foxys bookshelf

so tight, sweetheart.

18+, mention of p in v, accidental slip, size kink, praise, fingering, anal

omg i had so much fun writing this!!! hope you enjoy <3

you didn't mean to yelp. didn't even mean to reach behind you and smack his abs in sheer reflex. but the moment his thick tip slipped out of your soaked pussy mid thrust and nudged hard against your ass, your body jolted like it'd be electrocuted.

"oh—s-sorry honey, i didn't mean to—are you alright?" clark had stilled immediately, voice filled with concern, his big hand caressing your back like he could soothe the sting with touch alone.

you were already nodding, even if your eyes were watering from the burn. "it just—caught me off guard."

but he was pretty silent after that despite how hard he was inside you. his breathing all heavy and uneven against your back.

and then he spoke, "you're real tight back there."

you thought that was the end of it, but it wasn't. clark kent, ever polite, ever kind, ever sooo deliriously good to you, couldn't get it out of his mind.

for weeks.

the way your body had locked up, how your tight hole had resisted him instantly. the idea of working you open slow, gentle, making you feel good in a place no man had explored.

he didn't push any further that night but he watched. every time he bent you over, every time he sank into you and saw your ass bounce and squeeze, every time he made you cum and your whole body trembled from it. he imagined, swallowed thickly, and bit down on his lip to keep from saying what he was thinking.

and when he finally brought it up, all soft spoken and careful, eyes flicking downward, blush blooming across his cheeks, you knew you were in trouble.

"i've been thinking about it. just—feeling how tight you were and i'd never hurt you, sweetheart, you know that...but i'd really like to try. if you'll let me. i can be real gentle. i promise."

it took a few more talks and a few more nights of slow, messing fingering in the shower, of clark whispering how good you were for him as he added one slick finger, then two, then curled them just so.

by the time you were panting into a pillow with his thick fingers pumping in and out of your ass and his free hand rubbing your clit until your legs kicked helplessly, you were begging him to give it to you.

but nothing — not his fingers, not your toys, not even the slick he'd poured so liberally between your cheeks — could've prepared you for the sheer width of his dick splitting you open now.

clark's hand is on your back, warm and soothing, his voice soft above you.

"you're doing so good, sweetheart. so, so good for me. just breathe."

but it burns. that thick head easing in feels like too much, like your body's struggling to adjust, and your cheek presses deeper into the pillow to muffle your whimper. you're already crying, silent tears dripping down your face, not from the pain exactly, but from the sheer pressure of it. from the fullness and from the way your body clenches around him automatically, too tight for even him to move.

he feels it immediately. he groans behind you, deep and guttural, forehead tipping to your back.

"g-gosh," he breathes, voice trembling. "you're squeezing me so hard, i can hardly—gosh, baby..."

he rocks forward a just a little, honestly just an inch, and you sob into the sheets.

"oh, honey. i know. i know it's a lot. i'll go slow, i promise—i got you." his hand slides between your legs, fingers gentle and slick as he rubs slow circles over your clit, trying to soothe you and distract you.

and it works — your hips twitch, your back arches instinctively, trying to run toward the pleasure as his cock sinks deeper into your ass, inch by careful inch. he whispers the whole way through.

"that's it, that's my good girl... taking me so well back here. can't believe how tight you are."

by the time he bottoms out, you'e shaking and breathless, clutching the sheets in both fists.

his eyes flutter shut, sweat building on his brow, jaw tight as he holds still inside you, hands trembling on your hips like he's trying not to lose it.

"baby...i'm not gonna last long," he murmurs, kissing between your shoulder blades. "it's too good. feels like heaven in here."

he pulls back slowly. not all the way, but enough to rock his hips again, give you that full stretch as he slides back in. it's so overwhelming. every motion feels like it lights your whole spine on fire, and he moans with each little thrust, each slow, careful grind of his hips into your backside.

your body clenches tighter and his fingers find your clit again and this time he rubs. quick, purposeful strokes that make your thighs tremble. that make your pussy slick all over again, even untouched. that make your body finally start to unravel from how full you are.

"let go for me," he pleads, voice shaking. "please, baby, let me have it."

you cum hard. it crashes through you, tearing a cry from your throat as your whole body clamps down around him. this is all he needs. his grip tightens and he spreads you open with both hands now, and pounds into you. his slow, deep thrusts so unforgiving.

your rim stretches again with every drag of his dick. he's got you leaking, trembling, and so spent.

"feels so good," he groans, hips smacking into you. "so tight. g-golly, i can't—“

he stutters and fucks in hard. so, so deep. you feel him throb.

then he gasps and spills inside you, buried to the hilt, moaning your name into your damp skin as you twitch helplessly around him.

when it's over, he collapses over your back, chest heaving.

"t-that can't be a one time thing, sweetheart.”

pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Summary: Dustin’s disappointed by his sisters decent into loneliness, and after a new discovery that gives him an opportunity to unite his two favorite people—A certain light comes back into your life.

Wc: 1.8k (this is just a small teaser I’m working on the rest)

A/n: watching s5 felt like going back to an ex I forgot about… I miss u Harrington. More to come of this story since I’m locked in the house for the next 2 days but just wanted to see if the concept is received well at all. Not proof read

Masterlist / AO3 [soon]

18+ mdni

the walls in your apartment building aren’t thin. they’re perfectly normal, really. it just so happens clark isn’t, which means he’s constantly subject to hearing things he’s not supposed to. sometimes it’s just innocent and endearing, like you complaining on the phone about the skirt you ordered being a size too small (though he’s certainly not complaining when he sees you in said skirt walking down the hall.) other times it’s… well, it's immensely more risqué.

soft moans bitten off into your hand while you pleasure yourself, the buzz of a toy pressed against your cunt, the slick sound of your fingers pumping into what he can only imagine is the sweetest pussy to ever exist. it’s fucking torture for him.

the white knight / simon "ghost" riley

cw/ kinks. non/dubcon. brief description of harassment (from a stranger), abduction, naive! reader, established relationship, toxic! simon, drugging, manipulation, primal play, violence and hostility, fear play, dacryphilia, fingering, brief mention of blood, nausea and dizziness, fingering, size difference, belly bulges, pussy and ass eating, unprotected sex, rough sex, edging, squirting, ass play. simon is a BAD boyfriend, very dead dove. SMUT

synopsis. you dont listen to your boyfriend's warnings to keep safe, and so he shows you what it's like to be kidnapped.

a/n. this is dark. if you are uncomfortable or the warnings trigger you, feel free to scroll. consume media with your own discretion. know yourself and your limits.

kinktober '25 masterlist | multifandom masterlist | masterlist | navigation

simon didn't like to think he was controlling of his girlfriend.

he knew how men operated, though. saw sweet, bubbly things like you and immediately their minds would fill with the urge to corrupt such purity.

a bartender, you once were before he whisked you away. having endured constant leers and gropes from drunken bastards would've made simon believe you'd learned from experience to keep your guard up, but you hadn't. not even close, actually. your survival instincts were dreadful in all regards.

the night you met, simon'd just left the pub you worked at a few minutes after you did - intending to head back home after meeting old friends - when he'd found you, soft and trembling with your purse clutched to your side as a man held you up against a brick wall. as the stranger's grimy hands groped sloppily at your tits, you were crying and begging for mercy. "i just want to get to the bus, sir… p-please don't hurt me."

the man obviously had no intentions of letting you go, and so simon acted. grabbing the fucker by the back of his dirty flannel, and throwing him to the ground hard enough for his head to connect with the concrete with a sick thud. then, he looked up at you, shivering and in deep shock, with several buttons of your uniform top undone.

"face the wall and cover your ears, girl. don' look 'till i tap you."

his voice came almost unnervingly quiet, but it brooked no argument. you didn't resist. the least you could do, since this man had rescued you, was obey his command to disassociate from the violence he was about to rain down on the other man. you press your trembling palms flat against your ears and turn to look at the brick wall, faintly hearing repetitive, dull thudding of fists on muscle and flesh. then, the occasional muffled, sickening crunch of a bone.

you pinch your eyes shut tightly and try to imagine a different scenario. the beach. you always liked the beach. waves crashing in the distance, the sun kissing your skin, the scent of salted ocean...

you feel a hand on your shoulder and snap out of your thoughts. the man who harassed you is nowhere to be seen, but there's a puddle of blood on the ground where he used to be. your stomach churns. he's wiping his hands on his dark jeans, his knuckles bruised from hitting your attacker.

"y'alrigh'?"

you blink up at him upon hearing the sound of his voice, eyes fluttering for a moment as you try to make sense of all the recent turn of events. being harassed, getting saved, your attacker getting beat into a bloody pulp.. no, you're not okay. your brain is foggy and your heart is pounding so hard that it echoes through your ears. he leans down to be level with you and holds onto your arms. not in a restraining way, though. his grip is loose and comforting.

" 'm sorry if i scared you," he murmurs, looking down at you calmly, but earnestly.

he's breathing heavily from adrenaline and his body's worked up like a tight coil, but he's still very gentle with you. soft for someone whose hands are still sticky with blood. you nod slowly, your breathing regulating once your body understands you're safe with him. he rubs your arms to stop you from shaking.

"you're shaking like a leaf. must be cold." he mumbles, shrugging off his jacket before you even nod. it smells delightfully like his cologne when he drapes it around your shoulders, a clean and woodsy scent that reminds you of cedar trees.

" 'm simon." he adds after a beat. "whas' your name, girl?"

you tell him your name softly, and he repeats it right after, wanting to make sure he's got it right. "s'pretty, suits you well." he says smoothly. he still hasn't let go of your arms, thumbs brushing back and forth like he's trying to ground you. he looks at you a little too long than a stranger should, eyes searching your features. you sniffle a little, staring up at him with big, watery eyes. "t-thank you..."

"d'you needa ride home?" he asks tentatively, seeming to be a little unsure if he's overstepping, but determined to protect you nevertheless. "s'late. your bus'll be another half hour, if that. wouldn't be man o' me to leave y'standing here."

you nod softly, "o-okay. uhm yes, please. i don't wanna be out here anymore."

he leads you towards his truck, opening the door for you and putting his hand on the top so you don't bump your head by accident. he then buckles your seatbelt for you, knuckles brushing the top of your thighs as he clicks it in place.

"th-thank you, simon" you say as he gets in on his side and turns the key in the ignition to start the car.

" 'course" he mutters, putting his hand on your thigh casually. "couldn't leave you like that."

a smile spreads across your face and you find yourself even more comfortable with the strange man. and so you start talking. perhaps a nervous tic due to a rush of sudden emotions flowing through you; or a dislike for sitting in silence, but once it starts, it doesn't slow down for a second.

you tell him everything. your full address. apartment number. that you live alone. that your roommates moved out and you haven't replaced them yet. that your bedroom window's always sticking open and that your landlord won't call someone to fix it, and it makes you nervous sometimes because you're a heavy sleeper.

you don't even notice the way his jaw tightens as you speak, knuckles going white around the steering wheel you're telling him information he could use to rob you, kill you, force himself on you, like nothing. all the more, you're wide eyed and grateful, holding onto the sleeve of his jacket still wrapped around your shoulders.

he looks over at you. "shouldn' be trustin' people so easy," he says with an edge in his voice. "i could be a bad man. coulda only got rid of that prick to have you to m'self."

you blink, a frown crossing your lips. you don't seem to be scared by his question, more upset at the suggestion that he could be bad. in your mind, you've labeled him as your savior. "you're not one of the bad ones."

he stares at you, trying to make sense of your words. you seem confident that he's the epitome of a white knight. he wants to be angry at how easy that came out of your mouth, but he can't be when you're staring up at him like that. he's a sucker for a pretty face.

he sighs and turns his gaze back to the road. "just sayin' you oughta keep your guard up more, girl. y'don't know me."

you don't take your eyes off him, feeling a little drop in your tummy when he takes his hand off your thigh. "i know enough, though. you helped me. that's what's important."

he exhales hard through his nose and shakes his head like he's trying to clear it. you watch the streetlights flicker across his face as he drives, and you feel the uncomfortable feeling in your body give way for warmth. he parks in front of your building fifteen minutes later. "this it?" he questions, having committed your address to his memory subconsciously after you'd told it to him. he'd been able to drive here with no assistance.

you give him a quiet nod, unbuckling your belt and looking up into his eyes. something in you feels like you should give him something for doing all of this for you. maybe a hug? however, you didn't want to overstep, and you find yourself awkwardly patting his shoulder instead.

you curse yourself under your breath for your evident lack of social skills, hoping he doesn't think you're as strange as you seem. not wanting to hang around longer than you're welcome to, you wave to him like he's your boyfriend dropping you off after a movie. simon watches you disappear inside with an unreadable look on his face.

you're halfway through unlocking your apartment door when something makes you turn back. the street's quiet, his engine still idling. you jog down back down the stairs all the way down to the path toward the curb, the sleeves of his jacket flapping over your hands.

he rolls the window down as you approach. "what're y'doing back here? go to bed."

you pant, breath puffing in the night air. "i... it's just, d-do you want tea? or... or dinner? i know it's late, but i feel bad just letting you drive off after all that."

simon blinks at you. he can't believe what he's hearing.

you shouldn't be inviting a strange man into your flat at this ungodly hour. he's probably not entirely sober either. if he wanted to hurt you, he could, with zero effort. men with his size usually send most people bolting the other direction.

you rush to fill the silence. "you saved me, and i just- i mean, it's the least I could do, right? i make really proper sandwiches. and tea. everyone compliments my tea. i'll put sugar in it. do you like sugar, simon?"

he should say no. but you're looking up at him like he's sunlight after a storm, eyes wide and hopeful. he doesn't have it in him to turn you down. not when you're already clutching his sleeve and tugging at it like you expect him to follow.

"do i like sugar." he echoes in mild disbelief, cutting the engine. "okay, i'll come in. just for a bit."

you smile so big it makes your cheeks hurt. the second he's out of the car, you're tugging him eagerly back up the stairs with you.

you live in a cozy little walk-up that contains a mess of throw pillows and mismatched mugs and other clutter; it's obvious you're a little hoarder. there's cute trinkets everywhere showing you've done your best at bringing the dull London apartment to life, but you've failed to capture one consistent aesthetic. it's charming, nevertheless.

"sorry it's messy," you chirp, dropping your keys into a bowl shaped like a cat and kicking off your shoes while he helps you out of his jacket. "i didn't have time to clean up. didn't think to, either. i hardly get any visitors. all my family live outside town." he kneels in front of you after, undoing your lace-up boots delicately to put them in the corner. you thank him with a little grin, offering him house slippers right after.

he blinks down at them. "they've got bunny ears."

you giggle, a soft sound, like windchimes. "i've got bear ones too if you want."

God almighty.

he accepts the bunny slippers.

you make him tea first, bustling around your tiny kitchen like a little homemaker. he offers to help, but you frown at him like he's personally insulted you. "no, no, you sit. i'll take care of you." he can't remember the last time anyone said that to him. probably never.

you chatter as you move around the kitchen, barefoot now, he notices. you've already forgotten he's not a stranger. you rave about your favorite teas, how you like your eggs, and ask him if he wants toast or an english muffin. you even hum a little as you stir something in a pan.

every now and then, you drift closer to him, touching his arm to get his attention or leaning against the counter beside him while something cooks. simon can't tell if it's nerves or attraction (or some dangerous mix of both) but your sweetness is starting to eat away at the last of his restraint.

you make him a plate, serve him like it's the most normal thing in the world to cook for a man who could've easily snapped your neck twenty minutes ago. "hm. thank you."

when he's finished, you sit beside him on your couch, pulling your knees up and crowding close into his space, you keep offering him bites off your fork even though he's got a whole plate in his lap. and he lets you. lets you curl into him as you browse for a movie. lets you tuck a blanket over both of you. lets you sigh happily as your head lolls against his shoulder.

you're asleep on him. a stranger. he's about to move you off gently, but then you whimper quietly, pressing closer in your sleep, and your fingers twitch in the fabric of his shirt. you're holding on.

he exhales slowly and sinks deeper into the couch. he's decided he'll stay for tonight. just to keep you safe in case some slimeball creeps through your faulty window.

you jolt awake with a little gasp, embarrassed immediately, but simon doesn't flinch. he cracks one eye open and grunts.

"you slept here."

"reckon i had to," he murmurs, voice gravelly with sleep. "y'never moved off me."

"oh my gosh," you sit up. "sorry! i really didn't mean to, i just- my shift was so long and i was so tired- let me make you breakfast. do you- would you want that?"

he looks at the visible eagerness to please etched into your features. the minute he huffs out, "yeah that sounds lovely." you rush to your feet to start working. you're halfway through pulling eggs from the fridge when you realize you haven't asked him what he actually likes, so you turn back, holding the carton against your hip. "do you want your eggs fried, simon? or i could scramble them. or i could make them poached."

he's sitting on your couch still, big hands rubbing at his face, hair a little mussed from sleep. he looks far too at home in your space for someone who walked in for the first time just hours ago. "whatever you like," he says through a yawn, leaning back and stretching lazily until the hem of his shirt rides up over his stomach. simon doesn't miss how your eyes follow the movement and linger.

when you set the plate down in front of him, consisting of eggs, toast, beans, sausage, his brows lift. "that's well nice," he mutters, almost to himself, before picking up the fork. you hover a little, chewing your lip. "you think so?"

he takes a bite, chews, swallows, then looks straight into your eyes. "yeah. i like it a lot."

it shouldn't make you as warm and fuzzy as it does. you grin and go to sit opposite him, sipping tea while he eats. simon's not saying much, but you can feel his gaze on you more than the steam rising from your mug. he's in no rush to leave. in truth, you don't want him to. this sweet stranger has already begun to carve a soft spot into your heart.

simon had told himself, at first, that he was just checking in on you. but every time he tries to stop, you beg him to promise that he "won't act like a stranger" and to visit you as much as he liked. that you were lonely and his visits made your day. how safe you felt with him (as you kept reiterating). you begin to rely on him more and more.

you warm up to him even more each time he comes over. you start calling him "si." you bake him sweets. you tell him every thought that pops into your head and giggle at your own jokes. you look up at him like he hung the stars.

he told himself you needed protection. that's all. but it wasn't long before he was letting himself into your apartment without knocking and doing things around your house. fixing things and cooking for you and doing chores like it's his apartment. your feelings for him grew stronger and stronger each and every day, and before you knew it, odd jobs and work in your living space turned to him coming home with flowers everyday.

kissing your face.

murmuring sweet talk.

asking you out on a date.

and finally, making you his girlfriend.

you're sprawled across his lap on the couch, still in your soft pajamas, your cheek pillowed on his shoulder. you squint up at him, face scrunching. "you know, I liked you right away. I knew you were safe."

he knows damn well he isn't, and you don't. he's buried it away far enough so you don't have to see it. nevertheless, simon leans down, kisses your temple, his hand splayed over the curve of your back to curl you closer to him.

you're still just as naive as the day he found you crying by the bus stop with that god-awful lost look in your eye. you're too nice, trusting, and living like nothing in this grimy, spit-on city could ever touch you.

you're lucky it was him that found you, not someone else. lucky it was his truck you got into. it's his body you fall asleep on. he sees the way people look at you when you're walking alone, headphones in, no sense of danger in those pretty eyes. he has to recognize it for you every time; filthy pricks eyeing you up like you're nothing but meat.

"luvie," he warns one morning, voice gruff as he adjusts the strap of your little bag over your shoulder, "you've got to stop smilin' at every fuckin' bloke who makes eye contact with you, alright? it's bait."

you blink up at him all dewy-eyed, utterly unfazed. " 'm just being friendly," you say, "you're so dramatic sometimes."

his jaw tightens. " 's not dramatic. you walk around and keep battin' y'lashes, someone's gonna get ideas."

and every day, it's something new.

you leave the pub after dark because your shift ran late and he told you to call him but you didn't want to "be a bother." you give a man on the street your number because he "seemed lonely" and "was really polite." you let some random cab driver walk you to your door after a night out because "he offered and you didn't want to be mean." you let out a sigh when he scowls at you, unimpressed by your clear nonchalance regarding the situation. with a tilt of your head, you say: "you worry too much. nothing happened! nothing ever happens."

simon crosses his arms, standing in your kitchen. he's watching you pour cereal like nothing's wrong, as if you didn't nearly lead a man up to your apartment (thank god he was there and scared the fucker off) two nights ago. it's interesting, because you'd invited simon up to your place back when he was a stranger. but back then, he thinks grimly, you'd been vulnerable. shaken. grateful. you'd given him your trust because you felt safe in that moment, not because you were handing it out like sweets to anyone who smiled at you.

"d'you even understand how close that was?" his voice is low and stern.

you glance up, blinking. "i said i was sorry..."

"it's not about sayin' sorry," he interrupts. "it's about learnin'. fucking hell, i told you not to entertain men off the street. what part of that didn't sink in?"

a sigh leaves you, and you wilt like a puppy being scolded. you do love how simon protects and dotes on you, but you don't like the condescending tone in his voice when he chastises you. you're a grown woman, and you know what you're doing. "obviously, if a man tried to make a pass at me, i'd stop him." you say, but that's exactly the problem. simon knows you wouldn't be able to.

you wouldn't react fast enough or firmly enough before the wrong kind of man took your hesitation as an invitation.

he pushes off the counter, advancing on you. "obviously?" he echoes, incredulous. "you don't bloody know, that's the whole point. you keep thinking blokes will back off if you say no, but you don't see it, christ- half of 'em won't give a toss what you want."

"you're always mad at me lately!" you respond defensively. "i don't mean to-"

"i know you didn't mean to," he cuts in, dragging a hand through his hair. "you never mean to, love. that's the problem."

you gaze down at your bowl, blinking hard, and his gut twists with guilt, but only for a second.

"d'you think I like getting calls from you where you're cryin' in the middle of the fuckin' road?" he asks. "do you think I like picturein' what could've happened if i got there a minute too late?"

you drop your spoon with a clatter, the sound loud in the tense kitchen. your voice is filled with frustration and panic that threads through every syllable. "i'm not a child, for gods sake, i can handle myself!"

his chest heaves, hands clenching into fists at his sides. "no, you don't!" he snaps back. "you don't know how fast someone can ruin your life. you don't know how little it takes for someone to see you as prey and act on their urges while you make it so fucking easy for them! you think you're being nice and sweet, but you're just… you're just asking for trouble, and i can't fix it before it finds you!"

you're heated. "you're just scared that because i'm not living in fear every second, i'm prone to getting in trouble. i know when something's unsafe, simon! i can be polite without enticing men!"

"polite?" he laughs bitterly, shaking his head in disbelief at your sheer stupidity. you are not understanding the situation at all, and no matter how many times this happens to you; how many close calls you have, you still don't take your safety, or your life, seriously. he tries to spell it out for you. "polite gets people in your bed, gets them on top of you without your permission. polite doesn't keep you alive! you think just because you smile or answer them nicely, they'll go away? they won't."

"and you keep allowing it to happen over, and over, and over."

you feel your chest tighten, heat rising in your face. he looks at you for a long moment, the tension between you strung taut. "just stop trying to control me. i know what i'm doing. i was surviving before i had you, wasn't i?"

it finally clicks for him.

no matter how many times he tells you...

no matter how hard he warns.

you're not going to really understand until you really experience it. until danger has it's teeth-bared close.

he doesn't tell you that, though.

simon exhales sharply, running his tongue over his teeth. his deep blue eyes rake over your stubborn face.

a beat of silence.

then, "fine. well. guess we'll see, then."

"…what's that supposed to mean?"

"nothin'," he says too easily, backing off a step. "eat your food."

a heavy, musky pile of fur is pressing down on you, soft, with the faint scent of smoke and something animal. it's the first thing you register before the cold hits. the air is biting, sharp enough that it stings your cheeks with every gust of wind and numbs your fingers, even though they're gloved. you blink, but your lashes feel clumped, stuck with the wetness of half melted snow.

you push your hands out of the furs clumsily, joints stiff and sore like you've been lying still for too long. everything feels wrong. too quiet, too far away. the ground beneath you isn't a floor; it's hard and uneven, scattered with a thin crunching layer that snaps when you shift your weight. snow. you're in snow.

you sit up too fast and your stomach lurches. you have to catch yourself on your palms, breathing slow to fight the black creep of dizziness at the edges of your vision. you don't recall falling asleep here, let alone anything that's happened in the last several hours. a chunk is missing in your memory.

you remember walking, your hands shoved in your coat pockets, breath fogging in little clouds. you remember…

your head throbs. a strange chemical tang is lodged in your sinuses, something sour and artificial that makes your stomach turn if you inhale too sharply. "where..." you blink, scanning your surroundings. the forest closes in on you on all sides, tall and dense. it's muffled here, sound swallowed up by the snow and the tree line. no hum of traffic, no voices, no power lines. Only the brittle snap of branches shifting overhead.

you turn in a slow circle, your breath puffing in the air. nothing up ahead. not a path. or houses. or a road. you're alone.

until.

there. footsteps, somewhere behind you, muted but distinct, a deliberate crunch-crunch-crunch that doesn't align with the frantic beat of your own pulse. then it stops. then comes again.

it's not steady, in a rhythm you can follow. just there. a crunch that's far too deep rooted to be the random settling of ice or the soft fall of snow from a branch. someone's putting their weight down. you whip your head toward it, but the trees all look the same. black spines, white drifts, shadows stitched between them. you squint until your eyes sting, but you can’t discern any movement.

the sound stops. your ears strain in discomfort with the silence. when there's no noise around you, you can hear your own heartbeat in your head, a slow, dragging thud. "it's nothing..." you mutter. "it's nothing. a deer... maybe a fox." you take an unsteady step forward, snow crunching under your boots. boots that you weren't wearing before you got here.

crunch.

you freeze. the breath you were about to take stalls halfway, sticking in your lungs. the sound is a lot closer than it was before, but when you turn to scan the darkness again, the trees loom too dense in every direction. you can't tell if it's twenty feet away or seven. every instinct you have starts clawing at you. move, move, move... but your legs feel lead-heavy, locked in place. your fingers tighten around the edges of the furs draped over your shoulders, bunching the fabric up.

crunch.

this time, behind you.

your stomach drops so hard you feel it in your fucking feet. you twist again, but you still can't see anything. the cold air is starting to taste metallic in your mouth. there's nothing around you but the sound of your breathing and the footsteps, stopping and starting, circling. you begin backing away, boots slipping a little on the ice. your eyes keep darting between the trees, trying to catch something; a shape, a flash of movement, a face.

then it comes. not one step, or two, but a multitude of them, plowing straight toward you from behind. as the sound fills your ears, your instincts finally take the reins. your fight or flight comes full force. you run.

you don't even think about direction, just away from the noise, away from the beast tailing you. your breath starts coming out in ragged clouds. the furs are heavy, but you can't make yourself drop them, not when you can already feel the sting of the wind on your exposed skin.

somewhere behind you the footsteps speed up.

you're tearing through the snow like it's the only thing between you and death, every muscle in your legs screaming at you to stop, to slow down, but you can't. if you slow down, it's over. the crunch of boots behind you is relentless, eating at the distance you're trying to claw back with every step.

you keep trying to look over your shoulder, desperate to see them, to know, but the dark swallows everything. the trees blur into one unbroken wall of black, and all you can hear is the sound of your own breath paired with those heavy, deliberate steps that quicken rapidly. you whip your head forward just in time to trip over something half-buried under the snow.

your skull comes in contact hard against something solid and unmoving, the pain blooming so fast and hot it steals the air from your lungs. white bursts across your vision, your ears ringing like they've been stuffed with static. the cold seeps instantly into your knees and hands where you've hit the frosted ground.

panic claws its way through the fog in your head and forces you to move. you lurch upright, dizzy, the world spinning hard enough that you have to grab at the nearest tree to keep from going down again. you don't even know if you're running in the same direction anymore, but you don't care. your legs take over, sprinting so hard you can barely keep your footing. "move..." you gasp to yourself, willing yourself to pick up speed again. nevertheless, the widening thud of those boots in the snow is gaining.

the resounding steps behind you are fast in a way that doesn't make sense for something that big. your lungs are on fire. your legs keep threatening to give out. you hear them closing in. you try to push harder, but your foot catches again, your balance tips, and you stumble so badly your body can't even recover before- hands.

massive hands. they catch you like you weigh nothing, one clamping around your middle, the other hooking under your arm to yank you fully off the ground. your legs kick, scraping snow out of the air, but your boots never find purchase again. the grip is unshakable as they drag you back against something solid, living, breathing, and far, far stronger than you.

the noise behind you changes. less crunching snow now, more of a deep, steady inhale, like whoever has you is taking their first real breath of you. you thrash so hard it feels like you're tearing something inside yourself, your voice shredding as you scream. "LET ME GO! s-stop it! who are you?!" your yells come out raw, high-pitched, so loud your own ears ring. you kick wildly, boots slamming into shins as your heels dig into flesh behind you for leverage. your fists flail to punch at whoever's holding you back.

they don't make a single sound.

you twist and lurch in his grip, but the chemicals still humming in your blood make the world lag a fraction behind your movements. but you fight anyway because the alternative is unthinkable.

the huge man barely stumbles as you slam both elbows back into him. he shifts his weight and you're suddenly turned, your shoulder wrenched hard, boots skidding uselessly over the ice-slick snow before he drives you into the ground, snow flying up around your head.

his knees pin your hips before you can twist away, one giant hand fisting in your coat to keep you from bucking. the other catches your wrist mid-swing and slams it into the ground beside your head.

you scream again, the sound cutting through the trees. you try to twist your head to bite him, to do something, but that's when his hands shift, both of them sliding to your throat. not squeezing the windpipe, but worse. the sides. the soft spots. vulnerable places where the blood moves fast to your brain.

it's instant. your pulse jumps and your vision sparkles. the fight or flight in your body explodes into frantic, jerking panic, and your nails rake at his wrists, your heels dig trenches in the snow as you buck and twist. the world tilts violently, black spots flickering in the corners of your eyes...

you're making wildly unpleasant, desperate little sounds, half-sobs, half-groans, but the hands on your neck don't shift. the beast holds you there, the grip like a vice until your arms feel heavy, until your legs stop kicking quite as hard, until the pounding in your skull turns hollow.

the dark seeps in from the edges. your lungs burn, and your head feels like it's filling with warm water. slowly, your body betrays you, weakening even though you're begging yourself to keep fighting.

the last thing you're aware of is the faint sound of his breath and the sharp wind of the winter above you as everything fades to black.

you come to slowly.

your head is pounding and your mouth is uncomfortably dry from lack of saliva production, though you're unsure if it's from chemicals in your system or if you're just severely dehydrated. how long have you been out this time? when was the last time you ate, or drank water?

as you sit up, the first thing you notice is the smell. wood smoke from a fireplace burning somewhere in the background. leather. mahogany candles. your eyes adjust to the dim lighting of the room and you see log walls, a rough-hewn ceiling beam above you.

you've been taken to a cabin.

for a moment, you're delusional enough to think maybe you wandered here yourself, that someone found you in the snow and patched you up. there's something wrapped expertly around your head; a bandage, and when you touch it, your fingers come away faintly tacky.

blood, from your fall.

you swing your legs off the bed, bare feet hitting creaky floorboards. your balance is unsteady and the pounding in your skull causes the room to sway, but you force yourself up.

shuffling towards a table, you search for some kind of clue as to where the hell you are, maybe your captor left a device laying around for you to call simon and the police.

fuck, simon. he must be anxious out of his mind. you don't know when you were captured, but your boyfriend goes crazy when he doesn't hear from you for extended periods of time while you're out without him. but now, when you should've been at home with him a long, long time ago, he's either called the police or gone looking for you himself. you can imagine him checking everywhere you usually go like a lunatic.

your heart aches at the thought of never seeing him again...

someone's watching you.

it takes your eyes a second to land on him. the beast lurks in the far corner of the room, standing perfectly still with his broad shoulders brushing the walls, face swallowed in shadow and the thick balaclava covering his face. you're not able to discern how long he's been there. but you're sure it wasn't just now. "please…" your voice wavers so bad it's barely sound. "please, i don't... my boyfriend is crazy about me, okay? h-he's gonna find me and then he'll kill you for kidnapping me!" you shake your head, tears stinging before they even fall.

he doesn't answer.

you take a step back, palms lifted like that might somehow make you smaller, safer. "just- i'm hurt. i can't-" your voice breaks again, and you swipe at your eyes uselessly. "i just wanna go home. i won't tell anyone."

the movement from him is sudden. just a few long strides and he's in front of you before your brain even catches up. his huge hand clamps around your bicep and you gasp, tripping over your own feet as he hauls you backward. "no, no! please, stop, i didn't do anything wrong! i'm sorry, please don't hurt me!" you kick at the floor, nails digging into his wrist, but it's like fighting a stone pillar. he doesn't make a sound.

you hit the bed hard, the mattress dipping under your weight. he follows instantly, using one hand to press you flat against the blankets like it's nothing. he uses his weight to pin your hips down, while one hand splays flat on your chest.

"get off me! my boyfriend will find me!" you keep reiterating your certainty that simon will come to rescue you before this beast does anything to you. it just sounds like you're deluding yourself. simon is tactile and told you about his stories in the military and his days of hunting where he tracked creatures miles upon miles. but as you remember being outside, there was nothing around you at all. you're in the middle of nowhere with a blizzard sure to hit within the week. your captor took you conveniently so finding you would be impossible, realistically.

your voice dissolves into sobs, messy and gasping. you twist hard, try to roll to your side, but his hand on your chest shoves you flat again without effort.

it's pathetic, how weak you are against him. every jerk of your body is countered before it's even fully started, every scream muffled by the thud of your own heart in your ears. in contrast, his breathing is slow and measured. he behaves as though he has all the time in the world.

he didn't restrain you because he didn't need to. he holds you down with that one hand effortlessly, and you try to grab for his mask in a desperate attempt to uncover the psychopath who's doing this to you. but oh, that earns you punishment. he slams your hand back to pin it against the bed, maneuvering both your wrists into one hand and placing it roughly over your head. he's calculated. knows how to grip you hard enough to bruise, but not enough to break your bones.

your captor tilts his head just slightly, studying you. the movement chills you worse than any words could have.

his free hand moves. cupping your cheek, forcing you to look up at him.

then, it slides down. down. down. to your waist, peeling up the furs he put you in and your work top you'd been wearing when he'd chloroformed you. you let out a cry and desperately attempt to squirm away, but his hand and body pinning you don't allow you. he shoves your shirt and bra up in his fist till they bunch at your collarbones, exposing your breasts. your nipples pebble immediately when the cold air hits them.

his thick, calloused fingers find your breast, roughly squeezing the soft mound like dough. your nipple, already stiff, gets caught between his fingers, rolled and pinched until you can't hold back a strangled whimper. his hand is so large that it engulfs your breast entirely, leaving no part of it untouched by his groping. he seems to relish in the way your body yields beneath his touch, the supple give of your skin and tender tissue molding to the contours of his palm. "fuck! stop it, get off me, you psychopath! you c-can't just kidnap me and ngh- damn it-!"

his other hand, still wrapped around your wrists, tightens slightly in a wordless warning. you can feel the strength in his fingers and know instantly that any resistance on your part would be futile. maybe even dangerous, with how unpredictable he is. still, your instincts drive you to squirm and try to pull away from his touch, your body recoiling instinctively from the undesired fondling.

he seems to pity your feeble struggles, a soft scoff leaving him. leaning in closer, his masked face hovers over the exposed flesh of your breast. he lets go of your wrists to raise his mask above his mouth, attaching his lips to one of your nipples. the sensation sends jolts of revulsion and unwanted arousal through your body. "mngh, no oh my gosh, stop it! please no more-"

he flicks your nipple upwards with his tongue, leans down, and engulfs the entire bud in the wet heat of his mouth. you gasp, a shock of sensation shooting straight to your core as he suckles and nibbles at the sensitive peak. his tongue swirls around, tormenting it until it's rigid and achy. he can't get enough of the way your body responds to his touch in shivers or little flinches.

tears leak from the corners of your eyes, dripping down onto the pillow beneath your head. he takes his time torturing you, lavishing each breast with the same attention. your captor's tongue and teeth work your flesh, alternating between tender suckling and sharp nips.

when you thrash, his grip on your wrists tightens warningly. he pauses, his masked face lifting from your breast. behind the fabric, you feel the weight of his displeased gaze. without warning, his lips move sloppily down your body, open-mouthed kisses laving over your cool skin.

he lets go of your wrists. no need to hold them down any longer; you're not capable of fighting back against him at your full strength, and now, when you're panicked and disoriented from hitting your head and the chemicals in your system, you're defenseless. he stops at your skirt, unbuttoning it with nimble fingers before dragging down the zipper, then the waistband, with his teeth.

the man leans down, mouth hovering over the sensitive skin just beside your pussy, dragging wet kisses down your thigh slowly and agonizingly. he keeps you spread wide, pushing your skirt to your ankles and following the movement with his mouth.

once your skirt's on the floor and his mouth is at your ankle, he drags a wet trail of kisses up your calf and sinks his teeth into your flesh, holding in place until you scream. he digs harder, harder, rupturing a blood vessel with his maw, and when he pulls back, there's a bite mark blossoming on your skin along with a trail of blood.

he makes a grunting noise that indicates his satisfaction, and licks your blood off his mouth. a snide grin stretches across his pink lips. he doesn't hide his enjoyment of your discomfort, and your expressions serve as encouragement for him to continue. his tongue drags along the trail of blood dripping down your leg, cleaning it up and sucking on the bite mark he left while you wriggle in place. your body is caught in such a strange mix of pleasure, pain, fear and arousal.

he begins to move back down again, making his way down your leg; nipping, sucking... all while keeping his gaze fixed on your screwed up face. you aren't being noisy anymore. the screaming and begging display your terror, and if you're able to control it, he isn't scaring you well enough.

that means you could get yourself kidnapped again by not taking this seriously. and the next time your captor might not be your boyfriend in disguise.

he stops between your thighs once more, noticing the damp patch that's begun to grow on your soft cotton panties. he pushes two thick fingers at the seam of your cunt, making your body jolt and your hands to fly down to the intrusion between your thighs. "wait-"

he huffs and knocks your hands away carelessly, intrigued by the considerable patch of wetness that's gathered between your legs. certainly you're not getting off on this.

you stare up into your captor's eyes. if you weren't so disoriented, you'd realize they're an exact copy of your loving boyfriend's; from the thick lashes to the striking color. he rubs three of his thick fingers against the cotton covering your hole while thumbing around for your clit. he wants better access to you. his free hand grabs the waistband of your underwear and tugs it up hard so it grinds into your dripping pussy. you scream at the sudden mildly painful sensation of the crotch of your panties pushing up between your swollen pussy lips.

slowly and silently, his thick fingers nudge the cotton into you while his other hand keeps the band of your underwear pulled tight. "mmh! what are you- no, it hurts, no more! please," you gasp, your mouth parted in half choked whines that you aren't able to hold back. every twitch of your body only makes him adjust his grip, jerking the elastic higher and harder as the soaked fabric rides against your clit so sharply you gasp. "not there, it's pressing there!"

as his chest rises and falls raggedly, his fingers drag back down, three of them broad and heavy against the damp strip, pressing until the fabric is shoved right between your cunt, molding it together.

"mmh! please, please, it feels weird-" he interrupts you by tugging it up sharply, making you break off into a scream. any more and the fabric will tear from how much tension it's enduring. he licks his lips once he feels the way the cotton is soaked through as the fabric rolls against your folds.

thick fingers curl around the edge of the fabric between your thighs, tugging it cruelly until your pussy lips spread under the pressure, and there's no barrier anymore, only cotton plastered to you so tightly it might as well be your skin.

"you're hurting me!" you swing your arms up at him uselessly, hoping they'll connect with flesh, but he leans down and grabs a fistful of your hair roughly to stop you. tears spark in your eyes from the pain, and your arms raise up quickly to fly to your head. you can only hope he doesn't yank hair clean out of your scalp. the message that he's not one to be trifled with is understood.

you arms drop, and he lets go of your hair to pat roughly at your cheek as one final reminder. as a weak sob bubbles out of you, he returns to rocking the soaked gusset of your panties side to side, dragging the cloth across your clit in slow, merciless friction. every noise you make causes his eyes to flit up to your face. he's feeding off the sounds you can't swallow down.

you're dripping, slick spreading along your thighs and pooling beneath you. guilt ebbs at your conscience. how could you be enjoying ministrations from him - a man violating you - while your boyfriend must be out there, worried sick? regardless, your body reacts against your will, jerking against the bed as he keeps you strung open while he toys with you. he rubs and rubs and rubs until you're shaking under him, your panties nothing but a soaked rag grinding your hole raw.

your captor finally gets tired of simple teasing. the hand holding your waistband shifts, yanking it sideways with no warning at all. The soaked fabric snaps against your skin before it's wrenched aside. you're bared to the cool air, your folds glossy and swollen. you squeal and kick at his chest, your foot finally giving purchase as it collides with his shoulder. somehow, you budge, maybe even harm the goliath of the man, as his grip had loosened enough for you to use your other foot - you reel both back and kick hard at his chest to knock him back a little more, then you run.

you bolt off the mattress and scramble to your feet, heart hammering. every nerve in your body is screaming at you to get out of here. you kick off your skirt to help you, momentum carrying you forward - but before you can make it three steps, a massive hand wraps around your ankle. "get off!" you scream, twisting wildly, but he yanks hard. the sudden pull throws you off balance and your body pitches forward. you hit the floor hard, your forehead colliding with the cold surface with a dull thud. dizziness blooms instantly, stars exploding behind your eyes.

strong hands clamp under your arms, lifting you effortlessly. your body arches involuntarily as he hauls you through the air, your legs kicking, your ears are ringing so much from shock and pain that your screams come out muffled. unfazed, he tosses you onto the mattress hard enough to make your body bounce against the frame. you land in a tangled heap, arms flailing weakly, hair splayed across the pillow. "i-i can't, please p-please stop… just a second," your skirt is now in a heap on the floor, leaving you more exposed to him than before. you'd done nothing but anger your captor further and make yourself more vulnerable.

he looms over you again, his broad frame swallowing the small space. you're completely at his mercy once more. "shouldn'ta done that, girl." he finally uses his voice. you lift your head weakly at the vaguely familiar sound. the gravel, the baritone... it matches simons.

you must've hit your head too hard again.

he drags two thick fingers through your seam, spreading you open with the pads just to look. your thighs try to snap shut, but he's already there, pressing them down, watching the way your hole flutters when he teases the slick around it with nothing more than the edge of his fingertip. simon smears your slick higher, splits your folds apart with two fingers, and you squeal, half-panicked, half-overheated, your hands flying down to clutch his wrist. "pl- fuck, please be gentle for a moment, i-i need just a second."

it does nothing. he ignores your weak little attempts at holding him off and pushes, one long finger nudging, testing your hole. and then, without any warning at all, he shoves both digits inside.

you choke on your breath. it's too much, it's so much, the stretch immediate, your walls gripping so tight around the intrusion of his fingers inside you. your hands tighten desperately around his wrist. "please! it's too much, i know you can hear me, stop it!" he only exhales a rough grunt, jerks his hand out of your grasp, and uses the heel of his palm to slam your thighs wider apart until your knees are nearly to your chest.

now there's nowhere to run. he can get deeper.

his fingers piston forward again, filling you to the knuckle in one thrust. he drags them back out to the tips, then forces them back in roughly, again, again, again, until your belly clenches and you can't breathe from the stretch. your lack of sexual experience becomes evident as two fingers alone have you writhing and ready to plead for mercy. you hadn't had sex with simon yet; he'd been so respectful, wanting to take his relationship with you slow. the two of you had only touched on the surface - frotting, panted french kissing, and he'd let you cum on his tongue once after eating your pussy slow and gentle during a movie night.

he'd never rushed you, never pushed, never even slipped his hand beneath your clothes without asking first. that was your simon. that was the man you were falling deeper and deeper in love with.

this wasn't him. this was someone with his voice, his face, his hands... a cruel copy of your sweet boyfriend.

and to think your last conversation with him had been an argument.

your body seizes around his fingers. he pumps harder, rougher, until your juices begin coating his knuckles. his free hand slides up between your thighs, thumb finding your clit without hesitation. there's no gentleness in the way he touches you, no patience in the way he circles. it's rough, paired with pinching and dragging the little bundle back and forth. your hips buck wildly, half away from the sensation, half toward it, but it doesn't matter. he follows, rolling it between his fingers while his other hand drives those thick fingers into your hole. scissoring, twisting... pushing against the softest parts inside you that your own fingers have never been able to reach.

he sucks his teeth and speaks for the second time. "cunt floodin' my hand. must be a pervert, t'get off ta' thing like this." your response is a pathetically pitchy moan. you can't find it in yourself to muster a defense, because he's right, isn't he? you're sick... a pervert... to be gushing for a faceless degenerate instead of fighting him like your life depended on it. he twists his thumb against your clit a little rougher, your head tossing against the sheets. "it... mmhn, 's... 'it's n-not my fault!" that earns a scoff from him.

he spreads you wider with his fingers, toys with the folds at the edge of your hole just to push them back in again. he's trying to see how far you'll open for him before you break.

when you're writhing so hard your whole body lifts off the bed, he pushes deeper, grinding the heel of his palm against your clit while his fingers fuck you into the sheets, pumping into you roughly and quickly. you clamp your puffy walls down on him with a scream, white covering your vision. you're certain you're at your limits... but he tears his fingers out of you.

it makes you sob out loud, hot and frustrated tears spilling down your cheeks before you even realize you're crying. your hands shove at him weakly, and your voice comes out cracked and furious, "l-let me go! i hate y - hic - this, i-"

he knows exactly what this is. you're not broken like he wants, you're just furious that he ripped your orgasm away. that means his work isn't done.

simon grabs your wrists in one big fist, yanking you back down flat to the mattress. then, his other hand pushes your shoulder over so you roll until your face is pushed into the cold pillows and your ass is tipped high. your thighs clamp shut in panic again, but he forces them apart, spreading you wide so he can watch where you're open and dripping for him. your pussy is glossy and twitching from the ruined build-up with your underwear still rucked to the side. yet you keep trying to wriggle away, tears wetting the sheets beneath your face. "get off me, stop it! just let me go- ah!"

with a sudden surge forward, he buries his face into you like a man starved. his mouth seals over your hole, tongue shoving deep without hesitation, lapping up everything you've spilled out already. he moans at your taste, the sound rumbling against your core as his tongue flattens and curls, dragging through your folds.

you shriek into the sheets as his palms spread over the fat of your ass to hold you still. his nose grinds against your swollen clit while his tongue plunges sloppily inside, and you can feel his jaw working, can hear him slurping shamelessly, sucking your juices into his mouth.

you're wailing, trying to shove yourself up on your hands and knees, but the weight of him forces you into the bed, giving you no wiggle room. you didn't want to stop fighting, but even if you got out, where would you go? there’s a snowstorm and surely there's no phone signal... you're locked in with the beast.

his tongue drags down further, tracing the seam of your ass, hot breath spilling against the tight ring before he pushes, filthy and unashamed. "oh my- ahn, not there, please, it's dirty!" your cry shatters into breathless moans as he presses his mouth against your rim, tongue teasing the rim before descending back to the dip between your holes then dragging back down to your folds again. "mm. shu'up." he mumbles into you.

simon switches back and forth, slurping at your pussy until you're squealing, then shoving his tongue against - and in - your ass. he can't decide which one he likes more. you're dripping all over his chin, his stubble coated in a combination of his saliva and your arousal. but he hadn't forgotten about punishing you for trying to escape earlier, so he focuses on your ass, biting the plush flesh of your left cheek until iron fills his mouth and adds to your sweet taste on his tongue. you sob and kick back at him pathetically, just for him to dive in again.

thick thumbs spread your folds apart for his tongue to push into your pussy, twisting, writhing like he's fucking you with it. every plea that breaks out of you only makes him more ravenous. simon slaps his tongue against your hole, sucking hard enough to make you jolt, then laps up the mess drooling out of you while you moan indecently

he lifts his head, then he's spitting onto your ass, spreading it with his tongue, and diving back in. "mmnh! i s-said not there, you- fuck, no more!" your cries fall deaf on his ears as he works his mouth gluttonously on you, tongue darting between your hole and then laving over the wet outside. then he drags his fat, heavy tongue back down and sucks so hard on your clit that your orgasm from earlier resurfaces instantly. but again, he pulls away with a wet smack and leaves you throbbing, your body screaming at the loss.

"no! please, please, please, i can't, i can't take it anymore!" a rough hand fists in your hair, shoving your head down into the mattress again to shut you up, your cheek smushed and your cries muffled. by now, everything is swollen and achy or painful for you. you can't tell if your head or your cunt from two denied orgasms feels worse. your captor unbuttons and tugs down his pair of faded trousers, tossing them to the floor to join your skirt in a heap. he's holding you down so you can't see what he looks like. his boxers come down to his knees next, and you can hear him begin to palm himself heavily, the lewd slap of his fist milking his cock echoing through the room.

you try to twist and look back at him, but his grip tightens, shoving you deeper into the bed. he curses lowly while fisting himself above your messy pussy before he settles in behind you. again, he lets a thick glob of saliva drop from his tongue to get you even sloppier. the slick drip runs down between your folds, and he smears it with the fat head of his cock, spreading it around.

your voice cracks through the pillow, panicked and begging, "j-just... at lea-least -sniff- at least use a condom, please." you don't even get the full plea out before his cockhead slaps against your hole, cutting you off. he does it again, smearing himself through your slick and letting his fat, flared tip drag between your ass cheeks mockingly. it circles your rim, descends down through your folds, presses against your swollen clit in messy passes until you're gasping into the sheets.

with no warning, he pushes inside you with one brutal thrust forward, splitting you open around the thickest part of him. he stretches you raw and impossibly wide in a single thrust. you scream as his cock drives all the way inside, your body clamping down around him like you're going to tear apart. he groans gutturally, shoving until his hips are flush against your ass, his cockhead nudging so deep inside you it makes your belly jump. the pain of two fingers stretching you out doesn't even come close to the excruciating stretch and burn of a cock that feels like the size of your forearm.

every inch of you is stretched to its limit. unable to form a single thought, your hands claw uselessly at the mattress in an attempt to anchor yourself away from him and off his cock. meanwhile, he just holds there, thick and throbbing inside you. he lets you squirm on his cock while he cages you down with his weight. after watching you flail stupidly for a moment, he gets tired of toying with his food. his big palm spreads over your stomach and presses up, firm, forcing your belly against his cock.

an undistinguishable sound that combines a cry, moan, and scream leaves straight from your throat as you feel the hard shape of him inside you through your own stomach, every vein and ridge outlined under his palm as he stirs your guts from the inside.

"haa, i'm g-going to… oh no!" your thighs start shaking uncontrollably and your gaze fuzzes up again suddenly. the coil in your belly from before resurfaces way too fast, and when it snaps, you gush - squirting helplessly all over his cock, the sheets beneath you soaking instantly. "oh fuckin' hell, squeezin' me so damn tight," he groans, rutting his hips to stir deeper and coax more out of you. his palm rubs in circles, pressing down harder to exaggerate the swell, to force your pussy to clench around him while the wet gush continues to splatter down his pelvis.

delirious from the fullness and the overstimulation, you begin babbling nonsensically. with your pussy squeezing him so hard your walls spasm around the fat length of him, he's not sure how much more he can take. "mngh. loosen up, girl. y'chokin' m'cock." he pants, trying to get you to relax by pressing your belly up more, thumb stroking over the bulge of his cock inside you.

he thrusts once, grinding the head against your cervix. "listen to that," he mutters. "squirting 'round me like a proper whore."

"'s too big! i can't take any more!" you wail. "you're gonna break me, please, i c-can't-"

he drags his hips back slowly, thick cockhead catching at your hole, then slams back in in one brutal stroke.

he stays still for a long moment, letting your belly rise and fall rapidly under his palm as you quiver. he's memorizing the way your insides clench and pulse around him to adjust to his size.

then, finally, he moves - every shift of his hips pushing his length inside you deeper and scraping against the swollen walls of your pussy. the first push of his hips rattles you entirely. you feel so stretched that you can hardly function. you squeeze around him, wailing. every convulsion of your walls pulls him impossibly deeper. his palm presses harder against your stomach, forcing you to feel exactly how full you are.

the burn of his cock dragging through your walls is overwhelming, the stretch so raw you can't even control the way your nails tear at the sheets. "c-can't-" your voice comes out weak because your throat is raw from crying, but his response is nothing more than a low, guttural groan. the sound of your desperation feeds him. he doesn't slow down. instead, he drags back until only the swollen head is keeping you stretched open, then rams in again, hips slamming flush against your ass with enough force to make the mattress creak.

your body jolts forward with every thrust, your cheek grinding against the now-damp pillow since your hot tears have been smearing into the fabric. the initial discomfort of being stretched out blooms into an aching pulse that makes your body feel blissful even when your mind screams at you to resist. simon rewards every involuntary move of your hips with a rough thrust.

sliding lower, his hand leaves your stomach. you think for one moment he might ease up, but he doesn't. thick fingers pinch your clit, rolling it between calloused pads with the same rough impatience as before; he can't decide if he wants to torture you or rip an orgasm from you by force. the double assault makes your hips buck wildly, your cries pitching higher as you try to twist away, but his cock is already locking you in place, stretching you wide around him.

"ah, shit - hear that? sloppy cunt can't get enough of me stuffin' it." he says, voice gravelly, more a growl than words. his fist grabs at your hair, yanking your head back enough for your body to arch. "look at you, cryin' and leakin', but still pushin' back for more." you can't keep your voice down, your pleas splintering apart until they sound like nonsense. it doesn't matter, because he's not listening. his cock batters at your insides, thick shaft dragging mercilessly against every sensitive place inside you, each thrust driving your body closer to a place you don't want to go again.

he changes his angle suddenly in one rough adjustment of his grip on your hip, shoving your ass higher and your thighs wider. the new position drags him deeper still, scraping along parts of you untouched until now.

"tha's it," he grits out, breath harsh in your ear. "body knows what it wants. no need f'you to keep pretendin' not to be a cockwhore." his words make your stomach twist, embarrassment clashing with the unbearable fullness until you can't tell which hurts more. as your stomach turns at the shame of finding pleasure in this despite your lack of consent and the fact that you're simon's, one of his big hands slides down again, a finger prodding at your other hole. the first push of his fingertip has your body jolting violently, a strangled scream muffled against the sheets while his finger forces its way into your ass.

his finger twists. the stretch makes your whole body seize. you're crying in earnest as he works his finger, curling, fucking your ass in time with the brutal rhythm of his cock splitting your pussy open.

your body can't keep up with the assault, cock pounding your cunt, finger stretching your ass, thumb still rolling your swollen clit whenever he wants to hear you shriek louder, which you do. he takes out his finger to slip a second inside harder, all while his cock continuously bullies your soft insides as they squish around his cock.

he takes his fingers out from inside you again to smear your leaking juices with his hand; up your backside, getting it wet by dragging it over your hole before stuffing in a third finger. your whole body lurches forward, choking on your own breath as he works you open there too. "p-please, please, not another, I'm begging! please, not there, it hurts!"

"quit your fuckin' whining." his thrusts turn brutal, each one snapping your body forward against the sheets. you're unable to keep track of what part of you is hurting and what part of you is melting from the way he won't stop. he takes his hand off your clit out of nowhere just to grip your jaw from behind, dragging your face up until your mouth is open for him to lean down over you, hot breath spilling onto your cheek as he snarls into your ear. "open up. stick y'tongue out, too."

you let out a weak cry. "p-please… i will if you take your fingers out of my a-!" he shuts you up with closing his mouth around yours, his tongue tangling with yours messily. his saliva and yours mix each time he swirls his tongue around yours, slurping and sucking on you while he ruts into you with no rhythm, cock battering your cervix until your stomach is tight and bulging where he's dragging you open.

you moan into his mouth without meaning to, muffled cries swallowed by him. as you're forced to kiss your captor, you think of simon - sweet, careful simon, who never kisses you like this, who never shoves his tongue down your throat. you try to pull back to get a breath, but his grip on your jaw is iron, tilting your face until you have no choice but to meet him.

remembering simon makes your belly twist worse, makes you sob into his mouth because you feel an insurmountable amount of guilt. it's like you're betraying him, but your body doesn't care.

he bites your lip and pulls back, spit stringing between your mouths. "aw, hear that?" he mutters, nosing at your cheek and then licking a broad stripe over the skin to taste your tears. mocking them. "messin' yourself for me like a bitch in heat. bet your boyfriend's never pulled it outta you like this."

he pounds inside harder, upward, and you cum messily around him with both holes clenching around him tight, slick soaking your thighs and his cock to make every thrust wetter, louder, nastier.

your body jerks violently as he continues stretching you open while his cock thrusts incessantly into you. he keeps your jaw trapped in his hand, not letting you hide. his gaze is locked on every expression break across you; the roll of your eyes backwards, you biting hard on your lip to stifle moans, the way your lashes flutter when he hits too deep.

regardless, he keeps dragging you back every time you start to collapse forward, holding you suspended on the thick stretch of his cock like you're nothing but a sleeve for him to use.

your body's given up. you're cockdrunk to the point that all you can do is squeal brokenly as he forces you back down, rutting into you like he wants to hollow you out and keep you stuffed forever. he hitches your hips higher by banding his arm round your thighs, now curling and pumping his fingers in your hole while holding you suspended while he rams up into you. helplessly, you dangle there while he uses your body to chase his own release. "gonna cream this lil pussy full," he drives in harder, harder, rutting with a desperation that's more animal than human. "gonna knock y'up, make y'carry me in ya every fuckin' day after this. that what y'want? huh?" he jerks you back harder.

your insides clench and gush again, helpless, the thought making your head spin. another orgasm tears through you before you can even answer. the sound you make is raw and embarrassing, high and broken, as your cunt milks around him.

his hands squeeze bruises into your hips as he holds you open, keeps you stuffed full. "y'hear that? y'cum when i tell you m'gonna breed you. thas' what your body fuckin' wants." he says, then shoves deeper. he keeps your ass arched, fists in your flesh like handles, slamming you back to meet his thrusts until you're nothing but a wet hole clinging around him.

"not done," he snarls, yanking himself free with a gush of slick. then he hauls you up, flips you onto your back, and drives in again, pinning you under his weight. you squeal at the sudden manhandling as he flips you and drives back in, fucking you on your back. he holds your thighs up against your chest, forcing you to stare at his face even through your blurry tear-filled vision. "look at me. I want you to remember."

your mouth falls open as he forces your face toward his, and his mouth slots against yours messily, wet tongue tangling with yours as you moan into him, dizzy and humiliated and so far gone you can't stop yourself.

"you're gonna remember who did this," he mutters hot against your lips between kisses, "every time you're out late all on your own. every time this pussy gets all slick. every time your little boyfriend tries to touch you, you're gonna feel me instead. me. right here." he says curving his cock to hit the deepest parts inside of you repeatedly.

the last few thrusts are deep, punishing, until his body locks hard against yours and he grunts through his teeth, cock pushing up deep inside you. hot, heavy spurts flood you so much you feel it spilling instantly, leaking down your ass, but he keeps pumping it in, dragging you down tight onto him, refusing to pull out. cum leaks out with every slam, spilling down onto the bed, and he groans, angling his hips to push it deeper, to force more of him into you until you're stuffed past the brink.

cw. brat taming (barely), tummy bulges, clark talks you through it, semi-voyeurism, unprotected sex, doggy, gentle dom! clark, size difference, pull out method, 18+ content ahead. adults only.

synopsis. clark kent just wants to give his boss a gift for her birthday. she brushes him off as always. he's had enough.

kinktober | dc masterlist | navigation | masterlist

clark kent never thought he'd be the guy to take orders laying down, but here he is, working for you, someone adjacent to a tyrant. with how bitter you are, he suspects you must've grown up without love or attention, because here you are now, taking it out on the people around you with no hesitation. you hold yourself above everyone to the point where it feels like the workplace isn’t a democracy. everyone must fall at your feet, or risk demotion. or worse.

anyway, clark is a very patient and kind person. sees the best in everyone, looks for reasons why you act the way you do, rather than talking unfavourably about you with the rest of his colleagues. when he finds out, much to your chagrin, that your birthday was coming up and no one’d noticed, he decided to take it in to his own hands and went out to buy you cute things.

a dress that he knew would look nice on you, a stuffed animal, and flowers.

he decides to drop it off with you privately to not make a scene. he’d hate to embarrass you, and he didn’t do it to seem like a good guy in front of everyone else. it was all about you. so during lunch, while everyone was out, he came into your office after knocking. his hair’s falling over his forehead, glasses slipping down his nose, that soft smile spreading on his face when your eyes flicker from the flowers to the bear and back.

“i uh…” he clears his throat, shifting on the spot. “happy birthday. i thought you might like these.”

you look up at him from your spot at your desk, then shift your gaze to the gifts - your gifts - that he’s holding under his arm. he can’t be serious, can he? how did he even find out? with how close you keep your cards to your chest, you figure he must have done research about you behind your back.

“kent, i don’t know who told you it was my birthday, but i don’t accept gifts from employees. especially not stuffed animals. i’m not a child, in case you haven’t noticed.” truly, you love stuffed animals. but you’d sooner swallow printer ink than disclose that to him.

though your tone is harsh, clark doesn’t flinch. he just blinks at you, steady. calm in a way that’s infuriating.

“it’s just me. nobody else knows.” his voice stays so soft it makes your skin prickle. “i just wanted you to have something nice today.”

the teddy bear’s button eyes are aimed at you. it would be easier if he looked hurt or embarrassed, but he just looks… patient. he expected the snap, but it doesn’t change anything for him. he’s used to you by now.

clark’s tuned in to your every reaction. his senses pick up everything, from your shallow breath, to the tightness in your voice, to the way your perfume is overlaid by a certain restlessness that clings to you no matter how polished you look. he doesn’t mean to be so hyper focused on you, but he can’t help it. he’s watched you long enough to know exactly what the tenseness in your body means.

he sets the bouquet down carefully on your desk, placing the teddy bear beside it. “you don’t have to like them,” he says quietly. “i wanted you to know somebody cares.”

you snap again. “and that’s not your job, kent. your job is to get copy in before deadline.”

he doesn’t leave, or argue. he knows its pointless with you, because once you've got something set in your mind, it's nearly impossible to budge you. unless... you're persuaded well enough. clark stays where he is, watching you with those steady blue eyes. he tilts his head slightly. “you seem… tense, boss.” he says, carefully. “i know i don’t have the right to say that. but...i notice.”

the words hit home for you because you know they're true, you just don't know how he knows. you take pride in the fact that you're very difficult to read, and yet here he stands, your subordinate, telling you you're worked up. you glare up at him, unable to discern that he can smell the frustration and pheromones radiating off you. you decide to play clueless. “you’re observant. congratulations.”

he takes a step closer. one slow, deliberate step, and suddenly the office feels smaller. it's not exactly crowding, because he's far too gentle and considerate of you to do such a thing, but his presence is imposing. with the striking size difference between the two of you, he's looming over you regardless of if he intends to or not. “can I help?” he asks softly.

your lips part, your face screwing up in sheer disbelief at the bold ask. “excuse me?” the sincerity and eagerness to please you is obvious on his face, and it's honestly worse than if he'd been teasing you. you loathe pity. "i don't mean to overstep," he continues, leaning a little closer to test the waters, "it's just, you do everything for everyone else, you're working all the time... it feels like no one's looking after you.

clark gently touches your shoulder, and you flinch. he can feel the way your pulse and heart rate increase drastically and how you're growing more flustered. “i’d like to. if you’d let me.” by now, you should've screamed at him and thrown him out, but his eyes are locked on yours intently, and he's tracing your skin under his fingertips, distracting you from coming to your senses. you know he knows exactly how wound up you are, how much of it isn’t anger at all.

you scoff, push back in your chair. “i don’t need taking care of, kent. least of all by you.” when you stand and try to brush past him, his hand closes around your wrist gently. "let go, now." you hiss up at him, in awe of his boldness. is he not afraid of you? why is he not intimidated by you? you could destroy him, his career, his-

“no. not until you stop pretending you don’t want this.”

your hesitation and the movement of your thighs pressing together is all the confirmation he needs.

clark turns you, presses you down against your own desk in one easy, devastating motion. you're bent over embarassingly, pencil skirt riding up over your thighs to reveal a strip of pretty blue lace. hm, unexpected, clark thinks.

papers scatter onto the floor. “kent, if you don’t-!” your words die when his hips press against your ass and you feel the sheer, impossible size of him straining against his slacks. your knees almost buckle. “clark,” you say desperate to keep your footing. he's too focused on how you've said his first name. he can count how many times you've done that on about three fingers. “don’t you dare-”

he’s already pulling your skirt up, pushing the fine material to your waist as his big hands splay across your hips. he leans forward to press fully against you, muttering filth in your ear. “you’ve been wound so tight, boss. i need to help you relax.” you nudge your ass back against him in an attempt to get some control of the angle, but his palm pushes at your shoulder blades and forbids you. "not this time. my turn to be in charge."

his breath is warm against your ear, voice disturbingly soft in contrast to the iron way he holds you bent over the desk. you try to turn your head and spit some insult back at him, but then you feel him fumbling his fly open behind you, the sound of a zipper dragging down, and every nerve in your body seizes up.

clark tugs your panties aside with thick fingers, the lace stretching against your skin as he exposes your puffy cunt to the cool air. you're mortified at how wet you are already and how easily his thumb can slide up and down your seam before he lines himself up. "it's slippery," he hums. "your body's more honest than you are, boss."

then the fat head of his cock is nudging at your entrance, barely breaching, and your retort breaks off into a shaky gasp. clark doesn’t push in all the way, simply grinding the tip forward to press into you, then slip out again and leave your walls clutching at nothing. more slick oozes out of you. “clark.” you plead.

“mm?” his hand strokes over your ass soothingly, though he doesn’t stop rutting his cockhead against your soaked little hole. in, out, just enough to pop past your entrance before retreating again, juices gathering on his shaft. “too much?” he murmurs.

you fist your hands against the desk, panting hard. it’s been too long since anyone’s touched you, and he knows it. he’s figured it out somehow, the bastard. you can feel it in the way he handles you, all gentle but immovable, patient but not merciful.

“don’t… don’t tease me,” you manage. he answers you by nudging it inside again, his chuckle is low, warm against your spine as he leans over you. “tease you? 'm trying to make it fit. you’re so tight, i can barely get the tip in.” his tip drags slowly through your resistance and stretches you before sliding free.

he ruts in again, deeper this time, just past the crown, and holds there, thick shaft throbbing as your walls clench desperately around him. you feel like you might tear in half, even though you're so wet that you're dripping onto his cock, long, slimy strings connected to where your pussy and his swollen tip meet.

clark’s free hand finds yours where it’s clenched into the desk. he peels your fingers open gently, threads his much larger hand through yours and pins it down, grounding you even as he rocks his hips in shallow thrusts. “i’ll get you used to me, kay?” he whispers. “gonna stretch you out nice and slow so it's not this difficult next time i'm inside you.”

next time.

next time.

your brain fogs up.

he ruts again, slip, stretch...and every drag of his tip makes you arch and push back in spite of yourself, desperate for more. his cock is the opposite of gentle like him, fat, swollen, too big for your body no matter how slow he goes.

he eases the head in first, the same way he’s been doing for what feels like hours, letting your hole stretch wide around him, but this time, he doesn’t pull out. he groans a little too loudly for someone who's fucking his boss on the clock, but he can’t hold it back anymore. he starts to inch forward, deeper, deeper, until you’re squealing into the desk.

“shhh,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss between your shoulder blades even as you writhe. “i know, i know, sweetie. breathe, please. i'm gonna get allll of me in you."

the veins ridging along his shaft drag against your walls with every careful inch he pushes inside. he's pulsing hotly into your puffy walls, stimulating places that haven’t been touched in forever. your nails claw at the desk. “clark, mmh, clark, it’s too-!”

“shh” he interrupts gently, his hips rocking forward another inch, stretching you wider, wider, the fat base of his cock pressing mercilessly against your cunt lips. he's nearly bottomed out by now. “it's not too much. see? you're taking so much already.”

you wail when he shifts his angle just slightly, because the curve of him bends forward just enough to hit something unbearably deep, a soft, spongy spot that makes your vision blur. he groans against your ear. “feel that? right here. right here, boss.” his hips nudge again, the curve of his cock stroking deliberate circles against that sensitive patch inside you, and you sob against your desk, the sound humiliatingly high-pitched.

the deeper he goes, the more you feel like you’re being split open, your body forced to mold his cock, which swells thicker the further in he goes. by the time his heavy length fills you fully, the head is pressing so deep against your womb you swear he’s rearranging something inside you.

he just holds there, hips flush with your ass while his cock is pulsing in your cunt. “see?” he pants, “i told you i’d fit. took it all like a good girl." his hips flex and the thick curve grinds into that spongy spot again, wringing a choked squeal from your throat.

you thrash, trying to deny it, but the words fall apart. “it’s ngh, f-fuck, it’s too- clark, it’s too much."

his palm strokes down your trembling belly, cupping low where the shape of him bulges up against your insides, pressing outward. he groans when he feels it. “aw, look at that. you can feel me here, can’t you?” he presses up firmly on your tummy bulge, making you cry out when the fat length inside you shifts and grinds deeper against your sweet spot.

clark doesn’t give you a chance to catch your breath. once he’s got every fat inch seated deep inside you, he finds that rhythm that makes you go limp against the desk. not too fast; he’s not jackhammering you into the wood, but not slow either. a steady, perfect pace, deep thrusts that pull little noises from your throat you can’t swallow down.

his cock slides out until only the swollen head remains, then sinks back in to the hilt, veins dragging against your slippery walls, the curve of him finding that spongy spot with every stroke. “gosh, you feel so good.”

you’re clinging to the edge of your desk like it’s the only thing tethering you to reality, eyes wet, mouth open and useless. the sharp click of your heels against the floor matches the rhythm of his thrusts. he keeps his chest pressed to your back, murmuring right into your ear. “mnh- knew you just needed someone to take care of you. my poor boss-" he punctuates his word with a deep shove of his cock in you. "-all alone on her birthday. nobody noticing. nobody giving her what she needs.”

he bites down on your neck, then presses hot, open mouthed kisses against the sweat-slicked flesh. he moans as your cunt flutters helplessly around him. “but i noticed. i always notice you.”

he presses up against your belly, right where you bulge with the fat shape of him, and he uses the leverage to lift you slightly, pulling you higher onto his cock. The angle changes so he's pushing in even deeper. you nearly scream, having to bite down on the stupid teddy bear he bought you so you don't alert anyone who's still in the office. he keeps squishing your tummy, pushing the outline of himself inside you. “i know, baby, it’s so much. all that attitude, and now you’re just a little sweetheart with me stuffing you.”

you know he's fucked you stupid, as you've gone from hurling insults and dismissals at him to sobbing and moaning like you're in heat. he's close; every squeeze of your walls has his thrusts stuttering. you’re so wet and tight he can barely keep the steady rhythm. his hand presses harder into your stomach, grinding you against the desk as he forces his cock as deep as possible.

he moans, voice breaking with strain, “you gonna let go for me? you gonna soak me for your birthday?”

the little patronizing tone in his voice is what tips you over the edge. your whole body convulses, thighs quaking as your cunt clamps down violently around him. you gush hard, an embarrassing flood that spills all over his cock, soaking his slacks where they hang half-open. your pussy milks him, and you can feel the way his fat length is suddenly slippery with your release.

his hips jerk and stutter, as his cock is squeezed tightly. he can see it: your slick walls sucking after him, clamping down with such force that it feels like your cunt doesn’t want to let him go. a creamy ring circles the base of his cock, thick and wet from the way you’ve coated him inside. “haa- goodness,” he pants, watching himself disappear into you again.

when he tries to pull out, your walls keep clinging to him greedily, sucking him back in like your pussy's begging to be filled. he nearly finishes on the spot, his cock throbbing violently, heavy with the load that wants to be spilled in masses into you. his instincts scream to finish inside you, to plug you full. but if he came now, there'd be a risk that he’d knock you up on your own desk.

with a grunt, clark drags himself out at the last second, your walls suctioning at him, fighting to keep him buried. he nearly shoves back in to finish where he started, but manages to pull free, yank your skirt higher, and bare the soft curve of your ass.

“oh g-geez, 'm cumming!” his cock jerks violently in his fist as he strokes once, twice, then spills in hot, thick ropes across your ass and thighs. creamy spurts paint your skin, hot and sticky, dripping down the crease of your cheeks and slipping down the blue lace he’d pushed aside. he groans with every pulse of his cock, emptying load after load on you. it's so much that it gathers at the swell of your ass and trickles down the backs of your legs.

Summary: Obi-wan x jedi master reader / oho wan joins your class of Force projection / no warnings this is just pure fluff and teacher appreciation <3

Words: 1k

Writer’s note: Billie’s verse in guess makes me go feral so i wrote this lols<3

Being trucker!Clark’s passenger princess means sitting pretty in the passenger seat with the window cracked, country radio humming low, and his old, worn-out leather wallet tucked into your hands. Inside, wedged behind receipts and a faded license, there’s a little Polaroid of you in that bunny costume from last Halloween. He hands you a few bills, tells you to grab “road snacks,” and watches fondly as you wander into the gas station, his whole world tucked into a truck stop convenience store.

Every stop is an excuse to wander. The little trinkets, keychains, lighters, shiny belt buckles, and ball caps catch your eye every time, even though you promise him you’ll just grab chips. By now, Clark’s dashboard is covered in your collection, a mismatched shrine of stickers, bobbleheads, and neon sunglasses. He pretends to grumble about the clutter, but you’ve caught him smiling at it more than once.

“Feet down, sweetheart.” He lightly swats at your bare legs when you prop them up on the dashboard, too protective for his own good. His voice softens as he adds, “A crash could send that airbag right through you. Wouldn’t know what to do if my girl got hurt.” You pout but drop your feet instantly, because you know his worry isn’t pretend.

Stretch breaks turn into cardio. Whenever you stop at a quiet truck station to stretch, Clark gets “a little carried away.” One minute, you’re leaning against the truck door, arms over your head, the next his big hands are on your hips, bending you over the bed of his rig. He smirks against your ear, growling something about how it’s “a good workout after hours on the road… cardio, y’know.” His idea of cardio leaves your legs trembling long after you’re back in the passenger seat.

His oversized flannels are your uniform. You tell him it’s because they’re warm, soft, and smell like cedar and tobacco. The truth? You just like how his eyes darken every time you pad around the motel room with nothing but his plaid hanging off your shoulders. He never says no when you borrow one, though, especially because he knows what it does to him.

Stopping at diners like locals. From greasy spoons with checkered floors to quiet mom-and-pop joints tucked off backroads, Clark makes sure you’re fed right. He sits across from you in cracked leather booths, knuckles brushing yours over coffee cups, insisting you get dessert because “pie’s the only reason to eat here anyway.”

"Don't flirt with me, Clark Kent," you warn, though it doesn't come out like a warning so much as a desperate plea. You’re a little tipsy on your mom’s Riesling and hiding from a house full of family. He’s the boy next door who smells like safety and saves the world in his spare time. You've been in love with him your whole life, and tonight, with the New Year about to dawn, you get the feeling he might just feel the same way. | friends to lovers, fluff, 2.3k words

︶꒦꒷♡꒷꒦︶

Your mom is wine-drunk in the Kent's kitchen, laughing too loud at something Martha said about the Hendersons' new tractor. Your dad and Jonathan are in the living room with Clark's cousin Pete and his wife, arguing about whether that touchdown in the fourth quarter counted. Someone—probably your aunt Linda—put on music that hasn't been popular since 1987.

It's 11:43, and you're sitting on the stairs like you're fifteen again, except Clark's not next to you anymore. He's by the fireplace, letting Pete's four-year-old daughter hang off his arm like it's a jungle gym, lifting her up and down while she shrieks with delight.

"Again, Uncle Clark! Again!"

He's not her uncle, not really, but all the kids call him that. He's just Clark to everyone here, the Kent boy who made good in the big city, who comes home for holidays and helps with harvest and never mentions that he spent last week preventing an alien invasion.

You know, though. You've always known.

The wine makes you too warm—your mom's heavy hand with the Riesling, Martha's insistence that "it's New Year's, honey, live a little." One glass. Maybe two. Enough that standing up feels like a bigger decision than it should be, at first.

"Where you going?" Your cousin Jade appears at the bottom of the stairs, beer in hand. She's almost a decade older than you, always treated you more like a little sister than a cousin. She's also pretty much president of the 'Clark Kent Is Your Soulmate and I Will Die on This Hill' club. "Don't tell me you're bailing before midnight."

"Nah, just—just need some air," you tell her.

"It's freezing out there."

"I need to make a call," you lie.

You've spent years perfecting the art of deflecting questions from family members. It comes in handy when your best friend is Superman. Jade rolls her eyes but waves you on, disappearing into the kitchen.

You catch Clark glancing over as you pass, but Pete's daughter is now demanding he 'make her fly like Superman' (the irony isn't lost on you), and you slip outside without a scene.

Outside is better. Quieter. The Kents' front porch looks exactly like it did when you were five, when you were fifteen. Three months ago, when you were crying with your mom and Martha because your then boyfriend Aaron had just proposed and you'd said no and couldn't explain why.

You sit on the porch swing, the one that creaks on the left side. Clark fixed it at least three times in high school, but it always goes back to creaking.

You enjoy maybe five minutes of quiet before the front door makes its old-house creaking sound.

"It's too cold for you out here."

His voice makes you jump a little. You turn, see him closing the door behind him with that careful way he has, like everything in the world might break if he's not gentle enough, and not for the first time you're overwhelmed with the sudden, stupid urge to just tell him.

You're drunk. Not blackout drunk, but the kind of drunk where the words come slow and the feelings come too fast, all at once. "Then come keep me warm."

𝗉𝖺𝗂𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗀: 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗋𝗄 𝗄𝖾𝗇𝗍 𝗑 𝗐𝗂𝖿𝖾!𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋

𝗐𝗈𝗋𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗎𝗇𝗍: 2.2𝗄

𝗐𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌/𝗍𝖺𝗀𝗌: 𝖺𝗇𝗀𝗌𝗍, 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿, 𝗌𝗈𝖿𝗍 𝗌𝗆𝗎𝗍, 𝗇𝗈 𝗆𝖺𝗃𝗈𝗋 𝗌𝗉𝗈𝗂𝗅𝖾𝗋𝗌!

𝖺𝗎𝗍𝗁𝗈𝗋'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍𝖾: 𝗁𝗂i 𝖺𝗇𝗈𝗇, 𝗈𝗆𝗀 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗐𝖺𝗌 𝗌𝗎𝖼𝗁 𝖺 𝗀𝗈𝗈𝖽 𝗂𝖽𝖾𝖺, 𝗂 𝗅𝗈𝗏𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗌 𝗋𝖾𝗊𝗎𝖾𝗌𝗍!

The thing about loving Clark Kent was that you had to share him with the world. You’d known that going in. 

You shared him with the entire planet, who needed Superman. You shared him with the Metropolis and the Daily Planet, who needed their reporter. You’d made peace with it, because the man who came home to you at night, who left his cape at the door, was entirely, completely yours.

Or so you thought.

You never worried about other women. How could you? Your husband was the most kind, loyal, and genuinely oblivious man on the planet. His eyes never strayed; they always found you in a room, lighting up with nothing but pure love.

But somehow you had started to get your doubts. And it was making you crazy.

It started small. With a name you hadn’t heard before—“Stacey” that was tossed casually into conversation like you’d obviously know who that was.

“Stacey brought in donuts for the office,” Clark had said one morning, grabbing his tie. “Maple bacon. I’ll save you one if there are any left.”

“Stacey always writes the cleanest copy. Makes editing so much easier.”

“Stacey says I need better pens. She gave me this one—”

You eventually just started grouping this ‘Stacey’ into the names of all his other coworkers you knew. Lois, Jimmy, Cat, Perry and now, Stacey.

Not a problem at all, just a new coworker friend, you thought. 

Clark had believed it too because he was well, just… Clark. 

He was kind, he was attentive, and he was hopelessly, endearingly naive to the nuances of office politics and affections. He saw the good in everyone and assumed everyone operated with the same honest heart he did. 

So, he didn’t see the lingering touches, or the way Stacey would sometimes steer him by the elbow, the way her eyes lit up when he walked into a room.

He only had eyes for you after all.

But gosh you couldn’t help but see it.

You saw it that one time that you stopped by the Daily Planet to drop off lunch because Clark had forgotten his. 

Stacey had practically launched out of her chair to greet you, but you saw the way her hand brushed his sleeve when she stood by Clark like she had some unspoken claim on him. 

And worse, you saw how natural it looked.

Not on his end. Clark was just being himself, smiling politely, balancing his lunch bag in one hand, thanking you for bringing it, and then turning and introducing her with his other. 

On Stacey’s end however? It looked like she was used to this closeness. Like she thought she had some special part of him reserved for her.

And maybe she did.

The thought festered in you all week, before you had eventually tried to push it out of your mind. Then it happened again.

Clark invited you as his plus one to some charity gala thing he was reporting on. Stacey had been there, and saw the two of you together, but approached to say something just to Clark. 

A compliment to his tux, and when she made eye contact with you, Stacey just gave the fakest smile she could muster and walked away.

Okay, rude, you tried to brush it off but the nagging feeling remained.

It was a week later, the first time you’d actually heard the term out loud, and was from no other than Jimmy Olsen. 

You, Clark, Jimmy, Lois and Cat were all out for drinks. Clearly, Jimmy had one too many as he kept rambling on about this woman at their job that you’ve never heard of before that wouldn’t leave him alone.

He’d clapped Clark on the back standing up to get another drink before, “At least your work wife knows what she’s doing. Thank god, Perry hired Stacey.”

You froze, head snapping towards Jimmy's already retreating figure.

You didn’t know how to react. On one hand, maybe it was a joke. People said that sometimes. But on the other hand, why would Jimmy say that if it wasn't true? You knew what work wives were and Clark wasn’t the type to engage in that kind of flirtatious office banter.

Was he?

It gnawed at you, quiet at first. You caught yourself replaying the phrase in your head, over and over long after you left the restaurant that night. Work wife. Work wife. Work wife.

If he has a work wife, then what does that make you? A housewife? A backup wife? 

The confusion curdled into a quiet, burning insecurity. Was she better than you? More attentive? More interesting? Did she understand the pressures of his job in a way you never could?

The questions gnawed at you, making you feel like you were failing as a wife in some fundamental way you couldn’t even name.

You had even started snapping without meaning to at small things. 

A forgotten towel on the bathroom floor. The way Clark chewed. The fact that his phone buzzed late at night with Daily Planet group messages—and you wondered if Stacey was on the other end.

The breaking point finally came on a rainy Tuesday. 

Your manager had given you the rest of the day off, since you finished all your tasks for the day and decided to drop by the Daily Planet to say a quick hello to your husband. 

You knew that you couldn’t stay long since he had an important meeting to get to that he told you about, but stopping by for a quick kiss and a small pick-me-up coffee couldn’t hurt. So, you showed up at the Daily Planet, a hopeful smile on your face and a warm coffee in hand.

Making your way through the bustle of the office, you found Clark not at his desk, but in the breakroom. And he wasn’t alone.

Stacey was standing close to him, her hand on his tie, laughing as she straightened the knot. “There,” she said, her voice dripping with a sweet tone. “Can’t have you looking anything less than perfect for your meeting.”

Clark beamed down at her. “What would I do without you?”

The words were a physical blow. What would I do without you? 

You stood frozen in the doorway, the coffee cup growing damp in your tightening grip. You watched as she patted his chest, her fingers lingering for a moment before she turned to grab her mug and walked away. Clark’s smile was still in place, warm and utterly clueless.

You turned and left before he could see you throwing away the coffee meant for Clark on your way out, your heart hammering a painful rhythm against your ribs. The rain outside matched the storm raging inside you. 

By the time Clark came home that night, tie loosened, hair mussed and wet from the rain, you couldn’t keep it in. “Honey, I’m home!” he started as he walked through the door.

But the smile faded the second he saw you. You were sitting on the edge of the couch, still slightly soaked from the rain, your hands clenched in your lap.

“Hey,” he said, his voice softening with immediate concern. He dropped his bag and came to you, kneeling in front of you to take your cold hands in his warm ones. “What's wrong? Did something happen? Why are you sitting here all cold and wet, you’ll catch a cold.”

You pulled your hands away, the gesture small but sharp. It made him flinch.

“I came by the Planet today,” you said, your voice flat, devoid of the emotion that was churning inside you.

His brow furrowed in confusion. “You did? I'm sorry, I must have been in my meeting. I didn't see you.”

“You weren't at your meeting yet,” you corrected him, finally meeting his eyes. “You were in the breakroom. With Stacey.”

The confusion on his face deepened, then cleared into a look of understanding. “Oh! Right, she was helping me with my tie. It got twisted up. You know how I am with these things.”

He offered a small, sheepish smile, completely missing the storm brewing in your gaze.

Clark blinked when you didn’t respond to him, his head tilting slightly. He still didn't get it. 

The innocence in his expression was suddenly infuriating. 

“She was just being a good friend. Did I- did I do something wrong?”

That’s what set you off.

“Jimmy called her your work wife!” The words exploded out of you, laced with weeks of pent-up insecurity and doubt. "Remember? He said that right in front of me and all your coworkers! And you didn't correct him! You just let him say it! Because it's clearly true.”

To your utter astonishment, Clark laughed. It was a soft, dismissive sound that felt like a slap. “Honey... it's just an expression, right. A silly office joke. It doesn't mean anything.”

“It means something to me!” you shouted, surging to your feet. The tears you'd been holding back finally broke free. “It means something when you say things to her that you’re supposed to say to me! What am I, Clark? Just the housewife? The one you come to when you're done playing reporter with your work wife? Does she get the best parts of your day? Do you tell her things you don't tell me because you ‘don’t know what you’d do without her’?”

He stared up at you from the floor, his face a mask of stunned bewilderment. “How can you say that? How can you think that? You're my wife.”

“Then why does it feel like I have to share that title?” you sobbed, wrapping your arms around yourself. “I saw the way she looked at you. I see the way she touches you. And you... you're so blind to it! You're so... so nice to her!”

Realization, slow and horrifying, finally dawned on his face. The sheer naivety that you usually found endearing now seemed like a betrayal. 

“You… you think I…? With Stacey? Honey, no! There is nothing there! I would never—”

“I’m not accusing you of cheating!” you interrupted, your voice cracking. “I’m accusing you of being an idiot! I love you Clark, I really do, but I feel like I’m being replaced by a… a donut-bearing, tie-fixing, work wife!”

“Oh, gosh,” he whispered, his own eyes glistening. He rose to his feet, his movements slow. “Honey, I am so sorry. I am so... stupid. I never... I never saw it like that. I swear to you, I thought it was just... friendship. She's helpful and kind and I—”

“And I'm not?” you choked out, the insecurity laid bare. “Am I not helpful enough? Kind enough? Is that why you need her? Am I failing as a wife?”

The question shattered him. 

He crossed the space between you in an instant, his hands coming up to cradle your face, his thumbs wiping away your tears.

“No. No, don't you ever think that. Don't you ever.” His voice was raw, fervent. “You could never fail me. You are everything. You are my heart. The thought that I made you feel like this... that my ignorance hurt you…” His voice broke. “I would never, ever want anyone but you. I thought the ‘work wife’ thing was just a dumb joke from Jimmy. I didn’t… I didn’t know it hurt you. There is just you. Only you."

“Then please don’t let her act like she can have you while you're at work, and don't let your coworkers call her that.” you whispered.

“I won’t,” he said immediately. “I promise. I’ll be more careful a-and I’ll set better boundaries with Stacey. I never want you to feel like second place to anyone. Not ever.”

Finally, you let yourself lean into him, pressing your forehead against his chest. His arms came around you, strong and steady, like they always did, and you let out a shaky breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding.

“I just don’t want to lose you,” you admitted, voice small and muffled against his shirt.

Clark kissed the top of your head, holding you tighter. “You won’t. Not in a million years. You’re my wife. My only wife. And nothing or no one will ever change that.”

You stayed like that for a long time, wrapped in the safety of his arms, the steady rhythm of his heart a soothing balm against your ear.

Later, Clark, who was now determined to make it up to you, put on a movie you both loved, pulled you onto the couch, and tucked you under his arm like he always did. He brought you your favorite snacks, kissed your temple, and made silly comments just to get you to smile again.

You didn’t even make it halfway through the film before your attentions began to shift, the air between you thickening with a new, tender intention.

He turned your face towards his, his expression unbearably soft and full of an aching remorse. “Let me show you how much I love you,” he breathed, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through you. “Let me remind you who my heart belongs to.”

The movie was forgotten. He kissed you then with a deep, soul-searching tenderness that felt like an apology and a vow all at once. It was a kiss that sought to erase every doubt, and to overwrite the memory of anyone else’s touch with the certainty of his own.

He led you to the bedroom and made love to you with such a passion and a patience that left you breathless. It was slow, and deep, and emotionally overwhelming, a healing balm on the raw hurt of the past weeks.

Afterward, he held you close, your head on his chest, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your back. And the previous ache in your chest eased completely.

Because maybe he didn’t always get it right. Maybe sometimes he was too clueless for his own good.

But at the end of the day, he was still yours, and that’s all you could really ask for. His heart, in all its loyal, sometimes oblivious glory, belonged to you. And he would spend every day for the rest of his life making sure you never, ever forgot it again.

━━━━━━━

author's note: thanks so much again for the request, i hope you enjoyed!!

the whole office knows you’re a flirt, but you only really have eyes for one guy. He happens to have eyes for you too. (or; you and Clark take turns making eachother jealous.) wc: 1.4k

David!Clark Kent x fem reader

“What are you eating, honey?”

Clark turns his head, mouth full. You’re speaking to him in that low, sweet tone you only use with him. It’s enticing, dangerously so.

He holds out his candy bar, pulling down more of the wrapper. It crinkles in his giant palm. “D’you want some?”

Now that he’s looking, you look away. It’s the name of the game. “Oh, I shouldn’t, babe. I’m watching my figure.”

“You-“ He chokes, flustered, and proceeds to descend into a coughing fit. 

“Clark!” You squeal, and guilty of being a little amused, take the sweating plastic cup of iced tea you’ve been sipping on, scurry the three feet to his desk, and hand it to him. “Are you okay?”

Clark is red faced, whether from lack of air or pure embarrassment he’s not sure. 

“You’re beautiful,” he says, neglecting your question. “You don’t need to watch anything. Sorry.”

You laugh, delighted. “I was joking, babe, I'm sorry. I’ll have some, would that make you feel better?”

He smiles up at you boyishly. “Maybe. Hey, you took my breath away.”

“One way or another…” You mumble, accepting a piece of chocolate.

-

Clark Kent is attracted to you, you’re sure of that much. Whether it goes past physicality you don’t know, but he’s not half as subtle as he tries to be. He’s a great mannered guy, but also just that. A guy.

Which is why even though his eyes don’t linger very long, they definitely still do. It’s more of a bodily reaction, and once his very well-trained brain catches on to what he’s doing, his handsome face will warm and subsequently turn away.

It’s like a game of cat and mouse, except you take turns being the cat and the mouse.

This morning, when you arrive at your desk, He’s at his beside it, but it's Lois who talks to you first.

“What was that on your story this weekend?”

You tilt your head. “Huh?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. How was your date?”

Clark had been minding his own business, but he’s certainly listening now. He’d been out attending to his affairs as Superman last night, got home late, and hadn’t had the chance to check his phone. He wonders if you’d notice if he took it out now, if he was really sneaky about it.

“Don’t grill me, it’s 9 AM.”

Lois takes a sip of coffee, which you really wish you had right now. “We’re journalists, we’re nosy! You shouldn’t post about it if you don’t want me to drill you.”

You sigh, and slump into your chair. “It wasn’t a date, I think. We split the check.”

She winces. “Ouch.”

“Yup.”

Clark frowns at his computer.

“It’s fine.” You say, but it’s not, he thinks. “What about you, handsome?”

He shouldn’t assume you’re talking to him, that word can describe most of the guys here, but he turns to look at you, and is glad to see he assumed correctly. “What about me?”

“What did you do over the weekend?”

Clark knows it’s not a matter of just being included, you actually want to know. “Oh, nothing exciting.” A lie. “I was… y’know, busy. I called my ma, that was nice.”

How sweet. This farm boy is adorably out of place in this city of womanizers and check-splitters.

“Busy, huh. Are you cheating on me, honey?” You tease, expecting him to go his usual shade of pink and brush you off. Though, he’s gotten a lot better with your advances.

“I think I should ask you the same thing,” He says, a self-satisfied snicker leaving his lips. “Let me bring you your coffee.”

He stands, leaving his chair to spin in his absence, and leaving you with wide eyes, parted lips, and a little warmth of your own creeping up your neck.

Lois doesn’t stop giggling to herself until he comes back.

-

“I don’t want to see him.”

Lois snorts, amused. “Isn’t that a little dramatic?”

“Nope,” You lament, crossing your arms. Your head lolls dramatically against your chair, completely aware of the picture you’re painting. “…maybe.”

It’s definitely dramatic. In your defense, it’s not that you don’t want to see Clark himself. It’s the stupid giant colorful bouquet he came in with this morning. You’ve managed to avoid him all of ten minutes, but part of you knows this can’t last all day.

Jimmy watches pointedly, an equally amused grin on his face. “You’re pouting. Like, very visibly. It’s… depressing, man.”

You gasp, swiveling to face him. “Some of us actually have feelings, man.”

You are pouting, though. You can almost feel the frown lines forming on your face.

A sigh escapes your lips involuntarily. “It’s just, it’s a bit mean. I know i’m a flirt, maybe that’s the problem. He doesn’t think i’m being serious. I just- I thought we were getting somewhere, but I guess we aren’t.”

“You don’t know what the flowers are for,” Lois tilts her head, looking at you with what can only be described as pity. “Maybe they’re for Jimmy.”

“Yeah, I like flowers.”

You snort, burying your face in Jimmy’s shoulder. He pats your back awkwardly.

“He has a hot date during lunch or something, I just know it. I’m such a hypocrite. It’s just, why bring it to work and rub it in my face? It’s mean, he’s mean. I hate him.”

“No you don’t.”

You tsk. “No, I don’t.”

“But I will. I’m gonna move on. I’m gonna move on, right now. With you, Jimmy-“ You coo, squishing his face-

“Hey!” He laughs, not uncomfortably. “I’m not part of this.”

“You’re the most handsome guy in the world-“

“What’s- Oh.”

The three of you look up like a group of guilty children. You’d probably rather it have been Perry who came in and walk out with a slap on the wrist, but of course it had to be Clark.

The situation is not really favorable, considering you’re practically half draped over Jimmy’s lap. You’ve decided he has a date later, so it doesn’t really matter, yet jump off him anyway.

He looks between the three of you. Clark is sporting an adorable little pout, and a furrow in his brow. And he’s still holding those dumb flowers!

“You’re not at your desks,” He surveys.

“You’re right, maybe we should get back to them,” Lois suggests, standing up, nodding at Jimmy to join her.

You gape at her, betrayed, and once they’re behind Clark’s back, she mouths one word to you. “Awkward.”

Awkward indeed.

“Hey,” You shrug, smiling timidly up at him. “Morning. What’s…”

“Are you hiding from me?”

You frown, even though you definitely were. “Why would I hide from you, babe?”

“Because of these?” He asks, gesturing to the bouquet.

You can see it more closely now. Soft petaled roses, sweet asiatic lilies, and a few daisies you didn’t even know could be pink. There’s some limonium used to fill the spaces in between the bigger flowers. All complete in some newspaper and a pretty purple ribbon.

It’s beautiful. You might lose your breakfast.

“I-“

“Is it a lot? I, I’m not really good at this sort of thing, sorry. Do you not like them?”

“Why would it matter if I liked them?”

He tilts his head, confused. “Because they’re for you…?”

You’ve never stood up so quickly in your life. “They’re for me?”

Clark is less bashful now, looking down at you fondly. A cautious step forward, paper crinkling under his arm just like the candy bar a few days ago.

“Of course they’re for you,” He says, “who else would they be for?”

You’re at a loss for words. Embarrassed at how hard headed you’d been, but most of all, deeply enamored. Clark Kent is giving you flowers. And really pretty ones, at that.

“I was gonna ask you to be my date to that charity gala next month,” He explains, pushing up his glasses with his free hand. “I know we’re there as journalists, but there’s still that dinner, and-“

“Clark.”

“Yeah, honey?”

“Can I kiss you?”

The bouquet is immediately forgotten on the table, and Clark pounces at you with all the control of a starving man. His hands hold your face, gripping tightly but not overly so.

His teeth gnash into yours. It’s a funny thing, until it isn’t, and you’re really, truly kissing Clark Kent. Your coworker Clark Kent.

When you pull back for air, your hands finally have free space to wander. They crawl up his torso, choose to land on either side of his firm chest.

“I take it you liked the flowers,” He grins, strokes your cheek with his thumb.

“Stupid,” you giggle, beaming. “Come kiss me, handsome.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Next time you see him, you definitely won’t hide.

summary: when you run into your childhood friend clark at a bar, the only question you want to ask him is 'when did you get hot?'

pairing: female reader x clark kent

notes: we collectively say thank you to ms sabrina carpenter for her new album which means a whole lot of new inspo for fics xx

likes, reblogs, comments are very much appreciated!

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You couldn't remember the last time you'd been properly touched by a guy.

Actually you could. But you had decided to expunge your shitty ex from your record. He was more cheating rat than human, so he wasn't really deserving of the status.

Besides, the emphasis was on properly touched.

After months of sulking at home your friends had finally convinced you that it was time to saddle up and get back on the horse.

Three bars in and you were wondering why you'd wasted so much time hermitting. Your feet were feeling gloriously numb in your new heels, your shoulders had finally stopped bunching around your ears and giggles were falling from your lips with ease as you and your friends walked arm in arm.

Your last stop was the Rodeo, a trendy bar that was apparently where all the suits of Metropolis flocked too after a long day of corporate grind.

You felt like you were at a prospect convention. Men were practically falling from the disco light flecked ceiling. You could feel them analysing every inch of you and your new dress that clung tightly to your body as you weaved through the crowd, sizing you up like you were a prized heffer up for auction.

Then again, you were doing the same thing in return.

He was hard to miss. His massive frame dwarfed the bar. A crisp white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, grey suit pants that were barely containing thighs the size of your torso as he leant over to talk to the bartender.

You could barely hear your friends over the thumping bass as they chatted animately. You swore you heard one of them say something about a 'Jimmy' when your course to the bathroom was suddenly diverted.

Your eyes found him again as your friends corralled you towards the other end of the bar. He’d turned ever so slightly, enough that you could see that thick glasses framed his face. A mass of black curls piled on top of his head.

Kind of nerdy. Just your type.

It was so dark that you couldn’t make out his facial features. Not that you were complaining about the current view.

masterlist

summary: When peter swings through your window and asks you to build Star Wars legos with him, how could you say no? [stark!reader]

warnings: suggestive jokes like twice.

word count: 2.1k

Taglist: @shadesofcoolxo @scaredraccoon @plumbum4 @moramaybe @iluvhrj

The soft glow of your bedroom lights bathed the walls in a warm hue as you lay sprawled across your bed, a tablet propped up against your knees while lo-fi music hummed gently from the speakers. It was late afternoon at the Tower, and the kind of peaceful quiet that followed a day without villains or rogue.

You had your window cracked open, more out of habit than anything else. Somewhere far below, you could faintly hear the city’s buzz. But up here, it felt like your own little sanctuary—until you heard the distinct clink of the latch sliding open.

You didn’t flinch. Instead, a slow smile tugged at your lips as you glanced sideways toward the tall windows just as they cracked open fully, letting in a gust of wind and a very familiar, curly-haired boy who stumbled in with a bit more flair than necessary.

“Peter,” you drawled without looking up, “you know there’s a door, right?”

He straightened, brushing wind-tangled curls out of his face and grinning. “There's no fun in that."

You turned your attention to him, a smile pulling on your lips as you placed the tablet away. You stood up from your bed and walked over to him, placing a soft kiss on his lips that he flourished into. Peter's hands found your waist as he moved you both from left to right earning a giggle from you. Time felt like it slowed down every time you kissed Peter. He was always so soft, so loving- so unreal.

You pulled away first, wrapping stray pieces of hair around your finger and twirling it. His eyes were glued to you-full of admiration and love. He let out a sheepish laugh before he removed his hands from your waist to pull his backpack off.

"Almost forgot, I have a surprise." He mentions, crouching down so he could unzip his backpack before rummaging inside.

"A surprise?" You ask, eyebrows furrowed.

Peter looked up at you through his lashes, a small awkward smile tugging at his lips. "I, uh… brought something. It’s kinda nerdy. Okay, it’s really nerdy. But I was thinking—maybe you’d wanna do it with me?"

You let out a breathy laugh at your boyfriends remark. "Pete, I don't care how nerdy it is if it means I get to spend time with you."

He chuckled nervously before pulling out a LEGO set. It had a massive gray spaceship and a number that read '7,541 pieces', the unmistakable title in the corner: Millennium Falcon.

Your mouth fell agape. “Peter, that thing’s huge.”

He laughed, cheeks flushing. "Ned and I pooled together some money a while back to buy one, and we built it together over a couple weekends. But then this one went on sale, and I kinda… saved up again. I was gonna build it solo, but I thought it'd be more fun with you."

Your heart warmed at the thought.

He looked up at you then, eyes a little uncertain. "I know it’s dorky. I just thought—if you don’t want to, it’s totally fine—"

You leaned forward, reaching out to cradle his face with your hands. "Peter, that’s really sweet of you. I’d love to."

Relief washed over his face like a tide. He beamed, leaning forward to kiss your cheek before immediately beginning to unload bag after bag of LEGO pieces from his backpack. Within minutes, your floor was covered in numbered plastic packets, the massive instruction manual flopped open.

You settled onto the carpet, legs crossed beneath you. Peter sat opposite, already sorting out the first few bags.

"Okay, so bag one is all the base plates," he said, eyes skimming the instructions. "And fun fact—did you know the actual Millennium Falcon in the movies was twenty-five meters long? The UCS model is over thirty inches! They had to build a full-size cockpit for some of the original shots."

You let out a giggle at his comments, "Really?" you asked teasingly. You loved it when Peter would give you random fun facts and would become completely absorbed in his interests.

Peter’s eyes lit up. He nodded eagerly, clearly thrilled you showed even a dime interested. "Yeah! But I think this is the updated model,” Peter murmured, nose buried in the instruction book.

“It’s more accurate to the Force Awakens version—but it still has the classic round dish instead of the rectangular one, which is way better, honestly.”

You smiled as you sorted. “You sound like you’ve memorized the schematics.”

“I have. Pretty much.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

Peter shot you a proud look. “Did you know the Falcon’s hyperdrive is a Class 0.5? That’s faster than an Imperial Star Destroyer. Han bragged about it all the time.”

“Oh really?”

"Also," he added, glancing up, "did you know that its hyperdrive was a class 0.5? That’s one of the fastest ratings in the galaxy."

You gasped dramatically. "Scandalous."

“And the reason it looks so weird is because George Lucas originally designed it as a flying saucer, but changed it at the last minute. The final design is based on a hamburger with an olive on the side.”

You paused, mid-sort. “Wait. What?”

Peter grinned. “Yeah. The olive is the cockpit.”

You reached across the instruction booklet to boop his nose. "You’re such a nerd."

"You love it," he teased.

"I do."

An hour in, your floor was buried in baggies, bricks, and half-assembled engine cores. You’d lost count of how many times Peter had given you little Star Wars facts. Every single time, you smiled and gave him soft, amused responses:

“That’s so cool.”

“Really?”

“You’re kind of amazing, you know that?”

He always flushed a little when you said that. It made you want to keep doing it just to watch him try not to squirm.

The Falcon began to take shape. Compartments, smugglers’ holds, the cockpit frame. Peter showed you how the dish connected, and you helped him attach the forward mandibles. Each piece that clicked into place made the whole thing feel like a game.

You were reaching for another gray tile when the door cracked open behind you.

“Hey, kiddo, I was gonna ask if—”

Tony Stark stopped cold in the doorway. His brows furrowed as he took in the scene: you and Peter Parker sitting cross-legged on your bedroom floor, surrounded by a colorful minefield of LEGO, instruction books, half-built Falcon parts, and a disturbing amount of laser blaster minifigures.

He tilted his head slowly, eyes narrowing.

“What’s Spider-Boy doing here?”

Peter stiffened like he’d been hit with a stun gun. “Uh… hi, Mr. Stark.”

You looked up with a calm, practiced smile. “He wanted to hang out. We’re building LEGO's.”

Tony squinted. "That’s aggressively nerdy."

"Dad!"

He held up his hands in mock defense. “Hey, hey. Not judging. Just… observing. Judging a little, but still.”

Peter smiled awkwardly. “It’s a really advanced set.”

“I can see that.” Tony squinted. “Wait—when did you get here?”

Peter blinked. “Uh… not long ago?”

Tony’s eyes narrowed. "Wait a sec. When did you come in? I didn’t see you at the door."

Before Peter could speak, Tony looked at the two of you- then the window.

Tony pointed at Peter and looked directly at you. "Did he come through your window?"

Peter and you tried to speak at the same time once again- but were cut off.

"How long has that been going on? Is this, like, a nightly thing? Is he Batman-ing his way in here every week?"

“Dad,” you sighed, “we’ve been over this—”

Tony held up a finger. “You know what? Nope. Gonna circle back to that later. But in the meantime—Peter, dinner’s at seven. You’re staying. No arguments.”

Peter nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”

“And next time,” Tony added, walking toward the door, “just use the damn door, kid.”

The hours passed in a whirl of bricks and giggles. Peter occasionally scooted closer so you could see the finer parts of the manual. Your arms would brush, and he’d blush, but neither of you mentioned it. At one point, he explained how the Falcon’s sensor dish was knocked off during the Battle of Endor, and that’s why it has a rectangular one in The Force Awakens.

Suddenly, Peter began looking around. He checked beside his legs and around the partially built spaceship. "Where’s the trans-clear radar tile? The one with the circular etching?"

You looked around, then frowned. "It was right here a second ago. Did it fall under the rug?"

The two of you searched every corner of the carpet. Peter was halfway under your bed, legs sticking out like some kind of reverse-spider-crab.

"Got it!" Peter popped back up, hair sticking out in every direction and holding the piece triumphantly. "I found it!"

You grinned. "Oh, my hero!"

He placed it delicately in your palm like he was bestowing a rare jewel.

By the time you reached the final few pieces, the sun had dipped beneath the skyline, casting golden light across the floor. Peter clicked the last turret into place and leaned back, breathless.

You both stared at the completed Falcon. It took up nearly half the floor space between you. In Peter's words, it was 'the second most beautiful thing ever made because you came first.'

Peter exhaled, satisfied. “I’m really glad I got to spend today with you.”

You turned to him and gently cupped his face in your hands. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be than with you.”

He blinked, clearly trying not to melt.

“Even if it’s just building LEGOs and me nerding out about Star Wars?”

You smiled, thumb brushing his cheek. “Especially that.”

He gave you that crooked, sunshine smile you adored—one that lit up his whole face.

Right on cue, FRIDAY’s voice filled the room:

“Miss Stark, Mr. Parker: dinner is ready. Mr. Stark has requested your presence. His exact words were: ‘tell the lovebirds to wash their hands and drag themselves to the kitchen before I come up there and hose them down.’”

You and Peter both burst out laughing.

Peter ran a hand through his curls, grinning. “That’s definitely your dad.”

You groaned with a smile, pushing off the floor and stretching. “I should’ve known he’d call us out eventually.”

He gave you that boyish, shy smile that made your heart melt. “You sure he’s not gonna kill me?”

You looped your arms around his neck. “If he was going to, he would’ve the first time you came through my window.”

“…So just mild intimidation tonight?”

You grinned. “Very mild.”

Right then, the door swung open without warning. You were greeted with none other than your father, who looked mildly annoyed.

“You two elope and forget to RSVP to dinner?”

You rolled your eyes, pushing yourself up slightly. “We were on our way.”

Tony stepped further into the room, gaze narrowing just slightly at Peter, who immediately sat up straighter, like being caught slouching was somehow the real offense.

“You okay there, Underoos?” Tony asked, lips twitching. “You look like I walked in on something scandalous. Should I knock next time?”

Peter’s face turned an impressive shade of red. “N-no! I mean—no, sir. We were just building the—uh—Falcon. That’s all. Just the Falcon. LEGO Falcon. Nothing else.”

Tony gave you a knowing look. “Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”

“Dad.”

He smirked. “Hey, I’m just saying—you tell your daughter and her spider-boyfriend dinner’s at 7:00, and 7:10 hits so I come looking and find his hands suspiciously close to your knee and you sitting there making oogly eyes at him."

Peter let out a noise that might’ve been a panicked laugh.

“We were literally talking about Star Wars,” you deadpanned.

“Uh-huh. Nerd foreplay,” Tony muttered. “The most dangerous kind.”

You gave him a look. “Can we not, please?”

Tony held his hands up in surrender. “Alright, alright. You’re right. I trust you. Mostly.” He gave Peter a long look. “Sixty percent.”

Peter squeaked out a “Thank you?”

Tony’s gaze dropped to the LEGO Millennium Falcon laid out in all its half-built glory. He tilted his head.

“Huh. Not bad.” He gave a small nod, then added, “I could probably build it faster.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Sure you could.”

He smirked. “Excuse me, I’m a mechanical genius. That thing’s like baby’s first blueprint.”

“You still couldn’t figure out how to open a cereal box this morning.”

“That was sabotage. Who triple seals Frosted Flakes?”

Peter tried and failed to stifle a laugh, to which Tony turned, mock-offended. “Oh, so now you’re on her side?”

Peter put his hands up, smiling nervously. “I’m neutral! Switzerland!”

Tony pointed at him. “Stay that way. Smart man.”

He took a final glance around the room, nodding once more before backing out. “Wrap it up, lovebirds. Dinner’s getting cold and I’m not reheating lasagna for two teenagers who chose LEGO bricks and whatever the hell you two were doing up here over my homemade masterpiece.”

You snorted. “You didn’t make that lasagna. FRIDAY ordered it.”

summary: Clark starts to panic when his Ma and Pa ask him to come back to Smallville for a wedding. Why? He may or may not have accidentally implied he had a girlfriend. So he asks you to come with him as his fake girlfriend. word count: 14.5k+ pairing: clark kent x fem!reader notes: i don't think i've ever written the "fake dating" trope and i realized that that was not right. how could i have gone this far without ever writing it?! so, here it is! warnings/tags: no use of y/n, reader works at the daily planet, fake dating trope, friends to lovers, mostly takes place in smallville, clark is a softie, reader knows clark is superman, fluff, slow burn, oblivious idiots, one mention of reader using bobby pins in hair, slight angst

Clark was pacing. Not unusual—he did that in the newsroom whenever a deadline loomed—but this was different. His tie was loosened, his glasses sliding down his nose, and the look on his face wasn’t the usual “Perry wants three rewrites before lunch” kind of stress. This was real panic.

You leaned back in your chair, coffee cup in hand, watching him wear a path into the carpet between your desks. “Clark, you’re going to burn a hole in the floor if you keep that up.”

He stopped mid-step, ran a hand through his dark hair, and exhaled sharply. “Smallville.”

You blinked. “…That’s a place, yes. Congratulations, you remembered your hometown.”

clark kent x fem!reader

cw : 18+ MDNI; pillow humping, mentions of clark's superpowers, slight size kink, praise kink, soft!clark. reader and clark aren't virgins but they haven't had sex together before.

clark, with his soft voice and softer smile. clark, who looks at you like the world begins and ends with you.

and every kiss with him starts slow, sweet, bordering on shy little pecks before he gets a little braver and starts to hold you like you carry the light of the yellow sun in your heart.

his hands are always warm. you swear he runs hotter than the rest of the world. he is warm, the same way the summer air is warm, just as the sun starts to set, that comfort lives somewhere just beneath his skin, seeping through the fabric of your clothes.

he holds you like it’s second nature, like his body was made to know yours. one hand cradles the side of your neck, broad fingers spread gently across the back of it, grounding and protective, sending a jolt of thrill down your spine.

his thumb moves in slow, absent-minded strokes along your jaw, tracing the shape of you like you’re something he never wants to forget. the pad of it brushes the curve beneath your ear, then glides along your cheek, as if he’s coaxing your face toward him with nothing but tenderness.

Ი︵𐑼 MDNI +18

Clark had always known he was big. It was the first thing anyone ever said about him, even as a boy—tall for his age, broad-shouldered, built like he belonged to some older century. He’d been careful his whole life, trained by experience to minimize himself. To keep his strength folded inward, hidden beneath polite smiles and lowered voices. He broke things easily. He frightened people without meaning to. He had learned not to reach too quickly, not to hold too tightly, and not to exist too loudly. Even before the powers revealed themselves—before he could melt steel or see through walls or hover two feet off the hayloft floor—he had been a boy afraid of his own hands.

But she never looked at him with fear. That was the part that undid him.

She didn’t flinch when he moved. She didn’t step back to see him better—she stepped closer, as if proximity made him less impossible. Her gaze never flickered to the width of his chest or the breadth of his shoulders with caution; she tilted her head back and looked at him like he was a sunrise breaking over the horizon. Not a threat. A marvel. Her lips parting just slightly, eyes widening—not with apprehension, but with something soft and unguarded, something almost worshipful.

He remembered the night she borrowed his sweatshirt—some old thing from college, sun-faded and loose, the cuffs frayed from too many winters. He hadn’t thought much of it, just draped it over her shoulders when the evening air grew cool. But then she’d tugged it on, and the moment caught like a snare in his throat.

It dwarfed her.

The sleeves hung well past her wrists, the hem brushing her thighs. The collar slipped wide, exposing one shoulder, bare skin, and delicate against the worn cotton. She hugged herself in it with a lazy, contented sigh and murmured something like, “Smells like you,” as if that wasn’t a weapon. As if she didn’t just speak the words that would echo in his mind for the rest of the night like a church bell in a hollow room.

Something shifted then—not loudly, not visibly. Just the subtlest crack across a lifelong restraint. A thread pulled from a tight seam. He hadn’t known he could want something so quietly. I hadn’t known desire could be so soft, so reverent.

He was meant to be gentle. Polite. Considerate to the point of disappearing. That’s what Ma had always told him—don’t give people a reason to be afraid of you. And he never had. But watching her swim in his sweatshirt like it was made to drown her, watching the way she curled into him at the end of the night like she belonged there—it made his restraint feel suddenly cruel. Like denying something holy.

It started subtly. He'd brush his knuckles along her cheek and pause longer than necessary, caught in the way her skin fit beneath his touch like porcelain molded to the cup of his hand. He’d place his hands on her waist and feel how his fingers could nearly meet at her spine. When he kissed her—slow, cautious, always asking permission in every breath—he couldn’t stop noticing the way he had to lower his head so far just to reach her mouth, how she rose onto the tips of her toes to meet him halfway, as if it were a dance they’d always known the steps.

It started slowly—because with Clark, it always had to. Not out of hesitation, not anymore, but out of respect. Out of reverence. Because she was something fragile in a world that too often begged him to crush. He kissed her like a man undoing a knot he didn’t know had been tied around his throat for years, hands trembling not from nerves but restraint—always restraint. And she let him, whispering promises against his skin, coaxing him out of hiding with nothing more than soft sighs and the unspoken vow that she wanted him, all of him, exactly as he was.

He entered her with his brow furrowed and lips parted, breath stalling somewhere between disbelief and awe. She was so warm. So tight. So small it made his eyes flutter shut. Her body gripped him like she’d been carved to hold him and only him—soft and impossibly snug, like her form had folded itself around the shape of him.

He exhaled her name like a prayer, his forehead pressing to hers, his chest heaving. “God… sweetheart…” The words bled from him, disjointed, barely tethered. “You’re—Jesus, you’re so…”

Her arms were wrapped around his neck, lips brushing his jaw, her body trembling beneath him as she adjusted, as she took him inch by inch, whispering that it was okay, that she wanted it, that she could take more if he gave her time.

But time was a thing Clark always had in excess. So he gave her all of it.

He moved slowly—agonizingly so—rocking into her with deliberate caution, holding her hips steady as though she might vanish if he gripped too tightly. The room was silent save for the rustle of sheets and the broken, wet sound of her breath catching every time he pushed a little deeper, stretched her a little further. Her thighs shook around his waist, clinging to him, and her nails dug into the broad planes of his shoulders in a desperate attempt to hold onto something real—to ground herself against the weight of him.

And then it happened.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t something he even realized was possible. He drew his hips back and then sank into her again, this time deeper—just a little deeper—and she let out this sound, a high, gasping sob that stole the air from his lungs. His eyes dragged downward, across the slick heat of her chest, her stomach fluttering beneath him—and he stilled.

There, just above her navel—faint but visible, pressing out against the soft curve of her belly—was him. His cock. The shape of it, a protrusion that shouldn't have been possible, that wasn't supposed to happen. And yet there it was, plain and devastating and real.

His breath hitched, eyes widening with something close to disbelief. “Oh my—” he broke off, swallowing hard. His palm spread across her stomach, large and trembling, and when he pressed gently—just gently—he felt himself beneath the skin. He felt her flutter around him in response, whimpering beneath his touch.

He blinked down at her, lips parted, utterly speechless.

“You—you can see me,” he whispered, his voice cracked open with reverence, like he was witnessing something divine. “I’m inside you, and—Christ—you can see me.”

Something in him—whatever dam he’d been clinging to, whatever fragile thread of self-control he’d kept taut through years of carefulness—snapped.

He didn’t mean to. But he pushed.

Not rough. Not cruel. But deeper. With intention.

She gasped, fingers clawing at his back, and the bulge pressed up again, more prominent now, her stomach tightening beneath his palm. His hips stuttered. Then rolled again.

And he watched.

He watched himself move inside her.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he groaned, his voice thinned to a whisper, desperate and adoring. “Look at you. Look what you’re doing. Look what you’re taking.” He kissed her—sloppy, fervent, too full of feeling—and when he pulled back, there was something glazed over in his eyes. Something wrecked.

He wasn’t holding back anymore. Couldn’t. Not with her moaning beneath him like this, not with her belly rising to meet his hand, not when the very thing he’d spent a lifetime shrinking from now made her cry out in pleasure. In praise.

His rhythm grew rougher—not violent, but fuller. More grounded. Each thrust deeper, more deliberate, chasing that moment over and over again—not for dominance, but because the sight of himself inside her had ruined him. Shattered him. And he needed to see it again. And again. Her belly bulging, fluttering under his hand like her body was trying to hold all of him but couldn’t quite manage it—and he loved her for trying.

She sobbed his name. Not in pain. In disbelief. In stunned pleasure.

And Clark—Clark, who had been taught to hide every ounce of his strength, who had been taught to be soft and careful and small—gripped her hips, pressed his forehead to hers, and let go of every lie he’d ever told himself about needing to hold back.

“You’re made for me,” he panted, brokenly, as her body pulsed and squeezed around him. “Look at you—you’re made for me.”

And she was.

And he took.

He should have stopped. He should have slowed, steadied, and reminded himself that he was too much for anyone—always had been. But the sight of her beneath him, trembling and flushed, the deep arch of her back, the wet sheen between her breasts, the way her stomach lifted with every punishing thrust like her body was giving him proof of what he was doing to her—it was too much. Too much beauty, too much proof, too much love. He’d never seen anything like it. He had never imagined anything could make him feel like this—so wrecked, so reverent, so on the edge of feral.

He was fucking into her hard now—hips snapping, thighs taut, every movement carving a deeper place for himself inside her. She was clinging to him with everything she had, legs wound tight around his waist, nails biting into his back as she moaned and sobbed his name against the hollow of his throat. Her voice was breaking, slipping into incoherence, her body straining to take him, to hold him, to keep him inside—and it only made him want to give her more.

His palm splayed across her lower stomach again, feeling the bulge with every thrust, watching her flesh rise and fall beneath his hand like he was moving inside a body too divine to be real.

And he couldn’t stop.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, brokenly, his forehead pressed against hers, his voice cracking like glass. “I’m sorry, I—God, sweetheart, I’m—” another thrust, deeper this time, dragging a high whimper from her throat, “I don’t mean to—I can’t help it. You feel—fuck, you feel too good.”

And he did mean it. He was sorry—not because it hurt her, because it didn’t. Because she was moaning, her body trembling around him, her face a vision of overwhelmed bliss—but because he knew he wasn’t being gentle. He knew he was driving into her with too much force, too much want, because the sight of her taking him was undoing him. He couldn’t look away. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the obscene, gorgeous swell beneath her navel, where he could seehimself inside her. It was like something sacred. Like watching a prayer be answered in real time.

His hand slid up her body, cradling her ribcage, his thumb brushing under the curve of her breast as he fucked into her again, the mattress groaning beneath them. Her body jolted with every thrust, soft gasps tumbling from her lips, her head thrown back in helpless surrender.

“You’re so small,” he whispered, reverently, as though in awe of his own undoing. “You’re so perfect—I’m sorry, I just—I need to see it.” His voice trembled. “I need to feel it.”

And he did.

He thrust in again, harder than he meant to, watching the bulge rise again under his hand, impossibly vivid and obscene, and he groaned—deep, low, and animal—something closer to prayer than pleasure. “Jesus, baby,” he breathed, kissing her temple, her cheek, and her open mouth, “I can feel myself inside you. I can see it—look at you. You’re taking all of me. All of me.”

She was shaking, breathless, her thighs twitching around him, hips arching like her body didn’t know whether to run or pull him deeper. Her lips were red and parted, tears threatening at the corners of her eyes, but she wasn’t crying from pain—no, it was something else. Something more. Something he understood, because it was tearing through him, too: the overwhelming pleasure of surrendering to something bigger than both of them.

“You’re doing so good,” he choked, kissing her, letting his thumb stroke along her jaw. “So fucking good, baby—so good for me, letting me in like this.”

And still—he couldn’t stop moving.

Couldn’t stop the way his hips kept rolling forward, chasing that same motion, needing to feel that resistance and watch the way she swelled to accommodate him. His cock dragged along her walls, dragging wet, fluttering sounds from deep inside her, and she keened—Clark—her voice raw, her body arching like she was about to break apart beneath him.

“I know, I know,” he murmured against her mouth, breath hot and ragged, “I’m sorry, I know it’s too much—but I can’t stop, baby, I can’t—you’re letting me, you’re—God.”

Another thrust. Another bulge. Another wave of strangled pleasure curling up his spine like fire.

He wanted to live here—in this moment, in this body, in this girl who took everything from him and begged for more, who looked at him not like he was dangerous, but divine. She didn’t flinch. She opened. She let him see himself in her—on her—and Clark, for the first time in his goddamned life, wasn’t scared of what he saw.

He was in awe.