pairing: dad!scott miller x f!co-parent reader
synopsis: you go to pick your daughter up from scott's after a bad date, but she begs you to stay and you just don't have it in you to argue with her
content: [18+ MDNI!!] family time!!, slightly bossy lacey, scott not being a total pushover, reader being reader <3, making out, a little dry humping, a little thigh riding, bad bad date, unprotected pinv (good for them lowkey), creampie, doggy, scott eats it through reader's panties, light spanking, a little tit squeezing, softish scott, light anal play, creampie
word count: 5.2k (woah?)
taglist: @she-sounds-hidieous, @dracuula98, @1eliana123-blog, @everydaydreamer, @wildflowersandvibranium, @clarkentluvr, @magicwithaknife, @winterschildren8, @laniec03, @peachiestevie, @snowyathena, @only-dot-nicky, @hoodharlow, @whosmev, @rynwritesstuff, @only4fun11, @kryptidfiles, @adoringanakin, @jam1esl0v4, @aciecre, @yinny-roma, @burrowedinmyheart, @mossmydarling
author's note: lowkey soft launching an*l on this blog but also highkey need to make these two much freakier frogs... anyways more dad!scott... me fulfilling requests?? fab double whammy. this has been extremely lightly edited so please have grace!! if u guys like it, please feel free to leave a comment, a reblog, maybe even send an ask!! thank u and i hope u enjoy!!
dad!scott masterlist ☆ main masterlist ☆ join my taglist
You should know it’s going to be one of those nights when Scott and Lacey show up at the door and Lacey doesn’t have her backpack.
“Honey, you have to have your backpack ready when I pick you up,” you sigh.
Your night is long enough already, you don’t need the added stress of negotiating with her.
There’s no response, just the gentle lean and stretching of her arms that signals you have to take her.
Her face is already shifting, features rearranging themselves into the picture of gentle pleading.
“Daddy said I should ask if maybe I can stay another night and you can also stay,” she huffs out in one breath. She occupies her hands with the necklace you’re wearing: a dainty heart locket with pictures of her on either side.
“Lacey sweetheart. You know you have to come home with mommy today. Scott go get her backpack please.”
Lacey turns her pleading gaze on Scott and you can’t help the irritated sigh that leaves your lips when he doesn’t move.
“Please mommy it’s just today.”
She’s looking straight at you now, the corners of her lips already tilting down.
You know it's going to be one of those nights when her bottom lip starts quivering, tears already gathering on her bottom lash line.
"Mommy, please. I always have to go. I wanna stay," she says, voice wavering as she looks between you and Scott. Soft hands tug at your earrings before resting gently on your cheek, the way you rest your palm on her cheeks when you need her to focus on you.
"I wanna stay again mommy, please," she repeats, already sniffling.
You know you need to put your foot down now, respect the rules you've put in place, but with the night you've had you just don't have it in you to add ‘making Lacey cry’ to your list, so you acquiesce with a sigh and a nod, brushing past Scott as he tries not to smile.
“You look good tonight,” he says. “Real good.”
You roll your eyes, not even sparing him a glance as you push your jacket into his hands.
“Rough night, huh,” you hear him say as you walk into the living room, where Lacey’s already waiting for you on the couch, patting the empty spots next to her with a smile on her face so bright you forgive her for being Scott’s most effective weapon against you.
“Daddy and I made pizzas all on our own today,” she says, excitedly pressing her fingers into your thighs like she’s kneading dough. “Daddy was throwing it real high up. Like whoosh!! like a real pizza maker!”
“Sounds exciting! Did you throw any pizza dough in the air?”
“No. I tried a little bit but I think I’m not good at it yet,” her voice drops and you can almost see her next to Scott, little brain working over time to cobble together the co-ordination to copy him as best she could.
“A little more practice and you’ll be good in no time,” Scott promises, couch shifting as he settles in on her other side.
That perks her right up, and she makes Scott promise to help her practice the next time he has her.
“‘course, sweet pea,” he says with a squeeze.
Satisfied with his promise, she turns her attention to picking a movie, flicking through the options on the TV. She settles on Toy Story, then hops down to get some snacks with Scott.
“Drink?”
“Wine,” you sigh, sprawling across couch. “Don’t be shy, either.”
“Scale of one to ten how bad was he?” Scott calls from the kitchen.
You hear cabinet doors opening and closing, the drag of Lacey’s stepladder as she insists she can get her own snacks.
“Ten. Miserable from start to finish,” you complain as you get comfortable.
“From start to finish?”
“Start to finish,” you confirm, sitting up again when Lacey comes back with a packet of gummy worms, holding them out for you to open. You’re going to talk to Scott about candy after bed time, but for now you’re content with deducting Mom Tax in the form of three worms and popping them into your mouth while Lacey tries to get comfortable.
When Scott gets back with your drinks, you’re happy to find that he hasn’t been shy at all with your wine.
“Now we can watch,” Lacey says.
“Nuh uh, little miss,” Scott starts as she reaches for the remote. “You need to put your jammies on before we watch.”
“But why if it’s not bed time yet.”
She makes no move to get up, instead turning her most pitiful ‘please’ look onto Scott.
“Because if you fall asleep, and I wake you up to change you’re gonna be grumpy.”
“But I won’t fall asleep, I promise.”
She sticks her pinky out and you see Scott’s hand twitch.
“Yes you will sweetheart, it’s late.”
“How come mommy doesn’t have to change, but she always falls asleep on movie night?”
“Because if mommy falls asleep, I don’t have to wake her up, or carry her to bed or change her into her jammies.”
Lacey sighs. Scott sighs louder. Lacey finally gets off the couch.
“Do you want my help?”
“No,” Lacey says, then as an afterthought: “No, thank you, I mean.”
Disappointment flickers across Scott’s face, but it’s gone when he actually turns to you.
There’s a short, awkward silence as Scott puts your feet in his lap, rubbing at your calves while you take a sip.
“I didn’t know you knew how to toss dough,” you say, leaning back onto the armrest so you can look at him. He still has a little flour in his hair, which — now that you’re looking at him properly — you can see is longer than before. It curls at the nape of his neck, and a few stray strands fall into his face. He’s also got facial hair, a fact so surprising you’re shocked you didn’t notice it before.
“And you changed your look. Who are you?”
He rubs at the facial hair in a move that’s a touch too charming to be shy as he smiles at you.
“Thought I’d switch it up a little, you really just noticed?”
“I haven’t seen you in a week, Scott.”
“My hair was definitely longer, you just don’t pay attention to me,” he fake pouts, squeezing at your calf.
You sigh, sitting up so you can take another swig of wine.
“I’m sorry I didn’t notice, Scott. I’m sure it hurt to be spurned,” you remark. “And the dough tossing?”
“Shit. No ‘you look good’, no ‘suits you’ at least? Harsh.”
You roll your eyes.
“You look good, Scott. Facial hair does a lot for you,” you admit. You find it extremely unfair that he looks good with or without. You find it even more unfair that he’d managed to deprive you of the view the entire time you’d known each other.
“I know,” he smiles. “And I didn’t know how to toss pizza dough until two nights ago. I’d signed us up for a Make Your Own Pizza night, but the class got cancelled so I just figured out how to do it myself. Practised when she went to bed. Money saved,” he shrugs, like learning to toss dough because a pizza making class got cancelled was the easiest thing in the world.
“You learned in one night,” you say surprised.
“Not hard to be decent at it. Unless of course you have the co-ordination of a toddler.”
“Or perhaps are one,” you snort.
“Forgot that kids need to grow,” he laughs. “She was a star on the rest of the prep though,” he smiles. There’s an almost dreamy look on his face, and even though you’ve seen it plenty of times, it never fails to surprise you how sentimental Scott gets over Lacey.
You’re robbed of your chance to tease him about it when Lacey comes running back, nightie on both inside out and back to front.
“Movie time,” she says, then sighs when Scott stops her.
“You almost got it right,” he says, sliding it off of her and fixing it before putting it back on. “But the picture needs to be in the front, silly goose,” he adds with tickle of her tummy. She giggles, sharp and high-pitched as Scott scoops her up and brings her onto the couch. You can’t help the smile on your face when you watch them.
“I’ve never seen these jammies before, Lace,” you say when you notice the picture on the front.
“They’re new, because yesterdays I had an accident but then daddy didn’t have any jammies for me so I had to sleep in his t-shirt but it was huuuuuggeeeee,” she giggles. “So then after that we went to the shops and daddy got me new jammies and some more clothes and even some toys,” she nods.
“Couple months back,” Scott clarifies, but you just laugh.
“You’ve been watching me give her a backpack when she comes to yours and you had clothes?”
“You seemed to like the ritual of it. Who am I to take that from you?”
You want to argue, but Lacey’s impatient and she’s had her movie night delayed long enough so the three of you get comfortable, Lacey in the middle and you and Scott on either side.
As expected, you’re no more than halfway into the movie when Lacey’s head drops onto your arm, her eyes start drooping, eyelids fluttering in an attempt to stay awake.
“Hey sweetpea, might be bedtime,” you whisper, shaking her gently.
“But I’m not sleepy,” she says through a yawn too big for her to pretend.
“We’ll finish the movie tomorrow,” Scott promises.
“Don’t watch it without me,” she says, fighting another yawn.
“Promise. Say goodnight to your mom, and thank you,” Scott instructs.
“Night mommy, thank you for not making us go home,” she says, burrowing her face into the side of your body.
“Goodnight, sweetpea, I love you,” you murmur kissing the top of her head. You suspect she might love you too but her yawn cuts through her words, and then Scott is picking her up and carrying her to bed.
You down what’s left of your wine, consider if you’ll get away with making Scott sleep on his couch. You’re listening to the hum of the TV, enjoying the buzz. It’s been a while since you’ve spent the night at Scott’s, and he’s definitely changed some things, but it feels more familiar than it has any right to. It’s homier than his old one, and he has various Lacey Crafts displayed around the living room. Happy crayon stick figures playing in the sun stuck up on the walls, oddly shaped rocks that have been patchily painted and had googly eyes stuck on them lining the DVD cabinet beneath the TV. So much proof that Lacey lives and plays here that you may as well be back at your house.
“Refill?” Scott’s voice pulls you out of your head.
“And make it generous,” you smile.
He mock salutes, then disappears into the kitchen. With Lacey gone, you feel the urge to smooth down your dress, and you’re suddenly aware of just how overdressed you are to be lying on Scott’s couch. And then you remember it’s not really your fault and you feel yourself getting mad again at your failure of a date night.
“So, what was wrong with this one,” Scott asks when he’s back, handing you your wine. He takes a swig of his own drink before putting on the side table and joining you on the couch. You still have your legs over his lap, but he reaches out so he can trace, soft electrifying spirals on your stomach, his fingers soft and buzzy through the satin.
“You really should’ve let me take her home,” you sigh trying to change the subject. This is too close to intimate for your liking, but the wine makes you lazy and there’s no harm in letting him make you feel better, even just for a little bit.
He cocks his brow at you.
“She’s spending the rest of the break with my parents, remember?”
He rolls his eyes, and then quicker than you can process, he’s pulling you into his chest and laying down so that you’re practically on top of him.
“Tell me about your date,” he says, fingers under your chin to force you to look at him.
“You’re just gonna make fun of me.”
“Obviously. But I’d also like to know, I’m curious.”
“And how would your girlfriend feel about you listening to me vent about my shitty date while lying on top of you?”
His face pulls together in confusion.
“My what?”
“Aren’t you seeing someone?” you ask.
“No,” he huffs.
“Yes you are. I met her last month, Scott,” you remind him.
You remember her — driven and sweet and completely taken by Scott, clinging to him as the three of you chit chatted idly at Javi’s birthday party.
“Not anymore,” he mutters, gently pulling your hand up so he can press a kiss to your fingertips. “Funnily enough, we broke up the day after the party.”
“Scott.”
“She broke up with me! I tried,” he defends, his other hand sliding down your back to rest on your butt.
You cradle his jaw, ignoring the flutter when you feel the rough hair beneath your palms.
“Is that the reason for the new look? Heartbreak makeover?"
“No. I told you I just wanted to switch it up.” He sighs. “See how I answer your questions? Answer mine.”
“Why do you care?”
“You’re my daughter’s mom. Be weird if I didn’t care about you at least a little.”
He’s too sincere, not enough sarcasm behind his words for you to justify another deflection.
“This was a third date, and I definitely ignored some of his earlier… quirks, but he was nice overall and I thought he’d be a fun guy casually,” you start.
“You ignored someone’s little quirks? Since when?”
“Since I got told I’m too picky,” you shrug. “Anyway. I get all dolled up, look good, feel good, smell good and when I get to the restaurant I’m waiting almost twenty minutes for him to get there. NO text, NO call, NO warning. Then he gets there, doesn’t even apologise or try to compensate by complimenting me. Just ‘hi’ and a side hug and then he was pulling out his seat.”
Scott’s face has morphed into something you can only place as disgust, and you shrug.
“I figure he’s having a bad day, so I let it go and try making conversation, but all he can talk about is himself, and he snaps his fingers at the waitress, and it’s like… who is this guy? Obviously, I ask him what’s going on, thinking that maybe he’s dealing with something and do you wanna know what his answer was?”
“Please, spill.”
“He was acting like a douche, because he felt like I hadn’t invited him home quick enough and instead of coming to the conclusion that maybe I wanted to get to know him first and this is only our third fucking date,” you whisper harshly, trying your best not to get loud, “maybe I was just being wary. No, he decides that I’m purposely holding out on him because he was ‘too nice’ and maybe if he did a complete 180, I’d feel more attracted to him. Now I’m confused, because do I seem like the type of woman who dates assholes? And I ask him that, and he says that I must be, because otherwise I wouldn’t be a single mom. The fucking nerve, he’s never even asked about you. And the cherry on top?”
“You’re not done?”
He looks genuinely incredulous.
“God, I wish. The worst thing is that he picked some upscale restaurant so now I'm out a hundred bucks and I didn't even have a good time. Food was great though," you shrug.
"You paid to go on a shitty date. How empowering," Scott rolls his eyes.
"Don't start, we were having such a good time. You were almost one of the girls. "
"Just saying. I'm an asshole and I wouldn't make you pay to go on a shitty date with me," he shrugs, the pads of his fingers warm as he takes the glass from you. “Also I don’t wanna be one of the girls. I’m your daughter’s father.”
You ignore the way his fingers have slipped beneath the hem of your dress, trying desperately to focus on his face instead.
“I bet this is real amusing for you,” you say, narrowing your eyes.
“Not in the slightest. I didn’t realise it was that bad.”
His fingers toy with the edges of your underwear, snapping it gently against your skin.
"Dating as a single parent is hard,” you shrug.
“I’m a single dad and I’ve been just fine.”
“Yes, ‘cause you’re a single dad,” you emphasise, pushing a finger into his chest. “Women love single dads, especially if their kids love them. And you have a daughter. Women fucking go crazy for dads with daughters.”
“Yeah well you have those,” he argues, nodding down at your boobs. “Worked on me.” He smirks down at you, and you ignore the traitorous tug of want in your stomach.
“These aren’t as effective on weird men when you’re a single mom. Having a daughter is always effective when you’re a single dad.”
“Compelling argument, except I don’t use Lacey as a flirting mechanism.”
“Oh so it’s just me you use her emotional guerrilla skills on, then?”
He scoffs.
“She wanted to stay another night. You know what she’s like when she wants something. Stubborn, just like you.”
You roll your eyes.
“You’re not slick, Scott.”
“You sounded mad over text. Knew you wouldn’t say yes if I asked.”
He’s pressing kisses to the side of your head, and the scratch of his moustache more pleasant than you’d like to let him know.
“Scott?”
He hums, pulling away so he can look at you.
“I don’t need you to pity fuck me.”
He scowls in offense.
“I’ve never pity fucked you before, so why would I start now? You look good,” he says with a kiss to your cheek. “You look really good, and I don’t know about the other losers you fuck, but I never let a pretty woman get all dolled up just to send her home high and dry and out a hundred dollars.”
You sit up, pulling him up with you so you’re straddling him.
“You make it sound so kind. Almost charitable,” you mumble as you push at the hair framing his face.
“I’m nicer than you give me credit for.”
He presses a soft kiss into the crook of your neck, then squeezes at your ass. “I also missed you.”
“Scott,” you sigh.
“Nothing wrong. We’re both single right now,” he mutters into your neck. He cradles your face, tracing his thumb over your bottom lip. His lips ghost over yours, and you shudder, then he’s kissing you. The pressure of his lips on yours is dizzying in a way you can’t blame on the alcohol, and he tugs at your bottom lip with a familiar hunger, his arm circling your waist as the other keeps your face cradled.
Your fingers tangle in his hair as you press in closer to him, pushing him into the back of the couch as you press your tongue to his, smiling when he lets out a strangled moan beneath you. It’s an ego boost, feeling the rise and fall of Scott’s chest beneath you as you bite gently at his bottom lip, his hands on your waist as he rocks you against him.
He only pulls away to make you straddle his thigh, pressing long kisses on your throat before kissing you properly again, and your head feels light as you feel him thick and solid beneath you. Reliable, almost. His hands are under the hem of your dress again, kneading the flesh of your ass, squeezing so hard you know he’s gonna leave bruises. He drags his tongue along the path marked out by the dainty chain of your locket, then presses a soft kiss to the metal heart before turning his attention to your boobs.
“Been keeping my girls happy for me?” he asks. He nips at the exposed cleavage, hands cupping them through the dress. “They’re wasted on the men you date,” he complains. A hand slips down the front of your dress, and you want to chastise him, but he’s flexing his thigh beneath you and when he takes the flesh into his mouth you lose all focus, fingers curling tighter into his hair.
The creaking of a door stops you both, sends a sharp bolt of fear down your spine. When Lacey footsteps don’t echo down the hallway you sigh in relief.
“Couch probably isn’t the best place for this,” he says, pulling your dress back into place.
You wonder whether a house with Lacey in it is ever the best place for this, but he’s already standing you up, guiding you towards the bedroom.
He’s barely locked his door when his lips are on yours again and he’s pushing you backwards until the backs of your knees hit the bed.
“We’re not supposed to do this while she’s in the house,” you whisper, fingers already fumbling with the waistband of his sleep pants.
“Relax,” he says with a firm grip on your hands. He places them on the bed next to you, and then he’s spreading your legs as he sinks down onto his knees. “You just have to be quiet for me, yeah? Look too good to end the night without something.” He presses a soft kiss to the inside of your knee, heat blooming on your thighs when he pushes the hem of your dress up, the satin bunching up around your hips. Teeth press into the soft flesh of your thighs and you can’t help the short, strangled sound that leaves your mouth.
“Shhh,” he whispers into the skin. “Gotta be quiet, remember?”
“Sorry, I’m not used to the hair,” you sigh as he sucks at the inside of your thigh again, hands keeping your legs spread apart.
“You like it? Or d’you want it gone?”
“Keep it, it’s good,” you sigh, when you feel his tongue pressed along the edge of your panties. He just grunts, then squeezes your thigh in acknowledgement.
“My dress, Scott,” you warn him.
“I’ll be careful,” he says, as he hurriedly pushes the material until its over your hips. You have too many shirts with missing buttons to take him at his word, but he doesn’t seem interested in arguing. “You’re fucking nuts,” he says, eyes locked on the sheer scrap of fabric masquerading as underwear that you’d chosen for the night. “Wasting this on other guys,” he mumbles, lips pressed to your mound through the material. He doesn’t give you a chance to question him, laying his tongue flat against the lace, warm and flat as he holds you still. Your stomach lurches, and you’re embarrassed, but you’re beyond caring. He’s slow, tongue prodding over the material as it gets progressively wetter. You want him to hurry up, try your best to press yourself right against him, but he doesn’t budge. He uses a finger to push the sopping wet material against your clit, his other hand tightening around your thigh when your hips twitch.
“Stop, Scott. Do it properly,” you whine when he keeps mouthing at you over the material.
“Is that how we ask?”
You despise the smugness beneath his question.
“I thought you wouldn’t leave me high and dry. Thought you were different,” you fire back.
“Not dry at all,” he says, knuckle pressing into your slit. You squirm uncomfortably as the underwear sticks itself to you. “But I keep promises.”
You lie back in relief, but it’s short lived, because the moment he has your panties tossed into some dark corner of his room he’s lapping at you like a man starved. It’s torturous, made no better by the coarse drag of his facial hair and the fact that he’s paying attention to everything but your clit. He’s pressing sloppy kisses into the insides of your thighs, sucking harshly then soothing the ache with his tongue. He’s pressing his tongue flat against you, tongue teasing at your slit, coming right up so he can ghost gently over the neglected bundle of nerves at the top before he pulls away again.
You know better than to beg. He knows, he knows and he’s punishing you, and you’d rather not give him the benefit of seeing you accept this punishment.
When you’re squirming beneath his mouth, skin growing slick and your stomach tightening beyond what you think you can handle he finally gets back up.
“Turn over,” he says with a soft tap of your thighs. His pants are already halfway down his thighs, but he stops you when you reach for your zipper. “Keep it on,” he instructs as he turns you over himself, his hand pressing into the space between your shoulder blades. “This colour’s so pretty on you, you know. Can’t believe he didn’t lose all sense seeing you in this.”
You’d consider him romantic if he didn’t have his erection pressed between your lips, rocking gently as he twitched against you.
“That what’s happening to you?”
You’re pushing back, reaching for him, but he just puts your hand back on the mattress.
“I’m getting there,” he says with a soft tap against one of your ass cheeks, then a slightly harder one that makes you groan into the mattress. “Always making me wait, but when it’s your turn,” he squeezes harshly, “I need to hurry up. Very unfair of you,” he clicks his tongue softly.
He’s still rocking gently, teasing, and just when you think you can’t take much more he pushes into you in one swift stroke, all the way to the base like he knows you’ll stretch to accommodate him. You can feel your dress slipping and shifting as he presses you into the arch he wants, his encouragement coming in gruff sentences as he pulls out so he can push back into you, deep and slow.
“Would never let pussy like this go to waste, are you fucking kidding me,” he mumbles, picking up the pace with no regard for the fact that you’re struggling to keep up. You turn to face him as best you can, but he’s not looking at you, eyes locked instead on where you stretch around him.
He hasn’t bothered taking his pants off the whole way, and the cotton rubs almost uncomfortably against the backs of your thighs with every thrust, but it becomes background noise as Scott fucks you, his pace brutal. You feel the cool air of the room against your back as Scott drags the zip down, but he still doesn’t take it off, just slides one of his hands in through the back so he can grope at your tits, and you bury your face back into his mattress as he squeezes at your nipple.His other hand remains anchored on your hip, occasionally coming off to push your dress back into position.
“So perfect for me,” he says when takes a brief pause, kissing down your spine before pushing the dress further up so he can bite gently at your hip. “So goddamn perfect,” he says with squeeze of your ass, using both hands to spread you open again. He holds you steady when he slides back into you — lets you feel the weight of him as he catches his breath. When he starts fucking you again, it’s rough and hard, the lewd sound of skin meeting skin mixing with your muffle moans. You’re trying to be quiet, really but when you hear the way he groans your name like he hasn’t had you like this fifty times before, you let out a pathetic whimper.
There’s a pause and then you feel his thumb, thick and wet as it prods at your asshole and you feel butterflies you haven’t felt in a while.
“You like it there?” he asks, pushing a little harder. “Feels so tight. She being neglected? Not letting your other guys in there?”
Your brain is stuck between letting him know that there are no other guys and confirming that he is in fact the only person who knows you that intimately so you just warble out a disjointed string of sounds and hope that he understands you.
“I’m real special, huh,” he gloats, gently working his way deeper. You nod against your better judgement. “Right,” he snorts. “Special enough to have you any way I want, but not special enough to take you for a proper dinner before I do it.”
He’s pressing his thumb in properly before you can respond and the pressure is more than you can handle, walls fluttering then spasming around him.
“Whatever,” he continues, rolling his hips like he can’t feel you squirming beneath him. You can feel him twitching inside you, but he keeps his strokes slow, makes you feel every inch he’s got to give you as you grasp for him, trying to breathe through the waves of pleasure washing over you. “You gonna let me back in here one day? Bet she’s all tight again, gonna have to work you up to it nice and slow.” He’s fantasising, losing his rhythm as he presses his thumb into you a little harder. “You gonna let me sweetheart? Gonna let me fill ‘er up next time?”
You nod, and he laughs.
“Glad you know what’s good for you,” he groans, and you tighten around him again. He’s swearing, barely audible complaints tumbling from his lips as he finally speeds up again. You probably wouldn’t be able to hear him anyways, too focused on keeping your voice down with your teeth pressed painfully into your lower lip. Scott’s fighting a losing battle, grunts growing louder before he finally lets out a choked groan, his hips stuttering as he empties into you, thumb gently popping out of your ass so he can pull you up to him and place a clumsy kiss on your lips. He doesn’t let you move until he’s slipped out of you, soft and slick and then he follows you as you fall back onto the bed, exhausted.
“You really gonna let me fuck you in the ass again?” Scott asks, when he’s caught his breath.
“No towel, no pyjamas, just thinking with your dick aren’t you?”
He just kisses you, slow and sweet.
“Just making sure. Circling back and all that,” he smiles.
“Just get me a towel you freak,” you command, sitting up.
You pull your dress over your head and toss it onto the floor.
“And a shirt. Then we can discuss whatever you want,” you yawn.
“You’re the greatest woman alive, you know that?”
You just laugh, eyes fluttering shut as you wait for him to do as he’s told.
clark vowing to be of free use…. no matter the time or day, whether he was sleeping, busy, eating, tired or wide awake, he lets you have free playtime whenever you pleased to mess with his dick, to pull and yank on it, drool on it, slide yourself on it. sometimes to test him and mess with him when he works from home you absolutely take advantage of his vow, having him whimpering in his swivel chair while he responds to emails while you spank his cock and fool around with it like you’re playing helicopter. he takes it all like a good, obedient boy, cumming when you want him to, getting hard when you demand him to. he’s completely at the mercy of his lady and his dick might as well have her name scrawled on it
lwokey thinking about puppy clark and making him hump your leg while you work on your computer becausw hes been distracting you all day and you ahvent gotten any work done and so youre making him hold onto your calf and drive himself against your skin while you ignore him not even reaching down to strok ehis hair...
Pairing David!Clark Kent x bsf/roommate!reader
Summary After another terrible date, you come home to the one person who always knows how to make it better—your best friend, your roommate, Clark. One comforting touch turns into a line you can’t uncross, and when your phone won’t stop ringing, Clark decides he's had it. (I'm not done with you)
Tags p0rn with minimal plot, 18+, mdni, smuuuut, p in v (unprotected) makin' out, reader on top, stated multiple rounds, creampies, edging, overstimulation, Is this considered phone sex? Smug!Clark (my favorite Clark if I'm being honest), possessive!Clark, yearning!Clark, you and Clark are messy together 4ever
WC 4k
Sucked at writing this fic when I would've much rather sucked Clark's dick, huzzah, i completed galentine's! Not edited bc my eyes are tired
Galentine's #12 by @/wildflowersandvibranium & @/pinksplace
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah, more than that. That was...wow... I...I don't think once was enough for me...”
"Good, because I'm not done with you."
The thrilling, terrifying promise of 'more' after your orgasm already sank in two hours ago, and Clark had been delivering wholeheartedly.
Just then, your phone vibrated violently on the nightstand, the screen flashing 'MARK', the name of your date from earlier.
Even floating in the hazy aftermath of repeated climaxes, you had enough sense to ignore it. It was the obvious decision — the only decision — given that the slow, deep rhythm of Clark’s cock slowly moving inside you again had your full attention.
The phone cut off, then started buzzing again. And again. And again.
"Geez, he’s—persistent," you managed through a sharp gasp, your fingernails leaving half-moons into the solid, sweat-slicked planes of your best friend’s shoulders.
You were straddling him during this round, your body bowed over his larger frame. Your damp forehead pressed against the junction between his collarbone and neck, dragging slightly with every lift of your hips and subsequent drop back onto him. Each movement sent a shockwave of pure, liquid heat through your already cum-slick core.
One of Clark’s calloused hands gently slid from your waist to the meat of your ass to hold you steady, the other coming up to cradle the back of your head, fingers spreading through your hair, guiding you into an open-mouthed kiss.
"Let—him—be," he murmured between each kiss, more mirth than malice. "You’ve got more important stuff to do."
Between laughter and smacking his shoulder playfully, he rolled his hips up on the last word. The motion met your downward slide, and you both let out a long synchronized moan.
Holy Fuck.
Your mind wanted to float clean out of your skull. It was ridiculous: this man was your best friend. Those years you’d lived together, countless nights brushing your teeth side by side. The man you’d slept across the hall from, shared dumb jokes, laughed, made dinner with, and fought over blanket space with. Years of your life spent making a home without crossing this line. Until tonight.
It hadn’t started like this.
It had started with you slamming the apartment door behind you, kicking your heels off, and venting about your date’s endless monologues—his crypto portfolio, his condescending “corrections,” the way he’d checked his reflection in his spoon more than he’d looked at you, and the final, humilating critique of your career over a wilted salad—your anger finally burned down into a smoldering, frustrated ember.
Clark listened to all of it. Opened his arms and carried you to bed. Lit your favorite candle. Made you tea. Sat beside you in bed, his larger frame a solid presence, and he’d reached over and brushed a tear you hadn’t even realized had fallen from your cheek.
That single, tender touch had blown everything wide open.
Like two galaxies finally giving in to gravity. Like a collision you’d both been drifting toward for years without admitting you were on the same trajectory.
His thumb traced your jaw. You turned your face into his palm. He leaned in as his other hand cradled your head, fingers threading into your hair. And then you were kissing.
It was nothing like the awkward, calculated peck on the cheek Mark had given you on the sidewalk.
It was a revelation.
A stunned, breathless "why haven’t you done this sooner?"
And when Clark filled you so completely. A thick, relentless, good-burning stretch that teetered on the edge of too much and not nearly enough— A Big Bang.
Your phone finally stopped ringing.
For five glorious, seconds, there was only the sound of skin on skin—a wet, rhythmic slap-squelch impossible to soften—the ragged pull of your shared breathing, and the soft press of open-mouthed kisses that kept breaking apart because you couldn’t keep your lips together long enough.
The air in your apartment bedroom was thick with the scent of your favorite candle, sex, sweat, and the warm, musky scent of your own arousal. The sheets were damp beneath you, the headboard faintly tapping with every rock of your body as Clark kept you perched above him.
Then your phone started all over again.
A different ringtone.
A video call.
A choked laugh, more disbelief than humor, escaped you, sounding near hysterical. You pushed up a few inches, your breasts still pressed against Clark’s solid chest, nipples dragged tight and sensitive by the movement.
"Oh, for fuck’s sake!" you growled, voice cracking. "I’m going to block that loser. Clark, Superman, save me! What do I do?! Block him, right?"
You met your best friend’s eyes, looking for some sort of agreement, reassurance, the typical version of him that would’ve laughed it off with you.
His summer sky blues, usually so kind and soft, were dark with a rare, possessive heat that made your heart flutter, rendering you silent.
Mine, that look said. Now and forever.
"Answer it."
"What!? What h-happened to leave him be?!" You shrieked, your internal muscles clamping down around his cock like a reflex.
He groaned, head tipping slightly into your plush pillow, throat flexing as he failed to swallow the sound—too far gone to hide what you’d just done to him.
"Answer it, hon," he repeated, gaze steadier than his breathing, a gentle command wrapped in velvet.
The hand lingering on the back of your head brushed a damp strand of hair from the apple of your cheek. His thumb traced your kiss-swollen lower lip, and you opened for him without thinking, sucking the digit into your mouth and moaning around it.
"Since he's so persistent. Maybe he’s calling to say sorry. If not…well, he’ll hear what a good night really sounds like, right?"
The idea was insane. Unacceptable. A violation.
It should've made you recoil.
Instead, it sent a jolt of pure, electric arousal straight to your already soaked cunt, hot enough to make your thighs tense, your belly flutter, all things you had to unpack later.
"Are you—you're sure?" you whimpered, needy and a little nervous, brows pinched together, teeth gnawing on the pad of this thumb.
"Yeah," Clark assured with a bashful shrug, reading you with an ease that was utterly terrifying and comforting. "C’mon, I can feel how much you want to. Your whole body’s itching for it."
He was so right, and that was the worst and best part—because the dark, thrilling pulse between your legs synced with the heavy throb of him buried inside you, and you swallowed hard as you nodded, quick and jerky.
Clark reached over, his arm stretching past your head without parting from you, without letting you escape the weight of his gaze or the fullness of him. He brought the phone to your sweaty hand, while his other palm left your mouth and initiated a slow, circular massage at your lower back.
"Put it on speaker," he whispered. "Keep it low. I’ll be right here with you."
Your fingers fumbled, leaving tiny sweat-lined prints on your screen. You swiped to answer, hit the speaker icon, then quickly plopped the device down by your calf with the screen pressed against the mattress, the faint glow illuminating the rumpled sheets.
"H-hello?" you greeted. You were proud of how almost-normal you sound. Almost.
"Hey! Finally, you picked up. Thought you’d gone to bed already," Mark’s voice burst into the room, cheerful and oblivious.
Reclaiming your place over Clark’s body, you nosed at his neck before sucking lightly at the skin beneath his galloping pulse—a little bit of distraction, partial affection, more a warning to yourself to stay quiet.
"S-sorry," you mumbled, focusing on keeping your breathing even as Clark’s hand ventured lower to squeeze your ass. "I was… busy."
"Busy decompressing from my dazzling company, right? I do have that effect," Mark chuckled. God, he was so egotistical. "I was just thinking about our dinner. I had a really great time with you."
Clark exhaled loudly and chose that moment to move.
His hips lifted in a slow, deliberate upward thrust. You unlatched yourself from his well-loved flesh, biting down hard on your inner cheek to stifle your moan. It still slipped anyway: a sharp, raw gasp, and the tremor in your fingers where they dug into his shoulders.
"Uh, you good?" you heard hesitation already creeping in. Damn.
"Y-yeah, juuuust peachy!" you chirped, pitched high and strained.
You pressed your face harder into Clark’s neck, as if you could bury the heat there, and reached up to tug lightly on his thick hair in retaliation—petty, desperate, utterly useless. "Just… stubbed my pinky toe. On—on the side—of my bed. Bed—frame!"
"Damn, hate when that happens," he sympathized with a low whistle, chuckling at your imagined pain. Asshole.
"Listen, I know our conversation got a little heavy at the end, with the whole ‘career goals’ thing. I didn’t mean to imply your job was… you know, trivial. I just think a woman like you could apply herself better, ya know?"
You wondered if Clark rolled his eyes just as hard as you did.
“Anyways, I was thinking of giving us another shot," the man continued, drowning in his own confidence. "Maybe drinks next Friday? Somewhere quieter. That might be more your speed, right?"
While he rambled, Clark began to move you this time.
His hands slid back up to your hips, gently lifting you just high enough that only the fat, leaking crown of his cock caught at your swollen entrance, keeping you stretched, wide, aware of him.
The emptiness and relief lasted half a second before he tugged you down again, an inch at a time. It was a slow, enticing, torturous re-sheathing that made your eyes roll back. The wet dragging of his cock between your folds was drowned out by the sheets against the phone receiver, but to you, it was deafening.
It was so obvious!
"I—I—fuck— don’t know, Mmm–man," you ended, pathetic and breathless.
You couldn’t even manage to say another man’s name while Clark bottomed out, his pelvis grinding maddeningly slow against your clit. A full-body shudder wracked you, and it wasn’t from secondhand embarrassment.
“Hear me out! You’ll have fun," Mark pressed. "I promise I’ll be on my best behavior."
Your failed date's voice was a grating buzz in your ear, a stark contrast to the visceral reality of Clark’s broad, strong body beneath you, inside you, fucking you, making love to you for the past two hours.
His mouth found your ear, lips brushing the sensitive shell. He blew a light, cool puff of air against your searing skin.
"Tell him you’re busy," he murmured, words barely breaking through your haze. His tongue flicked out, a quick, wet stripe, then he nipped lightly. "Tell him you have a… prior engagement. With me."
You were panting and squirming, trying to keep your breathing quiet, trying to pretend you weren’t being fucked to oblivion while desperately carrying a polite phone conversation.
"I… I'll be busy Friday night. Prior… engagement. With my best friend—Clark—I, uh, told you about him."
"Oh. Clark. Yeah, you did." A scoff, a clear sign of irritation, but he recovered like nothing happened. "Well, what about Saturday? I’m free all day."
Wrapping one powerful arm around your waist to support you, Clark planted both his feet on the mattress, changing the angle with such casual strength it made your stomach flip.
The new position had him pounding you deeper, fuller, the thick ridge of his thick cock rubbing directly over that special spot inside that made white sparks flicker behind your eyelids. Your hands gripped his biceps, clinging for dear life, praying for mercy.
"Oh f-fuck, C-clark," you whimpered into his skin, the curse hardly silent.
Instantly alert, you heard a muffled: "What was that?"
"N-nothing!" you squeaked. You forced a laugh as Clark pressed a kiss along your temple soothingly. It was shrill, unhinged, cringe-worthy in any other context.
"You sure? You sound a little… out of breath."
"S-sorry! Yeah, no, it's uh my—cat—she jumped. A little tense."
"A cat?" There was suspicion now. "Didn't know you had one."
"She’s—new! Adjusting, kinda overstimulated. That's why I left," you rasped, voice trembling and shredded, your vocal enthusiasm from the initial rounds finally catching up. "She's—getting used to him —Me! Getting used to me. N-new owner, and all!"
You glared at Clark, pinning the blame on this ridiculous predicament on him. He grinned back, all dimples and without shame.
The irritation was fleeting as a deep rhythm soon settled down to a shallow rocking between you.
A pure, unadulterated, delicious torture. Clark wasn’t only chasing his own pleasure; he was orchestrating yours, drawing it out, winding the overspent coil in your belly tighter and tighter with every tiny friction. You felt your combined wetness coating his length, dripping down onto his balls, making a hot, sticky mess between you.
"O-kay," Mark droned, already sounding bored, distracted. "I like cats. I’m more of a dog person, obviously, but cats are fine. I guess. Independent."
Unprompted, Clark’s large hand slid between your swollen folds, gathering cum from previous climaxes as lubricant. Deft fingers found your clit easily, thick and clever, pressing the pad of his middle finger to your swollen, throbbing nub, and held it there, a constant, maddening pressure.
You jerked up slightly, peered at Clark through wet lashes, your lips pulling into a quivering pout. You planted both hands on his chest and dug your knees into the mattress, and grinded harder against his cock and his hand. The dual sensation tipped so close. A wave of heat crashed through you, your muscles fluttering wildly around his length.
You were so close again. So dangerously close to riding that high.
"So, Saturday?" Mark pressed, bulldozing straight through the moment. "Restaurant. My treat. A real do-over."
"N-no, Saturday’s… complicated…won’t work," you sighed deeply.
The excuse barely made it out as Clark ducked his head, trailing a wet, lazy path down your neck to the space between your collarbones.
"Why?"
The trail of kisses ventured lower to greet the swell of your breasts.
"Just… not interested anymore," you forced out behind clenched teeth, white knuckling through the overwhelming attention you were receiving.
"Anymore? This is ridiculous. What the hell happened since you saw me?"
A flare of anger momentarily cut through your pleasure. It should’ve steadied you. It should’ve put steel in your spine.
But your rage was quickly extinguished when Clark delivered a single, deep, deliberate stroke that stole the air from your already spent lungs. A loud, sharp, involuntary cry tore from your throat.
You couldn't speak. You were shaking, your entire body drenched in pure pleasure. You were focused on that one point of contact—the insistent press of fingers, the full, aching stretch inside you, the coil of pleasure winding so tight you felt you might snap in two. Tears of frustration and overwhelming sensation pricked at your eyes.
The line was dead silent for a long beat.
Then, confused and impatient: "Hello? Still there? Are you even listening to me?"
Clark finally gave you mercy, answering for you. Secrecy and subtlety blew to smithereens. The shift in his tone was immediate—lower, steadier, authoritative. The phone caught every word.
"Hey, buddy. She said she’s no longer intersted."
There was another long pause on the line.
"Who… who the hell was that?"
"Clark." His tone was polite. Even. Earnest.
His eyes stayed locked on yours, blazing with a smug, satisfied fire. He watched your face, studying every twitch, every flutter of your eyelids, time your mouth fell open on a sound you couldn’t swallow. His middle finger started to move against your clit, a quick, zig-zag pattern that sent a fresh wave of slick to gather between your thighs.
“She's preoccupied at the moment,” he added.
Another pause, longer this time. The wet sounds of your bodies moving together grew louder in the silence. The schlick of your soaked folds, the soft thump of his hips meeting yours, the breathless ‘yeah, right there, baby,” and “just like that.”
"Preoccupied," Mark repeated flatly.
"Mmmhmm," Clark hummed as he mouthed along your jaw. "She has this—thing she needs to finish. It’s taking longer than usual. She needs to… focus. Priority One. You can respect that, right?"
You bit your fist to muffle the desperate, keening sounds threatening to escape. Your orgasm was right there, right fucking there, a towering wave about to crash. Unfortunate for you, Clark’s control was absolute.
He eased off, just enough to make you gasp, just enough to make you go hollow with need, the wave receding a fraction and leaving you shaking and whimpering in its aftermath.
"Is this… are you… Right now? The entire call?!" Mark's disbelief cracked into curses. "You’re fucking kidding me."
“No kidding around here,” Clark retorted quickly, “but there had been plenty of that other stuff.”
Before you could cut in with your own sharp retort, Clark leaned up, capturing your lips in a soft kiss that was so tender amidst the ridiculous drama unfolding. When he pulled back, he spoke again, his voice dropping to that low, bedroom rumble, and it did something to you that you weren’t ready for.
"She’s been so good for me. Since she came home. Applying herself, reaching her full potential, or whatever crap you said to her."
That did it. The filthy, possessive praise, the sheer audacity, paired with the feel of him—it was too much. A broken sob escaped your clenched teeth.
"God–please…"
"It’s j-just Clark, sweetheart, you know that," he joked lightly, his middle finger resuming its relentless circles in time with his frantic thrusts, making sure you didn’t spiral alone. "U-use your words. O-on me. Tell me what you need."
“I need—” You couldn’t even keep your voice steady. “I need to come. Please—let me come. I can’t— I can’t hold it, I’m so close, so close, pleasepleasebaby—” You babbled, ragged and desperate, half-formed pleas choked with tears and overwhelming pleasure.
On the phone, Mark made a strangled, irritated growl. "I’m…Forget everything I said! Fuck this, fuck your cat, and fuck you,—" he spat your name, useless as his outburst barely phased you.
"Yeah," Clark grunted, not even glancing toward the phone. "Already on that last one, man. Have a good—"
The call disconnected.
"—night."
The sudden silence was profound, broken only by your ragged panting and the slick, rhythmic sounds of sex.
"He finally hung up," Clark breathed, finally shedding its polite veneer, his gaze dropping to where your bodies were joined. "Now you can come, sweetheart. Come for me. Just me. Lemme feel it one more time."
You thread your sore fingers into his dark hair gently, nuzzling into the crook of his neck again.
"You’re…Fuck, we’re terrible, baby," you whispered through laughter, your walls gripping his shaft like a vice, on the brink of that delicious high again.
"Ah-ah, like I said: I’m done being polite," he corrected. “Hearing you cry over jerks like that for months. Watching you try to force a spark that wasn’t there… it was killing me, sweetheart.”
He punctuated each confession with a deep, rolling thrust.
"I love the way you smell, right here." He buried his face against your temple, inhaling deeply, his cock swelling even thicker inside you.
Thrust.
"I love you when you fell asleep on the couch and pretended you weren’t waiting for me to come home after patrol."
Thrust.
"Gosh, I love the way you always reach for me.” His forehead brushed yours, adoration breaking through the heat. “I’ve been in love with you for a long time. All I ever wanted—was to be the only one who made you lose yourself like this. "
Thrust.
You’d shared sweet nothings. Tender confessions. But this—this was devotion spoken in the air between searing kisses, in the control of his hands, in the way he refused to let you fall without catching you.
The last pretense shattered.
"Oh, fuck, I'm gonna—come!" you sobbed, your eyes screwing shut and head lolling to the side. "I’m so close, so close, I'm gonna come, don't stop, Clark–Clark—!"
Your final climax hit you like a tsunami.
It was a full-body break, pleasure ripping through you in convulsive waves. Your cunt clenched around Clark’s cock in rapid, fluttering pulses, milking him, and you heard yourself crying ‘Clark, I love you,’ over and over, a raw, continuous sound of pure release. You felt a gush of arousal around his thrusting length, the hot spill adding to the already sticky mess from previous rounds between your shaking thighs.
The sensations went on and on, one peak crashing into the next until you were a sobbing, boneless mess in your man’s arms, lazy kisses pressed onto the side of your lips, your cheeks, each eyelid.
Through the haze, you felt Clark's control splinter.
His rhythm faltered apart, then turned erratic. His arms locked tighter around you, crushing you to his chest as he buried his face back into your neck. You felt the hot puff of his breath, then the sharp, sweet sting of his teeth at the tender junction of your shoulder, the sensation blooming and melting into pleasure, another bright thread woven into everything that had happened tonight.
"You’re so beautiful," he grunted, muttering a curse soft and heartfelt against your skin. “So incredible—God—”
"N-not God," you panted, smiling against his hair, still shaking. "Just me, baby."
Clark managed a strangled chuckle, hips pistoning up once, twice more, then he stilled, burying his cock to the hilt. You felt the hot, sudden flood of his release inside you again, pulse after thick pulse filling you up. A guttural, satisfied groan rumbled from his chest into yours.
For a long moment, you both stay like that—fused together, trembling in the aftermath of your lovemaking.
The only sounds were your slowing breaths and the wet, sticky sounds of your joined bodies. He was still inside you, still hard, still gently pulsing.
“Hey, still okay?” Clark murmured, hands smoothed over you—your sides, your hips, your back—checking in, every touch saying I’ve got you, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.
Gingerly, he maneuvered you back to the mattress, careful not to jostle you, careful not to pull out. He shifted onto his side and guided you with him until your back was to his front, the two of you fitting together like this was how you’d always slept, how you’d always belonged. His arm draped heavy over your waist, palm settling low on your stomach.
The faint, residual movement of his cock inside you was a warm reminder of his continued presence, but he went still again the moment you tensed—patient, listening.
“Clark,” you whispered, voice hoarse.
“Hm?” His mouth brushed the back of your neck, a barely there kiss.
“Thank you for waiting for me."
You felt his grin against your skin, the one you knew by heart—the deep dimples, the crinkle at the corners of his eyes you’d seen a thousand times across a kitchen counter, over a shared couch cushion, in the doorway when he came home late.
“Always,” he admitted, and the honesty in it made your heart skip. He propped himself up on his elbow, leaning in to kiss you again—soft, lingering, the kind of kiss that didn’t ask for anything more.
“But no more bad dates. No more… anyone else… if that's okay with you.” His forehead rested against yours, blue eyes searching. “Just this. Just us. If you still want that in the morning.”
You swallowed, blinking hard, because it was so Clark to worry about the morning even now—to make room for your choice even when his body had been sure.
“Just us, Clark,” you said, and your voice didn’t shake this time. “In the morning. Tomorrow night. Every day after.”
His grin was helpless—boyish, bashful—and the sound he made was half-laugh, half-exhale, like relief finally found him. He kissed you once more, soft and lingering, then curled behind you again and held you like he’d been practicing for years.
When morning came, it still felt like a revelation.
A Big Bang.
It felt like Clark’s arm still around your waist, his thumb tracing slow, sleepy circles against your bare skin as though he’d woken up and immediately remembered: mine to love, mine to keep safe.
The phone on the nightstand sat dark and forgotten, and you didn’t reach for it.
Clark's first words in the morning were: “Still okay?”
You turned your head just enough to look at him—blue eyes, rumpled hair, that soft worry he couldn’t hide.
“Still,” you murmured. “Especially now, Clark.”
The way he smiled then was almost too much for your heart. You held his face in your hands, fingers catching on stubble, and kissed him first today.
And when you both finally got up to brush your teeth side by side, bumping hips at the sink like you’d done a million times before, your body and heart knew better.
Because everything with this Clark was new.
.
Thank you for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs especially are forever appreciated. Keeps me motivated!
Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader (Established relationship)
Summary: You know Clark has trouble with sleeping, especially on the weekend. After a particularly rough work week for him, you're willing to put the work in to help the poor man sleep.
Warning: Smut (18+ Minors DNI), fluff, porn with plot, pinv, no protection (USE PROTECTION PEOPLE), multiple creampies, cowgirl, little bit of missionary, mentions of edging and overstimulation, softdom Clark to sub Clark, slight dom reader, sleepy sex, no mentions of reader but she's AFAB, no use of y/n.
Word Count: 3.2k (this was supposed to be a drabble lmaooo)
Even after the sun sets, the noise never stops. Even as the sun starts to peek over the skyscrapers, the noise never stops. On your first date with Clark, he told you how difficult he found it to sleep in the city, especially after a week where he’s been working longer hours. Where he grew up, it was so silent, it made you feel like whispering was too loud. The night you found out he was superman, also the night you caught him floating in his sleep, you understood why the noise was so terrible to him. He insisted after getting his powers he learned how to train his ears not to hear every single conversion on Earth, but you saw how antsy he got after a rough Friday. Friday nights were always worse than the rest of the week. Everyone roams the streets, drunk, singing, fighting, yelling for no clear reason. Saturdays were equally bad. The day is busier, the afternoon is busier, the evenings are busier. He tries to unwind after a week filled with having his article critiqued, but the endless sounds of clubs bumping beats, and cars honking at each other at ridiculous hours of the night. During those nights, Clark apologetically keeps you up to kill the hours with him. He lets you nap on the couch with him as he watches tv shows, occasionally waking you up to order you food. Honest to god, you never minded spending the night at Clark’s. It was so tucked up in the sky, to you the sound barely reaches your ears. One Saturday night, he cooks breakfast food, letting you sit on the counter and swing your legs. Occasionally you swing and playfully hit Clark’s thigh, sleepily laughing at his glare over his shoulder. After a quick power nap at midnight, you’re buzzing with energy to bother Clark as he tries to cook. He makes you help him stir batter for pancakes, but when he tries to get a scoop, you push it off his spoon. You laugh in his face, your eyes squeezing shut and your nose scrunching up. He tries again and you push the batter off his spoon again.
Even with your buzz of energy at one in the morning, after a huge meal of breakfast food, you crash again at two. He lays on the couch, letting you snore softly while he watches some old Hollywood film. You wake up to catch the ending musical number, smiling at Clark mouthing along to all the lyrics. Eventually at three, he shows signs of getting sleepy. He carries you to his bed, laying you over the covers while he moves to close the windows and shut the blinds. Waking up in Clark’s apartment is always something to look forward to. Getting the text from Clark near the end of the week, asking if you’re free this weekend, makes you grin ear to ear. Waking up in Clark’s bed also means waking up next to Clark.
Sunday mornings feel the most quiet out of all the days to Clark, meaning he can actually sleep in. You slowly roll over and look up at Clark, his eyes closed and face buried in his pillow. His lips are slightly parted, soft snores pairing with the sounds of cars honking from outside. The blinds let a couple slots of sunshine mark the room, making patterns over the two of you. His black hair is mused from tossing and turning, sticking up and flopping over his face. You gently push his hair back, trying your best to not wake him from the dead. Clark’s phone buzzes on the stand, properly another note from Perry on something to change on the article. The phone goes silent for a moment, before rapidly buzzing with a call. Clark clenches his jaw for a moment and stirs, letting out an annoyed grunt. He sits up slowly and grabs for his phone, his eyes still closed, clinging to the last moments of sleep. You lean your face against his side, smelling his detergent on his beat up sleep shirt. If there's anything Clark prides himself in, it's how he smells. Not drowning in cologne, but making sure to spend the extra money on good laundry soup and fabric softeners. Not to mention the borderline feminine soaps he uses. During the long nights of staying up while Clark tries to relax on the couch, you snooped around the apartment. Seeing the floral and fruity shampoos and body wash make you grin, no wonder he never smelled, even after those long long fights. You always wondered if he kept deodorant in the suit. The thought makes you laugh against his side, imagining him rolling some Old Spice on during a life or death fight. His hand comes up to stroke your shoulder as he desperately tries to end the phone call, constantly repeating “Will do” and “Got it”.
Once he breaks free from the horribly early phone call, he puts his phone back and melts under the covers again.
“Did you forget to add something?” You ask, playing with his hair as he takes the same position he woke up in.
“No…Geez, I already forgot what he wanted,” He mumbles, leaning up into your fingers, like a dog seeking pets.
You laugh softly, covering your mouth to block the smell of your morning breath, “Do you think you’ll fall back asleep?”
“Probably not,” He sighs, feeling you start to get up. Immediately, his arms stretch out to pull you back under the covers, “Wait, I still want to try,”
“Clark, I need to brush my teeth. Eating eggs at three in the morning was a horrible idea,” You laugh, squirming helplessly in his iron grip. He sighs and kisses your cheek, frowning slightly, “I’ll be right back, I won't even floss,” You joke, pulling away. When you come back from the bathroom, you find him completely sprawled out. You huff out a laugh, looking at his huge frame swallowing the bed up. One of his arms is tucked under a pillow while the other shoots out, and his legs are spread wide. You crawl on top of him, flopping on his strong back, kissing at his neck and smelling his hair. He stirs and reaches around, petting your back. You rest your cheek on his back and trace your hands down his side, smiling and kissing up to his ear,
“What the hell are they doing to you in that office?” You ask, seeing his dimple cave from a tiny smile, “You sleep like you’re getting tortured all week,” He chuckles but doesn’t move or speak, his eyes staying closed as he falls back asleep. As the sun rises higher up, proudly standing over all the towers, the room is cast in warm rays of the light. A couple rays line up over you and Clark, making him snore harder. Your hands toy with his curls, watching the hair straighten from your gentle tug then curl back up. He sniffs and rolls onto his side, making you laugh and cling to the bed so you don’t fall off the bed. You crawl over him laying down as he opens his eyes to look at the commotion. All he sees is you giggling and settling back under the covers. He pulls you onto his chest and lays on his back, his hands tracing up and down your back. You press kisses to his sleepy face, listening to his soft noises as you avoid his mouth. He sits up and wraps his arm around your waist, you instinctively move your arms around his neck. His arm holds you on his hip as he moves to the bathroom, holding you close as he brushes his teeth. Your fingers trace up and down his arm, riding down his veins. Once he spits out and rinses his mouth clean, he finally gets to press a kiss to your lips, his free hand sliding by your thigh to lift you higher. He walks back to bed and sits back against the headboard, letting you straddle his strong thighs.
“You finally awake?” You ask against his lips, your hands trailing down his chest.
“Barely, but at least you are,” He smiles, pushing his hair back then wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you up on his chest.
“Who says I’m awake,” You chuckle, leaning down to kiss his nose and press yours against him. “You kept me up all night,”
“Don’t say it like that, I took care of you,”
“Yeah? You take such good care of me, Clark,”
“I can’t think of anyone else who could take such good care of you,”
Your banter slowly leads into soft grinding, your legs spreading wider to get yourself lower and lower. His hands rest on the fat of your hips, fingers splaying out to cover your lower abdomen. The air gets hotter as your faces press against each other, kissing, panting, nipping, your hands travelling everywhere. The thin fabric of his boxers grow thinner as he stiffens under your neverending movements. His fingers dip under the fabric of your sleep pants, petting at your thighs and slowly tugging them off.
“Want some help with that?” You ask against his cheek, looking down to see your panties peeking up from the dipping fabric. He nods and lifts you up against his chest, pulling your pants off. In that moment, you see the bulge buried under his underwear, quickly kicking your feet free to sit yourself back down on it. He lets out a quick groan and holds your face, kissing you to muffle his sounds from your renewed energy. Your hips move mercilessly, your hands petting at his thighs.
“Still feeling tired?” He teases, hearing your tiny sounds as you grind and writhe on top of him.
“No, I’m wide awake,” You smile back, completely stilling your body and leaning forward to rest your cheek on his shoulder. Your lifted body slightly moves your crotch above his bulge, making him let out a short, displeased, sound. His hips lift up to grind against you, leaning his head against your forehead, closing his eyes.
“Oh, really? Let me take care of you,” He murmurs, using one hand to hold your back, using his other hand to hastily shove his boxers down. His fingers pull your panties to the side, rubbing through your folds. His fingertips press against your entrance, feeling the wetness pooling there, and slowly spreading it all over your pussy. Your lips part and you breathe heavily against his neck, watching his neck veins pop out. His fingers trace around your clit, not giving it any attention.
“Don’t be mean, Clark,” You whine, trying to shift your hips around to get his fingers on your clit. He rests both his hands on your hips, making you try to lift your head to complain to his face. His hand comes up to pet your head, resting it back on his shoulder,
“You’re so sleepy, honey, jus’ go back to sleep,” You can hear the smile on his face, his hands moving back down to your hips. He moves his hand down to slowly drag his tip up and down your folds, getting both of you messy. His hand rubs your hips, moving around to pet your ass, his tip rubbing insistently on your clit. You gasp and whimper, looking down at the sloppy display. His dick is fully hard, his tip slightly red compared to the rest of his shaft, a huge vein running up the side of his shaft. Your breath catches quietly as you watch his tip leak and spread it all over your pussy. He leans his head down, joining you in watching the display. You both stare intensely at the sight, watching your clit swell up and his cock twitch in his hand.
“Clark, oh my god, please,” You whine harder, pawing at his shirt, gripping it tightly. He shushes you, his eyes locked on at where his tip teases your hole, barely dipping the tip in before pushing it up onto your clit. You squeeze your eyes shut, letting out helpless noises as he keeps you up on his lap while he watches the display. He releases his cock, letting it flop against his stomach. His arms pull yours onto his shoulders, feeling you wrap around his neck and press your chest against his. Gripping his cock again, shamelessly stroking himself as he lines up with you. He thrusts up into you, slowly working into you. Shallow thrusts in and out, gathering wetness down his shaft before finally bottoming out. You try to sit down on him, but he keeps an arm around you, keeping you pressed against his chest, taking whatever he decides to give you. He kisses your forehead, mumbling praises, as he starts to thrust up into you, hearing the wet plapping fill the room. You grip onto his back, moaning and panting against his neck, feeling his skin get hotter.
“Just relax, honey, I’m already awake, let me take care of you,” He coos, hands moving back to your hips to hold you still for him. You fight back against his arms and sit up on his lap, kissing him eagerly as you bounce to match his thrusts. His hands move up to paw at your breasts through your shirt before moving under your shirt to feel your warm skin. Your hands match his and feel his muscles tighten under the shirt, both of you sighing with relief at the content. His ears zone out from the nonstop background sound of the city, and focus on the sound of your bodies meeting. On the sound of your noises and pleas for Clark to go harder, go faster, grab you firmer. He groans and pulls you off, laying you down on the bed and spreading your legs. You catch your breath and reach up to hold his face, kissing him as he pushes himself back into your wet heat, groaning at the initial squeeze. Your legs greedily wrap around his waist, pulling him close to me.
“So good for me, you still feeling tired, honey?” He asks, nipping at your bottom lip, his hands sliding down your curves. You shake your head, pulling at his shirt,
“No, I’ve never had more energy,” You say quickly, watching him pull his shirt off, your hands immediately going to his stomach, “You feeling tired?”
“I could go for a nap,”
He whines into the air, denying another orgasm, his hands holding onto his headboard. Even when he’s acting like an ass, you still can’t help but feel the need to take care of him. Though, your way of taking care of him involves overstimulating him and denying his orgasms at the same time. It’s not your fault he always gets hard again with barely any resting period. Over all his climaxes, you watch him more and more tired, his eyes drooping more, putting up less of a fight for dominance. Eventually, he just lays back, moaning and babbling to you, taking anything you’ll give him.
“Oh Clark, come on, just go back to bed. You can take a nap and get back to work, don’t even worry about it,” You taunt, grinding your hips down and watching his chest rise and fall. His body lays flat on the mattress, his eyes fluttering shut.
“You trust me, baby?” You lean down, pressing your hands onto his chest for balance. He nods and swallows dryly, helplessly trying to thrust up into you. You shake your head and shush him again,
“Let me help you, just relax,” You shush, resuming your steady rhythm, smiling as he starts whimpering and breathing heavily.
“Please, please, oh gosh, honey, please,” He whines again, reaching down to hold onto your thighs, his cock twitching while buried inside you.
“You ready to cum again?” You purr, glancing down at the messy collecting on your bodies. Wetness collecting on his thick hair, his previous loads leaking and getting pushed out. He nods and closes his eyes, his breath getting quicker. You take pity on him, seeing how exhausted he’s getting from the nonstop stimulation. One of the infinite pros of dating an alien was getting to handle alien stamina. Nonstop rounds, constant need to empty himself, sometimes getting to pamper him like this. He tilts his head back and groans up into the thick air, spilling another thick load into your pussy, your body never stopping its movements, making sure to get all of it out
“Goodness, Clark,” You kiss his cheek, “Your body acts like I don’t take care of it,”
“‘M sorry, ‘m so sorry,” He tries to say through catching his breath, wincing from the overstimulation. You shush him and reach down, rubbing your clit, coaxing up another orgasm for you. He whines quietly, feeling your body start to tense and clench around him, shaking his head.
“Why’re you shaking your head? You’re so greedy, Clark,” You chuckle, licking a vein on his neck, rubbing yourself faster, grinding your hips on his semi-hard cock. Your body clenches down on his cock, making it harder to move in and out. You moan and cry out against his ear, your free hand stroking his stomach to feel him tense.
“Oh Clark! Ah! Clark,” You babble, feeling your stomach tighten and build up, your eyes closing and your lips desperately kissing his neck. Clark can’t stop the bubbling whine in his throat at feeling your whole body clench and pulse around him, gripping him around his shape. Your orgasm triggers another one from him, much weaker than his previous one. Still, he tries to rut up into you, trying to get deeper even as he’s bottomed out. You continue to rub your clit past the peak, weakly pulsating and grinding against his weak cock. He slowly brings his arms up, silently pleading you to stop by holding your hips down. You sit up and laugh, looking at his scrunched up face. He slowly untenses and breathes deep, laying boneless on the bed. You lean down on his chest,
“You ready to go back to sleep?” You ask quietly, stroking his chest.
He nods, lips already parting and breathing slowing down. His hand comes up to rest on your back, leaning his head against yours.
“What are you making?” Clark asks, stumbling from the bedroom. His hair is a mess, his shirt is lazily thrown on.
“Well, we had breakfast for dinner, so we are having dinner for breakfast,” You say happily, wearing a shirt and underwear, pulling two little pot pies from the oven. He rubs his eyes and walks over, leaning on the counter,
“The clock says it’s 11,” He points out, crossing his arms.
“Well fine, dinner for lunch,”
“When did you get that?”
You stand proudly by the cooling pies, “I made them. I had to keep busy somehow,”
“How long have I been asleep?” He asks, turning on the sink to splash some water on his face.
“Uh, we got up at, maybe, seven. Could’ve been six,”
“You let me sleep in for five hours?” He asks, waking up as he pushes his hair back, wiping his face dry.
“You were exhausted, Clark!” You reason, walking over to lean against his side, hitting your hip against him, “Anyone would’ve slept for five hours after all that,”
A/N: thank you all for the love on my first post like holy moley i had no idea it would actually get any attention. i got a lot of ideas planned so I will hopefully be churning these out a bit more frequently. feedback, suggestions, and writing prompts will always be appreciated! <3
★ 𝐛𝐥𝐮𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐞𝐞𝐭𝐡
note ➴ old low honor arthur draft i tidied up a little bit. cw hurt / comfort, dom / sub dynamics, piv sex, codependency, maybe mildly toxic undertones but he means well ! smut under the cut
“you're still awake?”
arthur states the obvious. the cut of the crescent moon looms over camp like an open sore, bleeding warbled pools of opal ichor into damp dirt. heavy footfalls send all the fuzzed critters in the forest scuttling in his ill-omened wake. sidestepping away from the iron pressed path of horseshoes in the winding trail, arthur approaches the hissing, honey split of the fire bearing all the indelible stains of a man who knows he's done wrong. gone for too long of a grievous stretch, his bullets and blades embedded in the hollowed, rotted husks of corpses, pockets heavy and saddlebags stuffed full.
a smothering of treacle-sticky shame deluges over him when you startle. soft earth squelches beneath his boots. the tinny tinkering of spurs jostling together seems to stir you from your tremulous state, desolation slashed across your timid face like a birthmark. damning, too, teeth marks indented in your tender bottom lip, dimples burrowed deep into your wobbly chin. he often tells himself his barbarism never touches you. silver-capped toes twinkle in the diffused amber glow when he sits on the opposite log, silent. you look small. arthur takes up all the air.
“i can't sleep without you,” you splutter, strained and pinched, your sluggish gaze flittering over the gore glued to the worn fringe of his chaps, the scarlet stippling. frustrated fists scrub at the wet hollows of your eyes, poppy-red and salt-swollen. you choke back on a stunted sob like a rough whiskey shot, it goes down sour and sharp. your gait is pure gelatin. just a lamb-legged thing, shuffling unevenly by the swarm of sparks and toasted timbre, all the way to him. past pine needles and knurled branches, shivering in spite of the growling heat, your confession a cracked cry. “you scared me.”
a grimace quickly sears its sizzling stamp to his face, tugging at his thick brows and pulling at the corners of his chapped lips. a good, god-fearing boy he is not. these days, the only thing that seems to rattle arthur any are the tears trespassing across your cheeks.
“i didn't mean to.” he grits plainly, smoothing a hard palm over his thickly stubbled face in ire, though it slips out crueler than he intends. cuts clean into your worries with the callous blade of a cleaver, and splits your stupidly sweet affections over the iron spike. you crumple. drowsy footsteps come to a stiffened stop, dolor swelling star-crested droplets to your lash lines, your twitchy fingers fumbling at your sides. he dares not let you sit with it. grumbling under his cool breath, the nothings crystallising to misted clouds in moist air, guilt glowers in his gut and hardens his gallbladder to lead.
he catches the curve of your waist in two tight hands before you have the chance to bolt. you bleat, blinking winsome while he wrangles you to straddle against the muscled bulk of his lap. his second skin of petrichor and copper is potent. smells like a fresh kill, clashes bittersweet with the soot and salt on yours. but he's warm. blood-hot and humanly so, not like the burnt brassy flickers you flocked to before.
“i didn't mean to. really.” he states once more, honest as the day is long, softening his syllables and swallowing all the bile and blood which always worms its way into his tone. his rough lilt rumbles like a brush of velvet, his heavy-lidded eyes soft as cerulean silk. you tremble, a shuddering, shaky chest rubbing into his, both from the frost-tipped chill swathing the flooded heartlands and the curse he has so unkindly bestowed upon you; to love a butcher. dainty arms loop around the nape of his neck, and he knows home is where the heart is, your cardiac chambers thrumming steadily through the beaten leather of his coat.
with a feathery touch, arthur strokes the pad of his thumb across the moon-kissed slant of your mandible, up to the pillowy flesh of your sore lip. parts the bruised petals with a tentative push and slips it inside, glitter-dotted drool pooling around the wide base of his knuckle when you hollow the satiny lining of your cheeks and suck lightly. he pumps his digit back and forth inside your plushy mouth, pressing the callus firm to your tongue. teeth graze his tough skin. a little glimmer of defiance, gone as quick as gun smoke. he knows it's not hardwired in your anatomy to bite. unlike him.
sugar was not something arthur had a taste for. too cloy. no good for gunslingers, no use, but then there was you — your soft underbelly, blunt teeth and fluffed lashes. honest kisses over his whiskery cheeks, the weight of a slow breathing body in his bed, smaller interwoven fingers in his at peach-dusted gloamings, neat stitches in the rumpled linens of his shirts. arthur doesn't know much about love. can't make sense of it. he certainly knows why fellers call it a sickness, though. the coagulated film of perspiration on clammy hands, a cotton stuffed skull, and cardolium unfurling in his burly chest like a rancorous cancer when you cry. crying for him, you sweet girl.
blood thunders in his temples. your pupils are blown wide and wanting, dusky, coal-black and lax below the slow sweep of your eyelids, your whisper-soft suckling. if you were anyone else, not his, a misstep might make him maul you to vermillion ribbons. bay bitterly, sink those curved claws of his into the warm fat and exsanguinate you for sport. he'd shove you into the dirt and rip your skirts open at the seams if you weren't so good at rousing the gentleness in him. it does not come naturally. he had to learn how to be soft. how to be mild and muted, force a triggering reflex that was never there in the first place.
doggish as he be, dripping in his grime-dappled degeneracy, he's a sorry, love drunk bastard. he pulls his tacky thumb from your mouth, a slippery pop, spit string snapping over your chin like spider silk. his darling, honey-glazed with melancholy but needily nuzzling the heat of your cunt over his hardened bulge, thin linens draped loosely over your legs. with all the starvation driven impulse of a ravenous mutt, arthur skims his gunpowdered fingertips and blood-washed palms across the tops of your clenched thighs, past the embroidered petals on cotton. he can't help but think he's wrecked you just as fragile as the threaded flowers, daisy dew on your cheeks, your wispy, waterlogged lashes tinkering slow at him.
he lifts the muddied, rain-damp hem of your pastel skirts to settle around your hips, gooseflesh spotting your sensitive skin in the frosty zephyr, mellow breaths stretching thin when dulled metals and cracked leather click together. your bashful palms work the dirty denim of his pants wide open, gun belt clattering against bark and forgotten, just a dulled glitter in the low fuse of the spluttering fire. a susurrus of gruff praises spill freely from arthur's throat then, his leaky tip blushing cherry and dribbling hot through your slick slit, soiling your silken delicates. twitching over his tense thighs, you breathe a pretty hiccup, his swollen cock catching on the cleft of your dewy cunt.
“i'm sorry,” he rasps hoarsely, canting his wide hips hard into your sappy heat, slow and strong thrusts against the curves of your ass, throbs running along the web-veined length pulsing inside you. “i missed you somethin' fierce, darlin'.” a coarse moan catches in arthur's chest. he's nothing but utterly gentle and startlingly tender in the splay of his broad grip encircling your little waist, your tight hole struggling and fluttering at the thick intrusion. matching his pace, small, syrupy sounds spill out from your pounded pussy while you scrub sloppy ruts over his pelvis, your lower halves locked together and sticky, his fat cockhead grazing the pudgy give of your cervix.
fucking you open for him, your translucent slick trickling hot over his furred, heavy balls, plapping into your glossy folds. you scramble at the broad bulk of his back, bulging muscles rolling beneath your weak grip, dragging your nails across his sweat-soaked shirt and mewling a broken melody. it spikes the lining of his eardrums like a stalking wolf. he near salivates at the pitch of your stifled squeaks, speeding his pummelling thrusts, thickened pearls of precum smearing over the plug of your womb.
your fire-shined face pants his name softly. parted lips, sweet as the spring bloom of a buttercup, your sopping pussy a snug snare bouncing on his rigid cock, puffy clit chafing circles over his dark drenched curls. the friction of his toughened jeans bands angry, ballet-pink lines to the backs of your trembly thighs. warm sweat dewy on his wrinkled forehead, his sun weathered cheeks flushed a ruddy hue, arthur huffs ragged, raspy groans, your stuffed walls squeezing his girth. his sharp-fanged maw scrapes over the junction of your jaw. all tongue and teeth, sloppily mouthing scratchy smacks, sinking hard into the slope of your neck, his canines at prickling tender skin.
sugary sweet tension in your tummy snapping, you bonelessly slump over like a bitten bunny, breathlessly babbling through his hilt-deep jackhammering, milking every ridge and vein of his strained cock. spurred on by your tearful keens, the tight coil of your cunt and your steady gush of warm, shimmery slick, arthur follows not far behind, his ‘i love you’s on your feverish skin a drawling slur. his pulsing tip jerks and spasms at your achey insides, shooting sticky, thick pulses, heavy hips grinding your raw cunt over his spent length. your plush cheek slots into the wide crook of his shoulder, his ravaging slams slowing down to lazy, languid pistons. adoring touches caress the meat of your sides, his blunt digits leaving behind lilac and lavender kisses, while he gently fucks his spilled spend back where it belongs.
“don't go.” comes your pitchy plea. puffing a slew of strained, wet whimpers, your forearms finding solace flattening against arthur's back, fingers curling into his sweated traps. sniffling, you beg him to stay, a sting similar to pressing on a bruise. he draws some sick satisfaction out it. feels good to be wanted. tightened sinews shift in his stocky arms as they shift to cup your thighs, curling your pliant body into a possessive, tender carry to his tent. and when dawn sings out her lullabied, sun-shined song to the hushed overlook, you're both stripped bare. your shiny syrup still staining his streaked shaft, your dozy breaths brushing over his bicep, his corded chest moulded to your spine just like the morning dew.
actually ☝️🤓 clark kent would not rip your clothes off your body on purpose bc he knows how much textile waste is produced in this country and does not want to contribute to that. he’s also anti-consumerist so buying up multiples of the same thing with the express purpose of destroying it feels extra wasteful. everything he accidentally rips or breaks, clark recycles within an inch of its life. clark kent gives a shit about the environment and his carbon footprint!!!!
a/n: Here’s my little “get well soon” gift for @kryptidfiles !! Imagine this wrapped in a huge bow with flowers sticking out from every side. EVERYONE GO FOLLOW HER BLOG and I hope you enjoy!!
Summary: You made the mistake of turning sex into casual conversation with your coworker and accidentally start the worst HR violation of your life.
Classification: Smut +18 | coworkers to lovers, several smut scenes, alcohol consumption, rude/arrogant Scott Miller, oral sex, fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, rough groping, protected and unprotected sex, doggy style, missionary, squirting, ass smacking, marking/bruising, praise, dom/sub dynamics, workplace boundary issues and emotionally repressed idiots in love.
Word count: 9,2k
There was a difference between good sex and great sex, the same way there was a difference between getting fucked and being made love to...
Good sex was what you expected from anybody decent enough to make it that far with you. It was the kind people talked about casually with their friends, the kind that came up over drinks after someone asked, “So, was he good?” Good sex happened on Tuesdays after work with the guy from Hinge who insisted on taking you out somewhere too expensive for a second date. You split a basket of fries, drank half a beer because you still had work in the morning, drove home with exhaustion sitting heavy behind your eyes, then let him fuck you well enough to sleep for four uninterrupted hours.
Good sex was practical and predictable. It convinced your body you were living a normal life.
Great sex was different. Great sex happened after work parties when your mascara was already smudged and your heels were in your hand by midnight. It happened on weekends with nowhere to be the next morning. You never talked about great sex because it sounded exaggerated the second you said it out loud, like you were overselling a man nobody else would understand. Great sex made you cum or at least brought you close enough that your stomach tightened every time you remembered it afterward. You thought about great sex while driving long stretches of empty highway, your hands steady on the wheel while your mind wandered somewhere warmer.
Great sex stayed in your body for days. You caught yourself replaying parts of it absentmindedly while standing in line for coffee or brushing your teeth before bed.
Then there was getting fucked…
There was no cleaner way to define it. It lived somewhere between fantasy and urban legend, passed around between women in half-serious conversations that always dissolved into laughter. Everybody claimed to know someone who’d experienced it but nobody could explain it properly. Getting fucked was the kind of sex that distracted you in the middle of the day badly enough to make you stop what you were doing and change your underwear. It sat dangerously close to the limits of what sex could actually be before the whole thing collapsed under its own weight.
If a guy treated you too much like an object, it fell apart immediately.
If you didn’t orgasm, it didn’t count.
If you weren’t still thinking about him six months later at red lights and in grocery store aisles and during lonely hotel nights, then it wasn’t that either.
Getting fucked sat at the very top of the scale, lit up like something obvious and somehow most men still missed it completely.
Being made love to was worse and more dangerous, honestly.
For somebody like you, it could become embarrassing fast. Storm season kept you on the road for months at a time, bouncing between states, sleeping in motels with stiff sheets and weak air conditioning. Off-season meant office buildings, weather models glowing across multiple monitors, long meetings about funding, new equipment and data collection. Your life moved constantly and men liked that at first. A woman who was smart, busy, gone half the year, financially stable and difficult to pin down.
Men loved the idea of you because it excused the fact they never had to give very much. Most of them thought they were in love but really, they just liked access to somebody they found impressive.
Before all of that, you used to think being made love to meant passion…intimacy. That it was slow sex with somebody who knew your body so well they could pull an orgasm out of you patiently and confidently, like it mattered to them as much as breathing did. You imagined hands lingering at your waist, sleepy conversation afterward, somebody brushing your hair away from your face before kissing you again.
Instead, you ended up underneath men who mistook enthusiasm for intimacy. You stared at ceilings while they grunted above you, listened to them breathe your name like they were performing something instead of feeling it. Sometimes you felt your stomach turn from the boredom alone, your body rocking mechanically with theirs while your mind drifted somewhere else entirely to storm reports, grocery lists and whether you needed to change your oil before the next drive west.
You never let them finish once you realized you hated it, that was the one thing you refused to fake. You pushed them off, sat up and reached for your clothes while they blinked at you in confusion. You told them it wasn’t going to work, sometimes you said it gently and other times you just didn’t bother. Either way, you watched realization settle over them while they sat there flushed and humiliated, their ego bruised worse than their feelings ever were but somehow your harsh words still made them cum…
Needless to say, after a while, you stopped having sex altogether.
You were in your rental house after a long day spent staring at storm data and listening to Javi ramble about whatever breakthrough he thought he’d made this time. It was late, the entire house felt heavy and warm, every light dimmer than usual and lately, you weren’t alone nearly as often as you used to be.
Scott sat at your dining table with your laptop open, shoulders slightly hunched, completely absorbed in columns of numbers and radar models. You’d known him for two years and he’d been your partner for one of them.
People were right about him. He was direct to the point of rudeness, arrogant enough to make most people defensive within five minutes and mean when he thought someone deserved it but unlike most men in your field, Scott had learned how to admit when he was wrong, far from gracefully or happily but still, he did it.
The two of you were impossibly stubborn in almost identical ways, so sharing space with him sometimes felt like being trapped in a room with a sharper version of yourself. Separately, you were both good at what you did but together, you were nearly impossible to beat.
You couldn’t pinpoint when “coworkers” had turned into Scott walking into your house without knocking, helping himself to your fridge and sitting at your table like he paid rent.
“Best orgasm you’ve had during sex?” His voice came from across the room, casual and flat, like he’d asked you about rainfall percentages. He didn’t even look away from the laptop while he said it.
You’d forgotten he was meeting you there before the two of you drove to the bar together, which was why you were still walking around in sleep shorts and a bra, trying to find something decent enough to wear without looking like you’d spent an hour trying.
You took a sip from the beer he’d already pulled out of your fridge and nearly snorted into the bottle. “You think men do that?” you asked as you disappeared into your bedroom.
“To you?” Scott finally looked up. His eyes tracked your movement automatically while he reached for the beer the two of you were apparently sharing now. “I hope so.”
He took a drink as his eyes followed your movement.
You walked back into view holding two dresses on mismatched hangers. “You’re a fucking idiot,” you said plainly. “And maybe a pervert.”
Scott pointed at you immediately. “You’re changing in front of me. I could probably keep count of your bras at this point and I don’t. That actually makes me less of a pervert.”
You disappeared back into your room. He could hear hangers scraping against the closet rod while you searched through clothes with growing irritation.
“Just because it doesn’t make you hard doesn’t make you not a pervert,” you called back, your voice muffled through the wall.
“How do you know I’m not?” he shot back instantly, sounding almost offended by the assumption.
Silence followed but about a minute later, you walked back out wearing a dress he’d never seen before. It was simple, fitted enough to make his eyes stop for a second before continuing downward automatically. You crossed the room toward him, letting your heels drop onto the hardwood before slipping them on one at a time.
“You’re not attracted to me, Scott,” you said flatly.
He looked up slowly then, his eyes dragging over the length of the dress with enough attention to make most people nervous. On you, it just made you impatient.
“You seem awfully confident about that.”
“I am.” You adjusted the strap on your shoulder before glancing toward his laptop screen. “So don’t say shit that makes me sound stupid.”
Scott looked back at the laptop fast enough to make the movement obvious. He pretended to scroll through data he’d stopped reading the second you started undressing in the next room.
“I’m ready,” you said. “Good to go?”
“Need five minutes,” he muttered.
You walked behind him toward the front door, tapping his shoulder as you passed. “The data will still be there tomorrow. C’mon, Scotty.”
The teasing grin in your voice made something in his jaw tighten. You disappeared outside before he could even think of an answer.
Scott closed the laptop harder than necessary and stood, quietly adjusting himself through his jeans with the irritation of a man betrayed by his own body. He shut off the lights one by one and grabbed your keys from the counter before locking the door behind him.
The porch light was off so you couldn’t see the tent in his jeans. Thank fuck for that.
“Scotty was an eight-year-old with chubby cheeks,” he muttered while locking the deadbolt. He glanced over at you waiting by the passenger side of his truck. “It’s Scott.”
“It’s whatever I decide it is,” you replied easily.
He rolled his eyes and walked down the porch steps, unlocking the truck with a sharp click.
“Come open my door.”
“Since when do you need me to do that?” he complained, already circling the hood anyway.
“Since you got comfortable commenting on my bras.”
Scott stopped in front of you to stare before reaching around your waist to pull the handle open. The movement brought him close enough to smell your perfume underneath detergent and beer.
You smiled to yourself while climbing into the passenger seat because for once, Scott didn’t have anything smart to say.
Talking about sex with your coworkers was probably the least professional habit you could develop but professionalism stopped mattering after twelve-hour drives, shared motel rooms, gas station dinners at midnight and enough close calls together to make normal boundaries feel unnecessary. There were barely any women in the field to begin with, which meant the few of you that existed clung together fast and Scott, despite being deeply irritating most of the time, was easier to talk to than most people.
Brutally honest people usually were.
At some point, conversations that started as jokes during long drives turned into real discussions about relationships, sex, exes and every disappointing person either of you had ever slept with. It happened slowly enough neither of you noticed the line moving until it was already somewhere far behind you.
HR would’ve had a heart attack.
That night, you learned Scott Miller did not do good sex. If good sex existed to him at all, it involved two people fully clothed and standing on opposite ends of a room.
The bar was more crowded than you expected, packed wall to wall with storm chasers, meteorologists, researchers and people who somehow always smelled faintly like dust and gasoline no matter how clean they looked. Whenever women in the field found each other, there was an unspoken tendency to group together immediately, so you spent most of the night at the bar talking with another researcher from Oklahoma while music pounded so loud you felt it vibrate through the floor beneath your heels.
Eventually Javi appeared beside you carrying drinks you absolutely weren’t going to refuse. He handed one over before leaning closer, lowering his voice.
“What’s wrong with Scott?”
You blinked at him. The question caught you off guard enough to make your brows pull together immediately because nobody ever asked about Scott. People either tolerated him, argued with him or avoided him entirely. Whatever problem Scott had, he usually fixed it himself before anyone could notice it existed.
Your eyes scanned the crowd automatically until you found him near the back corner of the bar with a soda in his hand. Of course he wasn’t drinking, he stood half-shadowed against the wall looking deeply unimpressed by the concept of social interaction…and staring directly at you.
Your eyes narrowed slightly until Scott finally got the message and looked away first.
You turned back to Javi. “Do you mean tonight or in general?” you asked dryly. “Because I’m pretty sure he was dropped as a child, but you’d have to ask his mother for confirmation.”
Javi frowned harder. “I mean tonight. He looks tense and it’s making me uneasy.”
“It’s Scott. He always looks tense.”
“More than usual.” Javi glanced over his shoulder carefully. “Tell him to relax for once…and to make some friends. That’s literally why we came here.”
You pointed at yourself immediately. “Why am I responsible for that?”
Javi shrugged like the answer was obvious. “Because you speak ‘Scott’ fluently. Translate what I just said into something he’ll actually understand.”
Your gaze dropped to the drink in your hand. “You’re bribing me.”
“And that drink cost me twenty-five dollars,” he replied. “So yes. Go.”
You snorted into the rim of your glass. “Pretty sure stress is what’s making you bald, by the way…not Scott’s burning gaze.”
Javi adjusted his baseball cap defensively. “Just go talk to him.”
You shook your head, already grinning despite yourself and pushed through the crowd toward the back of the bar, which Scott noticed immediately.
The music got louder the closer you got to him, voices bleeding together into useless noise, so instead of trying to shout over it, you reached forward and hooked one finger through the belt loop of his jeans.
“Outside,” you said simply, tugging once as you moved toward the exit.
Scott followed without argument, that alone should’ve concerned you more than it did.
The plan was for him to ask what you wanted once you got outside. Instead, somewhere between the crowded bar and the exit door, he got distracted watching you walk ahead of him. Your dress moved against your hips every few steps, exposing flashes of leg skin under the low bar lights and the muscles in your bare back moved subtly every time you pushed through another cluster of people.
Inevitably, Scott’s eyes dropped lower before he caught himself.
By the time the two of you stepped outside into the cooler night air, he still hadn’t said a word.
You finally let go of his belt loop once the two of you were far enough from the entrance that the music had dulled into muffled bass behind you. You turned to face him properly, folding your arms across your chest as you looked up at him.
“What’s your current issue?” you asked.
“Current?” Scott repeated, brows pulling together.
You nodded once like the question made perfect sense.
“When’s the last time you had sex?”
A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Excuse me?”
He shrugged carelessly, shoving one hand into the pocket of his jeans. “What? Are you the only one allowed to ask those questions?”
You laughed again, this time shaking your head as you pointed at him. “Yes. Obviously.”
Scott snorted.
“And those are long-drive questions,” you continued, motioning vaguely toward his truck behind you before pointing back toward the crowded bar. “Not ‘parking lot outside a packed bar’ questions.”
“You still need to answer.” He shrugged again. “Those are the rules.”
“Have I ever told you how stupid those rules are?”
“First time I’m hearing complaints since you’re the one who made them,” he replied with a grin.
“You’re insufferable,” you muttered under your breath before taking another sip of your drink.
Scott stayed quiet as he just watched you over the rim of his own soda, patient and expectant in a way that immediately irritated you because he clearly thought he was getting an answer eventually.
“Are you seriously gonna make me answer?”
“I can’t make you do anything,” he said calmly. “But I can wait. I still have to drive you home.”
You looked up toward the entrance of the bar. Through the windows you could still see people packed together under neon lights, laughing too loud, talking over each other about work, storm patterns and equipment failures. You’d already reached the point of the night where conversations started blending together into white noise.
“Can we leave now?” you asked.
Scott didn’t answer verbally. He just pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocked the truck with a click, then held his hand out toward your drink.
“Get in and lock the doors,” he said as he took the glass from you and turned back toward the bar to return it.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” you called after him while walking directly to the passenger side and doing exactly that.
Honestly, you didn’t mind answering the question. The problem was that once you actually thought about it, you realized you weren’t entirely sure how long it had been. It had been long enough that you had to start considering technicalities and long enough that the answer became embarrassing and unfortunately, thinking about sex while sitting alone in Scott’s truck immediately led your brain somewhere unhelpful…
Scott eventually climbed back into the truck and shut the door behind him. He didn’t start driving right away, he just sat there in the dark, one hand resting on the wheel while the dashboard lights cut sharp shadows across his face…waiting, because the thing about car questions was that silence usually came first.
“A year and a half,” you blurted out finally. “Give or take.”
Scott’s head turned toward you so fast it almost looked painful. “No,” he said immediately. “I don’t believe that.”
You laughed in disbelief and looked toward him. “Believe whatever you want, Scott. I answered the fucking question. That’s the game.”
“A year and a half?” he repeated, staring at you like you’d confessed to murder. “What the hell do you even do on weekends?”
“Currently?” you replied dryly. “Sit in your truck while you annoy me.”
“No,” he said, already turning the key in the ignition. “You’re irritated because you’re sexually frustrated.”
You barked out another incredulous laugh.
“And you’ve been sexually frustrated since I met you,” he continued as he shifted the truck into reverse. “Which explains why you piss me off every single fucking day.”
“Excuse you?” You turned toward him fully now, half laughing from sheer disbelief. “First the bra comments and now this? What’s next? Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?”
“Put your seatbelt on.” The command came out flat and automatic.
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do, Scott. I’m not drunk enough to–”
The words died in your throat the second he reached across you.
His arm slid in front of your chest while the truck reversed smoothly with his other hand still turning the wheel. His forearm brushed against the underside of your breasts accidentally…or maybe not so accidentally and your breath caught hard at the sudden closeness. Scott grabbed the seatbelt beside your shoulder, pulled it across your body in one sharp movement, then clicked it into place at your hip without looking away from the rear window once.
You drove home in complete silence.
No radio or conversation, just the steady sound of tires against asphalt and the occasional flick of the blinker while Scott kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. You’d heard every version of his voice over the last two years, sarcastic, irritated or sharp enough to make grown men defensive in meetings but hearing him tell you to put your seatbelt on while his arm pressed across your breasts had done something deeply unfortunate to your brain.
This was entirely your fault. You were the one who made sex an acceptable topic between the two of you, you were the one who turned it into a game, into background conversation during long drives and late nights. Somewhere along the way home, your definition of good sex had rewritten itself around that precise moment.
For most people, that probably counted as foreplay, but for you? It counted as a serious fucking problem.
By the time Scott parked outside your house, your thoughts had spiraled so badly that you barely registered the truck stopping. You stayed seated even after he cut the engine, staring forward blankly while the silence settled heavier around you.
Scott got out first without saying anything and walked around the front of the truck toward your side.
The passenger door opened. You looked up just in time to feel him lean in and reach across you again, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric stretched over your waist as he unclipped the seatbelt. The contact lasted maybe a second but that was already too long.
Only then did you finally move. You climbed out quickly, making an effort to keep close to the truck instead of brushing against him, then headed straight for your front door while digging through your purse for your keys even if it was practically empty and somehow that made it worse. You found lip balm…receipts…some loose cash, everything except what you actually needed.
Scott followed behind you quietly.
You still hadn’t found the keys when his arm appeared beside you, reaching around your body with frustrating familiarity. He’d had your keys the entire night, he usually did whenever the two of you went out together because you constantly lost track of them.
The metal clicked softly as he unlocked the door for you.
Your breath stalled as Scott stood so close behind you that you could feel the heat coming off him through the thin fabric of your dress. His chest nearly touched your back, one arm still braced near your shoulder while he turned the lock. It boxed you in completely, your body caught between the door and him and the worst part was that it felt good.
The sharp heat low in your stomach made that painfully obvious.
Good sex, apparently, was standing fully clothed on your own porch while your coworker unlocked your front door…all while standing right behind you.
The lock finally clicked open. You pushed the door open and stepped inside fast to put distance between you before turning back toward him.
Determination sat stiffly in your chest now…You were staying dressed. Whatever this weird tension was had to be alcohol-fueled, temporary, deeply stupid or preferably all three and gone by morning.
Unfortunately, Scott looked unfairly good standing on your porch under weak yellow light.
At some point he’d taken off his cap, you didn’t know when and hadn’t realized until now. Why did he look dreamy!? His hair was messy from running his hands through it all night and the expression on his face had settled back into that unreadable calm that somehow made things worse.
“Night, Scott,” you said quickly, then shut the door directly in his face…very determined to remain dressed.
“Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?” That sentence replayed in your head later for one humiliating reason: Scott Miller had never been the kind of man to hand off work he could do himself.
You’d been wrong earlier, completely wrong.
Great sex didn’t happen on weekends or after parties or during long-awaited moments with somebody you trusted. Sometimes it happened five minutes after you slammed your front door in a man’s face and tried convincing yourself you still had common sense.
You stayed standing by the door after closing it, palms warm against the wood, waiting to hear his truck start. You expected the familiar sound of the driver’s side door opening, shutting and the low rumble of the engine before he pulled away but nothing happened.
At first you told yourself you were imagining the silence because you were still too aware of him…then a full minute passed…followed by another and then three more.
Five long, miserable minutes where your brain refused to focus on anything except the fact Scott was still outside your house.
You opened the door expecting embarrassment or maybe annoyance, maybe him realizing he forgot something. Instead, he was still standing there in the same position with that same unreadable expression, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans like you hadn’t just shut the door on him…five minutes ago.
You stared at each other for a second too long.
You never figured out what exactly snapped first. Pride, self-control or curiosity…maybe all of it at once again.
One second he was standing on your porch and the next you were grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him forward hard enough to make him stumble into you as your mouth crashed against his.
The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the fragile determination to stay dressed shattered. You didn't just invite Scott in, you practically hauled him across the threshold, pulling him into a kiss that tasted of alcohol and months of suppressed frustration. It was messy and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongues that left you both breathless.
You stumbled backward, the friction of your bodies fueling a fire that had been simmering for far too long. As you navigated the space, your heels clicked erratically against the floor until you kicked them off with frantic movements, one flying toward the wall and the other sliding away as you backed into the dining area.
You hit the edge of the heavy wooden table and Scott didn't miss a beat. He gripped your waist with bruising force and hoisted you up, the sudden elevation making you gasp into his mouth. He didn't stop kissing you but his path shifted, lips sliding down your jawline to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands were everywhere, frantic and demanding, sliding up the fabric of your dress and bunching it up around your waist until your thighs were bare and shivering against the cool wood.
You felt his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, tugging them down with a sharp, decisive motion until you could kick them off, exposing you to the air. As he lowered himself, his mouth found the swell of your breasts through your dress, biting lightly against the fabric on his way down between your legs.
"You don't need to do that," you managed to moan, your voice trembling as he moved your weight, sliding you toward the edge of the table until you were perched precariously, your legs naturally falling open.
"Shut up," Scott muttered against your skin, his voice a low, arrogant growl that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your clit as he finally settled himself firmly between your thighs, the heat of his body radiating against your wetness.
Then, he dipped his head. The first touch of his tongue was a shock of heat, it was wet and precise. He dove right in, tongue licking upward from your perineum to your clit in one long, sweeping stroke. You arched your back as a loud moan escaped you since it had been so long since you’d felt anything this raw, this focused. You were starving for it and Scott was feeding off of you with a primal intensity that blurred everything else out.
He used his hands to grip your hips, pulling you closer to the edge so he could bury his face in you as he kneeled. He began to lap at you with a rhythmic, punishing speed, his tongue flattening out to cover as much surface area as possible before narrowing into a sharp point to flick relentlessly against your clit.
The sensation was overwhelming. You began to squirm, hips jerking instinctively against his mouth as your fingernails clawed at the tabletop. You weren't just enjoying it, you were unraveling.
"Fuck…Scott...please," you whimpered, though you didn't know what you were asking for.
He responded by changing your position. He pushed you flat onto your back on the table, the hard wood pressing into your spine and hauled your legs up, draping them over his broad shoulders. The position left you completely exposed, your pussy flared open and glistening in the dark room.
He didn't stop the oral but added more by sliding two fingers deep inside you, stretching you open while his tongue continued to hammer away at your clit. The combination of the internal pressure and the external friction was too much. You were shaking, breath coming in short, jagged gasps as your feet drummed against his back.
He could tell you were close, encouraging him to increase the pressure, fingers curling inside you to hit your G-spot while his tongue sucked your clit into his mouth, creating a vacuum of pleasure that felt like it was pulling your entire soul out through your cunt.
“Holy s-shit!” Your head thrashed from side to side, a loud, unrestrained scream tearing from your throat as the orgasm hit you like a freight train. It was violent and all-consuming, your internal muscles clamping down hard on his fingers as waves of intense pleasure crashed over you, leaving you whimpering and twitching on the table.
As the peak slowly subsided, Scott didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his breath hot against your sensitive skin, slowly lapping the remaining juices from your pussy. He cleaned you thoroughly, his tongue lingering on every inch of your swollen cunt until you were completely spent, lying limp and shivering on the table, finally satisfied.
He straightened slowly from between your legs, chest rising hard with uneven breaths that matched your own. His mouth was swollen and wet when he licked across his lips absentmindedly, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made heat crawl back under your skin even while your body still twitched from the orgasm.
From your place sprawled across the dining table, you stared up at him in stunned silence. Your thighs were still trembling now against his sides and you were almost certain your expression looked ridiculous, wide-eyed and dazed in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to look around another person in years.
Scott held a hand out toward you and you took it automatically.
He helped you sit up first before guiding you carefully off the table, one hand steady on your waist while your legs struggled to cooperate beneath you. The second your feet touched the floor, your knees nearly gave out entirely.
Scott wiped his mouth with his palm. “Goodnight,” he said and the gentleness of it caught you off guard more than anything else that night had.
His hand slipped away from your waist and the two of you just stood there for a second, staring at each other while trying and failing to breathe normally again.
Then Scott turned and walked toward the front door.
You stayed frozen in place while he opened it and left your house without another word. A few seconds later you finally heard the sounds you’d been waiting for earlier, the truck door opening, shutting and the engine starting before he drove off into the night.
You tried walking toward your bedroom afterward and immediately realized your legs barely worked. You ended up half stumbling down the hallway, one hand dragging along the wall for balance because your entire lower body still felt weak and oversensitive.
Great sex…that had been unbelievably, painfully great sex.
You thought about it constantly afterward. In the shower, during calls and meetings, while sitting in traffic or lying awake at night staring at the ceiling with your thighs pressed together. You didn’t mention it to your friends or talked to Scott about it, even during the long stretches of silence that filled the truck during drives. The two of you understood what happened without discussing it directly, you’d crossed a line and both of you seemed aware that talking about it too much would probably drag you over it again.
The following mornings, you waited for him outside on your porch instead of letting him walk into your house like usual. Mostly because you’d spent the entire week masturbating to the memory of him between your legs on your dining table before getting ready for the day and you didn’t trust yourself to survive seeing him inside your kitchen before sunrise.
For one solid week, you slept perfectly. No insomnia or late-night work spirals, no pacing around rooms or answering emails at one in the morning just to keep your brain occupied. Whatever tension usually sat under your skin had disappeared completely and now it sat between you both instead.
Every drive felt heavier, the silence stretched longer and every sharp inhale from him made your stomach tighten unexpectedly until eventually you got sick of pretending neither of you noticed it.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” you interrupted suddenly.
Scott glanced toward you briefly, eyes leaving the road for barely a second before returning forward. “Do you want to?” he asked.
“I don’t,” you admitted. “I feel like you do though.”
“You’re right.”
You snorted quietly and looked back down at the laptop balanced across your knees.
“I thought you liked being right.” Scott added.
“Fucking love it,” you replied automatically before grimacing. “Usually.”
Silence settled again until you broke it. “Okay,” you sighed eventually. “Maybe one thing.” You turned to him properly this time. “I wasn’t that drunk that night. Actually, I wasn’t drunk at all. I had that one beer before we left my place and the rest were mocktails.”
Scott turned his head enough to study your face for a second. “I wouldn’t have touched you if you were drunk,” he said flatly. “I’m an asshole, not fucking stupid.”
You leaned back against the seat slowly. “Even that’s changed.”
His brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”
“The coffee for starters,” you said. “The lunches, too. You stopped buying disgusting gas station sandwiches and now we actually eat dinner out like normal people.” You gestured vaguely toward him. “You used to hand me coffee with five sugar packets on the side because you couldn’t remember how I took it. Now it’s magically perfect every fucking morning.”
Scott adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.
“I thought eating around other people would make this less weird,” he admitted. “And I got tired of sugar packets all over my truck.”
“Our truck,” you corrected automatically before pointing at him accusingly. “And nothing about this is normal, Scott! You ate me out on my dining table!”
“Stop yelling at me.” His tone stayed frustratingly calm.
“Why?” you shot back. “Is it making you hard?”
Scott shifted in his seat hard enough that you noticed instantly. Both his hands locked tighter around the steering wheel while he stared straight ahead at the road. The tension in his jaw became visible because unfortunately for him, you weren’t wrong.
The last week had changed things. You looked less exhausted and less tightly wound. You hadn’t snapped at him once during work and he hadn’t gotten a single unhinged one a.m. email from you all week because for the first time since he’d met you, you were actually sleeping.
“So when are we doing it again?” he asked finally, against every ounce of common sense he had left.
NEVER…that should’ve been the answer. It was the logical answer, the responsible one, the answer two coworkers with already questionable boundaries should’ve landed on immediately.
It just wasn’t the truth.
You had always maintained that getting fucked couldn’t happen in motel rooms. It didn't matter how good the sex was, the second cheap carpet, bad lighting and a rattling air conditioner got involved, the whole thing dropped several levels automatically.
Motel sex could be great, sometimes even memorable but it couldn’t be that, so the next time it happened definitely wasn’t in a motel room.
The weather that day had turned bad enough to keep everyone grounded but not dangerous enough to send your team chasing storms through three different counties. There was heavy rain, low visibility and too much lightning for comfort but not enough rotation to justify going out.
At some point, without either of you actually saying it outright, waiting the storm out in Scott’s apartment became the plan instead of sitting cramped inside the truck for hours pretending the tension between you didn’t exist.
You still couldn’t pinpoint who made the first move once the elevator doors closed behind you.
One second you were standing beside him soaked at the edges from the rain, listening to distant thunder through the concrete parking garage and the next, Scott’s hand was inside your pants like it belonged there.
You gasped hard into his mouth as his fingers slid against you immediately, already somewhat familiar with exactly what made your hips jerk forward. The kiss that came after barely counted as one, it was messy and distracted, interrupted constantly by your breathing and the quiet sounds you kept failing to swallow down.
The elevator ride lasted less than a minute but by the time the doors opened onto his floor, your orgasm was already hitting you in sharp waves around his fingers while your forehead pressed against his shoulder to keep yourself standing.
If you weren’t already fucked, you were about to be.
You’d been inside Scott’s apartment before. A handful of times after late nights working or when weather reports needed reviewing somewhere quieter than a crowded diner. You remembered the big windows first, stretching across the living room area with a full view of the skyline in the distance. Tonight they framed heavy gray clouds and rain pouring so hard that it blurred the city lights into smears of white and yellow.
Scott barely gave you time to look around because the second the apartment door shut behind you, his hands were on you again. He walked you toward the living room with rough impatience, pulling your pants down from behind while you stumbled against the edge of an armchair. Your underwear followed immediately after, dragged down together in one quick motion before pooling around your ankles.
The air in Scott’s apartment was heavy, charged with the static of the storm raging outside. The gray light of the overcast sky filtered through the windows but the atmosphere inside was scorching.
"Kneel," he commanded as he pointed toward the armchair, his voice a low, authoritative rumble.
You didn't hesitate. The tension that had been building between you for weeks, the unspoken glances and lingering touches, had finally snapped. You sank to your knees on the plush seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. You leaned forward, gripping the headrest with both hands, body already trembling in anticipation. You were completely exposed to him, your ass tilted back and waiting.
Scott disappeared for a moment, leaving you in a silence broken only by the distant roll of thunder. When he returned, the sound of a foil packet tearing echoed in the room. You heard the metallic click of his belt unbuckling and the slide of a zipper.
The anticipation was agonizing. You heard him roll the condom on, followed by the wet sound of him spitting on the head of his cock to make the entry smoother.
He stepped up behind you, heat radiating against your backside. He lined himself up and then, with one powerful, decisive surge, he thrust deep inside you.
You let out a sharp, strangled whine, your fingers digging into the fabric of the headrest. It had been so long since you’d felt a man inside you and Scott was massive. The initial stretch was borderline painful, a blunt force that filled every millimeter of your tight, starving pussy. You blinked rapidly, tears pricking your eyes as your body struggled to accommodate his size, your breath hitching in your throat.
Scott didn't give you time to adjust. He reached forward, his large hands clamping onto your hips with bruising force and yanked you backward, pulling you deeper onto his cock until there was no space left between you.
"I wanna see you," you moaned, your voice broken and desperate, trying to twist your torso around to look at him.
He didn't let you. Instead, he leaned in and sank his teeth into the skin of your shoulder, a sharp bite that made you moan despite your best efforts. His hand moved from your hip to your jaw, gripping it firmly to keep your head pinned forward.
"Just focus," he rasped calmly against your skin, the contrast of his steady voice and his firm grip sending a shiver of submission down your spine.
He let go of your jaw and began to thrust. He didn't start slowly, he hit you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. The apartment was suddenly filled with the sound of your sudden, loud moans and frantic curses. You collapsed forward, your chest pressed against the headrest, your body jarring with every hit.
As he hammered into you, Scott reached around, his hands finding your breasts. He didn't bother undressing you further, he grabbed your boobs firmly over your clothes, squeezing and kneading them with a rough, possessive grip that matched the violence of his hips.
"I'm gonna fuck you on every surface of this apartment," he growled. "You'll be seeing a lot of me."
The sex quickly became raw and primal and so, so fucking good. The sound of skin slapping against skin, mixed with the wet, rhythmic thud of his pelvis hitting your ass filled the room, competing with the roar of the thunder outside. Every thrust shook your entire frame, quaking your body from your head to your toes. You were whimpering loudly now, the pain of the initial stretch having completely melted into an overwhelming, white-hot pleasure you never thought you could feel.
Your eyes watered, staring out into the distance of the room, the world blurring as the friction built. It was fast, harsh and so perfect that you found yourself wanting to bite the armchair, your teeth sinking into the fabric as your back arched violently. You were unraveling, the long period of abstinence making you hypersensitive to every inch of him.
"I'm right there, keep going! Scott, please! Don’t fuckin’ stop." you whined, voice echoing through the apartment.
He didn't, he instead increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and more frantic, drilling into you with an obsession that felt like he wanted to merge his body with yours. The thunder peaked with a deafening crash that seemed to trigger something inside you.
Suddenly, your internal muscles spasmed. A wave of heat exploded from your core and you felt a sudden, uncontrollable gush of fluid. You were squirting, something that had never happened to you before, the hot spray soaking the armchair and your own thighs. You began to shake uncontrollably, your legs giving out as you sobbed out of pure pleasure into the headrest.
Scott let out a guttural groan, the feeling of you flooding around him driving him over the edge. He loved it, hell, he was obsessed with the way you were falling apart under him. He kept going, ignoring your tremors, continuously driving himself into you as you peaked into a mind-blowing, screaming orgasm that left you completely breathless.
With a final, deep thrust, he groaned loudly, coming hard into the condom.
The momentum stopped abruptly. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you frozen, chests heaving in unison.
Slowly, he withdrew, the wet sound of his exit punctuating the silence with an obscene pop.
You both watch the rain lash against the glass, the gray light illuminating the wreckage of your passion. You took a long, shuddering breath, body still twitching from the aftershocks as your pussy twitched around nothing, back arching further needily, earning a smack from him.
"Holy fuck," you both breathed simultaneously, the weight of the encounter settling over you in the heavy, humid air.
There was no going back after that day. Not to abstinence, not to disappointing hookups or to pretending sex was something casual and forgettable that fit neatly between work schedules and storm reports.
Once Scott got his hands on you, everything else lost appeal embarrassingly fast.
What started as isolated incidents quickly turned into a pattern neither of you seriously attempted to stop. It was a terrible idea professionally, obviously, but somehow the two of you functioned better afterward. Meetings became easier, long drives felt lighter and you argued less viciously because the tension always had somewhere to go now instead of festering under your skin for weeks.
You started going home together most nights under the excuse of saving gas money. Then showering together afterward became another practical decision because apparently water bills mattered too now. Somewhere between shared coffee in the mornings and him keeping spare clothes for you at his apartment, things moved quietly into something neither of you had planned for and the worst part was that it worked.
The sex stayed incredible. Sometimes rough enough to leave hickeys along your skin and fingerprints fading across your thighs and hips by morning, or other times slow enough that you ended up tangled together for hours afterward while thunderstorms rolled outside the windows. Every now and then he fucked you hard enough to leave you shaking afterward, staring blankly at the ceiling while he stood in the kitchen making you food like that was a normal sequence of events but eventually you realized it wasn’t just about that anymore.
You started having actual dates without calling them dates, it was dinner after work that lasted until restaurants closed around you. You went grocery shopping together because both of you were too exhausted to go separately and you began falling asleep on opposite ends of his couch while weather models played quietly on television screens neither of you were really watching.
Off-season made it worse.
Without constant travel, motel rooms and adrenaline keeping you both distracted, there was finally time to explore whatever this thing between you had become. You drifted naturally between your house and his apartment depending on whose place seemed closer to the office that day. Half your belongings somehow ended up at his place and vice versa. You texted each other constantly during meetings despite sitting twenty feet apart, phones hidden beneath desks while coworkers talked around you.
Scott started bringing your coffee to your desk already made exactly how you liked it before you even decided you needed one. You started buying his preferred cereal without asking if he wanted any. He slept better with you in his bed and you stopped grinding your teeth in your sleep when he stayed over.
So naturally, being made love to finally happened exactly the way you once thought it would and it wasn’t some exaggerated version of romance men convinced themselves they were capable of after two drinks and mediocre conversation.
It sort of snuck up on you. It was Scott pulling you into his lap while both of you were exhausted after work, kissing your shoulder absentmindedly while you read through data on his laptop. It was him waking you up slowly on Sunday mornings with his hand sliding under your shirt and nowhere either of you needed to be. It was sex that lasted forever because he knew your body well enough to take his time with it, knew exactly what made you gasp, what made your legs tense and what made you hide your face against his neck when the pleasure became too much.
He paid attention and it made all of the difference. Scott learned your body like he learned storm patterns, thoroughly and obsessively, until touching you became instinct to him and it showed…
The morning light filtered through the curtains of your bedroom in soft, golden slats, painting the sheets in hues of amber and cream. The house was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of your shared breathing and the distant chirp of birds welcoming the dawn. You were tangled together, skin on skin, the warmth of the duvet trapping the heat of your bodies in a private, humid cocoon.
There was no rush, no storm to outrun and no urgency born of desperation. There was only the heavy, sweet weight of Scott pressing you into the mattress. You were both fully naked, your limbs entwined in a lazy, possessive knot.
Scott began slowly, his lips tracing a path of fire across your collarbone. He wasn't just kissing you, he was tasting you, tongue swirling against your skin in slow circles that made you shiver. He moved lower, mouth finding the sensitive curve of your breast as you let out a soft, airy moan. He took your nipple into his mouth, sucking firmly while his thumb and forefinger pinched the other peak, twisting it just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
You arched your back, your fingers sliding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. The friction of his chest against your breasts was intoxicating, the rough hair of his torso grazing your sensitive skin.
He shifted, sliding his body up so he could look into your eyes. His gaze was dark, filled with an intensity that felt more overwhelming than any of the rougher encounters you'd had. He didn't move to flip you or push you into a different position, instead, he settled between your thighs in a classic missionary stance and pushed inside. There was no latex barrier this time, no clinical snap of a condom. It was raw, wet and absolute.
The sensation of his bare skin sliding against yours was a revelation. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt the full, throbbing heat of him filling you completely. It felt different, more intimate and permanent. The lack of a barrier made every ridge of his cock feel amplified, every pulse of his blood echoing against your own internal walls.
He didn't start with the punishing pace of the past. Instead, he began to rock, his movements slow and agonizingly deep. He pressed his palm flat against your stomach, pushing down firmly to tilt your pelvis, ensuring that every thrust hit the deepest part of you.
"Gripping me like a fucking vise…so perfect." he groaned, his voice a gravelly morning rumble that vibrated through your chest.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles to pull him even deeper. You were lost in the rhythm, the slow, sliding friction creating a build-up of tension that felt like a tightening coil in your belly. You ran your hands through his hair, your nails lightly scratching his scalp as you moaned into the first rays of the morning sun.
The intimacy was suffocating in the best way possible. As he continued to rock, his movements grew slightly more urgent, the slow glide turning into a passionate, driving force. He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, tasting the salt and sweetness of your skin while he continued to pinch and tease your nipples, hand roaming your curves with a familiarity that spoke of a deep, obsessive knowledge of your body.
It didn’t take long for your breath to become shallow, chest heaving as the pleasure began to peak. You could feel the walls of your pussy clenching around him, milking him with every deep stroke. Your body tensed, toes curling into the sheets as a wave of heat crashed over you. You cried out, a long, melodic sound of surrender, as your orgasm ripped through you in slow, pulsing waves that left you shaking beneath him.
Scott didn’t slow his pace as his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily. He continued moving, the intimacy of the connection almost too much to bear.
"Want to be done?" he whispered, his voice strained, muscles trembling with the effort of holding back.
You looked up at him, eyes hazy with pleasure and affection. The thought of him pulling away felt wrong because you wanted everything. You wanted the weight, the heat and the mark of him.
You shook your head with an escaped whimper, pulling his face down to yours. "Don’t you dare pull out…’want you to come inside." You breathed.
The request broke the last of his restraint. Scott let out a guttural sound, a mix of a groan and a sob and began to drive into you with a renewed, primal intensity. It was a desperate, loving hunger. He hammered into you, movements strong and deep, each thrust a claim and a promise.
As he reached his limit, his grip on your hip tightened, fingers digging into your skin. He thrust one last time, burying himself as deep as physically possible and you felt the hot, thick bursts of his cum flooding into you. The sensation of him filling you from the inside out was the most intense feeling you had ever experienced, a physical manifestation of the bond that had grown between you.
In the height of his release, as his body shuddered violently against yours, he gasped out the words he had been holding back.
"I love you," he choked out, the confession raw and unplanned.
The world seemed to stop for a heartbeat. You felt a surge of emotion that rivaled the intensity of the orgasm, a warmth that started in your chest and radiated to your fingertips. You tightened your hold on him, pulling him down for a deep, searing kiss.
"I love you too," you whispered against his lips.
He collapsed onto you, heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your own, both of you spent and glowing in the morning light, finally and completely entwined.
A few years ago, you would’ve hated the idea that Scott Miller of all people would end up teaching you everything worth knowing about sex. It would’ve bruised your ego badly, especially considering how seriously you once took those stupid categories and scales in your head before Scott showed up and ruined all of them completely.
Good sex stopped mattering.
Great sex became expected.
Getting fucked became routine enough that you lost count somewhere along the line, usually around the third orgasm of the day and definitely before he started dragging you into his lap halfway through work calls just because he felt like bothering you…with his hands and dick.
But somehow, even after all the rough sex and ruined schedules, Scott still managed to make love to you exactly the way you once imagined it should feel.
So if somebody offered you the chance to go back and do it all over again, you would without hesitation.
You were an absolute HR nightmare now and what a fucking delight that was!
A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!
Look at him just chewing the FAWK out of that gum 😭 (wait chew me next)
Oh my cheese everyone really liked that post😭😭😭 thank you all for the support, my requests will be open then if anyone wants a super duper specific fic
Pairing: Journalist!Clark Kent x Photographer!Reader
Summary: After Clark keeps cancelling on your favorite plans with you, ghosting you for a few months, a reunion is all you need to fully reconnect
Warnings: SMUT (18+ minors dni) porn with plot, fluff and smut, pinv, no protection (use condoms for the love of god), prone bone, cowgirl, creampie, overstimulation, squirting (a little bit), nipple/breast sucking, cunnalingus, heavy praise (Clark just loves talking her through it), both reader and clark are super needy, softdom clark, no mentions of reader besides shes AFAB, no use of y/n, clark kind of goes 'shes busy lil bro'
Word count: 5.4k (i got very carried away)
The first mistake was getting a boyfriend. The mistake before that was letting Clark raincheck you. The mistake before that one was letting it become a weekly occurrence.
Near the start of the summer, Clark clumsily wheeled his chair over to your desk, finding you in a deep state of concentration between two identical filters. He probed nervously by asking about your baking history, further explaining how his parents were having a family reunion and wanted Clark to bring something. You laughed at him, not intentionally cruel,
“What, you want me to pretend to be your fiance, or something?” You asked, a huge grin on your face, contrasting the slight frown on his. He tried to explain he just needs to bake a dessert to bring, and probed again about your baking history. After a laugh-filled agreement to help him, you appeared at his apartment on the Saturday before he left, holding a bag of ingredients. Despite your reasonable anxiety about baking alongside the largest man on Earth, it turned out into an adorable apple pie. The rest of the evening was spent eating the leftovers and ranting about work. Besides the few nights you were dragged to the bar with everyone, it was rare you ever saw Clark outside of work. It wasn’t that he was intimidating, well he was, but something about his hurriedness to leave work everyday made you hesitant to ask him out. But seeing his relaxed state in his mostly empty apartment, loudly gesturing about politics, lowered the anxiety in your stomach.
That summer turned into the months of weekly baking sessions at both your apartments. Instead of rewriting articles, and making the changes Perry requested, Clark would instead look for baking recipes to try with you. Each session led to deeper and deeper discussion into each other's lives and little neurotic tendencies. You rambled to your friends, more than you liked to admit, about how perfect Clark was, how badly you wanted to take him out, how perfect he looked in his nerdy glasses. Once the summer heat died out and the leaves started dying, work picked up at the Daily Planet. You started taking jobs photographing weddings to get extra money, Clark was extra dedicated to improving his writing and spent more time at home after work. The first week it started to decay, Clark sent an innocent text. You were sitting in your apartment, going over some photos for a client and cleaning them up, waiting for Clark to come over. Just a simple heads up he’s too busy to make it this week. The news hurt a little more than it should. Way more than it should. You had cleaned up your whole apartment, cleaned the bathroom, picked up your room, all for one little text. After a minute, you text back a quick, tight, “no worries! See you next time”.
That next time didn’t come. That next Saturday, the same text, this time a little more last minute. You call your friends as you put everything away, venting about how frequent these rainchecked sessions are getting. They don’t understand why you can’t just see him during work, and you scramble to explain how chitchat around the water cooler isn’t what you were missing. It wasn’t just talking and seeing Clark. You could do that all day at work, it was the intimacy of being alone with him, getting to work together. After another week of rainchecked sessions, you stopped expecting to see him at all. The recipes stopped getting shared and your texting slowly died out. Not to mention the probability of talking to Clark on your lunch breaks dropped, seeing as he only ate lunch at his desk now.
Your friends insisted you get back on the horse.
“You didn’t even date him, dude. I wasn’t gonna say anything, but like, it’s kinda bumming everyone out watching you mourn him,” Your best friend said, arms crossed in the doorway, looking at you lying in bed. “It’s a little pathetic, man” She adds, shrugging when you look over your shoulder, an offended look on your face, “Jus’ being honest, babes.”
The next Superman fight, you ran four blocks to grab some photos, bumping into another photographer. Was he Clark? No, but the next best thing. Being able to spend the winter with someone was pleasant. Just pleasant. He was fine. Everything was just fine, nothing compared to the overwhelming joy and giddiness you got from baking with Clark. He soon proved to be nowhere near as kind and thoughtful as Clark was. Eventually, you stopped trying to force something that was never going to last. The breakup was loud and messy, cruel for no real reason. The breakup landed you here, stuck in your apartment during new years, cuddled up on the couch, alone. This might be more pathetic than how you were mourning Clark. The breakup was rough. Rougher than what you wished for. Apparently if you date someone for a few months, and they aren’t holding onto past crushes, they actually get attached. It was the longest hour of your life, sitting in the park, listening to him go over the stages of grief, at least the first four. You tried to keep it civil, but once he brought up Clark as a reason, and your terrible poker face cringed, he exploded. And now you sit by yourself, watching the ball drop on tv, while you scroll on your phone.
Once the ball drops, you stand up to go to sleep, but hear your phone buzzing on the table. Picking it up, you see Clarks contact, sitting on your home page.
“See you Saturday?” You blink, another text popping up. “Your place or mine?” Another text, a link to a recipe. You turn off your phone, turning it back on to see if maybe you're dreaming. Maybe the words will warp into something else. But they stay firm in their form.
Saturday you clean your apartment. Thoroughly. You clean out the fridge and freezer, hand washing dishes, cleaning up all the clothes and pajamas left around the bedroom. As the afternoon rolls around, and you finish getting yourself ready, you keep your phone face up, in case he, at the last minute, tries to cancel. No buzz from your phone, a knock at the door.
It was almost like that whole fall and winter never happened.
“I saw your, uh, wedding posts, you’re getting really good” Clark says, breaking the comfortable silence, nudging his glasses up with his shoulder, “Not that you weren’t good before that,” He adds quickly, slowing his whisking. You snicker and jab his arm,
“Keep whisking, it needs to be firm to mix properly,” You smile, looking at his focused face as he returns his wrist to the same motion, “And thank you, all those weddings kill my feet, but it’s the perfect opportunity to get the practice outside of work.”
“Must be. Um, sorry about cancelling for so long. Things kept coming up,” He says, showing you the fluffy, firm, texture. You shrug and hand him the bowl to mix the filling together. Inside you know that's a lame excuse, but you didn’t exactly want to make a big scene now that he's here. You dunk the ladyfingers into the bowl of coffee and line the bottom of the tray,
“Shit happens, it's all good,” You say blankly, scrunching your nose up at your bleak tone, “It’s been fine anyways. I mean, I dunno,”
Clark glances over, “Did something happen? I know we haven’t exactly-” He pauses, then re-words himself, “I didn’t exactly stay in touch over the months.”
You try to come up with another excuse for your slump that fall, because confessing to Clark that it was his fault you turned into a hermit for a few weeks felt wrong.
“I broke up recently,” You say quickly, deciding to skip that season all together, “It didn’t really go how I wanted it to.”
Assembling the tiramisu was easier than the recipe made it seem, or maybe you both did it wrong. Clark clumsily pours the filling over the ladyfingers, leaning over you slightly.
“Do we add the cocoa powder now or later?” You mumble, smoothing out the last layer of the filling.
“I think it says now,” Clark grabs his phone, scrolling through the sob story and ads to get to the instructions.
“Won’t it kinda like…melt? Into the filling? It has to sit for, like, four hours,”
“It says now,”
“Does it? That feels stupid,”
“If we wait, what if it, like, doesn’t stick to the top? Or like, doesn’t mix right,”
You smile at Clark’s defensive nature, even if it looks like it pains him to disagree with you. Moving to the sink, grabbing all the messy bowls and spatulas, you chuckle,
“Then you can add it now, I have a sifter in the top cabinet,” You nudge your head to the tall and narrow shelf. He steps around you, the cramped kitchen in your apartment always a challenge hosting both of you. His hand mindlessly lands on your lower back as he reaches up to grab the sifter, just as quickly stepping away to get the cocoa powder. Once he wipes the edges of the pan, cleaning the cocoa off, he tugs you away from the dishes,
“I can do these, most of this is my doing, anyways,” He smiles wide, handing you the dish towel. You roll your eyes and grin slightly, wiping your hands dry. After tucking the pan deep into the fridge, you look over at Clark. Maybe after a few months of ghosting you, you deserve a bit of ogling at his huge back. Through his shirt you swear you can see his shoulder blades move around.
—
“I don’t even remember properly, it could’ve been a really bad dream. Or maybe I stepped on a horse tranquilizer,” You laugh, laying back on the couch, holding the cup of coffee tightly in your palms.
“He cried?” He asks again, an incredulous smile growing on his lips, his dimples growing deeper.
“Maybe? I didn’t see any tears, but it definitely sounded like he was. The worst part was that it ended up lasting way longer than I wanted. The breakup, that is,” You add, pointing a finger out, making him chuckle, “I tried to condense it to the morning, but he dragged it to lunch. People were passing by to get to the hotdog stand and kept glancing at us!”
“Why were you by the hotdog stand to begin with?”
“I wanted a hotdog after” You burst into laughter, throwing your head back at your own joke. Clark snorts into his mug, laughing with you and shaking his head.
“Thats so mean!”
“Not even! I was going to wait for him to shake my hand, and civilly walk away, but he just kept…crying”
You look over, seeing his thick shoulders shake with laughter at your blunt tone.
“That’s mean,”
Rolling your eyes, you take a sip of the coffee, “Oh whatever, what was your last breakup like?”
He gets a little sheepish, averting eye contact to look into the mug, “I don’t even remember,”
“What, was it so bad you had to repress it? You can tell me if you got a hotdog after, Clark,” You tease, nudging his calf with your foot to try and lighten his mood. It works, kind of, he smiles at least.
“I would never do that,” He points, shaking his head playfully, “But it was just a long time ago,” He shrugs, making you all the more interested.
“Wait, really? So when was the last time you got laid?” You pry, leaning forward slightly, “Oh, don’t tell me you’re a virgin, dude,” You tease, grinning softly. He snaps his head at you, laughing breathlessly,
“N-no!” He says unconvincingly, making you give him a look, adjusting his glasses, “No! I’m not! It’s been a while, that's all.” He shrinks back in his seat, swirling the mug to stare at the coffee spin.
“Thats fine. It’s been, like, maybe…” You trail off, trying to count the months, “Maybe six months?”
He narrows his eyes, looking back up and then looking at you, “Weren’t you just telling me about your boyfriend?”
“Well excuse me, Mr. Kansas. I don’t exactly put out after two and a half months” You sit up straight and close your eyes as you sip your coffee, “At least I can place a time stamp on mine,” You tease a little harder, nudging him again. He flushes and looks back down into his cup, bouncing his knee. Silence rolls over like a weighted blanket, making you squirm slightly, wondering if it was a sensitive topic or something.
“You know-”
“I’m sorry-”
You both blurt at the same time, turning to face each other. Clark smiles and sets his coffee down on the table, setting yours down as well. He nods at you to speak first,
“I’m pretty sure you blurted out first” You shake your head, a grin spreading back onto your lips. He leans back, crossing his legs widely and holding onto his ankle,
“I wanted to, um, say sorry for going no contact for so long. That wasn’t fair to you,”
“Clark, it’s fine. You already explained it earlier, you’re an innocent man now,”
“I lied” He said, quickly.
You blink, trying to think of a comeback to that. Clearly he doesn’t have any further explanation because he just blinks and looks away. Your brain racks for any kind of joke to melt the tension, but just as you start to piece together a half baked thought, Clark moves closer. You look up, Clark tightly smiling, his cheeks a little pink.
“I really liked you,” He mumbles, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again, “Really like you. Present tense”
It’s impossible not to find it a little cute. You lean up and kiss his jawline, nudging his glasses,
“Bit of a backwards way to show it, but I do appreciate it” You tease, falling back into rhythm as usual. Pushing yourself up, you meet his eyeline on the couch, leaning forward to kiss him gently.
“I kind of freaked myself out over it. I tried to will it away, I guess,”
“Will it away,” You repeat, snickering, “Geez, I’m not that bad, Clark. Like I’m a bad fever,”
“No! Not like that! Gosh, um,” he looks away, giving me another chance to peck his jaw.
“I know what you mean, I think,” You snort, pulling back to rest against the arm of the couch.
“You’ve always been so,” Clark trails off, gesturing vaguely with his hands, “Easy going. Always getting me out of my head. Always so ready to cheer people up,” He finishes, glancing at me helplessly. You cock your head, making the same gestures back at him,
“Keep going” You smile, a laugh bubbling up in your chest.
He lets out a short laugh, shaking his head, “Can I kiss you instead?”
You move to push yourself up but he meets you halfway and leans over you on the couch, both of you smiling into the kiss. It’s slow and nervous, exactly matching how both of you felt. His hand slowly comes up to rest on your hip, barely putting any pressure on it, just to see how you’d react. If you would throw him off and banish him from the apartment, or if a film crew would come from behind the tv and tell him he's on a prank show. Instead, you press your hips against his palm, your hand reaching up to hold onto his forearm. Shamelessly, you give the muscle a quick squeeze, feeling him chuckle against your lips.
“Your breath stinks,” You tease, pulling back to catch your breath. He snorts and hangs his head to laugh freely, his mouth away from your nose.
“You served coffee,” He tried to defend himself, leaning up to peck your lips.
“It’s not,” Peck. “even, like,” Peck. “good coffee,” Peck. You press your palms against his chest, making him smile and pull back, “You have no excuses”
Tracing your palms up and onto his neck, letting your fingers sprawl over his ears, he leans down, kissing you deeper. His hands find your hips again, holding you more firmly. Your hands stroke and find purchase in his dark hair, your lips never able to get enough of his taste. The feeling of him so close, so breathless and eager to match your pace, his glasses pressing awkwardly on your cheek. The arm of the couch digging into your neck doesn’t even register with his large palms and rubbing into the soft skin from your shirt riding up. You let out a soft breath, pulling away to rest your forehead on his cheek, “Let me get up, before I get a lump on my neck,” You joke, sitting up and pressing your body against his as he leans back instead. Laughing, you rest your hands on his chest, pressing soft kisses on his cheeks and lips, feeling his hands tracing up and down your sides.
“I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you for making me wait,” You mumble around the skin on his neck. His hands rest on your back, reaching under your shirt to feel your skin against his fingers.
“I didn’t think you’d react like this,” Clark chuckles, looking down to catch your lips again. He sits up, letting you fumble your legs around his thighs and sit against him. Your hands find his face and cup his cheeks as his arms wrap around your waist. Tiny noises escape your lips as he pulls you flush against him, your hips dropping slightly to grind against him. His hands lower, ghosting over your ass before resting on your hips again, helping you move on him. He pulls away, grunting softly as he leans down and presses his nose against your neck. His warm breath wafts over your sensitive skin, his grip getting slightly firmer as he grinds up into you more urgently. You arch into his hold, whimpering and leaning down to bury your nose in his hair, breathing him in. His arms slide down and grip your thighs, making you stiffen as he stands up.
“Down the hall, right?” He mumbles against your chest, blindly walking through your apartment with surprising clarity.
“Yeah, turn here,” You mumble, holding onto his back as he dumps you onto your bed. Your room, thankfully, was frantically cleaned this morning. Clark leans back against your headboard and lets you kiss and grind against him, soaking in the overwhelming smell of you. He sits beside you and yanks you on top of him, straddling his hips again. His large hands find your hips and roll you harder against him, letting you feel the bulge buried in his starchy jeans. Your fingers drag under his shirt, feeling his stomach tighten over your soft touches. A soft breath escapes his lips, leaning down to kiss your head as he yanks his shirt off. His skin feels hot to the touch, your palm dragging down his toned chest to his happy trail giving him goosebumps on his arms. You press a soft kiss on his collarbone, hands resting on his stomach, as your mouth trails down. He swallows thickly, Adams' apple bopping slightly at the sight of you. Hot kisses press down his chest, your hands tracing along his sides. His breathing quickens as you press a kiss to his happy trail, looking up at him.
Clark’s face is red, eyes widened and desperate, getting worse as you press your palm to his bulge. He grinds against your hand, tilting his head back and letting soft little whines spill from his lips.
“O-oh gosh, please. That feels really good,” He mumbles, squeezing his eyes shut and fisting your sheets.
You leave hickies on his stomach, grinding your palm harder against him to keep him sated. When you crawl back up to his face, your hands go to his face, making him face you. You sit back down on his lap, grabbing his glasses and placing them over your eyes. He blinks at how adorable you look and flips you onto the other side of the bed. Landing on your back, you laugh and sit up on your elbows,
“Wait, let me lay on the pillows,” You laugh, moving around him before laying down, and pulling back on top. He presses soft kisses on your face, hands resting under your top and pulling it off. Clark’s hands trail your soft skin, leaning down and pressing needy, wet, kisses to your stomach. Your breathing quickens, feeling his glasses slip down your nose, reaching out to stroke his hair. He pants against your skin, his eyes scanning how your body moves when you breathe, watching certain muscles tense when he strokes you. Leaning back down, he licks a long stripe up from your pants zipper to your belly button, making you moan quietly and arch into his hands. His hand comes down to cup you back, feeling how desperately you try to grind despite your pants blocking most of the friction.
“Please, Clark. P-please, please let me take them off,” You plead, already trying to unbutton it. He watches you squirm out of your pants, his hands taking them off your legs, leaving you in just a bra and panties. He sets your pants on the floor, putting your phone on the bedside table. His mouth finds your grinding cunt and presses open mouth kisses against your wet core, feeling the wetness behind the fabric.
“Can I take these off?” He asks quietly, his voice small, “You smell incredible,” He pants, pressing more kisses on your crotch and along your thighs. You reach down and hurriedly yank your panties off, letting him bunch them up and throw them off the bed. Your skin felt so hot, even in the cool early spring breeze. Sitting up slightly, you fumbled with your bra clasp, freeing your whole body to him. Clark’s eyes widen slightly at the sight of you naked and needy under him. You lay back down, looking up at him, squeezing your thighs to ease the growing, mind-numbing, arousal. His mouth finds your nipple as his palm grinds against your clit. As your nipple hardens, he flicks his tongue, closing his eyes and listening intently on all your soft moans and whimpers. A finger slides into your cunt, feeling your soaked insides, clenching and pulsing around him.
“Do you need another?” He asks, pulling off of your breast, bringing his other hand to paw at your other. You nod, mindlessly pushing his glasses up. “C’mon, you’re always so smart. Give me a cute little one liner,” He teases, kissing and sucking your skin.
“I’m gonna throw that tiramisu out the window, Clark. I swear,” You whine, squeezing his finger, your hands coming up to hold onto his arms. He smiles to himself, giving you a gentle peck on the lips and lowers himself back on the bed.
His hand traces up behind your knees and pushes them back. You lean up on your elbows, watching his huge frame move your body around to fit him. Before you can soak in the moment, he ducks his head, burying his face between your legs. You cry out and arch into his mouth, trying to even your breathing as he laps at your cunt, his fingers squeezing your thighs. His tongue traces around your clit, feeling it get puffy from his licking and sucking. Your hips grind up as he slides another finger into your cunt, feeling you squeeze him without even trying.
—
You can’t register what time it is. It could be nighttime, but that also could be from Clark’s cock bullying into you. Clark has had you bouncing on his cock for the past hour, maybe hours. His glasses continue to slide down your nose, giving him an extra pathetic look. He smiles and kisses your breasts, urging you to keep moving.
“You got it, I know you can go a bit longer. You’re so beautiful like this. I can’t believe I let this go for so long,” He babbles, kissing sloppily against your neck and collarbone. You feel your mind go blank, focusing on just his words, how much he rambles His hips slowly grind up into you, feeling you slow down from the pain in your legs. Your thighs start burning, but Clark just lets you lean against his chest, his hips bucking up into you.
“C-clark! Shitshitshitshit- you’re s’ big, Clark,” You whine, babbling into his neck as your hands squeeze his flexing arms.
His arms hold you against him, letting you cry and moan against his skin. He groans, feeling your cunt clenching him, barely letting him in or out. His length feels like he's up in your stomach, making you leak down his shaft, mixing with his own pre. You let out a soft whine, squirming on my knees uncomfortably.
“Oh, I’m sorry, honey,” He murmurs against your ear, rubbing your hips, “‘M being so selfish like this. Do your legs hurt?” His voice is soft, so sweet it almost sounds condescending. You nod weakly, leaning back to look at his face. He reaches up to let you just sit with his length inside you, wiping the tears damp on your cheek. Clark reaches forward, pawing at your breasts and kissing the soft skin one more time, before moving you.
“This might be good for you,” He says softly, pulling out, making you whine and lean against him for more contact. His hands maneuver you to lay on your stomach, bringing your ass up in the air slightly. Before you can whine and buck your hips, he drapes himself over your back, hoisting you up a bit more. His back is hot against yours, kissing your shoulder as his hands help hold you up, his knee spreading your legs. Pushing back in, he groans and licks the sweat off your neck, going back to his punishing pace, his forehead resting against your cheek. His hand snaked around your side, his hand sliding down between your legs to feel how swollen your clit is. You let out quiet sounds, pushing back feverishly on him, feeling his glasses slide off your face. Your hands grip the sheets, trying to keep yourself still as he pounds into you, your head hanging low. The sound of your moans and drawn out whimpers fill the air, mixing with his occasional grunts and rambling,
“You’re so pretty, y'know that? At work, I can barely w-write anything. You’re just- gosh, just so pretty,” He babbles in your ear, rubbing your clit quickly. You cry out again, shaking your head, feeling your body tense up, your stomach churning with building arousal. He kisses your cheek,
“You can have one more, oh please, have one more on me. Feels s’ good when you do, honey,” He pleads, nuzzling your neck and speeding up his hand, making you scream out into the blankets. Your cunt spasms and clenches around him, his cock feeling your rapid heartbeat against his veins. You couldn’t name which orgasm this one is, maybe fourth, or maybe fifth. He pants and stills his hips, rubbing your clit through the orgasm, feeling you convulse and press your face into the mattress.
“T-too much! So much, so so much…” You squeak out, shaking your head at the intense overstimulation of Clark pulling every part of your orgasm from you.
Slowly, he starts grinding into your cunt, before he’s interrupted with the loud buzzing of your phone on the nightstand. He leans over and holds up your phone, seeing your exes name on the contact. His hips start back up on their bruising rhythm, making you moan and squeeze your eyes shut.
“Honey, looks like your phone is ringing, should I answer?” He asks, leaning over your back again to kiss your sweaty skin. You can barely register the question and just nod your head, pushing back into him and whining for him to go faster. A wide smile spreads across his face as he answers the phone, his hips never stuttering.
“Hello? Who is this?” Clark answers, his voice deep and sturdy, despite his rapid movement. You blink and look over your shoulder, seeing Clark holding your phone, listening to someone talk. He notices your looking and shushes you, reaching down with his free hand to rub your clit. You squeal out and bury your face into the mattress, whining and crying, listening to his deep voice.
“Oh, right. She’s a little busy right now, isn’t that right, honey?” He leans forward, draping his chest over your arches back, holding the microphone to your mouth, catching your desperate whines and rambling.
“Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck- Clark, ‘m so close! Fa-fasterfasterfaster!” You cry out, pouting and glancing at the phone by your mouth and crying out. His hand speeds up, pulling the phone back and hanging up, letting it fall onto your pillow.
“So good. Oh my goodness, honey, just so good for me. You can do one more. Just one more, honey. ‘M right behind you,” He pants, his hips chasing his own release, feeling your cunt start to tighten and build up to yours. You shake your head, feeling it take longer to build up than usual, making you cry and bury your face into the bunched up blankets. He rubs your sides, his hand coming up to paw and grab your breasts, squeezing and flicking the nipple softly,
“Oh, I know it’s gonna be big…give it to me, honey. I wanna feel this one so bad, oh, please, give this one to me,” He rambles, completely drunk on the thought of tearing this last one from your actively failing body. Your head lifts, feeling a very unfamiliar sensation building,
“C-clark? I th-think ‘m gonn-” You try to get out, before gasping and cumming around his cock, feeling something squirt out of you and coat his thighs, your legs trembling as they try to stay up. He gasps and closes his eyes, feeling how long your orgasm is drawing out, how tight you’re getting. His cock can barely move inside you, so he bottoms out, spilling his load into you,
“O-oh, oh, honey-” He groans, sloppily thrusting to shovel all of it in as he cums. You blink, feeling him warm up your lower stomach. Once his hips are still, he pulls out and lets you lay on the bed, catching your breath. He spurts a few more weak drops, looking down at the mess you two made on your bed. You rest your head to the side, catching your breath as your hearing goes fuzzy for a few seconds. He lifts you up onto his chest and lays back on the bed, rubbing your back and kissing your head, wiping some sweat off your face,
“I guess we can both restart our count,” He jokes, seeing you smile tiredly against his chest, your eyes drooping shut. After a few moments, he lifts the both of you up, taking you to your bathroom to take a shower. You lean against him, your legs shaking too much, and he happily holds you up. He lets you clean yourself up and walks back to the bedroom to get his shirt and boxers back on. You step out in a towel, sliding into a large shirt and sleepshorts.
—
Your chin rests on his head, your hands resting on his shoulder,
“No, bigger than that,” You mumble, tracing random patterns on the fabric.
“Geez really?” He teases, outlining a bigger slice from the pan.
“Yes, really, I need to rebuild my energy,”
His hand, currently not holding you up on his back, cuts a slice from the tiramisu, transferring it onto the plate. He dishes himself up, letting you lean down to kiss at his cheek, leaning forward to kiss his lips. You both sit on the couch, your feet in his lap, watching reruns of an old sitcom while digging into the dessert. His plate sits finished and scraped clean on the coffee table, his hands now occupied with massaging your legs while you lay back and enjoy your dessert. You look up at him, gesturing with your fork,
“Did someone call me during?” You ask, tilting your head slightly. He doesn’t tear his eyes away from the tv, working a knot in your calf,
“No, I don’t think so…”
squeee my first post on tumblr!! i've never written for clark before, so please gimme some feedback <3
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