Description: Clark always wants to be so polite. His girl wants to climb him like a tree. I think he knows.
Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!Reader
Warnings: SMUT (masturbation, oral [m and f receiving], p in v, dirty talk, praise kink, scent kink, size kink, clark is a horny mf’r for his girl pretty much)
Word Count: 4.1k
A/N: so much for this being a drabble. technically part of a series, but can be read as a stand alone fic
dandelion masterlist here
Weeks had passed since that first date.
Weeks of feeling like you would positively explode if a gentle breeze blew the wrong way on your skin after being near Clark.
You’d been on a couple more dates, now, ending in those soft, polite kisses. You wanted to rip his clothes off, but he seemed so shy and gentlemanly. It hardly seemed fair to jump him out of nowhere.
Clark, however, was feeling even more impatient than you. Every time he was close, he could smell you. He’d become accustomed to what you smelled like in different moods, and it seemed you really liked it any time he let his eyes linger on you. Or when he kissed you. Or held your hand, or hugged you, or… like, most of the time he was near you in general.
It was making him crazy.
He smiled at you across the table in another meeting at the Daily Planet, noting how you shifted a little bit after catching his eye. He felt his heart flutter every time he saw you react to him in any way. As much as he wanted to be inside of you, he wasn’t some pervert. He actually liked you. A lot. He just also felt hot under the collar any time he thought of you.
It was worse when you got a new perfume. Not that he didn’t like what you wore before, but now? The scent with the natural smell of your skin mixed together was intoxicating. It was also embarrassing. Nearly every time he could smell the trail of scent you’d leave behind you, he was fighting tooth and nail not to get hard; and often failed.
At the end of your third date, he’d kissed you a little harder than he normally would. It made you weak in the knees, and even more needy than you usually were with him. His big hands dipping a little lower on your waist than usual, and the most gentle brush of his tongue against yours. You wanted more, but true to Clark fashion, he just had to be so coy and sweet.
You almost groaned in frustration when he pulled away, his cheeks a little pink as he flashed you a smile.
“Goodnight,” Clark murmured softly. “I… I really like this. Being with you.”
Fuck. You knew it’d be a long night the second you were alone. You swallowed and nodded.
“Yeah. I do too.”
He grinned again, kissing your cheek. “Okay. See you at work?”
“Yeah. See you then.”
He watched you walk inside, letting his eyes trail down your body when he was sure you wouldn’t notice. He couldn’t handle it. Being around you all night, watching you laugh at all his stupid jokes, smelling that gorgeous smell that was all you and the sweet perfume you wore… he needed relief. Badly.
Clark found himself at home within seconds, stumbling into his room in a love-drunk stupor. He ripped at the buttons of his shirt, breathing shaky and excited. He pushed the shirt off, tugging off his undershirt as well. He shoved his pants down in one go, dropping down onto his bed with a hand wrapping around his leaky cock. He let himself picture you.
“Please,” he whispered to nobody but himself, hips starting to jut up to meet his hand.
He couldn’t help but think of how it’d feel if it was your hand touching him like this. How big he’d look beneath your fingers. If you’d use your mouth, your pretty lips struggling to fit him in comfortably. If you’d swallow around him as you tried not to gag, his cock touching the back of your throat. He stroked himself faster, throbbing and pulsing with the need to cum. He wondered if he’d be able to smell you soaking yourself as he came down your throat, and how long it would take for him to make you come on his tongue as a thanks. How you’d move against him, if you’d stay still and let him work or if you’d be so desperate that you wouldn’t be able to help but to grind against his face. He’d be overjoyed with either option.
He reached his other hand down, wrapping both firmly around himself, thrusting up into his fists, pretending it could be you. But he knew it wasn’t the same. He knew you’d be so soft and warm. Tight and cozy and wet around his length as he bounced you on his lap until you were cockdrunk and a little bit dumb. He liked the idea of being the only person who could make it so that you’d turn off your overactive brain for a little while.
He pushed himself into his hands, imagining every possible scenario, certain he could smell you even now. He breathed heavy, murmuring little pleas and whines of your name before he was tensing, hips still jerking as he spilled over his knuckles. It was a full minute of cumming to the thought of his pretty girl. His girlfriend? Maybe he should properly ask, he thought. He wanted you as his.
He glanced down, his own release drenching his hands and thighs. He took a deep breath. Time for a shower.
You saw him at work the next day, his face a little blushy every time he glanced at you. It was sweet, but a little… unusual?
He was generally shy and it wasn’t unheard of for him to get a little red-faced every now and then. But all day? Geez.
“Hey,” you said softly, walking up to him at his desk that afternoon. He looked up with wide eyes beneath his glasses. “I’m finished for the day. You want to go get dinner or something?”
“Oh! I, uh… after work is no good. But maybe later? Dessert? I can bring it to your place?” He offered, glossing over the fact that he was going to be busy with the Justice Gang. He hadn’t exactly let the Superman secret slip yet. “If that’s okay.”
“You want to come over?”
He blinked. “Oh… I, uh—”
“I’d like that,” you offer, smiling at his flustered expression. “I’ll text you my address.”
“Oh. Okay,” he breathed out, his smile bright. “Great. Maybe like… eight? Is that okay?”
“That’s perfect.”
“Great.”
You smiled at him again, then left. You went home, body buzzing in anticipation. It’s not like you planned on attacking him or anything. Just… suggesting more. Also, you figured you should probably let him know that you’d one hundred percent seen him use his super-speed out of the corner of your eye a couple weeks ago. So much for that ‘secret’ of his.
You made yourself a light dinner, then took a long, hot shower. You dressed down, a thin tank top and soft pair of cotton shorts. Nothing overtly sexy, but not covering much. You figured that the hint of a nipple through fabric would probably do the job for someone as polite as Clark. It turned out to be true, judging by the way he tried to not let you notice he was staring at your chest the second you opened your front door for him.
“Hey,” you greeted with a grin.
“H-hiya. Hi.” He swallowed, trying to make sure he kept his eyes on your face. Nowhere else. But gosh, a tank top and shorts never looked so provocative before. He lifted up the small cheesecake in his hand. “Brought dessert. I remember you liked the strawberry cheesecake from the office Christmas party last year.”
You smiled softly. “That’s sweet. Thank you. Come on in.”
He ducked his head, clearly happy that he’d done good. He stepped inside of your apartment, looking around curiously. He toed off his shoes as you took the cake and brought it to the kitchen. He trailed after you, eyes darting between your home and your ass. He was feeling a little hot.
“You have a, uh… a nice place. I like it. Smells good in here.”
“Thanks. I try to keep it clean.”
He hummed once, leaning against the counter as you popped the lid off the cake.
“Not just that,” he said softly, watching your hands as you started cutting into it. “It just smells like— you. Your perfume I guess. Your skin.”
“You know what my skin smells like?” You laugh.
He flushed. “Oh. Gosh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that to sound so creepy. You just… you just smell good. You smell like you. It’s nice.”
“It’s not creepy. It’s sweet.”
“Oh.”
“I like you, Clark. Quit worrying so much,” you mention, glancing at him as you lick a bit of the strawberry syrup off your thumb.
His eyes followed the movement, his tongue running over his lip once. “I like you too. A lot.”
You just grin softly. You plate up the cheesecake, handing him both slices.
“Go sit in the living room. I’m gonna grab some wine.”
He faltered for a second. “I don’t really drink much.”
“I know. It’s only one glass, I know you do that sometimes. I don’t intend on taking advantage of you, you know?”
“R-right. Okay.”
You watched as he walked away. God, he has a cute butt.
Two slices of cheesecake and three glasses of wine later, two for you and one for him, you were definitely getting a little cozier. He pretended not to notice how you leaned into his side; you pretended not to notice his hand on your knee.
“Cat totally thought you and Big Blue were hooking up, by the way.”
Clark blinked, looking away from the movie you’d put on. “Pardon?”
“Since you’re always up his ass. She asked me after me and you started dating if you were getting some super-dick on the side,” you mention with a short laugh.
“Super-d—? That’s inappropriate.”
“And hilarious.”
“Oh, please.”
You chuckle, smiling up at him. Despite his verbal protest, his cute little dimples were still poking into his cheeks. He just looked at you, his eyes wide and sparkling.
“I really do, ya know… like you.”
“You said that,” you reply softly.
“I know. I mean it.”
You just look at him, heart fluttering and body thrumming as he leaned in, his lips on yours. It started off soft. Just a few soft, lingering kisses. You snuck a hand into his dark hair, not tugging but definitely gripping. Judging by the shaky breath that left him, you assumed he liked that. Your assumption was proven correct as he deepened the kiss, one strong arm snaking around your waist to pull you into his chest. You took that as your cue, swinging a leg over his hips, settling on his lap and right over the bulge in his pants.
He gasped your name against your lips. “Geez.”
“Yeah?”
He nodded, hands running over your hips and waist. “Yeah.”
Clark felt like he could explode, metaphorically and physically, when you started kissing him again. You were aroused. He knew it well. It invaded his senses and made him dizzy, pulling your hips over his before he could think twice about it. He groaned in the back of his throat when he felt the friction against the extremely obvious erection straining to get out. He nearly passed out when you made an equally needy sound.
“I like you,” he breathed out, voice wrecked already.
“I know, Clark.”
“A lot.”
You smiled, rolling your hips again with his instruction. “I know. I can feel how much you like me, you know?”
He whimpered. Full-on, whiny little whimper. He was smart, he knew he was. And strong. He could pull a building off its foundation. But now? With you on top of him, rubbing yourself on him like this? He felt weak and brainless. Every single blood cell that should be in his brain went straight to his cock. The only reason he didn’t feel embarrassed is the fact that he knew you felt the same way, your pretty face glossed over with want. He mumbled your name once, looking up at you with big, wet eyes.
“You done playing gentleman?” you asked teasingly, brow raised.
He pouted. “I am a gentleman.”
“I know, baby. But I am a woman who wants my boyfriend to touch me for once.”
He groaned. Boyfriend. Yay! “Golly.”
You laughed, for a moment. But it was cut awfully short when his hands snaked under your top, cupping your bare breasts. You let out a soft noise, letting him grope you as he kissed down your neck.
“Clark.”
“Mm…”
Clark was in heaven. Clothing strewn all over the floor and furniture, leaving a breadcrumb trail all the way to your bed. He laid between your legs in only his underwear, staring at you bare and spread out for him as he kissed up your legs.
“Y’so pretty,” he mumbled against your thigh, looking up at you with stars in his eyes through his frames. “Smell so good.”
“Clark, please.”
He smiled, licking his lip as he dragged a finger through your folds, watching the slick gather on his fingertip. He spread you open with two fingers, taking in a deep breath. He leaned in, kissing just over your clit, tongue flicking out to taste you.
“Taste even better.”
“Fuck,” you whined, watching him with hooded eyes.
“Mhm. Thank you,” he muttered, diving in again.
Your hands tangled in his hair, gripping tight as his mouth moved over you. He smiled against you, giddy to finally be tasting you. He’d thought about it so many times, if you’d taste as sweet as you smelled. His hips ground against the bed on their own volition, wanting to find any kind of relief from how he was throbbing in response to finally being able to touch you. He’d been so good, so patient, so slow… and it was finally paying off in a big way. He moaned into your pussy, tongue delving into you, practically fucking you on his mouth. His hands wrapped around your legs, keeping you wide open for him.
Your hips moved against him as much as they could, trying hard to get that extra friction. He ate you out like he was starving for it. You wondered if he’d thought about it as long as you did.
He looked utterly ruined, his cheeks flushed and hair a mess. His glasses were fogged. You reached for them, trying to pull them off, but he quickly grabbed your wrist.
“No,” he shook his head, lips brushing against you.
“Why? Wanna see you.”
“I— I need them.”
“You said you were nearsighted.”
He looked up, trying to see you through the fogged lenses. “W-well, yeah, I just…”
“Please?”
“I really can’t.”
You huffed, horny and needy and wanting to see him.
“Clark.”
“Baby, please. You don’t understand.”
“What don’t I understand about glasses?”
“They…” He paused. How could he say it without saying it? He needed them because he was secretly a space alien who wore his underwear on the outside to fight crime and rescue puppies? Not exactly a sentence that rolls off the tongue. “It’s… they’re a part of me.”
“They’re not surgically attached.”
“No, but they’re, uh…” he glanced down, your pussy still wet and needy in front of his face. He had half a mind to tell you he was Superman just so he could get back to business.
“Quit it.” You pulled the glasses off before he could notice.
He jolted, shocked and nervous and feeling suddenly like he was in deep. Shoot. He stuttered out your name, his heart pounding out of his chest. You’d seen him. His cover was blown. You’d probably freak out and not want to see him again and not let him make you cum and he’d go home with blue balls and a broken heart.
“I’m… I’m so sorry. I should’ve told you, I know. I just didn’t know how to say it, and we hadn’t talked about if we were like actually a thing until you called me your boyfriend today, and… and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
“Clark.”
“W-what?”
“I knew you were Superman. Now in the nicest way I can say it, shut the fuck up and get your face back down there before I finish myself off instead.”
He blinked in shock, almost ready to protest before you pushed his head back between your legs. He couldn’t argue with that. He moved faster, wanting even more badly to make you feel good. You knew. You knew who he was and it didn’t matter. He could cum right then and there if he wanted to.
You gasped, back arching high as he gained a new fervor he hadn’t had before. Maybe it was the fact that he didn’t feel like he had to hold back all the way now. Whatever it was, you didn’t really care. What you cared about was the way he humped the bed and whined against your skin as you came on his tongue.
You were in a haze, the orgasm knocking your feet out from under you. Clark watched you as you came down, chest heaving. Pretty tits and a pretty face and the cutest pussy, his pretty girl. He sighed dreamily, eyes flitting all over you as he pushed his underwear down his thighs.
You blinked your eyes open, mouth watering at the sight of a fully naked Clark Kent and his monster cock. Cat totally owed you twenty dollars, you knew he’d be massive.
“C’mere,” you mumbled, reaching for his hips, trying to draw yourself up to him.
“What?”
“Want it in my mouth. Please.”
“Baby…”
You leaned closer, hand wrapped around him. “Just for a little. Just let me.”
He let out a soft, shaking breath as you touched him. He memorized the way his cock looked in your hand. He knew he was big, but he looked almost scary in your grip. It was insanely hot. His mouth watered as you licked your lips, trying to prepare yourself to take him. He gasped, hand touching your hair softly as you leaned up to brush his tip against your lips. He shifted a little closer on his knees, trying to make it so that you were a little more comfortable.
“So sweet,” he said softly, barely above a whisper. “Sweet girl.”
You smiled up at him, no more of those adorably dorky glasses covering his gorgeous eyes. His lips stayed parted, clearly paying attention to every tiny move you made as you played with him. You let your tongue loll out of your mouth, dragging it against the blunt head of his dick. He moaned outright, hand resting in your hair now, hips jerking as you took him into your mouth.
Your eyes fluttered as you took more of him in, your mouth opening wider to try and accommodate his size. He felt hot and heavy on your tongue, the salty taste of his precum nearly making your eyes roll back into your head. You bobbed your head slowly, taking as much of him as you could. He whined and moaned and made sounds you never expected to hear from him. If only the world knew that Superman was so desperate when he got his cock played with.
He suddenly pulled you off, chest heaving.
“Wait. W-wait. Sorry, honey, I just… I don’t want to cum in your mouth the first time.”
“Hm?”
“Wanna be in you.”
You swallowed, eyes still trained on his length as it jumped in excitement. “Okay. Yeah.”
“Do you have, uh… I didn’t bring any…”
“You want to wear a condom?”
He opened his mouth, then closed it. “You should always practice safe sex.”
“That the slogan on one of your educational billboards?”
He frowned. You laughed.
“Just want to be responsible.”
You nodded. “Okay. But, for the record, I’m on a contraceptive.”
You almost laughed at the way he clearly struggled with that though. He knew wearing a condom was still the safe option. He also knew that he wanted nothing more than to finish inside of you.
You giggled as he made his decision, pushing you back on the bed and kissing you deeply. He pushed your thighs to your chest and settled on his knees, brushing his thick tip against your pussy, still puffy and needy from the way he’d made you cum with his mouth. He let out a slow breath, rubbing your clit with it a few times before he pressed at your entrance.
“I know it’s… it’s big. Just tell me if it hurts, okay?”
You nodded, watching as his face tightened in pleasure and anticipation. You forced yourself to relax, letting him press into you slowly. You moaned pathetically as he pushed harder, the first few inches hurting as much as they changed your life.
“Y’okay, baby?” He grunted out, slowly starting to rock his hips in that shallow depth.
“Y-yeah. Yes.”
“Good. You’re taking it so good, baby. Look at you.”
You whined, not expecting the praise. You fluttered around his length involuntarily, drawing another sound from him. He pushed in further and further with each slow, careful thrust.
“That’s my girl. So good for me. So pretty.”
He dropped down on top of you, wrapping your legs around his hips with strong hands, pulling you up onto his lap. You gasped, the new angle letting him fill you to the brim. He thrust into you quicker now, arms pushing you off and on as he moved his hips.
“Pretty baby. Perfect for me, fitting all of me in you. Y’feel this?” He grabbed your hand, pressing it to your lower belly to feel the bump of him hitting you deep with every rock of his hips. “Take me so well. Gorgeous girl. You’re doing such a good job.”
“Baby… baby, please. Clark.”
He smiled. Cocky son of a bitch. “I know, honey. You like it, huh?”
You nodded quickly, brain and body turned to jelly as he rammed into you like you were his personal fuck toy. He breathed heavy, a million little sounds leaving him between all of his praises. His face was buried in your neck, moving faster now. You held onto him as tightly as you could, one arm around his shoulders, the other hand tangled in his hair.
He groaned, trying hard not to cum with every move of your body against his. He’d never felt such a perfect fit, it was like you were two puzzle pieces finally clicking. He shuddered against your skin, kissing down your neck and chest until he found one warm, stiff nipple to pull into his mouth. He sucked, alternating between a steady suction and his tongue swirling and flicking over it.
“M’gonna cum,” you gasped out, feeling deliciously overwhelmed.
“Good. Attagirl. You can finish, baby. You can cum,” his voice rumbled against your skin, switching to the other nipple. “Cum for me. You can do it.”
You whined and whimpered, letting him pump into you a few more times before you cried out his name, legs shaking hard. He moaned in time with you, trying like hell to keep moving in order to let you ride it out.
If he thought you smelled good before, the scent of you like this could rouse him from a coma. He could only move for a few more seconds before he was buried himself deep, grinding more than thrusting as he gasped your name, mouth still open against your tit. You felt him fill you, cock twitching and throbbing inside of you.
“Shoot,” he whispered, kissing up your chest until he settled his face against your neck. “Baby. Thank you. Thank you.”
“God damn.”
“Never felt anything like you.”
You smiled drowsily. “Says you.”
He laughed, rubbing your back slowly, fingers tracing the skin. “I’ve been thinking about that a long time.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
“I get half hard any time I smell you.”
“What’s up with you and smells?” you asked softly, leaning back to look at him with sleepy eyes.
“Super senses.”
“Ah.”
“Super smell. I pick up a lot of stuff, and you… you smell extra good when you’re— when you’re wet?”
“That is so gross.”
“Can’t help it. You’re delicious,” he said with his lips against your neck again, voice rumbling in his chest. “Can’t believe you knew this whole time.”
“Not hard to guess, Clark. At least not when I both date you and work with you.”
“Mm… shoulda told me you knew.” He kissed your neck, then your jaw, then cheek, and finally lips. He smiled against your lips. “Dropping that and then pushing me between your legs wasn’t fair.”
You smiled back. “Yeah, well. Also wasn’t fair to hide it. We’re both at fault.”
“Maybe.”
You kissed him again, just once. “So… Superman. Super cock. Super eater. You got super stamina, too?”
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pairing David!Clark Kent x wife!reader
summary Clark's a greedy, indecisive man when it comes to you.
tags minimal plot, mostly porn, 18+, mdni, smuuuut, hot n heavy make out, fingering, oral (f receiving), groping, brief nipple play, body worship, doggy style bark bark, creampie, the suit stays on, Smug!Clark, Lovesick!Clark
wc 3k
Not my finest work. Wrote in one sleepy pass, if you saw a mistake, you know the drill 🫵🏼 no. you. didnt.
based on this ask (is Clark a boob/ass man?) | Mrs. Kent Diaries
Clark’s hands were on you the moment the farmhouse door quietly clicked shut behind him.
It was well past midnight, and he was still in the suit, blue and red stark against the dim pink wallpaper of his parent's hallway, against the worn denim of your jeans and the soft cotton of your white t-shirt.
He crowded in close before you could get a full breath, broad chest firm and unyielding as he pressed you back against the wall, and the little sound that left you—a soft, startled, breathy oof—barely made it out before your hands came up on instinct to grab at his biceps.
His arms, impossibly strong and somehow still gentle, slid around your waist and pulled you tighter against him. Heat rolled off him through the fabric between you. Want settled hot and low in your ribs, sudden and familiar and a little embarrassing in how fast your body answered him.
"Baby, I missed you too, but…" you breathed, the protest weak even as it left your mouth. "Ma and Pa are just down the hall."
"They’re sleeping," he murmured, a confident rumble that vibrated through his chest and into yours. His mouth found the spot just below your ear like he’d been thinking about it for hours, and then he was kissing there, slow at first, then nipping, then sucking gently until your fingers tightened on him. "Soundly. I checked."
"But still, behave."
The words were automatic despite your pleasure, a reflex honed over years of stolen moments in this very house.
A slow, smug smile spread against your skin. You felt it more than saw it.
"Oh, that’s funny. You know that just makes things worse."
It did. I absolutely did. You should’ve known by now. The command, the pretense of propriety, was a spark to the tinder of his focus. That singular, overwhelming attention he turned on you when the world wasn’t watching.
One of his hands slid down, broad palm spanning the curve of your ass through your jeans, holding you there with a possessive little squeeze that made your breath catch. The other came up to your face, thumb brushing slowly over your lower lip, once, twice, like he was reacquainting himself with the shape of your mouth. You opened for him without thinking. Caught the pad of his thumb between your lips.
His eyes flicked to yours, bright blue in the moonlight spilling in from the kitchen window at the end of the hall, and all at once the teasing softened a notch.
"I missed you, sweetheart," he confessed, quieter now.
He’d been gone thirty-six hours. A tectonic event in Indonesia. Unstable plates, a collapsing undersea volcano, too many people in danger, too much pressure under too much water. He’d kissed you quick before he left and promised he’d be careful, and you’d nodded like you always did, and then spent the night pretending not to count the hours. You’d stayed up just long enough to welcome him on his return.
"Did my girls miss me?" his gaze dropped pointedly to the front of your shirt.
You let out a soft laugh, one hand sliding up into his hair at the nape of his neck, fingers curling there.
"They’ve been inconsolable," you murmured, a smile curving your lips. "Pining. A real Greek tragedy."
He chuckled, the sound a pleasant tremor against your sternum.
"Yeah?" he asked, mouth brushing your jaw, already moving lower again. "I could fix that."
He didn’t kiss your mouth.
Instead, he bent, dipping his head to nose the neckline of your t-shirt aside, his breath hot over the upper swell of your breast before his lips closed over the thin cotton, drawing the fabric—and the sensitive flesh beneath—into the warm, wet pull of his mouth. Pleasure struck sharp and sweet, a clean jolt from your nipple straight to your core, and you gasped, fingers tangling helplessly in the cape at his shoulders and in the thick, dark curls at the nape of his neck.
He made a satisfied, hungry sound against you, his tongue swirling a damp circle through the material. The cotton clung to you, soaked and transparent. He switched to the other breast, giving it the same devoted, thorough attention, his free hand kneading the cheek of your ass in a slow, rhythmic pulse. You felt the hard ridge of his cock through the spandex of his suit, press against your hip.
"Clark," you moaned, your head falling back against the wall. "Your suit…"
"Hm?" he mumbled, mouth still working at your breast. "What about it?"
"You’ll—it’ll get…"
"Hon, I don’t care."
He lifted his head then, finally, and the look on his face made your stomach drop. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, your shirt damp and cool where the hallway air hit it. His mouth was wet. He looked a wreck already.
"I’ve been thinking about you," he said, voice rougher now, gaze dropping to your chest again. "About these since I left. The way they feel in my hands. The way they taste."
His hand left your ass and hooked under the hem of your shirt, tugging it up just enough to bare your stomach. Then he dropped to his knees in front of you, big and broad and still in the suit, and pressed an open-mouthed kiss to your navel. Another just above the waistband of your jeans. His tongue traced a slow line across your skin, and your muscled tightened under this attention.
"But then I remembered," he murmured, mouth moving lower, "I didn’t get to kiss you here yesterday."
Another kiss, lower.
"Or here."
His teeth scraped lightly over your hip bone, just enough to make you shiver hard against the wall.
He was everywhere at once, a superhuman blur of need. One second he was on his knees with his mouth on your stomach, and the next he was up again, one hand at your jaw, the other at your waist, dragging your mouth to his in a deep, consuming kiss that stole the breath right out of you. It was heat and tongue and the wet sound of your moans swallowed between his lips, all urgency, and when his hands found your ass again he lifted you easily, allowing your legs to wrap around his waist on instinct.
He carried you quietly down the hall to his old bedroom, never breaking the kiss.
The door to his old bedroom barely made a sound. Then he was lowering you onto the quilt-covered bed, following you down, his body a heavy, welcome weight. The red chest pressed against your damp shirt. He rolled his hips once, grinding the thick length of him right where you needed him through too many layers of fabric, tearing a ragged moan out of you.
"Fuck–"
"I know," he mumbled against your mouth, breath hot and uneven. "I know, sweetheart. Let me—"
He shifted, and whatever steadiness he’d had a minute ago was gone. His hands turned frantic at your waist, fumbling at the waistband of your shorts, dragging them down your hips and thighs just far enough to get what he wanted. He didn’t even bother taking them off. He just shoved them down and out of the way, your jeans catching around your calves, and then his fingers hooked into the sides of your panties.
With a soft rip of fabric, he tears them right off you.
"Clark!" you hissed, half scandalized, half breathless, but the rest dissolved into a gasp when his fingers found you, sliding through your folds with a slick, filthy sound that made heat flash up your neck.
"Clark what?" he breathed, and the smugness was back, threaded through all that hunger as he watched his own hand move between your thighs. His fingertips circled your clit once, twice, slow enough to make you twitch, before he pushed two fingers deep inside you in one smooth thrust.
Your back bowed off the bed immediately.
"Something the matter?"
"You—ah— you know what," you panted, hips rocking up to meet the rhythm of his hand anyway, chasing the stretch, the friction, the pressure that had your thighs already trying to close around his wrist.
"Do I?" He tilted his head, mock innocence gone syrup-sweet in his mouth.
His thumb pressed down on your clit and began those tight, deliberate circles, and when he curled his fingers inside you to stroke that sensitive spongy spot that made your eyes roll back and see stars, your hands fisted in the quilt, and your legs trembled faster than a rabbit’s.
"I’m being unfair, aren’t I?" he murmured casually, like this was a mundane conversation and not him ruining your ability to think. "I’m neglecting… so, so much."
With a wet, sucking sound, he pulls his fingers from your cunt. Before you can protest, he’s moving down your body. He pushes your ruined panties aside, your jeans still tangled around your calves, your shirt still bunched up under your breasts. You’re half-dressed, completely open to him, his wife spread out on his childhood bed with your legs shaking and your skin hot and your cunt aching where his hand had been.
He doesn’t hesitate.
He buries his face between your legs.
The first flat stroke of his tongue was a lightning bolt. It was broad and hot and perfect, laving from your stretched entrance all the way up to your sensitive clit. You cried out, grab for him, both hands in his hair, fingers tightening in the dark curls. He groaned against you, and the vibration went through your whole body, deep enough to make your hips jerk and your thighs clamp around his shoulders.
Then he feasted.
His mouth was relentless, all appetite and devotion. He licked into you with long, languid strokes that made your thighs shake, then switched without warning to quick, precise flicks over your clit, sharp and pinpoint and mean in the way he only got when he was paying very close attention. He drew the sensitive nub into his mouth and sucked gently, worrying it between his lips just long enough to make your breath hitch, then soothed it with slow, circling laps like he was apologizing for how good he was at this. He drank from you, tongue delving deep, and the room filled with the wet, shameless sounds of him taking his time with your body.
"Good fucking God—" you dragged out with a long, shaky sigh. "R-right there, fuck…"
"Mmm," he hummed against you, and the vibration hit your clit so directly it made your whole body jerk.
His hands slid under your ass and lifted, tilting your hips up into his mouth, opening you wider for him. His thumbs spread you apart while he worked, greedy and focused, and then he fucked you with his tongue. Alternating shallow and fast, then deep and slow, changing rhythm to mimic what he was aching to do with his cock for the last thirty-something hours.
Your orgasm built hard and fast, a tight, coiling spring low in your belly. Your heels dug into the quilt. Your back arched. One hand flew to your mouth because you were in his parents’ house and some reflex still clung to you even now, even with him between your legs like this.
"I’m-ah!-gonna—Oh, shit C-Clark, I’m gonna come— right now, right now, shit, faster!"
He doubled down immediately.
His tongue became wickedly precise, all clever speed and pressure, focused on your clit like nothing else in the world existed. He sucked hard, then flicked, then sucked again, nose pressed into you, breath hot and uneven. The scratch of his stubble burned sweet against your inner thighs. His hands held you up so firmly it was almost too much, almost unbearable, and underneath it all he kept making those low, incoherent little sounds into your cunt—pleading, hungry, praising—like he’d come home from saving the world and this was the only thing he wanted as his reward.
The orgasm hit all at once.
It crashed through you in a bright, blinding wave, your body seizing around it, your cries muffled behind your clammy hand as your cunt clenched on nothing and pulsed hard.
He stayed with you through every second of it, easing his tongue into softer, gentler strokes as you shook, lapping through the aftershocks and drinking down everything you gave him.
By the time the trembling started to ebb, your legs felt useless.
Clark lifted his head slowly. His chin was wet. His mouth was swollen. He looked wrecked and pleased with himself in equal measure, like he knew exactly what he’d done to you and intended to do worse.
Then he crawled back up your body, broad and warm and heavy, settling over you again, and kissed you open-mouthed before you could even catch your breath. He let you taste yourself on his tongue, the kiss deep and slow this time, savoring.
"Gosh, your pretty mouth, too," he whispered against your lips, smiling. "I love how it tastes after I’ve been on you."
You couldn’t do anything but whimper. Boneless. Hot all over. Still twitching.
But he wasn’t done. Of course, he wasn’t.
His large, calloused hands were already moving again, roaming your body. One big hand palmed your breast through your shirt, finding your nipple through the damp cotton and pinching it between thumb and forefinger, rolling and tugging until the sensation went sharp and bright and made you gasp into his mouth. It mixed with the lingering throb between your legs, the aftershocks still sparking every time he shifted over you.
He broke the kiss and looked down at you, at your wrinkled and damp shirt, your shorts shoved almost to your ankles, your body still heaving under his.
"Oh no," he breathed.
You blinked up at him, dazed. "W-what?"
"I’d been negligent." The words came out with genuine distress. "A complete failure."
You stared at him, frowning, still trying to catch up. "What are you talking about?"
"Your ass," he clarified, as if stating a profound and tragic oversight. "We’ve been at it for… how long? Twenty minutes? And I haven’t given your perfect, incredible ass proper attention. It’s probably feeling abandoned. Unappreciated."
A snort burst out of you before you could stop it. "No, it’s okay. It’s managing just fine."
"Unacceptable."
The word had barely left his mouth before he moved.
He turned you over with effortless strength, smooth and quick, and by the time your brain caught up you were on your stomach, cheek pressed to the quilt, your ass tipped up in the air for him. He knelt behind you in the mattress dip, hands spreading your cheeks apart, and the cool room air hit your wet, swollen folds hard enough to make you clench.
"So beautiful," he whispered.
Then he bent and kissed you there, open-mouthed and hot, right on your center, his tongue swiping through your slickness from behind. You moaned helplessly into the quilt, pushing back against his face. He did it again, and again, eating you out from this new, deeper angle, his tongue spearing inside you. One hand remained on the curve of your ass, kneading the flesh, while the other slid around your hip to find your clit again.
"Isn’t that better?"
The combination nearly undid you on the spot. You were still sensitive from your first climax, and now every touch amplified, electric.
Clark scissored two fingers inside you, curled them, while his thumb rubbed tight, urgent circles on your clit. Then his mouth left your center and moved to your ass, biting the rounded flesh in soft, possessive little nips before soothing each one with his tongue.
"Baby, please—" you pleaded, back arching deeper. "I can’t— it’s too much—I need—"
"I know, I know," he murmured, mouth warm against your skin, the words half swallowed by your body. "You were doing so good for me. Just wanted to take my time with you, sweetheart."
He shifted behind you, and you heard the distinct shhhk of a zipper and fabric being shoved. The sound sent a fresh flood of heat and slick between your legs.
You could hear the rough drag of his hand as he fisted his cock, giving himself a few rough strokes. You felt the broad, slick head of him nudging against your entrance, still stretched and wet from his mouth and his fingers.
He didn’t push in yet.
He held it there, the thick tip parting your folds, the sheer size of him a delicious promise. He leaned over you, chest pressed to your back, mouth pressing kisses along your shoulder, your neck, temple. One hand still splayed across your ass, lightly gripping every few kisses.
"Hon, I need to be inside you," he whispered. "Right now. Just like this, with you on your knees."
He kissed just behind your ear, breathing hard, and you felt the way he held himself back for the space of a second.
"I might be a little rough with you like this," he admitted, low and honest, one hand smoothing down your hip before tightening again. "I don’t want to be, but I might." His mouth brushed your skin. "Can you take it for me? Do you want—?"
"Yes," you said immediately, the answer tearing out of you before he’d even finished. You pushed back against him, needy and shameless, trying to take more of him at your entrance. "Yes! Please. I want it. I want you like this, now hurry up!"
He let out a sound that was a mix between a groan and a laugh.
"O-okay," he murmured against your shoulder, kissing one more time. "That’s my girl. I got you."
The first push inside was slow and steady, and even with all your slickness, even with how open he’d prepared you, the stretch still stole the air from your lungs.
He was too big to take any other way. It was immense, almost sharp for a second, your body pulling tight around him before it gave, before the ache melted into that dizzy, overwhelming fullness that only he could give you.
He kept going, breathing hard against your shoulder, one hand firm on your ass, and the other smoothing your side tenderly as he filled you. By the time his hips were finally flush with your ass, by the time he was buried all the way inside you, both of you were shaking and groaning.
"O-oh, geez," he panted, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades, causing you to arch your back at a steeper angle. "Sh–Gosh, you feel… sweetheart, you’re everywhere. You’re squeezing me so tight—"
He didn’t move right away. He just stayed there and let you feel it with him, the tight, skin-hot fit of him, the way your body clenched and fluttered around every pulse of his cock, the way your breath came in little broken pulls into the quilt. His mouth found your shoulder. He kissed you there, open and wet, then your spine, then the back of your neck, like he couldn’t decide what part of you he needed first.
"That’s it," he murmured, voice low and strained. "Take your time. You’ve got me."
Naturally, you started rutting against him, small, quiet pleas of ‘move’ and ‘keep going’ puffing out of your lips. Clark drew back, almost all the way out, and thrust back in hard.
The force of it shoved you up the bed, a choked cry punching out of you before you could bite it back, brace on your forearms, and whatever was left of his restraint disappeared with the sound.
Clark set a brutal, pounding rhythm immediately, no warm-up, no gentle build. This was reunion and hunger and thirty-six hours of wanting you packed into every thrust. Every thrust was a deep, driving piston stroke that jarred your entire body, that hit your cervix and made you see stars.
The wet, rhythmic slap of his skin against yours, the squelching sound of your copious wetness, the creak of the bedsprings—it was a symphony of filth.
"This," he grunts, his hand coming down on one ass cheek in a light smack. Not enough to sting, but enough to feel the contact. "I love it. I missed it."
Another thrust. A grope. A sharp whimper from you.
"I missed your hips," he went on, words breaking up with the rhythm. "Missed your thighs. Missed your stomach. Missed these pretty breasts—"
He leaned over you, his red cape sliding to one side and covering you like a blanket. One arm braced just next to yours while his free hand slipped under you to your chest, finding your nipple through the damp cotton and pinching it, rolling it carefully between his fingers until you sobbed and clenched around him hard.
"T-there," he groaned, hips stuttering once before he found the pace again. "There she is. I love all of you. Missed all of you. Every part."
His hand came back to your ass, spreading, squeezing, holding the plush flesh.
"My beautiful girl," he moaned, mouth at your ear, all heat and devotion and need. "My God. I thought about having you like this the whole time. Thought about being inside you. Thought about how you feel when you take me." A hard thrust, deep enough to make your fingers claw the quilt. "My wife. My beautiful wife."
The words unraveled you faster than the rhythm already was. You were babbling before you could help it, his name and yes and please-please-please all blurring together, your body rocking back to meet him even when it made the next thrust hit harder.
The second orgasm was already building, tighter than the first, sharpened by the rough drag of him, the sting in your skin, his hand on your breast, his mouth on your neck, the way he sounded half gone and completely in love.
"Baby— God, C-Clark—I'm close!"
"I k-know," he breathed, and kissed your shoulder again, then bit gently, then soothed it with his mouth. "I know, hon."
His hand slid up into your hair and he guided your head just enough to kiss you on the lips. He kept thrusting, harder now, deeper, his control falling apart right in front of you.
"I’m gonna...." he ground out, warning. "I’m gonna fill you up, hon." His hand tightened on your hip. "Do you want it? Tell me you want it."
"Yes," you sobbed, already shaking on the edge. "Yes, God, yes— inside, Clark, please—"
The permission snapped his control. He whimpered into your shoulder, half groan, half swallowed cut-off curse, and drove into you one more time.
The first burst hit hard and hot, deep inside, and your whole body jerked with the force of it. Then another followed, and another, his hips flush against your ass as his cock pulsed inside your cunt, each release thick and heavy. He kept holding you open and close at the same time, one hand spread over your hip, shaking through his climax.
"O-oohh, sweetheart—" he panted. "So good. So good, I love you—"
His unadulterated bliss triggered your orgasm, tearing through in a hard, shuddering rush. Your cunt convulsed around him, clenching down in sharp pulses that dragged another low groan out of him and wrung a few more hot, weaker spurts from him while he was still buried to the hilt.
Your legs shook so badly the mattress creaked under both of you. You could feel warmth spilling out around him, sticky down your inner thighs, the two of you making a complete mess of the quilt and the clothes still tangled around your legs.
By the time the last pulse left him, he was breathing like he’d flown across the entire galaxy.
He collapsed over you carefully, still covering you with his body even while trying not to crush you, his cock staying deep inside, thick and hot, and you both just lay there for a long moment listening to each other breathe.
Your shirt was still bunched under your breasts. His suit was damp and wrinkled and definitely ruined in at least three places. The bed was in terrible shape, something that had to be managed before Ma woke up.
You could feel the heavy, leaking fullness between your legs every time either of you moved.
Eventually, Clark kissed the back of your shoulder, then your neck, then rested his cheek there.
"So," he said after a long, contented silence. "I think…I think I covered everything. Nothing neglected, right?"
"Not at all," you laughed, a tired, happy, sated sound. "You can never decide, can you?"
"An impossible choice," he agreed immediately, his hands stroking your sweaty back and side. "It’s like asking me to pick between Ma’s apple pie and her peach cobbler." He kissed your shoulder again. "Both are… transcendent. Vital. Everything about you is."
You laughed into the quilt, fingers lazily toying with his red cape enveloping half your body.
"You’re a greedy, messy, indecisive man, you know that?"
"Yes, I’m a greedy, messy, indecisive man," he kissed the top of your head, words completely lovesick, lovestuck, whatever you wanted to call it. "But I'm yours."
He kissed the top of your shoulder, then your lips, lingering there.
"And later," he added, already sounding excited. "After we clean up, I’m sleeping with my head inside your shirt. I’ve decided. Non-negotiable. Think I’ve earned it."
.
Thank you for reading! Likes, comments, and reblogs especially are forever appreciated. Keeps me motivated!
Clark stays the night for the first time. fem, 3k. [explicit]
˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚
“Are you bringing the briefcase?”
“What’s your obsession with the case?” Clark asks.
You shrug, tipping your head back to give him a better view of your eyes, widened in a mock-doe ogling, like he’s the biggest, brightest thing in your universe. It’s not that far from the truth.
“I like the case,” you confide, bedroom eyes and a fresh coat of lipgloss waiting to be kissed off, ‘cos you know he’s too much of a gentleman to do anything about it. And because it’s nice, so nice, to see the way his face splits into a smile. He’s like sunshine bearing down on you.
“Then it’s coming with me. Go get your coat, Peitho.”
“Who’s that one?” you ask.
“The goddess of persuasion…” —he leans down to breathe your air, just for a bit— “…and seduction,” he finishes, kissing your nose quickly. “Get your coat. Let’s go.”
You collect your things into your bag and put on your coat. Clark presses a hand to the line of muscle between your shoulders, leading you out of the Daily Planet and toward the tram. You take it down to the station on your block, and Clark convinces you to double back for the greengrocers. Or, he grabs your hand and pulls you along, citing a deep need to find some snow mountain garlic. You make a boy risotto once and he thinks he calls the shots.
Your love story with Clark isn’t exactly convoluted. He made you coffee and brought you out in the sun to watch ducks in Centennial Park. You’d teased him with delicate outfits and long stretches, had occasionally brought him dinner. And it isn’t a long story, either. It’s been, what, three weeks? Nearly four? Too long to be this nervous, and yet. Clark squeezes your hand as your heart trips for the third time in as many minutes, caught on the sharp cut of his jaw and his messy curls. He doesn’t say anything as you weave between tight aisles looking for the specialty foods, but you get the sense that he knows you’re nervous.
“I can’t believe you remembered where I got the garlic,” you say conversationally.
“It’s rare, right? From the Himalayas.”
“Did I tell you that, too?”
“Your article, honey,” Clark says, his eyes tracking the jars of preserves and a row of open-basket offerings. “Single clove, golden… ah-ha!” He lets your hand fall to grab a paper bag and the tongs buried within. This basket has a plastic covering over the top that clicks and folds upward, releasing a heavy scent.
“Careful, Clark, it’s like, a billion dollars per pound.”
He shakes his head, unworried. “How much do you need for the risotto? Tell me when. And don’t short it.”
You decide not to short it —you’ll pay. But when you and Clark get to the counter, baggie of garlic, fresh oregano, ginger stems and tangerines dumped unceremoniously onto the counter by the cash register, he bats your hand away with the most aggression he’s ever shown you and offers the clerk his card.
“I don’t like mean Clark,” you murmur, squinting in the sun as Clark shepherds you back outside.
“No? You should get used to him.”
“Didn’t peg you for a bully, Kent.”
“I’m not.” He swings an arm over your shoulder, careful not to hit you with the groceries (what a loser!). “I could never bully you, you’re too nice. And who will make my dinner, if you’re upset?”
“So funny.”
“I know,” he says against your cheek. Your skin warms under a prim kiss. His lips part and the wet of his tongue doesn’t touch you, but you can feel it regardless, the humidity of his breath rolling over your skin.
“Off!” you demand.
He grins and takes back his arm. “Off,” he says, looking very much like he’d like to kiss you again. It’s awful how palpable the need is on his face. You ignore it as best as you can, too worried he’ll get you home and kiss you against the door, fumbling blindly for a bed he’s never seen.
He’s less desperate than you’re making out. In fact, if Clark wants to seduce you is anyone’s guess. He holds your hand down the street to your apartment building, laughs lightly when you tug him behind the staircase toward the back, and holds your handbag while you rummage for your keys without protest.
He places his case, your bag, and his shoes at the side table on the way in. You try to see your trimmings through his eyes, hand on his arm to balance as you pull off each of your shoes. You like the process of it, your fingers in his muscle, his eyes on your knee as you bring your foot up behind you, and your fingers as you slide them into the back of your shoe to tug it off. You like the sound they make as they topple to the floor, and the way you slip across the floor as Clark gathers you up for a hug right there in the door. His hair makes a sound as it falls around his face, Clark burying his nose in the side of your head. You hold his back. Feel for ridges. Find thick layers of fabric in the way.
“Wanted to do this all day,” he says.
If it weren’t so endearing to be wanted, you’d laugh. Clark doesn’t make you guess about his affections. He’s unlike anyone you’ve ever met, if only for his honesty. His earnestness.
You duck your head into the curve of his neck. “Smell nice,” you mumble.
“Are you tired?”
“No… You’re… putting the moves on me.”
“Is that what I’m doing?” His laugh vibrates at your temple.
“Can you make me dinner?”
He pulls away from you to hold your face. “Yeah, I can make you dinner.”
The plan had been Clark would come over and you’d make dinner, considering your expertise. A chef’s column for the biggest news outlet in Metropolis doesn’t come easy. You’re good at what you do. And that risotto had been half the reason Clark fell in love with you, if he’s to be believed. (Though he doesn’t say love.) (The other half a thin, pale skirt.)
Clark is a quick study. Your cooking lessons have helped him some. It’s nice to see him in your kitchen, waving a wooden spoon at you as he talks, stripping out of his suit jacket and rolling up his perfect white sleeves.
He gets broth up his arms and on his tie. You stand in front of him with the heat of the stove kissing your side and carefully work the knot from his neck.
“Kiss?” he asks.
You use his tie to guide him down.
—
Clark brought his pajamas in the briefcase.
He made you garlic butter and pesto by hand, plated up your risotto with a kiss. He hoisted your legs into his lap when you’d started to falter during the movie and he’s rubbed them until you’d dozed, and now he’s in the shower, having taken his pajamas and his shower things with him. His shampoo had been macadamia and argan oil.
And his pyjama pants are blue.
He rolls into your room with wet hair slicked to his neck and roughly towel dried at the front, blocking the TV with his height, a pair of socks still held in his hands. “I put my clothes in the laundry. Is that okay?”
You’re hoping you hadn’t left your delicates at the top of the bin. “Yeah, of course it is. I’ll wash them before bed, they’ll be dry again before morning.”
He shrugs. “I brought slacks for tomorrow.”
“How much fits in that briefcase?”
“You’d be surprised. Move over?”
You shuffle to one side of the bed so Clark can sit down beside you. He seems large against your headboard. You trace the curve of his neck to a relaxed jaw. There’s no stubble there when you run over his skin with your fingers, but there’s a teeny-tiny spot of blood under his chin. You wipe at it until it comes off. “I’d kiss it, but I’m worried it’ll get infected.”
“Kiss me anyway,” he says, lifting his chin. His collar is tacky with water.
You lift yours in turn to reach, lips pressing with the utmost care to his chin as he wraps an arm behind you. You can’t see the cut, but you worry you’ll hurt him if you aren’t careful, and he feels your hesitation under his hand.
“It’s okay. You can’t hurt me,” he says, like this is normal to say, like it doesn’t have your heart cradling itself in the heat of your stomach.
You kiss him again, then his neck, the column of it solid beneath your lips. You wait there with your nose tip digging in, but he doesn’t say anything.
A small gasp floods from you as he grabs you by the waist and pulls you into his arms, on top of his legs, long and lithe and dipping the mattress underneath him. Your face falls flat against his collar, warm to damp, startled but far from unhappy by his sudden show of strength. He closes his arms around you and hugs you. In a moment, his nose rubs itself against your cheek in a nuzzle. It’s animalistic only in the sense that it’s without thought, his nose rubbing into the same spot over and over again.
He doesn’t moan, but nearly. The sound he lets out is one of relief. Like you’d evaded him all day, and this is a victory.
“Is this the part where we start telling each other secrets?” he asks.
“Are you okay?” you ask softly.
“I didn’t know how badly I needed this.”
You needle your arms behind his back to hold him, too.
“Do you…”
“What?” he asks.
“It will sound like I’m flirting, and I am a little, but it’s a genuine question, okay?”
“Alright,” he says. You can tell he’s not about to laugh at you, which is nice.
“Do you work out?”
He smiles against your cheek. “Some. In the morning, when I can. I lift weights.”
“I know that– I realise it’s a silly question. I don’t think people tend to look like you naturally.”
“Is this still part of the genuine question?”
“No, this is the flirting.”
“Oh, gotcha.” He knocks under your chin lightly.
You look up to let him kiss you.
He makes another wretched sound, like the beginning of a groan half-smothered by your mouth. Clark parts his lips, turning his head to the side, the taste of him pressed into your tongue as he breathes you in. It is incredibly foreign to be breathed in while you’re kissing, but Clark pulls at your back like he’s worried you’ll move away, feeling and breathing, sudden fingertips tumbling down your back.
“Where are you going?” he whines.
“You’re tickling me.”
“On accident. You really are Peitho, you know. She’s cunning and cruel when she wants to be.”
“Don’t pressure me.”
“Now that’s not funny, is it?” he asks, grinning as you lean down slowly.
“Let me feel your heart.”
You press your fingers to his pulse. He lets you count the beats, says, “That’s sixty seconds,” like he’d known you would struggle to time it with your fingers.
“I think you’re dead at a hundred.”
“What’s that mean, doc?” he murmurs.
You stroke his jaw with the flat of your nail. Not teasing —thinking.
“I think I need to shower, too,” you say. He knows why. His eyes go lax behind his glasses with fondness. “Okay?” you ask, tapping his glasses with your nail gently. “You can clean the smudges off of your glasses while I’m gone. How’d they get this dirty, that’s crazy.”
He rubs the small of your back with pressure. “I think it might’ve happened when I tried to get my face in your neck. And your ear. And, you know, your head.”
He sounds delightfully bashful. It begets another kiss.
You lose time in his lap. Really, you’d stay. But you need a minute in the shower to breathe through your nerves, and Clark is remarkably in touch with feelings, so he kisses you and sits up to encourage you away. “Go on. I’ll be here.”
“Don’t look through my stuff. Promise?”
“Sure,” he says, like a liar.
You come back some twenty minutes later in your nicest pointelle pyjamas, skin slicked with a tiny bit of body oil and lotion atop it that smells of figs, ‘cos it’s the only one Clark’s ever mentioned liking aloud. He doesn’t skimp on compliments and loves to tell you that you smell good, but the fig one, the first time he smelled it, stopped him cold side by side on a couch in the coffee shop by his apartment. “What is that?” he’d asked.
Your smug smile drops. “Clark,” you breathe.
He pulls your teddy bear by the back and makes him wave. “Hi, honey.”
“You found Charlie.”
“You were hiding him.”
“He was tastefully placed on my desk.” Where you’d hoped he wouldn’t be seen.
Clark pets Charlie’s downy head. “How could you hide him? He’s lovely. He told me–”
“Charlie didn’t tell you anything, he’s my teddy.”
“Since you were young?” he asks.
Charlie’s all worn around the armpits, the fur kissed anxiously from his cheeks. “I’ve always had him, yeah.”
“I think I’d be remiss not to tell you that you look beautiful,” he says, “and Charlie says the same.”
“Don’t talk through my teddy.”
He presses Charlie to his chest like he’s a baby.
“He loves you.”
It turns your heart. You’d been ready to lay back in his lap and have him kiss you dizzy, tucking curls behind his ear to whisper saccharinely into the shell of it, but you’re thinking now that you want to curl up with him and find that box of chocolates he’d given you last week (for looking oh so morose for all of five seconds, apparently) to share. Have him rub your arms as you pretend to watch a movie.
“Okay. Okay, come and hug me,” you say, leaning against your desk expectantly.
Clark is up in three seconds flat.
—
You wake with a start.
There’s a shape beside you in bed, turned toward you, so close to you that you struggle to see him beyond the dark curls of his hair against your flowered pillow case.
He has freckles on his shoulders. You hadn’t seen them last night in the dark, or even in the lamplight Clark begged for, just to see you, of course I want to see you, you’re beautiful like this, and they surprise you. There’s a handful of them across the hills of his shoulders. Barely any at all, but enough to kiss.
He feels your mouth and wakes up quicker than you’d wanted.
“Shit,” he says, grappling backwards for his glasses on the nightstand.
“Clark?”
“Sorry.” When he turns back to you, he’s wearing his glasses again. You frown.
“What’s wrong?”
Your stomach hurts. Like, hurts, the explanation loaded in one fell swoop. He slept with you and he didn’t mean to stay because he hadn’t ever meant to stay–
“No, sorry, nothing is wrong.” Clark clears his throat. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I wake up badly, sometimes.”
“Was it me?”
“No.” He smiles like you’re the sun, blinking sleep away lazily. His eyelids and mouth are both puffy with it. “No, of course it wasn’t you, come here. I slept well.”
You’re aware, then, of his missing shirt, the way your thigh slides between his as he pulls you tight to his chest.
Just like that.
You press your face to his shoulder, rather than let him see your expression. The night before comes back to you in a heated rush, every soft touch and softer kiss. You shudder under his tracing patterns.
“Can see you better like this,” Clark says, bringing his hand to your cheek to angle you in the sunshine.
You’re too tired to move, but you want to be kissed. Fortunately, your boyfriend is as generous as he is kind, and he promises to do all the hard work. “You can make yourself comfortable, honey,” he murmurs, turning you onto your back with an easy strength.
You cover your mouth with your hand.
Clark can see your smile regardless. “So pretty,” he says quietly, kissing your chest, glasses slipping down his nose as he cranes his neck further. “God, you’re perfect like this.”
“You didn’t kiss me good morning,” you murmur, mostly to tease him.
“I will.” His hand finds the pulp behind your knee. “I will. I promise.”
˚‧꒰ა ❤︎ ໒꒱‧˚
thank you for reading!! this was two requests (here and here) put together thank you both<3
cw: MDNI!! dubcon (bc there's an aphrodisiac involved), oral (f!receiving), fingering, lots of dirty talk, unprotected p in v, mating press, creampie, multiple orgasms, friends to lovers!!, HUNGRY peter
masterlist, taglist, and kinktober 2025 masterlist!
you weren't sure when it became a habit to sneak into the chemistry building after hours with peter to help him work on his web fluid; all you knew was it was your turn to pay for the pizza.
it was nearing midnight as your full belly laughs echoed through the empty lab, crusts long forgotten on the table behind you, as you lost yourself in a story. peter's smile was visible through prickling tears.
he knew it was a bad idea to invite you from the start — there was no shot in hell he'd get any work done as long as you were around him. peter had figured that out by the senior year of high school: he just couldn't seem to focus on anything other than you. he began to lie and say he was finished with his homework whenever you would hang out, covering his lack of progress in your presence.
peter had been distracted by you for the last few years, yet he could never seem to resist your company anyway. he beamed as you laughed at your own joke, relishing in the alone time he got to spend with the one person who made him feel like himself.
you let out a snort, and peter was done for, tears in his own eyes as he joined you in hearty laughter. he reached down and grabbed a vial through blurry vision, adding the final touch to his web fluid 3.0.
except that, instead of a sticky web-like substance, peter was met with a bright flash of hot pink from the liquid in the beaker before a cloud of magenta powder exploded from the glass, dusting the room, and in turn, you and peter.
he was on you instantly, shielding you from the flying shards of glass before the beaker even burst, though the aerosol impact was inevitable. the reaction was quick to hit your lungs, dragging out hoarse coughs, rough and heavy in your chest as you fought to regain a sense of your surroundings.
the headache was almost immediate as peter leaned down to say something, and you winced as you looked up at him.
"what?"
"are you okay? did you get cut at all?" peter frantically examined for any tears in your sweatshirt, checking your hands for any possible nicks.
"i'm okay, rea—woah," peter placed a hand on your jaw to inspect your face, and the touch activated something deep inside of you.
suddenly, you felt the hottest you'd ever been, and the headrush made you weak in the knees. your vision began to cloud, senses on overdrive as you felt an aching pain rising in your chest. meeting peter's gaze with panicked eyes, you began to really take in the state of the situation.
"peter, what did you just mix?"
"i-i don't know, i must've grabbed the wrong thing..." he trailed off as he turned to search through the drawers, but the movement stopped him dead in his tracks.
peter was instantly met with a rush of vertigo, the room spinning violently around him as he braced himself on the countertop. he felt like he did when he was first bitten: hypersensitive and overwhelmed. fuck, what did he mix?
amidst the rest of the world in his ears, peter picked up on the sound of your heartbeat and immediately knew something was wrong. really wrong. he took a moment to analyze you, everything moving in slow motion as he fought to figure out what the hell he mixed together, and where these symptoms were headed.
your current state didn't give him much comfort; peter quickly noticed how you were starting to sweat, your chest heaving as you struggled to catch your breath, despite not having left your chair. your full-body flush made him wonder if he looked just as disheveled.
"are you feeling okay?" peter asked, heavy with concern and guilt.
you shook your head at him, words fighting to escape your trembling lips. "i-i don't know. i feel... warm. i don't know."
and then peter felt it. his cock twitched, and he realized for the first time how painfully hard he was. he looked down in horror, hoping you hadn't yet noticed in your own haze. peter quickly sat down again to cover the evidence, praying to any god who was listening that this wasn't happening.
while successful in his concealment, the slight friction in the movement of his pants was enough to elicit a groan from his throat; he hoped you didn't hear.
but you did. because each little noise he made, conscious or not, egged on every dirty fucking thought you were having right now. and about peter. in front of peter.
"maybe we should get some... some fresh air, or something," peter says weakly.
as you nodded in response and moved to get up, it became horribly apparent to peter that he had to stand up with you, and not only would you also know just how hard he was, but the friction alone might be enough to kill him.
and then he had a thought:
are you feeling this way too?
no, don't think like that. that's your best friend, and whatever's happening, clearly neither of you was in your right mind.
but peter had always felt this way about you. this time, it was just so physically painful for some reason. what the fuck was in that beaker?
he didn't have any more time for his mind to race, as you stood from your stool and he watched your knees buckle underneath you. peter rushed to stabilize you, grabbing your shoulders and keeping you steady. it was pointless, though. somehow, the feeling of peter's hand against you knocked your breath out, far worse than falling ever would've.
you had no idea what was going on, but it was getting harder and harder to think about anything other than peter (as if that wasn't the norm anyway, bffr). but this was heightened. this was all of your wildest desires pulled to the forefront of your mind in the middle of your ochem 403 lab at 11pm on a tuesday night.
what the fuck was going on with you?
you tried to shake off the way peter's touch relieved some of the haze clouding your brain, and tried to shake off the feeling that maybe he was also feeling this way. your thighs clenched at the thought — that peter was also thinking of every possible way to take you on this counter right now.
but this was your best friend, and you needed to get your shit together long enough to handle whatever this feeling was on your own.
"woah, are y'okay?" peter slurred, your body heat under his palms radiating down to the rest of his body and nearly sending him down as well.
"i... i don't know, i think..." you stuttered out, not trusting anything coming from your mouth right now. "i-i think i have to go, i'm, i'm not feeling well."
you turned to make a run for it, hoping to get out of peter's sight before you either passed out or pounced on him. he stopped you, though, grabbing your hand with a pleading "wait!" falling from his lips.
before you could stop it, a whimper escaped from your lips at his touch, and you went bright red in seconds, hand flying up to cover the unexpected noise.
peter didn't help as he stared at you with his mouth agape, pupils blown to shit. he looked fucked out beyond belief and you'd barely even touched.
you cleared your throat, hoping to get out as coherent and PG a sentence as you could. "peter i-i feel really weird. a-and, i think i'm freaking the fuck out."
knowing you were hurting as much as he was broke his heart, and peter struggled to put all his energy into focusing on you. "i know, it's okay, bug. just take some deep breaths, a-and let's try to make it outside, yeah?"
he tried to pull you, but your legs forgot how to work, and you were frozen where you were, breath quick as everything grew downright painful.
peter's breathing picked up as he heard you hyperventilating, panicking himself as he watched you crumble in front of you. he needed to find out what was in that vile, and fast.
but all he could fucking think about was being on his knees in between your thighs.
fuck.
"p-peter, please. please, i-i, i need your help. you have to make this stop."
"fuck— it'll be okay, i promise. i'll do whatever i need to get you better. i-i just..." he clamped his eyes shut, desperately trying to come up with a way to make an antidote of some kind without dying or ruining your friendship along the way.
"peter... i—"
"what?" he cut you off, concern heavy in his tone.
despite his ever-growing problem, peter reached out to cup your cheek, and though not an unnatural thing to do, it was one definitely influenced by a gravity drawing him towards the feeling of your skin on his.
you stared at his lust-blown eyes, wondering if yours looked the same. wondering if he felt the same.
peter spoke your name softly, his thumb grazing your cheek softly and lingering far too closely to your lips to not mean anything.
fuck it.
you grabbed his shirt and pulled him forward, nearly headbutting him in the process as you locked onto his lips, surprised when you felt him immediately reciprocate and tangle his hands in your hair. everything about the kiss was desperate, and the feeling of peter all over you was fucking radiant.
peter was nothing but a moaning mess against you, sloppy and wet against your lips as he pleaded your name as though each time he said it, it took away the pain in his chest. truthfully, it did.
peter pulled away to take a breath, and the lack of contact brought the sharp pain immediately back, earning a whine to fall from his lips. he shook it off, grabbing the sides of your face and doing his best to refocus.
"f-fuck, should we talk about this?" peter asked relectantly.
"i-i don't know. i don't know what's happening right now, pete. all i know is that i need you to touch me. anything, please. i'm sorry. just, please make it go away."
yeah, you could talk about it later.
"nonono, hey. im so sorry, baby, this is all my fault. i'll do whatever you need, i mean it. i'll make it better, i promise."
peter pulled you back into a hungry kiss, rough hands roaming your body in a way he'd never touched you before. the feeling of your curves under his palms was only something he'd dreamed of, and peter was insufferably hard as he pulled you into him further.
there was a nag in the back of his mind, something telling him to stop before you did something you'd regret. because there was no possible way he had you, his best friend, tangled in his arms and lips heavy on his own. and yeah, peter had been smitten with you since the day you met, but he was never going to do anything about it. you didn't feel that way about him, of course. right?
cause right now, you kinda did.
no! fuck! just the chemicals! this was a one-time thing, friends helping friends.
yeah, friends helping friends.
but the pretty little moans that came out of your mouth as peter trailed his way down your neck? those sounded awfully more than just friendly. and the way you whined as he moved his hands up your waist, palming your tits through your shirt as he growled for permission in your ear? peter was never going to be able to look you in the eyes after tonight.
but right now, he was entranced as you bunched his shirt fabric in your hands and begged for it off, pulling the material over his head and immediately attacking his firm chest with a series of hickeys. you shifted your hands down towards his waistband, tugging him by his belt loops as you left a wet, hot trail of kisses down his abs. peter couldn't help but cant his hips forward into you, absolutely fucking losing his mind.
his own hands made their way around your frame, trailing down to your ass and grabbing hard. you gasped at the feeling, then lost your breath fully as peter nipped at your ear and told you to jump. he caught your thighs, shifting to set you on the lab counter and wedging his body between your legs.
everything was hot and heavy, and the effects were evolving and worsening. it was growing stronger with each touch, and though feeling each other was helping ease the pain, the need for more was growing too strong to ignore.
you pulled away from him, tears threatening to spill from your doe eyes as you stared up at peter, who didn't look much better.
"what? what is it, what do you need, baby?"
"i-i... i need you to touch me, pete."
peter went pale at your confession. it was asked so quietly, but it held so much weight. weight he'd think about after he got to find out what you tasted like.
with a deep rumble in his chest and another sloppy kiss to your neck, peter began to fumble his way around your waistband, asking you a thousand extra times if this was okay.
yeah, i fucking think so.
peter's index fingers hooked the hips of your pants; feeling his hands on your bare skin for the first time covered you in goosebumps. it was numbing the pain in your chest and igniting something in it all the same. you were so caught up in the moment, gobsmacked over peter parker, your best friend of six years, tugging your pants down, that you almost didn't notice that he'd pulled them back up.
your cheeks instantly bloomed in mortification. "fuck, i-im sorry, i-i don't know what's come over me—"
"no! stop apologizing, please. i just..." peter took a dramatic pause, and the only thing that could be heard was the two of you heavily panting, taking in the scene unfolding before you as the pain hammered in each of your chests.
"i need to tell you something before anything else happens."
you gave him a worried look, and peter returned it with a heavy sigh.
"i don't know what the fuck is happening right now, and why i feel like im fucking going to die if you don't touch me right now, and this is all my fault and i'm so fucking sorry—"
"peter. what's wrong?"
well, we're already in this deep.
"i don't know what fuck-ass aphrodiasic i just created, but i need you to know that the real me means this too. i can't let anything happen without you knowing that i love you, and this still means something to me. even if i'm not myself right now. a-and i'll do whatever you need me to do, and we can never talk about this again, but you don't deserve me keeping that from you."
you sat on the counter, stunned, as peter anxiously bit his lip, worried he'd just fucked up one of the best relationships that had ever happened to him. and he was still so fucking hard.
the only response you gave him was hopping off the counter and taking your bottoms off for him.
and peter was immediately on you again.
he had a hand rough in your hair as he kissed you, his other firm on your bare ass as he kneaded the soft flesh with a hunger. through his moans and downright whines, he almost missed it:
"i love you too, peter. so fucking much."
something inside of him snapped, and this time he didn't even ask you to jump, wrapping his hands around your waist and lifting you to the counter like you weighed nothing. you wrapped your legs around his hips and pulled him close, the make-out nothing short of a frenzy.
the entire time, peter was in your ear, moaning things into your mouth you only ever dreamed you'd hear:
"this. this isn't how this was supposed to happen."
"you deserve better than this, fuck. deserve better than an empty fucking chem lab, christ's sake."
he was quick to get his hands back on you, traces of mischief left behind as he massaged your thighs and stared at your lace thong with a look you'd never seen from him before. peter had been so caught up in it all, he'd almost forgotten the effects of the reaction. his actions were genuine and intentional. but as he pulled back to get a proper look at you, the pain in his chest settled back in, and his senses reheightened to a million
"fuck, i need to touch you. please, can i touch you?" peter whined.
you were breathless in response, "please peter, do whatever the fuck you want to me. just please, do something. anything."
he groaned and ran his hands up your thighs till he reached the delicate lace, teasingly tracing the hemline. "don't fucking say that. i-i don't think i can control myself right now."
"pete, i don't want you to control yourself," a shudder ran down his spine.
"please. fuck me."
peter didn't have the energy left in him to delay this any longer.
he ripped the underwear clean from your body, pulling you to the edge of the counter and dropping to his knees in front of you. he wasted no time running his tongue through your glossy folds, latching his lips over your clit.
peter was so hungry, and the mixture of the fading pain in your chest and the pleasure blooming inside of you was an insane feeling. he added a finger? oh my god. you were fucking incoherent. he added another? you were pretty sure this rivaled the time you tried molly.
you pulled at his hair, begging him (to stop or to go harder, you didn't know). it was all so overwhelming, and every time you looked down to see the source of your pleasure and remembered it was your peter parker? you were close to the edge the quickest you'd ever been.
"pete, i-i..."
"what is it, baby?" he breathed, quickly returning to your dripping cunt.
baby. jesus fucking christ. that almost did you in right then and there.
"i wanna touch you too."
peter groaned deep inside you in response, and the vibration was enough to send you over the edge. you felt your body fly over the moon as you came, peter not letting down for a second as he fucked you with his tongue so you could ride out the high, lapping up every drop you gave him.
he stood up, breathless, glistening, and a little cocky if you knew peter the way you thought you did. "how are you feeling? did that help, d-does it still hurt?"
you were panting as you came down from your high, taking a second to be aware of your body and headspace again. you couldn't help but feel emotional as you noticed the effects starting to creep back in. you shed a tear and nodded as you felt the headache thundering in the distance.
peter pulled you into a hug, and it was almost enough to sober you up again, because something about this one felt different. more weighted.
"im sorry, baby, fuck. i-i'm sorry, what can i do? how can i help?" fuck, this was all his fault.
you sniffled in his ear, but the movement of your hips against his contradicted your melancholy demeanor. "it's better when you're touching me. please, just don't stop."
between your words and you snaking your hand down to palm him softly, peter parker was a wreck, and wrapped around your finger.
he was quick to envelop you in a kiss and drink you in, and you moved to claw his shirt off of him. you pulled back to look at him, and it wasn't like you hadn't seen peter shirtless over the years, but you'd never seen him this close, in this context. it made your chest hurt in a different way.
"fuck, you're so hot," you groaned, almost as though an inside thought had slipped out.
he snickered. "me? are you kidding me right now?"
peter roughly kissed you before tugging your shirt off, absolutely elated at the discovery you'd forgone a bra under your crewneck. he stared at you like a deer in headlights, starstruck as he saw you for the first time.
"jesus christ, you're a fucking dream."
his hands were on your tits before you could even register it, but the feeling only made you crave him more. you messed with his pants, and he took over amidst your frustration. boxers and all, he sprang free in front of you, and Holy Shit Peter Parker. that's fucking obscene.
"this is your last chance to change your mind. because once i start, i dont think i'll be able to stop," he warned.
"please fuck me, peter."
he attacked your chest with his lips, hands firm on your hips as he shifted you again to the edge of the counter. you wrapped your soft fingers around his leaking cock, and he was almost done for before you'd even started.
peter moaned loudly and moved to put his large hand over yours to line himself up. you were still soaked from peter's previous meal, making it easy for him to slide his head through your slit. you were a begging mess in his ear, nails scraping down his back in anticipation.
peter nudged your entrance and pushed in easily (whether from the pollen or his ample prep, no one knows). the two of you moaned in filthy harmony, the feeling a definition beyond indescribable.
his legs were shaking immediately, and despite his inhuman strength, it became apparent that he couldn't do this standing for much longer if you felt this good.
"fuck, sweetheart," peter grabbed you roughly and pulled you towards him, pushing to the hilt and pressing hip to hip with you. he picked you up, spun you around, and laid you on the cool tile
"this isn't what you deserve, fucking you on the ground like this. fuck, baby."
and then peter was relentless.
he pounded into you with such a force, his mouth still focused on your tits and how they bounced for him. both of you could breathe again, the pain lifting and now replaced with a newly discovered pleasure that made you emotional again. you looked completely fucked out, tears streaming down your cheeks as peter lifted your thighs higher to get as deep in you as possible.
"fuck, please don't cry," he begged, though he kept drilling into you, knees now meeting your own chest. "i'm sorry, i'm so sorry."
you pulled him down, his chest pressing against the back of your thighs, and your foreheads connected as you breathed him in, exhaling a rough "i love you so much, peter".
he stuttered for a moment, eyes as wide as they were the first time he heard you say it. not for long, though, as he stayed pressed against you and picked up the pace like never before.
"oh my god, i fucking love you."
peter had you seeing stars, and you didn't know how long you'd even been in the lab. five minutes could have passed, maybe three hours. all you knew was that you didn't care, and you were close. peter knew it too.
"babe-baby, you're close. i-i can feel it, you're so fucking tight around my cock." you couldn't help but clench him in response.
"fuck, yeah-y-yes. god, squeezing me so good. god, i knew you were made for me."
it was the sentimentality of everything that sent you over this time. hearing the way he talked about you, you came around his cock, and it felt so fucking magical. but peter didn't slow down, determined to ride out your orgasm. he was quickly losing his composure, though, at the feeling of you fluttering around his cock.
"sweetheart, w-where—"
"inside, please."
peter didn't even have time to question the outcomes to his actions because the second he heard you, his best fucking friend, moaning for him to cum inside of her? oh fucking hell.
he let out such a guttural moan as he came, hot and thick, deep inside of you. you felt so warm and full, so much so that it triggered a third orgasm, sobbing peter's name as he just kept going. mixed arousal spilled down your thighs as he continued to fuck you, and through your fucked out haze, you could feel his cum drip down and pool around your ass.
you were barely conscious at this point, but peter kept going as he muttered "i'm sorry" over and over again.
luckily, he'd released the goddamn mating press and released your legs, allowing you to stretch out. peter was able to cover more of your body with his, lying chest to chest with you as his hips rutted into yours. the new position was so much more intimate as he leaned in to capture your lips in a kiss again.
"please. please, just one more. one more and i'll stop."
peter said that three more times that evening before he was done, and he felt like himself again.
he looked down at you in awe, though concern slipped through his fucked out eyes. "you okay, bug?"
"i can't believe you really just gassed us with an aphrodisiac."
peter laughed, a blush creeping on his cheeks at the memory of his fatal mistake. "yeah, that was, uh... that was my bad."
Pairing: David!Clark Kent x Metahuman Female!Reader
Summary: You can take on other's injuries and pain. You are the Planet's copy editor, the Justice Gang's medic, and the keeper of Clark Kent's heart (or so you thought). The man you're in love with asks one sacrifice too big. This is the aching journey through trauma, therapy, sacrifice, and choosing yourselves—and each other—on purpose.
Tags: ANGST, GUN VIOLENCE, PTSD, Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Jimmy Knows Clark Is Superman, Lois Knows Clark Is Superman, Healing/Regeneration, Body Horror (Injury Transference), Self Harm, Jealousy / Love Triangle (Clark x Lois), Emotional Trauma, Protective!Clark, Jimmy is A Good Friend
NOW: CHAPTER 4B (summary under the cut)
updated 11/27/25
(please comment on any parts, this post, or message me if you'd like to be added to the taglist. comments keep me motivated, thank you so much for reading)
Chapter 1: The Life Line
In a city of heroes, some sacrifices are invisible. You can heal anything—but at a cost no one suspects. When a gala turns deadly, you must decide how far you’ll go to save the people you love, even when it breaks your heart. Clark thought he knew you. He was wrong.
You tried again, breath shaking. “Clark. I'm serious. I’ve never healed—like this,” you said, voice thin. “Through the chest. I’d never—this could kill me—”
“I don’t care!” he snapped, louder than you’d ever heard him.
“Just fix her! Please, please, I can’t— I can’t lose her—"
Chapter 2: Alcestis
Three weeks of silence after the gala, and neither of you have learned how to speak without reopening the wound. Clark loves you—he swears he does—but guilt makes him clumsy, overprotective, unbearably gentle. You love him too, but love doesn’t heal like you do. It bruises. It scars.
Chapter 3: Trouble
Clark loves you. He doesn’t love Lois. Saying it is easy; living it is work. While you keep your distance—copy edits, closed doors, strict boundaries—Clark spirals into the sky. He needs to learn the difference between being good and being forgiven. If there’s a future, it won’t be because you waited. Waiting has terms.
Chapter 4A: Omelas
Clark is trying—therapy, boundaries, small choices that don’t hurt you just to save everyone else. Little by little, you start to let Clark back into your orbit: coffee runs, plant check-ins, quiet talks about what your healing really costs you. A public disaster forces the Justice Gang to demand your powers in front of the city, and Clark, as Superman, has to make an impossible call under live cameras.
Chapter 4B: Omelas
Clark peels off his blood-soaked suit as he listens to the city turn on him. He opens his door to the one person he’s most afraid of losing. A rain-soaked night becomes a string of confessions. Love. Want. Wait.
"I'll see you around?"
"I'd like that."
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Thank you @punyparkerr for sparking my brief idea this morning. I answered @my-malachai-stilinski and edited it, and IT WENT AWAY. Glad I had it saved bc I was proud of coming up with this stuff on the fly?
Tags: 18+, MDNI, fluff and smut, p in v, creampie, semi-public sex, size kink, uniform kink, pet names (baby, hon, sweetheart)
main masterlist
Rugby!Clark is an Absolute Unit. 6'4"+ 240 lbs shoulders that barely fit through doorways, Sequoia Thick thighs. His ass in those shorts are RIDICULOUS. Fans lose their minds every time he squats to bind in the scrum.
Built the "The Gentle Giant" reputation. Has to constantly restrain himself. He knows one full-power shove and someone’s getting stretchered off with a career-ending injury and he would never be able to sleep at night. Always the first to help an opponent up after a tackle and the media eats it uppppp.
Despite his restraint he’s terrifying on the field. Runs as fast as a freight train. Boy got HOPS like he’s got springs in his boots. Opposing teams start aiming their throws away from him, they're freaked out like a man that size shouldn't be moving like this😭
Post-game: sweaty curls stuck to his forehead, jersey half-unzipped, still breathing heavy. So polite during interviews, sounding like, "Yeah, tough game. Just happy everyone did their best." Meanwhile he’s already searching the stands, thinking about getting home to you.
Writes a surprisingly thoughtful column or speech for the team about sportsmanship and mental health.
✨️SFW/NSFW BELOW✨️
Eats like a black hole. You and Ma learned to meal-prep in industrial quantities. He’ll demolish three plates and still look at you and the fridge with those big blue eyes like "erm...is there more?"
Grass stains everywhere, including those damn nice socks you bought him. You’ve gotten very good at rubbing those out and rubbing arnica into his shoulders, pressing ice packs on his back while he sits on the floor between your legs, head tipped back making those low happy noises. You both know he doesn't really need it, but you enjoy it anyways.
Loves when you come to games wearing his jersey, his name, his number. Bonus if its oversized and nothing underneath. He spots you in the stands and suddenly plays like a demon - c'mon, let's wrap it up! I want my girl now!
.
Post-match ritual: finds you in the tunnel or parking lot, lifts you clean off your feet in a BIG sweaty hug and a Take My Breath Away Kiss. Doesn’t care who’s watching. "Missed you," mumbled into your neck.
If they win big he’s a lil smug, cocky, and very handsy all the way home. If they lose he'll smile it off but its obvious he needs to feel you. All huffy and fidgeting. Needs the reminder that he’s good at something that day, like how he can take care of you.
Backyard "training." He’ll set up cones and make you do footwork drills with him, laughing when you trip over your own feet, but catches you before really falling.
Teaching you touch rugby in the backyard always guaranteed to turn filthy 90% of the time. You tackle him (you both know he’s letting you), straddling him for a few moments to watch you all winded and laughing, and then "accidentally" pins you under him in the grass.
Appreciates your enthusiasm to know the game properly. Sits you between his legs, arms around you, chin on your shoulder, explaining cleanouts and lineout calls in a low, patient voice that would sound condescending from any other man. You ask "dumb" questions on purpose, which he responds: "Great question! So this is why..."
Wears a tiny charm you gave him on a chain under his jersey during every game. Something small with your initials? Your birth stone? Touches it before lineouts for good luck.
.
Strength kink goes Insane. He can hold you up against the wall with one arm while the other yanks your clothes off. Fucks you standing without breaking a sweat. Loves when you wrap your legs around his waist, hands gripping his shoulders/biceps/his face begging for harder, faster, deeper, more, and he just walks you to the bedroom without pulling out.
Those Sequoia thighs. You riding one while he’s "recovering" on the couch after practice. Him watching you with dreamy eyes, big hands guiding your hips, praising you the whole time. "That’s it, sweetheart. Use me."
Uniform kink is reeeaaal. Missing Clark while he's on the road for away games, welcoming him back wearing his home game-worn jersey. Sleeves too long, hem covering your ass. He'd immediately dropped to his knees to eat you out while you’re still wearing it, moaning over and over how much he missed you. Or he'd have you on all fours in just the jersey while he fucks you from behind, gripping the fabric like reins. Always so quick with aftercare, sometimes you ask for him to leave it on you afterward, just to watch him watch his cum soak into the material.
Oh, post-game adrenaline is so lethal to your pussy. He’s in his uniform — muddy shorts, jersey rucked up — and he’s so so dirty and desperate. Gets you on the bed, or floor, or kitchen counter and just takes. Deep, grinding thrusts growling and groaning "gosh darlin', you feel so good every time" against your throat.
Size kink + stretch. He’s biiiig everywhere and he knows it. Loves watching you determined to take him, loves the little overwhelmed, stubborn noises you make while you try to stop your cunt from clenching around him. "Easy, hon… I’ve got you. Let me do the work."
Endurance for days. One round is never enough for either of you. He’ll fuck you through your first orgasm, keep going while you’re shaking and creaming on him, then flip you on top and start again. Only stops when you’re a boneless, whimpering mess and even then he’s still hard and kissing apologies into your skin.
Sin-bin punishment. If you’ve been teasing him all day, he’ll edge you for ages. "Yellow card behaviour, hon. Gotta sit this one out."
Messy creampie enjoyer. Especially after a win because the sight of you after is the real prize. Watching it drip out afterward, then pushing it back in with his meaty fingers and the tip of his cock because "can’t waste it"????
Shower sex after games/practice is non-negotiable. After the other guys have gone home, you're sneaking him back into the locker rooms. You're washing the mud and sweat off him under the hot water spray, praising him while you stroke his cock until he can no longer fight the urge to fuck you against the tiles.
Rugby!Clark is a handsy man right? So he'll have one hand over your mouth and his mouth sucking on your breast so the groundskeep doesn't hear how loud you two get.
For your consideration… dad!Clark Kent doing the nighttime routine and he’s reading bedtime stories and gets absolutely sucker punched by a book that he doesn’t think will affect him but he ends up getting a Little Emotional the more he reads (inspo comes from the way I’ve cried while reading Oh, the Places You’ll Go! to my nanny kid 😭)
nova i’m a sucker for baby books that make u cry :))))
pairing: dad!clark kent x f!reader. content: it’s short short. dad!clark kent reading the twins a baby book called love you forever. he cries. like a lot lmao. snippets of the book are read! word count: 700.
The white noise machine sounded like TV static. Something Clark had to adjust to since having the two girls, alongside the red light that illuminated the bedroom at night.
The twins had been bathed, fed and changed, ready for their nightly routine of a bedtime story before — technically — lights out.
Clark cradled both girls in the nook of his arms, their damp hair tickled beneath his chin as he browsed the bookshelf for the perfect book to create a soothing atmosphere for them to fall asleep easier; and not be rocked for over an hour in their dad’s arms.
He secretly adored the manual labour.
“Hm.” Clark hummed to himself, eyes scanned the books, “The Tiger Who Came to Tea? We read that two nights ago, didn’t we?” The twins cooed and Clark politely agreed, “Yes—I do think we are burning through these books fast…How about this one? Love You Forever. Seems apt.”
Book in hand, Clark turned it to inspect the cover.
You took your turn to pop your head into the nursery, eyes dropped to the book in his hand, “Don’t read that.”
“Hm?” Clark looked up quizzically, “Why not?”
“That—” You emphasised, “Is a shelf book. To collect dust.”
Clark pulled a face, “Honey, come on. It was a present from Steve Lombard.”
“A book from a sadist apparently.”
You happened to have flipped through the pages of ‘Love You Forever’ prior to the twins being born. You had thought you had hidden it well enough for your soft centred husband to miss it entirely.
The book seemingly preyed on new parents. Or, grandparents that were witnessing their baby cradle a baby of their own. You had read each page with a sunken stomach and through an abundance of tears shed and cursed the ground that Steve Lombard walked on for assuming such a book was a gift.
However, by the expression on Clark’s face, his subtle stubbornness shone through.
You shrugged, “Your funeral, honey.” And left.
Clark clicked his tongue, an amused roll of his eyes before taking a seat in the plush rocking chair. The twins still nestled in their favourite spot of his arms, Clark pressed a chaste kiss to the tops of their heads before peeling the first page open to reveal the story within.
Simple illustrations and minimal words. Clark concluded that it would be a breeze to read through and still have time to sneak a few less than PG kisses with you prior to you both passing out unconscious on top of your bed sheets.
“A mother held her new baby and very slowly rocked him back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.” Clark began to rock the chair with the heel of his foot, “And whilst she held him, she sang: I love you forever, I’ll like you always, as long as I’m living…my baby you’ll be. Huh. Isn’t that sweet, stinky girls?”
Clark continued the book, each page brought on a new milestone in ages for the baby and mother referenced in the book.
His emotions remained intact until the last few pages.
Lump in his throat, Clark took a deep breath, “Well, that mother, she got older—Oh no, girls. This is a terrible book to read.” He continued to read in a higher octave than his usual deep tone. His chest caving at the last page.
Clark cleared his throat, eyes blurry with tears, “I—Uh, Golly.” He shuddered a breath, “Then, he went into the room where his very new baby daughter was sleeping. He picked her up—Gosh darn—He picked her up in his arms, and slowly rocked her back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. And whilst he rocked her, he sang: I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you always—” Clark could barely string the final sentence together, “As long as I’m living, my baby you’ll be.”
Nose running, Clark sniffed and tried to smother a whimpered cry.
“And I love you, my baby girls…Who made this book?” He asked himself, “I am never reading that book again. Steve is a sadist.”
You called from your spot in your bedroom, face-mask half slipping from your face, “I told you so!”
A/N : In my defense, I'm ovulating 👀
Warnings : 18+ MDNI, smut, vibrators, masturbation (f), Tit worship, oral (f rec), PinV, PwP, foul language, glasses kink (this is super self indulgent lol), Clark being a nerd and hot soft-dom boyfriend at the same time, perverted reader, even more perverted Clark
Word Count : 1.8 k
Nerd Clark who is the quietest person at the daily planet. Quiet to the point where people wonder if he's even fit to be a reporter. But as his interactions with the superman have proved, he's very worthy of his position despite being so……mysterious.
Nerd Clark who is shy to return smiles when you wish him a cheery good morning summoning the brightest smile on your face.
Nerd Clark who slowly opens up to you. And by opens up I mean he lets a few good mornings and goodbyes slip free when he watches you arrive or leave.
Nerd Clark who thinks you're friends.
Nerd Clark who has no idea how bad your intentions are. That you hardly want friendship from him. What you want is for him to ruin you.
Nerd Clark who watches you stare at him, thinking its a loving look on your face except your eyes are raking over his body thinking about how soft those curls would feel under your palms, how those glasses would fog up when you have him panting under you, how those massive ridges of muscles would ripple when he's thrusting into you and how those veins would feel if you traced it with your tongue.
Nerd Clark who snaps you out of your wild imagination with a snap of his fingers and you're left breathless and wet in the office in the middle of the day.
Nerd Clark who believes your excuse of not feeling well when you look all red and leave for home early.
Nerd Clark who would never know that you spent that night riding your vibrator pretending it to be him, moaning his name out loud until your walls have it memorised. (I meant bedroom walls, what're you even thinking, you dirty minded duckling)
Nerd Clark who's all shy when you kiss him for the first time. All nervous smiles and fumbling hands as his lips move over yours in a slow rhythm.
Nerd Clark whose glasses nugde against your nose when he leans in for a second kiss, much to his annoyance but only until you end up giggling against his mouth.
Nerd Clark who does not understand why you're so keen on him leaving his glasses on during the kiss even when it's in the way.
Nerd Clark who you think would be shy and soft and sweet in bed and turns out he's anything but.
Nerd Clark who has you pinned against the door the moment you close it after getting home.
Nerd Clark whose hungry eyes, dilated pupils, and shameless strokes of his fingers under your shirt surprise you in the best way becuase where did that shy nerd go who was nervous to kiss you?
Nerd Clark who has known everything since the beginning and still let you work for him, and yearn for him, all this time.
Nerd Clark whose voice is possesive and dark and rough when he leans in close to your ear and whispers “You've been testing my patience, baby” before his mouth is on you.
Nerd Clark who revels in watching you all shocked and dumbfounded at knowing how his shy personality just switches off around you.
Nerd Clark who has the filthiest mouth on him and loves to rile you up “Why do you look so dumb baby? Were’nt you the one who invited me here?”
Nerd Clark who chuckles against your lips when you have no words left and you decide kissing him would be the appropriate response.
Nerd Clark who picks you up like you weigh no more than a pillow before he trudges toward your bedroom.
Nerd Clark who takes his sweet time with you. Kissing his way down your body, worshipping every inch of skin revealed.
Nerd Clark who you know is gone when his eyes zeroe in on your tits, his tongue sneaking out to wet his lips before his mouth is on you. Warm and wet and so fucking desperate as he laps at your skin, nipping your nipple with his teeth ever so slightly to draw out those quiet gasps and whines you make for him.
Nerd Clark who spends way too much time fondling your tits, only stopping when they're tender and red from the assault his mouth put them through. He finally moves on with a whine when he sees you whimper at the overstimulation, but not before pressing a chaste kiss to both of your breasts like they're something living and could feel his affection.
Nerd Clark whose mouth is a weapon of mass destruction and you somehow have the misfortune (or should I say, fortune?) of being his target.
Nerd Clark who laps at your pussy like a man starved. Holding your thighs apart with those chiseled arms of his while he attacks your clit with little kitten licks. Giving only enough for you to writhe beneath him.
Nerd Clark who works you patiently, drawing your pleasure out until you snap on his tongue with his name loud in your mouth and your body convulsing around him.
Nerd Clark who let's you harshly tug at his hair as the force of your climax consumes you whole. He doesn't so much as whine in complaint when your thighs all but suffocate him with how tight they're wrapped around his neck, shoving his face deeper into you.
Nerd Clark who has almost all of his face shiny with your release when he crawls back up to you. The sight stealing all air out of your lungs becuase holy shit is this a sight to see. You're pretty sure you'd pay good amount of money for just another moment to watch him like this again.
Nerd Clark who has you losing your mind on his fingers next “This what you were thinking about that day, sweetheart?” He says as he curls his fingers slightly, hitting the spot that makes you cry out and confessing your ugly fantasies to him.
Nerd Clark who revels in the fact that he's got you so worked up you don't even know what you're confessing.
Nerd Clark who makes the mistake of trying to take off his fogged glasses to avoid losing the sight of you. Much to your displeasure as you shove them back on.
“Baby, I can't see you with these on” he punctuates between kisses, of course he wants the glasses off. Who would be dumb enough to not want to see you, all naked and flushed and moaning for him?
Nerd Clark who realises you have a very specific kink when he sees your reluctance to let the glasses leave his face.
Nerd Clark who slides them upward instead, letting the black frame rest in his hair like a little tiara and god if it doesn't drive you crazy.
Nerd Clark who can see the shift in your energy at that in the way your eyes go dark, and can't wait another moment before he's inside you.
Nerd Clark who is big enough to hurt even after he's stretched you out. And damn it if he isn't proud about it. “Am I too big for you, baby?” He teases, inching inside slowly, letting you adjust to the sheer size of him. “You're just a tiny little thing, aren't you?”
Nerd Clark who becomes utterly insufferable when he watches his cock slide all the way into you “Look at you, sweetie. All stretched out on my cock”
Nerd Clark who makes you think you've descended to heaven when he starts to move becuase surely a feeling like this doesn't exist in this universe.
Your hips rock up themselves, meeting his every thrust as endless curses spill from his lips, emphasising how good you feel around him, how perfect.
You let the praise wash over you and drive you closer to the climax.
Nerd Clark who is dominant and unrestrained but never rough enough to hurt. Always looking for signs of discomfort and monitoring your micro expressions to see if you're hurting.
Nerd Clark who doubles down when he hears your sounds pitching higher. His hands make their way to your knees pushing them toward you, making the angle steeper and hitting that deep spot inside you.
Nerd Clark who praises you through it when he sees how you react to it
“Such a good girl for me, sweetheart.”
“Taking my cock so well”
“You're gonna come for me? You gonna be a good girl?”
It makes your skin prickle, fingers tremble and toes curl into the mattress as you bite down on his shoulder to muffle the cry that tears out of you as your orgasm swallows you completely.
Nerd Clark whose thrusts grow erratic when he feels your warm walls convulsing and fluttering around him. The feeling addictive and ruining him at the same time.
His hand find your breasts again “Fuck me, these tits” he grunts, mouth enveloping a nipple as one of his hands grips and massages the other breast as if it is an achor he needs to hold onto to keep himself tethered to you.
Nerd Clark who is loud when he comes. Loud enough that you'll probably have your neighbours complaining tomorrow but your name in his mouth sounds so fucking delicious that you can't bring yourself to care about anything but the fact that you want to hear it again and again and again.
Nerd Clark who cleans you up after. And boy is it a sight to behold. His skin is flushed and glowing with the soft sheen of sweat. His curls all messed up, and you feel a flutter down south knowing its your hands that did that.
There's a shy smile on his face as he's back to the gentle, nerdy part of himself that you so dearly adore.
Nerd Clark who is a cuddler, he pulls you close immediately after he settles onto your bed, rubbing comforting circles on your back making you sleepy in his arms.
And you swear you hear him mumble something like “Sleep good, sweetheart” and soft lips pressing against your forehead before you finally let your eyes close, falling asleep in the arms of the man who you might fall in love with. Especially given everything that happened today. There's no way you're gonna let this be a one time thing.
stopp now i’m thinking about reader teasing clark about how fat and juicy his ass is and how edible it looks in his superman suit and clark being absolutely mortified with embarrassment but he loves it ofc 😝
anon u sound like sir mix-a-lot and it got me
BABY GOT BACK — Clark Kent
pairing: clark kent x wife!reader. content: silly fluff. clark is getting his suit altered and his wife praises his shelf of an ass (wc: 905.)
“It’s enormous.”
Martha Kent stifles a laugh as she inspects her handiwork up close. The three of you—Clark, Martha and you—had been in Ma’s sewing room for the better half of an hour, surrounded by commissioned dresses for the Smallville prom-goers that she altered on the side; whilst Clark had his infamous suit re-fitted.
He had always been strong per se, but Clark had begun working out at the gym within the apartment complex and, well, his bodily assets had grown with sturdy muscle, making it a hard task to wriggle into the suit with haste.
You, sat on a stool, with one leg crossed over the other had been there for moral support. Other than that, you weren’t required but the Kent family had a hard time peeling themselves away from you.
(Sort of made sense with Clark’s inability to detach himself when his own mother ushered you into the sewing room to keep her company.)
Clark turns to look at you from where he is standing, and warns, “Honey.”
“Seriously, Clark,” you start in a tone of astonishment whilst your eyes are cast downward, “It’s massive.”
Your husband throws his mother an apologetic look from where he is standing, because—as much as he loved this aspect of you—he was married to a woman with zero filter, or means to bite her tongue. You say it how you see it, and what you had been seeing was the protruding backend of your husband; with or without the cape.
Sure, he had his frustrations whilst tugging at the suit in previous circumstances and you had just assumed muscular thighs were to blame. When you’re around your significant other more or less all the time, the changes can sometimes go amiss. Now? Now you could see why Ma had to retrieve the additional scraps of Clark’s Kryptonian blanket from his baby days.
You blink at the sight of it. His Daily Planet getup of a baggy suit was the probable cause for his suddenly well-rounded backside slipping under the radar.
(Even seeing him naked, you don’t recall it ever being that big.)
“What are you squatting?” you ask openly, brows in a pinch.
Clark takes a breath for patience. He loves you, to the core, but your mouth knew no bounds when you became fixated on one singular thing.
He chooses to bypass your question by diverting his attention to Ma and asking her about the alterations and if there were any further fittings he was required to do before the pair of you return to Metropolis after a short weekend stay at the Kent Farm.
Ma adjusts the red cape on her son’s shoulders, “Some more fabric on the backside, baby. That won’t take more than a night for your Ma.” she lilts with innocence.
You, on the other hand—from where Clark can see you in the reflection of the floor length mirror—press your lips together to conceal the bubble of amusement from Ma’s honesty.
When Clark throws you a petulant look, mortified by your behaviour, you gesture that you’ve zipped your lips from any further prodding whilst Ma’s ears were in the room.
“I’ll go get the boots.” Ma says in her sweet midwestern twang. She pats Clark’s chest in passing before she passes you where she lovingly pats your cheek as she trudges out of the room.
It goes quiet. In a foreboding, mischievous type of way. Clark clears his throat, shifting from one foot to the other whilst inspecting the talented craftsmanship of his Ma; where as you slowly turn your head, unable to land your attention anywhere but your husband’s curvaceous behind.
Clark spots you from the mirror, trying his upmost hardest to contain the small quirk at the corner of his lips.
He couldn’t always push down the desire to appreciate when you showered him in praise in your own roundabout way. Even if it had his cheeks turn bright pink with embarrassment.
Deep down, Clark thoroughly enjoyed the added attention. (He wouldn’t admit it at this present moment thought.)
A glint of silver catches his eye on the floor where his Ma had accidentally dropped a pin from her pin cushion. He bends at the waist to pluck it from the wooden floorboard before an unlikely stabbing in someone’s foot happens.
As soon as he’s bent, you stretch from the stool and slot two fingers between his vulnerable cheeks; making Clark shoot upright with a yelp.
He grabs your wrist, “What the hey, honey. Cut it out.” He sounds a little irritated this time, so you back down with no visible shame on your features when you fully sit back onto the up-cycled stool.
“Can’t a woman dote on her husband?”
“You’re not doting. You’re harassing.” Clark grumbles with the pin rolled between his fingers.
Your voice is laced with playfulness, “Your lobster is so juicy, baby.”
Clark folds instantaneously. Your humour tangled with a poor show of flirtatious skills made for quite the hammer that could crack Clark’s—sometimes—moody exterior. His chuckle is low, head shaking at your words as he tries to conjure up a new conversation to steer your chatterbox-self into.
He lets you roll with one more punch by encouraging it with, “You really think it looks big in the suit?”
“Oh—” You gesture with your hands to emphasise the largeness of his ass, “—Baby, you have no idea.”
Summary: you don’t tell him your last name. By the time Dean finds out, he’s too far gone to do anything but brace for impact. Falling for the ice-cold, vodka-drinking Russian freshman is one thing. Falling for Ilya Rozanov’s little sister is a death wish. Dean decides he doesn’t care
Warning: 18+ content
Read part two here
The 2000s hits blasting from the speakers are so loud they rattle the floorboards, but Dean is undeniably bored.
He leans against the doorframe of the living room, a red Solo cup dangling loosely from his fingers. The party is packed, a sweaty sea of grinding bodies, spilled beer, and bad decisions, but it’s the exact same crowd as last weekend. And the weekend before that. Dean is a guy who thrives on variety, and lately, the scenery is getting repetitive. Money is no object, and usually, neither are women. He rarely spends a night alone. But tonight? Nothing is catching his eye.
“You look miserable,” Garrett remarks, bumping Dean’s shoulder as he passes by with a fresh keg of beer.
“I’m not miserable,” Dean corrects him smoothly. “I’m uninspired.”
Logan snorts from his spot on the ratty couch. “Uninspired? You literally took twins home on Tuesday.”
“That was Tuesday, Logan. It’s Friday. I’m a growing boy. I need fresh stimulation.” Dean sighs, pushing off the doorframe. “I’m going to the kitchen to find something stronger than this watered-down piss.”
“Good luck,” Tucker calls out over the music. “I think the football team raided the liquor cabinet an hour ago.”
Dean navigates the crowded hallway with the effortless grace of a guy who owns the place. He dodges a couple making out against the thermostat and sidesteps a puddle of questionable origin. As he rounds the corner into the kitchen, the noise level shifts. It’s less thumping bass and more rowdy, escalating shouts.
A crowd is gathered around the center island. Specifically, a crowd of massive, tank-like senior football players. And right in the middle of them is you.
Dean stops dead in his tracks.
You are perched on one of the barstools, looking entirely out of place and yet completely in control. Your hair falls over your shoulders in messy waves, and you’re wearing a cropped leather jacket over a tight top that leaves exactly the right amount to the imagination. But it isn’t just the way you look — though you are undeniably, breathtakingly stunning. It’s the way you’re holding court.
“You are slowing down, big guy,” you say, your voice carrying over the chanting. It’s smooth, slightly raspy, and laced with a heavy, unmistakable Russian accent.
You push a brimming shot glass of clear liquid toward a guy Dean recognizes as Meathead Mike, a defensive lineman who weighs close to three hundred pounds.
“I’m not slowing down,” Mike grunts, looking slightly green around the gills. “I’m pacing myself.”
“Pacing,” you repeat, a smirk playing on your lips. It’s a wicked, self-assured smirk. You pick up your own shot glass. “In Moscow, pacing is for the weak. We drink, or we go home to sleep. Which one are you doing, Mishka?”
Dean is instantly fascinated.
“I’m drinking,” Mike growls, snatching the glass.
You tap your glass against his. “Na zdarovye.”
You toss the vodka back effortlessly, not even a flinch crossing your features. You set the glass down with a sharp clack against the granite. Mike follows suit, but he gags halfway down, coughing violently into his elbow. His buddies groan and slap his back.
“Alright, alright, he’s done,” one of the other linebackers laughs. “Jesus, girl. What are you made of?”
“Mostly spite,” you reply, your face deadpan, though your eyes gleam with amusement.
You glance over your shoulder at a blonde girl standing nervously by the fridge. Your roommate, Morgan, the quintessential all-American girl next door whom you dragged here because you were bored.
“Morgan,” you say, snapping your fingers lightly. “Pass the bottle. I think the offense wants a turn.”
Morgan looks terrified. “Um, I think maybe we should stop? That’s, like, a lot of vodka.”
“It is barely a warm-up,” you insist, reaching over to grab the handle of Smirnoff yourself. You look at the bottle with a mix of pity and disgust.
Dean watches you, completely captivated. He knows the type of girls who hang around Briar parties. They giggle, they flirt, they bat their eyelashes at the hockey players. You are doing none of that. You look like you could buy and sell everyone in this room, and honestly? You probably could.
Six years younger than Ilya Rozanov, the infamous, cocky Boston Bruins center, you are practically a miniature version of him. Ilya brought you to the United States the second you turned eighteen, pulling you out of Moscow and away from your emotionally abusive father and older brother. He bought you a luxury apartment just off the Briar campus, filled your bank account, and told you to get an education — mostly because, in Ilya’s words, “hockey players are dumb, and we need at least one brain in the family.” Ilya spoils you rotten and guards you like a dragon hoarding gold. But right now, nobody in this kitchen knows that.
Dean takes a step forward, sliding into the gap left by one of the retreating football players.
“I don’t think you should waste your time with the offense,” Dean says, leaning his hip against the counter right next to you. He flashes you his trademark, million-dollar smile — the one that usually has girls melting into puddles. “They drop the ball when it counts.”
You pause, the vodka bottle hovering over a glass. You turn your head slowly, raking your eyes up and down Dean’s frame. You take in his messy blond hair, his sharp jawline, the casual but expensive fit of his casual sweater.
Your expression doesn’t change. You don’t melt. You don’t even blink.
“And who are you?” You ask, your tone bordering on bored. “The waterboy?”
A few of the remaining football players snicker. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. Okay. Not the usual reaction.
“Dean Di Laurentis,” he says, offering his hand. “I live here. Play hockey.”
You look at his hand, then back up to his face. You don’t shake it. “Congratulations on paying rent, Dean Di Laurentis. But as you can see, I am busy.”
Dean lets his hand drop, entirely unbothered. The chase is the best part, and you just handed him a massive head start.
“Busy giving the entire offensive line alcohol poisoning,” Dean notes, glancing at the bottle. “You know, that’s cheap shit. It’ll eat straight through your stomach lining.”
You snort, pouring yourself another shot anyway. “Please. I am Russian. This,” you tap the bottle of Smirnoff, “is practically flavored water.”
“A Russian,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “That explains the accent. What brings you to a sweaty college basement in Massachusetts? Boston isn’t exactly Moscow.”
“Thank God for that,” you mutter under your breath. You pick up the shot glass, twirling it between your fingers. “I go to school here. First semester. Which means I am currently trying to enjoy a party, but people keep talking to me instead of drinking.”
Dean laughs, a genuine, startled sound. “You’re a freshman? Could’ve fooled me. You’re holding court like a senior.”
“Age is a number,” you say dismissively. “Maturity is knowing when a man is trying to hit on you with terrible opening lines.”
“Terrible?” Dean clutches his chest in mock offense. “Ouch. I’ll have you know my opening lines have a very high success rate.”
“Then the women here have very low standards.” You toss the shot back. Again, no chaser. No wince.
Dean shakes his head in amazement. “Okay, color me impressed. You’re completely unbothered by that.”
“I am unbothered by most things,” you reply. You slide off the barstool, landing lightly on your feet. You’re a few inches shorter than Dean, but the way you hold yourself makes you seem taller. You have this undeniable, gravitational pull.
You turn to your roommate. “Morgan. Are we having fun yet, or do you want to go?”
Morgan jumps, startled to be addressed. “Um! I’m having fun! But, uh, maybe no more shots?”
“Fine. No more shots.” You look back at Dean. “See? I am very compromising. A delight to be around.”
“I can tell,” Dean says, his eyes tracking the movement of your mouth. “But you know, you never told me your name.”
“I did not,” you agree.
Dean waits a beat. “Are you going to?”
“No.”
Dean laughs again. He loves this. He is completely, hopelessly intrigued. You are stunning, sharp-tongued, and just the right amount of a bitch. It’s a breath of fresh air. “Come on. Give me something. A fake name? A nickname?”
“You can call me when you have better vodka,” you deadpan. You step around him, your shoulder brushing lightly against his chest. The contact sends a sudden, sharp jolt of electricity straight down Dean’s spine.
“Hey, wait,” Dean says, turning to follow you as you start walking toward the living room. “At least tell me what you’re studying. Let me guess. Business? Political science?”
You don’t stop walking, but you glance back over your shoulder, a patronizing smile on your lips. “Do I look like I want to wear a pantsuit and argue in a boardroom?”
“You look like you’d win every argument,” Dean fires back effortlessly.
“Obviously. But I don’t need a degree for that.” You weave through the crowd with expert precision.
Dean keeps pace, ignoring the people calling his name. “So what is it then? Art history? Bio?”
“You ask too many questions for a hockey player,” you tell him. “Aren’t you supposed to just grunt and hit things?”
Dean grins, stepping directly into your path to force you to stop. “I can do that too, if you’re into it.”
You look up at him, your eyes narrowing slightly. It’s a purely assessing gaze, like you’re weighing his worth on a scale and finding him somewhat lacking, but not entirely useless.
“You are very confident,” you note.
“I have reason to be,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction of an octave, turning rougher, more intimate. “I’m a good guy to know around here. I throw the best parties. I know the best places to eat. I can get you out of that dorm and into places you actually want to be.”
“I do not live in a dorm,” you say smoothly. “And I go wherever I want to go.”
A shadow crosses your face so fast Dean almost misses it. The mention of your father in Moscow hits a nerve, pulling at the dark memories Ilya dragged you away from. Your jaw tightens.
“Not my father,” you say, your voice suddenly cold enough to freeze hell over. “My brother.”
Dean instantly realizes he stepped on a landmine. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. Just making conversation.”
“You are making assumptions,” you correct him sharply. You take a step back, the playful banter completely evaporating from your posture. You look at Morgan, who is hovering a few feet away. “We are leaving.”
“Wait,” Dean says, reaching out instinctively. He catches your wrist, his fingers wrapping around the warm, soft skin.
You freeze. You look down at his hand on your wrist, and then slowly bring your eyes back up to meet his. The look you give him is so lethally calm it actually makes Dean’s heart skip a beat.
“Remove your hand,” you say softly.
Dean lets go immediately, holding both hands up in surrender. “My bad. I’m sorry. Seriously.”
You brush off your sleeve, even though he barely gripped you. You are Ilya’s sister through and through, you don’t take shit from anyone, especially not pretty-boy athletes who think they own the world.
“Do not touch me again,” you say.
“I won’t,” Dean promises, and he means it. He watches as you turn on your heel and stalk toward the front door, Morgan trailing anxiously behind you.
“Hey!” Dean calls out, unable to help himself. He takes a few steps after you. “Can I at least get your number? To apologize properly?”
You stop at the front door and look back at him. The coldness has receded a bit, replaced by that same haughty, amused superiority from the kitchen.
“You do not need my number, Dean Di Laurentis,” you call back over the thumping bass of the music. “You are clearly used to girls making things easy for you.”
“And you’re not going to?” Dean asks, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
You smile — a full, devastatingly gorgeous smile that hits Dean like a physical blow to the chest.
“I do not make anything easy for anyone,” you say.
With that, you open the front door and step out into the cool September night, pulling it shut behind you.
Dean stands in the hallway for a long, silent moment. The party rages on around him, people bumping into his shoulders, girls laughing in his direction, but he doesn’t notice any of it. He is staring at the closed front door, his mind completely blank except for the echo of your heavy Russian accent and the sharp, burning realization that he needs to see you again.
Garrett appears out of the crowd, clapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Hey man, who was that? She completely ghosted you.”
“I don’t know,” Dean murmurs, still staring at the door. “But I’m going to find out.”
Garrett laughs. “Looked like she was about to rip your throat out.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, a slow, entirely genuine smile spreading across his face. He finally turns to look at his teammate, his eyes bright with a sudden, fierce energy. “I think I’m in love.”
***
Outside, the air is crisp, biting at your exposed skin. You pull your leather jacket tighter around yourself as you walk down the sidewalk, the rhythmic click of your boots echoing in the quiet street.
“Oh my god,” Morgan gasps, rushing to keep up with your long strides. “Are you insane? Do you know who that was?”
“Some guy named Dean,” you say dismissively, checking your phone. A text from Ilya sits on the lock screen: Are you home? Drink water. Lock door. Love you.
“Not just some guy!” Morgan insists, practically vibrating with anxiety and awe. “That’s Dean Di Laurentis! He’s, like, Briar hockey royalty. He’s gorgeous, he’s rich, and he literally never gets turned down. You just rejected the hottest guy on campus!”
“He is arrogant,” you reply, typing a quick reply to Ilya: I am fine. Going home now. Do not be annoying.
“Well, yeah, they all are!” Morgan huffs. “But he was so into you! Why did you blow him off?”
You slide your phone back into your pocket and look at Morgan. You like her — she’s sweet and harmless — but she clearly doesn’t understand how the world works. At least, not your world.
“Because, Morgan,” you say patiently, your Russian accent softening in the quiet night air. “Men like that are used to getting what they want the moment they want it. They think the world is a vending machine. You put in a little charm, and a woman falls out.”
“And you’re not a vending machine,” Morgan finishes, nodding slowly.
“Exactly.” You smile, looking ahead down the dimly lit street toward your luxury apartment building. “I am the prize. If he wants me, he is going to have to work for it. And I am going to make him work very, very hard.”
You know exactly what you’re doing. You saw the look in Dean’s eyes when you walked away. The shock, the frustration, the desperate, clawing hunger. It’s the exact reaction you wanted.
Ilya taught you a long time ago that on the ice, you never let the opponent know your next move. You make them chase you. You make them exhaust themselves trying to figure you out, and then, when they’re completely off balance, you strike.
Dean Di Laurentis thinks he’s a player. He thinks this is a game he knows how to win.
But as you walk back to your apartment, a small, triumphant smile playing on your lips, you know one thing for absolute certain.
He has absolutely no idea who he is playing with.
***
The sharp, scraping sound of steel biting into ice is the first thing that actually makes you feel like you can breathe since you landed in America.
You sit in the third row of the arena, the chill of the rink seeping through your designer sweater, and you close your eyes for just a second. The smell of the cold, the faint metallic tang of sweat and Zamboni fumes — it’s universal. It smells like Moscow. It smells like the freezing, dilapidated local rinks where you used to sit huddled in a thick coat next to your mama, her gloved hands wrapped around a paper cup of awful coffee, watching a scrawny, angry little Ilya learn how to check kids twice his size into the boards.
Hockey is in your blood just as much as it is in Ilya’s. Before your mother passed away, the rink was your sanctuary. It was the only place your father didn’t care to go, which meant it was the only place you, Ilya, and your mama were truly safe. Now, there are very few things in this world you genuinely love: Ilya, expensive clothes, fast cars … and this.
“I don’t understand what’s happening,” Morgan complains loudly over the roar of the crowd, pulling you out of your memories. She is shivering beside you, holding a foam finger she bought at the concession stand. “Why are they hitting each other so much? Isn’t the puck over there?”
“It is a forecheck,” you say, not taking your eyes off the ice. “They are establishing physical dominance to force a turnover in the defensive zone. Keep up.”
“I thought we were just here to look at hot guys,” she mutters, taking a sip of her hot chocolate.
“You are here to look at hot guys,” you correct her smoothly. “I am here because I appreciate the sport.”
And you do. But as you watch the Briar Hawks cycle the puck in the offensive zone, your eyes inevitably track back to number sixty-six. Dean Di Laurentis.
You haven’t seen him since the party last weekend. You haven’t texted him, and since you didn’t give him your number, he hasn’t texted you. But on the ice, he is impossible to ignore. For a guy who spends his weekends trying to charm freshmen out of their clothes, he is undeniably lethal on the blue line. He’s a defenseman, playing right side, and his skating is fluid, almost effortless.
“Oh, look,” Morgan gasps, pointing. “It’s Dean! He’s the guy you yelled at!”
“I did not yell at him,” you say calmly. “I simply declined his unsolicited advances. There is a difference.”
“He’s really good, isn’t he?”
You narrow your eyes as Dean receives a pass at the point. He fakes a slap shot, dragging the puck around a sliding defender, and fires a wrist shot through traffic. It clangs hard against the post and deflects out.
“He is decent,” you allow, your voice flat. “But his gap control is inconsistent, and he relies too heavily on his forehand.”
Morgan stares at you blankly. “Is that English?”
“It is hockey,” you reply, leaning back in your seat. “Which is better.”
The buzzer sounds a few minutes later, the scoreboard flashing a 4-3 victory for Briar. The crowd erupts into a deafening cheer, the student section banging on the glass. You offer a polite, golf-clap level of applause. It was a sloppy third period. Briar let up on the gas, allowing two unanswered goals in the final ten minutes. Ilya would have been screaming on the bench if his team played like that.
“Okay, they won! Can we go now?” Morgan begs, teeth chattering. “I can’t feel my toes.”
“We can go,” you agree, standing up and brushing invisible lint off your jeans. “Your toes are weak.”
You navigate the crowded concourse, weaving through the sea of Briar hockey jerseys and drunken college students. You are halfway to the main exit, your mind already jumping ahead to the heated seats in your car, when a voice cuts through the noise.
“Hey! Moscow!”
You don’t stop walking. You know exactly who it is, but you are not a dog to be called.
“Hey, wait up! Come on, I know you hear me!”
Footsteps jog up behind you, and suddenly Dean is stepping right into your path, forcing you to stop or physically walk into his chest.
You pause, looking up at him slowly.
Dean is slightly out of breath, his chest heaving under a crisp, perfectly tailored charcoal suit. His blond hair is still damp from the post-game shower, pushed back casually, and his tie is already loosened at the collar. He looks ridiculously, unfairly handsome, and the smug, triumphant grin on his face tells you he knows it.
“You know,” you say, your accent thick and unbothered, “usually, the players wait until they have left the arena to harass the fans.”
Dean laughs, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “I saw you walking out. Had to run to catch up. I didn’t peg you for a hockey fan.”
“I am full of surprises,” you reply dryly. “Now, if you will excuse me, my friend is freezing to death.”
Morgan, standing a few feet away, gives a tiny, terrified wave. Dean shoots her a dazzling smile that makes her blush furiously, before immediately turning his full attention back to you. The laser-focus in his eyes is intense. It’s the same look he had on the ice.
“So you came to watch me play,” Dean says, his voice dropping into that smooth, confident purr. “I’ve gotta say, I’m flattered. You played hard to get at the party, but you show up to my game? That’s a mixed signal, sweetheart.”
You let out a soft, patronizing laugh. “I came to watch a hockey game, Di Laurentis. You just happened to be on the ice. Do not flatter yourself.”
“Ouch,” Dean says, though his grin doesn’t waver. “You’re killing me here. But hey, we won. You can’t deny we put on a good show.”
“A good show?” You tilt your head, crossing your arms over your chest. You look him up and down, your expression perfectly deadpan. “Is that what you call that third period?”
Dean blinks, the smugness faltering for a fraction of a second. “Uh. Yeah. We got the win.”
“You got lucky,” you correct him seamlessly. “Your team played a neutral zone trap for the first two periods, which was effective against a slower offensive line. But in the third, they adjusted their breakout, and your defense collapsed. You were scrambling.”
Dean is staring at you now. The playful, flirtatious energy completely drains out of him, replaced by genuine, unadulterated shock. “Wait. You actually … you know the systems?”
“I know when a team stops moving their feet,” you say, stepping a fraction closer. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, but the hockey analysis is completely taking over. “Your forwards stopped backchecking, which left you and your partner hung out to dry on odd-man rushes. You were playing on your heels for the last ten minutes.”
Dean’s mouth opens slightly. He looks like he’s just been hit by a truck. “I … yeah. Garrett was pissed on the bench. We gave up the blue line way too easily.”
“You specifically,” you point out, tapping a finger lightly against his expensive suit jacket. “You pinched on the boards with four minutes left. It was a stupid risk. If their winger had been half a second faster, that was a breakaway, and the game goes to overtime.”
Dean swallows hard. He’s looking at you like you just sprouted a second head, but more importantly, he’s looking at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen in his entire life. His eyes track the movement of your finger on his chest, then snap back up to your lips.
“You saw that,” he murmurs, his voice suddenly sounding a lot rougher.
“I have eyes,” you say dismissively. “But the real problem is your transition game. You are fast, I will give you that. But you are predictable.”
“Predictable?” Dean echoes, his competitive streak flaring up. He steps closer, closing the distance between you so that you have to crane your neck slightly to maintain eye contact. “I’m the leading scoring defenseman in the conference.”
“Because you play against college boys,” you fire back, unimpressed. “But you rely entirely on your forehand. Every time you pick up the puck behind the net, you pivot right. Every single time. You never transition to your backhand to make the breakout pass up the left wing.”
“Because my forehand is stronger,” Dean argues, a defensive edge creeping into his tone. “The pass is more accurate.”
“Because your backhand is weak,” you correct him bluntly.
Silence falls between you.
Even the dull roar of the crowd leaving the arena seems to fade into the background. Dean just stares down at you, his green eyes wide, his chest rising and falling visibly under his shirt.
He is completely silent.
For a defenseman who prides himself on his skill, being called out like that should infuriate him. It should make him defensive, angry, or at least dismissive. But you watch as a slow, dark flush creeps up his neck. You watch the way his jaw tightens, and the way his gaze drops to your mouth again, heavy and hot.
Holy shit, Dean thinks. His brain has short-circuited.
He’s spent his entire life surrounded by puck bunnies. Girls who wear his jersey, girls who tell him he played great even when he knows he played like garbage, girls who only care about the post-game parties and the status of hooking up with a Briar hockey player.
And then there is you. Standing in the middle of a crowded lobby, ripping apart his blue-line transitions and calling his backhand weak with a heavy Russian accent and an expression that says you couldn’t care less if you bruised his ego.
He has never been so incredibly turned on in his entire life. It’s actually a little terrifying. His pants suddenly feel uncomfortably tight, a heavy knot of pure lust coiling in his gut.
“My backhand is weak,” Dean repeats slowly, his voice dropping an octave, practically vibrating with tension.
“Very weak,” you confirm, completely oblivious to the internal crisis you are causing him. Or maybe you aren’t oblivious. Maybe you just don’t care. “If you ever make it to the pros, a smart forechecker will notice that in the first period and shut down the right side of the ice. You will be useless in your own zone.”
“Useless,” Dean whispers. He licks his lips, stepping even closer. The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the faint, lingering smell of his body wash hits you. “God, you are brutal.”
“I am honest,” you reply, though your breath catches slightly as he invades your personal space. You hold your ground, refusing to back up. “Do you want me to stroke your ego and tell you that you are perfect, Di Laurentis?”
“No,” Dean says immediately, and he means it. “I want you to tell me everything else I did wrong.”
You pause, caught off guard for the first time. You expected him to get mad. You expected him to puff up his chest and rattle off his stats. You did not expect him to look at you like he wants to drag you into the nearest broom closet and let you dissect his entire life.
“You missed a wide-open pass to Graham on the power play in the second period,” you say, your voice a fraction softer, the air between you suddenly thick and electric.
“Keep going,” Dean murmurs, his eyes dark, his body angled entirely toward you.
“You … you over-commit on the penalty kill.” You feel a flush rising to your own cheeks now, furious at yourself for losing your composure. Why is he looking at you like that? “You chase the puck instead of holding the box.”
“What else?” Dean asks, his voice practically a gravelly whisper. He reaches out, and for a second you think he’s going to touch you, but he just rests his hand on the wall next to your head, leaning in. “Tell me my gap control is shit again.”
You swallow hard. Ilya warned you about American boys. He did not warn you about this.
“Your gap control is shit,” you say, forcing your voice to stay steady. You lift your chin, meeting his intense gaze head-on. “And if you do not fix it, you are going to cost your team the championship.”
Dean lets out a harsh breath, shaking his head slightly as a slow, wicked smile spreads across his face. “Jesus Christ. Who are you?”
“I am the girl who is leaving,” you say, ducking swiftly under his arm.
The spell breaks. You grab Morgan by the sleeve of her coat, practically dragging her toward the glass doors.
“Wait!” Dean spins around, his dress shoes slipping slightly on the tile. “Seriously! What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you Moscow!”
You push through the double doors, the freezing night air hitting you like a physical wall. You don’t stop, but you look over your shoulder one last time. Dean is standing inside the lobby, framed by the bright fluorescent lights, looking after you with a mixture of desperation and awe.
“Fix your backhand, Di Laurentis,” you call back, a smirk finally breaking through your icy exterior. “Maybe then you will earn my name.”
You turn away, letting the doors swing shut behind you.
“Oh my god,” Morgan gasps as you speed-walk toward the parking lot. “What just happened? What was that? Was that flirting? Because it sounded like you were insulting him, but he looked like he wanted to eat you alive.”
“It was hockey analysis,” you say firmly, though your heart is hammering against your ribs in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the sport.
“No, that was … that was aggressive sexual tension disguised as hockey analysis,” Morgan insists, pulling her keys out of her pocket. “Y/N, I am not joking. I think you just broke Dean Di Laurentis.”
You reach your car, leaning against the cold metal door as you wait for Morgan to unlock it. You think about the look in Dean’s eyes when you called out his play. The sudden shift from arrogant playboy to entirely, intensely captivated. You didn’t expect him to care about the sport as much as the glory. You didn’t expect him to listen to you.
And you certainly didn’t expect to feel this sudden, terrifying urge to see him again.
“I did not break him,” you say softly, mostly to yourself as you pull open the passenger door. You stare out at the darkened arena one last time, the cold air biting at your cheeks.
“But I think I might.”
***
Inside the arena lobby, Dean is still standing exactly where you left him.
He feels like he’s just been hit by lightning. His heart is pounding against his ribs, his blood rushing hot and fast through his veins. He replays the last five minutes in his head on a loop. The way your eyes flashed when you criticized his transition game. The heavy, intoxicating purr of your Russian accent. The absolute, unshakeable confidence radiating off you.
Garrett walks out of the locker room hallway a minute later, dressed in his own suit, his gym bag slung over his shoulder. He spots Dean standing completely still in the middle of the empty concourse.
“Hey,” Garrett says, walking over and waving a hand in front of Dean’s face. “Earth to Dean. You good, man? You look like you just saw a ghost.”
Dean slowly turns his head to look at his captain.
“Garrett,” Dean says, his voice totally deadpan.
“Yeah?”
“I need to run drills.”
Garrett frowns, confused. “What? Now? We just played a game, dude. We’re going to Malone’s to celebrate.”
“No,” Dean says, shaking his head. He looks back at the doors you just walked through, that wicked, determined smile returning to his face. He has never wanted a challenge more in his entire life. He has never wanted a girl more in his entire life. “I need ice time. Right now.”
Garrett stares at him. “Are you sick? Are you concussed? What drills do you even need to run?”
Dean adjusts the cuffs of his suit jacket, his eyes gleaming.
“Backhand passing,” Dean says simply. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
***
The Briar University quad is a rare picture of New England perfection today. The sun is shining, the sky is a crisp, cloudless blue, and the temperature is hovering right around seventy degrees — an absolute miracle for early October.
Because of this, half the student body has decided that classes are optional. The sprawling green lawns are covered with students lounging on blankets, throwing Frisbees, and pretending to study.
You are one of the people pretending to study.
You sit on a plaid blanket under the shade of a large oak tree, a heavy microeconomics textbook propped open on your lap, and a pair of oversized, dark sunglasses resting on your nose. You have a highlighter in one hand, but you haven’t marked a single page in twenty minutes.
It is entirely too loud to focus, mostly because of the pickup soccer game happening fifty yards away.
Normally, you would just pack up and go back to the quiet luxury of your off-campus apartment. But there is a reason you are still sitting here, pretending to read about supply and demand curves.
Dean Di Laurentis is playing soccer.
He is running around the makeshift field with his teammates along with a guy you recognize from a party as Beau, the star quarterback of the Briar football team. They are loud, obnoxious, and taking the game far too seriously for a Thursday afternoon.
“Pass it, Di Laurentis, you puck hog!” Beau shouts, jogging backward as Dean weaves the black-and-white ball between his feet.
“It’s a ball, Beau, not a puck,” Dean fires back, his footwork surprisingly nimble for a guy who spends his life on ice skates. “And maybe I’d pass if you knew how to finish a play!”
“I throw seventy-yard bombs for a living,” Beau laughs, trying to steal the ball. “I finish plenty.”
“Yeah, but your footwork is trash,” Logan calls out from across the grass. “Stick to using your hands, golden boy.”
You watch them over the top of your textbook, hidden safely behind the dark lenses of your sunglasses. Dean is wearing a grey Briar Hockey t-shirt and athletic shorts, his blond hair sticking up in sweaty, messy spikes. He is laughing, completely in his element, shouting trash talk at his friends.
And then, he turns around to jog backward, scanning the perimeter of the quad.
His eyes sweep over the crowds of students, past the girls clustered on a nearby blanket who have been practically drooling over him for the last hour, and land squarely on the oak tree.
He stops. He actually trips over the soccer ball, stumbling forward a few steps before catching his balance.
“Hey, watch it!” Tucker yells as he steals the abandoned ball. “Head in the game, Di Laurentis!”
Dean completely ignores him. He is staring straight at you. Even from fifty yards away, you can see the exact moment the cocky, playful grin melts off his face, replaced by that sharp, predatory focus he had in the arena lobby.
You do not wave. You do not smile. You simply flip a page in your textbook, pretending you haven’t noticed him at all.
“Man, it’s hot out here, isn’t it?” You hear Dean say loudly a moment later.
You glance up just in time to see Dean grab the hem of his grey t-shirt and pull it over his head in one smooth, practiced motion. He tosses the shirt onto the grass, running a hand through his damp hair, and stands there in the dappled sunlight.
He is built exactly the way a Division I athlete should be built. Broad shoulders, a sculpted chest, and a torso lined with sharp, defined abdominal muscles that disappear down into the waistband of his shorts. He looks like a centerfold for a fitness magazine, and he absolutely knows it.
The group of girls on the blanket nearby actually let out a collective gasp.
You, however, slowly raise an eyebrow behind your sunglasses. Really? “What are you doing?” Logan demands, hands on his hips. “Put your shirt back on, nobody wants to see that.”
“I’m cooling down,” Dean says easily, though he is looking directly at you. “Gotta let the skin breathe, right?”
“You’re an idiot,” Garrett mutters.
Dean ignores them. He leaves the soccer game entirely, jogging across the grass at a slow, deliberate pace. He is making sure you have plenty of time to look. You make sure your eyes are glued firmly to the page about market equilibrium.
“Hey there, Moscow,” a smooth, slightly out-of-breath voice says a minute later.
A shadow falls over your textbook. You wait three full seconds before you slowly tilt your head up. Dean is standing at the edge of your blanket, his chest rising and falling from the run, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his stomach. He has his hands planted on his hips, flashing you that million-dollar, dimpled smile.
“You are blocking my light,” you state plainly.
Dean’s smile widens. He drops down onto the grass, sitting directly across from you on the edge of your blanket, completely uninvited.
“You’re studying,” he observes, leaning back on his elbows. He stretches his long legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “Econ. Boring.”
“It is only boring if you lack the intelligence to understand it,” you reply, picking up your highlighter. “Which, I suppose, explains your opinion.”
Dean barks out a laugh, entirely unoffended. “God, I missed you. Where have you been hiding? I’ve been checking the stands at practice every day.”
“I do not hide,” you say smoothly, turning a page. “And I do not attend practices. I have a life.”
“A life that involves sitting on the quad, reading a textbook, and secretly watching me play soccer?”
“I was not watching you.”
“Right. You were just staring intently in my general direction.” Dean shifts closer, the scent of fresh air, grass, and masculine sweat washing over you. It is entirely distracting. “Did you enjoy the show, at least?”
You pause. You look up from the book, sliding your sunglasses down the bridge of your nose so you can look him directly in the eyes. You let your gaze drop down his chest, over his abs, and back up to his face.
“You took your shirt off in seventy-degree weather,” you say dryly. “It was the most obvious display of male ego I have ever witnessed.”
“Did it work, though?” Dean challenges, a teasing spark in his green eyes.
“I am not a fan of theatrics.” You push your sunglasses back up. “Put your shirt on, Di Laurentis. You look ridiculous.”
“You’re lying,” Dean murmurs. His voice drops into that low, gravelly register that he used at the arena, the one that makes the hair on the back of your arms stand up. He leans forward, closing the distance between you. “I saw the way you looked at me just now. You like the theatrics.”
Your breath hitches slightly, but before you can fire back a cutting remark, a sharp, loud ringing cuts through the tension.
Your phone, sitting on the blanket beside your leg, is vibrating. The caller ID flashes brightly in the sunlight.
You let out a soft sigh, breaking eye contact with Dean. “I have to take this.”
“Boyfriend?” Dean asks, his voice suddenly losing its playful edge. His jaw tightens, a flash of genuine territorial annoyance crossing his face.
“None of your business,” you say smoothly. You pick up the phone and swipe to answer, bringing it to your ear.
Dean doesn’t move. He sits right there, completely invading your personal space, watching you intently. He clearly expects you to get up and walk away, or lower your voice.
Instead, you lean back against the trunk of the oak tree and slip effortlessly into your native tongue.
“Hello, Ilyusha,” you say in Russian, your voice softening just a fraction, the sharp consonants and flowing vowels rolling off your tongue perfectly.
Across from you, Dean practically stops breathing.
His eyes widen, locking onto your mouth. He doesn’t understand a single syllable of what you just said, but the sound of it hits him like a physical blow. Your voice is huskier in Russian, deeper, and the cadence is incredibly intimate.
“Y/N. Little bird,” Ilya’s booming voice comes through the speaker, loud enough that you have to pull the phone away from your ear for a second. “Why did it take you three rings to answer? Are you safe? Is someone bothering you?”
You roll your eyes, though a fond smile touches the corner of your lips. “I am sitting on the grass at school, Ilya. I was reading. Nobody is bothering me.”
You glance at Dean. He is staring at you with an intensity that is bordering on feral.
“Well, except maybe one idiot,” you add, a smirk forming.
Dean shifts his weight, leaning closer. “What did you just say?” He whispers, his voice thick. “Are you talking about me?”
You ignore him.
“An idiot?” Ilya demands, his protective instincts instantly flaring. “What kind of idiot? A boy? Do I need to fly back to Massachusetts and break someone’s kneecaps? Because I have a game in Dallas tomorrow, but I can make the flight tonight.”
“Do not be dramatic,” you sigh, switching your phone to the other ear. “It is just a hockey player. He thinks he is charming.”
“A hockey player?” Ilya groans. “God, Y/N. I told you to stay away from them. They are stupid. They only want one thing. Trust me, I know. I am one.”
“I know you are,” you laugh softly. “I am handling it.”
“You better be,” Ilya grumbles. “But listen to me. You are in college. You are beautiful. You are going to have boys chasing you. I do not like it, but I cannot stop it.”
“You are remarkably self-aware today.”
“Shut up and listen,” Ilya says, though there is warmth in his voice. “I am your brother, so it is my job to threaten to kill them. But I am also realistic. If you find a boy you actually like — which is highly unlikely because your standards are terrifying — you have fun. Do you hear me? Have fun. Use protection. Make him buy you dinner.”
You feel a flush creeping up your neck. Having your older brother give you sex-positive dating advice is always a bizarre experience.
“I am hanging up now,” you tell him, embarrassed.
“Wait, wait! Let me finish,” Ilya laughs. “If he crosses a line, you break his heart. If he makes you cry, I break his legs. It is a very simple system.”
“I understand the system, Ilyusha.”
“Good. Give them hell, little bird.”
“I always do. Good luck with the game tomorrow. Love you.”
“Love you too. Call me this weekend.”
You hang up the phone, tossing it back onto the blanket. You let out a breath, centering yourself, and then you turn your attention back to Dean.
You fully expect him to have a smug comment ready. You expect him to ask who you were talking to, or tease you about the foreign language.
Instead, Dean is staring at you like a starving man looking at a feast.
His pupils are blown wide, almost entirely swallowing the green of his irises. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and there is a dark, heavy flush high on his cheekbones. He is leaning so far forward that his face is only inches from yours.
“Di Laurentis?” You ask, frowning slightly. “Are you having a stroke?”
“What the fuck was that?” Dean asks, his voice so raw and raspy it barely sounds like him.
“It was a phone call.”
“In Russian.”
“Yes,” you say slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “I am Russian. I speak Russian to my family. This is not a new development.”
“You didn’t sound like that when you spoke English,” Dean breathes, his eyes tracking the movement of your lips. “Your voice … it dropped. It was completely different.”
“It is a different language,” you point out. “The inflection changes.”
“Do it again,” he demands softly.
You raise an eyebrow, your heart suddenly giving a hard, erratic thump against your ribs. The sheer, overwhelming wave of lust rolling off him is palpable. It is thick enough to choke on.
“Do what again?” You ask, keeping your tone carefully neutral.
“Speak it,” Dean says. He reaches out, and this time you don’t pull away when his fingers lightly brush against the side of your knee. The touch sends a jolt of pure electricity straight up your thigh. “Say something else. Anything.”
You look at him, really look at him. You see the desperate curiosity, the absolute fascination. But beneath that, you see exactly what he is thinking.
Dean doesn’t just want to hear you speak Russian. He wants to hear you speak it in his bed. He wants to hear you whisper it in his ear when the lights are out. He wants to know what you sound like when you lose that rigid, icy control.
The realization makes the breath catch in your throat. It is intoxicating. The power you hold over this guy right now is absolute, and you both know it.
You lean forward, mirroring his posture. You let your sunglasses slide down your nose slightly, locking eyes with him.
“You are completely out of your mind,” you say in Russian, your voice a soft, husky murmur.
Dean lets out a ragged exhale, his eyes slipping shut for a fraction of a second. “God. I have no idea what you just said, but say it again.”
“No,” you say, slipping back into English. You sit back against the tree, pulling your leg away from his touch. The sudden loss of contact leaves a cold spot on your skin. “The show is over.”
“Come on,” Dean groans, running a hand over his face. He genuinely looks pained. “You can’t do that to a guy and just stop. It’s cruel and unusual punishment.”
“I told you at the party,” you remind him, picking up your highlighter and turning back to your textbook. “I do not make things easy for anyone.”
“I don’t want it to be easy,” Dean says. The playfulness is completely gone from his voice. It is replaced by a quiet, fierce sincerity that makes you look up again.
He is staring at you, not with the smug arrogance of a playboy, but with the focused, unwavering determination of a D1 athlete who has his eyes on the championship.
“I don’t care how hard you make it,” Dean tells you, his voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”
You hold his gaze for a long moment, your pulse hammering a frantic rhythm in your ears. Ilya’s voice echoes in the back of your mind. If you find a boy you actually like … give them hell.
A slow, wicked smirk curves your lips.
“We will see, Di Laurentis,” you murmur.
“Yo, Dean!” Garrett’s voice echoes across the quad, breaking the heavy tension. “Are you playing or are you just going to sit there and bother the girl all day?”
Dean doesn’t take his eyes off you. “I’m busy!” He yells back.
“We’re down a man!” Beau shouts. “Get your ass back over here!”
Dean finally tears his gaze away, looking over his shoulder at his friends. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Duty calls. But this isn’t over.”
“It has not even begun,” you correct him.
Dean smiles. It’s a softer smile this time, smaller and much more dangerous. He pushes himself up off the grass, grabbing his discarded t-shirt. He doesn’t put it back on, much to the delight of the girls on the nearby blanket, but simply slings it over his shoulder.
“Have dinner with me,” Dean says, looking down at you.
It isn’t a question. It is a demand.
“I am busy tonight,” you reply without missing a beat.
“Tomorrow, then.”
“I have plans.”
“Saturday.”
“I study on Saturdays.”
“Sunday night,” Dean counters, refusing to back down. “My treat. Any restaurant in the city. You pick.”
You tap your highlighter against the page of your textbook, pretending to consider it. You are pushing him, testing the limits of his patience. Most guys would have walked away by now, their egos bruised.
Dean just stands there, waiting.
“Sunday,” you finally say, your tone conceding an inch. “But I pick the place, and you pay.”
“Deal,” Dean says instantly, looking like he just won the Stanley Cup. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“You do not know where I live.”
“I’ll figure it out,” Dean promises, taking a step backward toward the soccer game. “See you Sunday, Moscow.”
“Do not call me that,” you call after him.
“Then give me your real name!” He shouts back over his shoulder, jogging backward.
You smile, looking back down at your textbook. You wait until he is halfway across the quad before you answer, your voice carrying easily over the grass.
“It’s Y/N.”
Dean stops. He turns around, a massive, genuine grin breaking across his face. He points a finger at you, backing away toward his friends.
“Y/N,” Dean repeats, testing the sound of it on his tongue. He nods slowly. “Sunday, Y/N. Be ready.”
You watch him turn and jog back to the game, immediately tackling Beau to the ground in a mess of limbs and laughter.
You let out a long, shaky breath, closing your textbook. Studying is officially impossible now. You pull your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on your arms as you watch the group of boys on the grass.
Dean is laughing, shoving Logan out of the way to steal the ball. He looks carefree, happy, and entirely out of your league when it comes to emotional availability. He is exactly the kind of guy Ilya warned you about. A player. A distraction.
But as Dean suddenly looks over his shoulder, catching your eye from across the field and shooting you a quick, blazing wink, you know exactly what is happening.
You are giving him hell.
And you are enjoying every single second of it.
***
The date is, annoyingly, perfect.
You expected Dean to stumble. You picked an upscale, impossibly hard-to-book French-Asian fusion restaurant in the heart of Boston — the kind of place with a six-month waiting list that you only bypassed because Ilya knows the owner. You expected Dean to look out of place, or complain about the portion sizes, or act like the typical, uncouth college athlete he pretends to be.
Instead, he showed up at your apartment building right on time, wearing a tailored black button-down that made his shoulders look impossibly broad, and a pair of dark jeans that hugged his legs in all the right ways. He opened the car door for you. He ordered wine in flawless, unaccented French. He kept up with your sharp, biting banter effortlessly, matching you insult for insult with that constant, devastating smirk on his face.
He didn’t just survive the test. He passed it with flying colors.
“You look annoyed,” Dean observes as he steers his sleek black SUV off the highway, taking the exit back toward the Briar campus.
“I am not annoyed,” you say, looking out the passenger window at the passing streetlights.
“You’re a little annoyed,” he teases, glancing over at you. The dashboard lights cast a warm glow across his sharp jawline. “You thought I was going to embarrass myself. You thought I’d order chicken fingers and ask for ketchup.”
“I thought you would be a hockey player,” you correct him, turning your head to meet his gaze. “Instead, you were surprisingly tolerable.”
Dean laughs, a rich, genuine sound that fills the quiet interior of the car. “Tolerable. Wow. I’ll have to add that to my resume right under top scoring defenseman.”
“Do not let it go to your head.”
“Too late.” Dean reaches across the center console. He doesn’t ask. He just slides his hand over yours where it rests on your thigh, lacing his long, warm fingers through yours.
Your breath catches slightly, but you don’t pull away. His palm is rough with calluses from his hockey stick, a stark contrast to the soft leather of the car seats and the smooth fabric of your slip dress. The casual intimacy of it sends a sudden, sharp jolt of heat straight to your core.
“So,” Dean murmurs, his thumb brushing a lazy circle against your skin. “The date is over. I paid. I was charming. I didn’t embarrass you in front of the waiter.”
“Barely.”
“Where to now, Y/N?” He says your name softly, testing the weight of it. “I can take you back to your ivory tower. Or …”
He lets the sentence hang in the air, thick and heavy with implication.
You look at his hand holding yours, and then up at his profile. You can feel the electric tension radiating off him. You know exactly what he’s asking, and you know exactly what the answer is. You made up your mind somewhere between the second glass of wine and the way his eyes darkened when you laughed at one of his jokes.
“Your house is on the way,” you say, your voice perfectly steady, though your heart is suddenly hammering against your ribs. “It would be inefficient to drive all the way to my apartment.”
The SUV actually swerves a fraction of an inch as Dean’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. He exhales a harsh, shaky breath.
“My house,” he repeats, as if making sure he heard you correctly.
“Unless you are scared your roommates are awake.”
“I don’t give a fuck if my roommates are awake,” Dean says instantly. He hits the turn signal, taking a sharp left onto the residential street that leads to the off-campus hockey house. “My door has a lock.”
The drive takes less than five minutes, but it feels like an eternity. The air in the car is so thick with anticipation you can barely breathe. When Dean finally throws the SUV into park in the driveway, he doesn’t wait for you. He is out of the car in a flash, opening your door and offering you his hand.
The house is surprisingly quiet. The usual thumping bass and smell of stale beer are absent. As Dean unlocks the front door and ushers you inside, you see exactly one person.
Logan is sprawled on the ratty living room couch, a bowl of cereal balanced on his chest, watching SportsCenter on low volume.
He looks up as the door clicks shut. He sees Dean. Then he sees you.
Logan’s spoon freezes halfway to his mouth. His eyes dart between the two of you, taking in Dean’s dark, focused expression and your thoroughly unimpressed, perfectly manicured appearance.
“Di Laurentis,” Logan says slowly, lowering the spoon. “You brought a girl home.”
“Astute observation,” Dean says, not stopping as he guides you toward the stairs by the small of your back.
“No, I mean, you brought a girl home,” Logan insists, sitting up slightly. “Not a puck bunny. Not a sorority girl. You brought an actual woman who looks like she could murder you and hide the body.”
“I will not hide the body,” you tell Logan calmly over your shoulder as you start up the stairs. “I will leave it in the living room for you to clean up.”
Logan’s eyes widen. He looks at Dean with pure, unadulterated respect. “Good luck, man. You’re going to need it.”
“Shut up, Logan,” Dean snaps, though he is smiling as he pushes you gently up the final few steps and down the narrow hallway.
He opens the door at the end of the hall, pulling you inside, and kicks the door shut behind him. The heavy click of the lock sliding into place echoes in the quiet room.
Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly clean. The bed is large and freshly made, there are no clothes on the floor, and the faint scent of his expensive cedar and citrus cologne lingers in the air.
You barely have a second to take it in before Dean is right in front of you.
The playful banter is completely gone. The energy shifts so fast it gives you whiplash. He crowds you against the heavy wooden door, his hands coming up to bracket your head. He looks down at you, his green eyes completely dilated, dark and hungry.
“I’ve been wanting to do this since you yelled at me in the kitchen,” Dean whispers, his voice rough and vibrating with need.
“I did not yell at you,” you breathe.
“Shut up,” he murmurs, and then his mouth crashes down onto yours.
It is a devastating kiss. There is nothing hesitant or gentle about it. It is pure, unfiltered demand. His lips are hot, his tongue immediately parting your lips, tasting the expensive wine and sweeping inside to claim every inch of your mouth.
A sharp, electric shock rips through your body. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your hands flying up to grip the lapels of his black shirt. He lets out a low, guttural groan, sliding his arms around your waist and pulling your hips flush against his.
He is hard. Achingly, brutally hard against your stomach.
The realization sends a thrill of pure power straight to your head. Ilya taught you to never let anyone dictate the pace of the game. You pull your mouth away from his, leaving him chasing your lips with a frustrated sigh.
“My turn,” you say smoothly.
Before Dean can process what you mean, you grab the collar of his shirt and push. He stumbles backward, completely caught off guard. You advance, pushing him again until the back of his knees hit the edge of his mattress, and he falls backward onto the bed with a soft thud.
Dean looks up at you, his chest heaving, his dark hair messy from your hands. He looks completely thoroughly derailed. “What are you doing?”
“Taking control,” you tell him. You step between his spread thighs, looking down at him with a wicked, predatory smile. “You are very used to running the show, Di Laurentis. But you are playing my game now.”
Dean swallows hard. He leans back on his elbows, watching you with wide, fascinated eyes. “Okay. Show me your game, Moscow.”
You climb onto the bed, straddling his hips. He groans instantly at the friction, his hands twitching at his sides, but he doesn’t touch you. He lets you set the pace.
You reach down, your fingers deliberately slow as you start undoing the buttons of his tailored shirt. You watch his face as you work, taking in the rapid pulse at the base of his throat, the way his jaw tightens with every agonizingly slow brush of your knuckles against his bare skin.
Once the shirt is fully unbuttoned, you push it off his shoulders, letting it fall onto the sheets. You run your hands flat over his sculpted chest, feeling the heavy, frantic thud of his heart beneath his ribs.
“You are impatient,” you murmur, leaning down to press a soft, teasing kiss to the center of his chest.
“I’m dying,” Dean corrects roughly. His hands come up, gripping your hips tightly. “Y/N. Please.”
“Please what?” You ask, your voice dropping into a sultry, teasing purr. You shift your weight, grinding down against his hard length right through his jeans.
Dean’s head throws back, his hips automatically bucking up against you to chase the friction. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Take it off. All of it.”
You smile. You reach down, finding the hem of your slip dress, and pull it up over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it to the floor. You are wearing nothing but a matching set of sheer, black lace lingerie.
Dean stares at you. He actually stops breathing for three full seconds.
“Holy shit,” he whispers reverently. “You are … you are perfect.”
“I know,” you say confidently.
You lean down, capturing his lips again. The kiss is deep, wet, and incredibly hot. You move your hips in a slow, rhythmic grind that has Dean cursing into your mouth. He is letting you ride him, letting you dictate the rhythm, his large hands resting on your waist, guiding your movements but not forcing them.
You reach for the buckle of his belt, your fingers completely steady, but before you can even undo the clasp, the dynamic shifts.
Dean’s patience completely snaps.
“Okay. You’ve had your fun,” Dean growls softly against your lips.
Before you can even react, his hands tighten on your waist. He lifts you effortlessly — like you weigh absolutely nothing at all — and in one fluid, powerful motion, he flips you.
You let out a startled gasp as your back hits the mattress. Suddenly, Dean is hovering over you, his broad shoulders blocking out the overhead light. His eyes are entirely black now, the playful, indulgent boy completely gone, replaced by something dark, dominant, and terrifyingly hot.
“You think you’re the only one who likes control?” Dean murmurs, leaning down so his mouth is a breath away from your ear. “You think you can just climb on top of me, grind against me like that, and I’m just going to lay there and take it?”
“You were doing a very good job of it,” you try to say haughtily, but your voice is suddenly a little breathless.
“I was letting you win the first period,” Dean corrects, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your earlobe. “But the game is mine now.”
He doesn’t give you a chance to argue. His hands are everywhere. He unclasps your bra with a single, practiced flick of his fingers, tossing it aside. He takes your mouth again in a bruising, dominant kiss, swallowing your soft gasp as his warm, rough palm cups your breast. His thumb drags firmly over your nipple, and a jolt of pure pleasure shoots straight down to your core.
You arch your back, your hands tangling in his thick blond hair. The icy, untouchable Russian princess act is rapidly melting under the sheer, scorching heat of his attention.
Dean breaks the kiss, moving his mouth down your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. At the same time, his hand slides down your stomach, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your lace panties and pulling them down your legs.
He steps off the bed for exactly three seconds. The sound of his zipper dragging down, his jeans hitting the floor, and the tear of a foil wrapper are deafening in the quiet room.
When he comes back over you, he is completely bare, beautiful, and completely focused. He settles between your thighs, his knees pressing your legs wider.
He reaches down, his fingers finding your slick, aching center. He strokes you once, two fingers pressing deep inside, and you let out a sharp, genuine cry.
“You’re so fucking wet for me,” Dean groans, his voice dark with triumph. He leans down, his mouth hovering over yours. “Tell me you want this.”
“I want it,” you breathe, your accent heavy. “Do not make me wait, Dean.”
He doesn’t. He grips your hips, aligning himself with your wet heat, and pushes forward.
He fills you completely in one long, agonizingly slow thrust. You gasp, your nails digging half-moons into the hard muscles of his back as he buries himself to the hilt. It’s incredibly deep, stretching you so perfectly it makes your vision swim.
Dean freezes, a low shuddering groan tearing from his throat. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his jaw clenched tight as he fights for control.
“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, his body trembling over yours. “You are so tight. So incredibly tight.”
“Move,” you demand softly, your hips instinctively arching up to take him deeper.
Dean’s eyes snap open. “Yes, ma’am.”
He starts to move. He pulls back almost completely before driving his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you again. The friction is immediate and explosive.
“Oh!” You gasp, your head throwing back against the pillows.
Dean sets a brutal, relentless pace. He isn’t rushing, but he isn’t being gentle either. Every thrust is deep, hard, and perfectly angled. He hits the exact spot that makes your toes curl with every single stroke. The skin-on-skin slap of his hips meeting yours echoes loudly in the quiet room, a dirty, incredibly erotic sound.
“Is this good?” Dean asks, his voice thick, thrusting hard into you. “Is my form okay for you, Moscow?”
“Shut up,” you moan, your hands gripping his shoulders desperately.
“You had a lot of opinions about my performance on the ice,” Dean taunts darkly, dropping his head to bite lightly at your neck as he pounds into you. “Critique this.”
“Dean-”
“Say my name again,” he demands, his grip on your hips tightening. He angles his hips differently, grinding hard against your clit with his pelvis as he thrusts deep inside you.
The sensation is so sharp, so overwhelming, that your brain completely short-circuits. The English language entirely evaporates from your mind.
“Bozhe moy,” you cry out, your voice fracturing.
Dean freezes for a fraction of a second, his head snapping up. His eyes are wide, wild with sudden, explosive heat.
“What did you just say?” He breathes, thrusting back into you with sudden, renewed ferocity.
“Da,” you gasp, completely unable to stop yourself. The pleasure is mounting too fast, spiraling out of control. “Da, pozhaluysta.”
“Russian,” Dean groans, the sound completely animalistic. “Fuck, yes. Keep doing that. Talk to me in Russian.”
He speeds up, his thrusts becoming a rapid, punishing rhythm. You are completely lost in it, clinging to his broad shoulders as the world spins around you.
“Sil’neye,” you beg, your nails scratching down his back. Harder. “I don’t know what that means,” Dean rasps, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your collarbone. “But I fucking love it. Tell me you’re mine. Tell me in Russian.”
“Tvoya,” you sob, the word slipping out as the tension in your core finally snaps. “Ya tvoya.”
The climax hits you like a freight train. You cry out loud, your back bowing off the mattress as wave after wave of intense, blinding pleasure rips through your body. Your inner muscles clamp down hard around his thick length, milking him perfectly.
Dean lets out a loud, raw shout. He drives into you two more times, impossibly deep, and then completely falls apart. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his body shaking uncontrollably as he empties himself inside the condom, completely surrendering to you.
For a long time, the only sound in the room is the ragged, desperate sound of both of you fighting to catch your breath.
Dean’s heavy weight is crushing you into the mattress, but you don’t care. You feel thoroughly, beautifully wrecked.
Slowly, the haze begins to clear. Dean shifts his weight, pulling out of you with a soft, wet sound, and carefully rolls off to the side to dispose of the condom. When he comes back, he drops onto the mattress beside you, throwing one heavy arm and a leg over your body, pulling you flush against his side.
You rest your head on his bare chest, listening to his heart still hammering against his ribs.
“Wow,” Dean breathes into the quiet room.
“Yes,” you agree softly, your voice still a little raspy.
Dean presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, his fingers lazily tracing the curve of your hip. “You completely lost your mind there at the end, didn’t you?”
You feel a flush creeping up your neck. “I do not know what you are talking about.”
“Liar,” Dean laughs softly. “You lost your English entirely. It was the hottest fucking thing I have ever experienced in my entire life.”
You turn your head, resting your chin on his chest so you can look up at him. His eyes are soft now, completely completely devoid of the cocky arrogance he usually wears like armor. He just looks entirely, thoroughly captivated by you.
“You played a good game, Di Laurentis,” you tell him, your accent soft and thick in the quiet room.
Dean smiles, reaching up to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Good enough for a second round?”
You raise an eyebrow, your old, haughty confidence returning in full force. “Do not flatter yourself. Let us see if you can handle the conditioning drills first.”
Dean throws his head back and laughs, a bright, happy sound that makes something warm and completely foreign bloom in the center of your chest. He pulls you up slightly, capturing your lips in a soft, lazy kiss that tastes like contentment and the promise of a very long night.
“Whatever you want, Moscow,” Dean murmurs against your mouth. “I’m not going anywhere.”
***
The house living room smells like stale pepperoni, cheap beer, and the distinct, aggressive musk of four college athletes who have been yelling at a television for the past two hours.
Dean is sprawled in the worn armchair, a long-necked bottle of Corona resting on his stomach. On the ratty couch, Garrett, Logan, and Tucker are packed shoulder-to-shoulder, their eyes completely glued to the sixty-inch screen mounted on the wall.
It is a Tuesday night, which means the Boston Bruins are playing the Toronto Maple Leafs, and in this house, an NHL game is basically a religious event.
On the screen, Ilya Rozanov, the Bruins’ star center and arguably the most terrifying, arrogant, and talented player in the league, intercepts a pass at center ice. With a burst of speed that defies the laws of physics for a man of his massive size, he blows past two Toronto defensemen, dekes the goalie out of his crease, and casually roofs the puck on his backhand.
The goal horn blares through the TV speakers, shaking the floorboards of the living room.
“Holy shit,” Garrett breathes, leaning forward so fast he almost knocks over his beer. “Did you see that edge work? The guy is an absolute machine.”
“It’s disgusting,” Logan agrees, shaking his head in awe. “He makes NHL defensemen look like Pee-Wee players. It’s physically embarrassing for them.”
“And there are still idiots out there who claim Shane Hollander is a better player,” Tucker snorts, reaching for a slice of cold pizza from the box on the coffee table. “Hollander is great, sure. He’s got the golden boy reputation. But Rozanov? Rozanov is a killer. He has zero conscience on the ice.”
“Hollander has better defensive metrics,” Garrett points out, ever the captain. “But yeah, offensively, Rozanov is in a league of his own. If I ever meet him, I think I’d actually ask him to sign my chest.”
Dean laughs, taking a slow sip of his beer. “You literally have a poster of him in your bedroom, Garrett. It’s creepy. You’re twenty-two years old.”
“It’s not a poster, it’s a framed print,” Garrett corrects defensively. “And it’s about respecting greatness, Di Laurentis. Try it sometime.”
Dean just grins, leaning his head back against the armchair. He feels relaxed. Better than relaxed, actually. He feels completely, terrifyingly anchored. It’s been three weeks since that first date with you, and his life has practically flipped upside down. He spends half his nights sneaking into your luxury apartment, and the other half trying to convince you to stay at his place. You are demanding, brilliant, ruthlessly critical of his defensive zone coverage, and the best thing that has ever happened to him.
He hasn’t looked at another girl since the night you called his backhand weak.
On the TV, the broadcast cuts away from the Bruins’ bench celebrating the goal.
“An unbelievable individual effort from Ilya Rozanov,” the play-by-play commentator announces over the roar of the TD Garden crowd. “His tenth goal of the season already, and we’re not even fully into November.”
“And you know who’s loving it up there?” the color commentator chimes in. “Let’s take a look up at the Bruins’ friends and family suite.”
The camera cuts from the ice to the luxury boxes high above the lower bowl. The shot zooms in on two young women sitting in the plush front-row seats, leaning over the glass barrier to look down at the ice.
Dean’s brain instantly short-circuits.
He stops breathing. The bottle of Corona slips dangerously in his grip.
It’s you.
You are right there on the sixty-inch screen, wearing a flawless black leather jacket over a form-fitting white top. Your hair is styled in perfect waves, and you are currently in the middle of an animated, laughing conversation with the woman sitting next to you.
“Whoa,” Logan says, leaning forward. “Who are they? The one on the left is gorgeous.”
“Shut up, John,” Dean croaks, his voice cracking horribly.
The broadcast graphics flash at the bottom of the screen, highlighting the two of you.
“That’s Svetlana Vetrova on the right,” the commentator explains cheerfully. “Daughter of the legendary Soviet goaltender Sergei Vetrov. She and Rozanov grew up together in Moscow.”
The camera pans slightly, focusing entirely on your face as you laugh at something Svetlana says.
“And with her is Ilya Rozanov’s younger sister,” the broadcaster continues, the words echoing through the dead silent living room like gunshots. “She just moved to Boston this fall to attend university locally. The Rozanov siblings are famously close. Ilya practically raised her, and rumor has it he is incredibly protective.”
The TV screen shows Ilya skating back to the bench. He looks up toward the suite, pointing a gloved finger directly at you. You smile, rolling your eyes affectionately, and give him a small, sarcastic golf clap.
In the house, the silence is so heavy it could shatter glass.
Garrett’s jaw is practically on the floor. He slowly, mechanically turns his head to look at Dean.
Logan and Tucker follow suit, their eyes wide with absolute, unadulterated horror.
Dean is frozen in the armchair. All the blood has rushed out of his face, leaving him pale and dizzy. His heart is hammering a frantic, terrified rhythm against his ribs.
He thinks about the way he pushed you against his bedroom door. He thinks about the sheer, insane volume of highly explicit texts he has sent to your phone in the last forty-eight hours. He thinks about the massive, bruised hickey he left just below your collarbone two days ago — a hickey that Ilya Rozanov could probably see with his naked eye from center ice.
“Dean,” Garrett whispers, his voice trembling slightly. “Is that …”
“Yes,” Dean says hollowly.
“That’s Moscow,” Tucker confirms, sounding like he’s at a funeral. “That’s your girl.”
“She didn’t tell me,” Dean gasps out, clutching the beer bottle like a lifeline. “She told me her brother paid for her apartment! She never said her brother was the most dangerous player in the National Hockey League!”
“You’re sleeping with Ilya Rozanov’s little sister,” Logan says, the reality of the situation finally crashing down on him. A slow, hysterical laugh bubbles up in his chest. “Dean. He is going to literally kill you. He is going to break your legs with his bare hands.”
“I have a poster of her brother in my room,” Garrett says, staring blankly at the wall. “I’ve been in the same room as you two while you were making out, and I have a poster of her brother on my wall.”
“What do I do?” Dean demands, panic finally settling in. He drops the beer onto the side table and runs both hands through his hair, gripping the blond strands tightly. “Do I text her? Do I ask why she didn’t tell me? Do I change my name and move to Mexico?”
“You can’t move,” Tucker says solemnly. “Rozanov has Russian mob connections. He will find you.”
“He does not have mob connections!” Dean yells, though his voice pitches up nervously. “Does he?”
“Dude, he led the league in penalty minutes for three consecutive seasons,” Logan points out, highly unhelpful. “He shattered a guy’s jaw last year just for looking at his goalie wrong. If he finds out you — Briar’s biggest, sluttiest defenseman — are hooking up with his baby sister? You’re dead. They’ll never find your body.”
Dean stares at the television screen. The broadcast has moved on, showing a replay of the goal, but Dean can’t see the puck. All he sees is his own impending doom.
He is so incredibly fucked.
***
Two hours later, you are sitting in a private booth at one of the most exclusive steakhouses in Boston.
The post-game adrenaline is still buzzing in the air. Ilya is sitting across from you, casually dressed in a dark designer sweater that stretches tight across his massive shoulders. He has a faint, purpling bruise on his jaw from a high stick in the second period, but his mood is absolutely electric.
“I told you,” Ilya says, cutting into a massive, rare ribeye steak. “Toronto defense is weak this year. They leave the middle of the ice wide open. It is insulting.”
“You showboated on the breakaway,” you point out, sipping your sparkling water. “You did not need to go to the backhand. The five-hole was open.”
“I am an entertainer, Y/N,” Ilya replies smoothly, chewing his steak. “The fans pay a lot of money to see me play. I must give them a show.”
You roll your eyes, picking at your truffle fries. You love him, but his ego takes up ninety percent of any room he walks into. Still, the dinner is nice. Sibling bonding time is rare during the NHL season, and you cherish the moments when it’s just the two of you, speaking Russian and acting entirely normal.
“Sveta looked well,” you say, changing the subject. “I hear she is thinking of taking a job with the Bruins.”
“She is good,” Ilya nods. “She asks about you. She says you are distracted lately.”
You pause, a fry halfway to your mouth. You lower it back to the plate, keeping your expression completely neutral. “I am not distracted. I am adjusting to a new country and a new curriculum. Economics is demanding.”
Ilya stops chewing. He swallows, rests his forearms on the heavy mahogany table, and pins you with a dark, intensely knowing look.
“Do not lie to me, little bird,” Ilya says softly, his heavy accent wrapping around the Russian words. “You have been living here for months. You were not distracted in September. But the last three weeks? You are checking your phone during the game. You are smiling at your screen.”
“I look at memes,” you lie smoothly.
“You do not understand American memes,” Ilya shoots back without missing a beat. “So, let us skip the part where you insult my intelligence. Who is putting that smirk on your face?”
You let out a slow sigh, leaning back against the leather booth. You knew this conversation was coming. Ilya is overprotective on a good day, and completely tyrannical when it comes to the men in your life. You intentionally haven’t told him about Dean because you wanted to enjoy the early stages without your brother accidentally ending Dean’s hockey career.
“It is nothing serious,” you say carefully, sticking to Russian so the waiter passing by won’t understand. “Just a boy from the university.”
Ilya’s eyes narrow instantly. “A boy. Does this boy play a sport?”
“That is irrelevant.”
“It is highly relevant. If he is a hockey player, I need to know immediately so I can arrange an accident on the ice.”
“Ilya.” You give him a sharp, warning look. “I am nineteen years old. I am allowed to have fun. You told me to have fun.”
“I told you to have fun with respectable men,” Ilya argues, jabbing his steak knife in your direction. “Not college athletes. They are animals. They do not know how to treat a woman.”
“He treats me very well, actually,” you fire back, defending Dean instinctively. The memory of Dean’s complete devotion — both in and out of the bedroom — flashes through your mind. “He takes me to nice places. He is polite.”
“Polite,” Ilya snorts, taking a large gulp of his red wine. “Sure. And what does this polite boy think is happening between you two? Does he know it is casual? Because men like that, they get attached. They get possessive.”
“He knows,” you say smoothly, though a tiny flicker of doubt sparks in your chest. Does Dean know it’s casual? He certainly hasn’t been acting casual lately. He acts like he owns you, and worse, you find yourself letting him.
“He knows,” Ilya repeats sarcastically. He shakes his head, cutting another piece of steak. “I worry about you, Y/N. You play these games, but eventually, someone gets hurt. You cannot just keep things casual forever. Eventually, you have to commit or walk away.”
You stare at your brother. The sheer hypocrisy of his statement actually leaves you speechless for a moment.
You slowly pick up your glass of wine, swirling the dark red liquid. You look at Ilya over the rim of the glass, a slow, lethal smirk curling the corners of your mouth.
“You are giving me advice on commitment?” You ask, your tone dangerously soft.
Ilya pauses, a flicker of unease crossing his features. “I am your older brother. It is my job to give you advice.”
“Interesting,” you note, leaning forward and resting your elbows on the table. “Because as far as I can tell, you have been in a situationship for the last six years, and you still refuse to put a label on it.”
Ilya’s jaw drops slightly. The smug, overprotective older brother act completely shatters. A dark, furious blush creeps up his neck, disappearing into his hairline.
“I do not know what you are talking about,” Ilya says rigidly.
“Oh, please.” You take a sip of your wine, enjoying the sudden shift in power. “How is Jane?”
Ilya actually chokes on his wine. He coughs, grabbing his napkin and pressing it to his mouth, his eyes watering.
You watch him without an ounce of pity. You have known about “Jane” for years. You know exactly who “Jane” is. You know that Jane is not a woman, and you know that Jane happens to be a certain golden boy captain of the Canadian national team who plays in Montreal. You know that Ilya and Shane Hollander have been hooking up in secret hotel rooms across North America for years, wrapped up in a bitter rivalry that is a very thin cover for a desperate, consuming obsession.
Ilya refuses to admit it out loud, but he knows that you know.
“Jane is fine,” Ilya grits out finally, glaring at you across the table.
“Good. Tell her I say hello,” you say pleasantly. “And tell her that if she ever breaks your heart, I will break her legs. That is the system, yes?”
Ilya stares at you. For a long, tense moment, the air between you crackles with unspoken threats and sibling stubbornness.
And then, slowly, the tension breaks.
Ilya lets out a low, rumbling laugh, shaking his head. He wipes his mouth with the napkin, looking at you with a mixture of immense pride and total defeat. You really are his exact replica.
“You are a menace, Y/N,” Ilya says softly.
“I learned from the best,” you reply smoothly.
Ilya sighs, raising his glass of wine toward you in a gesture of surrender. “Fine. You win. I will stop asking about the boy from university. For now. But if he hurts you, Y/N, I am serious. I will end him.”
“He will not hurt me,” you say confidently, clinking your glass against his. “I would never give him the power to do so.”
“Za zdarovye,” Ilya murmurs.
“Za zdarovye.”
You take a sip of the expensive wine, feeling a rush of affection for your brother. You handled him perfectly. He is backed off, your secret is safe, and your casual arrangement with Dean remains uninterrupted.
But as you set your glass down, your phone buzzes in your purse.
You pull it out, glancing at the screen under the table so Ilya can’t see.
It’s a text from Dean.
Actually, it’s six texts from Dean, sent in rapid succession.
Dean: Tell me right now you’re not actually Ilya Rozanov’s sister.
Dean: Holy shit.
Dean: They showed you on the broadcast.
Dean: Garrett is hyperventilating into a paper bag.
Dean: Why didn’t you tell me?
Dean: Are you with him right now? Don’t let him look at your neck.
You stare at the screen. Your carefully constructed, compartmentalized life is suddenly colliding in real-time.
You look up across the table. Ilya is casually cutting into his steak, completely oblivious to the absolute meltdown happening on your phone. He is relaxed, happy, and entirely unaware that his beloved little sister is sleeping with a hockey player.
You look back down at the screen, your thumb hovering over the keyboard.
A tiny, wicked thrill races down your spine. The game just got a lot more interesting.
You: I am having dinner with him now.
You: Do not panic, Di Laurentis. He does not know about you. Yet.
You hit send, slide the phone back into your purse, and pick up your fork, completely unbothered.
Across town, Dean receives the text.
He stares at his phone screen for a full minute, the words burning into his retinas. The terrifying confidence of your reply does nothing to soothe his racing heart.
“Well?” Logan asks nervously from the couch. “What did she say?”
Dean slowly lowers his phone, looking at his three best friends. His expression is completely haunted.
“She told me not to panic,” Dean whispers.
“Oh, you’re dead,” Tucker nods sagely. “That’s exactly what people say right before they execute you.”
“Can I have your signed Marchand stick when you die?” Garrett asks, entirely serious.
Dean ignores them. He falls back against the armchair, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He is terrified. He is absolutely, completely terrified of Ilya Rozanov finding out that Dean has had his hands all over his little sister.
But beneath the terror, beneath the very real threat of physical violence, there is another feeling. A feeling that Dean can’t ignore, no matter how hard he tries.
He thinks about you sitting across from the most intimidating man in the NHL, calmly texting him, completely in control of the situation. He thinks about the way you challenge him, the way you speak Russian against his skin in the dark, the way you make him want to be better, faster, stronger just to earn a shred of your approval.
Dean drops his hands, staring blankly at the ceiling of the hockey house.
He is terrified. But he isn’t going to run.
“I’m keeping her,” Dean says suddenly, his voice quiet but incredibly firm.
The three guys on the couch stop talking. They stare at Dean like he has just lost his mind.
“Dean,” Garrett says slowly. “Did you hear what we just said? Her brother will end your career. He will end your life.”
“I don’t care,” Dean says, sitting forward. The panic is fading, replaced by that fierce, undeniable stubbornness that makes him the best defenseman in the conference. He grabs his beer, taking a long pull. “Let him try. I’m not letting her go.”
Logan sighs, rubbing his temples. “We’re going to need to buy so many deadbolts.”
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Note I love Clark Kent so much and I still have no idea why I only have one fic about him here, that's gonna change from now. Anyways, I am sorry if this is a tiny bit angsty but I swear there's fluff and smut and you're gonna be nauseous because these two love each other way too much. Like a lot.
Clark’s night had been a particular kind of hell. He didn't remember landing on your terrace.
One moment he was standing in the cratered ruin of what used to be a warehouse district on the outskirts of Metropolis, his hands still trembling from the echo of kryptonian fists meeting flesh, and the next he was here—boots silent on the weathered tile, the city sprawling beneath him like a circuit board of light and shadow.
The villain had called himself Pavor. A meta-human with the unsettling ability to weaponize fear, to reach into the deepest, most vulnerable parts of a person's mind and pull out their nightmares made manifest. Clark had faced worse. He'd faced world-enders and reality-benders, creatures from the Phantom Zone and gods from distant pantheons. But Pavor had done something that none of the others had managed.
He'd made Clark watch you die.
Not just once. A hundred times. A thousand. Each death more intimate and horrible than the last. A car accident on a rain-slicked street where Clark was too slow, too far away, his super-hearing catching your final breath across seven city blocks. A terminal illness that ate through your beautiful, laughing body while Clark held your hand and felt the life drain out of you, powerless to stop it because even he couldn't cure the incurable. An explosion in your apartment building that he arrived at two minutes too late, your favorite mug still warm on the kitchen counter, your scent still lingering in the hallway.
The worst one—the one that still had his hands shaking even now—was the simplest. You'd been walking home from the grocery store, a bag of oranges in your arms, and a man with a gun had wanted your wallet. In the vision, Clark had been standing right there. Right. There. And he'd still been too slow. The bullet had entered your chest before he could move, and you'd looked at him with such confusion, such betrayal, as if to say why didn't you save me? when you didn't even know he was there at all.
The villain was neutralized now. Sedated in a meta-human containment cell, his fear-dust swept up by biohazard teams. But the images lingered, burned into Clark's brain like afterimages from a nuclear blast.
He needed to see you.
The thought was urgent, desperate, clawing at his chest with something that felt dangerously close to panic. He needed to see your face, to hear your heartbeat, to feel you—warm and solid and alive—under his hands. The rational part of his mind, the part that had been doing this for almost two years, told him to go home first. Change out of the suit. Put on the glasses and the flannel shirt and the carefully constructed persona of Clark Kent, mild-mannered reporter. That was the agreement, wasn't it? Not a formal one, not something you'd ever demanded, but something he'd built between you anyway. With you, he got to be just Clark. Not Superman. Not the symbol, the icon, the guy who caught planes and deflected asteroids. Just the man who burned his toast in the morning and left his socks on the bathroom floor and kissed the back of your neck while you were trying to make coffee.
But tonight, the thought of putting on that mask felt unbearable. Like another layer of separation between him and the thing he needed most.
So here he was. Boots on your terrace. The cape heavy on his shoulders, the House of El crest emblazoned across his chest. He'd never shown up like this before. Not once. You knew who he was—he'd told you, three months into the relationship, sitting on this very terrace with his heart in his throat and the words “I'm Superman” tasting like broken glass in his mouth—but you'd never seen him like this. The suit had always been something that happened somewhere else, in a different part of his life, the part he tried so hard to keep separate from the quiet sanctuary he'd found with you.
The sliding door was unlocked. It was always unlocked when he visited, a small act of faith that still made something in his chest ache. He could see you through the glass, curled on the couch with a book in your lap and a mug of tea steaming on the side table. You were wearing his university sweatshirt—the one he'd almost thrown away a dozen times because it was faded and threadbare, but you'd fished it out of the donation bag and claimed it as your own. Your hair was loose around your shoulders, still slightly damp from a shower, and you were absently chewing on your lower lip the way you did when you were concentrating.
His knees nearly buckled.
He'd watched you die tonight. He'd watched your eyes go dark and your heart stop and your blood pool on pavement, on tile, on the pristine white sheets of a hospital bed. He'd screamed your name in a dozen different nightmares, had reached for you a thousand times and come up empty. And here you were, reading one of your favorite books with your feet tucked under you, completely unaware that somewhere across the city, a so called God had been weeping over your corpse.
Clark slid the door open and you looked up immediately, a smile already forming on your lips—and then froze. Your eyes went wide, traveling from his face down the length of his body, taking in the suit and the cape and the way he was standing there like a man who'd just survived something he couldn't name.
“Clark?” Your voice was soft, uncertain, already tinged with concern. You set the book aside and rose from the couch, moving toward him slowly, carefully, the way you might approach a wounded animal. “Baby, what's wrong?”
He tried to speak. Tried to form words, to explain, to apologize for showing up like this without warning. But the sound that came out of his mouth was closer to a sob, raw and broken, and suddenly he was crossing the room in two strides and pulling you into his arms.
The contact nearly undid him.
You were warm. So impossibly, achingly warm, your body fitting against his like you'd been made to be there. Your heartbeat thrummed against his chest, steady and strong and alive, and Clark buried his face in your hair and breathed you in. Lavender shampoo. The faint trace of the tea you'd been drinking. Something underneath that was just you, the scent he'd committed to memory months ago, the one that meant home.
“Clark.” Your hands came up to cup his face, gentle but insistent, pulling back just enough to look at him. Your thumbs swept across his cheekbones, catching tears he hadn't realized he'd been shedding. “Talk to me. Please.”
He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch. “There was a man tonight,” he said, and his voice came out rough, scraped raw. “He could—he could show people their fears. Make them real, somehow. In their minds.” He swallowed hard, and the next words came out on a shudder. “He showed me you. Dying. Over and over again. I watched you die so many times, and every time—every single time—I couldn't save you.”
Your breath caught. He felt it, felt the slight hitch in your chest, the way your fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on his jaw.
“Clark,” you whispered.
“I know it wasn't real.” The words came faster now, tumbling out of him like water through a broken dam. “I know that. I've dealt with fear-manipulators before, I know how it works, I know none of it actually happened. But I couldn't—I couldn't shake it. I couldn't stop seeing your face, couldn't stop hearing—” His voice cracked. “I needed to see you. I needed to hold you. And I couldn't go home and change first, I couldn't put on the glasses and pretend to be someone else for one more second, because I'm not—I'm not someone else, not with you, I've never been someone else with you, and I just—”
The words were coming too fast now, tripping over each other, spiraling. Clark could feel it building in his chest—that familiar, terrible pressure, the one he'd learned to recognize over years of burying things too deep. His heart was hammering, which was ridiculous because his heart didn't do that anymore, hadn't done that since he was a teenager learning to control his powers, but here it was, pounding against his ribs like a caged animal. His breathing was too quick, too shallow, and he couldn't seem to get enough air even though he didn't technically need to breathe at all, not really, not the way you did, but his body didn't seem to care about technicalities right now.
She's dead. She's dead and you're hallucinating and any second now you're going to blink and she's going to be gone and you're going to be back in that warehouse with her blood on your hands and—
“Clark.”
Your voice cut through the spiral like a blade through silk. Not loud. Not demanding. Just there, steady and warm and impossibly, impossibly present.
“Clark, look at me.”
He couldn't. He couldn't look at you because if he looked at you, he'd see the bullet hole or the sickness or the closed eyes or one of the thousand other ways he'd watched you die tonight, and he couldn't—he couldn't—
Your hands moved from his face to his shoulders, and then you were guiding him, gently but firmly, until his back hit the wall beside the sliding door. Not hard—you didn't have the strength to move him if he didn't want to be moved—but he went willingly, bonelessly, because some deep part of him recognized that you were trying to anchor him, and he needed an anchor more than he needed air.
“There you go,” you murmured, and your hands were on his chest now, right over the S-shield, and he could feel the warmth of your palms even through the suit. “I've got you. I'm right here. Feel my hands, Clark. Can you feel them?”
He nodded, a jerky, desperate motion. Your hands. He could feel your hands. Smaller than his and soft and warm, pressed against the symbol of his house, against the place where his heart should have been beating out of control but was instead starting, slowly, to calm.
“Good.” You stepped closer, and now your body was pressed against his, not in a way that was sexual but in a way that was grounding, solid and real and undeniable. You were warm all along his front, from his chest to his thighs, and he could feel every point of contact like a lifeline. “Now breathe with me, okay? Just breathe. In...” He felt your chest expand against his. “...and out.”
He tried. He really tried. But the images were still there, flickering behind his eyelids every time he blinked, and his breath came out in a shuddering gasp instead of anything resembling controlled.
“That's okay,” you said, and your voice was so soft, so impossibly gentle, like you were soothing a spooked horse rather than the most powerful being on the planet. “That's okay, baby. Just try again. In...”
This time, he followed. His chest rose against yours, and he felt the way you smiled—felt the curve of your lips against his collarbone where you'd pressed your face.
“Good. So good. Now out...”
He exhaled, and some of the pressure in his chest went with it.
“That's it.” Your hands started moving on his chest, slow circles over the fabric of his suit, soothing and repetitive. “You're doing so well, Clark. Just keep breathing with me. In...”
She's warm. She's warm and she's solid and she's here.
“...and out.”
Her heart is beating. I can hear it. I can feel it.
“In...”
It's not the vision. The vision was cold. She was cold in the vision.
“...and out.”
She's not cold. She's never been cold. She's the warmest thing I've ever known.
“In...”
She's alive.
“...and out.”
She's alive. She's alive. She's alive.
Clark's eyes opened. He hadn't realized he'd closed them. And there you were—your face tilted up to his, your eyes soft and patient and full of so much love it made something in his chest crack open all over again. But this time, it wasn't the bad kind of cracking. This was the kind that let light in.
“Hi,” you said softly, and there was the barest hint of a smile playing at your lips.
“Hi,” he managed, and his voice was wrecked, scraped raw, but it was his again.
Your hands slid up from his chest to his face, cradling his jaw, your thumbs tracing the curve of his cheekbones. You were so gentle with him, so careful, like he was something precious rather than something dangerous. He didn't understand how you did it. Didn't understand how you looked at him—at the suit, at the symbol, at the man who'd just fallen apart in your arms—and saw something worth holding.
“I'm here,” you said, and it wasn't the first time you'd said it tonight, but somehow it felt different now. Slower. More deliberate. Like you were pressing the words into his skin, making sure they stuck. “I'm here, Clark. I'm not a vision. I'm not a hallucination. I'm not going to disappear.”
He opened his mouth—to apologize, probably, because apologizing was what he did, was what he'd been training himself to do since he was old enough to understand that his existence was complicated—but you shook your head slightly, your thumbs pressing gently against his lips.
“No,” you said. “Don't. Don't apologize for needing me. Don't apologize for falling apart. You're allowed to fall apart, Clark. You're allowed to be scared and tired and overwhelmed and human, even if you're not—even if you're more than that. Especially because you're more than that. You carry so much. All the time. You never stop. You never let yourself just... be.”
Your hands moved from his face to his hair, pushing back the dark waves that had escaped the gel, your fingers carding through the strands with a tenderness that made his eyes sting.
“So here's what's going to happen,” you continued, and your voice was still soft but there was something underneath it now, something fierce and protective and utterly, utterly sure. “You're going to stand here with me for as long as you need to. And I'm going to hold you. And you're going to feel me—every part of me—and you're going to let yourself believe that I'm real.”
You took one of his hands—his stupid, heavy, dangerous hands, the hands that could punch through steel and crush diamonds—and pressed it flat against your chest, right over your heart.
“Feel that?” you asked.
He felt it. Of course he felt it. He could feel the steady thrum of your heartbeat against his palm, could feel the expansion of your lungs with every breath, could feel the warmth of your blood moving through your veins. It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever felt.
“That's me,” you said. “That's my heart. It's beating because I'm alive, Clark. I'm alive, and I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not for a very, very long time, if I have anything to say about it.”
“But you can't promise that,” he whispered, and the words came out broken, aching, almost childish and he didn’t stop himself. “I can't protect you from everything. I couldn't in the visions. I tried, and I couldn't, and what if—what if one day—”
“Then we'll deal with that day if it comes.” Your voice was firm, unyielding, nothing like the soft, soothing tone from before. This was the voice you used when you were drawing a line in the sand, when you were refusing to let him spiral any further. “But it's not today, Clark. Today, I'm here. Right now, I'm here. And you're here. And we're together, and we're alive, and we love each other, and that's enough. That has to be enough, because it's all we have.”
You lifted his hand from your chest and pressed a kiss to his palm, right in the center, your lips warm and soft against his skin. Then you turned his hand over and kissed his knuckles, one by one, a slow and deliberate ritual.
“These hands,” you said between kisses. “These hands have caught airplanes. These hands have held up buildings. These hands have saved the world more times than I can count.” You looked up at him, and your eyes were shining. “But do you know what my favorite thing about these hands is?”
He shook his head, not trusting his voice.
“They hold me,” you said simply. “They hold me when I'm sad. They hold me when I'm scared. They hold me when I'm happy and when I'm angry and when I'm so tired I can't keep my eyes open. They hold me like I'm something precious, something worth protecting. And every time you hold me, I feel safe. Not because you're Superman. Because you're you. Because you're the man who loves me.”
A tear slipped down his cheek. You caught it with your thumb, wiping it away like it was nothing, like it didn't matter that he was crying in front of you for the second time tonight.
“I love you,” you said, and the words were so simple, so small, and yet they filled every empty space in his chest. “I love you, Clark Kent. I love the reporter and the hero and the farm boy from Kansas. I love the man who burns toast and leaves socks on the floor and cries at dog commercials. I love the man who showed up on my terrace tonight in his Superman suit because he was scared and he needed me. I love all of you. Every broken, beautiful piece.”
Clark let out a breath he felt like he'd been holding for hours. The tension in his shoulders—the tension he hadn't even realized was there until this moment—began to ease. The images were still lurking at the edges of his mind, but they seemed dimmer now, less urgent, like nightmares fading in the light of morning.
You stepped back just enough to look at him properly, your hands sliding down to rest on his hips. Your eyes traveled over him—the suit, the cape, the S-shield—and instead of fear or uncertainty, he saw something else. Something that looked like wonder. Like acceptance. Like love, pure and simple and absolute.
"You know," you said, and your voice was lighter now, teasing at the edges, “I've always wondered what this suit would feel like. Before meeting you, of course.”
Despite everything—despite the nightmares and the panic and the tears—Clark felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Your fingers traced the edge of the S-shield, following the curve of the symbol. “It's softer than I expected. I always imagined it would be... I don't know. Hard. Impenetrable.”
“It is,” he said. “Impenetrable, I mean. Mostly.”
“Hmm.” You looked up at him through your lashes, and there was something in your expression now that made his breath catch for an entirely different reason. “And yet I can still feel you through it. Still feel how warm you are. Still feel your heart beating.” Your palm pressed flat against his chest, right over the symbol. “Still feel how much you love me.”
Clark's hands came up to cover yours, pressing them more firmly against his chest. “I don't know how to explain how much I love you,” he said, and his voice was raw but steady now. “I don't have words big enough. I don't have gestures grand enough. I just... I love you. I love you in ways I didn't know I could love someone. I love you in ways that scare me, because it's so much, and if I ever lost it—if I ever lost you—”
“You won't,” you said, and it wasn't a promise—not really, not one either of you could guarantee—but it was close enough. It was hope, and sometimes hope was all anyone had.
You rose up on your toes and kissed him, soft and slow and sweet. It wasn't the desperate, frantic kiss you always have. This was something else. Something that felt like a vow. Like a benediction. Like you were trying to pour every ounce of love you felt into him through the simple press of your lips.
When you pulled back, your eyes were bright, and your smile was the one he fell in love with—the one that crinkled the corners of your eyes and made him feel like he'd come home.
You kissed him again.
But now, it wasn't a gentle kiss, not the soft, sweet kind you usually shared over morning coffee or lazy Sunday afternoons. This was urgent, desperate, your mouth slanting over his like you were trying to pull the pain out of him through sheer proximity. Your fingers tangled in his hair, not caring that the gel he used to keep it tamed was probably leaving residue on your palms, and you kissed him until he forgot how to breathe.
When you finally pulled back, your eyes were bright with unshed tears. “I'm here,” you said, fierce and quiet all at once. “I'm right here, Clark. I'm not going anywhere.”
He made a sound—something broken, something grateful—and kissed you again. And again. And again, each kiss softer than the last, until he was just pressing his lips to your forehead, your temples, the corner of your mouth, the pulse point at your throat where your heartbeat still sang its steady, beautiful rhythm against his skin.
“I love you,” he said against your neck. The words felt too small for the enormity of what he felt, but they were all he had. “God, I love you so much.” He murmurs, nipping at your neck. “Can I take you to bed?,” he said softly, and his voice had shifted into something lower now, something that made his stomach tighten. “Please. I need—I need to feel you. All of you.” All you did was nod and that, besides that look in your eyes, was all he needed.
He started to lift you—one arm under your knees, the other around your back, the way he always did because he could and because you made that delighted sound every single time—but you pressed a hand to his chest and stopped him.
“No,” you said, and there was a new edge to your voice. Something determined. Something that made him pause, his hands stilling on your hips. “No, Clark. Tonight, I was going to—I was going to take care of you.” Your fingers curled into the fabric of his suit, right over where his heart was hammering. “When I saw you standing there, in the suit, looking like you'd seen a ghost—I thought, “okay. I've got this. I'm going to hold him. I'm going to love him. I'm going to make him forget every single terrible thing he saw tonight”.”
His throat tightened. “Sweetheart—”
“But then you kissed me.” Your voice softened, your thumbs tracing small circles against his chest. “And I felt how much you needed this. Needed me. Not in a way that I could fix by being on top, or by taking control. You needed to hold me. You needed to feel me underneath you, alive and warm and yours.” You looked up at him, and your eyes were so full of love that it almost hurt to meet them. “So I'm not going to fight you for it. But I am going to get this suit off you first.”
Clark blinked. “What?”
A small smile tugged at the corner of your mouth—the first real smile he'd seen from you since he'd arrived, and god, it was like watching the sun come out after months of rain. “You heard me, Kent.” Your hands moved to the clasp of his cape, fingers working with a determination he'd only ever seen you apply to stubborn jar lids and particularly difficult crossword puzzles. “I love you. I love that you showed up here like this, that you trusted me enough to come to me when you were falling apart. But I am not having sex with you while you're wearing enough spandex to make a 1980s rock band jealous.”
A surprised laugh escaped him—shaky, wet, still caught somewhere between a sob and actual humor. “It's not spandex. It's a Kryptonian combat weave—”
“I don't care if it's woven from the beard hairs of Zeus himself,” you interrupted, finally managing to unhook the cape and letting it pool to the floor in a dramatic puddle of red. “It's coming off.”
And just like that, something in his chest loosened. Just a little. Just enough for him to remember that this was you, that you'd never once treated him like a symbol or a savior, that you'd always been more interested in the man beneath the armor than the armor itself.
“Help me with the boots,” you said, already reaching for the zipper on the side of his right boot, and Clark found himself sinking onto the edge of the couch, letting you kneel in front of him and pull each boot off with a kind of focused intensity that made his heart ache.
You worked in silence for a moment, the only sounds the soft rasp of fabric and your steady breathing. When both boots were off—thrown unceremoniously into the corner, where they landed with two heavy thuds—you looked up at him, and your hands came to rest on his knees.
“Stand up,” you said softly.
He stood and you rose with him, your hands sliding up his thighs to hook your fingers into the waistband of the suit. “Arms up,” you murmured, once you saw it was a two piece suit and he obeyed, lifting his arms above his head as you peeled the top half of the suit off him in one smooth motion. The Kryptonian fabric whispered against his skin, and then he was standing in front of you in nothing but the blue undersuit and you paused, your hands flat against his chest.
“There he is,” you whispered, and your voice cracked just slightly on the last word. “There's my Clark.”
He couldn't speak. Couldn't form words around the lump in his throat. He just stood there, trembling under your touch as your hands explored the landscape of his chest—the scars you'd memorized months ago, the hard planes of muscle, the places where his heartbeat pulsed warm against your palm.
“Let me see all of you,” you said, and it wasn't a demand. It was a question, soft and open, and Clark nodded because he couldn't say no to you. Not tonight. Not ever.
You peeled the undersuit off him slowly, almost reverently, your knuckles brushing against his stomach, his hips, the sensitive skin at his sides. When it pooled at his feet and he stepped out of it, leaving him in nothing but his briefs—black, plain, the kind he bought in multipacks from the department store because who was going to see them anyway—you made a sound low in your throat that made his cock twitch.
“Beautiful,” you breathed, and your hands were on him again, tracing the lines of his hips, the jut of his hipbones, the soft trail of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his briefs. “You're so beautiful, Clark.”
“Sweetheart, mmhm I—” His voice came out strangled.
“Shh.” You pressed a finger to his lips, then replaced it with your mouth, kissing him slow and deep. “You said you needed to take care of me tonight. So take me to bed. But I want you naked when you do it. I want to feel you—all of you—nothing between us.”
He lifted you then—finally, finally—and you wrapped your legs around his waist with a quiet moan, your center pressing against the thin fabric of his briefs, and he could feel how warm you were, how ready, and it took every ounce of his considerable self-control not to just take you against the wall right there.
The walk to your bedroom was short but eternal. He could feel your heartbeat against his chest, fast and steady, and your mouth was on his neck, your teeth scraping against the sensitive skin just below his jaw, and by the time he laid you down on the bed, he was so hard it was almost painful.
You reached for the hem of his sweatshirt—the one you were wearing, the one that still smelled faintly of him underneath your shampoo—and pulled it over your head in one fluid motion. You weren't wearing anything underneath, and Clark made a sound like a wounded animal at the sight of you, bare and beautiful and spread out on the sheets like an offering.
“Clark.” Your voice was soft but steady. "”our briefs. Off. Now.”
He couldn't help the broken laugh that escaped him. “Bossy tonight.”
“You almost died in a who knows where and then watched me die a thousand times in your head,” you said, and your eyes were serious now, deep and unwavering. “I think I'm allowed to be bossy.” A pause. “Besides, you're the one who wanted to take care of me. Can't do that if you're not even undressed yet.”
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his briefs and pushed them down, his cock springing free, hard and flushed and already leaking against his stomach. Your eyes dropped to it, and your lips parted, and Clark felt a surge of heat so intense it nearly knocked him off his feet.
“Come here,” you said, reaching for him. “Come here, I need you, honey.”
He crawled onto the bed, settling over you, his weight braced on his forearms so he wouldn't crush you. The contact was overwhelming—skin to skin, chest to chest, his cock pressing against your thigh—and you both groaned at the same time.
“I kept hearing your heartbeat stop,” he admitted, the words spilling out of him in a whisper as he pressed his forehead to yours. “In the visions. It would just... stop. And I would scream, and it wouldn't start again, and I couldn't—” He pressed his face into your neck, breathing you in. “You have to understand. I've heard things. Seen things. In all my years doing this, I've witnessed horrors that would break most people. But nothing—nothing—has ever hurt like watching you die.”
Your hands slid down his back, fingers digging into the muscles there, pulling him closer. “I'm here,” you said, and your voice was steady even though your eyes were wet. “Feel my heartbeat, Clark. Feel it.”
He did. He pressed his ear to your chest, right over your heart, and listened. thrum-thrum, thump-thump. Steady and strong and real. Your hand came up to cradle the back of his head, fingers threading through his hair, and he felt the vibration of your voice through your ribcage as you spoke.
“I love you,” you said into the quiet. “I love you, I love you, I love you. That heartbeat is yours. It's always been yours. Every single beat, from the moment we met until the moment I die—and I'm not dying tonight, Clark, I'm not dying anytime soon—every single one of them is for you.”
He kissed his way down your body. Slowly. Deliberately. Each kiss a confirmation, a reassurance, a tiny prayer of gratitude. He kissed the spot where your pulse beat at the base of your throat. He kissed the hollow between your collarbones. He kissed the swell of your breasts, took one nipple into his mouth, and you arched beneath him with a cry that went straight to his cock.
“Clark, mmhm oh fuck”
He sucked gently, then harder when your fingers tightened in his hair, and your other hand scrabbled at the sheets like you were trying to anchor yourself. He switched to the other breast, giving it the same attention, and your hips were rolling against his, your wetness slick against his stomach.
“Please,” you gasped. “Please, Clark, I need you inside me—”
He lifted his head, looking down at you. Your eyes were dark, your lips parted, your chest heaving. You were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, and he'd seen galaxies born and die.
“Not yet,” he said, and his voice was rough but steady now. “I'm not done taking care of you.”
He kissed lower, trailing his mouth down your sternum, your stomach, the soft curve of your belly. When he reached the waistband of your pajama shorts—the tiny cotton ones you wore to bed, the ones with the little strawberries on them that made him smile every single time—he hooked his fingers into them and pulled them down your legs along with your underwear, tossing them somewhere behind him.
And then you were bare beneath him, open and wanting, and Clark settled between your thighs like he was coming home.
He kissed the inside of your knee. Then your thigh. Then higher, and higher, until his breath was hot against your center and you were shaking, your hands fisting in the sheets.
“Clark—”
“Shh,” he murmured, and then he licked you—one long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit—and the sound you made was enough to bring him to his knees if he hadn't already been there.
You tasted like heaven. Like home. Like everything he'd been desperate for since the first nightmare had taken hold. He buried his face between your thighs and worshipped you, his tongue drawing patterns on your clit, his fingers sliding inside you and curling just so, and you were crying out his name, your hips bucking against his mouth. He loves spending his time with you, licking, sucking and sometimes his teeth are involved.
“That's it,” he murmured against you, and the vibration made you whimper. “Let me hear you, my love. Let me feel you. I need to know you're real, sweetheart, I need to feel you come apart for me—”
You came with a shattered cry, your whole body convulsing, your thighs clamping around his head, and Clark didn't stop. He licked you through it, gentler now, softer, until you were pushing at his shoulders with trembling hands.
“Too much,” you gasped. “Too much, honey, I can't handle more.”
He crawled back up your body, kissing you so you could taste yourself on his lips. Your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him close, and he could feel your heart hammering against his chest.
“I love you,”he said, and it came out like a prayer. “I love you, I love you, I love you so much, baby.”
“Then fuck me,” you said, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “Please, Clark, I need to feel you deep inside.”
He reached between you, positioning himself at your entrance, and paused. Looked down at you. Your eyes were wet, your face flushed, your lips swollen from his kisses. You looked utterly wrecked, and utterly here, and something in his chest cracked open and healed all at once.
“Talk to me,” he said, and his voice was raw. “While I'm inside you. I need to hear your voice. I need to know you're with me.”
“I'm with you,” you said, and your hands cupped his face, pulling him down until your foreheads touched. “I'm always with you, Clark. Now please—”
He pushed inside you. Slowly. So slowly. Inch by agonizing inch, watching your face the whole time—the way your eyes fluttered shut, the way your lips parted, the way you gasped his name like it was the only word you remembered how to say. When he was fully seated, buried to the hilt inside your heat, he stopped. Just held there, letting you both adjust, letting himself feel every pulse and flutter of your body around him.
“Gosh,” he breathed. “Oh Gosh, you feel so good, my love.”
“I know.” Your voice was wrecked. “I know. Move, Clark. Please.”
He pulled back and thrust forward, and the sound you made was obscene, perfect, the most beautiful thing he'd ever heard. He set a rhythm—slow at first, deep and deliberate, each thrust a reaffirmation that you were here, you were alive, you were his.
“I watched you die,” he said, and the words came out between thrusts, ragged and raw. “I watched you die in a hospital bed. I watched you die in a car crash. I watched you die in something that could be our shared home.” His voice broke, and he thrust deeper, and you moaned. “I watched a man shoot you in the chest while I was standing right there, and I couldn't—I couldn't, oh damn.”
“Clark.” Your hands were everywhere—his face, his shoulders, his back, pulling him closer, holding him like you could keep him from flying apart. “I'm here. I'm here. Feel me—feel me, honey.”
He did. He felt the way you clenched around him, the way your nails dug into his shoulders, the way your heels pressed into the backs of his thighs, urging him deeper. He felt your heartbeat thrumming against his chest, faster now, matching the rhythm of his hips. He felt the wetness on his cheeks—tears, his or yours, he couldn't tell anymore—and the warmth of your breath against his neck.
“You're so beautiful,” he said, and he was crying now, actually crying, the tears falling onto your face and mixing with yours. “You're so beautiful and I can't lose you, I can't—”
“You won't.” You kissed his tears, your mouth soft and desperate against his cheeks, his eyelids, the corner of his lips. “You won't lose me, Clark. I'm not going anywhere. I'm right here. I'm right here, I'm right here, I'm always here.”
Your words became a chant, a mantra, a prayer, and Clark fucked you through it, hard and deep and desperate, his hand sliding between your bodies to rub your clit in tight circles.
“Come for me,” he said, and it wasn't a request. “Come for me, sweetheart, I need to feel you—I need to know you're real, that you’re here, that you’re mine.”
You shattered. Came apart around him with a cry that was almost a scream, your body convulsing, your inner walls clenching around him like a vice, and Clark followed you over the edge with a groan that was torn from somewhere deep in his chest. He spilled inside you, wave after wave, his hips stuttering as he buried himself as deep as he could go.
For a long moment, there was nothing but breathing. Nothing but the sound of your hearts—his steady and strong, yours fast and fluttering—and the rustle of sheets as you both trembled through the aftershocks.
Clark collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms, your head tucked under his chin and your legs tangled with his. He could feel your tears on his chest, could hear the little hitches in your breath as you cried, and he held you tighter, his lips pressed to the top of your head.
“I'm sorry,” he said after a long moment, his voice muffled by your hair. “For showing up like this. For—for dumping all of that on you. You didn't sign up for all this mess, baby.”
“Stop.” Your hand pressed flat against his chest, right over his heart. “Don't you dare apologize. Not for this. Not for needing me.” You tilted your head back to look at him, and your eyes were red-rimmed but fierce. “I signed up for all of you, Clark Kent. The good days and the bad ones. The nightmares and the morning coffee. The cape and the glasses. You don't get to hide parts of yourself from me just because you think they're inconvenient or scary or too much.”
He pressed a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then your lips. “I love you,” he said, because the words were inadequate but they were all he had. “I love you more than I know how to say.”
You smiled—that soft, devastating smile that had undone him from the very first moment he'd seen it—and snuggled closer, your ear pressed over his heart.
“Then show me,” you said quietly. “Every day. For the rest of our lives.”
Clark looked down at you—at the tear tracks on your cheeks, the love in your eyes, the way your body was pressed against his like you were trying to crawl inside his skin and stay there—and he felt something shift. Something settle. Something that felt like hope.
“I will,” he said, and his voice was steady now. Certain. “Every day. For the rest of our lives.”
Outside, the city hummed its endless night-song. Inside, wrapped in each other and the quiet aftermath of love, Clark Kent let himself believe that everything might just be okay.
He had you, after all. And that was enough. That was everything. You are his everything.
True Love Never Has To Hide (Wildest Dreams Finale Part 2)
12.6K / Din Djarin x Princess!Reader
Summary: Din finds you, but is it too late?
Warnings: 18+ Content (MDNI pls) It’s all good, babes - just fluff after the angst, and a HEA as promised (Emily wouldn't do you dirty like that! 😅). Starts with Din’s POV. Kissing, brief allusions to smut, Mando’a nicknames, and a surprise S1/S2 guest appearance at the end.
A/N: UH sorry about the WC 🫣 and thank you, thank you for coming with me on this journey! I’ve wanted to write this story for so long and am so lucky to have had such kind support, as well as the The Mandalorian and Grogu press tour for inspo (I also can't tell you how thrilled I am that the series can still be read as canon compliant post movie release - yeee)! There is still a smutty little epilogue coming, and a drabble/HC or two, but for now, this is their happy ending. Thank you for holding out – hope you enjoy!
Dividers by @saradika-graphics / Series Masterlist / Title once again by Beyoncé, inspo lyrics at the end
“He’s forgotten me.”
How those words stab at Din’s heart.
He knew coming back to Solana was a mistake the moment he saw you walk into the room in that wedding dress.
Kriff, he knew it was a mistake when he received your father’s communique, but still accepted the invitation to return, somehow managing to convince himself that he would be able to handle it.
That was a mistake, too.
Din one hundred percent does not have a handle on it, himself or anything else.
He understood the danger he was opening his heart to in coming back, fully knowing that he would have to leave you again - which is why he didn’t bring Grogu; he thought he had properly weighed that inevitable torture against the heaven of seeing you again, hearing your voice once more, just being in the same room as your perfume – he could endure it. He told himself he had to.
Unfortunately, Din had grossly underestimated the hold you still have on him, while overestimating his own fortitude.
From his very first glimpse of you stepping into the room, all reason flew out of the Mandalorian’s head. Your graceful figure stopped his heart dead while the glow of your beautiful countenance shocked it back to life in an endless cycle. You carried the silk masterpiece draping off your body so well, it was you who was the work of art, not the garment; barely breathing, Din likened this moment to visiting a painting after having only seen it in a holofilm – his memories and dreams of you didn’t hold a candle to the real thing. The feared warrior was about to keel over and all you had done was walk across the room - you hadn’t even noticed him yet.
It was only when he heard your breathy thanks for his assistance with your dress that Din truly understood the magnitude of his error. That’s all it took: you speaking to him one time and he was ready to throw away all semblance of decorum and honour, get on his knees and obey your every wish and desire - no matter how disastrous for either of you. With great difficultly, Din forced himself to avert his gaze from your beautiful face - for fear that he might see some sign from you, real or imagined, that would give him permission to haul you over his shoulder and steal you out of the room.
This was the moment Din Djarin reconciled with the truth that he was indeed, a weak, weak man. And a fiend. Since that chance meeting with you on Coruscant, the absence of you dominated his every waking hour and plagued each sleepless night somehow more persistently than ever. He was an addict, and you his drug of choice – after that sweet hit months ago, his mind, body and soul were constantly jonesing for more.
At the same exact time, Din realized the risk he exposed you to by returning. To be in such close proximity and not be able to touch, kiss, or hold you was asking a level of restraint and control that he could no longer promise to embody. If, for even a nanosecond, his heart believed he could reclaim the life he once shared with you, Din would surrender to his desires completely and discard any remaining sense of duty, decency.
He had no qualms admitting he would happily sacrifice himself if only to taste the sweetness of your kiss again, to feel your soft body fold against his, to see you arch as he made you come over and over, hear you whimper his name as he filled you. He would do it all even fully knowing it could be but a brief dream, a spelled mirage that would be broken once you married and he left again – the last time having nearly killed him, would Din have the strength to survive such a devastating blow twice? He loved you enough to be willing to find out.
Dank Farrik. Perhaps his own downfall he could accept, but Din was unwilling to subject you to that same fate. On Coruscant, in your inebriated state, you had been so candid and unguarded in admitting how deeply you had grieved, how hollow his leaving had left you – how could he force you to suffer the pain of separation again? The sadness and hurt he witnessed in your pretty eyes that night haunt him to this day still – only a villain would risk your chance for future happiness just because he couldn’t control his damn self.
And what if he did something even more foolish than reaffirm his everlasting love for a woman he could never be with? Like ask you to come with him? To leave behind your entire life, your duty, your stupid fiancé? Because, what if you came? And for what? A lone bounty hunter with few credits to his name and even less merit after he stole the Princess of a planet that has shown him and his son nothing but kindness and welcome? A man with nothing but deserved shame and a small cabin on the outskirts of an insignificant planet in the Outer Rim. You would forsake your honour and homeland, the love of your people, the future you’ve been working towards all your life for that? For Din? He would stain your reputation and that of your royal house for his own selfish desires, deprive you of the chance to start a family with your new husband and continue your illustrious line? He could not. You would resent him and certainly grow to hate him. He would lose you all over again, only this time slow and tortuous.
No, for both of you to survive, Din needed to cut himself off at the knees. As unnatural as it felt, he had to build a defensive wall between you and his heart, blockading any hope of affection and tenderness, if he was to have a chance at protecting what was left of your peace. You and him were always destined to end, but he would suffer now, alone in silence, if it meant lessening your agony in the future.
While your father made polite small talk, Din vowed himself to be a stranger to you so there would be no chance of falling into familiar old patterns, of seeking the intimacy of your company. He steeled his body, tone, thoughts, and even his unseen facial expression to one of impassibility and indifference. If the fires of his love for you did not burn so intensely, the coldness he forced himself to exude might have actually frozen over his heart.
He hid from you for as long as he could after leaving the East wing parlour, afraid of what even one moment alone with you would do to his defenses - but fate’s cruel sense of humour caught up with the Mandalorian as surely as did you in that stairwell. Din drowns in his own regret and shame as he thinks back to this last conversation with you, likely the last the two of you will ever have – your palpable confusion and hurt had sent his heart reeling and beating violently against its Beskar cage, screaming and begging to be heard.
“What would we need to talk about, Princess?” Anything you desire, mesh’la, but may I ask, only talk? I wish desperately to hold you in my arms and kiss the honey of your lips once more.
“Why have you come, Din?”
“Your father recalled me to review the adequacy of the security plans for your wedding; I’m here to ensure that your nuptials proceed without disruption.” I missed you too much and I’m not strong enough to stay away anymore. Every single day for the past year I’ve fought against it, but my path has always been to return to Solana and reunite with the part of myself that I left here with you.
“You’ve come to help give me away?”
“Solana called, and I am here to fulfill my duty to its people.” I would rather die, but I don’t have a choice.
“I thank you for your service, General.”
“Is there anything further, Princess?” Please don’t cry, cyare - it kills me to hurt you like this.
“In your haste to leave previously, this was left behind; now that you’re here, General, it can be returned to its rightful owner.”
“I thank you, Princess.” This pendant, as with my heart, is yours and always will be. I will find some way to return it to you so you will always have a piece of the Mandalorian who loves you, even if you hate me. Ni kartyli gar darasuum (I love you).
*****
Din does everything in his power to avoid you for the rest of the day, but the image of your crestfallen face and the despair with which you proclaimed he’s forgotten you follow him like an unrelenting wraith, gloomy and accusatory. Even when he goes to the training grounds to reunite with his former comrades, the invisible string that tethers him to you for always tugs until he cannot ignore its pull any longer – he instinctively looks up to the southside tower and sees you waiting for him, as you have so many times before, in that secret spot.
The Mandalorian wishes to go to you more than anything - it would be so easy for him to take off and fly into your waiting arms, but the consequences of doing so keep him firmly grounded; the ripping of his heart would only be temporarily mended if he gave in now, just to tear open later into an merciless chasm of pain that would swallow you both. So, Din pretends not to see you - he fists his hands so hard his palms hurt, just so he isn’t tempted to adjust his helmet display to zoom in on your beauty, and he distracts himself with the comradery of the men under his former command. When it comes time to file into the castle, he forces himself to do so without checking if you’re still on the turret.
Dinner comes and goes. Din is in equal measures disappointed and relieved when Serene announces that you’ve retired early after a full day, and he’s still conflicted when the time comes to bring his plate back to his old room to eat alone. But once inside his former quarters, self-flagellation wins out – the knowledge that you’re somewhere near, hurting, and he cannot comfort you sits like a pit in Din’s stomach. That you truly believe him to no longer care for you unsettles the Mandalorian to the point of nausea – appetite gone, he cannot bring himself to eat even one bite.
He decides to go for a calming walk around the castle instead. There’s a storm rolling in now; the percussive sounds of rain and thunder a welcomed accompaniment to the wild beating of Din’s heart. He’s loved Solanian rainstorms ever since that night in the Solana countryside when he bore the skin of his body to you for the first time, while the outside torrential downpour enveloped and muffled the sounds of your perfect first lovemaking.
About to do a third turn of the hallways in the West wing, Din’s sensors pick up on the commotion of scurrying feet above him, the addition of harsh, frantic tones lead him upstairs to investigate. His instincts kick in at the sight of Serene and Olivia’s panicked expressions and pleading gestures to a small group of the Royal Guard; upon hearing the thunder of the Mandalorian’s approach, the crowd falls silent and turns towards the noise.
“General!” The guards stand at attention and both your lady’s maids look relieved at Din’s appearance.
“What’s wrong?” The General’s heart pounds – it already knows the answer.
The two women look at each other, unsure, before Olivia pipes up, “It’s the Princess, General. She’s missing and we cannot find her anywhere.”
“When and where is the last time she was seen?”
“In her bedchambers. Right after…” Olivia falters awkwardly, not sure how much to reveal in front of the Guard; Serene saves her, “… after you left her on the stairs this afternoon, General.” The anger in her voice is unheard by most among them, but not Din; to him it’s loud and well deserved.
But he cannot dwell on that right now. Military precision and strategic mind snapping into place, Din lays out a search plan to cover as much area as possible in as little time as possible, then dispatches his men. He himself runs straight to the South tower.
The rage of the outside storm provides cover for the echoing boom of his heavy footsteps, but nothing can quiet the yell inside Din’s head as he races through the castle, no, no, please no. He reaches the door to your secret meeting place in record time, hoping against hope that another member of the legion has already found you.
The door is stuck.
Din pushes and pulls the jammed handle. He throws his weight against the thick paneling. The narrowness of the spiraled staircase leading to this remote area of the castle prevents him from getting the leadup he needs, but still he tries over and over to shove his way through to the outside. Huffing and out of breath, Din adjusts the infrared reader on his internal display to see what’s beyond the door.
Nothing. Thank goodness. Out of habit, he does a secondary scan to make sure before turning to go.
Wait.
Barely perceptible and flickering so quickly he nearly missed it, a subtle flush of warmth shimmers small and faint on Din’s HUD. The Mandalorian recalibrates his sensors so that the heat signature materializes slightly more in focus; now that he knows where to look, he can make out a shape on the ground. It barely glows, dimming and flashing erratically. It’s dying.
No!
Ready to burn down the door, Din’s blaster is out of his holster faster than he can think; he shoots at the lock until it’s mangled and smoking and then shoulders his entire body weight against the door until it splinters open. He fights against the howl of the wind now rushing to enter the castle in order to get to you, cape whipping around his body, rain slicing against his visor.
Skidding across the slippery wet stone floor, the great warrior drops to his knees in one frantic motion to hover over your unmoving body, trying to shield you from the rain. It makes no difference, your clothes and hair are so drenched and waterlogged they practically pin you to the floor, every part of you is wet and you’re so, so cold.
“Cyare, please, wake up, please, please,” Din pats your face gently, trying to dry and warm your cheeks with his gloves to no avail, “wake up, please. Come back, come back to me.” You make no response, face ghoulishly unmoving, unnatural hue taking over your countenance.
Fear like he’s only ever felt when Grogu’s been in harm’s way grips onto Din’s insides and twists.
No, no, no, please, no. It cannot end like this. I cannot lose you like this. Please, Maker, no.
With a surge of super human strength, Din lifts your limp body and cradles you close to his chest, protected and treasured, “Mesh’la, we need to get you dry. I’m going to get you help. You’re going to be okay. You have to be okay. Don’t leave me, please.”
Then, he runs.
At the bottom of the Southside tower stairs, Din starts yelling for help as he runs towards where he last saw another soul, anyone. It feels like the castle is an empty labyrinth tonight and despite the racket he’s making, help does not meet him quickly enough - Din doesn’t think, he just keeps going, muscle memory taking over as his feet bring him to your bedchamber doors where luckily, both Olivia and Serene have heard his call and rush to meet him.
“Please,” he begs, “she’s so cold.” He’s not in the right mind to explain further or do anything other than hold you as directed while your maids strip and try to dry you. After laying you in bed, Din stumbles until his back hits the wall, paralyzed by the worst-case scenario fears running rampant through his mind.
What if he were to never see your eyes sparkle again, either with mischief, in wonder, or full of lust? Never hear the melody of your voice cooing sweet praise and encouragement to his son? What if that cold, unfeeling utterance of your title was the last thing he ever said to you? What if your final thoughts of him were that he didn’t love you, that he didn’t live and die by the very thought of you?
What if everything he had forced the both of you to suffer since returning had all been for naught, that even when trying to protect you he could only hurt you?
People attempt to get his attention - they suggest he leave to get some rest, give you some privacy, tell him there’s nothing more he can do for you right now, but Din hears none of it. Doctors, nurses, Serene, Olivia, servants, his Lieutenant – he pays none of them any heed; all Din knows is there is only one voice that can send him away and that’s yours. He might actually growl this at the doctor.
Din remains in your room, an ever-vigilant gargoyle looming fierce and protective, his eagle eyes scrutinize every move made near or to you, his approval necessary to proceed. He is immovable, unapproachable, ferocious, inconsolable – a sentinel on guard with nothing to lose but the treasure over which he keeps watch. The Mandalorian’s stubbornness yields small results but results nonetheless; after a few hours of being bundled up and all manner of heating pads and blankets being added to your bed, you look better, definitely drier. Din’s helmet readings confirm those of the medical equipment: your body temperature is slowly, but steadily rising, your heartbeat is once again strong enough to be picked up by his sensors.
But you don’t wake up.
The doctor says to be patient, the nurses say he doesn’t need to stay; the former is more difficult than Din anticipated, the later impossible. He sits vigil by your side, barely blinking so he doesn’t miss any changes in your condition, frustration growing when nothing does. By hour six after having found you, Din is ready to send for his son and ask Grogu to Force heal you.
Who needs sleep when he has worry and guilt? Din knew you were up on that turret all by yourself, and he knows why you were there. He knows he’s the reason you’re lying in this bed right now, fighting for your very life. He should have gotten to you sooner. He should have never let you wait up there alone. What if Serene and Olivia hadn’t told him you were missing? What if he hadn’t conducted his second scan and you had been locked out in the rain overnight?
What if… what if… what if…
Din drops his head, cradling his helmet in his hands, unable to stop the spiral of his thoughts and the turmoil of his heart. Maker, please, please let her be okay. I’ll do anything, give anything - she just has to be okay, please.
If you’re not awake by morning he’s going to call Grogu.
---
Slowly, you try to blink your eyes open, the bright lights of the room sharp and stinging – all you can manage is to squint; only able to turn your head in tiny increments, you haltingly scan your surroundings until coming upon the imposing, armoured figure waiting at the bedside.
“Din?” you barely recognize the scrape of your own voice.
“Mesh’la,” panic and relief flood through the Mandalorian’s modulator in equal measure, “You’re awake. How are you feeling? Does anything hurt?”
Adjusting your body in small measures, each ache and every soreness catching you by surprise, you manage to shimmy up slightly into a sitting position with Din’s help. It takes you until now to realize you’re in your own bed; still disoriented you manage to croak out, “Everything hurts? Din… what happened?”
“The door on the Southside tower… it was locked and you got trapped outside in the storm. No one could find you… when Olivia told me you were missing, I… I tried to get there as fast as I could…” Din chokes on his words as he relives the fear of those moments.
Recollection flashes behind your eyes as you start to remember – the wedding dress viewing, giving back the Mythosaur pendant, fleeing to the tower, letting go, the numbing cold of the rain - you nod in comprehension, “You saved me. Thank you, Din.”
“I do not deserve your thanks, cyare. It is my fault you were up there, my fault you got hurt,” Din drops his head in shame, “I’m so sorry, mesh’la. I was avoiding you and shouldn’t have… I knew you were up there and didn’t go to you… this is all my fault… you were out there in the cold for so long… who know what could have happened if…”
“But it didn’t happen. You found me,” Din’s obvious guilt chips at your heart, “There’s no need for apologies, Din. It’s not as if we made an agreement to both go to the tower – I was there of my own free will and you were under no obligation to come meet me. None of this is your fault, really, General. Feelings change. I understand.”
Feelings changed?? No, you didn’t understand at all.
The absurdity of your words necessitate the only action Din deems to be appropriate, as bold and brutal as it is.
Clang!
Din’s helmet is ripped from his head and thrown to the ground so quickly you’re nearly unable to squeeze your eyes shut in time. “Din!” you gasp, shocked.
Grimacing as your muscles scream in protest, the effort to sweep your hands up to your eyes hurts more than you want to admit – but that pain is nothing compared to your fear of the harm it would do to see Din’s face uncovered.
Rough leather envelops your hands and gently pulls them away from your face, “Princess, it’s okay.” You shake your head as adamantly as you can, keeping your eyes closed. Din’s gravely baritone remains gentle and reassuring, “Trust me, cyar’ika. Open your eyes.”
Even with his explicit permission, you still feel hesitant; slowly, you open your eyes but keep your gaze lowered, focusing on the gentle way Din holds your hands - his thumbs rubbing gentle circles over the backs as he patiently waits for you to look up. After a short while, you cautiously peer through your lashes, still nervous and uncertain until your eyes snap all the way open in recognition. Disbelief and confusion overtake your face as your hands leaves the cradle of Din’s to touch the visage before you.
“I know you,” you whisper, blinking with wide-eyed astonishment, half expecting this image to disappear before you can comprehend its existence. Din nods indulgently, his smile as gentle as his eyes, letting you take your time in putting all the pieces together.
“Coruscant,” you say definitively, your memory sharpening as your heart leaps, “that wasn’t a dream?” At the shake of Din’s head, you melt even further, “You were really there. You took care of me.”
“Of course, mesh’la,” as his eyes crinkle, the browns of Din’s irises fleck with an enchanting hue of gold, “I wish to always take care of you.”
“But,” your thoughts struggle to form as you become distracted by how handsome the man is; your fingers run over the soft and hard lines of Din’s face, caress the curves of his smile, a cheeky finger pokes at his dimples, “why did you let me believe it was a dream? Why didn’t you want me to know that we had met?”
As the Mandalorian sighs, his features soften and his eyes deepen with emotion – their expressiveness captivates you, “Princess, do you remember what I told you that night about why we couldn’t meet again?” Of course, you remember - you had memorized those romantic words and replayed them in your head countless times since that night; it’s only now you fully realize that poetic declaration of love wasn’t of your creation, but Din’s. Heart blossoming, you nod and Din continues, “I admit what I said was dramatic, but the sentiment behind my words has always been true. I am so incredibly weak for you, mesh’la.”
Your mouth opens to object, but Din anticipates you; he pulls your hands back into his, “I know you would say that I’m strong, cyare, but it’s simply not true when it comes to you. Strong for you, yes, strong in your name, always, but when it comes to my heart, my soul? They obey only you; I am, forever at your mercy.”
You may not agree, but a Mandalorian being vulnerable and exposing his soft underbelly is not something to scoff at; you squeeze Din’s fingers and continue to listen patiently as he closes his eyes in recollection. You miss their warmth immediately.
“This past year without you has been excruciating, mesh’la. It’s all I could do to scrape enough of myself together to be the father Grogu needs, but otherwise, I was barely living. Food had no taste, drink was without spirit, and the absence of you was an ever-present weight on my chest that made it hard to even breathe at times,” Din nearly chokes, needing a minute before he can force himself to take in air properly. “I missed you every waking moment of every single day and retreated into my memories of you during each sleepless night; I was hollowed out, half of a man, tortured by the memory of true happiness and the knowledge I would never find it again,” Din finally opens his eyes and his look of sad resignation hurts your chest.
“The reason I didn’t want you to know I was really on Coruscant is the same reason I’ve tried not to be alone with you since coming back to Solana,” anguish overtakes Din’s voice, “To have even one true moment with you, anything remotely resembling what we used to share, would be like giving a sip of water to a man dying of thirst. Once I had a taste, my weaknesses would prevail and then nothing could hold me back from quenching the thirst I’ve been living with as my constant companion. I would not have the strength nor would I want it, to resist my heart’s deepest desires any longer.” He looks apologetic.
“If we shared any real closeness, however briefly, I would have no choice but to throw all caution to the wind and beg for you to take me back, let me into your life again,” Din hangs his head in shame, “and that wouldn’t be fair to you, mesh’la. I have no right. No right to ask for connection or intimacy from you, to beg you to love me, when I have no more to offer you than I did when I left. I have no right to risk all that you’ve worked for, to allow my own lack of restraint to spell ruin for your future and maybe even Solana’s.”
“In short, I am weak, so I ran,” a weight seems to have lifted off Din’s shoulders, “but I’m not running anymore, Princess. I thought that hiding my feelings from you would save the both of us from a deeper wound, but now I know that was cowardice speaking - and our love deserves bravery. Cyare, I may not be strong enough to thwart fate, but I will never abandon you again. From now on, anything that needs to be faced, I want to face with you, together. As long as you are willing to have me, I promise I will remain by your side and carry you through whatever may come.”
Din wishes he possessed more eloquence, but he is a mere bounty hunter appealing to real grace; he watches as you process his confession with thoughtfulness and sympathy before your angelic features relax into a familiar, affectionate look - one he’s dreamt of many times this past year, the beauty of which could only be surpassed by the words you say next:
“Ni kar'tayl darasuum gar, Din.”
Until this moment, Din Djarin did not know what true peace in one’s soul felt like. “Ni kar'tayl darasuum gar, Princess,” he lets you pull him closer by the back of his neck until his uncovered forehead rests against yours for a helmetless Keldabe kiss.
“I thought you didn’t love me anymore,” you sniffle quietly, though your tone is one of tremendous relief.
“I could no sooner stop the rotation of a planet around its star, cyare. I’m so sorry for letting you believe that, and even more so for having hurt you,” Din’s remorse crushes his heart, “I beg your forgiveness, my Princess, and will accept any such punishment you deem fit.”
Unable to look at you, the stoic hunter attempts to shrink; you truly believe there is a part of Din that wants you to discipline him for his transgression, and that all of him believes he deserves it – your Mandalorian has always been so hard on himself. With a playful little grin, you duck down slightly so you can meet Din’s eye, “I won’t lie, General, there is no one in the known worlds who can shatter my heart and mend it so completely. I’ll let the offense go unpunished this one time, but would warn you not to do anything of the sort again.” Chuckling, more generous than cheeky, you reassure your beleaguered warrior, “I am happy, Din. There’s nothing to forgive.”
The way the tension melting from Din’s features transforms his face from world weary to that of a man ten years younger is nothing short of stunning; his voice, however, remains gruff, “It’s more than I deserve, mesh’la. Though I admit I cannot think of any worse torture than seeing you in that wedding dress and knowing it wouldn’t be me receiving you at the end of the aisle. That nearly killed me.”
Throwing your arms around Din’s neck, you bury your face in the scrunch of his neck cowl and burrow in deep and safe, comforted by your Mandalorian’s familiar scent and the sheer colossus of his being, “I hate that stupid dress.”
Din chuckles, rasping in your ear, “You looked beautiful. An absolute dream, cyare.”
Snuggling in even further, you press yourself against the strength of Din’s Beskar, seeking sanctuary in the only place you’ve ever truly found peace; as you cocoon yourself in his arms, a question you can’t seem to reason out on your own continues to gnaw at you. Looking up, you rest your chin on the heart of the General’s armour, “Din, there’s one thing I still don’t understand. Even if I thought you merely a dream, why did you show me your face on Coruscant? How was that allowed? How can you show me your face right now?”
Not without some reluctance, Din lets you leave the safety his embrace and helps you sit back comfortably on the bed; still holding your hands in his, the General rests his forearms on his thighs and leans forward, serious, “I was raised to follow the Amidalor (The Way of the Mandalore) and since speaking the Creed, have lived by the tenet to never show my face to another living being. You know that I broke this rule previously for Grogu and as a result, was deemed an apostate and stripped of my standing as a Mandalorian. Though I broke the Creed of my own volition, and I have never and nor will I ever regret anything I do for my son, my resulting exile was one of the most difficult times of my life – rivalled perhaps, by this past year away from you. It was only after I redeemed myself in the Living Waters of Mandalore that was I able to shed my shame and guilt, and truly regain my sense of self and identity.”
Your chest tightens, remembering; even when Din first told you the story, his sense of loss and anguish at being excommunicated by his covert came across so fresh and acute - seeing your big strong warrior still triggered by such a painful time in his life had nearly broken your heart.
“Having done it, violating the Creed again is not something I wish to consider in my lifetime. I’m saying all this so you know I do not take lightly to the act of removing my helmet and revealing my face,” Din says gravely. You nod along, but all this you already understood.
“In my covert, there has only ever been one known exception to the rule and that is for one’s riduur. Even this is not widely accepted among all sects, but… I believe This is the Way and choose to live by it,” Din hard swallows; sometimes he still feels like that young foundling from Aq Vetina trying to find his footing among his new people, terrified of stepping out of line, “Among all the star systems in this galaxy, there will only ever be one being to whom I will pledge myself as a lifelong partner and who I would ever consider my spouse. Though we never said the vows to one another, I belong to you, Princess, as one belongs to their riduur. Only to you will I ever commit a lifetime’s devotion, only with you do I ever wish to be equal in partnership, and to you I am so bonded that I will never raise warriors with anyone else. You see, cyare, in my heart, you are already my riduur and so my face, as with all of me, is yours.”
You’re crying now.
Though these are not the Mandalorian marriage vows Din taught to you, the sentiments of his speech so closely mirror those words on commitment, partnership, and devotion, you can easily imagine them recited at an altar in front of loved ones. If only you were not so overwhelmed with emotion right now; you wish you could find the words to properly express the magnitude of your own feelings and pledge your everlasting fidelity and love to the only man in the universe you will always give your everything.
Din sees you needlessly struggling; he doesn’t need any verbal confirmation to know you are of one mind – the pureness of your heart is written all over your pretty face; he tries to lighten the mood, joking, “I hope you understand now, mesh’la, why I took great offense to what you said earlier - when it comes to my riduur, feelings do not, in fact, change.”
You cry even harder.
Pulling you back into his arms, Din hums soothing noises into your hair and rubs gentle circles on your back as your tears cascade down the slope of his Beskar like a glittering waterfall, soaking into his flight suit. Only after your breathing evens and your body relaxes into his hold does the General let you pull away, “What happens now, Din?”
“Now, you rest and recover, cyar'ika. And after,” he pauses to kiss the back of your hands, a devoted knight swearing his allegiance, “we take it day by day, together. There is no being or force in this galaxy that can tear me away from you ever again; I will not, cannot, leave your side save by your say so, Princess.”
How you’ve missed this – the way the steady confidence of this man and the surety of his words always give you strength. With him, you’re allowed space to be unsure, vulnerable, even lost, able to rely on him to lead you to the right path with his unwavering support. Never are you more certain of who you are and what you’re capable of than when you’re with Din.
“I cannot marry him, Din.”
“No, you cannot,” his tone has the same finality, the same conviction as yours – the way one might repeat a fact as simple and true as the gravitation bond between planet and moon. Finally making this declaration out loud feels like setting your heart free from a cage; the knowledge that Din is behind you, ready to catch you, sends your spirit soaring high and into his space so that you can crash your lips to his.
This kiss, the first you’ve shared in over a year feels like coming home; it’s bathed in the relief of belonging, steeped in the comfort of knowing and being known, powerful in its own quiet calm. Euphoria washes over your entire being like an ocean, drowning you in its embrace.
Your lips move together in a well practiced choreographed dance, the two of you falling in sync easily after all this time - but there is nothing routine or neat about the way Din’s mouth devours yours. He presses into you, passion-filled, unruly, barely restrained; everything is too much and not enough, vividly felt, yet hazy and dreamy – all the most wonderful of contradictions. The General’s tongue is punishing while worshipful, each stolen breath is urgent but never-ending, this kiss feels like forever and yet could never be long enough.
You chase the end of such a kiss with a series of soft pecks, unwilling to sever the connection of your lips, except to whisper sweet affirmations to one another.
I’ve missed you.
I love you so much.
Never letting you go ever again.
Sense and practicality return too soon to your Mandalorian. “Cyare, I know I just promised never to leave you,” Din starts, chuckling at your anticipated whine of protest, “but you must allow me to fetch the doctor. And either Serene or Olivia to tend to you. Likely both as they are equally worried about you.”
“And you’ll come back?” You know he will, but there is such a comfort in the reassurance that only Din can provide.
He knows this; he knows you, “I will always come back, Princess.”
Satisfied, you let Din press one more promise to your lips before you watch him put his helmet back on and slip out the door.
---
In the hallway, Din waits for your door to fully close behind him before releasing a ragged sigh of relief, letting loose the very thread that seems to have been stitched throughout his body, holding him together this entire time; tipping his head back, Din finally lets himself properly breathe, every inhale and exhale slow and deep.
It will take more than just this moment for Din to fully embrace his new lease on life, now that the tension that’s been pulling him taut and sharp for the past year has finally dissipated - but he is content. Smiling to himself, happy, hopeful, Din is pushing off the door in the direction of your maids’ quarters when he’s stopped in his tracks by a familiar voice,
“General.”
Din turns to see the king emerge from the shadows of a nearby alcove.
“Is there something I should know about you and my daughter?”
---
Din follows His Majesty into the closest study in silence, already kneeling in fealty by the time the older man turns around to face the Mandalorian.
“Tell me, General. How long have you been in love with the Princess?”
Din does not miss the hint of accusation in the King’s tone – he resigns that the truth will serve everyone best, “Since the moment I met her, Your Majesty, and more so every day since.” He knows this is not what your father is really asking, “I had already known the Princess for several weeks when you bestowed upon me the rank of General.”
Astonishment colours your father’s expression as Din continues, “Please forgive me, sire. There was no conspiracy on either of our parts to deceive anyone, especially you, or proport ourselves inappropriately. When I first met the Princess, I was unaware of her rank and drawn to her kindness and good nature alone. It took very little time for me to fall beneath the spell of her wit and charm, and to be enraptured by the purity of her heart. By the time I learned of her royal identity, I was already head over heels for the woman who held the title.”
The king sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, needing some time to process this information, “And the entire time…?”
“Nearly, Your Majesty,” Din still cannot meet the gaze of this man who he respects and venerates so much, “After I accepted the New Republic assignment, the Princess and I attempted to put a stop to our feelings, agreeing to remain within the boundaries of our stations - to be royalty and devoted knight only. But the enormity of our respect and admiration for one another could not ultimately be contained, and after months of slowly failing restraint, we gave in to our affections for one another.”
Shaking his head, your father asks, confused, “But why would you choose to hide your relationship? Why would you keep it from your king?”
“Because,” Din’s head snaps up in surprise, he would have thought the multitude of reasons were obvious, “… she is the Princess. The hierarchy of court and kingdom is rigid – our love would never be accepted; its very existence could tarnish the Princess’ reputation and diminish the majesty of your royal house. And even if by some miracle it did not, I still cannot be the future you envisioned for your daughter.”
The Mandalorian bows his head again, missing the way your father’s mouth curls with amusement, “The Princess is, by her own admission, someone with great political and diplomatic worth; membership into your great house is coveted by many in the galaxy. Your Majesty, you must have had some expectations as to the type of person who would be deserving of marrying her? Certainly, someone of importance, with their own respectable standing in the kingdom if not the galaxy. Perhaps even a title or belonging to an esteemed and celebrated lineage? At the very least, you must wish her marriage to bring political or security advantage to Solana. The Princess expects no less of herself.”
“And that, General, is how you see my daughter? What you deem her worth?”
“No, sire. As much as I respect her rank, the Princess’ title has no place in the esteem I hold for her,” Din’s modulated voice fills with emotion, his admiration evident to your father, “To me, she is… ethereal. Truly one of the humblest, genuinely compassionate beings I’ve ever met – that she wields the power of her position with such grace and thoughtfulness is Solana’s great fortune and its true source of strength. Your daughter is smart and funny, and despite her immense privilege she does not shelter herself – she exhibits such genuine zest for life and affection for people of all walks. Her spirit is strong and full of grace, but she can be feisty and stubborn – there is never a dull moment with her. Beyond everything, the Princess is open with her mind and generous with her heart - I cannot say there is another like her in all the worlds.”
It feels incredible to be so effusive about your amazing qualities. Due to the secret nature of your relationship, Din has never espoused his never-ending admiration for you out loud to anyone except for Grogu; to be able to do so to your father, a man to whom Din credits many of your merits, feels like a gift, “If it were up to me, Your Majesty, the Princess would only know love and reverence for her character and not her status - she should have a partner who worships the very ground she walks on. But duty comes first, and that is not something either of us would have her hide from. Your daughter’s marriage should strengthen your great house and raise the glory of Solana, keeping her safe and prosperous. And I cannot offer any of that. I am no one.”
“Are you sure, General?” The king straightens his posture, standing regal and self assured, “That you are no one?”
Your father gestures for the Mandalorian to rise and holds unwavering eye contact with the dark T-visor as his most revered commander gets up, “How can you say you are no one, General? Are you not the leader of my armies? Do Solana’s military forces not look to you as their shining example of exemplary combat skill and strategic intellect? They trust you to lead and support them in training, demonstrate for them conduct befitting the deepest, truest sense of honour, duty and valour. And why would they not? You treat your brothers in arms like equals and protect their families like your own despite having no ancestral ties to this land or personal reasons to pledge allegiance to their sovereign. Are you not a hero of the Battle of Planoor, where you led our troops to victory over Imperial insurgents? Did you not repel the scourge of the galaxy and their attacks on Solanian freedom at great personal risk to yourself? If I’m not mistaken, you bear a permanent souvenir of that day on your body that would have dealt a lesser man a much more tragic fate.”
The gentle warmth of your father’s eyes and the pride that shines from their depths is undeniable, “General, even if I had not decorated you for these accomplishments myself, I would still hold you in my esteem as one of the finest men in the galaxy. You came to our planet a stranger and took every citizen of Solana under your protection; I’ve personally witness you defend and care for my subjects as if they were of your own Creed. Never does the core of one's character ring clearer to me than in the way they show up for the innocent and defenseless; you, General, stand for what’s right and fair, always with compassion, and ever respectful of the dignity we owe to all living beings. Decency, General, is your greatest strength.”
“Tell me this, General,” the king’s tone grows indulgent and paternal, “What type of man gives so selflessly to those from whom he would never consider asking for repayment? The same that exhibits bravery and perseverance in the face of insurmountable odds, I would think. A man who fights through his own struggles to approach even the most daunting of challenges head on in the name of justice and truth. What chance does evil and tyranny have against this type of man who willingly puts his life on the line and never backs down from a righteous fight? Who leads by tireless example and inspires an entire nation to do the same? General, I can not fathom how a man such as you are could view himself as no one or think himself unable to offer Solana prosperity and safety.”
Though, to most, he is generally considered a man of few words, Din has never found himself to be truly speechless until now. He was raised to be honourable for the sake of honour, brave for bravery’s sake, and that even if a Mandalorian had nothing, he would always have his integrity; praise for living The Way is something that will always catch Din off guard. While he’s still absorbing the generosity of your father’s words, the older man flabbergasts him yet again, “General, did you truly think I requested your return to Solana in order to review security plans?”
Behind his visor, Din’s eyes grow to the size of saucers, his attempts to speak fall flat; the modulator of his helmet picking up only awkward stuttering as the Mandalorian opens and closes his mouth repeatedly.
“I admit it took me longer than it should to make the connection between your leaving and my daughter’s change in demeanor. She is, as you say, strong and spirited; and while she hid her sadness well, I know my own daughter and it was clear to me that something within her had broken,” the king speaks freely, the anguish of being unable to comfort his own child still an open wound, “I did suspect her upcoming marriage was the source of her dread, and privately, considered cancelling the betrothal entirely if she should wish it. It baffled me that she was trying to hide her obvious unhappiness with the arrangement, and the more she insisted she was fine, the less I believed her.”
Scratching his head, your father mentally retraces his own steps, “Any which way I thought about it, my daughter’s misery could be traced back to the date of her engagement, so I saw no reason for her to continue denying it… that is, until I realized it was also the same day you abruptly left Solana. Up until that moment, I did not suspect there was anything more to your attachment than respect and a general fondness, but once I started to seriously consider your departure as the trigger for the Princess’ melancholy, I had to rethink everything I thought I knew. Was it possible that your leaving and my daughter’s betrothal were not as unrelated as you had made it seen?”
Din is nodding along now, but the proper response to your father’s story still eludes him. “I needed to know for certain. I could not let my daughter sink deeper into a sorrow that she would not even admit to, so I sent you the invitation. Forgive me for my duplicity, General – I knew that as a loyal son of Solana you would heed my call, even if it caused you what I was beginning to realize would be great pain,” his Majesty does look slightly sheepish, “You arrived and almost immediately proved my theories correct – perhaps you thought you were being subtle, but the effect you and the Princess had on one another in the East Wing parlour was tangible, electric – it charged the very air of the room. There could be no doubt about it, there was something powerful between the two of you, I just didn’t know the extent and depth of that connection, of that love – or rather, I didn’t know until I overheard the two of you just now when the Princess work up.” Upon finishing, your father looks satisfied, relieved.
“I love her, Your Majesty.” It’s the truth. And the only thing Din thinks is worthy of saying right now.
“I know.” The king’s tone is full of fondness for his General, “And I cannot think of anyone better to whom I could entrust my daughter’s heart than the protector of the realm she loves so much. But neither of us can nor should we speak for the Princess. Come, let us hear what she has to say on the matter.”
---
Din paces the hall outside of your room for what feels like hours. He’s been out here alone since your father left him at the door, except for the doctor who came and left, and the few appearances by Serene and Olivia as they rushed about their duties.
The General is still in a state of shock over what’s transpired since he found you on the Southside turret; from the complete dismantling of all his emotional walls, to your forgiveness and the reconfirmation of your love, then unbelievably, your father’s revelations – every development has felt overwhelmingly surreal. Never in all of Din’s wildest dreams did he imagine that he would find himself in this position – and on top of everything, something even more unexpected and precarious has started to roost in his chest, a stealthy assassin that shadows his every thought: hope.
The door to your room opens to your father exiting while bidding you a swift recovery and a good night; though Din cannot hear the man’s exact words, he can tell they are full of paternal affection. When the king turns, he makes for Din directly; expression poignant, eyes misty and full of wisdom, he clasps a hand to the Mandalorian’s shoulder pauldron, “She’s waiting for you, son.”
There’s no time to linger on the significance of the endearment, nor the litany of emotions that surge through the Mandalorian upon hearing it, because from inside the room you call to him, voice full of song, “Din!”
He leaves your father to saunter down the hall with a renewed lightness in his steps, and rushes to your bedside, kneeling once more before the ruler of his grateful heart. You receive the collapsing frame of the strongest man you know in your open arms and tuck yourself into his covered neck, ecstatically crying. Cupping your face, Din brushes his leathered thumbs over your wet cheeks, “Mesh’la;” he waits for you to speak more, afraid still of his own hope.
“Din! I am to be engaged no longer,” the joy in your eyes sparkles like the most brilliant of constellations, your cheeks are flushed as if you had pinched them in disbelief, and your rosy lips quiver in hopeful excitement. Din thinks this might be the most beautiful you’ve ever looked. A celestial glow radiates from your very being, “Father says he will meet with our bannermen tonight and cancel the betrothal. He will explain I’m not yet ready to be a wife and that the anxiety has been affecting my health. They are old family friends of court, so he believes they will be understanding, but he is fully prepared to offer and provide all necessary rewards and compensation for any trouble or distressed sustained. Father has tried to reassure me all will be okay, but I admit to some feelings of guilt.”
Din strokes your hair lovingly, forever amazed by the extent of your compassion and empathy, “I trust His Majesty, cyare. I am sure all will be well, as he promised. But if you do wish to speak to your former fiancé and his family directly, I will be right there with you for support.”
Hugging him tightly before pulling back to gaze into the welcoming abyss of Din’s visor, your fingers gently caress his helmet as you would the lines of his handsome face, “Will you stay now, Din? On Solana? With me?”
The silver dome tilts forward and its vocoder cannot mask the sincerity and conviction of Din’s pledge, “My place is and will forever be, by your side, Princess. My weapons are yours to command, my heart is yours to hold; I fight in your name, I love in your name and the honour of doing both will forever be a part of my own personal Creed.”
Your poetic warrior. There are no words that can properly express the immense joy and gratitude you feel for being so well loved, not only by the great man before you, but the other great man in your life, the king. How lucky are you? To have such a benevolent, compassionate man as your father, your mentor, and to be the chosen partner of a man who equals him in courage, decency, and selflessness? It’s all you can do to keep from bursting into tears again.
And just when you think that this is the happiest a person could ever feel, Din, still down on one knee, holds out his Mythosaur pendant in offering and says in a voice so hushed it could almost be mistaken for his natural, unmodulated baritone,
“Princess. Cyar’ika. Though it is only very recently you find yourself engaged no longer, would you bestow upon me the honour of being engaged once more?”
It’s a dream, this must be a dream, you think, as you whisper back, “Yes.”
Unable to hold back the flood of happy tears any longer, you let them fall freely and press your forehead to your future riduur’s helm, sealing in your forever with a Keldabe kiss.
1 year later
On any other planet (save Mandalore, and possibly Nevarro), a Beskar covered warrior strolling casually through an outdoor market might look out of place, but not on Solana. As Din walks down the main fairway, a head taller than every one else, he does garner a fair bit of attention, but it’s of the most welcomed variety.
“Good to see you, General!”
“Solana is glad to have its General home!”
He waves to every well wisher, shakes a few hands, and accepts offers of food and other wares from the local vendors; he has to struggle with a few to convince them to accept payment, but at the end of the day, it’s a rare being who can say no to a Mandalorian. On a few occasions, Din has to excuse himself hastily, cutting the small talk short on account of needing to keep an eye on Grogu who wanders the market ahead of his father, also happily accepting gifts - mainly of the food sort.
Father and son are heading in the direction of the National Library to surprise you with an early return from their latest mission for the New Republic. Halfway to their destination, Din spots a familiar figure leaning over a vendor table, examining its goods – slightly bemused and genuinely curious, Din saunters over and looms behind his unsuspecting target for several seconds before uttering, low and dangerous,
“Mayfeld.”
The bald-headed man spins around, wide-eyed and stunned, “Mando!” Out of habit, he raises his hands in the air to show that he’s unarmed, innocent, “What are you doing here?”
“The General lives here,” the vendor interjects in a tone the suggests the answer should be obvious, “Welcome home, General.” Din and the vendor exchange polite nods before the latter goes to help another customer. Meanwhile, Mayfeld purses his lips into a smile, amused by this newly acquired information, “General, eh? Listen, Mando – I’m not here for any trouble! I’ve been living the straight and narrow life since…” he shrugs and turns his palms upward to make a gesture that Din assumes is meant to indicate Mayfeld’s prison break, faked death, or both. “I’m just trying to find a place to settle down, have a nice, quiet life. And Solana’s known to be friendly to those looking to make a fresh start! I swear I didn’t know that… whoa, whoa… wait a minute!” Mayfeld’s expression turns panicked as he spots the Royal Guard change the direction of their march and make a beeline to where he’s standing with Din.
“Relax, Mayfeld,” chuckles Din, “they’re here for me, not you.”
The synchronized footsteps of Solana’s finest come to a halt a few feet from their fearless leader, standing in the position of attention, they salute in unison, “General! Welcome back, General!”
Din returns their salute with an invitation to be at ease, then warmly greets the Lieutenant who steps forward with a clasp of forearms, “Lieutenant, right on schedule. I’m happy to inform you that I can grant you and your men early dismissal from your duties today.”
The uniformed man tuts jovially and nods in understanding, “The offer is appreciated, General. If it’s all the same to you, the Guard will accompany you to the library, and from there, you can relieve us of our charge.”
Din gives his second-in-command a hearty clap on the shoulder to indicate his appreciation and agreement with this plan; at their commander’s approval, the troops resume their previous course, with Din also preparing to move once he confirms that Grogu is still wandering ahead in that same direction.
Mayfeld has yet to recover from the wonder of this exchange when Din addresses him again, “Let’s go, Mayfeld. If you’re serious about settling down on Solana, it’s best you come with me.” Even if the man thought that the Mandalorian bore him ill will (which Migs’ gut tells him he does not), he would be a fool to refuse after having just witnessed Din’s command over the planet’s security forces.
A few minutes of walking in silence is all Mayfeld can manage, “So, Mando… these guys work for you?”
“We all serve the King of Solana.”
“Right, right. But, like, you’re their leader?”
“I’m their commanding officer, yes.”
“Did you have to… I dunno, fight and defeat the previous General for the position or something?”
“No.”
“Hey, is that your little green guy up ahead?”
“Yes, that’s Grogu.”
“Okay, okay! He’s bigger than the last time I saw him… you remember? We were on that… you know what? Never mind where that was, he’s definitely bigger! He’s a growing… boy?”
“Yes, boy.”
“And you know, Mando… just in case, you were worried, I want you to know, I kept my promise… I’ve never told anyone I saw your face or what you look like… as far as I’m concerned, that never happened.”
“I wasn’t worried.”
“Right, right… and you still don’t do that, right? Show anybody anything?? I don’t mean any disrespect to the Creed! It just seems like a lot of things have changed since the last time we… hung out? Took out some Imps? You know what I’m getting at, Mando?”
And so on and so forth, the primarily one-sided nervous chattering is non-stop for the entire walk. Din can’t pretend he isn’t amused, but his Beskar covers it well. He keeps his answers short and clipped, mainly to mess with Migs, but also so he can keep his attention on the library building as it comes into view.
The General knows you’re coming out before he even sees you because he hears an adorable squeak emanating from his son, followed by Grogu turning into a little green blur scurrying at an impressive speed up the library’s front steps.
“Little love!” Your voice rings out sweet and melodious as you exit the front doors, quickening your own steps forward to meet the small green fur ball that force jumps into your arms. You cuddle him close and flutter kisses all over his happy face, “You’re home early!”
“Are you okay? Did you get hurt?” You fuss lovingly over your son, letting him coo back his reassurances, then tickle him adoringly - the two of you purring and giggling in reunion, oblivious to all those around you. Nuzzling your nose into the top of Gorgu’s soft head to smell his sweet scent, you ask the single most important of questions, “Are you hungry?” followed by, “Where is your father?”
As an answer to the latter, Grogu points to where Din is standing, and to the former, he drops from your arms and waddles over to a captain of the Royal Guard who had somehow been relegated to holding all your son’s collected market snacks.
You pick up your skirts and run straight for the General, flying into his arms with a force that would have knocked a lesser man onto his back. But he isn’t a lesser man, he's your man. A Mandalorian. Your smile is so wide and bright, Din thinks for a moment his helmet HUD has been blinded – but perhaps it’s simply that his own eyes have crinkled closed from smiling so hard himself.
To be back in Din’s arms after nearly three weeks apart, your longest separation since his official return to Solana, feels like a homecoming; all the tension and worry floats from you body as he lifts you off your feet and you melt into the brilliance and safety of his armoured embrace.
To be in Din’s arms at all, out here in the open, is something you will never take for granted.
Even after your previous engagement was dissolved, you and Din agreed to continue keeping your relationship a secret from your subjects. Your main concern had been the feelings of your former fiancé and his family. Though the long-time friends and trusted members of court had accepted your father’s decision to end the betrothal with grace and understanding, flaunting your and Din’s love so soon after would have been beyond inconsiderate, cruel even. The idea that people who have been nothing but kind and loyal to the crown might suffer embarrassment due to whisperings and gossip was more than you could stomach. Privately, you also worried that the public might mistakenly blame Din or think him capable of something dishonourable.
Your father had supported discretion – in his experience, the general population preferred to be spared the messy details of palace life, and very rarely reacted well to multiple announcements of change; it would be best to wait and let Solanians come around to the cancellation of the royal wedding in their own time, before springing anything new on them.
Behind the closed doors of the castle, however, there was no need for any such prudence. You were free to openly hold Din’s hand, express you admiration and appreciation for the man, praise him, tease him in front of others, shower him with affection. Even this liberation was more than you had ever dared to dream for your love; to this day, you continue to cherish every open touch, every uninterrupted embrace, every endearment spoken in front of others. Your attraction and desire for one another you still kept private, sacred for just the two of you, but now there was no more need for pretense, no more false goodbyes at the dinner table, no more sneaking into your bedchambers via the balcony.
Finally, your love could just breathe; it could blossom in the light, instead of shrinking into the safety of the shadows. You and Din could touch, comfort, even look at one another without being mindful of who was around, how much time had past, that it might be the last time. For all of the privilege and fortune of your title, there is nothing you will ever prize more than an unhurried morning spent with the love of your life, restful and worry free.
In public, everything remained above board; you kept things subtle and formal, Din remained close and protective - the most devoted knight to his Princess. You really ought to have given the people of Solana more credit.
That Din’s return to the realm and the dissolution of your betrothal occurred in short order was neither here nor there, barely registering to your subjects as mere coincidence. What they did notice was that their Princess appeared happier, lighter, no longer beleaguered by the unknown sadness that had plagued you for the past year. You once again exuded the joie de vivre that they had so missed, exemplifying the passion and optimism that many consider the foundation of Solanian culture; they were getting their Princess back.
The General, long admired for his strategic brilliance, combat skills and strong leadership, Solanians welcomed back on his own merits. But it wasn’t long before his public appearances with you drew eyes to him in a way they had not previously. His protective positioning over you was one of a supportive shield, always gentle, never aggressive or oppressive – he hovered at the ready without ever interfering with your authority; you were free and safe to be your authentic self, a bright star around which his calm, steady presence naturally orbited.
His intuition always place him right where you needed him to be, anticipatory and respectful. He doted over you. Quietly spoiled you. He cared for you a great deal - that much was obvious to those with eyes to see. Over time, Capital inhabitants who would describe themselves ranging from inquisitive to flat-out nosy, noticed that the General would often reach for you before catching himself, that the unseen eyes behind the black T-visor lingered on you longer than necessary, that the press of his guiding hand on your back was more affectionate than instructive. After several months of observed ‘evidence’, confident in their powers of deduction, Solanians collectively concluded that the General was indeed in love with their Princess; and rather endearingly, united in their hope that the Princess may one day return his affections.
To the absolute delight of the now invested realm, it appeared that you were slowly opening your heart to the hardened warrior. His quiet words made you laugh out loud and his thoughtful attention drew from you the most breathtaking of smiles. His soft touches were allowed to linger longer and then longer, and eventually, you began returning them with you own. You faced each other, walked side by side – no longer royalty followed by a knight in her service, but equals, trusted confidants. The day you took Din’s arm while strolling through the capital’s market place, the glassware vendors won a handsome wager from the weaving merchants. As the encouraging smiles and approving glances from the public grew bolder and more apparent, so did your public displays of familiarity and affection, until hand holding, long embraces, and forehead to helmet touches while amongst your people were all common place.
You could not have been more grateful for their support, but to your subjects, loving their sovereign as well as she had always loved them, was an honour. For Solanians, the sight of their Princess happy and safe in the arms of their General was cause for celebration – and so, without any formal announcement, your attachment was a secret no longer.
You murmur into where the fabric of Din’s cape meets his cowl the same questions you asked his son, “Are you okay? Did you get hurt?” Fingers digging and groping all the soft spots between the Beskar, you nuzzle in deep, ready to hibernate in Din’s warmth after so many long days apart. Din squeezes you back tightly, “I’m perfect now that I’m back with you, mesh’la. No injuries this time.”
His modulated husk sends shivers down your spine and you wiggle in the Mandalorian’s strong grip with a little bit of cheek, “I’ll feel better when I check you over myself later.”
“Me too,” Din’s voice is liquid velvet, his words a promise.
The two of you share a private chuckle before he presses the helm of his silver dome to your forehead and holds the kiss for a quiet moment. Only when Din unhands you do you notice the stranger next to him eyeing the two of you with what can only be described as incredulous shock. To your surprise, Din acknowledges him directly, “Mayfeld, let me introduce to you the Princess of Solana -”
Mayfield bows, somehow both in awe and disbelieving that his old acquaintance can make such a fortuitous introduction, “Your Highness, it’s an honour-”
“- my wife,” Din finishes, grin evident to anyone within earshot.
Tossing all attempts at decorum aside, Mayfeld’s head snaps up to stare confoundedly at the Beskar-clad man, practically screeching, “Your wife?!?”
You can’t help but look over at Din in amazement as well, unable to conceal the thrill and pride that runs through you at having being claimed out loud and proud.
You and Din had quietly married six months ago in a small ceremony attended by only a handful of your closest friends and family; then honeymooned for ten blissful days on Nevarro, just the two of you. Trading in your titles and rank for domesticity and the simple life of Din’s cabin on the lava flats, you don’t think you’ve ever felt quite as carefree or relaxed in all your life as you did as a newlywed in the Outer Rim. Your days were spent leisurely: meeting Din’s old friends, breaking bread with Magistrate Karga, giggling with the Anzellans who called you “Pretty Lady” (“Good job, Big Guy!”), long and lazy blurrg rides over the planet’s rocky flats and hills, perusing for souvenirs in the Nevarro City market, coming home to the isolated quiet of your cozy abode. Your nights were equally as varied, with Din taking you at all hours in every manner, on each and every surface of his house. There was much to be said for the freedom to be as loud as you wanted, as wanton in your cries of ecstasy as you needed, as prolific and unrestrained in your lust for your riduur as you desired. Helmet on, helmet off, it didn’t matter – the man you rode for hours, naked and dripping wet in the planet’s volcanic hot springs was yours and you didn’t care who heard.
Upon return from your little slice of heaven, there didn’t appear any obvious reason to announce your marriage. If their past behaviour was to be any indication, your subjects would likely figure it out in time – there was no rush, if you were happy, they were happy; as far as Solanians were concerned, their Princess had already selected the future King consort and they wholeheartedly approved.
Accordingly, the opportunities to be announced as Din’s wife have been few and far between; you study this Mayfeld with tremendous curiosity - who is this man to Din that he would so openly and happily share such an intimate detail about your lives?
“Yes,” you nod happily, “I am his riduur.”
The man resumes his awkwardly low bow, “Congratulations, Your Highness! Uh, and well done, Mando… I mean, General.”
Din’s large hand rubs your lower back lovingly as you bend over to pick up Grogu, who after satiating his craving for Solanian delicacies, has come seeking your attention; as you straighten, Din pats a still stunned Mayfeld on the back and answers your unspoken question, “Mayfeld helped me obtain some critical Imperial intel at great risk to himself. Without him, we would not have so quickly rescued Grogu from Moff Gideon.”
“Oh!” Your eyes widen in understanding, “Thank you, Mr. Mayfeld! Thank you for helping rescue my son!” Familiar with most parts of the tale, you’re incredibly interested to learn more about this man and his role in Din and Grogu’s life before you, but more than that, you’re truly grateful, “Please join us at the castle for dinner tonight! Have you yet to find lodging? If not, you shall be our honoured guest until you do. And if you should ever decide to extend your stay on Solana, I will personally do what I can to help you settle in as comfortably as possible.”
You slide your arm through Mayfeld’s as he thanks you and tells you to call him Migs. Then Mayfeld, you, and Grogu in your arms, form a chain and start heading towards the castle, the Royal Guard walking alongside in perfect formation. Din admires the sway of your hips and the graceful glide of your movements for a few minutes before shifting his soulful gaze to his son chirping happily in your arms, safe, full, loved.
Following from behind, Din is catching up on military reports and capital news with his Lieutenant when he’s distracted by the sight of you throwing your head back in laughter, genuinely amused by something Mayfeld has just told you – likely an anecdote that the Mandalorian might prefer to stay buried alongside Mayfeld’s prison record. Both you and Mayfeld turn at the same time to look at Din; you with a cheeky grin and a cute little shrug before you turn back around, Mayfeld looking absolutely gobsmacked while dramatically mouthing, “YOUR WIFE?!?!?!” then returning his attention to you.
Din maintains his pace, keeping an adoring and protective eye on you and his son, his family, from a comfortable distance; grinning broadly beneath the helmet, he murmurs to no one in particular, proud and content, “My wife.”
🎶All Night by Beyoncé🎶:
Found the truth beneath your lies
And true love never has to hide
(True love never has to hide)
I'll trade your broken wings for mine
(Trade your broken wings for mine)
I've seen your scars and kissed your crime
(Seen your scars and kissed your crime)
All night long
Love, all night long
Sweet love, all night long
Sweet love, all night long
All I wanna, ain't no other
We together, I remember
Sweet love, all night long
They say true love's the greatest weapon
To win the war caused by pain (pain)
But every diamond has imperfections
But my love's too pure to watch it chip away (chip a-, chip a-, chip away)
Boy, nothing real can be threatened
True love breathes salvation back into me
With every tear came redemption
And my torturer became my remedy
All night long
Love, all night long
Sweet love, all night long
Sweet love, all night long
All I wanna, ain't no other
We together, I remember
Sweet love, all night long
How I missed you, my love
A few tags for those who have commented or reblogged that I tortured them with the angst - I am sorry again and thank you for supporting me and this series! @okiegal68 @bishtrouille @johnssherlock221 @baronessvonglitter @la-vie-est-une-fleur29
summary: Clark Kent is helplessly in love, catastrophically awkward about it, and somehow even more charming because of it.
Clark “Superman” Kent
word count: 3k
a/n: this is a little something i made this week while i was waiting for my next class (cause why is there always a 2 hr gap??) I hope you enjoy! (*cough cough* jake seresin next?) side note: have u ever had a teacher who’s been edging u w the perfect grade? cause that’s me in english rn like pls i was so good in hs what is happening now
warnings: dangerously awkward flirting, excessive yearning, Clark Kent being down horrendous, coffee casualties, physical affection, kissing, secondhand embarrassment, umbrella sharing, weaponized eye contact, mild language
Clark Kent looked like the kind of man who should know how to flirt.
Tall. Broad shoulders. Gentle eyes hidden behind glasses that absolutely did not disguise the fact that he was unfairly handsome.
And yet—
“I panicked,” he admitted as coffee spread across the bullpen floor.
You stared at him from beside your desk, blinking slowly while reporters twisted in their chairs to watch the disaster unfold.
“You spilled an entire latte because I touched your arm?”
Clark adjusted his glasses with the expression of a man facing public execution. “In my defense,” he said weakly, “you’re very pretty.”
Somewhere across the newsroom, somebody choked on a laugh.
You looked down at the coffee dripping off the edge of Clark’s desk. Then back up at him. Then at the completely soaked stack of papers in his hands.
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
“I know.”
“No, I mean—” You pointed at the papers. “Weren’t those your interview notes?”
Clark glanced down.
The color drained from his face. “Oh no.”
The bullpen erupted.
Jimmy Olsen burst into laughter so hard he physically folded over his desk. Someone else wolf-whistled. Perry White shouted something from his office about professionalism that nobody listened to.
Clark stood frozen in the middle of it all looking deeply, deeply miserable.
And weirdly adorable.
You pressed your lips together, trying not to smile. “You’re kind of a disaster, Kent.”
He looked at you over the rim of his glasses, visibly horrified. “You think I’m a disaster?”
“I think,” you said carefully, “that you just sacrificed your notes to avoid having a conversation with me.”
“That’s not what happened.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He paused. “Mostly.”
Jimmy made a loud fake coughing noise that sounded suspiciously like he likes you.
Clark shot him a betrayed look.
You laughed before you could stop yourself.
And that—that seemed to make Clark’s entire brain shut down.
Because he stared at you for half a second too long, looking startled by the sound, before smiling instinctively.
It hit you like a truck.
Not because he was handsome—you had unfortunately noticed that weeks ago when you’d first started at the Daily Planet—but because his smile changed his whole face.
Clark smiling felt warm. Soft. Like sunlight through open curtains.
Your stomach flipped embarrassingly hard.
Clark seemed to realize he was still staring at you at the exact same moment you realized you were staring back.
He immediately looked away so quickly he knocked another coffee cup over with his elbow.
“Oh my God,” Jimmy wheezed.
-
Working at the Daily Planet meant existing in a constant state of chaos.
Phones rang nonstop. Reporters argued across desks. Perry barked deadlines like military orders while interns sprinted through the bullpen carrying stacks of papers and half-dead laptops.
You’d only been there three months, but somehow it already felt normal.
Mostly because of Clark.
Which was ridiculous.
You barely knew him. Technically.
But Clark Kent had this strange gravitational pull to him. The kind that made people naturally drift toward him without realizing it.
He remembered everyone’s coffee orders. Held doors open. Asked about your day and actually listened to the answer.
He was impossibly kind in a way that should’ve felt fake considering he looked like that, but somehow didn’t.
Honestly, the man looked like he’d been engineered in a lab specifically to make people stare.
Broad chest. Strong hands. Dark curls that always fell messily over his forehead no matter how many times he pushed them back.
And his eyes.
Jesus Christ.
You’d made the mistake of maintaining eye contact with him once during a meeting and forgotten your own name halfway through a sentence.
Which apparently wasn’t a problem exclusive to you.
Because Clark got nervous around you too. Painfully nervous.
At first you thought you imagined it.
Then you noticed patterns.
Clark dropping things whenever you walked too close to him. Clark forgetting what he was saying mid-conversation because you smiled at him. Clark volunteering for stories on the opposite side of Metropolis whenever you wore something nice.
It was honestly kind of endearing.
Today, however, was especially bad.
You walked into the break room around noon and stopped short.
Clark was standing at the counter holding a mug that literally bent in his hand.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Ceramic cracked beneath his fingers.
Clark stared down at it in horror.
You stared at him.
“…Did you just Hulk-smash a coffee mug?”
Clark nearly jumped out of his skin. “What? No.”
You pointed.
The handle fell off the mug and hit the floor.
Clark looked genuinely distressed. “I can explain.”
“I would love to hear this explanation actually.”
He glanced around the empty break room like he was searching for divine intervention.
“It was slippery.”
“The mug exploded.”
“It’s a very slippery mug.”
You laughed again.
Clark visibly melted.
Not metaphorically either. The man genuinely seemed to lose all motor function when you laughed near him.
It was becoming a problem.
“You know,” you said, leaning against the counter, “for a Pulitzer-winning reporter, you’re a terrible liar.”
Clark ducked his head, smiling sheepishly. “That obvious?”
“Clark, you once told Perry your laptop stopped working because of solar flares.”
“They can interfere with technology.”
“Sure.”
“It’s science.”
“You sounded like a conspiracy podcast host.”
Clark huffed out a laugh.
God.
That was dangerous too.
Because Clark didn’t laugh quietly. He laughed fully. Warm and surprised and bright like he couldn’t help it.
You liked making him do it.
Probably more than you should.
“You’re staring,” Clark said softly.
You blinked.
Shit.
“I am not.”
One dark eyebrow lifted.
You folded your arms immediately. “Okay, maybe a little.”
Clark’s ears turned pink.
And for some reason, that made you bold.
“You get flustered really easily for someone who looks like he belongs on a magazine cover.”
Clark made a choking noise. “A magazine—”
“You know exactly what you look like, Kent.”
“I really don’t think I do.”
“That’s actually insane.”
Clark rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Well… I think you’re beautiful, so maybe we’re both insane.”
The room went completely silent.
Your heartbeat stuttered.
Clark seemed to realize what he’d said a full three seconds later.
“Oh my God,” he whispered to himself.
Then he physically walked into a cabinet.
You slapped a hand over your mouth.
Clark stood there with his eyes squeezed shut like he wanted the earth to swallow him whole.
“You okay?” you asked, voice shaking with suppressed laughter.
“Never better.”
“You hit that cabinet really hard.”
“I’m durable.”
You snorted.
Clark looked absolutely devastated by his own existence.
And somehow, impossibly, it made him even cuter.
-
Lois Lane cornered you two days later.
“You like him.”
You nearly inhaled your own coffee. “What?”
Lois sat casually on the edge of your desk like she wasn’t about to ruin your entire life.
“You and Smallville.”
“We are coworkers.”
“You look at him like he personally invented romance.”
You opened your mouth.
Closed it.
Lois smirked.
“Oh my God,” you muttered.
“Yeah, that’s usually the reaction.”
You dropped your head onto your desk dramatically. “Is it that obvious?”
“To me? Absolutely.”
“This is humiliating.”
“Nah.” Lois nudged your shoulder. “It’s cute.”
Cute.
Right.
Except your crush on Clark Kent felt less cute and more actively life-threatening.
Because the problem with Clark wasn’t just that he was attractive.
It was that he was good.
Everywhere you looked, Clark was helping someone.
Carrying absurdly heavy boxes for interns. Staying late to help fact-check stories. Walking little old ladies across busy streets outside the Planet building.
Once, you’d watched him stop in the middle of a conversation because he noticed a little kid crying outside through the bullpen windows.
Clark had excused himself immediately and come back twenty minutes later with melted ice cream on his sleeve and a shy explanation about helping the kid find his dad.
Who does that?
Who is actually like that?
“You’re smiling,” Lois said knowingly.
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
Unfortunately, she was right.
Lois leaned closer. “So what’s the hold up?”
“What?”
“With Clark.”
You stared at her. “There is no ‘with Clark.’”
“Please. That man looks at you like you hung the moon.”
Your stomach flipped violently.
“That’s dramatic.”
“It’s accurate.”
Before you could respond, a familiar voice called your name from across the bullpen.
You looked up instinctively.
Big mistake.
Clark was walking toward you holding a file folder against his chest, glasses slipping down his nose slightly. His tie was crooked. His hair looked windswept like he’d just sprinted back from somewhere.
Which honestly was possible.
The man moved weirdly fast.
Clark smiled the second he saw you.
And there it was again.
That stupid, soft sunlight feeling.
Lois watched your entire expression change and looked unbearably smug about it.
“I’m going to kill you,” you muttered.
“Worth it.”
Clark reached your desk, slightly out of breath. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
For a second, both of you just stood there smiling at each other like idiots.
Lois made a fake gagging noise before hopping off the desk. “I’m leaving before this turns into a Hallmark movie.”
Clark looked alarmed. “What turns into a Hallmark movie?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly.
“Everything,” Lois corrected.
Then she disappeared into the crowd of desks before either of you could stop her.
Clark looked adorably confused.
You looked anywhere except directly at him.
“So,” Clark said after a moment. “I, uh… brought those files you asked for.”
He handed them over carefully.
Your fingers brushed his.
Clark froze.
You felt him freeze.
The entire atmosphere shifted instantly.
It was ridiculous.
A tiny touch shouldn’t feel electric.
And yet.
Clark swallowed hard. “You okay?”
“You’re asking me?”
A nervous laugh escaped him.
“You just—” He stopped himself abruptly.
“What?”
Clark stared at you for one long second like he was debating something internally. “Nothing.”
“Clark.”
“It’s not important.”
“Clark.”
His shoulders slumped in surrender. “You just make me nervous.”
The honesty in his voice hit you straight in the chest.
“You make me nervous too,” you admitted quietly.
Clark blinked.
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope.”
“But you seem so calm around me.”
You stared at him. “Clark, last week you smiled at me and I walked directly into the women’s restroom instead of the elevator.”
For a beat of silence, Clark just looked at you.
Then he laughed.
Not a polite chuckle.
Not a soft huff.
An actual laugh.
Head tipped back slightly. Eyes crinkling behind his glasses. Warm and bright and helpless.
Your heart basically dissolved on the spot.
“You think I’m funny?” you asked weakly.
Clark looked at you like that was the dumbest question he’d ever heard.
“I think you’re incredible.”
Oh.
Oh, you were in serious trouble.
-
It started raining halfway through your walk home.
Not normal rain either.
The kind of dramatic Metropolis downpour that felt personally targeted.
You groaned as cold water soaked through your jacket within seconds. “Seriously?”
“You forgot your umbrella too?”
You turned.
Clark stood a few feet away under a massive black umbrella, glasses speckled with rain.
Of course he had an umbrella.
Clark looked like the kind of man who reminded other people to bring umbrellas.
“You stalking me, Kent?”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “Coincidence. I was getting groceries.”
He lifted a paper bag slightly.
You frowned. “How are those not soaked already?”
Clark glanced at the perfectly dry bag in confusion before quickly holding the umbrella lower. “Good umbrella?”
You narrowed your eyes.
Clark smiled innocently.
Suspicious.
Still, he stepped closer, angling the umbrella over both of you.
Warmth immediately surrounded you.
Clark smelled ridiculously good. Like clean laundry and coffee and something faintly earthy after the rain.
You tried not to notice.
Failed horribly.
“You can’t walk me home every time it rains, you know.”
Clark looked down at you. “I can try.”
Oh.
Oh, that was dangerous.
The city blurred around you as you walked side by side through the rain.
Cars hissed past on wet streets. Neon signs reflected off puddles. Somewhere nearby, someone played music loud enough to echo between buildings.
Clark kept subtly adjusting the umbrella to make sure you stayed covered.
Meanwhile his own shoulder was getting soaked.
“You’re terrible at sharing umbrellas,” you informed him.
Clark blinked. “I am?”
“You’re getting rained on.”
“That’s okay.”
“No, move over.”
You grabbed his sleeve and tugged him closer underneath the umbrella.
Clark immediately went completely still beside you.
Your arm brushed his.
Heat radiated through the contact even through layers of clothing.
Clark looked down at you slowly.
And there it was again.
That look.
Like you were something precious.
Something worth handling carefully.
It made your chest ache.
“You know,” you said softly, “for someone who panics every time I touch him, you really like standing close to me.”
Clark’s mouth twitched. “Maybe I enjoy the panic.”
“Is that what this is?”
“No,” he admitted quietly. “Not really.”
Rain hammered softly overhead.
Clark’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before snapping back up.
Your breath caught.
He noticed.
You knew he noticed because his own breathing changed instantly.
And suddenly the space between you felt very small.
Very warm.
Very dangerous.
A car horn blared somewhere nearby.
Both of you jumped apart like guilty teenagers.
Clark cleared his throat violently. “Well.”
“Yep.”
“That was—”
“Definitely something.”
Clark laughed nervously.
You smiled despite yourself.
Then, before you could overthink it, you reached for his hand.
Clark went silent.
His fingers instinctively curled around yours.
Warm.
Careful.
Like he was afraid to hold on too tightly.
You looked up at him.
Clark looked completely undone.
“You’re doing that thing again,” you murmured.
“What thing?”
“Looking at me like I personally invented happiness.”
Clark stared at you for one long second.
Then he smiled softly.
“I might argue you did.”
Your heart was never recovering from this man.
Ever.
-
By the time you reached your apartment building, neither of you had let go of the other’s hand.
Clark looked mildly stunned by that fact.
You were trying not to look equally affected.
Rainwater dripped from the edge of the umbrella while the city buzzed around you in blurry lights and distant traffic.
Neither of you moved.
“This is usually the part,” you said carefully, “where people say goodbye.”
Clark nodded immediately. “Right. Yeah. Goodbye.”
Neither of you let go.
A smile tugged at your mouth.
Clark noticed instantly.
“What?”
“You’re still holding my hand.”
Clark looked down like he’d genuinely forgotten.
“Oh.”
But he still didn’t let go.
Instead, his thumb brushed lightly across your knuckles.
The movement was absentminded.
Gentle.
Your heartbeat nearly climbed into your throat.
Clark looked like he realized what he was doing at the exact same moment.
His eyes widened slightly behind his glasses.
“You should probably kiss me now,” you blurted before your brain could stop you.
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Clark stared at you.
You stared back in horror as your own words replayed in your head.
“Well,” you said weakly. “That was terrifying.”
Clark still looked frozen.
“Oh my God,” you whispered. “Forget I said that.”
“No.”
Your eyes snapped back to his.
Clark stepped closer slowly, like he was worried you’d disappear if he moved too fast.
“No,” he repeated softly. “I really don’t think I can.”
The rain suddenly felt very far away.
Clark lifted one hand carefully toward your face.
Even now—even with the way he looked at you, with your fingers tangled together, with every charged moment between you hanging in the air—he still hesitated like he wanted permission.
You leaned into his touch before he could ask.
Something in Clark’s expression melted instantly.
Then he kissed you.
And—
Oh.
That was not a first-kiss kind of kiss.
There was nothing uncertain about it.
Clark kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for weeks and was only now allowing himself to do it.
Warm lips. Careful hands. The soft sound he made when you kissed him back harder.
Your fingers curled into the front of his jacket automatically.
Clark’s free hand settled against your waist like he physically couldn’t stop himself.
And somehow, impossibly, he still kissed like Clark.
Sweet.
Tender.
Like he was trying to memorize you.
When you finally pulled apart, both of you were visibly breathless.
Clark looked completely wrecked.
His glasses were crooked.
His hair was damp from the rain.
And he was looking at you like you’d personally rewritten his entire universe.
“You kissed me,” he said softly, sounding genuinely awed by it.
You laughed quietly. “Pretty sure you kissed me too, Kent.”
“I know, I just—” He stopped to smile helplessly. “Wow.”
You smiled so hard your face hurt.
Clark looked at you for another long second before blurting suddenly, “I have wanted to do that since the first day you worked at the Planet.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “The first day?”
“You smiled at me in the elevator and I walked into a wall.”
You stared at him.
Then burst into laughter.
Clark groaned immediately. “Please don’t laugh.”
“You walked into a wall?”
“It was a glass wall,” he muttered.
“That is somehow worse.”
Clark covered his face with one hand while you laughed harder.
“I’m trying to be romantic.”
“You are romantic,” you promised, still grinning. “You’re just also deeply awkward.”
Clark peeked at you through his fingers. “You still like me though?”
The fact that he sounded genuinely unsure nearly killed you.
You reached up, adjusting his crooked glasses carefully. “Clark Kent, you spilled coffee on yourself because I touched your arm.”
His ears turned pink again.
“You carried one umbrella specifically big enough for two people.”
Clark looked away innocently.
“You looked at me like your entire life changed because I held your hand.”
A soft smile spread slowly across his face.
Then he leaned down and kissed you again.
Softer this time.
Slow enough that your chest physically ached from it.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested lightly against yours.
“So,” you murmured, “does this mean you’ll stop destroying office supplies every time I flirt with you?”
Clark considered that seriously.
“…Probably not.”
You laughed.
And Clark smiled like it was still the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.
✦Clark Masterlist - Main Masterlist - Read on a03!✦
✦pairing: Clark Kent x female!reader✦
✦Author's Note: should be illegal to for men to Be Like This. I need him carnally.✦
You have never been ruined the way Clark ruins you.
But you’ve never been loved and touched by anyone like him, either.
Probably because there isn’t anyone like him. He’s Clark. A massive, sweet, muscled puppy-dog of a man, who isn’t even a man at all. Who never gets tired.
Who loves to give, almost as much as he loves you.
And he loves you. Clark loves you so much that it’s all but immeasurable. He loves you in the coffee he makes you in the morning, and the kisses he plants on your cheek. He loves you in flowers on random days, and nights in when you’re too tired to do anything else. Random gifts, because he saw something and thought of you. Immediate responses to your texts, and cookies he can’t really bake, but tries to anyway.
And the sex.
Clark really loves you in the sex.
The worship. His strong, warm body turning into only an instrument to bring you pleasure. His hands map your body, his lips brand every inch of skin, his hips drive into your heat until you unravel below him. Your breath stolen and replaced with only weak gasps of his name. Your eyes glazed with drunken lust and relief, because Clark never withholds. He couldn’t.
Not from you.
And that’s how it always begins.
You start it. You always start it. Clark is a sweet man, who will kiss you deeply—until you’re dizzy and aching for him—then walk away like he didn’t just ruin you with so little effort. And then you chase after him, because he can’t just abandon you like that. Not after offering you such sweet, easy temptation.
All it takes is batting your eyelashes and whining his name. Grabbing his big hand, and pressing your chin to his chest.
“Please?” You murmur, playing with the collar of his shirt.
He sighs. “Baby, we went this morning-“
“Yeah, but I want you again.”
“I’m not sure it’s good for- You know. Your sexual health, to have such little rest?” He’s blushing, like he’s not the reason you’re already walking sideways. “How about just until tomorrow? Can you wait until- Tonight?” He drops tomorrow fast, from the pout on your face. “Or- Two hours? Just until your legs feel better, I- I don’t want to break you.”
You blink at him slowly. He’s adorable. Touching your face gently, like you’re some sweet, delicate thing that he—Clark, gentle and kind and lets turn around because I saw a pigeon limping and we should get it to the vet, Clark—is going to ruin you.
For a second, you consider agreeing to wait. Just to spare him the worry.
Then you tilt your head at him, running your hand up his thick arm, and you can feel it.
He’s hard again.
And you’re pretty sure he’ll get over the worry.
“Okay.” You shrug, and Clark blinks slowly.
“Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.” You take a step back, smiling wickedly up at him. “I can take care of myself.”
His eyes flash. Darken, as his chest heaves.
And Clark folds.
Clark always folds.
And you end up bent over the couch, or pinned to the wall, or writhing on the bed. Clark gives. He gives and gives and gives. Offers you kisses that turn open-mouthed and sloppy, then his grip turns possessive, and his cock drives into you until your toes curl, and you see stars.
You cum with a broken call of his name. Your arms wrap tight around his neck, and your whole body shakes until it goes limp with release.
But Clark doesn’t stop.
He’s a giver.
And he has so much to give.
You’re already completely consumed by him, when the first orgasm hits. His thick cock, dragging along your walls and pounding into your most sensitive spots. His mouth has left searing marks all over your neck, and his hands will almost certainly be printed on your hips and ass when this is done.
He clings to you, when he fucks you. Trying to get you as close as possible. And it only adds to the intensity of it all, because you can’t even gasp for air without it smelling of Clark. His sweat, and faded, spicy cologne, and the deeper thing. The smell that’s just Clark. Pure fucking Clark. It fills the hot air around you, lingers on your tongue as you call his name.
Because it’s intoxicating. It might make you more sensitive. Your fingers dig into his scalp, because after that first orgasm, the smell of him becomes like a drug, and you can’t figure out how to come back down.
“Clark-“ You whine as he slams back into you, mouth attaching to a soft spot on your neck. “Clark-“
He groans against your skin, the cries only driving him on. His hips start to snap, the hot, wet sound filling the room as your eyes roll back in your head.
“Clark, Clark-“
You’re starting to chant it, as another orgasm builds tight in your gut. Clark’s thrusts become short and sharp, the pace punishing and perfect.
This time, you see white, your legs wrapping tight around his waist to try and either pull him closer, or push him away. You’re not really sure, in the haze of your release.
Clark still doesn’t stop. He works himself up, when he gets like this. His cock keeps slamming into you, his kisses growing rough and frantic. It’s still loving, though. The way he touches you. You’re clawing at his back and almost sobbing with overwhelming pleasure. Your mouth is open in a permanent moan, and your own arousal is running down your ass.
You press your face into his broad shoulder, just to have something to ground yourself in. Clark grabs one of your hands gently, tangling it in his own. He squeezes lightly, asking a silent question.
You squeeze back, three times, then hold on so tight you’re worried you’ll break your own fingers.
Clark groans against your skin, and the tight leash he keeps on himself snaps.
Nobody has, or ever will, fuck you like this. Like you’re just a ragdoll, and yet simultaneously the most precious thing on earth. Clark slams himself into you so deep you can feel it in your throat, all while his lips wander your skin, murmuring low praise.
“Take it.” He mutters in your ear, breath sending shivers up your spine. “Yeah, yeah, that’s so good, baby, so warm and tight, look so-“ He moans, pressing his face into the crook of your neck. “So pretty, you’re so tight and pretty-“
He moans again, and his deep voice rolls pleasure through your whole body. Another, tiny orgasm hits you, making your head spin and legs fall open, having lost all strength to hold on. Clark hauls them back up, and angles them carefully so he’s hitting deeper.
It’s not about chasing his own pleasure. It’s never about that. If anything, it’s a testament to his will, that he can stay buried so deep inside of you for so long. Can feel you clench and writhe below him, taste you whenever he swallows your cries of his name, and still not empty himself into your poor, soaked and abused cunt.
He almost loses it, though, when he rises over you. Keeps one hand wrapped over yours, and lets the other one wander your beautiful, limp body. You’re a vision. Eyes hooded and lips swollen, your tits bouncing as he rails you stupid and mouth open in a long, broken call of his name. You shake and swear breathily below him, the type of things that would normally make him stutter and blush, if he wasn’t so wholly focused on fucking you until you forgot your own name.
And you’re already there. You’re almost floating out of your body, by the time Clark’s thumb finds your clit. His tiny, deliberate rubs send an electric shock through your body, and it seems to set off every nerve in your body.
You don’t fully come down from this one. You just float through it, saying Clark over and over like a hymn. Distantly, you’re aware of him groaning your name and rutting into your fluttering pussy.
Heat floods through you, as he collapses over your body. You feel him mixing with you, smearing over your thighs and the curve of your ass. Clark drags himself through a few, last strokes.
And you come down, as he slides slowly out.
Taps your clit with the head of his cock, just to watch you spasm.
“Fuck-“ You roll into his chest with a whimper, and he chuckles.
“Sorry, baby.” He kisses your brow, wrapping massive, muscled arms around your body. “You just look so pretty.”
You hum, not really able to form full words. Clark rubs his hand up and down your spine, then pauses.
“Feel good? You-“
“I liked it.” You breathe out against his pecs. “Oh- Oh my god, it was so good. But next time, just- Tell me no.”
He laughs again, rising up. Probably to draw you a bath, because he’s perfect.
“I’ll try.” He says, tracing his hand lightly over your side. “But you can be pretty demanding, sweetheart. I just rise to the occasion, I guess.”
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
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✦Taglist (Fill out this form to be added!)✦
✦Clark Masterlist - Read on a03! - Main Masterlist✦
✦pairing: Clark Kent x wife!reader✦
✦summary: You and Clark take the kids to see Ma and Pa.✦
✦warnings/tags: established relationship, tooth-rotting fluff, domestic fluff, shenanigans, implied smut, no use of y/n✦
✦author's note: I'd like to dedicate this on to my homie @let-it-sn0o0ow bc she's my Clark homie. It's that time of the month, guys! The one where everyone knows I'm ovulating! Enjoy!✦
Kansas gets hot, in the summer.
It doesn’t affect Clark. It never has. He’s been rolling hay bales and carrying cows in from the pasture since he was six. Not much has changed, with age. He still let Pa try to heard Bessie himself, ringing the bell and whistling with a hopeless expression.
“Maybe we should call that dog your cousin’s got.” Pa jokes, but it’s tired. Bessie isn’t moving for anyone.
So Clark claps his father on the folder, and smiles.
Pa sighs. “Son, I got it-“
“I know you got it. But I got it, y’know. A little faster.”
Clark waits for his father to relent. A small nod of his head, and grumble about gettin’ old puttin’ the world on his bones. It’s the same as when he was a kid. Same as when he was a teenager, or young kid coming back from college. It’s hot, and doing something the hard way is very important to build work ethic, but Clark would just rather get Pa out of the sun. It’s unrelenting, with the flat air and lack of clouds. Pa’s face has been red for twenty minutes.
The house has got AC, and lemonade. Clark doesn’t think Pa really needed to leave it’s safety for a moment, but the man is stubborn.
And now, just like forever, Clark is carrying Bessie into the barn.
“Daddy!” Something almost slams into Clark’s legs, and he lets out a rare grunt to stop himself from tripping. “I was playing with her!”
Clark sighs.
Not everything has stayed the same. He’s not the wide-eyed, hopeful kid that tossed all the cows into the barn, then told Ma and Pa about the city.
He’s trying not to fall over his daughter, as she pulls at his pants and tries to jump up and grab Bessie. The cow doesn’t seem to share the same enthusiasm to get free, watching Maya with a lazy cow-expression.
Maya seems to think he’s holding Bessie captive. Her little eyes—you say they look like Clark’s, but he never sees anything but you—are starting to get glossy with tears. That’s not good.
“You can play with Bessie after Pa and I milk her, tiger-“
“But I want to play with her now!” Maya screams, and Clark flinches. The girl has stronger lungs than the roosters.
“Maya, you can go play with the goats-“
“The goats are mean! One of them ate my shirt, Daddy, and Ma gave it to me, and-“ Maya cuts herself off with a tiny gasp, and her lips are starting to wobble. “I- I didn’t mean to ruin it, it was a gift and I ruined it- And- I’m sorry-“
“Woah, okay- Big breathes-“
Clark tries to crouch down to Maya’s eye level, but he’s tall and can’t really get the balance to stop Bessie from toppling of his shoulders. If he was thinking a little more, he’d be able to find it.
He’s too worried about Maya, and the fact that watching her cry has always felt like throwing a baby bird into an incineration. Watching any of them cry makes his heart cry too, like it’s being stripped down and flayed, but Maya especially is like a blade to his heart.
She’s got a softness to her, that you say matches him. Little hands that always hold things so softly, hair that’s always got something in it, from her poking around in places she shouldn’t be. Clark says you’re the one who always ends up in strange, dangerous places.
You counter that at least you know you’re in danger. Clark—and Maya—always seem to think there’s going to be a lighthouse to guide them back home, and a sweet woodland creature that aides them on their quest.
“No animals ever aide me, darling.” He’d hummed, kissing the top of your head.
You’d given him a flat look. “What about the deer? Who gave you directions?”
“You’re exaggerating that story. Animals can sense distress, it was just helping us get out of the woods-“
“You can fly, Clark. You didn’t need directions-“
“Maya wanted to pet it.”
You’d laughed softly, and kissed his cheek. “You wanted to pet it,” you’d murmured, and he’s turned a little red. You knew him too well.
And you always say he’s too soft on them. But it’s a gentle joke.
Clark knows you love it. If you didn’t, the joke wouldn’t be followed by a kiss, then your head on his shoulder.
It’s not proving to be very helpful right now, though. Little, fat tears are starting to stream down Maya’s face, as she clings to the sweater—indeed half-eaten, with little bits of thin yarn sticking out and a fair portion of the sleeve sticking out at an odd angle—like it’s the most priceless thing in the world.
He knows that, to her, it might as well be.
Bessie can wait.
Clark drops her on the ground, and tries not to groan when she immediately starts to wander back into the pasture. He’ll get her later. After Maya isn’t crying so loud it’s going to make the birds start screaming back.
“Can I see it, baby?” He holds out a hand, and Maya nods. Sniffs, a little snot running down her nose, and puts her tiny hand in Clark’s.
He turns it over, inspecting the damage. It’s not that bad. Nothing worse than he got into, at Maya’s age. Nothing Ma can’t fix.
The silence proves to be too much for Maya. She clears her throat, looks around the barn, and drops her voice to a whisper.
“Ella made me hang out with them.”
“No, I didn’t!” Ella—the oldest, who’s been very proudly proving that the kids did get Clark’s Kryptonian genetics—all but appears in the barn next to them. “Dad, I didn’t, Maya’s lying-“
“You’re lying!” Maya screams. “You said they hated me! You made me go-“
“I was telling a joke, Maya. I didn’t, like- Throw you at them-“
“Yes, you did!” Maya turns back to Clark with wide eyes. “She threw me, Daddy, she threw me-“
“Liar-“
“Hey.” Clark glares between them, and he has to use his parent voice. It’s just the Superman voice, but he still feels bad about it. “Take a few breathes, nobody’s hurt, we can work this out-“
“My sweater is hurt!” Maya screams, and Clark winces. He walked into that one. “Ella killed my sweater-“
Ella opens her mouth to scream back, but Clark gives her a firm look. She prides herself on being the mature one, and—hopefully—that will mean she’s not going to drop to the four-year-old’s level.
By some miracle, the look—the one where he raises his brows, and sets his mouth in a line—works. Ella huffs and rolls her eyes. Crosses her arms and wrinkles her nose, muttering under her breath.
“Your sweater is fine, Maya. Stop being a baby.”
Maya almost shrieks. “I’m not a baby, I’m four-“
“Yeah, that’s basically a baby-“
“Daddy, I’m not a baby-“
“I know you’re not, Maya.” Clark sighs, gently petting Maya’s head. The snot is starting to get out of control. “Ella, don’t call her a baby, sweetheart.”
Ella makes a sour face. “But-“
“Eleanor.” Clark’s tone is still soft, but he gives her another look.
Somehow, it works.
“Whatever.” Ella rolls her eyes. “She’s still a liar about the goats.”
“I’m not-“
“Maya Rose.” Clark says, still letting his voice be gentle. Maya blinks, still crying, but doesn’t scream anymore.
The full name thing works wonders. He should use it more often.
“Did Ella throw you to the goats? Tell me the truth.”
Maya pouts, but shakes her head. “But- She did say they didn’t like me.”
Clark sighs, and looks back to Ella. “Is that true?”
“Maybe…” Ella mutters. “But- She was annoying me, she kept chasing the chickens when I was doing the hay! I was trying to control it, and- She was going to get hurt, dad, I was trying to get her to go away so she wouldn’t get hurt- I was being careful like you say-“
“Do I say to tell people mean things, to keep them safe?”
Ella pauses, then looks at the floor. “No.”
“And Maya,” Clark looks back to his smaller daughter, who’s trying to wipe her nose with her non-damaged sleeve.
He replaces it with his own. His flannel is older than both of them combined. Maya’s sweater will be harder to fix if it’s covered in snot.
“Do we lie about things to get what we want?”
Maya shakes her head, and Clark lets out a heavy breath. That all seems to have—for once—worked out in his favor. No more screaming. Bessie’s back in the pasture, but she’ll be easier to get than explaining to you with Maya’s got a chuck of Ella’s hair, and Ella’s covered in bite marks that match Maya’s teeth.
“Can you both apologize?” He says, and they both nod. Mumble apologies that don’t sound so sincere, but are better than nothing.
“Can I finish the hay, dad?” Ella asks nervously, and Clark sighs.
“Yeah, okay. Maya, can you go find Pa? Give him your sweater, ask him to show you how to feed the goats without a fallen solider?”
Maya nods eagerly—all the damage of the past ten minutes vanished from her mind—and sprints outside the barn. Clark offers Ella his hand, and she takes it, almost dragging him outside to the hay.
She might be stronger than he was, at her age. He certainly doesn’t remember being able to throw the hay that far, but maybe the distance looked shorter when he was a few feet closer to the ground.
Ella’s also got a confidence Clark is pretty sure he lacked. Ma and Pa didn’t fully understand what he could do. He didn’t understand. Clark learned through trial and error and squished trees and face plants into mud when he overshot his flying. Ella’s got him.
And she’s just a strong, bossy, smart kid. She’s got her mother’s mouth, and… lack of care for what’s regarded as polite.
Clark’s always loved that about you, though. There’s a lot of things to be angry about, in the world. You don’t bite it down, and you never cower in the face of the noise. He knows for a fact, that when it’s behind closed doors you’re quieter. More worried about what everyone thinks, anxiously wringing your hands about if everyone in the room hated you.
They never do. They never could. Clark is pretty sure everyone sees you the same way he does. Like the cool, shaded breeze in the dead of summer. The only star that’s bright enough to break through the clouds. That shines bright enough he can even see it when he visits Gotham.
You’re a flower, that pokes up between cracks in the sidewalk.
That brings more flowers, to Clark’s life.
And Ella is the same.
Loud, fierce child, who screamed so loud when she was born. Like a war drum, or trumpets. Clark doesn’t think Ella could be stronger if she tried.
But the girl works hard.
And she’s throwing the hay bales like they’re baseballs, all the way across the field.
“Maya thinks she can talk to animals, dad.” Ella rolls her eyes, talking the whole time she works.
Clark feels a little useless. He’s just sort of standing there, watching his eight-year-old work. Maybe he should’ve told Pa to supervise, so he could help Maya with her sweater, and the goats. The goats love Clark, and if they started chewing on Maya again, he’s sure he could get through to them-
“I mean- That’s not a Kryptonian thing, right? Some of us can’t talk to animals? Or…” Ella pauses, frowning at the air. “Do some of us get, like- Special powers? I haven’t learned how to use my frost-breath yet, maybe that’s your power, dad. And Maya can talk to animals, but- Why don’t I get a special power? Does aunt Kara have a special power? Do you only get one if you’re weak?”
Clark blinks at her, the words finally catching up with his head.
“El, did you just call me weak?”
Ella flushes a little, and shakes her head. “No, but- Aunt Kara’s so strong, and Pa says I can pick up more hay than you, and- I didn’t mean to-“
“I know.” Clark smiles at her, and she relaxes. “Aunt Kara is strong, and so are you. But there are no special powers.”
“Then why does Maya think she can talk to animals-“
“She’s just playing. Remember when you were five, and made me and your mom meet all your pet rocks?”
Ella frowns. “No?”
Of course she doesn’t. That was three hours of Clark’s life, listening to Ella talk about all the rocks hopes and dreams and specific family dynamics. It had actually been pretty interesting. He’d gotten invested.
He wonders if they still have the chart she drew. He’ll check when they get home, just to see if that helps her remember. Or just for him to look at, and cry about how big she is now.
Probably the latter.
He’ll make you look at it with him. You won’t cry, but you’ll comfort him and maybe kiss him with a loving giggle, which is all he really wants anyway.
“Well,” he shrugs at Ella. “You did. Maya’s having fun, that’s it.” He pauses, then adds, “Next time she won’t leave you alone, maybe call me or mom, okay?”
Ella nods, staring at her fingers. “But… Not special powers?”
Clark almost laughs. “Ella, we have special powers. Don’t think we need more.”
“But why can’t I use my frost breath-“
“Because we live in a city, sweetheart. It’s not safe.”
Ella frowns, and Clark sighs.
“When I bring you to the fortress, we can start working on it. Deal?”
“Really!” Ella almost squeals, looking up to Clark with shining eyes. “I can go with you soon? Can I meet Gary? Can I fly around the whole arctic and pick up and iceberg and-“
“Yeah, sure. Soon. Once I talk to mom.”
“Let’s go talk to her now-“
“No, hey-“ Clark grabs Ella before she can run off. Now is not the time to tell you about that impulsive promise. “Hay bales, Ella. We have to finish them.”
“Right. Right.” Ella shoots back to the massive rolls, picks one up, and vaults it almost a mile down the field.
She gives him a proud look, and Clark offers a thumbs up.
“How far can you get them, dad?”
Clark grins, picks one up—making a quick judgement call if he wants to actually throw it as far as he can, which would be at least to the ocean—and tosses it about fifteen miles away. He can hear it land, somewhere in an abandoned field.
Ella’s eyes shine, and she looks up at him in awe. “Can you throw me that far?”
“Uh-“ He almost says yes. Ella can fly, and it would make her so happy. “Sorry, sweetheart. Mom would kill us.”
“She’d just kill you.” Ella grumbles, and Clark can’t laugh at that. He’s supposed to mature and collected and not susceptible from peer-pressure, especially when the peer is his child.
“Well, we can ask her after dinner. Maybe she’ll say yes.”
You won’t. Clark knows you won’t. You don’t care that Ella’s half-Kryptonian, she’s still your baby. And you have made it very clear to Clark that he will not be throwing your babies up into the stratosphere. But the little false promise satiates Ella, and she returns to her hay bales. Clark gets to hear all about how Lena from school—Clark doesn’t know who that is, but Ella tells you about school drama more than she tells him, and maybe he should start asking questions so Ella knows she can talk to him about silly gossip—is going to the Maldives for summer break.
Ella thinks that’s very silly. She could go to the Maldives right now, if she wanted.
“But I won’t.” She says quickly, at the look on Clark’s face. “I won’t Dad, I’m just saying I could-“
“Yes, well.” Clark sighs. “If you do it now, I’ll know exactly where to find you.”
Ella pouts, and starts to complain about how Jade got her nails done, and they were the fancy kind. Clark doesn’t know what the fancy kind of nails are, or why an eight-year-old needs them.
“She’s nine, dad. She’s the oldest in our class.” Ella sighs dramatically. “I can’t wait to be older.”
“You should, kiddo.” Pa sighs, trekking through the grass with a face Clark swears is only getting redder.
“Pa, where’s-“
“Maya fell in some mud.” Pa says your name with a small smile. “Sent her up for a shower. Figured I’d come over here and hang out with my coolest granddaughter.”
Ella beams at the praise, starting to bounce up and down on her toes. She gives Clark a please look he doesn’t know how to say no to—probably because she’s just mimicking yours—and he sighs.
“Don’t stay out too long, guys. And El, if Pa starts to look tired-“
“I can look out for myself, son. Go get changed, you’re smellin’ like you ran in the cow pens.”
Clark sighs. “Thanks, Pa.”
He kisses the top of Ella’s head—even as she whines and squirms away from it—and turns back to the house. Ma and Pa don’t get to see the kids as often as they’d want. Clark knows they’re trying to milk every second they have with their grandchildren, and he’s not about to take that away from them.
It’s how the kitchen ended up the way it is. Jack standing on a stool to crush chocolate chips with little fists, and a lot of mud on the floor.
“Ma, what happened-“
“Maya came in whinin’ and rolling on the floor, Clark. Wouldn’t stop ‘till I threatened her cookies.” Ma smiles fondly. “Good thing she don’t know most of my threats are empty. Scurried off the find her mother, moment I said it.”
“I still don’t wanna give them to her, Ma.” Jack grumbles, face in a pinched little glower. “She said my smoothies tasted bad.”
“You put oat milk in with the kale, Jackie.” Ma hums. “I didn’t like it either. But,” she pokes his chocolate chips. “You’re makin’ good cookies. And your banana orange smoothie tasted gosh darn perfect.”
Jack puffs out his chest, and turns back to Clark hopefully. “Can you try my smoothies, Dad? I’m experimenting.”
Clark feels a coil of dread in his stomach, but nods like he’s never wanted to do anything more. He’s experienced too many of Jack’s experiments before. With the food, before it was smoothies, it was new ice cream flavors. Last year, when they visited, Ma showed him how to make it from scratch, and soon the house back in Metropolis was filled with black current and vanilla extract and cherries and suspicious fruits and pizza Jack had been stealing from his pre-school.
Just a few weeks ago, the experiments had been a spider and rat he’d been keeping under his bed. He’d told you and Clark he was trying to extract the spiders venom, and train the rat to do his homework. By some miracle, he hadn’t got bitten.
Clark had found Jack on the roof last night, trying to map the stars and figure out where Krypton was. He’d agreed to eat one of the cinnamon brownies Jack had convinced Ma to make, to make up for forcing Jack to bed.
He shouldn’t be able to get sick.
He’d still spent an hour on the toilet this morning, and really didn’t want to waste his night like that as well.
But you say he should be feeding Jack’s curiosity. And you’re—as usual—right.
So Clark takes both the smoothies, and drinks them slowly. Jack watches his carefully, the whole time. It’s a little eerie. His son has all your coloring, but in every other way, he’s a photocopy of Clark.
There’s always been something glinting and dark, in the boy’s eyes. It’s like he thinks everything is a question he can and will answer.
Right now, Clark feels like the question. Even if he’s just drinking a truly horrible smoothie.
“Do you like them?” Jack asks, barely a second after Clark is done, and he sighs.
“This one is good.” He holds up the pinker one, and sets down the green one on the table. “But this one is a little bitter, Jack.”
Jack nods slowly, tilting his head. “Mommy liked the first one, too.”
“Everyone likes the pink one, Jackie.” Ma gives Clark an amused look. “Ask ‘im what the secret ingredient is.”
Clark frowns. “The wha-“
“It’s chocolate!” Jack shouts, like he’s announcing he figured out time travel. “I put chocolate in the smoothie, Dad! That’s why everyone likes it! Nobody wants the healthy one, but they like the chocolate one, and- We’re making the brownies out of oat milk, to see if people like them more- and- And Ma says we can make people vote after dinner-“
“Jack.” Ma play-hisses, light shining in her eyes. “You’re givin’ up the game!”
Jack’s eyes widen. “I- Um- Dad?”
Clark fights his smile, and raises his brows. “Jack.”
“Can you keep that secret? Pleeease?”
Jack gives him the pleading eyes, and Clark is pretty sure you’re teaching them to all the kids on purpose.
“Won’t tell a soul.” He glances around the kitchen, eyes landing back on the mud. “Ma, I’m gonna clean this up and go check on Maya-“
Ma says your name with a shrug. “Got Maya goin’ down for a nap. Belle’s been down since noon, think she’s tryin’ to sync them back up.”
Clark sighs. The twins have been weaning off of naps for a few months, but that also means they’ve been taking them at random, unpredictable times. He grabs the mop from the closet and gets to work on the mud, but keeps an ear upstairs. He can hear you cooing and singing softly, trying to coax Maya down while letting Mabel keep sleeping. It’s a fine line. He doesn’t know how you always manage to walk it so well.
“Can I have blue cupcakes for my birthday, Dad?”
Clark blinks at Jack, who’s suddenly squatting next to him while Ma turns on the over.
“Blue… Cupcakes?” Clark frowns. “What flavor is that?”
“It’s blue.” Jack says, like it’s obvious.
“Blue what?”
“Blue. It tastes like blue, Dad.”
“Oh. Okay.” Clark has no clue what blue tastes like. “Like, um- The slushies? That we get at the movies?”
“No, it’s a cupcake-“
“It’s blue, Clark.” Ma hums from the oven. “Tastes like blue.”
“Thanks, Ma. Jack, I don’t know where to get blue cupcakes-“
“I can make them!” Jack says quickly, and that’s terrifying. “Mommy can help me, I’ll show her now so we can do it at home-“
“You ain’t gonna do such a thing, Jackson.” Ma cuts in, her voice a little stricter than before. “What did I say ‘bout botherin’ your mother.”
Jack sighs dramatically, then mutters. “Later.”
He recovers quickly. Shuffles back to Ma’s side, and starts staring at the brownies as they rise in the oven. Clark give ma a curious look, and she sighs.
“The woman’s been runnin’ around nonstop since dawn. Go make sure she ain’t watchin’ the TV again, Clark. Worried she’ll send herself to an early grave.”
Clark feels his heart stutter a little. You would push yourself paper-thin and cracking, before you asked for his help with the kids. Even with his parents, you don’t like to just relax. You hang on the fringes of every room and make sure it’s all going smoothly. You came out a few hours ago, to check on Maya and Ella, and even then you’d been flushes and tired. Clark had barely gotten a kiss before you running back to check on Mable and her coloring.
The singing upstairs has stopped.
He doesn’t have to use his super hearing to know that Ma is right, and he needs to go make sure you relax.
You’re exactly where Clark thought you’d be.
“You need to stop watching that, baby.” He murmurs, coming up behind the couch and rubbing your shoulders.
You hum, but don’t look away from Ma and Pa’s ancient little TV. You’ve got to turned to Metropolis local news, and you’re watching Guy and Kendra fight some gooey looking, tentacled space monster.
Clark leans down and kisses the top of your head. You reach up to lightly touch his face, but still don’t pull your attention from the TV.
“That thing looks dangerous,” you murmur as a tentacle flies out, and whacks a building.
“Yeah. Might put eggs in you like I did.”
That’s got enough edge to make you blink at him in surprise, your face a little flushed.
“Mr. Kent.” You whisper, and he kisses your nose.
“My love.”
“Don’t my love me, Clark, what did you just say-“
“Did you not hear me?” He keeps grinning at you, mostly because it’s adorable when you start to squirm. “I can, uh- Say it again.”
You raise your brows, Clark holds your gaze, and the moment breaks when you giggle.
“You’re so weird.” You kiss his cheek, relaxing for maybe the first time since you packed the kids in the car and left for the airport. “And you’d never put your eggs in me. It would make you feel bad.”
Clark frowns. If they hurt you, yes. He’d never do anything to hurt you. Sometimes he’s still worried he’s going to hug you a little too hard and you’ll snap. When you were pregnant with Ella, he’d had Terrific use his little balls to make sure you and the baby were healthy, and made a plan to get it out of you should things start to go south. Nothing, not even his eggs, will ever hurt you.
But-
“I don’t think I’d want to put my eggs in anyone else. He murmurs, staring at where your hands are tangled together. “I mean, if this is a situation where I’d have to put my eggs in someone, and they wouldn’t hurt, I’d always put them in you.”
You blink at him slowly, and your smiles spreads easily back over your face. You lean up to kiss under his jaw, and murmur against his skin.
“I love you.”
Clark turns his head, and kisses you fully. Deeply. The kind of kiss he hasn’t given you while there’s daylight, in too long. The kids have all decided kissing was gross, and now whenever he does it Ella gags, Maya boos and tries to fling herself between them, and Mabel screams like she’s being murdered. Then after, Jack asks twenty questions about why they’re doing that, and if Mommy likes it.
Gosh, Clark hopes you like it.
With the way you’re rising up into him like steam, he’d say he’s safe.
He takes the chance, while you’re distracted. Grabs the remote from off the couch, and flips off the TV.
You shoot back with wide eyes and a glare. “Clark, I was watching that-“
“You don’t have to, baby, it’s fine-“
“But what if it’s not? What if you have to leave, and- Stop smiling at me-“
Clark bites down his laugh as you glare at him, shaking his head. “I’m sorry-“
“No, you’re not-“
“I am, you’re just so cute when you’re angry.”
“I’m not-“
“Okay.” Clark kisses the little wrinkle between your eyes. “You’re not.”
Your glare deepens. “Stop agreeing with me-“
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Clark-“
He kisses you again, and revels in the way you moan opening into his mouth.
And Clark loves his kids. He really does. More than anything.
But Jesus, he misses this all the time. How you can get whiny and petulant and dramatic. How you hold onto him so tight, and pull him down until he’s all but folded over your body. You both have to be collected and mature, now.
It feels good to break once in a while. To grab your neck and tip it back, push his tongue down your throat and get drunk on the way you call for him. You tug his hair a little, and he moans for you.
When you pull back, your whole face is blown out with lust. You smile so sweetly at him, almost putty in his arms, and he needs to get you somewhere with a lock on the door.
“You’re covered in mud.” You whisper, and Clark knows you’re thinking the exact same thing he is.
“Shower’s- Um- I mean, you’ve seen it. It’s big-“
You giggle. “It is big.”
Clark blushes like he hasn’t had you naked and writhing, in the bed you share, knocking you up with little monsters. He blushes like you both aren’t completely aware what he can do to you. What he’s thinking about doing right fucking now.
What he’s about to do, when he scoops you off the bed princess style, giggling and kicking your feet and-
“Mommy!”
Mabel’s shrill, fearful voice tears through the halls, and you sigh.
Clark tenses. “I can get her, darling-“
“No, it’s okay.” You slide out of his arms with a smile. “I wasn’t using a line, you really are covered in mud. Go shower for dinner.”
“But-“
“Shower!” You call over your shoulder, walking away before he can think to catch you.
Clark stares at his shoes for a moment. It had been so close, to the door being closed and Ma going to take care of it. Although, he doesn’t really want Ma to be figuring out what he’d be doing to you, that made him ignore his children. Maybe it’s for the best, he decides as he showers, that you got interrupted.
It certainly doesn’t feel like it’s for the best, when he makes his way downstairs for dinner. Somehow you’d found the time to change and look prettier. The setting sun gives the impression of a halo, the warm, misty night making you look like a fairy goddess that’s blessing the chipped, wooden table with it’s presence.
That’s sort of how it’s always felt, though. From the first moment Clark saw you, he’d been pretty sure stardust had taken form, and the whole sky itself was standing right in front of him. When he’d brought you to meet his parents the first time, he’d worried you’d be shining so bright it would blind the whole table, and you wouldn’t have any interest in the simpleness of their lives.
But you’d taken. You’re perfect, so you’d molded right into his life like you’d always been meant for it. Like the place in his heart—the one just for you—hadn’t been empty before, but just in the wrong shape. And the moment you’d walked through the door, it figured out what it was supposed to be. How it was supposed to beat.
He can’t picture you anywhere but at the table anymore. Looking so pretty, with his ring on your finger and your child running up to grab his legs.
“Daddy, daddy, daddy-“
“He can hear you, Belle.” You say gently, trying to help Jack with his napkin. “Give him a moment to answer.”
Mabel nods, takes a deep breath, and looks up at Clark with glossy, hopeful eyes. “Daddy?”
Clark smiles. “Yeah, Mabel?”
“Can you look at my drawings? Before dinner? Please?”
“Uh-“ Clark looks up at you, and you shrug.
“Ask Ma.”
“Long as she washes her hand and doesn’t take longer than ten minutes,” Ma calls from the kitchen. “Our Belle can do whatever she wants.”
Mabel squeals, and he doesn’t get another second before Mabel’s dragging him back into the living room. Where the kids had set up camp, for most of the day. Books and stuffed animals and crayons are scattered all over the ground, and Clark can match each item to each kid.
The notebook that looks like it’s written by a mad scientist belongs to Jack, and Clark squints at the scribbles, because Jack’s handwriting is horrible, and a mix of English and his own secret language he refuses to teach anyone else. The three stuffed lions are Maya’s and Clark makes himself remember all their names— Lemony, Alice, Roar—because she always cries when anyone gets one of them wrong. The big girl books—with no pictures, and tiny print—are Ella’s, because she’s too old for silly things now.
All the markers and finger paints are Mabel’s. Clark considers reminding her not to get paint on Ma’s chairs, but the deed is done. And Ma must have seen it. She probably doesn’t mind at all.
“This one is me.” Mabel pulls him down to the floor, picking up a bundle of paper, and shoves the first one right into Clark’s face.
He examines it for a second, then looks back to Mabel.
She’s drawn herself as something purple, with wings. Clark’s long learned not to question her strange little brain. In the spring, when you’d all gone to beach, she’d sat with you on the shore and sorted the shells and stones he’d brought her from the water. To this day, he can’t fathom understanding her system.
He has a lovely time trying.
“It looks great, Belle.” He leans forward, pretending to try and see the others. “You got one of Mommy?”
“Yes!” She squeals, then shoves Clark back with a glare. “Wait, daddy, I have to do them in order.”
Clark nods, and settles, cross-legged on the carpet. Maya nods with satisfaction, then shuffles around her drawings like she’s figuring out something very important.
“This is Maya.” She says finally, turning around a picture of another purple creature for Clark to see.
He nods, and points at a strange little shape on her head. “What’s that?”
“It’s her chicken, Daddy.”
Clark frowns. “Maya’s got a chicken?” He didn’t memorize that stuffed animal.
“No, he’s a lion. His name is chicken.”
Maya points a little finger across the room, and Clark sighs. There is, indeed, another lion shoved into the couch cushions. If he has to guess the culprit of purchase, he’d name Pa.
Lemony, Alice, Roar, and Chicken.
Easy enough.
“This is Jackie.” Mabel—already moved on—shoves another purple person into Clark’s face, this one covered in a bunch of extra, swirling colors.
Clark nods, and praises her work with the brush—her fingers—before asking for the next one. He doesn’t want to be late to dinner, and face the wrath of you and Ma.
Mabel’s drawn Ella bigger than anyone else, even Clark. You’re the prettiest drawing, and the only other purple person with wings. Ma’s got a smile that’s a little terrifying with the teeth Mabel tried to give her, but there’s a light in her eyes Clark can somehow see through the page. Pa’s round, smiling without teeth—a creative choice Clark thinks resulted from the Ma situation—and has a big sun shining behind him.
Clark looks at his own purple person very carefully. There are weird little lumps on the ground, near his feet. There’s a big shape on his chest, that he’d think was the Superman symbol, if Mabel really understood Clark’s special job at all.
“What are these?” He asks her, tapping the page, and Mabel gives him a look like she can’t believe he’d ever have to ask.
“That’s your heart, Daddy.” She snaps, pointing at the symbol. “And that’s us.”
She points at the lumps, and Clark’s world is starting to get a little blurry.
Us.
Mabel and her siblings. They’re at Clark’s feet, like huddled penguins.
“Belle, can I keep this?” He asks softly, forcing his voice not to waver, and Mabel beams.
“Yes!”
Clark sends her back to the table, and rushes upstairs to put the drawing in one of your work binders.
He doesn’t want to ever lose it.
Dinner is as chaotic as any other. Ma made good, healthy food—steak and asparagus and potatoes and lemonade—that everyone devours, shouting and laughing over each other.
“Mom,” Ella says, leaning forward, and you hum.
“Ella.”
“Ask Dad how far I threw the hay today.”
You give her an amused look. “Can you not tell me yourself?”
“I can. I want you to ask Dad.” Ella turns to him. “Dad, tell her, please-“
“Across the field.” Clark says with a grin, and Ella’s chest puffs out. “She got it in the pen, one toss. Every single one of them.”
You nod slowly, and Pa clears his throat.
“Clark was only gettin’ them over that little patch of words, between the barn and the corn.”
“Oh.” You give Pa a small smile of thanks, before looking to Ella. “Good job, baby. Did you do your homework?”
Ella scoffs. “No, homework is gross-“
“No, it’s not!” Jack shoots up with an indignant expression. “You’re just bad at it.”
“I am not bad at it, it’s stupid, everyone thinks homework is stupid.”
Jack sticks out his tongue. “You’re just mad I’m better at it.”
“You’re not-“
“I am, and I’m going to be so much better at 2nd grade than you were-“
“Because you’re a nerd-“
“Eleanor.” You snap, narrowing your eyes, and she scowls.
“Jack started it-“
“I’m ending it. Apologize.” Your glare turns to Jack. “You too, Jackson. Don’t poke her.”
Jack and Ella roll their eyes, and grumble apologies. Mabel, uncaring about her sibling’s little fight, shoves her hand into the air, almost bouncing in her seat.
Ma smiles at her. “Yeah, Belle?”
“I made drawings!” She says, beaming around the table. “Daddy says they’re amazing, and- Mommy, can I show everyone my drawings-“
“Can I have Chicken?” Maya asks, seeming to realize that people are asking for things, which is a window. “Mommy, I want Chicken-“
“I-“ You blink slowly. “Who?”
“Chicken.” Clark murmurs, giving you a small smile. “New lion. Maya, you know the rules.”
She pouts. “No lions at the table.”
“Good. And no drawings, either, Mabel. You can show people after dinner.”
“Nooooooo!” Maya’s head shoots up. “I wanted to show people things, Daddy, Belle got to pick bedtime stories last night, and- And it’s my turn-“
“Maya.” Clark gives her a look, and she shakes her head.
“It’s my turn-“
“To show us what?”
“The goats, they’re my best friends now-“
“I took pictures.” Pa cuts in, raising his brows at Maya. “Can I show ‘em the photos?”
“And you can choose the bedtime story tonight.” You add, reaching over to wipe a little bit of potatoes off her cheek. “Deal?”
Maya pauses, thinks, then nods.
Mabel coughs dramatically, and you sigh.
“After dinner. Belle. But I want a clean plate.”
Mabel nods, and starts to eat with the kind of vigor that wins a war. All four kids end up with bits of asparagus in their teeth and shining dishes—maybe the motivation, maybe just Ma’s cooking—but there’s still desert left. You went out with the twins that morning to get pie.
No one’s allowed to eat it, until they try Jack’s brownies.
It’s amusing, so watch everyone eat them slowly while Jack looks like he’s about to shout they’ve all just fallen right into his evil trap. He’s taking tally, on a little whiteboard, of who likes them.
The results are everyone.
They’re brownies.
“I knew it!” Jack pumps his fists in the air. “Mommy, they’re healthy, they’re good- Ma helped me use good things and the brownies won’t give us cavities-“
“Jack.” You say softly, smile wide. “Big breaths.”
He takes a stuttered gasps—sometimes he forgets—and launches into a long speech about how he made them, and the merits, and a very confusing story about the smoothies. Once he’s satisfied, you all move onto the pie, and Mabel’s presentation.
“You two head off.” Ma murmurs to you and Clark, as you cut the pie into small pieces.
You look at her like she’s suggested Clark fly you into the sun. “But- Mabel’s paintings-“
“She’s already showed ‘em to you both. And you deserve a break. Take it.”
“But-“
Ma says your name gently. “Me and Pa’ll have it handled. Clark,” she smiles at him. “I don’t want either of ya back in my house ‘till the kids are asleep.”
Clark nods, and wraps his arm around your waist.
You’re still frowning, as he steers you outside, dodging Ella and Maya in the hall, avoiding the window that Mabel will be able to spot them through.
“Ella needs to do her stretches. Her body gets too tight, and then she’ll break a glass in the morning, and it’ll upset her, Clark, you know it will-“
“So does Ma.” Clark murmurs, kissing the side of your head. “Where should we go?”
“I don’t know, I- Maybe back-“
“No. Ma said rest.”
“Clark-“
“We can go to the roof.” He glances up at the barn. “That way, something goes wrong, you can run right back in.”
You sigh, and turn to press your face into his chest. He gets a mumble and nod, and smiles to himself.
“Hold on.”
He doesn’t need to tell you, before he takes off. He likes doing it anyway. You always try to dig your nails into his skin, and it makes him feel even more like he’s yours.
You did this, the first time you came to Smallville. Clark flew you up to the roof of the barn, you cuddled in the warm summer night, and just sat in each other. In the greatness of the night sky above you, talking about most nothing. It’s become a tradition every time he comes home, to the point that Clark’s stashed a blanket to make it more comfortable.
“How was your day, Honey?” He murmurs when you’re settled, and you hum.
Every time, you say you like the stars. And Clark knows you do. You’ve held his hand and made it trace constellations in the sky, and Clark’s pretty sure you’re making half of them up, but you look so pretty doing it, he doesn’t really care.
“Good.” You mumble, face pressed fully into his chest, and Clark smiles.
You say you like the stars.
You always just hold onto him.
You’re my star, is what you’d grumbled when he asked about it a few years before Ella was born. He’d grinned, and said you could be stars in orbit.
It wasn’t just the two of you, though, filling up that sky.
Your other stars fill up the night sky even brighter. Clark feels like he has more and more gravity, every single moment.
He’s never going to be able to thank you enough for it. For the humanity of it all.
Instead, he just keeps holding you under the stars.
“How was yours?”
“Pretty great. Ella’s getting big.” He sighs. “Don’t think about it until I see her next to the cows.”
You laugh. “Of course you’d measure her height by cows.”
“Well, she’s past the leg now. Like, uh- I think she could pick it up. If I let her.”
“Don’t. She’ll start throwing them up into the air to catch them.”
“I’d make sure they don’t hit the ground-“
“Clark.”
You prop your chin on his chest with a glare, and he smiles. Traces a hand over your cheek, pulling you little further up his chest.
“I won’t. Just working out if we could.”
“Okay.” You relax, then ask- “Can you throw a cow?”
“Yeah. I don’t, risk can be too big, but I could.”
You wiggle a little further up his chest. “Hot.”
Clark laughs, even as his face heats. “Really? That does it for you?”
“Everything you do does it for me. It’s so annoying.”
“Yeah?”
You nod. “Wanted you all day. I almost drooled out Jack’s smoothie, because you walked past the window. One day I’m going to, and you’ll have to explain why mommy is cationic.”
Clark frowns at the sky. “Well- Don’t got cationic. That’s really bad, sweetheart-“
“I don’t want to.” You snap. “It’s your fault. You and your stupid perfectness.”
“You’re perfect too-“
“Don’t kiss my ass.”
Clark smiles to himself, and kisses your hairline. “Sorry, darling.”
“Thank you.” There’s a long pause, and when you speak again, your voice is softer. “Do you think your parents like me?”
He says your name sternly, and grabs your chin. You worry about this every time, like Ma wasn’t the one who told Clark he should propose to you before Pa did, and they both got left.
“I know-“
“You don’t. They love you. I promise they love you. I love you-“
“You’re not the one who got bewitched, pretty girl.” Clark kisses you again, and your pout quickly melts into a sigh.
You can never hold the line long, when he gives you a real compliment.
“What happened, that made you think that again?” He asks the question carefully, even though he knows the answer is going to be something you know is nothing.
He’s right.
But he knows you better than anything, so he usually is.
“Your mom thinks I’m pregnant again.” You mumble, playing with the fabric of his shirt. “Which means she thinks I’m being a bitch-“
“She thinks you’re glowing.” Clark corrects quickly, and just dives right into it. Better to rip the bandaid off. “And you are pregnant. So she’s just stating fact.”
He kisses you, hoping it will delay the reaction to his words.
It does.
For about three seconds.
“I’m pregnant?!” You shout, pushing up on his chest. “Clark, why didn’t you fucking tell me-“
“Didn’t want too early.” He says calmly, rubbing your hand planted on his pecs. “And I just started hearing the heartbeat last week, was hoping we’d- You know. Do this first.”
“But- I-“ You shake your head. “The pill-“
“Think you missed it date night, baby.”
“But Plan B-“
Clark winces at that. “Um- I had the attack in the morning. You got the kids to school, and-“
“I forgot.” You whisper, eyes getting impossibly wider. “Fuck- Clark- I forgot, and- Five kids is so many-“
“At least it probably won’t be twins again-“
“Probably-“
“Won’t be.” He says quickly. “Won’t be twins. And I know five is a lot, but we can- Um- Drop them at the Watchtower?”
“No.” You jab a finger at him. “Never again, Clark. Ever.”
Clark lets out a heavy breath, and that’s a good call. He still doesn’t love to think about the last—and, evidently, only—time they dropped the kids with the Justice League.
“Oh my god.” You breathe out, collapsing over him.
He raises his hands to rub your back carefully, and you laugh shakily.
“Another one. We’re having another one.”
Having is good. And the anger seems to have faded to shock.
“I hope it’s a girl.” He says carefully, lips brushing over your ear. “None of them look just like you.”
You smile, and kiss a soft spot on his neck. “You’re so sappy.”
“You love me.” He turns to look at you in the starlight, and it never doesn’t knock him out.
Your beauty, and how it leaks into everything around you. How you just came into his life, and offered him the world like it was nothing. All the things he wasn’t sure he’d get, because they were human things. Soft things he’d always loved, but never wanted to force. Never wanted to settle. Never wanted to have anything but the easy love Ma and Pa did.
And he’s always floored by how everything of him is tied into you. Everything he’d fight and die for, everything that makes him understand why his parents shot him into the sky when Krypton died. He’d give all of himself, to protect the priceless gift you’d offered him. Keep offering him. All the love and hope that he tries to offer others, just for him to bathe in the warmth of.
The way you look at him, like he’s more than just a man.
It’s the only time he really believes it, and somehow also the place he believes it the least. You look at him like a god.
But he’s never felt more mortal and grounded than under your attention. Holding you in his arms. Sharing little jokes and stories every day, getting lost in your grace, your hands, your voice.
Your freaking mouth, and how he never knows what’s going to come out of it next.
“Clark.” You say in a soft, sing-song voice, sitting up to straddle him. “You wanna go…”
You trail off suggestively, and Clark swallows.
Shit.
“Do stuff?” He whispers, and you nod.
“The kids are in bed.” You run your fingers up and down his abdomen, and you’re not even trying to seduce him. You just like to touch him, and it’s driving him out of his mind. “So we can go back inside. And I can be quiet this time, I promise-“
“Yes.” Clark croaks out, and you beam.
“Yes?”
“Always.” He pushes up to kiss you, and all the stars seem to shine a little more like he can reach them. “Yes."
✦End note: escapism is okay and healthy guys it's fine.✦
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✦Clark Masterlist - Read on aO3! - Main Masterlist✦
✦summary: all week, clark's been acting strange. he won't go near you, won't look at you, and by friday he's vanished all together. everyone seems to know why but you. but nothing's going to keep you away from him. not for that long.✦
✦warnings/tags: friends to lovers, secret identity shenanigans, emotional angst, fluff, sex pollen, sex pollen level smut, a little plot for the porn (male masturbation, manhandling, clark's feral, emotional sex, dry humping, blowjobs and facefucking, dumbification, dirty talk, sensitive reader, finger sucking, clark gets nasty, body worship, crazy overstimulation, sex pollen stamnia, fingering, oral f!recieving, begging, praise kink, monster dick clark, he fucks like a machine, breeding kink), no use of y/n, no descrption of reader✦
✦wc: 10.5k✦
✦author's note: request and voted fic! i got. real horny with it✦
Clark has been acting strange all week.
He got into work on Monday with a red face, and you didn’t question it. He runs everywhere. It’s a little ridiculous he doesn’t have a red face more.
“Want some water?” You’d tapped on his desk, and he’d let out a sharp breath.
“Yeah.” His voice had been strangely rough, his glasses almost slipping off his nose. “Water- Water would be nice. Thank you.
He hadn’t looked you in the eyes.
Not when you brought the water to his desk, or for the rest of the day. When you got in the next morning, he was already at his desk, but didn’t do more than mumble a good morning. His shoulders had squared and rippled, when you’d walked past.
You’d gone to the bathroom, and made sure you didn’t reek of something rancid. Maybe there was a sulfur leak in your apartment and you’d just gotten used to it. Maybe you’d stepped in dog poop on the train and no one’s told you.
“Do I smell bad?” You’d asked Jimmy, and he’d looked at you like your were crazy.
“I don’t know? I don’t go around smelling people like a- A serial killer-“
“I’m not asking you to smell me like a serial killer.” You’d hissed, leaning down to block him in his chair. “I’m asking you to smell me like a friend, Lois smells me all the time-“
Jimmy had eyed you suspiciously. “If this is some weird mating dance, I’m not interested-‘
“It’s not a mating dance!”
“It seems like a mating dance-“
“It’s not-“ You’d shaken your head. “Just stop being a fucking pussy and smell me!”
Someone had cleared their throat behind you. Jimmy’s eyes had widened, fixed right over your shoulder, and you’d known who it was before you turned.
You know that low, controlled sound. You know the rush that his attention brings, and the shiver up your spine whenever he’s close. You close your eyes tight, breathing through your nose, and turn to Clark with a plastered smile.
“Hi, Clark! No one was trying to smell anyone-“
You cut yourself off when you see him. You almost forget how to speak.
He’s a wreck. Curly hair is plastered to his brow, his white button up is more sweat stains than dry spots, and there’s a vein pushing out of his neck that seems painful. His glasses keep trying to slip off his nose, and he’s shifting like even just standing is uncomfortable. He’s pale and red all at once, ruddy in his face and paper white in his fists. The flush deepens near his neck, and returns to his arms right before the cut off of his rolled up sleeves. He’s breathing through his mouth.
His eyes are black, and gleaming.
You scramble away from Jimmy, yanking yourself back from going to press a hand to Clark’s brow.
Clark takes a jagged, stumbling step back.
You look back to Jimmy, and he gives you a tight shake of his head. He doesn’t know what to do either. You’ve never seen Clark with so much as a paper cut, and now it looks like he needs a hospital.
“Hey, buddy.” Jimmy tries, voice soft. Like he’s speaking to a feral animal. “You feeling alright?”
Clark jerks his head to Jimmy, and his nostrils flare. Like he’d almost forgotten Jimmy was there.
Jimmy leans back. And you know he doesn’t mean to. It’s Clark. The softest, sweetest heart you know, shoved into a giant’s body.
But like this, Clark doesn’t look like a man. He looks like something that’s crawled out of your darkest wet dream. Like something that should be in the sky, fighting Superman. With the black eyes and sudden, jagged movements, he looks like an animal.
He looks dangerous.
And he doesn’t respond right away. Clark stares at Jimmy, breathing heavily, then squeezes his eyes shut. You and Jimmy exchange another worried look. If he’s been corrupted by something—in this world, you can’t rule anything out—and he attacks, you’re not sure you can fight him off. Emotionally or physically. Clark’s huge, he’d crush Jimmy with one fist and you’d be nothing but an annoying fly to be swatted across the room.
But whatever’s going on with Clark, he seems to drag it under control. He opens his eyes, and a thin ring of blue is back.
“I’m fine.” He rasps, staring at Jimmy. “Just- Didn’t sleep well. You know.”
Jimmy blinks. “No, uh- I don’t-“
Clark looks at you.
And you could swear the blue flickers, when your eyes meet.
“You smell good.” He mutters.
He turns like something’s dragging him, and walks away. You and Jimmy stand there for about three more minutes—in total baffled silence—before Jimmy’s mouth falls open.
“What the fuck is up with him?”
Nobody seems to be sure.
On Tuesday, he seems a little better. He eats lunch with you. Wheels his chair next to yours like usual while he’s editing, because you always catch typos he misses, and he’s a good reporter but not the best writer.
“You can’t use that word here.” You tap his laptop screen. He frowns.
“There are no other words I could use, though-“
“Corrupt?”
“But- Oh.” He sighs, hitting backspace. “See? That’s why you’re the expert.”
You laugh softly, and Clark gives you his usual small, almost shy smile.
“How’s your piece coming?” He asks kindly—always kindly—and you groan.
“Dogshit.”
“I’m sure it’s not that bad-“
“My main source backed out.” You grumble. “Like a little baby bitch. I can’t make this level of accusations again LuthorCorp without a source, it’s asking for a defamation lawsuit, and after the last one Perry would kill me-“
“But you won the last one.” Clark frowns, and you give him a pointed look.
“Yeah. Because I had a source.”
“Ah. Right.” He pauses, pushing his glasses slowly up his nose.
You watch the movement as subtly as possible. You love it when he does that. It’s a tiny, adorable quirk that makes you want to rip his hand away and push them up yourself.
“What if I said I have a source for you?” He asks softly, and you perk up.
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” He grins. “You know, I’d think you’d have faith in me, I wouldn’t lie about that-“
“Shut up, I’m excited-“
“I can tell.” He boops your nose, and you stick your tongue out at him.
He does that all the time. He says you get a bunny nose when you’re excited about something, and then you hit him because nothing about you is bunny like.
Sometimes you say that, and he chuckles.
You have no idea. He mutters under his breath.
And sometimes he hits your nose, and your breath hitches because he touched you.
Today you keep it under control.
It’s Clark that freezes. Coughs and goes red, wheeling his chair an inch back. You frown at him, ready to ask what’s wrong, but he shakes his head like he’s already denying you an answer.
“It’s- Uh- Superman.”
You blink. “What?”
“Superman can be your source.” He grunts, shifting in his chair. “I can ask him to. For you.”
“I- You don’t have to.”
“I want to.”
“I can find someone else-“
“No, I- I’ve got it.”
He stares at you. You stare back, heart swelling with something sweeter than you usually allow it to feel.
You’re used to your feelings for Clark. You try not to think about them, especially not in his presence. There’s no amount of love you’d risk your friendship for.
But he makes that rule hard to follow sometimes. When he starts being stupidly perfect.
You smile at him, wide and unrestrained. “Thank you.”
He nods—tight and jerked—stares for a long, long moment. He shoots to his feet.
“I have to go to the bathroom!” He announces to the whole bullpen.
Clark sprints away. Jimmy gives you a questioning look, and you shake your head.
He doesn’t come back for an hour. When he does, his face is wholly red again.
He’s back to not looking you in the eyes. Back to looking so sick you’re worried he might be going feral.
And you have no idea what to do.
Lois gets back on Wednesday, and the first thing she says to you is What’s up with Smallville? Perry corners you at your desk to ask if you’ve got any idea what’s Clark’s been up to that might be doing this to him. Steve loudly jokes that everyone should be placing bets on when Clark passes out. Cat keeps trying to bring him tea—a thin guise so she can suggest home remedies to whatever super hangover he has—and Clark always drinks it with shaking hands.
He listens to all her suggestions without interrupting, but whenever Jimmy suggests Urgent Care—you’ve given up on trying to get him to the ER—Clark grunts a sound like no and won’t hear another word.
You’re getting really worried. Everyone gets sick, but Clark’s always talking about his very good immune system.
And nobody gets sick like this. Legally, Perry should be making him go home, but no one can get close enough to confirm a fever, and it’s somehow not effecting his work performance.
“Clark.” You sit on the edge of his desk, keeping your voice soft. “You need to go to a doctor.”
His whole body locks up. His fingers freeze on his keyboard, and he bows his head like he’s in prayer.
“Clark-“
“Please.” He says, so quiet you almost miss it. “Back up.”
You blink. “Back up?”
He nods, and there’s a sting in your heart.
He hasn’t asked anyone else to back up.
But you slide off his desk, and take a single step back. Another, when he doesn’t relax from the first.
You clear your throat, tucking your hands behind your back. Clark lets out a heavy, ragged exhale, and looks up.
He still won’t fully meet your gaze. His darkened eyes are fixed right over your head, and you try not to let it hurt more than it already does.
“Clark.” You’ve lost a little bit of nerve. You try not to let him hear it. “The doctor-“
“I don’t need a doctor.” He tells the ceiling, and you sigh.
“You’re sick-“
“No. I’m not.”
“Dude, I- I can feel your fever from here.” The heat, rolling off his body like he’s an active star. “At least just go so they can say you’re not sick.”
He doesn’t answer. You almost take a step forward, before reeling yourself back. He doesn’t want you too close.
“Please?” You say. “It would make all of us feel better.”
That makes him look at you. For just a split second, barely a heartbeat, but long enough.
His eyes go wholly back. He wheels his chair backwards, like there’s something toxic coming off of you that he’s trying to avoid.
And it hurts. It hurts so much your face burns with shame, and your stomach does a sick clench of pain.
It’s never fun, for the man you’ve quietly been in love with for years, to look at you like you’re proximity might kill him.
The only thing that stops you from crying is worry for him.
But that’s not enough to hold back the crack in your voice.
“Clark- Please-“
He shakes his head, jaw clenching. You swallow, and take another step back.
“Oh- Okay. Sorry.”
You turn on your heels. Behind you, Clark rasps your name.
And you look back. You can’t help it.
But all he does is stare at you.
So you walk away.
Clark doesn’t come in on Thursday. Jimmy goes to check on him, but won’t report back on what he finds. When he gets back to the office, his face is bloodless and eyes wider than an owl.
“Is he-“
“He’s not sick.” Jimmy stares at you like you’re a ghost. “He’s- Um- We should- Give him space.”
You frown. “But-“
“Lots of space.” Jimmy mutters under his breath, already walking away. “And maybe me some bleach. Freakin’- Gross-“
Lois comes up next to you, watching Jimmy head into the bathroom. You’re wringing your hands, lips pressed in a painfully tight line, and Lois grabs your wrists.
“Don’t go visit him.”
You shoot her a glare. “I wasn’t going to-“
“Yes, you were.” She raises her brows. “Don’t.”
“But-“
“Don’t.”
“What if he needs something-“
“I texted his cousin. She knows what to do.”
“To…” You narrow your eyes, pulling your hands from Lois’ grip. “You know what’s going on with him, don’t you.”
Lois shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”
“Lois-“
“He’s going to be fine.” She says, giving you a firm look. “Don’t check on him.”
She walks away without another word.
On Friday, you go to Clark’s apartment.
You don’t go inside. Lois’ voice keeps ringing in your head, and while you’re more than willing to disobey her, it’s the way she’d said it.
Don’t.
His door is right there.
Lois’ voice fills the gaps in city noise. Pointed and direct. Almost hopeless. Like she knew you wouldn’t listen.
Don’t.
You made him soup, because you’re pathetic. He’d left his jacket at work on Wednesday, and you’d brought it home to clean up before returning it. You’d had a whole painted daydream made of pastels and watercolor, where you’d give Clark his jacket, he’d swoon with how romantic that is, and then kiss you.
But like real watercolor, the colors bleed and run. Blur together. It’s too fuzzy a picture to be reality.
You stand at his door. You don’t remember walking inside the building.
Don’t.
But you want to.
Don’t.
He could need someone, what if his cousin was busy, what if he’s been waiting for you to check on him-
Don’t.
Lois’ voice isn’t louder than your heartbeat. But it’s level. And your pulse is erratic in your throat and fingers.
And you keep seeing Clark’s face. Keep thinking of how he’d been stiffer than concrete, until you’d moved away.
He wouldn’t want to see you right now. He’d made that clear.
You put the soup and jacket on the doorstep, and ring the doorbell.
Before Clark can open it, you walk away.
On Saturday, you hole up in your apartment and work.
It’s a distraction. Anything not to think of Clark. To think of how sick he is, how he might be in pain, how he might need help but not from you. How lately he can’t stand to be in the same room as you, and apparently everyone gets to know what’s going on with him except you-
You groan, tipping your head back against the couch.
This is exactly what you’re trying not to think about.
It’s hard, though. Impossibly hard. If only because you open your email, and see a bunch of messages from Clark. You open Teams, and his messages are pinned at the top. You send Jimmy something, and have to include Clark as a contributor. Lois sends you something, and Clark is CC’d.
He’s everywhere. You can’t stop checking your phone for a message, even if Jimmy says he’s basically out of commission. Can’t really do anything right now, he’d grumbled, making a sour face. Too… Sick.
He’d said it weird, but everything about this is weird.
Usually you’d talk to Clark about that.
You miss him.
Goddamnit.
Apparently, you’re very bad at not thinking about Clark.
You busy yourself. Clean the apartment, do the laundry, waste the day, don’t think about Clark.
He gave you this pencil. Let you borrow this sweater, that you’ve been hoarding like a dragon with gold since. Sent you the cheesecake in the back of your fridge as a birthday present, and it had been horrible but you’d kept it anyway.
You lie flat on the floor, and fail not to think about Clark a little more. Maybe you should text him. Just so he knows you’re thinking of him. Or text Lois and ask for his cousin’s number, so you can ask her if he’s okay. Or let the anxiety fully overpower Lois’ voice in your head, and go visit him.
You’re about to go with that last option, when there’s a bang on your window. You shoot up with wide eyes, expecting a massive bird.
Instead you find Superman, standing in your fire escape. It’s hard to see him, in the shadows of dusk. His head is strangely bowed, his shoulders slumped in a way you’ve never seen on TV. Maybe he’s just more casual, when he’s doing home visits.
But why is he home visiting you.
Usually that would freak you out. This week, it’s just another fucking thing.
You open the window slowly, poking your head outside.
“Hello?”
Superman looks up at you, and your mouth goes dry.
He doesn’t look well.
Red and pale face, messed up hair, heaving chest. Clenched fists, sweat-slicken face, blown out eyes with barely a ring of blue-
Like Clark.
Just like Clark.
And it’s not just the ragged appearance. It’s something deeper. It’s the way he’s staring at you like he’s worried you’re going to attack him. Like he’s restraining himself from moving, like you’re a repellant and he wants to fly away.
Or something else.
Without the glasses, there’s something else.
He looks desperate. The shadows on his face look longer. Maybe it’s just the sickness overtaking him, but he looks hungry. Desperate and starved. There’s an openness on his face that wasn’t there before. And he’s not looking at you like he’s afraid or skittish.
He’s looking at you like he’s a predator. Like you’re prey.
“Clark?”
“I’m here for your interview-“
You speak at the same time. Your voice is a breath. Superman—Clark? —pushes out his words like they hurt, and falters in a second.
He stumbles back like he’s been hit. You scramble forward to catch him, your body not worried about anything but Clark is going to fall.
Your hand wraps around his wrist. He makes a deep, rumbling sound from his chest. Almost a growl.
His eyes flutter. He moans out your name, trying to tug weakly away.
“Clark- Wait-“
Superman’s body goes slack, and he collapses in your arms.
At one in the morning on Sunday, too much is happening.
You put Clark—Superman? —in your bed. Took his temperature and dropped the thermometer in shock.
He’s burning at 150 degrees.
He should be dead. You’re not even sure how you touched him without burning up.
The thermometer clatters to the ground, and Clark shifts in his sleep. Groans out a garbled, pained noise that sounds like your name.
You swallow, hugging yourself tight. It’s hard not to reach out to him, but you don’t feel like you should. He hadn’t wanted you near him, and you’ve already crossed a few lines by putting him in your bed.
Then he moans, ripping the thin sheets off his body.
That time it was definitely your name.
Superman moaned your name.
You back out of the room slowly, with an embarrassing amount of effort. You can’t rip your eyes away from him.
Clark in your bed, calling for you and rolling around like a rutting beast. Whatever’s tormenting him isn’t enough to wake him up, but it’s enough to drive you out of your mind. You bite the inside of your cheek, and force yourself to close the door. It solves the looking at him problem.
It does nothing for hearing him.
And he’s loud. You’re lucky the apartments have thick walls between units, or you’d get a noise complaint. Clark is almost howling from his room, and whenever you give into temptation and go to check on him, he’s somehow managed to rip another item of clothing off in his sleep.
It starts with his top. The symbol on his chest gets torn to shreds, revealing a broad, flushed chest. He’s got a small happy trail. Muscles that you want to trace, and boobs that might be bigger than yours.
Your eyes wander to his abdomen. There’s a happy trail that leads down, down, down, and-
Oh.
That’s… Big.
You slam the door closed, and run back to the kitchen. Cold water does nothing against the heat building in your core. You splash it on your face and drink two glasses, but you might as well be downing sea salt. You’re thirstier than when you started.
The image seems to be burned behind your eyes. Clark’s bulge. Superman’s bulge.
You still haven’t really dealt with that.
Clark is Superman. Superman is Clark. You’re sure. You’ve spent the last hour on the couch, sketching out timelines and checking your work. The random disappearances in the middle of the day. How you’ve never seen him get drunk. The fact that he’s built like a Greek god but never works out, and whenever Jimmy asks him for a routine he just says grow up on a farm.
And be a Kryptonian. That would probably also help.
To be sure—you have to be positive, before Superman wakes up and you start throwing around accusations—you cut out a pair of paper glasses and build up all your courage.
When you step into your room, it hits you like a tidal wave. The smell of sex, sweat and cum and something deeper. Clark’s ripped off his tights, and apparently the outside boxers are the only thing he’d been using for cover.
You don’t let yourself look. Your traitorous eyes try to, but you refuse to glance past his thick thighs. You won’t violate him like that. You’re here for confirmation, and nothing else.
Carefully, you wipe the sticky hair from Clark’s brow. His whole body shudders under your light touch, and he bucks up to chase your fingers when you pull away. A deep whine escapes from his lips, and you swallow.
Dear lord.
Very, very slowly, you put the paper glasses on his nose. He wrinkles it, trying to buck them off, but you plant a hand on his chest.
You don’t mean to. You move before you can think.
Clark relaxes. His body goes slack like putty, save for a single hand flying to your wrist, holding tight.
He could break you. He’s Superman. You’ve watched—albeit from afar—him pick up whole buildings. But his touch on you is light, as if you’re glass. His jaw relaxes. A purr rumbles under your hand, and his thumb starts to trace small circles.
You stare at him, every logical thought in your head evaporating in the heat of the room. The glasses confirmed exactly what you wanted them to.
Clark is Superman,
And somehow, that’s the least important thing that’s happening right now.
His brow is unfurrowed, his mouth hanging open as he pants out your name.
“Clark?” You breathe, and he moans.
This time, he calls your name. His eyes flutter in his sleep, and his hand starts to move. Dragging yours down his chest. Over his pecs, his ribs, to his abdomen and-
You yank away with a squeak, when you realize. Clark whines, immediately seizing up the second you pull away.
He looks like he’s in pain. Your touch helped, and he’d liked it, and-
No. You can’t. You won’t. You’re stronger than that, and he’s not in his right mind. Whatever’s effecting him—whatever’s strong enough to effect Superman—can’t be letting him think clearly. It would be one thing if he asked. Another to touch him in his sleep, just because he’d moved your hand there. He probably doesn’t even know it’s you.
But he’d been calling your name. He’s calling your name right now.
The steam of the room is getting to your head. You stumble away, squeezing your eyes shut when Clark keens in pain.
If you weren’t such a masochist, you’d put in earbuds to avoid hearing him. But he keeps calling your name.
And you’re not that strong at all.
Clark wakes up at four in the morning. You haven’t even managed to close your eyes.
You’re so dazed from the everything that you don’t hear him coming. You just realize the moans have stopped, and hear a quiet mumble of your name.
When you turn, Clark’s standing in the door of the living room.
He’s naked.
Fully naked.
And this time, you’re too tired stop your eyes from wandering.
He’s glorious. It’s not just the muscle and size of him, it’s all Clark. How his flexing arms are the ones that catch up when you stumble over yourself, and his legs are the ones that bring you coffee in the morning. Those fisted hands hold your hair back when you’re sick and boop your nose. His tense knees bump against yours under almost every table, and his chest keeps you tucked safely away from the world whenever you have a meltdown.
But it’s also the muscle and size of him. He looks wound up, so tight you’re worried he may snap. The coat of sweat on his skin is begging to be licked off, and his thick arms could wrap around your neck and you wouldn’t complain.
And his cock.
You don’t know how he manages to walk around with that thing. It’s bigger than the toys you’ve seen in shops, bigger than the ones in porn that have to be fake, bigger than the lewdest drawings on the internet. Thick and veiny, hard and standing proud. His balls are heavy, and you kind of want to put them in your mouth. Every inch of him is slicked with cum, and you realize you just licked your lips far too late.
Clark clears his throat. You look up with burning cheeks and wide eyes.
“Clark, I- I’m so sorry-“
“Don’t.” He mutters, shifting on his feet. You can see his arms jerking wildly. Like he’s actively stopping them from moving. “I’m the one that should be sorry, I- I shouldn’t have come here.”
He winces at his own word choice, rubbing a stain of release on his thigh. He’d been humping the sheets all night. You’d heard the squeak of the mattress, and-
“I broke your bed.” He mumbles, not meeting your gaze. “I’ll fix it when- This passes.”
“Clark-“
“Stop saying it like that.”
You blink. Clark takes a deep breath, and looks up at you.
His eyes are shining. You can’t tell if it’s with frustration, or sadness, or that something else.
“Please don’t say my name. Like that, or- At all.” His throat bobs. “It makes everything very hard.”
Your lips twitch, and you glance back to his dick. He sighs.
“Yeah. I know. There are only so many words I can use, you know.”
You laugh softly, despite everything.
Clark grabs the doorframe with a groan. It cracks under his hands, and he won’t stop staring at you,.
“Don’t laugh either.”
“I- I’m sorry-“
“And don’t apologize, or- Or look at me-“
He cuts himself off with a long moan, and you fix your gaze very pointedly on the ceiling.
“Cla-“ You cut yourself off. “Should I call you Superman?”
“No- That- That’s weird-“
“Kal-El?”
“Worse.” He grunts, and you sigh.
“I need to be able to call you something.”
“It would be better if you didn’t talk, actually.”
That makes you glare at him. He winces, face scrunching in apology.
“No, not- Not like that-“
“Not like what-“
“It’s just, when you talk-“
“It’s hard?” You snap, and you don’t know why you’re so mad all of a sudden. Maybe it’s how you haven’t slept in almost two days.
It’s probably that. But also, something needs to break. If Clark just Supermans away after everything, you’re going to kill him.
“Please don’t sat that word.” Clark mumbles, and you shake your head.
“No. I’m going to talk, and you’re going to listen and give me answers.”
“I- I don’t think that’s a good idea-“
“You don’t get to decide what’s a good idea right now, boner-boy.”
He wrinkles his nose. “That… Doesn’t seem fair.”
“Maybe, but you know what’s also not fair?” You cross your arms over your chest, raising your chin. “Ignoring your best friend for a week, then showing up with a fever and- And magic boner then telling her to shut up!”
“I didn’t tell you to shut up-“
“You said I shouldn’t talk.”
“I said it would be better if you didn’t talk.” He mumbles, staring at the floor. “That’s not the same-“
“Shut up.”
“Sorry.”
The wall cracks further. You wrinkle your nose.
“You better fix the wall, Kent.”
“I will. ‘M sorry-“
“Stop apologizing to me, and just- Just tell me what’s wrong!”
You take a step forward. Clark shrinks back, but doesn’t move away.
“You’re not allowed to- To be mad.” He glances up under his lashes, and lets out another labored sigh. “Be more mad.”
That’s not promising, but your worry outweighs your anger. You nod, watching him expectantly. He closes his eyes, like he can’t bear to see your reaction.
“You know kryptonite?”
You blink. “Of course I know kryptonite, I don’t live under a rock.”
“Right. Well,” he coughs. “There’s, uh- This thing. Called red kryptonite. And it does… Weird things. To me. And other Kryptonians. Which is just Kara- My cousin- I think you’d like her-“
“Clark.”
“Sorry- Sorry.” He groans. You can trace a bead of sweat down his brow.
“Red kryptonite?” You prompt, softer than before.
His cock twitches. You try not think about it.
“I got exposed to some.” He mumbles. “Last weekend. And it never does the same thing twice, but usually it’s something like… Shrinking me. Flipping my personality, or giving me an extra power or curse or- Once it turned me into a fish-“
“It what-“
“I got better.” He says quickly. “But it’s usually immediate. This wasn’t. I- I even hoped I got lucky. That it wasn’t going to effect me at all. Then I got into the office on Monday, and saw you, and…”
He trails off, words hanging in the air.
Saw you.
You activated the red kryptonite in him.
There’s a very reasonable guess to what it’s doing. You still need to hear him say it, before you do something about it.
“What happened when you saw me?” You breathe, and he gives you a pleading look.
Makes a loose gesture to his erection. You bite back a smile. He’s going to need talking into this.
“Clark.” You say gently, and he groans.
“Please don’t make me say it.”
You give him a look, and he turns even redder than before. Stares down at his feet like a scolded child. It’s almost adorable, while also remaining impossibly hot.
“It’s very… Demanding.” He mumbles. “About certain things that I would like to do. And it is very particular about who I need to do it with. But- I can’t ask that of you-“
“Can’t you?”
Your question is quiet. You know he’ll hear you.
And Clark’s head snaps up, his jaw hanging open. He shakes his head.
“You- You can’t mean that-“
“Why not?”
You take a small step forward. Clark grabs the other side of the door way, tracking your every movement with that predatory focus.
“I’d like to.” You murmur. He grunts.
“You don’t have to pity me-“
“It’s not pity.”
He chuckles dryly. “Feels like it. I know you don’t- That’s not how you feel-“
“Who says it’s not how I feel?”
You fix him with a challenging glare, and Clark swallows.
“Uhh… Steve?”
You scoff. “Steve’s been trying to ask me out for three years, of course he’d tell you that.”
Clark shakes his head, his whole body trembling.
You’ve stopped a foot away. More than close enough for him to grab you. But he has to make that final step himself.
“I- I could hurt you.” He says, giving you that puppy look.
You shrug. “I like being hurt a little.”
His cock jumps. He doubles over, and you’re a little worried he’s going to break your whole apartment if he doesn’t move soon.
“Clark.” You whisper, taking a small step forward. “I trust you. And I- I want this. I want you.”
“No, you-“
“Don’t tell me what I feel.”
He shuts his mouth, still giving you that desperate look. You want to soothe him, but you just hold your ground.
“Will it hurt you?” You ask. “If you ignore it?”
He nods, tight and controlled.
You steel yourself, even as your nerves start to buzz.
Not with fear.
With excitement.
“Then use me.” You whisper, holding his darkened gaze. “Please.”
And Clark snaps.
He kisses you so hard you stumble. Knees buckle as Clark’s fevered lips overtake yours, and your startled squeal only lets him kiss you deeper. Your fingers fly out for something to hold onto, and find only the air.
Clark picks you up like you’re made of feathers, and there’s something steady about there being no ground at all.
If you were in your right mind, you’d think something about free fall and having no worry if there’s nowhere for impact. If you can only be caught.
But you’re not in your right mind. Because Clark isn’t kissing you like a kiss.
He’s inhaling you, and it’s already lighting you on fire.
There’s a thick arm wrapped around your waist, the other holding your back. A hand wrapped around your neck, angling him to kiss as deeply as he wants. His tongue presses over yours as he walks himself backwards.
You push back, and he moans. It’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard.
Clark’s back hits the wall, his legs sinking slightly as you make out. Nothing in his hold on you falters. If anything, it tightens. Like even with your open mouth moving against each other, there’s no way he can get close enough.
You respond to everything he gives you. Clark squeezes the back of your neck lightly, and you hum happily, smiling into the kiss. He grunts, when you thread your fingers through his hair.
He sinks further down, kisses turning short and desperate. He sucks on your lower lip, nipping softly and hauling you further up his body. Your nails dig into his scalp, and he drops his arm on your waist to grab your ass.
“Clark-“
“So- Sorry-“ He groans, and you can feel him rolling beneath you, trying to get himself back under control. “You’re just- So pretty, and- And soft, and-“
He drops fully to the floor, and you start slightly when he rips his mouth from yours, before burying his face in your neck.
“Smell so good.” He almost whines. “So good.”
You take a deep breath, trying to collect yourself. You’re the sane one right now. The Clark beneath you is still your Clark, but he’s also a man who’s in a fugue state of lust. Not the mild, usually level headed, noble little dork you love.
Clark whines, when you run your nails gently against the back of his neck. He’s almost shaking, kissing and sucking on your neck like he can’t even help himself. You don’t think he can.
It makes sense why he was avoiding you. This would’ve been quite the HR violation in the copy room.
“It’s okay.” You coo, kissing the side of his head. “You can take what you need, Clark, I told you I want it-“
“You- You can’t-“
“Don’t tell me what I get to want-“
“No, you can’t.” He detaches himself from your neck, going completely still. His grip on your hips is bruising.
You don’t mind at all.
“I’ll hurt you.” He mutters, and you sigh.
“We talked about this-“
“I’ll hurt you.” He squeezes his eyes shut, over pouncing each word, and you stare at him for a moment.
You shift in his lap, trying to peer closer, and he hisses. His fingers dig into your sides, and his head slowly bows against your chest. Licking and kissing softly, as if he can’t physically stand to be that far from you.
And you feel it.
The literal alien cock pressing against your ass. You’d think was a stick if you didn’t know better.
Oh.
Right.
Clark must hear the way your heartbeat picks up, and put it together. He sighs, warm breath tickling over your breasts.
“I need to get you ready.”
You swallow. “I- I’m pretty-“ You can feel your heartbeat in your cunt, and there’s the familiar tingling ache that’s always a good sign. “I feel pretty ready-“
Clark grunts. “Not ready enough.”
“How do you know-“
“Nose.”
“Nose- Oh.” You flush. He can smell your arousal. “But that’s a good thing, right-“
“Not enough.”
He seems reduced to short worded grunts. You’re not faring much better, but there’s also a massive man below you that can’t stop sucking around your tits.
“Can you… Always smell me?” You manage to ask, and he hums.
That’s his agreement hum.
Your jaw drops.
“Are you serious-“
“I can’t help it.”
“You- You could wear nose plugs-“
“No. Like it too much.”
Your thighs squeeze, those deep words shooting straight to your cunt, and Clark groans.
“You- Can’t move-“
“You should move-“
“Won’t hurt you.” He grunts, like he’s making a vow. “Just- Need a second.”
You let out a slow breath, looking up to the ceiling. The idea comes faster than you want to admit, but you’re desperate.
“You were better when you woke up.” You say causally, stroking your fingers through his hair. “Lucid.”
Clark grunts. You smile at the air.
“You came in bed last night.”
He stiffens slightly. “Wet dream.”
“About who?”
You feel the ghost of a smile, against your chest. “You’re very… Mouthy. Like this.”
And you’ve been told that before. But something about the way Clark says it—like something he’s measuring, a note he’s jotting down for a piece—makes you feel all glowy and stupid inside.
“Wow. Mouthy.” You tease. “Not very polite, Clark.”
“There are other words I could’ve used for it.” He mumbles, and you giggle.
“Yeah? Like what?”
Clark draws slowly back, staring at you with those drunken, dark eyes.
“A brat.”
A lot of the fight leaves you, very fast. No ones ever looked at you like that. Like you’re something they want to chew on, carefully and deeply. To leave a mark while keeping every part of you both ruined and intact.
And his voice. Lower than you’ve ever heard, and hoarse with desire. You were already a lot woman. This just seals your fate.
“I should jerk you off.” You blurt.
Clark makes a sound like a wounded animal, and drops his brow against yours.
“You- You can’t just say that-“
“But it will help.” You give him your best, pouty and pleading expression. “You’ll feel better enough to- To get me ready.” You try to keep your voice level, as if you’re not thrilled just to say the words. “And then… More.”
Clark doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes again, breathing heavily through his mouth. You wait, but you start to get a little worried he didn’t hear.
“Can you please look at me-“
“No.” He grinds out, and you frown. Reach up to cup his face.
“Clark-“
“Don’t ask me to move.” His words are tight. Pushed through his teeth.
You feel his cocks twitch, near your ass.
“Clark.” You make your voice soft. Traced the tensed line of his jaw, the bridge of his nose. He whimpers at the touch, and you smile. “It’s okay.”
“I- I need to get you-“
“I’m going to touch you, okay?”
His throat bobs, but he nods. Short and tight.
Enough.
You scoot back, and Clark lowers his legs at a painfully slow pace you accommodate you. Your ass drags over his dick, and he hisses, rutting up.
“Sorry-“
“It’s okay.” You say quickly, smiling slightly. “Good preview.”
He looks at you in befuddled exasperation. Opens his mouth like he’s going to snap something else out about you being a brat.
You settle against his knees, and don’t give him a chance.
The sound Clark makes when you wrap your hand around his cock is holy. Deep and guttural, like a man already wrecked. You let him sit in your loose grip for a second, watching his chest heave and eyes flutter.
He’s throbbing under your touch. You can barely hold him with the single hand.
You add a second, and squeeze at the base.
Clark makes another one of those beautiful noises, and grabs your wrist.
“Be- Be careful.”
You pause. “Does it not feel-“
“Feels good.” He grunts. “Too good. Gonna- Oh, fuck-“
Your mouth falls open. Clark swore.
You started to stroke his cock, and he swore.
And more. You need more. More of his swears, his sounds, his sweat running down his bare chest and the way he’s moaning your name. You need to see him fall apart, because once he’s back in control—once this massive dildo of a dick is inside you—you’re not going to be able to focus on such things.
You set a quick pace. Skin slapping and hot, unraveling him quickly.
Clark calls your name, his hands slamming back to grab at the walls. You watch in awe as his fingers sink into the wood, creating a slot for him to hold onto.
“Like- Like that- Shit.” He tosses his head back, moaning loud and lewd. “Yeah, baby, oh- Right there-“
He cuts himself off, rolling his hips up into your touch. You squeeze him again, switching your hands so one can thumb at the weeping slit on his head. Pre-cum leaks all over your fingers, and your lean further down.
You want to taste him.
When you slide off his legs—keeping your hands working—Clark says your name in a rough, garbled warning.
“What- What are you-“
You wrap your lips around the tip of him, flicking your tongue where your thumb had been. Clark makes a sound you’ve never heard from anyone before, his free hand flying to grab your neck.
The grip is tight, but painless. You’re in no danger of pain.
There’s something thrilling about how he’s gripping you so possessively. Like a life line.
You drop your hand to play with his balls. Clark bucks up into your mouth, bumping against the back of your throat.
“Sorry- Fucking Christ-“
You moan happily around him, drooling lips pushing down further. Your tongue swirls around him, and you suck, bobbing your head up and down. Trying to make him lose control again.
It doesn’t take long. Not when you reach up to his hand on your neck, and push it down.
“Are you-“
You moan, and Clark gives in.
He fucks your face like it’s a toy. Cock slipping in and out from between your lips, your spit staining with his pre-cum. Tears prick at your eyes, but you dig your nails into his thighs, refusing to be pulled off.
“Look- Look at you- Holy- Holy shit-“
Clark moans your name, and you let your hand drift back his balls. He slams up at the featherlight touch, and the tears start to flow.
“You’re so good at this sweetheart, so- So good-“ Clark moans, hips thrusting to meet every bob of your head. “Your mouth is so warm, and- And soft-“
You suckle lightly, the praise going right to your core. Your ass is sticking in the air, grinding up into nothing as he uses you.
And you can feel how close he is. His balls are tightening under your fingers, his cock twitching and pulsing, and-
Clark yanks you off suddenly, with one last cry of your name. Before you can protest or try to go back down, you see why.
He’s cumming.
And he’s not stopping.
Thick white ropes spurt from his dick, and you stare, transfixed. Every time you think he must be done, more comes. When the geyser finally stops, there’s not a place it hasn’t hit.
Clark lets out a shaky breath. You look up to him with wide eyes. He stares back, licking his lips.
“If you-“
“Do that inside me.”
You speak at the same time again. Clark blinks, leaning back slightly, and you flush.
“I- I mean- Clark-“
He starts to drag you forward, and your words turn into a squeak. Your being manhandled right into his lap, your ass still sticking up in the air and your hands just barely bracing you on the ground.
“I heard you.” He drawls, running a hand over the curve of your ass. “Pretty well, actually.”
His hand drags over your exposed core, and you whimper.
“Don’t- Don’t tease-“
“Trust me.” He mutters darkly. “I won’t.”
Two thick fingers toy at your clit, and you push yourself higher into the air. He knows exactly how to flick that little button, to drive you insane.
“Oh- Oh god-“
“If I had time.” Clark murmurs, almost to himself. “I’d keep you here for the rest of the day. Watch the sweetness drip down your legs,” his fingers trace over your sensitive inner thighs. “Let you make a mess in my lap. Wait ‘till you’re begging for it, then touch you,” one, broad finger rubs around your fluttering hole. “Nice and slow, until you feel what I’m dealin’ with right now.”
You moan, gaping at the floor. Clark gets a southern, Kanas drawl when he’s horny. It makes you clench around nothing, and he chuckles.
“Oh, you like that.” He presses the tip of his finger in, and you whine. “Yeah, I know. Know better than anyone, sweetheart.”
He pushes his hips slightly, forcing your ass higher into the air. There’s a rip, and cold air hits your core, making you shiver. His cock, still so hard, bumps against your tummy right as his finger slips into your cunt.
“Claaaark.” You moan, squeezing tight around him.
You’re rubbing backwards, trying to take him deeper. He splays one hand on your lower back, keeping you from getting what you want while still letting you chase the false hope.
He crooks his finger slightly, twisting it in a circle. You go limp, wrapping your arms around his thigh and pressing your cheek down for support.
“That’s it.” He mutters. “Just seeing what you need, it’s alright. Shit,” he lets out a sharp breath, cock twitching against you. “You’re so wet. I- I gotta-“
You hear it start to possess him, and you can’t be surprised when he pulls the finger out. Still, you twist to whine at him, maybe try to drag his hand back. He’s strong, but you’re horny, and that’s sure to help you somehow.
Instead, you trip on your own hands and collapse back down at the sight before you.
Clark cleaning your arousal off his fingers, eyes closed and face slack like he’s having a fine meal.
You can’t look away from it. It’s the hottest, most lewd thing you’ve ever seen. You whimper when he goes back into for more, dragging two fingers between your pussy lips before returning them to his mouth. He does it over, and over, and over again. Sometimes giving a little attention to your clit, like he’s milking you for more.
You’re a flushed, wiggling mess when he finally pulls his fingers away with a pop. His eyes are wholly black, gleaming with lust and fixed on yours.
There’s nothing left of you but putty, when Clark slowly starts to rub your pussy again. You’re a smeared, wrecked mess that can’t stop grinding back onto his hand, and he smiles down at you.
It’s predatory, but still soft. Exactly what you expect from him now. Pulling out the hair that got stuck in your mouth, all while slowly fingering your cunt.
“Wanted to do that for so long.” He coos, pushing two fingers deep inside of you. “You’d come into the office and start gettin’ wet right next me, I was slobbering like a dog. Thought I’d lose my mind, every single day.”
His fingers go deeper, bumping against your g-spot. You keen, making an almost unearthly sound from your chest. Clark notices it. Of course he does.
“There she is.” He mutters, starting to pump his fingers fast. Pushing against the gummy point over and over, until you’re drooling.
Your head has never been this empty during sex before. But you’ve also never been put over Clark’s lap like this. Fingered into oblivion while his dick pushes into your stomach. You start to push up—he needs attention—but Clark pushes you back down with a grunt.
“Need to be inside you.” He grunts. “Need you ready.”
Well. If he needs it.
It’s easy to relax into the feeling. Clark starting to thumb at your clit, rubbing it back and forth like a bop-it toy. Between that and his fingers, Clark is almost pulling pleasure out of you like a machine. It doesn’t take long for you to feel like you’re close. Your face his presses into his bare leg, your pussy fully pried open and well touched. You can feel the familiar tension inside you, about to burst.
“Clark- Clark-“ You don’t have the strength to twist, so you scratch at his leg. “I- I’m gonna-“
“I know.” He mutters, and fuck, you don’t doubt him. “Whenever you’re ready, sweetheart. Cum on my hand, let me feel it.”
It only takes a few more moments. Release hits you quickly, and lasts long. Thighs shaking and loud moans escaping your lips as Clark keeps playing with you.
You’re dazed from the orgasm. It’s the strongest you’ve ever felt, and your cunt is still pulsing when Clark’s fingers pull away.
“You’re ready.” He mutters, and you agree with a garbled sound.
He laughs, leaning down to kiss the back of your head as you quiver. He pulls you up into his lap, and you can feel his cock sliding between your folds. Both of your are so slick with everything there’s no friction. The tension in Clark tells you he’s close to going feral again, but his voice is still sweet.
“Just- Stay like that, beautiful.” He kisses the side of your head. “And if it- If anything starts to feel bad, tell me. I’ll stop.”
And you believe him. You know just how much this is affecting him, but you also know he’s Clark. And there isn’t a force on earth that could make him hurt you like that.
“Can you- Can you please say you’ll tell me-“
“I’ll tell you.” It’s barely more than an exhale.
Clark hears it.
“Good. Good girl.” He kisses your neck this time, and you whimper. “Let me- Can’t do it here. Not right.”
You’re not sure what he’s talking about until you’re airborne. Clark tosses you over his shoulder, holding you steady with one arm around your knees, and you blink at the cum and sweat stained floor. You might have to move, after this.
Maybe Clark could let you live with him.
Too fast. And not the thing to worry about right now.
Get fucked stupid, then think about your living situation and relationship status.
That’s a good plan. The best plan.
There really couldn’t be a better one, you decide. Not when Clark starts to rub your clit again, using the full pressure of his palm.
“Keeping her ready.” He rumbles, and you hum. You’re certainly not complaining.
You’re already close to another orgasm, when he lowers you down onto the bed. Your back hits the mattress, and you immediately reach between your thighs, fondling at your pussy hopelessly. Nothing feels as good as Clark’s hands. He might’ve already ruined you forever.
“Don’t do that.”
Those very hands catch your wrists. You stumble over your breath, when you look up at Clark.
He’s back into feral caveman mode. Stroking his cock with one hand, the other squeezing yours gently before setting it down at your side.
“I touch you.” He grunts, and you can’t argue with that.
You lay down, spreading your legs slowly. In offering. Clark makes that guttural sound, his dick somehow looking like it’s gotten harder. You swallow. It’s very hard not to touch yourself with a massive, hulking god standing over you and jerking himself off. For Clark, you’re going to try.
He’s been reduced back to deep noises from his chest and moans of your name, but he’s not making any attempt to move on you. He’s just… Staring.
Stroking his cock, and watching you. Looking between your wet, gaping pussy and flushed face, beating himself into his fist.
He moans, and doubles over. Pumps so fast his hand becomes a blur, and god you’d like him to do that to you later.
His face lands on your inner thigh. Soft stubble grazing the oversensitive area, cold breath pushing against your clit. You grab his hair, back arching off the bed at the taunting pleasure. Clark moans, watching you clench around nothing.
You cry, as his face fully presses into your cunt. It’s right as he finishes himself off, his cum painting the mattress and covering your ankles.
Clark rises back up, and for a second you just stare at each other.
“Didn’t mean to do that.” He rasps, and your lips twitch.
“I liked it.”
He chuckles, shaking his head. “Of course you did.”
Clark falls back over you, kissing you deep and slow. You call tell that the clear-headed affect of the orgasm is lasting for a shorter and shorter time.
And Clark choses to use it, just to kiss you.
He tests the head of his cock up and down your pussy, making sure to push it against your clit before going back down, and starting to slide slowly in. There’s almost no resistance, and he hums against your lips.
“Goin’ slow.” He mumbles. “While I can.”
You nod. It’s all you can manage.
He feels just as big—if not bigger—than he looked. Never has a cock stretched you so greatly, and so well. The fullness is incomparable, and you’d be worried you couldn’t take it if your pussy wasn’t greedily swallowing him whole.
“That’s it.” Clark groans, pushing in every inch so torturously and amazingly slow. Forcing you to feel every single inch. “There’s you go, just- Just take it- Fuuuck-“
He moans your name, and you kiss him. You want to feel everything he has, vibrating through your chest. Straight into your cunt.
Clark bottoms out, hiding his face in your neck. You blink up at the ceiling, trying to push off more tears. It’s good, unbelievably good, and your body doesn’t know what to do with it.
“Tight.” Clark mumbles against you, and you laugh breathily.
“Big.”
He looks up at you, and for a second, you only see Clark. Your best friend, looking out of you, always kinder than he needs to be.
“’m serious.” He says, low and rough. Like a secret. “When I call you pretty. When I- When I say I want you-“
You kiss him, and Clark melts into you in a second. You can’t stop your smile.
“I know.” You breathe, and he nods.
“Love you.” He pushes in almost an inch deeper, like the words spur him on. “So much.”
You blink, and his eyes widen.
“That’s- Um- I don’t think I meant to- You feel really good and my brain is soupy-“
Kissing to shut him up will only work so many times. You cover his mouth with your hand, every inch of you feeling alive. From his words, his body, every single inch of this glorious man that’s somehow, all yours.
“My brain is soupy too.” You whisper, clenching purposefully around his cock.
Clark grunts, rutting forward. You giggle, and he gives you a dangerous look.
“Very soupy. But,” You beam. “I love you too. And I’m very serious.”
Clark pauses. Smiles into your hand, eyes shining in the dark. You feel a little like your floating. You’d like to be rocketed right up to heaven.
“Make me dumb.” You breathe, and Clark’s shoulders square.
Your hand is knocked away in a second. His mouth attacks yours, and the moment he starts to move, an orgasm is ripped from your very core.
You scream, locking up and clenching around him. Clark moans against your lips, grabbing your knees and pushing them up to your chest. It’s a deep angle, and you can feel every inch of him, sliding in and out of your cunt. His balls slap near your ass, and his mouth hangs open as he stares down at him.
He’s fully gone to the red kryptonites effects. There’s no question, as he bends you in half and starts to fuck you like a doll. But he still doesn’t let his strength slip. You feel completely safe in his hands.
Safe and attended to.
You’ve never fucked a man who makes sure to hit your g-spot so much, and Clark’s barely even lucid right now. But he drills down into it, moaning your name and making those sinful, beautiful sounds.
It’s too much for your poor pussy. Two is a lot of orgasms. Three is your—usual—max, and that’s usually with time between. But Clark isn’t letting up. And you’re getting close again.
“Cla- Clark-“ You whine out, and he fucking growls. “Clark, I’m gonna-“
He makes a deep noise of understanding, and starts to fuck you harder. You cry out, grabbing uselessly at the sheets as the next release gushes from your pussy, flying up your spine like ecstasy.
Clark finds his own release there. With you clenching tight around him, writhing with overwhelmed pleasure and moaning his name like a hymn as you come. He throws his head back and starts to fuck like an animal, roaring your name.
He grabs your jaw, demanding your eyes on his. His thumb presses on your lower lip.
Cockdrunk and empty headed, you open your mouth and start to suck.
It feels even better than you’d thought. At first it’s nothing, just painting your walls and sticking so deep inside you, you think it knocks you into another, tiny orgasm. Then it’s more, spurting out of your pussy as he keeps fucking into you. An obscene fountain, staining your ass and thighs.
Then it’s too much. You’re not sure you can breathe, but the lights dancing on the edge of your vision only add to the euphoria.
Now, it’s everything. You’re full. So full. You never want to be empty again.
And you don’t think Clark would allow that anyway.
Because he’s still fully hard inside of you. And with how he’s staring at you, you don’t think there’s a space of sound mind anymore.
Clark just stares at you, still mindlessly sucking on his thumb and growls.
You giggle as he grabs your hips and flips you onto your stomach. Drags your ass back up into the air and pushes himself back in with a thick moan.
There’s a chance that his cum is transferring some of the sexual stamina onto you. It’s the only possible way you can last this long. Clark fucks into you from behind, kissing up and down your spine as his balls slap against your clit. Your fourth orgasm hits you, and you think you see he stars.
Clark cums again. You don’t know how there’s still possibly space for it, but nature finds a way.
You giggle into the sheets. Clark kisses your shoulder, rutting deeper and deeper into your abused pussy.
He might take your laughter as a challenge. Suddenly you’re being flipped over, and Clark’s impaling you on his dick once more, forcing you to slide down and feel every inch.
It’s a good thing you get giggly when you have good sex.
If he sees it as a challenge, you’re ready to lose, over and over and over again.
On Sunday, Clark fucks you through the afternoon and into the night.
There isn’t a spot in the apartment that doesn’t feel the aftermath. After making you ride him, he clambered over you and held you to his chest, fucking you with just your knees on the bed. After that you ended up on your back, then riding him again, then somehow on the floor. Against the wall. In the doorway, your face pressed against the window, Clark flying and holding you in his lap. By the time the sun was over your head, you were a wordless, dumb mess. Clark had you in a headlock and you were smiling like an idiot, taking his cock over and over again until you think you reshaped each other.
Now, standing in the shower to wash off the everything, you think if you reached down and touched yourself, you’d find Clark completely rearranged your guts to his shape. When you’d looked at him during the soft, quiet cleanup, his cock had certainly looked like you’d molded him to only fit in you.
It’s an oddly romantic thought.
There are lots of those to go around.
Clark’s waiting for you in the living room. He’s been trying to clean, but you don’t think there’s a point.
“I told you I’m going to have to move,” you joke, and he sighs.
“Well, I- I really tried, but-“ He wrinkles his nose. “I think it got in things. When I- Yeah.” He groans. “I can see it.”
“See it-“
“X-ray vision.”
“Oh.” That fun revelation had gotten lost in everything else. It’s going to take some getting used to.
Clark bows his head, almost in shame.
“Sorry I didn’t tell you,” he mutters.
You shake your head. “It fine-“
“I wanted to-“
“Clark.” You place a hand on his chest, smiling softly. “It’s okay. Really.”
He blinks at you, then relaxes.
“Really?” He asks anyway, and you nod.
“Really.” You nod to the floor. “I can even start apartment hunting right now.”
Clark laughs at that, and you beam.
It’s the same. Even after I love yous and the sex marathon, it’s still just Clark. And you’re more lucky to have that, than anything else.
“You could move in with me.” He suggests quiet and nervous, and your eyes widen.
“I-“
“If it’s too fast, you don’t have to, I- Geez, I haven’t even taken you out on a date yet, never mind-“
“Clark.” You raise your voice, forcing him to quiet down. “I was thinking the same thing earlier.”
He starts slightly. His lips twitch. “You were?”
You nod, and he grins like you handed him the sun.
“It’s not- Maybe too fast-“
“Maybe.” You shrug. “But I- I’ve loved you for years.” You look down to your fingers. “And we kind of lived together before. For work. And you’re my friend, first, so if you think it’s fine-“
Clark pulls your own trick. He grabs your face, and shuts you up with a deep, long kiss. You smile, rising up to meet him, and it’s barely been a day, but it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“I’m gonna do it right, though.” Clark says against your lips. “Take you out. Woo you.”
You laugh. “Bring it on.”
✦End note: sex pollen fics are so fun i feel like im getting a secondary high✦
✦If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3✦
Hear me out what if Clark’s dick is so good it makes the reader pass out 👀
HIII! I’m sorry I’m so bad at replying !!
I like the way you think
18+ mentions of rough sex , swearing , whimpering , passing out , after care , mentions of breeding and mating press!!
Word count :648
He hadn’t meant for it to go this far .. he really hadn’t. He was stuck in a kryptonian rut , you promised you could handle it. Because normally you could handle his fucking. But tonight …you were currently folded in half into a mating press , four orgasms deep and he’s whimpering like a mad man pounding into your tight pussy dripping wet from all the rounds he had put you through. “Baby I’m so sorry NGHH I’m sorry I need more please… please let me take more .. just one more I’m so sorry baby please forgive me”
You sobbed babbling incoherently mascara running down your face and oh he feels so guilty when you nod your pretty little head. “S.. sokay” You forced yourself to speak out that one word.
He leans down folding you even further in half making you feel like you were gonna snap in two and you sobbed as he kisses your cheek and tears away as he fucks into you harder.
“Thank you baby.. I’ll make it up to you I swear” He whimpers sweetly not holding back and bullying your pretty pussy listening to your sobs feeling so guilty. But he can’t help it. He’s gonna fucking ruin you.
“Wanna see you all swollen baby… wanna see you swollen with my baby.. need to breed you.. I’m sorry .. really I am I just.. I need it .. we need it.. need my baby to have a baby” He slams his dick into you harder almost crying.
You were close. Brutally close. Head fuzzy. You couldn’t tell him. Your hand reached out to squeeze him as if to tell him you’re close.
“Go on baby.. give it to me. Come on.. lemme breed you sweetie” You sobbed clamping down onto his dick like a vice and he follows after rutting load after load cramming his cum as deep into your womb as he can ,his hyperspermia making your pussy all swollen and you feel your head go fuzzy. And before too long you passed out.
“You did so good baby.. I’m sorry .. baby?” He lightly taps your cheek realising that you’ve passed out.
He wastes no time pulling out hysterical and tapping your face checking your pulse sighing feeling it still there.
“Come back baby I’m sorry I’m so so sorry” He runs to grab a cloth soaking it in cold water and placing it on your head cooing.
When your eyes open he’s so gentle with you.
“Hey sweet baby can you hear me?” You nod at him blinking a few times and he speaks again.
“Can you speak for me honey?” He coos again.
“What happened?” you splutter out and with a shaky breath he carefully carries you to the bathroom already setting up a bath for you.
“Sweet bug I’m so sorry.. I was so rough with you .. I couldn’t help it please don’t think I’m a monster”
He checks the temp of the water for you filling it with cherry scented bubble bath and places you in like you’re made of glass.
You reach out carefully cupping his face. “I don’t think you’re a monster Clark.. I know you can’t help it.. I trust you with my body . I forgive you okay?”
He almost bursts into tears with how understanding you were about his kryptonian biology as he Carefully wipes between your legs not wanting to overstimulate you more.
“I don’t deserve you bug… I’m sorry baby.. I really am okay?” You nod believing him and sooth the mood by blowing bubbles in his face and he chuckles grabbing your hand and pressing a kiss to it.
After the bath he scoops you up and drys you off with a towel shushing and rocking you gently before pulling a hoodie over you and carrying you to bed peppering your face in kisses.
“Thank you sweet girl.. for loving me as I am”
@soggywhore @davidcoresnwet
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