ssoftlyservedd - Tumblr blog

ssoftlyservedd · 13 days ago

Text

Lessons in Chemistry [Clark Kent]

SUMMARY: Desperate for your attention, Clark does the unthinkable—he turns to the ultimate girl magnet, Jimmy Olsen, for help.

WARNINGS: fem!reader, POV of clark being astronomically down bad, questionable advice, possible second-hand embarrassment WC: 5k - MASTERLIST

Clark has no idea what he’s doing.

Well—that’s a lie. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He just can’t believe he’s actually going through with it.

Because this? This is rock bottom.

He’s Superman, for crying out loud! He’s flown through electrical storms, wrestled alien warlords into the dirt, and stood eye-to-eye with beings who’ve reduced cities to rubble. But now? Now he’s navigating the bullpen of the Daily Planet like it’s mined territory. His shoulders drawn tight, head ducked low, and hands shoved too deep in the pockets of a button-down that suddenly feels too tight across the chest. This is not something he’s even remotely proud of, but desperation has a way of scraping the dignity clean off a man.

And so that’s how he ends up standing at the edge of Jimmy’s cluttered desk, where his friend is hunched over his phone, mid-scroll, and chewing on the end of a pencil. “Hey,” he hisses, barely above a whisper.

The redhead doesn’t look up. “Yo. What’s up?”

A glance over one shoulder. Then the other. His voice drops even lower. “Come here a second.”

That earns a look. “Did you break another stapler? I’m not covering for you again, man.”

The taller man exhales through his nose and scrubs a hand through his hair before jerking his chin toward the far end of the room. “I need your help.”

Jimmy follows his gaze, then grins immediately.

There you are. Leaning against someone’s desk, your laughter rises above the general buzz of newsroom chatter. Steve from Sports is gesturing animatedly about something, probably about the most recent trade, but it’s the shape of your smile that stands out. You’ve been here five months. That’s long enough to memorize everyone’s coffee orders, to have nicknames for the janitors, to be included in that horrendous Daily Planet group chat that really only consists of memes or roasts. Everyone likes you.

Everyone talks to you.

Everyone except him.

Because for five months, every time you walk into a room, he forgets how to be casual. He fumbles his greetings, he adjusts his glasses three times too many, he says things like 'yep' instead of 'yes' and then overthinks it for days afterward.

“She’s cool,” comes the easy, admiring reply beside him from the photojournalist, paired with a small nod. “Smart. Funny. A good taste in music and an even better sense of style. I like her.”

“Yeah.” The word leaves his mouth too fast, too high-pitched. “Same.”

There’s a beat of silence. And then Jimmy turns to him suspiciously. “Do you have a thing for her?”

Clark winces, and one hand lifts automatically to the back of his neck, rubbing at the skin. He realizes that this might not have been the smartest choice. “Maybe.”

The gasp that follows is dramatic enough to turn heads. He scrambles to shush the smaller guy immediately, but it’s too late; the gleam in those blue eyes is unmistakable. Gleeful. Deeply annoying.

“Oh my God,” the younger man breathes, drawing out every syllable. “It all makes sense now.”

“Please don’t—”

“No, no—shut up. I’m connecting dots. This is important.”

One finger goes up. “The time you dropped your phone down the elevator shaft. That was her, wasn’t it? When she was entering as we were heading out?”

The lack of a response is damning.

A second finger joins the count. “The coffee incident. The one where you somehow spilled a full latte onto your shoes. I remember she laughed at a joke you made.”

Clark is done for, he realizes, as he covers his face with one hand. This was a definitely a mistake.

“And that day,” Jimmy continues, holding up three fingers and visibly thrilled now, “when she wore the Star Wars shirt? You walked into a door. A door.”

“I thought we promised to never bring that up again.”

His laughter, loud and unrestrained, echoes off the vending machines. “You’ve been in shambles, man. You’re in love, and it’s wrecked your whole nervous system. How did I not pick up on this?”

"Jimmy—"

“Now that I think about it, you stare at her like she hung the moon. It’s actually kind of sweet. Like a Victorian gentleman who’s never seen a bare ankle.”

“I’m going to walk into traffic.”

A firm thump lands against his shoulder. “No, you’re not. You’re gonna walk over there, talk to her like a normal person, and ask her out.”

“I don’t even know where to start.”

“Oh, buddy.” Jimmy claps his hands together. “Lucky for, I do.”

—

Jimmy advice #1: “Just be confident, bro. Show her who’s boss.”

Holy, Clark’s hands are sweating. Like absolutely dripping wet.

He wipes them down the sides of his pants as discreetly as possible while loitering by the elevators, pretending to read the framed fire safety poster for the third time. The newsroom is pretty empty now—most people have already left, and the cleaning crew is shuffling in.

Then he hears you.

Or, more specifically, hears the clang of your locker swinging open just down the hall, followed by the low shuffle of bags being rearranged and the muffled click of a zipper. You're humming under your breath. He straightens his collar and takes in a deep breath while trying to ignore the way his palms have already started sweating again. Just walk up to her. Lean in. Be cool.

As he rounds the corner, he spots you. You’re bent over your open locker, bag slung over one shoulder, brows furrowed in concentration as you try to fit a thermos into a space that clearly does not want to accommodate it.

And before he can think twice—before reason or logic or shame can stop him—he approaches and slaps a hand against the metal just beside your head, pinning you there underneath him. You yelp and jump about a foot in the air, whipping around so fast you nearly knock the thermos straight out of your own bag, totally startled, eyes humongous.

When you look up, you see him, standing inches from you, arm braced against the locker door, posture rigid in an attempt to look casual. And well, it's… not really working. Clark swallows once, then does his best approximation of a charming smile.

“Hey,” he tries, nonchalantly.

You blink. Then: “Oh! Uh—hey, Clark!”

A pause. Your eyes slowly travel to the side, glancing at his hand that is still planted beside your head, before looking back at his face, eyebrows slightly raised. Immediately, Clark moves his hand, hoping you did not hear the little squeak that came with the movement or see the wet handprint left behind on the metal.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to, uh—scare you.”

“It’s okay,” you say quickly, giving him a friendly shrug and zipping your bag the rest of the way. “I thought you were someone else for a second.”

“Oh.” He clears his throat. “Nope. Just me.”

Another silence creeps in.

“How—how are you?” he asks, a beat too late.

“I’m good, I’m good,” you repeat, nodding a little, like you’re reassuring yourself now. “End of the day, you know?”

He tries to laugh, but it comes out a little strangled, more comparable to a gurgle.

You're still smiling politely, but now you shift slightly, cautiously, and begin to slide sideways out from where he’s standing. Not too fast, but enough that your shoulder brushes the locker door as you edge around him, and enough for him to get the hint. He steps back to give you space, his arms suddenly feeling too long on his body. He wants to put his hands back in his pockets, but they’re too damp, so one of them curls and uncurls uselessly by his side.

“You, uh,” you start, adjusting your bag strap, “need something? Or were you just…?”

The sentence trails off. He opens his mouth, but no words arrive. Your gaze flits toward the exit, then back at him, clearly waiting for something that isn’t coming.

“Well, I gotta go,” you chirp, taking another small step back. “But, I’ll see you tomorrow!”

Then you're off—practically jogging down the hallway with a little wave thrown over your shoulder. The thermos bounces awkwardly in your bag as he watches the door swing shut behind you in despair, before letting out a deep exhale and resting his forehead on the locker.

—

Jimmy advice #2: “You gotta smell good. Like a forbidden memory or something.”

After some quick, heavy-eyed Google searches at 3:32 a.m.—best men’s cologne 2025, top fragrances women love, what scent makes a woman fall in love instantly—Clark lands on Dior Sauvage. The name alone sounds promising, he thinks to himself.

And if the internet is to be trusted (which, in this moment of absolute despair, it is), this stuff is apparently irresistible. Confidence in a bottle. The olfactory equivalent of a smouldering glance and rolled-up shirt sleeves showcasing immaculate arm veins. So obviously, he doesn’t hesitate to go to the drug store as soon as he wakes up.

And when he returns home, in the soft, blue-tinged light of his apartment bathroom, he begins what he imagines will be the subtle, sophisticated application of a new signature scent. He sprays once on his chest, then once on his neck. Then again—just to be thorough. One for each wrist, and another spritz across his collarbone, for good luck, of course. A final, sweeping spritz over his entire torso. His eyes sting a little, but that’s normal, right? That just means it’s working. The more the better, after all.

Catching his reflection in the mirror, Clark gives himself a nod alongside a few finger guns, before getting ready and heading to work.

On the subway, a toddler two seats down starts crying.

He doesn’t notice.

He’s standing there in the packed car, swaying slightly with the motion, briefcase in one hand, daydreaming a quiet little reel of possibility: you, stopping by his desk. Laughing at something he says, getting a whiff of his scent and asking if he wants to grab coffee later.

Someone coughs nearby. It’s a wet, choked sound.

He doesn’t hear it.

An older woman sitting directly across from him pulls a scarf over her nose and gives him a look, a man on the other side discreetly scoots two inches closer to the door, holding his phone in front of his face, and somewhere behind him, someone mutters Jesus Christ under their breath.

He’s floating.

He can’t wait to see you.

Jimmy said girls love confidence. Jimmy said girls love cologne. And today, he’s got both in spades.

The elevator is quiet—thankfully. He’s alone, which gives him a minute to exhale and enjoy the lingering aura of his new and improved smell. Chrome walls reflect a slightly flushed version of his face, he runs his fingers through his hair a few times and adjusts his tie as the elevator slows, reaching one of the lower editorial floors. With a cheery ding, the doors slide open.

The man waiting takes a step forward in to the car, but then abruptly stops mid-step. It almost looks like he’s about to gag, but instead, he swallows, then without a word, he steps backward and just… lets the door close again. Confused, Clark watches as the doors shut and the floor counter ticks upward. Weird. He must’ve been intimidated.

By the time he arrives on his floor, he’s feeling good, excited for the possible newfound attention he could receive. Yet, he barely makes it three steps into the office before Perry intercepts him, clipboard in one hand, and a stack of papers in the other. “These are for you,” he states, holding out the documents.

“Thanks,” Clark says, reaching for the paper.

Perry sniffs, recoiling just half a step. “Whew. Bit heavy on the cologne, are we?”

“Yeah, uh—wanted to try something new.”

The editor eyes him down, hard, with a look of obvious suspicion. “Okay. Whatever you say, Kent.”

At his desk, Clark is in the process of setting everything up when he hears a loud cackle behind him. “My god, it smells like the first time I had car sex. Bad times,” Lois’ voice exhoes in his ears.

In response is a light chuckle. Well, a better description would be a devious cackle from Cat. “Right? I’m pretty sure the first time I gave head, the guy had sprayed his dick with it. I can still taste it.” The two women burst into fresh laughter, the kind that comes from shared trauma. Still, he frowns faintly. Someone must be stinky.

It’s a little later when you stop by. He spots you approaching from the corner of his eye, and subconsciously, he sits straighter. His hands fly to the keyboard, typing nonsense to make it look like he’s hard at work when you come into full view with a soft smile, your Planet mug in one hand and your lanyard looped through the crook of your elbow, swaying gently. “Hey, Clark,” you say as you reach his desk. “How’s it going?”

“Hey.” He smiles back. “It’s good. You?”

“Same for m—oh my god.” A short, choked cough cuts you off. Your nose scrunches, your hand instinctively raising to hover in front of your face, fingers pressing lightly beneath your nose. “Do you smell that?”

Does he smell the insanely manly scent wafting off of him? Does he smell like a man you want to kiss? Does he—

“What do you mean?”

“It smells like…” Your face twists, searching for the right word. “Like… the boys’ locker room in high school—” you pause, squinting at the ceiling as if the scent will name itself. “—but worse? Like Axe Body Spray’s evil twin.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again.

“Oh,” you perk, recognition dawning. “Dior Sauvage. That’s what it is.”

His expression lights up. “Oh! Yeah! I heard it was good, so I bought some.”

Your lips part open, squinting your eyes as they visibly start to water. “Ah. Well. That explains it.”

You try for a smile, but it comes out pained. Nonetheless, Clark thinks you’re gorgeous.

“Wow. This is bringing up some repressed memories,” you jokingly laugh.

… What did you just say? A slow, creeping horror descends upon him. Jimmy’s voice slithers up from the depths of his psyche like a poltergeist. “You gotta smell good, bro. Like a forbidden memory or something.”

Forbidden memory.

But you just said—

His jaw slackens, his stomach drops and he suddenly feels very hot and very cold at the same time. It’s like his nostrils have only now opened and the surge of the pungent stench fills his nose. Has he really been smelling like that all day? “Oh gosh,” he whispers, barely audible.

“What?” you ask, brows knitting in confusion. “Are you okay?”

Out of nowhere, the Kryptonian shoots up out of his seat so fast it makes you stagger back a few steps in shock. “I–uh–I… I gotta go… uh, to the washroom.”

“You sure you’re good?”

“Yep. Totally. Fine.” He just wants to get out of here. Throw his clothes into the laundry. Scrub everything off him in the shower. “I just… nature calls.”

Faster than you can respond, Clark makes a run for it. Not to the washroom, but down the emergency stairs and right out of the building.

—

Jimmy advice #3: “Neg her a bit, show her who’s boss.”

Fricking finally. It’s the end of the week, and that only means one thing: drinks with the Daily Planet crew. Every Friday, without fail, the team migrates to their usual spot—an old, slightly grimy bar with good fries and terrible lighting. Clark usually loves it, but tonight, all he can think about is you, how horrible his week has been, and how this is finally going to be the moment where he asks you out and you say yes.

He’s spent the last hour trying to find a moment alone with you, but you’ve been moving in and out of conversations, laughing with Lois, or getting pulled away every time he so much as drifts in your direction. However, now, you’re standing at the bar alone, fidgeting with your straw, the light above catching in your hair. You look tired but happy, he thinks, and now might be his only chance.

He takes a breath and walks up beside you. “Hey,” he begins, grabbing your attention as he leans lightly against the counter.

You turn toward him, a smile blooming across your face. “Hey, Clark.”

“Didn’t think I’d get a word in with you tonight,”

“Sorry.” Your eyes roll in fake exasperation, gesturing around you. “It’s like whack-a-mole in here. Every time I stop moving, someone shows up to tell me how I can get even more clicks on the online articles.”

“Have you tried writing about alien dating habits?”

A laugh escapes you as you choke on your drink. “God, I wish. I’d kill for a little interstellar romance. You know how many articles I’ve written about city council zoning laws?”

The Kryptonian laughs. “I’m sure you can find a way to combine the two.”

You make a show of nodding seriously. “Maybe next time I’ll be able to add in a forbidden love subplot between a bureaucrat and a tentacled rebel who just wants to build affordable housing.”

“I’d read it.”

“I bet it’d get me a Pulitzer.”

Clark laughs again—too hard, honestly, and it draws a look from someone down the bar. He clears his throat, feeling flushed, but still smiling nonetheless. Your head tilts slightly as you watch him and he might pass out just from the prolonged eye contact alone. In an attempt to steer the attention from himself, he finds his mouth moving: “I was actually gonna congratulate you on getting the front cover yesterday.”

“You earned it,” he adds, and for a second, the compliment lands. Your mouth quirks into a soft, almost-surprised grin as you stir the ice in your drink again. But then— “I mean,” he goes on, oblivious to the fact that he is beginning to dig his own grave. “I got my first front page after, what, two months? But hey, five isn’t bad.”

You go still. There’s a full second of silence. Then two.

The grin on your face freezes and slowly morphs into a tight line.

“Ah,” you say, and take a long sip from your drink. “So I was slow. Got it.”

Uh oh. Alarm bells ring inside of Clark’s head. Isn’t this what Jimmy told him to do?! “No—no, that’s not what I—” He’s flailing internally. “I was just joking. Well, uh, sort of. But didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, it’s okay. I guess I still have a lot of catching up to do.”

This is bad. This is really, really bad. He feels like the wind has been knocked out of him. “That’s not— You don’t.”

“Mm.” The look you give him makes his heart drop. Then, you glance back toward the table where Lois and a few others are still seated, waving their drinks around mid-story. “Think it’s time for a refill or something.”

“Wait—”

But you don’t. You’ve already turned around, heading back to your friends.

“Jimmy what the f–hey man!” Clark swings the bathroom door open so fast it slams against the wall, the sudden echo bouncing off the tiles.

The redhead currently occupying a urinal jumps. “Dude! I’m literally peeing.”

“I’ve been trying to follow your advice all week,” the taller man hisses, ignoring the fact that they are, in fact, very much in a public men’s room, “and it seems like everything I do has made it worse!”

Jimmy zips up, spins, and holds up his hands in surrender as if the reporter has a gun instead of just—well, bad energy. “Whoa, okay, what happened?”

“You told me to neg her,” All Clark can do is stab an accusing finger through the air. “Neg her! I told her five months wasn’t bad for a front page story—do you realize how that sounded?!” His voice cracks at the end, and he presses both palms into his eyes. “In the News world, I called her illiterate.”

“Okay, it’s not that bad. She probably just thinks you’re cocky.”

“I’m not cocky!” Clark snaps. Then, quieter, “I’m…I’m the opposite of cocky. I’m anti-cocky. I'm practically allergic to confidence.”

“You say that,” his friend points out, “and yet here you are, screaming in a public bathroom, because you sounded cocky.”

“Agh,” he groans, spinning in a tight, anxious circle. “What do I do? I bet she hates me now.”

A shrug. “Just ask her out, man.”

“What.”

“Ask her out,” he repeats like it’s obvious. “Coffee. This weekend. Boom. Done.”

What follows is a brief moment of nothingness as the brunette blinks slowly, trying to compute that suggestion through a haze of spiralling horror. “You have to be joking. She’s not gonna say yes to me after what I just pulled. I don’t think we’re even there yet.”

“You literally can’t get more ‘there’ than cornering her at a bar and insulting her journalism career.”

The Kryptonian flinches. “Dude. Fresh wound.”

“Look, you don’t have to make it weird. Just tell her you were gonna hang out with some friends this weekend, but they bailed.”

Clark rubs his temples. “So… lie to her?”

“It’s not a lie. It’s more like narrative reshaping.” Not true, but it doesn’t seem like he has a choice.

“I feel pathetic.”

“You got this,” Jimmy claps him on the back before turning to the exit. “All you gotta do is not what you did before.”

“You mean what you told me to do,” he mutters.

“Stay strong, brotha!”

Now alone, he groans in defeat, looking at himself in the washroom mirror. His hair is tousled, his face is beet red, and there may or may not be a few beads of sweat rolling down his back. As someone wise once sang, what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. He needs to do this.

It’s almost as if he has tunnel vision in the way his gaze is focused solely on you. He’s a man on a mission, but when he finds you, of course, you’re with a giant group of people. He hovers a moment, fingers twitching at his sides, until finally you turn just enough for his window to open.

He cuts through the crowd, stepping beside you before he can talk himself out of it. “Hey,” he breathes out.

Your face contorts into a mix between confusion and shock. “Can we—” he pauses, peering at the others around you, who are now definitely listening. “—can we talk?” he finishes, gently placing a hand against your arm. He notices your eyes flicker briefly toward the contact.

“Uh, sure?”

Shifting awkwardly, he gestures vaguely toward the door. “Outside?”

You nod, passing your drink off to someone nearby and follow him out of the bar. The doors swing shut behind you both with a muffled thud, and suddenly it’s too quiet. You hug your arms lightly for warmth, though the night is mild. “I—” he begins, then rubs the back of his neck, struggling for words. “I wanted to say sorry for earlier. I didn’t mean to sound rude or dismissive or… I don’t know. It came out all wrong.”

“What did you mean, then?” You squint.

“I was just—nervous,” he hates how raw the admission sounds coming from his lips. “You got the front page, and I wanted to say something smart and funny, and it ended up just sounding—well. You heard it.”

You huff a small laugh. “Yeah. It wasn’t your best.”

“Ugh, I know.” He groans, dragging a hand over his face. “But I swear I wasn’t trying to be a jerk. I was trying to be... charming.”

“Negging is your version of charming?” It isn’t judgmental in the way you say it, more amused if anything.

“Apparently,” he mutters. “Look, I’ve been trying to—gah, this is going to sound dumb—but I was wondering if maybe you’d want to grab coffee with me tomorrow?”

Your expression softens.

“I mean, I was planning to go with some friends,” he adds quickly, taking the literal one second of silence as rejection, “but everyone else bailed, so I figured, hey, maybe you’d be up for it—”

Immediately, the excitement in your eyes fizzles out. “I was your last choice, then.”

“What? No—no! That’s not what I meant.” He steps closer, alarmed. Jesus, he can’t manage to get a single thing right around you, can he? “You weren’t—God, you were the first person I thought of. I just didn’t think you’d say yes if I asked you directly, and then I messed up earlier, and then Jimmy—” He stops, breathing hard. “I’ve been following Jimmy’s advice.”

It takes a minute, but when you register his words, your mouth falls open. “Oh my God.”

“Yeah.”

You stare at him, incredulous. “But why—”

“Why Jimmy’s advice?” he interrupts gently.

“I—well—yeah. He’s not the most… uh, charismatic. Certainly wouldn’t be my first choice.”

The taller man exhales, tucking his hands deep into the pockets of his pants. His gaze flickers to the ground, then back up to meet yours. “Because I’ve liked you since pretty much your first day.”

“I remember you dropped your ID badge three times between the elevator and your desk,” he says, a little smile playing at his lips. “You had coffee but no actual mug, just one of those little espresso cups someone gave you at the front. And then Perry introduced you, and you shook hands with the wrong person.”

A choked laugh. “You remember that? I was a disaster.”

“No,” he cuts in quickly. “You were—you are perfect.”

Your eyes dart away shyly, but he keeps going. It’s like the floodgates have opened and nothing can stop him, not even the immense beating of his heart.

“I didn’t know how to talk to you. I figured if I played it cool, or at least like I was cool, I’d… get your attention.” His brows draw. “But then I panicked and asked Jimmy for help, which, in retrospect, was my first mistake. My second, was actually listening to him.”

“So… The random anime locker slam?

He shudders. “Yup.”

“The Dior Sauvage?”

He closes his eyes, clearly in pain. “Yeah. That too.”

You burst out laughing, head tilted back, the sound bright and unfiltered in the quiet outside the bar. He watches you helplessly, in awe. Your shoulders shake with it as you step in a little closer, your hands sliding up to rest gently on his forearms.

His brain short-circuits.

“Clark.”

“Yeah?” And of course, his voice cracks. Great timing.

Your thumbs graze softly along his sleeves. “I’ve been thinking about you, too.”

That sends a jolt straight through him—his posture tightens, eyes wide, lips parting like he wants to say something and physically can’t.

“I didn’t think you liked me,” you admit. “You were being so… weird this week.”

“I was being weird.” He nods eagerly, finding his voice. “I was—I am—nervous. You’re very…” He looks down to where you’re still touching him. “Distracting.”

“It’s stupid now—”

“Nothing you say is stupid—” You lift a finger and smush it against his lips.

“Ah ah ah, I wasn’t done.” At first, he’s startled, but then he obediently goes quiet, though it is obvious he’s dying to respond. And he can’t miss the sight of you trying not to smile at the way his mouth puckers beneath the gentle pressure.

“I thought maybe you knew I liked you,” you whisper. “And you didn’t want to hurt my feelings, so you were trying to scare me off instead. You know. So you wouldn’t have to reject me.”

His eyes go even wider, and he makes a noise behind your finger—something indignant and confused and a little horrified.

You lower your hand.

“Are you kidding?” The words tumble out of him. “I would never do that. Never. I—I’ve been trying so hard to do this right.” He takes another step toward you, and without breaking eye contact, your hands rise, sliding up to press against his chest.

“I would never want to scare you away,” he reiterates, “not in a million years.”

You’re close enough now that he can feel your breath brushing against his cheek. He wants so badly to wrap his arms around you, but still, he’s hesitant. He doesn’t want to move unless you do first.

“Well,” you murmur, “good.”

Then you tip your chin up and kiss him.

It’s gentle at first—so soft it almost doesn’t feel real. Finally, he finds the courage to grip your waist, and he draws you in, close enough that your chest presses against his. He doesn’t realize how badly he’s wanted this, but now that he has it, he knows he won’t be able let go. You curl into him, your fingers clasping the fabric of his shirt as your nose nudges his, and his own rubbing the slightest circle on your skin.

Clark thinks his brain has shut down and rebooted in the span of thirty seconds.

You pull back just enough to breathe, your lips parting in the ghost of a smile, and before the space between you can settle, he leans in again, chasing your mouth like it’s the only thing tethering him to the earth. You giggle against his lips, warm and breathy, and your hands slide up from his shoulders to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing the high curve of his cheekbones, giving him a gentle push.

He has a dazed sort of smile, eyes half-lidded and gooey with affection.

“Maybe… we should give Jimmy some credit.”

“Absolutely not.” And he can’t help it—he dips down to kiss you again.

---

A/N: the dior sauvage anecdotes are, in fact, based on a true story 😭 i had so much fun writing this though!

#clark kent #clark kent x reader #superman #superman x reader #clark kent imagine

5K notes · View notes

ssoftlyservedd · 14 days ago

Text

Loki, who watches you drag yourself through the tower elevator and out onto the common floor, senses your bad mood simply by your aura. You're dripping with melancholy and something... deeper. Did a mission go wrong? Were you injured? He's nose deep in a book, simply peering at you now, rummaging through the pantry of the open kitchen for some chips.

Loki, who doesn't say a word when you make your way out of the panel doors and onto the balcony to one of the tower deck hammocks. Who would he be to intrude? He only ever antagonizes you, and while he is a villain, you were hard to decipher this time around. You had your own secrets, and he wasn't about to potentially puncture one that was unripe for him.

Loki, who stays in the living room, though his book had long been thoroughly read and annotated. He was hoping to at least watch you drift to your room, see if your mood had improved. Steve had momentarily met with you out there, sitting at the hammock adjacent to you, but his mouth never moved. Rogers was good at that, he realized. He was patient enough to always let the other person bloom instead of prying them open. Loki's skills were still rather elementary to say the least.

Loki, who watches Steve leave the balcony after giving you a rub on your shoulder. He pretends to be dozing on the couch, not opening his eyes until the elevator dings to notify that Steve has left the room. It's safe to say it's late at night by now, and it's just unlike you to be so distant. Sure, you were snarky and coy with him, but you were always so loving and receptive to the other team members. Something's off.

Loki, who silently approached you from the balcony as if you were a plague patient. Taking his sweet time to sit on the hammock Steve sat on next to you. You hadn't moved from your lounging spot, staring off into the New York City skyline with a dullness behind your irises. He doesn't know what to say, or if he should say anything. It always works for Steve to not say anything.

Loki, who screams a breath of relief in his mind when you finally speak. "Oh, I thought you would be Thor at first. This is a surprise." You say, sitting up from the fabric as it creaked underneath you. Loki huffed, blowing a stray piece of hair away from his forehead. "It's your lucky day, isn't it?" He mutters. He's shocked when you reply back, tone deathly flat. "Yeah, something like that."

Loki, who finally steps into his own unknown territory. "Would you spare me the niceties and simply tell me what has you so... Down?"

And you crack yourself open like an egg, tears finally making their way down your cheeks. Loki's bracing himself for something horrendous. A family member passing, a pet being put down, a mission gone so bad it risks your spot on the team, a million possibilities are vibrating through his head at mach speed.

But your answer leaves his eyebrows knitted to the hilt of his forehead. "I really don't know. I wish I did, but today has just been the worst day ever somehow without anything even happening."

Loki, who realizes how painfully he can relate, and without much thought, he stands from his own hammock and walks over to yours, gesturing to your side. "May I?" You scoot slightly, allowing space for him. He takes his seat, glancing at you once before concocting his reply. "If it calms you to know, I've had plenty of days like those myself, suppose that might be why I was sent in substitute of Thor."

You, who arches a brow. "They sent you instead of Thor?"

Loki, who waves his hand. "Well, no, but that oaf hasn't had a silverless spoon a day in his life. I'm much more a prime example for an occurrence such as this."

Loki, who exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding when you laugh, nudging his arm. "You're supposed to be being nice, Loki."

"What? I'm plenty nice, let me have my allowance."

Loki, who awkwardly shifts with you in the hammock until both of you are squished side by side after you complain that the lack of support is hurting your back. You were both looking up at the ink of the New York night, starless and pitched. "I have a journal sometimes that helps me when I have these kind of moments, but I don't know, today it just wasn't helping."

"Tell me what all happened, even the most meaningless of moments."

Loki, who lets you talk, and talk, and talk. It started with your egg breaking while you made avocado toast this morning, and then your shoelaces on your good combat boots began to fray while you got ready for a mission, Nat couldn't make it to your joint training session last minute, you ran out of your good shampoo, you broke a nail, it was simply just a petty luck kind of day. If Loki were there, he would have fixed it all for you with the wave of a hand. Only if you weren't looking though, of course.

Loki, who could drift just from the peace of your voice. The way you talk when you're defeated. It feels twisted for even him to take pleasure in it. However, your mood lightens with each transgression you unleash, and you seemed to have totally tired yourself out by the end of it. It leaves you both in the ambience of 2 in the morning in the middle of New York, cab horns distantly honking, and some hoodlum's voice echoing up to the balcony. You both can't recall how long you stayed like that for.

Loki, who realizes why that is when he wakes up the next morning, neck sore and bent out of shape, sun penetrating his eyes he realizes the heat of another body is still wedged to his right. He blinks his eyes open, greeted with the sight of your head lolled on his chest, quietly snoring, and one leg thrown over both of his. He goes to brush a strand of hair away from your face before the balcony door comes dashing open, Tony with his iPhone camera in hand and pointed towards the two of you, cackling out snarks about how this is going to look so good on all of the lobby TVs downstairs.

Loki, who first goes to curse Stark, but bites his lip before he gently covers your ears as if you were a newborn fawn. And he doesn't complain about the videoing, he doesn't try to be brazen and pretend like it was some sort of misunderstanding, instead he hisses in response. "Lower your voice before you wake her!"

Loki, who, after chasing Stark off, allows you to wake on your own time, despite how uncomfortable he is in his current position. It's almost wordless when you do. You're surprised at first, and mutter out a quick apology before standing. Loki shakes his head, standing along with you. He goes to fumble some excuse as to how you both ended up in that position, but you interrupt him with a quick. "I should probably shower."

Loki, who allows you both to not mention it for weeks on end after it happened, despite Stark and Thor's relentless teasing on group dinner nights. You only give each other a shared annoyed glance before returning to your food.

Loki, who, almost a month later, shows up at your bedroom door near midnight. He's hunched over, hair messy, tied into a half-bun, in sweatpants for the first time ever, and just downright depraved looking. You allow him to speak first, and he offers you a shrug.

"Care to trade an ear for the night?"

Loki, who mopes for hours about Thor beating him in a game of tennis, somehow he managed to eventually find his head in your lap on your bed.

#fanfic #fanfiction #fanfiction writer #marvel fanfiction #loki fanfction #loki x reader #loki fanfic #loki fanfiction #loki odinson

345 notes · View notes

ssoftlyservedd · 14 days ago

Text

some Superman (2025) letterboxd reviews I wanted to share.

44K notes · View notes

ssoftlyservedd · 15 days ago

Text

The Rules We Hide

Pairing: Brahms Heelshire x Female Reader Summary: Guilt and grief fester beneath the surface as you begin to unravel, haunted by the truth of what you have become. The weight of your sins threaten to crush you, even as Brahms soothes the fear with both obsession and tenderness. But safety is a fool's tale you whisper in the night, because in the Heelshire Manor, not everything that lurks in the dark is buried. TW: DARK content read at your own risk, trauma bonds, pussy eating, sloppy kisses, biting, scratching, swearing, spit as lube, wall (standing?) sex, hair pulling, groping, creampies, rough sex, unprotected sex, fingering, biting, quickies, blood, mentions of murder, vomiting, brief descriptions of dead bodies, and more. Word Count: 9,072 MDNI-NSFW A/N: [part one] [part two] [part three]

-----

The Heelshire manor feels like a furnace.

Floorboards swelling with heat, the walls seem to breathe around you– the air heavy with the aftermath of rain and the taste of woodland undergrowth swirling together in an earthy concoction clinging to your lungs. Steam curls from the smooth porcelain cup in your hands, amber liquid trembling under your fidgeting grasp, threatening to teeter over the edge.

The foyer is quiet, an apprehensive atmosphere wrapping you into a lulled pretense of safety as the grandfather clock chimes overhead, much louder than it should be. Blankly staring into the tea, you wonder if you brewed it too strong or if the coppery aftertaste is just in your mind. Your throat burns as you gulp down a bitter swig, the rings around your neck a ghastly purple as you choke the burning liquid down.

There’s still dirt caked under your fingernails, present no matter how many times you scrub yourself under scorching water– watching you, teasing you with defiance.

Late night? You monster.

The tea goes sour in your mouth. Skin bruised, joints aching, morale defiled– it feels as if you would never be clean again, as if you shouldn’t even try.

The chair across from you sits empty, embroidered cushions dipped slightly as if someone had just left. Gaze flickering to the hallway, you half expect him to be standing over you, a coy smirk stretching against the scars on his face, but you hear nothing. No footsteps, no rummaging in the pantry– just the ticking of the grandfather clock looming over you menacingly in the corner.

It’s been two days, yet you haven’t dared to step foot in the greenhouse.

Not since that fateful night filled with blood and screams and the cracking sound of Brahms’ fists battering into flesh and bone. Dark circles envelop your eyes, lack of sleep causing your sluggish mind to echo the events that took place on hallowed ground to replay like a broken record in your skull.

You had dreamt of it again last night– bodies tangled in roots and weeds, faces warped against the flowerbeds. Only then, they weren’t dead, they were watching you. Features frozen in horror as their blood dripped from your fingertips. Through it all, Brahms looming overhead– head tilted, porcelain mask splattered in crimson, a haunted laugh ringing through the greenhouse.

You press the cup to your lips, tea long gone cold now– tart.

Behind you, the floorboards creak suddenly. You don’t flinch, but the teacup rattles ever so slightly against the saucer in your hands. So jumpy. Voice calm, eerily so, you don’t turn– instead focusing your gaze on the symmetrical flowered wallpaper adorning the room. “Your tea is on the kitchen table. So is breakfast.”

Buttered toast, earl grey tea, roasted potatoes, blood sausage, and sunny-side up eggs– his favorite. It was almost laughable, as if your pathetic attempt at normalcy through your cooking would wash away the sins etched into your flesh.

There’s a pause, then the soft rasp of his voice cuts through the air like a knife. “It tastes better from your cup.” You glance backwards at the words, already knowing he’s close– like a shadow, presence always felt before seen. Your personal boogeyman, only very much real.

Towering over the loveseat couch, Brahms moves closer, bare feet padding across the floorboards as his hips hit the edge of the cushions. Chocolate curls tangled from sleep, he stretches slightly, a rumbled yawn tearing from his throat. Underneath his cardigan, you faintly glance at the outline of his happy trail before it disappears under the fabric once more.

Your mouth goes dry, tea forgotten.

Mask abandoned, Brahms shifts towards the front of the couch– gingerly plucking the teacup from your shaking hands. Bare and raw with that look in his eyes as if he were trying to memorize your every move, he cocks his head, one of those subtle mannerisms you still didn’t fully understand.

Lifting the teacup to his lips, a small smile breaks out on his face as he sinks into the chair across from you, hands dwarfing the small porcelain. He hums at the taste, nodding in appreciation before glancing at you once more.

You try to ignore the way your heart stutters at the sight, try to push the thoughts of what those hands have done just days before– how they cup your face late into the night while he sleeps, how they snap bone like it means nothing.

Eyes flickering to the window, you look into the foggy haze of the morning hour. “I dreamt about it again,” you murmur as Brahms pauses. “-of the greenhouse.”

The teacup halts midair, dark eyes with an unreadable expression burning into you. The nightmares weren’t a surprise, always coming in the form of strained sobs in the dark. In the late hour where only the dead would dare to speak, his arms always wind around your torso as you cry into the sheets, trying to soothe the aching memories from your skull– but to no avail.

The silence stretches between you, and suddenly you regret speaking at all. A weighted sigh, then a shift as the teacup rattles against the saucer while being set down. Brahms steps quietly as if approaching a cornered animal, soles padding against the floorboards almost silently as he halts in front of you. Fingers brushing your cheekbone, you fight the flinch building in your chest from the sting– bruise still tender and raw from the fight.

“I just…” you swallow thickly, trying to formulate the proper words. “I think there’s something, someone out there.” Somewhere hidden across the solitude of the manor, you could almost swear something was amiss. But Brahms only tucks a fallen strand of hair behind your ear, brows furrowed at your obvious paranoia, unbothered by the situation.

“It’s over. There’s no one out there.” Voice low, steady– as if he wants the words to be comforting. As if this could all be brushed under the rug, another secret buried within the walls of the manor.

But you know better, something cold slithering down your spine as you tear your gaze away.

Fingers curling under your jaw, heated breath fans across your face as Brahms sighs. Something akin to worry swims in his coffee orbs, touch anything but forceful– almost reverent while he traces your bruised skin as if you were made of glass.

A silent plea embedded in the pads of his fingers– Look at me, trust me. Stay with me.

You try to ignore the dirt caked underneath his fingernails, try to dismiss the smell of iron that creeps into your nostrils when you inhale, try to push away the unease churning in your throat– but no amount of scrubbing would wash the memories away.

The hand wrapped around your throat. Blood seeping into your eyes as you clawed against your captors. Screams echoing across the glass so forcefully it rattled your bones.

“I want to show you something.” Brahms murmurs, voice dropping to a whisper that makes the hair on the back of your neck prickle. Curiosity blossoms in your chest, and you lean into his touch, a slight nod being your only reply.

You’ve learned by now that silence in itself is another form of submission.

A small smile plays softly on his lips as his palm slips into yours, warm and steady in all the ways you are not. Tugging you upwards from the couch, you let him help you upwards– head barely meeting his chin as his hands encircle your shoulders, pushing you forward.

Guiding you down the maze of hallways, you can only blindly follow his direction, wallpaper still damp with the scent of mildew and rain. You half expect to hear the rattle of the pipes, the shift in the passageways– but there’s only the patter of your footsteps and the echo of his own.

Veering you into the kitchen, you can still see the steam wafting from the tea kettle and breakfast lain out on the counter, morning offerings gone untouched as you pass by. A part of you wants to scold Brahms for his stubbornness, but as you near the back door of the kitchen your heart stutters within your chest.

With every step, your legs feel as if they are full of lead.

Brahms reaches around you, pushing the door open. Foggy morning air slices into your skin, cold and silent, erupting goosebumps across your flesh. The soles of your bare feet sink into the damp grass of the lawn and a shiver runs down your spine.

Not from the cold, not from the dew, but from the godforsaken sight of the greenhouse on the horizon waiting to swallow you whole.

“I don’t want to,” you whisper, knees locking into place as your voice cracks. “-Brahms, please.”

His grip on your shoulders tightens– not painfully, but firm as he ushers you forwards. “You have to… you need to see it.” Craning your head backwards, you try to meet his gaze, but it remains rooted towards the stained glass structure.

“Why?”

He looks at you then, curls falling over his eyes as something putrid swirls in them– grotesque and rotten with an unearthly sense of pride that makes your stomach sink. Jaw clenching, he swallows thickly, simply pushing you towards the greenhouse without a word. Knowing resistance is futile, you can only stumble along the grass until the door manifests itself in front of you.

Nudging the door open with his foot, Brahms steps forward and you shrink against his chest. Inside, the air is thick with moisture and earth, brimming with the scent of tilled soil and flowers– nothing like the rotting smell of flesh you were expecting.

It was wrong.

Glancing around the expanse of the room, the shattered glass strewn across the cobblestone flooring had been swept away, translucent tarps taped over the broken windows. The blood caked to almost every surface washed away, the faint smell of bleach still lingering in the air as you wiped your finger across one of the soil-bed’s wooden beams.

Too clean, too pristine– as if nothing had happened. As if your screams were never real, your terror never existed.

In the back corner of the greenhouse, a patch of fresh soil sowed a newly tilled garden– dark and damp. Bushels of petunias and black roses scatter along the dirt, petals almost glowing in the foggy haze. Staggering forward, your knees give out as gargled sobs tear from your throat.

Bile rises, dry heaves echoing across the glass walls as you choke on air, snot dripping down your chin. Brahms is beside you in an instant, fingers tangling in your hair as you empty your stomach onto the cobblestone. Nails digging into the flesh of your knees, your tongue burns from the acidic taste.

“They’re gone,” Mumbling against your scalp, Brahms scoops you into his arms, cardigan sleeve wiping the remnants of your breakfast from your chin. “-No one will find them.”

The words don’t even sound real, yet the hatred oozing from the flowers tells you otherwise. It was almost poetic, turning something so ugly into a work of art– almost romantic. Staring blankly at the soil, eerily disturbed in some areas, your lips part before you can stop yourself.

“You… buried them here?”

Brahms shifts behind you, chin resting on the top of your head as he looks onwards at his handiwork. You stay rooted in place, too numb to pull away– finding comfort in the scratchy material of his cardigan, the smell of your detergent and his musk invading your senses as you bury your head into the crook of his arm.

“I planted over them,” he breathes out, eerily like a confession. “-I made them into something pretty… just for you.” A sick twist of horror and awe churns in your stomach at the words. Chin trembling, you can only nod, teary eyes tracing each flower staring back at you.

The morning air is deceptively calm– pollen and dust swirling around you in a hue of gold flecks, glinting across the sea of purple and black. A voice inside of you wonders if the roots have already found their way to the mangled corpses hidden beneath the surface.

Brahms thinks this is love. The worst part? A small, broken piece of you believes him.

“How…” your voice trembles, words faltering. You swallow dryly before trying again. “How did you know how to do this?” He pauses, stiffening against your back, refusing to answer the insinuation thrown at first. His breath fans against the sweat-dampened junction of your neck and collarbone, lips parting before closing against your skin– as if weighing the consequences of his honesty.

“I had to learn,” he answers eventually. “No one else ever cleaned up after me.”

Your skin goes gooseflesh at the words, but you don’t move. There’s something devastating in his voice– much more so than the bloodcurdling admission, but an ache carefully hidden beneath the emotionless tone. A sense of boyhood abandonment that clings to every syllable like the mold adorning the passageways, the very epitome of shattered innocence.

Something wet drips onto the back of your neck as the arms caging you to his chest begin to tremble. “I… I won’t let anyone hurt you again. I promise.” The sound feels like a thread stitching the broken pieces of your heart back together, ribs aching as you recall that silent plea in the foyer.

Look at me, trust me. Stay with me.

So you do– fingers entwining with his as you stand on wobbly knees. Turning towards the door frame, you spare one last glance towards the flowerbed, towards the secrets buried beneath.

As your feet pad over the cool grass, you swear you could feel their agony reaching towards you from beneath the soil.

The back door creaks shut behind you, sealing off the outside world like a tomb. The air within the manor thickens– heavy with something that makes your skin crawl. As your bare feet scrap across the tile in the kitchen, you realize it’s all wrong.

You make it halfway up the grand staircase when the weight of it all, the realization, slams into you.

You were there– watching as Brahms killed them, sobbing as the light left their swollen eyes, trembling as they took their final breath. You never told him to stop, never screamed for help, simply letting Brahms tear them to shreds at your feet.

You aren’t a victim now, but an accomplice– one to murder.

Knees buckling, you stumble against the steps, clammy hands gripping the banister so hard your knuckles turn a ghastly white. Your breath comes out in shaky spurts, vision blurring as you fight the all too familiar texture of bile rising in your throat.

It’s too much– the greenhouse spread out beneath your feet like a rotting corpse, the scent of iron and decay burning in your nostrils, the pride radiating off of Brahms as he presents his gift to you.

I made them into something pretty, just for you.

“What have I done?” The words taste foul on your tongue, heavy and strong and full of death as guilt blossoms in your gut. Brahms halts a few steps ahead of you at that, spine straightening as he turns to face your teary gaze. “Oh god, what have you done–”

Brahms is on you in an instant, hands encircling your face as you all but crumple against him, straddling his lap against the staircase. All too similar to the way he held you in the bathtub, you feel yourself breaking– cracks spider-webbing across your skin seeped in what could only be described as horror and guilt.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. I did– I always do.” he murmurs against the crown of your head, words dripping with pride as you fight the shiver threatening to split you in two. His voice is calm, too calm– slow and measured in a way that makes your brain hazy.

Your lips tremble as his thumb rubs circles into your jugular, heartbeat hammering against the pads of his finger. ��But I let you– I should have stopped you. I just watched… what does that make me?” You croak, throat uncomfortably dry as he ponders his words.

His forehead brushes against yours, skin cool against your fiery flesh. “It makes you mine.” You shudder at the words, shoving his shoulders away from you as you groan. “How can you even joke at a time like this?”

Hands encircling your wrists, Brahms only hums, unbothered by the pathetic onslaught as he pulls you further into his chest. A whimpered protest escapes your lips as you try to twist away, but even you know escape is futile. Stubble rakes across the column of your neck as Brahms buries his head into your collarbone, peppering your heated flesh in kisses.

Instantly squirming at the ticklish sensation, you whine in frustration. “Brahms, this is serious–” “You were scared… you still are. Just let me take it from you.” He cuts you off, the rumble of his chest against yours as his teeth sink into your jugular, ripping any semblance of a response straight from your lungs.

“What was it you said once– let me help you?”

You freeze, the words hitting something deep within you, crawling under your skin and burrowing into your heart. That very sentence uttered two days ago in the bathtub when the monster melted away into a man– the night your hatred turned into something more akin to affection.

And now he was using that very phrase against you, that tease.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out– just ragged, hushed pants as you glance at the hunger swirling in his eyes. “Brahms…” you warn, but he’s already darting forwards to smother you in a kiss.

He doesn’t kiss you like a man in love, he’s too far gone for that. He kisses you like a man gone mad– starving for your touch, begging for your attention, hands memorizing every curve of your face as he molds you against him.

Hands dragging your skirt up your thighs, blunt nails dig into your flesh as the skin of your knees digs into the carpeted edge of the stairs. Heated puffs of his breath waft across your skin as you dig your nails into his shoulders as you all but melt into his embrace. The words ring in your head like prayer and a curse all at once, threatening to swallow you whole.

Let me help you.

So you do, because the weight of him pressed against you is better than feeling guilty, the caress of his fingertips easier than facing what you didn’t stop. It’s better to drown in his devotion than face what was buried in the greenhouse.

Arms dwarfing the expanse of your back, you barely realize you are being flipped until your spine hits the edge of the stairs with a dull thud– banister rattling next to your head from the force. You push upwards on your elbows only to be shoved down once more, back arching uncomfortably as greedy hands knead into your clothed breasts through the material of your sweater.

Fingers digging into your hips, Brahms all but sighs as he fists the material of your skirt in his hands– bunching the fabric in between his fingers as his head nuzzles down your clavicle. You shudder at the cool air caressing your bare legs, silently cursing yourself for choosing the convenience of a skirt over pants.

Fingers curl over the elastic waistband of your panties, stretching it tight before letting it smack against your flesh. You jolt at the sensation, skin tingling as his thumbs rub deft circles into you to calm the sting. The tip of Brahms’ nose catches on the collar of your sweater as he moves lower, pausing to nuzzle the valley of your breasts before reaching your naval.

Your cheeks burn from embarrassment as he wedges himself between your thighs, head ducking under the fabric and disappearing from sight– leaving behind only a mop of curls. Knees shaking from what could only be described as anticipation, you squirm as heated breath fans over the soaked fabric of your panties clinging uncomfortably to your folds. Even at a time like this your body betrays you, more keen on pleasure than reality.

Traitor.

An open mouthed kiss through the fabric of your panties stops you in your tracks. God, his breath is so warm– heavy and wet as his tongue pokes into the damp material in front of him. Your teeth sink into your bottom lip as he all but sucks on the fabric, saliva mixing with your juices dripping through the fabric.

The tip of his nose brushes against your clothed clit, sending an electrical current down your spine. Goosebumps spider-web across your thighs as his fingers trace featherlight on the sensitive flesh– causing a whine to escape your lips from the sensation.

“...Brahms?!” You squeak as his fingers dig underneath the elastic of your panties, haphazardly tugging them to the side. Brahms ignores your protests, much more keen on eyeing the slick gathering between your legs.

“What are you doing–” The words die on your tongue as his tongue licks a fat stripe up your pussy. Your hands fly to his chocolate curls, nails scraping his scalp as you try to steel yourself against the assault of tongue and teeth. Impatient, needy strokes lap at your cunt– causing your stomach to flip as your thighs clench around his head.

How does he even know how to do this?

Your clit throbs against his tongue as it swirls around the delicate bud, causing your pussy to flutter against his lips. Hot, heavy pants echo across the hallway as your head falls onto the carpeted stairs, eyes rolling to the back of your head from the friction. The tip of his finger screws deep inside of you as his tongue latches on to your clit, tearing the breath from your lungs.

His tongue is wet, slipping across your folds and coating you in saliva as he feasts. You all but convulse when the pad of his finger brushes against your upper walls, delving into that oh-so-sensitive spot as his tongue flattens across your clit. Slow, controlled circles are drawn against your mound, and your teeth sink into your bottom lip to silence the moan building in your throat.

His fingers on the other hand seem to have a mind of their own, a second wedging between your thighs and splitting you open. Hard, deep strokes force you to feel every ridge of his knuckles as he buries them within your pussy as your mind goes hazy from the difference in paces.

Heat swells in your stomach as you clench around his fingers, the sporadic flick of his tongue pulling you towards the edge, tension creating knots in your chest as toes curl. Fuck, it feels good, Brahms eating you out like a man driven mad while drowning between your thighs. Lips quivering, you open your mouth to moan–

The knock on the door knifes through the air like a gunshot.

Brahms freezes, spine straightening as his fingers dig so deep into the fat of your hips that it hurts. Knees locking up, you try to slow the jackhammering of your heartbeat from the sound. Confusion echoes through your mind– was it Malcolm’s delivery day and it slipped your memory?

Another knock, harder– louder in a way that makes the door rattle on its hinges. Then, a voice bouncing off the walls of the grand entrance. “Police, open up!” The blood drains from your face at the words, the ruined prospect of an orgasm forgotten as your fingers untangle from Brahms’ hair. Those chocolate orbs snap to yours, mouth hovering over your sensitive flesh and swirling with an all too familiar emotion you dread to see.

Fear.

“Brahms, hide.” The words tumble from your lips as you unhook your legs around his neck, knees shaky and unruly while you tug your soaked panties up your legs. Before you can even breathe Brahms is on his feet, thundering up the stairs before disappearing behind a panel in the wall, the door quietly creaking shut behind him.

Just like that, you were alone– guilty, breathless, and all but covered in evidence.

You barely manage to compose yourself as you scurry down the stairs, almost tripping over yourself in your haste to the door. Hair disheveled, mouth swollen, skin flushed– not at all the image of innocence you should portray, but it would have to do. Brahms is gone, hidden away like a ghost in the house, but his scent still lingers on your skin.

Through the frosted glass in the grand entrance, you can faintly make out a silhouette shuffling behind the door. By the time you twist the lock, your hands are clammy with sweat. Swallowing thickly, you plaster a look of concern across your face as the heavy mahogany door swings open.

“Officer? I almost didn’t hear you over my cleaning.”

Towering over you with authoritative stature, dark beady eyes scrape over your skin with the precision of a knife. Sharp-jawed and neatly dressed, gloved fingers tap impatiently against a glimmering badge in the early afternoon light– a detective. His nose twitches ever so slightly as he takes you in, and you swear he looks like he’s already come to a conclusion.

“Sorry to trouble you, miss. My name is Detective Bradshaw. I’m here conducting a follow-up regarding a report issued …” Glancing at a fieldwork notebook, he pauses before continuing. “-Two days ago– a possible disturbance in the area. Hikers in the forest claim they heard screaming.”

Screaming– you remember screaming, voice raw and guttural as it rang against the greenhouse glass.

Your fingers pick at the stitching of your skirt, sheepishly glancing down to hide the panic in your eyes. “Yes, I– there was a storm… I’m terrified of thunder, so they must have heard me as I was closing the windows. I’m sorry for the disturbance, I didn’t realize anyone could hear me.”

He hums thoughtfully, weighing your words as he jots down in his notebook with a twinge of suspicion. You liar.

“Would you mind if I came in? It’s just routine, I’m checking all the properties in the area.” He shifts, gaze narrowing at the vast expanse of the manor behind you. You pause– you do mind, but you couldn’t say that, not with what was on the line.

“Of course.” You lie, opening the door a bit further to let the detective inside. The second he steps through the threshold of the doorway, the manor feels smaller, tighter. The air seems to weigh heavy with warning.

You don’t belong here.

Leading the detective to the foyer, your heart almost jolts from your chest at the sight of the doll sitting on the loveseat. All but scooping the doll into your arms as if it were a child, you turn to the detective once more. Faint recognition flickers in his eyes as his gaze drops between the doll and you.

“You must be one of the nannies… such a shame, the fire. I’ve always heard stories of the doll, but I never thought it was real.” The detective murmurs, and you nod slightly, the doll balancing on your hip.

“The Heelshires have… strange customs.” You pause, trying to formulate a response. Your eyes flicker to the wall before snapping back to the detective. “It gets lonely caring for him.”

Brahms put the doll here– he’s somewhere in the walls. Watching you, listening.

“Any contact with the Heelshires?” You freeze, confused at the question. “You… don’t know? They’re dead–”

A thud sounds upstairs, and your heart stops within your chest.

“I– I’m sorry,” You stammer, the doll clutched within your grasp. “The place is being renovated. Squirrels in the attic, I think.” The detective hums, scribbling into that godforsaken notepad weighing your guilt.

“And the Heelshires, you said they’ve since passed on? What about your…” His eyes drop to the doll once more. “- contract? I’m sure it must have ended by now.”

You fumble slightly as you relay your precarious position with employment under the Heelshires, explaining the partnership with Malcolm, the weekly checks, your role as a nanny to the doll. “... I’m not really supposed to ask questions.” You finish as he runs his fingers across the backing of the loveseat.

“You’re positive?” He asks, voice almost too casual as he glances around the room. “Big house… this place is a bit of a legend. A lot of people say it’s haunted.” You force out a laugh. “Old houses always are.”

“I guess so.” His tone is softer now, more calculated. “Have you ever heard of the Langley brothers?” You frown, the names unfamiliar on your tongue. “Langley– I don’t think so… should I?”

A thin smile grows on his face, and the badge seems to shimmer as it catches the light. “They’re missing. Three brothers, thieves that are known for squatting in properties along the countryside. They have a pattern of sorts– they show up, something always disappears. Jewelry, cars, clothes, sometimes even people.”

Your stomach churns at the words.

“Funny thing is, a truck that was reported stolen was found a few miles from here. They were also spotted on a trail cam heading towards the woods past the old hunting trails near this property.”

The old hunting trails that led near the greenhouse.

Sweat clings to your hairline, and suddenly the room feels too hot. “I haven’t seen anyone in almost a week. I live here completely alone.”

Detective Bradshaw doesn’t believe you, you can feel it in the way he glances across the room before lingering on you. Pulling a card from his breast pocket, the older male offers it to you, an unreadable expression burrowing in his eyes.

“If you think of anything, don’t hesitate to reach out to make an official statement to the station.” You nod slightly and take the card, balancing the doll on your hip as you guide the detective to the front door. Pausing mid step on his way out, he glances over your form once more, and you suddenly feel very conscious of the rings of purple around your neck.

“Be safe ma’am. It’s not good to be this far out in the countryside alone.” The words echo in your head as he ducks back into the afternoon sunlight, leaving the door to swing shut with a haunting click. You can only stare through the frosted glass as his silhouette fades, paper card clutched in your hand so tightly it crumples from the force.

He knows– he knows everything.

White-hot embers of rage bubble in your stomach as you fight the urge to scream. Tearing away from the door, you haphazardly lob the doll across the room as tears blur your vision. The doll hits a chaise lounge and slumps across the throw pillows, porcelain eyes staring blankly at the ceiling, legs sprawling in a heap.

Your knees wobble as panic roots deep in your skull. There was no telling when the detective would be back, and even worse– with a warrant. Would he uncover the secrets buried beneath the greenhouse, within the walls?

Oh god, you felt like you were going to puke.

The wall panel creaks open to your left, hinges groaning as Brahms steps into the hallway– mask adorned, fire poker in his fist. Brahms’ gaze flickers to the abandoned doll before taking a slow step forward, poker left unattended by the panel.

“(Y/n)?”

The sound is low, cautious as he stares at your panicked state, surveying the damage of his actions. You twist towards him, eyes bloodshot and hair wild as you jut the card in his direction. Brahms stills at the look in your eye, one full of wrath and fury long since uprooted from beneath the surface.

“You killed them.” You seethe, voice building as you spiral from reason, the sound broken and raw. “You ripped them apart like they were nothing, like it didn’t matter! And I…” Your jaw trembles, words caught in your throat as you choke back a sob. “-I just… stood there. Like a fucking coward.”

Brahms flinches at the tone, shoulders heaving ever so slightly as he tries to defend himself. “They were going to hurt you. I did what I had to do, can’t you see that?” You stare at the mask covering his features, hiding the monster beneath– and a part of you breaks.

How could you have been so stupid?

“Don’t fucking lie.” The words drip with venom. “You enjoyed it. You didn’t have to bury them like that, covered in flowers as if it were a deranged gift.” He moves closer, too close for comfort as you scramble backwards, knees all but giving out as you crumple into a heap on the hardwood floor in front of the chaise lounge.

Always stalking over to you, always taking what he wants and leaving nothing in return. He truly was a monster– and you were stupid enough to believe he was more than that, better than that. Yet here you were, heart scattered along the floorboards as you barely hold together your sanity.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!”

He crouches down in front of you, form towering over you as a strained plea whispers beneath the mask. “I… I didn’t know what else to do,” The gravelly sound you were so used to turns faint, voice choking on the words. “-I didn’t know how else to fix it.”

“You made me into a monster.” You sob, jabbing a fist into his chest. Brahms remains still, a wall of flesh as you hammer your hands against him again, and again, and again. Unmoving as you tire from the onslaught, unhurt from the assault. A silent tear drips from your cheek onto the hardwood floor. “I lied to the police for you– that makes me just as fucked up.”

Brahms stiffens, cold fingertips gripping the underside of your jaw, forcing you to meet his gaze. “No. I made sure they never could hurt you again.” His voice is steady now, muffled ever so slightly under the mask. “-it’s not the same.”

The card limply flutters to the floor, the detective’s phone number glaring at you like a death sentence. “You don’t get it, he’s going to come back. He’s going to find them and he will take me away, I’ll rot in a cell for the rest of my life or worse.” Your hands tighten into fists, knuckles white as you force out the words. “And you? You’ll be here, in these damn walls pretending that nothing even happened.”

The fingers on your jaw tremble. “I don’t care if they come for me. But not you– never you.” You don’t fight as he gathers you into his arms, lacking the energy to do anything but melt into his skin as you let the tears fall. Cocooned in the fabric of his cardigan, the waves of anger begin to subside with the shaky breaths rocking Brahms’ chest.

“I’m sorry,” He whispers, fingers tangled in your hair. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I thought– if I lost you…” You try to brush off the shudder that slithers down your spine at the confession, choosing to take comfort in the warmth radiating from Brahms’ skin.

“You…” The words falter on your tongue. You pause before trying again, nails sinking into the palms of your hands. “You can’t do that again. I need you to promise me you won’t.”

A beat of silence. Then: “If anyone else touches you…” he whispers, “I will.”

Your heart siezes at his response, but you refuse to move away– the line between horror and comfort too blurred to navigate. Your tears begin to slow, the initial panic stabbing in your chest turning into a dull throb.

You pull backwards, trembling fingers catching the edge of his porcelain mask, feeling the scruff of his jaw. “Why are you like this?” you mumble, voice softer now– curious. “Who… made you end up like this?”

Brahms doesn’t answer at first, the silence stretching uncomfortably between you to where you could even hear the lingering chime of the grandfather clock in the next room. Finally, Brahms exhales, not a sigh but a release– as if about to tear out a piece of himself and hand it to you like an offering. You shift against the hardwood flooring, chin resting on his shoulder as he begins to speak.

“My parents would throw dinner parties here in the manor–” He starts, voice faraway, hushed. “Dozens of guests would come to dine with them for hours, the men in suits and women dressed in pearls. That was where I met Emily.”

You glance upwards, trying to read the expression hidden behind the mask. “Emily?”

Brahms only nods. “Another child in the area, a few years younger than I was. We were inseparable, almost to the point where our parents thought we were destined to be.” A coarse chuckle rumbles against your back, and you realize the sound is full of regret.

“No matter how often we played, how much time we spent together– it was never enough. I started hearing voices… telling me terrible things.” He pauses, swallowing thickly. “-Things to do to her.” You still, blood turning to ice at the confession.

“One night in the attic, we were fighting over a toy. She was there one moment and then…” A sigh. “-Then she was gone. I was too rough with her, and her head… there was so much blood.” Your brows furrow at the story, the very legend you had heard countless times being dissected in front of you.

“I panicked, trying to wake her up, screaming for help. I knocked over a candelabra in the chaos and…” You nod slightly, urging him to continue. “My parents never told anyone the truth, telling the world I died. I started sleeping in the walls when I was eight,” He says, voice cracking ever so slightly from an emotion you couldn’t quite place. “-because if I was a ghost, at least I wouldn’t be ugly anymore.”

You swallow the knot building in your throat, heart shattering at the story. He was never born a monster, simply one forged from the environment he was thrust into.

“I tried to be good, within the walls.” He pleads. “-tried to be quiet. But the walls are so thin, I could hear everything they said about me.” He finally glances at you, and your breath catches in your throat at the molten gaze. Tears fester along the corners of his eyes, dampening thick eyelashes as he blinks them away.

“They said I was a monster. That I was a broken disappointment, and there was something wrong with me.” His voice shakes, fingers trailing from your scalp to your shoulders, tugging you closer into his embrace. “They kept me in the walls like I was some secret sin, let the world grieve me as they replaced me with a doll. “ “I spent twenty years in the walls, watching as my parents tried to fill the space I left behind with their frequent hires. Tutors, nannies, maids– no one stayed. Not when they found out the truth,” He pauses. “-By then, I couldn’t let them leave.” His gaze flickers towards you, and your heart all but stops within your chest.

“Then you came. You were kind, talking to me– listening. Even when you didn’t realize I was there all along.” Your breath catches, fingers frozen against the cool porcelain of his mask. “Brahms…” He flinches at the sound of his name as if it burns.

“I never wanted to scare you,” he confesses. “I just… wanted to be seen. When they came, I couldn’t let them take you away.” Your chest almost cracks open as you hear the pain in his voice, the raw emotion barely kept under the surface.

It sounds like a child’s voice, a little boy lost in a house that never truly loved him.

Your fingers peel the mask away from his skin, and he doesn’t stop you. You don’t cringe as his scars come into view, never shudder at the mottled burns as your fingertips brush the raised flesh. All you do is set the mask on the floor before cupping his cheeks with your hands.

“You were just a boy, Brahms.” you whisper, forehead pressing against his own as he struggles to gulp in a breath. “And now?” He shudders, voice hoarse as he all but sinks into your touch. “-what am I now?” You draw back at the question, staring at the very man who both ruined you entirely and brought you to salvation.

“You’re mine.”

Brahms breaks, arms molding you to his chest as his mouth slams onto yours. Open mouthed, sloppy kisses that are far from desperate but thankful dot along the column of your neck, and you squeal from the onslaught of teeth and tongue. Coarse hands tremble against your waist as if you might vanish if he doesn’t hold you tight enough, fingers digging into your flesh.

You don’t stop him, instead melting into his touch– pushing upwards to straddle his waist, skirt bunching uncomfortably between your thighs. You kiss him as if he isn’t broken, as if you’re not, as if this wasn’t the most terrifying moment of your life but instead the most real. Tangling your fingers in those irresistible chocolate curls, you press your lips against his, a simple plea whispered between you: “Show me who you are.”

He does.

Abruptly standing, your legs instantly hook around Brahms’ waist to keep you from toppling over, nails digging into his broad shoulders as your back roughly hits the flowered wallpaper of the hallway. Your spine groans as it chafes against the drywall, but the strain becomes quickly forgotten as Brahms latches onto the junction between your neck and collarbone, teeth scraping against the skin.

Greedy, impatient hands paw at the fat of your ass, bunching the material of your skirt around your hips as your breath is torn from your lungs. Nose brushing against yours, Brahms swallows your whimpers– frantic, sloppy kisses fusing your very souls together. Heavy pants waft between you as you struggle to catch your breath, lips swollen and skin flushed. The doll stares silently from your peripheral, but you don’t pay it any mind.

It wouldn’t be the first time it watched you fall from grace.

A hand wedges between your thighs, dipping beneath the fabric of your panties and laying flat against your bare pussy. You all but whine as the palm of his hand brushes against your clit, the tips of his fingers splitting you open to gather the wetness you pooled just for him. Shifting uncomfortably against his hold, the heel of his palm grinds against you, index finger dipping within your slit. It’s almost pathetic how quickly your thighs spasm around his grasp– a gut churning squelch escaping as his finger sinks knuckle deep.

The back of your head knocks against the drywall as you pull away for breath, a string of saliva connecting your lips while you shudder under his touch. A second finger slips within your fluttering pussy, and you clench around the stretch– patience long worn thin from the recent interruption. Brahms huffs, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he ruts his hips into your ass, fingers slick with your wetness.

Your eyelids grow heavy, skin so hot it feels as if you are melting– but the throb between your legs only screams for release. Nails digging so deep into his cardigan you were certain you were breaking through to his skin, your hips grind down against his hand as his fingers scissor within you– scraping against your gummy walls in a way so sinful your eyes roll.

“Brahms, please.”

It’s pitiful, begging for him like this– shameful, really. But all sense of reason washes away with the rhythmic push of his fingers as they delve into you so roughly you can hear the lewd squelch between your thighs. Brahms buries his head into the crook of your neck, nipping at the flesh as his fingers abruptly tear away from your pussy.

You whine, clenching around nothing, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you fight the urge to scream. Pushing you further into the drywall, a hand cups your ass– nails digging into your flesh as the other pulls his cock from his pants. Wetness drips down your chin, and you realize you were drooling as his velvety tip catches against you.

A gargled plea tears from your throat as his thumb brushes your lip, and your mouth parts obediently. Fingers dipping inside to gather your spit, Brahms withdraws, only to smear his cock in your saliva. Your heart lurches at the sight.

“I don’t know how to be anything, anyone else but yours.”

You aren’t able to digest the words before he plunges into you, filling you so suddenly your bones all but groan from the friction. You gasp at the stretch, skin burning as you sink onto his cock. Nails dig into the fat of your hips, skirt tangled between his fingers as he thrusts upwards– lifting your body as if you weigh nothing.

A squeak tears from your throat as he bounces you against him, the back of your head scraping against the drywall as he molds your hips to his in a brutal pace– using you like a fucktoy.

Your chest heaves as his cock drills into you, guts churning from the force as you hang limply against his chest, legs hooked around his waist like a lifeline. The short, staccato sound of your moans echo across the hallway, turning into whines as his teeth sink into the bruised flesh of your neck.

God, you feel so full– warm and stuffed to the brim so all you can think about is him. With the brutal pace all put tearing you from reality, you wouldn’t have it any other way. Tears blur your vision as he shifts, lowering you ever so slightly– forcing you to arch against the wall and further into him, making every inch, every vein all the more prominent. The shift in position has your head reeling from it all, sweat dripping down the column of your neck before it is greedily licked away.

Your walls ache around him as his tip juts against your cervix, shooting a mixture of pain and pleasure through you so abruptly your nails dig against his cardigan, no doubt leaving trails of red across his skin. A piece of you begs for reprieve, for a break, but the sinful roll of his hips make any pleas die on your tongue– leaving nothing but huffed breaths.

The back of your head throbs against the drywall, skin flushed and tender with every thrust, every movement. Hanging forward, your temple lolls against his– damp curls molding against you as Brahms all but shudders from the action. Groaning, an arm wires around your waist, securing you against the wall as his other fist buries itself within your hair.

Needles of pain spike against your skull as your head is forced back, eyes meeting the fire within his own. It’s all too much, the hammering of his cock against your walls, the grinding of his navel against your clit, the pleasure burning you alive. Your eyelids flutter, gaze watery as the imprint of his cock feels like he is bending you against your will.

And maybe in a sense, he is– but as much as you should be concerned, you aren’t.

What does that say about you?

You catch sight of a pile in your peripheral, straining ever so slightly against the ironclad grip in your hair to focus on it. The doll’s glass eyes burn into you, body lopsided against the chaise lounge– watching you silently, hauntingly. It was eerily familiar to a look you saw just nights ago, once full of emotion now empty, once so lively now buried beneath the greenhouse.

The sight should have been startling, should have been disgusting. Instead, it only feeds the fire– knowing the very person who sends others to their graves with no remorse holds you like you are made of glass. The man you once considered to be a monster, now your salvation. A cruel twist of fate that has you fluttering around the very one destroying you from within.

You burst without warning, white-hot pleasure searing your skin as a broken wail tears from your throat. Head dropping forward, the pain within your scalp doesn’t even register as you deadweight against his hold. Thighs twitching from the overstimulation driving into you, his hips all but stick to your own from the aftermath of your orgasm.

Brahms falters against you, heated breaths threatening to swallow you whole as his nails dig half-cresents into the fat of your ass. He delves forward, once, twice before he peaks– pushing so far within you it feels as if you could tear in two. Skin molded against his, you weakly clench around him as he cums– heavy, thick ropes filling you to the brim.

He pauses there, trying to slow his racing heartbeat as his fingers untangle from your matted hair. Head lolling back into the drywall, you struggle to steady your breathing. Fingers gently moving a particularly bothersome curl away from his forehead, a ghost of a laugh builds in your throat.

Your chest heaves with the aftermath of it all– guilt, grief, peace, and exhaustion mixing into a dangerous concoction within your stomach. Brahms shudders slightly, arm still looped around your waist, the other bracing you against the wall as his breath fans across your collarbone. Unruly curls tickle your temple as he shifts, pulling you back down onto the floor– causing a whine to escape ever so slightly from the emptiness in your core.

Your skirt hangs low on your hips, thighs clenching around nothing as his cum seeps into your ruined panties. Taking a step forward, you stumble slightly like a baby deer learning how to walk for the first time, cheeks burning from embarrassment as your fingers grapple onto the fabric of his cardigan. Brahms’ hands quickly steady you, a quiet chuckle echoing across the hallway as you swat him away. Trying to smooth the rumpled material of your skirt and regain a sense of composure, you glance upwards.

That damn gaze of chocolate and coffee catches you off guard– full of endearment and affection, a sight that pulls at your heartstrings. Your feet fumble slightly, lost in the warmth ghosting over your skin with something akin to love.

“I…” Voice wobbling, you tear your gaze away– cheeks heated. “I’ll make us some tea.” You whisper, because it’s the only thing you can think to do: something simple, something normal. Brahms hums slightly, a soft sound– as if you leaving to turn on the kettle is the kindest gesture in the world. He steps backwards as you turn the corner, and you fight the burn screaming from your joints with every step.

Padding into the kitchen, the stovetop flickers to life– the subtle click click click of the gas burner gnawing at your patience as you fill the kettle. Leaving the water to boil, you flutter around the kitchen, grabbing the necessary materials for a proper tea session. Two teacups, two saucers, cream and sugar, a small plate of lemon-curd cookies baked the night before.

The kettle whistles, and as you haul the glassware from the stovetop, you see it.

Something thin and pale sticking out from underneath the door– the back door. Confusion washes over you as you approach it, bare toes curling against the cool tile. Crouching ever so slightly, your hand grips the kettle like a lifeline as you pluck the paper from the floor.

It’s a handwritten note– sharp inkstrokes hurriedly scrawled across the brittle paper like a ransom letter from an old crime film. Adorning the almost blank sheet of paper is five words, written front and center in a way that makes your heart drop to your stomach.

I know what you did.

You don’t scream, don’t cry, but you do drop the kettle– the crash echoing across the manor like a warning shot, metal clanging against tile, water sloshing like blood. Brahms is in the kitchen within seconds, wild-eyed as his gaze hones in on your frozen form, note still clutched in your fist.

“What happened?” Voice low, alarmed– hands hovering over you as if unsure to touch you or not. You don’t answer, words catching in your throat as you jut the paper towards him, hands bracing against the countertop to keep you from falling.

Reading the note silently, Brahms’ jaw tenses at the accusation. Silently, he folds the slip of paper– creasing it like a prayer he doesn’t want you to keep. Sidestepping you, Brahms turns to throw the slip of paper onto the gas stovetop, but you catch his wrist to halt him in place.

“Wait.” Your voice barely registers over the rush of blood in your ears. You think back to the detective in the foyer, the precise words he has chosen when speaking to you. There’s something off, something itching at your memory as you replay the events.

“Have you ever heard of the Langley brothers?”

There was that strange way he said it– eyes flickering around the house, the doll, to you.

“They have a pattern of sorts– they show up, something always disappears. Jewelry, cars, clothes, sometimes even people.”

Your blood runs cold. “There weren’t two of them,” you murmur aloud, terror coursing through your veins. “Bradshaw never said there were two.” Brahms blinks as you step backwards, realization curdling in your stomach like rotten milk. “The Langley brothers were known for working in threes.”

Silence, then a soft creak clattering through the manor. You both go still, spines straightening as you strain your hearing for sound. The note drops from Brahms’ hand to the floor, forgotten. You swallow thickly, hyper aware of the stillness around you, the heavy silence seeming to swallow you whole.

And worst of all, you suddenly get the sinking feeling that you aren’t alone.

#ghostiesnightmare #slasher x reader #slashers #reader insert #slasher smut #smut #x reader #female reader #horror smut #x you smut

558 notes · View notes

ssoftlyservedd · 16 days ago

Text

Hate him or love him?

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader

Summary: You are not a very big fan of Superman like the other people in Metropolis, but who could guess that the man you dislike that much was your lovely boyfriend?

Word count: ~ 1.9k ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა

Tags: Sexual content, very dom!clark, sub!reader, rough sex, slapping kink, masturbation!fingering (reader receiving),size kink, mentions of threesome, praising, making out, piv.

Clark hates every article that you write and publish. And it wasn’t because your writing is terrible, but because he hated the fact that you– his girlfriend – were writing an article that destroyed Superman's reputation.

(How ironic is it that you both love and hate your boyfriend?)

You never pass up an opportunity when something involving Superman happens, and even less if there’s a bonus opportunity on your deadline. ‘Thank you, Jimmy, for giving me the opportunity of the month– if not year,’ you think as your fingers move rapidly on the keyboard of your laptop that rests on your lap.

Recently, Superman has been facing a lot of backlash about the way he saves people. He can save all the people he wants, but never thinks about the thousands of people affected by all the destruction that he causes– a prime example being that he accidentally cracked the walls of the already old apartment building after you tried to interview him. Your apartment building.

It’s why you are cuddled on his couch, typing furiously on your article that’s set to be published in the next week or so.

“What are you writing about this time? How are the new factories affecting the air quality in the Metropolis ?” Clark asks teasingly as he sits down with two glasses of red wine in his hands before putting them aside to peek at the bright screen.

You grab the glass of wine and take a small sip before putting it down again. “I wrote that yesterday. It’s done and being reviewed. I'm currently writing about how Superman is just ruining the city instead of actually helping the city.”

He stays quiet for a few moments, his hand tightening around his wine glass, and before he can reply, you keep talking. “I am not against the fact that he saves people. He does. The only thing that I downright hate is the fact that while he knows how to save people, he does so by destroying everything else around him.” You rant.

“Buildings are ruined, and now people have to find a place to stay, and they might not have the possibility to afford to go somewhere else. Public Transportation gets destroyed almost every time he fights someone. Not to mention that ever since he came to Metropolis, we have been in constant danger thanks to him.”

Clark flinches a little, not that you would have noticed. Your words are poison that sickened his fragile heart and pierced through his soul.

“I know you are very good friends with him,” you soothe and smile at him. “Maybe you can talk to him and tell him to be more careful. We aren’t all rich like Bruce Wayne.”

“I…He is not… We are not friends.” Clark stares at your laptop before looking at you with his blue eyes. He decides to close your laptop gently. “You should rest. You will damage your vision if you keep going at it.”

Your head shakes quickly. “Let me just finish this paragraph, and I am all yours.”

You see his hand move away, trembling slightly, but it’s barely noticeable.

“And is he not your friend?” You snort, trying not to lose the focus that you kept. “He only accepts interviews from you; it’s easier to acquire an interview with Lex Luther than to have a quick interview with Superman. Which I did. Receive an interview with Lex Luther.”

“What?” Clark whispers, “You- You are going to interview Lex Luthor?” his voice deepens.

You nod as you close your laptop. “Well, yeah. Superman doesn't let anyone interview him, so I will go for the guy who has time for an interview. Besides, he agrees with most of my article.” You smile slightly at your boyfriends.

Clark finishes his glass of wine, trying to see if the alcohol could calm him down– it’s useless, of course, seeing as he is immune to alcohol. “It's a very bad idea. Horrible Idea”

“I know”

“Then why-”

You cut him off as you put your laptop away. “Unless you give me an interview with Superman, I will interview Lex, especially since I already have the appointment for tomorrow.”

Clark stays quiet; the hand out of your vision is in a fist. He is feeling a lot of emotions, but mostly jealousy; hot, angry jealousy.

He knew it would be a horrible idea to put you in the same room as Superman, with him being Superman and all.

He cups your face all of a sudden “I will talk with Superman and try to make an appointment for an interview, okay? Just cancel the interview with Lex.” His voice trembles with anger and jealousy.

“Are you jealous?” You tease him, trying not to laugh “Maybe the alcohol is dumbing your brain down, but let me make it very clear. Lex Luther is not my type. You are.”

“That not- ugh Im not jealous.” His hand moves to your hips. “I know I’m your type.”

You smile and get closer to him, kissing his neck. “Then why are you getting all of a sudden angry? It's just work.”

“Oh, well, maybe because you hate Superman.”

The words got out of his mouth before he knew it, fuck, he isn’t even thinking about what he’s saying.

Your chuckle calms him down a little bit. “And you say that Superman and you arents friends? Yeah, right.”

Your lips find his lips, and you kiss him deeply.

Clark grips your hips and pulls you closer to him, leaning in closer, kissing you passionately and possessively. “We’re not,” he disagrees without breaking away from you.

“Whatever you say, big boy.”

His hand grabs your hair and pulls you away harshly, so your head is in front of him. You love that he treats you harshly before and during sex. You need it. You grave it.

His lips make their way to your neck, trying to find the sweet spot to mark you as his. His and his alone, just as he is yours. He marks you possessively,

With his right hand, he rips your shirt open while the left one still holds a tight grip on your hair. “Don't get close to Lex Luthor.” His voice husky and demanding; hungry to feel your tightness again. Hungry to remind you that only his cock satisfies you.

“What if I do-” He spanks your full ass hard. It stings just the way that you love. His lips never leave your neck, his sucking becomes even harsher as he colors your neck that beautiful red that will turn blue and purple as the week goes on. An unmistakable claim on you.

His patience snaps suddenly. He pulls up and, quicker than you can blink, rips your bra off– he will be replacing it, of course.

“If you want to keep your jeans functional, take them off. " His voice was full of authority that you didn’t bother arguing against him.

You slowly unbutton the jeans and take them off, showing off the lacey black thong. You enjoy it, the dark gaze that roams over your body.

It warms you, makes you excited. You need him. You need his body on yours, his strong arms caging yours so that you wouldn’t be able to escape him– not that you want to.

He grabs your body and moves you in a way that your ass is facing him while you hold yourself up in all fours. “Don’t you look pretty for me,” he groans and softly moves the thong to the side. “Look at you being all wet for me when I haven’t even touched you yet. Just like you should.”

You lick your lips and moan. His hand roams on your ass, and he starts hitting and spanking you, enjoying the redness that starts colouring your ass. At one point, he got naked. You didn’t know when, and you didn’t care either. Your mind is focused on the sting that Clark’s hand gave up.

You whimpered, arching your back further to him, “Baby, please.” You don’t know what you are begging for. Did you want him to go slower, have mercy on you? No, you surprisingly didn’t want him to slow down his already furious spanks.

Clark’s rough with you, both of you know it, but he never slapped your ass this hard before; maybe it was the alcohol. It needs to be the alcohol.

Another slap, harder this time. Merciless. “I need you to focus, my pretty little thing. Answer me, don’t you think me and Superman look alike?”

You bite your lip so hard, blood might have started to drip out. You didn’t care. You stop caring and only focus on the pleasure he gives you. You didn’t answer him. You don’t want to answer him. His hands stop the spanking, and you whimper.

His fingers went to your dripping pussy. “You’re this wet huh? Thinking about how he and I have the same features,” He pushes you closer to the couch as he continues to finger you hard. It’s not foreplay. He fingers you like a madman. He’s reminding you that you belong to him. All. Of. Him.

Your whole body shakes when he finds your G-spot, and the orgasm presents itself suddenly and intensely.

“Push that ass out… just like that.” He slaps it again, and you scream, not caring if his neighbours can hear your ecstasy.

He continues to open you with his fingers while he moves closer to your ear. His hardened member is touching your heated skin.

“Imagine me being Superman. Imagine that is him fingering you while you take it so obediently.” Your pussy clenches once again with every word that spills from his mouth. Clark chuckles, “You’re pussy tightened. I wonder why that is? Didn’t you say you hated Superman?”

“Clark,” your voice came in a whimpering mess, another orgasm starting to present itself again. “I need you,” you look back as he takes his finger off you.

His long fingers are covered in your juices, and instead of licking them, he puts them closer to your mouth. You lick them, tasting yourself.

You focus on licking his fingers clean and don’t notice when he aligns his cock to your entrance. He grabs your arms, never once moving your position, and pulls you to him, hard and ruthless. His erect cock splits you in half, and you have no choice but to let the orgasm take over your body. Oh, you love him using your body.

“Do you think Superman's dick is as big as mine? Imagine being fuck by the two men you obsess over.” Clark groans as he fucks you deeper, his hand moving to your hips.

Both of your hips started to move. This is heaven.

“Both of our dicks inside of this tight little pussy”, he groans as he drives deeper inside of you.

Your eyes roll back as he finds the spot again and hits it over and over and over again.

“Oh, please,” you moan. “Please, Clark, I want that. I want to feel both cocks inside of me.” The words spill out of your mouth without you knowing what you were moaning about. You didn’t care. Not while being cock-drunk.

Mid trust Clark groans darkly. He looks at your face, which is a canvas of naked pleasure. He felt a dark, twisted, vindictive feeling inside of him as he thrust in and out of your body.

“How do you like Superman dick inside of you right now?”

You’re vision goes white as you cum.

Author note: im still working on my tag list, so please comment if you want to be added!

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁ ⟡ ݁ . ⊹ ₊ ݁. Masterlist

#clark kent #clark kent fanfiction #clark kent x reader #david corenswet #david corenswet superman #david corenswet x reader

4K notes · View notes

ssoftlyservedd · 17 days ago

Text

fuck it the full makeout

#clois #biblically accurate clois #clark x lois #lois and clark #lois lane

3K notes · View notes

ssoftlyservedd · 17 days ago

Text

Just look at that smug smitten smile he knows exactly what he's getting dragged into when she brings him back there. We love our horny horny dirty couple. Romantic yes but horny.

4K notes · View notes

ssoftlyservedd · 17 days ago

Text

work wife

cw. cheating, semi public sex, highly immoral behavior, power dynamics, smut.

⤷p! link

synopsis. his wife has been noticing the drastic improvements in his mood these days. the reason? she has no clue!

he's been coming home in better spirits these days. his wife notices it the moment he walks in. his shoulders aren't as hunched, the faint shadows under his eyes have softened, and there's a steady rhythm to his steps that wasn't there before. he looks healthier, yes, but also quieter. less interested in everything. the way he used to greet his wife upon coming home with long hugs and affectionate kisses has shrunk down to quick pecks. on some days, just cheek kisses and head pats you'd give to a child or a friend.

you're the one he's been letting get dangerously close lately. his cute little intern who shadows his every move, learning the ropes but also testing the edges. everyone murmurs half-jealous, half-incredulous that you're his work wife. though you've caught wind of the gossip, you don't correct them.

your bond started slow, innocuous. a shared laugh after shitty clients had left, long eye contact, little touches, like when you were helping him sort a stack of files and your fingers brushed over one another. then, a shoulder leaning into his as you crowd together over the same laptop screen. then, wanting to test how far boundaries would go, you pecked his cheek after he complimented you on a job well done, but his head turned last second and your lips brushed.

you'd apologized profusely, extremely anxious about his reaction, but instead of being upset, he offered you the gentlest kiss on your lips to settle your nerves. a return of the favor.

then, little kisses everyday. simply affectionate, normal between people as close as the two of you. it's meant to be quick, harmless; but they're the kind that send a pulse through your whole body. every time it happens, it feels like you're stealing something, a secret he's letting you in on, and maybe he doesn't even realize he's doing it.

or maybe he does.

the front desk hums with the quiet chatter of speculation. a cluster of your of your coworkers, the sales guy, the HR people, tech support; they're all gathered to talk about the two of you. periodically, their eyes flick towards the boss' office where you and he disappear for long stretches.

"have you noticed how he's been taking his ring off lately?" whispers a secretary, young, glossy nails, huge crush on the boss. her voice carries quietly enough to sound like idle office gossip, but sharp enough to be resentful. she's jealous of you. "leaves it on his desk, or sometimes on the conference table... and doesn't seem to care."

one of the HR guys snorts derisively. "yeah. i've caught him fiddling with it all the time, like he's deep in thought. and it's always when the intern's talking to him, too. so odd."

the secretary woman snorts, leaning in to the group. "i'm sure i can guess why. have you seen her? buttons undone, pencil skirts so tight i'm surprised she can bend over without everything being visible. and she's always strutting around beside him and giggling like a cheap whore. she's practically throwing herself at him."

"trashy. no wonder she's his favorite."

another person chimes in, glancing toward the direction you'd both gone. "where the hell are the two of them anyway?"

your cheek presses flat to the table, your skirt pushed up, panties shoved aside carelessly. your boss wedges every inch of his fat cock in you slow and steady.

this is the only part where he takes his time, because he can't ruin your poor, sweet little hole with his girth by slamming in all at once. when he manages to push inside you to the hilt (albeit with some resistance on your end; apparently being soaked from flirting and hanging off him all morning still isn't enough to bottom out all at once), he grunts softly and gathers saliva in his mouth, spitting down onto where his cock enters your pussy. he needs it as sloppy and wet as possible.

you whine, wanting to turn back to look at him, but you're too focused on not moaning like a whore at the biiiiiiiig stretch of him inside you.

"look at that," he huffs out, dragging his cock halfway out before shoving it back in harder this time, making the table creak. "squeezing that hard and i haven't even fucked you yet."

his palm settles heavy between your shoulder blades, pressing you down flat so your ass stays tipped high, cunt helplessly wrapped around him, twitching every time he drags that thick cock out and thrusts back in deep.

"oh my-fuck!" you squeak against the table, nails scratching weakly onto the wood in an attempt to regather your bearings. you feel so absurdly full and unaccustomed to a size like this. no matter how many times you take it, you feel like a fucking virgin, squirming and trying to run away from dick. not that he lets you, though. he's holding you down so firmly that you don't move an inch out of the position he put you in. "boss- sir, s-slow down please,"

"stay down." he orders.

your body jerks each time he fucks into you, and your breath comes out ragged and panted as you let out weak little moans and curses each time he hits too deep inside you. "i'm t-trying," you pant out weakly. you shove your hand over your mouth to try and stay quiet when he shoves into you a little too rough, but he hears how you fall apart regardless. hears the wet slap of his cock sinking into you. "pathetic," he mutters, leaning in again to whisper into your ear. this new position makes him push into you even deeper, his balls pushed up right against your entrance. "bent over in a copy room with your mouth shut and your cunt dripping on the floor."

you bite your lip hard to ensure you keep quiet, but it's proving to be nearly impossible with how hard he's pounding into your soaked cunt.

his hand snakes down to your pussy and reaches the spot where you're stretched wide around him; where he's buried all the way to the base and your slick is dripping down his balls. he presses his thumb into the sensitive skin where your folds meet his cock, pushing your swollen pussy lips open just enough to watch how you clench back around him on instinct.

"greedy -ah, damn- little hole," he mutters, more to himself than you. "so fucking sloppy. you should be embarrassed." you can tell even though he's patronizing you that he's close. his cock throbs inside you consistently, and his thrusts are getting slower, harder, and sloppier. your ass bounces with each thrust and your pussy's talking more than you, letting out nasty squelches as he fills you.

your eyes roll back when he grinds in again, "oh-mmmff...please, please, don't stop, feels s'good, i can't," you slur, your hips try to jerk away from the intensity of it. doesn't work. he follows you wherever you go, pushing deeper, deeper, until you're trembling.

"please," you beg again. he simply slides a hand under you in response, fingers zeroing in on your clit with an unerring precision that makes you cry out as your pussy clamps down tight around him. your orgasm hits hard and fast, watery cum oozing out of you in splurts and coating his cock. he groans when he feels you squeeze around him, hips stuttering.

"squeezing me too tight, can't move." he chokes, cock spasming inside you. if you don't quit clamping on him, he's going to breed you. but he can't. it's far too risky. so he shoves you down and gives your thigh a pinch so you squeal and loosen up, and he's grateful because any longer and you'd be stuffed with his load.

he pulls out just before he finishes, giving himself just two rough, milking strokes, before he finishes all over your ass in multiple thick, creamy globs.

his cum paints your skin in slow, heavy ropes. you flinch when the first strand hits your lower back, but he grabs your hips again, thumb digging into the soft curve just above your thigh, keeping you still as he pumps the rest out onto your ass. he lets out a low groan through clenched teeth, trying not to be too loud, but it's fucking hard.

you're both breathing hard. your cunt's still pulsing, clenching around nothing now as trickles of his cum slide down your skin. he watches it for a beat too long, thumb brushing over the mess before dragging the tip of his cock through it again.

#nanami kento #nanami x reader #nanami smut #dc smut #dc x reader #jason todd x reader #jason todd smut #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne smut #jjk x reader

525 notes · View notes

ssoftlyservedd · 17 days ago

Text

♡ ⸝⸝ FUCKING ON YOUR FANCY BED

featuring. bodyguard!nagi

ever since you and bodyguard!nagi's first time, the both of you couldn't stay away from each other. you knew your father would definitely not approve of this, but with him usually away from home most of the time, it gave you and nagi the perfect opportunity to act on your feelings.

and tonight was not any different.

your silk sheets were rumpled beneath you, the soft glow of your chandelier illuminating your room, and the air smelt like perfume and sex. nagi's hovering over you, hair sticking to his forehead, his shirt and sweats long discarded somewhere across the room. he’s buried deep inside you, his hips lazily rolling into you.

“fuck… feels good, yeah?” he breathes as he thrusts deeper, watching the way your eyes roll back when he hits your sweet spot. his hand slides up your thigh, pushing your leg up further so he can sink in deeper, so that your spoiled little whimpers turns into cries.

you nod quickly, deliriously, and teary eyed. “yeah—sei, right there—!”

he hums, eyes half lidded, and a little drunk on you. “yeah? you like that? feels so good, angel. told you i’d take care of you", he mumbles as he leans down to kiss you sloppily, tongue sliding into your mouth while you whine into the kiss and arch your hips up, trying to meet his thrusts.

his pace picks up, and so do your gasps, breath hitching every time his name tumbles out of your mouth. the bed creaks under you both, while nagi groans against your neck, “gonna make you cum,” his thrusts getting more desperate. “ you're gonna give it to me, yeah? gonna make a mess on my cock all over this fancy bed of yours?”

your back arches off the bed as you sob out his name. he reaches one hand down between your bodies to rub fast, tight circles on your clit while your pussy pulses and clamps down hard on him, milking him while your orgasm crashes over you.

nagi continues to fuck you through it before feeling himself close to his own tipping point, his cock throbbing as he whines, “angel, gonna cum inside, ‘m gonna—”

“do it,” you mewl, clinging to him. “please, cum inside, wan' it, want it so bad—please, please, please!”

and that all it takes. he buries himself deep as he spills inside with a shuddering moan, forehead pressed into your shoulder while his cock twitches, his hot release spilling into your overstimulated, sore pussy, painting your walls white. your cunt flutters around him involuntarily, clenching down on him while he grinds into you slowly, riding his high out.

it’s messy. you're so full it’s leaking around his length, your cunt stretched open and used, pulsing weakly around his cock with every aftershock that rolls through your stomach.

not to mention how messy your bed is now too — the pale pink sheets wrinkled beyond saving, as mixtures of his cum and your own release have soaked them. it's sticky and warm, and the sight of it only makes nagi groan when he finally lifts his head to look.

you blink up at him with glassy, tear brimmed eyes, lips puffed out in a soft pout. “sei…” you huff, voice breathy. “you ruined my bed…”

your fingers tug weakly at his arm, lower lip jutting out like you’re genuinely upset, even though your fucked out expression and fluttering lashes tell a different story.

he mumbles under his breath, already resting his head on your chest while he yawns. “y'so spoiled. 's not my fault, y're like a lil princess with a cock addiction."

#blue lock smut #blue lock x reader #nagi x reader #nagi smut #nagi seishiro smut #nagi seishiro x reader #seishiro nagi smut #seishiro nagi x reader

965 notes · View notes

ssoftlyservedd · 17 days ago

Text

♡ ⸝⸝ YOUR FIRST TIME

featuring. bodyguard!nagi

your first time with bodyguard!nagi was unexpected. hired by your rich, overprotective father, nagi was supposed to keep you safe. but instead of some sharp, stoic guard, you got a lazy, game addicted whiner who treated his job like a chore. you thought he was annoying, he thought you were a hassle. still, after a few close calls where he actually did protect you, it was only natural for you two to get closer. and though you hated to admit it, he was attractive. plus, he thought you were undeniably pretty too, even if you were a bit of a spoiled brat.

it was a stormy night when you peeked into his bedroom, tank top clinging to your chest, shorts barely covering anything. he was shirtless on the bed in sweats, messy hair, and lazy gaze lifting as you whisper, “sei… can i stay with you tonight?”

“huh? ‘s late..” he mumbled, although that doesn’t stop you from shuffling in and curling up next to him on the bed, causing him to wrap his arm around you. he sighs, closing his eyes.

“you’re warm,” you whisper. he hums in response, “told you ‘m good at protecting you.”

after a while, you try to sleep, but your thoughts won’t settle. his scent is everywhere, his hand on your back is so gentle, and his chest is firm under your cheek. before you know it, you’re climbing on top of him.

“wha—hey,” he mumbles, eyes opening again to find you straddling his waist. “what’re you doing?”

you whimper in response, grinding slowly over the hardness that’s already starting to form beneath his sweats. even through the fabric, you can still feel how big he is. nagi groans, instinctively reaching out to grab your hips.

it’s not long before his sweats are shoved down, your shorts and panties pushed aside, and you’re sinking down on his cock that’s stretching you out so good your mouth goes slack.

“fuck, feels good.” nagi groans, head falling back against the pillow. his hands rest lazily on your hips as he lets you ride him slow and sloppy, your thighs shaking with every bounce.

“mmh, seishiro… you’re so big,” you whimper as your hips rolled down again, the wet squelch between you two growing louder. you were dripping, pussy clenching around him so tight; his thick cock twitching deep inside you.

it kept hitting that spot that makes your vision blur, and you’re sobbing as you cry out, “fuck— gonna cum!”

“already?” he huffed, “that’s alright, jus’ let go, angel.”

you cum on his cock with a loud, desperate whine, riding out your orgasm as he continues thrusting a little into you. you’re twitching and squirming so much, nagi grips onto your hips tighter to stop your movements.

"stop squirming," he mutters, breath hitching. "such a hassle when you move so much—'m trying to cum in you."

a/n: i thinkkkk im gonna make this into an au

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #blue lock smut #bllk #bllk x reader #bllk smut #nagi x reader #nagi smut #nagi seishiro x reader #nagi seishiro smut

2K notes · View notes

ssoftlyservedd · 18 days ago

Text

better late than never.

pairing: clark kent x fem!reader

summary: you decide to spend your summer between jobs back in your hometown, smallville. it comes to a surprise to both you and your childhood best friend, clark kent, that you're both visiting at the same time. there's nothing quite like the summertime air to help old memories resurface – and maybe stir some old feelings back to life.

wc: 7.1k

genre/tags: fluff, smut (they fuck in his childhood bedroom), childhood friends to lovers, a little inspired by the show smallville, p in v sex, fingering, oral (fem. receiving), size kink, slight praise kink, p w plot, protected sex (reader on bc), creampie.

smallville smells like childhood.

the kind of sticky warmth that clings to your skin and hums with the buzz of cicadas. you'd almost forgotten the sound – how different it was from the constant beeping of hospital monitors or the rush of sirens outside your apartment window.

here, everything is slower. simpler.

you shield your eyes against the sun as you step off the porch, a basket of wet laundry tucked against your hip. martha had insisted you didn't have to help and that you were a guest, but sitting around all day felt like a punishment. after three years in the er, even your burnout had a work ethic.

your sneakers crunch against the gavel path as you head to the clothesline held together by two wooden posts. the kent farm hasn't changed since high school. same creaky porch swing, the same barn, the same fresh-smelling grass. you half-expect to see clark come around the corner, tossing a football in the air, eyes too kind for his own good.

instead, it's the front door that creaks open behind you.

you don't turn around right away. the sound barely registers to you, not until martha calls out from the doorway, warm and surprised.

"clark, honey! we didn't expect you 'til lunch!"

you freeze.

clark kent.

you haven't heard his name out loud in... gosh, years. not since graduation. you've kept tabs of course. who hadn't? he's kind of famous now – a reporter for one of metropolis' biggest papers. the same one that always seems to get the exclusive with superman.

when you turn around, basket still perched on your hip, there he is.

and his eyes catch yours.

something in your chest does a funny thing.

he's broader now. older obviously, but it's more than that. he moves with quiet deliberate ease as he walks up the driveway, like he's always measuring his steps. he's wearing a long sleeved shirt, the sleeves rolled to the elbow, exposing strong forearms,.

he pauses when he sees you. and for a second neither of you say a word.

"y/n?" he says finally, voice warm but uncertain.

martha's voice breaks out before you have a chance to respond. "clark, didn't i tell you we had some help with the farm this summer?"

clark slowly nods, remembering a vague phone call or two when martha gushed about the extra pair of hands helping out around the house. then an amused smile lifts his cheeks for a reason you don't quite understand.

"you never mentioned a name, ma," clark answers when he reaches her, voice low like the rumble of a car engine but still so sweet like honey. you watch him bend to give her a hug and kiss her cheek.

"oh, no? hm, must've slipped my mind," she muses, clearly pleased with herself as she pats his chest lovingly. you've spent enough time with martha to know when she was up to something.

you clear your throat, shifting the basket on your hip, and finally step forward, closer to the porch.

"hi, clark," you say, steady despite the flutter in your chest. "it's been a while."

his eyes soften, and for a moment, the years melt away. it's like you're both still those awkward teenagers from years ago.

clark sets his bag down on the porch, still glancing back at you like he's trying to make sense of something. you wonder if he's just surprised or if he also feels the shift in the air that you feel.

"i'll get lunch started," martha chirps, clearly thrilled. "clark, sweetie, help y/n hang that laundry before it wrinkles."

he huffs a soft laugh. "alright, ma."

you glance at him as he approaches, stepping down from the porch and feet crushes the grass beneath his feet. you hold out a clothespin. he takes it, pinching the wood between his fingers, but not before engulfing you in a warm hug. despite not having hugged him since you both graduated, it feels achingly familiar. his arms wrap around you with an ease that makes your breath catch, the scent of fresh soap and sun clinging to him.

"you got taller," you murmur against his chest.

he chuckles, low and warm, the sound vibrating against your ear. "you got shorter."

you pull back with a mock glare. "that's not how that works."

he grins, eyes crinkling at the corners and deep dimples showing. "still fits though."

you try not to read into it – the way he says it, the way his hands linger at your arms before he lets go.

"my ma got you roped into doing chores around here?" he asks, amusement in his tone as he pulls his arms away and takes a step back to start helping you.

"your mom didn't want me lifting a finger as soon as she saw me walking up the drive. i had to practically beg her to do work," you answer kindly, smile on your face.

"i'm surprised she let you," he hums to himself, sunlight hitting his dark curls.

"she's stubborn," you agree. "just like someone else i know."

that gets a quiet laugh out of him, low and familiar. the kind that used to echo across the bleachers during football games or between rows of corn on late summer nights.

for a while, neither of you say anything. you just fold laundry from a prior load you did while clark helps clip the rest to the line, working in sync like its muscle memory. at some point, he starts handing you clothespins without being asked.

"so," he says after a beat, "er nurse, huh?"

you nod, but don't question how he knows that. "yeah. burnt out enough that i ran away to the countryside for the summer. i needed it, especially considering i'll be in metropolis in september."

his demeanor shifts at that, shoulders straightening at your words. "metropolis, huh?"

"yeah," you reply, sliding a pillowcase onto the line. "got a position at the hospital downtown. figured i could use the summer to recharge before diving back in."

clark nods to himself, the corner of his mouth ticking up in a small smile. "that's... great. didn't know you were thinking of moving. you seemed pretty set on central city when you left."

you shrug, eyes flicking to his. "wasn't planning on it until a few months ago. it just felt like the right time. change of pace, y'know?"

he hums in acknowledgment, nodding again.

"you'll like metropolis," he says. "it's fast, sure, but there's something kind of special about it. the skyline. the way the city never sleeps." you watch the way he talks about it. you notice the way his eyes flicker, like he's picturing it already.

"i always thought you belonged in a big city," he continues softly, almost like he doesn't realize he's saying it out loud. "you were always bright. restless."

you blink, heart tugging in your chest slightly. "you used to say i was bossy," you point out.

"that, too," he says with a sheepish grin. "but in a good way."

you roll your eyes, but your smile stays planted on your face. you fall into a steady silence, the summer wind bristling against you as you continue hanging bedding up until the basket is empty.

the rest of the day passes in a rhythm that feels both productive and strangely peaceful. you and clark move from chore to chore (sweeping out the barn, scrubbing the porch chairs, picking tomatoes from the garden) while trading light conversations and shared glances as the hours pass you by. it's easy, falling back into step with him as if seven years hadn't gone by.

later that evening, martha's voice floats across the yard: "dinner's ready!"

inside, on the table, there are platters of roast chicken, mashed potatoes and fresh veggies from the garden that makes your stomach rumble.

you take your old spot across from clark – the same one you used to fill during sleepovers and sunday night dinners. jonathan is in his usual chair, nodding at you both with a smile.

during dinner, jonathan launches into stories clark’s probably heard a thousand times but you’re genuinely laughing and clark finds himself watching you instead of eating.

he catches your gaze once from across the table when martha asks him how work's been. his knee bumps yours from under the table and neither of you move away nor say a word about it.

after dinner, the sky turns a dull blue and martha announces that she and jonathan are heading to the neighbors' for a card game.

"we'll probably be back late," she adds casually, as if she hasn't orchestrated the perfect opportunity for the two of you to be alone.

and once they're gone, the house settles into a new quiet.

you lean against the kitchen counter, finishing your glass of fresh lemonade while clark rinses dishes, fingers slick with soap.

"i can dry," you offer.

with a toothless smile, clark tosses you a dish towel without looking. "you're only saying that because you hate washing."

"always have," you confirm simply, catching it.

he chuckles and for a moment, it really does feel like no time has passed. you think of the countless times you'd argued over which chores to do when you stayed over as teens.

after the last plate is stacked and the light over the sink is flicked off, leaving the kitchen in a soft glow from the outdoor lamp shining through the screen door, there's a beat of hesitation between you.

you're not quite ready to call it a night – and apparently, neither is he.

"you wanna..." clark scratches the back of his neck. "go up to my room? catch up?"

you nod.

he leads the way, up the same creaky stairs you've walked hundred times before. but it feels different now. his figure ahead of you is broader. his steps are heavier. you're not kids anymore.

on the contrary, his room still looks like it belongs to a teenage boy: high school trophies lined up on the dresser, old comics books stacked beside a nightstand, band posters lined up on the wall. everything is preserved like it's a time capsule.

you sit cross-legged on the floor, the smooth hardwood cool beneath your legs as clark pulls down an old dusty box from his closet. he flips it open with a small grunt, and inside are relics from his childhood.

you look into the box, smiling softly as flashes of memories happen behind your eyes. a faded baseball glove, a polaroid of him and pete at the county fair, and a bunch of old high school notebooks of his; one has ALGEBRA 2 scrawled in his handwriting on the front marble cover.

"can't believe you kept all of this," you muse softly.

"ma said she couldn't bear to throw it out." he shrugs. "i haven't seen this stuff since i left."

"really?" you ask, somewhat surprised at the thought. you can see the layer of dust along the surfaces of his dresser and desk, evidence that it'd been left untouched for a while, but you didn't expect he hadn't been home at all.

"yeah," he murmurs, trailing a finger over a dusty trophy as if reading your mind. he rubs the dust particles between his fingers before flicking it off. "just... went straight to college and then the internship at the planet and then... before i knew it i was just settled in metropolis."

"my mom would've killed me had i not visited," you chuckle to yourself.

"well, you know my ma," he says softly, a fond smile tugging at his lips. "she said as long as i called every sunday, she'd let it slide."

you glance up at him, the warm overhead light catching on the edge of his jaw, the slope of his nose. he's older, now, clearly, but in the soft light like this, his hair tousled and in an old flannel that no doubt had to be his father's, it's easy to remember the boy he used to be.

"how come you never came back?" you ask, head tilting aside.

his smile fades a little, not all the way, but enough for you to notice. he moves to sink down on the edge of his bed. he doesn't answer right away. he just sits there for a beat, fingers laced loosely between his knees.

"life's been..." he trails off, looking at a bulletin board above his desk – faded snapshots pinned beside old movie ticket stubs and postcards, tiny remnants of a simpler time. his eyes linger on a photo of the two of you from years ago, blurry from motion but unmistakably happy. he exhales slowly, like the weight of everything is pressing down on his shoulders.

you wait.

"complicated," he finishes softly, hands clasped over his knees as he leans forward, elbows resting there.

you hum noncommittally, taking another glance around his bedroom before standing from the floor and settling down beside him, the springs of his twin bed creaking under your weight.

"because you're superman," you muse softly, nodding to yourself. your tone is so casual, it's as if you're mumbling about something as demure as the weather.

"yeah," clark trails off with faraway look in his eyes before it's as if the words register and he whips his head aside to face you. "wait–"

you only meet his gaze with a small smile, a calm knowing gleam in your eyes.

"how long have you–" he starts, voice low.

"known?" you tip your head, pretending to think. "mm... years. i suspected something off about you in high school but couldn't name it. and then when i saw clark kent was the sole interviewer for the new superhero in metropolis, i put two and two together. that, and you've never worn glasses 'til you left smallville."

his brows knit together like he's thinking hard, then his expression softens. "you never said anything."

you shrug. "figured if you wanted me to know, you'd tell me. didn't seem like my secret to name."

clark exhales a quiet laugh, something incredulous and fond all at once. "you're kind of amazing, you know that?"

you smile softly, a soft flush painting your cheeks. "you're literally a superhero and you're calling me amazing?"

"well..." he tilts his his, eyes lingering on you in that way that always made you chest feel too full, even when you were teenagers. "you saw through me. and never said a word. that's... rare."

you glance down at your hands, suddenly aware of how close you're sitting. his bed isn't that bed, and the two of you, perched side by side with knees almost touching. it feels heavier now. warmer.

"wasn't hard to figure out," you murmur. "you always ran off when danger came around. and it was always toward the danger."

he winces, a sheepish smile pulling at his lips. "i wasn't exactly subtle, was i?"

you huff a laugh, leaning back on your palms as you gaze up at the ceiling. "not really. but i didn't care. i figured there had to be a good reason. and there was."

he watches you for a beat. there's something different in his eyes now. it's something soft. something quiet.

"i should've told you," he says softly.

you shrug again, playing it cool even though your heart is hammering against your ribs.

a pause.

"was it lonely?" you ask, voice quiet.

"in the beginning, yeah." he nods solemnly. his voice is low, like he's afraid to say it too loud. "i was figuring it all out in real time – what i could do, what i should do. and it felt like if i let anyone in... it'd all fall apart."

you turn your head, eyes finding his.

"i would've kept your secret," you say, steady and sure.

"i know," he replies, like he's known it for years. like it's the one thing he's always been sure of. "but you didn't deserve the sort of danger it'd put you in."

"you didn't give me a chance to decide if it was a risk i wanted to take."

"i thought keeping you out of it was the way to protect you," he says after a moment.

you understand his way of thinking, truly. clark is nothing but selfless – always carrying the weight of the world like it's second nature. like it's his burden alone to bear.

but beneath, that strength, there's always been a vulnerability you've glimpsed only in rare moments. a question lingering just beneath the surface.

"does it scare you?" he asks, voice low. "knowing what i am?"

your gaze flickers to him and you don't hesitate.

"you could never scare me, clark," you murmur softly, your voice steady. "you've always been just... you. maybe with broader shoulders and a ridiculous jawline now, but you're still the same guy who used to sneak out at night to watch the stars with me on my roof."

clark lets out a breath, barely audible but you feel it more than you hear it. the kind of exhale someone release when they're holding too much in.

despite having his own telescope in the barn, he was always adamant on watching the stars on your rooftop.

"i liked the view better from there," he says, a little shy, a little teasing.

you smile, eyes looking up at the ceiling. "the stars?"

"you," he admits, and it’s barely more than a whisper. "it's why i kissed you the last night before i left for metropolis u."

your breath catches in your throat. it would be so easy to laugh it off, to make a joke, to deflect like you always used to. but you don’t. you turn your head slowly instead, and you find him already looking at you.

his eyes are so blue. painfully blue. they always were. but there’s something raw in them now. older. deeper.

"i thought maybe you forgot about that," you say softly.

"i think about it all the time."

the memory slips between you like smoke: the two of you sat side by side on the slabs of your roof, your knees pulled up and a blanket slung lazily over your shoulders. the stars were faint that night but clark stayed anyway, quiet and still, like he was trying to memorize everything. you'd been talking about school, about packing, about how weird it felt to leave.

and then, when the silence stretched long and uncertain, he stood to climb down the way he'd come, but he hesitated. you didn't have a chance to question what was wrong until he climbed back up, leaned in and kissed you. it was gentle and trembling and far too short, like it hurt him not to do it but it hurt more not to.

you hadn't talked about it after. neither of you knew what to say. you were leaving for different schools, different cities, different lives. it felt like the kind of kiss meant to stay tucked away in a quiet corner of the past.

but now he's here. and you're here. and that kiss doesn't feel like an ending anymore.

your voice is barely a whisper. "i tried not to read into it. figured it was just a goodbye thing."

"it wasn't," he says, so firmly it makes your chest ache. "not for me."

you sit up slowly, and he mirrors you, knees now brushing.

"clark," you say, almost like a question.

"i never stopped thinking about you," he answers. "even when we lost touch. even when i tried not to."

your heart beats like a drum in your chest, blood rushing in your ears. "i never stopped, either," you whisper.

he leans in like gravity’s pulling him. slow enough to stop. slow enough to make sure. but you don't stop him. you tilt forward, and when his lips touch yours, it feels like memory and future all at once.

it’s soft at first. tentative. like you’re both relearning the shape of each other, grown-up versions of the people who used to share secrets.

but then his hand comes up to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing the hinge of it gently, and the kiss deepens. you shift closer, thighs pressing against his, and the heat that simmers between you spikes.

he groans low in his throat when your hands fist in the front of his flannel. he’s so solid beneath it — broad chest, firm shoulders, heat radiating off of him in waves.

clark kisses with fervor, like he's starved for this – for you. his mouth hovers yours with a kind of ardor, but there's something hungry beneath it, too. like something years in the making.

his hands find your hips, thumbs pressing into the dip of your waist as he pulls you into his lap. you gasp a little at the feel of him beneath you, hard already and straining against his jeans, and it makes something warm pool low in your belly.

you pull back just barely, lips swollen and breath shallow. "we’re really about to do this in your childhood bedroom?"

his grin is boyish, a flush rising to his cheeks. "i mean… unless you have a better idea."

you laugh breathlessly and tug him back into another kiss.

"you sure?" he asks, open-mouthed kisses trailing downward against your throat, voice hoarse, before his lips brush just under your ear.

"so sure," you whisper, rocking against him. "been sure since i was sixteen."

his groan is ragged as he flips you gently onto your back, slotting himself between your thighs with a reverence that makes your head spin. he shrugs off the red flannel, tossing it behind him and leaving him in a white t-shirt.

"then let me make up for lost time." his hands slide up your sides, fingers tracing delicate paths beneath your ribs. the room is quiet except for the soft, uneven breaths you both share.

your hands find the hem of his shirt, fingers trembling as you tug it upward before he gets the hint and finishes yanking it off, throwing it somewhere behind him. your palms pressed to the hard planes of his chest and abs. his skin is warm under touch, as if a fire wakes following every trail of your fingers.

clark's lips find your neck, slow and devoted, leaving a trail of soft kisses that make your pulse flutter. you tilt your head back, exposing more, shivering at the contact.

his hands travel lower, slipping beneath your shirt to feel the smooth skin of your waist. your shirt is already halfway off when he lifts it the rest of the way, tugging it over your head with a breathless laugh. you giggle as it gets momentarily caught on your elbow, but he helps, pulling it off and tossing it aside.

then his gaze drops.

you're in your bra, the soft cotton modest, but the way his eyes darken makes your skin prickle. the look in his eye could suggest you're wearing something far sexier than a polka dot bra.

his voice is low when he asks, "can i?"

you nod, humming in confirmation because your throat can't find the words. "mhm."

clark leans in, kissing down the slope of your shoulder before trailing slowly to the swell of your breast. his big hands come up to cup you through the fabric first, thumbs brushing lightly until your back arches. with unhurried fingers, he unclasps your bra and lets it slides down your arms.

"wow," he murmurs, looking at you with utter admiration. "you're... you're perfect."

you flush under the praise and you smile shyly, but it doesn't stop the way your body reacts when he touches you again.

his hands are everywhere; they're gentle on your ribs, firm on your hips, grounding you as he kisses down your chest, reverent kisses trailing around the slope of your breasts. he kisses you like he's been waiting years to do this, a pent up passion restrained behind his actions.

his mouth wraps around your nipple, hot and wet, and you gasp at the feeling. your fingers thread through his curls, tugging just a little when his teeth scrape lightly before he soothes the ache with his tongue.

"clark," you whisper, body arching against him and thighs already shifting restlessly beneath him.

he lifts his head, lips slick and pupils blown. "yeah?"

you meet his eyes, your breath shivering out of you. "need more," you manage, hips bucking upward for emphasis.

something tenses in him at your words. a quiet, almost disbelieving sound leaves his throat, like he still can't believe this is real. it's like he's spent years imagining this exact moment.

"okay," he murmurs, nodding to himself. "yeah, 've got you."

his hands trail down to the denim of your shorts, fingers brushing against the brass metal button. his eyes flit to yours, searching for any hesitance in your eyes but you only meet his gaze with a steady stare and a nod of your head.

he swallows, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat. with deft fingers, he unhooks the button from your shorts and pulls down the zipper. you swear his breath hitches at the sliver of the sight of what you would call your most mundane pair of panties – baby blue cotton with simple white lace hemmed across each edge.

you lift your hips when, with trembling hands, he pulls down the denim of your shorts, sliding them down your thighs as you lift your hips up to help. once they're down to your ankles, he throws them aside.

his hands are reverent as they glide up the skin of your legs, starting from your calves before meeting the flesh of your thighs. his hands settle there, gently nudging them open.

you shift instinctively, legs parting for him but the flush settled over your cheeks tells him how vulnerable your feel. he leans down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your knee first, and then your thigh, being slow and steady. by the time he reaches the soft fabric of your underwear, you're practically shaking.

he presses his mouth over the damp spot, inhaling softly before groaning into your heat.

you whimper, hips twitching. the sound you make is soft and needy, and clark eats it up like it's the only thing he'd ever wanted to hear. his thumbs brush along the creases of your thighs as he settles between them.

his voice is low and ragged when he murmurs, "you're so wet, sweetheart."

your whole body flushes at the pet name and you feel the ache of need build in your gut. he presses a kiss just over the fabric, then another, and then another. you're gasping and it's not from the pressure. you're gasping from how slow he's going, how reverent he's being.

his fingers hook into the sides of your panties, tugging gently. "can i take these off?"

"please," you whisper.

clark doesn't make you beg again. his hands curl under your thighs and he hooks your panties down slow, watching every inch of you being revealed with a heavy-lidded gaze. when the fabric peels away, he lets out a shaky exhale.

"gosh," he mutters, almost to himself. his hands spread along your thighs as he looks down at your pussy, glistening, soft and aching for him. "you're... wow."

you blush but your thighs fall open for him anyway shamelessly.

he dips down, but instead of diving in, he places one soft kiss to your inner thigh. he presses another kiss, a little closer. and then he presses another, right beside your folds. it's close enough to feel his breath fan your core but it's not enough.

your hips lift off the mattress, springs creaking beneath your form.

"clark," you pant, almost scolding. "don't tease."

he laughs, but there's a tension in it now. his restraint is evidently thinning. "'m sorry," he says, but he doesn't sound sorry at all. "just... been thinking about this for years. i wanna take my time."

clark leans in finally, pressing a soft, wet kiss to your folds. the first sweep of his tongue is slow, almost experimental, like he's savoring the taste of you. like he's imprinting the taste into his memory.

you gasp, fingers shooting down to thread through his hair, hips twitching helplessly under him.

he groans against you when he feels your reactions, the sound sending a buzz within you. his hands flex on your thighs to keep you spread open as he licks a broad, slow stripe form your entrance to your clit. you feel everything. you feel the heat of his mouth, the plush of his lips, the movement of his tongue, it all makes you see stars.

"god," you breathe, tugging on his hair instinctively. "clark."

"mmhmm," he hums against you, and the vibration go straight through you again. he's easing in now, more confident as he figures out exactly what makes you moan and sigh. his tongue circles your clit gently with a particular precision before pressing flat against it, applying just enough pressure to make your thighs tense around his head.

you're already dizzy when you feel the first touch of his fingers. they're big and warm, trailing up your thigh before they ghost along your slick entrance.

"you're so wet," he murmurs again, lifting his head for just a second to look up at you. his mouth is glistening, eyes dark with desire.

his fingers trail down until the pads are gliding through your slick folds. his ministrations are careful, almost curious, but you know damn well clark isn't naive. this is about intention. this is him wanting to feel every inch of you, to truly learn what your body responds to.

his thumb brushes up, just barely circling your clit. you shiver, hips trembling.

and then one finger begins to press inside your velvet walls.

he's careful. so careful. and thank god he is, because even one of his fingers stretches you more than any man ever has before. your walls flutter helplessly around the intrusion, slick and wanting. your breath hitches and he sinks it in slowly, letting you adjust to the stretch.

"you're already gripping me so tight, sweetheart," he murmurs softly, "y'have to relax for me."

you nod with a shaky breath, attempting to relax your tense walls.

clark helps, too. his mouth returns to your clit, tongue moving slowly and circling your center with intent. the combination of his tongue and finger has your head falling back against the pillow.

"there you go," he coos softly against your skin. "let me in."

you gasp when his finger crooks inside you, rubbing against your gummy walls. you moan softly, hands curling into the sheets as your hips rolls up instinctively against his touch. your walls flutter around him, wet and hot, clenching down as he starts a slow rhythm.

his finger is so thick. your body pulse around it, already stretched in a way that makes you whimper with anticipation.

"i want more," you whisper.

clark's brows lift slightly, concern flickering across his face even through the haze of arousal. "you sure?"

you nod eagerly. "mhm, wanna get used to you."

he understands what you mean. you want to get used to his fingers so that inevitably you could take the throbbing length straining against his jeans. he groans softly, slowly nodding his head.

his free hand slides up your thigh again, holding you open as he slowly adds a second finger. it's a stretch – a delicious, burning ache that has your thighs twitching – but he keeps his mouth on your clit the whole time, tongue soothing and lips gentle.

you do your best to relax. you try to breathe through it, focusing on the way his mouth works in tandem with his fingers, now curling and scissoring inside you to aid opening you up. your walls flutter around him, wet a needy, dripping onto his hand with every stroke.

you feel full. so full.

and he's not even inside you yet.

"fuck, clark... feels so good," you gasp, hips grinding down against his fingers.

"you're doing great, sweetheart," he praises, kissing your inner thigh. "you're taking my fingers so well."

you whimper, head thrown back, sweat prickling along your skin. your fingers find his hair again and they tighten around the locks, making him groan into your heat. it's as if he loves the way you react to him, like every moan and sigh a reward in of itself.

his two fingers continue to thrust deeper, dragging along your walls in a rhythm that has your legs shaking.

"clark," you murmur, need thick in your voice. "please."

he groans softly, gently withdrawing his fingers. you whine at the lose, but the sound dies in your throat when you watch him lean back on his knees and reach for the button of his jeans.

"want you so bad," you murmur softly.

his gaze is heavy when it meets yours, blue eyes dark and pupils blown out. "yeah?"

you nod, biting your bottom lip.

he unbuttons his jeans slowly, like he's still making sure you have time to change your mind. but you don't. you won't. not when he pulls them down along with his boxers and his cock springs free, flushed and thick and massive.

his cock stands proud and heavy in front of you, a hot pulse throbbing at the tip, flushed pink beneath the dim light of his childhood room. you swallow hard, eyes tracing every inch of him, breath hitching at the sheer intensity of the moment you're sharing.

clark reaches for you, hands warm as they glide up your thighs, steadying you as he positions himself at your entrance. his gaze flickers to yours, seeking permission.

you nod, breathless but sure. so sure.

he presses the head of his cock, already slick from pre-cum, between your folds, mixing your essence with his as he rubs himself up and down your slit to gather more slick.

you shudder when he presses against your entrance, slowly pushing inside you. the stretch is delicious, the head of his cock squeezing between the velvet walls of your pussy.

he doesn't rush. instead, he waits, holding still and giving you a moment to adjust. your fingers clutch at the sheets.

then, he nudges in, barely another inch, ensuring to be careful. you shiver at the stretch, the fullness you already feel, and the overwhelming heat pooling in your lower belly.

clark's breath is ragged and his voice strained as he looks into your eyes. "you okay?" he asks.

you nod, voice shaky. "yeah, y'can keep going."

with an agonizing slowness, he sinks deeper, inch by inch, each movement measured so intently. your walls stretch and open around him, tightening and relaxing as they try to accommodate his size.

he's big – you figured he was big from his massive frame but this... this is far bigger than you expected.

he pauses again when he's halfway in, savoring the moment as his hips still. "almost there," he breathes, his tone needy and full of awe.

you reach for him, fingers tangling in his curls to bring him closer, silently urging him on. he follows you, taking his hands from your thighs and placing them on either side of your head, head now just above yours, meeting your eyes. the eye contact is electric – raw and intense. your breaths mingle, shallow and fast and it's as if the world around you shrinks and it's just you two.

he groans, low and guttural, the sound vibrating through you as he eases in deeper. "you're so tight," he grits out. "been thinking about this forever."

your fingers dig into the muscles of his back as he inches further, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist, trying to pull his closer even as your body adjusts to his size. he still hasn't bottomed, and yet he feels impossibly deep already.

"clark," you whimper, your voice wrecked. "you're not even all the way–"

"i know, sweetheart," he murmurs against your mouth, voice rough, "i know."

he withdraws a little, then rocks forward again. he's gentle, patient, coaxing you open with shallow rolls of his hips. each motion sinks him just a bit more. your walls flutter around him, trying to take more as your body clenches with every subtle thrust.

by the time his hips finally meet yours, you're trembling beneath him – panting, sweat-slick, overwhelmed and so full you don't know where he ends and you begin. he stills inside you, burying his face in your neck as you both gasp for breath.

"hah," he huffs against you. "you feel... gosh, you feel like heaven."

your fingers tighten in his curls, pulling him up to your lips for a desperate kiss that tastes like relief.

slowly, he begins to move – gentle, deliberate thrusts that build from tender to urgent. you gasp as his hands move back down to grip your hips, anchoring himself as he sets a steady rhythm.

the heat between you grows immensely and you arch up into him, meeting ever push of his hips against you, your walls fluttering around him as if they were made to fit only him.

and in this moment, you think they were.

"clark," you breathe, your voice a breathy moan.

he hums lowly in response, eyes dark and glazed over, completely and utter lost in you.

time blurs. you don't know if it's been hours or minutes. all you feel is him inside you, your bodies moving in perfect sync and the weight of everything unsaid over the course of the past seven years that's not being spoken in gasps and touches.

your dig your nails into his shoulders as his thrusts grow more insistent and you feel the pressure build deep inside you.

clark's breath hitches, ragged and uneven against your throat. his hands squeeze your hips like he never wants to let go, grounding himself as he drives in deeper, harder. the sound of skin meeting skin fills the quiet room, with exception to your mingling pants and groans.

"you're incredible," he groans, voice thick with need and his lips brushing your ear. "so beautiful... so perfect."

you shiver under the praise, the heat pooling low and rising fast as your body responds to him. your legs wrap tighter around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer.

he kisses down you neck again, teeth grazing your earlobe lightly as he whisper, "you feel so good... god, i missed you."

your heart stutters in your chest. "i missed you, too. more than i ever admitted to myself."

his hips stutter and then pick up, thrusting with growing urgency. your vision gets hazy as the pleasure coil tight in your belly. you lose yourself to the way he moves, the way your bodies fit together like they were made for it.

his voice breaks as he nears his own release, the tension building between you to an unbearable peak.

"cum for me," he rasps, eyes burning into yours.

you cry out, voice trembling with the force of your own climax, muscles clenching around him in waves. you feel him begin to pull away but that makes your legs tighten around his waist.

"sweetheart, i'm about to–" he stammers, brows pinching in restraint.

"i know... want it inside," you murmur, eyes boring into his.

that makes his eyes widen to saucers but you can't deny the heat brimming behind his eyes.

"i'm on birth control," you say, barely above a whisper.

"are you sure?" he asks, hid voice low and already breathless. "because i'm trying really hard to hold back right now.

you don't hesitate. "i don't want you to."

that's all it takes.

clark starts thrusting again – deeper, more urgent now, the rhythm stuttering as he chases his high. it's only a matter of moments before his pace falters. he lets out a strangled groan, burying himself to the hilt one final time and you gasp at the feeling.

his cock twitches as he spills inside you, thick ropes of white filling you up until you swear you can feel it dripping out around the base of him. you croon at the sensation, you arms wrapped tight around his back, holding him close through it.

clark groans into your neck again, like he's falling apart in the safety of your arms. you feel him press kisses into your skin, humming softly against you.

"you don't know how long i've wanted that," he murmurs, voice slightly ragged.

you're still catching your breath, but you manage a soft laugh, your voice thick with affection. "worth the wait?"

he lifts his head just long enough to look at you, his eyes slightly crinkled as he smiles down at you. "more than you'll ever know."

you smile, your hand brushing damp curls from his forehead. he's so close like this – still inside you, panting softly against your skin. the air is thick with the scent of sex, sweat and something sweeter.

you tilt your head, lips brushing against his jaw. "we really just had sex in your childhood bedroom," you whisper, teasing but breathless.

he chuckles, low and rough, his nose brushing yours. "yes, we did."

"guess it's convenient i've been relocated to metropolis then," you murmur softly, fingers digging into his scalp, gently scratching his skin.

he hums in response – to your words or ministrations, you can't tell – and adds, "'m pretty lucky then." he presses a kiss to your cheek. "when you get all settled in, can i take you out?"

your brow lifts and you pause your scratching. "well, i'd sure hope so since you just came inside me."

he chuckles through his nose, blinking at you. "fair point," he says, his smile crooked. "i guess we kind of skipped a few steps, huh?"

you grin, dragging your nails lightly along the hair at the back of his neck. "just a few. like... coffee. or dinner."

he lifts his head just enough to meet your gaze, eyes soft and sincere. "seriously, i want to do this right. all of it. you and me."

something in your chest tightens at that, a bloom of warmth filling you. "good," you whisper. "because i want that, too."

he kisses you again, slower now. he kisses you like he has all the time in the world. he rolls onto his side, pulling you with him and keeping you closer, his arms still wrapped around your waist and cock slowly softening inside you. you sigh softly, settling into the warmth of him, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. outside, the sounds of nature hum quietly, but here, in this small room full of memories of your past, everything feels right.

ʚĭɞ reblogs and interaction always appreciated! ʚĭɞ

#superman #superman 2025 #clark kent x reader #clark kent x y/n #clark kent #clark kent x you #clark kent fluff #dc x reader #superman x reader #superman x you

4K notes · View notes