too soft for all of it

If Clark counted the times he tried to flirt with you, they would be in the thousands. But the funny thing was that his way of flirting was so subtle that it almost always got mistaken for his everyday kindness. Clark was affectionate with everyone; that was how he had been raised back home in Smallville, where being gentle and thoughtful was as natural as breathing.

That was why, when he bought coffee in the mornings, he never arrived with just two cups, but four: one for Lois, one for Jimmy, one for himself, and an extra one that he always handed to you. And of course, you were his coworker, even if your desk was nowhere near his the way Lois’s was. Yours sat almost four meters away, far enough for anyone to think there was no reason to include you in his coffee runs. But Clark always found an excuse.

He said Perry, the boss, had mentioned that you did excellent work whenever you collaborated with him, and that was why he wanted to get along with you. You never turned down the coffee, because there was always a smile on your face whenever he walked over to hand it to you.

Still, you were a serious person at work, the kind who avoided talking about your private life, your weekend plans, or whether you had a date on Friday night. But that did not mean you were rude. On the contrary, you carried that same warm professionalism with everyone: you greeted people politely, asked how they were doing, remembered birthdays. And that exact mix of seriousness and warmth was what intrigued Clark the most.

Because he noticed that when you laughed with Lois, it was not a professional laugh or a polite one. It was genuinely friendly, the kind of laugh that slipped out unexpectedly, the kind that made you blush a little and lower your gaze while absentmindedly touching your hair. Clark kept asking himself over and over again: what did you talk about with Lois that made you laugh like that? What topic made you let go of that professional armor you guarded so carefully?

And even though Clark had that other side, that side of Superman who flew between buildings and saved people, he never wanted to mix it with you. He did not want you to meet Superman first, nor did he want you to mistake grand heroic actions for something heartfelt. He wanted you to see only Clark: the clumsy but kind reporter, the one who sat next to Lois and handed you coffee every morning.

He did not want to compete with his own other self, because he knew perfectly well that many women mistook Superman’s idealism for love. They saw the red cape and the muscles beneath the blue suit, and they never looked beyond that. The mere thought made Clark sick, the idea of having to compete against himself just to make you like him.

Because if you did not like Clark as he was, with his sleeves half rolled up and his glasses sitting slightly crooked on his nose, then you would never like what he truly wanted you to love about him. And the worst part was that he had no idea whether you were capable of seeing beyond that. Whether you could look at the Daily Planet reporter who worked with you from time to time and find something special in him, something that did not need a cape to shine.

But anyway, that was not the point right now.

The point was that you ended up meeting him, and not in the quiet way he would have wanted. Of course not, because you specifically had to be on that bus heading toward the Daily Planet.

The very same bus that would derail when the bridge was struck by something nobody was sure about: maybe a bomb, maybe an attempted attack. The only thing anyone knew for certain was that the explosion caused the bus to fall and hang dangerously off one side, suspended over empty air.

While everyone scrambled out screaming and shoving each other, Clark could hear your heartbeat. He had memorized it without meaning to during the investigation you had been working on together over the past few weeks. He remembered exactly what your heart sounded like whenever you leaned closer to him and shook your head while the two of you reviewed documents together.

“No, I actually think we should go after the drone company,” you had whispered that time, without looking at him, your eyes fixed only on the investigation papers.

“Why?” Clark asked, leaning slightly closer to your desk.

“Because they have more connections than they seem to,” you replied, sliding a page in front of him.

“Connections to who?”

“To Luthor,” you added, and that was when you finally looked up. Your eyes met his for only a second, and Clark felt warmth spread through his chest.

That was when he blushed, but he loved the sound of your confident voice, the way your mind worked. That was why finding you in the middle of a crisis was the last thing he wanted. He did not want to see you frightened. He did not want to see you hanging from a broken bus.

But that was exactly what happened.

Clark saved people as best he could, helping down those who stumbled, those who lagged behind. In the middle of the chaos, you helped an elderly woman who could not climb through the emergency window. Everyone else was too terrified, thinking only about saving themselves, but you took the woman’s hand and helped her climb out.

Then the bus jerked violently, and you nearly fell, but you managed to grab onto the edge of the window frame. When the woman finally made it out, you reached your hand toward a man standing outside, waiting to help pull you up.

But then the bus shifted again, this time even harder. You felt the floor tilt beneath your feet, and you closed your eyes. You thought it would be the last time you ever saw the world. You thought about your family, about your empty desk at the Planet.

But Clark was never going to let anything happen to you.

He moved so fast you did not even hear the wind. In a single second, his firm hands were around your waist, holding you safely in the air. You opened your eyes on instinct and wrapped your arms around him as tightly as you could, without thinking, without hesitation.

When you looked down, you saw solid ground beneath your feet. The people around you began cheering and clapping excitedly. Slowly, you pulled away from him, still trembling slightly, and lifted your gaze.

Superman stood in front of you.

Your eyes shone like two coins beneath the sunlight. You looked at the dark blue suit, the red and yellow emblem across his chest, the red cape flowing in the wind. It was him. It was really him.

“Are you alright?” Superman asked, his voice deep yet calm.

You simply nodded without saying a word. You could not speak. You could not stop staring at him.

“Are you sure?” he insisted, tilting his head slightly.

You nodded again, but this time with a small smile you could not hold back.

Superman smiled too, quick but genuine. “Good,” he said, and with a soft rush of air, he lifted into the sky, turning before flying away between the buildings.

You remained standing there, your heart still pounding, watching the blue-and-red figure grow smaller and smaller until he disappeared completely.

No one was injured. Nothing terrible had happened. Superman had saved the day once again.

Little by little, the people on the street stopped screaming, the children stopped crying, the cars began moving again as though nothing had happened. The damaged bus was already safely on the ground, and all the passengers were unharmed, hugging one another or calling their families to tell them they were okay.

You stayed there for another moment, your hands still trembling slightly from the shock, but quickly you did what you knew best: being a journalist.

You approached people, pulled a small notebook from your jacket pocket, and began asking questions.

“How did it feel when the bus tilted?” you asked an older woman with gray hair.

“Did you see how Superman arrived?” you asked a young man who was still shaking.

You moved from person to person, taking notes, listening to every testimony, and once you had gathered enough information, you practically ran back to the Daily Planet.

There, in the newsroom, you stood before all your coworkers and recounted everything in vivid detail. You told them about the bridge, the explosion, the hanging bus, and you also told them how Superman had appeared out of nowhere to catch you in midair and bring you safely down.

Clark listened to you from his desk, his elbows resting on scattered papers and his beard pressed against one hand. He watched you gesture excitedly, watched you smile whenever you mentioned Superman, and he thought everything was fine.

It was only one interaction, he told himself. Sooner or later Superman was going to save you. I should not be afraid. I should not worry.

You were just his coworker. Nothing more.

But maybe what happened afterward was his own fault.

Because that same night, Clark could not help himself.

After finishing his shift at the Planet, after waving goodbye to Jimmy, after walking several blocks until he reached a dark alley where nobody could see him, he removed his glasses, straightened his back, pulled open his shirt, and revealed the blue suit hidden underneath.

A second later, he was already flying above the rooftops of Metropolis.

The cool night wind brushed against his face, the city lights glowing below like countless tiny stars. But he did not patrol the city the way he usually did. He did not go searching for trouble or stopping thieves.

He went straight to your building. Straight to your window.

He hovered there in the air, his boots barely grazing the ledge, and looked at you through the glass.

You were inside, holding a cup of tea, still dressed in your work clothes. You looked up and saw him. Your body tensed slightly at first, but you did not scream or panic. You only stared at him with curiosity, as though you were trying to understand why the most powerful man in the world was floating outside your window on a Tuesday night.

You slowly opened the window and remained standing in the frame, the cool air moving through your hair.

“What are you doing here, Superman?” you asked nervously.

Of course you were nervous. Your voice sounded slightly higher than usual, and your fingers tightened around the tea cup more than necessary.

Superman looked directly into your eyes. He tried to smile calmly, confidently, even though inside his heart was pounding like a drum.

“I… always make sure the people I save are truly alright and get home safely,” Superman said, using that firm yet kind voice he always used.

You nodded slowly, never taking your eyes off him. Your nervousness gradually shifted into something closer to amusement. Tilting your head slightly, the same way you did whenever you cornered someone with questions at the Planet, you asked:

“And… have you already visited the nearly twenty people you saved besides me?”

One eyebrow lifted slightly.

Of course you were not easy to fool.

She’s a journalist, Clark thought. She questions everything. She finds logic where everyone else sees coincidence. She likes being right and uncovering the truth, even when it hurts.

But right now, with Superman floating outside your window, you did not seem to be in investigation mode.

You only seemed curious.

You only seemed… interested.

“Yes,” Superman answered quickly, maybe too quickly.

Your eyes widened slightly in surprise. You had not expected that answer.

“Really?” you asked skeptically.

“Really,” Superman insisted, although inside Clark thought, I’m such a liar.

He had not visited anyone else. He had flown directly to your window without thinking about anything else. But he could not tell you that. He could not tell you that your heartbeat was the only one he wanted to hear that night.

Three days passed. Clark thought it would not happen again, that the visit had been a mistake, a foolish impulse he should not repeat. But then the thing he feared most and wanted most at the same time happened.

He came back.

He could not help it. Once again, he was floating outside your window, another night, once again wearing the blue suit and the red cape flowing behind him. You opened the glass as if you had already been expecting him, and in your hand you held a small plate with a slice of chocolate cake, a shiny metal fork resting beside it.

“Come in,” you said, nodding toward the inside. Superman stayed floating for a moment, not knowing what to do.

“Don’t just stay out there. It’s cold. Well, I suppose you don’t feel cold, but it still looks weird. Come in.”

Superman entered slowly, almost fearfully, as if it were the first time he had ever stepped into a normal place. He stood in the middle of your living room, still wearing the suit, not daring to sit on the couch or touch anything. He looked as if he did not want to be in the way, as if he were afraid of breaking something just by existing.

You laughed a little at how stiff he looked.

“Sit down, Superman,” you told him, placing the plate with the cake in his hand. “It’s to thank you. For the bus.”

He took the plate carefully.

“Thank you,” he said softly. “You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did,” you replied, sitting across from him on the couch with your legs crossed. “A flying man doesn’t save your life every day. That deserves at least some cake.”

Clark, disguised as Superman, felt his chest fill with warmth. It was so easy to be like this with you. He did not stutter or say ridiculous things that made him look foolish, the way he did when he was Clark at the office. With the suit, with the deeper voice, with the confidence that came from not having to hide, he could smile for real. He could joke. He could make you laugh.

And you liked it. He could see it in your eyes. He could see it in the way you relaxed around him.

The following week, you invited him inside again. You no longer asked why he was there. You simply opened the window, he came in, and you continued doing your own thing while he stood nearby or sat on the edge of the couch without bothering you.

One night, you were cooking, and the aroma filled the whole apartment. Superman was floating near the window, looking outside, when you called him.

“Hey, Superman, since you’re here, do you want dinner? I made extra. It’s incredible having Superman as a friend. Not everyone can say that.”

Clark smiled inwardly.

Friend, he thought. Friend is fine. It’s a good start.

So he walked over to the table, sat down on a chair that creaked slightly under his weight, and you served him a plate of your dinner: rice, beans, a warm tortilla, and some shredded chicken. He ate slowly, enjoying every bite, not so much because of the food, but because of the moment. Because he was there with you, in your small kitchen, with the sound of the television in the background and the sound of your laughter every time he said something funny.

After two months, you were already joking with Superman as if he were your lifelong best friend. You let him see that side of you that you only showed Lois: the funny side, the one that teased affectionately, the one that made bad jokes and laughed at them before even finishing them.

And now you shared that with Clark.

Well… with Superman.

But to Clark, that was fine. As long as it was with you, he did not care what name you used for him.

One night, after dinner, you were washing the dishes and Superman was leaning against the kitchen wall, his arms crossed over his chest. You had a stain of sauce on the sleeve of your sweater and were scrubbing it with a cloth using your “secret cleaning recipe for small stains.”

“Please, Superman,” you said, turning to look at him with a teasing smile, “I can’t believe Superman doesn’t know this secret for removing stains from clothes. What, do you use your laser vision to get stains out and then just buy new clothes?”

Superman placed a hand over his chest, pretending to be offended.

“Miss, I also have a life of my own. I have to wash my clothes from time to time too.”

“Really?” you asked, laughing. “With what? Rainwater from the clouds? Kryptonite soap?”

“You’re very funny,” Superman said, shaking his head. He took one step closer to the kitchen and rested one hand on the counter. “My apologies, Miss Perfect. Although weren’t you the one who said you had never burned a tortilla in the pan…”

Your eyes widened.

“What?”

“…while you were burning a tortilla in the pan,” Superman finished, nodding toward the stove. In the pan you had left on the burner, a tortilla was slowly smoking, its edge already black as coal.

“Ah!” you shouted, rushing toward the stove to turn off the flame. You grabbed a spatula and lifted the tortilla, which crumbled into black pieces over the pan. You stared at the remains and let out a laugh. “This… this doesn’t count. I was distracted.”

“Of course it doesn’t count,” Superman said, his smile growing wider.

“Shut up!” you replied, throwing a wet cloth at him, which he caught in midair without even looking.

The two of you ended up laughing.

You stood there with your hands on your waist, pretending to be angry but unable to hold back your laughter. He kept his head lowered, laughing softly, enjoying every second as if it were a treasure.

That became his favorite part of every day.

Because Clark did not talk much at the office. When he was near you as Clark, the words got tangled on his tongue, his hands sweated, and he always ended up saying something awkward like “what nice weather,” even if it was raining.

But in the evenings, when he put on the suit and flew over the buildings of Metropolis, everything changed. After patrolling the whole city, after making sure there were no thieves in the streets or fires in the buildings, he always ended up in the same place: outside your window.

And you were always there waiting for him, with a ready smile, with a plate of warm food or a steaming cup of tea. Sometimes you told him how your day at work had gone. Sometimes you read him some bad joke you had found online. Sometimes you simply stayed in silence watching television, and that silence was better than any conversation.

Clark had never felt so lucky in his entire life.

Because he had someone waiting for him.

And that someone was you.

That was how, in the third month, the night Clark would never forget finally arrived.

You were working on something for the Planet, your laptop resting on the dining table and a pile of messy papers scattered around you. Superman sat on your couch, even though the hero was enormous and his broad shoulders barely fit between the cushions. He had to arrange his red cape to one side so he would not sit on it, then crossed one leg over the other as if he were just another guest in an ordinary home.

In one hand, he held the little bun you had given him, the warm bun with jam that you always prepared for him when he arrived. He took a slow bite while watching you curiously from the couch. He saw the way you frowned while reading a document, the way you bit your lip when something did not convince you, the way you turned the pages quickly.

And then, in the middle of that comfortable silence, an idea lit up in Clark’s mind.

Oh, God, he thought.

He had the chance to do what he had been thinking about for months. He wanted to see if Superman could make you jealous. Of course it would hurt to know that you were in love with Superman, because that would mean you, like so many others, only saw the cape and the emblem.

But he still wanted to test it.

He needed to know.

So he cleared his throat, a dry sound that broke the silence in the room.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, glancing at him for only a second before lowering your gaze back to your computer. Your fingers kept typing quickly, without stopping.

Superman straightened slightly on the couch. He placed the bun on a plate sitting on the coffee table and clasped his hands over his knees. He tried to sound casual, as if your answer did not matter too much, even though inside, his heart was pounding.

“Well… today, a woman I saved from a money robbery told me that… I was the most handsome man of all,” he said, looking directly at you, waiting for your reaction.

His blue eyes did not blink. They observed every small movement of your face, every shift in your expression.

You looked up and laughed. A short, sincere laugh, as if you had just heard the silliest joke in the world. You shook your head and looked back at the screen.

“Oh, really? How nice,” you said, giving it no more importance.

Clark felt his hope deflate like a punctured balloon.

He began to think it had all been his imagination. Maybe nobody caught your attention at all. Maybe neither Superman nor Clark could ever reach your heart. Maybe you were too focused on your work, your reports, your investigations, to notice anyone. That thought tightened around his chest with a cold sadness.

Then you sighed, pushed your computer slightly to the side, and removed your glasses to look at him better. You folded them carefully and placed them on the table. You leaned back in your chair and crossed your arms, your expression relaxed, almost amused.

“Although I don’t believe that,” you said, tilting your head as if analyzing him without any shame, thanks to the trust you already had in Superman.

You picked up your glass of soda, took a long sip, and then set it down beside the laptop.

“I know someone more handsome than you,” you added, and your eyes shone with something almost tender.

Superman felt disappointed inside, but he did not show it. His face remained the same: calm, confident, with that faint smile he always wore. Although inside, Clark was dying of curiosity and fear at the same time.

“Really? Who?” Superman asked, leaning slightly forward. His voice sounded calm, but in reality, every fiber of his being was on alert.

He would finally know who you were in love with. It had to be someone from the Daily Planet, he was sure of it. Lois had said it once; he had heard her when she told you in the newsroom, “If you don’t speak, he won’t know you like him either. Looks aren’t enough.”

Clark remembered those words as if it had been yesterday. So he waited for your answer slowly, holding his breath without realizing it.

“Man, he interviewed you. You’ve seen him up close. Clark Kent, of course,” you said with complete certainty, and a smile appeared on your lips. “He’s handsome, isn’t he? More than you.”

Superman lowered his gaze.

He could not look at you. If he looked at you in that moment, he would give himself away. He would smile like an idiot or say something stupid that would ruin everything. So he kept staring at his own red boots, his hands clenched over his knees.

You noticed his silence, and your tone softened a little.

“Don’t feel bad,” you said, your voice kind, almost affectionate. “You have to understand that I’m always going to put the person I like first. And I like Clark.”

That made everything worse.

Because just as you finished saying those words, Clark felt his throat close up. The piece of bun he had been nibbling on a moment ago went straight down his throat, making him choke. It was not truly dangerous, of course; his lungs could handle far more than that. But the shock, the emotion, and the surprise made him cough like a normal person. A dry, strong cough that shook his whole body.

Your eyes widened, and you immediately stood up. You grabbed your glass of soda and brought it to his mouth without hesitating for even a second.

“Drink, drink!” you said, panic in your voice.

Superman took the glass with trembling hands and drank a couple of long sips. The cold liquid slid down his throat, and the bun finally went down. He coughed twice more and then took a deep breath.

You looked at him with a frown, still worried.

“Are you okay?” you asked, your hand still close to his shoulder, as if you wanted to hold him but did not quite dare.

Superman nodded slowly.

“Too many buns,” he said in a hoarse voice, touching his chest with one hand.

You smiled and nodded, relieved. You sat back down in your chair, but you no longer looked as relaxed as before. Something in your gaze had changed.

Superman, or rather Clark inside the suit, stayed silent for a moment, thinking quickly. He had to ask. He had to know more. He could not leave without understanding how it was possible that you, such an intelligent journalist, so observant, so good at your job, had not realized he was the same man who sat at the desk nearby.

“Hey… but… how…” Superman began, then stopped. He ran a hand over the back of his neck, pretending to be confused. “Clark Kent… I didn’t think he was your type,” he said, trying to sound like a curious friend and not like Clark himself, dying to hear your answer.

You laughed, soft and sincere, and closed your laptop with a gentle tap. You leaned back in your chair again, your arms crossed over your chest, and looked at him with a calmness that made his knees tremble inwardly.

“He is my type,” you answered, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Then your gaze turned a little sad, a little embarrassed.

“But… I’m bad at showing someone I like them. I don’t speak. I don’t make the first move. I think a look can be enough. Lois scolded me… surely you know Lois. She’s the only one who knows at work.”

Superman’s eyes opened a little wider than usual.

“Lois knows?” he said, almost startled, his voice coming out higher than he intended. He cleared his throat again. “And she never…?”

He stopped himself just in time. He swallowed and lowered his eyes to his hands.

“I never imagined,” he said quietly.

You tilted your head, studying him with that journalist’s gaze of yours that noticed everything.

“Are you okay?” you asked, and then your voice became more serious, almost a whisper. “Hey, don’t tell him. Clark, I mean. He seems intimidated by my presence, and I don’t want him to pull away from me. At least this way, I can keep him close, even if it’s only through work.”

Clark felt his stomach flip.

“Intimidate him?” Superman asked, his voice louder than he intended, almost a strangled shout.

You nodded slowly, your lips pressed together.

“Clark… well… I don’t know. I feel like maybe he thinks I’m weird. He always pulls away and then he’s kind. It’s confusing. He’s always kind. It would be bad to mistake him doing something because he likes me. Maybe that’s just how he acts with everyone,” you admitted, and for the first time all night, your gaze became uncertain.

You played with the edge of your shirt without realizing it.

Superman shook his head slowly, with a smile he could not completely hide.

“No…” he said, and you lifted your gaze toward him. “Clark… he’s actually… weird.”

You let out a short laugh.

“I already know that.”

“But he might like you,” Superman said, and the sentence left his mouth before he could stop it.

He stood up abruptly, almost tripping over his own cape.

“I… I’m leaving. I think… something is happening,” he said, walking toward the window with long steps.

“Suddenly?” you asked, standing up too, one hand on your hip and one eyebrow raised.

Superman nodded without looking at you. He was nervous. Too nervous. If he stayed one second longer, he would tell you everything. He would remove his imaginary glasses and say, It’s me. I’m Clark. The one you like.

So he simply nodded again, harder this time.

“Fine,” you said, your voice calm, confident. “Then save the city.”

Superman smiled, a huge smile that filled his face and carved dimples into his cheeks.

“I will,” he said, and before you could answer, he was already jumping through the window, floating into the dark air of Metropolis.

Clark flew as fast as he could. He left all of Metropolis behind in a second, then the entire state, then the whole country. He flew around the world. Literally.

He felt the cold air strike his face, felt the wind whistle between the folds of his cape, felt his cheeks burning from emotion and not from speed. He reached space, where Earth looked small and blue and beautiful, and there, where no one could hear him, he screamed.

He screamed with all his strength, a cry of happiness with no end.

He dropped back into the atmosphere with a smile so wide his cheeks hurt, his dimples marked like two little lines on his face.

Nothing else mattered.

Only you.

Only you saying Clark was handsome, more than Superman. Only you saying you liked Clark.

Now he knew what to do. It did not matter how foolish he acted. It did not matter if he stuttered or said something ridiculous. It did not matter if his hands sweated or if he turned as red as a tomato.

He was going to ask you out.

That was a fact.

He only needed to find the courage, and right now, after hearing your voice say his name with so much certainty, he felt like he could move mountains.

Or fly around the world.

Or both.

"Where have you been?" you breathe while you basically sprint toward him. Your arms extend just the right amount enough for him to crash into you and scoop you up into his hold. Then to spin you around while squeezing you so tightly that you think your spine might snap in half.

You welcome that, though. It's better than being here alone while he's off-planet and you're making yourself sick over whether or not he'll ever come home. You let yourself be engulfed in him, in his crushing hold, in this tight hug, because at least he's here.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers. He presses a kiss onto your temple, gentle and reverent, and you melt into him. Wrap your legs around his waist just to pull him closer to you, to feel the press of his hard, familiar body against yours.

"The mission wasn't supposed to last that long. Everything that could have gone wrong ended up going wrong."

The sigh he pushes out against your temple is full of solace. Maybe a little guilt, as well, judging by the way he tightens his grip on your waist. He buries his face in your hair right after that.

Definitely a not-so-subtle way of inhaling your scent after he'd lost it for two weeks.

You pull back and shake your head.

"Doesn't matter. I'm so happy you're home," you confess through a breathy, relieved laugh.

Your hands, still tingling from the excitement of seeing him after so long, somehow manage to find their way up to his face. You brush your thumbs over the apples of his cheeks while your eyes reorient themselves with his beautiful features. Although he'd been gone for what felt like an eternity, you never forgot what he looked like.

Which proves a problem, because he doesn't look the same as when he left.

Clark leans in to kiss you, but you don't let him. You ignore your body when it screams at you to let him do it. You quickly press your hand over his mouth to hold him back, earning a confused little hum from your boyfriend. When his brow knits together, you bite back a laugh that very desperately wants to burst from your chest.

There's no doubt in your mind that he wants to kiss you even more than you want to kiss him, but that's not happening until you figure out what's new.

"What on Earth are you doing?" he mumbles against your palm.

"Shh. Hang on," you command, eyes still combing over his features. Your hands follow, fingers gently tracing over his soft, warm skin. He's got a little bit of stubble, which was to be expected. Apparently he had access to a mirror to shave with off-planet, though, because it's more of a five o'clock shadow than actual stubble.

You blink a few times. Your fingers trace over the sharp line of his jaw, and the straight, prominent bridge of his nose, and his high-set cheekbones, and his brow, and...anything on him that you can get your hands on.

"M'starting to feel like a lab experiment. Are you high?" he teases, words a little slurred because you're too busy poking and prodding at his cheeks. Laughs at you, too, giving you a glimpse at that beautiful smile you've missed so much. That smile that's the same as it was when he left.

So...his face is the same. What the hell?

"You're different."

His hold on you gets a little more firm. The easygoing, relaxed features you know so well tighten and morph into concern. A furrowed brow instead of a relaxed one. Widened, slightly scared eyes. Tensed shoulders, an even more tense jaw, and his lips quirking downward into a frown.

"Okay, now you're scaring me."

He sets you down in front of him to get a good look at the top of your head, to crane over you like he always does since he's so fucking big.

"Are you sure you're alright, honey? Did you hit your head or something while I was gone?"

He cradles the back of your head with one hand, clearly feeling for a bump or indent or anything that could explain your odd behavior. Then he leans in a little further to get an even closer look.

And that's when it hits you.

When he tilts to the left to look at where his fingers are basically mapping out and exploring your skull, your eyes fall on his hair, and everything starts to fall into place.

On the way that the curls atop of his head are longer. More defined. Water falling over his head and ever-so-slightly adding to that signature curl that always rests on his forehead.

Then your eyes travel down to the back of his head, at the way his hair is longer there, too. Long enough now that it curls at the nape of his neck, or to stick out and curl upward in the case of some of the thicker ones; a subtle difference, but enough to throw you off.

Enough to turn you on, too, because his hair has never been this long. How he managed to grow it this much over two weeks is beyond you; blame it on Kryptonian biology, maybe.

All you know is that you love it.

"It's your hair!" you squeal. "It's longer!"

"Oh, yeah," he says, face melting back into that general, lovey-dovey, gooey ease he usually has when he looks at you. He chuckles and releases your head, opting for reaching down and grabbing your hands instead.

"It's a little overgrown. I was gonna cut it when I got home."

You scoff. Why do men always cut their hair when it finally looks perfect?

"No, don't you dare! I'll break up with you if you do that!"

You get an eye roll from him for that one, but the way he's smiling down at you makes you think he's not all that upset.

"You think it looks good, huh?"

"It's so pretty, Clark," you purr. You must have laid that soft compliment on him much thicker than you thought you did. His cheeks turn pink, and he grins, and he looks down at your intertwined fingers to avoid turning any redder.

You break free of his hold to touch some of those longer curls, but your fingers stall at his suit's collar. It's different. A little shorter, maybe? The gap in the middle at his throat just a little wider? You aren't sure. Either way, you can see more skin. More of that beautiful, golden skin you dream about being pressed against yours at all hours of the day.

You lean back far enough to look at the rest of his suit, which is also slightly different. Still the same bright blue. Still the same gorgeous, flowing cape. But that symbol, the beacon of hope on the front of his chest is a little bigger. And the stretch of the fabric is a little tighter around his biceps. And those ridiculous trunks - the part that genuinely makes you salivate the most despite being so ridiculous - are a little higher up.

Fuck. He looks incredible.

"This...is this a new suit?"

He beams down at you. Steps back to do a quick little spin. You've never had a problem with a show-and-tell moment. Especially when he's showing himself off.

"You like it? It's not technically new, just...upgraded. Had to get Ma to fix the old one 'cause it was super beat up. She made a couple changes along the way."

He braces his hands on his hips and puffs out his chest. Something that should make you laugh, but now that you can see just how well his not-so-new but definitely-new-at-the-same-time suit's clinging to his thighs, you can't speak.

So you swallow when you're done ogling him and your eyes meet again. It was much harder than you wanted it to be. He definitely heard it, and the way he visibly softens and drops his mouth open tells you he's about to ask if you're okay again.

You don't give him the chance to do it, though, because you're too busy pouncing on him. Jumping into his arms and smashing your lips against his. Clark groans at your suddenness, but he doesn't skip a fucking beat. He'd been waiting to kiss you, after all; makes sense that he'd reciprocate it so quickly.

The kiss is immediately hot. It's heavy and obscenely needy on both ends. Your teeth click together in the most deliciously painful way. Your tongues fight for purchase in each others' mouths. Your hands tangle in his thick, longer hair while his hands slide down to your ass, groping it about as roughly as he knows you can handle while he stumbles out of your living room and toward your bedroom instead.

Your dorky giant trips over his own feet a couple times. His cape doesn't really help, either. Gets caught up and tangled in his boots, makes his steps all wobbly before he kicks your bedroom door open and bounds for your bed. And yet, through all that stumbling and near-falling, he manages to keep you steady in his grasp.

The best part about being with Superman? You never have to worry about him dropping you.

Clark doesn't even break the kiss as he kneels on the edge of your bed and bends over to lay you down on it. You're the first one to break it, and it's only so that you can suck in a breath to prevent passing out.

Damn him and his ability to hold his breath for an hour.

"I've thought about this," Clark mutters, leaning down to kiss your jaw and neck about as frantically as possible, "every single second that I was gone."

You laugh and tilt your head back to give him more access to your skin.

"Ditto," is all you can muster as a response. Your head is swimming with lust and a tiny bit of oxygen deprivation, and he doesn't make it any better when he nips at the sensitive spot at the junction where your neck meets your shoulder. His tongue laves over the new sore spot and pulls a moan out of you that you had no idea was nestled in your lungs.

When you unravel your legs from his waist, he settles between them. You have to hold back a whimper as soon as you feel the thick, warm hardness of his cock against your inner left thigh.

You whine, tugging on his hair to get him out of your neck while you tell him, "Kiss me. I haven't seen you in two weeks."

He obliges, but he does it in his own way. A smirk against your hammering pulse at the side of your neck. A few kisses in a trail toward your collarbones. A thin, hot line that he licks up the column of your throat.

"Anything for you, baby," he mumbles just before connecting your lips again. This kiss is slower than the last one, but so much messier. So much deeper. His tongue doesn't even need to slide over your bottom lip and beg for purchase in your mouth - you both went into it open mouthed and burning with need for each other.

You raise your hips to meet the stiff length of his cock. Even through all of your combined layers of clothing, the feeling of his hardness just hardly bumping against your clit is enough to make your walls flutter and clench.

Clark gently rolls his hips against yours, eliciting a moan from both of you. That was some very much-needed friction. It only exacerbates your need. Makes you burn. Makes you tighten your hold on his curls and pull on them again.

He groans and breaks the kiss, but his hips instinctively buck against yours. It takes all of your strength to not come from seeing the thin string of saliva keeping you connected.

Clark lets out a nervous little chuckle.

"This reunion celebration won't last long if you keep pulling my hair like that, honey."

In a playful act of defiance, you twirl some of his thick curls around your fingers and give them another tug. You smirk up at him when his hips buck again.

"You like having your hair pulled that bad, Clark?"

"I like it a normal amount, thank you very much," he sarcastically counters, but his eyes shift away from yours and he buries his face in your neck to attack it with kisses again. He's always been a bad liar.

"So if I do this," you pause to pull on his hair again - a little harder, a little quicker.

"You won't come in your cute trunks?"

Clark literally shudders. His hand falls to your left hip so he can pin you down on the mattress; it was just to get you off of him, to keep you from brushing against his cock again. Prevents him from blowing his load before you even get your hands on him.

"No, I won't." His voice went up about 10 octaves. You laugh at him and kiss his temple just before he can start moving down your chest.

With a flick of his wrist, the buttons on your work blouse are done for. They pop off of you and fling around your room, hitting the walls and clinking down onto the floor all over the place.

"I liked that shirt!" you squeak out. Your feeble little attempt at scolding him bounces right off of him, though.

"I'll buy you another one, honey. Don't worry about it."

Clark spreads your now destroyed shirt open and kneels between your legs so he can get a good look at you. All you can do is push yourself up on your elbows and watch his gaze slowly travel over your bare, heaving chest, your kiss-swollen lips, the soft, pinkish-red marks he'd left on your neck to claim you as his.

But he doesn't speak until he meets your eyes. When his lust for you gets swept aside, and he smiles so big that his dimples pop out. He reaches down to grab your hands. As your fingers intertwine with his, he lowers his voice to a whisper and confesses, "I missed you so much."

Clark's sweet, tender-hearted nature isn't something you're unfamiliar with. He's always got that big heart of his on his sleeve. Always displaying sincerity, and compassion, and kindness because he was raised that way. That's just the way he operates.

And yet there's something so special about when he's directing it at you. Something more genuine, something sweeter and kinder and more compassionate.

Because he loves you. Sure, he loves the people in Metropolis. He cares about them and their well-being.

But at the end of the day, he really, really loves you.

"I love you," he coos while his massive hands give your much smaller ones a tight squeeze.

See?

"I love you," you return without hesitation. You get a flash of that pretty grin from your dorky giant.

Then he leans down to kiss a trail down between your breasts, down your stomach, and toward your waist. He stops there. His hands, big and warm and gentle as ever despite the frantic need threatening to explode out of him, graze over the bottom of the skirt you wore to work. Thankfully, it isn't too tight.

Not like that'd be a problem. He'd just tear it off of you. But, seeing as he already tattered one piece of your clothing today...well, at least you get to salvage the skirt.

Clark pushes your skirt up until it's bunched around your hips. As soon as he gets a glimpse of what he's been missing for 14 long, long days, he lets out a shaky little sigh. His thumb gently glides over the wet patch in the middle of your panties, slow and exploratory and so fucking intoxicating that you're worried you might actually be drunk on him.

"Clark, don't," you cut yourself off with a pathetic whine as he presses down on your clit through your panties. One of your legs jolts and falls over his shoulder, the other still pressed down on the mattress because his big hand's claimed its spot on your thigh.

"Shit, don't tease!"

"I'm not teasing," he mutters. Starts rubbing soft circles on the sensitive little bundle of nerves, making you twitch and claw at the sheets beneath you just to keep it together.

"Just admiring you, sweetheart. Wish you could see how pretty you are when you're making a mess for me like this," he purrs, leaning forward to press a few soft kisses on your thigh. That five o'clock shadow burns your thighs. God, you missed that burn.

As he's marking up your thigh with soft bites that he suckles on to soothe your pain, that thumb slips away from your clit to push your panties to the side.

It all happens so fast. One second, he's torturing you through your panties, the next, he's dipping his head down to suck your clit into his mouth. You gasp and instinctively reach for him, one hand tangling in his hair while the other meets his where it rests on your thigh.

His longer hair is incredible, to say the least. It looks good. Fits him very well. Makes him look more mature even though he's already in his 30s.

Also, though? Fantastic to pull on while he's seated between your thighs and taking you to heaven. It keeps you grounded while he's moving down and dipping his tongue into your cunt. Plus, every time you yank on it, you get rewarded with a moan or grunt from him that shoots deep, gravelly vibrations straight up your core.

A particular gentle shake of his head while he's attempting to get his tongue deeper into you has you seeing stars. His nose gives your clit some much needed attention; enough attention, in fact, for you to whimper his name so loudly that it echoes within your room.

Also enough attention to get you to finish almost immediately.

You come so hard that your eyes might permanently be stuck rolled back in your head. While your body falls apart beneath him, the only thing keeping your soul from leaving it is that tight hold you've still got on his hair. You pull it a little harder as you're cresting over that wave that brings you to paradise, and while you're convulsing and trembling, he's letting out a rather loud moan of his own to match yours.

You come down a few moments later thanks to Clark's muttered sweet nothings and his gentle touches.

"Atta girl," he purrs through a few kisses he's pressing on your inner thighs. You keen. Then you blurt out a command to him, something telling him to get up off the floor so you can really get this party started.

"Um," he murmurs through an awkward laugh, "I think...maybe I'll just stay down here a little longer. If that's alright with you, of course."

That piques your interest. He does love to go down on you, but he's never turned down your begging for him to fuck you. You push yourself up on your elbows and take a good look at him.

At his widened eyes that keep darting away from you. At his bright red cheeks. At the way his chest is heaving much more than you'd expect it to be right now when he hasn't even really done anything.

You let out a weak giggle.

"What the hell are you talking about? You okay, Kent?"

"Yeah," he lies. A literal lie through his teeth. He pushed that little word out at you through a grin.

"Then come up here, weirdo," you tell him. "Sit against the headboard and let me repay you."

He presses his lips into a thin line. Swallows so thickly that you can see his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. But, he's never been anything less than obedient, so he very reluctantly starts the process of doing as you say.

As soon as he pushes himself up from the floor where he was kneeling in front of you, you see what the problem is and why he wanted to stay down there a little longer. It's in the form of a relatively large wet patch on the front of his trunks.

No wonder he moaned so loudly when you yanked on his hair while you came.

It riddles you with guilt when you feel the giggle bubbling up and out of your mouth at his expense, but you couldn't hold it back if you tried.

"Clark, did you-"

"I don't wanna talk about it," he grumbles, cutting you off relatively effectively. You cover your mouth with one hand and gnaw on your bottom lip. That helps you hold in your laugh.

It passes a few seconds later.

You shake your head.

"We don't have to."

As he reaches up to release the latches that secure his cape to his shoulders, you clear your throat.

"So...you definitely like it more than a normal amount when I pull on your hair, huh?"

Clark tosses his head back to let out a loud groan. You fall into a fit of giggles, but he's not having any of it. He huffs and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Enjoy it now, because I'm cutting it in the morning just to spite you."

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

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 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!)

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)

​"And why are we here?" you asked, trying to feign anger still.

​"I don't like it when you're mad at me, sweetheart," he murmured softly. The nickname sounded just slightly different when he was dressed in rich velvet, and sitting in an expensive car.

​You climbed out, the silk of your dress catching the sea breeze, and perched yourself on the sleek, red bonnet of the car. Clark followed immediately, his coat discarded, sliding onto the metal beside you. When you pointedly shuffled a few inches away, he simply closed the gap, his shoulder bumping yours.

​"You're so cute when you're mad," he teased, though his eyes held something that felt anything but playful.

​"Don't belittle me, Clark. You can't just drive me to our spot and expect everything to be okay."

​A cold, salty gust of wind swept over the cliff then, and you couldn't suppress the shiver that ran down your spine. 

​"C’mere," Clark said, his voice soft. Before you could protest, he hooked his hands under your arms and pulled you up and directly into his lap.

​Suddenly, you were encased in him. He was a solid wall of heat, his arms wrapping around your waist to block out the cold. His familiar, clean scent filled your senses. He tucked his chin over your shoulder, pulling you flush against his chest.

​"Better?" he whispered into your ear.

The contrast was jarring. Barely an hour ago, you were surrounded by the suffocating opulence of Lex Luthor’s wedding. Now, there was only the salt spray, the hum of the Ferrari and Clark's warmth.

"We shouldn't have left," you breathed, though you made no move to get away from him. "Lex is going to notice his car is missing. As is his best man.”

"You're forgetting that Lex has a bride to keep him occupied tonight," Clark murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to hum through your very marrow. 

You knew that tone in his voice too well, and your breath hitched in response. 

"He won’t miss the car, and he certainly won’t miss his best man."

He shifted, his nose brushing the sensitive skin behind your ear. "Besides, I had to get you out of there."

"Why?" you asked, your voice barely a breath as his lips grazed your pulse.

"Too many men looking at you," he whispered, his voice clouding with something darker. He wasn't even trying to hide it. "Too many people trying to find an excuse to get close to you. It was starting to get to me."

You turned your face slightly towards him in the cradle of his arms. "Oh, so this is a rescue? A selfless act for your own peace of mind?"

"Partly," he answered, a small, sheepish smirk playing on his lips. "Is it so wrong to want my girl to myself?"

He pressed a kiss to the slope of your shoulder, his lips barely grazing the skin, yet the heat of it made your eyes flutter shut. It was dizzying— the freezing chill of the Atlantic breeze a stark contrast against the burning furnace of his body. Looking out at the moonlight dancing over the waves, the anger you’d been nursing all evening began to dissolve, feeling petty and distant.

"Is this how you plan to make it up to me?" you asked, breathless, as his hand drifted to your hair, brushing the strands away to expose the nape of your neck.

"Does it feel like a good start?" he countered, as he pressed his lips to the curve of your throat, his pull a little too sharp, a little too hungry. A flash of heat ignited in your chest, radiating downward.

His hand landed softly on your thigh, his palm a searing weight against your skin. He began to drag his hand up and down, fingers inching dangerously close to the high-cut hem of your slit.

"Clark," you warned, voice already low, stripped of its restraint.

He hummed in response, the sound deep and resonant against your skin, his hands slipping past the silk.

"God," he groaned, the sound raw as his fingers met with your slick, aching heat. He pulled back just enough to look at you, his blue eyes dark with a sudden realization. 

“You haven’t been wearing anything under this all night?"

His fingers started to move with a languid pressure against your folds, gliding and squeezing for a reaction. 

"You sat through dinner like this? Right next to me?"

"Didn't have— hnnmph— anything to go with the gown," you managed to gasp, hands slipping behind you to fist into his hair.

​"Love punishing me, don't you?" he murmured, his voice a low rasp against your ear. 

A response died on your tongue as Clark slid his fingers inside you, filling you completely. He knew exactly how much pressure to apply—damn him— wrenching a moan from your throat.

"You looked so beautiful tonight," he cooed, biting your ear, as he continued to scissor his index and middle finger into you, curling it and beckoning your peak closer.

"Look even prettier like this."

He watched you— watched the way your eyelashes fluttered, the way your lips parted for air, the way they cried his name— drinking in the sight of you coming undone in his arms. The press of his fingers in all the right places sent you hurtling to your peak in no time. The orgasm tore through you, a white-hot wave that left your muscles trembling.

"Hate making my girl upset."

​Before you could even float down from the high, Clark’s hands were spinning you around. In one fluid motion, your back hit the bonnet of the Ferrari. Clark pressed himself flush against you instantly, his heavy frame pinning you to the car as his mouth devoured the column of your throat. Between his dark gaze and the warm-from-before bonnet, you felt like you were on fire.

​His fingers hooked into the delicate straps of your dress, dragging them down until the silk gave way, exposing your breasts to the biting air. The sudden chill made your nipples peak and the pulse in your core jump. Clark’s half-lidded eyes darkened to an almost black as he took in the sight before him— your messy hair, your heaving chest and your spread-eagled limbs.

All so open. Waiting. For him.

​Ducking his head, Clark latched onto your right breast, mouth warm and wet against your skin. He hitched one of your legs over his hip, his hard length grinding against your core through his thin trousers. The friction was maddening— a steady rhythm that made you hiss into the air. You were gone, lost in a haze of salt and the searing heat of his skin as he moved to the other breast, his tongue swirling against your pebbled nipple until you were sobbing his name into the dark.

​"I've been waiting to do this all night," he groaned, his voice vibrating against your skin. You could only whine in response.

Without breaking eye contact, he sank to his knees between your legs, bunching up your dress as he went. His hands slid behind your thighs, dragging you to the very edge of the bonnet, and then his mouth was there— cupping your leaking cunt with a hunger that made your toes curl in your heels and back arch right into his perfect nose. The pressure of it all; the feeling of his face buried into your pussy made your eyes roll into the back of your head.

​The first sweep of his tongue was broad and firm, tasting you, before settling into a relentless pace that threatened to send you right back to your peak. He lapped you up, flicking at and sucking the small bundle of nerves; the darkening in his eyes, as he gazed up at you from between your legs, pushing you over the edge once more.

Clark crept back up to you, claiming your mouth in his; the taste of yourself on his lips maddening. He nipped and sucked at your lips until the coppery tang of blood bloomed between you. The sting only fueled the fire; it made your head swim with a delicious lightheadedness while heat crashed through your core. 

​"Fu-uckk. I need you baby," you moaned against his mouth, hands framing his face. You’d been dying to tear through his shirt all evening, despite the anger.

Or rather, because of it.

And so you did, pulling and scratching at the shirt till the buttons popped and his heaving chest loomed into view.

​Clark didn't need to be told twice. He pulled back just enough to fumble with his belt, the sharp screech of the zipper echoing in the silence. He looked beautiful under the peeking moonlight in the alcove, the light glinting off of the sheen of sweat and your cum covering his face and chest. 

When he finally freed himself, his length was thick and leaking, a heavy heat that made you feel heady with want. Teasing, he let his cock brush against your aching folds, gathering your arousal on him, before pushing in slowly.

​He let out a low, animalistic growl just as he seated himself deep within you, your eyes fluttering shut at the sensation. He grasped your hips, his fingers sinking into your skin, bruising, and began to move gently. You lifted yourself just ever so slightly, back arching into him for the proper angle.

“I'm sorry, my darling,” he whispered, as your walls clenched around him, struggling to accommodate his sheer size. 

Was he sorry for splitting you open like this? Or for the fight from last night? You didn't really care at the moment. Couldn't. Because Clark picked up the pace then, every thrust sending a jolt of lightning through your spine.

​"Clark... please," you begged, your head lolling back against the car. The alcove had long disappeared. The world had narrowed to Clark, you and the erotic sound of slick friction between you as he dragged himself in and out of you.

It was tantalizing— the slow burn of his thick cock against your heated self. You'd been so mad last night, so irritated, that you'd slept on the couch and hated every bit of it, hated not waking up to his arms around you, or his morning wood pressed up against your back.

And now, you couldn't even remember what the fight had been for.

​Clark leaned over you, his palms slamming down onto the bonnet on either side of your head to anchor himself as he began to move faster. He moved with unchecked power, jaw tight, his breath coming in hitches against your neck. Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, nails digging crescents into the hard muscle, as a desperate whimper was ripped from your throat with every dragging slide of his length. Everytime he buried himself into you to the hilt, the friction against your aching clit sent you into overdrive. 

"God, my love," Clark whispered into the crook of your neck. "You're taking me so good."

You were coiled tight soon, gliding along the edge of a crescendo, as Clark filled your senses. You loved when sex with him felt like this; rough, earnest and raw— like nothing else mattered.

Suddenly, there was a whining creak, and a growl from Clark as he shot up into you. You happened to glance down, and immediately felt your face heat up. His release mixed with your own wetness, had formed a thick ring of white around his shaft as he continued slid in and out. He was still hard— you could all but keep yourself from moaning at the sight— and he kept pumping into you, driving his thrusts even deeper and deeper.

You were not in control anymore. Clark was simply using you, moving your hips up and down, drilling his cock into you, dragging you across the metal bonnet of the car like a ragdoll, sure to leave burns all across your back and ass.

Not that you cared. You were far too gone, floating in the limbo of subspace, feeling the sheer force of him, his strength, as he drove you toward a peak so intense, it felt like the earth was shifting beneath you. Moan after moan tumbled out of your lips, as he bought both of you to the very edge again.

​Then, the world seemed to actually sink under you with a violent, bellowing noise.

​Just as the climax rocked through both of you, Clark let out a moan, his body locking as he poured himself completely into you. In that same instant, a loud crrrr-eak of protest screamed through the air. The Ferrari hissed, a cloud of steam erupting, as the radiator shattered and the front completely buckled under you.

​Your eyes flew open, chest heaving, to absolute carnage around you.

Clark had completely flattened the bonnet; the heavy Italian machinery crushed beneath his force. The tires had blown out with the pressure, hissing as they deflated.

And, worst of all, where his hands had been bracing his weight, two deep handprints were pressed clean through the reinforced metal. 

Clark stayed over you for a long beat, his forehead resting against yours, panting, the heat still rolling off him in waves. He glanced at the wreckage— a shadow of a smile pulling at his mouth as he looked back at you.

​"Clark," you breathed, half-laughing and half-horrified, voice wrecked from him. "Lex is going to kill you.”

"Lex—", Clark kissed you hard, "will be fine," he rasped, his voice still tantalisingly low. He reached down, his thumb tracing the bruised edge of your lip before withdrawing. The car groaned again, settling deeper into the sand as his weight shifted. 

He stepped out of the wreckage and reached for you, his hands wrapping around your waist to lift you effortlessly from the ruined metal. Instead of setting you on the ground, he held you against his chest, your heels dangling, keeping you encased in his arms.

"How the hell are you going to explain this to him?" you asked, feeling completely spent suddenly.

"I’ll tell him I hit a patch of ice," he said, his voice smooth and entirely unbothered. He nuzzled against your side, pressing another chaste kiss to your bruised lip.

"In Metropolis? In the middle of spring?"

“I’ll crush it more, make it unrecognizable. Tell him the car totaled while we were getting gas.”

You shook your head at him, a small, sluggish smile playing on your lips. He set you down then, his fingers lingering on your hips as he looked down into your eyes.

His were still dark, and twinkling.

Oh, no. Oh, yes.

"Besides," he added with a wicked drawl that made your knees weak all over again. "By the time he sees the car, we’ll be back at the farm, and you’ll be in my bed.”

You quirked an eyebrow at him. “In your bed, huh?”

Clark sighs as the elevator door opens up to his office floor, trudging over to his desk and setting his briefcase down. Skips right over to their break room’s coffee maker to brew up a sugary full cup for the day ahead of him. Jimmy gave him a greeting with a rougher pat on the shoulder, jolting Clark in a reactionary shiver when he thinks back to being touched in bed by no one or something while he was withering all alone in his room.

He pushes his glasses up his scrunched up nose, letting out an almost disgruntled sounding hey.

Jimmy squints at him, noticing the offbeat attitude of his close friend and coworker. “You good, man? Sleep alright last night or did somebody take a hot piss in your Froot Loops?”

“Slept… slept fine, it’s just I’m kinda going through stuff right now. I don’t know.”

Clark swallows and stirs his steaming cup after dropping another sugar cube in. Jimmy pats his shoulder once again, trying to get Clark to meet his eyes with a tilt of his head.

“You know… maybe it’s about time.”

“What?”

“You know, dude, maybe it’s that time. Time for you to get yourself laid. I think it could help flush out some of these nerves in your system. You seem so tense. I know a few girls that would hop on that train, if you know what I mean.”

Clark turns beat red rather quickly, taking a long sip to gather his thoughts and come up with a response.

“Yeah you couldn’t have been any more direct actually. I… listen I understand, but it’s not that. Trust me, I’m getting… more than you think. I guess. Cause something like, something happened last night, I don’t even know how to explain it. And I liked….. it. It’s just really weird so maybe now’s not the time to discuss—“

Jimmy laughs a long, boyish giggle and slaps one of Clark’s broad shoulders, pulling Clark further aside into the corner with a look around for any coworkers meandering.

“Dude, I knew it. You found yourself a lady. You’ve been getting some and you haven’t been telling me. That’s really lame of you man, I thought our friendship had no barriers—“

“I haven’t met a— look, okay, it was weird, and I mean really really weird. I don’t know if you’ll understand it or if it’ll just sound crazy.”

“Whatever crazy thing you’re about to say, I’ve probably done crazier,” Jimmy assures with a knowing nod paired with a grin. “Trust me.”

“Uh, okay….” Clark clears his throat and lowers his voice, leaning down to Jimmy’s ear level. “Have—have you ever like, came untouched before? Felt someone…. down there…. even though no one else was in the room?”

Clark stares at Jimmy now, loosening the tie around his collar like he’s already broke out in another sweat just thinking about it. Wondering if it might happen again. If he has some odd guardian angel that likes to fuck him and look after him all at the same time.

“You mean you finished, no hands, completely dry? You’re living the dream. Should be more grateful. Why do you look so terrified right now.”

Clark closes his eyes and pinches his brows in a long sigh before nodding to Jimmy to follow him to the bathrooms after setting his coffee on his desk. With uneasy paranoia he peers down to check for any feet on the floor in the stalls before he continues.

“I… I don’t think you get it. It felt like someone literally rode me, like, put me inside them and came on my dick and everything. I wasn’t doing anything! Wasn’t even hard before it started happening, I was just reading. I don’t know how else to explain this or make it any clearer to you!”

Jimmy looks astounded after every word, awestruck with an open mouth. Even flashes of envy pass through his eyes while he chuckles and shakes his head. Typical Clark and his way of complicating things. Overthinking what truly sounded like a gift. “Sounds like a you’re being haunted by a friendly ghost that just wants to hop on that thing, dude. So what did it really feel like? And can I get one too?”

Clark closes his eyes and his mind goes back to last night. In the comfort of his soft sheets, legs sprawling out and taking over the entirety of his bed. How right when the plot of his novel started taking off he felt almost a tickle. A wiggle of what felt like a smooth, slithery tongue. It was unrecognizable when it started, like maybe he had an itch down there to scratch, or maybe some blood began randomly flowing down south.

When it became unmistakeable, too soft and wet to deny what was happening to him, he slammed his book shut with the bookmark in place and spread his legs wider, feeling the sweat breaking out. Feels his dick happily jump right into the warm invisible hole teasing his tip. He felt the hole clench down and struggle to take him all, slowly inching up and down like a bunny on top of what it could take. He clenched a fist at his side and held his dick up with a thumb, raising his hips gently into the heavenly heat. How the pace it had going stuttered when he did, probably in shock that he had more of himself to give.

Clark remembers crying with pleasure, pre cum getting drained out of him so effortlessly, so smoothly. Drool picks up on his tongue while he’s nearly going cross eyed, the pussy on top of him bouncing harder, bouncing faster—

“It feels— it feels unbelievable. I mean it was incredible,” Clark answers Jimmy’s question that had awkwardly hung in the air. “Haven’t felt anything like it before. Something might be seriously wrong with me.”

Jimmy raises a brow. “Watching too much porn? Just take a break. Meet a girl.”

Clark’s full body shivers, goosebumps now swarming up his arms and the back of his neck, making all the hairs there start to stand up. He feels an eager hand all the sudden grab onto his bare cock and slick their palm down, cold and wet like the hand had a puddle of lube to gloss him down.

If it hasn’t visibly shown up as a wet spot on his groin through his trousers yet, by the feeling of it it’ll start showing a dark spot soon. If he didn’t take his dick out it would surely start a puddle that would only dry as a fresh stain.

Clark takes a deep, shaky breath, turning over to grab onto the tile of the wall, resting his forehead against it and gripping like he’s engulfed in pain. Like his surroundings started spinning all around him.

“Woah, Clark. Dude. Take it easy. What’s happening?”

Jimmy gets closer to check on his friend but Clark can’t take it, shooing him off with a hurried no, it’s fine—just get out of here. I need a second. thanks!

“You sure you’ll be able to hold up the rest of today? You have enough leave. I’m sure Lois would understand—”

“Just, just…. I need to take a— I’ll take a ten, okay,” he whimpers, clutching onto the humiliating bulge growing so fast he already was showing a hefty print. “Maybe a fifteen. I can’t—I don’t know.” The hand stopped slicking up and down his cock and he feels it tease him by rubbing his length up and down a pearly wet slit, not yet having him enter.

He shoos Jimmy away and hurries to a stall, slamming it shut and locking it with his back to the door while his dick bobs around for more of her attention. Tingles sprout in his belly while his whole body starts to tense.

“Uh, okay,” Jimmy mutters. “Well I’ll leave you to it I guess? Here for you buddy. Don’t piss off your ghost girlfriend. Maybe next time she won’t fuck you as good if you do,” he laughs.

“Shut. The door. And shut. Up!” Clark howls, fumbling with his zipper and rushing to roll some toilet paper up into a ball for his tip when he’s hanging out of his boxers. He distantly hears his friend mumble a jeez, so touchy. sorry and the door creaks open and falls closed. With privacy at last, Clark is able to heave and thrust his hips gently into the beautiful, tight wet heat, little abstract murmurs and whimpers leaving his throat while his dick gets wetter, and wetter, and wetter.

“Don’t—Don’t, don’t want you to stop,” he quietly begs. Veins popping on his temple from all the straining his body is doing. “But I… I have to get back to work.”

Whatever is wrapped around his cock doesn’t pay his words any mind, sinking down all the way to his balls and creaming on his base the more they start their rough bouncing. Like they’re angry, like they’re taking everything out on his cock. Clark wished he knew what he did wrong, or maybe what he did right to deserve this kind of treatment from someone he couldn’t even see.

“I’m not gonna last, I’m not, it feels so good…. feels too good…. I can’t handle this again, not right now,” he breathes. Sees his tip bead more floods of pre cum and slip down the base of his cock, getting his balls messy with slick. The sound is obscene, with every up and down motion everything can be heard. How wet the pussy around him really is. How his cock stuffs it all the way through. If somebody came in right now, they would think he’s having real sex with a real body in this stall right now. When in all honestly, Clark doesn’t know what he’s having.

“Oh my gosh, gosh you’re more wet this time, you’re getting it so wet…. You’re gonna get me in trouble, wait…. please.”

The pussy on top of his dick starts to quiver, tremble and squeeze him down harder than before. Like it’s finally found release after a record of an eight minute round of going nuts on him like he’s nothing but a toy built strictly for their use.

Some cum that isn’t even his starts dribbling down on him, and that’s when the floodgates start to open. Clark can’t hold it anymore, and he doesn’t know how bad it’s gonna be trying to both cover his load and then clean it all up.

He whimpers and squeezes his eyes shut once again, knuckles turning white while he holds on for dear life and busts another long, drawn out nut into whatever this thing is that’s tortured him yet again. He spits out rope after rope of cum in the waiting piece of balled up paper and tries to catch it all there but a few stray drips do manage to burst out too fast for him to act. He sprays a part of the wall and whines a little no, please, please no, you made me cum too hard again, I need to get back to work.

The come down is always humbling. Seeing exactly how foolish he was acting as the sweat under his arms and on his face visibly stains his clothes and his skin. He managed to wipe off his messy cum lines off the wall and stuffs another rolled up ball of toilet paper down his boxers to soak up whatever else is leftover in his pants.

When he feels ready enough he’s still catching his breath and trying to get his blushing face under control as he heads over to the sink to splash some water on his face. Presses on the soap dispenser over and over again until more than a mountain of soap is bubbling in his palm, lathering his sticky, filthy hands.

Clark fights everything inside him to try and act natural when he heads back to his desk. Ruffles his hair more than necessary, tightens his tie, rolls up his sleeves.

The cup of coffee he’d made had lost most of its heat but Clark was so preoccupied in his head he doesn’t notice, still gulping some down and logging back into his computer to answer more messages and emails that were left for him. His eyes zone in on an email he’d been CC’d in from Jimmy and Lois about an upcoming new hire’s start date for their vacant Office Assistant position.

The email read that Clark would be assigned as the one primarily training her since he’d started out in her exact title position a year ago. Clark adds a thumbs up to the email and closes out of it to start on another assignment, thinking in the very back of his head that if his dick can’t control himself while he’s training said new hire next week he’d be blowing his brains out, not out of his cock next time.

Jimmy side eyes him from across the room, mouthing a you good? much to Clark’s bashful shake of his head, assuring him with a roll of his eyes and a tired response of yeah, I’m fine. shut up.

Lois comes out of the blue up behind him and drops a fat stack of paperwork on Clark’s desk with a tight smile.

“New hire coming in next week. You got my email right?”

Clark nods and leans back in his chair, casual as he can muster.

“She’ll have to mostly rely on you for help and onboarding, since me and Jimmy have too much going on. Travel, deadlines, some new leads finally getting back to us for interviews. So you’ll take her under your wing for us, yeah?”

“Of course. It’s not uh, it won’t be a problem,” he answers under his breath, taking another sorry sip of his lukewarm coffee. He hopes the thing in his pants won’t be a problem.

“You sure? Jimmy said you didn’t look well. You can’t call out and leave her all alone here on her first few days, it’s gonna be overwhelming in the start—“

“Jimmy doesn’t know what he’s talking about. I’m fine. It’ll get taken care of,” he promised.

“Alright, then don’t get her sick, got it?”

Clark wants to slap Jimmy for even bringing up his frazzled state to anybody in the office, mortified over what had taken place barely ten minutes ago, and how unpredictable his dick was gonna act for a while. Or forever. Who even knows at this point.

“My germs are all mine,” he swears, hands defensively up in the air. “Count on it.”

Lois gives him another one of her hard stares that basically told him she’d make him eat his words if he dared showing up to the office coughing, sneezing, puking. Clark was only worried about leaving his desk for twenty minutes at a time to get his dick rode by the same tempting mystical source he had yet to fully identify, let alone begin to understand.

It never left his brain even while he worked, back of his pen stuck in his mouth to chew on while he wrote up more emails and forwarded ones from their general inbox. Hours had gone by until he had about forty five more minutes left until he could be freed and finally head home, and Clark really thought he was in the clear of having another accident during work hours.

That was up until the fucking tease went at it again. The warm, sopping wet tightness wraps around his tip and slips him in, no mercy given. His dick springs back to life effortlessly, and Clark wants to cry.

He holds his head by covering his face with both hands, scooting his swivel chair forward so his crotch was safely hidden underneath. He drools an ungodly amount at the tip, feeling how eager this round was for her, how quickly she ruts against him and has him crying softly into the sleeve of his shirt.

Clark’s mewling and groaning is muffled into his arm, too helpless to hold in any of his noise when they move in sways up and down, switching off between going deep and going shallow with their pushes. Clark is beat red all over again, giving up after several minutes of unabashed torture and shielding his wet crotch with his briefcase pressed up against him, running off back to the toilets this time to sit down and breathe while undeniably enjoying everything being done to him. Fuck the last thirty minutes of his shift. Fuck the emails and the phone calls and the scans and the letters.

Clark shuts his eyes and actually smiles for a change as he eggs on whatever higher power bouncing on top of him to keep going. Nods his head and can’t help his soft murmurings of please, yeah, yeah keep doing that, you do it so good.

It might be his new imaginary best friend, or it might be his first sign to go to a mental hospital. Whatever it was, since it’s made Clark cum this hard, he guessed it couldn’t have mattered too much if it always made him feel this good.

. . .

The weekend was spent the same way. Getting his dick milked while he lied back and screeched every time she squeezed on him some way, somehow. He doesn’t answer anyone that texts him for plans, doesn’t do the dishes or take care of his laundry like how he’d hoped. No. He whines and stutters and cries, barely able to get in the shower without his dick getting trampled on.

It’s not a long shot to think he could be developing something. A mental illness. A haunted curse that plagues him with orgasms at all times of the night and the day. He’s one more round away from calling somebody to perform an exorcism or splash holy water on him to escape this succubus that had to be laughing in his face at how easy he is to rile up.

When Monday comes around again Clark doesn’t want to take any chances traumatizing the new hire with all the blotches of cum stains littering his pants. With a scoff and a sigh he steps each leg into a second pair of boxers to make slightly more effort into covering up. Even packs a backup pair in case both pairs he’s currently wearing are soiled by the end of the day.

After a hectic first hour of scanning and distributing the stack of morning mail from the bin, he slips a stick of gum on his tongue and gnaws on the flavor with his mouth open when an unfamiliar silhouette teeters closer towards the edge of his desk from the entrance.

Clark doesn’t get to looking up until she’s clearing her throat, playing with a strand of her hair with a smile aimed at the ground.

“Hi, sorry if I’m interrupting your work. I’m actually starting today,” she explains, eyeing him up from head to toe. Clark rips his head up at the voice and clears his throat, sitting up straighter and pulls a polite hand out.

“Oh! Oh, yeah that’s right. You’re our new hire. It’s nice to meet you, I’m Clark.”

She takes his hand with a laugh. Clark wished he understood what was funny. He joins in on it anyway, anxiously chuckling while he doesn’t stop shaking her hand in his. Realizing it had been well over ten seconds of her soft palm held up in his own long, gigantic fingers, he slips his hand off of hers, lingering in the awkward air of the moment.

She nods and scans her gaze around, peaking at the state of Clark’s desk. The endless string of sticky notes, the protein shakes, the tie he’d already taken off his neck. “So am I in the right place, or—“

“Yup. Yeah, yeah you found where you should be. I’ve been tasked to uh, help you fill all this out. After that we can get you started on some basics,” he breathes out, pointing to the stack resting on the side of his desk, sticky note on top with her name on it. Clark finds himself trying a little desperately to keep himself more cool, more composed. She’s the kind of pretty that made him nervous, suddenly aware of his undone appearance, of every awkward move he makes. He stops chewing his gum with as much rigor, clenches his jaw and scratches the back of his neck.

“I started out in the position you’re in, it’s real easy to move up,” he mentions, gathering up the paperwork and attempting to straighten it out before a quarter of the pages fall from his grasp in a pile. Beat red, Clark doesn’t do anything but stare at the ground and sigh before sheepishly joining in on her laughs.

“You’re pretty organized, aren’t you?” she chuckles, bending over to pick up the few documents that landed on the floor. Clark’s jaw even drops when he catches the smallest glimpse of her hot pink colored thong poking up above from her dress pants.

“Yeah. Yeah I really am, you know. Organization is key,” he nods, tight lipped smile still on his face. He takes the pages she hands him over, watching her subtly arch her head to smell something in the air. Fuck. What the fuck? Did he even put on any cologne this morning after draining his dick for the hundredth time?

Before he could shoot himself in the head with more irrational insecurities his mind makes up she soothed his very visible worry with another laugh and a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Is it me? Do I reek like sweat or something—?”

“No, no. You don’t smell bad, you’re fine. I was just trying to figure out if you were chewing Spearmint or not,” she assures. “I like it. Promise. You do not reek of anything,” she snorted through another laugh. Clark beams, looking around everywhere but her face. Afraid his face could give his every fleeting thought away.

Thank god. “Uh, oh yeah. Yeah it’s Spearmint. You want a piece? I have a new pack,” he offers. To his surprise, she snatches up a piece out of his hand hardly before he gets to offer it to her. Blinks dumbly while she opens it up and tears the piece in half, stuffing one in her mouth and giving the other half back to him.

“Uh—“

She smiles at him, chewing the gum out of one side of her cheek. “I have this oral thing. A fixation I guess. Chewing or having something in my mouth really helps me.”

The thing about Clark is, he has manners. Has restraint. Thought he was a good boy that didn’t go on and chase any tail that came into his orbit. Especially not a new pretty co-worker. He doesn’t want to think about putting different parts of himself inside her mouth just to calm her down. Or the color of her thong. Or that wicked smile and addicting perfume to match. Something tries to draw him in closer, reason with his conscience like she’s teasing little signals, it’s not like you’re her boss or anything. if you flirt back no one would know a thing.

Clark stops his zoning out and nods his head to agree. “I get it. Having stuff in my… in my mouth cools me off too. Like—like stress.”

“You shouldn’t worry yourself that much. Seems like you’re wound up pretty tight.”

He feels like there’s this window into his thoughts standing clear as day right above his head, broadcasting every fleeting thought or mood. When he tries to look at her, stare at her back the same way she stares at him, he just wanted to run away before his own dick caught up with him.

Clark scratches his chin and sheepishly nods with his head down, agreeing with a gentle mumble, yeah you know, just normal stuff, kinda on edge. Not like he randomly cums in his pants or anything. He quickly finds a way to change subjects by directing his focus back to the work left in front of them and guides her to sit over at her new desk to fill out some new hire paperwork. She taps him on the shoulder and grins when she says his name to ask him questions. He dutifully answers everything he can, emails some higher ups to get her logins to some of their systems and trains her how they go through their mail and answer consumer’s inquiries over the phone.

She takes just about everything in a stride. Overwhelmed of course by certain things that have nuances and will take more time getting used to. Clark introduces her to more staff, waves to Lois, makes the new hire her own cup of coffee after showing her their break room. Jimmy tries to raise a brow, even wiggles both of them up and down at him from behind her back, but it only makes Clark kick him in the shin and gruffly threaten him under his breath as he’s passing by while she wasn’t looking.

Clark sends her off to her first break, telling her to meet him back at her desk for more training later. Watches absentmindedly as she picks up her purse, snatched up a lighter from one of the pockets and stuck a cigarette behind her ear, waving goodbye and strolling out to the elevator doors. Before the elevator doors close he could see her take the stick from her ear and put it between her lips, probably a habit she’s picked up from that oral thing, Clark figured. He wants to stop himself from picking apart her business but he’s too intrigued to stop, still lost in thought at his desk while he takes a break of his own.

After spitting his piece of gum out he chugs a few thick swigs of his protein shake, spaced out in blank thought. A corner of his mouth smiles when he feels the other half of that stick of gum she’d torn off and given back. His dick twitches but ultimately stayed soft, undetected in his pants. He’d shamefully started wondering how the hell his dick was so well behaved, so normal today of all days. Not that it was a bad thing. He just found it curious. Why was this the first time in days his dick wasn’t getting swallowed, rode, or came on by whatever invisible force that clearly had been having its fun tormenting him? And will it ever come back to fuck him again?

Once Jimmy finds Clark alone at his desk wiping fingerprints off his glasses, he swats his shoulder and bashed one of his knees to his swivel chair, causing him to start spinning.

“What the hey, dude—don’t—“

“This could be your shot. All’s I’m sayin,” he shrugs. Sees Clark stop his chair and shove his friend forward, only enough power to knock him off his feet a little bit. “Hey, hey! That’s all I’m saying, I said!” he laughs and defensively puts both his palms up to shield himself from any more of Clark’s wrath.

“You can’t say that stuff. Don’t. She’s new, okay! And… and she needs my help learning everything around here. She doesn’t need some big oaf getting in her business, abusing power, or being… being weird towards her,” he concludes.

“Hey, opportunities sometimes fall right out of the sky. This one just fell right into your lap. And you’re not a fat oaf dude. Pfft, you actually think being her co-worker is gonna affect anything?”

“Uh, yes it does in fact. It will literally affect everything. You think it’d be appropriate for me to treat her like that?”

Jimmy shrugs again, ruffles Clark’s curls and says he should think about reconsidering some of his rules and start breaking them in order to finally get something he wants.

When she’s back from her break her hair is damp, fresh perfume sprayed on her coat to get rid of some of the stench from her cigarette. She looks refreshed, albeit a little more flustered than she was before she left. Her boots squeak slightly on the floor from stepping out on the wet ground outside. He thinks about complimenting her boots, her coat, her hair, thinks about complimenting her everything. But his words fall short after his voice cracks from the very simple greeting of hey, welcome back.

“Hey, can I ask you for a favor after work? It’s totally fine if you say no or if you can’t. You don’t have to give me any reasons,” she assures.

Already eager to know what she’s going to be asking of him, his ears perk and his posture straightens up as he scoots his chair over to her desk.

“Yeah of course. What’s up?”

“It started raining pretty hard and the forecast says it won’t stop until tomorrow morning. I actually walked here to work, and if it’s not any trouble, would you be able to give me a lift back home?”

Clark swallows an upcoming lump in his throat, feeling his palms start to get clammy. The mere thought of the proximity was enticing. Having her next to him, in his car. Her trust in him helping her with something as intimate as having her get back home safely. He tries to answer casually, like he’s a nonchalant guy — as if the offer wasn’t any big deal, wasn’t making his heart start to beat a little faster.

What comes out though is a horribly rushed, clumsy, stuttered —

“Ohyeahofcourse, you don’t even have to worry about it!”

Jimmy’s teasing still echoes through the hallway of his brain. About opportunities. About how sometimes they seem to fall right out of the sky. How this one has fallen right into his lap.

“Thanks so much Clark, I appreciate it. You’ve been the sweetest guy. I’m really lucky to have you here to teach me everything,” she praised. Turning his cheeks pink in all of two seconds with a flat palm on his broad shoulder, squeezing gently and holding the warmest smile.

“We’re lucky to have you. You’ve been— you’ve been great,” he gulps, trying to bring the focus back to her. “We don’t have too much more to fill out, but um, I don’t wanna overwhelm you with any more new things today. Let’s wrap up this paperwork then we’ll hopefully get you on those phones to practice the last hour.”

“Great! I’m almost finished with those. And for the record I do promise where I live isn’t far, I don’t wanna be too much an inconvenience,” she laughs. Clark shook his head again, ready to protest the very idea that she was asking too much. In truth, she was so stupid pretty that if she asks him to say his ABC’s backwards he’d still give it his best shot. She almost cuts off his attempt to deny it, straightening up some of the last pages left to read over and sign.

“You are not any inconvenience. If you are, then please keep inconveniencing me,” he says, flashing a toothy smile at her. He prays to himself that it comes out right, and to his delight, she grins back, adorable face expressing back to him, well, then don’t mind if I do. “with anything you need, I’ll be here.”

Is he being too much?

“Thanks, Clark. I owe you.”

Oh? What should you owe me?

He shakes off any perverted thoughts and spares a glance at his watch.

“Are you hungry? It could be lunch time. Up to you. We don’t clock in and out, we just have timesheets, so breaks are pretty flexible.”

“Yeah, I could eat.”

Clark’s head screams well there’s a full meal right in front of you.

“Great.”

. . .

He sees her head off to the break room and start chatting with Lois, smiling at her welcoming disposition while she checks in on how her training is going. Clark knows he has the option to stay, to ogle while he ate at his desk, but he feels like he has too much steam to blow off before handling the rest of the day. With a long final exhale, he adjusts his glasses and snatched up his keys to head back home for his lunch hour.

Once he’s back at his apartment he immediately sheds his god awful shoes and his suffocating button down before he’s lying flat on his back in bed, staring up at the wall. Trying to manifest that magical touch and beckon it to come back. Beg for it even. Wonders to himself if there’s some hidden way he hasn’t figured out yet to trigger it, or if it’ll always remain spontaneous.

Clenching his jaw he angrily starts groping his crotch, trying to feel himself out. He opens one eye to peer down at his dick and see if he just thought about it hard enough he’ll bring it back to life, feel that beautiful all consuming weight drip on top of him again.

“C’mon. C’mon, please… You… you’ve fucked me every day and I took it all last night, now I want it, I need it. Right here, please?”

Clark strokes his cock while it sways back and forth against his belly, mind already feeding into an idiotic fantasy of his new hire bending over, showing him her pretty colored thong. Maybe she’d pull her panties up higher so they’re peaking out further above her waistline, or maybe she’d pull them over to the side….

He raises his hips off the bed to thrust into his fist at the thought, pants still strung down barely past his groin. Figures if he shows back up to work the rest of the day in different pants, it’s his business and his business only, and so be it.

“Oh god it was so good last time, wish you could touch me like that again…”

He knows it’s pathetic. Everything he’s doing, everything he’s saying. While he grips the tip and twists particularly tight, he shamefully whimpers out his new hire’s name while his dick starts to drip into pubes. Messy, sticky, but gosh he needed this. Clark deeply misses the warmth on top of him, the hot teasing, the bouncing, and the thrill of not knowing what will happen next—

“Oh my god….”

. . .

posting this cuz I’m so done looking at it already dear jesuslawd. if I should keep going somehow let me know I love coworkerXcoworker getting down and nasty. I like the idea of clark not knowing what’s going on and getting slobbered on by his work crush. fully no clue when/if the next part comes out oh my lawd. thanks soooo so much for all the love on the first little prelude:( im so obsessed with every reblog+comment

tag list: @emmaaagb @herejustforbuckybarnes @asthavraj @bitchy-bi-trash @gothgirlwannabe80 @snore-3 @noirecherie @lovergirl-007s-blog @tumlrwhore @glorydescent @forsakenskulltwist @brattybunnybby @unavurse

***

Something’s missing. 

You’ve been bent over your stove for the past hour, tweaking your take on the classic Béarnaise sauce, but it’s missing something. 

Something you think you may never find. 

With a deep sigh, you look around at the Béarnaise sauce graveyard you’re in.

You had to get this right. 

Maybe it’s the fact that you’re under immense pressure, not just from yourself, and the expectations you’ve built up in your own mind. Maybe that’s why nothing makes sense right now. 

You take another spoonful, tasting, letting it coat your tongue, thinking that maybe this time, something will click. But no. 

It still feels hollow.

You stare at the pan, at the slow swirl of butter and egg and vinegar, and feel like giving up. 

Before you can continue to beat yourself up looking for answers, you hear the familiar squeak of the kitchen door. 

There stands Lois, hands on her hips, like she knows you’ve been driving yourself into the ground.

“You okay?” she asks, concerned. Without which you would have kept spiralling, or be found under a pile of dirty pans and half-finished sauces.

“I can’t cook. I’m a fraud.”

“I’m sure you’re being dramatic.”

“Am not. This stupid sauce is missing something,” you reply with a pout. You grab a fresh spoon, handing it to her. “Try it. It’s supposed to go with the porterhouse.”

She takes the spoon, blows on it slightly, and tastes, her expression softening instantly. That small look of satisfaction, that’s why you got into cooking. To make people happy.

“I may not have your highly trained palate, but I think it tastes delicious.”

“You’re too kind,” you mutter with a light giggle. You knew she’d say that, though it doesn’t bring you closer to what you're missing.

It’s not just the Béarnaise, it’s most of the menu. The restaurant has been steady, reliable to a fault, a well-oiled machine; you have a brigade of talented chefs who execute every dish with precision, though some of this place’s joie de vivre has gone. 

That fresh spark is fading, and ideas are starting to feel recycled.

You knew that it was bound to happen, but only three years in? The stress of it was starting to gobble you up, feet first. If you didn’t shake things up, business would slow to a crawl. 

You just knew it, it's a fickle business that thrives on innovation. But you could get it back, you just needed to keep trying, keep pushing, keep—

You hear a shuffle in the main restaurant and look towards the door.

“Is someone else here?” you ask inquisitively.

“Sorry, I brought my coworker with me. We were on our way to a café to work on an article when I thought I should drop by and check on you.”

“You’re not going to a café. Let me cook for you and your friend,” you demand, practically decided on the matter.

“I couldn’t—”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“Aren’t you under enough pressure?”

“It’ll be good practice. You could be my little guinea pigs.”

Lois hesitates, studying your face, as if she’s trying to calculate how many hours of sleep you’ve gotten from a single look. 

“You sure about that?”

You wipe your hands on a towel, already reaching for a fresh pan, ready to cook your heart out.

“I need this. Just something simple, y’know. Cooking for friends.”

“Alright,” she says, a small smile breaking through. “But if I get food poisoning, I’m writing about it.”

“Very funny.”

***

Clark waits by one of the tables, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. When Lois asked if they could drop by her friend’s restaurant, he agreed.

“She’ll probably be cooking herself into a coma right about now,” she told him.

It’s a beautiful place, intimate without feeling too small. He can’t believe he hadn’t come across it sooner. From the softly painted mural of the sky at sunset stretching across the ceiling to the polished wood of the tables and bar. It felt warm, lived-in even.

His ears perk up when you start to speak.

“I can’t cook. I’m a fraud,” he hears you lament.

Your voice…there's something about it. Clark feels his heart skip a beat. He's only heard you speak once, but it's like a hit of dopamine.

He tunes back in to hear Lois compliment your cooking.

“You’re too kind,” you say in response, followed by a soft giggle. Clark feels the tips of his ears start to turn a soft pink.

He wasn’t trying to listen. Really. But his super hearing didn’t seem to want to turn itself off all of a sudden. Complete coincidence. 

Though it doesn't hurt that the tones of your voice float through his head like a melody. He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly feeling like he’s intruding on something private.

He tunes the rest of the conversation out, focusing on the traffic outside and the light rain just starting to hit the pavement. 

Lois exits the kitchen and makes her way over, weaving easily between the tables. “My friend says we can stay and write here if you want.”

“Oh, uh, how kind of her.”

“Yeah, she’ll cook for us too, and before you try and protest, I’ve already tried to convince her not to, but she’s as stubborn as a mule.”

They settle down at a table, the cutlery neatly aligned and cute placemats matching the mural above them. 

He listens in again and hears your little mutterings to yourself, “Where did I put the shallots?” and “I need to put an order in for more tarragon…”

“Where are you?” Lois asks teasingly as she waves a hand in front of his face. Had he gotten caught swooning over a person he hadn’t even met yet?

“Just thinking, is all.”

It’s not a complete lie, just a lie by omission. 

With a deep breath like you’ve been running all over your kitchen, you step out into the main dining room area. Clark hears your footsteps before he sees you, light and swift. 

You come into view with a smile like sunshine, and it’s like he forgets to breathe. 

“You must be Clark. Forgive me for trapping you in my restaurant, but now that you’re here, I refuse to let either of you leave hungry.”

For a second, he just… stares.

Then, as if remembering how words work, he straightens, nearly knocking his knee against the table in the process.

“Oh—no, it’s fine,” he says quickly, fumbling with his glasses again, a faint flush still clinging to his ears. “Better than fine. Great.”

Lois snorts under her breath.

“You should’ve heard her five minutes ago,” she adds, leaning back in her chair. “On the brink of a total meltdown.”

“Lois,” you warn, though there’s no real bite to it.

You turn your attention back to Clark. “So what sort of food do you like?”

“I’ll take whatever you recommend.”

You pause for a moment to look him over and attempt to read his mind. With a soft hum, you note his slightly hunched posture, his kind blue eyes behind his glasses, the way he seems both confident and yet a little unsure of where to put his hands.

An interesting case.

“You probably wouldn’t like something super avant-garde, so I’ll leave the molecular gastronomy alone. How about something warm and comforting? You’re a real home-cooked meal kind of guy, right?”

“Right on the money.”

“I can work with that. Any allergies I need to be aware of? I don’t want to kill you, talk about a bad first impression,” you chuckle nervously.

“No allergies I know of.”

You give him a nod, already filing things away. “And the usual for you, Lois?”

“You know me so well.”

“Well…you’re such a Metropolis girl. Your order isn’t that hard to figure out.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Lois calls after you, only a little offended, as you walk away toward the kitchen.

Clark follows you with his eyes until you disappear behind those silver doors.

And without meaning to, he's counting down the minutes until he can see you again.

***

You cooked up a little storm in there. A carrot or two may have gone flying, but it was fun, though, no pressure of trying to be the most inventive chef Metropolis has ever seen. 

You lay the plates in front of them, that small pit of dread in your stomach as you debate whether they’ll like it or not. It sucks how your perfectionism can’t seem to let you go, or maybe it’s just a bout of imposter syndrome, or even better, a wonderful mix of both.

Though judging by the look on Clark’s face, you have nothing to worry about. 

“It’s a pan-seared chicken with creamy mashed potatoes, roasted corn, and a tarragon beurre blanc. Comfort food but dressed up a bit. I hope you like it, Clark. Now, dig in and be honest.”

“This looks amazing,” he says earnestly, his eyes wide with a kind of quiet wonder. 

“It’s nothing that crazy,” you downplay instantly.

“Well, I wish you could see what I see.”

“Ah,” you squawk in lieu of an actual response. Though you soothe yourself, knowing that if anyone else had experienced the downright heart-melting look he gave you, they’d be reduced to the speech capabilities of a bird too.

You give them a curt nod before disappearing into the back as quickly as you can. As soon as you enter the threshold of the kitchen, you press your back against the door. Then proceed to slide down it. 

Why didn’t Lois tell you the friend she brought was so… handsome and sweet?

After much deliberation, you call her the next day to find out more about this classically handsome man.

The phone trolls for a few moments before she picks up with a tired “hello”.

“Lois, what the fuck?”

“What did I do?” she groans, no doubt running a hand through her hair. You're constantly stressing her out like this.

“Be honest with me.”

“Always.”

“Clark.”

“...Uh huh?”

“Are you tapping that?”

There’s a beat of silence so complete you can practically hear her blinking through the phone.

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Come on! You said you’d be honest with me.”

“He’s single. Happy now?”

You kick the air in your kitchen like it personally offended you, grinning despite yourself.

“…very.”

“Is that the only reason you called me?”

“Uh… no? I wanted to check in on my best friend—”

“You’re so transparent,” she cuts in, amused. “Go back to cooking and daydreaming about Kent.”

“That’s not—”

The line goes dead mid-protest. You stare at your phone for a second, then lower it slowly.

“…Rude,” you mutter. 

You glance back toward your stove and a smile blooms on your face. You had every reason to celebrate. 

He’s single. 

***

He really wants to see you again. 

You’ve stayed in his mind for the past few days; whenever his mind was idle, it would all somehow circle back to you. Your nervous monologuing in the kitchen as you cooked, the soft laugh you tried to hide behind your hand, the way your heart skipped a beat when he complimented your food. His might have even skipped a beat too in response.

He’s even gone by your restaurant for dinner… more than once.

“Any exciting plans tonight, Clark?” Jimmy asks, spinning slightly in his chair.

“I think I might drop by Sky Avenue,” he muses casually.

“Wouldn’t this be the fourth time you’ve been there this week?” Jimmy asks with a raised brow, every thought clear as day.

He thinks he’s crazy and maybe he’s right. 

“It's a nice restaurant.”

Admittedly, he’s never been the type to frequent the same place over and over, but there’s just something about the food you make. It’s like one bite could transport him somewhere completely new, somewhere where the sun always shines and the air smells of roses; somewhere closer to you.

“You should join me. The food there is really good. Lois can vouch for it.”

“Uh huh. The food,” Jimmy grins.

Clark exhales through his nose, already regretting opening his mouth.

“Yes, Jimmy. The food.”

“Right,” Jimmy says, unconvinced. “And I suppose the chef has nothing to do with it?”

Clark doesn’t answer right away. He just fumbles with his tie a little, loosening it unnecessarily.

“…She’s talented.”

Jimmy laughs at his coy response; he’s more obvious than he thought. Turns out, when it comes to you, Clark can't hide a thing. “Oh, you’ve got it bad.”

“I do not.”

“You’ve been there three times in one week, and you want to go a fourth.”

“It’s a nice restaurant,” he asserts again.

***

The two of them sit by the window, the restaurant bustling, the sound of good conversation and the smell of good food in the air. 

It’s strange just how at ease Clark feels here, like he’s seeing into a world you’ve created for others to enjoy.

“So it's not about a girl?” Jimmy asks, still unconvinced.

“No.” 

A moment passes as he sees your face flash in your mind. Bright with golden backlighting that most certainly wasn’t there in real life. Or maybe you could just do that, he wouldn't put it past you.

“Not necessarily.” 

Clark takes a deep breath as your laugh rings in his mind. Maybe he does have it bad. 

“Not entirely.”

Before Clark can defend himself any further—

“Clark. You’re back!”

He startles slightly, looking up, genuinely surprised. He didn’t even hear you walk up.

Where’s his super-hearing now?

“I hope it’s not an imposition,” he says, standing a little too quickly.

“Not at all,” you reply easily. “Spend all the money you want at my restaurant. Plus, in all honesty, the waitstaff are always happy to see you.”

“They are?”

You tilt your head, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “It’s always nice to see a handsome face, right?”

That steals the air from Clark’s lungs in an instant.

“And you must be Jimmy. Lois has mentioned you,” you move on, not privy to the mental breakdown you’ve just caused. 

The two of you converse, but he's still caught in the fact that you called him a “handsome face.”

He tries to focus, but then you look at him again, and whatever thought he had just… disappears. He blinks, catching himself, and gently tunes back into the conversation.

“It’s an honour, Clark.”

“What is?” he gulps.

“That my restaurant is your…coup de coeur.”

“Coup de cœur?”

“It's like…”

You tap your chin as you try to find the words, your eyes widening when you finally do.

“It's like you have a crush on my restaurant.”

“That's a good way to put it.” He smiles but thinks what he’d dare not say out loud, “Not just the restaurant.”

***

You're still buzzing from seeing Clark last night. You had heard that he's been by, but he's always been too in the weeds to go out and say hi.

And he looked just as good as you remembered, like the kind of guy you'd end up in a whirlwind romance with. Though you might be getting ahead of yourself.

It’s a slow lunch, the usual clientele lining the tables by the windows, lingering over wine and quiet conversation.

When a rumble shakes the floor—

And when there’s a rumble in Metropolis, there’s bound to be property damage.

You step out of the kitchen into the front, eyes darting to the windows just in time to see Superman.

He’s darting through the sky, a streak of red and blue, lifting debris, carrying people to safety.

Though you're afraid, you feel your heart start to calm. He’d keep you safe, you knew that.

Later, when the worst of it has passed, he lands nearby, scanning the area one last time.

You step outside before you can overthink it.

“Uh, Superman?” You squeak as you walk right up to him.

He turns to you with that million-dollar smile, “Yes?”

He can sense him assessing you for any injuries, ready to help at a moment's notice.

“I—”

You pause, head tilting slightly, thinking, or rather, knowing, you heard something. It’s like your chef instincts kicked in, tuned like a sixth sense for anyone hungry in the vicinity.

“I think your stomach just grumbled.”

“My stomach? Impossible.”

Right on cue, another distinct grumble echoes through the air.

“…Wait.” You point at him, already backing toward the door. “Right here. I mean it, okay?”

Before he can respond, you’re gone.

The bell above the door chimes wildly as you rush back out five minutes later, slightly out of breath, a plate balanced carefully in your hands.

“I’m a chef, so you can trust me. This is like top-tier stuff,” you say, holding it out to him. “Slow-roasted beef, toasted brioche, plus my signature herb butter sauce. And forgive me for sounding a little cocky, but it’ll knock the socks off your grandma.”

He laughs, and butterflies flood your chest like they were activated by it.

Something about it feels warm…familiar.

“Thank you.”

“Long day?”

“You have no idea.”

He takes a bite, and you hold your breath. You might just die if he hates it. The guy saves lives, he deserves a decent lunch.

“This is amazing,” he beams.

“My first job was at a sandwich place, so I've had a lot of practice.”

“I should—”

You know what he's going to say, so you stop him in his tracks and put your hand on his.

“No, no, no, it's on the house, Superman. You just stopped the whole street from becoming a pancake; it's the least I can do. Plus, I doubt you have anywhere to put a wallet. Unless there are pockets I can't see.”

“No pockets.”

“Thought so.”

***

You found yourself inspired yet again, ideas bubbling over faster than you could keep up, churning out sandwich after sandwich after Superman’s visit the day prior.

So inspired, in fact, that you found yourself making a sandwich for a certain journalist you couldn’t quite stop thinking about, sending it to the Daily Planet with a note: “Since you like my food so much.”

As you cool down from your lunch service, your phone buzzes. It’s a text back from Clark, with the cutest slightly off-centre picture of him holding the sandwich, a thumbs up taking up half the frame, like he’s just discovered selfies.

You snort at it, typing out a quick, “Don’t let it get cold.”

He’s such a dork.

You feel yourself brimming with ideas nowadays. You can’t stop them; you’re a fountain of inspiration. Everything just makes sense, like it’s just clicking into place. The puzzle in your mind slowly completes itself. Everything that new feeling goes straight into what you’re cooking.

As you bounce ideas off your sous-chef, pacing slightly, hands moving as fast as your thoughts, she chuckles.

“I haven’t seen you this inspired in a while.”

“Yeah, something’s changed, I guess,” you mumble. 

“Or someone?”

“Hm?”

“The super hot guy that’s shown up three or four nights this week?”

You roll your eyes, turning back to your prep for dinner. “It’s nothing.”

“Sure it isn’t.”

You try to ignore the way your lips betray you, curling into a smile so bright that someone could see it from the moon.

***

As if to prove your sous-chef right, Clark’s here again, just stepping in as you clear down. Your head snaps up at the sound of the cars rushing by, becoming muffled as he closes the door behind him.

“Clark?” Your voice jumps an octave, far too excited to hide it. He looks good, almost good enough to eat.

“Hey, I was just in the neighbourhood… I thought I’d visit. Are you busy?"

You blink, then gesture vaguely behind you. “No, I’m just clearing up. About to head out.”

“Have you eaten?”

“Ironically, no. Why? Are you offering?” You chuckle. 

“Maybe?”

Seeing him outside the restaurant?

You know you’d be a fool not to say yes. 

“You’re on.”

***

After a brisk walk, you reach his apartment.

It’s all comfy and lived-in, books and newspapers strewn across his coffee table, a quiet view that overlooks the city skyline, a wide array of ambient lamps glowing softly in the evening light.

“So what are we doing?” you ask, stepping into the kitchen, leaning lightly against the counter, arms crossed.

“We are not doing anything. You’re sitting back as I cook for you.”

You think of arguing, but that thought quickly dies when you think about how distractingly appealing it would be to watch him cook, sleeves rolled up, his forearms flexing as he moves, completely focused on pleasing you, and decide to acquiesce.

“And what are you making for me, Chef?”

“Breakfast for dinner.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say breakfast for dinner?”

“Just sit back and relax.”

“Most days, I skip breakfast, so this will be a nice change of pace.”

“Skipping meals, especially breakfast? That seems illegal for a chef, no?”

“Oh, shut up.”

He leads you to his kitchen island, and you sit, watching him from your perch, chin resting in your hand, eyes following every movement whether you mean to or not.

He makes quick work of clearing space, pulling ingredients together, taking out pans and bowls with an ease that feels almost practised, starting on eggs like he’s done this a thousand times before. Though the thought that he’s made breakfast for someone like this does have you feeling a little jealous. 

“How do you like your eggs?” he asks, interrupting your pouting. 

“Soft-boiled,” you reply, a little too quickly, like you’ve been waiting to be asked.

He moves around the kitchen with quiet confidence, tossing bacon into a pan with a sharp sizzle.

“Why do you come by my restaurant so often?” you ask, trying to sound casual.

“It’s like you said. It’s my coup de cœur.”

“Is it just my food?”

He pauses and turns from the stove to look you in the eyes. It's so distracting that you think they should be registered weapons.

“It’s not just your food.”

You look away, knowing that if you looked any longer, you’d end up a puddle on his floor.

“Someone once told me that cooking is an act of love,” you murmur, almost like you’re letting him in on a secret.

“Yeah?” he asks softly, turning down the bacon as he approaches the kitchen island, leaning across from the other side, bringing himself just a little closer. 

Eye to eye.

"It was a chef I met when I studied in France for a bit. It was this super-intense French kitchen. I felt like throwing myself in a blender half the time."

You chuckle at the memory of the head chef throwing a pan of coq au vin into the trash just as you were completely it after a single look at it. It wasn't funny haha then, and it isn't funny haha now, so maybe the chuckle is a trauma response.

“Fresh out of culinary school, it was like being on a different planet. My French was shit, I barely understood half the orders being shouted at me, but even being what felt like a million miles away, I cooked my way through it. Made the soup that my mother would make me when I got sick, or the ridiculous overloaded grilled cheese sandwich that my dad called a ‘five-star meal’. And after that one bite, it felt like I was right back there with them.”

Even now, you can taste the salty warmth of broth and melted butter on toasted bread, the memory bringing a soft smile to your face.

“And I… held onto that, knowing that they made them because they loved me. And with every dish I make, every dish I eat, I hold the idea that no matter how far away you are, one dish can make you feel right at home. It’s cheesy, I know.”

“I happen to love cheese so…”

“You love cheese?”

“My favourite’s gouda,” he admits, a little sheepish, and you lightly punch his arm.

“Of course it is. So… what's the Kent family speciality?"

“Biscuits and gravy… takes me back to potlucks and Sunday mornings with more food than anyone could reasonably eat.” 

“You'll have to make it for me sometime so I can add it to my mental recipe rolodex.

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says like it's a promise.

His hand inches toward yours. You notice him hesitate like he wants to hold it, but isn’t sure if he should.

“Is that why you cook?” he asks.

“I’d say so. I don't know, I just like to take them to places they’ve never been or places they haven’t been in a while, all through food. I find it interesting, like the association of taste and memory…”

“Are we making a memory, right now?”

You nod, your mind wrapped up in a soft haze. “I think so. Breakfast for dinner will always belong to you, Clark Kent.”

Taking the leap, his hand finally closes the distance, and you feel your heart bloom like a red tulip in spring. He toys with your hand, the rings on your fingers, tracing the small scar you got from the first time you tried cutting onions too fast and nicked yourself for it. 

"Cooking is an act of love..." He repeats.

You huff, nudging him lightly with your free hand. “You’re such a dork.” 

"You're the one who said it."

"Yes, yes, that's true but..."

You look up from your intertwined hands, catching his eyes, just as smitten with you as you are with him. "There's just something about you saying it."

Letting out a slow breath, your body visibly relaxing as the moment settles around you.

“Makes it… dorky.”

He chuckles before taking your hand and kissing it lightly, the tenderness of it, sending your heart into overdrive. It was a soft brush of his lips against your hands. Hands which work so hard day after day, to feel him kiss them as if they were something precious, made you feel like you were melting. 

The moment is interrupted as you both hear the bubbling in the background start to get quite ferocious, “The eggs!”

With a rush, you both fumble back over to the stove, nearly bumping into each other in the process.

“The soft-boiled eggs might be slightly hard-boiled now.”

As he lifts the lid off, the steam gets in his face, so, like the kind person you are, you reach for him on instinct. Just a simple, absent-minded gesture.

“Won’t your glasses fog up?”

Without thinking too much about it, you take off his glasses to de-fog them.

Clark doesn’t move.

You don’t even notice that Clark has become a statue as you wipe off his glasses with your sleeve, humming to yourself oh-so innocently. 

Looking back up, you freeze too. 

It's like you’ve both looked at Medusa.

If you weren’t mistaken, Superman was now standing right in front of you, but that can’t possibly be, right? The whole world starts to tilt on its axis as you fumble with Clark’s glasses.

What the fuck is going on?

Slowly, almost mechanically, you put his glasses back on his face. “Sorry about that.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Internally, you are absolutely not okay.

Out loud, you add, “Though we should probably talk about what I just saw.”

“…Probably.”

“You let me take them off,” you sputter out, trying to rationalise what you just witnessed.

“I didn't see it coming.”

“You're Superman. I’m sure I was practically moving in slow motion.”

“Are you mad? Scared?” he asks carefully. 

“Wait, mad? Scared? Why would I be scared?”

“I can hear your heartbeat.”

“My heart isn't racing because I'm scared. I guess I'm just surprised…”

You twiddle your fingers, toying with your rings, “Excited?”

“Excited?” he repeats back to you, his eyebrows quirked up in confusion. 

“Okay,” you add, slightly breathless. “Maybe a little overwhelmed. This is a lot, you’re a lot. In an amazing and kinda batshit crazy way. I mean…you’re Superman.”

“I’m still me,” he says.

“I know, I know. It's just going to take some or a lot of getting used to, I guess, because, well, holy shit.”

You gesture at him wildly, trying and failing to get your breathing back to normal.

“You’re taking this better than most people.”

“Yeah, well. Most people haven’t had their best customer turn into a superhero while they’re trying not to over boil eggs.”

He laughs at your joke, and you feel yourself ease up. Not only was he a cute journalist, but a superhero?

Jackpot.

“Did you like the sandwich I gave you yesterday…Superman?” you ask as you step into his space, your hand brushing against his.

“Yeah, it was absolutely delicious.”

Like “delicious” was your activation word, you step forward and pull him in by the tie before you can think better of it, pulling him slightly off balance. 

He says your name breathy, almost desperate.  You gulp, fuck, it sounds too good on his lips, those words of his. 

Without delaying for another second, you kiss him like you've been starving for him all your life. 

His hands find your waist, holding onto you as you try to climb him like he’s a tree.

The soft moans that escape his lips only urge you on. If you didn't need to breathe, you never would've let go.

You separate to catch your breath, your eyes locked onto one another. You're both hungry but not for pancakes or hashbrowns.

“So you’re okay with me being Superman?” he asks.

“If the way I just attacked your face is any indication, yes. Now, kiss me before I lose all my nerve.”

Like he's been waiting for it, he pulls you back in, all but melting against you. He kisses you as if his life depends on it, like he never knew it could feel so good.

Behind you, the stove clicks softly as you turn it off without looking.

As if reading your mind, he pulls back just a little bit to murmur in a husky voice, “Jump.”

You follow his order, and he lifts you up into his arms, your legs wrapping around his waist. 

“Fuck…” you mumble to yourself.

You could get used to this.

“Bedroom?” He asks, searching your face for any hesitation.

You nod excitedly, “Please.”

The world outside can wait.

***

Morning greets you happily, and you greet it back with a big smile. 

Everything that Clark did to you last night is still fresh in your mind, just thinking about it makes you feel tingly.

You find your face pressed against Clark’s chest, his arms wrapped around you protectively. 

And you must admit, his pecs make good pillows.

You sneak out of bed, successfully not waking him, ready to cook a breakfast to end all breakfasts.

Clark wakes up a while after you to the sound of a busy kitchen.

He follows the noises to see you already cooking and humming to yourself, completely at ease.

In that moment, he wonders to himself if you know just how wonderful you are. It’s like everything you do only makes him fall that much more. 

“Morning,” he drawls, his voice deeper from just waking up. Your head snaps up, pupils dilating the moment you lay eyes on him.

“Good morning to you too.”

He rounds the kitchen island to wrap his arms around you from behind.

“Unfortunately, due to you keeping me up last night, we have to have breakfast for breakfast,” you tell him as you crack an egg.

“I'm sorry,” Clark murmurs against your neck, kissing your skin lightly. He just can't help himself.

"How are you making our eggs today?" He asks as he lifts his head from the crook of your neck.

“I was gonna make us omelettes. How do you normally like them? Scrambled? Poached?”

“Sunny side up.”

“I should've known.”

Among the ingredients spread across his countertop, he notices something he doesn't remember buying.

He looks between you and the bread, “This was not in my pantry.”

You shrug at him, "So what if I snuck out to go buy a baguette? It’s going to taste divine, my bread guy baked it just this morning.”

“Your bread guy?” Clark chuckles, the laugh vibrating against your back.

“Oh yeah, fresh ingredients are my love language. Just you wait until I drag you to a farmer’s market, I'll be bouncing off the damn walls.”

He kisses your cheek lightly.

“It's a date.”

***

A little over a month has passed, and you've fallen head over heels.

Farmer’s market dates have become a routine, Sundays spent perusing stalls as if you’ve always done it.

Of course, Clark has been showing up at the restaurant just as often, sometimes helping carry crates when you don’t ask him to and coming to keep you company when you're up late doing prep.

He even surprised you one night by sliding a bowl of beef noodle soup straight from your favourite restaurant in Taiwan. You had been dreaming of this soup since your trip last year. 

“Did you fly there?” you asked, mouth agape.

“You told me how much you missed it and I—”

Safe to say you didn't let him finish his sentence, practically leaping into his arms and kissing him senseless.

Some nights, you fall asleep at his apartment without meaning to. Just sitting beside him for a moment that turns into hours, your head on his shoulder, as he reads to you.

And now, you’ve never been more inspired. Ideas don’t feel like something you have to force, freeing yourself from the likes of the Bearnaise sauce graveyard.

 Love will do that to a person, you suppose.

The pressure you used to carry like a second spine continues to loosen. You’re not digging yourself into a little hole. Instead, you’re taking it one plate at a time.

Your restaurant is closed, it’s late at night, and you’ve already said goodbye to the last of your staff. You enjoy the kind of quiet that only comes after a full service settles over the dining room, after a job well done. 

You walk out of the kitchen and stop still.

Standing among the empty tables is Clark, a smile blooms on his face the moment you step into view.

“What are you doing here?”

“I had to stop by.”

“You had to.” Looking him over, like he stepped out of your wildest dreams, “With flowers?”

He shifts a little, suddenly a touch sheepish. That dimpled smile appears like it always does when he’s trying to charm you. It works every single time. “Yes. With flowers.”

“I would be insane if I left things the way we have.”

You hold your hands behind your back with an easy smile and an even easier lilt in your step.

“And how have we left things?” you ask with a tilt of your head.

“It has been a month, a wonderful month, and we've never said the words. Never put a label on it.”

You continue to weave through the tables, footsteps soft against the floor, until you’re standing just close enough to feel his heart beating in time with yours or at least imagine it.

The dim amber light spills over his handsome face in a golden wash, like he's stepped straight out of a painting.

Outside, rain begins tapping gently against the windows, a familiar pitter-patter.

“And you want to?”

One more step, your shoes are just short of his.

“Put a label on it?”

“I do, you have no idea how much.” He reaches out and takes your hands in his softly. “If I could be so lucky, I would like to be your boyfriend.”

“I’d like that. A lot.”

He exhales like he’s been holding his breath for weeks without realising it, then leans in and presses a tender kiss to your knuckles.

“Are you going to call me a dork again?”

“It’s a term of endearment, Clark,” you say, smiling as you lean in to kiss his cheek. “You’re my dork… and I’m yours.” 

Then your eyes brighten as if you’ve just remembered something very important. 

“Oh! I have something to show you!”

You pull back just enough to grab a menu from the nearby table and wave it at him with unmistakable pride.

“Now serving breakfast for dinner, once a week.”

“Really?”

“What can I say? You inspired me.”

He wraps his arms around you and picks you up, spinning you around. 

“Clark!” You chuckle before returning to the ground. 

Though you don't get a moment to catch your breath as his lips find your neck, intent on covering every square inch of it with his touch.

“Let's go to my office.”

“I'll follow your lead.

With a smirk, you grab onto his tie and pull him towards the doors at the back. Making things official between the two of you deserves a proper celebration.

He was sprawled out beautifully—one leg up, one leg straight out. His thighs fat and the hairs that coated them a delicious dark brown. His body was oiled, shimmering in the set of the sun and glistening through his natural moisture.

And then there were the shorts.

Tiny. Barely there, really. A bright fabric that was pushed up to the tops of his quads and wedged between the line of his hips.

He looked transcendent. Genuinely. And you didn’t use such a word lightly. He looked absolutely out of this world and you were practically whining just at the sight of it.

“That’s perfect, Harry,” the photographer called from just beside you, “I want you to stretch out your left arm further backwards, lengthen you out a bit.”

He just nodded, complying easily and perfecting her request.

The second he shifted, you knew you had officially lost.

Thick muscles pressed outward on his back, curving over his rounded shoulders and flowing in a cohesive swarm to his pecs. He was swelling everywhere—big and curved and covered in a delicious layer of sweat.

You, on the other hand, were clamping your thighs so tight together that you swore it might just leave a rash.

He saw you do it, too. The way you would squirm and rub your nose or cough awkwardly to appear normal. He knew you weren’t. You were never good at hiding the filth that poisoned your pretty mind.

He got off to the way you worshipped him. You were younger than him, by a good bit, but it’s not like either of you minded. If anything, you both preferred it this way.

A man your age couldn’t dream of satisfying you the way Harry did. He spoiled you, physically and emotionally and through the luxuries in life as well. But it wasn’t just that.

He handled you—rough and raw and fucking dirty.

It really was a two way street. You were everything he could possibly want. A cute little thing who was sexy and shy and only showed yourself to him.

And you pried at him for his attention every minute of every day.

He was obsessed.

So, once the first session wrapped and he was strutting his way to his trailer, it didn’t take long for your legs to drag yourself to him.

“Harry,” you start, “hi.”

Not exactly what you were planning on saying, but the second you stepped within a 12 inch proximity of him, all logic went out the window.

The way he peered down at you. The towel hung around the back of his neck. The subtle smell of fresh sweat mixed with a deep vanilla musk. The look he always got on his face after a long day of shooting.

“Hey.”

He continued to walk his way towards his trailer, mountains following him as the sun snuck behind them.

“Harry,” you trot to keep up with his quick strides, “are you done?”

He coughed into his hand as he shook his head, maintaining his pace as his yellow sneakers crushed against the gravel.

“No, we’re doing a couple more. Then I’m done. Y’ok? Don’t have to stay.”

You practically laughed in his face. To say you wanted to leave seems somewhat criminal.

“No,” you say too immediately, “no, I wanna stay.”

He just nods, sniffing up the fresh air before grabbing onto either side of the towel around his neck.

You consider saying more as the two of you continue to walk along the path. You think about telling him how undeniably sexy he looked sprawled out for the camera like that. You even think about complimenting his little shorts, telling him how much you love them and maybe even hooking a finger into the waistband for just a second.

But your mind is mush.

And if your mouth can barely keep up with your mind even when it’s working properly.

“Harry, I need you now.”

Your voice was dropped to a whisper, eyes rounded and cheeks hot as you sped to keep up with his quick walk.

He paused, slowing his strides before coming to a full stop and turning to face you.

He looked completely unphased.

His hands continued to tug loosely against the soft cotton of the towel, his biceps pressing into his forearms from the bend of his elbows and his chest heaving softly in steady breaths.

“Why don’t you tell me what I’m doing right now, y/n.”

You swallowed, thick and heavy through a bite of your cheek. Your wide eyes peered across your surroundings, taking in the multiple trailers and the people in headsets and the constant chatter of people hard at work.

“You’re working…” you mumble, tugging at your bottom lip with your teeth and blinking up at him in a silent plea.

Nothing about the way you were looking at him was helping him stay stern.

“That’s right,” he nods, “now tell me, is Harry able to help you when he’s working?”

His tone was sickeningly patronizing, staring down at you like you were an idiot who couldn’t think for herself.

And, in total honesty, with the way he was speaking and the sweat that just dripped down his stomach, you sort of were.

“…No.” you shook your head, face flushed and panties soaked.

“So you can wait patiently until I’m done or you can wait for me at home if you can’t handle it.”

You were falling to pieces in front of him. His tone was sharp, but still suggestive in a way that had your head spinning.

He was toying with you. Spitting harsh words in your face until you squirmed some more and tensed tighter. He wouldn’t have done it if you hadn’t been so blunt with him—but you were asking for it. He knew it’d get you riled up and he knew he’d get himself riled up just from watching it.

It was his perfect fantasy. You, dumb in front of him and whipped up by thoughts of his cock. On your tongue, in your hands, between your legs, you didn’t care. It was dizzying for him to watch you fall so pathetic for it all.

You nod, swallowing dirty thoughts and keeping your lips sealed for a moment. You actually almost let a smile fall through, delighted by his strict response, but force it down to fit your part.

“Ok,” you whisper, pressing your legs together and batting up at him.

And then there was this smirk. Low. Relaxed. Laced with pride like he knew he owned you. Like he knew you were a desperate thing that would claw at him until he gave you just a taste.

Satisfied with your understanding, he resumed his pace. Walking towards the trailer in slow and confident steps. You followed, as close as you could. No matter how thick your head felt or how unstable your legs performed.

Eventually, shooting resumed itself.

But his shorts seemed…shorter. And tighter. And thinner.

It wasn’t long after before his thighs suddenly grew. Thicker and stronger and you thought maybe even a couple extra hairs grew too.

Then it was his arms. They seemed to swell more than usual, bulging in a thick sphere and creating a smooth bend for every bead of sweat.

His face seemed to have changed too. His jaw was sharper. His nose was strong and his eyes seemed to keep changing colors.

Once you found yourself wet at the sight of his fingernails, you decided it was the right time to send yourself home. To do as he asked.

You really thought it’d be a good idea. You thought it’d solve all your problems and maybe even ease the constant ache between your legs.

You were cozied up on your couch, a thick knit blanket slung over your crossed legs and a bowl of cereal on your lap. You were calming over time—slowly.

But then there were the mockups.

Like, hundreds of them. Sent right to the laptop that you and Harry shared. You were watching a show when the notification popped to the top right of the screen, a glowing email that seemed to have come from the heavens itself.

RWM Raw Takes—HS 3.3.26 Issue. Review Pending.

You really shouldn’t have clicked on it. It was for Harry and his team to go over and carefully select what was right.

It wasn’t your fault that your fingers were moving without thought and just happened to click right on the email.

Totally accidental.

What lied on the other side of the small preview was…sickening.

Sweaty abs. Swollen biceps. Chunky thighs. Slutty little shorts with nothing but skin. Dunking in an ice bath. Stepping out of the ice bath. His shoulders. His pecs. His knees. The way his calves strained with every step.

It was fucking porn.

You don’t even realize you’ve stopped chewing at first.

Your eyes lock. Your jaw slows. Completely stalls. You’re just… frozen there, food forgotten, staring like if you blink it might disappear.

You swallow late, like an afterthought, and lean forward without meaning to.

Scroll.

Another one.

Your eyebrows lift, lips parting just slightly as a quiet, disbelieving laugh slips out. You zoom in to places you shouldn’t, drag the screen, take it in longer than necessary. There’s this buzzing feeling building in your chest—not overwhelming, but almost.

Scroll.

It gets better.

Fucking bike shorts. Leopard print. Tight around his quads and hugging his thick bulge beautifully.

You shift on the couch, tucking one leg under you, then the other, like you can’t quite get comfortable in your own skin anymore. Your bowl sits abandoned on the coffee table, fingers hovering near it but never quite making contact again.

You don’t even care. You’re too far in now.

Scroll.

“Oh my god…” you murmur, jaw slack and core dripping.

Because the next one loads, and your head drops back against the couch with a soft, breathy laugh. Your hand drags down your face, but you’re already peeking through your fingers, already leaning back in.

There it was. The pose that had you so riled up in the first place. His tanned body, long against the concrete with one thigh up and the other stretched out in front of him. His inked arm rugged with muscle, glistening in the orange glow of the sun.

And his face. Scrunched up and fucking angry. Exhausted. Tired of the shoot and watching himself as he shifts against their commands.

You shift again, restless, energized, like you’ve had too much caffeine or not enough sleep or something in between. Your heart’s not racing, not exactly—it’s just… heavy, present in a way that makes everything feel sharper.

Scroll.

You don’t even notice how long it’s been. Just that you can’t stop.

The door clicks open.

You barely register it at first—too zoned in, eyes glued to the screen, fingers hovering even though you’re not even scrolling anymore, just staring. There’s something hot under your skin, something restless and bright and impossible to shake, and you’re so deep in it you almost miss the sound of him coming in.

Almost.

A bag drops by the door with a heavy thud.

“Hey,” he greeted, voice so rich and exhausted that you nearly fainted right there. It was just getting all too much.

And then you realize what you’re doing.

Your entire body jolts like you’ve been caught doing something illegal, hands moving faster than your brain as you slam the laptop shut with a sharp clap. The sound echoes a little too loud in the room, but you’re already moving, pushing off the couch and abandoning everything, practically tripping over yourself as you hurry toward him.

“Hi,” you say, too quick, too bright, like you weren’t just completely consumed by something else two seconds ago.

He’s already halfway inside, shrugging off his jacket with slow, heavy movements, like the day’s been sitting on his shoulders for hours.

His hair’s a mess, slightly flattened in places, slightly curled in others. There's this faint crease between his brows that hasn’t quite smoothed out yet.

He barely looks up.

“Long day?” you ask, softer now, trying to level yourself out as you reach him.

“Mm.”

That’s all you get.

And instead of diminishing your spirits, his cold tone excites you. Because you know he’s revving up to treat you like you needed.

He nudges his shoes off, toeing them aside without much care, then drags a hand down his face, exhaling through his nose. There’s a kind of quiet exhaustion in the way he moves. Nothing dramatic, just… worn.

And hot. So hot that you were sure your arousal had made its way to the inner skin of your thighs.

It only got worse once you took a quick scan of his body in front of you. Nothing but a loose t-shirt and those tiny fucking shorts.

And suddenly all that jittery energy from before has a perfect place to go.

You hover for a second, then step in closer, hands brushing lightly against his arms, like you’re testing the waters, “You okay?”

That’s when his eyes meet yours. Dark and deliciously green and cold with intent.

“M’fine. Tired.”

You nod, taking a step closer as you bring a palm behind his neck and another against chest.

His eyes follow your hands as they move, watching slowly as he waits for your next move.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” you peer up at him, “missed you when you were gone. Couldn’t stop my thoughts.”

He pauses for a second, like he’s finding the right thing to say.

Because really, his mind is thinking, I missed you too, honey. What have you been up to?

But his dick had other plans.

“Wouldn’t have missed me if you could handle watching me on set,” he shrugged, pushing past you and running a hand through his hair.

You froze, staring at nothing before running to catch up with him and planting yourself right back in front of him.

His eyelids hung low as they glanced down at your return.

“But I couldn’t handle it,” you shake your head slowly, “I tried. It hurt.”

He squints his eyes at your quiet comment.

“Hurt?”

You nod your head immediately, “needed your help. My thighs only gave me so much.”

He tried to hide the subtle smirk that came after that confession, but he couldn’t.

So you took it as a sign, placing your hands back on him again and twirling a loose strand of hair on the back of his neck.

“I was busy. Other people needed me. For more important things.”

It was a bunch of bullshit. There was nothing in this world that was more important than your pleasure. Not to him. He’d make you cum morning noon and night if it was up to him.

“But, Harry,” you pull yourself closer into him, kissing at his neck as you mumble through his skin, “I still need you.”

He took a deep breath, a sly grin forming on his face before he could stop it as your tongue rolled around his skin.

“You don’t need anything. You’ve got yourself all worked up over nothing and I have shit to do.”

And then he walked away, further into the kitchen until he reached the door to the laundry room. Pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it into the empty machine.

He was sick for that one.

Your legs dragged you back towards him before your mind could consider it.

“I do need it,” you defend immediately, “I do, really. Please, Harry.”

He sighs, shutting the lid of the washing machine and spinning around to face you. You were a clingy little thing—following him around like this. It was intoxicating.

“Need what, y/n.”

You cling to him again, hands roaming his damp skin and face pressed close to his own.

“You. Your cock, I wanna cum. Please, baby, want your thighs,” you whine, embarrassingly desperate and not caring in the slightest.

“You wanna cum?” His voice was condescending, lowering his head in a small and patronizing nod.

“Mhm, yes, please.”

Then he let out another sigh, curving out of your grasp and walking out of the tight laundry room and back into the kitchen.

“You’ve been a brat today. Asking for me at work and now begging for me the second I walk in the door. If you wanna cum, you can do it yourself.”

You frown, scurrying back over to him in the kitchen and pawing at his shoulders until he turned to face you again.

“You won’t help?”

You played that one up a bit, just a little. Batted your eyes a smidge heavier, blinked until your eyes were glassed.

But he didn’t budge.

“No.”

He continued his stride, wearing nothing but those little shorts that may as well have been a string of thread.

It was fucked up.

You just continued to follow him like a lost puppy dog, pathetic and desperate and begging for an inch of his attention.

“Harry,” you tapped his shoulder again, but this time, he didn’t turn around. He kept walking, stepping into the living room and peering down at his phone screen.

You didn’t let up.

“Harry, please,” you tugged at his skin, “please, I want you. Just touch me, Daddy, please. I’ll come so fast, I promise.”

You knew the name would start the fold, but it was nowhere near enough.

He didn’t answer. He just kept walking, all the way up until his feet reached the soft carpet and he took a slow seat on the couch.

His phone was in his hand, so small in comparison to his thick fingers, and he scrolled mindlessly. His legs were spread out wide, little shorts hiking up even further at the stretch and tightening against his bulge. His free arm rested behind his head, a low sigh rolling through him at the feeling of sitting down.

You’ve never felt so hungry for something in your whole life.

“Harry,” you whine, dragging the name a bit, “I need to cum. I’ll let you fuck me however you want, please.”

He just shook his head, eyes still locked on his screen.

“No.”

Now you were stumped.

But you were never opposed to begging. You’d do it for hours. You didn’t care how ridiculous you sounded or how humiliating it was. You were going to get what you needed. Maybe he didn’t know it yet, but you did.

“Daddy, please, it’s no fair. Just fuck me…”

And then you had another thought.

“…let me fuck you. I won't say a word, just let me use your cock. Wanna fuck it into myself until I cum, please.”

He peered up from his phone, slow and teasing, to get a good look at the mess in front of him. You—whiny and loud and fucking annoying. All for his cock.

He considered it for a second, letting you bounce on top of him until you fell unstrung.

But he had other plans for you. Better plans.

“No.”

And then he was back in his screen, scrolling with his thumb but not really reading anything he saw.

You huffed, thinking for a second before losing yourself in the figure in front of you.

Thumb scrolling, face lit faintly by the screen, expression completely unreadable—neutral in that annoyingly calm way of his. No urgency, just him existing there like nothing else is happening in the world worth reacting to.

Which felt rude, since you were prying at him from the moment he walked inside.

But you couldn’t sit here and pretend like you didn’t like it this way.

He leans back further into the couch, head tipping slightly into the cushion, one knee shifting just enough to get more comfortable, still fully absorbed in whatever’s on his screen. Every now and then his thumb pauses, then keeps moving, slow and automatic.

And when you focused in on the subtle sways of his spread knees and the way his quads spread flat against the fabric, there was nothing he could say anymore that could stop you from getting your fix.

It started slow.

A cute little exhale to show him your frustrations. He didn’t react, he just sunk deeper into the cushions and let his knees fall further apart. Projecting the bulge that pressed against his little shorts carelessly.

You took slow steps forward, watching as Harry attempted to take sneaky glances—barely looking up from his screen in a sad try at keeping composure.

Once your toes hit the edge of the couch, legs stood between his open knees, you paused for a moment. Staring down at him and watching as his stomach took quicker breaths and his scrolling started to lose meaning.

And then you put your hands on his shoulders, rubbing softly against his bare skin and humming a gentle sigh. He was so smooth…poreless and moisturized and gorgeously tanned.

He continued to ignore you—no matter how hard it was getting—and kept his head faced down in a stubborn fit.

But you were stubborn too.

And worse than he was.

So you shifted closer to him and brought a knee onto the cushion, and then another one, until your legs were wrapped tight around his left thigh.

He still didn’t move.

The sigh that left your lips was inevitable, so lost in the feeling of his thigh pressed up against where you needed it most. So wet that you figured he probably even felt it. You shift your hips a bit as you settle, slowing your movements with every stab of pressure.

And even when you pressed your lips against his neck, he still didn’t break.

He tasted so sweaty, his skin damp on your cold lips and fresh on your tongue. It tastes like exertion—like overheated limbs and flushed cheeks and the lingering aftermath of his body being pushed too hard for too long.

You could barely hold it together when your knee pressed harder into his crotch, squishing against the warmth of his half soft cock and crying for a taste.

You’re not totally sure what it was, but you were fucking obsessed with watching him stiff up. Or, in this specific moment, feeling it. He was salty and twitchy and always firmed up fast.

Your mind drifted to thoughts of his cock slapped against your tongue—halfway erect and thickening up in your mouth. The moan that slipped through your lips was fully involuntary.

But the way your hips started to grind against his quads was fully voluntary.

It even pulled his focus for a moment, bringing him closer to the tipping point but never far enough. His eyes darted over to your rolling hips, pressing heavy against his skin in a plea for some relief.

But his gaze left just as quick as it got there, and he was back into his phone with a deep breath and a shake of his head.

“You’re pathetic.”

You whimper at the treat of his voice—landing over you like a gift that you didn’t even know you wanted.

“Daddy, please,” you whine, “give me your cock, I need it.”

Your lips continue to suck against his dewy skin as your hips rocked back and forth, moving with a mind of their own and too far gone to stop. His neck curved gently to the side, granting you the access you so badly craved.

“No,” he mutters, “if you need to cum so badly, you do it on my thigh.”

You groan, a mix of displeased yet still satisfied meshed through your tone. But, you still rearranged for a moment to shrug off your clothes, desperate for closer contact and reeling at the feeling of it.

You were separated only by thin black panties, the cotton drenched and chilling against his skin.

“Mmm,” you hum, lips finding their way back to his skin and licking up the remaining beads of sweat.

It was really only a couple of minutes before things got sloppy.

Your hips rocked against his thigh like muscle memory at this point, moving how they pleased and ignoring any cohesive thoughts. You were erratic—grinding up into him with a complete lack of respect for yourself.

The skin of his neck was soaked in your tongue and nagged at by your teeth, working as a blank canvas for you to use however you pleased.

And even when breathy moans started rolling through you, his face read nothing but fucking bored.

So bored that it was honestly erotic. Like you were just a little pet getting off on top of him and that he had ten things better to do. His face was still in his phone. His hands hadn’t touched you once.

But his hard cock nudged up against your knee told you all you needed to know.

“Look at yourself, y/n. You’re so fucking desperate. Haven’t even touched you and you already sound like you’re about to cum.”

You were just happy his attention was on you.

“Not good enough,” you whine into his neck, “still need your cock. Put it in me, please, I want it deep.”

Harry was convinced he’s never been so attracted to you in his life.

Sure, you’ve always been a bit of a brat when it comes to his cock and you’ve always been vocal with what you want. But this was different. This was something that could only be explained by hours of pent up sexual energy and a complete lack of relief.

“I’m not fucking you. If you wanna lose my thigh, keep complaining,” his voice was was low and exhausted, fighting to stay stern but you could tell he was stringing loose.

You just groaned at his words, frustrated to say the least. But when your clit kept knocking into the same sweet spot of his quad, there wasn’t much time for you to sit there and mope.

You couldn’t stop drifting to thoughts of the photos. Every reminder of his glistening skin and the fact that you were tasting it right now had you feral. Your pussy was sopping wet as it slid around the hairs of his thigh, your panties absentmindedly slipping to the side from all of your movement.

At the feeling of your wet folds, finally breaking through the cotton that got pushed aside, Harry cocked his leg up once in a teasing bounce.

The noise that followed was nothing short of bliss.

“Mm, please, felt good,” you groan, hips meshing harder against him, “give me something else, please.”

And the second he shut his phone off and tilted his head towards yours, you knew you had him.

“Hm?”

“Feels so good against your thighs, so strong, Daddy. Am I making a mess?”

His leg started to bounce up and down in a steady rhythm now, pressing harder into your clit with every subtle shift. He stared deep into your scrambled face as it struggled to stay against his neck, tightening his jaw in reflex.

“You’re fucking filthy, you know that? You like claiming me? So wet on top of me that your panties couldn’t even stay on,” his words are spitting at you as he shakes his leg quicker, watching your reactions and reading what he should do next.

“Mhm, wanna ride you all day, just give it to me,” you murmur, slowly falling deeper and deeper into the heat in your stomach.

It was building slowly, the grind of your hips and the bounce of his leg working cohesively to bring you to where you desperately needed. But it wasn’t enough. You were a needy thing, and if you were gonna cum you needed his dick.

“Give you what?”

“Your cock, Daddy, please. I need it! I’ll let you d—”

And before you could even finish the filthy thought, your stomach caved into itself and your legs clamped tighter around his thigh.

“—Fuck, I’m gonna cum!”

The smirk that found Harry’s face was sickening.

“Yeah? You gonna cum all over Daddy’s thigh? Feels good, doesn’t it?”

And god, it did.

Your mind was racing, stuck in a constant loop of the day and spiraling through never ending tension. You eyes would force themselves open every now and then just to get a peak at your throne—his clenching abs and his thick thighs and his little fucking shorts.

“Mm yes feels so good, so good, so good, so g—”

And right when you were about to cum, when you were finally about to release what’s been building deep inside of you all day, both of his hands came to grip at your sides and flip you off of his thigh and onto your back.

Your mind spun at the sudden change, mouth open and searching for the right words to say and falling completely short.

“Harry, what are you d—”

His lips smashed into yours before you could get it out, pressing your back deeper into the cushions and splitting your lips apart with his tongue.

His lips tasted as of sweat and an intense exercise, so salty and fresh and deliciously him. You were suffocated by his mouth, hands scrambling around his body as you tried to settle into the sudden change.

“Shut the fuck up,” he spit, “you’ll be quiet when I fuck you, ok?”

It was the best news you’d ever heard in your entire life.

Your nod was quick and aggressive as you kissed him harder, wrapping your legs around his hips and pulling his core closer to yours. His cock was solid and twitching beneath his little shorts, leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination.

His fingers hooked into your thong and tugged them down your ankles so quick that you barely processed it. Your top came next, his hands shoving it up and over your head before reconnecting his lips to yours in a winding hunger.

The pawing only got worse. Your hands were grabbing at his bulge and whining into his throat, squeezing his cock and crying for a real taste. He just let you touch him. Claw at him. You were humiliating yourself and he was fucking obsessed.

He was more than well hung. His cock was massive and throbbing at every pass of your nimble fingers. His tiny shorts barely held him in—pressing a tight tension in the fabric to the point where you thought they might even rip open.

“Give me your cock, Daddy, I want it. Put it in my mouth, wanna suck on it, please,” you whine, breaking the kiss and breaking Harry’s only rule. To stay quiet.

But he wouldn’t reprimand you for your misbehavior just yet. Not when the breach was as sweet as that was.

“You want it?”

“Mhm.”

“This? You want this cock?”

“Mmm,” you hum, nodding your head through a bitten lip and glassed eyes.

He lowers his face closer, nose nudging into yours and lips grazing against your own before—

“Be a big girl and go get it.”

You whimpered into his lips before tugging down on the tight waist band, shoving it off his thighs until it sprung up against tummy with a smack.

He was dripping at the tip, a dribble of clear liquid slipping down his shaft and coating his tip in a thin layer.

You would do anything to slap it against your tongue, to shove it down your throat until the salty drip reached the backs of your tastebuds and drowned into your belly.

“Quiet,” he spits in a reminder, grabbing his base and lining it up against your hole.

You shook just at the feeling of his tip against you, drawing up and down in teasing motions and passing a little harder on your clit.

And when he pressed in—slow, steady—your lips fell apart before your mind could settle.

He was so thick inside of you, spreading your little hole open and pushing through your tight walls. He was long and ridged and so dense.

“Oh, feels s—”

His hand slapped over your mouth before you could finish, hips bottoming out against you simultaneously in one quick motion.

“Sh. No talking till you cum.”

You nod furiously, knowing it’ll be soon anyway. And with the agreement of your nod, he slips himself half way out before slamming hard back into you.

And then again.

And again.

And again and again and again until you were locked in your pleasure and spinning with every new thrust.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, head falling down onto yours, “feel so good like this. So worked up for me. Did you like humiliating yourself? Making a fool of yourself?”

You nodded again, fast and sloppy and no real meaning.

“I know you did. Riding me like the filthy whore you are. And now shutting up to let me fuck you. S’it hard for you to stay quiet? You have something you wanna say?”

Your brows fall into each other as you nod again, lip bitten between your teeth and cheeks flushed a deep rose.

“Shame. You’re not gonna say it though, right? Gonna listen to Daddy? Stay quiet for him?”

You squeeze your eyes shut as he pushes in deeper, harder, quicker. Nodding again and pressing harsh into your lip until you taste the tinge of metallic blood.

The golden cross that hung around his neck was smacking into your chin with every jab, your tongue mindlessly searching for it to get a little taste.

“Mm.” He hums, satisfied with your compliance and thrusting into you harder.

His fingers come to pry at your mouth, thumb crawling around your bottom lip before pressing into the heat of your tongue. He tugs down until your jaw drops open, displaying your red mouth and the way your tongue twitched with every harsh thrust.

He fucked into you harder as he pressed his fingers into your mouth, lapping around until they were soaked and covered in your sweet saliva. Your tongue was following his fingers, searching for a hint of his skin and stopping yourself from sucking tight around them.

“Fucking love this mouth,” he grits, spreading your mouth open further, “is my baby hungry?”

You just not immediately, not sure what he was referring to but desperate for anything.

“Wider.”

You obey, spreading your jaw wide as his fingers tug down as an aid. His thrusts don’t slow. If anything, they pick up, slamming deep into your tummy until his tip kissed your insides.

And then, hovered over your open mouth, he spit, thick and quick and right on your tongue.

You hummed as you shut your mouth, letting the glob of saliva roll around in your mouth and over your tastebuds until you could taste all of him. It was delicious, fresh and sweet and thick.

“Fuck,” he groaned at your eagness, dropping his head and rolling into you deeper and deeper and deeper. Every passing second seemed to have made it all more intense, his cock stretching you out so wide just like you wanted.

The ache had been sitting in you for so long that your orgasm rose quickly, built up from too many hours of silent tension and constant prying.

The pressure intensified gradually, the kind that bordered on overwhelming for a second before tipping into relief. Your shoulders instinctively tensed into each other against the cushions, breath hitching and body stilling.

Then the knot released with a sudden pop.

The sensation spread instantly through your bloodstream, sharp for half a heartbeat before melting into warmth. Relief flooded every muscle so quickly it almost made you dizzy, like the tension you’d been carrying had unraveled all at once.

Your chest erupted in light moans and sudden yelps, clamping tight around his cock until his tip was swollen in pressure. He just watched as you rode through your peak, clawing at his back and tugging him closer into your body.

He followed soon after, stilling inside of you with one last stroke, settling deep into your belly and filling your insides with his cum. Groans and heavy breaths swarmed between you two, filling the quiet air and replacing the prior smacks of your sex.

Your body went heavy against the cushions at the fall, every inch of you sinking deeper into it as the tightness finally gave way.

The soreness lingered faintly beneath it, overwhelmed and tender, but underneath was that overwhelming loose, weightless feeling that made you want to close your eyes and stay there forever.

“Shit,” he breathed out, forehead against yours as he fell weightless above you.

“Mm,” was all you could get out.

You’re sprawled across the couch like your body physically gave up, flat on your back with one arm tossed over your stomach and the other dangling off the edge of the cushion. Your chest rises and falls in slow, heavy breaths that still haven’t quite evened out, lungs working hard to catch up after being pushed too far.

Heat clings to your skin, making you feel heavy and overheated and completely drained. Every muscle aches with that deep, overworked soreness that settles into your limbs after you’ve exhausted yourself past the point of caring.

Your legs feel useless, too tired to move properly, and even shifting against the couch cushions seems like more effort than it’s worth.

“Ok?”

You nod. “Mhm.”

“Good,” he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead and brushing a strand of hair off of your forehead.

Your eyes stay half-lidded, blinking slowly up at him. There’s sweat cooling along the back of your neck, your body sinking deeper and deeper into the cushions with every passing second. The exhaustion sits on top of you like extra weight, pulling you down until you feel almost glued to the couch, too spent to do anything except breathe through it and let your body recover.

With another soft kiss to your lips, he pulls out, slow and steady as to not further exhaust you. You know you should probably get up. Get your clothes on. Pee. You know, all the things.

But you couldn’t. You were completely wiped and wanted nothing more than to be pampered by your man and lay there like you couldn’t hold your own head up.

He stayed buried deep inside of you until he was soft and warm and limp, resting within your hole until he snapped out of his trance.

Harry sinks back into the couch beside you with a long, exhausted huff, his head tipping against the cushion as his eyes fall shut for a moment. It all clings to both of you—warm skin, tired limbs, breathing only just beginning to steady again.

Your legs are draped lazily across his lap, too exhausted to hold yourself up properly anymore, and his hands settle around your ankles automatically like it’s instinct. His thumbs move slowly against the little bone there, absentminded and gentle, working small circles into smooth skin.

Neither of you says anything.

The room is quiet except for the soft sound of breathing and the occasional shift of the couch cushions beneath your weight. Your eyes stay heavy, body melted into the corner of the couch while his hands continue rubbing slow, steady warmth into your skin.

Every now and then his grip tightens slightly before melding back over the bone. His head stays leaned back, eyes still closed, looking just as worn out as you feel, but comfortable in it—comfortable with you.

The silence settles around both of you easily, soft and familiar, the kind that only happens when neither person feels the need to fill it.

But then he goes to grab his laptop.

And suddenly, you’re wide awake.

You sit up just enough to register the moment properly, voice already cautious, “Okay, Harry, don’t be mad.”

That makes him pause mid-open.

He glances at you, one brow lifting, “Mad?”

You don’t help your case by looking guilty. Already so fucked out of your mind and now desperately trying to piece together a way for this to make sense. Because really, you had no business opening his emails.

His hand hovers over the trackpad, a silly grin on his face as he watches you panic, “What did you do?”

It’s light—teasing already, like he’s assuming you’ve done something small and mildly inconvenient, not world ending. He knew you could never do anything too bad. He had nothing to worry too much about. Or at least he hoped.

You hesitate a beat too long.

“…Nothing,” you say, which is immediately suspicious. You also follow it by sinking deeper into your spot on the couch and hiding your face into the side of the pillow.

That gets a quiet huff of a laugh out of him, “That was a terrible answer.”

He opens the laptop anyway.

And the second the email loads, everything clicks into place.

His shoot. Raw selects. A grid of him looking unfairly good in that effortless, camera ready way that probably should’ve come with a warning label.

Harry leans back slightly, eyes scanning the screen, then slowly turns his head toward you.

“Ahhh,” he says, dragging it out, amusement spreading across his face. “Makes sense now.”

You groan as you sink deeper into the couch.

He gestures vaguely at the screen, “This is what you were doing while I was gone?”

You cover part of your face with your hand like it might erase the memory, “I wasn’t—I was just—scrolling.”

“Scrolling,” he repeats, with a nod, like he’s testing the word.

“It’s not funny,” you mutter, but it’s ruined immediately by how tired you sound and how much you’re already trying not to smile.

He leans forward again, still scrolling through the images, “No, it is a bit funny.”

You kick his tummy lightly with your foot—no real force behind it. He just chuckles, shaking his head as he continues to scroll through the shoot.

“Okay,” he says, catching your ankle loosely before you can pull away, still grinning. “Relax. I’m not mad.”

You peek at him through your fingers.

He tilts the laptop slightly toward youx “Actually,” he adds, softer now, “this just explains a lot about the last hour of your life.”

You groan, dropping your hand completely, “I was not losing it.”

“You were absolutely losing it,” he says, far too calmly for someone being accused of anything.

There’s a beat where you just stare at him.

Then he nudges your legs gently back into place across his lap like nothing happened.

“Come on,” he says, shifting the laptop so you can see it properly too, “Help me pick which ones I actually like.”

You blink, “You want my opinion?”

He glances at you like it’s obvious, “Yeah. ‘Course.”

Then, after a pause, a little more casually, “You’ve already got strong feelings about it anyway.”

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Your sweet lilt has his smile lifting even higher. While this may break some of the professional boundaries he has set for himself, he can’t help but think you’re an absolute sight for sore eyes, especially when you’re wearing his favorite dress.

It’s a pretty little white number, Clark thanks whoever invented sundresses. It hugs your body just right, accentuating your dips and curves. The cinched bodice clings to your skin and the skirt flares out around your legs. However, what Clark really loves is the way the straps curl around your neck, holding up your pretty breasts in that sweetheart neckline. A little bow sits in the middle, slightly below the lace trim that frames your cleavage.

Clark’s pants tighten at the sight. If you’re wearing this dress, he knows you mean trouble.

He rounds his desk to meet you where you stand. He maintains a safe enough six-foot distance between the two of you. His fingers are already itching to snatch your waist, to pull you flush against him, to kiss you senseless, but he is still technically at work, so instead he distracts his trembling hand by pushing up his glasses.

These are certainly things he cannot do when his boss is sitting at the desk right next to his. His boss doesn’t even know he has a girlfriend — let alone someone as pretty as you.

“Good afternoon, ma’am. How can I help you today?”

Your molten gaze flicks up to meet his blue eyes. His breath hitches in his throat. He knows that look in your eyes. He’s slightly fearful of what comes next. “I’m looking for something very sturdy. Very solid. Strong. Beautiful.”

Clark swallows thickly, index finger hooking on his tie to loosen it. Summer really has arrived, hasn’t it? He clears his throat and gestures to the rest of this small store. “Well, we have quite the collection here. I can walk you through all our offerings. I hope you’ll find something to your liking.”

There are very few things that the great, big Superman cannot handle in his life. The first being Kryptonite — basic, inherited, genetic flaw that is unfortunately unavoidable. The second is the way you’re staring at him right now — doe-eyed, lashes gently brushing against your cheeks every time you blink, teeth sinking into the corner of your bottom lip.

Your tongue darts out to swipe across your lip, your eyes dragging slow and warm from the tip of his head, down along his broad shoulders and sturdy frame, to his long legs hidden beneath his customary black slacks. By the way you’re looking at him, you’d think he’s wearing next to nothing — but there’s just something about a man dressed properly for work that really just gets you going.

You’ve told him as such.

“I think I’ve found just the thing,” you grin at him.

Clark chuckles, “Well, let’s not commit too early. I can show you what we have here towards the back.”

“Nonsense,” another voice cuts through. Perry stands from his desk with a frown at Clark, then splits into a smile when he sees you. “If the lady knows what she wants already, we can certainly help her with it. Which one piques your interest, ma’am?”

Your amused glance darts to Clark for a brief second before returning to his boss. “I’m not really sure if the one I want is for sale.”

“Oh, I’m sure we can make an arrangement,” Perry insists, clearly unaware of how Clark is beginning to heat up right behind him.

“Hmm, I might have to agree with your employee here. Perhaps I can’t commit too early. I’m looking for something very specific for my home. Something… strength-resistant.”

Perry’s brows pucker immediately as he looks at Clark in confusion. He turns back to you. “You mean stain-resistant?”

“No, I mean I need it to be indestructible,” you shrug.

A chuckle bubbles up Perry’s throat. “Well, unless you’ve got Superman in your kitchen, you’ll be just fine with the ones we’ve got here.”

Clark makes a choked noise behind him, immediately whipping his face away to hide the aggressive flush slowly spreading across his face. Perry gives him an annoyed look and you have to bite down on your laugh too.

“Theoretically, which one could Superman not break?”

Perry probably decides then and there that you aren’t a serious customer so he passes you back to Clark to explain the full catalogue of offerings that his store has. He tells Clark that he’s off to lunch and to make sure that you get the full service, everything you need.

You throw out a — “I’m sure he’ll have no problem giving me everything I need” — to which your boyfriend has to swallow a garbled sound again.

True to his word, Clark begins to walk you through the counter options. He smooths his hands over the various models they have, from the darker countertops to the pristine white cabinets to the delicate silver handles. Endless possibilities of combinations to put together your future home — which you will need.

One day. Eventually. Not right now when you’re renting, though.

Clark still gives you the full tour anyway; if not for your future reference, it’s to distract himself from your proximity. He can hear the rhythm of your heart, how it skips a beat when he gets close to you to explain the difference between quartz and quartzite, how it thumps a little louder when Clark mentions how durable certain countertops are, how they could hold the hottest pots or handle the worst of scratches. He can hear the subtle changes in your breath as his arms flex when he reaches for the higher cabinets to explain how the arched door is a classic, but the square inset is more common these days.

“And we have standard sizes but we’re sure we’ll find something to your liking. Even if it’s an inch, it makes all the difference.”

“Yeah, size really does matter,” you muse thoughtfully to yourself, eyes falling to his pants where there is a noticeable tent.

Clark blushes red to the tips of his ears. “Um, well, I think that’s most of it. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

You take one step then another and another until he’s backed up against the counter. Even if you’re shorter than him, Clark still lets out a squeak as he plants his palms on the counter, as you flatten your hands on his chest.

“There is something I was hoping you could help me with.”

He chokes on a nervous cough. “Ah, and what may that be?”

“I really need to test the strength on these counters. Do you think you can help me with that,” you start and look up at him coyly, “Mr. Kent?”

His throat moves with the lump caught there. “I— uh— I’ll do my best, but what do you mean— whoa.”

Your hands are already flying to his belt, unbuckling it swiftly before you’re reaching for the button and zipper. Clark’s hands immediately find yours, squeezing to stop you where you are. You look up at him with one raised eyebrow, a question. 

A challenge.

“I don’t think we should be doing this. People can walk by and we have glass doors. Not to mention, if another customer comes in and they see this…” He looks at you so pitifully. His heart is practically bursting out of his chest. Perry takes long lunches but it doesn’t mean that nobody will drop by while he’s gone.

“Clark.”

Your voice is firm. Curt. Clark freezes. “Yes?”

“Put your hands back on the counter.”

Your name rolls off his tongue in one last desperate plea.

“I thought Perry said that you’d have to give me everything I need, and you were offering to be so helpful earlier. Now, you won’t assist me in this one final check?”

Clark swallows. You’re serious. You’re really dead set on doing this. In broad daylight, in the middle of his workplace. Who is he to deny you when you’re so determined? He peels his hands off yours and carefully puts them back on the counter, palm flat against the surface and fingers curling around the edge.

“Good boy,” you purr as you continue to work off his pants. “Now, I really want to test the strength of these counters. So I’m going to get on my knees, I’m going to take care of you, and I want to see how that counter survives against your grip. Does that sound good?”

He can’t find his voice. His throat is tight. His cock is so hard in his briefs and your hand is oh so close to it. He can practically feel the ghost of your touch. A gasp wrenches out of his throat when you wrap your hand around his cock through the cotton.

“Asked you a question, Mr. Kent.”

“Yes, sounds good,” he rasps.

Then you’re dropping to your knees, your skirt floating and settling around your thighs. You look up at him with those pretty eyes as you drag the thin fabric down, freeing his cock to bounce against his stomach. The tip is bruised red as it bumps the hem of his shirt. Clark reaches for his tie and loosens it further.

“Ready for your test, Mr. Kent?” You tease with a finger tracing up the underside of his cock.

The length twitches needily for you as a whimper pours out of Clark’s throat. His cock is mouthwateringly thick, long in a way that you can still feel it in your insides from last night. You know how much of it you can take between your legs, but Clark never lets you mouth at him long enough, says, “I’m going to finish too quick, honey. Let me take care of you instead.”

Now, he’s paying the price on that because, while he knows how your mouth feels on him, he hasn’t had it that often — or for long periods of time. You seem intent on testing the limits of his restraint today.

Your fingers gently wrap around his cock at the base as you nuzzle closer to his cock, the tip of your nose brushing his length. Clark jolts slightly, nearly bumping your face with his length. “Sorry,” he mumbles, embarrassed.

“Why are you sorry? Are you apologizing for having such a thick cock, baby?”

Clark whines, eyes slamming shut as he tilts his face to the ceiling. He can’t watch this. He can’t look at you all pretty on your knees in front of him, your tits practically spilling out of your dress. From this angle, he can see the dip between your breasts, his tongue salivating at the thought of burying his face in them.

Then he feels it — the first tentative lick. His eyes automatically drop down to you again and, boy, that was a mistake. You’re still peering up at him with those sultry eyes as you lean close to the base of his cock before dragging a long stripe along his cock. Clark grips the counter harder as he prays to whatever deity exists to show him some small form of mercy.

Your lips wrap around the tip — just the tip — and Clark’s head is already spinning. The room tilts on its axis as he forces himself to stand upright, as you suckle hard on it, the slurping sounds echoing in the quiet of the room.

“Gosh, honey, slow down,” he huffs breathlessly.

You pull off him and purse your lips, still gripping his cock. “I haven’t even done anything.”

“I know, I’m just sensitive.” And nervous. So incredibly nervous. He’s strung up so tight, muscles taut as he keeps glancing at the door. Even if the two of you are partially hidden, there are still passersby moving back and forth in front of the shop.

Your lips shift into a pout. “How are you going to last, Mr. Kent? I won’t be able to test my counter properly.”

Clark’s eyes flash a stark blue at you as he grits out, “Are you going to keep calling me that?”

“What? Mr. Kent? You don’t like it?” You tease, giving his cock a few pumps. Clark twitches in your hand.

“I like it too much.”

“Kinky fucker,” you laugh and he glares at you.

The expression doesn’t last long when you dip your head again and take him further between your lips. The cavern of your mouth is hot and wet, engulfing him with the kind of heat that has him nudging his hips forward in search of more. Every time you pull him out, his stomach sinks with the loss.

Your mouth feels heavenly. Your tongue swirls around his length, pressing against the delicate underside of his cock as you take him in deeper each time. He hears your little gags when his cock hits too deep, when he accidentally thrusts inside your mouth. He likes hearing it. Likes hearing that he’s too big to fit inside you.

But he’ll make it fit. He always does.

“Such a pretty girl,” Clark murmurs as he looks down and strokes your face with his thumb. He feels the imprint of his cock on your cheek, placing slight pressure on it. He feels it jerk inside your mouth. “You look so good with your mouth plugged up like this.”

You release a whine that’s muffled into his length.

Clark watches in sick fascination as his cock disappears inch by inch into your mouth. It’s a gorgeous sight seeing how much of him you can take in, how he manages to squeeze himself deeper each time.

His eyes can’t help but fall to your chest where you take deep breaths every time you suck him in. At some point, you pull him out and mouth along the side of his cock, hands coming up to hold him and pressing your breasts together to deepen your cleavage.

The instruction falls from his mouth before he can stop himself.

“Take them out,” Clark gasps, “please.”

You don't need to ask him what them means. Clark has always had a thing for your tits, especially in this dress.

“Filthy, filthy Clark, baby,” you grin and tug on the collar to allow your breasts to spring free. He lets out a groan at the sight. Your pretty breasts and your nipples, pert and peaking in the cold of the room. You push them together, deepening the shadows between your tits, and grope them gently. The flesh is pliant under your touch and Clark watches mesmerized as they follow the shape of your hands. “Do you like them?”

“Like them?” He breathes out, “I love them so much, honey. Wish I could put my cock in between them, have them wrap around me all warm.”

“Yeah? You want me to fuck my tits, Clark?”

His jaw clenches as he shakes his head. “I think I need to stuff your mouth again to stop you from saying such crude things.”

“You like me crude,” you wink and Clark adjusts himself so he can slide his cock between your breasts. He groans with every slide of his cock between your tits, how you keep pushing them closer together to wrap tighter around his length.

“Gosh, feels so good. So tight.”

“Better than my pussy?”

Clark snorts a little. “Every part of you is perfect,” he begins, and you roll your eyes, “but nothing is better than your pussy. She’s perfect.”

A whine falls involuntarily from your lips. Your legs press together on instinct, a need for friction between your legs.

“Does she need attention too, honey? How about you give her some then? I can’t let her feel neglected,” Clark coaxes as he fucks up through your tits again. He works himself into a frenzy as he pants, looking down at you. “Come on, sweetheart. Put your hand between your legs. Give her some love. I want you to touch yourself for me. Touch yourself while I slide my cock between your beautiful breasts.”

One of your hands stays to prop up your breast for Clark and the other snakes between your thighs and feels the dampness between your legs.

“Lift your skirt for me, pretty girl. Let me see.”

You bunch the fabric around your waist, holding it up by your forearm as your fingers find your wet folds.

Clark exhales shakily. “You didn’t wear panties?”

“W-wanted to make it easy for you,” you whimper quietly as your fingers slip along your slick folds. You’ve been leaking since you came in, the sight of Clark with his suit and tie, his glasses on his face, and how he drank you in so hungrily.

“Such a good girl for me, aren’t you?” Clark coos softly, “She’s so needy for me. But I can’t put my cock in her just yet. Not here, not right now. Can she wait until I’m home?” You nod eagerly, desperately. “For now, I want you to rub yourself for me. I want you to feel how you’re dripping all over your fingers, practically aching to be filled. I just fed her last night and she’s already so hungry again. Greedy girl.”

Oxygen is punched out of your chest when you begin to rub at your clit, the sensitive bundle of nerves tingling as your knees dig into the tiles. Your thighs are aching, you want to sit back on the balls of your feet and spread your legs wider, but you won’t be servicing Clark then. You won’t reach his cock, so you keep going. The dull pain only adds to the intensity of the torture between your legs.

“Put me back in your mouth, honey. I want to feed you my cock.”

You’re obedient, compliant in the cockdrunk haze and the burning deep inside your gut. You comply easily, hand moving away from your breast to take hold of his cock and angle it back between your lips. Clark groans as he sinks back in, all the way to the back of your throat.

Tears prick the corners of your eyes when he slams all the way back in again, your nose buried in the short curls at the base of his cock. His hand tangles in your hair as he begins to fuck up into your mouth, guttural groans spilling from his lips as he does so. His other hand is still planted on the counter, fingers tensing on the cool, hard surface.

He’s too lost in the heat of your mouth, the humidity trapped, soaking his cock, the shape of your lips as they move along his shaft. You feel so good, so perfect around him. It’s like this mouth was created to mold around his girth the same way your pussy was made to take his cock — every inch of it. You’ve always taken him so well.

“Such a perfect mouth pussy for me, honey,” Clark groans. You whimper around his cock at his words, the unexpected term knocking the breath from your lungs. “Feels so good, so hot around me. I’m so close. I don’t think I can last. It feels so, so good. So perfect. You’re perfect.”

Your other hand reaches up to his thigh and gives him a squeeze. Permission.

“Can I cum inside your mouth? Can I fill this pretty throat with my cum?”

You squeeze him again.

“Oh gosh, perfect. So perfect. Your mouth feels divine,” he whines as he drives his cock into your mouth, his hand moving your head in rhythm with his thrusts. “I’m going to paint the inside of your mouth white. Don’t swallow yet. I wanna see. I wanna see my cum inside your mouth.”

He earns a stifled whine around his cock.

His hips stutter as he continues to plunge into your mouth. Your saliva coating the length of him until he slides in and out all too easily. It’s hot, it’s tight, it feels too darn good, and suddenly the orgasm cracks through him like a whip. His heart is thundering in his ears, he’s choking on gasps as he spills into your mouth. His cock is still so hard but he’s pouring cum onto your tongue, spurt after spurt until he sees your cheeks puff up a little.

It’s a lewdly adorable sight and Clark wishes he could capture that image of you with a camera. The last of his cum drips onto your tongue and he sees a drop dribble out of the corner of your lips, rolling down to your chin. Your eyes are glassy, likely from the force of his thrusts but also from keeping his climax trapped in your mouth.

He breathes heavily as he leans down, fingers around your chin, thumb pressing between your lips to pry your mouth open. You open it slowly, cautiously curling your tongue around his cum to stop more from spilling out. Clark sees the thick white cum sticking to your tongue, to the roof of your mouth, painting the insides of your cheeks.

He feels his cock twitch again. He always cums a lot, which is why he avoids cumming in your mouth most of the time, but he thinks he may start getting used to this. It’s a pretty sight, like a painting inside your mouth that is only meant for him and him alone.

“Gorgeous,” he murmurs, “now, swallow for me.”

You close your lips and he watches as you gulp down all his cum, your throat moving as you do so. He sneaks an X-ray look as he watches the viscous liquid slip down the column of your neck and into your stomach. His own belly flips with need.

“You’re watching it, aren’t you?” You whisper.

“I like seeing you swallow,” he mutters in response.

Clark tugs you to your feet and you stumble towards him with a giggle. You tuck your tits back into your dress and smooth out the skirt. When you tilt your face up to look at him, he’s got such an enamored look on his face that makes you melt. His thumb brushes your face, dusting off the dried cum on your face as you look away sheepishly.

“You’re so—” he stops there, breath catching in his throat. He almost proposed to you. Right then and there. After you’ve had his cock in your mouth and given him the most mind-blowing orgasm. 

And you swallowed every single drop.

“Hm?” You tilt your head, a singsong tilt to your tone. “How about we look at the counte— oh my god.” Your eyes blow up wide and Clark’s chest flares with panic as he whirls around.

There it is. The giant crack splitting the countertop in half. It’s not even a small hairline fracture, it’s a massive gap where the counter is now misaligned, one shifted higher than the other. There are chips of granite between his fingers. He winces.

It’s completely unsalvageable.

“So,” you cough, “this counter isn’t Superman-proof then?”

Clark groans, rubbing his face. “Perry’s going to take this out of my paycheck.”

“Well, I have to commend you for the full-service experience. Rating you five out of five stars.”

He chuckles, dipping his head and kissing you on your lips. “Worth every penny.” 

clark is saving (taglist): @houseofhyde @phoenix-in-writing @averyhotchner @hailmary-yramliah @catclaw1 @pinksplace @lunexiax @esunarint @nikkitabarnes @lunaryoongie @sergeantsebastian @avgdestitute @natskisses @parker-barnes-af @kelbrave @steviebbboi @onecojg @clarknsun @kryptidfiles @wildflowersandvibranium @stegosaurussims @angelryex @mollymal @evelynstanmarvel @lokisgirlie @lynnidc @winnichu173 @zhaixiaowen @macbaetwo @rach2602 @garfieldhollander @my-drvidess @deeninadream @lillilam @fruitypebsworld @vivshome @ella-rowen @reenielane @smorgasbrods @jbennsquared @royaljewellerycurator @ruptureedspleen @yelanare @take-it-on-the-run @ghostgirlwrites @hellooiosworld @anon-188 @a-very-fictional-girl @misswhiddless @femmewithmommyissues2001 @stanmarvelous @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @vivianna2392 @thebabykashmere @jackierose902109 @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles

“Oh! This place isn’t new! I’m writing a piece on it, actually,” you say. Perry entrusted the Musings of Metropolis column to you, and you’re writing a short series on bar trends. The "musings" come from bar patrons about their favorite drinks, why they love particular bars, and what is considered hip nowadays. It's definitely fluff, but we all start somewhere.

“Oh, come on, don’t worry about deadlines and work tonight!” Jimmy says with a wave.

“I’m not! I promise, I picked this place because it was really fun the last time I visited for work-related research. Now I want to go as a paying customer and really take my time to enjoy it," you explain.

“Okay…” Lois says skeptically. “I’d better not see you sneak out your phone to take notes while we’re there.”

“I swear I won't!” You say with a giggle.

Your desk-mate, Clark, smiles and stands up before looking down at his outfit. “Am I dressed okay for this place?”

You look at his white dress shirt, black pants, and adorkable glasses. “You look great. You all do! It’s nothing fancy, so don’t be surprised if you feel overdressed.”

“Better to be overdressed, I suppose,” Lois says with a shrug.

You all waste the last half hour chatting and discussing deadlines, new article ideas, and watching videos of Cat's new puppy instead of actually writing. It’s time to clock out before you know it.

“I’ll be the designated driver if anyone wants to ride with me,” Clark offers. You've heard from your co-workers that it's impossible for Clark to get drunk. Some weekend you're going to test that theory, but not tonight.

“I’m going with Cat & Jimmy,” Lois says. “But thanks!”

You watch the larger than life columnist twirl his car keys around his finger and nod solemnly.

“I’ll ride with you,” you say. “If that’s okay.”

He smiles, and his dimples do their thing. “Of course that's okay."

---

You all walk out to the parking garage, and you jog over to your car with a quick “I’ll be right back!” thrown over your shoulder to Clark. He waits by his car as you open your own car door and kick off your Sambas in favor of your preferred footwear: your perfectly worn-in cowboy boots. The soft red leather slips around each foot like a glove. They pair great with the jeans you wore for casual Friday to the office today. Everyone loves casual Friday except Clark. He’s always dressed like he’s from the 40s in some form of button-down shirt and trousers, but the style fits him somehow. He's that timeless kind of handsome that can get away with it.

You rush back to his car, and he smiles at your feet.

“Didn’t take you for a boot gal,” he says with a smile as he opens the passenger door for you. So, timelessly handsome and an old school gentleman. Because of course he is.

“Thanks! Yeah, I’m gonna need ‘em for tonight!” You reply as you slide into his car with a thank you.

"Are you planning on wrangling some cattle after we go to this bar?" He asks jokingly with a smirk as he leans down into the open door.

"No, silly. I need them for the bar. It's a western bar. There's line dancing, and I'm not missing out this time!" You exclaim. You haven't line danced in months so you're itching to get out there and do it tonight. You used to go a few nights a week in college, but Metropolis isn't a hotbed of honky-tonks and western bars, so you've had to settle for a few impromptu dances in your small apartment kitchen. When you came across Stocks n Bonds, you immediately fell in love with its exaggerated cowboy aesthetic and huge, gleaming dance floor. It felt like home with a city veneer, but you'll take what you can get these days.

---

You finally built up the courage to head to the dance floor after a drink with your coworkers - are you allowed to call them friends yet? That's what they are, right? I mean, Lois invited you to her mom's retirement party next month. Jimmy jump-started your car in the parking garage last week. Cat and you trade memes and slightly inappropriate texts about Superman most days. And Clark… well, you and Clark just look out for each other. If he gets up to get more coffee and notices your empty mug, he'll bring it back hot and full with a little sugar. That one day the heat in the office went kaput, he threw his Daily Planet sweatshirt at you to stay warm. Whenever you bring donuts, you make sure to get an old-fashioned cake one just for him. And you always let him borrow your stapler because his likes to jam. But that's just what colleagues do. Right?

You can feel all of their eyes on you as a handsome man wearing what looks like a very expensive cowboy costume waltzes up to you and asks you to dance. He's definitely from the city - you can tell by his outrageously expensive cologne and the creases where his shirt has been recently pressed.

Cat, Lois, Jimmy, and Clark all watch as he leads you in a slow dance before it fades into a more upbeat one.

"Why did he put his hat on her head like that?" Clark asks. He's usually an even-tempered, cool guy but right now he feels like he could throw one of the empty beer bottles cluttering their table at a wall.

Cat giggles and Jimmy shakes his head before explaining, "You haven't heard of the hat rule?"

"The hat rule?"

"C'mon, I thought you were from the country!" Cat giggles.

"Smallville is rural, but that doesn't mean there's cowboys everywhere," he explains. "I mean, there are a few ranchers that wear the whole getup," he says as he gestures to the dance floor full of pearl snap shirts, Wranglers that have never needed a patch, and fancy boots with the tags tucked in. "Anyway, what's the rule?"

"The hat rule," Lois starts, appearing at their table with another round of beers and one Shirley Temple for Clark, "is that if she wears the hat, she has to ride the cowboy."

Clark sputters on his first sip of the sweet drink before simply stating, "No."

"No?" Cat asks. "C'mon Clark, that guy's pretty cute. Maybe she wants to wear his hat and dot dot dot."

The upbeat song ends and, you return the hat to the nice gentleman with a thank you before heading back to your table. Why is everyone still staring at you? "Hey guys," you say warily as you sidle up next to Clark. He's so big - he kind of feels like a watchdog among all of these handsy cowboys. Clark feels your warm body brush against his side and he doesn't move.

"Are you guys having an okay time?" You ask. "You all look like your goldfish died. Is this not your vibe?"

"I, for one, am having a lovely time. There's plenty of cow-people to ogle," Lois says with a wink.

"Cat? Jimmy?" You ask.

"Yes!" They say at the same time. Jimmy gestures to the camera around his neck.

"I thought you said no working tonight!" You exclaim.

"I'm not working - this is just for fun. Do you think I'm going to miss any of us yahoos trying to line dance? Not a chance. Plus, if I happen to get some nice shots of the bar you can always use them in your article."

"Sneaky," you tease him.

You watch Clark who is trying to fish out the cherry from his drink with the straw. "And you, Clark? You don't want to dance?"

"Can't really dance well in these shoes," he says, looking at everyone on the dance floor. His eyes seem to be tracking your former dance partner. "But I'm having fun."

"Most people don't have to convince someone that they're having fun if they truly are."

He huffs out a laugh. "I'm enjoying myself. You look like you're having fun."

"Do I?"

"Yes. I learned about the hat rule," he says, finally looking your way.

"The hat rule is fake," you scoff. "Besides, I never would have let him put his hat on me if there was an expectation. He was just being friendly."

"He was very friendly," Clark quips.

"My mama always told me to never refuse a dance when asked. It's just a dance. You don't have to marry the person," you say, watching Clark process. He nods as a familiar song starts to play and you squeal. The dance floor starts to fill with mostly women who look ready to dance like their lives depend on it.

"This is my favorite! Gotta go!" You say with a wave as you skip to the dance floor.

"I'm getting more drinks," Lois says. Cat and Jimmy stay with Clark and watch you take off.

Got a little boom in my big truck

Gonna open up the doors and turn it up

Gonna stomp my boots in the Georgia mud

Gonna watch you make me fall in love

The lyrics and dance moves you have memorized from many nights in college dancing to this song take over as the worn soles of your boots glide across the floor.

You undo your claw clip and toss it across the way to Clark, letting your hair fall down around your shoulders as you start to dance. He catches it clumsily and clips it to his loosened tie. You spy Jimmy punching Clark in the arm and saying something that you can't make out over the music. The familiar lyrics of the fun, cheesy country song continue and you move your body to the music with the crowd. It's a fun song to dance to, and even a little sexy at times.

"I didn't know she could dance like that," Clark mutters to his colleagues.

Lois laughs as she returns to their table with drinks and touches Clark's chin. "You might want to close your mouth there, Clark. You're going to start panting if you're not careful."

"She's cute though. You should pant," Cat adds with a giggle.

"I'm not panting," he says as he rolls his eyes. But there are parts of him tingling - parts that you definitely don't talk about with your co-workers. "I just didn't know she could dance…" he trails off as you bend forward to the floor and whip your hair as you come back up. "Oh," he mumbles. You blow a kiss to your coworkers and motion for them to join you on the dance floor. Cat and Lois take the bait, and you start teaching them the basic moves as the song plays.

Jimmy excuses himself to use the restroom as Clark watches you. You've been his desk-mate for a month now, and he's thought you were pretty since day one, but he figured you had a partner already. You're so kind and funny with a bit of a wild streak. Someone like you certainly would be snatched up by now, right? He's never asked, but you've also never mentioned someone special. The jeans, the boots, the confidence… it's a deadly combo. Like kryptonite.

"Clark, seriously, you're going to give Steve a run for his money when it comes to being borderline creepy," Jimmy says, back from the bathroom already. How long had Clark been staring at you and daydreaming? "Stop staring at her. Better yet, ask her to dance."

"I don't know how to dance to this stuff," he says.

"Just wait for the next slow one, then," Jimmy suggests. "If you don't ask her, some faux cowboy is going to sweep her off her feet."

Jimmy's right. Clark knows he's right. But you sit by each other for at least forty hours every week. He doesn't want to make things awkward. Plus if things progressed, you'd both have to tell HR, and…

"There he goes. He's going to ask her," Jimmy says, and they both watch as the cowboy glides confidently across the dance floor toward you.

"No he's not," Clark replies and is up and walking toward you with long, purposeful strides.

"Look who decided to join the fun!" You exclaim as Clark stands next to you. "And hello again," you say to your previous dance partner. His belt buckle shines under the lights.

"Dance with me," Clark says at the same time that the cowboy asks, "Can I steal you again?"

Lois's eyebrows fly to the ceiling and Cat giggles, but cuts the tension quickly. "C'mere cowboy. Show me how it's done," she says, stepping between you and the other man. You hear Jimmy's camera clicking as the cowboy takes Cat's hand and spins her in a circle before pulling her in for a dance. Lois quickly notes the heat radiating between you and Clark and points a thumb over her shoulder. "I'm going to get another drink." She scurries off to the bar, and you're left alone under the lights with Clark. A slow song starts playing, and you take Clark's offered hand. His palm is a little sweaty, but you give it a squeeze as a silent thank you.

"Think you can keep up with a slow one?" You ask.

"There's no fancy footwork?" He asks as he pulls you closer and settles his hand at the curve of your spine.

"Not for this one," you say. Your hair clip is still hanging on his tie - a metaphorical cowboy hat claiming this one as taken.

"You sure know how to dance. Where are you from again, anyway? I know you didn't learn those moves in Metropolis," he says, confidently guiding you around the dance floor to the sultry ballad.

"I'm from a little town outside of Lawrence," you tell him.

"Kansas?" He asks, eyes widening.

"Yes."

"I'm from Kansas," he says. "Smallville. How do I not know you?"

"Well, Clark, millions of people live in the state, so the statistical probability of us knowing each other-"

"Right, sorry," he says, shaking his head.

"So, you're a Kansas boy… that actually makes a lot of sense," you say. His hand flexes around yours as he spins you out and back into his arms. He's a great slow dancer.

"Oh, am I fulfilling some kind of Kansas stereotype?" He asks playfully.

"You're just… not as flashy as some people here. Not that flashy is a bad thing. You maybe just… remind me of how nice home can be." You shake your head as you say it, realizing how intimate it sounds. "Sorry, that came out weird."

"I know what you mean," he says softly. "It's why I always take my coffee breaks with you. You're like the calm in the storm of the bullpen most days. Reminds me of… yeah, home. That's not weird to say. At least I don't think so."

You're both interrupted from your borderline romantic conversation by a series of shuttering clicks from your table. Jimmy doesn't try to hide the fact that he's taking photos of the two of you dancing. "You might want them someday!" He shouts over the music. You sigh out a laugh and look up at Clark, who has started rubbing a circle with his thumb on the back of your hand.

"You looked… good - dancing out here," he says, breaking away for a moment to push his glasses up his nose. He's nervous.

"Oh, everyone loves Country Girl," you say with a laugh. "It gets the people going!"

It definitely got me going, Clark thinks to himself but doesn't say it out loud. He simply smiles and pulls you in a bit tighter as the slow song crescendos before fading out.

"Thanks for the dance, Kent."

"My pleasure, cowgirl."

You break away back to your table to see everyone else gathering up their bottles. "Are you guys leaving already?"

"Mr. Jinx got into my peace lily. My living room camera alerted me. I have to get home so he doesn't try to eat it!" Cat says, biting her lip. Jimmy nods and holds up his car keys. "I'm their ride, so… we'll see you guys Monday?"

"Okay, yeah. Thanks for coming. I hope your little guy is okay," you say the last part just to Cat.

You exchange a hug with the girls and a salute to Jimmy before they're out the bar doors.

"Looks like it's just you and me," you say, turning back to Clark. He's leaning against the table with his head in his hands, looking frustrated. "We can go if you want. Or I can get a cab."

"No," he says, sitting up. "I don't want you to-"

"Okay then," you say. "Get up. I want to show you something - let's get you out of your weird funk, Kent!"

"I'm not in a funk-" he starts as you pull him by his beefy arm from the table across the bar to an adjoining room. Your hand feels steady on him as you finally enter the room to a rowdy crowd surrounding someone being thrashed about on a mechanical bull. The rider has one arm in the air, waving wildly, and looks like they are about to hurl before they are thrown off the robotic beast.

"You wanna ride?" You ask, looking up at Clark with a challenging stare.

"Absolutely not," he says. You raise a brow and smile, "Scared?"

"I'm not scared. I'm in dress pants."

"Well, that's your fault for not partaking in casual Fridays," you tease as you walk over to the man behind a small stage. "I wanna ride please."

"Sure thing, little lady. You'll be up after this next one. I'll go easy on ya."

"No need!" You tell the man with a smile.

You and Clark both watch the next brave soul climb atop the bull with a questionably sober laugh. The young man is overconfident and gets bucked off in less than thirty seconds. You giggle as he climbs out of the pit to which he mutters a "buckle up, buttercup" to you with beer breath and a sneer. Clark bristles next to you, stepping slightly in front of you to shield you from the drunkard. Clark helps you step into the inflatable ring and watches you get onto the bull, somehow making the whole ordeal look graceful. He catches the way the denim of your jeans creases at the upper thigh when you fully mount yourself on the mechanical beast and clears his throat. Thank goodness for desks at work that keep him focused on writing and not on whatever part of your body that is - your thigh? Hip? He's not sure; he just knows that he likes it and wants to see more of it.

The bull operator takes things too easy on you even though you asked him not to, and you yell for him to "turn it up a notch".

"Okay, cowgirl!" He shouts back sarcastically as he cranks up the dial. The bull start to move faster and with more jerky movements. Clark runs a hand nervously through his hair and you start to get tossed around on top of the saddle. You grasp the horn of the saddle harder and keep your hand in the air as close to ninety degrees as you can. Your legs are burning as you hold on for dear life, and you can feel your t-shirt riding up around the curve of your waist. "Look at this gal go!" The operator yells.

Clark white-knuckles the edge of the inflatable pit, impressed and terrified at how hard the bull is bucking you. And turned on - gosh, the way your thighs are gripping the broad back of the beast, the sliver of skin at your waist that's showing above the top of your jeans, your chest - no, Clark, don't stare at her tits like some pervert. The bull starts to slow down and you dismount with a sigh, blowing hair out of your face. You take a cheeky bow and wink at the operator in an I told you so way before reaching for Clark.

He helps you out of the ring. "You can take the girl outta Kansas…" he says with a low whistle.

"I'm beat. You ready?" You ask, lacing your fingers through his like it's the easiest thing in the world.

---

When Monday rolls around, you waltz into work with a box full of donuts and two old-fashioneds for Clark. The bullpen is ablaze with talk of some new Hammer of Boravia weirdness.

Lois, Jimmy, and Cat stop their conversation as you set the box down at your desk. "Who died?" You ask with a terrified look.

"No one," Cat says with a giggle. "We just wanna know how the rest of your weekend went."

"Oh! Umm… let's see. Saturday morning I went to the farmer's market. Have you guys been? They have this adorable booth with kolaches. Then I went to a movie with a friend. Sunday I just cleaned my apartment and got a late night coffee. Why? What did you guys do?"

"You owe me twenty, Jimbo," Lois says.

You look between the three of them, confused.

"They placed a bet."

"I can see that, Cat, thank you," you say sarcastically. "What bet?"

"That you and Clark didn't go home together on Friday night," she says quietly. "She thinks he wouldn't put out on a first date." She uses air quotes around first date.

"Oh!" You say, pretending to be scandalized. "You guys want a donut?"

"Hold on, hold on," Jimmy says, holding up a hand. "I didn't hear a denial."

Clark walks in at that moment looking deliciously pressed and clean in a white button down and dark blue trousers. "Morning gang," he says with a bigger than normal smile. "It's such a beautiful day!"

"Oh, hell," Lois says, handing the crumpled twenty back to Jimmy with a roll of her eyes.

"God, I love being right," he says with a grin, pocketing the cash.

"Ooh, you got me two old-fashioneds? Thank you," Clark says with a grin, closing the box with two donuts in hand. He takes your claw clip from the strap of his messenger bag and sets it on your desk. "You left that at my-", he coughs, "at the bar."

"Oh my God, I should have bet more money," Jimmy quips and you roll your eyes as Lois and Cat laugh.

Clark is blissfully ignorant to the whole exchange as he unpacks his bag and sets a worn pair of brown cowboy boots under his desk. You eye them and look at him questioningly.

"I had my ma overnight 'em. I knew I had some back home," he says. "I figured they'd be easier to dance in."

"Oh, he's down so bad," Jimmy says, snapping a picture of the two of you.

"All right, everyone!" Perry shouts. "Get to work! The first person to get an exclusive with Superman gets a bonus!"

"Ooh, game on," you say. "I love a challenge."

Clark smiles at you. He's going to make you work for it, but that bonus will be yours.

The End