thedyingwriter

[thedyingwriter]

Tears (run down my thighs...)

synopsis: Honestly, you almost wished you had a bit more self-respect—sure, Clark's obviously more attractive than all of the other men you've dated, but a lot of the things that turn you on about him are pretty commonplace. Also, it's early days. You're not even sure if you can call him your 'boyfriend' yet, but still, here you are, imagining jumping his bones all because the poor, charming, achingly handsome guy is assembling the new chair you got from IKEA.

word count: 5.2k

content warnings: I don't even know how to tag this. Competence kink, I guess? The reader literally gets turned on by Clark doing the bare minimum (being responsible, respectful to women, putting together furniture...). Some strong language, allusions to smut, plenty of sexual tension, domestic fluff, implied phone sex/mutual masturbation, horniness, they're both disgustingly down bad for each other, mentions of past shitty boyfriends, erm, gratuitous descriptions of how damningly hot and charming Corenswet's Clark Kent is. Anything else? Oh, a smattering of Sabby C references. Also, it's very unedited. I wrote this in a blind, mad rush.

note: This might, inadvertently, be the least feminist thing I've ever written. I swear, the reader isn't usually like this! Clark just has this kind of effect on people. This ended up way more lovey-dovey than I meant it to be. I'll do something sluttier soon, probably.

Inspired by, Tears by Sabrina Carpenter

A little initiative can go a very long, long way / Baby, just do the dishes, I'll give you what you want...

You swear, you didn't mean to objectify Clark.

It was kind of like this internal reaction your body and mind would get whenever he did something mildly responsible, or said anything remotely rational and astute around you. Last week, he mentioned that he checked the weather for the night of your date and told you, completely innocently, that you should probably bring a coat and wear sensible shoes. It probably turned you on more than any lousy boyfriend ever had before him.

It didn't exactly help your internalised kicking yourself (for the total lack of self-respect or dignity this predicament was leaving you with) that you and Clark had only being going about for about two months at this point. Honestly, you weren't even sure if you could call him your 'boyfriend' yet. He hadn't asked you to be his girlfriend, and he didn't introduce you as such the other night when his adoring Ma and Pa called to check in, just as the two of you were eating the shakshuka he cheffed up. Rather, he flipped the camera around, almost shoving his phone under your nose and brightly telling his folks your name, cheesing at you as they bumbled out affectionate hello, dear!s and took it in turns telling you how pretty you were.

(After Martha Kent mock-sternly asked him when he was going to bring you back to Smallville to meet them in person, Clark went this darling, pinkish colour and hastened to wrap up the call. He didn't quite meet your eyes for the rest of the evening).

Whatever.

In all honesty, you didn't care that much for the label. Not yet, anyways. This, whatever it was you had, was enough. The bi-weekly dates he would take you on, and the fresh tulips in the earthenware vase on your desk at the Daily Planet every Monday without fail. Almost, you were afraid of the illusion shattering after you did become 'the girlfriend.' This aching part of you dreaded that this rosiness would leave if Clark was to officially call you guys 'together,' and that the honeymooning nights of charming dinners in candlelit restaurants, the tender, careful sex, and the litany of lovely, absentminded things he did for you without expecting anything in return would come to an end. After all, every other guy you've dated suddenly would lose all charm and doting effort as soon as you became their girlfriend—as if to say, here, damn, can you stop expecting me to be a decent guy, now?

Realistically, you knew Clark wasn't like that. But, you really, really liked this phase you were in now.

And you really liked how competent and helpful Clark was.

"—then he said that it's front-page worthy and to keep up all the good work—honey? Hey, are you listening?"

Shit. Right. He's here. In your apartment.

It's easy to lose yourself in thoughts about Clark. Having sex with Clark. Being on dates with Clark. How handsome he looked. You get in your head about plenty of things, but he was a different caliber of distracting and consuming. It was almost as if he burrowed himself into the hollow space under your ribs that had been yawningly empty ever since your last boyfriend split.

You were sat on the countertop of your apartment's kitchenette, your thighs mostly bare thanks to the cotton sleep-shorts that hiked up, the flesh underneath touching the cold granite as your feet swung naturally. Clark, however, was elbow-deep in the soapy suds of your sink, washing the dishes from the delicious dinner he just cooked for the two of you, and you suddenly remember what had you so caught up in sugared daydreams this time. And, really, if your mum knew that the daughter she raised to be independent, uncompromising, and a bit of a misandrist, was fawning over her not-boyfriend simply because he was doing the dishes, she'd probably grab you by the shoulders and shake you so hard that your gooey, Clark-filled brain would rattle against your skull.

But, she should try being in your position and having the sight you had right now. Which, excruciatingly, involved the crisp-white sleeves of Clark's shirt being rolled up to his elbows, toned forearms covered in soapy bubbles, and the material around his broad shoulders straining as he craned at the waist to blink at you all obliviously. Almost doe-eyed, he definitely didn't realise that you were naming the imaginable children you never really wanted until him, and brainstorming other menial chores you could ask him to do around your apartment.

"Sweetheart? Hey, are you all right—"

"Huh?" You blink, startled. "Oh. Shit, sorry, yes. M'listening."

Clark's head tilted to the side, unconvinced. "Are you sure? I feel like I lost you there."

"Nope, didn't lose me," you replied as earnestly as you could, flashing him a warm smile.

It softened out the worrying lines between his eyebrows and made a boyish grin of his own curve up the corners of his mouth. God, he hurt your heart.

It genuinely rattled you that he was this attractive.

"All right," he said amiably, turning back around to rinse off the wooden chopping board he used earlier to dice vegetables, "if you say so."

Then, he was going on again about his latest article, one that he was extremely proud of, because it was all about social justice and the importance of good, old-fashioned neighbourly kindness in the big city. And, yes, you were proud of him too—and you really were trying to listen to him, because it was a beautiful article, and so well-being, and compassionate, and all the other wonderful things you could say about the issue and Clark alike. But it was really hard to concentrate when he was unravelling the dish towel you kept slung through the door-handle of the oven to dry his hands before making sure your dishes were arranged carefully enough on the draining-board so he could fully grant you his attention. In doing so, he realised with another warm, face-splitting grin that he had indeed lost you again, and you would've missed the soft laugh that swelled through his chest if it wasn't for his large hands coming to rest on your thighs.

"And she's gone again," he mused wryly, one of his thumbs rubbing soft circles on your skin.

"Nope," you deny, tangling your legs around his waist, threading your fingers through the belt-loops of his work trousers, "not gone. Right..." you lean forward, smacking a kiss against his jawbone, "here."

Clark blushed furiously, hands gripping your thighs a little tighter.

"Hmm," he mumbled, "sure. So, what was I saying then?"

"You were talking about your amazing, brilliant, Pulitzer-price worthy—"

"Okay, that's an exaggeration—"

"Article," you finished, ignoring him, lips now smearing your faded gloss against his cheekbone next.

Your hands moved, always greedy, and flattened against his chest, smoothing down a few creases in that unfair shirt of his. He pressed even deeper into your flesh, never hard, but so distinctly him in the half-soft, half-calloused pads of his fingertips—you never really did understand how he could simultaneously have the working-hands of a farm boy, but a tenderness that never felt rough like the toughened hands of other guys you'd been with.

"And," he interjected hoarsely, emptying his throat, skin reddening under your roaming mouth, "what was I saying about the article?"

Right hand now on the nape of his neck, you raked your nails gently against the curled tufts of hair he had their, and delivered the most teasing smile you could for a woman who was just thinking about the blatantly torrid ways to thank her not-boyfriend for the bare minimum of cleaning plates.

"Always work with you, isn't it, Kent?" you sighed fawningly, pretending to be a tinge forlorn. "Never the girl throwing herself at you..."

Clark's pupils were blown. "Throwing...you're, wait..." Your hands were on his belt.

"Waiting," you said sweetly, letting your hands linger.

"Where's this come from, honey?" he asked a little breathily. "I mean, I'm not complaining, but, all we did was eat dinner."

"God forbid mushroom risotto gets a woman a bit riled up?"

Your hands still didn't move to unbuckle his belt. He said wait, after all.

Clark laughed warmly. "Risotto gets you going, huh? Duly noted."

And you doing the dishes, you mused to yourself, and turning up for work at the right time, and holding the door open for me, and how you know where all of my kitchen utensils are kept, and—

Clark beamed at you like you were the prettiest thing he's ever seen, and he was still stood between your legs, knees grazing his hips, this half-hesitance about him as if he still couldn't decide whether he should pull you closer or wait for a signal (like you hadn't given him enough). All of this made the sinews of your heart throb, because only Clark Kent could go from looking like the most capable in the man in the world to the most endearingly self-conscious boy to put his hands on you.

You wanted to kiss the air from his lungs.

"So," you drawled drolly, sinking your ankles into the hollow dimples at the base of his spine, "what's the going rate for your dishwasher services, Kent? Because payday's not for another week, and I was thinking I could compensate you in—"

"You don't have to pay me for washing your dishes," he laughed, the wonderful, half-startled sound rumbling through his chest under your left palm.

You squint a bit, cursing yourself. "Oh, I know," you said airily, pecking the corner of his sweet mouth, trying to figure out how to go about this subtly, "but I want to. Generous tipper and all that."

Clark's hands flexed again, and despite that gorgeous smile he was giving you, there was a small dip of his eyebrows and enough of a crease between them to tell you that he wasn't quite sure what it was that you were offering, or rather, if he was even deserving of it. His gentlemanliness made you want to tighten your thighs around him, but it also bothered you the slightest bit. Could this beautiful, wonderful boy get the hint?

"Not really sure I did much to earn your generous tipping, to be fair, honey," chuckled Clark, lighthearted and so sweetly ignorant.

"I think you've done plenty, Clark," you retorted patiently, thumb tracing the dimple his smile punctured in his ruddy cheek. "You made me that risotto—"

"Oh, the risotto that's apparently got you so riled up, yeah?"

"Mhm, the very same—and then, after painstakingly cooking for us—"

"It really wasn't that big of a deal, I love cooking for—"

"And doing my dishes," you swooned, pressing another kiss to the one corner of his mouth, then a third to the other, more deliberate and lingering, enough for you to feel his mirroring dimple make a charming appearance. The fourth kiss was featherlight and directly to his soft lips. "See? Easy. Payment rendered."

"Mm," said Clark thoughtfully, trying to sound very pensive, though his breath was more shallow now with your mouth still so close to his, and his eyes glued to that imperceptible space between you like it was becoming physically bothersome. "I don't know, sweetheart, 'feels like I might be overcharging you."

You giggled, and genuinely wanted to throw yourself off the roof of the apartment complex for how coquettish you sounded. "Well, I, for one, think you're underselling yourself..." Your lips ghosted against his, smiling, "...Mr. Front Page."

"Gosh, you're... All right. You win." His hands were suddenly on the narrowest part of your waist, lifting you from the countertop as if you weighed the same as a scrap of paper, and started for the hallway to your bedroom. "Remind me to make you the mushroom risotto every date night, hm?"

Remembering how to use your phone gets me (oh so, oh so, oh so hot!) / Considering I have feelings, I'm like, "Why are my clothes still on?"

Your not-boyfriend flew back home for his week off work to help out his folks on the farm, and it was a troubling blend of emotions that you were left with in his absence. It wasn't in your nature to be jealous, nor in Clark's nature to warrant any kind of doubt regarding his loyalty (again, still not his girlfriend)! But, men in general tended to be untrustworthy, and a few of the douchebags you encountered pre-Clark proved to be unfaithful. In college, a guy that you had been seeing quite seriously went on a 'lads' holiday' for spring break and suddenly forgot that you, and your six-month relationship, existed. He didn't call, he didn't text, but he did sleep with the first pretty girl to simper at him.

Granted, you didn't like him half as much as you like Clark, so despite a bit of a wounded pride, it did little more than make you hesitant to trust future partners. He also wasn't half the man Clark was, and amounted up to little more than another college mistake—the kind you tallied up alongside lethal hangovers and twisted ankles credited to irresponsible heels. So, you really shouldn't compare Clark to the nineteen-year-old disappointment of a guy whose face you could barely even picture now, but Clark was something real, and something wonderful, and even though you're not technically his girlfriend, you were terrified of that happening again with him.

Unfortunately, you used most of your contract-mandated holiday earlier that year after a bad bout of influenza, so you were still at work, whilst Clark was off in Smallville, looking disgustingly handsome and being grotesquely helpful. The entire first day of him being away, you alternated between staring longingly at his empty seat at the Planet, missing the morning coffee he'd bring you with a chaste kiss to the temple of your head, and blinking forlornly at your silent phone. Lois, headstrong and the kind of fiercely self-sufficient woman that you should be acting like right now rather than this pining, unravelling mess, taunted you for the bi-hourly checks at your messages and call log. It made your stomach hurt, but you laughed, and made some lousy joke about Clark 'rubbing off on you,' yet on your lonely walk home—hand missing the warmth of Clark's, bag feeling extra heavy without him there to carry it for you—all you could think about was, He's not gonna call. He's with his family, he probably isn't even thinking about you!

You get home, you make yourself dinner, and you might as well have digested gruel because everything tasted like dirt compared to Clark's cooking. You were in the middle of washing your dishes, sighing dejectedly at the memory of Clark stood in the very same spot you were approximately nineteen days ago, attractive and obliging in a way that was anguishing, when you phone stated to vibrate on the kitchen island next to the mug-holder tree you thrifted last month. The vibrations had the ceramic of your mugs clattering, but you didn't care much for chips in the chinaware as you peeled off the pink rubber gloves. Clark's contact picture taunted you—a devastatingly good photograph of him in your bed at midmorning, all sunny and pretty, curls dishevelled against your pillow, and you, out of shot, but in memory, perched on his bare abdomen. You ditched the gloves like limp, flightless birds against the sink, not caring when one slithered into the soapy wetness of the basin. You snatched up your phone and answered the call, smearing a damp fingerprint against the screen.

"Hey, honey."

God, you'd missed his voice. It sounded slightly different, more tired, you supposed. Lovely, all the same. Just the right amount of gravelly to make you practically sway the short walk to your bedroom.

"'Missed you today," Clark sighed, lovelorn, killing you. "How was work?"

You flopped onto your bed, trying to make your voice levelled as to not show your pathetic giddiness at his call.

"Oh, you know," you said, mock-dreamily (but, not really mock at all), "boring, without you."

"Oh, because I'm so entertaining, right?" he laughed at you, not unkindly. Charming. A bit of that initial exhaustion from his greeting softening into a familiar fondness at hearing your voice. "I mean what I said, you know...I really do miss you."

"Aww, you miss little old me? It's barely been twenty-four hours, Kent," you teased good-naturedly, as if you hadn't spent the whole day worrying that he might not call.

Some rustling travelled through the frequencies of the call, as if he was readjusting, or changing. You weren't sure, but your mind wandered.

"I know that," Clark returned dryly, but still tender, "but, we've been spending a lot of time together, haven't we? It's a little weird to suddenly just, like, not see you. I don't know," he said breathily then, a bit sharp, "it's stupid."

"Hey, no." You straightened up, practically launching yourself into a sitting position, spine flush against the mountain of pillows that probably missed Clark as much as you did. "It's not stupid. I..." You gnawed nervously at the tender flesh of your bottom lip, trying not to think about the other night when Clark caught you in the middle of the very same bad habit and gently reprimanded you for it, his thumb coming to rest on it so you wouldn't bite at the worried skin. "I miss you, too."

The honesty made your voice small and heart pang. It was as if you pried open your ribcage, splayed yourself bare to him. The vulnerability made your canines sink apprehensively into your tongue.

"Yeah?" he exhaled, timid. "You mean that, sweetheart?"

"Yeah," you answered in a whispering, unusually bashful, "I mean it, Clark."

"Jeez. Wow. I'm glad. 'Really glad, honey."

It was funny that he called you 'honey,' when he had the most honeying voice in the world and when he made you feel like you were wading through molasses of manuka. You swore that his voice had more of a Kansan tang, even after such a short time back in his hometown already. It made your thighs clench together shamelessly, and you found yourself easing back into a reclining position, the hand that wasn't holding the phone preciously to your ear flattening against your middle.

"Clark?"

"Yeah, gorgeous?"

"I really, really miss you," you practically whined, hating yourself.

"Darn it. You sound real pretty right now, sweetheart." He almost sounded pained by the inconvenience of the distance.

You laughed faintly, teasing the fraying waistband of your sleep-shorts. "Clark, you've got no idea."

A hum, and another rustle, and God, you really wished you could see him right now. Clark, big, and tall, and half-hard in a twin-sized mattress. You wondered if he was still sweaty and dishevelled from a long day of languishing on the farm, or if he was all clean and wet-curls from a shower—truthfully, you couldn't decide which option turned you on more.

"What do you mean by that, sweetheart?" he asked innocently.

"That..." Your fingers toyed at the threadbare bow crowning the ratty lace of your underwear, "...I've been waiting for you to call me all day. That you remembering how to use your phone's got me more turned on than I've been in my life. That I miss your voice, and your face, and your—"

"All right, honey," he laughed sweetly, sounding a bit out of breath and like he was trying to keep a check on himself, "I think I get you now."

All you did was hum in response, still fiddling with that pathetic bow. The two of you went very quiet as the tension swelled between all that distance.

"Are you, erm—" Clark emptied his throat, awkward, "are you—"

"Am I touching myself?" you teased.

A choked breath, an audible swallow, and the prettiest, airiest laugh you've ever heard from him, until finally, "Yeah. Yeah, sweetheart. Are you?"

"Not yet. Not if you don't want me to."

"Don't want...?" Disbelief rasped his voice more than his weakened exhaustion, "I want you to do whatever you wanna do. And if you wanna..."

His chivalrous resistance made your teeth bare. "Touch myself?"

"Golly," said Clark, agonised.

"You're precious, Clark."

"I'm bad at this. I've never, uh, you know..."

"Had phone sex?" you supplied, still not fully slipping your hand past the waistband, enjoying the tantalising shivers over your skin as your nails raked shyly against your hipbone. It was as if you were waiting for a permission that Clark was too much of a gentleman to figure he had the right to grant.

"Yeah," he breathed, dulcet, "that."

You couldn't resist laughing at him again; you really hoped he didn't think it was unkind.

"But..." The enormity of his desire seemed to make Clark waver, deep voice somehow both guttural and delicate as he struggled to find the right words, as if this kind of language didn't really fit on his tongue, "I want to. If, you know, if you want to."

Why the hell were your clothes still on again?

A little communication, yes, that's my ideal foreplay / Assemble a chair from IKEA, I'm like, 'uh, huh!'

"Baby, could you pass me the Allen key?"

Honestly, you could not give a fuck about Allen or his key right now.

Not with Clark Kent lying on his back over your Persian rug, torso naked and the muscles of it flexing as he outstretched his hand for you to give him one of the thingamabobs from the baggy that came with the terracotta, mid-century armchair you purchased from IKEA that afternoon. He was half underneath it, the only thing ensuring it didn't collapse on him being his other hand, gigantic and sturdy underneath one of its legs, and did you mention shirtless? The ridiculously toned planes of his abdomen weren't even sweaty, despite lugging the entire flatpack package up the multiple flights of stairs to your apartment, and the fiddly ministrations of putting the chair's framework together. You sometimes wondered if he was even human.

"Honey," he called out for you again, still not straining, still patient, still every bit of the doting nickname he relished you in, "an Allen key, please?"

"Hmm?"

You're sprawled out on the loveseat across from him, empress-like, as if cut from some Botticelli painting of a woman being fanned by palm leaves and fed grapes. It was summertime, and you were Clark's girlfriend now (it didn't take long after him returning from Smallville, needy for your touch after similar calls every ensuing night, for him to ask you), and he still treated you right. Still doted. You almost hated yourself for ever doubting that his sweetness would be conditional.

Oh, well. That was the past. In the present, Clark was assembling the chair you mooned over earlier, and very nearly left behind at your midday-trip to IKEA because of the price-tag. It was Clark who paid for it, in the end. Handing over the ogling-eyed cashier his card like it was nothing as you lovingly smacked your lips to his cheekbone and thanked him over, and over, and you'll definitely be thanking him later, too. For buying it, for putting it together, for letting you just admire him shirtless, and for being the best boyfriend in the world.

"The Allen key," Clark repeated, not an ounce of frustration in his voice as he peeked from underneath the chair to flash you a saccharine smile. "It's on the coffee table."

"Oh," you said, a fawn in headlights, "right. Yeah. Sorry, here."

Then, you were on your knees, crouched at the altar of your responsible, competent, handsome boyfriend, handing over a small, silvery wrench, and trying not to audibly whimper at the mere feeling of his fingers grazing yours as he took it from you.

"Thanks, baby. M'almost done, yeah?"

You stayed knelt. Staring, unashamedly. Neck a little craned. Underwear a little wet. Heart rabbiting against your ribs. He went back to work, teeth bared around the bolt he kept there as he lined up the Allen key with the screw he was fitting snugly.

Admiring, your eyes never left him, you swore they didn't even blink. He might've even been talking to you, but it all fell on deaf ears. It made you feel a little bad, sometimes, this tendency you had to ignore what your boyfriend was saying in favour of whatever daydream you were in the middle of. You really didn't like to make a habit out of being ignorant when Clark was usually so attentive to everything you said, and your boyfriend definitely wasn't a boring person to listen to. But, he really was beautiful. And, sure, he mumbled something once about that word making him feel a little 'silly,' but there wasn't many words worthy of him.

You barely acknowledge him finishing up, not until he pushed it backwards, right into the place you allocated for it earlier, still on his back. It was subconscious, what came next. As aforementioned, it was an internal reaction you had with Clark—entirely organic and visceral, almost auto-pilot, as if he really was within the very marrow of you, of your desires. You kept one knee on the right side of him and swung your other leg over so you were straddling him, taking him by surprise. If he had been talking, he certainly wasn't now. Still, his hands immediately came to rest on your waist. Politely, tenderly, his thumbs slipped right under the material of your top to stroke over your hipbones.

He meant to sit up, gather the mismatched tools that littered your carpet, and maybe make the two of you a coffee or something before you settled into your new chair, but all those plans went out of the window. Smiling up at you, Clark seemed rather satisfied with his position anyways, curls haloed underneath him, around his bright face, dimpled and lovely and just as besotted with you as you were with him, thankfully.

"What's going on in your pretty head, hm?" Clark teased, kneading the flesh of your hips.

"You can't call me pretty when you look like that just putting an IKEA chair together, Clark," you reprimanded severely, meaning it.

Clark blinked at you, faltering. "I don't...? You are pretty. All I did was—"

"Buy me the chair I wanted. Put it together. Make sure I eat every day. Came with me to the dentist last week when I was too scared to by myself. Wash the dishes every night, even after cooking us dinner. Keep a little basket with pads in it in your bathroom for when I'm on my period—"

"I'm not exactly going to let you bleed out on my bedsheets, sweetheart."

"Help me with deadlines," you continued brusquely, ignoring him. "Always make sure I'm wearing the appropriate footwear for the weather, and when I was too stubborn last week, and insisted on wearing heels even though you told me it was gonna rain, you carried me home."

Clark practically pouted. "Your feet would've gotten soaked."

You almost pulled down his pants right then and there. "God," you said, gently scratching at his chest, "you're everything, Clark."

"Honey, this is all—everything you're saying, it's the bare minimum," Clark protested meaningfully. "It's stuff that I should be doing. You don't—" He was so sweet as he shook his head, almost doglike, eyes blue and earnest and loving, "you don't have to thank me for things like washing your dishes, or helping you put together furniture, or taking care of you. I want to take care of you. I lo—shucks."

He almost said it.

Neither of you had said it yet.

It was there, tangible, palpable, and inevitable in the both of you. Almost living, that unspoken thing. It had its own pulse, blood of its own, bones of its own—a mass of something very real, and very good, and very yours.

But neither of you had said it.

And Clark just almost crossed the line.

His hands, startled, loosened. Then flexed. Then, slackened entirely. Falling limply into your rigid lamp.

"I didn't mean...Aw, darn it, I'm sorry, sweetheart," he apologised. "I didn't mean to rush you or anything. Or to tell you on the floor. I wanted to take you for dinner. I booked a reservation at Rudy's, that pizza place you like. It was going to be really nice, I promise. I'm really, I'm so—"

"I love you too, Clark."

You were pretty sure you were soaking through your underwear right onto his naked torso at the domesticity, at the stupid chair, at how good he look underneath you. You loved him so much that you might cry, tears sloping your cheeks or running down your thighs, it was hard to say.

Clark didn't mind. Clark loved you, too. He told you so. Well, almost. He wanted to take care of you, he said. So genuinely, so easily. Your gorgeous, handy, kind-hearted boyfriend wanted to take care of you, and he loved you, and he built a chair for you, and he had that soft glint in his eyes that told you that, maybe, one day, he'd build you a whole damn house. And you'd watch, his work jeans tatty and stained, slung low on his waist, shoulders broad and put-to-work, hands callused from all the good he does, but so soft at the end of the day as they treat you like he was supposed to.

So, yeah, it could be said that a lot of the things that turned you on about Clark Kent were commonplace—making you dinner, washing the dishes, remembering to call, and putting together a chair—but it wasn't really the gestures that mattered (even if it got you all hot and bothered seeing him do things so effortlessly, and purely out of the goodness of his heart). But, fuck it. Clark never made you cry. Not in a bad way, anyways. Sure, the sex brought you to tears sometimes, but more often than not, they slicked your thighs rather than your cheekbones, and he loved you.

That's all that counted, really.

[thedyingwriter]

I SAW YOUR TAG! PLEASE DO THE "KISSING MY BEST FRIEND" TREND WITH CLARK.

You balance the phone against a stack of books on the coffee table, adjusting it once, twice, until the little red light blinks back at you. Your pulse is everywhere. Your throat, your fingertips, the hollow behind your knees. The caption waits in your mind: kissing my best friend, let’s see how he reacts.

Clark is next to you, taking up too much space in that way only he can, folded into the couch like he doesn’t know he’s twice the size of it. His tie is loose, shirt sleeves rolled high on his forearms, glasses tilted just a little crooked. He’s hunched over his notebook, pencil scrawling neat lines of edits across margins, brow furrowed in concentration. He looks so Clark it hurts: soft, handsome, and completely devastating.

The audio cue begins. You inhale like you’re about to jump into a pool, then lean in fast, before you can think better of it, and press your mouth against his.

He freezes. Pencil stills mid-sentence. His glasses slip lower down his nose, catching on the curve of his cheek. For a fraction of a second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. Then a sound escapes him. Small, startled, impossibly tender. A little “oh.”

And then everything about him changes.

Your phone catches it. The way his whole face lights up like you just flicked on a sun inside him. His ears turn bright pink. His grin stumbles out boyish and wide, like he’s just been handed the world in a brown paper bag. His hand rises, hesitating for a heartbeat, before cupping your cheek so carefully, as though you might vanish.

“You,” he starts, voice breaking with disbelief. He cuts himself off with a laugh, the kind that crinkles his eyes and pulls dimples deep into his cheeks. “You can’t just… do that on a Tuesday.” His voice is warm, a little shaky, full of awe.

“Why not?” you ask, breathless already.

“Because,” he whispers, eyes darting back to your mouth. His glasses fog just slightly as he leans closer, the warmth of his breath hitting your lips. “I’ll never stop asking for more.”

And then he’s kissing you back.

It’s soft at first, achingly gentle, his lips brushing yours like he’s testing the shape of the universe. Then his thumb strokes along your cheekbone, and something in him cracks open. The kiss deepens, still sweet, still careful, but firmer, fuller. He’s everywhere at once: the warmth of his mouth, the faint scrape of stubble against your skin, the way he exhales through his nose like he’s been holding his breath for years.

You laugh against him, a helpless, giddy sound, and he chases it with another kiss. And another. He pulls back just enough to press one to the corner of your mouth, then the other, then your nose, your cheek, your forehead. Each one is punctuated with a soft “gosh” or a whispered “you’re so cute” until you’re shaking with laughter.

Your phone records the whole mess, your flushed face, his crooked glasses, the string of kisses he can’t stop giving. His hand slides to cradle the back of your head, anchoring you, and his smile is pressed right against your lips when he murmurs, “you don’t know what you just started.”

By the time you finally part, your lips are tingling and your lungs can’t keep up. He’s staring at you like he’s never seen you before, dazed and glowing, cheeks scarlet.

“So, uh,” he stammers, still close enough you can feel the brush of his breath, “are we still best friends, or…?”

Your laugh breaks out too loud, too happy, and you bury your face against his chest to hide it. He’s warm and solid, smelling faintly of ink and soap, and he folds his arms around you instantly, holding you like he doesn’t plan on ever letting go.

The video ends with his glasses fogged, his dimples showing, and the sound of both of you laughing, the kind of laughter that already tastes like love.

[thedyingwriter]

AFTER HOURS ⋆ CK !

pairing. clark kent x fem!reader genre. office au. co-workers au. journalist!reader. smut.

in a room full of journalists researching hot topics, you were their favorite one. every guy tried his luck — except the one you actually wanted. but one night, when the office clears, you get him all alone… and you might just finally get exactly what you wanted.

word count. 5.1k words warnings. oc lowk an attention whore. she dresses slightly provocative for clarks attention. hes very awkward and shy. oc a flirty bitch. clarks glasses dont shift his features. smut. slight foot play i guess. big dick clark. sub!clark. inexperienced!clark. public sex. oral (male!receiving) / clarks first blowie hehe. cum eating. unprotected sex.

✶ takes place in the universe of — SUPERMAN (2025).

ana’s notes. THIS MAN IS TAKING OVER MY LIFE .. i will be here for a while and ive accepted it. also the girlies were asking for more clark kent and i listen to bad bitches !! enjoy you nasties ♡

Your patience was wearing dangerously thin.

Ever since you set foot in the Daily Planet as the newly hired — or, what most preferred to call you, the new girl — the sound of low whistles and snide catcalling had become part of your everyday routine. Simply passing through just to get to your desk meant enduring lingering stares, muttered comments just loud enough for you to hear, and the same compliments you'd already heard a dozen times a week.

But it wasn’t the attention that bothered you. No — who doesn’t enjoy getting a little praise for simply existing and being attractive?

What was gnawing at you was that it wasn’t him saying these things to you.

Clark Kent was a klutz — awkward, clumsy, always tripping over his own feet or his own words. The lights were on but no one was home. And yet, he was so painfully, stupidly cute.

He’d caught your eye on your very first day here. You’d only spoken a handful of times since then, and each time he’d stumbled over his sentences. He’d get embarrassed, cheeks and ears flushed pink, lips pressing together making his dimples peek through. You’d just thought it made him even cuter.

He wasn’t like everyone else.

Not like the guys here who shamelessly look down at the open buttons of your dress shirts. Not like the ones who stared every time you wore a skirt — though, you’ll admit those skirts were pretty tight and did you plenty of favors. And he was certainly not like the men who kept asking you to dinner, or to ‘hang out’ back at their place.

Clark Kent was simply there to do his job.

And that made you want to grind your teeth into dust.

No matter how short your skirts got, how much leg you showed from skipping the tights, or how many buttons you left open — he wouldn’t look, he wouldn’t talk, he wouldn’t fucking acknowledge you. It was infuriating. Had you coming home from work pissed.

But despite him, your work ethic remained strong.

Even now you were too busy pounding away at your keyboard, focused on wrapping up your report, to even notice Lois perching herself onto the edge of your desk.

“Jimmy and I are going down to get a bite. You wanna come?” she asks, glancing at your screen.

“Sorry. Uhhh,“ You let out a sigh, finally prying your fingers from the keyboard. “Oh! The place with the really good croissant sandwiches?”

She nods with a cute grin. “Come with us.”

You groan. “I’d love to, but I got this report to finish. I’ll be stuck here for a little longer.”

She shrugs. “So finish it tomorrow.”

“Can’t. I won’t be able to sleep tonight knowing it’s not finished.”

“You love your job too much, you know that?” Jimmy teases, glancing down at you with a smirk.

“Yeah? Says the guy who spent an entire weekend with a girl he didn’t even like just so he could dig up information for his story,” you shoot back.

“Hey, I got a raise after that thanks to her!” he protests, pouting.

You grimace at him, rolling your eyes.

“You sure you don’t wanna come?” Lois asks again, tilting her head.

“Yes. Now go,” you say, swatting her thigh to shoo her off.

“Fine,” she huffs, sliding off your desk. “But you and I are going on a date tomorrow night.”

“Whatever you want, beautiful,” you grin, blowing her a kiss.

She catches it theatrically and blows one back.

“Where’s mine?” Jimmy chimes in.

You flip him off like it’s muscle memory. He gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. Lois can’t help but laugh as she grabs his arm and drags him towards the door.

You watch them disappear down the hall, a small, amused smile tugging at your lips, before turning back to your report. Just a few more paragraphs and you’d be free — free to head home, warm up yesterday's leftovers, and call it a night.

“How’s the report coming?” a voice cuts in.

Your head snaps up. Clark Kent is looking at you from over his desk, glasses glaring from the dim office light. You’d been so caught up in your own thoughts you hadn’t even realized he was still here.

Clark. Fucking. Kent.

Still at his desk.

Still here.

Alone.

With you.

Alone.

With you.

You quickly compose yourself. “It’s going well — almost done, just wrapping it up.”

“Great job,” he says. “I just… didn’t wanna leave you alone. I’ll wait until you’re finished.”

Your crush on him will definitely get worse after tonight. Fuck you, Clark Kent, for being so perfect.

“Oh, you don’t have to! Seriously, I’ll be fine,” you insisted.

“No, it’s alright,” he replies with a soft laugh, that gentle smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “My conscience will feel better knowing you’re not stuck here by yourself.” His dimples peek through, impossibly perfect, and it’s almost unfair how effortlessly flawless he is.

You can’t help but smile at his consideration, brows knitting in awe. “I’ll be quick.”

He only shakes his head. “Take your time.”

He turns back around in his chair, focusing on whatever’s on his desk, leaving you chewing on the inside of your cheek. Your eyes linger on his back — his very broad back — as you mentally scramble for something, anything, to keep him talking to you.

“Actually…” you begin, voice casual. He glances back at you. “Since you’re here, you wouldn’t mind helping me with something, would you?”

“Of course not,” he says with that gorgeous smile.

You rise from your chair, papers in hand, and stroll over to his desk like it’s nothing (even thought it absolutely wasn’t). Your heart was pounding so hard it felt ready to drop straight out of your ass. But instead of dragging a chair over or standing politely at the edge, you settle yourself right on the edge of his desk, crossing your legs in the space between his.

Clark goes rigid. Shoulders tense, back straight, hands slightly tightening around the armrests of his chair. The close proximity clearly threw him off — his adam’s apple bobs, and he looks everywhere but at you.

“So…” you drawl, flipping to a new page, “I’m working on this report about Superman. Since you and him are so close, I figured you’d have some… insight.”

Clark clears his throat, glasses slipping a little down his nose. “I- I wouldn’t say close. He just… shows up when I’m around sometimes."

“You’ve interviewed him more than anyone else here,” you point out, arching a brow. “You’re practically best friends.”

That earns a shy chuckle from him, dimples flashing again. “I don’t know about that.”

“Perfect. Then you can clear something up for me.” You grab your pen, ready to scribble. “So tell me… what’s he like in person?”

Clark adjusts his glasses, shifting in his seat (very careful not to bump his legs into yours, though you definitely wouldn’t have minded if he did). “Uh… he’s… kind. Polite. Always focused on helping people.”

“Anything you know that we don’t?” you press, tilting your head. “Is he funny? Serious? Awkward?”

“I- I don’t know,” Clark stammers, gaze drifting off anywhere but your face. “I haven’t really talked to him like that to know.”

You hum thoughtfully, pen tapping against the page. “Okay, serious question… do you think he gets lonely?”

He looks up at you, blinking rapidly, caught off guard. “I… think it’s possible. It’s not easy balancing relationships with that kind of responsibility.”

You nod, jotting his words down — before giving him a sly grin. “So what you’re saying is… Superman doesn’t date?”

Clark almost chokes on his spit. “I- wha- no that’s not what I’m saying-”

A smirk tugs at your lips as you lean just slightly closer. “So he is seeing someone?”

“I- I don’t know!” Clark blurts, voice pitching higher than usual. “That’s… private. We don’t talk about those things.”

“I mean, surely he is. He’s hot. Don’t you think?”

Clark’s ears turn a deep pink, his gaze immediately dropping to something on his desk that he finds so interesting. “I never… thought about him like that,” he mumbles, fidgeting with his glasses.

You bite back a laugh, watching him squirm. “Yeah, well, I’ll tell you — the ladies that swoon over Superman aren’t just doing it because he saves the world.”

Clark glances up at you, then quickly back down to his hands as he fidgets with his pen. A shy smile tugs at his lips. “Aren’t you and Jimmy…?”

“Jimmy?” you exclaim, half laughing. “God, no. Not my type.”

“What is your type?” he asks, a sudden thread of boldness creeping into his voice.

It takes you aback — but only for a second. A smile pulls at the corners of your lips as you lean in just a bit closer. “Tall. Glasses. Shy…”

Your foot glides to the side, the tip of your heel brushing his ankle before dragging slowly up the inside of his calf. The contact is light, teasing — but it still leaves Clark utterly rigid. His shoulders tense, knuckles turning white from gripping the chair’s arms too hard, and the look on his face gives him away more than anything.

When he finally looks up at you through his glasses, raven curls falling loose over his forehead, you meet his widened eyes without blinking.

“Ringing any bells?” you ask softly, one brow arched.

His lips part like he’s about to speak, but the words don’t come out. He swallows hard. “I- uh-“ He pushes his glasses up with a shaky finger, and you catch how the tips of his ears have gone red. “That’s… very specific,” he manages at last, the pitch of his voice just a little too high, betraying him.

You drag your foot a little higher, slow and deliberate, until the sharp point of your heel nudges against his knee. “Is it?” you murmur, feigning innocence that fools absolutely no one.

Clark clears his throat, as if he can cough away the heat crawling up his neck. “S- sounds a lot like-“

“You?” you cut in before he could finish, voice quick and playful, your grin absolutely wicked. “It does, doesn’t it?”

He gulps. “I hardly think this is appropriate, we’re still technically at work.”

Your foot presses against the inside of his thigh now. “We’ve been off the clock for half an hour,” you murmur.

His breath hitches, and he grips the arms of his chair a little tighter, knuckles pale. “S- someone could see us,” he stammers, eyes darting around the office even though the room has been empty since Lois and Jimmy left.

“There’s no one here, hon,” you say softly, reassuring him. “Just you and me.”

Then your foot finally reaches the end, the sharp tip of your heel pressing lightly against his crotch. He jolts, his chair squeaking as it rolls back an inch. You think it’s cute — how someone built like him could be so jumpy over something so small.

“You can say no, Clark,” you murmur, voice low and teasing. “I won’t be upset.”

“No- I- I don’t mind,” he stammers, every word tripping over the next. His voice is almost pleading, as if he’s afraid you’ll stop anyway. “It’s just… it’s been a while. And I usually don’t… do this kind of stuff in public.

You tilt your head, foot still resting exactly where it makes him squirm. “Me neither,” you say lightly, like this isn’t making his heart pound out of his chest. “First time for everything though, right?”

He exhales shakily, shoulders loosening as his hands slip from the armrests, fingers splayed like he’s searching for something else to hold onto. His lips part — not to tell you no, but because words fail him entirely.

You withdraw your foot just as you feel him start to unconsciously grind against it, and the sound he makes is somewhere between relief and disappointment, an unsteady breath that betrays exactly how badly he wants more.

“Relax,” you murmur, voice calm, commanding. You rise from the desk with deliberate slowness, your heels clicking sharply against the polished floor. The soft swing of your hips as you close the distance isn’t for show — it’s for him, and he can’t stop watching, eyes wide behind the glasses, throat bobbing with a hard swallow.

“How long has it been again?” you ask lightly, as if you’re inquiring about something pure — not about to get on your knees in an empty office.

“Sorry?” Clark blurts, blinking up at you like the question dragged him out of a trance. His gaze has already dropped lower, caught on the hem of your skirt where it’s ridden high on your thighs. You don’t even bother tugging it down.

“Since you’ve had sex,” you clarify, your voice lower now as you kneel on the hard floor between his legs. “How long has it been?”

“C- couple years,” he stammers, color rising in his cheeks. “That was… my first and only time.”

Your brows lift slightly, intrigued but not mocking. “How was it?”

“F- fine,” he manages, though his voice cracks when your nails skim up the inside of his thigh, dragging just light enough to make his muscles twitch. The fabric of his slacks do little to hide how tense he’s gotten under your touch — or how fast he’s hardening.

You hum, clearly unimpressed with his answer, fingers trailing higher. “Fine? That’s it?”

Clark swallows hard, eyes fixed anywhere but you, though they keep darting down against his will. “I- It wasn’t really about me,” he admits quietly.

That makes you smirk, head tilting. “So you’ve never had anyone take care of you?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” he laughs weakly, though it’s breathless and shaky, cheeks burning red as his glasses slide down his nose.

“You ever gotten a blow job before?” you murmur, palm pressing against the obvious swell in his slacks. 

The sound he makes is unintentional, a small, choked moan that betrays him instantly. “N- no.”

Your thumb traces the outline of him through the fabric, feeling him stiffen even more under your touch. You glance up at him, lips curling into a wicked smile.

“Can you pull your pants down for me, Clark?”

He swallows hard. For a second, he just stares, like his brain has completely stopped working and he can’t process your request — or maybe it’s the way you’re still stroking him through the thin barrier of cloth.

His hands fumble at his belt, the sound of clinking metal echoing throughout the empty office. Finally, he gets it loose, shoving his pants and briefs down in one impatient motion.

His cock springs free — flushing pink, standing tall, with a single vein running along his shaft like it was made to be traced by your tongue. A bead of precum glistens at the swollen tip, dripping down.

He groans low in his throat, hands curling into fists like he’s physically restraining himself from grabbing it. The ache is painful now, unbearable.

Your eyes go wide, tongue caught in the back of your throat. Clark Kent — the awkward, shy, can’t even look you in the eyes kind of guy — was packing. Not just in inches, but in girth.

Figures.

It’s always the quiet ones that hide the most.

“P- please,” Clark whines, voice breathily and shaky, looking down at you through his glasses. “Touch me, please.”

Your hand travels to his bare inner thigh, so close he twitches, but not close enough to give him relief. His breathing skips a beat, chest rising and falling faster.

“Already begging?” you tease.

Clark swallows back a whine. “I- I can’t- it hurts,”

Finally deciding to stop tormenting the poor man, you spit in your hand before curling your fingers around his cock — or try to. He’s so big, your fingers couldn’t even wrap around him all the way. He’s hot and heavy against your palm, precum slicking your fingers almost immediately.

You start with slow, light strokes, just enough to feel him twitch. Clark’s head tips back against the chair, eyes squeezing shut, lips parting on a low, breathy moan. The sound is almost pitiful — raw, needy, like he’s been holding this in for far too long.

“So sensitive,” you murmur, dragging your fist slowly up his shaft, twisting slightly at the head just to hear that choked whimper again.

“I- ngh- oh god,” he stammers, but his voice cracks when your thumb smears his precum over the tip. His hips jerk off the chair before he forces himself back down, breathing through his nose.

You start stroking faster — not too fast, just enough to make his thighs tense and his chest rise and fall like he can’t get enough air. “Gosh, you’re leaking so much, already making such a mess.”

Clark lets out a strangled moan, knuckles white where they clutch the arms of the chair. His eyes flicker open, and he looks down — just in time to see you lean in and drag your tongue lazily across the slit, tasting him.

You look up at him, eyelashes batting before you lean down more, licking a slow stripe up his shaft. A moan lodges in his throat, rough and shaky, but he can’t tear his eyes away. He watches your tongue trace every inch of him, his throat bobbing when you swirl around the flushed tip before wrapping your lips around it.

“Ah-“ His voice cracks. “Th- that feels… ngh-“

You hum around him, sinking as low as you can — barely halfway, and your mouth already feels so full of him. Your hand works in slow, twisting movements over what your mouth can’t take. Clark’s head tips back, throat exposed, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before he forces them open again. He can’t bear to look away from you — not when you’re taking him so slowly, like you’re savoring every second of it.

Your other hand rests on his thigh, feeling how tense he is under your touch. One of his hands finally lets go of the chair’s arm and reaches down, almost instinctively, to grab your tiny wrist in his large palm. Instead of pulling away, you slip your wrist free and catch his hand in yours, lacing your fingers together. 

It’s intimate.

Something far too intimate for something so dirty.

And it only gets dirtier when you take him even deeper, your lips sliding down his shaft until your throat constricts around the tip. His breath hitches sharply, eyes fluttering shut as he bites down on his bottom lip to keep the sound in. A low hum slips past anyway — restrained, muffled, as if he has no idea how to handle a sensation this unfamiliar.

You pull back slowly, then sink down all the way again. You repeat the movement, setting an even rhythm — up, then down, lips snug around him, tongue tracing the underside of his shaft with every pass. Every time your throat kisses his tip, it has him shifting in the chair, thighs tightening as he tries to keep still, breath coming out in shaky exhales.

Clark’s speechless. Words fail him completely — every sound that escapes is broken, incoherent, nothing but raw instinct. For a man who was just scared of getting caught (by absolutely no one), he’s surprisingly loud — his moans bounce off the walls, unrestrained and desperate.

He's trying so hard to stay composed, to let you set the pace — but every time your throat flexes around him, his whole body trembles. He’s close. Too close. He can feel it building fast, an ache low in his stomach that burns hotter with every second. God, it feels so good. He doesn’t even remember his first time feeling remotely like this.

Then your throat tightens just right around his tip, and it’s over. A sharp, choked sound tears from his throat as he spills into your mouth. It’s sudden, overwhelming — hot, salty, sweet — and you take it all without even pulling back. He watches, eyes widened, stunned, as you swallow every last drop like it’s candy.

Finally, you pull off with a soft pop, a thin strand of spit breaking between your lips and his tip. Your knees are screaming from the pressure against the hard floor — they’ll definitely be bruised tomorrow — but you ignore the ache as you rise.

Clark’s still catching his breath, chest rising unevenly, his glasses sitting crooked on his face. You reach out to straighten them, and the simple touch makes his cheeks flush again. Then you lean in, brushing a quick kiss against his lips. Then another. Almost innocent, like you didn’t just have him coming apart in your mouth moments ago.

You smile, leaning back just enough to take in his completely wrecked expression. “How was that for a first time?”

He chuckles softly, still catching his breath. “It was… perfect. You’re amazing.”

“Yeah?” you tease, tilting your head, a small smirk playing on your lips.

“Yeah,” he says, smiling back, cheeks still tinged pink.

You pull off of him, leaning back onto your spot on the edge of his desk, legs dangling. “Can you handle more, or should we… save this for another time?”

Clark’s still catching his breath, cheeks burning hot as his eyes dart anywhere but your face. “I- I don’t know if I’ll be as good-“

“Nonsense,” you cut him off with a soft laugh. “C’mere, baby.”

He hesitates, but the way his gaze keeps dropping to your lips lures him in completely. Step by step, he closes the distance until he’s standing between your legs. You tilt your head back to look up at him — he’s tall. Much too tall.

But then he bends down anyway, capturing your lips in a kiss that’s hungry and unsteady, like he’s been craving another taste of you since the second you pulled away.

Your hand slides down between you, fingers curling around his cock again. You stroke him in slow movements.

Clark jolts, lips parting with a breathy moan, his hands bracing against the desk on either side of you — unintentionally trapping you there. He’s still so sensitive, but he doesn’t tell you to stop. He doesn’t even try.

“You know how long I’ve been trying to get you like this, Clark?” you murmur, giving him another languid stroke. “How long I’ve tried to get your attention?”

“Y- you have?” he breathes out through a moan, his voice shaky. His face hovers just inches from yours, looking down at you through his glasses, which have slipped low on the bridge of his nose. His gaze keeps darting from your eyes to your lips, like he can’t decide which temptation is worse.

“Mhm.” You hum, still pumping him slowly, his cock still slick with your saliva. “Every day, Clark. The way I dress, the way I walk — it’s all for you. And you didn’t even notice.”

“I- I noticed,” he stammers, swallowing hard, hips unintentionally jerking into your hand. “I just- oh- just thought someone else had your eye.”

“I’ve been eyeing you since my first day here,” you murmur, lips brushing his jaw, your breath warm against his ear as your hand works him in an unhurried rhythm. “All those times you kept your head down when I walked past you… all the miniskirts I bought, every glance I made obvious — and you thought I was doing it for some sleazy asshole in this office?”

His breath hitches. “Didn’t think you’d even… l- look in my direction.”

Your other hand slips down, tugging your panties aside. You shift on the desk, drawing him in until his tip grazes your slick entrance. His breath hitches, the sound breaking in his throat.

“Now you know,” you murmur, voice brushing against his ear as your fingers dig into his hips and guide him forward. The thick head of his cock parts you slowly, a delicious stretch that has your lips parting in a quiet gasp. “I want you, Clark. No one else.”

With your hand urging his pelvis forward, he sinks into you all the way. The stretch forces a gasp from your lungs, and Clark’s thoughts scatter — you take him so easily, like it’s nothing. The last time he’d done this, he couldn’t even get in halfway, but here you are, pushing him in deeper yourself.

He starts to move, hesitant at first, his rhythm slow and careful. Your hand braces behind you on the desk while the other presses against the solid surface of his chest, feeling muscle tighten under your touch.

“You’re s- so big,” you gasp, voice breaking around a moan as your eyes flicker down, watching him slide in and out of you, every withdrawal glistening wet before he sinks back into your warmth.

Clark buries his face in the crook of your neck, breath shaky and uneven. You can feel his lips brush your skin every time he exhales. “I’m sorry,” he whispers hoarsely. His arms wrap around you, pulling you flush to his chest as if he needs your body against his just for the sole comfort. “You feel so good, I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Your hand reaches the nape of his neck soothingly, fingertips stroking his hair in gentle passes, grounding him. “You’re fine, baby,” you murmur, lips brushing the shell of his ear, voice low and coaxing. “Just don’t hold back so much.”

But he shakes his head against your neck, hips still rocking in that slow, measured pace, every thrust deliberate and restrained. “I don’t wanna be too much.”

“Just fuck me, Clark,” you beg, desperate now, needing to feel him deeper and rougher. You can already feel your orgasm approaching so quickly from how far he was reaching you, even at this pace.

He lets out a relieved moan before his pelvis rocks into you faster. Lifting his head off your shoulder, his eyes roam across every feature of your face. No reason — he just wants to look at you.

“So pretty, almost there just by looking at you,” he murmurs, voice shy despite the vulgarity of his words.

You’ve had a crush on this man for nearly two months, and now here he is — stuffed inside you, calling you pretty and he doesn’t even realize what it’s doing to you. Your cheeks burn hot, and you pray he doesn’t notice how wrecked that one little compliment makes you.

He looks divine. Heavenly. Every good word that should ever be said about Clark Kent. His glasses — your weakness — have slipped lower down his nose, threatening to fall off completely with each thrust. His brows are drawn tight in concentration, balancing the chase of his own pleasure while still making sure you’re feeling every inch of him. His lips, swollen pink from biting back the noises he’s too shy to let out. A hoarse whine escapes anyway. And lord, that dimple — it shows when his jaw tightens, when his hips slam forward just a little harder.

You’re so close you can barely think or speak — but he finds it first.

For the second time tonight, Clark comes undone, spilling into you, hips jerking erratically as he buries himself deep. A broken sound leaves his throat, one hand gripping your hip to hold you down.

He spills into you with a deep, shuddering groan, but even as his body jerks from the (very large) load he released, he doesn’t stop bucking into you. Each thrust is messy, sinful. You push at his chest, not really to stop him since your hips still arch to meet him.

“Clark… fuck,” you moan, voice breaking.

It’s almost funny. Not even an hour ago, he was all shy about getting his dick sucked in the same seat he worked in — and now he’s fucking into you like he’s got no restraint, skin slapping against yours, heavy pants echoing throughout the office.

“Wanna make you feel good too,” he pants, still concentrating. “Let me make you feel good, please.”

You yank him closer by his tie, crushing your lips against his in a messy, desperate kiss. Your lips move with his until they part in a quiet moan, your body locking up as your orgasm rips through you in waves.

Clark feels it immediately — the way your walls grip him tighter, the way your thighs tense — and he slows his thrusts. His lips trail down to your neck, pressing light, reverent kisses against your heated skin while you tremble beneath him.

And when you’re done, he rises back up, looking at you with dark eyes behind his glasses. Neither of you speak. So you lean in, pressing a soft, innocent peck to his lips — almost like a quiet thank you. He smiles, so you do it again. And again. And once more, until his boyish laugh fills the space and his hands hold your face still, holding you there for a slower kiss.

You pull back, pressing your palm to his chest, gently urging him back. Clark pulls out of you slowly, and the sudden emptiness makes your breathing stutter — his release already threatening to spill. You tug your panties back into place in a quick motion, letting the thin lace catch everything for now. You’ll clean up the mess when you get home.

Clark looks away, suddenly all modest as if he hadn’t just been inside that. He picks up his slacks with fumbling hands, the clink of his buckle filling the silence.

“You know,” you say lightly as you hop off the desk, smoothing your skirt down. “I really did just want to ask a few questions.”

“Sure,” he murmurs, teasing despite the shy tone in his voice. “I can ask Superman your questions and get the answers back to you. A messenger, if you’d like.”

Your eyes light up, excitement breaking through. “Seriously?”

His boyish smile widens as he nods.

A delighted squeal slips out before you can stop it. You fling your arms around his neck, feet leaving the floor as you kiss him — hard, grateful, a little breathless. He laughs into your mouth, catching you with those big, steady hands.

“Thank you,” you murmur between kisses. “Thank you.” Another one. “Thank you.” And another, a quick peck again, just to see the pink creep into his cheeks.

“Of course,” he says, voice warm, still smiling because he can’t help it.

“I still can’t believe you thought Jimmy and I were a thing,” you laugh, smoothing your skirt back into place.

“You two look close!” Clark protests, his grin doing nothing to help his case.

“You’re not seeing things right,” you mutter with a playful grimace, pulling away to gather your things.

“What?” Clark shrugs. “He’s everyone’s type, isn’t he?”

You chuckle, shaking your head as you gather your papers. “Not mine. I’m more of a… Clark Kent kinda girl.”

His eyes dart to the floor, the corner of his mouth twitching as that familiar blush creeps up again.

Despite having the softest smile you’ve ever seen on a man, there’s absolutely nothing soft about what he’s hiding in his pants.

And you’re already wondering when you’re going to try him again.

© VOYTER 2025, all rights reserved.

[thedyingwriter]

what’s even the point of dark clark kent fics….. y’all are not attracted to this man for the same reasons i am

[thedyingwriter]

If I may add another

[thedyingwriter]

[thedyingwriter]

I LOVED the heteroerotic friendship w dick can you PLEASE do moreee 🩷🩷🩷🩷

♡. ⤷ best friends help with lingerie. dick grayson never says no to a trip to victoria's secret.

──── you've always been the queen of the dry spell. everyone on the team knew it, though no one ever said it out loud. while your friends and teammates juggled flings, rendezvous, and even oficial relationships, you were stuck in a cycle of half-hearted crushes and frustration. and the problem wasn't you in the field. in the suit, with the mask on, you were confident. but outside of it you felt painfully normal, just a girl with many insecurities and zero idea how to flirt without hiding behind a tactical gear. so dating apps terrified you, bars were overwhelming and the idea of anyone seeing you, really seeing you, without the armor makes you want to throw up.

until your leader, and best friend, dick grayson got involved.

what started as a throwaway comment, something about getting you back out there, turned into a operation. he sat beside you for hours, helping you build a tinder profile like it was a mission briefing. choosing the right photos, taking new ones, rewriting your bio three times. filtering through matches and vetoing the ones with bad grammar or serial killer vibes. and all that effort paid off. eventually.

you landed a date and then another. all of them with the kind of guy you'd normally assume was way out of your league: charming and surprisingly into you. you talked for two weeks, texting into the early hours, swapping music and stupid memes, truly building that connection. and before you knew it, he was asking you to come over. not in a vague, 'let's hang out' way. no, it was crystal clear. netflix and chill. the modern mating call, subtle as a brick. you weren't clueless, you knew what that meant, and so did dick.

he didn't say anything when you told him. just raised a brow and asked, deadpan, "so, is this a tactical op or a 'silk and lace' situation?"

you rolled your eyes. "victoria's secret. obviously."

he gave you that slow grin, half amusement, half something harder to place, and said, "then i'm driving."

because of course he is. you love that store. and, in some ways, dick does too, not that he'd ever say it out loud but it's not his first rodeo. being your best friend has meant monthly bra and panties shopping trips, sitting outside fitting rooms with a latte in hand, and tagging along to the salon because, in his words, 'the vibes there are way better than any barbershop.'

so you're already three bras deep, holding a few matching sets in your arms and feeling that now-familiar buzz of nervous anticipation under your skin. dick walks beside you through the store like it's nothing. like he's just here for moral support, hands tucked in his jacket pockets, eyes scanning the mannequins like he's not mentally cataloging what each piece would look like on you.

"you're quiet," you murmur, holding up a dark wine-red set with thin satin straps and gold detailing.

he shrugs. "just focused. mission-critical."

you roll your eyes. "you say that like you're about to defuse a bomb."

"technically," dick says, "i am trying to keep you from walking into a date with questionable lace choices. that's high stakes."

you scoff, but hand him the set anyway. he inspects it carefully, running a thumb along the strap, checking the stitching, turning it over in his hands like it's part of your gear, not lingerie. "this one," he says, "you're going to kill him."

"that's the goal."

he grins. "atta girl."

the fitting rooms are plush, a little too pink, with gold hooks and full-length mirrors. you step inside the dressing area with a pile of delicate, barely-there things and poke your head back out.

"coming in?"

he raises an eyebrow. "you sure?"

"dick, come on," you deadpan. "you've seen me pee. you see me naked all the time. i think we're way past modesty, dummy."

he follows you in without another word. it's not awkward, it never is with him. you step into the first set, black, sheer, a lot of straps and turn toward the mirror. it fits perfectly, in the most slutty way possible. it makes your thighs look juicy, your waist impossibly small, your boobs lifted just enough to make breathing hard.

"okay," you call. "no laughing."

when you pull the curtain back, he doesn't laugh. he doesn't even blink. he just leans back on the plush seat in the corner of the dressing area with his legs spread. dick's eyes move over you, casual but heavy, and you swear you feel every pass of his gaze like a fingertip on bare skin.

you cross your arms, mock defensive. "too much?"

"no, baby," he stands and steps in, motioning for a turn. you roll your eyes but oblige. when you face away, his hand comes up, gently fingering the edge of a strap on your lower back. "it's perfect."

you raise a brow. "seriously?"

but dick's already in motion, adjusting the strap at your hip, fingers brushing over your bare skin with complete ease. like he's fixing your utility belt. like this doesn't feel different. except it does.

"lift your arm a little," he says. you do, and he slides one strap into place with the kind of precision that makes you shiver. "there. the symmetry matters."

you meet his blue eyes in the mirror. "you're enjoying this."

he doesn't deny it. just moves behind you, resting one hand at your waist while the other fixes a piece of lace curled under at your shoulder. then his hands move, both now, dragging down to adjust the garter strap that slid out of place on your thigh. he kneels slightly, fastening the clip, smoothing the fabric.

"you always do this with your friends?" you murmur, looking down at him. the sight of him, crouched at eye level with your panties, felt like crossing into new territory. definitely felt like a new level of intimacy in your friendship.

he looks up through his lashes, and his smile is soft, a little crooked. "nope. wally usually doesn't need my professional opinion when he buys lingerie."

"too bad," you mutter, lips tugging into a smirk. "he's missing out on an excellent professional."

dick chuckled under his breath, fingers hooking into the delicate waistband of your lace panties. he gave them a light tug before letting the elastic snap gently against your skin. not hard, just enough to make you yelp and swat at him with your knee, more reflex than resistance.

he caught it easily, one hand wrapping around your thigh with a firm, steady grip. you chuckled lightly and his thumb brushed your inner thigh before he let go.

"so?" you ask, arching a brow. "approved?"

he doesn't answer right away. he doesn't even stand. still crouched at eye level with your hips, he takes his time, gaze moving over the lace, then lower, then back up to your thighs like he's analyzing a crime scene. too quiet.

finally, he exhales and murmurs, "it's perfect, dove. you look—" he cuts himself off, then adds, "but all this? for some guy from tinder?"

he makes a soft tsk with his tongue and shakes his head.

"this much lace feels like overkill. all that man deserves is a basic black set."

you look down at yourself in the mirror. the lingerie does look incredible, the color, the cut, the way it sits on your skin. you love it. and dick knows you loved it. he knows everything when comes to you.

"you're right," you admit quietly. "but… i like this one."

dick finally stood, his hand trailing lightly over your shoulder as he rose. it was a casual touch, one you'd felt a hundred times before, but this time, it lingered. just long enough to make your stomach twist. you always liked the way his hands felt on you, scarred and callused. rough in a way that spoke of years of violence and training, even if he tried to smooth it out with creams and lotions you knew he pretended not to care about. they were working hands, and against your bare skin, they felt amazing.

"okay," he says, voice soft now. "then here's the compromise." he meets your eyes in the mirror again. "get the black one for your date… and let me buy this one. as a gift."

you blink. "you're buying me lingerie?"

he smirks, completely unbothered. "i already helped pick it out."

dick gave your bare ass a playful smack before stepping out of the fitting room with a grin. you grabbed the nearest hanger and chucked it at the curtain.

"fucking asshole!"

he just laughed from the other side.

"i'm heading to the register! don't take forever, some of us have places to be!"

"you love waiting on me and you know it!" you shouted back, already reaching for the next set.

[thedyingwriter]

baby fever - ln4

summary: when lando and his girlfriend visit max's house to meet lilly lily, lando can't help but get baby fever. wc: 2.3k

folkie radio: hiii! small fic bc i don't have much time to write lately but i hope you like it. let me know your thoughts <3

MASTERLIST | MY PATREON

"Lando, the chocolates!" you remind him as he's about to close the car door in the Verstappens' driveway.

"Right! Can't forget P's favorite," he grabs the special package from the backseat. You'd specifically stopped at her favorite chocolate shop in Monaco because according to Lando, "You can't visit a six-year-old empty-handed."

The drive to Max and Kelly's place had been filled with Lando's excited chatter about meeting little Lily. He's been like this since Max sent the first photo three months ago, completely besotted with his best friend's daughter. The way his eyes lit up at each new picture or video Max shared made something warm bloom in your chest.

Walking up to the house, you can hear the faint sound of children's laughter from inside. Before you can even ring the doorbell, the door swings open to reveal Kelly's warm smile, and suddenly you're both nearly knocked over by a small force of nature.

"LANDO!" Penelope shrieks, completely ignoring you to wrap herself around Lando's legs. Her hair bounces as she jumps up and down, her blue sundress twirling with each movement.

"Princess P!" Lando scoops her up with practiced ease, making her giggle. The nickname had stuck since her birthday when Lando crowned her with a tiny tiara. "I brought you something special."

Her eyes light up at the sight of the chocolate box, widening with recognition. "The ones with the strawberry inside?"

"Of course! Would I ever forget your favorite?"

You watch them with a soft smile as Kelly pulls you into a hug, the scent of her familiar perfume mixing with what you've come to know as baby powder. The interior of their home is cooler than the Monaco heat outside, the sound of a distant fan humming somewhere.

"She's been asking when 'her Lando' would visit for weeks now," Kelly confides, leading you into their open-plan living room where sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Her Lando?" you raise an eyebrow, amused.

"Oh yes, according to P, she's going to marry him when she grows up," Kelly laughs, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "Max is thrilled about that, as you can imagine."

"Oi, keep your hands off my daughter, Norris," Max's voice carries from the hallway. He appears moments later, carefully cradling a tiny bundle wrapped in pink. The sight of the usually intense Max Verstappen being so gentle makes your heart melt. He's wearing a soft t-shirt instead of his usual Red Bull gear, and there's a burp cloth draped over his shoulder, a far cry from his racing persona.

The room fills with the soft cooing sounds of baby Lily, and you watch as Lando's attention immediately shifts, his eyes fixed on the precious bundle in Max's arms.

"P, love," Kelly's voice is gentle as she notices Lando's transfixed expression, "why don't you show YN your new dollhouse while I steal Lando for a minute?"

"But Mama..." P pouts, still clinging to Lando like a koala, her small fingers wrapped in his t-shirt.

"I'll come see it right after, promise," Lando sets her down carefully. "Plus, I need to meet my new racing rival first."

Penelope sighs with all the drama a six-year-old can muster but grabs your hand. "Fine. But you promised!"

As she leads you toward the sweeping staircase, you catch a glimpse of Max carefully transferring Lily into Lando's arms. The soft "oh my god" that escapes your boyfriend's lips makes your chest tight with emotion.

P chatters away, her excitement evident in every bounce of her step. Her room is a princess's paradise, all soft pinks and purples, as she launches into a detailed explanation of each doll's name and backstory, you can hear the murmur of voices from downstairs, punctuated by occasional baby coos and Lando's soft laughter.

Twenty minutes and a comprehensive tour of P's dollhouse later (including introductions to every stuffed animal and a very serious discussion about which doll would make the best racing driver), you make your way back downstairs.

The scene that greets you makes your breath catch. Lando's on the plush cream-colored couch, completely entranced by the sleeping baby in his arms. His racing calluses look rough against Lily's delicate pink onesie, but his touch is impossibly gentle. The usually energetic Lando is utterly still, as if afraid the slightest movement might disturb her peaceful slumber.

"She hasn't cried once," Max sounds impressed from his spot in the adjacent armchair, a half-empty cup of coffee on the side table beside him. "Usually she only stays quiet for me or Kelly."

"She knows quality when she sees it," Lando whispers, careful not to wake her. His thumb gently strokes her tiny hand. "Don't you, little champion?"

"Quality?" Max snorts, but there's fondness in his voice. "More like she can sense similar mental age."

"Shut up, I'm having a moment with my niece."

You sink into the soft cushions beside him, breathing in the sweet baby powder scent mixed with Lando's familiar cologne. Lily's peaceful face is perfectly framed by her tiny pink hat, her lips making small suckling movements in her sleep. She's gorgeous, a perfect mix of Max and Kelly, with Max's distinctive nose and Kelly's delicate features.

"Want to hold her?" Lando offers, but his arms tighten protectively when you reach out, betraying his reluctance.

"Mate, you have to share," Max laughs, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "You can't hog my daughter all afternoon."

"But she's so tiny," Lando pouts, looking down at Lily like she's made of precious glass. "And she likes me."

"Lando," you give him a look, trying not to smile at his attachment.

"Fine," he relents, carefully beginning the delicate transfer process. "Support her head- no, like this- there you go."

"I know how to hold a baby," you roll your eyes fondly, but your heart swells at his protectiveness.

The peaceful moment is broken by the thunder of small feet on the stairs. "LANDO!" P's voice rings out. "You promised to see my dollhouse!"

"Inside voice, love," Kelly reminds her, "Lily's sleeping."

"Sorry Mama," P whispers dramatically, though it's still closer to a stage whisper. "But Lando promised."

"I did promise," Lando stands reluctantly, his fingers lingering on Lily's tiny foot. "Be right back, little champion," he whispers to her, and you catch Max hiding a smile behind his coffee cup.

As P drags him upstairs, her excited whispers float down. "When you marry me, can we have a baby like Lily?"

Max chokes on his drink while Kelly tries to suppress her laughter. The sound makes Lily stir slightly in your arms before settling again.

"Ah, well," Lando stammers, his voice carrying down the stairwell. "Shouldn't you focus on your studies first, Princess P?"

"I suppose," she sighs with the weight of the world. "But you'll wait for me, right?"

"I think YN might have something to say about that," Kelly calls up after them, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

"YN can be the flower girl at our wedding!"

The room fills with quiet laughter, careful not to disturb Lily. The peaceful weight of the baby in your arms, the distant sound of P's chattering and Lando's patient responses, the comfortable domesticity of it all, it feels right in a way that makes your heart ache sweetly.

Fifteen minutes later, Lando returns looking slightly disheveled, a plastic tiara perched crookedly on his head and glitter somehow dusting his cheek. You bite back a laugh, apparently, the dollhouse tour had evolved into a full royal tea party.

"Not a word," he warns playfully, but his mock stern expression melts instantly as he takes in the sight of you holding Lily. He sinks back into the couch beside you, his arm finding its way around your shoulders as naturally as breathing. His other hand reaches out, and Lily instinctively grabs his finger in her sleep, her tiny fist holding on tight.

"She's perfect, isn't she?" he whispers, his breath warm against your ear.

"She is," you agree, noticing the way he's looking at both you and Lily, like he's seeing his future painted in front of him.

"Makes you think, doesn't it?" his voice is soft, meant only for you. The plastic tiara slips slightly, and you reach up to adjust it, your fingers lingering in his hair.

You turn to meet his eyes, recognizing that look, the same one he had when you first moved in together, when he first said 'I love you'. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he pulls you closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. His lips linger there as he whispers, "Maybe... maybe soon?"

Your heart does a familiar flutter. "Yeah," you whisper back. "Maybe soon."

The moment is broken by Max's voice from the kitchen doorway, where delicious smells of dinner have been wafting through. "If you two are done planning your future family on my couch," he says, wiping his hands on a dish towel, "dinner's ready. Kelly's lasagna waits for no one."

"Just for that, I'm teaching Lily to support McLaren," Lando threatens, still not moving from his position next to you.

"Over my dead body, Norris," Max scoffs, but his eyes are soft as he looks at his daughter.

"LANDO! Sit next to me!" P's voice carries from the dining room, where the sound of plates being set mingles with Kelly's gentle instructions to her daughter about careful handling of the cutlery.

"Sorry Max, your daughter calls," Lando grins, carefully helping you up without disturbing Lily. The movement makes his tiara fall completely, and P gasps in horror from the doorway.

"She better grow out of this crush before I have to actually consider you as a son-in-law."

In the dining room, the table set with care and what you recognize as Kelly's favorite plates. P has already claimed her spot, patting the chair next to her impatiently. You watch as Max gently places Lily in her bassinet next to Kelly's chair, the baby somehow still sleeping peacefully despite the movement.

The evening unfolds in a comfortable rhythm of good food and better company. P monopolizes Lando's attention with stories about her school and her dreams of becoming a racing driver ("Like Papa Max!"), while you and Kelly coo over Lily when she finally wakes for her evening feed. The conversation flows easily, punctuated by laughter and the occasional competitive banter between Max and Lando.

But throughout it all, you don't miss the way Lando keeps looking at you, especially when you're helping Kelly with Lily. His hand finds yours under the table more than once, squeezing gently, a silent conversation passing between you.

As the evening winds down and night settles in, P fights a losing battle with sleep, her head nodding even as she tries to convince Lando to read "just one more story." Kelly eventually scoops her up, the little girl too tired to even protest.

"Say goodnight to Lando and YN, love," Kelly prompts softly.

"G'night," P mumbles, then suddenly perks up enough to add, "Don't forget you promised to marry me, Lando."

"Oh, did he now?" you tease, helping Max clear the dinner plates as Lando blushes.

"Sweet dreams, Princess P," Lando says diplomatically, earning a sleepy smile before Kelly carries her upstairs.

You spend another hour chatting in the living room, Lily passing from arms to arms (though mostly staying with Lando, who's become surprisingly adept at handling her). The conversation drifts from racing to family life, with Max sharing stories about his first three months of fatherhood that have you all laughing.

When it's finally time to leave, P is long asleep upstairs, and Lily has just dozed off in her bassinet. The goodbyes are warm, with promises to visit again soon. Kelly hugs you both, whispering something in Lando's ear that makes him blush and smile.

"Drive safe," Max says, then adds with a smirk, "And Lando, try not to steal my daughter's heart too much. Either of them."

The drive home is quieter than the journey there, but it's a comfortable silence filled with unspoken thoughts.

"Penny for your thoughts?" you ask, watching his profile in the passing streetlights.

"Just thinking," he says, then after a pause that feels full of possibility, "You looked really good with Lily today."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he smiles, squeezing your hand. The streetlights catch the softness in his eyes. "Really good."

You know what he's not saying. After years together, you've learned to read between his lines, to understand the weight behind his simple words. The car fills with comfortable silence again as you both process the day's events and their implications.

"We should practice first," you suggest casually, watching his reaction from the corner of your eye. "Maybe get a dog?"

His face lights up like a Christmas tree, brighter than the Monte Carlo casino you're passing. "Really?"

"Really," you squeeze his hand, feeling the familiar calluses under your fingers. "One step at a time."

"One step at a time," he agrees, but his smile tells you he's already thinking several steps ahead. You can practically see the wheels

Later that night, as you're getting ready for bed, you catch him looking at baby clothes online. He quickly switches tabs when he notices you watching, but you pretend not to see, hiding your smile as you climb into bed beside him.

"Max sent more pictures," he says, showing you his phone. The screen displays a sleeping Lily in her bassinet.

"She's beautiful," you murmur, curling into his side.

"Our kids will be cuter though," he says confidently, then freezes as he realizes what he's said.

But you just laugh and kiss his cheek. "Obviously. They'll have your eyes."

His answering smile is brighter than all of Monaco's lights combined. You fall asleep that night dreaming of tiny racing suits and baby giggles, knowing that your "maybe soon" is slowly but surely turning into "definitely soon."

The next morning, you wake up to find Lando has already researched the best dog breeds for families with children. You don't mention it, but you do bookmark the page for future reference.

One step at a time, indeed.

[thedyingwriter]

In case of fire, Break Hearts (Coming Soon!)

Story Blurb

Character Portfolio: Amara 'Amy' DeLuca

Character Portfolio: Evan 'Buck' Buckley

Character Portfolio: Lorenzo 'Enzo' DeLuca

Character Portfolio: Kevin Park

[thedyingwriter]

In case of Fire, Break Hearts (Coming Soon!)

Character Portfolio Pt. 4

Kevin Park

Kevin Park is thirty-two, an orthopedic surgeon with the kind of resume that makes every Asian parent nod approvingly and the kind of smile that makes every patient breathe easier. He’s precise in the OR, calm under pressure, and somehow still the guy who remembers everyone’s coffee order. Ambiverted to his core, Kevin is perfectly content blending into a quiet evening at home or owning a conversation at a crowded dinner party — but he’s always present, always listening.

He met Lorenzo “Enzo” DeLuca the day the sculptor stumbled — quite literally — into his ER with an injury, and somewhere between setting bones and trading banter, Kevin fell headfirst. They’ve been beautifully, unapologetically in love ever since. Now living together in New York for Kevin’s career, they’ve built a life that’s equal parts gallery openings and late-night takeout, with wedding plans in the near future.

When Amara moved to LA, she and Kevin bonded instantly — the kind of easy, protective affection that makes her FaceTime him more than her own brother. He’s fiercely in her corner, the steady voice she calls for advice or just to share a laugh. To Kevin, she’s family — the little sister he never had — and to Amara, he’s proof that not all men with stethoscopes are intimidating.

Doting fiancé, soon-to-be devoted husband, and unshakable friend — Kevin Park is the quiet constant in a story full of chaos, love, and the kind of found family that actually sticks.

[thedyingwriter]

In Case of Fire, Break Hearts (Coming Soon!)

Character Portfolio Pt. 3

Lorenzo DeLuca

Lorenzo “Enzo” DeLuca is thirty-three, a sculptor whose work has carved him a place in New York’s thriving art scene — the kind of artist whose name is whispered at gallery openings and splashed across glossy magazine spreads. Italian-Indian by heritage and chaotic by nature, he’s a whirlwind of charm, color-stained hands, and opinions delivered with theatrical flourish. His life in New York is loud and beautiful, shared with his fiancé Kevin, a brilliant orthopedic surgeon who somehow matches Enzo’s energy beat for beat.

When it comes to his younger sister, Amara, Enzo is equal parts doting and overbearing, especially since the loss that reshaped her world three years ago. He hovers, meddles, and lectures, but only because he loves her fiercely and refuses to watch her face another heartbreak without a fight. To most, he’s unpredictable, maybe even a little too much; to those who know him, he’s magnetic — a storm worth getting swept up in.

[thedyingwriter]

In case of fire, Break Hearts (Coming Soon!)

Character Portfolio Pt. 2

Evan Buckley

Evan “Buck” Buckley is thirty, a Los Angeles frefighter with the kind of easy grin thatmakes strangers trust him instantly and a restless energy that refuses to be boxed in. He’s all golden-retriever warmth on the outside, but underneath is a man who’s learned the hard way that even the most loyal hearts can get left behind. After a sudden housing disaster leaves him couchless, he ends up in the spare room of Amara DeLuca — a woman who’s equal parts sharp edges and soft places, and who makes him feel like he’s walking into a fire every time she looks at him.

Buck’s the guy who will fix your sink, make you pancakes, and be gone before you know you needed him — but living with Amara starts to change that. She challenges him, teases him, and somehow makes him want to stay still long enough to figure himself out. Between late-night coffee in the kitchen, quiet conversations he didn’t see coming, and the way she slips into his thoughts during calls, Buck realizes this isn’t just a roommate situation. It’s something riskier.

And for a man who runs into burning buildings without hesitation, falling for Amara might be the most dangerous thing he’s ever done.

[thedyingwriter]

In case of fire, Break Hearts (Coming Soon!)

Character Portfolio Pt. 1

Amara DeLuca

Amara "Amy" DeLuca is thirty, a trauma surgeon with a side gig as a guest lecturer at CalMed, and the youngest child in a loud, opinionated family. Born to an Indian mother and an Italian father, she grew up in New York with a foot in both worlds — her love for coffee, carbs, and Formula 1 courtesy of her dad, and her instinct to weave bits of desi culture into her life thanks to her mom. Not in the obvious, overplayed ways, but in the quiet comforts: jhumkis on a Tuesday, a silver nose ring, a kurti when she’s curled up at home with a book.

She’s a true New Yorker at heart — direct, a little impatient, and fiercely independent — but three years ago, losing her fiancé cracked something open she’s still learning how to mend. In the years since, she’s buried herself in her career, moved to L.A., discovering that she also loves the adrenaline of a night shift, the calm of late-night reading, and the buzz of a race weekend just as much as she loves the city skyline.

Amara wasn’t looking for a roommate when firefighter Evan Buckley’s housing crisis dropped him into her spare room — and she definitely wasn’t looking for the way he’s making her remember that letting someone in doesn’t always mean losing the love she already had.

[thedyingwriter]

In case of fire, Break hearts (Coming Soon!)

Guys I have been cooking this in my head since forever and I'm finally siting down and writing this now so pls stay tuned if you're interested. This will be posted on Tumblr as well as AO3.

Roommates were supposed to split rent, not feelings.

When Amara DeLuca, a surgeon with a messy apartment, a worse sleep schedule, and a stubborn soft spot for disaster men has Evan Buckley move in her spare room after a sudden housing disaster, she’s braced for late-night sirens and leftover takeout. She’s not braced for him.

Between shared coffees at 3 a.m., accidental shoulder brushes that linger too long, cooking for each other and the way he keeps showing up exactly when she needs him, Amara finds herself toeing the line between friendship and something far more combustible.

But Amara is still carrying the quite ache of losing her fiancé and Buck has his own scars. From his side of the story, living with Amara is like holding a match to everything he thought he knew about love. Falling for each other might be the most dangerous rescue either of them attempts.

Add an Italian wedding, a meddling fire house family and enough unresolved sexual tension to set off smoke alarms, and it’s clear: If love is the fire, someone’s bound to get burned.

Tags: Roommates to Lovers, Friends to Lovers, Friends with Benefits, Slow Burn (the kind that will make you scream into a pillow), Mutual Pining, Idiots in Love, Domestic Fluff, Accidental Intimacy, Found Family, Flirty Banter as Foreplay, Meddling 118, They are in love Your Honor!, Firefighter/Surgeon Romance, Emotional Rescue, Will They/Won’t They (They Will), Smoke Alarms Aren’t Just for Fires, Sexual Tension, Buck Deserves Nice Things, She Is the Moment and He Knows It, Everyone Is A Little In Love With Amara, Past Loss of a Fiancé, Healing Through Love.

[thedyingwriter]

Won't Say I'm In Love (SMAU ft. Lando Norris) - bonus part five

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader; past carlos alcaraz x fem!reader

summary: As a general rule, y/n does not date athletes. You've been there, done that - would not recommend. Besides, you definitely don't do love. There's no time in the world for complicated feelings when there's a career Grand Slam to be won. But what if your heart just refuses to listen?

genre: social meda/mixed au, friends to lovers

note: this is RPF and is obviously in no way, shape, or form reflective of real persons or events

series: part i, part ii, part iii, part iv, part v, part vi, part vii. part viii, part ix, part x, part xi, part xii, part xiii, part xiv, part xv, part xvi, part xvii, part xviii, part xix, part xx, part xxi, part xxii

bonus: one, two, three, four

author's note: This is a bonus part, and not a regular update - i.e. no images, just text!

14th of August, 2025

Normally, the air smelling like tarmac and kerosine would bring Lando a sense of comfort.

Today, it’s only making him nervous.

He is standing just outside what functions as the local airport – it’s not much more than a fenced off field with a hangar and one landing strip for small private planes. The main hub is located on one of the bigger islands, but this? This is as much luxurious privacy and seclusion as money can buy. As a side effect, it’s incredibly easy to track who comes and goes. Current status: Lando yesterday, and now you just a few minutes ago when he’d seen the small plane approaching, then landing, then opening its doors.

His heartrate spikes.

You’ll have four uninterrupted days together at the private resort. To be off-radar and reset as much as possible. Granted, he has a training regime to adhere to, and he’d made sure that there was a tennis court on the grounds for you. Still, it counts as your first holiday together - just the two of you. Or well, at least it does in his mind. He’s not sure how you feel, despite the fact that you’d agreed to the getaway. Had promised him kisses. Relationship-like intimacy and ease.

But you’d also said that you wanted to talk. Lando is trying really hard not to think about it too much.

He’s not blind. He’s seen the rumours about you and Jack. He’s seen how in love you’d been with Carlos once upon a time. Knows he can’t compete with the proximity that an aligned tennis tour offers, compared to the many race weekends that often overlap with your own matches. Yes, he has a watch set to your timezone. But wouldn't it be easier when you don't need that at all?

But he also knows how everything just feels right whenever he’s with you. How it’s never felt like this before for him, how easy it would be to just say ‘this is it, she’s the one,’ and for that to be true.

And you have chemistry. On every level. He hadn’t expected that, hadn’t thought the real thing could possibly ever measure up to the fantasy – but it had.

So it can’t be one-sided, he allows himself to consider. The way in which everything just tastes better, the sun seems brighter, the days feel both shorter and longer all at once because they’re filled with moments of you.

No, you wouldn’t be that cruel. To come all this way, just to tell him it all meant nothing and you’re better off just friends. It might be naïve or foolish, but he knows you. Knows that you struggle with being vulnerable, with letting people in. Knows that you wouldn’t risk his heart alongside your own if you didn’t believe it could be worth it. And he trusts you enough that even if you were to end up breaking his in pieces, you’d try to do so gently.

Lando can’t help but smile as he spots you, finally. You're negotiating with the stewards about your racquet bag. While he can't properly see your face from his vantage point, he can just picture the satisfied grin stretching onto your face as you end up hoisting the bag onto your own shoulders. Those racquets are your babies. After one horrifying experience where the bag went missing in customs for multiple days, you now always insist on carrying it yourself. “Clothes are replaceable. My customised racquets are very much not,” you’d told him once. He’d gotten to borrow one of yours that very same afternoon.

He checks his watch, and can’t quite believe that he doesn’t have to do any math just to know when you are, because you’re sharing the same time zone for the first time in ages.

Still, it doesn’t make the minutes pass by any faster. If anything, he’s getting more impatient the longer it takes for you to actually exit the hangar. It's just a short walk, isn't it? Now that you're so close, the waiting seems worse.

Fuck, he’s really missed you.

His fingers tap against his leg as he leans on the rental car, trying his best to look casual. All of that goes out the window the moment you finally step outside and into view. Lando waves, then plants his feet on the ground firmly to stop himself from doing something stupid like running over to you.

The tiny frown between your eyebrows fades away when your eyes lock onto his and you start making your way over to him. His resolve falters the moment you’re within reach, and your arms circle round his neck. He lifts you up easily, spinning you round once as you squeal. “Oh my god, you’re crazy, put me down!”

When you’re safely back on your feet, forehead resting against his, you give him a small smile as your gaze drops to his lips.

Lando’s heart jumps, hands squeezing your sides briefly. You’re a little warm and sweaty from the flight, shirt sticking to tan skin. He couldn’t care less at the moment.

“Hi,” you murmur, hot breath fanning across his lips. “Hi,” he says around a smile, then nudges your nose with his. It feels like forever, waiting for you to close the gap – but Lando needs to know if you crave it as much as he does.

“Thought you’d collect on those promised kisses straight away,” you whisper, and Lando’s breath hitches. “Trust me, I want to. Just waiting for you to catch up.”

You pull away just enough so you can look at him properly, noticing his flushed cheeks and the way he’s squeezing his eyes shut as if to ground himself. “You can kiss me. It’s a private island, I don’t care. I want to kiss you. Missed you,” the confession slips its way past your lips and lodged itself directly behind his ribs. He pretends there’s no barbed wire wrapped around the message, that you would care if it wasn’t a private island.

It’s easy enough to focus on the needy whine in your voice instead.

So Lando groans and dives forward, feeling warm all over. It’s hardly a proper kiss, not with the way the both of you are smiling into it. But then a small sigh of contentment escapes you, and Lando takes it as an opportunity to lick into your mouth for real.

You taste like the sweet sparkling cider you love so much, and something that hits almost too close to home. He pulls back, tries to steady himself by pressing a kiss to your cheek and burrowing his head in your neck. “Mhm, missed you too,” he murmurs. It’s probably a little bit embarrassing, the way in which he is absolutely clinging onto you, but he doesn’t care.

You run your hand through the curls at the back of his head, effectively pulling him in even closer. “Thank you for this. For picking me up. Didn’t think I needed this, but maybe I do.”

He squeezes your sides once, then presses a kiss to your forehead as he leans back. “Shall we go, then? The house is really nice. Want to make the most of the time we have.”

You nod. “Just, one more thing,” you lean in and kiss him again. It’s heated, and a lot filthier than the ones before. When you pull back, it leaves Lando a little dazed.

He belatedly lets go of your hand as you step out of reach and race to sit in the driver's seat after throwing your bag in the trunk. “That’s mean,” he mutters, but you just smirk and wiggle your hand as you lean out the window.

“Come on, you’re too easy to distract, baby. Now give me the keys and play passenger princess for me, pretty please.”

Honestly, Lando tries his hardest to give you an unimpressed look, but he knows he can’t control the way in which the corners of his mouth curl up into a smile. You calling him baby really shouldn’t make his insides feel all gooey, but they do, and he is so absolutely fucked.

He pretends to be annoyed for all of five seconds, then dutifully slides into the passenger seat. “GPS is already set, go ahead birdie.”

Befuddled, you reach over to adjust a pair of sunglasses that had been waiting for you in the car. Neither of you mention it. “You hate using GPS.”

“But I knew you’d want to drive,”  he counters. It feels an awful lot like showing you all his cards, but Lando is so over playing games. He doesn’t want to overwhelm you, or scare you away, but he’s not going to pretend he doesn’t know you.

“It’s your hands. They're distracting,” you tease, and he smiles smugly as he places one hand on your thigh.

“I've been told they can be quite the distraction, indeed.”

It doesn’t make you smile, though.

Instead, you stiffen under his grip, then turn away to put your seatbelt on and start the car. The radio effectively kills the silence, but with it also any chance Lando has to talk to you when you make no move to turn it off. He retracts his hand slowly.

He isn’t sure what has just happened, spends the rest of the 15 minute ride back to the house figuring out if he’s somehow put his foot in without realizing. Or maybe he’s overthinking things, maybe you just need a moment to decompress. Doesn't he know better than anyone else how exhausting it can be to be around people all the time who expect a performance? How it can feel like a soothing balm to finally wrap yourself in silence when everything - everyone - is too much?

It's just that it usually doesn't feel quite so stifling, at least not with the two of you.

The gravel crunches underneath the tyres as you park the car up the driveway. It’s totally sideways, and Lando has to suppress a hysterical nervous giggle from spilling out at the normalcy of it. You've always been bad at it - even here, apparently, with zero other cars around. He resolves to fix the horrific parking job later, like he always does. But maybe he'll wait until his heart isn’t in his throat and he doesn’t feel quite so on edge. You pull the brake, kill the engine and turn the radio off, but make no move to get out.

Instead, you fiddle with the car fob as you lean back in your seat with a frustrated sigh.

“Usually the next step involves unbuckling the seat belt,” Lando remarks dryly. You huff and finally look over at him.

There is a storm brewing behind your eyes, that much he can tell. But he doesn’t know if he can dislodge it, if he can weather it or maybe still it altogether. Just knows he has to try.

“Hey," he says softly.

“Hi,” you whisper back, eyes searching his.

“What’s bothering you?” He asks, turning in his seat so he can face you properly.

Maybe this was too much, after all. You hadn’t exactly signed up for a couple’s holiday. Maybe he should offer you the guest room. Keep up the pretense, give you an out – even when he doesn’t really want to. But he’s scared of that talk you want to have, scared of what it’ll mean for how you will leave this getaway.

Scared to see if he can actually make good on his promise that no matter what, you’ll be best friends first. Or still. Maybe having you sometimes is better than not at all. But it kills him all the same.

You cover your face, sighing into your hands. “Ugh. I really thought I could do it, could be fine.”

His stomach plunges, and he wants to reach out. But all of a sudden, Lando feels the panic rising within himself. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed to. If maybe you'd rather have someone else. He almost wants to laugh at himself. Barely hears what you’re saying as he internally berates his own heart for running away from him anyways.

“... and so I just can’t do this anymore. I can’t walk into that villa and pretend like it’s not killing me for the next couple of days.”

He scoffs, is about to retaliate and ask why you’d kissed him like that, had said you’d missed him if you didn’t mean it in the way he wanted you to. But you don’t give him the time, cheeks turning red as your voice wobbles. “Don’t scoff! I know I'm being stupid, no need to make it worse. I know I was the one who asked for no labels. I know I have no right to – but I just need to know.”  

Huh?

Lando blinks, only registering now that you seem genuinely distressed, a pleading look on your face.

“What are you talking about?”

Distress morphs into frustration. “Jesus. I am asking if you’re seeing other people, you idiot. If you are having Magui or whoever drive your cars around as well, turn on GPS just for them, and refrain from commenting on their spectacularly bad parking. If you take them on holiday, or keep spare sunglasses at the ready for someone else aside from me,” you sound exasperated and embarrassed all at the same time. “I know I didn’t want to define what this is, but I’m drowning in jealousy I have no right to feel. I’m very aware that you don’t owe me an answer either way, but like. I’m going crazy inside my own mind, so I’m asking anyway. Because it’s you.”

Lando is stunned. Can’t quite compute what you’ve just laid bare. “Sorry, I’m just – you think I’m dating other people?” He clarifies incredulously. Hasn’t he been obvious all this time?

You groan, and point at his hands as if they’re the main offender here. “Just, your hands. I don’t want them to distract anyone but me,” you motion helplessly, sinking even further down in the seat as if you'd like for them to swallow you whole.

Lando snorts. “I don’t want them on anyone else but you. To hold you, to touch you, to please you. How could you even question that?” He leans over the console, the fire in his belly starting to simmer again as he grabs a hold of your hand to pull you close.

“Are you daft? The only person I want to be with is you. Has been for a while. 'M not seeing anyone else. If anything, I’ve gotten off to calling you my girlfriend in my head an embarrassing amount of times over the past few months.”

A wet laugh escapes you, head now resting against his chest. “No you haven’t.”

Lando shrugs. You want him back, he really doesn't care about anything else. “Wish I was lying. I’m pathetic like that.”

“So you’re not hanging out with your ex?” It’s almost jarring, hearing you sound so unlike yourself – so unsure and small. It doesn’t suit you, Lando decides. Wants to never give you a reason to sound like that again.

“No. Why, are you hanging out with your ex?”

Immediately, you snort and Lando feels like a weight he didn’t even know was there has been lifted off his shoulders. “Ha! No. Not if it can’t be helped. Like. I feel like it’s different, because it’s somewhat inevitable. We are cordial to each other in passing.”

You’re quiet, then sit up a bit to catch his gaze. To show him you mean it. “But I don’t have feelings for anyone else. Just you.”

Lando tries not to smile too widely, squeezes your hand once as his thumb rubs circles into your skin. “Same here. There is nothing, noone to be jealous of. I think the last time I saw Magui it was for Pietra’s birthday? They’re still friends, so.”

You nod. “And I’m not saying that I don't want you to be around her ever or that Pietra can't be friends with her. But it's that I need the clarity then. That we are together. That I'm yours and you’re mine.”

“Baby,” it slips out before he realizes, but you don’t seem to mind and he doesn't want to take it back. “I tried earlier this year to not be yours. Went on an ill-advised date with my ex, but even then it just felt wrong. I've been very inconveniently falling for my best friend all this time. I want you. Noone else.”

Your gaze drifts back down to your joint hands across the console.

“So these hands, all mine?”  

He lifts them and kisses your hand, then nods.

“All yours.”

A mischievous grin stretches onto your face, before pressing a trail of kisses from his jawline up to the corner of his mouth. Lando suppresses a shiver, closing his eyes to enjoy your ministrations. 

“These lips, also mine?”

He nods, then uses his free hand to bring your face closer so he can kiss you again with a little more fervour.

Where the car had felt stifling before from the silence, now it’s because you’re steadily making Lando's pulse and body temperature rise with every bite, lick, and kiss that sees you claiming territory.

When you finally pull away again, Lando can’t help but tease you, one hand reaching up to help sort out your hair. “Didn’t know you got jealous and possessive like that. It's kinda hot.”

Predictably, you roll your eyes and give his chest a half-hearted push. “Okay, that’s it. I’ve had enough. I’m getting out of this car right now. Clearly you could use some fresh air, too.”

Lando is pretty sure he doesn't need anything, actually. Feels extremely lucky as he gets out of the car and grabs your bags.

“Promise you'll show me what other parts of me are just yours once we are inside?” He asks cheekily as he passes you by.

You raise an eyebrow at him. “What, like a you show me yours, I show you mine type of thing?”

“Is that a relationship exclusive?” Lando pushes down the sense of euphoria threatening to leak out of his every pore when you don't even blink at his phrasing.

“Girlfriend only special,” you wink. “Now come here, I think the jetlag and heat have made me stupid and I’ll need my boyfriend to help me figure out the shower settings, because I could use one to cool off.”

He can't follow soon enough.

a/n: hehe I couldn't wait! hope you enjoy, thanks again for all your follows 🥰

♥ likes, comments, reblogs and asks are always very much appreciated - i love chatting and hearing your thoughts! ♥

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[thedyingwriter]

Imagine Chimney going through Bobby's desk in his office. Having to clear personal things out. It breaks his heart, but also warms him because the captain was sentimental.

Then he comes across a small blue book labeled simply "Buck." Curious, he opens and flips through it.

Kid has eating problems. Will forget to eat when stressed. Feed him, and encourage him to cook, because he likes to taste-test a lot.

Chimney remembers that. Buck mentioning getting so hungry the starving pains go away. He does remember during the shitty times when Buck lost so much weight.

-Loves carbs

-Hates Okra

-Probably allergic to shellfish and mangos. Encourage him to get an allergy test

-Allergic to Naproxen

-Allergic to heavy fragrance laundry detergents. Use gentle.

-Remind him he's doing a great job. Use positive reinforcement.

-If he's depressed, as Maddie says, hand him a child. May and Harry work too.

-He's finally gaining weight! :)

-The Buckley parents are banned. Do not ask why. Firehouse is his safe area.

-He fidgets when he's stressed. Have him chop some vegetables or prepare them for you. He loves being helpful.

-He loves his clipboard. Have him organize important events. Give him gold stars. Do not let Hen and Chimney hide it. He gets sad.

-Remind him not to read too close or in the dark. He's gonna need glasses at this point. (If he does, don't let others tease him. Tell him he looks great)

-He doesn't admit it, but his leg still bothers him. Heating blankets are in the closet in the office. Have Eddie massage his leg or send him home early if he's obviously struggling.

Chim laughs. He laughs, and laughs, and starts to cry. Of all things, he did not expect to find a "How to Take Care of Your Buck" guide hidden away in Bobby's desk.

[thedyingwriter]

OMG YOUR REQUESTS ARE OPEN

Can you please write something where reader(she/her) and max, Charles, Carlos, lando and Oscar are all giving her one orgasm each before the next guy tries and they’re trying to see who can make her squirt first🥵

make her break - MV1, OP81, LN4, CS55 & CL16 🔥

Masterlist

Summary It started as a joke. A drunken dare. One girl, five drivers, and one rule: each of them gets her off before the next one can try. But soon it turns into a full-blown contest. Touching, teasing, fucking her one by one until she’s trembling, wrecked, begging for mercy. The real goal? Make her squirt first. And none of them plan on losing.

Warnings multiple drivers x reader, group sex, gangbang format, orgasm control, overstimulation, squirting, vaginal fingering, oral (f receiving), vaginal sex, edging, light degradation, lots of praise, competitive doms, reader being used and ruined by multiple men, spread legs, slapping, choking, hair pulling, wet and messy, light voyeurism, slight humiliation, possessive moments, spit, creampie references, no aftercare, filthy and chaotic energy

"One orgasm each," Max said, sitting back on the couch, arms spread over the top. You were already naked. Already dripping. Already dizzy. He smirked. "Let’s see who makes you squirt first."

Charles chuckled low. “She’s shaking already. This won’t take long.”

Carlos stood behind him, sleeves rolled up. “She’ll soak the sheets before Max even touches her.”

Lando grinned. “Think she’ll say my name when it happens?”

Oscar just licked his lips and said nothing. His eyes were already locked between your legs.

It started with Charles. He was soft with it. Gentle. French. Laid you back on the bed, hands warm on your thighs, tongue sliding between your folds like he already knew exactly what made you melt.

“You look so pretty like this,” he murmured against your pussy, then moaned when you arched into his mouth.

His tongue was perfect. Flat and wide. Then curling. Then two fingers slid in, crooking just right, just deep enough. You came in minutes. Loud. Shaking.

The boys clapped like it was a sport.

Charles stood up with a satisfied smile. “Et voilà.”

Carlos was next. He didn’t waste time. “Lie on your stomach.”

You obeyed. He pulled you up to your knees, ass in the air, face down. Then he spread you open, muttered something in Spanish, and shoved two fingers in deep, fast, relentless.

You screamed.

“Louder,” he ordered, rubbing your clit with his other hand. “Let them hear it.”

You came again. Gushing. But not squirting.

He smirked. “Close.”

Lando pushed him aside. “Let me try.”

He kissed you first. Deep and filthy. While his fingers slipped between your thighs like they belonged there.

He added a third finger fast. No warning. No mercy. “Come on, baby,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw. “Show them you’re mine.”

You sobbed. Came again. Harder. But still not the winner.

Lando groaned. “Fucking hell.”

Oscar stepped in next. He didn’t speak. Just pushed you back. Spread your legs wider. Slid his tongue in like he’d done it before. He was slow. Precise. Evil.

He didn’t let you come. He edged you. Teased. Tapped your clit with two fingers and just watched.

“You’re fucking mean,” you gasped.

He smirked. Said nothing.

Then he shoved three fingers in, curled them, licked your clit once and you came so hard you screamed his name. Still not squirting.

“Fuck,” Oscar muttered, wiping his mouth. “She’s right there.”

Max stood. Everyone got quiet. He didn’t smile. Didn’t rush. He just walked over, tilted your chin up, and kissed you slow.

“You ready, baby?”

You nodded, trembling. He laid you flat. Hooked your legs over his shoulders. Pressed his palm down on your stomach.

Then he fucked you with his fingers like it was an exorcism. Hard. Fast. Mean. “Come on,” he growled. “Give it to me. Squirt all over my fucking hand.”

You screamed. Cried. Clawed at the sheets. Then your body snapped.

You came harder than you ever had. Soaking the bed. His arm. The floor. Everyone froze.

Max smirked. “Winner.”