Such is Life.

Roman is stuck behind a barrier of his own creation. 

He sits in his new sleek glass house, the place feels nothing like the mansion. And Roman is grateful for it. You're sleeping in his bed again. And he gets that all too unfamiliar feeling in his chest. He’d done his best to avoid you the past few months and he’d done well, but last night he snapped, he wanted you, you were the only one who could fix him. Or so he thought. 

He looks at his watch, it reads 6:58am. He isn’t surprised, not one bit. He hasn't slept well in weeks, especially since he became the sole owner of the Godfrey institute. Sleep appears to elude him, so he takes the very Roman route of drinking or fucking until eventually hepasses out. Tonight he’s tried both and they've both been unsuccessful. 

He doesn't know how to sleep next to you anymore. 

He doesn’t feel worthy of laying next to you, so the moment you fall asleep on his chest he slips out of the bed. He can't allow himself to indulge. He has to be stronger now, he has a company sitting on his shoulders. He also has more freedom than he knows what to do with, without Olivia’s overbearing control, he's a little lost.

So he sits on a chair across from the bed dressed in his favorite suit,a glass of bourbon in hand resting on his thigh. A blank stare is all he is capable of. He takes little to no comfort in your relaxed face as you sleep heavily after being fucked, instead his mind drifts to the dangerous moment he realised he might be capable of loving someone and that someone might be you. Neither of you have ever put a label on whatever it is you have going on but a certain part of Roman has urged to call you his since that morning when you placed a kiss against his chest, if he thinks hard enough he swears he can still feel it. 

But he doesn't let himself think hard enough about it. He shakes his head and finishes the rest of the bourbon. The sharp and tangy burn of the alcohol on his tongue comforts him, it's familiar, just like the warmth in his chest after he's swallowed. It's far different from the warmth he gets in his chest when he looks at you. 

But the version of himself that loves you seems to be tackling a whole different beast. Trauma. He hadn’t realised how fucked up he truly was until he left the mansion. But realising it only seems to have made it worse, he doesn't know how to make it stop. He’s drinking more than ever, sleeping less and less and his bed seems to be a revolving door of women he uses for distractions. Until you lay in it. Then it all feels still. 

He puts the glass down on the floor, still careful not to make a sound. He looks at you. Really looks. It’s more of an analysis than an observation. Since the Roman that looks at you with some amount of care seems to be locked away. 

You look different. You lay on your side. You're facing the window, with your back to where he would usually sleep. Your arm hangs off the bed but it doesn’t seem relaxed. You’d also insisted on putting your shirt back on before you fell asleep and he can’t pretend he doesn’t know why. Your face is squashed into the pillow and your mouth is slightly open, heavy breaths leave you consistently. It all looks normal. But he feels like something is wrong. Your face looks a little tense. Maybe you're having a bad dream, he thinks. 

He’s quickly proven wrong, your eyebrows furrow and you start to turn over facing where he should be. Your arm hits the empty mattress. You blindly reach around until you grab something, his pillow. You hold it to your chest and inhale deeply. And by some kind of magic, your muscles relax, your shoulders stop looking so stiff. 

He gets up quietly taking careful footsteps until he can see your face again, your nose completely buried in the pillow inhaling his scent. And for the first time in months Roman hears the shaking of the barrier he's stuck behind. Because you are stood next to him shaking it. He can't fathom why you're here. But you are. 

A wave of exhaustion rolls over him. It happens all the time but it never amounts to getting sleep. But he thinks fuck it, I’ll try. He slides off his shoes and gets on top of the duvet laying in his usual space, now without his pillow because you’ve stolen it. He’d like to be mad. But he isn't. 

He lays flat. Tense. He looks over at you. He knows he’s well and truly fucked. Because for the first time in his life, he wants the barrier gone. He won't tell you that. Not until he’s sure it's something he can do. He doubts it. 

He lets out a sigh of defeat, he doesnt know what the fuck is going on in his head. One minute he wants you, the next minute he’s scared to have you and the next he remembers he’s no good for you. But you’re still wrapped around his little finger and you’re still under the wire he swore no one could move. 

He thinks about the bacon and eggs he never got to make you. It’s a small regret that sits in his chest. Everyone seems to be leaving him or he makes them leave. He killed his mum, his best friend left when his cousin died and his sister is nowhere to be seen. This could be the last chance he gets to make you breakfast. Especially if he isn’t strong enough to jump the barrier to love you the same way he did a few months ago. If he can even call it love.

So he gets back up. Right as you begin to stir awake. He tiptoes out of the room just in time and you watch the door click softly. You know it’s him. He’s never there when you wake up anymore. It doesn't even feel like he’s there when you sleep. He’s more closed off than he’s ever been but you can’t bring yourself to leave.

You lay there. Staring at the monochrome walls. For god knows how long. until a knock at the door brings you out of your somewhat paralysed state. “Come in.” you reply. 

It’s Roman’s maid, Anna. She has a grey tray with a plate in the middle, it’s bacon and eggs. She places it on the bed beside you, nodding before she turns around. 

“Wait, why did you bring me this, I never eat here?” you question. 

Her response is enough to bring tears to your eyes. “I do nothing without the instruction of master godfrey” she continues to leave the room and you’re left staring at the plate of food.

Roman won't tell you he cooked it. While his staff watched in horror at his terrible cooking. You won't tell his staff it tasted odd…because you felt it was made with something other than bacon or eggs.

But you hope that Roman does care after all. 

~~~

It had seemed like a good idea in theory, inviting your friends over to the house to help you get ready for guests later that week, but this company was already enough to leave you exhausted of energy.

You were having some family over in just a couple of days, and you weren’t optimistic about getting the place looking presentable all on your own. You’d reached out to your neighbors, just hoping for an extra set of hands or two, but of course they told their own friends, some of whom you were only acquaintances with at best, and cleaning the house had devolved into a little party of its own.

When you have a waterside home, people will practically invite themselves.

To be fair, the two women who owned the properties closest to yours had been helpful, and a guy who lived a ways down the road waited until your kitchen looked legitimately polished before he started drinking, but he ended up asleep in an armchair instead of driving back to his own residence.

At present, you sit peering sidelong out the wide window overlooking the shoreline with your head propped up in one hand, the only one awake who hasn’t gone home or passed out on your couch or in one of your chairs.

That’s when you notice a flicker of movement along the dock below. You think it’s just a trick of the light, now that the sun has long since gone down, and the water has a funny way of bouncing its light and shadows off of every surface.

But a flash of something lighter catches your eye, and that is decidedly out of place— nothing and no one should be down in your yard at this hour of the night, and suddenly, you're alert and alarmed.

“Do you guys see that?” You blurt without even thinking about it.

Of course, your only answers are the snores and quiet breathing of the neighbors and friends who have already crashed.

“Anna?” You try, shaking the person physically closest to you, but even as you jostle her shoulder, she doesn’t rise, just mumbles in tired annoyance.

“Some help you are,” you murmur, getting up out of your own chair and slipping out the door.

A cool breeze instantly hits your face, and despite the uncertainty you’re plagued with, it’s refreshing.

The night air is quiet for a moment, save for the steady hum of the crickets, but the sound of footsteps has you reflexively turning to the right.

Sure as shit, your worst fears are confirmed as you see a figure standing on the wooden dock but, thank god, not looking in your direction. At least not yet.

You don’t have any sort of weapon on you, and for all you know, this could be an armed thief, an actual outlaw and not just a common trespasser.

Maybe this is a bad idea, you think, but oh god, the tall figure bends down to untie the boat you have fastened to the dock, and what are you supposed to do, just sit and watch while a thief steals your goddamn motorboat?

Fuck it. You hurry down the porch steps, considering shouting to announce yourself, but thinking better of it when you remember that you don’t know who it is or what they want, and you’re not trying to get yourself killed over a boat. (Even a very nice and painfully expensive one that you had saved up to buy for a long time.)

You dash down the grass to the docks, where the land cuts off and you have to descend the creaky wooden steps that’ll alert the figure— a man, if you had to guess— of your presence.

It was a miracle you didn’t trip as you’d gone so fast, but your luck was bound to run out and your footsteps make for quite some noise as you’re closing the distance between you and the unfamiliar man on your dock.

Any fear in your body immediately dissipates, however, as you see he doesn’t look like a calculating criminal, but a literal fool as he fumbles with the thick rope in his hands and nearly drops it into the water below as the sound of you startles him.

Muttering curses under his breath, the tall stranger slowly rises to his full height, regarding you as you stand at the edge of the steps with narrowed eyes.

“This…,” he searches for words, “is not what it looks like.”

“Hm,” you hum, “really now? Because from what it looks like to me, there’s a bumbling idiot on my dock trying to steal my boat.”

“No, no,” the man is nervously shaking his head, “not stealing it! I’m just, ah, borrowing it.”

“You’re borrowing it?” You raise your eyebrows skeptically.

The young man nods like he’s dead serious.

“Yes.”

“Well, in my experience, most people, oh, I don’t know, ask before they go borrowing other people’s things?” You can’t help yourself from dryly laughing at his pathetic justification.

“I’m in a hurry,” he says, like that excuses it, “I’m sorry if I didn’t stop to ask permission.”

“Fuck that logic,” you say, “you’re not borrowing any of my shit. Go bother somebody else,” and with that, you step closer to him, trying to snag the rope from out of his grip, only the young man reflexively pulls it up so your hand misses it.

It seems your sharp tongue doesn’t have the effect you expected on him, as he isn’t looking scandalized or intimidated, but he’s smiling like he’d enjoyed it.

“Ma’am,” he grins, “I am a gentleman. I never said I would borrow it without doing something for you in return. Do I look like someone who’d just run off without repaying you?”

“Yes,” you reply without hesitation.

Still, the thief is undeterred, and all he’s doing is laughing in amusement.

“Well, damn,” he murmurs, “I had to try.”

And, to your own dismay, you’re finding yourself charmed by the sound of his laughter echoing over the still water. This thief can’t know that, though, there’s not a chance you’re going to give him the satisfaction.

Outwardly, you still appear fed up with his antics as you scowl at him.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” You suddenly ask.

“Clark Olofsson,” he replies, letting the rope fall onto the wooden dock as he holds out a hand for you to take, “a pleasure.”

You shake his hand hesitantly, not sure of what to make of the strange way your heart rate picks up in your chest, as if this wasn’t the face of a thief you’d never seen before, as if you’d met before— or, less like you had met before, and more like you’d been expecting to meet him before it even happened.

Dropping his hand (he had nice hands, an appealing shape to his fingers that made your face heat, however irritatingly), you tried to shake off the weird, pointless contemplation.

You exhale.

“Clark,” you try to reel yourself in, “why exactly should I let you temporarily borrow my vessel?”

The sheer formality of your language, like this is a serious negotiation, has him grinning again.

“I need to get out of town,” he explains.

You look around the area, like anything in your immediate vicinity would actually give you answers.

“Do you think I’m an imbecile? If you’re skipping town, that seems like a reason not to give it to you.”

“Just for a few days,” he insists, raising a hand in mock-surrender, “I can come back, no problem.”

“Why do you need to leave?” Your suspicion is audible in your voice.

“I had a… very small misunderstanding,” Clark stammers, “with the local authorities.”

Great. So this is an actual criminal, standing here on your docks. (And flashing an infuriatingly cute smile at you, every chance he gets. Not really something befitting of an imposing offender.)

“And you need to lay low for a couple days,” you finish for him.

“Yeah, well—” Clark shrugs. “Yeah.”

“While I’m sympathetic to your plight,” you walk down the length of the dock, advancing towards him where he’s still positioned closer to the end of the structure, “I’m still having some trouble seeing what’s in it for me.”

“Oh,” Clark is chuckling now, “I understand. You’d make a good businesswoman,” he states, and then pauses, “are you a businesswoman?”

You laugh, honestly tempted to tell him the details of your life, but not wanting to risk it, should he get caught and rat you out to the police (with or without a boat in his possession that belongs to you).

“I’m persuasive, is what I am,” you say instead, stepping past him and brushing shoulders with Clark, who nearly trips over the rope laying beneath him in his hurry to turn around and face you, “or so I’ve been told.”

“And do you negotiate with threats, or are you motivated by reward?” He asks, and you don’t miss the way he wets his lips as he looks down at you.

“Well, that depends,” you fight to keep your voice even as you’re pretending not to be at all aroused, “what can you offer me? If only so we can say that violence was my last resort, and that you earnestly tried to reason with me first,” you tease. By the time you’re done speaking, you’ve returned to stand where you’d been before, and the rope docking the boat is caught around one of Clark’s ankles and not to mention your own, keeping you rather entwined.

Whatever. As long as he can’t make a quick getaway anymore, and you’d have more than a moment’s notice to try to stop him if he bolts.

Clark doesn’t seem to notice, or chooses to ignore this detail entirely.

“I can pay you,” he coaxes, smirking in a way that’s far too suggestive for you to ignore it.

“Pay me how?” You question, skeptically eying him.

“I can get money,” he looks serious now, offended at your insinuation that he wouldn’t actually pay you. Or at least not with anything of monetary value. He has no doubt that you’re both thinking of the other ways he could potentially pay you.

Nevertheless, he continues.

“I don’t have it now, but I can get it,” he insists, “I’ll have it when I come back.”

You bark a humorless laugh.

“When you come back? Nice try, Clark. Why would you come back to pay off your little debt to me when you could just leave and not look back?”

“Come on, now,” he slyly smiles at you again, “I’m a man of my word,” he steps closer to you, untangling one of his ankles that’s been wrapped with rope, “and how could I pass up the chance to see a pretty face like yours again?”

Your whole body tenses up.

Oh, so this is happening. His flirtation hadn’t just been in your head— he wasn’t just generally charming, he was flirting with you. You specifically.

“If you really mean that,” you start, clearing your throat before you can carry on, “well… we could both get a reward when you come back.”

“Oh? And what would that look like?” Clark grins, even as he edges backwards like he’s nervous that you’re going to try to take what you want from him right this second.

“How do you prefer it? Clothes on, clothes off…?” You suggest, stepping around him to gesture towards the motorboat. “Not in the boat, I wouldn’t particularly recommend that.”

“Anything,” Clark murmurs reverently, “whatever you want, you can have anything you want if you let me borrow it a day or two.”

Your mouth curves into a full smile now.

“Consider it done. But,” you quickly add, stepping defensively in front of your motorboat before you would even let him get in it, “I meant it when I said I wouldn’t recommend doing anything in the boat. Anything,” you grit, hoping to drive the point home, “get it dirty and I’ll kill you.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he agreeably nods, lightly chuckling again.

The moment you step out of his way, Clark bends down (he has a nice ass too, you can’t help but notice) to finish untying the last knot of rope anchoring the boat to your docks.

“I’ll be back in two, three days? It’ll be quick,” he eagerly insists, finally hopping into the vessel itself.

When you see the wide sneer on his face as he’s about to start the engine up, you bite the inside of your lip, pausing.

“Clark?” You call, before he can get very far, and he’s still just floating there.

He turns to look at you, wide-eyed when he notices how your confidence has visibly vanished.

“How do I know you won’t just, what, fuck off and leave with my boat and never come back?”

You try to focus on the issue of the motorboat, hiding the fact that never seeing Clark Olofsson’s face again would be a separate disappointment of its own.

“I told you,” he insists, tentatively smiling once more, “I can’t go too long without seeing your beauty again, now that I’ve had the pleasure of meeting you.”

“Little fucking flirt,” you snicker under your breath, but you quickly fix your gaze on him with a deadly severity. “I’m serious though, Clark. If a week goes by and you’re still not back, I’m sure my local authorities would be very interested to hear the name Clark Olofsson, not to mention a description of the vessel that he stole.”

His face falls at that.

“How could you say such a thing, sweetheart?” He asks, clearly disappointed. “Just when I thought we had come to an agreement.”

You’re almost stunned speechless at the spontaneous pet name, when usually a complete stranger calling you “sweetheart” would make you… homicidal, for lack of a better word, but when Clark did it, fuck— there was no lack of sex appeal, put it that way.

“We have,” you manage, “I just…” you sigh, trailing off without looking away from Clark.

The unspoken words “I don’t trust you” hang in the air between you both, and Clark’s brows are furrowed as he scrutinizes you from his seat in the boat, but he isn’t going to turn on the engine and speed off into the night without making sure you’re on the same page first. (No matter how much easier that might be for him.)

“Maybe I should come with you,” your eyes anxiously scan over the polished wood of your prized possession that an unmistakably concerned Clark Olofsson is still sitting in.

“No, that won’t be necessary,” he hurriedly assures you. “As I said, this will be a three day trip at most.”

You heavily exhale, shifting your gaze from the rippling waves reflecting on the white underside of the boat up to the man currently within it.

“If you’re absolutely positive you’re coming back,” you relent, taking a step away.

Clark beams.

“Without a doubt,” he declares as he finally starts the engine, “anything for a fine young lady such as yourself.”

You don’t even want to consider what kind of damage he’s already done to the boat by jumpstarting it without keys, or how he even achieved that.

Either way, he still isn’t speeding off, but allowing it to drift across the dark, quaint waves very slowly, so he has plenty of time for more reassurances in this now prolonged, awkward goodbye.

“I’ll have her back to you, still good as new!” He loudly promises, needlessly cupping his hands over his mouth before he’s even all that far away.

Your amusement is becoming harder to hide as he excitedly shouts at you while the motorboat carries him slowly, slowly towards the other end of the distant shore, so you still try to mask it with sarcasm.

“Remember what I said!” You call out to him. “You get it dirty, you're dead. Don’t you dare have an orgy on my damn boat!”

“I won’t!” Clark calls back, “a motorboat is hardly the place to organize a sex party. And trust me, I would know all the best places!”

“I’m sure that you do,” you laugh, half to yourself.

The word “slut” is on the tip of your tongue, but you don’t say it lest you piss him off and risk Clark changing his mind on the terms of your little deal.

“Be careful out there,” you’re shouting across the water instead.

Clark waves a hand, no doubt saying something else that’s supposed to be of reassurance as the waves gently rock the craft.

And you watch until the boat itself and the figure in it are hardly visible, the vessel a red and white blur drifting in the direction of the horizon.

~~~

A few days have indeed gone by, just like Clark said they would, yet you can’t help but worry about whether he’ll keep to his word.

Your family had come and gone, and throughout the duration of the event, you couldn’t keep from glancing out to the shore, half expecting to see the red and white form of your familiar boat in the distance. (You wouldn’t put it past Clark to turn up in broad daylight, he had seemed unpredictable enough. That is, if he ever decides to come back at all.)

Luckily, no one had commented on the empty space between your docks, nor on the way your eyes kept wandering away from your family members and out towards the water.

You’ve been wondering whether you had just been swindled, manipulated into letting a madman steal your property just because he had the advantage of being physically attractive, and you had been a complete and utter idiot.

Some policemen had even come knocking on your door, and that was the most unnerving part of all, the part that made the gravity of your spontaneous decision feel real.

They hadn’t said Clark’s name or anything, but they’d come sniffing because some neighbors in the area had had their houses broken into, and they wanted to know if you had seen any suspicious activity.

The knowledge shouldn’t have been surprising, but it made you uncomfortably swallow.

You lied, of course, dismissing the notion and giggling nervously like it was something ridiculous— hopefully in a manner that made you look innocent instead of adding suspicion onto yourself.

One of the men had looked out a window, no doubt observing the docks that looked like they were intentionally designed with room for a craft of some kind, and yet the space between the left and right docks sat empty.

“Have you got a boat?” The man asked.

“Yes,” you replied instantly, but as the man opened his mouth to ask the dreaded follow-up question, you went on, “I’m just letting a friend borrow it. Nobody here has reported their boats going missing, have they?” You sounded falsely concerned, looking up at the once skeptical police officer wide-eyed.

“No, not yet. Probably nothing you need to worry about,” he said.

Brushing off your gut reaction to the subtle condescension, you forced a smile.

“Still, I really appreciate your concern, sir.”

And shortly after, your underwhelming answers had got the cops to leave you alone, and you couldn’t contain the shaking sigh that escaped you when you finally closed your front door to them all.

That had been jarring, leaving you unnerved on a level you’d never before been unsettled on. The threat of getting caught in a lie and subsequently punished wasn’t an idea that you cherished.

Perhaps you should have thought things through before you’d basically let a delinquent sail off into the sunset in your boat.

Now, you’re positioned in your perch by the widest window— it’s become a bit of a habit since Clark.

Blanky looking towards the water but not really seeing it, you wonder whether it’s stupid to hope for him to return still.

To be fair, we agreed it could be three days, the pesky thought nags at your brain, as perhaps some part of your mind can discern that wallowing in your own supposed stupidity over this won’t get you anywhere.

And besides, maybe he isn’t actually allergic to subtlety, and he could be waiting until nighttime.

Yeah. Yeah, that seems plausible.

With that in mind, you sit yourself down in a chair outside, not far from the dock, where you can overlook the expanse of the water. You enjoy a good view of the sunset from there as well, but your senses are heightened and your heart beats a little faster once the light has faded and a boat could pop up anywhere within the slight fog, and at any time now, for all that you knew.

You can hardly believe it when, right on time, a familiar shape is visible floating in the foggy distance. And when you stand up, shooting out of your chair to get a better look at it, you can see the tall figure standing at the front of it, turning his head left and right, no doubt scanning the distant shore like he’s looking for the right house. Your house, you remind yourself, your dock, since he’s in your boat and still looking to see you.

That sends a thrill all through your body, but maintaining your earlier attitude matters to you, damnit, so you hastily get back into your chair, folding one of your legs over the other.

You watch as he gets the motorboat oriented in the right direction, and as the vessel itself crawls along the midnight blue waves, dragging him towards you at a painfully slow pace.

Tucking your legs closer together, you lean back, reclining further in the chair.

When Clark steers the boat closer to your docks, and it seems he’ll be in earshot again, you call out to him.

“Well, look who it is,” you yell, with practiced nonchalance.

He doesn’t immediately respond, perhaps too busy trying to tie the boat up to the dock now, if he had even heard you at all.

“Took you long enough,” you add, just for good measure.

At that, he looks up and shoots you a smile.

“Can’t rush perfection,” he distantly shouts, whatever the fuck that means.

“God,” you’re cursing under your breath as you stand up again, “son of a bitch, you wanna be vague, you wanna play games, fine, I’m great at games, I’m great at teasing,” you comment to yourself, and by the time you reach the end of your once-internal monologue, you’ve made it across the yard, and you now stand atop the steps down to the docks.

You let Clark finish fastening the boat to the left side of the dock before piping up again.

“You know,” you mention, “I was beginning to think you weren’t gonna show. Beginning to think those damn cops were right.”

“Ah,” Clark brushes it off, “I always— hey, wait, what cops?” He abruptly interrupts himself.

You bite your tongue to contain your laughter at his confused indignation.

“The ones that visited my house,” you briskly explain with a shrug, “told me you were a lying hooligan who can’t drive a boat for shit.”

Clark glares at you.

“They did not say that.”

“No, they didn’t,” you agree, “that’s just my takeaway from this whole… charade.”

He huffs, and he’s pouting a little bit.

“Come on, now,” he scoffs, “not even a little happy to see me?”

“I’m happy to see my motorboat back in one piece,” you offer as he hops out of it and onto the dock.

“Ah,” Clark is smiling again, “not a scratch on her, I swear on my life.”

“I hope you’re right, for your own sake, Mr. Olofsson,” you tease, “because I’ll be meticulously inspecting her when we’re done here.”

“Done with what?” He jokes, faux-innocently grinning at you. “All we’ve done is talk.”

“We have lots to talk about, Clark,” you insist.

He’d left you waiting for days, so now you’re going to make him wait, as long as you both can take it.

“How were your travels?”

“Huh,” he cracks up again, “uneventful. I wouldn’t describe them as travels,” he says.

“What,” you frown mockingly at him, “running from the cops isn’t fun?”

“It’s the best,” Clark said seriously, “it’s simply… some days are better than others.”

“So what, you just hid behind some bushes for two days, not interacting with any other human beings?”

“Not two days straight, that would be enough time spent in bushes even for me.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you reflexively blurt before Clark could laugh at any of his own innuendos.

(If there had been any doubt in your mind that he’s a self-proclaimed lady’s man, that erases said doubt.)

Still, he’s tittering as you walk down the steps so you’re closer to his level on the dock. But now that you are, any of the height you’d had on him that you’d enjoyed at the top of the stairs is gone, and you’re reminded of just how damn tall this man is.

All he does is smile as you peer up at him, with all the disapproval you can muster.

“Whatever, or should I say whoever you did over the course of the last couple days, you had me thinking you’d stolen my boat,” you gripe.

“Hey, now,” Clark defends himself, “I was alone for most of those two days, I didn’t have time to sleep with anyone at all.”

“You didn’t have time?” You repeat, almost breaking up into disbelieving laughter.

“Eh, why would I, anyhow? I had a better plan lined up,” he insists, and it's his turn to shrug. “Why would I go off to find someone else when I knew I’d see a fine woman in just two days’ time?”

“Oh really, now? And how would you describe this… fine woman of yours?”

“Well, she’s standing in front of me,” he notes, and in Clark’s head, it had been perfectly smooth.

But despite the fact that he doesn’t even answer your question, you forge right ahead.

“I don’t believe you. About not seeing other women, I mean,” you boldly claim, “but what’s it to me? You brought my boat back in one piece, so I think we’re just about done here.”

Clark looks offended at your implicit rejection— you hadn’t even outright stated it, just implied that you didn’t want to fuck him, even if he’d been looking forward to you doing just that for the last forty eight hours— he doesn’t get a chance to talk.

“But first,” you advance towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder and lazily letting it wander down his chest. You aren’t surprised that teasing Clark would get a reaction out of him, as he apparently doesn’t like to wait either; he’s staring intensely at your hand where it strays lower, just before you take it away.

“Recompense. Now.”

“Oh,” Clark hums with understanding, “I have that.”

You watch him reach back over into the boat, pulling out a bag that he hadn’t paid any mind to in his haste to get out of the thing and closer to you. From a compartment in it, he pulls out a wad of cash, and suddenly he’s holding out his hand to you, presenting far more than you’d expected from a petty thief.

You might have underestimated him.

Just a glance tells you that this is more money than you’d anticipated. Too much.

“I…I don’t know if I should take all this,” you warily take a step back, “where exactly did you get it?”

“I never reveal my tricks,” he smirks, “I’m too smart.”

“Bullshit,” you retort, “where did it come from?”

“Let’s say it’s the reason I also need to leave the other side of town,” he tries, “is that a sufficient explanation for you, hm?”

“Christ,” you breathe, thinking of what the police officers who’d interrogated you had actually said. “Is this really what you get from robbing houses?”

“Not just houses,” he grins.

“Never mind, I don’t even wanna know the details,” you cut him off before he can launch into any kind of story, anything that would make you change your mind. “Just… as long as no one’s going to come looking for this money and beat my ass, I’ll take it.”

Clark is happily laughing again.

“They won’t come looking for you,” he brags, “I can guarantee you that. I’m the young handsome rebel they’ll be tearing the place up to find.”

His self-satisfied remark is the last thing you can stand to hear.

“You little bitch,” you hiss, grabbing his wrist and pulling him closer the best you can.

Surprised as you jerk him closer, Clark’s eyes widen.

You swipe the cash out of his hand and pocket it, but you don’t let go with your other hand.

“Clark, you need to learn some fucking humility. You are lucky you’re attractive.”

“So you think I’m attractive?” He asks without missing a beat, sneering even as you pull on the material of his dark jacket.

“No shit,” you shoot back, “you think I would’ve let you take my boat if I didn’t think you’d come back and… repay me?”

“Why didn’t you say that right away? We could’ve done it multiple times over by now,” he suggests.

Before you can refute his claim— you haven’t been out here that long— he wriggles out of your grip.

“At least let me take this off,” he’s about to slip off his leather jacket, but you stop him, grasping him by the wrist again.

“No.”

“No?”

“No, Clark,” you spit, “you basically blueballed me for three days, I’m not going to wait anymore.”

Clark laughs with genuine mirth once more.

“Really?” He asks, unbothered by your tone.

You let go of his wrist, but not before you turn so that you’re the one closer to the edge of the dock, and you can push Clark to the ground without worrying about accidentally sending him stumbling back into the water.

And you do push him down— not into the ever-darkening waves, thank fuck— so that he’s laying on his back atop the sturdy wooden dock.

“God,” he rasps, “I like you.”

“Yeah?” Your lips tug up into an involuntary smile, in spite of how you’ve been trying to stay stern and look mad. “Maybe I like you too,” you might as well admit it.

You’re already practically sitting on him, and shit, you're only a little embarrassed to admit that just the sight of him had gotten you wet, from the moment he’d been standing on your docks again.

Convenient that you’d worn a skirt today, so that you could so easily toss your underwear off and leave them on one of the wide wooden panels without a second thought.

Clark’s already scrambling to undo his own pants, and he stutters on a groan as he sees you suddenly bare beneath your skirt for him.

You reach down to help him, sliding them down, and licking your lips once Clark has adjusted himself and his half-hard cock is on display for you.

“Yeah,” you darkly chuckle to yourself, “that’s it.”

Clark is mischievously laughing all the same, even if your forward nature has him increasingly breathless.

You’re going to leave him senseless, and he knows it.

He lays back, resting his head on the wooden panels of the dock, excitedly parting his legs to make space for you to get between them.

“How’s that?” He tilts his head up again to peer at you, the slant of another smile on his face.

“Stay down,” you tell him, “I can already see you. But yes, this is good,” you crawl up his body.

Clark holds his hands up, a playful show of further surrender, and the look on his face doesn’t falter.

“If you want what it is you came back for,” you tease, “you’ll stay still for me. Yeah, Clark?”

His chest is rising and falling noticeably quicker as you assume his excitement gets the better of him, because it can’t be nerves when he’s so eager.

“Yeah,” he nods enthusiastically. “Easy.”

Smiling in satisfaction, you once again place a hand on his chest, languidly trailing along the length of his body until you stop at his cock. You wrap your hand around him, rubbing and stroking, just for a second, listening to him audibly gasping with pleasure.

You know that voices carry at night. You just don’t really give a fuck right now.

Seeing if you can make him even louder, you swipe the precum now glistening at the head and give him a squeeze, which sure enough has him crying out.

He curses when you pull both your hands off, in one swift motion.

“I told you,” you insistently murmur, “you made me wait. Don’t be surprised if I make you do the same.”

“Hang on,” Clark shudders, maybe looking to negotiate with you as he thinks you’re going to stop touching him altogether. He’s wrong, of course.

You pull up your skirt again, line yourself up with your hands positioned on his chest as you’re all over all of a sudden, and now that he’s fully hard you have no trouble sliding onto his length.

Clark is exhaling in surprise, an unfettered sigh of pleasure leaving him as you hiss, adjusting to the not unpleasant stretch of his cock, far from minding the overwhelming press of it inside you after you’ve been empty for so goddamn long.

His hands come up to wrap around your waist, but you slap his arm away, wanting to be in control without him getting in the way.

“Sorry,” he mindlessly murmurs, and you could laugh at how thoughtless, how suddenly compliant he is.

“That’s right,” you tell him, “if you let me do this, you’re gonna like it.”

Clark groans again, unable to even feign patience as you’re still sitting over him but not even flinching, and that isn’t stimulation enough for him apparently.

You suppose he’s been good enough so far, though, so you dig your nails in to grip him and start thrusting, rolling your hips over his cock in a teasing rhythm that has him abruptly sobbing.

“Yes, yes,” he hisses out under his breath, and you yourself groan low in your throat, undeniably encouraged by the desperate sound of his words.

You slide yourself up, just as quickly dropping back down and pushing him up inside you to the hilt, and Clark gasps.

“Fuck,” he sobs, and you change the angle you’re at, grabbing his shoulders and repeating the motion until you’re properly bouncing on him, fast enough to make his head spin.

Clark’s hands reach for anything to grab onto where his arms are above his head, but he can’t exactly reach one of the poles of the dock, and so he finds his fingers harshly digging into the old wood instead.

Since he had allowed you this control, every time you slide back on his cock you can reach the spot inside you that makes your clit throb and your fists clench around the fabric in your hands— Clark doesn’t seem to mind this position either as he moans.

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter under your breath, without even slightly slowing.

“What?” Clark pants.

“Nothing, just,” you sigh, as you’re still thrusting your hips just right so that he’s perfectly deep and each hit drags you closer to orgasm, “you just really do sound like a slut,” you comment.

The name-calling doesn’t seem to bother Clark as he groans, and his eyes roll back as you only speed up.

“Yeah, you like that?” You’re openly teasing him again. “You gonna disagree with me?”

“No,” he barely manages to grit it out, “no, you're not wrong.”

“That’s what I thought,” you breathily laugh, scratching him a bit as you grasp at his shoulders.

For a moment, you allow your eyes to flutter shut, and even though that seems to make your other senses sharper, part of the pleasure is being able to watch this beautiful man writhing and moaning beneath you, watch the way his face contorts in pleasure and he gasps open-mouthed for air.

“God, you’re gorgeous,” you can’t help but muse when you look down at him again. “You might act like a slut, but you sure look good while doing it.”

Clark is crying with delight once more, and his own eyes are rolling back and shutting.

It’s only a couple more seconds of fucking him like this before he’s shouting again, and you realize he’s genuinely close now.

“Ah, ah—!” He sobs, “fuck!”

Clark is clenching his hands into fists in lieu of uselessly dragging them along the panels of the dock, now.

“Oh,” he’s moaning, “oh—” and that’s all the warning you get before Clark is already done, coming with another gasp as he fills you up, and god, normally you might not have been there yourself, but you’d already been close from your carefully angled ride atop him, and the sensation has you squeezing him, milking his orgasm until he cries out like he’s in pain at the feeling.

You can’t do anything for him, though, not as the entire world seems to have fallen away, you have no sway over what your own body does and you don’t care if you two are loud enough that unsuspecting people all the way on the other shoreline will hear your voices reverberating over the expanse of the water— you don’t give a damn that you’re outside on a dock where some neighbor could see you, no less, because damn them all to hell, it’s just you and Clark, as far as you’re concerned.

When you can register what the hell is going on again, you let go of Clark and rest your hands over the wood after you’d probably left marks on his skin.

Aside from your heavy sighs and Clark’s own labored breathing, it’s just the stillness of the cobalt water, with only an occasional early cricket chirping to break the silence.

“That,” you breathe out, “was good.”

“Worth the wait?” Clark quips.

“Don’t push it,” you counter, sitting up and pulling off of him. “I had some notes.”

“Notes?”

“Yeah. Could’ve been longer, you know,” you grab your underwear and pull them back on, unable to hide your smirk as Clark sighs in defeat instead of arguing with you.

You watch, still entranced with every movement he makes, as he fixes up his pants.

“Take it as a compliment,” you jest, “that I didn’t want it to end.”

“That,” Clark hums as he pulls himself up into a standing position, “I can live with.”

You can’t help but laugh, giddy, as you get up to join him. You do eye your motorboat, scrutinizing where Clark has tied it up to the docks, and though you were skeptical about his ability to operate the damn thing, it looks secure, and you don’t feel the need to make a show of fixing it.

You nod approvingly, quite liking the scene of your boat back in its proper place on the left, and Clark to your right, stretching himself out as he looks down into the waves that lap against the banks.

“… You know, if the cops don’t come knocking on your door again, I could lay low here for a day or so,” Clark suddenly suggests.

Instantaneously, you turn to regard him, to see if he’s kidding, but the look on his face is even, calm.

You take his hand, already inclined to lead him from the dock into your house.

“If that’s what you want,” you snicker.

“I’d like that very much,” he says, “if you’ll have me.”

“Oh, I’ll have you,” you’re already teasing him again, and judging by the low chuckle in the back of his throat, you can tell that this is going to be a good long night before either of you get a wink of sleep.

~~~

Tagging: @soap-bucket-9540, @scarletpresencescythe, and @thedevotchka whose own Clark fic motivated me to get my ass in gear and share my writing for him ahah.