love-anonymous-writer

[love-anonymous-writer]

Clark's first time

synopsis: you're Clark's first time

cw: reader is a tad bit tipsy, smut, slight dry humping, fingering (f!receiving), unprotected p in v, creampie, loss of virginity, innocent and subby Clark.

wc: 4.2k (this was supposed to be a short fic lmao)

“Have you ever been with a girl, Clark?” you murmur, lying on his sofa, your feet in his lap. He'd taken you to his place after a small office outing to a bar, where you'd had one too many of those sweet drinks you liked. You weren't so fucked up that you couldn't walk or make it back home alright, you were just tipsy-ish. But Clark refused to let you get in any kind of danger, no matter how small. What if you slipped and fell and hurt yourself in your apartment, all alone? Someone had to make sure you were taken care of until you were completely sober. And he couldn't just invite himself into your apartment. So he took you to his.

He glances at you. “What?”

“Have you ever been with a girl?” you repeat, your eyes on his.

He feels a small blush creeping up his neck. “Like...like, uh —”

“Like sex,” you cut in. “Have you ever had sex?”

He reddens more. “Why would you ask that? Why are you thinking about that?” he questions, looking down at your feet in his lap, eyeing the little anklet you're wearing so you can't see his expression.

“Just curious.” You shrug. “It's a yes or no question. So: yes or no?”

“I just don't understand why you're asking,” he insists, his palms getting clammy, his heart beating faster.

“We're good friends. I'm just noseying around. Journalist, remember?” you tease, laughing softly. He doesn't join in. He just gets redder.

“Friends also have the right to keep their personal lives...personal,” he points out.

You sigh thickly, exaggeratedly. “Jesus, just say you haven't, Clark. It's fine.”

He's blushing all the way up to the tips of his ears now. “I didn't say I haven't,” he says.

“You didn't say you have,” is your simple response.

“Maybe it's none of your business,” he snaps, a little harsher than intended.

You don't seem bothered. “Ooh. Touchy subject. Alright.”

“It's not a touchy subject, it's just personal,” he insists, finally looking at you again, his expression caught between annoyance and embarrassment.

You blink at him. “So. Why not?” you ask. You would've probably stopped pestering him about it when he asked why you cared had you been sober — in fact, you probably wouldn't have asked at all — but the alcohol emboldens you.

He looks away from you and doesn't respond.

“I won't judge,” you promise, shrugging. “Just...is there a particular reason as to why not?”

He's not sure there's a reason. It just...hasn't happened. He struggled enough with finding the courage to ask out the few girls he'd gone on dates with, and it had never been more than dating. He never could bring himself to go into their places after dinner, or to invite them to his. He'd been too afraid of messing up due to lack of experience, and he was embarrassed of admitting he'd never done it before.

He wants to lie to you. Wants to tell you yes, he's had plenty of sex, please leave him alone about it. But when he goes to speak, the truth tumbles out. “Not really. Just...guess I didn't want to tell my dates I'd never, uh, y’know...before, and I was worried they would be able to tell I was inexperienced,” he replies quietly, keeping his gaze on the wall ahead, painfully aware of your eyes on the side of his face.

“Inexperience isn't a bad thing,” you say gently, sitting up. “Some girls find it endearing.”

“It's not endearing. It's just that I'm lame,” he murmurs.

“Oh, honey, you're not lame,” you coo, placing a hand on his arm. “You're not lame. You're brilliant and sweet and funny and kind. That's not lame.”

He looks at you now, a little furrow of doubt creased between his brows. “No?”

“No. It's not. I'd much rather be with a man like you, sweet and smart, who's inexperienced, than with a jackass who's had plenty of sex.”

I'd rather be with a man like you.

The words make his heart stutter. “Really? Even though I — even though a guy like me wouldn't really know what he's doing?”

“Everyone has to start somewhere,” you say quietly, your eyes falling to his lips. “Plus, it would be fun teaching him how to make me feel good.”

He swallows thickly when you lean closer, and as much as he wants to lean in too, he moves back a bit. “You're drunk,” he whispers.

You smile slightly. “I was never drunk, just a little buzzed,” you reply, moving closer to kiss him. Your lips brush against his and Clark's breath is stolen right from his lungs. Your kiss is delicate and sweet, testing the waters to see how he reacts.

He raises a hand and cups the side of your face, gently pushing you back. “You don't know what you're doing. This is the alcohol talking and acting,” he says quietly, shaking his head.

“No,” you say. “I've wanted this for a long time, Clark. The alcohol just makes me brave.”

His cheeks turn pink again. “Really?”

You nod.

He holds your gaze and hesitates a second. “Why me?”

You just smile, grabbing his face in your hands and pulling him in for a kiss. He doesn't stop you this time, just lets you take what you want, lets you coerce his mouth open so your tongue can slide against his.

You taste like the sugary cocktails you'd been drinking, and you smell of the smoke that filled the air of the bar. But there's also something uniquely yours, a sweet musk that his keen senses don't miss.

You climb onto his lap, your thighs straddling his hips, and Clark groans when he feels your weight on him. He pulls away from your lips, glancing down at where your core is right against the growing bulge in his pants.

You follow his gaze and smile. “You okay?”

“Y-yeah,” he answers, a little flustered at how hard he's getting. “Just...sorry about my, uh.” He cuts himself off and turns red, cheeks burning. “It's a natural response, I can't really —”

You giggle, shutting him up with another kiss. “It's fine, Clark, you don't have to apologize,” you murmur against his mouth. “It's kind of what I expected to happen.”

“Oh, okay,” he says, goosebumps rising on his skin when you wrap your arms around his neck and your fingers trace the skin of his nape.

You kiss him again, harder, your chest pressing to his, as you drag a hand into the soft locks of hair at the back of his head and tug gently.

Clark grunts, hips bucking against you. You grin into the kiss and begin rolling your hips, your cunt — already soaking at your panties — grinds against his erection.

He gasps, pulling away from your mouth to look down, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

You reach for them, grabbing his wrists and leading his hands to your hips. “Touch me,” you whisper. “Don't be shy, show me you want me too.”

He chuckles nervously, his clammy hands resting lightly and awkwardly on your hips. “I...I get to touch you, just like that?” he asks, breathless.

“I want you to touch me,” you tell him. “Do you wanna touch me?”

“Yes,” he blurts quickly, desperately. “God, yes.”

“Then touch me.”

Carefully, Clark slides his hands up your body, tracing the sides of your waist, hesitating a little when his fingers get close to your breasts.

You nod at him to keep going, so he does. Carefully, he cups your tits through your shirt, feeling their weight in his palms.

“Oh, golly,” he murmurs, eyes going wide.

You laugh softly, enjoying the expression of awe on his handsome face. “You're adorable.”

He turns pink from his neck to his ears, and gives you a sheepish smile. “I just...You're so beautiful,” he says, breathless.

“Thank you,” you reply as you reach down for the hem of your shirt and pull it up, over your head.

He raises his eyebrows, his gaze moving between your tits and your face, his hands withdrawing back to your hips.

You reach behind your back and undo your bra, promptly tossing it aside. And now Clark's face is a deep shade of red.

“Oh, God,” he whispers, his mouth suddenly dry. “Wow.” He raises his hands, hesitates, and looks at you. “Can-can I touch them?”

You nod. “Yeah, touch them.”

Clark cups your tits in his large hands, his thumbs gently tracing around your nipples. “They're perfect,” he tells you, unable to tear his eyes from your chest.

You smile, softly caressing the side of his face. “Thank you.”

“No, I mean it. They're absolutely perfect,” he insists, leaning down, his breath fanning over your tits. “I wanna kiss them.”

“Kiss them,” you encourage, and he doesn't need to be told twice.

His mouth moves over the warm skin of your breasts, gently, pressing quick kisses to one and then to the other. You run your fingers through his hair as he does, letting him go as he pleases.

His lips find one of your nipples and he licks it, earning a little gasp from you. He takes it into his mouth, sucking, and he feels the shiver that runs through you.

His hands move to your upper back, pressing you further against his face, his breathing heavy and uneven. He pulls away and moves to your other nipple, paying it the same attention. You can feel his saliva on your breasts, coating over your skin, and you resume your slow grind against his tented pants.

Clark gasps, releasing your nipple and craning his head up, lips seeking yours. You grant him the kiss he'd been searching for, and he whines quietly.

One of his hands slides down, to the edge of your skirt. He pushes it up a couple of inches, giving you the chance to stop him if you want to. But then you reach down and pull your skirt up around your waist, and Clark shudders.

He pulls away from your mouth, a little reluctant to disconnect your lips, and glances down. Your panties are drenched, your slick has seeped through them and begun to leave a wet spot right where his cock is straining against the material of his pants.

“Oh.” His hands stop your hips from moving and he reaches down, fingertips tracing the front of his pants, feeling the dampness there.

As if of their own volition, his fingers wander between your thighs, touching the crotch of your panties, finding them slick.

“It's so wet,” he says, voice rough and quiet, and you nod.

“That's what you do to me,” you say quietly, making him shiver. “I really, really like you.”

He meets your gaze then, his eyes desperate. “Can I touch you?” he begs. “Like, can I put my hand in your panties to feel your — to feel you?”

“Yeah.” You nod. “Yes. Go ahead.”

“Thank you, thank you,” he murmurs feverishly, his hand carefully sliding under your panties. His fingertips brush your soaked folds and he gasps, delighted at how wet and warm you are.

You let out a little sigh, pushing your hips gently against his hand. He presses his finger between your folds, gasping out another oh, golly when he feels how much of your arousal has gathered there.

You grind yourself against his hand, moaning softly. Clark watches your face, watches the pleasure drawn in the way you bite your lip and the way your eyes flutter shut. After a moment, he asks, “Can I see her?”

“Hm?” you question, a little out of it.

“Your, um. Your pussy. Can I see her?” he repeats, his voice going a little high-pitched.

“Yeah,” you reply, climbing off his lap. You shimmy out of your skirt and panties, now fully naked, and sit next to him on the sofa, facing him.

He watches with wide eyes as you bend your knees, planting your feet on the cushions and spreading your legs. Your cunt comes into view, glistening wet, and he lowers himself so his face is level with her.

He moves a hand up, fingers tracing your folds almost curiously, and he slowly spreads them open. His eyes catch on your entrance, watching you clench around nothing, and he can feel his heart in his throat.

He's so excited and he's so nervous and he wishes he would've watched porn so he'd have at least a semblance of an idea on what to do.

“She's beautiful,” he informs you, his eyes flicking up to yours. “I wish I knew how to touch her to make you feel good.”

The smile you give him is gentle, tender. “I'll show you,” you tell him. You reach down, pressing your middle finger against your clit. “You see this little thing here?”

He nods.

“Touch it like this,” you say, rubbing soft, neat circles on the bud. A soft mewl leaves you, more slick dribbling from you at the friction.

He watches raptly, his eyes never leaving the movement of your finger, as if he can't miss a single detail.

You let him watch a moment before pulling your hand away. “Now you try it.”

He's quick to obey, his thumb finding your clit and drawing little circles on it, a little hesitantly. “Like this?”

You nod, moaning. “Just like that. God, you're a quick learner.”

He gives you a small, boyish smile, the movement of his thumb growing more sure and more confident when he sees you're enjoying yourself.

You move your hand down, leading his middle and ring fingers to your entrance. “Push them in.”

He pauses his movements, eyes widening. “In?”

You nod. “Yeah. You push them in and then curl them up,” you explain, using your hand to show him the motion his fingers should follow.

“Okay.” Eager to please, Clark slowly pushes his fingers into you. He feels your gummy walls, wet and warm and tight, sucking his digits in, and it's like a shock to his system. “Oh.”

His cock is aching in his pants, and all he can do is imagine how it would feel to put it in you.

He almost comes on the spot.

Following your directions, Clark rubs your clit with his thumb and curls his fingers. You moan, spurring him on, and he sets a slow, steady pace.

He rests his cheek against your thigh, eyes flickering up to your gorgeous face, caught in ecstasy, before moving back down to where his fingers are in you.

“You're so beautiful,” he says, voice quiet, his fingers working you up slowly but surely. “You're a goddess.”

You reach down, fingers running through his hair, trying not to tug. There's something sweet — almost cloying — in the way he's looking at you. But he's so perfect, so kind, has such a beautiful heart, that you'd never get tired of hearing the compliments he gives. His doting on you amazes you, makes you grateful that, out of all the women in the world, he chose you to make the luckiest.

His fingers are relentless. They don't stop their steady rhythm until your legs are shaking and your body is sweating, and you push him away.

“I don't wanna come yet,” you say, breathless, voice hoarse from all the moaning and mewling. “Not yet.”

“Oh. Okay.” He pulls his fingers out of you, spreading his digits to see your slick coating over them. He stares a long while before meeting your gaze. “Is it weird if I lick them?” he asks you.

“No, it's not weird,” you assure him.

He wastes no time. He sticks his fingers in his mouth and licks them clean, groaning. He pulls them out with a wet pop. “You taste amazing,” he says, pupils dilated, eyes dark.

You smile softly, sitting up. “Do you wanna undress for me?” you ask gently, holding his gaze.

He studies your eyes for a moment before nodding. He stands, a little bit of shyness taking over him as he begins to undo his shirt, his fingers suddenly clumsy at the buttons. But you wait patiently, watching him, letting him take as long as he needs.

He sets his shirt aside gently, and then carefully works on his pants. He pops the button and pulls open the zipper before kicking them off, remaining only in his boxers, which have a wet spot at the front from where his cock has been leaking pre.

“Those too,” you say softly, half-playful, and he turns redder.

“You have to understand, I've really never done this,” he whispers as he reaches for his underwear.

“I know. It's okay, Clark, don't worry about it.”

He nods, gathering his courage as he finishes undressing. He stands before you, completely naked, looking like a god.

You get up from the sofa and stand right in front of him, amazed. You eye his naked body for a minute, veins filled with heat, pussy pulsing in anticipation. “What was it that you said? ‘Oh, golly’?”

He laughs softly, surprised. “Don't tease me.”

“I'm not. You — Clark, do you have any idea how hot you are?” you ask, and you mean it. He turns pink again, though this time from pride, and he just watches you watch him.

Your hands trace the muscles on his torso, feeling his soft skin, moving down to his hip bones. His breath hitches when you slide a hand lower, lower, lower...And then your fingers wrap around his cock and he gasps, eyes widening.

You stroke him slowly, relishing the little whines that escape his lips, and you're wondering how he's going to fit in you. He's long and thick, and extremely hard. And you're wet and ready, but something tells you it's still going to be a stretch.

You squeeze the shaft of his cock, thumb brushing over the tip, and Clark's hand grabs your wrist. “Wait, wait. I'm gonna — If you keep doing that, I won't last long enough to...to put it, um. To put it in you.”

Reluctantly, you remove your hand. “You wanna be in me?”

He nods, eyes wild with need. “Yes. If-if you want me to. If you let me.”

“I want to,” you assure. “But just so you know, we don't have to do this if you're not one hundred percent sure, Clark.”

He chuckles softly. “I'm absolutely sure,” he says.

You smile softly and kiss his cheek before grabbing his hand. “Lead the way to your bed.”

He brings his hand to his lips and kisses your knuckles before gently pulling you along to his bedroom. It's dimly lit by the lamppost outside, the orange light casting a warm glow over the scene.

He shows you to the bed and you lie down on it, smiling at him as he remains by the edge, standing there and staring at you.

You open your arms, signaling him to come to you, and he hesitates a minute before climbing on top of you.

He's careful not to let his weight crush you under him, his body hovering inches from yours. You wrap your arms around his neck and peck his lips. “I'm ready whenever you are.”

He nods, processing the words, his body thrumming with excitement and a little bit of anxiety. Nervous butterflies take flight in his stomach at the thought of doing this, and he has to admit he's afraid of doing it wrong.

But then, you kiss his cheek and whisper, “Don't worry, I'm with you the entire time,” and his fears dissipate.

He meets your gaze and holds it as he grabs the base of his cock, pressing the bulbous head against your entrance. He hisses at how slick you are, and after another second for courage, he slowly starts pushing in.

Your cunt is warm, wet, tight, and Clark's mind immediately goes blank at the sensation.

He's never felt anything so wonderful in his life, never heard a sound as beautiful as the moan that leaves your lips when he's in. He glances down, watching himself sink deeper into you, amazed at how you fit him.

When his hips are flush against you, he shudders a breath, feeling the pulses of your gummy walls around him, and his mind is spinning.

You're holding him close, kissing his cheeks and his forehead and his lips, and he's struggling to remain conscious.

“You okay?” you ask after a moment, your own breathing rapid.

He shakes his head. “No. I mean, yes, I'm okay. It feels so amazing, you feel perfect, but I don't think I can hold back much longer.” Or at all.

You giggle softly, kindly, and kiss his jaw. “Don't worry about it, Clark. Don't think about that. I just want you to enjoy yourself, okay?”

He presses his forehead against yours and closes his eyes, drawing in deep, uneven breaths. “Okay.” He pecks your lips. “Okay.”

He stays in you, unmoving, for a while. Just gathers his breath and tries to steady the racing of his heart.

“I'm supposed to move, right?” he asks, though it's more rhetorical. “Should I go fast or slow or...?”

“Just move however you wanna move,” you reply. “Don't think it too much, just feel.”

“Just feel. Right.” He starts slow, his hips drawing back until his cock is almost all the way out, and then pushing back in just as slow.

Your whine softly, nose brushing against his. “Oh, that's nice.”

“Yeah?” he rasps out.

“Yeah,” you say, enjoying the languid, gentle rhythm you two fall into. His cock stretches you out, fills you completely, the tip grazing your cervix every time he's all the way in.

Clark keeps it steady, watching your face, occasionally glancing down to watch the way he slips in and out of you, his cock coated in your slick.

He kisses your lips tenderly, his low moans spilling into your mouth and mixing with your whines.

One of his hands moves to splay over your womb, his thumb tracing the apex of your mound until it finds that little nub you'd taught him to touch earlier. He rubs neat circles on it, slow and gentle, in time with his thrusts.

You squeal, delighted, and push your hips further against his. He smiles against your lips, glad he's doing well.

Slowly, according to the demand of his body, Clark starts increasing the pace, making sure to not go too hard so he doesn't hurt you.

The pleasure builds between you, your moans getting louder, his groans too.

To nobody's surprise, Clark doesn't last long. The hot coil in his lower stomach snaps, his hips bucking into you quick and messy, delivering thick ropes of warm cum into your pussy, coating your inner walls.

“Oh, my God. Oh, God. Oh, it feels so good,” he gasps, eyes shut tight, body trembling.

His thumb doesn't let up on your clit, and your own orgasm follows his not long after, making your cunt squeeze him tight, milking out every drop of his sticky release as you moan his name, sounding like an angel in his ears.

He hadn't been prepared for how hard you'd clench him, and he moans and gasps as his sensitive cock gets squeezed in the warm wetness of your heat, somehow making more cum spurt from him. He empties the entirety of his release into you, until his body is shaking and he's whimpering, barely left with enough strength to breathe.

He pulls out of you with a whine and collapses next to you, muscles achy, body weak.

You roll on your side to face him, skin flushed, eyes half-lidded in the afterglow of your orgasm.

You softly push his dark hair off his forehead, where it's stuck with sweat, and he wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer.

“I promise I'll get better,” he whispers, his fingertips tracing your shoulder. “I'll get better so I can treat you the way you deserve — so I can treat you like a goddess.” He kisses the bridge of your nose. “But for that I need to practice. Will you let me practice with you?”

You smile softly and kiss his lips. “Only if you want me to.”

“You know I want you to,” he says softly. “There's no one else I'd want to do this with, if not you.”

♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing

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Clark Kent masterlist

[love-anonymous-writer]

જ⁀➴°⋆ accidentally in love

°⋆ pairing: clark kent x coworker!reader

°⋆ summary: in which clark has been in love with his coworker since the first day she walked through the door. one day she brings in cookies, and he can't help but confess everything to her.

°⋆ warnings: no use of y/n, clark is a pathetic loser, user is a bubbly piece of sunshine, accidental love confession, i dont know how to end fics so the ending is probably bad

°⋆ wc: 1.5k

Clark Kent’s in love.

He has been ever since she first walked into the Daily Planet. She was a bundle of joy, with chunky heels, colourful tights, and the biggest smile Clark had seen in his entire life. And he grew up in Smallville. Everyone in Smallville was happy. Just not like she was.

She clocked in to work excitedly every day, with this energy that seemed to wave over the entire room. Everyone that was in the room when she entered would start to smile, sit straighter. There was just something about her that was undeniable. He’d never met anyone like her in his entire life. And Clark was head over heels for it.

The thing was, though, that it’d been a while since Clark had tried to pursue a girl. In high school, he’d had this kind of suave, farmboy charm. Or so he’d been told. It was easier then, because he was the biggest guy in school, on the football team, and actually pretty cool for small town standards. The big city was a whole other problem. Now, he was just another big, bumbling dork.

But she was so amazing. She brought various baked goods to work when she experimented with recipes, each one better than the last, or so it seemed. Every time he tried one, Clark would lavish praise on her (and whatever he’d just eaten), just to see her smile.

He had to do something about it. Jimmy said it was pretty much a done deal, that she must be in love with him. Every day she’d pass his desk with a bright smile, stopping to talk for just a few minutes, beaming brightly at him like he had made her whole entire day. Which was nice, until he saw her give the same smile to everybody else.

Some things were different. She didn’t really talk to anyone like she talked to Clark. There was something akin to tension between them, and according to Jimmy and Lois, they’d been flirting a lot over the last couple days. It’s been evolving, because Clark is strategic. It started with a compliment of her outfit that day. Then he said he needed help with an article so she’d lean over him and attempt to salvage whatever fake stuff he’d written for a couple minutes. Now there were teasing remarks passed between them. Progress is what he called it.

Today was no different than any other day. Clark has memorised what time she comes into work, and when he’s not busy with his Superman duties, he tries to get there 5 minutes early so that he can watch her effect take place. Also so he could watch her walk to her desk, maybe say hello. Her desk was further in the bullpen than his - it would take an extra effort to get there, make his “little” crush even more obvious.

When she walked in, Clark’s head perked up, like a dutiful puppy. He straightens his posture, opens the camera on his computer to fix his hair, before looking back at her. Today, she’s holding a cookie tin. And her eyes are zeroed right on him, that familiar huge smile on her face. Clark smiles back, pushing his glasses further up his nose.

When she reaches his desk, she hands him the tin of cookies excitedly. “I tried a new recipe last night. Dying to know what you think.” She was practically buzzing beside him.

He pops open the tin, and as soon as the smell hits the air, Jimmy and Lois are crowding around his desk too. “Could I…?” Both of them speak at the same time, and she nods enthusiastically.

“Yes, please! I need feedback so I know if I need to tweak it.” She squeals. Clark looks down at the cookies. They’re circular, sandwich, with cream and strawberry jam in the middle. When he glances back up at her, the look on her face is priceless. Like she’s just anticipating a great reaction. Jimmy and Lois are chattering as they eat up, as many as they can before everyone else crowds, but Clark is slow. He’s contemplating. He takes a bite, and his entire persona melts.

“Oh my god, this is- amazing.” He grins, looking up at her as a few crumbs tumble down his lips. He can’t help it, despite the fact it’s definitely not polite to talk while he’s still eating. “Really, fantastic.”

Her whole face lights up, if that’s even possible anymore. “I hope you’re not just saying that to get in my pants, Clark.” Her tone is teasing, but he’s too busy reaching for another cookie to really pay attention to her. So, before he can filter himself, he says.

“No, I really love you.” Jimmy and Lois go silent beside them. The three of them all stare at him. And then he realises what he said, and his cheeks go redder than a tomato. “I mean- I love- I love the cookies. Sorry. My head’s… somewhere else, I guess. Sorry.”

What a save.

Both Jimmy and Lois mumble something about having to get to work, leaving to go sit back at their desks and avoid what is sure to be an awkward conversation. “Well, uhm… if you like them that, much, Clark, I’ll leave them with you.” She smiles, but this time it’s awkward, closed off, and she scampers off to her desk.

The rest of the whole day is miserable. Clark just stares at his laptop all day, unable to type out more than three words per hour. Essentially, he’s just been rejected. The confession was an accident. And it wasn’t anything like he’d imagined it in his head.

In his head, one night, they were going to have gotten to the point where he’d offer to walk her home. They’d chat, amicably, and then he’d ask her if she wanted to grab something quick to eat. Then he’d walk with her to her building, tuck her hair behind her ear, tell her how he felt. Maybe if she felt so inclined, she’d invite him back up to her apartment, and they could watch a movie together, and then he’d leave at an appropriate time.

This little incident threw a wrench in that plan. None of that was going to happen now. Because he’d ruined it.

When the work day was over, Clark watched her pack up at the exact minute, dashing out without making eye contact with anyone. So completely unlike her. God, was it that bad?

He packed up as quick as he could, putting a little bit of “spring” in his step. He caught up with her only when she left the building, and tentatively, his hand reaches out to stop her. “Hey, wait- wait a second, I need to talk to you-”

She turns to him, the usual joy in her eyes dimmed just a little bit. “Clark, did you really mean what you said?”

“I-” He stops, looking down at her. He blinks a few times, once, twice, because words aren’t forming in his mouth. He clears his throat. “Maybe it was a little exaggerated, but… yeah. I like you. Maybe a little more than like. Not love. Love is really intense.”

He was definitely in love, but she didn’t need to know that. It would probably freak her out even more. He watches some light come back to her eyes, which is a good sign. “I’m sorry about how I reacted earlier, Clark, I’m just really used to people… lying about that stuff.” She mumbles sheepishly, and then starts to ramble, which Clark is accustomed to by now. “Like, in college, I dated this guy who was dared to go out with me, and I didn’t know about it. And I know you’re not like that. But I freaked out. I like you too. A lot. That’s why I freaked out.”

Clark smiles down at her, trying to push down the giddy feeling in his chest, because he felt like jumping up and clicking his heels in the air, which he was way too big for. He’d look ridiculous doing it. But his grin is practically splitting his face in half, and his dimples are aching with it.

“Do you think I could take you to dinner tonight?” He asks sheepishly, shifting his briefcase from one hand to the other a few times. He hadn’t been this nervous since his interview for his job.

“Yeah, I think that would be okay.” She grins, nodding her head. Immediately, his hand finds hers, and their fingers lace together.

“I know a good spot.”

credits to dollywons for dividers!

clark kent taglist: @thankschef-blog (to be added) (just ask!)

[love-anonymous-writer]

I think it would be beyond adorable if during the pregnancy Y/N makes a quilt! Maybe she asks Ma for help and they reuse clark’s old clothes and on the other side maybe just some pretty pink fabrics! And it becomes Leia’s favorite blanket and a reminder of her mother’s love?? ykwim!! It’s sort of how y/n copes with the journey of being pregnant and worries of being a mother but also the excitement? And i could see clark loving the idea but not liking the amount of time it takes to make one and forcing her to take breaks! 😫

A Smallville Christmas Surprise

Summary: You and Clark add a new ornament to Ma and Pa Kent’s christmas tree. You start nesting, and see just how much the Kent men love.

Clark Kent x Female!Pregnant!Reader (pregnant with Leia!)

more kent family adventures here!

The farmhouse smelled like cinnamon and apple pie, a warmth that wrapped around you the moment you walked through the door. Snow clung to your boots, melting into tiny puddles on the welcome mat as Clark carried in the last of your bags.

“Clark, honey, leave those there! Dinner’s almost ready,” Martha called from the kitchen, voice filled with that same gentle kindness you’d adored since the first time you met her.

“Smells amazing, Ma,” Clark said, kissing her cheek as he set down the bags and shrugged off his coat. Jonathan came in from the barn, brushing snow from his jacket, his face lighting up the second he saw you.

“There’s our girl!” Jonathan said warmly, pulling you into a hug that nearly crushed you. “You surviving out there with this big lug?”

You laughed, glancing at Clark. “Barely. He eats half the groceries before I can even cook them.”

Clark grinned, pretending to look offended. “Not true. I leave some for you.”

Dinner was perfect—Martha’s roast, homemade rolls, and her famous peach cobbler for dessert. The fire crackled in the living room as you all gathered around the tree afterward. You couldn’t stop touching the small velvet box in your pocket, the one that held the ornament you’d made.

Now or never.

Clark met your eyes across the room. He knew what was coming. You saw the way his breath caught, how his fingers curled around his mug of cocoa just a little tighter. You nodded softly.

“Actually,” you said, standing and moving toward the tree, “I brought something for the tree this year.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you didn’t have to—” Martha started, but stopped when you carefully opened the box. Inside was a delicate glass ornament, shaped like a snow globe, with a tiny wooden farmhouse inside. Hanging from the top in swirling script were the words: Baby Kent – Coming Summer 2025.

You held it out for them to see.

Martha’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my… oh, honey!” Her voice cracked as tears filled her eyes. “Are you—are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

She turned the ornament toward Pa, who stared at it like his mind was trying to catch up with his heart.

“Is this—?” His voice cracked, deep and raw.

Clark stood, towering but trembling, his jaw tight as he swallowed back emotion. “Yeah, Pa,” he said softly. “You’re gonna be grandparents.”

The words seemed to break something loose inside Jonathan Kent. Tears filled his eyes—tears that he didn’t bother hiding—and he rose to his feet in a rush. Clark met him halfway, and suddenly father and son were wrapped in a fierce, unshakable embrace. Pa’s strong hands gripped Clark’s shoulders like he never wanted to let go.

“I’m so proud of you,” Pa choked out, voice thick. “So proud of the man you’ve become… and now—you’re gonna be a dad.”

Clark’s breath hitched, a sound almost like a laugh, but tears streaked his cheeks, glistening in the glow of the Christmas lights. “Thanks, Pa,” he whispered, clinging just as tightly. “Couldn’t have asked for a better example.”

Ma was crying too, cradling the ornament to her chest before rushing to you, enveloping you in a hug so warm it nearly knocked the air from your lungs. “Sweetheart,” she whispered, voice trembling with joy. “This is the best Christmas gift we could ever ask for.”

You hugged her back, tears prickling your own eyes, and for a moment, the world felt impossibly perfect—snow outside, warmth inside, and a family growing in love.

When Clark finally pulled back from his father, his face was red-eyed but radiant. He looked at you then, the way he always did—like you were his whole universe—and slipped an arm around your shoulders, drawing you close.

-

Clark’s old bedroom smelled faintly of cedar and laundry soap, the same as it must have when he was a boy. The slanted ceiling still bore faint scuffs from the model airplanes he used to hang, and the shelves were lined with dusty trophies and yellowed books. You’d claimed a corner of the room, spreading out fabric across the old desk and floor, and that’s where Ma found you most afternoons—nesting.

Together, you and Ma had decided on the quilt. A family tradition, she said. Something made with love, something the baby would one day wrap themselves in like a piece of history. You’d smiled through tears at the idea, and Martha had wasted no time digging through trunks in the attic for Clark’s old clothes.

You laid out the pieces on the bed now—soft, worn cotton, frayed jeans, plaid flannels that still carried the ghost of farm dust, and even Clark’s old Smallville High football jersey. The red and gold number 8 was faded, but Ma smoothed it with reverent fingers as though it were made of silk.

“Clark used to think wearing this made him invincible,” she said with a fond laugh, pinning the fabric square in place. “Jonathan had to keep reminding him to… well, play human.”

You grinned, stitching one corner carefully, imagining a lanky teenage Clark bounding down the field, all elbows and too much heart. “I can picture it,” you murmured. “Our baby’s going to grow up wrapped in stories like these.”

Ma’s hand paused mid-stitch, and she looked at you with eyes soft as the lamplight. “That’s the beauty of it. This quilt—it won’t just keep the baby warm. It’ll carry memories. Clark’s childhood. This farm. The love that built this home.”

You swallowed hard against the lump in your throat, your fingers smoothing over a square cut from one of Clark’s plaid shirts. The fabric was soft, edges uneven, but perfect. “They’ll know where they come from,” you said softly.

Ma nodded, her smile a little misty. “And they’ll know they’re loved, even before they’re born.”

The two of you worked for hours, side by side, the steady rhythm of the needle weaving thread not just through cloth, but through generations. Occasionally, Clark would pop his head into the room, leaning against the doorway with that crooked smile. He’d pretend to tease, “You’re destroying my fashion legacy”, but his eyes always shone when he looked at you bent over the quilt with his mother.

By the time evening settled and snow began to fall outside, you and Ma had pieced together the first few rows. It wasn’t finished, but already, it looked like a tapestry of a life—reds, blues, flannels, and jerseys stitched into something new. You traced a hand over the fabric, imagining tiny fingers tugging at it one day, or a small, sleeping body tucked beneath its warmth.

Ma set her needle aside and touched your shoulder gently. “This baby is going to be surrounded by so much love,” she whispered, and in that moment, you felt it down to your bones—the farmhouse walls, Clark’s steady presence, Ma’s unwavering devotion, and Pa’s quiet strength.

Home.

And soon, you’d be bringing new life into it.

-

The quilt had begun to take shape now, its patchwork squares stitched with love and patience, the fabric infused with memory. You and Ma sat by the wide farmhouse window, the afternoon sun slanting golden across the kitchen table. Spools of thread and scraps of fabric lay scattered between the two of you, but the work slowed as your attention kept drifting outside.

Clark and Jonathan were in the field, shoulders bent beneath the pale blue sky. They worked in tandem, hauling feed and checking fences, every motion easy, practiced—father and son in perfect rhythm. Clark slowed his pace to match Jonathan’s, his broad form so much larger than his father’s but his respect written in the way he didn’t rush ahead. Pa would glance over every so often, nodding or chuckling, and Clark would grin that boyish grin that still made your heart stumble.

Ma’s needle paused in midair, her gaze softened on the sight. “Those Kent men,” she said, almost to herself, but you heard the warmth layered in her voice.

You smiled, smoothing a square of Clark’s old flannel against your growing belly. “They love harder than anyone I’ve ever known,” you admitted. “It’s overwhelming sometimes—like being caught in the middle of a storm and realizing it’s the safest place you’ll ever be.”

Ma looked at you then, her eyes shimmering, her smile deep and knowing. “That’s exactly it,” she said softly. “When Jonathan loves, he does it with his whole heart. He carries it in his work, in the way he provides, in the way he protects. And Clark…” She trailed off, her throat tightening with pride. “Clark learned that from him. He may be extraordinary in ways the world can’t imagine, but his truest gift is how deeply he feels.”

You traced the seam you’d just sewn, your fingers lingering over the stitches. “Sometimes I wonder if I can ever live up to it. The way Clark looks at me, the way he already loves this baby…” You let out a quiet laugh, breath trembling. “It’s more than I ever dreamed I could deserve.”

Ma reached across the table, resting her hand over yours, steady and warm. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said firmly, “you don’t have to ‘live up’ to anything. That’s not how love works. Clark chose you because you already are his heart. And this child—” she glanced at your belly, her smile trembling, “is going to grow up surrounded by that same kind of love. The kind that doesn’t bend or break. The kind that shelters.”

You blinked against the sting of tears, watching as Clark bent to lift a beam with casual strength, Jonathan steadying the other end. They laughed at something, their voices carrying faintly on the wind through the open window. And in that moment, it hit you with breathtaking clarity: this was the world your child would be born into. A love that was steady as the soil beneath your feet, fierce as the summer storms, and tender as the quilt slowly forming between your hands.

You turned back to Ma, whispering, “You’re right. It’s overwhelming… but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

Her hand squeezed yours once more, her smile soft as a prayer. “Neither would I.”

-

The window creaked open with a rush of cool air, and you jumped when two familiar shadows fell across the table. Ma laughed under her breath as Jonathan and Clark appeared in the doorway, boots tracking in faint dust, their cheeks pink from the chill outside.

Clark’s eyes went immediately to you, always to you, and then to the quilt spread out across the table. His whole face softened, that earnest awe he carried whenever the baby was mentioned. “You’ve both been working on this all afternoon?” he asked, brushing dirt off his hands as he leaned closer to study the patchwork. His smile grew, boyish and almost shy. “It’s… beautiful. I can’t believe that’s my old jersey.”

Ma smirked, tugging at one of the squares. “I told her it would make a fine centerpiece.”

Jonathan leaned over his wife’s shoulder, nodding slowly, eyes misty in that quiet way of his. “That’s going to keep this little one warm through every winter they’ll ever see on this farm,” he said, voice low and certain, as though he were making a promise.

But Clark’s gaze flicked back to you, narrowing just a little. He noticed the way you pressed a hand to your lower back, the way your shoulders sagged from hours bent over a needle. Without a word, he slid the quilt aside and pulled out a chair. “That’s enough for today,” he said firmly, looking between you and Ma with his arms folded, every inch the protective son and soon-to-be father.

“Clark—” you started, half laughing, half exasperated.

“Nope,” he cut in, shaking his head. “You’ve been sitting here sewing since lunch, and you need a break. The quilt’s not going anywhere.”

Ma chuckled, trading a knowing glance with Jonathan. “He gets that from his father,” she said. “Always thinking the womenfolk don’t know when to rest.”

Jonathan chuckled softly, but his eyes shone as he laid a gentle hand on Clark’s shoulder. “He gets it honest, Martha. You know I can’t stand to see you work yourself to the bone either.”

Clark helped you stand, his hand lingering at your elbow like you were made of porcelain. “I love this quilt,” he admitted softly, brushing his thumb over a patch of flannel before tucking you closer against him, “but nothing’s more important than you and the baby.”

The tenderness in his voice made your throat tighten. He pressed a kiss to your temple, and you felt him breathe in, steady and grounding himself in your presence. Jonathan watched the gesture in silence, his jaw working, pride and love etched deep into every line of his face.

And then, as if to prove Ma right, father and son stood there together—two Kent men who carried their love in ways so overwhelming, so absolute, that it filled the farmhouse to its beams. Strong hands, soft hearts, and an insistence that you and the life you carried would never go without protection or care.

It was enough to make you laugh through your tears as you leaned against Clark and whispered, “Fine. A break. But only because you’re impossible to argue with.”

Clark’s smile broke wide, triumphant and tender all at once. “Good. I’ll even make the cocoa.”

Jonathan clapped his son on the back with a laugh, and Ma reached over to squeeze your hand again. Around the quilt, around the table, around this family—the love was so strong, it was impossible not to feel it pressing against your heart.

-

taglist

@vql3rie @celestialend @diannelucille @minienix @evermoresivy @nixandtonic @bl00dstained @tqd4455 @vestafir @sweettbepbo @skzvibes-blog @sweetheartdiariess @blackwidownat2814 @zandra-42 @ysuftmikey @soupiemeowmeow @bookishbabyyyy @DreamingofTomorrow @1-800-peakyblinders @kissesofstars @qtmoonies @Casiopea2 @buckystwilight_ @buckystwilight @princess76179 @kaiparkerwife @vinecstasy @averyhotchner @angelicp0etry @multifandom-loser @ladamari68 @httpstoyosi @jakesphere @alina02 @kaorisakamotofan @randomfangirlof @unabashedlyswimmingtimemachine @animegamerfox @thychuvaluswife @clarkclit @tayhobart @obsessedwthdilfs @kneelarhmstrung @helalokithor @loveelylani @kissmxcheek @toplinehyunjin @jvanilly @angelbunny222 @sheslikecherrypie @drewswife @artsymaddie @laniec03 @chaoticevilbakugo @spencellelvrr

[love-anonymous-writer]

Clark who after a silly, drunken hookup with you (his coworker) finds you forgot your panties at his place. And, being the good boy he is, he washes them so he can return them.

(He'd been reluctant about removing the scent of your slick from them, but he didn't want to give them back to you all dirtied.)

When he manages to catch you alone on Monday morning and hands them to you — all flustered and stuttering out murmured apologies, his cheeks and the tips of his ears pink — you seem amused.

“You could've kept them,” you point out, a grin curling the corner of your mouth.

He blinks at you and a tiny furrow forms between his eyebrows. “What for?” he questions.

You just smile at him. “Here. Let's trade.” You grab him by the hand and lead the way.

He didn't expect to end up locked in the bathroom with you, his body caging yours against the wall while his hand works under your skirt, fingers fucking deep into your cunt while you hold onto his arms for dear life.

You're moaning quietly, trying to not be too loud lest someone realizes what's going on in here. Your legs are shaking and getting closer to giving out with every curl of his digits that allows him to press that spongy spot that makes you see stars.

“Clark, oh my God,” you whine into his ear, nails digging into his skin.

He groans, his body alight with desire, the front of his pants tented where his cock is desperately aching to be sheathed in you. But he contents himself with grinding against your thigh a little, not nearly enough to give him the orgasm he's yearning for, but enough to keep him at bay.

His thumb rubs your clit in neat circles, feeling how your gummy walls clench his fingers with each stroke he delivers. He kisses your temple, his voice rough in your ear: “I want you to come on my fingers. You think you can do that for me, baby?”

You nod, eager, desperate. “Yes,” you gasp, eyes shut tight. “Yes.”

“Such a sweet girl,” he murmurs, dragging his lips down the side of your face, to your neck, where he preoccupies himself with kissing and biting gently.

Your climax is close, a tight knot of pleasure growing quickly, deep in your belly, threatening to snap soon. You can't think anymore, can barely keep yourself quiet. Clark's fingers are just so good. They're long and thick and a little rough with calluses, and he reaches every spot with ease and precision, as if he knows your body better than you do.

“Please,” you mewl, legs trembling. “Please, Clark, please.”

“Shh, shh, I'll get you there,” he promises, chuckling softly when you pull him right against you, your soft tits pressing against his chest, his cock against your lower stomach. “Relax, I'm not going anywhere.”

Your breathing grows quick and shallow, your little sounds interrupted by gasps of air, and you're squirming, hips rolling in time with his fingers.

“Kiss me,” you whine, one of your hands moving to the back of his neck to pull him in.

He goes gladly, crushing his mouth onto yours, swallowing down the squeaks and moans you let out when your orgasm finally wracks through you.

Much to his surprise, a gush of your slick spurts from you in time to the little tremors that wash over your body. It soaks his hand and wrist, buried between your thighs, and drenches your panties.

Clark gasps, whines and tenses. Somewhere between grinding against you and the surprise of you squirting on him, his body finds enough stimulation and he finishes, his cum coating his underwear, thick and creamy.

“Shit,” he mumbles against your neck, mortified, feeling a blush build up from his neck to his face and all the way to the tips of his ears.

You, unaware of his...situation, kiss the side of his face gently. Your hands softly push at his chest, and he moves a step back, glancing down minutely at himself to make sure there's not a wet spot at the front of his pants.

Thankfully, there isn't. Yet, at least. There's a lot of cum, he can feel it, and if he doesn't clean it up soon, it'll stain his dress pants.

On weak legs, you shimmy out of your panties, the material soaked, and hand them to him. Clark blinks at you, surprised, and you giggle.

“Keep them,” you tell him, putting on the clean pair that Clark had just returned to you. “As a little souvenir.” You wink playfully at him.

When he stares at you, somewhere between shy and delighted, your expression softens and you kiss his cheek. That eases the tension from his body some, even though he's still got one hand in front of his crotch so you can't see the gathering mess.

“I'll have you doing this to me again if you return them, hear me?” you whisper, probably meaning it as a threat — Clark only hears a promise.

He nods, even though, as he stuffs them in the pocket of his pants, he's already planning on going back home and washing them for tomorrow. And this time, he should probably bring himself an extra pair of underwear, too.

♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing

---

taglist - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk 💛

@booboobear-12 @savvysavsblog13 @donnadiddadog @akkahelenaa @tysukier @animegamerfox @absolutelybloodyhopeless @teenytinylilcrawdaddies @simpingreader @tezooks @justheretoreadmydear @lovexbunny @lahniii @dolleciita @tinawantstobeadoll @preciselyshifts @markiplex @kissmxcheek @buckyisveryhot @rayamaya @fae-dreamer-99 @heynanasposts @lahniu @paddockspookie42 @lilychristine01 @chronic-fangirl-222 @sunnyteume @take-it-on-the-run @ninikrumbs @smzyyx @shamlesslipzz @spn-reader @gettingprettyfvckintired @cherryresidence @mollymal @liebgotts-lovergirl @lowrisemiller @mingyuziiiii @opalesquegirl @hrtsforstrkysblog @inside--her--fantasy @kodzuminx @evie2435 @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @diseasedclitoris @for-smut @soggywhore @snowfall--sunrise @sunmooner @elijahhewsonswifelol

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Clark Kent masterlist

[love-anonymous-writer]

oooo i saw your request for clark kent requests!! maybe something with clark x a poison ivy reader but instead of her being a villain she wants to be better and he helps her!! bonus if he notices when she’s flustered by him because flowers start blooming wherever they are!

📩 Here’s your request. It was really fun to write, I loved it and I hope you enjoy it. Sorry for the delay.

Blooming Secrets

Clark Kent x female reader

WC: 3,900 words approx.

════ ∘◦❁◦∘ ════

Your eyes were fixed on the illuminated screen of your computer, while the constant murmur of the Daily Planet newsroom filled the air. Around you, the sound of phones ringing nonstop mixed with the rapid clatter of keyboards and the hurried conversations of reporters. Every now and then, there was laughter or hurried footsteps crossing the hallway. It still felt strange to be there, working in a place you had only seen in the news before. If it hadn’t been for Clark… you probably would never have left Smallville.

Your parents, knowing that in the town your opportunities would be limited, had turned to Clark’s parents to ask for help. That’s how he came into your life, even before you really met him. You were three years younger than him, and in such a small place you had only crossed paths on a few occasions, just a quick greeting on the street or a curious glance from afar. But the Kents knew your secret, the one your parents had entrusted them out of necessity.

You remembered perfectly the day everything changed. You were furious, and suddenly, your parents’ house was covered with plants that had sprung out of nowhere: vines climbing the walls, flowers blooming in impossible corners, leaves slamming against the windows. Later you learned it wasn’t a coincidence. You had a power. You didn’t know how you had obtained it, or why, but it was there. Clark had his abilities because he was Kryptonian. You, on the other hand, had no idea of your origin. You knew you were adopted, just like him, but that had never been a problem… until you began to wonder whether your parents looked at you with love or with fear.

Things got worse when your powers went out of control. Anger or rage made the plants grow uncontrollably: trees rose taller and thicker, the leaves turned poisonous, and their touch could harm anyone. The fear of hurting someone forced you to shut yourself off emotionally. You learned to avoid anger, even if it meant swallowing words you wanted to scream or walking away when you most wanted to stay.

However, happiness was different. When you were content, you could bring a withered rose back to life, make an apple tree bear fruit in hours, or make flowers and grass grow on barren land as if they had always been there. That part of you, the one that created life instead of destruction, was the one you clung to protect.

In Metropolis, your abilities were no longer a secret to Clark. He was the one who helped you get a position at the Planet. It wasn’t as high a position as his; you were just starting out, but you still contributed to the entertainment section, writing small articles while taking photography courses to improve. What you enjoyed the most was covering concerts, capturing with your camera the energy of the crowd and those fleeting moments no one else noticed.

“The article is ready,” said Janeth, dropping a bundle of printed pages on your desk with a loud thump. “I already sent you a copy to your email. I need you to check it and retype it so it’s ready to be published.” She snapped her fingers impatiently. “Quickly, it’s for today, so if there’s any spelling mistake, fix it.”

You nodded without a word, taking the article in your hands. The paper was still warm from the printer, and its smell of freshly dried ink accompanied you as you flipped through it.

“I thought we were going to publish about the arrival of the German actor for the new series Netflix will produce…” you commented, not raising your voice too much.

Janeth snatched the article away with a jerk.

“Perry said yours was garbage. How do you think he was going to let it through?” Her furrowed brow and loud tone made several heads turn to look at you two. You felt the pressure of their stares, but you inhaled deeply, keeping calm.

“But… this only talks about the series. Metropolis has a star in the city and—”

Plash! The smack of the article on your desk cut off your words, making your coffee cup spill a little, leaving a brown puddle next to your notebook.

“How long have you been here? A year? And you already think you have authority to give your opinion.”

Your brow furrowed. Murmurs began to fill the air, an uncomfortable buzz spreading like current through the newsroom. You were about to reply when a male voice interrupted the tension.

“I need your opinion.”

You looked up and found Clark, standing next to you. His expression was calm, but in his eyes shone a genuine interest directed at you.

“Clark, of course,” said Janeth, immediately changing her tone to a kind, almost sweet one.

“No, sorry…” Clark raised a hand, pointing at you. “I was talking to her.”

You noticed a faint blush crossing her cheeks at Janeth’s evident confusion.

Janeth nodded with a smile so kind that for a second it unsettled you; it was too obvious a contrast with the tone she always used with you. Clark, without wasting time, made a slight gesture with his hand for you to follow him. You hesitated just a moment, but then stood up and caught up with him.

As they walked down the hallway, he motioned again, this time toward the side windows. When you turned your head, your breath caught for a moment: in a matter of minutes, thick, dark vines had grown, covering almost half of the glass. Among their leaves, small flowers of an intense color bloomed, releasing a heavy, sweet, and penetrating scent… too penetrating. You recognized it. That smell, invisible to everyone else, was poisonous. Just standing too close for too long would be enough to start feeling dizzy.

Luckily, no one else seemed to notice. With a slight movement of your hand, the vines began to retreat, as if obeying a silent command, until the glass was clean and clear again. The glow of the city returned, and you stepped closer to one of the windows, letting the view of Metropolis distract you for a moment.

Clark stopped beside you, watching you from the corner of his eye. “Working hard?” he asked in a whisper, with that tone that mixed complicity and concern.

You nodded, avoiding his gaze.

Clark had noticed for months: you avoided him. You barely met his eyes, and when you did, it was only for a fleeting instant. He had assumed maybe it was because you didn’t run into each other much outside of work, or perhaps out of embarrassment, knowing he too could hear the shouts of a certain reporter who had been at the Planet for nearly six years. And, in part, he was right.

But the truth was different. Clark stirred strange, too-intense feelings in you, and the worst part wasn’t that… the worst part was what happened when those feelings surfaced. Your powers reacted. Flowers bloomed as if the entire spring had exploded in seconds: alive, bright, beautiful. And though no one else understood what it meant, you knew it was a silent confession of what you had felt for him for a long time.

“Do you have a lot of work today?” he asked, still looking at you.

“Yes…” you answered while taking a glass and filling it with water. “Janeth didn’t raise her voice enough, apparently.”

Clark gave a faint smile, as if holding back a comment, but instead said: “I’ll be leaving the newsroom late today, too. They opened a new Korean food place… I remember you said you’ve been obsessed with that lately.”

You looked at him, confused. “But… we haven’t talked about that.”

He nodded, and this time he was the one to look away, busying himself with pouring a glass. “Well… that’s the downside of having overly sharp hearing… I can hear any conversation. Including yours with Jimmy.”

His cheeks flushed the moment he said it.

You smiled, getting lost in his gaze, feeling the heat rising to your own cheeks. And then it happened: right beside you, an orchid plant that barely had petals and whose stems were dry began to revive. In a matter of seconds, large, perfect purple flowers bloomed, capturing the afternoon light in each petal. They didn’t spill over, they didn’t grow beyond the pot: they simply filled it to the brim, radiant, with a soft and beautiful glow that could never be mistaken for anything dangerous.

“Oh…” you murmured. You nodded before replying: “But I’ll be leaving around ten… I don’t think it’ll still be open.”

“It closes at one in the morning,” Clark replied without hesitation. “If you want to go…”

You nodded, and in that moment your eyes met. It was only for a second, but enough to make your heart race. Then you heard it: a rising murmur around you. You turned with him and saw that all the nearby pots —especially the withered ones— had revived. Not like when you were angry, when flowers burst open violently, filling the air with a dense, poisonous scent, with red and dark tones that could sicken or even kill anyone who breathed too much. No… this time it was different.

This time, the flowers were soft and beautiful, with vivid colors and sweet, harmless aromas. They didn’t try to invade the space or smother anyone: they stayed in place, as if they knew exactly how far to grow.

“Look how beautiful they are,” exclaimed Cat’s voice, walking up to the pot beside Clark. Instinctively, you took a step back and hid behind him, feeling the embarrassment rise in your throat.

“Clark, did you guys buy new plants?” she asked, leaning in to smell the flowers.

“No… I mean, yes… I think Perry did,” Clark improvised, smiling calmly. Cat nodded, satisfied with the answer, and walked off to talk with Jimmy.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, lowering your gaze. “It’s… stressful to think that if I get too worked up I could… kill everyone here.”

Clark looked at you with a mix of tenderness and seriousness. “It’s just a matter of time. I wasn’t born knowing how to control everything I can do, either.” Then he glanced around, noticing the flowers. “Though these don’t seem poisonous… I didn’t know you could do something like this. What emotion is this?”

You looked at him, and the heat in your face flared again. “I have to go. Janeth might throw me out of the building if I don’t finish the article,” you joked, trying to soften the moment.

Clark smiled, though his voice carried a nuance that disarmed you. “I’d catch you.”

You let out a small laugh, feeling your heart pounding hard. Around you, the reception’s flowers remained open, bright and healthy… all of them, blooming only because of you.

“See you after work, Clark,” you said, before walking away, carrying with you the memory of his gaze.

[love-anonymous-writer]

Face down, Ass up -C.K

cw: Explicit 18+ sexual content, spanking, teasing, cum play. 

Clark Kent is not subtle. Not when he’s Superman, and especially not when he’s trying not to look at your ass.

The problem is that you’re sprawled on the floor of his apartment, rifling through his record collection like you’re not giving the man of steel a free shot of your underwear every time you shift your weight.

"Find anything good down there?" His voice was warm. 

"Mm. Maybe." You hum, sliding another sleeve out from the stack. "You’ve got a lot of Billy Joel, Kent. Kind of basic for a guy who can hear the Rolling Stones live from across the world."

That earns you a huff of a laugh. "I like Billy Joel."

"You would," you shoot back without looking up, leaning forward just far enough that the hem of your shorts rides higher. His kitchen chair creaks behind you, and you can feel him fighting not to look.

He clears his throat. “You, uh… you doing that on purpose?”

You glance over your shoulder with the most innocent expression you can muster, which, let’s be real, is about as believable as Lex Luthor claiming he’s just a businessman.

“Doing what?” You give your hips a little wiggle as you slide another record free. This one’s an old Springsteen pressing, but you hold it up like you couldn’t care less, your gaze flicking back to him in time to catch the way his jaw tightens.

“That,” he says flatly.

You feign a frown, glance at the space between your legs, and gasp softly. “Oh. Is my lingerie showing?” you ask, voice dipping into something that’s absolutely not innocent. “You should’ve said something, Clark. How embarrassing.”

“You’re not embarrassed,” he mutters, leaning back in his chair, but his knuckles are white on the armrests.

“No,” you admit, setting Springsteen aside and dropping to your elbows just to arch your back more. “But you look like you might be.”

His chair screeches against the floor, the sound sharp in the quiet apartment. You can feel him behind you before he even touches you—heat radiating from his big frame. “You’re not even pretending to look at the records anymore,” he murmurs.

“Nope,” you chirp, smiling down at the floorboards. “Too distracted by the fact that I’m basically spread out for you on your rug, and you still haven’t done a thing about it.”

His hand lands heavy on your ass, “Careful,” he says, voice a warning, but the grip on your hip says otherwise.

“Careful of what?” you tease, glancing over your shoulder. “The big, bad Boy Scout losing his temper?” You swear you hear his restraint snap like a dry twig. He’s on his knees behind you in an instant, tugging your shorts down. You’re bare under the lingerie—tiny black lace that leaves nothing to the imagination.

“Jesus, sweetheart…” He runs a big palm over you, thumb dragging over the damp spot in the lace. “You’ve been like this the whole time?”

“Mmhmm.” Your voice is sugar-sweet, “Thought it’d be fun—” Another hard smack against your ass cuts your sentence. 

“Thought it’d be fun baby?” Clark’s voice is low, right against your ear now. “You’ve got a real bad habit of teasin me.” 

Another smack lands, firmer than the last, the sting blooming hot across your skin. You moan, shimming your ass up to him.  “And you’ve got a real bad habit,” you pant, rocking your hips back into his palm, “of taking too long to fuck me.”

The growl he lets out vibrates down your spine. His big hands spread you open, lace dragging taut across your soaked pussy before he hooks a finger in the delicate fabric and rips it aside. 

“Fuck baby,” he mutters, rutting once between your folds, smearing your slick over the blunt head of his cock. He grips your hip, lines up, and pushes in with one deep, unhesitating thrust. You cry out, nails digging into the rug. Clark’s big hand spreads you wider, his cock stretching you open in a way that makes your toes curl.

“Christ, sweetheart…” His voice is already strained, hips rolling slow and heavy. “You feel… so fuckin’—” He cuts off with a grunt, thrusting harder, making the slap of skin echo in the quiet apartment.

You moan, shameless. “Harder, Clark. C’mon. Thought the man of steel could handle a little more.”

That earns you another brutal smack to your ass, the sting sending heat straight to your core. His thrusts pick up—faster, rougher—until you’re rocking forward on your elbows with every push.

You can barely think, every thrust shoving you forward an inch, his grip bruising, the sheer power behind him impossible to fight. It’s obscene—how easy he manhandles you, how deep he’s hitting. You swear you feel him in your stomach.

“Look at you,” he groans, pulling out just far enough to watch the way you cling to him. “Taking me so good. So fucking needy.”

You glance over your shoulder, lips curling into a shameless grin despite your ragged breathing. “Faster.”

He huffs a laugh like you’re out of your mind, but obliges—pistoning into you hard enough to make the record sleeves scatter across the floor. Your moans turn into breathless, broken sounds, your body shaking with every deep, punishing stroke.

“Pretty little slut,” he mutters, leaning over you until his chest is pressed to your back. You whimper, your orgasm hitting hard and fast, your vision going white as your body clenches around him. Clark doesn’t slow, fucking you through it until you’re boneless beneath him.

When he finally pulls out and flips you onto your back, his pupils are blown wide, sweat dampening the curls at his temples. “Not done with you,” he warns, lining himself up again, his cock pushing his cum back inside you. 

a/n: This fic was brought to you by poor life choices and bad ideas

[love-anonymous-writer]

"y-you're gonna kill me, sweetie... freakin' kill me..." clark groaned above you, his hips ramming into you like never before as your legs bounced on his shoulders.

clark kent was a possessive man and he knew it. it was in his kryptonian genes, he swears! he can't control the moan that slips out when he successfully marks you with his scent, or the hand that sneaks into the crook of your back in public settings. he tries to, but he can't.

and you know it. you know it so well that you wanted to mess around with it.

and it was only natural for clark to fuck your brains out when he saw the "C" anklet you had on when you came home today.

it got to him, truly. it got to him because he marked you, because you're his and you're showing it off. because now the entire world knows that you, his beloved, belong to him.

he kisses your anklet, his eyes narrowed and uncharacteristically dark. "you're too cute... way too cute f'me, hmm..." and he pecs and pecs, his soft lips contrasting with the force of his thrusts, fucking into you like it's the only way for him to breath. and it might aswell be.

"c-clark, i– ah—! ohh... shit, fuck.." you couldn't even form proper sentences, your lips wobbling at the sensation of him knocking at your cervix. he so desperately wanted to claim you, fully and inside out, and the cute jewelry you had on your ankle was definitely helping.

his heavy balls tightened everytime it reflected the light, shining like the most precious of diamonds. "mine.. all mine..." he mumbled before he nibbled at the "C", his eyebrows bending in pleasure as he neared his end. his pace quickened while one of his hands migrated to your clit, rubbing tight circles to get you off.

you mewled, back arching when you felt the heat of his digits on your bud. the sight of him, blushing and drooling, utterly drunk on his possession—drunk on you—had you quickly approaching your climax, but it's when the first rope of his cum slipped its way into your womb that you finally let go.

you both cried out in your orgasms, his cock twitching with every pulse of your cunt, hips sporadically fucking his seed into you.

"mine, mine... mineminemine—" he chanted, as if repeating it would make it any more true than it already was.

[love-anonymous-writer]

i have only three true loves. theatre, baseball, and dcu

[love-anonymous-writer]

Clark Kent is extremely vocal during sex. Fight me.

cw: smut, you give Clark a hand job, fingering (f!receiving), unprotected p in v, creampie <3

a/n: not proofread lol wrote this just before class sooo sorry if there are mistakes/misspells lyy

It starts with heavy breaths while you're making out, little murmurs leaving his lips as his hands touch over your body.

“Perfect. So beautiful. I love you so much.”

Little gasps and the tiniest of groans follow when your hand finds itself into his pants, fingers wrapping around his cock and squeezing gently. He inhales sharply with every stroke of your fist, moans lowly with every squeeze that has his cock leaking onto your palm.

“So good, baby. Oh, God, just like that,” he breathes, his face buried in your hair, words a whisper into your ear.

When he feels how wet your pretty cunt is, he whines, especially when he pushes his fingers into you and feels the warm, sweet wetness of your gummy walls, sucking in tight.

“Oh, baby. You feel so good, can't wait to be in this pussy. She's so perfect, so ready for me.”

And when — after various orgasms on his fingers and mouth — he finally slips his cock into you, he loses whatever control was left. He whimpers, body wracked by the sensation of how tight and wet your cunt is around him.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,” he whispers in quick succession, bottoming out in you and staying there a while. “Jesus. I — sorry, I need a minute or I'm gonna...”

He turns red, cheeks and the tips of his ears coloring a bright pink as a sheepish smile overtakes his handsome face.

You giggle softly, wrapping your arms around his neck. “‘s fine, baby, it's a compliment for me,” you reply, pecking his lips.

When he manages to find the will to hold back, he starts thrusting into you slowly, gently, your own mewls drowned out by the sound of his rough moans.

“She's too tight,” he whines, hands squeezing your hips. “God, it's so good. You're so good, hon.”

He fucks you languidly, almost lazily, making sure to angle his hips so his cock hits all your favorite spots. Every time you whine and arch your back, Clark moans, body shuddering as you clench him tighter.

He can go for hours. It's not unusual for you two to lose track of how long you've been tangled in the bed sheets, and he could probably hold out even longer if you didn't start begging for him to make you come.

“Yeah, okay,” he grants, always eager to please you, his voice hoarse from his constant whines and grunts. He reaches a hand down, fingers rubbing at your clit softly, matching the pace of his hips.

You don't last long, not with all the buildup he's already given you. Your orgasm is quick but strong, shaking your entire body. Your legs wrap around his waist, keeping him buried deep in you as the pleasure snaps in your womb.

“Clark! Clark!” you squeal, nails digging into his shoulders, pretty body squirming against his.

He moans, cock twitching in you. He's right on the brink of orgasm. “Baby, let up,” he begs, eyes shut tight as he tries to hold back. “Baby, she's too tight ‘round me, I can't pull out.”

But you don't relinquish your tight hold on him. Instead, still in a haze of lust and ecstasy, you whisper, “Come in me. Want it in me.”

And Clark loses it. He comes hard, whimpering and moaning, rope after rope of thick, sticky cum fills you. And he keeps whining and gasping through it all, broken sounds of pleasure that you're sure the neighbors can hear.

When he finally comes back to, he rolls off you and lies on his side next to you, hugging you close and kissing your shoulder.

“Fuck, that was amazing. You're amazing, hon,” he murmurs in your ear.

You grin. “Mm. So I heard. I'm sure the neighbors heard you too, hope they don't complain or we're gonna have to find a way to keep you quiet,” you tease.

He turns bright red again, his eyes widening, mouth falling open. But the embarrassment vanishes when he sees the bright, playful smile on your face and he just kisses you, completely enamored.

♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing

---

taglist - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk 💛

@booboobear-12 @savvysavsblog13 @donnadiddadog @akkahelenaa @tysukier @animegamerfox @absolutelybloodyhopeless @teenytinylilcrawdaddies @simpingreader @tezooks @justheretoreadmydear @lovexbunny @lahniii @dolleciita @tinawantstobeadoll @preciselyshifts @markiplex @kissmxcheek @buckyisveryhot @rayamaya @fae-dreamer-99 @heynanasposts @lahniu @paddockspookie42 @lilychristine01 @chronic-fangirl-222 @sunnyteume @take-it-on-the-run @ninikrumbs @smzyyx @shamlesslipzz @spn-reader @gettingprettyfvckintired @cherryresidence @mollymal @liebgotts-lovergirl @lowrisemiller @mingyuziiiii @opalesquegirl @hrtsforstrkysblog @inside--her--fantasy @kodzuminx @evie2435 @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @diseasedclitoris @for-smut @soggywhore @snowfall--sunrise @sunmooner @elijahhewsonswifelol

---

Clark Kent masterlist

[love-anonymous-writer]

Clark dry humping you like a starved dog

cw: smut, dry humping, some fingering, Clark jizzes his pants!!

a/n: ugh I wish I had more time to write, but managed to piece this idea together. Hope you enjoy babies <3

You're in your apartment, just bustling around the kitchen, making dinner to surprise Clark. He gets home right on time and finds you washing a few pans while dinner cooks in the oven.

He hugs you from behind, arms wrapping around your waist, his mouth finding your neck. “I missed you,” he whispers against your skin, his hands squeezing your hips gently.

You smile. “Hello to you too.” You glance at him over your shoulder and he kisses you, gently though needy.

He pulls your ass back against his crotch, where his hard cock has already formed a noticeable bulge. You giggle at the sensation, but your mirth quickly melts into desire when one of his hands splays over your womb and he leads you to rock against him.

“I thought about you all day,” he confesses, voice rough. His words fall right onto your ear, his lips moving against your skin. “I couldn't even focus on work, had to write an article about five times before it was any coherent.”

He leans forward, his body urging yours down so you're bent over the sink, and now every time he rolls his hips against yours, the tent in his pants rubs right against your cunt.

You gasp softly, hands bracing themselves on the sink. Clark groans, his heavy breathing loud in your ear.

“I'm not gonna last long enough to be in you,” he murmurs, grinding against you faster.

You moan, his hand on your womb moving under your pants, finding your clit through the material of your panties. “Clark,” you whine, legs trembling.

His hips buck against yours roughly and he gasps. “Don't say my name like that, I'm already too close as it is.”

You push your hips back against him, matching his movements, your slick gathering in your underwear. Clark smears it all over your pussy as his large fingers slide down to your entrance before moving back up to your clit.

He's mumbling incoherently, mouthing at your shoulder and the back of your neck. You sometimes make out a little curse or a dragged out baby, but it's tough to understand what he's saying with the way he's panting and whining in between words.

“I'm gonna — Please!” you squeal, feeling that knot of pleasure in your womb go taut.

Clark bites at your earlobe softly, moaning, as he says, “I know, I know. Go ahead and come for me, baby. You deserve it.”

It doesn't take long for you to fall over the edge of your orgasm, legs nearly giving out, your slick gushing onto your panties.

“Clark!” you mewl, gasping. “Clark!”

He'd already been close, but hearing his name on your lips pushes him over. He buries his face against your neck and whimpers as he spills his cum onto his pants. He can feel it, warm and sticky, as it coats his underwear. He has no doubt that there's a sizeable wet spot at the front of his pants now.

He holds you close, kissing up your neck gently. You lean your head back on his shoulder and he smiles. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly. “I should've treated you right, taken my time with it. I was just thinking of you so much, and I come home to find you here in those jeans...”

“Nothing to apologize for,” you assure him, heart still racing, your slick arousal dripping down your thighs. “It was a nice surprise.”

He chuckles, playfully squeezing your ass. “I'm gonna go change my pants real quick.” He pecks your cheek. “And you leave those dishes there alone. I'll wash them, don't you worry yourself about it.”

♡ please comment and reblog my work, it means so much to me and inspires me to keep writing

---

taglist - if you wanna be added to my Clark Kent taglist, lmk 💛

@booboobear-12 @savvysavsblog13 @donnadiddadog @akkahelenaa @tysukier @animegamerfox @absolutelybloodyhopeless @teenytinylilcrawdaddies @simpingreader @tezooks @justheretoreadmydear @lovexbunny @lahniii @dolleciita @tinawantstobeadoll @preciselyshifts @markiplex @kissmxcheek @buckyisveryhot @rayamaya @fae-dreamer-99 @heynanasposts @lahniu @paddockspookie42 @lilychristine01 @chronic-fangirl-222 @sunnyteume @take-it-on-the-run @ninikrumbs @smzyyx @shamlesslipzz @spn-reader @gettingprettyfvckintired @cherryresidence @mollymal @liebgotts-lovergirl @lowrisemiller @mingyuziiiii @opalesquegirl @hrtsforstrkysblog @inside--her--fantasy @kodzuminx @evie2435 @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @diseasedclitoris @for-smut @soggywhore @snowfall--sunrise @sunmooner @elijahhewsonswifelol

---

Clark Kent masterlist

[love-anonymous-writer]

clark kent x bambi!reader

18+ MDNI contains : size kink, belly bulge, creampies, soft dom!clark.

Clark’s got you spread out beneath him, the mattress creaking with every push of his hips. Your legs are folded up over his shoulders, his big hands gripping the backs of your thighs to keep you in place. The angle has you stretched open around him, and every thrust drives him so deep your belly shows the proof of it— a thick bulge that drives you crazy every time you look at it.

“Look at that, bambi,” he murmurs, voice low but soft, eyes locked on the bulge in your tummy. He presses his palm flat against it, just to feel himself moving inside you, and your whine breaks high in your throat.

“C-Clark—” you can barely get his name out, tears pricking your eyes with how intense it feels. Your hips try to twist away, but he doesn’t let you. He holds you open, pinning you down, the weight of him making you dizzy with pleasure

“Shh, baby. You can take it. You’re doing so good,” he praises, but the words are punctuated by sharper thrusts, the kind that make the bulge in your belly more obvious. He loves watching the way your body is so small compared to him that it literally bulges.

You’re whimpering, desperate, and when he notices the way your cunt clenches at every push against that sweet, spongy spot inside, Clark adjusts his hips, angling down, and starts fucking you harder. Not brutal, but relentless, just every thrust caredully calculated in a way made to push you over the edge.

Your hands scrabble at the sheets, little gasps spilling from your lips, and he bends over you, pressing your thighs closer to your chest. The new angle has you crying out, your voice breaking, eyes rolling back.

“That’s it, bambi,” he whispers, forehead against yours, sweat dripping down his temple. His thrusts are harder now, faster, chasing your release as much as his own. “I want you to cum for me. Wanna feel you squeeze me while I’m right here...”

When you do, your body’s arching, trembling, eyes wet and mouth open as your orgasm crashes through you. Clark groans deep in his chest at the way you tighten, the way you sob his name, and keeps fucking you through it, addicted to the way you lose yourself under him.

The bulge in your belly shifts with every thrust until he can’t hold back any longer. He buries himself deep, groaning your name against your skin as he fills you, holding you close, holding you open, giving you every drop while you whimper beneath him, utterly spent.

And when it’s over, he stays there a moment, soft kisses along your temple, his big palm still pressing lightly over your belly like he can’t get enough of the sight of you stuffed so full.

divider by @/cursed-carmine

TAGLIST

@bowxs, @castielsonlyangel, @kentblvd, @hel-lhound

[love-anonymous-writer]

how it feels going through the x reader tag every night despite the number people hating on y/n and calling x reader lame

because why would I want to read about another character being with MY man and MY woman?

[love-anonymous-writer]

e.t. pt 6 // (not) Clark Kent

*If you’d like to read, please check out part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 first :)

summary: You are a scientist that is assigned to a top-secret government facility that houses an extraterrestrial subject to learn more about where he came from. In this he is not Clark Kent or Superman, just Kal-El. Martha and John did not find him, but the government did.

content warnings: (please refer to warnings in part 1 as it lists the general themes throughout this story) angst (being separated, being on the run), Clark has to fight off guards, mention of sedation/injections of Kryptonite, mention of reader being dragged away, glass breaking

word count: 2.9k+

pairing: female!scientist!reader x Kal-El the last son of Krypton

*If you’re into cutie little cringey movie-like scenes, I would listen to this song when you see these stars in the story: ☆ ☆ ☆

Your things were packed up at your place as you laid in bed. The air felt even quieter than it usually did as you lie awake, unable to sleep. It was now nearing eleven pm, and it had been over a day since you had last seen Clark.

The power was still out all around you. You knew your career was most likely over. But honestly, the only part of you that ached was the part that missed Clark.

The tension in your head pulsed slightly as you stare blankly at the wall. You weren’t sure when the hot tears had stopped flowing down your cheeks, but you were almost certain you had run out of them. Every time your mind slipped to the thought of Clark who was now alone in that horrible place, a silent sob escapes your throat. You couldn’t even close your eyes without imagining his sweet face.

A choppy exhale leaves you as you bring your hand to your mouth, trying to hold it all in. You wonder if he felt scared. An even worse torturous thought was wondering if he felt like you abandoned him by choice, like he did something wrong. You weren’t even allowed to say goodbye.

You wanted to do something, anything, to get him out. But your badge was deactivated and you were being kicked out of your temporary rental house the next morning. Your chest felt empty.

Clark laid on a table back at the facility as he was strapped down with metal restraints. His jaw clenched as he stared up at the ceiling, his mind filled with thoughts of you and the need to be by your side.

He will never forget the way you were grabbed so roughly and ripped away from him. He was immediately injected with liquid Kryptonite, sedating him as he fell to the ground and had to watch you get pulled away.

The only thing that kept him from losing his mind was the sound of your heartbeat. It was faint, meaning you were back at your house, but he still held onto it.

The thing that no one realized was with the power outage, the Kryptonite that usually coated the walls had burned out too. It had now been a little over twenty-four hours since Clark had been exposed to it.

He felt strange. And it wasn’t just the way his chest felt weak and empty not knowing if he’d see you again. His muscles twitched in a way he didn’t recognize. The feeling seemed to wash over him like a wave.

Suddenly, his jaw itched. Instinctively his hand moved to scratch it. Clink. The steel band holding his wrist was clipped effortlessly by his arm. His brows furrowed, looking down at his now free hand.

He lifted his other. Although he wasn’t using much effort, the metal easily popped off as both of his arms were now free. He began to sit up as the metal that restrained his chest and legs popped.

He stood onto the ground, his muscles coursing and constricting like they never had before. He looks around, looking outside of the glass that is supposed to be one sided as he sees a few guards.

Out of the six of them, not one of them notices the way he had just broken away from the restraints. Clark blinks as his vision begins to flip back and forth between being able to see their skeletons back to their normal flesh.

He shakes his head, confused what is happening but his mind immediately goes back to you.

He walks over to the door, grabbing it as he easily pulls it off its hinges. The extra safety bolts that had hammered on fell apart like pieces of tape.

The guards instantly scrambled as shouts and orders erupted. The rushes forward with Kryptonite injectors, but Clark was faster now. His reflexes and senses were unmatched as he simply grabs a guard’s arm in the middle of a lunge. The injector falls to the ground and shatters before Clark grabs another and easily crushes it in his hand. He barely even had to fight. Their weapons against him couldn’t reach him anymore.

He wasn’t even aware of what was happened as his feet lifted off the ground and air rushed around him as if the sky itself was pulling him upward. His eyes widened at he was startled at first, but after the ceiling tore apart around him as he shot through it, he steadied himself.

For the first time, he was free. Well, not truly free. His ears immediately focused on the familiar sound he had grown to need. It called to him through the night and he would follow it to his death if that meant he could get a glimpse of you.

He lands outside of your temporary home. He stands still, scanning it with widened eyes as he tilts his head slightly. He had never seen a house before. The sound of your heartbeat now loud in his ears made his chest ache.

He stepped forward, but he wondered how he was supposed to enter. He wasn’t sure. His hands, massive and careful, pressed against the window. The glass cracked instantly beneath his touch and then shattered completely with a snap.

His gaze snaps down to the shattered glass.

You sit up instantly in bed as your heart drops. You stand up, going to see what it could possibly be.

Nothing could have prepared you to see Clark standing in the middle of your living room. Shards of glass littered the floor as he stood in the middle of it all.

“Clark?” You whisper, not believing your eyes as his eyes meet yours. He looks relieved as he quickly approaches you.

You don’t hesitate to wrap your arms around him. He’s not sure he has ever felt this way before. First, he receives strength he doesn’t even know the capacity of, and now he is ready to fall limp into your arms.

“How-“ you start, pausing. “How are you here?”

He doesn’t say anything as he leans down to nuzzle his face against yours. His eyes are closed tightly as his forehead presses against yours. A small hum escapes his throat as he finds nuzzling up to you the most natural thing he has ever known.

You hold him for a moment. Suddenly, Clark steps back as he steps back out onto the porch. You watch as he darts up toward the sky again as your lips open in surprise, your chest aching.

His lips curve into a small, content smile knowing the two of you can now be free together. He assumes you are chasing after him and the both of you can fly off to wherever your journey takes you.

It only takes Clark a few seconds to realize you aren’t following after him. He comes back, landing back onto your porch as the look on his face is almost childlike, like he was wounded.

“You… you didn’t come,” he says, his voice low. His eyes search yours as they are a mix between accusing and pleading. “Why?”

For a second, you are unsure of what to say. A quiet laugh slips from your lips as your eyes sparkle.

“Clark,” you tell him, biting your lip to get rid of your grin. “I can’t do that. I don’t fly.”

He blinks at you, confused. His lips part like he wants to argue but then they close again.

He steps forward as your breathing hitches.

“Clark?”

☆ ☆ ☆

Without warning, his arms sweep around you as he lifts you like you don’t weigh anything at all. You gasp as you grip his shoulders instinctively.

“Wait-“ you say quickly. “What are you-“

And then the ground falls away. Wind rushes past your ears as the whole world dropped beneath your feet. You feel dizzy as fear shoots through you. All you could do was bury your face against his chest as your heart slams against your ribs.

But then, you feel him. The strength of his chest, the steadiness of his grip around you, and the way he positions his body carefully to shield you from the rush of air. He glances down at you, his lips upturning in a small smile.

“Safe with me,” he tells you. Just like you had told him so many times.

You finally took a breath you had been holding. You looked down, your mouth parting slightly at the sight. The desert was colored in the moonlight as it stretched as far as you could see. Canyons looked like scars across the sand as there didn’t seem to be any man made structures in sight.

A small laugh escapes your lips as you take in the absolute wild feeling now coursing through you. Clark’s eyes stayed on you as he memorized the sound of your laugh. His arms tighten around you slightly as if he couldn’t imagine ever letting you go.

He moves fairly slow through the air as it still leaves you with a throbbing rush of adrenaline. The way he spins you around in the air has you hanging onto his neck tightly as he gently rests his chin on the top of your head.

He drifts lower as he begins to descend careful and slow. His feet touch solid ground at the edge of a wide canyon. He gently sets you down, hands lingering at your waist as he makes sure you are steady.

You step away slightly only to take it the sight around the both of you. The desert seems endless as the sky above holds thousands of stars that are easily visible. It was just the two of you. No cell, no other people, no rules.

“Clark…” you say, your eyes scanning the beauty around you.

“Pretty,” he finishes, but when you look up at him he is gazing at you and you realize he is not talking about the scenery.

It is silent between the two of you before you look up at him again. Your smile is soft, but there is a sadness in your eyes.

“They’re going to look for you,” you tell him. “Especially with me. We have to leave.”

He starts down at you, his jaw clenched but he seemingly understands.

He flies the both of you back to your house as you quickly pack a few things. You sigh, putting the things into your car as he watches you curiously.

You open the passenger door, turning to him. “It’s okay. Get in,” you tell him softly.

He listens as he sits down. You get into the driver’s side as you notice he is stiff. You start the car as he tenses up at the sound and feeling of a car.

You glance at him and give him a reassuring smile.

“We’re okay,” you tell him. Your eyes flicker to the seat belt. You knew that he could withstand any crash possible, but you couldn’t help it. You lean over as your head presses close to his face. He pauses, inhaling your scent as his eyelids lower slightly. You grab his seatbelt and buckle him in.

The restraint against him is weak but still makes him instinctively feel uneasy as it reminds him of the facility. He could easily break through it, but he trusts you so he settles into his seat.

The drive is silent between the two of you. Clark stares out the window as the nighttime mixed with power outages makes the entire area black. Your hand gently reaches over and takes his. He looks down at them. The feeling of your soft skin against his own skin makes his chest tighten with delight.

You drive for a several hours as you focus on the fairly empty road ahead. The state you had just entered had power now as you noticed the faint lights of small cities ahead. You occasionally look over to Clark just to find him staring back at you each time.

Your chest felt fuzzy as you forced your eyes back onto the road in front of you. It didn’t seem possible that you’d ever get used to the way his eyes rested on you. It wasn’t just staring. It was like he was truly looking into all of you.

A sigh slips past your lips as you realize you should probably get him out of the plain black suit they had kept him in. When you glance down at the time it read 3 am. A breath escaped your nose.

Thankfully, there is a Walmart off the side of the freeway. You would be able to get something basic for him at this time there.

Clark is hesitant to let you go inside, but you reassure him it will only be a few minutes. He lets go of your hand.

You decide to grab the most basic outfit you could find, something that wouldn’t make him stick out. You grab a white t shirt and grey sweatpants.

While checking out, you catch a glimpse of a tv playing above the self checkouts. Your face and name is on the news as you are reported as wanted. Of course Clark wasn’t up there, only because the government wouldn’t be able to explain the idea of a missing being from another planet on the loose without causing mass hysteria.

You curse under your breath as you quickly check out and get out of the store as fast as you can.

You go back to the car to find Clark waiting eagerly for you. You get in and place the bag by his feet as you begin to drive again.

Clark notices the shift in your demeanor. The way you chew on the inside of your lip and the way you grip the steering wheel tightly. The expression etched on your face made him feel uneasy. He would search to the ends of the earth to find something that would make you smile again.

“Are you sad?” He asks, his voice filled with concern as he tries to understand the emotion you might be feeling.

You glance away from the road to him, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “No. I’m not sad. I’m happy to be with you.” But I have absolutely no idea what we’re going to do, but you can’t say that to him of course.

After getting through another state, you decide it would be best to find somewhere to stay. You wanted to drive all the way to Kansas right to Clark’s parents’ door, but you knew that was the first place that would be searched.

You sigh as you pull into a small motel. You swallow as you think about the possibility of the person working at the desk noticing you from the news and calling to report you.

You turn to Clark, your heart clenching as you realized you had to ask him to go inside alone.

“I need you to do something for me,” you tell him slowly. His eyes find yours again. For you? Anything. is what he is thinking in his head.

“I need you to go inside and talk to the person sitting at the desk. All you have to say is ‘hello, may I have one room please?’. And then you hand them this,” you say as you show him some money.

He listens to you carefully as he nods.

“And I’ll be right out here waiting. They will give you a key, and then we can go inside.”

You have him practice a few times before having him change into the clothes you had bought. Your eyes drifted to the shirt as it was tight around his arms. You swallowed, having to force your thoughts away. He actually looked normal. Like a sexy, giant, unbelievably gorgeous man. But still normal.

Clark pushes open the door as he walks into the small lobby of the motel.

The woman at the desk perks up at the sight of him. Her eyes rake over him as she straightens up.

“Hi, how can I help you?” She asks, her voice cheery as she gazes at him.

“Hello. I would like one room please,” he says blankly, not even making eye contact as he stares at the wall behind her. He awkwardly lifts his hand as he drops the bills on the counter.

Her eyebrow raises as she watches him, but forces a flirty smile back onto her face.

“Okay,” she smiles, picking up the money. “Do you want two queen beds or one king?”

He tenses at her question. You hadn’t practiced that with him. His heart stutters as he tries to remember anything about queens or kings or what a bed even was.

She stares at him as he stands awkwardly.

“One king,” he finally answers, hoping that was right. She nods as she types something in. He lets out a small breath.

The woman gets everything typed in as she gets the key ready. She leans over the counter.

“You are on the second floor. If you need anything, and I mean anything, call down here at any time, sugar.”

He doesn’t look at her, only waiting until she offers him the key as he takes it quickly. She feels disappointed as he walks away without a word.

He pauses at the door as he remembers the day you taught him what manners were. He turns, only glancing at her briefly. “Thank you, woman,” he says carefully before continuing out.

When he makes it back to the car, you let out a sigh of relief. You get out as you grab your bag.

“You did it!” You smile, taking the key to find the room. “How did it go?”

His gaze is now on you again as his lips curve in a smile at the way he was able to please you. “Good.”

After unlocking the door, you open it to find a standard room. Your heart flutters at the discovery of one bed.

He steps in behind you as you lock the door with a click. The lights are flipped on as you let out a sigh and set your bag on the desk.

Your eyelids feel heavy as exhaustion falls over you quickly. You are tempted to just climb into the bed.

“What is sugar?” Clark suddenly asks you. You pause, glancing up at him.

“It’s something sweet that you can eat. People usually add it to things, like dessert or coffee. Why do you ask?”

He is quiet for a moment as a look of horror falls over his face. The woman wanted to eat him? How barbaric were humans?

You watch his expression as your mind begins to wonder why he was asking.

“Did someone call you that?” You ask.

His eyes glance over to you as he nods.

Despite the streak of jealous that runs through you, you laugh. And then you can’t really stop as you sit on the edge of the bed.

“Oh gosh,” you manage to get out, your hand covering your mouth. “You have interacted with one person so far and they hit on you.”

He doesn’t quite understand why you are laughing but his chest feels lighter at the sound. He sits next to you, his lips curved in a small smile. Your laughter dies down as you notice his hand reaching for yours again.

His long fingers intertwine with your own, his large hand wrapping around yours gently. Your eyes are focused on them before they trail back up to his face that is about six inches from yours. His eyes bore into yours before the flicker down to your lips.

notes: “thank you, woman” HAD ME DYINGGG WHEN I WROTE IT HAHAH. He’s so funny.

Also, is this a good stopping point? I don’t want to drag this out too much

© 2025 aliendickrocks

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[love-anonymous-writer]

It's Going To Be His Year

Eddie Munson x fem!reader

Eddie Munson should have a senior photo. It's his third try, after all. Someone should have at least taken a half-assed photo of him in the hallway, or the cafeteria or, ideally, during whatever it is the Hellfire Club does one of those years. He doesn't. TW: some discussion of a prior eating disorder, non-descriptive discussion of previous abusive relationship, fluff but you're gonna earn it

Day One | Day Two | Day Three | Days Four Five and Six | Day Seven | Day Eight |

The following morning has you rising earlier than usual. There's a lot left to finalize on the yearbook before the deadline and the start of spring break, and you're not about to let all of your hard work go to waste. Stepping outside, you feel the bite of a late frost on the wind that cuts through your hoodie, and you feel a pang of guilt as you slip Eddie's jacket on to ward against the chill. You hope he isn't cold this morning.

Today's tape is the one with the werewolf man on the cover. Appropriately, the very first track includes a chorus about barking at the moon. You're only half-paying attention, a little distracted by the campfire and cigarettes scent of Eddie Munson wafting up from his jacket and the memory of how you're pretty sure he'd very nearly kissed you at least once at the diner.

Of course, Eddie's van isn't there when you pull in. You're a good forty-five minutes early. The only people who beat you here today are the teachers and staff. It's windier in the parking lot than it was at your house, and you're grateful for Eddie's jacket around your shoulders - the leather makes a good barrier from the wind.

Mrs. R gives you a look as you walk into the classroom, one eyebrow raised as she takes note of the jacket you're wearing, but she doesn't mention it.

Instead, she pulls out a copy of today's newspaper and hands it to you. “Grabbed the first one from the gas station on my way this morning. Page nine.” She gestures for you to open it, taking a sip of her coffee. There, staring back at you from the op-ed page, is the first version of the Hellfire Club article you'd written. You stare at it for a long moment, stunned.

“They printed it,” you say finally, voice awed. Part of you had been a little convinced they would simply throw it in the trash and print another piece about Russia or the safety of nuclear power. Maybe even write another Satanic Panic article just to really double down.

“He's going to be insufferable about it,” she tells you dryly, eyes dropping pointedly to Eddie's jacket around your shoulders before sitting back down behind her desk.

A delighted little smirk tugs at your mouth. “Yeah, but I think he's earned it this time.” Grabbing the pile of copy that still needs final edits, you head to your workstation and settle in, pulling your headphones on to drown out the rest of the world. The cassette plays all the way through once with you too focused on your work and not really listening to the songs, so you play it again.

You're knee deep in the piece on Friday's championship game when something in the lyrics on the fourth track catches your attention. Rewinding the song, you lean back in the chair and focus your attention on the words pouring from your headphones.

It's the song.

You can tell almost immediately. Themes of being misunderstood and maligned, having your character smeared because you fail to conform. This is the song. Quickly, you jot down some lines that stand out as you listen. It's only a rough outline of what you want to say - you'll have to come back and polish it before you submit it for approval - but you've finally found it.

You nearly jump out of your skin when Candace taps on your shoulder, too absorbed in your excitement to notice her approach. Ripping off your headphones, you stare up at her. The music is still playing just loud enough for her to hear the guitar, and she wrinkles her nose like she's caught wind of a bad smell.

“What's with the jacket?” she asks, eyeing it like it's going to bite her.

“Eddie lent it to me,” you answer without hesitation.

Her nose wrinkles even further, like she's just discovered she'd stepped barefoot in the source of the smell. “Are you, like, dating?”

You blink for a minute, because you don't know. Have you even been on a date? You're not certain. You think so. Can a thing be officially referred to as a date if no one ever explicitly says it is? You're not about to dissect the intricacies of whether or not one singular Schrodinger's Date constitutes dating someone and the brief interpersonal crisis that invokes in front of Candace, though, so you redirect to safer waters. “Do you have something yearbook-related to talk about?” you ask, a little annoyed.

Candace gestures expectantly at the copy for the championship game you'd been working on moments before. “Are you done with that?”

“Not quite,” you shake your head. “I'll bring it over with the final edits for you when it's ready. There's a couple minor things you'll need to fix.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, well, try and get it done before your new boyfriend feeds you to a demon or whatever.”

You want very much to tell her you're about to feed her to a demon, but you don't. Instead, you maintain the tenuous grasp you have on your professionalism and send her on her way so you can get back to work. The sooner her section of the yearbook is finalized, the sooner you never have to hear her opinion about anything ever again.

Five minutes later, you hand her the reviewed copy and get back to work on the rest of the yearbook. For now, Eddie's quote will have to wait - percolating in the back of your mind until you can fine-tune it.

By the time second period is over, you've finished all of the final edits and returned them to their respective writers to be finalized. You've also received your own final edits for the Hellfire Club piece, and added the promised third page with the piece that was printed in the newspaper. Placing the finished pages in the Folder of Judgement for final approval from Mrs. Rychnovsky, you realize that with the exception of Eddie's quote your work here is basically done.

The rest of the morning goes smoothly, despite the handful of looks you get when people notice Eddie's jacket around your shoulders. You catch your former friends staring, and this time it doesn't bother you.

When you walk into the cafeteria still wearing his jacket, Eddie nearly trips over his own feet at the sight of you. He'd been going on some tangent he doesn't even remember now, mostly just trying to get a rise out of Dustin, and very nearly ate shit in a particularly ungraceful pile of hair and denim on the sticky lunchroom floor. Luckily for him, he's had decades of experience in quick recoveries, and he's reasonably sure you didn't notice. Or, at the very least, that you thought he tripped for a normal reason and not because his stupid heart tried to float out of his chest and over to you like a cartoon character smelling a fucking pie.

Quickly, before he can beef it a second time, Eddie makes his way back to his seat. Dustin tosses some teasing jab at him with a smug little grin on his dumb little freshman face, but Eddie just bats his hands at him like he's physically swatting the words away and smiles at you.

“There she is,” he says when you get close, his dimples on full display.

“Do you call all your prized possessions ‘she’?” you ask with a little laugh, and Eddie's brain screeches briefly to a halt.

Oh.

You think he's talking about his jacket.

“Definitely. Lofty aspirations of becoming an old-timey sailor,” he jokes back, playing along to cover up the fact that for a second there he thought you were calling yourself his.

Setting your bagged lunch down on the table, you shrug out of his jacket and hand it back to him. He considers refusing, insisting you keep it, that it looks better on you and that he wants to keep staring at you in it for as long as you'll let him, but that feels like a bit much even for him. When he slips into it, it smells a little like you, and his cheeks pinken ever so faintly.

“I hope you weren't too cold without it this morning,” you tell him sincerely, and Eddie is touched by your consideration.

“Nah.” He waves a hand casually. “I borrowed one of Wayne's work coats. Those things are nice and toasty.” His hand finds the small of your back automatically as you sit on the bench, steadying you, and he's delighted when you don't seem to mind. In all honesty, Eddie hadn't been entirely certain that the way you'd let him touch you so casually last night hadn't been a dream, or that you'd still want that in the light of day. The sheen of being a rockstar for an hour has worn off, and now he's just Eddie again.

You'd said you liked ‘just Eddie’, though, and he's starting to believe you really mean that.

He takes his seat beside you, turning his head when Gareth asks him a question about tonight’s band practice. There’s a brief moment of awkwardness in which neither you nor Eddie really know where you stand, what’s allowed now that it’s not just the two of you sharing fries and a too-large milkshake in the safety of Eddie’s usual booth at Benny’s Diner. Are things different when there’s people around to see?

So far, other than the one time at the pep rally and when you’d bid him goodnight last night, Eddie has always been the one to initiate touch with you. Often hesitant, under the guise of something else like practicality or chivalry so you wouldn’t see how much he wanted to - like he’s not used to being allowed to want to.

Again, you think about the moment at the pep rally. The sight of him in a packed crowd surrounded by empty space. Alone. The way he’s always reaching for you in some small way, touching you in ways that can be passed off as anything else - an accident, just being polite, good-natured friendliness. It reminds you of the way he’d fidgeted when he’d been jonesing for a cigarette. Eddie wants to be touched. Craves it. How had you not seen it before? How he’d seemed practically overjoyed when you’d done something as small as holding his hand, like he’s never had someone want to reach for him before.

You want him to want to touch you, you realize. And you want him to know he’s allowed to. So this time, you’re the one to touch him first. Just something small, in case the others take notice and tease him about it - your hand settling beside his on his thigh, your pinky looping loosely around his. Casual. Cautious, but not uncertain. Just feeling around for where the boundaries lie. Letting him know the option is open if he wants to take it.

God, does he ever take it.

His hand covers yours on his thigh immediately, like he’s a little bit afraid that this opportunity will disappear if he doesn’t latch onto it the second it’s presented. He’s talking to Gareth about curfews and Gareth’s mom’s book club changing days, throwing their practice schedule off kilter. There’s no visible reaction on his face, nothing to hint that his entire universe just shifted into technicolor - except that his voice cracks like some kind of twelve year old. Gareth gives him a look, but Eddie continues talking like absolutely nothing happened, plowing through any jokes Gareth might have made through sheer force of personality. He is not running the risk of his idiot friends being idiot boys and teasing you, causing you to pull away from him. His fingers find the spaces between yours, slotting themselves into place like they've always belonged there.

Your fingers curl around his, and you scoot ever so slightly closer. Trying to eat your lunch is a bit of a challenge with one hand, but you make do. It only takes you two awkward attempts at eating your sandwich before Eddie notices. With great reluctance, he disentangles his hand from yours so you can eat.

In the interim, Eddie's knee finds yours under the table. Still touching you in a way that could be brushed off as meaningless, an accident - but with more intention this time. Like he's testing out the concept while staying within the safety of his self-imposed constraints.

“Yeah, well, your mom's been really cool about having a bunch of nerdy freaks that everybody thinks worship Satan play metal in her garage, so. We'll just have to make it work. I am not about to piss her off.” Eddie pulls out a bag of pretzels, immediately offering you a handful.

Taking the pretzels with a quiet ‘thanks’, you observe the chaos of your friends around you. 

Gareth, telling Eddie that his mom isn’t that great - that she’s hard on him, too-strict, quick to ground him for his failings.

Eddie, his body language doing something complicated as he defends Gareth’s mom to the younger boy.

Doug and Jeff teasing Mike about his girlfriend in California, all shit-eating grins because they know how to get a rise out of their freshman friends.

Mike, indignantly, “you’ve met her! She went to school here! None of us have ever even seen Dustin’s girlfriend out in Utah!”

Dustin, who knows exactly what the older boys are doing and is just as much of a shit as he’s always been, merely shrugging. “My girlfriend calls me Dusty-buns, you think I’d make that shit up?”

Lucas, laughing at how easy it is to rile Mike up sometimes.

It feels less like chaos and more like camaraderie the more time you spend with them, like people who know they’re a part of this group no matter their differences.

And they are different.

Sure, they like to give Lucas shit about joining the basketball team and falling into the clutches of the dark side, but he’s still always welcome here with them. Some of them even go to some of his games despite their complete lack of interest in the sport itself. He’s still part of the flock.

You’re still figuring out just how your piece fits into the greater puzzle of the whole of them, but every moment you spend with them you’re more and more confident that you do fit here. 

The bell rings and you blink, surprised that the lunch period is already over. You had no idea that you’d gotten so in your head. Coming back to yourself, you realize that everyone else is already getting up and taking their trays to return them, but Eddie is still here. Staring at you. Like he hadn’t realized the passage of time, either - or the fact that at some point you’d wound up tucked into his side. It had been a subconscious progression, the gravity of him pulling you in without either of you even noticing. Natural. As if you’ve always been this close. As if touching Eddie Munson was simply something you did and not a ground-breaking new development that had sent his entire world bursting with newfound possibility.

If it weren’t for the fact that Principal Higgins was practically itching for a reason to expel Eddie and keep him from ever graduating, you could have stayed tucked into his side like that forever. But this is his last chance, and he’s worked so hard to distance himself from the mini Alan Munson that everyone expects him to be - you’ll be damned if you’re the reason he gets another mark against him on his record. Pulling away from him, you stand to your feet and grab the remains of your bag lunch to take it to the trash. “We should get to class. Can't have all your hard work go to waste this close to the finish line.”

Eddie almost reaches for you. Almost. He thinks, briefly, about kissing you for the concern you've shown for him. Instead, he simply follows suit with a mildly dumb-struck nod - still processing the newfound color you'd brought bursting into his life.

As it turns out, he doesn't have to reach for you - your hand finds his of its own accord, fingers lacing together without hesitation. You hold his hand all the way to the trash, all the way out into the hallway, right up until you have to depart from him to head to your respective classes. Part of you wants to kiss him on the cheek again, but that might be a little too much too soon with other students milling about around you. Just holding his hand has earned the two of you enough fascinated, judgemental glances for one day, and while you know that Eddie is used to the attention you still don’t want to cause him any more trouble than necessary.

Just as you're departing from him with a soft smile and a squeeze of his hand, you remember you'd forgotten to tell him your exciting news. “Oh! I found the song!’

Eddie stares at you for a moment, confused as you walk backwards away from him. He's still a little wonder-struck from how easily you touch him now, how you don't seem to shy away from very openly associating with him like he's not some kind of gross bug you've just discovered on your shirt the moment someone sees you with him. “What song?”

“For your senior quote!” You call over your shoulder as you turn away to avoid tripping over your own feet.

All Eddie can do is stand there and watch as you disappear around the corner, a little stunned that you'd actually found something. He shouldn't be surprised - not after you'd attended the Hellfire Club meeting instead of the pep rally, and especially not after Tuesday night. But still. Part of him had half-expected that you'd settle for something generic like he'd told you to at the start of all this. He hadn't expected that you'd care this much. Not about him. Not really.

And now he doesn't know what to do with that.

He wants to chase after you, interrogate you about it right there in the hallway. But you were right - he's so close to graduation he can almost taste it. Running the risk of one more tardy being his final straw with Higgins isn't worth it. He'll just have to ask you about it later.

‘Later’ finds him in the parking lot, leaning against his van where it's parked near your truck, smoking a cigarette and trying to pretend he isn't waiting around for you like a lost puppy. He clocks the exact moment your eyes settle on him, because he's pretty sure it's the moment his heart stops beating.

The smile on your face could fell a better man than Eddie Munson. He is but Goliath, brought down by the David that is you looking like the sight of him waiting for you is the best part of your entire day. 

“Hey,” you greet him warmly as if you didn't just give him an arrhythmia. “Wasn't expecting you to still be around.”

“Yeah, well, you don't get to just drop that you found the elusive song to encompass the entirety of my very essence and not tell me anything about it.” He takes a long drag off of his cigarette, careful to blow the smoke away from you.

“I thought you didn't care.” You tease, a mischievous little smirk tugging at one corner of your mouth.

Oh.

That's dangerous.

He shrugs, looking at his shoes as he puffs out smoke and shoves the desire to kiss that smirk off of your face down into the very depths of his soul. He is not about to ruin this by being overeager. Eddie Munson can play the long game. At least, he's pretty sure he can. “Yeah, well, maybe I care a little bit.”

It's a shame that he isn't looking at you when he says it, because he would've abruptly discovered just how much he absolutely cannot play the long game at the sight of the expression on your face. You'd known he cared about being represented, he just needed you to prove that you care about it too before he left himself hope for anything better than he'd gotten for the last five years. You're beginning to understand that it's not the yearbook he gives a shit about. It's not even the quote. It's just you. What you think represents him. What you think encompasses the soul of Eddie Munson. He doesn't care if it captures his experience, he just wants to know what you think of him. The lens through which you want others to see him. “I'm not going to tell you what it is.”

Eddie looks positively appalled. “The height of betrayal.”

You laugh, bright and warm, delighted by his stupid dramatics like always. “I said I'd tell you when I found it. I didn't say I'd tell you what it would be.”

“That's semantics and you know it!” He drops his cigarette, putting it out with the heel of his shoe against the pavement so he can better gesture at you for the full dramatic effect.

Deciding to be merciful, you give him a hint. “Ozzy sings it.”

“Ozzy solo or as part of Black Sabbath?” He asks eagerly, latching onto that piece of information and trying his best to weasel more information out of you.

You're not feeling that merciful. You merely shrug, a wicked grin on your face, and he groans.

“You're killing me here, sweetheart.”

“Guess you'll just have to wait until the yearbooks come out.” Your voice is sing-song, clearly pleased with yourself.

Eddie's self control is hanging by a thread, tempted so desperately by that smug look on your face. “Yeah. Guess I will.”

He obviously wants to linger, but he’d promised Dustin he'd pick him up from the Family Video and he's already late - which will certainly get him another very weird talking to from Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington. As much as he wants to stay, he keeps his promises to his friends and he isn't about to leave Dustin high & dry. He rubs the back of his neck ruefully. “I should get going. Henderson is probably already defending my honor from Harrington. He hates that the kid thinks I'm cool - takes any opportunity to talk shit.”

“I should get going too.” You reply, stepping towards your truck reluctantly.

“I'll see you tomorrow?” Eddie asks, his tone hopeful like he still can't quite wrap his head around the idea that you're voluntarily associating with him and his little band of freaks. Like he doesn't know how to trust that you aren't merely a mirage borne of loneliness and a lovesick sort of longing three years in the making.

“Yeah. I'll see you tomorrow, Eddie.” Getting in your truck, you smile at him and wave goodbye.

It's not until you get home that you realize you forgot to show him the newspaper article

Taglist: @yorshie @luckycharms1701 @turtlecleric @thepinkpanther83 @losingmygrasponreality @the-cauldron-witch @sheneedsrocknroll92 @totallysocially @v1per1ne @the-rowanoke @s1mp-4-ga11y @thedoubleexposurephotography @eris-rose-86 @sihtricswife @lemon-sm00thie @mikuley @dwtshq @lucydixon @love-anonymous-writer @kaita @melvin333 @xemmjx @awkward00noodle @wyverntatty @sweetpeapod @keltea7

Also extremely special thanks to yorshie, lucky, cleric, and pinky without whom this fic would straight up never have seen the light of day. Y'all are the MVPs and I appreciate you so much.

Very cool Eddie banner made by @thepinkpanther83

[love-anonymous-writer]

Freak Therapy

pairings: Eddie Munson x oc

summary: She signed up for a psychology internship expecting to babysit a few lost teenagers. Instead, she got Eddie Munson: Hawkins’ finest metalhead, three-time senior, and all-around expert in making life difficult. For eight weeks, she’ll try to “fix” him. He’ll try to survive her. Spoiler alert: neither is ready for what happens next. Eight sessions. One freak. Zero chance this stays professional.

general warnings: 18+ MDNI, smut, Mild age gap (she’s a psychology intern, he’s a three-time senior), sarcasm levels off the charts, slow-burn tension hotter than Eddie’s guitar riffs, questionable professionalism, emotional damage (yours and theirs), occasional nerd references.

if you want to be added to the official taglist for this fic then please let me know in the comments ⋆.

Session seven - Eddie’s POV

Three months.

That’s how long it had been since she walked the hell out of Hawkins without so much as a “see you never.”

Three months since Jason opened his big mouth, since my life went from shit to extra crispy shit. 

The dream was the thing that finally snapped me out of it. That one night when my subconscious dragged me to the ugliest part of myself, showing me how I’d treated her in my head. It scared me straight, literally. So from that day no more drowning, no more poisoning. 

And somehow, with Hellfire watching my sorry ass, I actually did it.

Didn’t mean it was easy. Hell no.

One day I was pathetic enough to drag myself to that damn supermarket at the exact same time I’d run into her once, just to walk the aisles like some lost puppy hoping that she’d appear again. 

Another day, I’d paid way too much cash to my guy for a bootleg Guns N’ Roses demo. Listened to it until the sound warped, then I smashed it under my boots, like it was her fault.

But now here I was. Standing in a stupid cap and gown, waiting for my name to be called. Me. Edward Munson. High school graduate. Took me three tries, two breakdowns, and one spectacularly ill-fated crush on the school shrink, but hey...miracles happen.

Everybody knew the saga: freak loser, depressed junkie, in love with his therapist and now suddenly limping across the finish line. The redemption arc practically wrote itself.  Teachers probably passed me out of pity, charity, or maybe just because they were sick of seeing my face. Whatever, a win’s a win.

When they finally called my name, the room erupted louder than I expected. Some cheers, some jeers, the usual mix. I walked up, all swagger, all fake confidence, took the diploma folder and, because why the hell not, turned back to face the entire gymnasium.

And I flipped them the bird.

Right there, middle finger held high under the fluorescent lights, my cap slipping sideways.

The crowd broke. Half horrified gasps, half laughter. The teachers all did that synchronized disappointed head shake, like they’d rehearsed it.

And in the stands? Mike groaned, reached into his pocket, and handed Dustin a crumpled ten-dollar bill. Henderson grinned like Christmas came early.

Guess someone had bet against me.

After the ceremony, everyone scattered to their rich-kid pool parties and secret booze fests. Not me. My crew hadn’t graduated yet, they were still a year or two behind. So they threw me the best damn party I could’ve asked for: a marathon Hellfire campaign.

We broke into the drama room while the whole school was outside tossing caps and hugging. Meanwhile, we slipped in like thieves, lugging dice, books, maps, and, courtesy of yours truly, a six-pack.

I built them an adventure worthy of legends, dragons, betrayal, one hell of a boss fight. And the little gremlins ate it up, beer in hand, eyes shining.

By the time we stumbled out to go home, the sky was pale and soft with morning light. We hopped the school gates like criminals, the guys grabbed their bikes one by one, wheels, scattering off in different directions.

I was a little drunk, light-headed in the good way, not the “I hate myself” way. I hopped on my bike and felt untouchable, like the idiot hero of my own story, graduation cap still stuck on my head like a crown as I pedaled toward the RV park. 

The streets were dead, silent except for the hum of my tires and my own voice singing Changes by Black Sabbath, off-key. Yeah, yeah, cliché as hell, but it felt right.

By the time I rolled in, my throat was raw from singing the same lines over and over. I hit the brakes and grinned at the sight of it...my van, my kingdom.

And parked right behind it, like some cruel cosmic joke, her car.

I knew that car. I’d trained myself not to flinch every time I saw the same model rolling down Hawkins streets, but this one...this one I recognized instantly. Same dent in the bumper, same exact shade.

And in the driver’s seat, a shape. A silhouette that looked too much like her to be anyone else.

My hands froze on the brakes, my bike still between my legs, breath locked in my throat.

No way. No fucking way.

Three months of silence, of pretending I could claw my way out of the hole she’d left, and now...now she was here. 

My chest burned. I couldn’t even tell if it was anger, panic, or some sick kind of hope. Probably all three.

Figures. Even at the finish line, even with my diploma in hand and freedom dangling in front of me, she still managed to show up and ruin my victory lap.

Marissa’s POV

When I arrived the parking lot was quiet, still, everyone in town pulled toward graduation, which suited me fine. Less eyes, less whispers, less of the looks that had followed me for weeks before I left.

My name was a stain in Hawkins now. Rumors had done their job well. And yet, here I was, waiting for the one person who still made all of that background noise irrelevant.

Eddie.

The hours bled into each other. First dusk, then night, then that pale shade of almost-morning that makes everything look lonelier than it is.

He hadn’t shown.

I told myself a dozen explanations. Maybe he was with friends, maybe he was celebrating...it was graduation, after all. Maybe he was finally letting himself have something normal.

I rubbed my temple, tried to exhale it out. Fingers tight around the steering wheel even though the car was parked.

Out the windshield the sky was clear, painfully so. Pale early June light stretched wide. Except for one cloud, far out on the horizon black and heavy.

Exactly how I felt.

Like I was sitting in all this forced calm while something inevitable was already gathering speed just out of sight.

As a therapist, I knew exactly what I was walking into. His history was a roadmap I’d memorized: abandonment carved into him since childhood...mother gone, father vanished. Attachment wounds like that don’t just heal, they fester, they make you wary, raw, quick to anger.

So if my hypothesis was right, if the sessions and the careful confessions hadn’t lied to me, he would be furious. Not just hurt, furious.

Because in his eyes, I hadn’t just left. I had become another person who decided he wasn’t worth staying for.

And the truth? I couldn’t blame him.

I rubbed my palms against my knees, nails biting fabric. Anxiety spread warm and prickling in my chest, reminding me that for all the theories and diagnoses, I couldn’t predict how his face would look when he finally saw me.

And then—

The faint crunch of wheels over gravel. Slow, deliberate...a bike.

And with it, a singing voice, raspy, low, too familiar for my pulse to do anything but spike.

“...but it’s too late now...I’ve let her go...I’m going through changes...I’m going through changes...”

I stopped breathing. My heart slammed against my ribs, painful and bright.

I turned, and there he was.

The bike slowed to a halt in front of the van.

He was thinner, maybe, a sharpness to his jaw that hadn’t been there before. Same wild curls, though now hidden under a graduation cap tilted sideways like it didn’t quite belong. Hellfire shirt clinging loose, a backpack slung carelessly over his shoulder.

He froze when he saw me, still straddling the bike.

For a second neither of us moved, just two ghosts staring through glass.

Three months collapsed in a single glance, hitting me like a punch to the lungs.

I swallowed hard, forcing my hand to the door handle. My legs felt foreign as I stepped out, feet crunching against the gravel.

I shut the door behind me, the sound echoing too loud in the quiet lot.

“Hi Eddie” I said softly, voice thinner than I wanted. Trembling, almost.

Silence.

He blinked, then swung his leg off the bike, landing with a soft thud. He tugged the cap off, raking a hand through his flattened hair in a quick, almost irritated motion. He didn’t answer. Didn’t even really look at me.

“Congratulations,” I tried again, careful, like the word itself might spook him.

Nothing. He dropped his backpack, and let it drop against the side of the van. Then he sat down on the old chair by the little table, fishing out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. The silence thickened as he patted his pockets for a lighter.

I shifted my weight, keys in hand, twirling them just to keep my fingers busy. The silence roared between us.

“I wanted to come,” I said finally, quieter, “to the ceremony. But… I didn’t want to embarrass you. Thought maybe showing up here would be easier. Just your uncle to face, not a whole gym full of people.”

The flame snapped alive. He lit up, exhaled smoke like it was the only answer I deserved. Then, finally, words.

His voice came flat. “My uncle’s out of town. Work.”

The ache in my chest deepened. I swallowed. “So… he wasn’t there for the ceremony?”

A small shake of the head.

I felt a hand squeezing around my heart. Nobody. No family. Maybe just his friends. He hadn’t had anyone there for him.

I studied him the way I’d been trained. He couldn’t hold my gaze for more than a second, like it burned. Which told me enough. Anger, yes. But beneath it, sadness and...shame. Like he was the one who’d failed me, not the other way around.

“Can I sit?” I asked gently, careful not to push.

He didn’t look at me, just tapped ash into the tray beside him and gave a single, curt nod.

I dragged the chair closer, the legs scraping faint against gravel, and sat down beside him. Too close, maybe. He didn’t look at me, just smoked, eyes narrowed at nothing.

“I came to explain” I began softly, the words rehearsed in my head, lined up like soldiers  “I didn’t want to leave. I wouldn’t have, not like that. But someone saw us, when I hugged you outside my place and they told the principal. I don’t even know who—”

“Jason Carver.”

My mouth snapped shut. I turned toward him, but his gaze stayed forward, steady on some invisible point past the haze of smoke. “You didn’t know?” His tone shifted, it was bitter “Jason's cousin... Luis, didn’t tell you?” He spit the word cousin like it was poison.

My stomach dropped. Luis Carver. My throat tightened, heat flooding my face but not from guilt, from the shame of him knowing at all. I hadn’t even done anything with Luis. I’d only called him one stupid, desperate night when I was drowning in feelings I wasn’t supposed to have. Feelings for Eddie.

But this was Hawkins. This place turned whispers into knives.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. How could I even begin to explain?

I sat frozen, wondering how the hell he knew more about my life than I did. I thought I was here to explain, to finally clear myself. Instead it was like walking into a play where everyone already knew my lines but me.

And then, unexpectedly, his voice shifted, softer. “Look… I’m sorry you lost your job over it,” he muttered “I just would’ve wanted… a goodbye. That’s all.”

The words lodged in my chest like stones.

I turned to him fully now, studying the the faint shadows under his eyes, the way his curls framed his face.

And in that moment, I realized—my reasons, my careful explanations, the guilt I wanted to cleanse—they meant nothing to him. He already knew. None of it was what broke him. It was the silence I’d left behind. The vanishing, that was the wound.

I drew in a shaky breath. “I needed to leave,” I admitted, voice fragile, careful. “It was becoming too heavy for me. I just… I needed peace.”

His lips twisted, bitter. He finally answered, still watching the cigarette burn between his fingers. “And I needed you,” he said simply, voice hollow. “Funny.”

Every syllable cut through me like glass.

I couldn’t answer. My throat locked, I didn’t want to talk anymore. Not at all. Every instinct in me screamed to close the distance, to fold myself against him, to take some of the weight I’d left him carrying alone.

The words scraped their way out anyway, thin and breaking. “I’m sorry, Eddie.” My voice fractured on his name. The air caught in my chest, threatening to spill over in sobs I refused to let him hear. I clenched my jaw, blinked hard at the gravel under our feet. 

He still didn’t look at me.

But I knew he’d heard me because he nudged the pack of cigarettes across the table toward me, silent. A quiet gesture, almost gentle. An offering.

I shook my head quickly, unable to trust my own voice with the tremor inside it. 

For a beat, nothing but the scratch of wind against the trees. Then finally his voice, lighter, crooked. Almost himself again.

“Guess I should thank you, all this drama? Probably the only reason I graduated. Teachers couldn’t flunk the depressed freak who got ditched by his therapist, right? Guess pity’s good for something.”

I didn’t laugh...of course I didn’t.

Because I’d known exactly how he might have reacted to me leaving. I’d tried to prepare myself for it, to rationalize. But hearing it confirmed, seeing the proof of it carved into the bitterness in his smile, was unbearable.

He’d been depressed, my absence had gutted him so visibly that even the teachers had pitied him, enough to pass him through.

The guilt cracked through me like a whip. I stared down, fighting the sting in my eyes. If I had just said goodbye, just explained, it wouldn’t have undone the damage, but maybe it wouldn’t have hurt him this much. Maybe I wouldn’t have left him thinking he wasn’t worth even a word.

Then his voice cut through.

“...So what are you doing now?”

I blinked, startled, and when I looked up, he was finally looking at me. Really looking. Big brown eyes locking onto mine for the first time since I’d stepped out of the car. His tone had shifted, it was gentler, less sharp.

“You working at another school?”

For a second I couldn’t breathe. Seeing him like that again, so close, those eyes after months of emptiness, it rattled me more than I wanted to admit.

I shook my head slowly. “No. I… took a break. From everything. I moved back near Chicago. I’m just… doing a normal job now.”

He nodded, lips twitching with the faintest of smiles. “Normal job, huh? so being a shrink doesn’t count as normal? Took you long enough to figure that out.”

The delivery was so perfectly Eddie that I couldn’t help it...my mouth tugged at the corner, the smallest smile slipping through. He’d done it on purpose, I knew. Trying to make me laugh. And in some way, it worked. The tension that had been sitting like a stone in my chest loosened, just a little.

The air between us felt softer now, not sharp and cutting, but fragile.

“So,” he asked after a moment, tapping ash into the tray, “you came back to see family in Hawkins?”

I shook my head again “No. My family moved away after I graduated. They’re not here anymore.”

He tilted his head, brows furrowed in thought. Then his gaze sharpened, and he leaned back slightly in his chair.

“Then what? You making the rounds? Explaining yourself to all the students you left behind?”

I let the silence stretch, searching his face, the pause hung heavy.

Finally, I answered. Soft and certain.

“No, Eddie,” I said, my voice steadier than I felt. “Just you.”

He looked away and I could almost hear it—the catch in his chest, the way his heart seemed to miss a beat. 

He wasn’t used to receiving, not like that.

The faintest pink rose across his cheeks, and I thought, foolishly, that it was embarrassment. But then he dragged a hand down his face, rough, and I realized I’d been wrong. Not embarrassment, anger.

“Why didn’t you come before?” His voice dropped again, colder, cutting, like the brief softness between us had never happened.

The question stabbed through me, unfair in its simplicity. I had just told him why I was here, hadn’t I?

I felt my own irritation spark, quick and hot, but I pressed it down the way I’d trained myself to.

“Because I—”

A sound interrupted me. A small, plaintive mrrrow.

I glanced down, startled, as something brushed against my ankles. A sleek black cat wound around my legs, tail curling like a question mark.

“What do you want, Ozzy?” His voice was tight, like even the animal wasn’t safe from his edge.

Instinctively, I reached down, fingers brushing soft fur. The cat leaned into my touch, purring faintly, and I couldn’t help the softness in my voice when I asked, “He’s yours?”

“No.” Eddie shook his head, leaning back, his eyes still shadowed. “Everyone feeds him. I just… gave him a name.”

My lips tugged upward, just slightly. “Ozzy” I whispered.

The cat gave a low chirp and padded away toward Eddie’s van. He sat at the closed door, tail flicking, then let out another sharp, impatient meow.

Eddie frowned, twisting in his chair to watch. “The hell’s your deal now? You’ve never wanted in there.”

“Maybe he’s hungry,” I offered, though my gaze lifted past the van, past the restless animal, up into the sky.

The world above us had darkened while we sat here tearing each other open, and I hadn’t even realized. Clouds gathered heavy and low. The air felt weighted, electric.

The wind cut sharper, rustling the trees around us. Ozzy let out another plaintive cry, but I understood now, it wasn’t food he wanted. It was shelter.

“It’s going to rain, like...a lot” I said, eyes flicking to the sky as the wind picked up.

Eddie shot up like I’d announced a fire.

“Fuck—fuck, fuck!” He shoved his chair back and lurched to his feet, stumbling before crouching low to peer under the van.

“What?” I called, already dragging myself to my feet. The first drop splattered on my arm, cold and sure, and then another on my cheek.

“There’s a goddamn toolbox,” he muttered, eyes darting around like the thing might sprout legs. “Big metal one. My uncle’ll kill me if it rusts, already the second one he’s had to buy ‘cause I keep leaving it out when it rains.”

While he explained, he was already circling the van in frantic jerks, scanning the ground. The rain thickened, plinking harder now, damp spots dotting his Hellfire T-shirt.

I frowned, scanning the ground and then I saw it. The faint metallic edge just visible under the van. “Is that it?” I pointed.

Eddie scrambled toward it, and he pulled it fully out from under the van. The thing looked like it weighed as much as a small horse.

“Does that—uh—need to go inside?” I asked.

“Yeah. Right now.” His hair was plastering to his face already, raindrops streaking down the pale line of his jaw. 

I hurried over. “Here—let me—” I bent, wrapped my fingers under the cold metal edge, and immediately regretted it.

“Jesus Christ, what is this made of? Lead?”

“Muscle,” he hissed through his teeth, bracing on the other side. “Other side, grab the handle—no, the handle!”

“I am grabbing the handle!” I snapped back, fingers slipping.

“No, not that—”

“I know what a handle is, Eddie!”

We ended up half shouting, half tripping over each other’s words as the rain came harder, drumming on the metal, on us, on everything.

“We lift on three.”

“Fine. One—two—”

“You didn’t say if we’re starting on three or after three!” I shouted, rain dripping down my nose.

“After three! Who starts on three?!”

“You could’ve said that first!”

Ozzy’s meow cut sharp through the noises, like he was just as pissed at us as we were at each other.

Eddie gave me a wild, hysterical look then just shouted, “THREE!”

I barely got my hands under the edge in time before he yanked up with a grunt, and by some miracle I managed to hoist my side high enough to keep up. 

We staggered the last few feet, half blind from the rain and wind, the toolbox slamming against our legs with every uneven step. My arms burned, lungs heaving, the water stinging my eyes until I could barely see the van looming in front of us.

We lurched against the door. Closed. Eddie cursed hard while fumbling one-handed for the latch while the metal box threatened to tear my arms clean off. Finally, the lock gave, and we practically fell inside with the weight of it, slamming it down onto the van’s floor.

Both of us bent double, hands on our knees, chests heaving. My hair sticking in wet clumps to my face. Thunder cracked outside.

“Fuck—Ozzy,” Eddie gasped suddenly, twisting, eyes wide as if he’d left a kid out in the storm. “Where the hell—”

“He’s here,” I cut in, breathless. I pointed down. “By your feet.”

Ozzy was a little black shadow pressed against his leg, damp but purring, winding around his ankle like this had been his plan all along.

Eddie slammed the door shut and the sound of the storm dulled immediately, reduced to a heavy drumming on the van’s roof. A cocoon of noise, thick and constant, wrapping around us.

We were both standing there, soaked, panting, with Ozzy curling smugly between us and that ridiculous metal box at our feet. My pulse was still racing, adrenaline buzzing under my skin.

I pushed my hair back from my face and exhaled hard. “As soon as it stops, I’ll head out.”

Eddie nodded, hands braced on his hips, still trying to catch his breath. “Yeah. Okay.” 

Silence stretched between us, broken only by the relentless rain hammering above. It was almost worse than shouting, the way the quiet settled, heavy.

My heart hadn’t slowed either, still racing from the ridiculous weight of that toolbox, from being trapped here with him.

In his space. His home.

The silence stretched and my stomach twisted with it. Then thunder cracked so loud it shook the walls, and I flinched.

The sound broke something in me.

“Since we’re stuck here,” I said, my voice tighter than I meant, but still steady in its own way, “...we may as well finish the conversation.”

He looked at me then and for the first time since I’d stepped back into his life, I decided not to hide behind detachment. Not to dodge with clinical distance or professional phrasing. Just truth.

“These past three months,” I began, breath trembling, “They’ve been awful. I didn’t expect to be pulled off my assignment like that. I’ve spent years building toward my career, toward being the kind of therapist who doesn’t...fail.” My throat closed on the words, heat flooding my eyes, but I forced myself to hold his gaze. “But I failed with you. Not just because someone saw us. But because—" The words lodged like glass. I couldn’t push them out.

His brows furrowed, a muscle jumping in his jaw. 

“You are right, I should have come sooner,” I pressed on, swallowing the knot clawing up my throat. “I’m sorry it took me so long to come here. I kept telling myself I needed to figure out what would be best for you before I saw you again. Truth is, I was scared. I didn’t have the courage.”

My chest tightened, the warning ache before tears, but I pressed on.

“I came because I wanted to tell you… that I’m proud of you. That you made it through, even after everything. Even after me. I don’t care how you did it. You did. And I’m so damn proud of you, Eddie.” My voice cracked on his name, breaking open something I’d been holding too tight. The tears I’d been holding back slipped free, tracing hot down skin already damp from the rain. I shook my head, tried to stop, failed.

“And then I left,” I whispered, the words quaking. “Because I was confused. I had my whole life planned out, every step. But I didn't—”

I broke. The sound of my own sob startled me, ripped raw from my chest. My hand flew to my mouth, like I could stop it, but it was too late.

“I didn’t plan on falling in love with one of my patients,” I choked, the admission tearing out of me with the force of the storm outside.

The van seemed impossibly still after the words fell. Just the hammering rain above us. Eddie didn’t breathe, it seemed. His eyes were locked on me with something fierce and unreadable, like I’d just split him open the way I’d split myself.

Then he moved, closing the space between us in two sure steps. His hands came up, palms cradling my face with a gentleness that unraveled me. My breath caught while his face blurred through my tears.

His thumbs brushed over my wet cheeks, chasing away the tears as if he could erase them from existence.

“Don’t cry,” he whispered. Soft. Fierce. A plea wrapped in command.

I sniffled hard, the sound ugly, my chest hitching as his palms stayed warm against my cheeks. Instinctively, my hand rose, fingers wrapping around his wrist, clutching at the solidness of him like I’d sink without it. 

But the tears kept coming. Hot, endless, spilling faster the harder I tried to stop.

“It’s my fault, all of it” I managed, voice strangled and broken. “I knew better. I knew the consequences. I was supposed to protect you, not—” My breath shuddered out of me, guilt clawing sharp in my chest. “Not make it worse. I should have—”

“Sshh.” His voice cut through, low and firm. One thumb brushed another tear away “Please, don’t cry.”

After months of silence, of detachment, of pretending I was fine, the flood poured out of me in front of the one person I’d tried hardest to stay strong for.

I shook my head against his hands, choking on a sob that hurt all the way down my throat.  “I’m so sorry. For everything I let happen. For everything I—”

He hushed me again, softer this time, like he could press the sound into me and make it stay. “Ssssh.”

And then he gave up on his hands.

His mouth pressed to my cheek, warm, lips sealing against the wet track of a tear, still holding my face steady in his hands.

My breath locked tight in my chest. The heat of his mouth lingered there, still and unyielding, like he was willing the sadness out of me, like he was trying to drink it away.

My eyes shut on instinct, lashes still damp, and my hand tightened around his wrist.

He pulled back a fraction, just enough to murmur, “It’s okay.” 

Another tear slipped free and he was there again, kissing it away. My chest ached, my heart battering so hard I thought it might tear through bone. I couldn’t tell where the storm ended and I began anymore.

A tear slipped to the corner of my mouth, and before I could move, his lips followed. A soft, tentative touch that sent a shock straight to my core. 

And then he did it again.

This time, the angle shifted, deliberate, and his lips met mine.

Soft at first. Careful. Like he was testing me.

But I didn’t pull away. I couldn’t. I leaned into it like I’d been drowning for months and only now found air.

It was devastating in its gentleness.

The salt of my tears clung to both of us. My fingers slid from his wrist to his jaw, trembling as I cupped him closer, needing more.

My lips parted and his tongue brushed mine, tentative, and then it wasn’t gentle anymore. It was deep, desperate, our mouths clashing with the taste tears and all the things we’d swallowed for too long.

His mouth moved against mine like he’d been waiting just as long, holding back just as hard, and now the dam had cracked. The sound that tore from me was small, broken, half moan, half sob.

He swallowed it whole.

We pressed together, bodies soaked from the rain, clinging as if letting go would mean collapsing. His hands left my cheeks, sliding down, strong fingers curling around the back of my neck, tangling into my wet hair.

I had spent months pretending. Months barricading every thought, every spark, every glance.

And now—

Now I was kissing him like I’d never kissed anyone before.

When we finally tore apart for air, it wasn’t distance we sought. Instinctively, we did the same thing at the same time. His arms wrapped around me, lifting me up to his level, clean off the ground like it cost him nothing. I threw mine around his neck, cheek to cheek, hugging him like I had always wanted to.

My legs instinctively curled around his waist, as if we had done this a thousand times before.

He held me close, chest heaving against mine. His breath ghosted over the shell of my ear, shaky but sure, before I heard it...low, rough, torn straight from somewhere deep.

“I missed you.”

The words shattered something in me all over again. My throat closed, my chest squeezed, and before I could even think, the tears came rushing back hot and heavy.

I buried my face into his neck, arms tightening desperately around him, answering not with words but with the strength of how hard I clung to him.

Slowly, he carried me toward the back of the van, to his room, holding me tight. I closed my eyes, resting against him, letting him carry me. I could feel his warm skin pressed to mine. The only sound was the rain beating on the van and distant thunder rumbling.

I kept my eyes closed but could feel him shifting, adjusting me gently in his arms. One arm on my back to support me while the other hand flicked on what felt like a lamp. My body moved with him, trustingly, and I found myself gently laid on his bed.

When I opened my eyes, he was above me, still brushing my face with his hands. His hair was still damp, droplets catching the faint light. I took in every line of his face, every detail, as he traced my skin like he couldn’t believe he could finally touch me like this. 

Then he smiled, that teasing glint in his eyes, and asked in that half-joking tone, “So… you gonna stop crying now, or…?”

I couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at my lips.

Before I could even think, he moved—fast, sudden, that Eddie way—and in one swift motion, lifted my t-shirt just enough to plant a loud, silly raspberry on my stomach.

“Aaah!” I yelped, bursting into laughter, the sound spilling out of me like sunlight breaking through clouds. my fingers flailing against his shoulders. His wet curls tickled my stomach as I squirmed.

He laughed too, that deep, warm sound, before coming back up to my level, nose hovering over my face. He leaned in, sniffing dramatically, “Hmm… are you crying because my breath stinks?”

I shook my head, smiling despite the lingering wetness of my tears. “Your breath’s fine,” I said, adopting my professional tone, “although there is a slight note of cigarette and alcohol, specifically beer. A more thorough gustatory test would be required to determine the brand.”

He grinned, dimples deepening, sending that familiar flutter through my stomach. Leaning down again, a little slower this time, he whispered, “Yeah?”

And then his lips found mine...slow, deliberate, sensual. I melted into the kiss, tasting his heat.

My hands slid lower, fumbling blindly until I caught the damp hem of his shirt. I tugged, urgent, and he broke from my mouth just long enough to peel it off in one swift, impatient motion as if the fabric annoyed him. The shirt landed somewhere with a wet slap.

For a fraction of a second, my gaze caught on the ink sprawled across his chest, black lines etched over pale skin, something bold and dark I didn’t have time to see. My brain barely registered tattoo before he was already back on me. His lips on mine again, slow, teasing. 

Then he mirrored me, fingers sneaking under my own shirt, dragging it higher inch by inch, so painfully slow I thought I might combust. Our tongues tangled, my breath stuttered against his lips as he finally pulled away to let me finish. I ripped it off, tossed it blindly aside.

When I blinked back open, he was already trailing downward, kissing my stomach in hot, open-mouthed trails that made my back arch right off the mattress. I had no air, none at all, as he paused just long enough to look up at me with that crooked grin.

“Can’t believe we’re actually doing this,” he murmured against me, voice hoarse, every word vibrating through my belly.

The only response I managed was a shaky, breathless laugh making my stomach twitch beneath his lips. 

Then he was moving up again, his mouth grazing the column of my throat, sucking lightly, like he wanted to map every inch but couldn’t decide where to begin. My head tilted back instinctively, eyes fluttering shut, offering him more.

I felt the slow drag of his fingers slipping the strap of my bra off my shoulder, then further, until cool air brushed against skin that was suddenly exposed. His hand followed, covering my breast in a firm, reverent hold.

Then he froze.

I opened my eyes just in time to see his gaze drop, his breath stutter.

“Well...” he rasped, eyes locked on my chest. “I didn’t expect that.”

My nipple ring gleamed faintly in the lamplight, the small silver hoop glinting against damp skin. The cool metal contrasted with his warm palm still half-covering me, and for a heartbeat, he just stared.

I smiled reaching up as I cupped his jaw, guiding his face back to mine. His eyes were wide, somewhere between disbelief and delight.

“I stopped crying,” I whispered, my voice low. “So now shut that pretty mouth and take my clothes off.” 

He grinned at me, eyes glinting even as his breath came rough and uneven. “You’ve spent months trying to drag words out of me, and now you tell me to shut up?” he said, teasing, “...but yeah, sure. At your service, ma’am.” and brushed a quick kiss over my lips before diving straight back down to my neck.

Then I felt his hand—sly, practiced—sliding like a serpent down my back. One smooth flick and my bra was undone, so fast I barely registered it until the straps loosened. He didn’t even pause. Just slipped it away and let it join the pile of discarded clothes without ceremony.

Heat bloomed sharp and immediate when his lips closed around the swell of my breast, tongue flicking before he sucked slow, greedy. My head tipped back against the pillow again, eyes rolling shut as if my body couldn’t handle the overload.

My fingers threaded through his damp curls almost instinctively, tugging when the suction deepened. I forced myself to look down, to see him, and the sight alone nearly unraveled me: his cheeks hollowed, his eyes shut, his mouth curved around me with such intent that I forgot how to breathe.

“God…” I whispered, my voice trembling.

He hummed against me at that, low and pleased, the vibration traveling straight through my skin. My hand slid from his hair to cup his jaw, feeling the movement of his muscles as he sucked.

His mouth left me slick and aching, the cool air hitting where his lips had just been as he moved from one breast to the other with the same deliberate hunger.

I gasped, fingers locking at the nape of his neck, holding him there. My hips were restless, moving on their own in tiny, desperate shifts against nothing. It was unbearable, and still he took his time, savoring, like he had all the patience in the world.

Somewhere in that haze, I realized he was moving, his body angling to the side instead of looming above me. His lips never faltered, never let me go, but I felt the drag of his hand sliding lower, fumbling with the button of my jeans.

His eyes stayed closed as he tugged at the waistband and I lifted my hips without thinking, helping him peel the denim down. My free shaky hand fumbled to push them lower, working with him until the fabric was sliding away from my legs, tossed aside and all I had left was the thin barrier of my underwear.

Relief hit me in a rush, cool air brushing over the inferno burning between my legs. My thighs pressed together instinctively, a futile attempt to ease the pressure, but it only made the throbbing worse.

Finally—finally—he let my breast go, leaving me wet and swollen. He dragged himself back up, until his face hovered above mine again. His eyes were half-lidded, heavy with hunger, but he kissed me, tender and slow, and my chest clenched tight at the contrast, how could he be this careful while I was falling apart beneath him?

His hand, though, didn’t stop. I felt it trail lower, past the rise of my stomach. My breath hitched, anticipation clawing up my throat.

He broke the kiss only to brush his lips over my cheek, then lower, over the curve of my jaw to the slope of my shoulder. 

Then he didn’t hesitate, didn’t give me time to think, his hand pushed past the barrier, straight into heat so sharp it ripped a moaned out of me that was loud, guttural, raw and my thighs opened instantly.

He was right there with me, his face pressed to mine, both of us burning like fever. And when his fingers finally slid inside, filling me in one deep, sure push, he groaned too. 

My hips jerked forward against his hand, helpless, chasing the sensation. His rings were cold against my overheated skin.

My body wasn’t mine anymore, it was all pulse and ache and wet heat around his fingers, squeezing him, begging without words.

He moved them slowly at first, dragging out, then sinking back in, each stroke deliberate, claiming. My forehead pressed harder to his, skin slick, breath messy and shallow. I couldn’t stop the way my hips rolled with him, greedy, frantic.

But it wasn’t enough. God, it wasn’t enough.

“Eddie…” My voice cracked, broken into pieces. I tried again, breathless, “... please”

Those were the only words I could find, my hand fumbling toward the button of his jeans, tugging in clumsy desperation. I needed him closer, needed him inside, nothing else would do.

He froze, just barely, his mouth dragging from my jaw to hover by my ear, voice so hoarse it barely sounded like him.

“Baby… I don’t have protection.”

The world stilled for a heartbeat, my body still twitching. 

I turned my face enough to see him, inches away, his lips swollen and his gaze still heavy. “It’s okay.” My voice was barely a whisper. “...please.”

“You sure?” he breathed, almost pained, like the restraint cost him everything.

“Yeah,” I managed, with a pleading nod.

It was like a switch flipped in him, the restraint snapped.

His hand slipped from inside me, leaving me empty and aching. Then he was all frantic movement, fighting with the button of his jeans. My fingers scrambled down, shoving my underwear off in a clumsy rush before helping him, tugging at denim that didn’t want to give.

We were both breathless, swearing under our breaths, our hands colliding. I felt him finally force the jeans low, boxer-briefs dragged with them until the fabric was bunched uselessly under his hips.

He didn’t bother getting rid of them fully, he was already between my thighs, his weight pressing me into the mattress. I barely had time to breathe before his mouth was at my jaw again, open and hot, while his hand moved between us, fumbling, freeing what I’d been desperate for.

I gasped when the blunt heat of him nudged against me, dragging over my entrance, only my own slickness separating us now. My legs closed instinctively and I felt the rough denim of his jeans grazing the inside of my thighs. 

His forehead dropped against mine, his body straining with the effort not to just slam inside.

And then he pushed forward.

Slow, careful, sliding into me inch by inch until my breath fractured into a sharp, choked sound.

The stretch was blinding. My lips parted, eyes squeezing shut, my body clutching around him as he filled me.

“Jesus...Christ…” he groaned, low and raw. His whole body shuddered as he buried himself deep, every muscle tense like he was fighting the urge to lose control.

It was too much, not enough, everything at once. Fullness bloomed inside me, so sudden, so complete it was almost unbearable.

My nails bit into his shoulders, grounding myself. 

He stilled, chest heaving, his breath hot against my lips. “You okay?” he whispered, voice frayed at the edges.

My heart swelled, absurdly tender at the question. “Yes” I whispered back and I reached up, brushing damp curls back from his face before cupping his cheek. “I’m good, sweetheart.”

I kissed him then soft and tender like I wanted to anchor both of us in that single heartbeat.

But the moment he started to move inside me, slow, steady thrusts, my mouth fell open against his, every roll of his hips dragging a sound from my throat I couldn’t swallow. My moans slipped into his mouth, messy, helpless, until we were both gasping against each other, our breaths mixing.

He moved deeper, a little faster, and I thought I might actually come undone just from the way he filled me. My back arched off the bed, eyes rolling, the stretch of him inside me making my whole body quake.

“Fuck,” he groaned, dropping his head to my shoulder. “You feel… unreal.”

I wanted to answer, but I couldn’t. The only thing that came out were broken whimpers, spilling into his ear.

Without thinking my hand slided down to clutch his back, feeling the rough denim still clinging below his hips. The friction of the fabric against my palm, the muscles tensing under my hand as he drove into me. 

Then instinct took over, I started moving under him, grinding,

my hips moved on their own, rolling up to meet his like some reckless dance. Every grind sent a shockwave through me, I moaned louder, needier. 

The effect was instant. He grunted, a raw sound that vibrated against my chest, and I felt his rhythm falter. His hand slammed into the mattress by my head, muscles straining. He lifted himself just enough to look at me, hair hanging wild, eyes wrecked.

“If you keep doing that,” he rasped “I’m gonna ruin everything and embarrass myself in about ten seconds flat”

I smiled, breathless “Okay… okay,” I whispered, forcing my hips to still, “I’ll behave.”

I smoothed my palm over his chest, tracing down his damp skin until I reached the hard lines of his stomach. We both followed the movement, foreheads pressed, gazes dragging down to where our bodies were joined. 

I saw him, hard and slick, disappearing inside me inch by inch, my body parting around him. The sight made my breath hitch. Every slow retreat and deeper thrust dragged a wet sound from us both, obscene and perfect.

My hand was on his side, and I felt his stomach muscles contract under my touch with every roll of his hips. Tight, coiled power, trembling restraint.

I was already half-gone, but a thought clawed its way out of me anyway. “Eddie…” I whispered against his cheek, “I want to be on top.”

He froze. Dead still inside me. His jaw clenched, eyes squeezing shut like I’d just told him the most dangerous thing in the world.

“Jesus - fuck” he groaned, the sound guttural, half a curse, half a plea. He dropped his forehead harder to mine, like he was trying to hold himself together with sheer force of will. “That’s just… cruel, sexy as hell, but cruel”

I laughed softly, the sound mingling with his pained hiss, and before I could answer, he was already moving rolling us clumsily, but keeping himself buried deep inside as his hands steadied me.

The new angle stole the air from my lungs. The stretch felt sharper, deeper, like every inch of him was pressing into places I didn’t know how to handle.

I gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, and his head fell forward, forehead brushing against my chest.

“Fuck, wait...” he muttered, one arm banded tight around my waist to hold me completely still. I felt him shifting beneath me, his other hand fumbling, tugging at the denim still clinging stubbornly to his skin. He cursed under his breath, yanking, jerking, his legs kicking behind me. “They’re strangling my ass.”

A shaky laugh burst out of me before I could stop it. I tilted my head down, breathless, lips brushing the curls plastered to his temple.

“That’s very erotic,” I teased, sarcasm sharp but warm.

He let out a strangled noise somewhere between a groan and a laugh, muffled against my chest. “Goddamn… fucking—get off—” His thighs flexed beneath me, his heels scraping against the sheets as he tried to kick them down, still keeping me locked on him the whole time.

Finally the jeans gave, sliding off enough that he could kick them away. 

“Victory,” He sagged back into the mattress, curls spilling wild around his face like dark snakes against the pillow, breathing like he’d just fought a war. His chest rose hard and fast, and his eyes, half-lidded, glazed, dragged up my body like he was drunk on me. Then he tilted his chin up “Alright, doc…"  he smirked "show me what you got.”

That look, wrecked and cocky all at once, made my stomach twist deliciously. 

I bit my lip, smiling down at him, then braced my hands on his chest and started to move, his muscles twitching under my palms. Slowly, I rolled my hips, testing the drag of him inside me.

His hands found my thighs, gripping tighter with every rise and fall of my hips. His eyes fluttered half-shut, his mouth open on a strangled groan as if he was holding on by the thinnest thread.

The rhythm came faster, my hips finding their pace, each movement sending sparks tearing through me. His chest flexed under my hands, his stomach tightening with every shift, every squeeze of my body around him.

His grip was bruising now, his knuckles white on my thighs. He looked wrecked, like every second was torture. The veins in his neck stood out, tendons taut, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. 

I dragged my nails down his skin without realizing it, leaving red marks across the pale canvas of his torso.

“Okay—” his voice broke on a ragged breath, “cool. Yeah. Just—” another sharp gasp, “ruin me, why don’t you.” his hands slided up to clutch my hips, holding me like he wasn’t sure he’d last another second. I felt the tremor in his arms, the raw restraint in his grip.

But it was too late for restraint for me. The position, the freedom to move, the sight of him undone beneath me, it all spiraled together until I shattered. My body clenched around him, back arching, head thrown back as the orgasm ripped through me tearing a strangled cry from my throat. 

I collapsed forward, chest against his, still pulsing around him, boneless in the aftermath. His arms wrapped around me instantly, strong, desperate, crushing me so tight I thought he’d squeeze the air right out of my lungs. Then his hips moved, sharp, insistent thrusts upward, and my body rode the rhythm helplessly, still quivering from my release.

He was gone, no restraint this time, his breath hot against my ear, ragged and uneven. I could feel every muscle in him straining, his body chasing its own edge. My hand clutched the sheets at his side, fist tight, knuckles aching. I wanted to tell him to be careful, but no words came, only broken gasps. He was holding his breath too, like he was right at the brink.

Then it tore out of him...a low, guttural sound, primal and raw. His body jerked, and suddenly he pulled free just in time. Heat spilled hot against his own stomach, a few drops catching my skin.

I kept my face buried in his neck, my fist still knotted in the sheets, trembling with him as his head finally collapsed back against the bed, both of us shaking, gasping, undone.

And then...stillness. 

Just our ragged breathing, loud in the small space, the weight of him beneath me, the mess of our skin.

My ears rang with the silence, and I realized for the first time that outside, the storm had stopped. No more rain hammering the van, no more thunder. Just us.

I let my lips brush the shell of his ear, my voice low, still ragged. “The storm’s over.”

He huffed a laugh, still breathless, his chest rising fast beneath me. “Yeah, well...” he rasped, “Figures. Whole damn thing was just a deal I made with God. He said he’d shut it off if I managed to get you into my van.” 

I smiled at the ridiculousness and whispered “Idiot,” before kissing his cheek and sliding off him, my legs shook as I moved.

I turned, finding tissues on his nightstand, and reached for them. I started to clean him gently across his stomach but his hand shot out, catching my wrist, taking the tissue from me and swiping himself off in one careless motion before tossing it to the floor. Then he tugged my hand down against his chest, pinning it there, like he wasn’t ready to let me go even for a second.

I couldn’t fight the smile, eyes heavy, as I rested my chin on his chest, body sinking into his warmth.

His curls were less soaked now, drying into soft waves, and when he reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, I thought I might melt all over again.

“I didn’t think you’d be like this in bed.” I murmured into the quiet.

Something flickered across his face instantly, a shadow pulling the light away. His gaze drifted past me, avoiding my eyes. “You thought I’d be some freak or something?”

The sudden change made my chest tighten, I knew that look. “No,” I rushed, shaking my head, “God, no. I expected you to be sweet. But you were… careful. Like you thought you might break me.”

He didn’t answer right away, just kept twirling one of my strands of hair between his fingers, eyes still averted.

“What?” I asked, my voice soft, coaxing.

He exhaled, the sound heavy. “When you were gone…I took some shit I shouldn’t have. One night I—” He broke off, jaw tightening. “I had this dream. You were there, but I wasn’t...good to you.” His throat bobbed. He forced the words out.

My breath hitched, but I kept my tone steady. “Was I consenting?”

His eyes flicked to mine, then away. He nodded. “Yeah. But… you were fucked up. High. Doesn’t count.”

I reached up, cupping his cheek, forcing him to look at me. “Eddie, it’s a dream. You were angry with me. You can’t control what your subconscious throws at you.” My thumb brushed along his cheekbone, grounding him. His eyes finally flicked to mine, raw and uncertain.

“What you can control,” I whispered, my thumb stroking along his cheekbone, “is how you’ve treated me here. Today. And that was…” My lips quirked in a tired, genuine smile.“…the best sex of my life.”

He snorted making a face. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

I let my smile grow wider “Maybe. But it’s still true.”

His eyes dropped, heavy-lidded, tracing over me like he was trying to memorize every inch of my face. The pad of his thumb brushed my forehead, soft and unhurried, then drifted lower to graze my cheekbone. My lashes fluttered at the touch. It was too much tenderness for my sleep-deprived brain. I stayed still, let him touch me like I was something fragile he’d been given permission to hold.

When he spoke, his voice was low, the kind of rasp you get when sleep is only one blink away. “Doesn’t matter, though. ’Cause this… it’s another dream. Tomorrow I’ll wake up, find out I failed again, and you’ll still be gone. None of this ever happened. ’Cause… how could it?”

A weak smile tugged at my lips, my eyes still shut under his touch. “Then I guess I’m dreaming too.” I whispered.

He huffed a tired laugh. “Yeah? Well, maybe we’re having the same dream. Is that a thing? You’d know, doc. Shared hallucinations? Dream telepathy? Some Freud shit?”

I cracked an eye open at him, amused despite myself. “Scientifically? No.”

He smirked faintly, dimples ghosting through his stubble. “Then maybe we’re the world’s first co-dreamers, a medical marvel ” He paused then, almost shyly, he added: “Tell you what...if this really is the same dream, when you wake up, even if I didn’t graduate, even if everything’s still the same… just come back anyway. Deal?”

My throat tightened. I opened my eyes fully, found his waiting, raw and uncertain. I smiled at him, small, aching. “Deal.”

He lifted his pinky, wiggling it between us like a kid. “Seal it.”

I gave a small laugh through my nose, hooked my pinky with his, and pressed it tight. His grin lingered a moment before fading into something softer, heavier, and he let our hands fall back onto his chest, still tangled together.

I let myself collapse against him again, pressing my ear to his skin.

The sound of his heartbeat filled me. For a while, I let it be enough. Just the soft rise of his chest beneath my cheek, the warmth of his skin under my palm, the weight of his arm heavy around my back. I could almost believe it...believe him, believe us.

But then the thought came. 

What if he was right?

It crept in, that familiar whisper. The one I thought I’d buried years ago.

What if none of this is real?

The silence wasn’t peace anymore. It was loud, too loud. My pulse skittered. My chest tightened like the room was shrinking.

What if my mind was doing it again, building whole worlds out of scraps? It wouldn’t be the first time.

I’d studied this. I knew the way the mind could splinter, fabricate, create entire worlds when it was pushed too far. Psychosis. Dissociation. Hallucinations so sharp and convincing they cut deeper than truth.

And I’d lived it, once.

Hadn’t I been the girl they whispered about in high school, the one who couldn’t keep it together? The one who’d disappear for weeks, only to come back thinner, quieter, carrying hospital bracelets like jewelry she couldn’t take off?

They told me later it was “episodes.” Breaks from reality. Trauma, chemical imbalance.

Now I knew the textbooks, the diagnostic criteria, the warning signs. And God, I ticked every box: losing my job, the move, the stress that never stopped pressing down. Sleep slipping through my fingers night after night. Too much noise, too much silence, too much of everything. Isn’t that the recipe for a break? A trigger?

My chest tightened.

Maybe this was just another episode.

Maybe I was sixteen again, back in that sterile room with the buzzing fluorescent lights, and none of this—Eddie, his warmth, his heartbeat—was anything more than a beautiful lie my exhausted brain had spun out to protect me.

I swallowed hard, but the taste of old pills rose like bile in my throat. The tiny white tablets they’d handed me, promising clarity. I’d stopped taking them years ago, convinced I could outgrow the fog.

But maybe I’d been wrong.

Maybe stopping had been a mistake.

My hand tightened over his chest, desperate, clutching him like if I just held on hard enough he wouldn’t vanish into the shadows of my mind.

Because what if Eddie wasn’t here at all?

What if the laughter, the touch, the tenderness...what if every second of it was just my brain tricking me?

A cold shiver ran through me, sharp and merciless.

Maybe I wasn’t in his bed.

Maybe I was lying somewhere else entirely.

Maybe the next time I opened my eyes, it wouldn’t be him beside me.

It would be white walls, the smell of antiseptic.

It would be the echo of my own scream as the truth came crashing back.

I buried my face into his skin, clutching tighter. So tight he stirred in his sleep, shifting with a small, unconscious murmur, his arms adjusting around me like instinct.

What if I never left Hawkins High? What if the hospitals, the white rooms, the restraints, that was the truth, and this was the lie? What if all of it, becoming a therapist, moving away, coming back as a woman and falling for a patient, was nothing but the fantasy of a broken mind trying to survive?

Maybe I wasn’t a therapist.

Maybe I was still the patient and I just had to wake up.

a/n: And that’s where I leave you… sooo, tell me besties, is this all real or just one giant hallucination? 👀 Did she actually graduate, become a therapist, and fall for her patient… or is she about to wake up? Drop your theories in the comments, babes! I can’t wait to hear how unhinged you get with this one 😂 Secondly… yes, yes, I finally gave you the smut. And honestly? I had the best time writing it because this is exactly how I imagine being with Eddie would be... messy, clumsy, sarcastic, sweet, and just the right amount of frantic 😏🔥

this chapter is officially dedicated to Ozzy 🖤 (still can’t believe he’s gone, RIP legend).

TAGLIST -

@luhhvnerve @micheledawn1975 @rosie1918posie @kellsck @strangerthingsmamareblogs @xplrnowornever @eddie-steve1986 @spikeybatt @lucydixon @undeadmfs @gracechastitylover @luhhvnerve @ari-joe @mary-mary13 @emxxblog @clya4 @tigolebittiez @ari-joe @love-anonymous-writer @the-rowanoke @velvetvenusvixen

[love-anonymous-writer]

leave a message at the tone

summary: in which Clark becomes very familiar with your voicemail after choosing work and Lois, once again. when you finally call, he’ll drop everything for you.

content: fluff and then just hurt with little to no comfort or resolution :/ feeling less than and like a second choice (story of my life!), clark basically begging bc he loves you obvi, sorry im an absolute sucker for angst

———————————————————————————————

present day.

“hey - you know who it is, and you know what to do.” beeeeeep.

he’d gotten used to hearing it. he could recite your voicemail from memory, the amount of times he got it when he’d call.

after the first couple dozen calls, they became less frequent until they shrank down to zero. you weren’t going to pick up. he knew that, but some small part of him thought maybe, just maybe, he’d hear the line click and your breathing on the other end.

he missed you, so much, and it was his fault you were gone.

———————————————————————————————

2 months ago.

you stare at the string of texts - as if your glare could alter reality.

made those cupcakes you love, can’t wait to see you! really missed you today ☹️

i missed you more, pretty girl. I’ll be home soon.❤️

part of you had just been waiting for it to happen again. another night - some baked good getting staler by the minute propped up on a pretty plate, awaiting Clark’s arrival. the frosting on the cupcakes looked sadder each hour that passed where Clark didn’t walk through the door. you knew where he was, who he was with, and what he was doing.

you can’t get mad at him for doing his job. it’s who he’s with, and when that person happens to need him, that bothers you. you’ll never get used to the feeling of your stomach dropping when you check find my friends, and their locations are directly next to one another at the office.

you think you’re numb to the situation. that it shouldn’t be a suprise anymore. you don’t cry - yet. all you do is sigh, pick yourself up, and crawl into bed. tears fall, but not for him, for you.

———————————————————————————————

The last text he sent was at 7:30. you asking where he was sent at 8:00. It’s almost midnight when you hear the front door creak open. you don’t get up to greet him. instead you close your eyes, resuming your curled up on your side position under the sheets.

when your bedroom door pries open, you still don’t open your eyes. you hear him pad across the hardwood, landing on his side of the bed.

he peels back the covers, gently crawling into the bed next to you. you feel the weight in the bed shift, but don’t move a muscle. he leans over, kissing your exposed shoulder and down your bicep. you softly stir on instinct, halting your movements as quickly as they started.

“‘m so sorry, baby,” he whispers between pecks. “caught up at work again - perry has been on us this week.” he attempts to joke.

you don’t roll over, you don’t shift, you only softly reply, “i can’t keep coming in second.”

his brow furrows, pulling back. “what do you mean, honey?”

“Were you with Lois?”

the silence is deafening. and it’s all you need to hear. it’s a moment before he speaks up again.

“yeah, uh - i was. why?”

“i don’t think we should see each other anymore.” you mutter, voice hoarse - evidence of the sobs that wrecked you not even an hour prior.

time stops for clark. a tear you didn’t realize had been forming slides across the bridge of your nose.

“what?” his voice is no longer a whisper. “why? baby-“ his hand is on your arm, prompting you to turn to him, but you don’t. not looking at him makes it easier. you can’t cave, you can’t keep doing this to yourself. letting him do it to you. he pauses, pieces falling into place in his mind. “because- cause of Lois? baby, we were working, I promise-“

“I know,” you interrupt. “your work is important to you. you should focus on that.”

“no, baby - no. stop it,” he’s lightly shaking your arm, begging you to just look at him. “baby - can you just look at me? please?” nothing.

“Lois, too - you can have the best of both worlds without worrying about how to make time for me.”

he’s panicking now. you’re right next to him, but he can physically feel you slipping further and further away. he’s trying to grab you, pull you back in, but your slipping through his fingers like sand.

“honey, what are you even saying? i love you, more than anything, you’re the most important thing to me.”

“it doesn’t feel like it.”

“then I’ll do better. you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, and I’m so sorry for making you feel like you weren’t. I love you so much, don’t wanna lose you,” his voice is breaking. you fight every urge to turn around and comfort him.

“you started losing me the first time you didn’t show.”

he thinks he’s going to be sick. your words hit him like a punch to the gut. all those missed dates, all those late nights - they come flooding back to him. he can just see you, alone in the apartment, glancing at the door every few minutes for him to come in, and it never happens. how could he do this? what has he done? is he losing you forever? all these thoughts are running through his head - all he knows for sure is it is no one’s fault but his.

before he can say anything, before he can keep begging for you to listen to him, that he loves you, that he’d never intentionally make you feel like less than you are to him, you speak up once more, with a finality in your voice that breaks his heart into even smaller pieces than it already had.

“leave your key in the morning. goodnight, clark.”

he lies awake that night, listening to your breathing, unsure if he’ll ever fall asleep to that lullaby again. in the morning, with tears in his eyes and a heavy heart, he slips out the door. you choke on sobs when you hear the door close on your lives together.

———————————————————————————————

present day.

you shouldn’t call him. you owe yourself that. yet you can’t ignore the pull you feel towards him when something goes wrong - after the day you had, you yearn for just a glimpse of the comfort he always gave you before. fuck it.

the tone only drones once before it clicks, and Clark’s voice comes through the speaker.

“hello?”

“hey,” you breathe. there’s a beat where neither of you speak, silence killing you softly. “I, um- sorry, I shouldn’t have bothered you - I just didn’t know who else to call,” he hears you sniffle on the end of the line, perking up as alarms sound in his mind.

“no, swee-,” he stops himself before he can fully call you sweetheart. he bites his lip prevent him from further embarrassment. he can’t call you that anymore, but it was once so natural. like instinct. you catch it too, more warmth growing in your tummy at the slip up than you’d like. “no. y’re not bothering me. ever. what’s going on?”

“can you just- can you come here?” you squeeze your eyes shut, bracing for an impact that wouldn’t possibly come. he would come. any time you call, he’d come - no questions asked.

he’s caught off guard, making few sputtered starts of sentences. he manages to set himself straight, speaking an eager (but not too eager), “of course i can. im wrapping up in the office, be there in 15?”

“yeah, no rush. thank you, clarkie.”

he smiles at the nickname. “always. whenever you need me.”

he was going to fix this - with hopes that he’d never have to hear your voicemail again.

———————————————————————————————

a/n: still not over the love on my last fic, thank you 🥹

[love-anonymous-writer]

skirt shoved up, panties to the side, ur feet dangling while clark fucks u into his desk. his hand muffling ur cries, drool spilling through his fingers, ur throat burning with muffled whines while his cock rearranges u over and over. all u can do is take it, leaking down ur thighs, dripping onto his papers. every thrust has u clenching so hard ur eyes roll back, vision blurring white. he growls low in ur ear, telling u to stay quiet while he fucks u full like u r nothing but his dumb little toy.