It's June, motherfuckers, and you know what that means! Apart from firing a few rent-lowering shots to filter out the chuds from my following, it's probably also a good time to post a reminder that there are many strange ways to be queer, and this is one of them.
video transcript below the cut, may be slightly inaccurate, I tend to ad-lib when reading my scripts into voiceover
It's Pride Month, so if you'll forgive me I'm taking a two minute break from the One Piece, League of Legends, Marvel Rivals, Final Fantasy and Pokémon shorts to tell you… Sylveon is trans, Taliyah is trans, everyone on the Straw Hats is queer, there are no words to describe how queer superheroes are as a concept let alone how queer they all are individually, and here's a fun fact for you: Cloud Strife's story gets ten times better when you understand it as an allegory for a trans coming out experience.
As for me, well, I'm not trans, but I do occupy my own little space in the rainbow flags which looks like this. I am aromantic.
We are generally not as visible as many of our queer siblings, probably at least partly because it's kind of a difficult identity to even discover in yourself, you basically have to prove a negative.
But what is this thing, "aromantic"? Well… okay, let's say you're a straight guy, right. You know the way you feel romantically about other men? I feel exactly the same way, and then I also feel that way about women, and then also the same way about all of the other genders.
Now, aromantic often goes along with asexual, there's a lot of co-occurrence of the two, but not always, and that is my situation. Yes to sex, no to romance, which being a man, yes, I know, that just makes me the same as 90% of the men you match on Hinge. "Ha ha ha didn't realize "fuccboi" was an orientation now," I know. I get it. I understand. I have had all the same thoughts myself, especially when I was questioning.
Which is the difficulty with being aromantic, because in order to figure out that that's what you are, you have to prove a negative. I have never been in love, and I have no reason to think I ever will be… but what if someday I meet The One??? What if there's a special divinely designated perfect soulmate out there, just waiting for me, and one day our eyes will meet across the room and it will be love at first sight forever?
And like. I can't prove that won't happen, anymore than I can prove that there isn't a flowery pink teapot currently hiding somewhere in the orbit of Saturn. And frankly, if it did happen, I wouldn't be mad. Why would I be? I would have a soulmate! That's a pretty big W, I think.
But… I've had over thirty years to encounter someone—anyone—who can spark my romantic interest, and thus far, every challenger of every gender has failed. So either I am aromantic, or else you people have a skill issue.
Anyway, like anything to do with queerness, aromantic is a sprawling and diverse spectrum. You got your aroaces, aroallos, aroflux, arospikes, demiromantics, frayromantics, grayromantics, cupioromantics, there's a whole world of different experiences present under this umbrella. For me, though, just "aromantic" is fine. That's the broad label, that's the one I fall under, that's the identity I take pride in. Happy June!
The oldest living tree ever found was a pine named “Prometheus.” It had been alive since before the Egyptian pyramids were built. Some guy cut it down in 1964. Source
he was actually a forestry graduate student who was doing research on bristlecone pines (Pinus langaevea) and got his increment borer stuck in the tree. this tool costs almost $800, so he asked the forest service if he could cut down the tree to recover the tool. after cutting it down, it became apparent that the tree was actually the oldest living organism. ever. (around 8,000 years old). so, not just some asshole. the guy feels extremely guilty and has even broken down in tears during an interview about the accident
So after the grad student cut down the tree and discovered it was the oldest tree in the world he quit studying forestry and went to study salt flats (can’t cut down the oldest trees in the world on salt flats no siree none of that happening) and he was being interviewed about his research, but in the middle of the interview the reporter just stops and says “wait aren’t the guy that…”
And he just takes off running. Literally. Turns around and runs across the salt flats away from the interview and I feel so bad for him but I can’t help but start crying I’m laughing so hard about it
imagine a guy high tailing it across salt flats away from a dude with a recorder
its so different to know it was an accident and that NO ONE was aware until after. its not like this was one ignorant guy cutting down a fucking relic.
Captain Price had been expecting many things when Ghost informed him he was getting married.
A security risk.
A secret intelligence operative.
Perhaps some terrifying woman who looked as though she could snap a man’s neck with her bare hands.
What he had not expected was you.
The first warning sign should have been the fact that Simon seemed nervous.
Not anxious.
Not worried.
Nervous.
Price had known the man for years and could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen him genuinely uncertain.
Yet there Ghost stood near the entrance of the base, arms crossed tightly over his chest, staring toward the parking lot as though preparing for combat.
Soap noticed it too. "Sir,” he muttered quietly beside Price, watching Ghost with narrowed eyes. “Is he… pacing?”
Price blinked.
Ghost was, in fact, pacing.
Very slightly.
Like an agitated panther.
“Well I’ll be damned,” Price murmured.
Gaz looked between them. “Should we be concerned?”
“Terrified,” Soap answered.
Before anyone could speculate further, a vehicle rolled through the gates after being checked and if
The moment Ghost spotted it, he stopped moving entirely.
The transformation was subtle that most people wouldn’t have noticed.But the men who worked beside him every day saw it immediately.
His shoulders relaxed.
The tension disappeared from his posture.
Something softened.
The truck parked, the driver’s door opened, and then you appeared.
You were much shorter than they’d expected.You practically had to hop down from the vehicle. A large tote bag swung from one shoulder while a drink carrier balanced precariously in your hands.
The first thing you did was smile.
Not a polite smile.
Not the carefully practiced smile people gave soldiers.
A genuine one.
The kind that immediately reached your eyes.
“Oh my God,” you said, spotting Simon across the lot. Your face lit up so brightly it almost seemed impossible. “There he is!”
Then, to the absolute horror of the Task Force, you jogged toward Ghost.
Ghost.
Lieutenant Simon Riley.
The terrifying bastard responsible for half the nightmares on base.
Placing the drinks carefully down, you practically launched yourself at him.
Soap actually choked.
Price nearly dropped his cigar.
Gaz made a strangled noise.
Ghost caught you effortlessly.
One arm wrapped around your waist as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
For a horrifying second, the entire task force expected him to set you down.
Instead he simply kept holding you.
You grinned at him.
He stared down at you.
And somehow that terrifying skull-masked soldier looked completely helpless.
“There you are,” you said, cupping his face between your hands without a shred of fear. “I missed you.”
Ghost’s gloved hand settled against your back.“Was gone four days.”
“I know.”
“You called me twenty-three times.”
“I did~.” You seemed proud over that.
Then Ghost leaned down slightly as your fingers curled under his mask. "I missed you too.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
Soap looked physically ill.
Price rubbed his face.
Gaz looked like he was questioning reality itself.
Ghost finally glanced toward them and then immediately the softness vanished as the intimidating stare returned, the lethal presence returned and the entire base suddenly felt colder.
“Stop starin’,” he growled.
You turned around immediately. “Oh!”
The smile returned.
“Oh! These are your friends!”
Friends.
Price would later swear he saw Soap’s soul leave his body.
You carefully handed Ghost your drink carrier before marching directly toward them. “Hi!” you announced. “I’m Simon’s wife.”
The three men simply stared.
You waited.
Still smiling.
Finally Price recovered first.
He stepped forward and offered a hand. “Captain Price.”
You shook it enthusiastically. “It’s so nice to finally meet you! Simon talks about you all the time.”
Price nearly laughed because Simon talked about nobody.
Yet judging by the look Ghost was giving him, apparently he talked about Price.
Interesting.
Very interesting.
You moved on before he could ask questions. “You must be Soap.”
Soap blinked. “Uh… aye.”
“Oh my gosh, your mohawk is real.”
Soap frowned. “Did Simon tell you about my mohawk?”
“No.” You tilted your head. “I just wasn’t sure if it was a hairstyle or a military cryptid situation.”
There was a moment of silence then Gaz burst out laughing.
Soap looked offended.
Price looked amused.
Ghost sighed heavily.
You pointed immediately. “And you’re Gaz!”
Gaz smiled. “That’s me.”
“Simon says you’re the normal one.”
The laughter doubled.
Soap wheezed.
Price nearly choked on his cigar.
Gaz looked deeply offended.
Ghost turned away completely.
Which only confirmed he had absolutely said it.The next hour somehow became even stranger because you chatted with everyone effortlessly.
You remembered names.
Asked questions.
Laughed easily.
Within minutes it felt less like meeting Ghost’s wife and more like meeting a friend they’d somehow known for years.
Price noticed something else too.
Every few minutes Simon checked on you.
Not obviously.
Most people would never notice.
But Price did.
A glance.
A shift closer.
A hand briefly touching your shoulder.
Tiny little confirmations that you were still there.
Still safe.
Still smiling.
And every single time you smiled back at him.
Like it was automatic.
Like you understood something about him nobody else ever had.
The realization hit Price unexpectedly.
For years they’d all assumed Ghost preferred being alone.
Preferred distance.
Preferred isolation.
But watching Simon follow you around the base like a silent shadow made the truth painfully obvious.
The man had never wanted to be alone. He’d simply never had someone worth coming home to.
The final nail in the coffin of everyone’s sanity came later that afternoon.
You’d spent hours traveling, jet lag was catching up with you.
One minute you were sitting beside Simon during a briefing.
The next, your head slowly tipped sideways then landed directly on his shoulder and stayed there.
Asleep.
Completely asleep.
Price paused mid-sentence.
The room went silent.
Nobody moved.
Nobody dared to breathe.
Ghost looked down.
Adjusted slightly.
Then carefully pulled his jacket over you like a blanket. His hand rested protectively against your arm. The gesture was so gentle it felt impossible coming from him.
Price exchanged a glance with Soap.
Soap looked devastated.
Gaz looked emotional.
Ghost noticed them staring as his eyes narrowed immediately. “Dare either of you.”
Nobody dared.
And that was the day Task Force 141 met the one person on Earth more dangerous than Ghost himself.
The woman who had somehow managed to make Simon Riley happy.
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist✦
✦summary: all week, clark's been acting strange. he won't go near you, won't look at you, and by friday he's vanished all together. everyone seems to know why but you. but nothing's going to keep you away from him. not for that long.✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (male masturbation, manhandling, clark's feral, emotional sex, dry humping, blowjobs and facefucking, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, crazy overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 10.5k✦
✦author's note: request and voted fic! i got. real horny with it✦
Clark has been acting strange all week.
He got into work on Monday with a red face, and you didn’t question it. He runs everywhere. It’s a little ridiculous he doesn’t have a red face more.
“Want some water?” You’d tapped on his desk, and he’d let out a sharp breath.
“Yeah.” His voice had been strangely rough, his glasses almost slipping off his nose. “Water- Water would be nice. Thank you.
He hadn’t looked you in the eyes.
Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.
You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.
“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.
“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“
“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“
Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘
“It’s not a mating dance!”
“It seems like a mating dance-“
“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”
Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.
You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.
“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“
You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.
He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.
His eyes are black, and gleaming.
You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.
Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.
You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.
“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”
Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.
Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.
But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.
He looks dangerous.
And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.
But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.
“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”
Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“
Clark looks at you.
And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.
“You smell good.” He mutters.
He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.
“What the fuck is up with him?”
Nobody seems to be sure.
On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.
“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.
“There are no other words I could use, though-“
“Corrupt?”
“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”
You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.
“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.
“Dogshit.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“
“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“
“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.
“Yeah. Because I had a source.”
“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.
You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.
“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“
“Shut up, I’m excited-“
“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.
He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.
Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.
You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.
And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.
Today you keep it under control.
It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.
“It’s- Uh- Superman.”
You blink. “What?”
“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”
“I- You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“I can find someone else-“
“No, I- I’ve got it.”
He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.
You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.
But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.
You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”
He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.
“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.
Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.
He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.
He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.
And you have no idea what to do.
Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.
He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.
You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.
And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.
“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”
His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.
“Clark-“
“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”
You blink. “Back up?”
He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.
He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.
But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.
You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.
He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.
“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“
“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.
“You’re sick-“
“No. I’m not.”
“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”
He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.
“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”
That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.
His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.
And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.
It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.
The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.
But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.
“Clark- Please-“
He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.
“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”
You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.
And you look back. You can’t help it.
But all he does is stare at you.
So you walk away.
Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.
“Is he-“
“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”
You frown. “But-“
“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“
Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.
“Don’t go visit him.”
You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“
“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”
“But-“
“Don’t.”
“What if he needs something-“
“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”
“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”
Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Lois-“
“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”
She walks away without another word.
On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.
You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.
Don’t.
His door is right there.
Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.
Don’t.
You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.
But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.
You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.
Don’t.
But you want to.
Don’t.
He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-
Don’t.
Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.
And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.
He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.
You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.
Before Clark can open it, you walk away.
On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.
It’s a distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-
You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.
This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.
It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.
He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.
He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.
Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.
You miss him.
Goddamnit.
Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.
You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.
He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.
You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.
You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.
Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.
But why is he home visiting you.
Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.
You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.
“Hello?”
Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.
He doesn’t look well.
Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-
Like Clark.
Just like Clark.
And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.
Or something else.
Without the glasses, there’s something else.
He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.
He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.
“Clark?”
“I’m here for your interview-“
You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.
He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.
Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.
His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.
“Clark- Wait-“
Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.
At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.
You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.
He’s burning at 150 degrees.
He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.
The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.
You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.
Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.
That time it was definitely your name.
Superman moaned your name.
You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.
Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.
It does nothing for hearing him.
And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.
It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.
Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-
Oh.
That’s… Big.
You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.
The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.
You still haven’t really dealt with that.
Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.
And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.
To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.
When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.
You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.
Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.
Dear lord.
Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.
You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.
Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.
He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.
You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.
Clark is Superman,
And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.
His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.
“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.
This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-
You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.
He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-
No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.
But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.
The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.
If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.
And you’re not that strong at all.
Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.
You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.
When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.
He’s naked.
Fully naked.
And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.
He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.
But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.
And his cock.
You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.
Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.
“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“
“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”
He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of release on his thigh. He’d been humping the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-
“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”
“Clark-“
“Stop saying it like that.”
You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.
His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.
“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”
Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.
“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”
You laugh softly, despite everything.
Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.
“Don’t laugh either.”
“I- I’m sorry-“
“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“
He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.
“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”
“No- That- That’s weird-“
“Kal-El?”
“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.
“I need to be able to call you something.”
“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”
That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.
“No, not- Not like that-“
“Not like what-“
“It’s just, when you talk-“
“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.
It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.
“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.
“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”
“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“
“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”
He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”
“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”
“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“
“You said I shouldn’t talk.”
“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“
“Shut up.”
“Sorry.”
The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.
“You better fix the wall, Kent.”
“I will. ‘M sorry-“
“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”
You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.
“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”
That’s not promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.
“You know kryptonite?”
You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”
“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“
“Clark.”
“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.
“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.
His cock twitches. You try not think about it.
“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“
“It what-“
“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”
He trails off, words hanging in the air.
Saw you.
You activated the red kryptonite in him.
There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.
“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.
Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.
“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.
“Please don’t make me say it.”
You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.
“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“
“Can’t you?”
Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.
And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.
“You- You can’t mean that-“
“Why not?”
You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.
“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.
“You don’t have to pity me-“
“It’s not pity.”
He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“
“Who says it’s not how I feel?”
You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.
“Uhh… Steve?”
You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”
Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.
You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.
“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.
You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”
His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.
“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”
“No, you-“
“Don’t tell me what I feel.”
He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.
“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”
He nods, tight and controlled.
You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.
Not with fear.
With excitement.
“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”
And Clark snaps.
He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.
Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.
If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.
But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.
He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.
There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.
You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.
Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.
You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.
He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.
“Clark-“
“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“
He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.
“Smell so good.” He almost whines. “So good.”
You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.
Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.
It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.
“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“
“You- You can’t-“
“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“
“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.
You don’t mind at all.
“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“We talked about this-“
“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.
You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.
And you feel it.
The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.
Oh.
Right.
Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.
“I need to get you ready.”
You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“
Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”
“How do you know-“
“Nose.”
“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“
“Not enough.”
He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.
“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.
That’s his agreement hum.
Your jaw drops.
“Are you serious-“
“I can’t help it.”
“You- You could wear nose plugs-“
“No. Like it too much.”
Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.
“You- Can’t move-“
“You should move-“
“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”
You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.
“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”
Clark grunts. You smile at the air.
“You came in bed last night.”
He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”
“About who?”
You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”
And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.
“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”
“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.
“Yeah? Like what?”
Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.
“A brat.”
A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.
And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.
“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.
Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.
“You- You can’t just say that-“
“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”
Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.
“Can you please look at me-“
“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.
“Clark-“
“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.
You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.
“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”
“I- I need to get you-“
“I’m going to touch you, okay?”
His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.
Enough.
You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.
“Sorry-“
“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”
He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.
You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.
The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.
He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.
You add a second, and squeeze at the base.
Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.
“Be- Be careful.”
You pause. “Does it not feel-“
“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“
Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.
You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.
And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.
You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.
Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.
“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“
He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.
You want to taste him.
When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.
“What- What are you-“
You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.
The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.
There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.
You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.
“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“
You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.
It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.
“Are you-“
You moan, and Clark gives in.
He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.
“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“
Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.
“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“
You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.
And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-
Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.
He’s cumming.
And he’s not stopping.
Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.
Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.
“If you-“
“Do that inside me.”
You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.
“I- I mean- Clark-“
He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.
“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”
His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”
Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.
“Oh- Oh god-“
“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”
You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.
“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”
He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.
“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.
You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.
He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.
“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“
You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.
Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.
Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.
You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.
You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.
There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.
It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.
“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”
His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.
“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.
Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.
“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”
Well. If he needs it.
It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.
“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“
“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”
It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.
You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.
“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.
He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.
“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”
And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.
“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“
“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.
Clark hears it.
“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”
You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.
Maybe Clark could let you live with him.
Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.
Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.
That’s a good plan. The best plan.
There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.
“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.
You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.
“Don’t do that.”
Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.
He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.
“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.
You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.
He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.
Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.
He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.
His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.
You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.
Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.
“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.
“I liked it.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”
Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.
And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.
He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.
“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”
You nod. It’s all you can manage.
He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.
“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“
He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.
Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.
“Big.”
He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.
“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“
You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.
“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.
“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”
You blink, and his eyes widen.
“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“
Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.
“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.
Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.
“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”
Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.
“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.
Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.
You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.
He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.
Safe and attended to.
You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.
It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.
“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“
He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.
Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.
He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.
Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.
It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.
Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.
Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.
And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.
Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.
Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.
You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.
There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.
Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.
You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.
He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.
It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.
If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.
On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.
There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.
Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.
It’s an oddly romantic thought.
There are lots of those to go around.
Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.
“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.
“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”
“See it-“
“X-ray vision.”
“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.
Clark bows his head, almost in shame.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.
You shake your head. “It fine-“
“I wanted to-“
“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”
He blinks at you, then relaxes.
“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.
“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”
Clark laughs at that, and you beam.
It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.
“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.
“I-“
“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“
“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”
He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”
You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.
“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“
“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“
Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”
You laugh. “Bring it on.”
✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
The exam room had devolved into complete chaos nearly forty minutes ago.
The little boy sat on the examination table clutching a dinosaur plushie to his chest like it was preparing for war while Chase stood there with the syringe in hand looking like a hostage negotiator at the end of his rope.
“Okay, buddy,” Chase said carefully, kneeling down again. “What if we count to three together?”
“No!”
“Okay. That’s okay.” Cameron gave an exhausted smile toward the parents. “Maybe if we explain why the shot is important!”
“You’re pressuring him,” the mother interrupted immediately, wrapping protective arms around her son. “We don’t believe in forcing medical decisions. He deserves bodily autonomy.”
Foreman blinked slowly. “He’s six.”
“He still has boundaries.”
House, leaning against the doorway with his cane tucked beneath one arm, looked profoundly entertained. “Actually,” he drawled, “this is great. Natural selection usually takes years.”
The father glared at him. “Our son does not respond well to aggression.”
“Your son also stepped on rusty metal in an abandoned construction lot,” House replied. “But sure. Let’s respect the tetanus.”
The child screeched the second Chase stepped closer again. "YOU'RE IN MY BUBBLE!”
Chase backed off immediately as the mother shot him a horrified look like he’d attempted murder.
“See?” she said. “You scared him.”
House muttered, “You know what scares me? Lockjaw.”
The boy kicked at Cameron when she tried approaching with a different sticker sheet.
“No! I hate you!”
Cameron sighed.
Foreman rubbed both hands down his face.
And somewhere down the hallway, shoes squealed down the hall.
House looked up instantly.
The door swung open hard enough to smack the wall.
You walked in wearing your white coat half open over scrubs, hair slightly disheveled, one hand pressed against the small ache in your lower back. Twelve-hour shift exhaustion sat visibly beneath your eyes, and despite your normally warm demeanor, there was absolutely nothing soft about your expression right now.
House straightened a little unconsciously.
Wilson, who’d wandered over specifically to watch the disaster unfold, immediately whispered, “Oh no.” The man quickly stepped back.
You took one look at the room.
At Chase holding a syringe like it was cursed.
At Cameron trying not to cry from frustration.
At Foreman questioning every career choice that led him here.
Then your eyes landed on the parents.
“What,” you said very calmly, “is going on?”
The mother immediately pointed accusingly toward Chase. “They’re trying to traumatize our son.”
House covered his mouth to hide a grin.
You stared at her, working your jaw then at the child dramatically fake-whimpering into his stuffed dinosaur.
Then at the chart which you promptly snatched as you read it over, your expression flattened. "He stepped on rusty metal.”
“Yes,” the father said defensively. “But we don’t believe fear should be used in parenting.”
“Wonderful,” you replied. “Neither do I.”
House’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
Your voice remained eerily pleasant. “But tetanus doesn’t care about your parenting style.”
The mother crossed her arms. “We are teaching him consent and respect for his personal bubble.”
You inhaled slowly through your nose, one hand rubbing your belly as the other supported your back and House could physically see the exact moment your patience died.
“I am telling you this once,” you said, setting the chart down. “Since you are refusing every other doctor." You then turned to look at the child who was now looking up at you with wide eyes. "Take the shot or I will personally refer your parents to a very good man that sells child coffins.”
The room went dead silent.
Chase choked on air.
Cameron’s eyes widened so hard they nearly left orbit.
Foreman turned away because he was suddenly very interested in the wall.
The little boy stared at you in complete shock.
You pointed directly at him. “I am pregnant. I have been on my feet for twelve hours. I have not eaten since six this morning, I've been peeing constantly. So you are going to decide right now if you want the tiny poke that prevents agonizing muscle spasms and possible death, or if you want me to explain to your parents what a closed-casket funeral means.”
The child’s lip trembled for a moment. “…Can I have the dinosaur bandaid?”
You held out your hand immediately. “Absolutely. Arm.”
He shoved his arm out so fast Chase almost recoiled.The shot was administered in under three seconds.
No screaming.
No crying.
Just stunned silence.
You stuck the bandaid on gently afterward, your voice immediately softening again. “There. Done.”
The boy blinked. “…That was it?”
“Yes,” you said tiredly. “That was it.”
The mother looked horrified. “You threatened our child.”
“No,” you corrected flatly. “I informed your child. There’s a difference.”
House had completely given up pretending not to enjoy this.
His eyes followed you the entire time as you gathered the chart back up.
Wilson leaned toward him slowly. “You’re smiling.”
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
House watched as you rubbed your stomach absently, exhaustion finally creeping back into your posture now that the crisis was over.
Then you looked at Chase. “Next time just give him the dinosaur bandaid first. Rookie mistake.”
Chase stared at you like he’d just witnessed divine intervention. “Yes, ma’am.”
You turned and walked out of the room muttering something about wanting coffee intravenously while House watched you disappear down the hallway. “I need to marry her again.”
Foreman snorted.
Cameron laughed under her breath.
Wilson grinned. “You’re in love.”
House leaned against his cane smugly. “She threatened a child with funeral arrangements. That’s basically foreplay.”
You had barely made it halfway down the hallway before your body started protesting the sheer audacity of the last ten minutes. Your feet hurt, your back hurt, and somewhere deep in your soul you were reconsidering humanity as a whole.
Behind you came the uneven tap of a cane.You didn’t even turn around to know who it was. “If you’re here to tell me I violated hospital policy,” you muttered, “I’m too tired to care.”
“I was actually here to congratulate you on terrifying grown adults and a child simultaneously.”
You finally glanced over your shoulder to see Gregory House grinning at you like an absolute menace.
That was never a good sign.
“You threatened them with child coffins,” he said proudly.
“I was being efficient.”
“You were being hot.”
You stopped walking.
House nearly bumped into you because apparently he had forgotten basic momentum existed.
“What.” Your voice was flat.
He smirked wider, leaning casually against his cane. “Hot. Very hot. Little scary. But mostly hot.”
You stared at him in disbelief. “I threatened parents.”
“Yes.” He nodded approvingly. “With confidence.”
“That is not a normal response.”
“Neither is negotiating with a six-year-old over tetanus like he’s a union representative.”
A nurse walking past snorted into her clipboard.
You pointed accusingly at your husband. “You are encouraging me.....I’m pregnant you know,” you deadpanned.
“You were pregnant yesterday too. Today you became terrifying.”
You groaned, rubbing your face. “Greg.”
“No, seriously.” He looked delighted. “The whole ‘take the shot or I’ll introduce your parents to the coffin guy’ thing?” He whistled softly. “Foreman almost passed out.”
“Good.”
“And Chase looked emotionally changed.”
“That’s also good.”
House moved closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “You know what the best part was?”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“The kid gave you his arm immediately.” He looked genuinely impressed. “You solved in thirty seconds what took them forty-five minutes and three failed sticker bribes.”
You sighed heavily. “I am too pregnant for gentle parenting.”
“You’re too practical for gentle parenting.”
“I’m gentle.”
House stared at you and you stared back.
“Okay,” you admitted. “I’m gentle until somebody weaponizes Bluey terminology against modern medicine.”
House barked out a laugh loud enough that two nurses turned to stare.
“There she is,” he said fondly. “The tiny dictator I married.”
You rolled your eyes and resumed walking, though much slower now. "Ugh."
House followed immediately beside you. “Also,” he added casually, “watching you verbally destroy those parents may have been the hottest thing I’ve seen all week.”
“My feet are swollen, I look like a watermelon."
“And yet here we are.”
You snorted despite yourself.
House’s expression softened just slightly as he looked at you. The exhaustion under your eyes. The way your hand subconsciously rested over your stomach. The fact that even dead tired, you still ran into a disaster room because everyone else was struggling.
Wilson always accused him of having terrible taste in humanity.
Maybe he did.
But not with you.
House nudged your shoulder gently with his own as he placed his hand on your hip. "C’mon,” he said. “Let’s go steal pudding cups before Cuddy notices you threatened civilians again.”
But we look back everyday- rechecking emails, making sure a friend is still behind you, checking to see if you remebered to pick up your keys. It's second nature, a habit of care.
It was second nature for him too. He looked back, not out of weakness, but love. For what is love, if not to look back?
I remember one time I got INSANELY high off of edibles while playing Among Us, and it quickly became apparent to the other players online. I forget how honestly but literally anything "sus" I did was ignored by everyone because I was so fucking high. I tested this theory by standing in front of a body and the person that actually reported it didn't even mention me. The funniest part was when I was trying to do wires, I kept fucking up over and over again, so I was just standing in front of wires for actual minutes trying to figure it out. A small crowd of players gathered around me to watch and would get mad every time someone reported a body or emergency meeting because "she's never going to get her tasks done if you keep interrupting them." I don't think anyone cared about winning at that point, they just wanted to see the high crew mate succeed in her tasks.
i’m trying to say this thought in a nice and genuine way because i do mean it in a nice and genuine way and i worry it will just come across as “your faves are not as hot as you think they are lol” but i think fandom, being a setting where it’s normal to publicly wax lyrical about how beautiful you find someone, is somewhere you can really see the truth of the statement that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. as an outsider looking in, you can tell how when people start loving a character or personality, a lot of the time something just switches, and they suddenly perceive like unfathomable lifechanging beauty in this person that i think they could probably see in anyone if they looked with that much love. i’m very charmed by it and what it says about how a lot of people look at who they love in the rest of their life
I need them stuck together in a caved-in ancient temple somewhere and having a near-screaming argument and Padme referencing something specific to her past that Anakin was there for in the process of making a point and Vader getting mad at thinking himself mocked and just Will Not Stand for anybody bringing Padme Amidala into the argument and
Padme just
fucking takes her mask off and throws it at him and says she’ll use herself in her own arguments all she fucking well wants and it bounces off his face and she figures she’s gonna die and she’s totally not prepared for the second-in-command of the entire Empire to just fall on his knees at her feet.
I don’t even know what to follow this up with and I think neither do they.
[Image ID: Tumblr post from triviallyTrue on 24 Jun 2022 reading: every day star wars fans come on this site and say some version of “star wars would be so good if it was good” /End ID]
last year we needed new songs so in the style of the who's "a quick one" album where all the members wrote at least a couple songs each, we decided to challenge ourselves and each write a song to present to the band. alan wrote "how lucky am i?" emerson wrote "oxycontin" and matt wrote a yet-unreleased tune called "quarter two"
our drummer casey, put it off til the last minute. on the day the song was due, with two hours left, he woke up in a panic, smoked a bowl, and presented us "Ængus, The Prize-Winning Hog" by plunking each note out on a piano with his index finger. it turned into a full polka-rock-nu-metal-1960's-British-car-chase-Queen-esque-mini-opera.
my YouTube algorithm has been showing me a lot of horse racing recently and since the Kentucky derby is today, the last few days all my recommendations have been filled with every middle-ages dudebros podcast about gambling and betting strategies and How To Pick The Real Winner and how to min-max your bet and bla bla bla. Buddy I’ve already got my favorite horsie picked out and it’s because he’s Silly.
he's about 6 inches taller and 200lbs heavier than any other horse in the field. big ol honse.
his record kind of sucks and when an interviewer asked his trainer "what do you think [the horse] will need to do to win the derby?' the trainer just said "get a lot better."
the horse was deadset on eating the landscaping shrubbery during the interview
thats all i need, absolutely sold, go get em Great White.
A/n: Got asked about writing for PHM stuff and here is a second piece to the other fic.
The first thing you noticed was the sound.
It wasn’t human. It wasn’t mechanical either, not fully. It was… musical. Soft, layered tones echoing from the other room like someone was playing notes through metal and stone instead of air.
You froze mid-step, eyes lighting up as you grabbed Colt’s arm. “What is that?”
Colt immediately looked like a man who had made a mistake. A big one. “Nothing,” he said way too fast.
You turned slowly, narrowing your eyes. “Colt.”
From behind you, Ryland groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “What the hell did you tell her, Colt?”
“I didn’t tell her anything!” Colt shot back defensively. “She said she wanted to meet your—” he gestured vaguely, already backing away, “....rock friends.”
You gasped, delighted. “I do wanna meet your little rock friends!”
Ryland looked at you like his brain had just tripped over itself again. “They are not little.” He muttered then winced as another series of chiming, curious sounds echoed from the other room that was now closer.
Your entire face softened instantly. “Oh my...ok I need to see them.”
Before either of them could stop you, you slipped past Ryland and into the next room.
“Wait!!” Ryland started, following after you, already tense. “You should...just...maybe don’t—”
You stepped through the doorway and stopped.
They were beautiful.
Two massive, rock-like beings shifted on the reinforced floor, their forms unlike anything you had ever seen, five limbs each, bodies like living stone, the larger one towering slightly over the other. Their bodies caught the light in muted, earthy tones, and as they moved, those soft musical sounds filled the room again, echoing gently off the walls.
Your hand flew to your mouth. “Oh,” you breathed, completely awestruck. “Oh, they’re perfect.”
Ryland blinked behind you.That…was not the reaction he’d been expecting.
Rocky stilled for a moment, then let out a curious series of tones, lower, inquisitive. Adrian shifted beside him, larger and quieter, but clearly attentive.
You took a slow step forward. “Hi,” you said softly, like you were approaching a shy animal instead of two alien beings the size of small cars. “Hi, babies…”
Ryland nearly choked. “Babies....?”
Colt snorted behind him, already losing it.
Rocky made a brighter, almost excited series of notes, his body angling toward you. Adrian followed, slower but deliberate, their presence warm and steady.
You crouched slightly, completely fearless and held out your hand. “I’m not gonna hurt you,” you murmured gently.
Ryland opened his mouth to warn you, something about basic safety, that they're aliens but before he could get a single word out, Rocky reached forward.
One of his limbs extended, the three triangular fingers moving with surprising precision as he tapped lightly against your hand.
You lit up. “Oh my god, you’re saying hi—” you laughed softly, pure delight in your voice as you let him explore your hand, completely unbothered. “Hi, sweetheart. Hi.”
Adrian shifted closer, larger limb brushing lightly against your arm in what felt unmistakably like curiosity.
You looked up at them both, eyes wide and soft. “You’re both so pretty.”
Ryland just… stared.
Because Rocky made another sound, higher this time, almost rhythmic and Adrian followed with a deeper tone that echoed through the room.
They liked you.
They really liked you.
Colt leaned over, nudging Ryland with his elbow, grinning like a menace. “Wow. They didn’t even like me this fast.”
“I cannot believe this is happening,” Ryland muttered, still watching as you gently laughed, completely surrounded by two enormous alien beings like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You reached out with your other hand, carefully brushing along Rocky’s carapace. “You’re like a big rock puppy,” you whispered.
Rocky responded instantly bright, chiming tones that almost sounded like happiness.
Adrian shifted again, pressing slightly closer to you in a way that felt protective, curious, and just a little possessive.
You didn’t even hesitate. You leaned into it, smiling.
“I love them,” you said immediately, looking back at Ryland like this was the most obvious thing in the world. “I love them so much.”
Ryland’s brain stopped working for the third time that day. “…you do?”
You nodded, beaming, turning back to them as Rocky tapped your hand again like he wanted more attention. “They’re perfect.”
There was a pause.
Then Colt clapped a hand on Ryland’s shoulder, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.
“Congrats,” he said. “Your alien best friend and his wife just stole your girl.”
Ryland didn’t even argue.
Because watching you laugh softly, completely at ease, completely genuine as Rocky and Adrian hovered close, making soft musical sounds like they were just as smitten with you and he had a very sudden, very overwhelming realization.
This was either going to go incredibly well.Or completely ruin him.
Colt leaned against the doorway like a man trying very hard to process what he was seeing and failing.
Because in front of him, you were casually standing between two giant alien rock creatures, one of them gently tapping your hand like a curious puppy while the other hovered close like a very large, very protective bodyguard.
And you were smiling.
Smiling.
“Aren’t you like… freaked out?” Colt finally asked, gesturing wildly at the scene in front of him. “They are aliens. Most people freak out about aliens.”
You looked over your shoulder at him like he’d just said something deeply confusing. “They’re babies.”
There was a pause.
Colt blinked.
Ryland blinked.
Rocky made a soft, pleased chime.
“…they are not babies,” Ryland said weakly, though even he sounded unconvinced at this point.
“Yes they are,” you said immediately, turning back to Rocky as he nudged your hand again. “Look at him. He’s literally asking for attention.”
As if to prove your point, Rocky leaned forward again, his massive body shifting in a little bounce—a full eight hundred pounds of alien rock doing what could only be described as an excited wiggle.
Colt stared. “I hate this,” he muttered. “I hate that you made that cute.”
A soft mechanical whirring sound cut through the room.
“STATEMENT… CORRECTION,” came a slightly distorted, musical voice.
Rocky straightened, well, as much as a five-limbed rock alien could and let out a series of tones that filtered through the device.
“CLARIFICATION,” the translator buzzed, “WE ARE NOT… ‘BABIES.’”
Colt snorted. “Thank you.”
You tilted your head, unconvinced. “Mhm.”
Rocky paused, then continued. “ADDITIONAL CLARIFICATION,” the translator continued, tone shifting slightly as if trying to interpret something more complex, “WE ARE… ADULTS. VERY COMPETENT. HIGHLY INTELLIGENT.”
Another pause.
Then the device crackled again.
“…BUT,” it added.
Ryland’s head snapped up. “Oh no.”
Rocky let out a series of softer, chiming notes. “…YOU MAY CONTINUE TO CALL US… ‘BABIES,’” the translator finished.
Colt lost it. “I KNEW IT,” he shouted, pointing at Rocky like he’d just betrayed his entire species. “I KNEW YOU WERE GONNA FOLD...”
You beamed, immediately reaching up to gently pat Rocky’s carapace. “Good babies.”
Rocky made a bright, pleased trill, almost smug.
Adrian, not to be outdone, shifted forward, their larger frame pressing lightly against your side.
The translator buzzed again. “QUERY,” Adrian’s deeper tones translated, “DO WE ALSO RECEIVE… ‘PATS.’”
You gasped like you’d just been given the greatest honor imaginable. “Of course you do.”
Ryland covered his face.
Colt leaned against the wall, wheezing. “I cannot believe this. I cannot believe the aliens asked for head pats and got them.”
Because now you were gently brushing your hand along Adrian’s larger frame, smiling like this was your life now and honestly? You didn’t seem upset about it.
“…CORRECTION,” the device buzzed, “HIGHLY ACCEPTABLE.”
You laughed softly and somewhere behind you, Ryland just stood there, staring at the scene like he had completely lost control of his own lifebecause not only were you not freaked out you had just been approved.
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