Something’s brewing in this brain of mine and I wanted to say with the new creativity of the soon to be released supergirl movie, and cameo of Clark, I’m so fucking excited!
18+ (smut)
wc: 3.3k
warnings: drunk sex, torn underwear
from this request
Dr. Spencer Reid is drunk.
Surrounded by his team in a booth in a dark and dingy bar. Tie loosened and hair mussed from running his fingers through it. His cheeks feature a healthy, pink glow.
He’s been trying to compose a text to his girlfriend for twenty minutes. Distracted by the conversations around him and frustrated with the small, blurry keyboard, he’s only managed to type i lov nd mis u
While attempting to hold a conversation with Rossi about the evolution of forensic science over the last decade, a beautiful woman who looks suspiciously like his girlfriend appears in his periphery.
Dave has only had a respectable two glasses of Scotch, so he notices that the genius has tuned him out almost immediately.
“Looks like your keeper is here.” Dave cheekily teases.
With his head in his palm, Spencer says dreamily, “Yeah, the keeper of my heart.”
Spencer was banished to the aisle seat of the booth after clambering over Emily to go to the bathroom for the third time in thirty minutes. The second she’s within his arm's reach, he grabs her waist and tugs her toward him, resting his chin on her stomach. He looks up at her adoringly, his eyes rounded and sparkling, as she laughs. “You’re here!” he exclaims, beaming.
Tucking a piece of his hair behind his ear, she giggles, “I am!”
“I was trying to text you.” He pouts.
“It’s okay, Hotch told me you were ready to be picked up?”
He doesn’t remember telling Hotch that; how did he know? As he ponders what his girlfriend said, Penelope squeals her name from the corner of the booth.
As the women converse about… well, Spencer doesn’t know, because he’s too distracted by the feeling of her body under his palms.
At first, his thumbs rest in her belt loops, and his slender fingers span down the curve of her ass.
As she continues talking with his coworkers, his hands sink down her hips and to the curve of her ass. His fingers just barely brush her back pocket when she reaches behind her to grab his wrists, halting his movement, and lifts it back up to her waist.
He whines as she stops his movement and juts his lower lip into a pout. His desperate expression only gets more pathetic when she glares down at him.
After a few minutes, once she’s invested in her conversation again, he tries a new method. Placing a hand on the back of her leg, he slowly drags it up to the crease where ass meets thigh.
He internally cheers when she doesn’t stop him this time. Getting bolder, he slides his palm over to the inside of her thigh, gently squeezing the plushness. If he just slightly stretches his fingers, he can brush them against her–
“Okay! Time to take this one home before he falls asleep on me.”
That pushed her too far. He groans in denial, grumbling, “I’m not sleepy.”
“Mhm,” she hums as she pulls his arms to lift him from his seat.
He collapses against her body with the majority of his weight, and she groans as she tries to hold him up, “Spence, baby, I need you to help me.”
His head perks up like she’s said a magic word. She needs him to help her? Okay! With what? Right now? How can I help? It’s like she’s sounded the bell, and he’s one of Pavlov’s dogs.
They wave their goodbyes to the rest of the BAU. On the way out the door, he’s scuffling his feet and tripping every few steps – getting him into the cab should’ve counted as a workout.
He only gets more handsy in the back of the taxi. Straining on the seatbelt to pepper kisses down her jaw and neck. Fingers trailing higher and higher up her thigh.
Spencer really doesn’t drink often, and is rarely this bold in public, so she looks over to ask him, “You okay, honey?”
A flush paints his cheeks and fades down to his collar, partially due to the alcohol he’s ingested tonight and mostly due to her. “Mm, I like it when you call me honey.”
She lightly giggles at him, “I know you do, honey…” Grabbing his hand that’s getting dangerously close to between her legs, she intertwines their fingers. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“Oh! Well, I do have a little problem…” He moves her hand to guide it over the bulge in his pants.
Side-eyeing the driver, she leans close to his ear, “That is not a little problem, and you know it,” as she gently squeezes.
He whines at her touch and tilts his hips forward. The driver looks back at them through the rear-view mirror with furrowed brows. She gives him a polite smile as if her palm isn’t pressing on her boyfriend’s semi in the man’s backseat.
Spencer continues to try to touch her and have her touch him throughout the remainder of the car ride. Her promises to take care of him once they get home fall on deaf ears. The only thing on his mind is her, her, her, her, her.
He eventually huffs and leans back in the seat with his arms crossed, pouting. She’s torturing him. It’s not fair.
He’s vibrating with excitement as she pushes their front door open, finally. The second they’ve crossed the threshold, he’s grabbing her face and pulling her into a frantic and messy kiss. She gasps into his mouth, and he smirks against hers.
With one hand on the base of her neck, he skims down her back and waist with the other until he reaches her ass, unapologetically squeezing her. He pulls her flush with his body, lightly moaning when his aching cock presses against her hip.
He needs her.
She tries to retreat from the kiss, but he follows her fleeing lips until she rests her palms on his shoulders, gently pushing him back. “Spence, we shouldn’t.”
With hands sadly falling to his sides, he frowns, “What? Why not?”
“You’re drunk, it’s not right. I’ll feel like I’m taking advantage of you.”
He tries to lean in to kiss her again, to convince her that he wants this, needs this. Her grip on him only tightens, causing him to emit a protestful whine.
“Please, baby. I want you. Please?” He shamelessly begs.
“I don’t know, honey…” She bites her lip as she trails off. Is she trying to kill him?
“Please? I consent. You won’t be taking advantage of me.”
Her head tilts as she gazes into his pleading eyes, “What if you regret it in the morning?”
His brows furrow in confusion. “I could never regret you. You’re the love of my life.” He rebuts, like it’s obvious. It should be, he thinks. Has he not made his devotion to her evident enough? Should he show her the ring in his–
“Okay.” She concedes. “But I’m only gonna do this,” She slides her hands down his chest to tug at his belt.
He groans theatrically. He really should take what he can get, but he wants way more than just her hand, albeit beautiful, wrapped around him.
Halting her fiddling with his pants, she asks, “Do you not want me to?”
“No– I mean, yes– I mean, no, I want more.” He stammers, shaking his head.
“Do you want my mouth instead?” She offers.
He wants to bang his head against the wall. Never could he have predicted that he’d be turning down a blowjob from her.
He shakes his head, “No.”
“Spence…”
“I want you to ride me in our bed.” Her eyebrows jump at his bluntness. “Please. Could you please ride me in our bed, please?” He tenderly runs his thumbs over the backs of her hands.
She sighs, “You’re drunk.”
"I don't want you because I'm drunk. I'm drunk and I want you." He looks at her in that impossibly earnest way that melts her heart.
“Plus!” He holds up his pointer finger. “I started thinking about it before I was drunk. Now, I’m just not embarrassed to bring it up…” He trails off, the blush on his cheeks getting darker.
He continues, “And you can say no. I’ll be a little sad and will probably sulk just a tad, but no means no… That’s all.”
She takes a step closer to him, “That’s all?”
His breath catches in his throat, and he quickly bobs his head, “Mhm.”
She nods, “Okay,” and takes another step towards him.
His heart is pounding in his chest, his eyes dart back and forth across hers. Breathlessly, he asks, “Okay?”
She moves close enough to brush her nose against his, and their breaths fan each other's faces. Spencer’s still has its usual strong minty aroma with only a tinge of whiskey peeking through. The scent of her cherry lip balm lingers and makes him feel light-headed. It’s taking all of his control and strength to not just kiss her.
She whispers, “I did promise to take care of you in the car,” before finally pressing her lips against his, gentle yet firm.
Spencer follows her lead, letting her set the pace, but his veins are thrumming with excitement and anticipation.
Once she deepens the kiss, slowly sliding her tongue against his, a desperate whine escapes him, but he still maintains his composure. Not pushing her or, rather, pulling her any closer towards him.
Gratefully for him, she moves his hands down to her hips, encouraging him to touch her. He can’t resist circling them around to her backside, squeezing and pulling her pelvis flush with his. He sighs at the relief of pressure from his throbbing dick; he’s been half-hard for her since she got to the bar to pick him up.
As the kiss continues, she wraps her arms around his neck, threading the fingers of one hand through the back of his hair. He unabashedly moans into her mouth, and her lips turn upward into a smile.
“Bedroom?” She whispers against his lips, and he immediately nods, eager and needy.
When she separates from him, leading him with their fingers tangled, he desperately keeps his other hand on her waist, not wanting her to get too far from him. He follows her into their bedroom, kissing her neck and whispering, “Thank you,” over and over.
Once they’re in their room, she rotates to kiss him, with immediate passion and fervor. He doesn’t notice that she’s steered them to the edge of the bed until she’s pushing him with a hand on his chest, and he drops backward onto their mattress.
As she yanks off her shirt and unbuttons her jeans, he intently watches with blown pupils. Biting his lip, he palms himself through his slacks at the vision of his girlfriend stripping for him. This is far from the first time that he’s seen her do this, but each time he witnesses it, he’s filled with gratitude and reverence. How did life lead him here? To her?
Left in just her bra and panties, she steps between his dangling legs, placing her hands on his cheeks. For the second time that night, she asks, “You okay, honey?”
He doesn’t answer. As he grabs her hips and pulls her on top of him, he falls on his back against their mattress. She giggles as they tumble, and the sound makes his heart sing a matching harmony. God, he loves her so much.
Their lips met again in a hungry kiss. As they retrace each other’s mouths, Spencer slides his hands up her back to skillfully unclasp her bra. It gets tossed to the floor, and he kneads and squeezes her breasts, swiping his thumbs over her nipples.
She lightly moans against him and grinds her hips down against his bulge. His head tilts back, and he grumbles a low, “Fuck.”
She bites her lower lip, concealing her entertained smile produced by his cursing. Drunk Spencer really has no filter.
Placing her hands on his chest, she continues circling her hips against him, and his palms tighten on her waist.
He inches his fingers across her thigh to the hem of her underwear, slipping under them until he’s met with her soaked folds.
As his fingers slide and caress her, she leans back to grant him better access, stabilizing herself with her hands on his knees.
“Baby,” she whines, tilting her hips upward in an attempt to show him where she needs him.
“I know, baby, I know.” He gruffs, frustrated with the constraint of her panties.
In a split-second decision, he tells her, “I’ll buy you new ones,” and before she can ask what he’s talking about, he’s tearing the lace. She looks down with a gasp at her now shredded panties.
“Oh my–” She cuts herself off with a moan; he’s sliding a finger in her entrance before she can fully process or say anything about what just happened.
He continues fingering her, eyes locked on the rapid rising and falling of her chest. Her head is tilted back, exposing her neck, and he wishes he could reach up to lick and kiss her there. She looks so beautiful and glorious like this.
One finger becomes two, and they can hear the wet squelching noise of her pussy with each thrust. As he curls his fingers upward, her arms get shaky from the pleasure.
“Fuck me, Spence…” She groans.
His lips twitch, “That’s the plan, baby.”
She rolls her eyes in mock annoyance, huffing out an amused laugh. A deep tension blooms in her belly as he continues his ministrations.
When he reaches his thumb up to her clit to rub smooth, slow circles, her thighs tremble against his hips.
She leans forward and grabs his wrist, “Fuck– Okay– I need you,” halting his movements.
Leaning down to kiss him, she unbuttons his pants and shimmies them down just enough to free his red, leaking, aching cock.
He groans as she wraps her soft hands around him, thrusting upward into her grip, “Mm, baby, please.”
After smearing his pre-cum over the head, she holds her hair back with the other hand and lets a string of spit drip onto him. His mouth falls open as she does this, eyes tracking the descent until it meets his dick. He’s so sensitive and desperate and enthralled that the slide of her saliva down his shaft has him moaning and whimpering.
Tossing the scrap of fabric that has become her panties onto the floor, she guides his tip to her entrance and slowly sinks down. They moan in tandem at the slick stretch.
Stabilizing herself with hands on his chest, she drops down until he’s buried deep inside of her, brows furrowed, and neck tilted back.
She then realizes something entirely stupid: he’s still wearing his tie and button-up. She groans and yanks on the fabric around his neck, throwing it, before making quick work on the buttons of his shirt, “Why are you even still wearing this?”
He can barely respond, his dick is finally where it’s meant to be, and she’s too frustrated with the barrier of his shirt to actually fuck him. He’s dizzy from the alcohol and the sensation of her tight, wet walls wrapped around him. He doesn’t know which variable is most responsible for making him feel this way anymore.
“You could’ve taken it off whenever you wanted,” he manages to gripe.
After unbuttoning just enough of his shirt to get her hands on his bare chest, she finally slowly rises and falls on his dick. His hands grip her hips, fingers pressing firmly into her ass. With a slack jaw, he groans, “Fuck– Yes– Thank you, baby.”
He continues babbling as she finds a steady rhythm, “Thank you so much, I love you so much, oh my God.”
His head rolls back and forth against the bed as she rides him into the mattress, broken moans and whimpers and whines escaping both of them with each plunge. Spencer soon guiltily realizes that he’s not helping her at all, so he assists in the movement of her hips with his hands and thrusts upward to match her pace.
Her nails scrape down his chest as the heat in her belly catches fire again. He hisses at the scratches, but he loves it when she does this, loves when the sharp pain blends with the intense pleasure.
“Shit– Baby– Not gonna last long–” He moans.
“Mm, ‘m close,” She agrees, moving a hand between her legs to sloppily rub her clit. He can feel the pulsing of her tight heat as her orgasm crests, and he’s clenching his jaw and hands to stop himself from cumming before she does. Even in his drunken state, her pleasure prioritizes his own.
“Fuck– Fuck– Fuck–” she chants and cries as everything starts to feel like too much. Her release coincides with a long, drawn-out, “Spencer…” and her eyes rolling to the back of her head.
Falling against his chest, panting, she continues a slow roll of her hips as he bursts inside of her with a raspy groan.
His body twitches and shivers as he cums, fingers slowly unlocking their tight grip on her waist. She won’t be surprised nor perturbed to find the shape of his fingerprints embedded in the skin there later.
His arms wrap around her back as his orgasm descends, caressing her warm skin. Burying his nose in her hair, he mumbles, “That was amazing. You’re amazing.”
She lightly laughs in agreement, pressing a sweet kiss to his collarbone.
They lay as a panting tangle of limbs until she hears his breathing even out, and she glances up to see his eyes closed, “Spence?” She croons.
He doesn’t respond.
“Honey?” She chuckles.
Still nothing. If she couldn’t feel his breathing against her skin, she’d be worried.
She gently shakes his shoulder, and he inhales sharply, “Mm?”
“Did you seriously fall asleep? You’re still inside of me!” She feels his dick twitch ever so slightly against her walls.
“No, ‘m not asleep.” His voice is rough and croaky.
“Mhm,” She indulges his blatant fib.
They both wince as she rises off of him. He feels cold without her warm heat wrapped around him, and she feels empty. She slides off the bed, grimacing slightly at the stiffness in her hips.
He’s quite the vision lying like this: hair a frizzy mess, a pink tinge to his cheeks, shirt halfway unbuttoned, softening cock peeking out of his pants. The floor only adds to the scenery, clothes scattered about like the frame on a piece of art – Spencer, of course, being the art. She catches a glimpse of her torn underwear (she honestly forgot about it until she laid eyes on it) and shakes her head in amusement.
After slipping on a new pair of underwear and changing into one of his old tee-shirts, the hem falling to her mid-thigh, she gathers pajamas for him. He peeks his eyes open as she unbuttons the rest of his shirt, murmuring, “You’re so beautiful,” when he sees her in his clothes.
“Thank you, honey,” she grabs his hands, “Can you sit up for me?”
He groans, but lets her pull him upright. Slumping against her body like a rag doll, he wraps his arms around her waist.
She manages to maneuver him limb by limb until he’s changed into his sleep clothes. While they’re in the bathroom, lazily brushing their teeth, he whines about going to bed without a shower after being in the sticky bar. She placates his concerns by promising to shower together in the morning – his favorite.
After he’s between the sheets with a glass of water within reach, she finds his phone and plugs it in for him. The screen turns on as the charger connects, and their text thread is displayed. She sees his barely legible attempt at messaging her and smiles, shaking her head fondly at how much he loves her. Warmth grows in her chest as she glances between the i lov nd mis u text and her boyfriend snoring softly into his pillow.
Leaning down to kiss his forehead, she whispers, “Goodnight, honey,” against his soft skin.
explicit 18+, size kink, grow-er clark the thought is soooo horny and yummy that clark could be a big grower and not as much a show-er. the first time you see his naked dick it’s soft, very un-proportional to his thick thighs and his wide shoulders and tall height. but you still know you’ll have a fun time riding him and he could still hit your g spot easily. it’s more cute than anything. pink and floppy and fun size.
but then you see him get hard for the first time and it’s like fucking magic. his balls start to sag, his dick elongates up four inches bigger than before. his veins pulse and throb and it viciously smacks up against his thigh, wet with gooey precum at his tip. it’s gargantuan and so deliciously deceiving how much he grows from soft to hard and how you feel it thicken while he smoothes his early thrusts inside your walls. and he’s so girthy and long you can’t stop creaming on his dick when you find out how big he becomes when he’s really excited. it becomes your mission to get him hard as fuck whenever you feel like it whether the timing or the setting was appropriate or not, just to watch his dick print grow and strain so tight in any pants he could be wearing
Something’s brewing in this brain of mine and I wanted to say with the new creativity of the soon to be released supergirl movie, and cameo of Clark, I’m so fucking excited!
Hey everyone I’ve been super mia since the last official post back in December I believe. Truth be told, I haven’t felt the need to post, and Im nearly there to finishing my finals for my spring semester too. So, who knows I might do a little drabble soon to make up for lost time angels.
Clark's the kind of guy who drops to his knees, apologizing for your bad day, even though you both know it's hardly his fault. (wc: 700, drabble)
tags: 18+, mdni, pure filthy smut, oral, doggy style, creampie, not proof-read
what 30 minutes of rubbing one out typing one out does to a gal, goodnight, folks!
Main Masterlist | Mrs. Kent Diaries
He's the kind of guy to sit you down in bed, blue eyes steady and sincere as he looks you at you, trying to coax every ugly detail into light. Instead, you lie back in bed with a defeated huff, “Clark… just make me forget about today. Please.”
You hear a soft hum against your thigh, the faint tickle of dark curls brushing your skin as he nods. “I’ve got you, hon, but c'mon. What happened?”
Eventually, you relent, venting and ranting about every stupid, exhausting thing you wasted time on. Everything spills out without spoken interruptions from him. Instead, he's peeling your clothes away piece by piece, calloused fingertips tracing warm paths along your thighs, hips, and waist. By the time he tugs your panties down, you’re slick, aching, and still venting.
Clark listens, but he's alternating between slowly fingering you and sucking on your clit now because why not? He's already down there, and if he goes too fast, he won't be able to hear your words over the sounds of your sloppy, dripping pussy.
The kind to say, "And then what happened, sweetheart?" when your story trails off, too busy moaning and sighing instead. Your sentences come out high-pitched, barely coherent, until you’re breathlessly asking him where you left off. He answers without missing a beat, and not like he’s not knuckle-deep in your cunt while you fall apart.
Exceptional multitasker, your Clark.
The kind to gently guide your hands on him. He wants you tugging his hair, digging into his scalp and shoulders, clawing his back while he buries his face deeper between your trembling thighs, tongue fucking into your cunt faster and louder now that you've given up rehashing your day.
The kind to keep going long after you’ve cum twice? thrice? Your legs are shaking so badly you can barely move, and your brain's melting. He simply flips you onto your stomach, pulls your hips up, and lines your soaked, sensitive folds right on his thick, heavy cock. He bucks into you in one nasty, balls-deep thrust that steals the air out of your lungs.
From there, Clark does all the work, large hands gripping your hips, guiding you back onto him again and again.
“That’s it, baby. Just like that. Let me take care of you, till you forget every silly, noisy thought inside your pretty little head.”
He coos, chest pressed to your back, lips ghosting the shell of your ear, so softly, so lovingly, even when he’s pounding into your pussy. His hips snap harder every time your walls flutter and squeeze around his fat dick coated in your creamy slick like you’re trying to milk him dry, trying to keep him there forever.
You're fucked straight into that perfect, blissful silence. The only sounds are the wet, filthy slap of his heavy balls against your clit, your whimpers fading into weak little sobs, and the low groans he lets out each time your pussy gushes around him again. Clark keeps going until you’re completely gone: arms limp, mouth slack and drooling onto the sheets, eyes unfocused, legs twitching with aftershocks as he continues grinding deep, stirring up the messy cream he’s already pumped into you.
And when Clark cums, it's hard and relentless, flooding your wrecked pussy so much it leaks out around his cock and down your thighs. Regardless, he keeps fucking his release back inside you with slow, deep thrusts. He stays buried to the hilt afterward, strong arms wrapped tight around you, the soft tickle of hair against your neck as he presses kisses between your shoulder blades, murmuring how truly sorry he is to hear about your bad day, how he hopes this turned things around, how he’d happily spend the rest of his life like 'this' if you’d let him.
"Like how, Clark? Balls-deep?"
"Y-yeah! Exactly!" You have to laugh, the first genuine one to escape you all day.
By the time you're both absolutely spent, that awful day you walked in with is nothing but a distant, hazy memory. It's drowned out by the steady rhythm of Clark's heartbeat against your sweaty back, the warm weight of his body, and the warm, sticky mess of him still leaking between your thighs. All the frustration, the noise, the exhaustion… just gone.
Replaced by the quiet certainty that no matter how shitty the day gets, Clark will always be there. On his knees for you.
Whether tongue-fucking your pussy until you cry for reasons other than your shit-tastic day or ruining you with slow, nasty strokes of his cock with your ass in the air. Every filthy second is just another way of saying he’s got you.
pairing David!Clark x girlfriend!reader
summary Clark's from out of this world. Not in the abstract, romantic, larger-than-life way the rest of the world said it when they looked at Superman. No, your boyfriend was factually an alien. Kryptonian. What you do not know, and unfortunately cannot stop thinking about, is how far that whole thing went.
tags 18+, mdni, smutty ramblings (hot-n-heavy make out, thinking about alien dick, handjob, Clark cums on you, brief cum tasting), unedited, little dialogue, wrote in two passes just to put something out there
wc 2k
Main Masterlist | Mrs. Kent Diaries
You knew everything about Clark before the dates, the kisses, the escalating intimacy.
The truth about who he was, where he came from, what he could do, what he believed he owed the world. And, said in that soft earnestness that always made your chest ache, what you meant to him.
Clark told you everything that mattered. Showed you, too. Well... almost everything.
Sure, Clark looked like an average human man. More than average, honestly. Smiled like one, laughed like one, talked like one, walked like one, blushed like one, held you like one. Still, your mind kept snagging on the same question:
Did what he fuck with looked human, too?
That was the mystery, and historically, your imagination always gone rabid the second it slipped its leash.
What if his cock had bumps and deep grooves like a pine cone in late summer? Had tiered barbed hooks from base to tip? What if it curved as dramatically as a Harpy Eagle talon? Extended like a telescopic stick? Glowed the more he got aroused? Vibrated?...Pincers? You wouldn't have been mad about the vibrating, but what if this, and what if that, and-and-and-
It was one crude scenario after another, each worse than the last.
To be clear, different would not have been a bad thing. Far from a red flag. If anything, curiosity was the root of the problem. Not fear. You loved Clark. You wanted Clark. If there was something a little ...unfamiliar...in the mix, that hardly felt like a reason to run. Still, in theory, you could ask.
Hold Clark's hands, stare up into those striking baby blues, and bluntly put it out there: "Baby, what does your dick look like? Standard issue? Extraterrestrial surprise? You know I like to be prepared for surprises..."
Hm. Clark would probably blink at you with that open, guileless expression first. Then maybe laugh under his breath. Then maybe, because he was your Clark, answer with total sincerity. Reassure you. Drop trow?
That... somehow felt worse. More mortifying. You’d rather have lightning strike you on the spot than tempt that conversation.
So instead, you did what any normal, well-adjusted girlfriend would do when plagued by intrusive curiosity about her boyfriend’s possible alien anatomy: you spiraled quietly about it on your own.
Which was how you ended up mentally inventorying things. The cut of his suits. The weight of his body when he hugged you, leaned over you, sat next to you. The shape of him in motion. Over and over again.
And yes, fine, even saving a few blurry Superman bulge photos from social-media user @/supes-packing-meat, who had far too much free time and far too little shame! Tsk, tsk!
In all seriousness, things only got worse once your curiosity gained poor company. Half nonsense, half thirst, all conjecture. No answers. No clarity. Just enough to leave your skin hot, your vibrator undercharged, and your imagination even less manageable than before.
And that part really did make you feel bad. This was Clark, who trusted you with the biggest truths of his life. Clark, who kissed you breathless, like the world had dropped away beneath both your feet. Clark, who looked at you with that soft, tender devotion you had never seen before. It felt juvenile to lose your mind over this unknown when he had already given you so much of himself.
But curiosity, unfortunately, would never let you go once it sank its claws in.
So. Fine. Enough.
You had to put an end to it. Quietly. Organically. For the good of your dignity, your sanity, and maybe the general stability of your nervous system.
Which was, perhaps, how you got yourself into this particular position...
You were pinned beneath Clark on his leather couch, the cushions dipping deeper every time either of you shifted. The leather had gone warm beneath your back from the heat of your body and his.
Clark’s mouth moved from yours to your jaw, then lower, following the line of your throat with this unfamiliar hunger that made your pulse skip. His glasses were gone, his curls a little mussed already, and when he shifted between your legs to tug your shirt up and your bra down, the brush of his knuckles over your ribs made you twitch.
His attention went straight to your breasts. A hot, wet seal around your pert nipple, the gentle suck next, the teasing flick of his tongue last. You gasped and squirmed, arching into him, one hand catching in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.
"Yeah?" he hummed against the swell of your breast, the vibrations shooting straight to your cunt. "Liked that?"
You only managed a meek, shaky "Y-yeah,", your grip tightening in his hair. Clark gave your nipple one more slow, gentle swirl that sent another shiver straight through you. God, he was good at this.
Your legs were tangled, one thrown half over the couch cushion, the other caught between his, and his obvious arousal pressed heavily against the sensitive flesh of your inner thigh. You shifted under him, pressing your hips up into his. He groaned, and his own hips rocked back, grinding against you. The friction was delicious, but you needed more.
More of him. More to love. More to feel. To know—
The opportunity to put these silly thoughts to bed was Right. There. Touch him. Feel him. Do it! Your mind screamed.
As one hand stayed tangled in his hair, the other took the metaphorical and literal plunge, grasping the waistband of sweatpants. Startled, Clark lifted his head from the valley of your breasts, cheeks flushed, and lips parted and damp, his breath still warm on your skin. There was a faint crease between his brows.
"Hon, what are you—?" he began, breathless and puzzled, but his words stalled the second you tugged the fabric again, rougher this time.
Clark sucked in a sharp breath the same moment his cock finally sprang free. Just like that, it was real and solid and alive within your grasp. Your mind, which had been so loud for days, so full of impossible scenarios and increasingly absurd speculation, went suddenly, wonderfully blank. A blank canvas.
You kept your eyes on his face at first. On the stunned pleasure in those wide blue eyes as your hand wandered, on the way his kiss-swollen mouth fell open a little as if he had not expected this from you and did not quite know what to do with the fact that he liked it.
"Oh," he said softly. "Oh, you’re—you sure you want to—"
Before Mr. Sweet and Earnest could finish what was bound to be something sweet and earnest and derail your nerves, you tugged him into a mind-numbing, sloppy kiss.
He made a muffled 'hmm?' against your mouth—surprised, then quickly, helplessly into it. One of his hands came up to cradle the side of your head, thumb pressing just behind your earlobe as he deepened the kiss.
It was enough to keep him quiet. Enough to start your blind investigation.
First impression: your breath caught when your hand, so bold two seconds ago, felt so embarrassingly small and failed to completely wrap around the unmistakably thick, heavy, stiff column.
Clark felt your hesitation, or your wonder, because when you pulled back just enough for air, he glanced down at you with both compassion and concern.
"You okay?" he rasped, searching your eyes. "You can— gosh, you can do whatever you want—" He swallowed hard. "At your own pace. Just tell me what to do."
The sweetness of that assurance nearly undid you.
“I’m fine,” you supplied your answer with a nod, though it all came out a little winded. "Just... curious."
That pulled a brief warm laugh out of him.
"Curious, huh," he repeated, cheeks dimpling. His eyes fluttered for a second when your hand shifted again. His forehead dropped to yours, and you tipped your head once more to kiss him.
Regaining composure, you explored slowly, stroking towards the tip at a pace that let your touch do what your imagination failed to. Mapping, learning, replacing nonsense with certainty. Clark's breathing changed between kisses, turning deeper, rougher, warm bursts of it feathering over your lips every time your hand moved.
No obvious ridges, nothing pine-cone-like, nothing telescopic...just warm, velvety skin.
Sliding...still sliding...still..Fuuuck!
You whimpered when you realized your sweet Clark's both massive and long. There was a slight upward arch, a curve to the right your hand naturally followed. Thank goodness nothing dramatic like a bird's hooked nails, but God help your soul and your hole.
Reaching the head was a surprise. No pincers... unfortunately, nothing vibrating. It felt proportional, a smooth, broad, rounded dome. Your undeniably slick cunt clenched when Clark involuntarily jerked into your fist while your thumb smeared what you assumed was pre-cum experimentally along the slit and over the rest of the crown.
"G-gosh," he gritted out, breaking mid-kiss with a shuddering breath against your mouth. He pressed his face against your cheek, the side of your neck, then into your shoulder as if he needed somewhere to put all these unfamiliar, but not unwelcomed, feelings.
Confident and fearless, you kept going despite the ache in your wrist. Tip to base, base to tip. Again and again. Faster and braver with each stroke, you found a rhythm. Lost in your curiosity's mesmerizing hold, you failed to realise Clark was losing himself, too.
He perspired at his temple, dampening his raven curls. Brows drew together in concentration. Nostrils flared. Lips parted to give way to labored pants against your collarbone. Back muscles corded tight. Tighs trembled above yours. The palm cradling the side of your head flexed for just a second before settling again. The hand at your hip gripped firm enough to anchor, as if there was a possibility of floating away.
Clark was so completely lost in the sensation you were giving him that he seemed to lose language piece by piece until all that remained was breath and instinct and praise half-formed somewhere in it.
"Hon—"
A groan.
"Gosh, that feels good."
A moan, louder this time.
"Just like that—b-beautiful—you're amaz—"
His voice gave out just as your slick hand grasped his balls on this next stroke. Soft, heavy, proportional, nothing...alarming. Before he could recover, Clark made a sound that was almost a whine, and immediately retreated into the crook of your neck.
Grinning, you kept worshipping him with your touch, lingering on every inch, every vein, every pulse of that magnificent cock. The wet squelches of your hand pistoning over his shaft grew louder as your pace turned frantic.
When you squeeze him a tad harder, a rushed, "H-hon, hold on! I’m… I’m close…gonna..." tumbled out of Clark's lips.
Merciless, you only spurned him on, "Cum f'me baby, been curious 'bout that, too," and didn’t let up. You wanted to see this till the end. You wanted to know.
His hips bucked, a wild, uncontrolled thrust. His cock twitched in your hand, a sharp, violent pulse. He stifled his groans by quickly claiming you in an open-mouthed kiss once more, a helpless surrender, just as it happened.
Hot and sudden, you felt thick ropes of cum shoot out, painting stripes across your exposed stomach. Some landing on your breasts, shockingly abundant. Each jet of heat painted your exposed skin, each accompanied by a choked moan, whimper, and groan.
The last of Clark's release seeped from his slit, dripping over the fingers still wrapped around his shaft and just below your navel. Your hand loosened its grip and reluctantly slid away.
Eventually, Clark collapsed against your side, heavy and warm like a pillow you'd hugged all night. His breathing was ragged.
"Holy…" he mumbled at last, trailing off.
"Shit," you finished, laughed softly. "Was it bad?"
Clark made a weak, scandalized sound, then lifted his face just enough to look at you with flushed cheeks and dazed blue eyes.
"That's hilarious, sweetheart," he gave you a pointed look, as if the answer should have been obvious. "You know it was incredible," before settling back down with a dopey sigh.
"I'll...gimme a sec," Clark muttered, eyes fluttering shut. "I'll get you cleaned up, sweetheart. Just...one sec."
You smiled, pressing a freather-light kiss along his damp forehead, and left it at that. Well, that should have been the end of it. Question answered. Curiosity settled.
Finally, you looked down. Your stomach, breasts, and hand were completely coated in streaks of Clark's sticky clear-white cum, quickly cooling on your skin. Tentatively, you brought your hand up to your face. Wiggling your fingers, strands of cum glistened like liquid satin between your digits.
Oh. There it was again—that dangerous spark in your mind, that same restless itch that had started this whole mess in the first place. Like a Hydra, one slain question only gave way to the formation of the next.
Pulse picking up all over again as a new curiosity took root, quieter than the last but no less insistent:
What did Clark's cum taste like?
Your heart hammered as you brought your fingers closer to your lips, hesitating for just a moment before your lips parted. Your tongue darted out, brushing against the tip of your cum soaked finger.
Salty...a little sweet... underlying metallic, but not unpleasant. You wouldn't mind swallowing it whole next time.
You took another cautious lick, intrigued by the complexity of it, right when Clark shifted. Glancing down, his cock settled into view, still a massive, hard weight against your groin. It looked impressively full, despite his climax. You swallowed hard at the fleeting thought of—
Fuck.
Maybe Clark was not nearly as finished as he ought to have been. He hadn't said much, and at this rate, the evidence of his persistent arousal was impossible to ignore.
Good God. You had the sudden, dizzying epiphany that you’d been asking the wrong question all along. Bigger questions began to take shape, thrilling and faintly horrifying in its implications.
This was Clark after one orgasm. What about two? Three? ...Four? How did Kryptonian stamina differ? Would you be able to take it? His cock felt human, but did he fuck like one too? There was only one way to find out.
And just like that, the cycle of curiosity began again.
Refused to let you go.
"Hey, Clark? Babe? Instead of cleaning up, did you wanna try something? I'm curious."
.
Thank you for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs are forever appreciated. Keeps me motivated!
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 squirimg, 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 was okay with you.” His forehead rested against yours, blue eyes searching. “Just this. Just us, sweetheart. If you still wanted 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!
clark kent x journalist!reader • wc : 3,789 • playing : stateside
synopsis : You’re the Gotham Gazette’s sharpest investigative reporter—you’ve got the ink under your fingernails and the cynicism to match. When your tight-lipped boss, Tim, drags the whole office to Metropolis for a "Journalism Ethics" conference at the Daily Planet, you expect a week of boredom and bright lights. What you didn't expect was Clark Kent.
reader warnings/tags : fem reader, reader has freckles, physically able.
blair’s message : hiii!! before you throw tomatoes, i’m so sorry i haven’t been active. it was recently my birthday and i went on a long trip and .. totally forgot about making fics. so to celebrate my return, here’s smut! it’s my first time writing smut so i apologize if it’s bad. thank yeww. (also finished heated rivalry, THAT SHIT WAS SO GOOD OH EM GEE)
The air in Gotham didn't just sit; it clung. It tasted like iron, exhaust, and the kind of secrets that only came out after midnight. You liked it that way.
You adjusted the strap of your leather satchel, weaving through the morning crowd outside the Gotham Gazette. You weren’t just a reporter; you were a shark in a blazer. With your hair tucked neatly behind your ears and your dark eyes scanning the headlines on the kiosks, you looked exactly like what you were: someone who knew where the bodies were buried and exactly which politician had the shovel.
You pushed through the heavy revolving doors, three minutes behind schedule. Not that you cared. You’d been up until 4:00 AM chasing a lead on the Falcone family’s latest money-laundering front.
“Y/N.”
The voice was like a dry radiator. You didn't even have to look up to know it was Tim, your editor. He was a man who looked like he’d been folded into a suit three sizes too small and hadn't smiled since the 90s.
"You're late," Tim says, his voice like sandpaper. He doesn't look at his watch; he doesn't have to.
"I was chasing a lead on the Crane shipment," you counter, not breaking your stride as you set your bag down. "The dockyards don't run on a clock, Tim."
Tim’s eyes narrow slightly as he hands you a heavy manila folder. "Forget the docks for a second. Let me explain this to you. Tomorrow we are going to Metropolis to have a conference with the Daily Planet."
You blink, the word hitting you like a physical weight. "Uhm, what?"
"The Daily Planet is hosting a conference on global journalism ethics," Tim says, his expression turning uncharacteristically thoughtful—which usually means he’s thinking about the budget. "And we're sending our best reporters to represent the Gotham City Gazette."
He pauses, leaning over your desk. "Which means you're going."
"Metropolis?" Your brain short-circuits for a second. "Tim, I’m in the middle of the dockyards investigation. Why am I going to the city of sunshine? They don't even have crime over there, they just have... cats in trees and guys in capes."
Tim scoffs, already turning on his heel. "Don’t care. Pack when you get home. The whole office is going."
"But—"
"Pack a bag," he barks over his shoulder. "Try to look like you haven't been living in a warehouse for a month."
You sink into your chair, staring at the folder. You catch your reflection in the darkened computer screen—the light dusting of freckles across your nose makes you look softer than you feel, a "cute" trait you’ve spent years trying to overcompensate for with a sharp tongue and a sharper pen.
"Metropolis," you mutter to yourself, tossing the folder onto your desk. "This is going to be a long, miserable trip."
———-
The next morning, the Gotham Gazette team looked like a funeral procession as you stepped off the bus in front of the Daily Planet. The building was all glass and gold, topped with that massive, rotating globe that seemed to scream, “Look how optimistic we are!”
Tim, your boss, adjusted his tie with a grimace. "Try not to bite anyone," he whispered to the group. "We’re here for ethics, not to start a turf war."
You rolled your eyes, adjusted your blazer, and stepped through the revolving doors. The lobby was humming. It was too bright, too clean, and everyone looked... happy? It was suspicious.
“Gazette team? This way," a voice calls out.
You turn, expecting some stiff corporate type. Instead, you see him.
Clark Kent.
He’s huge—wide shoulders that barely fit in a suit that’s seen better days, with a jawline that looks like it belongs on a coin. He looks like he’s never had a bad day in his life. He’s leaning against a desk, adjusting his glasses, looking every bit the "Golden Boy" of the industry.
"Welcome to the Planet," he says, stepping forward. His voice is a warm, steady baritone that grates on your nerves instantly. He extends a hand. "I’m Clark. I’ve followed your work on the Narrows redevelopment. It was... gritty."
You don't take his hand immediately. You scan him—from the perfectly messy hair down to the polished shoes. "Gritty is a nice word for 'real,' Kent. I’m guessing you don’t get a lot of 'real' over here. Too much sun, probably."
He doesn't flinch. In fact, his eyes—a blue so clear it feels like an insult to Gotham’s gray—crinkle at the corners. He notices the way you’re bristling, and he definitely notices the light dusting of freckles on your nose that you’ve spent all morning trying to hide with powder.
"I think we'll get along just fine," he says, his voice dropping an octave, a small, challenging smirk tugging at his lips. "Even if you are determined to hate the weather."
———-
The first seminar is a drag. You're sitting in the back, leaning your chair against the wall, when the seat next to you is claimed.
Clark sits down, his frame taking up twice the space of a normal human. He sets a coffee in front of you. Black. No steam.
"I saw you eyeing the machine. It’s tricky," he whispers.
"I don't need a tour guide, Kent," you mutter, though you take the cup. "And I definitely don't need a rival paper’s star reporter hovering over my notes."
"Rivalry? Is that what this is?" He leans in, his shoulder brushing yours. The heat coming off him is distracting. He looks down at your notebook, where you've scribbled 'Optimism is a blindfold' in the margins.
He reaches over, his large, warm hand briefly steadying your pen as you go to cross it out. "Don't. It's a good line. A bit cynical, but... it suits you."
You pull your hand back, your heart doing a weird, sharp thud against your ribs. "You don't know me."
"I'd like to," he says, and for the first time, the "Boy Scout" mask slips. There’s something sharp in his gaze, something that suggests he’s a lot more observant than he lets on. "I have a feeling this week is going to be a lot less boring than you planned."
———
The hotel bar in Metropolis is exactly what you expected: overpriced, smells like expensive gin, and filled with reporters from the Planet acting like they just won a gold medal for existing.
You’re sitting in a corner booth, hunched over a legal pad, trying to make sense of your dockyard notes while ignoring the soft jazz playing in the background. You’ve got a scotch in your hand that cost more than your first car, and you’re still wearing your blazer because the air conditioning is set to "arctic."
"watcha doing?"
You don't even have to look up to know it’s him. The air in a five-foot radius around Clark Kent just feels... warmer. He slides into the booth opposite you without waiting for an invite, looking entirely too comfortable for someone you’ve known for six hours. He’s ditched the tie, and the top button of his shirt is undone.
"Go away, Kent. I’m working," you mutter, not lifting your pen.
"It’s 9:00 PM. The conference doesn't start again until ten," he says, leaning back. He’s so big the booth actually creaks under him. He sets a glass of water down next to your scotch. "And you look like you’re about to bite the head off the next person who asks you for a quote."
"Only if that person is you." You finally look up, meeting those infuriatingly steady blue eyes. "What do you want? Come to gloat about your Pulitzer? Or are you here to tell me my 'Gotham grit' is showing again?"
Clark leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. The movement pulls the fabric of his shirt tight across his shoulders. The clumsy vibe is still there, but there’s an edge to his expression now—a challenge.
"I’m here because I think you’re bored," he says softly. "And because I think you’re hiding behind that notebook so you don't have to admit you’re actually enjoying yourself in a city that doesn't smell like a tailpipe."
"I'm not bored. I'm focused," you snap. You reach for your drink, but he moves faster, his large hand gently catching your wrist.
His skin is hot. Not just warm—hot. The contact sends a jolt through you that has nothing to do with the alcohol. You freeze, staring at his hand where it circles your wrist, his thumb resting right over your pulse.
"Your heart is racing," he observes, his voice dropping to a low, rough hum. "Is that the scotch, or are you just that annoyed by me?"
"I'm annoyed," you lie, your voice slightly breathy. "You’re a distraction, Clark. I don't do distractions. Especially not from rival papers."
He doesn't let go. Instead, he shifts his grip, his fingers sliding down to lace through yours, pinning your hand to the table. It’s an assertive move, one that doesn't fit the clumsy reporter persona he wears in the office.
"I'm not a distraction," he says, leaning in until you can smell the mint on his breath and that clean, ozone scent that seems to follow him everywhere. "I’m your competition. And if I were you, I’d be very worried about what happens when the competition starts getting... personal."
He glances down at your mouth, then back up to your eyes, his gaze lingering on the freckles across your cheeks.
"You've got a bit of Gotham on you, alright," he whispers. "But I think I might like the dark. It makes the light look better."
You pull your hand away, your skin tingling where he touched you. "You’re a lot more dangerous than you look, aren't you?"
Clark just grins—that slow, devastatingly handsome smirk. "You have no idea. Want another drink? Or are we going to keep pretending we aren't thinking about the same thing?"
————
The elevator ride up to the 12th floor is suffocating. It’s just the two of you, the silence punctuated only by the soft hum of the machinery and the sound of your own heartbeat thudding in your ears.
Clark is standing too close. In the cramped space, his physical presence is overwhelming. He’s staring straight ahead at the polished brass doors, but you can see the muscle in his jaw working. The "clumsy reporter" act from the lobby is dead and buried.
The doors slide open with a soft ding.
The hallway is lined with thick, plush carpeting that swallows the sound of your footsteps. You reach your door first—Room 1204. You dig into your pocket for your keycard, your fingers shaking just enough to be annoying.
"You’re doing it again," Clark says. He’s stopped a few feet away, leaning one shoulder against the doorframe of the room opposite yours.
"Doing what?" you snap, finally swiping the card. The light flashes red. Access Denied. "Damn it."
"Deflecting." He moves toward you, his shadow swallowing yours against the mahogany door. He doesn't stop until he’s inches away. He reaches out, taking the plastic card from your hand. His fingers are steady, his touch lingering against your palm. "You’re so used to fighting for everything in Gotham that you don’t know what to do when someone actually wants to give you something."
"And what exactly are you offering, Kent?" you challenge, leaning back against the door. "A tour of the monuments? A front-page lead?"
He swipes the card for you. The light turns green with a soft click, but he doesn't open the door. He steps even closer, pinning you between the wood and his chest. He places one hand on the door above your head, his large frame creating a private alcove in the dimly lit hallway.
"I’m offering a truce," he whispers. His blue eyes are dark, focused entirely on your lips. "Stop looking at me like a lead you need to debunk. Just for tonight."
"I don't do truces with the competition," you breathe, though your hands find the lapels of his jacket, bunching the fabric. You can feel the heat radiating off him—it’s like standing next to a furnace.
"Liars get caught, remember?" Clark’s voice is a low, gravelly rasp.
He leans down, his nose brushing against yours. The friction is electric. He pauses there, giving you every chance to push him away, to make a sharp comment, to retreat back into your Gotham shell.
But you don't. You lean in, closing the gap.
The kiss isn't sweet like you thought it would be. It’s desperate and heavy, a collision of pent up tension. Clark groans low in his throat, his hand moving from the door to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. He tastes like the expensive scotch and something uniquely him—something clean and powerful.
He backs you into the room, the door clicking shut behind you both, cutting off the rest of the world. He pulls back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, both of you breathing hard.
"Still think this is a long, miserable trip?" he murmurs against your skin.
"Shut up, Kent," you manage to breathe out, your hands already working to unbutton his shirt, revealing the sculpted chest beneath. He smirks, stepping back just enough to let you take in the view. You don't waste time, your hands exploring every inch of him, tracing the lines of his muscles, the soft curls of hair on his chest.
Clark's hands aren't idle either, his fingers deftly unzipping your dress, sliding it off your shoulders to pool at your feet. He takes a step back, his eyes roaming over you, taking in the black lace bra and panties you wore. "gosh, Y/N," he breathes, his voice hoarse. "You're even more beautiful than I imagined."
You smirk, stepping closer to him, your hands finding the waistband of his pants. "And you talk too much." You unbutton his pants, and tug down his boxers, revealing his thick, hard cock. You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, enjoying the way his breath hitches.
Clark's hands find your hips, pulling you closer, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties. He pulls back, just enough to slide them down your legs, his eyes never leaving yours. He drops to his knees in front of you, his hands gripping your thighs, his breath hot against your skin.
"You're so wet," he murmurs, his fingers tracing the edges of your pussy, teasing you. You moan, your head falling back, your hands gripping his shoulders for support. He doesn't make you wait, his tongue finding your clit, licking and sucking, his fingers sliding inside you, pumping in and out.
You can't help the moan that escapes your lips, your hips bucking against his face. Clark's hands grip your thighs tighter, holding you in place, his tongue never stopping its relentless assault. You can feel the pressure building, your orgasm just out of reach.
Clark stands, his lips finding yours, kissing you deeply. You can taste yourself on his lips, the mix of your arousal and his tongue driving you wild. He lifts you, carrying you to the bed, laying you down gently. He hovers over you, his cock pressing against your entrance.
"Ready?" he asks, his voice a low growl.
You nod, your hands gripping his shoulders, pulling him closer. He slides into you slowly, inch by inch, filling you completely. You moan, your nails digging into his back, your hips bucking against him.
Clark sets a slow, steady pace, his cock sliding in and out of you, each thrust hitting that sweet spot deep inside. You can feel the pressure building again, your orgasm just within reach. Clark's hands find yours, intertwining your fingers, his thrusts becoming harder, faster.
"You're so tight," he groans, his forehead resting against yours. "I'm not going to last much longer."
"Don't stop," you breathe, your hips bucking against him, meeting his thrusts. "I'm close."
Clark's hand slides between you, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing in slow circles. The sensation is too much, your orgasm crashing over you, waves of pleasure washing through you. Clark groans, his thrusts becoming erratic, his own orgasm hitting him. He collapses on top of you, both of you breathing heavily, your hearts pounding in sync.
He rolls off you, pulling you into his arms, your head resting on his chest. You can feel his heart beating, the steady rhythm lulling you into a sense of contentment.
"Truce?" Clark asks, his voice soft.
You smirk, your hand tracing patterns on his chest. "For tonight," you agree.
And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, you know that come morning, you’ll be back to trading sharp words in the newsroom, but tonight, the only headline that matters is the way he’s holding you.
The sun in Metropolis is relentless. It pours through the hotel curtains at 7:00 AM like a personal attack, hitting your eyes with a brightness that feels illegal.
Beside you, the bed shifts. Clark is already awake, propped up on one elbow, looking infuriatingly handsome for a man who hasn't had coffee yet. His hair is a disaster, and there’s a faint red mark on his collarbone that definitely wasn't there yesterday.
"Morning," he rumbles, his voice thick with sleep. He reaches out, his thumb grazing your cheek, tracing the line of your freckles. "You're frowning. Still thinking about the dockyards?"
"I’m thinking about how I have to look Tim in the eye in forty minutes without him smelling 'Metropolis Golden Boy' all over me," you mutter, though you don't pull away from his touch.
"Just tell him the air here is good for your complexion," Clark grins, leaning down to steal one last, slow kiss. "It's not a lie."
Thirty minutes later, the elevator doors open to the Daily Planet lobby. The transformation is instant. Clark hitches his shoulders, adjusts his glasses until they’re slightly crooked, and assumes that "aw-shucks" posture that makes him look half a foot shorter.
You, meanwhile, have pulled your hair back into a tight, lethal ponytail and buttoned your blazer to the chin. You look like you’re ready to testify at a grand jury.
"There you are," Tim barks. He’s standing near the fountain, checking his watch. He looks at you, then at Clark, who is currently pretending to struggle with a jammed ballpoint pen. "You’re late. Again. And why do you look like you’ve actually slept for once?"
"New pillows," you say flatly, not missing a beat. "Metropolis luxury. It’s disgusting."
"Right. Whatever," Tim grunts, handing you a schedule. "Kent, I hope you’re ready to get humiliated. Our girl here found a hole in your paper’s lead on the LexCorp merger. She’s going to tear your ethics panel apart."
Clark looks up, blinking behind his lenses with a look of pure, feigned innocence. "Is that so? Well, I look forward to the challenge. I hear the Gazette doesn't pull any punches."
He looks at you, and for a split second, the mask slips. The "farm boy" eyes sharpen, flashing with the memory of the night before—the heat, the grit, and the way you’d whispered his name against the pillows.
"I’ll try to be gentle, Clark," you say, your voice dripping with professional venom that only the two of you know is a lie.
"Don't bother," he says, a small, private smirk playing on his lips as he turns to lead the way to the seminar. "I like it better when you’re tough."
Tim watches him walk away, then looks at you. "See? That’s what I'm talking about. Don't let that farm-boy charm fool you. He’s the competition. Stay sharp."
"Always, Tim," you say, clutching your notebook. "Always."
The conference ends not with a bang, but with the quiet, hollow realization that the clock has run out.
The final night gala is a sea of clinking champagne flutes and self-congratulatory speeches, but you’re standing out on the balcony, staring at the Metropolis skyline. It’s beautiful, sure, but it feels like a movie set. In four hours, you’ll be on a train heading back to the rain, the shadows, and the crushing weight of the Gazette’s deadlines.
"The train leaves at midnight," a voice says behind you.
You don't turn around. You know the weight of his step. Clark joins you at the railing, his tuxedo jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He looks less like a reporter and more like the heart of the city itself.
"I have a story to finish," you say, your voice sounding brittle even to your own ears. "The dockyard lead didn't go away just because I spent a week playing 'ethics' with you."
"I know," Clark murmurs. He moves closer, his arm brushing yours. The heat is still there, constant and grounding. "But Gotham is a long way away. And you're a hard person to track down when you don't want to be found."
You finally look at him. The rivalry is still there—that sharp, electric friction that defines you both—but it’s softened by something achey and real. You’ve spent your whole life being the "sharp girl" who doesn't need anyone, yet here is a man who saw the grime and the freckles and the fire, and didn't blink.
"Don't get sentimental, Kent," you whisper, though your hand finds his, fingers lacing together one last time under the cover of the dark. "It’s just a city line. I’m sure you’ll find another rival to keep you busy by Monday."
Clark’s grip tightens, his thumb tracing the back of your hand with a slow, deliberate pressure that feels like a promise. "I don't want another rival. I want the one who told me optimism is a blindfold and then proved she was the only one in the room with her eyes open."
He leans down, kissing your temple, his breath warm against your skin. The angst of the coming distance settles in your chest, a sharp contrast to the fluff of the week’s stolen moments. You think about the cold apartment waiting for you back in gotham, and then you look at him—blindingly bright and devastatingly sincere.
And as you drift off to sleep, wrapped in his arms, you realize that while you’re leaving his city, you’re definitely taking the win—because you’re the only person in the world who knows exactly what it takes to make the Golden Boy lose his composure.
Professor! Clark Kent x F! Student! (Not student anymore) Reader
Content Warings: Explicit | 18+ Professor/student dynamic, power imbalance, age gap (20s & mid-30s), secret relationship, explicit content, dominance language.
Word Count: 4k
Authors Note: Do not read if you are uncomfortable with these themes.
(cover photo by me)
It was loud, when was it not? The college café was always loud, with shouts from Delta Krypton Phi, Sigma Kael Nu, Alpha Metropolis Sigma, and last but not least, Zeta Prometheus Tau. you angerily typed away at your MacBook in fury as the noise, god the noise was giving you a headache. you wished you could've done your homework and quizzes in the comfort of your dorm.
Absolutely not though, due to your roomate Reese, is fucking another guy for the 3rd day in a row. She knew you enjoyed the comfort of your shared dorm, but sadly she takes everything you do for granted. You huffed out as you blew the single strand of frizzed hair away from your face. frustration swarmed you in red flames as you continued to type.
A few silent tables away, Professor Kent, Lane and Oslon sat discussing midterms for their students. Clark's hands covering his mouth as he chews and speaks. His classes midterm over creative writing. Lois' political science and Jimmy's over photography. Clark's view shifted from his co-workers to you for a split second. you waved, your face softening as you spotted one of your favorite professors.
Clark waved back as his pointer and middle waved up and down. his own little "old-man" wave as his students called it. Even though he was in his mid thirties and I twenty something and impaitent. One girl described it as his "daddy wave." which made you giggle out loud, causing Professor Kent to glare at you mid lecture over your assignment on "Write about your earliest memory... the one you've never told anyone." What seemed to be an easy assignment for you, seemed to be like the hardest one Kent has given all semester.
Groans and slight kicking could be heard as kent raised a hand in the air for silence. "You're attention please." he gruffed out, his eyes on you briefly before he overlooked the crowd. "Now, I want you to do this assignment with keeping in mind... it's worth 50% of your overall course grade. As this is your midterm before spring break in two weeks." The rest pf lectured carried on with the class doing rough outlines and planning. along with a loud "class dismissed!"
Here you were now, ever the teachers pet (as Reese called you) because you were getting a head start on the assignment, when it was due until the 13th of March. Your eyes crinkled in corners as you shifted focus onto your macbook once again. You barely noticed when the noise died down and checked the time. 5:41 pm. You stretched and grabbed your bag, as you saved and closed the rough outline to your midterm.
✧ Delta Krypton Phi, the jocks with big athletic energy and "legacy bros." Sigma Kael Nu, the academic nerds with secrectly the most powerful house on campus. Alpha Metroplis Sigma, mean girls central/elite with their old money and where everything is a competetion. Zeta Prometheus Tau, no one knows what they stand for but they throw the best house parties.
Your feet carried you to the apartment, you needed some quiet time to think and finish your draft. the silent click and turn of the lock lulled you into thr routine you've done nearly enough times. the smell of printer ink and coffee grounds immersed you when you stepped in, toeing your sneakers off in the progress. you let out a huff as you set your own keys down. "bingo." you muttered as you saw the set of keys hanging next to where you put yours.
"you're early..." he uttered, his glasses catching the low light of his kitchen, his back turned as he read whatever was in front of him. "problem professor?" you purred, as you made your way towards him. sliding in between him and the counter. His eyes looked over the rims of his glasses as he studied your face. "no." he snit. "I thought we agreed to see each other this weekend. It's Monday." his voice whispered as he set down the assignment.
your eyes shined like a baby doe's in the kitchen light. "Yes, but I wanted your critiques on my rough draft Clark." your voice moaned, your hands coming to grab his glasses. His hand stopped you, as he looked at you with that 'stern' look but really it was him trying to not give into you. "alright sweetheart, I'll look into it... you sure you didn't just miss me? you're always so needy you know?" you feigned hurt as your hand drew to your chest.
"Always needy?! WOW! The Clark Joseph Kent called me needy!" you pushed off the counter as you walked away. Clark's hand grabbed your wrist, sliding to your waist as he pulled you in. "I was just kidding sweetheart, no need to be upset." you wiggled out of his grasp, going to grab your laptop. "Here, Can you please look it over?" your voice pleaded as you clasped your hands together, praying. "okay." he huffed, he pushed his glasses back and focused.
"so?" you impunged, your voice soft. you titled your head to look at him, neck craning up. His adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed, apple bitten into as he hummed. "Well... your intro is the hook. You gave me a foreshadowing moment within your writing. You pull people in without even trying." His eyes dropped to your mouth. "Much like right now." His eyes slowly clouding over with lust and his pupils blown so only the barest hint of blue could be seen.
"Is that so?" It wasn't a question, you knew exactly what you were doing. He set the apple down slowly, deliberate, like a man deciding something. The air shifted. His hand came up, thumb brushing your jaw before his fingers wrapped loosely around your throat, not squeezing, just.. reminding you they were there. "you like being told you're good at things, don't you?" His voice dropped an octave. Your breath caught.
"careful," he murmured, tilting your chin up further. "That little mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble." you swallowed, knowing you were playing with fire. "Maybe I want trouble." The corner of his lip pulled. He reached past you, fingers curling around the rope draped over the chair behind you. You hadn't even noticed it until now. "Then be a good girl," he said quietly, "and put your hands behind your back."
"His voice dropped low, almost a murmur your ear. "Smart girls still fall apart, you know." The rope was soft but firm where it looped your wrists above you, his knot he tied deliberate, tested twice. He stepped back to look at you and something in his expression made your stomach drop in the best way. "Daddy..." you started. "I know." He cut you off gently.
"You can handle it." His hands moved slowly at first, mapping every reaction, cataloguing you like you were something worth studying. And when you arched and whimpered he just smiled, unhurried, and started again from the beginning. "Please." the word fell out before you could stop it. "Please what?" Not a question. A lesson. Your wrists pulled against the rope instinctively. His eyes flicked up. "Say it properly, sweetheart."
"Please..." you tried again, wrists pulling agaisnt the rope uselessly. "use your words." His voice was infuriatingly calm. "You're my best student." Your face burned. "Please, daddy." The smile that crossed his face was slow and devastating. Like he'd been waiting all semester for exactly that. His hands smoothed uo your side, unhurried while your breathing came apart completely.
Every time you got close he'd pull back, read you like a page he'd already memorized, and start somewhere new. "You're doing so well." moments had felt like they passed. "Good Girl." The praise hit different when you were like this, Undone, wrists bound, completely at his mercy. He knew exactly what he was doing when he said it. Knew what it did to you.
He leaned in close, mouth near your ear. "you going to be good for me or are we going to have a problem?" Your voice came out smaller than intended, "Good." His hand came down on your soft cheeks flesh once, sharp, deliberate. "I didn't hear you." You swallowed hard. "I'll be good." His voice like steel moved you. "Prove it." The words landed somewhere low in your stomach. You knew what he wanted. You always knew.
That was the thing about him, he never had to spell it out. he'd trained you too well for that. You held his gaze and didn't look away. That was your answer. His smile was slow, satisfied. "There she is." The corner of his mouth curved. "Good girl." Twp words. That's all it took. Your whole body responded before your brain could catch up warmth spreading through your chest, your breath going shallow.
He pulled back just enough to look at you properly. Taking his time, like he had all night. He did. His eyes on you, like he had all the time in the world and you were going nowhere. (you weren't) "Tell me what you want," he said quietly. "And be specific." Your throat tightened, being specific was the hard part. He knew that, that's why he asked. "I want..." you started, then stopped. "Try again." No impatience. You exhaled slowly and made yourself say it. All of it.
Every word he'd been waiting for. Your voice came out quieter than you meant it to. "I want you to touch me. I want you to tell me I'm good. I want..." you paused, cheeks warm, "I want to make you proud daddy." The last words barley above a whisper, but he heard it. He always heard everything. His hand moved to your jaw, tilting your face up slowly. "Since you asked so nicely."
His other hand found your waist, pulling you in without rushing, making you feel every second of the wait you'd earned your way out of. "Eyes on me," he said quietly. "The whole time." His mouth found your neck first. Slow and deliberate, like he had all the time in the world and wanted you to feel exactly that. Your breath caught. "Good girl," he murmured against your skin "Stay still for me."
Your hands reached for him but you couldn't not when his knot was tight. So you kept them above you, he noticed. He always noticed. "That's it." His voice low, approving right at your ear. His hands moved slowly, giving you exactly what you'd asked for, making you earn every moment of it. "Tell me what you want." he said against your ear, low and unhurried once more.
The words came easier now. You'd already broken that wall open. His grip on your waist tighthened just slightly, rewarding the honesty before you'd even spoken. Waiting. Paitent. In control. He guided you back gently, his eyes never leaving yours. Every moment deliberate, every touch exactly where you needed it. You stayed present, stayed his, gave him everything he asked for without hesitation.
Afterwards, he pulled you close, his fingers threading slowly through your hair. "That’s my girl," he murmured softer now, less commanding, more reverent. "So good for me." But the urgency was gone. What remained was warmth.
Your breathing steadied against him, your cheek pressed to his chest as his hand continued its slow, absent strokes through your hair. He didn’t let go. Didn’t rush. Didn’t speak for a while.
When he finally did, it wasn’t praise it was quiet certainty. "You alright?" You nodded, too tired to form more than a hum. Safe. Heavy. Boneless in his arms. He pressed a kiss to your forehead. Lingering. Not possessive. Just there.
Moments later, he shifted carefully. "I may have overworked your legs," he said under his breath, almost amused with himself. "Let me fix that." The bathwater ran warm, steam curling through the room. He lifted you without ceremony, like something precious but familiar, lowering you into the heat.
"You know," he said quietly as he knelt beside the tub, rolling the tension from your calves with slow, practiced hands, "you’re going to make a good writer someday." You blinked at him, sleep tugging at your lashes. "You think so?"
"I know so." His tone sharpened slightly, professor and partner blending together. "And not because of us. Your work is yours. It always has been." That made you smile. "Well… relieved." He leaned forward, pressing a kiss to your palm once, then again. "I’m serious. I wouldn’t trade this for anyone else."
You watched him for a long moment. "I just can’t wait to stop hiding." There it was. The real thing. The weight under the softness. He reached for the towel, draining the tub before wrapping you up and lifting you again, holding you close to his chest. "Soon." he said, more firmly this time. "Spring break. After that, you’re not my student anymore."
Not a warning. A promise. "No grades. No office hours. No pretending we don’t look at each other like that." Your heart stuttered at the way he said it — steady, deliberate. Planned.
He set you down gently on the edge of the bed and pulled one of his worn t-shirts over your head, helping your arms through like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Socks," you mumbled.
He huffed a quiet laugh. "Right. Can’t forget those." His glasses slipped down his nose as he tugged them onto your feet, shaking his head at himself. You watched him like he was something impossible.
"After spring break," he continued, softer now, "We’ll tell them. Not dramatically. Not recklessly. Just honestly." You searched his face. "You’re sure?"
"I’ve never been more sure of anything." That silenced the last of your doubts. You leaned forward, resting your damp head against his chest. "I love you," you whispered. His arms came around you instantly, solid and warm and real.
"I love you too," he said not playful, not teasing. Steady. “And when you walk across that stage in May, I’ll be clapping for you like everyone else.” A pause. "Just with better seats." You laughed weakly against him, already slipping toward sleep.
He laid you down, pulling the blanket up to your shoulders, brushing his thumb once more along your cheek. "Rest," he murmured. "We’ve got a future to plan." And this time, when he kissed your forehead, it didn’t feel like something hidden. It felt like something waiting.
Ship: Strangers to Lovers, Soft! Clark Kent x OC! (Anti-Love) F! Reader
Content Warning: Explicit sexual content (18+), Consensual intimacy between adults, Emotional vulnerability, References to past romantic disappointment, Valentine’s Day anxiety, Established relationship dynamics
Word Count: 6k
Author's Note: Happy Valentines Day! Everyday is meant for love & sex 🩷 be safeeee!
Now playing: Valentine by Inhale®️
(credits to pinterest)
Valentine’s Day was the holiday you once dreaded more than anything. It started in high school, of course. Back when the dread was obvious. Loud. Pink and humiliating.
You were fifteen and pretending you didn’t care. Sixteen and pretending you were above it. Seventeen and pretending you had outgrown the sting of watching someone else be chosen in front of you.
There were boys who liked you. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was that they liked you briefly. They liked the version of you that was easy. Smiling. Mysterious. Slightly detached. They did not stay long enough to understand the margins.
And that’s what you started calling it — the margins.
Because in high school, when you couldn’t say what you meant out loud, you filled the empty spaces of your notebooks instead. Between math equations. Around essay drafts. In the corners of handouts.
You wrote about longing before you had language for it.
You wrote about boys who said “forever” like it was a dare.
You wrote about how you dreaded February 14th not because you hated love — but because you could feel it slipping away before it even began.
No one ever read those margins. No one ever asked. And every Valentine’s Day ended the same way: you going home early, telling your friends you didn’t care, and writing something sharp and aching in the empty white space of a page.
You thought you’d grow out of it. You didn’t.
You’re older now. Old enough that Valentine’s Day isn’t loud and pink anymore — it’s curated. Restaurants book out weeks in advance. Couples post filtered dinner photos. Roses cost twice as much. The dread isn’t adolescent humiliation now.
It’s pattern recognition.
You don’t expect disaster anymore. You just… expect disappointment. The quiet kind. The “we’ll celebrate another day” kind. The “work got busy” kind. The “I didn’t think it mattered that much to you” kind.
Because you’ve dated enough to know that sometimes you are adored in private but forgotten in the details. And Valentine’s Day is a detail.
You tell yourself you don’t care about the holiday. And in a way, you don’t but you care about being chosen intentionally. That part has never left.
You meet Clark on a Tuesday in late January. Not in high school. Not in some cinematic meet-cute, in a bookstore. Of course it’s a bookstore. You’re standing in the literature section, holding a copy of something you’ve already read twice, because you have a habit of revisiting stories that once understood you.
You don’t notice him at first. You’re too busy scanning the first page, pen tucked behind your ear out of pure habit.
“You’re doing it again,” a voice says gently beside you. You glance up, confused. He nods toward the book in your hands. “You’re reading the margins.”
You blink. “I’m sorry?” he chuckles, his lip curling a little. “You’re not reading the chapter,” he says. “You’re reading what someone else underlined.”
You look down. He’s right. Your thumb is tracing a faint pencil line from a stranger who once stopped at the same sentence you are now staring at. You feel exposed for reasons you can’t explain.
“I like knowing what made someone pause,” you say carefully. He smiles — soft, unthreatening. “Most people skip that part.” You shrug. “Most people miss the point.”
His eyes flicker with something like amusement or recognition. “I’m Clark,” he says, offering his hand. your hand reaches his, engulfed by the soft slightly rough calused palm. you whisper your name to him. His handshake is warm, steady. Not overpowering. Not hesitant. Just certain.
You see him again a week later. And then again. It becomes accidental until it’s not.
You start noticing the way he listens. Not politely. Not performatively. He listens like he’s cataloging you — not for ammunition, but for safekeeping.
One afternoon, you’re both sitting at a small café table near the window. You’ve brought a notebook. You always do. He watches as you pause mid-sentence and begin filling the edge of the page instead of the center.
“You still do that,” he says. You stiffen slightly. “Do what?” you blank, your lip tucked into your teeth. “The margins.” You look down. You’ve written half a paragraph sideways along the edge.
“When I was in high school,” you say slowly, “I used to write everything I couldn’t say in the margins.” He doesn’t interrupt. “It felt safer there,” you continue. “Like if no one looked too closely, they wouldn’t see it.”
“And now?” he asks quietly. You hesitate. “Now I just do it without thinking.” Clark studies you like he’s solving something delicate. “Maybe you still don’t feel safe saying it out loud.”
You laugh lightly. Deflecting. “That’s dramatic.” he raises a brow. “Is it?” There’s no challenge in his tone. Just curiosity. You look at him properly then. He’s wearing glasses — slightly crooked, like he forgot to check them in a mirror. His hair falls into his eyes when he tilts his head.
He doesn’t look like someone who would break your heart, but you’ve thought that before.
February creeps closer and you pretend no to notice it. you don't mention it, he doesn't either. then that silence feels familar, too familiar. You catch yourself bracing for it — the casual oversight. The neutral text. The absence of acknowledgment.
You hate that you brace. You hate that part of you still lives in a high school hallway, pretending not to care while waiting to see if someone will choose you loudly enough to mean it.
You tell yourself: You’re not that girl anymore.
But when February 14th appears on your calendar, your chest tightens anyway. You wake up already annoyed at yourself. You don’t want to need anything from him. You don’t want to measure affection by gestures, but there’s a small, unreasonable voice that whispers:
Will he ask?
It feels childish. You’re not seventeen. You don’t need a spectacle. You just don’t want to be forgotten.
You don’t hear from him all morning.
No message.
No call.
Your stomach drops in a way you hate. There it is. The Pattern recognition. You go about your day normally. You work. You respond to emails. You pretend you’re unaffected by the pink displays in every store window.
By 4 p.m., you’ve convinced yourself it’s fine.
By 6 p.m., you’ve convinced yourself you were silly to think it would be different. You sit at your kitchen table with your notebook open. Without realizing it, you start writing in the margins again.
It’s not about the holiday. It’s about being chosen when no one is watching. The knock at your door startles you.
You freeze.
You weren’t expecting anyone, then another knock — softer this time. You stand slowly, heart pounding in your ears. When you open the door, Clark is standing there.
No bouquet. No oversized teddy bear. Just him. And a folded piece of paper in his hand.
“You didn’t text,” you say before you can stop yourself. He looks almost sheepish. “I know.” Your chest tightens. “I didn’t want to,” he adds. Your expression falters. “What?”
his throat clears, “I didn’t want it to feel like an obligation,” he says gently. “Or something I remembered because my phone reminded me.”
He steps closer, but not into your space. “I wanted to show up.” Your throat goes dry. “I know you don’t love this holiday,” he continues. “You told me about high school. About the margins.” You feel exposed in the softest way.
“But I also know,” he says quietly, “that part of you still wonders if you’ll be chosen intentionally.” Silence stretches between you. You don’t deny it. He holds out the folded paper. “I didn’t write this in the margins,” he says. “I wrote it where you could see it.”
Your hands shake slightly as you take it. “Clark…” your breath chokes. “Just read it,” he murmurs. You unfold the page.
It’s his handwriting again — steady, deliberate.
He writes about the bookstore.
About how he noticed you reading other people’s pauses.
About how you pretend Valentine’s Day doesn’t matter, but your shoulders tense every time February is mentioned.
About how loving someone isn’t about spectacle — it’s about consistency.
At the bottom:
Be my Valentine. Not because it’s expected. But because I choose you — even on the days you pretend you don’t need to be chosen.
Your vision blurs. You hate how deeply that lands. He watches your face carefully. “You don’t have to answer if it makes you uncomfortable,” he says softly. “I just didn’t want you writing about this one in the margins later.”
That does it. That breaks something open. You step forward without thinking and press your forehead against his chest. He exhales — like he’s been holding that breath all day. “I still dread it,” you whisper. “I know.” you huff, tears blearing your vision. “I still expect it to fall apart.” he sighs, not in disappointment but in a 'i see you' way. “I know.”
You tilt your head back to look at him. “Why aren’t you scared?” He smiles faintly. “I am,” he says. “I just don’t let fear make my choices for me.” Your fingers curl into his coat. “You’re ridiculous.” He shrugs slightly. “Is that a yes?”
You close your eyes briefly. For the first time since high school, February 14th doesn’t feel like a test you’re about to fail. “Yes,” you say.
And this time, it isn’t about spectacle. It’s about someone seeing the margins — and asking to read them anyway. You don’t move away from him right away. Your forehead is still pressed against his chest, your hands gripping the front of his coat like if you let go, the moment might dissolve.
Clark doesn’t rush you. He doesn’t make a joke. He just rests his chin lightly against the top of your head. “I hate that you’ve been carrying that alone,” he says quietly. You let out a small breath. “Carrying what?” he smiles, a soft exhale blowing out. “The expectation that it’ll fall apart.” You close your eyes. You’ve never liked how easily he sees you.
“It’s not dramatic,” you say. “It’s just pattern recognition.” he smiles even wider, very sure of himself. “And I’m not them,” he replies softly. You pull back then, just enough to look at him. “I know,” you say, and you do.
That’s what makes it scarier,because if he isn’t them — if this is different — then losing it would hurt in a way the others never could. He steps inside when you shift aside, closing the door gently behind him. The world outside stays loud and pink and commercial, but in your apartment it’s quiet. Warm. Dim.
“You were writing,” he says, nodding toward the table. You stiffen slightly. He walks over, not touching the notebook yet. Just looking at it. “You still do it,” he says again. “Clark.” your voice in a soft protest, “I’m not judging.” You walk toward him slowly. “It’s messy.” you slightly complain, like a child trying to excuse their behavior. “I know.” you couldn't stop the next words, they just flew out.
“You don’t want to read it.” your heart races, you hear the beating in your ears. “I do.” You hesitate. Then, before you can overthink it, you turn the notebook toward him. He doesn’t grab it, he looks at you first.“Are you sure?” You nod, you watch clark as he reads. His expression doesn’t shift dramatically. No theatrical reaction. Just quiet attention.
The line at the edge of the page reads: It’s not about the holiday. It’s about being chosen when no one is watching.
He exhales slowly. “I was watching,” he says. Your chest tightens. “I saw the way you pretended not to check your phone this morning.” You feel heat crawl up your neck. “I wasn’t—” he smiled, catching you in a lie. “You were.” He looks up at you, but there’s no accusation in it. “I also saw the way you braced yourself by 4 p.m. Like you were preparing for impact.”
You swallow. “You’re very observant.” He gives you a faint smile. “You’re very transparent.” You roll your eyes slightly, but your hands are shaking. “Why does it matter so much?” he asks quietly. You hesitate. And this time, you don’t deflect. “Because I don’t want to feel small,” you say. “I don’t want to feel like I imagined something that wasn’t real. I don’t want to be the only one feeling it.”
Your voice is softer now. “When people don’t show up on Valentine’s Day, it’s not about flowers. It’s confirmation.” you sigh, as your shoulders slumped in remembrance, high school, rejection, the patterns, and yes confirmation.
“Confirmation of what?” his voice soft, as he tilts his head to look at you, your eyes don't meet his. “That you cared more.” The room goes still. Clark steps closer. “You don’t care more,” he says firmly. “You just care honestly.” That lands somewhere deep.
He reaches up slowly — giving you time to pull away if you want — and brushes his thumb along your jaw. You don’t pull away. “You think I showed up because it’s February 14th?” he murmurs.
You shake your head slightly. “I showed up because it’s you.” The space between you shrinks. And suddenly it’s not about high school or dread or margins. It’s about the way his breath feels warm against your cheek.
It’s about how steady his hands are. It’s about the fact that he isn’t rushing. He kisses you like he means it. it's neither urgent nor claiming, but intentional. Your hands slide up into his hair without thinking. His fingers settle at your waist, grounding but not gripping.
It feels like something steady locking into place. When you pull back, your pulse is loud in your ears. “You’re dangerous,” you whisper. His mouth curves slightly. “How?” you bat your lashes, as you pull away. “You make me believe things.” he urges more from like he wants to hear you say it. “Like what?” a huff, but not anger. “That this won’t fall apart.” He rests his forehead against yours. “Then let’s not let it.”
Later, you’re both in your kitchen. You didn’t plan dinner. Neither did he. You end up making something simple together — half distracted, bumping into each other, laughing when you both reach for the same glass.
It’s domestic in a way that feels almost surreal. You lean against the counter, watching him roll up his sleeves. “You’re very calm about all this,” you say. “All what?” you laugh, quietly. “Me.” He glances at you. “I’m not calm,” he says. “I just don’t panic out loud.”
You laugh softly. “I’ve wanted this for a while,” he admits. Your stomach flips. “You never said anything.” your face of pure shock, and feign hurt. “You were bracing.” That again. “I didn’t want to be another almost.”
You stare at him. “You aren’t,” you say immediately. He studies your face carefully. “You sure?” you shift from one leg to the other, “Yes.”Because that’s the thing, this doesn’t feel like an almost. It feels inevitable.
After dinner, you don’t turn on the TV. You don’t scroll. You sit on the couch, your legs tucked under his, his arm draped loosely around you. There’s music playing softly from your phone — something low and humming, something that makes the room feel smaller.
He traces absent patterns against your arm absentmindedly. “You still dread it?” he asks quietly. “Valentine’s Day?” He nods, which causes you to pause and thinnk about it. “Yes,” you admit. “But less.” your soo lost in thought that you dont look at him. “Why?” you shrug, waving your hands around. “Because this doesn’t feel performative.”
He presses a soft kiss to your temple. “It never was.” Silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s charged. You shift slightly, turning toward him more fully. There’s a moment where neither of you move — where the air thickens with something unspoken.
You don’t look away this time. “I’m still scared,” you whisper. “Of me?” your eyes lock onto his everclear blue. “Of losing you.” His jaw tightens slightly. “You don’t lose people who choose you,” he says. Your voice drops. “People say that.” “I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
The weight of that settles between you. You kiss him again — slower this time. It deepens naturally, not rushed. His hand slides to your waist again, pulling you closer. You shift, your knee brushing against him, and the energy shifts with it.
The air changes, yet there’s no awkwardness. Just awareness. You pull back slightly, searching his face. “Are you sure?” you ask quietly. He doesn’t hesitate. “I don’t want anything you’re not ready for.”
That’s what does it. there was no sign of pressure, no rush of urgency just safety. You lean in again. This time, when you kiss him, it’s less tentative. More certain.
His hands move slowly, giving you time to stop him. You don’t. The world narrows to warmth and closeness and the steady rhythm of his breathing. When you stand, still tangled together, it doesn’t feel reckless. It feels chosen.
Later, much later, the room is dim. The world outside your windows is quiet. You’re curled against him, skin warm, your head resting over his heartbeat. There’s no dramatic soundtrack. No grand declaration.
Just the soft aftermath of something shared. You trace idle shapes against his chest. “You’re not running,” you murmur. He lets out a small laugh. “Should I be?” you hum lightly, “Most people get weird after.” his response is reasuring in the best way. “I’m not most people.”
You lift your head to look at him. “I know.” And you do. He brushes a piece of hair away from your face. “You know what I kept thinking earlier?” he says softly. “What?” he looks down to you. “That you’ve been writing in margins your whole life because no one made space for the center.”
Your throat tightens. “You did,” you whisper. He shakes his head slightly. “You did. I just showed up.” You stare at him for a long moment. “Why me?” you ask quietly. He doesn’t answer immediately. He looks at you like he’s measuring something fragile.
“Because you feel deeply,” he says. “And you still try anyway.” You swallow. “That’s not always a good thing.” you shook your head idle tracing again. “It is to me.” Silence settles again — but it’s warm.
Secure.
You don’t feel like you’re bracing anymore. You don’t feel like February 14th is a test you passed or failed. It just feels like a day that happened to hold something meaningful. “You know,” he says after a while, “next year, we don’t have to do anything big.” You smile faintly. “I don’t want big.” he squeezes your arm, lovingly. “I know.” you just confirm your thought. “I just want you to show up.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “I will.”
You wake up expecting the old feeling. The slight drop in your stomach, the quiet distance... but it isn't there. Clark is still asleep beside you, one arm loosely draped over your waist. The morning light is soft. you lie there for a moment, just listening to him breathe.
you dont feel small, foolish, not even like you imagined something. you just feel... steady. When he stirs, his eyes blink open slowly. He smiles when he sees you watching him. “Morning,” he murmurs. “Morning.”
He brushes his thumb along your cheek absentmindedly. “You okay?” You think about it; high school hallways, unread messages, writing sharp, aching sentences in margins no one ever saw.
You look at him. “Yes,” you say, and this time, it’s not defensive.
It’s true.
Valentine’s Day might always carry a shadow of dread for you. It might always echo faintly with the girl who waited too long for someone to choose her.
But this year?You weren’t waiting. You were met and for the first time, you don’t feel like writing about it in the margins. You feel like writing it in the center of the page.
