pairing: student! fem reader x student! jeon jungkook
summary: when you finally get your crush’s number, you expect the start of an epic love story— not a random guy making fun of you because he thinks the guy you’ve been obsessed with for the last six months gave you a fake number. Jeon Jungkook, the one who replies, finds it entertaining and helps you chase the guy… at least until he finds out that the person he’s been helping date another guy is you, the girl he’s been obsessed with for the last two years.
genre/warning: this is a smau fic!! with narration included in some chapter but it’s mostly messages/tweets. very unfunny jokes. this is mostly crack/fluff.
authors note: ‘but u have to update ur other fic blah blah blah’ umm shut the fuck up?. anyway this is my first time attempting smau fics so be nice to me thank u. ngl i was VERY high writing this but it made me giggle when i read it again. hope u hehe a lil with this. iloveu.
i know this is not my usual type of writing but idk i was feeling silly and i always wanted to try smau. this is for giggles and shit! — gift credits in the watermark??
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summary: joel, a lonely outlaw, finds himself in desperate need of release, his desires driving him head first into a pit of sorrow. arthur takes notice of his lonesome, giving him directions to a small cottage tucked away in the mountains, promising the girl who lives there is sure to make his worries go away—but unfortunately for arthur, he ends up having to share you far more than he bargained for.
cw: 18+ MDNI, lightly set in the rdr2 universe (walk with me now), fem presenting reader, separate sex scenes, m/f/m threesome, reader is an late 1800’s sex worker, paying for sex, neck touching, outlaw!joel, outlaw!arthur, cunnilingus, face sitting, deep throating, finger sucking, a trip to paris, face fucking, kissing, mean!arthur, soft!joel, joels being super shy, arthur being super cocky, rough sex, cervix fucking, fighting for dominance, awkward eye contact, cum sallowing, multiple orgasms, pull out method, brief aftercare
wc: 10k
a/n: writers block is really getting to me if this is terrible please just ignore me!! also— you do not need to understand anything about this game to enjoy this i promise!! tried my best to make it ambiguous and fun just trust me ok love u
Trying to decipher his messy writing only one could type as ‘chicken scratch’ on the aged map currently snug to his fingertips, Joel sighs in frustration—a grunt rumbling down through his aching bones and up to his neck, releasing a shaky breath from his throat.
Tonight already unraveled into a far longer evening than he anticipated, trying to stifle his negative thoughts about just how tired he’d be in the morning, he stared daggers into the map, hickory colored eyes swiping up and down the aged ink on the paper in an attempt to decipher the confusing scribbles written on the pathways.
Mentally planning out his eventual departure, he was tasked to check on a small house out east that would possibly be worthwhile, an easy way of attaining some quick cash for the gang. He heard about it from a drunken man outside of the saloon, his echoing laughter loud enough to entice even the calmest passerby, Joel took notice, steading his breathing to listen closely.
The man was uttering nonsense about some old senile woman who lived just around the corner, absentmindedly letting it slip from his slurring mouth that she was sitting on some high quality jewelry and other valuables. She was a widow, too fearful to sell or rid the family home of her late husband's gold, it instead sat behind the loosened floorboards collecting dust, her aching body living out the last days of her days in a rocking chair sleeping away.
He mentally took note of it for a time like this, the supplies at camp quickly dwindling into nothing, the dirty cash dipping into the negatives, it was finally time to hit that tip for a hopeful payout and get the gang off his back.
Large fingertips traced the rideable trail, his mind configuring it would take him the rest of the morning and maybe even the afternoon to arrive when suddenly, a dirty hand swiped his map out of his grasp. Startled, he stepped back, the action instantly catching Joel off guard, the figure shadowing the sun out of his eyes, he was met with a dusty black cowboy hat who only belonged to one person.
Arthur.
“The hell you up to?” Joel asks to no response, Arthur holding a silver pen in his hand, the paper scratching against the nib recklessly scribbling black ink onto the map.
“Gimme a second.” Arthur nods once, the onyx lines and milky circles of ink seamlessly turning into a small drawing in the left quadrant of the paper, Joel’s dazed eyes squinting in an attempt to decipher it to no avail.
It wasn’t until Arthur handed him back his stolen scrap of paper until he realized what it was, Joel’s eyes instantly flickered over to the new markings that filled the map—making sight of a now intricately drawn cabin that sat just across the river up East, just North of Strawberry.
Puzzled, Joel leered at the man, his hat sat just above the crease of his eyebrows, slate colored eyes finally meeting his direct staring.
“This cabin righttt ‘ere,” he started, finger ruffling the paper as he pointed on the freshly drawn ink, his fingerprints transferring the blue hues. “You go on up here this weekend, tell ‘er Morgan sent ya, then you can figure the rest out yerself.” He uttered, voice hoarse with remnants of chewing tobacco on his tongue.
“Is this a job? Someplace else you’re wantin’ me to stake out?” He questions, eyebrows raised at the man. “Already got me working on something else, how about you get someone else—”
“Ain’t a job Miller, I mean-maybe it is if that’s what yer lookin’ for,” he laughs, voice gruff. “But I’m thinkin’ that depends on what exactly you plan on payin’ her.” He quickly cuts off, body language visibly shifting into a secretive stance, the side of his lip pulled into a slight smirk.
Puzzled, Joel’s brows furrow, unsure why Arthur is suddenly suggesting an uncouth encounter like this—especially at a time like this.
“Now I…I ain’t that kinda man. But thanks, I’ll think about it.” With a nod he begins to walk off, his boots kicking up dry dirt, the dust blowing in the breeze.
Arthur brings a hand up, patting him once on the shoulder, palm stern enough it stops his moments. “I know you ain’t ‘n that’s why it’d be good for ya, blow off some of this pent up frustration y’got, everyone’s tired of watching you mopin’ ‘round camp.”
And with that he was off, limp body carrying him to his bed to ignore that voice screaming at him in the back of his mind as he attempted to fall asleep. Closing his eyes, he tried to strategize his earlier plan, yet Joel finds himself recycling that conversation with Arthur, the potential it might be for a lonely man like him, the idea beginning to eat him alive.
It continues to chew at his resolve in the morning, his rest only further pushing the sinful idea into his brain—the price must be worth it if Arthur was dead set to recommend it to him.
He’s stuck with his thoughts as he rides out of camp towards that old woman’s house, his mind shifting back once again to that scribbled down cabin on his map. He wonders if Arthur was bluffing, or if he was trying to set him up for something cruel, possibly sending him to a death trap in a ruse of getting laid—Joel wasn’t even sure if he’s ever seen a cabin out there to begin with, let alone one with a pay-for-hire working girl.
Joel could only ruminate on it, debating on if he wanted to risk it all, slip away over the weekend like Arthur said and see what awaits him over in Strawberry. His twisted idea of morality tethers back and forth on a lopsided scale until the weight of his heartache flips it over, finally deciding to go to hell with it, because if the worst can happen at this cabin—he’s sure he can handle it.
So that’s what he did, he waited.
The afternoon he planned to set off comes before he knows it, anxiously folding the map tightly in his fist, he safely secures it in his satchel, heading off for the treacherous journey.
It takes him ‘til nightfall to finally round up the corner of the familiar mountain hill, the steep terrain causing the dirt road to grumble underneath his horses hooves rampant galloping, his own boots flopping with each jog. The reins are freezing cold in his hands, muttering to himself that he definitely should have packed thicker gloves for the ride out here, he began to feel a furry sensation inside of him—his nerves creeping up on him. It’s hard to focus on the biting chill of the mountains, the cold snow tops off in the distance beginning to nip at his exposed skin, his own cheeks a deep shade of rose. But none of that matters. Not when a special lady awaits him, and he can’t wait.
Sighing, he takes a soft step up the doorsteps, eyeing the dark brown oak walls swallowing the moonlight, dry rot slowly appearing on the wooden door from the years of wear and tear on the grain, the chestnut hues almost black in the absence of light.
He can hear the slight noises of something rustling; maybe someone on the other side of the door, or possibly a small animal rummaging through the leaves outside, a nocturnal creature sniffing around for its next meal—how ironic.
Shaking his head with a huff, he feels just like that small animal, if Arthur was telling the truth about this cottage that is—his own primal drive swooshing through his body mistaken for nervousness, he peers into the shallow curtains, looking for any signs of a person.
A woman.
He felt silly, seeking out release in such a desperate manner. If it was up to him, he’d be spending a full day robbing a train or stealing a herd of cattle from a lazy farmer, ending the night with some quick cash and an even quicker burst of adrenaline, jerking his cock with his spit covered fist and falling asleep on a paper thin cot, just to repeat the same day over in the morning.
But to his digress he stands stoic, waiting outside the doorstep with his fists in his coat pockets, debating on whether or not he should knock on your door and risk his manhood or run away cowardly and hide himself deep in the woods where no one could hear him fist his cock to fall asleep with the critters.
But Joel Miller wasn’t one to chicken out on a task, especially not now, ripping his hand out from his pocket his fist collided with the door, knocking a firm sequence on the door. The sounds reverbed against the oak, the sounds hollow and empty, much like his chest as he stands there impatiently, his boot tapping the porch.
The seconds begin to feel like hours as he awaits a sign of life, believing you didn’t hear him, he bangs the door once more, the wood groaning from the pressure of his firm fist.
“Who is it?” A small voice questions from the other side of the mahogany, sounding irritated in an accusatory way. “You pound that door one more time n’ I guarantee I’ll blow your brains out.”
He slowly walks his steps back, his heels dangling off the edge of the top step to your home. “Hey miss, uh—Arthur, Arthur sent me, s-said you’d be expecting my company sometime soon.” Joel can’t help but stutter, embarrassment creeping through his already shaky voice. Body practically shaking in his boots.
“Alright, come in.”
The door creaks open into a dimly lit house, a small oil lamp blooming orange hues into the cabin—the walls short and round along the edges made out of logs.
Snug against the frame of the door you stand, bare feet planted firmly against the dirty floor, your toes curled into themselves. Silently, you take a cautious step back, body weight creaking under the floorboards, leering up at him as if he’s a stranger—and he is.
But Oh. He wasn’t expecting this. You stood just underneath him, big eyes drinking him in to memorize his features as if it’s a defense mechanism. Your hands are crossed over your waist, pushing up your barely covered breasts in your nightgown. He wasn’t expecting this.
You were pretty. Far prettier than most of the ladies he’s ever been with—hell, prettier than most girls he’s seen ‘cross America, you were a sight for sore eyes and Joel could feel it, his ears chirping with that same shade of rose that crept his cheeks.
A blush.
You give him a clenched smile, like you were trying to make all of this seem far easier than what it really was, your round cheeks gleaming at him, the highpoints of your cheekbones shining from the minuscule lamps and candles spread around the home.
“Was um,” he pauses, hand flying to the back of his neck. “Arthur sent me.”
Joel silently thanks whatever higher power who’s listening as your shoulders finally relax, the small expand of your belly filling in your dress exhaling whatever you were holding back.
“Arthur’s boy huh? That guy-he’s funny. You much like him? Hang ‘round his people?”
“Y-yes ma'am.”
You take a step towards him, a hand brushing his shoulder, fingertips latching to the lapel of his jacket, shrugging it off his shoulders.
He doesn’t complain, standing there as if he’s made of stone as you take control, the buttons clacking on the hardwood flooring the only sound in the silence besides the ricocheting beat of his heart.
“Mmm…I see now, he was telling me about some feller who's always talkin’ his tail off late at night. Said he could really use some company.”
Hell, he could really use it now, your hands touching him only making this encounter realer and more practical by the second, his ideas of how this would have gone twisting into clouds of reality in the forms of your fingertips.
“I ain’t ever done all this before.” He blurts out, everything moving too fast and antagonizing slow at the same time, his breathing picking up in his chest.
“Never paid a lady or never fucked one?” You question, your giggles taking him off guard.
He swallows the lump in his throat, choking back a grunt. “Now I-I’ve done that now, just never had to pay for any lovin’.”
“Alright then sir. It’s real easy,” you gleam, sultry drifting your hands down his chest, gently pushing him back into the brown wooden chair feet away from your bed, the legs creaking at the weight of his body.
“You can call me Joel, Joel Miller.”
“Alrighty then Misterrr Joel,” you purr, hands clawing down his tonned pecks. “‘s real simple now. You just pay me, and usually for a man like you—one who’s never fucked a lady proper before.” You tease him brashly, watching goosebumps erupting over his leathery neck as you stand up, your house dress brushing against his arm. “I’ll give ya a lot more time with me than a man should need, let you get used to a lady, learn the ropes.”
Running your hands up his neck, delicate fingertips scratch the rough, tanned skin, feeling the prickling follicles of his beard stab underneath the free edge of your nails.
Dragging your soft touch upward, your hands fall to his broad shoulders, the strong muscles tensing under your electric touch. You press into them, your thumb dipping into the soft crest of his collar bones with just enough pressure to make him shiver, his own hands finding your waist.
“Alright ma’am, sounds about fair.” He sighs, accepting defeat, swallowing the feeling of nervousness in his gut that begins to creep back up his throat.
He clears the phlegm, his hand falling to his jean pocket to reach for a wad of cash. He doesn’t bother to count it—clearly whatever he’s paying you will be well worth the ride up here and far more exciting than jerking his cock stuck in the combines of his camp.
“Mmm, kind and respectful?” You wonder out loud, joining him in the chair, your legs covering his thighs. “Startin’ to think Arthur told ya just how to get me ta’ hike my skirt up huh?” You press, your brows flying up to your forehead at your questioning, feeling him wiggle around beneath you.
“Thinkin’ he shoulda told me ‘bout this mouth on ya, you’re an interesting lady sweetheart.” He muses, his dilated pupils gleaming at you, his large hand coming up to stroke your cheek.
You settle into the touch, his palm so sickeningly warm against your skin you can feel your neck heat up at the idea of what else his hands can hold. “I can tell ya about my mouth if you want…or I can show you what it can do.”
He chuckles, a hearty noise leaving his lungs, his eyes crinkling in such it away it makes his crows feet appear, the three lines tickling his cheeks ever so slightly it makes your own eyes shine down to his, curling your face into a grin.
“How about we start with this?” He cues, leading your face into his with his hand on your chin, pressing his lips lazily to your own.
It’s like a puzzle, his lips effortlessly shaping around your own as if they were always meant to be there, like Joel was always supposed to be a regular in your routine. You bite down on his lower lip, allowing a strangled gasp to slip from the excess space you give him to swipe your tongue on his teeth, squeezing your way into his open mouth.
Joel quickly allows you access, shaping his tongue to your own, muscles fighting and swirling around another, the sound of spit sticking together fills your senses as your hands grip his hair hard enough to sting.
“Shit,” he curses, head whipping back against the chair, his Adam's apple bobbing aggressively. “If yer trying to kill me you might as well just do it by now cus with the way you’re movin’, I don’t think I’ma last long.”
Giving you no time to respond, he takes charge of the situation, chasing your pillowy lips. He attempts to keep up with the fiery lead you’ve been taking, his beard searing into the soft skin of your face, the skin tingling in its wake.
“Could it be possible I want you like that? Broken and crazied? It seems you’re in dire need of release.” You’re toying the man, playing with fire and engulfing him in the flames, each touch causing his passion to grow stronger and stronger.
Joel is hungry. Starving.
A desire once a burden twisted into something he can’t begin to describe if he tried, the tense years of loneliness slowly begin to melt away with every lick of your mouth, every pull of your fingertips—every roll of your hips beginning to drive him into depravity.
Not breaking your kiss, Joel slowly stands up, his boots patting on the thin floorboards as he skillfully dips you to the mattress, his body slotting against you with a growl, his denim scratching your bare legs.
Only then he pulls away, frantically forcing himself off the addictive taste of your lips. His smile turns upwards in a sly grin, his beard brushing against your neck with a bite, “oh darlin’…you got noo idea.”
Pressing a thick leg to your core, his knee molds itself on your covered cunt, the pressure bouldering into your clit. With a moan of praise slipping from your opened mouth, Joel takes it further, palms finding every piece of skin he can. His hands rummage your body, grappling onto you with passion he’s only ever seen in fictional novels, he dips his digits into the flesh of your legs, your skirt slowly inching up your thighs.
“Mpfh! Yer good at this ain’t ya?” You giggle, hands finding the soft hair at the nape of his neck, twirling it in your fingertips.
“Jus’ tryin’ to impress ya honey.” His hands stop their caressing when his digits hit the stitching of your panties, right where the fabric sits between the soft skin that connects your thigh to your mound, taught and secure—curiously looking up at you with a panting chest.
Joel’s eyes are a deep black shade, his blown out pupils replacing the once deep hazel softness from minutes ago. His lips are red and kiss bitten—he looks drunk, a woozy appearance taking over his features. His fingers latch back on your hips to stop them from arching, but just before he lifts your dress up, his eyes flick to your own for approval to have his way with you, the selfless action making you internally swoon.
“May I?” He asks, voice like honey, his vocal chords dipped in pure need for any kind of attention from you, the sticky noise turning your own cunt slippery.
“You paid me didn’t ya? Can do whatever your wantin’ except stick it in my rear—that costs extra.”
“Alrighty then,” he chortles, his fingers flipping your dress above your navel, the thin fabric wrinkling under his grasp.
He bends his body down at the edge of the mattress, fingers tracing the newly exposed skin of your body. “So soft darlin’-warm.” He whispers into the flesh. But Joel’s own warmth is contagious and addictive—hands tickling up and down your torso, large calloused digits from years of gunslinging and robberies, you can feel every slight ridge of his hands tracing back down your thighs, slowly spreading your knees.
You cautiously allow him, feeling the slick of your mound turn cold at the air against it, his own eyes noticing the very deep patch that soaks your pale colored panties.
“How’s it yer already soakin’ wet for me sweetheart? Barley even touched you.”
You blush at his directness, truthfully—you're not sure how you're so soaked, your lips uncomfortably brushing together with little plaps of sticky slick, it’s not like you to even get wet, let alone get drenched for a paying man.
“Good kisser.” you reply breathless, head thrown back, the column of your throat dipping low to your chest in a sudden swallow. “Nice lips.”
You don’t know what’s taking over you, a man inches away from your cunt has never been this nerve racking, this exciting, and all you can do is lay there breathless chasing his eyes, awaiting his next move.
“Ahh, bet yours are lookin’ a hell of a lot nicer though darlin’.” He admits, bringing two fingers down to your puffy pussy, spreading your lips wide open to spit a thick glob of spittle down your slit.
You can’t stop yourself from mewling out loud, a small-embarrassing cry erupting from the back of your throat so animalistic it catches you off guard, your hips jerking towards his shoulders.
He brushes up your cunt, the soft bristles of hair just above your clit a nice padding for his fingers to sit against, feeling the leaking need spreading down your slit.
“Smell good enough to eat.”
Oh.
It’s rare for a man—especially one who’s paying to touch you, to pay any attention to your pleasure, let alone play with your pussy. The idea of him tasting you makes you squirm, your fingers gripping the sides of your dress, bundling the fabric into your palms.
“Y-You can. If you’d like to, of course that is.”
“Yeah? Would you like that?” He sighs, taking a deep breath into your cunt, inhaling the tangy scent, his eyes clamping shut. “There’s nothing else I’d rather do tonight than eat this pretty little thing, will you let me?”
Your mound was warm against his beard, his free hand digging into the side of your panties to keep your pussy awake for him, your heat sticking to his skin. He could practically taste how sweet your cunt was just from it being centimeters away from his nose, the slope hitching itself between your folds.
“Please?” It comes out quieter than you intended, but you can tell Joel is a good listener by the way he caresses your body as if he’s scared to break you, ghosting your body with his own to see just how he can get you to squirm, listening to the slight hitch of your voice each time his hands get closer and closer to your cunt—it’s clear he wants this—wants you.
“Can I take this off? ‘s kinda in the way ‘n darlin’ I’m starving.”
You eagerly nod, hooking your panties under your thumbs, shaking them down your thighs, letting them drop to your ankles. Joel instantly takes over, ridding your feet of the garment, he finally gets a good view of your mound and the sight almost makes him fall to his knees.
He’s unsure how he’s so easily turned your cunt into a reckless mess, slick gathering around the outside of your puffy cunt, sticky liquid panting the inside of your thighs. Joel watches as you shyly spread your knees further, letting them hit the mattress with a pop of your cunt, your lips spread wide for him, deep pulsating clit staring back at him, all wet and ready for his tongue. He spits on your clit again, watching his bubbly concoction drip down your heat to the sheets, the sight causing his cock to throb.
“Leakin’ all over the bed sweetheart, starting to think you needed this as much as I did.” He remarks, and you wish for him to know how true that is deep down, your hole clenching around nothing as he gawks at your bare mound.
His large hands claw at the inside of your thighs, spreading your lips wide enough to expose your throbbing pearl further, the skin stretching taught giving you slight stimulation, uncomfortably wiggling around in his grasp.
Before you can beg, he suddenly licks a strip up your slit, his tongue starting at your tight ring and ending up, up, up at your clit, taking his time to lightly flick the bud on his tongue, collecting the built up slick and spit on the button.
“Shit darlin’, savin’ all this for me?” He growls, his hips having a feverish mind of their own, bucking into the mattress with a curse as he continues to lick up and down your slit. “Tastes like honey.”
His face is ravenous between your thighs, tongue slipping and sliding down your folds, his nose perched between your swollen lips, suckling and swallowing down your slick, not letting an ounce of nectar go to waste.
“R-Right there Miller-Fuck! Already feels so good, love yer mouth.” You cry, spine curving at his skillful licking, the gentle flicks roaring their way through your stomach like a hot white burst of lighting in a thunderstorm, your slick raining down his chin.
Joel never thought the Miller name could ever sound so beautiful purring from the lips or a woman before, unable to hold back his groan, it vibrates against your clit, sending waves of pleasure through your pussy.
“Tastes so damn sweet, cunt so pretty honey, jus’ crying and talkin’ to me.” He quickly finds what makes you thrash, his tongue focusing its attention on your clit, rapidly flicking small figure eights on the button, letting it melt into his muscle. “Thinkin’ she’s trying to sweet talk me, pussy’sa sobbinn.” He drawls, voice drunk on your body.
His tongue recklessly paints a picture, one of which appears in his mind, imagining what other delicious sounds he can rip out of your chest when you finally cum. He knows you will soon, your body a writhing mess above him. His mental excitement quickly turns into determination as he circles your clit with a rapid motion, his sticky tongue filling the air with aggressive slaps.
“Oh my, o-oh my! Shit-so fucking good!” Your vision blurs, your ceiling winding into a swirl of colors you couldn’t even name if you tried as your fingers grip his hair, forcing his face to rock up and down with your cunt, forcibly rubbing him in your slick.
“Ride my face jus’ like that baby, take what you need.” Joel can’t seem to complain, your cunt better than the strongest moonshine known to man, his body drunk off the taste of you, unable to even pry himself off of you for air, he breathes you in, letting you travel through him and down to his cock, unable to stop himself from grinding into your mattress, his cock aching for release.
He trusts uncontrollably into the mattress, his thick cock leaking his golden seed into the tight fit of his pants, his pre cum rapidly dribbling out of his tip, practically screaming to sheath its rage inside of you. Yet there’s not a chance in hell Joel will rip his lips from your cunt, the urge to feel you cum against his mouth far too important to him then his cock, even if it means prematurely cumming in his pants.
“Joel! Oh my Joel, f-feels so good. ‘m close! Joel, Joel-uhmph!” You repeat his name like a mantra, your cunt oozing and leaking all over his face, little squeaks and squelches you spill ring in your ears, your feet kicking in the sheets.
Without a second thought, he dips his pink tongue into the velvety canal of your hole, allowing his muscle to get a feel of your tight cunt, expertly exploring your tight hole, feeling you clench down on his mouth.
“Rub yourself against me darlin’ I can h-handle it.” He growls in between your thighs, his voice vibrating your core.
His moments are lecherous, his tongue flicking up towards your gummy g-spot is enough to make your toes curl and mouth unable to move from its opened position. The pleasure just feels too good—too much, your limbs rapidly jerking around the mattress, attempting to get a hold of your body and synch your thoughts up with relaxation for your impending orgasm, but you can’t focus with Joel’s sloppy tongue pressing against you, suckling you like a ripened fruit.
“Gonna cum-mmph!” Mewling—you can barley speak, the tip of his nose repeatedly bumping you clit begins to send white hot pleasure down your spine and into your toes, your eyes seeing stars at the thrown back position of your head, blood pooling to your ears.
“Please cum honey, gotta feel ya soak me fully.” He all but gargles between your thighs, his own movements erratic, completely unaware of the mess he’s creating on the bottom of your bed.
It takes one particularly rough smush of his nose against your clit for you to unravel above him, your core tightening as your release springs through you, your body going completely numb in pleasure.
No one’s ever made you feel like this, made you cum like this—it’s not even close to the other men you satisfy. Joel’s tongue was special, continuing to eat at you through your orgasm, slurping up your release like its reward.
“Too much! Hold on I-its startin’ to hurt!” You cry out, ears ringing and chest sticky.
You attempt to push his head away, leaning your lifeless body up on your elbow to peer down at him, his flopping brown hair shaking between your thighs. He’s growling like a wolf devouring its prey. He finally pulls up for air, vacuumed lips prying themselves off your cunt with a disengaged moan, placing wet kisses on your inner thigh, his tongue licking the skin. His pussy devoted brain likens it to your pussy, his mouth still not ready to give you up.
Joel reluctantly rips his lips from your weeping thighs, his thin lips now puffy and a deep shade of crimson. He quickly licks them clean, mouth absolutely addicted to the taste, he wipes his chin on your thigh, painting the skin with your visual pleasure.
“It’s been my pleasure darlin’.” He thanks, lifting his eyes to your frame with a nod, watching your sticky chest pant and huff.
“Joel I…I’ve never, no one’s ever…” you trail off with a sigh, tossing your head back down on the pillow, your breathing beginning to settle down in your chest.
It’s raw, honest. No man has ever quite made you cum as hard as Joel’s calculated work just did, and your mind begins to wonder off, thinking about how his cock would feel inside of you.
Your eyes drift down to that puffy raised fly of his denim, but what you see causes your head to cock to the left—a deep shaded splatter of sticky seed paints the right side of his pants just above his thigh, his pleasure visible to you, even in the darkness of the night.
He was right, eating you like a man starved was his pleasure in more ways than one, his pants all slippery and cold with his milky release, the ride home would surely be an unpleasant one.
“I uhm,” you stammer, cleaning your throat with a fake confidence. “I take it you don’t need me for anything else?”
He stops his movements at the edge of the bed, his hazel eyes finding yours. “You did plenty, t-thank you darlin’.
You tried to hide the feeling that erupted over your décolleté, your body shivering with small goosebumps raising the hairs on your forearms. It felt good to be wanted, your cunt throbbing, clenching around nothing at the thought.
Staring dazed as he collects himself, you begin to wonder if he’ll ever come by again—and when.
You’re thankful when Joel easily shifts himself into your routine, coming by weekly after that first encounter. Bones almost always able to tell when he’d show up, the sky a deep shade of black, purple and blue hues swirling in the atmosphere, the air cold and steep as if it could feel him riding into town, always showing up for the same thing—to ravish your body with his mouth.
It’s a special occasion when he comes by, always setting aside your nicest bloomers and the prettiest of nightgowns just for the chance he slips you a compliment, body heating up every time he eyes you up and down, scanning your frame hungrily. Trying your best to be patient and failing miserably, twiddling your thumbs nervously until he finally knocks on your door; his rapid tapping lining up with the rapid beats of your heart.
Today was no different, the repetition of his particular sequence of knocks echoing your door until your standing up right, hands flattening the sides of your skirt as anxious legs wobble over to greet him. He’s leant up against the door frame, a sly grin on his handsome face instantly greeting you when you swing the door open, greedy hands falling to the collar of his jacket—pulling him inside.
“Missed you,” he hums, not bothering to greet you with his usual kiss on the cheek, body far too eager too feel you against him, hands finding your waist.
He had a bad week. But he wouldn’t dare to bother you with that, his face falling to the soft crook of your neck with a sigh, he breathes you in, his bones instantly relaxing.
“You’re always my favorite, my Joel.”
My Joel.
Fuck.
He clumsily fishes out the wad of bills from his pocket, the green crumpled up messily in his fist as he slams it down beside him. “Been waitin’ all week for this honey,” he admits meeting your eyes.
Replacing his soft voice with a growl, his words are laced in deep arousal, the deep scar across his nose bridge shining against that oil lamp that always did its best as projecting his sculpted face into your heart.
His carved body rubs deliciously against your own, body heavy. Sweaty. He easily takes over your frame, pressing his shoulder into your face, the smell of dirt and rain thick over his tanned skin. The crushing of his sweltering body against you forces your warm cheeks away from your gawking, cranning your body to get a good look at him.
“Missed it too,” you admit, hands eagerly swallowing every covered inch of skin on his arms, thick muscles poking and prodding at your soft flesh makes your cunt already begin to swirl, head woozy from his movements and he’s barely even begun.
Tonight was going to be a longgg night. And you didn’t know the half of it.
“Me, or this mouth?” He laughs, hands finding solace in the plump skin of your ass, dress aimlessly hiking up off your ankles and up your calves, your skin pebbling at the exposure.
“You. Well-maybe both.” You huff, following him deeper into your cabin, the smell of him filling the room, marking his scent on you.
“How about you come n’ have a seat then?” He asks, walking back and back until legs hit the mattress, pulling you down to straddle his chest.
He’s quick. And before you know it, he’s manhandling you to sit just above his eyes, giving you a pretty view of his panting torso, your ass against his face.
“How about you lift this up for me pretty?” He asks behind you, hands bunching your dress above your waist, hands shedding you from your clothing.
You oblige, lifting the fabric up your waist, tucking it beneath the crease of your breasts. Your panty clad cunt sits centimeters away from where you want him most, his eyes as wide as coins as he stares daggers into the cloth hiding his girl away from his greedy mouth.
Joel’s mumbling a slight “sorry” under his lips before he’s swiftly ripping the fabric with his fingers in half, the sweet scent of your cunt filling his nose.
“So damn sweet darlin’, just couldn’t help myself.” He whispers to your lips, a finger spreading them wide to stare down your cunt, the glistening folds prettier than any jewels he’s ever stolen.
“O-Oh, Joel! Quite eager tonight I-hmph!” Mewling, your thighs retract from his cheeks, attempting to relieve him from the weight of your body on him, hands recklessly spaying over his chest.
“Nuh-uh, wan’ all of ya. I can take it.” Quick to catch on to your solemn escape plan, his wide palms hit your backside to plant you down against his mouth, tongue instantly finding your folds.
He’s licking and sucking every single part of your vulva, tongue twisting around the ridges and lapping up the slick you leak from your velvety hole, eagerly exploring his favorite girl.
“F-Fuck!” As if your cunt is speaking for you, it almost has a mind of its own, slicking syrupy nectar down to his lengthy tongue, eating you like always—with a sheer sense of depravity that can only belong to him, all to your benefit.
“So. Damn. Tight,” he mutters between your flesh, his tongue rimming your clenching hole, daring to stick it inside to work at your g-spot, his body craving to feel you rapidly come undone.
“Mpfh, Joel!” Your moans fill the room, body a puddle of gushing want for the man between your legs leaking and leaking far down until it’s dripping onto your sheets, dampening the mattress.
You wonder if he can even breath down there, gasps and grunts passing through you cunt to your chest, beard scraping the softest parts of your thighs. Maybe he thinks he’s be better off suffocating underneath your thighs, a far more honorable death than dying in war or a shootout gone wrong.
It’s hard to focus on the negative self-talk with the distracting force of Joel’s tongue plummeting into your hole, digging its way to the squishy parts of your insides, a surefire way to make you scream his name.
Biting your lip, a hand flies into his hair, but then you hear it.
The lock of your front door shaking in place ever so slightly, knob twisting and turning as if someone is picking the lock—forcing it open.
You must be seeing things. A sex driven haze due to Joel’s skillful mouth, a mirage of some sorts until suddenly the door somehow slams open, the framework of your cabin wobbling at the force, your frantic eyes coming into contact with the one and only.
Arthur.
He was supposed to show up days ago, his schedule is always once a week; same time, same dark hour of the night. This was unlike him, and even more unlike him to quite literally break in like this when you're “servicing someone” if you could even call it that.
He seems proud of himself, cowboy hat dipping just below his eyeline in an effort to shield his failing poker face at the sight he just walked into.
“Well lookie ‘ere! Miller found himself a good time, didn’t he now?” He chides, hands looping in his empty belt loops, boots inching closer and closer to the bed.
You attempt to straighten yourself up, lifting your hips off of his face. Your ass barely hits the air until Joel’s forcibly pulling you back down with large palms, yanking you down on his face, his nose bumping your clit, causing you to hiccup.
“Y-You were late Arthur, Joel always stops by on Wednesdays.”
“Always huh? Y'all didn’t bother tellin’ me about this little arrangement…Thought I’was keeping ya pretty damn busy, paying enough ya didn’t need no one else to help ya out.”
Jealously.
He’s jealous?
It’s hard to focus on the conversation with the gravely man picking a nonsensical fight as his friend continues to eat at your cunt, not bothering to stop or come up for air—let alone attempt to stop the argument between the two of you, his tongue too busy lost in the sensation of your core.
“You’re the one who sent h-him here! Not my fault ‘m enjoying his company.”
“If you were truly enjoyin’ him… he’d be fuckin’ ya so good you wouldn’t be able to talk, instead your sittin’ there arguing with me while I watch ‘em fuck ya lazy.”
“Y-You’re just distractin’ me! He’s a n-nice man I swear!”
Your words release a strangled groan from Joel’s mouth, his hand colliding with your ass in a sharp love tap, his own hips thrusting into the air.
“Mmm alright now. But I thought’d ya had told me you didn’t like ‘em nice darlin’…or were ya jus’ lying to get under my skin?”
Arthur’s voice is hoarse, words airy and sensual—like he was getting off on this.
There was something about it, watching you sit on Joel’s face like a throne, your face twisting, words stuttering. He could instantly tell what buttons Joel was pushing on beneath you, your words hiccuping every time his tongue licked at your g-spot and slurring just when his nose touched your clit.
Arthur could feel his cock beginning to strain in his slacks, blood rushing down to his excited member. He came here for a reason—to fuck you, and maybe, just maybe, that’s what he’d get, as long as he plays this right.
“Come ‘ere,” Arthur mutters, bringing a large hand to your face, pressing his cold palm into your heated cheek. “Now you know I can’t stay mad at ya, not when yer lookin’ at me like this.”
His voice is soft. Stern.
The baritone in his speech is rough around the edges, slick slurring accent bubbling right down to your core, the same one Joel is licking up into, his mouth tongue fucking your gummy walls.
His thumb slides to your lower lip, playing with the soft open flesh from your slacked jaw, mewls and purrs slipping from the open space. “Soft lil’ mouth ya got here,” he mumbles, voice barely above a whisper.
Lost in the moment, eyes closed and tongue swirling, you don’t realize how soon your orgasm is approaching beneath Joel’s beard.
“Oh, oh!” A thorough wave of arousal suddenly crashes into your core with a gag of Arthur’s protrusion on your tongue, teeth daring to bite down in pleasure as Joel rocks you through your orgasm, nose digging into your swollen button.
Arthur chokes back a snort, fingertips dangling at the back of your tight throat. “Naughty lil’ thing we got here, suckin’ my fingers while another man takes care of your pussy-filthy. Jus’ dirty.”
The name calling makes you shiver, or maybe it was from Joel’s silky tongue not bothering to pull off you quite yet, ridding your cunt from your release, muscle shoveling your slit squeaky clean. “N-No! I didn’t-I Joel-fuck!” You keen, twisting your body to peer down at the man, eyes squinted and brows furrowed face smushed into your pussylips.
“You like that don’t ya?” Arthur snaps, the sound of his zipper causing you to whip your head right back to the man standing before you, his hand fisting his cock in the now-released space of his briefs. “Two men usin’ you, makin’ you feel good-shit! I’d pay good money for that honey, jus’ the two of us making’ you feel reallll good.
He says it like an offering, words sounding far too sweet for your swooshing brain, body melting into a puddle of tears, cunt bordering overstimulation.
The desire deep in your body begins to boil thick, your body overfilling the metaphorical pot of sugar water bursting to the surface, burning large waves of pain into your lower abdomen. “J-Joel! Too much!” You yelp high pitched, hips bucking off his face with a grip of his chest, forcing your abused clit away from his scratchy beard.
Joel finally emerges from your slippery pussy, face glistening in delightful nectar that catches in the light, cheeks smelling just like you, sweet and heady. “Sorry ‘bout all this, didn’t realize ya came by on these days.” He’s mumbling out, voice hoarse and ears pink, his breathing frantic in his chest as he gently pulls your legs from his chest, placing you beside him.
Arthur doesn’t mind Joel’s prying eyes staring at his hand still between his legs, fingers clenching the head of his tip, geysers of pre-cum dribbling from the bulbous head. “Ahh, ‘sall good buddy, didn’t realize you came by regularly, thought that’d be a one time thing.”
A one time thing. How could he possibly have used you only once? Not with an addictive cunt like this.
His facade is slipping, his grip on the situation splintering into tiny fragments of unwanted conversations, Joel wipes his mouth on the back of his shirt, knees cracking with a push off the thin mattress. “Hey don’t blame it on me, I’ll leave yall to it-once again, thanks darlin’.” Joel heeds, bowing his head to his chin.
He attempts to work his way out of the now crowded cabin, his eyes finding his torn off jacket now fallen into the corner of the room when suddenly a hand reaches out and stops him, feet faltering into a stand still.
“No! Uh-hem, y-you can stay if…” you trail off, looking in Arthur’s direction. “If that’s okay with you?”
Arthur sighs, excuses blundering from his head. “Hell Joel, I ain’t one ta share—”
“—But it’s a long ride back, wouldn't want the time it takes to get over here to go to waste now.” Joel instantly cuts off, his own hand traveling down to grip at the tent in his jeans to relieve the pressure of his throbbing dick.
Arthur doesn't like to share—but for Joel, he’ll compromise, that’s what the gang would want. The sinful idea of sharing your body, letting another man openly use you isn’t an idea he’s quite comfortable with, yet Arthur can’t find it within himself to tell you no, not when you're staring up at him so hopeful. “Alright.”
Arthur can’t help but smile. Checkmate!
“Heh, hey Joel…” Arthur calls out, clicking his tongue to usher him over to your pretty face. “Has she ever sucked ya off?” Arthur presses, a thumb swiping a dribble of spit away from your fat bottom lip.
Joel stands on opposite sides of him, painfully clenching his jaw at the thought. “Nope, ain’t ever got to that part yet, always get a little…” he trails off, “distracted.”
Your hands fly to his thighs, focused on the bulge in his jeans, tongue dampening at the idea. “I-I can! Be nice to-um, finally return the favor.”
“A-Alright, yeah, go ahead darlin’.” Joel approves with a nod, gesturing you to his pants.
Your hands fumble with his button, the metal cold in your shaky fingertips. You attempt to pop it open, yet Arthur suddenly pulls your hips back from behind you, face falling completely off the bed, your hands now tightly gripping tightly on Joel’s thighs.
“Real eager to please ain’t ya?” He chuckles, fingers dipping into the curve of your spine to create an arch, pussy peaking out between your thighs. “Dirty, dirty girl ain’t ya? Don’t worry now, I’ll clean this lil’ pussy right up.”
He’s practically cooing behind you, hands caressing every bare part of your back, fingertips inching and inching up your dress until it hits your neck.
“-Got it.” Joel gets the idea from the other side of the mattress. Yanking the fabric over your head and down your arms, letting it pool down below his feet, boots covered in your silky fabric.
“Mhm! ‘s cold,” you breathe out, nipples hardening in the stark air of your cabin, the fire dwindling down into ashes of burnt rubble, the flame minutes from fully snuffing.
“Don’t worry ‘bout that, we’ll keep ya realllll warm.” Arthur muses, his dominant hand sliding down to the thick globe of your ass, pulling and prodding at the pebbled flesh.
Your pussy smells sickly sweet to Arthur’s nose, the damp swiping from Joel’s tongue mixed with your essence has left a trail of gushing honey spread between your thighs, the sight making his cock jump.
You ignore Arthur’s growling, instead choosing to watch the slowing movements of Joel’s thick fingers carrying on over to the bottom of his zipper, tinkering with the fabric to zip it down over his protruding crotch.
Your home was the one place he could truly be vulnerable at—let his mind and soul run free in the combines of your four wooden walls, your squelching cunt always bringing him to his knees and to full of ecstasy.
It was a far more intriguing experience to watch you take care of him, the rules reversed with you now beneath him, eyes wide and staring up at him. He wonders what you’ll look like with your tongue swirlin’ ‘round the tip of his cock, mouth drooling and eyes burning. If it wasn’t for Arthur standing behind you he’s sure he’d blow his load right now, paint your pretty lil’ face with his white seed, secretly thankful for the added benefit of not wanting to be made fun of by Arthur.
His cock hits his stomach before his hand can stop it, heavy shaft dipping down to his hairy pelvis, dark brown lightly trimmed hairs mapping out his thick shape. The head is even prettier. Angry. A deep red shade that makes your blood turn the same color at the sight, the tip just oozing from its dire need to be relieved of its ache.
You reach out towards him, clammy palms brushing his shaft causes him to hiss out loud. His cock jumps from the touch, allowing more excitement to seal from his slit, the salty smell making your mouth dampen. You swipe your thumb over it, swirling his desire around the tip releasing a strangled groan from Joel, one he wasn’t aware he was holding in until now, his eyes scanning over your curious ones, your tongue now poking out on your bottom lip.
“It’s a shame you’ve been hidin’ this monster from me, woulda loved to have tasted ya earlier.”
He goes to respond, but your mouth shuts him up.
Kitten licking the bottom of his shaft, you stick your tongue out justtt enough to feel the blood pulsating through the large vein that encapsulates the underside of his cock, the marking wobbling under your taste buds, filling your mouth with a salty musky flavor, one that makes you moan.
Taking him further and further, his thick cock slips into your open mouth with ease, the girth of his shaft forcing your jaw completely slack, drool pooling at each side of your lips as you take him halfway, cheeks hallowing around the large shaft filing your mouth.
“Fuck honey, ‘s s-so good!” Joel groans, a hand finding your cheek, softly caressing it.
Remaining blissfully unaware of the man behind you, Arthur’s pulled himself out of his pants and up to your entrance, blushing pink tip lightly grazing up and down your slit, collecting your pleasure on its head, the cool slick doing little to relieve the painful throb of his cock.
“Pussys’all mine.” He blurts out suddenly, angling his cock above your ass.
He paints your skin with his soaked tip, head parallel to your spine. He uses his cock to size himself up against you just to see l how deep he will eventually be inside of you, tracing an ‘X’ with his weeping cock right where his cock will eventually reach.
He slowly drifts back down to your cunt, cock hitching between your entrance, locking himself right against your tight hole, feeling it clench around nothing. “Ahh shit! Yer’ tongue loosened her on up Joel, got this pussy alllll nice and wet for me.” He drags, watching your hole swallow his tip with ease, a large squelch filling the still air.
You wonder what Arthur looks like from behind you, his dress shirt messily tucked under his chin, hairy belly shaking in urgent gasps for air every time his mushroom tip comes in contact with your slick. You press into him, forcing his cock into your cunt.
“Hah! Reallll happy ta’ be stuffed full now ain’t ya?” Arthur chokes out, watching the way his cock slowly disappears into your womb, your ass sinking down inch by inch until he’s deep inside of you safe and sound, your warm walls soothing the ache of his deep mushroom tip.
“Yes! So, so big!” You garble around Joel’s cock, words muffled by the wiry length of his rampant pubes around your puffed out cheeks, salty tip pressed into the back of your throat.
It’s difficult to swallow his cock down the small canal of you wet mouth, jaw aching at the sheer size of him yet when you leer up at him, the sight is enough to keep you going.
His eyes are clamped shut, brows furrowed and lips wide in a silent moan, body shuttering every time you swallow your spit or moan against him—he looks like he’s finally relaxed, the view making your cunt even damper.
“Mhm, jus’ made to take us, lookin’ so pretty down there darlin'." Joel all but swoons, his thighs clenching in an attempt to halt himself from jerking his hips into your mouth.
“Keep suckin’ him justtt like thattt, need ya all relaxed for me honey.” Arthur starts his pace, brutally and painstakingly slowly, he thrusts into you, wet pats of skin snapping so loud it pops your eardrums, blood rushing to your head. His hipbones sear into your ass at an alarming rate, strong body sure to leave bruises on the plush skin of your hips by sunrise, you fuck yourself back onto Arthur’s cock.
“Good pussy’ll turn ya crazy, don’t it Joel?” Arthur questions, cocking his head over to Joel, but Joel can’t bring himself to answer, not when you're sucking him off so animalistic, your nose bumping his groin. “Heh, h-how’s that mouth Joel?”
“So damn wet and warm, t-takin’ me just like I thought she would,” Joel admits. The honesty only makes your cunt slicker further, a brash ‘slosh’ of your cunt suddenly slapping its way around Arthur’s cock, creating a foamy ring of slick around him.
Your nails rake into Joel’s thighs, crescent shapes covering the skin in the shape of your sharp fingertips. Each thrust of Arthur’s cock ricochets your body forward, forcing your mouth to take Joel deeper, gagging in the taste.
“Jus’ like thattt,” Arthur slurs, voice trailing off into a sing-song octave. He can’t believe the sight of you from behind, ass dimpling and ricocheting with every slap of his cock. He’ll never get enough if it, fucking his cock like you’re designed for it, his one-of-a-kind fuck toy.
You’re absolutely reeling in the feeling, the thick bulbous tip of Arthur’s cock continuously hits your wobbily g-spot, body already so sensitive from your first release, your thighs quickly begin to burn, little mewls vibrating Joel’s shaft.
“Gonna ruin you for anyone else, me ‘n Joel the only guys you’ll ever need anymore dalrin’ gonna keep ya stuffed from botthhhhh endsss.” He purrs, cock tipsy on your pussy. His movements only speed up, big balls slapping your clit with a feverish pat, pat, pat! that causes your eyes to roll back into your skull, white stars prickling your irises. It’s hard to keep up with the grueling pace he’s set, your cervix smashing into the head of his cock, precum swirling just along that tight hole just to make it burn.
“Mhm you like that don’t ya?” He questions, the weight of his body pressing against your back, the weight making you feel suffocated. “Who’s making ya feel this good darlin’? Wanna hear you say it.”
“A-Arthur, Arthur!” You choke out, tongue drooling clear droplets of swishy spit, the liquid bubbling under your jaw.
Joel’s brows furrow with an unexpected glare over to Arthur’s eyes, the blue eyed man uncontrollably forcing eye contact with him. “No!” Joel growls, his hand finding solace in your hair, twisting the locks to force your eyes open, popping you off his cock. “Wrong answer. Tell me-tell me who’s cock are you chokin’ on?”
“Ah-Joel! Mhm, Joel!” You cry out, his fist suddenly bringing you down onto his cock with a gag. Your throat is bruised and battered from Joels thick shaft plummeting into you now, snot clogging the insides of your nose, body unable to force air out of your crushed lungs.
“Cocks got ‘er so fucked stupid she can’t focus. G-Good thing this pussy ‘s talkin’ real loud, showing just who she belongs ‘ta.” Arthur retorts, a back and forth display of dominance with the man just across from you, blissfully unaware of the antagonizing pleasure on your holes.
Each gag on his cock twists his tip, and Joel can feel his release beginning to tighten in his abdomen, balls taught to his cock. “Jesus fuck! jus’ like that, gonna cum down that little throat darlin’ so warm and tight mmhm!” He curses, hips thrusting his veiny shaft down your throat.
His cum quickly spurts down your throat, thick sticky ropes of salty slick run down your tongue and into your chest as you swallow it in waves, the texture like cement, thick, syrupy and sweet—just like Joel.
Arthur’s cock pounding into you causes you to abruptly choke on the thick ropes you’re currently swallowing, gagging around his swollen tip you finally have the courage to rip yourself away from him, his seed still spilling from the slit of his tip, the clear white mixture pumping out with ease.
They are everywhere, a man on either side of your fucked out body pumping you with all the adrenaline they can force out as Arthurs strokes turn sloppy, the sight of Joel coming undone into your mouth only pushing him further into his dominance.
He grips your sternum, manhandling your spine to curve up, up, and up until you can feel his breath on your neck. “Jus’ a filthy lil’ thing, takin’ two dicks at once, doin’ such’a good job, thinkin’ you deserve something realll special.” He whispers, his freehand falling down to play with your clit, pressing hard into the swollen nub, causing you to scream.
Exasperated, Joel stands back and watches in awe, blurred vision reeling in the distance of your fucked out face, watching Arthur fuck you rough.
It was addictive, a life you can get used to living with, body constantly being manipulated like a ragdoll by the two strong men. Even without Joel in your mouth you can still taste him—feel him, your head buzzing with the smell of him.
Your pussy pulses around Arthur, clenching down on his cock and choking him in place, his tip rapidly nuzzling into your cervix, wet seed kissing the hard spot in your body.
“So damn wet, can feel ‘er kissing my cock, y’want it that bad don’t ya?” He sweet talks, thumb matching up with his aggressive thrusts, little zaps of pleasure overriding your senses. He can tell you’re close by how your body writhes beneath him, legs jerking each time his cock kisses your g-spot. “How about you cum for me, show Joel how pretty you look all close up ‘n fucked out baby.”
His words compare to the trigger of a shotgun, fingers loaded on the trigger of your electric clit, his cock shooting into your g-spot. “Ahh, Ahh!” You suddenly black out as you cum, eyes filled with dazed stars that cause your vision to turn white. Your limbs begin to tremble all over, nervous system shot, your voice rumbling and crying. You’re a complete heated mess of bursting pleasure, your body almost snapping in half.
You reach out for Joel as Arthur lets go, grabby hands holding onto Joel’s hips for dear life, you catch the small glimpse of leftover drool and dried release shining on his navel.
“Best workin’ girl I ever did feel, so perfect honey.” Arthur thinks out loud, watching your swollen pussy angle his cock deeper into you as your body lazily leans on Joel’s body, your cunt pulsating at the lack of contact and overstimulation.
“Gonna make me cum all of this pretty spine.” Arthur chokes, tip smushing to the divot of your back, the slippery pre-cum dressing your skin with a grunt, his cock finally spurting his release.
You don’t bother caring about the creamy ropes swirling around aimlessly on your body, mind numb and buzzing as you collapse on the mattress. You lay comfortably on your belly, body sticky and muscles burning, unsure of the time passing as you sit there content.
The men shift around the room, Joel grabbing a towel to clean you up while Arthur clumsily collects his hat that fell off his head during the encounter with you. He gets dressed in comfortable silence, cerulean eyes scanning Joel’s hands taking care of you softly, watching him clean up the mess he made.
Feeling Arthur’s eyes on the two of you, you peer up at him with a lazy smile seeping through your face. You’re glad Joel stayed late tonight, and you’re even happier that Arthur came by.
“She’s a piece of work ain’t she?” Joel murmurs softly with praise, nodding down to your slippery spine, your ass sat prettily for Arthur’s viewing.
All he can think about is when he can take you again—and if Joel can tag along.
“Shit Joel, you always stop by on Saturdays right? Thinking I’ll start riding up here with ya on them days ‘n cut all the back and forth we been doin’.”
Joel chuckles, hands stopping their movements just inches below your waistline. “Good idea.”
ok finally posted something sorry it’s been a month 😔 also—killed the taglist! it was hard to remember and after kinkmas i got confused with keeping track of everyone!! sorry love you all xx
DOES ANYONE KNOW WHERE THIS LAST MEET ME IN THE BACK FIC IS??? I REMEMBER READING IT ABOUT A YEAR AGO IVE BEEN LOOKING FOR LIKE AN HOUR PLS HELP @joelstummy I’m sorry I don’t mean to yell
sooooooooooo theoretically. If I WERE to write a follow up to my mmitb cockwarming competition oneshot where Joel cashes in on his spoils…..no one would want that, right?
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Summary: Clark Kent has a girlfriend, but no one at the Daily Planet believes she’s real. Until he finally introduces you.
Word count: 3.4k+
Warnings: flufff
A/N:
Hey guys!!! I’m back with another Clark Kent fic!! The hiatus I took really helped me feel better, and I want to thank you all for your support and kindness. It means the world to me. I wrote something short and sweet to help get the writing flowing. Please tell me what you think! Hope you’ll like it!
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
Clark had never meant for it to turn into this.
In fact, if someone had told him that one small slip of honesty would detonate like a gossip grenade in the middle of the Daily Planet bullpen, he would’ve laughed—gently, politely—and then absolutely done anything else with his mouth.
But it was a Tuesday.
A perfectly normal, quiet Tuesday—the kind where the newsroom was burning like fire with tension and deadlines. The air smelled like burnt office coffee, old printer ink, and the faint stress-sweat of people who hadn’t slept since Sunday. Keyboards clacked. Phones rang. Someone was swearing at the copy machine again.
Clark was packing up for the day, gathering the last of his neatly typed notes and tucking his pen into the pocket of his shirt. He was humming under his breath—a habit he didn’t realize he had when he was thinking about you.
Warm. Content. Happy.
And, unfortunately for him, noticeable.
“You heading out early, Kent?” Lois asked, not even looking up. Her eyes were glued to her laptop, fingers flying like she was trying to out-type the devil.
He should’ve lied.
He absolutely should have lied.
Told her he was going to the dentist. That he was finally replacing the broken lightbulb in his kitchen. That he was volunteering at the community center. That he was doing laundry. That he was doing anything that did not involve another human being who could be grilled for information.
But Clark was honest. Painfully so. Reflexively so.
And the truth slipped out as naturally as a breath.
“I have dinner plans,” he said.
Lois didn’t react at first. She just typed faster.
Then Clark made the worst mistake of the week.
“With my girlfriend.”
Silence.
A sudden, violent, newsroom-wide silence—like someone had pulled the plug on reality.
A ripple ran through the bullpen. Heads turned. Chairs squeaked. Papers rustled.
Lois' head popped up so fast Clark swore he heard her neck crack.
“Girlfriend?” she repeated, eyes narrowing like she had just smelled a scandal. “Since when?”
Before Clark could formulate a sentence, Jimmy—who had been leaning back in his desk chair scrolling through photos—jerked so hard he flailed. His chair wobbled, his elbow slammed into his desk, and his camera flew out of his hands and hit the floor with a very expensive-sounding clack.
“Dude—what?” Jimmy blurted.
And like a bomb had gone off at her desk, Cat swirled around dramatically in her chair from across the room, her blonde hair bouncing with enough force to backhand someone.
“I’m sorry,” she said, voice pitched high with disbelief, “did Farmer Boy just say girlfriend?”
Clark immediately regretted being alive.
He cleared his throat, aware that half the bullpen was now listening.
“Yes,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “Girlfriend. It’s not… new new, but—”
Lois pointed her pen at him like she was cross-examining a criminal.
“What’s her name?”
Clark blinked. “Lois—”
“Her. Name.”
“I’m not giving you her name.”
Lois smirked in triumph, slamming her laptop shut. “Oh. Ohhh. How convenient.”
“It’s not convenient,” Clark insisted, trying to keep his voice even. “It’s private.”
Cat scoffed. Loudly. “Kent, darling. Sweetheart. Sunshine. You work in a newspaper. Privacy is a myth created to sell home security systems.”
Jimmy crossed his arms. “Look, no offense, man, but I’ve known you for years. Years. And you have never—never—mentioned a girlfriend.”
“I’ve mentioned her!” Clark argued, even though he knew it was futile.
Jimmy raised his eyebrows. “Once. Right now. In this exact conversation.”
Lois stood up, hands on her hips, expression a lethal mix of curiosity and incredulity.
“Okay. Let me make sure I understand.” She took a step closer, circling him like a shark. “You, Clark Kent—whose idea of flirting is apologizing when someone bumps into you—have a girlfriend you have never brought up, never shown us, never introduced us to, never posted about, and yet now suddenly you’re leaving work early for her?”
Clark opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
He closed it.
Opened it again.
Still nothing.
This was becoming an unfortunate trend.
“She just… likes her privacy,” he tried lamely.
“Oh my god,” Lois whispered, horror washing over her face. “She’s Canadian, isn’t she.”
“What? No! She’s not Canadian!”
“Right,” Jimmy said solemnly. “And I totally have a British supermodel waiting for me at home.”
Cat raised her hand like they were in a boardroom. “For the record, I vote imaginary.”
“Seconded,” Lois said immediately.
“Thirded,” Jimmy added, already typing something into his phone, probably starting a betting pool.
Clark stared at them, mouth hanging open, heart pounding—not with fear, but with sheer, bone-deep exasperation.
And from that point on, they decided—collectively, aggressively—that you did not exist.
One week later, Clark was walking home through the early-evening Metropolis glow, the sky soft lavender over the skyline. His tie was loosened, askew from where he’d tugged at it repeatedly during the day. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows. His messenger bag hung off one shoulder, heavy with notes he knew he wouldn’t touch tonight.
He was tired—but in that good way. The way that came from knowing he was heading home to you.
To your voice. Your laugh. Your warmth.
To the way you always kissed him hello like you meant it.
He’d been thinking about you all afternoon—your hands in his hair, your smile when he walked through the door, the way you sometimes wore his shirts around the apartment, the sound you made when he kissed your neck—
He sighed, cheeks pinking even in the cool evening air.
He just wanted to be home.
That was the moment his phone buzzed in his pocket.
Jimmy Olsen.
Clark stared at the screen.
He considered letting it ring—he really, truly did.
But ignoring a friend felt wrong, and Clark Kent was, unfortunately, helplessly decent, even when it was inconvenient.
He answered.
“Hey, Jimmy.”
“Clark.” Jimmy’s voice was suspiciously upbeat. Too upbeat. “How’s it going, man?”
Clark narrowed his eyes at no one. “Good. Heading home.”
“Mmmhmm,” Jimmy said in the tone of someone who was absolutely not believing him but pretending to. “Big night with the lady, huh?”
Clark stopped at a crosswalk, pressing the button even though he didn’t need to.
Why did he tell them you existed? Why?
Jimmy continued, “So, how’s your girlfriend doing?”
Clark frowned. “She’s good. We’re cooking tonight.”
“Cooking,” Jimmy repeated slowly. “Right. Got it. Sounds legit.”
“It is legit.” Clark’s voice came out sharper than he intended.
Jimmy burst out laughing—loud, delighted, unhelpful. Clark had to pull the phone away from his ear.
“Dude, I’m messing with you!” Jimmy managed between wheezes. “Relax! I’m just saying—Lois has a bet going.”
Clark froze in the middle of the sidewalk.
“A bet?”
“Oh, yeah,” Jimmy said—and Clark could hear the grin in his voice. “We’ve all got money on the table.”
Clark resumed walking, slower now. “…What do you mean?”
“Well,” Jimmy said proudly, “Cat says your girlfriend is one hundred percent imaginary. Lois says she’s imaginary and you made her up to avoid after-hours staff mixers because you’re a giant nerd. And I said maybe—maybe—you’re seeing someone but she’s, like… a chatbot.”
Clark blinked. “A… a what?”
“You know,” Jimmy said cheerfully, “like those AI girlfriends you can text at 3 a.m. and they send you motivational quotes and call you handsome.”
Clark gripped the phone harder. “Jimmy.”
“I’m just saying!” Jimmy said. “If she’s real, let us meet her.”
“I will,” Clark said automatically, even though his stomach swooped uncomfortably. “I just haven’t—”
“Haven’t made her up yet?” Jimmy supplied helpfully.
Clark shut his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Jimmy. She’s real. We’ve been dating for months.”
“Okaaay,” Jimmy said in a tone that very clearly meant I do not believe you at all, Clark Kent, but I am willing to humor your delusion.
“Then prove it.”
Clark stopped dead.
“Prove it?”
“Yeah!” Jimmy said, as if it were obvious. “Invite us over! Let us meet her! Lois will bring a lie detector. Cat will bring tequila.”
“No,” Clark said automatically. “Absolutely not.”
“Unless, of course,” Jimmy added innocently, “she’s. Not. Real.”
Clark inhaled.
Exhaled.
Counted to five.
Considered super-speeding to the moon.
But then he remembered your voice this morning—soft, teasing, your fingers in his hair as you kissed him goodbye.
Do my kisses feel real to you, honey?
And in that moment, Clark knew you’d just smile at him, kiss his cheek, and say yes.
Clark clenched his jaw.
“Fine.”
“Fine?” Jimmy repeated, shocked.
“Dinner,” Clark said, rubbing his forehead. “My apartment, next Saturday, 6 pm. All of you.”
There was a moment of stunned silence—and then Jimmy whooped so loudly Clark startled.
“YES!! Lois owes me twenty bucks either way!”
Clark sighed. “Goodbye, Jimmy.”
“Bye, man! Tell your imaginary girlfriend I said hi!”
Clark hung up.
Stared at his home screen.
And muttered to himself, “I’m in hell.”
And that was how Clark ended up standing in the hallway of his apartment, staring into the mirror like it was a hostile witness. He pushed his glasses up his nose. Twice. Then he smoothed his hair. Then he fussed with his shirt collar before fussing with it again, as if neatness alone could protect him from Lois Lane’s investigative instincts.
He leaned in closer, whispering to his own reflection like someone practicing for trial.
“They’re going to like her. They’re definitely going to like her. Right? They like… nice people. She's nice. She's nice—”
His voice cracked a little.
“…they have to like her.”
From the kitchen, you stuck your head out, hair pulled back loosely, your sleeves rolled as you stirred whatever delicious thing was simmering on the stove. You watched him with an amused, fond little smile—the one that always made his heart go soft and silly.
“Clark,” you said gently, “sweetheart, you need to relax. It’s just your friends.”
He turned, wide-eyed. “They’re my only friends.”
You gave him a sympathetic look.
“And,” he added, as if this was crucial, “they’re reporters. They treat fact-checking like a competitive sport. Lois once fact-checked a birthday card I sent her.”
You blinked. “…She what?”
Clark nodded solemnly. “She thought the rhyme sounded suspiciously familiar and wanted to make sure I hadn’t plagiarized it.”
You laughed—warm and bright and soft in a way that melted the tension right out of him like sunlight on snow. He loved that sound. He loved you. He didn’t know how to express it without kissing you breathless.
So instead, you walked over and stood in front of him, reaching up to fix his crooked collar. “Let them inspect,” you murmured, smoothing the fabric with your hands. “Let them interrogate. Let them poke and prod. I’m real, aren’t I?”
Clark breathed out slowly, his shoulders loosening. Something in him untangled—something that always did when you were close.
He dipped his head and kissed you. Soft at first, then deeper, long enough that time blurred. Long enough that the simmering anxiety boiling in his chest cooled instantly. Long enough that if you’d asked him his own name in that moment, he might’ve forgotten it.
A sharp knock at the door shattered the moment like whipping a rug out from beneath him.
Clark jerked back, eyes wide. “They’re early.”
You grinned. “Perfect.”
“No,” Clark whispered, “not perfect—”
“Perfect,” you insisted, squeezing his forearm. “Let’s blow their minds.”
He stayed frozen in place, somewhere between dread and awe, as you padded lightly toward the door, your steps quiet on the hardwood floor. He swallowed hard, actually tugging on his shirt as if bracing himself for a hurricane.
You pulled the door open.
Three jaws hit the floor.
The room stilled, like even the air was holding its breath.
Lois blinked. Once. Twice. Her eyes went from you—standing gorgeous and real and impossibly confident—to Clark, who was ten feet behind you, looking like a deer caught in fluorescent headlights.
“Holy—Clark?” Lois said finally, sounding personally betrayed. “Kent. Kent. You?”
Jimmy was slack-jawed, clutching his imaginary pearls like it had betrayed him. “Dude. No way.”
Cat put a manicured hand dramatically to her chest. “Kent. Kent. Explain yourself immediately.”
Clark made a noise reminiscent of a squeak.
You smiled pleasantly, leaning against the doorframe like you were hosting a magazine photoshoot instead of a confrontation between your boyfriend and three deeply suspicious coworkers. You’d thrown on Clark’s soft plaid shirt, the one you stole more than he wore. It hung just right—oversized, sleeves rolled, a few buttons undone so the slightest hint of skin peeked through.
Lois caught that detail. Her eyes widened.
Jimmy swallowed audibly.
Cat muttered something like, “This boy needs to be studied.”
“Hi,” you said warmly. “You must be Clark’s friends. Welcome, come on in.”
Lois walked in first, suspiciously slow, eyes darting back and forth between you and Clark like she was searching for the trapdoor. Like maybe you were a paid actress. Or a hologram. Or a fever dream.
“So,” Lois said carefully, “you’re real.”
You deadpanned, “Last time I checked,” and Lois actually snorted.
Jimmy finally entered, lifting his camera instinctively before catching himself. “I mean—Clark, man, why would you hide her?”
“I wasn’t hiding—!” Clark sputtered, voice squeaking a little.
Cat swept inside like a fashion hurricane, pointing dramatically toward you. “Clark Joseph Kent.” (He winced; she always added the middle name when she wanted to bully him.) “This is not a ‘casual mention’ girlfriend. This is a parade her around, rub it in everyone’s face girlfriend.”
You laughed—bright, musical, genuine.
Clark’s heart squeezed, something tender and helpless blooming under his ribs. God, he loved you.
“Clark didn’t hide me,” you said, stepping closer to him. “We were just… keeping things ours for a little while.”
As you said it, you glanced up at him—the soft, affectionate kind of look that made his breath catch. He stepped forward without thinking, sliding an arm around your waist in a claiming-but-gentle way, his body relaxing the moment you leaned into him. His touch wasn’t possessive. It was relieved. Grounded. Home.
“Exactly,” he murmured, cheeks pink but eyes proud.
Lois narrowed her eyes at him, but a faint grin tugged at her lips. “Fine,” she said. “I’ll allow it. But only because she’s too good for you.”
“Hey,” Clark protested, flustered and red-eared.
You patted his chest, smirking up at him. “She’s kind of right.”
He ducked his head with a shy, crooked smile he only ever gave you.
Soon everyone was crowded into the living room—Lois on the armchair with her legs draped over the side like she owned the place, Jimmy cross‑legged on the floor fiddling with his camera lens even though it definitely didn’t need fixing, and Cat perched elegantly on the edge of the couch like she was preparing to interview royalty.
You’d laid out snacks—actual snacks, not Clark’s version of snacks (meaning: whatever was in the fridge and also possibly oatmeal). The room smelled like warm garlic bread, honey butter, and that candle Clark always said reminded him of you.
The atmosphere turned bright, warm, easy—almost shockingly easy, considering Clark had spent all week imagining worst‑case scenarios. You laughing. Them interrogating. Him fainting.
Lois sipped her drink, then leaned forward, elbows on knees. “So,” she said, “what do you do for a living? And is it something that explains why you haven’t run screaming from Kent’s sweater collection?”
You grinned. “I’m a psychologist.” You told her, while Clark watched the tension drain from Lois' posture. She nodded, impressed despite herself.
“Okay,” Lois said. “So you’re smart. Great. Hate that for me—I really wanted ‘imaginary’ to win the bet.”
Jimmy jumped in, eyes bright. “Do you like movies? Because Clark pretends he’s cultured but he fell asleep during Citizen Kane.”
Clark groaned. “It was one time—”
“You snored,” Jimmy added.
Cat, meanwhile, leaned toward you conspiratorially. “Where’d you get your shirt? It’s adorable.”
Clark choked on his drink.
You patted his knee. “Oh, this?” you said sweetly. “It’s vintage.”
Clark silently thanked every Kryptonian god you didn’t clarify whose closet it was “vintage” from.
But every now and then—when Lois was mid‑rant, when Jimmy was telling a story with his whole body, when Cat was giving you unsolicited fashion advice—Clark found himself glancing at you.
Just a flicker, a check‑in, an instinct.
And every time, without fail, he saw it.
That soft awe in his own eyes reflected back.
That gentle, stunned I can’t believe she’s real. I can’t believe she’s mine.
He had to look away before someone noticed, because the last thing he wanted was for his friends to see him looking like a man who’d stumbled into heaven.
Unfortunately, Lois Lane noticed everything.
She leaned over to him during a lull in the conversation and muttered—loudly enough that everyone probably heard—“Kent… you’re punching so far above your weight I’m getting altitude sickness.”
Clark sighed. “Thank you, Lois.”
“It’s not a compliment, it’s an investigation,” she shot back, but she was smiling—genuine, warm. Not a single hint of skepticism left.
Jimmy raised his glass toward the two of you. “To Clark’s very real, very beautiful, very patient girlfriend.”
You laughed. “Patient is right.”
Clark groaned. “You’re all impossible.”
But when he looked at you again, you were already looking at him—eyes soft, amused, full of something warm that made his pulse skip. And suddenly the teasing, the nerves, the entire week of dread felt stupidly small.
Later, after the door closed behind the last guest and the apartment finally settled into silence, you and Clark practically fell onto the couch.
The shared blanket was crooked from earlier but neither of you bothered fixing it—you just dragged it over yourselves, legs tangling instinctively, like magnets that had spent the whole evening politely staying apart for company.
The coffee table was a disaster zone: empty glasses, snack bowls, napkins Lois kept forgetting she dropped mid‑rant, and Cat’s lip gloss, which she’d left beside a half‑finished glass of wine like she meant to claim your vanity next.
Clark let out a soft, disbelieving laugh against your shoulder—warm breath fanning your skin, his whole body relaxing like someone had unplugged a month’s worth of tension.
You gently threaded your fingers through his hair, slow and soothing. “What?” you asked, amused already because he was clearly trying not to fully laugh.
“They really didn’t believe you existed,” he murmured, voice muffled, half‑laughing, half‑mortified. “Jimmy kept staring at you like you were CGI.”
You gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest. “Until I opened the door and blinded them with my beauty?”
Clark snorted—actually snorted—before quickly burying his face in your neck like he could hide the sound. “I mean…” He peeked up at you, cheeks rosy, glasses askew. “That did happen.”
You smirked, tapping his nose lightly. “You know, you could’ve just shown my picture or something.”
Clark froze at that—not offended, not flustered, but something warm and intense blooming behind his eyes. He lifted his head fully, looking at you like you were the one who invented starlight.
His hands slid up to your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks with the kind of tenderness that made your pulse flutter.
“I know, but I think I just wasn't ready to share you with anyone,” he said softly, firmly—like it was a vow he’d been waiting to make out loud. “ This is the first time where I feel at ease in a relationship, you’re… where I belong.”
The words melted right into the center of you—sunlight, warmth, something steady and grounding. You felt it in your ribs. Felt it in your heartbeat.
Your voice was gentler when you spoke. “Come here.”
You cupped his cheeks, mirroring the way he held you—soft palms, soft eyes—and pulled him in. “And you’re where I belong,” you whispered. “Always.”
Clark kissed you then—slow, deep, reverent—as if the whole week of stress had been building to this moment. As if every joke, every doubt, every “imaginary girlfriend” comment finally dissolved under the reality of you in his arms.
You could feel him smiling into the kiss, could feel the relief radiating off him like warmth. Could feel the way he melted when you threaded your fingers into his hair and pulled just a little.
Clark tugged the blanket higher over both of you and pulled you into his chest, the weight of him warm and grounding and entirely yours.
“Thank you,” he murmured into your hair.
“For what?” you asked.
“For being real,” he said with a soft laugh. “And for proving it so dramatically.”
You laughed too, snuggling into him. “Anytime, sweetheart.”
He tightened his arm around your waist, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple.
Not imaginary.
Not unbelievable.
Not a joke or a rumor or a bet.
content warning ! f! and m!masturbation, use of toys (clitoral and vaginal simulation) pussy slapping (brief) perv!clark again, best friend/roommate clark, use of the word slut once, viewer discretion advised!
[ camgirl!reader x clark kent: you’re an internet sensation, the object of desire for millions of men on the internet…little do you know, one of your loyal supporters is over in the next room, a newfound but avid contributor to the honey pot. this layout is so ass but i’ll fix it later… ] ref: this ask!
clark didn’t mean to pry in on your secret. really.
it all begin with that shitty computer of yours—the one clark kept hounding on you to replace. it was impractical, honestly pretty useless. it hummed and took several minutes to process simple actions—not before completely shutting down. clark could see your frustration and that, in spite of your reassurances that it’s fine, clark, that it truly bothered you.
so, he bought you a new one, but not without the promise that it would be useful to him, too. he knew you’d never take him up on the offer if he didn’t suggest to you that it’d be perfect to share, a quaint shared home monitor that you could both access your work on; whatever hefty assignment perry gave you two. clark was too generous for his own good, even helping you secure your job at the planet alongside him and taking you in after you were let go from your last job—some stupid thing about budget cuts although you’d been a loyal associate at your insurance firm for some years now. oh well, fuck them, you thought to yourself when you remembered, although it still vexed you.
clark was your white knight through it all.
even so, you struggled. base pay as a brand new journalist at the planet wasn’t the best. you practically had to force clark to let you help pay rent although you were barely scraping by and didn’t have much to offer. that’s when the cam girl idea came to you. you could say it wasn’t your finest moment and being financially vulnerable made you more passive to the idea. the shitty “make bank right now from your own bedroom!” ad had successful coaxed you. your last shred of dignity seemed to go to hell. and well…now, here you were.
clark did question it a little bit, when the money began to rack in and suddenly you were bringing in a heft of groceries, telling him with a shrug of your shoulder that you’d been better at saving this month and could help pitch in on necessities from now on. the truth was, the almost millions of strangers who watched you fuck yourself on camera had been the ones to pay for it all.
you’d built a regular routine by now. you positioned the camera of your laptop perfectly—one you’d been able to buy thanks to your tippers, (unbeknownst to clark), and straightened your sheets as if you weren’t just about to ruin them. you were sure to make it so that the only part of your face anyone could see were your red lips; your trademark. you were clad in black babydoll lingerie today, complete with garters, stockings, and crotchless panties. the look complimented the lipstick deliciously today.
your collection of toys had grown too extensively to keep from protruding in your bedside table drawer, the rest you’d laid out on your bed for use upon viewer request. you were giddy the way you always were before you streamed, a smile playing on your lips when you finally hit start live! your legs were closed, knees pressed tightly together while you laid back on the plush of your pillows, manicured hands resting on your stomach.
𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘! 𝐢𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐯𝐞...
the chat began to chime with the entrance of users on the site immediately.
“hellooo, sweet things!” you greeted your followers. “how are we doing today?”
CANDYMAN: Better now that I’ve seen you, Honey.
“awe, you’re too kind,” you hummed, teasing your hands over your tits. the most you’d give them until the tips began to roll in.
BRATTAMER69: What’ve you been up to, Honey? It’s so late…
“mmm, had to wait for my roommate to leave. missed you guys,” you sighed when your nipples began to harden at the prolonged contact. sore and sensitive with need.
CANDYMAN tipped $25 to The Honey Pot.
“thanks for donating to the honey pot, candyman,” you grinned, resting your hands back on your stomach to give yourself a break.
THIRSTYTHING: Damn. She sounds like such a cockblock
“no no, he’s nice. he has some trouble sleeping though so he’s just been in all day resting. he leaves in the middle of the night sometimes, so besides going to work he’s pretty nocturnal,” you laughed. the chimes of users entering amplified.
CANDYMAN: He?
shit, you cursed to yourself in your head. working in the industry for some months now, you learned it was best to keep sexual endeavors on the down-low. if anyone had parasocial relationships with their favorite influencers, it was the sex work community. it quickly become known fact to you that often, users had a possessive energy over you.
“uh, yeah…” you trailed off, unsure how to find a save.
CUMCAPTA1N04: Do you fuck?
“no! it’s not…he’s not…we’re not like that. i’ve known him for awhile now, y’know? he’s a great friend. it’d be weird if we did anything like that. besides, i like you guys better anyways,” you finished. another thing you realized about the industry—these fuckers loved the validation. no matter how fake it was. guilt began to prick at you, though. you knew you didn’t mean it. clark was your closest friend, your rock in the hardest of times. there was no one you really liked better than him.
CANDYMAN tipped $30 to The Honey Pot.
CANDYMAN: That’s what I like to hear, Honey
1GOODFUCK: I dunno. I think it’d be hot
CANDYMAN: That’s not what I’m paying for…
FUCKOLD: You at least let him to second or third base?
DICKUDOWN: Like a good little roommate?
you cleared your throat. “alright, candyman. anything you want me to do for you today?”
BONDAGEBANDIT: You look so pretty, baby. That the set I bought for you?
“it is!” you exclaimed, looking down at the lace that adorned your body and hugged your curves. “so glad you like it,” you said, smoothed out the wrinkles.
CANDYMAN: Why don’t you spread those pretty legs, baby?
BONDAGEBANDIT: Nah, it’s crotchless. Why don’t you make her tease herself before she gets down to it?
CANDYMAN: Because I’m the highest donator, dumbass…
you stifled a laugh. “okay guys. you know how it goes. best tip in the chat tells me what to do,” you reminded them.
CANDYMAN tipped $35 to The Honey Pot.
BONDAGEBANDIT tipped $45 to The Honey Pot.
BONDAGEBANDIT: Nice try, cheap ass…
CANDYMAN tipped $60 to The Honey Pot.
BONDAGEBANDIT tipped $100 to The Honey Pot.
“alright! it’s clear who the winner is for now,” you declared excitedly.
BONDAGEBANDIT: Put a vibe to one of those nipples, Honey. The pink one. And pinch the other one
“i like the way you think, bandit,” you chirped, taking the silicone wand from beside you and switching it on.
BONDAGEBANDIT: The strongest setting, Honey
“you betcha,” you freed your tits from the confines of your lace. more tips rolled in as they bounced over the bralette, sitting perky and taut. you brought the vibrator to a hardened bud, rolling the other in between your fingers with a gasp. “so sensitive. i’ve been waiting to touch myself all day for you all…”
CUMCAPTA1N04: So good for us…
“always,” you sighed, switching the toy between your tits. “c-can i touch my pussy now?”
CUMCAPTA1N04: Run it over your little body a bit. Then open those sexy thighs
“aye, aye, captain,” you joked, moaning out when you delved closer to your core, bringing the vibrator down over your stomach while the other hand rested on your tit. you moved down to your thighs, stopping over your empty clenching hole. you finally parted your thighs with a sigh, unclenching to reveal your pussy shining of slick from beneath your see-through crotchless lace panties.
CUMCAPTA1N04: Perfect.
CUMCAPTA1N04 tipped $15 to The Honey Pot.
CUMCAPTA1N04: Spread it open for us.
“you got it, captain.” the wand you’d left to rest on your thigh clattered beside you. you took the hand previously massaging your hand to spread your lower lips apart wide, your juices collecting on your fingers getting them drenched and sticky. you moved close enough to the camera so that your viewers were still denied full access to your face but could see your tight hole clench and twitch around nothing. “that good?” you’d gotten several more requests to slap yourself, to which you responded with several spanks to your wet hole that made you yelp but only made the tips keep filing in.
CUMCAPTA1N04: Amazing…you’re a goddess. How bout the vibe and a dildo? The lifelike one?
CANDYMAN: Or better yet, the thrusting vibrator with the tongue?
CANDYMAN tipped $20 to The Honey Pot.
“ooh,” you marveled reading the comment. “that’s a good one, it’s been awhile.”
more tips and comments began to spill in in agreement.
“alright then.” you perused the toys before your eyes landed on one of the naughtiest yet that you owned. a pink vibrator with the tip shaped like that of a cock and a tongue attached above it with several different vibration, thrusting, and tongue-licking pattern modes to try. the thrusting mode had a sliding ring for a realistic feel. the toy was practically made so that you hardly any work to do on your own, nothing but play with your tits.
CANDYMAN: Any mode or speed. Have fun
“i like the sound of that,” you smiled, the red lipstick vibrant in the camera frame. “going to touch a little first,” you said, gasping at the contact of the tight circles you rubbed on your slick clit, the other hand spreading you open. you teased your wet slit, stroking lightly up and down from your clit before finally taking the toy in your hand again. you inched it in slowly with a moan, taking it to the hilt with a tight clench around it. “ohhhh,” you cried aloud. “feels so nice after the wait,” you giggled.
you turned the thrusting mode on to the fastest, strongest setting. “oh, fuck!” you moaned.
BONDAGEBANDIT: Shit…
FUCKOLD: Taking it like a good little slut
“shit, i think i bit off more than i could chew,” you laugh nervously, clamping your hand over your mouth, eyes crossed when you pushed the vibrator in a slight bit more so that it was perfectly snug within your hole.
FUCKOLD: Why don’t you try the tongue?
“mmm, sure. just- ahhh! need a second,” you exclaimed loudly, twisting the nubs of your nipples. after a moment, you hit the button to turn on the tongue-licking motion. you fell hard back into your pillows, throwing your hands behind your head. “feels so fucking good. shit! too much!” you moaned, tears welling up in your eyes.
FUCKOLD tipped $50 to The Honey Pot.
FUCKOLD: Cum for us.
you clenched hard around the toy, the overstimulation of the tongue and cock working in tandem bringing you to a height of climax that had your back arching, afraid slivers your face might’ve been shown, only to see comments about how good you came, how pretty you looked.
THIRSTYTHING: Damn, that was hot
Subscribed now
FUCKOLD: You weren’t subscribed before, dipshit?????
you laughed at the quips in the chat, the futile stupidity of randoms fighting for you and over you in the form of chat comments.
“thank you, guys! god, that was so good,” you chuckled, still panting post-orgasm. the toy was sticky and drenched with your juices when you finally pulled it out of you. “how ‘bout i suck it all off clean for you guys since since you’ve been so kind and gave me an amazing orgasm?”
CUMCAPTA1N04: Hell yeah
BONDAGEBANDIT: Shit yes, Honey
you smiled, and opened your mouth to show your outstretched tongue. you swirled your tongue around the length and girth of the cock then took it deep in your throat, slightly gagging. the lipstick had smeared slightly around your lips now. you wiped away drool slipping from the corner of your lips. taking it from the inside of your open mouth, you showed off your work to your fans with a smile. “how’s that?”
BONDAGEBANDIT: Perfect Honey.
FUCKOLD: Such a pretty pussy and perfect mouth, wish I had them wrapped around me…
it was then that you heard the wrestle of the key inside your apartment door, that janky keyhole that needed fixing shoved around.
“shit,” you exclaimed, setting the toy aside. “roomie’s back. don’t want him to hear me talking to you guys,” you laughed. “great as he is, he doesn’t know about my side gig and i don’t want him to hear about it any time soon. have a good night—or day, wherever you are, guys!” you smiled, waving bye to the camera and thanking your tippers again before closing your laptop.
you were still covered in your own spend from the events of the night, an hour or half or so you’d spend attending to the demands of total strangers—surprising yourself at the length of your activities. it felt nowhere near that long, contrary to the reading of your digital clock. 12:34 am. geez. you needed a shower.
you wrapped your pink silk robe around your body—the expensive victoria secret one your tippers paid for— and took a loose clean towel with you. you hummed to yourself, making your way towards the bathroom when you bumped into clark.
“whoa!” you exclaimed in surprise.
“oh! so sorry, honey,” he threw his arms up in defense. it would be cute if the honey didn’t make you jolt in place.
“wh- what?” you looked like a deer caught in headlights just upon hearing the nickname.
“sorry,” he said again, taken by your own surprise. “didn’t mean to scare you.”
nicknames weren’t uncommon between you and clark. although you weren’t anything more than friends, clark didn’t shy away from the sweet occasional honey, or sweetie. you supposed after the events of your previous stream only being mere moments ago that you couldn’t help but be startled by the nickname.
“that’s alright, clark.” you said with a gulp, continuing on your path to the bathroom.
he nodded and let you past before you stopped in the doorway.
when you squinted, you swore you could see rubble in his hair, little specks adorning the crown of his head. he looked strange, his clothes ruffled and flannel shirt inside out like he’d only just changed before coming in, like there was something about his appearance he didn’t want you to see. maybe he’d just had a hookup. the thought made your heart sink a little bit. like you weren’t just fucking yourself on cam for millions of people to see.
“clark, come here.”
his eyes widened with worry, cautiously moving towards you.
you picked the rubble—little specks or whatever they were—from his hair, patting his head down with a shy smile after you finished.
“there. you just had something,” you clarified. clark was so tall you craned your neck a bit to look up at him. it was unlike any other time you interacted or talked together, only, this time, it felt oddly tense—unspoken secrets between the both of you seemed to thicken the air. you cleared your throat when you nodded. “busy night?”
“yeah. you wouldn’t believe…” he trailed off, rubbing the back of his head. “you?”
“uhhh…no. just stayed in. nothing much,” you laughed nervously. “i’m just gonna…” you gestured to your towel and the shower behind you.
“of course! don’t let me keep you,” he emulated your nervous laughter before you smiled and clicked the door shut. a shaky sigh left you as you slid down against the door, where clark still stood behind, eyes boring into the blank white of it.
clark seemed utterly stumped for the first time in what felt like ages. he had to stick through the aggravated cries of perry yelling about clark’s blank screen throughout his 8-hour shift. it wasn’t like there wasn’t anything interesting to write about; just the previous night when he’d stumbled in late when you were doing god knows what at that ungodly hour—he’d been strangling some extraterrestrial beast to its knees as superman—not before changing into some ragged flannel in the case that you’d be up and see him doing an awkward dance back to his room in your shared apartment—which you did. he sighed to himself. fucking writer’s block.
he was beat, and in spite of your sweet encouragement throughout the day, couldn’t bring himself to write more than a few words. so, he saved the shit for home, like any true procrastinator would. he made his way to the computer when you were out on some errand, getting your laptop fixed that he was unaware you even had, and how you had it.
he signed in to see you were still logged in. it was an unspoken thing that both of you logged out after each use, so he was surprised to see windows still opened. “oh gosh,” he yelped, seeing an ad of a half-naked blonde woman on the screen—one of those sketchy, almost comedic ads reading “annie from metropolis is fifteen miles away from you and wants to play.” he clicked off the ad after staring for much too long. it was probably one of those ads to the bootleg websites you loved so much to pirate movies, that clark argued was morally wrong. that’s what he figured it was, anyways. only to see—
“oh, fuck!” clark couldn’t stop the curse from leaving his mouth any quicker than it happened.
clicking the pop-up ad only revealed something worse, it seemed. he was met with the sight of you. well, bits and pieces of you. nonetheless, he connected the dots that it was you obscenely quickly. it all seemed to make sense, his worst suspicions confirmed when he clicked on a video of one of your live archives against his better judgment.
although all he could see of your face was your red lipstick, he couldn’t shake the certainty that it was you, all you. he’d know those lips anywhere—that special red you saved only for special occasions (or so he thought) that bedspread and bedframe, the stuffed animal peeking in the corner barely hidden from the frame that he’d got you for your birthday. your complexion and figure were the same.
it registered to him that he’d hear you moan into your pillows on occasion, when you’d thought he couldn’t hear or wouldn’t be back home for awhile—then hear you murmur as if you were talking to someone. it all seemed to make sense now. the video he clicked on was your most recent. the time published read 12:32am. just moments before he came home. no wonder you’d looked so flustered. while he was trying to hide that he was adjusting his pants seeing you in that pretty pink robe—and scared that you’d seen it and wanted to confront him, only to remove the rubble from his hair. oh, he was screwed.
he scrolled past the first few moments. his mouth fell slack open seeing you inch the fake cock inside your wet heat, that for so long he admittedly wanted to see. he tried to shake the thought but made no effort to click off the video. he recognized the toy, one that he’d remorsefully seen after rifling through your bedside table for some batteries he’d left in your room after changing your smoke alarm. needless to say he never went in without your permission again.
well, there was the time he’d come in for your laundry, taking your dirty used panties to his nose with some guilt. his slacks began to tighten as he continued watching you; listening in intently on your wanton moans, your cries on that fake cock and that tongue flicking on your clit. the toy worked your cunt hard while you played with your tits, arching back into your pillows.
“golly, i’m sorry baby…” he apologized as if you were there when he finally freed his aching hard cock from his boxers, rising from within its confines. he stroked it slow, coaxingly, as if hesitating now would make him any less guilty of what he was doing.
“so pretty,” he murmured, his eyes ran over the lace lingerie perfectly hugging your body. in all your years of friendship he was in disbelief that he never got the privilege of seeing you this way. god, he loved those crotchless panties. he wished it was you making you feel this way, your face twisted in pleasure, mouth fallen open and eyes screwed tight shut. he spat into his hand to make his cock slick and slide his hand up and down on it with more ease. “you’re unbelievable.” he was moaning out with you, quickening his strokes timing with the hard thrusts of the toy hitting deep in your cunt. he brought a teasing thumb to his leaky pink tip, the other reaching down to his heavy balls. “you make me so sensitive…”
he began to stroke faster, faster than the speed at which your toy was slamming into you. “gosh!” he cried, cumming when you did—your moans, that visible, prolonged clench of your pussy hard around the toy, and the final arch of your back egged him on. the video continued playing while he panted after a short huff. guilt began to gnaw at him when he heard you say, “shit. roomie’s back. don’t want him to hear me talking to you guys. great as he is, he doesn’t know about my side gig and i don’t want him to hear about it any time soon.” it occurred to him again that he’d found your account and explored it of his own volition…without you permission. “oh no…oh gosh…” his head fell into his hands. he was unsure how he’d go about pretending he never saw what he did from here on out. he suddenly realized why you’d been logged in from here—to see the stats of your income from the site on the right sidebar beside your videos—pushing tens of thousands, much to clark’s disbelief. or belief—he could in fact fathom the idea that this many people would want to watch you offer you up this much money. it was likely you had to use your shared monitor to check your earnings as your computer had been broken.
maybe he’d missed that janky knock of your keys slamming into that shitty door the way it always did, because—
“clark?” you exclaimed with a gasp, seeing him sat there with your lingerie-clad body blown up on the screen. his hands want to cover his crotch in a frantic hurry, and wipe at the cum on the front of his slacks and the keyboard.
summary: your daddy is a cold blooded killer, although he’s rich, he’s a cheap, dirty bastard who owes a lot of people money. he only seems to care about himself and his sheltered daughter he’s hidden away from civilization on his farmland. joel the outlaw wants revenge, hatching a plan to take the one thing he cares about—snatching you up as a bounty.
cw: 18+ MDNI, kidnapping, religious tones, ambiguously large age gap, The Wild West au, stockholm syndrome, sheltered!reader, witnessing murder, joel calls reader kid, joel brushing your hair, bible verses, dirty thoughts, caught masterbating, cunnilingus, popping your cherry, slight daddy kink, joel is uncut, praise kink, big dick miller, breeding, genital pronouns, belly bulge, talks of kids, creampie, multiple orgasms, falling in love with your captor
wc: 11.5k
a/n: longest fic i’ve ever written and im so so proud of my baby and i hope you love it as much as i do <3
Proverbs 24:1-2, “Do not be envious of evil men, nor desire to be with them. For their heart devises violence, and their lips speak of troublemaking.”
You’re daddy wasn’t a good man to say the least, for decades he’s groveled in corruption, his wealthy roots originally planting themselves through farming in the Texas Panhandle, his connections giving him plenty of cash to allow him to successfully thrive in the police force.
He intertwined himself seamlessly between the two, building up his own monopoly, all while stealing thousands of dollars from unsuspecting victims and getting away with it, a deceitful decades long coverup.
Everyone bowed to him, knowing all it takes is the snap of his fingers to end their lives, or lock them away forever. People have been forced to work with him and endure his cruelty for years, and the pain has begun to build up, his smug confidence causing cracks to show in his plans and as people whisper—and tensions rise, it was about time for someone to put him to rest and actually do something about it, all for the greater good of the community.
He was selfish with everyone it seemed, except for you of course, his one and only little girl—the apple of his eye. You were the only woman he needed in his life, worshiping the ground you walked on since you were born.
He’d always leave you home alone for weeks at a time, always kissing your forehead before he stepped out the door, his lips mumbling about ‘business’ as he’d abandon you to take care of his side of town. He’d always come back home bearing gifts and trinkets he collected just for you, his unique way of apologizing for leaving you so suddenly, the one and only light of his dim evil life.
When you were much younger, a naive bright eyed little girl, he sat you down, explaining how men are dangerous and the only man you need to worry about is the man scripted into the little brown book beside your nightstand, preaching to you that Jesus was the way to your heart.
And of course, you believed him, teaching yourself to read and write with the courage of the Bible, you swore to him that you would forever remain a Godly woman, never looking twice at a man your age—but that was the easy part, your father never letting you leave the family home anyways.
You tried to ignore the stares you got when you did have a rare occurrence out in public, most people did double takes at your presence, not knowing of your existence due to your father tucking you far away at home, safe and hidden from the general public.
Daddy kept his business tightlipped, but sometimes flyers and paperwork would pile up in his work den, highlighting his crassness, the countless cover stories with his face in the black and white fine print made your stomach sink, watching from a distance as he always got into messy deals with other men across the state.
As you got older, you tried to wrap your head around the family business, but unfortunately you didn’t understand much, only that he owed a lot of people money, and it was probably safer to stay out of it.
You remember one night many months ago, sneaking out the farmhouse late at night in an attempt to watch the full moon, you overheard him arguing with a black silhouette, the figure hidden behind the corner of the barn across the field, their voices echoing through the quiet of the night—fighting over money or land you assumed.
Tucking your body below the railing of the wrap around porch, you watched them closely, stilling your breathing in the cool night, you watched as it ghosted in front of your lips. You tried to make out any words that made their argument make sense but that’s when you saw it—your dad swiftly pulled out a rifle, quickly aiming it at the man, shooting him directly into the chest.
Your ears rang as the shot went off, watching in horror while the man tumbled backwards into the dirt, the ground kicking up as he fell. His shallow breathing rattled in his chest similar to a tin can, the horrid sound mellowed out into silence, listening to him breathe his final breath, the sight making you feel sick.
The man laid dead on your property all while your dad showed no remorse, quickly tucking his gun into the back of his jeans and crossed his arms, staring blankly at the corpse, standing over his frame.
Running in the house, you shakily slipped back into your messily made bed, tucking your chin under the ruffled blanket, the fabric quickly collecting the tears that seeped from your waterline. Slamming your wet eyes shut, you prayed over and over to yourself, pained whisperers falling from your lips.
“Thou shall not kill, thou shall not kill, thou shall not kill,” repeating the phrase over and over until your throat went dry, the man’s lifeless body flashed in your mind, hoping that this was all a terrible dream—or a nightmare.
That night was a painful memory for you, one that constantly crept up in your mind when you least expected it. Something shifted between you and your father that night, every time he’d get close to you, smiling and staring in your direction, you were stuck at that moment on the porch, thinking of that man and the pain he must have felt.
Occasionally you’d cry yourself to sleep, wondering about his family out in the night looking for him, or the worried sick expression over their faces when they did finally find him. The man’s life was cut far too short, and whether he deserved it or not, it was all a twisted courtesy from the hands of your father.
The resentment grew deeper, stashing it away as it tempered to the surface regardless of trying to hide it, your anger and sadness boiling your blood with each hug or kiss your father would give you.
You wondered what else he could possibly be hiding, his typical work excuses falling on deaf ears all while you tried to wrap your head around his own twisted mind—and your very own life, wondering why he stashed you away all these years, his way of hiding you from his corruption.
And as you felt these overwhelming emotions, the urge to experience something from this life ate at you. You wish you could run away from here, build your own life and never look back, but being so far from town and even further from civilization always stopped you.
You realize if you finally got far enough, the police force would be out in record numbers, all looking for the sheriff's silly daughter, there was truly no hope for your dreams.
Now you really tried to be grateful, coming from money you had almost everything you wanted, your dad giving you everything you could ever ask for—except for a gentleman to sweep you off your feet.
The feeling was carnal, feeling it up your toes and down your arms, you rapidly grew impatient, wondering when or if you’d ever be destined to meet someone in this lifetime.
The first time you prayed for a companion, you truly hoped God was listening, remembering the feeling of your knees hurting when they pressed uncomfortably against the scratchy floorboards, bowing over your bed, the strands of your hair freely falling around your face.
You were not one to usually pray outloud, your daddy telling you it was bad luck—that the devil would hear your prayers and send you astray, but tonight was different—maybe, just maybe, you were hoping for anyone or anything to hear your sinful desires laced in the form of a prayer.
“Dear lord, I beg of you. I plead for you to save me from this life, send a man to save me and set me free. Oh lord, I know I’m being selfish, but if you can truly hear me, please make him handsome and strong, I need someone to take care of me. God please, I pray you answer my prayers.”
You tried to live with the loneliness, building an imaginary life in your head as you were often left alone with no friends nor companions your age, even convincing your father to start you a collection of romance novels.
His sweet little girl could do no wrong as he greatly obliged, your dad being none the wiser of the material you were consuming, the erotica collection continued to grow, each new book piling on top of one another as the spines grew on your bookshelf, your ideas of your dream man blossomed into something much more detailed than the original man in your first hundred prayers.
You knew exactly what you wanted, craving the exact fantasy you’ve been reading about deep in your bones, secretly wondering if there’s men out there like the ones from the stories.
During bible study, you’d catch yourself zoning out, closing your eyes and placing your hands in front of your nose, your thoughts would slightly drift off, your same dirty prayers returned as well—instead of wishing for good health and the greater good of mankind you began to make every single prayer towards that same sinful goal—a husband.
You prayed for freedom, or even the blessing of a child, imagining yourself swollen with your husband's seed, standing in the kitchen he built from the ground up, cleaning up after you cooked him a bountiful dinner, your white dress stained with water as the water from the dishes splashed your waist. Your husband would walk up behind you, startling you as he pulled you into his arms, his body snug against your hips as he whispered sweet nothings into your ear.
You’d imagine what he looked like, a tall tanned man with deep kind eyes and even deeper lines kissing his red cheeks. You craved someone much older and wiser than you, the thought about him rescuing you in his arms, taking you away from this life, made butterflies erupt through you at the vision. You wanted someone that would truly care for you, teach you how to love and be yourself, the image blooming in your heart.
When you opened your eyes, you’d rapidly blink the image out of your mind, staring wide eyed around the room hoping no one could read your dirty mind and the twisted thoughts that you could only keep to yourself.
Sometimes you felt guilty when your panties would be soaking wet at the idea of a gruff man, one built and strong with a beard and a hairy chest, imaging a gentleman taking care of the farm with ease, his large hands getting dirty in the yard work and wondering what he would do to your body with his hands when no one else was around.
The first time you made a sly attempt to touch yourself, it was met with intense guilt as soon as the warm feeling buzzed in your tummy. You tried to ignore the burden of sin, running your hand up and down your wet mound distracting your thoughts. You jumped at the feeling when your fingertips would accidentally bump the small bundle of nerves above your virgin hole. It felt good, but the ecstasy always was replaced with a different feeling that always ended up taking over you instead.
Remorse.
Regret.
Shame.
Staring at the gold cross nailed to your wall, the reflection burned into your irises, with your hand stuffed inside of your cunt, you began to feel like He was watching you, quickly ripping your hands from your flesh. You rolled over in a position to hide from the cross, attempting to hide what you believed your whole life was a sin.
Unfortunately for you, these sinful thoughts always went the most rapid at night, instead of counting sheep, you began to count the many ways you could meet a man, wondering if you could convince your daddy to allow you to start attending the church downtown every Sunday morning, or maybe you’d be lucky enough for him to hire a farmhand—staring at your cracked window as you blushed, thinking of him sneaking into your bedroom, slipping you away from your father, taking you far away into the night sky.
You fell asleep that night with the all too typical sticky feeling in your panties, crossing your legs tightly for some relief, drifting off into that same dream world, subconsciously praying for a gift.
Proverbs 8:17, “I love them that love me; and those that seek me early shall find me.”
You woke up late past sunrise, the sun already shining brightly in the sky, feeling it beam through your chantilly lace curtains. The Texas heat was unbearable this time of year, even as you lay inside your bedroom, the humidity thick and sticky, feeling its warmth creep onto your supple skin, the sweat collecting on your chest.
To combat the heat, you slipped on your thinnest cotton house dress, the fabric swaying at your ankles with each step down the stairs and into the kitchen. You expected to see your father at the table drinking a glass of coffee but instead his chair was empty—seeing a note scribbled on a piece of yellow paper laying against the table instead.
Picking it up, your eyes scanned the handwriting, your father was letting you know he would be out for the foreseeable future and was unsure when he’d return. He left you a laundry list of chores to complete everyday while he’s gone, and with you being the only person around the home, you were left to take care of the land.
Sighing to yourself, you sat down angrily, preparing for your long day out in the sun, you laced up your boots, feeling the ties snug against your skin with each step, the heels clapping against the wooden floor, your body stomping right out the door.
Your first task of the morning was to fill the grain bin with feed for the cows, clumsily scooping the dusty substance into the containers, you fumbled with the large bags of feed, tumbling over yourself while you unlocked the gate to free the cows for their morning feed.
Finally getting your first task done for the morning, your dress stuck to your sticky skin, the wind stale as it did nothing for your overheating body. Smiling, you pet the baby calf, its hair soft between your fingers as you headed toward the gate to leave.
Tiredly, you walked over to the chicken coop, the sun beating down on your face was staring to make you feel faint. You were thankful that the coop was tucked in behind some large oak trees, your boots rubbing uncomfortably into your ankles with each step against the tall grass, the yellowed strands tickling your knees. Standing against the entrance to the coop, you could hear the hens rustling around, their synchronized clucking filling your ears.
Opening the metal hatch, the door creaked as you stepped inside, the air much cooler in the secluded area. Bending down on the ground, you began to collect the many eggs from their roost, slipping them into a silver bucket, closely examining them for any signs of cracks or signs of life.
Your thoughts were preoccupied as you stared at the shells—completely unaware someone's been watching you, this whole time, their frame creeping up behind you.
Proverbs 22:7, “The rich rules over the poor, and the borrower is the slave of the lender.
Joel Miller, Austin’s number one Outlaw, a skillful asset to his group he belonged to, he was strong and mean—a stoic motherfucker who owned it well, with being so good at his job, others couldn’t complain.
Running for years, he finally decided to settle down in the outskirts of town, his crime rate slowly slowed with age, attempting to stay out of trouble.
He lived a respectful life, his earnings were used wisely, keeping quiet and far away from the crime scene in Texas. He couldn’t help getting wrapped back into the life, because at the end of the day—once you join the lifestyle, it’s impossible to fully get out.
Joel Miller remembered the first time he heard about your poor excuse of a father, remembering how his brother's face was battered and bruised, an array of injuries spread across his body as he returned from a trip up north gone wrong—your father behind the abuse.
He knew about your father playing both sides, working with Outlaws like him and ratting them out to the police force when things went sideways, always getting away with it due to nepotism.
Learning from his brother's mistakes, he knew to never trust your father or anyone up north, choosing to stick down south, stealing cattle and robbing trains was his best bet at staying out of jail—and a graveyard.
That was until a close friend of his was murdered by your father after confronting him over his stake of cash from a jewelry raid. It was obvious who was the culprit as soon as he heard about his death, the gunshot wound clearly concluded that. The bullet fragments belong to the one and only Winchester riffles, a gun possessed only by the wealthiest sheriffs around America.
And Joel was angry, growing tired of hearing your father walking clean, the abuse getting to him in a way it never has before.
He began to keep tabs on him, but people didn’t know much and if they did, they kept it under wraps but that didn’t stop Joel from prying around.
During his research, he went to a bar far up north to clear his mind, getting familiar with the area as he sat at the booth, his boot spikes digging into the grain of the wood flooring whilst sipping his beer, and that’s when he heard it—the doors slamming open as a large group of men came in.
His eyes made contact with the exact man he’s been looking for—your father having an indistinguishable look spread across his face. He was dressed way too nice for an establishment like this one and Joel perked up, instantly straightening his back up, excitement rushing through him but his expression remained indifferent, deciding to eavesdrop in on his conversation.
The said conversation was loud and boring, the drunken men speaking a whole lot of nothing as their jaws slacked at their drunk fueled words, which didn’t get him much information.
He already had a decent profile on him, knowing he was sleazy and loaded, the hundreds of acres of farm land was barely put to use, assuming it was a cover up for something deeper, all hidden in his family name, but Joel wasn’t interested in all of that—until he heard a drunken man approach his group, slurring about his beautiful daughter.
He watched how your fathers facade instantly faded into something much more true to his character, the look of evil lighting up his wrinkly face whilst his eyes darkened.
The man went on and on about your looks, making crude jokes about your innocence, telling him that he understood why he kept you hidden from this life, that a pretty young thing like you would be easy to have his way with.
He watched as your dad stood from his barrel, the chair falling to the ground, as he threw a punch, instantly beating the man bloody and unconscious. The sparse patrons ran away in fear, but Joel instead took note of the incident, instantly realizing he found a perfect lead, knowing exactly what an Outlaw like him could steal from a man who got everyone wanted, the only thing that mattered to your father suddenly mattered more to Joel—you.
Joel changed his plan of attack that night, his hands clammy as he scribbled on a map of your land, instead of his usual jewelry robberies, he planned exactly how to snatch the most valuable jewel up and away from your father.
He learned your fathers schedule to a T, meticulously setting up his own house for a brand new guest, placing locks on the outside of each door, he tightened the windows, deciding he was finally ready.
He knew your father was up to another large business deal out of town and away from home as he finally put the plans into action, lugging him and horse up north as he crept up to the farmhouse, seeing your frame out past the pasture.
Joel instantly knew it was you by the way you looked, an Angel dressed out of place for a farm, your presence far too pretty to be outside working like this, wondering why your lazy father never hired help.
He watched your movements, skittish and informal—an obvious tell that you aren’t used to farm work, your hands shakily feeding the cows.
He swallowed as you continued on, following your footsteps deeper onto the property. He closed in behind you, standing behind your frame instantly when you tucked yourself into a vulnerable position in the chicken coop, the building giving him the perfect angle to easily trap you inside.
Joel was far too used to rounding up cattle with his lasso, and he was sure that this would be no different as the adrenaline rushed through him. His hands grabbed onto his rope, running the threads in his hand while his eyes locked in on his target, completely oblivious that your life was about to change.
A noise rattled behind you, causing you to jump, standing up from your position against the ground, but before you could turn around and see what the commotion was, a rope cracked in the air as it wrapped around your form, skillfully tying your arms next to your sides, leaving you defenseless.
“S-stop! Help!” You quickly fell to the floor screaming, the wood shavings kicked up around your body while you tried to release yourself, thrashing your legs around, you screeched as loud as you could, the noise loud as it burnt the back of your throat.
The person easily overtook you, tying you up by your arms. He bounded your body snug against the knots, the thread burning hot as it tightened against your skin.
“Stop shakin’ kid, gonna have to tie ‘em harder if ya don’t stop thrashing, all you’re doin’ is giving yourself burns from the rope.”
“Please let me go!” You cried out, trying to wiggle from his grasp but he was much stronger than you, his body easily caging you in.
“Can’t kid, not gonna hurt ya, this ain’t even ‘bout you.”
The man finally showed himself to you, his cowboy hat tucked low enough to hide his eyes as a red bandana concealed the rest of his face.
You didn’t recognize him, but that was a given as you’ve never been this close to a man before, your body shaking with fear as he came around to your legs, his large hands holding them down to further tie you together, bounding your ankles.
You were unable to speak, scared for your life as he stood you up, dragging you painfully by your arms. You planted your legs roughly against the ground as a final attempt to sneak out of his grip, the heels of your boots digging into the dirt as it left a trail of your absence.
The fight to free yourself was over before you knew it, your limbs thrashing earlier tired you out, the man much stronger than you to stop.
He stood you next to his horse, tying a white scarf around your mouth tight enough to stop your lips from speaking as he cut the ropes around your feet, propping you up in front of the horse to sit directly behind you.
It was obvious that the man was skilled at this, guiding the large horse through miles and miles of empty fields. The ride felt like hours, the sun began to set in the horizon as your thighs burnt directly to the bone, the feeling from the leather saddle digging into your flesh.
Tears pricked in your eyes as you leaned against his chest in an attempt to get comfortable, the cool air biting your skin when you closed your eyes, thinking about your father, praying for his safety, even with your own life on the line, the fear causing you to shiver, wondering what the stranger wanted from you and worse—what he was going to do to you.
He finally stalls the horse, its feet clacking against a gravel driveway while he pulls the reins tight to stop its movements.
He shifts behind you, throwing himself off the horse with a grunt, he swiftly grabs you by the waist, planting you down onto the floor.
You’re still frightened, your body can’t help but shake, feeling your knees easily give out, instantly falling into the ground, the pebbles burning into your skin as you sink your weight down to the floor.
Now Joel feels terrible, the last thing he wanted to do was scare you but he had no other choice, as he stared at your small frame against the floor, he felt as if he needed to console your worry.
Bending down, he met you at your level, snapping his fingers to get your attention, your wide eyes peering up at him.
You watched his hand come up to his face, pulling his mask down, revealing the lower half of his face to you, his own way of an attempt to gain your trust. The night sky blurred his face, you still couldn’t see his eyes, only the blurry features around his mouth, his dark scruffy beard covering his cheeks.
Wincing, you jump back from him, feeling his hands come up to cup your face, “gon’ take this off now, don’t be screamin’ or I’ll have ta’ put it back on.”
His right hand goes behind your messy hair, his fingers playing with the fabric of your own makeshift mask, pulling it off your tear stained face.
His voice is much softer than you expected, his accent a lot stronger than ones you’ve heard on your side of town. You attempt to plead for safety with your eyes, meeting his gaze with your quivering one, feeling the tears beginning to swell in your eyes.
“A-are you g-going to hurt me?” You ask, trying to keep calm, but you can hear the shakiness in your voice as you breathe in a sharp breath, the noise catching in your throat.
“No, no. Good lord girl, just need you ta’ stay here awhile, all of this.” He pauses, his hand making a wide motion with his palm, “this ain’t ‘bout you, no, not at all.”
You furrow your brows, wondering if your father has got himself into trouble “Is this about my daddy? Is he okay?”
“Shit probably, wasn’t him I was lookin’ for.”
His answers only further confuse you more, wondering why you got wrapped up into this mess. “Why’d you do this then? Why to me?”
“Yer ol’ man… he’s hurt alotta people, owes twice as many of ‘em money. Know you care ‘bout him, but he’s gotta learn his lesson the hard way… had to steal from him, somethin’ that makes this all worth it.”
You study his face, and you can tell he’s being truthful, each answer he gives you is open and direct.
“He’s a good man, he f-fights for me! Takes care of me, you just don’t understand him.”
“Darlin’ keep telling yourself that. There ain’t no way in hell you think he’s a good man, even in that little head of yours.
His words cause your mind to jump to that fateful night, the gunshot cracking as the sound repeated in your head. Blinking away the image, you continue to lie to yourself, rapidly defending him. “He’ll come back for me, he’d do anything for me, always does.”
Joel laughs at that, your naivety getting to him, “don’t think he was doin’ much for ya anyways, don’t know who in their right mind would leave their little girl home alone like he was doing, ‘s about time someone found ya. Be glad it’s me and not some sicko.”
“Whats that supposed to mean?”
“Be glad ‘m one of the good ones.” He repeats, “Ain’t gonna hurt ya or touch ya or whatever the hell yer thinkin’ I’m going to do to you.”
Truthfully, you weren’t thinking of him in that way, instead you were wondering how he’d kill you, and if it would be quick or painful. But now that he says that, his justification makes no sense to you.
“If you're a good man you wouldn’t keep me locked up like this.” You grumble, stomping your feet.
“This is just about the same thing your daddy was doin’, I’m just being more upfront about it.”
Now that shuts you up, wondering how much this mystery man knows about you and your life and you're too scared to let him learn any more about you.
He nods his head at you, giving you a once over as his hands come up around your waist, undoing his knot he originally used to catch you.
“Gonna untie ya now, don’t you be running off, ain’t gettin’ get far out here alright?”
He gently unties you, his actions a nice contrast to his stern demeanor, feeling his thumbs grazing over the red indents through your dress from the material rubbing your skin raw.
Never in a lifetime did you expect the first man to touch you was one who tied you up and kidnapped you, but you were too tired to read into the feeling it gave you, watching as his hands easily wrapped around your waist to stand you back up.
His hand grazed the small of your back as he directed you to the entrance of his cozy home, the living space dark as he lit an oil lamp, the warm hues quickly lighting up the room.
His house—although much smaller than yours, was a nice change of scenery, the wooden walls littered with small frames of people you assumed meant something to him.
You felt his presence against you again, leading you further into the house into a room situated right next to his own—your new bedroom.
He sat the same lamp down on your nightstand, the metal clinking as it brightened up the small space. The room only consisted of a bed and a vanity, the room falling short compared to your own.
“Gotta keep ya locked in here for a bit… Need ya to be good for me, build some trust.”
This was all happening so fast, a queasy feeling bubbling in your belly while you attempted to meet his shaded eyes.
“Now look, it ain’t much, but you got a bed… some clothes, food-hell, if you're real good I’ll go out and get ya some stuff, even give ya things to do.”
“Sounds good.” You agree softly, and the man takes that as his cue to leave you alone for a bit, trying to give you some space to soak all of this in.
Your body is exhausted as you fall onto the mattress, the springs creaking with each roll of your body. Pulling yourself into the fetal position, you smash your face into the fabric, feeling the tears beginning to pour down to your face.
After some time, the door handle jerks as it unlocks from the outside, watching as his frame fills the hallway, his hand holding a small plate of food.
“Need you to eat somethin’.” He demands, voice soft as he rounds the bed, placing the plate onto the empty vanity.
“Don’t wanna.” You mumble through the quilt, your voice vibrating against your nose.
“Ain’t telling ya again, gotta do as I say.”
“What if you poisoned it?”
“Kid how many times…” He sighs, “I told ya, not gonna hurt ya.”
He knows he’s not a good guy, but he can’t help feeling offended that you so strongly believe he’s going to hurt you as he places a hand on his hip, “I’ll leave it here, but you gotta eat something today, know yer hungry, can hear your stomach growlin’ from over here.”
Psalm 56:3–4, “When I am afraid, I put my trust in you. In God, whose word I praise, in God I trust; I shall not be afraid. What can flesh do to me?”
In the morning, the soreness seeps deeply into your bones, burning as you stretch your muscles. Rapidly blinking, you take in the scenery of your new room, the sinking feeling hitting you when you realize you’re not home anymore, now in someplace new and foreign.
The room is cozier in the daylight, the sky shining on the wooden walls makes it feel like the eyes of the wood are staring back at you, and you remember the man you're currently sharing a home with.
You wonder what his name is, and what he truly looks like under his hat. So far he seemed nice, but he stole you—ripped you away from your home by force, all over your father.
Your father. You can’t believe he got you into this terrible mess—abandoning you without a care in the world, with no clue you're gone while he’s out doing God knows what.
You begin to wonder if maybe this is your chance for change, this possibly being the break you prayed for all this time, hoping you can change your mindset and maybe, just maybe—things will change for the better.
The hours cramped in the bedroom bled into days, the only time you’d be allowed to roam around was during a small timeframe between dinner and a shower. Any other time, you stay locked away in your makeshift bedroom, far away from the man.
You tried to pass the time, memorizing the pattern of wood grain on the walls, or staring blankly into your own reflection, not really looking like yourself, wearing the extra clothes that the man picked out for you.
Until one day he steps in the room, sitting in the chair situated next to the vanity, his gaze following yours through the reflection.
You swallow, thinking the worst while the lump in your throat pulls against you, waiting for him to break the uncomfortable silence his presence gave.
“You’ve been good, better than I reckoned you’d be, ‘n I thank you for that.”
You say nothing at his compliment, choosing to stare deeply into his eyes, the first time you’ve seen his whole face in the time you’ve been here.
“Was thinking to myself today… thinking about lettin’ you walk around the house.”
Your ears perk up at his offer, excited to do anything at this point, your mind beginning for stimulation.
“What do you think about that?” The man questions, his eyebrow raising at his words.
Swallowing, your words come out much drier than you intended. “Is that what you want?”
“Think It'd be good for ya, get you use ta’…” He clears his throat, “all of this. Know It’s hard on you but ‘m hoping you'll get used to it soon enough.”
“Okay.”
“Can I trust you to be good?”
“Y-yes please, I’ll be real good. ‘m tired of staring at the ceiling.” You beg, pleading for him to not change his mind.
Groaning in approval, he nods his head, meeting you at your level with his new offer. “How you feel about cleaning up ‘round here, cooking ‘n helping out. Think I could trust ya to do that?”
“I-I can cook-real good. Cook for my daddy all the time.”
“Good, good.” He agrees, looking into your eyes as he stands up. “With that bein’ said, I'll remind ya again, don’t be ru-“
“Running off. I understand, Sir. Need to gain your trust.” You cut him off, his one and only rule imprinted into your brain.
He goes to walk out of your room but he stops, placing his hand against the door frame. “Was gonna go in town tomorrow… you need anything?”
Blinking at him, your shocked he wants to take care of you, your words stuttering. “C-clothes, umm.” You pause, “didn’t let me pack a bag so I don’t have underwear or a hairbrush or anything.”
He laughs at that, his belly moving in his button down shirt as he fires back, “what makes you think I'd let ya pack a damn bag?”
“I-I don’t know, never been kidnapped before.”
“I didn’t kidnap ya kid, you're a bounty remember? If it was up to me, wouldn’t have done this. Didn’t wanna hurt you.” Scoffing, he nods once over at you, before walking out your bedroom door but this time—he leaves it open.
In the morning, you creep out of bed with tired eyes and messy hair, peaking around the corner of the opening for any signs of him.
When you see none, you cautiously step out of the bedroom, scared he’s setting you up or has changed his mind, the pads of your feet tapping with every step, slowly making your way to the kitchen.
You finally have a chance to look around for real this time, taking your time to gaze at each trinket he has laid around his living room, the small space filled full with personal belongings of his own.
Turning the corner, you see it—the front door wide open, the field staring back at you.
You think about running, imagining your legs going as fast as they can, running until your body gives out, thinking of someone saving you from your new life but something stops you—his voice ringing in your ears about trust.
Technically, this man—he saved you, giving you the opportunity your father never bothered to give you. You were taught that everything happens for a reason, and maybe this was your reason.
Walking up to the door, your hand traces the smooth edges as you close your eyes, the breeze hitting your face while you think back to your prayers. Maybe this was God's twisted way of giving you what you wanted, maybe this man was what you needed all along. As off putting as things are right now, this is the most free you’ve ever felt, and in a way, you’ve grown to like it.
Maybe it’s foolish, but your body moves before your mind can, taking the knob in your hand you shut the door, locking yourself back inside of the house, patiently awaiting his return.
Corinthians 10:13, “No temptation has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. And God is faithful; he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear.”
When he came home, he expected you to be gone as he rounded the front door, his movements soft with every step of his boots, except for the occasional clump of gravel crunching underneath him.
He had left that door open on purpose today, his own way of testing you. He wanted to see if you could listen, and obey his orders and God, he desperately wanted you too—he wanted to see you again, putting his faith into your hands.
He was shocked when he saw the handle shining in the setting sun, the door snug against the wall, not expecting to see it closed shut. He wondered if you closed it as you left, or maybe just maybe—you listened.
He cautiously opens the door, his heart busting out of his chest, unsure of what he will see when he opens it, and that’s when he sees you—standing at the stove with a wooden spoon in your hand, cooking him dinner just like he asked.
You passed his test, and he can’t help but smile to himself, walking up to you he takes in your outfit choice, wearing one of the large white button down tops from your dresser, the fabric cutting off against your thighs.
Your ears perk up at the door creaking open, shocked to see him back so early in the night, “hi, s-sorry I would have changed if I knew you’d be back so soon.”
“It’s fine,” he grumbles, his eyes shamelessly raking in your frame, “looks hell of a lot better on you than it does me.”
You turn around, seeing him lugging a small leather suitcase beside his arm, grunting as he props it up against the dining table.
“What’s that?”
“Come ‘ere. Told ya I was getting you some things, ‘n I don’t break promises.”
Putting your spoon down, you shyly walk over to him, ignoring his eyes and how they watch his own shirt ride up on your body as you stand next to him, his shoulder touching yours.
When he pops the lid, you're met with exactly what you wanted, a couple of folded up dresses, some socks and lacey underwear, the garments looking similar to the ones your father can afford. He moves around one of the dresses, and a gold hairbrush stares back at you, its handle reflecting in the light. You can’t believe it, he went out of his way to get everything you needed and more—all gifts for you.
You wonder how he got all of this expensive stuff so quickly, but you don’t press him on it and the item's origins, instead smiling kindly at him. “Oh my, this is amazing, thank you”
“Don’t mention it honey, ‘s the least I can do.”
“I, I still don’t know your name.” Staring up at him, your lips in a pout, you hope he opens up to you and to your luck—he does.
“Joel, names Joel.” He whispers firm, his name ringing in your ears.
“Thank you Joel.” You say, a blush creeping over your cheeks.
Joel tries to ignore the feeling of how his voice sounds on your lips, the gut punch feels different that the physical ones he’s used to, yet he welcomes it, understanding why that man in the bar was so smitten about the sheriff's daughter.
You couldn’t wait to shower, slipping on the fresh linens he picked out for you, the fabric soft against your skin.
You’re beginning to finally feel more like yourself as you adjust to the new routine, attempting to blink away the warm thoughts of Joel and his kindness towards you.
Staring at yourself in the mirror, your hair damp as it coats your shoulders, you begin to pull at your hair, brushing the tangled strands.
It’s as if he can hear your thoughts, the floor boards creaking to alert you of his presence. Looking towards your bedroom opening, you’re met with his gaze already staring back at you, his body leaning against the doorframe with his hand holding up his head. “That dress right there, thought it would look nice on ya.”
“Does it?” You question, his forwardness causing you to blush for the second time tonight.
“Of course it does darlin’.” He shakes his head, admiring you in the warm hazy lighting of the oil lamp, your features warm and soft as the image burns into his mind.
Joel watches how you struggle with your hair, the urge to take care of you causing him to speak up, “here, let me help.”
He walks over to stand behind you, slotting himself against the edge of the chair, his legs pushing into your own, lifting you into a makeshift position on the edge of his lap.
“C’mere, I got ya.” He murmurs, breath hot against your ear while he runs his hands around your head, collecting your hair to your back.
He starts from the bottom and works his way up to your scalp, taking his time to gently brush the strands, the feeling so relaxing you can’t help but hum, your eyes fluttering shut.
“Just needed my help didn’t ya?” He questions, but the way he says it tells you he isn’t counting on a response.
You try to still your movements, as if one movement will pull him away from you, yet you can’t stop yourself from shimming around in his lap, your eyes blinking open to watch him in the mirror, his poker-faced reflection staring directly into your strands of hair.
You can feel your pulse thicken in your veins, the blood pumping in your ears as you try to stop your labored breathing, feeling him so close to you like this—a man nonetheless touching you, drives you mad.
Your body begins to shake with want, the knowing warmth growing in between your legs causing you to writhe in his lap.
“Jesus girl, yer shakin’ like a leaf.”
“Sorry, no one’s ever-“ You want to say no one’s ever touched you before but that seems too forward, too honest, quickly recovering you change your wording.
“No one’s ever bushed my hair before.”
Joel knows what you mean by that, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he works on your scalp, the brush snug against his hand as he smooths down the hairs.
“Feels good though don’t it?”
“Very, thank you.” You reply breathless, feeling like you’re on cloud nine, obsessed with the way he’s taking care of you.
He sits the brush down beside you, the metal clinking on the counter, and you're sad his attentiveness is already over, wanting his hands on you forever, imagining his hands elsewhere, taking care of your body—somewhere lower.
“Goodnight sugar. see ya bright ‘n early.” Joel whispers, his words prying you from your dirty thoughts.
He stands up, patting the small of your back, staring at the top of your damp head, Joel isn’t thinking when he decides to make a rash decision, unable to keep himself away from you, he plants a small kiss to the top of your head.
Sugar.
The kiss.
His mouth.
The nickname makes your brain go fuzzy, and all you can do is smile at him, dipping your head down towards your lap, trying but failing to hide the smile that pushes against the apples of your cheeks.
The way he took care of you, his belly against your back, the way his hands felt in your hair was all too much to handle as you waited for him to step out the room, kindly waving him away.
The kiss caused the top of your head to tingle and your cunt to flutter, having no other choice than to lay on the bed, needing to fill the void he left with your hands.
You're unsure how he has this grasp on your mind, on your body, yet you can’t seem to mind the idea of being his, hoping God can’t hear your thoughts.
You just can’t take it anymore, rolling your panties off your legs to reveal your sticky sobbing cunt, your inner thighs being the wettest you’ve ever been, hissing at the cool air hitting the freed flesh.
You’ve touched yourself plenty of times before in the past, sure, but now? The idea somehow feels even dirtier, laying bare in a bed that isn’t yours, in a dress he picked out for you, thinking about a real life man this time, not an imaginary character nestled in a chapter of a secret book.
Only now he was a part of your reality, Joel was too real and the feeling was overpowering as you brought down your shaky hand, swiping your pointer finger around in your slick.
Your eyes flutter shut thinking about him, imagining it was his large hands touching you instead. You wonder if he’s a gentle lover, how he’d take his time with your body just how he did with your hair.
Joel hears something echoing through the home, a sound similar to your voice. Fear takes over him as he instantly thinks the worst, that you're in danger and in need of his rescue.
He follows the noise to the open bedroom door, yet it takes a moment to process your screams up close, they sound much more breathless than he originally thought, a sweet syrupy noise falling from your lips. He knows he should walk away, not disturb you in your time of need but then he hears it, the four letters slipping from your open mouth—his own name.
The word makes his knees buckle, leaning against the door as he peers in at your body and oh Lord, Joel can’t pry his eyes away at the sight.
He sees you, legs spread wide as they hit the mattress, your fingers dug deeply into your mound, your body so wet he can hear the squelching between your fingers.
His gaze flickers up to your face, memorizing every small detail of your fucked out expresion. He feels as if he looks away it will be gone, so he doesn’t—he paints the pretty picture in his mind, his mouth watering with the want to taste you on his tongue.
Joel was a smart man, a quick listener with a tough uncrackable shell. He’s had countless women throw themselves his way, between the ladies in the night and bar hands, he had plenty to choose from, yet he never took the bait.
But when he saw you that first day, lost and dazed, your soul desperate for a connection, he had quickly gained a possessive urge over you, his strong level head faltered and that scared him, every time he looked at you he could find himself unable to look away.
It was no secret you were a beautiful young woman, if you weren’t so timid and sheltered he’s sure there would be a line out your fathers house of men begging to court you, offering to trade all sorts of expensive items for his blessing.
But he liked that, he was absolutely smitten over your very off putting quirks, the two of you balancing one another out, he wanted to protect you and you wanted someone to take care of you—the perfect concoction.
He wishes he never had to take you this way, steal you and root you up from your home life, but he began to think it was for the best, delighted at the shock he felt when you took up to him so easily.
But God was Joel selfish, he was glad he had you all to himself, the mask he had was already beginning to fall, yet when he heard your soft cries, calling out all for him? He almost lost it, his knuckles turning white as he balled his hand into a fist, never craving something so terribly before in his lifetime.
A footstep distracts you from your body, your eyes prying open at the sight of Joel standing in your doorframe, clearly watching you touch yourself.
“J-Joel! Oh my,” you scream breathless, your chest heaving at him catching you chanting his name.
“Don’t meet to intrude on you, but I couldn’t help but overhear ya in here uhm… takin’ care of yourself.”
“Joel,” you repeat, the embarrassment creeping into your skin. You can feel your chin wobbling and your eyes brimming with tears, afraid he’s mad at you or he will kick you out and take you back home.
“Now don’t look at me like that, I ain’t trying to scare you off but if you need help, ‘m offerin’.”
“What?”
This was not what you expected.
Not in the slightest.
Joel, the man you’ve dreamt of all this time, wanted to help you—wanted to take care of you. Confusion spreads across your face, unable to stop your eyebrows furrowing.
“D-do you ever think of me, like that?” You can feel yourself fluster further at your own questioning, but as the words fall from your lips you can’t stop them.
“You know you’re a real pretty thing, prettiest girl I’ve ever laid my eyes on.”
“No! not that. I mean, have you touched yourself thinkin’ of me. Have you ever thought of what I look like under my dress?”
You can hear his breathing pick up in his own body, the heavy noise filling the small room. “Darlin’ I’m a man, with a girl like you in my house, ‘corse I have.”
“What have you thought about doing to me?”
Maybe this is when Joel should stop, walk out and pretend nothing happened but desire takes over him, unable to stop the words that slip from his open mouth “Can I show you?”
Smiling, you throw your back onto the bed, your head hitting the pillows as you draw your legs up to your chest, letting them fall wide open, showing Joel your bare glistening cunt.
“Please?”
The question falls so effortlessly from your pillowy lips and Joel can feel his weight give out underneath him. He knows he’s falling into the trap, that he should hold himself back, get himself together but oh lord, he can’t—he wants you just as bad as you want him, the need to satisfy you takes over him. He feels like his body is forcing itself in your direction, his legs floating over to your frame.
The bottom of the bed stops his movements, his thighs pushing into the soft mattress as he stares into your eyes. You mewl at his forwardness, his eyes unashamedly gawking at your body, and Joel can’t help but throb at the sight.
“Need you to be real sure ‘bout this, cus once I start, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”
You pause for a brief moment, staring into his eyes as you read his serious expression, but his words only make you want him more, forgetting everything you know as your mind swirls with him.
“Want you to touch me Joel, want you to be the first.”
Joel growls at that, a primal noise roaring from the back of his throat as he begins to crawl onto the mattress, situating himself against your toes.
His hand finds the side of your calf, gently placing the palm wide around the flesh, his tanned skin, so rugged and dry, looks so stark against your smooth legs, your expensive lotions paying off, feeling like butter on his hands.
“You should be savin’ yourself, waiting for someone you love to make you feel special.”
“You make me feel special, take good care of me.”
Your words stunt Joel, unsure of how to deflect from his defenses as he finally caves in, giving himself what he’s been craving, he brings a hand up to your knee, gently prying it open.
Your leg falls onto the blanket, the patterned quilt soft against you as your cunt is exposed to Joel, this time much closer to his view.
“You’re an absolute beauty honey.”
His words make you shudder, desperate for relief you writhe in his electric touch.
“You ever been kissed before?”
“No, never.”
“Can I?”
You don’t respond, instead choosing to yank him up by the collar, pulling him onto your body and into your mouth.
His lips taste like chewing tobacco and something you can’t quite put your finger on as you messily chase his mouth, smushing your lips around his in an attempt to follow his lead.
Joel pulls himself away, his pupils blown out and dilated as he lets out a shaky noise.
“Kid, know you want it but we gotta slow it down, need you to relax okay?”
“Okay.”
Joel takes his hand and wraps it around your cheek, angling your lips to hover just above his as your eyes flutter shut, waiting to taste him again.
He places small short kisses on your lips, gently guiding you into the correct movement against his own. Eagerly, you're quick to catch on, following his movements in a desperate need to have him.
Your lips smack against his own, mixing your salvia with his own, you open your mouth wide, allowing him access into the inside of your mouth.
His tongue searches throughout the new space, smoothing the digit around your own as he chases your taste—sickeningly sweet and all for him to take.
Pulling away for breath, the saliva binds the two of you together, the clear web of liquid connecting the two of you, even when pulled apart.
Joel bows below you, his body falling down between the space of your abdomen, his fingers toying with the fabric of your nightgown.
“May I have the pleasure of takin’ this off?” He questions, even in the moment, he still craves your approval.
“Go ahead.”
He swiftly pulls the fabric off your body, pulling your head through the neckline as your breasts fall onto your skin
Joel already thought you were pretty but now? He can’t believe the sight, his eyes burning as they stare into you, memorizing every detail of your breasts.
His lips are greedy as they kiss down your neck, planting sloppy wet kisses to the soft skin. His beard is rough against your skin but it grounds you, making you feel present in the moment of tenderness.
“You are a stunner darlin’.” He mumbles into the flesh, his hands running up and down your skin as if he’s scared you’ll break in half.
Looking down, your hands smooth over his shirt, and all you can think of is how you want the fabric ripped off his body.
“Can you t-take this off?”
Joel answers with his actions, pulling away from you, he slides his shirt off his arms with ease, and you can’t hide your wide open gaze, your jaw slack as the saliva builds on your tongue. You’ve never seen a man’s chest before, yet he looks perfect, and you only want more from him.
The same knowing guilt builds in your body, knowing this is an eternal sin and you’d be doomed forever.
“This isn’t okay, w-we aren’t married.” Exasperated, you stop him in his tracks, his body looming over your own.
Joel can’t stop now, not when he can smell your cunt and taste the remnants of your mouth on his lips. “You trust me?”
“More than anything.”
“It ain’t a sin if you’re destined to be mine darlin’. ‘nd if I’m being honest, soon as I saw you I knew you’d be my wife.”
A wife—his wife. The words bloom in your body, imagining yourself as his lady, turning his house into a home, the image making you whine, pulling him back onto you.
Joel’s face falls just above your cunt, the puffy lips inches from his mouth but he resists, looking up into your eyes instead.
“Can I taste you?”
The look in your eyes is the answer he needs, the trust is undeniably there, watching how you nod your head.
He sticks his tongue out, rolling it flatly between your folds, the movement knocking the wind out of you. This is what you’ve been needing all along, and now that you have it—you feel addicted and Joel feels the same way.
You taste like sugar on his tongue, your virgin cunt the sweetest taste he’s ever had, he can’t help but buck his hips into the mattress, groaning straight into your cunt.
A scream is ripped from your throat as his voice vibrates into your pussy, the movement so new and confusing yet it feels so overwhelming, digging your toes into the delicate quilt as Joel devours you.
He cleans your folds of the wetness, swallowing down your nectar with each curl of his tongue, the muscle digging deep into your tight hole, feeling you pulse around him.
“Joel feels so good,” you cry out, his nose bumping your silky clit with every dive of his tongue.
He doesn’t spend much time in your hole, instead choosing to focus his attention back onto your bud, flicking and licking in small circles as he feels every shake one your thighs around his head.
Looking down at him, you prop yourself on your elbows, desperate to watch him work your cunt, and when you see him—head deep into your legs, you feel as if you could pass out.
Joel’s head is bowed in between your legs as if he’s praying to you, your cunt his altar and his tongue his worship—each lick a silent promise to keep you grounded and taken care of, the sight making your limbs heat up.
Joel’s right hand wiggles off of your thigh, maneuvering it to your aching hole, he sticks his forefinger up into your cunt, feeling it tighten around him.
“Gotta loosen ya up sugar. Y’want him to fit?” He mumbles against your cunt, his voice smothered by your skin.
“Yes, yes!” Crying out, your hips buck into his face, his beard burns with each twist of his jaw, feeling it rub roughly on the soft entrance between your legs but you don’t care as you roll your cunt into his tongue, the foreign feeling making you feel alive.
The burning quickly turns into pleasure as he chases your g-spot, repeatedly flicking into the gummy bump inside of you, your eyes rolling into the back of your head.
You’ve never felt this good—this on fire, unable to grasp the feeling in your belly, unable to even compare it to the erotica you once read, the feeling in person so different yet so perfect.
Your whines fill his ears like a symphony, your moans quickly becoming his favorite harmony as he chases your orgasm, eager to hear you cum.
“Oh my God!” You cry out, using God's name in vain for your sinful desires, yet not seeming to care as you do so, Joel’s tongue your favorite feeling on this earth.
An odd feeling spreads in between your legs, making you nervous as you squirm in his grasp. Joel notices your movements, using his hand situated at your waist he holds you down, bracing for your orgasm.
“Joel! Joel! Joel!” Screaming, your back arches off the mattress, repeating Joel’s name over and over as the pleasure takes over you, like a sneeze—your orgasm hits, snapping you into a pleasure filled galaxy.
His movements slow, guiding you through the feeling with a single press of his tongue, guiding and grounding you from your high.
“Did so good for me baby, so so good.” He mumbles into your mound. His lips tracing the inside of your thighs, kissing the soft skin around your entrance, listening to your breathing mellow out.
He leans up from your body, wiping his face on the back of his hand as he pressed his hand down onto his painfully hardened cock.
“A-are you going to…take me fully?” You question, staring at the large lump in his pants.
His dick has never felt this hard in his life, his jeans so tight it feels like he’s going to break out of the denim, his cock busting the seams of the fly.
“Is that what you want? Want me to go inside of you?” He questions back, teetering with the button on his pants, popping them open.
“I want to feel you fully inside of me.”
Joel shutters at your blatant admission, his hands shaking from adrenaline as he pulls his cock out of his pants, stepping out of his pants pooled at his ankles.
“God honey, can’t be saying that, so hard and ‘m not even inside ya yet.”
You watch in awe, his thick large cock heavy against his hairy belly, the shaft covering the whole expanse of his hand, wondering how he’s going to fit inside of you like this.
Joel crawls on top of you, pressing his thighs into yours as he lines himself between your hips. He takes his cock tightly in his hand, slowly jerking himself over your belly.
Leaning on your elbows you look down again, but this time to his cock, watching the large length cover the expanse of your stomach, your eyes scared of his greedy cock.
He notices the scared look in your eye, quickly trying to console you, “‘s gonna hurt real bad but you need to relax for me okay? Make you feel real good once he’s in.”
“Okay, go slow?”
“Yep, real slow darlin’, gonna take real good care of ya.”
You watch as he pulls the skin back, his red angry tip poking out, the head dripping with his clear pre-cum, his seed dripping for your cunt.
He smushes himself in between your lips, the tip big and warm as it presses into your entrance. You watch as your velvety folds suck in his tip, the head already burning as it begins to split you open.
Sucking in a breath, you fall back on the mattress, your head hitting the pillow with a thud, looking up into the ceiling. You can’t believe this is happening, a man who stole you away from your father—has you laid naked and bare before him, taking your virginity for his own.
You want to feel guilty but you can’t, trusting him with your body fully, wiggling your hips closer to his cock.
“Breathe honey.” He coos, bringing his free hand around to cup your cheek, petting the soft flesh in his hands in an attempt to soothe you.
Inch by inch, he pushes into you, your eyes brimming with tears as the stretch burns your insides, but you don’t stop him, the urge to take him fully too strong to slow him down.
His member stuffs you full, sheathing himself deep inside of you, his soft tip pushing right against your cervix.
“H-hey,” Joel chokes out feeling your aching cunt choke his cock. “Don’t cry, it’s okay baby.”
“Shh, shh, you got it. ‘s a big stretch, doing so good for me.” Joel’s hand runs down your face to your sternum, gently tickling the skin with the pads of his fingers, grounding you around him.
You feel his warmth spread onto your breast, cupping the flesh in his hand, spreading his hands wide around you, allowing your nipple to perk in between his fingers, gasping as they clamp down, pinching the flesh.
“Gonna stay still just like this, gotta get ya used to him.”
Joel’s praise helps you relax, your cunt fitting around him perfectly as you close your eyes, breathing through the pain.
The pain quickly subsides, the familiar sensation growing in your abdomen as you whine, fluttering around his cock, impatiently waiting for him to move.
“Lord have mercy, you feel perfect wrapped around me,” Joel shutters through his teeth, your virgin cunt so wet and tight around his large size.
“Feels so good Joel.”
If this is what sinning feels like, you never want it to end, Joel has you completely at his mercy, submitting for him fully.
“Gonna move now okay? You want that?”
“Yes plea—oh my Joel!” You try to speak but his movements make you lose your train of thought, your body taking over your mind.
His hips slowly start to rock into yours and with each thrust, your cunt gushes around him as you cry out like a kitten, his cock knocking the wind out of your chest.
“Oh God Joel! It’s too much!”
“C’mon, doing so good. Shit, you got it sugar, take it just like that.”
“You’re all mine okay? My pretty little lady, gonna keep you here forever.”
His pretty little lady, hearing it coming from his mouth does something to you, and you can imagine it now, imagining yourself as his bride, realizing Joel has been the man you’ve summoned this whole time.
“Want you to put a baby in me!” You scream, the idea flustering you, your cunt choking his cock as he thrusts in and out of you.
“Oh L-Lord you want that? Make me a daddy?” He questions, the idea doesn't sound like a terrible one at the moment, his mind hazy with the idea of you carrying his baby, swollen and claimed by him.
“Yes, Yes!” You cry out, your words slurring from his heavy cock.
Joel imagines your father seeing you like this, stolen with a permanent claim in your belly, the idea getting to him as he pushes down on your stomach, feeling the imprint of his thick cock.
“Gonna knock ya up, keep you home with me forever. Don’t need your daddy no more when you got me huh?” He tuts, and with each pulse of his hips, his hand pushes his cock even tighter in your womb, the feeling making your legs shake.
“Yes Joel! You’re my daddy,”
“Yeah I am honey, need you to cum with me okay? Can ya do that for me baby?”
He maneuvers his hand around your leg, pushing his finger in between your legs to massage the throbbing swollen bundle of nerves, and that’s when you feel it—stars covering your vision as you slam them shut, shaking against him, your second orgasm washing through you.
“Gon come inside ya, knock you up-fuck!” Joel curses as you blackout, his grunts and groans filling your ears while his own orgasm hits, feeling Joel fill you full of his seed.
His movements still as his cock remains snug inside of you, allowing you to take every last drop of him, the valuable liquid warm in your cunt.
Joel collapses ontop of you, his body squishing your insides as his skin sticks to your own, binding the two of you further together. You're completely full of him, your skin smelling like his own, his scent further claiming you as his property.
You're too exhausted to move, your body sore and aching as you close your eyes, wrapping your arms around his head that falls into your chest.
His beard rubs into the flesh between the valley of your breasts, giving you a long kiss right where your heart beats. Smiling to yourself, this man—this life, was destined to you since the very beginning. The man you prayed about, dreamt about, was here in the flesh.
You were meant to be here with him, in this way forever. God has answered your prayers for a man, although inconventional, it’s all you could have ever wished for and you couldn’t be happier he stole you away from your old sorrow filled life.
Psalm 6:9, “The Lord has heard my plea: the Lord accepts my prayer.”
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Summary: Isn’t it beautiful how fate can tie two people together, even before they realize it?
Word count: 10k+
Warnings: fluff, mention of death, kissing
A/N:
English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.
Happy reading xxx
I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.
Whoever came up with breathing exercises certainly didn’t try them, because in your opinion, they didn’t work at all. Your lungs were doing their best impression of an accordion in a hurricane, your heart hammering like it wanted to sprint out of your chest and leave you behind. Fainting felt inevitable, like your body was on a countdown you hadn’t agreed to, but you fought against it. You had to. You couldn’t afford to make a fool of yourself. Not today. Especially not today—your first day at the Daily Planet.
Getting a job here in Metropolis was something you once would have laughed at. You were a rising reporter back home, fresh off the biggest story of your career—a highlight that should have been followed by celebration, opportunities, and champagne toasts.
But then your best friend died.
And not the kind of death you ever really prepare for, where she was sick for a very long time, not it was the kind that rips the floor out from under you, that hollows out the world and leaves you stumbling through the pieces. The kind that makes even the brightest days look gray, makes air feel heavier in your lungs, makes laughter sound like something that belongs to another life entirely.
A car crash.
Suddenly, your hometown became unlivable. Every street corner, every café, every bus stop whispered memories of her laugh, her hand brushing your arm, her voice telling you to keep going. The diner where you used to split fries after class. The bookstore where you once spent an entire Saturday arguing about which novel ending was better. The bench at the park where you swore you’d still be sitting together when you were eighty.
They weren’t just places anymore. They were ghosts. And you couldn’t breathe with them haunting you.
You tried, for months, to fight it. To wake up and pretend you didn’t see her shadow walking beside you. To sit at your desk and ignore the empty chair where she should have been teasing you for typing too loud. But grief wasn’t something you could outwork, outwrite, or outrun. It seeped into everything, into the edges of your ambition, into the marrow of your bones.
And one night, staring at the half-packed boxes in your apartment, you realized staying meant drowning. So you left.
Not because you stopped loving her, but because loving her so much made it impossible to stay in the same place where she no longer existed.
Metropolis wasn’t supposed to be home—it was supposed to be escape.
Yet the voice inside you, soft and persistent, had whispered otherwise.
So you moved. And moving meant starting over. New city. New job. New life, whether you were ready for it or not.
You could have gone anywhere—New York, where the salary was even better, the newsroom bigger, brighter, more prestigious. But something inside you, a quiet, insistent voice you didn’t understand, had pushed you toward Metropolis instead. You didn’t know why. You didn’t question it. Somehow, you felt ready to find out.
Which was how you found yourself standing in front of the Daily Planet’s towering building, the iconic globe spinning overhead like it was mocking your nerves.
“It’s okay. You’ve got this. You’ve done harder things than walking through some doors,” you whispered to yourself, a pep talk that sounded paper-thin compared to the storm of anxiety thrumming through your chest.
You had done harder things. Fought bigger battles. Broken through walls that should have stopped you. But right now… right now, it didn’t feel like it.
You glanced at your reflection in the glass doors, double-checking everything. Waking at 5 a.m. had given you time to perfect the image you wanted: hair neatly pinned, makeup light but meticulous, perfume just noticeable enough. Your soft grey sweater paired with a black skirt and high-heeled boots made you look more confident than you felt. A breath mint dissolved slowly on your tongue, your last line of defense against first-impression disasters.
The problem wasn’t your work. As a reporter, you could stare down a politician until they cracked, unravel a corporate scandal before lunch, make a man twice your size sweat under one sharp question. But socially? Making friends? Small talk? Forget it. You were always two people—the fearless reporter and the awkward human who never knew what to say in a room full of strangers.
And this building? It was full of strangers.
You pulled open the heavy glass door before you could talk yourself out of it. The lobby of the Daily Planet opened up in a dizzying rush of marble, brass, and bustling energy. Reporters scurried with papers clutched in hand, phones pressed to their ears, voices overlapping in a symphony of deadlines. The elevator dinged constantly, people sliding in and out as though the whole place ran on caffeine and adrenaline alone.
You clutched your bag a little tighter and forced your legs forward.
That was when you collided—hard—into someone.
“Oh, I’m so sorry—” Your words tumbled out, your voice too high, too fast. You staggered back, ready to apologize again, but froze when you looked up.
The man you’d bumped into was tall. Ridiculously tall. At least 6’4, maybe 6’5, the kind of tall that made you tilt your chin up instinctively just to meet his face. His broad shoulders filled the space between you like he carried half the sky on them. The tie at his throat was slightly crooked, as though it had been thrown on in a rush, and the faint wrinkle in his shirt collar betrayed a morning that hadn’t gone perfectly. His glasses caught the lobby light, a sharp flash that almost distracted you from the face behind them.
Almost.
Because when you finally looked into his eyes—really looked—you froze.
Blue. Not just blue. Oceans. Wide and endless, their depths lapping with a familiarity you couldn’t explain. They reminded you of shorelines you’d swear you’d stood on, salt air you’d breathed before, even if you couldn’t remember when. They tugged at something in your chest—an ache, a memory just out of reach. Those weren’t the eyes of a stranger, and yet you couldn’t place where you’d seen them. Couldn’t name why they made you feel so… safe.
Your lips parted, but no words came.
He steadied you gently with a hand at your elbow, large and warm, grounding you in a way that only deepened the strange familiarity. But his expression—though kind—wasn’t as effortless as his voice tried to be.
“No harm done,” he said softly, though the faint crack at the end of his sentence betrayed him.
And then he blinked—too quickly, nervously—like he hadn’t expected to find himself staring into your eyes either. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, his grip loosening almost abruptly as he pulled his hand back, almost as though it burned him to hold on too long.
His voice dipped lower, tentative.
“First day?”
You blinked yourself back into reality, shaking your head to clear the fog of recognition you couldn’t name. “That obvious?”
His laugh was short, nervous, almost self-deprecating, the sound tugging the corner of your mouth into a smile. “Trust me, I remember mine. I, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, sheepish in a way that seemed at odds with his size. “Tripped getting out of the elevator. Dropped my coffee. Right in front of Perry White.”
The image of this impossibly tall, handsome man fumbling coffee in front of the editor-in-chief made a laugh slip from your throat. The sound surprised you—light, unguarded, almost like it hadn’t been there for months.
“That… actually makes me feel slightly better,” you admitted.
His smile widened then, softening his entire face, and for a brief, dizzying moment the bustling lobby blurred away. Reporters, ringing phones, the sharp ding of elevators—all of it faded, leaving just him and that smile, steadying you more than his hand had.
“Good.” He adjusted his glasses again, too quickly, as though they were suddenly a shield instead of a tool. “I’m Clark. Clark Kent.”
The name struck something in you, ringing like a bell muffled under layers of memory. You couldn’t quite grab it, but it lingered, insistent as déjà vu. You took the hand he offered, larger than yours, warm, his palm calloused in a way that didn’t quite match his buttoned-up appearance.
“Y/N,” you said, hoping your voice didn’t sound as shaky as it felt. “Y/N L/N.”
For a moment too long, he just held your hand, gaze flickering between your eyes and your mouth like he was trying to memorize the way your name fit there. His thumb brushed the side of your knuckles before he seemed to catch himself, withdrawing his hand with a small, nervous clear of his throat.
“Well, uh—welcome to the Planet.” His smile quirked a little crooked then, not polished or practiced, but real. Vulnerable, even. “Can I… show you to Perry’s office? He’ll want to meet you right away.”
Grateful and a little dazed, you nodded. “Yeah. That’d be great.”
“Great,” he echoed, voice dipping like he hadn’t expected you to agree so easily. He pushed his glasses up again, though they hadn’t slipped an inch. As he gestured toward the elevators, you caught it—the faintest blush coloring the tops of his ears, creeping down to his neck.
Something inside you twisted, not in nerves this time, but in quiet wonder.
And just like that, fainting was the last thing on your mind.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, but you barely noticed. You were too aware of Clark’s presence beside you—how his broad frame nearly filled the space, how his cologne was subtle but grounding, how the silence between you felt charged rather than awkward. You clutched your bag tighter, willing your heartbeat to calm down.
“So…” you started, searching for something, anything to say. “How long have you been here?”
He glanced at you, then quickly away, his hand adjusting his glasses again in that nervous habit you were already beginning to recognize. “Couple of years. Still feels like I’m finding my footing, though.”
You arched a brow. “You? Finding your footing? You look like you belong here.”
The corner of his mouth twitched like you’d caught him off guard. “Looks can be deceiving.” His voice was soft, but there was something under it—something heavier, like he meant more than he was letting on.
Before you could ask, the elevator dinged again and opened into the chaos of the bullpen. It was louder, faster, more alive than the lobby below. Phones rang in staccato bursts. Typing rattled like machine-gun fire. Papers rustled and voices overlapped in a hundred different conversations.
You froze.
Clark must have noticed, because his hand brushed your elbow again—light, tentative, almost like a question. The simple contact steadied you more than any pep talk could.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured. “First day feels like stepping onto another planet. It gets better.”
You looked up at him, at the earnest sincerity in his eyes, and something in you eased. For the first time since stepping into the building, the knot in your chest loosened just a little.
“Thanks,” you said quietly.
His answering smile was small, shy, but it did dangerous things to your heart.
And then someone shouted across the room.
“Kent!”
A woman with sharp eyes and sharper heels strode over, thrusting a folder into Clark’s hands without missing a beat. “Luthor’s holding a press conference in thirty. Get down there before the vultures pick the bones clean.”
Clark nodded, already flipping the folder open, but before he turned away, he glanced back at you.
“Don’t let Perry scare you. He barks, but… well, mostly just barks.”
You softly smiled at that. “Thank you, by the way.”
Clark’s face flushed slightly as he ran a hand through his hair, then stepped closer, voice fumbling, words tumbling over themselves.
“Hey—don’t mention it. See you around. I mean—hopefully. You know, since we’ll be coworkers. I meant it like that, not in a… creepy way. Not that I ever mean things in creepy ways, I just—” He stopped himself, shoulders hunching slightly as his ears turned pink. “Never mind. Just… hope you have a good day.”
And with that, he left, disappearing into the fray of the bullpen, leaving you standing there with a small, incredulous smile. Maybe small talk wasn’t your strong suit, but at least you weren’t alone in that.
You hovered outside the frosted glass door, Clark’s words echoing in your mind: He barks, but mostly just barks.
Before you could second-guess yourself, you knocked.
“Come in!”
The voice was gravelly, commanding, the kind of voice that could silence a room without needing to raise volume. You slipped inside, easing the door shut.
Perry White looked up from behind a fortress of paper stacks and half-empty coffee mugs. His glasses were perched at the tip of his nose, and his shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows. His tie was askew, but his gaze was razor-sharp, the kind that saw everything in an instant.
“You must be L/N,” he said, already reaching for a folder on his desk. “Sit.”
You sat carefully, hands folded, back straight. Perry flipped open the folder, scanning your resume like he was speed-reading secrets. His brow furrowed, then arched.
“Graduated top of your class. Local hero after that City Hall takedown.” His eyes cut up to yours, piercing. “That was you?”
“Yes, sir,” you managed, throat suddenly dry.
A pause, then—miracle of miracles—his mouth tugged into a fleeting smile. “Good work. Clean. Relentless. You held them to the fire and didn’t blink.” He leaned back in his chair, studying you over the rim of his glasses. “That’s the kind of spine we like here.”
Heat rushed to your cheeks. Praise always made you squirm, but especially coming from him.
“Tell me something,” Perry went on. “You could’ve had your pick—New York, Gotham, hell, even Coast City’s got papers biting for blood. Why here? Why the Planet?”
You hesitated, but only for a second. “Because it’s the Planet. The stories that come out of here… they matter. They change things. And I want to be part of that.”
The answer wasn’t polished; it was raw, straight from the place in you that had kept pushing after everything else had fallen apart. Perry seemed to see that, because he gave a single, satisfied nod and snapped the folder shut.
“Alright then.” He stood abruptly, and you scrambled to follow. “Let’s get you to the wolves.”
He pulled open the door, his stride purposeful, and you hurried to keep pace. The moment he hit the bullpen, the energy shifted. Conversations dipped, phones lowered, eyes flicked up. Perry White didn’t need to bark to command a room—his presence did the work.
“This,” Perry announced, sweeping a hand across the chaos, “is the heart of the Planet. Ink and sweat built this place, and deadlines keep it alive. You’ll either learn to swim, or you’ll drown. Simple as that.”
You nodded quickly, trying to look more confident than you felt.
Perry stopped at a cluster of desks. “Kent! Lane! Olsen!”
At once, three heads turned. Clark rose from his chair, folder in hand; Lois Lane leaned against her desk with casual defiance, sharp eyes narrowing with interest; Jimmy Olsen swiveled in his chair, his ever-present camera bouncing against his chest.
“This is our new hire,” Perry said, clapping a hand onto your shoulder with enough weight to steady you—or pin you down. “Y/N L/N. Gutsy reporter. Bright. Already made liars sweat in the hot seat. Try not to scare her off her first week.” His gaze landed squarely on Lois.
Lois smirked. “Can’t make promises I don’t intend to keep, Chief.”
Clark’s gaze found yours, and there it was again—the flicker of recognition, the faint pink climbing the tops of his ears. He cleared his throat, fumbling for composure. “Uh—yeah, we… already met. In the lobby.”
Jimmy perked up immediately, eyebrows lifting. “Already met? What, like—bumped into each other?”
Clark’s laugh came out awkward and short, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. “Y-yeah, something like that. Nothing dramatic. Just me, being… uh, in the way, mostly.”
Lois smirked knowingly, and that only made Clark flush harder. In a rush, he stuck his hand out again, his palm warm and a little too careful. “Clark Kent. Not that, um—my name’s changed in the last ten minutes or anything, I just—uh—I don’t know why I did that.” His laugh cracked halfway through. “I’m, uh, really making this sound weirder than it is, aren’t I?”
You bit your lip to keep from laughing outright, though the corners of your mouth betrayed you with a smile. Shaking his hand just to feel his warmth again, you said lightly, “A little.”
Clark’s blush deepened as he nodded, a self-deprecating grin tugging at his lips. “Right. Yeah. Good first impression, Kent.” He muttered the last part mostly to himself, though Jimmy heard and snickered.
Lois, still watching carefully, arched a brow at the two of you. “Huh.”
Jimmy was next, leaning forward with an eager grin and a handshake that was all enthusiasm. “Jimmy Olsen. Photographer, occasional magician, and full-time caffeine addict.”
The line pulled a laugh from you, light and unguarded.
Finally, Lois pushed off her desk and extended her hand. Her grip was firm, her gaze sharper. “Lois Lane. If you’re smart, you’ll stick close. If you’re not…” She let the sentence hang, smirking. “Well, it’ll be entertaining for the rest of us.”
You smiled nervously, unsure if she was joking.
Perry, apparently satisfied, gestured to the empty desk wedged between Clark’s and Jimmy’s. “This is yours. Don’t clutter it with junk. Don’t miss a deadline. Don’t make me regret giving it to you.”
Then, with a snap of his fingers and a bark into his phone, he was gone, the bullpen resuming its frenzied rhythm behind him.
You slid into your chair, fingertips brushing over the smooth wood, grounding yourself.
Clark leaned slightly closer, voice gentle. “See? Just barks.”
The smile tugged at your lips before you could stop it.
Jimmy, already leaning on the edge of his desk, noticed immediately. “So, new kid,” he started, grinning like he’d just been handed a fresh scoop, “what’s your deal? Any big bylines we’d know? Or are you more the ‘mystery writer swooping in from out of town’ type?”
You blinked, caught off guard, but his tone was friendly, curious rather than interrogative. Still, every eye at the little cluster was on you now. Even Clark—pretending to shuffle papers—kept glancing sideways, glasses slipping down his nose.
“I, uh…” You straightened in your chair. “Did an exposé back home. On City Hall. It… got some traction.”
Jimmy’s eyebrows shot up. “Some traction? I remember that story—it was all over the wire. That was you?”
Heat crept up your neck. “Guilty.”
“Not bad,” Lois cut in, folding her arms. Her gaze swept you up and down like she was measuring how much of a threat—or ally—you might be. “Takes guts to take on city officials. But Metropolis isn’t your hometown. Stakes are higher. People play dirtier.” She leaned in, her smirk sharp. “You think you can handle that?”
The challenge in her voice sparked something stubborn in you. “Guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
Lois’s smirk widened, a flicker of approval in her eyes before she leaned back again. “Not bad. You’ve got a spine. Might even survive here.”
Jimmy whistled low. “Alright, so we’ve got ourselves a prodigy.” He fished his camera up, snapping a candid before you could react. “For the archives,” he said with a wink.
You laughed, shaking your head. “Do you do that to everyone?”
“Only the ones I like,” Jimmy replied.
Clark, quiet until now, finally spoke, his voice softer, like he didn’t want to interrupt. “I… read that piece, actually. About City Hall.” His fingers adjusted his glasses, though they didn’t need adjusting. “It was… good. Really good.”
The sincerity in his tone startled you more than the words. Your chest tightened, something warm blooming there. “Thanks,” you said quietly.
His lips curved into the smallest smile, ears turning pink again.
Lois arched a brow, glancing between you two like she was watching a chessboard line up before her eyes. “Well,” she drawled, “looks like you’ll fit in just fine.”
And just like that, you weren’t the awkward stranger in the bullpen anymore. You were part of the Daily Planet’s rhythm—fast, loud, unpredictable. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like maybe you belonged.
The first few weeks were, unsurprisingly, awkward. You stumbled over the rhythm of the bullpen, misjudged the timing of phone calls, and more than once spilled coffee near someone else’s desk—but slowly, the edges began to soften. Not just for you, but for them, too.
Lois was the first to test you, firing questions sharp enough to cut through steel: “What made you decide to go after the story in the first place?” or “Do you even know what you’re walking into here, or is this all a big experiment?” At first, you bristled at her challenge, but gradually, you found yourself leaning into it, trading barbs and earning grudging respect.
Jimmy, on the other hand, was relentless in a completely different way. Every day, some new joke, a prank, a photo he’d taken when you weren’t looking, laughter spilling over your desk. Even when the newsrooms’ chaos pressed in, Jimmy could make it lighter, easier to breathe.
And then there was Perry. He scared you, plain and simple. His barks, his intensity, the way he could zero in on a mistake from across the room—intimidating didn’t begin to cover it. But even that fear carried an odd kind of reassurance: the knowledge that someone of his caliber believed you belonged here.
And Clark… Clark was a different kind of challenge entirely. He became part of the background of your day first, quiet and dependable: a folder slid across the desk with a soft word of encouragement, an easy laugh when something in the office went absurdly wrong, the smallest gestures—glancing at you in the bullpen, lingering just a second too long in the doorway.
You’d started to notice him everywhere—how often your paths seemed to cross, sometimes by sheer coincidence, sometimes like deliberate choreography. The elevator, crowded, emptied the second you both walked in. The coffee machine, where your hands met as you reached for the same cup. The quietness of the newsroom, where he’d appear to share a brief smile over some shared observation before disappearing back into his corner of chaos.
Each encounter was small, fleeting, but it added up. You couldn’t deny it: your mind, your heart, filled with him in a way that was both familiar and mysterious. That same feeling you’d had the first time you’d looked into his ocean-blue eyes—like you’d known him longer than possible—still lingered in the back of your mind. You couldn’t place it. You couldn’t name it. But it pushed, subtly, inexorably, towards him.
The weeks passed, and the bond between you and Clark grew, quietly but unmistakably. Only friends, of course—everyone at the Planet would assume just that—but the chemistry was undeniable. Conversations that began with work turned into shared jokes, shared observations, small confidences. You learned to read the subtle shift in his expression, the way his nervous energy softened when he thought no one was watching, the way his hand sometimes lingered on the edge of your desk longer than necessary.
One late afternoon, Clark leaned against the corner of your desk with that shy little smile he wore like it was a secret.
“Hey,” he said, adjusting his glasses like he always did when he was working up the courage to say something. “Want to hear a really bad joke?”
You looked up from your notepad, smirking. “Always.”
“Okay.” He cleared his throat, mock-serious. “Why did the scarecrow win an award?”
You tilted your head, playing along. “I don’t know, why?”
“Because he was outstanding in his field.”
It was ridiculous—so ridiculous—but you burst into laughter, the sound spilling out of you uncontrollably. You even covered your mouth with your hand, trying to stop, but that only made you laugh harder. Clark’s face went red instantly, and he ducked his head with a bashful grin, but his heart soared at the sound of you. That laugh, bright and unguarded, felt like sunlight breaking through clouds, and he’d do anything to hear it again.
“Clark,” you said, still chuckling, “that’s terrible.”
“Yeah,” he admitted, grinning, “but it worked.”
Another week, however, was harder. You’d missed a deadline—your first big stumble since starting at the Planet. Perry’s voice had been sharp, his glare heavy, and though he’d moved on as quickly as he’d flared up, you couldn’t shake the sting. You sat at your desk afterward, shoulders tight, fighting back the hot prickle of frustrated tears.
Clark noticed. He always noticed.
He slid into the chair beside your desk, voice soft but firm. “Hey.”
You blinked up at him, trying to smile, but he shook his head. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you’re fine when you’re not.” His eyes softened behind his glasses. “If you’ve got too much on your plate… ask me. I’ll help. I don’t like it when you’re sad. Or when Perry yells at you.”
Your throat tightened at the earnestness in his tone. “Clark, that’s sweet, but it was my mistake—”
“Everyone makes mistakes,” he interrupted gently. “But you don’t have to carry it all alone. You don’t… you don’t have to carry anything alone, not when I’m here.”
The knot in your chest loosened, the weight lightened—not because the mistake was fixed, but because Clark cared enough to say it.
And somehow, through all the chaos, the deadlines, the laughter, the challenges, you began to feel more and more at home. The Planet was no longer just a building; it was a rhythm you could move with, a place that made sense even when the world outside felt uncertain. And at the center of that rhythm—unexpected, inexplicable, magnetic—was Clark.
Even if you didn’t yet understand why, even if the universe’s logic remained hidden in some quiet fold of time, you felt yourself being pulled toward him. And every time he was near, every time your paths collided in that impossible way, it was as though the universe was gently nudging, quietly insisting, that you pay attention.
You were buried in notes and scribbled edits, the warmth of the bullpen surrounding you like a familiar cocoon. Your fingers tapped against the keyboard, eyes scanning over quotes and deadlines, when a faint rustle at your desk pulled you from your work.
At first, you thought it was Jimmy sliding another ridiculous doodle into your notebook. But then you noticed the smell—warm, sweet, unmistakable smell of blueberries.
You looked up. Clark was there, standing awkwardly at the edge of your desk, a paper bag in his hand, carefully folded at the top.
“Uh… hey,” he said, voice pitched just above the background buzz. His smile was shy, like he wasn’t sure if he should even be here. “Thought you might… you know… need a little morale boost?”
Your eyebrows rose. “Morale boost?”
He lifted the bag slightly, as if it were some sacred offering. “Blueberry muffin. You mentioned it a few weeks ago, it’s your favorite. I… remembered.”
For a beat, you couldn’t speak. He remembered. Not just a passing comment, not just small talk. You. Your heart swelled, dizzy and unsteady in your chest.
“I—wow,” you said finally, trying for casual but failing spectacularly. “You didn’t have to do that.”
Clark’s shoulders hunched slightly, as if embarrassed by his own thoughtfulness. He shrugged, adjusting his glasses with one big hand. “I wanted to. Besides, I’ll always remember things about you. I mean, uh—not everything, not like a creepy memory bank, just—” He broke off, ears turning pink. “The important stuff. Like muffins.”
Your laugh bubbled up before you could stop it, easing his nerves just a little. “You’re impossible.”
“Maybe,” he admitted, stepping closer, voice dropping so only you could hear. “But… hopefully in a good way?”
Your smile softened, your fingers brushing over the warm bag as if it carried more weight than baked goods should. “Very good way.”
Clark lingered, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, eyes flicking between your face and the muffin like he wasn’t sure which deserved more attention. His hands fidgeted—adjusting his tie, then his glasses, then finding their way awkwardly into his pockets.
“Well, uh… I should probably…” he gestured vaguely at his desk, “get back to work. Deadlines. Headlines. Lots of… lines.”
You bit back another laugh, tilting your head. “You know, if you keep leaving muffins on my desk, I might start expecting them.”
His laugh was low and nervous, but his eyes glinted with something playful. “Then I guess I’ll just have to surprise you. Keep you guessing. Wouldn’t want you getting bored.”
Your heart swooned again, right there at your desk in the middle of the bullpen. Not from fireworks or grand gestures—but from this: the way Clark Kent looked at you like remembering your favorite muffin was the most natural thing in the world.
“You’re trouble,” you said softly, picking up the muffin like it was both a gift and a dare.
“Only the best kind,” he replied, that shy crooked smile tugging at his lips—before retreating, almost too quickly, back toward his desk.
You watched him go, warmth spreading through your chest, until Jimmy’s voice cut through the hum.
“Alright, Kent,” Jimmy said, leaning back in his chair, smirk firmly in place. “Gonna tell me why you’re sneaking baked goods to the new hire? Or should I just assume you’ve got a muffin-related crush?”
Clark nearly choked on his own breath. “What? N-no, Jimmy, it’s just—she mentioned it once and I thought—I mean, it’s polite to—” He cut himself off, sighing, clearly aware he was only making it worse. “It was just… nice.”
Jimmy grinned, unconvinced. “Sure, sure. Next you’ll be saying you ‘accidentally’ remember her coffee order, too.”
Clark ducked his head, shoving papers around on his desk like they suddenly needed urgent attention. But Jimmy didn’t miss the way Clark’s ears glowed pink, or the tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
And neither did you.
The bullpen had long since emptied, the usual symphony of ringing phones, clattering keyboards, and the soft whir of computers left in sleep mode. You pushed your glasses up the bridge of your nose and rubbed your eyes, which stung from staring at the screen too long. The words in front of you were starting to blur together, but you were determined to finish.
You didn’t even notice Clark approaching until his shadow stretched across your desk.
“You’re still here?”
Your head lifted, blinking through the exhaustion. Clark stood a few feet away, jacket slung over his arm, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. Even rumpled from a long day, he somehow managed to look unfairly put-together.
“Deadline,” you said, trying to sound casual even as your voice came out rough around the edges. “One more section and I’m done.”
Clark’s brows drew together, a crease forming in the middle of his forehead. “You’ve been here since this morning. That’s… what, twelve hours?”
You smirked faintly. “Says the guy also still here at—” you glanced at the clock, “—ten-thirty at night.”
His mouth twitched, like you’d caught him. But instead of arguing, he stepped closer, resting his jacket on the back of the empty chair beside you. “Yeah, but… I don’t like seeing you burn yourself out.” His voice softened, almost tender. “Can I help?”
Normally, you would’ve refused. You hated the idea of being a burden, of dragging someone else into your mess. But the way he asked—gentle, sincere, like he wanted to be here—made something inside you cave in.
“Actually…” you said slowly, surprising even yourself, “yes. That’d be nice.”
The smile he gave you was small, but it lit his whole face. He slid into the chair beside you, his large frame making the seat look almost comically small. As he leaned in to glance at the screen, his shoulder brushed yours, sending a little spark down your arm. You caught the faint scent of his cologne—clean and warm, threaded with something you couldn’t name but wanted to breathe in forever.
For a while, you worked in companionable silence, trading the keyboard back and forth, pointing out edits and jotting down notes. Every now and then, you’d catch him stealing glances when he thought you weren’t looking. And maybe, just maybe, you did the same.
After a while, his voice broke through the stillness.
“So…” He hesitated, fiddling with his pen. “Do you only wear glasses when you work?”
The question caught you off guard. You looked up, finding his blue eyes wide and curious, his expression utterly sincere.
“What do you mean?”
He shifted in his chair, suddenly looking sheepish. “I just noticed. Sometimes you wear them, sometimes you don’t. I wasn’t sure if they were, you know, ‘work-only glasses.’”
You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you. “No, Clark. They’re real. My eyes just… get tired faster when I’m staring at a screen all day.”
His lips curved into a grin, a little boyish, a little bashful. “Good to know.” His voice dropped lower. “I like them.”
Your stomach did a slow flip, and you ducked your head quickly, hoping he didn’t notice the heat rushing to your cheeks.
Eventually, the article was finished. You leaned back in your chair with a sigh, relief washing through you. “Done.”
Clark stretched, his arm brushing yours again, then checked the time. His expression shifted into one of quiet resolve.
Clark leaned back in his chair, stretching until his joints popped, then glanced at the clock. His eyes narrowed slightly.
“It’s late. Too late for you to be walking home alone.”
You blinked at him, startled by the firmness in his tone. “Clark, I’m fine—”
“I insist,” he cut in, the words rushing out more forcefully than he meant. His expression softened almost immediately, his voice lowering to something tender, almost careful. “Please. Just… let me walk you home. I’ll feel better.”
You opened your mouth to argue again, but the way he looked at you—eyebrows drawn slightly together, eyes filled with a hope that bordered on pleading—made the protest collapse before it could form. He wanted to be the one who looked out for you.
So you nodded. “Okay.”
The relief in his smile nearly undid you.
The night air wrapped around you both as you stepped onto the quiet street, cool enough to make you hug your arms close. The city hummed in the distance, car horns muffled, the occasional rush of tires on asphalt echoing down the block. Clark fell into step beside you easily, his stride slowing to match yours.
At first, the conversation was light—funny stories about Lois’s cutting sarcasm, Jimmy’s habit of accidentally snapping candids at the worst possible times, Perry’s bark that could still make Clark jump if it came out of nowhere.
“He once threw a stapler at me,” Clark admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with a laugh.
You gasped, wide-eyed. “He what?”
“Okay—he didn’t throw it at me exactly,” Clark amended quickly. “It was more of a… lob. A warning shot. I, uh, may have spilled coffee on the first draft of a front page.”
You couldn’t hold back your laughter, your voice spilling into the quiet street and echoing faintly. Clark looked at you like the sound itself was something rare and precious.
Then the conversation shifted, turning smaller, softer.
“Favorite book?” Clark asked, glancing sideways at you as your shoes clicked in unison against the pavement.
You tilted your head, considering. “That’s impossible. You can’t just ask a reporter to pick one book. It’s like asking someone to pick their favorite heartbeat.”
His laugh rumbled low in his chest, warm enough to curl into your ribs. “Okay, fine. Top three?”
You hummed, lips pursing. “Alright. Jane Eyre, All the President’s Men, and… probably The Secret Garden.”
Clark smiled faintly. “That tracks.”
Your brow arched. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just—” he rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish, “you’re brave and stubborn enough for Brontë, sharp enough for Woodward and Bernstein, and…” His gaze softened as it flicked to you, then away again. “And you’ve got that way of bringing things back to life, like in The Secret Garden.”
Heat bloomed in your cheeks, and you quickly redirected. “Alright, then. Worst subject in school?”
“Math,” Clark admitted instantly, without hesitation.
That made you laugh, light and easy. “Really? You seem like the type who’d get perfect grades.”
He grinned, a little bashful. “Not in math. Numbers and I… don’t get along. I used to sit there just praying the teacher wouldn’t call on me.”
You shook your head, smiling. “I hated gym. I could handle running, but dodgeball? Forget it. I was basically a moving target.”
Clark chuckled, eyes crinkling behind his glasses. “I would’ve taken the hits for you.”
Your heart skipped. You tried to laugh it off. “That’s a very noble dodgeball strategy.”
“Maybe,” he said softly, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
The air between you grew quieter then, your footsteps slowing into an easy rhythm. You told him about the things you missed from home—your favorite diner, the way the town square lit up during the holidays.
Clark didn’t interrupt. He just listened, like every word you offered mattered, like he was storing them away with the same intensity he gave to headlines and interviews.
Every so often, your hands brushed when your steps aligned too closely. Sparks shot up your arm each time, and you wished you hadn’t shoved your hands into your pockets. Because maybe—just maybe—his hand would’ve been there waiting.
Clark was asking you about your favorite movies when you realized you’d already arrived at your door. The thought of the night ending made something tighten in your chest.
You turned to him, smiling despite the ache. “Thank you. For helping with the story. For walking me home. For… all of it.”
“Always,” he said, his voice low, sure. The word lingered between you, heavier than it should’ve been.
Silence stretched. Not awkward. Not empty. Charged. His eyes flicked down to your mouth for just a heartbeat, and you felt your breath hitch. You mirrored him without meaning to, your gaze catching on his lips before darting back to those impossibly blue eyes.
Neither of you moved for a long second. And then, slowly, like he was giving you every chance to step back, Clark lifted a hand. His palm was warm as it brushed against your cheek, his thumb grazing your skin with such reverence it made your knees weaken.
You leaned into his touch without hesitation.
Clark drew in a sharp breath—then he bent down, and his lips met yours.
The kiss was feather-light, almost a question. Just a brush, then another. A few soft, tentative pecks, like he was testing the waters, terrified of rushing it, terrified of losing what was already between you.
When you both pulled back, you were smiling—almost laughing at the sweetness of it, at the relief that it had finally happened.
“Clark…” you whispered, breathless, and he looked at you with such raw tenderness it made your chest ache.
And then your eyes locked again, and something braver sparked.
You closed the space this time, your hand curling into his shirt, and the kiss that followed was nothing like the first. It wasn’t tentative. It was hungry, unguarded, weeks of unspoken tension finally cracking open. Your hands slid up into his hair, tugging him closer. He let out a low, muffled sound against your lips, and one of his hands cupped your cheek, holding you like you might slip away, while the other splayed firmly at the small of your back, pulling you flush against him.
The world fell away. No deadlines, no newsroom, no noise. Just you, him, and the impossible rightness of being in his arms.
When you finally parted, both of you breathless, his forehead dropped against yours, your noses brushing. His lips lingered near yours, still grazing like he couldn’t quite let go. His eyes stayed shut, his smile soft and unguarded, as if this moment alone was enough to undo him.
“Wow,” he whispered, voice rough, vulnerable.
You let out a shaky laugh, your heart thundering. “Yeah.”
Neither of you moved to step back. Instead, you stayed tangled there, his thumb brushing over your cheek, your fingers still threaded through his hair.
You looked at each other then—really looked. And the truth of it, the inevitability of it, sank in: whatever this was, it wasn’t fleeting.
For a moment, neither of you spoke, both caught in the glow of what just happened. Then, before you could talk yourself out of it, the words tumbled out of your mouth, shy and unsteady:
“Um… do you want to come in? Just for a bit? I could make tea. Or coffee. Or, I don’t know, water if that’s all you want.”
You winced at how awkward it sounded, your nerves bubbling over. But Clark’s smile only softened, his eyes lighting like you’d just offered him the world.
“I’d like that,” he said simply.
You didn’t-couldn’t say a word, just turned your back to him to get your keys and open the door, with shaky hands.
Inside, the apartment glowed with warm lamplight. It wasn’t big—just a little one-bedroom you’d barely settled into—but it was soft, lived-in in the ways that mattered. Throw blankets folded neatly on the couch, candles scattered on shelves, books stacked not only on the bookcase but in uneven towers on the coffee table and floor. Framed pictures dotted the walls and tables, little fragments of your life you couldn’t leave behind when you moved.
Clark stood in the middle of it, taking it all in with that quiet, thoughtful way of his. He didn’t say anything right away, but you could tell by the faint curve of his lips that it was exactly the kind of space he’d imagined for you. Gentle. Safe. Yours.
“What would you like?” you asked from the kitchen, peeking over the counter with a nervous smile.
Clark turned, his hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets. “Tea sounds perfect.”
You busied yourself with the kettle, grateful for the distraction. The sound of water running, the click of the stove—it all gave you a chance to breathe, to steady yourself.
Clark wandered toward the couch, lowering himself into the cushions with a little sigh. His eyes roamed again, landing on a small frame perched on the side table. He leaned closer. The picture was of a little girl, maybe six or seven, with a wide, mischievous grin and a bow in her hair. She wasn’t you—he could tell that much. But the photo was well-loved, the frame just a little worn. He found himself wondering.
Before he could ask, you padded back into the living room, two mugs in hand. “One tea, one coffee,” you announced softly, handing him his.
“Thanks,” he murmured, fingers brushing yours briefly. But instead of sipping, he set it gently down on the table.
You frowned. “Something wrong?”
He shook his head, that shy smile tugging at his lips again. Then, without a word, he reached for your mug and placed it next to his.
You blinked. “Clark, what—”
But the question never finished, because his hand was already cupping your jaw, tilting your face toward his. His lips found yours again, surer this time, his kiss deepening with the kind of urgency that came from holding back too long.
You melted instantly, hands pressing against his chest before sliding up to grip his shoulders, pulling him closer. He tasted faintly of mint, and you couldn’t help the small, breathless laugh that slipped against his mouth when he finally pulled back.
“I’ve wanted to do that since the first time I kissed you,” he confessed, voice rough with honesty.
You arched a brow, trying to hide your smile. “Clark… that was five minutes ago.”
He let out a short, sheepish laugh, but his eyes stayed locked on yours, burning with something that wasn’t a joke. “Yeah. The longest five minutes of my life. Pure torture.”
Your heart swooped in your chest, the raw sincerity of it making you dizzy. You kissed him again, softer this time, lingering in the quiet sweetness of it before finally, reluctantly, pulling back to pick up your tea.
The warmth of the mug was grounding as you both settled back on the couch. For a few minutes, you sat in companionable silence, sipping and breathing in the strange new comfort of being so close.
Clark’s gaze flicked back to the photo on the side table. He hesitated, then asked gently, “Can I… ask who she is? The little girl?”
The question made you still, your fingers tightening faintly around your mug. You followed his gaze, your chest aching at the sight of the familiar grin in the frame.
“That’s… my best friend,” you said finally, your voice softer, heavier. “We grew up together. She—” You swallowed, the words catching. “She died. Car accident.”
Clark’s face softened instantly, the light in his eyes dimming into something heavier, more reverent. “I’m so sorry,” he murmured, his voice like velvet, low and sincere.
You managed a small, sad smile, setting your mug down. "She was the kind of person you don’t forget. Even when everything else changes.”
For a moment, silence fell again, but this time it was gentle, weighted with empathy rather than discomfort.
Clark reached out, his fingers brushing over yours on the couch cushion. Just a touch. Warm, steady, wordless comfort. His eyes met yours, and you felt it again—that inexplicable familiarity, like he’d been waiting his whole life to know this part of you.
“Her name was Lily,” you said softly. Just saying it aloud made something in your chest ache. “She wasn’t just my best friend. She was… she was like my sister. We did everything together—sleepovers every weekend, passing notes in class, sneaking out to see midnight movies even when we were way too young.”
The corner of your mouth lifted as a laugh slipped out, fragile, almost apologetic. “She was loud. Bossy. Always had an opinion about everything. And her laugh—God, her laugh. She’d throw her whole body into it, head back, hands clapping, this ridiculous cackle that could make me crack up no matter what. No matter how bad my day was, she could tear it open and make it brighter.”
Clark didn’t speak. He didn’t nod or hum or rush you along. He just… watched you. Patient, steady, his expression soft and open. There. That was all he had to be.
Your eyes blurred. You blinked hard, but the words kept spilling. “She—she died two years ago. Car accident. Just… gone.” The last word broke, trembling.
You tried to smile through it, you really did, but the memories were too vivid, too alive. “She… she could never resist funnel cake at the fair,” you said softly, voice trembling but warm. “We’d spend hours in the sun, arguing over who got the biggest bite, who got the last one. And I’d braid her hair while we talked… about everything and nothing. It didn’t matter what we said—it was just… us.”
You laughed through the tears that slid down your cheeks. “And that summer,” you continued, voice catching, “we pretended to be secret agents. Sunglasses, notebooks full of classified information, codes we made up ourselves… We were unstoppable. Or at least we thought we were.”
Your chest tightened, and the smile faltered for a moment. “I miss her, Clark,” you whispered, almost too quiet to hear. “She… she was my best friend. My sister in every way that mattered. And now… she’s gone.”
“Honey,” Clark breathed. Just that one syllable, but the regret in it carried weight. His brow furrowed, his lips pressed tight like he wished he could take some of the pain away. Then, without hesitation, he leaned forward and pulled you into his arms.
His embrace was warm, solid, grounding. Your face pressed into the fabric of his shirt, the faint scent of laundry soap and something deeper—something him—settling around you. His chest was broad and steady, and under your ear you could hear his heartbeat, slow and sure. You let out a shaky breath, sinking into him, and for a second it felt like maybe the world couldn’t swallow you whole. Not when he was holding you like this.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured into your hair, his voice low and careful, like he didn’t want to startle you. His large hand rubbed slow circles against your back, soothing. “She sounds like someone I wish I’d known.”
You clutched at his shirt for just a second longer before pulling back, wiping quickly at your cheeks, embarrassed. But his eyes never judged—only softened more.
“You kind of can,” you whispered, forcing a small smile. “Wait here.”
You disappeared into your bedroom, returning with a thick photo album, the corners frayed from years of flipping. Settling beside him again, you opened it across both your laps.
The pages told your life in snapshots. First grade talent shows where you both wore glittery costumes. Halloween photos—witch and vampire one year, peanut butter and jelly the next. A baking attempt that ended in flour everywhere, your smiles sheepish and wild in the blurry picture someone had managed to take before cleaning up.
Clark leaned closer, his shoulder brushing yours, and you felt the warmth of him there, his breath occasionally tickling your cheek. He smiled softly at each photo, his eyes lighting up. “Who picked the costumes?” he asked gently.
“I think… Lily chose most of them,” you said, flipping the page. “She always had very strong opinions.” You laughed lightly, shaking your head at the memory.
Clark’s eyes twinkled. “She picked them for both of you?”
You nodded. “Oh yeah. She was bossy, but fair—mostly. She made sure I got the fun costumes too.”
“And the cookies,” Clark said, pointing at a particularly flour-covered mess, “did they taste as bad as they look?”
“Oh, worse,” you admitted, laughing. “We were six. What did we expect?”
Clark chuckled, leaning closer over the pages. “And that one,” he said, pointing at a Halloween picture with both of you holding tiny pumpkins, “were you carving those yourselves?”
“Yes! And my mom nearly lost her mind. Pumpkin guts everywhere. Lily was in charge of the seeds—she thought it was fun to throw them at me.” You giggled, wiping a tear from laughing too hard.
Clark shook his head, grinning. “You two were unstoppable. I love how… joyful you look in every picture. Even when things were messy.”
You blushed, heart swelling at the quiet admiration in his voice. “It was all Lily. She made everything feel… bigger, brighter. And I… I was just along for the ride.”
Clark’s expression softened, and he studied your face for a long moment, eyes narrowing slightly in thought. “You… your face feels so familiar,” he said quietly, almost reverently. “I feel like I would recognize you anywhere.”
Your chest tightened, a shiver of something unspoken passing through you. “Really?” you asked softly, your fingers pausing on the page.
“Yeah,” he murmured, brushing a strand of hair behind his ear, voice gentle. “There’s just… something about you. I can’t explain it. Like I’ve known you before. Somehow.”
Your heart did a flip right there, feeling too many emotions all at once. “I… I think I know what you mean,” you whispered. “Sometimes, people feel like they’re in your life long before you actually meet them.”
Clark smiled, brushing his fingers across yours for a fleeting second. “Exactly. Like… a thread pulling you toward someone. And I don’t know why, but… I feel it with you.”
You swallowed, blinking rapidly, smiling through the sudden warmth in your chest. “That’s… kind of amazing. And a little scary.”
He chuckled softly, leaning closer over the album. “And this one?” he asked, pointing at a blurry picture of you and Lily at a science fair, holding a messy volcano project. “You made that?”
You laughed. “We tried! Lily was the genius behind it, obviously. I just… helped stir the lava.”
Clark’s grin widened. “And you both look so… alive. So small and big at the same time. Like everything mattered and nothing mattered all at once.”
You bit your lip, heart fluttering, and nodded. “Yeah… it did. Everything felt important because we were together.
Then you turned a page.
A school trip to the zoo.
There you and Lily were, in matching pink visors, arms slung around each other, ice cream dripping down your hands. Behind you, a crowd of kids clustered at the elephant enclosure.
Clark went still.
His eyes narrowed, his whole body shifting, muscles tensing like he’d just caught something no one else would.
“Wait a second,” he muttered, leaning closer. His fingers brushed the glossy paper reverently before he carefully slid the photo from its sleeve, tilting it toward the lamplight.
You blinked, confused. “Clark?”
He pointed, his fingertip hovering over the corner of the photo. A boy. Small, messy dark hair, striped T-shirt. Wide blue eyes staring curiously past the camera.
“That’s me,” Clark said, his voice low, almost disbelieving. “I remember this. My dad—he took me to the zoo that day. That’s me, right there in the back.”
Your brow furrowed as you leaned in closer. “Huh?”
Clark turned the picture so you could see better, excitement bubbling under his calm voice. “Look—see the little boy? That’s me. I swear. I remember that exact shirt. And… oh my god. That was the day I—”
He stopped, blinking rapidly, his expression flickering like he was piecing something together.
You stared at him, stunned. And then, like a thread snapping taut, a memory unspooled inside you—clear, vivid, alive.
You were seven years old, tugging on Lily’s hand as you pressed yourself against the railing, eyes wide at the tall giraffe bending its long neck to reach the leaves overhead.
“Look how big it is!” you gasped, bouncing on your toes.
“Bet I could climb it,” Lily bragged, her hands confidently on her hips.
You scrunched your nose and laughed. “Bet you’d fall right off. And then Mrs. Hannigan would tell your mom and we’d never be allowed to go anywhere again.”
Lily rolled her eyes, grinning, “You’re no fun. I could totally climb it. I’d just hold onto its spots!”
You giggled so loudly you didn’t notice the sound of sneakers slapping against the pavement behind you until it was too late.
A boy barreled past, running too fast for the uneven path, and before you could call out, his foot caught on the edge of the walkway. He went down hard, palms and knees scraping against the concrete.
“Ow—” he whimpered, trying to hold it in, blinking fast, his face flushed with the effort not to cry.
You gasped, letting go of Lily’s hand immediately. “Hey!” You rushed over and crouched down, your little dress bunching at the knees. “Are you okay?”
The boy looked up at you, and you froze. His eyes—bluer than anything you’d ever seen. Like sky, like water, like the glass beads in your grandmother’s jar.
“Wow,” you blurted, forgetting yourself entirely. “Your eyes are so blue.”
The boy blinked, startled, his cheeks pinking as he looked down quickly. You offered your small hand without hesitation. “Here.”
He hesitated, then slipped his scraped, slightly trembling hand into yours. His palm was warm and a little clammy, but you didn’t mind. You tugged until he was back on his feet, brushing at his shirt like it was your job to fix him.
“What’s your name?” you asked earnestly.
“C-Clark,” he stammered, clearly embarrassed.
“Clark,” you repeated, testing it on your tongue. You smiled, wide and sure. “You’ll be okay, Clark. Promise.”
He gave a tiny, uncertain nod, still avoiding your eyes like looking at you was too much.
Then you remembered the lollipop you’d been saving all morning—purple-wrapped and safely tucked in your pocket. Without a second thought, you pulled it out and pressed it into his hand.
“Here,” you said with all the authority a seven-year-old could muster. “Makes everything better.”
His lips parted. “Really? For me?”
You grinned, rocking back on your heels. “Really. Don’t cry, okay?”
He looked down at the candy like it was treasure, holding it carefully in both hands, like it might break if he wasn’t gentle. “Thank you,” he whispered, so soft you almost didn’t hear it.
Before you could say anything else, your teacher’s sharp voice cut through the air. “Come on, girls, group photo! Let’s go!”
You turned your head, torn. Lily was already waving at you, impatient and dramatic, shouting, “Come on! They’re waiting!”
You looked back at the boy—at Clark—still standing there, candy clutched to his chest, those blue eyes fixed on you like you were the only thing in the busy zoo.
“Bye, Clark!” you called brightly, giving him one last smile, the kind that lit your whole face. Then you ran off, your ponytail bouncing behind you, sneakers squeaking against the pavement.
Clark stood frozen in place, the lollipop gripped tight in his small hand, staring after you like he’d just been struck by lightning.
The memory slammed back into you, knocking the air from your lungs. You stared at him on your couch, the same impossibly blue eyes looking at you with wonder.
“That’s… why,” you whispered, realization dawning, your chest tight with something between disbelief and joy. “That’s why you looked so familiar the first day. Clark… it was you.”
His voice was soft, almost reverent. “All this time. I didn’t even realize until now.”
For a moment, neither of you breathed. Then it broke—laughter tumbling out of you in shaky waves, Clark’s own joining yours, rich and stunned and almost boyish. Not because it was funny, but because it was impossible and perfect and the only thing you could do was laugh.
“Oh my god,” you gasped, clutching your stomach as you bent over. “I can’t—Clark, I can’t believe this. That was you? The little boy who tripped at the zoo?”
Clark’s hand flew to the back of his neck, sheepish, though his grin was unstoppable. “Yeah. That was me. Smooth entrance into your life, huh? Falling on my face.”
You swatted at his arm, still laughing. “I knew your eyes looked familiar. They were the bluest thing I’d ever seen in my life. I went home and told Lily all about you.”
That made him freeze mid-laugh. “You did?”
You nodded quickly, warmth rushing to your cheeks at the memory. “Oh, constantly. She never let me live it down. Every time I said the word blue, she’d go, ‘Like that boy at the zoo?’ and then just cackle until I threw a pillow at her. She said I was obsessed.”
Clark let out a breathless laugh, but his eyes softened at the mention of Lily, at the way you were smiling through the ache. “What did you say back?”
You bit your lip, embarrassed. “That I wasn’t obsessed. That I just thought you had the kind of eyes you don’t forget. Which, apparently, was true.”
Clark laughed again, leaning back against your couch cushions, shaking his head in disbelief. “This is insane. I—I remember tripping. I remember this girl kneeling down and helping me up, like it was the most natural thing in the world. I came home, scraped and embarrassed, and I couldn’t stop telling my mom about this little girl who helped me up, gave me candy, and… just seemed so kind and bright. I told her… I told her how nice and pretty you were. I don’t think I stopped talking about you for hours. It stuck with me.”
Your chest tightened, the weight of it sinking in. “I remember thinking how sweet you looked, even when you were hurt. You said your name was Clark, and then my teacher dragged me away before I could even say mine. For years, I thought about that. Like—like I’d missed a step, you know? I wondered if I’d ever see you again.”
Clark turned his head to look at you, his blue eyes bright, almost glowing in the lamplight of your living room. His voice was low, filled with something tender and raw. “And here we are. After all this time, here we are.”
Your laugh cracked, part disbelieving, part overwhelmed. “This feels like the plot of a movie. The kind no one believes because it’s too perfect.”
He chuckled softly, leaning just a little closer, his knee brushing yours. “Maybe it’s not a movie. Maybe it’s just… us. Finally finding our way back.”
You couldn’t stop smiling, even as tears blurred your vision again. Every detail of that long-ago day was rushing back now—the giraffe’s long neck, Lily’s chatter.
Sitting there, watching him laugh softly, the edges of memory still warm around the photo album, you couldn’t help but feel as though the universe had been quietly conspiring all along. For years, you had heard people talk about the invisible string theory—the idea that we are all connected to certain people by threads we can’t see, threads that stretch across time and space, bending and twisting but never breaking.
And now… you believed it.
It was as if you had both been tethered to each other by a delicate, golden thread, woven silently through childhood moments, small kindnesses, and unspoken glances. That thread had carried you across years, across heartbreak and distance, across new cities and new lives, always tugging you closer, waiting for the perfect moment to reveal itself.
You thought back to the little boy at the zoo—the blue eyes wide with wonder, the tentative smile, the candy pressed into his hands. You thought of the little girl who dashed off at the teacher’s call, never imagining that the string tying you together had already begun to twist and loop in ways you could not yet see.
And now he was here. In your apartment, sitting next to you, brushing your fingers with his, laughing like the years between you had been nothing at all. And you felt the thread—warm, golden, unbreakable—pull taut in your chest. It was beautiful, impossible, and entirely real.
For the first time in a long while, you believed that some connections are meant to be, that some people are destined to find each other, no matter the distance, no matter the years. You closed your eyes briefly, breathing in the soft warmth of the moment, and allowed yourself to marvel at the exquisite absurdity of it all: that life could be so cruel, so kind, and so astonishingly precise, all at once.
Somewhere deep inside, you knew the thread wasn’t done with you yet.
WHEN CLARK KENT starts to babysit your son on a near-daily basis, you don't expect to fall for him—or for your son's wild theory how “Mr Clark is Superman” to finally make sense.
pairing: corenswet!clark kent x single mum!neighbour!reader
word count: ~21k (pls don't ask, i don't know how i managed this either)
warnings: clark is in his 30s, reader is around 23-24 (having had her baby with her childhood “sweetheart”), drinking, swearing, light/implied smut—oral (fem!receiving), clark is a consent king, clark beats up your sleazy baby daddy, angst angst angst, calum is just a babyyy, not beta read we die like m*n, the kaiju is used as a plot device but has nothing to do with the movie's plotline
author's note: first fic for the #whiteboyofthemonth + i also lost like 100 years off my lifespan writing this. it isn't my best work, admittedly, but i hope you enjoy <3
YOU SHOULDN’T BE KNOCKING ON HIS DOOR AGAIN FOR THE SIXTH TIME THIS WEEK.
Especially not when it’s only Wednesday. But here you are, dressed haphazardly in your work uniform—you’re half sure your sweater is on backwards—as you bang on your neighbour’s door with the palm of your hand.
For a second, you consider calling him, just in case he’s in the shower. He’s always been terrible at answering the phone though, so you mutter—screw it—and continue to bang on the door.
“Clark!”
Clark Kent lives alone in apartment 5B with his dog named Krypto. He was raised on farmland in a town called Smallville, Kansas, and he works as a journalist at The Daily Planet. He claims to like his coffee black, but actually adds in a buttload of sugar because he finds the taste of coffee too bitter and much prefers the “sweeter things in life”—you found this out about him the first time you offered to bring him coffee. He’d made sure that you had added at least four spoons of sugar.
He’s also got a total of two friends: Lois Lane and Superman—okay, maybe that's a little mean when you say it like that, but Lois is the only person you’ve ever seen at his apartment and he interviews Superman so often that you're fairly sure they're best friends at this point.
You’ve come to know all of this because, on occasion, he babysits your four-year-old son Calum when your boss decides to be an ass and calls you into work for an evening shift. (And, on occasion, you like to read his articles in the paper, even though you probably haven’t touched a real book since giving birth.)
That’s why you’re here now, standing out of apartment 5B at peak rush hour, desperately knocking on his door. Your boss had called you just a half hour ago, asking—demanding, really—that you cover someone else’s 6PM shift. Calum stands beside you, blinking slowly, still drowsy after his nap earlier that afternoon, but there’s an eager look on his face as he anticipates spending the evening at Clark’s. His favourite Superman plushy is tucked under his arm, a little dirty from being dragged around all day, every day.
“Claaark, you in there?” You call out, rapping your fingers on the hard wood, your movements lazy and irritated.
It doesn’t take much longer before he finally answers the stupid door. He’s a little out of breath, like he’s just run a marathon, but his normally messy hair is gelled back, a single curly strand resting against his forehead. His glasses are askew on his nose, a little tilted as putting them on was an afterthought. He gives you a onceover, taking in your wrinkled uniform —if he notices your sweater tag sticking out below your chin, he doesn’t say anything about it. “Hey. Sorry, I was… on a work call.”
You start to frown. A work call? At 5PM? And he didn’t hear you once?
Unusual as his schedule may seem, you shake the thought away. “My boss scheduled me for a shift last minute. Can you look after Calum while I’m gone?”
Before Clark can even consider opening his mouth to answer you, your son comes barrelling in, throwing himself into Clark’s arms with a screech. “Hi, Mr Clark!”
“Hi, buddy.” Clark laughs, but there’s an undercurrent of exhaustion beneath it. And more than anything, he looks tired, like a little bit of mental rest is all he needs.
“Maybe this isn’t the best time,” you say apologetically, quickly rethinking your decision to leave Calum with him. You’re already holding your hand out, ready to take Cal back as the alternatives rush through your mind—Mrs Vanderbilt downstairs adores taking care of kids, but you know he hates her food. Janet-three-doors-down used to babysit when she was younger, though she’s been known to bring people around lately to do God knows what with God knows who.
“Stop.” Clark interrupts your spiralling thoughts, placing a reassuring hand on your arm. “It’s okay. I’ve got him. Go to work—I know the drill.”
And he does. Clark’s been helping out for weeks now, and they follow the same routine every time without fail: play with Krypto, read a book, have a snack. If it’s late at night, Clark’s gracious enough to feed Calum dinner and put him to bed. He’s carried your son from his apartment to yours a floor down enough times now, a sleeping Calum in his arms as he does you favour after favour.
You’ve tried to pay him back, but he refuses your money every time.
“You need it more than I do,” he always says gently, routinely guiding you out the door before you can argue. Since then, you’ve done what you can: you offer him a plate of food when you know he’s been working late, and you walk Krypto some mornings on your daily run. It’s nothing compared to the things he does for you—but if it’s all he’ll accept, then you’re willing to repay him a hundred times over.
“Thank you,” you breathe out, clutching the strap of your handbag tighter. You reach out to Calum, still nestled in Clark’s arms, and kiss his forehead. “Be good for Mr Clark, okay, baby?”
He nods eagerly, waving goodbye as you turn away.
The moment the front door closes behind you, Clark lowers Calum to the ground. Immediately, the young boy whirls around to face him.
“You promised we’d play superheroes today,” he says accusingly, his small frame already filled with so much conviction that Clark can only wonder what he’ll be like when he’s older.
“Did I?” Clark raises his brow, a playful frown on his lips as he pretends to think. “I don’t remember promising that.”
“Yes, you did!” Calum insists. “You said you’ll take me around like Superman again—!”
“Hm, maybe you’re thinking about another Superman, buddy.”
“No!” The boy tries to protest, hopping around Clark with an energy the older man has never been able to suppress.
“I’m serious, bud,” Clark says, feigning innocence. “I think you’re thinking about another Superman.”
Calum giggles. “You’re silly.”
Clark just gasps, turning around as if to look for someone else Calum could be talking about before pointing at himself with mock offence. “Me? Silly?”
“Yes, you! You can’t lie—Mama says it’s bad.”
“Ah,” Clark pretends to groan, but the smile on his lips gives him away. “You’ve caught me—thought I could get away with it, sorry, bud. Promise you won’t tell your mum that I lied?”
Truth be told, Clark hadn’t meant for his neighbour’s kid to find out his real identity. It’d happened as a mistake. A minor slip up that could have cost him his life. But the thing about kids? No one believes them, especially not the ones who have their heads in the clouds—ones like Calum.
He still remembers the day that Calum had found out.
It was one of the first times he’d ever taken care of Calum for you—probably the third or fourth time—and he’d had his back turned to Calum and Krypto, who were playing in the living room. His glasses had been off, smudged with fingerprints and specks of dust that had gathered throughout the day. He’d been wiping them with the hem of his shirt when he felt a tap on his lower back. Calum had already been yapping away—something about his day at the park—and, as Clark turned around to face him, the boy shrieked. It was a sharp, shrill sound that had him glancing up hurriedly to figure out what was wrong; a spider behind him, perhaps or—
“Superman.”
The kid’s voice had come out as a gasp, unintentionally low as he pointed straight at Clark. Clark frowned, but it was hard to deny the sinking feeling in his stomach—shit.
“Calum, no—” Clark had started to protest, but Calum’s shouts only grew louder.
“You’re Superman! You’re Superman!”
Clark had to clamp his hand shut over Calum’s mouth then, forcing the little boy silent lest the neighbours heard that the man next door was Superman. His shouts were muffled under the weight of Clark’s but eventually became more subdued as he gave in to the authority behind the older man’s hold.
“Yes,” Clark gritted out, almost reluctant to admit it. “Yeah, bud. I’m Superman—”
After a moment, when he was sure Calum had settled, Clark took his hand off the kid’s mouth and stepped back warily, ready to jump back in if he decided to have another random burst of energy.
Calum just stared up at him, his tiny expression filled with awe and amazement, like a kid in a candy store. His voice was soft, in a way Clark had never heard before, as he whispered, “You’re my hero.”
Clark was sure he melted then, and looking back sometimes, he’s still shocked he hadn’t become a part of the floor when Calum had told him that. And he’s never been much for sentiment, but there’s something about it, knowing that a child looked up to a hero—to him—that warmed his heart more than anything else.
Since then, it’s become a well-kept secret between him and Clark. In exchange for Calum’s silence, Clark gave him a taste of the superhero life. The suit, the flying—he even cooked breakfast turkey with his eye lasers once, at Calum’s behest. (Never again.)
“Tell you what, bud,” Clark says, dropping to one knee in front of Calum. “You eat your dinner, and then maybe we can play heroes. Deal?”
He holds up his pinkie finger, a promise.
Calum beams as he wraps his tiny hand around it. “Deal!”
—
It’s 11:30PM when you knock on Clark’s door for the second time that night.
When he opens the door, he’s changed into pyjamas since you last saw him earlier that evening. A white tee hugs his arms and chest, flannel pants loose and low on his hips. His hair is tousled, like he’s been rolling around—and judging by the state of Calum when he appears behind Clark—he probably has been.
“Mama!” Calum screams, darting towards you. He wraps his arms around your legs, squeezing tightly.
You rake your fingers through his hair gently. “You boys roughhousing again?”
Clark only laughs, nodding his head. “You know it.”
“Thank you so much for looking after him again,” you say softly, an apologetic smile playing at your lips. A small part of you feels so guilty for leaving your son in his care so often, but there’s no one else willing to babysit a kid on such short notice—and for free as well. “It means a lot to me.”
“Seriously, it’s no worries,” he responds with a smile just as kind. It’s the most genuine thing you’ve seen all day.. “Calum’s a great kid and he’s great company. I love having him around.”
“Are you sure—?”
He holds a hand up, silencing you before you can continue protesting. “I’m sure. I promise. Anytime you need me to look after him, just knock or call, you have my number.I’ll clear my schedule up—just ask.”
A wave of gratitude crashes over you. Since moving to Metropolis, it’s been hard for you to make friends on top of making a living—being a young, single mum in the city isn’t easy. You work long hours most days, take extra shifts just to afford rent and send Calum to preschool during the week. Work had been especially rough today. You’d had half a mind to quit on the spot before your shift even reached halfway; the chefs kept yelling at you for minor mistakes even though most of them weren’t even your fault, and you’d traded tables multiple times, with the excuse of, “Oh, but you’re so much better at dealing with the bad customers”.
But you can’t tell him all that, not without making it weird, so you settle for, “You’re the best.”
Clark shrugs modestly, softening like he’s used to the praise. “Well, someone’s got to keep that troublemaker in check.”
“I’m not a troublemaker! I’m the boss!” Calum giggles, reaching out to tug on the hem of Clark’s tee. “You said so!”
“Sure, boss.” Clark rolls his eyes playfully as he ruffles Calum’s hair. “Whatever you say, buddy.”
You glance between them, your expression softening despite the exhaustion that feels like it’s dragging you down.
“Well, even bosses need to sleep, so say bye to Mr Clark, honey,” you tell Calum gently, already turning away. His grip on your hand loosens as he stays back to hug Clark goodbye.
“Bye, buddy,” Clark says. And then, easy as anything—
“See you next time, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart.
The word rolls off his tongue like it’s nothing. He says it so normally, like he’s always called you that.
A shiver runs down your spine at the sound of it, so natural and right. You pause. Not visibly, you hope, but he’s the kind of guy who notices the small details regardless. Still, something warm and dangerous blooms in your chest, as your throat works around a swallow, but the dryness sticks. Fuck, what the hell is wrong with you? It’s just a word. A casual term of endearment.
Except it isn’t. Not when he says it like that.
That’s when you force yourself to turn, a tiny shift to confront his gaze.
He’s still in the doorway, smile playing at the corner of his mouth like he knows exactly what he’s doing. A little cocky, but the gentleness in his gaze tells you otherwise, those wispy black curls falling over his eyes in a way that make you want to brush it away.
All you say is, “See you, Clark,” and you start to make your way home.
Clark’s door closes behind you. Calum follows you down the hallway, little legs scurrying to keep up with your pace. He’s holding his Superman plushy to the ground, not caring that it’s getting dirtied on the stained carpet. You make a mental note to chuck that in the wash while he’s sleeping.
“Mama! Mama! Mam—”
His chanting echoes throughout the staircase as he follows you back home, not quite caring that his loud volume could wake the neighbours.
“Yes, baby?” you hum when you stop in front of your door. “What’s wrong?”
Calum pauses. Blinks. And then he steps back, as if reconsidering his words, before blurting out, “Mr Clark is Superman!”
You just raise a brow, glancing down at him as you rummage through your bag for the keys to your apartment. “That’s nice, honey.”
“No, but actually,” Calum insists, pulling on your sleeve. “He showed me his suit! It’s got the ‘S’ and everything!”
“Right,” you mutter, jamming the key into the lock. The door swings open with a click and you flick on the lights, dumping your bags by the door. Calum bounds in after you. “And I’m Batman.”
He stops in his tracks, blinking up at you rapidly. “But… you’re a girl.”
“And Mr Clark is a journalist, Cal—I promise you, the closest he’s gotten to Superman is like… interviewing him or something,” you say with a shrug.
Cal’s always been the imaginative type—god knows how many trees you’ve had to coax him out of when he’s played superheroes at the park. So him pretending that your hunk of a neighbour is Superman is the furthest thing from unusual.
Even then, you can’t help the flicker of curiosity that sparks inside of you, wondering, for just a moment, if Clark Kent really is more than just meets the eye. Honestly? You can kind of see it—not that you’ve actually paid attention to what Superman looks like or anything, but Clark really does fit the whole ‘friendly neighbourhood hero’ stereotype. Tall, strong, with biceps that look like they could—
You’re drawn back to the moment he called you ‘sweetheart’, voice rough because of the late hour but it had been like honey dripping from his mouth. So sweet that it makes your stomach turn even now. You’ve been called it before—by flirty waiters, by creepy customers who don’t understand personal space, by strangers on the streets. But when Clark had said it, it had been different. Honest.
Calum pulls you back to Earth with his relentless squawking. He’s waving his arms about, walking in circles around you in a desperate attempt to get you to believe him. “But he flew me around his apartment, Mama!”
“Mhm,” you hum, scooping him into your arms. With a small boop on his nose, you carry him to the kitchen, setting him on the marbletop counter so he can’t escape. “And did you time travel too, or just regular flying today?”
“Superman can’t time travel, Mama.” It comes out in a huff, and his arms are crossed over his chest.
You frown down at him. “He can’t? Oh. I didn’t know that. Well… was it just… regular flying, then?” That’s when your frown deepens, as your work-addled brain finally kickstarts back to life, and you realise—“Hey, Mr Clark’s got a small apartment. How was he supposed to fly around without knocking anything over, huh?”
Calum just gasps, as if you’ve caught him out on a lie. “He did! He floated me around!”
Maybe you’re just too tired to even think straight, but somehow, your four-year-old son sounds a little too convincing right now. He stares up at you with those wide eyes, a small, frustrated pout on his face, as if truly offended that you don’t believe him. And, for a split second—
Nope. Nope. Clark Kent is not Superman and you’re just easily swayed by your little boy with his unfairly persuasive eyes.
“You’re funny, baby.”
“Mama—!” He tries to protest when you hook your hands under his armpits, swinging him down to the floor. “Go get ready for bed, Calum. And you better be changed by the time I get to your room or I’ll get Mr Clark to…” Shit, I don’t know. “... I’ll get him to fly your favourite teddy across the world and you’ll never see it again.”
You know how much that toy means to him—it’s his favourite thing to play with besides his Superman figurines. A genuine look of terror crosses Calum’s face, a plea at the tip of his tongue. But the thin line of your lips shows him that you mean business and he scurries away with a yelped, “Don’t call Mr Clark!”
As you watch Calum disappear down the hall, you can’t shake away the warmth in your chest. Clark’s voice echoes through your head, the sight of him seared into your mind—
See you next time, sweetheart.
He’d said it like a promise, like he was so sure that you’d be back soon. A buzz of excitement tingles at your fingertips, already anticipating seeing him again the next time you need him to take care of Calum—even if for a moment.
Yeah. You’re so fucked.
—
Over the next couple of weeks, it becomes routine to drop Calum off at Clark’s place every evening. Not because you have work, but because Cal just likes spending time with Clark.
And, despite how busy he is, Clark always makes time for your son.
Some nights, you bring over dinner—plates of rice and meat in foil trays, fresh salads in glass bowls covered in clingwrap.
You don’t stay.
Staying means that you and Clark Kent are friends. It means that there’s something between you and there isn’t. He’s just your neighbour, one you trust enough to leave your son with on a daily basis. The guy who does you the same massive favour time and time even though you’re still unsure of how to repay him, and who, for some reason, calls you sweetheart more than your own name.
Clark Kent is just your neighbour.
You have to remind yourself this every time you see him, so dropping Calum off is limited to a strict routine: knock. Smile. Say bye. Leave. Clark seems to understand this unspoken rule you have with yourself, respects it enough to never drag conversation beyond the casual “How are you?”.
So it’s a… surprise when he swings the door open wider one day to invite you in, one that catches you off guard. Calum has already wandered in, and you’d heard him let out a loud shriek when he saw Krypto. You’re sure you hear a crash come from inside but Clark doesn’t even seem phased.
He just smiles warmly and gestures you inside. “You’re welcome to come in.”
You freeze. That’s the last thing you expected him to say. Every possibility runs through your head—every potential lie, excuse and story known to man that sounds respectable and believable all at once—that could possibly help you get out. Avoid conversation. Connection.
But a sharp gasp comes from inside Clark’s apartment, and small feet patter against the tiled floor as Calum scurries up to the door. Krypto is hanging over his arm, tongue lolled out as they both stare up at you.
“You’re staying?” Calum’s voice comes out as a garble, muffled by Krypto’s fur bunched up in his face. His eyes are bright, like he’s been waiting for this day to come—his two worlds, colliding.
“No, not today, baby. I…” You stammer, trying to find a reasonable excuse, but the words die on your tongue when you catch the hopeful look on his face.
Somehow, Clark clocks your bullshit before you can even think of a plausible excuse. He points out, matter-of-factly, “You don’t have work. You’re not in uniform.”
Dammit. “Uh… I was… planning on spending the night watching TV—”
“I have a TV.” He says it like it’s enough to immediately convince you.
“I know you have a TV,” you throw back. “But I… am watching Netflix.”
You’ve got him now, you’re sure. There’s no way he—
“I also have Netflix,” he adds, a small smirk splitting his face. “So you should come in, sweetheart.”
There’s that stupid word again. Sweetheart. And when he pairs it with that smirk, it makes your chest squeeze. Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath to compose yourself again before straightening your back and meeting his gaze head-on.
“Fine,” you relent with a sigh, but no amount of feigned resignation could hide the relenting smile teasing at your lips.
“Yay!”
Calum claps, best as he can as he holds Krypto, before he attempts to reach out and drag you further into Clark’s apartment. One of his tiny hands is clasped in yours, the other arm struggling to keep Krypto above ground as he guides you inside. You can hear Clark lock the door behind you, following you in with a steady gait that screams comfort and familiarity.
Calum drops your hand then and scurries off somewhere without you.
You don’t really know where to go from here.
Clark’s place is clean, unsurprisingly so. It seems as though he cleans it almost pedantically, like he’s comfortable with using a vacuum and a mop. Somehow, that’s the most attractive part of him—most men wouldn’t even know the difference between a vacuum and a mop. Turning into the living room, you take the whole scene in: Calum is sitting on the carpet, a picture book in hand as Krypto lies down next to him. Grey blankets are strewn over the arm of his black leather couch. Books stacked high in a pile that looks seconds from toppling over. Magazines and newspapers and research all laid out on the floor. A fake potted plant set on the coffee table.
So he’s a plant dad. Or close to one. Same difference.
“Calum gets his hands into them,” Clark says by way of explanation, standing next to you when he notices where your gaze is focused at.
“That’s why I don’t keep anything potted in my house.”
“I was like that when I was younger.” There a reminiscent smile on his face as he talks, one that warms your own heart. “I loved getting into the dirt and all that. My Ma would always yell at me, ‘Clark Joseph Kent! Get your dirty shoes out of my house or so help me God—!”
That gets a laugh out of you. “She sounds like my kinda girl.”
He turns to look at you properly, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he says, “Oh, she’d love you, that’s for sure.” And then, after a second, he asks, “Can I get you anything?”
“No—” you start to say, but he just nods, as if a no isn’t an answer at all. “Soda, it is.”
Clark doesn’t wait for a response before moving to the kitchen. On his way, he pulls out a stool at the kitchen island and pats the seat, motioning for you to sit. Settling down onto the cushion, you lean forward to rest your chin in your palms as you look over at him. He reaches into the fridge, grabbing a can before he digs into the freezer for ice.
His motions are robotic, practiced almost, as he spoons the ice into a cup. Flips the tab up, and the can opens with a satisfying hiss. He pours it into the glass before sliding it over to you.
“Enjoy,” he says with a wink, and you can only roll your eyes playfully.
You don’t drink straight away though, just keep a watchful eye as he pours his own cup. It’s then that you catch the pots on the stove, still steaming with a heat that suggests he just cooked.
“Well, colour me surprised,” you say sarcastically, “Clark Kent can cook. And to think, I spent all this time giving you food because I thought you were just another helpless manchild.”
That’s a lie. You’ve always known he was capable—you’d never have left Calum with him so often if not. But you like pushing his buttons and his reaction—a mildly offended frown as he stammers to defend himself—sends a thrill down your spine.
Clark gathers himself quickly, a retort sharp on his tongue.
“Unless you count pouring a drink as being a chef—” he shrugs, taking a sip—“Then yeah, I’m a chef.”
After a while, he sits up in his chair, reaching over to straighten a placeholder that’s already set out perfectly. “My mother raised me to be self-sufficient. Cooking, cleaning… it was her way or the highway.”
You don’t know how to respond to that, to this little snippet of a life you were never supposed to be privy to. You’re only neighbours after all—acquaintances, at most. Never once did you expect your relationship with Clark to go beyond that. Being invited into his apartment is one of the last things you expected to happen.
And though it’s sweet, the way he’s accepted you and Calum as a permanent fixture in his daily life, you’re not sure if you’re ready for him to become a permanent fixture in yours.
So, to divert the conversation, all you say is, “Your dog is weird,” as you watch as Krypto drags Calum around by the collar of his shirt.
He wears a Superman cape in place of a collar and you can’t help but find it strange—you’d never pegged Clark as a Superman fan, per se, though you’ve always known he’s worked closely with the hero. If anything, the sight amuses you. It makes you giggle every time you see it.
Clark follows your gaze and practically does a double take when he sees what they’re up to. “Krypto, no—!”
The dog in question growls before letting Calum go and he hits the floor with a muted thud. Calum just laughs, scrambling after him.
“So…” Clark starts the conversation back up.
“So,” you echo.
“How’ve you been?”
But before you can even get a word out, Clark tells you, almost warningly, “And don’t lie to me, sweetheart. I’m not here to judge you.”
You sigh, a soft exhale that spokes volumes about the weariness that bears heavy on your shoulders. “Work’s been good, like normal—”
“You,” he cuts in, “not work.”
“I… have been tired,” you admit quietly. You use your finger to trace the drops of water that run down the side of the glass, doodling in the condensation. It’s your best attempt at avoiding his gaze as it bears into you, persistent. “You know, work has been a lot… Cal’s been a lot and there’s only so much I can handle, y’know—”
“I know,” he reassures. He pauses before saying, “Calum’s great company. Most of the time.”
Your brows quirk up. “Most of the time?”
“He makes a mess more often than not,” he says with a shrug, “but he’s good company. A smart kid.”
“Ah, he’s always been like that,” you murmur. “Too… everything… for his own good. Sometimes, I wonder how I ever managed to raise him on my own these last few years. He’s a handful, to say the least. But you’ve been a lot of help, you know that, right?”
A knowing smile playing at his lips, and he just shrugs, unfazed. You’ve said it enough times ever since he started babysitting, and you’re sure he’s sick of it by now, but it hardly scrapes the surface of the appreciation you have towards him.
“I know,” he says simply.
“And… I’m really thankful for it,” you continue, and the weight of your gratitude—a debt unpaid—weighs down heavy on your shoulders.
“I know,” he repeats, the look never leaving his eyes. Like he knows exactly how you feel.
“And if there’s any way to make it up to you—”
“Sweetheart.” Clark cuts you off before you , and reaches over to squeeze your upper arm, his massive palm warm even through the thick material of your jumper. His hand drifts up, finger hooking beneath your chin to redirect your focus to him. Your breath catches—between every sweetheart, every lingering look… he hasn’t dared touch you so closely. So familiar.
“Parenthood takes time, that’s what my Pa always tells me,” he rumbles. “The offer always stands—if you ever need help… you know where to find me.”
—
Clark holds onto his end of the promise.
The setting sun creeps through the sheer material of your living room curtains, basking your apartment in a warm, golden glow. He is in your kitchen, elbow-deep in your sink as he scrubs the dishes with careful, soapy hands.
He’d made a beeline for the kitchen the second you’d opened the door for him. You could only watch as he put the kettle on, manoeuvring your space like he knows exactly where to find what he needs—and he does. He’s watched you do it enough times now. Two spoons of sugar, one teabag, no milk, piping hot water. Your favourite pink mug. Just the way you like it.
Clark has been spending a lot of time at your place lately. He likes to joke that “it’s a pitstop before I get home”, but a small part of you thinks that he’s just lonely. So, you welcome him into your home every time he knocks, so he knows that he’s not alone.
You’ve heard bits and pieces of his story since he’s come to Metropolis—his job at the Daily Planet, every failed date and messed up girl he’s been out with. The old ladies at his favourite cafe across the road from work, who never fail to give him a free pastry every morning because he’s “the handsomest thing they’d ever seen”. How his boss is an ass most days, and Jimmy Olsen always has something to say, while Lois is the only one really standing up for him. You met her once, Lois Lane, when
And on quiet days, he indulges you. Tells you about his life back in Smallville. You’ve come to know about his parents, Pa and Ma Kent, and the farm he lived on for more than half his life. How leaving home, although a blessing and an opportunity, was one of the biggest challenges he’s ever faced.
Every time he talks about home, there’s always a faraway look in his eyes. Like he’s dreaming about a place he can’t quite call home anymore, not in the way he calls Metropolis home now. You’re tempted to ask more, find out about the fields he once played in, the girls he kissed behind his parents’ barn. But you don’t pry. It’s a part of his life, his past, that you feel like you have no right over—no matter how close you two get, you’ve come to accept that you might always be disconnected from a part of him he’s not yet ready to show.
You enjoy listening to him talk though. Every word he says is a story, every story a lesson and you’re a thousand percent sure you want to keep learning.
In return, he treats you, with cups of tea and the occasional hot chocolate on the nights it’s particularly chilly. Some days, he arrives with groceries if he’s noticed you’re running low on something you have yet to replenish—fresh milk, fruits and vegetables, and a specific pack of blueberry muffins that he knows Calum loves.
“You didn’t have to come over,” you say quietly, clutching the steaming mug of tea he’d made you.
“I don’t mind helping,” he shrugs. He sounds honest about it. Perhaps that’s the worst thing about your friendship with Clark. He’s willing to give and give and give. You still don’t know how to pay him back.
Unsure of what to say, you fall quiet, the familiar noises of the city below settling in the cracks of the silence. Then you pipe up, “And you don’t need to wash my dishes—”
“I don’t mind helping,” he repeats, firmer now as he fixes you with a stern look that brooks no argument. “You’ve left it for hours. Any longer and it would start to stink.”
All you can do is wrinkle your nose and pout, hating to admit that he’s right.
Today is one of those days where Calum is at your cousin’s house. She has kids his age and you’re just glad that he’s connecting with family when you aren’t able to take him yourself. And despite the fact that Cal isn’t here, you don’t mind that Clark has come over. Ironically, that’s when you enjoy his company the most. When there’s no Calum or Krypto running amok, and it’s just the two of you, coexisting in a single space, sharing the same air and the same silence.
Your apartment is a picturesque thing, the type that comes up when you search ‘apartment inspo’ on Pinterest—it smells like cinnamon and vanilla and there are fairy lights strewn up around the window sill. It’s perfect for you and Calum, decorated and lived in in a way that’s perfect for a mother and son. Grey coloured carpet that miraculously never gets dirty, despite the fact that there’s a four-year-old wandering around all day. House slippers by the front door—a small Lightning McQueen themed pair for Calum, another pink and fluffy one for yourself.
And, as Clark began to assimilate into your life, spending more time in your home, little bits of him started to seep into parts of you.
Now, he has a spare jacket hanging from the hook on the door of the linens closet. He’d left it there a couple weeks ago and never bothered to take it home—you’ve stopped reminding him too. “In case I need it one day,” he’d told you the first time you tried giving it back, taking the liberty to hang it on the hook himself. You could only watch as he beamed at you, that face so full of pride, before stepping back with an approving nod. That hoodie feels like a brand, an unspoken symbol of Clark’s presence, and, even though you’re hesitant to admit it, his importance in your life.
You’re even sure that, sometime in the last few weeks, he brought in his favourite coffee powder. It sits on your countertop, beside your sugar, honey and teabags. He leaves it open sometimes, on the days that he comes over and forgets to close it after using you. You’ve grown accustomed to closing it now, a small step in your routine that you do without second thought.
Somehow, Clark Kent has become a part of your life and you didn’t even realise it.
“You know… My Ma would love it if I had kids.”
Clark’s words shatter the silence you’ve grown comfortable in, making you glance up with a frown. His confession is unexpected, sure, but you’re just glad that he’s willing to open up to you.
Sipping lightly at your tea, the liquid is still warm, settling comfortably in your stomach and easing the stress of the day. “What’s the holdup?”
“Work,” he says simply before pausing. His gaze falls to your lips before it flicks away, a slight flush colouring his cheeks. Recently, you’ve come to notice that, when Clark blushes, his neck, along with the tips of his ears, turns red. It’s endearing, you think. There’s something so incredibly boyish about it, the way his whole face scrunches up as if to hide the embarrassment he feels every time he gets flustered.
After a moment’s pause, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Just looking for the right girl, really.”
“What about Lois—?”
The question is halfway out of your mouth before he whirls around, the soapy plate in his hands clattering into the sink. His eyes are wide with something close to terror. Maybe it’s offense. Or maybe he’s just insulted by the fact that you even suggested it in the first place, like the idea of being with Lois never crossed his own mind.
“God, no,” Clark sputters, an appalled look in his eyes. Then, as if concerned that his words might come off as rude, he says, “Lois is… just a friend.”
“Just a friend,” you repeat, a knowing grin on your face. You cock your brow and shrug. “Sure. Whatever you say, Clark.”
“I swear!” His voice cracks a little as he turns back to the sink, rinsing the plate he’d dropped. He stacks it in the rack, moving on to the next one before clearing his throat. “She—Lois says I need to get out more. I think this counts. Being here. With you.”
“Well, I’m glad you enjoy my company.”
Your phone buzzes on the countertop.
The dark screen lights up to reveal the photo of Calum on your wallpaper—it’s only recent, one you snapped a few weeks ago at the local park. You’d gotten ice cream that day, shared a cone under the hot yellow sun, sheltered beneath the shade of a large oak tree. Triple choc chip, you still remember it. Clark had introduced it to Calum while babysitting him and it’s been your son’s favourite ever since. His face is smeared with ice cream in the photo, and the gaps where two of his baby teeth have fallen out are on full display as he beams up at you.
And at the bottom of your screen, above all the other notifications, is a message from your cousin.
Gonna drop Cal off at your place soon
Says he misses you, mama xx
A rush of warmth courses through your veins as you smile down at the message. A day without Calum is a day too long for you. Quickly, you type up a message before sending it off.
“Hey, Clark?”
Clark glances up when you speak and his face is pinched in confusion, waiting for you to continue.
Pocketing your phone, you hop off the stool to place your mug in the sink. The corners of your eyes crinkle as you offer him a soft grin and murmur, “I’m sure you’ll find her one day. The ‘right girl’, I mean. Most of the time, the right person is right in front of you.”
“I hope so,” he mutters, voice low and bitter, like he’s been waiting too long for a future that doesn’t seem eager to arrive.
“Thank you.” Gravitating closer towards him, you rise up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek.
He stills under your touch before relaxing into it. And, with a familiarity that makes your heart stutter, his soapy hand finds your waist, resting against the curve of it for a short moment. Then you step back, pulling away from his touch entirely. But the moment doesn’t shatter. The stillness remains, a comfort that you both bask in while it’s there.
“Anytime, sweetheart,” he replies, and you know he means it.
—
Four months after the very first time Clark invited you into his house as ‘friends’, you’ve begun to frequent each other’s apartments more often. Calum is almost always in tow, of course, like a squirmy little parasite that giggles too much when someone looks at it.
But nowadays, it’s more about seeing each other than anything else.
On the days that you’re not working, sometimes he makes his way to your apartment during his lunchbreak so that the two of you can enjoy a meal together. He claims that it’s because one of your homecooked meals is far better than running out to a Chipotle. And other times, when Clark has long since settled himself on your couch, he’ll flick through Netflix in search of a show to bingewatch, and so far, you’ve been through Gilmore Girls, Brooklyn-99 and Stranger Things.
Your favourite shared pastime, though, is sitting on the other’s couch, soda in hand—since neither of you drink much—as you gossip about anything and everything in the world. And today, it’s—
“Does Calum ever ask about his dad?”
The question takes you by surprise and you blink up at him from where you sit beside him, sunken into the couch. There’s a soft blanket thrown over your lap, phone in hand, Instagram opened and forgotten. Your mouth opens, then closes, then opens again to take a deep breath.
Clark has never pried before. Doesn’t ask for more than what you’re willing to give.
But you can’t blame his curiosity, not really. Not when he’s been so patient with you, never going beyond what you need—a shoulder to cry on and a hand to hold.
“Not really,” you murmur eventually, indulging him in just the slightest of ways. “It’s just been me and him since before he was born, I don’t think he realises someone is… missing from our family.”
“Is there?” He asks softly, but you hear the weight in it—like he’s asking something bigger than you’re ready to answer.
You can only laugh in response, but it sounds almost forced, like you’re trying to alleviate a weight on your chest. A reality you’re not willing to face. “I don’t know.”
Maybe.
“You don’t know,” he repeats slowly.
Deliberately avoiding his gaze, you just shrug. Ever since you were a young girl, you’d always looked up to your parents.
They were, in theory and in practice, the perfect couple.
Your father had swept your mother off her feet when they were only in college—you’ve heard stories, seen the photos of how he charmed her over. A simple smile every time he looked at her, white teeth on display and a spark in his eyes that only she could seem to light up. Coffee every morning without fail, waiting on your mother’s bedside table for when she wakes up, that perfect sip that would remind her why she fell for your father in the first place.
You still see it now, in the way they answer every FaceTime call side by side, beaming faces as they look at you and Calum. How, without fail, they do everything together. Afternoon walks in the park, hand in hand, your father purposefully walking slower to keep up with your mother’s leisurely pace. Trips to the farmer’s market on Saturday mornings to pick up more of their favourite jams and breads, and dinners at the dining table every night—even though it’s been particularly quiet since you and Cal moved away to the big city.
And ever since you were a young girl, you’d always imagined that the perfect family—your perfect family—would be the exact same way. A husband, who would love and care for you the same way you’d love and care for him. A simple life, without empty spaces. Without holes.
You’d thought you’d get the chance to have that with your ex. Turns out, men like your father don’t exist.
“I’m… waiting, I guess,” you mumble. “Just looking for the right guy.”
The words sound unsettlingly familiar to Clark. He shifts in his spot, trying to recall where he had heard them. It’s a faint memory, one he can’t quite grasp onto. So, he just asks, “And, this ‘right guy’. What’s he like?”
“He has to love Calum,” you say immediately, certainly. “His love for me means nothing if he doesn’t love Calum.”
Clark just remains silent. Listening attentively as he nods, absorbing every word. Gaze soft, like he can see the genuine yearning behind your eyes for a love that transcends the moment—something so out of reach, yet so close each time you imagine it. Your own gaze reflects his own emotions—a storm that begs to be tamed, a heart screaming for connection. Flowers on your birthday and Valentine’s Day and any day in between, just because. Kisses in bed and late mornings after sleeping tangled in the same sheets.
“He’d be kind,” you say wistfully, “the kind of man who loves me because I’m someone worth loving. He’d know what I want before I even say it, and if I’m ever mad, he’ll do whatever he can to make me happier again because seeing me smile is the best part of his day. And… he should think that I’m the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen. I need to be important to him—he’d bring me flowers every Sunday, take me out for dinner dates, and all that. I want to be the girl he looks at like I’m his world.”
“Ah, so you want to be spoiled?” He grins down at you. “That’s pretty high maintenance of you, sweetheart.”
You just roll your eyes. “I prefer the term ‘princess treatment’.”
“And… does this lucky man have any particular appearance in here?” He taps your forehead with his forefinger, almost teasing in the act. His touch lingers, brushing a stray hair out of your eyes before pulling away entirely.
Chewing on your bottom lip, you think for a moment. You can see your lucky man in your head, clear as day. You’d be lying if you didn’t imagine about him sometimes, when the lights are low or work is quiet. His face is fuzzy, like a figure in a dream you see often enough to recognise, but too fleetingly to truly remember.
Gathering what you can recall, you settle on, “Tall.”
Clark raises a brow. “Just tall?”
“Tall,” you repeat with a shrug. “‘Six foot four’ kind of tall. He’d be… ideally, he’d be big. Like, broad, almost? I want him to be able to just… completely engulf me every time he hugs me. Dark-haired dudes are pretty sexy too—”
He cuts in with a laugh, a rumble deep from within his chest as he looks at you amusedly. “Could you be any more specific?”
You continue on, a small smile playing at your lips as you shake off his playful comments. “Light eyes… a strong jaw… big nose. Glasses, maybe. Tan skin—but not too dark to the point where it looks fake, y’know? There’s nothing more unattractive than a fake t—”
But then Clark’s fingers are hooking under your chin, drawing your focus back to him and your tangent falters. He searches your face with a darkened gaze, as if looking for something in your eyes, seeking to be let in.
“It doesn’t matter what he looks like. All that matters is you.”
It comes out as a murmur, a slight rasp on his lips. Honest.
Your breath hitches, and all you can do is take him in. Clark Kent with those stupid blue eyes, an ocean in and of itself that makes you want to throw all caution to the wind and drown in them. His hair is ruffled from resting his head back on the couch, and you’re tempted to run your fingers through them to smooth it back. Strong jaw that could cut glass and the bluest eyes that remind you of the sky lit up by the yellow sun.
Everything you’d described made flesh and bone and blood. All that you want in a man. Or maybe just all that you want.
His nose brushes against yours. “Sweetheart… you’re giving me that look again.”
“What look?”
“Like you want me.”
You don’t answer at first. Just search his gaze for the words to voice a truth you’re tempted to deny. And then finally, “I don’t look at you like that.”
Clark chuckles, hiding the amused smile that tugs at his lips. “Sure, you don’t.”
“I don’t—” you start to protest, but your voice is weak and you’re putty in his hands, practically melting the moment he swipes his thumb over your bottom lip. “I don’t look at you like I…”
You can’t finish that sentence.
“Yes,” he says, the smile never fading. “You do. When you think I’m not looking, or from across the room. I notice, sweetheart. When it comes to you, I always do.”
There’s a scratch in your throat, one that doesn’t disappear even as you swallow to get rid of it. “You’re just… weirdly observant.”
He doesn’t respond. He just draws closer, palm shifting to cup your face properly, until his forehead rests on yours. There’s something in his eyes that makes your stomach turn, nervous and anticipatory all at once. It has you relaxing against him, your body pliant in his hold.
“Give me the word and I’ll stop,” he whispers, a soft murmur that washes over you like the waves of a rolling tide.
“I don’t want you to stop,” you breathe out. Almost afraid that, if you were to speak too loudly, the tension would snap and the moment would end—like it never existed to begin with.
His lips are a hairsbreadth away from yours and he pauses. “Sweetheart, are you sure?”
All you offer is a tiny, imperceptible nod of your head, so small it could have been mistaken for a twitch—but he notices. He’s right. He always notices.
Clark doesn’t hesitate.
His mouth finds yours in an instant, warm, wanting and so sure. It starts gentle, like he’s holding back, terrified of scaring you off or backing you into a corner. But when you melt into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, he deepens the kiss.
And it’s as if something just clicks into place.
One hand drifts down to the small of your back, pulling you flush against him, as the other remains cradling your jaw. You can taste a hint of the soda from earlier on his breath, the steady thrum his heart strong beneath your fingertips.
Clark kisses you like he’s memorising you. Or maybe he has something to prove and words alone aren’t enough.
By the time he pulls back, just an inch, your breath catches in your throat. Your lips part, pink and puffy, as his eyes search yours. Waiting.
You’re not sure who moves first—maybe it’s both of you at the same, acting on instinct and base nature—but then you’re kissing again, and this time it’s messier, hungrier.
A nagging thought lurks in the back of your mind as he wrecks you, mind and soul—the dam between you has finally broken and you’re both helpless to stop what’s spilling out.
—
Somehow, you find yourself on Clark’s couch, in his bed and his arms more often than not. It never ventures further than making out though. He knows—can already read you better than anyone—that you’re not ready. And he’s the last person to pressure you. So, he’s been patient. Stolen kisses in the kitchen, with you perched on the countertop so that you’re eye-level with him, while Calum plays in the background, oblivious to the act, but not the connection. It gets more desperate the longer you’re alone—parted lips beneath chasing hands, sharing breath like it’s the only language you both understand.
Despite it all—the endless passion and desire—there’s a permanent hunger you can’t seem to satiate.
“We shouldn’t,” you pant out, breaking away from the kiss.
You’re lying on your back on his couch, as Clark leans over you. He supports himself with one hand, making sure not to put his weight on you, while the other cups your face.
“Sweetheart, we’ve been ‘friends’ for months, and you’re only now telling me ‘we shouldn’t’?” His thumb brushes over the apple of your cheek in a soothing back-and-forth motion that has you leaning into his touch instinctively.
Damn him and his stupid nice-guy act, you think, eyes narrowing as you take him in. There’s lipstick around his mouth, a chocolatey pink identical to the mess he’s made of you. You brush your fingers over his lips, smudging away the soft flush of colour. He tilts his head and presses a featherlight kiss to your fingertips.
He’s got a twinkle in his eye that tells you, even though he’s enjoying the banter, he wants more. He’s ready for more.
The idea alone terrifies you.
It’s been months since you last slept with someone, let alone with a guy you’ve come to know so well. It’s been longer since you were actually invested in one.
Clark is a good man, there’s no denying that. Kind and sweet and a gentle giant, the kind you bring home to your dad. God knows he would love it if you brought Clark home after the whole experience with Calum’s father. That’s exactly the thing, though. Navigating single life with a young kid isn’t easy. Every guy you’ve dated in the years since giving birth has either been clingy with mommy issues or too much of a weirdo to be able to bring around Calum. You never would have thought that the man for you had been just one floor up.
And now you’re laid back on his couch where he’s holding you like he’s already yours. Smelling like citrus and safety and a little smoke, gazing down at you like you’ve hung the moon and the stars and shaped his world with gentle hands.
That’s what scares you the most. Because what if this is the part where it all goes wrong? What if Clark decides that the hassle of you—of Calum, and raising your son by your side—isn’t worth the trouble? What if you let him in, just to lose him before you truly have him?
“I just—”
He catches the worried look in your eye almost immediately, and he holds a finger to your lips, silencing you. “Hey. I don’t mean to pressure you. I’m sorry.”
A faint blush colours your cheeks. His genuine concern causes a warm feeling to flood through your chest, and you can’t help but look away—his stare is intense. Honest. His grip shifts, tightening around your chin before you can pull away entirely. It forces you to look at him.
“I don’t know who hurt you,” he murmurs, searching your eyes, “but I’m not going to hurt you.”
“I know,” you say quietly.
It’s a bold promise after all, one you’re sure he won’t be able to keep.
“Do you, though?”
“Yes,” but it sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself more than him.
Clark simply leans in closer. “Do you?”
This time, you don’t respond. There’s something about the look in his eyes that tells you he won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. At your silence, he nudges your chin up with his nose, his lips finding your throat to suckle on the soft skin almost immediately. Your breathy sigh—while unwarranted—is like a church choir, an angel’s chorus as it descends from Heaven, and as sweet as the pop of a ripe pomegranate seed between his teeth. He takes a moment to breathe in it, revel in it—allowing himself to imagine how you would moan beneath him when he finally stops holding back. How the sweetness of your essence would drip from his lips, a dirty mess but one that he’s ready to savour.
Somehow, the air feels thicker. Filled with something akin to want.
It makes your fingers twitch, a tingle running down your body, electric where his skin meets yours.
“Can I show you?” he murmurs, slowly shifting until he’s lying between your thighs. His hands find purchase on your hips, never venturing too far. The broad width of his shoulders forces your legs apart.
When you don’t respond, he glances up at you.
“Can I, sweetheart?”
A mellow whimper leaves your lips as your eyelids flutter shut, pure bliss tingling throughout your body. And just like the first time he kissed you, all you offer him is a jerk of your head. It’s slightly forced, but you can’t find your voice—because you know that if you open your mouth now, you might just start begging.
“I need words, angel,” Clark rasps, looking up at you through the thick of his lashes. His fingers trail down your leg, teasing the skin below the hem of your shorts. He drags it higher, tantalisingly slow and deliberate, until the curve of your thigh is bared to him. His touch is featherlight, maddening, and you press closer, desperate to feel the heat of him through his shirt.
“Clark…” you whisper, fingers finding his jaw so you can tilt his face up. His gaze locks on you—there’s a hunger in his stare, a desire that pools in the depths of his soul, so pure and honest that you’re ready to throw it all to the wind and say ‘Yes’ to whatever he wants.
“Say it,” he urges, voice husky but gentle, like you’re porcelain he needs to handle with care.
You lick your lips, still cradling his jaw. “Yes,” you breathe out. “You can.”
He doesn’t move right away. Just holds you there, strong hands anchoring you to the couch as his breath ghosts over your skin, waiting for you to change your mind. When it’s clear that you’re not going back, he drags the waistband of your shorts down, baring you slowly.
“Beautiful,” he groans, taking in the sight of your exposed legs. “The most beautiful girl in the world.”
A faint blush dusts your cheeks as your legs close on instinct. But he pries them open again, his fervent touch almost reverent in the act. His fingers brush against the underside of your jaw, tilting your head down to look at him.
“Don’t hide from me,” he pleads. “I wanna see. Please, let me see you—”
“Okay,” you whisper. “Okay.”
“Thank you.” He immediately goes to tug your panties off. It’s just a simple pink pair but he still rumbles out, “So pretty, sweetheart. Everything about you is.”
Soft kisses travel down your thigh, and he takes his time worshipping you, until you’re left writhing below him. His warm breath hits your skin, and, with a soft whine, you press your head back into the pillow, back arching to curve into his body. He steadies you, the tip of his nose nudging the point above your mound.
“Please, Clark…”
He doesn’t hesitate. His mouth finds your core, tongue flicking out to lick through your slit—
And the first taste is fucking heaven.
—
Clark’s not too sure why he brought wine.
It’s a nice bottle of red, straight from the vineyards in Napa Valley. He’d flown there right after work, and he can only imagine how strange it must have been: Superman casually buying a bottle of wine, thousands of miles from home. He’s certain you can’t tell the difference between store bought wine and something fancier. You’re not a drinker, after all—he’s made you enough mugs of tea and hot chocolate to know that.
But he remembers you once mentioning that you haven’t had a drink since Calum was born. And tonight, he wanted to treat you.
Surprise you, more like, because you technically don’t know he’s coming for a ‘date night’ at your place. The second you messaged him that morning, saying you were off night shifts for the rest of the week and planned on dropping Cal off to your cousin’s again to spend the night, he’d instantly made plans to indulge you. Breakfast for dinner, wine, desserts and a romcom on your couch. Just the two of you.
The gesture is romantic in his head, and he finds himself rehearsing what he wants to say to you on the walk downstairs, from his apartment to yours.
“‘Hey, sweetheart’,” he recites to himself, “‘I’m here to… surprise you.’ No, that’s weird. ‘Surprise’? Boring. ‘Clear up your schedule, tonight it’s just me, you and Netflix’—?”
That last one makes him recoil, the sound of it forced on his tongue. For all that it’s worth, he’s not the flashy type, and he’s terribly uncorny. He’s not good at keeping surprises, even worse at setting them up. For you though, he’s willing to try.
Clark rounds the corner leading out of the stairwell, stepping into the main hallway, where he can hear voices echoing faintly down the hallway. He can barely make out the words—two people, one of them whose voice is sharp, laced with mockery. The other sounds more nervous, insistent as they drive
Clark inhales sharply when he finally sees you. Fists clenched and face set in a frown, unable to hide the fear—and repulsion—in your eyes. By your body language alone, Clark knows exactly who’s at the door.
Your ex-boyfriend. Calum’s father.
“You gonna invite me in or what?” The man sneers, looking past your shoulder in an attempt to peer into your home. He’s tall-ish and lean, with a denim jacket that hangs loose off his shoulders, a smirk that makes Clark shiver and greasy hair that looks like it hasn’t been washed for days.
Clark instantly clocks what–or rather, who—he’s looking for. But he knows that Calum’s with your cousin, and he can’t help but exhale in relief, knowing that it means your son is out of reach.
You don’t seem to notice Clark yet. Not until he comes up behind your ex, his footsteps purposeful. His presence fills the hallway in an instant, blanketing it with something close to comfort and security. You can sense it almost immediately, only looking up when you feel his stare burning into you.
Your name is a soft rumble in his chest, and—
“Clark,” you breathe out, relief easing the tension in your fingers and they relax visibly at your sides.
Your ex whirls around, taken off guard, only to be greeted by Clark’s towering frame and an unreadable expression. Clark’s tall—always has been, so the guy has to step back a little just to meet Clark’s stare dead-on.
Clark’s gaze flicks to your ex for just a moment before focusing on you again, as if your ex doesn’t exist. “Hey,” Clark says, his voice neutral but clipped. “I didn’t know you had company.”
You blink. “Dylan was just… stopping by—”
“Dylan?” Clark frowns, his head swivelling between you and your ex to gauge the true nature of ‘Dylan’s’ visit .
“I’m Calum’s father.” Dylan steps forward, holding a hand out to Clark. There’s an air of confidence, self-proclaimed familiarity in the way he carries himself—and an arrogance that makes Clark’s blood simmer. “Nice to meet you, man.”
Clark doesn't immediately take his hand. His eyes flick to you for a beat, brows drawing in to pinch in the subtlest frown. You avoid his gaze. He finally reaches out and clasps Dylan’s hand, but it’s brief. Cold. Just enough pressure to make a point.
“Clark Kent,” he says, taking Dylan’s hand gingerly. “I’m her upstairs neighbour.”
“He takes care of Calum when I’m at work sometimes—” you begin explaining, but Clark interrupts you to ask Dylan, “So, what brings you around?”
“I was just having a conversation with my baby mama. Didn’t realise I needed to clear it with you, big guy.”
Clark takes a step forward. Not by much, but just enough that Dylan’s smirk twitches. He catches himself quickly though, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders as if to size Clark up. You might’ve giggled if you weren’t so stressed—Clark still towers over Dylan by over six inches, his broad frame making him almost colossal next to your ex.
“Funny.” Clark’s tone is flat, unamused. “Because last I checked, fathers who actually show up don’t need to justify it.”
Dylan’s jaw tightens and he quickly retorts, “I don’t need to be lectured by a guy who plays house with someone else’s kid.”
Clark clenches his fists, the twitch in them unmistakeable. Slip up, he thinks, give me a reason to hurt you the way you’ve hurt her. “I take care of your son when she’s working. That’s hardly playing house.”
“You telling me you haven’t fucked her yet? Haven’t even wanted to?”
The venom—and truth—in his words makes you recoil. A subtle flinch that Clark notices immediately. Dylan doesn’t seem to be any the wiser to the way you react though, oblivious to the way his words hit their mark.
“Pretty boy’s all up in our business, brings a bottle of wine with him, hair combed back like he’s on a date, and you’re seriously trying to tell me he hasn’t been in your pants.” Dylan lets out a mocking scoff, rolling his eyes dismissively as his hand extends, grasping your sleeve with sticky fingers. “C’mon, babe.”
“Get your dirty hands off her,” Clark growls, wrenching Dylan’s arm away from you with an irontight grip. Clark’s fingers wrap around his wrist, twisting it around until it's pinned behind the other man’s body. “Don’t touch her.”
“Or what?”
“Stop it, you two,” you snap, stepping in to push them apart before it can get any worse. “This isn’t a fucking dick-measusing competition or whatever you boys like to do in your free time. You can either show Clark some respect or you can leave, Dylan.”
It’s clear, by just your voice alone, that you’re not putting up with their childish argument. “Dylan—” you warn, moving closer between them, when you notice that your son’s father isn’t about to back off.
“Don’t.” Clark cuts in to hold you back.
“So you’re telling me that you leave our kid with some random fucker, and suddenly, he’s your daddy or something too—?”
Clark’s hand shoots out, gripping the collar of Dylan’s shirt. Dragging him forward until they’re face to face, Clark growls, “You disrespect her one more time, you touch her one more time… and I won’t be this gentle. Do you see me breaking anything? Because I could.”
He leans in closer, his grip on Dylan’s shirt sliding up to wrap around his neck. Clark isn’t violent—or at least, the Clark you know isn’t violent, so the sudden display of anger rubs you the wrong way. The Clark you know is gentle, holds you with loving hands, and he murmurs sweet nothings into your ear late at night.
Dylan opens his mouth to protest.
Wrong choice.
Clark surges forward, slamming Dylan against the wall opposite your apartment, so hard you can hear the doors rattle in their frames. But before he makes another move, Clark finds you standing behind him with the tiniest tilt of his head and his stance relaxes instantly. The moment is short-lived though, when he immediately turns back to look at Dylan, who looks like he’s about to piss himself out of fear.
“Get inside,” Clark tells you lowly.
“But—”
“Get inside.”
You’ve never heard him speak like that, or look at anyone—let alone you—the way he’s looking at Dylan now. Like there’s something about Dylan’s presence that sets off something inside him. But you trust him, don’t even hesitate. The door shuts with a quiet click when you slip back into your apartment.
The moment it closes, you hear it.
Bone meets bone. Flesh splitting flesh. Just once.
Dylan lets out a groan, high-pitched as he begins to plead. No, no, no—you hear.
You wait one… two… three seconds before a low growl splits the silence. It sounds fuzzy though, and you know it’s Clark speaking but you can’t tell what he’s saying. A threat, you reckon. Something that makes Dylan blabber out, “Okay, yes, I will—”.
Then a thud as—you’re safe to assume—Clark throws Dylan to the ground. He lands with an oof, before—
“Open the door.”
Clark’s voice floats through the wood, gruff and deep in a way that sends a chill running down your spine. Hurriedly, you unlatch the door and yank him in before Dylan can think about forcing his own way in—though at this point, he’d be out of his mind to even try. With a weary sigh, you slump against the wall, squeezing your eyes shut as if to block out the stress and tension of the argument.
“What the hell was that, Clark?”
You don’t mean to snap, but it comes out sharp, like you’re scolding a reckless ten-year-old boy, not a fully grown man. You’ve never seen him lose his temper so easily, never seen him get so violent so quickly—a moment ago, you didn’t even know he was capable of packing a punch like that.
“He was an ass.”
Clark says it like it’s explanation enough, all the reason he needs. The TV is on, playing a movie you’d put on before Dylan had disrupted your evening. There's a box of takeout sitting on the coffee table in front of where you’d been sitting and it’s clear you hadn’t been expecting any visitors at all. He recognises the actor in the movie—some dark hair, blue-eyed dude called Henry Cavill. It’s background noise to him as he moves through your apartment, heading straight for the kitchen to set the bottle of wine down on the countertop.
That’s when you notice it.
“You brought wine.”
He doesn’t respond. Just opens the fridge and starts rummaging through it. “I wanted to treat you.”
You follow Clark into the kitchen, catching his hand and flipping it over to examine both sides. His knuckles are slightly red and swollen, his fingers tense in your hold, flexing to relieve the strain in his bones. Oddly enough, it already looks like it’s getting better, like packing a punch barely hurts him. “You didn’t have to do that.”
You don’t know whether you mean the wine or beating up your ex. Both feel like something to thank him for.
“I wanted to,” he responds, matter-of-factly. No hesitation, no justification. Just that. He finally faces you, the corner of his lips tugging upwards. It’s clear that he found the whole ordeal amusing, but deliberately held himself back for your sake. And then, softer, more consoling, “I didn’t hurt myself that bad, sweetheart. I promise, it’s okay.”
“He’s harmless—” you start to insist, but you cut yourself off when it’s clear that he’s not listening to you. He just gives you a look, one that says, Too late, sweetheart.
Clark reaches for the wine, popping the cork open with a twist of his hand. You hadn’t even known something like that was possible, to open a bottle without a corkscrew. But before you can address it, his hand finds your cheek, cradling your jaw as his thumb brushes the tender skin under your eye. He captures your lips in a gentle kiss, and for a second, the anger burning in your chest stutters—not because he’s right, but because he’s him.
When he pulls away, he murmurs again, firmer this time, like a vow. “I wanted to.”
He wraps his arm around your waist, the bottle of wine still in hand, as he leads you to the living room. He takes a seat on your couch, and drags you down with him. Tucks you close to his body, until your head is resting on his chest, hair soft beneath his chin. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”
He doesn’t push you. Simply waits in silence until you’re ready to talk. When you speak, your voice is low. As if you’re not keen to talk but, for him, you’ll open up.
“Dylan… he left the day I told him I was pregnant. Didn’t even look back, that fucker. Just walked out like I was some inconvenience he couldn’t be bothered with.” You tilt your head, looking at him from the corner of your eye. “You know, we were prom king and queen. We were supposed to be together forever—that’s just how it is when you’re young and in senior year. Highschool sweethearts stay sweethearts and he just—he left, Clark.”
A bitter laugh slips past your lips, like the weight of his abandonment still sits heavy on your chest after all these years. “It’s not as if I’m still in love with him or anything—he’s a complete asshole, trust me. And a little part of me is glad that you beat him up, but I—”
You cut yourself off with a bitter laugh, shaking your head in disbelief as the memory of Dylan leaving plays through your head. “It’s just—honestly. How can he ditch his pregnant girlfriend and then have the audacity to rock up to my place years later, pretending like everything is okay?”
He holds out the bottle to you, and you take a deep swig, the smooth liquid travelling down your throat like a soothing balm to your frayed nerves. The taste is sweet and unfamiliar, but you welcome it freely—anything to distract you.
Clark doesn’t say a single word. He gives you room to talk freely. Without judgement, without fear. Just a sturdy shoulder to rest your head on and an ear he’s willing to get yapped off.
“I was right out of high school when he got me pregnant,” you murmur. “I ended up staying with my parents, went to college closer to home. It wasn’t ideal but we made it work.”
“Jesus,” Clark mutters finally, giving you a concerned look. “You were a baby—”
“I was old enough to know how to use protection,” you correct, “and I paid the price for not using it. But… I don’t regret it.”
Your gaze flicks to Calum’s bedroom door, carefully painted blue and red—Superman’s colour. And despite the fact that your landlord had explicitly mentioned you couldn’t change any of the interior, you’d still done it. Making your son happy far outweighs the consequences of a few fees. His door has the Superman logo on it, that iconic yellow ‘S’ painted with the brushstroke of a mother’s dedicated hand.
Calum was two the first time either of you had ever seen Superman in person, flying high above the Metropolis skyline. Everyone had marvelled at the sight, but no one had been more entranced than your baby as he watched, wide eyed, as Superman swooped down to save a man falling from an office building. From that day, he’d been obsessed.
Truthfully, you haven’t taken much to your son’s interests—god only knows where you could find the time to. But that’s not to deny the fact that you love to indulge him, anything to make him happy—Superman themed bedsheets, plates and clothes. He’s dressed up as Metropolis’s hero for two Halloweens in a row now, and his smile only gets bigger each time he wears that costume.
“He’s my blessing. I wouldn’t change him for the world.”
“You’re a good mother.” His lips brush over your temple, featherlight. But it grounds you, reminds you that he’s here—always has been.
“I couldn’t have done it without you,” you concede, and before he can protest, you say, “Calum loves you. You’re… more of a father figure than Dylan has ever been.”
It’s a heavy truth. But, in the grand scheme of things, Clark has been more present in the past months than Dylan has in Cal’s whole life.
Clark takes the bottle from you, placing it onto the coffee table before draping his arm over your thighs. He just holds you like that, the rise and fall of his chest steady beneath your cheek.
“It’s been hard,” you say quietly.
He just nods. “I know.”
“And… at first, the…” you trail off, unsure of how to continue, but he just squeezes you.
I’m here, it says, it’s okay.
You take a deep, shuddering breath, leaning further into his hold. “After giving birth, I hated myself. So much. I didn’t… I didn’t feel like me; I didn’t feel like a mother. I just… felt like a fraud. But you… Clark, you’re the first person who’s made me feel normal in the last four years. Like I’m not alone in this, and I—I couldn’t be more grateful.”
“You’re worth it,” he rasps, nose nudging your hairline, his soft breaths teasing the baby hairs. “You and Calum, both.”
For the first time in a long time, you believe him.
—
It’s a quiet morning when Clark steps through your front door without so much as a knock. You’d given him a key to your apartment a few days ago, and it’s safe to say that he’s enjoying the privilege. Very much so.
The smell of raisin toast—your favourite go-to breakfast—drifts through the air as you nurse a cup of tea in your hands. You’re sitting on one of the stools on the kitchen island and you just call out, “In here!” the moment you hear the doorknob turn.
He doesn’t announce himself, but you immediately know it’s him. Not just because you’ve already given him a key, but because a small part of you knows his body better than your own at this point—every curve, every scar, every blemish on his skin. It’s engraved in your memory, a permanent fixation in the back of your mind.
“Morning, sweetheart,” he murmurs, coming up behind you. A soft kiss lands on your cheek and you lean into his touch, the curve of your face moulding perfectly against his. You can feel him frown, cheeks turning down in the way it does whenever he’s unimpressed with something. “You made your own tea.”
“You took ages to get here,” you say.
He just scoffs. You know he hates it when you do things for yourself—he much prefers doing it for you. A favour, he calls it but you know it’s really just princess treatment. “How’d you sleep?”
“The bed was cold,” you tease. “I was, unfortunately, missing a six-foot-four giant. He hogs all the blankets despite always running hot and he never sleeps with a shirt on. Oh, and he’s like, super sexy—have you seen him?”
He just rolls his eyes, swivelling the chair to turn you around in his arms. Clark’s mouth finds yours almost instantly, an eager kiss that speaks volumes about his desire for you, as his hand palms your ass through your pyjama pants. It’s far too early in the morning for this, so you let him control the pace and the movement. You haven’t brushed your teeth yet, but if he’s realised, he doesn’t seem to mind. His hand cups your cheek, steadying you beneath him before he pulls away—albeit a little reluctantly.
“I do not hog all the blankets,” he grumbles, resting his forehead against yours.
“Liar.” You stick your tongue out playfully.
He just rolls his eyes with a suppressed grin, muttering, “Brat.”
The toaster dings and, before you can head for it, Clark is handling it for you. He pulls away from you, making his way around your kitchen with ease—he finds your favourite breakfast dish, plates the toast, then slathers it with butter, just the way you like it. A flash of fondness lights up your gaze, softening the moment altogether. The thoughtfulness of the act—even though it’s just fucking toast and butter—warms your heart, and it makes your chest ache with something dangerously close to love.
—
“He thinks you’re Superman,” you tell Clark with an eye roll. Chinese takeout is spread out on the dining table in front of you. Clark had gotten it on his way home, where you’d already been waiting in his apartment with Calum. It’s become a daily occurrence for you to rock up to each other’s apartments nowadays, and you eat at his place more often than not. Clark still takes care of Calum when you’ve got work, but lately, you’ve been spending more time together as a couple than anything else.
Clark freezes, a split second where his whole body tenses up and his heart just stops. You don’t notice—of course you don’t. He’s too good at masking his emotions and you’re preoccupied with keeping an eye on Calum as he rolls around on the floor with Krypto.
So he just laughs, wanting to come off as nonchalant, but it sounds slightly strained. “What? No way, sweetheart. Me? Superman? Seriously?”
You can only grin, his shock only adding to your entertainment. “Honestly, I don’t know who he gets it from. I sure as hell wasn’t as imaginative as him at this age—” That’s when you turn to him with a smirk. “Are you brainwashing my son or something?”
He grins, leaning forward. His arm rests on the table, other hand reaching up to brush a strand of hair out of your face. “The only thing I’m teaching him are some manners.” He frowns jokingly. “Haven’t you realised, sweetheart? I’ve got him pushing chairs in after dinner and everything.”
“Ah,” you play along, “of course. He even offered to clear up the table the other day! I was so surprised.”
Clark’s pretend-frown deepens. “He only offered to clean up? I had him mopping and vacuuming when you dropped him off the other week. Maybe he just likes to help me more.”
You burst into giggles at the thought of your four-year-old son holding a mop twice his height, dragging it across Clark’s living room floor. “God, you wish you had a servant. You need to start paying him for his labour.”
“Hey,” you say, resting your head on his shoulder. “You’re real good with my kid, Superman.”
It’s only a joke, but Clark’s heart clenches at the truth behind the name. “He makes it easy.” He pauses, before murmuring, “You both do.”
You keep your head on his shoulder, but you tip your gaze up just enough to watch him. There’s something careful in his expression, like he’s weighing what not to say.
“Okay, but… seriously,” you murmur, your voice laced with something akin to amusement laced with curiosity. “Are you like… friends with Superman, or something?”
He doesn’t say a word, just presses a soft kiss to your hair, so gentle it almost distracts you. Almost.
Calum must have been listening in because, at the mention of Superman, he abandons Krypto and the floor and comes clambering onto your lap. You brush his hair away from his face with a smile. Clark’s still silent so you continue speaking. “I know you interview him a lot, right? For work.”
“Mhm.”
There’s something odd about the way he avoids eye contact and it throws you off a bit— “So do you, like… bring him around and stuff? To play with Calum?”
“He does!” Calum giggles, but the older man doesn’t answer right away. You can feel him tense again, like a rope stretched taut.
“I guess you could say that.”
“Say what?” you raise a questioning brow.
“I suppose that Superman is…. my friend,” he says slowly, choosing his words carefully, but he disguises his hesitation with a casual shrug. “Started calling in a favour with him after that first day you asked me to look after Cal. When I found out he likes Superman, I just thought it’d be a nice thing to do.”
That’s the thing: it is. It’s the sweetest gesture, one you never would've expected him to do for a child that he, at the time, barely knew.
“Does he visit often?”
Clark shrugs. “It’s on an… availability basis.”
“That’s nice of him,” you hum before grinning up at him mischievously, as you nudge him with your elbow. “You should introduce me to him one day.”
“Absolutely not,” Clark interjects before you can entertain that thought any longer. He glances at Calum—the little kid is notorious for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. So Clark throws him a look of warning that screams ‘Don’t you dare say a word’, and to his relief, Calum just runs his fingers over his lips in the universal ‘shut your mouth and throw away the key’ motion. Clark exhales in relief, slumping back in his chair.
“Why?” Your lips purse in a tight frown, just as a knowing look crosses your face and your eyes light up. “Is someone jealous?”
Clark’s neck flushes pink, his cheeks warming up as a wave of embarrassment crashes over him. “I… that’s not why—”
You don’t think much of his stammering. If anything, you find his supposed “jealousy” endearing.
“Don’t worry, baby,” you murmur, leaning up to peck his lips. “Superman’s just a guy in spandex. I already have you.”
—
Metropolis, for the first time in a long time, is quiet.
A peaceful Tuesday morning, something you haven’t had in months. For once, there are no aliens terrorising the streets, the Justice League isn’t flying around flaunting their powers, and Superman is nowhere to be seen. With a matcha in hand, handbag slung over one shoulder, and the knowledge that Calum is safe at daycare, this is what you would call a perfect day.
Of course, you’re nothing if not unlucky.
It’s not long before a stranger breaks the peaceful bubble you’ve been trapped in for the last odd hour or so as they rush past you, a blur in the busy city street. Their shoulder knocks against you, shoving you forward, and your matcha tumbles to the ground, a puddle of green pooling at your feet.
“Shit,” you snap lowly, turning around to give the person a piece of your mind.
But it’s then that you notice the stampede of people heading straight towards you—and in the distance, a large brown ugly thing with bulging eyes stomps through the city square.
A low curse leaves your lips when you realise what it is. Fucking aliens. Always disturbing your peace in this goddamn city.
“What are you doing?” Some lady yells at you when she catches you staring at the monster, transfixed. “Run!”
You don’t hesitate.
The years spent living in Metropolis have shaped your reaction time—you’re fast now, faster than you’ve ever been, at responding to threats like it’s second natur. An act that is now as familiar to you as feeding or cleaning Calum. It feels like a stampede more than anything else—the quiet Tuesday morning atmosphere is shattered by the shouts of corporate assholes who shove their way to the front so they can be as far away from the danger as possible.
It takes a short while, but eventually, there’s a whoosh in the sky—a telltale sign that Superman is here. A flash of blue and red streaks through the sky, and despite yourself, you stop to marvel at it. You all do, because when Superman comes in, he demands attention—the ‘S’ on his chest is like a homing beacon, reminding people of hope and happiness and a life without hardship here in Metropolis.
Everyone lets out a whoop as they watch him fly overhead, raising their hands in a loud cheer. Still, you can’t bring yourself to celebrate, not with the monster still looming closer and closer with every passing. And especially not with the way that—
Oddly enough, it seems like he’s getting bigger and bigger, until it feels like he’s heading straight for you.
Terror seeps through your bone like marrow, weighing you down so that you’re frozen in place as Superman reaches for you in front of everyone. A strong arm of steel bands around your waist, yanking you away from the danger and suddenly, you’re flying.
A loud, panicked yelp leaves your lips as the gravity of what is happening finally hits you—Superman just flew in and saved you. You, of all people. His breath ruffles the hair at your temple, and beneath the rush of blood in your ears, you can make out his voice reassuring you... it’s gonna be okay. I’m getting you to safety.
Floating above the Metropolis skyline, the sea of skyscrapers stretching out in front of you before melting into the vast distance. You can see the monster-alien-thing rampaging down below, its tail swinging into trees. But Superman doesn’t pay it much attention.
It takes two... three... four seconds of flying before he approaches a familiar looking building. He gently lowers you down to the balcony, like you’re precious cargo—there’s a rug pushed up against the the doorstep, and it reminds you of the same one you keep outside. Blue with white floral patterns bordering the edges. The fake potted plants that... Clark Kent gave you a few weeks ago. Your underwear, hanging on the line, dry and waiting to be collected.
Home. He’s taken you home.
You turn to face him where he’s still hovering, just a few metres above the floor. In any other circumstance, you’re sure he would have gone back by now, to help the rest of the Justice League. But now, he just stays there, watching you intently with his arms crossed over his chest and an expectant look in his eyes—his stare doesn’t put you off though. If anything, it warms your heart, a familiarity in his eyes that makes it hard to breathe beneath his scrutinising stare. Perhaps, that’s the most unsettling part of it all.
“How…” There’s a thick lump in your throat, unease churning in your stomach as you step away from him. “How do you know where I live?”
His eyes dart to the balcony right above yours before meeting your eyes again, and there’s a tiny, knowing smile on his face—one you’ve seen aimed at you for months now.
That’s when it all clicks.
“Clark.”
His name is a whisper on your tongue, strained and hesitant. A small part of you is afraid that, if you speak too loud, you’re going to say something you’ll regret.
That single curly strand of hair flops over his forehead and you remember the first time you saw it up close—at his place, when he’d answered the door, sweaty and slightly out of breath. “A work call,” he’d said then, and now you want to laugh. How stupid had you been to trust him? Even stupider, you’re sure, considering that Calum has literally been telling you the truth for months now.
Superman—Clark, you correct yourself mentally—floats down to the ground, landing with a light step right in front of you. “Sweetheart…”
He doesn’t deny it.
“You should’ve told me,” you say quietly, almost accusatorily.
“I wanted to—” he tries to defend himself, but he doesn’t look all that remorseful for lying.
“But you didn’t,” you interrupt. “You made the choice to…” ‘Lie’ feels wrong. Too strong a word. “You made the choice to continuously pretend that Superman was just your ‘friend’. “You let me humiliate myself in front of you while my four-year-old son knew all along. You just… you lied to me.”
“That wasn’t my intention, sweetheart,” he murmurs, but you step back, a pained look crossing your face. Anger simmers in your blood, hardly daring to boil over lest you say something you regret.
“I think your friends are looking for you,” you say quietly when you spot the Justice League flying around in the background. They look lost without him, ducklings wandering aimlessly without their mother. Green Lantern’s got some contraption in place, and it pokes the monster’s eye repetitively. You wince at the sight of it. Hakwgirl is a tiny speck in the sky as she flies in circles around its head in an attempt to disorient. Any bystander could tell that, without Superman by their side, they’re not exactly doing the best job at taking down the alien.
Clark follows your gaze and he recoils when he sees Green Lantern get swatted out of the sky.
“They’re not my friends—” He starts to protest, but he falters off once he realises how stupid that sounds when he says it out loud. “I mean, they are, but they’re not…”
Important? Special?
You?
You shake the thought off before it can fester. Lowly, you tel him, “They need you, Clark. Go… save the city, or whatever it is that you do.”
“Please—” Clark’s face contorts with a desperation of sorts as he reaches out for you, gripping your hand tightly. His hold loosens just as quickly when he notices the blank look on your face. Spaced out, like you’re not fully there. At least, not in the way he wishes you were.
“Okay,” he concedes with a nod, swallowing thickly. “Okay, but this isn’t over. We’re talking about this later.”
All you can do is nod, wrapping your arms around yourself as you watch him step back, shooting off into the sky in a blur of red and blue. Tonight, then. Though, you’re not quite sure if it’s a conversation you’re looking forward to.
—
That night, you find yourself sitting at Clark’s dining table.
The kitchen light is dim, casting a shadow over you as Clark busies himself with making hot chocolate for the two of you. His back is to you, muscles rippling beneath the tight fabric of his sleep tee. On any other occasion, you would’ve been by his side, running a hand down his spine, teasing the skin just above the waistband of his pants. He’d turn, that familiar smile etched on his beautiful face—half fondness, half amused—and pull you in for a kiss. Two, if you were lucky.
Now, you can hardly stomach the thought of touching him.
Nothing about him has changed though, since you found out the truth this morning. If you were to touch him now, his skin would be as soft as it always is, calloused hands just as strong and comforting, eyes still as bright as the sun. The same hands that held you so tenderly every day are the same ones that come home battered and bruised by villains and extraterrestrials beings and evil metahumans. The same lips you kissed are the same ones that lied to you.
It hits you then, the weight of it.
Clark Kent is Superman and your son has known all along. And somehow, through all the late nights and stolen kisses and whispered promises, he still chose not to tell you. He still chose to lie.
Eventually, the noise in the kitchen quietens down as he approaches, two mugs of hot chocolate in his hands. He sets a cup in front of you before taking a seat opposite you. For a while, neither of you say anything. The only movement in his small apartment is the rustle of the curtains by the open window, and cold air drafts in. The hot chocolate is a small reprieve from the awkwardness, but it does little to ease the cold distance that’s settled between you.
Clark hesitates, before reaching up and taking his glasses off his face. With a precision and calmness that belies the tension in the room, he folds the arms of the frame, setting it down on the table between you.
“You look different,” you say quietly. Handsome, like a veil has lifted between you and you’re finally seeing him.
The real Clark.
Somehow, without the glasses, he looks far more muscular, his body filling out his tee in a way that makes the average gym goer look small. His eyes are bluer, clearer like you can see the world he comes from within them. Krypton. You’d once read about it in a paper that Clark had written about Superman—himself. The irony isn’t lost on you.
All he does is nod. He never breaks eye contact once—sky blue eyes hold your gaze, an air of confidence that rattles your bones. You want to reach over the table and grab his neck, throttle him a little.
Show some emotion, you have half a mind to yell. Tell me you’re sorry, tell me that I meant something to you, tell me that what we had wasn’t just a lie.
“I’m sorry,” is all he murmurs.
“No, you’re not.”
He exhales sharply, looking away momentarily as his fingers tighten around his mug. “No, I’m not.”
Silence stretches between you before he clears his throat. “I just… I just wanted to protect you.”
“I let you around my son—” I loved you, you want to say, but that would be admitting that, despite everything that’s happened—the danger he’s put Calum in, time and time again—you still love him.
You’ve never said it out loud. Saying it now feels like a lie, no matter how much your heart wants it to be true—possible. It feels like a betrayal of sorts. To yourself, to your son and to the part of you that knows love shouldn’t have to come with this kind of cost.
“I would never do anything to harm him,” he pleads. “I care about Calum, I swear I do.”
“It’s not about harming him, Clark,” you snap, “it’s about the fact that you lied to me! It’s about the fact that, when I asked you if you were Superman—regardless of if it was a joke or not—you told me ‘no’.”
“Sweetheart…” He falters, unsure of what to say. His voice is a rasp when he settles, “I love that kid, okay? I didn’t plan to, but I do, just like I love yo—”
“Don’t.”
The chair squeals against the hardwood floor when you stand up, the hot chocolate he’d made you untouched. “I’d prefer it if you just… stay away from us. Please.”
Clark doesn’t listen to you. The thing about him is, he never does—too stubborn for his own good and too in love to think straight. He stands up, stepping closer to you. “You’re the reason I come back home everyday. You and Calum. The reason I keep fighting, the reason I want to be better, to make the world better—because the two of you deserve a world that’s good, and kind, and safe. And if I can be the one to give that to you, then why shouldn’t I try?”
“Because you can put us in danger—”
“And I can protect you!” The words end in a crack, like it’s taking everything to just keep himself together. “I will protect you! Always. Can’t you see that? I would do anything for you, sweetheart, if you’d just let me in. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not him—”
His words are like a gunshot to your already wounded heart. Count on him to bring Dylan up when he knows you’re vulnerable—a bullet that had been waiting to meet its mark.
“I know,” you respond firmly—you refuse to let yourself waver. “I know you’re not him but that doesn’t mean you won’t break me the same way.”
Your voice is steady, but your hands tremble at your sides, fingers curled and digging crescents into your palms. “It doesn’t mean you won’t leave pieces of me behind when you go. I won’t put myself through that again.”
His face crumples, the desperate hope in his eyes dimming slightly, like a candle flickering in the wind. “But I won’t go. I’m not going anywhere.”
“But you could get hurt, Clark!” You burst out, and this time, you can’t hide the tears that threaten to spill over. “You could get hurt, you could bring enemies home, you could put my son in danger! One day, you might not come home at all and I don’t know if I can handle that.”
“I saved your life today!”
“You broke my trust today!”
“Sweetheart—” he starts to protest, faltering when you hold a hand up to stop him. His face crumples, resignation dampening the light in his eyes. His voice is almost a croak, weak and accepting, as he nods. “Okay. Okay, I’ll… keep my distance. I promise.”
He pauses, head hung low as though instinctively leaning into a touch that isn’t there—resting his forehead against your is his favourite act of intimacy. Sharing a single breath with you, both your eyes closed, noses brushing. It’s a feeling he will never get enough of, a peace he yearns for after long days and longer nights—a quiet only you could give. Well… gave.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, lower this time, like he knows it’s not enough. Like it never has been.
You don’t look at him. Can’t. Because if you do, you’ll see that stupid, sorry hope in his eyes—the one he wears like a wound when he looks like you, so painfully raw and open. It makes you want to hold him together, stitch the pieces of his heart with the loose threads of your own soul.
Krypto whines when you turn away, darting between your feet as if to make you stay. He nips at the hem of your pants, insistent and tempting, almost like he could drag you back inside with his teeth alone. You can’t bear to acknowledge him, knowing damn well that he’s more than capable of having you turn around, back into Clark’s waiting arms.
When he realises that Krypto isn’t leaving your side anytime soon, Clark lets out a low, sharp whistle that has the puppy’s ears perking up—almost Pavlovian in the act. That’s when you look down at him, a small apologetic smile on your lips—the kind people give when they’ve already made up their mind—and he backs away. Then quietly, he whimpers, before scampering off to Clark’s side.
“You don’t need to go,” Clark says hoarsely as you reach for the handle. It’s not a plea, not quite. But it hangs between you like one, hope and resignation twisted together in an unbreakable promise.
You finally glance at him. A mistake.
He’s standing there, right where you left him, looking at you like you’re his salvation and his ruination. Like if you took one step forward, he’d welcome you home with open arms—where, deep down, you know you belong. But if you took a step back, he’d let you, because he cherishes you too much to beg for a love you’re not ready to give.
And dear God, but that’s worse.
“I do, Clark,” you whisper. “I really do.”
—
Dinner is a simple affair—it’s been the same meal every night for the past couple weeks. Calum is starting to get sick of it, you can see it in the way he slumps over the table, head in his hand as he pushes the rice around the plate.
“Baby,” you start, “you need to eat it—”
“I am eating,” he grumbles, shovelling a spoonful in his mouth. He’s gotten grumpier since the whole ordeal with Clark and his sour mood only makes your heart ache. He hardly plays anymore. Barely even talks to you. Just sits by the window day and night, his Superman figurine by his side as he waits for a blur in the sky—a glimpse of his favourite person.
“Calum.”
Your tone is stern, brooking no argument. The meaning behind it is clear: you won’t tolerate his attitude.
A thought pops into your head then, unwarranted and unexpected—Clark. You can imagine him sitting beside Calum, that serious look softening into something patient yet firm as he says, “Cal, listen to your mother.” His voice—quiet but unshakable—would cut through the tension because that’s what Clark’s always been best at. Stepping in when you needed a break, when the ‘bad cop’ act wore thin and your patience ran dry.
You swallow hard, pushing down the ache his absence has left behind as it blooms quietly in your chest. Calum still hasn’t looked at you, muttering quietly to himself. His anger—and his pain—is clear in the way he hides away from you, and the guilt hits you all at once. He’s struggling as much as you are. Now’s not the time to be selfish.
“Hey,” you say, moving from your spot on the opposite side of the table to crouch down beside him. Shifting his chair, you force him to meet your gaze. “Look at me, Calum. What’s wrong?”
He’s still silent, but he looks at you almost hesitantly, as if it’s somehow a scary ordeal. You know exactly what this is about—you just want to hear it from his own lips.
“Look, I’m sorry about Clark. I am. I swear I am. I miss him too, more than you know, buddy—”
“He said… he said he loves you,” Calum murmurs, glancing away, focusing his attention on a spot somewhere over your shoulder.
“I know, baby,” you whisper back, “I love him too.”
You’ve never said those words out loud—not to yourself, not to Clark. But saying them to Calum feels like a confession, a truth you can’t deny or take back, and a promise that’ll never be fulfilled, all at once.
“Then why can’t he come over?” His bottom lip trembles, baby blues welling with tears. “You said that people who love each other are nice to each other. And you’re being mean to him—”
“That’s different, Calum. You’re my son—”
“And he’s Mr Clark!”
It doesn’t slip past you, the fact that he says ‘Mr Clark’. Over the past couple of months, as the three of you had grown closer, forming a small family in the purest sense of the word, Calum had dropped the ‘Mr’, and Clark had simply become ‘Clark’.
Now, Calum just says Mr Clark like it means something. It did once. You just don’t know what it means anymore.
“Honey…” you say softly, cupping his cheek tenderly. “Mr Clark… he broke Mama’s trust. You remember what I taught you about trust, right?”
Calum doesn’t respond as stubborn tears begin to fall down his face. Your throat closes up, a choked emotion you can’t show Calum, lest your own sadness affect his even more. So you force a smile—he can’t tell the difference between that and the usual twinkle in your eyes, but that doesn’t make faking it any easier. The curve of your mouth trembles and the sheer effort of pretending that everything is fine when it’s not forces a heavy weight on your shoulders. It’s a pain you haven’t felt in a long, long time—not since Clark Kent offered to bear it for you.
“Mr Clark broke Mama’s trust,” you continue, and your voice is barely above a whisper, threatening to crack at any given moment. “And… I only want people I trust around you, Calum. Because I want you to be safe, okay? I want to protect you and I can’t do that if Mr Clark lied to me.”
Calum bursts into tears then, collapsing off his chair and into your arms. The sob he lets out is heartwrenching.“But I want him!”
“I know, baby,” you hush softly, running over hand up and down his back. Tucking his head against your chest, his tears soak your shirt as he hiccups between sobs. “I miss him too.”
You hold Calum there, close to your chest with your cheek pressed to his head. It’s hard to soothe a child who’s hurting, and much harder to soothe a child who doesn’t want you, no matter how fleeting his anger is. The ache in your heart only grows, until you’re terrified you’ll bleed out on the ground, without a single person capable of stitching you back together.
—
Clark Kent is, by nature, one of the most caring men you’ve met. And his absence leaves a gaping hole in your life.
There was something so right about having him around, his presence like a blanket of security that wrapped you in safety and security—around him, you didn’t have to worry. You didn’t even have to lift a finger.
For the longest time, Clark had been the one holding you together. He’d been the one to make sure you ate and showered when your mind wandered too far to remind yourself. The one to answer your call in the middle of the night when you needed help—or when you were just lonely. He was the person who plated your dinner, washed the dishes after you’d spent the evening cooking for him, a labour of love born out of kindness. Now the dishes remain untouched, piling up high until you force yourself to get up and wash them yourself.
You’re not a lazy mother, not by a long shot. You’ve spent the last five years dedicating your life, and all your time, and energy to a little boy who’s become the center of your world. But a small part of you had gotten used to being treasured and treated like someone worth being cared for, the way he cared for you.
Before Clark had ripped it away from you.
The resentment still coils in your chest every time you pass him in the apartment lobby, or see his name under an article on the front page of the newspaper. And sometimes, you want to curse at the sky, in hopes that Superman might just hear you.
But most times, you just sit in bed, pretending that your blanket around your shoulders is half as comforting as Clark’s arms. It’s a dangerous thing—imagination—and it has you wondering what would happen if you were to call him up now.
A little part of you knows that he’d answer without hesitation. His voice would be soft on the other side, patient and understanding. It’d be the balm to your weary soul, an antidote that you know will work wonders the moment you get your hands on it. The larger part of you though—the one that thinks with logic and common sense and everything that is painfully pessimistic—hopes that he wouldn’t. Because answering means he still cares. It means that he’s not angry and, in a worst case scenario, it means that he doesn’t feel guilty about breaking your trust.
It’s late Sunday night when you hear a knock on your apartment door. Calum is already asleep, has been for hours now. You’ve been rotting on the couch since you put him to bed, some crappy Netflix original series playing on the TV screen but you’re not really paying attention. Your thoughts are somewhere in the past, stuck in sunny skies and yellow suns and baby blue eyes.
That’s when you hear it.
Two heavy knocks on your door.
Standing up with a heavy sigh, you pause the TV. The soles of your pink fluffy slippers squeak against the floorboards as you shuffle down the hallway. “Coming!”
The latches come undone, chains falling with a soft clink and the door creaks in that familiar way it always does. You recognise his shoes first, worn loafers that have become scuffed from months of use.
Clark.
He’s the last person you expected to see, especially not so close to midnight.
He’s not wearing his glasses.
He looks different without them, you’d realised this the night you left. Handsomer. The thought crosses your mind like last time, unbidden.
The second thing you notice is that he’s tired—his eyes are sunken, dark bags circled below them, with his brows furrowed tightly as he squints down at you.
The third thing you spot is the bouquet of flowers in his hands. White lilies and white peonies, bunched together at the stem with a cream-coloured wrapping paper. It’s a gorgeous assortment, not bright enough to be an eyesore, but so not dull that it feels lazy. Simple, not understated.
Your favourite kind.
“I… I got these for you,” he says quietly, holding out the bouquet. No ‘hi’. No ‘I missed you’. Just ‘here’. As if he has a right to come out of nowhere and bring you flowers, like a boyfriend making it up to his girl after a fight.
As if it hasn’t been weeks since you’ve seen him, let alone spoken to him.
Still, you reach for it almost instinctively before reconsidering, drawing your hand back to your side. “Why?”
“You said…” he pauses, clearing his throat. His gaze flicks up to meet your eyes before he looks away, bashful. “You told me that day… you’d want flowers every Sunday.”
Your eyes widen imperceptibly, something fleeting passing through your chest before it’s tamped down. That was the last thing you’d expected him to say. Hell, you didn’t even think he’d remember that conversation, let alone act on it.
“By the man I love.” It comes out flat, blunt in a way you don’t recognise. Unimpressed, like the fact that he came over to bring you flowers means nothing at all.
“And I love you,” he rasps softly. “That’s excuse enough for me.”
“You don’t have a right to say that.” Not anymore.
The venom in your words makes Clark’s heart clench. There was a time, not too long ago, when you looked at him with stars in your eyes, spoke to him with a honey-sweet voice that sent fire rushing through his veins. He’s certain it still would—you always seemed to have that effect on him, the way you make his head spin with the possibilities of what he could do to you, body and soul. And beneath that, a shining awe at the fact that, even if for just a little while, you were his.
And now this is what you’ve become—what he’s done to you. Lost to a distance and drift that he could’ve held together on his own if he’d just given himself the chance.
“You’re right,” he rectifies hurriedly, worried that a moment’s pause would seem too much like hesitation—or worse, ignorance. His gaze softens. “I’m sorry.”
His hand comes up to hover at your cheek to reach out and touch you. It wavers midair, a split second of hesitation before it cups your face. Clark’s palm is big—always has been, in a way that makes you feel small and protected—warm against your cheek and you lean into his touch, the gesture automatic in nature.
Clark pauses for a moment, wallowing over the words he wants to say.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he says lowly. “I never meant to lie to you, or keep secrets from you. I wanted to protect you. I wanted to make sure that, no matter what happens to me, or to Metropolis or any-fucking-one else, you would be safe. Hate me. Yell at me. Hell, hit me. But please… don’t keep me away. Don’t make me spend another day apart from you. I can’t survive that. I won’t. Because I meant what I said, sweetheart. You’re the reason I come home everyday. You give me a reason to want to make this world a better place.”
Those were the words he said to you the night he left, and you remember vividly like a branded mark seared into your mind. The fight replays in your head more often than you’d like, and every time it makes your heart ache a little bit more than before.
“I will protect you! Always. Can’t you see that? I would do anything for you, sweetheart, if you’d just let me in. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m not him—”
You flinch at the memory, the reminder that Clark’s love, though sorely painful, is nothing like Dylan’s. Quiet and unspoken, but so resolute that it could become a constant in your life to fill in the spaces of an empty void. It had been empty for so long, dry and barren, waiting for a love to bear the hurt on their shoulders for you.
That had been Clark.
And some nights, you let your mind wander to that dangerous place, teetering on the edge of rationality and foolish hope—to wonder if letting him leave was the wrong choice. What if you had decided to hear him out instead? What if you had simply given him a chance?
He notices your flinch—and immediately, his other hand flies up to cradle your face properly now. “Hey… talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong. Please.”
Because that’s Clark for you. Always pouring out of his own cup just to make sure yours is full. Looking back, you hadn’t been as grateful as you should’ve been during your time together. Maybe that’s where your faults first started—tiny cracks that quickly, and quietly,
“I’m scared,” you admit, and your voice breaks, delicate in a way that you fear makes you seem weak.
He doesn’t need to ask why. Just a tilt of his head that you can read like a book. Scared of what, he asks you with a look, begging, almost to let him in.
A self-deprecating laugh bubbles up from your throat, like you couldn’t possibly fathom the idea of not being scared. For the longest time, the world has dealt nothing but blows—rolling punch after punch until you’re bruised and battered and broken.
So you can’t help but to blurt out, “What if you realise you don’t want me and Calum?”
Clark doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s never going to happen,” he insists, but you cut him off with a shake of your head.
“He’s not your son.”
“I love him like one,” he counters.
There’s a conviction in his voice that makes your chest constrict, like a snake finding a home in the crevice of your ribs, a makeshift cage that squeezes, tighter and tighter until your breath becomes weak and shaky. Clark’s arm bands around your waist without warning, pulling you closer until you’re flush against him. His mouth ghosts over yours, and you can practically taste the minty gum that he’s always chewing lingering on his breath. He shakes his head, a pained noise escaping his lips, like he wants to steal away all the hurt that you feel—that he inflicted on you—and carry it for you.
“Stop that,” Clark pleads, and his voice cracks with the sheer effort of holding back. “Stop diminishing how much I love you. How much I need you. Don’t you see? Sweetheart, you’ve made Metropolis home for me.”
Your heart beats in your throat, a slow pain seizing your body as he holds you close, the same reverence in his eyes that he’s always looked at you with.
“Clark…” you breathe out, but when his jaw bumps against your cheek, warm skin on warm skin, you’re a goner. You fist the front of his shirt, gripping the fabric like it’s a lifeline. Turning your head, your nose brushes his, closer and closer, until you’re sharing the same breath. You don’t let yourself hesitate. “I know.”
“You know but you’re not believing it—” Clark starts to insist, but a small voice quiets through the blanketed silence of the night.
“Mama?”
The sound of Calum calling out your name has you jumping away from Clark’s hold. Somehow, it feels like you’re sixteen again, caught sneaking out to meet up with a boy you shouldn’t be seeing, and a wave of guilt washes over you.
Calum’s bedroom door clicks shut behind him as he waddles towards you, rubbing his eyes to remove the disorientation. Even half-asleep, he seeks out your comfort. “Mama, what’s happening?”
“Nothing, baby,” you say softly. It’s hard to miss the way Clark watches him, with the longing of a father who misses holding his son—for years, you’d prayed Dylan would look at Calum like that. It only hurts more now that it’s Clark in his place. Your hand lands on Calum’s shoulder when he finds his place beside you, already redirecting him back to bed. “Go back inside—”
“What’s Mr Clark doin’ here?” Calum blinks up at Clark, confused, like he’s not quite if Clark is really there or just a figment of his wild imagination.
“He’s… just dropping by, Cal.” The lie feels unnatural on your tongue, but Calum doesn’t quite buy it. Though, to be fair, you’ve never been the best liar.
He just stares up at Clark, eyes squinted and hands on his hips as he frowns. “Are you here to make Mama happy again?”
The expression in Clark’s eyes shatters as his gaze finds yours in the dimly lit corridor. He just shakes his head, and, for once in his lifetime, he’s at a loss for words. His mouth opens, and closes, looking for the perfect answer as if it would automatically slip out of his tongue.
“If your mother wants to be happy, then…”
Then I’ll stay, is what he doesn’t say.
“In,” you repeat again to your son, sterner this time. Turning into your home, you tell Clark, “I’ll see you around.”
But you both know that’s a lie—you’ve been avoiding him for months now. You even go out of your way just to make sure you don’t pass him in the hallways of your apartment building. To you, not seeing him at all is easier than confronting him, even if just for a moment. It’s simpler to deprive yourself of him entirely than to risk brushing against him in the lobby when you’re both collecting mail, or having to wait for the same elevator that’ll take the both of you to a home that the other is no longer welcome in.
Clark, for all that it’s worth, doesn’t seem quite ready to let you go again, especially not so soon. He calls your name, but it falls short on his tongue—too painful to say out loud, but not too lost a love to shy away from fighting for it. For you.
For a single moment, you freeze. Then you turn around, angling your body, just so, to be able to hear him.
“Let me try again,” Clark pleads, words rushed like he’s worried that taking too long will shatter the moment—or worse, whatever remains of your trust. His hand finds yours in the din, strong fingers wrapping around your wrist to keep you close. It forces you look at him, and meet his gaze. “No secrets, no lies—just us.”
It’s tempting. God knows, it’s tempting, but the hurt of his betrayal still lingers, still a fresh wound despite the weeks he’s given you space to put yourself back together. Clark can sense it somehow, because his hand finds your chest, palm flat in the space just above your breasts, and he can feel your heart beating rapidly beneath his touch. “I know I hurt you—”
“Stop that,” you echo his earlier sentiment, and an unfamiliar anger simmers at the pits of your stomach, hot and painful. You thought you’d left it in the past, during those first few weeks after you walked out, but here it is, stronger than ever. But this time, maybe the hatred that stirs within you isn’t aimed at Clark alone—you know that this aching need in your chest is your own doing, more than anything.
“Just… stop.” The words come out choked, shaking your head as you blink back tears. “You made me strong once, Clark. And I needed you more than anything in this world. So fuck you for making me still need you.”
Not an outright rejection, but not an honest acceptance.
Clark’s eyes soften when he realises that you’re offering him a middle ground—a chance to start over again.
He waits for a heartbeat.
Then two.
And on the third, he takes a chance. His hand drifts up, the pad of his thumb wiping away the single tear that slips down your cheek. “Can I come inside?”
You pause—hesitation clips at the forefront of your mind, before your heart takes over, honest and true. Leaning into his touch with a gentleness that borders on tense, you nod slowly, and a small smile carves your face as you warn, “I haven’t washed dishes in three days, though.”
Clark just laughs, warm lips finding your forehead in the dim hallway. “Why am I not surprised?”
He pulls you close, one large arm banding around your waist that feels equal parts comforting and possessive. He tugs you into your apartment, and the door closes shut behind you with a quiet click—for good.
@nightwingblvd — feel free to let me know if you'd like to be added to my taglist!
my requests are open for clark kent, dick grayson, jason todd and bruce wayne
summary: Life on the farm with Clark Kent is already a dream, but watching your cowboy husband work shirtless in the summer heat might just be your undoing. When you take him a glass of lemonade to cool off, Clark has other ways of making your heart race.
pairing: cowboy!clark x reader
tags: 18+ porn w/ plot, smut & aftercare, slight exhibitionism, creampie, missionary, doggystyle, manhandling, truck sex, kinda rough clark ?, est. relationship, pushing the country accent clark agenda ty
w.c: 1.4k
The summer air was heavy with heat, humming cicadas echoing across the fields, the scent of cut hay drifting in through the open windows of the farmhouse. You leaned against the kitchen sink, glass of cold lemonade sweating in your hand, and stared out toward the paddock. And there he was. Clark.
Your husband. Your impossibly broad, sun-tanned, maddeningly handsome cowboy of a husband, shirtless, of course, because he swore working without one “kept him cool.” Though you weren’t sure it was his comfort he was thinking about when he tugged that fabric off and tossed it aside.
His back muscles flexed as he adjusted the reins on the chestnut mare, the sunlight catching the sheen of sweat that had started to bead along his shoulders. Jeans slung low on his hips, boots scuffed from years of work, hat tipped just enough to shadow those impossibly blue eyes. You bit your lip, heat curling low in your stomach.
“Lord help me,” you muttered under your breath, setting the glass down before you dropped it. He was unfair. Too much. The kind of sight that made you forget what you were supposed to be doing in the first place.
And then he bent, tightening a cinch strap, the muscles in his back rippling as he worked. That was it. You grabbed the pitcher, filled another tall glass with lemonade, and slipped on your sandals. If you were going to combust, you might as well do it up close.
The grass was warm beneath your feet as you crossed the yard, the sound of your footsteps finally catching his attention. Clark turned, hat tipping back as he spotted you. A grin tugged at his lips, slow and devastating.
“Well, ain’t this somethin’,” he drawled, voice low and honeyed, that Kansas accent thicker out here in the open air. “My pretty little wife bringin’ me somethin’ sweet.”
Your heart skipped. “You look like you could use it.” You held up the glass, teasing. “All hot and sweaty out here.”
He chuckled, taking the lemonade from you with one big, calloused hand, his fingers brushing yours on purpose. He tipped the glass back, throat working as he drank, a drop of condensation sliding down to his chest. You followed it with your eyes before you could stop yourself.
Clark noticed. Of course he did. His smirk deepened as he handed you back the empty glass.
“Was it good?” you asked, your voice a little higher than usual.
“Best thing I’ve had all day,” he said easily, though his gaze stayed locked on you like he was talking about something, or someone else.
You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks warmed. “You should really put a shirt on before the neighbors start staring.”
“Now why would I do that,” he murmured, stepping closer until you had to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes, “when I know you like starin’?”
Your lips parted, heat rising all the way to your ears. “Clark Kent,” you scolded, though it came out softer than you intended.
He grinned, that boyish, troublemaking smile that always left you breathless. His thumb brushed along your jaw, slow and affectionate, before he tipped his hat off his head and set it right on yours. The brim dipped over your eyes, far too big, and you couldn’t help laughing as he adjusted it carefully with both hands.
“Looks better on you,” he said, voice low, sweet.
“You know I’d work twice as hard if it meant you’d come out here lookin’ at me like that.”
Your heart fluttered, knees nearly weak. “You’re insufferable,” you whispered, but you leaned into him anyway, catching the scent of sweat, leather, and sunshine.
His chuckle rumbled low in his chest as he kissed your forehead, lingering. “And you love me for it.”
Before you could pull away, Clark's hands slid down to your waist, gripping you firmly as he backed you toward his old pickup truck parked nearby. "Darlin', you've been teasin' me all damn day with that look in your eyes," he growled, his voice dropping to a rough whisper that sent shivers straight to your core.
He hoisted you up effortlessly onto the tailgate, your ass hitting the warm metal with a thud, legs dangling as he stepped between them. You gasped, hat still perched crookedly on your head, but he didn't give you time to adjust.
His mouth crashed against yours, hot and demanding, tongue plunging in like he was starving for you. Rough hands roamed under your sundress, yanking it up over your thighs, fingers hooking into your panties and ripping them clean off with a sharp snap that made you yelp into his kiss.
"Fuck, you're already so wet for me," he muttered against your lips, his thick fingers sliding between your folds, rubbing your clit in rough circles that had you arching off the tailgate.
You clutched at his sweat-slicked shoulders, nails digging into his skin, as he unzipped his jeans with his free hand, freeing his dick; hard, throbbing, and veined like the rest of his perfect fucking body.
He didn't wait, didn't tease. Clark grabbed your hips, yanking you forward until your ass was right on the edge, and slammed into you in one brutal thrust, burying himself balls-deep inside of you. You screamed, the stretch burning so good it made your vision blur, the truck rocking under the force of it.
"That's it, take all of me, baby," he grunted, pounding into you relentlessly, his hips slapping against yours with wet, filthy sounds echoing across the empty fields. The hay scratched at your back as he shoved you down onto the truck bed, climbing up after you and flipping you onto your stomach like you weighed nothing.
He spread your legs wide, spanking your ass hard enough to earn a moan, before thrusting back in, deeper this time, hitting that spot that made you sob into the blanket he'd tossed back there.
"Goddamn, your cunt's gripping me so tight, fuckin' milk me, baby," he snarled, one hand snaking around your neck, pulling your head back, the other clamping on your hip as he fucked you raw, the truck creaking and groaning under the rhythm.
You came hard, pussy clenching around him like a vice, juices squirting out and soaking his balls as he kept fucking you through it, not slowing down for a second. "Shit, yeah, come all over my dick," he hissed, his thrusts turning erratic before he buried himself deep with a groan, flooding your insides with hot, thick cum that leaked out around his shaft as he ground against you.
Panting, he pulled out slowly, watching his seed drip from your wrecked hole, then flipped you over again to kiss you, sloppy and possessive. "Mine," he murmured, smirking like a cocky bastard, before helping you down on shaky legs.
As your feet touched the ground, your knees buckled like jelly, your body still trembling. Clark caught you instantly, his strong arms wrapping around your waist with that effortless strength, pulling you flush against his sweat-damp chest.
"Easy there, darlin'," he murmured, voice softening now, all the rough edges gone as he pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. "I got you. Fuck, look at you, so beautiful."
You leaned into him, head lolling against his shoulder, too spent to even speak, your pussy still throbbing and leaking his cum down your thighs. He chuckled low, the sound vibrating through you, before scooping you up bridal-style like you were nothing more than a feather.
"Can't have my girl collapsing out here in the dirt," he said, his drawl thick with affection as he carried you toward the farmhouse, boots crunching on the gravel path.
The screen door creaked as he nudged it open with his elbow, carrying you straight through the kitchen and up the stairs to your bedroom without breaking a sweat. He laid you down on the soft sheets, careful not to jar your sore body, then disappeared for a moment, returning with a warm, damp cloth from the bathroom.
"Spread those pretty legs for me one more time, sweetheart," he said gently, but there was still that wicked glint in his eyes as he cleaned you up, wiping away the mess between your thighs with tender strokes that made you whimper softly.
"There we go," he whispered, tossing the cloth aside and crawling into bed beside you, pulling you into his arms. His big hand stroked your hair, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back as he held you close.
"You did so good for me, takin' all that like a champ. Rest, sweetheart, I've got you." He kissed your forehead again, his warmth enveloping you like a blanket, and you drifted off in his embrace, safe and utterly fucked-out.
charlie kirk was shot in the neck and died. yet cassius au bellona was shot in the neck and lived. that's because cassius is younger and more beautiful
ok hear me out… mid fuh clark won’t let u finish if you don’t look in his eyes EXCEPT you can’t like full cross eyed/closed eyed, incoherent, round… who-even-knows-any-more. if u can/will THANK YOU SO MUCH
Look or Be Denied
⋆✴︎˚｡⋆ meanie!clark kent x reader
Summary - Clark won't let you come unless your eyes are locked on his. Every flutter of your lashes earns you denial, every second you hold his gaze earns you praise. Torn between his coaxing and his scolding, you learn that surrender isn't just in your body—it's in your eyes.
You were gone, stretched open around him, the headboard rattling with every brutal snap of Clark's hip. He was restless, the heavy weight of him pressing you down, cock drilling so deep it made your toes curl. You were so close—right there, right on the edge—
And then he slowed.
You cried out, writhing beneath him, nails dragging down his shoulders in frustration. He caught your chin in his big hand, forcing your gaze up to his. Sweat beaded along his brow, chest heaving, but his voice was steady, cutting through the haze.
"Eyes. On. Me."
You blinked up to him, lashes wet, trying to obey—but your eyes fluttered shut again as another wave of pleasure surged.
He growled, pulling almost all the way out, leaving you empty and throbbing. His cock slapped wetly against your swollen cunt before he slid back in slow, cruel inches. "No. Uh-uh. You don't get to cum if you can't even look at me. You wanna fuck yourself stupid on my cock? Then you better show me those eyes."
"Clarkie, please...ah," you whined, chest panting, thighs trembling around his waist.
HIs hand tightened on your jaw, not painful, just commanding. He bent close, slipping in another inch, lips brushing yours, voice both harsh and coaxing. "Don't beg me. Beg me with your eyes. Keep them open for me, sweet girl. Let me see you lose it."
And you tried, you really did...forcing your gaze up to those blazing blue eyes, but they rolled back again, your body betraying you.
The punishment was immediate. He stilled, grinding shallowly, keeping you right there on the knife's edge. His tone dropped into a filthy growl. "You feel that? All this cock, and I'm not giving you shit until you do as you're told. Wanna cum? Wanna soak my cock like a good girl? Then fucking look at me."
Tears spilled, frustration burning hot under your ribs. "I'm trying—"
His thumb stroked your cheek, gentler now, his pace resuming in slow, deep thrusts that punched the breath out of you. "I know you're trying. That's my girl. Keep going. You're so close, I can feel it—this pussy's begging me. Just hold on for me. Don't shut me out. Eyes wide, sweetheart. Right there, stay with me."
You forced your eyes open, wide and unblinking, even as your vision blurred with tears. That sight seemed to unravel him—his jaw clenched, a groan ripping out of his throat.
"That's it. Look at you, taking this so god. Such a pretty little thing when you listen. My perfect girl, keeping her eyes on me while I ruin her pussy." His pounding grew harder, rougher, slamming into you with pulsing rhythm. "You're mine. Every twitch, every scream—you give it to me with those eyes wide open."
Your body shattered, orgasm tearing through you so violently you almost lost your focus. But his voice soothed you back, praise coating over you like fire.
"Good fucking girl, Like that—don't look away. So beautiful when you cum for me, fuckfuck—you're squeezing me so tight. You're perfect. My perfect girl."
His thrusts faltered, hips stuttering as he chased his own release. He moaned low into your mouth, eyes burning into yours until the very end. His cock throbbed, driving deep inside you as his praise broke into wrecked gasps, "Mhm—Christ...eyes on me...perfect little cunt."
Even when you collapsed beneath him, cockdrunk and spent, his hand still framed your face, thumb brushing your cheek, keeping your eyes on his as though the command had sunk deep into your bones.
—requests are open for any character ! Clark Kent Masterlist<3
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|| smut MDNI 18+, horny musings, not much plot, choking, pinv, dirty talk (god I love nasty joel! what can I say he gets the mouth of a sailor when he’s turned on), bicep choking!!!!!!!, daddy kink, praise kink, little bit of pussy pronouns, anxious!joel, nervous!joel, sweet!reader, established relationship, jackson!joel, mentions of big scary joel bark bark bark, but actually I just love him so there's also tender fluff in here too. I can't make smut without making it abundantly clear im helplessly in love w him ||
a/n: oh yeah so I was on vacay this whole week and this was all I thought about. okay maybe one more thing you might see from this week of inspiration but plz enjoy!!!
a/n II: thinking about joel's anxiety makes me sad but I feel like it's not written about enough plz don't make me cry anymore
wc: 2.2k short and sweet 4 u
You knew your best chance was when he was at his most…pliable.
That slow-breathing, skin-sticky softness that only came in the after. When both of your bodies were loose and lazy with release— oxytocin, dopamine, and serotonin still thick in the bloodstream. Joel’s soft hazel eyes were warm and drowsy, blinking slowly beneath the fall of his thick lashes. How unfair, you always thought, that he got to have such astonishingly beautiful lashes. Men often did, didn’t they? His cheeks were still flushed pink, his chest rising steady beside yours. You watched the corner of his mouth lift into a crooked smile as he burrowed into the pillow, a bullish breath releasing from his lungs.
Your hand found his hair, dark and streaked with silver, damp at the nape. You pushed your fingers through it, nails scraping gently as he purred beneath your touch.
He pulled you in, tucking your body against the broad wall of his chest. His chin came to rest at your shoulder, and you felt his breath as it moved across your skin—slow, heavy, hot. You let out a small sigh and traced the length of his arm, following it down to where his fingers splayed wide over your hip. He was still inside out from it all. Both of you warm and bare, still slick with the sheen of sweat and the fading intensity of the post-coitus high.
You brought his hand up in front of your face, holding it in both of yours like something precious. You traced the creases in his palm, the coarse curls of hair on the back of it. He was such a big man, all of him thick and solid and heavy. You loved it so deeply about him. How he could be so big and scary and yet so tender all at once.
That was the thing about Joel Miller. He was the most dangerous man you'd ever met. But in your home, in your bed, in these quiet moments, he was gentle. So, so gentle.
You made your move.
Guiding his hand slowly, you carefully set it down to your neck. You knew he was watching out of one squinting, peering eye. Always watchful, always aware of your movements.
“What’re you doin’, young lady?” he asked, voice like honey and gravel on asphalt.
You settled his palm against the sensitive flesh of your throat, pulling his thumb to one side and resting his fingers on the other. Just gently letting the broad stretch of his hand rest under your jaw.
God, he was so warm.
And even though his expression had softened in this post coitus high, even though his breath moved gently against your skin, this kind of calm didn’t come easy to him. When he was like this—sated, warm, still wrapped around you—all you could do was hope he’d stay there in it. You hoped he wasn’t going to bark or bristle or retreat behind that rough voice he used when his chest got too tight.
Because Joel’s anxiety didn’t come in skittishness or shaky hands. It was silence, stillness. It was the way he watched everything, how fast he could go from soft to sharp, always ready to protect. Even when there wasn’t a threat. Even when he thought the threat was himself.
You felt him stiffen as he realized what you were doing.
He tried to pull his hand away, and you let him—again, not wanting to spook the big, terrifying, yet sweet and sorrowful creature you’d come to love.
“How would you feel if I asked you to choke me?” you asked, voice calm, your tone low and careful. Coaxing the beast within.
His answer came quickly and without hesitation: “Ain’t happenin’.”
Whatever softness had still lingered in him was gone now. His voice was flat, and his whole body had gone still beside you, his heart hammering through his chest and against your skin.
“Joel, baby, I’m sorry—” you whispered, reaching for the calm you’d just shared, trying to soothe what you’d stirred.
“There ain’t nothin’ to be sorry for,” he said, and his tone wasn’t cruel, but it was set. Final. He wasn’t angry, he was afraid, you knew that. Knew him. “I just ain’t doin’ that.”
You turned towards him, wrapping your arms around him, nuzzling your nose into the thick, wiry hair of his chest. You waited as his heart settled, kissing his chest, interlaching your fingers behind his back, tracing gentle circles into his damp skin.
And maybe it was because you knew him. Knew how to coax that big, nervous animal in him into gentleness, into calm. Knew how to read the quiet tension in his body, how to recognize the moments when he pulled away. Because he was never angry at you, that you’d come to realize long ago. He was afraid. Full of gut churning fear and worry. He was just a man who had seen too much, done too much, and lost even more. And now, he was trying, so hard, to be good.
That’s why, when you answered, you didn’t push. You pursed your lips against his thick chest of hair and said, “Okay.”
“I promise you won’t hurt me, baby,” you told him softly, your voice slow with wine and warmth as you laid back on the bedspread, still smelling like smoke and sugar from the community bonfire. You’d been out with Tommy and Maria, drinking too much under the string lights, and Joel had come home handsier than usual—emboldened by the night, maybe, or just finally brave enough to give you the thing you’d been asking for.
He was already hard and thick and stretching you open, your body split in two around his cock, your hips cradling his breadth of a body. Your thighs hooked tight around his waist as you tried to pull him in even deeper, closer than skin would ever allow as his hand rested against your throat.
“Don’t you think it makes a pretty necklace?” you teased, breathless already. Just the weight of his hand there was enough to have your hips rolling up in search of more, desperate for that aching stretch and the sweet pressure you craved.
He hesitated, voice thick and low. “I don’t know, sweetheart. I don’t wanna hurt you.”
But you reached up, took the hand at your throat into both of yours, and guided him to press his digits to your skin. Just his thumb, just the fingers on the other side of your throat.
His brow was furrowed, his hazel eyes swallowed up by the black of his arousal. You circled his thick wrist with your nimble fingers, grounding him, showing him how safe he was here. He was always so god damn warm, your personal furnace, all heat and weight and steady flame. The fire in the hearth of your chest, your soul, your heart. His chest pressed down against yours, his cock buried so deep you could feel him in your ribs, your arousal slick and messy, dripping down his shaft and onto the bed beneath you.
You whimpered, high and needy.
“Please, Joel,” you whispered. “I trust you.”
That seemed to loosen the shackles he kept tight around himself. The ones forged in fear, in longing, with a want too big and too dangerous to trust within himself. He exhaled, sharp and tight, and gave the faintest, featherlight squeeze. Not even enough for your head to go light, but enough for your cunt to flutter helplessly around him. He sucked in a tight hiss, the sound breaking in his throat.
“Oh, fuck,”
His eyes squeezed shut, then opened again, blown black and flicking from his hand on your throat to your face and back. Your mouth was slack, your head tilted back, eyes rolling in ecstasy. Your pussy clenched hard around him again and he groaned.
“Again, again, again,” you pleaded, rocking up into him, your hands urging his wrist to hold you tighter.
He did it again.
And your walls seized around him.
“Christ, baby—Jesus fuck,” he choked out. “You’re—she’s— grippin’ me—chokin’ my cock while I hold your pretty little neck—”
And thus, it was the start of something wholly beautiful and euphoric and filthy.
He had you prone on the bed, your legs spread wide and stretched beneath him, back arched, ass pressing and pushing back greedily into every stroke. His weight draped heavy over your spine, chest slick with sweat as it laid across your back. The room was thick with the sound of skin, the slap of his hips meeting the swell of your ass, again and again and again.
“I love you, baby,” he whispered into the shell of your ear, his voice rough with breath and effort. Every word was broken by a grunt, by the slap of his pelvis slamming into you.
You moaned helplessly, drool slipping from your parted lips, soaking into the thick muscle of his arm where it curved around your throat. Your chin was tucked to his elbow, held snug in the crook of it, his bicep pulsing as he held you close. His forearm pinned you in place, tight and possessive. Your anchor, just how you’d begged for it.
“Got you all cock drunk now, huh?” he muttered, low and smug, the bastard, dragging the words across your skin like velvet. You could hear the grin in it, even feel the curl of his mouth as he pressed a kiss into your ear, “Can’t even talk while I’m fuckin’ you, baby?”
You mewled in response, the only sound you could manage as his thick cock punched into you, each thrust stealing another breath, another thought. He was deep, impossibly deep, stretching you to the edge of your limit and keeping you right there, stuffed full and shaking.
“So pretty like this,” he groaned, voice pitching low in his throat. “Takin’ daddy’s cock so good, princess. So fuckin’ good.”
You tried to answer, tried to give him something back, but what came out was a garbled, wet sound as your tongue dipped out to collect the spit dribbling out on your slack lips. You were trembling beneath him, wrecked and ruined and still asking for more.
“You know,” he rasped, his breath warm against your ear, “I’ve killed men by doin’ this. You know that, right?”
Your eyes rolled back. Your walls fluttered around him, involuntary and tight.
“Oh, yeah, she loves that. Killed ’em easy, baby, just my arm to their neck. Watched their lights go out. That turn you on?” His voice was rougher now, throatier, but still careful, still asking. Still watching you.
You pushed your ass back into him with a sob, wordless, every nerve in your body crying yes.
“Tell me, baby,” he murmured, thrusts slowing in their tempo. “Tell me. Use your big girl words.”
“I love it,” you cried, the words torn from your throat. “I love it, I love it, I love it—” You were close, almost there, your voice climbing higher with every breath, every roll of his hips, every squeeze of his arm.
“I know, sweet angel,” he groaned, his cock twitching inside you as your walls clenched tighter. “My nasty girl loves when daddy chokes her, huh?”
You could barely nod, could barely think. He just kept fucking into you, the drag of his cock thick and slow, then sharp and deep, until your body curled and tightened beneath him. He was everywhere—his chest on your back, his balls slapping your clit, the heat of his breath against your cheek, your pussy leaking down his shaft and onto the sheets in creamy slick. His weight pressed you into the mattress like he could mold you there and never let you go.
“But I love my girl,” he said, softer now, almost like a confession. Maybe to remind you, to remind himself. “Love her so much. I’d never hurt her, you know that, right?”
You nodded, jaw slack, lips kissing the sweaty skin of his arm as you forced your mind to work, for your tongue to follow orders, “I know d-d-daddy, I know—I love—oh fuck—I love you too…oh oh, ah!…hmmmppphhh—”
“Oh, good girl, that was hard, I know. That’s alright. That’s it. Right there,” he growled, hips snapping harder now, erratic, desperate. “I feel her chokin’ daddy’s cock back. Feel how much she loves it. C’mon, baby girl. Come for me. That’s it. Fuck—”
Your body seized beneath him, a full-body tremor that started at your core and rippled outward, your vision going white as your orgasm crashed over you like a wave. You sobbed through it, breath stuttering, your cunt fluttering around him in tight, wet pulses that had him growling through his teeth.
“Good girl,” he grunted, barely hanging on. “That’s my goooood fuckin’ girl.”
He followed you down a moment later, groaning raggedly against your shoulder, his cock twitching deep inside as he spilled into you, thick and hot, his weight sinking heavy over your back. You breathed there together for a long moment, lost in that same fuzzy cotton haze.
And then his arm loosened around your throat, sliding down to your sternum to shift the both of you. His cock slipped out of you with a wet drag, still heavy and shining, your slick clinging to him as your body clenched around the sudden emptiness. The loss made your limbs tremble, thighs twitching where they rested against his. He moved you onto your side, then onto your back and settled beneath you, his own back pressed to the sheets, your spine stretched along his chest.
He sighed in relief before shifting slightly, just enough to reach and press his lips against your temple.
"You alright, sweetheart?" he asked, his voice low and hoarse, still catching on the edges of his breath.
You nodded, face softening as you tilted your head toward him. He reached down and kissed you, slow and warm, and you hummed against his mouth.
“Perfect,” you whispered.
You both sighed then, content and drowsy, riding the soft haze of afterglow. The hormones still moved thick through your bodies, warmth blooming in your limbs as you looked up at him. Your fingers slipped into his hair and you held him close.
“Thank you,” you murmured. “For trusting me.”
“Don’t need thankin’, honey,” he said, his voice low, eyes soft and steady on yours. “If anything, it’s me who oughta thank you—for keepin’ me here. For trustin’ me.”
“I do trust you. With everything,” you said. “And I love you.”
He kissed you again, and you kept your eyes open, watching the furrow of his brow, watching his mind whirr with the thoughts and big feelings he once was so afraid to say.
“I love you too, baby,” he whispered when he finally released your mouth, voice rough at the edges. “So much.”
the fact that we only have “herculean task” and “sisyphean task” feels so limiting. so here’s a few more tasks for your repertoire
icarian task: when you have a task you know you’re going to fail at anyways, so why not have some fun with it before it all comes crashing down
cassandrean task: when you have to deal with people you KNOW won’t listen to you, despite having accurate information, and having to watch them fumble about when you told them the solution from the start (most often witnessed in customer service)
feel free to chime in i ran out of ideas much faster than i anticipated
Promethean task: opposite of a Cassandraean task. You have the right information, and SOMEONE has to share it. But it's all in the delivery and if you're the person to identify the problem you WILL be hated forever.
Oedipal Task: (1) Attempting to avoid an unspeakably awful outcome and in doing so creating the circumstances that will bring it about.
(2) Trying to solve an problem and discovering that you are in fact the problem you are trying to solve.
