A new little angst/fluff drabble about Thranduil and his wife fighting and making up because Thranduil loves his wife too much to stand her being upset at him.
Hope you'll enjoy! ✨️
Warnings: no proof reading, Thranduil being an idiot to Legolas and reader, angst/fluff
You were annoyed at your husband.
It wasn't happening that often, but Thranduil never failed to irritate you when he was unfair to Legolas and when he was unnecessarily overprotective with you.
Because of some disruptions in Middle Earth, Thranduil was particularly tense and intense lately.
He was clumsily showing worry about his son by being harsher than usually. And he was forbidding you from leaving Mirkwood.
You knew Thranduil didn’t mean things that way, he sometimes struggled to show his love to his favourite people.
His two favourite people.
You were doing your best to remain calm but you were starting to lose patience. Your strong character only made you want to leave Mirkwood. However, you were refraining yourself, knowing it would only worsen the situation.
You were currently in your royal apartment, looking by the open window, leaning against the balcony. You heard the chamber door opening and Thranduil softly calling for you.
You remained silent.
It didn't stop Thranduil from finding you; soon enough you felt his arms wrapping around your waist, and his face burying into your neck.
"I called for you, beloved" he murmured to you
"Oh I didn't know I was compelled to answer you" you replied with a little more annoyance than you wanted to show.
Thranduil stayed silent for a little while. His lips gently trailed along your neck, his body pressing even more against your back.
He hated upsetting you.
"You're mad at me" he whispered, and you could hear the sadness in his voice.
He didn’t stop gently kissing your skin.
You sighed and ended moving your head to give more room to his kisses. Even when you were mad at him, you couldn’t resist the feeling of his mouth on your skin. A ghost of a smile appeared on his lips.
"I'd do anything to make it up to you" he hummed
"Well, you could apologise to Legolas then" you replied as you turned around to face your husband.
"You're always taking his side" Thranduil groaned in annoyance
"Only when you are harsh to our son."
"I'm trying to teach him a les..."
"You are afraid for him and instead of saying it, you are mean to him, perhaps even cruel. You also are concerned about me, and your only solution is to lock me in, which is not any less cruel from you." you sternly replied
"Wife, be careful with your words" Thranduil almost growled
You planted your eyes in his before softly but firmly pushing him away.
"Keep going with that attitude and I'm not sleeping in our bed tonight" you warned him
"Threatening me now?" Thranduil's eyes darkened with anger
"Simply explaining to you that there will be consequences to your actions" you hummed with burning coldness
"You're cutting Legolas too much slack, when I'm trying to make sure he'll be a good Prince and Heir. Also you are reckless. I've got enough on my plate without having to deal with my wife's shenanigans on top of that" Thranduil replied, sharply
"Alright" you hummed and tried to move past him but he grabbed your wrist
"Where are you going?" He asked
You barely talked to one another for the rest of the day.
"In the throne room. I've got work to do. And don't touch me, husband." You violently took your wrist out of his hold and left the room without sparing him one last glance.
You fulfilled your queen's duties and you spent some time with Legolas, comforting him and letting him know how wrong Thranduil was. Legolas thanked you, even if he was aware his father actually cared about him.
You skipped dinner, not wanting to see your husband and you asked one of your maids to prepare a guest room for yourself. The maid instantly looked uncomfortable.
"What is it?" You asked
"My king forbad me from preparing you a guest room..." she trailed off
"Alright" you simply said and you left your home.
There was a clearing you particularly loved in your forest and you decided you were going to spend the night there.
You were at peace.
One of your guards followed you to the clearing.
You settled on the green moss and removed your shoes. Your feet went into the little pond and you unwound thanks to the freshness of the water against your skin. You laid down to look at the starry sky.
Until Thranduil appeared.
He gestured for your guard to step back before he sat down by your side. You kept staring at the sky. He gently moved a strand of hair from your cheek.
"I wish to get back to the moment I said I'd do anything to make it up to you. I'll apologise to Legolas and I'm also deeply sorry I made you feel like your place wasn't by my side in bed" he gently told you.
You looked up at him.
"Legolas is an adult and did great things. You are going to push him away" you warned him
"This is not my intention" Thranduil replied with regrets lacing his words
"I know. Also, you're not my King, you're my husband, so don't think you can order me around" you hummed
"No one can order you around, my beloved. This is one of the many reasons I fell in love with you." Thranduil hummed as he stroked your cheek. "Come to bed with me." He said before quickly adding as you arched an eyebrow at him: "Please. I cannot sleep without you by my side."
"I'm fine here." you shrugged
"Do you want me to beg you?" He asked "Because you know I'll do it."
"The proud and powerful King of Mirkwood begging" you teased
"As you said, I'm no King to you, only your husband. And I passionately love and need you" Thranduil gently kissed the back of your hand
"And I passionately love and need you in return" you hummed as you sat up to kiss his lips.
Thranduil instantly relaxed in your touch and deepened the kiss by cupping your face in his free hand.
"Promise me you'll do better" you murmured against his lips
"I solemnly promise I'll treat my wife and son better" Thranduil instantly replied
Summary: As per your agreement, Thranduil accompanies you down below the palace to address some of the corruption. Memories are recounted and made.
AO3 Link
Previous Part: Chapter 12
Author's Note: End of Act 2. I have already written and proofread Act 3, so that will continue to be weekly. Your comments and love on this story has seriously been a huge highlight of my summer, I look forward to them every week. There will be NSFW content ahead, and will be labeled MDNI. Please respect that.
Love y'all :))))
I do not use generative AI in my writing
You hardly sleep, the sounds of a river rush in your ears. You’re fully upright and brushing your hair by the time Navë enters the room. She shouts your name in surprise when she enters.
“Good morning,” you say weakly. You bite your lower lip, knowing that dinner contained a lot of conversation that your apprentice would want to hear about.
“How late did the dinner go?” Navë asks, making her way across the room, trying to act nonchalant.
“Late, but I also just did not sleep,” you groan.
“Anticipation?” Navë suggests, taking the brush from you.
You snort, remembering your conversation with Galion, “Something like that.”
As you prepare for the day ahead, you revisit some of the times you were able to heal some of the vines. Memory, happiness, calm, and so on. You set your shoulders back, donning the dark blue cape from your journey here with the silver swan clip, holding the two ends together at the center of your collarbone.
Breeze hangs at your hip, heavy but a welcome weight. It has been too long since you last felt your sword at your side.
“Anything else before you go?” Navë asks, hesitation in her voice.
You look around the room. “I don’t think so,” but part of you wishes there is something else to do, something to delay this meeting, even if for just a few seconds more. You give her a quick hug, grab a small shoulder pack of simple aid, then head to the door. Outside you find Fergrath, waiting for you.
“Ready?” He grunts, adjusting his own cloak, ready to himself see the king. You cast a sideways glance at him, then give a nod. You head down the way you went with him and Candaer last time, almost wondering if you would run into him on the way down to the lower levels. You did not.
The route is familiar as you traverse the winding tunnels and passages of Thranduil’s palace. Fergrath, your shepherd through this system knows his way with ease. Additionally, in the early morning, before even you were awake, Fergrath told you that Galion came to give him more specific directions as to where to meet the king.
Upon reaching the entrance to the lowest levels with the cisterns, you come across a gate that you hadn’t seen before, the place Galion had asked Fergrath to bring you to. The gate has twists of vines upon it, and the sigil of the Woodland Realm, oaks with stars. Fergrath takes out a glistening key with a shape of a star on the end, slots it into the iron gate. With a sharp click and clang of the lock and the whine of the metal hinge, it opens.
“You may turn back here, guard,” a commanding voice echoes from the dark. Stepping closer into the light, King Thranduil emerges.
“Yes, my lord,” Fergrath bows. He stands and shoots you a tenuous look, raising his eyebrows.
He mouths, ‘good luck,’ before turning away and climbing back up the ramps to the upper levels. Thranduil wears a tunic of black, silver etched into it so delicately it looked like a sea of flowers, almost a metallic meadow. Black pants tuck into black boots. His flowing hair is held in place by a silver crown with a silver point at the back, and his eyebrows are raised, as if waiting for you to say something first.
You curtsy, holding up the ends of your cloak as to not get them dirty upon the slick limestone floors, ever slippery underneath your black boots. “Good morning, my lord.”
“Good morning, spider-slayer,” the king says. “Let us walk.” He turns and heads back into the darker part of the cavern.
“Sure,” you say, scurrying next to him, hand on the hilt of Breeze. Small lanterns start glowing as you walk by, potentially lit by the small bugs seeking shelter from the cold within the lanterns’ walls, responding to the vibrations of your steps. Either way, the lanterns take up a chartreuse hue to them. “Where are we going?”
You did not know in particular what you were looking for in terms of corruption. You suppose that you would know it when you see it. Though, as you walk side-by-side with the king, it does feel as though he is leading you somewhere intentionally.
“To a place long since blocked. It began almost sixty years ago. The Old Trade Docks,” he recalls, having to duck under some beams. “It has been…overcome with vines for a long time, and I do miss our wine supplies coming through here.”
You venture down a series of stairs, past rails and rotted boards of docks. A faint bluish glow comes from the distance, the distance where you assume all of those echoing plinks and plops of water drop onto the stone surface. After about five minutes of walking down a main path, Thranduil stops.
There are wooden shelves of wine bottles, piled and sorted up to the ceiling of this place. Demi-arches and vaulted shapes are carved above you, yet you can hardly see them through the wall of black, slimy vines, rotten to their core. As you approach, to inspect closer, it almost forms a basket weave in how tightly they are knotted. It is no wonder slashing though them would not work, fearing that it could be a hydra situation; cut one vine and three more grow back in its stead. The vines cover a small table setting, wrap around a lever, and even web the floor so that it could not drop down into the running river outside of the palace. Thranduil watches you with wide icy eyes as you take in the mess of corruption before you. Your eyebrows crease as you dance your fingertips along the dead vines.
Silvered wood, aged beyond use, floats in the hardly moving current of the river that isn’t allowed in by elven dams. Why would it be open? They hadn’t used these docks in decades. The still water is murky and smells horrific. But based on the shelves and the barrels of wine, the boxes dedicated to grain and salt, this might have been a prime marketplace for food for the feasts, visiting merchants, and the like.
You walk along the water’s edge, trying not to breathe through your nose, and you find a small lute with some quasi-fossilized dry cherries alongside it. “What are you doing?” He asks you. Oddly enough, his tone doesn’t hold the impatience you’ve come to expect from him.
“I’m looking for some memories beyond your own here, some things and ideas to root your experiences to. It seems, the more vividly I am able to imagine these memories, the better I can make them my own. For the longest time, I thought healing was about me listening to the sea, the ocean of my home in Mithlond, but here, I’ve realized it’s about fondness of memory, even if it’s not my memory.”
“And,” he steps closer to you, about a yard away. “What do you see?” You turn about the room, trying to see past the damp stone, broken boat rings, rot of the barrels, the scum of the river, and the spider silk in the rafters. You see old trade markers on discarded rinds of cheese, cracked over time. You smell of wet wood, iron, rot, and turned alcohol. Yet, you kneel to the lute.
“I hear sounds of this river coursing, this lute playing something in time. Children, eating cherries, dancing in front of the bard. I see trades well met, and many boats here,” you show him the broken boat rings. “And I see a place that has much potential to grow in this increasingly connected Middle Earth.”
His expression softens as you say that last line, standing to look at him. “Well, shall we?” You suggest, kneeling before some vines attached to the boat rings, placing your hands gently on them.
“What do you need?” His forehead creases at watching you kneel down in front of him, crouched on your heels, cloak getting soaked by the wet floor.
“Tell me, what was this place before it became…this?” You suggest as warmly as you can.
“It was just another trade dock,” he says, eyes flitting along the details of it, fighting the urge to turn away from you and this area.
“I don’t believe you would have led me here of all places if it were simply another trade dock. It’s a ways to come.”
Thranduil unsheathes one of his silver swords, the blade slightly curved and cruel, and he stabs a rotten, dried cherry into the stone. As he does so, he says, “The…late queen was choosing wine for a feast that was approaching. Legolas usually clung to his mother’s skirts, but this time he went off on his own, exploring the various merchants’ boats.”
In your mind, you feel the warm breath of a summer wind, back when these halls were open as tunnels accessible from the river. You close your eyes and try to picture a small Legolas, clutching at his mother’s skirts “What did Legolas look like when he was younger?”
Thranduil pursed his lips for a moment. “He has always had my eyes, but his mother’s face. He was quite small when this happened,” he softly laughs to himself. You picture Legolas, face round, hair still as fair and pale as the sand on the shores. Though, you don’t dare remind yourself of his father’s severe eyes in this soft memory. Legolas, small and innocent, clings to a brocade skirt.
“He was about to steal some sugared fruit when I caught him. He was so terrified that he fell into the lever, releasing several barrels of wine and thus toppling himself down the ramp and into the river water.” Thranduil flicks the cherry into the murky water, nose crinkled at the smell of it. You imagine Legolas looking furious with the river for embarrassing him, his imagined petulance bringing a smirk to your face.
“I am sure the water was a lot fresher back then.”
“Mm, yes. This hall smelled of apples, oak resin, far more fresh,” he trails off. “And yet, at that moment, Legolas came to me soaking wet. And I was so amused by his mistake that I was not angered.” A pleasant smile rests gently upon the Elvenking’s face, and his eyes close, succumbing to the memory. Turning to look upon him, the warmth of your Grey Haven summers pours from your palms against the vines. Letting go of them, you allow the glow from your palms to carry the momentum.
“And did he hold you?” You ask, wistfully.
“I held him,” Thranduil corrects lightly, voice trailing off.
The clasp at your throat feels heavy as you watch him, eyes closed as if lost in a beautiful dream. Once again, like last night, the world feels heavy, and it starts falling away, as if it is just the two of you in a void. You and him, alone. Then he opens his eyes. He, not in the same trance as you, allows his lips to part in surprise at the amount of progress made. Massive ropes of vines had retreated back into the stone, slurped back into the river, squeezed into cragged cracks in the ceiling.
By the time he looks, almost a quarter of the vines had disappeared or diminished. But this time, instead of running away from this surprise, he allows himself to be fascinated by you. Your hands aglow, face alight, and as you do so, staring so lovingly at him. When he looks upon you, you melt into his gaze. Water begins to clear around a drain, old pavers become visible, and the smell of rot thins. Sludge sliding back into the river from the walls reveals painted stone, yellows and greens and whites, sigils of the king that ruled Greenwood the Great.
Even faster than with Hareth’s memory the corruption shrinks from the healing light. Thranduil takes a step back, watching as your light glows even brighter — eyes wide to witness you. It is as you said; his memory with your power…
The barrels are released from the vines and they were amber not a slimy green. The docks aren’t covered in black scale, rather in silvery oak. The vines that clutched at this trading site relinquish.
Finally, you roll up your sleeves, bend down low, and plunge your hands into the water, hoping that the muck would not choke your arms like last time. You imagine the sunny look on the Elvenking’s face when his son ran to him for the first time, instead of Legolas’s mother. The secret joy of being chosen. The chill of the winter water was nothing compared to the oceanic cold you were used to. Icy, it ran up your arms with all of the muck and mire, yet as it reached your elbows, it burned off into flakes of sunlight.
Then you shakily stand to your feet. An exhaustion known only after crying for hours wracked your body. Your eyelids feel heavy and your head throbs. He calls your name, and the sweet sound of it pries your eyes open.
“I cannot believe — I — are you alright?” Thranduil’s attention goes from the success of your healing to knitting his brows together in concern. His eyes are a piercing blue, discerning, searching your face for confirmation one way or another.
“Yes, I will be fine,” you find a wall to lean on.
“Here. Drink.” Thranduil pulls out a skein from his belt. You heftily sip. It’s refreshing and thin like water but with something sweet to it. You feel it against your lips
“What is this?” You ask, doing your best to demurely wipe any droplets from your lips.
“It’s water,” He pauses, then adds, “With blackberries.” You do your best to suppress a smile, but a twitch at the corner of your mouth gives you away. You pass the skein back. Blackberries. He remembered.
“It’s really lovely. Fresh.” He hums in response, a hint of amusement behind it. You sit, recovering for a moment, watching Thranduil touch the revealed area, walk amongst the past, poorly preserved from the corruption.
As he is walking through the shelves upon shelves of wine about sixty feet from you, you hear a plop in the hardly-flowing river. You whip your head around. Another plop of stone from one of the cragged cracks in the ceiling drops into the water. Then another.
Plop.
Plop, plop.
Plop.
Then, splash!
You shout in surprise as a spider the size of a cat, squeezes out from the largest crack in the ceiling. You draw Breeze, stilling the pounding in your head and steadying your heart. Time to live up to spider-slayer, right?
Ducking out of the rows of wine bottles on shelves, Thranduil draws his twin blades, rushing from the end of the channel with the wine docks and the lever to create a ramp to lower barrels into the river. Charging over to where you are, by the edge of the pathway, sixty feet from him. His boots slap against the damp stone, and he rolls the blades in his wrists, relishing in the weight of them, the momentum they carry together. The river runs along the back wall of the trade channel, the ceiling arches over a wide pathway.
“Spiders,” he hisses, sliding to a stop by you. “Get behind me!”
Two more shimmy out of the cragged hole in the ceiling, the hole crumbling more and more with each spider that comes through, each one bigger than the last. By the time they are all out there are five massive brown spiders, hairy, beady-eyed, and with bulging-bellies, even for their large but spindly frames. The largest one is the size of a large hound, though its leg held much more wingspan. They hiss and spit as they drop down with their webs, swinging and landing upon the stone walkway next to the river water.
“So little faith before, so little faith now,” you taunt, widening your stance, keeping your core tight, bouncing on your toes. Another two stones fall from the ceiling. The spiders hiss, laterally moving around you, attempting to herd you. You sidestep, shifting so that you are back to back with the king who has readied his own stance.
“Then prove me wrong, spider-slayer. Preferably without dying,” Thranduil retorts. “Guards!” He calls out, allowing it to echo down the chamber. As he calls down the chamber, you hear muffled voices shouting, footsteps thundering towards you, but the crack in the ceiling, once only over the river, begging to split further down the ceiling, over the pathway that you used to get down here to the trading channels.
The largest spider, at this, hissed in response to the shouting.
“Dîn!” You bite back, lunging low at the large spider to your left — the Elvenking’s right — and slicing from belly to eye. You follow through, flinging a spray of ichorous blood across the ceiling. Yet, the cut was not deep enough to end its wretched life. In turn with your first slice, Thranduil flips his blades downwards, holding the blades along his forearms, tucking and spinning into his first and then second slices. The second largest spider — in front of him — directly in front of you is cut along its eyes, then its pincers. It howls in pain, and it spits corrosive poison at his leg. It sears through the sturdy fabric of his pants and touches his skin, slowly burning into him.
He shouts, stifling any more of a cry out in pain. Fury painting his will, he flips both blades upright, lunges low then drives the blades upwards into the neck of the spider, popping its head from its body. Both swords skewering the spider head, he turns the blades within the creature so their cutting edge faces out, then opens his arms wide, splitting the spider head into torn halves. The smallest spider jumps at him, but he kicks it roughly, ricocheting it into the water. It lets out a blood curdling scream like a dying rabbit, only far more crude. The Elvenking fights with terrifying grace, each swish of his blades bringing judgement upon the arachnid victims of his wrath. A mirthful smile plays upon his face, his breath a rhythm for each spin and slice.
After another spider vanquished, the Elvenking steps back with a proud smirk. He feels the black blood drip down his pale face. He turns to you, ready to help. To his great concern, the largest spider and you are facing off. You dodge a venomous bite, and sink your blade into the side of the spider, but another spider is about to bite you. You don’t have enough time to yank the blade out of the spider’s torso which you plunged Breeze into.
Alert, you somersault over the back of the largest spider, reaching with both hands for the blade’s hilt and bringing it with you in your momentum. You tear through the torso of the spider, gouging a massive rip in its flesh as you stand on the other side of it, your own blood mixing with the black blood of the beast you just tore open. Heaving, you kick the large spider down. Stabbing it again, but in the head. Four of its eight eyes shut at this.
One more, you think. Staring down the last one with the Elvenking who has been stealing glances at you, bloodied, focused, brave between fighting another spider. You’d get this last one first. You move to lunge at it.
Then you see Fergrath taking on another spider, and just as he was about to deliver the final blow, you hesitate. He looks at you, and the spider sinks its pincers deeply into his skin.
“Valar!” Fergrath gasps, summoning his remaining strength to plunge his spear into the spider, skewering it to the spot, then collapsing. You run to Fergrath, other spider be damned. The Elvenking, lunges before the spider between you two would not attack you as you ran. He pinches the head of the last spider off between his two swords, flicking the blood off of the blade. Then one more drops down in front of him.
You drop to your knees at Fergrath’s side, summoning whatever light you can. You hum one of the songs he taught you softly as he winces in pain. You start to see the purple veins seep out of his skin with your song. Thranduil slashes at the true last spider. Fergrath begins to stand, and you help him to his feet.
“Thank you,” he coughs, still in shock from the venomous bite.
“It’s not fully healed, go! Get to the healers!” You shout to him, turning back to help the Elvenking with the last spider. He nods, limping down the hall.
Crack! Crack!
Just as you feel relief with the incoming footsteps and shouts of other armed guards, and Fergrath firmly away from the remaining spider, the ceiling crumbles with a BOOM! A thunderous cacophony of rocks pulverizes the limestone floor, tumbling into the river, tumbling in front of the walkway, blocking your exit. Then another crack right above you sounds.
You hear Thranduil shout your name then, “Ego!” He charges from his position ten feet away from you to push you out of the way as the ceiling tumbles around you. The spider screeches as it gets buried in the force and weight of the stone. Your back slams into the wall, the force of it knocking Breeze from your hand. It clatters to the ground, but the noise of it is lost in the crumbling of this tunnel. Your head should have smacked into the wall, but instead is protected by his hand as he wraps his large form around your body. You get lost in the smell of him as you are buried in his chest as he holds you tightly: vetiver, bergamot, and oak.
His breath is ragged, and his heart pounding. You’re sure your own breath and heart is doing the same. He holds you so tightly, arms wrapped around you, the top of your head buried beneath his chin as he bows his head over yours. The swan pin is warm on your chest as it pushes into your skin from the pressure of the embrace. His touch is like fire spreading throughout your skin, yet you’ve never been so safe. After a few moments, the rocks stop their tumbling. They settle. He holds you just a second longer.
Slowly, Thranduil loosens his embrace. The curtain of his white-blonde hair is draped around you as you look up at his face. Upon it, true hunger in his eyes. They are black as they were that day in the garden. In this dark tomb within the trade channels of the lowest levels of his castle, they are even darker. The only light that leaks in is from the top. You are trapped here in this space that could not have been taller than fifteen feet high, five feet long and five feet wide. His lips parted, breathing ragged.
Your own matches his as you tilt your chin up to see him. “You —” he says heavily. Is it an accusation? Praise? An epiphany? A prayer? It did not matter because here you are, in this void with him that you’d imagined.
“Me?” You whisper. His hand moves from the back of your head to your cheek, thumb rubbing away the black blood that is splattered across your face and his. You melt into his hand, looking up at him. Kiss me, you beg in your mind. Your hands rest against his chest.
His eyes search your face, and his eyes soften. At the Feast, you were starlight, but here in the blood and grime, knowing your true capability, your true dedication to his people and his land, he wants you all the more.
“You, spider-slayer,” his voice is hoarse, control fraying at the edges. “Are impossible.” His breath plays across your lips and you allow them to part. You suck in a small and final breath, “I’ve been called worse.”
Half lidded eyes bear into yours. A hand drifts to your waist. His thigh parts your legs and he pulls you up into him. Your eyes flutter closed. Your noses touch. Your lips part as his lips almost brush against yours.
“My lord!” You hear Galion shouting and rocks falling. Several guards have pulled rocks away. “My lord!” You hear someone scrambling up the rock wall to get a look into the nook that you both are trapped in. You stand in his arms, bloody, bruised, bitten
Thranduil pulls away as if stung and he shakes his head at you in warning. He was going to kiss me. He closes his eyes, pinches his nose bridge. He puts space between you, resheathing his swords. He regrets it.
“I —” you start, worry splayed across your face.
“Dîn, canis.” Silence, emissary. It feels like the cool river water poured over you, the flame of the moment doused by his sharp expression. He paces in place.
“Galion, send down more soldiers and remove us please. Send my builders to fix this permanently. The rot will not return here.” As you both climb out, dusting yourselves off, his gaze full of warning sinks in. Brushing off of his tunic, he strides out, leaving you behind to walk back with the other guards. A deep pain twists in your chest.
‘The rot will not return,’ echoes in your mind. Was he referring to the vines or to you?
Summary: Conversations and preparations are made for a dinner, hosted by the Elvenking. Legolas, already cynical about his father's intentions, will be in attendance. With questions about Lord Elrond and Lord Círdan's intentions for you as a diplomat rising, you still seek to further the goals that you do know need your help: addressing the corruption with the king.
AO3 Link
Previous Part: Chapter 11
Author's Note: I've been looking forward to posting this chapter for literal weeks, almost months. I am so excited to share this with you! Enjoy!
I do not use generative AI in my writing
Scene 1 – Queenblossom
Situated in the hospital, sat upon the beds placed along the outskirts of the room, trifold barriers leaned against the wall in their folded up form. Each one bears a different pattern, mirroring the colors and designs of the carpets in this palace, though its texture is more similar to the weight of a tapestry than a carpet.
In this wing of the hall, there were no glimpses of the sky, no grey light to pour in, so in a way, the floral vignettes of the trifold tapestry barriers that could provide privacy also served as glimpses of an imaginative garden. One panel may be of a pomegranate tree, another of lilies, another of a small pond with reeds, yet when you look out…perhaps this is a small window into Greenwood the Great.
In your few days from your garden meeting with the Elvenking — another reason you kept imagining gardens — until your descent into the lowest layers of the castle with him, you try your best to spend it teaching some of the songs from Rivendell and some of the Sindarin incantations you knew from your time studying in the Grey Havens. You talk through feeling the flow of energy within one’s body and mind, how you produce your healing. Your three ‘apprentices’ follow along with the theory of it, nobody yet able to produce a light.
But today is special; you received a letter from Istel, containing herbs and a note reminding you to wait and listen. When you read what the herb is, you gasp.
“Good news,” you say, holding up a small pinch of cluster of pale-colored petals.
“Hmm?” Hareth cracks an eye open from her meditation, sitting on the edge of the bed, posture perfect, hands resting palm-up on the tops of her thighs.
“My mentor-friend Istel sent me some Queenblossom. It’s a rare find, and one could terrace it from the foothills of the Misty Mountains and grow it well in the sanctuary gardens. And it looks similar to the small flowers I grow when I’m healing…”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“It heals deep wounds if we turn it into a salve, but it also brews into a tea where its properties treat something like ‘spiritual fatigue,’ lingering despair or dread.” How pertinent.
“We both know somebody that might benefit from some tea,” Hareth says as rolls her eyes. You decide she must be a mind reader. She closes her eyes again, attempting to refocus on the energy movement as she breathes heavily. Or sleeps. You cannot tell.
Still, how would you even get the king to drink it? “Don’t be ridiculous, I would have to explain why I am giving him the tea and I would have to explain why it might be so helpful to the cause of healing the forest.”
Navë from another bed over from Hareth says tentatively, peeking out of one eye like Hareth just did, “Would that be such a bad thing if the king knew what we know?”
“Or you could just tell him it’s really delicious tea. Don’t overcomplicate it,” Hareth says, opening her eyes finally.
“I’m certainly going to have to explain myself sooner than later, though I suspect after a successful healing tomorrow it would be a moment when he might receive it better than now. Or maybe I could make some tea as a celebration?” You suggest with a weak smile.
At that, you hear a light knock coming from the other room. Branniel — who had already given up on channeling the healing light after the first thirty minutes of attempting to attune to the energy — opens the doors to the healing wing. “Yes?” Branniel calls out.
You recognize Galion’s delightfully smarmy voice as it cuts across the large area, even as he talks through the door. You stand, putting the pinch of dried pale-petals back in its small wooden box. Branniel moves to open it. You only hear murmurs from the doorway. By the time you make your way around the corner, you hear him say, “Ah, there you are. I suppose no intermediary is necessary.” He shoots a distasteful look towards Branniel who dismisses herself to the supply area, shooting an equally dirty look over her muscular shoulder.
“You were looking for me?” You ask. As far as you know, tomorrow is the day for going to the lower layers of the palace. What was Galion doing here now?
“Yes, the king requests your presence in his personal wing for supper. The Prince will also be in attendance,” Galion informs you. “Attempt to arrive within the next three hours.”
“Would a bit longer from now still be viable? I’m in the middle of —”
“She’ll be there on time,” Navë interjects. You hadn’t noticed her gliding up behind you. You’re glad she approached you before you accidentally refused the invitation from the king.
“Will she be?” The auburn haired attendant to the king tilts his head as he looks within you.
“Yes,” you nod, catching the warning Navë corrects you on.
“Excellent,” Galion smiles. “I will see you at dinner.”
Galion leaves, giving a curt nod to Candaer who stands outside of the door to the hospital wing, turning and walking left from this part of the palace.
Navë holds her breath until she hears Galion’s footsteps long fade down the hallway. Once she cannot hear him any longer, she exhales. “What do you think the dinner is about?”
“Perhaps about the excursion tomorrow,” you reply, dreading having to elaborate any further. Nave and Hareth exchange a look, now fully broken from their meditative exercise.
“What?”
“I mean…what did you say the king said again?” Navë asks.
“I could be suitable for his son,” you sigh, flopping back on one of the hospital beds. The thought of the Elvenking consumes your mind again, how his breath, visible in the cold, brushed your nose. You swear his darkened eyes were fixed upon your lips when he said it.
“Then I think you know what this dinner is about,” Hareth taunts, her eagle-yellow eyes flash with interest. “Right?”
“The problem is that I don’t know if the Prince would want anything in regards to me. He was so sweet in the library but he seemed very conflicted, and he spent a lot of time discussing my role with the king.”
“Well,” Nave crosses to you. She sits on the edge of the bed you are currently flopped over. You feel the depression in the mattress and her fingers gently brushing through your hair. “How do you feel about it?”
“I just don’t know if this is what Lord Cirdan or Lord Elrond really had in mind when they were suggesting that I diplomatically engage with this realm as I try to help heal some parts of it.”
“I mean, did they tell you to get diplomatically engaged?” Hareth snickers. You sit up and shoot her a nettled glare. “Apologies, wrong moment.” Branniel stifles a laugh from the other room.
“Branniel!”
“Sorry,” she giggles. Before you say something sarcastic back, your mind replays your conversation with the Lords right before you left to go prepare, now months and weeks ago. Your appearance was mentioned by Lord Cirdan as a diplomatic asset…what was in that letter that the Elvenking read at your first meeting?
The serious thoughts must have darkened your expression because Nave’s brows furrow as she asks, “My lady, are you alright?”
“I’m well, though I do wish I knew the king’s goals more, I wish I understood what he truly wanted from this dinner.”
“Why should it not be just so? A meeting discussing some form of arrangement or facilitating the possibility of one!” Hareth exclaims. “You are overcomplicating it, child.”
Were you overcomplicating this? Part of you agrees with Hareth…you might be. But, would he really arrange a marriage without knowing if I am Legolas’s One? You think back to the emptiness of when he told you his queen was not his great love. Is that what he wished upon his son? A love of companionship?
Beyond your speculation, the only counter you truly have to the notion of the king’s wishes to arrange something between you and his son is the gnawing, aching question that plagues your mind: did he want to kiss you in his garden just as badly as you wished to kiss him?
“You’re probably right,” you sigh, but you know that your thrumming heart and your whirring mind are at odds with what you say.
Scene 2 – Arrival at Dinner
A soft red velvet off the shoulder dress stops at your knees asymmetrically, showing the cream colored skirt of a lighter fabric, draping to ruby velvet shoes. A similarly textured, cream-colored ribbon is being braided into your hair by Navë at your vanity. Rushed out of the healers wing just an hour ago, you sigh.
“I feel as though I am missing something, Navë.”
“How so?”
“I feel there are things that should have been said, instructions that should have been given by those who sent me here. I need to write to the Lords Círdan and Elrond. Could you send these letters while I am at dinner?”
“Certainly,” Navë says while twisting some of the smaller braids together. Trying your best to keep your head still for her, you open up the drawer, taking out parchment and ink.
Lord Círdan,
Apologies for not writing sooner, though I would say that up to this point, I have been quite busy within the halls of the king. The accommodations are beyond what I expected, and the company of the guards and the healers of the court is well met. As you asked, I have been doing my best to attempt to heal some of the corruption of the realm. Though, the scale of it is quite a bit larger than I had imagined. The scale is not what concerns me, rather it is the limitations presented by the king. I have been learning more about the root cause of this darkness over his realm.
You pick up your pen, wondering if you should put it to paper. It is your job, you remind yourself, bolstering your will to write.
It has become very clear that the king’s spirit – his heart – is invariably tied to the corruption in the forest. It may be placated by the healing of the memories of his people, but only truly healed by the soothing of his memories, by the healing of his spirit. He seems to hold onto the stress and pain of protecting a realm at risk despite the defeat of such in the East, and more than that, he seems alone in this burden.
I met Prince Legolas at the Feast of Stars, which was an incredible event to witness, though, I find that I am being ushered by the king into conversations that imply an arrangement of marriage that I was not expecting. I fully understood the task at hand with regard to addressing the corruption, but woefully in the dark about your intentions for me to diplomatically bring in the Woodland Realm to the coalition of Elven Realms. Without turning to blame or malice, I wish to ask: was my hand in marriage to a member of the king’s court something proposed to King Thranduil in your initial letter? If so, I assume my mother was not aware of this.
By the time you or Lord Elrond receive this letter and that I may receive a response, I hope I have proceeded in alignment with your will and that I do not betray the trust you have put in my success.
You sign off this letter and rewrite it for Lord Elrond, addressed accordingly. Standing and looking at yourself in the mirror, you give a smile. Navë did an excellent job, some darker liner around your eyes, making your gaze look only a bit more sultry. You pick up your mother’s swan clasp, looking at it in your palm. Your fist closes around it, and you feel the ridges of it push into your skin.
“Are you ready, my lady?” Navë asks, coming up behind you in the mirror, placing her hand gently on the small of your back. You take a breath in to settle yourself. You feel like you are about to walk into an arena, facing off against a far more dexterous opponent. Your exhale is shakier than you wish it to be.
“As I’ll ever be,” you sigh, trying on a smile in the mirror. Navë stifles a laugh at the horrifically anxious smile on your face.
“Maybe try that smile again, sea-daughter,” she nudges you. Her infectious laugh brings a laugh bubbling up from within you at your own contorted expression.
“Far better,” she says softly.
“Healing truly is your calling, Navë,” you say, turning away from the mirror towards her.
She thanks you humbly, before leading you to the door. “You better go, lest you be late.”
“Candaer?” She calls outside.
“No, it’s Fergrath, dear elleth,” a deeper voice replies. “He has to go out on watch.”
“Oh, well I wish him well,” she bites her lip nervously. “Can you tell him?”
“Of course, when he returns to relieve me,” Fergrath replies. She huffs impatiently.
“I’ll be back by then. I can just tell him myself. Can you take her to the king’s wing?” Navë asks. You step out of the door.
“Hello, Fer,” you smile. “I hope you got some sleep between your ranger rotation and here.”
“You’d be hoping in vain,” he derides. “It’s been one battle after another against the thicket, though in some spots in the forest it does seem to be getting better.”
“Mm, well that’s good,” you say, your mind drifting to the anticipation of whatever you might be walking into. As you have before, you follow him along the hallways. As you walk through many of the labyrinthine passageways, you catch the eyes of many of the members of the Elvenking’s court that reside here.
“Is that the one he danced with? I swear it’s her,” a pallid ellon leans in to a similarly pallid ellith who nods and stares at you.
Trying your best to ignore them and others who whisper similar things, you eventually find yourself back in front of the doors to the king’s wing. Smoothing the front of your dress, you roll your wrists, roll your head around, stretching out your neck. With a final sharp exhale, you knock on the king’s massive doors. You don’t get to the second knock before Galion opens the doors.
“You are to wait at the door of her quarters, Fergrath. Thank you,” Galion, in hushed tones, relays to your guard. Fergrath grunts tiredly, waving to you before departing.
“And you, inside,” he steps aside, holding the door for you. You step back into king’s wing of his palace.
Your dress fits into this room that is draped in red and gold. Thinking back, you must look so different from how you must have appeared when you first entered into these halls, but breathing in the fumes of the fire, you let them comfort you, as you gather whatever quiet confidence you can muster.
Walking in, you turn to the left, taking in the central area of the Elvenking’s wing. On the same wall as the door is the hearth you had sat in front of with him weeks ago. To the right, behind the couches is a dining table. The warm woods of his halls extend along his long dining table, the organic shape of the wood of the table’s surface bends, curves, and dips for the knots that are in it, for the way the tree aged before it’s use lived beyond it. Yet, all of its flaws are polished so neatly. A burgundy drape runs along it, held down by several candles on brass candlesticks of various heights.
Waiting for you, are the two Sindar elves engulfed in the orange light of the hearth and the candles. They both stand, Thranduil standing half a head taller than his son. The Elvenking sits at the head of the table, Legolas to his right. The Elvenking, donning a twisting gold band around his head as a crown, a small ruby at the center, wears a velvet similar to your dress as his scarlet mantle drapes around dark brown and olive brocade tunic with a silver clasp. A large flickering piece of obsidian is held at the heart of the clasp.
At his height, you can’t look anywhere but him, him and his presence. Him and his high cheekbones. It isn’t lost on you that he stood for you. A king didn’t have to stand for you, yet Thranduil stood. As he looks to you, his eyes – back to their inky darkness – follow every step you take. The dark room might have a part to play in this, but you feel your own pupils dilate as you take him in, you feel your breath hitch as he narrows his eyes, considering you. All of you.
Scene 3 – At the Table
Galion moves to pull out your chair for you. Legolas, wearing a moss green tunic with gold details over light pants, stops him, “Please, Galion, allow me.”
The auburn-haired attendant gives a polite bow, closer to a deep nod, turning and stepping away towards the other side of the room. Legolas walks around the side of the table to your side. He smells of pine needles and the air before the storm, and you wonder what color vial he might have used from the crystalline-looking glass bottles of oils Navë pulls for the baths.
Softly, he places his hand on your lower back, “Excuse me,” he murmurs close, so only you could hear. You step aside, allowing him to pull out the chair for you. His kind eyes brighten as you offer him a grateful smile. “There you are,” he says.
To your right, the Elvenking sits in his higher-backed chair, clutching the arms as he watches his son push your chair in as you beam at him. Would you ever look at him like that instead of with such duty, such…weight?
“How kind of you, ion nin,” Thranduil takes a sip from his glass of wine, releasing one of the arms of his chair. Raising his eyebrows. “Do you also plan on pouring her a glass?”
“If she would so like,” Legolas assents with every spirit of devotion. His blue eyes rest on yours. The warmth in his words makes the candlelight feel brighter and makes your cheeks run warm in turn.
“Please,” is all you can manage to say in return. Legolas lifts slightly from his seat to reach and grab your wine goblet, pouring some of his father’s wine into it. The purple of it shines in the goblet when the Prince hands it back to you, your fingers slightly grazing his. “It looks beautiful.”
Before you can take a sip, you say, “I appreciate your invitation, my Lord, and I look forward to this dinner with you both,” you pause, forcing yourself to pursue the questions you so desperately wish to know the answers to. “Though, I did wonder if there was any specific purpose or end either of you might have wished to achieve?” You look between the two white-blonde ellyn.
“Eager, are we?” Thranduil smugly snorts into his goblet of wine.
“Possessing sensibilities like directness and pragmatism might be worth being seen as ‘eager,’ to some.” You turn towards him fully. His dark eyes flash. Touching the lip of his wine goblet to his lower lip, a wry smile of amusement crests over the top of his cup.
“Do taste the wine. If you enjoyed the one from the Feast, I wonder if you might enjoy this,” Thranduil changes the subject, lifting his brows.
“Eager to have me try it?” You lilt, lifting a brow in turn.
“Pure pragmatism, I swear,” he says. You relent, lifting the cup to your lips, tasting the plum of the wine and the whisper of blackberry. It’s the ambrosia of Valinor as it washes over your tongue. Your eyes close as you savor it. Thranduil’s chin tilts up, watching you sip it, watching your throat as you swallow.
“It is like a dream,” you say. Now, you understand. Play the game to win.
“I said something similar my first time tasting it,” The Elvenking. “It’s an older wine, but I was saving it for some fitting occasion.”
“Adar, do you plan on answering the emissary’s question?” Legolas asks, eyes flitting between them. “I too am curious.” Impatience of some kind found its way into the Prince’s tone as he watches you and his father spar.
“Yes, ion nin,” the king sighs, losing his mirthful smile. “I invited you here, spider-slayer, because the Prince has decided to work with the wizard Mithrandir to find old trade routes in my kingdom. He wishes to restore them. Some of them contain some of the vines we have been addressing. Since you have both been examining the maps, I thought it pragmatic to have the discussion in one room,” Thranduil says smoothly.
“We did already look at the maps, adar. She knows of the trade routes I had highlighted. What more is there to discuss? Once you learn how to clear it with less force, then you will help,” Legolas narrows his eyes, suspicious of his father’s true purpose and settled on debunking this false one.
“Well, I did have some other questions, actually,” you say softly. Thranduil looks triumphant.
“Perfect. We can discuss over — ah, yes,” the king turns just in time to see the attendants for his wing bring out some of the dishes for dinner and some of the maps from the library to his grand table. Several attendants, dressed in the sage green of the court wear gold tree pins on the collar of their robes, and they carry dishes of silver, reaching around you to place the trays on the table.
Preserved fruits, river fish, mushrooms from some of the caverns, breads, and honeyed roots adorn the table. The dishes are rich and earthen; combined with the smells of the plum-hued wine, you can tell how intentionally this meal was orchestrated. The Elvenking watches your reaction to it, and Legolas can see how your delight at the spread pleases him.
The maps are set to the other end of the table that the three of you were not sat at. Until the maps are placed there, you did not question the seating arrangements. However, in many places — including Rivendell — either end of the table is usually occupied by the host and guest, yet, decidedly more intimately, all three of you share this one side.
As the attendants assemble each of your plates, adding more or less of what you want to it, you ask, “I was wondering about the lower trade passages that we might visit tomorrow. When did they fall out of use?”
Legolas quietly thanks the attendant who places his plate down with a bow, then turns back to you. “They were sealed not a century ago, around the time of when Bilbo Baggins and the company of dwarves came around…it was an escape for them when they were held for..questioning at the time. Thus, it was closed.”
“To avoid other escape attempts?”
“From keeping spiders, and other unwanted visitors like the orcs, more recently out as well,” Thranduil. “I would not have such loathsome creatures enter my palace from such a trivially easy access point which is so simply sealed.”
“If not for the spiders, it would be worthwhile to consider opening it, adar,” Legolas suggests, piercing a mushroom with his fork. He looks back up to you, your eyes, sultry from the wings of the shadow, are fixed on him now. You are listening to him so attentively. “The trade area once brought wines, fruits, grains, salt, crafted goods, new fabrics from the boats. The boats would come from the lower channels and river docks in the lowest levels of the castle. Children used to sneak down there during preparations for feasts and the like.”
“As the corruption worsened it became important to close them,” Thranduil says, briefly narrowing his eyes at Legolas.
“Well, then tomorrow, I hope we are able to truly heal some of the vines down there! I certainly have some new purpose. I did hear about some of the children’s hide and seek,” you giggle, thinking of Fergrath and Candaer’s stories.
“Yes, tomorrow,” Thranduil trails off, raising his eyebrows lightly, tapping his first finger against the table in thought. He looks from Legolas to you. “You know, my son has walked far beyond these borders, and is quite familiar with this changing world of men, dwarves, alliances, new routes and old roads.”
“Adar —” Legolas’s ears turn pink at the tips, at the open praise. You nod along looking from Legolas to his father politely, nibbling at your lower lip in thought.
“My son has always been more willing than I to see what lies beyond the trees,” Thranduil says, making a sweeping gesture with his hand. “Would Legolas not be better suited to travel with you? A better guide for you.”
You stifle panic, but worry seeps into your mind despite that. He had to be the one there for the healing! Worse still, you wonder, is he trying to avoid seeing me tomorrow? It feels like the Elvenking is attempting to push you towards his son. Your heart thrums heavily at this notion, your eyes dart between Legolas and Thranduil. How does one say ‘no’ here?
“Prince Legolas has been generous with his knowledge. But I did not come only to learn the paths that may lead out of this realm,” you say reluctantly, lowering your chin avoiding looking at Legolas who suddenly becomes quite focused on his plate. With more confidence, staring into the eyes of the Elvenking, you assert, “If the wound is here, my lord, then I must understand what keeps it here.”
A reluctant, inverted smile tugged at his lips, accompanied by a brief, judgmental twitch of his nose. “You are very determined to find wounds where most have learned to simply walk around them.”
“I’m here for a purpose and I intend to see it through.”
“Very determined indeed.”
Legolas, watches his father and you in the candlelight. You are leaned in, determination splayed all across your face and his father is in amused repose: leaned back in the chair, elbow on the arm, with his fingers clutching the wine chalice by the rim. In the dark of the king’s palace, it is still not dark enough to justify the black of Thranduil’s pupils. Between the hungry look on his father’s face and the tension in his jaw as you refuse to yield, his father's attraction to this rare emissary is obvious. Confirming what he had thought at the ball, Legolas realizes how long it has been since he has seen his father look this alive. But yet, Thranduil is pushing him to court this healer?
As he looks to you, a similar attraction beginning to brew behind your challenging look to the king, he realizes the scheme at play. Understanding the game afoot, Legolas adds, “Adar, you know the maps and something tells me your memories would serve better for her healing, as I understand it.” You look at Legolas, gratefully.
At this, Thranduil’s jaw tightens, eyes shut. For a moment, he says nothing, only inhaling deeply, as if drawing his temper back behind his teeth. When his eyes returned to yours, they were bright with controlled displeasure. And when he speaks, the words come clipped and polished.
“I will accompany you.”
Legolas looks down into his wine as though hiding a smile. You take a triumphant bite of fish.
Scene 4 – After Dinner
The dinner did not only consist of interrogation, but rather of tales of Legolas’s recent travels, ranging from the rebuilding efforts in Esgaroth to the Beornings along the Andean River paths. Most interestingly, he has begun to explore Ithilien, a place within Gondor that seems to finally be healing after the War.
You see Legolas look to his father longingly as he describes Ithilien. “It was scarred with shadow and war, yet today…” he shakes his head, almost not believing it himself, “today, it is a land with flowers and gardens, herbs, and streams returning there. There are some Gondorian outposts we have been building.”
Thranduil closes his eyes, imagining land, healed. “Adar, I have seen a wounded land breathe again,” Legolas says.
“I would love to learn more about the herbs there!” Delighted by the news of that region’s revival, you grin at him.
“I’ll have to bring you some when I return,” Legolas says.
“I’d love that, though, I may have returned home by then,” you say, excitement falling slightly. The Elvenking’s jaw shifted at this, tongue running slowly along the inside of his teeth. Your words hang in the air for a moment.
Then, Galion reenters. “My lord, the hour —“
“Yes, yes, Galion. Do escort our emissary to her quarters,” Thranduil commands. “The hour is getting late for such an eventful tomorrow.”
“Actually, I would be happy to escort her, adar,” Legolas interjects, cutting off Galion for the second time tonight.
“Galion will see her to her chambers.” The Elvenking stands. You stand with him, as manners would ask of you. Legolas looks about to protest when Thranduil holds a ring-adorned hand up to silence him, his eyes flashing with warning. A final word.
You curtsy, the ruby velvet of the dress pooling on the ground as you bend. “Thank you for a wonderful evening, my lord. I look forward to addressing the corruption with you tomorrow. My Prince, thank you for your delightful company as well.”
Legolas walks around the table, around his father whose lips are pursed as he watches his son move towards you. As you stand, the Prince takes your hand, kissing the back of it gently, bowing slightly.
“Dear healer, I wish you the best of luck in your endeavors tomorrow.” With that Galion ushers you out the door. You look back before you exit, stealing one last glance at the Elvenking.
Your eyes meet his own and for a moment, you are surrounded by an inky blackness where the rest of the room falls away, and it is you and him in a void.
You take another step out from the door, your heart beating loudly against your chest and a weightless turning in your stomach that tingles down to your core. You breathe in the cold, jarring air of the halls once you leave the warm wing. It is sobering.
----------------------------
Left standing by the table, the two Sindar elves, the regent of and the heir to the Woodland Realm watch the door still even seconds after you departed.
Legolas is the first to turn and face his father. Thranduil is still transfixed on the door. Feeling eyes upon him, he breaks his trance, finally turning to face his son. Legolas gives him a knowing look, shaking his head, walking to the other side of the table to the untouched maps.
“What a thinly veiled effort this was,” Legolas shoves the maps on the table towards the Elvenking who turns to face the prince, scorned. He slowly shifts his shoulders, eyes cold and blue again.
“I’m not sure what you’re referring to,” Thranduil says, gesturing to the end of the table where the food had been cleared but three wine goblets sat, all empty or close to it. “I clearly put plenty of effort into the evening.”
Legolas strides back up to his father. “You invited her to dinner without telling me until just two hours before, you placed her next to you at the feast despite her not holding titles, I saw the way you looked at her during the Feast, and I saw it just now,” the Prince lists, eyes fierce, finger pointed.
This time, Thranduil’s voice lowers, coursing with authority, “I’m not sure what you are referring to.” Standing in olive, wrapped in red, Thranduil appears as if he is wrapped in wrath itself, the fire that flickers and plays off of the satin of the lining of the robe a threat rather than warmth.
“Is it not obvious? Unless you yourself don’t even realize!” Legolas raises his own voice to match. “Pushing some arrangement…you’ve grown fond of her in some way. Do not deny it.”
Thranduil’s hand closed slowly at his side. Fingers fold into his palm until his knuckles go pale, rings pressing into his skin. A cord tightens along his throat, sharp beneath the fall of his hair. And for one suspended breath, he says nothing at all. Then he turns away, reaching for the wine, and pouring with such tense precision that the silence felt far more dangerous than his raised voice. Glass in hand, Thranduil crosses to the hearth, putting distance between himself and his son.
“Your silence is damning,” Legolas calls out as his father walks away from him, though he has enough wisdom to know not to follow.
Thranduil stares into the fire, clutching the goblet so firmly that the metal is almost at risk of warping. The fire burns into his eyes, drying them. He embraces the sting of ash for a moment before pressing them shut. “Greenwood forbid that I care to arrange you with someone worthy, that you express clear interest in.”
“Adar nin,” Legolas pleads, softening his voice, “Let me be clear; I do admire her. She is beautiful, she is interesting, skilled, noble in spirit and by honorable approval of her Lords, but—”
“I fail to see how any of this proves why this is a poor match,” Thranduil bites out.
“I have my own road. I am helping rebuild this land after everything that has happened, after events that shaped the world beyond what you had yet seen in your millennia. That is worthy!” Legolas retorts, exasperated. “What is worse, is that you know this,” the prince says, lowering his voice to a quiet accusation. He approaches the hearth. “You know this, and yet you use me to place between yourself and what you want. You would make me the shape of your restraint to deny yourself. You’d keep me from what I desire, and her from you, who she clearly wants for.” His expression twists, briefly.
Legolas, now a foot from his father, looks up into eyes that mirror his own. “You want for her, father. I see it, the whole court saw it that night of the Feast, even the damned forest sees it, based on what I saw with the vines that night. Must you truly be the last?” Legolas lets his hands fall to his side with his expression. In that moment, Thranduil sees the last emotion he wished to ever witness on his son’s face. Pity.
Like a tidal wave, wrathful, cold fury boils up within him. Before he can verbally retort with the true vengeful venom of his wit, Legolas walks to the door and leaves, unceremoniously.
Flinging the contents of his cup into the fire, and watching it blaze white for a moment, bursting up and licking up the back of the fireplace, he watches the fire return to its curling orange flame. Even the fucking white blaze of the fire reminds him of you, your magic. The feeling in his chest is growing increasingly inescapable. And embarrassingly impossible to hide. He’d already failed at that.
He couldn’t send you away; the possibility of your healing — something he’d admit he’d grown increasingly faithful in — is too vital to the health of his realm. And his idea of pairing his son with you, keeping you close, keeping your sharp words at his throat — not just now but for a long, long time — failed tonight.
Yet, possibility blooms in his chest for a moment as he remembers his son’s words, she wants for me. He thinks on your face at dinner, full of vivacity, challenge, and your words full of clever earnestness, and your mouth that speaks them. His eyes sting again. He’d stared into the hypnotic flame for too long, imagining your curves in the shapes of the fire.
Desperation tugs at him and all he can do is blink and try to quash this pitiful hope, quell whatever desire he could, summon whatever control he could by tomorrow when he is with you...alone, lest his own darkness swallow the light you bleed.
I wrote a little fic about f!reader being a warrior queen. She can't stand monsters attacking her lands and she decides to fight them, but got badly injured.
Thranduil (husband) and Legolas (son) stay by your side while you're unconscious, worried about you.
Hope you'll enjoy! 🧝♀️
Warnings: no proof reading (and English isn't my first language), mentions of poison and sickness, reader almost dying, angst/fluff.
It was a bad idea.
Of course it was.
But you were tired of letting your cherished woods being eaten away by dark creatures. You didn’t want to abandon Mirkwood to them; you wanted to fight.
Thranduil told you numerous time that your guards were more than capable of dealing with them. But you were a warrior queen and there was no way you were going to leave all the fun to your soldiers.
Especially when you knew there was something more. The creatures seemed to get stronger lately, and you wanted to understand why.
Thranduil tried to forbid you to go after them, but at the moment your husband turned his back to go to a meeting in Rivendell, you went after the darkness.
You saw the shadows eating your forest alive. You understood how powerful it was and how to destroy it.
You planned and you attacked.
But not everything went as you wished and because of your foolishness, one of your soldiers was going to die.
You wouldn't have beared the guilt of it so you saved him before you could be stopped. You killed the beast, but not before the monstrosity sank its teeth in your leg. Its poison instantly burnt you and you cried out in pain.
Your last thought was about Thranduil and Legolas. Were you never going to see them again? Were they going to lose you to the darkness?
Everything went black after that.
You stayed in a world of fire and pain for a while. You didn’t know for how long. More than once, you thought about giving up. It would be so much easier. So much softer.
However you were a warrior.
A queen.
A wife.
A mother.
Giving up was not an option.
After weeks, you opened your eyes. You were resting in a bright room.
Too bright.
You winced in pain because of it and then because of the liquid fire engulfing your body. You heard voices around you, something about not moving. It sounded a lot like Thranduil.
The darkness engulfed you again, but this time you went away with the clear feeling of your husband's hand in yours.
It was comforting and it seemed to keep the fire at bay.
"Are you burning my forest?" You croaked out, the iron taste of blood covering your tongue
When you opened your eyes again, it was dark outside, not even the moon was there to greet you.
But you felt better. No more unbearable pain.
Legolas was pacing out in the room while Thranduil was still holding your hand, watching through the window. You noticed flames outside, and it worried you.
"Mother!"
"Beloved"
Both your men instantly leaned toward you, Thranduil bringing your hand to his lips and Legolas sitting on the bed next to you. You could see the relief washing over their gorgeous features.
"So, the fires?" You asked again
"We're burning the creatures." Thranduil explained with fatigue.
He stood up, kissed your forehead before looking for a healer.
"I thought Father was losing his mind when I arrived. The doctors were pretty pessimistic about you." Legolas whispered
"I'm a warrior and a queen." You shrugged, as if it explained your resilience
"You are, mother. But I now know where my recklessness comes from." Your son smirked
You quietly laughed.
"You might be right about it. Even waited for your father to not be around to find troubles." You paused "Is he angry at me, you think?"
"Concerned and exhausted only." Legolas replied "You have been unconscious for over two weeks and father refused to leave your side, no matter how much everyone told him he needed some rest."
You groaned. "Great, I'll get an overprotective husband for some times now." You rolled your eyes.
At this instant, your healer came in and checked on you. Thranduil's eyes never strayed away from your face. You could see the dark circles under them. You noticed how restless your lover seemed to be; his fingers playing with his rings nonstop.
"So?" He finally asked the healer
"The Queen needs rest and to keep her bandage on her legs clean. Otherwise, she'll be fine." She said
"Good. Are you done?" Thranduil asked and when the healer nodded, he added: "Then you can leave."
You gave him a look of disapproval. You whispered a gentle thanks to the healer as she left. She turned around to bow to you before silently closing the door.
Thranduil was by your side in an instant, his right hand tenderly cupping your jaw.
"Legolas, how about you get some fresh water to your mother?" Thranduil asked without turning to his son, a simple pretext to be left alone with you.
Legolas understood and disappeared after having kissed your cheek.
Thranduil waited for your son to close the door to talk again.
"You're the smartest person I know and yet you've been particularly stupid. And you waited for me to be away to be foolish." Thranduil told you
"You were neglecting me. I thought if I almost died it would force you to look after me." You teased with a little smile.
Thranduil plunged his intense look in yours, making sure there was no truth behind your words. He didn’t seem satisfy and sat by your side.
"The star of my life." He murmured
"I'm only joking, husband. We both know you never neglect me. And I need no excuse to look for troubles." You quickly added
"Come on, my love, don't say such awful things." You replied, bringing his palm to your lips to kiss. "Lay down with me, please." You asked
"I'll still take a better care of what is mine. I had a glimpse of an immortal life without you, and only madness, bitterness and loneliness were awaiting for me." He stroked your cheek "What would Mirkwood become without its light?"
Thranduil was quick to throw his coat away as well as his boots. He entered the bed and quickly brought you to him. You snuggled into his chest and kissed his neck.
"I love you. Please don't be mad at me, I'll wait for you next time I want to find troubles." You cutely murmured to him.
He sighed and hugged you impossibly closer "I love you too and I don't know how to be mad at you." He paused "But yes, do wait for me. Why didn't you tell me about it? Am I truly neglecting and upsetting you?" He sadly asked
You quickly shook your head "You're good to me. Don't make me feel guilty for a not so funny teasing. I just knew you'd try and prevent me from going out and fight the monsters." You peppered his chest with kisses as a silent apology
"I prefer to fight by your side, than worrying myself to death."
"It does sound better indeed, my love."
With the silent promise to wait for him next time, you fell asleep in his warm embrace, while Thranduil allowed himself to relax for the first time in weeks.
Heey! Can you write something with Elven queen Reader? It’s late at night, and Thranduil is still attending to his duties—reading letters or something similar. The Elven Queen tries to persuade him to go to bed (I know Elves don’t sleep the way we do, but let’s ignore that haha), but he keeps ignoring her; she resorts to saying absurd things just to get his attention, while he merely nods or murmurs "yes, yes." Since nothing works, she uses her best "weapon"—something she had been saving to share when they were alone and at ease: the news that she is expecting a baby.
Thank you and byee <33
That's actually so sweet and genius why haven't I thought of it. Well, anyhow let's get to it!
Notes: Female, elven queen reader! Pregnancy! I know it can be a deal-breaker fic wise for a lot of people so I feel the need to mention it again in the notes. English is not my first language. Feel free to request anything else :). NOT BETA READ so if you find typos or anything of the sort please point it out so I can correct it.
My masterlist
Word count: 868
~Shocking News~
It had been almost a whole day of Thranduil just going on and on with his work. He'd stared early in the mornings before the sun even rose, and was still going at it way past midnight. Whilst Reader was well aware from her own experience that elves don't need sleep, at least not in the traditional sense, she knew some form of rest is required. If not for health reasons then for productivity ones at the very least. Not to mention, Reader has been looking for a window of relaxing time to be able to give her news to Thranduil. This meant she was now on convincing duty. Trying her hardest to convince Thranduil to step away from his work and take a break.
"Hey lovely, don't you think you've spent a little long holed up in here?"
She greeted, stepping into his work room and gently shutting the door behind her then stepping towards his desk. He didn't give much of a response, just a little huff and a shrug as his eyes stayed plastered to the papers in front of him
"I'm fine meleth nîn. This is important business that I must tend to."
Reader eyed the plate of food in Thranduil's desk, now gone cold besides his work before deciding to press further.
"So important that you'll skip your favourite meal?"
Thranduil finally spared a short glance up as if to say 'Don't start being smart with me' before looking back down at his work and giving a dismissive reply.
"Elves can perform just fine without food for one day."
Reader, knowing this would probably take a while, took a seat besides him and decided to result to being annoying. If reason won't pull him out of his work then an environment not fit for work surely would.
"Did you see that raccoon that's been sneaking to the palace lately?"
Thranduil, much used to her antics just nodded along, humming quietly as he scanned through the papers he was meant to respond to, murmuring responses here and there, not wanting to be entirely dismissive to his own wife.
"Yes I believe the servants mentioned it..."
"Yes well I was thinking of adopting it-"
Thranduil, someone who would have refused this under any other circumstance, now not focusing on the words coming out of Reader's mouth just nodded along and replied without thinking.
"Whatever you want love."
Seeing his dismissive reply, Reader decided to see how far she could push this obscure idea before Thranduil even began listening in.
"And I was thinking we could make it a little nest in our bedroom? You know, so we can bond with it more."
Thranduil, still sorting through stacks upon stacks of papers just nodded along and hummed a little 'Yes' in reply, which only made Reader want to try and push it further.
"And we could make it custom armour and little swords and have it join our guards."
"Yes, yes, brilliant idea."
The fact that even that obscure picture hadn't pulled Thranduil out of his work was starting to get on Reader's nerves, deciding to finally drop something she knew he wouldn't be able to dismiss.
"I'm sure our kid would find it adorable."
That finally made Thranduil pause. Not quite addressing what she had said yet, just quietly thinking it over and over in his head, as if trying to figure out if he'd heard it right.
"Our kid...?"
Reader didn't reply, straight away, just let Thranduil process it in his own time. The silence said more than words could have, and all of a sudden Thranduil looked almost guilty for not having paused his work sooner.
"I guess I could take a break..."
The two made their way back to their shared chambers, Reader making sure to grab Thranduil some proper, warm, food before curling up against his side on the couch in their room.
The man just looked shocked, unsure if what Reader had admitted was actually true or if it was just something she'd blurred out in the hopes of grabbing his attention.
"Are you... Actually"?
He was at a loss for words. The respectable elven king reduced to a confused mess by both the shock of the news and all the stress of his work.
"Yes, my love."
Thranduil didn't say anything else, just closed his eyes and gave a long sigh to ground himself then nodded and looked up at her, looking ever so guilty about his previous actions.
"I'm so sorry, meleth nîn- Tomorrow I'll write to everyone I need to about lowering the work load on you. And I'll do my best to be around more often. Promise."
Reader was more than content with that. The two falling into a relaxed rhythm for the night as Thranduil caught up on some much needed rest and food.
Once nerves had finally calmed down, Reader curled into his side, deciding to tease him a little to lighten the atmosphere.
"You owe me a raccoon now you know?"
That teasing chuckle and comment from Reader was all Thranduil needed to relax fully, knowing she was very much alright and still herself.
"We'll discuss that after the baby, how about that?"
Hold still is so cute! Could you write something with a similar tone for bruce wayne again? Maybe they find a quiet moment away from the crowd at one of his charity galas to share an intimate dance?
𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒
• bruce wayne
{summary} a quiet dance with bruce
{content} established relationship
The ballroom is dazzling in the way Wayne Foundation galas always are — chandeliers throwing gold light over a sea of silk and champagne flutes, a string quartet doing its best to be heard over polite laughter. You've been to a dozen of these. You could probably recite the seating chart in your sleep.
But you never get tired of watching Bruce work a room like this.
He's up at the podium now, one hand resting easy on the edge of it, the other tucked into his pocket like he hasn't got a single care in the world. The Bruce Wayne smile is doing its job — easy, a little self-deprecating, exactly charming enough to make the donors feel like they're in on some private joke. You know better. You know the tightness at the corner of his jaw that no one else would catch, the way his eyes are doing quick, practiced sweeps of the room even as he delivers a line about the foundation's new youth outreach numbers.
And then, for just a second, his gaze finds yours.
It isn't long. A donor wouldn't even notice it. But something in his expression eases, just slightly, like he needed the anchor point. Like the whole speech was for the room, but that half-second was for you.
You bite back a smile and lift your glass to him, small and private. He almost — almost — loses the thread of his sentence.
The applause comes a few minutes later, warm and generous, and then the foundation's board chair steps up to say a few words about the evening's fundraising total. The room's attention shifts. Bruce's doesn't.
He comes down off the little stage with the unhurried ease of a man who has nowhere to be, weaving through the crowd with a nod here, a handshake there, never quite stopping. And then he's in front of you, and his hand finds yours like it was always going to.
"Come with me," he says, low, just for you.
"Bruce, you're supposed to be mingling—"
"I mingled." He's already pulling you gently toward the tall glass doors at the far end of the room, half-hidden behind a curtain of pale drapery. "For two hours. I get a break."
You don't argue. You never really do, not about this.
The balcony air hits cool against your skin after the crowded warmth of the ballroom, a relief that makes you exhale without meaning to. Gotham spreads out below in its usual glittering sprawl, and behind you, muffled through the glass, the quartet has started up something slow.
Bruce doesn't say anything right away. He just turns to face you, and for a moment he's not smiling the gala smile anymore — just looking at you, something unguarded in it that he doesn't let many people see.
"You did good in there," you tell him.
"I always do good in there," he says, but there's a wry, tired edge to it. "It's exhausting."
"I know." You reach up, straighten a lapel that didn't need straightening. "You looked at me. During the speech."
"Did I." Not a question. His mouth curves.
"Very unprofessional of you."
"Terribly." He catches your hand where it rests on his chest, doesn't let it go. The music drifts out through the closed doors, soft and indistinct, more feeling than melody. "Dance with me."
"Out here? There's no floor. There's barely music."
"There's enough." He's already drawing you in, one hand settling warm at your waist, the other still folded around yours. "I don't need a floor. I need five minutes where I'm not Bruce Wayne."
That undoes you a little, every time. You step into him, let him lead you into an easy sway that has more to do with closeness than choreography, your feet barely moving, his forehead dropping to rest against yours.
"Just Bruce," you murmur.
"Just Bruce," he agrees. "For five minutes."
You dance like that — slow, wordless, the party a warm blur of sound behind glass and the whole city glittering beneath you like it's holding still just for this. His thumb traces small, absent circles at your waist. Your hand curls into his lapel like you could keep him here if you just held on tight enough.
"They're going to notice we're gone," you say, eventually, though you make no move to pull away.
"Let them." His voice is quieter now, rougher at the edges — the version of him that only comes out when it's just you. "I'll go back in. Shake a few more hands. Write a few more checks." A pause, his hand tightening slightly at your waist. "I just wanted this first."
You tip your head back to look at him, and whatever he sees on your face makes something in his shoulders loosen further, like he's set something down he's been carrying all night.
"Five minutes," you remind him softly.
"Five minutes," he says, and doesn't move to go back inside. Not yet.
The music plays on, faint and far away, and for a little while longer, Gotham can wait.
Summary: Clark finds out about your deepest, darkest secret: you have a crush on Superman.
Pairing: Corenswet!Clark Kent x Girlfriend!Reader
Word Count: 2.5k
Themes: Established-ish Relationship, Crushing/Pining/Unrequited Love (just go with it, it's gonna be funny), Teasing, The Downside of Dating Someone with a Secret Identity, Tooth-Rotting Domestic Fluff, Left Open-Ended
Notes:
ANOTHER FUCKING FIC THAT HAS SAT IN MY DRAFTS FOR ALMOST A YEAR. August 18th 2025. I'm sure it's been done before, but I wanted to put my spin on it as someone who is loathe to admit they're crushing on a celebrity or new character. And the hypno Glasses aside, David has so many distinct looks in this movie that there is no way that it honestly feels intentional that he's made to look different between all of our different Clark/Superman iterations from one setting to the next.
So we're just going with it.
Please do not interact if you are not 18+.
Enjoy!
---
Nobody was supposed to know. Ever. Never.
You'd kept your crush on Superman a secret for three whole years. But it only took a few months of dating for your boyfriend, Clark Kent, to figure it out.
Actually, him finding out was coincidental. Despite the fact that he was smart as a whip, he'd stumbled into the little tidbit of information on a random night in at your place.
You were lounging on your couch after a long day at work, waiting for him to show up. Takeout containers were spread across your coffee table, along with a stack of DVD’s Clark had brought over from your last movie night.
“I pay for, like, every streaming service under the sun, Clark,” you told him the first time you'd invited him over.
“Yeah, but there’s just something special about DVD extras.” He said, voice squeaking. He looked a little bashful as he fussed with his glasses. "Have you ever seen Pirates of the Caribbean with the commentary track? It's an experience unto itself."
That was the start of your Friday night routine of dinner, movies, and then cuddling and chatting while you enjoyed whatever extras were on Disc 2. Maybe some smooching too if you were lucky. You were always lucky. It was the perfect date night in with the perfect boyfriend.
Only tonight he was late, and you couldn't exactly blame him. The evening news had a special bulletin about a giant robotic Toy Soldier terrorizing downtown, and all traffic was slowed down as Superman dealt with yet another unexpected adversary.
“Sources say that this might be the work of Winslow Schott, who has made public threats against the Metropolis City Council and LuthorCorp after the condemnation and subsequent closure of his toy factory in Queensland Park…” the anchor announced.
“Damn,” you muttered as clips of Schott were displayed on-screen.
But as time went on and the live news feed showed Metropolis' beloved hero handle the mechanical menace, you rightfully got a little distracted.
At first, it was just scrolling social media to see if anyone had a live feed of the attack from a different vantage point than the evening news did. Then it was the commentary on the recent rise of metahuman vigilantism, as was always the case whenever one of these attacks occurred.
Then your algorithm cursed you, and you were in deep with all of the Superman-specific videos. Especially the edits.
The thirst edits.
You honestly felt silly watching them. Laying on your couch, crab rangoon crumbs down your shirt, legs kicking in the air whenever you got too giggly and flustered. You always thought that the time of fangirl crushes and youtube edits of beloved celebrities and fictional character crushes was over for you. Not only that, you had the nicest, sweetest, handsomest boyfriend who caused your heart to ache whenever he was around.
But seeing all of the videos of Superman, soaring and fighting and smiling...all set to the catchiest music? You were done for.
That was why you would take the secret to your grave.
And why your heart skipped a beat as the door to your apartment opened and your boyfriend walked in.
And why you suddenly and unexpectedly played a game of Hot Potato when you fumbled to quickly close out of every app before he could notice how embarrassed you were.
"Sorry I'm late, I should've texted," Clark sounded a little winded as he dropped his work bag in the hall and shut the door behind him. "The...the, uh, the trains were all stopped, some big to-do out by City Hall. I had to turn around and then I figured that Perry would want me to get a statement for tomorrow morning's issue. And, well, you know how chatty Superman is."
You batted your hand against your airborne phone and sent it to the floor, then dove backwards on the couch, arms behind your head in some kind of sultry but sweaty, disheveled pinup pose as he rounded the corner and saw you.
"Uhh," Clark looked at you like you'd grown a second head. "What...uh..." His eyes darted to the dvd menu on the television screen and the food spread out on the coffee table, then back to you. His hand involuntarily reached up to fiddle with his glasses as he blushed. If you hadn't been so mortified you would find the whole thing hilarious. "What's...up?"
"You know, just waiting for you," you said, swallowing the bite of food that was still in your mouth. "Hey."
"Hey," he greeted suspiciously.
"Glad you made it."
"Me...too?" He laughed. You shifted and sat normally, dusting the wonton crumbs from the front of your shirt; he didn't hesitate to cross the short distance, lean down and kiss you. "Was I interrupting a moment between you and our dinner?"
"I mean, if I had the chance to trade you for an anthropomorphic spring roll from Spice Wok, I would be very tempted," you joked.
"Not the eggplant parm from Vito's?" he asked, easily reciting it alongside some of your other favorites from various takeout joints that had made an appearance recently--pad see ew, palak paneer, birria tacos. The fact that he knew them all off the top of his head after only a few months was impressive; none of your other boyfriends had ever bothered.
"Too messy," you answered. "All of them. I'd have to change the sheets a lot more."
He kissed you again and you sighed into his mouth; crisis averted.
He then fell onto the couch beside you and pulled the tie from his neck, easily getting comfortable.
"Looks like we're bringing out the big guns," he said, looking at the dvd menu on-screen again. Luke Skywalker stared at the twin suns of Tatooine, contemplating his fate. "Brave choice, starting with A New Hope. Have we really graduated to this level of trusting one another? How did you know I didn't want to start with Phantom Menace?"
"I didn't. But I feel like this is going to either make or break us, so it was best to get it out of the way so we could have a clean breakup," you explained, then winked. "Lemme get you a drink."
"Did you get Mountain Dew like you said you would last time you went shopping?" He smiled bashfully, the little dimple you loved making an appearance.
"Sure did," you laughed and poked him in the cheek. "Your favorite."
There was something about that dimple that nagged at the back of your mind as you walked into the kitchen. Not just how absolutely adorable it was, but something else. Like...like your brain was forcing you try to question something, you just didn't know what it was.
Maybe there was something else you were forgetting? What could it be?
"You dropped your phone, honey!" Clark announced as you opened the fridge and reached inside. It took you a second before you realized. You banged your head against the top of the fridge as you jumped in shock; you didn't know if you were seeing stars because you'd actually given yourself a concussion or because your blood pressure suddenly spiked to dangerous levels as you panicked. Your hand immediately went to your head and you winced at the initial soreness, then you beelined back to the living room.
"I'll come get it!" You shouted, trying to keep your voice even. "Haha, silly me, I must've forgotten. I need to put it on silent if we're gonna watch a...movie."
All of the blood felt like it drained from your body as you rounded the corner and the sounds of Ginuwine's Pony echoed through the room. Clark was hunched over your phone staring in disbelief as the video you shamelessly knew by heart because you'd watched it many times flashed before his eyes.
It started off tame with shots of Superman as he smiled and waved at the citizens of Metropolis, having saved them for the hundredth time. Then it got progressively steamier. Superman's shoulders flexing beneath his suit as he punched through Metallo's suit of armor. A zoomed-in shot of his handsome face, strained as he caught a meteor that had almost impacted the city-center...complete with a filter of cartoonish love hearts. And finally best worst clip of all, a super cut, pun intended, of the way his thigh muscles looked when he was about to take off in flight.
"Oh my god," you said, mortified. "Oh my god."
"What is this?" Clark muttered, voice soft and emotionless.
"It's...it's not what it looks like!" You scrambled over to him, leaning over the arm of the couch so you could grab your phone from his hands. He pulled it away and you almost face-planted right into the cushions. "It...I hate when tiktok gives you the craziest videos."
Clark's thumb brushed over the screen and the next video started.
"Go get it," Superman's voice came from the speakers. "You have to let the other dogs have a chance too, buddy!" You knew what video that was too. One of Superman playing with his dog in Centennial Park, amidst the background sound from the Lego Movie. You were screaming internally as it played on the phone.
Blah Blah Blah, proper name, place name.
Clark scrolled a few more videos and it was a lot of the same, and then you realized that he wasn't just scrolling through your FYP. No, he'd clicked into your likes.
"Superman is just..." You cleared your voice, trying to sound less like an idiot who was coming up with excuses. "All over the internet. Can't help but like the videos of him, you know?"
You finally swallowed you pride and looked up at Clark.
You didn't know what you expected. Maybe he would look at you with betrayal in his eyes. Or maybe disgust. But he was laughing. Like actually laughing. Eyes lit up, cheeks round and flushed, dimples at their most dangerous--to you, at least--shoulders shaking.
"What?" He shook his head and just laughed harder, eyes watering as he fought to control it. You went from horror to disbelief. "Clark don't laugh at me! He's just so handsome, I don't know. I have eyes. As do, you know, a million other people on the internet sharing these videos. Come on, what do you expect?"
He shook his head again and fell against the back of the couch. He dropped the phone on the cushion beside him, where you snatched it greedily and finally locked the screen to shut it up. He then slid his hands beneath his glasses to cover his face as he continued chuckling.
"Clark!" You climbed onto the couch, practically in his lap as you shook him. "Clark! Come on, talk to me. It's not funny!"
"It's..." He got one word out--ONE--before he broke out into laughter again. "It's funnier than you realize, honey. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
You sighed impatiently and crossed your arms over your chest, almost letting yourself get angry as he continued chuckling here and there, finally coming down from the euphoric high that he'd apparently been afflicted with.
"Ah," he sniffed and sat up straight, fixing his glasses. "I needed that laugh. That was a good one."
"Was it?" you asked petulantly.
"Come on, don't be a grumpy wump." His fingers found your sides and you squirmed as he tried to tickle you to get you to stop pouting. You weren't falling for it, though. "My girlfriend is a Superman Fangirl. It's hilarious."
"Hey, watch it," you exclaimed and pointed a finger in his face. "I am not a fangirl."
"Uh, based on how many videos I just flipped through? You absolutely are," he nodded. "How come you never ask me about my interviews with him if you love him so much?"
You groaned and grabbed one of the throw pillows on your couch so you could whack him with it.
"I don't love Superman!" You shouted, each word emphasized with a whack of the pillow against him. "I love you, you big idiot!"
"Not the way I ever imagined us saying we loved each other for the first time," he teased.
"It's just nice to look at videos sometimes and be...lighthearted and crushy."
"Oh and you don't get that from me?" He feigned a pout and then started laughing again as you hit him again.
"Of course I do!" He grabbed the pillow before you could hit him anymore and he pulled you into his lap. "I have the biggest crush on you, actually, but you know...it's different. You're already my boyfriend, I can't be giggling over you."
"What I'm hearing is that you want Superman to be your boyfriend so you can stop giggling over him."
You groaned again and fell forward, burying your head in his shoulder. Your voice was muffled as you grunted, "I hate you."
"First you love me, then you hate me," he continued to tease and you poked him in the side, getting him to squirm instead, fleetingly ticklish as he was. He sighed and hugged you closer to him. "Honey, can I tell you a secret?"
You turned your head slightly to look at him. "You have a secret crush on Hawkgirl and you have a folder full of pictures of her on your phone?"
"No, of course I...wait," he paused. "Do you have a folder full of pictures of Superman on your phone?"
"...no comment," you muttered and went back to smother yourself in his shoulder, but he pushed you away.
"No, stop that, it's ok." He reassured you, smile returning to his face, dimples right there mocking you with their cuteness. You huffed an annoyed sign and tried to stay outwardly cranky but you couldn't. "I get it, and like I said, it's funny. Funnier than you even realize."
"Yeah? Because it feels like I'm going to die of embarrassment," you told him matter-of-factly.
"I’m gonna tell you my secret because I think we've been together for long enough, and because I not only trust you, but I love you," he poked at your sides again, clearly trying to get a smile back to your face, as though his admission didn't do it on it's own. "And it isn't that I secretly like the Star Wars Holiday Special."
Your brows jumped as you stared at him judgmentally for a second.
"Open mindedness, ok?" He asked, although you weren't sure if he meant it about the Star Wars Holiday Special or whatever his other secret was. "I'm still Clark Kent, still your boyfriend."
"I know that," you nodded and then waited patiently.
And you weren't sure what you were expecting from him.
But it wasn't the fact that he reached up and slowly, hesitantly, pulled his glasses off.
Suddenly, mild-mannered Clark Kent was no longer sitting before you. Well, yeah it was him, but it wasn't just him. Your brain finally put two and two together where you'd seen that dimple before, as he seemingly transformed in front of you.
Except he didn't. Except he did. Except not at all.
"You...you're..." You weren't sure what to feel. Your face get hot as you went through a whole array of emotions. Embarrassment, attraction, disbelief and finally anger. Because he'd had the audacity laugh at you. "You're SUPERMAN?!"
Reader who just found an older camera in the bottom of a box while moving in. It’s kinda huge and bulky, so she has to use it with both hands. Clark is very excited by the discovery because now he can follow her around with the camera. Taking like ‘dead wife’ footage while she’s trying to do dishes or eat breakfast. And she doesn’t mind him using it for that, if anything she told him to ‘fill up the sd card so I can get a new one’. But her favorite way to use it is to record Clark. Having him lay naked on their bed, hands clammy and pressed by his side, as she holds the camera and traces down his body. He shivers and whimpers whenever she traces down his thigh, following the ridge of the muscle. Or whenever she scratches down his chest. Reader who loves to film Clark stroking himself, focusing the camera on all his veins and subtle twitches. Commanding him from behind the lens to slow down, stop, just the tip, go faster but don’t cum yet. Usually the footage is just on Clark, but one night he finally convinced her to let him film her. Swapping the camera, he tries to steady his hand as he holds it up, struggling to decide between looking directly at her, or through the camera. Reader who blows Clark on camera, holding her hair back while he whines and groans out soft instructions for her. Reader who lets Clark cum down her throat and smiles for the camera after she swallows
yesterday, you and bruce had an argument. nothing major, just a slight one. and today he was apologizing to you— in his own way
“bruce! slow— fuuuuck, slow down!”
you’ll be damned if he slowed down. your mind was dizzy from bruce’s mouth practically leeched on your cunt, his tongue lapping your clit at a pace that made breathless gasps of his name leave your gaped lips, almost seeing stars in your vision.
his large arms were hooked under your legs and pulled you closer, making sure you didn’t move an inch and that your legs were still spread while he got to work
“im so sorry for the other day” bruce murmured, his tongue not stopping for a second and way too focused on how good you tasted. “wasn’t in my right mind, mm”
he moaned a low sound of pleasure from how good you tasted, burying his face in between your legs more and applying more pressure with both his tongue and the tip of his nose. that sent a buzz through your body, a moan immediately leaving your lips before you could control yourself
bruce’s blabbers didn’t stop and in fact, only grew with each second of suffocating his face in your pussy, apologizing while talking about how good you tasted at the same time.
and all your efforts of trying to at least be stubborn all went down the drain the moment your orgasm washed into his mouth, so intense it had you arching your back more to his mouth.
even as you soaked his chin and mouth, bruce didn't stop for a second and licked every drop of your mess with a victory smirk hiding between your legs
damn you, bruce wayne
—————————————————————————
and now back to your daily programmmm (ill admit my brain blanked when i was writing this)
"sweetheart, are you sure you don't want to wear a different coat?" bruce asked. he had been trailing behind you as you tore both closets apart in pursuit of warmth.
you had decided on his navy coat. the one with italian-imported cashmere, hand stitched hemming, and too many visits to the tailor for alterations. you'd sworn up and down it was "so extra" when he first commissioned it.
"no, i do not, honey." you replied, a tad bitterly.
stubbornness. that was great.
bruce tried to keep the edge out of his voice, "what about that jacket you bought in–"
"none of mine fit me." you snapped, slipping the coat on. "maybe you should have put more thought into that before getting me pregnant, bruce."
"that's..." bruce let out a long sigh as he rubbed his temple. he gave a moment's consideration to his words before he spoke again, "y/n. i love when you wear my clothes, you know this. it's just..maybe we should look for a different coat? that color doesn't really go with your outfit anyways. fault of the coat of course."
"i don't care if the coat matches my outfit or not! i'm about to have a baby in like three weeks. so long as something fits and is warm, fashion is the least of my worries."
bruce's jaw worked for a moment before he let out a small disbelieving laugh, "baby, you cared yesterday.."
"yes, well, that was yesterday." you muttered as you shoved your hands into each respective pocket of the coat.
bruce visibly winced, which you raised your eyebrows at.
"if you're hiding your burner phone in here, you should have found a better–" the words died on your tongue as your fingers closed around something small in one of the pockets. you glanced at bruce.
he stared back with a small grimace on his face, his lips pursed into a thin line.
you pulled the little object out before staring at it.
a square...box.
oh.
oh.
a ring box. in your favorite color.
you let out a gasp as you hurriedly looked back at bruce. he stared at the box for a moment more, an "oh well" expression blossoming across his features.
bruce met your eyes finally. "i was going to get a different box–"
you made haste shoving the box back into the jacket pocket before he could completely begin his tangent. "maybe we should look for another coat," you said, slipping it off and handing it off to him.
bruce smiled as he took the coat back from you, holding back a laugh, "you think?"
"yeah. this one doesn't go with my outfit."
note: bruce wayne who can't keep his soon-to-be-wife out of the loop for long, so he immediately starts spilling every thought he's had and every step he's taken during the proposing process to her the moment she finds out 🥹
Your not-so-tiny two-year crush on Clark Kent is an open secret in the office, hopefully one that he still isn't privy to. However, the holidays have a way of bringing feelings to the surface, regardless of whether you’re ready or not.
▸ PAIRING: Clark Kent x F!Reader
▸ WARNINGS: NSFW 18+, hurt/comfort, fluff, slight miscommunication, holiday party alcohol, eating out against wall, penetration (with condom hurrah!), canonically big d*ck
▸ WORD COUNT: 15.8K
▸ A/N: how i've missed you clark. one of my fave storylines from the movie but with a much happier, sexier ending. special shoutout to @pinksplace clark's irl gf. if you enjoy this, please like / reblog / comment, i truly appreciate every single one! each one makes my entire day <3
↤ holiday collection masterlist | main masterlist
The holiday season comes with its joys and woes. There is magic in the air as you walk down the crowded streets, jazzy Christmas tunes crooning in your ears, the delighted giggles of children chasing after each other in the winter wonderland, and the sheer number of tourists gleefully traipsing down the sidewalks with the kind of enthusiasm that you don’t see from actual Metropolis residents.
While you are swayed by the decor and the uplifting atmosphere, you are also inevitably reminded of the fact that you are incredibly, indubitably, irrevocably single.
It’s not for a lack of trying. You’ve been on the apps, swiping left and right until the system embarrassingly tells you that it’s time to call it a day. You’ve been to singles parties when you have time, meeting more weirdos than not and making a beeline for the exit ten minutes into the event. You’ve even had many of your friends set you up with their friends, but it all ends the same.
At some point, perhaps you have to admit that the problem lies with you.
“It is with you. The problem, I mean,” Lois grumbles under her breath.
You frown at her, displeased that you have to take accountability for your current predicament. The two of you are trudging side by side, you trying to scooch past aggressive fast-walkers and Lois elbowing anyone who gets in her way.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means the reason why you can’t seem to be interested in any of these men you are seeing is because you keep comparing everyone to Clark.”
Oh dear. Embarrassed is an understatement for how you feel every time yet another new person outs you for your crush. While Lois is long-time in-the-know, catching wind of it the moment you turned your googly-eyes on him over two years ago, many others have been quick to point out your obsession with the journalist.
It’s getting to the point where you’re convinced the entire office knows.
“The entire office definitely knows,” Lois deadpans again. Are you saying all these things out loud? “Yes, you are. You wear your heart — and clearly your thoughts — on your sleeve, it’s a wonder you’ve been able to keep this from Clark for so long.”
Pressing your lips together, you shoulder your way through the rotating doors of The Daily Planet and grunt when it doesn’t budge as fast. Lois gives it a good shove on the other side of the glass door so that you can stumble your way through.
“It’s not my fault,” you pout, “also, it can’t be the entire office that knows.”
Cue your conversation with Perry as he summons you straight into his office the moment you walk through the doors after a very nice lunch break. You give a little uh-oh to Lois who only shrugs, nudging you in that direction.
Perry rotates the Rubik’s Cube on his desk. It seems like he hasn’t made much progress since you were last in here. He only toys around with it when he has a critical topic to discuss. You wonder if your benefits run to the end of the year if he fires you right before the holidays; maybe you can finally dub him the real-life Grinch.
“You’re not firing me, are you?” You blurt out. “Because I don’t think I can handle being unemployed over Christmas. I still have to buy gifts for my little cousins, then I also have a couple of nieces and nephews. Gosh, not to mention my mom wants a new toaster oven for—”
“You’re not getting fired,” Perry interrupts with a resigned huff. He presses his fingertips against the pulsing vein on his forehead and you clamp your lips shut. “I have two questions for you. Well, the first one comes with plenty of follow-ups.”
“Shoot.”
Your name rolls off his tongue like a desperate plea. “How long is it that you’ve been working here?”
You do the mental math, counting backwards from this very day, this very minute. “Two years, five months… six days… and, I don’t know, like three hours? We started my first day pretty late because of the fire alarm, so it’s kind of hard to say—”
Perry’s hand in the air silences you. Your lips seal closed again. “And how long have you been in love with Clark Kent, one of our very own?”
A squeak escapes you as you count the hours again in your head. “Um, two years, five months, six days, and an hour and thirty minutes.”
“Thought so,” Perry says with yet another deep sigh. You swear he’s sprouted more white hair since you last saw him yesterday. The rate at which he is aging appears to correlate with the number of conversations he has with you.
“Do you think everybody knows?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. The answer is quick.
“Do you think Clark knows?”
This one he pauses for, but he still responds, “Yes.”
“Well,” you begin again with a sigh. “This is quite troubling then, isn’t it?” Perry only looks at you exasperated. “Why are we discussing my love life — or lack thereof for that matter?”
“Because I need you to get a grip on it. Because I need both you and Kent to work on the senator’s stripper scandal. Draft by tonight. He has most of the research, but I trust you to be more delicate about the situation in the piece.”
You only manage to nod. Working with Clark. Working on a very important, very heavy piece for the Planet. Working until very late. Working just the two of you. You can do this. Sure, it’s not as if you haven’t worked with him before. It’s not as if you want to blurt out how much you love his crooked glasses or his curly hair or his big, beefy chest every time you see him. You just have to remind yourself to shut the hell up whenever that urge arises.
“Are you still breathing?” Perry prompts warily.
“Barely,” you wheeze.
“Well, you better start figuring that out soon. Better yet, invite that man out for a drink, he looks like he never lets loose. Since he’s the exclusive rep for Superman, he has been working nonstop. While you’re at it, you might as well tell him that you want to marry him and have lots of babies with him.”
Your jaw drops as you admonish Perry with heat crawling up your neck. “This has got to be an HR violation on so many levels, I’m going to have a talk with Mel about your nosiness.”
“Yeah, then we can talk about that year-end bonus.”
That promptly shuts you up. Another HR violation! You should keep a notebook on everything Perry’s doing against your career at this point.
“Don’t even think about doing whatever the hell you’re concocting up in that head of yours.”
“How do you know I want lots of babies?”
“You don’t want a lot of babies. You want a lot of babies with him.”
All this time, have you laid all of your cards out on the table? Open for the world to see. It seems everyone has been reading you like a book today. You feel like a novel stripped bare of its cover, down to the spine.
He’s not wrong per se. It’s not like you have a particular fondness towards children; heaven knows you have enough nieces and nephews to drain your savings every year. But thinking about Clark and how soft he is and how gentle, how he could be so, so good with children, has you thinking about all sorts of circumstances in which you and he could raise a whole pen of children.
But first, you must create the child. In order to create the child, you must perform coitus. To perform coitus, your feelings must be reciprocated. Now, this is where it gets challenging — if you want your feelings reciprocated, you need to at least let him know of your feelings.
And that’s something — after two years, five months, six days, and an hour and thirty-five minutes — you cannot even begin to imagine doing.
Luckily, before you can spiral into your bottomless pit of despair, Perry waves you out the door as he returns his attention to the article he’s redlining. “Let Clark know. I want that on my desk by tonight.”
“Tonight? I thought you were joking,” you gasp, “that’s so—”
“Tomorrow is the holiday party, which means nobody will be productive in the office. I want that piece out in two days. Ergo, I need the first draft in my inbox by tonight. It doesn’t matter what time.”
“Can you like just go to sleep, please?”
Perry gives you another pointed look, reminding you that he is in fact a demon that does not need a wink of sleep. He flicks his fingers towards the door like he’s tired of your presence at this point. You have no other choice but to skulk back to your desk with a deep, deep sigh.
Apparently, it’s a deep enough sigh that Clark perks up from his desk and rolls out on his chair towards you. Clark doing this also attracts Lois and Jimmy’s attention. Great, now you have a full party.
While the latter two are only being nosy, wondering what on earth Perry wanted with you, Clark offers a look of genuine concern. The cute puckering of his brows, his ocean blue eyes tinged with a melancholy meant to sympathize with you, and a pout of his lips that makes you want to kiss him silly.
He is in his grey suit today, the one that’s a little oversized even for him. You wonder if it’s a hand-me-down from his dad, because Clark would be the type to have a suit from his dad, even if he is adopted. He pushes his glasses up on his face as he looks at you in earnest.
When he stares at you like that, how are you supposed to not fall in love with him? How is it even possible to resist how adorable he looks when he’s so sweet and—
“So what did Perry want?” Lois’ voice drags you straight out of your dreamy haze, her eyes dancing with an obvious sort of mirth that indicates she knows exactly what you had been thinking about.
“Uhm,” you begin, eyes flicking to Clark, “we need a draft to Perry on the senate strippers by tonight.”
“It was multiple strippers?” Jimmy asks.
“No, it was one senator and two strippers, I think,” Lois corrects, stroking her chin.
“You’re both wrong, it was a senator at the strip club with two and a half strippers,” Clark piles on. “But tonight? Really? We have three hours of daylight left.”
You groan, dropping your head onto the desk with a loud thud, almost missing Jimmy’s question of what the hell is half a stripper. Clark had moved fast in your periphery but not fast enough because you feel the sting of that petulant act on your temple. When you pick up your head again, he’s leaning closer now, having risen to his feet in concern.
His hands move around awkwardly, like he wants to reach out and check on you, but also refuses to cross any lines that could make you uncomfortable. It’s endearing and you can’t help but smile. You can hear Jimmy and Lois’ disgusted groans behind you, but it’s not the first time you’ve ignored them.
“We should be fine. We’ll be fine,” Clark tries to reassure you, a soft smile on his face as he offers up a look of confidence. “It’ll take some time because we need to properly build out the timeline and piece together the interviews, but we should be able to get it done tonight.” He winces, shooting you an apologetic look, “We may need to stay a bit late to sort it all out, so I hope you don’t have any plans tonight?”
You’re about to respond that your calendar is free and open for the taking when it comes to him, the embarrassing words nearly spilling from your lips when Lois thankfully interrupts you. Though, jury is still out whether you should be grateful when she asks, “No hot date tonight?”
Her sharp eyes glimmer as she singsongs the question, each syllable laced with humor that only Jimmy seems to understand. She knows exactly what she’s doing. She knows you have no hot date tonight, nor have you had a hot date in a very long time, because your love life — currently missing, it’s been hiding from you since college — is in shambles. How can you have a hot date when the only hot date you want isn’t even aware that he is the only man that you want to hot date?
Your own gaze flicks over to Clark briefly. A look crosses his keen blue eyes, one that slips in and out too quickly for you to catch. “No, no hot date,” you say almost pitifully. Clark’s face melts just a little bit; the only reason you see it is because you have a tendency to notice everything when it comes to him. Just like you, he tends to wear his heart on his sleeve.
“And you better hope Superman isn’t needed tonight,” Lois notes as she pins Clark with a pointed look.
They share words without saying a thing. A conversation happening right before your eyes without a peep. You’ve always been a little jealous of their bond. They started this job before you did, locking in a couple of years of friendship under their belt before you even knew Clark Kent existed. Rumors say that they even gave the romance thing a go for a bit. It makes you envious that Lois has probably seen and experienced parts of Clark that aren’t even present anymore, parts you wish you had been there to witness firsthand.
Clark pushes his glasses up again, clearing his throat. “I’m sure there are other heroes who can handle any emergencies that come up.”
This time, it’s you who chimes in. “He has been quite busy, hasn’t he? Which means you have also been chasing him all around town. I don’t know how you manage to always catch him. Does Superman have a phone? If he doesn’t, maybe a Nokia, something indestructible.”
A snort escapes his lips. “That’s good advice. I’ll be sure to let him know next time I see him.”
Afterwards, the two of you hunker down at your desks for a while. You work off Clark’s for a bit as you build the timeline together and frame the storyline before you even begin to chip away at the article. He’s patient and gentle as you wring your fingers through your hair in frustration every time a piece doesn’t immediately fall into place. He coaxes you through the stress, kindly offers up solutions without mansplaining anything. The temptation to drop down to one knee and propose to him is extremely strong today.
By the time the giant clock announces that it’s officially seven, the office is deserted. Nobody here gets paid overtime, which means nobody is sticking around past five this close to the holidays. It’s only suckers like you and Clark who get roped into writing ground-breaking, media-stopping pieces a week before Christmas. When you look up from your screen, eyes a little blurry from staring too long at the screen, there is not a single soul left aside from you and Clark.
“This is brutal,” you mutter under your breath. “I’m sorry you got stuck with me on this.”
With a shake of his head, he offers a comforting smile. “Don’t be sorry. Plus, I’m happy that it’s you here with me.”
If you hear that loud thud, that’s the sound of your heart slipping past your insides to your feet. Now that simply isn’t fair. How is it possible that he could say something so sweet so casually? How can he say such sweet nothings with a curl flopping down on his face, his glasses slipping on the bridge of his nose again, and his cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink?
Even worse, then he smiles and his dimples carve themselves into his cheeks and into your aching, bleeding heart on the ground.
“You’re a sweetheart,” you sigh dreamily.
Clark blushes an even deeper red and turns away to look at his computer, feigning business to avoid looking directly into your eyes. “Are you hungry? Should we grab some food before we continue?”
The two of you end up trekking to a burger joint down the street. A couple of greasy sandwiches, some well-seasoned fries, and the extra dose of caffeine and sugar from your sodas, and you’re both back in business. You’re a lot more peppy now that you have some food in you as you skip all the way back to the office. Clark trails behind you at a safe distance.
Metropolis a week away from Christmas is an absolute dream. Lights have been woven between the leaves and the branches, twinkling like stars within your reach. Storefronts are made festive with splashes of reds and greens with sprinklings of glitter and gold. Winter kisses your skin as you look up at the skyscrapers sparkling above you; the forlorn office workers stuck at their desks, the homebodies cozied up in bed, and all of those in between joined in the camaraderie of an evening days away from the greatest time of year.
These are the times that make you appreciate the city you live in. Barring the surprisingly frequent alien invasions and the occasional billionaire’s attempt to infiltrate foreign powers, the city is a wonderful place to be. It comes alive with its people, with everyone in high spirits, creating a community grounded in the spreading of holiday cheer.
Clark’s long legs allow him to catch up to the cloud you’re drifting on. “You seem much more chipper now,” he murmurs, unexpectedly close enough to your ear.
The proximity catches you off guard, your feet tripping over each other on the very flat sidewalk. Thankfully, Clark is there to save the day when his hand wraps around your bicep, swiftly steadying you. It’s almost dizzying how easy that was for him. How strong he is. You try to ignore the tingling between your legs at that new bit of information.
When you look up to thank him, you realize how close his face is. He seems to register this too and immediately stumbles backwards a little bit to give you some space. His eyes are blown wide in surprise, showcasing more of those green flecks in his blue irises. With his cheeks reddened — partly from the cold and partly from you, he whispers a quick apology.
“You saved me, why are you apologizing?” You poke his arm to show him how unserious you really are, despite the fact that your heartbeat has skyrocketed to astronomical levels. Your doctor’s going to want to have a serious conversation with you on your next annual about your blood pressure.
“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he says sweetly.
Just when you think you’re done falling more in love with him, he manages to prove you wrong. “You could never make me uncomfortable,” you honestly respond and he seems encouraged by that. “And to answer what you were saying earlier about my mood. I was just thinking, what a time to be alive. We may be miserable right now while Perry is probably at home with his family drinking hot cocoa, while we’re chugging root beer to stay alive, but at least we are getting things done. In a city like this, where we want to believe the good in people, we can be the change we want to see. People put a lot of trust in journalism to bring justice to those who need it. So, in spite of our current suffering, we’re at least doing something good. Something worthwhile. These are nights where I question whether this is really what I want to do with the rest of my life, but times like these also remind me why this job is part of the reason why I get out of bed every morning.”
You look up at him again when he doesn’t say anything for several beats and you find that he’s already looking at you, except his eyes have thawed into puddles of blue. Like a still lake amidst the chaos. Clark has always been beautiful, there’s no doubt about it, but something about the look of awe on his face has your heart stuttering against your ribcage.
“You have a lot of faith in the world, in people,” he says quietly. It’s a statement that presents itself as a question. Why do you have a lot of faith in the world?
“We have a lot of cynics around us, it’s nice to have some blissful ignorance around,” you smirk.
“Not ignorance, just… hopeful,” Clark corrects. “The world is in a tough place enough as it is, so it’s nice that you still hold onto some of that positivity.”
“Well, some of us have to,” you grin, nudging him with your shoulder.
The next two hours are spent pulling all the puzzle pieces together, working side by side, elbows bumping when you draw a little too close, sharing shy glances before you keep moving. Once you glue all the parts together, it’s practically a perfect picture ready to be delivered to Perry. The last period you type has you finally slumping back in your chair, sighing at this document and that blasted blinking line.
When you finally hit that send button, it feels like Christmas is officially back on. You’ve been released from the shackles of capitalism and justice — at least for the remainder of the night.
“Alright, I don’t want to spend another minute in this place. I think I’m starting to hear voices and it’s Perry’s, which is not a voice I want to be hearing at ten.” The echo of your boss’ words in your ear has you shuddering.
“It’s quite late. How are you getting home?” Clark frowns at the clock then at you as he slips the strap of his bag over his shoulder.
“I’m not too far. A fifteen-minute walk from here so I’ll just do that. That burger really did a number on me so some fresh air will do me some good.” Groaning, you give your stomach a little apologetic pat. The indigestion is already kicking in; grease is never a good combination with a whole lot of sitting down.
Clark’s forehead creases and you resist the urge to smooth it down with the pad of your thumb. “That’s not very safe. I can walk you back.”
That has you shaking your head aggressively. “No, no. Don’t even worry about it. The city is safe—” he raises an eyebrow, “—well, safer from your day-to-day crime. I can’t predict extraterrestrial attacks but statistically speaking, they hit more often in the afternoon, which is the perfect time for us to be sent home for safety by the way. Then you don’t have to worry about whether you should be coming back to the office. Whereas morning attacks are the worst! The least they can do is launch an invasion when I’m still at home, that way I can stay in bed.”
Clark blinks at you and that is when it sinks in how crazy you sound. Humiliation sprawls fast through your entire being, like a disease that swallows you whole. Instead of addressing whatever nonsense you just spewed, you tuck your work bag to your side.
Clearing your throat, you continue, “Anyways, it’s a short walk. I do it all the time, even at night, so I’ll be perfectly fine. Pinky promise.”
He looks far from convinced but he doesn’t say a word so you assume he relents. The two of you step out into the brisk outdoors, the wind whipping you straight in the face as you wave at him one last time and begin heading out in your direction.
It becomes apparent that Clark is not letting the matter go when he starts walking alongside you. Not behind you, not even trying to hide in plain sight. No, he is walking right next to you.
You stop on the side of the sidewalk and purse your lips. “Clark Kent.”
That was a mistake because then Clark lets your full name roll off his tongue in the same tone, except his voice is deeper, sexier, and he has a ridiculously handsome smile on his face that you just want to smooch.
Your cheeks feel warm despite the cold. “Please. I promise I’ll be fine. I’ll even message you when I’m back.”
“You’re not too far from where I live so we’re headed in the same direction.”
Narrowing your eyes at him, you shake your head. “First of all, you’re a horrible liar. Never try to lie again. Better yet, I’m never telling you my secrets because you’d give them away in an instant. Second of all, how would you know where I live, stalker?” You tease, giving him a firm jab to his chest.
His very firm chest. His very firm chest that doesn’t budge a bit even with the force of power you press into it.
You almost squeak out an oh no out loud, because you are in very big trouble with this new piece of evidence logged away into the Clark file in your head.
Clark steps forward, your finger turning into your palm flattening on his chest. Another oh no sits on the tip of your tongue when he smiles softly at you. His hand wraps around yours, the heat engulfing your cool skin.
“Let me do this for you,” he says and his voice is gentle, “it’s the least I could do.”
You hate to be an inconvenience but Clark isn’t looking at you like one, isn’t treating you like one. It’s incredibly sweet of him. It’s an incredibly Clark thing to do.
So you cave. Clark Kent isn’t someone you say no to. “Only if it’s not too much trouble then.”
“I don’t think it could ever be troublesome to keep you safe,” he says right back, doe eyes and cheeks flushed. You wonder how he can say such sweet things with a straight face, but you suppose it comes naturally to him. As easy as breathing.
He’s always the most helpful one around the office. Even when Steve is being a pain in the butt, he still helps him write his articles. Even when the mail room girls are only batting their eyelashes at Jimmy, he still helps them reach the highest shelves. Even when Lois is giving him — pardon your French — shit, he always takes it in stride.
The golden ray of sunshine in this otherwise very gloomy, very dreary office.
As you begin walking again, you try to keep him entertained, chattering away about all the nothing going on in your life. Clark doesn’t seem to mind; in fact, he seems intrigued. He asks you detailed questions, laughs at your poor attempts at humor, and validates you before you even ask whether he wants to hear all this.
When a comfortable silence settles in between you, Clark clears his throat, which piques your interest.
“So, uhm, are you still… dating?” He starts, the weight of awkwardness sitting on every word.
Your mouth dries. That was unexpected. Out of all the things you expect him to ask, your dating life certainly isn’t top of the list. You’re not entirely sure how you could even begin to formulate a response. On one hand, it’s worth stating that you are still dating to show some interest in him, hinting at the possibility if that is the direction he wants to take it in. On the other hand, the number of dates you have been on and failed to convert into a relationship is almost too embarrassing to say.
While you’re stuck in your mind on a simple yes or no question, Clark takes this as you being offended, so he quickly retracts. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry. I know this is the sort of thing you probably talk about with Lois. You don’t have to answer. I don’t know—”
“Yes,” you blurt out, “I mean no. Yes, I am still dating. No, you’re not prying.”
“Oh.”
“It’s just— it’s complicated.”
Clark stares at you curiously. “Your relationship status is complicated?”
“No, no. I am very much single.” Well, put your foot in your mouth, why don’t you? What a sorry thing to say in that very moment. It’s not that you’re embarrassed that you’re single, it just sounds like you’re throwing yourself a little pity party that Clark never signed up to attend. “I mean, I am… not seeing anyone seriously at the moment. But I am… looking, I suppose. It just hasn’t been working out so well.”
“Why do you say that?”
Because of you. Because every single person I date cannot even begin to compare to you. Because when I go on dates, I sometimes see you in the background, at the same place, like you’re reminding me that I’m still in love with you, and I’m wasting my time with all these other people. Because you make me think that I have a chance with you.
“I suppose I’m a believer in love at first sight. Cheesy, I know. So when that doesn’t happen or it doesn’t work out, it can be discouraging.”
Clark’s lips form a circle in surprise. “Have you ever fallen in love at first sight?”
Your lips twitch into a ghost of a smile. “Yes, once.”
“How did that go?”
“I haven’t quite worked it out yet,” you respond vaguely, then quickly add, “and right now, I just haven’t found anyone else my type.”
Clark looks even more engaged now, pressing closer. “What’s your type?”
You, you almost say. “Haven’t found my type either,” you smoothly say.
“Oh,” he deflates, “well, I hope you find someone you like soon.”
You want to grab him and scream that you already have found him, and it is him. Instead, you say, “I don’t even know how to start with that.”
“Well, maybe you don’t have to look too far. Sometimes, what you’re looking for can be right in front of you.”
There is a ringing in your ears and you can’t tell if it’s in your mind anymore. His words swirl in your head, words rearranging themselves as if you’re trying to interpret another meaning from the combination of letters. It almost sounds like he’s— but it can’t be, because how could it be— there’s no way, right? Right? You must be hearing things.
By the time you reach your tiny townhouse, your brain has fizzled out into ashes. The adrenaline from the day has worn off and this conversation has exerted the last bit of your energy. Clearly, you need to get your body, ears, and head checked if you’re starting to think Clark Kent could even be remotely interested in you.
“Well, this is me,” you say weakly. “I hope your travel back home isn’t too far. I really hope I didn’t inconvenience you too much.”
“Not an inconvenience, trust me. I liked walking you home,” Clark simply says, a small smile playing on his lips. “We don’t get to chat as much like this in the office. Just the two of us, I mean.”
Drat, there’s that silly little thing again — hope. So you play it off with a smile. “That’s because our colleagues are incredibly nosy and Perry would have our butts if he sees us slacking off for too long, probably threaten our year-end bonus,” you sigh with a shake of your head.
“And we barely make enough,” Clark huffs a laugh.
“Tell me about it. Capitalism wins again,” you smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Clark. Thanks again for walking me home.”
“Thank you for the company. See you tomorrow.”
–
The great, big unfortunate thing about your teensy (read: massive) crush on Clark is that everyone knows. Everyone in the office is aware that you have heart eyes for the journalist across the room from you. It is apparent in the way the two of you always eat lunch together with everyone else. It is obvious in the way you choose to sit on his desk when you’re idling around and making conversation with everyone else.
Keeping that in mind, this crush of yours should be plain as day to the man of the hour himself. It can be debated, of course; perhaps Clark wouldn’t be as immodest as to consider that one of his colleagues is absolutely head over heels for him. However, assuming that Clark is aware — as previously stated by your dear old boss — and given the fact that he has not indicated in any way whatsoever that he is interested in pursuing something with you, there can only be one conclusion.
He’s just not that into you.
And that’s fine. Your heart can break into millions of shards, but it’s fine. Rejection is a part of life and you just have to suck it up and move on.
If your attraction is not something that Clark plans to reciprocate, you simply have to deal with it. He is free to like whoever he likes, even if it’s not you. He is free to be nice to whoever he wants to be nice to, which is apparently everyone. You’re not exactly remarkable for getting special treatment for Clark; if everyone gets special treatment, then is it really still special?
But that’s the thing about hope. Even if you don’t feed it, even if you don’t nurture it or turn to it, the slightest bit of light is all it takes to keep it going.
Like yesterday, for example. Clark’s words cling to your sleep-addled brain in the morning as you drift listlessly around your kitchen to prepare your first dose of caffeine. They stick with you even as you do your short journey into the office, passersby ramming into you in your befuddled state and you don’t even have it in you to care.
By the time you reach the office, you’ve fully convinced yourself that you were concocting the implication of his words. He was just being nice. He has never otherwise shown any interest in you, so why would he now?
The office is teeming with life. There’s a giddy buzzing in the air, like bees in a massive field of flowers. Even Lois is smiling — smiling! What a time to be alive. There are staff members beginning to put up decor on the walls, strips of garlands hanging from the ceilings, lights strung in patterns high above. While many newcomers were skeptical about hosting a holiday party where they work, more than a handful of you have seen the masterful craft of the event planners. They are experts in turning this dreary space into a holiday hurrah.
By the time it hits four, Perry is well aware that nobody is working anymore. Everyone’s already fussing about what to wear, when to get here, whether to pregame (they shouldn’t, it’s an open bar). You and Lois have agreed to go back to yours first to get ready, much to her vexation. She isn’t interested in dressing up but you convinced her that it’s the one time she gets to actually dress up and have fun. When else in her life would she be able to have a nice, drunk, adult prom?
You tell her the same schtick every year. It works every year. It really is the open bar that does it for her. Also, the opportunity to see her colleagues do the most embarrassing things that she can then bring up year-round until the next party, where she will replace those stories with new material.
You wind your scarf around your neck as Lois leans towards your desk, asking if you’re ready to go. Jimmy is twiddling his thumbs, trying to avoid making direct eye contact with the mailroom girls who keep giggling at him. Clark perks up when he sees the two of you stand.
“Are you leaving already?”
“We’re going to go get ready at mine,” you grin, “I’m going to put Lois in a dress.”
“You will not,” she huffs. “I let her think she is so she’ll drop it.”
You harrumph. “Bold of you to think you can resist my feminine wiles. I will get you in that dress.”
Clark chuckles softly at the two of you before shifting his gaze to you. “What will you be wearing?”
As you open your mouth, Lois wraps her arms around one of your own, which promptly shuts you up. “That will be a surprise. But I will say that I have seen the dress and I know she will look ravishing.”
The compliment has you looking sheepishly away. “I should be flattered that you have that much faith in me, but honestly, I’m too embarrassed to even look at you right now.”
“Oh, come on, don’t be shy. Clark, tell her.”
You see Clark jolt from the corner of your eye, his bright eyes shining in surprise. You can see more of the blue when his eyes open up like that. His lips fumble over the words as he tries to respond. “Right. Yes. Of course. I’m sure you will. Look ravishing that is.”
Lois is the worst. How are you supposed to act normal when Clark calls you ravishing? Or at least expects you to look it. Now the pressure is on.
“Alright, let’s get going before you pop a blood vessel,” Lois smirks. “We’ll see you both later!”
Thankfully, Lois manages to drag your frozen self out of there. You feel rude for not responding to Clark, but at the same time, how can you even begin to form words with your mouth when your tongue feels like lead inside it? Lois pokes fun at you the entire fifteen-minute walk home, which reminds you that you also last did this walk in this direction with Clark the previous night.
“Clark walked you home?”
You wince, “Yes. I insisted he didn’t have to but he was really thoughtful.”
“Yep, that’s Clark for you. Thoughtful. Completely selfless. Not a single bone in his body is doing things just because he really wants to do it for his own personal gain.”
“What are you on about?”
“Nothing. Shall we?”
Because Lois absolutely hates your classic Top 40 pop songs, you put that exact playlist on loop on full blast the entire time you’re primping yourself. This is the one time every year you allow yourself to put in a bit more time on yourself. Work is work, and it’s hard to care about your appearance when you’re about to overdose on caffeine, jump over walls, chase down bad guys, all for the sake of a story. You opt for some professionalism but ultimately comfort.
Tonight? Tonight, you choose pain because beauty is pain.
The swipe of your red lipstick, the dusting of your eyeshadow with some glimmer, the sharp strike of your eyeliner, the thickening and curling of your lashes. You even do your hair, which usually sits in a nest all year. When you look at the clock, you realize that you’ve perhaps spent a little too much time getting yourself ready.
“Shit, Lois—”
“Don’t worry, you know most people arrive fashionably late. Steve, less on the fashionable, more on the drunk.”
You groan as you eye your dress on the hanger. “Okay, let me just slip into this and we can get going.”
As you’re struggling to twist your arms at odd angles to figure out how to zip up your dress, Lois swoops in to save the day. Her fingers brush yours off as she drags the metal up until it reaches your lower back.
It’s a bold dress. One you never thought you would wear but one that had you falling in love the moment you set your eyes on it. So maybe you lied to Clark — you’ve fallen in love at first sight twice.
“If Clark doesn’t sweep you off your feet tonight, I can think of a dozen other people ready to do so,” Lois smiles, giving you the surge of confidence you need.
By the time you shove Lois into her own dress and spritz on your favorite perfume, the two of you are sufficiently an hour past the starting time. You hope Perry hasn’t done his annual speech yet; he may really fire you if you miss out on it. The taxi pulls up outside The Daily Planet and the two of you slip and squeeze past the throngs of people to get to the front door.
The venue is a wonder the second you step in. The ceilings twinkle with a smattering of lights and silvery strands that shimmer under the lights. A disco ball hangs up high, speckling the dance floor with shifting spotlights. The DJ has the crowd going with upbeat melodies, throwbacks to a better time. The bar is expectedly where most people are concentrated still waiting on their drinks.
Your eyes immediately land on Clark who also finds you when you step through the doors. Your heart jumps to your throat at the sight of him. He looks devastatingly handsome with an actually fitted navy suit that brings out the blue in his eyes. Even from this distance, you can see those sapphire irises shine. His broad shoulders stretch out the velvet fabric and his fingers are delicate as he fixes his cuff links.
You thought the black suit last year was bad enough. You actually whimper with this one.
“Alright, before you turn into a pumpkin looking at Clark all night, let’s drop off our coats and go in.” Lois tugs you in the direction of coat check.
When the thick fabric slides off your shoulders, the cool air immediately engulfs your body. You give a little shiver as the air conditioning slides a breeze over your bare shoulders. Lois pulls you back towards the front and Clark’s eyes land on you again.
Only this time, you can see the smile wipe off his face, his mouth opening, and the heat of his gaze traveling over you.
You look like you’ve been poured into this stunning red dress. A ruby number that hugs your curves in all the right places. The sweetheart neckline emphasizes a delicious, yet still work-appropriate, amount of cleavage. While the dress falls all the way to your feet, nearly hiding your matching blood-red stilletos, you can feel the air kissing your spine where the dress is held together by thin strings going criss-cross over your exposed back.
Your heart is hammering against your chest as the two of you slip through the crowd to find Clark and Jimmy. When they’re in sight, you realize that Clark’s been staring at the two of you this entire time. His expression of pure shock has not moved; instead, it only deepens when you approach.
However, as you come near them, Cat steps in and wrangles the two of you into a hug. “Oh my god, you ladies look amazing. Lois, you in a dress. Stellar as always. You — my god — look at this dress.” She even twirls you around which makes you giggle.
You swear you hear someone inhale sharply behind you and, when you finally go full circle and see Clark again, he looks like he’s been struck by lightning.
As Cat slinks back into the crowd, Lois elbows you gently, smirking.
Clark opens his mouth but, before he can utter a word, Jimmy is clamping his hands around Lois’ arm. “Fuck, that girl — Jenny, Jessie — keeps following me around. Lois, come on. We need to escape to the dance floor before she comes back.”
“You’re going to make me dance to this song of all things?” Lois gapes.
“Look, this is his new song. He’s doing his best. In terms of modern rock legends Jake—” Jimmy’s voice blends into the background as he drags Lois off.
Leaving you and Clark alone.
You laugh softly, gaze following after them. While Lois begins to dance, Jimmy is still throwing fearful looks over his shoulder. “You know, for a man who’s been chased down by ladies all his life, he’s still surprisingly inept at dealing with them,” you huff with a shake of your head.
Unfortunately, you don’t hear a peep from Clark so you turn back to look at him. His pupils are blown wide, shrinking the blues in his eyes to a thin ring. He only hums when you turn to face him, lifting his eyes to meet yours. “Hm, yeah.”
“You okay? You seem a little out of it.”
“I was just thinking about how Lois is always right.”
You cock an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
“You do look ravishing.”
Your mouth suddenly feels like sandpaper. Your breath catches in your throat, constricting your lungs, as he appraises you gently; however, the heat in his eyes is anything but. You can’t seem to find the words to respond to him. While Clark has always been kind, never has he ever complimented you so blatantly. Ravishing.
“I—” you stop, finding yourself at a loss for words, which is embarrassing for a writer, by the way. “Thank you?”
Clark laughs, shoulders shaking as his dimples appear again. It feels like a threat against your life now. “You’re very welcome.” Then he glances at the bar and at Jimmy and Lois again. “Did you want a drink?”
“Um, I think I’m good for now.” You’re already loose-lipped enough as it is, alcohol would not be beneficial when you’re both tongue-tied and rambling at Clark Kent. Who knows what you might say next? I love you, marry me, let’s have babies?
“Dance then?”
His hand appears in your line of sight before you can formulate a response. When you tilt your face up at him, he looks at you with hope brimming in his eyes. He doesn’t have to ask twice as you slide your hand into his, feeling his fingers wrap around yours. “Let’s.”
Once your initial tension melts away and your heart rate returns to normal, you’re able to enjoy yourself a little bit more in the crowd. Perry does his speech, slurring his words only slightly as he announces how proud he is of this team; gasps ripple around the room because Perry can be proud of us? Perhaps your job is secure as long as your boss gets his fix of wine. Jimmy continues to evade Jenny or Jessie — or both — by swooping in to dance with you and Lois and other people he deems to be safe from his supposed magnetic charm. Lois even begins enjoying herself when she has a few flutes of champagne, and a shot the bartender snuck her.
You and Clark — well, the two of you dance together in the beginning and it was a very nice dance. Clark has some old-school moves that he pulls out, ones that have you giggling. He smiles when he sees that. However, it doesn’t take long before you’re getting scooped away by one of your other drunken colleagues. Clark looks panicked at first but you reassure him with a wink.
The hours begin to blur together. Wines and champagne float across the floor, the music gets increasingly louder as the overhead lights are dimmed to bring in the neon flashes across the floor. You’re only a couple of glasses in, finding yourself sandwiched between Lois, who is now screaming about the patriarchy at Jimmy, and Steve who is talking your ear off about the NFL playoff predictions. You wince when he starts getting a little too excited about his favorite team and spit lands on your lap.
“Steve,” Clark’s voice cuts through the noise and you look up to find him looking down at Steve with a polite smile. You note the tightness around his eyes. “Perry wants to see you, said something about the front page for the Sunday edition.”
Steve is on his feet in a blink of an eye, launching himself in the big boss’ direction. While he’s distracted, Clark takes that opportunity to extend his hand. With a grateful smile, you take it and let him whisk you away to the dance floor again.
Just in time for a slow song to start.
He seems as taken aback as you to hear the song selection. While there are still a few people who rock side to side leisurely, you’re not sure if you are in the stage of friendship with Clark to be platonically dancing to one of the most romantic songs ever written.
Surprisingly, Clark scratches his cheek and clears his throat. “Well, if you don’t mind…” He once again offers up his hand, and you once again are in no place to deny him.
One of his hands takes yours and the other settles comfortably on your hip. You let yours be swallowed up in his and the other rests on his broad shoulder. The music delicately guides your movements slow and steady across the floor. A soft, invisible force caressing and pushing you close together.
Clark smells of old books, where the pages are worn but well-loved. You catch a hint of spice and pine, a woodsy combination that gives you a sense of peace. You don’t realize you’re actively sniffing him until you look up at him to say something and he’s already staring at you in amusement.
Crap. How embarrassing. “You… smell nice.” Real smooth. You’re a real Michael Jackson.
His laugh is genuine and deep. The corners of his eyes crinkle in such an endearing way that you can’t help the way your lips stretch into a wide grin. Then he does something that nearly gives you whiplash. Clark ducks his head. Low. Low enough that his nose grazes the back of your ear, brushing past the loose tendrils of your hair.
You nearly choke with how quickly you gasp. Clark inhales deep, so close that you can feel his lips practically on your collarbones. Your mind spins from the proximity, from the whiff you get of his cologne, from the ghost of his breath on your skin. It’s dizzying how much this man has an effect on you. A predicament and a cure all at once.
Then he pulls back but the remnants of the spell linger. Your mind is barely conscious when he shoots you with those dimples. “You do too. That scent’s my favorite on you.”
“It is?” You squeak.
This time, at least it’s his turn to be appalled by what he just confessed. He blinks rapidly and clears his throat, shifting his glance to the wall. “Uhm, yes. I mean, you always smell good. You have different perfumes. But this one — it’s, uhm, very nice.”
“Right, thank you,” is all you manage to choke out.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I realize it’s—”
“No,” you quickly interject, “no, you didn’t. I was just surprised that you noticed.”
“Why?”
You lick your lips, drawing his eyes to them, as you tilt your head. “Why am I surprised that you noticed?” He gives a short nod, eyes curious. “I guess, I just— I don’t know. It’s not something I expected you to pay attention to.”
Clark seems to mull this over for a moment, quiet as he looks away to think. Then his gaze are back on you and it’s melted like molten lava. Warm and gooey. “I think I notice too much when it comes to you. More than you might think.”
Your heart nearly slips past your ribs at his words. You don’t want to get your hopes up, but at the same time, how could you possibly hear it in any other way? If this is your delusional mind playing tricks, then maybe you’ll give in just this time. One night to let yourself believe that maybe Clark Kent could feel the same way you do. One night to let yourself believe that maybe Clark Kent could be yours.
“Did you want to stay?” Clark’s voice is barely above a whisper.
There’s a glimmer of hope in his eyes, or what you believe it to be, when he asks the question. Your heart skips a beat or two. You might’ve entirely gone into cardiac arrest but you’re still standing on your two feet, so that can’t be.
“No, did you?”
He shakes his head. “Can I walk you home?”
You smile and nod.
“I’ll get your coat and we can get going. I’ll let you say goodbye to the others if you want.”
What a gentleman. You practically swoon at his words as you hand over your coat check ticket. He flashes you one last charming smile before disappearing into the crowd.
You’re bidding your farewells to everyone who all groan and call you a party pooper for leaving so early and missing the after party. Only Lois seems to clock what you’re trying to say and she’s immediately wiggling her eyebrows at you. “She has her own after party to attend. Be smart! Be responsible! Be… you, basically!” She shouts out, wine sloshing precariously in her glass.
With one final shake of your head, you throw them a smile and head towards the entrance. Clark is still nowhere in sight so you twiddle your thumbs for a little bit in the silence. The music inside is muffled the moment the doors closed, which is a bit of a relief. You didn’t realize how exhausted you were until you stepped away, your feet tingling in protest.
Footsteps approaching have you looking up, a smile on your face thinking it’s Clark. It dims quickly when you see that it is in fact not. His name is… Danny, you think. He’s part of Steve’s team, which means you don’t interact much because sports isn’t typically breaking news. Until someone breaks something.
He greets you warmly, cheeks flushed from the drinks and the heat inside. “You enjoying yourself?”
Ah, and the small talk begins. This is not a conversation you will particularly enjoy. It’s stilted, mainly because you don’t know him that well. On top of that, he keeps inching closer and closer, oscillating from side to side. You hate the idea of making things awkward so you don’t back away and press on a smile that makes your cheeks ache.
“Hey, listen, I know we don’t get to talk much in the office, but you took my breath away tonight. I mean—” his hand waves to gesture the length of you, and you have to resist a wince at the blatant objectification, “—do you want to go on a date with me sometime?”
Crap. Crap. Crap, crap, crap. This time, you really can’t escape your flinch. It’s one thing to know your colleague is interested and ask you out (example: your crush on Clark and it would be very clear that you would say yes if Clark were to propose a long marriage to you); it’s another to shoot your shot and end up with an airball (you assume he would get this reference). However, this is a sensitive situation because you don’t want to make it tricky in the office as well, so you can’t just say absolutely not. So instead you say—
“Actually, I’ve recently decided that I’m not really interested in dating anyone right now. With work so busy and life being… life, I figured it’s safer that way. Thank you though, I’m really flattered,” you force out the last part with a sympathetic smile. You never know how men will deal with rejection, so you may as well soften the blow.
Also, this guy is another tally on the list of why you don’t think your adoration for Clark is that obvious, because why would he ask you out otherwise?
“Ah, that’s a damn shame,” he whistles low. “Missed my slot, huh?”
Yes, that’s definitely why. Not the fact that you barely remember his name and that you’ve been pining over the six-foot-four cute journalist for over two years.
“Well, have a good night.” With that, he wanders back into the party, leaving you once again in the quiet.
“Ready?”
You nearly curse when you jump, the voice creeping up behind you. Clark is standing right there, your coat open in his hands. “Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
“No worries, sorry for the wait. There was a line to get the coats. It seems everyone thought about leaving at the same time.”
“Thank you for getting my coat,” you say as you slip your arms through and he drapes it over your shoulders. When you turn to face him, a look flickers across his eyes. One too fast for you to catch. “Are you okay?”
He blinks away the impassive look in his eyes and smiles warmly at you. “Yes, let’s go.”
The walk home is silent. Quiet in a way that’s comfortable, a weight that settles in nicely between close friends. Your fingers are entwined in gloves behind your back as you marvel at the city lights at this hour. There’s tension woven into the air, like things left unsaid that manifest in incoherent whispers in the wind. Clark appears deep in thought when you look at him, a slight pinch between his brows, a tightness on the corners of his lips.
He doesn’t say a word though. His thoughts receded into himself.
When you arrive at your door, you turn to look at him with a nervous smile. It’s not like you’re expecting anything. Clark is a gentleman, you’re sure, but you’re also hoping that he’s the type to pin you up against the wall and make you forget your own name. Perhaps it’s the weaning effects of the alcohol in your veins, but you’re feeling a little bold when Clark hasn’t said anything.
He’s rocking on the balls of his feet, seeming as antsy as you are. You? Well, you just want to spend a little more time with him. Get him to stay longer — whatever the reason may be.
So you bite the bullet, licking your lips one last time to stop your voice from breaking. “Would you like to come in—” you pause, trying to come up with some reasonable reason as to why he would stay, “—for wine?”
Clark only looks mildly taken aback. For a moment, his lips part and you can see his tongue press against his teeth on the brink of a yes. Unfortunately, something in his brain seems to click because then he visibly deflates, his eyes flatten and you think that perhaps you’ve mistaken his response. Maybe what he meant to say was— “No, I don’t actually drink.”
Oh, well, so that’s not a full no, right? “Oh, uhm, I have tea as well. Or soda. Or… water,” you grimace at the last one. Why would you offer him that? He has that at home. What a silly thing to bring up.
His throat moves as he swallows, eyes shifting to the ground. “Perhaps not tonight.”
Your heart falls hard and fast, splattering across the ground. That last little bit of hope evaporating into the wind. Stupid, stupid! Now, you’ve gone ahead and mucked things up, haven’t you? Clark was just being a perfectly nice man who did a perfectly nice thing, and you completely warped it in your mind into a different situation.
He was probably only looking for an out from the party and you were a good excuse. The walk home was a bonus for you.
Clark — the sweetheart that he is — must’ve seen something on your face because he quickly adds, “I’ll see you Monday at work though?”
“Right, work,” you cough and force out a smile. “I’ll see you then. Thanks for walking me home.”
For a brief second, something in his eyes makes you think he may change his mind. Or maybe it’s the way his feet stay rooted to the concrete. But then he seems to shake himself out of it and he throws you one last smile before turning on his heel and disappearing into the night.
Happy holidays, huh?
–
Throughout the entirety of your career, you have admittedly never experienced the Sunday scaries. It isn’t as if you were particularly excited about going to work, but you weren’t exactly worried about going through the motions of generating income either. The Daily Planet has incredible people and you’ve made a good number of friends who make the days a little less painful. Stories keep you busy, there is always something to chase.
So Monday should be like any other day. Well, it should have been. If it weren’t for the fact that you opened your big mouth and absolutely humiliated yourself in front of the love of your life.
When your eyes open bright and early that very first weekday, fear of all things sits in the pit of your stomach. It festers and grows even as you go through the motions of getting ready for the day. Brushing your teeth, picking out what to wear, packing your bag, and making that walk.
The dread sinks in hard and fast as you go through the rotating doors. Stanley, the security guard, greets you warmly, tells you good morning, and you almost ask him what’s so good about it. The worries plagued you all weekend and it shows in the shadows under your eyes, no matter how much you tried to conceal it.
Lois takes one look at you and concern takes over her expression. “You—” she stops herself, “did you get enough sleep?”
Maybe you’re a little crabby, but you only shoot her a look. It eventually does melt to an apologetic one but for now you can only shake your head. “Not really,” you say as you drop your bag on your desk, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Feel a migraine coming.”
“You should just take the day off.”
“No, I have to finish up that fluff piece on holiday decorations.”
“That’s hardly breaking news. Cat could take over for that.”
With a deep sigh, you once again shake your head. “No, I think I need work to distract me today. I don’t want to be sitting alone at home with my own thoughts.”
Lois’ lips press together into a thin line. “Did something happen? I thought, on Friday, you know with…”
“Don’t ask,” you blanch, “I embarrassed myself enough as is. I don’t think I can look him in the eye.”
“What do you—”
Her words get cut off when Clark strolls in and she promptly clamps her mouth shut. Even if your crush is allegedly very obvious to everyone in the office, Lois still respects your privacy and your need to pretend like it isn’t. You appreciate it more now than ever, especially when Clark smiles warmly at Lois and the look on his face falters when he sees you.\
Way to go, pat yourself on the back for ruining what little chance you already had.
“Morning,” he murmurs to both of you before going to his desk.
You’re about to fling yourself out the window.
Luckily, Perry does keep you busy when he stacks another assignment on your desk. Before you can even work on your piece due tonight, he tasks you to help Cat with a piece of breaking news in the entertainment sector. This means you have to turn down Lois’ offer to grab lunch together with Jimmy and Clark as you usually do.
You don’t look at Clark when you respond to Lois. “Sorry, I should get this done. I’ll just eat lunch at my desk.”
“Okay, I’ll grab you something then?” Lois offers kindly and you nod at her gratefully.
When you do need a mental break from working (in other words, you need to just chat about nothing for a bit), you resist the urge to plop yourself down on Clark’s desk as you usually do. Instead, you swerve and head straight for Lois. She doesn’t seem to mind, but her gaze does dart between you and Clark even as she’s talking.
You avoid looking at Clark the entire day. If you see that sympathetic expression on his face again, one that pities your unfortunate unrequited crush on him, that may be your last straw before you burst into tears. The last thing you want is to make things unnecessarily tense in the office. It’s not his fault that he doesn’t reciprocate your feelings. It’s not his fault that you made him uncomfortable by inviting him in for a drink.
You really need to get it together.
At the end of the day, after everyone else has left, it’s surprisingly only you and Clark again in the office. Your mind runs through all the upcoming deadlines and you didn’t think he had anything that had him working late today, perhaps he’s beginning his next one proactively.
“Are you working late?”
His voice has you jolting back, chair rolling and banging against the corner of your desk. The impact on your back is immediate and you wince.
“Gosh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he drops to his knees, hands flailing in the air like he’s looking for something to help with. His beautiful blue eyes are wide, shaped into concern when your face morphs in pain again. “Sorry, sorry. Are you okay?”
“Yep,” you laugh, “just being silly. You didn’t do anything wrong, don’t worry.” Clark doesn’t seem convinced and stares at you again, searching your face. You have to smile reassuringly at him before he even softens just a tad. “I’m fine, promise. And, to answer your question, I have to wrap this up and get it out to Perry so it can go out at midnight.”
“The holiday decor one?”
You’re a little surprised he knows, but you nod anyway.
“The piece with Cat turned out okay? You seem to have a lot on your plate.”
“Oh, yeah. It’s no big deal. Cat’s thing needed to go out today, so I didn’t mind helping out. Everyone has been super busy.”
Clark’s lips pinch, jaw clenching. “Yes, but Perry’s been giving you a lot of the heavy stuff. He should ease up.”
“Clark, I’m fine. I promise. You know I can tough it out against Perry,” you smirk.
Having a normal conversation like this is nice. Perhaps there is some hope for you yet; not hope for romance because that one’s buried six feet under now. But at least hope that you can salvage this friendship and your working relationship.
“I can stay, wait for you to wrap up so I can walk you home.”
Your protest is immediate. “No, no, please. You don’t have to. I won’t be much longer and it’s really not that late.” Again, he doesn’t look swayed by your words. “I promise I won’t leave too late. If I get scared, I’ll give you or someone else who lives nearby a call. Or I’ll call a cab. Don’t worry.”
“Call me,” he says quickly. “If you need someone to walk you home, call me. I’ll be here.”
It’s incredibly unfair that, even after he so clearly rejects you, he’s still being so kind. But that’s just who he is, isn’t it? He can’t help himself. Always wanting to take care of people. Your heart aches at the thought and you can only give him a grateful smile. “Thanks, Clark.”
Clark pauses one last time, checking your face for any sign that you might change your mind. When he doesn’t find it, he rises to his feet. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”
“See you tomorrow, Kent,” you grin, doing your best to convince him.
“Have a good night.”
When his footsteps finally subside and you’re left in the quiet again, you finally let out a long exhale. You lean back in your chair, the joints creaking, and press the balls of your palm against your eyes.
Don’t cry. It’s always been a far-fetched crush anyway. Clark is kind to everyone and you took that kindness and twisted it into a hope for something more. You couldn’t help yourself from falling for the gentle giant, but it’s not on him to manage your feelings.
So you swallow back the tears and toughen up your heart. After all, you still have work to do.
Once you finish up your final words of the arguments of tinsels versus garlands and click the send button, you release a sigh of relief. What a Monday. You’re ready to get the heck out of here. You quickly pack up your bag and head towards the exit.
Only, you nearly trip over your feet when you see the lone figure by the door.
“You’re still here.” The words are out of your mouth before you can think them through.
Clark’s head jerks up immediately, eyes finding you. A smile slowly stretches across his lips. It’s been at least thirty minutes since you last spoke to him. “Hey. I wanted to make sure you got home okay.”
“You’ve just been standing here? Why didn’t you wait inside?”
His mouth twitches. “You would’ve spent the entire time trying to get me to go home if I stayed inside.”
You would’ve. It would’ve been ridiculous for him to wait for you. Especially since…
“Did you wrap up?”
“Yeah, it’s in Perry’s hands now.”
“Best place to be.” He smiles, tugging his bag higher on his shoulder. “Shall we?”
Similar to the previous night, the walk home is quiet. Side by side. Two separate souls. The walk feels a little lonelier today. The distance is palpable, a chasm you can’t seem to ignore. Gone is the easiness that rests between you when your entire body is stiff as a board. The walk feels like it lasts forever and takes no time at all.
Reaching your front door alleviates some of the tension in your shoulders. For the first time, you’re actually thankful that you’re home. You don’t think you can take much more of interacting with Clark, not when everything still feels so taut between you.
“Thank you again for walking me,” you murmur. After that spiel inside your head, you can’t even bring yourself to look at him fully. Your eyes brush over him, then fly to your door. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”
Clark clears his throat, you don’t look at him. You can’t. You don’t think you can handle it. What you have to do is disappear behind your door and wallow in self-pity. Maybe in that tub of double fudge caramel ice cream you picked up over the weekend.
“Uhm, right. See you tomorrow.”
You throw him one last smile, barely sparing him a glance, and move towards your door and close it behind you.
Crud. What a day. As heartbreaking as this whole ordeal is, you’re grateful that Clark is at least trying to show some semblance of normalcy after your big mishap. It’s not the outcome you wanted but you can finally put a close to this chapter of your love life.
Now, onto your ice cream. And maybe a few more tears.
Right as you’re shrugging off your coat, the doorbell rings. A frown settles on your face as you float towards it, swinging the door open and surprised to find Clark on your stoop. Before your mouth can even open to say anything, Clark blurts out, “Did I do something wrong?”
You blink, surprised. “I— what do you mean?”
“You didn’t sit at my desk today. You sat on Lois’.” You’re gobsmacked but Clark continues, “And we always eat lunch together — granted with everyone else — but you ate alone today.”
“Well, I— uhm, I had that piece to finish.”
“And you’ve barely looked me in the eye today. It’s just—” he runs his fingers through his curls, looking devastatingly handsome even when he’s flustered. “I’m not sure what I did. If I did something, I want to know so I can fix it. Fix this.”
The words spill from your mouth without much thought. “No, Clark. Oh gosh no. You didn’t do anything wrong. Not at all.”
He steps towards you and you take a step back out of instinct. Aware of your reaction, he winces and takes a step back, putting a safe distance between the two of you. “Sorry, sorry. I don’t know how to do this. I’m— I’m not used to you being… distant from me. I thought we were fine. I thought we were friends.”
Friends. Yes, that’s what you are. That’s exactly why you needed to put a bit of breathing room between the two of you. You don’t want to do anything to ruin this friendship. “No, it’s not you. I promise. I thought you were uncomfortable with me, so I—”
“Uncomfortable?” He interrupts, eyebrows furrowing again.
Your nervously pick at your fingernails as your face contorts into an expression you don’t want to name. “I thought the entire office knew. Then after yesterday, I just assumed— I don’t know. I didn’t want you to be awkward around me because of what I did.”
“Know what? What did you even do?”
“Well, I invited you in here and you clearly weren’t interested and I thought you knew that I’ve been in love with you for forever,” you finally confess, face feeling like it’s in flames with the embarrassment that carves itself deep into your core. You can’t look at him, can’t bear to see his face when he realizes that you’re truly messing up this friendship. “This is so humiliating,” you mutter, “and I—”
Suddenly, you feel cool hands on your warm face and his lips on you. The cool winter air is nothing compared to the sudden wave of heat that floods your body as Clark’s mouth devours you. It’s gentle for a heartbeat before his movements grow frantic, desperate, like he can’t get enough of you. He steals the air from your lungs, breathes it into his own.
And it feels so good. Oh so good. So good that your brain has short-circuited, wires fizzling out into disarray. It’s better than you could’ve ever imagined because Clark tastes a little like espresso, a little mint, and a little something that is just him.
Your back hits the wall and Clark only presses in deeper, swallowing your moans like they have always belonged to him. His hand is on your cheek, the other on your waist. His fingers sink into your flesh to keep you there against him.
It is only when Clark begins to shift his lips, his warm, soft lips, along your jaw and down your neck that you’re able to see clearer, the prints on your wall becoming coherent. That is when your palm lands on his chest to slowly push him back, but at the same time, maintaining a close enough distance that you could easily twist your fingers into his shirt to pull him back towards you.
Clark reluctantly draws away from you, lips swollen, glasses slightly askew. His breathing is a far cry from yours, where your chest rises with stuttered breaths, his is surprisingly even. You’re not sure how you do it, but you do find your voice eventually. “Uhm, what just happened? What’s happening?”
His throat moves as he swallows, staring at you with such earnest, sweet eyes. “I thought it was obvious that I’ve been in love with you. Lois gives me crap all the time for it.”
You nearly break your neck with how fast you jerk up to look at him. “You what?”
“I thought you knew!”
“How would I know that?” You gasp, “Last night, you didn’t— I mean, I asked you twice to stay. I thought I messed this — our friendship — up. Thought you were trying to be nice today to let me down gently.”
Clark groans. It’s a pained one, but you can’t help the way the sound shoots straight between your legs. “I overheard you talking to Danny last night, you told him that you recently decided that you don’t really want to date anyone right now. So when you asked me to stay, I thought all you wanted was…” he tapers off, eyes flicking away for a second, “you know. And I would’ve obviously still loved to take care of you — and I’ve thought about it in great detail plenty of times — but I don’t think I could’ve walked away from that. From you. I can’t just do one night.”
You feel so stupid. You thought you were letting Danny off easy, but you hadn’t even realized Clark had been listening. Your teeth catch your bottom lip as you huff a tired laugh. “It’s because I’m not interested in dating anyone but you.”
“So this is real? Us? This is happening?” Clark brightens, the growing source of light in this otherwise desolate winter evening. “I mean, we can really be together?”
A giggle escapes your lips. “Yes, Clark. This means we can be together.”
He closes his eyes, relief crashing over him in waves. When he opens them, his blue eyes have darkened. Pupils dilating as he rakes his eyes over you. “Good, that means I can properly take care of you now.”
“Now?” You squeak.
Clark’s eyes fall to your mouth, shamelessly taking in the way your lips part in surprise. “Only if you want to. I’d love to take you out to dinner or do any other activities. I’ll be sure to do that too, but, if I’m being honest, I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately and I really want you.”
The man has always been honest. Honey-soaked truths dripping from his lips. But not like this. Never like this.
“I just—” you pause, heat crawling up your neck, “I haven’t even gotten ready. I’m not wearing cute underwear—”
“No need for cute underwear if I’m going to take them off you.”
Oh goodness. Well, he doesn’t have to say more than that. And he doesn’t because then he’s pushing up your pencil skirt to your hips as he drops to his knees before you, leaving you in your sheer black stockings. Clark groans, kissing his way up your inner thigh when he reaches the space between your legs. A rough exhale leaves his lips. “I could smell how wet you are, you know. Every time you’re near me. I never realized this was for me. Now, I get it all to myself.”
“Clark,” you whimper pathetically.
“How attached are you to these stockings?”
You blink through the haze. “Not very—”
The rip echoes down the hall as Clark uses minimal brute strength to tear through the thin fabric, the stretchy material scrunching up as you’re exposed down there. You always thought Clark was handsome — cute, even — but you’ve never seen him like this. Eyes glazed over with wanton need, lips parting with heavy pants, and — your eyes dip to his pants — so, so hard.
“Cute,” Clark chuckles low when he spots the teddy bear prints on your panties.
Can this be any more embarrassing? Your instinct is to clamp your legs, hands flying to cover up your childish underwear. You really didn’t think you were going to end up with the head of the love of your life between your legs, so your underwear choice really wasn’t top of mind this morning.
Clark’s very large hands pry yours away as he looks up at you. His glasses are slightly crooked, dipping just below his eyes. Instead of his usual awkward self, he looks tantalizing. Inquisitive, hungry eyes peering over at you. “Don’t hide from me, honey,” he coos, “you’re so beautiful. It feels like I’ve been waiting for this my entire life.”
His breath his hot where it kisses your skin. First your thighs then to your clothed pussy. You can feel yourself leaking through the fabric, desire pooling in an embarrassing puddle soaking up the cotton. His lips brush over your core, light and teasing. Your hips jerk up involuntarily and you let out a small whine over how desperate you seem. Clark lets out a delicious moan when he hears it.
“I thought about doing this yesterday. When I saw inside your house, all I wanted to do was press you up against this wall and taste you.” His words stoke a fire inside you. His finger hooks around the gusset of your panties and drags them to the side. Clark leans close, a whisper of warmth against your sensitive, wet skin. “You always smell so sweet.”
“Clark, please,” you whisper as your fingers twist through the silky strands of his midnight hair.
He flattens his tongue against your core, dragging it up painstakingly slow until it presses against your clit. His tongue swirls around the nub, flicking it eagerly until you’re tugging on his head with a gasp. Your head falls back against the wall with a thud, eyes sliding shut as Clark licks and nips you like a starved man. You’re not entirely sure how he does it but you see stars in the back of your eyes, dancing like they’re taunting you with how heavenly his mouth feels on you.
When you finally look down at him, he’s looking up at you through fogged up glasses. His eyes are no less sharp as they watch your every move. The way you respond to how he strokes along your pussy lips, how his tongue pushes deep inside you, how his fingers dig into your thigh. Your body falters with the intensity of his gaze and you nearly slip but Clark is faster, holding you up easily against the wall as he continues to devour you.
Every movement feels intentional, like he’s rehearsed this and thought through every single thing that would make you tick. Your mind goes into a frenzy, body hot with how desperately he’s mouthing you. You look down further to find his other hand has drifted down to his cock, palming himself through the fabric of his slacks. His moans against your cunt reverberate straight through you, your toes curling in delight at the evidence of how much he’s enjoying himself.
You’re getting a little too close when he flicks his tongue inside you again and you have to yank his head back by his hair. The bottom half of his face glistens with your slick and his tongue darts out to lick his lips.
“Clark, I can’t— I’m going to cum like this.”
“Good,” he says, ready to dive back in when you pull him back again. Another needy sound leaves his lips as he does so and you burrow your fingers deeper into his hair.
“I want you to get off too. I want you to finish with me.”
“I can finish like this, honey. I promise.”
“But I want you. I want you inside.”
“You’re going to be the death of me.” He releases an unsteady breath. Without warning, he rises to his feet and picks you up, earning a surprised squeal from your lips as your legs wrap around him in panic. Clark props you up easily against him, your hands landing on his broad shoulders. “Where’s your bedroom?”
You weakly point in the general direction and Clark carries you all the way there before unceremoniously tossing you onto the bed. He climbs over you in a heartbeat, mouth latching onto your neck to litter pretty blossoms across your skin. He marks you up with constellations, all named after him to show everyone that he belongs to you and you to him.
“So pretty like this,” he mumbles as he begins to unbutton your blouse, kissing his way down your breasts and down to your stomach. He pays particular attention to the insides of your thighs when he feels you squirm again. “You’re so sensitive, it’s so cute.”
“Don’t tease,” you chide playfully, swatting his shoulder.
“Not teasing, I like it. I like how responsive you are. Love hearing your moans,” he hums as he makes his way back up to you. “Do you know how many times I’ve pictured spreading your legs open in the office? Every time you sit on my desk, all I can think about is getting on my knees and burying my face in between them.”
The visual only adds fuel to the fire already burning bright inside you. You can imagine what it would be like to have Clark eating you out on his desk after everyone’s gone, his tongue eager and hungry. He would lap you up, so desperate to make you feel good. All he wants is for you to feel good.
“Maybe next time we work late,” you smile teasingly at him.
“I’ll do it, you know,” Clark beams right back as he begins to unbutton his shirt. You drag your finger down from his collarbone, south to his chest and to the smattering of hair leading down to his pants. “Keep teasing me like that, keep wearing that tight skirt you love so much, and I’ll do it in front of everyone.”
Your neck flares with warmth. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would,” he says, such resolution in his voice that you know he means it.
“Okay, well, good thing we’re at home then,” you say with a huff, but even he can see how frail your voice is.
“You like the idea of it,” he correctly guesses.
“I—” The denial sits on the tip of your tongue, but you relent at the last second. “I do.”
Clark licks his lips and leans down to press them against yours. He smiles against you. “I can make it happen.”
“Clark,” you flush again.
“For now, darling girl, I’m going to focus on making you feel good right here. I’m going to go slow, okay? Don’t want to hurt you.”
You’re about to tell him that he couldn’t hurt you but then you see the bulge in his pants and how it’s straining against the fabric, demanding to be released. You can see the not-so-faint outline that has your mouth watering. One day, you’re going to put your mouth on him. One day, you’re going to be on your knees between his legs. Maybe in the office.
“Okay,” you concede quietly.
“Mm, good girl,” he murmurs and those words send blood straight down.
Clark grabs a condom from his wallet and you raise an eyebrow at him. “Never pegged you as the type to carry around condoms.”
“I wasn’t,” he pauses, “until two years ago.”
“Two years—” the words stop short on your tongue. “You’ve been in love with me for two years?”
“Well, more like two years, five months, ten days, si—”
“Six hours,” you finish. “Oh wow.”
Clark smiles softly down at you. “It’s been a while for us, hasn’t it?”
“A little too long if you ask me.”
Without missing a beat, Clark kicks off his pants, followed by his boxers. At the same time, you’re stripping off everything except your underwear, which Clark finds himself grinning at. As for you, you can’t bring yourself to smile when you see the size of him.
“What do you eat to get it that big?” You let slip. It’s an embarrassing but relevant question.
Clark blinks, looking humored. “Your pussy.”
“Clark!”
He chuckles low before rolling the condom on himself, XXL no doubt. Must cost him a fortune to look for specialized latex that’ll fit him. “I’ll go easy,” he mumbles, more so to himself.
You can feel him nudge at your entrance, the thick head of his cock pushing into you slowly. The stretch stings, tears prick your eyes at the feeling.
“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, wincing. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, it’s okay. I’m fine,” you try to reassure him.
Clark is definitely doing his best to try and make it easy for you. Even with how wet you are, Clark is still very… well-endowed. He swallows thickly when he finally manages to notch his tip into you, the head stretching out your poor little pussy. “Do you have lube? I can use it, make it easier for you.”
“Bedside table,” you rasp, gesturing to the nightstand.
Clark pulls out of you slowly again to grab the bottle and drizzle a generous amount on himself. It’s cute seeing him so laser-focused, so intent on making this as pleasurable for you as possible. You’ve had other men, of course, even in the two years you’ve been in love with him. But none of them have ever been as attentive, as careful with you.
You almost wonder what it would be like for that restraint to snap, for him to just take you the way he wants.
“I can take it, Clark. I promise.”
He nods slowly before repositioning himself back between your legs. The slide in is slightly easier this time, his head making it past your tight muscles despite your resistance. He moves slow, deliberate. The veins on his neck protrude as he tries his best to control himself with how you’re squeezing around him.
“You’re so tight, honey,” Clark musters out, “so tight for me. You feel so good. I can’t wait to fill you up all the way.”
“I-I’m not sure I can take you all the way,” you admit, feeling the burn intensify. Clark pushes himself in gently, in and out an inch at a time, until you’re used to his girth. Each slide in goes deeper and deeper until you feel him hit your womb. “So deep, Clark,” you groan, “feels so full. So good.”
“You can take it. You can take me. I know you can,” Clark encourages as he begins to thrust into you gently. The drag of his cock, thick and hot, inside you is enough to have you squirming underneath him. Not necessarily your body’s instinct to get away from the pain, but your pussy’s need for more.
Clark’s muttering reassuring praises at you, telling you that you’re doing such a good job taking him. How beautiful you look like this underneath him.
“I’ve been thinking about you for so long, what you would feel like wrapped around me. My imagination couldn’t do this any justice,” he breathes, burying his face in your neck as he plunges into you.
As you get accustomed to his size, Clark begins to move more confidently, more freely. His cock splits you open but you feel that burning pleasure more now than ever. One of his hands is on your headboard, the other on your hips as he presses into you. The bed creaks a complaint underneath him, your headboard rattles against the wall.
Burning need coils tight inside of you, twisting all of that delicious feeling until you can’t see anything but him. The world blurs before you as Clark pants every time he rams into you. He’s buried to the hilt, you didn’t think it was possible, but your legs curl around him to pull him in even closer.
“H-honey, don’t do that. I’m going to cum too fast,” he whines. And he sounds so good doing so.
“I want you to feel good,” you sweetly say, arms sliding around his neck to pull him closer. His lips find yours and you lick into his mouth to get a taste of you and him, that intoxicating combination that has you grinding up to meet his pace.
“Feels so good, feels too good,” he croaks, voice fraying at the edges as he continues to drive into you. His cock feels like otherwordly, like something no mortal man should ever have.
You moan and dig your head into your pillow as your entire body bounces with every thrust, even as he tries to keep you steady. Clark looks down to see the way your breasts move as he slides into you.
“Tits so pretty,” he mumbles, “so pretty. I can’t wait to taste them after this. Just want you to cum once first. One time then I’ll give you more, honey. I promise. I’ll make you feel good all night.”
His name comes out of your lips in another whine. “We have work tomorrow, c-can’t go at this all night.”
“We’ll call in sick, you deserve it. You’ve been working so hard,” he huffs, muscles on his abs rippling as he continues, biceps flexing above you. You wish you had a camera on you, capture every second of this moment. The one you’ve been waiting for for far too long.
“I—” you hiccup when Clark shoves in particularly deep, “I didn’t know you had it in you to be so naughty.”
“Only if it keeps you here with me.”
His little praises, his sweet promises, his broken mewls. All of them combined have you climbing and climbing faster. The pleasure that has evaded you for so long finally chasing after you, pace faster than you can avoid.
“C-Clark, I’m g-gonna cum, please, please,” you plead, nails scraping down his back as you arch your body into him.
Clark moans at the feeling and begins to hammer in faster and deeper. Your bed is loudly protesting how hard he’s going but you aren’t, instead begging with your mouth as you reach up to kiss his neck, your tongue laving at his skin.
That seems to be the last straw because then Clark is coming apart before you, splintered gasps falling from his lips as you find your own climax, your pussy pulsing around his length. The air is knocked out of your lungs as you find it, your body convulsing with satisfaction but also a need for more.
His forehead presses against yours, equally warm. “S-sorry. I shouldn’t have— you should’ve cum first, I didn’t mean to—”
You giggle and lean up to kiss him. “I didn’t mind. I like that you were so wrecked that you couldn’t even hold it back.”
“Still shouldn’t have happened,” he frowns at himself. “Let me make it up to you, yeah? Let me take care of you again.”
“Clark, we just finished. Aren’t you tired?”
He stares you like you have three heads. “Why would I be tired?”
You have no answer to that, but you smile up at him anyway.
“Now, I have two years of making up to do. What shall we do next?”
pairing. clark kent x fem!reader genre. friends to lovers. sexual tension. smut.
after a brutal event leaves clark weak and poisoned by kryptonite, you follow strict orders to rush him to his parents’ home — the one place you’re certain no one would find him at. a safe house.
word count. 5.1k words warnings. men in pain !! men in pain !! sexual tension. clark worrying about oc. he smells and hears her arousal bc of his super senses giggles. smut. oral (fem!receiving) MUNCH CLARK. fingering. unprotected + rough sex. size kink. tummy bulge. he puts a fucking pillow between the wall and the bed frame. they have to be very quiet. BIG COCK CLARK. squirting.
✶ inspired by events from — SUPERMAN (2025).
ana’s notes. i know this isnt anything jungkook related but .. im going through something rn with this man. i shouldve never fucking watched this movie. some details are improvised bc i lowk dont know shit abt superman (i was always more of a marvel girlie) so if theres smth in here that doesnt make sense for his character .. please just PLEASE JUST DONT OKAY. okie !! enjoy ♡
Clark Kent was a very reserved man.
Even at the office, he rarely had much to say. If someone asked about his day, he’d answer with something short — a few words, never a story. He never flaunted his accomplishments or fed off the praise. Where most of the department reeked of overbearing bragging and egotistical bastards, Clark kept to himself. He was private. Content with staying out of the spotlight.
Even as friends, you knew only fragments about him. How he liked his coffee — black, bitter, not even a pinch of sugar. That he didn’t have an Instagram, Facebook, or any kind of digital footprint beyond an email address.
And then, of course, there was the part you hadn’t known.
That he was Superman.
He hadn’t wanted you to find out — you could tell by the way he stammered and lied through an explanation the night you confronted him about it. But Clark Kent was not nearly as subtle as he liked to think he was, and you were far too observant. He was conveniently missing whenever Superman was needed. Once could’ve been a coincidence, but every time? No way.
Over time, he was okay with you knowing. He trusted you.
You were his friend. And friends trust and help each other.
Which was why you had helped him get all the way here — to his parents’ home, a beautiful farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. It was quiet. Safe.
You’d been to Clark’s apartment in Metropolis many times — a high-rise with floor-to-ceiling windows, glossy black marble tiles, and simple, modern furniture.
It couldn't have been more different from the warmth of his parents’ farmhouse in Kansas. Here, the floors were scuffed wood, every step creaking faintly, and the whole house carried the scent of timber with a soft undertone of cinnamon. Memories were painted on the walls — framed photographs of smiles, family trips, and holiday dinners.
Clark’s parents were the kind of people who opened their home to you as if they’ve been waiting for you your whole life, their kindness effortless and genuine. It was a home that radiated comfort and care, and suddenly it made sense why Clark was so well-mannered and grounded. He’d grown up in the center of it all.
His childhood room was left untouched. Band posters and old movie prints clung to the walls, their corners curling. A shelf in the corner displayed trophies and figurines that had clearly been handled and loved. For all that he was, Superman, the man who could save the world and never expect anything in return, there was something disarmingly ordinary about this space. About him.
A low groan from behind you broke through your thoughts.
“You’re still here,” Clark murmured from the bed, his voice low and hoarse. He was lying down, one hand pressed over his ribs like the pressure alone could hold him together. The suit still clung to him, faint streaks of dirt and ash dulling the bright colors. The Kryptonite’s grip had loosened, his veins back to their normal color, but he was still weak. The sun was already setting. He’d be fully recovered by morning.
“Did you want me to leave?” you asked, turning just enough to meet his gaze.
“I- No!” His head lifted slightly, urgency in his tone. “I’m just… surprised.”
There was something behind that word. Not shock, exactly, but disbelief — like he wasn’t used to someone waiting for him to recover. Like he’d expected to wake up alone.
You crossed the room, the floorboards creaking under each step, and lowered yourself into the chair beside his bed. His eyes followed you, searching your face, as if he was waiting for you to change your mind.
“How’re you feeling?” you ask softly.
“Pain,” he replied, a faint, breathy chuckle escaping before his eyes slipped shut. The sound was quiet, but it still carried that small thread of warmth you’d learned to recognize in him.
“Holt said you should feel fine in the morning, once the sun starts coming out,” you told him, keeping your voice gentle, like anything louder might press against his headache.
His gaze flickered, something unreadable in it before he looked away. “I wish you’d stayed in Metropolis,” he murmured, his voice low but edged with frustration. “You’re safer there.”
You shook your head without hesitation. “No.”
“Yes,” he said, more firmly this time. The softness in his tone gave way to steel, the same voice he used when there was no room for argument. “You could’ve gotten hurt just by being seen with me. If something happened, I-“ His jaw tightened. “I wouldn’t have been able to save you.”
You leaned forward slightly, catching his eyes. “Well, I wasn’t,” you said, your tone steady but gentler than your words. “Stop stressing yourself out, Clark. You’ve done enough. You should get some more rest.”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifted against the pillows, wincing a little. His hand fidgeted with the edge of his cape, eyes flicking to you and then away again.
“I, uh… I don’t…” He paused, licking his lips. “I don’t really like sleeping in the suit. It’s- uh- kinda uncomfortable. I was just… wondering if- if you could maybe… help me? Just with, y’know… the top part.”
“Y- yeah, sure,” you stammer, pushing yourself up and moving closer. Because you’re his friend. And friends help friends.
You help him sit up slowly, his breath hitching with a groan as his ribs protest the movement. Carefully, you reach behind to detach the cape, your fingers brushing the fabric with a softness that contrasts the roughness of the moment.
Then your hand finds the zipper at the back of his suit. You pull it down slowly, deliberately, revealing inch by inch of his creamy pale skin beneath — smooth, vulnerable, so human.
Clark’s eyes flutter open, meeting yours for a brief second before they close again. The silence between you stretches filled only by the soft sound of the zipper and his shallow breaths.
You help him pull the suit off his arms, the fabric sliding away to reveal his upper body — bare, exposed, impossible to ignore. His chest is broad and muscular, every line defined, almost unreal in its strength. The same goes for his biceps, thick and strong. Suddenly, your own nerves flutter, caught off guard by the closeness, the unexpected weight of this moment.
You steady the back of his neck as he leans back against the pillows, low groans rumbling from deep within him.
“You sure you don’t want me to… take it all off?” you ask quietly, the tension between you crackling like electricity.
If the room weren’t so heavy, if Clark wasn’t in so much pain, he might’ve thrown out a teasing, flirty comment about you trying to get him naked. But tonight, none of that comes.
Instead, he looks at you — eyes searching, silent, as if he’s trying to say something without words. Like he wants something he doesn’t quite know how to ask for.
“If you’re okay…” he murmured quietly, his voice soft, almost hesitant.
You gave him a small, reassuring smile, your fingers lightly tugging at the edge of the suit. He lifted his body as much as he could, every moment careful but willing — doing what he could to make it easier for you.
You kneel at the foot of the bed, fingers working at the heavy boots until they come off one by one with soft thuds against the floor. Then, with a firm grip, you take hold of the suit and give it a swift tug, the fabric sliding away until he’s left in nothing but his boxers.
On any other day, the situation might’ve been awkward — but tonight, he’s too worn down, too sore to care. His head stays against the pillow, eyes half-lidded, breaths slow and shallow.
You keep your gaze steady, careful not to linger, and carry the suit to his closet. The weight of it settles onto the hanger with a soft rustle, the deep blue and red now looking strangely still without him inside it.
“Goodnight,” you murmur, turning toward the door. But before your hand even reaches the knob, he calls your name. “Yes?” you turn back.
“Don’t go back without me,” he says, his eyes pleading in a way that makes your chest tighten. “Stay here for now. With me.”
You look at him fully this time. His body is bare, save for the thin stretch of fabric covering his hips. You’ve never seen Clark like this — stripped of the cape, of any clothes at that. It isn’t weird in a seeing your family member naked kind of way. It’s… different. Raw. It makes you nervous in a way you don’t want to think too hard about.
“I’m not going anywhere, Clark,” you tell him softly. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.”
You reach for the door again, but he calls your name once more.
“Yes?”
His lips curve faintly. “Thank you.”
You smile back. “Of course.”
Because friends help friends.
Clark awoke with a start.
The pain in his side had eased to a faint ache, and the heavy fog of fatigue was gone. The room is dim, lit only by the warm glow of the nightlight on the nightstand.
His mouth was dry. A glass of water sounded perfect.
Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he got up and reached for the robe hanging on his closet door. The soft fabric brushed against his skin as he shrugged it on. Then, with slow, careful steps, he made his way toward the door, moving quietly as he descended the creaking staircase.
He walked through the dark with ease — even half-asleep, his steps were quiet and calculated — but he flipped the kitchen light on anyway. The soft hum of the bulb filled the silence. He grabbed a tall glass from the cupboard, filled it from the fridge, and downed it in one long swig, the cool water sliding down his throat, washing away the dryness.
“Clark?”
Your voice was soft, groggy. He turned as you padded into the kitchen, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand.
And then he saw what you were wearing. His sweatshirt — the gray one, hanging loosely on you, sleeves dangling past your fingertips — and pajama pants cinched tight at your waist, the legs pooling around your feet.
“Hi,” he said, the word coming out softer than intended.
“Why are you awake? What time is it?” you asked, coming to stand beside him at the kitchen island, tugging the long sleeves of his sweatshirt — his sweatshirt — over your hands.
He noticed. And for a second, he forgot how to breathe.
“Almost three,” he murmured after glancing at the clock. “I don’t know — just woke up. Can’t sleep.” His sigh was low, weary, as he leaned onto the counter, elbows braced, thumbs fidgeting like he needed to keep them busy.
“What’s wrong?” you asked softly, searching his face.
“Nothing,” he said too fast. Then let out a small groan as he rolled his shoulders — and you caught the grimace of discomfort on his face.
“C’mere,” you said with a knowing smile, motioning him closer. “Let me help.”
He hesitated, a faint smile ghosting over his lips — as if to say you don’t have to do that.
But you were already moving behind him, resting your hand on his shoulder.
The robe was loose, soft beneath your palms, parting slightly as he shifted. You could feel the heat of his skin even through the fabric. He was broad, solid, so much bigger than you; your hands looked almost delicate against him as you kneaded at the hard line of muscle beneath his shoulder blade.
“Yeah, right there,” he groans, throwing his head back as you press your thumbs into a stubborn knot in his shoulder. The sound is low, unguarded — almost inappropriate for something so innocent.
You press your lips together, heat rising in your cheeks. His robe has slipped just enough to bare more of that solid shoulder, warm under your palms. You feel every twitch of muscle beneath your tiny hands, every breath he exhales as he leans heavier on the counter.
“Better?” you murmured, digging your thumbs in a little deeper.
“Mhm,” he said, the sound deep, almost a growl in the back of his throat. His head tipped forward, giving you more access.
Your thumbs worked lower, along the edge of his shoulder blade, and you felt the faint shift of his breath — slower now, heavier.
“You’re tense,” you whispered.
“Yeah,” he said, voice hoarse, “you have no idea.”
You cleared your throat, swallowing.
“Alright,” you murmured, stepping back before you got carried away. “Let’s go back to bed.”
He didn’t argue — just pushed off the counter lazily and obediently. The robes knot at his waist had slipped slightly, a slight peek of his chest and the line of his collarbone. Your eyes darted down before you could stop yourself, and you snapped them away just as quickly — but not quickly enough. He saw you.
You turned on your heel, making your way out of the kitchen, pretending you hadn’t been caught looking. Behind you, his mouth curved, faint and knowing, and he followed behind you.
Clark could smell you. Not just the faint trace of soap on your skin, but something stronger, intoxicating — the subtle tang of arousal that hit his scent with every shift of your steps. His jaw tightened. You were just causally walking, but he could hear the faint, wet sounds between your legs.
“Here, come sleep in my room. I’ll take the couch,” he insists, acting like he didn’t know your dirty little secret.
“No, it’s fine-“
“Please,” he cuts you off gently, a quiet firmness in his voice. “Ma and Pa get up super early anyway. I wouldn’t want them to wake you up.”
You press your lips together, trying to argue, but his earnest expression makes it pointless. Finally, you sigh, smiling despite yourself. “Fine.”
His own smile is softer, lingering just a little too long. “I’ll walk you up.”
You climb the creaking stairs, Clark right behind you. Every step is weighted with tension, a quiet electricity that makes your pulse race.
You reach the room and begin to speak. “Clark, I-“
But before the words can form, the door swings shut behind him. The sound echoes sharply in the quiet house.
Then his lips are on yours. Rough. Hungry. No hesitation. Your heart skips, your knees go weak, and the air between you shimmers with everything that’s been simmering for hours.
He pulls back just slightly, just enough to catch his breath, but the tension in his body is still taut. Pink lips, flushed cheeks, hair falling down his forehead, and those blue eyes darkened with something raw and hungry — lust, need, something you’ve never seen from him before.
He waits. Silent, expectant. Waiting for words you don’t have. Waiting for you to say stop, or a Clark, you’re reading me wrong — but none came.
Instead, your hands find the back of his neck, gripping him, pulling him impossibly closer. His lips meet yours again, feverish and demanding. Every inch of him pressed close, every gasp and low groan filling the space around you. You don’t pull away. You can’t.
He groans against your lips, words muffled but urgent. “Could smell how wet you are,” he breathes, “wanna feel it.”
You don’t pull back. “Touch me, please,” you murmur, guiding his hand. His fingers, much larger than yours, slither inside his your pants. He slides a finger up your folds, warm and slick, and you shiver against him.
“C- clark,” you moan, breath shaky, pushing your hips further into his hand.
The house is quiet, his parents asleep down the hall. Nothing exists outside the room — just the press of lips, the taste of each other, the wet, delicious sound of him touching your sopping pussy.
“Can I taste it, too?” he asks, lips and kisses trailing down your neck.
“Yes,” you moan, shivering. “Please.”
Without another word, he sinks to his knees, hooking a finger into the waistband of the pajama pants you’d stolen from him and pulling them down. You step out, bottom half bare, your panties gone in the washer with the rest of your clothes.
He looks up at you, holding your gaze, and then leans in closer. His tongue flicks out before he takes the first careful lick of your sensitive clit. His eyes flutter shut, lashes brushing his cheeks, as he tastes the sweet, wet arousal that’s been coating your inner thighs. You gasp, already hypersensitive, nearly collapsing at the slightest touch, knees weak from the rush of pleasure.
“So sweet,” he whispers against your clit, mostly to himself — but you can hear it, and can’t help smiling through your breathless moans.
Your fingers thread through his raven curls, brushing the strands from his eyes so you can watch his face. His brows are knitted tight in focus, lips and tongue working you over like he’s starving for it.
“Oh, god,” you moan, voice cracking. “Fucking hell.”
He hums low in his throat, the vibration shooting straight through you. His hands slide up, cupping your ass, pulling you harder against his mouth until his face is buried so deep it feels like he’s trying to breathe you in — like he wouldn’t mind suffocating there.
His eyes flutter open, locking on yours as his lips seal around your clit. The heat of his tongue makes your knees weak, and then — oh fuck — he moves one hand from your ass and slides a finger inside your sopping hole. Just one, but with how big his hands are, it feels like so much more.
You’re grateful for how wet you are; it lets him push in smoothly, his finger gliding in and out with ease while his mouth works your clit.
You can’t tear your eyes away from him. Your mouth falls open in a silent moan, breath coming fast.
“You like that?” he murmurs against you.
You nod frantically. “Fuck, M’gonna cum already, you’re so fucking good at that.”
He smiles against your clit, a low sound rumbling in his throat. Then, cruelly, his mouth disappears, his finger still stroking inside you but slower, lighter, just enough to drive you crazy.
“Clark,” you whine, breathless. “Wh- what are you doing?”
“Wanna hear you beg for it,” he says, voice low, almost a growl. His finger curls, hitting that perfect spot, and your legs tremble.
“Please,” you gasp, hips grinding down to chase his mouth. “Please, Clark- I need you-“
Instead of finishing what he started, Clark pulls back abruptly, sliding his fingers out of you — leaving you achingly empty. You whimper at the loss, hips lifting instinctively, but he’s already grabbing your waist and laying you down flat against the bed.
His chin glistens, but he doesn’t bother wiping it. The robe slips from his shoulders with a careless tug, revealing nothing but hard planes of muscle and smooth, golden skin. You take a shaky breath as he pushes your knee apart with ease, positioning himself between your thighs like he owns them.
You let out an audible whine. He’s taking far too long on purpose, and he knows it.
“Hold on, baby,” he murmurs, low and steady, sinking onto his stomach. His fingers find your clit with maddening precision, spreading your slick over every swollen inch before sliding back inside, stretching you deep. “Just wanna make you cum first… before I fuck you.”
His fingers start to scissor inside you, stretching you open, and you can’t help the moan that slips out — soft, but loud enough to make Clark cautious. Quickly, his free hand grabs the hem of your sweatshirt and yanks it up to your mouth.
“Bite down,” he orders, pushing the fabric between your lips. You obey instantly, teeth sinking into the cotton, your muffled sounds vibrating against it. “That’s it. So good for me.”
Then he’s back down, tongue sealing over your clit. The sensation is sharp and overwhelming, and your legs try to clamp around his head on instinct. He doesn’t let you — his arm hooks around your thigh, holding it wide open with effortless strength, practically hugging your leg against his head as he devours you.
You moan into the sweatshirt, muffled and ragged, hips bucking involuntarily into his mouth as your body trembles with need.
He groans low, mouth pressed to your clit, fingers pumping relentlessly inside you. The friction, the slick heat, the press of his mouth — it all coils tight inside you until you can’t hold back.
Your walls clench around his fingers, gripping him, legs instinctively squeezing shut as the heavy wave of euphoria crashed throughout your body. Your chest rises and falls wildly, and your moans spill out muffled but desperate, through the fabric he shoved into your mouth.
He drinks you up thoroughly before pulling back, lips glistening, dimples peeking through as he licks them. His fingers slip out, and he sucks them clean as well, tasting your arousal like it was the sweetest treat.
He climbs back up, pressing himself face to face with you, and carefully pulls the now-wet fabric of the sweatshirt out of your mouth.
“You’re a dirty man,” you tease, breathless.
“Didn’t hear you complaining a minute ago,” he replies, leaning down to press a quick, teasing peck to your lips. “You want more, or should we just go back to sleep?”
You bite your lip, suddenly shy, the memory of what just happened making your stomach flutter. “Want you,” you murmur, voice soft but certain.
He smirks before leaning down, kissing you so gently it has you weak, tongue exploring yours as if trying to memorize every curve. He pulls back with a final, teasing peck, holding himself up above you.
Then, with one swift tug, he strips off his last piece of clothing and tosses it aside. His cock bounces free — flushed pink, thick and standing tall, almost smug about the way it makes your breath hitch.
Kneeling over you, he strokes himself slowly, eyes locked on yours.
“Clark,” you say, voice stern but trembling.
“Yeah?” he murmurs, a soft moan escaping him.
“You’re so… big,” you admit, eyes wide.
“You can take it,” he replies, calm but commanding.
“No, I don’t think I can,” you whisper, heart hammering.
“Yes, you can. C’mon,” he urges, lowering himself closer, teasing the tip against your clit.
He pressed just enough to mix your slick with his pre-cum, dragging it along your folds, and the feeling in the pit of your stomach returns, sharp and insistent. You don’t even think about pulling back anymore.
“Ready?” he murmurs.
You hesitate, then nod anyway, heart pounding.
He smirks and taps his tip against your pussy a few times, making you jolt, before finally pushing it inside. Just the head slips in at first, the stretch sharp but addicting.
“Good?” he asks, voice low.
“Y- yeah… just- just go slow,” you breathe, fingers clutching the hem of your sweater like a lifeline.
Clark nods, obeying, easing inch by inch. The intrusion burns and thrills all at once. He’s not just long — he’s thick, every bit of him prying you open, molding your body to fit his. You’ve never taken anything like this, not even your little friend sitting in your drawer beside your bed back at home.
“You’re so warm and tight- fuck,” he groans, eyes fixed on where you’re joined, watching every slow inch disappear inside you.
Your hand slips down instinctively, pressing against your stomach as he bottoms out with a deep, shuddering breath.
“God, you’re gonna split me in half,” you manage, half joking, mainly serious.
Clark lets out a low chuckle, eyes squeezing shut like he’s hanging into control by a thread. “You got it. Just… give me a second.”
The thin layer of sweat on his body glows under the dim lighting, tracing every line of his chest, his abs, those massive arms you secretly wouldn’t mind being in a headlock by. You stare, unable to look away.
“You okay?” he asks, voice ragged.
“Mhm,” you hum, still pressing where you can feel him through your stomach.
You can feel him through your stomach.
“Alright,” he says, opening his eyes again, gaze dark and steady on you. “Gonna move now, okay?”
You nod frantically, fingers fisting the sheets on either side of you, bracing for what you already know is about to be the ride of your life.
Clark pulls out slowly, painfully, then eases back in with less resistance this time. You’re dripping, slick coating him, smearing over the tops of his thighs with every deliberate push. It’s so warm, so wet, every nerve screams at how good it feels.
“Go faster,” you breathe, voice shaky.
His eyes flick up to yours, brows raised. “You sure?”
“Yes,” you moan quickly, pressing your lips together, trying to stay composed.
He pounds into you harder, setting a faster pace, and the flimsy twin bed groans against the floorboards with every thrust.
You tug at the hem of the sweatshirt clinging to your overheated skin, desperate to peel it off.
“No,” he snaps, catching your wrists. His eyes are dark, hungry. “Keep it on. Wanna fuck you in this.”
He fists the sweatshirt though, yanking it up just enough for your tits to spill free. They bounce with every thrust, and his hand is on you instantly — rough, possessive — squeezing like he owns them.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice low and filthy. “In my clothes. My bed. Taking my cock like you were made for it.” His hand drags slowly down to your waist as he leans close, his chest flush against yours. “Should just make you mine already, huh?”
You can’t even speak — he’s so big, stretching you to the point of insanity, every thrust knocking the wind out of you. It’s almost feral now, the pace, the way the twin bed screeches across the floorboards, springs crying out with every slam. The headboard keeps smacking against the wall, a steady rhythm.
Clark didn’t lock the door. If his parents wake up and come down the hall to investigate, you’ll both be caught — sweaty, naked, and guilty. The thought only makes your stomach flip harder.
“Fuck,” Clark grits out, suddenly stilling inside of you. One hand cradles your head as the other yanks a pillow out from under you. He shoves it between the headboard and wall, eyes flashing back down at you. “Pussy so good, gonna get me in trouble.”
“Clark, M’so close…” you whisper, breathless — too breathless to say it louder, or you’d scream it.
“Yeah? C’mon, baby,” he growls, rocking his hips rough and deep, “wanna feel you cum around me.”
The knot in your stomach tightens to something sharp, electric — not just release, something bigger, heavier. Your brows pinch together, sweat slick on your skin, and you bite your lip hard to keep from crying out.
“M’gonna cum- c- cover my mouth, cover my mouth!” you squeal, the words tumbling out high and panicked.
Clark’s large hand slaps a hand over your mouth, his palm broad and warm, and you grab his wrist instinctively, your fingers not even reaching around it.
Your body seizes up, clenching around him, so tight it nearly drags him under with you — and then it happens. A sudden rush, a warm spray, your release spilling out uncontrollably, soaking his stomach, his thighs, the sheets.
Clark chokes out a moan, eyes blown wide at the sight. “Fuck…” His hips stutter, fighting for control, watching every drop. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen — and he’s already thinking about how to make you do it again.
You scream, drooling into his palm, but he couldn’t care less — if anything, it spurs him on. He keeps pounding into you with a ruthless rhythm, chasing his own high. And when the squirting doesn’t stop, when your pussy somehow clenches even tighter around him, he finally pulls out with a guttural curse. His hand works his cock in rough, urgent strokes until hot ropes of cum spill across your stomach, getting on the sweater as well.
He pulls off of you with a long, ragged exhale, chest rising and falling rapidly.
“I don’t want to boost your ego” you murmur, still catching your breath, “but that was my first time doing that.”
“Huh,” he breathes out, eyes wide. “Really?”
“Well,” you tease, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “No one can be hung like you are.”
He chuckles, shaking his head, a faint pink tint creeping across his cheeks.
“God, Clark,” you breathe, glancing down at the mess, “now it’s gonna be obvious when I change clothes.”
“Hey, you made a mess too!” he whines, tugging at the rumpled sheets.
“You think we were being too loud?” you ask, tilting your head as you watch him wipe away all the fluids with the sheets he was going to wash anyway.
“Definitely,” he says with a grin, voice teasing as he gets up and looks for his robe somewhere on the floor. “Maybe we should just leave now… save ourselves the embarrassment.”
You smirk, shifting on the bed. “You might have to carry me this time, though. Just got my world absolutely rocked by Superman down there.”
He freezes for a second, then chuckles, fumbling for his robe and tying it back around his waist. “You did not just call my dick Superman,” he says, shaking his head, still chuckling.
You only hum, shrugging the sweater off and heading to his dresser to find clean clothes that don’t have his cum on them!
“Uhm…” he starts, fiddling with his hands like he can’t decide where to put them. “I… I wanna make things right. The whole… hook up stuff isn’t really my thing. So, when we head back to Metropolis… I was wondering if you- like, maybe you’d wanna go out for dinner, or stay in and I could cook for you instead? Or, um, if not that’s totally fine, I get it! We can just stay friends, act like nothing happened-“
“Clark,” you cut him off, walking toward him. “You just fucked the living hell out of me, and now you’re all shy?”
He laughs nervously, scratching the back of his neck, eyes darting everywhere but yours. “Sorry… so? What do you think?”
You nod, smiling. “I would love that. Honestly, I’d be pissed if you wanted to just stay friends after fucking me like that.”
He chuckles, sliding a hand around your waist to slap your ass. You squeal a little too loudly.
“Shh!” he hisses, leaning closer, smirk tugging at his lips.
You playfully swat him with the shirt in your hands. “You really underestimate your strength, you know that?”
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: clark kent jogs every morning to keep up his physique — except that itself is a lie he can't unrun.
𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆/𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐆𝐎𝐑𝐘: Explicit/F!Reader
𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒: pwp, roommate!reader, reader is jimmy olsen's cousin, yearning, hyperspermia, p-in-v, confessions, creampies, softdom!clark, aftercare, 'superman' reveal, drama, sexual tension
𝐖/𝐂: 2k+
clark kent hasn't had sex in a really long time.
a package deal with his kryptonian physiology, he supposes. enhanced tolerance, an insanely levelled libido — it's the same way he didn't have to lift a finger to maintain the hulking muscle mass of his body.
but really, it was a simple concept. he hasn't had sex because he hasn't wanted anyone in that nature.
until…he met you.
you, who had him sputtering a ridiculous lie about running every morning when your perceptive eye pointed out the dust patterns on the untouched weights next to the sofa.
you, who'd come knocking on his door at eight-thirty in the morning for the apparent running route he now takes.
you, who despite all his warnings to leave well enough alone, broke down the door to his bedroom to now finding him slumped at the foot of his bed — coughing, with his shirt covered in soot and grime, minutes after news broke out of an explosion midtown metropolis.
the acrid scent of residual smoke. his breathing was far too torn and ragged for a man who'd claimed to be okay. when he moves, his legs buckle, slumping into the side of his dresser with a pained inhale in a jerky motion. your worry tears from you at the soft clatter of his glasses hitting the floor. without them, his eyes were clear. undeniably blue.
it doesn't take long for the pieces to click into place — the secrecy, the unusual occurrences. bested by a thick, rectangular frame that exposed him to reveal the face of a man you'd seen on television screens, newsstands, billboards —
"you have to believe me, i wanted to tell you. i was going to tell you," he tries, voice hoarse and pleading.
"you're injured." clark winces at the sudden tug you give at the hem of his shirt. gaze searching for wherever he pressed his palms into like a wounded animal minutes ago. "you're injured," you repeat, "take this off."
clark doesn't hesitate, pulling his dirtied shirt over his head in a fluid movement. the fabric flutters aside, leaving you with sight of his bare body, lighted by the soft mood lighting from his lamp. his physique was a testament to the revelation. sculpted and sturdy, but so impossibly soft. an angry bruise blooms on his right abdomen, stark against his pale skin. you watch it in real time, in the manner the yellow-purple softens to a pale yellow, and eventually, to the usual flush of his skin.
"it's…a lot to take in. i know."
he waits for your judgment, or your anger, self-conscious of the alien-like abilities that would frighten most.
"are you kidding me?" you rasp in a half-laugh. your palms come up to rest over the warm spot on his abdomen, brazenly dragging your fingers over the healed-bruise.
"jesus…clark." the disbelief is palpable, but amusement and awe creeps past it, "'i run everyday'," you mock in his drawl, "you're so full of shit."
he welcomes your curious exploration, offering you a rueful smile, "started running after you moved in. just…not at a 'human'…pace."
you snort with an annoyed shake of your head, "human pace. of course," your nails rake over his ribs thoughtfully. as though you're deciding which sensation in your belly should take precedence. anger, confusion, want. "you watched me struggle! running up the hill. all while you didn't even break a sweat."
his body visibly ripples at your touch. clark feels it too — the accusatory tone of yours, mixed in with hints of desire.
"i…was watching you, yes," he admits, lowering his voice in reverence, "but not to see you struggle. i was watching because i couldn't bring myself to look away."
when you shoot him a confused look, he continues, "every time you pushed yourself further. it was the most beautiful thing i'd ever seen. the determination that makes you so human —"
you let out a derisive sigh, wanting to write off his too poetic take on your unglamorous out-of-breath struggle in your runs with him. "that's —"
"i was jealous," he presses, voice pitching louder for you to really hear him, "how your body pushed you, the burn, exhaustion…satisfaction of getting up there." clark's palm cases yours where it remained idle over his abdomen. guiding you higher up his chest so you could feel the pathetically quickening thrum of his heartbeat.
"it made me feel things." he says, quieter.
you ponder over his confession for a beat, your free hand connecting with his waist. "there's other ways you know."
clark lowers head, tilting in question.
"to feel the burn…" you hum, sliding it to his front, lowering to brush past the waistband of his sweats, "or satisfaction."
if there was ever a time you'd seen clark look absolutely wrecked, it was now, "yes, god yes. show me."
his warm palm slide down your lower back, pulling you as close as humanly possible. you melt into him, head tilted to the side as his lips trail down your pulse.
surprises crosses your features as the pads of his fingers graze your lower lips. demanding entry. clark watches you mesmerised when you take him in, the pink of your tongue tracing a path down his fingers.
"good gosh…" clark's barely able to contain his rasp, watching you intently. At the manner your lips wrapped around the girth of his digits. a groan rumbles deeply in his throat, forehead slumping to your shoulder. "gonna be the death of me."
his breathing remains bated, guiding his damp fingers downward, past your waistband.
"need you to tell me what you want," he mutters, warm into your skin, "please. need to know i'm doin' this right."
the reverence in its delivery sent chills down your spine, gentle touches trailing past your belly in a gentle exploration. a test of the waters. but really, it was the need in his eyes that gave you the courage.
"…stretch me open. on your fingers," you whisper, squeezing around his clothed erection, "and then give me this."
your words forced a pained groan from him. elicited, raw and desperate. curious grazes turn decisive, digits sliding past the warmth of your puffy cunt. already slick and hot to touch, clark whimpers. "feels…incredible. soft."
you twitch around his fingers, jerking into him.
"sh, shh," he urges, curling his fingers past your folds, into the right and warm entrance that pulsed for him, "i've got you."
your head tilts at the dizzying pleasure the insistent probe elicits, "ah —…shit. clar—hhrk..fuck. it's t-thick!"
clark nods to your raw praise, sending a rush of blood down south. he doesn't think he can get any harder than he was now. the pace of his ministrations intensifies.
"takin' it so well. so perfect."
his mindless rambles echoed in your mind. and you couldn't help the strained rebuttal from your throat.
"i-i am?"
"y'are. more than perfect," he chokes, panting harder into your mouth. unrestrained sounds of your whimpers, mixing with the squelches sourced from your growing arousal.
a soft and content hum leaves you, but you opt to bite down on your lips to stop the airy, relieved laughter from his praise. clark frowns at the reddened tension pulled taut on your features. he lowers his head to replace your bitten lip with the his own. tenderly parting them with his tongue to deepen it. it's only a bare moment later he pulls away, breathing carefully.
he doesn't stop the deep, stuttered flick of his wrists, stretching his fingers deep in your cunt.
"can i? he tries.
"yes, yeah. o-okay." you nod, frantically, wetting your reddened lips after he pulls away from you.
in a rather ungraceful, clumsy manner, his hand works to shove the sweats and boxers down his hips to reveal his fully erect cock. thick and daunting, soaked with his pre-cum. clark doesn't wait for another confirmation as he presses the blunt tip of his length against your entrance, guiding himself into you slowly. clark's gaze remains fixed on yours, on every flicker of your features through the intense initial stretch.
"oh gosh — oh, good…gosh," he manages, steadying your hip as you steady yourself on the edge of his dresser. as expected, a sharp, breathy whine spills from your lips loudly.
"m-my fucking god," your head tilts back, hold tightening around his forearms, "you're big. so — ugh."
"too much? i can stop —"
"don't you dare." your plea shatters his hesitation, nodding in slight relief.
he starts with slow and deep thrusts, just to get you used to his size. though his grip around the splintering dresser says otherwise, to the sheer willpower he's exerting.
"i won't. ah — …you're…feels, amazing…" clark's breath hitches, taking in the flutter of your eyelids when he grinds into a particularly pleasurable spot.
"c-can't help it. haven't been fucked in…so…so long." your confessions spills from you, fingers flexing around the sturdiness of his forearms as he steadily fucks his cock into you. the fullness of his length coats your belly all around.
"it's been a while for me too," he admits, slumping his face into your shoulder, inhaling the scent of your skin deeply.
"r…really?"
"mhm…" clark lifts his head, mouthing up the column of your throat, "few years…since…before metropolis."
"nnh! hard to believe — ah, you're lasting…long."
clark's jaw twitches at your backhanded compliment; it only ignites something much more petty in him. he abandons the careful pace he's kept up, thrusts turning meaner, frenzied. your body arches into him, with broken moans unsuppressed from the weight of his hips snapping into you. each press of his thick cock rubbing right against the spot that made you see stars.
"believe me. i could do this…all…night…"
his promise rings true, in the manner he squeezes around the fat of your thighs, tugging it higher around his strong calves, fucking you in an angle that much the burning want in your belly much more potent.
"of course," you groan, tired, at the reminder of his superhuman strength, "fuck. i can't."
a triumphant grin curls at the corner of his lips, this time, his dimples feel mocking. "already?" he breathes, mouthing down your jaw, "thought you'd last long."
his tease to your confident words earlier shatters you.
"e-enough, clark — nn…gonna get me…hooked on this." you emphasize it with a lazy, intentional pulse. the flutter of your cunt around his length catches clark entirely off guard. just as he thinks it stopped, the feeling massages every cranny of him, coating him in a wave of pleasure.
he doesn't realise how quickly it catches up to him either, back turning taut, shuddering at the weight of his own orgasm. clark's full weight rests on you only for mere seconds before he catches himself, bracing his palms around the dresser to keep from crushing you.
his pupils, now dilated, meets your fucked out gaze as he cums deep in you. the thick and warm release that seemed to go on and on, clark remained in you. breathing harsh, holding himself still.
"y-you're still…cumming," you rasp, thighs quivering in the wake of your own release, and the dull, sticky coating of his release still spurting deep.
clark lets out a shaky breath, eyes shut tightly at the embarrassment actively reddening the tip of his ears. he couldn't bring himself to point out how you'd been subconsciously pulsing around his softening length, willing him to empty every last drop into you. a shaky breath rumbles his throat, body finally stilling.
he carefully pulls out of you, "i…i'm sorry. didn't mean to. was that…okay?"
you swallow thickly, a palm coming to case your belly, the warmth swirling and leaking out of your cunt. "…wow."
clark can only cringe at himself, abashed at your whispered awe. but before you get to probe further at the apparent physiological hazard of his, the efficient speed that lifts you off your feet. he plops you into the bed in a whisk. your legs are gently lifted, and you register the change of scenery at the touch of a cold towel to your thighs. he's on his knees before you, wringing the towel in a small washtub you hadn't noticed was there.
you suppose you could settle for superhuman aftercare.
the lights in your bedroom are low, warm toned and all around cosy. greedy hands run up and down your sides, pulling you impossibly close, even when you’re as close as you can be and beneath you is your boyfriend. chest flushed, hair sticking in different ways, lips swollen and the sight of him is sinful.
“baby,” he sighs, finally placing his hands back on your hips. “baby, cmon, don’t tease me right— fuck” a guttural groan cuts through the peace when you rock your hips down just right, cunt grinding on his cock. “honey”
“shh, y’look so pretty like this, so strong yet so needy for more.” you cooed, trailing your nails up and down his chest. the action makes his breath stutter and abs clench beneath your touch.
wetness pools between your thighs, each slow torturous grind has your panties soaking more and more, but you won’t give in yet, and his eyes dart between looking down and back up to your face. his one light grey sweatpants are now darker, a subtle mixture of you and him. “feels good, baby?”
he can’t look away, can’t tear his eyes away from your cunt, his hands grip your hips tighter and his breath comes out shaky, shallow and sharp around the edges. he needs to feel you against him, needs to feel without the lace covering you.
one of his thumbs hook around the thin strap, and you whine out softly at the way his hips jerk up beneath you. “off, take them off,” he groans, other hand pawing at your hip restlessly. “take them off, please, baby.”
so you do. wordlessly climbing off his lap, stumbling a little as you slide them down your legs, kicking them away from you. all the while he hastily pulls down his sweats, throwing them somewhere, along with his boxers and the sight that greets you is beautiful.
his cock, hard and heavy, the tip angry red, leaking with pre has your mouth watering and cunt fluttering around nothing as you once again wordlessly climb back onto his lap. the second you grind your bare xunt down onto his cock, he inhales sharply at the contact and shamelessly whines once his hands find purchase on your sides again. “feels so much better, hm?” he smiles lazily.
leaning down more, hands pressed against his chest comfortably, you smirk slyly and press soft kisses to his jaw and up to his chin. his hands still guiding your hips, rubbing your pussy back and forth against his cock, the sticky mess between you both getting worse. “you gonna cum like this?” you mutter between kisses, nails sinking into his chest.
“yeah,” he groans beneath you, fingertips tracing up and down your spine. “if you keep rubbing that pretty pussy on my cock like that, yeah, m’gonna cum like some stupid teenager.”
you moved your hips faster the longer you littered more kisses over his chin, across his jaw and down to his neck. now and again the head of his cock would catch your clit just right and have you both moaning and whining against each other. “fuck, oh my god, baby” you mouthed at his skin, biting and sucking.
“yeah, keep going,” he hisses into your shoulder, hips jerking once more in movement with your hips, the warm feeling of your cunt continuously moving back and forth against his hard length left him reeling. “good girl, keep doing that, keep rubbing yourself against my cock.”
the sounds of groaning and moaning echo the room, your hand stays pressed to his hard chest, body shining with sweat and his hands, ever so careful, rest on your thighs as you grind up and down his cock with vigor. “m’gonna cum,” you pant, thighs trembling on either side of his hips.
“me too, baby, just a little more, you can wait, yeah?”
“can’t, need to cum,” you shake your head, back arching when his hands cup your tits, squeezing and pinching your hard nipples. “honey, please, let me come, please!”
“fuck, shit, okay, yeah, whenever you want.” he nods, hooded eyes watching the way your cunt slides against his cock, your wetness coating him even more. “c’mon, baby, come for me, yeah?”
he groans deep into your mouth when you capture his lips in a bruising kiss, hands moving from his chest to his shoulders, your movements sloppy. “with me” you whine against his lips, “come with me, please, please need you to come with—fuck!”
your orgasm ripped through you suddenly like a tidal wave, thighs clamping and tightening around his hips. “oh my fuck,” you gasp into his cheek, body trembling in his hold.
beneath you, he groans into your shoulder, hands gripping you to his body tighter, grinding his hips up against your cunt, the action causes you to switch and squirm. “did you— fuck, did you cum?”
laughing breathlessly, he nods. “what? you expect me to not come when i watch you come all over my cock just by rubbing yourself on it like that?” he huffed, tips of his fingers brushing across your back.
lifting your head slowly, you narrow your eyes and slowly look down. thick ropes of cum cover his stomach and you can’t stop the way you slowly crawl down his body, ignoring the way his eyes widen suddenly until your tongue slides up his chest, cum covering the muscle. “so good,” you murmur, sliding your tongue through more, keeping some in your mouth as you crawl back up to him.
“baby” he pants, pupils blown wide, lips parted in silent awe, letting you grip his jaw between your fingers and opening his mouth without hesitation or much of a fight.
leaning down, you simply open your mouth and spit the small pool on your tongue straight into his mouth, giggling at the way his hands squeeze your thighs again. “don’t you taste so good, baby? my favourite taste.”
⤷ ゛cockwarming him while he's in a meeting! ˎˊ˗ ⠀⠀𑣲⋆ mdni
you hummed, your deft fingers playing with the locks of his hair as you shifted ever so slightly. but by the firm tightening of his palm on your hip, you could tell he noticed.
he was in heaven and hell at the same time.
it had all started when he mentioned his afternoon meeting. he'd been complaining about it the whole day, him having to leave the comfort of your bed just to be in a fuckass zoom call with a bunch of corporate bozos.
so, you being the ever doting girlfriend you were, decided to bring the bed to him! so sweet, right? when he first heard your idea, a deep blush bloomed all across his cheeks. aww, he was as red as a tomato at just the thought!
but you knew he could never say no to those pretty puppy eyes, and so - here he was. sitting on his work chair with your tits in his mouth and his dick in your tight cunt.
you turned around to soothe your nerves and confirm that the camera and mic were indeed turned off. he took the opportunity to lick up the column of your neck. you let out a soft moan, and you could feel his cock twitch.
his lips continued his assault on your neck, kissing everywhere he could reach. you rewarded his show of affection with a slow roll of your hips, and he whined beneath you. you could tell he was absolutely gone, his brain was practically oozing out of his ears.
he muffled his face between your soft tits again, and let out a low groan. your hands raked through his hair, and he looked up at you like you hung up the stars in the sky.
Clark Kent having yearly heat seasons?? Def not from my own kinks about breeding or anything-
I need ur opinion bout this, definitely for science purposes teehee
[explicit 18+ desperate heat hc’s] clark during his heats is a whole entirely different beast in bed. like. he’d normally hesitate before starting a round, kissing and teasing his lady’s neck at first to see if she initiates more to go further. when he’s in heat he establishes a safe word that means full stop and he respects it without a doubt, but if he doesn’t hear that safe word he goes hard. he’s getting his cock free no matter what time of day it is, he’s rutting it up against his lover like he’s on autopilot and wouldn’t fully be aware or conscious that he’s doing it. his body just takes over and leaves him in the backseat. when she’s not home he ruts himself against furniture, their couch pillows, blankets, slap himself up against the hard granite of the counter and making himself leak everywhere just to feel something. because his dick can’t take not having attention during these heats, it’s unbearable to feel the cool air and nothing else.
and he cums ungodly amounts too, like, splatters a mess and will keep fucking even after his nut, busting another, and another, and another. she tries to suck him good and deepthroat as much as she could to satisfy his poor aches but even after he cums she knows she barely scratched the surface of that need growing inside him. she takes a little bit of time off work to bounce on his cock for an entire afternoon, whimpering and wetting the sheets while clark is still stuck with an angry, determined furrow in his brow that showed precise focus and that he was not close to stopping. his final load is always climactic, bursts of thick white spilling everywhere he can’t control, his screams and howls unabashed while he gets sweat and cum everywhere - keeps pounding her pussy through his finish just to watch it gush out like a pool and make the nastiest sounds while he fucks it all back in.
he always stops so she gets water and food breaks but will still have to touch and rut himself up against something while she’s gone in the kitchen. and he’s already bricked up and leaking everywhere again, waiting for her. when he is so exhausted he’s knocked out with little snores leaving his throat, and she’ll ease him out of slumber with her mouth around his tip and her hands gently cradling his balls, and he’ll rush out a slurred thank you, baby and hold her hair back, assuring her it’s almost over, it’s almost done, you fucked me so good baby. I’m so grateful I have you, don’t know what I would do if I didn’t.
- Clark Kent (18+) - Smut-drabble -> How do you react to seeing...it?
- request here by @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, might as well attach this here too
- TW : pincer dick, purely for fun, not proofread, I wrote this while outside and on 4 hours of sleep im so sorry
- I wanna try this easier layout for when I'm not able to use my laptop
Clark Kent and his pincer dick is purely a fun theory and I don't really think he would actually have it.
But…
"You have to promise not to freak out," Clark states plainly, pushing back his hair as he ponders all the possible reactions you would have.
Honestly, all you can do is raise a confused brow. With your very observant eye and the art of "catching-print", you could tell he was big, so it's not an unexpected micro-penis—unless he pads it to make it look big.
"Clark, I already know you're superman, I don't think anything will throw me off that same way—"
"No, no..just—I think it's easier if you see what I mean." He gulps down a giant lump in his throat.
He really should've told you as soon as he could, rather than dancing around extra intimate flirting, now he has to face the possibility of a horrible reaction right in front of him.
But you're already nude, and ready thanks to Clark's people-pleaser tendencies, vigorously rubbing your pussy and watching what makes you croon. Clark can't leave you naked and on your own, so with a speedy movement, he pushes down his trousers and boxers like ripping a bandaid.
And there it is, his cock was hard like it was about to rip through his boxers anyway, but then as it springs like a board, the glaring and evident difference is there in the extraterrestrial man.
The sides of the thick base were accented curiously with nubbed pincers, small enough to be able to accommodate and slide inside of your pulsing pussy, but clearly out of place that you let out an audible "huh?"
"It's..please don't ask, it doesn't hurt—I promise. But if you don't want to I totally understa—!"
He's cut off by the firm crash of your lips onto his. Despite your own bewilderment, the thought of Clark's pincers holding onto you from the inside made a little part of you horny, maybe even titillated, if you will.
So yeah, you're not really mad at this sort of revelation.
Though I don't have to say it while you're pressed back against the bed, legs held over his shoulder as you mindlessly babble about how big he was. He doesn't have to respond, but he does as if you're trying to actually converse with him. The luscious drag of his cock, paired with the extra width of the growths at the base that occasionally pinch and force Clark to pause with a line of apologetic pleas makes you wanna cum, just from the physical and auditory sensations.
So…pincer dick? You approve of it. A+: creative and satisfyingly experimental sexual experience.
