Summary: Clark Kent was everything you couldn’t stand—nerdy, awkward, painfully nice... Until a collapsed roof forced you into his home for one night. That’s when you discovered Clark Kent has layers… and not all of them are innocent.
Clark Kent x mean!reader. Enemies to lovers. Slow burn. One-shot.
cw: smut.
Irritation simmered under your skin like an annoying gnat. Every time he pushed back those stupid, ugly glasses or tripped over his own leg, you wanted to smack him. Maybe even shake some agility into him.
You were probably going to commit murder before the night was over. And there was nothing you could do about it. Not with your house buried under snow. Not with every neighbor on your street being selfish, conceited snobs.
You were stuck with Clark Kent. The only one who offered you shelter. The one person you absolutely could not stand.
The first day you saw him, he was moving in next door. Your friend had swooned over his blue eyes and dimpled smile, which he handed out so easily. But all you saw was a six-foot-something blundering idiot.
Slouched shoulders. Thick, ugly glasses. Nerdy to the bone. Men like that never appealed to you. You never wasted a second of your time on “adorable.” For you, men were meant to be dangerous. Dark. Broody. Not the type who cheesed at every cat and squirrel, helped old ladies with their bags, and looked like the poster child for goodness.
Ugh. You could not stand him.
He tried to make friends with you, though. He really did.
Shoveling snow from your walkway. Reaching for your bags when you were already juggling them. Waving at you every single time you had the misfortune of crossing his path.
Your response never changed. A nasty glare sharp enough to burn through ice. Then the most disdainful eye-roll you could muster. You didn’t like him, and you never bothered to hide it.
Everyone knew you couldn’t stand him. Everyone but him.
He never stopped being nice. Sweet, even. Maybe if you were made of stone, you’d have weathered by now, slowly chipped away by his persistence. But you weren’t stone. You were titanium. His efforts bounced right off.
Unfortunately, the universe had other plans. Because why else would you come home to find half your roof caved in by the tree in your yard? A mountain of snow dumped in the middle of your living room.
One by one, a series of unfortunate events unfolded.
First, your phone network went out.
Then the stupid car you’d overpaid for refused to start.
You were halfway through preparing yourself to freeze to death when the last person you wanted to see walked up.
The pitter-patter of his flip-flops came first. Then his voice — low, warm, sexy as sin. A voice you swore was wasted on him.
“Uhhh… hi.”
You dragged your eyes up from your dead phone, making sure the glare you sent would drop him on the spot.
It didn’t. He just gave you one of those sickly-sweet smiles, and your blood pressure spiked so hard you nearly blacked out.
“What?!”
The shout cracked from your throat like thunder. Every neighbor in a three-block radius should’ve been checking their windows.
But he didn’t flinch. Not even a twitch.
Your brow rose. Interesting. Stronger men had cowered under that tone.
“I noticed the state of your home,” he said, steady as ever. “I just wanted to tell you… if you need a place to sleep tonight, you can stay at mine. The phone lines are out, and your car doesn’t look like it’s cooperating. It’s not safe to drive in this weather anyway.”
His words slipped through your anger, and you blinked. He was offering you a place to stay. After all the times you’d brushed him off. After every glare and sneer.
Why?
Your lip curled before you could stop it.
“I suppose you want some kind of payment?”
If he thought you were going to put out just for a roof over your head, he had another thing coming.
If he got the implied insult, he didn’t show it. Just shook his head.
"Food and boarding are free for tonight. You’d have to pay if you’re staying longer, though."
His lips tipped into a small smile, clearly meant as a joke.
To your horror, yours did too. The tiniest twitch of amusement, the first you’d ever let slip in his direction.
"Well, you don’t have to worry. I’ll be out of your hair by morning."
He nodded solemnly.
"One night it is."
The way he said it—soft, certain, final—lit an unexpected spark in your stomach. Heat curled low, sharp enough to make your head snap toward him. But he’d already bent to scoop up the bag you’d dropped in your fit of temper, striding ahead as if the words had meant nothing.
So here you were. Perched stiffly on the edge of his three-seater, pretending not to notice how spotless his living room was. Your eyes flicked over shining surfaces, lined-up books, not a dust mote in sight. It was unnerving.
Worse, your stomach growled like a dying beast, stirred by the mouthwatering aroma drifting from his kitchen, and you wanted to crawl into the floorboards.
Will the horrors never end?
Apparently not, because your resolve crumbled in exactly two minutes.
The food was… unfair. All buttery warmth and seasoned perfection. One moment you were lifting the first spoonful, the next your plate was scraped clean and Clark was hovering politely, asking if you wanted seconds.
You didn’t even have the energy to be embarrassed. You’d already maxed out your shame quota for the day.
Instead, you shook your head and mouthed a quick “thank you.”
He smiled again.
And this time, from up close, it didn’t look so bad. Not bad at all.
When he reappeared, there were folded clothes in his hand.
He shifted his weight, almost bashful.
“I, uh… those clothes don’t look very comfortable to sleep in.” His chin tilted toward your blouse.
A smirk tugged at your lips before you could stop it.
Maybe it was the food. Maybe it was the cozy warmth and the homely scent that clung to everything here. Whatever it was, something was shifting, and you were too tired—or maybe too intrigued—to fight it.
Because where his shyness should have turned you completely off, should have had you imagining creative ways to plant a knee in his neck… instead, it stirred curiosity.
So when you reached out to take the clothes, the brief brush of your fingers against his was no accident.
His face split in a full, deep smile. He looked almost proud, as if you’d done him a favor by accepting his clothes instead of the other way around.
He’s adorable, your brain whispered. You waited for your gag reflex to kick in, for your stomach to revolt and send your dinner back onto his polished floor. Nothing happened. Interesting.
“I left you enough hot water for a shower,” he said softly. “You can have the bed. I’ll take the couch.”
After a blessedly warm shower, you were buttoning up his plaid shirt over bare skin when the devil decided to knock again. The shirt hit mid-thigh, longer than your usual sleepwear but far from modest in the home of a man you barely knew.
You eyed the pants he had set aside. There was no way. One leg of his trousers could probably fit your entire body.
Nope. Not happening.
The tiny voice of reason whispered about belts, but you smothered it and flipped it an imaginary finger for good measure.
Clark’s eyes widened when he saw you. That sealed it. You had made the right choice.
You crossed the space between you and him, standing too close. He took a step back.
The devil unfurled its wings.
Maybe this wasn’t such a bad night after all.
You smoothed your voice into pure silk, forcing the iron lady inside you to sit down and behave. “Thank you, Kent, for everything tonight. I really was ready to freeze to death out there.”
He tried to laugh, but it scraped out like a croak.
Sweaty palms. Glasses adjusted. “It’s alright. What are neighbors for… right?”
His nervousness struck a strange chord in you. Something warm. Something that made your smirk curl deeper.
You stepped forward. He stumbled back and landed in a chair, wide-eyed.
You leaned closer, purring now. “Are you sure you don’t want to be paid? I make good money.”
He swallowed hard and shook his head. “No. I don’t want to be paid. I just… are you sure you’re alright? You’ve had a rough night.”
That single note of concern — so sweet, so infuriating — cut right through the haze you’d been spinning around him.
“Excuse me?”
He tried to sit up straighter. You leaned back instead, folding your arms across your chest like armor.
He fixed his glasses again. Your fingers twitched with the urge to snatch them right off his face.
“It’s just that… you’re acting… off.” He bit down on the words, like each one had to be tested before release.
You arched a brow, the picture of haughty disdain.
His lips tugged into a grin. “Ahh. Never mind. There you are.”
Your annoyance tilted into confusion, then snapped back into place. “What is wrong with you, Clark Kent? Can’t you just talk like a normal person?”
He raised one hand in apology, his smile softening though the amusement still danced in his eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just… for a moment it felt like you weren’t yourself. Now you’re back.”
Your brow furrowed. “I was trying to be nice.”
He nodded as if that explained everything.
“Wait. You want me like this? Treating you like trash?”
He flinched at the curse but didn’t back down. “Not exactly that. But… I think you’re one of the most authentic people I’ve ever met. You don’t pretend to be something you’re not. That’s… refreshing.”
The words caught you off guard.
You shifted your weight, eyes flicking away for the briefest second. “Most people find me off-putting.”
“I can see why they might.” His mouth twitched, teasing. “But I value honesty. Maybe with a little tact, but still.”
You scoffed at that, and to your surprise, he laughed with you. The first real laugh you'd shared together.
Minutes later you found yourselves curled into opposite ends of his sofa, mugs of hot chocolate in hand, trading stories like old friends. The chocolate slid warm down your throat, but sweeter still was the steady flow of his voice, rich and easy, drawing you closer without even trying.
So when your lips brushed his, there was no devil, no voice of reason, only a single undeniable pull. An invisible magnet, impossible to ignore.
His lips moved against yours with no hesitation, no shock, almost like he had been waiting for it. Welcoming it.
A hand slid around your waist, his palm hot through the thin cotton as he drew you close. He pulled back just enough to search your eyes. “Do you want this?” His voice was so soft, it was meant for you alone.
You could only nod, afraid your voice would betray you.
Then he slipped off his glasses and placed them at a safe distance.
Finally, you smirked.
He kissed you again, harder this time, and the world tipped.
Sweetness gave way to hunger. Tongues tangled, breathless and hot, until his hand cupped your head and he sucked your tongue like he meant to drink you down.
Your brow shot high right along with your libido.
No fucking way. Shy Kent?
His hands roamed your body, gentle yet eager, and your pulse climbed with every touch. When he cupped your breasts, he wasn’t clumsy like you’d always assumed he would be—his palms were reverent, kneading until your nipples strained against the fabric. Heat pooled in your belly, wetness already dripping down your thighs.
By the time he pulled back, you were soft, pliant, barely holding yourself upright. Then he stood and stripped with unexpected urgency.
What he revealed made your eyes widen before you collapsed into a delirious laugh.
No way he was packing that while behaving like a bashful boy next door.
He only grinned, dropping to one knee as his fingers moved to your buttons.
“What?” he asked softly, though his chuckle told you he knew.
“You’re… a lot.” You leaned forward, letting him peel the shirt from your shoulders. The warmth of his home made you forget the blistering cold outside.
Your lips brushed his ear as you murmured, “Do you even know how to use it?”
He shivered, then scooped you against him like you were a doll. “That’s for me to know…” His smile turned wolfish. “…and you to find out.”
... And find out you did.
His mouth was all over you, kissing, biting, sucking. Your voice was hoarse from screaming so much, and he hadn't even entered you.
One moment, one hand gripped your throat, the other spreading your thigh as he lapped you up...
The next moment, he was looking down at you, stroking your head lovingly as he whispered sweet nothings, talking about how beautiful you were even when you glared at him as his fingers worked up a flood inside you, making your pussy talk... Loudly.
When he started alternating between slapping your clit and flicking it while his hot mouth suckled your tits, you were gone.
Something inside your head screamed. Who is this beast, and what has he done with Clark?
Two fingers slipped in again and pumped in a fury, wringing out yet another orgasm before he stood, grabbed your hips and pulled you to the edge of the bed... before folding you back like paper.
You'd been fucked in a mating press position before...but this? This was diabolical.
You swore you could feel his dick in your throat when he bottomed out.
Worse still was the way he held your gaze. Those impossibly blue eyes locked on yours, blazing with heat and something far too tender for the way he was splitting you apart.
Each thrust rattled the bedframe, forcing out grunts and mewls as you took him, but the hand cradling your cheek was soft, grounding you. He kissed you between ragged breaths, his lips soft and sweet, as if he needed little reminders not to break you...that you were fragile.
“You take me so well,” he groaned against your lips, though it sounded like a plea. Please take me.
You did. Even as you were sure, you'd be limping come morning.
He fucked you like a brute but touched you like glass.... every snap of his hips bringing you closer and closer to the edge. When you finally shattered again, sobbing into his kiss, he came right with you, his body never once letting you go.
It was some time later when you felt him cleaning you up and tucking you in before collapsing beside you.
You allowed yourself to drift off into blissful nothingness...
Because somewhere between despising him and letting him fold you in half, Clark Kent had stopped being the blundering idiot next door.
And you weren’t sure what the hell that meant for tomorrow.
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