clark hasnāt fucked you since that first timeājust feels like heās entitled to do everything but, teasing you until youāre a babbling mess.
Clark Kent still wonāt quite give in.Ā
(No matter how many times you bat your eyelashes.)
He still maintains the fact that he never shouldāve fucked you in the first place.Ā
āIt was a lapse in judgment, and Iād had a little to drink.ā Heāll say. āWasnāt thinking straight,ā heāll say. āI took advantage of you. Youāre too young for me. Youāre beautiful, honey, what do you even see in an old man like me?ā Heāll say.Ā
Doesnāt matter that heās a grown man and one beer is like a Sprite to someone his size. Doesnāt matter that you yourself were a legal, willing adult. None of it matters to Clark when he truly believes that he has your best interests at heart.Ā
But ultimately, jokeās on him. Because like they say about a gateway drug, one hit and heās got you hooked.Ā
And heās nothing if not your dealer, enabler: letting you in when you knock, giving you a stool to perch on while he fixes his beat-up old truck.. Paying when the two of you order in, (he wonāt take you out for fear of your reputation.) giving you a well-worn flannel when you get cold.Ā
Clarkās not exactly above blame, here, either.Ā
After a certain point, some would call that a relationship. Yet your boyfriend, Clark, decidedly wonāt.Ā
And thatās not the only thing he wonāt do.Ā
He wonāt let himself kiss you back for too long, wonāt let you touch below the belt on his jeans. Wonāt fuck you, but heāll happily tease you.Ā
Distractedly, obliviously, until heās looking at the scene before him, ashamed, unable to hide the hard-on pressing against rough denim underneath you.Ā
The History Channelās on, yet youāre unable to give the documentary playing quite the attention it deserves. Why?
Because for the past twenty minutes, Clarkās been playing with your clit like he just needed something to do with his hands.Ā
See, your boyfriendās weird about history. Heās super into it, so at first, you thought heād be some sort of armchair expert. But thereās huge swaths of human history like pre-1930 that he just knows nothing about.Ā
āOver the centuries, many conspiracy theories have come out about the Titanic. One of the most popular all ties back to insurance fraud. The RMS Olympic, another ship owned by the White Star Line,ā the narrator drones, voicing over a B-roll of grainy black and white pictures.Ā
Your lips are shut tight as the blunt tip of Clarkās finger dips inside of you, your eyelashes fluttering over the tops of your cheeks as pleasure rolls over you in a wave. Heās been at this so long, he could probably look at you sideways and youād come. His thumb swipes over your clit again, lazily, like he still doesnāt realize what heās doing, and a whimper escapes from behind your teeth.
āYāokay?ā He mutters, his eyes still never leaving the TV. Youāre about to grab his wrist, the situation just feeling more and more ridiculous by the second. But you didnāt fight it as he slipped his hands past the waistband of your shorts, your underwear, and youāre not going to fight it now.Ā
And you know, clear as day, if either of you acknowledges it, heāll stop. And youād do anything to guarantee that he doesnāt.Ā
āYes, Clark.ā You reply, thighs trembling as he adds another finger inside of you, curling them in tandem just like heās interested in the new sensory experience.Ā
āHad no idea people could be conspiracy theorists ābout something like a boat. Seems a bit silly, donāt it?ā He drawls, and your eyes go upward, pleading with whatever deity thatās above to give you strength.Ā
āP-people are,ā you start, sighing as he rubs your clit with purpose now, almost like heās giving you a reward for your nonchalance. āConspiracy theorists about, just about, everything.āĀ
Youāre pretty proud of yourself for getting that full sentence out. It feels like your boyfriend is too, with the way he pushes his fingers all the way inside of you. The heel of his palm bumps against that agitated bundle of nerves, creating a friction as he fucks his fingers into you.Ā
The sweetest torture: the tensing of your muscles as you writhe against the worn leather of his couch, your hand slapped firmly over your own mouth, and the only sign of his possible awareness to the situation being a slight tinge of red across his cheekbones.Ā
āOh, shit,ā you cry, toes curling. Your stupid, stupid boyfriend. āFuck, Clark!āĀ
Itās then, then, that heās startled from a daze, tearing his eyes away from the picture of J.P. Morgan on his television screen to look at you.Ā
And what a mess you are: your eyes rolling back into your head, hair mussed, body shaking as you wet the thin skin of his wrist with your arousal.Ā
For once, he lets you ride it out, muttering sweet nothings (mainly to himself, since youāre too far gone to properly hear anything) as you clench around his fingers.Ā
Itās impossible to ignore the erection heās sporting, his thighs widening to give himself more space as you look him over. Itās a hard goodbye, his fingers leaving your fluttering hole, but itās bittersweet: Clark brings his hand up to his lips and sucks like heās starving.Ā
āYouāre a jerk.ā You snarl, cranky due to the fact that heās more or less unbothered and you look so desperate for it.Ā
His hand grabs your face, rough, fingers still wet against your cheek as he pulls you closer.Ā
āA brat wonāt tame herself.ā He replies, breath fanning over your lips, his just out of reach.Ā
Brennan: Please. I beg you. I have made it so clear nothing time sensitive as regards to Thaishaās son or the end of the world is happening. Please rest before going in the spooky final boss room.
Matt: Anyway, Julien is gonna go ahead unless one of yall have a fun character interaction to stop me. š
#cats of tumblr
#lana del rey
#horror movies
#photography
