Strands of hair clung to your face, sticky with sweat and the tears that refused to stop falling. You stared straight ahead, into the void that stretched far beyond the edge of the building, but in truth, you saw nothing. Your eyes were wide open, yet your mind was elsewhere—trapped in that dark place you had reached after feeling utterly alone for so long. Your hands trembled uncontrollably, as though the night chill had seeped deep into your bones; however, it wasn’t cold, it was fear. But not the kind of fear that paralyzes you; rather, it was that other kind, the one that pushes you to do things you know can never be undone.
Your feet were barely on the ledge, sensing the wind rising from the street below—that wind that seemed to call your name, whispering that everything would be so much easier if you simply stopped fighting. Your eyes were swollen from crying, red and burning, but even so, amidst all that agony, you smiled. You smiled at your own predicament because it seemed almost laughable to have reached this point, so humorous and yet so profoundly tragic all at once.
And then you wondered how you had ended up here. You didn’t know for certain—or perhaps you did—but so many things had accumulated over time that you could no longer pinpoint the exact moment. Perhaps it was that time no one listened to you, or that other instance when you felt entirely invisible in a crowd of people. The truth was, you were accustomed to feeling this way, so used to it that you had stopped noticing. Until the day came when exhaustion reached its limit—that threshold you believed you would never cross. But it arrived, and when it did, you realized the weariness was no longer merely physical, the kind you can wash away with a good night's sleep. This was different; it had become mental, and that was the absolute worst kind. Physical exhaustion allows you to rest, but mental fatigue haunts you even in your dreams, refusing to grant you a single second of peace, always lingering there, whispering cruel things and reminding you of everything that went wrong.
That very same exhaustion had stripped away your appetite. You no longer felt hunger; food had lost its flavor, and you only ate because you knew you had to, though chewing felt like a grueling chore, like something unworthy of the effort. It had also robbed you of the desire to smile; those smiles that used to surface effortlessly were gone forever, replacing a vast portion of your day with tears that welled up without warning. It screamed at you that you were useless at everything, that you were good for nothing, and that everything you touched shattered.
And the worst part was that you began to believe it, because when you hear something enough times, you eventually internalize it as truth. It made you view life in shades of gray, colorless and devoid of purpose, as if someone had extinguished the sun and you were trapped in a cloudy day that would never end.
Is this the right thing to do? Could anyone even notice this? Could someone just see me for once?
These questions whirled around in your head like a broken record, yielding no answers, only breeding more questions. And then, just as you were ready to take that final step, a voice shattered the silence.
"Do you want to talk?"
The voice arrived softly, yet with enough resonance to pull your mind back to the present. You blinked several times, trying to focus your vision because the tears prevented you from seeing clearly.
Looking through a blur of tears, you caught sight of a figure you never expected to see. It was a tall man, with a red cape billowing in the wind, wearing a blue suit with a symbol emblazoned on his chest.
Superman stood before you, his head slightly tilted, gazing at you with a serenity that made you feel strange. There was no judgment in his eyes, no haste, only patience.
"I don't want you to stop me," you whispered, your voice emerging so faintly that you could barely hear yourself.
But he didn’t budge from his spot. He remained there, steadfast, as though he harbored no fear of what you might do.
"Whatever reason you have for doing this, it has a solution," Superman said, and his words carried such conviction that, for a fleeting moment, you almost believed him.
But then the exhaustion rushed back, and you looked at him with eyes brimming with tears.
"And what if I've already tried everything?" you asked, your voice breaking at the end.
You truly had tried everything; you had spoken up, you had wept, you had silently begged for help, but no one seemed to listen. Or perhaps you just didn’t know how to ask properly. He nodded slowly, understanding the weight of your words.
"You can try again. Perhaps you think that dying is easy and that... you won't be afraid," he said, his voice so gentle it made your chest ache.
You shook your head, because as much as you wanted to be brave, the truth was that you were terrified.
"I am afraid, but I am just so... tired," you said, your voice trembling in tandem with your hands. You looked into his eyes, searching for something you couldn't quite define. "I just want... I want to rest," you stated, and that word, rest, sounded so sweet and yet so distant at the same time.
But he shook his head.
"I know you must be tired, and that the world surely hasn't been kind to you." You looked at him, and Superman smiled—a warm smile that illuminated his entire countenance. He continued speaking, his voice acting like a soothing hand caressing your soul. "But you must step out of the world that is drowning you in order to breathe. You cannot see it right now, but there is air out there waiting for you, colors you haven’t yet beheld, people you have yet to meet. You just need a little help to reach them."
And then, he extended his hand toward you, palm open, offering you something you never anticipated. "If you take it, I will dive into the depths with you, and we will surface together," he said, and those words were so wild and so beautiful that you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He, Superman, everyone's hero, was willing to descend with you to the very bottom of the pit just to pull you out.
"You're a hero, thousands of people depend on you. Why would you stop for a life that... a life that does little more than get in the way?" you inquired, your voice reduced to a mere thread. You genuinely could not comprehend why someone like him would dedicate his time to someone like you.
Superman sighed, and for a brief moment, his shoulders seemed to relax.
"Because I believe that every life is important, that it is worth living even when it seems bleak. Because as long as there is hope, even a shred of hope, then there is a willingness to live. And I can see that hope in you. It's there, even if you can't see it yourself. It's in your tears, in your fear, and in the fact that you are still here listening to me."
And when he said that, you could no longer contain it. You wept like you had never wept before, your entire body convulsing. You were about to step down, to take that pace you thought would end everything, but your foot faltered, slipping on the edge. Your body pitched forward, and you closed your eyes, accepting your fate. Even with Superman right there, you thought perhaps dying was your destiny, that there was no turning back.
But then, as you fell, your body collided with Superman's. He had flown to you in an instant, so swiftly that you didn't even see him move. His arms wrapped tightly around you, and you felt his warmth, his strength, and his scent of the sky and the wind. When you were back on the roof of your apartment building, you didn't let go. Your arms clung to him as if he were the sole piece of solid ground in a turbulent sea.
I would have let go if he hadn't asked, if he hadn't been so patient.
"Seriously, are you okay?" he murmured against your ear, his voice so soft it shattered you from within.
And then you cried like a small child who had never been embraced, like someone who had harbored all the agony of the world in their chest and had finally found a sanctuary to let it pour out. Your entire body shook, and you couldn't speak; you could only sob and sob.
"I don't want to die," you managed between sobs, those words wrenching from the deepest recesses of your being. "But everything... everything is so difficult," you whispered, pressing yourself against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong.
And he merely held you tighter, never releasing you, never rushing you, allowing you to weep for as long as you needed. Superman did not pull away. He didn't let go for a single second, not even when your tears soaked his suit and your hands gripped him as though he were the only life jacket in the middle of a dark ocean. He held you firmly, his arms enveloping you with a tranquility you hadn't felt in ages.
And within that embrace, you felt it. It was that hope you had heard so much about, the kind you always believed was reserved for others—for stronger, braver people. But there it was, in the warmth of his chest, in the rhythmic thud of his heart, and in the way his hand gently caressed your back without haste, never wishing for you to stop crying before your time. He didn't push you away, and that was precisely what you needed most in that moment: someone who wasn't afraid of your tears.
You cried until your eyes burned and your throat turned dry. You cried until there were no tears left inside you, leaving only a void that slowly began to fill with something entirely different. And then, when the tears finally ceased, he gently took you by the shoulders and guided you toward one of the benches on the building's rooftop—the ones used for events or when the neighbors gathered to watch the sunset. He seated you carefully, as if you were made of glass, and sat down beside you, leaving just enough space for you to feel accompanied without feeling crowded.
"Tell me, I will listen to everything," Superman said, his voice so peaceful it inspired confidence. There was no rush in his words, no judgment, only the promise to remain there for as long as necessary.
"Isn't there anyone else to save?" you asked without looking at him, staring down at your hands which were still trembling slightly. Your fingers intertwined, playing with the hem of your clothes, searching for something to do to avoid feeling so utterly exposed.
"Yes, I have to save you," he said, and when you looked up at him, you saw a smile on his face, as if he were entirely unacquainted with sorrow. He had deep dimples in his cheeks that appeared whenever he smiled, and that small expression of his caused an involuntary smile to grace your face amidst all the chaos. It was tiny, barely a twitch of the lips, but it was there.
"My job is overwhelming," you whispered, your voice sounding exhausted, as though you were carrying a weight that wouldn't allow you to breathe. "I work from Monday to Saturday, even Sundays, even though they don't pay overtime. But it's not just the work, it's the people. They are so... so cruel," you admitted, feeling the words pour out uncontrollably, as if you had unlocked a door that had been sealed shut for a very long time. "Adults behaving like teenagers. They've fabricated so many things about me—rumors, lies, things that aren't even true. And I just stayed quiet, I didn't say anything, thinking that if I ignored it all, it would go away. But it didn't. Everything became so monotonous, so heavy, and now I can't escape the very hell I chose to fall into."
Superman nodded slowly, processing every word that came out of your mouth. He didn't interrupt you, nor did he try to offer quick solutions. He simply listened, and that alone was more than most people ever did.
"Have you seen a psychologist or a psychiatrist to get treatment?" he asked carefully, as though every word was a delicate step, afraid of hurting you. His voice was gentle, but his eyes remained fixed on you, watching every change in your expression.
"I did," you said, your voice cracking slightly as the memory resurfaced. "But my mother scolded me. She thinks that's only for crazy people, that anyone who goes to therapy is mentally unstable. She won't let me take medication, even though I've already been diagnosed with severe depression and anxiety. She thinks I just need to try harder, that my exhaustion is nothing but laziness, and that I'm just being dramatic."
Your hands tightened against your legs, and you felt anger and sadness collide inside your chest.
"And what is it that you want?" Superman whispered, his question so sincere that it made you look him straight in the eyes. There wasn't a trace of judgment in his gaze, only genuine curiosity, as if what you had to say truly mattered to him.
You looked back at him honestly, your heart completely laid bare.
"I want to be happy," you said, your voice breaking as those two words left your lips. They sounded so simple, yet they felt impossibly out of reach. "I just want to be happy. I want to feel like my life has meaning, like I'm not wasting my time, like I'm not a mistake."
He nodded with the kind of calmness that made it seem as though he understood everything.
"Then pursue happiness, even if it means leaving everything behind. Sometimes we have to let go of the things that weigh us down, even when it hurts, even when we're afraid. It's better to live alone than to die for everyone else. It's better to start over than to remain in a place that slowly extinguishes you."
His words were simple, yet they carried a weight that made you stop and think.
"What if I'm not good enough?" you asked, your voice small, like that of a little girl terrified of never being enough. "What if I only ruin myself even more? What if I try to change and end up worse than I already am?"
"The people who humiliate you are the ones hurting you, not yourself," Superman said, his voice so certain that you almost believed him instantly. "Your true light doesn't need anyone else to shine. I can see it. It's still there, beneath all that pain, beneath every layer that was forced onto you without your permission. If nothing changes, then make it change. Do it so you can be free. And I promise you, I'll be there listening to your heartbeat, and every time you want to return to the top floor of a building, I'll always be there to take your hand. I won't let you fall."
You nodded because his words felt like a soothing balm over an open wound. You didn't know if you could trust completely, but at that moment, with him sitting beside you and the warmth of his presence surrounding you, you wanted to try.
And that was exactly what happened.
Superman didn't leave.
He walked you all the way to the entrance of your apartment building and waited until you had gone inside. Even though you thought he would leave afterward, he didn't. He stayed for hours on the rooftop of the building across the street, watching your window because he was afraid his words had been nothing more than empty promises and that you might change your mind.
Then, after drinking the tea he had recommended, you walked over to the window to close it before going to bed. You looked outside and saw him. He was sitting on the rooftop across from your building, absentmindedly swinging his feet back and forth. The moment he noticed you, he looked directly at you and immediately started making gestures. He stretched his arms out before bringing them together, mimicking someone closing a curtain. Then he pointed at his head while shaking it from side to side, as though he were saying, "Don't think bad thoughts." After that, he rested both hands against his cheek and tilted his head, pretending to be asleep, and you smiled because you understood exactly what he meant. "Go to sleep."
"Thank you, Superman," you whispered, even though you knew he couldn't possibly hear you from that far away.
Yet somehow, he understood immediately. He nodded with a warm smile and lifted one hand in greeting. You closed the curtain, and for a brief moment, the world didn't feel quite so dark.
Behind the suit, Clark couldn't stop thinking about you. About the way you cried. About how your hands trembled. About how your eyes searched desperately for something they couldn't find. He had witnessed suffering like yours countless times. He had seen so many people standing on the edge of the abyss, yet human sadness always hurt him in a way he could never fully explain. He couldn't save everyone—that much he knew—but there was something different about you. Maybe it was the honesty with which you had spoken, or maybe it was the way you had clung to him as though you truly wanted to keep living. As the wind swept through his cape, Clark silently promised himself that he would stay, that he wouldn't leave you alone, that he would remind you there was still hope, even on the grayest days.
Clark believed he would never see you again. Of course, he continued watching over you from afar, always making sure you were okay, but you never returned to the top floor of the building where he had found you that night. Sometimes he would hear your heartbeat quicken, and his own heart would tighten in fear, convinced that something terrible had happened. But every time he checked, it wasn't danger. You must have been doing exactly what he'd told you to do: walking away from everything that had been hurting you and searching for the fresh start you so desperately needed. Even though he never approached you, he left behind little signs that he was still there, small things he knew you would find. They were Superman stamps he had bought from a souvenir shop. Whenever he flew past your apartment, he would leave one on your window. If he saw your car parked somewhere, he would tuck one beneath the windshield wiper. Sometimes he left one on your apartment railing, certain you would notice it. He simply wanted you to know that you weren't alone, even if he couldn't always be by your side.
Two months passed that way, and your heartbeat became steady and calm, like the heartbeat of someone who was finally beginning to find peace. Clark smiled to himself the first time he noticed. He didn't know exactly what had changed in your life, but hearing your heart beat without the anguish he had felt that night was enough to make him feel at ease.
That morning at the office, Clark was simply following his usual routine. He was reviewing articles, taking notes, and doing what he always did when suddenly he heard a familiar heartbeat. It was the very heartbeat he had quietly followed over the past two months, the one he had learned to recognize among millions of others. When he looked up, his eyes widened in surprise.
You were walking beside Perry, the editor-in-chief, clutching your bag against your side with a notebook in your hand while listening carefully as he showed you around.
A smile spread across Clark's face before he could stop it.
What are you doing here?
He wondered as he watched you walk confidently through the newsroom, your hands still slightly clenched. They were the same hands he remembered trembling that night. You were nervous—he could tell from the way your fingers tightened—but there was something undeniably different about you.
Your hair had grown longer, and you wore it in a style that made you look calmer, more comfortable with yourself. You looked around the newsroom with quiet curiosity, like someone discovering an entirely new world. There wasn't a trace of tears in your eyes anymore. None of that deep sadness he had seen the night you met.
Perry introduced you to Lois, the Planet's most renowned reporter, and to Jimmy, the photographer who was always running from one assignment to the next.
Finally, your eyes met Clark's.
He felt his heart skip a beat.
"This is Clark Kent," Perry said.
You nodded with a small smile.
"It's nice to meet you," you said nervously, your voice sounding lighter than it had that night.
"She'll be joining the photography team. Your desk will be next to Jimmy's, so go ahead and get settled," Perry said.
You nodded again before following him toward the work area.
Clark followed you with his eyes, unable to stop himself from watching you. He had so many questions he wanted to ask. Had you sunk beneath the surface and fought your way back up for air, just like he'd told you to? Had you found the courage to walk away from everything that had been hurting you? Were you happy now, even if only a little? But he held himself back, because those weren't questions he had the right to ask. That night, you hadn't met Clark Kent—you had met Superman. And even though he was both, he didn't know whether he had the right to bring any of it up.
"It's her," Lois whispered to Jimmy.
Clark glanced at them curiously. Lois showed Jimmy something on her phone, and he leaned in for a closer look. It was a photograph of two people, followed by another picture of you.
"The photographer who sued her former company, right?" Jimmy said, staring at the screen with wide eyes. "I heard they kept stealing her photo credits just because she'd only been working there for a short time."
"And she also won the lawsuit for workplace abuse and harassment," Lois added, genuine respect evident in her voice. "If Perry hired her, she must be incredibly talented. Not everyone has the courage to stand up to a company like that and actually win."
Then she looked at Clark with a teasing grin.
"So, what's the matter, Smallville?" Lois asked. "Do you already have a crush on the new girl?"
Jimmy immediately burst into laughter the moment he saw the blush spreading across Clark's face.
Clark didn't answer. He simply lowered his gaze and tried to focus on his work.
But his mind was already somewhere else.
During your first month, Clark approached you professionally, only when work required it. Perry even paired the two of you on a few assignments, and Clark treated you with the same kindness he showed everyone else, careful not to make you uncomfortable.
But he watched you.
Of course he did.
He couldn't help noticing the way you moved, the way you spoke, the way you smiled.
Were you really happy now?
It was a question he found himself asking often, and part of him feared you were pretending—that beneath that newfound calm, the very same storm was still raging.
It was at the beginning of the second month that something changed.
Clark was standing in the office kitchenette with a cup of coffee in his hands when he saw you walk in to pour yourself a glass of water. He looked at you and swallowed hard, feeling his words catch in his throat.
"The coffee here is really bitter," Clark said.
The moment you looked at him, he realized how ridiculous that sounded.
"I mean... I know you've started drinking coffee, but... just in case... you forgot," he added awkwardly, his cheeks growing warm.
"I don't drink coffee, Clark," you replied with a smile. As you pulled a tea bag from your pocket, you added, "My psychiatrist thinks it's unhealthy for me and that it could interfere with my sleep schedule."
Your voice was calm, carrying a sense of peace he had never heard from you before.
"So you did end up seeing a psychiatrist," Clark said aloud.
When you looked at him in confusion, he immediately realized his mistake.
He cleared his throat and hurried to recover.
"I mean... it's good that you're taking care of your mental health. Everyone here believes that's important," he said.
You smiled warmly.
"Yeah," you replied, your eyes settling on the tea as you prepared it.
"Do you like working here?" Clark asked carefully, never taking his eyes off you. "I mean... does it feel comfortable for you? Are you... happy?"
The question slipped out before he could stop it, and he felt his heartbeat quicken.
"It's much better than my previous job," you admitted before looking him straight in the eyes. "I try to be happy every day. My work is... I don't know... I think I finally found where I belong."
Then you let out a soft laugh.
"Sorry. I ended up talking too much."
"Not at all," Clark answered immediately, his words coming out with far more enthusiasm than he'd intended.
You nodded, picked up your tea, and walked away.
But just before leaving the kitchenette, you stopped.
"I know you interview Superman," you said, looking back at him.
Clark felt the air leave his lungs.
"You probably see him pretty often. If you ever see him again... please tell him thank you. He probably doesn't remember me or even know who I am, but... I never got the chance to thank him properly that night. He truly gave me the hope I needed."
Then you walked away with your tea in hand, leaving Clark standing alone in the middle of the kitchenette, his heart racing.
Clark felt his chest fill with something warm, something he couldn't put into words.
Maybe Superman hadn't just saved a life that day.
Maybe Superman had made it possible for Clark to meet the woman who would never leave his mind.
As he looked at the place where you had been standing only moments before, he realized that it didn't matter if you had no idea who he really was.
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cw- smut, fingering, petnames / nicknames, light begging, scott lowkey in love and such a gentleman.
after your third date, when scott finally gives you his number and lays down the rules, you end up calling him at an ungodly hour. being 10pm on a saturday, you werent sure if he was going to pick up or not.
"pleasee.. god please pick up" you whisper to yourself as it rings, before eventually he answers.
"hey princess, whats up? calling so late?" he asks, voice rough.
"scott i need help! ive just finished my shift and my car wont start. its raining and im stranded, please can you come get me?"
"yeah, course i will. promise ill be no more than 10 minutes." he answers before hanging up, probably already heading towards his truck.
you sit beneath the shitty awning by the diner, trying not to get your hair wet. the rain is heavy, practically slamming down. finally, you see scotts truck pull up. like a gentleman, he gets out of the drivers side, walking around to open the passenger door for you, nevermind the rain.
"scott, thank you so much, god" you say as you make yourself comfortable in his truck, taking a look around at its neat interior.
"its no worries. weathers terrible tonight huh?"
you nod. instinctively, your body turns towards him, gazing as he reverses out of the car park and onto the main road.
"do you want me to put my address in?"
"nah, ive got it" he says, not even bothering to put the satnav on.
the drive isn't long, and although its quiet, the silence isn't awkward. its comfortable. scott pulls into the car park of your apartment, its quiet. the rain engulfs the surrounding area making it peaceful.
"thank you again, im surprised you were able to come get me, or even pick up the phone" you say, giggling nervously. your eyes draw their attention to his attire, dark baggy sweatpants and a plain shirt. its the most casual you've ever seen him.
"saturdays our free night" he states, staring back at you with the same look in his eyes.
"sooo, does that mean you can be out late?" you ask teasingly
"what are you up to, little miss?" he jokes, hand already caressing your thigh.
you gesture your head towards the backseat of his truck.
"more space" you say softly, giggling as you climb over the console. scott scoffs before taking his seatbelt off, exiting the drivers seat and coming around to the back. the instant he sits down, your hands are on him, softly drawing circles on his biceps. he watches you in awe, a little confused. when your eyes meet, everything stops. the sounds of rain quiet, like its just you two in this world.
"can i kiss you sweatheart?" scott asks, already pulling your body closer.
you nod desperately, leaning into his kiss. one hand stays in your hair, whilst the other finds the soft between your thighs, gently pulling up your work dress. he pulls away from the kiss quickly, "you okay with this?"
"mhm, yeah im sure scott. fuck, please" you whisper against him, crawling onto his lap. your answer has satisfied him, switching a flick in his brain.
"you drive me crazy, god i gotta see you more" he says, hands exploring and massaging your ass, grabbing at your flesh. you giggle into him, wanting more and more touch. when his fingers brush up against your clothed clit, you moan needily. he softly teases your mound over your underwear, "you want it baby?"
"mhm, please.."
"please what?
"please sir"
he chuckles, growing incredibly hard at the name. his fingers slide past the fabric, gathering all your slick before teasing your hole. you try grind down on him, craving the feeling, craving him. one of his thick fingers finally slides in, already beginning to stretch you out before adding another. he's skilled, rough fingers finding your sweet spot instantly. all you can get out are soft moans as he kisses you.
"just let go baby... good girl" he coos into you, fingers still working on your high. his thumb finds your clit, rubbing tight circles. you nod against him, unable to find your words as your legs twitch. the tightness in your stomach finally coming undone, soaking his sweatpants.
he kisses you throughout, one hand cradling the back of your head. removing his fingers, he gestures for you to open your mouth, sucking them clean.
you rest your head on his shoulder, still coming down.
"that was so fucking good scott" you say, out of breath.
"you did so well. let me see you more, yeah?”
and ofc, you nod your head, agreeing.
a/n: ending was so lazy but had to post for both chlo and david corenswets birthday!! @chloluvsdilfs mwah mwah. also i’m not sure where to go with military scott with plot lines so if anyone has any ideas lmk!!!
pairing: superman x teacher!reader
summary: superman is smitten enough to grant a stranger a favor (although he doesn't know exactly what he's agreed to).
words: 3k
content: fluff! reader is a high school english teacher.
note: random idea i had (self indulgent as fuck). i'd love to explore this pairing more though so if u like it lmk and send me ideas! :O
The television played in the background of your kitchen every morning. Always the local newstation. Coffee dripped from the machine. The muffled honks from the cars down on the street still heard from the fourth floor. The morning traffic of Metropolis. You were late.
The kitchen table moves an inch. “Fuck!” You scream, hopping off the pain as you gather up your bag from the living room. The coffee cup is grabbed off the counter in a hurry, drips of the liquid staining the countertops. Feet are shoved into shoes. You paid no attention. If you were paying attention, it probably should have been to the TV. A superhuman fight near 15th Street and Metropolis Ave. Right in the middle of your walk to the high school.
You hurried, but probably not as much as you should have. It was too close to summer for you to really care that you were going to be fifteen minutes late. The kids didn’t show up for another forty five minutes. Lesson plans were prepped. You were wearing two different colored socks. Whatever, it didn’t matter. You sip the too-hot liquid, hissing at the heat, and not looking where you’re walking.
“Ma’am, you really shouldn’t be here right now.” It’s said through his teeth, holding back part of a… Was that a fucking concrete wall? “This part of the street, it’s blocked off.” A crash from up ahead nearly steals your attention, but Superman is right in front of you. You’re sort of dumbfounded. You had never met him despite moving to the city a couple years ago. It really shouldn’t shock you as much as it does. I mean, he was sort of the protector of Metropolis. But you really didn’t expect him to look so cute up close– “Ma’am.” His voice is desperate. An entire street pole is diverted by his hand. Okay, maybe it’s less of his good looks and the fact that you might have walked into a warzone. You catch glimpses of Hawkgirl in the sky. “Ma’am, you need to move.” There’s that authority.
“Oh. Oh my god. Yeah, I’m so sorry. I’m being so–” Another crash. A ‘Superman’ yelled in his direction. “It’s just– I’m late, ya know, to work.” And you want to continue to explain that you take the same route every day and unfortunately you aren’t a fan of breaking a routine. And oh my god, you should’ve checked the news. It was a common occurrence for something to disrupt Metropolis and things usually carried on as soon as the fight was over, but they weren’t usually right in the way of you getting to work.
Clark doesn’t quite have the time for this, but his eyebrows knit together at your rambling. Typically, he wouldn’t let himself get so distracted over something so trivial. Clark can’t seem to help himself. “Just– just wait here. Stay out of the way.” He throws a look behind his shoulder then spares another glance at you before he’s shooting off into the air.
So you move back toward the last intersection and watch the rest of the fight play out. It really doesn’t take very long when he has extra help. You glance at your watch. Ten minutes have passed. A whoosh behind you. “Ma’am.” His deep voice startles you out of your thoughts. You turn around to meet his gaze.
Clark probably could have been offering his help to clean up the destruction, but Guy had said something irritating earlier and Clark could hold a grudge. There were no civilian casualties and you were the only one who had stuck around instead of taking a different route. He was curious. Plus, it probably didn’t help that he thought you were pretty. He couldn’t tell exactly where you might’ve been going for work, but your outfit had caught his attention. Plaid slacks, a white blouse with long billowy sleeves. Brown loafers. You almost looked ready for the Daily Planet, but he’s sure he would’ve noticed you by now. You clutched the strap of your bag to your body. You were nervous.
Superman looks just as put together as he did 10 minutes ago albeit a little more dust on the blue of his suit. His hands are clasped behind his back. “What were you saying earlier?”
Your face grows warm. Oh gosh. Did he really think your ramblings were important earlier? You did stay where he told you, did that maybe signal you wanted to talk again? “Oh, it’s really nothing.” Your hands come up in front of you, waving through the air. When you felt awkward, you talked with your hands. Could this get any more embarrassing?
“Well, it seemed like I really disrupted your day.” Superman is frowning at you. Eyebrows drawn together, taking a step closer to you. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.” Clark is playing it up, but he can’t help it. He likes the way you stumble over your words. If he wasn’t in the suit, he’d probably be doing the same thing back. He just has a disguise to hide under. “I can fly you to work if you want? You said you were late?” What was he doing? He didn’t typically offer free rides to civilians. Sort of a lawsuit waiting to happen.
You could melt into a puddle under his gaze. Blue eyes, dark hair, cape sort of billowing in the wind. God, you should’ve pulled out your phone and got an exclusive. Probably a pretty penny to be made on Superman photos and with your salary– “Oh gosh. No. I–” You glance up to the sky then at the roofs of the nearest buildings. “I don’t think I could stomach that.” Your eyes meet his again. “I mean, I haven’t even had breakfast either. And it sucks dry heaving and nothing comes up.” Could you talk any more? You shut your mouth. Stare at him.
“I can walk with you?” Clark tries again. There were probably more pressing matters to deal with. He did not care. In his mind, he would write it off on being a man of the people. I mean, that’s what he was. Today it just looked a little different. “Unless of course, you’d rather–”
You can’t seem to stop yourself, “No, please. I’d love that.” A smile pulls across your lips. Were you about to get personal escort to work from Superman? “Then you can tell them why I’m half an hour late to work.” A perfect excuse, how would your principal fight with Superman over your time management? Well, you could see her doing that. Not even Superman could reason with her.
“I’d love to.” A grin, all teeth and dimples. Clark holds out his hand to you. You stop, raise your eyebrow. Was he offering his hand to– “Your bag?” Oh gosh, he was really playing this up. Did he have no tact? Was he so blatantly flirting with a civilian he had just prevented from getting caught up in the middle of a metahuman fight? He would beat himself up over it later. For using his alias for talking with pretty women. No backing out now. You hand over your bag. “What is it that you do?” His eyes roam over your figure again as you begin walking. He could use his x-ray vision to examine the contents of your bag, but he had already overstepped so many personal boundaries today.
“Oh!” You glance up at him. You had tried to keep your eyes forward. Everytime you looked at him, you risked tripping over your feet. Oh, but would he catch you? You have to shake the thoughts from your head. “I swore I mentioned that.” You frown. “I’m a teacher!” A sort of pride always emerged when you told people your profession. Now that you’re next to Superman though, you feel a little overshadowed. Who cares that you’re a teacher? He was saving the entire human race next Thursday. “Usually people tell me I’m like a superhero and now that I’m standing next to one; I feel pretty lame.” You laugh. It didn’t actually bother you. Just put it into perspective now that you have met one. The most popular one at that. At least to you.
“Well, you sort of are.” He clears his throat, tossing a smile your way. Clark had always wondered if he would have the bravery to do anything if he wasn’t Superman. Sitting at a desk and writing articles really wasn’t that brave. Parts of it had him stepping out of his comfort zone, but he could never imagine being a teacher. Wrangling twenty or more kids for eight hours straight, five days a week. Clark had super human strength. He could fly faster than a bullet. All that would be really great if he was doing what you did. But you did that without any of the extra help. And that was just the physical side of things. He had teachers who had helped him overcome insecurities, that helped pave the path that he was on today. It was not something to brush off. “I could never do what you do.”
A scoff as you’re walking beside him. “Oh, come on! You are such a good role model!”
Clark can’t help the way the tips of his ears turn pink. He shrugs, brushing off your compliment. “I mean it. What you do is important.”
You chew on the inside of your cheek, considering asking him if he would come in and talk to your class, but you’re already at the entrance of the school. The steps you usually loved walking up looked a lot less exciting today. Especially as you’re staring up at Superman and he’s looking back at you with a sort of admiration, lips twisted up in a smile. That right dimple tugging at his cheek as he smiles. “Well, this is me.”
Is he blushing? You wonder as he begins to speak again, “Are you sure there’s nothing else I can do for you? I could pick you up something to eat, I know you said you didn’t eat and–” And now Superman of all people is rambling. Maybe you were rubbing off on him or he wasn’t as suave as you originally thought. His mouth clamps shut. A swallow as he watches for your reaction.
A glance to the school. “Actually…” You trail off, rocking on the balls of your feet. “Tomorrow. Would you come talk to my class? I think they’d really love it. Meeting a superhero and all.” You’re looking up at him through your lashes and hoping you’re playing this right. Hope he finds you just as cute as you find him. The coffee you had this morning must make you nervous and out of your mind and now here you were asking Superman for favors.
“Of course.”
“Really?” You’re cheesing, hard. You want to jump up and wrap your arms around his shoulders. You never thought you’d ever secure the best guest speaker ever. All the other teachers were gonna be so jealous and you could finally tell Mrs. Dollway to suck it– “Wait, here, let me write down the time and date and this address.” You’re stepping into Superman’s space to grab your bag. The strap hangs off his shoulder as you dig around for a pen and a post-it note. You scribble down the information as he watches with a smile. Clark hadn’t felt this excited in ages. Not so much for the classroom talk, but the fact that he had figured out how to see you again.
You trade the sticky note for your bag. Clark’s face is twisted in confusion before that dimple is taking up residence on his face again, teasing. Oh god, you could kiss that thing– “Huh?” You ask, his voice drawing you out of it.
“Your name?” He offers the note again. You scribble it on, face warming again. From embarrassment and the thoughts that were plaguing you. Stupid Superman and his stupid good looks and good heart and– “Thank you, Miss.”
“Thank you, Superman.” An irregular heartbeat in your chest and a quick touch to his upper arm before you’re bounding up the first few steps of the school. “Thank you, really. I can’t wait!” The giddiness in your voice is unmatched.
The smile doesn’t leave Clark’s face. The sticky note is clutched into his palm as he shoots up into the sky. The pretty teacher is the only thing on his mind.
—
The receptionist at the front desk did nothing to hide the shock on her face when Superman walked in. Clark was quick to explain that he was here as a guest speaker for your class. A call to your classroom, a gesture to sit in one of the chairs, and she was quick to begin gossiping in the next room. Clark tuned it out and instead tuned in to the click of your shoes against the hallway floor. He caught the flutter of your heart as you pushed the door open.
“Hi, Superman!” You grin. He stands to meet you. You settle for a handshake as Clark’s eyes catch on your badge. Metropolis Middle Senior High School. Were you a high school teacher? Clark’s eyes widen when he realizes what exactly he’s gotten himself into, but you’re already leading him down the hallway.
Clark can’t help the weird anxiousness that builds in his belly. “I really thought you had meant, you know, kids.” Superman is walking with you down the hallway, boots sort of dragging along the linelmoun floor. They catch on the floor, squeaking. You cringe.
“Um, sorry, should I have elaborated on that?”
Superman puts on a smile. “Oh, uh, of course not. It’s just you know, it’s usually the little kids that like me so much.”
You grin. “Don’t be nervous. I think the older kids will love you.” You stop in front of the classroom: room 120. “Thank you for doing this. Seriously. Now, I didn’t exactly give them a heads up that you’d be coming.” A nervous laugh. “I wanted it to be a surprise.” Your bottom lip is tugged between your teeth, chewing as you think. “I hope I don’t regret that. Anyway, just be yourself!”
Clark can’t remember the last time he was this nervous, but he decides to take your advice and relax. How bad could it be? They were just kids after all.
Except as soon as you’re opening up the classroom door to relieve the teacher across the hall from your 1st period English class; the entire class is silent. For once. And not exactly in awe.
“Um, teacher, what the hell is this?”
You do a lame excuse for jazz hands with only one hand free as you tug Clark the rest of the way into the classroom. “It’s Superman!” Your hand rests on his upper arm. As soon as you realize that you’re touching him, you tug your hand away like it’s on fire. No reason to give them any ammunition. Except they don’t need any. A classroom of fifteen and sixteen year olds can come up with their own.
“It’s Supershit!”
“Is it really true about your parents?”
“No way our teacher is dating Superman.”
“What’s the beef with Lex Luthor?”
“Wait, do you know Batman?”
The excited voices build on one another until the volume of the class is out of control. Superman’s face is the same shade as a strawberry and his eyes find sudden interest in the ceiling. You hadn’t expected it to go like this. This is what you get for not prepping them for a guest speaker. Arms crossed, you raise your voice to meet theirs. “Is this how we treat a guest?!” The voices die down, a few whispers being passed. “I’m disappointed. He’s got plenty else to do if you guys don’t want to take this seriously.” Groans throughout the classroom. “Thank you. Now have some respect, please.” You glance at Superman. He’s engrossed in the way you’ve seemed to corral the room like unruly livestock. “They’ll be nice, now.” You whisper to him as you take a seat on your desk, watching the rest of the interactions play out.
Once the class actually settled in, they had come up with several thought-provoking questions for Superman. Clark had taken it as serious as any other press release or a meeting with the president. And the questions were just as hard-hitting. He hadn’t known that kids this age would be keeping up with news even if it was in the form of videos and memes. It was refreshing. He had looked to you for advice on some of the questions too, wanting permission before he talked about certain topics, but all you did was nod to give him the go-ahead.
“It certainly wasn’t what I expected.” He’s telling you once the last of the kids had filtered out after the bell. “And I definitely have a deeper appreciation for teachers. Especially the ones dealing with this age group.” You laugh. “Actually, I was thinking, I have a friend at the Daily Planet… If your students would be interested in talking to a journalist. They definitely have the hard-hitting questions down.” Superman offers. He might have needed an excuse to see you again. But then he's worrying, what if you don't like Clark as much as you like Superman? He already needed a backup plan.
“Oh, wow! I couldn’t ask you to do that. You’ve already done so much.”
“Well… You could repay me. If you’d let me take you out.” Superman was back to his self-assured attitude. He would leave the nervousness for Clark next week.
“Oh!” You nervously slide your hands over your blouse. “I didn't know Superman dated. How does that work?"
“A time and a place. I’m sure to meet you there.” He clears his throat. Clark had never thought about it. Had never met someone he liked so much as Superman. It was different. It seemed like it might complicate things more than he was used to, but he’d find a way. Clark had a feeling it was gonna be worth it. “You didn’t seem fond of flying last time or else I’d offer to pick you up.”
“That definitely seems like a third date activity.” You’d be an idiot to pass up a date with Superman. “Okay. I’ll go out with you.” You shuffle around your desk and pass him a stack of post-its with a pen. “A time and a place.”
Thankfully, Superman was a quick thinker on his feet.
i’m literally BEGGING you, PLEASEEEEE write another scott miller fic!!!!! i just finished reading the one you have right now and it was fucking amazing!!!!! perhaps a series as well??? idc what it is i am just so obsessed and need more
Matters of orgasm quota
Pairing: Scott Miller x Storm Par partner!reader
⟡ Main Index | ⟡ Archive for Earth-181938
PSA: I’ve been informed by the lovely @davidcoresnwet that someone has used an excerpt of Lessons on sex to create an AI bot. It's not me and I do NOT consent to my work being used or adapted in AI tools in any form. If anyone is able to, please report it and request its removal, the link will be at the bottom of this post.
Summary: By convincing Scott you were a one-orgasm girl, despite what your one-night stand proved, you thought you'd be letting him down gently. What you didn't expect was how eagerly he'd call your claim "insufficient data" and just how determined he'd be to run the numbers himself...Care to play a game?
Classification: Smut +18 | coworkers to friends with benefits, inappropriate workplace behavior with sexual banter, voyeuristic risk and exhibitionism kink, power dynamics at work, emotionally repressed idiots in love, several smut scenes, rude/arrogant Scott Miller, mention of a breeding kink, protected rough sex, oral sex, mild jealousy, guided (?) fingering, orgasm control, overstimulation and multiple orgasms, dirty talk and condescending praise, groping/nipple play, dom/sub dynamics in bed and mild manhandling.
Word count: 10,7k
You'd been struggling at work lately…just a little and it certainly, definitely, wasn't because you'd finally gotten fucked.
Being dickmatized wasn't a real thing…you were about eighty-six percent sure of that, though the number seemed to drop every morning you woke up thinking about Scott before your alarm even went off.
Your lack of focus had absolutely nothing to do with the way he'd ruined your standards a few nights ago…the problem simply was the men around you. You were back at the office now, which meant instead of dealing with one irritating man, you were surrounded by twenty.
None of them understood the concept of an inside voice, half of them apparently thought deodorant was optional and for reasons beyond your comprehension, at least one of them always felt compelled to announce that his balls itched to whoever happened to be standing nearby. You'd abandoned your desk before lunch and barricaded yourself inside one of the glass meeting rooms, the thicker walls muting the chaos outside without cutting you off completely.
You could still see everyone moving through the office and they could still see you buried behind your laptop, which was enough to keep people from accusing you of hiding, which you were definitely NOT doing. Unfortunately, the spreadsheet glowing on your screen had long since blurred into meaningless numbers. Instead, you sat staring at it while trying to figure out how to fix yourself before weather alerts put you and Scott back on the road together.
Maybe celibacy deserved another shot and maybe one incredible night was enough for another long while. You'd had great sex, you'd been thoroughly fucked and that could be the perfect place to stop, before it got so good it stopped fitting anywhere on your stupid little scale.
You pressed your hands over your face and groaned into your palms. “This can't be that fucking hard,” you muttered, the words muffled against your skin. “Let's not be greedy,” you sighed then, forcing yourself to sit up straighter and look back at your laptop.
The spreadsheet waiting on the screen might as well have been written in another language because every time you tried to focus, Scott found his way back into your head. It had been days and your brain refused to let it go…his hands, his voice, his touch and the way he'd looked at you afterward. The memories barged into your thoughts whenever they pleased, leaving you staring blankly ahead instead of working.
Your eyes weren't even seeing the numbers anymore, they were vaguely fixed on Javier outside the meeting room enthusiastically demonstrating what looked like an attempted backflip to someone unfortunate enough to be watching as a knock against the glass wall snapped you out of it and your head turned so fast your neck almost protested.
Scott stood on the other side, dressed in his usual Storm Par shirt and cap, one hand already wrapped around the handle. He didn't wait for permission before pushing the door open and letting himself in, softly closing it behind him.
You let out a slow breath through your nose and immediately looked back at your laptop, pretending you'd been deeply invested in your work instead of daydreaming about being folded like a Samsung all over his apartment.
“What’s up?” you asked as casually as you could manage, clicking through random tabs and typing complete nonsense onto the keyboard with sufficient confidence to sell the act.
Scott pulled out the chair across from you and sat down. “Nothing.” He shrugged, resting his forearms on the table like this was the most normal visit in the world. “Just checking in.”
Your eyes flicked toward the glass wall briefly as you hummed softly. “You could've done that from outside.”
“I could've,” he agreed easily. “Just wanted to make sure you understood that hiding from me isn't gonna solve your problem.” He motioned lazily toward the floor-to-ceiling windows surrounding the room. “Especially when you pick the fishbowl office.”
You let out a quiet huff of laughter before catching yourself, disguising it with a small clearing of your throat as your fingers kept tapping aimlessly at the keyboard.
“Where are you hiding then?” you asked, finally sparing him a glance. Scott hadn't been around much the last few days, at least not anywhere the rest of the team could bother him, though that wasn't exactly unusual, given the choice, he'd avoid every person in the building.
“My office,” he replied flatly.
“Your office?” You frowned. “Since when do you have an office?”
Scott leaned back in his chair. “Turns out when enough people complain about how snarky you are and the company likes your results too much to fire you, they stick you in your own office.”
You stared at him for a second before giving up on the performance entirely. The laptop clicked shut beneath your hands and for the first time in seventy-two hours, you looked directly into his eyes without immediately finding an excuse to look away.
“You done pretending?” he asked.
“I wasn't pretending.”
“No?” His voice stayed soft, almost conversational but the corner of his mouth twitched with the beginning of a grin. He tilted his head to watch your reaction. “'Cause you've barely been able to argue with me for three days…Doesn't seem to be a problem right now.”
Your eye twitched, God, he was trying to bait you. You refused to give him the satisfaction of reacting the way he wanted, especially not to a man who wore a baseball cap indoors like the sun might suddenly appear over the conference table.
“Those great results you're so proud of benefiting from have another name next to yours at the bottom of every report,” you shot back evenly. “Last I checked, you're not out there watching your own back, no matter how self-centered you happen to be.”
You would've sworn you saw the very corner of his mouth twitch upward again. Damn it.
“My point exactly,” he said quietly, settling deeper into his chair with the smug confidence of a man who knew he'd gotten exactly the reaction he wanted. The same confidence he'd had a few nights ago when he'd been ordering you around his apartment, rewarding you every time you listened.
The memory flashed through your head before you could stop it. Was he thinking about it too? You blinked hard and shoved the thought aside, straightening your shoulders.
“What exactly are we talking about?” you asked.
“My office and your smart mouth. What else?” He paused long enough to let the words hang. “If I started casually talking about how good it felt to fuck you silent, you'd probably throw that laptop at me.”
Your heart lurched so violently it genuinely annoyed you. Your eyes darted to the glass walls surrounding the room to make sure nobody outside could somehow hear him before snapping back to his face. He looked completely unbothered, sitting there like he'd commented on the weather.
“What do you want, Scott?”
“Besides your pussy in my mouth?...” He tipped his head back, lazily rocking his chair as he seemed to remember why he'd actually come in. “Right.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a key and slid it across the table until it stopped between you. “The key to our office.”
You looked down at it, then back at him, narrowing your eyes. “I think I'll pass.”
“It's at the end of the hall, far from the elevators,” he continued as though you hadn't spoken. “Big windows...private bathroom…and its own Wi-Fi router. We could probably fit a couch in there for those midday naps you keep pretending you don't need.”
You let out a quiet scoff and leaned back in your own chair, mirroring his position. “I think all of that thunder finally got to you, Scotty,” you teased, genuinely wondering if the man had started losing his hearing along with his common sense from being exposed to such weather.
“No, but your moaning probably did,” Scott replied without missing a beat. “It echoed pretty well.”
You stared at him for a second before sighing long and steady. “Blame your complete lack of furniture, playboy.” you muttered. “Your apartment needs a rug…It might actually absorb some of the noise and save you the trip to the ear doctor.”
“I can get a rug,” he nodded thoughtfully. “Just need someone to test how effective it is–”
You leaned across the table before he could finish, eyes widening in warning as you pointed a finger at him. “Stop…just stop.” Your voice dropped instinctively as you glanced through the glass wall, checking that nobody outside was paying enough attention to lip-read the conversation.
A few people walked past carrying laptops while Javi argued with someone over a radar image, nobody seemed interested in the meeting room.
You looked back at Scott. “We're at work…You can't say shit like that in front of everyone.”
“You're right,” he admitted with a slow nod, looking almost disappointed in himself for all of half a second, then he tapped the key sitting between you. “Take that and follow me.”
A laugh escaped you immediately as you shook your head. “Scott, I'm not going to a second location with you…We both know how that ends.”
“First time I've heard you complain,” he said, completely unfazed. “Usually ends pretty well. Sure, there's quite a bit of cleaning after and being sore doesn't help…but it’s a small price to pay.”
You snorted and pushed the key back across the table with one finger until it stopped in front of him. “Yeah and unsurprisingly I don't need the whole office hearing about it.”
“So you admit you're loud.”
“I'm not admitting to anything during work hours,” you clarified. “I'm trying to work so we can keep our numbers up. Unlike you...” You leaned forward again, lowering your voice until he had to do the same. “...who's trying to lure me into some dark office so you can fill me up like a fucking Twinkie.”
Scott's eyebrows lifted noticeably. “A breeding kink?” He hummed thoughtfully, rubbing his jaw like you'd presented him with a serious research topic. “Interesting...” He nodded once. “I'll get tested. Can't say I've ever wanted to skip the condom step before but I'd consider making an exception for you.” His fingers slid the key back toward you again. “In the meantime…don't knock it until you've seen it…Big windows, no vis-à-vis and if you're good and quiet, we could have a remake of–”
“I’m not letting you fuck me again, Scott,” you disputed. You weren't entirely sure whether you'd made that decision before he walked into the meeting room or only after he'd spent the last five minutes trying to talk you into following him somewhere with a lock on the door but it was the right one…it had to be.
Scott blinked once, let out a slow breath through his nose, then stood already facing the exit. “Get up.”
Another laugh slipped out as you leaned farther back in your chair, folding your arms across your chest. “No.”
“No?” He turned fully toward you, giving a small, thoughtful nod. “You know, I like to think we've got this communication thing figured out but I feel like I'm missing a few pieces here.”
You nodded as if his confusion was perfectly reasonable. “Sure...uh...” You shrugged innocently. “We're incompatible.”
“Incompatible,” he repeated flatly with enough sarcasm packed into the word to make you roll your eyes. He'd spent the last three days replaying every second of that afternoon in his apartment and there hadn't been a single thing incompatible about it. You two fit like pieces of the same puzzle, one he intended to keep building. “And you know this how?”
“Once is a mistake, twice is a coincidence…third time is a pattern.” You counted each point off on your fingers before pointing at yourself. “Celibacy is a choice and it's the one I'm making.”
Scott stared at you for a long second before pulling off his cap and dragging a hand through his hair, looking toward the ceiling like he was asking for patience. The cap went right back on.
“Okay,” he sighed. “Now give me the no-bullshit answer.”
You shrugged again. “That is the no-bullshit answer…but if you'd like, I can make you a graph…maybe throw in a pie chart, some percentages...” You gestured toward the hallway. “It's gonna take a while though, so you should probably wait in your office.”
“Our office,” he corrected automatically, then he looked around the meeting room, motioning toward your laptop, the scattered papers beside it and the whiteboard behind you. “I’m sorry, I figured you already had the presentation ready...I assumed that's what all this was.” He stepped closer and planted both hands on the table, leaning toward you. It forced you to lift your chin to keep eye contact. “Explain it to me like I'm stupid, it’ll save you some time.”
You leaned forward until both forearms rested on the desk, making sure he had nowhere to look except your face. If Scott wanted to play games, then he could deal with the consequences.
“The sex we had was absolutely...” Your voice softened into something dreamy, bait wrapped in honey.
Scott took it immediately. His shoulders loosened, the tension he'd walked in with bleeding out of him as he leaned closer over the desk, one brow lifting. The corner of his mouth almost curled into a smug grin, convinced he knew exactly where you were going.
“Mhm,” he hummed quietly.
“...interminable,” you finished flatly. “Too many rounds for me.”
The grin died before it had the chance to fully appear. His shoulders deflated, followed by a slow blink as the realization settled in that he'd fallen for it. His jaw twitched, eyes narrowing at you with the familiar look of a man who'd just been expertly baited.
“And that matters because...” he asked after a beat, his voice noticeably flatter now. “...you're a numbers person?”
“I don't need to run the numbers to know I'm a one-orgasm girl,” you replied with a careless shrug. “Always have been.”
Scott shook his head slowly. “So the extra two you had...”
“Were just excessive,” you nodded, grinning when his expression darkened further. “See? I knew you'd understand…You're a smart guy, Scott. I've never actually believed your mother dropped you as a child.” You shook your head and flipped your laptop open like the conversation was already over. “Whoever started that awful, tasteless but admittedly very funny rumor around the office should go get fucked.”
“So...you.” he noted immediately. He wasn't stupid, the only person in the building with enough nerve to insult him to his face and behind his back was the same woman he'd spent three days blaming for every inconvenient hard-on he'd had since the storm. “Which is exactly what I've been trying to do.”
You gave another innocent shrug. “It’s just not my thing.”
Scott pushed off the table and straightened to his full height again, looking down at you with that infuriating conviction that usually preceded a terrible idea. “You just haven't been with the right man.”
You couldn't help laughing, even though a small part of you hated that he was probably right. It wasn't the multiple orgasms that bothered you, it was the thought of getting used to someone like him. What happened if this became your new normal? What if nobody else ever measured up afterward? You refused to let some man permanently recalibrate your sex scale.
“Is that you insinuating you've got a magical dick?” you asked, resting your chin on your hand.
“You've seen it...you've felt it...” Scott replied with a maddening grin, his voice dropped, making your stomach tighten. “You tell me.”
You nodded thoughtfully. “Okay...I'm telling you it was a one-time thing. It can't...” You caught yourself, deciding you owed him at least one honest sentence. “Statistically speaking, I hadn't had sex in a very long time, so it was a direct consequence of that. You just happened to cash in on it.” You shrugged and turned back to your laptop, fingers returning to the keyboard. “Should be used to lucky strikes by now, considering your track record at work before we partnered up.”
Scott didn't answer immediately. He simply watched you, piecing your logic together with the same concentration he used to read weather models. “So...” he said after a few seconds. “You're leaving me because you don't think I can consistently make you orgasm more than three times.”
Your hands stopped typing as you genuinely considered it. “If I say yes, will you leave me alone?”
He looked like he was weighing the offer for a solid twenty seconds before quietly stepping around the desk. Without warning, he pushed your laptop shut, stopping your hands beneath your own surprised stare, then picked it up before you could protest. “We work with probabilities and success rates,” he said matter-of-factly. “I'll just have to prove you wrong.”
“That's...not what I said.”
“Then maybe my parents really did drop me.” He tucked the laptop in front of himself as he headed for the door, conveniently hiding the growing outline in his jeans. “I know just how much you like being right…enjoy it while it lasts.”
You pointed after him, biting back another smile. “Keep rubbing my laptop against your boner and you won't hear the end of it.”
A quiet laugh rumbled in Scott's chest as he kept walking. “Come get it then. Might still be early enough for you to get the upcoming flood under wraps.”
He glanced back over his shoulder, the grin he wore making you roll your eyes before you could stop yourself. You shook your head, laughing under your breath as you reached for the key he'd left on the table. Your chair scraped softly against the floor as you stood, pocketing the key before following him to the door.
“You're actually deranged.”
“You liked it once,” he replied without missing a beat, stepping aside to hold the door open for you. “I'm confident you will again.”
You clicked your tongue as you brushed past him, your shoulder bumping his on purpose. “You smug prick... Are we keeping count now?” you asked, looking up at him just long enough to catch the satisfaction on his face before heading into the hallway.
Scott waited until you were ahead of him before letting the smile spread properly across his face. He wasn't unprofessional enough to put his hands on you in the office, no matter how private it was. If he started, neither of you would stop and he wasn't about to deprive himself of the sounds that had been replaying in his head for three straight days. Your question, though, lodged itself somewhere in the back of his mind.
Keeping count...now that was an idea worth exploring.
The sexual tension around your shared office had become something you were going to have to live with sooner rather than later.
The door stayed wide open from the moment you walked in until the moment you left, partly for appearances and mostly to keep either of you from acting on a bad idea. Your desks sat at opposite ends of the room, separated as much as the space allowed and every time you stood at the whiteboard scribbling down data or arguing over storm paths, you caught yourself turning your whole body whenever you heard footsteps behind you.
More often than not, it was Scott wandering over to look at what you were doing and the sharp look you'd throw over your shoulder was enough to stop him a few feet away, one corner of his mouth twitching before he'd silently retreat.
All that tension had to go somewhere and unsurprisingly, it ended up back at your house, though not for any reason either of you would've admitted to. You sat cross-legged on your bed in an oversized t-shirt that barely covered the tops of your thighs, wearing nothing underneath but panties because there was no point pretending modesty around a man who had already seen every inch of you.
Across the room, the television you'd impulsively bought to fill the quiet evenings and keep your hands from wandering under the covers to thoughts of him, leaned against the wall while Scott fixed the crooked mount you'd spent an hour unsuccessfully fighting with the day before. He worked with the same concentration he gave everything else, drill humming steadily in his hand as he checked measurements twice before sinking another screw into the wall.
The room was quiet but not uncomfortably so. Ever since his apartment, conversations between you had become strangely careful. The morning after, you'd simply asked him to drive you home, thanked him with a kiss that tried far too hard to be casual and climbed out of his truck like nothing had changed. Since then, your texts had stayed light, mostly work-related, occasional teasing and both of you acknowledging that neither of you regretted a second of it.
The silence stretching between you now felt heavier than any conversation.
“You know I can feel you staring, right?” Scott asked without looking over, the low whir of the drill cutting through the room before he released the trigger and tightened the bracket with one hand.
“Is it only okay when you do it?” you shot back immediately.
"Given it took you two years to realize I was looking at you in the first place...yeah," he replied without hesitation. He straightened, checking the level one last time before wiping his hands down the front of his jeans. Satisfied, he lifted the television with ease, the muscles in his forearms tightening as he guided it onto the bracket until it clicked into place.
Only then did he turn to face you, that infuriating grin tugging at one corner of his mouth. "You also could've called me for this," he pointed out. "Or texted me sometime between telling me how thoroughly satisfied you were and dodging every question about when I was seeing you outside of work again." His eyes flicked briefly toward the mounted TV before settling back on you. "I'm exceptionally good at screwing stuff."
"I'd rather you weren't," you answered before you could stop yourself, the words escaping so naturally they made you sigh the moment they landed.
Scott caught it immediately. You tried to keep your attention on the television but your eyes betrayed you, drifting back to his arms as he gave the screen a firm shake to make sure it was secure, his veins stood out beneath tanned skin, reaching very capable hands...you looked away a second too late.
He folded his arms across his chest, studying you with the same calm expression he'd worn for the past few days. He still hadn't let the conversation from the office go and judging by the look on his face, he wasn't planning to. "You're not a one-orgasm woman," he said matter-of-factly. "If you think you are, you're only fooling yourself."
You leaned farther back against the pillows, drawing one knee up lazily as you looked at him. "Are you saying you could've gone longer?" you asked. "The living room, the kitchen and then the shower wasn't enough?"
Scott walked to the foot of the bed without answering right away. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he planted both hands against it and leaned toward you. "I've been in a truck with you long enough to know when to quit," he said quietly, his eyes moving over your face before settling back on yours. "We were both exhausted." A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. "That's not the same thing as being sated."
"Isn't it?" you asked, your gaze slipping almost involuntarily from his face to the veined length of his forearms braced against the mattress before climbing back to meet his eyes.
Before you could say anything more, one of his hands wrapped around your ankle and pulled you smoothly to the very edge of the bed, your legs parting naturally to make room for him standing between them. He wasn’t even that close yet but you could already feel yourself growing wet, the slow throb of arousal building low in your belly from nothing more than the way he looked at you. "Weather models aren’t the only thing I read well," he rasped, his voice dropping lower.
"What are you reading now, Scotty?" You teased, fingernails trailing lightly up and down his forearms as you looked up at him.
“That you have more than one…or three meek orgasms in you.” He assured, hands trailing slowly up your legs, the rough warmth of his palms sliding over your skin as he held eye contact. “I just need you to let me show you.”
Your eyes narrowed at his unshakable confidence. “And how are you gonna do that?”
“We’re gonna play a game.” He grinned as he let one finger hook into the waistband of your panties, yanking them down slowly. “Numbers excite you,” he started, eyes lifting to yours for any sign that he should stop but when he found none, he continued pulling the fabric lower, sliding it down your thighs until your glistening pussy was fully exposed to the cool air of the room.
You chuckled under your breath, the sound barely cutting through the charged space between you. “They don’t excite me, Scott. They are part of my job.”
“I’ll put you to work then.” His mouth curved into something faintly amused as he leaned in closer, hands easing the panties off the rest of the way and letting them fall aside onto the mattress. “Condoms?”
You held eye contact with him for as long as you could, whether it was an attempt at challenging him or calling his bluff, it didn’t work. “Bedside table,” you replied, chin tipping slightly in its direction.
The mattress dipped as he moved away and you followed him with your eyes, watching the way his shoulders moved under the fabric of his shirt, every motion unhurried as he reached the bedside drawer and slid it open.
A low chuckle slipped from him as he pulled out the brand new box of condoms, turning it between his fingers. You had bought it after that night in his apartment, unsure if anything would happen again but wanting to be ready. “I don’t know if this is wishful thinking,” he murmured, glancing at you over the edge of the box, “or if I should be worried about competition.”
“Focus on your little game before I dry up,” you shot back with a grin, chin tilting slightly as you held his gaze without blinking.
That earned a short, amused huff from him. Scott walked back toward the end of the bed, the condom foil caught lightly between his teeth as he worked his belt loose with ease, the sound of metal sliding through leather punctuating the silence. He kept his eyes locked on you the entire time, moving with unhurried confidence as he pushed his jeans down and let his heavy cock spring free.
“I am not in the business of droughts, sweetheart,” he said, voice edged with amusement as he straightened above you, tearing the wrapper open and finally discarding it to the side.
“There is a first time for everything,” you replied, watching him with a calm that didn’t quite match the pace of your heart.
He knelt on the mattress between your parted legs as he rolled the condom on with unbroken focus and you moved back a little to give him more space, which he took gladly.
He hovered over you, warmth pressing into your skin before he even fully touched you. “Listen to me,” he started, one hand sliding down between your bodies, thumb beginning to circle slowly over your clit, drawing a sharp inhale out of your lungs as your shoulders loosened against the mattress.
His voice stayed authoritative yet gentle, one hand braced beside your head. “I want you to count every thrust and when I ask you, I want a clear answer…”
Your lashes fluttered as your focus wavered between his words and the way your body reacted against them. “What kind of game is that?” you asked, though it came out uneven, breath catching mid-sentence as your hips shifted slightly beneath him, instinctively chasing the pressure he was already controlling.
He didn’t react to the question beyond a faint shake of his head, like the answer didn’t matter as much as obedience to the structure he was setting. His thumb continued its firm, steady movements over your clit, each pass measured enough to keep you suspended between anticipation and release. “Then you'll count the orgasms too.”
“What happens if I lose count?” you whispered, chest heaving as warmth began spreading through your core, fingers flexing lightly against the sheets as your body started to respond more openly to him.
“Don’t and you won’t have to find out.” When your hips started to roll up into his hand, searching for more friction, he tsked softly, refusing to let you set the rhythm. “Can we start or do you have any questions?”
“Make this quick, my date will be here soon,” you teased, though it barely held its edge anymore, breath catching around the words as your focus kept slipping.
“Never had an audience but it’s not too late to start,” he grinned, eyes drinking in the way your chest heaved beneath the thin fabric of your oversized shirt. Your nipples had hardened into tight, sensitive peaks that poked prominently against the material with every quick, shallow breath you drew. Your lips parted on a soft sigh as your eyes fluttered shut, lashes casting faint shadows on your cheeks while you gave yourself over completely to the steady, knowing movements of his thumb.
The pressure against your clit was exquisite, firm circles that never faltered, gliding smoothly over the swollen, sensitive bundle of nerves with just the right amount of slick friction. Each rotation sent fresh sparks of pleasure racing up your spine and down through your core, making your inner muscles clench with need.
You could feel yourself growing wetter with every passing second, the warm arousal leaking steadily from your entrance and coating his fingers as they worked you loose. Your legs fell farther apart around his body, thighs quivering with the effort to stay open for him as the tension deep inside you coiled tighter and tighter, like a spring being wound to its limit.
Scott never looked away, his gaze locked on your face and then drifted lower to watch the way your cunt responded to his touch while his free hand rested heavily on your inner thigh now, holding you steady and spread wide so he could see everything. He varied the rhythm to keep you on edge, alternating between those perfect, consistent circles and broader strokes that dragged over your clit before returning to focused pressure right at the apex. The wet, obscene sounds of his thumb sliding through your increasing slickness mixed with your growing moans, filling the bedroom and making the air feel thicker, hotter.
Your breaths came faster, turning into soft pants that bordered on whimpers. The heat in your belly expanded rapidly, spreading outward in heavy, pulsing waves that made your toes curl against the sheets and your back arch clean off the mattress. Every muscle in your body seemed to draw tight as the pleasure mounted higher until it finally broke over you in a devastating rush.
The orgasm crashed through you with breathtaking intensity, starting deep in your core and radiating outward in rhythmic contractions. Your cunt fluttered and squeezed hard around nothing while your moans turned raw and unrestrained, echoing softly in the room while your entire body shook and trembled beneath him, thighs clamping around his hand as the pleasure rolled on and on, leaving you gasping for air and dizzy with satisfaction.
Even as the peak began to fade into warm, lingering aftershocks, Scott kept his thumb moving in gentler strokes, drawing out every last bit of sensation until you were left panting on the bed.
“That’s one,” he announced, using the slick in his hand to lubricate the condom further before fisting his cock and adjusting to push in slowly, the thick head stretching your entrance as you gasped at the sudden fullness. “Isn’t this what you’ve been thinking about?” He teased, giving a tentative thrust out and then back in, letting you feel every inch of him sliding home.
“You’re so full of yourself,” you moaned, the words breaking apart on the way out, breathless and uneven as your body adjusted to the depths he reached.
“Not the one being stuffed at the moment,” he answered with a low grin you could feel more than see as he bent down to press a slow kiss against your jaw and then lower along the sensitive skin of your neck. Against your ear he mumbled, “Focus…start counting.”
His hips began to move then, rolling into a steady rhythm that stole what little composure you had left. His shaft dragged heavily against your still pulsating walls, the thick length stroking every sensitive spot inside you with wet, filthy sounds that filled the room and made the mattress rock beneath you with every impact.
“Count,” he reminded you again, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he maintained that same unbroken rhythm.
You counted under your breath each time his pelvis collided with yours, though you didn’t truly believe there would be any substantial consequence if you didn’t. The steady slap of skin on skin mixed with the slick glide of his dick pumping into your drenched folds, every thrust pushing deep, stretching you open and rubbing perfectly against that spot that made your toes curl. Your inner walls clenched around him rhythmically, still fluttering from the first orgasm as he fucked you through the lingering sensitivity.
The wet sounds grew louder with each movement, your arousal coating his cock and dripping down to soak the covers beneath you.
“I still think about the first time I made you cum,” he grunted between thrusts, voice roughened by effort. “Do you?”
Your breath caught on a sharp whimper as your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, knuckles tightening. “Not a good time…”you managed. He huffed a low laugh at that, the sound rolling through his chest and into you where you were already pressed too close to think clearly.
“Good time as any,” he murmured, breath warm against your skin. “You’re good at multitasking.”
“Uh…it doesn’t–” you started, though the thought trailed off completely as you lost it to the deep, relentless thrusts. His hips snapped forward with controlled force, driving his cock into you over and over rhythmically. You could feel every vein and ridge as he filled you completely, pulling out just enough for the head to catch at your entrance before plunging back in and making your pussy squelch wetly around him.
“Doesn’t what?” He asked, gaze fixed on your face as he noticed the way your thighs tensed tighter around his waist and the way your grip on him changed from holding to clinging.
“Apply to sex,” you blurted out, breath coming fast now, words clipped between shallow inhales. “‘m gonna cum.”
“Mhm,” he hummed condescendingly. “Nobody’s surprised.”
He kept going at the same pace, cock plunging deep and pelvis grinding against your clit with every forward motion until your breath hitched sharply and the second orgasm crashed over you even harder than the first.
Your entire body seized as a guttural cry tore from your throat. Every nerve ending lit up at once with a white-hot surge that radiated outward in concentric pulls. Your cunt clamped around his cock with a strength that surprised even you, muscles attempting to milk him in rapid, involuntary contractions that made his thick ridge drag against your swollen walls with each desperate squeeze.
The moment it hit its peak, he spoke again. “How many was that?” He asked, hips still rolling smoothly to prolong the orgasm, drawing out every shudder as your walls continued to flutter and squeeze him. The wet sounds of his thrusts turned obscenely louder as your slick flooded around his shaft in a gush of warm fluid that coated his pelvis and dribbled down your ass crack onto the mattress. You could feel the way your inner walls fluttered and gripped, the textures of your own flesh squeezing every vein and bump of his length while your thighs locked tighter around his hips, heels digging into his lower back as if to trap him inside you forever.
Your vision swam, the ceiling light blurring into streaks of gold. A sharp, keening moan spilled from your lips, broken by gasps as his unrelenting rhythm continued, even as your peak made your whole body tremble like a plucked string.
“Mmm, twenty seven,” you moaned, hand digging into his forearm as the orgasm slowly subsided, leaving you trembling and breathless. “Second orgasm.”
“Smart and attentive,” he grinned, slowing his pace to allow you to breathe.
You nodded against the mattress, trying to catch your breath as the warm aftershocks of your orgasm continued to pulse through you. “Attentive enough to remember you said–” you swallowed hard, voice still shaky as your chest rose and fell rapidly. “And I quote ‘leaving me’ during our conversation at the office…I thought you of all people would understand what casual sex is,” you grinned, looking up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. “Can’t leave you if we’re not together.”
“Oh, I am aware…If we were together you wouldn’t doubt your ability to cum more than three times,” he said, immediately thrusting into you with one long, measured stroke. His cock pushed through your still-sensitive walls, making them flutter and grip around him as you gasped in surprise at the sudden overwhelm. “It’d be a shame for that box of condoms to go unused though.”
You grinned despite the way your entire body trembled, your breasts bouncing freely with each thrust as he picked up an uninterrupted rhythm again. The length of his cock stretched you so perfectly, sliding through your soaked pussy with maddening precision.
“It’s okay…my suitors don’t always use them,” you managed to tease, the words breaking into a breathy moan as he drove in particularly deep and ground his hips in a slow circle.
“Funny…” he replied dryly, dark eyes locked on your face as he watched every reaction closely. “Have any favorites?” He asked then, never once slowing the pounding of his cock into your dripping cunt.
You shook your head, trying desperately to keep your voice steady even as intense pleasure sparked through you with every single thrust. “I know you don’t make the list though…you haven’t been–uh…fuck,” you moaned loudly, pelvis tilting back for him to effectively hit target. “Performing particularly well.”
He hummed low and amused right against your ear in response, breath hot and ragged on your skin. “One data point from each category doesn't make for a reliable average…Can’t base a whole hypothesis off two results, you know that.”
“Scott–”
“I’m serious. You called me a pervert just to cum all over my dick? What the hell does that make you?” His hips didn’t slow for even a second. If anything, they found a devastating new pace that made your next protest die somewhere deep in your throat. His cock plunged into you again and again, the heavy drag of his length rubbing relentlessly against every sensitive inch of your walls while the wet slap of his pelvis meeting your soaked pussy echoed through the room.
The pressure inside you built rapidly once more, that familiar heavy warmth spreading through your core as your walls fluttered and squeezed greedily around him.
“This isn’t–” you gasped sharply as he changed his angle slightly, driving even deeper to fill you entirely. “...science. Far from it.”
“Everything is science.” He caught your jaw firmly in his hand, tilting your face up so you had no choice but to look directly at him. His expression remained cocky and unbothered, jaw clenched with concentration as sweat glistened on his forehead and along the strong line of his neck. His eyes burned with raw lust and focus as if he could keep fucking you exactly like this for hours without tiring. “If you want accurate data on my performance, you’re gonna need way more trials than this…statistically speaking.”
“You’re an ass–”
“I’m thorough.” His mouth dropped to your neck and you felt him smile against your overheated skin as he continued pounding into you without mercy. His cock slid in and out with slick, filthy ease, your abundant arousal coating every inch of him and dripping messily with every powerful thrust. “Guess I’ll just have to keep coming back…purely for research purposes.” He turned his mouth toward your ear, voice dropping into a low, teasing growl. “Twenty nine condoms left in that box and with the ones at my apartment we should have enough margin for trial, don't you think?” He grinned, hips snapping forward sharply to emphasize his words. “When we run out I’ll just cum inside of you.”
You gasped sharply, your entire body tensing and seizing as another orgasm ripped through you without warning. The pleasure hit hard and deep, making your pussy clamp down around his thick cock in strong pulses as your thighs quivered violently, mouth falling open in a long, broken moan as the overwhelming sensation consumed you completely, leaving your mind hazy and your body pulsing with need.
“That breeding kink of yours is gonna do miracles,” he marveled, voice rough and strained with arousal as he kept moving through your climax.
“Don’t have one,” you whimpered, the words barely forming as the orgasm continued to crash over you.
“Then why does the thought of it make you cum? Might need to notify the rest of your body of that,” he groaned, looking down between your bodies to watch intently as his cock pistoned in and out of you. The sight of his thick, slicked shaft plunging in and out of your swollen, dripping pussy was obscene, your lips stretched around him, plump and glistening, your hole gripping him with every withdrawal, trying to keep him inside.
“Trying to milk me dry…fuck.” He kept thrusting steadily, prolonging the pleasure until your body tensed firmly beneath him. “Number?”
You could barely form words, your head shaking weakly from side to side as you remained lost in the overwhelming haze of pleasure. Your chest heaved with each ragged inhale, your skin flushed hot all over as your pussy continued to flutter and squeeze around his thick cock even as the peak of your orgasm slowly began to fade.
“Irrelevant,” you managed to reply, your voice hoarse and breathless.
He shook his head, pulling out of you with a wet pop. The sudden emptiness devastated you, you moaned loudly at the loss, your hand instinctively shooting down between your legs to cover your sore pussy. Your fingers pressed against your puffy, sensitive folds as if trying to hold in the overwhelming ache, walls clenching desperately around nothing while slick arousal continued to leak out against your palm.
“Think,” he said, voice rough.
You grabbed onto his shirt desperately with your free hand, tugging him closer as you tried to collect your scattered thoughts through the lingering fog of pleasure. At the same time, Scott wrapped his hand around his own cock, giving it a few firm pumps as he hovered over you.
The wet, glistening length looked painfully hard, flushed dark at the tip but after only a few strokes he hissed sharply through his teeth and abandoned the motion. His chest heaved with heavy breaths, rising and falling visibly as he looked down at you with dark and hungry eyes.
The sight of you lying there needy and trembling, one hand cupping your dripping pussy while you stared up at him, seemed to affect him just as badly.
“I want a total,” he pressed, still breathing hard.
“Third orgasm,” you breathed, fingers absentmindedly pressing a little firmer against your sensitive folds for relief.
“Mhm…I’ll congratulate you when we reach double digits. What else?”
Your eyes widened as you pushed yourself up onto your elbows, staring at him in disbelief while your body still buzzed and trembled. “Double digits? Scott–”
“I want a number,” he repeated firmly, his voice low and commanding, chest still rising and falling heavily.
“Or what?” You challenged, still trying to catch your breath, hand remaining protectively over your aching pussy.
“It’s basic math,” he tried again, his tone teasing but unwavering as he looked down at you with that heated, predatory focus.
You sighed heavily and dropped back onto the mattress, your limbs feeling heavy and your pussy still throbbing with sensitivity as you tried to gather your thoughts. “Forty…two?”
“Is that a guess?” He asked, tilting his head as he grabbed the back of both your legs and pushed them closer to your chest, folding you nearly in half beneath him and exposing you completely.
“Am I wrong?” You asked, eyes drifting from his face down to his heavy, glistening cock dangling between your bodies. You gasped sharply as he pushed back inside in one smooth, devastatingly selfish stroke.
“Close enough,” he groaned as he began thrusting again, hips snapping forward with renewed purpose. The new angle allowed him to drive deeper, thick cock stretching your sensitive pussy wide open and rubbing relentlessly against every nook and cranny inside you repeatedly. The filthy sounds of him fucking into your dripping heat grew louder, your arousal coating his shaft completely and leaking out around him in messy rivulets with each thrust. The overwhelming fullness and friction left you moaning helplessly, body rocking beneath him as pleasure built rapidly once more.
You laughed breathlessly between your own broken moans. “You’re so full of shit, Miller…You can’t even admit the fact that you don’t know the rules to your own fucking game.”
“I know what the outcome should be,” he confessed, face twitching with pleasure as every deep thrust pulled fresh, uncontrollable noises from your throat. His cock plunged in and out of you steadily, the heavy drag of his length filling you completely and making your soaked pussy squelch obscenely around him with every movement. “Keep count. If we’re gonna do this more often, I can’t be responsible for our success rate decreasing…I need to know you can function after being thoroughly fucked.”
“I realize now…” you paused, swallowing hard as you tried to focus through the overwhelming haze of pleasure clouding your mind, the erotic sounds of sex making it nearly impossible to string thoughts together. “That you think very highly of your dick.”
“If it’s anything like your…glorious pussy, you will soon too,” he replied, voice low and rough with the effort of holding back while buried inside your tight heat.
“Glorious?” You giggled, the sound dissolving quickly into a breathy moan as he angled his hips just right and dragged the thick head of his cock across your g-spot.
“Never been good with words that aren’t insults…I’ll get back to you on that,” he groaned deeply, the sound vibrating through his chest. “I’ll understand if you want to gatekeep it from me…I’m turning into a fucking addict and I’m not above begging if you keep it to yourself,” he leaned down to press his lips firmly to yours because he knew that if he heard that breathy-moan hybrid once more, he would probably cum right then and there.
You kissed him back to the best of your abilities, one hand pushing off his baseball cap so you could run your fingers through his hair and grip the strands tightly. Your tongues danced messily together, tasting and exploring as his thrusts refused to slow or stop. Each stroke stretched you open wider, filling you completely and rubbing against every sensitive inch of your walls. The slick glide of his thick cock pumping in and out of your dripping pussy created constant wet sounds that mixed with your muffled moans into his mouth. The overwhelming fullness, the heat of his body pressed against yours and the taste of him on your tongue all blended into a storm of sensation that left you dizzy and desperate for more.
Eventually, your doorbell rang loudly through the house, the sound cutting cleanly through the heavy breathing and slick sounds of sex. Scott pulled back from your lips to look at you, eyes widening in brief surprise, yet his hips kept moving, driving his cock deep into you with relentless thrusts as if the interruption barely registered. You laughed breathlessly, both hands flying up to hide your face before he could see just how completely undone you had become, your expression wrecked every time he snapped his hips forward just right and ground against your clit. Between your splayed fingers, you watched his eyes flick toward the bedside table, lingering briefly on the box of condoms before returning to you. His brows pulled together, confusion settling across his face as he searched yours for an explanation.
“Were you serious?” He asked. Had sleeping with you that first night somehow triggered some carefully planned rotation of men? He wouldn't be angry and he wasn't exactly hurt, but the reality of someone else showing up at your door while still buried balls deep inside you was unfamiliar territory. Between your hands, your breathy laughter only deepened the crease between his brows, doing absolutely nothing to ease the knot forming in his stomach.
You suddenly gasped sharply, your hands flying away from your face to dig into his arms for support. “Fuck…fuck–fuck!”
“Yeah, I’d rather do it uninterrupted,” he muttered, breathing still uneven as he rested his forehead briefly against yours and kept thrusting into your soaked, clenching heat without missing a beat. “Who’s at the door?”
“Dinner…oh!” You whispered, the words cutting off as another orgasm hit you hard and fast. The pleasure exploded through your body with a heavy throb that made your cunt pulse and squeeze tightly around his cock, as fresh slick gushed out around him and you moaned loudly, the sound echoing through the room so intensely that you began doubting just how soundproof your house really was. You'd ordered pizza earlier as a simple thank-you for helping mount the television, a gesture that had seemed perfectly reasonable at the time but now, as the doorbell rang again, you couldn't help wondering whether it had ever been necessary. Judging by where the evening had ended up, you probably would've let him fuck you either way.
“Should have asked,” he started, voice strained as he forcefully pulled out of you with a loud, wet pop that left your empty pussy clenching and fluttering around nothing. He dropped to one knee, then the other, settling quickly on the floor at the foot of the bed and put his face right between your spread legs, staring hungrily at the sight of your puffy, glistening folds still twitching from the recent orgasm. “Usually like to start off with a sweet drink,” he said with a wicked grin before diving in without hesitation.
You moaned loudly, spine bowing off the mattress as his hot mouth offered sudden, intense relief and new pleasure after the constant stretch of his cock. Your shaky thighs rested heavily on his broad shoulders while his big, veiny hands wrapped firmly around them, massaging the trembling skin there and pulling you even closer against his face. His nose pressed and rubbed deliciously against your swollen clit with every movement, sending sharp sparks of overwhelming sensation shooting through your already sensitive body.
The first stroke of that wet muscle against your oversensitive flesh made you jolt, a high, keening whine escaping your throat as he peppered your soaked slit with slow kisses and gentle, exploratory licks, savoring the taste of your abundant arousal as it coated his lips and tongue. He licked broad stripes from your entrance up to your clit before circling the swollen bud with focused attention, the wet sounds of his mouth working you over filled the room alongside your ragged moans. The warmth of his breath, the wet heat of his tongue and the firm grip of his hands all combined to keep you right on the edge.
His lips sealed around your clit, sucking it hard momentarily before withdrawing solely to speak.
“I am all ears,” he prompted between kisses and licks, looking up at you with dark, hungry eyes while you still tried desperately to catch your breath but the longer you failed to answer him, the more indifferent he became, knowing he was gradually losing you to the pleasure again. One of his hands reached up your body, pinching your nipple between two fingers and rolling it firmly, making you gasp sharply at the sudden sting of pleasure. Your hand moved up instinctively to cover his, holding him there as he massaged the sensitive peak and soothed the sting away with slow but firm handfuls.
“Four,” you swallowed hard, voice coming out hoarse after the intensity of your previous orgasms. One hand fisted the sheets, knuckles light, as he alternated between deep, probing licks inside you and teasing, featherlight touches on your swollen nub.
“Mhm…almost half way there. That it?” he prompted, warm breath ghosting over your slick, swollen folds as he remained positioned between your spread thighs.
“Lost count,” you slurred, the words barely coherent as jolts of lingering pleasure made it difficult to focus on anything else.
He hummed in clear disappointment, slowly shaking his head while his eyes stayed fixed on your dripping pussy. This whole thing had become a test of restraint for him, he needed to know he could keep his composure at work, that he could sit across from you in a meeting room, argue over data and not immediately think about getting you in bed. What better way to prove it than by denying you while forcing himself to watch?
He released your breast, fingers trailing lightly down your side before pulling away, expression calm despite the battle he was clearly fighting with himself. “I don’t like the sound of that.”
Your lips curled into a tired but undeniably sultry smile, your tone teasing despite how thoroughly spent your body felt. “You’re already down there…and it’s clear we aren’t getting any pizza…so get to licking. I would hate for such a big man like you to go hungry.”
“I’ll stay down here…but you’re gonna put those pretty hands to use. Give me something to look at,” he replied, darkened eyes gleaming with hunger as he watched you intently from his position between your legs.
“You must not want to reach double digits that badly,” you teased, trying to maintain some semblance of control even as your core throbbed with fresh need. You stretched across the mattress with a quiet moan, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing just how much the denial had gotten to you.
“No, I do…just want you to want it too,” he admitted, gaze dropping down to your glistening, puffy pussy before lifting back to your face. He could see the subtle flicker of disappointment cross your features when he held back from giving you exactly what you craved. “If you saw how I cleaned a yogurt lid, you’d stop playing hard to get,” he grinned, voice dropping into that low, teasing register you were starting to love. “I know you’ve been thinking about it…that night, on your dining table…”
“You could just remind me,” you shrugged, attempting to sound indifferent while your body betrayed you completely.
“You could just earn it,” he shot back, refusing to give an inch.
Once again, you held challenging eye contact with him, the tension crackling between you as neither seemed willing to fold first, though the insistent, needy pulsing of your greedy pussy eventually won out.
Your hand moved lower with shaky determination, fingers inching across your lower belly until they reached your wet and puffy clit, while Scott’s eyes followed every movement hungrily, watching as your fingertips made contact with the glistening bud. Your cunt looked thoroughly used and beautifully plump, the outer lips engorged and parted to reveal the slick, shiny inner folds that still fluttered slightly from your release as clear arousal continued to leak slowly from your entrance, trailing down toward your ass and making everything look obscenely wet and inviting under the bedroom light.
You began rolling your clit gently under your fingertips, the direct stimulation sending sharp sparks of pleasure shooting through your tightly coiled body. A shaky huff escaped your lips as you threw your head back against the pillows, thighs trembling around his shoulders while he drank in the sight greedily, specifically the way your fingers moved in small, unsteady circles over your clit, occasionally dipping lower to spread your abundant wetness back up and make the entire area glisten even more.
Your pussy clenched visibly at the touch, the tight entrance winking and pushing out another bead of slick that slowly dripped down as your breasts rose and fell rapidly with each breath, nipples still hard and flushed from his earlier attention. The visual was almost too much for him, your body laid out open and responsive, fingers working your most sensitive spot while he watched from mere inches away.
He breathed a stream of cool air directly onto your heated flesh as he continued to observe every detail. “That’s it…you won’t have to do this much often, if you agree to just call me every time your fantasies aren’t cutting it,” he murmured, blowing another gentle puff of cool air across your clit that made your fingers falter for a moment and your hips bucked. “Let’s just remember to skip this part during our quarterly partner reviews.”
His eyes stayed locked on every movement of your hand, intense focus fraying as he failed not to lick his lips. This was the last time he'd let himself acknowledge how unprofessional this was. It was purely selfish now, the thought dissolving until it barely qualified as one.
“There you go,” he murmured, voice low and condescending in the most delicious way. “Look at you playing with that pretty pussy just because I told you to. I knew you could do it…and you almost didn’t complain.” He leaned in and puffed another stream of cool air directly onto your heated clit, making a shiver run through your thighs. “Keep those fingers moving…nice and slow just like that. I want to see exactly how you touch yourself when you’re thinking of me.”
Your breath hitched as you obeyed, rolling your clit a little firmer under your fingertips. You could feel his gaze burning into you, watching as your pussy fluttered and leaked more arousal with every circle. Your other hand moved up to squeeze one of your breasts, pinching your nipple as your hips started to rock subtly against your own hand.
“Attagirl,” he praised, the words dripping with smug satisfaction, watching with dark eyes as your entrance clenched hard in response and more slick dripped out. “So fucking greedy. Don’t you worry, I’ll stuff you right after, I promise…I’ll fill you up nice and deep once you cum for me like this. You know I’m a man of my word.”
The combination of his words, his watchful stare and the occasional bursts of cool air had you trembling. Your fingers moved faster, sliding easily over your slick clit as the pressure built heavier in your core, muscles tensing as you chased the frantic crescendo.
Scott’s hands stayed firmly on your thighs, holding you open wide so he could see everything.
“You’re getting close already, aren't you?” he teased, cocky and unbothered. “I can see it, your pussy’s clenching like it’s begging for my cock…but you’re going to cum on your own fingers first, huh?” He puffed more cool air directly onto your clit right as your fingers pressed firmer, the sudden sensation making you moan loudly and arch your back. “Look at that pretty pussy dripping everywhere. Such a good, messy girl for me…I’ll fuck you so deep you’ll feel me for days…just cum for me and it’s all yours.”
Your fingers moved desperately now, circling and rubbing your clit with increasing urgency as the pleasure coiled tighter in your belly. The slick sounds grew louder with a squelching noise that swallowed the room while your arousal dripped down in messy uncontrollable rivulets.
Scott kept watching intently, occasionally blowing cool air directly onto your hypersensitive folds to tease you, each breath made your hips jerk and your pussy flutter visibly while his praises never stopped, they were a continuous stream of condescending encouragement that pushed you closer to the edge, reminding you exactly who you were coming for.
He blew one final, longer stream of cool air right against your opening just as the tension snapped. Your spine curved like a drawn bow as molten heat spread through your entire body, making your cunt clench and flutter wildly as the internal muscles squeezed tight.
Your hard and engorged clit pulsed rhythmically under your fingers, sending fresh spasms to your nerves that kept the climax rolling. Loud moans spilled from your lips unrestrained as you lost all composure, you weren't just peaking, you were drowning in it, leaving you shaking, chest heaving and gasping for air.
Scott stayed right where he was, eyes fixed on every twitch and contraction of your soaked pussy, watching the way your walls continued to ripple and clamp down even as the intensity began to fade and ensuring he didn't miss a single second of you coming completely undone for him.
He pushed your thighs gently off his shoulders and moved up your body again, keeping his eyes locked on your face as you gasped, still trembling from the intense oblivion. His lips glistened with your arousal and the sight of him crawling back over you, cock heavy and painfully hard between his legs, sent another shiver through your exhausted body. “If I’d known a few orgasms would shut you up,” he said, voice rough with amusement, “I would’ve bent you over the back of the truck the first week.”
You grinned tiredly, chest still rising and falling rapidly as you watched him wrap a fist around his thick cock and pump it slowly over you. The sight was mesmerizing, veined hand sliding along the glistening length as the head flushed dark and leaked into the condom. “You wouldn’t have…otherwise you wouldn’t have discovered arguing turns you on.”
“Not something I’d advertise,” his voice had gone rough, any pretense of composure slipping..
“Too many names on the roster?” you asked absentmindedly, eyes following every stroke of his fist along his cock, mesmerized by the way the muscles in his forearm flexed with each movement.
“None you need to keep count of,” he grinned, positioning himself at your entrance and slowly sinking back into your pussy. The thick head stretched you open once more, sliding deep with a wet, smooth glide that made you moan loudly at the overwhelming fullness. Your walls fluttered and clenched around him, still sensitive and slick from everything he had already put you through. “Except for yourself.”
“That made five orgasms…” you started, smile deceptively soft as you ran your nails slowly up the nape of his neck, threading them through his hair. You took a firm handful and pulled back sharply, your smile turning razor-sharp as he groaned deep in his throat, cock twitching hard inside you. “Every time you make me work for an orgasm is a day I won’t spend in that office of yours…So start earning your quota, Miller.”
He let out a deep chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest as his hips began moving again, driving into you with renewed intent.
Numbers had never been Scott’s favorite part of the job, he was far more a man of action, preferring tornado chases and results over spreadsheets and tallies but if his tasks now included counting your orgasms and hunting something far more thrilling than any cloudburst, all while naked in your bed, he could definitely get behind it…or rather, on top.
⚠️ Please report wisely (Click the username, then select “Report”. Thank you for your help!)
A/N: If you enjoyed this story, feel free to explore the archive for more! Liking and reblogging helps others discover my writing and comments always make my day, they’re a huge encouragement for me to keep creating. Thank you so much for reading!
TAG LIST (currently includes people who requested a part 2 in the comments of "Lessons on sex" I’m open to having a tag list for Scott!): @thinchampagne @mxbluess22 @appreciatefics @girlwithbluehairrr
pairing: clark kent x fem!reader, clark kent x kryptonian!reader, platonic!kara zor el x fem!reader, platonic!kara zor el x kryptonian!reader
content: fluff, first meeting, love at first sight, the reader is kara’s childhood best friend who gets sent to earth with her, clark being an awkward sweetheart, clark being referred to as kal-el, language barrier, gentle flirting, hopeful ending, no mention of y/n, minor supergirl (2026) spoilers.
summary: in which kara mourns the loss of krypton while you flirt with her cousin.
author’s note: ik the dialogue for this scene was longer in the movie, but i’m basing this oneshot off the official clip posted to youtube. i hope y’all enjoy !!!
The cold found you before you ever opened your eyes.
Not the familiar, gentle chill of winter on Argo City.
This was different — sharp and biting, dry enough to sting with every breath. It seeped through your clothes and settled deep in your bones, carrying the unfamiliar scent of snow, ice, and air so impossibly pure it almost didn’t smell like anything at all. Your head felt heavy from interstellar travel, thoughts sluggish and slow to form as the pod hissed and groaned around you.
Beside you, Krypto let out a soft, uneasy whine.
“Kara,” you murmured in Kryptonese, rubbing at your temples.
“I think we’ve landed,” she replied quietly, her arms tightening around Krypto as her gaze swept cautiously across the pod.
For one dreadful, fleeting moment, your heart lurched.
Argo City. Your parents. The launch platform crowded with familiar faces — Kara’s father standing beside your mother and father, each of them wearing brave smiles that didn’t quite conceal their grief.
Your father’s final embrace had been so fierce it nearly stole the breath from your lungs.
“Live,” he’d whispered into your hair, his voice wavering. “Please…live for all of us.”
You swallowed around the ache lodged in your throat, refusing to cry.
The pod gave one final jolt before settling into an eerie silence. A shadow passed overhead. Then, without warning, sunlight poured into the pod as the upper half was effortlessly lifted away, as though it weighed no more than a sheet of paper.
Standing over you was…a man.
Dark hair. A brilliant blue suit, the crest of the House of El emblazoned proudly across his chest. A red cape streamed behind him, rippling in the Arctic wind.
And he was smiling.
It was the warmest, kindest smile you’d ever seen.
He raised his hand in a small, almost sheepish wave. “Hi there.”
The air caught in your lungs.
He was…incredibly handsome.
Beside you, Kara absentmindedly soothed Krypto as she spoke rapid Kryptonese. “Are you Kal-El?”
The man — Kal-El — blinked, momentarily thrown. “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t…” He hesitated, a faint, awkward laugh escaping him. “I don’t speak Kryptonian. I didn’t ever — shoot. I wasn’t raised there.”
Suddenly, he raised his voice, as though volume might bridge the language barrier. “I wasn’t raised there! Why am I talking louder?”
You pressed your teeth gently into the inside of your cheek, fighting off the laugh threatening to escape.
“Uh, let me help you,” he said, leaning down into the open pod and extending a hand towards you.
Your heart nearly stopped.
He was reaching for you first.
You hesitated for only a second before lifting your hand to meet his —
“WOOF!” Krypto barked sharply from the safety of Kara’s arms, the sudden sound making both you and Kal-El flinch.
“Krypto,” Kara said firmly in Kryptonese, scratching behind his ears. “Be good, buddy. Be good.”
The puppy gave a reluctant huff before settling, though he continued to watch him with unmistakable suspicion.
Kal-El merely smiled. “He’s a feisty little guy. It’s cute.”
Cute?
Your heart nearly melted.
“Is it okay if I…?” He slowly extended his hand towards you once more. This time, Krypto only answered with a low, reluctant grumble.
You slipped your hand into his. Warm — his hand was impossibly warm against your frigid fingers.
With effortless ease, he gently pulled you to your feet. “Watch your step,” he cautioned. “Might be slippery, so…”
Your boots sank into the snow.
An endless expanse of white stretched in every direction, untouched and shimmering beneath the pale sky. It was breathtaking. You’d never seen anything so beautiful — or so desolate.
Then he turned back, offering Kara the same steady hand. She accepted with a tight smile, carefully climbing from the pod while cradling Krypto in her arms.
A delighted bark echoed across the frozen landscape.
An involuntary smile tugged at your lips.
He made it. Krypto made it. For reasons you couldn’t quite explain, that made the loss feel just a little less unbearable.
Then your gaze wandered past the frozen horizon.
There.
A structure unlike anything you’d ever seen rose from the endless snow. Towering crystalline spires pierced the sky, their facets catching the sunlight and scattering it like a field of frozen stars. It felt less like a building and more like a living thing.
You and Kara came to an abrupt stop.
Kal-El noticed immediately, following your awestruck gaze to the immense fortress in the distance. “Yeah,” he said with a chuckle. “Pretty cool, huh?”
You exchanged a glance with Kara.
“Cool” wasn’t the word you would’ve chosen. Awe-inspiring. Imposing. Alien.
It was just familiar enough to remind you of home — and just different enough to make your chest ache.
He effortlessly scooped up both of your travel bags. “Don’t worry,” he said, setting off across the snow. “We don’t actually live here.”
You and Kara quickly fell into step behind him, your boots crunching over the frost-covered ground.
“There’s a lot more to Earth than this.” He glanced back with an easy smile, slowing long enough to face you and Kara. “Big cities, all kinds of things to do. And you’ll also learn to love this place just like I have.”
His optimism was…contagious.
You wanted to believe him.
You truly did.
Once he turned back around, Kara leaned in, lowering her voice as she spoke in Kryptonese. “Why is he in his underwear?”
Your gaze drifted over the bright blue suit, the red cape, the polished boots — and yes, the underwear — before settling back on Kara.
“I don’t know,” you whispered, a little too honest, “but he’s handsome.”
Kara stared.
You tugged your hood down, letting your hair fall loose from beneath the heavy jacket, quickly raking your fingers through it. Your eyes flicked up to the broad shoulders walking just ahead.
“How do I look?”
Your best friend frowned, visibly perplexed. “You look fine. Why?”
Instead of answering, you skipped ahead, snow crunching sharply beneath your boots as you caught up to him.
“Hi.”
Kal-El startled, nearly jumping in place — before his expression broke into a radiant grin. “Oh! You speak English?”
You nodded.
“That’s good,” he said, his shoulders easing as tension left his body. “I was worried you wouldn’t understand me at all.”
A laugh slipped out before you could catch it. “Don’t worry,” you replied, tilting your head with an easy grin. “You won’t have to raise your voice for me to understand.”
His ears turned the faintest shade of pink. “Right…” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish. “That was a little embarrassing.”
“A little.”
“I’ll recover.”
“I believe in you.”
He let out a laugh — an actual, unguarded laugh. The sound carried warmly through the empty Arctic air, momentarily softening the cold around you.
Behind you, Kara watched the exchange with all the enthusiasm of someone witnessing paint dry.
Seriously?
She’d spent days preparing herself for this — Earth, the unknown, Kal-El. Survival, more than anything else.
Krypton was gone. Their families were gone. Everything they had ever known had been left behind in the silence of space. And somehow — somehow — the very first thing her best friend did upon arriving to Earth was flirt with her cousin.
Kara pinched the bridge of her nose, clearly fighting off exasperation.
Kal-El glanced back towards her. “Is she okay?”
You turned slightly to look over your shoulder. Kara met you with the most unimpressed, stone-flat expression she could muster.
You smiled innocently. “She’s…adjusting.”
“I can imagine,” he said, his voice softening considerably. “It must’ve been hard.”
Hard.
As if that word could ever come close.
You thought of your father’s trembling smile, your mother’s tear-streaked farewell. Their faces disappearing from view — from your life — as the pod launched.
By the time you reached Earth, everyone you had ever loved would be nothing more than a memory.
Your smile wavered. “…Yeah.”
Silence settled between you for a fragile moment.
Then he slowed his stride, matching your pace so you weren’t trailing behind him anymore. “I know,” he said quietly.
You looked up at him.
“I wasn’t there,” he continued, his gaze fixed ahead. “But…I know what it’s like to lose Krypton.”
There was no trace of pity in his voice — only understanding. The kind that comes from surviving the impossible and carrying it with you anyway.
“It gets easier,” he added after a moment. “You never stop missing them. But eventually…” A faint, gentle smile touched his face. “Earth starts to feel like home.”
Something in your chest eased — just slightly.
“I hope so.”
“It will.”
The certainty in his voice was quiet but unwavering, as if the outcome had already been decided for you.
Behind you, Krypto suddenly wiggled free from Kara’s arms and bounded ahead, diving headfirst into a snowbank. His back legs kicked furiously as he tried to dig his way through it.
Kal-El blinked. “…What’s he doing?”
You laughed. “I don’t think he knows.”
As if personally offended by the accusation, Krypto popped back up, his nose completely buried in snow.
He sneezed — hard. The force sent him tumbling backward into yet another drift.
Kal-El broke into laughter — not the restrained, polite kind, but full, unguarded laughter that bent him slightly at the waist as he tried to catch his breath.
“Oh my gosh,” he said, wiping at the corner of his eye. “He’s amazing.”
Krypto barked with unmistakable pride.
You smiled.
Beside you, Kara let out the smallest, most reluctant laugh — then immediately masked it, as though it hadn’t happened at all.
You caught it anyway. So did Kal-El.
No one acknowledged it.
Some things didn’t need to be.
The three of you continued towards the towering fortress, your footprints trailing behind you across untouched snow.
The future was uncertain. Earth felt unfamiliar. Home was gone.
But as Kal-El spoke with easy warmth — about cities and food and languages and how Earthlings somehow managed to wage wars over whether pineapple belonged on pizza — you found your lips curving into a smile you hadn’t expected.
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Pairing - wc: David!Clark Kent x Gf!Reader - 2.4k
Summary: Clark tells you "it's fine" when you cancel on him again for work. Liar, Liar...
Tags: 18+, mdni, masturbation (m), detailed fantasy sequence (69, f + m receiving oral, p in v), Clark cums thinking about you, pussy pronouns, breeding kink, brief mention of pregnancy (no you are not) Established relationship, use of petnames (baby, hon, sweetheart), just stupid, unedited brainrot
I'll need to start tagging submissions as "finger lickin' good." gif by @ahrigifs
main masterlist | Mrs. Kent Diaries
Maybe he was in a rut.
Clark couldn't be certain, but the timing sure felt cruel. Silly. Damning. Devastating.
Like getting your period the morning of a long-planned seaside romantic getaway.
Three nights in a row, you’d called him honey-sweet and apologetic, exhaustion clearly dragging every syllable.
"It'll be another late night and early morning at work. All week, honestly." A tired yawn crackled through the receiver. "I think I’m going to crash at my place rest of the week, and see you this weekend. I’m so sorry, baby. I miss you, believe me."
Clark vehemently insisted there was nothing to apologize for, never mind the fever prickling beneath his skin, and that his cock jumped at the simple sound of your voice.
"How many times have I called you at ungodly hours for the same reasons? Deadline or disaster? Have you ever held it against me?" Was his counter, and before you replied with a deadpanned, "Actually, Clark, now that you bring it up..." He hurried on before you could finish.
He was A Man. A grown man who could survive five nights without making sweet, sweet passionate love to you.You needed to focus and rest, and he'd wait centuries to have your undivided attention if that was what loving you required. Fortunately, it was only until the weekend.
"I miss you, but most of all, I love you, sweetheart. It's fine!" All of this was said with his free hand locked around his knee, blunt nails pressing hard enough to leave pale crescents in the skin while he tried to force himself into believing it too.
But everyone knew the unspoken rule: anyone who said "it's fine!" that cheerful were liars.
.
The tension finally boiled over the second Clark stepped through his front door the following evening. He carelessly tossed his glasses and phone on his bedside table, pressed a fist to his mouth, and released a sigh heavy enough to empty his lungs.
Was it pathetic to be half-hard and aching just from missing you this badly? Or was that devotion? Yearning? Or, as Steve would undoubtedly tease with that little smirk, "whipped?"
Speaking of – Clark tugged his belt loose in a sharp tug. Dress shirt buttons followed. Zipper. Slacks shoved down his thighs, until he's whipping his cock from the confines of his slacks with a shaky, relieved sigh. The cool apartment air did nothing to help soothe the heat coursing through him.
If anything, fredom made the weight of his need more worse. The heavy pulse, the glossy bead already gathering at the slit, the way his length kicked against his stomach as though reaching for a body that wasn’t there.
He tried the cold shower first. Sensible, right? Stood under the icy spray, willing the rut to settle, willing his body to behave like the grown man he kept insisting he was. He rifled through unsexy thoughts: taxes, Perry's editorial calendar, the tamales Ma and Pa raved about when he last spoke to them.
Ninety seconds later, water was streaming over his closed eyes while every drop slipping down his chest became your fingers. Your palms spreading over his stomach. Your nails scratching lightly through the dark trail beneath his navel. Your warm mouth chasing the water lower, lower, until your knees struck tile and that pretty, wicked smile curved against the base of his cock.
He nearly broke the shower handle off with a frustrated growl, cock still brutally stiff between his legs, skin flushed crimson despite the chill.
In his haze, Clark climbed into the empty bed nude, triggering another cruel wave of reminders. Cold sheets welcomed him instead of your legs. Silence settled where your sleepy chatter should have been. No warm body curled beneath his arm. No soft complaint when he crowded too close. No hand wandering beneath waistbands because neither of you had ever been particularly convincing when pretending you only wanted to cuddle.
He stretched out across the sheets until his face buried into your pillow, inhaling the lingering scent of your shampoo, your shower gel, your favorite perfume dabbed behind your ear, you, you, you.
The scents went straight to his cock, and the urge hit like a meteor. With a pained whimper, Clark rolled onto his stomach and pressed his stiff, leaking member against the expensive sheets you bought when you first started spending the night.
Eight-hundred thread count, you’d told him proudly.
He wondered whether they were supposed to survive a sexually frustrated Kryptonian. Probably not.
.
The grinding began slowly, desperately, and experimental. Pleasure washed over him. Again, harder. Soon, wet smears marked every thrust, the motion creating a delicious friction against his sensitive tip, sharp enough to make his breath hitch.
Soon, slow wasn’t nearly enough to scratch that impossible itch.
His hips moved harder, faster, each desperate thrust leaving another damp streak across the fabric. His fists twisted into the sheets on either side of his head until the tendons rose along his wrists and the linen began to fray between his fingers. His tongue rested wetly against his bottom lip as he panted into your pillow, groaning each time his hips pressed down and the fabric dragged tightly along the underside of his cock.
The sounds spilling from him were embarrassingly primitive.
Low grunts. Broken breaths. A needy whine he would deny even under Kryptonite.
Eventually, they all melted into the only coherent thing he could say: your name.
Your name, muffled, over and over while your Clark humped the mattress in a poor attempt to fuck the fantasy of you out of his system. Bless his heart, it wasn't working.
If anything, it sharpened his hazy imagination into vivid, filthy focus. Your weight settling over him, knees planted wide on either side of his head, as you leaned forward in that sixty-nine position you’d joked about one too many times to make him suspect something.
You'd take his cock in hand with a slow stroke, press a kiss at the tip, stretching and hollowing your mouth around him until your nose brushed the heavy weight of his balls when you forced yourself deeper.
From underneath, he’d have the perfect view.
The generous curve of your plump ass hovered over his face. The delicate slope of your back arched deeper. The soft underside of your thighs framing his face while you lowered your core onto his mouth, already wet enough to leave a shining streak across his lips. His thumbs would dig into the soft flesh to keep you from clamping shut around his head while he buried his face between your legs. He would lick you messy, broad stripes through your puffy folds, sucking your clit until your hips bucked against his smothering mouth, then push his tongue into your dripping hole while the tip of his cock bruised the back of your throat.
You’d happily choke around his cock a little. The tight spasm of your throat wound squeeze the head.
Let your saliva spill down his shaft in warm, messy trails until it gathered along his happy trail, and he’d moan directly into your pussy,
"She's beautiful from this angle."
"She tastes so sweet."
"Shd clenched perfectly around my tongue just now. Please, sweetheart, please have Her do it again?"
Golly, Clark’s hips jerked hard enough to shove the mattress and frame several inches across the floor.
Continuing his fantasy, he would then coo about filling Her up so full, until She was overflowing with his come, until you were marked as his inside and out. At the same time, your mouth worked his cock with wet, sloppy determination, swallowing until your throat refused and pulling back with strings of spit still connecting your lips to the swollen tip.
He’d imagine you pulling off long enough to look over your shoulder, glassy-eyed and breathless, begging in a raspy voice to breed you, baby, put every drop where it belongs with his cum already on your tongue before he’d realize even giving it to you.
That scenario had Clark rutting faster, the bed creaking, squeaking, shifting under his barely-contained strength. His eyes suddenly flared hot with unrestrained heat vision, twin red beams scorching pinpoints through the mattress and most likely the floorboards before squeezing them shut.
Precum soaked a dark, sticky patch into the sheets beneath his cock, and his lower abdomen made every grind slick. A dark lock of hair clung to his forehead. His drool made the pillow damp against his cheek, and still.
Still, he couldn’t stop whining your name, couldn’t stop chasing the phantom sensation of your body molded along on his torso, and your slick coating his chin and dripping down his neck
Take him deeper. Sit down harder. Use his mouth.
Somehow, the fantasy deepened.
He’d pull you from his face and roll you beneath him before you finished. Your legs would be spread around his hips, knees pressed to your breasts while he lined himself up and pushed inside. He could almost feel you wet and hot around him. So, so tight after days apart that the first stroke would make both of you shake.
His mouth would cover yours while he fucked you open, tasting himself on your tongue and you on his lips. Every thrust would drive your body higher against the bed. Every needy sound you made would disappear into his mouth while the headboard struck the wall in a rhythm the neighbors could never mistake for anything else.
Mine. The word slid into the fantasy with frightening ease. My sweetheart. My girl. My perfect, exhausted Love
Spread beneath him and finally too ruined to think about anything else. Clark pictured his hand closing around your jaw, thumb slipping between your lips as he told you exactly what he intended to do.
Fill you, and keep filling you. Have my fingers gather my spend from your thighs and push it back deep before it tried to leak out again.
No matter how many times he admired the image of white from your swollen pussy, he groaned so loudly the windows trembled.
Gosh, how he wanted to breed you properly. To pin your hips down and fill you before the first load had stopped leaking.
Wanted your thighs sticky, your belly wet, the sheets beneath you soaked with both of you.
Wanted your voice exhausted because of him instead of work.
Until it stuck...or didn't.
The thought should have slowed him. Instead, it made his balls draw tight.
Did he want to watch your body change because of him? Did you? Or was this simply the rut talking? Some ugly, instinctive Kryptonian corner of him desperate to erase five lonely nights by marking you so thoroughly that even distance couldn’t make him doubt where he belonged—
With a mix of relief and disappointment, Clark came hard with a harsh cry of your name, hips jerking in short, punishing bursts as thick ropes of his spend spilled out onto the warm linen. More followed with each weakening thrust, hot come smearing along his cock and stomach as he continued to grind through the oversensitive aftershocks.
The orgasm left him shaking, heaving, and glazed in a cold sweat, drool still slick on his lips. His lips started to tingle from the real possibility of having you exactly like this on the weekend, letting him ruin you the same way he ruined these damn nice sheets, just more.
His spent cock give a weak, hopeful twitch.
.
The phone rang and Clark startled violently, eyes flying open as your name and that soft, smiling contact photo he’d taken one sleepy Sunday morning lit up the screen.
"Ahh, shoot!"
He fumbled for it, one frantic reach nearly sending the phone skidding off the table. He caught it on the second attempt and pressed it to his ear, swallowing against a throat gone dry, and breathing remained uneven.
Your suspicion came through the line immediately after his greeting."You sound funny. Everything okay?"
"Yeah—no, I’m fine." His voice cracked around the age-old lie. Clark cleared his throat, forcing something painfully casual into it. "Everything’s fine. Just… Superman duties, you know how it is. Tell me about your day."
You hummed, unconvinced, but too exhausted to press him. Instead, you continued talking, your voice low and worn-soft through the receiver, each affectionate little pause slipping beneath his skin. You told him about work, about a coworker who had nearly driven you insane, about the lunch you had forgotten to eat until far too late.
Clark listened, asked the right questions, and made the appropriate sympathetic noises between pauses. Guilt tightened his chest when you asked about his day, speaking to him in that drowsy voice you usually reserved for the minutes before falling asleep against his chest.
Unfortunately, another part of him remained painfully aware that you were lying in bed somewhere else. Perhaps wearing one of his old shirts you now claimed as yours. Perhaps curled on your side with bare thighs brushing together beneath the hem, touching the place where his body usually pressed against yours and missing him badly enough to ache too.
Clark knew better than to let his thoughts wander again, but then you called him baby once more.
His cock twitched against the cooling, sticky mess, then again. The spent length began to stiffen beneath his stomach, dragging slowly through his own come as blood rushed back into it.
Clark squeezed his eyes shut.
Your tired voice kept flowing through the phone, sweet and trusting, while he buried his face deeper into your pillow and inhaled what remained of your scent.
His hips shifted restlessly, chasing relief he had barely finished giving himself. Shame should have stopped him.
Instead, the idea that you were talking so innocently while he lay covered in his own release, getting hard again because you had called him baby of all things, made fresh need tighten low in his stomach.
Every filthy thought returned twice as vivid.
Your mouth. Your pussy. Your hoarse little plea to fill you.
How silly of him to think one damning orgasm would be enough.
pairing: clark kent x f!reader
summary: clark kent and you have been best friends since childhood. friendships shift and grow overtime and love sneaks in.
based on these prompts
words: 6.5k
content: fluff. clark kent loves yearning! suggestive-ish scenes (kissing). mentions of alcohol. reader knows clark’s secret(s). childhood friends to mysterious third thing to lovers. mentions of a break-up. blood mention. no use of y/n.
notes: this is kind of a mish mash of smallville kent and superman 2025. u can probably tell what actor im imagining in each scene lol
It started in Kansas. As everything with Clark Kent did.
i. a taunt with an eyebrow raised
“You’re taking Chloe to prom?” Your eyebrows were raised, pencil stalling against the homework in your binder. “As friends or as…” You trailed off. A smile tugged on your lips, eyebrows raising in question. They might have wiggled up and down. “I mean, I love you and all Clark, but–”
Clark inhales a breath, shaking his head. “I already know what you’re gonna say.” And because his mom had instilled a level of manners within him, “And I love you too.”
“Okay, good. Because you know I hate repeating myself.”
A roll of his eyes. His pencil is still scratching away at his own Chemistry worksheet. “Listen, my mom has already given me the same talk you give me,” His eyes glance up to yours, “you know, the one you give me every day. But my mom at least says it nicer.” He watches your features twist into a laugh. “That door is closed with Lana. And how will I know with Chloe if I don’t try?”
It had always been this way. Clark and you. Life began when you met Clark and not in some corny way either. Your first real memories were on the Smallville farm. Scraped knees, popsicles, and mud pies then the throes of puberty and teenage angst. Sure, there were times when you had found a new friend group or didn’t hang around Clark as much as you should have, but it didn’t matter because you were a permanent fixture in his life. You were invited to Thanksgivings, birthday parties, and vow renewals. Your picture hung on at least three walls in that farm house. One you knew for sure, a picture from Halloween where Clark and you had dressed up as two peas in a pod for the 5th grade costume contest. Martha had made the costumes. You were as close to family as it got. His mom had taught you how to make pie crust. His father had shown you how to drive a tractor. And Clark had told you everything there was to know and he never second guessed it.
And so it was normal to tell your best friend that you loved them. It was a text message, it was a goodbye, it was said in laughter and in strife. It was never a question. Clark isn’t sure when it began to mean something else. Because falling in love with you was easy.
For Clark, it was trying to pinpoint exactly when it happened. Falling in love with your best friend wasn’t always an obvious thing. Falling in love was coming back to a stream ten years later to see how much it had changed or the tree you carved your names into as teenagers somehow sprouting new branches years later. It was like the changing of seasons and you never quite saw the first signs of Spring until it was in full bloom. These things would sneak up on a person or maybe they were there all along and Clark had never been privy to it before.
ii. on a sunny tuesday afternoon, the late sunlight glowing in your hair
Clark remembers the first time he noticed how beautiful you were. That you weren’t just some snotty nosed kid anymore. Or an awkward tween who was growing into her skin, unsure of the new weight gain and haircut, unsure of if you applied lipstick the right way.
It was outside the barn, a Tuesday afternoon. The sun was setting behind the trees and you were sitting on the tractor with tears in your eyes. The Kansas sun caught in your hair just right and the red around your eyes did nothing to distract him from the fact that you were beautiful. And Clark said something to make you laugh, that wide smile on your face. He had wished he had a camera to capture the moment, breath getting caught in his chest. And maybe it was all for selfish reasons but he also wanted you to see exactly how he saw you. Beautiful and worth more than whatever guy had broken your heart in the tenth grade. A name you couldn’t recall years down the line.
“He said he just doesn’t like me anymore.” You hiccuped, the laughter that Clark had pulled out of you fading away.
Clark’s concern was always genuine. His eyebrows knitted together, a frown to accompany it. He’d rip his chest open just so you could see how his heart broke along with yours. “Well, that’s stupid.” And it was so Clark, so sincere and matter of fact that it put another smile on your face. “And I love you and I’ve put up with you this long and that’s never gonna change.” His hand hovers over your knee. Touch was different as teenagers, fewer and farther between than it used to be. But it didn’t stop, it just didn’t look the same as it used to. His thumb rubs circles into your knee, that supportive look on his face.
“Well, thanks.” You roll your eyes, shoving his hand away as your face grows a degree hotter. From the tears? “Come on. Fly me somewhere, that’ll really cheer me up.” You grin, trying to see if he’d finally break. You had been begging him for ages.
“Nice try.”
iii. as a hello
Clark wasn’t typically full of himself. When he started growing into his body as a teenager, people would tell him all the time that he was handsome, that he had good looks. It wasn’t something that he had really given all that much thought to. But preparing for prom was shaking loose a weird insecurity he didn’t even know he had. Did he fill out the suit nicely? Was it too big? Too small? Should he have gotten a haircut before tomorrow? Were the sleeves the right length? And when one insecurity sprouted, several more followed in their wake. He was standing in front of the mirror, poking and prodding at his face. The suit was still clad on his body.
“I love you, but what the hell are you doing?” Your voice suddenly comes from behind him.
Clark jumps, turning around to pierce you with a stare. A clear annoyance filling his eyes. He was not startled by much. And really, he should’ve been used to you popping up behind him or appearing behind the screen door of the kitchen. He wouldn’t be surprised if Martha and Jonathan had made you a spare key. Showing up to the farm unannounced might as well have been your love language. “I don’t have to answer that.” He frowns, smoothing down the front of his suit jacket.
“Nervous?” It was only mildly infuriating when you could read his mind. You're plopping down on his bed as you stare up at him. His bed was made meticulously, plaid comforter tucked into the sides. A bowl of chips in your lap as you wrinkled the blanket, did you help yourself to that or did his mom send you up here with a snack?
Clark shrugs, his body taking up the spot beside you. Your thighs press against each other on the twin bed as he’s reaching across to steal a handful of chips. Usually, you tease him, move it out of his grasp, but this time you’re offering it up to him. “I guess.”
“I hate to say it, Clark, but they might be right.” You swallow down a mouthful of chips, eyes sliding down his body. It’s almost a physical thing, your stare. He feels it on his skin. Typically he shies away from the attention, not this time. “You look… handsome.” You grimace, the words foreign coming out of your mouth. “But don’t tell anyone I told you so.”
Clark laughs and your presence alone has his nerves soothing, your words doing the rest of the job. There was no one more honest in the world to him. His parents could occasionally sugar coat things or wore rose colored glasses when it came to him. But you knew every part of Clark Kent, even the ones he didn’t want anyone to see.
iv. with a hoarse voice, under the blankets
It was all phases of life, too. It was always Clark Kent by your side in one way or another. Senior year of Metropolis University. A shared two bedroom apartment. It only lasted one lease period– you realized too late that a roommate with super-hearing wasn’t your cup of tea when you wanted to finally explore the dating scene in the big city. Well that and it brought a new phase of your friendship with Clark. One that neither of you could really understand or stand too long in. It was no longer the safety of Smallville. It was as close to real life as the two of you had tasted.
“Get up. Please.” Clark is fighting a losing battle. He can see your form underneath the blankets on your bed, shifting around in annoyance. Your entire body is covered by the comforter. No limbs peak out. He moves closer to the edge of your bed. You were hungover and Clark wasn’t going to let you live it down. He never let you live anything down. “Come on. I made you pancakes. They even have the worst smiley face ever in the middle and you can make fun of it and–”
Your arm reaches out from underneath your blankets to grab his arm, tugging him. This is the man who cannot be moved. And you knew this. “Come on, let me have this.” A typical phrase. He hears it when you want to win a play fight, when you want him to pretend a shove from you actually does anything. Clark will always cradle his arm in mock hurt, wincing till a knowing smile is shared between the both of you. He always relents. You pull him into the bed with you, the covers coming up to wrap around the both of you. “Clark Kent,” Your hands come up to your face, rubbing at your temples, “You’re giving me a headache.”
“Oh, me? I’m giving you a headache?” A small amount of sunlight filters through the blanket. Your hair is unruly. You’re in one of his t-shirts, threadbare and stretched out, but it’s ridden up your thighs, twisted around your belly. He does not stare. He does not ogle and especially not at his best friend. Clark Kent has always prided himself on that even as his eyes make their way up the rest of your body. “It has nothing to do with last night? Oh and by the way, you’re welcome for picking you up last night. You always get so touchy when you’re drunk and–”
You shove him. “One last warning, Clark. I’m serious.” You grumble, feet moving to push at his body too as if that will do anything your arms couldn’t. “Get out of my fortress.” His fingers dance at your ankles. “And bring me my pancakes.”
“As you wish, ma'am." He’s sliding out of your bed, his fingers tickling their way down your ankles, your toes, a giggle eliciting from underneath the blanket.
If he didn’t have super hearing maybe he wouldn’t have picked up on it so well. “Love you.” You grumble begrudgingly, twisting the blanket back around your body.
Clark smiles and his heart flips in his chest. But it’s the one that happens sometimes with you. When he’s so grateful to have you in his life and of course hearing your best friend say they love you would do that to anyone.
v. when we kissed for the first time
It all started to warp around this time, deep in his belly and twist up into something he couldn’t quite name.
And it wasn’t a weird request. It wasn’t, you had reassured yourself. Maybe you had too much to drink during game night, but Clark was always the person you could go to. Nothing was awkward with him. I mean he had probably glimpsed you naked before and overheard you after a date and you shared a bathroom and a space and you grew up together and it wasn’t weird. It wasn’t. And now you two sit alone in your apartment, the moonlight leaking through the curtains.
“Please?” Your pupils are blown. You swallow some of the spit that had gathered in your mouth. You’re starting to regret asking, but his fingers are still sliding over your calves, soothing. Your legs in his lap as you sit across from him on the small couch. He’s got that look on his face, deep in thought. Clark Kent has to weigh every outcome. He’s had to do it ever since he started realizing the magnitude of his abilities, what came with them. He found people's emotions to be the same way, that they weren’t something to take lightly.
“You’re drunk. I love you and you’re drunk.” He decides, hands going still on your legs. He watches your face for a reaction. God, how he wishes one of his abilities was to understand what was going on in your brain. All this time and he still didn’t have it down to a science.
Your lip is drawn between your teeth as you move to sit on your knees, fingers coming out to rest lightly on his chest, his shirt underneath your fingertips. “Clark.” Your eyes shine with emotion. He’s not sure if it’s him that hurt you or if it’s the reason you’re asking for such an absurd thing. “Two guys have told me that I kiss weird. Two. Not just one. And you’ve always been honest with me. I mean remember when I tried to switch up my style and no one told me for weeks that I looked–” You sigh, eyes falling to stare at your hands on his chest. “That’s besides the point, but I mean, what if it’s true? And what if I never fix it and you, Clark Kent, had the chance to tell me? Or should I go through my life never knowing?” The dramatics were not lost on you. Had you been sober, it would have been a funny conversation. One that Clark could easily talk you out of. He would have reassured you that guys your age were simply trying to get under your skin, trying to create a sense of self-doubt. But that wasn’t the point. Not now. The point was his best friend is on her knees across from him, begging for something as simple as a kiss.
Clark hates seeing you so upset. “Listen–”
You drop back against the couch, whining, fingers rising to hide your face. Clark only used that tone of voice to soothe your anxieties, when he knew you were embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have asked. M’sorry.”
Your words fall on deaf ears as Clark is leaning over the space between you. His large hands gather up your face before he has his common sense come back to him. Your eyes meet for the briefest moment. Your breath hitches as he finally closes the gap, lips moving against your own. It’s the sort of thing you probably should have prepared for. Maybe set some ground rules, but there’s no rule book and wow, you’ve never kissed your best friend's plush lips before. There's suddenly no space between you as he’s crowding you against the arm of the couch. Lips move against each other, drowning in the new feeling. It’s open-mouthed and desperate. He’s pulling you closer, tongue swiping across your bottom lip, wanting to know exactly how you react to that. Your chest pushes closer to his own, craving to close the last bit of space between your bodies. A whine from you then a groan from him, both swallowed by the kiss.
Realization only dawns when you’re struggling to breathe. You pull away to catch your breath. Clark’s lips chase yours. “Well. You don’t kiss weird.” You decide before the real thoughts and emotions try to catch up with you. Clark didn’t need to breathe, he probably could’ve done that forever and been happy.
“I don’t think that was the test.” Clark is clearing his throat, red splotches appearing underneath his collar, rising to his face. “You, uh, you don’t kiss weird. Either.” He has to get out of here immediately. Preferably off planet, but he’d settle for his room.
He doesn’t have to make that decision though because you’re standing up, smoothing down your clothes like it was something clinical and it was just what you expected to happen and not earth shattering. He almost feels sad, nervous, ansty. He didn’t think that was something to just move on from. And it’s all catching up to him now. No preparation before the world ends would do that to a person.
You’re trying to save face. “I’m tired, Clarkie. I’m gonna head to bed.”
You’re almost to your room when he speaks up. “They were just trying to get under your skin, you know?”
You smile, “I know, Clark.”
vi. on a post-it note & in a way i can’t return
love u. wont be home tonight get dinner without me xx
The post-it was stuck to his bedroom door when he got home from class. He snatches it off his door as he pushes it open, grumbling as he does. Clark Kent wouldn’t describe himself as a grumpy person, but it seemed to be more of a common occurrence lately than any other emotion.
It was towards the end of your lease together that you started seeing someone consistently. It didn’t bother Clark, of course not. I mean sure, it was your weekly dinner night together and college had been so busy that he felt like he hadn’t been seeing you as much. You spent less and less time at the apartment and more at your boyfriends, but that’s all it was. That sinking feeling in his chest. It was normal. It was normal to get jealous that your friend blew you off for a date.
Life had resumed rather normally after you kissed for the first time. Because what else was there? (Denial was a pretty powerful emotion). You had been best friends since forever and a single kiss wasn’t going to change that. It was a blip in the grand scheme of everything else you guys had lived. But feelings simmered below the surface and this feeling, whatever it was, was a way to shake them loose.
He had typed out a long message and then subsequently erased it about a thousand times. He decided it was better to just talk to you when you finally got home. Except he doesn’t hear the front door open until the following night.
“You’re home.” Clark’s voice has an air of relief in it, but his annoyance tinged it. “Finally.”
Your eyebrows raise as you reach inside the fridge to grab a drink before you’re turning around to look at him from the kitchen. “What, are you my mother now?” You have no idea what you’re in trouble for, but your tone conveys the sentiment: how dare he police you?
“Oh, come on.” He rolls his eyes, standing up from his place on the couch. “You totally blew me off yesterday!” Clark doesn’t mean to raise his voice right now. It’s not in his nature, but neither is the jealousy low in his belly. He’s itching for a fight with you. Because there’s no one easier to pick a fight with than someone you know like the back of your hand. “You totally blew me off and then left me this little sticky note like it makes up for it.” The pink post-it is clutched in his fist, his eyebrows down turned. A near pout on his lips.
You scoff. “You can’t be serious.” You take a few steps from the kitchen to close the distance, staring him down. “You used to do this shit all the time.”
Clark’s mouth flaps like a fish before he shuts it completely. Thinking, rolling his reply around his head. “Not like this.”
“You don’t get to take the moral high ground here. You used to stand me up all the time to gawk at Lana!”
“That was high school. This is different.” The man of steel who refuses to break. Who refuses to acknowledge that it really isn’t all that different because his feelings are hurt and you don’t just get to get away with that.
“Please, Clark.” You scoff. “That was only a few years ago. I’m not doing this with you.” You’re retreating to your bedroom because the only thing that worked with Clark Kent was to let him simmer off, let the anger or whatever he was feeling evaporate till he would knock on your door later, puppy dogs eyes and all to beg for forgiveness.
He can’t help himself as he watches you leave, “I love you.” And there’s nothing else accompanying it. Plain as day, his feelings. They hang in the air around him. The words sound different coming out of his mouth. Maybe because he feels different, has nothing changed for you? He doesn’t want you to go to your room and wallow and he doesn’t want to do the same. Clark doesn’t want to go to bed mad and work through it by himself. But his voice sounds pleading and his heart is on his sleeve and he doesn’t want to ruin this, ruin you or your happiness. How do the words he’s said a thousand times feel different coming out? He tries again. “You drive me crazy and I love you.” Was that better? Was that normal?
“Living together is turning us into a married couple, Clark.” You joke, sparing a single glance back to him before you’re closing your bedroom door on him.
vii. before you fall asleep
“Can you come walk me home?” You sniffle on the other side of the phone.
Clark had picked up immediately. It didn’t matter that it was 2AM and his final project presentation was tomorrow. When you rang, he answered. Clark was nothing if not a man of principle. Sturdy and consistent.
Clark is appearing in front of you before you even had the chance to start crying again. You had calmed yourself down, but the feeling of getting broken up with sort of just ebbed and flowed. One minute it’s a blessing in disguise and then next you’re not sure how to go on, how life resumes after your heart is broken. “Hi.” A smile sneaks its way onto your face, a sort of self-pitying one as your best friend looks down at you. You're thankful he’s the type to refrain from saying ‘I told you so.’ “Well. It’s over.”
Clark is nodding, arms immediately moving to wrap around your frame. “That’s alright. You’ll be alright.” His hands are smoothing down your hair. His cheek is pressed against the crown of your head then his lips. A reassuring kiss for his own selfish needs. He doesn’t move to pull away, not even when your breathing evens out and your body is slacking against his own. He knows you’d pull away when you’re ready.
Grateful for his sturdy body as your weight leans against his, you pull your head back to look up at him. Your arms are wrapped around him, no space between you. You seek comfort in his eyes. “Am I an idiot?” Your lips flatten. “Don’t answer that.”
His hand is against your cheek now. Your broken heart can only remember your lover doing that. Clark is only reminded of the last time he cupped your face in his hands. How it changed the way he looked at the world. At you. “Come on, let’s get you home.” His thumb is gathering the little bit of wetness underneath your eyes, wiping it away. And he can’t help but think you look just as beautiful as the first time he noticed. The streetlights glinting in your eyes. A slight breeze makes your hair dance. Your lips always seemed fuller after you cried. You lick your lips, wanting to say something and all it does is make his resolve break. He has to tear his eyes away. Because it isn’t the time.
Clark pulls away, hand instead finding your own as he moves to begin walking you down the street.
It’s easier to let everything out when Clark is by your side and the streets of Metropolis are under your feet. The relationship was probably doomed to fail, you told Clark. The ex-boyfriend was constantly jealous of your close relationship with Clark, but in the end had been projecting his own secrets onto you.
All Clark could do was listen and refrain from commenting because he only got angry thinking about how you deserved to be treated better. That no one really deserved you. And really, it wasn’t hard to be good to you. You made it easy. You were kind and funny. Sometimes you’d even do the dishes and cook instead of him doing both every time. You gave thoughtful gifts and always listened with an open heart. Sure, you had trouble backing down from a fight, probably cussed too much, and could get caught up in the small details. You could be on edge when you felt insecure. But Clark had always softened you. Your sharp edges have eroded over time and how dare someone try and take advantage of that?
There’s comfortable silence on the walk home after you get the rest of your feelings in the open air.
“Do you ever get annoyed having to walk? You know at a human pace?” He can tell you’re feeling better, but it’s a genuine question too.
Clark shakes his head, grip tightening on your hand. “No. Especially not with you.” A pause to pass you one of his smiles. He takes care with the question. Clark had struggled with identity for so long growing up and even now. What it meant to be human, how much of him even was? “I mean, I’ve always had to practice ‘normal.’ And my parents never pressured me to hide at home, but I sort of like doing things… normally. Walking, having to hold back my strength. Practicing being gentle even though my powers are the exact opposite.” His eyes flit over to your own. “This wasn’t just another attempt at getting me to fly you home, was it?”
“Now that you mention it…”
“Still not happening.”
When you’re finally home, Clark is bringing the covers up over your frame, fingers gently prodding the blanket into your sides. You let him dote on you because Clark is nothing if he doesn’t feel needed. He’s always needed to take care of others. Plus, you knew his mom had taught him how to perfectly tuck a person into bed and there was nothing better than Martha’s advice to cure a break up. You’re sure he’s already called her while you were getting ready for bed. Tomorrow would be movies and ice cream with a signature Kent recipe sent to Clark’s email.
“Okay?” Clark’s hands smooth down the blanket, concerned eyes rarely leaving you.
You want to laugh only because he’s so serious about the process. “Yes, Clark.”
“You don’t need anything else?” He doesn’t want to leave your bedroom. He probably should’ve suggested that he tuck you into his bed instead. It was bigger, he had the softer blankets, and he could easily grab you whatever you needed throughout the night. Because it was that serious to him. It wasn’t because he couldn’t remember the last time you shared a bed or that he would give anything to ease the ache in your chest. Or that he wanted you to curl into his side, hands holding onto him to ground yourself through the feelings. But that was selfish. And he wasn’t. Not this time.
Your eyes catch his before he can make it away from your bed. “Do I say it enough?”
“Say what enough?”
“That I love you. That I appreciate you. That I couldn’t do any of this without you.” And it’s probably a silly image, your head poking out of the covers, the blankets wrapped tightly around you as you pour your heart out to your best friend. Because it was so easy to be open with him. Because he would always do it right back.
“Took the words right out of my mouth, honey.” A kiss pressed to your forehead and a goodnight. He doesn’t linger.
viii. as we huddle together, a storm raging
Even after your lease ends, Clark and you see each other weekly. Daily when you finally secure a position alongside him at the Daily Planet.
Work is over and it’s pouring rain outside the building's doors as you’re about to step out onto the street.
“Oh, come on! The one morning I didn't check the weather app.” You grumble, tugging Clark’s arm back inside as he tries to brave the storm anyway, but it doesn’t stop him. “Clark! I am not walking home in this.” But he’s not listening as he moves out into the rain. You watch his glasses become foggy, his hair sticking to his forehead seconds after walking out.
“I have an idea. Come with me.” A hand held out to you. Unfortunately, your best friend never needs to convince you much.
You're standing in the alley by the Daily Planet. Clark’s arms wrapped around you as he shields you from the rain with his body. “What sort of idea is this?” You grumble, afraid you’d grow cold from the rain, but Clark luckily has always had enough body heat for the both of you.
“I love you. Don’t be mad.”
“Why would I be –” But you can’t get the rest of your thought out because Clark is launching you into the air at what feels like break neck speeds (to you, an inexperienced flyer, to Clark, it’s nothing). His hand is holding the back of your head, his other pressed to your lower back. “Clark- Clark.” You’re gasping for breath, fingers clutching onto his clothes, afraid to look around you. Your face is half buried into his chest. How many times had you begged him for this exact thing and now he finally relented? During a rain storm? But by some miracle, the rain clouds are subsiding and the sun begins to peak out the same time you do.
“What do you think?” Clark’s got a stupid grin on his face. You would hit him if you weren’t so afraid to let go.
“Ever since you became Superman, you’ve been kind of an ass.” His confidence had shot up ever since he started proving himself to the world. (We aren’t in Kansas anymore, he had said to you one day) (You totally stole that, you had responded). You want to stick your tongue out at him, but it’s hard to even fake mad when you can see the city from this angle.
Your body weight is completely suspended by Clark, body pressed against his in a way he can’t recall ever happening. Maybe he should’ve done this before. The awe in your eyes is enough to convince him of that. Especially when you’re turning your face back towards his and he should kiss you. You aren’t living together anymore and you’re not teenagers and you’re not heartbroken, but he can’t bring himself to do it because how perfect are you like this?
ix. broken, as you beg me not to leave
It’s a quiet night in your apartment when a muffled bang comes from your fire escape. Then a gentle rap of knuckles against your window.
“Clark?” You’re already questioning as you pull the window open. On the fire escape stands Superman. “What happened, are you okay?” You’ve never seen him like this as you help him through the window. Part of his weight is leaning against your side as you lead him to the couch. It’s always been him supporting you. Bile wants to rise up in your throat at the thought of having to be the strong one. “Clark, talk to me.” You plead, kneeling between his legs. Hands and eyes search over his suit to find the problem. The area around his eyes is red like a rash, his shoulders slumped. There’s a large gash to his stomach and blood is staining the blue fabric.
“M’okay.” Is all he can manage.
“Clark, you do not look fucking okay.” Your heart rate is rising as you rustle for something to press to his wound. A forgotten t-shirt and your hands press into his stomach. Clark grunts from the pressure, hands coming to rest over your own. His hands, your hands, stained red. “Please, tell me what to do.” Your eyes are starting to fill with tears, not used to these feelings when it comes to Clark. Clark Kent was the structure in your life, the steadiness of your heart, your rock. “I love you. Please don’t die.” It might have sounded funny in any other scenario, but not when your supposed to be indestructible best friend is bleeding out on your couch.
“Just need a minute, sunshine.” His voice already sounds stronger, but his eyes are screwed shut from whatever pain he’s feeling. You can’t imagine what it took to get him this way and your stomach sinks. “Just–just don’t leave.” His hands are still holding onto your own, but one moves to intertwine with yours. Blood is already drying between your interlocking fingers.
“A minute?!” You had hoped your voice would come out level, but it betrays you. “You’re not going back out there, are you?”
“H-have to.” Clark manages to meet your eyes, wanting to crumble right back into your couch at the concern in your eyes.
“No. No, you do not ‘have to’.” Your hand pulls away from his own as you begin to pace in front of him. You stop, your stare piercing him to the couch. “Clark, you do not have to do any of this.”
He frowns, wanting to smooth out the crease between your eyebrows. Clark hates causing you strife. “You know I do.” Clark had come to terms with it a long time ago. That he did not just belong to himself. That his abilities did not just belong to himself.
Your voice breaks. “Please, don’t go back out there. I can’t- I can’t lose you.” Words fall on deaf ears as Clark struggles to bring himself up from the couch, body stumbling back to the window. “Clark, please. I love you. Don’t do this.” You don’t care if you’re begging. You don’t care about the tears falling from your eyes. You just want him to be safe. Your body moves in front of him, but you don’t stop him. You just move to support his weight as you help him onto the window sill. His body is still pointed in your apartment, but you can tell he’s finding the rest of his strength to return to the fight.
“I love you. I promise. I’m okay.” He moves his hand from the gash. His skin is already weaving back together. The dried blood is the only reminder.
Your hands press into his cheeks, tilting his head up to look at you from his seat on the window sill. Clark’s eyes shine, blue eyes pouring into your own everything that was unsaid. The skin held beneath your fingers tingled, when have you ever looked at him like this? “Clark.” The rest of the words you want to say are lodged in your throat. Because expressing what you really need to say to him was impossible so for once, you settle with a kiss. His face between your hands, your body between his legs as you lean down and press your lips to his. Clark’s hands slide against the back of your legs, holding the back of your thighs as he cranes his neck to meet your kiss.
The kiss is not desperate this time; it is a vow. It means everything the second time around. That everything will fall into place around it. The entirety of your lives seemed to tilt inward to this moment. You know it won’t make him stay. You don’t want him to stay. You knew Clark, knew where his heart lies and that a piece of it now belonged to you, how it always did.
x. with no space left between us
You’ve grown shy underneath his gaze. Your eyes landing anywhere but his face.
Clark had come by later in the night to find you still awake. A bedside lamp was left on to call him home. You had followed the rest of the night in front of your television. He had peeled off his bloody suit for a pair of his pajamas that you had kept in your drawer. The bruises on his body had turned from black to a light yellow in a matter of hours. And despite everything he had dealt with in the last few hours, the only thing that remained on his mind was the feeling of your lips.
“Come on.” Clark offers his hand, that black strand of hair tickling his forehead after his shower. Your room is covered in a soft glow as he pulls you towards the bed. “What changed?” He comments on your demeanor.
“I–” You start to say before closing your mouth. It’s impossible to articulate. It’s like waking up after a deep sleep or plunging into cold water, but with this familiarity you’ve known your whole life. It’s like finding out a secret that your intuition knew all along. “Nothing.” You decide. Or everything, you might add if his hands weren’t distracting you.
“Exactly.” Clark’s fingers dance against your bare thighs as your skin prickles in their wake. There is something between you that wants to break. A live wire that only Superman could touch with his bare hands. “I love you.” The same words you’ve heard a thousand times, but this time, they immediately bring a warmth to your face. You want to shy away, but you lean in instead, fingers sliding over Clark’s.
“I love you too.” You clear your throat, bringing his hand up to press against your chest. Over your heart. Clark can feel it underneath his hand. The steady beat of your heart against your ribs. He knows what you’re conveying: that he has a piece of you too and always did. You don’t have to say anything else as you’re closing the distance between the two of you for the second time that night. But you both had hours to sit with the feelings, about what it meant and where it went from here.
Your chests are pressed together, bodies clinging to each other, both whispering, ‘I love you’ between the kiss and letting it settle there. Right where it was always meant to be, with no space between you.
pairing: clark kent x f!reader
summary: clark kent and you have been best friends since childhood. friendships shift and grow overtime and love sneaks in.
based on these prompts
words: 6.5k
content: fluff. clark kent loves yearning! suggestive-ish scenes (kissing). mentions of alcohol. reader knows clark’s secret(s). childhood friends to mysterious third thing to lovers. mentions of a break-up. blood mention. no use of y/n.
notes: this is kind of a mish mash of smallville kent and superman 2025. u can probably tell what actor im imagining in each scene lol
It started in Kansas. As everything with Clark Kent did.
i. a taunt with an eyebrow raised
“You’re taking Chloe to prom?” Your eyebrows were raised, pencil stalling against the homework in your binder. “As friends or as…” You trailed off. A smile tugged on your lips, eyebrows raising in question. They might have wiggled up and down. “I mean, I love you and all Clark, but–”
Clark inhales a breath, shaking his head. “I already know what you’re gonna say.” And because his mom had instilled a level of manners within him, “And I love you too.”
“Okay, good. Because you know I hate repeating myself.”
A roll of his eyes. His pencil is still scratching away at his own Chemistry worksheet. “Listen, my mom has already given me the same talk you give me,” His eyes glance up to yours, “you know, the one you give me every day. But my mom at least says it nicer.” He watches your features twist into a laugh. “That door is closed with Lana. And how will I know with Chloe if I don’t try?”
It had always been this way. Clark and you. Life began when you met Clark and not in some corny way either. Your first real memories were on the Smallville farm. Scraped knees, popsicles, and mud pies then the throes of puberty and teenage angst. Sure, there were times when you had found a new friend group or didn’t hang around Clark as much as you should have, but it didn’t matter because you were a permanent fixture in his life. You were invited to Thanksgivings, birthday parties, and vow renewals. Your picture hung on at least three walls in that farm house. One you knew for sure, a picture from Halloween where Clark and you had dressed up as two peas in a pod for the 5th grade costume contest. Martha had made the costumes. You were as close to family as it got. His mom had taught you how to make pie crust. His father had shown you how to drive a tractor. And Clark had told you everything there was to know and he never second guessed it.
And so it was normal to tell your best friend that you loved them. It was a text message, it was a goodbye, it was said in laughter and in strife. It was never a question. Clark isn’t sure when it began to mean something else. Because falling in love with you was easy.
For Clark, it was trying to pinpoint exactly when it happened. Falling in love with your best friend wasn’t always an obvious thing. Falling in love was coming back to a stream ten years later to see how much it had changed or the tree you carved your names into as teenagers somehow sprouting new branches years later. It was like the changing of seasons and you never quite saw the first signs of Spring until it was in full bloom. These things would sneak up on a person or maybe they were there all along and Clark had never been privy to it before.
ii. on a sunny tuesday afternoon, the late sunlight glowing in your hair
Clark remembers the first time he noticed how beautiful you were. That you weren’t just some snotty nosed kid anymore. Or an awkward tween who was growing into her skin, unsure of the new weight gain and haircut, unsure of if you applied lipstick the right way.
It was outside the barn, a Tuesday afternoon. The sun was setting behind the trees and you were sitting on the tractor with tears in your eyes. The Kansas sun caught in your hair just right and the red around your eyes did nothing to distract him from the fact that you were beautiful. And Clark said something to make you laugh, that wide smile on your face. He had wished he had a camera to capture the moment, breath getting caught in his chest. And maybe it was all for selfish reasons but he also wanted you to see exactly how he saw you. Beautiful and worth more than whatever guy had broken your heart in the tenth grade. A name you couldn’t recall years down the line.
“He said he just doesn’t like me anymore.” You hiccuped, the laughter that Clark had pulled out of you fading away.
Clark’s concern was always genuine. His eyebrows knitted together, a frown to accompany it. He’d rip his chest open just so you could see how his heart broke along with yours. “Well, that’s stupid.” And it was so Clark, so sincere and matter of fact that it put another smile on your face. “And I love you and I’ve put up with you this long and that’s never gonna change.” His hand hovers over your knee. Touch was different as teenagers, fewer and farther between than it used to be. But it didn’t stop, it just didn’t look the same as it used to. His thumb rubs circles into your knee, that supportive look on his face.
“Well, thanks.” You roll your eyes, shoving his hand away as your face grows a degree hotter. From the tears? “Come on. Fly me somewhere, that’ll really cheer me up.” You grin, trying to see if he’d finally break. You had been begging him for ages.
“Nice try.”
iii. as a hello
Clark wasn’t typically full of himself. When he started growing into his body as a teenager, people would tell him all the time that he was handsome, that he had good looks. It wasn’t something that he had really given all that much thought to. But preparing for prom was shaking loose a weird insecurity he didn’t even know he had. Did he fill out the suit nicely? Was it too big? Too small? Should he have gotten a haircut before tomorrow? Were the sleeves the right length? And when one insecurity sprouted, several more followed in their wake. He was standing in front of the mirror, poking and prodding at his face. The suit was still clad on his body.
“I love you, but what the hell are you doing?” Your voice suddenly comes from behind him.
Clark jumps, turning around to pierce you with a stare. A clear annoyance filling his eyes. He was not startled by much. And really, he should’ve been used to you popping up behind him or appearing behind the screen door of the kitchen. He wouldn’t be surprised if Martha and Jonathan had made you a spare key. Showing up to the farm unannounced might as well have been your love language. “I don’t have to answer that.” He frowns, smoothing down the front of his suit jacket.
“Nervous?” It was only mildly infuriating when you could read his mind. You're plopping down on his bed as you stare up at him. His bed was made meticulously, plaid comforter tucked into the sides. A bowl of chips in your lap as you wrinkled the blanket, did you help yourself to that or did his mom send you up here with a snack?
Clark shrugs, his body taking up the spot beside you. Your thighs press against each other on the twin bed as he’s reaching across to steal a handful of chips. Usually, you tease him, move it out of his grasp, but this time you’re offering it up to him. “I guess.”
“I hate to say it, Clark, but they might be right.” You swallow down a mouthful of chips, eyes sliding down his body. It’s almost a physical thing, your stare. He feels it on his skin. Typically he shies away from the attention, not this time. “You look… handsome.” You grimace, the words foreign coming out of your mouth. “But don’t tell anyone I told you so.”
Clark laughs and your presence alone has his nerves soothing, your words doing the rest of the job. There was no one more honest in the world to him. His parents could occasionally sugar coat things or wore rose colored glasses when it came to him. But you knew every part of Clark Kent, even the ones he didn’t want anyone to see.
iv. with a hoarse voice, under the blankets
It was all phases of life, too. It was always Clark Kent by your side in one way or another. Senior year of Metropolis University. A shared two bedroom apartment. It only lasted one lease period– you realized too late that a roommate with super-hearing wasn’t your cup of tea when you wanted to finally explore the dating scene in the big city. Well that and it brought a new phase of your friendship with Clark. One that neither of you could really understand or stand too long in. It was no longer the safety of Smallville. It was as close to real life as the two of you had tasted.
“Get up. Please.” Clark is fighting a losing battle. He can see your form underneath the blankets on your bed, shifting around in annoyance. Your entire body is covered by the comforter. No limbs peak out. He moves closer to the edge of your bed. You were hungover and Clark wasn’t going to let you live it down. He never let you live anything down. “Come on. I made you pancakes. They even have the worst smiley face ever in the middle and you can make fun of it and–”
Your arm reaches out from underneath your blankets to grab his arm, tugging him. This is the man who cannot be moved. And you knew this. “Come on, let me have this.” A typical phrase. He hears it when you want to win a play fight, when you want him to pretend a shove from you actually does anything. Clark will always cradle his arm in mock hurt, wincing till a knowing smile is shared between the both of you. He always relents. You pull him into the bed with you, the covers coming up to wrap around the both of you. “Clark Kent,” Your hands come up to your face, rubbing at your temples, “You’re giving me a headache.”
“Oh, me? I’m giving you a headache?” A small amount of sunlight filters through the blanket. Your hair is unruly. You’re in one of his t-shirts, threadbare and stretched out, but it’s ridden up your thighs, twisted around your belly. He does not stare. He does not ogle and especially not at his best friend. Clark Kent has always prided himself on that even as his eyes make their way up the rest of your body. “It has nothing to do with last night? Oh and by the way, you’re welcome for picking you up last night. You always get so touchy when you’re drunk and–”
You shove him. “One last warning, Clark. I’m serious.” You grumble, feet moving to push at his body too as if that will do anything your arms couldn’t. “Get out of my fortress.” His fingers dance at your ankles. “And bring me my pancakes.”
“As you wish, ma'am." He’s sliding out of your bed, his fingers tickling their way down your ankles, your toes, a giggle eliciting from underneath the blanket.
If he didn’t have super hearing maybe he wouldn’t have picked up on it so well. “Love you.” You grumble begrudgingly, twisting the blanket back around your body.
Clark smiles and his heart flips in his chest. But it’s the one that happens sometimes with you. When he’s so grateful to have you in his life and of course hearing your best friend say they love you would do that to anyone.
v. when we kissed for the first time
It all started to warp around this time, deep in his belly and twist up into something he couldn’t quite name.
And it wasn’t a weird request. It wasn’t, you had reassured yourself. Maybe you had too much to drink during game night, but Clark was always the person you could go to. Nothing was awkward with him. I mean he had probably glimpsed you naked before and overheard you after a date and you shared a bathroom and a space and you grew up together and it wasn’t weird. It wasn’t. And now you two sit alone in your apartment, the moonlight leaking through the curtains.
“Please?” Your pupils are blown. You swallow some of the spit that had gathered in your mouth. You’re starting to regret asking, but his fingers are still sliding over your calves, soothing. Your legs in his lap as you sit across from him on the small couch. He’s got that look on his face, deep in thought. Clark Kent has to weigh every outcome. He’s had to do it ever since he started realizing the magnitude of his abilities, what came with them. He found people's emotions to be the same way, that they weren’t something to take lightly.
“You’re drunk. I love you and you’re drunk.” He decides, hands going still on your legs. He watches your face for a reaction. God, how he wishes one of his abilities was to understand what was going on in your brain. All this time and he still didn’t have it down to a science.
Your lip is drawn between your teeth as you move to sit on your knees, fingers coming out to rest lightly on his chest, his shirt underneath your fingertips. “Clark.” Your eyes shine with emotion. He’s not sure if it’s him that hurt you or if it’s the reason you’re asking for such an absurd thing. “Two guys have told me that I kiss weird. Two. Not just one. And you’ve always been honest with me. I mean remember when I tried to switch up my style and no one told me for weeks that I looked–” You sigh, eyes falling to stare at your hands on his chest. “That’s besides the point, but I mean, what if it’s true? And what if I never fix it and you, Clark Kent, had the chance to tell me? Or should I go through my life never knowing?” The dramatics were not lost on you. Had you been sober, it would have been a funny conversation. One that Clark could easily talk you out of. He would have reassured you that guys your age were simply trying to get under your skin, trying to create a sense of self-doubt. But that wasn’t the point. Not now. The point was his best friend is on her knees across from him, begging for something as simple as a kiss.
Clark hates seeing you so upset. “Listen–”
You drop back against the couch, whining, fingers rising to hide your face. Clark only used that tone of voice to soothe your anxieties, when he knew you were embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have asked. M’sorry.”
Your words fall on deaf ears as Clark is leaning over the space between you. His large hands gather up your face before he has his common sense come back to him. Your eyes meet for the briefest moment. Your breath hitches as he finally closes the gap, lips moving against your own. It’s the sort of thing you probably should have prepared for. Maybe set some ground rules, but there’s no rule book and wow, you’ve never kissed your best friend's plush lips before. There's suddenly no space between you as he’s crowding you against the arm of the couch. Lips move against each other, drowning in the new feeling. It’s open-mouthed and desperate. He’s pulling you closer, tongue swiping across your bottom lip, wanting to know exactly how you react to that. Your chest pushes closer to his own, craving to close the last bit of space between your bodies. A whine from you then a groan from him, both swallowed by the kiss.
Realization only dawns when you’re struggling to breathe. You pull away to catch your breath. Clark’s lips chase yours. “Well. You don’t kiss weird.” You decide before the real thoughts and emotions try to catch up with you. Clark didn’t need to breathe, he probably could’ve done that forever and been happy.
“I don’t think that was the test.” Clark is clearing his throat, red splotches appearing underneath his collar, rising to his face. “You, uh, you don’t kiss weird. Either.” He has to get out of here immediately. Preferably off planet, but he’d settle for his room.
He doesn’t have to make that decision though because you’re standing up, smoothing down your clothes like it was something clinical and it was just what you expected to happen and not earth shattering. He almost feels sad, nervous, ansty. He didn’t think that was something to just move on from. And it’s all catching up to him now. No preparation before the world ends would do that to a person.
You’re trying to save face. “I’m tired, Clarkie. I’m gonna head to bed.”
You’re almost to your room when he speaks up. “They were just trying to get under your skin, you know?”
You smile, “I know, Clark.”
vi. on a post-it note & in a way i can’t return
love u. wont be home tonight get dinner without me xx
The post-it was stuck to his bedroom door when he got home from class. He snatches it off his door as he pushes it open, grumbling as he does. Clark Kent wouldn’t describe himself as a grumpy person, but it seemed to be more of a common occurrence lately than any other emotion.
It was towards the end of your lease together that you started seeing someone consistently. It didn’t bother Clark, of course not. I mean sure, it was your weekly dinner night together and college had been so busy that he felt like he hadn’t been seeing you as much. You spent less and less time at the apartment and more at your boyfriends, but that’s all it was. That sinking feeling in his chest. It was normal. It was normal to get jealous that your friend blew you off for a date.
Life had resumed rather normally after you kissed for the first time. Because what else was there? (Denial was a pretty powerful emotion). You had been best friends since forever and a single kiss wasn’t going to change that. It was a blip in the grand scheme of everything else you guys had lived. But feelings simmered below the surface and this feeling, whatever it was, was a way to shake them loose.
He had typed out a long message and then subsequently erased it about a thousand times. He decided it was better to just talk to you when you finally got home. Except he doesn’t hear the front door open until the following night.
“You’re home.” Clark’s voice has an air of relief in it, but his annoyance tinged it. “Finally.”
Your eyebrows raise as you reach inside the fridge to grab a drink before you’re turning around to look at him from the kitchen. “What, are you my mother now?” You have no idea what you’re in trouble for, but your tone conveys the sentiment: how dare he police you?
“Oh, come on.” He rolls his eyes, standing up from his place on the couch. “You totally blew me off yesterday!” Clark doesn’t mean to raise his voice right now. It’s not in his nature, but neither is the jealousy low in his belly. He’s itching for a fight with you. Because there’s no one easier to pick a fight with than someone you know like the back of your hand. “You totally blew me off and then left me this little sticky note like it makes up for it.” The pink post-it is clutched in his fist, his eyebrows down turned. A near pout on his lips.
You scoff. “You can’t be serious.” You take a few steps from the kitchen to close the distance, staring him down. “You used to do this shit all the time.”
Clark’s mouth flaps like a fish before he shuts it completely. Thinking, rolling his reply around his head. “Not like this.”
“You don’t get to take the moral high ground here. You used to stand me up all the time to gawk at Lana!”
“That was high school. This is different.” The man of steel who refuses to break. Who refuses to acknowledge that it really isn’t all that different because his feelings are hurt and you don’t just get to get away with that.
“Please, Clark.” You scoff. “That was only a few years ago. I’m not doing this with you.” You’re retreating to your bedroom because the only thing that worked with Clark Kent was to let him simmer off, let the anger or whatever he was feeling evaporate till he would knock on your door later, puppy dogs eyes and all to beg for forgiveness.
He can’t help himself as he watches you leave, “I love you.” And there’s nothing else accompanying it. Plain as day, his feelings. They hang in the air around him. The words sound different coming out of his mouth. Maybe because he feels different, has nothing changed for you? He doesn’t want you to go to your room and wallow and he doesn’t want to do the same. Clark doesn’t want to go to bed mad and work through it by himself. But his voice sounds pleading and his heart is on his sleeve and he doesn’t want to ruin this, ruin you or your happiness. How do the words he’s said a thousand times feel different coming out? He tries again. “You drive me crazy and I love you.” Was that better? Was that normal?
“Living together is turning us into a married couple, Clark.” You joke, sparing a single glance back to him before you’re closing your bedroom door on him.
vii. before you fall asleep
“Can you come walk me home?” You sniffle on the other side of the phone.
Clark had picked up immediately. It didn’t matter that it was 2AM and his final project presentation was tomorrow. When you rang, he answered. Clark was nothing if not a man of principle. Sturdy and consistent.
Clark is appearing in front of you before you even had the chance to start crying again. You had calmed yourself down, but the feeling of getting broken up with sort of just ebbed and flowed. One minute it’s a blessing in disguise and then next you’re not sure how to go on, how life resumes after your heart is broken. “Hi.” A smile sneaks its way onto your face, a sort of self-pitying one as your best friend looks down at you. You're thankful he’s the type to refrain from saying ‘I told you so.’ “Well. It’s over.”
Clark is nodding, arms immediately moving to wrap around your frame. “That’s alright. You’ll be alright.” His hands are smoothing down your hair. His cheek is pressed against the crown of your head then his lips. A reassuring kiss for his own selfish needs. He doesn’t move to pull away, not even when your breathing evens out and your body is slacking against his own. He knows you’d pull away when you’re ready.
Grateful for his sturdy body as your weight leans against his, you pull your head back to look up at him. Your arms are wrapped around him, no space between you. You seek comfort in his eyes. “Am I an idiot?” Your lips flatten. “Don’t answer that.”
His hand is against your cheek now. Your broken heart can only remember your lover doing that. Clark is only reminded of the last time he cupped your face in his hands. How it changed the way he looked at the world. At you. “Come on, let’s get you home.” His thumb is gathering the little bit of wetness underneath your eyes, wiping it away. And he can’t help but think you look just as beautiful as the first time he noticed. The streetlights glinting in your eyes. A slight breeze makes your hair dance. Your lips always seemed fuller after you cried. You lick your lips, wanting to say something and all it does is make his resolve break. He has to tear his eyes away. Because it isn’t the time.
Clark pulls away, hand instead finding your own as he moves to begin walking you down the street.
It’s easier to let everything out when Clark is by your side and the streets of Metropolis are under your feet. The relationship was probably doomed to fail, you told Clark. The ex-boyfriend was constantly jealous of your close relationship with Clark, but in the end had been projecting his own secrets onto you.
All Clark could do was listen and refrain from commenting because he only got angry thinking about how you deserved to be treated better. That no one really deserved you. And really, it wasn’t hard to be good to you. You made it easy. You were kind and funny. Sometimes you’d even do the dishes and cook instead of him doing both every time. You gave thoughtful gifts and always listened with an open heart. Sure, you had trouble backing down from a fight, probably cussed too much, and could get caught up in the small details. You could be on edge when you felt insecure. But Clark had always softened you. Your sharp edges have eroded over time and how dare someone try and take advantage of that?
There’s comfortable silence on the walk home after you get the rest of your feelings in the open air.
“Do you ever get annoyed having to walk? You know at a human pace?” He can tell you’re feeling better, but it’s a genuine question too.
Clark shakes his head, grip tightening on your hand. “No. Especially not with you.” A pause to pass you one of his smiles. He takes care with the question. Clark had struggled with identity for so long growing up and even now. What it meant to be human, how much of him even was? “I mean, I’ve always had to practice ‘normal.’ And my parents never pressured me to hide at home, but I sort of like doing things… normally. Walking, having to hold back my strength. Practicing being gentle even though my powers are the exact opposite.” His eyes flit over to your own. “This wasn’t just another attempt at getting me to fly you home, was it?”
“Now that you mention it…”
“Still not happening.”
When you’re finally home, Clark is bringing the covers up over your frame, fingers gently prodding the blanket into your sides. You let him dote on you because Clark is nothing if he doesn’t feel needed. He’s always needed to take care of others. Plus, you knew his mom had taught him how to perfectly tuck a person into bed and there was nothing better than Martha’s advice to cure a break up. You’re sure he’s already called her while you were getting ready for bed. Tomorrow would be movies and ice cream with a signature Kent recipe sent to Clark’s email.
“Okay?” Clark’s hands smooth down the blanket, concerned eyes rarely leaving you.
You want to laugh only because he’s so serious about the process. “Yes, Clark.”
“You don’t need anything else?” He doesn’t want to leave your bedroom. He probably should’ve suggested that he tuck you into his bed instead. It was bigger, he had the softer blankets, and he could easily grab you whatever you needed throughout the night. Because it was that serious to him. It wasn’t because he couldn’t remember the last time you shared a bed or that he would give anything to ease the ache in your chest. Or that he wanted you to curl into his side, hands holding onto him to ground yourself through the feelings. But that was selfish. And he wasn’t. Not this time.
Your eyes catch his before he can make it away from your bed. “Do I say it enough?”
“Say what enough?”
“That I love you. That I appreciate you. That I couldn’t do any of this without you.” And it’s probably a silly image, your head poking out of the covers, the blankets wrapped tightly around you as you pour your heart out to your best friend. Because it was so easy to be open with him. Because he would always do it right back.
“Took the words right out of my mouth, honey.” A kiss pressed to your forehead and a goodnight. He doesn’t linger.
viii. as we huddle together, a storm raging
Even after your lease ends, Clark and you see each other weekly. Daily when you finally secure a position alongside him at the Daily Planet.
Work is over and it’s pouring rain outside the building's doors as you’re about to step out onto the street.
“Oh, come on! The one morning I didn't check the weather app.” You grumble, tugging Clark’s arm back inside as he tries to brave the storm anyway, but it doesn’t stop him. “Clark! I am not walking home in this.” But he’s not listening as he moves out into the rain. You watch his glasses become foggy, his hair sticking to his forehead seconds after walking out.
“I have an idea. Come with me.” A hand held out to you. Unfortunately, your best friend never needs to convince you much.
You're standing in the alley by the Daily Planet. Clark’s arms wrapped around you as he shields you from the rain with his body. “What sort of idea is this?” You grumble, afraid you’d grow cold from the rain, but Clark luckily has always had enough body heat for the both of you.
“I love you. Don’t be mad.”
“Why would I be –” But you can’t get the rest of your thought out because Clark is launching you into the air at what feels like break neck speeds (to you, an inexperienced flyer, to Clark, it’s nothing). His hand is holding the back of your head, his other pressed to your lower back. “Clark- Clark.” You’re gasping for breath, fingers clutching onto his clothes, afraid to look around you. Your face is half buried into his chest. How many times had you begged him for this exact thing and now he finally relented? During a rain storm? But by some miracle, the rain clouds are subsiding and the sun begins to peak out the same time you do.
“What do you think?” Clark’s got a stupid grin on his face. You would hit him if you weren’t so afraid to let go.
“Ever since you became Superman, you’ve been kind of an ass.” His confidence had shot up ever since he started proving himself to the world. (We aren’t in Kansas anymore, he had said to you one day) (You totally stole that, you had responded). You want to stick your tongue out at him, but it’s hard to even fake mad when you can see the city from this angle.
Your body weight is completely suspended by Clark, body pressed against his in a way he can’t recall ever happening. Maybe he should’ve done this before. The awe in your eyes is enough to convince him of that. Especially when you’re turning your face back towards his and he should kiss you. You aren’t living together anymore and you’re not teenagers and you’re not heartbroken, but he can’t bring himself to do it because how perfect are you like this?
ix. broken, as you beg me not to leave
It’s a quiet night in your apartment when a muffled bang comes from your fire escape. Then a gentle rap of knuckles against your window.
“Clark?” You’re already questioning as you pull the window open. On the fire escape stands Superman. “What happened, are you okay?” You’ve never seen him like this as you help him through the window. Part of his weight is leaning against your side as you lead him to the couch. It’s always been him supporting you. Bile wants to rise up in your throat at the thought of having to be the strong one. “Clark, talk to me.” You plead, kneeling between his legs. Hands and eyes search over his suit to find the problem. The area around his eyes is red like a rash, his shoulders slumped. There’s a large gash to his stomach and blood is staining the blue fabric.
“M’okay.” Is all he can manage.
“Clark, you do not look fucking okay.” Your heart rate is rising as you rustle for something to press to his wound. A forgotten t-shirt and your hands press into his stomach. Clark grunts from the pressure, hands coming to rest over your own. His hands, your hands, stained red. “Please, tell me what to do.” Your eyes are starting to fill with tears, not used to these feelings when it comes to Clark. Clark Kent was the structure in your life, the steadiness of your heart, your rock. “I love you. Please don’t die.” It might have sounded funny in any other scenario, but not when your supposed to be indestructible best friend is bleeding out on your couch.
“Just need a minute, sunshine.” His voice already sounds stronger, but his eyes are screwed shut from whatever pain he’s feeling. You can’t imagine what it took to get him this way and your stomach sinks. “Just–just don’t leave.” His hands are still holding onto your own, but one moves to intertwine with yours. Blood is already drying between your interlocking fingers.
“A minute?!” You had hoped your voice would come out level, but it betrays you. “You’re not going back out there, are you?”
“H-have to.” Clark manages to meet your eyes, wanting to crumble right back into your couch at the concern in your eyes.
“No. No, you do not ‘have to’.” Your hand pulls away from his own as you begin to pace in front of him. You stop, your stare piercing him to the couch. “Clark, you do not have to do any of this.”
He frowns, wanting to smooth out the crease between your eyebrows. Clark hates causing you strife. “You know I do.” Clark had come to terms with it a long time ago. That he did not just belong to himself. That his abilities did not just belong to himself.
Your voice breaks. “Please, don’t go back out there. I can’t- I can’t lose you.” Words fall on deaf ears as Clark struggles to bring himself up from the couch, body stumbling back to the window. “Clark, please. I love you. Don’t do this.” You don’t care if you’re begging. You don’t care about the tears falling from your eyes. You just want him to be safe. Your body moves in front of him, but you don’t stop him. You just move to support his weight as you help him onto the window sill. His body is still pointed in your apartment, but you can tell he’s finding the rest of his strength to return to the fight.
“I love you. I promise. I’m okay.” He moves his hand from the gash. His skin is already weaving back together. The dried blood is the only reminder.
Your hands press into his cheeks, tilting his head up to look at you from his seat on the window sill. Clark’s eyes shine, blue eyes pouring into your own everything that was unsaid. The skin held beneath your fingers tingled, when have you ever looked at him like this? “Clark.” The rest of the words you want to say are lodged in your throat. Because expressing what you really need to say to him was impossible so for once, you settle with a kiss. His face between your hands, your body between his legs as you lean down and press your lips to his. Clark’s hands slide against the back of your legs, holding the back of your thighs as he cranes his neck to meet your kiss.
The kiss is not desperate this time; it is a vow. It means everything the second time around. That everything will fall into place around it. The entirety of your lives seemed to tilt inward to this moment. You know it won’t make him stay. You don’t want him to stay. You knew Clark, knew where his heart lies and that a piece of it now belonged to you, how it always did.
x. with no space left between us
You’ve grown shy underneath his gaze. Your eyes landing anywhere but his face.
Clark had come by later in the night to find you still awake. A bedside lamp was left on to call him home. You had followed the rest of the night in front of your television. He had peeled off his bloody suit for a pair of his pajamas that you had kept in your drawer. The bruises on his body had turned from black to a light yellow in a matter of hours. And despite everything he had dealt with in the last few hours, the only thing that remained on his mind was the feeling of your lips.
“Come on.” Clark offers his hand, that black strand of hair tickling his forehead after his shower. Your room is covered in a soft glow as he pulls you towards the bed. “What changed?” He comments on your demeanor.
“I–” You start to say before closing your mouth. It’s impossible to articulate. It’s like waking up after a deep sleep or plunging into cold water, but with this familiarity you’ve known your whole life. It’s like finding out a secret that your intuition knew all along. “Nothing.” You decide. Or everything, you might add if his hands weren’t distracting you.
“Exactly.” Clark’s fingers dance against your bare thighs as your skin prickles in their wake. There is something between you that wants to break. A live wire that only Superman could touch with his bare hands. “I love you.” The same words you’ve heard a thousand times, but this time, they immediately bring a warmth to your face. You want to shy away, but you lean in instead, fingers sliding over Clark’s.
“I love you too.” You clear your throat, bringing his hand up to press against your chest. Over your heart. Clark can feel it underneath his hand. The steady beat of your heart against your ribs. He knows what you’re conveying: that he has a piece of you too and always did. You don’t have to say anything else as you’re closing the distance between the two of you for the second time that night. But you both had hours to sit with the feelings, about what it meant and where it went from here.
Your chests are pressed together, bodies clinging to each other, both whispering, ‘I love you’ between the kiss and letting it settle there. Right where it was always meant to be, with no space between you.
summary on a professional level, superman respects steve rogers in a way any other hero would. on a personal level, clark would highly appreciate steve keeping away from you, his fiance.
content warnings fluff. jealous!clark x meta-human!reader. steve is sweet but he loves causing drama, a habit he adopted from nat. avengers all call reader 'kid'.
notes this is sososo impulsive, i don't know where i'm taking this but i hope you enjoy this 4th of july special!
—
"sweetheart, i got it."
"i know you do, honey, but the people of new york are observant. they'll either think you're another super soldier or—"
clark sets down the insane amount of luggage in his arms at your knowing gaze, arms crossed as the cab driver that had just dropped the both of you off at the cozy cabin near upstate new york gawks at your fiance.
the cab driver hedges forward. "is he...?"
you shake your head with a firm press of your lips. "nope. my fiance's just from kansas. farm boy muscles and all that." while it looks like the cabbie doesn't really believe you, you've got that edge that all new yorkers never really shed so the man nods and drives off.
with no witnesses, clark lifts all of your luggage to bring inside without breaking a sweat. you sigh as you contemplate the chaos that'll most likely ensue at the avengers compound for the fourth of july weekend.
—
a month ago, natasha romanoff had arrived in your tiny box of an apartment in metropolis without even a text of warning. it would've been something you appreciated since clark had you on your kitchen counter, gently pressing you with a hungry kiss against the overhead cabinets as dinner burned on the stove. his broad frame was settled nicely between your thighs, his lips gliding down your jaw and neck before the apartment door swings open as if the intruder had a key—
"whoops. didn't know you had company."
you gasped and peeked over clark's shoulder who instinctively tried to shield you from natasha in all her sardonic glory. "nat—?!" you had wriggled away despite clark's insistence, ducking beneath his strong arm to meet your friend in your living room. "what are you doing here? is everything okay—"
"everything's fine," nat had cut in, her sharp gaze taking in clark behind you who looks more like guard dog than protective fiance at the moment. "i just wanted to drop in. i should've called though, that was on me…"
warmth bleeds into your back when clark had stepped forward, a silent wall of support behind you. he's not unaware of your past, of your healing powers that pulled you into nick fury's orbit. while you were never made into an avenger, you were the support they all needed whether it was to be healed or just to be around someone normal. it was about a couple years ago that you finally left new york, starting fresh in metropolis as a nurse. steve had been kind enough to help the move in process a lot more smooth than it would've been alone.
"um— sorry. nat, this is clark kent, my fiance. clark, this is nat, one of my closest friends from new york although i'm rescinding that title after her break in tonight," you sigh as you wave a hand between both.
clark's still a gentleman through and through, even in the face of superspies that like to cross boundaries, and shakes nat's hand before his hand returns to your waist. "what's the occasion?"
"tony's throwing a fourth of july-slash-steve's-birthday weekend barbecue, thought our favorite nurse would like to come," nat smiles. "you can bring superman over here."
clark chokes on his spit. "i— what? i'm not— no, he's—"
you pat his chest. "honey, nat knows everything, it's literally her job. don't worry, your secret's safe with her. and i don't know, clark and i were gonna just stay in."
"sounds like fun," he cuts in and that little smile, dimple and all, knows you're about to lose this one. "i haven't gotten the chance to meet your friends, sweetheart."
every argument you have dies in the face of your fiance's eager expression and you sigh quietly to meet natasha's triumphant little grin. "yeah, okay. we'll be there. is it at the compound?"
"yeah, there's your usual room—"
"no, clark and i wouldn't wanna intrude. we'll find an airbnb or something." there's an edge to your tone that leaves no room for negotiation and natasha has enough sense to back off, nodding as she starts to head out.
when the door shuts, you groan into clark's chest who rumbles in sweet amusement as he rubs your back. "superman meeting the avengers… what can go wrong."
—
a lot of things went wrong upon entering the cabin. for one, there aren't any furniture. two, there isn't any running water. frustration begins to build but before it can erupt out of you, clark's cupping your cheek to kiss your forehead and your phone starts to ring.
"stark."
"hey, kid. don't be stubborn and bring supes on over to the compound, your room's all ready for you."
"i hate you, tony."
"no, you don't. although this confirmed my theory."
you pause. "what theory?"
"you got a thing for goody two shoes. tell me— does kent say 'language' during your rated-r rants?"
you hang up the call, cutting off tony's obnoxious laughter on the other end.
—
now that the both of you are on avengers' property, your privacy is all but secured against the general public so clark had seen no issue in just flying you and your luggage over. it's a bit unsettling to see him fly in his civilian clothes but you cling to him all the same, carried bridal style while the luggage hang from his hands. you aren't sure how he isn't losing his grip but you land in the open bay where natasha and steve is waiting to greet the both of you.
the luggage are set down first, clark still hovering and once his hands are free, his feet land with you still securely in his arms. "clark?" you prompt and your adorable, beefcake of a fiance startles as he reluctantly sets you down while nat and steve approach.
"miss romanoff," clark tips his head in polite greeting but then his voice drops slightly, taking on the 'superman' voice when he turns to steve. "captain, happy birthday."
"thank you, superman," steve greets as he offers his hand. clark takes it with a solid 'clap' and a firm shake. your eyes flitter between each of them in slight anticipation because in this moment, it isn't superman and captain america facing off.
it's clark kent and steve rogers with you caught right in the middle.
something lights up in natasha's eyes and you suddenly fear for the weekend ahead.
—
fortunately, the main living space of the compound is cleared of any superheroes in favor of setting up for the outside where the main party's happening. it leaves you and clark the space to settle in and when you step in your old room, nostalgia feels like a punch to the gut.
it's still the open space layout as before, patterned after a luxury studio apartment with your own mini kitchenette. cold and impersonal for the first few minutes of stepping in but then clark walks past you to set your luggage in, his large frame somehow bringing light to the place you could barely call home. when he turns to you, gives you that smile that you've fallen so hard for, it feels like you're back in metropolis. "what?"
you shake your head with a smile, step into clark's space and giggle at the blush that he never can tamp down when you're near, and kiss his dimple. "nothing. i just love you."
"love you too, honey."
—
after changing into something more comfortable (and doesn't smell like plane) over your bathing suits, you and clark walk hand in hand towards the noise that crests and wanes from the other side of the compound. where there had been an open field meant for training (specifically for any flight simulations or volatile powers that should not be indoors), it's been fashioned into an americana-esque backyard with an actual inlaid pool.
"what the— when did you guys install a pool?" you gape at the giant, bean-shaped pool complete with a patio and a giant cabana built above it. beside it is a familiar face manning the grill.
tony flicks his sunglasses down to peer at you above them. "a week ago. had to go all out for dear ol' cap's birthday. nice of you to join us, sweet cheeks. you gonna introduce us to your hunk of a man?"
your eyes roll but the pride in your smile is undeniable as you bring clark forward. "everyone, this is clark kent. my fiance."
an impressed whistle escapes from rhodey who tips a beer up in salute towards you. "nice rock, kid." he gives a nod to clark next. "you did good."
"gosh, thanks." clark says, rubs his neck in that sheepish way that you've found endearing every time you see it. however, it has the rest of the avengers staring in utter befuddlement. tony mouths 'gosh' in emphasis to bruce who waves his judgement away.
"cap, you got someone out for your title for boyscout," tony crows happily as he flips a patty with ease. steve, who has been lounging beneath the shade with his own lemonade, looks up from his conversation with clint and laura. when his eyes find yours then clark's, something unnameable passes through his eyes before he's striding to his feet. all six foot two of him.
clark straightens his posture. all six foot four of him.
immediately, your eyes roll. "i'm going to go say hi to the girls. you two? behave."
"honey—" clark splutters but his priority will always be you so he concedes, quietly takes the offered glass of lemonade from steve before he attempts to play nice. if he can keep civil with steve lombard at work, he can be the nicest guy in town for the super soldier that may as well be an ex with how his eyes follow you.
—
to his credit, clark gets along well with all of your friends from new york. tony's crass but he's got a heart of gold with his closest circle of friends. bruce and clint had teased him the least about his midwestern countenance while laura had been interested in his career as a journalist and as a superhero. natasha had been very impressed with his ability to juggle his secret identity on top of everything.
"so how'd she find out about your other identity?" rhodey asks later on as the two of them sit at the chaises by the pool. clark is polite but his eyes cut to you occasionally where you're splashing in the shallow end with laura and clint's kids, your laughter providing a soothing background to the chaos of tony and bruce arguing over what music to play.
"ah, well. i was fighting an imp with the justice gang, should've been an easy fight but it was evening and i'm not really at my strongest at that time. i fell on her roof and she was there reading. she… healed me." a besotted smile grows on his lips. "the day after that, she ran into me as clark but i didn't realize my biology had been something she could sense. she pulled me into an alley and just asked if i healed right."
rhodey laughs quietly. "she's a little spitfire, ain't she?"
"i wouldn't have it any other way," clark muses. the both of them turn their attention to you, nearly missing the way tony hits the top of the grill with his tongs to call out—
"soup's on!" he hollers as he gestures to the cheeseburgers laid out to the table beside him. clark gets to his feet, ready to serve you, except—
"got all your favorite fixin's," steve cuts in, that boyish half grin that's made nearly all of america swoon, as he offers you a plate. with clark's heightened vision, something ugly turns with indignance that steve did get all your favorites.
but clark will not be beat so he rushes over to the coolers, pulls out your favorite drink, and all but flies over to offer it to you. "can't forget your usual, honey," he smiles sweetly, popping the tab for you and everything. you're still halfway out the pool, one foot out and on the edge with the other still in the water, with both men offering you a plate and a drink.
"thanks, guys… mind if i dry off first?"
you carefully sidestep away from both of them, refusing to enable or participate this odd dick-measuring contest they've started. once you've dried off, you settle into an available chaise and nearly startles when steve and clark kneel on either side of you. you could barely get a word in as captain america himself carefully sets the plate down on the small table beside you and your darling fiance adds in a straw as well.
"okay, both of you shoo—" you wave them off. "seriously. i know both of you, you two can eat tony out of all of his homes so go. you must be starving."
when both men trudge off, natasha takes their place but she's got enough sense to at least wait for you to take a few bites of your food before she starts.
"you know, it's kinda cute."
"don't you start, nat."
"no, no. it is! you got america's heroes fighting for your attention like overgrown puppies. it's cute."
your eyes narrow. "… you know something."
she zips up her lips before she dives into the pool, effortless without making a splash.
you huff goodnaturedly. "show-off."
—
"come on, you two. nathan, lila, out of the pool." clint claps his hands to grab his two youngests' attention. the sun's setting behind him and even you can't deny there's a slight chill beginning to settle in.
you nod and raise your arms slightly with the intent to herd the little ones out. "you two heard your dad, let's head out. if the grown-ups say yes, we can get some s'mores started, maybe set up some lights like a campfire… what do you say?"
that gets them out and when clint gives you a thankful grin, you wave him off before padding out to clark where he's already got your towel out. "thanks, baby," you smile as he wraps it around you, bundling you into his arms to press a soft kiss to your lips.
behind your back, steve stands with a fresh towel and clark fights the urge to stick his tongue out at him. no, that'd be very immature of him.
—
despite the chill that's threatened to drive the party indoors, tony gets a bonfire started in a fire pit he had dug out from the giant warehouse storage along with some string lights from a box labeled 'christmas?'.
the kids are drawn up in a tizzy at the thought of having christmas in july, their little hands diving into the box with the sole intent of decorating the giant cabana. you're in the middle of it all, helping them all detangle the wires while tony's sent back inside to look for an extension cord of all things.
"hold on, sweetheart," you laugh as nathan tries to climb your back while you draw yourself back to your feet, watching as his little arms try to reach up and hook the lights up. in the corner of your eye, steve approaches your periphery, hands nearly raised as if he's got the intention to lift you by your hips but—
clark's hands find you first, his chest brushing against your back. "i got you, honey," he murmurs in your ear before giving nathan a little grin. you feel his strong grip brace your waist, firm but not uncomfortable, and lift you high.
then… lifts you higher.
you turn your head to see clark levitating to help you hook the lights up at eye-level. nathan gasps in excitement and nearly drops the lights in his own hand. "oops— careful, buddy," you chuckle as you hand back the wire.
"me next, me next!" lila squeals from below and you laugh as clark does as asked, nathan reluctantly set down for you to carry his older sister next while clark lifts you back up with ease.
by the time the entire cabana's decorated, the kids are returned safely to their parents.
"that was nice of you," steve hums to clark once the two of you are back on solid ground, offering two s'mores on a plate.
clark takes it, almost wary, but he sees something you don't and his spine relaxes imperceptibly. "thank you," he murmurs while he places a warm hand at the base of your spine. steve nods his head and when he turns to you, he ruffles your head.
"be good, kid," he tells you instead before he walks off.
—
although tony had intended steve's intention to be an absolute rager, it still turned out to be a family-friendly event. something that steve had been banking on.
"kid just landed," tony had remarked earlier, the both of them setting up the cabana after FRIDAY had updated him on your flight status. "you gonna say something?"
steve just chuckles to himself, readjusting the stability of the cabana's legs. "tony, i don't know how many times i have to say this. nothing ever happened between me and her."
tony's eyes roll. "i know. you two cost me $300 because of it, by the way."
"serves you right for betting on your friends' love lives, stark."
"yeah, yeah, whatever. but back to the question at hand— have you met her fiance?"
"superman? i don't know him personally, but he seems like a good man, someone good for her," steve shrugs, unsure of what tony's getting at.
"hm. sure, the media definitely paints him that way," tony says. "but as her closest friends and honestly— the closest thing she has to a family— we need to make sure he's good for her."
steve pauses for a moment, gives his friend a sidelong glance. "what do you have in mind?"
"easy." both men startle at the sudden appearance of one natasha romanoff. "make him jealous. see how he reacts when steve moves in on her, it'd be enough to see his true colors."
tony snaps his fingers. "operation: battle of the boyscouts is a go."
"… i resent that name."
—
on the morning of july fifth, the avengers compound is the ultimate postcard of serenity. sun's sitting high, a gentle breeze wafting through to carry in the scent of nature. a butterfly settles upon a blooming flower bud—
"ANTHONY EDWARD STARK."
your shrill voice cuts through the peace. the butterfly flies off.
"you tried making my fiance jealous for some inane dick-measuring contest for your own fucking entertainment—?!"
"language."
"language, sweetheart."
steve and clark share a surprised glance and right as they're about to exchange a little chuckle, maybe even bro it out with a fist bump in their matching flannel pajamas, you direct your glare to the both of them.
without a word, steve backs out with a sheepish grin while clark approaches to give you an apologetic kiss to your forehead.
"it's a habit, i'm sorry," he mutters against your hair and despite tony's stupid games, you melt in your fiance's arms. "i love you."
"i love you too, sweetie." tony takes the chance to inch away as you decompress in clark's arms but you huff against his chest. "clark, i'm gonna kill him."
"... it wouldn't be very 'superman' of me to let you get away with murder, honey."
thank you for reading! likes and reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!
Summary - Your modest boyfriend, Clark Kent, is strong and the nicest guy ever.
Warnings - Suggestive towards end but not really, fluff and kissing, established relationship| WC: 1620
AN - yayy, I got a fic out! Sorry it took so long, I'm on vacation right now so I'm trying my best to do both, because I love to write for Clark sooo much! Thank you for all the love, I'm working on two requests as of now but feel free to send in more.
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“Sorry! Oh, excuse me…” Clark Kent mumbles as he pushes by everyone to get to work. The crowds of people are not waiting for anything or anyone; everybody’s tasks are more important than anyone else's. He pushed through the revolving door, taking the elevator up to his floor on the Daily Planet. He greeted his usual friends or co-workers. Steve, a nod for Perry, Lois, Jimmy, A pat on the arm from Cat, and you—a kiss. You had recently started dating, and there were no rules that said you couldn’t, but you both kept the kissing to a minimum. “Hi, how’s it going?” you asked, looking up at him. You pushed his thick glasses up his nose for him, grinning at him. He returned it, the corner of his eyes wrinkling, smiling. He was so cute with those little dimples. “Good, I brought you coffee,” he said, handing you the cardboard cup. Coffee dripped down the sides from being bumped; his was in the same state. “I tried to keep it neat.” He started to wipe it down with a napkin, and you shrugged. “Thank you, I appreciate it anyway,” you said, taking a sip and then shooing him to his desk. Perry would be upset if Clark didn’t start soon, since he was late nearly every day.
This was your steady relationship—you worked together, he took you on sweet dates or got you coffee, and understood everything. When you talked about feelings, he nodded along—and when you needed a shoulder, he always gave you gentle advice. You admired his kindness, how he couldn’t hurt a fly. Literally.
You let out a scream, a towel wrapped around you as you cowered away from the corner of the bathroom, fogged up from your hot shower. Clark came in quick, though his hearing hadn’t picked up on anything. “What happened?” he asked, looking around for danger. “Spider! It’s huge!” you pointed to the abnormally large spider for Metropolis. He grimaced, not a fan himself. “I’ll get it,” he grumbled, grabbing a cup. “What are you gonna do with that, Clark? We live on a balcony, it’ll just crawl back in or something,” you back-seat drive the whole time. Watching him scoop it into a cup, put it outside gently, then come back in. He saved everyone he could; his Superman duties applied to even spiders. “You are too nice…” You said, kissing him before getting in the shower. He shrugged, going back to reading his book.
Clark was modest, too, which you could appreciate, but it also drove you crazy. Underneath his loose suit jackets, big glasses, and shy act, he had a Superman physique. Thick biceps that nearly bulged out of his white button-ups, and abs that showed through the fabric of shirts. He kept it hidden to hide away his identity, but he never gave himself credit. At home, when you complimented him, he’d shrug. “You look so handsome, look at you. This shirt makes your arms look bigger somehow…” You commented when he stepped out of the room to get his shoes on for work. Clark’s ears flushed red. “You're just saying that,” he mumbles, standing up straight to kiss you on the lips. You shook your head no. “No, I’m not, you are Superman. Hard to lie about these things.” You squeezed his bicep with a grin before handing him his coffee cup, a travelling one so he didn’t spill it this time, and a lunch that you tucked into his briefcase. Clark gives you a small laugh before leaving.
Whenever you needed to vacuum under the couch, he lifted it with one hand, not even breaking a sweat as you sucked up all the dust underneath. You looked at him in awe, like he had maybe hung the stars, and he gave you a silly smile back. “Don’t look at me like that!” he teased, laughter bubbling up in his chest as he dipped down to press kisses all over your face and in the crevice of your neck. “I can’t help it! I mean, you literally have a million times my strength,” you turned your head away at his kissing attack.
Tonight was date night, every Thursday, when it wasn’t as busy at your favorite restaurants. You’d take turns paying every week, despite his insistence on paying every time. He got dressed up fancy, and you too. Always putting on the prettiest dress and heels, styling your hair, and doing your make-up efficiently. He treated you to an Italian dinner, and the chatter about work or home. Clark always made sure to talk about home. You found it endearing that his Ma and Pa updated him so much about the cows and the work they were doing. He missed his family badly. After eating, you walked to the ice cream shop a few blocks from your apartment; neither of you had cars—it would be silly in a big city like Metropolis. The heels dug into your skin and made your feet hurt badly. “Ouch,” you mumble as you stumble on a particularly big rock in your way.
Clark looked down at you, cocking an eyebrow. “What?” he asked, his hands going to your lower back to guide you. “My heels just hurt, don’t worry about it,” you said, stepping back as he tugs the door open to the ice cream shop for you. You gave a nod of appreciation before stepping inside. “Want me to take them for you? Carry them? Carry you?” he offered quickly. Clark didn’t care about the circumstances; he would gladly fly to the moon for you if prompted. You shake your head; it wasn’t necessary. “Don’t worry about it,” you repeated, going up to the counter. You ordered your favorite, and he ordered the Superman flavor, making you laugh. Eating it as you walked, he tilted his head, “What’s so funny about me getting my flavor…” You just shook your head laughing, “It’s just sweet, getting your own flavor, Clark? It’s not catered to you, just your fake name…” He rolled his eyes, shaking his head. It happened to be his favorite, and he offered you a lick that you took anyway.
Another stumble, his brows furrowed in concern. “Baby, please let me carry you! Your shoes are hurting you!” he insisted, a sparkle in his eyes hiding behind his glasses. “I don’t want to impose…” You mumbled, licking your ice cream, the cone crunching softly between your teeth. “I’m asking, begging. I want to carry you, and I can do it no sweat!” he pleaded, his hands going to your hips to stop you walking. You give him a shrug before retorting, “Oh, now you want to show off your super muscles…” He shakes his head, a bit annoyed, before hoisting you with ease over his shoulder, gently to ensure your safety. “It’s not showing off, your feet are in pain!” he insists. You yelped in surprise, clinging to your ice cream tightly. “Clark Kent!” you complain, brows furrowing, “You almost made me drop my ice cream!” You heard him laugh, tossing his empty ice cream cup into a trash can before adjusting you, holding you like a bride, his hands sturdy on your torso and legs. “That better?” he asks, his voice low. You give a small nod, nibbling on your cone, feeding him the last bites.
“I’m the luckiest gal ever, have a boyfriend who’s jacked and gets mad at me when I don’t let him be kind…” You tease, watching his ears redden. He gives you a small kiss, opening the door to the apartment lobby and continuing to carry you inside. “I’m strong enough to carry you,” he said sheepishly. “Seems silly not to. Gives you one less thing to worry about.”
The elevator dings, waiting for you to enter. Clark presses the button, leaning against the wall with you as you wait for its ascent. “You are such a dork,” you said, moving a hand up to push his curls back, watching them flop back into place. The door opened, and the rumble of the doors sliding was the only noise on your floor. He unlocked your apartment, refusing to put you down. “You like it…” he replied. It rolled off the tongue with ease. He carried you to your bed, as you shifted to take your heels off, he stopped you.
His large hands gently slid down the skin of your leg, slowly—teasing. Clark put kisses on your calves, to your ankles, while carefully undoing the buckles of your heels. He tossed them behind him; they clattered as they rolled off. Neither of you paid mind to where they went. He took time to rub gentle circles into the arches of your feet with his thumbs, looking down at you through those thick glasses, your feet resting on his chest. “Better?” Clark asked. When you nodded yes, he made an effort to kiss the top of your foot, climbing into bed next to you. “Such a gentleman…” Clark shrugs, pulling you to his chest.
“I try my best,” he said, sitting up and undoing his shirt. You unzipped your dress with some struggle before peeling it off, rolling it down your legs, and tossing it. Clark sat on the edge of the bed, getting his shoes and pants off. When he turned around, he unclipped your bra for you, helping you slide off your underwear before burying his face in your neck. Feeling you bare against him was freeing and the sweetest feeling he had ever experienced. You peppered his neck with kisses before burying your face there, your hands tracing his skin, inhaling his strong scent that had slowly taken over your apartment…
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Tags/Warnings: Smut, choking, rough sex, threat/talk of a gangbang, sex in a public bathroom, no aftercare, face fucking, deepthroating, cunnilingus, fingering, dry humping/thigh humping, hair pulling, degradation, dirty talk, spanking, slapping, unprotected sex, cream pie, squirting, pussy slapping, finger sucking, edging, orgasm denial, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, Sir kink if you squint, masochistic reader, brat reader, no use of Y/N, reader has no descriptors other than being slightly shorter than Dean and has enough hair to pull.
Summary: It's been six months since you struck the deal with Dean, and true to his word, he comes back like clockwork—even when you're not at home.
Word Count: 7.7k
Author's Note: Title from the song Animal by Chase Holfelder
A part two to this post from 2025 Kinktober was requested, so here it is!!
This counts for the Mirror Sex square for @j3bingo
Thank you to @gappyswife for beta-reading this for me!
Dividers: Line Divider 1 by @olenvasynyt Line Divider 2 by @omi-resources SPN Divider by @talesmaniac89
Tag List: @copperboom82 @sleepycues @xpurdyglambertx @flanneledfae
Neon paints your body in hues of red and blue as you cross the dance floor. The dive bar has little by way of illumination beyond the signs on the wall depicting beer and food, half-naked cowgirls, and the name of the joint. A few yellowed lights hang from the ceiling, joining the bright colors to shine down on the crowd below.
You wind your way through the throng of sweaty bodies, their boisterous conversations meld with the thrum of music soaking into the atmosphere. Cold glass bites into your palm as you carry your fresh beer back to the edge of the dance floor.
It’s standing room only— a regular occurrence on Thursday nights where ladies drink free— and since your friends have long since returned home, you don’t see the point in trying to snag a high-top for yourself.
No, half drunk on the music and the cheap beer, you don’t want to sit–you want to dance.
Between line dances, you down long-necks and tall glasses of water alike, feeling like you’re sweating it out faster than you can consume; the last thing you want is to wake up in the morning with a splitting headache, even if your freelance job awarded you a day off.
After being contained to your apartment by the threat of being ripped to shreds at the razor-sharp claws of a pack of supernatural beasts, you want to spend your new lease on life as you pleased, and right now, you are doing just that.
You’ve lost count of how many dances you’ve finished by the time your bladder begs you to vacate the floor and empty it. Reluctantly, you shuffle off the dance floor, having to only wait behind three other girls before you snag an open stall.
The bathroom itself leaves something to be desired. Dingy tile line the floors; you aren’t sure if the patterns were actually design choices or were poorly cleaned stains. Raunchy love notes cozy up to random phone numbers with instructions to ‘call for a good time’ with crude pictures of dicks on the cheap stall walls and door.
Noting the bathroom was empty, you finish up and wash your hands, smiling at the additional graffiti etched into the edges of the dirty mirrors. Most of it is hazy anyway, the blanket of alcohol warming you at the edges. You pull your tube of lipstick from the pocket of your miniskirt, the denim barely covering you enough to avoid a public indecency charge.
You don’t think much of it when the music grows louder, too busy shoving the lipstick back into your pocket. The door to the bathroom creaks open before it shuts hard with a thud, muting the sounds once more.
It isn’t until you hear the snick of the lock sliding into place that you look up to see a figure standing behind you in the reflection of the mirror. Your heart drops to your stomach in the same second your pussy throbs violently when you whirl around to familiar green eyes that blink black before returning to their alluring jade.
“Hiya, Sweetheart,” Dean purrs, stepping closer so that there’s less than a foot of space between your bodies. “Forget what day it is?”
Your boots have a bit of a heel, so there’s less of a height difference than the first time he visited you. Usually, you’re at home. Most of the time you’re already in bed when he arrives, sometimes in the shower, sometimes making food.
“No. Just lost track of time.” Somewhere between the dancing and the drinks and your phone being tucked away in the purse you’d brought, the time had slipped away.
His head cocks to the side, the move more animalistic than human. “That so?”
“I wanted a night out with my friends. Sue me.”
His eyebrows raise but he says nothing.
Not right away at least.
Instead his attention drifts from your face, slipping down your body.
You can see his eyes catch on your strappy tank top where the halter neckline plunges to near obscene levels, showing off the scalloped lace of your bra. The green in his gaze goes dark in a different way than you are used to the further down it travels, down all the way to the bare expanse of your legs and where your boots sit upon your feet.
“Must’a had every guy in here tonight drooling over you,” Dean says appreciatively, eyes flicking back up to yours.
You brace your hands on the sink behind you and lean back with a shrug, trying to act casual and not like your pussy isn’t growing wetter by the second. The heat that rises to your cheeks is in humiliation. He hasn’t even touched you yet and here you are like a bitch in heat.
You’d noticed the heated stares, the way some of the men in the bar’s eyes would pop out of their skull like some cartoon, and you’d be lying to him and to yourself if you said you didn’t revel in it.
He leans in, and you’re not sure when he got this close to you but you’re assaulted with the intoxicating smell of him. Something masculine and dark that makes you want to bury your face in the crook of his neck.
You jump a little when the warmth of his palm spreads along the inside of your thigh, too entranced by his gaze, heavy and focused, to notice his arm slipping between your bodies until it’s there. His fingers tease along the soft skin, the tips just inches from the throbbing need between your thighs.
“Too bad your pussy’s already got someone takin’ care a’her, right?” He croons, slipping his hand up.
Words escape you as he slides your panties to the side, not that the lacy scrap of fabric was covering much to begin with.
Your mouth gapes open at the first teasing touch, the calloused tips of his fingers sliding through your slick, bumping against your clit. Hands gripping the edge of the sink so hard you’re sure the porcelain will crack any second, your hips buck up against his hand, seeking the stimulation.
The sense of euphoria is short lived when his other hand shoots out, wrapping around your neck. A gasp gets stuck in your throat and your eyes flare wide. His fingerprints dent your skin.
“Right?” He asks again with a darker edge this time.
The bathroom around you narrows to the tightness of his grip on your neck and the pleasure derived from his fingers still working over your soaking core. Every inch of your body erupts in tingles, and you would have nodded if his hold allowed it.
“Yes,” is all you manage to choke out.
It is a funny feeling. Dean quite literally has your life in his hand. By all accounts you should be pissing-yourself-terrified. But you’re not. Instead, all you can focus on is the dark whorls of lust eddying in the depths of his eyes, the green heightened with his enjoyment, and how his middle finger is circling your clit with precision.
That was, until it retreats and you nearly whine at the loss of contact.
You sense where his hand is going milliseconds before his open palm makes contact with the side of your face. It’s not hard enough to do any damage beyond a buzzing beneath your skin that will last probably as long as this encounter, but it’s hard enough for tears to sting at your eyes.
“Yes,” you wheeze, his grip on your throat just loose enough for the words to squeeze out. “My pussy’s yours.”
Another slap, this one no less gentle than the first. “Say it again.”
Your hand slips up, wrapping around his wrist. “My pussy’s yours.”
His pulse is even under your frantic grip. If it weren’t for the desire written in his gaze and the sizable bulge straining against the front of his jeans, you wouldn’t have guessed he was enjoying this. You’re painfully aware of arousal dripping down your inner thigh, your core clenching around nothing.
Dean’s hand connects with the side of your face one last time then returns between your thighs. The edges of your vision start to go fuzzy, and the moan he pulls from your lips when his fingers press harshly against your clit comes out more like a high pitched keen.
He leans in, keeping steady pressure on your neck. “You’re gonna cum for me before I let you go. Can you do that for me, whore? Not like you need to breathe, anyway.”
“Yes,” you choke out, voice a little louder than a whisper.
“Yes what?” Dean asks teasingly, his fingers moving across your core in a way that makes it really hard to formulate words.
“Yes, sir.” Your words are slurred, but they seem to suffice anyway as his hand picks up the pace.
Your hips grind against his palm, matching the rhythm he’d created. You feel dazed when his hand slips lower, two fingers shoving inside you while the heel of his palm acts as the perfect surface to grind your clit on.
He doesn’t seem to notice or care when your nails dig into the inside of his wrist, your other clawing at his shoulder to brace yourself against the rapidly growing wave of pleasure stemming from between your thighs.
His muscles shift under your grip as he angles his arm better so he can send his middle and ring finger even deeper into you, curling them up towards your belly. Your hips grind down against his hand, the rough surface providing the most divine friction against your needy clit.
An amused chuckle from Dean vibrates through your body. “I can feel your pussy clenching around my fingers. Fuck, I can’t wait to feel ‘er around my cock.”
A strangled whine is all you can muster as he curls his fingers inside you, stroking that soft spot within you that darkens your vision even further. Arching your back, you press your chest into Dean’s, his preternatural warmth soaking into you.
You’re sure he can feel the way your nipples are hardened, even through both your shirts. The bralette underneath is little more than decorative lace with a paper thin backing there to not irritate your skin.
His blood-red button down is immaculate, tucked into a pair of dark wash jeans; it’s similar to the outfit he wore the first time you met him.
Well, he’s nothing if not consistent, you think before stars burst behind your eyes, which you squeeze shut as the tightness in your belly gives way.
You cum harder than the first time he fucked you. Harder than you ever have in your life.
Your body goes rigid, trembling from head to toe as electric shocks spark through you all down your spine. The ache of pleasure pulses through your body as he works you through the throes of your climax.
Head lolling to the side as Dean’s grip on your neck lessens, you gasp in air. The room around you spins as you gulp down oxygen the best you can through your unabashed moans.
Dean’s lips slot over yours, drowning out your sounds of ecstasy and you can taste the whiskey on his tongue when it sweeps into your mouth. Your hand slides up his shoulder to the back of his neck, fingers tangling in the shaggy ends as you kiss him back with matching intensity. A low rumble of satisfaction emanates from his chest.
As you slowly come back into your body, Dean’s hand slows, his fingers leisurely dragging out of you and stroking your oversensitive clit on their way out from between your trembling legs. He grips your chin none too gently, breaking the kiss.
There isn’t enough time for you to miss the feeling of his lips on yours, to savor the tingling he left behind, before his fingers are in your mouth.
The calloused tips press down your tongue and instinctively you wrap your lips around the second knuckle. You can taste yourself as you work them over with your tongue, your whimper turning into a gag when Dean shoves his fingers deeper into your mouth.
“That’s right,” Dean all but purrs, looking on with a lust-drunk expression. “How are you gonna take my cock if you can’t take two little fingers?”
He’s right, you think, but I wouldn’t call his fingers small, either.
His grip on your chin relaxes just enough for you to work your jaw open more. Viscous saliva floods your mouth as Dean moves his fingers in and out of your mouth. Every time he bottoms them out, you cough and gag as the tips wiggle against the back of your throat.
Tears sting your eyes, spilling down your cheeks in fat droplets when you blink up at him. There’s a hungry edge to the way he gazes down at you, obsession bleeding in as he fixates on how your spit collects on his knuckles and rolls down his hand.
Another rush of want crashes over you at the way he’s looking at you and in response, your thighs clench together unconsciously. The miniscule movement isn’t missed by Dean, not that you were really trying to hide your insatiable need anyway.
“God, you’re such a greedy slut,” he groans. “I just got you off and you’re already wanting more, aren’t ‘cha, Sweetheart?”
With his fingers shoved into your mouth, all you can do is hum in agreement.
Dean hums his approval, and with the slightest nod his fingers slip from your mouth, the hand on your jaw following suit. You suck air in greedily, the strings of drool starting to cool on your chin.
With eyes half-lidded out of pure lust, you watch him raise the hand pulled from your mouth up to his own. A particularly strong pulse of arousal nearly sends you to the floor as his tongue darts out from between his lips. The sounds that come from him slurping your spit from his hand are purely pornographic, all while he keeps his eyes locked on yours.
“Knees. Now,” he commands, wiping the mix of your spit on his jeans.
With how shaky your knees have become in the aftermath of his display— as well as the leg-shaking orgasm he gave you— you’re tempted to comply. A glance down to the bulge in his pants is enough for saliva to pool under your tongue, but the alcohol in your system has made you bold.
“And if I don’t want to?”
His head cocks to the side, eyebrows quirked up. “No?”
A shake of your head as you look up at him through your lashes. “No.”
“You don’t want me?” He asks, his hand curling around your wrist, bringing your palm to rest on the evidence of his arousal. “You don’t want my cock?”
His grip disappears, but you press the heel of your palm against him, dragging your hand along the length of him. “No, I don’t.”
Dean gives you a knowing smirk, and the moment stretches wide between you before he finally speaks.
“Liar.”
His hand moves too fast for you to react, fingers tangling painfully in your hair as he grabs a fistful.
You cry out softly, half from the pain and half out of shock. He leans forward and the sound dies out into a quiet gasp. Your eyes dart from the depths of his gaze to his lips, which are still tugged upwards in a satisfied grin, and back again.
“You want me. I’ve been inside you. Tasted you.” His thumb traces the plush of your bottom lip, smearing your lipstick even further. “I know just how desperate you are for my cock, whore. You can’t ever pretend otherwise.”
Your knees make contact with the grimy bathroom floor and you can feel yourself tremble with anticipation as Dean angles your head to look up at him.
“Keep your eyes on me,” he says, undoing his belt with his free hand.
“And if I don’t?” You ask before you can think better of it.
Dean doesn’t even bother to shove his jeans and boxers down his muscular thighs. They barely make it down past his balls before he’s languidly stroking himself, the tip red and already leaking.
Your throat bobs and you barely flinch when he grips himself at the base and slaps his heavy cock against your cheek.
“Oh, Sweetheart. Don’t make me ask twice,” he says.
Heart beating a million miles a minute, you barely feel the small sting of contact nor the dull ache of the tight grip he has on your hair. Your world is narrowed to the throbbing need in your pussy and Dean’s hard cock bobbing in front of you.
“Now don’t be difficult and open your fucking mouth,” he growls, shoving his cock towards your mouth.
You have the good sense this time to obey, your lips parting without hesitation. Tongue lolling out, you barely have enough time to situate yourself before his cock is halfway down your throat.
Instantly, your throat is on fire and you gag at the sudden intrusion. Hands flying up to brace against his denim clad thighs, you brace yourself as Dean holds your head in place.
“Fuuuck,” he rasps, dragging his hips back and briefly allowing you to breathe. “I missed this. Had a lotta girls, but none of their mouths feel half as good as yours does.”
It takes a second for you to adjust to how he’s stuffed into your mouth. Drool has already started to leak out of the sides of your mouth with every thrust of his hips. The stretch of your lips, the taste of him is just right. He smells warm, like sweat and skin and some clean, masculine soap.
And it’s pathetic the way you silently enjoy him pressing your face further onto his cock until your nose is buried in the thick, curly hair at his pubic bone. Your throat spasms as he holds you there, unable to breathe and frozen with sensory overload.
Hot tears crawl down your cheeks, blending with your drool on your chin. Just when the edges of your vision start to blur, Dean yanks you off his cock by your hair. You cough and sputter, replenishing the void of oxygen in your lungs.
Thick strings of drool stick to your chin and neck, and you just know your mascara is running down your cheeks, half-dried to your skin with your tears.
“Such a messy girl,” he coos, honey-laced words dripping with condescension. “See, all you needed was a good dick in that brat mouth.”
You welcome the sting as his hand leaves another hot print on your cheek and you have to resist from leaning into his palm when it caresses the hurt. It slips away just as quickly, and in turn you wrap a hand around the spick-slick shaft of him.
“Gonna keep fucking my face, or do you want me to make it actually feel good?” You ask, locked on his eyes as your mouth closes around the head of him.
The groan Dean utters when your cheeks cave around him, when your tongue slides along the sensitive underside of his cock, is all the answer you really need.
You’d learned early enough on that you really had to squeeze your hand around his cock when stroking him. “Harder, bitch,” he’d growled. “Don’t be fucking scared. You’re not gonna break it.”
His fingers still threaded themselves in your hair, the tips gliding across your scalp as you descended back down upon him. His head falls back, and the red ambient lighting in the bathroom gleams along the column of his throat, skin dewy with sweat.
You’d like nothing more than to stand and lick the salt from his skin.
Tongue pressed to the underside and cheeks hollowed, you slide his cock all the way to the back of your throat. Your gag reflex balks, but you ignore it, pulling back barely half way before bobbing your head back down. The small whimpers and moans that you make no attempt to stifle travel along his cock.
Dean’s hand curls further into your hair, leaving your head littered with sharp pinpricks. All it does is add to the slickness between your thighs. Thighs that you press together seeking any kind of friction; you can feel your arousal roll down the insides. Your skirt is still hiked up around your hips, leaving your dripping pussy exposed to the cool air.
A dull ache makes itself known in your knees, the bathroom tile extremely unforgiving on the joints. You do your best to ignore it, hand sticky with spit abandoning his shaft in favor of cupping his balls.
Dean’s hips buck into your mouth at the additional touch, seeking the wet heat.
“Oh fuck,” he grunts. “Keep doing that.”
So you do, fondling him there while maintaining your rhythm; push your head down on him until you can feel him in your throat— until you gag harshly— then pull back enough to breathe through the spasm. Rinse and repeat all the while your free hand inches closer to your throbbing pussy. The wet, sloppy sounds from your mouth meld with his decadent grunts and groans, filling the bathroom.
The system works, up until the point it doesn’t.
You come up for air only for Dean’s hand to press against the back of your head, pushing you back down onto his cock. Your eyes screw shut as your nose is mashed into the mess of curls at his pubic bone.
A sound of displeasure vibrates from your lips up the length of him, and after a second you try and pull your head back. It ends fruitlessly, though, as Dean only presses harder.
“Shut up. Just a little longer,” he growls. “Fucking take this cock. Fucking choke on it like the whore you are.”
Your tear-filled eyes screw shut as your throat spasms hard. Bracing a hand on his muscular thigh, your fingernails dig into the denim. Dean’s cock moves, barely pulling out an inch before it’s back, harshly slamming into your throat. A soreness grows in your jaw for how long you’ve kept it open.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he moans, his chest heaving. “Gonna fucking cum, baby.”
That fuzzy, floaty feeling returns as you struggle against the need to breathe, against the intrusion of cock in your throat. He starts to twitch against your tongue, and the pistoning of his hips grows sloppy and uneven. Pushing through the haze, you swallow around him, earning yourself a string of curses from above you.
The crass words are cut off by a garbled moan. You hear your name somewhere in there, but you’re too busy swallowing down Dean’s cum to pay much attention to what he’s saying. He holds you there, cock pumping his seed down your throat until he stops twitching and his length softens a bit.
Lines of spit connect your lips to his cock once he finally wrenches himself from your mouth, and they snap back against your chin when he takes a step back. Your body is wracked with wet coughs as you gasp for air. Heart beating what seems like a million beats a second, you lean back on your heels and wipe the spit from your face.
Out of the corner of your eye you see Dean tuck his half-flaccid cock back into his boxers, leaving the jeans unbuttoned.
“Up,” he rasps, still breathing hard from his climax.
On shaky legs, you rise up, wincing at the stiffness in your knees. You brace a hand on the sink behind you as the feeling returns to your lower extremities.
Dean’s hand slips around to the nape of your neck, drawing you in. His lips capture yours before your brain can catch up. He licks into your mouth and you whimper when his leg slots between yours. The top of his thigh bumps against your neglected core and you nearly cry at the sensation.
“I can fucking feel you soaking through my jeans, baby,” he says, sliding both hands to your hips. “Soaked just from sucking cock, just like a proper whore.”
Your brain buffers, overloaded with the repeated deprivation of oxygen and the way the roughness of denim feels against your needy clit, your panties still pulled to the side. All that leaks out of you is a pathetic whimper that’s mostly intelligible.
Dean laughs cruelly, kissing a line of fire down your jawline. “So dumb, baby, and you haven’t even had my cock yet.”
He bounces his thigh against you and you cry out, hands scrambling to find purchase on his broad shoulders.
“Please,” you manage to whine.
“Please what?” His teeth graze the line where your jaw meets your neck.
“Need’a cum. Please.”
“You think you deserve it?”
“Mhmm,” you nod vigorously. “Please, Dean.”
You can feel the wet spot your soaked pussy has made, now. The dampness of the fabric allows you to slide easier along the rigidness, your movements barely a fraction of what you need.
“You think you can make yourself cum on just my thigh?” He pulls back from your neck, an amused tilt to his lips. “Gonna hump my leg like the dog you are?”
“Please,” you say barely above a whisper, legs trembling again.
“I’m not gonna help you. Gonna have to be a big girl and do it all yourself.”
“That’s okay, it’s okay. I can do it. Please, please,” you babble nonsensically now, much to his sadistic satisfaction.
“Better get on with it then,” he says.
No sooner are the words spoken into existence are your hips grinding down against his thigh. You feel him flex his quad beneath you, creating a ridge that feels mind-numbingly good against your clit.
You cling to his shoulders for stability, wanton moans spilling from your lips unimpeded. It takes less than a minute for a tightness to grow low in your belly. The heat from his body, the smell of him, it all wraps around you and soaks into your veins like an aphrodisiac.
There’s no sane part of you left to care how humiliating this is, how desperate you are to dry hump his thigh just from having a dick down your throat. Everything in you is narrowed down to how good dragging your pussy along his thigh feels. How with every shift of your hips, sparks of pleasure threaten to set you alight.
“Such a dirty girl,” Dean croons in your ear as you puff out breathy moans. “So goddamn pathetic it’s almost sad.”
Your pussy clenches on nothing at the words, at the names he’s calling you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, hiding the way your cheeks warm. The scent of him is stronger here, and you inhale deeply.
Dean’s hands have moved to the sink directly behind you, his body effectively caging you between the solidness of his torso and the cool porcelain. It’s that fact alone that keeps you mostly upright, your legs shaking. It grows worse with each drag of your pussy along his thigh, pressure building between your legs.
“I can feel you shaking, you close?” Dean’s words rumble through you.
You nod against his neck, moaning into his skin like you can imbue your need to cum into his system. You squirm and hump against him, mouth falling open as you rapidly approach the edge of your orgasm. It’s so close, the final build up making your movements erratic as you push yourself just that little bit further.
But just as you are about to tip over the edge, Dean pulls his thigh from between your legs and steps back enough you have to reach behind you to keep yourself from collapsing to the ground.
“No!” You cry out, very nearly at the verge of tears. “Wha—what the fuck?!”
Dean chuckles darkly, meeting your frustrated gaze. “Did you really think it was going to be that easy? God, you’re dumb.”
“Fuck you,” you spit at him.
“All in good time, baby. Now turn around, put your hands on the sink.”
You scowl and instead you reach down, tugging your skirt back over what little it covers before crossing your arms over your chest. “No.”
Dean’s head tilts and he pouts his lip mockingly. “No? Gonna throw a little tantrum now?”
“Fuck. You.” You say again.
“You’re really gonna try this with me?”
He’s stepped closer again, so if you really did want to go anywhere, you’d have to push past him.
But you don’t, and he knows it.
It’s all part of the game. You play it up, act like you don’t want him, just so that he’ll snap and manhandle you into whatever way he wants you. The best part about it is, he wants to fuck you just as much, so no matter how much you brat, how much you pretend, you’ll end up with his cock shoved into you anyway.
It’s a welcome change to all the hook-ups you’d had before. Men— boys, really— who would give up at the slightest bit of pushback, who’d pussy out at the level of roughness you so desperately craved.
And that’s why, even though Dean popped up once a month to rock your world and leave you sated, you never felt the need to indulge the men like the ones who’d been at the bar tonight. They could never satisfy you in the same way.
“Turn around, and put your hands on the sink,” he instructs again, both of you knowing you won’t before the words even leave his mouth.
You stand taller, looking him straight on. “Make me.”
You can see the instant his resolve snaps. Something in his face twitches and his expression darks the millisecond before his hands grasp onto your hips roughly. A gasp makes its way out of you when you’re spun around and shoved roughly into the sink.
The edge digs into your stomach, but that’s the last thing you’re paying attention to when Dean kicks your legs apart with his boot. His hand presses into the middle of your spine, pressing your upper half forward so you are half laying across the sink.
Looking up, you are met with your reflection for the first time since Dean walked into the bathroom.
You were right to assume you looked absolutely wrecked. Mascara is streaked down your face, your red lipstick smeared across your kiss-swollen lips. Then your eyes cant up and you catch Dean staring, but not at your face. His eyes, pupils blown so wide you can barely see his green irises, are trained lower.
Bent over like this, your skirt rides up an obscene amount, baring your panty-clad pussy to him. His lower lip is caught in between his teeth, and he almost looks contemplative in his admiration.
“Gonna keep staring or are you gonna do something?” You snark, watching his eyes snap up to yours in the mirror.
“And what are you gonna do if I don’t?” He asks in turn. “What if I just make you stand like this and let all those guys out there who were eye-fucking you come in here and take their turn?”
Your pussy clenches at the thought, and even though Dean no doubt caught the motion, he makes no comment.
“You wouldn’t. You’re too fucking possessive,” you respond, calling his bluff with not a bit of confidence in your statement.
Dean smiles, and it’s not a kind expression.
Warm skin against the backs of your thighs makes you flinch a bit, even though you can see him take a step forward. His hands slide your skirt back over the swell of your ass, bunching the fabric around your waist.
“Maybe, maybe not,” he muses, slipping his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties. “Maybe when I’m all done with you here they can fuck you while my cum’s still leaking out of you.”
Cool air meets your soaked core as Dean drags your panties down your thighs, down your legs. His fingertips skate your skin as he lifts your feet, removing the scrap of fabric completely. Your mouth twists in a fleeting moment of disappointment when he shoves them into his back pocket.
Those were my favorite pair.
“Either way, I still get to cum,” you finally say.
You yelp as his hand comes down hard on your ass. Once, twice, three times in rapid succession. It stings, leaving your skin tingling. The sensation shoots right between your thighs, reinvigorating the swelling need inside you.
“You really wanna cum that bad you’d let strangers fuck you?” He says with a condescending incredulousness. “God, you’re more pathetic than I thought.”
Another slap, this time to your other asscheek. Your fingers grip the edge of the sink as you resist the urge to rock back towards him. Your cheeks burn from the sting of his words, but he’s not finished.
“Do you think of me when you fuck yourself?”
You didn’t think your cheeks could grow any hotter in embarrassment, but he never fails to surprise you.
“What the fuck kind of question is that?” You squeak.
“The kind I expect answered,” he says with another slap to your ass.
His hand smooths over the warm skin and you nearly moan when it slides inward, his thumb ghosting across your pussy.
“Why does it matter?”
“Because I wanna know if I make you scream my name even when I’m not here to fuck you senseless.”
Your mouth opens and closes as you try to formulate a sentence, but it’s hard to focus with his thumb stroking the slickness of your core. It’s teasing, not enough for the sensations to build, just enough to keep you on edge.
You cry out, flinching forward only to be stopped by the sink, when Dean’s hand makes contact with your exposed pussy this time. It hurts more than your ass, but the pleasure that it turns into isn’t diminished.
“Answer me, slut.”
His hand comes down on your core again and you can’t contain the moan that comes with it.
“Yes, I think of you,” you relent, gripping tighter to the sink.
His thumb presses against your clit and your breath catches in your lungs. The pad rubs circles around the nub and you could cry from the direct stimulation.
“Good.” Is all he says before you lose sight of him in the mirror when he sinks to his knees behind you.
Your head drops forward at the first puff of his hot breath against your core. His tongue follows, licking a hot stripe up your pussy. A soft moan leaves your lips as he does it again, the tip of his tongue swirling around your clit as he uses both hands to grope your asscheeks.
His stubble scrapes against your inner thighs, the combination of sensations making your head spin. You rock back against his face, and surprisingly he lets you. His tongue and lips lick and suck at your core, and nothing about the way he’s eating you out is quiet.
Your hips buck when his teeth close around your clit, not ready for the sudden second of pain. His tongue is right there following, licking away the immediate hurt. His thumb takes over, his tongue dipping inside you.
“Don’t stop, please,” you moan, grinding back on his face.
“Wasn’t planning on it,” he says, pulling away from your pussy just long enough to say as such before going right back.
The pressure of your climax rushes up and you barely have enough strength in your legs to keep yourself upright. The orgasm roars through you in one giant wave. Your mouth falls open as his mouth works you over through it.
In the mirror, you see him stand, and then you’re being flipped around so that you're leaning back against the sink again.
His lips connect with yours and you can taste yourself on his mouth as he kisses you. It’s not gentle, his teeth clash with yours, your tongues dancing and somewhere in the way he licks into your mouth you feel his hand slide between your bodies to your pussy.
You’ve barely recovered from the orgasm he just brought you to, and now his middle and ring finger are slipping inside you.
Carding your fingers through his hair, you kiss Dean hard, letting his mouth swallow your desperate moans. Stars spark behind your eyes as he curls his fingers up towards your belly. Quickly, he finds that soft spot that makes your legs feel like jelly, threatening to send you to the floor.
“De-Dean! Oh fuck,” you cry out.
His mouth has migrated to your neck, sucking hard on your pulse point. You clench hard around his fingers, a different kind of pressure building low in your belly. Another orgasm builds slowly, especially as the heel of his palm presses against your clit.
“That's right, bitch. Scream my name. Scream it loud so everybody out there knows who you belong to.”
He shoves his fingers further into your sloppy pussy, wet and obscene sounds reaching your ears. Your head lolls to the side, allowing him better access to kiss and nibble on your neck. You’ll have to wear make up to cover up the hickies that he’s undoubtedly placing along your skin like a sign to say you’re his. He punches his digits in and out of you, petting that fucking spot.
Your thighs are trembling so hard now— so is the entirety of your body. The pressure just keeps building and building. He’s everywhere, between your legs, other hand groping your body, his mouth on your neck. Nowhere is left unattended and it is so much.
“Feel you clenching so fucking tight on my fingers, baby. Gonna cum again for me?” Dean says against your neck, leaning up to nip at your ear.
All you can do is nod. Words don’t feel real to you right now and no amount of anything could change that.
Your nonverbal confirmation seems to satisfy him well enough. Then, he does something, something so good and he keeps doing it. Everything around you fades to just his ministrations and the feel of his body caging yours, and you feel the pressure snap.
Everything goes white and your body seizes up with the intensity of which your orgasm slams into you. But Dean’s fingers don’t stop. They continue to pump into you, curling into you. You don’t even feel in control of your body as you feel yourself gush all over his hand.
Dean curses under his breath and you just barely acknowledge it as you gasp for air, clinging to his shoulders with all your might.
Dean draws his fingers from you and a perverted sense of deja vu hits you as he licks you from his fingers. He keeps you upright with his other arm snaked around your waist, and for that you are grateful.
“Did— did I just…?” You pant, slowly realizing what’d happened.
“You just squirted all over my fucking hand,” Dean affirms, wiping his hand on his jeans. “Wish I would’a just stayed down there. Drank it right from the source.”
You groan at his obscene words, unable to stand the way his verbal filth immediately makes your overstimulated body respond in kind.
He taps your cheek none too gently. “Don’t go tapping out on me now. We’re not done yet.”
You’re putty in his hands as he spins you around, bracing your hands on the edge of the sink. He let’s go, and on shaky legs you stand there watching him shove his jeans and boxers back down his thighs.
“You’re so wet, not gonna have any issue getting in,” Dean mutters quietly.
You moan softly at the drag of his cock through your arousal. The spongy head of him bumps against your clit and you whimper, the overstimulation becoming borderline painful.
“What’s a’matter?” Dean asks. “Too much?”
“Uh huh,” you nod.
“Too fucking bad.”
You moan weakly as Dean presses forward, shoving the blunt tip of his cock inside you. Involuntarily, your hips sway forward, away from the stretch. With how wet you are, there’s not much pain, but his fingers can only prepare you for the girth of his cock so far.
Dean’s hands grab fast to your hips, pulling you back to him, the motion sinking you down onto him almost to the hilt. You gasp a moan, feeling unbelievably full to the point it knocks the air from your lungs.
“Where you goin’?” he grunts, working his hips forward and back. “I know you’re not running from my cock after crying for it.”
“So big,” you gasp, inner walls clenching around him as you try to adjust to the sudden stretch.
Dean leans forward, rutting his cock into you. “Stop your fucking whining and take it, pathetic slut. I can feel you dripping down my balls.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes as his words hit their mark. It’s all so much; you can practically feel every vein and contour of him inside you. As he drags himself out, the bulge of his head catches on that sensitive spot, immediately making your legs shake.
“Oh, baby, cry all you fucking want,” Dean lays a sloppy kiss to your bare shoulder. “All it’s gonna do is make me harder.”
As if in emphasis, he snaps his hips into yours. You are thrust forward, the unforgiving edge of the sink digging into your lower stomach. Blinking, the tears leak down your cheeks, rewetting the paths from the ones that had fallen earlier.
His arm snakes around to your front, pulling you back against his chest. A big hand pulls your shirt and bra to the side, enveloping a breast. He rolls the hardened nipple between his fingers, every movement made with expert precision.
You swear you can feel his cock in your stomach with every grinding thrust into you. His hips barely break contact with your ass like he can’t be bothered to pull out for even a second. The outcome is his cock stimulating that sensitive spot; the pressure is helped by the way the sink edge ensures he slides along it with each and every movement.
“So fucking tight, baby,” Dean moans in your ear, still fondling your breast. “Always a perfect fuckin’ cumslut for me.”
Your hand reaches behind you both, sinking your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck. His balls slap against your skin as his thrusts grow longer, his hand sliding up from your tit to your neck. He doesn’t squeeze this time, but just the feel of his calloused palm and fingers circling your throat makes you clench around his cock.
“Fucking me…so good,” you moan out, holding a hand to his wrist.
“Say my name, bitch. Who’s fucking you so good?” He growls, nipping at your shoulder.
“You are, Dean,” you babble.
The hand not on your throat dips between your legs, finding your thoroughly abused clit. A whine crawls its way up your throat and you feel his hand tighten almost imperceptibly around your neck.
“Shut up. I don’t wanna hear it,” he snaps. “Just take it. Fucking take it.”
“But—”
“I don’t care. Not my fucking problem.”
And he doesn’t, his fingers speeding up their motions on your clit. Sharp pangs stab at you with each brush of his callouses over your swollen nub. It all melts into pleasure and all you can do is push your ass back against him, meeting his thrusts.
Dean moans his approval. “See, that’s a good whore. Feels fucking good, don’t it.”
“Yes,” you keen, slamming yourself back on his cock.
His thrusts don’t let up. Instead, they become more forceful, sending you into the sink hard enough you’re sure you are gonna have bruises on your hips tomorrow morning. His cock throbbing against your inner walls, and his panting moans in your ear have become ragged. His fingers on your clit are unrelenting, pushing you towards the brink of yet another orgasm.
He’s all but draped over your back at this point, snapping his hips into yours erratically. Just when you think you can’t take any more, Dean groans into your ear.
“Gonna fucking paint this pussy white, and you’re gonna take it all. Y’hear me?”
Your pussy pulses in response. “Yes, please cum in me.”
Dean moans and it’s one of the sexiest things you’ve ever heard. “That’s fucking right. Beg for my cum, bitch.”
His hand slides from your neck to your shoulder, bracing you and himself as he thrusts harder, balls slapping harshly against you. The grip is bruising, but you’re too far gone to care.
“Please, cum in me, Dean. Need’a feel you fill me,” you whimper.
“Oh fuck, baby.”
You feel hips stutter then, his cock throbs as his orgasm hits him. He’s not quiet, moaning your name loudly.
You can feel his cum filling you, thick ropes spurting into your pussy, and that alone sends you over the edge, yet another orgasm crashing into you. This time, your violently shaking legs give out.
Instantly, Dean's arm wraps around your waist, holding you there as he gives a few more rutting thrusts into your pussy, milking his cock. You both stay there for a second, heavy breathing filling the room as you gasp for air.
He breaks the silence first. “Can you stand?”
You take a second, assessing your still trembling body. Finally, you nod.
Taking you at your word, Dean relinquishes his hold on you, leaving you to brace yourself on the sink as he walks over to the paper towel dispenser. He snags a few, using them to clean his cock off before tucking himself away.
He doesn’t offer you any, instead he turns and unlocks the door.
Sparing a glance over his shoulder, he gives you that sharp grin. “So, same time next month?”
You tug your clothes back into place. “Fuck you.”
“Darlin’, you just did,” is all he says before he disappears out the door.
Please like, reblog, and/or comment if you enjoyed. Feedback is appreciated and encouraged!
Summary: Superman keeps running into this… supposedly “villain”. Your powers, for some reason, have never affected him, no matter how hard you try.
Tags/warnings: Angst. Loads of angst. Full of angst. Comfort. Fighting. Superman vs Reader. Reader doesn’t know Superman’s identity. No physical descriptions of reader. Superman is a softie. Really soft. Softer than cotton. Reader really hates Superman. No use of y/n. Original company invented by me and my powerful brain. (wc: 2.8k)
This wasn’t the first time you were trying to boycott Vanderbilt Industries. Hell, it wasn’t even the first time this week. Being an environmentalist was exhausting when the media called you a terrorist and didn’t see Vanderbilt Industries for the evil that it truly was. Even worse, every time you did anything against their CEO, Georgiana Vanderbilt, Superman came and rescued the evil corporation. Instead of helping you? The only person who supported you in that double-faced city was a random ass journalist on the Daily Planet. He always called out what Vanderbilt Industries was doing when you allegedly “attacked” them —and for legal reasons, we’re using quotes—. You would totally give Clark Kent an exclusive if he asked you to. He was the only one who even bothered to look at this fucking Industries.
Huh, and somehow you were the bad guy.
So it became your mission not only to destroy Vanderbilt Industries, but also to kill Superman. C’mon, he wasn’t immortal. You knew you just had to end him. Finish him, C’est fini! You’re tired of the big blue always ruining your plans and he doesn’t even take you to the Phantom Zone. Does he not take you seriously?
You were using your powers to make the plants grow and invade the office. Something you loved the most about your powers was that they came from the sun, so actually making the plants grow to tremendous sizes… they did it healthily. And it was amazing to see the vines breaking the windows and getting the people inside. But of course, Superman came right in. Of course, they were screaming terrified… despite you not actually doing anything to them, you were looking only for fucking Georgiana to make her pay or something, you weren’t really sure of what the plan was here. You just wanted Superman.
He smiles at you and waves softly as he sees you. Is he fucking making fun of you?
“The fuck you want now?” you ask bluntly, still moving your vines around the office to kick everyone out. Superman shakes his head.
“What are you doing this time?” he asks, amused. So he is making fun of you! You groan as you throw a vine at him, surrounding him entirely. But he doesn’t move, he doesn’t struggle to escape. You furrow your eyebrows. “It feels… tingly.”
“Oh for fuck’s-” you don’t finish, using your vines to start choking him. You really can’t stand him anymore. A smile tugs at your lips as you see him finally struggling, actually choking. He uses his x-rays to shoot down your vine and you furrow your eyebrows again. “Hey! Careful!” you yell at him. He’s quick to fly to you, taking you in his arms to pull you away from the building itself and from your vines. He’s taking you to fight.
The wind instantly whips your hair into your face as the ground falls away, the shattering glass and panicked corporate shrieks of Vanderbilt Industries fading into a distant buzz.
Finally. Fucking finally.
Your heart is hammering against your ribs, a wild, jagged rush of adrenaline lighting up your veins. He’s actually taking you away from the crowd. He’s taking you to a real battlefield. No more hovering out of reach, no more patronizing sighs, no more treating you like a minor zoning ordinance violation. You are a threat. You are the apex predator of the solar system, and the Man of Steel has finally recognized that it is time to throw down.
You brace yourself, channeling the bright, burning energy hummed deep within your core. The afternoon sun is beating down on the city, perfectly fueling you. You’re ready to blast him. You’re ready to melt that stupid, perfect "S" right off his chest.
Except... his grip isn't crushing.
In fact, as he carries you up past the skyline, flying in a smooth, gentle arc toward the roof of a nearby skyscraper, you realize he’s holding you like a fragile piece of fine china. Or a particularly grumpy cat. His massive hand is securely supporting your lower back, and his other arm is practically cradling your legs to make sure you don't slip.
He lands on the empty, gravel-strewn rooftop with a soft thud, his red boots settling gracefully. He doesn't slam you down. He doesn't pin your arms behind your back. He just sets you onto your feet, keeping a steadying hand on your shoulder for a split second until he’s sure you have your balance.
You instantly tear yourself away from his touch, stumbling back a few paces, your hands already igniting with a bright, golden, solar heat. "Get the hell off me!" you snap, your fingers twitching as vines from the rooftop's decorative planters begin to aggressively snap toward him like angry snakes. "You think you're so smart? You think you can just kidnap me from my own crime scene?!"
Superman just stands there. He doesn't drop into a fighting stance. He doesn't puff out his chest. Instead, he lets out a breath that is dangerously close to a chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck.
"I'm sorry," he says, and god, his voice is so infuriatingly sincere it makes your teeth ache. "I didn't mean to startle you. But those vines were getting dangerously close to the main power grid on the floor below, and if you accidentally severed the high-voltage lines, you could have been seriously shocked. I couldn't just stand by and let you get hurt."
You freeze, your jaw dropping slightly. Your golden, sun-flared eyes blink in utter disbelief.
"I was strangling you," you hiss, gesturing wildly to the green residue still sticking to his indestructible cape. "I was trying to crush your windpipe! I am trying to kill you, you overgrown blue jay!"
"And you're putting a lot of heart into it," Clark says softly, offering you a warm, encouraging smile that completely shatters your villainous aura. He takes a step closer, completely ignoring the fact that your hands are literal conduits of raw solar plasma. "But really, those plants you grow... they emit the purest UV spectrum I've ever felt. When you wrapped me up, it felt like sitting under a sunlamp after a double shift. It actually cured a headache I've had since Tuesday."
He reaches out, and for a terrifying second, you think he’s going to punch you. Instead, his large hand falls to your shoulder, but he’s quick to pull away as if you had burned him. "Look, I know Georgiana Vanderbilt is running a terrible operation. I've read... uh, some articles. By that Daily Planet reporter you mentioned. Kent, right? He makes some really good points about their carbon footprint."
Your powers are currently at 100% capacity, fueled by the midday sun, radiating enough thermal energy to melt a tank—and this man is trying to strike up a conversation about Clark Kent's journalistic integrity.
"Are you.. are you agreeing with my manifesto right now?" you ask, your voice dangerously low, a mix of profound confusion and intense irritation.
"I'm agreeing that the planet needs protecting," Superman corrects gently, floating just an inch off the gravel, looking down at you like you're the most fascinating thing he's seen all day. "Just... maybe with fewer property damage lawsuits? Come on. Let's get you away from the ledge. You're shaking. Did you skip lunch to plan this?"
You’re so confused right now. Overly taken aback by this man who looks either like a human version of hot cocoa after a bad day or a golden retriever with maybe too much energy. You shake your head, making the grass below his feet grow to make him fall on his rear end. And you throw your pollen cloud at him. Confused, kinda overwhelmed if you’re being honest. Was he worried about you having lunch? what the fuck was wrong with him!
He sneezes, and that definitely makes you smile. You’re starting to get him. You overgrown roots to keep him down, and you get it from your necklace. It’s small and protected and was super hard to get. But you knew people who knew people and so on and on. The kryptonite. You put it right on his chest, where he’s being held down, and it’s painful to watch. He’s screaming and groaning as if it’s burning him.
No one had ever seen how kryptonite made him react. But this was it. The roots are tight on his wrists, and they start bruising his skin. You didn’t even know he could be bruised.
You take it off, tightening the roots a bit more, and he’s still panting, still groaning. He asked for this! You close your eyes for a second and immediately use the sun beam in your chest towards him. It’s either that and kill him fast or wait for him to die on his own. You’re being merciful.
He screams, and he’s loud. And, if you gotta be honest, you’re regretting it. You’re a low-class villain that no one would call a villain, honestly, and you’re the one killing Superman. He screams, and you stop. You cut the beam, you pull away the roots, and you look at him.
He’s no longer bruised, and he even looks… better? You’re confused. You kneel down beside him.
“You saved me…” he whispered barely, looking up at you with soft eyes. Your eyes widened. You WHAT?!
“I was trying to kill you,” you murmur barely. You’re frustrated, confused, and honestly? so fucking tired. He’s staring at your face, the pinch of his eyebrows is hard.
“But… the sun beam…” He’s just as confused as you are. “The Sun helps me.”
“Oh, for fuck’s-” you cut yourself with a frustrated huff. If you could just kill yourself right now, right here, you fucking would. Is that why he doesn’t care about your superpowers? Because the Sun fucking helps him! Oh for crying out loud.
“Do you really want to kill me?” he asks as he stares at you like a kicked puppy. That was it. He was an oversize, overexcited puppy. You nod. “Really? What for?” You chuckle.
“Umh, cause you always stop me?” he blinks at you slowly, trying to understand. “You don’t let me kill Georgiana Vanderbilt…”
“Oh,” he simply responds. Furrowing his eyebrows deeper. “I thought you just wanted to draw attention to Vanderbilt Industries, get the media involved or something like that.” You want to punch him.
“No! I’ve been trying to kill Georgiana for months now!” you’re screaming, standing up now as you wanna grip your hair and tear it all apart because of how dumb you were on Superman’s mind. You were simply trying to get attention to the company itself… unbelievable! While you were actually trying to kill their CEO!
He smiled, despite it all. “Well. They are getting audited.” your head snapped back at him.
“They are?” he nodded.
“You don’t need to kill Georgiana after all, she’s probably going to jail anytime soon.” You cross your arms. You feel like a little kid having a tantrum. But it’s so fucking unfair! You stare at him, your jaw tight, your arms locked so hard against your chest you’re practically cutting off your own circulation.
An audit.
Months of tracking Georgiana Vanderbilt’s corporate schedule, weeks of cultivating localized tropical microclimates in your apartment, sleepless nights spent drafting radical eco-manifestos—all of it pushed aside because the IRS or the SEC or whatever three-letter agency finally decided to look at a spreadsheet.
"An audit," you repeat, your voice completely flat, drained of all the dramatic, villainous fury you’d spent the morning psyching yourself up for. "You're telling me that while I was breaking triple-paned reinforced glass with solar-powered bamboo, some guy in a beige cubicle was defeating my archenemy with a calculator?"
Superman—the literal god of Metropolis—actually looks a little sheepish. He pushes himself up from the gravel, completely unbothered by the fact that you had just exposed him to the ultimate cosmic poison and tried to incinerate him with a death beam. The green tint from the kryptonite is entirely gone, wiped away by the accidental solar spa treatment you’d blasted directly into his chest. His skin is flawless again. No bruises. Not even a smudge of soot on his suit.
"Well," he says, dusting off his knees with a casual, sweeping motion. "Clark—the journalist from the Planet—he actually managed to track down their offshore shell companies. Turns out Vanderbilt Industries wasn't just illegally dumping chemical runoff into the reservoir; they were also aggressively laundering money to avoid federal green taxes. Once the paper published the financial logs this morning, the federal government froze their assets. Georgiana is facing up to twenty years."
He steps closer, the gravel crunching softly beneath his boots. He looks down at you, his blue eyes entirely devoid of judgment, reflecting nothing but that soft, infuriating, golden-retriever earnestness.
"So, technically," he adds, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips, "you won. You brought them down. Kent's article wouldn't have gained nearly as much traction if your... uh, 'alleged attacks' hadn't kept Vanderbilt Industries in the headlines all week. You forced the public to look at them."
"I didn't want to force them to look at a spreadsheet, you blue-suited Boy Scout! I wanted to drag her out by her expensive highlights!" You throw your hands in the air, spinning around to pace across the roof. The grass beneath your feet grows a frantic three inches with every angry step you take, responding to the sheer, volatile frustration vibrating through your body. "And don't look at me like that! Stop smiling! I literally had you on the ropes! I had the rock! The glowing, painful, deadly rock!"
"You did," he concedes instantly, nodding with immense gravity, though his eyes are still dancing with amusement. "It was very effective. The vine restraint technique was excellent, too. If you hadn't used the solar beam to save me, I would have been in serious trouble."
"I WASN'T TRYING TO SAVE YOU!" you yell at the sky, your face burning hotter than the midday sun. "I was trying to vaporize you! I didn't know your stupid alien cells drank sunlight like a high-end smoothie! I thought I was delivering the final blow!"
Superman lets out a soft, low laugh—not a mocking one, but the kind of laugh someone gives when they're genuinely charmed. He walks over to the edge of the roof, looking out over the Metropolis skyline where, a few blocks away, police sirens are finally wailing around the Vanderbilt building. Not to arrest a terrorist, but to escort corporate executives out in handcuffs.
"Well, whatever your intentions were," he says softly, turning back to look at you, "thank you. For the sun beam. And... for not letting the kryptonite kill me. Even if it was an accident."
You let out a long, defeated whine, burying your face in your hands. The solar energy radiating from your palms feels warm against your skin. The entire dynamic of your life has been completely upended in the span of ten minutes. You aren't a high-profile eco-terrorist. You're a catalyst for investigative journalism and a walking, talking battery pack for the city's greatest hero.
"I'm going to kill Clark Kent," you mumble into your hands, your voice muffled. "I'm going to find that nerdy reporter, track him down at his little desk, and give him the worst exclusive of his life."
Superman's posture stiffens just a fraction, a sudden, comical look of mild panic crossing his face before he quickly masks it with another gentle smile. "Oh, I don't know about that. Clark's a pretty nice guy. He'd probably just offer to buy you a coffee and listen to your thoughts on corporate restructuring."
You drop your hands, glaring at him through your hair. "Are you two best friends or something? Why do you keep defending him?"
"We... have a lot in common," he says smoothly, floating an inch off the ground again, extending a hand toward you. "Come on. The police are downstairs, and technically, you still caused a lot of broken glass. Let me fly you away before they come up here. Have you thought any more about that lunch?"
“Fucking Superman,” you mutter, but take his hand anyway. The kryptonite is long forgotten, and his palm is warm against yours. “You’re paying,” you say, eyebrows furrowed, and he nods.
“Might be a date. Or is that pushing it too much?”
A/N: Saw a post about this prompt here on tumblr but I'm to shy to tag them out of nowhere. HELP. credits to them for the idea honestly.
a/n: I watched The Greatest Hit's movie for David and a little idea popped in my head i wrote this in like an hour forgive me. I just wanted an excuse to put Clark in eyeliner ngl
cw: none
wc: 1.3k
"The Mighty Crabjoys?" You ask with only a hint of judgement in your voice. Sure you didn't hate their music but they were as mainstream as you could get for a supposedly underground punk band.
"Hey! They make awesome music." Clark says as he takes the ticket back from your hand.
"Two front row seats too!" He exclaims as he slides his chair back to his desk. Leaning back and grinning with that stupidly handsome smile.
"Yeah and how did you get those again Clark?" Lois asks as she sips her coffee. Smirking as she knows the answer is a certain caped superhero had something to do with it.
"I uh, I got lucky." He blushes as she stuffs the tickets back in his pocket. You tilt your head confused but are soon whisked away by Perry shouting your name.
"Mhm, I'm sure your connection to Superman had nothing to do with it." She whispers in his ear.
"Will you..." He sighs as he playfully glares at Lois.
"It's okay Clark, though I'm sure there's better ways to confess your feelings than using puppy dog eyes on the lady selling tickets with your underwear on top of your pants." She nudges his shoulder and he just groans.
Ever since Lois found out about his crush she has been relentless in her teasing. Poor Clark can barely get through the day without an innuendo or double meaning comment from her. But she was right, he should just buck up the courage and ask you out already. Which he was planning to do, using the concert as the perfect way to do it.
Mention the concert, drop that he had two tickets, ask you to go with him, then fall in love and be together for ever. That last bit was more of an end game goal but he can dream.
He glances at his computer and sighs as he begins to type a boring article about the Mayor's new housing plan. He barely makes it through the day before you finally reappear at your desk.
"So, who's going with you to the concert?" You ask as you see the tickets sitting on his desk. A twinge of jealousy crossing your mind as you wonder if he's bringing a date.
"No one. Just me alone. By myself. With two tickets." He blurts out. Cringing horribly inside as he kicks himself mentally.
"Oh, well..." Your slowly stop talking unsure if it's rude to invite yourself when he paid for the tickets.
"I was actually going to ask you. I know its not really your style but...If you're open minded, I think we'd have some fun." He says shyly. Tapping his pencil against his desk and smiling nervously. His nails dig into his palm as he waits for your response. Please please don't mess this up he thinks to himself.
"I would love to. I'm sure they're great if you like them." He's silent as it sinks in that you actually said yes.
"Great! Awesome, I'll pick you up at 6 on Saturday?" He can't hide his excitement as you nod along.
"Sounds perfect Clark." He gives you a thumbs up as you take your bag and head towards the elevator.
As you get in you watch as he moves to stand up but bangs his knee against the desk hard knocking his stuff all over the floor.
"Gosh darn it!" He huffs as he leans down to pick it up.
As the elevator doors close you can see him hit his head against the underside of the table. The tired but exasperated smile on his face only makes you laugh more.
Man, you really liked Clark.
You were a little shy to admit it but you had been counting down the days till Saturday. You had asked Cat to help you prepare for outfit wise. A tight shirt, slightly messy hair, and even tighter jeans will leave Clark "tripping over his farm boy feet" as Cat had put it.
Jimmy even texts you to have fun, though he does add on you can thank me later that you don't quite get. You suspect he's done some sort of meddling like he always does. Sharply at 6 there's a knock at your door. You take a deep breath and open the door.
Oh my fucking god...
Your breath catches in your throat as Clark waves at you. You suddenly understand Jimmy's text because he was standing in front of you with his curly hair all messed up, eyeliner around his eyes, a silver chain around his neck, and what you can only describe as the sluttiest Mighty Crabjoys top you've ever seen. Cropped just enough so that you can see a hint of his stomach if he moved his arms enough.
"Are you okay?" He asks as you continue to stare at him.
"Yes! I'm fine sorry. You just...you look. Different." You say, unable to express just how hot he really looked. His face falls as he looks down at his outfit.
"Is it bad? I told Jimmy that I looked ridiculous but he was so insistent I knew I should have-"
"You look good Clark. Really, really good." You cut him off.
"Oh." A faint red creeps up his neck as he sticks his hand in his pockets.
"You look really good too." His eyes drifting down your outfit before snapping back to your face.
"Come on, we better hurry." He holds out his arm and you take it.
Clark was right, it was a lot of fun. You didn't know all of the songs but it didn't matter when Clark was standing right next to you singing loudly and having so much fun.
At some point his hand had grabbed yours and you never wanted to let go. You two danced as well as you could among the crowd. It was silly, Clark wasn't the best singer and you weren't the best dancer yet the two of you were having a blast anyways. He twirled you around a couple times, that glimmer in his eyes shining brighter than you'd ever seen. His arm wrapped protectively around you when things got a bit more rowdy, protecting you from getting hit or shoved.
"Clark!" You shout over the music.
"Yeah!?" He turns to you, despite the heat and bodies around you he's barely broken a sweat. His hair is even messier from all the jumping but he barely looks any different. Instead it's like he's glowing under the stage lights. So handsome, so perfect, fuck it.
You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into a kiss. Your fingers tangling into his hair. Clark almost chokes as his arms hover in the air.
Does he put them around you? Can he? He doesn't want to be disrespectful but then he feels you tug on his hair and he's a goner. Hands on hips as he deepens the kiss.
You taste so sweet it's killing him. All he wants is more and more. He wants to worship you. Kiss you everywhere you'd let him and more. But then someone shoves him in the back and he remembers he's at a concert and he isn't keen on anyone else seeing more than a kiss from the two of you.
"Thank you for inviting me Clark." You shout, your arms still around his neck. He grins widely and leans in to kiss your forehead.
"Thank you for coming, now how about I take you on a less crowded date sometime?" He asks loudly. You pretend to think, laughing at his puppy dog eyes.
"Depends, would you ever consider wearing eyeliner again?" You ask teasingly. Well, sort of. It was really hot. Clark raises an eyebrow. No it's not his style at all. But he can see the way you've reacted to his new fashion choices and perhaps he could be persuaded to wear it again.
"Maybe, but only for special occasions." He says with a wink.
Oh man, you really do need to thank Jimmy later you think, maybe you'll buy him a coffee on Monday. Clark's shirt lifts up just a little more as he raises his arms to cheer and suddenly one coffee doesn't seem like thanks enough.
A month, yeah that sounds right. You're going to buy Jimmy Olsen coffee for a month for this and it would be so, so worth it.
18+ mdni, suggestive themes, slight mention of supergirl ‘26
hanging out with kara always ended two ways. you could either find yourself in a fight to the death—or doing something so incredibly stupid you will no doubt regret for the rest of your life. however this week while celebrating your best friend’s birthday week, you found yourself doing a mix of both.
despite the multiple warnings from clark, you allowed kara to get shit face wasted whenever she wanted. you weren’t a kryptonian, space alcohol would probably send you into a coma—so you knew kara would have a ( somewhat ) responsible adult to watch over her.
but then came ruthie, and the possibility of losing krypto, and an unlikely acquaintance with a well known space bounty hunter, and an intergalactic sex trafficking ring.
it was safe to say you were in way over your head—so much so that you told kara if you two made it out of there alive you would get a tramp stamp of her choice. it was something you said as a joke, something to keep her laughing when all she wanted to do was cry.
and spoiler alert—you guys made it out safely and before you knew it you were getting a tattoo of her choice tattooed on your lower back. you honestly didn’t mind it in the end. the design was pretty, and ultimately after a couple of weeks you honestly forgot about it. that was until an abnormally high heat wave hit and you were left wearing a cropped tank and daisy dukes.
“is that what i think it is?” lois’s voice rang throughout the backyard of the kent family farm. the tone of her voice almost captured everyone’s attention and when they followed her line of sight they too were met with the ink proudly displayed on your lower back.
“oh shit! i forgot about that!” kara chuckled out as she joined your side “funny story really” she started to explain everything that happened weeks ago—making sure to include the part where this was technically your idea in the first place.
“clark! have you’ve seen this?” jimmy asked with a tipsy smile, pointing at the tattoo kara forced you to show everyone who looked.
clark had to take a deep breath before he joined in on the conversation. he had, for the most part, been avoiding the group—more importantly you. you and clark had started a secret relationship months ago and you both agreed that keeping it lowkey was smart until you guys were comfortable with sharing.
but you played dirty today as those shorts nearly took the man of steal out once he laid eyes on you. “seen what?” he asked, holding onto his glass of sweet tea so tightly he was surprised it hadn’t shattered yet.
“little miss sunshine has a tramp stamp” lois breathed out in shock, arms crossed over her chest as she locked onto the tattoo—she was greatly impressed.
“oh yeah, i saw it last week” he said as if it was no big deal—not noticing how everyone stopped in their tracks to stare at the man in complete shock.
“wait you showed farm boy before you showed me?” lois asked in disbelief.
“no no, are we about to skip over the fact that farm boy already saw it?” jimmy back tracked.
“well i mean its kinda hard to miss it when i have her in certain positions” he shrugged.
“clark!” you gasped—seemingly only then did he truly realize what he was actually saying.
“oh come on man! thats my best friend!” kara cringed, going off on a ramble about how he can not and will not steal you away from her. all while lois sighed, reaching into her wallet to grab a fifty dollar bill to place in jimmy’s awaiting hand.
“wait till they find out about the one under your boob” he whispered as he joined your side, his hand engulfing the small of your back.
military miller! who joined after college, wanting to get some real world experience. that’s where he met javi.
military miller! who is so disciplined due to the training. (and so insanely buff)
military miller! who meets you at a diner near base where you’re a waitress. he always sweet talks you, leaving very generous tips.
military miller! who instinctively scans every room he walks into. you notice it on your third date, how his back is always to the wall, eyes flicking toward exits before he even sits down.
military miller! gives you his number after the third date, informing you on the restricted access he has on it.
“promise i won’t be ignoring you sweetheart, they’re real strict with phones.”
military miller! who sends you “good morning” texts at 5:30am because that’s when he’s already been awake for over an hour.
military miller! who calls you every day, 6pm sharp. he sits on the phone, listening to you yap about your day. he’s brief when talking about his.
military miller! whose calls are always exactly fifteen minutes because someone eventually yells that time’s up.
every conversation ends the same way.
“i love..”
then the line cuts.
military miller! who carries a tiny photo of you tucked inside his wallet behind his military ID as soon as you become official.
military miller! who finally introduces you to javi after months of hearing stories.
javi immediately laughs, “so you’re the girl.”
“what does that mean?”
scott sighs.
javi grins, “he never shuts up about you.”
military miller! who is impossibly patient teaching you how to shoot at the range.
“don’t fight the recoil.”
“i’m trying!”
he steps behind you, one hand gently adjusting your stance, the other guiding your grip.
“there you go.”
military miller! who apologizes before deployments, not because he’s leaving, but because he knows he’s going to worry you.
military miller! who comes home after four months overseas and hesitates before knocking on your apartment door.
military miller! who melts the second you throw yourself into his arms.
his duffel bag hits the floor, his cap falls somewhere behind him, he doesn’t care.
you nearly knock him over.
“hi.”
neither of you lets go.
military miller! who fucks you so good that first night home. he starts off hard, rutting into you relentlessly, chasing that high. after a few rounds, he settles into slow, deep love making.
military miller! who has a massive breeding kink, not even bothering to buy condoms on his way home.
“fuck, gonna fill you up sweetheart, you want my baby?”
military miller! who’s already planning on proposing before his next deployment.
a/n: omg i haven’t been inspired to write in so long, but military scott has brought me back to life. dedicating this one to @chloluvsdilfs my girl!!! also sorry i know nothing about the us military. i’m not glorifying the military in any way (especially not the us military) just using it for aesthetic and fanfic purposes
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HARDCORE….fluff. Pls just give us some domestic Clark
You were sleeping soundly in your shared bed. Clark had only just returned from his Superman duties and despite not feeling physically tired, his line of superhero work took a major emotional toll.
Silently as not to wake you, he slowly stripped out of his Superman costume and placed it neatly to the side. Then, gently, he reached for the duvet cover and climbed into bed, situating himself as close to you as he could without disturbing you too much.
The sun had just begun to rise over the roofs of Metropolis and so only a slim line illuminated the room. The way it captured your features, however, well... Clark was breathtaken.
His eyes drifted adoringly over every feature and admired how beautiful you looked when asleep. You were beautiful always, but Clark could take his time appreciating it now.
"Mm... Clark?" You murmured, peeking a sleepy eye open to look. A small smile crept over your face. "Hey, baby, when did you get back?"
He smiled, because what else could he do?
"Only just got back, sweetheart." He pulled you close and positioned your head against his chest. "Go back to sleep, baby. It's still early."
So you hummed and acquiesced. Then soft, slow breaths left you once more. And Clark smiled, and drifted to sleep for the few precious hours he had left. Because what else was he supposed to do?
~
"Clark, you're going to make it splat all over the floor!"
"You dare to doubt me and my pancake flipping abilities?"
Waking up early before work was a rare occasion you both decided to take advantage of... with pancakes for breakfast. The batter and the whisking of somehow went smoothly with minimal mess. The cooking? Not so much.
You glared at Clark, though a genuine smile radiated your face. "Clark Kent, if my pancake hits that floor I will personally pick it up and force you to wear it as a hat," you threatened, pointing a finger at him.
Clark didn't usually care for competition, but moments liked this just triggered it. Grinning, he turned his attention back to the pancake and tried to cool his expression into one of concentration. "Alright, are you ready?"
"No," you laughed.
"One. Two. Three!"
Time seemed to slow as you both watched the pan move and the pancake fly into the air. Except, the problem didn't seem to be the pancake. The handle itself had broken from the pan and the pancake splattered to the floor.
You both paused and looked slowly at each other. Then, giggles ravaged the small apartment you shared. You both resigned yourselves to having lacklustre toast from now on until you found the time to buy another pan. Hopefully one that doesn't break.
~
Visiting Clark's Ma and Pa was always a delight. For the both of you. Clark maybe suffered just a teensy bit more.
"Gosh, Clark, you haven't baked her banana bread yet?" His Ma scolded. "If it weren't for how happy she looks whenever you walk into the room, I would assume you two were constantly spatting!"
You stifled a giggle into your hand. Clark, with his superhuman hearing (also, you were not subtle) caught it and glared at you with a delighted shine in his eyes.
You knew he adored how you seemed to effortlessly fall into the peaceful family dynamic he had with his parents. Despite no enhanced senses of your own, you could basically hear his heart singing with joy after interractions such as these.
Then, Pa Kent turned to you, face mirroring the jest of his wife. "You know, dear, if you're ever neglected of Kent banana bread for too long, you could always stay here."
You finished your mouthful of the casserole they had cooked for the evening, and set your cutlery down. You grabbed Clark's hand from across the table. "Thank you, Mr Kent, but I'm hoping this conversation nudges a certain someone in the right direction," you said, winking at his parents obviously enough for Clark to notice.
"I didn't even know you liked banana bread!" He sounded scandalised, bless him.
"I guess we'll just have to see, won't we?"
And Clark sighed, but squeezed your hand back just as Ma diverted the conversation to how the crops were thriving this time of year.
And he smiled a private smile, silently thanking whatever luck had been on his side the day he met you.
~
You groaned for the umpteenth time that morning. After moving into a new flat last week, you very quickly realised that putting off the financial burden of acquiring a broadband router was very much a null point. You'd have to do it at some point, especially with this new job next week.
So, you found yourself navigating the bustling streets of Metropolis with absolutely no idea of where to go and how to go about navigating the city.
Glancing at your phone, you realised you'd already spent an hour and a half aimlessly wandering. "Fuck this, I need a drink."
Lucky for you, there was a coffee shop on the corner you could barely glimpse through the swarming masses of heads. As you waded through, a very large, hulking figure bumped into your side.
"Oh my gosh, I am so sorry, miss. Are you alright?"
And, aw, if your heart didn't swoop a bit at how sweet he sounded. And, woah woah woah, if your heart definitely did not skip a beat when you saw the face of the man who'd nearly caused your downfall.
Curly black hair, glasses, and blue eyes.
"-miss?"
You snapped out of it and fought the blush on your face. "Yes! Yes," you cleared your throat to eliminate the embarrassing crack. "Yes, I'm alright, are you?"
He obviously was, he bumped into you after all. But your words seemed to catch him off guard as he straightened momentarily and fiddled with his tie as he seemed to think about it.
"Well... I suppose I am," then, with a charming grin and shy eyes, he continued. "I would feel better after treating you to a coffee as an apology?"
And well, how could you refuse?
Thus, began your relationship with Clark Kent.
~
"Are you nuts? It's freezing out there!"
Clark leaned against the wall with his arms crossed and an expression that said 'you are being dramatic'. "Sweetheart, there are people in shorts outside."
You shook your head. "Doesn't matter. It's propaganda, I'm telling you." Petulantly, you crossed your arms and slumped further into the couch. "But Clark, isn't it so warm and cozy on here? With me?"
You looked up at his face and deflated. He was not in the mood to entertain you. "Aw, man. Fine. We'll go flying."
Like the conniving man he was, his expression split into a massive, overlypleased with himself, smile. He walked over to kiss you on the lips and grabbed your hands.
"Let's get you your coat." He guided you to the coat rack by the front door to the apartment and helped you into it.
You had to tease him. "Mr Kent, please, if you wanted an excuse to touch me, the bedroom is right there."
He paused where he was about to zip up the coat and looked deeply into your eyes. "You know, you're awful at hiding that flying makes you antsy."
"Now, you listen here, buddy-"
He zipped up your coat and scooped you into his arms. "Listening," he singsonged, even angling your head closer to his ear.
You scoffed and wriggled to be more comfortable. "Nevermind," you muffled. Then, you kissed his cheek and he carried you all the way until the lift reached the ground floor, out of the building and around to the back alley where he'd be able to take off without anyone noticing anything.
The sensation of flying was incredibly odd. Mostly incredible but very largely odd. You gripped tighter around Clark's neck even though you knew he would never let you fall. Then, you chanced a glance down at the city you had left and immediately regretted it.
Everything looked so far away and so, so small. You think perhaps it was the contrast of how it should look compared to how it did look that put you off. You didn't care much about the fall (at least, only because you weren't falling).
As Clark ascended through clouds and into the last part of the atmosphere where you could breathe with relatively no issue, he came to a halt.
You looked up at his face, noticing he was already looking at you with fondness painted across his features. He said your name with breathless adoration. Licking his lips nervously, he readjusted you so that he could support you with one arm.
Being that the main thing you could suddenly focus on was the absence of anything beneath your feet and the very sudden realisation that it was one of Clark's arm that came between you and imminent death, you failed to notice when he reached into the pockets of his jeans.
He said your name again, this time with more certainty and confidence. Then, you saw the ring.
"Oh my god!" You gasped.
"You are the most precious person in the world to me," he began, a slight watery shine beginning to appear in his eyes. "And every day, I fear that something might occur that seperates us, something I can't control."
Your heart cracks along with his voice. You place a hand against his cheek and he leans into it quite heavily.
"But, I have been working on taking control of that anxiety, rather than letting it control me." He took a very deep breath in. "And so, whatever time we have together, whatever gets thrown our way... I want to face it as your husband. If you'll have me?"
Gulping around a sob, your face twisted into something ugly. "Oh, Clark," you sputtered. "Of course, I'll marry you."
And then, you both kissed, fuelled by a love neither of you had ever felt before and were both eternally grateful you'd have for the rest of your lives. Because what else were you supposed to do?
warnings: 18+ so mdni, smut (porn with plot), one bed trope but the bed is small, fluff and romance ^3^, very established relationship... that becomes EVEN MORE ESTABLISHED wink wink, you meet the kents!, stupid metaphors, clark uses his powers, clark is pent up, reader is in her 30s
word count: 3.6k longest one yet!
a/n: congradulations... and happy supergirl release! sorry for taking so long to post again, i'm taking advantage of my summer by doing absolutely nothing writing-wise lol
previous, masterlist
You and Clark had arrived at Smallville in the early afternoon.
He straightened up in proximity of his parents, taking both of your luggages before you even had the chance to reach for yours. You found it so cute on him — this need to impress his parents, ears reddening with embarrassment while proving he would forever be their baby. You swore he willingly leaned into his mother’s grasp when she went to pinch his cheeks.
Jon went for you instead, offering a hand as he welcomed you. Finally meeting the two people you were most excited to meet, you shook hands with puffed cheeks, bashfully raising your shoulders to your ears. You made it your mission to be adored by his parents. Most parents loved you — but you were hoping to one day have his parents be your parents, so it was imperative they wanted to have you too.
You tried not to think about the logistics too much. You couldn't afford to lose your mind at the sight of jewelry.
Yes, he was happy to see you, but the bulge in Clark’s pants wasn’t anything but a velvet box. A velvet box that held the ring he bought for you about nine months ago. Technically, the relationship became official in December, the night you confessed your love mid-accidental-sextape; but he's considered you his girlfriend since September, and this was his justification for getting a ring so early.
You had also, at the time, come out with a piece discussing how to pick the right engagement ring. Apparently there was some quarrel with the women at the Daily Planet — Cat went around the office, asking whoever would listen, if they thought her friend's ring was ugly. She had been friends with this woman since childhood, and the ring she received didn't match up with the ring she's claimed to have always wanted. However, somehow, she cherished it more. Lois gave a mature response, albeit finding the ring sort of tacky: “as long as she likes it, right?”
You patted her back, causing her to choke on her coffee, thanking her for the idea.
The piece began by describing various rings, from royalty to friends you knew, even past rings you've received, until eventually describing your ideal ring in detail. Clark followed it word for word like a to-do list. Cat's friend may have enjoyed the ring she got, but he wanted to give you this one exactly.
And that's the ring currently sitting in his pocket.
Now, since he's read your column about the ring, he knows you didn't specify the jewel being made out of kryptonite, so he's not entirely sure why he's felt queasy the whole drive to Kansas. Despite the bright sun, he still had to pull off the road to catch his breath, your rubbing his back somehow making it worse. You assumed he was just as nervous of what his parents thought of you. But he knew that they already couldn't get enough, so it wasn't a concern.
His trigger-happy mind nearly proposed to you fifteen times so far, including while packing for the trip, checking into various hotels on the way to Kansas, and even at a gas station rest stop. Luckily, he came to his senses quickly enough to prevent the last one.
Outside of what’s written in your column, you've covered past relationships with Clark, including the two engagements. They were not what you deserved. And Clark knew you loved him, and he personally couldn't imagine a life without you, but this engagement had to stick. The third time will be the charm.
But due to his paranoid nature, he just couldn't let you out of his sight.
“Clark!” Martha shooed him away, flapping her hand up and down. By this time of day, the sun hovered unforgivingly in the middle of the sky. After your much needed cup of coffee, Clark and his father scrubbed the car clean from the long drive here. Across the drive-way, you and his mother were doing farm work among the cows. “Your girl’s gonna be fine! Keep starin’ at ‘er like that, you’ll burn a hole through ‘er.”
The water hose in your grip faltered as you laughed. Since you were born and raised in Metropolis, the last time you did any farm work was during a field trip in elementary school to a farm outside of the city. Martha found this adorable, giving you a set of simple yet important tasks so you could help out. Currently, you were refilling the cow’s water.
You peeked over your shoulder at Clark, whose jaw clenched as he forced himself to stare at the car. Your thumb flipped the hose nozzle setting to jet and swung your arm around, aiming mischievously at his chest. He heard the water approaching quickly, and flew to your side. You flinched, yelping and trying to aim at him again despite the wind almost blowing you off your feet.
Clark wrestled the hose out of your hands, smile growing as he flipped to the mist setting and pointed the nozzle in the air. The sun caught in the droplets, and as you two laughed, refreshed in the rural heat, a small rainbow appeared above your heads. Clark’s parents, now the ones standing across the drive-way from you two, elbowed each other at the romantic display.
On the first night, Martha had you sit down in her boudoir. Initially feeling misplaced among her perfumes and creams, she picked up a bottle and showed it to you. “Wanted you to try this, sweet girl. Got all the same scents as that bottle o’ perfume you put in the bathroom.”
Your eyes widened. You’ve never experienced something like this before. Surrounded by vintage, saccharine scents and the kindness of someone’s mother, who looked at you like you were a long lost princess. “R-Really?”
Your past engagements had parents that made you feel like you weren’t enough. Not Jon, and not Martha. She smiled, and that night you’d go to bed with the lotion she handpicked, and hand-pressed, for you. “I want you to have it.”
“Thanks, Martha.”
"No, no, you can call me 'Ma'."
A small smile pulled at your lips, "thanks, Ma."
A blanket and pillow were subtly placed on the couch. Assuming this was your bed, you were headed towards it. Martha placed a hand on your arm, “couch is for Clark.”
You turned around, seeing your comedically large boyfriend standing in pajamas. By far the most clothes he’s worn for bedtime since dating you.
“You look adorable.”
His hand twitched, reflexes going for the box still in his pocket. He resisted. “Stop it.”
“You do!”
“Alright kids, nighty night. If you need anything, don't hesitate to holler, sweet girl. Our room is just down the hall. Nighty night, Clark.”
“Good night!” you chirped.
“Night, Ma.”
You rocked back and forth on your feet, waiting for the older woman to get to her room and close the door behind her. When it clicked shut, you whispered, “Clark?”
“Mm?” He was already swaddled on the couch, feet sticking out from below the blanket.
You giggled softly, “are you sure you wanna sleep on the couch?”
That question flew through the air and hit like an arrow to the heart. You can't just ask him that.
You can't just ask him that, standing with your hands intertwined behind your back, smiling in mid-thigh pajama shorts and a sweater so oversized, he'd bet it was his, skin leaving a sugary smell every time you walked by, and hair still in two braids from earlier. Thrilled to visit the farm, you packed various plaid and jean clothing items. He wouldn't be shocked if you had those braids for the rest of the trip.
This question was very hard on him.
He shook his head, overcompensating. “‘M fine. Ma just wants you to be comfortable, plus that bed is too small for the both of us to fit.”
“If you say so… And Clark? I'm having so much fun.”
“I can tell,” he laughed, and you caught it like a bug, covering your mouth. He went to speak again, your words leaving first.
“Good night, Clark.”
“Oh. Good night.”
Tip-toeing over, you politely pushed the door closed behind you with both hands.
Clark pouted, having to go to bed without you, not even a goodnight kiss to put him at ease. A fear grew in his chest, beginning to overwhelm him like the ride over. He wasn't sure he could do it. He wasn't sure he could propose.
Night after night, you taunted Clark at his bedroom door. Nighty night Clark! Goodnight Clark! Sleep tight, honey. Thoroughly enjoying yourself, you only noticed something was wrong the night you went to greet an empty couch.
You never thought it would be this difficult to find a six-foot-something man. Examining the house, nearly turning it on its head and shaking it to see if he would fall out, you finally saw Clark outside sitting in the tall grass, mingling with the cows.
Stomping in your cowboy boots, which you bought especially for this trip, you reached him with heavy breaths, hands on your hips. “What are you doing all the way out here? I almost didn't get to say goodnight and see you lay on the couch like an idiot.”
“Thanks.”
“Come on, Clark. Talk to me.”
You stood close to him, giving him the opportunity to rest his head on your stomach. In one breath he smelled home — the aroma of his house mixed with your natural, albeit heightened scent.
“Ever been on a boat?”
“What?”
“Yeah, me neither,” he pulled his head away, bad start. “Just- just imagine being on a sailboat. You're sailing across the sea, a bit unsteady because of the waves, but every time you check the horizon, it's the same, beautiful view. You can sail towards it all day long, but it will always be there, just out of reach.”
You listened, brushing through his curls as he gazed up at you. Having been with Clark this long, you know he's going somewhere with this.
“You're my horizon. I want you to be the sky, everyday.” He sighed, “it's gotta be perfect.”
“And you think you can never reach the sky?”
He realized how silly this all was, partially because of the sailing metaphor, but also because of all people, Clark could reach the sky. In a way, being a superhero was the same sort of challenge as being a husband, possibly a father. Only those who are up for it can do it, and can do it right.
You bent down to meet him, your arms on his shoulders and his arms wrapping around your bottom half.
“The best part about your dumb analogy is that the sky never leaves. It just becomes the universe the farther out you go. And you know the skies better than anybody else. You've got nothing to be afraid of. I'm right here.”
Throat burning and eyes threatening to spill years, Clark very uncomfortably said, “there's a ring in my pocket” like you were stepping on his toe.
It took you a moment to realize this, but once you did, you went treasure hunting.
“Um, Clark?”
“Mm-hm?”
“Your pockets are empty.”
“Oh crud.” The one time he actually needed the ring. His hands hurriedly patted the Earth floor, “I can fix this, I can fix this!”
Clark tied a temporary ring around your finger made of a long blade of grass. He chuckled awkwardly, knowing that this wasn't what you had in mind. But when his eyes met your face, he eased at your expression. Lip quivering, you held up the hand with a piece of his home gifted to your finger, suggesting that you belonged to it just as he did. A small, satiric gesture meant the world to you.
He let you sit with it for a moment, then took your hand in his to lead you inside. “C'mon.”
In his bedroom, Clark handed you the velvet box. You flipped the top open, and there it was.
The perfect ring.
A shriek erupted from your vocal chords. Clark winced and leaned back.
“Sorry!” you whispered, touching a finger to your lips, and then his. “Sorry, honey.”
“No, that's good. That means you like it.”
You instinctively slipped it on, but you took it off and handed the ring back to Clark. “That's your job.”
He went into a kneeling position, back maybe a little too straight, and said the words you dreamed would one day come out of his mouth. “Will you marry me?”
You almost cut him off, “yes!”
Clark stood, towering over you. You placed your grass ring safely on the nightstand to keep for later, letting him slide the perfect ring onto your finger. He cupped your face, placed a strong kiss to your lips, and captured you in a hug.
You hummed, cheek to his shoulder, wanting this moment to never end.
“Do I have to go back to sleeping on the couch? I mean, that's a little ridiculous, after getting engaged.”
As much as you'd love to snuggle with your fiancée tonight — you're gonna have the time of your life saying that at work — his bed really only housed one width.
“Okay, well, I'll sleep on my left,” you chucked your cowboy boots to the side, “and you sleep on your right. Just don't switch to your back or I'll fall off.”
You crawled into his bed, moving the covers out of the way. Settling onto your side of the mattress, on your knees, you tilted your head at Clark. He hasn't moved a muscle.
“Clark?”
He's not sure if you realize what's happening in front of him. His fiancée, the love of his life, is sitting on his bed in his childhood room, legs folded and hair still in those stupid braids.
“Honey, can we make love? I sorta wanna make love.”
“Clark, are you crazy, your parents are down the hall.”
“Mhm. Yeah, you're right.” His hands were balled up into fists by his sides, trying to talk himself out of the visible erection forming underneath his pajama pants.
You huffed, knowing the situation just made the idea more appealing. “Fine, but this has to be silent. Pin-drop silent, you understand?”
Skin sizzling in anticipation, Clark smiled, removing his sleep shirt over his head. Similarly, you maneuvered your shorts down your legs and threw them to the side.
Clark crawled into his small bed with you, hands already trailing up your legs. Your panties were next to go, curling into themselves, discarded on the floor. His large hands easily spread your legs as you propped yourself up with his pillows.
“It’s so lonely on that couch, without you, darlin'.”
His mouth found your mound like it was his destiny. He immediately hummed, tongue enveloping your folds with his saliva. Your hips matched his movements, mouth wide but trying to hold back any sounds that dared to escape. He sucked on your clit, and you gasped, steadying yourself with his shoulders. “Oh…”
“Pin-drop silent, remember?” It was his turn to taunt you, easing two fingers into your sopping cunt.
You gasped again, harder, rolling your hips, taking a pillow from behind your head and shoving it into your face. You whined your vulnerabilities into it, muttering all the things you'd be screaming at your apartment. Clark enjoyed it still, maybe even more, like a message just for his ears.
Your body didn't quite get the memo, sputtering and squelching every opportunity it got while Clark fingered you. He angled upwards, sometimes knowing your body better than you did, and rubbed right at the spot that made you feel stupid. You clawed at his pillow the way you'd usually claw at his back, smothering your sweat and breath.
You twitched in that beautiful way you always did, cumming around his fingers. He sucked his fingers clean, prying the pillow away and revealing a wry smile. “You just made a mess in my bed. Thing of dreams...”
Hair stuck to your face and neck. When you first got together, you realized how much Clark took advantage of his size and strength, and that he'd never admit. But here he was, tugging your legs, flipping your body, manhandling you until you were laying down over a pillow. He splayed his body right over yours, kissing down your neck, distracting you from his hands sliding down his underwear.
Passionately kissing your shoulder, he pushed his body forward and you felt it. The same fullness you'd now have for the rest of your lives. Slow yet demanding, he froze when he reached deep inside. A pathetic groan shook your spine, leaving your lips with little hesitation. You bent down, hugging the pillow to your chest, a bit of drool trailing down your mouth from how long you had kept it open. “Clark.”
One hand on the bed to hold himself up, he collected your hair and held it away from your face, meeting your cheek with his lips. He entrusted you with his most vulnerable sounds, mewling into your neck with each patient roll of his hips. Your voices matched desperate tones.
You don't know why you insisted on repeating his name. Maybe in disbelief of how good you felt. It felt good every time, and you were so thankful for the time in between where you could forget what he felt like, just to be reminded again.
His thrusts remained slow but purposeful, slamming into you harder rather than faster. And you weren't complaining. In fact, you couldn't say much, the bottom half of your face shoved into the pillow with dazed eyes.
“Will you marry me?” Clark couldn't have made the act of marriage sound more sensual.
“Yes,” you whimpered quietly. He awarded you with a kiss to your collarbone, catching a glance of your engagement ring on the hand you used to fist the pillow. It made him twitch.
“Will you marry me?”
You giggled, “yes.”
“Gosh.”
His knees came forward so he could adjust himself and thrust comfortably quick, still keeping you close. You're smothered.
“Honey, look at me.”
You laid one side of your face on the pillow, staring back at him with heavy, fucked-out eyes. Greeting him with a grin.
“Will you marry me?” This time, he grunted his words, brows curling in the middle. He was so sensitive inside your wet, sopping pussy. You'd control him for the rest of his life. People didn't know how much of a threat you were to the world, really, as it was this easy to get Superman to obey you.
“Yes.” As if he wasn't already obsessed with you, completely drunk under your spell, just as you were, you pointed your ass up to the sky. Like a moth to a flame, his hands came down and held onto the plush of your butt, using his x-ray vision every other time he blinked to watch himself fuck you.
The next time he asked, it was more of a demand, leaving his mouth in a whine. “Marry me.”
“I will.”
His hips sputtered, overwhelmed with the sounds of your bodies meeting together and the complete sight of you. You had to shove your face into his pillow, cursing an absurd amount of times into it. By far the messiest this bed had gotten, you both came. Clark gasped, witnessing your muscles contract and suck every drop he gave. Pulling away, your mixed arousals didn't stand a chance. Liquid trickled down to your thigh. Clark was so mesmerized, his face blank with pure concentration. He didn't think through placing his thumb at your center and rubbing the evidence over your clit.
One of your hands flew back, holding his wrist. “Fuck, Clark!”
He took his hand back, smiling stupidly, sucking it clean again like licking frosting off a cake. “You're perfect.”
Clark came back from the bathroom with a damp towel to clean you up. Handling you once more, he slid behind you, trying to squeeze in a cuddle where you both would fit. You both took some deep breaths for a moment in silence, buzzing in satisfaction.
“Honey?”
“Yes?”
“Are we moving too fast?”
“You're asking me this after I agreed to getting married?”
“No, no! I'm not trying to insinuate that I regret proposing — I mean, I almost did it a thousand times. It's just… how do you think people will react? I don’t want them to overwhelm you.”
Despite how obvious you could've misunderstood his concern, your brows rose. You've done the whole engagement announcement thing before, your boyfriend proving once again to be the biggest fan of your column. “I think they’ll be thrilled.”
Clark would ensure this would be the last engagement you'd ever have. This’ll last. He kissed over your knuckles, “I’m glad.”
It made you smile. “I can’t wait to shove it in their faces when we get home.”
A light rumble left his chest. “Of course, dear. But we, uh, have to tell my parents first.”
“That's a good start.”
Your gaze lingered over the house in Kansas you now felt confident enough to call your second home. When you showed his parents the ring, past the initial cheering, Jon teared up while Martha put a hand on the side of her face and said “oh yes, that's a handsome one.”
Then they both gave you a hug.
Both you and Clark felt much lighter, relieved that things worked out the way they did. You went back that morning to the field before the long drive home to make another ring out of grass for Clark. In your opinion, the grass rings paired with the jewelry nicely.
He caught you staring fondly at your finger. “Honey?”
“Yes?”
“Happy?”
“Yes. Beyond happy.”
He took your hand while driving, grazing his thumb over your skin.
You placed your head on his shoulder, but pulled back when you remembered something else to look forward to. “Now all I gotta do is meet your cousin!”
“Oh fun!”
These article title ideas had you blushing at your computer in the apartment. Decide Who Holds The Ring. His Parents Love Me. How To Do a Couple's Roadtrip the Right Way! And, cheesiest of all, 5 Reasons to Love the City (And 5 to Love the Farm).
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