huh-i-guess

[huh-i-guess]

cod dump

simon in my imagination

price

ghost armor study

soap in kilt

trying to figure out gaz's characteristics

[huh-i-guess]

they are best friends

[huh-i-guess]

: ̗̀➛ But he doesn't like me, does he?

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ₊✩ˎˊ˗ Clark Kent x Reader

synopsis : There was one thing you knew for sure, absolutely certain: Clark Kent didn’t like you. Not in an angry or rude way, he was still polite, still himself. But you could feel it. His body language and attitude gave everything away. Your coworkers kept insisting you were wrong, but then why did he keep avoiding you?

cw : smut, unprotected sex, coworkers to lovers, idiots in love, insecurities, height difference, chubby reader. (david!clark kent) words : 12.7k

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  masterlist ⋆ ao3 ⋆ more

It was no secret at the Daily Planet that Clark Kent was a gentleman. His coworkers liked to joke that his mama raised him right—but if only they knew, it was actually his pa who was the emotional one.

Still, the truth stood : Clark Kent had been raised right.

He brought coffee to his colleagues in the morning, at least when he wasn’t running late. If someone forgot their wallet, he’d quietly pick up the lunch tab, never expecting to be paid back. He always volunteered for the articles no one else wanted to write, the stories everyone avoided.

That’s just Clark. A pleaser, through and through.

It did wonders for the office. You hadn’t met a single person who didn’t like Clark, he made it so easy to appreciate him. A gentle, big man with a heart of gold, who could hate that? You certainly didn’t. But still, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t like you.

Every time he walked past your desk, he avoided your gaze, eyes low and fixed on the floor, hiding his face from you. Sure, he never left you out of his little acts of kindness, bringing your favorite vanilla latte to your cubicle next to Jimmy’s with that soft, polite smile, but he never lingered. Not the way he did at other people’s desks.

At first, you chalked it up to being the new hire. But as the months slipped by, you started to realize, he just didn’t like you all that much. Which was a shame, really, considering the rather enormous crush you’d developed on the man.

You had done a marvellous job of hiding it. You were always polite with Clark, but you never stared too long, never asked your coworkers about him, never lingered by his desk longer than necessary. Still, every time he was near, your heart would pound like crazy, ready to burst right out of your chest. It was ridiculous.

Almost 26, and you still had crushes like you were in high school. You’d thought you were past all that, especially after enduring so many terrible dates. Maybe the problem wasn’t you, maybe it was the men of Metropolis. Because you seemed to have no trouble falling for a man from a small town lost somewhere in Kansas.

“Hello!” snapped you out of your daydream, along with fingers flicking in front of your face. “Have you even been listening to me?” Jimmy asked, exasperation written all over his face.

Obviously not. You hadn’t heard a word.

“Of course, Jimmy,” you said quickly, looking him in the eye.

You’d been staring at the empty coffee cup on the corner of your desk, the very one Clark had brought you that morning. You grabbed it hastily and tossed it into the trash. It had been sitting there like a quiet taunt, mocking you with the reminder that you could never have the one man you actually wanted.

Jimmy frowned at your abrupt action but quickly moved on, picking up where he'd left off with his story about his latest date. You loved him—really, you did—he was one of your favourite coworkers. But god, did he talk a lot. And since your desks were practically conjoined, you were the default audience for all of his dating escapades.

It had been a long day.

You’d spent it covering yet another political scandal, this time in Gotham City. Something about the Mayor being killed. The details were murky, grim, and far too much for a Wednesday. You couldn’t help but wish the day would just end already.

Dropping your head onto your arm, you let out a groan as you remembered the errands still waiting for you. If you didn’t get to the store soon, you’d be dining on water and regret. If Jimmy noticed you disinterest in the conversation, he didn't act on it as he kept yapping about the girl he had seen the night before. 

And to top it all off, you needed a new perfume, your old one was currently sitting in the bottom of your trash can, shattered into a hundred glassy pieces. Just one more little tragedy in a day full of them.

From the moment you woke up, it had been that kind of day. And you couldn’t wait for it to be over.

“Care for a drink tonight?” Lois’s voice cut through the room like a whip, barging in out of nowhere, and mercifully putting an end to Jimmy’s endless rambling.

Normally, grabbing a drink with coworkers would’ve sounded nice. Fun, even. But not tonight.

Your head was pounding, a dull, throbbing ache that had been building for hours. That’s when you realized, you hadn’t had any water today. Just coffee. So much coffee. And now exhaustion clung to you like the plague, dragging you down like a ball and chain around your ankle.

“Not for me…” you mumbled, face buried in your arms. “My head’s killing me, so… no drinks tonight.” 

After a few worried words from Jimmy, which you quickly brushed off, he went right back to talking about his date. This time, to Lois. Which, unfortunately, meant he started the entire story over again from the beginning.

You sat up with a quiet groan, realising you still had about two hours left at work. Deciding to make good use of the time, you started preparing questions for your next interview, then moved on to editing your article about the Gotham City scandal, scheduled to run the next day.

Once you were fully immersed in your work, the background noise faded. Jimmy’s voice, Lois’s witty remarks, none of it registered anymore. It was peaceful, being tucked away inside your own head, fingers dancing across the keyboard with purpose.

Unfortunately, that peace did nothing for your pounding headache, especially since your glasses were currently sitting on your coffee table at home, forgotten yet again.

The voices around you quieted when a bottle of water appeared on your desk, followed by a single aspirin. They had been placed gently on the wood, carefully set down so as not to disturb your focus. It was a quiet, thoughtful gesture, tender in a way that caught you off guard.

Looking up, you found yourself met with soft blue eyes, warm and filled with concern.

“For your head,” Clark said simply, before turning back to his own desk under the watchful gaze of three stunned coworkers.

How had he known?

He’d been at his desk the whole time. When you mentioned the headache, your voice had been muffled into your arms, barely audible even to Jimmy and Lois, who were sitting right beside you. 

But Clark? Clark had heard you all the way across the room?

You couldn’t begin to figure out the logistics of it, but your heart didn’t care. It tumbled over in your chest, stuttering at the unexpected sweetness of it all. 

What you didn’t see, because his back was turned, was the small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of Clark’s mouth as he sat back down.

When you turned your eyes back to your coworkers, both Jimmy and Lois were looking at you with raised eyebrows and matching, knowing smiles.

Jimmy had been teasing you about Clark ever since he caught you blushing the first time Clark brought you coffee. And Lois? She never missed a chance to mention the "energy" she claimed she could feel between the two of you, whatever that meant.

“Oh, fuck off,” you muttered, ducking your head and returning to your article as you twisted open the bottle of water. You popped the aspirin and took a long sip, trying to drown the heat rising in your cheeks.

For someone who didn’t seem to like you very much… Clark was oddly caring. 

But that was just Clark. He cared about people, that’s who he was. Thoughtful, selfless, kind to a fault. You were part of his daily life, part of the Daily Planet team, and even if he didn’t like you that way, he would still care.

That’s just how he was. Clark Kent had been raised right. There was no denying that.

A few days later, it was your turn to be late to the Daily Planet. It was rare for you, almost unheard of, but some alien had decided to crash-land on Earth the night before, and the resulting battle with Superman had wrecked part of your subway line.

You’d ended up walking twenty minutes to the office, arriving late, sweaty, and just in time to miss the morning meeting. Your punishment? Covering sports for the day. Fantastic.

You hated sports. Ironic, really, considering some of your old dates used to joke about how unathletic your body looked. Those assholes.

When you finally made it to your desk, your usual iced vanilla latte was already waiting for you, right next to a fresh bottle of water. God. Did he have to be this thoughtful?

It made everything worse. Or better. You weren’t sure anymore. All you knew was that you liked him even more now, which was exactly the problem.

“Thought you were dead,” Jimmy said the second you dropped into your chair. “Was gonna swing by your place tonight and steal your vinyl collection.”

You shot him a flat look. “Yeah, well, if Superman hadn’t turned half the N line into a pile of concrete, I wouldn’t have had to walk twenty minutes to get here.” You groaned and took a sip of your coffee. 

Sweet, cold, just how you liked it. The smallest part of you hated how good it tasted, because it meant he remembered exactly what you liked. Again. And of course, he’d made sure it was iced, the summer heat had already started hitting Metropolis like a brick wall.

Jimmy giggled beside you like a child. You glanced over to see him diving into his assignment, politics, the lucky bastard. He had a long day of work ahead, while you were stuck with nothing interesting. Groaning under your breath, you reached into your bag and pulled out your glasses, resigning yourself to a long, boring day. You already knew you were going to hate it.

“Hey.” A soft voice called from behind you.

You turned, half-expecting it to be someone asking for a stapler or sticky notes. But it was Clark. You offered him a polite smile, assuming, like usual, he was there to talk to Jimmy. You were already halfway turned back toward your screen when you noticed something strange : his eyes were still on you.

You raised a brow, unsure. “Hello,” you replied, voice cautious, heart beating fast. He looked like he was fighting back a smile.

God. That little almost-smile. Your heart tripped over itself. How could someone that big be so ridiculously cute? It made no sense. None at all.

“I know you’re not a fan of sports,” Clark began, his tone gentle, “and I got stuck with local news today… which I also know you like.”

Your heart stuttered. You didn’t even need to look, Jimmy was absolutely staring at the two of you, probably wearing that smug told-you-so smirk he always pulled when it came to Clark. He’d insisted for months that you were wrong, that Clark did like you.

“He’s just polite,” you used to argue. 

“He’s polite to everyone,” Jimmy would say. “But with you? He’s thoughtful.”

And damn it, now it was starting to look like Jimmy might’ve been right.

“I asked Perry, and he said as long as we’re both okay with it, he doesn’t see any problem with us switching—” Clark stopped mid-sentence. 

He’d stepped a little closer to your desk, his expression soft and earnest… but then something shifted. His brow furrowed slightly, as if catching something out of place. “You changed your perfume?”

Oh.

You had. The other night, when you finally made it to the store, they’d been out of your usual scent. You’d spent a good hour testing every bottle on the shelf until you found one you liked, something softer, quieter. No one else had noticed the difference.

But of course Clark did.

You blinked, caught off guard. He wasn’t even that close. You weren’t wearing much of it. How did he notice? You felt your heart knock hard against your ribs. There it was again, that strange awareness. Like he saw and heard and felt things other people didn’t.

“Yeah,” you said, keeping your voice casual even as your pulse betrayed you. “Just trying something new.”

Clark didn’t say anything right away. His gaze lingered a little longer, thoughtful, before that small, secret smile tugged at the corner of his lips again. You didn’t know what that smile meant. But you were starting to want to.

“Anyway,” he said quickly, as if realising how odd his comment about your perfume might’ve sounded. “I figured you might want local news. I really don’t mind sports.”

He offered a soft smile as he handed you the annex documents.

“Oh, thank you so much, Clark,” you said, relieved and maybe a little too enthusiastic, swapping him the sports documents in return.

Your fingers brushed, just barely, and it sent a shiver down your spine. He was warm. Of course he was. He looked like he gave the best hugs. The kind you could melt into and forget the world existed for a little while.

You shook your head subtly, trying to knock the thought loose.

Now was not the time to imagine Clark Kent curled around you in bed during the dead of winter, holding you close while snow fell outside. Not the time to picture flannel sheets and his soft breath against your neck. Those kinds of thoughts were supposed to stay in your bedroom, late at night, when the lights were out and your imagination ran free. 

Not in the middle of the office. Not in the middle of the day. And definitely not while standing in front of the actual man who starred in every single one of those fantasies.

You cleared your throat, eyes darting anywhere but his. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Clark gave you a look you couldn’t quite read, something quiet, maybe a little amused, but he didn’t press. Just nodded gently and stepped back toward his desk. And damn it, there went your brain again. Right back to flannel sheets and the curve of his smile.

“Girl, you are down bad,” Jimmy snorted from behind you, pulling you right out of your spiral.

Without even looking, you grabbed the first thing within reach, a ruler, and threw it at his head. It hit him square on. “Worth it,” he laughed, rubbing the spot before turning back to his screen.

You huffed and tried to do the same, shaking off the embarrassment and diving into your article. What you didn’t catch, too flustered and too focused on pretending not to care, was the quiet laugh Clark let slip from his own desk.

Soft. Low. Amused. Like he’d heard the whole thing… 

You’d never been particularly fond of walking home.

The streets of Metropolis were always crowded, day and night, and ever since Superman had wrecked part of the N line, your commute had grown by twenty exhausting minutes each way.

Why was it so easy to smash half the city every month, but fixing it always took forever?

So you walked. Again. Winding your way toward the still-functioning stretch of the N line, where you could finally hop on a train for the last ten minutes of your journey. You were just passing a little corner restaurant when you heard your name.

Your full name. Spoken in a voice you’d come to recognize far too easily.

Clark.

Your heart jumped. Turning around, you caught sight of him instantly.

He looked the same as he had in the office, same button-up shirt with his sleeves now rolled up to the elbows, but somehow, he also looked softer. His hair had loosened in the summer humidity, and a single curl had fallen down across his forehead.

He looked good. Too good.

“Oh, hi, Clark,” you said, inwardly cringing at how small and soft your voice came out.

He smiled, warm and easy, walking toward you. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Never caught you around this part of town before.”

You shrugged, trying to keep things casual despite the way your stomach flipped. 

“Oh, yeah, no, um…” You stumbled over your words, eyes flicking to the restaurant window behind him like it might save you. “Superman destroyed the N line near the office, so I have to walk all the way to the library station to catch the part that wasn’t damaged.”

Clark winced sympathetically. “Right. The whole N line mess.”

He’d been different with you lately.

Not dramatically, not enough to confirm anything, but just enough to keep your brain in a constant, swirling fog. He talked to you more. Not just about assignments, but about music, coffee, the weather, small things, personal things. His eyes stayed on you when you spoke, warm and focused. He lingered at your desk a little longer than he used to. Not like he did at Lois’s desk, all easy banter and playful grins, but still. It was something.

A start.

And right now, with his sleeves pushed up and that single rogue curl falling onto his forehead, it was definitely doing something to your heartbeat.

There was a pause, not uncomfortable, but charged, and you scrambled to keep the moment going.

“What about you?” you asked, voice softer. “You grabbing dinner?”

Clark nodded, smile easy. “Yeah. I like this place. It’s quiet, kind of tucked away. Close to home.  Good food. I come here sometimes after work. Helps me think.”

His voice was slower now, more casual than at the office. The city buzzed around you, horns in the distance, the hum of summer heat, but this little moment between you felt strangely still.

“Have you eaten?” “Well, have a good night.”

You both spoke at the same time, the words overlapping, catching you off guard.

Laughter bubbled out from both of you, soft and awkward, as you stood there on the sidewalk, caught in that strange, fluttery space between goodbye and something more.

You were so drawn in by him, his eyes, his voice, the quiet warmth he carried, that you didn’t hear the teenager barreling toward you on a skateboard until it was too late. But Clark did.

Before the kid could slam into you, his hand wrapped around your forearm, firm, steady, warm, and in one smooth, instinctive motion, he pulled you into him.

The strength of it startled you. You knew Clark was strong, he was tall, broad-shouldered, always lifting stacks of paper like they weighed nothing, but this was different. He’d pulled you so quickly, so easily, it knocked the breath out of you. You stumbled forward, colliding with his chest, hands instinctively pressing against him to keep balance.

Solid. Warm. Safe.

Before you could even register how close you were, before you could say something awkward to ruin the moment, Clark gently let go of your arm, only after making sure you had your balance again.

“Want to grab some dinner with me?” he asked, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And really, how could you say no to that?

What you expected to be a quick dinner between coworkers turned into something else entirely, something easy. You shared the food you ordered, Clark was right: the place was good. Casual, quiet, with a back booth tucked away from the crowd where it was just the two of you and the low hum of the city outside.

You talked. About your lives. Childhood memories. Favorite music. Silly stories from high school. Your mutual hatred for Metropolis sports coverage when he told you he actually didn't like covering sports.  

It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t awkward. There were no strained silences, no moments where you felt like you had to fill the space. The conversation simply flowed.

And for the first time in forever around him, your heart was quiet. Not because the feelings were gone. But because they finally felt safe.

Of course, Clark being Clark, he insisted on paying and walking you home, or at least to your subway station. He argued it was late, that the streets weren’t safe, as if you lived in Gotham City. That made you laugh. Ever the gentleman, he made sure to walk on the side closest to the road and even offered to carry your bag.

You had refused, obviously. Walking next to him felt strange. For one, he was so much taller than you, fitter, broader. Beside him, you almost looked like a child in comparison. You’d put on your nice skirt that morning, the one that made your ass look great, but it came with downsides, especially after meals.

Your stomach stuck out, bloated from the food, and with the heat, you hadn’t brought a jumper to hide it. That’s why you insisted on keeping your tote bag, slinging it on the side he was walking on, using it to shield your stomach from his view.

What you didn’t know was how Clark couldn’t help his eyes from drifting downward every time he fell a step behind you on the street, not on purpose, of course. But he couldn’t look away from the bounce of your ass, the way your thighs moved with each step. It was mesmerizing to him.

Finally, you reached the subway station. A bit too soon for your liking, it almost felt like you’d just been on the best date of your life. But it wasn’t a date, and Clark was still that coworker who, as far as you knew, didn’t like you all that much. Even if it didn’t truly feel that way anymore.

Maybe Jimmy was right?

“Well, you get home safe, alright?” Clark said, a small, knowing smirk playing at his lips. Knowing of what, you couldn’t quite figure out.

“Yeah, hopefully Superman took the night off,” you joked.

The smirk faded from his face, just a little, but enough. Maybe you shouldn’t have said that. You knew he and Superman were... friends, sort of. Clark was, after all, the only reporter in the city who ever got interviews with him.

Your subway ride was filled with secondhand embarrassment as you replayed everything you’d said tonight. You’d been awkward, not really that funny, and, overall, it felt like you’d talked way too much. But Clark had brought up topics you were passionate about, and once that happened, well... you yapped.

You shook your head, trying to shake off the uncomfortable weight of cringe. You’d apologize tomorrow morning, just to be safe. No need to give Clark another reason to like you even less.

Once you arrived home, you looked up at the sky, drawn by strange noises echoing above the rooftops. There he was, Superman, fighting off another threat from outer space. The battle was so close to your building you could see the entire scene unfold with startling clarity. That gave you an idea.

You made your way up to the rooftop, sat down, and pulled out your little notebook. You started writing it all out like a novel : vivid descriptions of the fight, the way Superman moved with precision, doing everything he could to avoid causing damage to the city. You noted how he kept trying to push the alien threat higher into the sky, away from civilians, careful not to hurt the beast more than necessary.

Perry would love these notes. Maybe he’d even let you cover the attack for the paper tomorrow. You kept writing, capturing everything, even the moment the Justice Gang showed up to help contain the creature, working together to finally subdue it.

The air up on the roof was lighter, breezier than the stifling heat you’d endured all day, and it made you want to stay. So you fetched your laptop, opened a blank document, and started shaping your article. Even if you hadn't officially covered the attack, yet, Perry would greenlight it, he always did when your writing spoke for itself.

You lost track of time, deep in your work, until a soft cough interrupted your flow… from the sky?

You looked up quickly, startled, and there he was. Superman himself. You’d never met him in person, but then again, who hadn’t seen him? Everyone knew that face. You knew him even better than most, thanks to Clark, who was always going on about him, especially after those exclusive interviews.

“Well, hello, Miss,” he spoke first.

You snorted softly, eyes still on your laptop screen. Not exactly ignoring him, but definitely unimpressed. Typing away, you mumbled a half-hearted, “Hey.” Maybe you were still a little petty about the N line being down.

“You shouldn’t have stayed outside during the fight,” he continued, landing gently on the rooftop and staying a respectful distance away. “It got a bit too close to your building.”

“Hm?” you murmured, barely looking up. “Oh, yeah. I’ll be alright.” You waved off the concern, trying not to sound as dismissive as you felt.

But you could feel his confused gaze on you, lingering, slightly thrown off. Clearly, he wasn’t used to being ignored. That might do him some good. Might help deflate that ego a bit. You kept typing, your fingers flying across the keyboard, but a small part of you couldn’t resist. He was standing right there. And, honestly, he could be useful.

“So, would you say you were a little in over your head before the Justice Gang showed up?” you asked, voice casual, laced with dry sarcasm. “Because it kinda looked like it from here. The alien was clearly kicking your ass for a minute.”

You didn't mean it cruelly, just honest observation. He had looked a little overwhelmed at first.

Superman blinked, clearly not expecting that kind of feedback. His brow arched, just slightly.

“Is that your professional opinion?” he asked, his voice smooth but amused. “From the rooftop press box?”

You shrugged, not looking up from your screen. “Hey, I had the best seat in the house. Front-row view.”

He chuckled softly, the sound low and surprisingly human. Almost familiar. “I’ll admit, he had a few unexpected tricks. But I had it under control.”

“Oh, sure, no doubts,” you said, finally glancing up. “Right up until the part where you got slammed into a billboard. Very graceful.”

He smiled, wry, almost humble. “That was... tactical repositioning.”

You snorted. “Is that what you call getting launched like a ragdoll now? Tactical.”

“Well,” he said, folding his arms, cape fluttering just slightly in the breeze, “you’re welcome for the save.”

“You didn't exactly save me,” you teased, then added with a touch more bite, “Though I will say, I’m glad you didn’t take out the rest of the N line this time.” Your fingers hovered above the keys as you shot him a pointed look. “I wouldn’t have been nearly as nice in the article otherwise.”

Superman’s lips twitched, like he was fighting back a laugh, or a wince. “I see. So your forgiveness is tied directly to public transport?”

“Absolutely,” you replied. “I can forgive a lot, but making me walk fourty minutes everyday? That’s borderline villain behavior.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted. I’ll add subway lines to the list of things to protect at all costs.”

“Good,” you said, returning to your typing. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ve got an article to write. Since I know you only give your interviews to Mr. Kent.”

You didn’t even try to hide the edge in your voice. Petty? Maybe. Deserved? Also maybe. 

There was a pause. Then, with a teasing voice, Superman spoke again. “Jealous of Clark?”

You scoffed without looking up. “Please. I’m just saying, he gets exclusives, I get the N line destruction and a rooftop cameo.”

Another pause. A longer one this time.

“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ve read your articles.”

That made your fingers freeze for just a second. You had written about Superman before, here and there. Not often, mostly because your beat was international politics. But he’d made waves recently with the Boravian government, and you couldn’t not cover it.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t exactly been... gentle.

“I don’t think you like me very much,” he said, laughing softly. Not defensive. Not wounded. Just amused.

“It’s not you,” you said quickly. “It’s your actions. You act like you’re above the law, above international conflict and diplomacy. It was just an objective piece, you know? Freedom of the press.”

You tried to keep it light. You really weren’t in the mood to argue with the most powerful metahuman on Earth.

“I’ve never doubted your objectivity,” he replied, his tone teasing. “You’re with the Daily Planet, after all. Home of the most brutally honest reporters in Metropolis.”

That earned a small, reluctant smile from you. But still, something nagged at you. The way he looked at you. The way he spoke, gently, like he already knew how you thought. The rhythm of his voice. That soft smile.

It felt like you knew him.

Not just in the he's a global figure kind of way. But personally. Intimately.

Your brows furrowed slightly as you stared at him. It was so familiar, and yet your brain couldn’t quite latch on to the why. You blinked and shook the feeling off, typing again. Maybe you were just tired. Or maybe Clark had spent too much time talking about this guy.

But the thought lingered.

“Anyway,” you said, stretching your arms with a dramatic sigh, “I’d better get back to my flat. Long day tomorrow, got to write about all the money your heroics cost the city. Call a few insurance companies… you know, the fun stuff.”

You flashed him a teasing grin as you gathered your things.

Superman chuckled. “Sounds thrilling.”

You headed toward the rooftop door, hand on the handle, but paused to glance back one last time. “Goodnight, Superman,” you said, softer this time. Genuine.

“Goodnight,” he replied, already turning slightly as if ready to take off, then paused. “Oh, and… I’m sorry about the N line. I’ll keep an eye on the tracks next time. Promise it won’t get destroyed again ma'am.”

There was a grin on his face as he said it, wide, smug, just a little too pleased with himself. A shit-eating grin. Then he was gone, vanishing into the sky with a gust of wind and a blur of red and blue. You stood there for a second, squinting up at the empty sky.

That grin. You knew it. You’d seen it before, up close, maybe even across the office.

But where?

After that night, Clark started acting... different.

Not in a dramatic way, he was still the same with everyone else. Polite, calm, a little awkward in the way only Clark could be. But with you, something had changed. He was more open, more playful. The teasing started subtly, soft jokes at your expense, quick little comebacks. Nothing cruel. Just familiar. Comfortable.

He stopped watching his feet every time you walked into the room. Stopped leaving the break room the moment you stepped in. And he actually talked to you now, full eye contact, even smiling sometimes like he meant it.

It was whiplash, honestly. Not that you didn’t like it, you did. You just couldn’t figure out why he’d changed his opinion of you so suddenly. 

You hadn’t even had time to apologize for being a little too awkward during dinner that night, before he’d smiled and told you he’d had a great time. Then he suggested doing it again, once a week, until the N line was repaired.

Like a standing dinner appointment. A kind of compensation, he’d said. As if he had been the one who destroyed it.

Of course you’d agreed, on one condition: you got to pay next time.

He’d agreed, smiling that soft, unreadable Clark Kent smile. But it had been three weeks now. And somehow, you still hadn’t paid for a single meal. He never let you.

It was a weird dynamic.

Every dinner with Clark felt like a date. The kind Jimmy wouldn’t shut up about, candlelit, good food, long conversations full of smiles and eye contact. You didn’t really talk about them at work. You mentioned them here and there, but you stayed discreet.

Mostly because you were convinced you were overthinking them.

Clark was one of the kindest, most genuine men you knew. Gentle, respectful, always listening, he asked about your opinions, remembered little details you'd said in passing. And he looked at you like what you were saying mattered. Like you mattered. 

But you couldn’t help but feel it was just friendliness. Nothing more.

Lois and Cat, of course, completely disagreed. They kept telling you you were letting your insecurities cloud the obvious. “He likes you. Like, actual likes you, likes you.” But no matter how many times they said it, the thoughts wouldn’t leave you alone.

Clark was beautiful, annoyingly so. Funny, in that dry, awkward way. Clumsy, in a way that made him human. And strong in a way that made your brain short-circuit if you thought too hard about it. He could have anyone in Metropolis. Girl, boy, model, athlete—you name it.

And still, your coworkers were convinced he wanted to date you. It didn’t make sense.

You weren’t ugly, at least, you didn’t think so. You just weren’t remarkable either. Mundane, maybe. And yeah, you were overweight. You knew it, even if you tried to act like it didn’t matter. But somehow, when Clark looked at you during those dinners, smiling like you were the best part of his evening, it truly felt like it didn’t matter.

And with every passing week, the dinners lasted longer. 

Shaking your head, you looked down at your watch. 

Right now, you were sitting in City Hall, waiting for your interview with the Mayor. You were investigating LuthorCorp and its suspicious investments in political campaigns and city projects as well as foreign politics. It wasn’t the first time you’d tried to dig into Lex Luthor’s operations, but every attempt had ended the same way.

He was too powerful. Too calculated. And absolutely unafraid to bribe, threaten, or manipulate any institution that stood in his way.

You’d already been waiting for hours, juggling other article drafts, answering Perry’s increasingly impatient calls every hour about your progress with the Mayor. Which, so far, was absolutely nonexistent.

It was getting dangerously close to the end of your workday—and the end of the Mayor’s. You could already feel the familiar sting of a wasted afternoon.

Looking up from your laptop, you spotted the Mayor’s secretary walking toward you. The expression on his face told you everything before he even opened his mouth. You sighed, here we go.

“I’m sorry,” he said, voice syrupy-smooth in a way that only made it more irritating. “But the Mayor won’t be able to meet with you today.”

You almost admired the effort he put into sounding polite, almost. But you knew the truth : everyone in this building hated reporters. Especially the ones who asked the kind of questions you did.

“Tell him he won’t be able to avoid reporters forever,” you said, not bothering to hide the edge in your voice. “And to stop wasting people’s time.”

You shoved your things into your bag with practiced frustration, snapping your laptop shut and slinging the strap over your shoulder. You stormed out through the main doors, the late afternoon sun catching in your eyes as you stepped onto the front steps of City Hall.

You didn’t get far.

An unfamiliar voice called your name from behind you. You froze mid-step, your stomach already sinking. Turning around, you found yourself face-to-face with none other than Lex Luthor himself, stepping smoothly out of the building like he owned it, which, in a way, he probably did.

“I’m quite sorry you couldn’t meet with the Mayor,” he said as he approached, that infuriatingly calm smirk playing on his lips. “We had a lot to discuss.”

You scoffed, lifting your chin to meet his gaze without flinching. His eyes held no remorse, no real apology, only calculation.

“It’s fascinating,” you said coldly, “how every time I have an appointment with the Mayor, you just happen to show up, Mr. Luthor.”

Lex’s smirk deepened, a flash of amusement passing through his eyes like he was genuinely enjoying himself.

“Well,” he said smoothly, clasping his hands behind his back, “some would say great minds tend to orbit the same circles.”

You raised a brow, unimpressed. “Others would say it’s suspicious."

It was his turn to scoff.

You weren’t impressed by Lex Luthor, not like half the city seemed to be. To you, he was just a man. A rich one, yes, with a dangerous amount of power and polish, but still just a man.

For years, every reporter at The Daily Planet had tried to land an interview with him. None succeeded. Lex was meticulous about his image, controlling every frame, every word. He only appeared on talk shows where he could steer the conversation, only issued carefully worded statements, and never, not once, allowed a journalist past the doors of LuthorCorp.

This wasn’t your first interaction with him. But it was the first time you thought you might have a shot at playing the game differently.

“I thought reporters loved suspicious,” he said, stepping closer. Not enough to invade your space, but just enough to remind you of the power he wielded. Political. Financial. Personal. “It’s almost like you enjoy sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

You crossed your arms, meeting his gaze without flinching. “You make it easier than most, Mr. Luthor. Corruption has a way of attracting unwanted attention.”

His smirk deepened, sharp and knowing, like he was starting to enjoy the direction this was heading.

“Ah,” he said, tilting his head as though you'd just handed him a compliment. “Still, I admire your persistence. Most people back down after one roadblock. But not you. Or your little friends at the Planet.” He spat the word like it tasted rotten, the disdain unmistakable.

“Yeah, well,” you said, eyes narrowing slightly, “we’re not most people, I guess.”

You saw it then, a flicker of something behind his eyes. Anger. Not loud or unhinged, but tightly coiled, controlled. He was a master at that. Lex Luthor didn’t explode, he simmered, he plotted, he waited.

And so you shifted. Softened.

“But I must say, Mr. Luthor…” you added, letting your voice drop just slightly, almost shy, almost deferential. “You impress me too.”

That caught him. His gaze sharpened, not with suspicion, not yet, but with curiosity. You saw the faintest hitch in his breath, the flick of calculation behind his polished exterior. This was unfamiliar territory. Praise wasn’t your usual currency with him, and he knew it.

You smiled, just enough. Meek. Disarming. Let him take the bait.

“You look surprisingly well, considering how much you’re handling these days,” you said, voice casual, light. “Must be exhausting, juggling all those city contracts, private acquisitions… and now all this quiet financing of the Boravian conflict.”

His smirk faltered. Then vanished completely. Silence.

You could almost hear the gears grinding behind his eyes. Then, there it was, the slip.

“How do you know about that?” he snapped, the chill in his voice a sudden, biting thing. “There’s been no official statement.”

Got him. You smiled slowly, the kind of smile that didn’t bother hiding the satisfaction underneath.

“I didn’t,” you said simply, reaching into your jeans pocket. The small recorder glinted in your hand as you held it up between you. “But thank you for the confirmation.”

He stiffened. You stepped back.

“You’ll be hearing from us soon, Mr. Luthor, but I know you won't answer anyway,” you added smoothly. “Have a good evening.”

Then you turned, walking away before he could gather himself enough to spin it back in his favor. Your heart was pounding in your ears, adrenaline surging. You had a lead. You had a quote. And Lex Luthor had finally made a mistake.

Still riding the high of your small victory, you left the City Hall behind in a rush, already pulling out your phone to call Clark. It was supposed to be dinner night, but this couldn’t wait, you needed to tell him what had just happened.

Sure, it hadn’t been entirely ethical. But Lex Luthor never played by the rules, so why should you?

An hour later, you sat across from Clark at your shared table, half-typing, half-talking, your food long forgotten as you recounted every detail of the encounter. He listened patiently, his plate nearly empty, while yours remained untouched, your fingers dancing across the keys in a blur.

“So, let me get this straight…” Clark said, a warm laugh slipping out as he leaned back in his chair. “You didn’t actually record him?”

“Of course I didn’t,” you muttered, not looking up, still deep in the rhythm of your draft. You grabbed a quick bite, chewing fast before continuing, “Why would I have been recording him? It's not like I knew he was gonna talk?”

Clark shook his head, eyes soft, amused. “Not exactly your most ethical moment,” he teased, the smile tugging at his lips belying any real disapproval.

You shot him a look, playful and unrepentant. “Yeah, well, ethics get a little blurry when you're up against a guy who treats international conflict like a business expense.”

He grinned, taking another bite, still watching you like you were the most fascinating thing in the room.

“You know,” he said after a beat, “Perry’s going to lose his mind when he reads this.”

You smirked, finally pausing to glance at him. “Good. Finally got my front page.”

You looked up, and froze for just a second. He was staring at you with the kindest eyes you’d ever seen. Unwavering. Soft. Like you were something rare and remarkable. Like he saw all of you and still chose to look that way.

Your chest tightened unexpectedly. No one had ever looked at you like that. Not like you were just a reporter chasing a story, but like you were everything worth watching. Right on cue, your heart skipped. Flustered, you stabbed another bite of food with your fork and went back to typing, willing the blush from your cheeks.

Eyes still on your screen, you asked, trying to sound casual, “What? Do I have something on my face?”

He let out a quiet laugh, warm and low. “No. I’m just… proud of you,” he said, like it was the easiest truth in the world. “Even if it was a slightly debatable trick.”

You allowed yourself a small smile, hidden by the screen. “Slightly? You’re going soft on me, Kent.”

“Only with you.” He winked, finishing his own food. 

That made you stop typing. Just for a beat. Then, you swallowed once, quietly, unsure if it was the food or the flutter in your chest, and resumed typing, pretending like the world hadn’t just shifted a little between you.

You spent the rest of the night writing, the soft clack of your keyboard mixing with Clark’s quiet commentary as he leaned over your shoulder. He offered suggestions here and there—cleaning up a sentence, pointing out a stronger lead, helping shape the tone without ever overshadowing your voice.

It was nice. Sweet, even.

You weren’t used to this kind of collaboration, gentle, unhurried, easy. The back and forth between you felt natural, like you'd been working this way for years.

Sometimes your hands would brush when you passed him your laptop, or when you reached over, completely shameless, to steal a bite of his second dinner. He gave up trying to stop you after the third attempt and just started ordering extra. 

He was eating a lot. A lot. But then again, with a body like his, it made sense. Tall, broad-shouldered, solid in a way that felt permanent. You figured all that muscle had to be maintained somehow.

Still, every now and then, you’d glance at the empty plates piling up and mutter, “Where does it all go?”

He’d just grin, dimples and all, and say, “Good metabolism.”

You didn’t believe that for a second. But you didn’t press it either.

The article was nearly done. You were both full, him more than you, and the restaurant had settled into a comforting silence broken only by quiet conversation, shared glances, and the hum of the city through your open window.

Somewhere between line edits and midnight, you realized something dangerous.

You didn’t just like working with Clark Kent. You liked being with him. What had started as a small, harmless crush had grown into something massive, and dangerous.

It crept in quietly at first. But now? It lived in every glance he gave you. Every time his soft, thoughtful smile found you across the table. Every time his hand gently reached out to stop yours from biting at your nails when stress took over. Those small, careful gestures chipped away at your resolve until your heart ached just from being near him.

So when he walked you to the subway that night, the city glowing gold around you both, and pressed a kiss—soft, lingering, infuriatingly gentle—to your cheek… your heart nearly gave out. It thumped wildly in your chest, loud enough to drown out the world for a moment.

You knew you were playing with fire. But God, you longed to get burnt.

You smiled as you descended the stairs into the subway, clutching your bag a little tighter. Hope curled in your chest like something too bold to name.

Maybe, just maybe, one day he’d feel the same way.

Sitting at your desk, you stared at the front page of the freshly printed Daily Planet.

Lex Luthor Admits to Financing International Conflicts

Your name sat proudly beneath the headline.

Perry had been thrilled with the article, grinning like a madman when it hit print, puffing his chest as he waved the paper around the newsroom. The Daily Planet's lawyers, on the other hand, were already on their third round of phone calls before noon. Emails, threats, cease-and-desist letters, they were pouring in from every direction courtesy of LuthorCorp’s legal team.

But Perry had your back. He stood behind the article, behind you, citing freedom of the press with fire in his voice and a cigar practically dangling from his teeth. You hadn’t seen him that fired up in years.

Still, even with the rush of adrenaline and pride, you couldn’t quite relax. You stared at the bold headline again, heart pounding. You’d done it.

You’d poked the beast, and it had roared. But you didn’t regret it. Not even a little.

And just when the nerves started to crawl in again, a gentle tap came on the edge of your desk. You looked up to see Clark standing there, holding two cups of coffee. One was already missing a sip, his.

The other? Yours, just the way you liked it.

“Front page, huh,” he said softly, eyes warm. “Welcome to the club.”

You took the cup, fingers brushing his. That look was back in his eyes again, that same quiet pride from a few nights ago, the one that made your heart trip over itself.

“Thanks,” you said, your voice lower than you meant. 

He smiled again before making his way toward his own desk. 

You felt so proud of yourself. You couldn't help but smile for the rest of the morning, having a hard time focussing on your work for today. Your eyes always lingered back toward the newspaper lying on your desk. All your team had made sure to congratulate you, filling your heart with warmth. 

“Drinks tonight, you can’t say no. We are celebrating you!” Lois’s voice shot across the bullpen like a bullet, barely giving you time to blink before she was already halfway to Perry’s office, heels clicking with authority.

You looked up from your monitor. “I didn’t even say anything yet!”

And she was right, you couldn’t say no. It was Friday night, and you had nothing better to do. You weren’t behind on work, the fridge was stocked, the laundry was done. You had no excuse. And you had made the front page! It was a thing to celebrate. 

And maybe it would help taking your mind of Clark, and your not real dates. 

They were fun, too fun, really. Liberating in the moment, like you could breathe around him. But afterward? The crash was brutal. Your brain wouldn’t stop spiraling, overthinking every word, every glance, every little laugh. It hurt. Even when it shouldn’t.

That’s how you found yourself, hours later, sitting at a sticky table in O’Sullivan’s, Metropolis’s finest pub, surrounded by your favorite coworkers. Clark and Cat were deep in a heated debate about Superman’s very questionable sense of style, while you, Lois, and Jimmy were somehow talking about... toes?

Jimmy had started it. He always did. The man had a gift for derailing any normal conversation within five minutes.

Oh, and Steve was there too. He hadn’t said much, but he was sipping his beer like a man who had no idea how he’d ended up in a conversation about capes and toes.

As the night wore on, everyone was getting progressively more affected by the alcohol. Everyone but one.

Clark.

He was weirdly good at holding his drinks. Thinking about it, you couldn’t recall ever seeing him drunk. You were fairly sober yourself, a little tipsy, pleasantly warm, but nothing like Jimmy and Cat, who were currently butchering We Will Rock You on karaoke with the absolute confidence of people who had forgotten shame existed.

“How come you’re not drunk?” you shouted over the noise, leaning in a little closer. 

He turned away from the chaos, and those soft, annoyingly kind eyes landed on you. Paired with that specialty Clark Kent smile, gentle, quiet, and somehow entirely his, it sent a sudden jolt of heat straight between your legs.

“It’s simple,” he said, holding up his beer. “I didn’t drink that much.”

Sure enough, he was still nursing his first beer, half-full. Meanwhile, the table had gone through at least four rounds.

You stared at the glass, distracted now by the way his fingers wrapped around it, long, strong, careful. The glass looked small in his hands. Like a toy. And for some reason, that sent another ripple of heat through you.

“You seem a little out of it,” Clark added, that soft smirk playing at his lips again, just this side of teasing, but still warm.

You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Hard.

“Oh no, I’m good,” you said, far too loud, and threw both thumbs up in an awkward gesture that immediately felt like a mistake.

Had you been sober, you might’ve cringed. Hard. But right now? Cringing wasn’t on the menu. Not when your brain was soft and hazy, and your eyes were locked on his mouth, on that smirk.

You’d seen it before, of course. He was your colleague, your friend, and Clark smiled all the time. But there was something different about this smile. Something tucked just behind it, something unspoken, almost amused. It tugged at the edge of your memory. Familiar. Too familiar. But just foreign enough to slip out of reach.

Your brows pulled together, the confusion settling in your expression before you could hide it. He tilted his head slightly, watching you. Curious. Patient. Like he knew something. Almost amused. 

“Tell him!” Lois’s voice rang out far too close to your ear, snapping you miles away from your little internal investigation. “Tell him about the little cute alien that was glued to your window for days!”

You blinked, turning to find her grinning like a devil, eyes glassy from one too many drinks. Beside her, Steve looked unsure, eyebrows raised, clearly bracing for whatever bizarre story was about to unfold.

They were both watching you. Waiting.

It was a silly story. Embarrassing, even. But one you liked telling, so you did just that. Animated and loud, hands waving around as you launched into the tale.

What you didn’t notice, though, was the way Clark let out a quiet sigh as you turned away. The tension in his shoulders softened, his body subtly relaxing now that he was no longer under your scrutinising gaze.

The hours passed in a haze of laughter, bizarre stories, and absolutely butchered karaoke performances. It had been a long time since the Daily Planet crew had spent a night like this, no deadlines, no looming crises, just fun.

You felt good. Sobered up completely now, like most of the group, except Jimmy, who was still riding whatever chaotic, alcohol-fuelled high had taken hold of him three hours ago.

Thankfully, he lived near the bar, just a few blocks from Lois and Cat. The two women, still giggling, promised to get him home in one piece. You watched them chase after him with fond amusement as they all disappeared into the night.

Yeah. Tonight had been good.

“Fuck,” you muttered under your breath as you checked the time. No way you were making the last subway, especially with the fifteen-minute walk to the nearest working station.

“Everything okay?” Clark asked beside you, concern laced in his voice as his gaze dropped to your phone.

You sighed, trying to wave it off. “I missed the last metro,” you said, almost sheepish. Then, looking up at the soft, quiet summer night around you, you added, “But it’s fine. It’s a good night for a walk.”

“I’ll walk you home,” he said simply, firmly. The kind of tone that left no room for argument.

So, after a quick wave and a goodnight to Steve, you found yourself on the sidewalk beside him, heading off into the quiet streets. Of course, you did try to protest. You told him, more than once, that you were fine walking alone, that he really didn’t need to go all the way to your place when he lived so close to the bar.

But he waved off every concern without missing a beat. 

“I’m not letting you walk home alone at nearly 1 a.m.,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “My ma would kill me if she found out.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but secretly? You were glad he insisted.

The thirty-minute walk flew by in what felt like seconds. One blink, and suddenly, you were home.

Conversation flowed effortlessly, like it always did since that first dinner. Comfortable. Familiar. He still walked on the side closest to the road, like always. But tonight, he was a little closer than usual. Just enough that your fingers brushed now and then, barely there, featherlight, but every time, your heart skipped like it hadn’t quite gotten the memo to stay calm.

You didn’t say anything about it. Neither did he. And neither of you moved away, either.

You joked about Jimmy and Cat’s drunken rendition of classic rock songs, gently mocked Steve for always looking like he’d wandered into the wrong timeline, and even admitted that you agreed with Cat about Superman’s questionable taste in suits.

Clark had laughed at that, a soft, genuine sound that made something warm bloom in your chest. And just like that, you were standing in front of your building. The night felt too short. The goodbye, too soon.

Standing on the stairs just before the front door of your building, you found yourself eye-level with Clark, a rare occurrence, given the fact that the man was a literal giant. Something in his eyes, in the way his body leaned ever so slightly closer to yours, in the quiet reluctance on his face, as if he, too, was a little sad the walk had ended, pulled the words from your lips before you could second-guess them.

“Wanna come upstairs?” you asked, the question barely louder than the breeze. A whisper, almost lost to the wind.

But Clark heard you. Of course he did.

Not just because he was standing close, but because it was your voice. A voice he would pick out in a sea of thousands. A voice he'd hear anywhere, no matter how far. Though you didn’t know that part.

He nodded, barely, a quiet “Yeah” slipping from his lips like a promise.

It wasn’t long before your back hit your front door, upstairs, his body pressing gently, but undeniably, against yours. His lips found yours with the kind of urgency that had clearly waited too long. Soft, but certain. Gentle, but wanting. The kiss was rushed, but not careless. It felt like everything you’d both been holding in, months of glances, of almost, of quiet moments too full to name.

This wasn’t a kiss just for the sake of kissing.

You kissed him harder, pushing up on your toes to meet him, trying to say with your mouth what your heart had never dared to voice. That you liked him. That you had for so long. That you hadn’t imagined any of it.

Clark groaned softly into the kiss, lowering himself just enough until, without warning, his arms swept around you, lifting you with an ease that felt unfair. You wrapped your legs instinctively around his waist, breath catching in your throat as he deepened the kiss. He let you no time to protest. 

His mouth moved against yours, tongue seeking, exploring, like he had something to say too. Something he hadn’t found the words for yet. And you let him say it this way.

His hands slid under your thighs, pulling you closer until your bodies were flush, his warmth seeping through your clothes and setting your skin on fire. You wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, anchoring yourself to him as if you might float away otherwise.

The kiss deepened, slow and searching, a conversation without words. His tongue traced yours, tentative at first, then more sure, like he was learning the shape of you, committing every detail to memory. 

Finally leaving the front door, Clark walked inside your flat with the ease of someone who belonged there. Without hesitation, he made his way to the couch and sank down with a quiet groan, the sound thick with relief.

You settled on his lap, feeling the solid weight of him beneath you. At the noise he made, you instinctively tried to shift, to sit beside him instead, worried you might be too heavy. But Clark’s hands found your hips, gripping firmly, holding you in place.

“No,” he murmured, voice low and urgent, his fingers tightening just enough to pull you closer. You froze as his lips found yours again, this kiss deeper, more demanding. You barely had time to protest before his arms wrapped around you, anchoring you to him.

Your breaths tangled together, your heart pounding in a wild rhythm that echoed his own. You felt it under your fingers. Time seemed to stretch, the world outside shrinking until it was just the two of you, suspended in this moment where everything finally made sense.

When he pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes were dark, shimmering with something raw and real. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he murmured, voice low and rough. “More than I knew how to say.”

Frowning, you let out a confused sound. "I thought you didn't like me." 

Now it was his turn to look confused. Clark blinked, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to process your words. Then, slowly, a genuine smile spread across his face, followed by a laugh, deep, sincere, and filling your flat.

“Is that why you always looked so gloomy around me?” he asked, the smile still lingering.

“You avoided me, Clark. All the time. Watching your feet whenever I was near, never talking for more than a minute, never lingering at my desk unless it was necessary…” you said, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice at his teasing. “How the hell was I supposed to know you liked me?”

“I bring you coffee,” he said matter-of-factly, as if that explained everything.

“You bring coffee to everyone,” you shot back, deadpanned, rolling your eyes.

Clark chuckled, shaking his head with that familiar, easy grin. “Yeah, but I always made sure you got the good stuff. Overly sugary milk with a bit of coffee.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical, but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. His lips trailed softly from your cheek to your jaw, then down to your neck. He lingered over your pulse point, as if savouring the gentle thrum beneath his touch.

“Just know,” Clark murmured, his head still resting against your neck, “I’ve always appreciated you.”

Before you could respond, his lips found yours again, silencing any argument with a tender, insistent kiss.

The kisses felt euphoric, as if time itself had slowed to stretch them out for hours. With Clark, everything was effortless and unhurried. Unlike your past lovers, there was no rush, he moved as if he had all the time in the world, and right now, so did you.

His hands explored your body with tender care, caressing softly, never demanding, always gentle. He asked before slipping your shirt off, waited for your consent before removing your bra. Once you were bare, he peeled off his own shirt, never making you feel vulnerable or exposed.

His touch was intoxicating, as soothing as his lips. You melted under the weight of his hands, large, warm, and perfectly fitting as they cupped your breasts. His fingers toyed with your peaked nipples, alternating between soft caresses and gentle pinches, an unspoken apology woven into each movement. Paired with his lips tracing your neck and lips, it was utterly overwhelming.

Without even realising it, your hips began to move, grinding softly against him, responding to the slow, delicious tension building between you.

He chuckled softly against your lips as your covered core pressed against his already hard length. It was one of the hottest sounds you’d ever heard, a breathless, teasing laugh that sent shivers straight through you. Jimmy had been right, you were absolutely down bad.

“Keep going,” he groaned into your ear, his voice thick with need, just as you paused to rest your forehead on his bare, warm, and slightly sweaty shoulder.

His breath fanned over your skin, warm and steady, grounding you in the moment. You lifted your head slowly, eyes meeting his, dark, intense, and full of something deeper than desire.

His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The heat of his body seeped into yours, setting a slow, steady rhythm as your hips moved against him. Every touch, every brush of skin, was electric, soft, like he was memorising every curve, every inch of you. You felt safe, wanted, and adored in a way you hadn’t known you needed.

You felt how wet you were, and judging by the hard length pressing against you, you knew he was just as affected as you were. It felt incredible to be wanted by Clark—needed, desired. For months, you had told yourself you were too plain, too overweight, too annoying. But it turned out he liked all of that about you.

You rocked your hips again, frustrated by the layers of clothing between you. Without thinking, you stood up and hurriedly peeled off your pants and panties in a clumsy, rushed way, like the fabric was burning your skin.

Standing naked before him, you noticed the effect it had on Clark. He froze, almost like his brain had short-circuited, not quite processing the very clear message you were sending, that you wanted him naked too. Instead, he simply admired your body, his eyes tracing you slowly and thoroughly, over and over.

Taking matters into your own hands, you knelt in front of him, fingers already fumbling with his belt buckle. That seemed to snap him back to reality. He gently took your hands in his, kissed your fingers softly, then stood up, pulling you to your feet with him.

After slipping off his pants and briefs, he sat back down on the couch and pulled you back onto his lap.

Your breath hitched as his warm hands settled on your hips, grounding you against him. His gaze roamed over your bare skin, eyes filled with awe and something soft, like he was seeing you in a way no one ever had.

You leaned into him, your hands resting lightly on his broad shoulders, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath his skin. The weight of him was comforting, a promise of care and tenderness.

Slowly, carefully, his lips traced a path from your neck to your collarbone, each touch igniting sparks along your skin. You sighed, the tension of months of self-doubt melting away under his gentle attention.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmured between kisses.

You gasped, eyes wide as a teasing smile tugged at your lips.

"Did Clark Kent just swear?" you teased, knowing full well his reputation at the office for a gentle, swear-free vocabulary. The fact that he’d let loose like this on your skin made your heart swell with warmth.

He playfully nipped at the skin of your breast before his lips closed over your nipple, while his fingers danced teasingly on the other. Your hips began their slow rocking again, finally satisfied by the warmth of his skin pressed against yours.

You felt him twitch against your stomach, biting your lip at the raw desire radiating from him. It had been far too long since you’d felt this wanted.

“Clark,” you moaned softly.

“Hm?” He lifted his head from your breast, eyes searching yours, waiting.

“I need you,” you whispered into his ear, voice tender and full of longing. “Please.”

How could he ever say no when you sounded that sweet?

Clark’s breath hitched, a low growl vibrating in his chest as he pulled you tighter against him. His hands slid down your back, fingers tracing the curve of your spine with a reverence that made your skin tingle.

Without breaking eye contact, he gently tilted your chin up and kissed you deeply, slow and deliberate, like he wanted to memorise every inch of you. His warmth seeped into you, grounding you in this moment where nothing else mattered.

His hands gently lifted your thighs, easing them onto his lap just enough to draw himself closer to your warm entrance. He paused, holding you there, then looked at you through his glasses, silent, searching, asking without words if this was truly what you wanted. You nodded and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

With utmost care, he began to lower you onto his length, inch by inch, never rushing, always attentive to your reactions. The warmth and pressure were overwhelming, but not in a painful way more like a delicious surrender. You should have known, it's always the quiet, nerdy, clumsy ones who surprise you by being big.

Finally settling back onto his lap, you needed a moment to catch your breath. You slumped against him, your head resting in the crook of his neck, your hands gripping his shoulders tightly. His hands were steady and soothing, tracing gentle circles along your back, cupping the nape of your neck with tender care. His soft voice whispered warmth directly into your ear, telling you how good and warm you felt.

He urged you to take your time, to never rush, he could wait as long as you needed, even the whole night. But you didn’t need time. You needed to move. So, slowly and hesitantly at first, you began to rock your hips, a gentle, tentative motion.

It felt good, so good. He was reaching places no one else ever had, not even your toys. The sensation was unfamiliar, almost overwhelming, but far from unwelcome. You kept rocking against him, and each pass of his pelvis against your clit made your breath catch in your throat. It was breathtaking... but soon, it wasn’t enough.

Lifting your head from the crook of his neck, you looked up at him, really looked. You wanted to see his face, his expression, as you began to bounce on him. It started softly, tentative, testing the limits of what your body was discovering. But the more you felt, the bolder you became—and so did he.

His hands found your hips again, guiding them with more purpose, lifting and pressing you down onto him in a steady rhythm. But even that didn’t satisfy him for long. Soon, his hips began to thrust up to meet yours, strong and fast, until his pace overtook yours and all you could do was hold on.

Moans, grunts, whines, and gasps filled the room, raw, honest sounds tangled together with the sharp rhythm of skin against skin. Sounds that had never once filled this flat before Clark.

After a few minutes of his relentless rhythm, you felt your orgasm building, close, achingly close, but just out of reach, like it was trapped behind a wall of glass. You let out a soft whine directly into Clark’s ear, trying to rock your hips in rhythm with his, but you couldn’t keep up. He was too fast, too deep, too much.

But he noticed. Of course he did. The way you whimpered, the way your body tried to move, it told him everything. And he felt it too, in the way your pussy tightened around him with desperate pulses, clenching so hard it almost made him see stars.

He smiled, just a little. His girl only needed a bit more.

His hand slipped between your bodies, fingers sliding down to where you were joined. At first, he just teased, letting his fingertips brush lightly across your skin. It earned him another needy whine, one that made him chuckle softly against your shoulder.

Greedy little thing you were.

And he adored you for it. Clark would give you anything.

Without holding back any longer, his fingers found your clit, circling it in slow but steady motions, firm, grounded, perfect. The added pressure sent shocks of pleasure through you, colliding with the rhythm of his hips pounding into you. Your toes curled. Your hands dug into his shoulders. It was all too much.

And then it happened, your release crashing over you, breathtaking and unstoppable. The moans caught in your throat, your body trembling as wave after wave of pleasure consumed you.

Clark wasn’t far behind. The sound of your climax, the way your body tightened around him like a vice, it pushed him over the edge. With a groan that rumbled deep in his chest, he came hard, spilling into you, filling you with warmth.

Even as the last waves of your orgasm pulsed through you, Clark didn’t stop. His thrusts slowed just enough to keep from overwhelming you, but they were still deep, intentional. He stayed hard inside you, your slick heat coaxing him to keep moving, to draw every last ounce of pleasure from your spent body.

Finally, after a few more thrusts, he stilled remaining inside you.  A golden, heavy quiet filled the room, broken only by the sound of your ragged breathing and the gentle thump of his heart against your chest.

Clark didn’t move right away. He just held you. One arm wrapped securely around your waist, the other stroking your back in slow, grounding circles. His lips pressed soft, breathless kisses against your temple, your cheek, your shoulder, everywhere he could reach without letting you go.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and careful.

You nodded against him, too dazed to form words just yet. He smiled softly and shifted just enough to grab the blanket off the couch, wrapping it around your back without slipping out of you. He stayed seated, still joined, still holding you close like he couldn’t bear to let you go.

Getting up with you still in his arms, his softening cock still nestled in your warmth, he carried you gently toward the bathroom. He turned on the water, letting it warm up for the both of you, steam already beginning to rise and curl around the tiles.

He set you down carefully on the counter, your body pliant in his arms. Your head came to rest against the cool mirror behind you, eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a dazed smile. Clark let out a quiet chuckle at your blissed-out expression, brushing his fingers tenderly across your cheek.

“I’m gonna pull out now, okay?” he said softly, voice full of care, not wanting to startle you or cause any discomfort.

“Yeah…” you mumbled, barely coherent, too tired and thoroughly spent to say more than that.

The shower was quick, quiet, and sweet. Clark was gentle with every touch, washing your body with thoughtful care, making sure not to linger too long or overstimulate your already-sensitive skin. He moved with reverence, like tending to something precious.

When it was over, he didn’t bother trying to dress you. Instead, he wrapped a towel around your damp body, gently patting you dry before scooping you back up into his arms.

He didn’t go back to the living room for his briefs, didn’t bother with anything else. All that mattered was getting you comfortable.

He carried you straight to your bed, settling you down with the same tenderness he’d shown you all night. Then he climbed in beside you, pulling you into his arms like you belonged there, like you always had.

The soft throw blanket he’d grabbed on the way to the bathroom now covered both of you, a light layer against the summer night. The duvet was folded off to the side, too heavy, too much, especially with Clark radiating warmth like a human furnace.

You let yourself melt into him, safe, warm, held.

You felt like you were on another planet, drifting through the best dream of your life, half-convinced you’d wake up any minute. Needing to make sure he was real, solid and warm beneath you, you clung to him. One leg curled possessively around his waist as you lay nearly fully on top of him, your bodies still bare, still close.

His semi-hard cock rested dangerously close to your still-sensitive cunt. It was a risk… but one you welcomed. A game you were more than willing to play again if it led to the same beautiful consequences.

Your fingers traced idle shapes along his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breath. When you looked up, you found him already watching you, glasses still perched on his nose.

Weird.

Had he even taken them off in the shower? You couldn’t quite remember. Your brain had been hazy, your body boneless, your mind confused, but you were almost certain he’d kept them on the whole time. Just like he was keeping them on now, even though you both clearly had no plans of moving anytime soon.

You brushed it off, figuring he just wanted to see you clearly. Maybe it was a comfort thing. Maybe it was just Clark.

The silence stretched for a few more moments, soft and content, until you broke it with a rasping whisper. “You know I had the biggest crush on you for months?”

His lips curved into that smug, infuriatingly cute grin. “Oh yeah. I know,” he said, teasing deep in his voice.

You squinted at him, suspicious. “What do you mean, you know?”

Still grinning, he added—without thinking, way too casually. “I could hear how fast your heart was beating.”

Silence. Your brain stalled.

“You could… what?”

His smile faltered. Fuck. Clark had a lot of explaining to do.

©sillyswriting 2025

im so obsessed with this man i wrote this in two days...

[huh-i-guess]

Off the record

Pairing: Clark Kent x fem!reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

A/n: I just had to and if you’ve seen the movie and that scene, you’ll understand why

Warning: SMUT +18 (with plot) | safe sex, p-in-v, oral f! receiving during a professional environment, praise, superpowered sex?, power imbalance, destruction of property during sex

If you’d like something a bit hotter, check out A healing touch Disclaimer: This scene is loosely based on content shown in the trailers for Superman (2025) — so technically, no major spoilers! That being said, if you're trying to go into the movie completely fresh, feel free to skip this for now and come back later.

Word count: 3.3k

You got home late, again. The city was quiet in that way it only ever was past midnight with streetlights buzzing faintly, the sound of your boots echoing in the stairwell and your coat carrying the weight of the day like a second skin. 

Once inside, you kicked off your heels, pulled your scarf free in one motion and slung your bag onto the hallway hook like muscle memory. The apartment welcomed you with familiar silence and the gentle creak of old pipes. It smelled like dust and the faint ghost of coffee and maybe the takeout you didn’t finish yesterday.

You locked the door behind you without looking and then you heard it, a sound that shouldn’t be there, one of a pan shifting.

It was soft and deliberate, like someone trying not to make noise in your kitchen.

You froze, coat still half-off. Your brain went cold before your hands did, every hair on your arm standing. You moved without breathing, slow and smooth, peeling the coat the rest of the way off and dropping it on the hook while simultaneously reaching for the bat you kept stashed by the door, the one with the worn grip and the cracked stripe of duct tape at the end. You hadn’t used it in years, not seriously, but your fingers still curled around it like you’d never stopped.

The hallway felt longer than usual as you crept toward the sound. Your breath came shallow and the refrigerator hum gave away nothing. You rounded the corner, raised the bat and swung hard without thinking twice.

The bat made solid contact with something unmoving and unbothered, and then cracked violently in half. It felt like hitting a steel beam with a stick of chalk.

“Shit–!”

You staggered back in pure panic, already wincing and then realized, mid-heart-attack, that the man now holding the broken bat with one hand and a sauté pan in the other was, in fact, Clark.

Still wearing his work clothes, pressed dress pants and the white shirt rolled up at the sleeves, his chest just barely stretching at the buttons. His hair was tousled, his eyes unfairly soft and he smelled like butter, basil and the kind of quiet only he seemed to carry in your space.

You stared at him, wide-eyed while he looked at you, entirely unfazed, holding half your weapon like it was a bouquet.

“I’ll get you a steel one,” he said calmly, as if the most normal thing in the world was letting you try to brain him with a Louisville Slugger and then continuing to sauté garlic.

“I knew it was you and I still panicked,” you said, chest still tight, adrenaline peaking. “I am so sorry. God, did I–did I hurt you?”

“You can’t hurt me...physically that is, so if you’re planning on breaking up with me tonight then the answer would be yes, emotionally.”

“I’m not and that’s not the point. The point is I hit you with a bat.”

“And I made you dinner,” he said mildly, nodding toward the stove. “One of us is clearly ahead in this relationship.”

You blinked then laughed, nerves breaking like surface tension. You stepped closer, smelling whatever he was cooking, pasta, maybe. Something with cream, pepper, garlic and fresh herbs, because of course he would make it taste better than the best restaurant in Metropolis. 

Of course he would do this without asking. 

Of course he would smell like rosemary and feel like a safe house in the middle of a war.

He didn’t even wait for you to react or respond. After setting the pan down, he just leaned forward, touched your hips gently and lifted you like you weighed nothing, placing you on the kitchen counter with a softness that felt like something sacred. He stepped in between your knees, pulled you forward by the waist and kissed you slowly, like the world didn’t matter.

You curled your fingers into the collar of his shirt and kissed him back, melting and losing track of everything except the solid warmth of his hands and the way his mouth moved like he already knew what you needed but eventually, your brain kicked back in and you pulled back slightly.

“Mmmm…you’re hiding, aren’t you?”

He paused, forehead leaning against yours.

“You made dinner,” you continued softly, “...You never make dinner unless you’re avoiding headlines.”

“I’m not hiding,” he murmured, brushing a kiss to your jaw.

“You’re literally in the middle of a political firestorm, Clark. There’s a subcommittee meeting about you on four separate networks.” You shifted your head back slightly, forcing him to meet your gaze. “They’re calling it a ‘failed interventional conflict.’ They're saying you lost a war you started.”

He didn’t flinch but he didn’t meet your eyes, either. You exhaled, pressing your palm to his chest. “Let me help, let me do something. I’m not just…whatever this is. I’m still good at my job and you can’t interview yourself forever, it’s suspicious.”

“It’s really not.”

“Oh yeah? Not to mention it’s wildly unprofessional, unethical and quite simply stupid–”

“That’s taking it too far…and I know you’re very good at your job,” he said quietly, one hand brushing your thigh. “Too good.”

“Then let me interview you…him. You know how much it matters, and–”

He was quiet for a second but then nodded. “Fine.”

“…What?” you paused, registering his words. “You’ll let me interview you as…Superman?”

“Yeah… sure,” he agreed, voice sheepish with a slight edge of doubt.

You slid off the counter then, still buzzing from his kiss and went to your bag, pulling out your small field recorder, the one you kept for quick takes and on-the-fly quotes. You placed it on the counter, clicked it on and gave him a small smile as you sat back up on the counter and crossed your legs.

“Alright,” you said, in your best calm-journalist tone, the one that always made people lean in without realizing it, “Superman.”

Something in him changed instantly. You heard it more than saw it, that shift. The register of his voice dropping a full octave, steady, strong and smooth like ocean pressure. It was calm and assured, the voice the world believed in.

“Miss Y/l/n,” he said and just that tone, sent a ripple down your spine that made your knees tighten.

You cleared your throat. “There’s been a lot of controversy around the UN vote last week. Some say you overstepped–”

“I acted on intelligence I believed to be urgent,” he said. “And I take full responsibility for my actions, but I believe they prevented greater loss of life.”

You nodded, swallowing. “And the report about your…uh, withdrawal–”

“I withdrew because I was asked to. Not because I was defeated.”

You were about to ask the next question when he stepped between your legs again, parting them with ease, close enough to touch and pressed a kiss just beneath your ear.

You jolted slightly. “Clark.”

“I’m still answering.” He murmured, voice dipping lower, kisses trailing now to the base of your neck, each one melting something inside your chest. His voice was unsurprisingly steady when he spoke again.  “I intervene when the scale of a disaster surpasses what human systems can handle…I don’t weigh in on politics.”

“You entered a country illegally.”

“I stopped a war.” 

"You crossed borders without permission, ignored airspace alerts, made a decision entire governments didn’t agree on…what–” you began, breath hitching slightly when his fingers gently swept higher, drawing slow circles through the fabric of your pants “–what happens when the public perception of your involvement shifts?”

He tilted his head slightly. “If I’d waited for permission, there wouldn’t have been anyone left to thank me. Bottom line is, I care what the truth is, I care about the people who are afraid and I care when I become a reason they feel unsafe, which I’m not.”

You let out an embarrassing moan which was supposed to be a warning. “Fuck, Clark–”

“Superman,” he corrected, deep and rich in your ear, the sound of it sending something hot and traitorous spiraling in your stomach. “I thought this was formal.”

“It was, Superman.” You gritted out, watching as his hands went higher and higher, “I swear to God–”

Before you could protest any further and remind him of the running recorder, of your journalistic integrity…of anything remotely rational, he kissed you. Full and deliberate, every part of your body folded into it like you’d been waiting to be touched like this again.

The recorder was still on and the interview far from over but neither of you seemed to remember.

His mouth was everywhere, devouring your lips, tracing a desperate path down your jaw, your throat and the hollow where your pulse thundered so loud you were sure he could hear it. His large hands roamed under your shirt, dragging it up inch by inch, fingertips so broad but gentle– always so careful—even when he was trembling with need.

The countertop was cold beneath your thighs but the rest of you was burning. Clark stood between your knees, pressing himself forward until there was nothing but heat and fabric between you.

His hands found the buttons of your blouse, undoing them with almost superhuman precision except when he lost patience, then the fabric tore apart, seams splitting and buttons flying beneath his grip. Your bra followed, straps flicking off your shoulders before his mouth found you again, hot, wet and all teeth scraping gently around your nipples as he sucked and groaned, letting you hear how much he ached for you. 

You arched into him, fingers tangled in his hair as he lavished attention on your hardened nipples, causing your lips to part in pleasure. Your legs parted for him in anticipation as your panties clung to you with unabashed heat. When you gasped, Clark grinned against your skin, catching every tremble in your voice and every spike in your breathing. 

“Your heart,” he growled, moving up to kiss under your jaw, leaving wet kisses and soft bites you wished pierced through your heated skin, “it’s racing. Like you’re about to run or come from me just touching you…so which one is it? Mm? I can hear the blood rushing in your veins.”

His voice vibrated everywhere, inside your chest and especially between your legs in a way that made you grind against the cold marble, erupting soft whimpers from your plumped lips. He brought you even closer to the edge so you could rock your hips against the hardened tent in his pants, desperate for more friction. Your head fell back as he gained more access to your neck, groaning into it as you continued to rub your clothed center against his erection.

The sheer understanding of what was missing settled between the both of you and Clark acted on his desperation first by grabbing the sides of your pants and yanking them down your legs, your panties disappearing with them in one smooth motion as air cooled your swollen and wet folds, making you whine as if it had been your lover’s touch, suddenly withdrawn. He looked down at your nakedness then, eyes darkening with pure want as its sweetness filled his nostrils.

He dropped to his knees as if he’d been defeated, a sight that nearly undid you, spreading you wide on the countertop before he shamelessly buried his face between your thighs, tongue broad and hot, licking a slow stripe from entrance to clit, spreading your folds apart to accommodate him.

Clark groaned at the taste of you, pressing a kiss to your swollen and aching clit before sucking and flicking his tongue against it at just the right pressure. It was never random, he listened to every thud of your heart, every tiny gasp or shuddering inhale, adjusting his rhythm to what made you crazy. His spit mixed with your sweet arousal, coated his lips and chin as he penetrated you with the tip of his tongue. You closed your eyes and gently grinded your hips against his mouth as he continued, eliciting the softest of moans from your beautiful throat while you pulled him closer to you by his hair.

His fingers slid inside you then, replacing his tongue as he let it flick against your bundle of nerves again, making you shudder. His digits were long and thick, curling up to hit a perfect spot that made your vision go white and your eyes roll, a sight he couldn’t help but grin at. He worked you over with a skill that could only come from pattern recognition beyond human ability, sensing precisely when your pulse jumped and when your breath caught just when you were about to fall apart.

“Let go,” he murmured against you, tongue relentlessly moving against you until he felt you pulse. “I know you’re there.”

You cried out, fingers clutching at his hair so hard you were thankful you couldn't hurt him, as you came for him with your hips jerking helplessly against his tongue and fingers. You could feel him smile against your heat as he worked you through every aftershock, sucking and licking you off all you had to offer him.

He stood in a rush, eyes wild, moving with the kind of urgency that said patience was not on the menu tonight and just as your fingers fumbled at his belt, he froze.

“Hang on,” he murmured and vanished in a gust of air so fast it nearly knocked the blender clean off the counter. It teetered for half a second and whoosh he was back, one hand catching it casually mid-air while the other held up a foil square like he hadn’t just broken the sound barrier to practice safe sex. You reached for his belt then but he was already outpacing you, ripping his shirt open like it had personally wronged him and then flinging it aside, exposing the stretch of muscle he was made out of. You ran your hands across his chest causing him to shudder under your soft and warm hands, your lustful gaze heating his skin more than a thousand suns ever could.

He shoved his pants down, boxers barely cleared before his cock sprung free, thick, flushed and achingly hard. You wrapped a hand around him and he groaned like he was a second short of combusting, the sound vibrating in your bones as you watched him roll the condom on. He pulled you to the very edge of the counter guiding his cock against your entrance and slowly pushing in with a clenched jaw and a deathly grip to your thighs. The sight of your pussy leaking and fluttering around it made his hips jerk forward then retract pulling a wince out of you. He paused only to look into your eyes.

“Tell me if I’m too much,” he said, voice hoarse but utterly tender.

You answered by wrapping your legs around his waist, tilting your pelvis back and pulling him in slowly, moaning as he slid deep inside with ease, stretching you so wide you could hardly breathe. Clark gritted his teeth, fighting not to move too fast but the way you squeezed around him made his control snap slightly.

He thrusted slowly at first, savoring every inch of your slick pussy as his lips fell apart, letting out soft gasps of pleasure that made your nipples harder as they tickled his chest. Your hands grabbed at any skin available, nails digging into almost unbreakable skin as his rhythm sped up, fueled by the overwhelming pleasure building between you. Each movement was deep, powerful, filling you so perfectly you could barely hold yourself together.

You both moaned in the same space, sharing breaths as you kissed while your tongues fought for control. You could taste yourself on his lips, the same sweet slick that was now leaking onto the counter and between your naked bodies as he delivered unforgiving thrusts that seemed to split you open, while his hands were around you, making it impossible to even think about pulling back.

“You don’t know how many times…I’ve thought about fucking you over your desk afterhours.” He mumbled onto your mouth with a grin that could’ve made you come. Your heart had staggered and he knew it. “Like the sound of tha’?”

You nodded quickly, messily as pleasure took over your brain and the only thing you could voice were moans and drawled whines.

“Uhhh–What? Want me to…write a piece…about how well Superman f–fucks?”

He chuckled deeply and the counter creaked, threatening to give beneath the force of his grip on the edge whenever he couldn’t force his hands to be gentle on you. He wanted them everywhere, really…on your ass, your thighs, cradling your head while he kissed you silly while his dick caused addicting damage within you. He whispered your name like a secret prayer between grunts and moans that made you forget he wasn’t an ordinary man.

“So beautiful…fuck… sweeter than any sunrise. I’m never giving this up.”

He listened to your body, tuning his pace to the staccato of your heart as it started to climb again and your nails failed to dig deeper into his skin. “That’s it,” he panted. “There, just like that…you’re so close, breathe, baby.”

You were both getting louder now, his voice rougher, needier, while yours was high and desperate as he pounded into you harder, faster, until the counter and everything on it shook violently around you.

“Clark…I–” You broke off into a wail as he hit just the right spot over and over, until your orgasm crashed through you like a tidal wave. Your whole body went tight around him and he lost whatever little restraint he had left when your head fell back against the upper cabinet, lips parted and letting out the most sinful sounds he had ever heard. Your pulse points were on full display as blood rushed down, making your pussy and clit pulse for him.

He slammed in hard one last time and crack!. The edge of the countertop sank under his grip as he came inside the condom with a helpless and guttural moan, hips locked tight to yours, burying himself deep inside you so you could feel his cock throb. 

You collapsed against each other, sweat-slick and shaking, his arms still holding you close like he never wanted to let go. Then came the sharp press of something under your hip, the cracked edge of the countertop, jagged and out of place.

You winced and instantly, he lifted you like you weighed nothing, cradling you against him as he stepped back, brows furrowed with guilt.

He pressed soft kisses all over your face and shoulders while you caught your breath. “Sorry about the mess…I’ll pay for it.” he added with a sheepish little smile, leaning in to kiss the spot behind your ear he knew made you sigh.

You brushed a kiss over his lips and chuckled breathlessly. “Yes you will.”

Clark grinned against your mouth, his hands still sliding softly over your sides but then your gaze drifted and landed on something that made your stomach drop.

The recorder. Still blinking and running.

“Shit,” you whispered, pulling back slightly as panic flooded your chest. “Shit, shit. The interview.”

He blinked, lips parted and twitching into a smile as he fumbled for the stop button like it might bite him. “I trust you’ll keep this part off the record.”

You turned your head to glare at him. “You have to say that before you rail me into the countertop!”

He smirked, hugging you closer like the most unbothered man alive. “Noted. I’ll…make sure to think about that the next time”

You stared at him, still breathless, ruined and absolutely already planning on letting him destroy you again…after you destroyed the recording, of course. Just in case.

[huh-i-guess]

You two need to fuck -C.K

Clark Kent x bestfriend!reader

Clark was doing that thing again. The furrowed brow. The clenched jaw. The quiet sigh that was always just a little too loud not to be theatrical.

You leaned against the counter in your apartment kitchen, holding two mugs—one coffee, one tea—waiting to see which one he’d gravitate toward today. He didn’t notice you were watching, not really. Not when he was thinking about her.

“She said I make her feel small,” he said quietly murmured.

Ah. Lois again.

You didn’t roll your eyes. You deserved a fucking medal for that. “I don’t think she meant physically,” you offered, with a sip of your own drink. “I mean, you are Superman, Clark.”

He looked at you, that quiet, miserable look that meant he’d been trying to shrink himself all damn day. “That’s not what I want to be with her.”

You offered the tea. He took it. Predictable. “And yet, every week it’s a new heartbreak monologue,” you muttered.

He blinked. “What?”

“Nothing.”

He caught your tone. You saw the flicker behind his glasses—curiosity, maybe even hurt. You didn’t care. You were tired. So tired of being the one he turned to only after she shattered him into glass pieces and didn’t bother cleaning up after herself. You were exhausted from the bleeding fingers of piecing him back together.

You toss another Red Vine into your mouth and watch Clark pace the length of your apartment like he’s trying to wear holes through the hardwood.

“She said I’m emotionally unavailable,” he mutters, mostly to himself, jaw tight behind his glasses. “That I’m not presentin the relationship. Like—what does that even mean?”

You sigh—loudly. On purpose. “Maybe it means she’s tired of dating a man who disappears every time the sky turns red.”

Clark glances at you with a flicker of guilt in his eyes. But he doesn’t stop pacing. “She knew what this was when we started,” he says. “She knew I’d have to lie. That there were things I couldn’t tell her. I thought she understood—”

You slam your laptop shut, the sound sharp enough to stop him mid-rant. “Oh my God, Clark,” you say, voice dangerously even. “You know what your problem is?”

He stares at you, surprised by your tone. You never raise your voice at him. “My problem,” he repeats slowly, crossing his arms over his absurdly broad chest. “Sure. Let’s hear it.”

You stand up. The air between you tightens. “Your problem is you keep expecting Lois to love the man you pretend to be, and then you throw a tantrum when she doesn’t know how to love the rest of you. You want her to understand you without letting her see you. That’s not love, Clark. That’s hiding.”

The silence after is thick. And for a second—just a second—you let yourself look at him the way you try so hard not to. The way a best friend shouldn’t. Because he’s looking at you too.

“Wow,” he says finally. “Thanks, Doctor.”

You snort and flop back onto the couch. “Anytime, Smallville.”

“She said I’m too intense,” he added quietly. “That I don’t know how to turn it off.”

You stared at him. "Clark, you fly into burning buildings. I don’t think ‘casual’ is really your setting.”

That made him laugh. A little. But you don’t look at him again. You can’t. Because it’s getting harder and harder to keep pretending that being his friend is enough. That hearing about Lois Lane every other goddamn day doesn’t feel like someone carving into your ribs with a hot spoon.

That the real reason you’re mad isn’t because he’s hurting—

It’s because he’s never hurt for you.

Clark crashes on your couch that night.

Of course he does. He always does when things go sideways with Lois. You hand him a blanket without a word.

And you lie in bed for three straight hours staring at the ceiling, teeth clenched, nails digging into your own palm because all you can smell is her perfume clinging to his skin.

You're so good at being the best friend.

So good at biting your tongue.

But your jaw aches now from the effort of it.

And the way he moaned her name in his sleep? Yeah, that almost broke you.

Things start to shift after that. You're short with him in the mornings. He notices. You lie and say you’re tired. Work. Stress. PMS. You say everything except the truth.

Because the truth is this:

You want him.

You want him to stop running to you only when he’s broken.

You want to stop being his Plan B.

And the tension between you?

Way. Fucking. Worse.

Every time he leans over your shoulder to show you something on your phone, your breath catches.

Every time he touches your back absentmindedly, your skin burns.

Every time he calls you “sweetheart” in that low, absent way—God, you want to scream.

The line gets thinner.

The next night, you’re brushing your teeth in the mirror when he appears behind you. Shirtless. Just a pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips and a towel draped over his neck from the shower.

You drop your toothbrush.

He catches it.

You make the mistake of looking up—at his reflection, at him, at the way his eyes drop down your bare legs in that slow, deliberate way that feels like being dragged over coals.

Neither of you moves for a second.

Then he leans down, brushes a damp curl from your cheek, and says quietly, “Don’t start something you can’t finish.”

You hold his gaze.

“I’m not starting anything,” you lie.

And he smiles.

Like he knows exactly how much you want to.

It happens after one too many nights of pretending you don’t hear the way he groans into his pillow. Pretending you don’t wake up pressed against his chest with his hand splayed low on your stomach.

The line thins even more when he zips up the back of your dress for an event neither of you wants to attend, and his fingers hesitate on the zipper at your lower spine, just a second too long.

One night, it gets bad.

You're both on the couch. Movie playing, long forgotten.

Your head is on his chest, his heartbeat rapid, like he's just come back from a fight. Your legs are across his lap, and his hands rest lightly on your knees.

And for a long time, that’s all it is. You shift slightly, stretching, your thigh grazing the hard line of something that absolutely wasn’t there ten minutes ago.

He freezes. You pretend not to notice. But your pulse thunders. Because now you know. It’s not in your head. It never was. You glance up at him, lips parted like you're going to say something.

He meets your eyes, and—

God.

If he kissed you now, you’d let him do anything. But he doesn’t. Instead, he exhales through his nose, jaw clenched tight, and says quietly—

“I think I should take the couch tonight.” And before you can stop him, he’s gone.

That night you dream about him.

Flesh and heat and hands on your hips. His mouth everywhere, saying things in that voice—that voice—you’ve never heard him use.

When you wake up, sweaty and dazed and gasping his name into your pillow, the room is still dark.

You sit up, blink toward the door. And find Clark already standing there. You blink again and he’s gone, you groan flopping back into your bed.

Horny, hot and now sleep deprived. Looking around the room you make sure you're really alone.

Then you roll onto your side and look at the empty space next to you in bed.

His pillow still smells like him—warm cotton and cedar and the subtle ozone of lightning in the distance. It makes your chest tighten. Makes your hips press together in reflex.

Your fingers slip beneath your waistband almost before you realize what you’re doing.

You bite your lip hard. Trying to be quiet. Civilized.

But the thought of him—towering and kind and good, the way he talks to you in the dark, the way his hand grips your waist when he sleeps without thinking—it ruins you.

You close your eyes and think about how close his mouth was the other night when he leaned over you to grab the remote. Think about his breath on your neck. How his voice dropped when he said your name like it meant something.

Your fingers move slower now, deeper.

You moan once—soft, unsure. Then again. Louder. Needier. “…Clark.”

What you don’t know is that he’s standing outside your door. Frozen. Back against the hallway wall, eyes squeezed shut like it’ll block out the sound of you moaning his name. He hadn’t planned to come back so soon. He thought you’d be asleep.

But then he heard you—really heard you. Your heartbeat thudding, your breath going uneven.

And then your voice—“Clark…”

He stiffens. All over. Painfully.

He should leave. Fly off. Do anything but this. But his feet are glued to the floor. His palms are fists at his sides.

Inside, your hips lift off the mattress as your fingers circle faster. Eyes squeezed shut. Head thrown back.

Your other hand clutches his pillow now. You’re gone—completely immersed in the fantasy of his mouth, his voice, his hands all over you. The way he’d speak softly. Tell you how good you’re doing. How long he’s wanted this too.

You come with a cry that’s sharp, broken, and soaked in his name.

“Clark—oh, God—”

Outside, he groans low in his throat and presses the heel of his hand against the bulge in his pants like it might help. It doesn’t.

He leans forward, forehead to the doorframe, trembling with restraint. He won’t touch himself. He can’t.

Because if he gives in now—

If he even thinks about what you sound like on the other side of this door, wet and wrecked and panting for him—he’ll break every promise he made to himself.

He stays there. Long after your breathing evens out. Long after the fan resumes its quiet spin. Hoping that he’ll be able to will away the pulsing erection that's keeping him from making any appropriate decisions at the moment. Eventually walking away back into the living room and back onto the couch, unable to fall asleep without picturing your soft delicate hands touching yourself.

The line becomes non-existent when it happens again when he catches you staring at him mid-shave, towel wrapped around your chest, you quickly look away walking back into your room where you think your out of eyesight.

You drop the towel.

Not on purpose. Not exactly. You just… let it slip off your skin as you root through the bottom drawer for something to wear—something soft, something loose, because sleeping next to Clark has you sweating through your clothes like you're a damn teenager again.

Your nipples peak instantly in the cool air. Your chest tightens with goosebumps, thighs brushing instinctively, and you're too busy pawing through the drawer to realize—

Clark can see you in the mirror.

He doesn’t make a sound.

Not at first. “Is this what you do when you think I’m not looking?”

You freeze. Straighten slowly, heart slamming. “Clark—”

“Don’t lie,” he says, standing now. “You knew I could see you.”

You turn around, lips parting to argue, to say I didn’t mean to—but the look on his face stops you dead.

You turn around slowly. The silence stretches—he’s standing in the bedroom doorway.

You turn slowly, towel long forgotten on the floor, arms crossing over your chest like a shield—but it’s no use. His eyes are already there, already everywhere and anywhere.

“You think I don’t know what you sound like when you come?” he asks, your knees almost buckle.

“Clark—”

He closes the distance between you in three impossible steps, “Do you have any idea what you did to me the other night?” he whispers, voice a growl. “Do you know what it took not to come in here and fall on my knees for you?”

Your breath catches in your throat. “You… heard that?”

He huffs a laugh—humorless. “Sweetheart, I felt it. Every sound you made. Every time you said my name like—” His voice breaks, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing just below your eye.

“Like you wanted me.”

You do. God, you do. But the years of friendship press against your ribs like a vice.

“You were with Lois,” you whisper, not even sure why you're saying it anymore—maybe to punish yourself, or to stop yourself from losing the last shred of control.

His eyes harden, but not at you.

“I was never really with her,” he says, fierce and reverent. “I was trying to be someone else. Someone I thought she could love. But with you…”

His forehead touches yours. Breath shallow. “I’ve only ever been myself with you.”

You exhale shakily, lips parting—“I’m not your backup plan,” you whisper. “If you touch me, Clark, I need to know it’s me you're thinking about. Not Lois. Not what you lost. Me.” His expression twists. Like you’ve just asked him if the sun is real.

He exhales once. Then reaches up—gently—and cups your face with both hands. “Sweetheart,” he murmurs, and God, that voice—low, desperate,“There’s no one else. There hasn’t been for a long time.”

You gasp into his mouth as he walks you back blindly until your knees hit the mattress. His hands—God, his hands—are under your thighs before you know it, lifting you, laying you down like you weigh nothing. Like you’re precious.

“You have no idea—” he groans into your neck, “how long I’ve wanted to—fuck—”

His voice breaks as he kisses his way down your chest, slow and reverent. He’s on his knees now, hair tousled from your fingers, his tongue licking a stripe over the soft swell of your breast before pulling one nipple into his mouth.

You arch with a soft cry. “Clark—God—”

“Tell me this is real,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “Tell me I’m not dreaming again.”

Your hands cup his face, forcing him to look up at you. “This is real,” you whisper, eyes shining. “And I’ve wanted it just as long.”

He surges up and crashes his mouth into yours again, one hand is braced beside your head. The other trails down—over your ribs, your waist, your hip—and then dips between your legs.

He groans the moment he feels how wet you are for him. “Jesus—”

“You heard me the other night, didn’t you?” you whisper.

His eyes flick up. “Yes.”

You blush, but you don’t stop him when he pushes your legs apart and sinks two thick fingers into you like he already knows exactly how to touch you.

You cry out, back arching, fists in the sheets.

“I nearly came just listening to you,” he says, kissing your stomach, then your hip. “And you said my name—God, sweetheart—I’ve never wanted anything so bad.”

His head drops between your thighs.

And when his mouth meets you there—hot, slow, possessive. You grip his hair and moan his name as he licks you open, slow circles that build and build until you’re shaking. Until your thighs are trembling around his shoulders and you’re biting your fist to keep from screaming.

He looks up, lips glistening. “Let go.”

Your orgasm crashes through you like a supernova—blinding, hot, full-body—and when you come down, he’s already kissing you again, sliding out of his sweats, murmuring something soft and low and aching against your lips.

When he pushes inside you for the first time, it’s everything. His forehead presses to yours. His voice rough in your ear. “You feel like heaven.”

You hold onto him like you’ll fall through the mattress without him. “Then don’t stop. Please, Clark—don’t stop.”

He thrusts once—deep, careful, like he’s testing if you can take him—and the sound you make has his jaw going slack.

“God,” he groans. “You’re so tight. I—I don’t want to hurt you.”

You pull him down by the nape of his neck. “You won’t. I want all of it. All of you.”

His rhythm stutters.

Then he grabs your wrists and pins them gently to the bed above your head, gaze wild with something that looks a lot like desperation. “You’re so beautiful.”

The sound of skin meeting skin is filthy now, echoing through the room like thunder.

You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him impossibly closer. Your body moves with his like you were made for this—like you knew it would be like this.

He shifts—just slightly—and hits that spot that has your vision going white at the edges. You cry out, writhing under him, and his hand immediately slips between your bodies, fingers circling your clit like he needs to feel you come again.

“Come for me,” he begs, voice raw and ragged. “I need to feel you.”

You let go moaning—his name echoing from the walls like a siren. He thrusts once more. Twice. Then he’s groaning your name through gritted teeth, collapsing over you as he spills deep inside, hips jerking once, twice more as your walls flutter around him.

He collapses on top of you, breathing hard, the weight of his body grounding you in a way nothing else ever has. His face buried in your neck. Your fingers tangled in the damp curls at the base of his skull.

You lie there for a long time. Sweating. Shaking. Sated. Eventually, he lifts his head and looks at you—really looks at you.

“Can I stay?” he asks softly, and you know what he means. Not the night.

You press your forehead to his. And nod. “I should’ve asked you to stay years ago,” you whisper. He smiles, slow and boyish, and kisses you again.

a/n: MY MAN MY MANNN

[huh-i-guess]

─ ✮⋆˙ 𝑯𝑰𝑻 𝑴𝑬 𝑯𝑨𝑹𝑫 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑺𝑶𝑭𝑻 || 𝑪𝑳𝑨𝑹𝑲 𝑲𝑬𝑵𝑻

MINI NAT’S NOTE: i haven’t stopping thinking about this loser kansas failure man since friday. i literally got out of bed to write this because i can’t sleep. hope y’all love it, mwah!

CW: 18+ SMUT MDNI, fem!reader, rough sex, service top clark, he whimpers cause i said so, sexy uses of x-ray vision, clark kent can FUCK, super stamina yes god, hyperspermia, superman’s super huge dick, belly bulging, porn w.o plot, no use of y/n.

"Clark, please—"

Your voice breaks on his name, swallowed by the sound of the headboard slamming into the way again and again and again.

Your thighs are shaking, pinned wide open by Clark��s hands, his grip near desperate as he ruts into you with a punishing force. It’s not as hard as he could go, you know that he must be biting through his lip trying to control himself. You wish he could go harder, that he could really give it to you. 

He deserves it. He works so hard, he deserves a nice warm hole to pound into after saving the world for the hundredth time—or after turning in another perfect front page piece to Perry.

You’ve brought it up a few times, when Clark was too drunk off the feeling of your lips against his own and the taste of your tongue on his to shy away from the conversation.

You could take it, you’d take anything he gives you with open arms and spread legs and a smile on your face.

Clark’s far too sweet to ever pin you down and just take. He’s a gentleman through and through, he was taught to treat ladies with respect. Superman isn’t an exception to those good farm boy manners of course, no matter how many times you’ve daydreamed about him flying through your window and tossing you on the mattress and using you.

God, you really do love him like this though.

“Sorry,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, dark curls mussed. “I’m sorry, I can’t—I can’t stop. You feel too good, baby, you’re so good.”

Clark’s voice breaks on the last word like he’s begging you to understand, but the thrust of his hips says otherwise. There's nothing apologetic about the way he’s fucking you—like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. Like his survival depends on it. The bed’s screaming under the weight of his body, your body, his strength.

Your spine arches off the bed as his hips slap against yours hard enough to sting, wet and relentless. “Clark,” you gasp, nails raking down his back uselessly. “Don’t stop. Please—don’t stop.”

His cock splits you open again and again, thick and flushed and incessant, pistoning deep and hard and needy. It’s too much. It always is. Too thick, too long, the fat head of him kissing up against something so deep inside you it shouldn’t be physically possible.

The room smells like sex. Sweat and musk and Clark—rain, ozone, sunlight. The sound of your bodies coming together bounces off the walls, the wet slap of skin on skin. The filthy, slick noises of your pussy sucking his cock deeper makes your ears burn.

You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve come. Clark hasn’t. Of course he hasn’t.

“Five,” he groans, burying his face in the sweaty expanse of your neck. “You’re so sensitive now, baby, I know—I can hear it, your heartbeat skips every time I do this—” he pulls out, just halfway, then slams forward and stays there, his cock so deep your stomach distends a little. “Gosh, look at that.”

You’re soaked, ruined, you know it. You’ve been trembling under him for five rounds, but you love it. Every ragged thrust, every strangled apology he can’t stop moaning, every load he pumps into you like his body has to. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, drag him even deeper, and Clark whines.

“I’m—fuck—I’m gonna come again—please, baby, let me—please—”

He’s come three times already. You can feel the wet, hot mess he’s made of you, dripping down your thighs, soaking the sheets. You’re already so full. You feel full.

The last time he came inside you he barely gave you a minute before he was hard again, aching and apologizing even as he buried himself back in your cunt. His come is still dripping out of you in thick, creamy ropes, and he still hasn’t stopped chasing it. He can’t.

"Yes." Your legs wrap tighter around his waist. You want it. You need it. “Give it to me, Clark.”

That's all it takes for him to lose it again.

His body locks up—hips jerking, mouth falling open with a loud, broken moan.

You cry out as you feel him twitch deep inside you, and then it happens again—hot, endless, thick spurts of come painting your insides, filling you up so full it hurts. Clark’s gasping, his mouth falling open against your shoulder, his whole body trembling. 

His cock doesn’t go soft, it never does. Not when he’s buried in you like this. Not when you keep fluttering around him, squeezing down like you want to milk every last drop from his body.

“Shit, I didn’t mean—‘m sorry—I keep—” His hips stutter and then roll again, like he’s addicted to how you feel around him, like stopping would kill him. “It’s too much—I know, baby—I just—you make me so messy—”

There’s even more come leaking down your thighs in thin streams of white, soaking the sheets, slicking his cock every time he pulls out just to slam back in. You can feel how slippery everything is now, how swollen you are, how stretched. And still—he doesn’t stop.

“You—shit, you take it so good,” he moans. “My good girl—my pretty girl—look at you, look at how much I gave you.”

Clark looks down, a soft groan rips out from somewhere deep in his chest at the sight of his cock punching up inside of you. His eyes go, glassy and unfocused for a moment. That’s the only warning you get before he tilts his hips ever so slightly, and you’re crying out when he hits that spot up inside you perfectly on the next thrust.

That’s a definite perk of dating a metahuman, x-ray vision. You know that even without any special powers he could take you apart until you were a crying, shaking mess. That being said, the MRI eyes help.

Clark has spent hours learning each and every part of your body, inside and out. He’s made a home between your legs and watched your nervous system light up more times than you can count. 

He’s watched the way your dopamine levels spike when he mouths at your clit just right, the way your pulse lights up when his fingers slide deep and curl at just the right angle. He’s studied you like scripture, like a blueprint.

You cry out, screwing your eyes shut as your hands slide down his back. You revel in the feel of him on top of you, the muscles of his back rolling and working under your greedy touch. You’re going to come again, you know you are. The spring inside of you starts coiling tighter and tighter with each thrust.

“Please,” Clark gasps, nearly sobbing it. “Let me—one more time, I promise—please—I know you’re full, baby, I know—just one more.”

“You’re gonna break the bed again,” you gasp, too dumb and lost for words to say anything else.

Clark doesn’t respond—maybe he can’t. Maybe he’s already too far gone to hear anything but the desperate squelch of his own come leaking out of your ruined pussy and down the hard length of his cock.

“I love you—I love you so much," he mutters incoherently, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over the meat of your hips as his cock carves a place for itself inside you. "You feel too good—god, you were made for me.”

The mattress jerks violently beneath you with every thrust—you can feel the wood frame groaning, splintering. Not the first time. Probably won’t be the last.

It’ll be worth it.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: anyway this movie changed my life. i started rewatching 70s superman the second i got home. james gunn thank you for making superhero movies with love and whimsy again.

thank you so much for reading, love you!

[huh-i-guess]

clark being so big you have a belly bulge every time he gets inside you 😵‍💫😵‍💫

warnings: smut (mdni), pwp, feral!clark !!!!! fem!reader, size kink, bulge kink, little bit of dumbification, belly bulge.

“g-god,” he can't help but stare at the obscene bulge every time he bottoms out. clark’s a missionary lover through and through. partly ‘cause he needs to see your face while he's fucking you good.

to keep eye contact with you while your lashes flutter. because yeah, he's got a big, veiny cock. and it reaches places you didn't know could be reached before. and it hits your g-spot over and over again so precisely that it wrecks you until your vision goes blurry and the sheets get ruined when your juices gush out without warning.

but no, he's a true missionary lover ‘cause he gets to see and feel how his dick moves inside you. gets to press your hand right to the bulge in your belly and whisper, “you feel me, sweetheart?” like he’s not already rearranging your guts. like it's even possible for you not to feel it.

his big, warm, heavy hand covers yours. and he's so still. not even moving yet. just stretching you out and feeling you clench around him.

you nod, barely, ‘cause you're already dizzy. he thrusts once, slow and deep and mean, and you moan like it’s the only thing you know how to do.

“c-clark—‘s so—s'fuckin’ deep,” you whimper, slurred and shaky.

he kisses your flushed, sweaty cheek, gentle even with that monstrous cock buried inside you.

“i know, baby,” he groans right against your lips before kissing your swollen bottom one. “feels good, huh? you like that?”

you nod again. you have to nod. he’s leaking inside you already, and your brain is melting into something warm and dumb and dripping. and he’s still watching you like you're the only thing in the world.

he's trying to be polite. he swears. but it's so hard when you’re squeezing him like this. when you’re wrapped around him so tight it makes his fingers twitch on your belly.

he kisses you again, slower now, but his hips shift just a little and—fuckfuckfuck—you clench so hard around him it knocks the air right outta your lungs.

you gasp. “c-clark—baby—wait, wait, i c-can’t—can't—”

“you can,” he says, voice molten, lips brushing yours. “takin’ me so good, sweetheart. so fuckin’ perfect f’ me.”

and then he grinds. rolls his hips forward, like he’s trying to etch himself into your body, like he’s not already kissing your goddamn diaphragm from the inside.

the bulge in your belly moves. you feel it drag under your palm, slick skin stretched taut beneath your joined hands.

“oh my god—”

“i know,” he breathes, kissing your jaw, your neck, the corner of your mouth. “so tight for me,” his teeth scrape over your throat. “could stay like this all fuckin night.”

you wiggle your hips, try to chase friction, try to make him move, and he growls and grabs your hips in those massive hands.

“you keep doing that,” he warns, low and rough against your neck, “and you won't be walkin’ ‘til next week.”

you do it again anyway, hips tilting just slightly, greedy little thing that you are, because the pressure is maddening. you need him to fuck you now, you need that delicious stretch to turn into that brutal, devastating grind that’ll have you melting all over him in seconds.

clark hisses through his teeth. “jesus, baby,” he pulls out just a little—just enough for the fat head of his cock to kiss your entrance— then slams back in with a sharp, heavy thrust that knocks a sob from your throat.

you arch. you keen. your nails dig into his back, your thighs trembling around his waist.

“there she is,” he groans. “that's m’girl. look at you—look how full you are.” he thrusts again, harder this time, and the sound it makes—the wet, filthy slap of skin on skin—echoes through the room.

you’re shaking now. you feel slick dripping down your thighs, soaked with both of you. your moans are all breath and broken vowels now—“ah, ah, fuck, please—”

“i got you,” clark pants, fucking into you slow and deep and so insanely good your eyes roll back. “gonna cum for me, baby. always do. this pretty pussy just can’t help it, can she?”

you don’t even answer. you can’t. your hands are shaking, your thighs clamping around his hips, and your belly tightens like a rubber band about to snap-snap-snap—

and then it does. you cum hard—harder than you knew you could— “clark! ohmy— fuckfuckfuck.”

he keeps fucking you through it. keeps cooing soft praise against your mouth. “that’s it, honey, that's it. ride it out. so beautiful like this, so good for me.”

you’re still twitching around him when he finally lets go—groans so deep, so fucked-out it makes your toes curl—and spills inside you in hot, heavy pulses. his whole body shudders with it, hips grinding down until he’s empty, spent, tucked deep inside where he belongs.

[huh-i-guess]

If Gaz was on love island he would definitely be apart of the original cast.

Everyone loves him because he’s lively and a gentleman and all the guys like him because he gives such authentic advice and how to not be a dick opposed to all the toxic players.

But he keeps getting traded out and friend zoned but the other women :(.

You come in as a bomb shell, and you’re a total flirt. Flirt with any guy even if you’re not truly attracted to them, everyone in the villa is shook. Gaz doesn’t exactly want to fall for your games but he notices how he’s the one guy who continuously pull for a chat, laughing to the point of snorting, always waving at him when you pass by with one of the other girls. His heart pounds out of his chest every time he lays eyes on your gorgeous smile.

“Oh I’m a cry baby at heart I can’t help it.” He confesses during your fourth chat. “I cried at my nephews graduation, a couple getting engaged, a good movie, everyone needs a good cry!”

“Is that right?”

“Oh yeah, I cried when they sung ‘Winner Takes it All’ in Mamma Mia. Cried watching Last Holiday with Queen Latifah.”

“Oh please!”

“I did! I did! When they told her she wasn’t gonna die, I balled. Became the proud spokesman of weeping!”

You burst into a fit of laughter, letting out out a cute little snort that Gaz just adores hearing now. You playfully shove his shoulder but he winces making you shoot up. “You okay?” You ask, going to rub away the pain but he tugs you into his arms.

He nods, holding your hand, the other wrapping around your waist. “I’m okay now.”

His brown eyes get lost in yours, his breath tickling your lips. He plump lips kiss yours, it’s short but sweet. Almost too short. He clears his throat, he can’t help the smile that appears on his face, “I-I’m sorry, I should’ve asked first, yeah?”

You’re breathless, stunned, butterfly’s swarming in your stomach, you shake your head, “No! No! Please, do that again!”

And he does, gives you the best snog of your life right on the day bed.

When you get into the confessional, you’re starstruck, in complete awe. You brush your hair out for your face, giggling, “I just- wow. I mean, wow! That man is right out of a fuckin movie! Anyone can see how handsome he is but, he’s a true romancer. I think I’ve fallin for him that quick.”

There’s a ‘Superman’ where the men have to save their damsel in distress and get them out of an obstacle course. Whoever has the best time wins. Calls out to you when he’s near, “I’m here my love!”Kyle, the fit man he is, carries you bridle style and right through the course, over the ramp and through the bubbles that has you giggling and squealing as you bounce around in his muscular arms. Kyle leads you to victory.

It’s decoupling night, you’re gonna end up sending someone home. But you could care less, your eyes are stuck on Kyle who has a gorgeous smile on his face.

“The guy I choose is a real heartthrob. Has become the man any girl would want. Such a loving guys. I’d love to watch a movie with him, and cry together.” The heat rises under your skin and you rub at your neck.

“Kyle, I choose you.” And he meets you first, sweeping you in his arms and kissing your neck longingly.

You’re the first couple on the island to close off. You don’t even realize it but all of England loves you two to pieces. How you two can’t get enough of each other, and are always comforting each other. You get lost staring at him and he always has to snap you out of it.

“With me baby?” He asks and you almost melt into a puddle as he caresses your cheek mid date on the beach.

You nod, swooning from his deep voice, “uh-huh, I’m here.”

You too take the villa by storm, it was an easy win between you and the other couples.

Brands have you to any and everywhere, even at Paris and NY fashion week. You two live comfortably, you end up changing careers and make lifestyle content and ‘how to’ hair tutorial videos. Kyle goes back to his job but pops up often in your videos, passing through and giving you kisses. Smacking your ass or dancing with you and your cats.

a/n: Just can not stop the idea of Gaz being a. Total heartthrob. It ran through my mind so I wrote it quickly

most recent

[huh-i-guess]

"holy shit they finally confessed, what comes next--"

[huh-i-guess]

I think my problem is I don’t like putting black/poc reader in my cw cause the wh!te ppl don’t. Especially when they STILL write readers who obviously blush, who have straight hair, who have this wh!te experience and no one questions them about it. Meanwhile I “have” to do it to appease people who don’t look like me.

I won’t do it. 

You just gonna have to read what I wrote and get to those reader descriptions mid story and be gagged.

[huh-i-guess]

Keep your heart to yourself, give your soul to the night… Come to me when you're lonely… Come to me when you need something new… — Fright Night (1985), Come to Me

BRAM STOKER'S DRACULA (1992) INTERVIEW WITH THE VAMPIRE (2022—) NOSFERATU (2024)

[huh-i-guess]

Price and younger!reader (think early 20s) who are pretty close, right?

You two share lunches in his office, you wave hi to him in the hallways, he knows all about any drama that happens around u bc ur nosy, you've even been over to his house a few times (taught him how to cook more than one dish). Everyone in base knows u two are close, if theres something they want price to know they go looking for u bc ur easier to find.

Anyways, through some circumstances price accidentally eaves drops on one of ur conversations and freezes when he hears the words "crush" bc you've never told him of anyone ur interested in and you tell him everything.

"Ah, hes just so handome!" You gush to ur friends, voice only bit muffled through the cracked door "even with that hat he wears all the time. You should feel his arms! God hes so strong. And his facial hair? Im not sure how ive remained calm this whole time! Good news is, I think he feels the same!"

Price stomach drops. Hes not stupid. He knows ur talking abt him and it makes his fists clench uncomfortably. He doesnt see you that way at all, ur more like a kid to him! But he cant just ignore it, not if theres a chance you think hes reciprocating somehow. So ur next meal with him, he sits you down, serious in a way you hardly see him.

"Look, kid...im not what you want." He tries, but you only tilt ur head, frowning. He doesnt want to admit to eavesdropping but... "im serious. I'm too old for you, and I really dont see you like that."

"What?!" Ur eyes widen, sitting up straight like you've just been shocked. "What?? What gave you the impression that i...I was interested?" You seem disgusted just saying the words. He relents, explains what he heard, and is baffled by ur sudden laughter.

"Ha! Okay, yeah, I see how you may have assumed that was you but uh...no. it was actually uhm-" you suddenly seem shy, looking away "I was talking about kyle."

[huh-i-guess]

Johnny announcing to the 141 that he’s trying for a baby with the missus. like, the eyebrow raising type of announcement, “Aye, tryin’ every night, bound to happen soon.”. Kyle did not need to know that, but he politely keeps his mouth shut. of course, with no complaints, Johnny keeps yapping about how the missus basically hasn’t left their bed, the bonnie lass is probably sore and tuckered out - Price’s ears burning red as he listens

what Johnny didn’t tell them is that he’s sterile, Simon’s the one he entrusted his wife to. holding your shaking body as Simon bullies your poor cunt for the fifth night in a row, swallowing down your whines and moans with sloppy kisses like a good husband. Simon’s not complaining, and he doesn’t plan on stopping once that test turns positive

[huh-i-guess]

Simon Riley eating you out (nsfw)

His mouth slanted all over your pussy, tongue sliding down between your folds to your entrance before traveling back up to your clit.

He tastes you, drinks your slick patiently, forcing himself to not bite you. He loves the way you smell, loves the way your wetness gets all over his mouth, his chin, his nose.

He looks up at you, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide from lust as he watches the way you moan, the way you quiver. Your chest heaving with each breath, hips bucking against his mouth in search for more, more, more.

And he gives it to you.

He slides a finger into your cunt as his mouth focuses on your clit. He adds a second finger, curls them up, and your legs start shaking.

“Si, please—” you gasp in a broken moan, shaking.

He hums in response, a sound of acknowledgement, and runs his teeth over your clit.

It sends you over the edge, makes you shake and gasp and cry out his name as your hands move to grab onto his hair and hold his mouth to you while you ride out your orgasm.

He laps up your slick eagerly, moaning at the taste, cock rock-hard. And then you come down, slowly, boneless and spent. And Simon kisses his way up your body, kissing your mouth, making you taste yourself as he sinks his cock into your heat to get more of you.

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Taglist

@booboobear-12 @lilychristine01 @smzyyx @mxsatorisimp @akkahelenaa @crypticlxrsh @m-0-ssy-m-3-ss @actualpoppy @dawnnightshade666 @dethspllz @massivecandycrusade @mentally-unstable-hottie13 @shushyoudontknowme @readinggeeklmao @despairingrat @h0lydrag0ns @poseidonsbichild @sillylittlereader @vanillarosekiss @jangles-the-clown @lem-hhn @doubledizzy22 @http-bell @readingthingy @velvetdimond @thegaywitchofwhimsy @weaniebeaniebaby @havoc973 @lucienofthelakes @keiminds @8pmismybedtime @i-wanabe-yours @happysmappy @jp600fox @moonbluff @hobiebrownenthusiast @dragons-flare @canyonmooncreations @foxintheferns @dreamland08 @fertilise-me @dravenskye @hobiebrownenthusiast @liidiaaag @viviansvault3 @alwayzmsbehavn @nicolebarnes @tysukier @icouldntthinkofanythingclever  @cd-mr 

*if you wanna be added to my Ghost taglist, lmk 💛

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Ghost masterlist

[huh-i-guess]

Margaritaville

For days now, you’ve been seeing the same broad-shouldered man lounging around the resort. Or: the knocked up on vacation au Part 1 masterlist

-

A familiar voice rouses you from a daydream that was just getting good. “Are you going to spend our entire vacation by the pool?”

“…Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing?”

You lift your sunglasses to meet your friend’s eyes, no need to squint against the sun because the way she’d stood in front of you blocks it from blinding you with your sunglasses off, inadvertently blocking the one thing you’d been hoping to keep your eyes on. 

Irritation prickles at the base of your spine, but you resist the urge to snap no matter how tempting it is. You’ve been getting away with murder these past couple days and throwing a fit won’t get you anywhere but in more hot water. 

“You’re supposed to be spending time with your friends,” she says, emphasizing the last word to communicate that you’ve been slipping in your duties. 

“Oh, sorry,” you apologize begrudgingly, leaning up on your elbows. “We’re you, um…do we have plans that I’m forgetting about?”

“We’re taking the shuttle down to the beach,” she says, gesturing over her shoulder to where the rest of your friends are waiting with their flip flops and tote bags by the archway leading into the resort, the shuttle just through the double doors at the other end of the main building. “Are you coming”

If you give yourself any time to deliberate, you’re worried that you’ll end up saying no, so instead you sigh, pushing yourself up from your elbows onto your hands. “Alright, give me a sec. I’ll catch up in a minute.”

She nods, appeased, heading back to the rest of the group with a thumbs up. 

Leaning over the side of the chair, you gather up your belongings, stuffing everything into your tote apart from the greasy, half-finished bottle of sunscreen that you keep in your hand, conscious of how it keeps leaking from where the lid broke the other day. 

It takes you a second to muster up the willpower to stand up and join them, your id screaming at you to turn around and plant yourself back in that pool chair to keep admiring the view. You have to be strong though. No breaking now after you just gave her your word that you’d come. 

One last surreptitious glance over your shoulder is all you allow yourself, biting your lower lip when you catch him stretching his arms over his head to grab the back of his pool chair, hairy pits on full display and lats stretching with the movement of his arms. 

Fuck, you nearly whimper, teeth pressing deeper into your lip. He slings one leg over the edge of the chair so his foot is planted on the floor, making his shorts pull tight across the thick bulge of his crotch.  

Fuck. 

For days now, you’ve been seeing the same broad-shouldered man lounging around the resort in various states of undress, your stomach a mess of both butterflies and knots every time you see him on the treadmill when you pass by the fitness centre or getting breakfast at the buffet in the morning.

Typically though, you can find him lounging on one of the poolside canopy beds with his boonie hat pulled down over his eyes, hands folded just under his pecs, clearly using his vacation to actually relax instead of running all over the resort like you and your friends. It affords you ample opportunity to stare unabashedly, eyelids going heavy the longer you stare at his strong chest and legs, thigh muscles making his swim trunks seem almost a size too small. 

Your friend wasn’t wrong to call you out for being less than attentive. You’ve been a lost cause since you first laid eyes on him, your thoughts a thick slurry of pent up horniness, tongue all but swollen in your mouth from how little you’ve been using it this trip. 

(if only you could pull down those shorts of his and use your tongue on him instead—)

In your defence, you haven’t been making an active effort to pick him up because you know that you're supposed to be enjoying your vacation with your friends. You’re well aware of how shitty it would be of you to try and hook up with another guest when you’re supposed to be spending time with them. 

But you also can’t help but linger when you realize that the same man (the one that has to be a decade your senior—the one that's built like a man, hirsute and tall, always a head above anyone else in the room) is nearby. It’s like he has some kind of magnetic pull on you.

You’re not proud of it, but at least part of your attention has gone towards figuring out whether he’s on vacation alone or with someone. No ring on his finger could mean anything. Lots of people commit without the ring; he could have a girlfriend and two kids back in his hotel room and you’d be none the wiser.

Then two days become three and you’re almost positive that he hasn’t come with anyone else. He eats alone and poolsides alone and you’ve never seen him so much as smile at someone who wasn’t wearing a resort uniform. The false hope that thought imbues you with is downright delusional. 

Your daydreams become increasingly oriented around following him back to his hotel room and slipping inside after him. You’ve never had a vacation fling before, but you think he’d make it good. Something about the way he walks like it’s heavy between his legs makes you think that he’d treat you right. 

You sit up and wipe the corner of your mouth, catching yourself drooling again. 

There are plenty of other things to do besides ogling the hot guy trying to enjoy his vacation alone though, so you force yourself to do things with your friends before one of them finally lays into you for zoning out the whole trip. Beach excursions and karaoke after dinner; you spend two hours dancing with two of your friends at the silent disco while your other friend goes upstairs for a shower and nap. Anything to show up and be present with your friends instead of languishingly in daydreamsville. 

Despite your best efforts though, you’re clearly not as subtle as you’d tricked yourself into believing. 

Rain is coming down in buckets outside. The four of you play Uno in the hotel room to wait it out when one of your friends asks if you’d be down to go on a snorkeling tour with the rest of them when the weather clears up. 

You open your mouth, about to respond, when your other friend cuts you off. “No, she’ll be busy making moon eyes at that guy with the weird hat.”

Your other friends cackle. Your cheeks flood with heat, so caught off guard that you can barely defend yourself, sputtering out something that only confirms her words. 

One of the others shrugs, putting a +2 down. “I get it. He’s really hot.”

“He’s like forty.”

“So what?” you sputter.

“You two want to fuck an old man?”

The friend that supported you rolls her eyes. “Oh my god, grow up. Forty’s not that old. Also I only said that he’s hot. No one’s getting married to him.”

The four of you share a laugh at that. If your laughter happens to come out strained, borderline forced, no one calls you out on it. 

The ribbing gets under your skin more than you’d like to admit, but instead of throwing a fit, you tap your nails impatiently against the back of your cards and roll your eyes, stacking the +2 with one of your own. “I can’t wait to get rid of you bitches and get home to the package that I’m waiting on.”

“I know what package you’d like to wait on,” someone mumbles.

“Shut up!” you shriek, mortified, snatching a pillow from the couch behind you to launch at her head and sending the others into hysterics. 

The problem is that he’s just always there. 

It’s a small resort—of course you’d cross paths with him every now and then, but somehow it feels like no matter where you go, he’s somehow nearby, either already there before you arrived or not long after. You’ve come to almost expect him because of that, meaning that on the rare occasion where an hour goes by without him pulling up a chair across the pool from you, your thoughts start to spiral and your mood goes sour. 

Glancing around the pool for the umpteenth time elicits no new sign of him though, much to your frustration. Not that you’ve made a habit of keeping tabs on his movements or knowing where he might be at any hour of the day (your conscience whispers staaaaalker under her breath and looks pointedly away), but it’s unusual not to see him sleeping in one of the free cabanas or sitting in the pool with both arms braced behind him on the coping. 

Greedy. You’ve grown so used to him always being around that it’s made you spoiled. 

“I’m gonna go get a drink,” you announce to the group, already toying off your flip flops and getting ready to slip into the pool. “Anyone wanna come?”

A couple of them let you know that they’ve heard you, but no one offers to join. Makes sense; it’s somewhere between two and three in the afternoon and the sun is at its highest, the air so hot that it’s an effort to not doze off in your chair, the heat making you lethargic. Your skin reminds you when to reapply sunscreen, the last layer sloughing off with the sweat constantly dripping down your body, ever in need of replenishment. You smooth a little more into your legs and arms before throwing the bottle back onto the floor next to your sandals, skin nice and sheeny again. 

The only swim-up bar is on the other side of the pool, so you float over slowly, wading through deeper and deeper waters until you almost have to cling to the side of the pool. It’s slow going, giving you ample opportunity to scan the poolside for your mystery man’s telltale red pinstripe swim trunks.

No dice. Just chairs and cabanas filled with people that you swear you’ve never seen in your life (not like you’ve been paying attention to any of the other guests). 

At the bar, you order a margarita and sit on the stool welded into the bottom of your pool with your elbows planted on the damp counter, your lower half still submerged. Frustration ebbs only for a dejected mopishness to flow back in.  

It might’ve been easier to push your disappointment down if any of your friends had bothered to join you for a drink, but you can’t blame them for taking advantage of the beautiful weather. 

The resort is nothing short of heaven. Thick palm fronds dangle over the pool chairs and sway back and forth with the gentle breeze. Light chatter from the people on the other end of the swim-up bar is just barely discernable over the sound of the music playing from the speaker overhead. 

The clientele at this resort is a mixed bag: some small groups of folks roughly your age and a multitude of families, the buffet practically a warzone with kids chasing each other around tables and through the halls, excited screeches following you all over the resort. There’s another pool a short shuttle ride away more geared towards kids though, thankfully, so this pool is relatively quiet apart from the music blaring from speakers placed strategically throughout the property, a mix of acoustic covers and lounge beats in the morning, and upbeat pop in the mid-afternoon to liven things up.  

It’s nice. Definitely worth the fifteen hundred dollars and definitely worth coming back next year if your friends don’t boot you from the group chat the second you touch down back home. 

That’s what you’re thinking about when you casually glance around the pool again and feel your heart nearly jump out of your chest when you spot him. 

He appears from around a palm tree like the red sea parting, so sudden that all you can do is stare wide-eyed, discretion the last thing on your mind. It’s not that you don’t care if he sees you staring unabashedly, it’s just that you physically can’t look away from him. 

He must have set down his stuff on one of the pool chairs nearby because he walks over barefoot, slipping into the water almost gracefully for a man his size, biceps bulging when he lowers himself from the edge into the pool. You spend so long staring at the faint pink sunburn on his shoulders and the undulating muscles of his chest that it takes a second for your eyes to meet his, a jolt going through your body when you find him staring right back at you, his gaze even heavier.

You go stock-still when he wades over to the swim-up bar where you're waiting on your drink and takes the seat directly beside you. The seats are arranged close together to fit as many as possible in front of the bar, so it’s not totally his fault that his thigh presses against yours. 

But you also can’t help but notice the three empty stools beside him. All that space, free for the taking, and yet he sits so close to you that anyone swimming by would naturally assume you were here together.

The smell of his skin is like sun and salt; if you inhale too deeply, you know it'll just make you dizzy. This close, you can make out every mind-numbing detail: the dense brush of hair on his forearms, the old school anchor tattoo on his shoulder, the thick band of a watch on his right wrist. The drawstrings of his trunks floating in the water, aglet the most buoyant. 

Your hands shake in your lap when he turns to the bartender and orders a drink too, the sound of his voice rolling over you, gruff in a way that almost makes you melt. 

A voice that makes you look up at him all doe-eyed and dumb when he finally looks down and says something to you for the first time.

“Haven’t I seen you around?” 

The shudder you manage to suppress, but the way your skin goes tight with goosebumps is out of your control. In all of your daydreams, he’d been more of the silent, grunting type—the type to huff and puff through every thrust, no appetite for sweet, sugary words. You never thought to imagine a voice to go along with his face. 

He’s handsome in the way that some men are—almost effortlessly. Sea blue eyes and strong nose; thick neck and bristly jaw. He wears his age well. 

And then his question registers, the gears in your brain slow to start chugging along again, overwhelmed by his proximity and attention, neither of which you ever expected to be on the receiving end. 

“Um…” you start, tripping over your words and swallowing them back up. “Maybe. Have you?”

His lips stretch into a fond, crooked grin, cheeks dimpling with his smile. “Yeah. Pretty sure I have.”

“Probably. I mean, I’m, um—I’m staying here. At the resort, I mean.”

“Here alone?” he asks. 

“No, I’m with them—” You turn and point over your shoulder towards your group still lounging in the cabana. “My friends. We got here a few days ago.”

“Right,” he says, not bothering to look over to where you’re pointing, eyes not shifting from your face. “Liking it so far?”

You’ll have to check later for burns because your face feels like it's on fire. The shock of the cold glass in your hand when the bartender passes you your drink helps to ground you at least. 

“It’s been nice,” you croak, smile feeble when you finally coax your slack lips into working again. “…How about you?”

You wish your conversation would come out less stilted. Hard to play it cool in a hundred degree heat.

“Getting better every day,” he replies, as smooth a line as you’ve ever heard. 

You take a sip of your drink, hoping the alcohol helps settle your nerves. You’re conscious of the way his eyes follow your tongue as you lick the salt off the rim of your glass. Someone off in the distance shrieks and there’s a splash from the other side of the pool, but it barely registers as background noise, all of your attention focused on the blue of his eyes.

“That any good?” he asks, voice gruff. 

“You want some?” you ask, instantly mortified when you hear what just came out of your mouth.

“Kind of you, love, but I can’t take what doesn’t belong to me.”

You don’t know what he means by that until the bartender puts a beer down in front of him, a lime garnishing the rim. The man thanks him, big hand wrapping around the bottle and fingers easily overlapping. The mental image of that goes straight into your spank bank for later. 

The lime gets dropped somewhere on the countertop and he takes a long pull from the neck, eyes locked on you the whole time. 

You’re not so naive as to not know what this is, but—

Someone calls your name from the other end of the pool and you turn instinctively at the sound, grasping onto the edge of the countertop and leaning back until you see one of your friends standing at the edge of the pool, waving you towards her. 

“Friends want you back?” he asks, sounding vaguely disappointed. You’re not sure if that’s just in your head or not. 

“Uh…I’m not sure—” you answer uncertainly. 

The same friend calls your name again, louder this time, garnering the attention of some of the other people sitting around the pool, and a surge of annoyance rushes up your chest. Weren’t they dozing off just a few minutes ago? Now all three stand at attention, sandals on and tote bags slung over their shoulders, the brims of their hats shading them from the sun as they gesture for you to join them. You nearly groan out loud. Of all times to call you back. 

You made a promise though, at least to yourself. The possibility of good dick, while tempting, is not enough to get you to switch your allegiances. 

(just yet, something in you whispers)

(give it enough time)

The smile you give him is rueful, almost apologetic. “I’m sorry—I should get going. They probably planned something at the beach. It was nice to meet you though…” There’s room at the end of your sentence for him to wedge his name in, a little dangling participle of pleasantry. 

A chuckle flows out of him like the chuff of a bear. “John.” He gives his name like a gift, offers his hand the same. 

You think it’s an offer anyway, until John just takes your hand, his damp, warm palm practically swallowing yours. Doesn’t wait for you to give him what he wants—just takes it like he’s owed it. The thought makes your head spin. Coarse, callused fingers wrap around the underside of your hand, long enough to nearly engulf your wrist as well. The hair on his knuckles is as dark as the pelt on his chest, and you wonder what it would feel like for him to drag a knuckle down the line of your jaw. 

Your throat pulls with a swallow, breath shaky on the way out. 

“Nice to meet you, John,” you say, all raspy-voiced, giving him your name as well like he pulled that from you too. 

It takes him a beat to let go of your hand, the intent in his hold so clear that he might as well say it right to your face. You have to leave before your resolve crumbles like papier-maché. 

“Since you’re not sticking around,” John says, finally letting go of your hand, “think I will have a taste.”

A taste. The word makes you clench up but you don’t register what he means until he curls his fingers around your margarita and brings it to his mouth, taking a sip from where you last had your lips. 

Oh god. You’re smart enough to get it. You’re smart enough to see that gesture for what it is. 

You send him one last thin, watery smile before beating a hasty retreat, his invitation still at the swim-up bar with him. Water sloughs off your body as you take the stairs out of the pool instead of swimming back to your friends, swimsuit damp in more ways than one, and you swear you can feel the heat of his gaze on your back as you walk over to where your friends stand. 

One of your friends peeks over your shoulder while handing you your stuff, eyes going wide when she notices him sitting where you just left. “Oh, did you see the hot guy was sitting at the bar too?”

“Yeah,” you reply, shaky hands slipping your sunglasses on. “I noticed.”

[huh-i-guess]

Margaritaville | MASTERLIST

PRICE x READER

For days now, you’ve been seeing the same broad-shouldered man lounging around the resort.

Or: the knocked up on vacation au

tags: Size Difference, Size Kink, Explicit Sexual Content, AFAB reader - Freeform, Older Man/Younger Woman, Light Dubious Consent, Husband-Wife Play, Breeding Kink

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3

Extras

Series moodboard

[huh-i-guess]

Margaritaville

For days now, you’ve been seeing the same broad-shouldered man lounging around the resort. Or: the knocked up on vacation au Part 1 masterlist

-

A familiar voice rouses you from a daydream that was just getting good. “Are you going to spend our entire vacation by the pool?”

“…Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be doing?”

You lift your sunglasses to meet your friend’s eyes, no need to squint against the sun because the way she’d stood in front of you blocks it from blinding you with your sunglasses off, inadvertently blocking the one thing you’d been hoping to keep your eyes on. 

Irritation prickles at the base of your spine, but you resist the urge to snap no matter how tempting it is. You’ve been getting away with murder these past couple days and throwing a fit won’t get you anywhere but in more hot water. 

“You’re supposed to be spending time with your friends,” she says, emphasizing the last word to communicate that you’ve been slipping in your duties. 

“Oh, sorry,” you apologize begrudgingly, leaning up on your elbows. “Were you, um…do we have plans that I’m forgetting about?”

“We’re taking the shuttle down to the beach,” she says, gesturing over her shoulder to where the rest of your friends are waiting with their flip flops and tote bags by the archway leading into the resort, the shuttle just through the double doors at the other end of the main building. “Are you coming?”

If you give yourself any time to deliberate, you’re worried that you’ll end up saying no, so instead you sigh, pushing yourself up from your elbows onto your hands. “Alright, give me a sec. I’ll catch up in a minute.”

She nods, appeased, heading back to the rest of the group with a thumbs up. 

Leaning over the side of the chair, you gather up your belongings, stuffing everything into your tote apart from the greasy, half-finished bottle of sunscreen that you keep in your hand, conscious of how it keeps leaking from where the lid broke the other day. 

It takes you a second to muster up the willpower to stand up and join them, your id screaming at you to turn around and plant yourself back in that pool chair to keep admiring the view. You have to be strong though. No breaking now after you just gave her your word that you’d come. 

One last surreptitious glance over your shoulder is all you allow yourself, biting your lower lip when you catch him stretching his arms over his head to grab the back of his pool chair, hairy pits on full display and lats stretching with the movement of his arms. 

Fuck, you nearly whimper, teeth pressing deeper into your lip. He slings one leg over the edge of the chair so his foot is planted on the floor, making his shorts pull tight across the thick bulge of his crotch.  

Fuck. 

For days now, you’ve been seeing the same broad-shouldered man lounging around the resort in various states of undress, your stomach a mess of both butterflies and knots every time you see him on the treadmill when you pass by the fitness centre or getting breakfast at the buffet in the morning.

Typically though, you can find him lounging on one of the poolside canopy beds with his boonie hat pulled down over his eyes, hands folded just under his pecs, clearly using his vacation to actually relax instead of running all over the resort like you and your friends. It affords you ample opportunity to stare unabashedly, eyelids going heavy the longer you stare at his strong chest and legs, thigh muscles making his swim trunks seem almost a size too small. 

Your friend wasn’t wrong to call you out for being less than attentive. You’ve been a lost cause since you first laid eyes on him, your thoughts a thick slurry of pent up horniness, tongue all but swollen in your mouth from how little you’ve been using it this trip. 

(if only you could pull down those shorts of his and use your tongue on him instead—)

In your defence, you haven’t been making an active effort to pick him up because you know that you're supposed to be enjoying your vacation with your friends. You’re well aware of how shitty it would be of you to try and hook up with another guest when you’re supposed to be spending time with them. 

But you also can’t help but linger when you realize that the same man (the one that has to be a decade your senior—the one that's built like a man, hirsute and tall, always a head above anyone else in the room) is nearby. It’s like he has some kind of magnetic pull on you.

You’re not proud of it, but at least part of your attention has gone towards figuring out whether he’s on vacation alone or with someone. No ring on his finger could mean anything. Lots of people commit without the ring; he could have a girlfriend and two kids back in his hotel room and you’d be none the wiser.

Then two days become three and you’re almost positive that he hasn’t come with anyone else. He eats alone and poolsides alone and you’ve never seen him so much as smile at someone who wasn’t wearing a resort uniform. The false hope that thought imbues you with is downright delusional. 

Your daydreams become increasingly oriented around following him back to his hotel room and slipping inside after him. You’ve never had a vacation fling before, but you think he’d make it good. Something about the way he walks like it’s heavy between his legs makes you think that he’d treat you right. 

You sit up and wipe the corner of your mouth, catching yourself drooling again. 

There are plenty of other things to do besides ogling the hot guy trying to enjoy his vacation alone though, so you force yourself to do things with your friends before one of them finally lays into you for zoning out the whole trip. Beach excursions and karaoke after dinner; you spend two hours dancing with two of your friends at the silent disco while your other friend goes upstairs for a shower and nap. Anything to show up and be present with your friends instead of languishingly in daydreamsville. 

Despite your best efforts though, you’re clearly not as subtle as you’d tricked yourself into believing. 

Rain is coming down in buckets outside. The four of you play Uno in the hotel room to wait it out when one of your friends asks if you’d be down to go on a snorkeling tour with the rest of them when the weather clears up. 

You open your mouth, about to respond, when your other friend cuts you off. “No, she’ll be busy making moon eyes at that guy with the weird hat.”

Your other friends cackle. Your cheeks flood with heat, so caught off guard that you can barely defend yourself, sputtering out something that only confirms her words. 

One of the others shrugs, putting a +2 down. “I get it. He’s really hot.”

“He’s like forty.”

“So what?” you sputter.

“You two want to fuck an old man?”

The friend that supported you rolls her eyes. “Oh my god, grow up. Forty’s not that old. Also I only said that he’s hot. No one’s getting married to him.”

The four of you share a laugh at that. If your laughter happens to come out strained, borderline forced, no one calls you out on it. 

The ribbing gets under your skin more than you’d like to admit, but instead of throwing a fit, you tap your nails impatiently against the back of your cards and roll your eyes, stacking the +2 with one of your own. “I can’t wait to get rid of you bitches and get home to the package that I’m waiting on.”

“I know what package you’d like to wait on,” someone mumbles.

“Shut up!” you shriek, mortified, snatching a pillow from the couch behind you to launch at her head and sending the others into hysterics. 

The problem is that he’s just always there. 

It’s a small resort—of course you’d cross paths with him every now and then, but somehow it feels like no matter where you go, he’s somehow nearby, either already there before you arrived or not long after. You’ve come to almost expect him because of that, meaning that on the rare occasion where an hour goes by without him pulling up a chair across the pool from you, your thoughts start to spiral and your mood goes sour. 

Glancing around the pool for the umpteenth time elicits no new sign of him though, much to your frustration. Not that you’ve made a habit of keeping tabs on his movements or knowing where he might be at any hour of the day (your conscience whispers staaaaalker under her breath and looks pointedly away), but it’s unusual not to see him sleeping in one of the free cabanas or sitting in the pool with both arms braced behind him on the coping. 

Greedy. You’ve grown so used to him always being around that it’s made you spoiled. 

“I’m gonna go get a drink,” you announce to the group, already toying off your flip flops and getting ready to slip into the pool. “Anyone wanna come?”

A couple of them let you know that they’ve heard you, but no one offers to join. Makes sense; it’s somewhere between two and three in the afternoon and the sun is at its highest, the air so hot that it’s an effort to not doze off in your chair, the heat making you lethargic. Your skin reminds you when to reapply sunscreen, the last layer sloughing off with the sweat constantly dripping down your body, ever in need of replenishment. You smooth a little more into your legs and arms before throwing the bottle back onto the floor next to your sandals, skin nice and sheeny again. 

The only swim-up bar is on the other side of the pool, so you float over slowly, wading through deeper and deeper waters until you almost have to cling to the side of the pool. It’s slow going, giving you ample opportunity to scan the poolside for your mystery man’s telltale red pinstripe swim trunks.

No dice. Just chairs and cabanas filled with people that you swear you’ve never seen in your life (not like you’ve been paying attention to any of the other guests). 

At the bar, you order a margarita and sit on the stool welded into the bottom of your pool with your elbows planted on the damp counter, your lower half still submerged. Frustration ebbs only for a dejected mopishness to flow back in.  

It might’ve been easier to push your disappointment down if any of your friends had bothered to join you for a drink, but you can’t blame them for taking advantage of the beautiful weather. 

The resort is nothing short of heaven. Thick palm fronds dangle over the pool chairs and sway back and forth with the gentle breeze. Light chatter from the people on the other end of the swim-up bar is just barely discernable over the sound of the music playing from the speaker overhead. 

The clientele at this resort is a mixed bag: some small groups of folks roughly your age and a multitude of families, the buffet practically a warzone with kids chasing each other around tables and through the halls, excited screeches following you all over the resort. There’s another pool a short shuttle ride away more geared towards kids though, thankfully, so this pool is relatively quiet apart from the music blaring from speakers placed strategically throughout the property, a mix of acoustic covers and lounge beats in the morning, and upbeat pop in the mid-afternoon to liven things up.  

It’s nice. Definitely worth the fifteen hundred dollars and definitely worth coming back next year if your friends don’t boot you from the group chat the second you touch down back home. 

That’s what you’re thinking about when you casually glance around the pool again and feel your heart nearly jump out of your chest when you spot him. 

He appears from around a palm tree like the red sea parting, so sudden that all you can do is stare wide-eyed, discretion the last thing on your mind. It’s not that you don’t care if he sees you staring unabashedly, it’s just that you physically can’t look away from him. 

He must have set down his stuff on one of the pool chairs nearby because he walks over barefoot, slipping into the water almost gracefully for a man his size, biceps bulging when he lowers himself from the edge into the pool. You spend so long staring at the faint pink sunburn on his shoulders and the undulating muscles of his chest that it takes a second for your eyes to meet his, a jolt going through your body when you find him staring right back at you, his gaze even heavier.

You go stock-still when he wades over to the swim-up bar where you're waiting on your drink and takes the seat directly beside you. The seats are arranged close together to fit as many as possible in front of the bar, so it’s not totally his fault that his thigh presses against yours. 

But you also can’t help but notice the three empty stools beside him. All that space, free for the taking, and yet he sits so close to you that anyone swimming by would naturally assume you were here together.

The smell of his skin is like sun and salt; if you inhale too deeply, you know it'll just make you dizzy. This close, you can make out every mind-numbing detail: the dense brush of hair on his forearms, the old school anchor tattoo on his shoulder, the thick band of a watch on his right wrist. The drawstrings of his trunks floating in the water, aglet the most buoyant. 

Your hands shake in your lap when he turns to the bartender and orders a drink too, the sound of his voice rolling over you, gruff in a way that almost makes you melt. 

A voice that makes you look up at him all doe-eyed and dumb when he finally looks down and says something to you for the first time.

“Haven’t I seen you around?” 

The shudder you manage to suppress, but the way your skin goes tight with goosebumps is out of your control. In all of your daydreams, he’d been more of the silent, grunting type—the type to huff and puff through every thrust, no appetite for sweet, sugary words. You never thought to imagine a voice to go along with his face. 

He’s handsome in the way that some men are—almost effortlessly. Sea blue eyes and strong nose; thick neck and bristly jaw. He wears his age well. 

And then his question registers, the gears in your brain slow to start chugging along again, overwhelmed by his proximity and attention, neither of which you ever expected to be on the receiving end. 

“Um…” you start, tripping over your words and swallowing them back up. “Maybe. Have you?”

His lips stretch into a fond, crooked grin, cheeks dimpling with his smile. “Yeah. Pretty sure I have.”

“Probably. I mean, I’m, um—I’m staying here. At the resort, I mean.”

“Here alone?” he asks. 

“No, I’m with them—” You turn and point over your shoulder towards your group still lounging in the cabana. “My friends. We got here a few days ago.”

“Right,” he says, not bothering to look over to where you’re pointing, eyes not shifting from your face. “Liking it so far?”

You’ll have to check later for burns because your face feels like it's on fire. The shock of the cold glass in your hand when the bartender passes you your drink helps to ground you at least. 

“It’s been nice,” you croak, smile feeble when you finally coax your slack lips into working again. “…How about you?”

You wish your conversation would come out less stilted. Hard to play it cool in a hundred degree heat.

“Getting better every day,” he replies, as smooth a line as you’ve ever heard. 

You take a sip of your drink, hoping the alcohol helps settle your nerves. You’re conscious of the way his eyes follow your tongue as you lick the salt off the rim of your glass. Someone off in the distance shrieks and there’s a splash from the other side of the pool, but it barely registers as background noise, all of your attention focused on the blue of his eyes.

“That any good?” he asks, voice gruff. 

“You want some?” you ask, instantly mortified when you hear what just came out of your mouth.

“Kind of you, love, but I can’t take what doesn’t belong to me.”

You don’t know what he means by that until the bartender puts a beer down in front of him, a lime garnishing the rim. The man thanks him, big hand wrapping around the bottle and fingers easily overlapping. The mental image of that goes straight into your spank bank for later. 

The lime gets dropped somewhere on the countertop and he takes a long pull from the neck, eyes locked on you the whole time. 

You’re not so naive as to not know what this is, but—

Someone calls your name from the other end of the pool and you turn instinctively at the sound, grasping onto the edge of the countertop and leaning back until you see one of your friends standing at the edge of the pool, waving you towards her. 

“Friends want you back?” he asks, sounding vaguely disappointed. You’re not sure if that’s just in your head or not. 

“Uh…I’m not sure—” you answer uncertainly. 

The same friend calls your name again, louder this time, garnering the attention of some of the other people sitting around the pool, and a surge of annoyance rushes up your chest. Weren’t they dozing off just a few minutes ago? Now all three stand at attention, sandals on and tote bags slung over their shoulders, the brims of their hats shading them from the sun as they gesture for you to join them. You nearly groan out loud. Of all times to call you back. 

You made a promise though, at least to yourself. The possibility of good dick, while tempting, is not enough to get you to switch your allegiances. 

(just yet, something in you whispers)

(give it enough time)

The smile you give him is rueful, almost apologetic. “I’m sorry—I should get going. They probably planned something at the beach. It was nice to meet you though…” There’s room at the end of your sentence for him to wedge his name in, a little dangling participle of pleasantry. 

A chuckle flows out of him like the chuff of a bear. “John.” He gives his name like a gift, offers his hand the same. 

You think it’s an offer anyway, until John just takes your hand, his damp, warm palm practically swallowing yours. Doesn’t wait for you to give him what he wants—just takes it like he’s owed it. The thought makes your head spin. Coarse, callused fingers wrap around the underside of your hand, long enough to nearly engulf your wrist as well. The hair on his knuckles is as dark as the pelt on his chest, and you wonder what it would feel like for him to drag a knuckle down the line of your jaw. 

Your throat pulls with a swallow, breath shaky on the way out. 

“Nice to meet you, John,” you say, all raspy-voiced, giving him your name as well like he pulled that from you too. 

It takes him a beat to let go of your hand, the intent in his hold so clear that he might as well say it right to your face. You have to leave before your resolve crumbles like papier-maché. 

“Since you’re not sticking around,” John says, finally letting go of your hand, “think I will have a taste.”

A taste. The word makes you clench up but you don’t register what he means until he curls his fingers around your margarita and brings it to his mouth, taking a sip from where you last had your lips. 

Oh god. You’re smart enough to get it. You’re smart enough to see that gesture for what it is. 

You send him one last thin, watery smile before beating a hasty retreat, his invitation still at the swim-up bar with him. Water sloughs off your body as you take the stairs out of the pool instead of swimming back to your friends, swimsuit damp in more ways than one, and you swear you can feel the heat of his gaze on your back as you walk over to where your friends stand. 

One of your friends peeks over your shoulder while handing you your stuff, eyes going wide when she notices him sitting where you just left. “Oh, did you see the hot guy was sitting at the bar too?”

“Yeah,” you reply, shaky hands slipping your sunglasses on. “I noticed.”