A Little Tired

This asshole knows it’s the dress that’s draped over you like water. Any piece of fabric underneath — no matter how small — would show, and that would create a field day with the press because god forbid a woman wears underwear. Unfortunately for you, that means you’ve felt every breeze that slithers between your legs during this outdoor premiere.

Fortunately for Scott, that means easy access to your leaking cunt.

And you have been leaking. And he knows that.

The two of you had been prepared separately, which meant that you arrived in different cars. The main star of the movie needs his own limousine after all. It wasn’t until he showed up on the red carpet — smug smiles, blue eyes bright behind those tinted sunglasses — that you could feel saliva pool on your tongue.

He really is built for this life. Slicked back brunette hair that’s grown out since you last saw him, curling around the nape of his neck — your fingers twitch with the urge to tangle in them and pull. You shudder thinking about how he’d growl in your ear about you being a brat, his hand landing with a loud smack on your ass the way he’s done before in the privacy of your hotel room.

He had greeted you with that charming grin, dimpled and dashing. His suit, while oversized, served to emphasize his broad shoulders even more. Perched on his nose is a pair of sunglasses he had used in the movie, a little Easter egg. But you know him better than that — he knows what he’s doing when he greets you with a wink behind them. He’s fucked you in those glasses after all. 

Then he was sliding an arm around your waist, encouraging you to smile at the cameras. The flashes were blinding and your smile faltered when his hand drifted lower to grope your ass. Your chest rises when your breath catches. The unseen movement is not enough to send the media into a frenzy, but it is enough to give them a taste of the “true” nature of your relationship.

Your chemistry is undeniable. The two of you have proven it time and time again — from the screen test, to the table-read, and obviously the shoot. You used to think the spark was a myth, that chemistry was only a class taught in school, but meeting Scott had proven you wrong. It felt like you had been doused in a mixture that had you shocked by lightning.

Tension hangs in a delicate balance in your interactions. Lingering touches and coy smiles shared in between biting remarks and heated debates that would send the staff scurrying off set.

That initial spark had combusted into a blazing firestorm that no amount of water could cease. To the press, the two of you are costars who play great lovers on screen. Professionals who know how to perform the greatest love story ever told.

Behind the scenes, you have never been more certain of anything than your hatred for Scott Miller.

He is a pompous, nepo douchebag who keeps getting handed opportunities in big productions on a silver platter because his daddy’s a hotshot executive at a major studio while his mom is an internationally renowned director. His success has been set in stone since birth.

On the other hand, you had to crawl with dirt under your nails through shitty toothpaste commercials, a torturous waitressing job, and all the terrible, misogynistic producers who tried to cop a feel since “it’s the only way you’ll make it in this industry, honey.”

But the moment Scott flashed that smirk at you — no, not the one he uses to manipulate the media and his fans, it’s that devilish grin that gives you a glimpse of the man underneath — you were a goner. Beneath all those charismatic smiles and PR-trained lines is a sincerely, truly, terribly nasty man who unfortunately knows how to give it good.

Due to your resolve or lack thereof, he has — in fact — given it to you good. Multiple times. Again and again. No matter how many times you tell him and yourself that it would be the last time.

In all fairness, Scott is equally enamored by the contradiction between your spiteful words and the way you cave into his touch. He never goes back to the same woman, let alone twice or thrice, but here he is again. His hand on your face and his breath hot against your neck.

You’ve run out of fingers to count how many times you ended up in bed with him over the course of filming. You certainly do not have enough fingers for how many times he’s made you orgasm — with or without the bed.

His coarse palm drags up the smooth skin of your thigh until he circles to the front, until he finds the sweetness between your legs. Your thighs part on instinct, a practiced response to his touch. His lips curve against the back of your exposed shoulder, pleased.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, a finger stroking between your pussy lips. You can feel your slick clinging onto his skin. “I knew you were going to be wet for me. You’re always so ready.”

“We have to go back, Scott,” you squirm against him, a futile attempt to push him off you. He instead closes in around you, trapping you against the wall until you can’t find room to inhale air into your lungs. You can feel his erection pressing up against your ass, firm and warm even between two layers of separation. His proximity has your temperature rising, worsened by the blood rushing between your legs. “Are you insane? We can’t do this here!” You hiss, your fingers trying to pry his hand off you but he’s much, much stronger than you. “There are thousands of people outside.”

“Then you best bite your tongue, sweetheart,” he exhales as he pushes a finger in, drawing a whimper from your throat. You clamp down around him, squeezing around the one thick digit buried deep inside you. “You know I love how noisy you are, but I’m gonna need you to keep quiet if you don’t want anyone catching you like this.”

“You’re a piece of shit,” you snap breathlessly. “We still have press to do.”

“They can wait, I just need five minutes.”

A snarky laugh escapes you before you can swallow it. You’ll pay for that later.

He curls his finger inside of you, nail scraping your walls as your thighs squeeze around his hand. “I could drag it out if that’s what you want,” he sneers, “could have you dripping all over the red carpet like a dog. I’m gonna make you beg me to finish you out there in front of everyone. Bend you over the barricades so the photographers can see the way you look when you’ve got my cock inside you. Tease you until you’re a crying mess; lord knows I’ve done that before. Is that what you want?”

Scott is a lot of things but he isn’t a liar. He keeps his word and the last thing you need is for you to be exposed, tits out, ass up in public, pleading for him to finish you with the entire world watching. So you grit your teeth, swallow your pride, and shake your head.

“Ask me for it.”

You throw a glare over your shoulder.

“Nicely.”

“Go fuck yourself,” you snarl before you can think twice.

Scott twists his finger inside you. “I could. I’ll put you on your knees right here and I’ll jerk my cock over your pretty face. Gonna have you stick your tongue out and wait for me to finish like the obedient girl that you are,” he laughs, bitter, but it makes your insides curl with need, “but then you’ve got to explain why you’ve got cum all over this stunner of a face. All those hours in the makeup chair only for me to paint it pretty with my cum.”

You hate how your body burns with need. How much you like the thought of it. You picture yourself on the cold, hard ground. Your jaw falling open in an eager bid for him to feed you his cock. Knees bruising while he strokes his length over your face, taunting you with the red, leaking tip, tapping it against your hungry mouth. Your lips would part in a request to taste and all he would offer you is a brush of precum on your cheek.

He wouldn’t give you what you want, not if you were acting up all night. He’d finish on your face and you’d be left there with a smattering of white on your skin, hanging from your lashes, and only a dribble in your tongue.

“Now, ask me nicely.”

“Seriously, Scott, go fuck yourself.”

His fingers dig into your cheeks, prying your jaw open as he turns you to face him. His eyes are still hidden behind those glasses, a wall between the two of you as if he’s putting you in your place. You exposed bare and vulnerable to him while he can’t even be bothered to remove his shades to properly look at you.

A thumb presses down onto your tongue, enough pressure to have you whining in the ache. “This mouth of yours,” he mutters, “I’m gonna fuck it later. I want your throat sore enough that you can’t open it again to mouth me off.” Scott dips his head, nose grazing the column of your neck. A hum vibrates from his mouth and straight into your veins. “But damn if I don’t want to taste it.”

He kisses the corner of your lips softly, just enough to smudge his lips with the gloss coated on yours.

“Tastes like strawberry,” he notes thoughtfully, “this new?”

It is. You’re surprised he noticed. “Mhmm,” you mindlessly respond as he flattens his tongue on your neck.

He seems pleased with that, judging by his delighted hum, as he drags out his finger to tease your folds. He separates the sticky mess with his two fingers, knowing how much you like feeling that gentle wind slip between your thighs. It makes you feel exposed, raw.

Then he pushes two fingers in, a stretch that feels familiar yet unknown at the same time. “Always so tight for me,” he breathes out in a growl, “it’s like I haven’t been fucking you stupid for months now. You’d think this pussy would be loose with how much I’ve made you cry with my cock.”

Another protest rests on your tongue, but it doesn’t make it out alive when Scott begins to scissor you open. “Shit, Scott,” you curse, “‘s so tight.”

“I know, baby, you’re just too good for me. You always spoil me rotten with this tight pussy of yours. It’s like fucking you for the first time each time.”

His other hand travels over the loose cowl neckline of your dress, slipping underneath the fabric to cup your tits. He lets out a moan when he realizes you aren’t wearing anything underneath this either. His fingers toy with you nipple, pinching and twisting, electricity zapping through every nerve in your body. Your back arches, chest pushed into his hand.

Then he opens his mouth again, “Ask me nicely, sweetheart.”

And this time, you cave. Your lips part without your consent; a mind of its own when you whisper, “Please fuck me.”

A guttural groan rises from his chest as he drives his fingers deeper inside of you. “That’s my girl. How can I deny you when you ask me so sweetly? You’re going to make a mess of my sleeve at this rate, sweetheart.”

Your eyes fall to where his wrist is tucked between your legs, fingers fully buried inside your aching cunt where you’re currently dripping all over his fingers. His digits glisten in the dim lighting of the hallway, some semblance of privacy — or at least that’s what you tell yourself when Scott sinks his teeth into your shoulder.

“S-Scott!” You bark, “I don’t need fucking teeth marks when I go back out there.”

His tongue laps up the spot where he’s just left his indentation. He looks far too proud of his handiwork. “You don’t like me marking my territory? Thought you’d want everyone out there to know that we’re in love. We have to sell the movie, don’t we?”

“I’d rather choke than have people think I actually like you.”

“Careful what you wish for, baby,” he hums when his hand slides back up around your neck. His fingers press in gently on the sides, enough to have your breath hitching in your throat. The restriction has you a little dizzy, the size of his hand against your neck even more so. “Maybe you are telling the truth,” he mocks with a grin.

He pumps his fingers in and out of you, the squelch echoing down the empty corridor, mingling with the muffled noise from the crowd outside. You can hear Scott’s phone vibrating in his pocket, probably his manager.

“We have to make this fast. I can’t have Javi come looking for me, don’t want him to see how gorgeous you look like this. How pretty your pussy is when it’s eating up my cock. I don’t need him to see the expression on your face when you’re getting filled up and stretched out.”

“Then move it along, Miller,” you gripe with a roll of your eyes.

His lips twitch, a mix of amusement and annoyance based on the flash of his eyes. With his fingers still inches deep inside you, you hear the clink of his belt as he works to free himself.

Fabric rustles behind you and before you can think about what that means, he’s yanking his fingers out. The loss leaves you gasping and you’re about to turn to snap at him when his hands find your waist, gripping it tight as he positions you in front of him. He bends you down, your hands splayed out against the wall, letting out a hiss when he teases his cock along your slippery entrance. “She’s drooling all over me, baby. It’s like she’s beggin’ for me to fill her up.”

Another one of your snappy replies dies in your throat, melting into a choke when he buries himself all the way in. The slide in is too easy, but the burn comes as an aftermath — intense, like your entire body has been set in flames from the inside out. Fire licking every inch of your skin. It’s the kind of pain that makes you want to ask for more, to make you feel more.

It makes you feel alive, a reminder that this is real. A reminder that this is exactly where you want to be.

Scott begins to thrust into you, short grunts leaving his lips as he practically manhandles you like a ragdoll. He bullies his thick cock deep into your weeping pussy, your entire body trembling with the force of his movements. “Shit, so fuckin’ tight. This is exactly what I needed. I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about what dress you’d have on tonight. I couldn’t stop praying to whatever higher power lives above that you wouldn’t have anything on underneath it. You’re a dream come true, sweetheart.”

You almost mock him for being so sentimental, but you’re too busy having your body and brains scrambled with the way he angles his hips, the friction mind-numbingly delicious as he fucks deep inside your pussy. Every scrape of his cock is another strike of lightning. A chemical reaction that seems to only happen with him.

“Tell me you wanted this as much as I did,” he rasps, “tell me you’ve been thinking about my cock too.”

“Jesus, Miller, really?”

He licks his lips. “Yeah, really. We went from seein’ each other every day, from me shapin’ this pretty cunt to my cock and hearing those gorgeous moans bouncing off our walls, to zero contact. Missed you and your cute little noises and this beautiful, tight cunt.”

Your heart skips with something you may mistake for endearment. One that may be contagious from the man who’s currently shoving his fat cock inside of you. But that couldn’t be — because you hate Scott Miller. 

It doesn’t matter that he defended you once against that asshole director. It doesn’t matter that he started staying the night in those last few weeks of shooting. It definitely doesn’t matter that he leaves tender kisses on your spine before he buries his face between your legs, rutting into the bed until he comes untouched from eating your pussy alone. 

It shouldn’t matter because Scott hates you too. 

However, right now, he makes you think otherwise. Despite his reputation and your own preconceived notions, he really is a good actor. You imagine he enjoys method acting with how soft he could be with you at times. Gentle in the way he holds you and tucks you into his chest in the wake of your tryst. Affectionate in the way he laughs whenever you accidentally bite your tongue, practicing your lines in bed with him.

The last thing you want is to fall for his charms — his act that he’s perfected over the years to literally fuck all of his leading ladies. You’re another notch in his belt and, for some reason, the thought makes you sick. 

“What happened there?” Scott asks, slowing down his thrusts. 

You don’t need to turn around to see his brows puckered in a frown, concern seeping into his voice. You tighten your pussy, hoping that it would distract him from your thoughts. “What? Just keep fucking me.”

“No, lost you there for a second,” he insists, “what happened?”

“Nothing,” you snap, “can you please just fuck me so we can go back out there?”

“You’re really not gonna tell me?”

Tossing a withering look over your shoulder, you snip back, “Either you fuck me or I’ll find Tyler Owens to finish the job.”

That seems to do the trick. But it also seems to be the wrong thing to say because you can feel his entire body tense, his fingers digging deeper into your flesh. His stare through his glasses is icy, the kind of fire that runs your blood cold. 

“Wanna run that by me again?”

You swallow. No, no, you don’t. 

Scott is merciless then. He fucks fast and deep and hard into you, your body shaking with the force of his thrusts. You have no doubt you’ll see bruises in the shape of his fingerprints on your waist tomorrow, but that’s a concern for another time. Right now, you’re too caught up in the delicious burn between your legs. Your core screaming that it’s too much but also begging for more all at once. 

His cock is long and reaches the parts of you you could never do on your own. You hate to admit that you’ve bought toys that match his length in the months since you last saw him but none of them could satisfy you the way he does. 

Because Scott is mean when he fucks and god do you fucking love it. 

“You think you can threaten me with Owens? I eat that asshole for breakfast. Think he has Oscars sitting on his shelves at home? Think his bank account’s enough to keep you happy, sweetheart? You think his cock will satisfy you?”

You’ve clearly touched a sore spot but you’re enjoying it far more than you’d like to admit. Jealousy is a known friend to you when Scott is the man that he is. However, you never thought that you could poke the bear with him when it comes to you and other men.

“Do you want everyone to see what a slut you are? Spreading your legs for your co-star who you claim to hate? This pussy’s soakin’ my cock, sweetheart. Deny it all you want but this pretty cunt of yours never lies. I’m the only one who gets you leakin’ like this. I’m the only one who gets to fuck you like this.”

Your heart slams against your ribs, your hands slipping on the wall. He doesn’t let you fall, holding you up and pinning your hands onto the surface with his. His nose nudges into your neck as he breathes you in again. His cock twitches inside of you even when he’s brutally fucking you. 

“I’m in you raw, baby,” Scott drawls in your ear, breath warm as he lets out a chuckle. “Imagine if I knocked you up. Imagine the headlines. Whore actress pregnant because she couldn’t stop letting her coworker cum inside her tight little cunt.” 

“Fuck you, Miller,” you spit out.

“Already doin’ that,” he grins, punctuating his point with a deep thrust. You crane your neck up to see how his hands dwarf yours, slotted so perfectly into his palms as he places a kiss on your back. “Do you know how many times I fucked my fist to the thought of you? Picturing it was your tight pussy wrapped around my cock instead of my hand. I can still hear your moans rattling around inside my brain. ‘S not enough though. Wanna record you so I can jack myself off to your cute whines next time. Gonna make you beg me, gonna make you say my name again and again until I’m creaming inside you.”

You can lie and say the thought has never crossed your mind before. However, when your entire life is to be in front of cameras, it’s natural for your imagination to wander that way. What it would be like to film your own sex tape — without all the staff, without the intimacy coordinator, without a script. 

Only you and him and the weight of this heated relationship. 

“I can feel it, she likes that idea,” Scott huffs out a laugh, “felt you tighten around me. Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ll make it happen. I’ll even get myself a nice camera to make sure I capture every inch of you in high definition. Then I’ll make you watch me make you cum with my hands between these pretty thighs, make you squirt to the sight of yourself.”

His imagination is a beast of its own. You don’t know how he comes up with these scenarios, but you can’t complain. Not when you’re the sole beneficiary. 

“Better keep your word, Miller,” you say, voice hoarse with desire. 

“I always do,” he smirks. “Shit, sweetheart, you keep squeezing me like that I’m gonna cum in you right now.”

“Nothing’s stopping you,” you say a little too casually.

Scott partially freezes. “What?”

“I’m on the pill. Always have been.”

His jaw clenches, eyes darkening even behind the tinted shades. “You never let me cum in you. It’s always a condom.”

“You have one on you?”

There’s no way his manager would let him step outside with condoms in his pockets, lest he risks them falling out and that would be another scandal that Javi has to clean up. “No,” Scott bites out, fingers squeezing your waist. “Are you sure? I was going to pull out.”

“And what? Leave evidence all over this floor?”

He looks conflicted, a flicker of worry crossing his eyes. It’s strange to see concern on his face. You’re used to the glowers, the scowls, the irritation etched into the lines of his forehead.

You roll your eyes again. “If you don’t want to cum in me, just say so.”

He interrupts far too quickly, “I never said that.” 

“Then shut up and fuck me.”

Scott groans, leaning forward with his forehead on your back. “You fuckin’ spoil me, sweetheart.” For some reason, the pet name sounds a little sweeter now. 

His pace is relentless. He fucks into you without slowing down once. He listens to what makes you moan, what makes you twitch, what makes your pussy clench around him, and he does it over again until you’re quivering before him, around him. You can barely hold yourself up anymore and Scott’s the only thing keeping you propped up. Your hair is probably a mess and your skin is shiny with sweat.

But you can’t bring yourself to care, not when he’s fucking you so damn good.

“I could knock you up right now, you know. Those pills aren’t a hundred percent,” he grunts, but the movement of his cock betrays how much he indulges in that idea. “I could ruin your entire career, baby. Have you swollen with my baby. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. You know I will. You won’t have to lift a finger with me.”

In your lust-addled mind, the thought sounds far too tempting. You curve into his touch again, practically preening with the idea. 

“Lord knows I can’t have you act in any more romance movies. Not where you have to be with another man,” Scott snarls, “I’m gonna make sure you never get those roles again. If you have to kiss anyone or fuck anyone, it’s going to be me. You don’t have to worry, sweetheart. I’ll get you in the biggest movies. I’ll make sure they treat you so good.” 

Scott’s hips stutter as he promises you this. He’s close. 

“Gonna make sure the only cock you’ll have is mine. No one else is going to touch this pussy, I’ll make sure of it.”

“Possessive asshole,” you laugh, the sound breaking off into a moan as he thrusts harder into you. Faster, deeper. Your stomach coils with that familiar warmth, your lungs squeezed tight until you’re scrambling for air. 

“You’re mine, sweetheart. I ain’t never letting anyone touch you again. You get me?”

You can only groan with his claim. 

“You get me?” He snaps, louder this time. Loud enough that the sound will surely carry to outside.

It’s only then you realize that the slapping of skin against skin, his thighs against yours as he sinks his cock into you echoes far too clearly in this passageway. Anyone could walk in here and see you, hear you. They’ll see you take Scott’s cock like another one of his girls. Another one that bit the bullet and fell into his lap.

But you don’t care. Scott wants you. Right here, right now — what he wants is you. 

And that thought sends you over the edge as your orgasm snaps through you, pulling a gasp from your lips as your body quakes and tightens around him. That’s all it takes for Scott to finish too, liquid lava spilling inside of you as his hips twitch upwards, like he’s plugging his cum in deep inside of you. Not letting a single drop go to waist.

His moan reverberates straight through you, leaving a tingling in your fingertips as you press them deeper into the wall.

A shudder wracks through him as he feels you pulse around his cock, milking his length dry of every last drop. A sticky mess clinging to your walls. “Fuck,” he mutters, “I could get used to this.”

A giggle slips out and you see him smile over your shoulder. “I don’t think so, buddy. This was a one-time thing.”

“That’s what you always say,” Scott grumbles. He looks down at where the two of you are joined, frowns when he sees his cum beginning to leak out, and pushes depeer inside of you.

He draws out another groan. “Shit, we have to clean up before we go back out there.”

Shaking his head, he slowly pulls out of you but keeps you bent so he can admire his handiwork. You can feel his cum leak out of your cunt, his thumb opening up your pussy lips to allow the milky white liquid to dribble down your thighs. 

Pursing his lips, he drags that drop back up to your pussy and pushes it back in with his thumb. “No.”

“No?” You gape, “Scott, everyone’s going to see.”

“Let them,” he shrugs.

“Screw you. You might still have a career after fucking me, but I certainly won’t if they find out I’ve been letting you fuck me.” 

Scott’s tongue presses against the inside of his cheek as he rearranges your dress to cover you up again. You can still feel his cum rolling warm down between your thighs, you pressing your legs together does nothing to hide the fact that you’ve got it in a gooey mess all over your skin. 

“I won’t let that happen,” he says. 

“You can’t possibly guarantee that.”

“I can and I will. You take my hand right now and we’ll go out there. I won’t let them touch a hair on that head of yours.”

You’ve never heard him sound so sure. Determination in his voice and confidence in his outstretched hand. 

“I promise,” he emphasizes. 

Despite the rapid beating of your heart and your brain screaming at you to have some common sense, you extend your hand and take his. His hand is warm and large around yours. Your shoulders slacken as you lean into him.

He smiles as he tugs you closer. “I’ll protect you. Always will.”

“Big words, Miller,” you mutter, grimacing when you feel another drop down your thighs. “Wait ‘til you get your next movie and your next leading lady, you’ll be singing a different tune.”

It’s his turn to roll his eyes. “Such little faith in me. I’m a man of my word, sweetheart.”

“That’s what they all say.”

He pauses before the two of you walk out those doors again. The way he’s looking at you now, calm and composed, appraising you, makes you squirm.

“Quit looking at me like that.”

“Trying to figure out if you’re fucking dense or an idiot.”

Your jaw drops. “What the fuck?”

“I meant it when I said I’m not letting another man touch you. I don’t give a fuck if it’s for a movie.”

“Green isn’t a good color on you.”

“Well, I don’t like it on you either, especially not when I’ve made my promise to you.”

Your heart flutters, butterflies flapping around your chest like they have any right being there.

“Now, if you’re done questioning my intentions, shall we go back out there?”

Without another word, you nod. You can question his intentions another day. Tonight, you have a movie to promote.

scott is yearning for (taglist): @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @pinksplace @stanmarvelous @coffinlolz @chloluvsdilfs @athenxt @xreader1989 @theonlyaphrodite @wowitsafemale @yagurlannastasia @lettucel0ver @velvetnightmoonsandbows @tushy4toot @hoodharlow @lichi-dunkera @mansaaay @yagurlannastasia @fruitypebsworld @solynoche

Who looked at you like a wild animal as you finished a case, who looked at you like he wasn’t quite finished yet.

Who made your heart skip a beat and made butterflies pound between your legs.

Dean, who went feral as he saw those skimpy cotton panties with the pink bow.

Dean, who ripped those exact panties off you to replace them with his tongue, flattening it against your clit, smirking up at you when he noticed how wet you already were for him.

“We’ll be rocking till the sun goes down,” He said as he pulled your legs around his shoulders, teasing his fat member against your entrance before pushing in without any restraint. You let out a gasp that slowly morphed into a moan. 

And it wasn’t long before he was pounding into you. Using you like his own little plaything. “You feel so good, sweetheart. Such a good girl for me.” He said as his fingers traveled towards your clit.

And it wasn’t long before you lost all control in your body, screaming like a virgin who had never felt so much pleasure in her entire life.

You knew you were ruined the moment your vision exploded into stars.

Maybe those books hadn't been lying after all.

"Mine," he murmured against your ear.

You'd never heard a truer word.

June Jukebox Master list | Main masterlist

This is the first smut I ever wrote that I didn't feel awkward or weird about. Maybe it is because it is less about what actually happens and more about the feeling.

“You know you could have taken off these stuncuffs before we escaped,” Djarin huffs. “It would makes things easier.”  

He’s crouched down beside you, blaster shots whizzing by your heads as you try to get back to Zeb and the waiting ship.

“Maybe I like you restrained like this,” you murmur.

He lets out a low grunt and you grin, grabbing his bound wrists and dragging him to his feet as you fire a few more shots and make a run for the gangway.

Once you’re safely in the ship, Zeb asks no questions and prepares for takeoff. Djarin leans against the wall, breathing heavily.

“Can you take these off now?” he asks, a playful edge to his voice.

You shake your head no and step closer, pushing on his chest until his back hits the wall. Light fingers dance up his chest until they find the edge of his helmet. You lift, the pull deliberate until his lips are revealed.

You kiss them once, softly, before removing his helmet completely and leaning in, letting the distance collapse as your breath skims his cheek, then the line of his jaw.

“I missed you.” It’s a whisper into his throat, just hovering and you hear his rasp of breath.

Your hand slides to the back of his neck, fingers threading into dark curls, holding him steady as his lips curve upwards. You taste the spot, slow and teasing, and then claim his mouth, swallowing his satisfied moan.

You swallowed, convincingly. “I don’t like being out alone.”

Across the room, leaning against the wall like he owned the place, Crowley arched a brow as he watched you. He’d clocked you the second you walked in. The shy little thing he’d been… seeing. Soft voice. Gentle hands. Always polite. Delightful. Completely defenseless, as far as most assumed.

The demon beside you placed a hand on your thigh. “Tell you what,” he murmured. “We’ll keep you company.”

Crowley sighed. Honestly. Amateurs.

Then you turned your head. And the smile dropped. It didn’t fade. It snapped. Your fingers shot up, two swift motions—one blade flashing silver from your sleeve, the other hand locking around the demon’s wrist with brutal precision.

He didn’t even have time to react. The knife slid between ribs. Twist. Black smoke poured from his mouth.

The second demon lunged. You didn’t stand. You pivoted. Elbow. Crack. Bottle smashed against skull. Angel blade straight through the third demon’s sternum before he could finish yelling. Three bodies hit the floor in under eight seconds. The bar went dead silent.

You smoothed your hair back into place. Then you took a small sip of your drink like nothing happened.

Crowley stared. Slowly. Deliberately. He pushed off the wall and approached, stepping over a body like it was mildly inconvenient clutter. “Well,” he said carefully, eyes dragging over the carnage. “That was… efficient.”

You looked up at him, blinking innocently. “Oh. Did you want one?”

He barked a short laugh. “Did I—”

His gaze dropped to the blade still wet with black blood in your hand. Then back to your sweet, wide eyes. “Mark me down,” he muttered, voice lowering, pupils blown wide with something dangerously interested, “as scared. And inexplicably aroused.”

You tilted your head. “Inexplicably?”

“Love,” he said, stepping closer, thumb brushing along your jaw where a streak of demon blood had splattered, “I thought I was the ruthless one in this relationship.”

You leaned in, voice barely above a whisper. “You are.” Then your hand slid around his tie and tugged just enough to make a point. “But I get bored.”

Crowley inhaled sharply. The King of Hell. Visibly flustered. “You let them think you were helpless,” he murmured.

You gave him that shy little smile again. “They always do.”

Crowley’s lips twitched. “You absolute menace.”

He pulled you flush against him, laughing low in his throat. “Oh, this is going to be fun. My darling little wallflower is secretly the most terrifying creature in the room. Who could ever have guessed?”

Your fingers traced lazily over his lapel. “Are you threatened?”

He smirked. “Sweetheart, I’m considering proposing.”

You glanced at the three demon corpses. “Bit of a messy engagement party.”

Getting a job as a journalist at Daily Planet, was all you could’ve dreamed for if you were someone like Clark Kent. Raised by honest people, fed values that were the very core of his DNA, Clark adored being grounded amongst humanity, and providing thought-provoking pieces — in his opinion — that would serve as a palate cleanser for those who had a distaste for Superman.

He had succeeded on his columns, interviews with himself that furthered his innocence for those who doubted his intentions, and it allowed Clark to be in the thick of it.

Clark Kent loved his job.

He also loved you.

The receptionist. The first face that he truly saw in the morning when he trudged onto the floor he worked on, the face he sought after during his fifteen minute break, or perhaps during lunch time and all the time in between that.

At one point, Clark had to intervene with himself to stop loitering around the reception area just adjacent from the bullpen that he worked in, so it was less obvious that he had a fat crush on you.

The minor elephant in the room was the fact that you were in fact…not single. Any guy would be lucky to sweep you off your feet, and Clark meant that seriously.

Unfortunately, you were neither swept off your feet, nor treated as if the guy who had snagged you was the luckiest guy in the whole of Metropolis.

His name was Mike. Or, as Clark and Jimmy referred to him: Meathead.

He was the on-call guy for technical difficulties in computers or the TVs hung up on the walls to catch the latest news on politics that stretched far beyond Metropolis, Superman or the Justice League.

Head full of bologna. Could clear a room in thirty seconds flat.

Clark disliked him as a person. It just helped the notion when he watched Mike treat you like you were sidewalk gum on the bottom of his shoe.

And, as patient as Clark was…he was waiting on the day that you broke things off with that guy.

Firstly, as your friend. Secondly, as a man hopelessly devoted to you.

“Good morning, front pager.” Your voice rang through the wandering thoughts in Clark’s mind. You could just be seen over the tall desk that encased you. Hand over the top, you slid a folded Daily Planet newspaper across to Clark as he approached you, the rubber end of your pencil tapping against his name on the page. You added, “You’re a real hit with this guy.”

Clark flushed and slid a styrofoam cup to you with his ID card, “Oh…Just at the right place at the right time.”

“Uh-huh.” You eyed Clark, slotting the plastic card through the machine to clock him in. “You got me a coffee?”

“No sugar. Because—”

“I’m sweet enough.” You interjected, “I said that one time, Clark.”

Clark’s dimple showed, “And, I cannot let you forget it.” He took his ID from your fingers, “Can I take this paper?”

“Be my guest. I’ve already read through your article. Twice. One was out loud to Steve Lombard to get him away from my desk.” You drawled quietly and thumbed over to your least favourite co-worker in the building.

Deducting the part about Steve, Clark felt his body temperature raise, the vein in his neck protruding as the blood began to pump through his veins. You had always been a keen supporter of Clark and his works, and his heart could soar at the sound of your admission that you’d already read it before he even clocked in for work.

A pink tinge across his cheeks, Clark adjusted his glasses, lips pressed together to conceal his boyish grin. He simply waggled the newspaper in his hand and retreated to his desk, before the idea of kissing you within an inch of your life was justifiable.

Jimmy Olsen rolled over to Clark’s desk, his phone lazily propped on one hand, and a mug with a half drunken coffee in the other. He wore a grin that had Clark on edge.

“Morning, bro.” Jimmy peered over Clark’s shoulder at the newspaper, “Front page strikes again. Congrats.”

“Thank you, Jimmy.”

“How’s the progress?” Jimmy jerked his head softly in your direction.

Clark subtly set his sights to the reception area, where you were beaming at Lois Lane who had just arrived. Your laughter carried through like a Siren song, and it reminded Clark Kent that you were the type of face he’d like to wake up to in the morning.

Scratch that.

You were the type of face he was waking up for in the mornings. The best part of his day.

Clark shook his head and responded in a mumble, “I’m working on it, Jimmy.”

Jimmy pulled his lips into a thin line and patted Clark’s back, “Alright, buddy.” He slid back over to his desk, “Just so you know, you’re exempt from being a POS if you make any advances. Meathead doesn’t count as a human to me.”

Clark flicked the newspaper in his hand, a smirk on his face as the chair creaked beneath his weight. A small heart with exclamation points that you had drawn, circled his name on the front page.

Clark Kent: 1. Meathead: TBD.

From that moment onward, up until around noon, Clark’s schedule had been jam packed with meetings, proofreads, an additional HR test taken on his laptop, a coffee break with Jimmy, and another draft on a mundane Tuesday for Superman.

He hadn’t made it back to your desk since the morning, only stealing a couple of fleeting glances in your direction to see you chewing the lid of your pen with concentration whilst working tirelessly on your computer.

By lunch time, Clark had decided he’d bite the bullet and sit in the canteen to try steal some time with you. It was your safe haven away from your desk, most of the time you’d sit in silence — your throat ached from talking to people all day — and Clark, if he had time, would sit in silence with you. Knees knocked under the table, sometimes sharing a crossword; maybe a thumb war if Clark was particularly lucky.

Lois and Jimmy had taken refuge at another table. All offence to Clark, the canteen budget was small, and therefore, his broad shoulders almost spanned the width of the room and halved the space. Those two would prefer some leg room where it mattered.

“I’ll already fess up.” Jimmy waved his fork, “I have Meathead.”

The trio had kicked up a conversation about the latest Secret Santa happening within the office. All names tossed into a hat, everyone who wanted to participate was given a person and a twenty-dollar budget.

Steve and Mike were the two names that everyone prayed they didn’t pull out.

Clark hissed, “Oh, buddy.”

“Tell me why you two call him Meathead, again?” Lois leant back in her chair that squeaked every time she moved. Her eyes narrowed as her interest piqued.

“Head full of bologna.” Clark and Jimmy said in unison.

Lois didn’t respond. Just raised her brows and began to scroll on her phone for something more stimulating than the lunchroom conversation about Mike the Repairman.

She, as your friend and longstanding confidant, wholeheartedly agreed on the Meathead statement. In fact, she wrote in her notes to maintain the upkeep of the nickname to his face.

Jimmy outwardly groaned into his pasta bowl, “Speak of the devil.”

Blue eyes raised, Clark was mid-chew on his sandwich when Mike pushed the door open, letting it swing back and hit you without doing a double-take. You awkwardly pushed the door open again, your brows furrowed as Mike laughed and pointed at you.

Again, Clark would rejoice the day you shook that guy off your leg.

“What’s up, Smallfry.” Mike smacked Clark’s broad shoulder as he passed. You quietly reminded your boyfriend that Clark’s nickname was Smallville, only for Mike to swat that correction away. “Smallville, Smallfry. Both got small in the name.”

No one engaged as much as Mike was looking for a minor confrontation. He thrived on it, pushing buttons and seeing a reaction burst in his face. The guy always had a whole lot of something to say, and a whole bunch of mindless arguments tucked into the forefront of his brain.

You both sat at the table directly across from Clark, adjacent to Jimmy and Lois’ table too.

The air considerably thickened with palpable tension, Clark did his upmost to act accordingly by investing in the crumbs of his sandwich to avoid the heartache of watching the way you shuffled closer to Mike as he chewed his way through a conversation with minimal interest in what you had to say. Or, the moment you’d brush lint from Mike’s shoulder, a hint of a smile on your face.

His basic, homemade sandwich became as interesting as the Mona Lisa.

The TV in the corner aided some relief to distract Clark, only for his own face to be plastered across the news as they recalled his valiant efforts with the Justice League to help maintain peace within the Metropolis streets.

Mike scoffed with a mouth full of chewed up food, “That Superman guy is a dunce.”

Clark went a little white-knuckled.

“He’s not a dunce.” You feigned amusement.

“Oh yeah? How? Cause you think he’s handsome?” Mike waved his baguette at you, sounding a little wounded amongst his accusation.

You side-eyed your friends, “Just because I think he’s handsome, doesn’t detract that I think he’s a good person.”

From opposite to you, Clark had already began to eavesdrop in an obvious way. Posture straightened, he pushed at the frame of his glasses as he watched you.

Handsome. You thought — unbeknownst to you — that he was handsome. It took an immense amount of willpower to keep his glasses on.

You caught Clark’s eye momentarily, a look of ‘this is going to end badly’ and he offered a sympathetic smile in return.

As predicted. Mike took your compliment to the Metahuman rather loudly, and poorly. “You heard it here, guys. Whoever has got this one for Secret Santa, make sure it’s Superman themed.” Mike chuckled obnoxiously to himself.

The room fell silent.

You whispered, “Please don’t—”

“—Big crush on that guy, apparently.” Mike stuffed some of his sandwich into his mouth, missing the way you stiffened from his obtuse behaviour.

Clark’s line of vision went to you. Fork stabbed at the bland salad in your Tupperware, you looked mortified over Mike’s decision to air out a conversation that would undoubtedly lead to a fight later on. It was clear that it struck a nerve with him and he was openly humiliating you in front of your co-workers to prove a point, no one was aware of.

It made the insides of Clark twist with guilt.

There was a sentence forming on Clark’s tongue. He avoided the minor ego boost that it had given him to hear that you had taken a shine to Superman, and formulated a response to bite Mike’s tongue off to prevent further juvenile humour at your expense.

You sensed him staring. Clark was a good person with good morals, and he always attempted to do the right thing by everyone. There wasn’t a shadow of doubt that Clark was planning to jump to your defence amongst the slew of disguised insults your boyfriend was throwing your way.

You just didn’t feel like a fight later on. Clark was already a sore topic.

Eyes pinned on Clark, widened enough that he clocked you, you gave a subtle shake of the head as you mouthed ‘please don’t’ in his direction.

Clark hesitated.

“Fuckin’ stupid.” Mike brushed his greased hands onto his trousers and stood, “Guess I’ll see you at home.”

You didn’t bother to chase him. The screeching of the metal legs of the chair made the remaining four of you wince as Mike kicked the door to the canteen area open with his boot; cursing under his breath over Superman.

“I know he’s your boyfriend,” Lois started, “But he is such an asshole.”

You cringed, “He’s not that bad all the time. He just gets mad when I say Superman is handsome.” You waved off the comment with a roll of your eyes.

Clark coughed on the food that became lodged in his throat from the deep inhale he had taken. His eyes watered as he spoke, “Oh—Golly—So, you do…find him handsome?

“I have eyes.” You retorted.

“Right.” Clark cleared his throat once more, nervously scratching at the back of his ear as he chewed on that thought for a moment. “Handsome.”

“I’d sit and talk all day about his bone structure—” You packed up your Tupperware as you spoke in a teasing manner, “But, my break ended when Mike soured my lunch with his fragility.”

Being your friend also meant that Clark could pick up on the heightened defence you had put up in the form of sarcasm. Your feelings were hurt. It would take a lot for you to admit that though.

You left without another word.

Clark returned to his meagre sandwich, an immediate flick of a lightbulb moment in his mind.

Your favorite barista at that. With your patience hanging by a frayed thread and the little spark of energy you have left inside of you, you exert all of that to defend this poor girl — and the sanctity of this place.

“Are you always this much of a dick or only to people you think are beneath you?”

The man — tall, brunette, blue eyes, a classic all-American clad in an MIT t-shirt, looking like he bathes in daddy’s money — has the audacity to look taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“I’m asking if you take pleasure in bitching at people who get paid minimum wage to serve douchebags like you overpriced coffee every day.”

Blue Eyes gapes at you. It’s a shame, really. He would’ve been just your type if he weren’t such a dick. That’s the regrettable thing about men — they have mouths.

“I’m not—” he begins, having the decency to get somewhat flustered. His eyes fly around the room to find pairs of curious, judgmental eyes on him. His lips twist in irritation but he manages to grit out, “I just want my actual coffee order.”

“Then ask for it,” you snap, “you don’t need to pull a Shakespearean soliloquy to get a fucking frappuccino.”

“Black coffee,” he corrects.

“Of course it is,” you roll your eyes. “Now, can you ask politely or do I need to start my own monologue about the detrimental effects of men in society?”

He gives you a satisfying wince. “No, you don’t need to do that.” He turns to Evelyn, the barista. “Can I get my correct order?” He only glances at you because you’re searing him with a look, which ends up with him adding, “Please.”

Now, when the two of you tell your separate group of friends that this is the story of how you met, no one would believe you — not with the way the two of you are joined at the hip. You bicker, you argue, you get into hours-long debates at house parties about the ethics of Greek life.

But afterwards, you can also say without a doubt that Scott is a friend.

A friend who you then proceed to drunkenly fuck one night at his frathouse.

A friend who you swear you would never fuck again afterwards.

A friend who you, that same night, decide to fuck. Again. Thrice.

You hate to give credence to his reputation on the MIT campus, especially as an outsider who doesn’t go here, but you understand why there are constantly women throwing themselves at him.

You tell yourself that this is all in good fun; your last couple of youthful years before selling yourself to the American healthcare system for the greater good should be spent doing the worst humanly possible things to yourself.

If that means fucking Scott every chance you get, having him stretch you out over every possible surface, his hand over your mouth to muffle your cries, a packed house be damned, then so be it.

Truth be told, you don’t expect things to go anywhere with Scott. The two of you come from vastly different worlds with vastly different dreams. It’s not a tragedy. You two are simply star-crossed, never meant to be lovers.

Scott complains to you about how his parents are constantly trying to set him up with debutantes — the crème de la crème of society — for him to marry; all the while you’re still tucked to his side, naked limbs tangled between each other.

You don’t acknowledge the ache that pulses in the left side of your chest. It shouldn’t matter at the end of the day because friends don’t stay friends forever, let alone lovers.

And you and Scott are not lovers.

However, you do have to reckon with the consequences of your decisions and the implication of your feelings when you find yourself with your head in the toilet, breakfast swirling down the drain for the third time that week. You have to really reckon with Lady Luck punishing you when you realize that you’re weeks late on your cycle, too caught up with school and Scott to notice.

When the two pink lines appear, your fear has reduced your inevitable shock into ashes.

Your first thought is that you have to tell Scott. There isn’t a doubt who the father is since you haven’t been with anyone else since him. This feels like a decision the two of you have to make together; you’re both adults and you should be able to have a professional, rational conversation.

That’s what you tell yourself all the way to his place, body moving on autopilot tracing back the path to his lush apartment near his campus. You barely acknowledge Jimmy, Scott’s very kind doorman, when you take the elevator to his floor.

Not once in the entirety of your… acquaintanceship have you ever been nervous to see Scott. But now your hands are trembling and you suppose it’s from the fact that you have a fucking unplanned pregnancy.

You don’t have time to fully process what that means when Scott swings open the door, and the first thing you see is the suitcase popped open on the floor with clothes haphazardly thrown into it.

Swallowing the bundle of nerves in your throat, you raise an eyebrow in question. “Going somewhere?”

“Head to my uncle’s in Oklahoma for the long weekend.”

“Oklahoma?” You close the door behind you as he begin to fusses with his clothes again.

“Yeah, he’s a real estate developer buying up a shit ton of land down there. Thinking about connecting it with storm chasing. He’s expanding quickly so figured I’d see what it’s like. ”

Your stomach sinks, dread tightening your chest. “The job or Oklahoma?”

He shrugs, completely unaware of your spiraling mind. “Both.”

“You’d really give up your cushy doorman apartment for tornadoes and motels?”

His lips curl into a smirk and your stupid heart is quick to hammer in your ear. Curse him and those deep dimples. “Sweetheart, you know I was born and raised in the south.”

Oh, you know. There’s a reason why that tinge of an accent goes straight between your legs every time he’s upset. “I don’t think a metropolitan like Dallas is the same thing.”

While Scott busies himself with packing again, you splay out on his bed, eyes on the bare ceiling as you try to calm your thundering pulse. You really shouldn’t be this stressed. There are ways out of this — options that two of you can take regardless of what you decide.

Hey, Scott, I’m pregnant. Yes, your child. Am I sure? Yes, you shithead, I haven’t fucked anyone else in months.

Oh, by the way, I’m also probably in love with you, but that’s a secondary problem to the human growing inside me. Thoughts?

“Did you need something?” His voice rips you out of your head.

Your heart rate hasn’t eased, but you have to do it now. So you turn on your side, propping your head up as your belly twists with apprehension. You open your mouth but then you notice the look in his eyes. You know that look all too well; it’s the trigger to all of your bad decisions, including but not limited to being bent over the bathroom sink with all of your friends on the other side of the door and risking arrest for public indecency on a public beach on spring break last week.

His eyes trail over the exposed sliver of skin where your shirt has ridden up, his hands abruptly dropping a shirt to reach over and drag his calloused palm over your hip. He slides it to your back, onto that little dip on your spine. He doesn’t say it out loud, but he likes the way you automatically arch towards him when he does it — like right now.

He hums and squeezes your waist to prompt you.

“Nothing,” you blurt out, flipping over so you’re facing his window instead. The city looks beautiful this time of day, sunset casting a golden glow across the architecture, painting it in the shades of the sun.

You hear him shuffle behind you before the mattress sinks with his weight. He smooths a hand over the curve of your waist again, fingers spreading out across your stomach. “You’re thinkin’ about something.”

With a deep breath, you test the waters. “Just the future, the usual.”

“What about the future?” His fingers brush your hair to the side as his lips cling to your neck.

“Work, family, friends,” you pause, chest squeezing, “kids.”

“Kids?” He snorts softly, “Where is this coming from? Never heard you talking about them before.”

Stay calm. You roll over to playfully glare at him. “I’m not getting any younger, so I have to think about these things today.”

“Or in a few years once you get your license and settle into the hospital,” Scott cocks an eyebrow. Your lips thin and he relents. “Alright, so kids, what about them?”

This is it. “Have you thought about them? Whether you, um, want them?”

Scott tilts his head deeper into his pillow. “I don’t think so. Not anytime soon at least. Kids are a hassle and I’m too young for that. Still have to go out there, make money, chase dreams and what not. I can barely take care of myself, let alone another human being.”

His chuckle is drowned out by the sudden persistent ringing echoing in your ear. He must sense it, feels your body going taut next to him.

“What about you?” He murmurs.

If he had asked you a few months ago, you would’ve scoffed and called him crazy. You too have your own dreams to pursue, the world to change and all that. But now, when you know that there’s something else growing inside you, you find that you don’t have the answer to that.

You’re not part of the crowd that thinks aborting this baby would mean murder, but you also never thought that you would be carrying something so special so early. While Scott’s answer isn’t surprising, your reaction to it is — your rationale had been simple: if Scott says no, then you wouldn’t go forward with the pregnancy. If he said yes, then you would have to consider it more seriously.

Scott’s answer is loud and clear, yet you don’t feel so settled with your own.

“Hey, you alright? What’s going on with you?” Concern stitched to the furrow of his brows.

You laugh, your throat feeling a little tight. “Probably just pre-period thoughts.”

He relaxes at that, rolling his eyes. “Women—” you pinch him and he yelps, chuckling. “I’m kidding. I can pack later. Let’s go pick up a pint of that strawberry cheesecake ice cream you like.”

The corners of your lips tip up as he pushes himself off the bed and offers you a hand. “Since when are you so nice to me?”

“I’m nice when I want to get laid.”

You don’t bite back the urge to roll your eyes.

So you’re a coward, sue you. While Scott finishes packing for his flight, you fall asleep in his silk sheets. Slipping in between the edges of consciousness, you feel Scott tuck in behind you, a kiss pressed to the back of your head as you finally give in to slumber.

Afterwards, you tell yourself that you have two months to make a decision. Two months until graduation, that’s your deadline.

A big part of you wants to tell him so you can stop lying about how you won’t be drinking tonight because you’re still hungover from some other party that you never went to. You’re exhausted from biting your tongue when he invites you for sushi, your favorite meal.

“I’m paying,” he insists for the third time.

You yawn, feeling the twinges of nausea rearing its head at the thought of it.

“You never turn down sushi.”

However, you also realize that telling him would be selfish. Despite his reputation, the man has a strong sense of responsibility to finish what he starts. In this case, it would be you. You can’t fathom him feeling like he has to stay here, that he has to be with you, that he has to give up his dreams. For you. He would hate you — if not now, then in the future.

Even worse when you imagine him telling you that he would never, ever do this with you — specifically you. After all, he has many bachelorettes lining up at his doorstep who are likely more than happy to wait a few years to start a family with him.

You’re not sure you’re prepared for that.

With every day that passes, the truth is shoved further down your throat, fear overtaking it.

Before you know it, you’re standing at the airport with him. He wrangles you into a Scott-like hug: one-armed, stiff, a click of his tongue like it’s inconvenient for him to show affection.

“You’re gonna be good, right?”

You scowl, “I’m not a dog.”

His mouth curves up, teeth peeking in his smirk. “Not even gonna turn around thrice and bark for me for my last day?”

“Are you trying to get on your flight in a body bag?”

He’s silent then for a moment, looking at you. Everything blurs around the two of you, noise muffled like you’re in a bubble and all you can hear is his long exhale. “This isn’t forever, you know. I’ll come visit when I finally need you to pump my lungs of all the dirt I’ll be inhaling.”

“Gonna cost you.”

“Wouldn’t expect any less.”

The two of you leave it at that. You could say more. I’ll miss you. I love you. Come back. Stay. But you say none of it. Part of you thinks that Scott knows, part of you hopes he doesn’t. This is his big moment. His future. A picture-perfect frame and you’ve been cut out from the canvas. 

“We’ll keep in touch,” Scott shrugs with a promise.

Your hand flies to your stomach on instinct. You can practically feel that silent heartbeat. If you keep this baby, you can’t possibly hide it from him.

If you can’t hide it from him, he may hate you.

And that’s not something you can ever bear.

So you smile and nod — and you let him go.

To say it’s been a long day would be an understatement. Starting your morning with a hundred unread emails followed by a series of difficult patients (one of which sneezed on you for good measure) and then a last-minute, dreaded ping at four from one of the study sponsors looking for data — all on a Friday no less.

What you need is some hot tea, a long massage, and preferably your phone buried six feet under. A place where you won’t be able to hear the constant calling of your name.

“Girl, are you ever going to leave?” Jenna pops her head in. “You need to go and get ready.”

You peer down at your sleeveless blouse and slacks. “Why cna’t I go to dinner in this?”

She gives you a look, a bone-chillingly disapproving one. “Get your ass out of here and I’ll come pick you up. We’re going out out.”

Given that this is a planned outing, you shouldn’t feel so miserable about it. You’ve even planned it all out — your mom takes Ben until Sunday, which neither of them mind because they adore each other — and you finally get one night to yourself to do whatever you wanted and an extra day to recover. It’s the first time in four years you’ve actually had time.

Don’t get you wrong. Your body created the miracle that is your son. Beautiful, bright Ben. Sweet, kind-hearted Ben who inherited none of his parents’ terrible tempers and foul personalities. You couldn’t have asked for a better pregnancy, better birth, or better child.

It’s the first time you’ve been away for him for a personal outing. Usually, it’s some sort of work emergency; what constitutes a work emergency as a research coordinator, you’ll never know but the higher-ups love the dramatics of making everything sound like life or death.

Jenna, your colleague and probably the closest person you consider a friend, swings by your place an hour earlier than promised.

You’re still not fully ready.

“I knew you were going to drag your feet through this,” she sighs and drops an armful of clothes onto your couch.

“I’m not dragging my feet, I just have nothing to wear.”

“And that’s exactly why I’m here.”

Jenna has always had a knack for convincing people to do things they never wanted to do in the first place. For example, this is how you find yourself squirming uncomfortably throughout the night, wiggling to adjust the skirt lower down your thighs. However, when you do so, it ends up hanging too low on your hips, showing more skin than you’d like.

“Will you quit fidgeting?” she huffs as she pulls you through the crowd, “You look hot.”

“I look like I’m attempting a mating call with a freshman with a fifty-dollar fake,” you grunt.

She giggles. “Well, if you want to play cougar, I do see some college kids who have been eye-fucking you since you stepped in.” She nods her head in the direction of a group of boys who are in fact staring at the two of you, expressions a little too salacious for your liking.

“They’re looking at you,” you note pointedly.

Jenna is the the perfectly balanced combination spicy, smart, and sweet. At least two doctors and more than a fistful of residents follow her around like puppies around the hospital. She has them on leashes.

“That’s because my tits look great in this dress,” she grins. “Come on, let’s get some shots.”

In hindsight, ripping three shots back to back when you haven’t drank like since college is a terrible idea. It hits you hard and fast, but it was much needed to avoid crinkling your nose at the pile of sweaty bodies on the floor. You dance with Jenna for the most part, you let a few people buy you drinks, and… you’re having a good time.

Sometimes, you miss this part of you — the one that isn’t a mom. You love being Ben’s mother but at the same time, you have to relearn what it means to be you.

While this may not be you forever, this is a piece of you that feels like coming home. At least, that’s what you think when you feel much looser with the liquor in your veins. Jenna twirls you on the floor and you laugh, barely paying any mind to the pinching of these knee-high boots or the fact that you’re showing more skin than you have these past few years.

She spins you around again — except this time, your balance is already walking a fine line, so you end up stumbling into a wall.

Shit, not a wall. Said wall is moving.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” you blurt out, hand to your chest to prevent your tits from spilling out of this top. The last thing you need on your first night out is to be arrested for flashing a stranger. You’re straightening to look for Jenna when you hear your name.

Not only your name but it’s your name. Your name said in a way that has fireworks exploding in the pit of your stomach. Your name in a way that knocks the breath right out of your lungs.

Because it’s your name coming out of the mouth, with the voice of, the one person you thought you would never see again.

Scott’s eyes are wide when you finally lock gazes.

“You—” he starts then stops. “Holy shit.”

“W-what are you doing here?” You gasp.

“I’m out with, um, the guys,” he says, but his eyes never blink. Neither do yours. You almost want to, hoping this is some sick nightmare and you’re going to wake up in bed with a filthy hangover that takes you out for the day.

On the other hand, it’s Scott — and he looks good. Too good. His hair is a little longer, curling at the base of his neck. His eyes shine fifty different shades of blue with the flashing lights. His strong brows are furrowed into that familiar frown, one that has heat gathering between your legs. He’s got a suit on that seems to stretch for miles over his shoulders, top buttons of his shirt undone to reveal his pretty collarbones and that gleam of a silver chain.

You can’t be here. You can’t do this.

“Right, okay. I’ll leave you to it then.” You’re turning on your heel and you’ve barely made it forty-five degrees before his large hand wraps around your elbow.

“Wait, hold on,” he calls out, tugging you back towards him, your back landing against his front as you stumble backwards. He ducks his head towards your ear to make sure he’s heard but all you can feel is the ghost of his warm breath tickling your skin. “Where are you going?”

You try to extract yourself from him but his grip is firm, now on your hips. “I’m here with a friend. I need to go find her.”

“I’ll go with you.”

You absolutely do not want that. It must show on your face because then he’s scoffing, frown morphing into a disgruntled scowl.

“Is that how you greet a friend you haven’t seen in years?”

Instead of deigning him with a response, giving him the satisfaction of your annoyance, you wordlessly turn and make your way through the crowd. Scott is close behind, you can feel his height looming over you. He’s got a protective arm out to push away anyone who even comes close to touching you, charting a path through this Red Sea.

Jenna is on someone’s lap when you find her. She drags her eyes away from an unfairly attractive man when she spots you. You narrow your eyes at the man before turning back to your friend. “Are you good?”

“Peachy,” she beams. Her attention on you is short-lived when it wanders to Scott who’s hovering around you like a chaperone. “I see you’ve found your entertainment for the night as well,” she winks, eyes practically glittering as she wiggles her brows at you. “I’ll catch you at work Monday?”

Well. That’s your cue to go home. With one final press to make sure she’s okay, Jenna waves you off.

“Your friend’s having much more fun, maybe you should consider doing that for yourself,” Scott whispers in your ear, head ducked to reach your ear. “I could volunteer myself for that position.”

Whirling around, you trap him with a burning glare, which he only grins at.

There’s no way in hell you’re getting into this clusterfuck tonight. Not when you’re still half-convinced that you’re dreaming this up. So you turn back around and start marching towards the exit.

Unfortunately, he continues to follow you. He doesn’t even do anything except stick close to your tail. For some reason, that only pisses you off even more. Maybe if you will him away with your mind, you’ll turn around to find him gone. Because he can’t be here. Why the fuck is he even here?

“Why the fuck are you here?” You snap now that you’re on the quiet sidewalk. The music inside is muffled, leaving you alone with your heart beating in your ears and Scott’s stupid smirk plastered across his face.

He leans back against the railing, arms crossed over his chest. You can see how the cotton of his shirt stretches across his wide chest. Jesus, did he get bigger? How is that even possible? The worst part is the amused look printed onto his face, dimples carved out deep. “I’m doing a talk — at MIT.”

Of course, he is. You shouldn’t be surprised. You’d never admit it to him but you have been keeping up with him in the news. He’s been building a startup with advanced technology focusing on disaster resilience combined with real estate development. While you don’t know the full mechanics, you know he’s successful enough to be nailing government and corporate contracts, landing himself on the Forbes 30 Under 30 list.

You could also lie and say that his face is everywhere, but you really had to look him up to find anything about him.

“So why aren’t you talking? At MIT. Why are you here?”

Scott shrugs, “I reached out to the guys to catch up. I would’ve reached out to you too if I had your number.”

You stiffen, chancing a look at his face to find pure irritation. He has every right to be, but you also had your reasons for doing what you did — he just doesn’t know it.

A gust of wind whips past your bare legs, the chill settling on your shoulders. Boston is unforgiving this time of year so you quickly shrug on your jacket. However, you can still the weight of his gaze rolling over the length of you, slow and warm. His steely blue eyes look almost onyx with the way he drinks you in, dragging across your exposed collarbones down to your bare legs.

“What are you doing here?” He asks coolly.

“Out. With a friend.”

His lips tighten around the corners — slightly, only enough for you to notice. “What, to pick up guys?”

“No,” you scowl, “just for a good time.”

“Are you?”

“What?”

“Having a good time?”

You were — until him. “Fabulous time,” you sarcastically sigh as you pull out your phone, readying yourself to call a car home.

But your movements halt when you feel warmth soak your entire body, your breath hitching in your throat. Scott’s buried his face in your neck, his front against your back, nose tracing the column of your neck, palms splayed over your stomach.. His teeth graze your skin, eliciting a trained shiver out of you.

“How about we have a better time elsewhere?”

“No,” you swallow, “we shouldn’t.”

“Come on, you don’t miss me?” Scott slides his hands higher, enough for his thumb to brush the underside of your breasts. “We used to have fun, didn’t we?”

“Scott, no,” you protest, but you sound frail even in your ears.

“Why not?” He murmurs, lips placing soft, wet kisses against the back of your ear. Your head tilts on instinct, granting him more access as he nibbles down your neck.

“You’re drunk.”

He chuckles, “‘M so fuckin’ sober. I got a shot in when you bumped into me.”

“Then you should go back in there, go have a good time.”

“Found something more fun to do tonight,” he smiles against your skin. “Well, someone.”

His hands drift a little higher, cupping your tits and squeezing. The groan he lets out molds with yours as you resist another whimper crawling up your throat. “We’re outside,” you hiss.

“Never stopped us before.”

The more warm kisses he presses onto your skin, the weaker your resolve becomes. Your body moves on its own accord, leaning back against his chest while your own rises with a stuttered breath.

“Come with me. Promise I’ll make you feel good. Just like old times.”

“Scott…”

He knows — by the way you say his name — that you’ve given in. He doesn’t give you a moment to hesitate, squeezing your hip and keeping you close as he calls a car. His hand stays on you, toying with your nipples until you’re grinding your ass back against the erection under his slacks.

He hasn’t even kissed you, not properly at least. His lips stay on the pulse point on your neck, nipping lightly as his hands settle possessively around your waist. Even in the car, he hoists you over to his side, a thick arm wrapped around your waist to hold you hostage against him. When his other hand travels up to bury in your hair, he yanks on it just enough to have you gasping.

“Always so sensitive,” he whispers with a grin, “so responsive for me.”

“Fuck you,” you mutter weakly.

His breath is warm as he chuckles into your hair.

The car pulls up in front of some posh-looking hotel. You don’t have a moment to guess how much this place costs a night — nor do you want to, the number would likely break your heart. His hand is wrapped around yours, tight, like he’s making sure you don’t try to make a run for it, as he pulls you stumbling through the lobby.

Scott invades every single one of your senses when he corners you in the elevator. He bites down on his moan when he dips his head, nose nuzzling into the curve of your chin as he takes a deep inhale. His exhale quivering.

“You still wear the same perfume,” he notes, sounding almost pleased.

“Creature of habit,” you mutter, hands finding purchase on his biceps in an attempt to stay upright. Your knees feel a little weak with the proximity, with how much heat his body is radiating.

He’s barely swiped through the door and you’ve barely had the chance to close it before Scott is pinning you against the door and slanting his lips over yours. The first kiss knocks you right off your feet and Scott is quick to catch you and hold you up against the door — one hand on the back of your neck and the other on your waist.

He breathes you in as his tongue strokes your bottom lip. He tastes like a mix of vodka, sugar, and a hint of bittersweet nostalgia. The way he moves his mouth is familiar, you’re drawing on muscle memory to remember how you used to kiss. How to move your mouths in sync with the rhythm of your heartbeat.

You swallow his hungry groans as his hands explore you all over, sliding up your curves to push off your jacket before venturing south again to cup your ass from underneath your skirt. “This fucking outfit,” he snarls low, “never seen you wear anything like this before. So fuckin’ tiny, I could see your ass walking behind you.”

“J-Jenna’s,” you clarify breathlessly. “My friend’s.”

“And this goddamn top — I could peek down your chest the entire time we were there. Wanted to rip this off you so I could play with these pretty tits,” he murmurs, kissing his way along your jaw and down your neck. “Then this—” he squeezes your ass, “if I saw one more person try to get a peek, I would’ve bent you over the bar and fucked you then and there to show them that none of them have a shot. Not them. It’s only going to be me.”

Your response dies in your throat when he begins to suck light bruises onto your skin, pain blooming in concentrated spots across your skin. He’s always been territorial, leaving one mark after another to deter anyone else from coming close.

While you usually enjoy the slow build, the persistent ache between your legs demands otherwise.

“Come on, just fuck me already.”

“So goddamn impatient,” he snips but picks you up, legs wrapping around his waist. Your body slips a little lower and you can feel the bulge in his pants poking against your own core. Your panties pressed directly against the thickness, which leaves very little to the imagination. “So fuckin’ hard,” Scott grunts, “started getting a chub the moment I saw you. Then I saw you walking from behind, this gorgeous ass just swaying like you’re teasin’ me. Then you gave me that mean look you’ve got and I’ve never been so fucking hard in my life.”

“You’re such a freak,” you huff in a laugh

“Takes one to know one.” Scott backs you into the hotel room, letting you fall back against the bed as he tucks himself between your legs dangling off the edge. His eyes roam over you, exploring every inch of your exposed skin. You’re fresh meat and Scott is starving.

He leans forward, a single index finger starting at the outer corner of your breast where it’s pushed up by your corset and journeys over the trim of your top. You hold your breath, back arching slightly into his touch. “I can’t believe you were out like this. Dressed like a fuckin’ slut. I don’t even wanna know how many guys out there imagined fucking your tits.”

It’s demeaning, you should tell him off. But this is Scott and he knows exactly what you like and — god, do you like this. A whimper climps past your lips instead, a needy little sound that has him smiling to himself.

“But I’m the only one who gets to do that tonight. Isn’t that right, sweetheart? You don’t spread your legs for anyone else.”

“Do you ever s-shut up?” You snap, voice frayed to betray the desire thumping in your chest. His hands slide underneath you, settling on your lower spine, as your body rises instinctively to his touch. He drags the zipper of your corset down, peeling it off you and casting it aside.

Scott straightens again, tilting his head as he takes you in from his vantage point.

His gaze burns uncomfortably. He doesn’t say a word and, for the first time with Scott, you feel… shy. Hands fly to your stomach as burning embarrassment sears like a branded mark on your skin. He takes a deep breath and his sweet time outlining the shape of you like he’s recreating a sketch of you in his mind.

“You’ve changed.”

Your heart sinks. The two simple words sting more than they should. Pregnancy changed your body. While you know that it’s created a miracle, it’s survived and remained strong, you also know that you aren’t the same. Softer, more lines stretching across your stomach. Your muscles haven’t survived your long hours at the hospital. You just never thought it would hurt this much for him to point it out.

But you know better than to take this kind of disrespect. If he no longer finds you attractive, you know that you could very easily find another man to satisfy you.

You try to wiggle away from him as your face shifts in aggravation. “Well, I have. So, if you don’t like it, I’m going to go because I don’t fucking need this from—”

“Hold on, never said I didn’t like it,” he murmurs, grabbing both your wrists and pinning them above you. He ducks forward again, nose brushing against your jawline. He breathes you in, you can hear him gulp. “Fuck, you look so good, sweetheart. Sexier. Something about you. Even better than I remember — and shit, do I remember you. Thought about you far too much.”

Oh. “Really?”

He pulls away slightly, eyes searching yours as his lips curl into that smirk. “Really. Every night, with my fist wrapped around my cock, imaginin’ it was this tight cunt of yours wrapped around me. I remember how it would squeesze so sweet like you’re trying to choke my dick.”

“You’re so crass,” you roll your eyes.

“You’re tellin’ me that that doesn’t turn you on?” He grins, hand stroking up your inner thighs until he finds your center, fingers nudging the damp gusset of your panties to the side as he dips in between your slick folds. “Knowing that I get off thinking about you. Thinking about this perfect cunt of yours and the way you’d pulse around me, milkin’ me dry every time you cum. It’s like this pussy was made for me.”

On cue, you tighten around him, breath hitching in your throat with his filthy words.

“Yeah, she likes that,” he chuckles, “shit, did you get tighter? I don’t remember you being this stiff. It’s gonna be tough getting me in, baby. Gonna have to stretch you out and it’s gonna fuckin’ hurt.”

You clench again at the thought, a moan bubbling up your throat. Well, seeing as you haven’t slept with anyone in years, it’s not a surprise. But you’d never tell Scott that — you don’t want to think about all the other people he’s fucked since the two of you split.

“We’ll make it fit, we always do,” he coos and you don’t block the roll of your eyes, pulling another amused sound from his lips. “Still got that attitude,” he shakes his head, hands squeezing around your wrists, “Don’t worry. I’ll fuck it out of you soon.”

Scott drags down your underwear, flinging it somewhere around the room. You’re about to scold him but the only thing that comes out of your mouth is a broken whine as he stuffs two fingers into you. The slide in is humiliatingly easy with how wet you are, but his thick fingers still stretch out your taut insides.

“Jesus,” he mutters, “won’t even let me in, huh? Have you been takin’ care of her, sweetheart?”

Heat pools low in your stomach and rises to your face. He pushes in and out of you slowly at first, blue eyes staying on you to watch you squirm, watch your body shift off the bed. He mutters something about still the fuckin’ same as he prods his fingers into you, testing out different angles to see which ones make you tick — like he’s relearning how to please you.

He realizes that it takes no time at all to do so because you still move the way he expects you too, especially when he brushes up against that spongy area inside you that wrestles a noise that mixes a gasp and a moan from your lips. Through the hazy blur of your vision, you spot a proud smile dancing on his lips as he continues to push and push until you’re panting desperately underneath him.

Every drag of his fingers along your cunt feels like the strike of a match that sets your entire body on fire. He sets off flames in different parts of your body, all the while he’s still holding you down with just one hand. His head ducks to take a nipple into his mouth and sets your entire being ablaze. The two actions combined are enough to have you sweating over the risk of cumming too fast, too hard.

You’ll be damned if you finish in under two minutes with him.

Another curl of his fingers has you resetting that bar to at least one minute.

“Scott, please,” you rasp.

“Please what, sweetheart?”

“You know what.”

“Use your big girl words,” he tuts softly, “you can do it. I wnat to hear you ask for it.”

Your brows descend in a vexed glare. “Why are you suck a prick?”

“Because it fucking turns you on,” Scott grins, “and because you like my dick.”

You can’t help it, you poke because that’s what you do with him. “I can find good dick elsewhere.”

His fingers stop moving inside you, his body completely still as he levels you with a stare that sends a shiver slithering up your spine. His jaw clenches, white fury masked by his terrifyingly composed expression. “You wanna run that by me again?”

Your mouth feels like sandpaper now, snippy response scraped away to death on your tongue.

He pushes his fingers in deeper, drawing out a cry from your chest. “Think you can get good dick anywhere, sweetheart? Is that why you’re so fucking tight? Have you been spreading your legs for anyone?”

“Fuck you.”

“I thought you had better taste. Clearly, none of them could stretch you out the way you like. You fuckin’ like it when it hurts, when it burns so good you can taste it on your tongue,” he mocks, hand releasing your wrists to grab your jaw. He applies just enough pressure to have your cheeks aching, but that pain only has you clenching around his fingers, stomach twisting with stupid need. “Look at you,” he chuckles, gripping you harder, “gettin’ so tight around me before I even stick my dick in you. Filthy slut just likes bein’ treated like one. Maybe I should stuff that mouth so you stop running it — don’t need you to talk, just need to hear those desperate little sounds you make when I fuck you good.”

Your chest sings with shame when all you can do is take his words. But you take what he gives because he only gives you what you can take; he knows exactly what to say to rile you up, to tip you over the edge, have you seething and dripping between your legs. Even after years, he still knows your body best.

Except now, he has a touch more of that southern drawl that you’ve always adored but could never get enough of.

“She just squeezed me again, sweetheart.” His eyes twinkle with delight. “Why don’t you put yourself out of your misery and just ask me?”

Your lips pinch and Scott pushes deeper, eyes fluttering when he feels you tighten around him again. He can feel your control slipping away, pride curling deep into your chest to hide.

“Fuck me.”

He raises an eyebrow. “That it?”

“Please.”

He's biting back a laugh, lips curving just a little more. “Attagirl, there’s your manners. Was that so hard? Guess I haven’t been around to teach you how to be polite with me.”

Your chest throbs with a mix of disgrace and need again. He pulls out his fingers, watches them glisten with your juices underneath the room’s warm lights. Then, with his eyes locked on yours, he slides them over his tongue and closes his lips around it. He sucks on it hungrily, moan muffled as he laves at them to savor.

“Tastes a little different too,” he hums, “maybe I just missed you too much. Missed this pretty pussy.”

Maybe if you weren’t so focused on getting him to fuck you, you might’ve noticed a strange something laced into his syllables — something you may mistake as hurt.

But that wouldn’t be possible because Scott Miller doesn’t get hurt. He takes and throws away like it’s nobody’s business, only thinking about what would be beneficial for him until it no longer has a use. He’s untouchable, always has been.

Before you can process even a hint of it, you feel Scott sliding his cock along your pussy lips, wet with juices that can’t seem to stop leaking all over his sheets. “Makin’ such a mess already,” he grunts, tip poised at your entrance.

You nudge your hips lower in an attempt to encourage him to move faster, but his palm presses down on your hips as he gives you a scalding look.

“Behave.”

Your legs press together around his hips. He feels it. But you do as you’re told.

“Good girl,” he sighs as he slowly pushes himself in. The initial burn has your eyes rolling to the back of your head, like fire between your legs as you let out a cry with how much he’s opening you up. His cock parts through you like a spear and your breath catches in your throat as he finally buries himself all the way in. “Fuck, sweetheart,” he hisses, “you’re so goddamn tight. Feels like that first time. Like you’ve never been fucked in your life.”

“B-been a while,” you stutter, the confession slipping out before you can stop it.

Scott’s hands on your hips drag you closer to the edge until your ass is against his hips, he pushes your legs up against your chest, feet thrown over his shoulders. “I can tell. You’re such a good girl for me, baby. Been saving yourself for me? Have you been thinking about me too?”

You’d die before you give him the satisfaction. Because you have, but you’ll never tell him how many times you’ve come undone with the memory of him alone. Filthy words he’d whisper in your ear toiling around your brain until you can practically hear him right next to you. Promises that have you gasping for air before you’re thrown over the edge of desire.

“Perfect pussy, she’s takin’ me so well,” he moans, deep and guttural, as he begins to ease himself in and out of you. He starts off with a slow pace before building a steady rhythm that painstakingly stretches you out around his cock. With every thrust, he stretches you out just a fraction more, each time slightly easier than the last until the burn dissolves into warmth blooming between your legs.

Scott’s still watching you; with every jerk of his hips, he intentionally angles himself to hit all the right spots that have you crying out for more, your fingers tangling in the sheets. It’s as if he’s drawing out a map of you, marking x wherever he finds a winning piece. He knows exactly how fast to fuck you to have you gasping and crying, tears leaking down your face until you can taste the salt on your tongue. He knows exactly how slow to go to have you begging him, desperate sounds falling from your lips until he has no choice but to show you mercy.

He knows that telling you you’ve got a cunt like a virgin would have you squeezing around him. He knows that praising you for being such a good pussy for him would have you arching off the bed with your eyes slammed shut.

He just knows and that thought scares you more than anything.

“Fuck, I missed this pussy. Nothing else could compare, you know. Tried to, trust me. Every time, I can only cum thinking about your leaking cunt, always drooling all over my fat cock, thinking about you sobbing underneath me until I kiss away those pretty tears. I couldn’t stop picturing feeding her my cock, stretching her out until you’re whining like a bitch in heat,” Scott growls as he picks up his thrusts, sliding in easier, faster now that your arousal has paved the path in for him.

You should be offended by his words, the feminist in you wanting to tell him off for such ridiculously degrading words, but all they do is add fuel to the fire. You haven’t felt this good in so long and you don’t think—

“Wait, fuck,” you blurt out, fingers latching onto his bicep. “Scott, condom.”

Scott freezes, like deer in headlights. “Condom? We’ve never fucked with a condom.”

“I know,” you bite out but again say, “condom.”

There’s a vein pulsing on his forehead, the last shred of his self-restraint hanging on by a thread. He looks more inconvenienced than anything. “Did you get off the pill?”

“N-no, but just wanna be careful.”

Scott laughs, nudging his cock deeper. “Why are you worrying? It’s ninety-nine percent effective.”

Well, apparently, you’re part of that one percent of failure.

He sees that you still look conflicted and he lets out a frustrated exhale. “I don’t have condoms. Haven’t carried it around with me in forever.”

“I need to fuck this pussy, sweetheart. I’m not letting that pretty head of yours change your mind. Not gonna go outside just to get condom. I’ll just pull out.”

“That shit does not always work!”

“Neither does a condom!”

Fuck, he makes a good point.

Scott slowly begins fucking you again, chipping away at the walls you’ve slammed up. “Promise I’ll pull out when I cum. Won’t do it inside you. No matter how much I want to cream inside this pussy, just like I used to.”

Your stomach flips with that admission.

“Remember how I used to fill you up? God, I can still see white leakin’ out of this cunt. I loved cumming inside you in the morning, you could never get all the cum out so you’d be dripping with me. Could smell you when I fucked you again after too.”

Shit, he knows your resolve is down to nothing when he pumps faster into you. He doesn’t need you to confirm what he already knows. He returns to fucking you with fervor. His hips are eager as they chase after yours, slamming against you as his cock fucks all rational thought from your mind. He leans forward, pressing you deeper into the mattress until all his weight is squeezing the breath from your lungs. It only intensifies the pleasure, his cock sliding in with a trail of fire as he kisses your calves.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he coaxes, “give it to me. I know you wanna cum. I can feel you tightening around me.”

More moans tumble from your lips as you babble your agreement, words slurring together in an incoherent mess.

“Give it to me. Let her go. I wanna see you fall apart on my cock, want you remember that no one else can make you feel like this. Nobody can — or ever will — fuck you this good. This pussy’s mine and I’m gonna make sure she only remembers me, only takes the shape of my cock.”

You’re struggling for air as your chest constricts, wanton need burning all throughout your body.

“Cum for me, baby. Come on,” Scott grunts, punctuating each word with a thrust.

With a few more pumps of his cock, your stomach tightens, desire coiling tight until it snaps and your pleasure crests. It feels like you’re soaring, body trembling with the force of your orgasm as you clam down around him, legs shaking and pussy sucking him in deeper.

Your cunt continues to pulse as your descent from the high occurs painfully slow. But Scott’s not done. He just uses you at that point, treating you like a little pocket pussy to get himself off as he fucks dirty into you. He spreads your legs so he can see your tits bouncing with how fast he’s going. You can tell he’s close when his drives get sloppier, cock just fucking into you because he can. Then he’s quickly yanking himself out with a gasp, tilting his cock so that ropes of cum spill across your stomach, your tits, decorating the skirt with abstract splatters of white.

His hard cock twitches against his stomach as he holds himself up on the mattress, labored breaths weighing down on his chest.

Even in your weary state, you can’t help but giggle. “It’s been a while, huh, old man? Can’t keep up anymore?”

He tosses a glare your way. “Let’s not forget the last time I overstimulated you until you cried and begged for me to let you cum again. How many times was it? Five?”

Your cheeks warm at the memory. “That was years ago.”

His gaze softens, melts into something that has your heart squeezing. “Yeah, it was.” ith a groan, he pushes himself up and disappears into the bathroom, leaving you in the mess of his orgasm. When he comes back out, he’s got a warm, damp towel in hand that he’s using to clean you of the sticky mess. 

He raises your legs again to check on your pussy. 

“Does it hurt?”

You’re only mildly surprised by his concern, mostly because you haven’t been on the receiving end of it for a while. “No, I’m fine.”

“You sure? I went pretty hard.”

All you can do now is roll your eyes, using your foot to nudge his stomach. “I’m a big girl, Miller. I know what I can take.”

His lips twitch as he shakes his head, muttering something you don’t catch under his breath. He plops down next to you, eyes sliding shut as he lets himself sink into the bed. He drapes an arm over his eyes, stomach dipping as he exhales deeply.

The lines of his chest are still defined. If anything, his muscles are more evident now. Veins running along his biceps to display the progress he’s made while he was away. You didn’t realize how much he’s changed, how much broader he got, how there are more grays on his head than before. Jawline that was soft through the year that you knew him sharpened into a knife that slices straight through your chest.

You turn away from him, eyes glued to the ceiling. The moment Scott stepped back into your life, he rolled out a fog that clouded your judgment. Now that the haze has cleared, you’re lying in the consequences of your actions, you can’t help but let the remorse carve its place into your bones. You’re a fool if you think this time will be any different.

It took you one night — one night — to fall for his charm. One night for your years-long resolve to fall apart.

You thought you would feel differently about him now, that you could let these silly emotions fade into dust in his absence. However, your heart still beats the same way for him — a little faster, skipping a beat or two, but always towards him. The two of you still move in sync, like two pieces of the same puzzle finally slotting together.

But you’ve changed — or, you should’ve changed. You shouldn’t be this easy, not anymore. Not when there’s more at risk than just your heart.

The shame crashes over you in waves, pulling you under, and suddenly, you’re breathless. The air feels thin when you think of Ben — your son who doesn’t even know who his father is, who has been curious enough to ask once but kind enough not to ask twice.

An arm splaying across your thighs sends you crashing back to reality. He rumbles with eyes closed, “Sleep.”

Gently, you remove his arm as you come to your feet. You move swiftly, body functioning the same it always does — opting for flight rather than fight. You collect your panties and quickly tug them on under your skirt. Before you can reach for your top, a hand wraps around your arm.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m gonna go.”

His confusion deepens. “Why?”

With a shrug, you pick up your corset from the floor and zip it back up. Scott steps in your path before you can make it to the entryway — still fully nude, cock half hard.

You force your eyes to stay on his face instead. “We fucked, we’re good, right?”

Annoyance flashes across his eyes. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“What else do you want from me, Scott?” You sigh.

You try to sidestep him but he moves faster. His shoulders stretch out to their full breadth as he straightens. “What if I want to fuck again later?”

“You’ve survived this long with your fist, I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say a word. The silence lingers like a ghost between you. He looks conflicted, eyes shifting around the room like he can find the answer somewhere on the walls. “We haven’t seen each other in years and you’re flaking on me?”

It’s your turn to offer no response, mainly because you don’t have one.

“You disappear on me for years. I’m seeing you for the first time since we graduated and you can’t even be bothered to stay?”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “I just really need to get home. I have to go to work tomorrow to wrap up a few things.”

“I can drive you.”

“I have no clothes.”

“We’ll leave early in the morning.”

“Scott.”

Your mind wanders to Ben, wondering what he’s doing right now, how you should be there with him — instead of here with the dad that he never knew.

“Alright. Let me drive you at least.”

He watches as your eyes get distracted again by his nude form before you, him completely shameless, maybe even smug that you still find yourself cross-eyed with him.

“No, I can find my own ride.”

When you manage to maneuver around him, Scott hooks a finger through one of your belt loops to yank you back, and you’re now facing his broad, bare chest, the light smattering of curls directly in your line of sight.

“Can I see you tomorrow then?”

He ducks his head so his lips brush over yours. You can feel that familiar dizziness tease the edges of your rational mind. He knows exactly what he’s doing, especially when you unconsciously lean towards him, like a moth to flame, Icarus who flew too close to the sun.

“Scott,” you whisper when he pulls back to mock you.

“You ever gonna tell me what happened? Why you left me high and dry. You disappeared from everywhere, couldn’t find you on anything,” Scott begins, “Then you went ahead and changed your number. I had no way to reach you.”

You don’t blame him for the bitterness that stains his voice. Even after you promised to stay in touch, the further along you were in your pregnancy, the more you realized that you couldn’t handle the guilt of lying to him. So you… simply stopped. Stopped responding to his texts. Stopped picking up his calls.

Once he ceased his efforts, you changed your number. You hoped he wouldn’t notice, that it would be a clean slate. Clearly, that isn’t the case.

“Can we talk about this another time? I’m exhausted and I’m sticky—”

“Use my shower. Sleep here. I’ll drive you home then to work in the morning.”

It’s a kind offer. Far too generous for a man whom you distanced yourself from. “You don’t have—”

“I want to,” he insists, “don’t be fucking difficult.”

“Tomorrow, alright. Please,” you plead one last time.

Scott’s blue eyes wash over you, searching for a sign of weakness. He must see the firm stubborn hold in your gaze, because you see him deflate in real time. “Fine. Give me your number.” You open your mouth, ready to extend some bullshit excuse, but he beats you to it.  “So help me god if you try to argue with me again, woman, I’m tying you to my bed.”

You know he’s serious. You can only relent and say that you’ll text him.

“Now.”

“Scott.”

“I’m not fucking around,” he snaps, “I’m not spending the time I have here trying to chase your ass down again.”

Again? You’re too tired to question it further so you pull out your phone, finding his contact — one that you haven’t touched in some time — and shoot him a quick message.

“Happy?”

“Delighted,” he bites back, baring his teeth at you.

You only roll your eyes. “Now, if there’s nothing else, I’m going to go.”

“Call a car.”

“‘Course, I will!”

He snorts. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t have taken the T home.”

You’re about to argue again, but he knows you too well. The T would’ve saved you money, but certainly not time. Instead of replying, you say, “I’m going to go.”

Scott still seems none too pleased but lets you go.

As you cave to the pull of slumber that evening, your phone lights up with a message.

It was good seeing you tonight.

You’re a goddamn coward, that’s what you are. You don’t actually have to come into work the next day but you needed an out. Instead, you wake up that morning with an old friend — that jackhammering in your head commonly known as a hangover. 

Vices hit a little differently when you’re older, especially when you haven’t touched a drop of it in a while.

That goes for the drinks and Scott.

It feels like a fever dream when you wake up alone the next morning, you wanted to pretend like none of it ever happened. Like you didn’t meet your former fuck buddy slash friend slash father of your child at a club and went to his hotel with him as if no time had passed. 

Opening your phone to his text was the first slap of reality.

The second was when you look in the mirror to see the marks all over your neck like you’ve been mauled by a mountain lion.

Possessive fucker. 

Jenna’s message certainly isn’t helping either. Hope you had a great night ;) 

You did. You wish you didn’t but Scott somehow still knows you like the back of his hand and, if you had stayed, there would be no doubt that he would change your great night into a fantastic night.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you quickly reply to her with an appropriately crude emoji. 

Scott — well, you do what you do best. You don’t respond.

You don’t reply when he asks you what time you get off work today.

You don’t reply when he sends a single question mark as a follow-up.

You definitely don’t reply when he says—

You’re going to ghost me again, aren’t you?

Instead of acknowledging the magnitude of your actions, you spend the weekend keeping yourself busy. Every time your mind veers to Scott and the messages left unanswered, you pick a new spot in the house to clean. 

By the time Ben returns on Sunday, the house is spotless.

Your mom looks at you suspiciously. “You cleaned.” 

“Yes,” you say before you turn to pepper wet kisses all over your baby. He giggles and his face scrunches up. “How was weekend with grandma?”

“We ate ice cream!”

It’s your mother’s turn to look guilty when you raise an eyebrow at her. “Is that so? How much ice cream?”

Ben, realizing what he’s just exposed, turns to his grandmother then back to you. He pinches his fingers together. “This much.”

“Mhmm, next time grandma gives you ice cream, I’m gonna remind her how much dental visits cost,” you coo, pinching his nose. 

He runs off to unpack his bags, which leaves you alone with your mother who is much too perceptive for her own good. 

“So, good weekend?”

“Good,” you brush off, glancing at your gleaming kitchen counter.

“Did you bring a man home?”

“Mother!” You gasp, “We are not talking about that.”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re an adult, I’m sure the birds and the bees talk is no longer necessary. Not to mention protection, you’ve learned your lesson there.”

“Thanks,” you drawl.

“I’m just saying you look… good. Satisfied.” Your cheeks flame. “You know you’re allowed to have a life outside of all this. You’re still young and there’s still time to find love.”

Love, huh? Scott’s face appears in your mind with that stupidly attractive smirk. You shake your head. “Yes, Mom. I’m aware.” She stares skeptically at you. “I know. It was just a night of fun. I have responsibilities, can’t be reckless anymore.” 

“It was chance,” your mom murmurs, “you were never reckless.”

“The universe has picked her favorites and I’m not one of them,” you laugh, “but I think I milked my luck with Ben, can’t ask for a better kid. Hopefully he behaved?”

“He was an angel.” You nod, humming. “Are you not going to tell me about this man then?”

Groaning, you try to walk away from her but she follows you down the hall. “There’s nothing to tell and I didn’t bring him home.”

“Oh, you stayed at his?”

“No, I… went home.”

She lets out a little surprised noise. “That bad?”

No, that good. “I’m not discussing this with you further.” 

Monday sends you crashing back to earth. While you spent your Sunday recuperating with Ben, a calm day of eating vegetables to balance the treats and touching grass on the playground, being back in this office — this dreary reality reminds you that life really isn’t that swell.

It doesn’t help that Jenna pounces the moment you walk in, an endless stream of questions pouring out of her lips about the hottie you were with and if you got your brains fucked out of your head. You don’t satisfy her with a response, slipping into your office and locking it shut.

An office job coordinating and babysitting adults for the sake of science was never part of the plan, but plans change and you’ve learned to accept it. Now, you’re stretching to work out the crick in your neck as you do a doom scroll of the countless unread emails in your inbox.

You’re trapped in there for most of the day, vision beginning to blur when you have to squint at the screen to decipher the letters. However, the banging close to the end of the day has you jolting awake at your desk, knee slamming up against your table.

A curse slips past your lips as you hop over to open it. Jenna — wide-eyed and dangerously excited — grins like a cat that’s caught a mouse.

“Hottie alert.”

You look at her, unimpressed. “Please don’t involve me in your plans to cross professional boundaries. I don’t want HR to mark me as an accomplice.”

“No, I mean hottie — as in hottie from the club who gave you those hickeys that even your concealer can’t hide.”

Your hands fly to your neck, where the bruises pulse in demand of your attention. Warmth crawls across your face. You’ve spent enough time allowing your mind to wander to memories from that night, you don’t need to do it again at work.

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s outside — looking for you!”

The splat of your heart dropping to the floor echoes in the ensuing silence. You must be hearing things because you could’ve sworn Jenna just told you that Scott is here at your workplace. The place where you work.

“No,” you blurt out.

“Yes,” she hisses, “get your ass out there. Clearly, you made quite the impression. Or did he make an impression with his dick inside your—”

“Finish that sentence and I revoke your rights to see Ben,” you warn and she gasps, biting down her giggles. “Can you just tell him I’m not here? Better yet, tell him there’s no one here by my name.”

She gives you a look. “He’s not an idiot. He saw me and clocked me as the friend who dressed her like that.”

Groaning, you press your forehead against the door.

“Was he that bad?”

Again, that good.

“He looks like a good time. Mind if I take a crack at him?”

The question has you jerking upright, your expression souring. Jenna’s a great friend, but Scott is— what is Scott? He’s nobody. He should be nobody.

“I’m kidding,” she laughs, “jeez, you’re obviously into him. Why are you being difficult?”

Because this will end the same way. Your heart broken. Scott gone again.

“Listen, I don’t think he’s leaving and the others are starting to gossip. They think you’ve got golden pussy that’s bringing a male suitor around this desperately.”

Fuck, the last thing you need is Scott causing problems at work. With a relenting sigh, you follow Jenna out front and find Scott standing there, looking impassively at some of the women — nurses and patients alike — who are shooting flirtatious looks at him. In fact, he’s not looking at them at all — his eyes float around the room until they land on you.

He doesn’t look pissed. No, his lips tug up into a smirk tinged with mirth. He says your name, your heart sinks. It sounds like a greeting and a threat. Your stomach turns.

Scott looks you up and down, a silent assessment that concludes in confusion at your clothes. Instead of addressing it, he hands you one of the cups in his hand.

“Tea,” he answers before you can ask, “with a spoonful of honey.”

Your favorite afternoon remedy.

Unfortunately, you feel your colleagues’ aggressively probing gazes burning to your side. It’s natural they’re curious; you’ve never had visitors aside from your mom and Ben — let alone a man. Let alone a man who looks like Scott.

You’ll never hear the end of this.

“Follow me.” You drag him by the elbow towards the waiting room, far away from the disappointed looks. When you’re finally out of sight, you turn around. “What are you doing here?”

Scott looks far from pleased, but his tone is calm. “Came to see you.” He shrugs, taking a sip of his coffee — probably black with a drop of cream.

“You can’t be doing this to me at work, Scott.”

“You weren’t responding to my texts.”

“I’m at work.”

“I can see that.”

“Don’t be cute.”

“You always think I’m cute.”

You take a deep breath. “Scott, what happened last Friday—” He perks up. “It can’t happen again.” 

“Why not?” He scowls, jaw clicking off to the side. 

“We’re adults now, we can’t be… doing whatever we were doing. It was fun when we were young but come on.”

“What? Too old to have fun?”

“I think I’m at a point where I should be looking for something serious, not a repeat of college.”

There’s a firmness to his eyes that makes you squirm. Something unexpectedly grave that’s foreign to Scott. “Serious,” he echoes, “you want serious?”

“Of course, I do.”

He licks his lips, taking a step towards you. Your heart skips a beat. 

“If that’s the case—”

“Mom!”

Your entire body goes cold, the word both warms and slashes your chest. Your son barrels down the hallway and you barely flinch when you feel his tiny arms wrap around your legs, Ben cheesing up at you with a toothy grin.

You don’t spare Scott a glance when you crouch down to Ben’s height, allowing him to wrangle you in a tight hug. “Hi, bud, what’re you doing here? I was supposed to meet you at home.”

“Missed you.” He pulls away to beam at you and your heart positively melts.

This perfect kid. “Missed you too, buddy,” you smile, “I still need to finish up work. Think you can be patient for me and wait a few more minutes?”

He blinks at you. “Aunt Jenna?”

You shake your head. Jenna is always a crowd favorite. “Aunt Jenna—”

“Is right here!” The familiar voice cheers as she appears next to you. Ben throws himself around her legs next with a giggle. “Come on, we’ve got some new toys in the playroom I can show you. Cool LEGOs.”

Before you know it, she’s already whisking him away, leavingyou, Scott, and your mother — who is staring at him with a little too much curiosity.

On the other hand, you can’t even bring yourself to look at him. The thing that shakes your confidence the most is his silence. Upset Scott goes on long tirades, spitting out vile things until he’s clam enough to take action.

However, a very, truly angry Scott is quiet. The rage simmers on the surface, bubbling in imminent explosion on the inside.

Your mother grins at him with sparkling eyes. “I never knew my daughter had such a handsome friend.”

“Mom!” You immediately scold, embarrassment spreading through you like wildfire.

Scott clears his throat, smile cordial as he turns to your mom. “Pleasure to meet you, ma’am. I’m Scott. A friend.” The last word he seems to add reluctantly.

“Oh yes, she did mention… a friend,” your mom says with a teasing lilt that proves to push that stake of betrayal deeper into your gut. “We’re going to head back for dinner after this. Would you like to join us?”

“He has other things to do,” you say at the same time Scott responds with, “I’d love to.” This time, you do turn to look at him.

His eyes are cool, almost distant, as he regards you. It’s an impassive look that says more than most people expect. A shudder wracks through you as your mouth dries in fear.

“I’ll be there,” he emphasizes, looking pointedly at you.

Your body withers slightly under the intensity of his gaze and you choose to redirect your own displeasure at your mother who simply disregards you. “Wonderful, I’ll wait with Ben. Come find us when you’re done, honey.”

Leave it to your own blood to make the bed and force you to lie in it.

But you’re also your mother’s daughter so you take that as a chance to escape yourself. “I have to wrap up work so I’ll see you later,” you exhale quickly and high-tail out of there before he can even open his mouth.

Procrastinating emotions has always been your strong suit.

By the time you finish work and step back outside, you pray that Scott’s anger would’ve faded. He’s calm when he agrees to follow your family car in his own. You’re constantly peeking at your rearview mirror to see if he changes his mind but his car never disappears from your line of sight.

When you let all of them inside the apartment, Scott gives it a critical once-over. He politely toes off his shoes and steps into the living room. Sweat piles on the back of your neck as you urge Ben to wash up while you and your mom prepare dinner.

“Pasta alright?” You ask, testing the waters.

His answer is respectful and composed. A simple yes, thank you.

It only makes you more nervous.

Dinner passes by without a hitch, despite your bouncing knee the entier time. Your mom asks Scott how he knows you and what he does for work; she’s at least smart enough to tread carefully on the bigger questions of why you’ve never mentioned him and why he feels comfortable enough to show face at your job. The extent of his introduction to Ben is taht he is your son and Scott is your friend.

“Uncle Scott,” Ben confirms, familiarizing himself with Scott’s name on his tongue.

You see the ice in his eyes chip away, albeit slightly, but he nods.

After Ben gets exactly a single scoop of the chocolate chip ice cream in the fridge, you tell him that it’s finally time for bed. He whines about how having a guest means that he should be able to stay up longer. You give him one look and he promptly skulks to the bathroom. 

You take this chance to escape Scott’s attention for a little while; god knows his staring gets unnerving after two hours of it. You take your time preparing Ben for bed, switching him to his comfy pajamas, reading him his favorite book with the voices the way he likes it. When he’s finally out cold, you get up, press a kiss to his temple, and turn to exit. 

Scott’s standing in the doorway, watching you quietly. His expression is thoughtful, but he doesn’t say a word when you lead him back to the kitchen. 

You walk your mom to the door, thanking her for the day.

Her eyes wander to Scott behind you who seems intent on lingering even when it’s late. She smiles at you. “He seems like a good one,” she whispers. “I like him.”

“You’ve known him all of two hours.”

“I can sense it. I like how you are with him.” You raise an eyebrow in question. “Emotional. You get riled up so easily. You’ve spent the last few years playing adult that it’s sweet to see you like this.” 

Your cheeks are hot as you shoo her again. She throws out a final nice to meet you and see you again soon before she finally leaves the two of you alone.

Scott’s eyes chase after you as you fuss with your kettle, preparing caffeine for the conversation you’re about to have. Maybe you should break out that tequila buried deep inside your cabinet instead. He no doubt has questions. You don’t know if he’s connected the dots; you can only hope he hasn’t. Ben looks more like you after all.

There’s a small part of you that hopes Scott would know, call it fatherly intuition, but a bigger part of you wants to avoid addressing that question. He’s only here to visit, he doesn’t need to know that he has a son. If he doesn’t know, then the two of you can return to life as is once he leaves.

You don’t want to admit how much the thought stings.

“Ben,” Scott clears his throat as you set a cup of coffee in front of him. He gratefully accepts it, takes a sip. “Is his dad…”

“Not around.” It’s a safe answer.

“Who is he?”

“No one you know,” you lie smoothly, maybe too quickly.

His eyes narrow a fraction but he doesn’t push. “You never told me you have a son.”

“We weren’t talking, Miller. It would’ve been strange to say hey, hope you’re doing well, by the way, I have a kid!”

“Well, whose fault is that?” He snaps.

The air is strung tight, electricity crackling quietly in the echo of his words. 

“I just—” He takes a deep breath, hands shoved into his hair. “I don’t want to fight,” he says, doing his damndest to try and mean it. You know that he wants to push, to question, to challenge you. Confront you for leaving him in the wind. 

But he doesn’t want to lose you — the same way you don’t want to either. 

“Ben’s a good kid,” you murmur, thumb stroking the rim of your mug. 

“Well, you did raise him,” he notes, lips twitching up. 

You clear your throat. “This is why I can’t do… whatever that was last night again. It was a fluke and a mistake. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a night out like that and apparently I just needed to get laid.” 

Instead of the chuckle you’re expecting, some jab about you being abstinent, there is weight that settles heavy in the atmosphere. Scott looks at you carefully, lips tight. “A mistake? Really?”

“Not—” you stop yourself, biting your tongue, “not like that.” He cocks an eyebrow, looking at you with a mix of irritation and interest. “I just think I shouldn’t have been so irresponsible.”

“Why? You would’ve fucked any man that night?” 

“Of course not!”

“So just me then.”

“Yes!”

The moment the confirmation leaves your mouth, you stop. Scott smiles, smug. “Good to know.”

“Oh, screw you.”

“You already did.”

The urge to hurl your mug at his head grows stronger by the second.

Scott bites down on his smile but you can still see the ghost of amusement on his lips. “But, listen, in all seriousness, if you need anything— I know raising a kid isn’t cheap and, with your hours and obviously childcare and all the necessities—”

You cringe. “Please don’t tell me you’re offering me money right now.” 

“I just want to help.”

“Not your responsibility.”

His jaw clenches. “I know that, but it doesn’t mean I can’t help a friend.” 

His jaw clenches. “I know that, but it doesn’t mean I can’t help a friend.” 

You consider arguing with him again, defending your stance as a perfectly capable, independent, single mother. However, you know he means well. This is how Scott Miller helps, this is how he shows you he cares. 

“Thank you,” you sigh, “I appreciate it, but I promise you I’m fine.”

Scott hesitates for a second. “You’re not a nurse.” It’s not a question. 

“I wanted to do it, but the pregnancy and the tough hours just didn’t seem healthy – or fair to a newborn. I’m doing something safer, more regular hours. It’s not so bad.”

“Wasn’t your dream though.”

“Well, sometimes dreams don’t work out.”

He doesn’t look appeased. “Why not now? He’s a little more grown. How old is he?”

Your heart rushes in your ears. “I have a good routine going. It’s not like I hate what I’m doing now—”

“But you don’t love it.” Once again, not a question.

“It’s… a job, Scott, I’m lucky to be employed in this economy.”

He grunts but doesn’t push further. “I’m not going to give you shit for not telling me—”

“Shocker.” The sarcastic remark slips out on instinct, Scott tosses you a scalding look with no heat behind his eyes. 

“But at least let me try and help you.” He knows you too well, can sense the argument threatening to fall from your lips, so he quickly adds, “I don’t want to hear it. However I can help, I will.”

When he has this voice, you know there’s no point in arguing, so you let it slide. “Sure. Thank you,” you surrender. “How long are you here for?”

“I’m leaving tomorrow afternoon.”

Oh. You’re fast to school your expression. “Got it. We should plan to catch up properly at some point then. Maybe tomorrow morning.”

The corners of his lips tug up and you’re already rolling your eyes, ears tingling with the stupid comment to come. “You don’t think we did that already? Or did you want a repeat?”

“Pig.”

“You love it.” 

A laugh bubbles up your throat, light and airy that has Scott’s smile rising a smidgen higher. 

For a moment, you think everything will be okay.

+ sam: im sorry for the woman i've become with him (i'm not) (i love this idiot so dearly). hope you enjoyed this part and look forward for more drama to come in the second!!!

scott is yearning for (taglist): @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @pinksplace @stanmarvelous @coffinlolz @chloluvsdilfs @athenxt

when he returns to the ship, he's as quiet as he can be, knowing that even a single loud noise might disturb you. that's the last thing he could possibly want. except it's impossible to avoid the whirring of the door to the ship as he enters, impossible to eliminate the sound of his armor clinking as he walks, the patter of his heavy boots against the metal flooring beneath him.

he would take the time to return his weapons to his small armory if he knew the noise would not be a bother. except he is more concerned with allowing you your rest. the small cot may be enough for him, having learned to sleep wherever possible, rising at the sound of a pin dropping; however, you are not like him.

you're soft. delicate. you need your slumber, unlike him, and he knows you find it difficult to rest in his subpar sleeping quarters.

he curses himself when he hears you stir.

you've already begun to awoken, so instead of making his way directly to the cockpit, he makes his way towards you. taking long strides as softly as possible so as not to jostle you with the weight of his movement within the ship, then laying beside you with as much caution as he can manage.

"you're back," you whisper to him in your sleepy state. one of his gloved hands comes to your waist, and he longs to bury his face in your hair, in the crook of your neck.

he shoves the urge to the back of his mind as he pulls your figure closer into his.

"did you sleep well?" he asks you, and you grunt in disapproval. he frowns ever so slightly beneath his mask, gripping you tighter upon hearing it.

"no," you speak up, curling into yourself as his arm remains tightly seated around your waist. "can't get comfortable."

"I'm sorry. I'm working on it," he tells you in earnest. he watches as you fidget, moving around every few seconds as you try to adjust until you feel comfortable enough to find your slumber again.

you try your best to remain near the brink of sleep, try your best to keep your constant shifting and light grumbling to a minimum so as to not make him feel any worse about the fact that his bed is so cramped and hard.

clearly, your attempts are in vain as he speaks up again.

"can I help?" he inquires, and you immediately begin to feel apologetic for being so ungrateful, so much of a bother to him.

"no, I'm sorry, it's alright," you whisper, except as you speak, he's already gripping you by the hips and turning your body around to face his.

you take a breath in preparation to apologize once more. he speaks again before you can do so.

"don't say that you're sorry again," he tells you as he repositions the both of you, urging you to lay on your back as he hovers above you. "I'm going to get you a better bed, don't you worry."

his hands wrap around the flesh of your thighs, spreading your legs just enough for him to slot his own thigh between yours. the rough beskar plate that protects him from bodily injury is now pressed up against your most sensitive parts, still covered in the cloth of your trousers.

"let me make you comfortable, huh?" he goads as he presses his leg firmer up against you, inciting a whine from low in your throat. "sleepy little thing. let me help put you back to sleep."

your eyes cinch shut even tighter as he begins rocking his leg up against you, your hips beginning to chase the feeling and thrusting helplessly against him as the pleasure between your thighs grows.

"gonna get you a better bed. take you to Coruscant, rent the nicest room in the nicest inn we can find."

that sounds heavenly, you think, as you remember what it feels like to sleep on a bed nicer than the one you're in now. you can't imagine how nice it would feel to sleep in a fancy Coruscanti room, luxury unlike any you've experienced before.

"please," you utter under your breath between whimpers as your movements grow weary, and he ever so softly shushes you.

"no need to beg," he assures you, "go ahead."

your body is already so spent from lack of sleep, and this small piece of pleasure that he's offering you takes over your restless body with ease. it's not long before your body tenses underneath him for a few long seconds, then falling back against the cot as what little energy you have left leaves you as you reach your peak.

"good girl," he encourages, holding you there for a few seconds as you begin to drift off again.

when you feel him begin to move away from you, however, you groan in displeasure. "where are you going?" you mumble.

"we're still on the ground. I need to input the coordinates to Coruscant, remember? then, if you're still awake, I'll come back and fuck you until you're so sleepy you can't stay awake for another second."

~~~

'Cause It's Insured — @theworstwolvie ⤷ on sale: dining table

Life with Clark Kent is usually full of simple domestic bliss - until things are hot and heavy and he breaks your dining room table, of course.

Spilled Milk — @tw1sters ⤷ on sale: kitchen counter

In a world where Superman never became a journalist, he crafts custom countertops for a living. His biggest challenge isn’t the work; it’s keeping his hands to himself around you long enough not to break what he’s trying to sell.

Under Pressure — @anon-188 ⤷ on sale: bathtub

Clark can’t leave you alone—even when he really, really should. the pressure builds… and something has to give.

By a Thread — @pinksplace (May 14) ⤷ on sale: executive desk

Clark Kent’s self control is a tenuous thing. It’s pulled tight inside of him, edges fraying from stress as years of want push at its seams. Just like the strap of your dress, it’s holding on by a thread.

Horsepower — @sparklingsin (May 19) ⤷ on sale: lex luthor's ferrari

Tired of the parade of men falling at your feet at Lex Luthor's wedding and your silence from last night's fight, Clark decides to take you on a wild ride in his best friend's Ferrari.

Neighborly Favors — @thceseus (May 26) ⤷ on sale: couch

Clark Kent is the perfect neighbor and the ultimate gentleman. Baking cookies, fixing stuff around your apartment, always there with his reliable smile. So who's he to say no when you ask him to help build your new couch and… break it???

Sweet Stuff — @clarknsun (May 28) ⤷ on sale: porch swing

Going back to Smallville was supposed to be simple—visit his parents and keep them company for the weekend. Easy as pie, right? But when Clark comes face-to-face with a decade-old crush, a dinner at his ma's turns into bonding over apple pie, broken hearts, and a broken porch swing.

Off the Books — @heldbybarnes (June 2) ⤷ on sale: workout bench

Clark hires you off the books to help him control his strength in bed—because every partner before you has gotten hurt. You agree for the wrong reasons, pushing his limits on the workout bench until reinforced steel buckles and Clark loses control. He thinks you’re saving him. You’re really making yourself the one thing he can’t walk away from.

American Boy — @maiamore (June 4) ⤷ on sale: copier/printer

Staying at work late to impress the new editor-in-chief proves to be something Clark Kent isn't equipped to handle.

One More Load — @kryptidfiles (TBD) ⤷ on sale: washer/dryer

"Sweetheart, unless completely irreparable: it stays." Newly moved into Clark’s apartment, you’re trying very hard not to let his shitty washer and dryer ruin the honeymoon phase. Then one more load comes out damp, wrinkled, and still holding a soggy sock hostage at the bottom, and you finally snap. Clark walks in on you all bare legs and bad attitude, and decides if he’s handling the laundry, he’s handling you too.

A very big shoutout to all my incredibly talented friends for participating in this brainrot collab. We're bringing our collective goon to the dash 💞

Special thank you to @unificsation and Pink (pinksplace) for helping me with the inspiration for the masterlist header and Ash (sparklingsin) for creating the lovely fic headers above!!!

First class flyer!Scott who lets his fingers brush yours every time you place a fresh glass of liquor, ice clinking, with your sweet smile. It’s supposed to be polite, a professional courtesy, but he can’t stop imagining what it would be like to have those lips wrapped around his cock, a ring of red at the base, your makeup tear-stained while he pushes his cock deep down your throat. 

First class flyer!Scott who watches as your eyes wander to his cock tented in his sweats when you lean down to help him clear his table, giving him an eyeful of that pretty cleavage peeking from the V-cut of your uniform. You don’t get shy, but your smile tips up just a little higher. 

First class flyer!Scott who propositions you for the first time to join the Mile-High Club to which you said fuck you before he bends you over the spacious porcelain sink, the airline-branded Diptyque diffuser, and turbulence that makes his cock vibrate where it’s buried deep inside your cunt. 

First class flyer!Scott who you save on your phone as “8.5” to which he scoffs and says, “How the fuck am I not a ten? You cum every time”, to which you reply, “That’s your dick size, you dumbass.” He smiles smug when he sees that all the other numbers are smaller than his. 

First class flyer!Scott who stops smiling when he realizes that he’s not the only number, which means he’s not the only one you’ve been fucking. He pins you up against his first-class suite door again, rattling it with the force of his thrusts as he sinks his fingers into your thighs, leaving a smattering of bruises that will surely last until your next flight next week.

First class flyer!Scott who immediately books said flight (first class, duh) to make sure that he can refresh those territorial marks until the next time he sees you.

First class flyer!Scott who then spots a “9” the next time you open your phone to show him a picture of your vacation to the Bahamas and asks who that is. Of course, you can’t tell him — airline-passenger privilege or whatever. 

First class flyer!Scott who makes sure you understand that it’s not about “what you have, but how you use it” and he proves his point when you return to your workstation with your hair undone, lipstick smudged, stockings ripped, cum stains on the hem of your skirt and the corner of your mouth, and “9” gone from your contacts list. 

First class flyer!Scott who gets irritated when he sees other men looking at you, eyeing you the same way he’s been doing for months. He blames it on the fact that it reduces the number of times he can make you cum on these red-eyes.

First class flyer!Scott who yanks you into his suite, slamming the door shut without a care whether he wakes anyone up. He loves the sound of your pretty moans but the cabin lights are dim and “you have to keep it down, sweetheart” so he tugs your neck scarf loose and pushes it between your lips to muffle your screams as he stretches you around his cock. Again. 

First class flyer!Scott who doesn’t let you leave despite you insisting that you have to go back to work, and he has to remind you that he’s paid for your time and you’re supposed to guarantee his full satisfaction. 

First class flyer!Scott who chuckles when you call him a “fucking asshole” because he knows all that snark will fall apart into a whine the moment he fucks deep inside of you, his hand buried in your hair. 

First class flyer!Scott who only releases you when you’ve got cum leaking down your legs, embarrassment combined with a happy sex-fueled glow, and enough prints on you to remind everyone else that you belong to someone, when you shakily stumble out of the booth with a smile that you can’t seem to wipe off your face. 

First class flyer!Scott who starts taking his time kissing you, drinking in your pretty moans when you’re situated on his lap while everyone else is asleep. He tucks you to his side, making sure you have enough room to kick off your heels and hand-feeds you fruits from the platter you brought him. 

First class flyer!Scott who plucks your phone from your hand and pulls up your contacts, deleting every number name on that list until you’re left with only his — and he replaces it with his name. 

First class flyer!Scott who is pleased when you roll your eyes at him but don’t seem to complain, instead pulling up the latest blockbuster film on his high-definition TV that you’ve been dying to watch but haven’t had the chance to. 

First class flyer!Scott who finds you sleeping mid-movie with your face in the crook of his neck, your lips warm against his pulse that jumps when you curl into him, arms wrapped around his bicep as you snuggle closer. 

First class flyer!Scott who smiles despite himself. 

First class flyer!Scott who feels his heart beating a little too loud, a little too insistently. Many say that he doesn’t have one, so it doesn’t make sense that he can hear the ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump so clearly in his ears. 

First class flyer!Scott who isn’t sure whether he likes this feeling. 

First class flyer!Scott who doesn’t say a word when you slip out afterwards to go back to work, the expression on your face soft when you promise to see him later. 

First class flyer!Scott who can’t even look at you when he exits the aircraft, lest he be tempted to drag you home with him, to tuck you into his bed, in his house, where you would be—

—his. 

First class flyer!Scott who simply nods when you shoot him a bright grin when he comes on board the next time. He misses the befuddled look on your face when he doesn’t look back like he usually does to catch your eye and wink at you.

First class flyer!Scott who keeps to himself for the most part, only calling for service when necessary. 

First class flyer!Scott who pretends to be asleep when you come knocking, ignoring that overwhelming urge to pull you in and slide you under the blanket right next to him, telling you to sleep so he can too. 

First class flyer!Scott who can’t seem to get rid of this itch in his chest, so he wanders out to find another model-like flight attendant — one he would usually flirt with in a heartbeat, but he hesitates to do so today.

First class flyer!Scott who swallows that strange sensation of… guilt in the hollowness of his heart when he invites that stewardess he can’t name into his suite and fucks her until her moans are bouncing off the walls but none of them sound right. 

First class flyer!Scott who sits with that weight in his gut, a knife twisting deeper into his flesh like it’s carving the permanent mark of his sins, as the other girl gets herself ready to go out again. 

First class flyer!Scott who opens the door and sees you. 

First class flyer!Scott who sees the cocktail of repulsion and devastation etched into the lines of your face. The cherry on top — the disappointment that lands heavier than anything. 

First class flyer!Scott who — for the first time in his life — doesn’t know what to do.

+ sam: i cannot stop thinking about scott. he's like a toxic ex i can't get rid of. more to come for him. his characterization will vary depending on how nasty i want him to be heh hope you enjoyed!!!! thank you mai for always matching my freak

scott is yearning for (taglist): @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn

"for march, and…just a token of appreciation."

you frown at his subtle way of not quite letting you see just how much more he'd slipped in for your allowance, tucking it into your purse without really noticing the extra hundreds.

"you should really cut yourself some slack, clark. sometimes…people just…like giving a hand to good men like you."

the words unintentionally stung, and his jaw clenches to your gentle squeeze of assurance at his biceps.

"i'll see you next monday?"

his gaze doesn't quite meet yours.

"mhm."

he wasn't a good man at all.

a good man wouldn't stand in the gentle warmth left behind by an unsuspecting, diligent girl. selfishly taking in the lingering scent of fabric softener and coffee she left her her wake.

a good man wouldn't then sink into the couch, with hands clutched around a jumper his child's babysitter left on the kitchen counter, pressing the knitted cotton flush to his face.

and a good man…would certainly not be stroking his cock desperately, fantasizing fucking you while taking deep inhales of your fuzzy grey jumper.

the cycle of his indulgence often started like this. he'd sear a memory that he had of you in his mind, and entertain the twitch of his cock it'd incite. today? today, it was the sight of you in the kitchen, hair twisted up with a 2B Pencil, seated on his countertops like you were his. you hopped off the granite with a smile, eagerly showing him the very eloquent chicken-scratches peanut had written all on her own.

the guilt was seeping through the rational part of his mind, but it wasn't enough for him to stop tightening his fist, coaxing the droplets of pre from the reddened, thick tip, smearing it over his throbbing length.

"ah…shit…"

his hands wouldn't stop. head tipped back as his eyes were screwed shut. letting the stuttered whisper of your name echo frighteningly loud in the vast space.

except this time, the call doesn't go unanswered.

"…clark?"

your careful, hesitant call came as an ice-cold wash to him. clark's eyes snap open, to see you, standing by the back entrance to his house that he often left unlocked. your gaze lands on the jumper he had fisted, limp by his sides.

"i…forgot…my jumper."

he has enough sense in him to tug his sweats back up, though the evident press of his erection on the fabric couldn't quite be hidden. he looked absolutely destroyed, "i — …this…this isn't…"

clark swallows thickly, shakily holding up your jumper.

"i'm so, so fuckin' sorry."

the only evidence of your presence being your stuttered breath, the jumper left unretrieved in his hold.

"i understand if you want to stop working here. or — or if you want to talk to someone. i-i fucked up." he's spiraling. more and more as the silence stretched. "i won't make excuses. i'm just —"

the thud of your purse has him tilting his head up. very briefly catching your silhouette approach him, and then drop from his eyeline. clark blinks confusedly, gaze flicking to find yours as you situated yourself between his parted knees. carefully bringing your cheeks to rest against his throbbing bulge.

he had to be dreaming still.

"this is how you thought of me? all this time?"

clark doesn't manage to get a single word out, only the heavy bob of his adam's apple in fear that he might wake up, and you'd disappear again.

the softness of your cheeks testingly rub up his clothed length, and you rise higher on your knees, shyly tugging at his sweats — enough for the peak of his angry, leaky red tip.

"…can i?"

he thinks he might've nodded.

you press a gentle kiss, watching it twitch instantaneously at the contact. the reaction he gives makes you bolder, pulling at his waistband hard enough to watch the rigid length slap against his abdomen.

"were you…touching yourself thinking about me?"

clark's jaw clenched hard. shaking his head slow. "don't make me answer that, please." he manages.

you hum thoughtfully, licking a stripe up his length. he hisses. hand coming up to rest at the back of your head, not to push, but to ground himself.

"why not? i wanna know."

"cuz it's fucked up." he grits, thighs shaking with restraint from simply bucking into your mouth.

"what's fucked up? that you dream of me, or that you've been fucking your fist all alone when i'm so willingly giving it to you now?"

clark doesn't answer, tracking your gaze with a bated breath as you teasingly drag the softness of your lips down the prominent vein of his cock.

"the latter. just…fuck." he lets out a soft breath, palm casing your jaw as you explore him shamelessly. his thumbs come up to rest on your cheekbones. "got no business entertaining some washed-up asshole like me when you could have the attention of…boys your age."

your smaller palm wraps the base of his girth, slapping the tip of his cock to your tongue. "attention's no good to me when it's not who i really want it from."

the insinuation settles deep, forcing a incredulous laugh out of him. "an' that's supposed to be me? you're kidding."

"why is that so hard to believe? you're…really hot."

"jesus…can't be saying shit like that t'me." he groans.

"because it's…inappropriate." you point out.

you feel his palm hook on the underside of your arm, tugging you up once, and swiftly manouvering you under him on the couch. the change in position knocks the breath out of you, forcing your thighs awkwardly spread apart so far that it makes you feel exposed.

"because i wont bother playing the nice guy anymore" he murmurs low, breath warming the side of your head. "you hear me? so, if you're just…messing around, push me away. now."

you consider his words, the obvious out he's giving you. but then you lift your hips, enough for a decisive roll against his erection.

"christ." clark's head slumps to the crook of your neck. relaxing his pelvis flush onto your core, letting you feel the full pressure of his arousal. you respond with another shaky grind, to which he twitches even harder.

"sure you can keep up?"

he pulls back, feeling the curve of a smile dimple at his cheeks.

"you know who exactly you're talking to?"

"…some washed-up…asshole…" you drawl, only to be met with a hard, stern tug, the hard length pressing firm against your abomen. it makes you gasp, when you realise that it nearly brushes against your sternum.

"watch it."

you gulp at his threat, a shuddered breath leaving you when his palm slides to your belly. skimming past your waistband, to where you were aching the most. instinctively, you rock your hips to his exploratory touches. short, needy gasps leaving you as he rubs past your folds. your hands squeeze at his wrists, encouraging the notion.

somehow, the sight of his hand, disappeared entirely beneath your waistband, only served to make you wetter. the taboo of it all was sinking in — the vastness of the living room, and the fact that peanut was asleep just upstairs.

"gosh…barely touched you an' you're soaking." it's an observation meant for himself that you manage to catch. and it burns your cheeks in embarrassment, forcing you to hide your face in the cushions.

clark notes your sudden aversion, palms casing your jaw and tilting you back to face his hot gaze. "c'mon now. i didn't wait this long to fuck you, only for you to hide that pretty face from me."

you hiccup in brief surprise, meeting his gaze through your lashes. he holds you in place just like that, locking his deeper blue eyes onto yours. he deftly slides two of his thick digits into you. the dull squelches grow louder and louder, leaving you raw and achy for more. his free hand hooks under the waistband of your bottoms, tugging them off you in a swift motion.

your hips lift, chasing the motion that steadily warms your belly with want. "needy girl. one more, okay? it's gonna hurt if i fuck you now." an impatient whine tears through your throat, thighs clamping down on him when his thumb steadily rubs at your clit.

the third digit slides into you with ease, and he starts scissoring, stretching your pussy to accommodate him.

"okay…okay. it's —" he grunts, ridding you of his fingers suddenly, and a deflated whine leaves you. "gonna hurt for a sec, take deep breath f'me."

you nod hastily, running your nails down the firmness of his chest. "brave girl." he murmurs to himself, easing the tip of his cock by the entrance of your pussy. the sensation of just his tip forces you to jolt, and you bite down on your lips painfully, bracing yourself for the sting.

clark holds himself there, a displeased look taking his expression at the souring of your softer features. his thumb slides up your jaw, to your lips, where he eases them apart. you blink up at him, slightly disoriented. eyes fluttering shut when he kisses you.

the wet slot of his lips meets yours in a gentle nudge, and you finally exhale into him, feeling a complete release from the initial pent-up tension you held up till now. "mm. there we are. it's just me."

he lowers his head for you again, and you lift your head up in a pathetic move to catch his lips again, only for him to drag the gentle curve of his nose past the apple of your cheeks, inhaling you, and then, pulling back enough until he's level with you.

a breathy gasp stumbles from your throat as he gently licks over your bottom lip, where the skin was broken. the little gesture has you part your lips instinctively for him. he takes the chance to drink in your whines, the hot, wet press of his tongue gliding over yours into a much more intense, deeper kiss.

it was distraction enough for him to bottom out in you, the sudden fullness in your core eliciting a lewd moan out of your throat, and into his.

clark moves an inch, eyes fluttering shut at the warm, velvety tightness your pussy offered. your thighs have begun to quiver with effort of just having him in you. then he stills, letting you accommodate to his stretch.

but then…you fucking pulse.

"sh-shit, sweetheart that's —…ugh…" the rhythmic, tightening around his length forces clark to slump next to your face. his palms fisted in an effort to hold himself back from fucking you into the couch, but he settles for decisive, easy rolls of his hips.

you suck in a breath at the heavy press of his torso, your palms curling around his forearms.

"—…so…fuckin'…tight." he grunts directly into your ears, hips rutting into you in a much more desperate pace.

a loud, scratchy startled moan tumbles right out when his knee bends beneath you. the sudden move hiking your thighs higher to accommodate him. clark winces at the echo, his heavy, wider palms covering your mouth hastily.

"gotta keep it down, mm? you don't wanna wake er' up now do you?"

your whimpers are muffled against his palm, and you quickly shake your head with an iron tight grip around his wrists. the reminder to be quiet only makes you that much more sensitive.

clark's hold on your hips borders on bruising, his other forearm bracing the side of your head as he snaps his hips in a much quicker pace. "like that?"

your nails dig into him, and you nod. eyes rolling back when he lifts up, thrusting down harder into your fluttering pussy. "a-ah…shit. not gonna…last if you keep doin' that baby."

he presses his forehead against your collarbone. a palm coming up to squeeze over your clothed tits. the sound of his pelvis, snapping into you, paired with the sickening squelch of your cunt around his cock was driving you entirely up the wall. you were desperate to cum around him. a fantasy you never thought was possible, with all those times you'd spent whining his name from your vibrator.

clark's hold over your mouth slides down to the column of your throat, and he holds your face to his, panting into your mouth.

"can feel you, quiverin'. gonna cum? hm?"

your thighs drag up to hook around his hips, leaving you at complete mercy to his thrusts. "m'so…so..close.." you manage in a soft squeak. clark groans into your pulse, keeping his pace, relentless and insistent.

"r-right there with you. give it to me." his brows furrow tersely, focused on the tightening of his balls as the overwhelming pleasure threatens to push him over the edge.

his palm, drags down your chest, past your navel and over the sensitive bundle of nerves, rubbing you with the calloused pad of his thumb. you gasp louder. the punishing pace of his thrusts coupled with the stimulation at your clit has you clawing at his hand. unsure if you wanted to push away or pull him in for more.

the tension coiling in your belly finally snaps, pulling you undone. white, hot flashes take your body in a seize, the residual pulses of your orgasm forces clark to pull out in a grunt — thick spurts of his cum painting your abdomen as he coaxes out the last few drops of his release, shoulders visibly shaking in the wake of your combined climax.

his weight slumps onto you, ragged breaths vibrating against the shell of your ears. "mmh—…too…heavy." you whine in a mild protest to the heaviness against your chest, heart racing in exhaustion. he seems to notice it as he rolls off, a little amused.

He tries to deny it, too, that idiot. Uses other women — lonely storm chasers, eager bar patrons who drop to their knees behind his StormPAR truck. Doesn’t matter. Their cunts feel wrong. Too dry, too loose, too quiet. They don’t gush and squirt and cream all over his cock the way you did. They don’t scream his name like they're dying for his cock.

He pulls out soft and angry every single time, cursing under his breath while his dick hangs limp and useless. Even jerking off is a pathetic joke now.  

Scott stands in shitty motel showers with cold water beating on his back, reluctantly tapping into the memory of you. Only then does his cock finally throb back to life. How could it not when he recalls: the way your ass clapped against his thighs. The way your tits bounced while you rode him raw. The way your cunt strangled him, how it pulsed and held every drop of seed like rain on droughted earth.

When he pictures your face, mouth slack, eyes glazed, drooling and babbling “Scott, fuck— your cock’s so deep, I’m gonna cum again—” he strokes himself stupid, balls slapping against his wrist, chasing that high until broken moans tear from his throat, until his legs almost give out, until thick ropes splatter the tiles.

That arrogant, once-unbreakable bastard hates how badly he needs to bury his cock back inside your perfect pussy again. He’s addicted. He’s broken. He’s already rock-hard just thinking about it, leaking at the thought of being with you one more time.

Every orgasm and hat he has now belongs to you.

.

You stare down the neat geometric angles of railing descending down the stairwell, not quite registering the sharp cuts. For a moment you debate tossing your phone between the kaleidoscopic angles but it’s not worth it. In the span of a five minute phone call, you are drained and it’s only 10 AM on a Thursday morning. Is it worth trying with them anymore?

A door slams open, three maybe four flights of stairs down pulling you from your thoughts. Right, you still need to finish your workday. Reluctantly you slip the phone back into your pocket. Taking three deep breaths, you return to your desk. 

The rest of the day passes with a heavy knot in your chest and cotton between your ears. Thick emotions from the morning hover close to the surface, like a pot just seconds away from bubbling over. But that is just enough to keep you from making any progress. A quiet battle rages, between the part of you that wants to extend empathy and the part of you that’s had enough, volleying the same old arguments in your head. It’s the world’s worst roller coaster and you just can’t seem to get off it.

As soon as it is a respectable hour to leave the office, you pack your things. Just as you are about to close your laptop, you get pulled into a last minute discussion. The meeting drags on, everyone pontificating about nuances that you just can’t seem to care about right now; it’s not your job to care. You fidget in your chair, as someone drones on. Why did they even need you here? You decide it’s payback for the creaky noises of your standing desk. 

When you finally escape and make it home, the silence of your apartment is welcome. You drop your bag by the door and kick off your shoes. Exhaustion seeps into your bones. Before you can even make it to your couch, you collapse on to the floor, uncaring of the dull pain as your knees hit the wooden floor. The knot in your chest tightens and the bottled emotions of the day comes spilling out. You hunch over your knees as tears run down your face.

Grief.

Anger.

Disappointment.

All of them bubbling up to each pore, like it might just tear right out of you. All your efforts with your parents feels so futile and you feel like a fool for believing it might get better. 

But now, in this moment there was nothing left to do but cry. 

The shadows in your apartment lengthen as the light of day fades into twilight. Your tears have long since dried up. Your stomach gurgles at you and you are suddenly aware that all you’ve eaten today has been a protein bar and a few handfuls of M&Ms. 

Pasta. 

Yeah pasta sounds good. 

You push yourself off the ground, every muscle and joint displeased with having to budge. Pins and needles travel up your legs as you amble to your kitchen trying to shake them off. 

You bring the water to boil and let the pasta cook as you get a saucepan ready to heat up the tomato sauce. You drop some oil in the pan as you gather the rest of the seasonings. Basil, oregano, and balsamic vinegar. 

You hold the bottle, fingers worrying at the edge of the label. A memory floods you, unbidden. It’s of your mother tossing some nondescript amount of balsamic into the sauce as she tells you it's a good way to add a bit more tang. It was simpler, maybe. Fourteen and just learning to cook from her, free from all the complications of your teen years, and the decisions that you’d made for yourself in your adult life and the pain they’d brought. Your vision blurs with unshed tears. The next moment you are bawling on the floor, clutching the bottle of vinegar to your chest with only the over door for support.

It feels so silly to break down over a bottle of vinegar but the rush of emotions are anything but. It’s the timer for the pasta going off that pulls you out of your spiral. 

The pan is smoking. The oil has burnt off leaving stubborn black marks. 

“Fuck, fuck, shit!” 

You spring into action.

Burners off. Vent fan on.

You take the pan to the sink to cool it off. Thick steam rises as the water hits the pan, hissing and fizzling. You just hope and pray that the smoke alarm doesn’t go off. That would certainly be a cherry on this shit sundae of a day. 

Just as the pan is cooling, you hear a knock on your door. 

“Now what!?” you groan.

Turning off the tap, you leave the pan in the sink to answer the door. Whoever it was, you hoped it’d be quick. You open the door to find Sam greeting you with a brilliant smile and a bouquet of flowers. A grin that quickly fades as he take you in, frazzled in your crumpled work clothes and the smoky apartment behind you.

You had been seeing Sam for a short while now. Brief enough that you weren’t ready to let him see you like this, especially after the day you’ve had. You’re not sure what he’s doing here. He’s too well dressed for a casual drop by. 

“Are you okay?” he asks, stepping into the apartment and pulling you into a brief hug.

“Yeah I’m fine,” you say. “It’s just… been a day and just left the pan on for too long”

“Well these are for you,” he says with a small smile as he offers  you the bouquet with a flourish. “Let’s see if we can’t turn this day around.”

“These are beautiful,” you say, as you take in the collection of roses and peonies in your favorite shades. “I’m glad to see you today but what are you doing here?”

Sam frowns.

“We made plans, remember? The Minutes play and dinner.” 

Oh oh!  In the whirlwind of the day you’d forgotten about your plans for this evening. Going out was the last thing on your mind. Sam stands in front of you in a neatly pressed shirt and a fresh fade, his confusion quickly growing into concern. He brought the play  up at least once a day since he bought the tickets for you both and you are loath to disappoint him.  You set the flowers aside on the counter, resigning yourself 

“Give me a moment to get ready,” you finally say, with a smile but your voice rings hollow to your ears. 

You turn towards your bedroom but Sam catches your hand and draws you into his arms. He holds you tight, his chest expanding with the deep, slow, and easy breaths, coaxing you to match it. You bury your face in his chest – solid and warm, the first and only moment of comfort you’ve had all day.

“We don’t have to go out tonight,” Sam says, lips brushing the top of your head. 

The rumble of his voice seeps into your bones, easing the weariness of day and you sag against him. You don’t want to go anywhere, you just want to stay here until the warmth of his embrace, and his soft murmurings mend the tear in your spirits, stitch by stitch.

But you can’t, can you?

“But it’s their last run,” you say, reluctantly pulling back. 

“I don’t care about that,” Sam says. “Your comfort is more important than any of that.”

There is nothing in his tone other than sincerity. You search his face for any signs that he’s just being polite but all you see is earnest concern. 

“You sure?” you ask. 

“Yeah, baby, I’m sure,” he says gently, without missing a beat.

The truth was you were exhausted. You would rather pull out your nails than put yourself together enough to go to play and dinner. Something about the way he’s rubbing circles on your arms, the way he waits patiently for your response, and the way he took your disastrous scene in stride, uncurls a tightness wedged in your chest. Sam will accept whatever your answer is with no resentment, and your protective walls ease, though you don’t entirely believe it.

“I can’t go,” you admit quietly. 

“Not a problem,” Sam says, placing another kiss on your forehead. “Go get out these work clothes and I’ll take care of the food.”

“Sam, you don’t have —” 

“I want to,” Sam says firmly. “Now, go.” He nudges you towards your room. 

You take uncertain steps towards the bedroom, throwing back tentative looks at Sam as he surveys the damage in the kitchen. 

“I’ve got this,” he calls to you, catching your glances. “Go!” 

It’s much later. A shower, change of clothes, food and mundane conversation have  tempered your whirlwind of emotions, but exhaustion has left you numb. A movie plays on TV, Ever-after, that you are only half paying attention to. You are curled up against Sam’s side, legs swung over his lap, and face half buried in his chest. The steady thumps of his heart soothe any remaining nerves from the day. 

“What’s got you so twisted up, baby?” Sam finally asks during a commercial break.

His tone is so tender that you nearly start crying again. Your chest tightens at the thought of having to recount your shifting relationship with your parents. You are willing to open up to Sam about it but not tonight. Sam waits patiently for your response, a large hand running up and down your thighs. 

“Family stuff,” you mumble.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sam asks.

You shake your head. It’s too much, far too much history to wade into. And tonight you’re already wrung out. 

“Another time,” you say, tilting your head to meet his eyes. “I… it’s just a lot and I…” you trail, the aching feeling already growing at the edges of your heart.

Sam gives you an understanding look and a knowing squeeze on your leg.

“Whenever you are ready,” he says. 

Comfortable silence falls between you. Sam pulls you closer and nuzzles into your hair as the commercial lists out a truly horrific list of side effects of a medication.

“Sorry about the play,” you say at length. “But I’m glad you stayed.” 

“It was never even a question,” Sam says, tipping your chin up to face him.

He leans down and brushes his lips against yours. It’s a gentle reassurance that he is exactly where he wants to be tonight. As you kiss him back, you’re slowly beginning to believe it.

“He was weirdly obsessed with making me squirt!” you huffed. Clark felt his breath hitch the moment he could see the frustrated scowl painting your face.

“But the thing is, the guy’s a total fumbler– all wrong spots,” you sighed, looking up at him. “He couldn’t even find my clit, Clark!”

“Oh, so he’s the selfish type?” as his fingers brushed your hair gently—too softly for two “best friends”.

“Totally. Dude came after like three pumps,” rolling your eyes, instinctively shifting closer towards him as he wrapped your shoulder with his arm, tucking you in closer. “Left me high and dry, and all…”

You felt the tension easing as he began absentmindedly brushing his fingers along your arm, and you let out a soft breath. “It’s about your build up, it’s about listening to every gasp that you let out…” he whispered.

You closed your eyes and let him take over your senses. His voice, his smell, the feeling of his beefy arm around you. “‘S not your fault that he’s incapable of making you come, sweetheart.”

You nodded, tilting your head to look at him again. Now, there was nothing but an inch of space between your faces. “Have you done it before then?”

His eyes widened. “Done what before?”

“Make a girl squirt.”

Clark felt something stirred then. Whether it’s his heart, his cock, he didn’t know. Most likely both, though.

He nodded, too quickly. “Yeah– yeah of course.”

Well… he hasn’t. But researching “how to make girls squirt”, “vagina anatomy”, and watching videos after videos of tutorials couldn’t be too different, right? He can’t lie, he did learn it so he could impress a girl one day, and who’s better to impress than you, his best friend.

Clark won’t admit it, but he does have a crush on you—how can he not when you’re literally an angel to his eyes? Always so kind, so caring towards others and him the most.

Even if it hurts listening to one of your tales about the guys you’ve been having sex with, he just couldn’t stop listening to whatever you’re saying.

“Show it to me,” your words broke his train of thought, and he tensed immediately.

“You want me… to make you squirt?”

You nodded, and twenty minutes later, there you were.

Overstimulated by the amount of attention he is giving. From his soft kisses that turned heated quickly, to the short amount of time it took him to carry you onto your bed, stripping you bare so beautifully before him.

And now the sheets were damp underneath you. From the sweat you’ve been letting out even during the cold night, more from your cunt dripping so lewdly underneath you, even without him touching you there at all.

“Please– stop teasing!” you whined. Clark looked up towards your fucked and flushed face as his lips were still wrapped around your pebbled nipple, practically swollen now.

He nodded, before letting his fingers brush down your stomach, till they reach your clit. He circled it once, and your back arched instantly.

He teased your hole, spreading your wetness all over. “Already soaked for me… You ready?”

You nodded fervently, and holding his arm as he sat up straighter and cradled you onto his chest. “I need it, Clark…” you whimpered

He kissed your temple, spreading your legs open so gently, before finally pushing his thick, calloused fingers inside you, making you cry out his name so pleasingly.

You felt full, you felt completed. And the tension climbed up fast the moment he began thrusting his fingers in and out of you, curling his fingerpads perfectly into the spongy spot inside you that made you see stars.

Your hold on him tightened, though he didn’t stop there. His palm grinded on your clit simultaneously, the arm around you reached out to twist and pull on your nipple, and his lips left so many wet and hot kisses along your neck.

“Clark–!” you whined, hole fluttering around his fingers with the assault of satisfying pleasure.

“Relax for me,” he whispered.

You feel it then. “Wait– Gonna pee!”

And that was it. Clark began hitting your spot deeper and deeper, before the tension snapped brutally.

Flood after flood erupts then, drenching his hand up to his forearm, soaking the sheets around you even more. Your thighs quake, locking like a vice around his arm, and your scream was raw as your body reached its full ecstasy.

“That’s it, sweetheart…” kissing your temple as you began to ease out from the orgasm.

You whimpered weakly, before smiling softly at him. Eyes widening as you felt his hardness straining under his pants behind you.

“So… round two?”

༘⋆ 🏷 daily freaks' : @theworstwolvie @clarkscolumn @unificsation @luvekent @tooloudarts @clarknsun @pinksplace @tw1sters @kryptidfiles @sparklingsin @anon-188 @avgdestitute @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger @maiamore @feathers-from-cupid @23s0fia @eatingyourboyfriend @billyjoelsbabygrand @margaret811 @sttaejoon-blog @garfieldsladybird @velvetnightmoonsandbows @sugarpplum

Your sweet lilt has his smile lifting even higher. While this may break some of the professional boundaries he has set for himself, he can’t help but think you’re an absolute sight for sore eyes, especially when you’re wearing his favorite dress.

It’s a pretty little white number, Clark thanks whoever invented sundresses. It hugs your body just right, accentuating your dips and curves. The cinched bodice clings to your skin and the skirt flares out around your legs. However, what Clark really loves is the way the straps curl around your neck, holding up your pretty breasts in that sweetheart neckline. A little bow sits in the middle, slightly below the lace trim that frames your cleavage.

Clark’s pants tighten at the sight. If you’re wearing this dress, he knows you mean trouble.

He rounds his desk to meet you where you stand. He maintains a safe enough six-foot distance between the two of you. His fingers are already itching to snatch your waist, to pull you flush against him, to kiss you senseless, but he is still technically at work, so instead he distracts his trembling hand by pushing up his glasses.

These are certainly things he cannot do when his boss is sitting at the desk right next to his. His boss doesn’t even know he has a girlfriend — let alone someone as pretty as you.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. How can I help you today?”

Your molten gaze flicks up to meet his blue eyes. His breath hitches in his throat. He knows that look in your eyes. He’s slightly fearful of what comes next. “I’m looking for something very sturdy. Very solid. Strong. Beautiful.”

Clark swallows thickly, index finger hooking on his tie to loosen it. Summer really has arrived, hasn’t it? He clears his throat and gestures to the rest of this small store. “Well, we have quite the collection here. I can walk you through all our offerings. I hope you’ll find something to your liking.”

There are very few things that the great, big Superman cannot handle in his life. The first being Kryptonite — basic, inherited, genetic flaw that is unfortunately unavoidable. The second is the way you’re staring at him right now — doe-eyed, lashes gently brushing against your cheeks every time you blink, teeth sinking into the corner of your bottom lip.

Your tongue darts out to swipe across your lip, your eyes dragging slow and warm from the tip of his head, down along his broad shoulders and sturdy frame, to his long legs hidden beneath his customary black slacks. By the way you’re looking at him, you’d think he’s wearing next to nothing — but there’s just something about a man dressed properly for work that really just gets you going.

You’ve told him as such.

“I think I’ve found just the thing,” you grin at him.

Clark chuckles, “Well, let’s not commit too early. I can show you what we have here towards the back.”

“Nonsense,” another voice cuts through. Perry stands from his desk with a frown at Clark, then splits into a smile when he sees you. “If the lady knows what she wants already, we can certainly help her with it. Which one piques your interest, ma’am?”

Your amused glance darts to Clark for a brief second before returning to his boss. “I’m not really sure if the one I want is for sale.”

“Oh, I’m sure we can make an arrangement,” Perry insists, clearly unaware of how Clark is beginning to heat up right behind him.

“Hmm, I might have to agree with your employee here. Perhaps I can’t commit too early. I’m looking for something very specific for my home. Something… strength-resistant.”

Perry’s brows pucker immediately as he looks at Clark in confusion. He turns back to you. “You mean stain-resistant?”

“No, I mean I need it to be indestructible,” you shrug.

A chuckle bubbles up Perry’s throat. “Well, unless you’ve got Superman in your kitchen, you’ll be just fine with the ones we’ve got here.”

Clark makes a choked noise behind him, immediately whipping his face away to hide the aggressive flush slowly spreading across his face. Perry gives him an annoyed look and you have to bite down on your laugh too.

“Theoretically, which one could Superman not break?”

Perry probably decides then and there that you aren’t a serious customer so he passes you back to Clark to explain the full catalogue of offerings that his store has. He tells Clark that he’s off to lunch and to make sure that you get the full service, everything you need.

You throw out a — “I’m sure he’ll have no problem giving me everything I need” — to which your boyfriend has to swallow a garbled sound again.

True to his word, Clark begins to walk you through the counter options. He smooths his hands over the various models they have, from the darker countertops to the pristine white cabinets to the delicate silver handles. Endless possibilities of combinations to put together your future home — which you will need.

One day. Eventually. Not right now when you’re renting, though.

Clark still gives you the full tour anyway; if not for your future reference, it’s to distract himself from your proximity. He can hear the rhythm of your heart, how it skips a beat when he gets close to you to explain the difference between quartz and quartzite, how it thumps a little louder when Clark mentions how durable certain countertops are, how they could hold the hottest pots or handle the worst of scratches. He can hear the subtle changes in your breath as his arms flex when he reaches for the higher cabinets to explain how the arched door is a classic, but the square inset is more common these days.

“And we have standard sizes but we’re sure we’ll find something to your liking. Even if it’s an inch, it makes all the difference.”

“Yeah, size really does matter,” you muse thoughtfully to yourself, eyes falling to his pants where there is a noticeable tent.

Clark blushes red to the tips of his ears. “Um, well, I think that’s most of it. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

You take one step then another and another until he’s backed up against the counter. Even if you’re shorter than him, Clark still lets out a squeak as he plants his palms on the counter, as you flatten your hands on his chest.

“There is something I was hoping you could help me with.”

He chokes on a nervous cough. “Ah, and what may that be?”

“I really need to test the strength on these counters. Do you think you can help me with that,” you start and look up at him coyly, “Mr. Kent?”

His throat moves with the lump caught there. “I— uh— I’ll do my best, but what do you mean— whoa.”

Your hands are already flying to his belt, unbuckling it swiftly before you’re reaching for the button and zipper. Clark’s hands immediately find yours, squeezing to stop you where you are. You look up at him with one raised eyebrow, a question. 

A challenge.

“I don’t think we should be doing this. People can walk by and we have glass doors. Not to mention, if another customer comes in and they see this…” He looks at you so pitifully. His heart is practically bursting out of his chest. Perry takes long lunches but it doesn’t mean that nobody will drop by while he’s gone.

“Clark.”

Your voice is firm. Curt. Clark freezes. “Yes?”

“Put your hands back on the counter.”

Your name rolls off his tongue in one last desperate plea.

“I thought Perry said that you’d have to give me everything I need, and you were offering to be so helpful earlier. Now, you won’t assist me in this one final check?”

Clark swallows. You’re serious. You’re really dead set on doing this. In broad daylight, in the middle of his workplace. Who is he to deny you when you’re so determined? He peels his hands off yours and carefully puts them back on the counter, palm flat against the surface and fingers curling around the edge.

“Good boy,” you purr as you continue to work off his pants. “Now, I really want to test the strength of these counters. So I’m going to get on my knees, I’m going to take care of you, and I want to see how that counter survives against your grip. Does that sound good?”

He can’t find his voice. His throat is tight. His cock is so hard in his briefs and your hand is oh so close to it. He can practically feel the ghost of your touch. A gasp wrenches out of his throat when you wrap your hand around his cock through the cotton.

“Asked you a question, Mr. Kent.”

“Yes, sounds good,” he rasps.

Then you’re dropping to your knees, your skirt floating and settling around your thighs. You look up at him with those pretty eyes as you drag the thin fabric down, freeing his cock to bounce against his stomach. The tip is bruised red as it bumps the hem of his shirt. Clark reaches for his tie and loosens it further.

“Ready for your test, Mr. Kent?” You tease with a finger tracing up the underside of his cock.

The length twitches needily for you as a whimper pours out of Clark’s throat. His cock is mouthwateringly thick, long in a way that you can still feel it in your insides from last night. You know how much of it you can take between your legs, but Clark never lets you mouth at him long enough, says, “I’m going to finish too quick, honey. Let me take care of you instead.”

Now, he’s paying the price on that because, while he knows how your mouth feels on him, he hasn’t had it that often — or for long periods of time. You seem intent on testing the limits of his restraint today.

Your fingers gently wrap around his cock at the base as you nuzzle closer to his cock, the tip of your nose brushing his length. Clark jolts slightly, nearly bumping your face with his length. “Sorry,” he mumbles, embarrassed.

“Why are you sorry? Are you apologizing for having such a thick cock, baby?”

Clark whines, eyes slamming shut as he tilts his face to the ceiling. He can’t watch this. He can’t look at you all pretty on your knees in front of him, your tits practically spilling out of your dress. From this angle, he can see the dip between your breasts, his tongue salivating at the thought of burying his face in them.

Then he feels it — the first tentative lick. His eyes automatically drop down to you again and, boy, that was a mistake. You’re still peering up at him with those sultry eyes as you lean close to the base of his cock before dragging a long stripe along his cock. Clark grips the counter harder as he prays to whatever deity exists to show him some small form of mercy.

Your lips wrap around the tip — just the tip — and Clark’s head is already spinning. The room tilts on its axis as he forces himself to stand upright, as you suckle hard on it, the slurping sounds echoing in the quiet of the room.

“Gosh, honey, slow down,” he huffs breathlessly.

You pull off him and purse your lips, still gripping his cock. “I haven’t even done anything.”

“I know, I’m just sensitive.” And nervous. So incredibly nervous. He’s strung up so tight, muscles taut as he keeps glancing at the door. Even if the two of you are partially hidden, there are still passersby moving back and forth in front of the shop.

Your lips shift into a pout. “How are you going to last, Mr. Kent? I won’t be able to test my counter properly.”

Clark’s eyes flash a stark blue at you as he grits out, “Are you going to keep calling me that?”

“What? Mr. Kent? You don’t like it?” You tease, giving his cock a few pumps. Clark twitches in your hand.

“I like it too much.”

“Kinky fucker,” you laugh and he glares at you.

The expression doesn’t last long when you dip your head again and take him further between your lips. The cavern of your mouth is hot and wet, engulfing him with the kind of heat that has him nudging his hips forward in search of more. Every time you pull him out, his stomach sinks with the loss.

Your mouth feels heavenly. Your tongue swirls around his length, pressing against the delicate underside of his cock as you take him in deeper each time. He hears your little gags when his cock hits too deep, when he accidentally thrusts inside your mouth. He likes hearing it. Likes hearing that he’s too big to fit inside you.

But he’ll make it fit. He always does.

“Such a pretty girl,” Clark murmurs as he looks down and strokes your face with his thumb. He feels the imprint of his cock on your cheek, placing slight pressure on it. He feels it jerk inside your mouth. “You look so good with your mouth plugged up like this.”

You release a whine that’s muffled into his length.

Clark watches in sick fascination as his cock disappears inch by inch into your mouth. It’s a gorgeous sight seeing how much of him you can take in, how he manages to squeeze himself deeper each time.

His eyes can’t help but fall to your chest where you take deep breaths every time you suck him in. At some point, you pull him out and mouth along the side of his cock, hands coming up to hold him and pressing your breasts together to deepen your cleavage.

The instruction falls from his mouth before he can stop himself.

“Take them out,” Clark gasps, “please.”

You don't need to ask him what them means. Clark has always had a thing for your tits, especially in this dress.

“Filthy, filthy Clark, baby,” you grin and tug on the collar to allow your breasts to spring free. He lets out a groan at the sight. Your pretty breasts and your nipples, pert and peaking in the cold of the room. You push them together, deepening the shadows between your tits, and grope them gently. The flesh is pliant under your touch and Clark watches mesmerized as they follow the shape of your hands. “Do you like them?”

“Like them?” He breathes out, “I love them so much, honey. Wish I could put my cock in between them, have them wrap around me all warm.”

“Yeah? You want me to fuck my tits, Clark?”

His jaw clenches as he shakes his head. “I think I need to stuff your mouth again to stop you from saying such crude things.”

“You like me crude,” you wink and Clark adjusts himself so he can slide his cock between your breasts. He groans with every slide of his cock between your tits, how you keep pushing them closer together to wrap tighter around his length.

“Gosh, feels so good. So tight.”

“Better than my pussy?”

Clark snorts a little. “Every part of you is perfect,” he begins, and you roll your eyes, “but nothing is better than your pussy. She’s perfect.”

A whine falls involuntarily from your lips. Your legs press together on instinct, a need for friction between your legs.

“Does she need attention too, honey? How about you give her some then? I can’t let her feel neglected,” Clark coaxes as he fucks up through your tits again. He works himself into a frenzy as he pants, looking down at you. “Come on, sweetheart. Put your hand between your legs. Give her some love. I want you to touch yourself for me. Touch yourself while I slide my cock between your beautiful breasts.”

One of your hands stays to prop up your breast for Clark and the other snakes between your thighs and feels the dampness between your legs.

“Lift your skirt for me, pretty girl. Let me see.”

You bunch the fabric around your waist, holding it up by your forearm as your fingers find your wet folds.

Clark exhales shakily. “You didn’t wear panties?”

“W-wanted to make it easy for you,” you whimper quietly as your fingers slip along your slick folds. You’ve been leaking since you came in, the sight of Clark with his suit and tie, his glasses on his face, and how he drank you in so hungrily.

“Such a good girl for me, aren’t you?” Clark coos softly, “She’s so needy for me. But I can’t put my cock in her just yet. Not here, not right now. Can she wait until I’m home?” You nod eagerly, desperately. “For now, I want you to rub yourself for me. I want you to feel how you’re dripping all over your fingers, practically aching to be filled. I just fed her last night and she’s already so hungry again. Greedy girl.”

Oxygen is punched out of your chest when you begin to rub at your clit, the sensitive bundle of nerves tingling as your knees dig into the tiles. Your thighs are aching, you want to sit back on the balls of your feet and spread your legs wider, but you won’t be servicing Clark then. You won’t reach his cock, so you keep going. The dull pain only adds to the intensity of the torture between your legs.

“Put me back in your mouth, honey. I want to feed you my cock.”

You’re obedient, compliant in the cockdrunk haze and the burning deep inside your gut. You comply easily, hand moving away from your breast to take hold of his cock and angle it back between your lips. Clark groans as he sinks back in, all the way to the back of your throat.

Tears prick the corners of your eyes when he slams all the way back in again, your nose buried in the short curls at the base of his cock. His hand tangles in your hair as he begins to fuck up into your mouth, guttural groans spilling from his lips as he does so. His other hand is still planted on the counter, fingers tensing on the cool, hard surface.

He’s too lost in the heat of your mouth, the humidity trapped, soaking his cock, the shape of your lips as they move along his shaft. You feel so good, so perfect around him. It’s like this mouth was created to mold around his girth the same way your pussy was made to take his cock — every inch of it. You’ve always taken him so well.

“Such a perfect mouth pussy for me, honey,” Clark groans. You whimper around his cock at his words, the unexpected term knocking the breath from your lungs. “Feels so good, so hot around me. I’m so close. I don’t think I can last. It feels so, so good. So perfect. You’re perfect.”

Your other hand reaches up to his thigh and gives him a squeeze. Permission.

“Can I cum inside your mouth? Can I fill this pretty throat with my cum?”

You squeeze him again.

“Oh gosh, perfect. So perfect. Your mouth feels divine,” he whines as he drives his cock into your mouth, his hand moving your head in rhythm with his thrusts. “I’m going to paint the inside of your mouth white. Don’t swallow yet. I wanna see. I wanna see my cum inside your mouth.”

He earns a stifled whine around his cock.

His hips stutter as he continues to plunge into your mouth. Your saliva coating the length of him until he slides in and out all too easily. It’s hot, it’s tight, it feels too darn good, and suddenly the orgasm cracks through him like a whip. His heart is thundering in his ears, he’s choking on gasps as he spills into your mouth. His cock is still so hard but he’s pouring cum onto your tongue, spurt after spurt until he sees your cheeks puff up a little.

It’s a lewdly adorable sight and Clark wishes he could capture that image of you with a camera. The last of his cum drips onto your tongue and he sees a drop dribble out of the corner of your lips, rolling down to your chin. Your eyes are glassy, likely from the force of his thrusts but also from keeping his climax trapped in your mouth.

He breathes heavily as he leans down, fingers around your chin, thumb pressing between your lips to pry your mouth open. You open it slowly, cautiously curling your tongue around his cum to stop more from spilling out. Clark sees the thick white cum sticking to your tongue, to the roof of your mouth, painting the insides of your cheeks.

He feels his cock twitch again. He always cums a lot, which is why he avoids cumming in your mouth most of the time, but he thinks he may start getting used to this. It’s a pretty sight, like a painting inside your mouth that is only meant for him and him alone.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs, “now, swallow for me.”

You close your lips and he watches as you gulp down all his cum, your throat moving as you do so. He sneaks an X-ray look as he watches the viscous liquid slip down the column of your neck and into your stomach. His own belly flips with need.

“You’re watching it, aren’t you?” You whisper.

“I like seeing you swallow,” he mutters in response.

Clark tugs you to your feet and you stumble towards him with a giggle. You tuck your tits back into your dress and smooth out the skirt. When you tilt your face up to look at him, he’s got such an enamored look on his face that makes you melt. His thumb brushes your face, dusting off the dried cum on your face as you look away sheepishly.

“You’re so—” he stops there, breath catching in his throat. He almost proposed to you. Right then and there. After you’ve had his cock in your mouth and given him the most mind-blowing orgasm. 

And you swallowed every single drop.

“Hm?” You tilt your head, a singsong tilt to your tone. “How about we look at the counte— oh my god.” Your eyes blow up wide and Clark’s chest flares with panic as he whirls around.

There it is. The giant crack splitting the countertop in half. It’s not even a small hairline fracture, it’s a massive gap where the counter is now misaligned, one shifted higher than the other. There are chips of granite between his fingers. He winces.

It’s completely unsalvageable.

“So,” you cough, “this counter isn’t Superman-proof then?”

Clark groans, rubbing his face. “Perry’s going to take this out of my paycheck.”

“Well, I have to commend you for the full-service experience. Rating you five out of five stars.”

He chuckles, dipping his head and kissing you on your lips. “Worth every penny.” 

clark is saving (taglist): @houseofhyde @phoenix-in-writing @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @pinksplace @lunexiax @esunarint @nikkitabarnes @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @avgdestitute @natskisses @parker-barnes-af @kelbrave @steviebbboi @onecojg @clarknsun @kryptidfiles @wildflowersandvibranium @stegosaurussims @angelryex @mollymal @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @lynnidc @winnichu173 @zhaixiaowen @macbaetwo @rach2602 @garfieldhollander @my-drvidess @deeninadream @lillilam @fruitypebsworld @vivshome @ella-rowen @reenielane @smorgasbrods @jbennsquared @royaljewellerycurator @ruptureedspleen @yelanare @take-it-on-the-run @ghostgirlwrites @hellooiosworld @anon-188 @a-very-fictional-girl @misswhiddless @femmewithmommyissues2001 @stanmarvelous @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @vivianna2392 @thebabykashmere @jackierose902109 @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles

“There!” You shout. “Go right!” Dust kicks up on the gravel road you’re now barreling down toward the tornado. Tyler yelps out a loud “Yeehaw!” as he chases the storm. “Okay, everyone, make sure you’re rolling in the right direction. It’s a beautiful day!”

You laugh and crack the window, letting the rain hit your face. You aren’t dressed for a chase, but to hell with it. The camp was having a barbeque, and another group was playing music earlier.You threw on your favorite white sundress and boots, figuring you’d be chilling in a fold-out chair among the fireflies for the rest of the afternoon and evening. Then the sky darkened, and your heart skipped a beat at the first rush of cool wind. You didn’t have time to change, so now you’re standing beneath a raging storm with your dress soaked through to the bone as you plant a tripod near the truck for some action shots.

“Good job! That’s gonna be beautiful!” Tyler yells over the storm from the tailgate. “Okay, everyone! Get your shots and then get back in!”

You record some shots of the storm as boatloads of other trucks and vehicles surround you, recording their own images and videos for various news outlets, social media, hobby photography, and data collecting. Those data scientists with StormPar are the worst - so uppity. Especially that one with the-

“Hey!” You shout, watching the horns on the grill of Tyler’s truck swing around and start in the other direction. “Wait!” You scream, sloshing through the mud and waving your arms. The truck doesn’t slow, and you quickly realize they’ve left you behind. The convoy of various vehicles are long gone except for one that drives up to you. The driver’s side window rolls down, “Are you fucking crazy or just stupid?”

“They left me!” You yell, getting more drenched by the second. Scott’s nostrils flare as he pushes the passenger side door open. “Get in.”

You know Scott from various chases - always lurking around the fray before the storm hits. He doesn’t interact with the commonfolk, unless of course he overhears you say something incorrect or offer an opinion he doesn’t agree with. Then he’s all chatter. “Hurry up,” he huffs, offering you his hand to hoist you up into the StormPar truck. You take it and let him haul you inside. His jaw flexes as you immediately soak the seats with your drenched dress.

“Jesus Christ, are you trying to get yourself killed?” He huffs, revving the engine and driving away from the small tornado back toward camp.

“No, asshole,” you huff, starting to shiver from the adrenaline and cold air conditioning blowing in your face. You cross your arms over your chest. “They left me. They always take headcount. I don’t know what happened.”

“Everyone scrambled when that thing whipped east. They must have miscounted,” he says, throwing a blanket from the backseat at you. “If you lot would just stay the fuck home, shit like this wouldn’t happen!”

You huff, but accept the warmth of the blanket. “What makes you guys more worthy of a storm than the rest of us? It’s how I make a living just like you.” The irritation in your voice grows. “At least we’re nice to everyone that comes out. You guys are just stuck-up dicks.”

“We’re tracking the storm to collect data, not to upload a shaky video to fucking YouTube,” he says, jerking the wheel to the left to avoid a spot where the road has washed out. Your body jostles in the seat - you didn’t have a chance to buckle up - and you steady yourself with a hand on Scott’s thigh. You immediately jerk back, muttering “sorry” before sitting back in your seat.

“People love storm chasin’,” you say, more quietly this time.

“Yeah, well, people love building homes where tornadoes don’t hit,” he volleys back. “And Tyler’s whole crew gets in the way of us doing our job.”

“Maybe you’re not good enough at your job then,” you huff, looking out the truck window at the receding storm. The tornado’s long dissolved by now. Mother Nature is done showing off for tonight.

“Always with the smart mouth,” he says through gritted teeth. “Can’t you just admit you’re not clever enough to do what StormPar does? Just a bunch of rednecks with cameras.”

You roll your eyes. “Sorry Mister MIT, I couldn’t afford to go to an Ivy.”

“MIT’s not an Ivy,” he says.

“Well, whatever the fuck it is!” You yell, wanting to get the hell out of the truck already.

Scott slows down to the speed limit and looks over at you. “You’re wound a little tight, aren’t ya? Shouldn’t you be thanking me for saving your sorry ass?”

You turn toward him and pitch your voice up an octave so it’s really bubbly, “Thank you so much for saving my life, Scotty! I don’t know what I’d do without you, big boy.”

“Now say it again, but just the “big boy” part,” he says with a smirk.

“Oh fuck off, perv.”

He laughs as you feel around the floor for your camera, but it’s not there. Didn’t you put it in the truck when you got in? “Fuck!” You yell.

Scott presses the brakes with an irritated, “What?”

“I left my camera back there,” you tell him, knowing he’s about to berate you again for being careless.

“Not my problem, kid,” he says with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Not your-? Scott, that camera is worth more than my monthly rent,” you scoff. “I need to go get it.”

“I’m not backtracking for some shitty camera,” he huffs.

“Scott,” you say, like stop.

He says your name in the same tone.

“Please?” You ask through gritted teeth. “Will you drive back so I can get it?”

“What do I get out of it?” He asks, eyeing the way the blanket he threw at you earlier is sliding down your shoulder. You nudge it back up and groan.

“The satisfaction of knowing you were a good person for once in your god damned life,” you say with a forced smile.

He tsks. “That’s not great for the spank bank, darlin’.”

“Scott!” You yell in frustration. “I need that camera. I need to get back to camp. I’m tired and soaking wet!”

“I’m sure you are,” he smirks, slowing down and making a three-point-turn back in the direction of the field.

“You’re sick,” you sigh.

You’re both silent on the quick drive back to the scene of the tornado. You hop out of the truck and run to the field, spotting the tripod quickly. It’s waterproof thankfully, and you cradle it like a baby as you walk back to the truck. You climb in and carefully place it on the floorboards before sitting back in your seat.

“What? No thank you?” Scott asks, drumming out a beat on the steering wheel.

You roll your eyes and look at him. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t take the truck out of park so you look at him with a what the fuck expression.

“Are you gonna listen to me and stay the hell home next time?” He asks.

“Nope.”

“Stubborn.”

“Asshole,” you spit.

“You love it.”

You turn your head at that. “You’re delusional.”

“I love it when you’re mean to me,” he says, biting his lower lip.

“There’s something wrong with you,” you sigh.

“Are you just figuring that out, Raindrop?”

You bristle at the nickname. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not? Seems fitting - you chase storms, love the rain, you’re wet.”

You cross your arms over your chest and wonder where the blanket went.

“Nothing to say to that?” He asks, nudging your bare knee with his.

You ignore him and stare out the window at the cornfield. He laughs - he actually fucking laughs.

“What are you even tryin’ to do?” You finally shout, your voice slipping a bit with Southern twang.

Scott smirks, never letting his guard down. “Trying to get you to loosen up.”

“By what? Gettin’ into my pants? You wanna fuck the redneck storm chaser so you can go back to your stupid fucking Ivy League alumni dinner schmooze fest fuckboy party and tell them you bagged someone that’s not clever enough to work for StormPar? Is that what you’re tryin’ to do?”

“MIT isn’t an Ivy,” he huffs, looking at you. A light blush paints the tops of his cheeks, and you realize that something you said finally got through to him. “And I don’t kiss and tell.”

You snort. “Doubtful.”

“Try me.”

You look up at him again - his blue eyes are serious and searching. It’s no secret that he’s handsome, but he’s always so fucking irritating that you haven’t really given yourself the chance to notice it.

“Scott,” you start. “I-”

“Don’t say anything,” he says.

His knuckles brush your cheek. “I think you’re clever,” he says. “I think you’re smart. I’m just a hothead that can’t see past the numbers and data most of the time.”

Your breath catches in your throat. “And what would you see if you let yourself look past everything?”

“I’d see a woman with a passion for something that my laptop can’t quite capture or calculate. You’re chasing something wild out there, even if you’re reckless and crazy for doing it.”

You feel his breath, minty and cold, across your lips.

You laugh. “What, so I call you out for being a dick and you go all soft on me?”

He shrugs. “You’re feisty. I like that. And your dress is damn near see-through when it’s wet.”

“Ah, there he is,” you nod, but you let him haul you into his lap and press his mouth onto yours. Your butt hits the horn of the truck and you both break apart to laugh. “My dress is going to get you wet.”

“So take that shit off,” he says, already reaching under the hem to haul it over your head. He throws it into the backseat with a wet slap. The damp white cotton of your bra does nothing to hide the way you’re feeling about straddling his lap, and he homes in on it right away. “So stubborn, but look at you.”

“Can you be nice for ten seconds?” You whine as you start to kiss his neck.

He doesn’t reply with words, but by bucking his hips into yours, and suddenly you need him to have less clothes on. You start with the buttons of his crisp white StormPar shirt, working your way down to the buckle of his belt. He reclines the driver’s seat back with a smug smile and puts his hands behind his head.

“What are you doin’?” You ask.

“Enjoying the view,” he says.

“Scott,” you whine again. “Help me.”

“Help you with what?”

“Jesus, Scott - really?”

“Tell me what you want,” he says more seriously. “Use your words, clever girl.”

You groan in irritation. “You’re such a prick.”

“It’s working for you,” he says, nodding down at the wet patch growing in your underwear. You blush as he starts to help you both get completely undressed. By the time you’re both naked his knuckles are brushing at the seam of your pussy, and you grind down on his hand with a moan.

“Take what you need,” he rasps into your ear, letting you ride for a few minutes on his hand alone. Two thick fingers make their way in and curl just right. You gasp his name and feel him twitch between your thighs where he’s hard and heavy. You come around his fingers, and suddenly he’s picking you up and notching himself at your entrance. He leans back and watches you slide down his length with a stifled moan. “Ride me.” It’s a command, not a suggestion.

His hands rest on your hips, fingertips digging in, as you start to rock back and forth on him, getting used to his size. “Fuck, Scott,” you moan, placing your hands on his chest for balance. He starts to meet you thrust for thrust, pushing up into you as you rock forward. One hand on your hip, and the other now toying with your breasts - he leans forward and sucks a nipple into his mouth with a wet pop. Your hands come up around his neck and tug on the ends of his dark hair. He moves one of your hands between your own legs.

“Touch yourself,” he groans. “Play with your needy clit.”

“Scott-”

“Play. With. It,” he says, punctuating each word with a harsh, delicious thrust. You start rubbing yourself in tight circles. “There you go.”

He presses your breasts together and worships them with his mouth - all tongue and teeth, licking and nipping, and “Oh.”

“Don’t stop,” he rasps. “I can feel how close you are.”

“No-”, you start, feeling overstimulated. “I can’t-”

“Oh, yes you can,” he grunts, pulling your hand away and starting the same movements with his own. He holds your hands together in front of your chest with his other hand now, not trusting you to finish the job. “Look at me.”

Your eyes meet his - your vision is hazy, and your lids flutter closed.

“I said look at me,” he grunts as you tighten around him. It’s never felt like this - not this intense, like you could… “Oh, fuck, there you go. Good girl.”

Your inner thighs are wet and you look down at your shaking body with a whine, not totally sure what just happened. Scott cradles your lolling head in his hands and leans forward to kiss your forehead. “You okay?”

You nod and shift your body so you’re leaning forward on him, and he picks up the pace again.

“Guess Raindrop was a good nickname,” he grunts into your ear, biting the lobe.

You let the dig slide, completely fucked out as you hang on to his body. “Scott-”

“I’m close,” he says.

“I’m on the Pill,” you manage to mutter.

“I don’t care,” he rasps, rutting into you with a moan. “‘M never pulling outta you.”

You feel him - wet heat filling your core and you somehow come once more, crying out his name.

You both stay there for a moment, catching your breath and kissing each other while you feel him start to leak out of you.

“I should get up,” you whisper. “I’m a mess.”

“Beautiful mess,” he whispers, helping you off of him. He leans back to grab the blanket from earlier and wraps it around you.

“Thanks.”

“I don’t have much in the truck to clean us up. Why don’t you come to my room when we get back and you can take a shower in something that’s not an RV?” He offers.

“I love the RV,” you say with a laugh.

“You’re going to love a long, hot shower,” he replies. “With me.”

“That’s probably a bad idea,” you say.

“We chase tornadoes for a living, darlin’. Bad ideas are our bread and butter,” he says, taking one of your hands in his. “C’mon, stay with me.”

You’re not sure how he’s gone from offering a shower to offering his bed, but sometimes bad ideas are worth the outcome.

“Okay.”

The End