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“Ugh, Clark,” you try to shove him off with a groan. “You’re like a hundred kilos and super warm. Get off.”

“Nope.” He just closes his eyes, humming happily. “Smell too good.”

“I’m sweaty and gross.”

He just shrugs, enjoying the smell of you like your his own personal vape while you boil under him.

He also likes your PERIOD. Sure, it can sometimes get in the way of sex and put you out of the mood, but he’s not with you just for that. He likes knowing that your body is functioning like it should. He tracks your cycles. Checks that you’re not too stressed or eating enough so there’s no risk of it stopping. For him, it’s just another sure indicator that you’re fine and healthy. He also keeps track of your PMS symptoms so he can make the most of it with chocolate and cuddles.

Clark has a soft spot for your GOOSEBUMPS. He doesn’t get cold. Well, very rarely. So when his fingers run over your arm at the end of a date night, his arm slung over your shoulder as you walk across one of the city’s bridges, he smiles. Little bumps on your skin that he thinks are adorable. You’re cold before you even know it, your body reacting on instinct. So does his because he’s taking off his jacket and helping you in it.

Another thing he likes are your STRETCH MARKS. With pristine, solid, Kryptonian skin made of steel, he doesn’t even have a single scratch on him. It’s very annoying. But on you, he thinks that the lines decorating your chest, legs, ass, and any other parts of you are extremely cool. He thinks you look like a tiger. A description which isn’t far off from when the two of you end up in the bedroom. There’s just something he likes about how powerful they make you look, like a strong animal.

Clark Kent can’t help but laugh and coo when you get the HICCUPS. Another point on the endless list of things he finds cute about you. He likes the way you get embarrassed and try to hold your breath to make it stop. He likes seeing your entire frame shake from the hiccup. How annoyed you get when your body jerks you out of whatever you were doing.

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"should i get it cut?" he offers, cheeks pressed against his pillow.

your ministrations stills, "hmm. dunno." you answer honestly, pulling at the curled edges to make them stick out more. "it's sort of…hot. gives you a dishevelled…rugged look." you lower yourself, resting your cheeks onto his traps.

"…"

his arm wraps around your lower back. and with a swift movement, you feel your vision tilt as he plops you beneath him. "ack!" you gasp, steadying a palm by his thick bicep, which he flexes, for your enjoyment.

clark shuffles to cage you in his arms, favouring his weight with his left forearm. one side of his head is visibly styled out in a messy swoop from where you were combing through. though a shorter, unruly strand curls past his forehead.

"i'm not sure if it's good for the hero image. to look unkempt," he ponders seriously, palms pressed against his cheeks as he lays on his side.

you blink up at him. still thrown by the sudden adjustment."…i'm just saying." your knuckles graze past the stray lock, melting into him, with a thigh draped along his ribs. "i like you like this. softer. just f'me." your words trail into murmurs, but he catches them anyway.

the dimples, deep in his cheeks makes themselves known first, and he lets out a huff, sizing you with a dopey smile. "that so?" clark leans on, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot below your ears. the first peck tickles you, with his messy hair brushing past your ears. "hahah. hey! that tickles." you groan, catching a brief glimpse of his blurred, dark locks," geez…like some…wild beast."

"hmm. make up your mind," he rumbles, trailing teasing kisses past your collarbone, to your sternum. clark lifts his head up, eyes glinting in wanton adoration for you. "am i a beast, or some cool…hip dude?"

you stare at him, in mild disgust. "cool hip dude? nevermind. you can never be rugged."

he nips at your wrist when it comes to rest at the back of his head. "ow!" you yelp, shooting him a displeased look. clark just laughs, replacing the sting with a chaste peck. he guides your hand to the back of his head, as though encouraging you to keep it there.

"got your verdict yet?" the shift in the playfulness is subtle as he makes his way down your midsection. pressing another breathy kiss beneath your breasts, and to your navel. your eyes don't leave him, and neither does your idle palm, half-vanished in his curls.

before you can think to answer, clark lifts your hips up for a second to slide your sleep shorts down. keeping his gaze locked on yours as he presses his lips to your inner thighs.

you swallow the shudder that threatened to give away your building arousal, hands imperceptibly tightening where it was once lax.

She doesn’t bother questioning it after five or six rounds in one night over the Saturday of her last jobless weekend before the start of her new position the following Monday. It had done wonders for the stress in her body, the tense and worried state it was nearly permanently in. She’d gotten better at taking it all up to the hilt, stuffing it inside up to her stomach after taking an edible and throwing on whatever TV show could make decent background noise. She grins with her heavy lidded eyes falling closed while another load pumps inside her. The second one of the hour to be exact. That addicting feeling of her toy cock gradually just losing it, losing all control like her pussy did things that triggered this quick, heavy release.

She’ll hang around her home in nothing but her underwear and her robe, eating cookie dough ice cream straight out of the carton, higher than a dopey teenager stuck in her own element. It doesn’t take long for her to take her favorite toy and rut her clit against it until it got warm like some kind of horny genie lamp. And then like clockwork it fills up for her again like it’s getting hard, twitchy, and ready all just for her pleasure. In the very back of her head she thinks this thing is so real it could have the off chance of somehow getting her pregnant since the cum had the consistency and the warmth of a real breathing person.

When Monday inevitably arrives, she gives up making sure every single hair stays in place and just parts it all to one side, buttoning up her favorite coat as armor against the unpredictable weather. As she strolled along the streets to her new work building, petting the dogs passing by on their owners’ leashes and twirling the cord of her headphones, she imagines what kind of office would hire someone like her. Blunt, casual, some neurological differences that make it difficult to focus if the topic didn’t interest her. Virtually no prior experience in the field she’s been hired in. It didn’t feel real getting the call back to learn she’d been selected, but who the hell was she to call them stupid for picking her of all the candidates?

The hustle and bustle was apparent as soon as she entered the building, asking around with wide eyes where her section was, what floor was she supposed to go to. Everyone looked busy but remained patient and kind, directing her to her floor, telling her to find a tall, shaggy haired man by the name of Clark.

It wasn’t hard to seek him out of everybody else, large frame still evident even with his hunched over posture, diligently typing away on his computer. When he looks up she was struck to find that he was almost dangerously beautiful. Handsome, pretty, dorky, everything that had always baited her into making terrible decisions. Just by talking to him she could tell he had anxiety, stiff movements and facial expressions that had her wondering if he was nervous from the pressure of being in charge of a new hire, or if he was more specifically nervous about being around her in particular.

Clark is attentive and sweet, helpful and patient with her learning new things, getting used to the environment and what was to be the new routine. Picking up the mail, distributing the mail, transferring phone calls, helping Lois with office duties and finding supplies with low stock to re-order. Certain areas felt overwhelming but overall the job itself seemed mundane. The only thing sticking out to her was Clark and his antsy eyes and big arms, anxious ticks and shy smiles. How he bent over backwards to help her with just about every question thrown his way or another way, making himself of use to her in any way she may have needed.

On her smoke break she feels the rain start to pour within seconds of going outside, and although she’s walked through rain and shine plenty it was still a bit of a test to see how far Clark would actually go if she’d asked to take her home. And he was so eager, so easy. If she got to know him well enough and if they became comfortable enough, she could give him the nickname of being her own mister Yes Man. Yeah, of course I’ll take care of that for you. Yes, you don’t have to worry about that, I’ve got it. Yup, no worries. Yeah, I’ll get this going for you. He was so full of yes’s she almost wonders what the limit may be.

Throughout the day he reciprocates just about every glance, every minor, innocent brushing of arms and fingers and touches on each other’s shoulders, upper back, arms. He hands her a pen and she grazes his fingers entirely on purpose and doesn’t hide dragging the moment out. The more she does the more flustered he’s become.

When Jimmy meets her and shakes her hand, he pulls her aside to whisper in her ear that Clark is very, very single and she laughs so hard she snorts. And when Clark comes back from his lunch break wearing different trousers than he was before he left, she doesn’t attempt any subtlety at eyeing his new pants up and down and shrugging with a little knowing nod at what might’ve made him have to change. Clark makes up some half baked lie about spilling hot sauce on his other pair, and she nods enough to try convincing him she believes it.

After her training is done and the paperwork is filed and the day is finally, finally over she gets a nod from Clark across the room, tilting his head in the direction of the elevators with briefcase in hand. He nudged his glasses further up his face and sniffled, waving bye to staff and pressing the button to head down, holding the door open with an extended arm.

“Thanks so much again by the way,” she graciously squeezed the thick muscle of his upper arm as the elevator doors close. Clark’s turned bashfully red almost immediately, chin down at the ground pretending to look at his shoes.

“It’s nothing. I really wouldn’t want you um, getting all soaked out in the rain, that wouldn’t be right. I’m glad you felt safe enough to ask me.”

“Of course I did. You’ve been nothing but a big sweetheart. Seriously, if anyone’s intimidated by the height they could have one conversation with you and it’ll change their mind,” she laughs, meeting his wide eyes framed by his thick glasses. The elevators ding to alert they’ve arrived to their destined floor, Clark taking a second too long to process before shoving his arm back out to stop the doors from closing in on them again. His version of a curse word slips under his breath while he nearly drops his briefcase, clearly still tripping and stumbling his way out to the parking garage.

“Well I guess so. I’m not that tall. Maybe a little over average, but— I hope I’m not intimidating. Um, here, let’s go this way,” Clark awkwardly trails off, pointing to his little beat up blue vehicle parked way over in the corner. When he points it out she wonders how he even fits himself in there.

“Uh, usually I prop the drivers seat back for my legs. A little crammed but I’ve had her since I started driving. My Pa gifted me this, and she’s still been up and running good after all these years so I don’t really see a need for finding anything else.”

She nods her head and smiles, impressed. He doesn’t let her hand go even near the handle, ripping it open and holding it while she slides in and sets her bag down on the floor near her feet. “Wow. You know, that shows a ton of loyalty to keep one of these for years like you have. I like that.”

He sheepishly nods his head with curls moving on his forehead before gently closing the door and jogging over to the other side.

She takes in her surroundings, observing the little details. His hanging dog charm around the rearview mirror. Taking in all the neatness, the warm vanilla scented air fresheners. How the seat is propped back as far as it could possibly go to accommodate for his height. She notes how he kept himself a spare pair of glasses in one of the cupholders, another style than the ones he wore to the office. When he turns the car on, music began to boom through the speakers, jolting him with a twitch as he rushed to turn the volume all the way down, laughing through a string of apologies. She only giggles harder, clearly less upset than he was, more amused if anything.

Each mundane little thing about Clark piled more on to this growing irresistible urge to just make the plunge already, to crawl in his lap, to kiss him so hard his glasses get crooked and eventually fall right off his face. It became more tempting with each passing glance from the side, every accidental brush of her thigh with his hand while he shifted gears, a murmured apology with those signature pink cheeks. He always looked so embarrassed, and it somehow always served to really turn her on.

“Uh, so I’ll turn here right?”

“Yeah. Yeah just, just turn then you’ll go straight for a while. I’ll let you know when we’re approaching.”

Clark follows directions, going about five miles below the speed limit as he keeps his eyes on each house passing by, curiously wondering which one could be her home. Was it the well groomed, modern style with a picket fence, or an old school, overgrown lawn with an artsy mailbox?

He slows down more as the end of the street was coming, pulling off to the side as she pointed out her home. Clark forgets to hide how eager he is to scope it out, the little pink painted one story home with healthy plants branching out from their pots on the porch, the lady bug mat, the absence of any cars parked out front. Figures she must only get around anywhere on foot.

Rain still patters on the windshield as his windshield wipers barely keep up in time from the heavy drops, and puddles outside forming in the potholes of the road. Her plants looked to be the only happy ones to have some rain to quench them.

“This is me right here,” she reluctantly says, a sigh leaving her throat while she peers back over to the man in the driver’s seat. “I had fun, says a lot for a first day at a new job. Those are always pretty stressful but you’re such a great teacher that I know I’ll be in good hands,” she says, rubbing the lipgloss leftover on her lips together while eyeing him up and down, back and forth between his pretty face and his robust chest.

“I… I’m not that good, you just made it easy,” he disputes. “You asked all the right questions, you’re smart. I know you’ll get the hang of it real soon—“

“—You know, when I met Jimmy today he told me you were single,” she interjects before her mind could steer her away from the risky decision. “So was he… was he joking or was he—“

Clark groans loud, making a fist and then nearly slamming his forehead into it to hide his face, mortified that Jimmy set him up like this. To have this awkward interaction with his now co-worker.

“Gosh…. of course he did… that’s— no. I’m sorry he was acting inappropriate—“

“No as in you’re not single.”

Clark pulls his head back up, blinks, utterly confused.

“No, no I’m—“

“No as in yes?”

“N-No, no as in he’s right. I… I am, it’s just I didn’t want him disclosing stuff like that that to you, that information. Like as if you’d even care if a co-worker is single or not is ridiculous. If he makes you uncomfortable again I can talk to him, it doesn’t have to be a whole HR thing but if you want it to be I can absolutely help…”

She chews her bottom lip to prevent another shit eating grin from spreading onto her cheeks, placing a deliberate hand back on his upper arm to nab his attention, soothe any of his sudden woes.

“Listen, stop. Listen to me Clark. I was asking to clarify it with you because I was hoping that he was right,” she admits, a soft laugh not far behind the end of her small confession, trailing off with a rub of his shoulder, making him hold his breath and keen from the contact.

“You um. So you aren’t freaked out, you aren’t uncomfortable in any way? I just can’t imagine what it’s like, being a… a woman. A beautiful woman you know, like you, in a new workplace and having men be obnoxious on top of that—“

Clark stutters and takes a breather, shutting his car off and tilting his head up so his neck is exposed, blankly looking up at the ceiling.

“Clark.”

“Yeah?”

He doesn’t look back down or turn his head, Adam’s apple of his throat bobbing as he swallows more nerves down.

“I’m not uncomfortable. Not freaked out. And if you want me to just get my stuff and go, not mention any of this tomorrow, then I could,” she starts. Clark takes a deep breath in like he wants to interrupt, but she holds a finger up and he obeys, shutting his mouth closed. “Or,” she began. “I could kiss you for being so sweet, and we can act normal tomorrow, but you can give me another ride home if you aren’t busy again. And we can see where this goes.”

The drop of his jaw was nearly out of a cartoon, heartbeat throbbing so fast it might as well be audible in the quiet of the small space of his car. He can’t take his eyes off her, blinking ever so slightly when his eyes start to dry up. It looked like he wanted to pinch himself just to make sure everything was real.

“I… I really like the second option more. A lot.” he finally mutters. Licks his lips while staring down at hers like he had countless times today, this time with layers of restraint stripped away.

“I like the second option more too,” she chuckles at his dumbstruck face, soothing a palm over his thigh and rubbing his flexed muscles through his trousers. “I also noticed you changed your pants after lunch.”

Clark swallows while her face comes closer, nearly nose to nose, sharing and exchanging breath.

“Uh, yeah, yeah I….”

“That story about spilling some hot sauce was bullshit, right?”

Clark nods without a second thought, confirming everything she already knew.

“Did you have a little too much fun? Make too much a mess, had to end up changing before you got back to the office?”

“Yeah, yeah I did,” he bows his head down a bit, licking his lips again. Still close enough to smell her perfume, to stare at the glittery shine of her lipgloss, begging to know what it tastes like.

“I thought so.”

Clark doesn’t get another moment to think or conjure up a response before she’s leaning in and he’s dreamily shutting his eyes, humming into her mouth while she tilts her head to the side. Her nails splay out across his neck while he whimpers in her mouth, trying to keep up and savor the exquisite taste of her while he can. With plenty of hesitation trying to hold him back, he goes for it anyway and takes his own palm to the middle of her back, hugging her close to him while they kept making out like it wasn’t any different than coming home after years of being away.

“You’re really pretty, makes it really hard,” he pants. Pulls away but not too far, lips still brushing hers as he speaks.

She laughs right at him, tucking a curl behind his ear and adjusting his glasses so they’re straight again on his face. “Apt word choice there.”

“No! No I mean, that’s not what I meant….”

“As much as embarrassment looks cute on you, you don’t have to be,” she assures with another giddy laugh, kissing his cheek and leaving a subtle glossy mark on the skin. Then aims for each corner of his lips only to be pulled back in by him to get the heated momentum back up and running.

“You’re unbelievable,” he breathes. “I want to just… I wanna keep going forever.”

Shit, is he talking too much too soon?

“I mean you don’t have to, really, you can head home whenever you like… I only meant I like this a lot.”

She doesn’t let his overthinking become worse, just grabbing him by the collar and kissing him again. Adding tongue swirls into the mix.

“You taste like your Spearmint gum,” she observes. “Really nice.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Clark nods, his meek persona still in full swing even after having her tongue in his mouth. “You’d tell me if my breath was bad, right?”

“Of course I would.”

The pair still kept exploring each other’s kissing techniques, her hands stroking his arms and his chest while Clark’s stayed on the middle of her back in easy circles. It could’ve been ten, fifteen, even twenty minutes passing by while the rain hardly lightens up from pouring out from the gray clouds scattered in the sky. Clark offers to walk her up to the door so she could get home safe and dry, and she couldn’t pass up the offer, even if he kept reassuring her he didn’t mean to allude to any funny business. He takes off his own jacket to hover it over her head as they make the short trip, insisting he does it as to not get her hair wet.

“I like your plants, your place is cute. I can pick you up and take you home tomorrow if you’re up for that.”

She grins and gets up on her tippy toes to kiss him once again, an innocent little smooch he graciously accepts and reciprocates.

“And how about the day after that, and then the day after that, and the next week after that…”

Clark laughs at her and puts his jacket he’d been using to shield her from getting doused by the rain, squeezing her hip with another smile and going back in for yet another because it was too good to pass up.

“Absolutely. Rain or shine, I’ve got you.”

“Great. I’ll see you tomorrow then. Bright and early. Do you have my number? Wait, hold on,” she unzips her purse and shuffles through it before finding her keys, unlocking the door and barging inside. Clark remains respectfully at the doormat, not willing to push any boundary this early, besides a car makeout here and there. He watches her in blissful astonishment as she scribbles on a piece of paper, folds it up then marches back to put it in his front pocket herself.

“For emergencies. And you know, anything else.”

Anything, she says. Anything else. “Right. Yeah. I’ll text you.”

“Please do. And text me when you’re home safe!”

“I will,” he chuckles, leaning his head back down to steal another goodbye kiss before he walks back to his car with a pep in his step that he hasn’t had in a long, long time.

“Bye!”

She waves from her porch before he chastises her to get back to her house so she doesn’t stay in the rain, but she just sticks her tongue out at him then goes back anyway.

It all felt intoxicating. He wondered if he could even drive in such a distracted, head in the clouds state like this.

His gut fluttered with butterflies and his cheeks hurt from smiling so much, back on autopilot as he starts up the car, blasts the volume back up and turns back to the main road. It felt overwhelmingly unreal that he can still taste her lip gloss and how much it’s rubbed off on him. How he can still feel the ghost of her hands touching and caressing parts of him that haven’t been touched and felt like that. He has stars floating above his head like he’d been knocked the fuck out, unconscious.

Just as he’s venturing back to the street towards his place, his dick starts to feel wet against his left thigh. Still trapped by his boxers and his trousers, that same familiar sensation creeping back up on him before he could press the gas after a red light turns green. He clenches his jaw and tries to stay concentrated with tight hands on the wheel. Gasping when his dick starts getting tingling as he’s teased and rutted on by that same mysterious force, gliding him in between their lips, teasing their opening with his tip.

Clark barely makes it home and sticks his face in the steering wheel, licking his lips, breathing with his mouth stuck open. He feels when it goes inside, how the thrusts are long and filling and slow at first, excruciatingly wonderful as it’s taking him in down to his balls. Drenching him down with wet arousal on every pull out. His full body shivers again, butts his head against the wheel five times before accidentally bumping the horn.

Mortified with horror, he ducks his head down as much as he could and peaked around to catch only a few witnesses of his neighbors taking out their trash bins out on the curb. He awkwardly waves and subtly grabs onto his bulge through his trousers, dampness seeping through the fabric. With a braced huff, he counts to ten to enjoy the warm embrace before he’s exiting his vehicle, slamming the door and not bothering to fix his floppy hair before snatching his briefcase from the backseat, covering his crotch from the world and jogging to his door, soft rain still falling from above.

When he makes it inside he throws his belongings to the ground, rushes his clothes off akin to how he did on his lunch break earlier. As naked as he was born with those glasses still on, he lies back on the couch and clenches his jaw, absently thrusting up into the unknown heat. Feels the heat react with more tight clenches, taking his breath away. He closes his eyes and hugs a pillow to his abdomen while he pictures his new co-worker on top of him again, bouncing just like this wet heat on top of him right now. Wants her lipgloss to stick to his skin, wants to be engulfed in her hair, her perfume, her smile. Her laugh when she’s making fun of him.

Without any warning but the pit in his stomach squeezing and dropping, he cums like a fountain and it ripples out of him so fast it punches him into a straighter posture, all the sudden sitting up. He sees his own cum lathering his dick and his pubes, and he can distinguish the very moment she’s cumming not long later too.

After Clark lays there and chugs an old but full glass of water lying on his coffee table, he caught up to his breath as he tries to get himself together to draft up a text when he finds the energy to get up and pull that crumbled piece of paper out of his pant pocket.

With multiple tired, anxious tries of attempting to find some neutral ground between sounding caring and interested versus sounding desperate or obsessive, he takes a deep breath and presses send before he could talk his mind out of it.

Hey this is Clark. I made it back home safe awhile ago and forgot to let you know. Just wanna say I had fun and I’ll pick you up around 8:30 if that’s cool. Good night :)

Clark thinks of throwing his phone across the room to ignore the insecurities bubbling out of him. What else should I say. Was what I said too much. Will she even want to kiss me again? She said she’d tell me if my breath tasted bad. What if tomorrow things are different—

A text tone buzzed his couch cushion, phone screen lighting up. Surprised but delighted, he rips it back up off the couch and shoves it in his face to read carefully.

I probably had even more fun than you. Glad you’re home safe and I’ll see you tomorrow :) 8:30 sounds perfect Mr. Yes Man. I’ll be waiting out front for you, get good rest! goodnight!

Gobsmacked, he’s left re-reading the same words over and over and over until his eyes grew heavy and he knew time for bed was gonna have to be a little early tonight. He brushes his teeth, wishing he could keep the remnants of her lips on his mouth but knows he just has to wait until tomorrow for more kisses. With a hiss he scrubs his dick of the sloppy mess left thick and slathered on his entire lower half with a warm washcloth.

While he’s in bed he idly wonders what her nights looked like. If she spends them alone like Clark does. If she was more outgoing than him, had people over, went out more. If her life had more color on the pages than his. Dirtier thoughts naturally start to seep in after that, threatening to really take over the narrative he’s built in his mind. Does she touch herself nearly as much as he does? Can she cum multiple times if she’s coaxed? Does she take more charge or does she want him to take over? Or maybe she wanted both. He could do both.

Endless wonders still can’t help flooding his thoughts, so much so that they infiltrate his dream as he slowly drifts off to sleep. Dreaming of her on top of him, of playing with his tie before yanking on it to pull him around as she pleased. She got down further and nuzzled her cheek against his bulge through his office pants and took him out to lick it down like a lollipop was between his legs, even squeezing on him so good it hurt a little bit.

The dream ended with her on top and riding him, backwards cowgirl style, tight hold of his tie still in her fist. When he’s pulled out of his dream and awoken it’s around two in the morning, and somehow his dick had gotten just as wet and used in the night again, this time while he wasn’t even conscious. Clark thought he’d aged out of having any more dirty, raw, cum-in-his-pants type of wet dreams like these. He guessed that now after the day that he had and the girl that he met that everything was about to turn upside down.

. . .

thank you thank you to everyone who commented and reblogged and liked my first part im so happy you guys are enjoying its so fun reading everyone’s reactions :) i like the alternating POVs too for this between her + him

****(only able to fit 50 tags per post, I’ll make another one linked to this post so I can tag the rest!)

his breath catches as you drop to your knees unceremoniously, the gentle press of your lips to his knee turning him rigid instead of its intended effect.

"you're gonna give me a complex." he comments, petulantly, rolling his shoulders in an effort to soothe his nerves.

you shoot him a grin, thumb circling his forearm, "have i told you how much i love you?"

his head tips with an unimpressed look, "only when you want me to do absurd things like this."

"well!" you rise up to sit on your thighs, "i gotta take measurements for before. and then after. some self-control?" you point out, with your hands tugging at his waistband.

"telling me to have self-control with you on your knees like that is a big ask. but wait. before and…after? after what?"

"measuring you when you're soft, and when you're rock hard." you say simply.

"oh good gosh. you've thought this through. don't tell me there's a chart?" the prospect of it horrifies him, but it’s strangely arousing all at once.

gently, you guide clark's very soft cock out, teeth caught on your lower lips, all eager with anticipation. at the very first glance, you're mesmerised.

"whoa…i've never seen it close up this soft before."

clark lets out a sharp exhale at the sudden brush of cold air, body tensed like a rod as you make your initials observations. "yeah, well…it isn't exactly a state i…would prefer to show off."

you hold the hefty weight to your palms, tilting it, "mhm.."

clark's hips involuntarily jerk at your touch, gripping tight around the vinyl, "geez…you're staring at it like it might grow two legs and walk off."

"i mean..it's really pretty." you mumble, thumbing gently over the skin covering his shy tip, to the veins that were visible down his length, "well, in the general baseline as far as dicks go."

he twitches in your palm, and you shoot him a warning glare. "easy there, tiger. i need the before measurement."

clark groans audibly, jumping at the sound of the measuring tape being expanded. you thoughtful angle it flattened onto your palm, "five…six…wow! not as big as i expected."

"hey!" he bleats, cheeks flushed even more, "i-it's cold, you're staring, i demand a re-measure in more…favourable circumstances."

you snort, "that defeats the purpose. it's supposed to be smaller when you're soft, dummy."

clark lets out a pained sigh, finding the entire situation a fate he'd eventually accepted. "you know what i meant."

"oh come on. now's the fun part. right?" you shuffle closer between his parted thighs, pressing a kiss to his soft tip. "we gotta wake him up."

he winces, letting out a low curse. "that's…hardly 'waking up.'"

you look up at him through your lashes, a grin curling at the corner of your lips. "greedy." his cock twitches in your hold at your tease, and you lower your head, kitten-licking along his length.

the tape measure remains forgotten next to you as you devote your attention to him. but after a good amount of effort, "huh. you don't usually take this long to get hard."

he gasps, offended. "really? you're measuring my…my junk out in the open. it's hardly a turn on. confusing, sort of…hot? but mostly confusing."

"if it's hot then get hard."

clark's jaw steadily flexes at the slow dribble of your spit, coating the base of his cock as you pump it up his tip. his head falls backwards onto the headrest, breathing turning more strained.

"okay. okay…it's…working."

"good?"

"m-mhm. yeah. real…good."

your eyes glint at his visual appraisal, and you wrap your mouth around the tip of his cock. the reaction is instant, hips jumping, bucking further into your hot, warm mouth.

"sh-shit. definitely, definitely working."

he's fully hard in your mouth now, thick and heavy against your tongue. the wet, drag of your tongue along his veins has him lifting off the chair. panting harder, "o-oh gosh, like that, not gonna…l-last—"

as quickly as his bliss had come, you'd cruelly pulled away with a loud pop! clark blinks at you, eyes hazy with frustration, confusion, and a dawning reminder as you pick the tape back up. but all he can focus on were how you lick his pre from your lower lip.

"seriously? now?"

"it has to be when you're still hard!" you counter.

"it's not a one-time-thing," he rasps, flinching as the cool metal tip meets his skin once more. he's breathing hard, chest rising and dipping in the wake of his arousal. gaze pleading for you to hurry up.

"mm. seven…eight," then, you gasp suddenly, "whoa! almost nine inches."

clark's head snaps down, in equal disbelief. "wait, really? no way."

you pause, frowning at him, "why the hell are you surprised. it's your dick." you angle him slightly with the measuring tape, "8.7 inches. that's…fully hard."

"i…i don't know. it's not like i actively measure myself. and —" he lifts his gaze, only to see your deeply perplexed one.

"are you…upset?"

"this is what's been in me the entire time," you begin, accusative, "no wonder i'm always fucking aching!"

clark straightens, his mouth agape in shock, "you're actually upset."

"no shit! i wanna go back to when i thought you were just six inches."

he slumps back in a long-drawn-out groan. with his cock painfully throbbing against his abdomen, he was certain this opened pandora's box was about to be a pain in his ass.

Good sex was what you expected from anybody decent enough to make it that far with you. It was the kind people talked about casually with their friends, the kind that came up over drinks after someone asked, “So, was he good?” Good sex happened on Tuesdays after work with the guy from Hinge who insisted on taking you out somewhere too expensive for a second date. You split a basket of fries, drank half a beer because you still had work in the morning, drove home with exhaustion sitting heavy behind your eyes, then let him fuck you well enough to sleep for four uninterrupted hours. 

Good sex was practical and predictable. It convinced your body you were living a normal life.

Great sex was different. Great sex happened after work parties when your mascara was already smudged and your heels were in your hand by midnight. It happened on weekends with nowhere to be the next morning. You never talked about great sex because it sounded exaggerated the second you said it out loud, like you were overselling a man nobody else would understand. Great sex made you cum or at least brought you close enough that your stomach tightened every time you remembered it afterward. You thought about great sex while driving long stretches of empty highway, your hands steady on the wheel while your mind wandered somewhere warmer. 

Great sex stayed in your body for days. You caught yourself replaying parts of it absentmindedly while standing in line for coffee or brushing your teeth before bed.

Then there was getting fucked…

There was no cleaner way to define it. It lived somewhere between fantasy and urban legend, passed around between women in half-serious conversations that always dissolved into laughter. Everybody claimed to know someone who’d experienced it but nobody could explain it properly. Getting fucked was the kind of sex that distracted you in the middle of the day badly enough to make you stop what you were doing and change your underwear. It sat dangerously close to the limits of what sex could actually be before the whole thing collapsed under its own weight. 

If a guy treated you too much like an object, it fell apart immediately. 

If you didn’t orgasm, it didn’t count. 

If you weren’t still thinking about him six months later at red lights and in grocery store aisles and during lonely hotel nights, then it wasn’t that either. 

Getting fucked sat at the very top of the scale, lit up like something obvious and somehow most men still missed it completely.

Being made love to was worse and more dangerous, honestly.

For somebody like you, it could become embarrassing fast. Storm season kept you on the road for months at a time, bouncing between states, sleeping in motels with stiff sheets and weak air conditioning. Off-season meant office buildings, weather models glowing across multiple monitors, long meetings about funding, new equipment and data collection. Your life moved constantly and men liked that at first. A woman who was smart, busy, gone half the year, financially stable and difficult to pin down. 

Men loved the idea of you because it excused the fact they never had to give very much. Most of them thought they were in love but really, they just liked access to somebody they found impressive.

Before all of that, you used to think being made love to meant passion…intimacy. That it was slow sex with somebody who knew your body so well they could pull an orgasm out of you patiently and confidently, like it mattered to them as much as breathing did. You imagined hands lingering at your waist, sleepy conversation afterward, somebody brushing your hair away from your face before kissing you again.

Instead, you ended up underneath men who mistook enthusiasm for intimacy. You stared at ceilings while they grunted above you, listened to them breathe your name like they were performing something instead of feeling it. Sometimes you felt your stomach turn from the boredom alone, your body rocking mechanically with theirs while your mind drifted somewhere else entirely to storm reports, grocery lists and whether you needed to change your oil before the next drive west.

You never let them finish once you realized you hated it, that was the one thing you refused to fake. You pushed them off, sat up and reached for your clothes while they blinked at you in confusion. You told them it wasn’t going to work, sometimes you said it gently and other times you just didn’t bother. Either way, you watched realization settle over them while they sat there flushed and humiliated, their ego bruised worse than their feelings ever were but somehow your harsh words still made them cum…

Needless to say, after a while, you stopped having sex altogether.

You were in your rental house after a long day spent staring at storm data and listening to Javi ramble about whatever breakthrough he thought he’d made this time. It was late, the entire house felt heavy and warm, every light dimmer than usual and lately, you weren’t alone nearly as often as you used to be.

Scott sat at your dining table with your laptop open, shoulders slightly hunched, completely absorbed in columns of numbers and radar models. You’d known him for two years and he’d been your partner for one of them. 

People were right about him. He was direct to the point of rudeness, arrogant enough to make most people defensive within five minutes and mean when he thought someone deserved it but unlike most men in your field, Scott had learned how to admit when he was wrong, far from gracefully or happily but still, he did it.

The two of you were impossibly stubborn in almost identical ways, so sharing space with him sometimes felt like being trapped in a room with a sharper version of yourself. Separately, you were both good at what you did but together, you were nearly impossible to beat.

You couldn’t pinpoint when “coworkers” had turned into Scott walking into your house without knocking, helping himself to your fridge and sitting at your table like he paid rent.

“Best orgasm you’ve had during sex?” His voice came from across the room, casual and flat, like he’d asked you about rainfall percentages. He didn’t even look away from the laptop while he said it.

You’d forgotten he was meeting you there before the two of you drove to the bar together, which was why you were still walking around in sleep shorts and a bra, trying to find something decent enough to wear without looking like you’d spent an hour trying.

You took a sip from the beer he’d already pulled out of your fridge and nearly snorted into the bottle. “You think men do that?” you asked as you disappeared into your bedroom.

“To you?” Scott finally looked up. His eyes tracked your movement automatically while he reached for the beer the two of you were apparently sharing now. “I hope so.”

He took a drink as his eyes followed your movement.

You walked back into view holding two dresses on mismatched hangers. “You’re a fucking idiot,” you said plainly. “And maybe a pervert.”

Scott pointed at you immediately. “You’re changing in front of me. I could probably keep count of your bras at this point and I don’t. That actually makes me less of a pervert.”

You disappeared back into your room. He could hear hangers scraping against the closet rod while you searched through clothes with growing irritation.

“Just because it doesn’t make you hard doesn’t make you not a pervert,” you called back, your voice muffled through the wall.

“How do you know I’m not?” he shot back instantly, sounding almost offended by the assumption.

Silence followed but about a minute later, you walked back out wearing a dress he’d never seen before. It was simple, fitted enough to make his eyes stop for a second before continuing downward automatically. You crossed the room toward him, letting your heels drop onto the hardwood before slipping them on one at a time.

“You’re not attracted to me, Scott,” you said flatly.

He looked up slowly then, his eyes dragging over the length of the dress with enough attention to make most people nervous. On you, it just made you impatient.

“You seem awfully confident about that.”

“I am.” You adjusted the strap on your shoulder before glancing toward his laptop screen. “So don’t say shit that makes me sound stupid.”

Scott looked back at the laptop fast enough to make the movement obvious. He pretended to scroll through data he’d stopped reading the second you started undressing in the next room.

“I’m ready,” you said. “Good to go?”

“Need five minutes,” he muttered.

You walked behind him toward the front door, tapping his shoulder as you passed. “The data will still be there tomorrow. C’mon, Scotty.”

The teasing grin in your voice made something in his jaw tighten. You disappeared outside before he could even think of an answer.

Scott closed the laptop harder than necessary and stood, quietly adjusting himself through his jeans with the irritation of a man betrayed by his own body. He shut off the lights one by one and grabbed your keys from the counter before locking the door behind him.

The porch light was off so you couldn’t see the tent in his jeans. Thank fuck for that.

“Scotty was an eight-year-old with chubby cheeks,” he muttered while locking the deadbolt. He glanced over at you waiting by the passenger side of his truck. “It’s Scott.”

“It’s whatever I decide it is,” you replied easily.

He rolled his eyes and walked down the porch steps, unlocking the truck with a sharp click.

“Come open my door.”

“Since when do you need me to do that?” he complained, already circling the hood anyway.

“Since you got comfortable commenting on my bras.”

Scott stopped in front of you to stare before reaching around your waist to pull the handle open. The movement brought him close enough to smell your perfume underneath detergent and beer.

You smiled to yourself while climbing into the passenger seat because for once, Scott didn’t have anything smart to say.

Talking about sex with your coworkers was probably the least professional habit you could develop but professionalism stopped mattering after twelve-hour drives, shared motel rooms, gas station dinners at midnight and enough close calls together to make normal boundaries feel unnecessary. There were barely any women in the field to begin with, which meant the few of you that existed clung together fast and Scott, despite being deeply irritating most of the time, was easier to talk to than most people. 

Brutally honest people usually were.

At some point, conversations that started as jokes during long drives turned into real discussions about relationships, sex, exes and every disappointing person either of you had ever slept with. It happened slowly enough neither of you noticed the line moving until it was already somewhere far behind you.

HR would’ve had a heart attack.

That night, you learned Scott Miller did not do good sex. If good sex existed to him at all, it involved two people fully clothed and standing on opposite ends of a room.

The bar was more crowded than you expected, packed wall to wall with storm chasers, meteorologists, researchers and people who somehow always smelled faintly like dust and gasoline no matter how clean they looked. Whenever women in the field found each other, there was an unspoken tendency to group together immediately, so you spent most of the night at the bar talking with another researcher from Oklahoma while music pounded so loud you felt it vibrate through the floor beneath your heels.

Eventually Javi appeared beside you carrying drinks you absolutely weren’t going to refuse. He handed one over before leaning closer, lowering his voice.

“What’s wrong with Scott?”

You blinked at him. The question caught you off guard enough to make your brows pull together immediately because nobody ever asked about Scott. People either tolerated him, argued with him or avoided him entirely. Whatever problem Scott had, he usually fixed it himself before anyone could notice it existed.

Your eyes scanned the crowd automatically until you found him near the back corner of the bar with a soda in his hand. Of course he wasn’t drinking, he stood half-shadowed against the wall looking deeply unimpressed by the concept of social interaction…and staring directly at you.

Your eyes narrowed slightly until Scott finally got the message and looked away first.

You turned back to Javi. “Do you mean tonight or in general?” you asked dryly. “Because I’m pretty sure he was dropped as a child, but you’d have to ask his mother for confirmation.”

Javi frowned harder. “I mean tonight. He looks tense and it’s making me uneasy.”

“It’s Scott. He always looks tense.”

“More than usual.” Javi glanced over his shoulder carefully. “Tell him to relax for once…and to make some friends. That’s literally why we came here.”

You pointed at yourself immediately. “Why am I responsible for that?”

Javi shrugged like the answer was obvious. “Because you speak ‘Scott’ fluently. Translate what I just said into something he’ll actually understand.”

Your gaze dropped to the drink in your hand. “You’re bribing me.”

“And that drink cost me twenty-five dollars,” he replied. “So yes. Go.”

You snorted into the rim of your glass. “Pretty sure stress is what’s making you bald, by the way…not Scott’s burning gaze.”

Javi adjusted his baseball cap defensively. “Just go talk to him.”

You shook your head, already grinning despite yourself and pushed through the crowd toward the back of the bar, which Scott noticed immediately. 

The music got louder the closer you got to him, voices bleeding together into useless noise, so instead of trying to shout over it, you reached forward and hooked one finger through the belt loop of his jeans.

“Outside,” you said simply, tugging once as you moved toward the exit.

Scott followed without argument, that alone should’ve concerned you more than it did.

The plan was for him to ask what you wanted once you got outside. Instead, somewhere between the crowded bar and the exit door, he got distracted watching you walk ahead of him. Your dress moved against your hips every few steps, exposing flashes of leg skin under the low bar lights and the muscles in your bare back moved subtly every time you pushed through another cluster of people.

Inevitably, Scott’s eyes dropped lower before he caught himself.

By the time the two of you stepped outside into the cooler night air, he still hadn’t said a word.

You finally let go of his belt loop once the two of you were far enough from the entrance that the music had dulled into muffled bass behind you. You turned to face him properly, folding your arms across your chest as you looked up at him.

“What’s your current issue?” you asked.

“Current?” Scott repeated, brows pulling together.

You nodded once like the question made perfect sense.

“When’s the last time you had sex?”

A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Excuse me?”

He shrugged carelessly, shoving one hand into the pocket of his jeans. “What? Are you the only one allowed to ask those questions?”

You laughed again, this time shaking your head as you pointed at him. “Yes. Obviously.”

Scott snorted.

“And those are long-drive questions,” you continued, motioning vaguely toward his truck behind you before pointing back toward the crowded bar. “Not ‘parking lot outside a packed bar’ questions.”

“You still need to answer.” He shrugged again. “Those are the rules.”

“Have I ever told you how stupid those rules are?”

“First time I’m hearing complaints since you’re the one who made them,” he replied with a grin.

“You’re insufferable,” you muttered under your breath before taking another sip of your drink.

Scott stayed quiet as he just watched you over the rim of his own soda, patient and expectant in a way that immediately irritated you because he clearly thought he was getting an answer eventually.

“Are you seriously gonna make me answer?”

“I can’t make you do anything,” he said calmly. “But I can wait. I still have to drive you home.”

You looked up toward the entrance of the bar. Through the windows you could still see people packed together under neon lights, laughing too loud, talking over each other about work, storm patterns and equipment failures. You’d already reached the point of the night where conversations started blending together into white noise.

“Can we leave now?” you asked.

Scott didn’t answer verbally. He just pulled his keys from his pocket, unlocked the truck with a click, then held his hand out toward your drink.

“Get in and lock the doors,” he said as he took the glass from you and turned back toward the bar to return it.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you called after him while walking directly to the passenger side and doing exactly that.

Honestly, you didn’t mind answering the question. The problem was that once you actually thought about it, you realized you weren’t entirely sure how long it had been. It had been long enough that you had to start considering technicalities and long enough that the answer became embarrassing and unfortunately, thinking about sex while sitting alone in Scott’s truck immediately led your brain somewhere unhelpful…

Scott eventually climbed back into the truck and shut the door behind him. He didn’t start driving right away, he just sat there in the dark, one hand resting on the wheel while the dashboard lights cut sharp shadows across his face…waiting, because the thing about car questions was that silence usually came first.

“A year and a half,” you blurted out finally. “Give or take.”

Scott’s head turned toward you so fast it almost looked painful. “No,” he said immediately. “I don’t believe that.”

You laughed in disbelief and looked toward him. “Believe whatever you want, Scott. I answered the fucking question. That’s the game.”

“A year and a half?” he repeated, staring at you like you’d confessed to murder. “What the hell do you even do on weekends?”

“Currently?” you replied dryly. “Sit in your truck while you annoy me.”

“No,” he said, already turning the key in the ignition. “You’re irritated because you’re sexually frustrated.”

You barked out another incredulous laugh. 

“And you’ve been sexually frustrated since I met you,” he continued as he shifted the truck into reverse. “Which explains why you piss me off every single fucking day.”

“Excuse you?” You turned toward him fully now, half laughing from sheer disbelief. “First the bra comments and now this? What’s next? Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?”

“Put your seatbelt on.” The command came out flat and automatic.

You narrowed your eyes at him. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do, Scott. I’m not drunk enough to–”

The words died in your throat the second he reached across you.

His arm slid in front of your chest while the truck reversed smoothly with his other hand still turning the wheel. His forearm brushed against the underside of your breasts accidentally…or maybe not so accidentally and your breath caught hard at the sudden closeness. Scott grabbed the seatbelt beside your shoulder, pulled it across your body in one sharp movement, then clicked it into place at your hip without looking away from the rear window once.

You drove home in complete silence.

No radio or conversation, just the steady sound of tires against asphalt and the occasional flick of the blinker while Scott kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. You’d heard every version of his voice over the last two years, sarcastic, irritated or sharp enough to make grown men defensive in meetings but hearing him tell you to put your seatbelt on while his arm pressed across your breasts had done something deeply unfortunate to your brain.

This was entirely your fault. You were the one who made sex an acceptable topic between the two of you, you were the one who turned it into a game, into background conversation during long drives and late nights. Somewhere along the way home, your definition of good sex had rewritten itself around that precise moment. 

For most people, that probably counted as foreplay, but for you? It counted as a serious fucking problem.

By the time Scott parked outside your house, your thoughts had spiraled so badly that you barely registered the truck stopping. You stayed seated even after he cut the engine, staring forward blankly while the silence settled heavier around you.

Scott got out first without saying anything and walked around the front of the truck toward your side.

The passenger door opened. You looked up just in time to feel him lean in and reach across you again, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric stretched over your waist as he unclipped the seatbelt. The contact lasted maybe a second but that was already too long.

Only then did you finally move. You climbed out quickly, making an effort to keep close to the truck instead of brushing against him, then headed straight for your front door while digging through your purse for your keys even if it was practically empty and somehow that made it worse. You found lip balm…receipts…some loose cash, everything except what you actually needed.

Scott followed behind you quietly.

You still hadn’t found the keys when his arm appeared beside you, reaching around your body with frustrating familiarity. He’d had your keys the entire night, he usually did whenever the two of you went out together because you constantly lost track of them.

The metal clicked softly as he unlocked the door for you.

Your breath stalled as Scott stood so close behind you that you could feel the heat coming off him through the thin fabric of your dress. His chest nearly touched your back, one arm still braced near your shoulder while he turned the lock. It boxed you in completely, your body caught between the door and him and the worst part was that it felt good.

The sharp heat low in your stomach made that painfully obvious.

Good sex, apparently, was standing fully clothed on your own porch while your coworker unlocked your front door…all while standing right behind you.

The lock finally clicked open. You pushed the door open and stepped inside fast to put distance between you before turning back toward him. 

Determination sat stiffly in your chest now…You were staying dressed. Whatever this weird tension was had to be alcohol-fueled, temporary, deeply stupid or preferably all three and gone by morning.

Unfortunately, Scott looked unfairly good standing on your porch under weak yellow light.

At some point he’d taken off his cap, you didn’t know when and hadn’t realized until now. Why did he look dreamy!? His hair was messy from running his hands through it all night and the expression on his face had settled back into that unreadable calm that somehow made things worse.

“Night, Scott,” you said quickly, then shut the door directly in his face…very determined to remain dressed.

“Are you gonna set me up with one of your friends so he can fix me?” That sentence replayed in your head later for one humiliating reason: Scott Miller had never been the kind of man to hand off work he could do himself.

You’d been wrong earlier, completely wrong.

Great sex didn’t happen on weekends or after parties or during long-awaited moments with somebody you trusted. Sometimes it happened five minutes after you slammed your front door in a man’s face and tried convincing yourself you still had common sense.

You stayed standing by the door after closing it, palms warm against the wood, waiting to hear his truck start. You expected the familiar sound of the driver’s side door opening, shutting and the low rumble of the engine before he pulled away but nothing happened.

At first you told yourself you were imagining the silence because you were still too aware of him…then a full minute passed…followed by another and then three more.

Five long, miserable minutes where your brain refused to focus on anything except the fact Scott was still outside your house.

You opened the door expecting embarrassment or maybe annoyance, maybe him realizing he forgot something. Instead, he was still standing there in the same position with that same unreadable expression, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans like you hadn’t just shut the door on him…five minutes ago.

You stared at each other for a second too long.

You never figured out what exactly snapped first. Pride, self-control or curiosity…maybe all of it at once again.

One second he was standing on your porch and the next you were grabbing a fistful of his shirt and pulling him forward hard enough to make him stumble into you as your mouth crashed against his.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, the fragile determination to stay dressed shattered. You didn't just invite Scott in, you practically hauled him across the threshold, pulling him into a kiss that tasted of alcohol and months of suppressed frustration. It was messy and desperate, a collision of teeth and tongues that left you both breathless.

You stumbled backward, the friction of your bodies fueling a fire that had been simmering for far too long. As you navigated the space, your heels clicked erratically against the floor until you kicked them off with frantic movements, one flying toward the wall and the other sliding away as you backed into the dining area.

You hit the edge of the heavy wooden table and Scott didn't miss a beat. He gripped your waist with bruising force and hoisted you up, the sudden elevation making you gasp into his mouth. He didn't stop kissing you but his path shifted, lips sliding down your jawline to your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. His hands were everywhere, frantic and demanding, sliding up the fabric of your dress and bunching it up around your waist until your thighs were bare and shivering against the cool wood.

You felt his fingers hook into the elastic of your panties, tugging them down with a sharp, decisive motion until you could kick them off, exposing you to the air. As he lowered himself, his mouth found the swell of your breasts through your dress, biting lightly against the fabric on his way down between your legs.

"You don't need to do that," you managed to moan, your voice trembling as he moved your weight, sliding you toward the edge of the table until you were perched precariously, your legs naturally falling open.

"Shut up," Scott muttered against your skin, his voice a low, arrogant growl that sent a jolt of electricity straight to your clit as he finally settled himself firmly between your thighs, the heat of his body radiating against your wetness. 

Then, he dipped his head. The first touch of his tongue was a shock of heat, it was wet and precise. He dove right in, tongue licking upward from your perineum to your clit in one long, sweeping stroke. You arched your back as a loud moan escaped you since it had been so long since you’d felt anything this raw, this focused. You were starving for it and Scott was feeding off of you with a primal intensity that blurred everything else out.

He used his hands to grip your hips, pulling you closer to the edge so he could bury his face in you as he kneeled. He began to lap at you with a rhythmic, punishing speed, his tongue flattening out to cover as much surface area as possible before narrowing into a sharp point to flick relentlessly against your clit.

The sensation was overwhelming. You began to squirm, hips jerking instinctively against his mouth as your fingernails clawed at the tabletop. You weren't just enjoying it, you were unraveling.

"Fuck…Scott...please," you whimpered, though you didn't know what you were asking for.

He responded by changing your position. He pushed you flat onto your back on the table, the hard wood pressing into your spine and hauled your legs up, draping them over his broad shoulders. The position left you completely exposed, your pussy flared open and glistening in the dark room.

He didn't stop the oral but added more by sliding two fingers deep inside you, stretching you open while his tongue continued to hammer away at your clit. The combination of the internal pressure and the external friction was too much. You were shaking, breath coming in short, jagged gasps as your feet drummed against his back.

He could tell you were close, encouraging him to increase the pressure, fingers curling inside you to hit your G-spot while his tongue sucked your clit into his mouth, creating a vacuum of pleasure that felt like it was pulling your entire soul out through your cunt.

“Holy s-shit!” Your head thrashed from side to side, a loud, unrestrained scream tearing from your throat as the orgasm hit you like a freight train. It was violent and all-consuming, your internal muscles clamping down hard on his fingers as waves of intense pleasure crashed over you, leaving you whimpering and twitching on the table.

As the peak slowly subsided, Scott didn't pull away immediately. He stayed there, his breath hot against your sensitive skin, slowly lapping the remaining juices from your pussy. He cleaned you thoroughly, his tongue lingering on every inch of your swollen cunt until you were completely spent, lying limp and shivering on the table, finally satisfied.

He straightened slowly from between your legs, chest rising hard with uneven breaths that matched your own. His mouth was swollen and wet when he licked across his lips absentmindedly, eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made heat crawl back under your skin even while your body still twitched from the orgasm.

From your place sprawled across the dining table, you stared up at him in stunned silence. Your thighs were still trembling now against his sides and you were almost certain your expression looked ridiculous, wide-eyed and dazed in a way you hadn’t allowed yourself to look around another person in years.

Scott held a hand out toward you and you took it automatically.

He helped you sit up first before guiding you carefully off the table, one hand steady on your waist while your legs struggled to cooperate beneath you. The second your feet touched the floor, your knees nearly gave out entirely.

Scott wiped his mouth with his palm. “Goodnight,” he said and the gentleness of it caught you off guard more than anything else that night had.

His hand slipped away from your waist and the two of you just stood there for a second, staring at each other while trying and failing to breathe normally again.

Then Scott turned and walked toward the front door.

You stayed frozen in place while he opened it and left your house without another word. A few seconds later you finally heard the sounds you’d been waiting for earlier, the truck door opening, shutting and the engine starting before he drove off into the night.

You tried walking toward your bedroom afterward and immediately realized your legs barely worked. You ended up half stumbling down the hallway, one hand dragging along the wall for balance because your entire lower body still felt weak and oversensitive.

Great sex…that had been unbelievably, painfully great sex.

You thought about it constantly afterward. In the shower, during calls and meetings, while sitting in traffic or lying awake at night staring at the ceiling with your thighs pressed together. You didn’t mention it to your friends or talked to Scott about it, even during the long stretches of silence that filled the truck during drives. The two of you understood what happened without discussing it directly, you’d crossed a line and both of you seemed aware that talking about it too much would probably drag you over it again.

The following mornings, you waited for him outside on your porch instead of letting him walk into your house like usual. Mostly because you’d spent the entire week masturbating to the memory of him between your legs on your dining table before getting ready for the day and you didn’t trust yourself to survive seeing him inside your kitchen before sunrise.

For one solid week, you slept perfectly. No insomnia or late-night work spirals, no pacing around rooms or answering emails at one in the morning just to keep your brain occupied. Whatever tension usually sat under your skin had disappeared completely and now it sat between you both instead.

Every drive felt heavier, the silence stretched longer and every sharp inhale from him made your stomach tighten unexpectedly until eventually you got sick of pretending neither of you noticed it.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” you interrupted suddenly.

Scott glanced toward you briefly, eyes leaving the road for barely a second before returning forward. “Do you want to?” he asked.

“I don’t,” you admitted. “I feel like you do though.”

“You’re right.”

You snorted quietly and looked back down at the laptop balanced across your knees. 

“I thought you liked being right.” Scott added.

“Fucking love it,” you replied automatically before grimacing. “Usually.”

Silence settled again until you broke it. “Okay,” you sighed eventually. “Maybe one thing.” You turned to him properly this time. “I wasn’t that drunk that night. Actually, I wasn’t drunk at all. I had that one beer before we left my place and the rest were mocktails.”

Scott turned his head enough to study your face for a second. “I wouldn’t have touched you if you were drunk,” he said flatly. “I’m an asshole, not fucking stupid.”

You leaned back against the seat slowly. “Even that’s changed.”

His brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”

“The coffee for starters,” you said. “The lunches, too. You stopped buying disgusting gas station sandwiches and now we actually eat dinner out like normal people.” You gestured vaguely toward him. “You used to hand me coffee with five sugar packets on the side because you couldn’t remember how I took it. Now it’s magically perfect every fucking morning.”

Scott adjusted his grip on the steering wheel.

“I thought eating around other people would make this less weird,” he admitted. “And I got tired of sugar packets all over my truck.”

“Our truck,” you corrected automatically before pointing at him accusingly. “And nothing about this is normal, Scott! You ate me out on my dining table!”

“Stop yelling at me.” His tone stayed frustratingly calm.

“Why?” you shot back. “Is it making you hard?”

Scott shifted in his seat hard enough that you noticed instantly. Both his hands locked tighter around the steering wheel while he stared straight ahead at the road. The tension in his jaw became visible because unfortunately for him, you weren’t wrong.

The last week had changed things. You looked less exhausted and less tightly wound. You hadn’t snapped at him once during work and he hadn’t gotten a single unhinged one a.m. email from you all week because for the first time since he’d met you, you were actually sleeping.

“So when are we doing it again?” he asked finally, against every ounce of common sense he had left.

NEVER…that should’ve been the answer. It was the logical answer, the responsible one, the answer two coworkers with already questionable boundaries should’ve landed on immediately.

It just wasn’t the truth.

You had always maintained that getting fucked couldn’t happen in motel rooms. It didn't matter how good the sex was, the second cheap carpet, bad lighting and a rattling air conditioner got involved, the whole thing dropped several levels automatically. 

Motel sex could be great, sometimes even memorable but it couldn’t be that, so the next time it happened definitely wasn’t in a motel room.

The weather that day had turned bad enough to keep everyone grounded but not dangerous enough to send your team chasing storms through three different counties. There was heavy rain, low visibility and too much lightning for comfort but not enough rotation to justify going out.

At some point, without either of you actually saying it outright, waiting the storm out in Scott’s apartment became the plan instead of sitting cramped inside the truck for hours pretending the tension between you didn’t exist.

You still couldn’t pinpoint who made the first move once the elevator doors closed behind you.

One second you were standing beside him soaked at the edges from the rain, listening to distant thunder through the concrete parking garage and the next, Scott’s hand was inside your pants like it belonged there.

You gasped hard into his mouth as his fingers slid against you immediately, already somewhat familiar with exactly what made your hips jerk forward. The kiss that came after barely counted as one, it was messy and distracted, interrupted constantly by your breathing and the quiet sounds you kept failing to swallow down.

The elevator ride lasted less than a minute but by the time the doors opened onto his floor, your orgasm was already hitting you in sharp waves around his fingers while your forehead pressed against his shoulder to keep yourself standing.

If you weren’t already fucked, you were about to be.

You’d been inside Scott’s apartment before. A handful of times after late nights working or when weather reports needed reviewing somewhere quieter than a crowded diner. You remembered the big windows first, stretching across the living room area with a full view of the skyline in the distance. Tonight they framed heavy gray clouds and rain pouring so hard that it blurred the city lights into smears of white and yellow.

Scott barely gave you time to look around because the second the apartment door shut behind you, his hands were on you again. He walked you toward the living room with rough impatience, pulling your pants down from behind while you stumbled against the edge of an armchair. Your underwear followed immediately after, dragged down together in one quick motion before pooling around your ankles.

The air in Scott’s apartment was heavy, charged with the static of the storm raging outside. The gray light of the overcast sky filtered through the windows but the atmosphere inside was scorching.

"Kneel," he commanded as he pointed toward the armchair, his voice a low, authoritative rumble.

You didn't hesitate. The tension that had been building between you for weeks, the unspoken glances and lingering touches, had finally snapped. You sank to your knees on the plush seat, your heart hammering against your ribs. You leaned forward, gripping the headrest with both hands, body already trembling in anticipation. You were completely exposed to him, your ass tilted back and waiting.

Scott disappeared for a moment, leaving you in a silence broken only by the distant roll of thunder. When he returned, the sound of a foil packet tearing echoed in the room. You heard the metallic click of his belt unbuckling and the slide of a zipper.

The anticipation was agonizing. You heard him roll the condom on, followed by the wet sound of him spitting on the head of his cock to make the entry smoother.

He stepped up behind you, heat radiating against your backside. He lined himself up and then, with one powerful, decisive surge, he thrust deep inside you.

You let out a sharp, strangled whine, your fingers digging into the fabric of the headrest. It had been so long since you’d felt a man inside you and Scott was massive. The initial stretch was borderline painful, a blunt force that filled every millimeter of your tight, starving pussy. You blinked rapidly, tears pricking your eyes as your body struggled to accommodate his size, your breath hitching in your throat.

Scott didn't give you time to adjust. He reached forward, his large hands clamping onto your hips with bruising force and yanked you backward, pulling you deeper onto his cock until there was no space left between you.

"I wanna see you," you moaned, your voice broken and desperate, trying to twist your torso around to look at him.

He didn't let you. Instead, he leaned in and sank his teeth into the skin of your shoulder, a sharp bite that made you moan despite your best efforts. His hand moved from your hip to your jaw, gripping it firmly to keep your head pinned forward.

"Just focus," he rasped calmly against your skin, the contrast of his steady voice and his firm grip sending a shiver of submission down your spine.

He let go of your jaw and began to thrust. He didn't start slowly, he hit you with a rhythmic, punishing intensity. The apartment was suddenly filled with the sound of your sudden, loud moans and frantic curses. You collapsed forward, your chest pressed against the headrest, your body jarring with every hit.

As he hammered into you, Scott reached around, his hands finding your breasts. He didn't bother undressing you further, he grabbed your boobs firmly over your clothes, squeezing and kneading them with a rough, possessive grip that matched the violence of his hips.

"I'm gonna fuck you on every surface of this apartment," he growled. "You'll be seeing a lot of me."

The sex quickly became raw and primal and so, so fucking good. The sound of skin slapping against skin, mixed with the wet, rhythmic thud of his pelvis hitting your ass filled the room, competing with the roar of the thunder outside. Every thrust shook your entire frame, quaking your body from your head to your toes. You were whimpering loudly now, the pain of the initial stretch having completely melted into an overwhelming, white-hot pleasure you never thought you could feel.

Your eyes watered, staring out into the distance of the room, the world blurring as the friction built. It was fast, harsh and so perfect that you found yourself wanting to bite the armchair, your teeth sinking into the fabric as your back arched violently. You were unraveling, the long period of abstinence making you hypersensitive to every inch of him.

"I'm right there, keep going! Scott, please! Don’t fuckin’ stop." you whined, voice echoing through the apartment.

He didn't, he instead increased the pace, his thrusts becoming shorter and more frantic, drilling into you with an obsession that felt like he wanted to merge his body with yours. The thunder peaked with a deafening crash that seemed to trigger something inside you.

Suddenly, your internal muscles spasmed. A wave of heat exploded from your core and you felt a sudden, uncontrollable gush of fluid. You were squirting, something that had never happened to you before, the hot spray soaking the armchair and your own thighs. You began to shake uncontrollably, your legs giving out as you sobbed out of pure pleasure into the headrest.

Scott let out a guttural groan, the feeling of you flooding around him driving him over the edge. He loved it, hell, he was obsessed with the way you were falling apart under him. He kept going, ignoring your tremors, continuously driving himself into you as you peaked into a mind-blowing, screaming orgasm that left you completely breathless.

With a final, deep thrust, he groaned loudly, coming hard into the condom.

The momentum stopped abruptly. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you frozen, chests heaving in unison.

Slowly, he withdrew, the wet sound of his exit punctuating the silence with an obscene pop.

You both watch the rain lash against the glass, the gray light illuminating the wreckage of your passion. You took a long, shuddering breath, body still twitching from the aftershocks as your pussy twitched around nothing, back arching further needily, earning a smack from him.

"Holy fuck," you both breathed simultaneously, the weight of the encounter settling over you in the heavy, humid air.

There was no going back after that day. Not to abstinence, not to disappointing hookups or to pretending sex was something casual and forgettable that fit neatly between work schedules and storm reports.

Once Scott got his hands on you, everything else lost appeal embarrassingly fast.

What started as isolated incidents quickly turned into a pattern neither of you seriously attempted to stop. It was a terrible idea professionally, obviously, but somehow the two of you functioned better afterward. Meetings became easier, long drives felt lighter and you argued less viciously because the tension always had somewhere to go now instead of festering under your skin for weeks.

You started going home together most nights under the excuse of saving gas money. Then showering together afterward became another practical decision because apparently water bills mattered too now. Somewhere between shared coffee in the mornings and him keeping spare clothes for you at his apartment, things moved quietly into something neither of you had planned for and the worst part was that it worked.

The sex stayed incredible. Sometimes rough enough to leave hickeys along your skin and fingerprints fading across your thighs and hips by morning, or other times slow enough that you ended up tangled together for hours afterward while thunderstorms rolled outside the windows. Every now and then he fucked you hard enough to leave you shaking afterward, staring blankly at the ceiling while he stood in the kitchen making you food like that was a normal sequence of events but eventually you realized it wasn’t just about that anymore.

You started having actual dates without calling them dates, it was dinner after work that lasted until restaurants closed around you. You went grocery shopping together because both of you were too exhausted to go separately and you began falling asleep on opposite ends of his couch while weather models played quietly on television screens neither of you were really watching.

Off-season made it worse.

Without constant travel, motel rooms and adrenaline keeping you both distracted, there was finally time to explore whatever this thing between you had become. You drifted naturally between your house and his apartment depending on whose place seemed closer to the office that day. Half your belongings somehow ended up at his place and vice versa. You texted each other constantly during meetings despite sitting twenty feet apart, phones hidden beneath desks while coworkers talked around you.

Scott started bringing your coffee to your desk already made exactly how you liked it before you even decided you needed one. You started buying his preferred cereal without asking if he wanted any. He slept better with you in his bed and you stopped grinding your teeth in your sleep when he stayed over.

So naturally, being made love to finally happened exactly the way you once thought it would and it wasn’t some exaggerated version of romance men convinced themselves they were capable of after two drinks and mediocre conversation.

It sort of snuck up on you. It was Scott pulling you into his lap while both of you were exhausted after work, kissing your shoulder absentmindedly while you read through data on his laptop. It was him waking you up slowly on Sunday mornings with his hand sliding under your shirt and nowhere either of you needed to be. It was sex that lasted forever because he knew your body well enough to take his time with it, knew exactly what made you gasp, what made your legs tense and what made you hide your face against his neck when the pleasure became too much.

He paid attention and it made all of the difference. Scott learned your body like he learned storm patterns, thoroughly and obsessively, until touching you became instinct to him and it showed…

The morning light filtered through the curtains of your bedroom in soft, golden slats, painting the sheets in hues of amber and cream. The house was silent, save for the rhythmic sound of your shared breathing and the distant chirp of birds welcoming the dawn. You were tangled together, skin on skin, the warmth of the duvet trapping the heat of your bodies in a private, humid cocoon.

There was no rush, no storm to outrun and no urgency born of desperation. There was only the heavy, sweet weight of Scott pressing you into the mattress. You were both fully naked, your limbs entwined in a lazy, possessive knot.

Scott began slowly, his lips tracing a path of fire across your collarbone. He wasn't just kissing you, he was tasting you, tongue swirling against your skin in slow circles that made you shiver. He moved lower, mouth finding the sensitive curve of your breast as you let out a soft, airy moan. He took your nipple into his mouth, sucking firmly while his thumb and forefinger pinched the other peak, twisting it just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight to your core.

You arched your back, your fingers sliding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. The friction of his chest against your breasts was intoxicating, the rough hair of his torso grazing your sensitive skin.

He shifted, sliding his body up so he could look into your eyes. His gaze was dark, filled with an intensity that felt more overwhelming than any of the rougher encounters you'd had. He didn't move to flip you or push you into a different position, instead, he settled between your thighs in a classic missionary stance and pushed inside. There was no latex barrier this time, no clinical snap of a condom. It was raw, wet and absolute. 

The sensation of his bare skin sliding against yours was a revelation. You gasped, your eyes fluttering shut as you felt the full, throbbing heat of him filling you completely. It felt different, more intimate and permanent. The lack of a barrier made every ridge of his cock feel amplified, every pulse of his blood echoing against your own internal walls.

He didn't start with the punishing pace of the past. Instead, he began to rock, his movements slow and agonizingly deep. He pressed his palm flat against your stomach, pushing down firmly to tilt your pelvis, ensuring that every thrust hit the deepest part of you.

"Gripping me like a fucking vise…so perfect." he groaned, his voice a gravelly morning rumble that vibrated through your chest.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles to pull him even deeper. You were lost in the rhythm, the slow, sliding friction creating a build-up of tension that felt like a tightening coil in your belly. You ran your hands through his hair, your nails lightly scratching his scalp as you moaned into the first rays of the morning sun.

The intimacy was suffocating in the best way possible. As he continued to rock, his movements grew slightly more urgent, the slow glide turning into a passionate, driving force. He leaned down, his lips brushing against yours, tasting the salt and sweetness of your skin while he continued to pinch and tease your nipples, hand roaming your curves with a familiarity that spoke of a deep, obsessive knowledge of your body.

It didn’t take long for your breath to become shallow, chest heaving as the pleasure began to peak. You could feel the walls of your pussy clenching around him, milking him with every deep stroke. Your body tensed, toes curling into the sheets as a wave of heat crashed over you. You cried out, a long, melodic sound of surrender, as your orgasm ripped through you in slow, pulsing waves that left you shaking beneath him.

Scott didn’t slow his pace as his forehead rested against yours, both of you breathing heavily. He continued moving, the intimacy of the connection almost too much to bear.

"Want to be done?" he whispered, his voice strained, muscles trembling with the effort of holding back.

You looked up at him, eyes hazy with pleasure and affection. The thought of him pulling away felt wrong because you wanted everything. You wanted the weight, the heat and the mark of him.

You shook your head with an escaped whimper, pulling his face down to yours. "Don’t you dare pull out…’want you to come inside." You breathed.

The request broke the last of his restraint. Scott let out a guttural sound, a mix of a groan and a sob and began to drive into you with a renewed, primal intensity. It was a desperate, loving hunger. He hammered into you, movements strong and deep, each thrust a claim and a promise.

As he reached his limit, his grip on your hip tightened, fingers digging into your skin. He thrust one last time, burying himself as deep as physically possible and you felt the hot, thick bursts of his cum flooding into you. The sensation of him filling you from the inside out was the most intense feeling you had ever experienced, a physical manifestation of the bond that had grown between you.

In the height of his release, as his body shuddered violently against yours, he gasped out the words he had been holding back.

"I love you," he choked out, the confession raw and unplanned.

The world seemed to stop for a heartbeat. You felt a surge of emotion that rivaled the intensity of the orgasm, a warmth that started in your chest and radiated to your fingertips. You tightened your hold on him, pulling him down for a deep, searing kiss.

"I love you too," you whispered against his lips.

He collapsed onto you, heart drumming a frantic rhythm against your own, both of you spent and glowing in the morning light, finally and completely entwined.

A few years ago, you would’ve hated the idea that Scott Miller of all people would end up teaching you everything worth knowing about sex. It would’ve bruised your ego badly, especially considering how seriously you once took those stupid categories and scales in your head before Scott showed up and ruined all of them completely.

Good sex stopped mattering. 

Great sex became expected.

Getting fucked became routine enough that you lost count somewhere along the line, usually around the third orgasm of the day and definitely before he started dragging you into his lap halfway through work calls just because he felt like bothering you…with his hands and dick.

But somehow, even after all the rough sex and ruined schedules, Scott still managed to make love to you exactly the way you once imagined it should feel.

So if somebody offered you the chance to go back and do it all over again, you would without hesitation.

You were an absolute HR nightmare now and what a fucking delight that was!

A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!

Look at him just chewing the FAWK out of that gum 😭 (wait chew me next)

clark leans down, replacing the pads of his thumb on your inner thighs with his mouth. you jump at the press of his lips, followed by the sharp nip of his teeth on the sensitive skin. he works his way upward, holding you still against the mattress.

it's agonising. all of it. his slow explorative touches, all the hot, wet kisses everywhere but where you needed it the most. he's somehow managed to park his own aching need, painfully bobbing against his own abdomen — with the intentional dragging out of your pleasure.

you wince when his gaze meets yours. they aren't unkind, but they're glazed with a new teasing glint you hadn't quite seen from clark yet.

"claaark…quit teasing…"

your sweet plea echoes in the room, and you feel a low, approving hum vibrate against your skin. as though he'd been waiting for you to get the taste of what you'd deprived him of. his mouth wraps around your pussy without further teasing. tongue flattened, pressing a firm and relentless pressure. your back arches off the bed, though restricted with a possessive hold pushing them back down onto the duvet.

"f-fuck! cla — hhrk. don't — stop!"

clark's palm slides up your belly, moving upward to cup your warm, sweat-slick breasts. he squeezes the softness as his tongue works your pussy. dipping in and out of your tight walls and up to your clit. his mouth was just so fucking big that it felt like he was everywhere around you.

helplessly, you buck into clark's mouth, rocking and grinding into the gentle curve of his nose. whimpering incoherently at the assault of his wet, insistent tongue curling to the roof of your cunt.

he knows when you're close. and he sucks your bud hard, the sound wet and obscene in the room, "a-ah fuck! gonna cum. g'na cum!"

clark's acknowledgment rumbles riiight against your clit. he feels the telltale sign of your orgasm as you pulse on his tongue. broken cries spill from your throat as you cum hard, thighs quivering with how clark refused to relent, drawing out every last drop of your slick until you're a trembling puddle beneath him, with an arm strewn over your eyes as you finally come down from the high.

the mattress dips at the shift of his weight, the shadow casting over you ominously just as you think it's over.

he looks to you, desperate and broken, unable to curb his own need. you feel him pry your arm away from your face, "gonna put it in okay? hm?"

you barely get to protest as he positions himself at your entrance. offering you enough time for refusal or hesitation. but the needy look of his gaze was enough for your body to act in compliance. you slide your palm past your navel, to the folds of your cunt, parting it wider for him to see the eager pulse.

a low broken groan rumbles in clark's throat at the sight, the quiet invitation being all he needed. he enters you in a deep thrust, accentuated with a jerk of his hips. you both gasp simultaneously, the overwhelming full feeling coming so soon after your earlier orgasm has you tightening deliciously around his cock.

"mmh…baby you need t'relax," he chokes, enforcing his iron will to make good on his unspoken promise to make sure you feel like he fucked you.

he wanted you to feel him even days after, and that determination was enough for him to keep a languid pace, designed to draw out your pleasure.

and god, it had. each stroke of his girthy cock in your walls, the creamy, slick that made it so much easier for him to fuck your pussy in shallow thrusts. the sounds alone were making your belly churn with need, let alone that sweet spot he hit over and over again.

your palms come up to rest at his abdomen, each thrust making you go dumb, incoherent babbles spilling from your lips. his body remains a fortress. the muscles in his arms tensed and reddened, back rigid and strained with every fiber of him taut.

"s'too…much!" you squeak, weakly pawing at him, in attempt to push him.

clark catches your hands, lacing his own fingers with yours with a single palm, pinning them gently above your head with a pressure that offered you escape if you wished. he keeps at the pace, brows knit in focus.

"i-i can't anymore."

he merely tuts softly at your breathless whisper, clearly having lost all the fight from your earlier taunts. he sees the truth in your words, the trembling or your thighs and blissed out look in your eyes. but he shakes his head, voice low and equally pleading.

"yes…you can."

"claaaaark…" you whine softly as he guides your limp arms over his shoulders, cupping one of your palms flush against his fever-hot cheeks.

"i'm getting real…real close baby," his voice cracks for a second, "can you hold on? f'me?" through laboured pants, he continues grinding and circling his cock into your cunt.

you pulse around him with another, drawn out whine. dragging your nails down his damp, strained biceps. when you offer a weak nod, the bed creaks louder. whispered curses were quickly swallowed when he shifts his angle a tad, hitting a spot in you that made your vision blur.

"fuck! t-there", you gasp sharply, fingers digging into his muscles. you nod hastily, unsure at even what — the insistent probe of his cock in that gummy spot deep within you sent shockwaves through your entire body. pushing you into another, white hot peak. the bed frames only continue scream louder under the relentless motion he keeps up.

"here?" he pants, gaze unfocused as he tilts his body to support his weight, with his forearm against the duvet to keep the angle.

"FUCK, yes! there, there — th—ah!"

your pussy gushes around him with no further warning, fluttering hard along his length as you cum again. a ragged grunt resonates against the side of your head, followed by clark's growls. his hips bucks wildly, body shuddering as he coats your insides deep with spurts of his thick spend.

the force of his very last thrust elicits a screeching crack of the bed frames, and you both drop hard.

the two of you briefly look at each other in a bewildered surprise and synchronised breathing, and you finally break the intense haze.

"shit." you croak, voice hoarse in its delivery.

clark lets out a huff, rolling to his side and taking you with him so you're nestled against his chest instead of being crushed beneath him as he slump.

“Did you drink the tea I made you? Did the nasal wash?” You asked and caressed his cheek softly, his hands finally reappearing from below the comforter and making grabby hands at you, making laugh but comply, he pulled you into his chest. He held you close because he missed you dearly all day.

“Yes, baby. It really helped.” You could tell, his voice was much less nasal.

“Good boy.” His eyebrows scrunched.

“Don't talk like my Ma. It’s… confusing.” You laughed, shaking your head and standing back up after kissing his cheek. You let your hair loose from the claw clip as you glanced at the tv, some old Hollywood movie playing.

“Okay, soup time. I’m gonna shower and get this day off me. Be good and finish it all! Don’t wanna ask again!” You yelled as you entered the bathroom, turning one last time to point your finger as menacingly as you could and he rolled his eyes.

“Again, you sound like my Ma. Stop.”

“Was it good?” You asked as you trailed back into the bedroom, towel still around your head protecting your wet hair. Clark was sat up right with the container still in his hands, but now empty.

“Mhm. As always, thank you.” You gave him a smile and went to hang the wet towel, returning with more water for him. You finally laid down, on top of the sheets and sighed out, letting your bones rest from a long day at work. Clark moved closer and laid his head on your chest, cuddling himself into you like a lap puppy. You smiled and placed your arm around him, keeping him steady as you heard his breathing, a little harder than usual from the congestion.

“How was work?”

“Work was work. Nothing major.” He hummed in response, turning himself to face you while he kept his head firm on you, as if he was listening to your heartbeat from up-close (or just sort of fondling your breasts, he’d take both).

“You get any sleep today?”

“Can’t sleep feeling like this, all weak and fragile. Feel scared.” Clark confessed, hand resting on your stomach and petting softly the skin exposed under your pajamas.

“You slept like a baby last night, Clark.” You pointed out.

“Yeah, cause you were with me and I feel safe around you. It’s like having you next to me calms me.” You almost cooed at his words, he was so cheesy and loved up sometimes. It was true though, having an arm around you soothed him like no medicine could ever do. He felt invincible next to you, he’d even shoved a small picture of you below his suit, down on the ‘S’ symbol, tricking himself into believing that you were sort of around and taking care of him. He gave you that sort of doped up smile he had when he was kind of out of it but still had energy to smile for you.

“Kiss me.”

“I can’t afford to get sick, baby.” You responded with a pout, because two days without kissing him felt like pure torture. As if his saliva had gotten you addicted and you were suffering from the most embarrassing withdrawal of your life.

“I asked Kara and she swears humans can’t get sick from this.” You narrowed your eyes, but knew Clark had been worried of you getting contaminated with his virus and that having horrible effects on you. So he told Kara to ask around about contiguous diseases and she got him his response. You nodded then, puckering your lips as he suddenly got a surge of energy and sat up to wrap his lips around yours. You giggled a little at his excitement but responded soon enough, letting him pull your lower lip into his mouth and suck slightly.

“Okay, not so tired now, are we?” You teased as he brought his boiling hot hands to your face, thumbs on your cheeks, rubbing and insistently giving you goosebumps.

“Never for you, my girl.” He mumbled against your lips and kissed you again, he tasted like his soup and the throat candies you brought him you were sure he abused.

“Missed you.” Clark whispered as he brought his mouth to kiss along your jaw, leading up to the back of your ear. You hummed, letting him know you liked it, but you still worried about doing this for when you left this morning, he wouldn’t even stand up.

“You sure, Clark?”

“Nothing makes me feel better than having you. Please.” He begged, hands under your pajama shirt and rising it up to uncover your breasts for him. He did look particularly hungry for you, like after you wore that little black dress to drinks or when you put up your first Christmas tree together (you still needed to check in on the psychology behind that one).

“What’s got you like this?” You asked as he nipped and clawed at your breasts like he was kitten on a scratch pole, fingers following every pump in your nipples and making them hard.

“You take such good care of me, y’know? I don’t know what I’d do without you, I don’t ever wanna find out.” He swore and that was a promise on behalf of Clark. He’d never find out how it was to be without you, not after knowing you and loving you. Not after you loving him back. He kissed you again, pulling the air right out of you and you let him, happily. He needed it more than you right now. You wrapped your hands around his neck and rested them there, motioning closer as if it possible.

“Can- you- oh.“ His eyes went blank for a second as he looked at you and he went pale, falling on top of you as if his arms had given up on him.

“You okay?” Clark sighed, fixing his head to lay more comfortably on top of you.

“Yeah- I am. Just think all the blood rushing down took me out.” You laughed, letting him crush you as he waited for his head to stop spinning. You pushed him off softly and helped him lay down, knowing it would be the best way for him to relax. You started kissing down the happy trail of his lower abdomen, knowing no matter how much your man wanted to, he couldn’t do all the work right now. You pulled him out of his trousers and wow, no wonder he got dizzy. He was rock hard, tip painfully red and throbbing as you wrapped your hands around around him to heat him right up.

“Oh, honey, yes.” You smiled at his words, his eyes shut and letting his hands flow down to his sides. He seemed relaxed as your hand moved up and down on his cock softly, not too fast, not too slow, just focused on slightly squeezing when you got to the top and bringing it back down, watching his hips twitch and his mouth open in small sighs of pleasure. He really was a sight for sore eyes. Your Superman was beautiful doing anything and everything, and letting himself just lay down and be taken care of made him even more delightful.

“So pretty, Clark. I love your cock.” You whispered, pulling tiny whimpers from his mouth as he babbled and begged for release. You used your thumb to spread all the precum spilling from tip, leaning down to lick your finger just when Clark opened his eyes. You rookie your thumb into your mouth and sucked his essence of off it, direct eye contact with your weakened man that merely managed to moan. It was like his voice was cut off by the feeling of you giving him what he needs and the vague lack of consciousness brought on by the sickness.

You returned to the movement of your hand, up and down a faster than before, his dick sliding around your hand from all the lubrication he was bringing to himself. You could tell when he was close when his feet looked for stability and the muscles on his stomach contracted; preparing themselves. You applied more pressure and leaned down once again, this time to wrap your lips around his tip as you jerked the rest of him.

“Darling, I’m gonna- gonna cum for you. You make me feel so good. So, so good-“ He interrupted his words with a groan when he felt his balls emptying themselves in a river that led straight to your hungry, hot mouth, pushed out with the strength of your hand. You swallowed everything he was giving, watching Clark’s face focus on the pleasure of his orgasm and look immediately more relieved. You eventually stopped with one last suck to his sensitive cock, a whine leaving his chapped lips. You tucked him back into his boxers, pants secured around them and placed a blanket over his body.

A waiter is there: young and blonde with a face that spelled jadedness earned from countless shifts toiling in this restaurant. He’s clearly walked into worse in his career.

“More water?” he offers, tone deadpan.

“I’m good, thanks,” you smile sweetly in response, “but please get me another bottle of soju.”

“One soju, then,” he repeats, before stepping away from your table.

Meanwhile, Clark sits across you with his face on fire. He manages an apologetic look at the waiter before throwing his gaze up, silently thanking the company for booking you a private room.

A warm pendant light looks back at him.

The Korean barbecue dinner is billable to Planet Publishing for two reasons: your birthday, and the success of your second novel under the house’s wing.

It’s the book you have open in your hands: Owls on a Moonlit Marsh, a gateway drug to fantasy for romance readers, and a steamy page-turner for fantasy readers.

Now Clark didn’t edit that book. He’s just invited to this company-expensed dinner because the two of you were in Gotham for a creative writing event, in which you were one of the panelists.

And you certainly didn’t let his politeness deter you from dragging him along, pushing past his insistence that you should spend Planet Publishing’s money with someone special—maybe a boyfriend.

(Was it rude to feel relief when you told him you didn’t have one?)

So, here he is. With you. Slightly full from an extremely delicious assortment of meats and banchan, listening to you complain about the pain in writing pleasure.

Clark Kent convinces himself that you brought him along because it’s the kind thing to do. The convenient thing, even. For once, you’re in Gotham, and this place has crossed your socials too many times. He just happened to be on a business trip with you.

That dress you are wearing isn’t low-cut to seduce him so much as to make yourself look beautiful. (And God, do you look beautiful.) It’s not flirtation that flashes in your eyes, just everyday mischief. Maybe soju-induced intoxication.

But that smile… The curl of it is so dangerously familiar, he finds his eyes averting from it to not provoke any untoward ideas—because the only ideas he’s getting are rather untoward.

Between the thoughts Clark Kent thinks to avoid heartbreak, there’s no way to misinterpret that smile.

Six months of working with someone is enough time to figure out whether you’re into them. Except Clark—if he were to admit at gunpoint—would say that being ‘into’ you is a massively understated way of expressing the specific feeling he’s dealing with.

You’re under his skin like an influence.

“Now where was I…?” you hum, scanning the page of an open book.

You point at the page. “Oh, right. His shaft.”

Once again, thank God and Perry White for the private room. Otherwise, saying the word ‘shaft’ while you read smut out loud might get you kicked out of this sleek restaurant.

“That scene was good,” Clark coughs. And he doesn’t just say that because he likes you, but in all honesty. “It’s sexy. And vulnerable.”

The main characters have gone through a literal book-load of feelings, which culminated into what has been described by Tumblr users as a “clit-throbbing” smut scene. In working with you for half a year, he deeply understands—the first part about going through a lot of feelings, that is.

The latter part? He can only dream.

“Thanks, Clark. Flattery gets you everywhere,” you beam. “I have a praise kink.”

Gosh, it’s so darn warm in here. (The charcoal’s been dead for a while now.)

“I was being serious.”

“Really? You think it was good?” you reply so earnestly he sits up straighter at the attention. “I was worried we were getting repetitive—M and I could only substitute the word ‘cock’ so many times.”

Clark nearly chokes on his rice wine.

If the publishing house let you loose with your word choices, people will get ID’ed at the counter for wanting to buy your books.

And M? She’s the reason he’s working with you: the editor for your first two novels, now on maternity leave.

M stands for Mary, but only those closest to her would know that her full given name is Mary Magdalene.

Alanis Morissette would like a word.

“I’m sure ‘thrust’ is the same,” Clark murmurs, fixing his glasses.

You give the comment a thought. “Actually, not really.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm,” you nod. The green soju bottle glints in the dim as you swirl it around. “I suppose… it’s the sensation that I find difficult to write.”

Clark tries to school his heartbeat. Be professional. That’s the one thing he vowed when taking up this job: you can’t edit a critically acclaimed romantasy if you don’t take it seriously.

And the two of you haven’t gotten there. Writing the sex, he means, not having sex. There’s nowhere for you and him to go on that part. And he definitely has not thought about it. Not in the slightest.

Professional, Clark scolds himself internally.

“How so?” he asks.

Your gaze shifts away from his. That’s rare.

“Well,” you begin, tone light as a feather, “it’s hard to write about something I haven’t felt before.”

A beat of silence. Then two.

“Sorry, what?” he pipes up, voice comically tiny. “I don’t think I heard you right.”

There’s nothing for him to be nervous about, though, because you’re grinning back at him like that wasn’t a dropped bomb. He’d blame it on the alcohol in your veins, but even while sober, you’re the kind of woman who just… shoots it straight.

God knows he loves it—his heart blooms in secret joy with every flash of honesty.

Like right now.

“I think you did, Clark,” you giggle, “and now you’re getting shy about it.”

“It’s the makgeolli,” he defends, though feebly.

“I’m a virgin,” you announce.

As if it’s the Declaration of Independence.

As if the waiter didn’t just enter and place another bottle of soju on your table.

You throw him a thank you with a pretty smile, to which the young man nodded. He leaves the room without asking if you need anything else.

You have the decency to continue after the door slides shut.

“And I mean that in the PIV sense. Not that the notion of virginity makes any sense, let alone penetrative virginity.”

“No, yes, of course,” Clark stammers in reply, all while his mind asks what have you done, then, and how do I stop picturing you doing it?

Because you did things with someone else. At some point in time, you were doing things with someone else. That makes him jealous.

Clark Kent doesn’t like feeling that green thing.

He’s jolted out of his slightly bitter reverie by a nudge on his calf.

It’s the tip of your high-heeled shoe. He doesn’t need to peek under the table to see, he can picture it just fine: maroon patent leather with a pointed tip brushing short, playful strokes over the fabric of his dress pants.

His heartbeat snags. The pulse floods south.

“But with your experience, Mr. Editor,” you smile coyly, “you’ll ensure my written work is as accurate as possible, yes?”

Call it in vino veritas, or call it Ma and Pa’s education, but Clark Kent can’t lie. Not well, anyway. The truth stumbles out of his lips soon as you stop talking.

He tries to make it sound casual.

“You know, I haven’t done it, either.”

Your eyes widen, gasping out in drunken surprise.

“Really. A catch like you? The world truly is ending.”

There are many graces offered to Clark Kent tonight, and maybe the small kindnesses he did in the past are paid back in this exact moment: the waiter saunters in again to announce that the restaurant is closing soon, giving Clark a second or two to collect himself after your remark.

A catch, you called him, while he catches his breath and gathers your coats from their hangers, while his heart flies away on wings of joy. You think he’s a catch.

Or maybe you’re just being nice.

You stand and turn around. He helps you with your sleeves.

“The meal was fantastic,” you tell the waiter on your way out, appearing completely sober—save for the warm lilt in your voice.

The subject is dropped just like that.

Meanwhile, on the short walk back to the hotel, Clark Kent can only think of how you’ve never.

And how you know he’s never, either.

୨୧

When you reach the hotel, he’s not sure if you’ll even remember anything in the morning, because you’re giggling in the elevator up when the height pops your ears.

He’s not just walking you to your room, but walking himself inside your room—to make sure you’re safe, of course.

The bedroom is a mirrored layout of his just next door. He watches as you cross the threshold, dump your coat on the floor, and kick your heels off before jumping face-first onto the queen bed.

He shakes his head, but everything he does bleeds affection: he hangs up your coat and places your shoes neatly onto the side.

Then you sigh into the cold sheets, as if laying there is the best feeling in the world, and Clark tenses.

You’re safe. He isn’t.

Because that sigh reminds him of another sound.

A moan—airy, short.

Yours.

It happened last night. He could only hear it because the hotel walls aren’t as thick as he thought, or maybe because your beds were pressed up on the same side. It wasn’t loud—just him being really cognizant that your private existence and his are separated by one slab.

A concrete slab, sure, but still.

And his mind got the better of him, as it always does when you’re involved. The little noise was enough to make him think about you touching yourself. The image alone inspired him to do the same in the shower.

He’d spent a long time after feeling guilty for morphing that beautiful sound into something that resembled his name—that’s how inconceivable it is, a person like you being into a person like him.

Still, if he has a character flaw, it would be the endless hope that pours out of him. It’s in the way he tucks you under the covers and fixes a strand of your hair after.

He’s about to leave when you grab his hand.

“Don’t go,” you murmur, eyes half-closed. Even so, he sees them glazed—with both alcohol and a brand of loneliness he can’t bare to subject you to—and he folds easily.

The smile you smile when he slips under the covers is just about worth the torture of holding you in your bed.

You snuggle up into him, face buried in his chest.

But then you go and make things even harder for him. Something you keep doing even while drunk.

“Clark?” you slur.

“Hm?”

“You know I’d give it to you, right?”

“Give me what?”

“My virginity.”

Oh.

How cruel, he thinks to himself. The things people say under the influence.

“Go to sleep,” he says softly, stroking the top of your head. She doesn’t know what she’s talking about, is what he tells himself to keep the feelings at bay.

But his mind recalls the shape of your moan, and how perhaps he didn’t make it sound like his name.

You murmur something unintelligible. He wonders if you can hear the wild bang of his heart. Your prolonged silence and even breaths mean no.

He drifts off soon after.

2

You wake up feeling like a person in a daytime pad commercial who just slept like a person in a nighttime pad commercial.

That is to say: you wake up comfortable because you slept amazing. The only minor complaint would be the lack of bodily warmth on your sheets.

On the other side of the bed are wrinkled sheets, suspiciously Clark-shaped. Flashes of last night play in your head: the Korean barbecue, alcohol burning your throat, the smell of him under your sheets…

…and the things you told him.

Oh.

Well, you said what you said. It certainly isn’t the first time you embarrassed yourself just to make him look your way. The dress last night is another recent example.

Life goes on, and you figure your colleague-slash-friend probably returned to his room right after he woke, most likely flustered even with no one looking.

On the nightstand is a tall glass of water and Advil. Must be Clark’s doing.

You drink the medicine down despite 1) feeling in perfect health and 2) knowing that the water won’t quench the thirst you have for the man who poured the glass for you.

And boy, does Clark look like a tall glass of water when you see him again in the lobby, seated in one of the plush armchairs. You keep telling yourself it’s the suit, but the hotel receptionist is wearing the same color and cut—yet you’re not salivating at the sight.

“Good morning,” you chirp, wheeling your small suitcase while you walk towards Clark.

He stands. He always does when you enter a room. Those manners and looks in one person would incur panic upon suburban mothers everywhere.

“Thanks for the Advil.”

“It’s no problem.” He smiles back at you. You sense immense politeness—more than usual. “How did you sleep?”

“Really well. You?”

“Yup, out like a light.”

“Must be the alcohol,” you reply.

It would’ve been a decent lie, if not for the whole beat that passed silently before Clark coughs out a response equally weak to yours.

“Yes, it was… really good alcohol.”

You agree that the soju was excellent, but the better the booze, the worse the sleep.

You know you slept well because he was in your bed. You just don’t know if this is his normal display of shyness or if he’d rather die than admit it.

Either way, it’s just who he is: Clark is too kind to turn you down and too professional to ever address what you told him last night.

Lucky for you, there’s plenty of time to lick your wounds.

The two of you drive back to Metropolis. Clark sits behind the wheel of his car. The traffic leading up to the Interstate is egregiously heavy, just like the air inside the vehicle.

Small talk makes it worse (strange, the two of you usually converse just fine). His mindless distractiong is changing radio stations as if he knows what he wants to listen to. Meanwhile, you pretend to do something productive on your laptop: developments for your third novel, the last of the installment.

Developments. Psh. All you have are bullet points.

Lucky for you, there’s plenty of time to lick your wounds.

The two of you drive back to Metropolis. Clark sits behind the wheel of his car. The traffic leading up to the Interstate is egregiously heavy, just like the air inside the vehicle.

Small talk makes it worse—and for the record, the two of you usually converse just fine. His mindless distraction is changing radio stations as if he knows what he wants to listen to. Meanwhile, you pretend to do something productive on your laptop: developments for your third novel, the last of the installment.

Developments. Psh. All you have are bullet points.

ves forced into divine deal with zalrythar god of secrets

she can’t tell anyone including cass

figure out b plot

cass thinks ves is pulling away and confronts her

she obv stonewalls

angst haha

resolve b plot

cass and ves both end up in god-mandated sex

That takes you less than a minute to type out. The car hasn’t moved for the last seven.

You spend the next three staring at his hands on the steering wheel.

୨୧

Even when traffic eases as you reach Metropolis, the tension doesn’t. It thickens the closer he gets to your destination, palpable by the time Clark turns into your street. The GPS lady shuts up at this point, leaving you and him to stew in silence.

Your apartment is just up ahead. He’s slowing the car down and you internally curse yourself.

There’s no way you can take any more of this, the tip-toeing a shared truth like it’s a secret. There’s no way he isn’t aware—he wouldn’t be so quiet otherwise. And you’ve seen him truly oblivious: someone would ask him out to dinner and he’d think it’s because they want to talk business.

If you do this, he’s probably going to think you’re even more shameless than he initially thought.

What he doesn’t know is that you want to be an honest person around him. Just your luck that, in your case, being honest means shamelessly wanting him.

“Clark?” you call out as he tugs at the handbrake. Your voice isn’t fully gathered, underused in the silence of the ride back, and you sound a little less sure than you’re used to.

“Hm?” he hums back, looking over at you. The car hums, too.

You shift your body to face his, seatbelt clicked free, like that’s going to help you breathe in better.

“Something happened yesterday.”

His jaws clench once. Eyes widen a fraction. You aren’t asking a question.

“Yes. We slept toge—I mean, I fell asleep on your bed.”

Clark Kent isn’t a good liar by nature, but you’d be lying, too, if you said you didn’t pay special attention to his voice. The words come out too fast, and there’s a slight pinched quality to his voice that clues you in on his farce. You’ve known him long enough to learn his tells.

“And?” you ask.

He thrums his fingers on the steering wheel.

“You also told me… you’re a virgin.”

You don’t spare a beat, lest he finds a way to escape this situation.

“And so are you.”

He nods. “Yep.” There’s a pop on the ‘p’, heavy with an acceptance of his fate.

Your lip twitches up in amusement—he looks so close to spontaneous combustion, the tapping of his fingers like a ticking time bomb.

“Gosh,” Clark smiles, the shaky, worried kind, “you don’t think that’s funny, do you?”

That catches you off-guard and a little offended. “Why would I? We’re in the same boat.”

“No, yes, of course,” he stammers. “I'm sorry, I just—"

“—thought an erotic novelist can’t possibly be a virgin?"

There’s a pause.

" Yes,” he admits. “I mean, it’s my fault. I assumed. From your books, of course! Not from anything else.”

You laugh a little at his jitteriness, and funnily enough, he seems to relax.

“It’s okay. I was just—” you search for the right word, “tickled. Two virgins writing and editing paperback smut.”

He laughs this time. You take in the dimples of his cheeks, and suddenly the totally silent car ride home fizzles out like a distant memory.

“Not that I think sex is a prerequisite, by the way,” you add, just to make sure you’re not staring at him too much. “You’re a good editor, Clark.”

He seems to be taken aback, eyes locked on yours.

“That’s because you’re a great writer.”

He ends that sentence with your name, spoken it’s holy. Something in you cracks open.

The reality is that writing comes easy because he fuels your dreams. All you do is extend them. You take every little thing he gives you in real life, surgically pluck it out of context, and blow it out of proportion. The lingering brush of his hand after a hug. A touch on your lower back in a crowded room. Him leaning down to hear you better.

He’s the fire that kindles your prose. Inspires your imagination until he’s shaped like a man who wants you.

Writing is the highest form of wishful thinking, after all.

You used to think Clark Kent wanting you is an impossible thing, but now? Maybe it’s not.

Because his face takes on a kind of expression you’ve only written about.

His eyes darken.

“Clark?”

“Yes?” he replies, a microsecond too fast. He’s scared. Or nervous. Or both.

Either way, you are too—because there’s no turning back after this.

“That’s not all I told you, was it?”

You catch his throat bob. When he speaks, his voice is taut, like the air in the car.

“No.”

Your fingers twitch from seeing his jaw clench.

The urge to touch him wins out, and you find yourself moving both hands to cradle his face, thumbing at the tense spot. His breath visibly hitches: you can tell from the rise of his chest when you bridge the gap between your seats.

“I meant what I said, you know,” you murmur, not even looking him in the eye anymore. Your gaze lands lower.

His lips are parted so beautifully… but you make sure to stare straight into him when you nail your own coffin shut.

“I’d give it to you.”

He needs to know you mean it.

As if those words were permission, he leaned down and closed the gap entirely, kissing you.

He’s more sure than you thought he’d be—and God, that’s past tense, because you now know how he kisses: slow, deep, with the rumbly beginning of a groan brewing in his chest. You melt into his body as much as the car will allow, the hand on his face slipping back to card through dark locks.

That’s when he feeds the sound straight into your mouth.

The groan isn’t the only thing that travels. His hands do too. One drags a path up your side to tug you closer. Another snakes to your nape, as if the kiss could get any deeper.

Your tongues dance and you moan at his taste.

“Fuck,” you breathe, lips still on his. You nip at his bottom lip in between words. “You want it? Want me to give it to you?”

His reply is hazy above all yes, like he just woke from a dream or is drifting into one.

“Yes. Please. I want it—want you.”

“Good,” you smile, releasing his lip with a pop, “wanna take yours, too.”

The look on his face is something you wish you could photograph.

He’s red—just from kissing—lips swollen and rosy, a tiny, faint pool of drool out one corner. His glasses are askew.

You fix it with a smile.

“Come upstairs.”

3

Upstairs takes an elevator ride where he stands behind you to hide his boner—just in case someone walks in, he reasons—but you make it through your door soon enough.

Not without you fumbling with your keys and giggling into his mouth.

By the time Clark tumbles into your bed, bringing you down with him, he’s already painfully hard under his slacks.

Everything smells like you.

Your hand on his chest draws a cheeky line down his stomach past his belt, and he sighs in relief. You sit back on your haunches, still straddling him, finally palming the tent that’s formed in his pants.

He gasps at the touch, mouth open, already missing your lips on his.

“So hard already,” you murmur. “Take this belt off.”

He obeys, quiet except for the clink of metal. The belt drops somewhere on the floor with a thunk. Your pretty hands work his zip, tugging just enough to reveal a dark blue pair of boxer-briefs.

Then he feels your weight shift on the bed. Watches you move down until you’re face-to-cock with his still-clothed erection.

“How far have you gone, Clark?” you ask, light as a feather, breath warm against the fibers of his underwear. The sight of you smiling between his legs is so dizzying, he grips the sheets for anchor. “Did you at least get blown?”

“Yea—ah,” he pants, because your hand is on his cock again. Palming. Squeezing.

You hum. Fingertips playfully stroke down his length from over the boxer-briefs, fondling his balls. “When was the last time?”

“Don’t know,” is his immediate, husked-out answer. There’s no past in his mind. Just the present, as unbelievable as it is—your bed, you, your hand, your pretty face… “Don’t care, just, please—”

As if triggered by his begging, you sit back up, leaving his cock completely touch-starved.

He sighs, because you’re thumbing his bottom lip. The touch isn’t kind. As a matter of fact, it’s a little mean: your finger is pushing his lip to the side, teasing the plush of it, pulling it down just a bit before letting it bounce back.

He likes it.

You chuckle when he takes your thumb in his mouth, even before you push it past his lips.

“So eager,” you drone, your other hand stroking his hair. “You want it that bad?”

“Yes,” he says, except it sounds more like mmph with his mouth occupied.

He lets your thumb go, only to kiss at your open palm. One quiet sound after the other, he presses his lips into your hand more—until very soon, he’s literally making out with it. His own hand is gripping yours close to his face, keeping you still.

“What exactly do you want, Clark?” Your words carry more breath than voice, and his blood sings.

“Anything you’d give to me,” he answers.

It’s at that point you choose to wrest your hand away, settling back down between his legs. You lean down to peck on his hard-on—it jumps excitedly under the fabric. You laugh, thumbing at the waistband.

Then you pull his boxer-briefs down, and there he is.

All of his inches, eight or nine, you’re not sure, but the exact measurement doesn’t matter—not when he’s relatively equal to the length of your forearm.

Surprise, surprise. Your big sloppy crush has a big fucking dick.

A dick so pretty you might cry—especially because it’s already crying a pearly bead at the tip. You trace a prominent vein that runs on the underside, lick your lips as he bucks into your hand.

You look at his face and a cruel amusement takes over you: Clark is propped on his elbows, cheeks bathed red, jaw slack like he’s just ran up fifty flights of stairs.

And you haven’t even done anything.

Rising up to your knees, you move to his face. A kiss on his lips, slow and deep. Then ten more light ones all over his cheekbone, jaw, neck, throat, up to his ears, at which point he’s stuttering out the beginnings of your name.

Your hands part his legs wider, letting you situate yourself more comfortably between them. He gulps. You move back down to the center of his expanse. Your head tilts, mouth a dangerous distance from where he’s most sensitive.

“Can I kiss you here?”

Your fingerpad teases the tip. Pre meets your skin, warm and sticky. You smear it on his fat head.

“Yes.”

Christ, was that a whine? Your little smile turns devious, nose nudging his cock. It twitches again, as if autonomous from the rest of him—like it’s developed its own mind and is begging you greedily to give it more.

“You’re so big, Clark. Will you even fit?” you muse, fingers curling around him, pumping once, twice. He throws his head back with a grunt, the movement so sharp you think he might be pulled at with a leash.

Well. You’ll figure out the answer to that later. For now, you should play with your meal.

You slip the tip into his mouth and watch shivers wrack his body. After swirling your tongue on it once, you let go with a pop, purring.

“So sensitive. What am I gonna do with you?”

Meanwhile, Clark is losing his mind.

“Your—f-fuhh—fault,” comes his raspy reply just as you descend one, two, three inches more. Gosh, your mouth is so warm, so tight…

You chuckle, and the vibrations rattle him up to his ribcage. It occurs to him that he might’ve said those things about your mouth out loud. Rather than mortification, he feels elation, because even when you move up and the warmth is gone, you’re teasing his tip with your tongue again, and it feels so good he might cry.

The circles in his vision must be mimicking your wet heat drawing patterns on him.

One of his hand sinks into a pillow, the other cards digits through your hair.

An expletive escapes the moment you hollow your cheeks, far too sudden for him to take back.

“Fuck,” he gasps, the sound tailing off with dumb, repeated attempts of forming your name. Most of his brain is in his hips now as they swivel in hopes to get more of him in your mouth, but your fingers splay beautifully on the rippling muscles of his abdomen.

“Uh-uh. Stay still.”

Following orders is usually a thing he’s good at. Just not today. Not now.

Now, all he can think of is how good it feels—his mouth echoes those thoughts with babbles of “so good, feels so g-good, you’re perfect”—and how if you keep this up, he’ll come in an embarrassing amount of time.

It’s already taking everything in him not to let that happen.

But then he catches you look up at him.

The sun’s still out, bathing the room with enough light to show him exactly what makes him nearly crumble:

Your pretty lips, wrapped around his thick cock, head bobbing up and down to reveal the glisten on him—a mix of precum and spit—your hair messy around his hand.

“Stop,” he groans, holding your skull still so he can gently pull himself out of you. There’s a line of drool that connects your mouth and his cock. “Stop, don’t wanna come—”

The surprised tinge in your reply almost breaks his heart. “You don’t want to?”

He shakes his head, reconstructing his breaths. “Not until I’m inside you.”

For once in his life, you don’t talk back, and he’d be damned to let the opportunity slip.

Clark Kent grew up learning how to take things into his own hands. He puts that into practice with you, grabbing you up by the waist, laying you down on the bed. He takes your clothes off: slowly, because every inch of bare skin is the closest he’s been to heaven, because he wants to savor this, because he thinks you’re beautiful.

Says it too, even if it’s whispered.

He has you in your underwear, teasing the strap of your bra. “Can I take this off, sweetheart?”

You nod instead of giving him mouth. A rarity.

He’ll give you mouth, instead: by kissing you as he unclasps your bra with one hand (still no comment from you). Once it’s off, he drags his lips down your throat, then collarbone, then your heaving chest, where he lets himself stare for once. His warm breath caresses your skin, while heat pours out from his gaze.

He finally leans down, laving at a nipple. Polite first, hungry just two seconds later. His entire mouth is involved: sucking at your chest, a large hand squeezing around your flesh to feed more into him. Your hand digs into his curls when he hums, teeth grazing playfully as you arch for more.

He looks up.

You’re a dream. He’s sure he’s dreamed of this once—except instead of blurred images and hazy glows that tortures him at night, the scene is crystal. He sees everything through his glasses: each strand of lashes on your pretty eyes, the color of your skin against the sheets, how your hair splays on the pillows.

Actually, speaking of pillows—and dreams…

“Here,” he wrests one from under your head and taps the side of your hips, “lift your hips up for me.”

You do it, but it seems you’ve found your voice again. The cheeky retort comes out breathless.

“Really, Clark? You’re gonna use that line on me?”

He adjusts you on the pillow, lips pursed—both from your tease and the sight of you, naked, save for the cute underwear raised up to meet him.

It’s already wet at the gusset. There isn’t much for him left to imagine.

“Just because you’re a writer doesn’t mean you’re immune to it,” he hums, peeling the material off of you. You instantly fall silent.

He groans at the sight of you clenching around nothing, slick threatening to dirty the pillowcase you’re resting on.

Two fingers drag a path down your mound to your wet entrance. Two moans erupt when he circles there—yours higher pitched than his, because he touches like it’s payback for some unseen grudge. Surely you don’t know how long he’s thought of you like this, how long he’s struggled with the guilt of fantasizing about his hot colleague, only to find this.

Your soaked cunt winking at him.

“You’re so wet,” his digits dip, collecting your juices. Your hips buck. “Is this from sucking me off?”

“No, I was thinking about winning the lottery,” you moan, betraying your impatience, “yes, it’s because of you, stupid!”

He laughs. He’s wanted you way too long—you can wait a little longer.

“Need to prep you,” a thumb pushes the hood off your clit, only for him to do nothing but look at it.

You shiver under his gaze, tease audibly lacking the bite. “Is this how you do it—stare?”

His eyes meet yours, blue eyes almost burning. Your throat bobs. That’s what fuels him.

“You tell me,” he murmurs, “you’re the erotic novelist.”

Fingers explore again, barely touching, always circling, and he bites back a moan at the sight of you arched like that, like your hips are hungry for more. His touch doesn’t relent, although it’s taking everything in him not to take every part of you right then and there.

“Clark—”

“You wrote something like this before,” his thumb swipes your clit. His name on your lips breaks, but those eyes on your face never does. “Page 347 of Owls. ‘When his finger sinks inside her, she gasps like she’s never breathed air’…”

Just then, he does as he says. His middle finger stretches you, one knuckle deep at first, then two, then all the way in. You writhe, stuttering a moan at how slow he is, before the sound dies in your throat with a gasp.

The base of his palm presses against your clit.

Clark catalogs your reactions with the precision of a machine. The warmth of his touch is anything but. So is the slight crinkle between his brows: signs that he’s testing his own boundaries by stretching yours so slowly.

“Or is it the next page? ‘The rhythm he sets replaces the beat of her heart—except nothing about the slow scrape of his fingers echoes the relentless thumping in her chest.’”

When he moves his fingers, the dimples on his cheeks begin to show. He smiles down at you, free from the pretense of professionalism:

He doesn’t commit your lines to memory because he’s a dedicated editor. He does it because he thinks about doing those things with you—so, so often.

“Fuck—Clark—” you whimper, the syllables choked out as his other hand pins your hip.

One finger becomes two, but the pace doesn’t change. Still arduous, still torture. Clark’s eyes are glazed: in watching you lose your mind underneath him, he loses his in trying to erase true words laced with alcohol. Your voice floats in his memory:

And I mean that in the PIV sense.

Does that mean you’ve done this before, with men who aren’t him? Were they any good? Did you like them, or did you let them in your bed just to use them? Doesn’t make a difference, Clark decides, because they still got to be with you. Were they the reason you wrote passion so well, or was it because they were so shit at it you had to take matters into your own hands?

Speaking of taking matters into your own hands, your voice floats in his memory again. Not words this time.

“You touched yourself, didn’t you?” Clark grunts, fingertips kissing your cervix at the word touched, “Two nights ago. In the hotel.”

You don’t answer, but your widened eyes said enough.

He leans down. Presses his forehead against yours.

“Heard you through the wall. Sound so sweet. Wanna hear it again.”

He kisses your lips once before moving down the expanse of you, flat on the bed between your very open legs—thanks to his gentle grip around one ankle, spreading you out for him to see.

But before you can shiver at the loss of his warm shadow, his lips closes around your clit, and you give him what he wants.

An open moan, loud enough to bounce off the walls.

Clark moans, too. The sound vibrates directly onto your cunt, you can’t help but spasm. He doesn’t stop. The flat of his tongue presses entirely on you, never really still: soon, he starts sucking and licking and teasing your poor clit. He tastes you, and a steady stream of muffled groans leak from his mouth—the same way your pussy leaks juices around his thrusting fingers, the squelch squelch squelch growing faster and louder in the room.

“You wrote about this so many times,” he murmurs against your slick, “d’you like it that much?”

Your answer is an unintelligibly keen noise.

“I love it,” Clark is purring now, hazy with your taste, “I’ll help you write lines later, m’kay? Want you to soak my hand, my tongue—”

Your body must’ve mistook that as an order, because the orgasm hits you out of nowhere, hot-white and sparking off your every nerve. You arch, convulse, slurring his name like you can’t speak while your pussy gushes around his fingers as they thrust through your spasms, unrelenting.

He breathes out a blasphemy, the first “oh my God” you’ve ever heard coming out of his mouth. Your senses are only starting to come back, but he replaces his fingers with his tongue, and you can’t hear anything past your own scream.

He fucks you just like that, lapping at your juices like he hasn’t drank in ages.

Something within you unstitches, and you feel your body leaping past overstimulation to overwhelming pleasure. You don’t tell him to stop—how can you, when he’s so clearly drunk on your pussy? He moans words into you like it’s a pet, coos of “You’re so pretty when you come”, “Tastes so good for me” vibrating against your core.

The cool frame of his glasses bumping against your inner thigh only makes everything feel better.

“Clark,” you cry, and he already knows. Already mumbling encouragements into your cunt.

“Want you to come again, honey, c’mon, you can do it, yeah?”

You do. The crest tugs at your spine like a string, and your hips seek his mouth as if looking for a place to give.

He takes it—slurping, licking, kissing.

When your white-edged vision comes back from the dappled blurs, he’s already shirtless and sitting on his heels, looking down at something.

You follow his gaze.

It stops at his cock resting on your stomach—the exact measure of how deep he’ll be.

There’s a smile on Clark’s face. Kind, but not kind enough that he won’t fuck you into the mattress.

“See that, sweetheart?” he leans down, feeding the words straight into your ear. “We’ll make sure you take everything, m’kay?”

When you whimper and close your eyes—because how is that thing going inside you?—he tuts once. Cups your jaw with a broad palm, still sticky with your juices. Another time and place, you’d scold him, but now?

“You need to watch,” he says, “so you can write about it.”

Your eyes blink open, only to find his pupils blown out black.

Now you’re screwed—or just about to be.

The fat head of his cock rubs against your hole, hot, smearing precum on your cunt. You mewl, eyes fluttering shut again, but he tightens his hold on your jaw, whispering “c’mon, honey, look at me” like his voice doesn’t make things worse.

Like he’s not just as wrecked.

Lips slick, parted, and a little swollen, hazy eyes half-lidded, Clark Kent is the picture they put next to the definition of lust.

But you’re the same, because his cock nudges your clit again and you melt, stammering your truest wish into his mouth:

“Please, Clark, please fuck me, need you to fuck me—”

How he isn’t already cumming all over you is beyond his comprehension.

“Oh, attagirl,” he breathes, before finally sinking in.

The stretch isn’t as painful as you thought it’d be, but maybe that’s just how desperate you are for him. Clark doesn’t seem to be holding up so well, though: he’s panting just a breath away from your lips, exhales shaky at the tightness that wraps around him, holding back the need to just slam into your perfect heat.

Inch by excruciating inch, he sinks into you, then stops. You gasp at the feeling: full. How you managed to take him all so easily is a mystery.

You call his name, clenching around him. His answer is strained, brows knitted.

“I’m only halfway in, baby.”

A wave of desire and dread washes over you at the realization. Those blue eyes, though black now from dilated pupils, drift momentarily down, before they lock onto yours again.

He pushes in.

Your jaw falls slack in disbelief, walls stretched by the veiny ridges of him. His girth bullies your cunt to take his shape. He watches as he thrusts the thickest part of him inside you, studying each twitch and blink and stutter, looking out for pain, but finding pleasure above all else.

This time, you know he’s all the way in. Your vision blacks out a little at the heft.

“There we go, good girl, so good for me, you’re perfect…”

Those words come tumbling out, both a reassurance for you and a distraction for Clark—because you’re so warm and tight and wet around him, he might lose himself if he doesn’t focus.

“Breathe for me,” he hums, but he’s not breathing right either.

This is it. His cock is inside of you—the first one to ruin you, if he doesn’t mess this up and ruin himself first.

Meanwhile, you watch Clark pant above you, his forearms flexing as they bracket your head, face red from restraint.

The sight makes you clench and he moans.

“D-Don’t—a—ah,” his chest heaves.

That pulls a grin out of you, weak as it is. You clench again, this time intentionally.

He grits your name out between teeth. “I said, don’t.”

“Why?” you husk, even though you know the answer.

“Gonna make me c-come.”

You stroke his cheek to guise the fact that you’re not doing much better yourself—not with all eight, nine inches of his hard cock pulsing directly against your walls like that.

The thought strikes you then: this is the closest you’ve ever been to someone—quite literally speaking.

And it’s Clark who’s holding you right now. Clark. Endlessly polite and often sweet Clark. Easily ragebaited into a rant Clark. Charming without meaning to, helps with the best of intentions Clark.

It’s precisely because you’re with him that your mouth decides to say something stupid. Call it a defense mechanism—from what, you’re not sure, because he’s already inside you, what the fuck are you defending yourself from?—but the words slither out anyway.

Playful. Teasing. You say it right by his lips, the exact opposite of what you had in mind.

“You can cum, Clark. I’ll just find someone else to help me write my book.”

When in fact you’ll never let anyone else between your legs ever again.

Something in Clark shifts. His throat bobs with it, eyes sharpening past the haze of lust.

Then he’s on his knees, gripping your hips with both hands, before thrusting up without pulling out even an inch—like deeper is possible. You feel him in your lungs. He does it again.

This time, both your eyes and his snap down to the faint bulge near your stomach.

The view doesn’t stay for long. He drags his inches out of you, slowly, all the way to the tip, before plunging deep once more.

“Fuck—!”

You’re busy crying out when he leans back down. His hand gathers your wrists above your head, the other firm on the side of your hip—both anchors to the slow pace he builds.

“‘s this what you need?” he rasps, voice broken between lazy thrusts that ring loud, “Writing—nmm—material?”

“Aah—”

“You gonna write about how,” thrust, “he’s so deep, she can see him in her stomach?”

Your eyes widen, first at the bulge on your lower belly, then at him.

“About how she cries out for him?” Thrust.

“—a-nghh—”

“How she’s clenching around him,” he mouths against your ear, words slurred, “like she doesn’t want him to leave?”

The cant of his hips pick up speed, and soon there are plap plap plaps of his balls slapping your ass under your moans and his. His hand on your wrists becomes a lever from which he thrusts.

The air hangs heavy with sweat and a heady scent. The bed begins to creak.

You’re rutting up into him, the swivel of your hips growing more and more desperate with each murmur of his name—he watches you the entire time, entranced by the roll of your bodies.

“Fuck, look at you,” he whines at the sight, eyes glazed over.

“Wanna touch,” you mumble, drool beginning to pool on one side of your lip. Your fingers claw the air. “Please, let me touch—”

He lets go of your hands. You drag him into a kiss that tangles your moans together, all while his hipbone bumps into yours again and again.

The freedom he gives you damns him: your hands raking down his chest makes him shiver, so do your nails digging into his bicep. The worst part happens when you tug at his hair: a response to one particular slam that hits a spot in you, in turn drawing a garbled moan out of him.

You can’t stop touching him, and he’s all the worse for it.

With each fuse of your hips and his, your walls clutch him like you’re trying to keep him inside. Out to the tip, in to the hilt, splitting you open with each store, coating his cock with you while he bullies that spot that makes you beg so beautifully: “yes, Clark, please!”

It’s clear you’re close. It hasn’t been long since Clark got acquainted with your pretty pussy, but the way she clenches is enough to clue him in.

He’s not doing any better: eyes dark behind glasses that sit askew, swollen lips parted. His only hope now is to pound into that gummy spot in you again and again and again while he spews praise in your ear—make you come before he does, because it’s too good for him not too: he’s so hard and you’re squeezing him so tight, rubbing delicious friction that’s all at once too much and not enough.

You respond with nails raked down his naked back, the mantra of ‘Clark Clark Clark’ shooting ecstasy straight to his head, fueling the piston of his hips.

The sounds of your bodies aren’t helping him hold on: wet slaps betray the mess he’s making out of your pussy. Every thrust makes him yours. Make you his.

He groans at the thought. Depraved as it is, his cock being the first to ruin your pussy does something indescribable to him. At the tail end of that thought is something sweeter:

The same way that he’s your first, you’re his. He doesn’t want any other.

He paraphrases professions of love into everything else but the words he loves working with. Instead he employs a language said by the body: through his hips now ramming deep strokes into you, the way his arms wrap around you until you can’t see anything except him. Your heels drag on his back now—he spares a second to hook one over his shoulder before plunging back into you, deepening the angle.

He glances down. Your nails sink into his arms. They look pretty.

You look pretty: eyes blank, hair a mess, skin misted with sweat as you lay arched underneath him…

“God, you’re perfect,” he breathes.

Meanwhile, you're so full your brain decides to empty itself. Its only care right now is your basest of needs.

“So good,” you whimper, “Clark you feel so good, gonna cum…”

“Yeah? Me too, honey,” he pants, voice reedy, “where do you want me?”

“Inside, p-please, need you inside—”

That answer unspools all restraint in him, and he lets his hips go of their very last bit of restraint: he pistons into you with abandon as he siphons groans into your lips in exchange for your climbing moans, the two of you feeding into each other’s lust until your heat is too much.

“I can’t, honey, I—”

It’s too late: he’s spurting all the way inside you, breathlessly gasping your name.

“Gah—nggh—”

The flooding sensation of his orgasm, hot and sticky, triggers your own. The tension shatters in your body: your legs quiver on his shoulder and around his waist, voice broken as your nerves turn into livewires that burn bright at the edges of your vision, electrifying everything to white.

He’s on you the entire time you come, breath warming your ear. The spurts don’t stop. You’ve never been fuller—until he pulls out of you and you moan, not just from the loss of his cock, but also the messy splatter of him on your stomach and tits.

The thought is faint, but the sensations are real: he’s still fucking cumming.

Now you’re just not quivering, you’re a quivering mess. Even with your senses flashbanged, slowly reconstructing themselves from that orgasm, you register the warmth that drips down your hole and onto the bedsheets.

Then the quiet lands. Your breaths even. He still hovers over you, glasses fully fogged up and crooked. The sight is stupidly hot, but you don’t like that you can’t see him.

You slowly take them off.

Blue eyes look back at you. His pupils aren’t so dilated now, and you see a different emotion in them as they widen.

Concern.

“Gosh—I—are you okay? did I hurt you? ”

He thumbs at your cheek. It’s wet. When did you start crying?

“No, no,” you stammer, “I’m fine. It’s just… that was—”

You stare, wordless. He stares back.

“It’s perfect. You’re perfect, Clark.”

His shoulders drop with heavy relief, warm breath fanning your face as he leans over you again.

“Thank goodness.”

That makes you giggle.

“Don’t laugh. I’ve wanted you for so long, I can’t possibly mess this up.”

A beat. You blink up at him. “You have?”

He doesn’t answer. Just buries his face in your neck, undoubtedly redder than before. His voice is muffled against your skin.

“I just—I like you so much it hurts.”

You huff in amusement, raking your fingers through his hair. A silent plea for him to look up at you.

He obeys. You smile, thumbing the fat of his cheek.

“When I touched myself two nights ago, I was thinking about you.”

His eyes widen, though just a fraction. Maybe it’s not so unbelievable, after all—but he allows himself to expend the last ounce of his surprise.

You raise your brow. “Is it really that unexpected?”

He kisses your fingers. Sweetly this time. “I… It’s an outcome I’ve never considered.”

You lean up. The peck lands on his chin. “Why else would I invite you to an expensive Korean barbecue, silly?”

Clark smiles so earnestly it almost blinds you. Thank God he hides in your neck again.

“So you like me, too?”

“Yep. Like, a lot.”

୨୧

Ten minutes later, you’re in the bathtub, back pressed against his chest.

The sun is setting outside, the drawn blinds creating light serrations that spill across your bathroom tiles. Metropolis is strangely quiet. The only thing you perceive is the lazy drip of the faucet into the water’s surface.

Maybe you’re just preoccupied by the replaying of your memories. Every little detail collects in the forefront like the soap suds Clark massages into your shoulders—before you know it, you’re stringing together words in your head, a momentum you can’t stop even if you wanted to.

Huh. You’re… inspired.

Maybe you should do this more often.

Clark kisses the nape of your neck as you bask in the silence. The sensation grounds you back to reality, and a realization dawns. You sit up straighter in the water.

He notices.

You turn to face him.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“My suitcase,” you say, “it’s still in your car.”

He smiles so warmly you think you might melt and be one with the bath water. The expression looks so sweet and innocent on him… except you feel his cock hardening against your ass.

“Sweetheart, I don’t think you’ll be needing clothes for a while.” 

THREE MONTHS LATER 

“C’mon, write something,” Clark pants playfully, hands on your hips, driving his cock into your weeping cunt as he watches the fat of your ass bounce with each thrust, “You can do it—you’re a smart girl, aren’t you?”

Time doesn’t make any sense, not when he’s rubbing against your walls so good, but you do know you’ve been at this for a while. Your body can’t even hold itself up: chest glued to the damp sheets, ass held up by his hands, arms limp in front of you.

Your hands rest above the keypad of a laptop. On its screen is a word processor, its typing cursor blinking back at you tauntingly. The page’s contents are measly, only about halfway filled—unlike your cunt that’s full with his length.

It’s your fault for planning so many sex scenes. But it’s the final installment of your trilogy, the perfect breeding ground for emotional sex.

You’re guessing that breeding ground is what Clark thinks about you, too, aside from his undying respect for you: because his thrusts are getting messier the way you know he’s about to cum, and sure enough, with his chest against your back and his mouth sputtering “that’s it, take it, gonna fill you up, sweetheart, you’ll let me?” in your ear.

He waits for your pathetic mewl of an okay to spill inside you.

His orgasm pulls a weak one out of you, because God knows how many times he’s made you. You shake underneath him, gasping for air while he does the same.

Then it begins: the delicious replay your mind does after every tangle with him. While the shivers ebb, your memory picks up the details…

Your feeble fingers begin to type. Slowly, as if each key ignites a thing he said not ten minutes ago.

You can hear Clark smile in his voice. He buries his lips in your hair.

“One week till the manuscript deadline,” he husks. “Let’s work hard together, yeah?”

Then his hand drifts down to play with your clit and you lose your train of thought.

Oh, well. Surely Planet Publishing can extend a deadline for their bestselling writer.

BONUS

Herons Under Sycamore Shade — Author Interview with Cat Grant

Q: Speaking of sex, there’s a lot more this time around.

A: Well, it’s the last book. I wanted it to go out with a bang, so to speak.

Q: This is a personal opinion of mine, having read all three, but you should also know that many reviewers thought the quality of erotica was somehow better in this one. To quote the Gotham Gazette: “…breathtakingly real while making you forget about reality.”

A: That’s such high praise. Thank you!

Q: What changed (between the first two installments)?

At this point, the author smiles in a way that I can only describe as coy. Don’t believe me? Ask the photographer.

A: Let’s just say I have good source material.

Scott is your best friend, your partner-in-crime. The two of you have been glued to each other’s sides for as long as you can remember. He’s a few years older than you and you grew up chasing after his footsteps, and he never seemed to mind. You never curbed that habit.

Not when you ended up graduating from the same university, with a major that complemented his future career. Not when you recruited for StormPAR because he was leading investor relations there. Not when you decided to pack up your life and move to the midwest to chase tornadoes.

In the first week of your three-month research project for the new sensors, you and Scott had a little too much to drink. One kiss led to another and suddenly you’re falling into bed with him. 

Scott hesitates initially, his words about how relationships and women are a pain echo in your mind — so you find yourself blurting out we can keep this simple, no strings. 

He only grunts in agreement before he slides into you. His mouth is hot, distracting, and the unsaid agreement is signed with the burning ache between your legs. 

So you buried your feelings, swallowed your ego, and took what he could give you. 

Because, for Scott, you’ll eat the crumbs if it means you get to keep the taste of him on your tongue. 

It should be fine — this arrangement. You get him and he gets company every night, particularly when you’re in the middle of nowhere surrounded by crazy weather fanatics. Theoretically, it should be fine.

But you never expected the addition of a new variable — Kate. 

Kate is… perfect. She’s gorgeous, sweet, and terribly smart. Within days of joining the team, she’s leading them to the greatest tornadoes, giving them the opportunity to collect prime data they’ve never been able to capture. She’s quick as a whip and she seems to get along with everyone — whether it’s the prissy, uptight StormPAR guys or the wild, free-flying tornado enthusiasts.

Once again, it should be fine, except you’ve never seen Scott so bothered by someone. She’s different, you can see it. The way he watches her, frowns at her. He calls her dandelion. You’ve always only had your name, he’s never had a cute pet name for you. You can’t help but wonder what he thinks about when he sees her.

If she is what he sees now when he fucks you. Even when you’re in bed with him, his mind is sometimes far away. He absentmindedly traces your bare shoulder, keeping you close even if his attention seems elsewhere.

You can’t watch him be silently enamored with someone else so you start leaving at the end of the night.

He doesn’t stop you.

One day, when your friend tells you about an opening for a data analyst position, you entertain it — even if it means you have to move to New York.

Because, while you love Scott, you also can’t bear to watch him fall for someone who isn’t you.

As you’re leaving his room one night, he finally stops you. He’s still naked in his bed, sheets pooled around his hips, as he catches your hand. The look on his face is indifferent when he asks you why you don’t stay; he is asking out of curiosity, not out of desire.

You’re shrugging on your shirt, back turned towards him. “I have to get up early tomorrow. I’ve got an interview.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have revealed that, but you’re exhausted and the honest answer slips.

“An interview? With who? For what?” He sounds more alert now.

“Just a job.”

“You’ve already got a job,” Scott presses, forcing you to face him with a tug of his hand. His brows are furrowed.

“I don’t know. I might want to try something different.”

He blinks at you for a moment, gears turning in his mind. “Something different,” he echoes slowly.

“It’s not a big deal,” you brush him off, “I don’t even know if I’ll get it. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

Scott, again, doesn’t say a word.

It seems so… easy for him to let you go. You know it isn’t on him to love you the same way you do him; that’s not a fair ask. But you also have enough pride to know when to take a step back.

Creating physical distance is not the challenging part; it’s dealing with the emotional toll. Every time you have to avoid your silently-designated spot next to him at bars or how you opt to take Javy’s car instead of his, a piece of your frail heart chips away. You don’t come over uninvited anymore, instead sliding under your own covers for the first time in weeks.

Scott’s not a fool. Of course, he notices but he still doesn’t say anything.

On the other hand, he actually starts talking more with Kate, private chats in the corner of a bar or early mornings over coffee. Sometimes his gaze would flick over to you, harden, and ultimately return to her. That used to be you, but you left that space empty for someone else to fill.

Then you finally get the call.

“I got the job,” you tell him quietly that night.

You told yourself this would be the last time. One last night with him before — for the first time in your life — you allow your paths to diverge. Scott in Oklahoma, you in New York.

The two of you are side by side in bed, you’ve slipped on his t-shirt, drowning in the cotton and his familiar storm-stained scent. You allow yourself to indulge in your last night.

Scott doesn’t look at you, his eyes zeroed in on the blank television screen of the crappy motel room. “Do you want it?”

No, no, you don’t. You want to stay here — with him and the rest of the team. But this is also a great opportunity, both for your career and the survival of your heart. “I think so.”

He whips around to face you, eyes flashing with what you think is irritation. “You think so? You’re not even sure?”

“Well, it’s a big jump, but I might take it,” you swallow.

“You shouldn’t do it unless you’re absolutely sure.”

You roll your eyes at him. “I’m never absolutely sure about anything.” Except for the fact that I’m in love with you and that it would destroy me if I stay and watch you fall in love with Kate.

“Then don’t go. Stay here.”

His words are cold and stiff. It’s calculated. You are an asset to the team. It would be a pain to hire a new analyst in the middle of tornado season and get them fully trained to do what you do. Maybe you could stay just another month until all this is over, maybe you can get them to postpone your start date.

But could you really do it? Could you stand by the sidelines and swallow your feelings long enough to last until the bitter end?

Sighing, you know your answer. “I’m not going to lie. I don’t think I can do this anymore. I don’t think I can be here anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

It’s now or never. If you’re leaving anyway, you might as well confront him — if you can’t have him, then at least Kate could.

“I’m not stupid, you know. I can see it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re in love.”

The pin-drop silence that ensues is deafening. Your heart thunders against your eardrums; you can hear the hitch of his breath.

“I’m not—” he stops himself, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

With a deep sigh, you extract yourself from his side. Your fingers pick at the worn linen. “I’ve never seen you like this before, Scott. And listen, I get it if you want to end all this, whatever we’re doing.” He frowns. “Kate is wonderful, so I understand.”

Scott’s furrow only deepens. “What the hell are you going on about?”

“You and Kate,” you say, tongue heavy like lead in your mouth. “You guys make a good pair. I’m happy it’s working out, but I just can’t be here to watch that happen so I’m going to take the offer and move to New York. I know it’s tough to replace my work during this time, I’ll try and stay until the end of the season, but afterwards—”

“Fuck that,” he snaps, “like hell you’re leaving. What do you mean you can’t be here anymore? What are you going on about with Kate?”

Maybe he thinks you’re badmouthing her. “She’s great! I’m happy for you. I’m just—” your chest constricts. “I’m in love with you. Shit. I’ve been in love with you, Scott. I can’t do this no-strings thing anymore. I thought I could take it, whatever scraps you’ll let me have, but I can’t. Especially not when you’re falling for someone else.”

Scott pinches the bridge of his nose and he looks more than pissed off as he looks at you. “Who said anything about falling for someone else? Also, you’re in love with me? Since when?”

A groan slips past your lips. “This is so humiliating. Can we drop it?”

“Oh, no, you started this, so you answer my question. Since when have you been in love with me?”

“Forever! Fucking forever alright. Is that what you want to hear?” You grumble, “I was in love with you before… this even started.”

You see his tongue press against the inside of his cheek, his blue eyes sharp. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you’re my friend, Scott.”

“Apparently not if you didn’t fucking tell me,” he glares.

“Would it have changed anything?”

Disbelief colors his face. “It would’ve changed everything. Are you kidding me? You’ve been in love with me all this time and you didn’t tell me?”

Is the thought of you loving him really that repulsive? He’s got his hands balled into fists on the sheets, jaw clenched like he would rather be anywhere but here. While the possibility of him rejecting you has always crossed your mind, you didn’t think that he would have this visceral a reaction. Gone are your chances of maintaining a cordial relationship after you leave.

He’s right. This changes everything.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, “I shouldn’t have—” your breath snags in your throat again, your eyes sting with unshed tears. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I don’t want this to change anything between us. We’ll stay friends.”

“We can’t stay friends,” he scowls. Your heart sinks.

You press the heel of your palms against your eyes, praying the tears away. The last thing you want to do is cry in front of him. “I can’t— I’m gonna go. I need to—”

“No, you’re staying right here so I can kiss some fucking sense into you.”

For a second, you can’t hear past the rushing in your ears, the frantic urge to leave. But when his words settle in and your brain slowly digests each individual syllable, you pull your wet hands away from your eyes. Scott swallows thickly when he sees your face.

“You think what — that I was in love with Kate?” He scoffs but there’s no weight to his words. He almost sounds weak. “What gave you that idea?”

You balk at him. It’s your turn to be confused. “You— you’re literally always watching her! You call her dandelion for god’s’ sake! Who gets a cute nickname like that?”

“That’s because I’m bad with names! You know this. You know me. It took me a while to remember her name — and I keep watching her because she’s like this little circus freak. Who the hell guesses storms by looking at goddamn flowers?”

You open your mouth, then promptly shut it again. Speechless.

“And that job? I can’t fucking believe you even thought about leaving. Leaving all this. Leaving me. You know damn well I’d never let that happen. If you really wanted it — and you were leaving for yourself, then sure, do it, but you’re out of your mind if you don’t think I’ll be following you to the ends of the earth.”

Your lungs stutter against your ribs. “What?”

Scott turns to face you, hands sliding up to cup the back of your neck. He forces you to look at him. To really look at him. “I’m in love with you. I’ve been fucking in love with you.” 

You feel the desert in your throat when you croak out, “Since when?”

“Forever.”

“Why didn’t you tell me then?”

“You were the one who said you wanted to keep it no strings! I thought you didn’t want to date.”

“That’s because you’re always going on and on about how women and relationships are a pain!”

Scott lets out a frustrated breath, as if you’re the fool in this situation. “Except when it comes to you! Jesus, you’re never a pain. You’re the best part of my day. I think about you all the goddamn time. Sometimes, I want you to stop doing this tornado chasing thing because it’s dangerous and I want you in a safe fucking bubble where nobody, nothing can touch you. But you’re passionate and I fucking love that and I fucking love you.”

“But you— what— this can’t be happening.”

“You’re a goddamn idiot.”

Your lips press together. “You love me and you’re calling me a goddamn idiot? Really?”

“That’s because you are. Fuck. I can’t believe I wasted all this time. I can’t believe I even let you take that interview,” Scott grouses, mostly to himself. “I need you to get it through your thick skull that I don’t want anyone else. It’s always been you. You think I’d let anyone tail me around like you did?”

A pinched pout forms on your lips, mostly to stop yourself from crumbling. “I just thought you felt bad for me.”

“You somehow managed to be the smartest person on this team and the biggest idiot,” he mumbles. “I love you. I’m not letting you out of my sight, you hear me. Need you in my car every day. Next to me every time we go out. I need you in my bed every night and I don’t want you leaving either. We’ll share one room from now on.”

You sniffle, “That’s very fiscally responsible of you.”

Scott chuckles, “Well, I’ll take any excuse to keep you next to me. Can’t have you getting bored with me.”

“Please,” you roll your eyes with a smile, “if we’ve survived this long without getting sick of each other, what’s forever, right?”

The reality of what you’ve just said slams into you like a truck. Heat floods your insides.

“I mean—”

“Is that a proposal?” He smirks. Before you can dig a bigger hole for yourself, Scott leans over and presses his lips against yours.

Sweet, slow, steady.

“Because I’ve got a ring with your name on it back at home. I’ve been itching for a reason to finally take it out.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter, cheeks warm.

“Yeah, well, you love me anyway.”

That, you can’t deny.

+ sam: you know how excited i was to write this and i hope it didnt disappoint. ily queen thank you for always matching my freak and my yap mwah!!

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