wasn’t mint or latex—it was him. it made you swallow hard without meaning to.
you open your mouth without thinking twice and his hand cups your jaw. it should feel like a hundred other exams before it, the same rhythm. but this one doesn’t. because his thumb is slow, brushing your cheekbone, his other fingers settle with ease, spreading along the hinge of your jaw and holds you open—not in a rough manner, but not gently either.
you could close it. he’d let you. you know that. nothing was against your will. you don’t think twice about it, though.
his fingers are in your mouth now—two, index and middle, just resting on your tongue. he’s looking into your eyes, not your teeth nor the molar. he hasn’t spoken again, hasn’t moved—but his gaze flickers down once, to your parted lips around his large hand, then back up.
“you’ve been grinding at night,” he murmured. “you chipped it on the right side. i’ll smooth it. no filling.”
he hadn’t moved his fingers yet. hadn’t taken his hand from your face. your pulse raced, and for a moment, the silence in the room thickened.
his thumb slipped down your cheek again, and when his fingers finally slid from your mouth, they dragged slow over your lips. he didn’t wipe his hand. just looked at you for a second too long.
“gonna sit you back, sweeheart,” he said, and pressed the pedal with his foot and the chair hummed beneath you, shifting lower, tilting you back. your legs parted slightly as your hips adjusted to the slope. you didn’t say anything back, just watched him as he picked up a clean tool with gloved fingers and leaned in again.
the tool clicked off. he set it aside he finished the procedure. your mouth was still parted, your thighs had slid apart during the last few minutes without your permission. the paper sheet no longer covered much.
he stood over you again, but something had changed in his stance. something in the way his gaze raked down your body, lingered at your knees, then your thighs, then up to your face again. his glove came off with a snap. and the other. he dropped them both in the bin without taking his eyes off you.
then he said it again, but differently this time. lower. slower.
“let me see.”
you didn’t move at first, not because you didn’t want to obey, but because you were still stuck in the last few seconds—his bare hands now, warm and impossibly large, that careful way his fingers had slid from your mouth, dragging across the spit-slick of your lips like he didn’t want to let go.
your mouth was still parted when his thumb traced your chin again. his knuckle pressed in, tilting you just a little more. the chair tilted low enough now that you could feel the blood rise behind your ears, see the fluorescent lights blur slightly above, but your attention was locked on his face. his eyes, blue and sharp, like polished glass. his lips, firm and full and serious.
he was watching you like a man hungry. like a man trying not to show just how hungry.
you couldn’t tell if he was praising your cooperation or something else entirely. but you were still open, pliant, tongue wet against your teeth, and you couldn’t help the soft sound that left your throat when he leaned in, slow as syrup, bracing a hand to either side of your head.
his fingers found the curls of your hair, combed back gently once, then gripped—not hard, but firm enough to keep you angled just how he wanted. your thighs shifted under the paper sheet again, and it rustled quietly.
“good,” he murmured, letting that thumb drag along the corner of your mouth, nudging in slightly again. not intrusive. but present. felt. “there you go. just like that.”
“you don’t even know what you’re doing to me,” he muttered, voice breaking off in his chest. the edge of frustration was there, faint but simmering. “every fucking visit.”
his mouth descended before you could think to respond, and it wasn’t a kiss, not really—not the soft kind, not the ones you’d imagined he might give. it was the taste of heat, tongue sliding wet and slow over yours like he’d been waiting months. he swallowed the little gasp you made when his knee nudged between your legs, parting you further without trying.
as he dragged your lower lip between his teeth, your hands went to his chest without thinking—fingers fisting in his scrub top, the fabric stretching under your grip as he deepened the kiss.
his tongue slid into your mouth, coaxing another soft moan from your throat. your legs parted further, thighs rolling outward, warmth spreading fast through your belly as he leaned over you.
you whimpered, barely audible. your hands dragged down his chest, fingers trembling as they reached his waistband. he caught your wrists before you could go lower.
“not yet,” he murmured. “let me taste you first.” he pressed the pedal again, adjusting the chair until you were almost flat. he stepped between your legs and pulled the paper drape off completely, balling it in one hand and tossing it aside.
“been thinking about this for too long,” he said, as his hand pushed higher, easing your knees apart fully now. “dreamed about having you like this. mouth open, legs open, soft and sweet just for me.”
his hands hooked under your knees and pulled. the vinyl creaked beneath you, your hips dragged to the edge. the cool air licked between your thighs, making you shiver. then his hands were on your panties, tugging them down, slow. your breath hitched when they slid over your soaked folds.
“look at you,” he murmured, voice thick, almost reverent. “fuck.”
he dropped to his knees, his face disappearing between your thighs before you could think. his tongue met you hot and wet and hungry. you cried out, hips jerking up as he licked a long, slow stripe through your folds through your panties.
“nnhhh—dr. kent—”
“mmh,” he groaned into you, sucking your clit into his mouth with a low, filthy slurp. your back arched, one hand flying down to tangle in his hair.
every sound was wet and loud and merciless, and your thighs trembled against the leather. you were so close already it scared you.
“don’t hold back,” he rasped, pulling back just enough to press two fingers into you, curling deep. “let me hear you.”
your moans grew louder in response, breath ragged, thighs trembling. his tongue circled fast now, dragging over the swollen bud while his fingers slipped between your lips and into your dripping cunt.
but he didn’t. he didn’t slow. his mouth latched harder, suction greedy, tongue flicking relentless as his fingers fucked deep, curling up to find that spot that made your hips jolt every time.
“you sound so sweet, baby,” he groaned, voice muffled against your pussy. “keep singing for me.”
you keened. he grunted low in return.
and then—he pulled back.
you barely processed the absence before he rose to his full height, towering over the reclined chair, chest rising fast under the scrub top now stained faintly with damp between his pecs. his face—god—his face was glistening, jaw flexing as he looked down at you. pupils blown out. hands on the sides of the chair, framing your hips.
“need to feel that throat,” he said, voice gone dark, almost rough. “open up.”
you blinked at him, still dazed from the orgasm—but your mouth parted anyway, obedient from instinct now, slick lips still swollen and pink.
he was already pulling his cock out. thick. flushed. precome glistening at the tip. the kind of size that made you swallow on reflex.
“yeah, that’s right,” he growled, stroking it once as he stepped forward, the head bumping against your tongue. “look at you. so fucking pretty like this.”
he didn’t guide it in gently. he pushed his thick head sliding past your lips, stretching your jaw. he groaned, head falling back as the warmth of your mouth surrounded him.
“fuck—such a good little mouth—”
your throat tightened as he fed it in deeper, inch after inch. your hands gripped the armrests, breathing cut off, eyes watering as he bottomed out with a low grunt.
his hips began to move. slowly at first. drawing out, then pushing back in. your gag reflex fluttered but didn’t stop him. his hands found your face, thumbs pressing into your cheeks as he held your head steady and fucked into your throat with deliberate force.
“that’s it, sweetheart. take it. take all of it.”
his balls tapped your chin now with every thrust, cock hitting deep with a wet schlk as spit dripped from the corners of your mouth. your moans were muffled, desperate, throat pulsing around him. he groaned in return, grinding deep on the next thrust until your nose was flush against his pelvis.
“nggh—fuhhhk—just like that,” he gasped, cock twitching against your tongue. “don’t stop. don’t you dare fucking stop.”
he fucked your face like he owned it, pace picking up, hips slapping against your lips now as tears slid down your cheeks and spit smeared across your chin.
you were lightheaded, soaked between your legs again, thighs clenching around nothing. his voice rumbled down at you, low and broken—
“feel so fucking good. better than I dreamed. better than I fucking—ngh—deserve—”
you gagged around him and he groaned, pulling back to let you breathe. a thick strand of saliva snapped from your bottom lip to his tip as you gasped for air, blinking fast.
“again.”
he didn’t let you catch your breath long. he pushed back in. rougher now. faster.
your moans turned to garbled cries around his cock, wet noises obscene, throat convulsing as he drove deep, hands tight in your hair, fucking your mouth like it was the only thing keeping him alive. your whole body shook, but you didn’t stop.
you didn’t want to.
and when he finally gritted out your name like a prayer, thrusting deep one last time as his cock pulsed hot veins of fluid down your throat—you took it all.
you swallowed around the flood of cum, tears still wet on your cheeks, chest heaving. he stayed there for a beat, cock softening slowly on your tongue, breath ragged. then he pulled out, eyes blown wide, spit and release slick across your chin.
his thumb wiped your mouth, slow. “you’re fucking incredible,” he muttered. “and i’m not even close to done.”
his cock was already hardening again in his hand.
“let’s see how that throat sounds when you cum with it full.”
Sometimes Clark goes a little feral in the middle of blowing your back out
Sometimes — so rare you almost think you've imagined in memory — when Clark gets really into it in the middle of fucking you; with his balls pressed up against your sopping folds and his weight smothering you into the bed, the plush of your ass pressed into his hips and his chest to your back, he slinks a hand up to hold your jaw.
And its not at all aggressive but its not soft either. An element of gentle retrieve noticeable in the understanding that he could be much rougher if he wanted to.
Its still enough to make you sob and your cunt to suck him in to the point that he's pulsing against your flexing walls and grunting into your hair.
Him claiming ownership over you as he turns your head to make you watch him behind you — black curls stuck to his forehead and corded veins trailing up his vanilla biceps like pretty baby blue and red lace.
And he looks fucking feral as he pounds into you. Brows furrowed and eyes dark with lust and love and the heat of it.
You could cum just looking at him — just at the idea that he's holding back for you. That he's allowing you to have a semblance of control in the way you reach back and wrap a shaky hand around his wrist; clammy fingers thumbing the "friendship" bracelet you made him how many years ago that he still wears.
Patience weaning thin, practically unraveling in front of you as he moves his wrist from your hand only to press your hand into the dip of your back, holding you still as he pounds into you.
Your moans are broken and shattered, deep and filled watery cries.
Clark whispers a restrained "yeah," behind you, his large hand squeezing and pulling at the globe of your asscheek. Like you're something to played with. You love it. Love the dynamic when he gets like this — throwing all resolve and restraint through the windows. Ironically, hes never been reminded you more of Superman in your whole life when he gets feral while balls deep inside of you.
There's something so inherently primitive and alien to his nature. It sends chills up your spine, reminding you how he's all that more powerful, strong, and bigger than you are.
You try to bait him, attempting to wiggle somewhat out of his grasp but he only tightens his grip on your wrist and spreads your asscheek wider.
"No," he grunts, pushing your hand harder against the hot skin of your back, "m'keepin' the hand." But he slows a bit. Pumping long and torturous thrusts that have your walls begging to hold onto him and your hands flexing to for him to steady you.
You watch him with lidded eyes as he drops a glob of spit right onto your asshole, inhaling sharply when you shiver and try to buck back against him.
Clark holds you there and circles the pad of this thumb over your tight ringed hole before slipping it past the muscle and hooking it into you.
Its so vulgar as he thrusts into you. So obscene to know he's watching the way your tight hole pulses around his digit and the way your walls grip and flutter around his girthy length.
You keen and he fucking chuckles.
Leaning over you, he drops your wrist from his hand rather roughly, reminding you to hold yourself there. You obey.
What he does next you hadn't expected in a million years.
Clark takes ahold of your jaw in one hand, so sultry you moan, his hand squeezing your cheeks so that your plush lips pout.
"Just need someone to fuck some sense into you, huh?" He coos, cock still pumping into your heat deliciously slow, "S'that it, y'just need someone to pay attention t'you?"
You sob tearfully, tear-strewn lashes fluttering against your hot cheeks.
Clark licks a fat and wet stripe up the side of your cheek and you gasp, pulling your hand around from behind your back to hold his bicep.
You appreciate that he lets you off the hook for that one.
When he pulls back to look at your fucked-out and shocked expression he just fucking laughs at you, hand still squeezing your cheeks and puckering your lips for him.
"Didn't expect that, huh?"
You cant even think when he drops his hand from your face and presses kisses down the spine of your back before pumping into you again.
"Silly girl," he coos, thumb still hooked past your tight ring of muscle, "just needed to ask if she wanted to get fucked. Isn't that right, sweetie?"
You're nodding and moaning and incomprehensible, mumbling his name brokenly into his pillow.
The smell, stretch, touch, heat, sound of him is overwhelming in the best possible way. You let yourself cry.
"Thaaaats it," Clark wraps a hand around your hair, pressing your face a little rougher into the bed only so that you stay still, "juussst like that, huh?"
Neither of you last long. With you cumming around his girth and his hips sputtering and his voice hitching as he spills into you.
Clark's hand is soft on your hair, stroking the back of your head and pulling strands back from your clammy face.
He lets a moment of quiet pass where its just the two of you panting in the warm air of his room before he coos: "hi there, pretty thing."
Youre wiggling beneath him and he rises a bit so that you can slip out from under him. You try to coddle yourself, but he catches you before you can reach the headboard.
He pulls you against his chest, wrapping your legs around his waist and moving to rest against the headboard.
"Was that scary?" He asks softly, a hand massaging the base of your neck.
You shake your head, hiding yourself under his chin.
"No? Then can you look at me?"
Another head shake.
"Y'okay?"
You nod, "m'okay." Your voice is slurred and heavy.
"Y'just a little shy?"
Another nod.
Clark chuckles a bit and presses a kiss to the top of your head with a hum, "hmm, okay. I'll wait here until you're not shy then." He tries to dip down to catch a glimpse of you but you hide away deeper into his chest "How's that sound?"
You dont say anything for a moment. Fiddling with your fingers.
"D,'okay."
"Okay." Clark hums, stroking his hand over your hair.
summary: out of all the planets you've ever visited, you have to admit – earth is your favorite. and it's not because of the scenery, or the food, or anything else... it's because of your best friend's ridiculously attractive, impossibly charming cousin who lives there.
wc: 10.6k (wow! this was supposed to be a silly little smut...)
genre/tags: fluff/smut, acquaintances(?) to lovers, flirty!reader (she wants that cock so bad), reader comes from a planet other than krypton, p w plot (i accidentally got attached to reader oops), unprotected sex (rubber up y'all), dry humping/grinding, fingering, p in v sex, clark has a huge dick ofc, slight praise kink, dom! clark, ft. kara (platonic).
notes from auddie: sorry for the long wait! tumblr deleted like 20% of this draft before i put it in google docs for safekeeping so i had to rewrite a whole bunch. genuinely loved writing this fic and i def want to explore more w alien!readers LOL. pls enjoy! <3
earth is... loud. and sticky. and kind of ugly in the daylight. at least compared to the other planets you've ventured out. but gods, is it fun.
humans truly have no idea how fragile they are. they have no idea who short their lives are compared to other species you've met among various cosmic civilizations. but maybe that's why they dance like they've got fire in their veins and fuck like the world might end tomorrow.
hell, apparently there's countless songs about fucking without the knowledge of tomorrow.
it's charming. almost addicting.
you're supposed to be here for a little while, crashing on a makeshift couch inside the fortress of solitude while she figures things out (aka where your next destination will be.)
in its own fascinating way, earth reels you in. it's the music, the night lights, the cocktails, the rawness of human emotion.
and then there's her cousin.
clark.
tall, buttoned-up, frustratingly noble clark kent. had kara never told you he was her blood relative, you'd round him up with the other earthlings. he's truly nothing like your best friend.
the morning light in metropolis is softer than on most planets you've been to. everything here feels muted, slower in a way.
you're not used to that. you're not used to staying still, or staying anywhere for more than a night or two. but kara asked. she said she missed you, said you could come crash at her place and promised krypto wouldn't launch into you head first as soon as you flew in. liar.
but honestly? it never takes much convincing for you to visit the planet for weeks at a time. not as long as the six-foot four, broad shouldered, sweet-as-pie cousin of hers makes an appearance during your visit.
you pad into the familiar kitchen, yawning as the oversized shirt you wear slides off one of your shoulders. you scratch at your head, attempting to flatten down any flyaways.
it's quiet, the kind of quiet you never get in the fortress. there isn't the humming of kryptonian technology and no wind against the icy crystal walls. there's only the distant sounds of the city starting its day.
clark's back is to you, tall and solid where he stands at the stove. his hair is tousled from sleep, plain gray t-shirt stretched across his shoulders, plaid pajama pants hanging low on his hips.
he looks delectable.
he glances over his shoulder when he hears your footsteps, and his eyes catch for a mere second on your bare thigh.
"morning," he says gruffly, turning back to the pan. you notice the faint flush on the back of his neck. "you like eggs?" he asks.
"i don't mind 'em," you answer back, leaning your hip against the counter, watching him work.
"how do you like your eggs?" he asks.
"fertilized." you beam.
he freezes.
it's just for a second, but you catch the way his hand stalls with the spatula mid-scramble, the subtle twitch in his jaw like he's trying very hard not to react. then he turns slowly, peering over his shoulder at you.
"seriously?" he deadpans.
you shrug playfully, crossing your arms over your chest. "what? earth humor. i'm assimilating."
"i'm sure," he mutters, shaking his head as he turns back to the stove. but you don't miss the way his ears turn pink.
you grin, unabashed.
it's too easy to fluster him.
you learned that about him the first day of the first time you visited the planet. the first time he saw you float in the midair to grab a glass from the top shelf, his eyes nearly bugged out of his head. you'd just looked at him and asked if he wanted one, too, like the angle of you wasn't giving an obscene view of your too short skirt and the contents beneath it. he'd sputtered something about "gravity not just being an option" and bumped into a doorframe on his way out of the kitchen.
you'd been hooked ever since.
"you didn't have to make me breakfast," you purr softly, voice slightly thick with sleep.
clark doesn't look at you this time. "you got in at three in the morning. figured you'd be hungry."
you smirk. "you keeping tabs on me now, kent?"
you hear him exhale through his nose, steady as ever. unbothered. (liar.)
"i just heard you come in, that's all."
"uh-huh," you hum, amused, plucking a grape from the fruit bowl atop the counter and popping it into your mouth. "right. super hearing."
he plates the eggs with precision, the way he does everything, you've learned. he turns to set them down on the counter in front of you with deliberate care.
"you always listen that closely when i stumble in drunk?" you press, teasing interweaved in between your words.
"i listen closely because you stumble in drunk. someone's gotta maker sure you don't try to fly through the wrong apartment's balcony again."
you'd learned the hard way that earth alcohol severely impairs your flight control. on your third night, you attempted to fly back to the fortress after a few too many tequila shots, only to end up crash-landing in a cornfield somewhere in nebraska, mumbling about ice crystals and asking a very startled farmer if he'd seen your "best friend's smoking hot cousin."
you blink, a scowl appearing on your face. "...that happened once."
"twice."
"okay, twice."
he lifts a brow. "last time you clipped the fire escape."
"that fire escape had it coming."
his mouth quirks despite himself, eyes glinting as he slides a fork toward you. "sit. eat. try not to give me a heart attack for one morning."
you oblige, hopping up onto the stool and dragging the plate toward you. "you worry about me, clark. kinda sweet."
he gives you a look, one that falls somewhere between fond and exasperated. "i worry about everyone."
"sure you do." you take a bite, chewing thoughtfully. "but I’m the only one who gets eggs and scolded first thing in the morning."
he turns back to the stove, hoping to hide the smirk that pulls up the corner of his lips. you catch it anyway.
"so," you say after a mouthful of eggs, lifting your fork with exaggerated curiosity. "what's on the superman to-do list today? world peace? saving a cat out of a tree?"
the kitchen is lazily golden with early morning sunlight creeping through the blinds as you sit atop one of clark's barstools, legs swinging slightly as you eye him over your plate.
clark wordlessly pours you a glass of orange juice, not needing to ask your preference. he does it in an automatic way as if he's done it every morning. like you're just here, part of his routine. it's infuriatingly domestic.
he sets the glass in front of you with a casual shrug. "not sure. i usually wait for an apparent threat on the news or a call from friends."
"oh, right. justice gang," you say, wrinkling your nose. "still a stupid name, by the way."
a subtle twitch plays at the corner of his mouth, and you watch as he chews the inside of his cheek, like he's biting back a smile.
smile at me, coward.
"right," he says, tone even.
it's exasperating, the way he always manages to keep a straight face when you’re trying to crack him. it's almost as if there’s a silent challenge in it. you wonder sometimes if he even knows he’s doing it – weaponizing that steady calm of his like it’s not the most compelling thing in the world.
you shift in your seat, squinting at him like the mere suggestion of an early morning is physically painful. "so, if theres no superman agenda, why on this planet are you up so early?"
clark doesn't miss a beat. "some of us work. you know, make money to pay for existing." clark deadpans, bringing his mug up to his mouth to sip his coffee. he eyes you over the mug, almost pointed, like it's a fact you can't relate to.
"hey, i work!" you protest, immediately defensive.
clark gives you a pointed look. he lifts his brows in that maddening, amused way, leaning against the counter after putting his coffee mug back down onto the hard surface. he crosses his arms and his biceps flex just enough to make you lose your train of thought for half a second. you shamelessly stare, brows lifted at the taut muscle of his arms.
if he notices (lets, be real, he does), he chooses not to comment on it.
"i don't know if intergalactic trade counts as work," he muses.
"it sure as hell pays the bills."
and it does – handsomely.
you've never claimed to be a hero. not everyone is cut out for truth, justice and the whatever-the-hell clark stands for. but you are resourceful. you always have been. always had to be. whether it was skimming atmospheres above a war-ridden moon or stripping through the wreckage of ships, you've made a living out of surviving. scavenging. taking what others overlooked and turning it into something worthwhile.
over the years, you build a decent trade network. you'd collect useful elements, off-world trinkets, experimental gear, honestly, whatever could be repurposed, repaired or resold, and then pass them along to interested buyers scattered across space.
there's a whole underground network of buyers who'd pay top credit for a whisper of alien innovation. and you? well, you're practically fluent in the art of acquiring what they want, no questions asked.
it's not glamorous, not always legal and it's definitely not safe – but it's yours. and it keeps the lights on in whatever hotel-equivalent you're at on other planets.
clark, of course, has opinions about this. you remember the first time kara revealed to him what it was that you did and the way he looked at you – some strange mixture of disbelief and moral distress, like you'd just confessed to selling baby penguins (those are the cute animals, right? you can't keep track of earth life) on the black market.
"she steals things?" he had asked, incredulous, turning to kara like she was the one who needed to answer on behalf of your choices.
"i don't steal, hot stuff," you had countered, your voice piping in an innocent manner. "i salvage," you drawled for extra emphasis, "there's a difference."
"there's really not," he'd muttered to himself, choosing to ignore what you'd called him.
you'd explained that nothing you took every had an owner. abandoned ships. junk moons littered with obsolete tech and precious minerals. all free game, in your book at least. you just happened to be smart enough to see the value in things other people left to rot.
besides, it wasn't like you were smuggling nuclear war weapons for the highest bidder. you dealt in harmless stuff, the kinds of things that actually helped people, even if they might've come with a morally ambiguous origin.
clark hadn't quite agreed. still doesn't, probably. but he doesn't mention it. not out loud, anyway.
"you're off to the monthly moon then?" you ask, your fork clattering against the empty plate.
clark's brows furrow for a moment before softening in realization. "daily planet. yes," he answers.
"i think monthly moon sounds better," you mumble to yourself.
you swing your legs, chin resting in your hand as you watch him move around the kitchen with the kind of quiet ease you don't think you'll ever be able to replicate. everything about clark is measured. controlled. it's like he's always just a little too aware of his own strength and the space he takes up in a room.
"you're really going to go play reporter after all this?" you asked, gesturing to the breakfast scene between you. "all this domestic flirting?" you pout exaggeratedly.
"that was not flirting," clark deadpans, without missing a beat.
"ouch. words hurt," you place a hand on your chest in feigned offense.
he shakes his head but you catch the hint of a smile this time. "you're exhausting."
"you secretly love it."
he doesn't confirm nor deny. instead, he dries his hand on a towel and tosses it over the back of a chair, gaze flickering to the clock on the wall. "i've got twenty minutes before i need to head out."
you raise a brow, lips quirking. "i know what you can do – or who – within twenty minutes."
clark's hand freezes mid-lift of his coffee, fingers curled tightly around the handle but not yet bringing it to his lips.
you see the exact moment your words land; the subtle shift in his shoulders, the faint tightening of his jaw, the way he suddenly won't look at you. not directly.
you grin.
you stretch your arms your head with a languid hum, knowing full what it does to the already slipping shirt draped over your body. his eyes don't flicker, not even once, but you feel the heat in the room spike just a little.
you wonder if he does, too.
"twenty minutes," you murmur softly, tilting your side in a way that almost seems innocent, but you know – he knows, too – that it's anything but. "that's enough time for a lot of things, clark."
clark exhales slowly though his nose and straightens up, visibly resetting his posture. when he finally turns to look at you, his expression is painfully neutral. almost too neutral.
the silence stretches, thick with something unspoken and buzzing.
and then he breaks it, stepping back just slightly and placing his mug down on the counter with a clink.
"i think," he murmurs finally, with a measured calmness that makes your pulse spike. "i need to get ready for work," he says.
coward.
you grin anyway, watching him retreat in the direction of his room. "i'll be here," you call after him, smug. "still very charming. still barely dressed."
clark disappears into the hallway without answering.
but you catch it. the tiny glimpse over his shoulder. the way his eyes dragged, just barely, down your bare legs before quickly looking back.
you hum to yourself, victorious.
by the time he returns, he's fully in his dorky clark kent get-up, charming in it's own right – white button up, gray suit jacket, matching slacks and maroon tie – but the cherry on top is the glasses he adjusts on his face.
"do those really work?" you ask, now having moved to his sofa, sprawled on one side, like you own it. you continue to eye the thick frames. apparently it's some form of hypno-tech for humans – at least, that's what you've heard from kara. it must be, because there's no way a pair of lenses is enough to make the world to see clark kent instead of superman.
"thought you'd be gone by now," he huffs, slinging his knapsack over his shoulder.
you smile, a mischievous glint in your eye. "wanted to see you off before work, sweetie."
clark rolls his eyes, then crosses the room, grabbing his keys and sliding them into his pocket, clearly trying very hard not to engage.
"i don't need a send-off," he says, walking past where you're sprawled on his couch, mock-innocent with a throw pillow half-slid off your lap.
you lean your head back over the armrest to watch him upside-down, hair spilling over the edge. "so no goodbye kiss?" you ask, pouting your lips.
"absolutely not." he says it without even looking at you. but you can see the way his ears turn red.
"what a shame. i'm off to... what's it called again? place with the sparkly tower and long bread?"
clark stops at the door, turning slowly and brows furrowed. "france?"
you snap your fingers. "that's the one. kara wants to go clubbing. apparently, there's some underground spot that plays synth-wave and it looks like an asteroid belt exploded on the inside. she can't get drunk, but she loves the music. i, however..." you give him a slow grin. "...intend to drink very irresponsibly."
clark exhales through his nose again, like it actually pains him to imagine you going through a parisian nightclub, half-lit and laughing, grinding on who knows who, all powered by a cocktail and zero impulse control.
he hesitates in the doorway, a quiet moment stretching between you. his fingers tighten around the knob like he's weighing something.
"you'll be careful?" he asks, voice gentler now, lower. the question's not really a question. but you've come to find out that it's very clark of him to check in like that.
"you earth boys are so serious," you tease.
"y/n."
your grin softens, just a little. you nod, still-upside down on his couch, and a flicker of sincerity creeps into your voice. "always."
clark watches you for another heartbeat and then he sighs, shaking his head to himself. "try not to get kicked out of france," he murmurs before shutting the door behind him.
the door clicks behind him and you let your head fall sideways, a slow smile curving your lips.
the return to the fortress of solitude is sobering in every sense – figuratively and literally.
you land with a soft crunch onto the icy platform just outside its entrance, breath curling in the cold air like lazy smoke. the crystalline towers that shimmer under the arctic sky, casting reflections off the aurora above.
inside, the chill doesn't bite the same way it used to. the fortress hums faintly, always alive but never loud. kara's already there, of course, perched cross-legged on the edge of one of the raised platforms. krypto's curled up beside her, head resting on her thigh, tail thumping softly in greeting as you approach.
"hey," she called. "you took your time."
she looks irritatingly well-rested, already changed into something appropriate for the club: leather pants, iridescent top, hair in it's natural waves.
"you sober now?" she asks.
"unfortunately."
"good," she claps her hands once, sharp and loud in the stillness. "we leave in thirty. we get to the club, get you a drink – or five – and i people watch while you do something regrettable. sound good?"
you grin despite yourself, stretching your arms over your head. "nothing i do is regrettable."
"right," she rolls her eyes, as if that should've reminded her. her eyes cast down to your attire. she lifts a brow. "you're wearing kal-el's shirt."
you look down. clark's tee hanging loosely on your frame, slightly rumpled, smelling faintly of his detergent and something deeply him. you pull at the hem absently, then glance back up with mock innocence.
"he wasn't using it."
kara just rolls her eyes and makes a face that lands somewhere between amusement and disapproval. "you know he's like... kal-el, right?"
you grin. "exactly."
kara huffs a breath through her nose, mumbling something like, 'of all men, kal-el?' but she doesn't press on it. she never does, not really when it comes to him. you figure she knows better than anyone that you're a little hopeless when it comes to her cousin, even when you're main priority is sleeping with him.
you make your way toward your things – a pile of glittery clothing and scavenged tech currently occupying one corner of the fortress – and start sorting for something club appropriate. something earthlings would find charming. or terrifying, whichever. both.
"so, what'd you do last night?" she asks.
you pull out a glittering silver top that may rival any stardust you've ever seen. "not much. got home late. went to clark's."
she pauses. "wait... you actually spent the night at kal's?"
"i always spend the night at his," you counter with a shrug. "you're the one who said i shouldn't risk flying drunk. your cousin has a couch."
"and boundaries," she says, deadpan.
you give her a mournful look. "anyone with forearms like that shouldn't... he made me breakfast this morning.”
kara pauses in her step. she's not surprised but she asks anyway, “…did he?”
“eggs.” you nod solemnly. “scrambled. perfectly cooked. he even gave me orange juice. and none of that stringy stuff in it.”
“that’s oddly specific.”
“right?” you crack one eye open. “he likes me.”
kara gives you a flat look. “you think everyone likes you.”
you hum thoughtfully. “most people do. but clark…” you trail off, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “he tries so hard not to.”
kara snorts, shaking her head. she watches you for a moment, like she's debating whether to scold you or laugh. she decides to laugh, running a hand down her face.
"you know he's not like us," she says finally. "kal-el doesn't do casual. he doesn't even understand casual."
you pause, holding the top midair, then glance over your shoulder with a slow smirk. "who said i'm trying to be casual?"
kara groans. "you are so going to break my cousin."
you pull off clark's shirt, tossing it into your pile of clothes and begin to shimmy into the tiny silver top. "he'll be fine. he's indestructible, isn't he?"
kara raises a brow. "emotionally? not so much."
you hum nonchalantly. but the comment sticks.
she's not wrong. clark is steady, earnest in a way you don't often encounter – especially in your line of work. he's the kind of man who believes in doing good, in the power of kindness, in something as absurdly fragile as hope.
and somehow, despite everything you've seen in this galaxy, that's what gets you the most.
not the cape, not the strength. not even his hot face and hotter body.
no, it's the terrifying softness he holds in a world that seems to constantly try to turn people hard.
it's... annoying.
but oh, it make you want to fuck him so bad.
you shake your head, reaching for your boots. "come on, zor-el. it's time to be irresponsible."
kara grins. "finally."
you and kara slip out into the chilly morning air, the fortress fading behind you as you both take to the sky. the wind bites at your skin, sharper here than in metropolis, but the rush of flight never gets old. kara’s laughter echoes beside you, bright and light.
the journey to france is a blur of clouds and sunlight, the city of paris unfolding beneath you like a glittering jewel. the skyline is crowned by the sparkly building – the eiffel tower, kara tells you – the iron piercing the pale blue sky.
you land deftly on the rooftop terrace of the club kara had mentioned – an old warehouse with a basement transformed into something otherworldly. neon lights pulse through the foggy night air, casting shifting colors over the crowd gathering below. the hum of synth-wave music vibrates through the walls, deep bass rolling in like waves.
the club is everything kara promised and more: dark yet shimmering with glittering stars strung across the ceiling, walls adorned with holographic murals, and dancers moving as if weightless under the strobe lights.
kara leads you through the crowd, her eyes bright with anticipation as she scans for the perfect vantage point. you slip into the chaos, letting the music pulse through you, the beat a steady thrum against your ribcage.
the drinks come fast. you laugh louder than usual, carefree and loose, the kind of abandon that only comes when the usual weight on your shoulders has slipped away. it's dizzying and dangerous in its own way because your guard is down.
kara watches you, amused and indulgent. “you’re making quite the impression.”
you smirk, "if only the rest of earth felt this homely."
you can only think of one other place on this planet that feels this homely.
before you can dwell on it, a guy from the crowd slides up to you. he flashes you a crooked smile, eyes gleaming under the neon glow as he leans in just enough to catch your attention over the music.
"hey gorgeous, you here alone?" he asks, voice smooth, practiced.
you turn, flashing him a grin that's equal parts amused and deadpan. "depends on who's asking."
the man chuckles, clearly pleased with himself. "name's jake. and you are?" he reeks of vodka.
you tilt your head, eyes sparkling with mischief. you prop your foot ni front of you, leaning back on the other for support and tap your chin in thought. "can i call you clark?"
the man blinks, caught off guard. "clark? why? he your ex or something?"
you smile, the bluntness catching him off guard. "i wish. if he were my ex, that would mean i've already fucked him."
jake laughs, nervously this time, and steps back, suddenly unsure if he's playing the right game. you pat him on the shoulder with mock sympathy as he steps away from you. "better luck next time, jake."
you turn back to the pulsing crowd, the music swallowing the tension, and somewhere in the back your mind, clark's mind lingers, sharp and impossible to shake.
that must mean you need another drink.
you don't remember how many drinks you have, only that kara struggles to carry you out – one of your shoulders looped around her neck – of the neon lit warehouse.
"there's no way i'll be able to fly both of us home," she grunts beneath your weight, dragging you along the streets of france.
"you're supposed to be the stronger one," you tease, head lolling forward, attempting to look at her expectantly.
"i don't exactly charge under the yellow sun on a daily basis so i'm not exactly at peak strength," she mumbles. "and you're deadweight when you're drunk. you flail and scream the second we get off the ground so i'd much rather not deal with that. i'm now realizing why we tend to go out in cities near metropolis."
"call mister hottie cousin of yours then," you slur, eyes fluttered closed as you smile lazily.
kara grunts again, voice low with effort. "you think he's just gonna drop everything and fly halfway across the world to pick up his cousin's drunk best friend at three in the morning?"
you giggle, face pressed against her shoulder. "he's superman. he can do whatever he wants."
she rolls her eyes but doesn't argue with you. she adjusts her grip to haul you more securely.
you mumble something about him being the kind of person who'd go out of his way for other – even you – which makes kara shake her head, half amused and have exasperated, but you can already tell she's dialing.
a few rings later, clark's voice comes through the speaker – calm, steady, just like always.
"kal, i need some help bringing–"
"clark!" you voice rings out, effectively cutting off kara. "i need a rescue," you drawl, voice thick with the haze of too many drinks. "can you come get to us?"
there's a pause, just long enough for you to wonder if you pushed it too far, then a, "on my way."
you can almost see him getting up from bed, swinging his legs over the side. you wonder if he'll come in civilian attire or as his peace-keeping counterpart.
the thought makes a lazy smile curve your lips upward.
minutes stretch as you wait in the chill night, the hum of distant traffic blending with the pulsing music still ringing in your ears.
finally, a shadow drops from the rooftop. it's a figure unmistakably tall, broad-shouldered and decidedly clark. you're too drunk to wonder how he found your exact location.
he doesn't wast time with words, just scoops you effortlessly into his arms, steady and sure as always, despite your wobbliness. kara straightens her back, sighing an exhale of relief.
"are you good to fly?" you hear clark as kara.
"absolutely," she answers.
you lazily blink through your drunken haze in attempt to get a glance of the man carrying you. a smile lifts your cheeks when his chin dips down, casting his gaze on you.
"hey, hot stuff," you slur in greeting, your tone laced with tequila and mischief.
clark exhales through his nose, the corners of his mouth twitching like he's trying very, very hard not to smile. "hi," he says quietly.
"came all the way to paris for little ol' me?" you ask, your words slurred but your grin unmistakably pleased.
he adjusts his grip on you, cradling you close to his chest like you're weightless (which, to be fair, you are to him). "you said you needed a rescue?"
“let's be real, i always need a rescue,” you mumble, fingers toying with the collar of his shirt. “just usually not from france.”
“you’re lucky kara called,” he says, but his voice is warm, not scolding. “think she was about ten seconds from leaving you on the sidewalk.”
“i’d never,” kara says behind him, deadpan. “i would've at least gotten her to a gas station.”
“and you're supposed to be my best friend,” you call over clark’s shoulder.
“good luck,” kara mutters to him, already lifting off into the air, wind kicking up around her. “i’m going to bed.”
clark watches her go, and when he turns back to you, his brow lifts slightly. “you good?”
you grin into the fabric of his shirt. no superman get-up. "yeah, just missed you."
that gets him.
you feel his arms tighten a fraction, and his stride falters for half a step.
"i saw you this morning," he murmurs, tone quiet now. almost too careful.
you hum in acknowledgment. "still missed you."
he huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head. then, with a subtle shift in his stance, the world falls away beneath you both. the wind cuts around you as he lifts into the air, the lights of paris falling away beneath you. the world goes quiet up here, just wind and breath brushing against your ears.
the air is cold and biting against your skin, but clark’s warmth cuts through it, a steady comfort in the rush of wind. you press your cheek against his shoulder, lashes fluttering closed.
"can i go to your place?" you ask, voice muffled against the fabric of his clothing.
he looks down at you, the press of your cheek against his chest, as he flies above the cloud. "of course."
his words are simple, but they settle deep. heavy in your chest, warm in a way that has nothing to do with his heat against your skin.
he doesn't say anything after that, just flies.
maybe it's safer that way.
maybe if he speaks, he'll say something he can't take back.
or worse – something he means.
you tilt your head back to lazily look up at him, the wind blowing your hair back. his jaw is tight. his eyes fixed at the cloud ahead.
still, you catch the bob of his throat when he swallows.
your voice breaks the silence among the wind. "you'll always come when i call?"
a pause.
then a low, "yeah."
no hesitation. no joke. just... yeah.
you blink up at him, throat tightening for a reason you can't name. the sky around you is ink-dark, the stars scattered in the sky like salt. you stare at his profile. this ridiculous man with his ridiculous heart.
here's clark kent, the man who showed up at three a.m. not because he had to, but because you asked.
even with all your sharpness, all your teasing, and every inappropriate thing you've said in the last twelve hours... he still came.
gods, you think, your mind still muddled with drunkenness. i'm in so much trouble.
you exhale slowly, nuzzling back into his shoulder with a soft mutter. "you're gonna ruin me."
he doesn't answer, but you feel the way his hand flexes around your thigh, just once.
when you wake up hours later, mouth dry and head pounding, you're back in clark's apartment. but this time, you're not on the coucb.
you're in his bed. his bed.
alone.
but there's a glass of water on the nightstand. and advil. and a folded note.
your name is written across the top in that annoyingly neat script of his – as if you're not the only one who'd be in his apartment, let alone his bed.
you reach for the note with bleary eyes and open it with slow fingers.
i'll be back after work. please don't break anything.
– Clark (p.s. you snore in your sleep)
you stare at the note, hungover yet still smug.
"i do not snore," you mutter to yourself.
you actually don't know whether you do or not, but that isn't the point. the point is: clark put you in his bed, left you water, and a painkiller for your inevitable hangover.
you look down at yourself. your brow quirks up in curiosity at the shirt draping your figure. a sly smirk curls up your cheeks before you tug at the collar, peering down into it. your smirk falls when you realize clark had simply put on one of his shirts over your night-out top.
he's too respectful, you huff to yourself.
you pad to the kitchen, his note still in hand, scanning the abode of neatness that is clark's apartment. it's nearly absurd how contradicting he is to you.
you do not belong here.
and yet here you are. clutching a stupid handwritten note like it's the first thing anyone's ever left you that felt like care.
his shirt hangs loose off your frame, just long enough to cover your ass in your tiny shorts, but still short enough to be a problem.
you rifle through his fridge (fully stocked with bread, eggs, greens and poultry), attempt to work his dishwasher, and even poke your head into his closet just to see if he organizes his clothing by color.
you take a shower, using his shampoo and conditioner, but you don't mind the way his scent clings to your skin after. in fact, you embrace it. it's warm and woodsy, with a hint of something clean and familiar. you're unsure if that's the soap or just him.
the water helps clear your head, but you still move slowly, your limbs heavy with leftover fatigue. when you dry off with a towel, you skip putting your silver top back on, opting instead for the oversized shirt he'd thrown over you the night before. it's soft and smells like him, too, and without the layer beneath it, the fabric drapes even more loosely over your frame. your underwear are the only thing you keep on, you decide as you look at the tiny shorts you wore prior.
by the time you settle on the couch, legs tucked under you, the sun has fully crested the skyline and your hangover is a gentle throb as opposed to a wave of nausea.
he gets home around six.
clark stops in the doorway, eyebrows raising like he half-expected you to be gone by now.
"you're still here," he says.
you lift and eyebrow and shrug. "i read your note. i figured that was a stay as long as you want invitation."
he hear him huff as he shrugs out of his blazer. he loosens his tie. rolls up the sleeves of his white button-up. "that's a stretch."
"is it?" you ponder aloud, tapping your chin.
silence stretches between you, though he fills the silence by kicking his shoes off near the door and placing his knapsack on a nearby stool.
you decide not to pry and instead, change the subject. "thank you for carrying me back."
clark nods, approaching the sofa. he doesn't sit. not yet. just stands in front of you, hands on his hips like he's trying to decide something.
"you totally could've," you counter quickly. "but thanks for not," you add with a genuine smile.
he smiles back – soft and almost sheepish – but there's something else behind his eyes. a weight. a choice he hasn't explained yet.
you tilt your head. "figured you'd take me to the fortress."
"i was going to," he admits, nodding. "but then you asked me to bring you back here."
your brows raise at that. "i did?"
he exhales through his nose, as if amused by your lack of memory. "you did. made sense. you've been crashing here every night this week."
"and you did," you say slowly, each word holding an extra emphasis.
"and i did," he confirms with a nod. he stands a ways away from you, unbuttoning the cuffs of his dress shirt to roll them up.
"you let me have your bed, too," you add.
"that, i also did," he nods again but this time you see the bobble his adam's apple does.
"how come?"
he looks away for a beat, then back at you – eyes softer than before.
"because," he says slowly, "you should be sleeping on a bed, not a couch."
you raise an eyebrow, skeptical.
he shrugs, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "you're too restless for the couch. too much of a night owl, too many thoughts racing. the couch doesn't give you room to breathe."
you study him, the way his gaze lingers a little longer than usual. the way he's not just talking about furniture, but about you. you don't know how he so easily sees through you and seems to know you so well, and you can't decide whether you like it or not.
you stretch languidly on the sofa, making sure his shirt rises enough to hint at the bare skin of your thighs. "you could've joined me, you know. bed's big enough."
you see him open his mouth to respond before he shuts it as if remembering to process your words first before choosing to respond. he looks down at the hardwood floors for a moment before lifting his head and not meeting your gaze.
"actually, i can't," he murmurs, shaking his head to himself.
you blink. "can't what?"
"i mean– i shouldn't." he runs a hand through his hair, flustered. "you're... unpredictable. and chaotic. and reckless."
you tilt your head, grinning. "i am."
he stares at you like you've personally ruined his life. maybe you have.
you watch him, the way he fights something internal. his jaw tightens like he's holding back a thousand words, maybe a thousand urges. you can feel the tension rolling off him like heat.
"you really don't remember much from last night, do you?" he asks.
your brows raise. "define much."
"you called me hot stuff again," he says.
you grin. "not new information. and i do that sober."
"you also tried to get me to kiss you once we landed back at the apartment."
that gives you pause. okay, that... that you don't remember.
"...did i?" you ask, lips twitching.
he nods, arms now crossed over his chest. "said the air was romantic. said i'd regret not kissing you under the stars." a beat passes. "also said i looked like safety and sex."
you can't help but snort, well aware it is something you'd say. "gotta love tequila."
he laughs. laughs. it's soft, low, not mocking, but fond.
finally.
"you also said you missed me."
your breath halts for a moment, eyes trained on your lap. you slowly peek up at him through your lashes, wary now. "that part... was probably true."
clark's still standing here, looking at you like he's trying to see through all your layers of bravado. and truthfully, maybe he does.
he runs a hand through his hair again, cheeks a little pink. "do you really?"
you blink. "do i... miss you?"
he shrugs one shoulder, but his voice is quieter now. "like, when you're off-world. have you ever once thought about coming back, not just for kara?"
it's a simple question. not a demand. not a plea. just a quiet hope.
you sit up, legs tucked under you, throw pillow in your lap. you stare up at him. "no, not once," you say.
his brows knit, faintly disappointed.
"i think about it all the time."
clark's jaw flexes. and then he finally moves, sitting down on the couch beside you. not touching. not yet. but he's close. close enough.
"i think about you, too," he admits, and it you feel a rush of victory spread across each of your nerves. his ears are pink again, but for once, he doesn't seem to shy away or hide from it.
"yeah?" you ask, lips quirking upward.
he nods.
another beat of silence.
you look down at the note still crumpled in your fingers. you'd been absentmindedly fiddling with it throughout the day. you smooth it over your thigh absently. "you always do the right thing," you murmur. "it's annoying."
clark huffs a soft laugh. "i try."
"you didn't have to come get me."
"i always will."
you look at him again, and this time, the mischief is one from your eyes.
he's so close now.
"you're the most dangerous thing on this planet," you whisper. realizing the statement is true on its own, you add, "for me."
clark's voice is steady. "why?"
you swallow. "because you make me want to stay, clark."
that does it.
the air changes between you. tenses. warms. still.
the air between you was almost something different, teetering on the edge of something so incredibly catastrophic or so devastatingly beautiful.
you can see the way his gaze drops – first to your mouth, then lower. you see his hand twitch, like he wants to touch you but something is holding him back. or, like he's holding himself back.
so you reach first.
you lift a hand and press your fingers gently against his jaw. "i'm sober now, clark."
"i'm aware."
"and i still want to kiss you."
his throat bobs. he exhales and it's sharp and soft at the same time.
"i've been trying really, really hard to do the right thing," he says, voice low and steady, like it's costing him to admit out loud. "to keep my distance. not let it... get messy."
you blink, barely breathing. "and?"
his lips twitch. you don't dare to move. the air between you is so charged it might crack open.
"i don't know what this is," he says, still not touching you. "but if i kiss you, it's not going to be casual. it's not going to be a joke or some in-the-moment mistake."
your breath hitches.
"i don't want to be one of your stops on the way to the next planet," he says, softer now. "so if you're not serious – if you're really just bored and looking for a thrill – please tell me now."
you stare at him. the blues of his eyes stare back into your own irises as his words register.
it's true that during your first visit, your flirting was just that – flirting. harmless, easy, something to pass the time while you awaited your next adventure on another planet.
you liked the way he got flustered. the way he stumbled over his words in the beginning or avoided your gaze like you were something dangerous.
but now...
now, with the weight of his voice still hanging between you, it doesn't feel like just flirting to you anymore.
your throat works around the knot forming there.
very quietly, you ask, "what if i am serious?"
the muscle in his jaw jumps. his eyes search yours for any sign of sarcasm, any game. but all he finds is honestly.
you rush to fill the silence. "i mean, i know i joke a lot. i know i push buttons and say things just to get a rise out of you, but this isn't that. i'm not bored or restless or trying to see how far i can push you before you finally push back. and maybe it's stupid, because you're you and i'm – well, me – but it doesn't feel like a game to me. not anymore. and i don't want you to think i'm not taking this seriously, because i am. more serious than i've taken anything, probably, but i can't seem to–"
your words cut off with a startled sound when he surges forward, catching your mouth with his before you can keep unraveling.
the kiss is firm, steady, and a silencing press that tells you he heard every word you said and he doesn't need more.
and it's not hesitant. it's hungry.
every ounce of restraint he's held for the last however many visits of yours, every sarcastic jab, every midnight glance he thought you didn't catch – it all collapses into this kiss.
clark exhales sharply when your fingers slip into his hair, tugging at it enough to pull a low sound from his throat. his hands find your waist, hesitant at first, like he's still holding back, then firmer, archoring you to him as he kisses you deeper.
you shift onto your knees, straddling his lap without breaking the kiss. you hear his breath catch as you settle over him and you can feel the heat of him through both your layers of clothing. still, he doesn't rush it. his hands stay steady at your hips, his thumbs brushing circles just under the hem of your shirt – his shirt – on your skin.
he pulls away just long enough to rasp against your lips. "still unpredictable."
you grin breathlessly. "still a coward for waiting this long."
he growls and kisses you again, deeper this time, if that's even possible. "so insufferable."
"you like it."
"i really do."
you lean in, your lips grazing his jaw and then lower. "then let me show you just how unpredictable i can be."
clark's hands slide under the shirt fully now, palms warm against your skin. he groans to himself, as if noting the fact that you're no longer wearing the silver top from the night before. "you're not making it easier for me to be a gentleman."
"you've been a gentleman long enough."
your shirt hits the floor first and his eyes rake over you, hungry but reverent, like he's memorizing every inch of you he can see. when his hands find your thighs, he drags them up slowly, thumbs tracing the edge of your underwear.
you reach down and pull his glasses off, setting them carefully on the side table.
"i've wanted to do that for so long," you whisper, fingers tracing his temple gently.
he swallows hard. "yeah?"
you nod, fingers moving to the buttons lining the center of his shirt. "wanted to know what you looked like up close like this. see how blue your eyes really are."
he closes his eyes like he's trying to keep it together. "christ, y/n."
you hum in acknowledgment, pulling either side of his shirt apart, exposing his midsection.
he's unreal, of course he is. warm skin, hard muscle and a faint trail of hair disappearing under the waistband of his slacks. you run your hand over his chest, just to feel him, and his breath stutters.
when you grind down on him, slow yet with purpose, he groans, head falling forward to rest against your shoulder. "you're not playing fair."
"you know i never do."
he huffs a laugh against your collarbone, equal parts aroused and exasperated, his breath hot and shaky on your skin. "i'm starting to get that." one of his hands splay across your lower back, the other gripping your thigh like he needs something to hold onto.
"you're going to ruin me," he murmurs, low like it's a confession.
you lean back just enough to meet his eyes again, fingers still drifting over the hard planes of his chest. "good," you say, not teasing this time.
that seems to snap something in him. he kisses you again, harder now, like he's decided there's no going back. like he's done pretending there's nothing brewing between you.
the kiss turns messy, urgent. his hands are everywhere now – your hips, your ribs, your back. when his mouth trails down to your neck, sucking gently at the skin just below the line of your jaw, your head falls back with a soft moan.
"tell me," he says between kisses, voice low and hoarse. "tell me you want this." his tone is laced with a sense of urgency. a need. he needs to hear it from you. he needs to know this isn't some fling.
"i want this," you breathe. "clark, i want you."
he exhales a breath you weren't aware he was holding. his mouth finds yours again and it's desperate as you press your body flush against him, fingers curled in the thick curls at the back of his neck, the tension that's been coiling between you since the moment you stepped into his life snaps as your hips roll, grinding down deliberately against the bulge straining beneath his slacks.
clark groans, low and raged, hands tightening on your thighs as you rock over him again, slower this time. testing. teasing.
"i need–" he starts, but cuts himself off with a sharp inhale as you roll your hips just right.
you reach down between your bodies and palm him through the fabric of his pants, a wicked little smile curling at your lips. "yeah?"
clark's jaw clenches. his hands are still on your body, but the heat in his eye shifts into something deeper now. like he's no longer bound by hesitation. his hands drift from your ribs to cup the valleys of your chest, groaning at the feeling of your breasts against his palms.
you rock down against him, still in your underwear, but it's not enough. not for him. not anymore.
clark growls – actually, growls – and grabs your wrist, forcing you to sit up straighter. you can feel the hardened bulge of his cock beneath his slacks pressing between your legs.
"you love playing games," he says, eyes dark and breath hot against your cheek. "but you don't get to be in control tonight."
your brow quirks upward. "no?"
he shakes his head once. "you're gonna stay right here," he says, guiding your hips down and along the bulge in his lap, grinding you exactly how he wants you. "but you take what i give you."
a soft, involuntary moan slips out of you.
his grip on your hip tightens. "that clear?"
you nod, dazed. "yeah. yes."
he grins in a way that's more than a usual clark grin. there's more heat behind it. "good."
then, he lets go over your hips, only to trail his hand down and tug your underwear to the side and slide two thick fingers through your slick folds. you gasp, clenching around nothing and you hear him hiss at the feeling of you.
"so wet already," he mutters. "you like when i take charge," he observed aloud, like the thought hadn't ever occurred to him.
you moan as he presses in, slow and deliberate, finger curling inside your velvet walls just right. "fuck, clark–"
"that's it," he murmurs, watching your expression melt all from his fingers.
as he works you open on his fingers, you grind helplessly in his lap, the control shifting entirely into his hands. and you let it. you've been craving it.
you've been craving him. the weight of him, the strength, the heat. the way he takes over without making you feel small in the slightest. the way he knows exactly what you want without even asking.
his fingers keep working inside you, deliberate and deep, curling just right, just enough the halt your breath and make your thighs shake. his free hand slides up your spine, steadying you when your hips start to stutter against him.
"look at you," he says, voice low and near a rasp. "falling apart just from my fingers."
you whimper, back arching slightly as your hands clutch at his shoulders.
the way his fingers move inside you – patient, precise, devastating – has you unraveling far too quickly. embarrassingly too quickly. each curl of his knuckles brushes against your clit, making you jolt with every slow, intentional thrust.
your head falls forward, forehead pressed to his. "clark–"
"i know," he says, voice thick with restraint. "'ve got you."
he kisses you then – deep and slow, not matching the pace of his fingers inside you. his mouth is gentle. his hands are not.
when he adds a third finger, you choke on a moan, hips twitching forward, despite yourslef. it's much too much and not enough all at once, the stretch making your walls flutter and thighs tremble around his lap.
"you're gonna cum on my fingers," he murmurs, like a promise, like a command. "right here. just like this."
you cling to his shoulders, whimpering now with every thrust. he curls his fingers again, slower this time, dragging them against your sweet spot until your vision whites out at the edges.
this wasn't how it was supposed to be. you expected you'd be in control – riding him at your own pace, drawing out every sound he could make. most of your fantasies started with you in charge, maybe giving him the best head of his life right there on that sofa, smug about how easily you could unravel him.
but no. of course clark kent had to flip the script, catching you off guard with just how much strength, how much intention he had under all that restraint. every deliberate curl of his fingers left no room for you to take back the reins, no space to even pretend you were the one setting the pace. he was relentless but measured, like he'd been holding back for too long and finally decided you were the one person he could let himself break for.
"clark–!" your voice breaks, high and desperate.
"i know, sweetheart. let go."
you do.
it hits like lightening, the heat coiling in your gut before snapping, rushing through your veins like fire as you cry out into his shoulder, thighs shaking, body clenching tight around his fingers. he holds you through it, fucking you slowly through the aftershocks until you're boneless in your lap.
you're still panting when he finally pulls his fingers free, bringing them to his mouth without hesitation. he moans low around them, like he's starving.
"clark," you breath, almost pleading, shifting in his lap. it's as if that's the only word left in your vernacular. his cock is hard and heavy beneath you, straining against his slacks, and you can't stop the way your hips roll down, searching for more friction.
his hands find your waist instantly, steadying you, holding you still even when you try to move again. "slow down," he warms, voice rough. "'ve been so patient with you, think it's only right that i set the pace."
you nod quickly, desperate, but he doesn't move right away. instead, he takes his time, undoing his belt and pushing his pants down just enough to free himself. your breath catches at the sight of him, flushed and thick, resting heavy against his stomach.
"go on," he orders softly, the command striking your spine with a warmth. your hands obey before your mind can even catch up, wrapping around him, guiding him through your folds until he's slick with your arousal.
his grip tightens on your hips as he positions you over him. "that's it. sink down on me."
he's thick – too thick, you think at first, the blunt head nudging against you in a way that makes your breath stutter in your chest. your fingers falter around him, because there's no ignoring just how much of him there is to take.
the sheer girth alone has your thighs quaking before you've even started to lower yourself, the stretch burning deliciously slow as your body yield to him. he's overwhelming, every inch of him demanding, and the thought of fitting all of him inside you leaves your head spinning with a mix of awe and desire.
this is exactly what you've been waiting for.
your thighs tremble as you continue, inch by inch, stretching around him until you're full, seated completely in his lap. you feel full, owned, as if he’s been molded to fit inside you and nowhere else.
the breath he exhales against your throat is ragged, and he lifts his head to press his forehead to yours.
"good girl," he murmurs and before you can even think to move, his hands tighten, dragging you down into his rhythm – rolling his hips up into you, forcing you to ride him just the way he wants.
the praise makes your walls flutter around him, and his answering groan rumbles low in his chest.
his rhythm is merciless, hips surging up into you while his grip keeps you exactly where he watns you, hands gripping the flesh of your waist tightly. every drag of his is deep, filing you so completely it border on unbearable. your fingers scramble to clutch his work button-up – still haphazardly pulled open from your doing earlier – for balance, nails digging into the fabric as broken sounds spill from your lips.
his name shatters in your throat, half-plea, half-worship.
what has he reduced me to?
"ride me," he growls against your ear, and you try, you really do, lifting your hips only to sink back down on his.
you ride him like you’ve got something to prove, your pace increasing, thighs trembling as you bounce against his hips. every thrust drags another whimper from your throat, and every sound you make seems to undo him further. he meets your rhythm easily, hips thrusting up to meet you, so deep you see stars.
he meets your gaze, watching you as you bounce above him. his pupils are blown wide, jaw tight, sweat beading at his temple as he watches every flash of expression cross your features. "atta girl," he rasps, voice breaking on a groan. 'taking all of me. you're perfect."
he dips his head down and his mouth finds your breast, tongue tracing a circle around your nipple before sucking it into his mouth, and the pleasure spikes so hard you cry out. your nails dig into his shoulders, no doubt leaving marks across the skin through his white shirt.
and still, his eyes stay locked on yours through it all. tit in mouth.
who knew he could be so obscene?
but it's like he wants to memorize every expression. every twitch. every sound he pulls from you.
you lean forward, both hands cradling his face now pulling him away so you can press your forehead to his. “you feel so good, clark.”
“so do you,” he groans, low and rough.
your rhythm falters just enough to make him hiss, and suddenly his hands are under your thighs, lifting you, fucking up into you with more force, more power than ever before, if that's even possible.
it’s staggering, this man who could shatter anything that steps in his way yet doesn't because of the golden heart behind his ribcage. the man who's looking at you with such a deep reverence, you wonder how on this planet you earned it.
"you're almost there," he mutters between gritted teeth, his movements never faltering as he picks you up and slams you back down along his thick shaft, throbbing with need. "'can feel it."
you whine, your gummy walls, fluttering and pulsing around his cock, speaking for you.
"let go, sweetheart," he rasps, the undercurrent of his tone so fond.
"you, too," you manage, eyes shutting from the sheer pleasure. "want you to."
"i know, i know," he murmur, voice low and reverent. "after."
you firmly shake your head, getting some semblance of your stubborn senses back to you. "no, now."
"sweetheart–"
"inside."
you hear his breath hitch in his throat and see his his eyes darken, pupils blown wide. for a second, his thrusts falter, like he's debating whether to fight you on it. but then your walls squeeze down around him, and the choice is made for him.
"god," he growls, the sound breaking between restraint and surrender. his grip tightens buisingly on your thighs as he slams you down harder, chasing the edge with reckless abandon now. "you're suer?"
"yes," you cry out, nails digging into his shoulder and your head falling forward until your lips brush his ear. "want it. all of you."
his control finally shatters. he drives up into you with a relentless force, the couch creaking under the weight of his power. all you can feel is him splitting you open, the lewd slap of skin on skin and the guttural sounds from his throat as he buries himself deep inside.
your orgasm hits first, white-hot, overwhelming and tearing through your shaking in his grasp, vision blurring as you clamp down on him.
"shoot–" he grits out, hips jerking in short, desperate thrusts. with a groan that rumbles through his chest and right to yours, he finally gives in, spilling deep inside you, heat flooding your core as he buries himself to the hilt.
he holds you there, panting, forehead pressed to your shoulder as he rides out every last pulse. every last wave of it.
you collapse against him, bodies slick and tangled, chests heaving with the aftershock of what just happened. his arms wrap around you instantly, holding you closely.
for a long moment, neither of you move. you're both wrecked, sweaty, gasping as you catch you breaths.
you don't say anything at first.
you just listen to the sound of his heart. it's still thudding fast beneath your cheek.
then, softly, you murmur, “i like earth. loud. messy. but it’s nice.”
he huffs a quiet laugh, the kind that's more exhale than sound and he presses a kiss to the crown of your head.
"you used to complain nonstop," he murmurs, voice lazy and rough with the afterglow. his hand finds your spine, tracing slow, reverent lines. "said the gravity made you clumsy. that the food is too bland. that humans don't know how to drive."
you grin into his chest. "all still true."
another beat passes.
"but it's different now," you add, softer. "it's warm, too. soft."
he chuckles again, but there’s an edge of disbelief to it, as if he still can’t quite believe you’re here. that this is real.
you tilt your head just enough to look at him. his eyes are already on you.
“i think,” you say, voice barely audible but so careful, “i might want to stay.”
he stills for only for a second, but you notice anyway. there's a breath caught in his lungs. you can practically see the hope swelling inside him, too fragile to speak aloud.
“you don’t have to say that,” he says, gently. “not because of this.”
“i’m not,” you say, quickly. “i’m saying it because of you.”
and there it is. that look from him. like you hung the stars and he’s only just realized it. like you’re not some wild, reckless orbit passing through. like maybe you’ve always been heading toward him.
clark's hand cradles your jaw. he kisses you again, softer this time.
“i want you to stay,” he breathes against your lips. “god, I want you to stay.”
you smile, eyes fluttering closed as you press closer, letting his warmth sink into your bones. you choose to ignore the logistics of being an alien and residing on a planet that isn't yours, unsure how citizenship would even work. then again, you'd been off planet for so long, jumping from moon to planet that the idea of citizenship feels almost laughable.
you're a wanderer. a drifter. no borders. not roots. no ties.
but here, wrapped in clark's arms, breathing in the scent of his skin and listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, something definitely shifts within you.
“then I guess I’m home.”
ʚĭɞ reblogs and interaction always appreciated! ʚĭɞ
sex with clark is the most reassuring thing ever. he’d be a great virgin killer, the way he’s constantly checking in on you, lovingly rubbing circles on your clit as he ruts into you from below.
there’s something so powerful in the way a mountain of a man like clark just lets a pretty thing like you use him for your pleasure, lazily bouncing on his dick.
there’s something absolutely yummy in the way he says “i know, baby, i know,” as you moan and keen. something even sexier about the way he murmurs when you finally find your rhythm, “that’s right, baby doll. fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuckmefuckmefuckme—”
can you do clark with a reader who knows he’s superman but he doesn’t know she knows?
“He’s a nuisance.”
“He’s what?” Clark asks loudly.
“He’s a hero,” you say, “I’m not stupid, or heartless. He’s saved a ton of people and he deserves some praise, but he just seems like such an idiot.”
Clark frowns.
“You don’t like him?”
You shrug. “Not particularly.”
Poor Clark. He’s already pink with annoyance. “But you said he’s a hero.”
“Yeah, he is. He is, Clark, he’s clearly, like, super selfless and he’s really– he’s beautiful–”
“Beautiful?”
“–but he gets on my nerves.”
“What’s that even mean?”
“It means he annoys me, Clark. He gives his little snippy lines and he’s quite flighty–”
“Is that a joke?”
“Clark, it’s alright. I’m not judging you, I know you have a good rapport with him. I don’t blame you for thinking he’s cool. I guess I just don’t get all the fuss, that’s all.”
Clark holds your gaze for a moment. Two beats, a third. You try your hardest not to smirk.
“He’s kind,” Clark says finally.
“Amazingly kind,” you agree. “You know what I think it is? I think it’s his nose. Puts me off.”
Clark touches his nose. “Uh, what?” he asks, scratching the bridge quickly.
“He has an untrustworthy nose.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No?” You lean back in your chair. “Do I seem like I’m joking?”
“What’s wrong with his nose?”
“Nothing… you know, scratch that. It’s the hair. His hair is always perfect before he fights. How does he have time? Does he know when a fight is coming in advance? How else does he make sure it looks specific like that before an emergency?”
“It’s just gel.”
“Does he keep a comb in the super suit, do you think?”
“So all your problems with Superman are superficial, is what you’re saying.”
“Can’t I just dislike the guy? Everybody else loves him. And it’s not like he knows I don’t like him, so.”
Clark bites his lip. It’s a second of it, long enough for you to notice and short enough that you can’t picture it when you’re walking home that evening, try as you might. The truth of the matter is that you like Superman almost as much as you like Clark Kent, and you’d quite like to bite on his lip like that, tease him in a new way, but if he’s not gonna come clean about the whole metahuman/Kryptonian thing, what’s a girl supposed to do?
“Good evening.”
You smile at nothing. “Huh?”
“Can I walk you to where you’re going?”
“I don’t know. Do you walk?”
“Do I walk?”
Superman touches down behind you, so you deign to turn his way. He’s slicked his hair back with gel. Sweet guy, he must keep it in his briefcase at work.
“You fly everywhere. It’s… excessive.”
“Have I done something to offend you, ma'am?"
“Nah,” you say, offering him a smile that’s honestly, adoringly affectionate, enamoured by the perfect bump of his nose, his gentle voice, and his sweet-mannered questions. Superman is so plainly Clark Kent, you’re not sure why nobody else has figured it out yet. “I’m teasing you, honey. You can walk me home. I’d like that, if, you know, you’re not busy saving the world.”
Clark takes the sidewalk closest to the road. His neck has gone a splotchy pink. “I’m not busy,” he murmurs. “I’m happy to take you home.”
“Well, let’s not go that far,” you tease.
He rubs at his forehead. He’s not the superhero you’re used to seeing on tv, but you like this version more. Blushing and shy, homegrown to the bone.
“Pull up. Got some shit for you. Strong. Like me.”
Always so full of himself.
You threw on something quick—black shorts that barely covered anything and a white ribbed tank you weren’t wearing a bra under. Not to impress him. Just because it was hot out. That’s what you told yourself.
It was close to midnight when you pulled into the back lot of the old mechanic shop he ran his business out of. The lot was mostly empty, except for one car tucked in the far corner—a black Dodge Charger Hellcat with dark tint, chrome rims catching the moonlight.
You walked up slow, your slides hitting the pavement softly, heart thudding just a little too fast for a “casual” visit.
Driver’s window slid down.
Smoke looked at you from the shadows, leaning back in the seat like he hadn’t a care in the world. Low eyes, chain resting on his chest, blunt between his fingers.
When you walked up to Smoke’s car, he already had your blunt lit and seat reclined, like he’d been waiting for you all night. And maybe he had. That look in his eyes when you opened the passenger door said it all.
Low. Dark. Hungry.
“‘Bout time,” he muttered. “I was startin’ to think you ain’t want me no more.”
You smirked. “I came for the weed, old man. Not you.”
That gold-tooth grin of his flashed. “Mmhm. That why your nipples pokin’ through your lil’ shirt like that?”
You rolled your eyes—but still tugged the door open and climbed in.
Inside, it smelled like weed and leather, and cologne that cost more than your rent.
He passed you the blunt, and you took a long pull. The hit was smooth, but strong. Your lungs burned, head floating almost immediately.
“Shit,” you coughed, handing it back. “You weren’t lying.”
“‘Course I wasn’t.” He looked you over again, this time slower. “Now lemme see what else you came for.”
you passed him back the blunt. He took a long drag, settled back into the seat, and stared out the windshield.
You told yourself you weren’t gonna let it happen again. Not in the car. Not when you knew he could make you come just by talking.
But then his hand slid onto your thigh.
Not rushed. Just resting there. Warm and heavy like it belonged.
“You gone sit over there and act cute all night?” he murmured.
You turned in your seat, one leg folding up under you as you faced him, the leather creaking slightly under your movement. You reached over, hand sliding slow up his thigh.
“You always talkin’ like you got somethin’ to prove.”
Smoke didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. Just raised an eyebrow.
“I do got somethin’ to prove. And you touchin’ on it.”
You didn’t respond. Just slid your hand over his. Guided it higher. Past your bare thigh, up the curve of your hip, and right beneath the hem of your tiny shorts.
No panties.
You felt him tense, then exhale deep through his nose.
“Lil’ nasty,” he said, voice low. “You came outside like that?”
You turned your head, voice syrup-sweet. “You told me to come quick.”
The second you said it, he grabbed the back of your neck and pulled you into a kiss—hard, wet, deep enough to make you dizzy. He kissed like he owned you. Tongue licking into your mouth, hand gripping your ass, pulling you closer until you were straddling him in the front seat.
“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips. “I missed this pussy.”
You settled on his lap, the denim of his jeans rough against the inside of your thighs. You could feel him—already thick, already hard.
His hand slid between your legs again, fingers teasing you open. He groaned when he felt how wet you already were.
“Damn. She always ready for me, huh?”
He chuckled low in his throat.
Your eyes fluttered shut when his middle finger pushed inside you, slow and thick. He curled it just right, like he knew your body. Like it was muscle memory.
“Keep takin’ that shit,” he said, watching you grind into his hand. “Look at you, fuckin’ yourself on my fingers like a good girl.”
You whimpered, hips rolling faster.
“Shh,” he hushed you. “I got you.”
His voice. His voice made your body obey. Made you fall apart for him in that seat with just his hand buried inside you and his teeth grazing your throat. You clenched around his fingers, back arching as you came fast and hard.
“Mm. Look at you. You was missin’ me.”
You grind your hips against him, slow and deliberate. “Shut up.”
“Make me.”
You did.
Your mouth crashed into his, and it wasn’t soft. It was teeth, and heat, and him grabbing your ass with both hands, squeezing so tight you moaned into his mouth. His tongue slid past your lips, deep and messy, while your hips rolled against him.
When he broke the kiss, his voice was rough.
“Climb on, mama. Ride me like you mean it.”
You blinked, dazed. “Right here?”
He grabbed your jaw, made you look at him.
“You come to me damn near naked at midnight, sittin’ on my dick in the back of a dark-ass lot, and you got the nerve to be shy now?”
Your pussy clenched, and he felt it. Smirked. That knowing, cocky grin that made you wanna slap him and let him ruin your life.
“Come on,” he said again. “I wanna watch you while you fuck me.”
You didn’t hesitate this time. You were on your knees, braced one hand on his chest, the other on the seat. You watched as he unzipped his pants, the heavy sound of his belt loosening making your stomach flip.
He pulled your panties to the side, ran two fingers down your slick folds, and groaned.
“Damn, baby… You drippin’. You need it that bad?”
“Smoke—please—”
He didn’t tease.
He pushed inside you in one deep stroke, and your head dropped forward with a loud moan. He was thick, stretching you open so slow it nearly hurt—but you loved it.
“So deep—” you moaned.
“I know. You takin’ it, though. You always do.”
He didn’t move at first. Just sat there, deep inside you, palm on your lower back, watching your pussy pulse around him.
“You feel that?” he whispered. “That’s mine. Every fuckin’ inch.”
“Fuck.” His hands gripped your hips hard. “Pussy still perfect. Grippin’ me like it missed me.”
You tried to respond, but all you could do was ride him. The car rocked with you, windows fogging as your thighs clapped against his. You reached one hand back to brace on his knee, trying to take all of him.
“That’s it, mama,” he groaned. “Take all this dick. You built for it.”
He leaned forward, palm sliding up your back, around your neck, fingers curling lightly at your throat.
“Who’s this pussy belong to?”
“You,” you gasped.
He tugged your head back against his shoulder, slowing his thrusts to grind deep. “Say it again.”
“You, Smoke—fuck, it’s yours—”
That earned you a slap to the ass, then another. You cried out, and he kissed your neck between spanks.
You were shaking. High, cock-drunk, toes curled, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes as he reached down and rubbed your clit in rough little circles.
Your body started to tremble.
“There she go,” he cooed. “Go ‘head, make a mess. Cream on this dick.”
“You gone let daddy come in this pretty pussy?”
“Yes—yes, Smoke, please—”
“Beg for it.”
“Please,” you cried. “Please fill me up—I want it—need it—”
He groaned. His pace turned mean, messy, punishing. You came again without warning, clenching around him, and he didn’t last long after that—burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a growl against your shoulder.
The car went still. His forehead pressed to your back. His hand rested heavy on your hip.
The car was silent except for the ticking of the engine and the sound of both of you trying to catch your breath.
Smoke leaned back, hands still on your hips, thumbs rubbing slow circles on your skin.
“…Damn,” he muttered. “That wasn’t what I planned.”
You were still face in his shoulder, giggling softly.
“You always say that.”
He pulled you back gently into his lap, kissed your shoulder. “Only ‘cause you got a way of throwin’ me off.”
“Uh huh.” You shifted, a little whimper leaving your mouth as he slid out of you.
He grabbed a hoodie from the back seat, putting it on you. Then lit another blunt, passed it to you with a look so soft it made your chest ache.
“You hungry?” he asked.
You nodded.
“Good. Let’s go get you fed before I take you to the house and fuck you right.”
elijah "smoke" moore is so Guy Of All Time he's the older twin and has a joint nickname with his little brother he has committed patricide he's good with kids he has the coolest wife in the whole entire world and loves her so so much oh and also he ends the movie mowing down klan members like grass in a little white tank top. who is doing it like him.
would he close the door behind you slow, like he’s sealing the rest of the world out? maybe he’d watch you for a moment, that heavy gaze of his tracing every line of your body .
“you look tired, baby,” he’d murmur, voice deep and low like thunder caught in molasses. “let me take care of you tonight.”
he’d step behind you, warm palms gliding beneath the hem of your shirt, pushing the fabric up slow like he’s savoring the shit. his fingers would be unexpectedly soft against your skin. he wouldn’t rush. not Smoke. he’d undress you piece by piece, like unwrapping his favorite sweet candy, his breath ghosting over your neck as he kissed your shoulder and whispered, “been thinkin’ about you all damn day.”
the bathroom would already be steamy—he’d made sure of it. he knows how you like it, hot enough to fog up the mirrors and make the world outside melt away. the lights would be dim, the kind of soft glow that makes everything feel... safer.
he’d step into the shower behind you, fully clothed at first, letting the water soak through his shirt as he held you there, his chest against your back. then he'd grab a washcloth, drag it gently across your shoulders, down your spine.
“lean back on me,” he’d whisper, voice ragged, “i got you.”
and you would, because with Smoke, even silence feels right.
afterward, he'd wrap you in a towel and carry you to bed like it's his mission. you wouldn’t even need to ask. you’d just find yourself tucked against him, limbs tangled, your ear resting on the steady thrum of his chest.
“don’t go nowhere,” he’d say against your temple, lips brushing your skin. “i don’t sleep right unless you here.”
his arms—those strong, worn arms that have held guns, secrets, pain, would curl around you like you’re the only soft thing he knows. he’d hold you tight, like maybe he’s afraid the world might snatch you away in the middle of the night.
“i like it like this,” he’d murmur into the dark. “you. here.”
and before sleep could pull you under, you’d hear one last whisper, raw and quiet like it slipped out without permission:
“ain’t never cared for peace ‘til I found it in you.”
𝖲𝗎𝗆𝗆𝖺𝗋𝗒－dropping off your son at your ex’s place, and Stack taking the opportunity to taunt you about your boyfriend
𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗁𝗌－Harsh language, N-word usage, toxic ex dynamics. Stack & Smoke are being arrogant, petty assholes.
A/N: I watched Sinners for the first time and loved it. I’m pretty sure I’m a Smoke girlie, so here’s a little story.
It was a hot afternoon when you pulled up to Smoke’s house—well, your old house, if we’re being technical. Your son was in the back seat babbling about Roblox and fries, kicking the passenger seat every few seconds like he knew your nerves were already hanging on by a thread.
You adjusted your sunglasses, took a deep breath, and walked your baby to the front door like you hadn’t just been arguing with your new man ten minutes ago about “boundaries” with your ex.
But the second the door opened?
Trouble.
And that’s exactly what stood on the other side of the front door when it opened
Elijah “Smoke” Moore.
Your ex-husband.
Your baby’s father.
The man who ruined you for everybody else.
Smoke was leaned against the doorway shirtless, tattoos gleaming, chain swinging just enough to catch the light. His usual low-eyed expression flipped to a grin the moment he saw you—and then his eyes dropped to your outfit.
“Mmh,” he hummed, already staring too long. “You showin’ up in them tight-ass leggings like that for me or for him?” he nodded down at your son. “’Cause either way, I appreciate it.”
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t start.”
“Ain’t startin’ nothin’ but missin’ what used to be mine,” he muttered, stepping aside to let y’all in.
Your son took off toward the living room while you stayed back to hand over his backpack. That’s when you heard it
“Damn, she came by lookin’ like that you sure she don’t want you back?” came Stack’s voice—from the kitchen.
You froze. “Oh lord, not both of y’all here today.”
You gave him a tight smile. “Hey, Stack.”
Smoke smirked as Stack walked in with a paper plate of wings, wearing a gold chain and a devilish smirk. “What’s up, baby mama?” Stack grinned, licking his fingers. “Or should I say baby mama who downgraded to a nigga who work at T-Mobile?”
You squinted. “Y’all are ridiculous.”
“Nah,” Smoke said, closing the front door behind you. “He ridiculous. Walkin’ ‘round thinkin’ he competition. Heard he wear them little loafers with no socks.”
“He don’t,” you muttered, lying.
“Bet he say ‘grand rising’ too,” Stack added with a snort. “That’s not a man. That’s a therapist with a fade.”
“I’m not doin’ this today,” you said, putting the backpack down hard. “He treats me right.”
“‘Treats you right’ but don’t know how to fight?” Smoke stepped in, arms folded across his broad chest. “You lettin’ a soft nigga be around my son? C’mon, mama. He ain’t even built for this life. If somethin’ popped off, he’d hide behind you.”
“Nigga probably cry when he get pulled over,” Stack added, cracking open a Sprite. “Talkin’ about, ‘I pay my taxes!’”
You wanted to be mad. You did. But their tag-team was relentless—and funny.
You groaned.
“He look like he cry after sex. Probably moans with his eyes closed and say, ‘Am I pleasuring you?’”
“Y’all done?” you asked flatly.
Smoke shook his head. “Nah, not until you answer one question.”
You tilted your chin. “What?”
He looked you dead in the face.
“When shit hit the fan, and you need somebody who’s gon’ slide, gon’ ride—you really think that cornball you got now gon’ stand ten toes behind you and our kid? Or you gon’ end up callin’ me?”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The silence in the room got loud.
Stack laughed from the kitchen. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
Smoke stepped up close, all low voice and heavy heat. “Keep playin’ house with that nigga. But when you tired of fake peace and yoga-ass sex, you know where I’m at.”
You scoffed and turned to leave—but not before Stack called out, “Tell him next time he come pick you up, to park on the other side of the street. My neighbors allergic to bitch-ass energy.”
You stood frozen in the doorway for a long second before your son called from the back, “Mama? You leavin’?”
“Yeah, baby,” you said, voice thick. “Mama’s leavin’.”
But even as you walked away, the way Smoke watched you—hungry, smug, dangerous—you knew you’d be back.
And that’s what scared you the most.
Smoke leaned against the doorway again, smiling like a man who knew he still had it. “Later, mama.”
You didn’t look back. But your heart? Yeah—it stayed right there in that damn house.
And worse?
Smoke knew it.
You made it halfway down the steps before you heard the door open again behind you.
“Wait.”
You stopped, hand on your car door, not turning around. Just… waiting. Breathing.
“What?” you asked, already tired, already knowing whatever he had to say was gonna make things worse.
Smoke’s voice dropped. “You leavin’ like that, and we not gon’ talk for another week? You cool with that?”
You slowly turned, face blank, lips tight.
“We don’t need to talk,” you said. “You got him for the weekend. I’ll pick him up Sunday.”
“That ain’t what I asked.”
Your fingers tightened on the car door.
Stack was still inside, but quiet now—too quiet. You could feel the weight of both their eyes on you.
Smoke walked toward you slow, steady. Like he had nowhere to be but here. Like he didn’t give a damn about the new man, or the way your jaw clenched when he got too close.
“Y’know what I think?” he said, voice low and gritty. “I think you tryna prove somethin’—to yourself. Not to me. Not to him. You tired of this life, tired of the mess, so you went and found the safest man you could. Somethin’ neat. Predictable.”
He stepped in close enough that you could see the gold in his grill glinting when he spoke.
“But safe don’t mean happy.”
You blinked at him, your throat tightening before you could stop it. “I am happy.”
Smoke raised an eyebrow. “That why your hands shakin’ right now?”
You glanced down—and cursed under your breath when you saw he was right. Fingers trembling around your car keys.
“I’m fine.”
“Fine ain’t love. Fine ain’t joy. Fine is what people say when they tryna convince themselves they ain’t settlin’.”
Your breath hitched.
“You got me twisted if you think I want to come back here and be played with,” you snapped. “I left for a reason.”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “But you came back for one too.”
“You forget who the fuck you built all this with?” he asked, voice low and ragged. “Who kept you safe?Who put money in your mama pocket and never said a word?”
You opened your mouth to argue—but the words didn’t come. Because he wasn’t wrong. And you hated that he wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t just about your son. It wasn’t just about co-parenting.
It was about the way this house felt like it knew you. Like you’d left parts of yourself here that your new man never even touched. It was about the way Smoke looked at you like you were still his, even after all this time. And the worst part? You didn’t even fight it anymore. You just buried it. Swallowed it.
“I gotta go,” you whispered, finally unlocking your door.
“Yeah,” he said, stepping back. “Go ahead. But you know where the real is.”
“Next time you come over here wit’ his scent on your skin, I’m fuckin’ it off you”
You slid behind the wheel, started the engine.
And just as you reached to shift gears, Stack leaned out the front door with his usual smug grin. “Hey!”
You looked up.
“If little man’s stepdaddy ever wanna learn how to change a tire, tell him we do classes now. Free for lames.”
You flipped him off through the windshield. He just laughed.
Smoke leaned in, one last time, one hand on your car door. “He can’t protect what he can’t handle. And you?” His voice dropped. “You too much woman for half a man.”
You didn’t say anything. You just drove off, pretending you didn’t see the way your hands still trembled on the wheel.
But later that night?
When your son was already asleep in his Spider-Man sheets, and your man was still out at some networking dinner that didn’t include a plus-one, your phone lit up.
Smoke:
“He ever fix that weak-ass handshake? Felt like I was dappin’ a wet napkin.”
You stared.
Cutting your phone off you turned over when you got a call from smoke.
your husband wasn't the joking type, but his brother sure was. that was fine, you would teach him that every game didn't need to be brought home.
cw: 18+ (suggestive language), cursing, black reader, second person pov
an: *taps mic* is this thing on?!
The man standing in front of you was not your husband.
He looked like him, sure, from the warm, dark eyes framed by unfairly thick lashes down to the full lips that sat beneath neatly trimmed facial hair.
But you knew better.
Smoke had texted you an hour ago, letting you know he was on the way home. Usually, he’d call you when he was heading in, asking if you needed anything or if you’d cooked, but you hadn’t thought much of it, responding with wishes of safe travels and going on about your business. Now you were wondering if the lack of phone call had been in an effort to keep you from clocking their scheme too soon.
Unfortunately, they had failed.
The differences between Smoke and Stack were less than minimal when it came to their appearance. Early on, you might have confused them once or twice on account of not having met Smoke’s family yet, but you were seasoned now. You could pick your husband out if he were a quintuplet.
Stack stood in front of you with a dour expression, dressed in the suit that Smoke had left home in earlier that morning, coincidentally on his way to meet his brother for a business meeting.
From then to now, you had no clue what they’d been up to beyond Smoke’s texts through the day, but those were often far and few between. Your husband was a man of few words, especially when it pertained to business. You didn’t particularly mind, secure in the fact that you would always be the first person notified if something bad happened.
You refocused your attention on Stack, watching him watch you like he was waiting for you to catch on. How he had convinced your husband to play such a silly game, you had no clue, but whatever. You would play your role.
“Welcome home, handsome,” you said, arms reaching up to twine around Stack’s neck in a textbook loving embrace.
Stack wasn’t so good of an actor that he could conceal the way he startled, arms stuttering as they lifted to wrap around your waist in turn, “Evening, baby. How was your day?”
“Oh, it was fine. Just missed you a lot,” you put on a charming smile, leaning back to look Stack in the eye. One of your hands slid slowly around his neck and down the muscled planes of his chest, “How was yours?”
Stack blinked a couple of times, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to laugh, “It was alright. Meeting went well and all that.”
“Oh yeah?” You responded, fingers toying with the buttons of his dress shirt, “Well a good job deserves a fittin’ reward, don’t you think?”
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw movement in the hall that connected the kitchen, where you and Stack stood, to the garage. Your smile turned coy, full lips twisting wickedly.
Stack cleared his throat, stepping backwards out of your embrace in an attempt to make some distance, but you followed him anyway, the gap between you disappearing just as quickly as it formed, “Don’t need a gift for doing my job, baby.”
You hummed, hands raising to push him lightly against the edge of the counter, “I didn’t say anything about a gift, handsome.”
The emerging bewilderment on Stack’s face almost made you crack, the laugh bubbling up in chest, but you were too committed to your performance. Silly games, silly prizes, and all that.
“Don’t go gettin’ shy on me now,” you whispered, pressed in close against his chest, “Since when you had a problem with a lil’ kitchen love? You don’t like bending me over the counters no more?”
If you hadn’t been so close, you would’ve missed the choked off whimper that came from Stack’s throat. His eyes darted towards that dark hallway like he was waiting for Smoke to turn the corner and jack him up.
But you knew he wouldn’t.
He was watching, you knew that. You could practically feel his eyes traveling over you from that hallway, gaze as piercing as you knew it to be.
He wanted to see how far you would go. You wanted him to make you stop.
A different game, but just as fun.
Your hands drifted slowly over Stack’s ribcage and down to his waist, nails scraping softly over the fabric. By the time you’d reached his thighs you could feel his heart beat quickening.
“Or maybe,” you whispered, those fingers creeping towards his zipper, “you’re in the mood for something else..”
You let your voice trail off, tone layered with heat and intent, as you began to shift, crouching low until you rested perfectly on your knees. Your eyes met Stack’s from where he stood frozen above you, mouth slack with genuine shock. His gaze shifted from yours to the grip your fingers now had on his zipper and back.
“Is that what it is, baby?” You murmured sweetly, face moving closer until your lips hovered just shy of making damning contact with his pants leg, “Is my mouth a better reward than my—”
Stack jerked suddenly, and you didn’t have to turn to know that Smoke had finally made his entrance. You rose slowly from your spot on the floor, a false look of confusion painted on your face. It was for Stack’s benefit more than yours at this point, and he knew that.
“What’s wrong, baby? Why you actin’ like this?”
“Game’s over, stop fuckin’ around,” Smoke cut in before he could respond, voice gruff.
You glanced back and forth between the two of them, eyes widening dramatically, “Smoke?! Oh my goodness! I thought you were him!”
Smoke’s voice was sharper, “Cut it out.”
You held on to your wide eyed look for a few more seconds before finally allowing your expression to drop, a laugh rumbling in your chest, “Okay, okay. I’m done.”
Stack, brain finally back online, sputtered in amused disbelief, “You knew the whole time? Could’a fooled me, shit!”
You hummed, laughter tapering off, “Might'a been born at night, but not last night, Stack. You think I can’t recognize my own husband?”
“Ah hell,” he grumbled, “You should’a just said somethin’.”
“Maybe,” you agreed, “But now y’all know I ain’t the one for these crazy games, and..”
Your gaze shifted to your husband, ever the quiet observer, “This was much more fun, don’t you think, Elijah?”
Smoke huffed a dry laugh, hand reaching out to ease you closer, “Sure. Why don’t you head on upstairs? Let me walk this fool out and I’ll be up to talk about just how hilarious you are.”
The following silence was heavy, not with tension but heat and you couldn’t help the goosebumps that rose to life on the skin under Smoke’s fingers.
You didn’t bother with a response, smiling sweetly instead and turning towards where Smoke was directing you, a brief ‘Have a good night’ tossed Stack’s way as you left the room.
Stack shuffled back the way he’d came, through the dark hallway and out to the garage that was still open. His eyes flitted from the dark glint of his truck’s metal to the cement floor, contemplative.
“What, Stack?” Smoke muttered, standing behind him in the doorway.
“Guess she know’s you better than we thought, huh?” He responded, a weak attempt at humor.
Smoke didn’t respond. Stack hadn't expected him to.
He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, opting to twirl it around his fingers rather than reaching next for a lighter, "You think she really would'a..."
"If I let her," Smoke responded coolly. "'s that what you wanted me to do?"
It was Stack's turn to go quiet, he fingers stilling long enough for the cigarette to slide silently to the floor.
He heard Smoke turn on his heel, muttering, "Drive safe. And close the garage 'fore you leave."
The door closed with finality and Stack released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
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