I actually do think we should discourage women from becoming housewives. Do not become financially dependent on a man. That's how a lot of women ended up dead over the years. A man gets violent suddenly and you have to choose between homelessness or potentially dying at his hand because you have an enormous gap in your resume and no degrees or certifications or anything that will help you pursue a career that will allow you to be financially independent. He owns your bank account. His name is probably the one on the car. Try and leave and he can report it stolen. Where will you go then?
And if you do become a housewife, take steps to protect yourself. Make sure you’re legally married, for starters; stay-at-home girlfriends have very little legal recourse to claim their partner’s assets in a breakup. Make sure your name is on the house deed/rental agreement, and have your car in your name, even if your spouse is paying for it. Have your spouse transfer money every month into an account solely in your name, so you can buy yourself things without needing permission, but also so you can save up to leave if needed.
If your spouse fights you on any of this, then don’t quit your job. The tradwife to poverty pipeline is real, and so is financial abuse.
also, many women/people experience controlling behaviour and domestic violence from their partner for the first time during pregnancy. don’t risk thinking “he’s just stressed, it’ll get better when the baby comes” because it won’t. neither you and your child will ever be safe with that man. get out as early and safely as you can
the weird thing about being a leftist is the government calling you a radical extremist and your family believing that youre a radical extremist and the whole times your main political beliefs are shit like "we live in a world where we could very easily end world hunger, homelessness, most disease, poverty, ect. and the people in power are choosing not to, and thats evil and should change" and that bigotry is bad
the thing is that childhood doesn't just end when you turn 18 or when you turn 21. it's going to end dozens of times over. your childhood pet will die. actors you loved in movies you watched as a kid will die. your grandparents will die, and then your parents will die. it's going to end dozens and dozens of times and all you can do is let it. all you can do is stand in the middle of the grocery store and stare at freezers full of microwave pizza because you've suddenly been seized by the memory of what it felt like to have a pizza party on the last day of school before summer break. which is another ending in and of itself
After your father disappears, his old smuggling partner takes on the task of keeping you safe inside the Boston QZ— Until he, too, goes missing after accepting the mission of delivering a young girl to a group of Fireflies.
read it on archiveofourown. / click here for my main masterlist.
warnings: qz!joel, age gap (reader is late 20s joel is mid 50s), reader is afab and goes by she/her, tess is an ass but she's got a point, kind of dad's friend!joel, they were more business partners than friends but joel knew reader as a kid, parental abuse (physical and verbal but it happens off page), drugs/alcohol use, smut (daddy kink, fingering f receiving, unprotected piv, 'just the tip', little bit of edging, dirty talk, pussy pronouns, pussy/tit slapping, creampie.) financial instability/money struggles, codependency, no use of y/n, some religious stuff, canon-typical violence, brief mention of possible sa, joel has ptsd, brief mention of misogyny, romanticizing the shit out of a toxic relationship, the dynamic between them is too trad wife-y to be healthy in my opinion, pre-canon, vomiting, death of minor characters, joel calls reader kid/little girl, unplanned pregnancy, talks of abortion, so many daddy issues for the both of them it borders on fauxcest????, seriously freud would have a field day with this one, kind of open ending, hopeful ending.
rating: 18+.
word count: 8.2k.
fox says: hi friends, thank you for reading! the idea for this started as a series, but i already have too many series going on at the same time and i felt like the vibe fit well for a one shot! (i could totes write a sequel at some point, though....) this was super inspired by dog years by halsey, that song just gives me mad joel vibesssss. as always, the pics are for aesthetics only & there is no description of reader!! the writing style is a little different from what i usually do but i just wanted to play around with something new so pls let me know if we like it because i had fun but i'm not super sure about it. also it gets super filthy halfway through and i'm so sorry i'm not sure i ever wrote something this nasty? lol
'Cause I'm not old, but I am tired / I'm not strong, I'm very weak / I'm not old, but I am tired / I'm not here, I'm somewhere else / I'm one hundred ninety-six in dog years / I have seen enough / I've seen it all — Halsey, Dog Years.
You haven't lived in the Boston QZ for your entire life, but it certainly feels like it— Your parents came in when you were eight years old, about a year after Outbreak Day, when the Quarantine Zone was still fresh, with FEDRA just starting to take over the country and people still willing to trust their government to keep them safe. It is the only life you know and, while it is not perfect, it's certainly better than facing the dangers outside FEDRA's protection: You grew up hearing stories of raiders and slavers and how the infected outnumbered people at an alarming rate, how it was utterly impossible to survive without the watchful eye of FEDRA and its harsh laws.
Things are comfortable, even though they're not good, and that's more than most people have. You mother died just before your tenth birthday, an innocent bystander caught in the crossfire between FEDRA soldiers and the freedom fighters. Your father, a violent smuggler with a penchant for booze and pills, spends more time outside the QZ's walls than inside the tiny one-bedroom apartment the two of you share.
You're used to being alone by now, working triple shifts at the speakeasy and having to sneak your way back home just as the sun is starting to come up, risking your life for a couple of ration cards — more if you're in pigtails, even more if your shirt is low cut — that barely cover the amount you have to pay to keep a roof over both of your heads.
Everything changes when, for the first time since your mother died, your father is gone for longer than a couple of weeks. Usually his smuggle runs last a week or two at most before he comes home, drinks himself to a stupor over the weekend and then leaves again by Monday morning. This time, when the two weeks are up and he doesn't come back, there's a small part of you that is happy for it. The bruises he's given you are just starting to fade, the cut above your eyebrow finally closing up when the doubt creeps in and you begin to wonder whether or not this is the time your father will not come back home at all.
By the end of the first month he's gone, you know something happened. You're not sure if he simply left you behind or if he's dead or injured somewhere, but you know this isn't normal. So, one early morning, you make your way to the northern district of the QZ, where you know Abe lives— He's the only one with a long-distance radio and no affiliations to FEDRA or the Fireflies, the man your father once said he'd contact if he ever needs to speak to you while he's gone. In over a decade of smuggling your father hasn't tried to reach out to you once, but he also has never been late, and you figure maybe Abe would be able to give you a proper answer.
You stay in line for five and a half hours, a handful of ratios stuffed inside your bra, but your meeting with Abe only lasts a couple of minutes: He eyes you with suspicion, scowling the moment you say your father's name, and then tells that he would require ten ration cards to tell you if there's a message, and then another fifteen to read said message if it does exists— With no refund of the initial ten in case your father hasn't contacted you at all. You know extortion when you see it, has faced it plenty of times — Most men are always eager to take advantage of a young woman with no one to back her up —, and twenty-five ration cards is simply not something you can afford without going hungry or risking loosing your apartment.
For the first time in your life, you're truly alone. There's no one to run to, no one to help you or save you in this situation and that is somehow worse than all of the beatings and offensive words your father has thrown at you for the past two decades, the financial weight of having to provide for yourself in a world that is rigged against your survival brings you the sort of desperation you have never felt before.
It is that desperation that brings you to Joel Miller.
Joel has always been a constant in your life; he had worked alongside your father when you were little, always a solid shadow at the edge of your childhood memories, but they had a rough falling out after your father double crossed him sometime during your teenagehood and had, since then, become competitors inside the QZ. Now he is mostly a looming threat, some dark nefarious figure that might take away your father's livelihood at any moment.
He is not the sort of man you ever want to mess with, especially because you're not sure whether he's the vindictive type— He may as well hold your father's wrongdoings against you and refuse to help or worse: he could rat you out to FEDRA, use the opportunity to usurp the loyal clientele your father has or use his absence to wipe him out entirely. But you hear from Joan that hears from Elizabeth that hears from Eric that Joel Miller is friends with Abe and you figure that, maybe, Joel would be decent enough to bargain with the man for you. So, with an offering of bathtub moonshine you steal from work and tears in your eyes, Joel makes the deal; the bottle is probably worth a lot less than what he could've charged you but he doesn't bargain, instead choosing to grunt, take the bottle and slam his apartment's door in your face. He shows up at your place two days later, just as you start to panic thinking that maybe he's conned you out of some liquor, with a blank face and bad news: There has been no message, and although Joel promises to check in with the radio guy periodically, your father doesn't try to contact you at all in the days after that.
After that, Joel becomes a constant fixture in your life: He walks you home from the speakeasy after your shifts, and he fixes your shower or reinforces your front door or drops by with new shoes or food after a successful run. You find ration cards in your coat pockets or slipped under your door whenever you start working the triple shifts again, though he has never admitted to being the one putting them there: Every act of care comes with stony silence or a scowl, but Joel is always there, solid and within reach whenever you need him. So, you do the stupidest thing you could possibly do: You repay him with stolen alcohol. It starts with the small bottle that you use to bribe him that first time, but you become bolder and bolter as the months crawl on, swiping bigger and more expensive bottles whenever you can.
The owner, a mean-looking man named Bryan, catches you red-handed on a snow-heavy night in December. The beating itself isn't the worst you've ever gotten — someone robbed you when you were fourteen, taking a whole's week worth of rations and your father had always blamed you for that, his punishment even more painful than the shiner the thief had given you — but it's close enough and, as you stumble home through the snow-covered streets in the skimpy clothes you wear for better tips, all you can do is think that you got luck: Bryan could've cut off your fingers, or raped you or killed you or a thousand other horrible things that would wield a lot more damage than what he did and most people wouldn't have batted an eye; Hell, half the people you know probably would've thought you deserved it.
You're halfway home when panic truly sets in, outweighing the pain and the cold as you start to do the math— You're fresh out of a job, with rent looming within the next couple of days and you still don't have enough cards to cover it, let alone all of the other expenses you have; the pantry is almost empty, a single loaf of stale bread that you've been rationing for a few days while you waited for payday, and you still need to pay your neighbor for the winter socks she's knitted for you.
You're so terrified at the knowledge that you'll be homeless within the next week that you don't even notice Joel approach until it's too late, his cracked hands grabbing your shoulders and pushing you away from the main street just in time to miss the FEDRA soldier patrolling the area.
You shriek, your brain taking longer than it usually would to understand what is happening. Joel pins your back to his chest, one hand wrapped around your middle while the other slams over your mouth— The rough touch to your tender face has you whimpering, pain blossoming all over.
"It's me. Calm down." He whispers, holding the position for a moment longer while the soldier walks past the alleyway the two of you are in before he lets you go. You try to keep your head down so your hair fall over the bruises that are already forming but your face is so covered in blood that you can see the red liquid has stained Joel's palm. He looks at it for a second as if he can't comprehend what happened before he's crowding you against the wall, his surprisingly gentle hands tugging your chin towards him.
"I'm fine." You say in the silence that follows, though that's very much not true. Joel takes in a deep breath, his entire face scrunched.
"Who did this to you?"
"Joel, it's—"
"Who?"
You bring a hand up, your fingers wrapping around his wrist; the touch is meant to stop him, your intentions on fully pulling his hand away but you find it grounding instead, as if simply feeling Joel's rapidly beating pulse point beneath your fingertips is enough to melt the anguish away.
"Bryan." You relent, because you know he won't let go otherwise. "I had it coming."
"He'll pay. He ain't got no right to—"
"I stole from him." The admission is small, the words barely coming out of your lips; you didn't mean to tell him, the last thing you want is for him to connect the dots and realize you had been stealing for him. "I'm lucky he didn't do worse."
Joel goes entirely still, his hand still gripping your chin, his dark eyes staring you down so intensely it makes you squirm. A beat, and then another, and you watch in real time as realization washes over him.
Joel drops your chin like you've burned him. "Goddamn it, kid. Are you really that fuckin' stupid? Don't cha think that—"
"Joel, please." You whine, your eyes welling up with tears. "I don't need this right now. I'm cold, and everything hurts, and I'm out of a job. Just… Just don't lecture me right now, okay? I don't need it."
For a second, you think he'll ignore and go on his tirade— He looks like he wants to, but then his jaw locks and his nostrils flare and that's it. Joel swallows his emotions down in such an efficient manner it awes you and you barely have time to register the blankness of his face before he's wrapping his own jacket around you.
"Let's get you home and cleaned up."
Home, as it turns out, is Joel's place. You don't have the energy to argue despite the fact that the only thing you want to do is to crawl under your blanket and cry until you pass out, and you sit by the kitchen table as he cleans your face and neck with a wet rag. The apartment is cold even though Joel does his best to insulate the windows, and you shiver in your wet clothes— both from the remnants of snow that seem ingrained inside your bones and the heatwave that followed from Joel's touch, your body burning up from inside out at every careful touch of his hands. Once you seem clean enough, he brings you a chilled bottle out of the freezer, the clear liquid sloshing inside and you're sure it's probably either moonshine or vodka; Most likely moonshine, illegally made by some of the people brave enough to cook up such a thing within the city's walls.
"Put it over your eye, or it's goin' to swell shut."
You do as he says, but your heart races inside your chest as Joel kneels in front of you, carefully unlacing your boots.
"Joel, what—"
"Need to get'cha out of these wet clothes." He mumbles, not looking at you. Joel helps you out of your shoes and socks, and then turns his back at you and busies himself on the stove while you change from your work clothes to his— boxer shorts, wool socks and a thick sweatshirt that you're sure must've costed him a small fortune. You're still cold by the time Joel sets a steaming mug of tea on the table, but you're more comfortable than you've been in months.
Something changes between the two of you that night, tangled together in Joel's bed, his heartbeat steady under your cheek and his hand in your hair as you cry yourself to sleep. You go back to your apartment the next morning but just to pick up your personal belongings, Joel as a bodyguard as you collect what you can inside his backpack; you don't have much anyway, and you donate all of your father's belongings to the family two apartments down— More out of spite than anything else, you keep his favorite pair of boots as a gift to Joel. He takes the boots with an expression that seems to know exactly what you're doing, presses a kiss to the top of your head as if he's done it a million times, and clears out a drawer for you in his wardrobe.
Bryan goes missing three days after you move into Joel's place, and then they find his body five days after that, his face beaten almost beyond recognition, every single one of his fingers broken. His son takes over the speakeasy and invites you back, probably because he doesn't know what you did— Joel doesn't let you go back, claiming he doesn't trust the son and that you deserve better than being harassed by drunk men all night. You take odd jobs here and there, wanting to contribute with your share of rations but eventually Joel convinces you to quit altogether: Between the smuggling and the temporary jobs he takes from FEDRA he's certain he can provide enough for the two of you, and that you shouldn't be risking and exhausting yourself over nothing. You try to pull your weight around the house then, keeping it cleaner than he ever did, stitching up his socks and jackets and trying to make a meal out of the crappy food FEDRA distributes.
Housewife is the word that Tess uses for you. She says it with a sneer, scoffing whenever Joel tries to deny it; he says you're just a kid, that you're too young to be on your own and that you need him. She says that you're too old to need a daddy, and Joel slams his fist down on the table and they don't see each other for a few weeks. By the time Tess is back, it's as if nothing ever happened— She doesn't apologize and neither does he, or maybe they've exchanged apologies somewhere you weren't privy to, but Tess doesn't quit with the insults. Kept girl, plaything, pet— All names she uses whenever Joel isn't around, and then ignores you completely whenever he is.
Truth is, you find that you don't mind the nicknames. Joel calls you kid, kiddo, sweet girl— Also only when the two of you are alone, using your name whenever there is anyone listening and you've come to understand that there is a lot about Joel that he doesn't show to the world: He's feared inside the QZ, most people crossing the street whenever he's around, doing whatever they could to stay out of his way and only coming to him whenever they needed something no one else could bring but with you he's the sweetest man you've ever dealt with, quiet yet caring in a way that you haven't seen from anyone else.
The first time the two of you kiss, it feels like you've been doing it for all of your life; Joel had been gone for a couple of days, a pill run beyond the QZ's walls that made you sleepless. Tess hadn't gone with him this time around, which only made everything worse— For all the woman hated you, you knew she'd give her life to protect his. He comes home so late it's almost morning, his clothes soaked in blood that isn't his and his knuckles scraped raw.
You're not sure which one of you moves first: He's crowding you the second the door closes, and then his lips are pressing against yours, hungry and desperate. He kisses you until you the both of you are breathless, the still wet blood from his shirt soaking into yours: A bond that no soap or water can wash away even after the proof of your bodies mending together is discarded.
Joel tells you about Sarah in the middle of the night, when his nightmare wakes the both of you and he can't hide the tears. He doesn't tell you exactly how she died, just that it happened on Outbreak Day, and you request stories of happy memories to get his mind off of it. He tells you about the soccer practices and early Saturday matches, about the hikes they used to go on with Tommy and about the time she begged him to paint her room pink and then had him repaint it with purple a couple of weeks later, when she decided she hated pink. Joel talks more than you've ever seen him do, long fully formed sentences rather than the short words and grunts you're used to and it's like you're seeing yet a new side of him— Something soft and sacred that he's been hiding from the entire world, even from those closest to him.
"She would hate the man I became." He says eventually, after a short lull between tales of Sarah's first day in kindergarten. "The monster I became."
You're not certain how to deal with the self-loathing in his voice, especially because you know it's true— Joel's a terrible man, broken and violent and capable of unspeakable things, and you doubt the little girl from his memories would be proud of him for it. You press a kiss to the top of his head much like he seems to enjoy doing to you.
"There's always time." You whisper. "As long as you're alive, you still have time to make her proud."
He leaves before you wake the next morning but greets you with a kiss when he comes home in the evening, his breath smelling of whiskey and pupils dilated from the pills he swears he isn't taking anymore.
The afternoon you run into Robert's goons beating the ever living fuck out of Tess, there is a brief second in which you consider walking away— She's been nothing but horrible to you even when you were at your most vulnerable, and you doubt she'd intervene in your favor if it was the other way around. But your feet move before you can second guess yourself, plucking a large plank of wood from a rubbish pile close to you and hitting the bigger of the men as hard as you can in the back of the head: You miss a little, hitting him in the back of the neck but he falls like a sack of bricks anyway, his skull cracking against the pavement. Tess is on the smaller guy before he can jump you, her knee pressing to his neck until he stops thrashing.
Tess doesn't thank you, but you can tell she looks at you differently after that, staring you in silence for long periods of time. When she calls you by your name rather than an insulting nickname for the first time, you're so stunned that she scoffs and walks away in the few seconds it takes you to respond.
"You should leave him." She tells you once, her eyes glued to the radio as she waits for the message from Frank. Joel's nowhere to be found, but you still feel his presence in the cramped apartment anyway as if his very essence loomed over your shoulder. "This is not healthy for either you."
"I would die without him." You mean it literally, too— Joel is your saving grace, the only person to offer you a hand and keep you warm and fed in this horrifying world.
"That's exactly why you should go." She says. "No man should own your soul like that."
You wonder if she's speaking from experience, and you wonder if it has anything to do with Joel but How Can You Mend a Broken Heart by the Bee Gees starts playing on the radio and then Tess is shuffling through the song book like a madwoman.
"80s?" You ask, worrying your bottom lip. You have yet to meet Bill and Frank, but you know how much they mean to Joel— Even if he would rather die than admit to it.
Tess shakes her head in denial, and the relief in face is clear as day. "1971. They got new supplies coming in."
"Do you think they'll have any yarn? Joel needs new socks."
"You deserve better than this." Disappointment washes over her face. "Better than a man that is using you to replace his dead daughter."
She's wrong and you know it; Joel doesn't treat you like your father ever did, there's nothing paternal about his touches and there is no replacing Sarah. But you'd be lying if you said you never envied her for having Joel as a father, even if she is dead now; the guilt you feel must show on your face because Tess' nose wrinkles.
"Or maybe you do. Maybe the two of you deserve each other."
The tone she uses is somehow more offensive than any petname she's ever used before. But the idea of belonging so deeply to Joel that even Tess can see it warms your inside so comfortably you can't find it in yourself to be offended by the implications of her words.
The first and only time Joel comes inside of you, you've been living with him for well over a year. It's been five months since the two of you shared your first kiss, and while you've both been using your mouths and hands on each other ever since, Joel's been hesitant to be inside of you— Pulling out is risky, and condoms expired for over two decades are probably even worse, so he pushes the idea away, making you come three or four times with his mouth until you're so exhausted you stop begging him to fuck you properly.
You're already two orgasms in, sprawled nude and sweaty on the bed while Joel fucks you slowly with his fingers. He bites and sucks at your neck, a collection of bruises of varying degrees of healing peppered all over your skin. Joel pulls his fingers away from you, rubbing his cock against your cunt.
"I'm going to put just the tip." He says, his voice just a little stern as if he's scolding you before you can even misbehave.
"Yes, daddy." You nod and, although you want to beg him to just fuck you already, you're afraid he might change his mind if you seem too eager.
Joel pulls back, leaning on his haunches, pushing your knee to the side. Your legs fall open and you push yourself on your elbow, wanting to see just exactly what he's going to do— Joel is a sight to behold, his chest flush and his breathing deep, his heavy cock gripped tight in his hand. You'd been intimidated by it at first, long and impossibly thick, but Joel has fucked your mouth so many times by now that you are certain you'd be able to take him anywhere he wanted. He presses the head of his cock against your clit and you moan as it slides to the side, coated in your slick.
"She's always cryin' for her daddy." He chuckles and you clench around nothing, his rough voice hitting you deep inside. "Winkin' at me like that, begging for my cock."
"Just for you." You say, so wet you can feel it sliding down to your ass. "Want you so bad it hurts."
Joel brushes his cock against your entrance, teasing, not yet pushing inside. " 'S okay, babygirl. 'M gon' make the pain go away."
The first stretch as he pushes the fat head inside is almost too painful, your head falling back as you mewl but Joel doesn't let you go very far, the hand not holding himself steady flying to your hair, pulling you up just enough so you can see where he disappears inside of you.
"Look at ya." He commands, thighs shaking from the effort of staying still. "Stretchin' so pretty around daddy's cock."
Joel rolls his hips, pushing just another inch inside before he pulls out, a string of your slick connecting the tip of his cock to your entrance. You clench, fingers digging into the mattress to stop yourself from seeking his hips with yours. He's just as wrecked as you feel, breathing deeply before he pushes inside of you again, just a little bit further this time, but still not nearly enough. You keen and give in, planting your feet on the bed to rock against him— His cock slides halfway in before his hand pushes you back on the bed by the hip. The two of you groan in unison, both from the touch and then the abrupt lack of it. His hand comes down onto your clit, slapping it so hard you almost scream, eyes rolling to the back of its sockets.
"Oh, you like that, naughty girl?" Joel asks, and then he gives your cunt another slap. He hums when you wail, sounding almost curious about this new thing the both of you have just discovered. "If you try that again, we're done for tonight, y'hear me? You'll take what I give you or nothin' at all."
You nod, eager, wanting nothing more than for him to be inside of you again. Joel gives your clit yet another slap and the sting makes your skin warm all over.
"Yes, daddy. I'll be good." You say as he rubs soothing circles to your sensitive clit. Joel brings his cock back to you, sliding in much easier than before; he fucks you slowly, no more than just a couple of inches— Just enough to drive you crazy, your entire body set aflame at the touch that is oh-so-pleasurable but still not enough. You hold your body taut, biting down on your bottom lip to keep yourself from pushing back against him.
"Fuck, she's stranglin' me, babygirl. Never seen a pussy so tight—" Joel grunts, his body flushed red from his thick neck down to his navel, sweat dampening the hairs on his chest. "She's just suckin' me right in, isn't she?"
"She needs you." You bring a hand to your mouth, shoving two fingers between your lips and wetting them before you slide your spit-slicked fingers to your chest, rolling your nipples between them. Joel groans at the sight, loosing control of his hips just long enough to push a third of his cock inside of you. "Please daddy, it's not enough. I need to feel you deep inside of me."
You can see the moment his resolve cracks. He hikes your legs closer to his hips and then slams his entire length inside of you— It makes you wail, your mouth falling open and your back arching. Joel topples over your, pushing his index and middle finger inside of your open mouth much like you'd done just moments before. You wrap your lips around his thick fingers, humming as he shoves them as far as he can; you've learned how to control your gag reflex in the past couple of months, Joel's cock big enough to slide down your throat with a single thrust, but the way his fingers push down onto your tongue make your throat close tight.
"Suck on 'em." He orders, hips pulling back until his cock is almost entirely out before plunging back in. "I wanna see you choke on your daddy's fingers while his big cock fucks you open."
You do as he says, mainly because there isn't much else you can do other than take his commands, giving his digits the same treatment as you would his cock, licking and sucking and taking them as deep as you can. Joel's cock hits the same spot inside of you again and again and you can feel him everywhere; you moan around his fingers until he seems to take pity on you, pulling his hand away from your mouth. He shifts positions, kneeling in front of you and hiking your hips on his thighs; you only miss the weight of his body on top of yours for a second, because then Joel is pushing your knees up to your chest and the new position make you even tighter, the pressure making it seem as if his cock has doubled in size. Joel also changes the pace of his thrusts, going slower now and yet somehow even deeper, making you feel every inch of him.
"I'm gonna come." You say, the pressure building fast.
"No you won't." You blink at him, disoriented by his words. Joel pulls back, slapping your clit just as he plunges back inside. "You're goin' to be my good girl and you won't come until I let ya."
"I can't—" You say, the words cut off by the power of his thrusts. "I don't know how—"
"Yes you do." Joel hums, and he sounds almost mean as he slaps your cunt again. "Fuck, she chokes down my cock when I do that. Sweetest. Fuckin'. Pussy."
The last three words are punctuated by slap after slap, the moans falling out of your mouth becoming more and more desperate; you weren't lying, you don't know how to stop yourself from coming but you do the best you can, trying to focus on the mold spots on the ceiling or the chipped paint near the window or anything that isn't Joel's cock pushing time and time again against that perfect spot inside of you.
"Please let me come." You beg, tears pooling on the corner of your eyes and trickling down to your temples. "I can't hold it in, daddy, please. Please please please, I can't—"
Joel pinches your overstimulated clit and you gush around him, body locking up as you come against your will. It makes you black out for a second, black spots dancing in front of your eyes but Joel isn't done. He slaps your tit this time, the flesh jiggling both from the slap and the power of his thrusts.
"Such a bad girl." He grits out, slapping your breast again but he doesn't sound angry at all. "Should punish you for that. Ground you 'n' everythin'. Gotta learn to listen to your daddy."
"I'll take it." You say, gasping for air. You blink at him, the tears still blurring your eyesight. "Whatever it is, daddy, I'll take it. Anything for you."
"Maybe I'll fuck that pretty lil' ass of yours next." Joel threatens, and you clench around him. "Or maybe I'll spank you so raw you won't be able to sit. Use a belt to make sure your not comin' from my slappin' you. Naughty lil' thing, bet'cha like that, huh?"
Your heart jumps to your throat at the mention of the belt, a thousand different memories — bad, terrifying memories — of your own father and his leather belt jump to mind and your eyes well with real, uncontrollable tears.
"Anything for you." You parrot yourself, your eyes locking with the place where Joel clutched to your thighs as if you were his lifeline. "I'm yours, daddy. Anything you want, I'll take it. I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"
Joel's thrusts become more erratic, fast and deep and not calculated as they'd been before. He comes deep inside of you, toppling to moan against the crook of your neck, his thighs flush with your ass. It's never ending, his sloppy thrusts slowing down but not stopping as he comes and comes and comes until you feel so full to pushes into your bladder.
"Mine." He says, his voice full of wonder as his aquiline nose traces your jawline. "My precious lil' girl."
It's not an 'I love you', but you're fairly certain it's the closest you'll ever get to one.
You've been nauseated for about three weeks straight by the time Robert steals Joel and Tess' battery. Joel's been toying with the idea of leaving the QZ for good for several months now, quietly planning your escape in the late nights were sleep evades him, trading the pills and the alcohol for something ever more addictive: Hope.
You're sitting cross legged on the bed, a worn copy of a James Patterson book on your lap as Joel cleans the injuries on Tess' face. You'd been jealous of their relationship at first, unsure if they were just smuggling partners or something more but Joel never looked at Tess the way he did you, never touched her with the tenderness he did you. You forget all about the adventure Alex Cross is going through on the pages in front of you as you watch them plan their — your — escape route, the dangerous plan of going after Robert and taking back what is rightfully theirs.
"We'll be back before sundown." Joel tells you, and then he waits for Tess to leave the apartment before he leans in for a kiss. "Get our bags ready, we leave tonight."
You nod, already missing his touch by the time he crosses the threshold after his partner.
It's pouring rain outside by the time they come back, and you've spent most of the day pacing around the cramped apartment. Your backpacks are ready to go, everything of value stuffed inside of it, but you keep checking and rechecking all of the nooks and crannies of the apartment, making sure you've taken everything out of every secret compartment that Joel has hidden around the place. You had been scared the first time Joel brought up the idea of crossing the country after his brother, terrified really, but you'd rather face the monsters — both human and not — outside of the QZ than stay behind without him.
In the months after that, the idea has grown on you, and now you can't wait to see what it is outside; you've seen the top of skyscrapers from the roof of some of the taller buildings inside the walls, and you've heard all of the tales, but seeing it with your own eyes seems like the most exciting thing to ever happen in your sad life.
Joel looks exhausted by the time he comes back, wet from the rain with Tess and a young girl in tow. You frown at her, and she reciprocates the gesture.
"Who are you?" You ask.
"Who are you?" She retorts, dropping her sopping backpack on the ground.
"Joel's wife." You don't even hesitate, the words you've been mulling inside of your head for weeks now falling naturally from your lips. Out of the corner of your eye you see Joel freeze, and Tess' head snaps towards you so harshly you think she might break her neck.
The girl squints. "Aren't you a little yo—"
"We had a change of plans." Joel interrupts the girl, dropping down heavily onto the couch. "Robert fucked us over, his battery was no good. Tess and I are takin' the girl to the Fireflies, and then we'll come back to get you."
"You don't smuggle people." You say, your heart dropping down to your stomach. Joel's able to get in and out of the QZ with relative ease because of the goods he brings for the soldiers, but smuggling a person — a child — out of the zone isn't something the soldier will easily turn a blind eye to.
"We do now." Tess is the one that replies. She exchanges a heavy look with Joel before sneaking out of the apartment, the door slamming in her wake.
"Joel." You say, sitting next to him. You see the girl look at you wearily before she starts roaming around the room, her fingers touching every little thing she could. "This isn't right. What do the Fireflies want with a child?"
"She's some bigwig's daughter or somethin'. Marlene is desperate, she's givin' us all we need to get to Wyoming."
"What's in Wyoming?" The girl asks.
"None of your business." Joel grits out, though his face remains turned to you. "It's too dangerous to take you with me but if Marlene does good on her promise, we're set, baby."
"And if she doesn't?"
"Then I'll come back home and we'll try again." He promises. "The girl is just another cargo, this is the same run I always do. The payout's just a hundred times' better."
You bite the corner of your thumb. This feels too reminiscent of your father's last smuggle run, a goodbye that doesn't seem final but feels like it— Like there's more, like Joel isn't telling you everything or perhaps making things seem less dangerous than they are. You nod, eventually, stomach still in knots.
Joel looks like he wants to reach for you, but one look at the girl makes him retreat; she's not even pretending not to stare, curled on the reclining chair and looking intently at the two of you.
"I'll talk to Abe. He knows how to contact Tommy— If I'm not back in ten days you're goin' to head to Abe's and tell him I sent ya. Hey, kid— Listen to me, this is important."
You nod, trying to focus on what he's saying. He watches you for a moment, making sure he has all of your attention before continuing: "If I'm not back in ten days, you're going to send a message to Tommy and tell him to meet you in Lincoln."
"Joel, how the fuck am I supposed to get to Lincoln on my own?"
"You're goin' to play an 80s song on the radio, and then you'll leave it playin' as you leave. Bill is goin' to meet you halfway there but you need to get out of the city first." He pulls your chin towards him, holding your face so he can look you in the eyes. "You have to get out of the city as fast as you can, y'hear me? You're goin' to follow the path on the map I'ma leave with you, and you're goin' to meet up with Bill. He's gon' keep you until Tommy gets there."
"You've never walked me through a contingency plan like this before, Joel." You try to blink the tears away. "If this is just like any other run, then I don't need this."
"Well, you never called yourself m'wife before, now have you?" Despite the call out, Joel has a small grin on his lips. You feel your face heat up with embarrassment, and you shrug.
"Tess calls me your housewife all the time."
Joel drops his hand, his eyes darting towards the young girl in the room as if he's just recalled her presence. "This is all hypothetical. This run is more dangerous than others, but I've survived worst. I been meanin' to tell you all'a this for a while now. Ain't gon' leave you on your own like your dad did."
Joel leaves an annotated map on the kitchen table— The same one he's been doodling over ever since he heard Tommy was in Wyoming, with escape routes from Boston and the safest and quickest ways to get to Tommy, the margins filled with extensive notes about the unsafe routes and places to avoid in the city; things are numbered and signed and there's a whole paragraph of symbols and codes Joel's come up with, the sort of detailed attention that means he's been working on this for far longer than you've noticed.
"How do I sneak out of the QZ?" You ask, staring at the map as if it's a bomb.
"James."
"The Jesus freak?" You frown. James lives a few doors down from you, a creepy-looking blond man that often has a bible in his hands and a superiority complex that makes you want to barf.
"He's cheap, and he knows his way 'round the place. There are two guns underneath the fourth floorboard by the wardrobe, you'll trade him one and keep one to yourself."
"Hypothetically."
"Yes, darlin'. Hypothetically. Only if I don't come back."
"You'll be here in ten days, won't you?"
"I will. Maybe even sooner than that." Joel promises again, holding your gaze steady. Still, you don't believe him. "I'll be here with a truckload of supplies, and then we'll skip town together."
They leave not long after that, a few hours short of sun up by the time Tess comes back with her pack and a clear exit for the three of them. Joel doesn't give you a prolonged goodbye, simply squeezing your waist and kissing the top of your head like he always does, but the terrible gut feeling that this run is unlike the others doesn't leave with him— If anything, it only seems to worsen in the dark, empty apartment.
You cry yourself to sleep and, distracted by your own anguish and the loud sound of your sobbing, you don't hear the song coming from Tess' radio.
The ten days are an absolute nightmare. You're sick most of the time, sleeping when you're not puking and crying when you're not sleeping or puking— It is Amelia, the young woman that manages the food bank closes to your apartment that brings up the possibility of you being pregnant; she catches you retching one morning outside of her food stall after a particularly strong waft of freshly baked bread, connecting the dots even before you can properly explain your symptoms; you have no proper way of confirming her hypothesis, not unless you want to go to a FEDRA-appointed doctor and alert them to your condition, so Amelia takes you into the backroom of her stall and offers you two different options: A ginger root for morning sickness, or a mugwort and pennyroyal concoction to make your problem go away.
You take the ginger root with shaking fingers, and Amelia simply holds you in silence while you cry.
When the ten days come and go with no sign of Joel, the dread settles so heavy it keeps you awake all night, and not even the bone-deep tiredness you've been feeling can make you get a wink of sleep. You give him some wiggle room, however, deciding to wait just a little longer before you contact Tommy— Joel is coming home any day, you're certain of it, and you'd feel silly to make a fuss just for him to walk through the door safe and sound. So you cry, and you vomit and you don't sleep and you wait.
For all of the despair you felt when you father went missing, you discover now that you never worried much about his safety— You worried that if he wasn't safe you wouldn't be as well, but it takes Joel leaving for you to understand the difference between worrying about someone to worrying about what will happen to you now that they're gone. A thousand different scenarios play through your head, from raiders to slavers to infected hoards to the fact that, maybe, he had simply left you behind: You're not certain which one hurts more, the idea of him being dead somewhere or the idea of him being alive without you.
You hold out hope for as long as you can but, by the fifteenth day, you know you can't pretend nothing happened anymore. You go to Abe early one morning, when the line is just starting to form and tells him exactly as you were instructed to: That you are Joel Miller's wife — which raises eyebrows from everyone in the room — and that you need his help. You give the codeword for Bill and Frank's home, and your estimated arrival there and, by the time Abe is done scribbling all of it down, you feel a little better about yourself; it's scary, and dangerous, but you've lived through scary and dangerous your entire life— And perhaps you haven't faced the outside before, but you've lived in a free-for-all war zone ever since you were a kid.
James isn't an easy man to find, but eventually you manage to track him down to an old building that is being used as a chapel— It's an old coffee shop that's been cleared out at some point, a few mismatching chairs stacked neatly in small rows. James gives you a warm smile when you walk in, your backpack clutched tightly to your chest, but it's visible that he doesn't recognize you.
"Joel sent me." You tell him. "Miller."
The smile slides off of James' face, and he takes a moment to regain his bearings; and despite being used to bad reactions when it comes to dropping Joel's name, the clear dislike on the man's face only increases your worries. James takes you to a backroom behind the church that he's assembled into something that might pass for an office, arms crossed over his chest— He's tall and lanky, non-threatening for most people but there's something about him that keeps you on your toes.
"I need out of the QZ." You explain, plucking the handgun from your backpack before offering it to him. "Joel said you'd help me in exchange of this."
The man squints, but eventually takes the weapon from you, carefully examining it before he puts it on top of the worn Bible on his desk. "Where are you headed?"
"Wyoming." The word slips out, and you wince, unsure if you're supposed to tell him or not— Joel certainly wouldn't have shared anything more than strictly necessary. "That's none of your concern, though. I just need your help to get past the soldiers."
"I got family on the Wyoming border, I've been meaning to head there. What part of Wyoming are you going?"
"I don't have anything else to pay you for chaperoning me. I can get there on my own, I just—"
"I just said I'm headed there anyways." James smiles, his fingers interlaced in front of him. "Do you know how to shoot? It's a rough path, I could use someone to help me."
You hesitate for a long moment, but James doesn't seem to be in any rush. You don't trust him, not one bit, but your mind goes back to the life you might be carrying, to the fact that you had no guarantee that either Tommy or Bill would get your message or even believe you at all; you had someone else to think about now, the fragile little thing you had growing inside of you— You still had no proof you were pregnant, but you knew it to be true. Could feel it deep in your soul, as if your body had been warning you about it before your brain caught up to the possibility of it.
You pluck Joel's map from your backpack, pointing it to the general area Tommy is. "I need to go here. Somewhere."
James hums, and nods. "My community is in Colorado, but it's close enough to that area. A couple of weeks on foot, less if we can get a car."
"Why are you so far away from home?"
He taps two fingers on the Bible. "Spreading the Lord's words."
You have to bite your tongue to keep yourself from snorting. "I don't believe you when you say you don't want anything from me. Nobody does anything without payment."
"The Lord teaches us to be selfless, and help those in need. A young woman like you, crossing the country by yourself? You'll die before you cross state lines."
"Your community. Where is it?"
"Here." James points to the map. "It is close enough to the place you're going, Joel might even be at Silver Lake rather than Wyoming by this point. We're a very welcoming bunch."
You open your mouth to say you're not after Joel, but decide against it; James doesn't need to know why you're going and, maybe if he's scared enough of Joel, he might think twice before bringing you any sort of harm.
"Alright." You say, shoving the map back into your backpack. "Take me to Silver Lake, then."
I’m dying to know what happens next! Please tell me there’s a Part 2 in the works because I’ve been left at the edge of my seat 😱😱!! I want to see Joel freak out when he sees her again and in her condition 🫢
synopsis: you and clark have a one night stand, but he's determined to see you again
cw: literally no plot just porn, unprotected p in v (wrap it before you tap it babes), creampie <3
wc: 1.2k
a/n: um wtf i'm actually sorry for being so busy. my professors are assholes, and the people at my internship are assholes too. i just miss you guys so much and i actually wish i could marry some rich man just so i can spend all my time writing clark kent smut 😩 also THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR 13K HONEYS!!! i love you babies sosososo much <333 you know you're my world 💛
A one-night stand hadn't been Clark's intention when he agreed to go out with his friends. He was just supposed to get a drink, hang out a little, and then go home.
He hadn't thought he'd end up in your bed.
He rocks into you slowly, your gummy walls tight around his cock as it stretches you out. Your body trembles under his, the skin of your neck tasting salty with sweat as he kisses over your throat.
“Gosh, you feel so good,” he groans, his voice hoarse and thick. His dark hair sticks to his forehead, his eyes half-lidded as he looks down at you while he fucks you.
You just moan sweetly into his ear, your nails dragging down his back, scratching at his shoulder blades. You look so beautiful like this, all blissed out, and he feels honored to be able to give you pleasure.
This hadn't been his plan at all. But when he'd seen you in the bar, sitting with your friends, his heart had stuttered and his mind had gone blank.
You were gorgeous. A being worthy of worship and paintings and hymns.
He'd been unable to look away for most of the night. Clark just stared at you, his eyes always returning to you no matter how hard he tried not to seem like a creep. But you were so beautiful. And then you'd glanced in his direction, your gaze meeting his, and a jolt of electricity shot through him.
When you smiled at him, he knew he was a goner. He had to approach you. Had to talk to you. He's not sure how he got lucky enough for you to want him back, for you to casually invite him to your place. He’d been almost too eager, too quick, to say yes.
Your bedroom now smells of sweat and sex, the sound of skin on skin loud as he fucks into you. Surely, the neighbors can hear the bed hitting the wall, your moans and gasps, and Clark’s low groans.
He grabs your thigh, draping it over his waist and changing the angle so he can slide deeper into you.
You squeal softly, your beautiful eyes rolling back as his thick cock drags against your inner walls, sending sharp jolts of ecstasy through your veins. “Clark,” you moan. “Oh, God.”
"I know, baby, I know," he murmurs in your ear before kissing across your jawline. “Fuck, you feel so good.”
He increases his pace, his hips rolling just right, his cock pressing up against your g-spot. You mewl sweetly, slick cunt squelching obscenely each time he presses in.
He groans low, delivering sloppy kisses down your neck and across your collarbone. One of his hands slides down, his fingers deftly working at your clit in slow circles as he continues to pound you.
You whine, delighted, as your hips start rocking against him, matching his rhythm, a hot pressure slowly building in your womb.
“Clark, Clark,” you say breathlessly, scratching harder at his back, your thighs starting to shake. Out of all the one-night stands you've had, this one is by far the best. Clark just knows what he’s doing. He fucks you so perfectly, touches you just right, and the weight of his body on you feels like heaven. You’d stay under him for days if you could.
“I know,” he says again, his mouth trailing down to your breasts, kissing each one reverently before licking over one of your nipples. “I know you wanna come. I'll get you there.”
He sucks on your nipple gently, grazing his teeth over it before swirling his tongue around the hardened peak. His fingers pick up the pace against your needy clit, and suddenly the pressure in your womb feels like molten lava ready to burst.
“Fuck,” you gasp, shaking, skin slick with sweat. “Please!”
You squeeze him tight as you get close, your pussy sucking him in, making him twitch in you as he's suddenly pushed right to the edge.
“Aw, fuck,” he grunts, pulling away from your tits. His hips stutter a little as he realizes he's not going to last much longer. He looks at your face, at how beautiful you are, focuses on how good you feel. And, God, this can’t be the only time he’s in you or the last time he sees you. He needs more.
“I need a favor from you before you come, honey,” he says, his voice strained. It’s like the words tumbled out of his mouth, but he’s already spoken them and he might as well go through with it.
You just mewl in response, body squirming under his, desperate for release.
“Can I get your number?” he asks breathlessly, feeling a little sheepish but determined.
You pause for a second before laughing softly, but it ends in a moan as Clark pushes you closer to your orgasm. “Yeah,” you gasp, nodding. “Yeah, I'll give you my number.”
“Thank fuck,” he groans, focusing his mouth on your neck, sucking and biting gently to leave hickeys all over. He takes your thigh from around his waist and presses it up to your chest. His cock slides in all the way, the thick head brushing your cervix, and the feeling of being stuffed full pushes you over the edge.
You mewl his name over and over as you come, your thighs shaking as your orgasm takes over you. It feels like your skin is on fire, the pressure in your womb bursting and spilling all over your body, the pleasure making you see stars. Your back arches off the bed and your eyes roll back, and Clark moans at the sight.
Watching you come while your cunt squeezes him tight is enough to send him right over the edge. He grunts, thrusting hard and fast and deep a few more times before he comes too. You two probably should've used a condom, but in your haste to get into bed, both of you had, admittedly, not cared. So Clark comes in you, his thick, sticky cum warm as it spills into your pussy, coating over your walls and gathering right against your womb.
With heavy, shuddering breaths, Clark places soft kisses against your forehead and nose and lips before pulling out of you and collapsing beside you.
He wraps an arm around your middle, tugging you against him while you both regain your breath.
When he can speak again, he says, “Probably should've waited til after to ask for your number. But I was afraid I'd lose my nerve, so I figured it was a now or never sort of scenario.”
You turn to him with a sweet, satisfied smile. “I'm glad the sex was good enough to prompt you to ask for my number in the middle of it,” you joke, voice breathy.
Clark chuckles, raising a hand to trace his thumb over your lower lip. “So...the number?” he prompts at risk of sounding desperate. He figures you’re worth all the embarrassment in the world.
You giggle softly. “Give me your phone.”
Clark all but leaps to grab his phone from where he'd left it on the bedside table. He hands it to you and watches with wide eyes as you add your contact.
“There,” you say, handing it back to him. “You've got my number. Just don't forget to actually use it.”
He grins a charming, boyish grin, his dimples showing. “Oh, trust me, baby, I'll definitely use it.”
♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing
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𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk <3
synopsis: you're friends with benefits with Clark Kent, and he can't keep himself off you. not even in the office.
cw: fwb, smut, little to no plot, fooling around in public, fingering (f!receiving), oral (m!receiving), horny Clark, a little bit of angst.
wc: 2.9k
Ever since the first time you two hooked up (and the many others that followed), it's been pretty girl this, pretty girl that. It makes it a little tougher to work together because all he ever does is flirt with you and use the nickname in front of everyone.
(He likes the way you blush and get all embarrassed about it.)
“Good morning, pretty girl,” he greets as he walks into the office, his eyes lighting up at the sight of you.
“Hey,” you reply, smiling, willing your heart to calm down in your chest lest someone else hears it.
“I like your skirt, it looks perfect on you.” He sits at his desk, right next to yours, and hands you a cup of your favorite coffee. He memorized the order and never shows to the office without it.
You'd told him he didn't have to bother, that you'd do without your coffee, but he'd been quick to dismiss your worries. “It's fine, pretty girl, I like bringing it for you.”
He's eyeing you as you take a sip. Then he watches you work, focused. Your eyebrows are slightly furrowed, your fingers typing away hurriedly. He studies your profile, admiring it, when his eyes fall on your lips as you word what you're writing.
“New lip gloss?” he asks, aware he should focus on his work and not on his coworker's pretty mouth, but how is he supposed to concentrate when you're sitting there, looking perfect? How is he supposed to function when he knows how your lips taste? When he can never seem to do anything but think about the next time he'll get to feel them?
You glance over. “Oh. Yeah.” You nod, a little blush coloring your cheeks.
He grins. “Is it sweet?”
You blink. “Sweet?”
His grin widens. “If I kiss you, will it taste sweet? Like strawberries or vanilla or something?”
“Clark!” you chide. You blush more and glance around, hoping no one heard. You two have been careful to keep this thing between you under wraps. Or, rather, you have. He doesn't seem to care if people find out. “We're at work,” you remind him.
He chuckles when he sees you worrying. “Yeah, we are. We're also alone right now.”
You meet his gaze, and he recognizes the want in your eyes. “We're still at work.”
“We could be in the bathroom,” he says lowly.
You roll your eyes and shake your head, glancing away from him. “There's work to be done.”
He leans closer. “And kisses to be given,” he points out, voice low and thick. He gently grabs your face, turning you to look at him. “I just want a taste, pretty girl. Just one kiss.”
Your eyes move to his, only to discover they're on your lips. He looks starved. It makes heat spread between your legs, and you press your thighs together.
Oh, God, not now. But how are you supposed to say no to this perfect man?
“One,” you give, and the cocky little smirk that forms on his lips makes you want to fuck him right then in the office.
He leans in and kisses you hard, hungry, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips. He coerces your mouth open and his tongue pushes against yours as his hands grab onto your waist to pull you closer.
You whine quietly, your hands moving to hold his wrists to keep him in check. It doesn't stop him from squeezing you gently, his huge hands kneading at your soft flesh.
He pulls away a tiny bit. “It is sweet,” he murmurs lowly, the words falling right against your lips, and then he's kissing you again.
You could stay like this forever, kissing him, having his hands on you. But you know how risky it is, kissing a coworker in the office. He's never this bold, this shameless. He tends to reserve the physical contact for after, when he inevitably finds himself in your apartment at night.
But something's gotten into him today, it seems.
You begin to pull away, needing to put space between you two before you end up on his lap with his cock in you, but his lips chase yours. He almost gets out of his chair just to keep his mouth pressed to yours, and when he's unable to lean forward anymore, he bites your lower lip gently.
You moan quietly, heat shooting through your body, and Clark groans lowly.
“Don't do that,” he says, voice raspy. “You can't make those sounds around me, pretty girl. Are you trying to get me hard at work?”
“I told you the kiss was a bad idea,” you say, sitting upright, your eyes finding his. He holds your gaze, and you see your lip gloss smeared all over his mouth. It must be a mess on yours too.
He seems to notice the same thing you do, because he smiles and moves a hand up to your face. He runs his thumb over the corner of your mouth. “Whoops.”
“I'm gonna clean this up,” you say, standing, and he's quick to follow.
“Me too.”
You give him a look. “Clark, I'm fine on my own. I'm just going to clean this mess off my face before anyone else gets in, okay? I don't want them to notice.”
You swear you see a flash of hurt in his eyes, but he's quick to replace it with a grin. “I'm just gonna clean up too. You don't think it'll be weird to them if they see me wearing your lipgloss?”
You blink at him. Fair enough.
“Right. Yeah.” You nod and continue on your way to the bathroom. You can feel him at your back, dangerously close.
He walks with you into the small space, his enormous frame making the bathroom feel smaller than it is. You try to ignore his presence as you face your reflection in the mirror. Your lip gloss is smeared all over your mouth, lips a little puffy from his kiss.
You start cleaning it up, trying to get all the sticky and pink thing off you.
You should've known better than to let him in with you.
His hand finds its way to your hip, and you tense when he touches you.
“Clark,” you say as a form of warning.
“What? You look pretty in this skirt,” he says innocently, his hand moving to your ass and squeezing. “Not my fault how gorgeous you are.”
You push his hand away. “We're at work.”
“In the bathroom, hidden from others,” he points out.
You huff, exasperated, and turn to face him. “It's still part of the office. We agreed we wouldn't let anyone know.”
He holds your gaze a while, his eyes searching for something in yours. “Did we? Or did you just decide no one could find out?” His voice is quiet, vulnerable. It aches your heart to hear him use that tone.
Like he senses he's a secret you don't want to get out.
Like he knows it.
You're quick to avoid giving him an answer. “You've got lip gloss all over your face,” you say instead and grab some paper towels. “Come here.”
He goes, letting you dab at his lips and the area around them as you gently wipe off the pink stains.
He can't tear his eyes away from your face. You're so precious, so gorgeous, so perfect.
Such beauty. And yet she hurts me so.
You pull away a little, eyebrows furrowed as you study your handiwork. “That's better, but it's still a little noticeable. Let me try with water,” you murmur and turn to wet the paper towels. But before you can, he picks you up and sits you on the sink. “Clark,” you say, surprised.
“You're just so amazing. I can't keep my hands off you,” he says lowly, and then he's kissing you again. And this time, there's not an ounce of control.
He kisses you hard, demanding, one of his hands holding you by the nape, the other one grabbing your thigh and squeezing too hard.
You gasp and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth, tasting you. He pulls you closer, your hips pressing against his, and you can feel how hard he is.
He grunts, rolling his hips against yours, feeling as precum begins to coat the front of his underwear.
He moves his hand up your thigh, sneaking under your skirt and making contact with the thin material of your panties.
You pull away from his kiss. “Clark, we can't...”
“Please. Just let me feel you. I won't fuck you here if you don't want me to, but just let me feel you,” he begs, those blue eyes of his full of unyielding need.
Fuck, you can't say no.
“Just touch,” you allow, nodding, and he sighs thickly, as if relieved.
He rubs his fingers against your folds through your panties, feeling the material grow damp. Your breathing turns heavy, your legs spreading to give him more room. He pushes your panties to the side, fingers feverish as they make contact with your cunt. You're soaked, and Clark can almost taste you from memory.
He slides a finger into you, grunting when your gummy walls squeeze tight. You're so warm, all he wants to do is bury himself in you and make you scream his name so everyone knows you're his. But you said just touch. So he'll do only that.
He slowly pumps his finger, drawing whines from you, as he leans closer to kiss you. You meet his lips eagerly, your hips pushing against his hand, wanting more.
He slips a second finger in, your pussy stretching around his digits. He presses his thumb to your clit, rubbing it slowly.
Your slick has begun dribbling down his hand, and Clark wants to get on his knees and devour you. He's dying to taste you, dying to fuck you.
But you said just touch.
You grab onto his biceps to hold yourself upright as you rock your hips against his hand. You're moaning into his mouth now, and he's gladly swallowing it all down, keeping you quiet.
You pull away from his mouth, your nose grazing his. Your eyes are shut tight and you're shaking, whispering, “Clark, Clark, Clark.” And he knows what that means.
“It's alright, pretty girl. I'll get you there,” he assures you, adding a third finger and pushing them in you to the knuckles.
You gasp, back arching beautifully, and he leans down to kiss and nibble your neck. His lips trail down to your collarbones, then to your tits, and he mouths at them, leaving spit on your shirt.
Your nails dig into his skin and you're biting your lip to keep yourself quiet. Clark's mouth moves back up, to your jaw, and then he's kissing right below your ear.
“C'mon, pretty girl. Come all over my fingers,” he whispers, breath making goosebumps rise on your neck.
He presses his fingers into that spongy spot, making your legs shake, and it takes only a few more presses for you to come.
Your orgasm is quick and strong. It makes you squirm, hips bucking against his hand, breathless mewls falling from your lips.
Clark groans. “Yeah, like that, honey. Fuck. You're so gorgeous,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead as he slowly works you down from your high.
Once you've recovered, he pulls his fingers out of you and licks them clean, his cock standing to attention at the familiar taste of your cunt.
“You sure you don't want me to eat you out?” he murmurs, pressing his lips to yours in little kisses. “I can make it quick, if you want.”
You shake your head. “I already cleaned one mess off your face, don't have time to clean another,” you say playfully, smiling.
He chuckles, fixing your panties back into place. “That's fair.” He nods. He steps back, hissing softly at the pressure in his crotch. “Jesus. See what you do to me, pretty girl?” he says lowly, adjusting himself in his pants, trying to relieve some of the tension.
Your eyes follow his hand to the bulge in his pants. And, God, there's a small, wet patch at the front.
You hop off the counter and move to stand right against him. “Does it hurt?” you ask, your hand sliding down to grab his cock through his dress pants.
He groans, grabbing you by the waist. “It's just uncomfortable. I'll be fine,” he assures you, though his eyes are dark and his breathing is labored.
“Mm.” Your hum is skeptical, and you stare at him a moment, waiting for him to break. But he doesn't. You know he's probably aching, probably needing release. And it's not fair for him to not get any if he gave you yours.
You kiss his jaw as your hands deftly work at undoing the front of his pants. “Looks to me like you're only acting all tough,” you say softly.
His hips push against your hand, his breath hitching. “What are you doing? You said we didn't have time.”
Your fingers wrap around his cock and he shivers. “Something tells me it's gonna be quick,” you tease, licking a stripe up his neck before you lower yourself to your knees.
Clark growls, his hand moving to gently brush your hair back. “Yeah, it's gonna be quick.” Just the sight of you is almost enough to make him jizz on your face.
You pull his cock out of his pants. He's long and wide, heavy in your hand. The tip is red, precum smeared all over it as more dribbles out.
You look up at him as you mouth up and down the length of him, spreading your spit all over his skin.
Clark groans, grabbing a fistful of your hair and tugging gently. “Fuck. Oh, my God, I'm not gonna last.”
You smile up at him and his knees almost give out. You're his undoing. You're going to be the end of him. He doesn't know how to stop what's inevitably happening to him with you, doesn't know how to save himself from this one. He only knows he's fucked.
You take him into your mouth, sucking hard as you slowly fit the entirety of his cock down your throat. He moans, legs shaking a little as your tongue presses against his underside.
You move your head back and forth, and Clark can only watch, mesmerized, adoring.
He caresses your head softly, his breathing heavy, his eyes focused on your face, on the way his cock slides in and out of your mouth.
“Just like that, baby. Oh, you're so good to me, pretty girl. You're so good,” he says. He can hear his heart beating in his ears. The blood rushing through his veins feels scalding. You do this to him, you make him crazy. What's he to do about it?
You've taken over his every thought. You control his mind. He thinks of you when he wakes up, he spends all day with you, and then he's thinking of you when he goes to sleep.
He dreams of you, constantly. Wet dreams, yes. Dreams where you're on his cock, moaning and writhing as he fucks you. Dreams where he has his head between your thighs, tongue in your pussy, your fingers in his hair. Dreams where he gets to fuck you every single day, as many times as possible, giving you everything you deserve.
He'll wake up shaking then, soaked in his sweat, his heart racing. And his cock, sticky with his own cum, is achy and sensitive to the touch.
But there are other dreams, too. Dreams where he's holding your hand as he takes you for picnic dates. Dreams where he walks into the office and says, “Morning, pretty girl,” before he kisses you in front of everyone. Dreams where he's put a ring on your finger and a baby in your tummy. Dreams where you're his, not only in bed, but in everything.
He wakes up shaking from those, too.
“I'm gonna come,” he grunts in warning, his fingers on your hair tightening, and he's trying not to pull it.
You look up at him, your pretty eyes wet with tears from fitting him down your throat, cheeks blushing sweetly. You wink at him. And that's all it takes.
He groans, gasping as he thrusts his hips against your face, fucking your mouth as he spills his cum into you. You whine as you feel it, sticky and warm, spurting onto your tongue.
You take it, eagerly swallowing it all down. When he's done, you release his cock from your mouth with a soft, wet pop.
Clark grabs you and pulls you to your feet so he can kiss you. His lips are now gentle against yours, tender, the lust in him quenched for now.
“My place tonight?” he asks in a whisper, his nose brushing yours.
“Mm. Not mine? We always go to mine,” you say, pulling back slightly to look in his face.
He shrugs. “‘s why I'm offering mine up.”
You nod, oblivious to what his intentions are. “Yeah, okay.”
He nods back and kisses your forehead. Fingers crossed that this works.
please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing ♡
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taglist - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk 💛
⋆.𐙚 ̊. a galentine's party collab oneshot ⋆.𐙚 ̊.
prompts: “you're such a nerd” 🍒 · “i'm not done with you” 🌶️ (swap-out)
🏁 WARNINGS/TAGS: race engineer!clark x racer!reader, slight grump x flirt/ragebaiter x ragebaited <3, brief descriptions of a car crash, brief jealousy, sexual innuendos, cameos, 1 (one) star wars reference, alcohol consumption, some kind of yearning/sexual tension, SMUT 18+ MDNI (making out, fingering, oral, you and clark are both switches <3, nicknames, dirty talk, praise kink, size kink?, nipple play, pussyjob, overstimulation, dumbification, unprotected piv sex, hyperspermia, creampie)
🏆 READER WARNINGS/TAGS: afab!reader, reader has hair (described once as tumbling) and is physically able
🏎️ AUTHOR'S NOTE: ITS FINALLY HERE. ladies. start your vibrators. i mean engines. no joke i researched more for this fic than i did in school. i actually kind of understand wtf is up with f1 now lmao. i'm quite happy with what i wrote for the racing part <3 <3 <3 also the smut in this probably triggered my ovulation early :/
this fic is dedicated to @tw1sters—thank you for all the love you have for this fic even before it was born, you really motivated me to give it my best shot! and a big thank you to @flockoff-featherface for the f1 advice and for generously giving this baby a read beforehand!!! <3
p.s. you can read this fic without the smut, just skip the third part!
I. FRICTION
“Turn 4, stand by to overtake.”
“Copy.”
In an enclosed room far away from the tracks, Clark Kent could almost smell degrading rubber against asphalt. Curved screens on the wall in front of him spelled out live data from your car: a metallic blue beauty made of carbon and pure drive. Engines roared, somehow not loud enough to silence his thoughts, and right now, he was caught in a headwind spiral.
None of the active cameras showed your face, but he could see the shit-eating grin on it.
After half a race season on your team, Clark has learned to read your patterns like he did the mathematics of a running engine—something about the way you gripped the steering wheel told him you were taking this easy, as if Turn 4 wasn’t designed to bait a racer’s easily-inflatable ego.
And speaking of ego, you didn’t just possessed it. That grin he pictured may as well be printed next to the dictionary definition for the word cocky, despite being the woman you are.
Ballsy, too. Clark almost rolled his eyes at the way you straddled the apex of that tight line: perfect, but pushing the speed limit for that kind of bend.
Still, you overtook smoothly.
Dangerous on the circuit, probably even more off it. That was who you were.
Just his luck: you also happened to be the most important person in his life right now.
Clark Kent’s job as chief race engineer was to orchestrate your wins from behind the curtain, and he took pride in doing so.
To be fair, you were quite good at winning: the leaderboard showed your name in the top five along with the greats—the employ of some he’d left in the past for more challenging routes… and less challenging people. You’d started the first three GPs with extremely modest points finish, which you more than made up for in the next few.
Your position had went up dramatically after. Stats from GPs eight, nine, and ten had been nothing short of spectacular. Beautiful curves on his screen—of data, of course, not your outline in that tracksuit.
The thing with you, though? You were greedy.
Before lights out, he’d advised you to keep the pace this time. No going off-script. No surprises.
“The remaining twelve races are more than enough for you to climb,” he’d said. “Remember, you get no points for crashing.”
You’d pouted, and it almost scared him to admit that, for once, he understood.
Because it was Silverstone. All 18 turns and 52 laps of it.
You were racing in the historic circuit that birthed the sport some seventy years ago.
Of course you craved to win it, child-like pout or no. And it wasn’t your fault, not when your whole life had been geared to do exactly this: prestige racing.
Nobody got to compete at the top rung of Formula One without being groomed to survive breakneck speeds and intense lateral forces—the g-force of a simple corner alone could probably dislocate your internal organs if your seat wasn’t secured right. Training wasn’t just requirement, it was survival. That Red Bull driver leading the pack, three positions ahead of you? He raced Albert Park Circuit before getting his license for regular driving.
What got Clark on board was that plain-faced, almost naive ambition of yours.
The grin he’d internally labeled shit-eating was the very same that stoked a fire in him when you first met—a meeting meant for negotiations, except he’d made his mind up almost as soon as the words left your mouth.
“Been a long time since a woman won any Grand Prix,” you’d smiled wide: a sunny curve of your lips that had carved itself into his mind ever since, “Are you gonna help me change that, Kent?”
One deafening zip, then another; Clark snapped out of his visit down Sector Memory.
A quick glance at the screen showed two more cars ahead, overtaking yours at the late apex.
Aside from racetrack blares, the cockpit was as quiet as the control room—a grace you didn’t usually grant him, because you preferred to abuse the comms, complaining about the rear wing or asking if your second driver was that far behind.
This could only mean one thing.
You were thinking. Undoubtedly about a risky move.
Again, he could tell, even with just your helmet vizor in view.
“You’ll get them at Turn 15. Just hold for now,” he spoke preemptively, stern through the static.
“…Nah-uh.”
There it was—that sing-song way you hummed. A sane person would never sound like that, not when they’re reclined in a death machine going 200 mph.
“I see a window.”
Clark felt his temper rise.
“Hold. It’s too risky,” he hissed. The upcoming turn you talked about saw a top driver collide in a race just last season—a simple brush of wheels that ended with his car barrelling violently into a wall.
Copse Corner, it was called. One letter away from being Corpse Corner. The thought was followed by a bone chill.
“Worth a shot,” you replied. Light. Like you were branching out of your usual coffee order.
Clark dragged a hand down his bespectacled face, watching your dash cam. The response wasn’t unexpected, but good Lord, you were taking position and giving him a heart attack in the same breath.
Another warning in the shape of your name. “I’m telling you—”
You didn’t let him finish.
“High risk, high reward, baby.”
Steering wheel turned to the right just a touch. The front wing tilted slightly in response.
…Just enough to bump into Car Number 5’s rear, sparks flying from the friction.
Nothing happened.
Except physics kicked in half a second later: velocity and weight working with the impact and against you, sending your car and Number 5 out of balance. Number 5 skittered but eventually retained course, no doubt cursing your existence in the radio.
Meanwhile, your back wheels spun, skidding loudly in full-bodied circles as centrifugal force overwhelmed you, tail-spinning your car to a bumpy stop off-track before any real seconds could tick by.
Time seemed to stop. Smoke rose at the tragic ending. A convoy of cars that was once behind you flit noisily past.
Someone on comms muttered a dejected expletive. A junior engineer held his breath, eyes pinned on the screen.
Clark took off his headset.
His fingers were already pinching the bridge of his nose when laughter echoed within the room: melodious, entertained, and fully female.
Yours.
You stepped out of the boxy machine that was the simulator, rolling your shoulders front and back after taking off your helmet, hair tumbling out behind you. Why they’d make you wear one in a simulated session, who knows—maybe to get you to take it seriously, which was obviously not what happened.
The rest of the team who sat around the long table—data analysts and race engineers—rushed to consolidate timing sheets and dissect deltas. These number crunchers had grown accustomed to what came next: the death machine operator and the air traffic controller who worked to postpone her suicide attempts were going to get into an argument. Again.
This was Team Orbital’s version of reality TV. Today’s episode: Angry or Horny? Part 18.
“I told you to hold,” Clark Kent marched towards you, nearly seething. Your twinkling eyes gathered his jaw and neck as you leaned against the back of the machine—funny how he was more tense in those places than you were after laps and laps of your session.
A vein, you thought to yourself, tracing the faint shape of it on the side of his throat. Hot.
Your delightful smile was the complete opposite of his storm cloud.
“I saw an opportunity.”
“It could’ve gotten you killed,” he clipped.
“Relax, Clark, it’s just a sim,” you picked on a blunt nail, not even meeting his eyes.
“A sim designed for you to practice! Not, not—” he huffed, hands gesturing in a poor attempt to express himself, until he settled on, “you can’t keep fooling around like this.”
“You know I very well can. I’ve done this, like, almost twenty times. Got your orders down pat.”
He shot you a look that said oh really?
You launched into a spiel.
“At lap start, speed up till eighth gear flat out through Turn 1 and 2. Brake hard into 3, get back to entry point for the left in 4—”
Under different circumstances, he’d be more impressed of the ease with which you correctly rambled on, but frustration won the fight to pilot his mouth.
“And yet you still don’t listen when I tell you to hold.”
Your eyes snapped back to his and he got to witness it right then and there: the change in your face that he’d learned to read without looking. Most of the time, he watched you through cockpit cameras trained on a shaded vizor.
Maybe that was why being face-to-face with you never stopped feeling like a confrontation—as if whatever he could see was dialed up to a hundred.
For example, this look you were giving him: intense enough to be normal, but sultry in a way that invited heat to crawl up his neck.
“That’s because look really good when you’re mad,” you cooed.
That voice. Of course you had to use that voice on him. If making eye contact with you turned him into stone (Medusa would like a word), hearing you speak melted him right back.
He looked away, fixing his glasses: the one thing he could do to hope that you wouldn’t notice his blush.
You threw your head back into an earnest laugh. Not at him—or maybe it was? He wasn’t sure. He felt silly. Awkward pre-teen puberty silly. Didn’t matter that this wasn’t the first time you’d teased him.
“One more run, then you better not crash when we practice for real,” he murmured. The flight to Heathrow was less than 24 hours away, and he’d bet you hadn’t even packed.
You crossed your arms, looking like you had all the time in the world to torment him.
“You don’t trust your driver, Kent?”
“I usually do, but most of the time, they aren’t as crazy as you.” Not as beautiful, either.
“I’m not crazy,” you hummed, “I just want to win.”
And that was the truth behind all truths, written dead-center in your eyes. That was the flame that drew him in like a moth. Ambition. The one that he’d heard others describe as ‘terrifying’. And they weren’t wrong, but nobody wanted to admit how alluring it was. Clark would be the first to testify: because it was your sheer determination that convinced him to join Team Orbital until the end of this season.
That confidence—and the pretty smile that wrapped around it—was this flying man’s downfall.
It was the preferred accommodation for those participating in the GP: four stars and many floors of buzzing chaos, just days before the race. Every elevator was swarming with people wearing uniforms and checkered lanyards. The breakfast buffet saw constant streams of execs, all men, their shirts unbuttoned way past propriety. Whenever the hotel staff smiled, it was in a stiff way that told you they were bracing themselves for impact or already going through the worst mid-shift turbulence of their lives.
Smart team managers would have booked out rooms in advance. Team Orbital was one such prepared customer, with the entire twentieth floor reserved for their highest profiles.
Clark’s luck—or lack thereof—might be inversely proportional to the blessings of his superpowers, or so he’d like to believe.
Otherwise, he’d have no logical explanation as to why your room was next to his.
The weather throughout the week was a beautiful, clear blue. Pretty much miraculous by Great Britain standards. It seemed the unexpected sunshine gave everyone an extra shot of dopamine except for the metahuman that literally regenerated under it: Clark walked around like the dark beginnings of a minor twister.
His upset wasn’t because of your constant daredevilry behind the wheel.
As a matter of fact, you’d been a good driver. A great one, even. You were obedient and kept to the playbook he talked you through the headset—even the back-up ones he prepared like a paranoid Marvel scriptwriter.
Which left him with nothing to blame his gloominess on…
…other than the true reason. One he wasn’t ready to admit.
He was upset because you were flirting. With every. Man. Alive.
Exchanging too-friendly small talk with a blonde at the lobby whom he was certain you’d only met once. Smiling at suit-donning silver foxes by the circuit. Who were they, anyway? Rich people spectating, or FIA directors?
But the most displeasure Clark experienced was when you bantered with your second driver.
James Barnes. More boy than man. Just joined Team Orbital at the tail end of last season to fill up an empty seat. He was of legal drinking age despite his pretty face, with an eye color not so dissimilar to Clark’s, except they didn’t have a hard time looking directly at you.
“Don’t do anything stupid, James,” you unzipped your suit, revealing a white tank top underneath (did you have to do that in front of everyone?), “or Mr. Kent is going to be upset with us.”
James was clipping on his helmet for his turn on the track, but it didn’t hide his handsome smirk. His eyes flickered down to your lips for a very obvious second. Clark wished he didn’t catch that.
“With me, he will,” James stretched a gloved hand, “but how could he ever be mad at a pretty thing like you?”
You chuckled, undeterred by the blatant advances of a junior: “Are you flirting with me so I’d let you win?”
“I’m flirting with you because you’d make it harder.”
—for him to win the race, that was what James meant, but the wording was far too suggestive to be dismissed.
Clark hated that he could hear you from this distance between the back of the garage to trackside. No, he wasn’t tuning in like you were the radio; his range was just that far, promise. But the exchange spiked his blood pressure enough to fake a trip to the bathroom. He quietly murmured his exit to the rest of the team.
Why can’t you be as smooth on the circuit as you are with double entendres, James?! he wanted to yell, almost stomping to the stalls.
“Get a grip, Kent,” Clark said to his own reflection instead, ignoring the confused stare of some guy two steps down the sink next to him.
James’s room was all the way at the other end of the floor. God bless whoever was in charge of hotel arrangements—for putting that man far away, of course. Not necessarily for making Clark your neighbor.
Because even lingering at the outer fringes of your existence was torturous enough for the so-called Man of Steel.
Staying next to your room meant he had to endure an extra five minutes of being with you outside of what his job entailed, multiple times almost every single day: walking out the same gym, taking the same elevator, bee-lining down the same damn hallway until you stopped in front of the door next to his.
Five minutes.
Long enough for you to know he was painfully aware of you. Long enough for him to take you in.
To survey your curves the way he would a racecar’s—claiming it was for study, when really it was admiration. To assess the correlation between that last km on the treadmill with the color on your cheeks—the harder you trained, the lovelier the shade. To flag an errant bead of sweat, outlier to the common pattern—rather than evaporating into something he could inhale, it traced down your bare arm instead.
And yes, while you undoubtedly had some idea of the effect you had on him, there was no way you knew the extent of it.
No way for you to know he had your scent stored in a memory olfactory, labeled The most infuriating person in the world. Couldn’t tell he counted your heartbeat during fitness testing, just in case you pushed too hard. Clueless as to how he stared at you when you were turned away, as if waiting for your eyes to meet—only to avert his gaze when they did.
Lord and Savior, help him. He was a goner. When did he become a goner?
He remembered Night One at the Hilton. The elevator was going up, people filtering out until it’d been the two of you left. You’d been humming some pop song he’d only ever heard on the radio. Stepping out the box were two matching strides: same destination, diverging mindsets.
You’d messed with him then. You always did.
“Why, Clark. Are you following to my room?”
“Mine’s next to yours.”
“Too bad. Kinda wished you were.”
That wasn’t when he fell. He’d already been ensnared long before.
It didn’t help that, on top of your talent in driving (him insane), you were blessed with a creative mind. You never failed to come up with a new remark in the two-second window before keycards were swiped.
“I’m so sticky,” you sighed.
He swiped his first. Beep.
“Take a shower, then.”
“Join me? Save water and all.”
Halfway through the door, he muttered a ‘no, thank you’.
Clark caught your shrug in his periphery.
“Worth a shot.”
Then his door closed a little loud, mimicking the hammering of his heart. He heard you enter your room right after.
Before his treacherous brain could imagine you sauntering barefoot to the bathroom, gym clothes discarded, he raced to recalculate deviations on his laptop—as if he didn’t get them right the first time around.
·—̳͟͞͞ ☆
The straw that broke Superman’s broad back landed on the night before the race.
Clark should be asleep, but every time he closed his eyes, calculations ran paranoid behind his eyelids like The Matrix. Whenever he took one step closer towards slumber, he was dragged three steps back to his laptop.
He was in the middle of looking through the same vector for the nth time when some noise occurred outside.
Rustling. It reminded him of his childhood cat, who—aside from killing all the mice like the good girl she was—had a habit of rummaging for extra food in the pantry.
Greedy.
He opened the door to check, even if he didn’t need to. He’d recognize that heartbeat anywhere.
You were in the hallway, going through the abyss of your purse in search for what he assumed to be your keycard. High-heeled, skin generously bared until the hem of your short dress, hair tastefully mussed in a way that suggested a fun night out. The outfit and your make-up glittered in the dim light, shining like a trophy.
Had you been out drinking?
“No, I just danced,” you drawled, finally producing the keycard from your purse.
He didn’t realize he asked out loud.
But Clark being Clark, he knew better—the faint smell of alcohol wasn’t wafting off your dress.
At the stern look he gave you, you placed a hand on your hip, sighing.
“Fine. I only had one watered-down drink.”
He ran a disappointed hand down his face, caring little about leaving fingerprints on his glasses.
“You can’t be serious,” he breathed, “The race is tomorrow and we need you in top shape!”
“Tell me this isn’t top shape.” You had the gall to give him a twirl, the hem of your dress lifting slightly. To your credit, you didn’t stumble on those heels.
And you looked great. Top shape, indeed.
You smiled at him. “I’ll be fine. Race doesn’t start till after noon.”
He crossed his arms like they covered the soft spots he had for you, and boy did he have many. The upset melted away too fast to his liking.
You didn’t need to know.
“I’m gonna put you in the G-force machine first thing tomorrow,” he said, trying to sound more severe than sleep-deprived.
“We don’t have one here, silly,” you smirked, “Unless that’s a euphemism for—”
Red crawled up his cheeks. “Quit it.”
Then he caught it.
Your eyes were tracing down his body that filled up the doorway, languid and slow, just like how his eyes wished they could trace down yours. The smirk on your face broke into a grin.
You pointed at his shirt.
“You’re such a nerd.”
His Star Wars: A New Hope T-shirt stared back at you.
Clark should get an award for not falling for the ‘rage’ part of ‘ragebait’. The fact of the matter was that he was already falling in another entirely different context.
He pretended not to see you appreciating his gray sweatpants.
“You need a nerd to win the Grand Prix,” he righted his glasses. “Now, bed. Please. Tell me you actually know how to go to sleep.”
“I know how to make you not want to go to sleep,” you purred.
He sighed your name. “Get some rest.”
You gave him a mock-salute. “Roger, roger.”
Then you swiped your keycard and disappeared into your room.
Clark’s brows furrowed.
Was that a Star Wars reference you just flung at him?
II. ACCELERATION
The circuit was a living organism.
Grey asphalt sprawled under unusually blue skies, its old veins forming deadly patterns. You and 23 other drivers were its lifeblood, rushing in pulses of red-hot engines and tires that unspooled like thread. Bodies melded into four wheeled-bullets as they shot down corners in supersonic speeds. The air reeked of fuel fumes and burning rubber. Every light brush into heavy impact formed a supernova: disasters so spectacular it was impossible to look away. At the heart of the chase was a need to seize first place in one of the world’s most prestigious Grands Prix.
This was the anatomy of peak human performance.
Still, some people couldn’t help wanting to break the limit.
You were one such person. Right now. In lap 51 out of 52.
“I’m pushing.”
Your car was in second place, a steady shadow behind the irritating backside of a Red Bull. Clark figured anyone who looked at that bright crimson long enough would be inclined to start a fight (who was the Bull now?). Heck, it pissed him off, knowing a sloppy machine like that was in pole position.
To say the formation was packed was an understatement. The top five cars, yours included, looked like they were being pulled on a single invisible string: a choreography followed so precisely that the distance between rear and front seemed no more than a strand of hair.
There was no room for error. No room for anything at all.
From Clark’s point of view (views, considering he had about five up on screen) in the pit wall, you were landlocked.
Fall in line, and you’d end up on the podium—just not the spot you wanted. Move, and you’d be rewarded with broken bones—or worse.
The rock was assumed mediocrity. The hard place was death.
“Clark, I’m pushing.”
“I’m not comfortable with that suggestion,” Clark replied into the headset mic. Words that massively downplayed the wreck in his chest.
The pit wall was divided. Seven critical team personnel, no opinions shared out loud—but Clark saw the unseen statistics.
Out of all of them, half quite literally sagged: the last two laps were as critical as the first two, yet their body language screamed acceptance before you crossed the finish line. Second wasn’t bad. What was wrong about placing second when the alternative could end your career? their resigned faces seemed to say.
The other half were implosions contained beneath Team Orbital uniforms: hearts pumped in a pattern that reminded him of hostage situations, the rush of blood apparent in clenched fists and locked jaws. These were the people begging for a Hail Mary—a small chance to be written into legends. Crashing was mere occupational hazard. A respectful sacrifice for the greater reward.
Clark himself was on the fence.
Clearly, you were not.
“Come on,” you gritted, voice slightly shaky from the engine rattle, “I just need to overtake one car.”
He glanced at the live feed of data. It wasn’t where the solution lived, but seeing your car’s vitals in the green offered a glimpse of relief.
“Negative. Hold. It’s too dangerous.” His voice was steady in contrast, but behind cold articulation was real fear.
“Please,” for once, you sounded like you were actually begging, “if I don’t do this, I’m stuck here!”
“I know, but crashing earns you no points, and if you gamble right now, you just might crash,” he replied.
But between you, him, and everyone else tapped into the public line, the message was clear: this was no longer about points.
This was about you.
“Fuck,” you swore. “Come on. Plan S on Turn 9. I can do it.”
“That’s a 90-degree turn!”
You laughed, crackly through the comms. Not quite as confident as you usually were, but the sound escaped anyway, light above the shrill howl of your car.
“High risk, high reward.”
This was it, he thought.
The thing that kept you apart, yet inseparable. A taut force of nature, greater than attraction and repulsion combined: you pull him one way, he resists to the other, but the center of gravity rests in one formula that trammeled two variables together.
The friction was in his deep care for life against your absolute disregard for your own. The tide was how the two of you were prepared to die.
He’d think you were insane, risking life and limb for the game, but who was he kidding? He would do the same for a squirrel. Actually, he already did exactly that for a squirrel.
And yet there was insurmountable bravery in you: because you weren’t invulnerable like he was.
Because if you crashed, you might actually—
“One date.”
The static from the radio rang loud, temporarily halting the rest of that dark though.
“…What?” his brows knitted.
“If I win, let me take you out on a date. Just one.”
In your voice was teasing, but also a hint of sincerity—and somehow, that was enough for Clark. The circuit’s controlled chaos became his own: his breath hitched the way overworked gears did, a flush washing over him like heat-soaked tarmac.
The convoy finally passed five lights marking the line. On the commercial feed, Clark heard the announcer’s excited exclamations.
Lap 52. The last one.
Your car was hunting Red Bull’s, blue metal bodywork beginning to inch out of formation. You no longer shadowed. You stalked.
“C’mon, Kent,” you goaded. “Dinner. Drinks optional. Or is that too much for you?”
Turn 1 passed with Red Bull cognizant of your maneuver, and with an angled adjustment, the window to overtake closed. You fell back in line. The pit wall groaned collectively.
“Answer her!” the Sporting Director barked from the furthest end of the seven-seater—Perry White’s blood pressure must be unhealthily high right now, but who was Clark to talk? His heart was pumping just as fast.
“Say something,” That was Lang, Head of Track Ops seated to his right.
“Say what?”
“Anything,” she hissed, “Just banter, at least it’s good for publicity. God knows you both already do it all the time.”
The already burning track felt even warmer, but his fingertips on the console grew cold.
Sure. Publicity. Maybe that was why you were saying these things to him—for something people would talk about long after the smoke cleared and the track cooled. Something you could blame on the heat of the moment.
All in all, it was a bad hand in a worse gamble: you ruled as queen of diamonds to his jack-of-all-trades, and the chips could very well fall off the edge of an already precarious relationship. To bet on this would be a tactical failure.
Or would it? Your voice sounded different. Deliberate.
He did it anyway—a part of him wanted to try.
Better to suffer a hurt the sun couldn’t heal rather than live the rest of his life wondering what if.
“Dinner and drinks,” he finally said into your ear, “but I call the shots on what happens after.”
The pit wall team reacted physically: hands ran through hairs, fists clenched as though vindicated in the belief that Chief Race Engineer Clark Kent could rizz you back if he so wished. Meanwhile, Clark tried to forget the fact that the radio line was extremely public. Somewhere in the world, a stream devotee probably sat up straight at this exchange.
You laughed like g-force wasn’t rattling your brain. Or maybe you laughed because it was.
“Knowing you, it’s just ice cream and a kiss goodnight.”
“Were you hoping for something else?”
“Do you have any other suggestions?”
Your dash cam showed that tilt again, the knife-edge balance before the pounce—a maneuver designed to push both your car and Clark’s restraint to their limits. The announcer went wild at your obvious attempt to overtake despite the tight line forming behind the pole position. Clark’s body reacted.
Where the words came from, he didn’t know. At least that was what he’d admit: because in truth, he’d found himself saying them before.
In fantasy, and only in fantasy.
Until now.
Realistically, he’d prefer taking you out for three dates minimum before even considering that. But now was his only chance, and Turn 9 was fast approaching.
“I could teach you how to behave, for once,” he rumbled into the mic.
Someone to his right coughed.
All radio messages were recorded. Somehow, that wasn’t the worst part.
The worst part was him feeling like this could never be real.
That whatever you saw in him would fade after this, the sparks traded in with large, victorious fireworks. That after the press conferences, after the debriefs, you’d say I was joking or something even more cruel, like how you’d been building towards this all season, and how you were sorry he misunderstood.
Because you loved the game, and you loved winning it even more.
But Clark wanted to help you regardless: not because of the prestige he’d earn, but because he cared for you.
And so he’d do it. Anything. Analyze the calibrations of your car every day. Take your jabs. Watch you flirt. Flirt back at you on radio.
He just wished you knew it was real.
“Deal,” you smiled—again, he didn’t have to see your face to tell, “I’m pushing.”
“Wait, now?” he stammered out of his reverie, “You’re not in position!”
“Then position me, Kent!” you yelled back. The live speedometer told him you were leashing the car at a steady 256 kmph, sitting in Red Bull’s dirty air. “It’s your goddamn job!”
Next to him, other engineers and operators chimed in with reports like they didn’t hear anything inappropriate.
“Deltas optimal. No deviations.”
“Thermals within limit. Confirm to proceed.”
Understanding washed over him right then and there: this was the cusp of everything you’ve worked for. Winning even one race was considered a major achievement, not to mention Silverstone, where this all began. What right did he have to hold you back from this? Everything counted on this final maneuver, and he wasn’t about to tell you to jam the brakes.
He breathed, the exhale slightly shaky. So that’s settled, then.
If you crashed, he’d fly right off to you, secret identity be damned.
He’d do anything to keep you alive.
“High risk, high reward.” Your voice softened.
Are you scared? he wondered. It’s alright. I’m here.
Then came his steady reply.
“On my count.”
“Roger, roger.”
He pictured your mock-salute. The space between his ribs ached.
“Target 300 on dash, then early apex. Plan S on three.”
“Ferrari’s on her tail,” Track Ops warned. Like Clark didn’t see the prowl happening behind you.
“Let him tail! Count!”
“One.”
Eyes trained on the live telemetry of your car. The dial turned up gradually. 298, 299, 300 kmph.
“Two. Keep it tight.”
You did. Wheels nearly touched on both front and rear, he swore he heard the safety car sirens in the distance.
Clark’s fist clenched. Red Bull was in the way, stubbornly blocking your path, but the early apex should negate that.
“Wait for it.”
Just before the 90-degree corner, there it was. A sliver.
“Three. Now!”
You pushed. It wasn’t dramatic—the steering wheel tilted only a fraction of its actual angle, but the acceleration roared alive as you hit top speed on the bend, sparks and smoke flying off the tarmac as you broke free from the locked line, turning earlier. The formation behind you scattered, every driver finding different apexes in the corner.
“Come on!” Perry yelled.
Orbital Blue saddled Car Number 1 now, side by side, before the rush of clean air carried you forward in an aerodynamic push.
Now it was Red Bull who ate your fumes.
The commercial feed blasted alive with the announcer’s enthusiasm. “—Team Orbital comes out of the slipstream! She’s leading!”
The pit wall burst into cheers, but there were still nine more turns until the end. Relief was temporary, fading into baseline tension as you continued to give the other racers a hard time cutting. Clark was with you all the way, talking into the mic.
“Back to Mode 10. You did good.”
“I know,” you laughed back.
“You’re 0.9 seconds ahead,” he read off a graph, trying his best not to smile, but the curve on his lips were widening like the distance between you and the car behind.
You cleared the next turns with a tailwind boon. What came last was the final sector: easy without a Bull blocking your way.
“She’s gonna do it,” Perry hollered, anxiously standing up.
A slashing blur on the track past checkered flags waved in the air, and history was made. The other cars followed too far behind you to matter. Team Orbital’s pit wall erupted in another bout of celebratory hoots twice the volume, while Clark sagged against his chair, breathing once again. His tired eyes watched the screen as the announcer went wild.
“—Team Orbital, winner of this year’s British Grand Prix, passing Red Bull in the final lap! What a moment, ladies and gents—”
There was so much noise in and around his periphery. The crowd in the stands cheered as the last cars flit past. Your second driver James finished at P10 out of 24, earning a point. At least he wasn’t a complete embarrassment.
Just as Clark was about to take off his headset, you spoke into it, playful amidst your victory lap.
“So, about that date…”
III. GRAVITY
The moment you stepped out of your car, there was no moment of calm. It was the storm after the storm.
Cameras flashed, crowds cheered, and you were swept away from one interview to another: trackside, podium, press conference—relentless clamors and sponsored backdrops blurred into something that felt like one long fever dream. Through it all, chaos was the only constant.
The only other constant? The media teasing you about the very public way you asked Clark Kent out on a date.
Every microphone pointed at you seemed to have a spicy question on the other end. How you managed to handle them all after an activity as grueling as professional motorsport racing, you had no clue.
So where are you two going to have dinner?
“I haven’t had the time to look up places. Do you have any recommendations?”
I’m asking for the sake of your fans—are you going on a real date with Mr. Kent?
“If he’ll have me,” punctuated with a light shrug.
How long has this been happening, you and Clark?
“I’m not sure what you mean. Nothing has happened yet, but I’m hoping that tomorrow night, something will.”
The room chuckled good-naturedly, like responding to a joke at a party.
Meanwhile, your answers were all heart-crossed truths.
When you checked your phone in-between being escorted to yet another crowded room, you realized how quickly the internet had picked up the news. Headlines poked fun at your romance-fueled win, some cynically calling it out as a cheap tactic to stir sensation. Instagram was busy speculating your and Clark’s ship name. There were TikToks captioned ‘pov you just asked your chief engineer out mid-race’—that audio, clipped from public comms, was already trending.
You couldn’t blame them. Clark’s voice was smooth and deep even through radio static.
Were you hoping for something else?
I could teach you how to behave, for once.
The volume on your phone was loud enough for your PR manager to cough awkwardly as you walked down the hallway with the rest of the suits, caught off-guard. The suggestive words kept looping.
You locked your phone and bit the inside of your cheek in expectant curiosity.
Was he for real when he said that?
As much as you’d like to confirm with the man himself, the only time you’d been able to catch a glimpse of him was during the debrief. Before the flurry of interviews.
Everyone important had been there: pit wall crew, execs, Marketing, you name it. Clark had dressed down from the official tracksuit to a navy blue Team Orbital T-shirt, its logo stretched deliciously tight across his chest. You found it funny how nobody had addressed the elephant in the room. Perry was all congratulations and rousing speeches, and then Clark himself hyper-focused on data, data, data—but you hadn’t missed the Ferrari red dusting his cheeks, nor his white-knuckled grip around a poor remote control.
That same grip wrapped a cold glass of something during the afterparty, when you finally walked up to him.
To your surprise, he didn’t shy away.
“Any cravings?” you asked from behind the rim of your drink.
“You’re serious?”
He asked so earnestly, your ribcage didn’t have a choice but to ache.
“Mm-hmm.”
Deciding it was too loud, he leaned down to reply above the thrumming bass that masked your heart’s own.
“There’s this place I think you’d like,” his baritone brushed the shell of your ear.
You swallowed, nodding, but your mind pulled you back to the champagne popping earlier that day—and how the violent gush of it looked like a poorly-disguised innuendo.
“Let’s go tomorrow night,” you said back.
Then the party ripped the two of you apart with a tide.
The other drivers had found you, arms flung across your shoulders in boisterous praise while precariously-balanced drinks threatened to spill all over the club floor. Meanwhile, Clark was rushed by one Jimmy Olsen from Marketing and a whole lot of women, their siren-like eyes roaming down Clark’s body as if surprised they hadn’t noticed this man before.
You tried to ignore the rise of jealousy in you, and instead focus on James Barnes’s smirk as you downed a drink together, arms locked, men around you chanting to chug, chug, chug!
There was no time nor space to notice Clark’s gaze on you for the rest of the night.
·—̳͟͞͞ ☆
The next day rolled around, and you were surprised that Clark held up his end of the deal.
Clark Kent: Good morning. I hope you’re not too hung over. Do you need some Advil?
A gap in-between texts, sent too early for you to have been conscious—like he’d realized you were probably still asleep.
Clark Kent: I’ll come pick you up at 7 for dinner
You bit back a smile past your headache. Pick you up? The man was literally in the next room.
You: see you at 7
You: what should i wear?
A moment later:
Clark Kent: Whatever you want. I’m sure you’ll look beautiful
The way your heart leapt out of your chest was almost violent. When had you last felt so over the moon over something so simple? You chose your outfit with revenge in mind: hem just short enough to show off skin, cute heeled shoes, and an even cuter matching set hidden from view—which, if the steering wheel took you there, would be not-so-hidden at the end of the night.
There was no way for you to hear his heartbeat, but the look on his face when you opened the door at seven said enough.
“I was right,” he exhaled after looking at you from head to toe.
“I hate to say it, but you often are,” you smiled, a thin disguise for your cluttered nerves.
“You look… really good.”
Bless him for finding the strength to breathe that out, the syllables almost shaky.
Calling him handsome would be a disservice. He looked mouthwatering in that crisp shirt and slacks, the sleeves of the former rolled up revealing forearms, enough to be distracting.
You were merely a woman.
“So do you, Clark,” you managed.
·—̳͟͞͞ ☆
Here you were, four hours into one of the best nights you’ve ever had in your life.
Dinner had been spectacular. To fulfill the prophecy, you got ice cream afterwards before wandering the city, laughing because neither of you could stop making jokes out of your jobs. How could you take the words ‘cockpit’ and ‘wet conditions’ in the same sentence seriously?
And maybe it had been the starry sky or the way you’d dressed differently for the occasion, but for the first time in a long time, both you and Clark existed without arguing—an ease so rare, it should be savored to the very last second.
The season wasn’t over yet.
In two weeks, you’d loop back into the same routine: he’d tell you to stick to your marks like a disappointed parent, and you’d push his buttons in return.
Something shifted when you passed the threshold to the hotel lobby. You thought it was some kind of letdown: a normal reaction for a good time that was about to end.
But as the elevator door closed with just the two of you inside, it felt like moments before you were sealed in the cockpit of your racecar—alone with nothing but compressed air. The charge in the atmosphere made itself clear.
It was anticipation.
The same one that tainted every elevator ride you shared with him before the Silverstone race. Before any race—or even longer than that. You recognized its taste, sharper on your tongue this time, making you tingle with awareness at the gap between his hand and yours.
There was a ding and you nearly jumped under your own skin.
You drowned in the same silence. Stopped at the same floor, walked down the same hallway, ignoring the same electric buzz of bodies: except this time, its crackle reminded you of an overheated engine. One that bristled for attention after being left to run for too long.
One that swore vengeance to detonate.
And yet he pushed it to its limits—and you—by not saying anything, wordless even as you reached your door.
You looked over at him.
He was already looking at you, blue eyes polluted with a darkness you weren’t accustomed to seeing.
He looked intoxicated. You knew he was anything but.
Those eyes bored into you as if they were betting for you to break the silence. As if he was saying show your hand, or I’m not playing.
Passivity wasn’t something you’d normally tolerate in a man, but your bones were telling you he wasn’t just compliant. Something in that look clearly showed he didn’t need encouragement. No, not an inch of the six-something-feet of him needed to be encouraged—you could tell by the slight coil in his forearms, the tightness in his jaw.
What he needed was permission.
Of course, you thought. That was the kind of man Clark was.
A good one.
So you gave it to him.
“Aren’t you going to give me a kiss goodnight?” you breathed, eyes studying his face.
He moved in front of you and you almost thought he was going to. Give you a goodnight kiss, that is: the kind that was sweet as the ice cream you had, light with plenty of room for more. The kind that wouldn’t leave a mark when you flew back to HQ, after which he’d be Clark Kent, Chief Engineer again—and not the Clark Kent you went on a date with, who opened doors for you, who cared about you more than anybody in the team ever did.
But then his hand was on your waist.
Shoes brushed yours as he pressed you gently against your room door. His height cast a shadow over you.
His face leaned down, hovering over yours. You could almost taste him when lips inched closer onto your own parted ones, but nothing came.
No kiss. Just him breathing your air, the slant on his face tentative.
The blue in his eyes were nearly gone, swallowed by dilating pupils. You almost gasped.
There he was, not even an inch away, suspended like he was grappled by some unseen wire only you could release him from.
You could almost see him think. This was a good man who feared he might be doing something wrong.
Because like you, he wasn’t just thinking about a kiss.
…But unlike him, you were quite sure this was right.
“I don’t think I can stop,” he whispered, “once I—”
The words floated in the air, lost. You used yours to help him.
“I don’t want you to.”
He swallowed, the bob in his throat clear as a green light go.
“But I don’t just want you once,” the rasp scraped against your lips, desperate, “not just tonight.”
You looked into his eyes, wondering if yours appeared just as hazy. You nodded.
“Me neither.”
But then he pulled back slightly and you felt cold. He licked his lips. Looked down on the carpeted floor:
“I should probably… take you out to another dinner before we—”
Your hand flew to his jaw, bringing him back to that heady closeness, this time separated by even less of a distance. His sentence devolved into heat, breath fanning your mouth, a sigh escaping him as you slithered your hands up his chest, then neck.
“Plenty of time for that later, Clark,” you whispered sultrily, glad to play the part of a serpent to his Eden, “but for now… we’re just—doing things in a different order, ‘mkay?”
That loose justification almost worked, except he still had something to say. His voice shook slightly—from desire or embarrassment or both, you couldn’t decide—yet the hands on your waist were steady.
“You… really want to go out with me?”
You chuckled.
“I was the one who asked you out in the middle of race, silly.” Fingers snaked back down to his chest—oh, his heart was beating so fast, you could feel it. “Yes, Clark, I’d love to.”
His next words were uncertain. “I thought that you—that it might’ve been for publicity.”
You hummed, toying with the second button of his white shirt.
“Rage-baiting you in simulator sessions doesn’t do anything for publicity,” you murmured, eyes low on his broad chest, “Neither does offering to share a shower with you—and I’ve asked you so many times…”
The groan he let out rumbled underneath your hands first before you heard it. Warm palms crawled up your sides, stroking your curves until one of them cupped the side of your face, directing you to look at him.
His blue eyes on you rushed a split-second moment of emotional sobriety amid the physical intoxication. It sank in slow, like a quicksand swallowed it, powerful as the force that kept you orbiting around each other.
This was really happening.
“Kiss me already,” you breathed.
When he did, it wasn’t urgent—not yet. The tilt of his face was patient, the brush of his lips tentative. But once they pressed into yours, he leaned forward like an unyielding force. Your back was flush against cool, painted wood, making you shiver.
The slight part of your lips wasn’t enough to tempt him. His patience was otherworldly, movements unhurried.
Like he was trying to make this last.
You’d never been good at discipline. Lips kissed his: once, twice, thrice, as though trying to coax him out of his impervious temperance. It didn’t work. Not when his hand caged your jaw, subjecting your motion to stillness under his pace.
“Open the door,” he husked.
He sounded impatient then, except he didn’t stop kissing you. Your fingers blindly dug into your purse, scrambling for that thin card. A relieved sigh escaped you when you found it—the beep it emitted yielding the knob of the door when he twisted it. You nearly stumbled inside, if not for his hand on your back.
Then you were pressed against the door again, this time on the other side, and he was all over you.
Clark kissed and kissed and kissed until you were sure you couldn’t breathe. Whenever you tried to, his mouth covered yours. You were dizzy within seconds—it terrified you a little, considering how even ge-forces didn’t affect you much—but the sensation made you melt against him even more.
Hands grasped at his biceps. His chest met yours.
A palm cupped your hip and your toes left the floor.
You should be surprised at how easily he picked you up. His lips distracted you.
“Clark—”
“You drive me insane,” he mouthed into your neck, teeth light as they scraped your skin. Your breath hitched.
“It was the only way to get your attention,” you answered weakly.
He looked up at you, glasses slightly askew. If you’d been a little bit more lucid, you’d have sensed the offense hidden in his gaze—the gaze that never took itself off of you in the name of doing his job, or a secret reason you were about to discover.
“You always had it.”
His reply made you kiss him the way you wanted to—hard, eager.
A weight landed heavy on your stomach.
He wasn’t reciprocating.
In fact, he moved even slower, if that was possible.
You whined, hands pawing at the front of his shirt, wordlessly asking for more. Apparently he’d reverted back to your dear Chief Engineer, because this Clark Kent didn’t bend at your whims.
No. He stood tall, a rock wall in front of you, hand on your jaw letting him kiss you slow, the other steadying your hip despite your heeled legs already hooking on his lower back. The press of his weight kept you at bay the softest way a man could: you were left stewing in your own need.
In return, he took what he wanted, how he wanted.
When his tongue finally slipped into your mouth, you moaned.
Hands began to clutch at his shoulders. A soft mewl escaped you. He huffed, trading breaths with yours, the fingers on your face coaxing your jaw to open more than you already did.
“Always gotta be the bigger person with you,” he grunted into the kiss while big hands roamed—one to your chest, the other up the hem of your dress, “You don’t think I want you just as bad?”
“Then why won’t you—ah—” you gasped, feeling him knead, “—hurry up?”
The answer was plain. Where you thrived in the rush of blood, he was the one who pulled you back. Leashed you to commands designed for your own good. His commands. Breathe and think, he’d once said during a stressful lap.
Funny how you could do neither under his touch.
“So I can savor this…”
His answer was flint on gravel, low and rough while fingers traveled on your body with restrained want. You were left tilting your head back against the door, trembling at the words he fed directly into your ear.
“…Savor you.”
“Clark, please,” you exhaled into the air. He stole it with a kiss.
Its sweetness pained you. He parted before you could deepen it.
“No. Need to teach you a lesson.”
Cool air rushed as he pulled the zipper of your dress down. Your chest heaved, nipples pebbling as the fabric slowly came loose—not quite off, but certainly not on, either.
He stood close enough for your noses to brush.
“I told you, remember?” he said, “You need to learn how to behave.”
You did remember. How could you not? Even if you deleted it from your memory, which you wouldn’t ever want to, the words were recorded in official F1 radio history.
For one second, you wondered if this was what it meant to poke the bear. Where was the mask of clumsy stoicism he wore while he did his job; the lovely flush of his cheeks when you purred a reply loaded with double meaning? He was pink now, yes, but there was no sign of the meekness that usually came with the color.
Then he moved, and you found yourself hanging on to him.
Footsteps carried you to the ensuite. He lifted you with just one of his hands, a fact you registered when heels came loose and clattered off mid-journey. His other twisted the door knob open.
Clark didn’t let your feet touch anything until the soft sheets, laying you down on the very place you often thought of him. His body followed suit. Muscular arms bracketed your head, weight landing soft on the mattress.
He leaned down and stared straight at you.
“Tell me you’ll listen to me.”
Your lips parted.
“No back-talk,” he husked, “I know what’s good for you.”
Ice ran down your spine at his words, though to say the sensation was unpleasant would be a lie. You tried to respond.
Oh, no. Where’d your voice go?
“Say it for me, sweetie.”
That nickname did the trick. You whimpered—a true mark that he understood your reward-based motivation enough to give you just a taste. It landed like an arrow to your heart: he could apparently see the effect he had, because he was smiling at you.
Soft, gentle. As if you were a fumbling kitten and not someone consumed with want.
“Come on. Tell me you’ll be good for me.”
Your insides melted, and so did the last dregs of your cultivated independence. You snaked your arms around his neck again, a serpentine effort to appeal to the side of him you so desperately wanted to please.
“I’ll be good, I promise,” you whispered.
That handsome smile widened, eyes half-lidded.
“That’s my girl.”
Heat zapped south. Your instinct to tease him was fried into nonexistence along with your nerves.
You could say it. Could murmur already calling me your girl after one date, Clarkie? up at his towering form, but you didn’t. The risk of upsetting him was too big of a loss, however imagined.
Tonight, you wanted to be good for him.
Then cold washed over you as he slipped your dress off. It got discarded to who knows where. The chill didn’t last long.
Because he saw what you had on underneath, and his gaze burned. Jaws locked.
“Wore this for you,” you admitted.
He groaned at that, hands tracing lace, partly sheer and wholly delicate. Blue eyes darkened past a point you didn’t know possible.
“Can I take ‘em off?” he breathed, eyes still raking down to your underwear, chest heaving at the ribbon sitting innocently at its center.
You didn’t answer—not with words, anyway. Just sat up and guided his hand to your back. His mouth pressed kisses on your temple and hair as he got rid of the last things that hid you from him, pretty as they were. He sat on his haunches, studying your reclined body under the dim glow of a night light, now bare.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured.
His lips locked with yours again, deeper this time, as if it allowed more of him to fuse into you. But his mouth didn’t stay for long: he moved down your body in a hungry path, sucking a mark into your neck and collarbone before capturing a hardened peak with heat and greed.
You writhed under him—futile thanks to his hand on your hip, the other groping at your chest before switching his attentions. The frame of his glasses brushed goosebumps onto your skin. Fingers darted desperately for some kind of anchor; you found it combing through his hair as his tongue laved and laved until yours nearly lolled out your mouth.
He slid his arm around your waist, and latched.
You cried out. It made him worse, humming as he sucked and nipped and played with you until he was sure your breaths were broken into little sobs.
Eyes locked with yours right as two fingers brushed your core.
Your body twitched in response, as if a simple touch—one you’d imagined more times than you bothered counting—was enough to set you alight. And it was: because it was his fingers that traced up the seam of your slick, not yours. His were callused ever-so-slightly, bigger, and entirely too warm, even when all he did was collect what you were leaking onto his fingerpads, smearing it onto your clit.
His mouth was still on your tit.
“Clark, please just—nggh—!”
Before you could fully beg, he’d read your mind and sank a finger in you.
What you thought would be mercy ended up not being enough—maybe you’d so obviously clenched your want in Morse code, because a second plunged into you in response, and then you gasped, the stretch telling you this was what you wanted to be.
Full.
And to think this was only two of his fingers.
He panted, pulling back to watch you.
“So wet,” the words floated, just as lost as his eyes when they locked on the way your cunt swallowed his digits, “So tight.”
His hand rocked experimentally. Your back replied with an arch, chasing the friction.
“Ah—”
He pumped in. Out. In again, curling in a way that made your head loll to one side. Clark stared all the while, took in the way your skin began to mist with sweat the more his fingers sank into your walls, memorized your moans when he brushed a gummy spot—each one chipped at his thinning patience.
Clark licked his lips, brows knitted, almost with concern.
“Think we’re gonna have to add another, baby.”
The third sank in almost too easily. You gasped at the burn, quickly melting into the mattress underneath you at the feel of him inside—just his fingers, but still much deeper than you’d ever hope to reach by yourself, no matter how hard you’d thought of him while you did.
“Shh,” he cooed against your ear. “You’re okay, sweetie. Just need to open her up for me.”
Okay seemed like too cheap a word to describe the sensation. You squirmed into his hand and he chuckled, eyes dark.
“Alright then. One, just like this, ‘mkay?”
“Please,” you begged.
He was kind enough to oblige, thrusting three in and out of you languidly. The world was quiet approaching the midnight hour, which only served to amplify the slick, wet noises as he finally sped up, your juices already making a mess between your legs.
He hit that spot again. It was too late to stifle the sharp cry that ripped out of you. You didn’t know who stayed in the other room next to yours—you only prayed they weren’t home.
Clark Kent was either the most compassionate person on Earth, or the meanest man who ever lived: he’d bent down and sucked on your tit again, his thumb rubbing your clit.
The outpouring of earnestness with which he moved was enough to send you tumbling over the edge. But perhaps tumbling wasn’t a fair description.
He was dragging you to your peak.
“Clark,” you warned, voice hoarse as you gripped the sheets—his shoulders—the sheets again.
“Hm?” he hummed around your nipple, lighting up your nerves beyond what you thought possible. The white that blurred the edges of your consciousness nearly rendered you speechless as you struggled to form the words.
“‘M gonna—” a thrust in, and your vision blanked, “cum, ‘m gonna cum…”
He moaned at that, loud and shameless, the vibrations reverberating from his mouth to your chest, then to your spine and all the way to your cunt—your hips swayed, craving more.
“So warm,” he mouthed against your tit, “C’mon. Give me one. Want you to come for me—”
As if your body complied, you arched, twisting as your walls clenched and gushed around his fingers. Clark muffled a low sound against your skin, eyes feasting on how your limbs shook and your lips fell into a perfect ‘O’.
It wasn’t just the sight of you that opened an abyssal appetite in him—his fingers felt it, felt you, and from there came a need to taste what you’d given him.
You were laying in your own mess, skin sweat-slick when his fingers left you. Scarcely sentient from the ecstatic buzz that still frayed your nerves, your hazy eyes watched as he took all three fingers in his mouth.
“Mmgh—hh,” his face melted, gaze locked with yours as his tongue wrapped one final swipe, a salacious pop at the release. “Gosh, baby. You’re so…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Didn’t let you watch his face as his hands flipped you onto your stomach. It should be alarming, how easily he tossed your weight around.
“Clark…? What are you—”
He pushed a pillow under your chin. Kissed the top of your head before peeling his chest from your back.
“In case you need to keep it down.”
You twisted slightly to look behind you, still confused, but then his lips trailed down your back and realization washed over a second too late.
He was already spreading your cheeks.
“Look at you,” his voice rumbled far too close to where you were still twitching. “So pretty.”
The pillow made sense then, because when his mouth was on your cunt, you buried your face in it and screamed.
For someone seemingly worried about noise complaints, Clark was entirely thoughtless about his own noise. He tugged your torso towards him, the other hand making sure you were open as though he needed space to pour murmurs into your cunt, syllable after rasped syllable.
“Taste so good. Can’t believe you’re—mmh—letting me do this.”
You weren’t sure where your first orgasm faded and the second climbed. Even more unsure how you’d ended up this way: stomach pressed on the bed, hips up, your face buried in a pillow while he dragged the flat of his tongue up your leaking pussy, slurping like you were dessert, eating like the two of you didn’t go out to dinner earlier.
“C-Clark—” your hips jerked back without warning even to you, grinding against his face.
“She’s getting wetter, baby, how’s it possible?” he parted with a pop, scarcely giving you time to breathe before diving back in.
Something slipped between your folds. Something that wasn’t his finger.
Your legs shook.
While he kept you spread, his tongue licked up your seam and into your cunt. The intrusion birthed a second heartbeat in your core. Walls clenched. He hummed in return, pursuing deeper as you were dragged back to the climb you’d barely recovered from, the onslaught teetering on the edge of too much.
His words barely made sense with his mouth against your cunt—you didn’t hear them as clearly as you felt them.
“God, sweetie, I could stay here forever.”
The frame of his glasses grazed your ass and made you buck backward.
“Take it o-oh-off,” you managed to breathe out.
“No,” he answered, licking up into you, “wanna see you. Look, she’s clenching.”
A finger dipped into you, in to the knuckle and out to your clit, before his mouth descended to replace it.
If he kept this up, you’d be throwing your toys away in the morning.
You kept your face in the pillow, a stuttered moan spilling into the plush of it as he continued to eat past your orgasm and the tremble of your thighs. While you were busy gasping for dear life, disoriented, drool escaped from the side of your lips, forming a damp spot.
He lavished praises while his hands kept you open for him to take: “Good girl, good, good, girl” muttered as his tongue greedily gathered the drip of your honey, cleaning you up in the dirtiest way possible.
The moment he loosened his deadlock around your abdomen, you sunk into the mattress, limbs limp and shaky, blissfully unaware of what was going on behind you.
Clark watched your body melt in the dim, the rise and fall of your shoulders betraying the state of your lungs—lungs that trained so hard to remember how to breathe while rounding a corner at top speed, collapsed by just his mouth. Your hair was a mess. Sweat clung onto your skin and seeped into the sheets. Even with your back facing him, he’d never seen you look so spent.
He caught the generous glisten of slick on your inner thighs and grew hungry again.
You yelped in surprise when his hands dragged your legs to the edge of the bed. They dangled right before he flipped you onto your back again. Deep blue scanned your ruin—you glimpsed at a vein in his neck, the one that often appeared when his patience was tested.
Then his knees dropped down and he knelt in the space between your thighs.
Your open mouth was about to protest, but the sound quickly melted into a whimper as he hoisted pleasure-numbed calves over his shoulders.
“‘M sorry, honey. Want one more. Just stay still for me, okay?” he said, lips kissing your sensitive cunt again.
You couldn’t move even if you wanted to.
·—̳͟͞͞ ☆
One more turned out to be a lie. Clark had made you cum a third and a fourth time: the third on his tongue, before sinking his fingers into you, all while drunkenly cooing “You can do it, baby, you said you’d be good for me, didn’t you? I know, ‘m sorry, ‘m so sorry,” against your pussy. Your body obeyed for the fourth time despite the impossibility.
Now you laid in the aftermath, useless like a worn-out tire, catching your breath while he held you in his arms. Your back rested against his clothed chest.
Fuck, you thought, he hadn’t even undressed yet.
He’d popped his fingers out of his mouth not too long ago, cleaning out your taste—and then he murmured all sorts of things. Praises, gratitude, everything in between. The slope of his nose that had bullied your clit pressed against your cheek, your temple, your crown, placing kisses to punctuate words.
“Thank you. So beautiful. God, so perfect for me. My perfect girl.”
But if the hard bulge pressing against your ass and the damp fabric concealing him were anything to go by, Clark Kent was far from done.
If you wanted to survive this, you had to gain the upper hand.
It took everything, but you turned in his arms, hips sitting on top of his. He groaned at the grind of you, and that open mouth was the perfect opportunity to slide into a kiss, hands fisting the front of his shirt. The world spun—the kiss both grounded you and made the spin worse. Tongues swept, tasting each other. His fingers traced a lazy line down the nape of your neck, your spine, until the curve of your ass, earning a shiver from you.
While he palmed your tit, your fingers slowly unbuttoned his shirt. Not all the way through; just enough for you to slip both hands underneath and study his body by touch.
He was sturdy. More than he looked. Why an engineer would be so built, you couldn’t care less—right now, you just wanted to drink him in.
So you dragged your mouth down from his jaw to his sternum. Your hands trailed a path for your lips to follow, eventually stilling at his belt.
His exhale of your name was ragged.
Belt off, pants yanked down, you let out a sigh as his boxer-briefs came to view.
Cobalt blue, a pool of wetness darkening the color at the front. If circumstances were different, you’d make fun of how his underwear matched Team Orbital, but right now there are more important things.
Thing, to be exact. It rested under soft fabric, except restless was what it was, hard and twitching even when your gaze had been the only thing to brush against it.
He was big. You didn’t need formulas to tell you that.
But just to be certain, you peeled the waistband of his boxer-briefs down.
His breath stuttered.
There were other things you confirmed aside from his size—which was about nine mouthwatering inches, thicker than even the most ridiculous thing you’d seen online. The dim of the room muddled colors, but you could tell the shade of him was pretty: pink all over, darkening at the tip. Veins ran down his length like rivers, subtle except for one that was larger than the rest.
You traced that one with a finger. His cock twitched alive—more than it already was.
He called for you again. You didn’t look at him, merely brushing featherlight strokes up and down his shaft, humming.
“G-G—od, you don’t h-have to.”
Clark was a picture of abandon: head thrown back against pillows, dark curls tousled against the pillow that once swallowed your breathy moans. It lit an urge in you: half curious, half vengeful.
A window to overtake, metaphorically speaking.
From his arms loose on your body to the pool of lust in his eyes, it looked like he had no dog in whatever fight you sought to instigate. In fact, the way he waited patiently signaled that he was the dog in question.
“Don’t have to what?” you replied with false innocence, already leaning down to breathe hot air on his tip. He writhed. Restrained. Disciplined.
“Don’t have to—ngh—”
The spit from your puckered lips dripped right on his tip. Then your fingers wrapped around his cock, spreading the slick before pumping slowly, and Clark turned speechless, mouth open with nothing but noises to offer.
Delicious noises.
“Baby,” he sighed, voice thin.
“Hm?”
Because you were impatient before anything else, your tongue lolled out to take his tip, letting its weight rest in your mouth. A violent shiver wracked his body, followed by a stuttered cry. You giggled at the sight. The vibrations made it worse for him; or was it better? His hands found your hair, fingers firm on your scalp, pulling a moan out of you even when he hadn’t moved.
“Don’t have to what, Clark?” you teased, swirling once around his already leaking head.
“Don’t have to… do this.”
Yet he moaned when you took an inch deeper.
“I already have your cock in my mouth, silly.”
Clark hoisted himself up on elbows, gaze trained on you as though he couldn’t believe that you were in fact telling the truth. But actions convinced him more than words ever could: the heat of your throat as you took all of him in sent lighting up his spine; the cavern of your mouth so hot, so real, and so fucking perfect.
You let go with a pop.
“Unless… you don’t want me to?”
He shook his head. “No, no, don’t stop, d-don’t stop.”
Despite your eagerness, you learned a thing or two from his torture. You leaned back down. Bobbed slow. Kissed the tip at the agonizing up, breathing on it before the dive, letting his blunt tip hit the back of your throat. That was where you’d hum and hollow your cheek.
As a reward, his spine curled in, weak, almost like a sunflower facing the thing that sustained it.
You let him grip your hair, smiling at how good he was: where most men would crumble and fuck your face with that kind of hold, Clark held on to control. Docile. Patient.
It made you want to ruin him even more.
“Please,” he begged, low and shaky.
Which was why you took him out of your mouth entirely, licking your lips.
He whined, a thin and reedy thing that kicked your pulse to the eighth gear.
“Why—”
The rest of his sentence didn’t make it out, because you were on top of him, a hand keeping his cock steady while you slid it between your folds.
Not in. Just between.
Twin moans tangled in the feverish air. You relished the way he crumbled: subtle, like a slippery slope that forewarned a landslide. The chassis of his infuriating tolerance finally began to wear off with each pass of friction as your slick pussy traced his ridges, ending with his tip kissing your abused clit.
You rode him like that and watched him fall apart slowly.
Lips red like stewed cherry, parted wide. Eyes hypnotized by your movements, drinking in the way his cock gathered your juices, shining the more you glided on him.
His glasses fogged up.
Your mouth twitched into a smirk.
“Want me to put it in?” you purred, a wave of hunger rising in you.
He nodded like he was drunk. There was no focus in his stare. Drool began to leak out the side of his mouth as he looked up at you like you were the only thing he understood aside from the blinding pleasure.
“Yes,” he breathed.
Leaning forward, you nipped at his bottom lip. Once. Stern.
“Then beg for it.”
His hands held your arms—they looked so small under his grip. Meanwhile, your palm snaked up to the side of his face, feigning kindness before the grasp you had on his chin turned commanding. You made him up at you.
“Please,” he whispered.
You kept pace, allowing his tip to breach just a little before pulling back out. His cock glistened with your essence and his precum, wet slides filling the air with debauched noises.
“C’mon. Use your words.”
Shclick. Shclick. Shclick.
“Fu—ghh—ah, baby, please, please put it in,” he strangled out a pitchy whine, “I—hngh—can’t—”
“Good boy,” you huffed, overcome with a strange mix of delight and frustration.
When you finally sank onto him, you pretended it was out of mercy and not your own need for more.
Four orgasms didn’t make his nine inches easier to take; there was the girth to consider, splitting you open more than his fingers did. You couldn’t hide the strain on your face as you slid down slow, lips parted at the distracting burn of the stretch.
And then all of him was inside of you.
Both your head and his lolled forward to look, as if the sensation wasn’t convincing enough.
“Hah—you okay?” he groaned, more vibration than voice.
You nodded. Bounced once.
The strength in your thighs nearly melted, but you weren’t a racer only in name. You’ve trained. Practiced. Pushed your body past further limits than this.
The expression on his face both weakened your will and solidified it: you were just as lost as he, and yet you wanted to put him through worse.
You moved up to the tip, down to the hilt. Slow only because that was what you could afford—any more and you’d find yourself ruined before he was. The grind shot ecstasy to your brain, nerves firing at each roll, relief laced with the demand for more.
Soon, you told yourself, wondering if you’d get used to being stuffed like this. You’d ride him hard and fast once you were sure you could.
But Clark had other plans.
The world spun. Your back hit the mattress, body once again underneath him. The coil of his muscles was clearer from here. So was his molten gaze.
In one thrust, Clark buried himself fully inside of you.
You gasped, feeling him in your throat, eyes wide.
“Clark—”
“Is this what you—hah—hoped would happen?”
He did it again, sinking down faster than you thought you could take. Your brain shorted.
“H-huh? Ngh!”
“In that interview,” he continued, ragged as he fucked you slow and deep, “you said you hoped something will happen. You and me. Is this what you wanted, sweetheart?”
He didn’t make sense. Not while he impaled you like that. Yet there was kindness hidden in the pace, because if he went any faster, you weren’t sure you’d remain conscious.
“I don’t know what you’re ta-ah-alking about,” you managed to pant.
Clark didn’t honor you with a direct response other than another thrust in you, groaning in your ear.
“‘If he’ll have me’?” he quoted, almost roaring, “I wanted you first, since the very, gu—hh, fucking beginning—”
It should be embarrassing how fast the knot formed itself in your lower gut. You clawed onto his bare back. His shoulders were sweaty. When had he taken off his shirt? Nothing made sense anymore. Only the throb of his shaft bullying itself into you, your hipbones kissing his at each downstroke.
He groaned your name.
You had no governance over what came out of your mouth; no power to bite back the keen “Clark, please”, no intention to hide the little mewl that slipped when he filled you.
He was the same, or worse: mouthing at your neck in a poor attempt to silence a moan when he wasn’t feeding honesty that tasted like filth straight into your ear.
“See what you do to me?” he groaned, “how—haa—hard I get around you?”
Your throat bobbed, the column of it exposed wholly to him. Hands grabbed his biceps, while his caged your hips.
“Clark, ’m gonna—”
The sound that ripped out of his throat was growly and dark at the impossible clench of you around him.
“Come? Me too, baby,” he gasped, “You feel so, so good…”
A hand slid up the back of your thigh, pressing it to your chest to sink his cock deeper than you thought possible. Colors assaulted your vision even as you closed your eyes: a heatmap of pleasure shifted behind eyelids as he leaned down for an open-mouthed kiss, trading spit and the taste of each other just as his blunt tip bullied into that spot.
The one that made you scream.
“Fuck, Clark, I’m cumming—!”
So was he, the piston of his hips relentless as he pound-pound-pounded you through the finish line. You moaned out nonsense into his mouth, babbling “please, fuck, so good” over and over until the words melted into nothing but hoarse vowels. The clench and gush of you drove him mad, showering you with sobs of “good girl, gonna c-come inside, please, can I?” like he wasn’t already set on doing so.
Your response was a broken yes, yes, yes, and he thanked you so profusely you’d think you saved his life—when in fact he nearly ended yours at the first spurt.
It was hot, bursting against what had to be your cervix as he rutted deeper into you. Your greedy pussy clenched as if drinking him in, but even when your breath finally slowed, his spend didn’t.
Clark choked out your name against your neck, white-knuckling your hips as he ground—you arched, feeling him fuck his cum to parts of your body you didn’t know existed. You panted, glancing down: fuck, it was leaking, heavy driblets of it, and yet his cock still gave you more.
He was watching, too, blue eyes glazed with fascinated disbelief. Like he wasn’t expecting so much.
And then he smiled.
“Look. She’s drooling for me, sweetheart.”
Lust catapulted up your brain, disabling thought and memory. The only thing you understood was right now: how full you were from his cock and cum. Your chest burst at him kissing your face: eyes, cheek, nose, lips—but the ulterior motive behind such sweetness lived in his hands.
Broad, warm palms tugged and twisted you, coaxing you to lie on your side. He plastered his body against your, chest on back, fingers already working your thigh open and hooking under a knee.
You felt it then—the sensation of him coming alive inside of you as your walls twitched.
On the circuit, he was always pushing for a pit stop.
In bed, he was the opposite.
“Clark,” you croaked. What it meant, you weren’t sure. You couldn’t think.
Thankfully, his next words were one syllable each, quite simple to grasp even at your dumb state. He spoke them against your ear, a low promise dripping behind his voice—like high-octane fuel, nearly making you explode.
baratheonpilled
romaincrisis
annaxmalina
janainaart
blakekathryn
discoholicmusic
yousharknotpass
kianamaiart
kaledo-art
