this is actually my first fic (so please be gentle) and let me know what you think. 🥰
thank you @antigonusyuki for your kind words and the salacious fics that inspired me to write this. ❤️
tw & cw: stepcest, pseudocest, age gap, implied daddy kink, mentions of cheating, sexual theme, MDNI
pairing: captain john price x gn!reader
wc: 1.1k+
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Kuchisabishii: Starving ‘Till I Tasted You
Kuchisabishii' is a Japanese term which directly translates to 'lonely mouth', but it's a phrase that's better translated as boredom eating.
john settling with someone who is ‘safe’ for the sake of settling down. deciding that even the thrill of missions, the fight’s bloodlust, and the satisfaction of an op’s success isn’t enough to fill the emptiness inside him. the idea of someone to go home to and having somebody waiting for his safe return screams security to him. and despite the lack of passion and burning of his soul for them; of knowing that he’s only committed because of the overflowing loneliness, he soldiers on and try to find peace and comfort in it.
he knows they were previously married with a child who is already an adult by society’s standards. they also have no desire for more children, which is just perfect for john’s life plans. after all, he wouldn’t want to bring up a child, only for him to leave them behind in case he dies while on a mission. he only wants security and companionship anyway. so yes, this is perfect. this is enough. it has to be.
everything was well; the wedding went smoothly and even though their kid could not attend due to the occasion’s suddenness, the entire event is nonetheless considered a success. everything is going according to plan. and after some time of embracing married life and the solemn blandness that comes with it, when he had the chance to meet said elusive kid, he can now confirm it.
everything is not going according to plan. somebody fucking help him.
because he swears, his partner’s kid is perfection immortalized. a ray of sun after the bitter cold with their warm reception, straightforward acceptance, and gentle yet alluring smile. a drink of fresh cold water after a day of sweaty, grueling hard work with their lilting voice, soft hands, and tender gestures of care. a peaceful lull of silence after the never-ending sounds of fighting and gunfire with their caring affection, firm yet kind words of support, and genuine understanding in their eyes. it fills his heart with serenity. and it fills his head with trepidation.
his worry mounting by the day as he looks forward to waking up and greeting them with a lightness in his heart step. finding peace by sharing a cup of coffee and a quiet conversation while he smokes his cigar. giving him a sense of domesticity by helping them prepare the day’s meal and going out with them to do basic outdoor chores. his apprehension further climbing up as he discovers himself feeling content and satisfied with these simple moments.
he loses sleep when he starts to realize what is happening. his mind is plagued with guilt towards his partner for harboring these feelings. he’s not a man to hide from the truth, and he knows what he’s doing. he’s emotionally cheating on them. he’s falling for another, and it is with disgust that he acknowledges whom he is falling for. because never in his wildest dreams would he dare think of lusting after his stepchild like he’s in some cheap porn plot. and as days passed by, he found that desire evolving into something more profound. one that claws at his chest, leaving it empty and aching to be filled. but how could he not when this person evoked all emotions he honestly thought the war had already taken —if not erased— from him? the bleakness in his life suddenly became lighter, the change so abrupt that he still couldn’t believe how it happened. rather, he can't believe that there can be an improvement. too used to the bitterness of his chosen life that the suddenly found sweetness jarred his very core.
the ease of how they can make him smile (and sometimes even laugh —a true one, mind you— and not just the sardonic grin he usually wears) was as exhilarating as when he first got into the military; bright, hopeful, and full of zeal. the foreignness of it taking him to a new high; the camaraderie he only ever felt with his team, forged after a death-defying mission together yet similarly achieved within a short time of knowing them.
is this what they call ‘soulmate’?…he doesn’t know, but it’s the only explanation that makes sense. finding your soul’s other half and suddenly discovering that there is life after life.
and the thirst..fuuuckkk... it's all-consuming, and he feels it slowly taking over his sanity. simple and light touches that shouldn’t be anything but innocent brings goosebumps on his skin. hugs that should be familial make him shiver that he has to bite his tongue to stop the low groan from escaping. never before had his dick throbbed as hard as it did when he saw the outline of their sex imprinted on the billowy gray sweatpants they were wearing. seeing it on his peripheral when they reached down on the fridge while preparing dinner. the fall of the fabric sticking to their skin, enhancing the shape and plumpness of their ass. it took all of him not to grab their hips, bury his face between their legs, stick his tongue, and just drown in sin. —fuckin’ type of clothing should be illegal.
‘jesus fuckin’ christ’…
the control and discipline he cultivated for years flying out the window as he excused himself hastily. hiding in the bathroom to furiously stroke his raging erection to the thought of how good they would feel in his mouth; he could almost taste it…his tongue lolling out as his hips started to thrust in sync with his fist.
a soft, confused call of “...daddy?” behind the locked door has him aggressively biting his other hand to muffle the sounds of the violent and sudden orgasm that overcame him.
‘…bloody fuckin’ hell..’
he had fucked his fair share of cunts and cocks in his lifetime but never had he felt such an intense climax that he saw pricks of white, too blinding that he had to blink a few times to recover his vision. his cum jetted out in thick ropes so brutal his knees shook, and he was left gasping for air.
he’s not new to this. he has experimented here and there, especially in his youth, cooped in with men and women equally as young and horny as he was. not to mention the tempting offers of one-night stands he sometimes indulges in while on break. his celibacy is always due to his busy schedule, never because he lacked options. but this? this is uncharted territory. never before had he felt such fierce sexual attraction and connection to anyone in all his years.
he’s not unfamiliar with the perverse. but he’s aware that this is beyond perversion. this is taboo. and with his hand dripping with cum and his dick still swollen and aching for more, he can only close his eyes with dread for what’s there to come.
Hiii, just read your Clark Omegle fic loved it loved it loved it. I was wondering if you would be interested in doing an alternate version where she realises but just keeps going and they finish? Maybe she says his name as she goes over the edge and it makes him cum knowing she knows who he is the whole time.
your wish is my command…. thank you for the request and i hope you like it!!! Love always, mani
MDNI (18+)
Read first part!
Oh.
Oh.
Clark Kent was the body on your screen. The owner of that perfect dick. The one who liked just the exact same thing you did. The realization hit in delight, encouraging you to shove to fingers inside yourself and give him a better show. The wet sounds of your hand got obscener as you let yourself moan out, small, drawn-out whimpers taking over your mouth as you saw him move faster too.
You laid down better to let him see your breasts, gaining a groan that left in a delicious tone and overpowered the sound of his heavy cock slapping against his hand. His hips started moving along with his motions on himself, he was getting close and you could tell. You pulled the two fingers out and focused on making yourself cum, desperate harsh circles on your clit taking over.
“Fuck, Clark. I’m gonna cum for you.” You announced, letting him know you knew. This clearly worked on him, because he got desperate as he fucked himself on his hand and soon enough you could not only see the white spurs leaving from his red, thick mushroomed tip. You could hear it. Hear his whines of your name, hear how the cum landed all over himself. It was enough for you to finish too, your orgasm taking over from your toes to your head in a soothing, exciting wave.
He didn’t say anything as he looked at his screen, picking up his computer as if to look at you closer, the show taking place in front of his very eyes. Your hand finally stilled when you had ridden it out, letting him see how you squeezed your breasts still blissed out.
“You knew?”
“You did too.” You responded, Clark smiling that stupid, smug smile that he carried when someone complimented him or he caught the staple before it fell to the floor.
“You’re beautiful. Gosh, you always are but like this… makes me wanna say bad things. Do bad things.” You smiled and sat up, picking up your computer to look at him too.
“We live like 5 blocks apart.” You mentioned, eyes through the yellow hue of your room and the camera telling him the naughtiest things. Clark licked his lips, looking around the room.
“I’ll be there in 5. Keep touching yourself, keep her wet for me.” You smiled and slammed your laptop shut, quickly putting it to the side and straightening your sheets, standing to unlock the door without bothering to put anything on. You wouldn’t open it yet and hey, why create more barriers? You were clearly on the same page.
this tiktok got me thinking about the mess clark would be if you avoided him after he confessed to you.
tags: explicit content, confessions, fwb!reader, text fic themes (700+ wc)
—
that man would be so genuinely pathetic about it all.
he draws a hard line — refusing to push you for an answer to his spur-of-the-moment confession. he thinks giving you time to consider him as a potential partner was the respectful way around it. but what he doesn't account for is how painful the waiting game would be.
you stopped responding to his texts. going out of your way to avoid him both in and out of work, with a level of evasion that would give him a run for his money. if it wasn't so frustrating, he might even be impressed at the segues you successfully orchestrated.
now, clark knew that you hadn't been doing any of those things because you truly hated him.
he knew that wasn't the truth. you two were good friends first.
good friends who often did everything together — like greeting you in your apartment's lobby at 8 am every day, to buy you coffee before you both clocked in for your shift. good friends who stayed at work late to help each other out, no strings attached.
and like the true good friend clark was, he even made sure you came on his fingers the very first time you let him fuck you. and every single time afterwards since then.
so yeah, you were good friends.
it was an easy cop out to avoid clark. for starters, you'd rather not have to commit to the colossal fall out that would surely follow if things had an official label.
and really, you should've known better that a sweetheart like clark would so innocently devote himself to you if you crossed that particular boundary. he fucked you like he loved you. that was the truth in the matter. breaking his heart wasn't an option, so when you left your girls at the bar early that evening, you had your mind set.
you shakily open your text thread with clark as you set foot out of the elevators leading toward your apartment.
26th May 2026
Clark K.: Take all the time you need!! READ
27th May 2026
Clark K.: Morning.
Clark K.: I got you your oat-milk vanilla latte. Are you coming down soon?
You: Sorry. I left earlier. See you at work?
Clark K.: Ok! No worries. 🥸 See you. READ
28th May 2026
Clark K.: I know you said you wanted a little space from our morning walks. I put a gift card from the coffee shop on your desk. In case you fancy a cup on your way to work. READ
3rd June 2026
↳ CLARK K. FORWARDED AN ARTICLE.
HOW TO GIVE SOMEONE SPACE: IT'S TIME TO LET GO.
Clark K.: I'm so sorry. Ignore that. I didn't mean to send it to you. READ
5th June 2026
Clark K.: Are you free this weekend? Let's talk about it. Please.
Today
Clark K.: I miss you so so much. Please let me talk to you. READ
You: I thought about it. Let's give this a shot.
the message sends off with an ominous woosh with the added liquid courage you had in your system. you hadn't expected a response so soon, considering the emotional whiplash you were giving him.
"t-this, am I hallucinating? do you mean it? do you really mean it?"
you certainly hadn't expected clark to spring right up from his slouched position beside your front door. looking like an absolute and utter mess. his glasses were nearly tucked in his breast pocket, hair combed upward in one spot he must've been running his hand through all night while waiting for you.
clark's shadow towers over you, like an anxious spirit, bouncing on his heels, too wary to touch you.
your heels hang loosely by the way you hold them by the straps.
"i—you're here. i didn't—…"
"i know," he cuts in, shaking his head, barely being able to contain the relief coursing through his veins. "too soon, zero buffer time. i was…just here to apologise for that…'i miss you' text. it was awfully pushy. and i felt really silly, especially when i promised you time and space —"
you quickly close the distance, cupping his jaw with both palms. tip-toeing to kiss once. completely sure of yourself. his surprised hum melts the second your lips slot between his. and he sighs, content and deep to curl his arm by your hips, lifting you up in the process.
"had my fill —" a soft, separation, and then you press another kiss, "all the time an'space." you continue, words broken by the urgent need to have him as close as you could.
clark turns you around, with your legs locked around his hips. he presses you flush against your front door, hiking you securely around him. he lets you have the room to speak, dragging the gentle curves of his nose down your jaw. his own bated breath warms your sensitive skin.
you tilt your head, panting in the aftermath of your confession. "i'm sure." you whisper, breathily, his mouth leaving urgent pecks to the column of your throat.
"i want you, clark."
it's all the assurance he needs to christen your furniture with the newly established label, like the good friend boyfriend he could now be.
CLARK KENT’S sexual awakening never happened. His ma did enough to hide him from the more carnal parts of life, so imagine his surprise and borderline nose-wrinkle in sex-ed junior year when he found out what adults did behind closed doors.
Even when he grew up, got a job in the Planet, made his alter-ego known, he still didn’t feel the need to… have coitus. He was too scared he’d snap some poor girl in half if he tried.
The first time he ever tried, he’d barely got the tip in before he came, embarrassingly quick. Maybe it was the nerves of it all, maybe his body was eager to get it over with. Safe to say, that girl — as lovely as she was — broke up with him a week later because she felt like he was just in pursuit of his own pleasure. Not true, by the way, his ma always told him to think of the lady first.
Like every Monday, he was pushing his way through the Metropolis work crowd, against the tides of people. Not really looking where he was going, trying not to drop an iced tea — Lois forced him to try it, just to be clear — on any unsuspecting people by holding it high above possible shoulders.
That failed.
In the pursuit of not splashing anyone with peach iced tea, he forgot to look straight and collided straight into someone, sending a drink flying into a silk dress.
Oh, no.
He watched in horror as the material dampened, clung to your body, and became slightly more sheer by the second. “Golly, I’m so sorry—”
The subsequent scoff nearly tore into his self-esteem battery for the day. “Hey, watch where you’re…”
Your eyes locked. All anger faded away, replaced by the dread that you hurt this sexy behemoth of a man’s feelings and he now hated you forever. “… you know what? No worries, don’t— don’t think about it too much.”
He instantly shrugged off his blazer and held it out to you. “But your dress— great dress, by the way,” it was a… really pretty dress, golly, “it’s ruined. I ruined it. I can pay for the dry cleaning.”
You waved your hand noncommittally, but you took the blazer anyway to cover up, it was massive on you. Lord— wait, he shouldn’t take his name in vain. “Seriously, I’m fine. I was on my way to a bachelorette party, one of my friends there will definitely have a spare, she has one for everyone.”
He blinked. “Everyone?”
“Yeah.” You grinned, gosh, it was a pretty smile. “She’s like that. Weird, I know. And— don’t worry about the dry cleaning, I’ve got it. I’m sorry about your drink.”
“No, you saved me.” He laughed nervously. “My coworker forced me to try it, to tell y’the truth, I did not want to.”
“So I saved you.”
“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his curls, messing them up even more. “And please. Please bill me for the dry cleaning, I’ll feel bad if you don’t.”
“Fine. Fine.” You laughed, rolling your eyes. “I’ll bill you.” Locking eyes with him once more took the words from his lungs. Good Lord, those eyes were sexy. All of him was sexy, in a cute way, bumbling gait, pushing his glasses up his nose, the rosiness of his cheeks. You checked your watch. Fuck. “Well, I’m in a rush, so—”
“Yeah, you gotta—”
“See you.” You began walking off at a fast pace. Something jolted in his navel. He felt hot from embarrassment. His relaxed-fit trousers felt… not so relaxed anymore.
He looked down. That looked like a sexual awakening.
“Clark!” He yelled loudly, head snapping up to stare at you like a dishevelled deer in headlights. What the hay? Why did he do that? Why did he yell that? He covered his crotch with his messenger bag.
Your smile told him you noticed. With an uptick in your heart rate and an increase in your breathing’s heaviness, a sweet smell tickled his nose. It wasn’t the bakery next to him, that’s for sure. You smiled, and shouted back your name at the same volume.
He hurried to the nearest bathroom to yell at his body.
Cat slid onto his desk, setting core in front of him. Not for him, clearly. “I was at a bachelorette last week.” She started, tapping her nail on his desk to get him to look at her. Deadlines needed to be crunched, so he barely did. She accepted that.
Clark’s fingers kept flying. “Cat, you’re gonna have to be more specific.”
She laughed. “I have a friend. She asked me about a dorky guy named Clark Kent who still writes his name on the tags of his clothes.” She dropped a sugar cube into her coffee, stirring it. “A habit I thought we left back in our sophomore year of high school.”
His neck turned red. His foot covered the name tag on his bag’s handle. But she laughed and dropped another sugar cube into. He sent a furtive glance of concern for her health. “Whatever.” She sighed, taking a long sip. “I told her you were single.”
He almost spluttered over no liquid. “What?”
“I told her you were single.” She repeated simply.
“Why?”
“She asked.” This time he almost choked on a gulp of straight, bitter black coffee. “I gave her your number. To bill you for the dry cleaning.” Pause for an effectively captivating sip of over-sweetened coffee. “Among other things.” She muttered under her breath, but he caught it. She smiled widely. “Toodles!” She got up and walked off.
He threw his hands up, tripping over his words. “Cat— you can’t—” But she was in her own world, singing Freak by Doja Cat.
His phone buzzed. With shaking hands, he opened it, unknown number.
Didn’t know they made clothes in your size. Underneath: Wanna come round to get it this weekend? To talk to bit.
He saved your contact first. Before typing out a clumsy agreement, which he didn’t know was possible over text. Judging by how you didn’t immediately get put off, you were into it.
He was on time, on the dot of the agreed time, which was two o’clock. After lunch, before it got too dark, but still enough time to talk.
He’d cleaned up a little more than usual. Tried to use a hair pomade to ensure his curls weren’t as wild as they usually were. Wear a slightly tighter fitting shirt than before. Brush his teeth. Pop a few breath mints. Avoid the morning coffee, put on copious amounts of hand lotion and lip balm. Everything had to be perfect. He even trimmed his happy trail for this.
You laid the plan. Took a shower so your skin was dewy. Prepped your hair. Kept the makeup minimal, because a full beat would give the plan away. You chose your best, flowiest robe.
You wanted him to unwrap you like a present.
When your doorbell rang, you dabbed on a final bit of lipstick before you chucked it onto a side table and opened the door.
You felt your thighs rub together on instinct the moment you saw him. He felt his breath leave his body when he saw you, checking his watch. “Maybe I’m early—”
“You’re on time.” It came out more breathless than expected. Nodding back into your apartment. “I… I have your jacket. I put it in the wash, the inside got stained with a little iced tea.”
“You can bill me for that too.”
“Seriously? No.” You waved your hand. “No. You’re fine.” You ushered him inside. “It was a thank you, for paying for my dry cleaning and lending me your jacket.” You waved him towards the couch. “Can I get you anything? Water?”
You.
“Um, I’m fine.” He sat on the couch, you sat opposite, picking up a glass of wine that was there before he came. You looked… stunning. He felt his collar get hot. He tugged at it. “You invited me to watch a movie.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you still want to watch a movie?”
“No.”
“Oh. Oh. I was under the impression that we’d be…” He gestured in between you two. So he had the same assumption you did.
Your lips curled up. “I was under that impression too.”
He nodded. You could see a bulge slowly growing in his trousers. “I mean, I— I have to warn you, I’m not that… experienced.”
You blinked, slightly amused. A little interested. “Oh? How so?”
“I…” He made a weird motion, he didn’t even know what it was supposed to mean. It’s likely get interpreted as something like flying a plane, “finish too quickly. Women find it off putting.”
The way you were looking at him, it seemed like you found it off putting as well. Just frozen in time, sat there, staring at him. “That’s…” You let out a whoosh of air. Then your hand gripped his jaw, “really fucking hot—”
Oh. You were into it.
Huh. You were kissing him.
Golly. He was kissing back.
His hand covered the one holding his jaw, pressing into your lips and your body instinctively like there was a magnet from him to you. You pushed back, swinging a leg over both of his till your knees knocked into his hips. This was new.
You smiled when you saw his other hand hovering awkwardly. Not knowing whether he had the right to touch beyond what was respectful. So you guided it to your thigh, fabric moving and bunching under his fingers. Allowing him to touch bare skin.
Oh, boy.
The soft whine from the bottom of his throat was a boost to your ego, a deep moan following when you pressed open mouthed kisses to his neck, rolling your hips forward. “Ohhhhh, gosh,” He breathed out slowly.
Oh, fuck. He was massive. Though you didn’t know what to expect, he was six-five.
Both his hands flew to your hips, pads of his fingers pressing into your skin, head tipping back against the sofa cushions, breathing in sharply. He could feel you gently sucking on his skin, he knew it wouldn’t leave a mark, but he whimpered quietly anyway, dragging your hips forward, so he could feel your pussy drag over his dick yet again. His head spinning as your tongue traced over his Adam’s apple.
Your hands slipped off his tie like you’d had practice, popping the buttons of his shirt slowly. You felt his warm palms burning up your waist, stopping at where your robe was tied at your front. His eyes were wide, blinking up at you through his lashes. “Can I…?”
Fuck, he was hot.
You undid the tie yourself but let him gently move the fabric off your shoulders, undoing his belt and letting you take off his trousers. His cheeks flushed as he dragged his boxers down, cock painfully hard. It was pretty, flushed at the tip, pre smeared just a little.
Oh, that was a lot bigger than you manifested.
“Oh, shit.” You grinned at the sight of him, watching his whole face turn red.
He adjusted his foggy glasses, stumbling over his syllables. “Will it…” He gulped, wondering how to say it, “fit?”
The look in your eye almost made his heart stop. Like you didn’t care. “Oh, honey.” You laughed a little. “We’ll make it.” You positioning yourself above him, ready to sink down onto his throbbing cock was not something he expected to see. He let out a strangled sound, placing a hand on your arm. “Don’t you want me to… prepare you?”
“I’ve quite literally been prepared since the first time we met.” You grabbed a condom from — wait where did you get that from? — and tore it open delicately, giving it to him to roll on. He did, safety was key, and when you finally did lower yourself onto him— holy shit.
His forehead pressed to your shoulder, before he started pressing sloppy, whining kisses, almost making out with it as he felt your pussy grip him deliciously. So this was what he’d never felt drawn to. Until now.
He was stretching you out. A lot. For a guy so shy about his own abilities his endowment was something women only experienced in their wildest dreams. The more you learned, the more turned on you were.
Huh. That usually didn’t happen with men.
You let out a deep sigh as you sank down further, feeling his size fill you in the best way. His tip nestled against your cervix, pretty vein brushing your g-spot, fuck, maybe moving would feel too good.
But you did it anyway, small, cut-short gasps and moans jumping from your throat as he kissed his way back up to your lips so he could feed his own noises of encouragement into your mouth. Holding your hips just tight enough so he wouldn’t bruise them, still guiding you firmly, still holding your hips just close to him as he disabled your brain with every push and pull of his hands and each wet smack of his lips and yours (and skin on skin, but we don’t mention that).
His head was fuzzy. Mumbling shit he couldn’t make out himself in between every collision of your lips, tangling one hand in your hair while the other slipped down to press his thumb onto your clit.
You clenched hard; he almost came right there.
His eyes rolled back for half a second and he willed himself not to finish too early but he couldn’t stop it once you clamped down with the second roll of his thumb, your name leaving his mouth, the highest you’d heard his voice be, cracks in between syllables feeding your ego. But he kept circling your clit like he was born to do it, mumbling encouragement, his forehead glistening as his head fell back.
“C’mon, sweetie, gotta make you feel good too,” He panted, gripping your hip so he could encourage you to grind forward into his thumb. “Please, please give it to me—”
It all felt too much. The onslaught of his thumb, his tip still prodding at your cervix, seeing him fucked out from one round (that made you more horny than you’d care to admit) had you coming too, him swallowing that moan by meeting your lips in the middle, stroking your hair back from your face and rolling his hips up a little so the high wouldn’t be harsh on you. His kisses turned slower, more languid, to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your neck, finally lifting your hand so he could kiss your palm and the back of your hand.
“You’re stunning.” He breathed, kissing your knuckles. “So beautiful, honey.”
How the fuck was he respectful after the best sex you’ve ever had? There had to be a catch.
“So… that was hot.” You smiled, brushing his curls back from his forehead. “You were being pretty modest.”
“I’m pretty sure I didn’t last past two minutes.”
Your tongue traced your canine as you smiled. “Well, I wanna see it again.”
Making out with Clark because he's been extra needy tosay and he's grabbing at your waist rutting his clothed dick up against your thong making him all whiny. "Gosh sweetheart I'm so sorry.. I don't know what's gotten into me tonight" He whimpers softly and you tilt your head.
"Baby do you wanna try something a little new today?" You asked so sweetly still palming him through his pants cooing at him so sweetly. he nods rapidly guiding your hands to undo his belt desperately. "Yes please baby! Anything you want !" He was always so eager to try new things. Whatever made his baby happy.
You undo his belt with a sweet smile and take him out of his boxers, he gasps softly as the air hits his hard aching hard dick. You spit on your hand wrapping around him for a moment and kiss his aching tip making him jolt and arch his back , you reach over in your drawer pulling out a vibrator.
"You sure baby?" You coo wrapping your mouth around his angry oozing tip and he whimpers.
"Of course I am honey..NGHH.. please..." He begs and you pull off the tip keeping your hand around his dick pumping a few times and he's biting his lip rutting his hips.
You turn on the vibrator dragging it along the tip and he sobs from the sensation. "JEEZ.. HONEY.. AH!"
You jerk him off at the same time and he's a spluttering mess. You pull away the vibrator and he gasps loudly.
"Don't stop! Please please don't stop" He wails grabbing your hand dragging it back onto his tip.
"You like it baby?" You hum sweetly and he nods looking like he's about to cry. His lip wobbles as you turn up the speed and jerk him off even harder.
“FUCK! Gosh! Baby!” He whimpered rocking his hips. He never swore. Tears rolled down his face.
“C..can ! Please can I cum baby .. please “ He gasps rutting his hips and you nod. He sobs softly cum leaking harshly as he reaches his high and you lean down to suck the cum off his dick making whine more whiney. You hold his face peppering kisses.
“You did so good baby.. did that feel okay?” you peck his lips.
“It did .. I liked that a lot honey.. t..thank you!” he smiles grateful to try new things with you.
A few days later when you go to grab your vibrator the battery was completely dead and you looked so confused. You had just charged it this morning.
You turn to Clark who’s redder than a tomato and rubs the back of his neck shyly “m..m’real sorry honey I… I thought I’d give it another try.. sorry!” He frowns and you shake your head fondly kissing the top of his head.
“That’s okay baby.. I’m glad you like it .. I’ll charge it up for us both to use?” you offer sweetly.
And the man nods like you’ve gifted him the greatest new experience ever.
HIII
This one was just a bit of fun so there’s probably errors but enjoy nonetheless
Note I love Clark Kent so much and I still have no idea why I only have one fic about him here, that's gonna change from now. Anyways, I am sorry if this is a tiny bit angsty but I swear there's fluff and smut and you're gonna be nauseous because these two love each other way too much. Like a lot.
Clark’s night had been a particular kind of hell. He didn't remember landing on your terrace.
One moment he was standing in the cratered ruin of what used to be a warehouse district on the outskirts of Metropolis, his hands still trembling from the echo of kryptonian fists meeting flesh, and the next he was here—boots silent on the weathered tile, the city sprawling beneath him like a circuit board of light and shadow.
The villain had called himself Pavor. A meta-human with the unsettling ability to weaponize fear, to reach into the deepest, most vulnerable parts of a person's mind and pull out their nightmares made manifest. Clark had faced worse. He'd faced world-enders and reality-benders, creatures from the Phantom Zone and gods from distant pantheons. But Pavor had done something that none of the others had managed.
He'd made Clark watch you die.
Not just once. A hundred times. A thousand. Each death more intimate and horrible than the last. A car accident on a rain-slicked street where Clark was too slow, too far away, his super-hearing catching your final breath across seven city blocks. A terminal illness that ate through your beautiful, laughing body while Clark held your hand and felt the life drain out of you, powerless to stop it because even he couldn't cure the incurable. An explosion in your apartment building that he arrived at two minutes too late, your favorite mug still warm on the kitchen counter, your scent still lingering in the hallway.
The worst one—the one that still had his hands shaking even now—was the simplest. You'd been walking home from the grocery store, a bag of oranges in your arms, and a man with a gun had wanted your wallet. In the vision, Clark had been standing right there. Right. There. And he'd still been too slow. The bullet had entered your chest before he could move, and you'd looked at him with such confusion, such betrayal, as if to say why didn't you save me? when you didn't even know he was there at all.
The villain was neutralized now. Sedated in a meta-human containment cell, his fear-dust swept up by biohazard teams. But the images lingered, burned into Clark's brain like afterimages from a nuclear blast.
He needed to see you.
The thought was urgent, desperate, clawing at his chest with something that felt dangerously close to panic. He needed to see your face, to hear your heartbeat, to feel you—warm and solid and alive—under his hands. The rational part of his mind, the part that had been doing this for almost two years, told him to go home first. Change out of the suit. Put on the glasses and the flannel shirt and the carefully constructed persona of Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter. That was the agreement, wasn't it? Not a formal one, not something you'd ever demanded, but something he'd built between you anyway. With you, he got to be just Clark. Not Superman. Not the symbol, the icon, the guy who caught planes and deflected asteroids. Just the man who burned his toast in the morning and left his socks on the bathroom floor and kissed the back of your neck while you were trying to make coffee.
But tonight, the thought of putting on that mask felt unbearable. Like another layer of separation between him and the thing he needed most.
So here he was. Boots on your terrace. The cape heavy on his shoulders, the House of El crest emblazoned across his chest. He'd never shown up like this before. Not once. You knew who he was—he'd told you, three months into the relationship, sitting on this very terrace with his heart in his throat and the words “I'm Superman” tasting like broken glass in his mouth—but you'd never seen him like this. The suit had always been something that happened somewhere else, in a different part of his life, the part he tried so hard to keep separate from the quiet sanctuary he'd found with you.
The sliding door was unlocked. It was always unlocked when he visited, a small act of faith that still made something in his chest ache. He could see you through the glass, curled on the couch with a book in your lap and a mug of tea steaming on the side table. You were wearing his university sweatshirt—the one he'd almost thrown away a dozen times because it was faded and threadbare, but you'd fished it out of the donation bag and claimed it as your own. Your hair was loose around your shoulders, still slightly damp from a shower, and you were absently chewing on your lower lip the way you did when you were concentrating.
His knees nearly buckled.
He'd watched you die tonight. He'd watched your eyes go dark and your heart stop and your blood pool on pavement, on tile, on the pristine white sheets of a hospital bed. He'd screamed your name in a dozen different nightmares, had reached for you a thousand times and come up empty. And here you were, reading one of your favorite books with your feet tucked under you, completely unaware that somewhere across the city, a so called God had been weeping over your corpse.
Clark slid the door open and you looked up immediately, a smile already forming on your lips—and then froze. Your eyes went wide, traveling from his face down the length of his body, taking in the suit and the cape and the way he was standing there like a man who'd just survived something he couldn't name.
“Clark?” Your voice was soft, uncertain, already tinged with concern. You set the book aside and rose from the couch, moving toward him slowly, carefully, the way you might approach a wounded animal. “Baby, what's wrong?”
He tried to speak. Tried to form words, to explain, to apologize for showing up like this without warning. But the sound that came out of his mouth was closer to a sob, raw and broken, and suddenly he was crossing the room in two strides and pulling you into his arms.
The contact nearly undid him.
You were warm. So impossibly, achingly warm, your body fitting against his like you'd been made to be there. Your heartbeat thrummed against his chest, steady and strong and alive, and Clark buried his face in your hair and breathed you in. Lavender shampoo. The faint trace of the tea you'd been drinking. Something underneath that was just you, the scent he'd committed to memory months ago, the one that meant home.
“Clark.” Your hands came up to cup his face, gentle but insistent, pulling back just enough to look at him. Your thumbs swept across his cheekbones, catching tears he hadn't realized he'd been shedding. “Talk to me. Please.”
He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. “There was a man tonight,” he said, and his voice came out rough, scraped raw. “He could—he could show people their fears. Make them real, somehow. In their minds.” He swallowed hard, and the next words came out on a shudder. “He showed me you. Dying. Over and over again. I watched you die so many times, and every time—every single time—I couldn't save you.”
Your breath caught. He felt it, felt the slight hitch in your chest, the way your fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on his jaw.
“Clark,” you whispered.
“I know it wasn't real.” The words came faster now, tumbling out of him like water through a broken dam. “I know that. I've dealt with fear-manipulators before, I know how it works, I know none of it actually happened. But I couldn't—I couldn't shake it. I couldn't stop seeing your face, couldn't stop hearing—” His voice cracked. “I needed to see you. I needed to hold you. And I couldn't go home and change first, I couldn't put on the glasses and pretend to be someone else for one more second, because I'm not—I'm not someone else, not with you, I've never been someone else with you, and I just—”
The words were coming too fast now, tripping over each other, spiraling. Clark could feel it building in his chest—that familiar, terrible pressure, the one he'd learned to recognize over years of burying things too deep. His heart was hammering, which was ridiculous because his heart didn't do that anymore, hadn't done that since he was a teenager learning to control his powers, but here it was, pounding against his ribs like a caged animal. His breathing was too quick, too shallow, and he couldn't seem to get enough air even though he didn't technically need to breathe at all, not really, not the way you did, but his body didn't seem to care about technicalities right now.
She's dead. She's dead and you're hallucinating and any second now you're going to blink and she's going to be gone and you're going to be back in that warehouse with her blood on your hands and—
“Clark.”
Your voice cut through the spiral like a blade through silk. Not loud. Not demanding. Just there, steady and warm and impossibly, impossibly present.
“Clark, look at me.”
He couldn't. He couldn't look at you because if he looked at you, he'd see the bullet hole or the sickness or the closed eyes or one of the thousand other ways he'd watched you die tonight, and he couldn't—he couldn't—
Your hands moved from his face to his shoulders, and then you were guiding him, gently but firmly, until his back hit the wall beside the sliding door. Not hard—you didn't have the strength to move him if he didn't want to be moved—but he went willingly, bonelessly, because some deep part of him recognized that you were trying to anchor him, and he needed an anchor more than he needed air.
“There you go,” you murmured, and your hands were on his chest now, right over the S-shield, and he could feel the warmth of your palms even through the suit. “I've got you. I'm right here. Feel my hands, Clark. Can you feel them?”
He nodded, a jerky, desperate motion. Your hands. He could feel your hands. Smaller than his and soft and warm, pressed against the symbol of his house, against the place where his heart should have been beating out of control but was instead starting, slowly, to calm.
“Good.” You stepped closer, and now your body was pressed against his, not in a way that was sexual but in a way that was grounding, solid and real and undeniable. You were warm all along his front, from his chest to his thighs, and he could feel every point of contact like a lifeline. “Now breathe with me, okay? Just breathe. In...” He felt your chest expand against his. “...and out.”
He tried. He really tried. But the images were still there, flickering behind his eyelids every time he blinked, and his breath came out in a shuddering gasp instead of anything resembling controlled.
“That's okay,” you said, and your voice was so soft, so impossibly gentle, like you were soothing a spooked horse rather than the most powerful being on the planet. “That's okay, baby. Just try again. In...”
This time, he followed. His chest rose against yours, and he felt the way you smiled—felt the curve of your lips against his collarbone where you'd pressed your face.
“Good. So good. Now out...”
He exhaled, and some of the pressure in his chest went with it.
“That's it.” Your hands started moving on his chest, slow circles over the fabric of his suit, soothing and repetitive. “You're doing so well, Clark. Just keep breathing with me. In...”
She's warm. She's warm and she's solid and she's here.
“...and out.”
Her heart is beating. I can hear it. I can feel it.
“In...”
It's not the vision. The vision was cold. She was cold in the vision.
“...and out.”
She's not cold. She's never been cold. She's the warmest thing I've ever known.
“In...”
She's alive.
“...and out.”
She's alive. She's alive. She's alive.
Clark's eyes opened. He hadn't realized he'd closed them. And there you were—your face tilted up to his, your eyes soft and patient and full of so much love it made something in his chest crack open all over again. But this time, it wasn't the bad kind of cracking. This was the kind that let light in.
“Hi,” you said softly, and there was the barest hint of a smile playing at your lips.
“Hi,” he managed, and his voice was wrecked, scraped raw, but it was his again.
Your hands slid up from his chest to his face, cradling his jaw, your thumbs tracing the curve of his cheekbones. You were so gentle with him, so careful, like he was something precious rather than something dangerous. He didn't understand how you did it. Didn't understand how you looked at him—at the suit, at the symbol, at the man who'd just fallen apart in your arms—and saw something worth holding.
“I'm here,” you said, and it wasn't the first time you'd said it tonight, but somehow it felt different now. Slower. More deliberate. Like you were pressing the words into his skin, making sure they stuck. “I'm here, Clark. I'm not a vision. I'm not a hallucination. I'm not going to disappear.”
He opened his mouth—to apologize, probably, because apologizing was what he did, was what he'd been training himself to do since he was old enough to understand that his existence was complicated—but you shook your head slightly, your thumbs pressing gently against his lips.
“No,” you said. “Don't. Don't apologize for needing me. Don't apologize for falling apart. You're allowed to fall apart, Clark. You're allowed to be scared and tired and overwhelmed and human, even if you're not—even if you're more than that. Especially because you're more than that. You carry so much. All the time. You never stop. You never let yourself just... be.”
Your hands moved from his face to his hair, pushing back the dark waves that had escaped the gel, your fingers carding through the strands with a tenderness that made his eyes sting.
“So here's what's going to happen,” you continued, and your voice was still soft but there was something underneath it now, something fierce and protective and utterly, utterly sure. “You're going to stand here with me for as long as you need to. And I'm going to hold you. And you're going to feel me—every part of me—and you're going to let yourself believe that I'm real.”
You took one of his hands—his stupid, heavy, dangerous hands, the hands that could punch through steel and crush diamonds—and pressed it flat against your chest, right over your heart.
“Feel that?” you asked.
He felt it. Of course he felt it. He could feel the steady thrum of your heartbeat against his palm, could feel the expansion of your lungs with every breath, could feel the warmth of your blood moving through your veins. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever felt.
“That's me,” you said. “That's my heart. It's beating because I'm alive, Clark. I'm alive, and I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not for a very, very long time, if I have anything to say about it.”
“But you can't promise that,” he whispered, and the words came out broken, aching, almost childish and he didn’t stop himself. “I can't protect you from everything. I couldn't in the visions. I tried, and I couldn't, and what if—what if one day—”
“Then we'll deal with that day if it comes.” Your voice was firm, unyielding, nothing like the soft, soothing tone from before. This was the voice you used when you were drawing a line in the sand, when you were refusing to let him spiral any further. “But it's not today, Clark. Today, I'm here. Right now, I'm here. And you're here. And we're together, and we're alive, and we love each other, and that's enough. That has to be enough, because it's all we have.”
You lifted his hand from your chest and pressed a kiss to his palm, right in the center, your lips warm and soft against his skin. Then you turned his hand over and kissed his knuckles, one by one, a slow and deliberate ritual.
“These hands,” you said between kisses. “These hands have caught airplanes. These hands have held up buildings. These hands have saved the world more times than I can count.” You looked up at him, and your eyes were shining. “But do you know what my favorite thing about these hands is?”
He shook his head, not trusting his voice.
“They hold me,” you said simply. “They hold me when I'm sad. They hold me when I'm scared. They hold me when I'm happy and when I'm angry and when I'm so tired I can't keep my eyes open. They hold me like I'm something precious, something worth protecting. And every time you hold me, I feel safe. Not because you're Superman. Because you're you. Because you're the man who loves me.”
A tear slipped down his cheek. You caught it with your thumb, wiping it away like it was nothing, like it didn't matter that he was crying in front of you for the second time tonight.
“I love you,” you said, and the words were so simple, so small, and yet they filled every empty space in his chest. “I love you, Clark Kent. I love the reporter and the hero and the farm boy from Kansas. I love the man who burns toast and leaves socks on the floor and cries at dog commercials. I love the man who showed up on my terrace tonight in his Superman suit because he was scared and he needed me. I love all of you. Every broken, beautiful piece.”
Clark let out a breath he felt like he'd been holding for hours. The tension in his shoulders—the tension he hadn't even realized was there until this moment—began to ease. The images were still lurking at the edges of his mind, but they seemed dimmer now, less urgent, like nightmares fading in the light of morning.
You stepped back just enough to look at him properly, your hands sliding down to rest on his hips. Your eyes traveled over him—the suit, the cape, the S-shield—and instead of fear or uncertainty, he saw something else. Something that looked like wonder. Like acceptance. Like love, pure and simple and absolute.
"You know," you said, and your voice was lighter now, teasing at the edges, “I've always wondered what this suit would feel like. Before meeting you, of course.”
Despite everything—despite the nightmares and the panic and the tears—Clark felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Your fingers traced the edge of the S-shield, following the curve of the symbol. “It's softer than I expected. I always imagined it would be... I don't know. Hard. Impenetrable.”
“It is,” he said. “Impenetrable, I mean. Mostly.”
“Hmm.” You looked up at him through your lashes, and there was something in your expression now that made his breath catch for an entirely different reason. “And yet I can still feel you through it. Still feel how warm you are. Still feel your heart beating.” Your palm pressed flat against his chest, right over the symbol. “Still feel how much you love me.”
Clark's hands came up to cover yours, pressing them more firmly against his chest. “I don't know how to explain how much I love you,” he said, and his voice was raw but steady now. “I don't have words big enough. I don't have gestures grand enough. I just... I love you. I love you in ways I didn't know I could love someone. I love you in ways that scare me, because it's so much, and if I ever lost it—if I ever lost you—”
“You won't,” you said, and it wasn't a promise—not really, not one either of you could guarantee—but it was close enough. It was hope, and sometimes hope was all anyone had.
You rose up on your toes and kissed him, soft and slow and sweet. It wasn't the desperate, frantic kiss you always have. This was something else. Something that felt like a vow. Like a benediction. Like you were trying to pour every ounce of love you felt into him through the simple press of your lips.
When you pulled back, your eyes were bright, and your smile was the one he fell in love with—the one that crinkled the corners of your eyes and made him feel like he'd come home.
You kissed him again.
But now, it wasn't a gentle kiss, not the soft, sweet kind you usually shared over morning coffee or lazy Sunday afternoons. This was urgent, desperate, your mouth slanting over his like you were trying to pull the pain out of him through sheer proximity. Your fingers tangled in his hair, not caring that the gel he used to keep it tamed was probably leaving residue on your palms, and you kissed him until he forgot how to breathe.
When you finally pulled back, your eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I'm here,” you said, fierce and quiet all at once. “I'm right here, Clark. I'm not going anywhere.”
He made a sound—something broken, something grateful—and kissed you again. And again. And again, each kiss softer than the last, until he was just pressing his lips to your forehead, your temples, the corner of your mouth, the pulse point at your throat where your heartbeat still sang its steady, beautiful rhythm against his skin.
“I love you,” he said against your neck. The words felt too small for the enormity of what he felt, but they were all he had. “God, I love you so much.” He murmurs, nipping at your neck. “Can I take you to bed?,” he said softly, and his voice had shifted into something lower now, something that made his stomach tighten. “Please. I need—I need to feel you. All of you.” All you did was nod and that, besides that look in your eyes, was all he needed.
He started to lift you—one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the way he always did because he could and because you made that delighted sound every single time—but you pressed a hand to his chest and stopped him.
“No,” you said, and there was a new edge to your voice. Something determined. Something that made him pause, his hands stilling on your hips. “No, Clark. Tonight, I was going to—I was going to take care of you.” Your fingers curled into the fabric of his suit, right over where his heart was hammering. “When I saw you standing there, in the suit, looking like you'd seen a ghost—I thought, “okay. I've got this. I'm going to hold him. I'm going to love him. I'm going to make him forget every single terrible thing he saw tonight”.”
His throat tightened. “Sweetheart—”
“But then you kissed me.” Your voice softened, your thumbs tracing small circles against his chest. “And I felt how much you needed this. Needed me. Not in a way that I could fix by being on top, or by taking control. You needed to hold me. You needed to feel me underneath you, alive and warm and yours.” You looked up at him, and your eyes were so full of love that it almost hurt to meet them. “So I'm not going to fight you for it. But I am going to get this suit off you first.”
Clark blinked. “What?”
A small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth—the first real smile he'd seen from you since he'd arrived, and god, it was like watching the sun come out after months of rain. “You heard me, Kent.” Your hands moved to the clasp of his cape, fingers working with a determination he'd only ever seen you apply to stubborn jar lids and particularly difficult crossword puzzles. “I love you. I love that you showed up here like this, that you trusted me enough to come to me when you were falling apart. But I am not having sex with you while you're wearing enough spandex to make a 1980s rock band jealous.”
A surprised laugh escaped him—shaky, wet, still caught somewhere between a sob and actual humor. “It's not spandex. It's a Kryptonian combat weave—”
“I don't care if it's woven from the beard hairs of Zeus himself,” you interrupted, finally managing to unhook the cape and letting it pool to the floor in a dramatic puddle of red. “It's coming off.”
And just like that, something in his chest loosened. Just a little. Just enough for him to remember that this was you, that you'd never once treated him like a symbol or a savior, that you'd always been more interested in the man beneath the armor than the armor itself.
“Help me with the boots,” you said, already reaching for the zipper on the side of his right boot, and Clark found himself sinking onto the edge of the couch, letting you kneel in front of him and pull each boot off with a kind of focused intensity that made his heart ache.
You worked in silence for a moment, the only sounds the soft rasp of fabric and your steady breathing. When both boots were off—thrown unceremoniously into the corner, where they landed with two heavy thuds—you looked up at him, and your hands came to rest on his knees.
“Stand up,” you said softly.
He stood and you rose with him, your hands sliding up his thighs to hook your fingers into the waistband of the suit. “Arms up,” you murmured, once you saw it was a two piece suit and he obeyed, lifting his arms above his head as you peeled the top half of the suit off him in one smooth motion. The Kryptonian fabric whispered against his skin, and then he was standing in front of you in nothing but the blue undersuit and you paused, your hands flat against his chest.
“There he is,” you whispered, and your voice cracked just slightly on the last word. “There's my Clark.”
He couldn't speak. Couldn't form words around the lump in his throat. He just stood there, trembling under your touch as your hands explored the landscape of his chest—the scars you'd memorized months ago, the hard planes of muscle, the places where his heartbeat pulsed warm against your palm.
“Let me see all of you,” you said, and it wasn't a demand. It was a question, soft and open, and Clark nodded because he couldn't say no to you. Not tonight. Not ever.
You peeled the undersuit off him slowly, almost reverently, your knuckles brushing against his stomach, his hips, the sensitive skin at his sides. When it pooled at his feet and he stepped out of it, leaving him in nothing but his briefs—black, plain, the kind he bought in multipacks from the department store because who was going to see them anyway—you made a sound low in your throat that made his cock twitch.
“Beautiful,” you breathed, and your hands were on him again, tracing the lines of his hips, the jut of his hipbones, the soft trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his briefs. “You're so beautiful, Clark.”
“Sweetheart, mmhm I—” His voice came out strangled.
“Shh.” You pressed a finger to his lips, then replaced it with your mouth, kissing him slow and deep. “You said you needed to take care of me tonight. So take me to bed. But I want you naked when you do it. I want to feel you—all of you—nothing between us.”
He lifted you then—finally, finally—and you wrapped your legs around his waist with a quiet moan, your center pressing against the thin fabric of his briefs, and he could feel how warm you were, how ready, and it took every ounce of his considerable self-control not to just take you against the wall right there.
The walk to your bedroom was short but eternal. He could feel your heartbeat against his chest, fast and steady, and your mouth was on his neck, your teeth scraping against the sensitive skin just below his jaw, and by the time he laid you down on the bed, he was so hard it was almost painful.
You reached for the hem of his sweatshirt—the one you were wearing, the one that still smelled faintly of him underneath your shampoo—and pulled it over your head in one fluid motion. You weren't wearing anything underneath, and Clark made a sound like a wounded animal at the sight of you, bare and beautiful and spread out on the sheets like an offering.
“Clark.” Your voice was soft but steady. "”our briefs. Off. Now.”
He couldn't help the broken laugh that escaped him. “Bossy tonight.”
“You almost died in a who knows where and then watched me die a thousand times in your head,” you said, and your eyes were serious now, deep and unwavering. “I think I'm allowed to be bossy.” A pause. “Besides, you're the one who wanted to take care of me. Can't do that if you're not even undressed yet.”
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and pushed them down, his cock springing free, hard and flushed and already leaking against his stomach. Your eyes dropped to it, and your lips parted, and Clark felt a surge of heat so intense it nearly knocked him off his feet.
“Come here,” you said, reaching for him. “Come here, I need you, honey.”
He crawled onto the bed, settling over you, his weight braced on his forearms so he wouldn't crush you. The contact was overwhelming—skin to skin, chest to chest, his cock pressing against your thigh—and you both groaned at the same time.
“I kept hearing your heartbeat stop,” he admitted, the words spilling out of him in a whisper as he pressed his forehead to yours. “In the visions. It would just... stop. And I would scream, and it wouldn't start again, and I couldn't—” He pressed his face into your neck, breathing you in. “You have to understand. I've heard things. Seen things. In all my years doing this, I've witnessed horrors that would break most people. But nothing—nothing—has ever hurt like watching you die.”
Your hands slid down his back, fingers digging into the muscles there, pulling him closer. “I'm here,” you said, and your voice was steady even though your eyes were wet. “Feel my heartbeat, Clark. Feel it.”
He did. He pressed his ear to your chest, right over your heart, and listened. thrum-thrum, thump-thump. Steady and strong and real. Your hand came up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, and he felt the vibration of your voice through your ribcage as you spoke.
“I love you,” you said into the quiet. “I love you, I love you, I love you. That heartbeat is yours. It's always been yours. Every single beat, from the moment we met until the moment I die—and I'm not dying tonight, Clark, I'm not dying anytime soon—every single one of them is for you.”
He kissed his way down your body. Slowly. Deliberately. Each kiss a confirmation, a reassurance, a tiny prayer of gratitude. He kissed the spot where your pulse beat at the base of your throat. He kissed the hollow between your collarbones. He kissed the swell of your breasts, took one nipple into his mouth, and you arched beneath him with a cry that went straight to his cock.
“Clark, mmhm oh fuck”
He sucked gently, then harder when your fingers tightened in his hair, and your other hand scrabbled at the sheets like you were trying to anchor yourself. He switched to the other breast, giving it the same attention, and your hips were rolling against his, your wetness slick against his stomach.
“Please,” you gasped. “Please, Clark, I need you inside me—”
He lifted his head, looking down at you. Your eyes were dark, your lips parted, your chest heaving. You were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and he'd seen galaxies born and die.
“Not yet,” he said, and his voice was rough but steady now. “I'm not done taking care of you.”
He kissed lower, trailing his mouth down your sternum, your stomach, the soft curve of your belly. When he reached the waistband of your pajama shorts—the tiny cotton ones you wore to bed, the ones with the little strawberries on them that made him smile every single time—he hooked his fingers into them and pulled them down your legs along with your underwear, tossing them somewhere behind him.
And then you were bare beneath him, open and wanting, and Clark settled between your thighs like he was coming home.
He kissed the inside of your knee. Then your thigh. Then higher, and higher, until his breath was hot against your center and you were shaking, your hands fisting in the sheets.
“Clark—”
“Shh,” he murmured, and then he licked you—one long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit—and the sound you made was enough to bring him to his knees if he hadn't already been there.
You tasted like heaven. Like home. Like everything he'd been desperate for since the first nightmare had taken hold. He buried his face between your thighs and worshipped you, his tongue drawing patterns on your clit, his fingers sliding inside you and curling just so, and you were crying out his name, your hips bucking against his mouth. He loves spending his time with you, licking, sucking and sometimes his teeth are involved.
“That's it,” he murmured against you, and the vibration made you whimper. “Let me hear you, my love. Let me feel you. I need to know you're real, sweetheart, I need to feel you come apart for me—”
You came with a shattered cry, your whole body convulsing, your thighs clamping around his head, and Clark didn't stop. He licked you through it, gentler now, softer, until you were pushing at his shoulders with trembling hands.
“Too much,” you gasped. “Too much, honey, I can't handle more.”
He crawled back up your body, kissing you so you could taste yourself on his lips. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him close, and he could feel your heart hammering against his chest.
“I love you,”he said, and it came out like a prayer. “I love you, I love you, I love you so much, baby.”
“Then fuck me,” you said, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “Please, Clark, I need to feel you deep inside.”
He reached between you, positioning himself at your entrance, and paused. Looked down at you. Your eyes were wet, your face flushed, your lips swollen from his kisses. You looked utterly wrecked, and utterly here, and something in his chest cracked open and healed all at once.
“Talk to me,” he said, and his voice was raw. “While I'm inside you. I need to hear your voice. I need to know you're with me.”
“I'm with you,” you said, and your hands cupped his face, pulling him down until your foreheads touched. “I'm always with you, Clark. Now please—”
He pushed inside you. Slowly. So slowly. Inch by agonizing inch, watching your face the whole time—the way your eyes fluttered shut, the way your lips parted, the way you gasped his name like it was the only word you remembered how to say. When he was fully seated, buried to the hilt inside your heat, he stopped. Just held there, letting you both adjust, letting himself feel every pulse and flutter of your body around him.
“Gosh,” he breathed. “Oh Gosh, you feel so good, my love.”
“I know.” Your voice was wrecked. “I know. Move, Clark. Please.”
He pulled back and thrust forward, and the sound you made was obscene, perfect, the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. He set a rhythm—slow at first, deep and deliberate, each thrust a reaffirmation that you were here, you were alive, you were his.
“I watched you die,” he said, and the words came out between thrusts, ragged and raw. “I watched you die in a hospital bed. I watched you die in a car crash. I watched you die in something that could be our shared home.” His voice broke, and he thrust deeper, and you moaned. “I watched a man shoot you in the chest while I was standing right there, and I couldn't—I couldn't, oh damn.”
“Clark.” Your hands were everywhere—his face, his shoulders, his back, pulling him closer, holding him like you could keep him from flying apart. “I'm here. I'm here. Feel me—feel me, honey.”
He did. He felt the way you clenched around him, the way your nails dug into his shoulders, the way your heels pressed into the backs of his thighs, urging him deeper. He felt your heartbeat thrumming against his chest, faster now, matching the rhythm of his hips. He felt the wetness on his cheeks—tears, his or yours, he couldn't tell anymore—and the warmth of your breath against his neck.
“You're so beautiful,” he said, and he was crying now, actually crying, the tears falling onto your face and mixing with yours. “You're so beautiful and I can't lose you, I can't—”
“You won't.” You kissed his tears, your mouth soft and desperate against his cheeks, his eyelids, the corner of his lips. “You won't lose me, Clark. I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here. I'm right here, I'm right here, I'm always here.”
Your words became a chant, a mantra, a prayer, and Clark fucked you through it, hard and deep and desperate, his hand sliding between your bodies to rub your clit in tight circles.
“Come for me,” he said, and it wasn't a request. “Come for me, sweetheart, I need to feel you—I need to know you're real, that you’re here, that you’re mine.”
You shattered. Came apart around him with a cry that was almost a scream, your body convulsing, your inner walls clenching around him like a vice, and Clark followed you over the edge with a groan that was torn from somewhere deep in his chest. He spilled inside you, wave after wave, his hips stuttering as he buried himself as deep as he could go.
For a long moment, there was nothing but breathing. Nothing but the sound of your hearts—his steady and strong, yours fast and fluttering—and the rustle of sheets as you both trembled through the aftershocks.
Clark collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, your head tucked under his chin and your legs tangled with his. He could feel your tears on his chest, could hear the little hitches in your breath as you cried, and he held you tighter, his lips pressed to the top of your head.
“I'm sorry,” he said after a long moment, his voice muffled by your hair. “For showing up like this. For—for dumping all of that on you. You didn't sign up for all this mess, baby.”
“Stop.” Your hand pressed flat against his chest, right over his heart. “Don't you dare apologize. Not for this. Not for needing me.” You tilted your head back to look at him, and your eyes were red-rimmed but fierce. “I signed up for all of you, Clark Kent. The good days and the bad ones. The nightmares and the morning coffee. The cape and the glasses. You don't get to hide parts of yourself from me just because you think they're inconvenient or scary or too much.”
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. “I love you,” he said, because the words were inadequate but they were all he had. “I love you more than I know how to say.”
You smiled—that soft, devastating smile that had undone him from the very first moment he'd seen it—and snuggled closer, your ear pressed over his heart.
“Then show me,” you said quietly. “Every day. For the rest of our lives.”
Clark looked down at you—at the tear tracks on your cheeks, the love in your eyes, the way your body was pressed against his like you were trying to crawl inside his skin and stay there—and he felt something shift. Something settle. Something that felt like hope.
“I will,” he said, and his voice was steady now. Certain. “Every day. For the rest of our lives.”
Outside, the city hummed its endless night-song. Inside, wrapped in each other and the quiet aftermath of love, Clark Kent let himself believe that everything might just be okay.
He had you, after all. And that was enough. That was everything. You are his everything.
waittt i wanna see clark and reader on their first date!! and i know her dress is so freakin beautiful
this made me a little ravenous for first date clark!!
MOONLIGHT — Clark Kent
pairing: clark kent / f!reader. word count: 2.5k content: first date fluff. clark is disgustingly perfect. r wears a dress. kissing.
clark kent masterlist
You worried the hem of your dress enough that you had pulled a thread and snagged the fabric.
“Shoot.” You mumbled to yourself with the skirt pulled between your forefinger and middle to inspect it. (That’s the last time you placed a fast track order from an Instagram Ad again.)
It was a nice dress. Pretty, sat on your figure well. Completely out of your comfort zone but that was the whole point of a first date. And now? Now it had a ladder that—if you weren’t swarmed in nerves—you’d remember to cover with the satchel you brought to cling onto for moral support.
You and your flimsy excuse for a dress stood outside of a tall building, Destiny, Metropolis’ renowned Asian restaurant with five floors to it. Each floor with its own option of cuisine, you know, if you were a picky eater. Now, you hadn’t expressed that to Clark Kent when he had asked you out on a date with a bunch of tissues stuffed under his armpits from the perspiration you had caused him. But, he thought if he gave you five different options; one of them would stick.
There was the risk of it potentially backfiring in his face, because you might sway into the grounds of intimidation and pressure to select a singular floor, and you’d both be left a little frazzled and hungry.
Either way, you showed up.
You pulled your phone from your bag. 6:58PM.
Your eyes then scanned the surroundings around you in order to catch a glimpse of someone with a nervous disposition all neatly wrapped into a six foot four, broad shouldered man. There was no pressure of arriving on time—even when you had arrived fifteen minutes ahead of schedule—as you knew Clark had to wrap up his work schedule, bolt for the Metropolis Subway and make it to your side without it seeming as if he hadn’t broke into a muscle burning sprint to get there.
Stepping back on your heel to allow some post-work grumblers past, you managed to spot the very person you had been thinking about in the flurry of foot traffic. Your neck extended in a meek attempt to get his attention, you raised your hand in the air with a warm smile to match as his blue eyes caught sight of you in the Metropolis hustle and bustle.
Clark perked up in an instant. Shoulders squared, he weaved through the crowd with a few apologies falling from his mouth. He looked down at you and let out a hefty sigh of relief, “You made it.”
“You did say 7PM.” You teased.
“You look—You look beautiful.” Clark used all his restraint to not drag his eyes up and down your body as you thanked him, in a dress that looked as if it had been poured onto you to accentuate your curves. You wouldn’t mind if he did, sort of the point. Aside from feeling good about yourself. Clark blinked a murky thought away and spoke, “Oh—These, uh, these are for you.”
He sheepishly held out a bouquet of flowers that had seen better days. Pretty, in a droopy way.
Clark jumped at the chance to explain his sad excuse for flowers. “They got caught in the doors of the subway, and I didn’t have time to buy another bouquet without making myself late.”
He was endearing.
You beamed and took them from his grasp, “It gives them character. I love them. Thank you.”
Onlookers may have felt nauseous at the scene unfolding, if they cared to take a minute out of their day to observe their surroundings. They’d see two strangers, absolutely besotted by each other, eyes filled with warmth, fingers itching at their sides to have the smallest human connection in the form of pinkies linked, or a big smooch on the lips. (Something Clark had been often caught thinking about at his desk.)
The catch was: this was only the first date.
“Have you ever been to Dynasty?” Clark asked after clearing his throat.
“No. But, I’ve heard good things about General Tso’s chicken.” You shrugged and tried to put as little pressure on Clark for handpicking the place for your first date. Both of you fell into step as you continued, “Have you?”
Clark nodded. “Yeah. I—Well, I actually came here myself the other day to test it out.”
This made you frown in minor confusion.
“Test it out?” You repeated back to him as you reached the door to the building.
“Well, you know. I wanted to make sure it was perfect. For you.” Clark opened the door and gestured for you to walk in first. He offered you an amused smile when you stared at him wide-eyed, “My stomach hurt after the third floor.”
Oh. He tested all five floors for you.
Clark Kent was exceeding all your expectations and it hadn’t even been five minutes of his time spent with you.
After that, Clark responded to everything in the most gentlemanly way possible. Every door had been opened for you, and once you had picked a floor out of the five, Clark’s hand ghosted your back as the server guided you through the rows upon rows of seats to the very back booth, tucked away from the rest of the entourage. He even allowed you to scooch along the plush seat of the booth before he slotted himself next to you, a sudden yelp eliciting from the back of his throat when he almost flipped the table when his knees knocked the underside of it.
You exchanged stories—Clark visibly hanging onto every word you said—you laughed together, shared your food and somewhere in between the main course and dessert, the proximity between the pair of you was closer than ever before. Now, you were entering dangerous territories of never returning to a time before Clark Kent. Something you were OK with never looking back on.
Stomach bursting at the seams, you leant back in the booth comfortably with your eyes willingly closing for a moment. Clark had waved the server as you did so, his head turning to you to admire you in such a tranquil state; a smile splitting on his face, dimples and all, when you peeked an eye open to look at him too.
“I’m in a very vulnerable state right now, Clark Kent.” You joked, hands on your stomach, “Don’t make fun of me.”
“I was just enjoying the view.” Clark retorted so casually you almost got whiplash. He threw you a smug grin and fished his wallet out of the pocket inside his suit jacket as the server approached.
You sat up and began to dig into your own satchel. “I can pay half.”
“No you won’t.” Clark mumbled in a monotonous tone, as if it was common knowledge that your purse was not to leave the confines of your satchel. The transaction went through with a ping and the server bid you both a goodnight, leaving Clark and you to your own devices.
“Thank you. For paying.”
Clark shrugged. “It’s the least I could do when you said yes to going on a date with me.” He stood, his hand outstretched for you to take. “We’ll call that even now.”
You stood and tugged at your dress, taking mind of the ladder at your side and let out a laugh, “Are you comparing me to a three course meal?”
Clark went pink. His tie suddenly victim of a sudden attack of fidgeting fingers as he gawped through the fumble of his words.
You intentionally squeezed past him and the table, bodies flush against each other momentarily before you put space between the both of you with a mischievous glint in your eyes; something that sent Clark internally reeling.
“Relax. I’m kidding.” You reassured, “Do you want ice cream?”
(Clark was positively astonished at your appetite, but then he reminded himself he just had a three course meal, plus your leftovers, and was still starving at the sight of you in that dress.)
He nodded with enthusiasm and it led to the both of you strolling through Metropolis with the sunset replaced with pretty moonlight and an ice cream shared between you.
Clark paid for it after nudging you out of the way of the cashier’s register.
The conversation dipped into a comfortable silence. Neither of you had run out of things to talk about, even if it meant turning to work, but the moment felt right to just bathe in each other’s presence. Clark fed the ice cream on the littlest plastic spoon, into your mouth and you hummed with gratitude; not realising any sort of satisfied noise that came from your mouth had Clark white-knuckled and a little dizzy.
He had counted about ten of those moments throughout the night. Why had he picked food as the first date? It felt like a cruel punishment.
Shaking him from his rather lewd thoughts, you let out a gasp of excitement, finger pointed in front of you. “A photo-booth!”
Clark followed your finger to see a tattered old stall with a velvet curtain.
“You want to go in?”
You scrunched your nose, “Would that be weird? It’s a little weird, right?”
“Not weird.” Clark reaffirmed, “I’ll take some photos with you. You said you like the sentimental value of things like this.”
Alright. Clark Kent was about to be kissed silly.
You wrapped your fingers around his forearm and dragged him to the photo-booth, halting when you yanked the curtain back to reveal a tiny stool with barely any room for just one person. Let alone two. One being enormous in all the right ways.
There was a little deflation in your shoulders that Clark furrow his brow until he saw what you were staring at. With little deliberation—because Clark Kent was seizing the moment—he brushed past your body and sat on the stool that may, or may not have creaked under the weight of his body.
Clark looked up at you, his bottom lip jutted out a little with innocence plastered across his face before he patted his thigh.
Pat, pat.
You blinked at him.
“Are you coming in, or what?”
Unbelievable.
When you took one step forward, Clark’s hand snaked around your hip and guided you into his lap. For stability, you wrapped one arm around his neck, hand twitching on his shoulder as he reached to pull the curtain shut.
His hand remained on the curve of your hip, his own fingertips fiddling with the fabric of your dress as his other hand came to tap on the screen to get the whole thing started.
“Alright.” He mumbled, his hips raised—and you with them—as he pulled out some money to slot into the machine. It gave a mechanical whir and Clark shuffled the both of you in the seat. “What faces should we make?”
Part of your brain was short-circuiting. This wasn’t like you. You were direct, you were the mouse in the game of Cat and Mouse. Mischievous, always one step ahead and here Clark Kent was, the man who tripped over air and flushed a shade of pink whenever you smiled at him; rendering you speechless.
“Um.” You chewed the inside of your cheek, the timer counting down to the first picture being taken, “Just a smiley one. Right?”
“Sure.”
The camera flashed the most obnoxious light in your faces as you both smiled, heads tilted together. The timer reset for the second time and you mulled over your choices, Clark being the one to suggest funny faces.
Flash! Reset.
“OK.” You warmed up, “Let me wear your glasses.”
Clark hesitated, “Oh, uh—” Flash! He groaned, “Oh, sorry, sweetheart.”
You waved it off. Part of you desperate to cling back to the advantage you usually had on Clark’s senses. The timer ticked and you had a lightbulb moment.
You grinned wickedly, fingers curled into the knot of Clark’s pink tie in order to loosen it. Clark took a harsh swallow as you fluttered your lashes at him, his fingers curled into your hip now.
All roads were going to lead to this moment. At some point. You just had to coax it out of its obvious hiding place.
Your nose nudged against Clark’s, your plush lips ghosting his as he licked his own in anticipation. The photo-booth suddenly felt a little smaller, in the best way possible.
“This could be for research purposes.” You whispered and Clark hummed for you to elaborate. “You know. To make sure for any future photos taken, that we look good kissing.”
“Research purposes.” His eyes were set on your lips.
You nodded slowly, “Don’t you journalists enjoy the whole boots on the ground journalism?”
Suddenly, the timer had been forgotten about as Clark pressed his lips against yours in the much anticipated kiss. You both moulded against each other, breaths shallow until the kiss deepened and your heads were swarmed with blind infatuation. When you tugged at the curls at the nape of Clark’s neck, he let out a whimper and you smiled against his lips; feeling rewarded.
He was good. At being a journalist, a good person with good morals, a good date. And, to put the cherry atop of the very tall cake of why Clark Kent was a good person…he was even insanely good at kissing.
You both then realised how easy it was to get lost in each other, and Clark was happy to destroy any map that led him away from you.
Click! Flash!
You pulled away from Clark at the sound of purring from the photo-booth, smiling sweetly as he peppered kisses along your jawline in lieu of your lips.
A strip of black and white photos spat out of the dispenser and you bent at the waist to snatch them for inspection. With your back pressed against Clark’s chest, you held the photos up so he could look at them too. The third photo made you both chuckle, caught in the middle of a plan to wear Clark’s glasses, his eyes widened with a frown at the proposition you had made about removing the glasses from his face.
That was a conversation for another day. A rainy one. Not in a photo-booth. Or in a public setting, preferably.
“These are great.” You stated, admiring the moments captured on your first date. You pointed to the last photo, “Oh! Look, we do look good kissing.”
“That’s a good omen. For future photos.” Clark nodded, his glasses partially fogged from the intense make-out session you had just engaged in.
When you turned to smile at him knowingly, because both of you knew what sort of statement he was making in that brief sentence, Clark returned the smile with a gentle squeeze against your hip, just above the laddered fabric from your anxieties pre-date.
He sniffed, leaning forward to slot more money into the machine as he spoke, “Want to try opposite sides? See if we look good kissing from a different angle.”
It took five more tries for Clark to eventually green light that you looked stupidly good when you kissed.
Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader
Word Count: 3.5k words
Warnings: NSFW, smut, oral (f!receiving), fingering, semi-public sex, some praise...
A/N: There was a gif that I saw that inspired this fic and now I cannot find it for the life of me. All I know is that I either saw it on @kryptidfiles or @maiamore's profile. But um also they are both really really good fucking writers and if you're looking for some quality Clark Kent content, these are your blogs. Anyway, enjoy!
The tiny closet is uncharacteristic when you see how large and bronze-y the Daily Planet actually is. It's unimpressive with its metal shelves of Post-Its, pens, papers, and all the other office supplies that inhabit the space. Two older, slower printers are tucked near the back with stacks of papers ready to be picked up.
But, to give credit where credit is due, Clark is a very big man. And that makes a great number of the rooms he inhabits smaller than they are.
He hears the door open behind him and startles, having not expected to be joined by anybody else—as this closet isn't favored among the employees when there are closer, better ones in operation.
Clark chose it to take a moment to breathe, to give his mind a reprieve from the mental load it is to think straight when all he senses is the smell of your perfume wafting off you from where you sit across the office.
Come to think of it, the air in the room is starting to smell quite familiar.
He turns around so fast, he nearly drops the files he's holding onto like they're a lifeline. He almost chokes on his own spit when he goes to swallow down the flustering. His glasses have gone slightly askew, and he wouldn't be surprised if his hair was a complete and total mess to pair nicely with his red face.
“Uh–Hi! You…had some copies, too?” He's making a fool of himself, more than usual, and he thinks he may have to just fly into the sun once this interaction is done.
You hum from where you are at the door, smiling with darkly glossed lips. You take a few steps towards him, just slow enough for Clark to feel like a little lamb looking up at lioness and her enchanted, flicking eyes distracting him from her blood-soaked maw.
“No,” you shrug, “just needed something.”
Clark somehow gets backed into a printer and clears his throat like it will cover the sound of him hitting the machine. “Ah,” he nods, quickly turning around, happy to have any excuse to avoid further humiliating himself.
He starts shoving papers into folders. The closer you step, the warmer the air becomes, the warmer he becomes until he's betraying his Mama's name with his awful thoughts and the awful reaction his body is having to them. To you.
Before he can even begin to sort his thoughts enough to pretend he's not a pervert, he feels your shoulder brush up against the side of his arm. He's reminded of just how small you actually are compared to him, after his brain has done nothing but make you feel like something towering over him with your divinity—(is that what you are?).
He glances at you reaching your hand up for one of the upper shelves. You don't seem to be stretching very far—that is, you don't seem to be trying very hard. Which doesn't mean anything! As lovely and professional as your skirt is, in his professional opinion, it is a bit on the shorter end. Your tights do their job in covering what your skirt cannot, but they also just give him a really lovely outline of the bottom half of your soft, pillow-y thighs, only to then offer a direct path all the way down the curve of your calves.
He imagines what it would be like to hold your leg in his hands. How soft would it be, how small. Would you laugh if he squeezed, or would you sigh as the tension released? And if it sighed, would it be a quiet breath, or would the relief let the gentlest moan slip just enough to supply his dirtier thoughts with something to think about a million times over.
“Kent?”
His head snaps up at the speed of light. He pales when he realizes he's been caught red-handed staring at your legs like a total creep.
You offer this little smile, and he's so hopeless that he chooses to ignore the deviant grin that hides, thinly-veiled, in your voice. “Could you help me reach that?”
He follows your finger up to the box of index cards just out of reach on the shelf behind you. He swallows thickly, nodding to himself as he brings his folders back to his chest.
You don't move. You're still pushed up against the shell, your hand resting lazily on a shelf that you can reach. And it doesn't seem like you'll be moving any time soon.
He clears his throat nervously, “Y-yeah. ‘Course.”
Clark holds his breath like it'll save him as he takes little steps forward, shuffling his feet as he slowly gets closer to you. And closer. Until his body is nearly pressed up against your back.
Your warmth is seeping through his clothes and into his skin. Every breath brings nothing but the smell of your perfume, your hair, the deodorant underneath it all. He holds his breath and clenches his jaw like that will keep the insistent arousal in his pants from threatening to press into your back.
He snatches the index cards the moment they're within reach. And just as he's pulling away, he swears he felt your body brush back against his own, your bottom pressing into him the way a cat would to an owner's leg.
Stacks of paper fall to the ground in a fluttering mess of scattered files and folders. He wishes the ground would swallow him whole.
He's too proper to accuse you of doing this on purpose. So as he rushes to the floor with a clumsy urgency and starts haphazardly collecting his things, he does it while rattling out apologies and repeating in his head over and over again, “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”
He's a heap of a man on his knees. His glasses are off kilter, his tie is thrown over his shoulder, his hair is probably a floppy mess. If he ever had a plan to impress you during this whole ordeal, it has been disgraced into a need for a speedy exit in the hopes that you'll forget about it, and you can both pretend it never happened.
“Sorry! I don't know what happened. I–”
A black heel lands abruptly on top of the folder he went to collect. He freezes in place, his brain short circuiting into a mess of confusion and shock and spell-related dysfunction.
His gaze slowly drags up the length of your leg, clad in sheer black tights that just barely hide your skin from him. He travels past your knee, along your skirt, up your blouse where his eyes linger ungentlemen-like on your bosom.
Your eyes lock. There's a smile on your lips that makes him feel like he's been set on fire from the inside.
You linger, just watching each other like you've got him locked into an enchantment—and you do. With slow, teasing hands, you grab the middle of your skirt and begin to drag it up your thigh. Clark watches, unable to look away. His breath is useless, his glasses are becoming harder to see through, and he's sure his face is red as tomatoes in the summer sun.
“If you don't mind, Kent,” you hum, lifting your knee and letting it meet the underside of his chin. You tilt his head up to meet your gaze once more. He's completely starstruck, glued to your every will like sap on a tree. “I think I might need a little more of your help…”
Clark gulps.
His mouth falls and closes, and then falls once more, before finally relenting. “My…help?” His wide eyes are bright even in the dim room.
Your heel returns to the paper-covered floor. With a tiny breath and a glance away, you murmur, “Unless you don't want to.”
Something twists in his chest. He's pretty sure by now that you are, in fact, doing this on purpose, but the off chance that you are as dejected as you seem has shattered his heart out of his own idiocy. If he weren't already on his knees before you, he would be crashing down onto them now.
Clark eagerly reaches a giant hand to you, wrapping it around your calf with a kind of gentleness a man his size shouldn't have. He's warm where his palm cradles your leg, his other hand holding your ankle like you're made of pure gold.
The way his eyes shine at you is enough to drive you mad. His thumb brushes the inside of your knee as he tentatively drags his hand beneath the bend of your knee.
“What…” his shallow breath stutters. “What kind of help?” His glasses are beginning to fog up an almost ridiculous amount. He hopes you don't notice and quietly knows you do.
A grin makes its way to your lips, spreading as your hand comes to card your fingers through the black curls of his hair. He shudders beneath your touch. “I think you know.”
There's a moment where neither of you moves. He looks up at you with an unbelieving kind of reverence. His thoughts are rushing, piling on top of each other and making them near incoherent.
She wants me. She wants me? Terrifying. I never thought she'd choose me. She wants me. Beautiful. Is this a dream? She has to be a dream. So pretty. I have to worship her. I adore you. Am I dreaming?
Clark's lips press against your knee and linger. His eyes never leave yours. He traces his mouth tentatively along your skin, watching you as his hands carefully make their way up your leg, slipping beneath your skirt and spreading wide over your hips. His fingers dip beneath the waistband of your tights, and he slides them down your legs with a painstaking care that makes your chest shake.
Clark cradles your ankle as he removes your heels, holds his breath when your tights are placed gently on the floor. He looks back up at you with eyes that shine before his gaze drags down your body, stopping at your skirt.
He takes his time in lifting it up and over your hips, and his breath stutters at the sight. He forgets he's supposed to be cherishing you (he's also forgotten that time is not as generous as he's playing it to be), and he dives forward to press his mouth to your clothed pussy. He kisses you over your underwear, licking the wet he finds there and moaning at the taste.
You smile at him, drawn by the way he mouths at you like you're something irresistible. You let your fingers curl through his hair again, tilting it back just enough to make him look at you again.
“We don't have all day, Kent.”
Your gentle chide kicks him into overdrive. You're right. Of course, you're right. You asked for his help, and time is not on his side. Anyone could walk in, or come looking for one of you after being gone for so long. Although he really wants to cherish every inch of you, he knows he can't properly do that. At least not here.
So he'll just have to do so well that you let him do it again, when he can truly take his time with you.
Clark peels your underwear off with a little more urgency, just as careful to set it where he'd left your tights. He doesn't let himself gawk at the sight of you for too long as he lifts one of your legs over his shoulder, taking on most of your weight with ease.
When Clark's mouth meets you, you gasp.
He's indulgent. He leaves kisses for you to feel all over after he's done. They linger on the inside of your thighs, your mound, the wetness of your pussy—which he gladly buries his face in. He licks and sucks along your slick folds until you—who he has never seen with a hair out of place—are covering your mouth to keep quiet as breathy hums become muffled moans behind your hand.
Clark is anything but quiet. He's almost whining at the taste of you on his lips, a mix of spit and arousal coating his chin. The tip of his nose brushes your clit in such a way that you know he has to be doing it on purpose. (He's not.)
His eyes are heavy-lidded, his skin is the prettiest shade of red, and his crooked glasses are so fogged up that you wonder how well he can actually see. They'd probably do better off, but you quite like the way he looks like this, messy and generally wrecked. He mumbles into your pussy like his mouth isn't full. “So good. You're so—mmph!” The nastiest slurping sound fills the room, and you're breathlessly trying not to moan while also trying to reprimand him for such blatant noise.
“Clark!” Your whisper is almost not a whisper. Clark moans at the sound of his name on your lips. He has never heard you say it before, and fearing it now is doing numbers on him and his ruined underwear. “C-can't be so loud. We're—m’my god. Gonna get caught.”
Right now, Clark couldn't give less of a fuck. He's here on his knees in front of you with his face between your legs, living an absolute dream. If Perry White himself opened that door and fired him on the spot, he can't say that he would be too upset for as long as he could still taste you on his tongue and remember the feeling of your moans through the vibrations in your thighs.
He flattens his tongue and licks, he wraps his pink lips around your clit and sucks, his arms come up and wrap securely around your hips to make sure you can't squirm away in your pleasure. The sheer size of him is evident enough when he's standing, but here with him on his knees from you, it's staggering. Your thighs are the size of his biceps, for fuck’s sake. The man is massive, but he crumbles completely the moment you flutter your lashes too well.
You feel his tongue stroke along your sex, dipping inside to taste your arousal as it gathers. You feel the filthy, wet sensation of drool making you impossibly soaked. Your greedy hands only pull him closer to you—if that were possible. He clings to you like he's worried you'll slip away, with strong arms clasped around your thighs and his glasses crooked from being pressed so closely to you.
“Right there, mhm.” Your voice is this shaky thing in the air, hushed but overwhelmingly aroused. When you feel one of his hands brush his thumb along your slit, your thighs tense. He teases your folds, stroking and spreading your wetness around, using it to rub indulgent circles over your clit. You feel like glass ready to shatter.
“Fuck—Kent,” you gasp. His mouth goes slack against your pussy. He sucks your clit into his mouth until you're holding your breath to keep from making sound. Your goal dissipates when he slides one thick finger into you. You feel your knee threaten to bend and give out beneath you, lucky to have most of your weight held up by the mass between your thighs.
Clark coaxes in and out of you in deep, intentional strokes, curls until he finds a spot in you that has your heart beating a little differently, your breath shifting into something instinctually shaky. He's looking up at you over the rim of his crooked glasses to see how your eyes have glossed over, how your jaw goes loose. A second finger joins the first, and he's pumping his fingers into you until you're moaning like you've forgotten where you are.
Refusing to go far, Clark's words are slurred against your slick folds as he murmurs in hushed warnings. “Sound so pretty–” a stray whimper slips out of you in response, “–but you, mmph, gotta be quiet, hon–”
He cuts himself off with his eagerness to keep tasting you, greedy and enchanted by you. You make some breathy sound and raise a hand to cover your mouth. It's a weak attempt, but it works well enough.
He just works his fingers so well against that fucking spot. He sucks and licks at your clit like candy, and you're too close to handle it all. Your thighs quiver with each passing second. He can see you, hear you, feel you getting closer. It's like experiencing a miracle, some strange and beautiful magic unraveling before him.
You struggle to think straight as you feel that heat gathering, the knot building into something glorious. You grab and tug at his dark curls, you arch your back and roll your hips against his face, you try as hard as you can to hold in your sounds.
Clark is aching for it just as much as you. You look down at him, the mess of a man he is on his knees and drooling into your cunt. He's so pretty, probably the most beautiful man with the most beautiful eyes you've ever seen. And looking at him, peaking over his glasses and gazing at you like you're precious, a thought passes through you that maybe you've seen those gorgeous eyes before…
You don't have much time to think about it, though. His fingers coax you a certain way, and his lips smacking against you as his tongue massages your clit gets to be too much when he moans into you like he's never had anything better. You hadn't realized just how close you were until your fingers are tugging at his curls and your jaw is slack with a sneaking pleasure.
“Oh– Clark, I–” you gasp, stifling your sounds to a quiet squeak that would embarrass you if you weren't so far gone. “Fuck, yes, Clark. Yes, yes, yes.”
Clark holds tightly as he carries you through your orgasm like a mission. He's deliberate and indulgent, he looks like he'll fall apart from just watching you. Every tremble and every breathy sound that comes out of you has him that much more disheveled and needy.
“Good,” he huffs, his deep voice dangerously close to a whimper of his own. “Good girl. So– mmm– you're so perfect.”
You struggle to put yourself back together. Every time you start to come down, his tongue strokes another tremble out of you that shoots up your spine and makes you soft. You're stuck doing nothing but shaking and failing to hold your own weight until the sharp feeling of overstimulation has you pushing him away from you with a gasp.
You stand there on shaky legs, with Clark still knelt in front of you and ready to catch you if you fall. He stares up at you like you're a shining star, and you would look shyly away if his eyes weren't so enticing.
You reach forward, and as your hands come to his face, he reaches up to catch your elbow when your fingers find his glasses. It is, by no means, a rough touch. It's like he's bracing himself, wound up with an anxiety that he watches you notice.
Then you adjust his crooked glasses to sit right on his face. His eyes flutter when you stroke your thumb delicately along the apple of his cheek.
With bated breath and a smile softer than he's ever seen on you, you murmur. “Thank you.” You push this lonely curl out of his face.
He looks like he's at a loss for words. So instead of answering, he presses this soft, gentle little kiss to the inside of your knee. Then he's redressing you with movements slower than what the unintimidating threat of time should allow.
It's only once you're fully decent again that he finally stands to his full height, dwarfing you once more. The sight of him, toe to toe with you and giant, has you looking smaller than usual. It's not an alarming look either. You look like you're trying not to fluster. He's never seen you look like this. And it's driving him crazy.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, deep and gentle and unnervingly sweet.
You smile at him, and he's lost all his breath in a moment. “You should get cleaned up. You look like a mess.”
Your gaze drifts down, finds his mouth, plump-lipped and pink.
When you kiss him, he's frozen for the first second. Then he's wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him like he's been waiting years for this. His body molds to yours like your body completes him. He kisses you until you're just as breathless as him.
And when you pull back, you can taste yourself off his lips. You give him another smile, this one filthy and sly. “See you around, Kent.”
And then you leave him standing alone in the closet like nothing ever happened, folders and papers on the floor, the index cards you'd asked him to grab for you left behind. The only sign you were ever there is the lingering of your perfume in the air, your taste on his tongue, and the visible outline of his cock against his slacks.
Superman taglist: @the-nerdy-goddess
Clark Kent taglist: @disillusioniary @pinkpantheris @joaofandoms @harumscarumcos @dethspllz @yogichi @jackierose902109 @serendippindots @linda-park-arrow @tiredkiwi26
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Synopsis: When an alien escape pod crashes in Metropolis, Superman prepares to face yet another intergalactic threat. Instead, he is greeted with an unexpected and possessive kiss from a mysterious woman in shimmering robes and eyes that shine like stars. How will Lois react?
Warnings: cheating (not really, but a little if you think about it); a bit of submissive Clark and Dominatrix Lois; a bit of OC reader; use of Yn; kisses; a bit of Starfire inspiration;
The day began like any other in the great Metropolis. The yellow sun shone in the blue sky; some fluffy white clouds created random shapes in the vast blue of the sky. The breeze made the longer hair sway in the air, the temperature was warm, but the wind was cold. A perfect combination for a perfect day.
Clark woke up first. As soon as the sun's rays touched his face, his Kryptonian cells charged enough to give him sufficient energy to make it impossible to stay in bed. He stretched, unwilling to wake the woman beside him, which was difficult since she loved sleeping clinging to him. Clark moved her with great care, not wanting to disturb her sleep or bother her in any way. He placed a kiss on the top of her dark hair before getting up to do his morning chores.
Lois usually slept until the last of her ten alarm clocks rang, while Clark didn't even need an alarm clock. He slept only in his underwear, not feeling the cold like humans. Lois not only slept in warm pajamas, but also two pairs of socks and two thick blankets, and even in the early morning she tried to steal as much warmth as possible from Clark.
He grew up on a farm. She in the city.
They were the typical opposites that complemented each other in the best way.
Clark finished using the bathroom and went straight to the kitchen, starting to prepare a hearty breakfast. Although Lois preferred to eat something on the go while rushing to work, Clark still made an effort to get her to eat before leaving. And also, he needed to eat. A lot.
However, when Clark cracked the first egg into the bowl to make the omelets, he heard it. His super hearing never shut off, but when he was a boy, he learned to filter the sounds that invaded his ears all the time. He didn't need to hear a butterfly fluttering across the street; or hear the couple arguing across town. Clark learned to filter what mattered, and this mattered.
And by "this" I mean the sound of something invading the atmosphere.
It was like an explosion. Clouds parted as if they didn't want their shapes destroyed by the object falling from the sky.
Clark turned off the stove and used his super speed to put on his suit before flying out of his apartment. It didn't take long for him to see the object that was falling. The fire was engulfing its entire form, thousands of fragments falling beside him. An impact in the atmosphere was no joke; it destroyed the best spacecraft, or the largest asteroids if they didn't enter the air the right way. And this one certainly didn't enter the air the right way.
Clark thought for a few seconds about what he should do: if he held the larger piece from falling onto the streets of Metropolis, the debris would fall and could injure someone. If he worried about the debris, then the falling object could kill someone on impact. If he cleared the street, getting everyone out of danger, then the risk would be less…
He flew quickly, grateful that it was still too early so there weren't many people on the streets. With a relatively safe area for the object to fall, Clark still had time to catch some debris so that it wouldn't fall on buildings or cars before the impact finally happened.
The shockwave was relatively large. An entire street was destroyed, nearby windows were shattered, and the blast wave traveled for kilometers, waking Metropolis prematurely.
Dust covered the air. Clark used his breath to brush away as much as he could, thus being able to see the object.
It was a spaceship, or rather, an escape pod from a spaceship. Its metal was different, unlike any Clark had ever seen. It was purple, and the areas where it was hottest seemed to glow intensely. His icy breath managed to stop it from burning further, but he still hesitated to open it.
His x-ray vision couldn't see what was inside. That metal seemed to be resistant to x-rays, which meant there was no way to know what was inside.
It could be an alien; a being from other worlds; a lost warrior; a fleeing criminal; a world-devouring monster…
Luckily, or rather unluckily, Clark didn't need to think anymore as the ship's door practically exploded outwards.
He prepared for the worst.
He was ready to protect his world.
When she emerged from inside.
Her clothing was certainly not Earthly. Her clothes seemed to be glowing with colors Clark didn't know were possible to see; Her pants covered her thighs but flared out at her knees, creating slits that revealed part of her skin before her boots began. The fabric that fell from the slit in her pants gathered like a long dress train, shimmering in a beautiful bluish hue. Her shirt was similar, with the sleeves falling in slits that left her arms free to show off her jewelry and accessories. Her fingers were covered in rings, her wrists with bracelets in strange shapes, as if following the path of her veins. The fallen sleeves of her blouse also transformed into something almost lyrical with that beautiful shimmering bluish tone. She had several freckles on her face, but not like the freckles of earthlings; it was more as if she copied the stars of the night sky. Her hair was long, with six braided strands creating a kind of crown around her head, adorned with beautiful jewels and accessories, while the rest of her hair fell a little messy, but still beautiful.
Clark saw her looking in every possible direction. He saw panic and confusion fill her expression.
She didn't seem dangerous or threatening. She seemed frightened and afraid of what was happening. It made his heart clench for her.
"Hello," he took a small step forward, his cloak billowing in the wind behind him. He could hear the murmurs of the people around him, some afraid, others hateful. She could hear them too, but as soon as she heard Clark's voice, her beautiful eyes focused only on him. "Are you alright?" he asked, and she just blinked at him. "Do you know where you fell?" Again, nothing but silence. "This is Earth, I am—" Before he could finish the sentence, a pair of hands grabbed his face, pulling him into a kiss.
Her lips tasted sweet, but Clark tried not to focus on that. She was strong enough that he needed to fight a little harder to get out of that kiss; after all, he was a committed man.
"Big blue, who would have thought!" Guy's voice made Clark pull away even faster. The woman there looked at him confused, with a slightly sad expression.
"What?" Clark asked Guy, trying to ignore how hot his cheeks felt. Mr. Terrific and Hawkgirl were beside him, possibly having come to see what had fallen in Metropolis.
"I thought he was dating that woman…" Hawkgirl commented, making Clark's blushing cheeks even worse.
"Now is not the time for that. We need to take her into containment," Mr. Terrific said.
"Containment? Why?" Clark stammered. He felt her hand squeeze his arm with some force, as if asking him to protect her.
"She fell from space. We don't know who or what she is. Before an alien virus pandemic spreads across the globe, it needs to go into containment. Now. " he replied as if it were obvious, as if he should have already done it, and in a way he was right. Clark knew.
"They're right. " he said, looking at her, even though he wasn't sure if she understood him or not. "You… You'll be okay with them. They're my friends. " Clark felt his heart break at the way she clung to him. Like a frightened child before entering school. "You'll be okay. I promise to visit you later" he said. She looked at him for a few more seconds before letting go of his hand and floating towards Mr. Terrific. Clark closed his eyes as he saw Guy's green handcuffs appearing on her wrists.
She turned to him, looking over her shoulder, as if expecting him to follow her.
"See you later, Clark Joseph Kent. " a sweet, melodious voice came from her lips with a familiar accent. Clark blinked a few times, unsure if he'd heard what he'd heard or if it was all madness. But she spoke. And she spoke his name.
How could she know his name?
How on earth could she know his full name?!
Clark flew into the sky fast, faster than the human eye could follow. The cold morning wind whipped against his face as he flew at high speed, but not even the sensation of the icy air against his skin was enough to cool the confusion seething in his mind.
Clark Joseph Kent.
She had said his name. And his mind replayed the scene again and again.
Not "Clark." Not "Kent." Not "Superman." Not "big blue" as Guy called him. His full name. As if she knew. As if she'd known him even before landing on that planet. With an accent that was all too familiar.
Clark felt his chest tighten in a way that rarely happened. He'd faced aliens, his own clone, monsters, and robots. But this… this was different. He accelerated even more, tearing through the sky like a reverse meteor. He needed to find Lois. He needed to explain before she saw what happened. The last thing he wanted was for Lois to find out about the kiss on television.
The kiss.
Clark felt his cheeks heat up again. It wasn't a romantic kiss, he knew that. At least, it shouldn't be. The woman—the alien—was clearly disoriented, frightened. Maybe it was some kind of greeting in her culture. Maybe she didn't even know what she was doing.
But that didn't change the fact that her lips tasted sweet.
Clark shook his head hard, pushing the thought away. Betrayal. Guilt. He hated that feeling. He loved Lois. He chose Lois every day. And Lois trusted him.
He needed to get to her before the news got there first.
"Darn it!" he muttered under his breath, making a sharp turn toward the Daily Planet.
He could already see the screens scattered across Metropolis. The sound of the news stations echoed on every possible frequency, and his hearing picked up every word.
"A spaceship crashed in the center of Metropolis this morning, and Superman was on the scene. But what no one expected was what happened next—"
Clark rushed down, changing clothes in the blink of an eye on an empty fire escape. Glasses, dress shirt, tailored trousers. Clark Kent, reporter, was back. But his heart still beat as Superman.
He entered the Daily Planet like a hurricane, ignoring the greetings of security guards and colleagues, climbing the stairs two steps at a time. Perry, his editor-in-chief, shouted something about a breaking story, but Clark barely heard. His x-ray vision scanned the office in a second. Lois wasn't at her desk.
"Clark?" Jimmy Olsen's voice made him stop. "Dude, did you see what happened? It's on every channel! Even the gossip sites dropped whatever the Kardashians did to show it!!" Jimmy held his phone, his eyes wide. "Superman kissing an alien. Superman has an alien girlfriend!!!"
"Do you know where Lois is?" Clark interrupted, his voice hoarser than he'd like.
"Ah… I think she was talking to Cat… No! That was earlier." Jimmy said, scratching the back of his neck trying to remember. "Maybe in the meeting room? I don't know, man, I was focused on what happened… Sorry."
"It's okay, Jimmy." Clark said, thanking his friend before going back to look for Lois.
The meeting room door was ajar, and he could see Lois with her back to him, gesturing with her hands, complaining to Perry about something Clark didn't care to hear. He entered.
Perry raised an eyebrow at the sight of him.
"Kent. Good luck." The old editor glanced between Clark and Lois before leaving the room, closing the door behind him.
Lois turned, fury already etched on her face.
Clark opened his mouth to speak, but she was quicker. Her slender, strong fingers gripped his shirt sleeve with a force that would make any man recoil.
"You have exactly five seconds to explain before I—" she didn't finish the sentence. Instead, she grabbed Clark by the arm and dragged him out of the meeting room, down the hallway, and threw him into the cleaning supplies closet.
The door slammed shut. The dim yellow light of the lamp flickered twice before stabilizing. Clark heard the sound of the latch being pulled.
Lois didn't lock it by accident. She locked it because she was furious.
"Lois, I can explain—"
Her hand moved up in a motion too quick even for Clark to see, not because he couldn't dodge, but because he felt so guilty he deserved the blow.
Her open palm met his cheek with a sharp slap.
Or at least, she tried.
The sound was awful. It wasn't the dull crack of skin against skin that Clark expected. It was a dry crunch, followed by a muffled cry of pain.
"You son of a bitch!!!!" Lois recoiled, clutching her hand to her chest, her eyes brimming with tears. "Damn it, Clark! Why is your face made of concrete?!"
Lois! - He immediately forgot his own embarrassment, the kiss, the alien, everything, and moved forward. Carefully, with the delicacy of someone accustomed to handling fragile things, he took her hand in his.
Her fingers were red, her metacarpals certainly sore. Clark frowned, worried.
"Let me see."
"You hurt me!" Lois complained, though she didn't pull her hand back. Her eyes gleamed with a mixture of anger, pain, and something Clark knew well: wounded pride. "I was going to slap you for kissing another woman in front of the whole planet, and you broke my hand!"
"It didn't break…" Clark murmured, gently running his fingers over each bone, feeling the structure, the temperature. His super-breath gently cooled the irritated skin. "It's just a minor bruise. It'll get better in two days."
Clark sighed, bringing her hand to his lips. He kissed each joint, each finger, with almost religious devotion. A dozen kisses on each finger. Then another on the palm. Then another on the inside of her wrist, where the bluish veins marked the path under the thin skin.
"I'm sorry. " he whispered against her skin. "I'm sorry, Lois. It wasn't… It wasn't what you think."
"Oh, no?" Lois raised an eyebrow, though the tension in her shoulders had already eased a little. "Because what I think, no. What I saw, Clark Kent, is that I woke up, saw my boyfriend wasn't in bed, went to get coffee and turned on the TV and saw you being grabbed by an alien who came out of a spaceship and kissed you. So explain to me which part isn't what I think."
Clark closed his eyes for a second, taking a deep breath. The scent of Lois, vanilla shampoo, the fabric softener from her clothes, a hint of the coffee she had drunk in a hurry before leaving, filled the small closet.
"She grabbed me." Clark said, his voice low. "I tried to back away, I swear. But she… she's strong, Lois. Very strong. I had to use real strength to break free."
"Strong enough to hold you?"Lois asked, skepticism etched on her face. "Clark, you've stopped a plane with one hand before."
"I know. And that's why I know she's not just any refugee. There's something about her… Something I can't explain yet."
Lois was silent for a moment, her eyes analyzing every detail of his face. Clark knew she was looking for lies. She always was. It was what made her such a good journalist.
"And the kiss?" she asked, her voice lower now. Less anger, more vulnerability. "Was it romantic? Did you like it?"
"Uh…" Clark hesitated. "I mean… I don't know. She was scared, Lois. Frightened. Lost. She kissed me as if it were an instinctive gesture, not romantic. As if… As if it was the only thing she knew how to do at that moment to anchor herself to something. I don't think it was a romantic kiss… I think… I think it was something more."
Lois bit her lower lip, thoughtfully.
"Are you lying?"
"No."
"Are you omitting something?"
Clark opened his mouth, closed it again, sighed.
"She said my full name."
"What?"
"My full name, Lois. Clark Joseph Kent. She said it. After Mr. Terrific took her into containment, she turned and spoke. As if she knew me. As if she knew who I was before I landed."
The silence in the closet was heavy. Lois leaned her head against the wooden wall behind her, processing.
"Okay…" she finally said. "Okay. I… I believe you."
Clark felt relief flood his chest. He held her hands tighter.
"You believe me?"
"I believe you didn't do it on purpose. And I believe you're as confused as I am." Lois looked up. "But I'm still angry."
"I know."
"And you're still going to apologize properly. At home. On your knees."
Clark nodded, a small, relieved smile appearing on his lips.
"Whatever you want."
"Preferably on your knees and shirtless," Lois added, as if it were an important detail. "Just to make sure I feel properly compensated for the trauma."
Clark chuckled softly and pulled Lois into a hug. She resisted for a second before giving in, burying her face in his chest.
"You're an idiot, Smallville."
"I know."
"A lucky idiot because I'm nice."
"The nicest of all." Clark agreed, kissing the top of her head.
They stayed there for a few more minutes, embraced in the middle of the cleaning supplies closet, ignoring the world outside. And, for a moment, Clark almost managed to forget about the woman with braided hair and shimmering clothes.
Almost.
The rest of the day was a blur.
Clark and Lois returned to their respective desks, as if nothing had happened. Lois wrote a brilliant article about the alien's arrival and Superman's response, mentioning the kiss as "a possible misinterpreted cultural gesture" Clark suspected she had added that part herself to convince herself. He, in turn, covered the structural damage caused by the spaceship crash and interviewed witnesses.
Neither of them mentioned the closet.
Neither of them mentioned her full name.
Neither of them mentioned the tightness in Clark's chest whenever he thought of her. The workday ended later than usual. Lois was exhausted; Clark could see the dark circles under her eyes, even hidden by layers of concealer. He offered to carry her home on his back, and she accepted. Lois only touched the ground again when they were at the apartment door.
"I'm so tired I could fall asleep standing up…" Lois murmured, inserting the key into the lock. "But of course I have enough energy to take advantage of your excuses, Smallville. Don't think I've forgotten. On my knees. Shirtless. With your tongue in mine—" she opened the door.
And froze.
Clark felt it before he saw it. The furniture out of place. The sofa cushions scattered on the floor. The kitchen drawers open, their contents thrown onto the counter.
And, in the center of it all, the woman in shimmering clothes, sitting on the kitchen floor, her hands inside a two-pound plastic bag of refined sugar, eating as if it were the most delicious meal in the universe.
She looked up as they entered.
"CLARK!" Her voice was a cry of pure joy. She dropped the sugar, floated a few inches off the ground, and darted across the room toward him with a speed that would make Flash think twice. "CLARK JOSEPH KENT!!!" Clark raised his hands in a defensive gesture, but she didn't try to kiss him this time. Instead, she stopped a few steps away, hopping from one foot to the other, her eyes shining like stars.
"How did you…" Clark began, confused. "How are you here? Mr. Terrific… You escaped?"
"It was easy!" she replied with that strangely familiar accent. This time he knew exactly where it was from.
It was the Smallville accent.
"Men are fools! They locked me in a room with glowing walls, but the walls weren't strong. I did this"—she snapped her fingers, and a spark of purple light flashed between them—"and they opened." "Then I flew. And I came home!"
"Home? To my home… How do you know where I live? " Clark said, stunned.
"Your heart. I saw it in your heart. It showed me the way here! " She touched her own chest, as if demonstrating. "You have many interesting things! " She spun around, pointing to the scattered objects. "This here" she picked up a wooden spoon "is it a weapon? It's very light. And this here " she pointed to the refrigerator "is it cold? I opened it and there was a lot of cold wind. I didn't like it."
Clark ran a hand over his face, trying to process it.
Lois, behind him, stood with her arms crossed and the expression of someone who hadn't yet decided whether to laugh or explode.
"She ate my sugar" Lois said, her voice flat and calm, seeing the almost empty bag on the floor.
"She ate your sugar" Clark confirmed, as if that were the most normal detail in the world.
"It was a two-kilo package, Clark."
"I know."
"Refined sugar. The good kind. The expensive kind.
"I KNOW, Lois."
The alien, completely oblivious to the tension in the air, floated over to Lois. She stopped in front of her, tilted her head to the side, and studied the journalist's face with genuine curiosity.
"You're beautiful… So beautiful!" she said, her Smallville accent still strong. "Very beautiful. Your dark hair shines like a moonless night. Your eyes seem like fire. And your heart…" she closed her own eyes, as if listening to something distant. "Her heart makes Clark Joseph Kent's heart beat faster. Much faster. Like when the stars dance."
Lois raised an eyebrow.
"She… is she speaking with a Kansas accent?"
Clark cleared his throat, uncomfortable.
"I think she picked that up from me."
"What do you mean 'picked it up'?"
Clark hesitated. The memory of the kiss resurfaced, and he felt his cheeks heat up.
"Remember when I said she grabbed me? And that she was strong? And that I had to use force to break free?"
"Yes…"
"I think… " Clark began, choosing his words carefully "That when she kissed me, she kind of… Read something from my mind. Or absorbed it. I can't explain it. But that's why she knew my full name. And now she's talking like I used to when I was a child."
Lois was silent for a long second.
"She read your mind while kissing you?"
"That's what it seemed like."
"And she has your accent?"
"Yes."
"And she's eating my sugar?"
"… also yes."
Lois closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and exhaled through her nose.
"Okay. Okay, Clark. This is bizarre. But it's not the most bizarre thing that's ever happened in this apartment… Remember that Tuesday?"
"It was a difficult Tuesday " Clark agreed.
"Yeah. So this is on the same level. Maybe a little above. " the alien, who had been watching them with wide, attentive eyes, suddenly clapped her hands.
"You two are funny! Your hearts make happy sounds when you talk together. It's like music. I can hear it."
She floated back to the bag of sugar on the floor, reached inside, grabbed another handful, and brought it to her mouth with a beatific smile.
Clark sighed.
"I'll call Mr. Terrific. Tell him she's here and that everything's okay. Lois, can… Can you keep an eye on her?"
"Keep an eye on the alien who escapes high-security containment and eats sugar like it's cocaine?" Lois asked ironically. "Of course, love. What could go wrong?"
Clark was already taking his cell phone out of his pocket, but he stopped for a second to kiss Lois's forehead before leaving the room. It wasn't an apology (not yet, he would still need to get down on his knees later) but it was a silent "I trust you." He walked away into the hallway, dialing the League's emergency number.
He hung up, put his phone away, and went back into the living room.
And froze again.
The scene he found was… surreal.
Lois was sitting in one of the kitchen chairs, legs crossed, a glass of wine in her hand because, of course, Lois opened wine and the alien was next to her, also sitting in a chair (though floating a few inches above the seat, as if she hadn't quite grasped the concept of "sitting"), also with a glass of wine in her hand.
And they were talking.
"…and then I said to the editor: "Perry, with all due respect, if you don't give me this column I'm going to write about your secret collection of 80s band t-shirts"" Lois recounted, gesturing with her glass. "And he turned white, because nobody knew that Perry White was a Kiss fan."
The alien laughed. A sweet, crystalline sound, like bells.
"Is Kiss the sound of two hearts meeting?"
"No, it's nothing like that. Kiss is rock. Rock is music."
"I like music. The universe is music. Everything is vibration."
"See? You already understand more about quantum physics than half of my editors."
Clark stopped at the kitchen entrance, observing the two. The scene was so absurd that he almost laughed. Lois Lane, Metropolis's most cynical and suspicious reporter, was sharing wine and small talk with an alien who had stepped out of a spaceship less than twelve hours earlier.
The alien was the first to notice him. She turned in her chair (still floating) and smiled, her eyes gleaming.
"Clark Joseph Kent! The man with the strong heart is back!" She raised her glass. "Lois Lane is very intelligent. She knows a lot of words!" she said, a little differently than before. Her accent was different.
Clark blinked.
"Lois."
"What?" Lois replied innocently.
"She's talking differently," Clark murmured, and Lois took a sip of her wine. "Why is she talking differently?"
"SUGAR!" the alien demanded suddenly, pointing to the counter where the plastic bag was still open.
Clark looked at the bag. At the alien. At Lois. He was quick, grabbing the sugar before the alien. "She's asking for sugar," Lois explained, obviously.
"I saw that. Why is she talking differently, Lois?" the alien tried to grab the sugar, but Clark dodged.
"She's obsessed. I tried giving her a teaspoon of dessert, she ate the spoon. Not the food, the metal spoon," Lois commented, swirling the wine in her glass.
Clark dodged another attempt by her to grab the sugar.
"It can't be good to consume sugar like that."
"She's an alien, Clark. Maybe her digestive system processes sugar differently. Maybe sugar is like… kale for her. Healthy."
"SUGAR!" the alien repeated, louder. She stomped her foot in the air (because she was still floating) and pouted.
Clark held the bag of sugar up, preventing her from grabbing it.
"No. No sugar."
The alien looked at the bag. Looked at Clark. Looked at Lois.
And then, with a movement exactly like Lois's when some driver honked at her for crossing outside the crosswalk, she raised her hand and flipped Clark the middle finger.
"You son of a bitch!" she said, now with Lois's accent. Pure Metropolis, with that intonation of someone tired of putting up with bullshit. "Give me the sugar!"
Clark froze.
Not because of the gesture. Not because of the threat.
Because of the accent.
Now he recognized it perfectly.
"Lois," he said, his voice too calm. "You kissed her, didn't you?" She took another sip of wine.
"Yes."
"Yes!?"
"It was a small kiss. Quick. She asked for it," she said as if it were nothing.
"She ASKED?"
"She said she wanted to know more about me." Because I made your heart beat faster. And I was flattered, okay? I'm only human. A beautiful alien floats into your kitchen, eats your sugar and tells you you're interesting, aren't you going to feel a pang of vanity?
Clark closed his eyes tightly.
"Lois."
"Now we're even, Smallville. " Lois crossed her arms, a challenge in her eyes. "You kissed her, I kissed her. It's all the same."
"It's not the same! I had no choice, she grabbed me!"
"And did I? She asked me with those bright starry eyes and said "please, woman of the fiery heart". How could I say no?"
The alien, who had been watching them with her head tilted and a curious smile, raised her hand as if she were in school.
"Lois Lane is turned on by submissive men like Clark Joseph Kent " she announced, with the same intonation as someone reciting a scientific fact.
Lois almost choked on her wine.
"WHAT?"
"That's what I learned. From your kiss." The alien seemed genuinely confused by the reaction. "Is it a secret? Sorry. In my culture, feelings aren't secrets. Feelings are…" she searched for the word, frowning " …maps. They show the way."
Lois brought a hand to her face, her cheeks burning.
"Clark, get her out of here."
"You brought this on yourself." Clark replied, though he was equally flushed.
"So you're a sponge?" Lois asked, looking at the alien.
"Sponge?" she touched her own face. "I'm not a sponge. I'm" she made a concentrated face " The name doesn't have a translation. But it's something like "one who collects echoes" in your language."
"Echoes? " Clark asked, finally approaching. He placed the bag of sugar in a high cupboard, out of reach, though he doubted height would be a problem for someone who floated. " Do you collect echoes of those you kiss?"
"Of those who touch me. But kissing is faster. More efficient. And I like it." She touched her own lips. " The mouth is a door. Through it enter words, flavors, stories. If I touch your mouth with mine, I hear the echoes of what you are."
Clark and Lois exchanged a look.
"That's frighteningly poetic for someone who just called Superman a son of a bitch." Lois commented.
"Hunger makes noise in the head" She slapped her forehead. "Sugar solves it. Sugar is silence."
Clark sighed deeply.
"Okay. Okay, let's take it one step at a time. First: do you have a name?"
The alien blinked, as if the question were strange.
"I do. But I don't know if your lips can make the right sounds."
"Try."
She opened her mouth. A sound came out, something between a whale's song and the creaking of a dying star. It lasted three seconds and made the glasses in the sink vibrate.
Lois's eyes widened.
"It's… beautiful… But I won't be able to repeat it."
"So what do we call you?" Clark asked. The alien blinked slowly.
"How about Yn?" Lois suggested.
"I like Yn!" she jumped excitedly.
"Okay," Clark said, pulling out a chair and making her sit down. "Where did you come from? Why are you here?" She tilted her head, her eyes shining like small universes.
"That's a lot of questions. Can I answer one at a time?"
"Sure."
"I came from far away… very far. I'm running away. My parents sold me to pay off our planet's debt. I don't want to be a slave."
Clark felt a shiver run down his spine.
"I came here because I heard."
"Heard what?" Lois asked, putting her wine aside. Sn hesitated. She looked directly at Clark.
"You."
Clark's heart raced.
"Me?"
"And you." She looked at Lois.
Lois cleared her throat, clearly affected.
"Well," she said, her voice a little hoarse, "This is… definitely deeper than I expected for a Wednesday night."
You and Clark live across from each other, apartments 6A and 6B. It was the only way that he felt alright with you living alone in such a big city. At least he was there to protect you. It also meant you were constantly over at his place, or he was cooking you both dinner in your kitchen. There was nothing to hide or be ashamed of.
Clark had just come back from patrol, fresh off a kaiju defeat somewhere in the Pacific and a runaway bus earlier before work. It was late, nearly 1 am, and he was exhausted. He meant to shower and sleep at your place, but he had run out of clean towels. So Clark uses the spare key and quickly showers at your place instead. He swears he’ll sleep in his own bed for once.
The sight of you sprawled across your bed in just a tanktop stops Clark in his tracks. You look so pretty in the moonlight, all smooth skin and shiny hair that creates a halo around your angelic face. And god, you weren’t wearing anything besides that white tank. Clark coos; he can see your pretty folds, all swollen and wet. You must’ve tried getting off yourself, if the blue vibrator on your bedside table was a sign. And Clark knew you hadn’t gotten relief. You never did without Clark. You were too used to him.
As if in trance, he kneels on the floor. He’s eye level with your pussy now, in all her glory. He doesn’t think, just leans forward and licks up a drop of sweetness. “Golly…” He whimpers, diving back in again.
Clark gets you wet and open, his tongue following the familiar folds and crevices of your pussy. He’s messy with it too. There’s spit dripping down his chin, and he keeps gulping down each dribble of slick. He even suckles at your clit, lips around it in a dirty kiss. Clark can’t stop, doesn’t think about how you’re asleep. He knows you, he knows that you would want this.
Clark keeps going, and his tongue soon wiggles right into your greedy hole. Your walls even pulse in time with each thrust and lick. A soft moan escapes your mouth as the pleasure draws you out.
“Wha… Clark! Oh!” You immediately are thrown into rapture as Clark yanks you harder onto his mouth. His tongue works frantically over your clit.
“M’sorry darling- just needed you-“ Clark babbles between sucks and slurps. “Missed you so much- s’wrong- sorry-“
Your hands fly to his curls, yanking his face deeper into your cunt. Clark slips two fingers right in, curling them just right against your front wall. “Don’t stop, so close… so good baby…”
Your orgasm slams into you as Clark scissors his fingers in you and slurps your clit. Your body writhes, and Clark has to hold you down through it. As soon as your orgasm ebbs Clark’s fumbling for his shorts and shoving them to his knees. Your vision sparks as Clark sheathed himself in you.
“So warm, darling, always so good for me…” Clark whines. He begins to thrust, his cock kissing your cervix. His veins throb heavy against your walls, each clench making him twitch. “Unh- gonna come in you-“
Your hands rake down his back. His cock’s heavy in you, each thrust squelching more slick out. “Gimme- please!”
With a satisfied whine, Clark cums heavy warm ropes into you, lips smashed against yours.
Clark’s so sweet, and he’s gonna give you whatever you want. Dates to fancy restaurants? He’ll flash his Daily Planet badge, use Bruce Wayne’s name, anything to get on the list. You to go to a club? He’ll go and dance with her, carry you home after the heels get to much. A lazy Saturday? He'll make sure someone can cover his morning patrol so he can stay inside with you. A horseback ride back on the Kent farm? He's ready, tell him when.
Clark's so good at treating you right. He just wants one thing in return. And recently? He's not been getting it.
After teaching Clark about the wonders of sex and the various positions, he knows to trust you. He knows that you only want what's good for both of you. But after teaching him doggy? It's all you want. Every time things get heated between the two of you, somehow it ends up with your face buried into the bed (or couch, or hay bales, or wall, or whatever). The sex is great. Perfect. Amazing. toe-curling, world shaking, has his vision whiting out still. He loves seeing the fat of your ass jiggle with each thrust, seeing the creamy ring around the base of his cock and how each pull has your pussy desperately clinging to his shaft as if it doesn't want to let go. Clark loves how desperate you get too, in this position. He's already so thick and long, veins throbbing with a fat tip that perfectly hits every spot. Doggy just makes it feel even bigger, that same drooling tip pressing wet kisses right up on your cervix. And the position is the perfect one to press his face into your neck as he rails you, smelling your perfect intoxicating scent. So Clark can't really complain.
But he misses your face. Clark misses your pretty eyes as they roll back from orgasms and his thrusts. He misses hearing your moans and screams unfiltered. Clark misses your breasts too, sucking on the pretty buds as he rearranges your insides. He misses wrapping your legs around his waist, or throwing them over his shoulders to press you into a filthy mating press. He misses everything about missionary.
Clark begins to fantasize about your orgasm face. At work. During patrol. He gets almost delirious with it, acting like it's been years when it's been two weeks at best.
You notice one night. No patrol, so you and Clark eagerly fell into bed. Clark had spent so much time between your thighs. His tongue had retraced the folds of your pussy, gently nudged its way inside. He even suckled your clit, lips soft. It felt like hours of this until Clark was finished down there.
"C'mere baby." You murmur, flipping onto your stomach. You moan as Clark slides in, the familiar heft of his dick soothing the fire just a bit. As always, Clark begins with smooth little thrusts, each one nudging at your cervix. you're moaning and whimpering.
But Clark's... silent. More silent than usual, at least. No whimpers from him, or deep groans. Just huffs and puffs.He was usually so vocal.
"Clark?" You look back at him confused.
Clark's eyes are big and watery, and he has a little dazed pout on his lips. "I miss your face..."
"What?" You say with a small laugh.
Clark pulls out and sits back, unable to hold back the sniffles. "I... I miss your orgasm face! I wanna watch you come and it's been so long since we did missionary and I feel like I haven't seen your boobs in forever, I mean, do you still have them? I love doggy and I trust you but please, please darling, can we please do missionary? I'm gonna go crazy if I can't look into your eyes., darling."
Clark's little rant, paired with the watery eyes and red nose, has your heart flip. You immediately shuffle closer, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Aw baby... you miss me?"
Clark nods quickly.
"Why didn't you just say so?" You press soft kisses across his face. "You're allowed to want things during sex too, my love. It's not always about me. And if you want to see my face during sex, you can."
"Really?" Clark murmurs. He gently nuzzles your cheek.
You clamber up onto his lap. "C'mon baby. Take what you need."
Clark's face brightens, and soon he has you pressed into the mattress, chest to chest. He enthusiastically pounds into you, moaning and whimpering. Clark's cupped your face with one hand. "Missed your pretty face- oh there it is- hngh- I hit the spot darling, didn't- mmfph- didn't I? Wanna watch you come on me, see your pretty eyes roll back, oh golly-"
He fumbles for your leg, bringing it up around his waist. The position has you moaning, his cock nudging right up against the spongy area against your front walls. Doggy was good, but so was missionary.
And seeing Clark's euphoric face as you come, your expression right there for him to see? That was worth it.
pairing clark kent x f!reader
fandom dc / superman '25
word count 515
warnings mdni / 18+, smut, oral (f receiving), fingering, clark kent is a messy munch
notes literally just wanted to write messy oral with clark cause this is one of my before bed fantasies to get me to sleep
clark rests his hands on your knees as he kneels onto the mattress in front of you, hands sliding up your thighs as his large frame settles between your legs. he doesn’t take his eyes off of you as his head dips lower and you can feel the warmth of his breath as his mouth hovers in front of your slick cunt. he groans at the sight as he runs a finger through your folds, spreading your slick all over your clit, your slit, and the lips of your pussy. your breath hitches and hips shift slightly at the sensation, a pleased smirk on clark’s face as he slips a finger past your slit and watches your hips buck up.
“so pretty and wet f’me.” clark’s voice is gentle, mouth agape as the sight of his finger sliding in and out of your cunt puts him in a slight trance. he takes his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes trained on your cunt as he slips a second finger in, leaning his head forward to flick his tongue against your clit. your fingers immediately tangle in his hair as you whimper and tug, hips squirming as he works to drag your orgasm out of you.
“feels s’good….mmph, fuck! don’t stop!” clark’s fingers curl against your sweet spot and you cry out. you could cum from the sight of clark alone; his eyes closed in concentration and his hair a mess from your fingers tugging and pulling at the strands, lips engulfing your cunt as his tongue flicks against your pussy, your slick coating his chin and his mouth and the tip of his nose, fingers pumping in and out of your cunt as he alternates between paces. your head is spinning and your thighs are tightening around his head.
“baby you taste so good. y’taste so sweet” clark mumbles into your cunt, sucking and slurping at your clit as he replaces his fingers with his tongue, hands gripping your thighs as he holds you in place. he’s moaning as he ruts his lower half into the mattress, needing the friction against his cock as he drowns in your pussy. you’re squirming as heat pools in your lower stomach, whimpering and begging for clark as you get closer and closer to your release. “you close baby? you taste so good when you cum for me.”
“mhmm, m’so close clark…wanna cum for you…” you’re riding his face as you chase your release, coating his face in your juices as you whimper and moan his name. he switches his tongue for his fingers as you let out an almost pornographic whine. he sits up and captures your lips in a messy kiss, tasting yourself all over his tongue and mouth. you start to clench around his fingers and he breaks the kiss long enough to settle back between your legs, licking and sucking on your clit as he laps up your release, curling his fingers as he dragged out the aftershocks of your orgasm.
“that’s my good girl.” clark praises you, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh.
It'd taken you hours of convincing, not including the months of pre-convincing. He'd finally given in to you, albeit — reluctantly.
That much was obvious with how tense he'd been, with his head slumped at the crook of your neck.
"I'm not happy about this."
That was last week.
Somehow, you'd managed to break through your husband's stubbornness and paranoia of letting you go somewhere far too close to a body of water. You just needed an escape from the endless baby-talk, the worries of what-if's or what-could-go-wrong.
And now, here you were. Out in the sun, finally in the air that was filtered by trees and not buildings. Though as part of your 'parole-deals', you had to call Clark every other hour. Which wasn't the most ideal, but if it calmed him, it was a fair deal.
The second Clark hears your voice ring through, the tension that was so tightly wound in him snaps.
"Hi," he breathes, all too quickly. Roughened with an edge of relief. It's painfully obvious that he'd been pacing back and forth, restless since he dropped you off. "Are you alright? Did they help you carry your bags? Are you hydrated? Wait — how's your back? Better now?"
You held your phone a little away from your face after his outburst. So began round one of what was surely hourly interrogations.
"…Yes, they did, my back still hurts like crap and I just took my vitamins."
He lets out another prolonged exhale, but the tensions in his shoulders don't ease.
"Okay…okay, good. And you aren't lifting anything heavy? Or walking far? You're staying off your feet as much as possible?"
You'd almost heard him pacing again, in what seemed to be short bursts, and gusts of winds — as though just the thought of you over-exerting himself was enough for his mind to go on overdrive.
"You have to take it easy."
There was a long pause heard on your end, and you snort in amusement.
"Honey…I'm not working for Habitat for Humanity here."
Clark groans audibly at your snark, dragging his palm down his jaw.
"Don't joke. You need to be resting. Are you resting?"
"I am!" You bite back, petulantly, "the rest of the girls went out to the lake. I stuck back."
Clark's brows knit into a furrow when he hears shuffling.
"Thought I could do a little sunbathing. Get a little tanned."
He stiffens.
Imagining you, stretched all out under the sun, exposed and vulnerable —
"Sweetheart, y-you can't." He blurts. Resting his forehead on the door jam with a frustrated huff. "You'll burn. Or — or get bitten. Please tell me you aren't outside yet."
You stared out at the view of your cabin overlooking Lake Erie. Shielding yourself from the sun.
"…No, I'm not."
Clark knew that pause. His wife was never really good at lying.
He takes your name, a tone he specially reserved for when you had the gall to blatantly lie to his face. "Put sunscreen on or go right back inside, I swear —"
Clark doesn't finish his thought, but they both know he wouldn't be behind flying right on over if you insisted on being stubborn.
Something told you this particular line of questioning was a subtle ploy for him to nag you until you relented.
"…You wanna see what I'm wearing?"
It called for a strategy change.
Which seemed to work, considering the loud clatter you heard over the line.
"T-That's —…" Words barely above a stuttered choke.
Clark's eyes flutter shut at the weight of the burning image of you. Overheating at the very idea that you might've been wearing far than modest clothes. If you even were wearing anything.
That alone had the screen protector of his phone crack under the weight of his grip.
"…Y…es," he croaks, "I-I do, but that isn't the point —"
[11:20am]
You: <Incoming Video Call>
A strangled whine leaves Clark's throat when the image of you loads fully on his cracked screen.
You looked absolutely beautiful, with golden rays of the warm glow bathing your skin. Belly swelled and glistening, "…you didn't wear sunscreen…" He finally manages as he slumps onto the edge of the bed.
"I was about to," you say impatiently, propping your phone up against the half-drunk glass of lemonade.
Clark takes a hefty gulp when the angle readjusts, offering him a full view of you — curves of soft tits in a white bikini top, paired with cheeky bottoms.
Somehow, the visual impact of it felt far too heightened; even the sight of you harmlessly squeezing out a generous amount of sunscreen onto your palms had his cock twitch involuntarily beneath his cotton sweats.
The creamy white spreads between your palms, and you lower them to lather it onto your belly.
Clark's burning the sight to his mind, watching the lotion coat your skin, gliding past the freckles of your abdomen.
His throat bobs with effort to control himself, though his hands were already idly rubbing over the ache of his erection.
"You…—you're not…being thorough." He finally mutters as an afterthought, "gonna…miss a spot."
Your gaze flickers to the subtle twitch of his biceps and shoulders. He was no doubt touching himself, wasn't he? The thought has you biting down on your lips.
"Yeah? Where should I be rubbing, then?"
Clark squeezes himself, grunting at the surge that crept down his spine.
"The…side of your thighs."
You shift with a grin, sliding your fingers down to the apex. "Here?"
His hand slides beneath his waistband, humming a low mm-mh. Clark's fixated on the way you continue to drag the glistening cream down between your thighs, inching them further apart with every rub.
He slides his palm flat down the shaft of his stiff cock, squeezing and stroking himself with a few dry rubs.
"Right….r-right there…" he nods through ragged gasps.
Clark nearly feels himself cum when he sees the slick of your folds peek through beneath the gusset.
"Oh.." you coo, thoughtfully, sliding your fingers beneath the strings, "they're in the way. Should I take them off?"
He lets out a loud groan, fully tugging his pants halfway down his thighs.
"You're killin' me, baby."
His more than eager reactions has you clench beneath the flimsy fabric. You were impossibly soaked, just at the thought of him being so turned on by you.
Slowly, you drag your fingers down over your mound, pulling the gusset of your bikini to the side. Clark strokes himself harder at the sight — sticky, slick clinging to the wet fabric.
"O-Oh…gosh…you're so…"
You nod quickly, dragging two of your fingers down between your parted folds, dragging the wetness up to your clit.
"I miss you…" you manage through a quiet whimper, nudging two of your fingers knuckle deep into your cunt.
Clark's head slumps, and you jolt at the sight of him spitting on his cock. "Y-You have no idea," he grunts as he fists himself. "How badly…I-I want to make love to you right now."
Your cheeks warm at his words, and you steady yourself with a palm behind, fully grinding your digits into you, and up to the roof of the spongy walls.
"Clark…Clark…" You whine, rolling your hips rhythmically onto them, "s'not enough…I need you."
His movements falter at your wanton mewling, shaking his head slowly. The camera switches from the sight of his face to the view of his fist around cock.
You let out a sharp gasp, thighs quivering at louder noises — dull thwacks of him pumping himself, rubbing his pre over his length.
"This…s'what you do to me baby, so goddamn beautiful…sitting there all swollen with —…ngh…mine…mine mine."
His unrestrained grunts went straight to your pussy. You all but whimper, timing your thrusts to the pace of his pumps.
"Gonna fuck you when you're back, mm? Nice an' good…"
"Sh-Shit, Clark!"
He never cusses until moments like these, and it drove you crazy. The white hot flashes rip through you like electric shocks, and you cum hard in shudders.
Spots fill your vision when you look back into the camera, catching what seems to be shaky movements.
your taunt was meant to be cruel, edged with a secret clark guarded with his every being. his face contorts in frustration, annoyance ebbing deep within him. his body remained bowed above you, trembling with effort when you deliberately shifted.
his hips jerk involuntarily, tip of his cock grazing your clit, throbbing and aching from having been blue-balled. "don't…say that." you release a shuddering breath as his thumb comes down to your sensitive bud. you jump at the rough callouses, rubbing against it hard.
your gaze snaps up, catching the conflicted look paint his expression, mirroring one of your own when he withdraws completely from you without breaking eye-contact. clark lifts you, a motion that was effortless as he carries you toward the bed. the tense, impulsive air from earlier — wanting to fuck each other so bad that you'd both been on the floor, had been promptly broken, replaced with clark's much more competitiveness and determination to prove you wrong.
he doesn't immediately re-enter you as he lowers you onto the unmade bed. instead, he kneels between your parted thighs. warmer, bigger palms slide up the plush fat, tightening in a painful intensity as he tugs you abruptly to the edge. it knocks the breath completely out of you.
his thumb skirts at the edge of your inner thighs where you were slick with arousal. the silence felt much more unnerving than his usual show of poutiness. "...clark?"
clark leans down, replacing the pads of his thumb on your inner thighs with his mouth. you jump at the press of his lips, followed by the sharp nip of his teeth on the sensitive skin. he works his way upward, holding you still against the mattress.
it's agonising. all of it. his slow explorative touches, all the hot, wet kisses everywhere but where you needed it the most. he's somehow managed to park his own aching need, painfully bobbing against his own abdomen — with the intentional dragging out of your pleasure.
you wince when his gaze meets yours. they aren't unkind, but they're glazed with a new teasing glint you hadn't quite seen from clark yet.
"claaark…quit teasing…"
your sweet plea echoes in the room, and you feel a low, approving hum vibrate against your skin. as though he'd been waiting for you to get the taste of what you'd deprived him of. his mouth wraps around your pussy without further teasing. tongue flattened, pressing a firm and relentless pressure. your back arches off the bed, though restricted with a possessive hold pushing them back down onto the duvet.
"f-fuck! cla — hhrk. don't — stop!"
clark's palm slides up your belly, moving upward to cup your warm, sweat-slick breasts. he squeezes the softness as his tongue works your pussy. dipping in and out of your tight walls and up to your clit. his mouth was just so fucking big that it felt like he was everywhere around you.
helplessly, you buck into clark's mouth, rocking and grinding into the gentle curve of his nose. whimpering incoherently at the assault of his wet, insistent tongue curling to the roof of your cunt.
he knows when you're close. and he sucks your bud hard, the sound wet and obscene in the room, "a-ah fuck! gonna cum. g'na cum!"
clark's acknowledgment rumbles riiight against your clit. he feels the telltale sign of your orgasm as you pulse on his tongue. broken cries spill from your throat as you cum hard, thighs quivering with how clark refused to relent, drawing out every last drop of your slick until you're a trembling puddle beneath him, with an arm strewn over your eyes as you finally come down from the high.
the mattress dips at the shift of his weight, the shadow casting over you ominously just as you think it's over.
he looks to you, desperate and broken, unable to curb his own need. you feel him pry your arm away from your face, "gonna put it in okay? hm?"
you barely get to protest as he positions himself at your entrance. offering you enough time for refusal or hesitation. but the needy look of his gaze was enough for your body to act in compliance. you slide your palm past your navel, to the folds of your cunt, parting it wider for him to see the eager pulse.
a low broken groan rumbles in clark's throat at the sight, the quiet invitation being all he needed. he enters you in a deep thrust, accentuated with a jerk of his hips. you both gasp simultaneously, the overwhelming full feeling coming so soon after your earlier orgasm has you tightening deliciously around his cock.
"mmh…baby you need t'relax," he chokes, enforcing his iron will to make good on his unspoken promise to make sure you feel like he fucked you.
he wanted you to feel him even days after, and that determination was enough for him to keep a languid pace, designed to draw out your pleasure.
and god, it had. each stroke of his girthy cock in your walls, the creamy, slick that made it so much easier for him to fuck your pussy in shallow thrusts. the sounds alone were making your belly churn with need, let alone that sweet spot he hit over and over again.
your palms come up to rest at his abdomen, each thrust making you go dumb, incoherent babbles spilling from your lips. his body remains a fortress. the muscles in his arms tensed and reddened, back rigid and strained with every fiber of him taut.
"s'too…much!" you squeak, weakly pawing at him, in attempt to push him.
clark catches your hands, lacing his own fingers with yours with a single palm, pinning them gently above your head with a pressure that offered you escape if you wished. he keeps at the pace, brows knit in focus.
"i-i can't anymore."
he merely tuts softly at your breathless whisper, clearly having lost all the fight from your earlier taunts. he sees the truth in your words, the trembling or your thighs and blissed out look in your eyes. but he shakes his head, voice low and equally pleading.
"yes…you can."
"claaaaark…" you whine softly as he guides your limp arms over his shoulders, cupping one of your palms flush against his fever-hot cheeks.
"i'm getting real…real close baby," his voice cracks for a second, "can you hold on? f'me?" through laboured pants, he continues grinding and circling his cock into your cunt.
you pulse around him with another, drawn out whine. dragging your nails down his damp, strained biceps. when you offer a weak nod, the bed creaks louder. whispered curses were quickly swallowed when he shifts his angle a tad, hitting a spot in you that made your vision blur.
"fuck! t-there", you gasp sharply, fingers digging into his muscles. you nod hastily, unsure at even what — the insistent probe of his cock in that gummy spot deep within you sent shockwaves through your entire body. pushing you into another, white hot peak. the bed frames only continue scream louder under the relentless motion he keeps up.
"here?" he pants, gaze unfocused as he tilts his body to support his weight, with his forearm against the duvet to keep the angle.
"FUCK, yes! there, there — th—ah!"
your pussy gushes around him with no further warning, fluttering hard along his length as you cum again. a ragged grunt resonates against the side of your head, followed by clark's growls. his hips bucks wildly, body shuddering as he coats your insides deep with spurts of his thick spend.
the force of his very last thrust elicits a screeching crack of the bed frames, and you both drop hard.
the two of you briefly look at each other in a bewildered surprise and synchronised breathing, and you finally break the intense haze.
"shit." you croak, voice hoarse in its delivery.
clark lets out a huff, rolling to his side and taking you with him so you're nestled against his chest instead of being crushed beneath him as he slump.
a/n: Here’s my little “get well soon” gift for @kryptidfiles !! Imagine this wrapped in a huge bow with flowers sticking out from every side. EVERYONE GO FOLLOW HER BLOG and I hope you enjoy!!
Summary: You made the mistake of turning sex into casual conversation with your coworker and accidentally start the worst HR violation of your life.
Classification: Smut +18 | coworkers to lovers, several smut scenes, alcohol consumption, rude/arrogant Scott Miller, oral sex, fingering, dirty talk, rough sex, rough groping, protected and unprotected sex, doggy style, missionary, squirting, ass smacking, marking/bruising, praise, dom/sub dynamics, workplace boundary issues and emotionally repressed idiots in love.
Word count: 9,2k
There was a difference between good sex and great sex, the same way there was a difference between getting fucked and being made love to...
Good sex was what you expected from anybody decent enough to make it that far with you. It was the kind people talked about casually with their friends, the kind that came up over drinks after someone asked, “So, was he good?” Good sex happened on Tuesdays after work with the guy from Hinge who insisted on taking you out somewhere too expensive for a second date. You split a basket of fries, drank half a beer because you still had work in the morning, drove home with exhaustion sitting heavy behind your eyes, then let him fuck you well enough to sleep for four uninterrupted hours.
Good sex was practical and predictable. It convinced your body you were living a normal life.
Great sex was different. Great sex happened after work parties when your mascara was already smudged and your heels were in your hand by midnight. It happened on weekends with nowhere to be the next morning. You never talked about great sex because it sounded exaggerated the second you said it out loud, like you were overselling a man nobody else would understand. Great sex made you cum or at least brought you close enough that your stomach tightened every time you remembered it afterward. You thought about great sex while driving long stretches of empty highway, your hands steady on the wheel while your mind wandered somewhere warmer.
Great sex stayed in your body for days. You caught yourself replaying parts of it absentmindedly while standing in line for coffee or brushing your teeth before bed.
Then there was getting fucked…
There was no cleaner way to define it. It lived somewhere between fantasy and urban legend, passed around between women in half-serious conversations that always dissolved into laughter. Everybody claimed to know someone who’d experienced it but nobody could explain it properly. Getting fucked was the kind of sex that distracted you in the middle of the day badly enough to make you stop what you were doing and change your underwear. It sat dangerously close to the limits of what sex could actually be before the whole thing collapsed under its own weight.
If a guy treated you too much like an object, it fell apart immediately.
If you didn’t orgasm, it didn’t count.
If you weren’t still thinking about him six months later at red lights and in grocery store aisles and during lonely hotel nights, then it wasn’t that either.
Getting fucked sat at the very top of the scale, lit up like something obvious and somehow most men still missed it completely.
Being made love to was worse and more dangerous, honestly.
For somebody like you, it could become embarrassing fast. Storm season kept you on the road for months at a time, bouncing between states, sleeping in motels with stiff sheets and weak air conditioning. Off-season meant office buildings, weather models glowing across multiple monitors, long meetings about funding, new equipment and data collection. Your life moved constantly and men liked that at first. A woman who was smart, busy, gone half the year, financially stable and difficult to pin down.
Men loved the idea of you because it excused the fact they never had to give very much. Most of them thought they were in love but really, they just liked access to somebody they found impressive.
Before all of that, you used to think being made love to meant passion…intimacy. That it was slow sex with somebody who knew your body so well they could pull an orgasm out of you patiently and confidently, like it mattered to them as much as breathing did. You imagined hands lingering at your waist, sleepy conversation afterward, somebody brushing your hair away from your face before kissing you again.
Instead, you ended up underneath men who mistook enthusiasm for intimacy. You stared at ceilings while they grunted above you, listened to them breathe your name like they were performing something instead of feeling it. Sometimes you felt your stomach turn from the boredom alone, your body rocking mechanically with theirs while your mind drifted somewhere else entirely to storm reports, grocery lists and whether you needed to change your oil before the next drive west.
You never let them finish once you realized you hated it, that was the one thing you refused to fake. You pushed them off, sat up and reached for your clothes while they blinked at you in confusion. You told them it wasn’t going to work, sometimes you said it gently and other times you just didn’t bother. Either way, you watched realization settle over them while they sat there flushed and humiliated, their ego bruised worse than their feelings ever were but somehow your harsh words still made them cum…
Needless to say, after a while, you stopped having sex altogether.
You were in your rental house after a long day spent staring at storm data and listening to Javi ramble about whatever breakthrough he thought he’d made this time. It was late, the entire house felt heavy and warm, every light dimmer than usual and lately, you weren’t alone nearly as often as you used to be.
Scott sat at your dining table with your laptop open, shoulders slightly hunched, completely absorbed in columns of numbers and radar models. You’d known him for two years and he’d been your partner for one of them.
People were right about him. He was direct to the point of rudeness, arrogant enough to make most people defensive within five minutes and mean when he thought someone deserved it but unlike most men in your field, Scott had learned how to admit when he was wrong, far from gracefully or happily but still, he did it.
The two of you were impossibly stubborn in almost identical ways, so sharing space with him sometimes felt like being trapped in a room with a sharper version of yourself. Separately, you were both good at what you did but together, you were nearly impossible to beat.
You couldn’t pinpoint when “coworkers” had turned into Scott walking into your house without knocking, helping himself to your fridge and sitting at your table like he paid rent.
“Best orgasm you’ve had during sex?” His voice came from across the room, casual and flat, like he’d asked you about rainfall percentages. He didn’t even look away from the laptop while he said it.
You’d forgotten he was meeting you there before the two of you drove to the bar together, which was why you were still walking around in sleep shorts and a bra, trying to find something decent enough to wear without looking like you’d spent an hour trying.
You took a sip from the beer he’d already pulled out of your fridge and nearly snorted into the bottle. “You think men do that?” you asked as you disappeared into your bedroom.
“To you?” Scott finally looked up. His eyes tracked your movement automatically while he reached for the beer the two of you were apparently sharing now. “I hope so.”
He took a drink as his eyes followed your movement.
You walked back into view holding two dresses on mismatched hangers. “You’re a fucking idiot,” you said plainly. “And maybe a pervert.”
Scott pointed at you immediately. “You’re changing in front of me. I could probably keep count of your bras at this point and I don’t. That actually makes me less of a pervert.”
You disappeared back into your room. He could hear hangers scraping against the closet rod while you searched through clothes with growing irritation.
“Just because it doesn’t make you hard doesn’t make you not a pervert,” you called back, your voice muffled through the wall.
“How do you know I’m not?” he shot back instantly, sounding almost offended by the assumption.
Silence followed but about a minute later, you walked back out wearing a dress he’d never seen before. It was simple, fitted enough to make his eyes stop for a second before continuing downward automatically. You crossed the room toward him, letting your heels drop onto the hardwood before slipping them on one at a time.
“You’re not attracted to me, Scott,” you said flatly.
He looked up slowly then, his eyes dragging over the length of the dress with enough attention to make most people nervous. On you, it just made you impatient.
“You seem awfully confident about that.”
“I am.” You adjusted the strap on your shoulder before glancing toward his laptop screen. “So don’t say shit that makes me sound stupid.”
Scott looked back at the laptop fast enough to make the movement obvious. He pretended to scroll through data he’d stopped reading the second you started undressing in the next room.
“I’m ready,” you said. “Good to go?”
“Need five minutes,” he muttered.
You walked behind him toward the front door, tapping his shoulder as you passed. “The data will still be there tomorrow. C’mon, Scotty.”
The teasing grin in your voice made something in his jaw tighten. You disappeared outside before he could even think of an answer.
Scott closed the laptop harder than necessary and stood, quietly adjusting himself through his jeans with the irritation of a man betrayed by his own body. He shut off the lights one by one and grabbed your keys from the counter before locking the door behind him.
The porch light was off so you couldn’t see the tent in his jeans. Thank fuck for that.
“Scotty was an eight-year-old with chubby cheeks,” he muttered while locking the deadbolt. He glanced over at you waiting by the passenger side of his truck. “It’s Scott.”
“It’s whatever I decide it is,” you replied easily.
He rolled his eyes and walked down the porch steps, unlocking the truck with a sharp click.
“Come open my door.”
“Since when do you need me to do that?” he complained, already circling the hood anyway.
“Since you got comfortable commenting on my bras.”
Scott stopped in front of you to stare before reaching around your waist to pull the handle open. The movement brought him close enough to smell your perfume underneath detergent and beer.
You smiled to yourself while climbing into the passenger seat because for once, Scott didn’t have anything smart to say.
Talking about sex with your coworkers was probably the least professional habit you could develop but professionalism stopped mattering after twelve-hour drives, shared motel rooms, gas station dinners at midnight and enough close calls together to make normal boundaries feel unnecessary. There were barely any women in the field to begin with, which meant the few of you that existed clung together fast and Scott, despite being deeply irritating most of the time, was easier to talk to than most people.
Brutally honest people usually were.
At some point, conversations that started as jokes during long drives turned into real discussions about relationships, sex, exes and every disappointing person either of you had ever slept with. It happened slowly enough neither of you noticed the line moving until it was already somewhere far behind you.
HR would’ve had a heart attack.
That night, you learned Scott Miller did not do good sex. If good sex existed to him at all, it involved two people fully clothed and standing on opposite ends of a room.
The bar was more crowded than you expected, packed wall to wall with storm chasers, meteorologists, researchers and people who somehow always smelled faintly like dust and gasoline no matter how clean they looked. Whenever women in the field found each other, there was an unspoken tendency to group together immediately, so you spent most of the night at the bar talking with another researcher from Oklahoma while music pounded so loud you felt it vibrate through the floor beneath your heels.
Eventually Javi appeared beside you carrying drinks you absolutely weren’t going to refuse. He handed one over before leaning closer, lowering his voice.
“What’s wrong with Scott?”
You blinked at him. The question caught you off guard enough to make your brows pull together immediately because nobody ever asked about Scott. People either tolerated him, argued with him or avoided him entirely. Whatever problem Scott had, he usually fixed it himself before anyone could notice it existed.
Your eyes scanned the crowd automatically until you found him near the back corner of the bar with a soda in his hand. Of course he wasn’t drinking, he stood half-shadowed against the wall looking deeply unimpressed by the concept of social interaction…and staring directly at you.
Your eyes narrowed slightly until Scott finally got the message and looked away first.
You turned back to Javi. “Do you mean tonight or in general?” you asked dryly. “Because I’m pretty sure he was dropped as a child, but you’d have to ask his mother for confirmation.”
Javi frowned harder. “I mean tonight. He looks tense and it’s making me uneasy.”
“It’s Scott. He always looks tense.”
“More than usual.” Javi glanced over his shoulder carefully. “Tell him to relax for once…and to make some friends. That’s literally why we came here.”
You pointed at yourself immediately. “Why am I responsible for that?”
Javi shrugged like the answer was obvious. “Because you speak ‘Scott’ fluently. Translate what I just said into something he’ll actually understand.”
Your gaze dropped to the drink in your hand. “You’re bribing me.”
“And that drink cost me twenty-five dollars,” he replied. “So yes. Go.”
You snorted into the rim of your glass. “Pretty sure stress is what’s making you bald, by the way…not Scott’s burning gaze.”
Javi adjusted his baseball cap defensively. “Just go talk to him.”
You shook your head, already grinning despite yourself and pushed through the crowd toward the back of the bar, which Scott noticed immediately.
The music got louder the closer you got to him, voices bleeding together into useless noise, so instead of trying to shout over it, you reached forward and hooked one finger through the belt loop of his jeans.
“Outside,” you said simply, tugging once as you moved toward the exit.
Scott followed without argument, that alone should’ve concerned you more than it did.
The plan was for him to ask what you wanted once you got outside. Instead, somewhere between the crowded bar and the exit door, he got distracted watching you walk ahead of him. Your dress moved against your hips every few steps, exposing flashes of leg skin under the low bar lights and the muscles in your bare back moved subtly every time you pushed through another cluster of people.
Inevitably, Scott’s eyes dropped lower before he caught himself.
By the time the two of you stepped outside into the cooler night air, he still hadn’t said a word.
You finally let go of his belt loop once the two of you were far enough from the entrance that the music had dulled into muffled bass behind you. You turned to face him properly, folding your arms across your chest as you looked up at him.
“What’s your current issue?” you asked.
“Current?” Scott repeated, brows pulling together.
You nodded once like the question made perfect sense.
“When’s the last time you had sex?”
A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Excuse me?”
He shrugged carelessly, shoving one hand into the pocket of his jeans. “What? Are you the only one allowed to ask those questions?”
You laughed again, this time shaking your head as you pointed at him. “Yes. Obviously.”
Scott snorted.
“And those are long-drive questions,” you continued, motioning vaguely toward his truck behind you before pointing back toward the crowded bar. “Not ‘parking lot outside a packed bar’ questions.”
“You still need to answer.” He shrugged again. “Those are the rules.”
“Have I ever told you how stupid those rules are?”
“First time I’m hearing complaints since you’re the one who made them,” he replied with a grin.
“You’re insufferable,” you muttered under your breath before taking another sip of your drink.
Scott stayed quiet as he just watched you over the rim of his own soda, patient and expectant in a way that immediately irritated you because he clearly thought he was getting an answer eventually.
“Are you seriously gonna make me answer?”
“I can’t make you do anything,” he said calmly. “But I can wait. I still have to drive you home.”
You looked up toward the entrance of the bar. Through the windows you could still see people packed together under neon lights, laughing too loud, talking over each other about work, storm patterns and equipment failures. You’d already reached the point of the night where conversations started blending together into white noise.
“Can we leave now?” you asked.
Scott didn’t answer verbally. He just pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocked the truck with a click, then held his hand out toward your drink.
“Get in and lock the doors,” he said as he took the glass from you and turned back toward the bar to return it.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” you called after him while walking directly to the passenger side and doing exactly that.
Honestly, you didn’t mind answering the question. The problem was that once you actually thought about it, you realized you weren’t entirely sure how long it had been. It had been long enough that you had to start considering technicalities and long enough that the answer became embarrassing and unfortunately, thinking about sex while sitting alone in Scott’s truck immediately led your brain somewhere unhelpful…
Scott eventually climbed back into the truck and shut the door behind him. He didn’t start driving right away, he just sat there in the dark, one hand resting on the wheel while the dashboard lights cut sharp shadows across his face…waiting, because the thing about car questions was that silence usually came first.
“A year and a half,” you blurted out finally. “Give or take.”
Scott’s head turned toward you so fast it almost looked painful. “No,” he said immediately. “I don’t believe that.”
You laughed in disbelief and looked toward him. “Believe whatever you want, Scott. I answered the fucking question. That’s the game.”
“A year and a half?” he repeated, staring at you like you’d confessed to murder. “What the hell do you even do on weekends?”
“Currently?” you replied dryly. “Sit in your truck while you annoy me.”
“No,” he said, already turning the key in the ignition. “You’re irritated because you’re sexually frustrated.”
You barked out another incredulous laugh.
“And you’ve been sexually frustrated since I met you,” he continued as he shifted the truck into reverse. “Which explains why you piss me off every single fucking day.”
“Excuse you?” You turned toward him fully now, half laughing from sheer disbelief. “First the bra comments and now this? What’s next? Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?”
“Put your seatbelt on.” The command came out flat and automatic.
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do, Scott. I’m not drunk enough to–”
The words died in your throat the second he reached across you.
His arm slid in front of your chest while the truck reversed smoothly with his other hand still turning the wheel. His forearm brushed against the underside of your breasts accidentally…or maybe not so accidentally and your breath caught hard at the sudden closeness. Scott grabbed the seatbelt beside your shoulder, pulled it across your body in one sharp movement, then clicked it into place at your hip without looking away from the rear window once.
You drove home in complete silence.
No radio or conversation, just the steady sound of tires against asphalt and the occasional flick of the blinker while Scott kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. You’d heard every version of his voice over the last two years, sarcastic, irritated or sharp enough to make grown men defensive in meetings but hearing him tell you to put your seatbelt on while his arm pressed across your breasts had done something deeply unfortunate to your brain.
This was entirely your fault. You were the one who made sex an acceptable topic between the two of you, you were the one who turned it into a game, into background conversation during long drives and late nights. Somewhere along the way home, your definition of good sex had rewritten itself around that precise moment.
For most people, that probably counted as foreplay, but for you? It counted as a serious fucking problem.
By the time Scott parked outside your house, your thoughts had spiraled so badly that you barely registered the truck stopping. You stayed seated even after he cut the engine, staring forward blankly while the silence settled heavier around you.
Scott got out first without saying anything and walked around the front of the truck toward your side.
The passenger door opened. You looked up just in time to feel him lean in and reach across you again, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric stretched over your waist as he unclipped the seatbelt. The contact lasted maybe a second but that was already too long.
Only then did you finally move. You climbed out quickly, making an effort to keep close to the truck instead of brushing against him, then headed straight for your front door while digging through your purse for your keys even if it was practically empty and somehow that made it worse. You found lip balm…receipts…some loose cash, everything except what you actually needed.
Scott followed behind you quietly.
You still hadn’t found the keys when his arm appeared beside you, reaching around your body with frustrating familiarity. He’d had your keys the entire night, he usually did whenever the two of you went out together because you constantly lost track of them.
The metal clicked softly as he unlocked the door for you.
Your breath stalled as Scott stood so close behind you that you could feel the heat coming off him through the thin fabric of your dress. His chest nearly touched your back, one arm still braced near your shoulder while he turned the lock. It boxed you in completely, your body caught between the door and him and the worst part was that it felt good.
The sharp heat low in your stomach made that painfully obvious.
Good sex, apparently, was standing fully clothed on your own porch while your coworker unlocked your front door…all while standing right behind you.
The lock finally clicked open. You pushed the door open and stepped inside fast to put distance between you before turning back toward him.
Determination sat stiffly in your chest now…You were staying dressed. Whatever this weird tension was had to be alcohol-fueled, temporary, deeply stupid or preferably all three and gone by morning.
Unfortunately, Scott looked unfairly good standing on your porch under weak yellow light.
At some point he’d taken off his cap, you didn’t know when and hadn’t realized until now. Why did he look dreamy!? His hair was messy from running his hands through it all night and the expression on his face had settled back into that unreadable calm that somehow made things worse.
“Night, Scott,” you said quickly, then shut the door directly in his face…very determined to remain dressed.
“Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?” That sentence replayed in your head later for one humiliating reason: Scott Miller had never been the kind of man to hand off work he could do himself.
You’d been wrong earlier, completely wrong.
Great sex didn’t happen on weekends or after parties or during long-awaited moments with somebody you trusted. Sometimes it happened five minutes after you slammed your front door in a man’s face and tried convincing yourself you still had common sense.
You stayed standing by the door after closing it, palms warm against the wood, waiting to hear his truck start. You expected the familiar sound of the driver’s side door opening, shutting and the low rumble of the engine before he pulled away but nothing happened.
At first you told yourself you were imagining the silence because you were still too aware of him…then a full minute passed…followed by another and then three more.
Five long, miserable minutes where your brain refused to focus on anything except the fact Scott was still outside your house.
You opened the door expecting embarrassment or maybe annoyance, maybe him realizing he forgot something. Instead, he was still standing there in the same position with that same unreadable expression, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans like you hadn’t just shut the door on him…five minutes ago.
You stared at each other for a second too long.
You never figured out what exactly snapped first. Pride, self-control or curiosity…maybe all of it at once again.
One second he was standing on your porch and the next you were grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him forward hard enough to make him stumble into you as your mouth crashed against his.
The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the fragile determination to stay dressed shattered. You didn't just invite Scott in, you practically hauled him across the threshold, pulling him into a kiss that tasted of alcohol and months of suppressed frustration. It was messy and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongues that left you both breathless.
You stumbled backward, the friction of your bodies fueling a fire that had been simmering for far too long. As you navigated the space, your heels clicked erratically against the floor until you kicked them off with frantic movements, one flying toward the wall and the other sliding away as you backed into the dining area.
You hit the edge of the heavy wooden table and Scott didn't miss a beat. He gripped your waist with bruising force and hoisted you up, the sudden elevation making you gasp into his mouth. He didn't stop kissing you but his path shifted, lips sliding down your jawline to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands were everywhere, frantic and demanding, sliding up the fabric of your dress and bunching it up around your waist until your thighs were bare and shivering against the cool wood.
You felt his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, tugging them down with a sharp, decisive motion until you could kick them off, exposing you to the air. As he lowered himself, his mouth found the swell of your breasts through your dress, biting lightly against the fabric on his way down between your legs.
"You don't need to do that," you managed to moan, your voice trembling as he moved your weight, sliding you toward the edge of the table until you were perched precariously, your legs naturally falling open.
"Shut up," Scott muttered against your skin, his voice a low, arrogant growl that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your clit as he finally settled himself firmly between your thighs, the heat of his body radiating against your wetness.
Then, he dipped his head. The first touch of his tongue was a shock of heat, it was wet and precise. He dove right in, tongue licking upward from your perineum to your clit in one long, sweeping stroke. You arched your back as a loud moan escaped you since it had been so long since you’d felt anything this raw, this focused. You were starving for it and Scott was feeding off of you with a primal intensity that blurred everything else out.
He used his hands to grip your hips, pulling you closer to the edge so he could bury his face in you as he kneeled. He began to lap at you with a rhythmic, punishing speed, his tongue flattening out to cover as much surface area as possible before narrowing into a sharp point to flick relentlessly against your clit.
The sensation was overwhelming. You began to squirm, hips jerking instinctively against his mouth as your fingernails clawed at the tabletop. You weren't just enjoying it, you were unraveling.
"Fuck…Scott...please," you whimpered, though you didn't know what you were asking for.
He responded by changing your position. He pushed you flat onto your back on the table, the hard wood pressing into your spine and hauled your legs up, draping them over his broad shoulders. The position left you completely exposed, your pussy flared open and glistening in the dark room.
He didn't stop the oral but added more by sliding two fingers deep inside you, stretching you open while his tongue continued to hammer away at your clit. The combination of the internal pressure and the external friction was too much. You were shaking, breath coming in short, jagged gasps as your feet drummed against his back.
He could tell you were close, encouraging him to increase the pressure, fingers curling inside you to hit your G-spot while his tongue sucked your clit into his mouth, creating a vacuum of pleasure that felt like it was pulling your entire soul out through your cunt.
“Holy s-shit!” Your head thrashed from side to side, a loud, unrestrained scream tearing from your throat as the orgasm hit you like a freight train. It was violent and all-consuming, your internal muscles clamping down hard on his fingers as waves of intense pleasure crashed over you, leaving you whimpering and twitching on the table.
As the peak slowly subsided, Scott didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his breath hot against your sensitive skin, slowly lapping the remaining juices from your pussy. He cleaned you thoroughly, his tongue lingering on every inch of your swollen cunt until you were completely spent, lying limp and shivering on the table, finally satisfied.
He straightened slowly from between your legs, chest rising hard with uneven breaths that matched your own. His mouth was swollen and wet when he licked across his lips absentmindedly, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made heat crawl back under your skin even while your body still twitched from the orgasm.
From your place sprawled across the dining table, you stared up at him in stunned silence. Your thighs were still trembling now against his sides and you were almost certain your expression looked ridiculous, wide-eyed and dazed in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to look around another person in years.
Scott held a hand out toward you and you took it automatically.
He helped you sit up first before guiding you carefully off the table, one hand steady on your waist while your legs struggled to cooperate beneath you. The second your feet touched the floor, your knees nearly gave out entirely.
Scott wiped his mouth with his palm. “Goodnight,” he said and the gentleness of it caught you off guard more than anything else that night had.
His hand slipped away from your waist and the two of you just stood there for a second, staring at each other while trying and failing to breathe normally again.
Then Scott turned and walked toward the front door.
You stayed frozen in place while he opened it and left your house without another word. A few seconds later you finally heard the sounds you’d been waiting for earlier, the truck door opening, shutting and the engine starting before he drove off into the night.
You tried walking toward your bedroom afterward and immediately realized your legs barely worked. You ended up half stumbling down the hallway, one hand dragging along the wall for balance because your entire lower body still felt weak and oversensitive.
Great sex…that had been unbelievably, painfully great sex.
You thought about it constantly afterward. In the shower, during calls and meetings, while sitting in traffic or lying awake at night staring at the ceiling with your thighs pressed together. You didn’t mention it to your friends or talked to Scott about it, even during the long stretches of silence that filled the truck during drives. The two of you understood what happened without discussing it directly, you’d crossed a line and both of you seemed aware that talking about it too much would probably drag you over it again.
The following mornings, you waited for him outside on your porch instead of letting him walk into your house like usual. Mostly because you’d spent the entire week masturbating to the memory of him between your legs on your dining table before getting ready for the day and you didn’t trust yourself to survive seeing him inside your kitchen before sunrise.
For one solid week, you slept perfectly. No insomnia or late-night work spirals, no pacing around rooms or answering emails at one in the morning just to keep your brain occupied. Whatever tension usually sat under your skin had disappeared completely and now it sat between you both instead.
Every drive felt heavier, the silence stretched longer and every sharp inhale from him made your stomach tighten unexpectedly until eventually you got sick of pretending neither of you noticed it.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” you interrupted suddenly.
Scott glanced toward you briefly, eyes leaving the road for barely a second before returning forward. “Do you want to?” he asked.
“I don’t,” you admitted. “I feel like you do though.”
“You’re right.”
You snorted quietly and looked back down at the laptop balanced across your knees.
“I thought you liked being right.” Scott added.
“Fucking love it,” you replied automatically before grimacing. “Usually.”
Silence settled again until you broke it. “Okay,” you sighed eventually. “Maybe one thing.” You turned to him properly this time. “I wasn’t that drunk that night. Actually, I wasn’t drunk at all. I had that one beer before we left my place and the rest were mocktails.”
Scott turned his head enough to study your face for a second. “I wouldn’t have touched you if you were drunk,” he said flatly. “I’m an asshole, not fucking stupid.”
You leaned back against the seat slowly. “Even that’s changed.”
His brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”
“The coffee for starters,” you said. “The lunches, too. You stopped buying disgusting gas station sandwiches and now we actually eat dinner out like normal people.” You gestured vaguely toward him. “You used to hand me coffee with five sugar packets on the side because you couldn’t remember how I took it. Now it’s magically perfect every fucking morning.”
Scott adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.
“I thought eating around other people would make this less weird,” he admitted. “And I got tired of sugar packets all over my truck.”
“Our truck,” you corrected automatically before pointing at him accusingly. “And nothing about this is normal, Scott! You ate me out on my dining table!”
“Stop yelling at me.” His tone stayed frustratingly calm.
“Why?” you shot back. “Is it making you hard?”
Scott shifted in his seat hard enough that you noticed instantly. Both his hands locked tighter around the steering wheel while he stared straight ahead at the road. The tension in his jaw became visible because unfortunately for him, you weren’t wrong.
The last week had changed things. You looked less exhausted and less tightly wound. You hadn’t snapped at him once during work and he hadn’t gotten a single unhinged one a.m. email from you all week because for the first time since he’d met you, you were actually sleeping.
“So when are we doing it again?” he asked finally, against every ounce of common sense he had left.
NEVER…that should’ve been the answer. It was the logical answer, the responsible one, the answer two coworkers with already questionable boundaries should’ve landed on immediately.
It just wasn’t the truth.
You had always maintained that getting fucked couldn’t happen in motel rooms. It didn't matter how good the sex was, the second cheap carpet, bad lighting and a rattling air conditioner got involved, the whole thing dropped several levels automatically.
Motel sex could be great, sometimes even memorable but it couldn’t be that, so the next time it happened definitely wasn’t in a motel room.
The weather that day had turned bad enough to keep everyone grounded but not dangerous enough to send your team chasing storms through three different counties. There was heavy rain, low visibility and too much lightning for comfort but not enough rotation to justify going out.
At some point, without either of you actually saying it outright, waiting the storm out in Scott’s apartment became the plan instead of sitting cramped inside the truck for hours pretending the tension between you didn’t exist.
You still couldn’t pinpoint who made the first move once the elevator doors closed behind you.
One second you were standing beside him soaked at the edges from the rain, listening to distant thunder through the concrete parking garage and the next, Scott’s hand was inside your pants like it belonged there.
You gasped hard into his mouth as his fingers slid against you immediately, already somewhat familiar with exactly what made your hips jerk forward. The kiss that came after barely counted as one, it was messy and distracted, interrupted constantly by your breathing and the quiet sounds you kept failing to swallow down.
The elevator ride lasted less than a minute but by the time the doors opened onto his floor, your orgasm was already hitting you in sharp waves around his fingers while your forehead pressed against his shoulder to keep yourself standing.
If you weren’t already fucked, you were about to be.
You’d been inside Scott’s apartment before. A handful of times after late nights working or when weather reports needed reviewing somewhere quieter than a crowded diner. You remembered the big windows first, stretching across the living room area with a full view of the skyline in the distance. Tonight they framed heavy gray clouds and rain pouring so hard that it blurred the city lights into smears of white and yellow.
Scott barely gave you time to look around because the second the apartment door shut behind you, his hands were on you again. He walked you toward the living room with rough impatience, pulling your pants down from behind while you stumbled against the edge of an armchair. Your underwear followed immediately after, dragged down together in one quick motion before pooling around your ankles.
The air in Scott’s apartment was heavy, charged with the static of the storm raging outside. The gray light of the overcast sky filtered through the windows but the atmosphere inside was scorching.
"Kneel," he commanded as he pointed toward the armchair, his voice a low, authoritative rumble.
You didn't hesitate. The tension that had been building between you for weeks, the unspoken glances and lingering touches, had finally snapped. You sank to your knees on the plush seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. You leaned forward, gripping the headrest with both hands, body already trembling in anticipation. You were completely exposed to him, your ass tilted back and waiting.
Scott disappeared for a moment, leaving you in a silence broken only by the distant roll of thunder. When he returned, the sound of a foil packet tearing echoed in the room. You heard the metallic click of his belt unbuckling and the slide of a zipper.
The anticipation was agonizing. You heard him roll the condom on, followed by the wet sound of him spitting on the head of his cock to make the entry smoother.
He stepped up behind you, heat radiating against your backside. He lined himself up and then, with one powerful, decisive surge, he thrust deep inside you.
You let out a sharp, strangled whine, your fingers digging into the fabric of the headrest. It had been so long since you’d felt a man inside you and Scott was massive. The initial stretch was borderline painful, a blunt force that filled every millimeter of your tight, starving pussy. You blinked rapidly, tears pricking your eyes as your body struggled to accommodate his size, your breath hitching in your throat.
Scott didn't give you time to adjust. He reached forward, his large hands clamping onto your hips with bruising force and yanked you backward, pulling you deeper onto his cock until there was no space left between you.
"I wanna see you," you moaned, your voice broken and desperate, trying to twist your torso around to look at him.
He didn't let you. Instead, he leaned in and sank his teeth into the skin of your shoulder, a sharp bite that made you moan despite your best efforts. His hand moved from your hip to your jaw, gripping it firmly to keep your head pinned forward.
"Just focus," he rasped calmly against your skin, the contrast of his steady voice and his firm grip sending a shiver of submission down your spine.
He let go of your jaw and began to thrust. He didn't start slowly, he hit you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. The apartment was suddenly filled with the sound of your sudden, loud moans and frantic curses. You collapsed forward, your chest pressed against the headrest, your body jarring with every hit.
As he hammered into you, Scott reached around, his hands finding your breasts. He didn't bother undressing you further, he grabbed your boobs firmly over your clothes, squeezing and kneading them with a rough, possessive grip that matched the violence of his hips.
"I'm gonna fuck you on every surface of this apartment," he growled. "You'll be seeing a lot of me."
The sex quickly became raw and primal and so, so fucking good. The sound of skin slapping against skin, mixed with the wet, rhythmic thud of his pelvis hitting your ass filled the room, competing with the roar of the thunder outside. Every thrust shook your entire frame, quaking your body from your head to your toes. You were whimpering loudly now, the pain of the initial stretch having completely melted into an overwhelming, white-hot pleasure you never thought you could feel.
Your eyes watered, staring out into the distance of the room, the world blurring as the friction built. It was fast, harsh and so perfect that you found yourself wanting to bite the armchair, your teeth sinking into the fabric as your back arched violently. You were unraveling, the long period of abstinence making you hypersensitive to every inch of him.
"I'm right there, keep going! Scott, please! Don’t fuckin’ stop." you whined, voice echoing through the apartment.
He didn't, he instead increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and more frantic, drilling into you with an obsession that felt like he wanted to merge his body with yours. The thunder peaked with a deafening crash that seemed to trigger something inside you.
Suddenly, your internal muscles spasmed. A wave of heat exploded from your core and you felt a sudden, uncontrollable gush of fluid. You were squirting, something that had never happened to you before, the hot spray soaking the armchair and your own thighs. You began to shake uncontrollably, your legs giving out as you sobbed out of pure pleasure into the headrest.
Scott let out a guttural groan, the feeling of you flooding around him driving him over the edge. He loved it, hell, he was obsessed with the way you were falling apart under him. He kept going, ignoring your tremors, continuously driving himself into you as you peaked into a mind-blowing, screaming orgasm that left you completely breathless.
With a final, deep thrust, he groaned loudly, coming hard into the condom.
The momentum stopped abruptly. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you frozen, chests heaving in unison.
Slowly, he withdrew, the wet sound of his exit punctuating the silence with an obscene pop.
You both watch the rain lash against the glass, the gray light illuminating the wreckage of your passion. You took a long, shuddering breath, body still twitching from the aftershocks as your pussy twitched around nothing, back arching further needily, earning a smack from him.
"Holy fuck," you both breathed simultaneously, the weight of the encounter settling over you in the heavy, humid air.
There was no going back after that day. Not to abstinence, not to disappointing hookups or to pretending sex was something casual and forgettable that fit neatly between work schedules and storm reports.
Once Scott got his hands on you, everything else lost appeal embarrassingly fast.
What started as isolated incidents quickly turned into a pattern neither of you seriously attempted to stop. It was a terrible idea professionally, obviously, but somehow the two of you functioned better afterward. Meetings became easier, long drives felt lighter and you argued less viciously because the tension always had somewhere to go now instead of festering under your skin for weeks.
You started going home together most nights under the excuse of saving gas money. Then showering together afterward became another practical decision because apparently water bills mattered too now. Somewhere between shared coffee in the mornings and him keeping spare clothes for you at his apartment, things moved quietly into something neither of you had planned for and the worst part was that it worked.
The sex stayed incredible. Sometimes rough enough to leave hickeys along your skin and fingerprints fading across your thighs and hips by morning, or other times slow enough that you ended up tangled together for hours afterward while thunderstorms rolled outside the windows. Every now and then he fucked you hard enough to leave you shaking afterward, staring blankly at the ceiling while he stood in the kitchen making you food like that was a normal sequence of events but eventually you realized it wasn’t just about that anymore.
You started having actual dates without calling them dates, it was dinner after work that lasted until restaurants closed around you. You went grocery shopping together because both of you were too exhausted to go separately and you began falling asleep on opposite ends of his couch while weather models played quietly on television screens neither of you were really watching.
Off-season made it worse.
Without constant travel, motel rooms and adrenaline keeping you both distracted, there was finally time to explore whatever this thing between you had become. You drifted naturally between your house and his apartment depending on whose place seemed closer to the office that day. Half your belongings somehow ended up at his place and vice versa. You texted each other constantly during meetings despite sitting twenty feet apart, phones hidden beneath desks while coworkers talked around you.
Scott started bringing your coffee to your desk already made exactly how you liked it before you even decided you needed one. You started buying his preferred cereal without asking if he wanted any. He slept better with you in his bed and you stopped grinding your teeth in your sleep when he stayed over.
So naturally, being made love to finally happened exactly the way you once thought it would and it wasn’t some exaggerated version of romance men convinced themselves they were capable of after two drinks and mediocre conversation.
It sort of snuck up on you. It was Scott pulling you into his lap while both of you were exhausted after work, kissing your shoulder absentmindedly while you read through data on his laptop. It was him waking you up slowly on Sunday mornings with his hand sliding under your shirt and nowhere either of you needed to be. It was sex that lasted forever because he knew your body well enough to take his time with it, knew exactly what made you gasp, what made your legs tense and what made you hide your face against his neck when the pleasure became too much.
He paid attention and it made all of the difference. Scott learned your body like he learned storm patterns, thoroughly and obsessively, until touching you became instinct to him and it showed…
The morning light filtered through the curtains of your bedroom in soft, golden slats, painting the sheets in hues of amber and cream. The house was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of your shared breathing and the distant chirp of birds welcoming the dawn. You were tangled together, skin on skin, the warmth of the duvet trapping the heat of your bodies in a private, humid cocoon.
There was no rush, no storm to outrun and no urgency born of desperation. There was only the heavy, sweet weight of Scott pressing you into the mattress. You were both fully naked, your limbs entwined in a lazy, possessive knot.
Scott began slowly, his lips tracing a path of fire across your collarbone. He wasn't just kissing you, he was tasting you, tongue swirling against your skin in slow circles that made you shiver. He moved lower, mouth finding the sensitive curve of your breast as you let out a soft, airy moan. He took your nipple into his mouth, sucking firmly while his thumb and forefinger pinched the other peak, twisting it just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core.
You arched your back, your fingers sliding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. The friction of his chest against your breasts was intoxicating, the rough hair of his torso grazing your sensitive skin.
He shifted, sliding his body up so he could look into your eyes. His gaze was dark, filled with an intensity that felt more overwhelming than any of the rougher encounters you'd had. He didn't move to flip you or push you into a different position, instead, he settled between your thighs in a classic missionary stance and pushed inside. There was no latex barrier this time, no clinical snap of a condom. It was raw, wet and absolute.
The sensation of his bare skin sliding against yours was a revelation. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt the full, throbbing heat of him filling you completely. It felt different, more intimate and permanent. The lack of a barrier made every ridge of his cock feel amplified, every pulse of his blood echoing against your own internal walls.
He didn't start with the punishing pace of the past. Instead, he began to rock, his movements slow and agonizingly deep. He pressed his palm flat against your stomach, pushing down firmly to tilt your pelvis, ensuring that every thrust hit the deepest part of you.
"Gripping me like a fucking vise…so perfect." he groaned, his voice a gravelly morning rumble that vibrated through your chest.
You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles to pull him even deeper. You were lost in the rhythm, the slow, sliding friction creating a build-up of tension that felt like a tightening coil in your belly. You ran your hands through his hair, your nails lightly scratching his scalp as you moaned into the first rays of the morning sun.
The intimacy was suffocating in the best way possible. As he continued to rock, his movements grew slightly more urgent, the slow glide turning into a passionate, driving force. He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, tasting the salt and sweetness of your skin while he continued to pinch and tease your nipples, hand roaming your curves with a familiarity that spoke of a deep, obsessive knowledge of your body.
It didn’t take long for your breath to become shallow, chest heaving as the pleasure began to peak. You could feel the walls of your pussy clenching around him, milking him with every deep stroke. Your body tensed, toes curling into the sheets as a wave of heat crashed over you. You cried out, a long, melodic sound of surrender, as your orgasm ripped through you in slow, pulsing waves that left you shaking beneath him.
Scott didn’t slow his pace as his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily. He continued moving, the intimacy of the connection almost too much to bear.
"Want to be done?" he whispered, his voice strained, muscles trembling with the effort of holding back.
You looked up at him, eyes hazy with pleasure and affection. The thought of him pulling away felt wrong because you wanted everything. You wanted the weight, the heat and the mark of him.
You shook your head with an escaped whimper, pulling his face down to yours. "Don’t you dare pull out…’want you to come inside." You breathed.
The request broke the last of his restraint. Scott let out a guttural sound, a mix of a groan and a sob and began to drive into you with a renewed, primal intensity. It was a desperate, loving hunger. He hammered into you, movements strong and deep, each thrust a claim and a promise.
As he reached his limit, his grip on your hip tightened, fingers digging into your skin. He thrust one last time, burying himself as deep as physically possible and you felt the hot, thick bursts of his cum flooding into you. The sensation of him filling you from the inside out was the most intense feeling you had ever experienced, a physical manifestation of the bond that had grown between you.
In the height of his release, as his body shuddered violently against yours, he gasped out the words he had been holding back.
"I love you," he choked out, the confession raw and unplanned.
The world seemed to stop for a heartbeat. You felt a surge of emotion that rivaled the intensity of the orgasm, a warmth that started in your chest and radiated to your fingertips. You tightened your hold on him, pulling him down for a deep, searing kiss.
"I love you too," you whispered against his lips.
He collapsed onto you, heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your own, both of you spent and glowing in the morning light, finally and completely entwined.
A few years ago, you would’ve hated the idea that Scott Miller of all people would end up teaching you everything worth knowing about sex. It would’ve bruised your ego badly, especially considering how seriously you once took those stupid categories and scales in your head before Scott showed up and ruined all of them completely.
Good sex stopped mattering.
Great sex became expected.
Getting fucked became routine enough that you lost count somewhere along the line, usually around the third orgasm of the day and definitely before he started dragging you into his lap halfway through work calls just because he felt like bothering you…with his hands and dick.
But somehow, even after all the rough sex and ruined schedules, Scott still managed to make love to you exactly the way you once imagined it should feel.
So if somebody offered you the chance to go back and do it all over again, you would without hesitation.
You were an absolute HR nightmare now and what a fucking delight that was!
A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!
Look at him just chewing the FAWK out of that gum 😭 (wait chew me next)
just imagine— superboy prime, off world and missing you so much he’s jerking off just from the thought of you
this man was so sexually frustrated from how far apart he was from you that he had to use his fist to satisfy his cravings, pants leaving his lips and slick slaps of skin being heard
clark’s lustful eyes were on his cock, imagining it was your soft hand going up and down his thick cock, wanting your tongue to run over his length, craving for your pretty walls to suck him in and not let him go
“ohhh fuck, miss you baby” he moaned, tracing his tip with his thumb and pretending it was your thumb. “miss you so much—" a whimper was heard from him. the action made his cock twitch and clark couldn’t take it anymore
with his free shaky hand, he pulled out his phone and hurriedly unlocked it to open his photo gallery and press on the gallery that was dedicated to you
one picture was you with an outfit that highlighted all of your curves, your boobs slightly perky from how tight the top was. it made clark salivate, his fist around his cock now speeding up. the other picture was you sleeping peacefully next to him, lips still swollen after a night with him
but when clark scrolled to the next picture, it was one he had snapped a few weeks— you, looking up at him with those beautiful wide eyes and your mouth filled with his cock. his breathing increased, moans of your name leaving his lips
“fuck, i want the real deal” he panted, scrolling to the next one— a picture of you under him with a clear shot of his cock perfectly snugged inside your pussy. the camera perfectly captured your expression, eyes half lidded and lips parted with an ‘o’— a pornographic expression so lewd it made clark groan, feeling that build of pleasure slowly form
“already imaginin’ her—shit— squeezin’ me tight” he moaned, knocking his head back after tightening his grip and imagining it was your pussy instead of your walls, now thrusting his hips and fucking his hips— all imagining it was you
each picture of you— lewd or not— made his cock harden with no failure
and after a few swipes of pictures and one last stroke of his cock, clark let out a curse under his breath before his orgasm washed out. “ohh that’s it, pretty girl. milkin’ me dry” he kept mumbling to himself, his hand now sticky and slick with cum as his pace slowed down but not enough for his hand to stop
fuck, he couldn’t wait to get back home
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masterlist!
(a/n: writing this with one hand rn, literally. lets also ignore how this was too long for a drabble but idc its still a drabble)
⋆˚꩜｡ Newly-weds!Clark Kent x reader (silly, light hearted smut 18+)
You guys aren't virgins...but Clark might as well be
CW: sex, AFAB reader, reader teasing Clark, Clark is kinda helpless, he yaps, not proofread, nervous clark
he's such a cutie I wanna write for him more
The first time being intimate between each other is surely a treasured moment for all couples. Except this isn’t the first time you guys are having sex.
In fact, you’re now married. So let me rephrase it; the first time being intimate as a MARRIED couple is surely a treasured moment. So why is Clark fumbling like it’s the first time again?
Clark was laid on his stomach in front of you, staring at your pussy, and his fingers fumbled desperately, as he rubs your clit, observing the growing wetness of your cunt, inhaling the musk happily. “H-honey—you’re so pretty! So gorgeous a-and on our first dance! Wow you were gorgeous, I said that already—my bad!” He chuckles, adjusting his glasses back onto his nose.
“Shut up…” you moan out as your newly wed husband continues to prep your hole, you continue “just put it in already, babe. It’s already primed for consummation,” your playful dirty talk is followed by a coy wink as you watch the man scramble back on his knees. He fumbles with his boxers, trying to fish himself out.
Boredom is palpable on you after a minute of watching him fumble, but you smirk up at him, “Clark, really?”
“Don’t laugh at me!”
“Not laughing!”
“You’re rushing me!” He shoots back, but it's dampened by the crack in his voice that he tries to ignore and drops his arms like he’s giving up, “Gosh, why am I so nervous?!” He asks himself out loud.
You sit up, the hairdo done for the sake of the ceremony is officially ruined, disheveled by a quick makeout and manically moving your head around with basically any stimulation. A smile spreads on your face as you crawl over against the unfamiliar hotel bed, and you whisper “Clark, stop overthinking it.” You didn’t give him a chance to reply, immediately mushing your lips together, relishing in the way he melts into it.
A hand drags over the front of his cotton, tight boxers as he mutters against your lips, “I wore the underwear you like…”
“Big dork,” you giggle against his lips, finally freeing his cock, pulling back entirely to admire the length and girth that you’re so familiar with. “Well aren’t you excited,” you tease him, finally looking him in the eye again, bringing a light weighted hand to gently tease over the tip of his cock, watching it pump out more pre, “still melt over this move, hm?”
Relaxation finally takes over him as he bashfully grins, nodding slowly, “You..you know my weak spots, sweetheart,” he breathes, before gently laying his hands on your shoulders and laying you down on the plush surface.
“Let me…” he mutters with a gentle smile. Against your pussy, his cock rubs against the slit, and with the amount of tension you feel, you can hardly understand how you had been able to take the length when you had sex before now.
Clark thumbs your clit, rotating his thumb and stroking the nub with care as he finally pushes in, making him whimper slightly, his teeth dig into his bottom lip as he gazes at the way your folds contort with his finger movements over your bud. This admiration continued until he hilted his cock deep into you, “Am I doing it right, sweetheart?” he asks hesitantly, to which you blink.
“Clark, we’ve been together long enough, you know what I like.”
“Oh right—okay, yes. Brain fart…” he chuckles bashfully and you can't help but roll your eyes at how dorky he sounded. Either way, he leans forward over you, his nose squishes into your cheek as he peppers light peck, slowly pulling out before thrusting back into the warm channel, “So pretty, and good, and amazing…” he lists reverently, his movements picking up.
The experience of the first time having sex as a married couple might be a top 10 experience. Either that, or you and Clark just make consummating a marriage a top tier experience.
divider by @cursed-carmine
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