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CONGRATULATIONS! @anon-188 @theworstwolvie @venigrantrogers >:) i will make graphics for you.
thank you everyone for your interest! i hope you 1) have a great summer and 2) in a somewhat fated manner, find the right pic for your moodboard đââď¸
a fic about that thing when you get sleepy around the person you love.
WARNINGS/TAGS: reader is a shield agent, reader's gender is unspecified, mentions of canon-typical violence, fluff/soft, the space between friends and something more
Turns out insomnia can be cured, only with very specific ingredients.
One: have Sam Wilson insist on watching Top Gunâagainâwhen it comes his turn for a movie night pick.
This happens every two months or so. You love the man, but he needs to stop trolling at this point. After this rewatch, youâll probably regurgitate Val Kilmerâs lines while you brush your teeth in the morning.
Wanda rolls her eyes so hard you think they might get stuck like that forever.
âThis is the last time, Sam!â
But Sam smiles through the crowdâs boos. Even while the team complains, they take their positions on and around the couch anyway. Yourself included.
Because everyone loves him, and itâs just your fucking luck he loves Top Gun.
Two: find a comfortable surface.
The common room couch? Real nice surface. Of course a government-funded cohabitation facility for their top operatives can afford Egyptian cotton-upholstered furniture.
Three: be extremely tired.
The most recent mission you completed just finished debriefing in the afternoonâa few hours before movie night. It was a track-and-extract of a trafficking ring, except you got assigned the track part, and that was a lot less fun. The stakeouts were long, and the car you sat in had aged leather seats that dampened the already stale air. No air conditioningâcanât risk turning on the engine. No activity around the building you watched, either.
Stretch that out for some days, and naturally, all you wanted upon touchdown was a hot shower and a bed with springs.
Top Gun, a soft couch, and fatigue. Those three variables are enough to force you asleep, but just to be as empirical as possible, you have to list down another.
Four:
Get Steve Rogers to sit next to you.
Technically you didnât get him to. He sauntered in late, saw the only open spot, and helped himself.
Suspicious, come to think of it. Why did nobody sit next to you? Nat and you would whisper quipped commentaries at each other. Wanda and you are close enough friends to cuddle. Sam would take the opportunity to further grind your gears by manspreadingâhis hobby is grinding peopleâs gears.
âComfy?â
Steve is dressed in gray sweats and a simple t-shirt, its deep blue bringing out his eyes.
Heâs the one who looks comfortable, if anything. Youâre tempted to thumb at his shirt sleeve and ask about the thread count, but like a normal human being, you nod your yes and watch the opening credits roll.
You can feel his blue eyes on the side of your cheek before he looks at the screen, too.
The moment the movie begins proper, you find yourself muttering the opening line.
âGhost Rider, this is Strike. We have unknown contact. Inbound Mustang. Your vector zero nine zero for bogey.â
Steve chuckles next to you and the warm sound coaxes your eyes to meet.
What happens next is automatic: seeing him smile makes you do the same.
The movie continues on, but its familiarity begs your attentions to wander. They instead pay dues to the gravity of his forearm, which nearly brushes yours. In the dim, you catch a glimpse of a vein that runs down one side like a river, and file the image away as inappropriate.
Thatâs Steve Rogers. Captain America. Your boss, good friend, and the entire nationâs moral compass, who keeps a list of the best places to get apple pie. You will direct your gaze with the respect he deserves.
And you do. Except in schooling your vision, your other senses betray you.
He smells good.
That thought feels way more inappropriate than looking at his forearmâwhich, for the record, you have seen and touched, all in a professional capacity. So you chose to stare at his hand again and hold your brain back from cataloging the scent of his soap, shampoo, or whatever combination of product that has your heart kicking like it wants out of your chest.
Steve Rogers doesnât cure insomnia. He worsens itâor so you think.
Sleepy is the last thing you are, until the minutes tick by and sleep claims you anyway. You remember yawning while watching the nightclub scene. Iceman wore a pair of aviators indoors.
By the time the flying part of Top Gun rolls around, you donât get to watch it: youâre knocked out cold.
â ¡âśÂˇ â
When you wake up, cold is the last thing you are. Partly because the common room is designed to bleed with sunlight.
Itâs morning, just the top ofâyellow rays cut through the windows, no cloud in the sky to block its path.
Your skin feels warm.
Itâs really no surprise. Steve Rogers is lying next to you.
How he is lying next to you is a surprise. The manâs broad frame looks cramped on the inside part of the couch, but nothing on his face betrays discomfort. Heâs sound asleep, one arm folded under his head, the other slung loosely on your waistânot quite encircling it, just resting. His chest rises and falls slow. You realize this because you have both hands on that exact part of him.
Oh, shit. Youâre touching his chest.
It turns out you shifted your palms a little too quickly, because Steve begins to stir. His tendency for alertness quickly revealed blue eyes that blinked once, twice, thriceâbefore his gaze eventually focuses on you. He doesnât yawn, perhaps as confused as you are.
âMorning,â you whisper, almost sheepish.
He hums back. âMorning.â
âUh⌠What happened?â
Itâs quiet for a bit. Youâre not sure if his brain has caught up. Heâs staringânot the kind of stare you see on the field. Softer. Blue eyes study your face, then the position youâre in, piecing together the scene.
âYou fell asleep last night,â he finally says, running his fingers through his hair. They fall across his forehead like the most good-looking bad news youâve ever laid your eyes on. âGuess I mustâve fallen asleep, too.â
The untangling happens slowly. He lifts his arm away from your waist, props himself up on one elbow. You take the chance to sit and stretch, pretending that a tight neck is your number one concern and not the growing warmth on your cheeks.
âCanât believe none of them woke us up,â you murmur. âSam should be banned from picking Top Gun ever again.â
He chuckles. The sound still hits you like it did last night, amplified now by the lack of distance between you. But Steve finally stands up, folds his arms behind his head, then extends them. He repeats the motion a few times. You feel badâhis circulation must be damn near cut off after sleeping weird the entire night on a couch far too small for two.
âWell⌠at least weâre well-rested.â
You blink, taken aback.
âYou slept well?â you ask.
âYeah,â he nods, âyou?â
Now that the question ricocheted back, you realize you donât feel shitty where you should. Your limbs arenât particularly sore. Your head feels clear after the initial fog.
Well-rested. Is this what it feels like?
âI think so,â you reply. Thereâs a smile on his face when you look back at him: small and slightly lopsided. He looks handsome.
Then he extends a hand, as if he knew that smile would make your knees buckle.
âCâmon, Iâll make you coffee.â
The second time happens two weeks later.
The Quinjetâs hum was almost an alien silence after the fight.
It was tough. Only three operatives were deployed: you, Nat, and Steveâtop operatives, yes, but still only three. You went up against a swarm of mercenaries, their guns blazing, while the teamâs equipment was mostly stealth gear not even half the enemyâs firepower.
You managed by the skin of the edge of your teeth. The word barely doesnât quite cover it.
After putting the jet on autopilot and complaining about rancid intel with adrenaline-flooded veins, the three of you fall quiet.
Fatigue creeps in.
Last part of the mission: get through a five-hour flight back to New York.
Natasha sits in front of you, rebuilding her usual mask of nonchalanceâyou can see it in her sigh as she buckles up. The earlier combat chipped at her cool, and reasonably so: being in this line of work for most of her life doesnât change the fact that it only takes one bullet to end it.
And boy, were there quite the number of bullets.
Steve chose the spot next to you, despite all the empty space in the cabin. You thought maybe he wanted to huddle, talk about the mission, see how you held up. You were the only non-Avenger in this assignmentâit was reasonable to assume you wouldnât be as used to this as they are.
But itâs been a good ten minutes and he hasnât said a word.
A moment of uncertainty grips you. Post-mission, heâs usually corralling the team, checking morale, doing a small debrief of his own. Granted, thereâs only you and Nat, so maybe thereâs no need for that, butâŚ
âŚis he alright?
Just as you look over to your side, concerned, you feel warmth, weight, and a brush of something soft.
You can no longer move.
Because Steve is asleep, and his head was on your shoulder.
His seat isnât exactly glued next to yours, but close enough for him to bridge the gap. You watch the blonde strands of his hair press against the black of your tac suit and think about all the times you felt his weight on youâthe most recent being his back glued to your chest while he shielded you from a bullet hail, just before you managed a rocky takeoff.
Aside from that? Fingers around your wrist during training. âNice try,â he said once, as if your uppercut wasnât the most predictable move ever. A friendly hand patting your shoulder after.
But never like this.
It takes a lot of effort for you to stare at something else that isnât him.
Your gaze unfortunately lands on Nat, less than five feet in front of you.
Sheâs already smirking.
You look down on your lap, slightly embarrassed and left with nothing you can do. A little less than five hours to go on this flight.
Might as well get some shut-eye.
â ¡âśÂˇ â
âHey.â
You blink awake, nearly jumping upright. Natasha chuckles, patting her hand on your shoulder.
âEasy, there,â she nods towards the cockpit. You see a familiar sight.
âWe arrived. Get some real rest after the debrief.â
You rub the sleep away from your eyes. âThanks.â
You glance at Steve. Heâs already in the middle of getting out of his seat.
You wonder if his head on your shoulder was part of a dream.
At least the third time happens somewhere with a bed, which of course you argue over.
Steve starts it.
âIâll take the couch.â
You thumb the hem of your tank top. âYou know, I was going to say that.â
âThatâs kind of you,â he smiles, âbut please.â
He gestures to the bed the both of you are ever-so-politely âno, youâ-ing over: itâs rickety and is clothed in the thinnest sheets ever, sure, but thereâs only one of it, so naturally this battle of politeness has to be fought.
You raise a brow challengingly. âIf you take the couch, Iâll take the floor.â
Steveâs expression hardens like he took that personally. âNo way am I gonna let you.â
âThen take the bed.â
âWhere will you sleep?â
âThe couch.â
âBut itâll be uncomfortable.â
âAha,â your lips curl into a smile, âso you admit that the couch is uncomfortable.â
He looks away. You can tell heâs holding back his face from breaking out into a disbelieving grin.
Eventually, like an overly-used television trope, the inevitable consensus is that you are going to share instead.
Funny howâeven during the back-and-forthâit felt like it was always going to come to this. Like youâd surrendered sharing the bed as an eventuality rather than a possibility.
Funny how you could feel him thinking the same.
Which leads you to this point in time:
Two hours past midnight, T-minus five hours before your mission starts. Nothing high stakesâitâs just the two of youâbut still, at this rate, youâll be running on fumes tomorrow.
The night coats the safehouse in darkness, bedroom included: the curtains are drawn and the night light is off to hide you better.
Even in the dim, you can glimpse the outline of him. Heâs in a t-shirt and sweats again.
His weight on the bed next to you is unmistakable. You try to recall the last time you didnât sleep aloneâexcept for the times you fell asleep with him.
You canât remember.
He breaks the silence thirty minutes after you said your good nights.
Youâre counting.
âCanât sleep?â
You shift from your side to your back.
âYou caught me. You?â
Heâs seated instead of lying down, spine pressed against the brittle headboard.
âSame.â
You pause. Look at him from your spot on the pillow. His profile is sharp where the dark should dull it, or maybe youâve just memorized it so well. Still, thereâs something unreadable about him.
âDoes it happen often?â you ask.
He looks down at you, blue eyes soft. âSometimes. Often enough.â
You let the answer sink inâSteve Rogers, super soldier, canât sleepâand shoot him a wry smile.
âMaybe you ought to lie down, if you want to try and sleep?â
He let out a quiet, humorous huff. âYeah, youâre right.â
Then he makes himself comfortable next to you, head finally touching the pillow. You feel the cotton of his shirt brush against your bare shoulder. His weight is more prominent now, and thereâs a faint smell that reminds you of a forest after the rain. The blonde of his hair brings you back to the Quinjetâweeks ago at this point, but your eyes remember.
Heâs so close. If your fingers even so much as twitch, theyâll probably kiss his.
âWhy canât you sleep?â he asks, voice low.
You stare at him. The last time you saw him sideways like this was after movie night.
Why canât you sleep? Itâs been such a big part of your life, you forget why.
âItâs just difficult for me,â you start, âbut these days⌠Iâm not sure.â
He lets you find the thread, shifting so heâs facing you. You begin to face him, tooâlike your shoulder blades and his are long lost twins.
You finally tell him.
âI get a feeling that something is going to happen, and I need to be ready for it.â
Something in his eyes shines just then: a mosaic mix of regret and recognition.
Thirty-three minutes since âgood nightâ, and in this nocturnal darkness, you see a kind of light.
On the surface, Steve couldnât be more unlike you. Yet you find that the two of you are more similar than you initially thought.
Youâre both soldiers who are good at your job, partly because of this: the alertness in your souls that demands one eye ever-watchful. The spirit of a sentinel that doesnât know what peace is because itâs never learned.
They say thereâs no rest for the wicked. Here he is, the truest heart of them all, not even sleepy.
In his wordless glance is an understanding. You have no need to explain.
But then his eyes start to wander and you wish he would say more, because the trace of his gaze feels too intimate for teammates.
Yet it tastes familiar.
Has he looked at you like this before? Ocean blues drag a path down your face, brushing past your lips in a swoop so secret youâd miss it if you blinked. His gaze veers off the side, but not away from you. Is he studying your cheek? The shell of your ear?
What on earth does he see in you?
You speak because the space between your ribcage hurts.
âWeâre gonna be so fucked tomorrow morning.â
His laugh is quiet, more apparent in his face instead of the volume of his voice. There it is, the distraction you neededâexcept the sensation in your chest tugs stronger. Just once, but enough for you to notice.
Of course youâd fallen for him. Thereâs no way you wouldnât.
But youâre a soldier, and so is he, and thereâs work to do tomorrow.
To your mild surpriseâand his, in the small shine in his eyesâyou yawn.
Itâs strange. It should keep you up, this proximity with him. Though your relationship with Steve is comfortable, the context around this situation should make you feel more uptight rather than relax.
You think about the man in the meeting room and the man you spar with. He advocates for calm decision-making, but eggs you on with a cheeky âthat all you got, agent?â on the training mat. Both versions of him are here with you. In bed. A decision he made calmly.
How is it possible to be nervous and unwind at the same time?
A few seconds pass, and you yawn again.
âThatâs your cue,â he smiles wryly. It shoots an arrow through you.
âYeah. Try to get some sleep,â you smile back, turning to face away from him before he sees the crack in it. âGood night, Steve.â
âGood night.â He says your name, and thatâs the last thing you hear.
Your lullaby.
You donât know he falls asleep right after.
â ¡âśÂˇ â
Steve wakes up firstâhe has a tendency of doing that. It means heâs the first witness to a softness that wrecks him.
Somewhere in the night, your bodies turned to face each other.
It reminds him of sunflowers.
Unlike that time after movie night, thereâs more space between you. A part of him mourns the distance, though sharing a bed already signals a lack of.
Another part of him is happy he gets to see your face.
You look peaceful like this. Not that you look troubled when youâre awake. Just⌠something about your eyes closed, the space between your brows completely relaxed, your lips ever-so-slightly partedâitâs not a sight he gets to see often, especially not in this sort of terrain.
You might be in a safehouse, and the bed springs might be rusted by age, but the thin line between consciousness and sleep encourages the mind to wanderâand for a man of discipline, wandering is dangerous. It tempts him with thoughts that taste more like dreams.
What if you werenât in a safehouse? What if this was your bedâyours and hisâand sharing it wasnât birthed out of politeness?
What if this is just something he gets to see every morning?
You stir gently. A stray strand of hair falls on your face. He lifts his hand up to tuck it back.
Stubbornly, it slips back to where it landed before. He smiles.
This dream will soon end, he realizes. In a matter of minutes, he feels the sun rising behind his back, a treacherous thing that beckons another fight for someone elseâs future.
When you open your eyes, youâll go back to being soldiers. Youâll call him Cap on the field.
Last nightâs memory surfaces. He holds on to the shape of his name in your voice.
The bright morning erases long shadows. For once, he wishes it didnât.
He allows himself one final thing.
Fingers cradle your cheek, thumb brushing the soft of it. In your sleep, you lean into his touch. His breath snags, and so does his heartbeat.
Then, after the pangâs echoes die down, Steve rests a hand on your shoulder to wake you.
The fourth time happens because you ask for it.
Heâs been up reading by the lamplight, only one chapter in when he started, now halfway throughâa sign that the hour is later than he thinks it is. The book isnât a particularly riveting one, either: time passed in a crawling pace with each page. Where he thought his ambivalence towards the subject matter would put him to sleep, here he is.
Wide awake on page 257.
Awake to hear the knock on his door. Three times. Soft, almost imperceptible.
Steve stares like he knows who it is already. The book is placed on the nightstand.
He opens the door to see you.
The sight tears him two ways.
Youâre in short shorts and an oversized tee that has seen better days. He would see the print on the front if you werenât hugging a folded-up blanket against your chest. Thereâs a sting on his sternumâfrom how you trust him enough to appear at his doorstep halfway through dawn, and from the look on your face.
Itâs the look of someone whoâs trying their best to sleep, but canât.
âI didnât think youâd be up, Iâm so sorry,â you breathe, surprised.
Heâs aware of the concern bleeding through his every gesture. You havenât told him what you needed and heâs already holding the door wide open.
âHey, no, donât be. Whatâs wrong?â
You part your lips, deliberating.
âI canât sleep.â
Itâs as simple as that, but he knows exactly how difficult the battle is.
He nods, feeling his jaw clench. He hides his hands in his pocketsâif they had their way, youâd be in his arms by now, but thatâd be selfish of him.
Because clearly thereâs something you want to tell him. Something more. He watches as you seem to debate for and against yourself: the toll of sleeplessness on you renders your expressions crystalline.
He waits patiently in the doorway. A quiet encouragement that yearns to surround you in louder ways.
You finally find the words.
âThe last time I had a good nightâs sleep was at that safehouse.â
He remembers. It was the night he wished you werenât just agents on a mission. It was the night he got to stare at your back, wishing for a world where pulling you against his chest wonât make things complicated.
He swallows. âMe, too.â
In timeâs desert, itâs these little memories he shares with you that dot the landscape like oases. You discovered these sacred places together, where you may fix what the journey broke.
But theyâre still few and far between. The rest of life is a white noise: all those mission briefs and debriefs used to mean something, now they just chip away at the memory of what sanctuary feels like.
And yet he recalls the details perfectly. Enough to conjure a balm that is his own imagination. He pretends youâre next to him, weight sinking on the bed, hair splayed on his pillow. He pretends some nights. Most nights.
Every night.
âCan I please sleep with you?â
You ask before he can offer, then cut in before he responds.
âNot like that,â you stammer, distraught, âI meanââ
âNo, I know what you mean, itâs okay.â
You laugh weakly, gesturing at your blanket. âI donât want to seem presumptuous, itâs just that my room isââ
âFour floors down, yeah,â he knows the way there because heâs considered it more than a few times.
Steveâs hand lands gently on your shoulder, guiding you inside.
âDonât worry about it. Come on.â
You cross that hallowed threshold into his room. Steve clicks the door closed before leading you towards the bed. Itâs much too darkâand too lateâfor a room tour, anyway.
He unfurls his comforter, and in doing so notices the way you watch him. In another time and place, heâd be more amused at the way you looked: like you were standing at attention.
You donât climb into the bed until he does.
âSo you brought your own blankie?â There was a hint of a tease in his question, though not at all unkind.
You pout, sitting on the bed. Said blanket is still in your arms.
âItâs not a blankie.â
âThen whyâd you bring it?â
âI donât know,â you shrug, âdidnât want to steal yours from you.â
He smiles, lifting his comforter as if telling you to make yourself at home in it.
âI donât mind.â
âYou sure?â
âOf course. Weâve slept in worse conditions, havenât we?â
That pulls a smile out of you, and it scares him how pleased he is with himself.
But you settling underneath his blanket and onto the bed pleases him more. He watches on a propped elbow as you adjust your head on his pillow, and heâs grateful that youâre hereâin more ways than one.
That youâre here is something heâs always thankful for. That youâre here in his room instead of the other way around is a special occasion to be grateful. Being in your bedroomâin your bedâwould mean enveloping himself in you, and there was no way heâd survive that.
The thought alone already makes him want. Heâs not accustomed to it.
Soon, the two of you are lying face to face. He catalogs the way you fit into his space: perfectly.
âYou okay?â he asks.
You answer with a nod and a quiet âyeah, better now.â
Thereâs a moment where all you do is look at each other. It suspends the very thing you came looking for, eyes open, expectant.
âSteve?â
âMm?â
Then you do that thing again when you hesitate with your words, before finally stringing them together.
Like earlier, itâs a request. As if heâd ever refuse you anything.
âCan I hold you?â
He breathes through a sudden wave of emotion, like a dislodged splinter in a dam.
Youâre asking him for permission, but in doing so, he feels like heâs been given itâyou want the very thing heâs longed to give you since that night on the couch.
So he doesnât answer with words.
His arm circles around your waist while the other cradles your nape, both pulling you closer. Your legs brush. You let out a sigh of capitulation.
Thereâs a thrum in his spine as you move, tooâyou nestle your face in the crook of his neck, both hands resting against his chest. He wonders if you can feel his heartbeat.
How many lines have he crossed by doing this? The list of his transgressions runs long.
For once, he doesnât give a damn.
He holds you tight. You bury yourself in him. The warmth that has soothed him many times seems to bleed like an open woundâthere was no need to hide behind stations or the guise of propriety.
Together, the two of you are broken pieces of different things, laid in a perfect fit. Breathing. Craving the rest only the other can bring.
A hard life melting into a soft place, where he doesnât have to choose between love and rest.
You bring him both.
âSteve?â
âMm?â
He likes this refrain: you calling his name, him answering.
You look up at him from the hug. He dips his chin down to meet your gaze.
âThank you.â
I should be the one saying that, he thinks to himself, but this is no time for emotional revelations. Not yetâyouâre too tired for it.
So he pulls you in closer like closer was ever possible. You find shelter in the hollow of his neck again, nose kissing his throat. He strokes a gentle hand down your hair, feeling you sigh warm air against his skin. Your t-shirt is soft against his. His other palm presses steady on your back.
âYouâre welcome,â he says.
Soon enough, your breathing evens. Youâre asleep.
He remembers the safehouse this time, the peaceful look on your face. He remembers clinging onto those last few minutes of closeness before the call of duty snuffs out peace. The light of day always makes the lines between you that much clearer.
Like tide, youâre further away from him when the sun is up.
For now, he allows himself one small thing.
He leans down and kisses your crown, breathing in your shampoo. His lips press one, two, three more times, wandering further down: your temple, your eyelid, your cheekâeach breaching a boundary.
Each bearing a promise.
Thereâs no assignment come morning. No more reason to run.
Tomorrow, heâll tell you how he feels.
A thumb brushes your lower lip, careful not to wake you.
That one will have to wait until tomorrow, if youâll let him. The only thing he can do now is dream of it.
He hopes this is the last night heâll dream of it.
taglist: @pinksplace @thceseus @theworstwolvie
my first time writing steve...... and i broke my self-imposed ban of no writing in april for him with this idea....... if it's balls, lie to my face
uni uni uni⌠i could kiss u for writing this fic. like seriously câmere đ
my mental state hasnât been amazing lately and this gorgeous gorgeous fluff was genuinely a balm to my soul. you got that soft, gentle side of steve so perfect, the one that i wish i *could* curl up into and hide away from the world in. my heart was so fuzzy and warm the whole time, and i adored that without realising they were each otherâs safe space to rest and then finally at the end admitting it to each other đĽšđđđ it was so so sooooo perfect uni thank you so much for writing and sharing this with us!!!
Get Steve Rogers to sit next to you.
yes hello uni i am having trouble with step four i canât seem to find a steve rogers to sit next to me :( instructions unclear i am once again sat steve rogers-less :(((
They say thereâs no rest for the wicked. Here he is, the truest heart of them all, not even sleepy.
oh my goddddd the way this line made my heart pang. so so sooooo beautifully put URGHHHHHH stevie you deserve the world and you deserve to REST iâm so glad they have each other
Together, the two of you are broken pieces of different things, laid in a perfect fit. Breathing. Craving the rest only the other can bring.
what the fuckkk uni iâm gonna cry đ this is poetry!!!!
That one will have to wait until tomorrow, if youâll let him. The only thing he can do now is dream of it. He hopes this is the last night heâll dream of it.
STOP HES SOOOO đđđđđ
THE perfect ending i feel all soft and gooey inside đĽšđĽš god i love your writing so much you have such a fabulous way with conveying feelings đ
logan howlett/bucky barnes/clark kent x f!reader, smut mdni
tw: somnophilia, not proofread
he comes home to you sleeping, which is not a new occurrence. itâs late. you probably did your best to stay up and wait for him.
whatâs new is the weather. temperatures getting warmer sees you wearing less and lessâat home, outside, and to bed.
tonight itâs just a shirtâhis shirtâand a pair of panties, something he catches a glimpse of in the dim.
and a damning glimpse it turns out to be.
you mustâve kicked the covers off of you at some point, given your bare legs. itâs likely that the heat made you twist and turn in your sleep, which shifted the shirt youâre wearing and your underwear: because the shirtâs hem rides up past your ribs, and the underwear gusset isnât exactly covering you.
he can tell that your pussyâs wet.
itâs the smell that drives logan howlett crazy, subtle as it is even to his senses. you arenât dripping, not yet, and thatâs a thing heâd happily remedy.
he strips himself down to nothing and slips onto bed behind you, careful not to wake you.
the first thing he does is bury his nose in your hair and breathe you inâitâs enough to make him shiver.
then his hands move: fingers trace your exposed stomach, taking in the warmth of your skin. slow strokes, up and down, deceptively comforting. your chest rises and falls evenly, asleep and none the wiser.
âalmost like youâre doing this on purpose,â he hums to himself when those same fingers snake south.
his face is in the crook of your neck now, because he wants to smell the change: a shift in your pheromones that only he can sense.
it hits him like a drug.
the catalyst? his fingers ghosting your hole above the fabric.
he moans .
you shift in his arms, the cleft of your ass rubbing against his already hard cock. loganâs fingers begin to circle, feeling the growing dampness of you, teasing the outline of your firm clit.
despite being a man of rough repute, he can be gentle, especially if being gentle means torturing you better.
âsheâs dripping,â heâs talking to himself now, his own breath catching as he tugs your panties to the side, callused fingerpads rubbing your wet slit, âleaking, need to plug her full. yeah? you wonât mind? no, you wonât, youâre a good girl.â
when he sinks a finger in, you let out a hazy moan, spine arched into a large palm thatâs busy groping your breast. the friction pulls you out of slumber, but only barely.
âl-loganââ
âsshh. go back to sleep, baby. let me have my fun with you.â
but you canâtânot when heâs fucking you with his fingers like you owe him, and not while heâs murmuring filth into your ear the whole time he plays with your clenching hole.
âneed this pretty pussy to cum for me. sheâs been wantinâ that, yeah? câmon, sweetheart, let her cum for her old man.â
bucky barnes is hungry. and not for the dinner he willfully skipped.
the sight is the catalyst for this certain appetite: he finds himself kneeling on the bed just to watch your unconscious body and the gift between your legs, presented so beautifully in that pretty underwear.
âfor me? you shouldnât have,â he breathes, just as his face lowers to your inner thighs.
his hands spread you open just so he can see you better.
and thatâs all he does. stares. amuses himself with the wet spot on the fabric that grows ever so slowlyâmust be because of his warm breath fanning your pussy. he swears he can taste you in the air, and the sensation makes him painfully aware of the tent in his pants.
so he rewards himself. his reward is you.
just a little bit, though: his lips kiss your pussy through the underwear, tongue pressing against the fabric for a taste.
your hips chafe against the air. his eyes look up, only to find yours still closed. still asleep. that pulls a grin out of him.
âiâd normally ask you to beg, but oh well,â before he slides your underwear down, throwing it somewhere on the floor.
his mouth on your cunt is designed to keep you asleep, and you do remain sleeping while he plants slow, open-mouthed kisses on your slit, nip your clit, dip his tongue teasingly into your holeânot enough to wake you.
some would argue he loves torturing himself just as much as he does torturing you.
but the goal is to get you unmistakably wet. and itâs working.
the evidence of his restraint pools near your ass on the bedsheets. he collects the slick with his finger and puts it in his mouth, moaning at your taste.
his meal is ready to be devoured.
and devour is exactly what he does to you. his mouth is no longer kind: lips move with hunger, kissing yours, then his tongue curls past your entrance to fuck you.
that wakes you up. he can tell through the strangled moan you let out.
hands pin your hips. you feel more than hear his voice, muffled against your sopping cunt:
âsettle down, sweetheart. let me eat.â
the sight of you sleeping in his white button-down and little else shoots lust through clark kentâs veins.
he tries to be a good person and exercise restraint, despite the many conversations had with you aboutâin your own blunt wordsâusing you when youâre asleep. and an agreement was reached. but still, a part of him canât fathom the thought of just... taking you without you begging him to.
that part of him leads his feet to the bathroom. a cold shower is due.
except the running water doesnât clean his dirty thoughts, instead exacerbate themâuntil he realizes heâs jerking himself off and that white stuff going down the drain isnât soap.
okay. at least now he can go to bed without a raging hard-on.
wrong.
sleep doesnât find himâmainly because heâs so aware of how easy it would be to take you the way youâve consented to. how easy it would be to pull your underwear down. gosh, he can smell you from here. why are you so wet? are you having a really good dream?
clark gets hard again just laying next to you.
if you ask him, he doesnât know how he got here. doesnât know how he has your body atop his, doesnât know who took your panties off.
doesnât know why his thick cock is between your naked thighs.
he only knows how good it feels to rub himself against you.
âf-fuânghââ
his chin presses gently on the top of your head as he rocks, watching himself: the bulbous head poking out between your thighs, only to disappear and come back again, pearly bead at the red tip. he loves the feeling of it: your soaked panties wetting the length of his cock, the skin of your thighs rubbing against his veins...
somewhere along the way, he slips his cock into your panties and slides himself against your cunt.
your juices coating him makes him moan, the sound reverberating deep in his chest while his fingers play with yours, circling and tugging at your nipples.
âmmh...â
he freezes. thatâs his cue. youâre waking up, he should stop, should ask you if youâre okayâ
instead, a lie tumbles out his mouth so easily, he almost scared himself.
ââs okay, sweetheart, itâs just a dream. just lay back and feel good for me, mâkay?â
the next murmur that leaks out of you sounds sweet, sleepy and pliant. clark takes that as permission to continue ruining you.
the last time that happened it turned into 30-something-thousand words of high (?) fantasy so. i'd want to be more careful the next time i make these three bang reader. (thank you for reading and reblogging! <3)
@anocious 'there is nothing holy about this' is something i quote often. and now you hit me with that first tag? tell me you aren't a natural writer lmaooooo thank you for reading and reblogging ily <3 <3 <3
thank you @flockoff-featherface my wife, i will do all the tag games in the world for you. also this is really fun.
Go on pinterest and type in the prompts down below. Whatever image pops up first is your image. Prompts: color, quote, character, hobby, accessory, song lyrics, flower.
where did the time go, my birthday is this month â¤ď¸ i want to celebrate by giving back to my moots through a thing that i enjoy doing so, so, so much (admittedly more than writing the fic that comes with it, sometimes):
⨠graphics â¨
yes! i want to make graphics for you! you could use it as:
your blog header
a masterlist image for a fic
a divider for a specific theme
whatever else you can think of (for non-commercial purposes ofc), we can talk about it!
the catch is that i only have two flippers and not nearly enough time, so as much as iâd like to make one for everyone, weâre going to have to do this giveaway-style.
there are only three requirements for you to join:
that we be mutuals
that you be alright with us chatting on discord because ain't no way i'm gonna send graphics through tumblr chat my dude that thing has not changed since i got an account 10 years ago
that the deadline be nothing too urgent đ
so if all that sounds peachy to you, please leave a comment on this post by june 8th and think about what you'd like to request from me. after that, i'll spin your usernames a giveaway wheel for 3 winners!
can't wait to overload my photoshop ram for you <3
logan howlett/bucky barnes/clark kent x f!reader, smut mdni
tw: somnophilia, not proofread
he comes home to you sleeping, which is not a new occurrence. itâs late. you probably did your best to stay up and wait for him.
whatâs new is the weather. temperatures getting warmer sees you wearing less and lessâat home, outside, and to bed.
tonight itâs just a shirtâhis shirtâand a pair of panties, something he catches a glimpse of in the dim.
and a damning glimpse it turns out to be.
you mustâve kicked the covers off of you at some point, given your bare legs. itâs likely that the heat made you twist and turn in your sleep, which shifted the shirt youâre wearing and your underwear: because the shirtâs hem rides up past your ribs, and the underwear gusset isnât exactly covering you.
he can tell that your pussyâs wet.
itâs the smell that drives logan howlett crazy, subtle as it is even to his senses. you arenât dripping, not yet, and thatâs a thing heâd happily remedy.
he strips himself down to nothing and slips onto bed behind you, careful not to wake you.
the first thing he does is bury his nose in your hair and breathe you inâitâs enough to make him shiver.
then his hands move: fingers trace your exposed stomach, taking in the warmth of your skin. slow strokes, up and down, deceptively comforting. your chest rises and falls evenly, asleep and none the wiser.
âalmost like youâre doing this on purpose,â he hums to himself when those same fingers snake south.
his face is in the crook of your neck now, because he wants to smell the change: a shift in your pheromones that only he can sense.
it hits him like a drug.
the catalyst? his fingers ghosting your hole above the fabric.
he moans.
you shift in his arms, the cleft of your ass rubbing against his already hard cock. loganâs fingers begin to circle, feeling the growing dampness of you, teasing the outline of your firm clit.
despite being a man of rough repute, he can be gentle, especially if being gentle means torturing you better.
âsheâs dripping,â heâs talking to himself now, his own breath catching as he tugs your panties to the side, callused fingerpads rubbing your wet slit, âleaking, need to plug her full. yeah? you wonât mind? no, you wonât, youâre a good girl.â
when he sinks a finger in, you let out a hazy moan, spine arched into a large palm thatâs busy groping your breast. the friction pulls you out of slumber, but only barely.
âl-loganââ
âsshh. go back to sleep, baby. let me have my fun with you.â
but you canâtânot when heâs fucking you with his fingers like you owe him, and not while heâs murmuring filth into your ear the whole time he plays with your clenching hole.
âneed this pretty pussy to cum for me. sheâs been wantinâ that, yeah? câmon, sweetheart, let her cum for her old man.â
bucky barnes is hungry. and not for the dinner he willfully skipped.
the sight is the catalyst for this certain appetite: he finds himself kneeling on the bed just to watch your unconscious body and the gift between your legs, presented so beautifully in that pretty underwear.
âfor me? you shouldnât have,â he breathes, just as his face lowers to your inner thighs.
his hands spread you open just so he can see you better.
and thatâs all he does. stares. amuses himself with the wet spot on the fabric that grows ever so slowlyâmust be because of his warm breath fanning your pussy. he swears he can taste you in the air, and the sensation makes him painfully aware of the tent in his pants.
so he rewards himself. his reward is you.
just a little bit, though: his lips kiss your pussy through the underwear, tongue pressing against the fabric for a taste.
your hips chafe against the air. his eyes look up, only to find yours still closed. still asleep. that pulls a grin out of him.
âiâd normally ask you to beg, but oh well,â before he slides your underwear down, throwing it somewhere on the floor.
his mouth on your cunt is designed to keep you asleep, and you do remain sleeping while he plants slow, open-mouthed kisses on your slit, nip your clit, dip his tongue teasingly into your holeânot enough to wake you.
some would argue he loves torturing himself just as much as he does torturing you.
but the goal is to get you unmistakably wet. and itâs working.
the evidence of his restraint pools near your ass on the bedsheets. he collects the slick with his finger and puts it in his mouth, moaning at your taste.
his meal is ready to be devoured.
and devour is exactly what he does to you. his mouth is no longer kind: lips move with hunger, kissing yours, then his tongue curls past your entrance to fuck you.
that wakes you up. he can tell through the strangled moan you let out.
hands pin your hips. you feel more than hear his voice, muffled against your sopping cunt:
âsettle down, sweetheart. let me eat.â
the sight of you sleeping in his white button-down and little else shoots lust through clark kentâs veins.
he tries to be a good person and exercise restraint, despite the many conversations had with you aboutâin your own blunt wordsâusing you when youâre asleep. and an agreement was reached. but still, a part of him canât fathom the thought of just... taking you without you begging him to.
that part of him leads his feet to the bathroom. a cold shower is due.
except the running water doesnât clean his dirty thoughts, instead exacerbate themâuntil he realizes heâs jerking himself off and that white stuff going down the drain isnât soap.
okay. at least now he can go to bed without a raging hard-on.
wrong.
sleep doesnât find himâmainly because heâs so aware of how easy it would be to take you the way youâve consented to. how easy it would be to pull your underwear down. gosh, he can smell you from here. why are you so wet? are you having a really good dream?
clark gets hard again just laying next to you.
if you ask him, he doesnât know how he got here. doesnât know how he has your body atop his, doesnât know who took your panties off.
doesnât know why his thick cock is between your naked thighs.
he only knows how good it feels to rub himself against you.
âf-fuânghââ
his chin presses gently on the top of your head as he rocks, watching himself: the bulbous head poking out between your thighs, only to disappear and come back again, pearly bead at the red tip. he loves the feeling of it: your soaked panties wetting the length of his cock, the skin of your thighs rubbing against his veins...
somewhere along the way, he slips his cock into your panties and slides himself against your cunt.
your juices coating him makes him moan, the sound reverberating deep in his chest while his fingers play with yours, circling and tugging at your nipples.
âmmh...â
he freezes. thatâs his cue. youâre waking up, he should stop, should ask you if youâre okayâ
instead, a lie tumbles out his mouth so easily, he almost scared himself.
ââs okay, sweetheart, itâs just a dream. just lay back and feel good for me, mâkay?â
the next murmur that leaks out of you sounds sweet, sleepy and pliant. clark takes that as permission to continue ruining you.
when Planet Publishingâs editor Clark Kent was given a steamy romance for his next project, he vowed to treat it like any other assignment: professionally. a sentiment he shared with the author herselfâexcept it wasnât the only thing they had in commonâŚ
đď¸ WARNINGS & TAGS: coworkers to friends with benefits?; virgins; mutual yearning; some jealousy; drunken confessions; SMUT (mentions of masturbation, oral, they're both switches, big dick clark, fingering, dirty talk, praise, size kink, tummy bulge, virginity loss, unprotected sex, creampie)
đ READER NOTES: afab!reader; no use of y/n; reader drinks alcohol and eats meat... not clark's meat, although she does that too
âď¸ AUTHOR'S NOTES: @theworstwolvie @pinksplace @tw1sters thank you for giving this a quick read while it was still a fetusâyour encouragement carried me here to the post button <3
i hope everyone likes this fic because between this and another in july i don't think i'll be working on anything else... alexa play see you again by charlie puth wiz khalifa
1
Cassius traced a line with his darkened eyes. It dragged heat down Vesraâs body: first her lips, then her throat, then her naked, heaving chest. The corset that damned him all night was tugged loose, but not off, instead supporting her flesh in a way more salacious than it was designed to.
âLook at you,â he growled, the rumble reverberating in the inches between their bodies. âBetter than Iâve dreamed.â
Vesra had a tease at the tip of her tongueâsomething about Cassius having dreamt of herâbut the words evaporated the moment his lips took a pert nipple between them. She gasped instead, fingers finding his dark locks, tugging gently at them in a plea for more. If he was bothered by the touch, he didnât show it: the first kisses turned quickly into suckles and testing bites.
The warmth of Cassiusâs mouth bled into her veins. It spiked into a fever when he ground his hips into hers.
âCass,â she cried, unbidden.
He groaned, mouth still on her tit. âFeel what you do to me? Thatâs all your fault.â
The question was rhetorical. Vesra felt it more than enough to answer: the outline of his shaft pressed againstâ
Someone clears their throat.
Clark Kent looks up. So do you from the book youâre reciting.
A waiter is there: young and blonde with a face that spelled jadedness earned from countless shifts toiling in this restaurant. Heâs clearly walked into worse in his career.
âMore water?â he offers, tone deadpan.
âIâm good, thanks,â you smile sweetly in response, âbut please get me another bottle of soju.â
âOne soju, then,â he repeats, before stepping away from your table.
Meanwhile, Clark sits across you with his face on fire. He manages an apologetic look at the waiter before throwing his gaze up, silently thanking the company for booking you a private room.
A warm pendant light looks back at him.
The Korean barbecue dinner is billable to Planet Publishing for two reasons: your birthday, and the success of your second novel under the houseâs wing.
Itâs the book you have open in your hands: Owls on a Moonlit Marsh, a gateway drug to fantasy for romance readers, and a steamy page-turner for fantasy readers.
Now Clark didnât edit that book. Heâs just invited to this company-expensed dinner because the two of you were in Gotham for a creative writing event, in which you were one of the panelists.
And you certainly didnât let his politeness deter you from dragging him along, pushing past his insistence that you should spend Planet Publishingâs money with someone specialâmaybe a boyfriend.
(Was it rude to feel relief when you told him you didnât have one?)
So, here he is. With you. Slightly full from an extremely delicious assortment of meats and banchan, listening to you complain about the pain in writing pleasure.
Clark Kent convinces himself that you brought him along because itâs the kind thing to do. The convenient thing, even. For once, youâre in Gotham, and this place has crossed your socials too many times. He just happened to be on a business trip with you.
That dress you are wearing isnât low-cut to seduce him so much as to make yourself look beautiful. (And God, do you look beautiful.) Itâs not flirtation that flashes in your eyes, just everyday mischief. Maybe soju-induced intoxication.
But that smile⌠The curl of it is so dangerously familiar, he finds his eyes averting from it to not provoke any untoward ideasâbecause the only ideas heâs getting are rather untoward.
Between the thoughts Clark Kent thinks to avoid heartbreak, thereâs no way to misinterpret that smile.
Six months of working with someone is enough time to figure out whether youâre into them. Except Clarkâif he were to admit at gunpointâwould say that being âintoâ you is a massively understated way of expressing the specific feeling heâs dealing with.
Youâre under his skin like an influence.
âNow where was IâŚ?â you hum, scanning the page of an open book.
You point at the page. âOh, right. His shaft.â
Once again, thank God and Perry White for the private room. Otherwise, saying the word âshaftâ while you read smut out loud might get you kicked out of this sleek restaurant.
âThat scene was good,â Clark coughs. And he doesnât just say that because he likes you, but in all honesty. âItâs sexy. And vulnerable.â
The main characters have gone through a literal book-load of feelings, which culminated into what has been described by Tumblr users as a âclit-throbbingâ smut scene. In working with you for half a year, he deeply understandsâthe first part about going through a lot of feelings, that is.
The latter part? He can only dream.
âThanks, Clark. Flattery gets you everywhere,â you beam. âI have a praise kink.â
Gosh, itâs so darn warm in here. (The charcoalâs been dead for a while now.)
âI was being serious.â
âReally? You think it was good?â you reply so earnestly he sits up straighter at the attention. âI was worried we were getting repetitiveâM and I could only substitute the word âcockâ so many times.â
Clark nearly chokes on his rice wine.
If the publishing house let you loose with your word choices, people will get IDâed at the counter for wanting to buy your books.
And M? Sheâs the reason heâs working with you: the editor for your first two novels, now on maternity leave.
M stands for Mary, but only those closest to her would know that her full given name is Mary Magdalene.
Alanis Morissette would like a word.
âIâm sure âthrustâ is the same,â Clark murmurs, fixing his glasses.
You give the comment a thought. âActually, not really.â
âYeah?â
âMm-hmm,â you nod. The green soju bottle glints in the dim as you swirl it around. âI suppose⌠itâs the sensation that I find difficult to write.â
Clark tries to school his heartbeat. Be professional. Thatâs the one thing he vowed when taking up this job: you canât edit a critically acclaimed romantasy if you donât take it seriously.
And the two of you havenât gotten there. Writing the sex, he means, not having sex. Thereâs nowhere for you and him to go on that part. And he definitely has not thought about it. Not in the slightest.
Professional, Clark scolds himself internally.
âHow so?â he asks.
Your gaze shifts away from his. Thatâs rare.
âWell,â you begin, tone light as a feather, âitâs hard to write about something I havenât felt before.â
A beat of silence. Then two.
âSorry, what?â he pipes up, voice comically tiny. âI donât think I heard you right.â
Thereâs nothing for him to be nervous about, though, because youâre grinning back at him like that wasnât a dropped bomb. Heâd blame it on the alcohol in your veins, but even while sober, youâre the kind of woman who just⌠shoots it straight.
God knows he loves itâhis heart blooms in secret joy with every flash of honesty.
Like right now.
âI think you did, Clark,â you giggle, âand now youâre getting shy about it.â
âItâs the makgeolli,â he defends, though feebly.
âIâm a virgin,â you announce.
As if itâs the Declaration of Independence.
As if the waiter didnât just enter and place another bottle of soju on your table.
You throw him a thank you with a pretty smile, to which the young man nodded. He leaves the room without asking if you need anything else.
You have the decency to continue after the door slides shut.
âAnd I mean that in the PIV sense. Not that the notion of virginity makes any sense, let alone penetrative virginity.â
âNo, yes, of course,â Clark stammers in reply, all while his mind asks what have you done, then, and how do I stop picturing you doing it?
Because you did things with someone else. At some point in time, you were doing things with someone else. That makes him jealous.
Clark Kent doesnât like feeling that green thing.
Heâs jolted out of his slightly bitter reverie by a nudge on his calf.
Itâs the tip of your high-heeled shoe. He doesnât need to peek under the table to see, he can picture it just fine: maroon patent leather with a pointed tip brushing short, playful strokes over the fabric of his dress pants.
His heartbeat snags. The pulse floods south.
âBut with your experience, Mr. Editor,â you smile coyly, âyouâll ensure my written work is as accurate as possible, yes?â
Call it in vino veritas, or call it Ma and Paâs education, but Clark Kent canât lie. Not well, anyway. The truth stumbles out of his lips soon as you stop talking.
He tries to make it sound casual.
âYou know, I havenât done it, either.â
Your eyes widen, gasping out in drunken surprise.
âReally. A catch like you? The world truly is ending.â
There are many graces offered to Clark Kent tonight, and maybe the small kindnesses he did in the past are paid back in this exact moment: the waiter saunters in again to announce that the restaurant is closing soon, giving Clark a second or two to collect himself after your remark.
A catch, you called him, while he catches his breath and gathers your coats from their hangers, while his heart flies away on wings of joy. You think heâs a catch.
Or maybe youâre just being nice.
You stand and turn around. He helps you with your sleeves.
âThe meal was fantastic,â you tell the waiter on your way out, appearing completely soberâsave for the warm lilt in your voice.
The subject is dropped just like that.
Meanwhile, on the short walk back to the hotel, Clark Kent can only think of how youâve never.
And how you know heâs never, either.
ŕ¨ŕ§
When you reach the hotel, heâs not sure if youâll even remember anything in the morning, because youâre giggling in the elevator up when the height pops your ears.
Heâs not just walking you to your room, but walking himself inside your roomâto make sure youâre safe, of course.
The bedroom is a mirrored layout of his just next door. He watches as you cross the threshold, dump your coat on the floor, and kick your heels off before jumping face-first onto the queen bed.
He shakes his head, but everything he does bleeds affection: he hangs up your coat and places your shoes neatly onto the side.
Then you sigh into the cold sheets, as if laying there is the best feeling in the world, and Clark tenses.
Youâre safe. He isnât.
Because that sigh reminds him of another sound.
A moanâairy, short.
Yours.
It happened last night. He could only hear it because the hotel walls arenât as thick as he thought, or maybe because your beds were pressed up on the same side. It wasnât loudâjust him being really cognizant that your private existence and his are separated by one slab.
A concrete slab, sure, but still.
And his mind got the better of him, as it always does when youâre involved. The little noise was enough to make him think about you touching yourself. The image alone inspired him to do the same in the shower.
Heâd spent a long time after feeling guilty for morphing that beautiful sound into something that resembled his nameâthatâs how inconceivable it is, a person like you being into a person like him.
Still, if he has a character flaw, it would be the endless hope that pours out of him. Itâs in the way he tucks you under the covers and fixes a strand of your hair after.
Heâs about to leave when you grab his hand.
âDonât go,â you murmur, eyes half-closed. Even so, he sees them glazedâwith both alcohol and a brand of loneliness he canât bare to subject you toâand he folds easily.
The smile you smile when he slips under the covers is just about worth the torture of holding you in your bed.
You snuggle up into him, face buried in his chest.
But then you go and make things even harder for him. Something you keep doing even while drunk.
âClark?â you slur.
âHm?â
âYou know Iâd give it to you, right?â
âGive me what?â
âMy virginity.â
Oh.
How cruel, he thinks to himself. The things people say under the influence.
âGo to sleep,â he says softly, stroking the top of your head. She doesnât know what sheâs talking about, is what he tells himself to keep the feelings at bay.
But his mind recalls the shape of your moan, and how perhaps he didnât make it sound like his name.
You murmur something unintelligible. He wonders if you can hear the wild bang of his heart. Your prolonged silence and even breaths mean no.
He drifts off soon after.
2
You wake up feeling like a person in a daytime pad commercial who just slept like a person in a nighttime pad commercial.
That is to say: you wake up comfortable because you slept amazing. The only minor complaint would be the lack of bodily warmth on your sheets.
On the other side of the bed are wrinkled sheets, suspiciously Clark-shaped. Flashes of last night play in your head: the Korean barbecue, alcohol burning your throat, the smell of him under your sheetsâŚ
âŚand the things you told him.
Oh.
Well, you said what you said. It certainly isnât the first time you embarrassed yourself just to make him look your way. The dress last night is another recent example.
Life goes on, and you figure your colleague-slash-friend probably returned to his room right after he woke, most likely flustered even with no one looking.
On the nightstand is a tall glass of water and Advil. Must be Clarkâs doing.
You drink the medicine down despite 1) feeling in perfect health and 2) knowing that the water wonât quench the thirst you have for the man who poured the glass for you.
And boy, does Clark look like a tall glass of water when you see him again in the lobby, seated in one of the plush armchairs. You keep telling yourself itâs the suit, but the hotel receptionist is wearing the same color and cutâyet youâre not salivating at the sight.
âGood morning,â you chirp, wheeling your small suitcase while you walk towards Clark.
He stands. He always does when you enter a room. Those manners and looks in one person would incur panic upon suburban mothers everywhere.
âThanks for the Advil.â
âItâs no problem.â He smiles back at you. You sense immense politenessâmore than usual. âHow did you sleep?â
âReally well. You?â
âYup, out like a light.â
âMust be the alcohol,â you reply.
It wouldâve been a decent lie, if not for the whole beat that passed silently before Clark coughs out a response equally weak to yours.
âYes, it was⌠really good alcohol.â
You agree that the soju was excellent, but the better the booze, the worse the sleep.
You know you slept well because he was in your bed. You just donât know if this is his normal display of shyness or if heâd rather die than admit it.
Either way, itâs just who he is: Clark is too kind to turn you down and too professional to ever address what you told him last night.
Lucky for you, thereâs plenty of time to lick your wounds.
The two of you drive back to Metropolis. Clark sits behind the wheel of his car. The traffic leading up to the Interstate is egregiously heavy, just like the air inside the vehicle.
Small talk makes it worseâand for the record, the two of you usually converse just fine. His mindless distraction is changing radio stations as if he knows what he wants to listen to. Meanwhile, you pretend to do something productive on your laptop: developments for your third novel, the last of the installment.
Developments. Psh. All you have are bullet points.
ves forced into divine deal with zalrythar god of secrets
she canât tell anyone including cass
figure out b plot
cass thinks ves is pulling away and confronts her
she obv stonewalls
angst haha
resolve b plot
cass and ves both end up in god-mandated sex
That takes you less than a minute to type out. The car hasnât moved for the last seven.
You spend the next three staring at his hands on the steering wheel.
ŕ¨ŕ§
Even when traffic eases as you reach Metropolis, the tension doesnât. It thickens the closer he gets to your destination, palpable by the time Clark turns into your street. The GPS lady shuts up at this point, leaving you and him to stew in silence.
Your apartment is just up ahead. Heâs slowing the car down and you internally curse yourself.
Thereâs no way you can take any more of this, the tip-toeing a shared truth like itâs a secret. Thereâs no way he isnât awareâhe wouldnât be so quiet otherwise. And youâve seen him truly oblivious: someone would ask him out to dinner and heâd think itâs because they want to talk business.
If you do this, heâs probably going to think youâre even more shameless than he initially thought.
What he doesnât know is that you want to be an honest person around him. Just your luck that, in your case, being honest means shamelessly wanting him.
âClark?â you call out as he tugs at the handbrake. Your voice isnât fully gathered, underused in the silence of the ride back, and you sound a little less sure than youâre used to.
âHm?â he hums back, looking over at you. The car hums, too.
You shift your body to face his, seatbelt clicked free, like thatâs going to help you breathe in better.
âSomething happened yesterday.â
His jaws clench once. Eyes widen a fraction. You arenât asking a question.
âYes. We slept togeâI mean, I fell asleep on your bed.â
Clark Kent isnât a good liar by nature, but youâd be lying, too, if you said you didnât pay special attention to his voice. The words come out too fast, and thereâs a slight pinched quality to his voice that clues you in on his farce. Youâve known him long enough to learn his tells.
âAnd?â you ask.
He thrums his fingers on the steering wheel.
âYou also told me⌠youâre a virgin.â
You donât spare a beat, lest he finds a way to escape this situation.
âAnd so are you.â
He nods. âYep.â Thereâs a pop on the âpâ, heavy with an acceptance of his fate.
Your lip twitches up in amusementâhe looks so close to spontaneous combustion, the tapping of his fingers like a ticking time bomb.
âGosh,â Clark smiles, the shaky, worried kind, âyou donât think thatâs funny, do you?â
That catches you off-guard and a little offended. âWhy would I? Weâre in the same boat.â
âNo, yes, of course,â he stammers. âI'm sorry, I justâ"
ââthought an erotic novelist canât possibly be a virgin?"
Thereâs a pause.
" Yes,â he admits. âI mean, itâs my fault. I assumed. From your books, of course! Not from anything else.â
You laugh a little at his jitteriness, and funnily enough, he seems to relax.
âItâs okay. I was justââ you search for the right word, âtickled. Two virgins writing and editing paperback smut.â
He laughs this time. You take in the dimples of his cheeks, and suddenly the totally silent car ride home fizzles out like a distant memory.
âNot that I think sex is a prerequisite, by the way,â you add, just to make sure youâre not staring at him too much. âYouâre a good editor, Clark.â
He seems to be taken aback, eyes locked on yours.
âThatâs because youâre a great writer.â
He ends that sentence with your name, spoken itâs holy. Something in you cracks open.
The reality is that writing comes easy because he fuels your dreams. All you do is extend them. You take every little thing he gives you in real life, surgically pluck it out of context, and blow it out of proportion. The lingering brush of his hand after a hug. A touch on your lower back in a crowded room. Him leaning down to hear you better.
Heâs the fire that kindles your prose. Inspires your imagination until heâs shaped like a man who wants you.
Writing is the highest form of wishful thinking, after all.
You used to think Clark Kent wanting you is an impossible thing, but now? Maybe itâs not.
Because his face takes on a kind of expression youâve only written about.
His eyes darken.
âClark?â
âYes?â he replies, a microsecond too fast. Heâs scared. Or nervous. Or both.
Either way, you are tooâbecause thereâs no turning back after this.
âThatâs not all I told you, was it?â
You catch his throat bob. When he speaks, his voice is taut, like the air in the car.
âNo.â
Your fingers twitch from seeing his jaw clench.
The urge to touch him wins out, and you find yourself moving both hands to cradle his face, thumbing at the tense spot. His breath visibly hitches: you can tell from the rise of his chest when you bridge the gap between your seats.
âI meant what I said, you know,â you murmur, not even looking him in the eye anymore. Your gaze lands lower.
His lips are parted so beautifully⌠but you make sure to stare straight into him when you nail your own coffin shut.
âIâd give it to you.â
He needs to know you mean it.
As if those words were permission, he leaned down and closed the gap entirely, kissing you.
Heâs more sure than you thought heâd beâand God, thatâs past tense, because you now know how he kisses: slow, deep, with the rumbly beginning of a groan brewing in his chest. You melt into his body as much as the car will allow, the hand on his face slipping back to card through dark locks.
Thatâs when he feeds the sound straight into your mouth.
The groan isnât the only thing that travels. His hands do too. One drags a path up your side to tug you closer. Another snakes to your nape, as if the kiss could get any deeper.
Your tongues dance and you moan at his taste.
âFuck,â you breathe, lips still on his. You nip at his bottom lip in between words. âYou want it? Want me to give it to you?â
His reply is hazy above all yes, like he just woke from a dream or is drifting into one.
âYes. Please. I want itâwant you.â
âGood,â you smile, releasing his lip with a pop, âwanna take yours, too.â
The look on his face is something you wish you could photograph.
Heâs redâjust from kissingâlips swollen and rosy, a tiny, faint pool of drool out one corner. His glasses are askew.
You fix it with a smile.
âCome upstairs.â
3
Upstairs takes an elevator ride where he stands behind you to hide his bonerâjust in case someone walks in, he reasonsâbut you make it through your door soon enough.
Not without you fumbling with your keys and giggling into his mouth.
By the time Clark tumbles into your bed, bringing you down with him, heâs already painfully hard under his slacks.
Everything smells like you.
Your hand on his chest draws a cheeky line down his stomach past his belt, and he sighs in relief. You sit back on your haunches, still straddling him, finally palming the tent thatâs formed in his pants.
He gasps at the touch, mouth open, already missing your lips on his.
âSo hard already,â you murmur. âTake this belt off.â
He obeys, quiet except for the clink of metal. The belt drops somewhere on the floor with a thunk. Your pretty hands work his zip, tugging just enough to reveal a dark blue pair of boxer-briefs.
Then he feels your weight shift on the bed. Watches you move down until youâre face-to-cock with his still-clothed erection.
âHow far have you gone, Clark?â you ask, light as a feather, breath warm against the fibers of his underwear. The sight of you smiling between his legs is so dizzying, he grips the sheets for anchor. âDid you at least get blown?â
âYeaâah,â he pants, because your hand is on his cock again. Palming. Squeezing.
You hum. Fingertips playfully stroke down his length from over the boxer-briefs, fondling his balls. âWhen was the last time?â
âDonât know,â is his immediate, husked-out answer. Thereâs no past in his mind. Just the present, as unbelievable as it isâyour bed, you, your hand, your pretty face⌠âDonât care, just, pleaseââ
As if triggered by his begging, you sit back up, leaving his cock completely touch-starved.
He sighs, because youâre thumbing his bottom lip. The touch isnât kind. As a matter of fact, itâs a little mean: your finger is pushing his lip to the side, teasing the plush of it, pulling it down just a bit before letting it bounce back.
He likes it.
You chuckle when he takes your thumb in his mouth, even before you push it past his lips.
âSo eager,â you drone, your other hand stroking his hair. âYou want it that bad?â
âYes,â he says, except it sounds more like mmph with his mouth occupied.
He lets your thumb go, only to kiss at your open palm. One quiet sound after the other, he presses his lips into your hand moreâuntil very soon, heâs literally making out with it. His own hand is gripping yours close to his face, keeping you still.
âWhat exactly do you want, Clark?â Your words carry more breath than voice, and his blood sings.
âAnything youâd give to me,â he answers.
Itâs at that point you choose to wrest your hand away, settling back down between his legs. You lean down to peck on his hard-onâit jumps excitedly under the fabric. You laugh, thumbing at the waistband.
Then you pull his boxer-briefs down, and there he is.
All of his inches, eight or nine, youâre not sure, but the exact measurement doesnât matterânot when heâs relatively equal to the length of your forearm.
Surprise, surprise. Your big sloppy crush has a big fucking dick.
A dick so pretty you might cryâespecially because itâs already crying a pearly bead at the tip. You trace a prominent vein that runs on the underside, lick your lips as he bucks into your hand.
You look at his face and a cruel amusement takes over you: Clark is propped on his elbows, cheeks bathed red, jaw slack like heâs just ran up fifty flights of stairs.
And you havenât even done anything.
Rising up to your knees, you move to his face. A kiss on his lips, slow and deep. Then ten more light ones all over his cheekbone, jaw, neck, throat, up to his ears, at which point heâs stuttering out the beginnings of your name.
Your hands part his legs wider, letting you situate yourself more comfortably between them. He gulps. You move back down to the center of his expanse. Your head tilts, mouth a dangerous distance from where heâs most sensitive.
âCan I kiss you here?â
Your fingerpad teases the tip. Pre meets your skin, warm and sticky. You smear it on his fat head.
âYes.â
Christ, was that a whine? Your little smile turns devious, nose nudging his cock. It twitches again, as if autonomous from the rest of himâlike itâs developed its own mind and is begging you greedily to give it more.
âYouâre so big, Clark. Will you even fit?â you muse, fingers curling around him, pumping once, twice. He throws his head back with a grunt, the movement so sharp you think he might be pulled at with a leash.
Well. Youâll figure out the answer to that later. For now, you should play with your meal.
You slip the tip into his mouth and watch shivers wrack his body. After swirling your tongue on it once, you let go with a pop, purring.
âSo sensitive. What am I gonna do with you?â
Meanwhile, Clark is losing his mind.
âYourâf-fuhhâfault,â comes his raspy reply just as you descend one, two, three inches more. Gosh, your mouth is so warm, so tightâŚ
You chuckle, and the vibrations rattle him up to his ribcage. It occurs to him that he mightâve said those things about your mouth out loud. Rather than mortification, he feels elation, because even when you move up and the warmth is gone, youâre teasing his tip with your tongue again, and it feels so good he might cry.
The circles in his vision must be mimicking your wet heat drawing patterns on him.
One of his hand sinks into a pillow, the other cards digits through your hair.
An expletive escapes the moment you hollow your cheeks, far too sudden for him to take back.
âFuck,â he gasps, the sound tailing off with dumb, repeated attempts of forming your name. Most of his brain is in his hips now as they swivel in hopes to get more of him in your mouth, but your fingers splay beautifully on the rippling muscles of his abdomen.
âUh-uh. Stay still.â
Following orders is usually a thing heâs good at. Just not today. Not now.
Now, all he can think of is how good it feelsâhis mouth echoes those thoughts with babbles of âso good, feels so g-good, youâre perfectââand how if you keep this up, heâll come in an embarrassing amount of time.
Itâs already taking everything in him not to let that happen.
But then he catches you look up at him.
The sunâs still out, bathing the room with enough light to show him exactly what makes him nearly crumble:
Your pretty lips, wrapped around his thick cock, head bobbing up and down to reveal the glisten on himâa mix of precum and spitâyour hair messy around his hand.
âStop,â he groans, holding your skull still so he can gently pull himself out of you. Thereâs a line of drool that connects your mouth and his cock. âStop, donât wanna comeââ
The surprised tinge in your reply almost breaks his heart. âYou donât want to?â
He shakes his head, reconstructing his breaths. âNot until Iâm inside you.â
For once in his life, you donât talk back, and heâd be damned to let the opportunity slip.
Clark Kent grew up learning how to take things into his own hands. He puts that into practice with you, grabbing you up by the waist, laying you down on the bed. He takes your clothes off: slowly, because every inch of bare skin is the closest heâs been to heaven, because he wants to savor this, because he thinks youâre beautiful.
Says it too, even if itâs whispered.
He has you in your underwear, teasing the strap of your bra. âCan I take this off, sweetheart?â
You nod instead of giving him mouth. A rarity.
Heâll give you mouth, instead: by kissing you as he unclasps your bra with one hand (still no comment from you). Once itâs off, he drags his lips down your throat, then collarbone, then your heaving chest, where he lets himself stare for once. His warm breath caresses your skin, while heat pours out from his gaze.
He finally leans down, laving at a nipple. Polite first, hungry just two seconds later. His entire mouth is involved: sucking at your chest, a large hand squeezing around your flesh to feed more into him. Your hand digs into his curls when he hums, teeth grazing playfully as you arch for more.
He looks up.
Youâre a dream. Heâs sure heâs dreamed of this onceâexcept instead of blurred images and hazy glows that tortures him at night, the scene is crystal. He sees everything through his glasses: each strand of lashes on your pretty eyes, the color of your skin against the sheets, how your hair splays on the pillows.
Actually, speaking of pillowsâand dreamsâŚ
âHere,â he wrests one from under your head and taps the side of your hips, âlift your hips up for me.â
You do it, but it seems youâve found your voice again. The cheeky retort comes out breathless.
âReally, Clark? Youâre gonna use that line on me?â
He adjusts you on the pillow, lips pursedâboth from your tease and the sight of you, naked, save for the cute underwear raised up to meet him.
Itâs already wet at the gusset. There isnât much for him left to imagine.
âJust because youâre a writer doesnât mean youâre immune to it,â he hums, peeling the material off of you. You instantly fall silent.
He groans at the sight of you clenching around nothing, slick threatening to dirty the pillowcase youâre resting on.
Two fingers drag a path down your mound to your wet entrance. Two moans erupt when he circles thereâyours higher pitched than his, because he touches like itâs payback for some unseen grudge. Surely you donât know how long heâs thought of you like this, how long heâs struggled with the guilt of fantasizing about his hot colleague, only to find this.
Your soaked cunt winking at him.
âYouâre so wet,â his digits dip, collecting your juices. Your hips buck. âIs this from sucking me off?â
âNo, I was thinking about winning the lottery,â you moan, betraying your impatience, âyes, itâs because of you, stupid!â
He laughs. Heâs wanted you way too longâyou can wait a little longer.
âNeed to prep you,â a thumb pushes the hood off your clit, only for him to do nothing but look at it.
You shiver under his gaze, tease audibly lacking the bite. âIs this how you do itâstare?â
His eyes meet yours, blue eyes almost burning. Your throat bobs. Thatâs what fuels him.
âYou tell me,â he murmurs, âyouâre the erotic novelist.â
Fingers explore again, barely touching, always circling, and he bites back a moan at the sight of you arched like that, like your hips are hungry for more. His touch doesnât relent, although itâs taking everything in him not to take every part of you right then and there.
âClarkââ
âYou wrote something like this before,â his thumb swipes your clit. His name on your lips breaks, but those eyes on your face never does. âPage 347 of Owls. âWhen his finger sinks inside her, she gasps like sheâs never breathed airââŚâ
Just then, he does as he says. His middle finger stretches you, one knuckle deep at first, then two, then all the way in. You writhe, stuttering a moan at how slow he is, before the sound dies in your throat with a gasp.
The base of his palm presses against your clit.
Clark catalogs your reactions with the precision of a machine. The warmth of his touch is anything but. So is the slight crinkle between his brows: signs that heâs testing his own boundaries by stretching yours so slowly.
âOr is it the next page? âThe rhythm he sets replaces the beat of her heartâexcept nothing about the slow scrape of his fingers echoes the relentless thumping in her chest.ââ
When he moves his fingers, the dimples on his cheeks begin to show. He smiles down at you, free from the pretense of professionalism:
He doesnât commit your lines to memory because heâs a dedicated editor. He does it because he thinks about doing those things with youâso, so often.
âFuckâClarkââ you whimper, the syllables choked out as his other hand pins your hip.
One finger becomes two, but the pace doesnât change. Still arduous, still torture. Clarkâs eyes are glazed: in watching you lose your mind underneath him, he loses his in trying to erase true words laced with alcohol. Your voice floats in his memory:
And I mean that in the PIV sense.
Does that mean youâve done this before, with men who arenât him? Were they any good? Did you like them, or did you let them in your bed just to use them? Doesnât make a difference, Clark decides, because they still got to be with you. Were they the reason you wrote passion so well, or was it because they were so shit at it you had to take matters into your own hands?
Speaking of taking matters into your own hands, your voice floats in his memory again. Not words this time.
âYou touched yourself, didnât you?â Clark grunts, fingertips kissing your cervix at the word touched, âTwo nights ago. In the hotel.â
You donât answer, but your widened eyes said enough.
He leans down. Presses his forehead against yours.
âHeard you through the wall. Sound so sweet. Wanna hear it again.â
He kisses your lips once before moving down the expanse of you, flat on the bed between your very open legsâthanks to his gentle grip around one ankle, spreading you out for him to see.
But before you can shiver at the loss of his warm shadow, his lips closes around your clit, and you give him what he wants.
An open moan, loud enough to bounce off the walls.
Clark moans, too. The sound vibrates directly onto your cunt, you canât help but spasm. He doesnât stop. The flat of his tongue presses entirely on you, never really still: soon, he starts sucking and licking and teasing your poor clit. He tastes you, and a steady stream of muffled groans leak from his mouthâthe same way your pussy leaks juices around his thrusting fingers, the squelch squelch squelch growing faster and louder in the room.
âYou wrote about this so many times,â he murmurs against your slick, âdâyou like it that much?â
Your answer is an unintelligibly keen noise.
âI love it,â Clark is purring now, hazy with your taste, âIâll help you write lines later, mâkay? Want you to soak my hand, my tongueââ
Your body mustâve mistook that as an order, because the orgasm hits you out of nowhere, hot-white and sparking off your every nerve. You arch, convulse, slurring his name like you canât speak while your pussy gushes around his fingers as they thrust through your spasms, unrelenting.
He breathes out a blasphemy, the first âoh my Godâ youâve ever heard coming out of his mouth. Your senses are only starting to come back, but he replaces his fingers with his tongue, and you canât hear anything past your own scream.
He fucks you just like that, lapping at your juices like he hasnât drank in ages.
Something within you unstitches, and you feel your body leaping past overstimulation to overwhelming pleasure. You donât tell him to stopâhow can you, when heâs so clearly drunk on your pussy? He moans words into you like itâs a pet, coos of âYouâre so pretty when you comeâ, âTastes so good for meâ vibrating against your core.
The cool frame of his glasses bumping against your inner thigh only makes everything feel better.
âClark,â you cry, and he already knows. Already mumbling encouragements into your cunt.
âWant you to come again, honey, câmon, you can do it, yeah?â
You do. The crest tugs at your spine like a string, and your hips seek his mouth as if looking for a place to give.
He takes itâslurping, licking, kissing.
When your white-edged vision comes back from the dappled blurs, heâs already shirtless and sitting on his heels, looking down at something.
You follow his gaze.
It stops at his cock resting on your stomachâthe exact measure of how deep heâll be.
Thereâs a smile on Clarkâs face. Kind, but not kind enough that he wonât fuck you into the mattress.
âSee that, sweetheart?â he leans down, feeding the words straight into your ear. âWeâll make sure you take everything, mâkay?â
When you whimper and close your eyesâbecause how is that thing going inside you?âhe tuts once. Cups your jaw with a broad palm, still sticky with your juices. Another time and place, youâd scold him, but now?
âYou need to watch,â he says, âso you can write about it.â
Your eyes blink open, only to find his pupils blown out black.
Now youâre screwedâor just about to be.
The fat head of his cock rubs against your hole, hot, smearing precum on your cunt. You mewl, eyes fluttering shut again, but he tightens his hold on your jaw, whispering âcâmon, honey, look at meâ like his voice doesnât make things worse.
Like heâs not just as wrecked.
Lips slick, parted, and a little swollen, hazy eyes half-lidded, Clark Kent is the picture they put next to the definition of lust.
But youâre the same, because his cock nudges your clit again and you melt, stammering your truest wish into his mouth:
âPlease, Clark, please fuck me, need you to fuck meââ
How he isnât already cumming all over you is beyond his comprehension.
âOh, attagirl,â he breathes, before finally sinking in.
The stretch isnât as painful as you thought itâd be, but maybe thatâs just how desperate you are for him. Clark doesnât seem to be holding up so well, though: heâs panting just a breath away from your lips, exhales shaky at the tightness that wraps around him, holding back the need to just slam into your perfect heat.
Inch by excruciating inch, he sinks into you, then stops. You gasp at the feeling: full. How you managed to take him all so easily is a mystery.
You call his name, clenching around him. His answer is strained, brows knitted.
âIâm only halfway in, baby.â
A wave of desire and dread washes over you at the realization. Those blue eyes, though black now from dilated pupils, drift momentarily down, before they lock onto yours again.
He pushes in.
Your jaw falls slack in disbelief, walls stretched by the veiny ridges of him. His girth bullies your cunt to take his shape. He watches as he thrusts the thickest part of him inside you, studying each twitch and blink and stutter, looking out for pain, but finding pleasure above all else.
This time, you know heâs all the way in. Your vision blacks out a little at the heft.
âThere we go, good girl, so good for me, youâre perfectâŚâ
Those words come tumbling out, both a reassurance for you and a distraction for Clarkâbecause youâre so warm and tight and wet around him, he might lose himself if he doesnât focus.
âBreathe for me,â he hums, but heâs not breathing right either.
This is it. His cock is inside of youâthe first one to ruin you, if he doesnât mess this up and ruin himself first.
Meanwhile, you watch Clark pant above you, his forearms flexing as they bracket your head, face red from restraint.
The sight makes you clench and he moans.
âD-Donâtâaâah,â his chest heaves.
That pulls a grin out of you, weak as it is. You clench again, this time intentionally.
He grits your name out between teeth. âI said, donât.â
âWhy?â you husk, even though you know the answer.
âGonna make me c-come.â
You stroke his cheek to guise the fact that youâre not doing much better yourselfânot with all eight, nine inches of his hard cock pulsing directly against your walls like that.
The thought strikes you then: this is the closest youâve ever been to someoneâquite literally speaking.
And itâs Clark whoâs holding you right now. Clark. Endlessly polite and often sweet Clark. Easily ragebaited into a rant Clark. Charming without meaning to, helps with the best of intentions Clark.
Itâs precisely because youâre with him that your mouth decides to say something stupid. Call it a defense mechanismâfrom what, youâre not sure, because heâs already inside you, what the fuck are you defending yourself from?âbut the words slither out anyway.
Playful. Teasing. You say it right by his lips, the exact opposite of what you had in mind.
âYou can cum, Clark. Iâll just find someone else to help me write my book.â
When in fact youâll never let anyone else between your legs ever again.
Something in Clark shifts. His throat bobs with it, eyes sharpening past the haze of lust.
Then heâs on his knees, gripping your hips with both hands, before thrusting up without pulling out even an inchâlike deeper is possible. You feel him in your lungs. He does it again.
This time, both your eyes and his snap down to the faint bulge near your stomach.
The view doesnât stay for long. He drags his inches out of you, slowly, all the way to the tip, before plunging deep once more.
âFuckâ!â
Youâre busy crying out when he leans back down. His hand gathers your wrists above your head, the other firm on the side of your hipâboth anchors to the slow pace he builds.
ââs this what you need?â he rasps, voice broken between lazy thrusts that ring loud, âWritingânmmâmaterial?â
âAahââ
âYou gonna write about how,â thrust, âheâs so deep, she can see him in her stomach?â
Your eyes widen, first at the bulge on your lower belly, then at him.
âAbout how she cries out for him?â Thrust.
ââa-nghhââ
âHow sheâs clenching around him,â he mouths against your ear, words slurred, âlike she doesnât want him to leave?â
The cant of his hips pick up speed, and soon there are plap plap plaps of his balls slapping your ass under your moans and his. His hand on your wrists becomes a lever from which he thrusts.
The air hangs heavy with sweat and a heady scent. The bed begins to creak.
Youâre rutting up into him, the swivel of your hips growing more and more desperate with each murmur of his nameâhe watches you the entire time, entranced by the roll of your bodies.
âFuck, look at you,â he whines at the sight, eyes glazed over.
âWanna touch,â you mumble, drool beginning to pool on one side of your lip. Your fingers claw the air. âPlease, let me touchââ
He lets go of your hands. You drag him into a kiss that tangles your moans together, all while his hipbone bumps into yours again and again.
The freedom he gives you damns him: your hands raking down his chest makes him shiver, so do your nails digging into his bicep. The worst part happens when you tug at his hair: a response to one particular slam that hits a spot in you, in turn drawing a garbled moan out of him.
You canât stop touching him, and heâs all the worse for it.
With each fuse of your hips and his, your walls clutch him like youâre trying to keep him inside. Out to the tip, in to the hilt, splitting you open with each store, coating his cock with you while he bullies that spot that makes you beg so beautifully: âyes, Clark, please!â
Itâs clear youâre close. It hasnât been long since Clark got acquainted with your pretty pussy, but the way she clenches is enough to clue him in.
Heâs not doing any better: eyes dark behind glasses that sit askew, swollen lips parted. His only hope now is to pound into that gummy spot in you again and again and again while he spews praise in your earâmake you come before he does, because itâs too good for him not too: heâs so hard and youâre squeezing him so tight, rubbing delicious friction thatâs all at once too much and not enough.
You respond with nails raked down his naked back, the mantra of âClark Clark Clarkâ shooting ecstasy straight to his head, fueling the piston of his hips.
The sounds of your bodies arenât helping him hold on: wet slaps betray the mess heâs making out of your pussy. Every thrust makes him yours. Make you his.
He groans at the thought. Depraved as it is, his cock being the first to ruin your pussy does something indescribable to him. At the tail end of that thought is something sweeter:
The same way that heâs your first, youâre his. He doesnât want any other.
He paraphrases professions of love into everything else but the words he loves working with. Instead he employs a language said by the body: through his hips now ramming deep strokes into you, the way his arms wrap around you until you canât see anything except him. Your heels drag on his back nowâhe spares a second to hook one over his shoulder before plunging back into you, deepening the angle.
He glances down. Your nails sink into his arms. They look pretty.
You look pretty: eyes blank, hair a mess, skin misted with sweat as you lay arched underneath himâŚ
âGod, youâre perfect,â he breathes.
Meanwhile, you're so full your brain decides to empty itself. Its only care right now is your basest of needs.
âSo good,â you whimper, âClark you feel so good, gonna cumâŚâ
âYeah? Me too, honey,â he pants, voice reedy, âwhere do you want me?â
âInside, p-please, need you insideââ
That answer unspools all restraint in him, and he lets his hips go of their very last bit of restraint: he pistons into you with abandon as he siphons groans into your lips in exchange for your climbing moans, the two of you feeding into each otherâs lust until your heat is too much.
âI canât, honey, Iââ
Itâs too late: heâs spurting all the way inside you, breathlessly gasping your name.
âGahângghââ
The flooding sensation of his orgasm, hot and sticky, triggers your own. The tension shatters in your body: your legs quiver on his shoulder and around his waist, voice broken as your nerves turn into livewires that burn bright at the edges of your vision, electrifying everything to white.
Heâs on you the entire time you come, breath warming your ear. The spurts donât stop. Youâve never been fullerâuntil he pulls out of you and you moan, not just from the loss of his cock, but also the messy splatter of him on your stomach and tits.
The thought is faint, but the sensations are real: heâs still fucking cumming.
Now youâre just not quivering, youâre a quivering mess. Even with your senses flashbanged, slowly reconstructing themselves from that orgasm, you register the warmth that drips down your hole and onto the bedsheets.
Then the quiet lands. Your breaths even. He still hovers over you, glasses fully fogged up and crooked. The sight is stupidly hot, but you donât like that you canât see him.
You slowly take them off.
Blue eyes look back at you. His pupils arenât so dilated now, and you see a different emotion in them as they widen.
Concern.
âGoshâIâare you okay? did I hurt you? â
He thumbs at your cheek. Itâs wet. When did you start crying?
âNo, no,â you stammer, âIâm fine. Itâs just⌠that wasââ
You stare, wordless. He stares back.
âItâs perfect. Youâre perfect, Clark.â
His shoulders drop with heavy relief, warm breath fanning your face as he leans over you again.
âThank goodness.â
That makes you giggle.
âDonât laugh. Iâve wanted you for so long, I canât possibly mess this up.â
A beat. You blink up at him. âYou have?â
He doesnât answer. Just buries his face in your neck, undoubtedly redder than before. His voice is muffled against your skin.
âI justâI like you so much it hurts.â
You huff in amusement, raking your fingers through his hair. A silent plea for him to look up at you.
He obeys. You smile, thumbing the fat of his cheek.
âWhen I touched myself two nights ago, I was thinking about you.â
His eyes widen, though just a fraction. Maybe itâs not so unbelievable, after allâbut he allows himself to expend the last ounce of his surprise.
You raise your brow. âIs it really that unexpected?â
He kisses your fingers. Sweetly this time. âI⌠Itâs an outcome Iâve never considered.â
You lean up. The peck lands on his chin. âWhy else would I invite you to an expensive Korean barbecue, silly?â
Clark smiles so earnestly it almost blinds you. Thank God he hides in your neck again.
âSo you like me, too?â
âYep. Like, a lot.â
ŕ¨ŕ§
Ten minutes later, youâre in the bathtub, back pressed against his chest.
The sun is setting outside, the drawn blinds creating light serrations that spill across your bathroom tiles. Metropolis is strangely quiet. The only thing you perceive is the lazy drip of the faucet into the waterâs surface.
Maybe youâre just preoccupied by the replaying of your memories. Every little detail collects in the forefront like the soap suds Clark massages into your shouldersâbefore you know it, youâre stringing together words in your head, a momentum you canât stop even if you wanted to.
Huh. Youâre⌠inspired.
Maybe you should do this more often.
Clark kisses the nape of your neck as you bask in the silence. The sensation grounds you back to reality, and a realization dawns. You sit up straighter in the water.
He notices.
You turn to face him.
âWhatâs wrong, honey?â
âMy suitcase,â you say, âitâs still in your car.â
He smiles so warmly you think you might melt and be one with the bath water. The expression looks so sweet and innocent on him⌠except you feel his cock hardening against your ass.
âSweetheart, I donât think youâll be needing clothes for a while.âÂ
THREE MONTHS LATERÂ
âCâmon, write something,â Clark pants playfully, hands on your hips, driving his cock into your weeping cunt as he watches the fat of your ass bounce with each thrust, âYou can do itâyouâre a smart girl, arenât you?â
Time doesnât make any sense, not when heâs rubbing against your walls so good, but you do know youâve been at this for a while. Your body canât even hold itself up: chest glued to the damp sheets, ass held up by his hands, arms limp in front of you.
Your hands rest above the keypad of a laptop. On its screen is a word processor, its typing cursor blinking back at you tauntingly. The pageâs contents are measly, only about halfway filledâunlike your cunt thatâs full with his length.
Itâs your fault for planning so many sex scenes. But itâs the final installment of your trilogy, the perfect breeding ground for emotional sex.
Youâre guessing that breeding ground is what Clark thinks about you, too, aside from his undying respect for you: because his thrusts are getting messier the way you know heâs about to cum, and sure enough, with his chest against your back and his mouth sputtering âthatâs it, take it, gonna fill you up, sweetheart, youâll let me?â in your ear.
He waits for your pathetic mewl of an okay to spill inside you.
His orgasm pulls a weak one out of you, because God knows how many times heâs made you. You shake underneath him, gasping for air while he does the same.
Then it begins: the delicious replay your mind does after every tangle with him. While the shivers ebb, your memory picks up the detailsâŚ
Your feeble fingers begin to type. Slowly, as if each key ignites a thing he said not ten minutes ago.
You can hear Clark smile in his voice. He buries his lips in your hair.
âOne week till the manuscript deadline,â he husks. âLetâs work hard together, yeah?â
Then his hand drifts down to play with your clit and you lose your train of thought.
Oh, well. Surely Planet Publishing can extend a deadline for their bestselling writer.
BONUS
Herons Under Sycamore Shade â Author Interview with Cat Grant
Q: Speaking of sex, thereâs a lot more this time around.
A: Well, itâs the last book. I wanted it to go out with a bang, so to speak.
Q: This is a personal opinion of mine, having read all three, but you should also know that many reviewers thought the quality of erotica was somehow better in this one. To quote the Gotham Gazette: ââŚbreathtakingly real while making you forget about reality.â
A: Thatâs such high praise. Thank you!
Q: What changed (between the first two installments)?
At this point, the author smiles in a way that I can only describe as coy. Donât believe me? Ask the photographer.
As Logan learns to live instead of survive, he finds himself in the extremely dangerous position of sharing an apartment with youâWade's friend. Extremely dangerous because Lord knows he can't keep his feelings a secret forever... not when your room is five steps away from his.
SERIES WARNINGS/TAGS: english is not my native language, no use of y/n, reader is a working adult (mid-late 20s) with a slightly written out personality, friends to roommates to lovers, slow burn, secret crushes, mentions of alcoholism and AA
â ď¸ please check chapter warnings!
ch 0: prologue
ch 1: moving in
ch 2: cleaning up
ch 3: falling down
ch 4: holding back
ch 5: slipping away
ch 6: sinking in
ch 7: breaking down
ch 8: holding on
ch 9: epilogue
when Planet Publishingâs editor Clark Kent was given a steamy romance for his next project, he vowed to treat it like any other assignment: professionally. a sentiment he shared with the author herselfâexcept it wasnât the only thing they had in commonâŚ
đď¸ WARNINGS & TAGS: coworkers to friends with benefits?; virgins; mutual yearning; some jealousy; drunken confessions; SMUT (mentions of masturbation, oral, they're both switches, big dick clark, fingering, dirty talk, praise, size kink, tummy bulge, virginity loss, unprotected sex, creampie)
đ READER NOTES: afab!reader; no use of y/n; reader drinks alcohol and eats meat... not clark's meat, although she does that too
âď¸ AUTHOR'S NOTES: @theworstwolvie @pinksplace @tw1sters thank you for giving this a quick read while it was still a fetusâyour encouragement carried me here to the post button <3
i hope everyone likes this fic because between this and another in july i don't think i'll be working on anything else... alexa play see you again by charlie puth wiz khalifa
1
Cassius traced a line with his darkened eyes. It dragged heat down Vesraâs body: first her lips, then her throat, then her naked, heaving chest. The corset that damned him all night was tugged loose, but not off, instead supporting her flesh in a way more salacious than it was designed to.
âLook at you,â he growled, the rumble reverberating in the inches between their bodies. âBetter than Iâve dreamed.â
Vesra had a tease at the tip of her tongueâsomething about Cassius having dreamt of herâbut the words evaporated the moment his lips took a pert nipple between them. She gasped instead, fingers finding his dark locks, tugging gently at them in a plea for more. If he was bothered by the touch, he didnât show it: the first kisses turned quickly into suckles and testing bites.
The warmth of Cassiusâs mouth bled into her veins. It spiked into a fever when he ground his hips into hers.
âCass,â she cried, unbidden.
He groaned, mouth still on her tit. âFeel what you do to me? Thatâs all your fault.â
The question was rhetorical. Vesra felt it more than enough to answer: the outline of his shaft pressed againstâ
Someone clears their throat.
Clark Kent looks up. So do you from the book youâre reciting.
A waiter is there: young and blonde with a face that spelled jadedness earned from countless shifts toiling in this restaurant. Heâs clearly walked into worse in his career.
âMore water?â he offers, tone deadpan.
âIâm good, thanks,â you smile sweetly in response, âbut please get me another bottle of soju.â
âOne soju, then,â he repeats, before stepping away from your table.
Meanwhile, Clark sits across you with his face on fire. He manages an apologetic look at the waiter before throwing his gaze up, silently thanking the company for booking you a private room.
A warm pendant light looks back at him.
The Korean barbecue dinner is billable to Planet Publishing for two reasons: your birthday, and the success of your second novel under the houseâs wing.
Itâs the book you have open in your hands: Owls on a Moonlit Marsh, a gateway drug to fantasy for romance readers, and a steamy page-turner for fantasy readers.
Now Clark didnât edit that book. Heâs just invited to this company-expensed dinner because the two of you were in Gotham for a creative writing event, in which you were one of the panelists.
And you certainly didnât let his politeness deter you from dragging him along, pushing past his insistence that you should spend Planet Publishingâs money with someone specialâmaybe a boyfriend.
(Was it rude to feel relief when you told him you didnât have one?)
So, here he is. With you. Slightly full from an extremely delicious assortment of meats and banchan, listening to you complain about the pain in writing pleasure.
Clark Kent convinces himself that you brought him along because itâs the kind thing to do. The convenient thing, even. For once, youâre in Gotham, and this place has crossed your socials too many times. He just happened to be on a business trip with you.
That dress you are wearing isnât low-cut to seduce him so much as to make yourself look beautiful. (And God, do you look beautiful.) Itâs not flirtation that flashes in your eyes, just everyday mischief. Maybe soju-induced intoxication.
But that smile⌠The curl of it is so dangerously familiar, he finds his eyes averting from it to not provoke any untoward ideasâbecause the only ideas heâs getting are rather untoward.
Between the thoughts Clark Kent thinks to avoid heartbreak, thereâs no way to misinterpret that smile.
Six months of working with someone is enough time to figure out whether youâre into them. Except Clarkâif he were to admit at gunpointâwould say that being âintoâ you is a massively understated way of expressing the specific feeling heâs dealing with.
Youâre under his skin like an influence.
âNow where was IâŚ?â you hum, scanning the page of an open book.
You point at the page. âOh, right. His shaft.â
Once again, thank God and Perry White for the private room. Otherwise, saying the word âshaftâ while you read smut out loud might get you kicked out of this sleek restaurant.
âThat scene was good,â Clark coughs. And he doesnât just say that because he likes you, but in all honesty. âItâs sexy. And vulnerable.â
The main characters have gone through a literal book-load of feelings, which culminated into what has been described by Tumblr users as a âclit-throbbingâ smut scene. In working with you for half a year, he deeply understandsâthe first part about going through a lot of feelings, that is.
The latter part? He can only dream.
âThanks, Clark. Flattery gets you everywhere,â you beam. âI have a praise kink.â
Gosh, itâs so darn warm in here. (The charcoalâs been dead for a while now.)
âI was being serious.â
âReally? You think it was good?â you reply so earnestly he sits up straighter at the attention. âI was worried we were getting repetitiveâM and I could only substitute the word âcockâ so many times.â
Clark nearly chokes on his rice wine.
If the publishing house let you loose with your word choices, people will get IDâed at the counter for wanting to buy your books.
And M? Sheâs the reason heâs working with you: the editor for your first two novels, now on maternity leave.
M stands for Mary, but only those closest to her would know that her full given name is Mary Magdalene.
Alanis Morissette would like a word.
âIâm sure âthrustâ is the same,â Clark murmurs, fixing his glasses.
You give the comment a thought. âActually, not really.â
âYeah?â
âMm-hmm,â you nod. The green soju bottle glints in the dim as you swirl it around. âI suppose⌠itâs the sensation that I find difficult to write.â
Clark tries to school his heartbeat. Be professional. Thatâs the one thing he vowed when taking up this job: you canât edit a critically acclaimed romantasy if you donât take it seriously.
And the two of you havenât gotten there. Writing the sex, he means, not having sex. Thereâs nowhere for you and him to go on that part. And he definitely has not thought about it. Not in the slightest.
Professional, Clark scolds himself internally.
âHow so?â he asks.
Your gaze shifts away from his. Thatâs rare.
âWell,â you begin, tone light as a feather, âitâs hard to write about something I havenât felt before.â
A beat of silence. Then two.
âSorry, what?â he pipes up, voice comically tiny. âI donât think I heard you right.â
Thereâs nothing for him to be nervous about, though, because youâre grinning back at him like that wasnât a dropped bomb. Heâd blame it on the alcohol in your veins, but even while sober, youâre the kind of woman who just⌠shoots it straight.
God knows he loves itâhis heart blooms in secret joy with every flash of honesty.
Like right now.
âI think you did, Clark,â you giggle, âand now youâre getting shy about it.â
âItâs the makgeolli,â he defends, though feebly.
âIâm a virgin,â you announce.
As if itâs the Declaration of Independence.
As if the waiter didnât just enter and place another bottle of soju on your table.
You throw him a thank you with a pretty smile, to which the young man nodded. He leaves the room without asking if you need anything else.
You have the decency to continue after the door slides shut.
âAnd I mean that in the PIV sense. Not that the notion of virginity makes any sense, let alone penetrative virginity.â
âNo, yes, of course,â Clark stammers in reply, all while his mind asks what have you done, then, and how do I stop picturing you doing it?
Because you did things with someone else. At some point in time, you were doing things with someone else. That makes him jealous.
Clark Kent doesnât like feeling that green thing.
Heâs jolted out of his slightly bitter reverie by a nudge on his calf.
Itâs the tip of your high-heeled shoe. He doesnât need to peek under the table to see, he can picture it just fine: maroon patent leather with a pointed tip brushing short, playful strokes over the fabric of his dress pants.
His heartbeat snags. The pulse floods south.
âBut with your experience, Mr. Editor,â you smile coyly, âyouâll ensure my written work is as accurate as possible, yes?â
Call it in vino veritas, or call it Ma and Paâs education, but Clark Kent canât lie. Not well, anyway. The truth stumbles out of his lips soon as you stop talking.
He tries to make it sound casual.
âYou know, I havenât done it, either.â
Your eyes widen, gasping out in drunken surprise.
âReally. A catch like you? The world truly is ending.â
There are many graces offered to Clark Kent tonight, and maybe the small kindnesses he did in the past are paid back in this exact moment: the waiter saunters in again to announce that the restaurant is closing soon, giving Clark a second or two to collect himself after your remark.
A catch, you called him, while he catches his breath and gathers your coats from their hangers, while his heart flies away on wings of joy. You think heâs a catch.
Or maybe youâre just being nice.
You stand and turn around. He helps you with your sleeves.
âThe meal was fantastic,â you tell the waiter on your way out, appearing completely soberâsave for the warm lilt in your voice.
The subject is dropped just like that.
Meanwhile, on the short walk back to the hotel, Clark Kent can only think of how youâve never.
And how you know heâs never, either.
ŕ¨ŕ§
When you reach the hotel, heâs not sure if youâll even remember anything in the morning, because youâre giggling in the elevator up when the height pops your ears.
Heâs not just walking you to your room, but walking himself inside your roomâto make sure youâre safe, of course.
The bedroom is a mirrored layout of his just next door. He watches as you cross the threshold, dump your coat on the floor, and kick your heels off before jumping face-first onto the queen bed.
He shakes his head, but everything he does bleeds affection: he hangs up your coat and places your shoes neatly onto the side.
Then you sigh into the cold sheets, as if laying there is the best feeling in the world, and Clark tenses.
Youâre safe. He isnât.
Because that sigh reminds him of another sound.
A moanâairy, short.
Yours.
It happened last night. He could only hear it because the hotel walls arenât as thick as he thought, or maybe because your beds were pressed up on the same side. It wasnât loudâjust him being really cognizant that your private existence and his are separated by one slab.
A concrete slab, sure, but still.
And his mind got the better of him, as it always does when youâre involved. The little noise was enough to make him think about you touching yourself. The image alone inspired him to do the same in the shower.
Heâd spent a long time after feeling guilty for morphing that beautiful sound into something that resembled his nameâthatâs how inconceivable it is, a person like you being into a person like him.
Still, if he has a character flaw, it would be the endless hope that pours out of him. Itâs in the way he tucks you under the covers and fixes a strand of your hair after.
Heâs about to leave when you grab his hand.
âDonât go,â you murmur, eyes half-closed. Even so, he sees them glazedâwith both alcohol and a brand of loneliness he canât bare to subject you toâand he folds easily.
The smile you smile when he slips under the covers is just about worth the torture of holding you in your bed.
You snuggle up into him, face buried in his chest.
But then you go and make things even harder for him. Something you keep doing even while drunk.
âClark?â you slur.
âHm?â
âYou know Iâd give it to you, right?â
âGive me what?â
âMy virginity.â
Oh.
How cruel, he thinks to himself. The things people say under the influence.
âGo to sleep,â he says softly, stroking the top of your head. She doesnât know what sheâs talking about, is what he tells himself to keep the feelings at bay.
But his mind recalls the shape of your moan, and how perhaps he didnât make it sound like his name.
You murmur something unintelligible. He wonders if you can hear the wild bang of his heart. Your prolonged silence and even breaths mean no.
He drifts off soon after.
2
You wake up feeling like a person in a daytime pad commercial who just slept like a person in a nighttime pad commercial.
That is to say: you wake up comfortable because you slept amazing. The only minor complaint would be the lack of bodily warmth on your sheets.
On the other side of the bed are wrinkled sheets, suspiciously Clark-shaped. Flashes of last night play in your head: the Korean barbecue, alcohol burning your throat, the smell of him under your sheetsâŚ
âŚand the things you told him.
Oh.
Well, you said what you said. It certainly isnât the first time you embarrassed yourself just to make him look your way. The dress last night is another recent example.
Life goes on, and you figure your colleague-slash-friend probably returned to his room right after he woke, most likely flustered even with no one looking.
On the nightstand is a tall glass of water and Advil. Must be Clarkâs doing.
You drink the medicine down despite 1) feeling in perfect health and 2) knowing that the water wonât quench the thirst you have for the man who poured the glass for you.
And boy, does Clark look like a tall glass of water when you see him again in the lobby, seated in one of the plush armchairs. You keep telling yourself itâs the suit, but the hotel receptionist is wearing the same color and cutâyet youâre not salivating at the sight.
âGood morning,â you chirp, wheeling your small suitcase while you walk towards Clark.
He stands. He always does when you enter a room. Those manners and looks in one person would incur panic upon suburban mothers everywhere.
âThanks for the Advil.â
âItâs no problem.â He smiles back at you. You sense immense politenessâmore than usual. âHow did you sleep?â
âReally well. You?â
âYup, out like a light.â
âMust be the alcohol,â you reply.
It wouldâve been a decent lie, if not for the whole beat that passed silently before Clark coughs out a response equally weak to yours.
âYes, it was⌠really good alcohol.â
You agree that the soju was excellent, but the better the booze, the worse the sleep.
You know you slept well because he was in your bed. You just donât know if this is his normal display of shyness or if heâd rather die than admit it.
Either way, itâs just who he is: Clark is too kind to turn you down and too professional to ever address what you told him last night.
Lucky for you, thereâs plenty of time to lick your wounds.
The two of you drive back to Metropolis. Clark sits behind the wheel of his car. The traffic leading up to the Interstate is egregiously heavy, just like the air inside the vehicle.
Small talk makes it worse (strange, the two of you usually converse just fine). His mindless distractiong is changing radio stations as if he knows what he wants to listen to. Meanwhile, you pretend to do something productive on your laptop: developments for your third novel, the last of the installment.
Developments. Psh. All you have are bullet points.
Lucky for you, thereâs plenty of time to lick your wounds.
The two of you drive back to Metropolis. Clark sits behind the wheel of his car. The traffic leading up to the Interstate is egregiously heavy, just like the air inside the vehicle.
Small talk makes it worseâand for the record, the two of you usually converse just fine. His mindless distraction is changing radio stations as if he knows what he wants to listen to. Meanwhile, you pretend to do something productive on your laptop: developments for your third novel, the last of the installment.
Developments. Psh. All you have are bullet points.
ves forced into divine deal with zalrythar god of secrets
she canât tell anyone including cass
figure out b plot
cass thinks ves is pulling away and confronts her
she obv stonewalls
angst haha
resolve b plot
cass and ves both end up in god-mandated sex
That takes you less than a minute to type out. The car hasnât moved for the last seven.
You spend the next three staring at his hands on the steering wheel.
ŕ¨ŕ§
Even when traffic eases as you reach Metropolis, the tension doesnât. It thickens the closer he gets to your destination, palpable by the time Clark turns into your street. The GPS lady shuts up at this point, leaving you and him to stew in silence.
Your apartment is just up ahead. Heâs slowing the car down and you internally curse yourself.
Thereâs no way you can take any more of this, the tip-toeing a shared truth like itâs a secret. Thereâs no way he isnât awareâhe wouldnât be so quiet otherwise. And youâve seen him truly oblivious: someone would ask him out to dinner and heâd think itâs because they want to talk business.
If you do this, heâs probably going to think youâre even more shameless than he initially thought.
What he doesnât know is that you want to be an honest person around him. Just your luck that, in your case, being honest means shamelessly wanting him.
âClark?â you call out as he tugs at the handbrake. Your voice isnât fully gathered, underused in the silence of the ride back, and you sound a little less sure than youâre used to.
âHm?â he hums back, looking over at you. The car hums, too.
You shift your body to face his, seatbelt clicked free, like thatâs going to help you breathe in better.
âSomething happened yesterday.â
His jaws clench once. Eyes widen a fraction. You arenât asking a question.
âYes. We slept togeâI mean, I fell asleep on your bed.â
Clark Kent isnât a good liar by nature, but youâd be lying, too, if you said you didnât pay special attention to his voice. The words come out too fast, and thereâs a slight pinched quality to his voice that clues you in on his farce. Youâve known him long enough to learn his tells.
âAnd?â you ask.
He thrums his fingers on the steering wheel.
âYou also told me⌠youâre a virgin.â
You donât spare a beat, lest he finds a way to escape this situation.
âAnd so are you.â
He nods. âYep.â Thereâs a pop on the âpâ, heavy with an acceptance of his fate.
Your lip twitches up in amusementâhe looks so close to spontaneous combustion, the tapping of his fingers like a ticking time bomb.
âGosh,â Clark smiles, the shaky, worried kind, âyou donât think thatâs funny, do you?â
That catches you off-guard and a little offended. âWhy would I? Weâre in the same boat.â
âNo, yes, of course,â he stammers. âI'm sorry, I justâ"
ââthought an erotic novelist canât possibly be a virgin?"
Thereâs a pause.
" Yes,â he admits. âI mean, itâs my fault. I assumed. From your books, of course! Not from anything else.â
You laugh a little at his jitteriness, and funnily enough, he seems to relax.
âItâs okay. I was justââ you search for the right word, âtickled. Two virgins writing and editing paperback smut.â
He laughs this time. You take in the dimples of his cheeks, and suddenly the totally silent car ride home fizzles out like a distant memory.
âNot that I think sex is a prerequisite, by the way,â you add, just to make sure youâre not staring at him too much. âYouâre a good editor, Clark.â
He seems to be taken aback, eyes locked on yours.
âThatâs because youâre a great writer.â
He ends that sentence with your name, spoken itâs holy. Something in you cracks open.
The reality is that writing comes easy because he fuels your dreams. All you do is extend them. You take every little thing he gives you in real life, surgically pluck it out of context, and blow it out of proportion. The lingering brush of his hand after a hug. A touch on your lower back in a crowded room. Him leaning down to hear you better.
Heâs the fire that kindles your prose. Inspires your imagination until heâs shaped like a man who wants you.
Writing is the highest form of wishful thinking, after all.
You used to think Clark Kent wanting you is an impossible thing, but now? Maybe itâs not.
Because his face takes on a kind of expression youâve only written about.
His eyes darken.
âClark?â
âYes?â he replies, a microsecond too fast. Heâs scared. Or nervous. Or both.
Either way, you are tooâbecause thereâs no turning back after this.
âThatâs not all I told you, was it?â
You catch his throat bob. When he speaks, his voice is taut, like the air in the car.
âNo.â
Your fingers twitch from seeing his jaw clench.
The urge to touch him wins out, and you find yourself moving both hands to cradle his face, thumbing at the tense spot. His breath visibly hitches: you can tell from the rise of his chest when you bridge the gap between your seats.
âI meant what I said, you know,â you murmur, not even looking him in the eye anymore. Your gaze lands lower.
His lips are parted so beautifully⌠but you make sure to stare straight into him when you nail your own coffin shut.
âIâd give it to you.â
He needs to know you mean it.
As if those words were permission, he leaned down and closed the gap entirely, kissing you.
Heâs more sure than you thought heâd beâand God, thatâs past tense, because you now know how he kisses: slow, deep, with the rumbly beginning of a groan brewing in his chest. You melt into his body as much as the car will allow, the hand on his face slipping back to card through dark locks.
Thatâs when he feeds the sound straight into your mouth.
The groan isnât the only thing that travels. His hands do too. One drags a path up your side to tug you closer. Another snakes to your nape, as if the kiss could get any deeper.
Your tongues dance and you moan at his taste.
âFuck,â you breathe, lips still on his. You nip at his bottom lip in between words. âYou want it? Want me to give it to you?â
His reply is hazy above all yes, like he just woke from a dream or is drifting into one.
âYes. Please. I want itâwant you.â
âGood,â you smile, releasing his lip with a pop, âwanna take yours, too.â
The look on his face is something you wish you could photograph.
Heâs redâjust from kissingâlips swollen and rosy, a tiny, faint pool of drool out one corner. His glasses are askew.
You fix it with a smile.
âCome upstairs.â
3
Upstairs takes an elevator ride where he stands behind you to hide his bonerâjust in case someone walks in, he reasonsâbut you make it through your door soon enough.
Not without you fumbling with your keys and giggling into his mouth.
By the time Clark tumbles into your bed, bringing you down with him, heâs already painfully hard under his slacks.
Everything smells like you.
Your hand on his chest draws a cheeky line down his stomach past his belt, and he sighs in relief. You sit back on your haunches, still straddling him, finally palming the tent thatâs formed in his pants.
He gasps at the touch, mouth open, already missing your lips on his.
âSo hard already,â you murmur. âTake this belt off.â
He obeys, quiet except for the clink of metal. The belt drops somewhere on the floor with a thunk. Your pretty hands work his zip, tugging just enough to reveal a dark blue pair of boxer-briefs.
Then he feels your weight shift on the bed. Watches you move down until youâre face-to-cock with his still-clothed erection.
âHow far have you gone, Clark?â you ask, light as a feather, breath warm against the fibers of his underwear. The sight of you smiling between his legs is so dizzying, he grips the sheets for anchor. âDid you at least get blown?â
âYeaâah,â he pants, because your hand is on his cock again. Palming. Squeezing.
You hum. Fingertips playfully stroke down his length from over the boxer-briefs, fondling his balls. âWhen was the last time?â
âDonât know,â is his immediate, husked-out answer. Thereâs no past in his mind. Just the present, as unbelievable as it isâyour bed, you, your hand, your pretty face⌠âDonât care, just, pleaseââ
As if triggered by his begging, you sit back up, leaving his cock completely touch-starved.
He sighs, because youâre thumbing his bottom lip. The touch isnât kind. As a matter of fact, itâs a little mean: your finger is pushing his lip to the side, teasing the plush of it, pulling it down just a bit before letting it bounce back.
He likes it.
You chuckle when he takes your thumb in his mouth, even before you push it past his lips.
âSo eager,â you drone, your other hand stroking his hair. âYou want it that bad?â
âYes,â he says, except it sounds more like mmph with his mouth occupied.
He lets your thumb go, only to kiss at your open palm. One quiet sound after the other, he presses his lips into your hand moreâuntil very soon, heâs literally making out with it. His own hand is gripping yours close to his face, keeping you still.
âWhat exactly do you want, Clark?â Your words carry more breath than voice, and his blood sings.
âAnything youâd give to me,â he answers.
Itâs at that point you choose to wrest your hand away, settling back down between his legs. You lean down to peck on his hard-onâit jumps excitedly under the fabric. You laugh, thumbing at the waistband.
Then you pull his boxer-briefs down, and there he is.
All of his inches, eight or nine, youâre not sure, but the exact measurement doesnât matterânot when heâs relatively equal to the length of your forearm.
Surprise, surprise. Your big sloppy crush has a big fucking dick.
A dick so pretty you might cryâespecially because itâs already crying a pearly bead at the tip. You trace a prominent vein that runs on the underside, lick your lips as he bucks into your hand.
You look at his face and a cruel amusement takes over you: Clark is propped on his elbows, cheeks bathed red, jaw slack like heâs just ran up fifty flights of stairs.
And you havenât even done anything.
Rising up to your knees, you move to his face. A kiss on his lips, slow and deep. Then ten more light ones all over his cheekbone, jaw, neck, throat, up to his ears, at which point heâs stuttering out the beginnings of your name.
Your hands part his legs wider, letting you situate yourself more comfortably between them. He gulps. You move back down to the center of his expanse. Your head tilts, mouth a dangerous distance from where heâs most sensitive.
âCan I kiss you here?â
Your fingerpad teases the tip. Pre meets your skin, warm and sticky. You smear it on his fat head.
âYes.â
Christ, was that a whine? Your little smile turns devious, nose nudging his cock. It twitches again, as if autonomous from the rest of himâlike itâs developed its own mind and is begging you greedily to give it more.
âYouâre so big, Clark. Will you even fit?â you muse, fingers curling around him, pumping once, twice. He throws his head back with a grunt, the movement so sharp you think he might be pulled at with a leash.
Well. Youâll figure out the answer to that later. For now, you should play with your meal.
You slip the tip into his mouth and watch shivers wrack his body. After swirling your tongue on it once, you let go with a pop, purring.
âSo sensitive. What am I gonna do with you?â
Meanwhile, Clark is losing his mind.
âYourâf-fuhhâfault,â comes his raspy reply just as you descend one, two, three inches more. Gosh, your mouth is so warm, so tightâŚ
You chuckle, and the vibrations rattle him up to his ribcage. It occurs to him that he mightâve said those things about your mouth out loud. Rather than mortification, he feels elation, because even when you move up and the warmth is gone, youâre teasing his tip with your tongue again, and it feels so good he might cry.
The circles in his vision must be mimicking your wet heat drawing patterns on him.
One of his hand sinks into a pillow, the other cards digits through your hair.
An expletive escapes the moment you hollow your cheeks, far too sudden for him to take back.
âFuck,â he gasps, the sound tailing off with dumb, repeated attempts of forming your name. Most of his brain is in his hips now as they swivel in hopes to get more of him in your mouth, but your fingers splay beautifully on the rippling muscles of his abdomen.
âUh-uh. Stay still.â
Following orders is usually a thing heâs good at. Just not today. Not now.
Now, all he can think of is how good it feelsâhis mouth echoes those thoughts with babbles of âso good, feels so g-good, youâre perfectââand how if you keep this up, heâll come in an embarrassing amount of time.
Itâs already taking everything in him not to let that happen.
But then he catches you look up at him.
The sunâs still out, bathing the room with enough light to show him exactly what makes him nearly crumble:
Your pretty lips, wrapped around his thick cock, head bobbing up and down to reveal the glisten on himâa mix of precum and spitâyour hair messy around his hand.
âStop,â he groans, holding your skull still so he can gently pull himself out of you. Thereâs a line of drool that connects your mouth and his cock. âStop, donât wanna comeââ
The surprised tinge in your reply almost breaks his heart. âYou donât want to?â
He shakes his head, reconstructing his breaths. âNot until Iâm inside you.â
For once in his life, you donât talk back, and heâd be damned to let the opportunity slip.
Clark Kent grew up learning how to take things into his own hands. He puts that into practice with you, grabbing you up by the waist, laying you down on the bed. He takes your clothes off: slowly, because every inch of bare skin is the closest heâs been to heaven, because he wants to savor this, because he thinks youâre beautiful.
Says it too, even if itâs whispered.
He has you in your underwear, teasing the strap of your bra. âCan I take this off, sweetheart?â
You nod instead of giving him mouth. A rarity.
Heâll give you mouth, instead: by kissing you as he unclasps your bra with one hand (still no comment from you). Once itâs off, he drags his lips down your throat, then collarbone, then your heaving chest, where he lets himself stare for once. His warm breath caresses your skin, while heat pours out from his gaze.
He finally leans down, laving at a nipple. Polite first, hungry just two seconds later. His entire mouth is involved: sucking at your chest, a large hand squeezing around your flesh to feed more into him. Your hand digs into his curls when he hums, teeth grazing playfully as you arch for more.
He looks up.
Youâre a dream. Heâs sure heâs dreamed of this onceâexcept instead of blurred images and hazy glows that tortures him at night, the scene is crystal. He sees everything through his glasses: each strand of lashes on your pretty eyes, the color of your skin against the sheets, how your hair splays on the pillows.
Actually, speaking of pillowsâand dreamsâŚ
âHere,â he wrests one from under your head and taps the side of your hips, âlift your hips up for me.â
You do it, but it seems youâve found your voice again. The cheeky retort comes out breathless.
âReally, Clark? Youâre gonna use that line on me?â
He adjusts you on the pillow, lips pursedâboth from your tease and the sight of you, naked, save for the cute underwear raised up to meet him.
Itâs already wet at the gusset. There isnât much for him left to imagine.
âJust because youâre a writer doesnât mean youâre immune to it,â he hums, peeling the material off of you. You instantly fall silent.
He groans at the sight of you clenching around nothing, slick threatening to dirty the pillowcase youâre resting on.
Two fingers drag a path down your mound to your wet entrance. Two moans erupt when he circles thereâyours higher pitched than his, because he touches like itâs payback for some unseen grudge. Surely you donât know how long heâs thought of you like this, how long heâs struggled with the guilt of fantasizing about his hot colleague, only to find this.
Your soaked cunt winking at him.
âYouâre so wet,â his digits dip, collecting your juices. Your hips buck. âIs this from sucking me off?â
âNo, I was thinking about winning the lottery,â you moan, betraying your impatience, âyes, itâs because of you, stupid!â
He laughs. Heâs wanted you way too longâyou can wait a little longer.
âNeed to prep you,â a thumb pushes the hood off your clit, only for him to do nothing but look at it.
You shiver under his gaze, tease audibly lacking the bite. âIs this how you do itâstare?â
His eyes meet yours, blue eyes almost burning. Your throat bobs. Thatâs what fuels him.
âYou tell me,â he murmurs, âyouâre the erotic novelist.â
Fingers explore again, barely touching, always circling, and he bites back a moan at the sight of you arched like that, like your hips are hungry for more. His touch doesnât relent, although itâs taking everything in him not to take every part of you right then and there.
âClarkââ
âYou wrote something like this before,â his thumb swipes your clit. His name on your lips breaks, but those eyes on your face never does. âPage 347 of Owls. âWhen his finger sinks inside her, she gasps like sheâs never breathed airââŚâ
Just then, he does as he says. His middle finger stretches you, one knuckle deep at first, then two, then all the way in. You writhe, stuttering a moan at how slow he is, before the sound dies in your throat with a gasp.
The base of his palm presses against your clit.
Clark catalogs your reactions with the precision of a machine. The warmth of his touch is anything but. So is the slight crinkle between his brows: signs that heâs testing his own boundaries by stretching yours so slowly.
âOr is it the next page? âThe rhythm he sets replaces the beat of her heartâexcept nothing about the slow scrape of his fingers echoes the relentless thumping in her chest.ââ
When he moves his fingers, the dimples on his cheeks begin to show. He smiles down at you, free from the pretense of professionalism:
He doesnât commit your lines to memory because heâs a dedicated editor. He does it because he thinks about doing those things with youâso, so often.
âFuckâClarkââ you whimper, the syllables choked out as his other hand pins your hip.
One finger becomes two, but the pace doesnât change. Still arduous, still torture. Clarkâs eyes are glazed: in watching you lose your mind underneath him, he loses his in trying to erase true words laced with alcohol. Your voice floats in his memory:
And I mean that in the PIV sense.
Does that mean youâve done this before, with men who arenât him? Were they any good? Did you like them, or did you let them in your bed just to use them? Doesnât make a difference, Clark decides, because they still got to be with you. Were they the reason you wrote passion so well, or was it because they were so shit at it you had to take matters into your own hands?
Speaking of taking matters into your own hands, your voice floats in his memory again. Not words this time.
âYou touched yourself, didnât you?â Clark grunts, fingertips kissing your cervix at the word touched, âTwo nights ago. In the hotel.â
You donât answer, but your widened eyes said enough.
He leans down. Presses his forehead against yours.
âHeard you through the wall. Sound so sweet. Wanna hear it again.â
He kisses your lips once before moving down the expanse of you, flat on the bed between your very open legsâthanks to his gentle grip around one ankle, spreading you out for him to see.
But before you can shiver at the loss of his warm shadow, his lips closes around your clit, and you give him what he wants.
An open moan, loud enough to bounce off the walls.
Clark moans, too. The sound vibrates directly onto your cunt, you canât help but spasm. He doesnât stop. The flat of his tongue presses entirely on you, never really still: soon, he starts sucking and licking and teasing your poor clit. He tastes you, and a steady stream of muffled groans leak from his mouthâthe same way your pussy leaks juices around his thrusting fingers, the squelch squelch squelch growing faster and louder in the room.
âYou wrote about this so many times,â he murmurs against your slick, âdâyou like it that much?â
Your answer is an unintelligibly keen noise.
âI love it,â Clark is purring now, hazy with your taste, âIâll help you write lines later, mâkay? Want you to soak my hand, my tongueââ
Your body mustâve mistook that as an order, because the orgasm hits you out of nowhere, hot-white and sparking off your every nerve. You arch, convulse, slurring his name like you canât speak while your pussy gushes around his fingers as they thrust through your spasms, unrelenting.
He breathes out a blasphemy, the first âoh my Godâ youâve ever heard coming out of his mouth. Your senses are only starting to come back, but he replaces his fingers with his tongue, and you canât hear anything past your own scream.
He fucks you just like that, lapping at your juices like he hasnât drank in ages.
Something within you unstitches, and you feel your body leaping past overstimulation to overwhelming pleasure. You donât tell him to stopâhow can you, when heâs so clearly drunk on your pussy? He moans words into you like itâs a pet, coos of âYouâre so pretty when you comeâ, âTastes so good for meâ vibrating against your core.
The cool frame of his glasses bumping against your inner thigh only makes everything feel better.
âClark,â you cry, and he already knows. Already mumbling encouragements into your cunt.
âWant you to come again, honey, câmon, you can do it, yeah?â
You do. The crest tugs at your spine like a string, and your hips seek his mouth as if looking for a place to give.
He takes itâslurping, licking, kissing.
When your white-edged vision comes back from the dappled blurs, heâs already shirtless and sitting on his heels, looking down at something.
You follow his gaze.
It stops at his cock resting on your stomachâthe exact measure of how deep heâll be.
Thereâs a smile on Clarkâs face. Kind, but not kind enough that he wonât fuck you into the mattress.
âSee that, sweetheart?â he leans down, feeding the words straight into your ear. âWeâll make sure you take everything, mâkay?â
When you whimper and close your eyesâbecause how is that thing going inside you?âhe tuts once. Cups your jaw with a broad palm, still sticky with your juices. Another time and place, youâd scold him, but now?
âYou need to watch,â he says, âso you can write about it.â
Your eyes blink open, only to find his pupils blown out black.
Now youâre screwedâor just about to be.
The fat head of his cock rubs against your hole, hot, smearing precum on your cunt. You mewl, eyes fluttering shut again, but he tightens his hold on your jaw, whispering âcâmon, honey, look at meâ like his voice doesnât make things worse.
Like heâs not just as wrecked.
Lips slick, parted, and a little swollen, hazy eyes half-lidded, Clark Kent is the picture they put next to the definition of lust.
But youâre the same, because his cock nudges your clit again and you melt, stammering your truest wish into his mouth:
âPlease, Clark, please fuck me, need you to fuck meââ
How he isnât already cumming all over you is beyond his comprehension.
âOh, attagirl,â he breathes, before finally sinking in.
The stretch isnât as painful as you thought itâd be, but maybe thatâs just how desperate you are for him. Clark doesnât seem to be holding up so well, though: heâs panting just a breath away from your lips, exhales shaky at the tightness that wraps around him, holding back the need to just slam into your perfect heat.
Inch by excruciating inch, he sinks into you, then stops. You gasp at the feeling: full. How you managed to take him all so easily is a mystery.
You call his name, clenching around him. His answer is strained, brows knitted.
âIâm only halfway in, baby.â
A wave of desire and dread washes over you at the realization. Those blue eyes, though black now from dilated pupils, drift momentarily down, before they lock onto yours again.
He pushes in.
Your jaw falls slack in disbelief, walls stretched by the veiny ridges of him. His girth bullies your cunt to take his shape. He watches as he thrusts the thickest part of him inside you, studying each twitch and blink and stutter, looking out for pain, but finding pleasure above all else.
This time, you know heâs all the way in. Your vision blacks out a little at the heft.
âThere we go, good girl, so good for me, youâre perfectâŚâ
Those words come tumbling out, both a reassurance for you and a distraction for Clarkâbecause youâre so warm and tight and wet around him, he might lose himself if he doesnât focus.
âBreathe for me,â he hums, but heâs not breathing right either.
This is it. His cock is inside of youâthe first one to ruin you, if he doesnât mess this up and ruin himself first.
Meanwhile, you watch Clark pant above you, his forearms flexing as they bracket your head, face red from restraint.
The sight makes you clench and he moans.
âD-Donâtâaâah,â his chest heaves.
That pulls a grin out of you, weak as it is. You clench again, this time intentionally.
He grits your name out between teeth. âI said, donât.â
âWhy?â you husk, even though you know the answer.
âGonna make me c-come.â
You stroke his cheek to guise the fact that youâre not doing much better yourselfânot with all eight, nine inches of his hard cock pulsing directly against your walls like that.
The thought strikes you then: this is the closest youâve ever been to someoneâquite literally speaking.
And itâs Clark whoâs holding you right now. Clark. Endlessly polite and often sweet Clark. Easily ragebaited into a rant Clark. Charming without meaning to, helps with the best of intentions Clark.
Itâs precisely because youâre with him that your mouth decides to say something stupid. Call it a defense mechanismâfrom what, youâre not sure, because heâs already inside you, what the fuck are you defending yourself from?âbut the words slither out anyway.
Playful. Teasing. You say it right by his lips, the exact opposite of what you had in mind.
âYou can cum, Clark. Iâll just find someone else to help me write my book.â
When in fact youâll never let anyone else between your legs ever again.
Something in Clark shifts. His throat bobs with it, eyes sharpening past the haze of lust.
Then heâs on his knees, gripping your hips with both hands, before thrusting up without pulling out even an inchâlike deeper is possible. You feel him in your lungs. He does it again.
This time, both your eyes and his snap down to the faint bulge near your stomach.
The view doesnât stay for long. He drags his inches out of you, slowly, all the way to the tip, before plunging deep once more.
âFuckâ!â
Youâre busy crying out when he leans back down. His hand gathers your wrists above your head, the other firm on the side of your hipâboth anchors to the slow pace he builds.
ââs this what you need?â he rasps, voice broken between lazy thrusts that ring loud, âWritingânmmâmaterial?â
âAahââ
âYou gonna write about how,â thrust, âheâs so deep, she can see him in her stomach?â
Your eyes widen, first at the bulge on your lower belly, then at him.
âAbout how she cries out for him?â Thrust.
ââa-nghhââ
âHow sheâs clenching around him,â he mouths against your ear, words slurred, âlike she doesnât want him to leave?â
The cant of his hips pick up speed, and soon there are plap plap plaps of his balls slapping your ass under your moans and his. His hand on your wrists becomes a lever from which he thrusts.
The air hangs heavy with sweat and a heady scent. The bed begins to creak.
Youâre rutting up into him, the swivel of your hips growing more and more desperate with each murmur of his nameâhe watches you the entire time, entranced by the roll of your bodies.
âFuck, look at you,â he whines at the sight, eyes glazed over.
âWanna touch,â you mumble, drool beginning to pool on one side of your lip. Your fingers claw the air. âPlease, let me touchââ
He lets go of your hands. You drag him into a kiss that tangles your moans together, all while his hipbone bumps into yours again and again.
The freedom he gives you damns him: your hands raking down his chest makes him shiver, so do your nails digging into his bicep. The worst part happens when you tug at his hair: a response to one particular slam that hits a spot in you, in turn drawing a garbled moan out of him.
You canât stop touching him, and heâs all the worse for it.
With each fuse of your hips and his, your walls clutch him like youâre trying to keep him inside. Out to the tip, in to the hilt, splitting you open with each store, coating his cock with you while he bullies that spot that makes you beg so beautifully: âyes, Clark, please!â
Itâs clear youâre close. It hasnât been long since Clark got acquainted with your pretty pussy, but the way she clenches is enough to clue him in.
Heâs not doing any better: eyes dark behind glasses that sit askew, swollen lips parted. His only hope now is to pound into that gummy spot in you again and again and again while he spews praise in your earâmake you come before he does, because itâs too good for him not too: heâs so hard and youâre squeezing him so tight, rubbing delicious friction thatâs all at once too much and not enough.
You respond with nails raked down his naked back, the mantra of âClark Clark Clarkâ shooting ecstasy straight to his head, fueling the piston of his hips.
The sounds of your bodies arenât helping him hold on: wet slaps betray the mess heâs making out of your pussy. Every thrust makes him yours. Make you his.
He groans at the thought. Depraved as it is, his cock being the first to ruin your pussy does something indescribable to him. At the tail end of that thought is something sweeter:
The same way that heâs your first, youâre his. He doesnât want any other.
He paraphrases professions of love into everything else but the words he loves working with. Instead he employs a language said by the body: through his hips now ramming deep strokes into you, the way his arms wrap around you until you canât see anything except him. Your heels drag on his back nowâhe spares a second to hook one over his shoulder before plunging back into you, deepening the angle.
He glances down. Your nails sink into his arms. They look pretty.
You look pretty: eyes blank, hair a mess, skin misted with sweat as you lay arched underneath himâŚ
âGod, youâre perfect,â he breathes.
Meanwhile, you're so full your brain decides to empty itself. Its only care right now is your basest of needs.
âSo good,â you whimper, âClark you feel so good, gonna cumâŚâ
âYeah? Me too, honey,â he pants, voice reedy, âwhere do you want me?â
âInside, p-please, need you insideââ
That answer unspools all restraint in him, and he lets his hips go of their very last bit of restraint: he pistons into you with abandon as he siphons groans into your lips in exchange for your climbing moans, the two of you feeding into each otherâs lust until your heat is too much.
âI canât, honey, Iââ
Itâs too late: heâs spurting all the way inside you, breathlessly gasping your name.
âGahângghââ
The flooding sensation of his orgasm, hot and sticky, triggers your own. The tension shatters in your body: your legs quiver on his shoulder and around his waist, voice broken as your nerves turn into livewires that burn bright at the edges of your vision, electrifying everything to white.
Heâs on you the entire time you come, breath warming your ear. The spurts donât stop. Youâve never been fullerâuntil he pulls out of you and you moan, not just from the loss of his cock, but also the messy splatter of him on your stomach and tits.
The thought is faint, but the sensations are real: heâs still fucking cumming.
Now youâre just not quivering, youâre a quivering mess. Even with your senses flashbanged, slowly reconstructing themselves from that orgasm, you register the warmth that drips down your hole and onto the bedsheets.
Then the quiet lands. Your breaths even. He still hovers over you, glasses fully fogged up and crooked. The sight is stupidly hot, but you donât like that you canât see him.
You slowly take them off.
Blue eyes look back at you. His pupils arenât so dilated now, and you see a different emotion in them as they widen.
Concern.
âGoshâIâare you okay? did I hurt you? â
He thumbs at your cheek. Itâs wet. When did you start crying?
âNo, no,â you stammer, âIâm fine. Itâs just⌠that wasââ
You stare, wordless. He stares back.
âItâs perfect. Youâre perfect, Clark.â
His shoulders drop with heavy relief, warm breath fanning your face as he leans over you again.
âThank goodness.â
That makes you giggle.
âDonât laugh. Iâve wanted you for so long, I canât possibly mess this up.â
A beat. You blink up at him. âYou have?â
He doesnât answer. Just buries his face in your neck, undoubtedly redder than before. His voice is muffled against your skin.
âI justâI like you so much it hurts.â
You huff in amusement, raking your fingers through his hair. A silent plea for him to look up at you.
He obeys. You smile, thumbing the fat of his cheek.
âWhen I touched myself two nights ago, I was thinking about you.â
His eyes widen, though just a fraction. Maybe itâs not so unbelievable, after allâbut he allows himself to expend the last ounce of his surprise.
You raise your brow. âIs it really that unexpected?â
He kisses your fingers. Sweetly this time. âI⌠Itâs an outcome Iâve never considered.â
You lean up. The peck lands on his chin. âWhy else would I invite you to an expensive Korean barbecue, silly?â
Clark smiles so earnestly it almost blinds you. Thank God he hides in your neck again.
âSo you like me, too?â
âYep. Like, a lot.â
ŕ¨ŕ§
Ten minutes later, youâre in the bathtub, back pressed against his chest.
The sun is setting outside, the drawn blinds creating light serrations that spill across your bathroom tiles. Metropolis is strangely quiet. The only thing you perceive is the lazy drip of the faucet into the waterâs surface.
Maybe youâre just preoccupied by the replaying of your memories. Every little detail collects in the forefront like the soap suds Clark massages into your shouldersâbefore you know it, youâre stringing together words in your head, a momentum you canât stop even if you wanted to.
Huh. Youâre⌠inspired.
Maybe you should do this more often.
Clark kisses the nape of your neck as you bask in the silence. The sensation grounds you back to reality, and a realization dawns. You sit up straighter in the water.
He notices.
You turn to face him.
âWhatâs wrong, honey?â
âMy suitcase,â you say, âitâs still in your car.â
He smiles so warmly you think you might melt and be one with the bath water. The expression looks so sweet and innocent on him⌠except you feel his cock hardening against your ass.
âSweetheart, I donât think youâll be needing clothes for a while.âÂ
THREE MONTHS LATERÂ
âCâmon, write something,â Clark pants playfully, hands on your hips, driving his cock into your weeping cunt as he watches the fat of your ass bounce with each thrust, âYou can do itâyouâre a smart girl, arenât you?â
Time doesnât make any sense, not when heâs rubbing against your walls so good, but you do know youâve been at this for a while. Your body canât even hold itself up: chest glued to the damp sheets, ass held up by his hands, arms limp in front of you.
Your hands rest above the keypad of a laptop. On its screen is a word processor, its typing cursor blinking back at you tauntingly. The pageâs contents are measly, only about halfway filledâunlike your cunt thatâs full with his length.
Itâs your fault for planning so many sex scenes. But itâs the final installment of your trilogy, the perfect breeding ground for emotional sex.
Youâre guessing that breeding ground is what Clark thinks about you, too, aside from his undying respect for you: because his thrusts are getting messier the way you know heâs about to cum, and sure enough, with his chest against your back and his mouth sputtering âthatâs it, take it, gonna fill you up, sweetheart, youâll let me?â in your ear.
He waits for your pathetic mewl of an okay to spill inside you.
His orgasm pulls a weak one out of you, because God knows how many times heâs made you. You shake underneath him, gasping for air while he does the same.
Then it begins: the delicious replay your mind does after every tangle with him. While the shivers ebb, your memory picks up the detailsâŚ
Your feeble fingers begin to type. Slowly, as if each key ignites a thing he said not ten minutes ago.
You can hear Clark smile in his voice. He buries his lips in your hair.
âOne week till the manuscript deadline,â he husks. âLetâs work hard together, yeah?â
Then his hand drifts down to play with your clit and you lose your train of thought.
Oh, well. Surely Planet Publishing can extend a deadline for their bestselling writer.
BONUS
Herons Under Sycamore Shade â Author Interview with Cat Grant
Q: Speaking of sex, thereâs a lot more this time around.
A: Well, itâs the last book. I wanted it to go out with a bang, so to speak.
Q: This is a personal opinion of mine, having read all three, but you should also know that many reviewers thought the quality of erotica was somehow better in this one. To quote the Gotham Gazette: ââŚbreathtakingly real while making you forget about reality.â
A: Thatâs such high praise. Thank you!
Q: What changed (between the first two installments)?
At this point, the author smiles in a way that I can only describe as coy. Donât believe me? Ask the photographer.
jesus christ i can't even describe how fucking hot this was đ i legitimately can't find the words. i am speechless. you are so fucking good at writing filth it makes me wanna put down the pen and give up đ
i love you. i love this. clark's dirty fucking mouth popping up in bits and pieces??? him not being able to handle getting blown??? the position and attitude change when he almost blew it right after he sank in??? brilliant. and do Not get me started on the way that he was fucking her while she was writing. i'll lose my mind. i may have already lost it.
what a pleasure it was to see this draft first. and then even more of a pleasure to see the final draft. i adore this and i adore you. gimme 14 more of em thank you
professor c i thank thee for laying thine eyes on this piece of writing while it was still in its infancy. also
you are so fucking good at writing filth it makes me wanna put down the pen and give up đ
I AM HOLDING YOU BY YOUR SHOULDERS TO SAY.... IF YOU PUT THE PEN DOWN I WILL END MY EXISTENCE.
clark's dirty fucking mouth popping up in bits and pieces??? him not being able to handle getting blown??? the position and attitude change when he almost blew it right after he sank in???
yeah i'm sorry. my cycle is doing inexplicable things to me (and so is the idea of clark kent doing allat)
gimme 14 more of em thank you
in my head reader cannot stop writing smut novels bc of their r/s.... like "it's the last one i promise" and then comes back with more ideas. man i wish i was her.
@kryptidfiles thank you for reading but MISS JAE KRYPTIDFILES I BESEECH YOU. WHAT DO YOU MEAN GO ON WITHOUT YOU??? "WHY COME BACK TO WRITING" BECAUSE YOU"RE SO GOOD AT IT????
@niceforcum22 every day i mourn the fact that he's not real
@the-fairy-anon oh my gos this is such high praise??? thank you for even reading!!! đ
@wheatley-the-boi clark kent es un papi chulooooo also i wrote this right before going to a kbbq buffet >:) >:) >:)
@crow-brain27 HI :D (thank you for reblogging!)
@lorr-reads please give me a turn once you're done with him đŹ
